HEY say that a dog can't get rid of a bad name. A woman can escape from it in a far country. I have; but some day my children may visit the place where I was born, or the place where I was first married, and find their mother called a pirate of men, a heartless coquette, or even worse. I am writing this story of the adventurous days of my life, so that they may know that these charges are untrue.
It was not my fault that the reputation of a man hunter attached to me. I was—perhaps still am—unusually good-looking. I could not help that—and did not want to help it. I had some fascination—more than the looks accounted for, I think—for men. I could not help that, either; but I think I would have if I could. I certainly did not try to attract men. With one exception, they have never attracted me greatly. I am, I believe, rather cold toward the other sex in general. Anyhow—in the fashion of the day, I'll say it bluntly—I have been beyond serious reproach in my relations with men.
The title of “pirate” was given me in jest, stuck as names given in jest do, and was altered in its implication as they often are. My grandfather always declared that we were descended from a famous old pirate, and he nicknamed me “the little pirate” when I was a few months old, because I grabbed things, and fought hard to keep them. I was rather like that when I grew up; but I did not grab at boys in particular. It was they who grabbed at me!
When I began to think myself a woman—and that was at the age of seventeen—I objected to the name; told grandfather that I wouldn't have it.
“Very well,” he chuckled, “we'll drop the name, Jennie; but you are a pirate, and always will be one—a pirate of men! Ha, ha, ha! You'll make many walk the plank, my dear; but, in the end, one will have you in chains.”
“Good luck to him!” I laughed. “He'll need to hold the chain with a strong hand! And he'll have to be very different from the boys here!”
All the young men in our little village—father was the doctor—had been “soft” with me, from the time I was thirteen, but I had felt no inclination toward any of them; or toward any man until after I spoke to grandfather. Then, when I was nearly eighteen, I went over to Dunsterville for the fair, with a lot of young people from the village. There I saw a big, good-looking sailor, with a golden beard—a huge, devil-may-care fellow like you read of in books. I clapped my hands at his successes at the coconut-shies, and he spoke to me. It was impudence, of course, but he was well-spoken, and I liked his bold way, and it teased the boys. So I talked and jested with him. Finally I let him take me home along the lane.
IRLIE,” he said, “I've been all around the world from end to end, and you're the best thing I've seen. I'm going to marry you some day.”
“Indeed you're not!” I laughed. “If I ever marry any one, and if he's a sailor, he'll have to be a captain at least!”
“Well,” he said, “will you do it, if I get to be that?”
“Get to that and come and ask me then,” I told him.
“Give me a kiss to seal the contract?” he asked.
“I don't go in for kissing,” I told him, tossing my
head.
“Time you had the experience,” he thought. “Come, girlie!”
He tried to put his arm around me, but I pushed it away.
“If you make me,” I said, “I shall detest you.”
“Make you?” he cried. “Bah! A kiss isn't a kiss unless it's willing.”
“Then I've never had one,” I said.
“Come!” he protested.
“Oh!” I said. “I didn't mean it for gospel, you know! I meant not seriously. There's dad and granddad, and mistletoe—and fun!”
“I've three good arguments for one then,” he said. “Experience, contract, fun.”
“No new experience,” I laughed. “And there's no contract!”
“How about fun?” he teased.
I let him have one, when we said good night.
“For fun,” I told him.
“On your side,” he agreed. “I could tell that. Thank you, all the same. On my side it wasn't only fun. I'll come back to you some day, my dear I can't rise to captain easily, or all at once. Remember that.”
I had almost forgotten about the man, till next year's fair. He was there in a different sort of cap—one with a peak. So I supposed he had done something toward the “rising.” I was mostly with the squire's son—a weedy fool who talked poetry—and only nodded to the man. But he whispered in my ear, as we were crowding into a show:
“I'm on the way to officer; going to sit for the junior mate's examination next month. I'll be behind that big elm waiting.”
Just for curiosity I went there when I came out from the show; gave the man a lecture for his presumption; said I wouldn't walk with him.