Chapter Three
B
lanche," says Mrs. Steele the next morning as she brushes out the lovely waves of prematurely grey hair, "what are you going to do abouttheBaron?"
"Do?" I repeat innocently. "What's the matter with him?"
"Now, Blanche, you said if I would promise not to interfere you would be frank. I'm not sure I amwise to adhere to my side of the bargain under any circumstances. I never thought you the kind of a girl to go on letting a man fall more and more in love knowing all the while you would never be able to give him more than a passing interest."
"How do you know that? Perhaps I'm disguising all sorts of fierce and fiery feelings under my cool exterior?"
"No, my dear, you can't impose on an old friend so far as that. You are a queer girl and not always easy to understand, but you care less for the Baron de Bach than I do, and you know it. Now, what makes you act so?" and she arraigns me with uplifted brush.
"Dear Mrs. Steele, I'm a student of human nature in a small way. If I know anything about our Peruvian friend he will fall out of 'love,' as you are pleased to call his chronic state of sentiment, as readily as he fell in, and no bones broke, either. He would have forgotten all about me before this and gone over to pretty Miss Rogers and the study of photography except that I've been a bit obdurate—unusually so, he is naïve enough to assure me, and his vanity is piqued."
Mrs. Steele lays down her brush and begins to coil up the long, soft hair.
"My dear, you are very old for your years. When I was twenty Iwould have made a hero out of that man instead of calmly picking out his foibles—girls are not what they used to be."
I retire to my stateroom after breakfast to read. The Baron retaliates by becoming aware of pretty Miss Rogers' existence. Pretty Miss Rogers' mamma is conspicuously polite to him, and pretty Miss Rogers' self offers to play the piano to his violin. It is Mrs. Steele who brings me these tidings and assures me that Miss Rogers plays well, and, as for the Baron de Bach, he is a master! I resolutely read my book till luncheon time and, going up on deck afterwards, I am surprised that the ever-watchful Baron has not hurried tomeet me. He seems utterly indifferent to the fact of my presence and leans beside Miss Rogers at the ship's rail talking contentedly.
"H'm!" I muse, "musichathcharms! At all events he must not be allowed to suppose that I notice, much less care for, his defection," and I turn to talk animatedly with Captain Ball about Mazatlan. His wife comes up with an aggressive-looking Californian who has asked several persons to present him, but I've successfully evaded his acquaintance till now.
"It's not often we have the pleasure of a word with you," says Mrs. Ball, after introducing her companion. "Baron de Bach is such amonopolist. Just see how he is engrossing Miss Rogers now. What a pretty girl she is, and how well she plays. Did you hear her and the Baron this morning?"
"No," I say calmly, "I was so unfortunate as to miss that. Baron de Bach has contracted a benevolent habit of reading French aloud to Mrs. Steele and me every morning, and one doesn'talwaysyearn to listen to French with a dreadful German accent, so I excused myself and passed the forenoon in my room."
"You must be glad to hear the Baron has found some other congenial occupation." Mrs. Ball laughs, and exchanges a look with the Californian.
"It may have its advantages," I reply, determined not to be ruffled.
At that moment the Peruvian comes up to ask me if I will sit in a group to be photographed.
"Oh, please don't ask me," I say pleasantly; "I hate sitting for my picture."
"But I beg you. Madame Steele haf promise to help us. She ask me to zay she will spik vidth you."
With a show of indolence I accompany him to where Mrs. Steele's chair is stretched out under the awning, for the day is very sultry.
"I haf play vidth Mees Rogair," he whispers on the way, "and haf make her promise to get out hercamarah—I vould haf your photographie."
Mrs. Steele groups the party, and we succeed in getting several unusually grotesque and dreadful pictures. If anything could cure one person's sentimental regard for another, it would be the sight of just such amateur caricatures as were turned out that afternoon. Mrs. Steele looks a little like her handsome self in the proofs shown us next day. Miss Rogers develops an unflattering likeness to a dutch doll—I am as black as a Congo negro and wear the scowl of a brigand, while Baron de Bach, after carefully brushing his hair and twirling his moustache to the proper curve, comes out with a whiteblot instead of a face; a suggestion of one eye peers shyly forth from the moon-like mask, and the Peruvian is greatly disgusted. I shall ever regard an amateur's camera as a great moral engine for the extirpation of personal vanity.
On the evening of the eighth day we steam into the far-famed Bay of Acapulco.
It is sunset, and from the Captain's bridge we watch the headlands taking bolder shape against the brilliant sky, the lighthouse flushing pink in the reflection. We see the long, low red-roofed Lazaretto set peacefully among the hills, and away to the right the straggling town of Acapulco, fringed with cocoa palmsand guarded on the other side by an old and primitive fort.
