“He is on guard,” Latimer explained. “I put him there to warn us if any one approaches, and when we are not here, he is to frighten away trespassers. Do you understand?” he demanded of the sailorman. “Your duty is to protect this beautiful lady. So long as I love her you must guard this place. It is a life sentence. You are always on watch. You never sleep. You are her slave. She says you have a friendly smile. She wrongs you. It is a beseeching, abject, worshipping smile. I am sure when I look at her mine is equally idiotic. In fact, we are in many ways alike. I also am her slave. I also am devoted only to her service. And I never sleep, at least not since I met her.”
From her throne among the pine needles Helen looked up at the sailorman and frowned.
“It is not a happy simile,” she objected. “For one thing, a sailorman has a sweetheart in every port.”
“Wait and see,” said Latimer.
“And,” continued the girl with some asperity, “if there is anything on earth that changes its mind as often as a weather-vane, that is less CERTAIN, less CONSTANT—”
“Constant?” Latimer laughed at her in open scorn. “You come back here,” he challenged, “months from now, years from now, when the winds have beaten him, and the sun blistered him, and the snow frozen him, and you will find him smiling at you just as he is now, just as confidently, proudly, joyously, devotedly. Because those who are your slaves, those who love YOU, cannot come to any harm; only if you disown them, only if you drive them away!”
The sailorman, delighted at such beautiful language, threw himself about in a delirium of joy. His arms spun in their sockets like Indian clubs, his oars flashed in the sun, and his eyes and lips were fixed in one blissful, long-drawn-out, unalterable smile.
When the golden-rod turned gray, and the leaves red and yellow, and it was time for Latimer to return to his work in the West, he came to say good-by. But the best Helen could do to keep hope alive in him was to say that she was glad he cared. She added it was very helpful to think that a man such as he believed you were so fine a person, and during the coming winter she would try to be like the fine person he believed her to be, but which, she assured him, she was not.
Then he told her again she was the most wonderful being in the world, to which she said: “Oh, indeed no!” and then, as though he were giving her a cue, he said: “Good-by!” But she did not take up his cue, and they shook hands. He waited, hardly daring to breathe.
“Surely, now that the parting has come,” he assured himself, “she will make some sign, she will give me a word, a look that will write 'total' under the hours we have spent together, that will help to carry me through the long winter.”