BOOK TWO Temptation (continued 3)

For a moment Grymes stared at him with utter disbelief, but the look in the other’s face convinced him. A wave of relief swept over him, and he could not but tell himself that this intelligence pleased him.

“Then why—” said he, and could go no further.

But the astute Creole understood.

“Jean Lafitte—I know—ees mad aboud Virginia—bud—”

“But what? You say that she loves him, and he loves her—then why don’t they—” he paused—“Er—I’m sure I would have no objections. As I said, I think he is a perfect gentleman, and I believe him to be worthy of her,” magnanimously.

François nodded and smiled. Then, glancing around to assure himself of their security from any possible eavesdroppers, he pulled his chair closer to that of the Virginian and began to talk in a low voice. And talked on. And talked.

Ten minutes later, when Virginia reappeared on the veranda to apologize for her sudden withdrawal—having regained control of herself, and, incidentally, having had a self-communion of relieving tears—she found them, head to head, carrying on what appeared to be a highly interesting conversation. And John Grymes was unashamedly smiling broadly. But she forebore to ask questions.

And a little later, just as De Moulin was leaving, her father turned to Virginia innocently.

“By the way, Virginia, we are having guests to-night for dinner. Just François, here, and Captain Lafitte. We want to bid him farewell before he leaves for France.” He turned back to his departing guest and again bade him good-by ... and, incidentally, temporarily closed his left eye.

II

When Jean and François arrived that evening for dinner, however, although they were intentionally a little late, they found that their hostess was apparently conspicuous by her absence.

“However,” apologized their congenial host, “Virginia will be down any minute, I suppose. You know how women are—always late—and everlastingly adorning themselves.” Jean laughed politely, but could not help wondering why this very simple witticism should cause his host and companion so much mirth.

While waiting in the library Grymes and De Moulin began an apparently interminable discussion of politics, of a particularly boring nature, and both of them skillfully managed to convey to him the idea that they had forgotten Lafitte’s very existence. For a while he looked from one to the other puzzled. Suddenly, as he glanced idly around the room, he became aware of the fact that the old negro butler, Rappahannock, was standing in the door, and was undoubtedly trying to get his attention. He glanced at his companions. They were oblivious of him. Getting up slowly, he sauntered nonchalantly over to the door. Strangely enough, his two companions were seemingly as unaware of the plainly discernible darky as they were of his own actions.

He walked out into the hall—and did not see the smiles and winks of the two in the library. Rappahannock stepped close and whispered.

“Marse Lafitte, dars a pusson would lak tuh mek tawk wif yuh, in de gyarden, suh.”

“Some one wants to speak to me—in the garden?”

“Yassuh.”

“Who is it?”

“Hits a—lady.”

“Who is she?” Rappahannock shrugged his shoulders expressively.

Lafitte looked at him with suspicion.

“Did she send for me, herself?”

“Nossuh,” said the clever old darky, well instructed in his part, “she didn’t sen’ me—dat is, she tol’ me not to.... Anyway, suh, ah’m pow’ful shuah dat she wants tuh mek tawk wif yuh. Leastways, ah reckon dat she’s pow’ful anxious, ’cause she done say—Lawd, man! I’se done gone an’ done it!” And turning on his heel, he hurried away down the hall.

For a moment Jean stood still, thinking. He did not for a moment doubt the sincerity of the darky, but was trying to adjust himself to the fact that she had summoned him—clandestinely, as it were! Drawing a deep breath, he silently slipped out of the front door and into the silvery night.

To the left of the long piazza with its lofty Colonial pillars was one end of the garden. Its other extremity was bounded by the Mississippi, its broad surface sparkling like so many diamonds under the playful shafts of moonlight.

At his back was the stately old mansion, half concealed in a grove of ancient magnolias. Before him stretched a curving red-brick path, winding through the length of the garden. On all sides was the balmy fragrance of many flowers—flowers, for the most part, made invisible in the shadow of huge thickets of acacia and pomegranate and orange trees. The mingling scents of odorous jasmine, crimson-hued oleander, and roses of every species, made the air actually heavy with their sweet fragrance as he followed the path slowly.

Straight ahead of him was a long natural aisle formed by two rows of palmettos, which terminated, almost abruptly, at the water’s edge. The night was young—twilight had but just merged into a fragrant evening—and the moon, beginning its lofty climb, could be seen rising, apparently, out of the very waters of the Queen of Rivers; obese, golden, and beautiful.

Somehow, instinctively, he knew he would find her at the end of that aisle at the water’s marge. It was as if the hunted woman had fled as far as was possible, down to the water’s edge—and the hunter, man, was unerringly bringing his long hunt to an end.