A wonderful land-locked harbour is Acapulco, and the bold hills circling it seemed that night to shut it out from all the rest of the world.
"That town is more like old Spain than Spain herself," I hear a gentleman from Madrid say to Mrs. Steele. "It has remained since Cortes' day, with no other land communication than an occasional mule train affords; and the manners and customs and speech of Cortes' followers are preserved there to-day."
"Can't we go ashore?" I ask the Captain, pleadingly.
"Well, you can't stay long," isthe gruff answer. "We must get away early to-morrow morning."
But Baron de Bach, overhearing, says:
"I tell Madame Steele ve can haf supper in dthe town. Vill you come, Señorita?"
"Thanks, with pleasure, if Mrs. Steele agrees," and my spirits rise high at the prospect.
The great red sun rests one splendid moment on the wooded heights and dyes the waters of Acapulco's bay in dusky carmine, and it throws into bolder silhouette the black hull of the disabled man-of-warAlaska, anchored after many storms in this fair and quiet haven. The health commissioners are long incoming, and it is late before Mrs. Steele, the Baron and I are pushed off from theSan Migueland headed towards the town. It is dark when we reach the wharf, and Baron de Bach gives us each an arm, saying:
"It ees not safe dthat you leaf me; stay close beside."
"Yes," observes Mrs. Steele encouragingly, "I've heard that these wretches think nothing of murdering a stranger for a ring or a few reales."
"Dthere ees no fear; I haf mine pistol."
But nevertheless I have a delightfully creepy sensation as we pass the occasional groups of evil-looking natives, and I keep close beside the muscular Peruvian, with a new senseof comfort in his presence. At the little hotel not far from the wharf the Baron orders supper, and then takes us into the market.
This interesting place is lit with smoky old lamps and flaring torches, and the fitful light shows weird pictures to our unaccustomed eyes. Each booth is in charge of one or more women, and here and there is a man resplendent in overshadowing sombrero, with heavy silver braid wound about the crown. The women have the scantiest of clothing, arms and neck bare, dark eyes glittering, and dusky unkempt hair. The atmosphere is stifling, but we must endure it long enough to get some of the wares. The women chattervolubly, and even leave their booths to come and take us by the dress and urge us to some dingy stall. Vegetables and fruit are piled about in profusion, but we make our way to the pottery tables. I am afraid to admire the curious designs and archaic workmanship, for everything I notice approvingly the Peruvian straightway buys, and we soon have a basket full.
"Ah! Figurines you must haf!" he exclaims as we approach a booth populous with little clay figures, tiny men and women in native dress, engaged in native avocations. These evidence no small cleverness in the modeller, and the Baron insists on taking a dozen. Far on the otherside of the market some Indian women crouch in a semi-circle over an open air fire.
"What are they doing?" asks Mrs. Steele.
"Dthey make tortillas," says the Baron.
"Oh, yes, I've heard about these meal cakes," says my friend, stopping to look at the queer group. One old woman jumps up and offers her something smoking in a pan. Mrs. Steele, bent upon discovery, bravely tears off a bit and tastes it, throwing the woman a coin.
"Give me some," I say.
"No," interposes the Baron, with a fatherly decision; "you vill haf supper soon, and I haf order tortillas. Mine vill be better. Vait leedle."
Really, the Baron has quite taken me in hand, I think, half amused. But he is a very necessary quantity in this pilgrimage ashore, and I walk on obediently by his side, meditating how queer that one who appeared so masterful and imperious at times could be at others so weak and almost childish. It shed a new light on his character to see him ashore. Here he knows the people and their tongue, all our wants must pass through his interpretation, and he is master of the situation. He seems, moreover, to fall naturally and simply into the new office, and treats me quite as if I were a child. I want tostop and get some plantains as we pass a fruit stall.
"No," says the Baron, "you must not eat dthem; dthey air—unreif."
"Ah, but really," I say, "Imusttaste a plaintain; suppose you had never seen one of that kind before."
"I vill not buy dthem; I vill not see you ill," he says.
"Very well, I'll buy one for myself." I drop his arm and run to the booth, and, laying my finger on the greenest plantain I can find, I say:
"Quantos?"
The old woman in charge gabbles away for dear life, and, not feeling that I am progressing very rapidly, I lay down a media and take up theplantain. The Baron comes to my rescue with a half-amused, half-vexed smile.
"She haf cheat you," and he levels a volley of Spanish at the old criminal. "See," he says, "she vill gif you all dthose limes if you gif back dthat plantain, you vill be glad of limesabord du San Miguel."
