The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

the probabilities declared were not there. For the girl there would be heart-eating anxiety, hope long deferred, hour after hour of racking suspense, besides the perils of the voyage, and if failure came at last, crushing despair. If it was only the pearls at stake it would be a good gamble for a man, but for a girl, clinging to a faith blindly against all likelihood, it was a different thing. The one would be, at the worst, a glorious adventure; the other carried the hazard of endurance prolonged to the snapping point, the permanent bruising of a brave and sensitive soul.

      Lyman suffered a natural despondency born of his treatment by Foster. He began to wonder what the girl really thought of him. He had the diary for proof; he could give her that and slip out of it, dropping all responsibility. To take up her cause would be apt to label him an adventurer in the worst sense of the word, a speculator upon the credulity and sentiment of a woman. Failure would so label him, perhaps leave her penniless. Still—

      He tried to thrash the matter out, to come to a decision. It was the remembrance of Newton Foster, handsome and easy-mannered, her own kind, of her own blood, announcing his determination to go if she went, that settled Lyman’s somewhat hasty resolution. He would step aside, play the role of messenger as it had been given to him and let the play go on without him.

      Love at first sight has been scoffed at by all but the scientists and young lovers themselves. Yet it is sure that certain types are attracted to each other the moment they meet, that such attractions, born of heredity, take no account of rank or fortune save as scruples and pride may creep in to break the attraction. Lyman, though he did not actually formulate the thought, sensed that a voyage with Kitty Whiting would see him tangled in a desire to win her. And what chance had he against Newton Foster, who had rallied to her side, who was versed in the ways of her world and had a hundred ways to appeal to her where Lyman might offend? A young man’s first love is often tinctured with humility, with belief in his own unworthiness compared with a girl who has exhibited especial refinement, capable of commanding equality in her mate, trained to scorn any lack of culture, educated to enjoy things of which he was ignorant. He did not know that love levels. He saw himself coarse beside her daintiness, awkward, unfit. Man to man against young Foster—that was a different matter. Put Newton Foster in the same surroundings and he had no fear of contest, but he was nothing but a sea tramp after all, a shipwrecked devil out of a job.

      He got to his feet, his mind made up. He would mail the diary and drift on, straightening vanes, working as a rigger, doing odds and ends until things straightened out again and he could go to sea once more. He had thought of the Navy, but enlistments were closed. He thought now of working west, harvesting, reaching the coast, getting across the Pacific—if he had to ship as oiler or stoker—seeking fortune in the Orient where opportunities were more plentiful and white men scarcer. He had marked the street she lived on. No number was necessary for correct address. The Golden Dolphin would be sufficient, with the name.

      In the hotel office he composed a short note, sincere if it did not contain all the truth:

      My dear Miss Whiting:

      Enclosed please find the diary with the position of the island under the date of June 27. I have no further use for the book, which is only the record of a voyage now over with, and I thought you might prefer to see the figures as originally set down. I appreciate the offer you made me, and regret I cannot see my way clear to accepting it, though I wish you all possible luck in whatever you may undertake.

      I am expecting to leave Foxfield tomorrow morning so shall not have the pleasure of seeing you in the afternoon at two as I anticipated. Will you please give my regards to Miss Warner and believe me,

      Sincerely yours,

      James H. Lyman.

      The note would do, he decided as he read the final draft. It did not say everything he wanted to but it did not say too much. She would infer, he felt sure, that he believed that the voyage had too great odds against success for him to tacitly, or otherwise, encourage it. She would not suspect that the offer of Newton Foster had anything to do with his refusal. In a week or two, whatever her conclusions, Jim Lyman would be only a shadowy person to whom she would attach a certain measure of thanks for giving her the latitude and longitude of the island.

      He signed it with the feeling that he was helping to erect a permanent barrier between himself and the girl, but he believed he was doing the right thing, the best thing, in the long run. He got paper and string from the desk clerk, made a neat shipshape bundle of diary and note, had it weighed and attached the stamps. It was too late for registry but he placed additional postage and marked it Special Delivery, more as a way of insurance and means of tracing than to expedite the package. They said they would sleep late. He took it down to the post office and personally mailed it, hoping, after it had passed the lidded slot, that the messenger delivery would not awaken them too early. It thudded down into other mail like something falling into a grave. The burial of young hopes. An illuminated clock over a bank on North Street showed him the time as ten-forty.

      Back at the hotel, the clerk hailed him with the news that someone had been trying hard to get him over the telephone and had finally left a number with a request for him to ring up—2895. He got connection with somewhat of a thrill. No one in all the town would be likely to ring him up but Kitty Whiting—or her cousin. But it was a man’s voice speaking, in the tones of Stephen Foster, suave, almost apologetic, in marked contract to that gentleman’s manner earlier in the evening.

      “Mr. Lyman? This is Stephen Foster speaking. That news of yours swept me off my feet a bit tonight, Lyman. Little out of the usual run of business, you see. I am afraid I may have approached it too abruptly, been a bit brusque with you. If I was, I apologize. It seemed a wild idea to me; I hated to keep open my niece’s grief for her father. It is a wound already aggravated by her refusal to consider his death. Out of her love for him, of course, but unwise. Eh? Joy never kills but prolonged sorrow may. Never pays to be over optimistic.

      “My son says that he does not agree with me, and we have been talking it over. I am inclined to modify my opposition if there really seems any hope at all. Also the trip may end harrowing uncertainty. If so, there is no time to lose. I wonder whether you could come up here tonight? I have some charts in my library that would help us and you would be of great practical use in discussing ways and means. It’s late, I know, but the matter is not ordinary.”

      Lyman did not reply immediately, a little rushed off his feet by this change of face in Foster, Still he could hardly refuse to talk ways and means. He could stick by his decision not to go. And—

      Foster was talking smoothly on. “Anyone can tell you where my place is. Out of town a little, to the south, the first road to the east after you cross the bridge over the river. About a mile, all told. I would send the car but we had some trouble with it going home and my man is tinkering with it. Can drive you back, I expect. May we expect you?”

      The new attitude of Foster was flattering; he was putting the thing as a favor, Jim decided.

      “I’ll start from the hotel right away.”

      “Fine. And bring the figures with you. Good-by.”

      He could furnish the figures all right, though not the diary. They were indelibly stamped from now on upon his recollection.

      162° 37' w.

       37° 19' s.

      Foster, as acknowledged partner in the expedition, was entitled to them. It was natural for them to plan ahead; they would probably offer him a berth. He knew the anchorage, just where to find the ship. But he could give them all that. He propped up a resolution that was beginning to waver a bit, railed at himself for indecision, knew it was on account of the girl, knew that he might pass out of her life, but not she from his. She was like a gleam of golden metal in the commonplace strata of life.

      He checked directions with the clerk, whose eyes opened with a new respect at knowing that Stephen Foster, millionaire, had called up and invited this none too prosperous guest to his house.

      “You’ll find it easy enough,” said the clerk. “Only house along that road. Stands on its own grounds, back a ways. Can’t miss it.”

      Jim