"I didn't think," said she, after a little while.
"I presume not," said I coldly. "Sometimes women do not stop to think.
You have not stopped to think that there is a limit even to what my
love would stand, Helena. Now, much as I love you--and I never loved
you so much as I do now--I'll never again ask you for what you can not
give me. I've been rubbed the wrong way all I can stand, and I'll not
have it any more. I've brought you here, yes, and I'm sorry enough for
it. But I'm going to fix all that now, soon as I can."
"What do you mean, Harry?" she asked quietly.
"Yonder, across the bay," said I, pointing, "runs a channel. That's
the Chenière. I presume the lighthouse boats come from in there. Maybe
there'll be one down after the storm in a day or so. He'll take out a
message, and get it on some boat bound for Morgan City, perhaps."
"And what then?"
"Why, I shall send out any message you like, beside my own message to
the parents of these boys of mine. And I'll send a message, too, to my
friend, Manning."
She turned her eyes where I pointed once more, this time seemingly
northward across the bay. "Yonder is still another channel," said I,
"not twenty miles from where we stand. It runs back to the live-oak
islands where my friend Manning has his plantation. If the tide serves
and we can get the yacht afloat, it won't take us long to get in
there. Once there, you are safe; and once there, I say good-by. Judge
for yourself whether or not this is the last time."
"And when will that be, Harry?" she demanded, still tracing some
figure on the sand with the toe of her little boot.
"That, I have said, is something I can not tell. But as soon as
possible, rest assured."
She was silent now, confused, a little abashed, a mood entirely new to
her in my recollection of her many moods. Her hand still lay upon my
coarse canvas sleeve as though she had forgotten it. I bent now and
kissed it. "Harry," said she in a whisper, "don't you care for me any
more?"
"Go back to the camp, Helena," said I; "you know I do, but I've done
enough for you, and I'll do no more. All a coward can do to keep you
safe I have done, but I'm no such coward as to follow you around now
and dangle at your apron strings. It's good-by once more. What are
you," I demanded fiercely, once more, "that you should walk over my
soul again and again? Hasn't there got to be an end to that sort of
thing some time, and don't you think there is an end for me? Go back
and tell your aunt that you have won. And much joy may you both have
in your winning."