"Yes," I say. "I'll have the limes, too." And I put down another media. He looks at me curiously.
"Ask her to send them to the hotel," I say. He gives the old woman some rapid directions.
"Now ve vill haf supper," and we are soon sitting in a private room at the hotel discussing soup, fish, tortillas and frejoles (the Mexican black bean) and enchalades, which are only the coarse Indian meal cakes, "tortillas," rolled up like a French pancake, with cheese and cayenne pepper and a variety of disagreeable things inside, but considered quite a delicacy among Mexicans. It is long before I recover from my first mouthful, and the Baron stands over me with a fan and a glass of wine, while Mrs. Steele laughs until the tears come into her eyes.
"Water! water!" I gasp.
"No,vino blanco, Señorita," says the Baron, putting the glass to my lips. I drain the last drop.
"Now some water, please."
"Yes, leedle morevino blanco," says the Peruvian, pouring out another glass.
"Don't you understand?" I say hotly. "I want water—Wasser!De l'eau—Aqua!"
The waiter starts at the last word and takes up a clay carafe.
The Baron shakes his head and gives some brief command in Spanish. The servant looks sulky and puts down the bottle.
"What do you mean?" I say, with still smarting tongue. "Is it Spanish etiquette to ask a lady to supper and then refuse her a glass of water?"
"Madame," says the Peruvian quietly to Mrs. Steele, "no von heredrink vater; it makes always fery seeck," and he signs to the servant to serve the next course.
"I despisevino blanco," I say; "I'd as soon drink weak vinegar." Nevertheless I sip my second glass, as there is no prospect of anything else.
A "moso" comes in with a big basket containing our purchases. I beckon him to bring it to me, and look among the limes for my precious plantain.
"Señorita," says the Peruvian, breaking off a conversation with Mrs. Steele upon native dishes, "I haf here pineapple sairve vidth ice and sugar and vine; it is dthe most delicieux of all fruit. Allow me toraicommend you." And the waiter puts the tempting plate before me.
"Thank you," I say, "but I am looking for my plantain. Will you have the boy find it, there are so many things in this basket?" A few words between the "moso" and the Baron, the latter smiles a little.
"Très curieux, dthat old voman forget to put in dthat plantain!"
Mrs. Steele's amusement is most offensive.
"My dear, you are in the power of the interpreter; you will find our friend less manageable on shore than on board theSan Miguel."
The Baron looks innocence itself and creates a diversion by throwing pieces of roll out over the lattice tothe street children, whose black eyes and black fingers appear through the slats. Each piece is received with squeals, a grand rush and protracted squabbling, and finally the more audacious appear at the door. They peep in, throw us a flower and then scuttle away. One tiny beggar brings a small bouquet and puts it in my lap. The Baron gives her a media and says something about "vamos." She flies off, but only to tell the rest of the success of her mission, and the whole horde troop in and pile the corner of the table with more or less faded roses and appeal vociferously for "Media! media!" The Baron, seeing that we are amused, tosses a coin overtheir heads. It goes over the lattice and into the street, and the black little troop tear out and fight and scuffle under the window. They come in again and again, but finally, Peruvian patience and Mexican medias being alike exhausted, the Baron rises in his seat looking remarkably ferocious, and addresses them in stirring Spanish. The whole crowd take to their heels, tumbling one over another in excited haste.
"What in the world have you said?" asked Mrs. Steele, greatly amused.
"Oh, nodthing much," says the Baron in his usual low and gentle tone; "I only zay if dthey effer come again I vill cut dthem up vidth a bigknife and haf dthem boil for breakfast."
"You barbarian!" laughs Mrs. Steele, rising. And then she looks about. "We might have a glimpse of the church before we go if there's time."
"Sairtainly!" agrees the Baron, and we find our way through the now quieter and dimmer thoroughfare to the Catholic Cathedral behind the Plaza. The occasional candle gives out too dim a light for us to form much of an idea of the interior, but it is cool and damp and mysterious. Mrs. Steele, who is a thorough and highly intelligent sightseer, explores the dim corners and finally goes back for a last look atsome detail she found specially interesting. I wait for her in the dusk down by the door; the Baron has disappeared for the moment. "I wish Mrs. Steele wouldn't be so particular about taking notes," I say to myself. "I'm tired, and it's very uncanny and grave-like here." A little sound beside me, and I turn with a start. In the dim light I see a chimpanzee-like face looking up to mine. It is horribly seared and wrinkled, one tooth sticks out from the wide, shrivelled lips, and the beady animal-like eyes glare through grey elf locks. I am speechless with fright, till the dreadful apparition stretches out a skinny arm and with some strange words laysa claw-like hand on my bare wrist. I shrink back, uttering a little muffled cry of horror.
