“GADZOOKS! Black Bart,” remarked L’Olonnois at the breakfast table the next morning, “and where is the captive maiden?”
“I do not know,” was my answer. “Better go find out, Jimmy.”
He departed, but presently, returned somewhat troubled.
“My Auntie Helen,” said he, “I mean the captive maid, why, she says she’s got a headache and don’t want no breakfast.”
“Not even a grapefruit and a cup of coffee?” I demanded, anxiously and, it must be admitted, somewhat guiltily; for I knew that the soul of Helena was grieved and whatever the trouble, the fault was my own. Surely I had placed the poor captive in a most difficult position, and loving her as I did, how could I continue to give her discomfort? My resolution almost weakened. I was considerably disturbed.
And yet as I faced the alternative of setting her free, and once more taking up the aimless and unhappy life I had led these last three years without sight of her, something—I suppose the great selfishness which lies under love—rose up and said me nay; and I began to make excuses in favor of my desire, as that, surely, soon she would come to a more reasonable way of thought. And in one thing, at least, I was honest with myself, deceitful as are lovers with themselves, and arguing ever in their own favor—I did not know why Helena had wept, and it was perhaps my right to know.
One selfishness with another, I resolved to go on with this matter, though knowing full well how difficult would be my battle with her, how unequal; for I was armed only with a great love, backed by no art at all, whereas, she merely would continue to unmask against me new batteries of defense—severe politeness, formality with me; laughter and scornfulness of me; anger, pitifulness, at last even tears; and always the dread assault of her eyes, and the scent of her hair and the sweet wistfulness of her mouth,—all, all the charms of all women united in her one self, to attack, to assail, to harass, and to make wholly wretched the man who loved her more than anything in life, and who was driven almost to using any means, so only that she might not be away, not be out of sense and sight; as out of mind and out of heart she never more might be. So that, all in all, it were, indeed, hard question whether she or I were the more wretched. Surely grapefruit and toast and coffee seemed to me but inventions of the powers of darkness at that breakfast.
Not so my hardy mates, however, who ate with the keen appetite of youth, from fruit through bacon and toast and back again, both talking all the while. Nor, as the event proved, altogether unwisely. Indeed, it was stout Jean Lafitte who resolved my doubts, and by suggesting the simple medicine of action rather than meditation, sufficed for the removal of one of my two minds.
“What ho! Black Bart,” said he, after his third helping of bacon, “why does our good ship lie here idle at her anchor?” Question direct, like Jean himself, and demanding direct answer.
“Ask Captain Peterson,” said I. “He perhaps can tell where we can get more gasoline.”