Pirates' Hope. Lynde Francis

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      I was resentful enough to meet her baldly upon her own ground.

      "There was a young woman in Venezuela; a pure Castilian, with the blood of kings in her veins. I could have married her."

      "Why didn't you?" she asked sweetly.

      "I have wished many times that I had. I wonder if you can understand if I say that I was afraid?"

      "Mr. Kipling says that we can't understand—that we can never understand. But I think I know what you mean. You may have been Adam—the first man, again—for her; but she wasn't, and never could be, Eve—the first woman—for you. Was that it?"

      The taxi was finally approaching the quarter of the city in which our wharf lay. There were other things to be said, and they had to be said hurriedly.

      "Let us get things straightened out—before the crowd messes in," I said. "Three years ago we were engaged to be married. One day I was obliged to tell your Aunt Mehitable that the comfortable fortune my father had left me had been swallowed up in an exhausted Colorado gold mine, and that I'd have to go to work for a living. She then told me—with what seemed to me to be unnecessary spitefulness—that her will was made in favor of some charitable institution, and since you would thus be left penniless, it was up to me to set you free and give you a chance to marry somebody who could provide for you. Am I stating it clearly?"

      "Clearly enough."

      "Then she went on to say that the news of my misfortune had preceded me; that you had already been told all there was to tell; and that it would be a kindness to you if I should agree not to see you again."

      "And you did me the kindness," she put in calmly. "I ought to be thankful for that. Perhaps I am thankful."

      "I was furious," I confessed. "If you will permit me to say it this long after the fact, your aunt carries a vicious tongue in her head, and she didn't spare me. Also, I'll admit that my own temper isn't exactly patient or forgiving. It was the next morning that I had the chance to go to South America thrust at me, and the ship was sailing at noon. I left a letter for you and disappeared over the horizon."

      "Yes," she replied in the same even tone; "I got the letter."

      "That brings us down to date," I went on, as the taxi drew up at the wharf. "The next thing is the modus vivendi—the way we must live for the next few weeks. You say that Jerry knows that we were once engaged. If he is half a man, there will be plenty of chances for misunderstanding and trouble. We must agree to be decently quarrelsome."

      "You have begun it beautifully," she said, with a hard little laugh. "Admitting your premises, what will Jerry think of this taxi drive—without a chaperon?"

      "Jerry will never know that you came over with me—unless you tell him."

      "Aunt Mehitable can tell him," she retorted, again with the touch of malice in her voice.

      "But, for the sake of Major Terwilliger's money, she won't tell him," I ventured drily; and a moment later I was handing her up the Andromeda's accommodation ladder with a sharper misery in my heart than I had suffered since the night three years in the past when her dragoness aunt had goaded me into effacing myself.

      There was a pleasant bustle of impending departure already going on aboard the yacht when we reached the deck. Most of the women—all of them, in fact, save the youngest of the Van Tromp trio and Annette Grey—had gone to their several staterooms, and the men were scattered—"dotted" was Conetta's word—here and there, apparently trying to find themselves, like so many cats in a strange garret.

      "You will go below?" I said to Conetta when I had shown her the way aft.

      "Yes; and by myself, if you please." Then, with a quick turn of the proud little head, and a look in the slate-blue eyes that was far beyond any man's fathoming: "Good-night, Dick, and good-by. Perhaps our quarrel would better begin right here and now." And with that she was gone.

      It was possibly five minutes later that I met Grey, the newly married, roving in search of his mate.

      "Annette?" he queried. "Have you seen her anywhere, Preble?"

      "She is with Edie Van Tromp on the bridge," I told him. Then I linked an arm in his and drew him to the shoreward rail, saying: "Don't rush off. Throw that vile cigar away and light a fresh one, and tell me how the New York law partnership is getting along. Remember, there are some weeks ahead of you in which you won't be able to get any farther away from Annette than the length of the Andromeda—no matter how badly you may want to."

      The married lover twisted his arm out of mine and dropped the stub of his cigar over the rail.

      "Preble, you're a brute," he remarked, quite conversationally. And then he added: "By Jove, don't you know, I wouldn't be a bachelor again for the shiniest million that was ever minted! I didn't realize, until within the last few weeks, what a crabbed, dog-in-the-manger beggar it would make of a man."

      "Thanks," I laughed. "Experience counts for something, even if it is short and pretty recent, as you might say. Where is the major?"

      Grey clipped the end of the fresh cigar I had given him and lighted it. He was sparing me a few moments merely to show me that it was possible for him to stay that long out of sight and sound of the loved one.

      "The major is in a class by himself, as you ought to know if you've preserved any fragment of memory, Preble. He is down in the yacht's smoking-room, hobnobbing with a glass of hot brandy and soda, and finishing a novel that he has been reading all the way down from Chattanooga. Think of it—hot toddy in this weather!"

      "A veteran—even a Spanish War Veteran—has to do something to individualize himself," I jested; and then Grey took his turn at me.

      "You are a veteran yourself, Richard—of a sort. They tell me you have been knocking around here in the tropics so long that you've forgotten all the little decent and civilized ameliorations. Why don't you marry and settle down?"

      I laughed.

      "Go up yonder on the bridge and ask Annette why some men marry and some don't; she'll tell you," I said; and he promptly took me at my word, at least so far as leaving me was concerned.

      A short time after this, just after I had identified the two smokers in the wicker lounging chairs under the afterdeck awning as Ingerson and Madeleine Barclay's father, the last truck-load of trunks came. While the baggage was going into the Andromeda's forehold, Dupuyster, looking more English than any Briton to the manner born, came lounging aft and greeted me chirpingly.

      "'Lo, old chappie; dashed glad to know you're comin' along, what? Bonty was just tellin' me he'd scragged you for the voyage. Topping, I'll say."

      "Topping, if you say so, Jerry. How long have you been over?"

      "Eh, what?—how long have I been over? I say, old dear—that's a jolly good one, y' know. But tell me; where is this bally old tub of Bonty's goin' to sail for? Bonty won't tell us. He's as mysterious about it as—as——"

      Realizing that he was feeling around in his ultra-British vocabulary for a fitting Anglo-maniacal simile, I helped him out.

      "As a bag of tricks, let us say. I don't know, any more than you do, СКАЧАТЬ