The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

      He handed one over and held a match for her gently.

      “Still,” Ardita continued, “the men kept gathering—old men and young men, my mental and physical inferiors, most of them, but all intensely desiring to have me—to own this rather magnificent proud tradition I’d built up round me. Do you see?”

      “Sort of. You never were beaten and you never apologized.”

      “Never!”

      She sprang to the edge, poised for a moment like a crucified figure against the sky; then describing a dark parabola plunked without a slash between two silver ripples twenty feet below.

      Her voice floated up to him again.

      “And courage to me meant ploughing through that dull gray mist that comes down on life—not only overriding people and circumstances but overriding the bleakness of living. A sort of insistence on the value of life and the worth of transient things.”

      She was climbing up now, and at her last words her head, with the damp yellow hair slicked symmetrically back appeared on his level.

      “All very well,” objected Carlyle. “You can call it courage, but your courage is really built, after all, on a pride of birth. You were bred to that defiant attitude. On my gray days even courage is one of the things that’s gray and lifeless.”

      She was sitting near the edge, hugging her knees and gazing abstractedly at the white moon; he was farther back, crammed like a grotesque god into a niche in the rock.

      “I don’t want to sound like Pollyanna,” she began, “but you haven’t grasped me yet. My courage is faith—faith in the eternal resilience of me—that joy’ll come back, and hope and spontaneity. And I feel that till it does I’ve got to keep my lips shut and my chin high, and my eyes wide—not necessarily any silly smiling. Oh, I’ve been through hell without a whine quite often—and the female hell is deadlier than the male.”

      “But supposing,” suggested Carlyle, “that before joy and hope and all that came back the curtain was drawn on you for good?”

      Ardita rose, and going to the wall climbed with some difficulty to the next ledge, another ten or fifteen feet above.

      “Why,” she called back “then I’d have won!”

      He edged out till he could see her.

      “Better not dive from there! You’ll break your back,” he said quickly.

      She laughed.

      “Not I!”

      Slowly she spread her arms and stood there swan-like, radiating a pride in her young perfection that lit a warm glow in Carlyle’s heart.

      “We’re going through the black air with our arms wide and our feet straight out behind like a dolphin’s tail, and we’re going to think we’ll never hit the silver down there till suddenly it’ll be all warm round us and full of little kissing, caressing waves.”

      Then she was in the air, and Carlyle involuntarily held his breath. He had not realized that the dive was nearly forty feet. It seemed an eternity before he heard the swift compact sound as she reached the sea.

      And it was with his glad sigh of relief when her light watery laughter curled up the side of the cliff and into his anxious ears that he knew he loved her.

      VI

      Time, having no axe to grind, showered down upon them three days of afternoons. When the sun cleared the port-hole of Ardita’s cabin an hour after dawn she rose cheerily, donned her bathing-suit, and went up on deck. The negroes would leave their work when they saw her, and crowd, chuckling and chattering, to the rail as she floated, an agile minnow, on and under the surface of the clear water. Again in the cool of the afternoon she would swim—and loll and smoke with Carlyle upon the cliff; or else they would lie on their sides in the sands of the southern beach, talking little, but watching the day fade colorfully and tragically into the infinite langour of a tropical evening.

      And with the long, sunny hours Ardita’s idea of the episode as incidental, madcap, a sprig of romance in a desert of reality, gradually left her. She dreaded the time when he would strike off southward; she dreaded all the eventualities that presented themselves to her; thoughts were suddenly troublesome and decisions odious. Had prayers found place in the pagan rituals of her soul she would have asked of life only to be unmolested for a while, lazily acquiescent to the ready, naïf flow of Carlyle’s ideas, his vivid boyish imagination, and the vein of monomania that seemed to run crosswise through his temperament and colored his every action.

      But this is not a story of two on an island, nor concerned primarily with love bred of isolation. It is merely the presentation of two personalities, and its idyllic setting among the palms of the Gulf Stream is quite incidental. Most of us are content to exist and breed and fight for the right to do both, and the dominant idea, the foredoomed attest to control one’s destiny, is reserved for the fortunate or unfortunate few. To me the interesting thing about Ardita is the courage that will tarnish with her beauty and youth.

      “Take me with you,” she said late one night as they sat lazily in the grass under the shadowy spreading palms. The negroes had brought ashore their musical instruments, and the sound of weird ragtime was drifting softly over on the warm breath of the night. “I’d love to reappear in ten years, as a fabulously wealthy high-caste Indian lady,” she continued.

      Carlyle looked at her quickly.

      “You can, you know.”

      She laughed.

      “Is it a proposal of marriage? Extra! Ardita Farnam becomes pirate’s bride. Society girl kidnapped by ragtime bank robber.”

      “It wasn’t a bank.”

      “What was it? Why won’t you tell me?”

      “I don’t want to break down your illusions.”

      “My dear man, I have no illusions about you.”

      “I mean your illusions about yourself.”

      She looked up in surprise.

      “About myself! What on earth have I got to do with whatever stray felonies you’ve committed?”

      “That remains to be seen.”

      She reached over and patted his hand.

      “Dear Mr. Curtis Carlyle,” she said softly, “are you in love with me?”

      “As if it mattered.”

      “But it does—because I think I’m in love with you.”

      He looked at her ironically.

      “Thus swelling your January total to half a dozen,” he suggested. “Suppose I call your bluff and ask you to come to India with me?”

      “Shall I?”

      He shrugged his shoulders.

      “We can get married in Callao.”

      “What sort of life can you offer me? I don’t mean that unkindly, but seriously; what would become of me if the people who want that twenty-thousand-dollar reward ever catch up with you?”

      “I thought you weren’t afraid.”

      “I never am—but I won’t throw my life away just to show one man I’m not.”

      “I wish you’d been poor. Just a little poor girl dreaming over a fence in a warm cow country.”

      “Wouldn’t it have been nice?”

      “I’d have enjoyed astonishing you—watching your eyes open on things. If you only wanted things! Don’t you see?”

      “I know—like girls who stare into the windows of jewelry-stores.”

      “Yes—and want the big oblong watch that’s platinum and has diamonds