"But not behin' the smoke-house--nevair on dose place yet, I'll swear

it!"

"--Very well, suppose you have not yet included the smoke-house of

Monsieur Edouard, at least you are his friend. And what Acadian lives

who is not a friend of the ladies?"

"Certain', Monsieur."

"Very well again. What you see in the paper is all false. The two

ladies whose pictures you see here, and here, are yonder at our camp.

You shall come and see that they are well and happy, both of them.

Moreover, if you like another fifty for the mass for Jean Lafitte's

soul, you, yourself, my friend, shall pilot us into the channel of

Monsieur Edouard. We'll tow your boat behind us across the bay. Is it

not?"

"Certain'! oui!" answered the tender. "But you'll had leetle dish

coffee quite plain?" once more demanded the lonesome keeper; and for

sake of his hospitable soul we now said yes; and very good coffee it

was, too: and the better since I knew it meant we now were friends.

Ah! pirate blood is far thicker than any water you may find.

"But if we take you on as pilot, my friend," said I to the pilot as at

length we arose, "how shall we get out our letters after all?"

"Thass hall right," replied he, "my cousin, Richard Barrière--she's

cousin of Jean Lafitte too, heem--she'll was my partner on the s'rimp,

an' she'll was come hon the light, here, heem, to-mor', yas, heem."

"And would you give the letters to Mr. Richard Barrière to-morrow?" I

inquired of the lighthouse keeper.

"Oui, oui, certain', assurement, wit' plaisir, Monsieur," he

replied. So I handed him the little packet.

It chanced that my eye caught sight of one of the two letters Mrs.

Daniver had handed me. The address was not in Mrs. Daniver's

handwriting, but one that I knew very well. And the letter, in this

handwriting that I knew very well, was addressed to Calvin Horace

Davidson, Esquire, The Boston Club, New Orleans, Louisiana: all

written out in full in Helena's own scrupulous fashion.

I gave the letter over to the messenger, but for a time I stood

silent, thinking. I knew now very well what that letter contained. But

yesterday, Helena Emory had finally decided, there on the beach, alone

with me, the salt air on her cheek, the salt tears in her eyes. She

had gone far as woman might to tell me that she was grieved over a

hasty word--she had given me a chance, my first chance, my only

chance, my last chance. And, I, pig-headed fool, had slighted her at

the very moment of moments of all my life--I who had prided myself on

my "psychology"--I who had thought myself wise--I had allowed that

woman to go away with her head drooping when at last she--oh, I saw it

all plainly enough now! And now indeed small psychology and small wit

were requisite to know the whole process of a woman's soul, thus

chilled. She had been hesitant, had been a little resentful of this

runaway situation, had not liked my domineering ways; but at last she

had relented and had asked my pardon. Then I had spurned her. And then

her mind swung to the other man. She had not yet given that man his

answer, but when I chilled her, rejected her timid little desire to

"make up" with me--why, then, her mind was made up for that other man

at once. She had written his answer. And now--oh! fiendlike cruelty of

woman's heart--she had chosen me as her messenger to carry out that

word which would cost me herself forever! She had done that

exquisitely well, as she did everything, not even advising me that I

was to be her errand boy on such an errand, trusting me to find out by

accident, as I had, that I was to be my own executioner, was to spring

my own guillotine. She knew that, none the less, though I understood

what the letter meant thus addressed, I sacredly must execute her

silent trust. Oh! Helena, yours was indeed an exquisite revenge for

that one hour of a dour man's hurt pride.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024