Slowly he walked down the path, his eyes fixed on that magnificent moon; and the intoxication of the glorious night permeated his every sense. At last he reached its end—and there, as his intuition had told him, he saw her. She was standing in the center of the little glade, clad all in shimmery, silvery white; leaning with one arm on an old stone sun-dial, staring at the soaring moon.

For a long moment he stood still, feasting his eyes and soul on the picture of her exquisite loveliness. Then he stepped out of the shadow into the drenching moonlight.

With a low cry, as she caught sight of him, she half turned as if to run. Then, changing her mind, apparently, she drew herself up to her full height and remained standing—motionless—silent.

He suddenly felt that he had to say something—and had nothing to say.

“Virginia—mademoiselle—I am here,” he said, somewhat awkwardly.

For a moment she did not answer.

“Really?” she said, rather scornfully.

He felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. And then it was that he suddenly realized that she had never sent for him—never would have. He suddenly remembered the strange actions of Grymes, François, and old Rappahannock, and a great fury welled up within him. He half turned on his heel, with an apology on his lips, when another thought struck—and overwhelmed him. Jean Lafitte was a great believer in Fate. Was this not Fate—this strangely contrived meeting? He would make the most of it—to justify himself. Then he would take himself out of her life forever.

“Miss Grymes, I have something to tell you—something to explain.”

She did not answer, but remained motionless, her eyes fixed on him. He could not know that she was in a crucible of emotion—that she was fighting fiercely for control of herself.

“Miss Grymes—once, on just such a night as this, you asked me to do something, for your sake—and I refused. You asked me to drop my piratical life—for I was a pirate—and for reasons you know—I refused. But I wish to tell you this, mademoiselle, that, in consequence of what later took place”—he faltered—“I almost betrayed my comrades, because—I loved you. I loved you then, and since, and now. And I shall love you, ma’mselle, till the end of time.” She started perceptibly but made no answer.

“But, because I wished to protect my men, who trusted me, I refused, and you told me—that you but flirted with me. Later, when I became, of my own volition, a patriot, I was able to go to you, but I did not. For I believe that you really did not flirt.”

Still she was silent. Jean rushed on.

“And still later, when I was convinced that you did not flirt”—she started again—“in honor I could not go to you, for I believed ... was led to believe ... that you loved—Pierre.”

She half turned from him.

“I know. Father Chambertin told me.” So low was her voice that he could hardly hear her. A meandering breeze fitfully wandered thru the garden, rustling thru the bushes in gentle reproof.

“Still,” he went on, hurriedly, “when I learned that this person—had not told the truth—it made no difference. For I still did not know whether or not you were—flirting—and so, after much thought, I have come to the conclusion that you were—and I have decided to sail for France—to-morrow. Of course, this cannot interest you, but I merely wished to let you know—that when a man loves once—really loves—he can never again love another in the same way. And no doubt it will interest you to know that I have always loved you, ma’mselle, and always—will. But—ma’mselle will, in the future, no longer be troubled with the odium of my presence!”

Then, turning, he began to go back toward the house, but suddenly stopped, for she was speaking.

“Captain—Lafitte,” she was saying, “you have forgotten one thing in your elaborate plan. What of me, sir?”

He stared at her.

“What of you, ma’mselle?”

“Yes. Aren’t you taking too much for granted, sir?”

He trembled ... his brain was whirling.

“What do you mean?”

“For the sake of argument, sir, answer me this. You say that you learned that Pierre—that this person—had lied. Yet, how could you know that I was not—lying—that night—at Grande Terre?”

He thought this over for a brief moment, puzzled.

“But how could I know?”

“Then why didn’t you—ask—sir?” Very low. Why were men so dull-witted? But he did not answer—he was stupefied.

She stamped her foot—and he suddenly saw that she was both laughing and crying—together. He stared at her wonderingly.

“Why don’t you ask me—sir?”

And then he knew.

“Virginia!” He stepped uncertainly toward her.

“Yes—Jean.” How unutterably sweet his name sounded on her lips!

“You weren’t telling the truth!”

But it was altogether unnecessary for her to answer this, for they were already in each other’s arms....

The breeze grumbled in the trees. It had all been such a meaningless performance—to the breeze.

John Grymes and François de Moulin, arm in arm, came down the garden walk, and they were laughing and talking—in low voices. Suddenly rounding a curve, they stopped, and the Virginian, excitedly clutching his companion’s arm, pointed toward the foot of the winding path.

There, silhouetted in the moonlight against the bright silver of the river, were two figures, unmistakably in a close embrace.

The head of the man bent downward for an equally unmistakable purpose. But although the lovers were ignorant of the presence of intruders, their friend and ally, the Lady in the Moon, was not—for she indignantly proved her friendship again by retiring forthwith into a quilted bed of clouds....

FINIS

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