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The Sailorman
by
“Some Western people were telling me,” said one of the matrons, “that he wants to be the next lieutenant-governor. They say he is very ambitious and very selfish.”
“Any man is selfish,” protested one who for years had attempted to marry Helen, “who wants to keep Helen to himself. But that he should wish to be a lieutenant-governor, too, is rather an anticlimax. It makes one lose sympathy.”
Latimer went on his way without asking any sympathy. The companionship of Helen Page was quite sufficient. He had been working overtime and was treating himself to his first vacation in years–he was young–he was in love and he was very happy. Nor was there any question, either, that Helen Page was happy. Those who had known her since she was a child could not remember when she had not been happy, but these days she wore her joyousness with a difference. It was in her eyes, in her greetings to old friends: it showed itself hourly in courtesies and kindnesses. She was very kind to Latimer, too. She did not deceive him. She told him she liked better to be with him than with any one else,–it would have been difficult to deny to him what was apparent to an entire summer colony,–but she explained that that did not mean she would marry him. She announced this when the signs she knew made it seem necessary. She announced it in what was for her a roundabout way, by remarking suddenly that she did not intend to marry for several years.
This brought Latimer to his feet and called forth from him remarks so eloquent that Helen found it very difficult to keep her own. She as though she had been caught in an undertow and was being whirled out to sea. When, at last, she had regained her breath, only because Latimer had paused to catch his, she shook her head miserably.
“The trouble is,” she complained, “there are so many think the same thing!”
“What do they think?” demanded Latimer.
“That they want to marry me.”
Checked but not discouraged, Latimer attacked in force.
“I can quite believe that,” he agreed, “but there’s this important difference: no matter how much a man wants to marry you, he can’t LOVE you as I do!”
“That’s ANOTHER thing they think,” sighed Helen.
“I’m sorry to be so unoriginal,” snapped Latimer.
“PLEASE don’t!” pleaded Helen. “I don’t mean to be unfeeling. I’m not unfeeling. I’m only trying to be fair. If I don’t seem to take it to heart, it’s because I know it does no good. I can see how miserable a girl must be if she is loved by one man and can’t make up her mind whether or not she wants to marry him. But when there’s so many she just stops worrying; for she can’t possibly marry them all.”
“ALL!” exclaimed Latimer. “It is incredible that I have undervalued you, but may I ask how many there are?”
“I don’t know,” sighed Helen miserably. “There seems to be something about me that–“
“There is!” interrupted Latimer. “I’ve noticed it. You don’t have to tell me about it. I know that the Helen Page habit is a damned difficult habit to break!”
It cannot be said that he made any violent effort to break it. At least, not one that was obvious to Fair Harbor or to Helen.
One of their favorite drives was through the pine woods to the point on which stood the lighthouse, and on one of these excursions they explored a forgotten wood road and came out upon a cliff. The cliff overlooked the sea, and below it was a jumble of rocks with which the waves played hide and seek. On many afternoons and mornings they returned to this place, and, while Latimer read to her, Helen would sit with her back to a tree and toss pine-cones into the water. Sometimes the poets whose works he read made love so charmingly that Latimer was most grateful to them for rendering such excellent first aid to the wounded, and into his voice he would throw all that feeling and music that from juries and mass meetings had dragged tears and cheers and votes.