The Lady and the Pirate

"No," said I. "I tried it. I got me a little place, far up in the

wilderness with what remained of my shattered fortunes--a few acres.

And I sat down there and tried that 'and--and' business. It didn't

seem to work. But we don't get on much in our parley, do we?"

"No. The most charitable thing I can think of is that you are crazy.

Aunt Lucinda must be right. But what do you intend to do with us? We

can't get off the boat, and we can't get any answer to our signals for

help."

"So you have signaled?"

"Of course. Waved things, you know."

"Delightful! The passing steamers no doubt thought you a dissipated

lot of northern joy-riders, bound south on some rich man's yacht."

"Instead of two troubled women on a stolen boat."

"Are you engaged to Cal Davidson, Helena?"

"What earthly difference?"

"True, none at all. As you say, I have stolen his boat, stolen his

wine, stolen his fried potatoes, stolen his waistcoats. But, bear

witness, I drew the line at his neckties. Nowhere else, however!" And

as I added this I looked at her narrowly.

"Will you put us ashore?" she asked, her color rising.

"No."

"We're coming to a town."

"Baton Rouge. The capital of Louisiana. A quaint and delightful city

of some sixty thousand inhabitants. The surrounding country is largely

devoted to the sugar industry. But we do not stop. Tell me, are you

engaged?"

But, suddenly, I saw her face, and on it was something of outraged

dignity. I bent toward her eagerly. "Forgive me! I never wanted to

give you pain, Helena. Forget my improper question."

"Indeed!"

"I've been fair with you. And that's hard for a man. Always,

always,--let me tell you something women don't understand--there's the

fight in a man's soul to be both a gentleman and a brute, because a

woman won't love him till he's a brute, and he hates himself when he

isn't a gentleman. It's hard, sometimes, to be both. But I tried. I've

been a gentleman--was once, at least. I told you the truth. When they

investigated my father, and found that, acting under the standard of

his day, he hadn't run plumb with the standards of to-day, I came and

told you of it. I released you then, although you never had promised

me, because I knew you mightn't want an alliance with--well, with a

front page family, you know. It blew over, yes; but I was fair with

you. You knew I had lost my money, and then you----"

"I remained 'released'."

"Yes, it is true."

"And am free, have been, to do as I liked."

"Yes, true."

"And what earthly right has a man to try both rôles with a woman--that

of discarded and accepted? You chose the first; and I never gave you

the last. It is horrible, this sort of talk. It is abominable. For

three years we have not met or spoken. I've not had a heartache since

I told you. Don't give me a headache now. And it would make my head

ache, to follow these crazy notions. Put us ashore!"