When Sheldon emerged from among
the trees he found Joan waiting
at the compound gate, and he
could not fail to see that she
was visibly gladdened at the
sight of him.
"I can't tell you how glad
I am to see you," was her greeting. "What's
become of Tudor? That last flutter
of the automatic wasn't nice
to listen to. Was it you or Tudor?"
"So you know all about it," he
answered coolly. "Well, it was
Tudor, but he was doing it left-handed.
He's down with a hole in his
shoulder." He looked at her keenly. "Disappointing,
isn't it?" he drawled.
"How do you
mean?"
"Why, that
I didn't kill him."
"But I didn't want him killed
just because he kissed me," she
cried.
"Oh, he did kiss you!" Sheldon
retorted, in evident surprise. "I
thought you said he hurt your
arm."
"One could call it a kiss,
though it was only on the end
of the nose." She laughed at
the recollection. "But I paid
him back for that myself. I boxed
his face for him. And he did
hurt my arm. It's black and blue.
Look at it."
She pulled up the loose sleeve
of her blouse, and he saw the
bruised imprints of two fingers.
Just then a gang of blacks
came out from among the trees
carrying the wounded man on a
rough stretcher.
"Romantic, isn't it?" Sheldon
sneered, following Joan's startled
gaze. "And now I'll have to play
surgeon and doctor him up. Funny,
this twentieth-century duelling.
First you drill a hole in a man,
and next you set about plugging
the hole up."
They had stepped aside to let
the stretcher pass, and Tudor,
who had heard the remark, lifted
himself up on the elbow of his
sound arm and said with a defiant
grin, -
"If you'd got
one of mine you'd have had
to plug with a dinner-
plate."
"Oh, you wretch!" Joan cried. "You've
been cutting your bullets."
"It was according to agreement," Tudor
answered. "Everything went. We
could have used dynamite if we
wanted to."
"He's right," Sheldon assured
her, as they swung in behind. "Any
weapon was permissible. I lay
in the grass where he couldn't
see me, and bushwhacked him in
truly noble fashion. That's what
comes of having women on the
plantation. And now it's antiseptics
and drainage tubes, I suppose.
It's a nasty mess, and I'll have
to read up on it before I tackle
the job."
"I don't see that it's my fault," she
began. "I couldn't help it because
he kissed me. I never dreamed
he would attempt it."
"We didn't
fight for that reason. But
there isn't time to explain.
If you'll get dressings and bandages
ready I'll look up 'gun-shot
wounds' and see what's to be
done."
"Is he bleeding seriously?" she
asked.
"No; the bullet
seems to have missed the important
arteries.
But that would have been a pickle."
"Then there's no need to bother
about reading up," Joan said. "And
I'm just dying to hear what it
was all about. The Apostle is
lying becalmed inside the point,
and her boats are out to wing.
She'll be at anchor in five minutes,
and Doctor Welshmere is sure
to be on board. So all we've
got to do is to make Tudor comfortable.
We'd better put him in your room
under the mosquito-netting, and
send a boat off to tell Dr. Welshmere
to bring his instruments."
An hour afterward, Dr. Welshmere
left the patient comfortable
and attended to, and went down
to the beach to go on board,
promising to come back to dinner.
Joan and Sheldon, standing on
the veranda, watched him depart.
"I'll never have it in for
the missionaries again since
seeing them here in the Solomons," she
said, seating herself in a steamer-
chair.
She looked at Sheldon and began
to laugh.
"That's right," he said. "It's
the way I feel, playing the fool
and trying to murder a guest."
"But you haven't
told me what it was all about."
"You," he answered
shortly.
"Me? But you
just said it wasn't."
"Oh, it wasn't the kiss." He
walked over to the railing and
leaned against it, facing her. "But
it was about you all the same,
and I may as well tell you. You
remember, I warned you long ago
what would happen when you wanted
to become a partner in Berande.
Well, all the beach is gossiping
about it; and Tudor persisted
in repeating the gossip to me.
So you see it won't do for you
to stay on here under present
conditions. It would be better
if you went away."
"But I don't want to go away," she
objected with rueful countenance.
"A chaperone,
then--"
"No, nor a
chaperone."
"But you surely don't expect
me to go around shooting every
slanderer in the Solomons that
opens his mouth?" he demanded
gloomily.
"No, nor that either," she
answered with quick impulsiveness. "I'll
tell you what we'll do. We'll
get married and put a stop to
it all. There!"
He looked at her in amazement,
and would have believed that
she was making fun of him had
it not been for the warm blood
that suddenly suffused her cheeks.
"Do you mean that?" he asked
unsteadily. "Why?"
"To put a stop
to all the nasty gossip of
the beach. That's a
pretty good reason, isn't it?"
The temptation was strong enough
and sudden enough to make him
waver, but all the disgust came
back to him that was his when
he lay in the grass fighting
gnats and cursing adventure,
and he answered, -
"No; it is
worse than no reason at all.
I don't care to marry
you as a matter of expedience--"
"You are the most ridiculous
creature!" she broke in, with
a flash of her old-time anger. "You
talk love and marriage to me,
very much against my wish, and
go mooning around over the plantation
week after week because you can't
have me, and look at me when
you think I'm not noticing and
when all the time I'm wondering
when you had your last square
meal because of the hungry look
in your eyes, and make eyes at
my revolver-belt hanging on a
nail, and fight duels about me,
and all the rest--and--and now,
when I say I'll marry you, you
do yourself the honour of refusing
me."
