"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.