She nodded her head ruefully.
“That’s what I wanted to say, but it sounds
different on your lips. It sounds as though
you meant it yourself, and that you meant it because
of me.”
“Well, I am going to bed. But do, please,
think over my proposition, and let me know in the
morning. There’s no use in my discussing
it now. You make me so angry. You are
cowardly, you know, and very egotistic. You
are afraid of what other fools will say. No matter
how honest your motives, if others criticized your
actions your feelings would be hurt. And you
think more about your own wretched feelings than you
do about mine. And then, being a coward—all
men are at heart cowards—you disguise your
cowardice by calling it chivalry. I thank heaven
that I was not born a man. Good-night.
Do think it over. And don’t be foolish.
What Berande needs is good American hustle.
You don’t know what that is. You are a
muddler. Besides, you are enervated. I’m
fresh to the climate. Let me be your partner,
and you’ll see me rattle the dry bones of the
Solomons. Confess, I’ve rattled yours already.”
“I should say so,” he answered.
“Really, you know, you have. I never received
such a dressing-down in my life. If any one had
ever told me that I’d be a party even to the
present situation. . . . Yes, I confess, you
have rattled my dry bones pretty considerably.”
“But that is nothing to the rattling they are
going to get,” she assured him, as he rose and
took her hand. “Good-night. And do,
do give me a rational decision in the morning.”
“I wish I knew whether you are merely headstrong,
or whether you really intend to be a Solomon planter,”
Sheldon said in the morning, at breakfast.
“I wish you were more adaptable,” Joan
retorted. “You have more preconceived
notions than any man I ever met. Why in the name
of common sense, in the name of . . . fair play, can’t
you get it into your head that I am different from
the women you have known, and treat me accordingly?
You surely ought to know I am different. I sailed
my own schooner here—skipper, if you please.
I came here to make my living. You know that;
I’ve told you often enough. It was Dad’s
plan, and I’m carrying it out, just as you are
trying to carry out your Hughie’s plan.
Dad started to sail and sail until he could find the
proper islands for planting. He died, and I
sailed and sailed until I arrived here. Well,”—she
shrugged her shoulders—“the schooner
is at the bottom of the sea. I can’t sail
any farther, therefore I remain here. And a planter
I shall certainly be.”
“You see—” he began.
“I haven’t got to the point,” she
interrupted. “Looking back on my conduct
from the moment I first set foot on your beach, I can
see no false pretence that I have made about myself
or my intentions. I was my natural self to you
from the first. I told you my plans; and yet
you sit there and calmly tell me that you don’t
know whether I really intend to become a planter,
or whether it is all obstinacy and pretence.
Now let me assure you, for the last time, that I really
and truly shall become a planter, thanks to you, or
in spite of you. Do you want me for a partner?”