"You can't make me any more
ridiculous than I feel," he answered,
rubbing the lump on his forehead
reflectively. "And if this is
the accepted romantic programme--a
duel over a girl, and the girl
rushing into the arms of the
winner--why, I shall not make
a bigger ass of myself by going
in for it."
"I thought you'd jump at it," she
confessed, with a naivete he
could not but question, for he
thought he saw a roguish gleam
in her eyes.
"My conception of love must
differ from yours then," he said. "I
should want a woman to marry
me for love of me, and not out
of romantic admiration because
I was lucky enough to drill a
hole in a man's shoulder with
smokeless powder. I tell you
I am disgusted with this adventure
tom-foolery and rot. I don't
like it. Tudor is a sample of
the adventure-kind--picking a
quarrel with me and behaving
like a monkey, insisting on fighting
with me--'to the death,' he said.
It was like a penny dreadful."
She was biting her lip, and
though her eyes were cool and
level- looking as ever, the tell-tale
angry red was in her cheeks.
"Of course,
if you don't want to marry
me--"
"But I do," he
hastily interposed.
"Oh, you do--"
"But don't you see, little
girl, I want you to love me," he
hurried on. "Otherwise, it would
be only half a marriage. I don't
want you to marry me simply because
by so doing a stop is put to
the beach gossip, nor do I want
you to marry me out of some foolish
romantic notion. I shouldn't
want you . . . that way."
"Oh, in that case," she said
with assumed deliberateness,
and he could have sworn to the
roguish gleam, "in that case,
since you are willing to consider
my offer, let me make a few remarks.
In the first place, you needn't
sneer at adventure when you are
living it yourself; and you were
certainly living it when I found
you first, down with fever on
a lonely plantation with a couple
of hundred wild cannibals thirsting
for your life. Then I came along--"
"And what with your arriving
in a gale," he broke in, "fresh
from the wreck of the schooner,
landing on the beach in a whale-boat
full of picturesque Tahitian
sailors, and coming into the
bungalow with a Baden-Powell
on your head, sea-boots on your
feet, and a whacking big Colt's
dangling on your hip--why, I
am only too ready to admit that
you were the quintessence of
adventure."
"Very good," she cried exultantly. "It's
mere simple arithmetic-- the
adding of your adventure and
my adventure together. So that's
settled, and you needn't jeer
at adventure any more. Next,
I don't think there was anything
romantic in Tudor's attempting
to kiss me, nor anything like
adventure in this absurd duel.
But I do think, now, that it
was romantic for you to fall
in love with me. And finally,
and it is adding romance to romance,
I think . . . I think I do love
you, Dave--oh, Dave!"
The last was a sighing dove-cry
as he caught her up in his arms
and pressed her to him.
"But I don't love you because
you played the fool to-day," she
whispered on his shoulder. "White
men shouldn't go around killing
each other."
"Then why do you love me?" he
questioned, enthralled after
the manner of all lovers in the
everlasting query that for ever
has remained unanswered.
"I don't know--just
because I do, I guess. And
that's all
the satisfaction you gave me
when we had that man-talk. But
I have been loving you for weeks--during
all the time you have been so
deliciously and unobtrusively
jealous of Tudor."
"Yes, yes, go on," he
urged breathlessly, when she
paused.
"I wondered
when you'd break out, and because
you didn't I
loved you all the more. You were
like Dad, and Von. You could
hold yourself in check. You didn't
make a fool of yourself."
"Not until to-day," he
suggested.
"Yes, and I
loved you for that, too. It
was about time. I began
to think you were never going
to bring up the subject again.
And now that I have offered myself
you haven't even accepted."
With both hands on her shoulders
he held her at arm's-length from
him and looked long into her
eyes, no longer cool but seemingly
pervaded with a golden flush.
The lids drooped and yet bravely
did not droop as she returned
his gaze. Then he fondly and
solemnly drew her to him.
"And how about that hearth
and saddle of your own?" he asked,
a moment later.
"I well-nigh
won to them. The grass house
is my hearth, and
the Martha my saddle, and--and
look at all the trees I've planted,
to say nothing of the sweet corn.
And it's all your fault anyway.
I might never have loved you
if you hadn't put the idea into
my head."
"There's the Nongassla coming
in around the point with her
boats out," Sheldon remarked
irrelevantly. "And the Commissioner
is on board. He's going down
to San Cristoval to investigate
that missionary killing. We're
in luck, I must say."
"I don't see where the luck
comes in," she said dolefully. "We
ought to have this evening all
to ourselves just to talk things
over. I've a thousand questions
to ask you."
"And it wouldn't have been
a man-talk either," she added.
"But my plan is better than
that." He debated with himself
a moment. "You see, the Commissioner
is the one official in the islands
who can give us a license. And--there's
the luck of it-- Doctor Welshmere
is here to perform the ceremony.
We'll get married this evening."
Joan recoiled from him in panic,
tearing herself from his arms
and going backward several steps.
He could see that she was really
frightened.
"I . . . I thought . . ." she
stammered.
Then, slowly, the change came
over her, and the blood flooded
into her face in the same amazing
blush he had seen once before
that day. Her cool, level-looking
eyes were no longer level-looking
nor cool, but warmly drooping
and just unable to meet his,
as she came toward him and nestled
in the circle of his arms, saying
softly, almost in a whisper,
-
"I am ready," Dave."
Footnotes:
{1} Eaten.
{2} Food.
{3} Mary--beche-de-mer English
for woman.
{4} Ngari-ngari--literally "scratch-scratch"--a
vegetable skin- poisoning that,
while not serious, is decidedly
uncomfortable.
{5} Paddle
End of The Project Gutenberg
Etext of Adventure, by Jack London
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