The big Peruvian comes hurriedly towards me from the other side of the church.
"Vas dthat you, Señorita?" he says.
Faint with fatigue and fright, I put out a shaking hand to steady myself self against the damp pillar.
"Señorita, you air so white!" he says hurriedly, and coming near he draws me away from the clammy wall.
"You haf been frighten?" he asks softly, his face close to mine.
"Yes," I find breath to say; "a witch or a monkey is in thechurch, and it touched me in the dark."
A shiver runs over me again at the remembrance, but I try to draw away from the strong, close grasp.
"You vill faint, Señorita—I cannot let you go; dthere ees no seat here." He takes off my hat and fans me. "Zome boy try to frighten you," he says consolingly.
Mrs. Steele calls from the other side: "Where are you, Blanche?"
The Baron answers for me, holds me closer for an instant, and I think he touches my hair lightly with his lips.
"Forgif me, Señorita. I vill find dthat boy vhat frighten you zo; I vill gif him von hundred pesos formy sake, and I vill kill him afterwards for yours."
I put on my hat a little unsteadily, still thinking more of that awful brutish face than of the Baron. Mrs. Steele comes up with note-book open in her hand.
"I've just seen the most dreadful little old crone," she says cheerily; "she's like some grotesque dream—why, what's the matter——?"
She breaks off, looking at me as we stand under the lamplight just outside the door.
"It must be the same thing I saw," I say to the Baron; "what a goose I am—but it looked like nothing human in the half light. I was so scared," I confess, a little nervously.
"You look like a ghost, child; it was only a withered old beggar." And Mrs. Steele puts her arm about me, and we go to inspect an ancient well where the native women are filling clay jars and chatting merrily as they file in and out of the gateway of the enclosure with their picturesque burdens gracefully poised on head or shoulder.
"Let us go to dthe Plaza; Madame and Señorita can sit down for a leedle."
It is only a step, and we are soon resting on one of the semi-circular stone seats, listening to some primitive music and watching the enjoyment of the people. Mrs. Steele draws my head down on her shoulderand I shut my eyes. The Baron puts a coat over me and hums a low accompaniment to the fantastic air. Suddenly I become aware of someone touching me from behind the stone seat. I start up and turn quickly, to find my apparition of the church chattering at my back. Her restless eyes and the one white fang shine out from the shrivelled monkey-face, and the skeleton arms with wrinkled, black skin drawn loosely over the bones hold out long strings of shells. The strong light shows her even uglier than I had thought, but it robs her of her ghostliness, and I interrupt the Baron's probably impolite remarks by saying:
"Don't drive her away. I'll buysome of her shells in remembrance of the worst shock I've received in Mexico."
Soon I am decorated with chains of sea-treasures wound about waist and neck and arms, and the old crone stands by gibbering and nodding approval.
The Baron laughs at her last shot as she moves away with my media in her hand and some unusually rich guerdon from him.
"What is she chattering about?" asks Mrs. Steele.
"She zay she know dthe Señorita vidth dthe pretty eyes would like dthe shaills, and dthat vas vhy she follow her in dthe church, but Señorita ees easy frighten. Señor musttake gude care off her and nefer leaf her."
Mrs. Steele smiles indulgently and draws out her watch.
"It's time we were going," she says. "TheSan Miguel'slights will be all out, I'm afraid."
The Baron's "cargodor" meets us at the wharf laden with our bizarre purchases, and, after bestowing us and them in the boat, he dips his oars and we glide out into the bay. The far-off steamer is wrapped in darkness, the lamps are all extinguished in the staterooms, for it is long past eleven, but the waves flash every attack of the oar, and the Southern Cross shines aslant the sky.
Chapter Four
I
fancy I have just fallen asleep when I am roused by hearing someone speaking at the port hole. I open my eyes to find it is the peep o' day, and out of the dull, grey dawn a Mexican's face looks in at my window.
"What do you want?" I demand, and in the same breath, "Go away! Mrs. Steele! Mrs. Steele!" To my amazement Mrs.Steele appears in the doorway all dressed.
"That's only the Baron's boatman, my dear, come to call you. I've had a raging headache, and the place was so hot I dressed and went up on deck, and there was the Baron de Bach pacing up and down—hecouldn't sleep, either. He suggests we take a boat and go out to catch the early breeze and see the sun rise from the other side of the bay. Will you come?"
"Of course I will," I say sleepily, and not in the best of tempers. "There was no need to send that evil-looking brigand to wake me! My nerves are in a continual tremor in this blessed place. Do you know,Mrs. Steele," I say, fishing under the berth for a renegade stocking, "I've a sort of presentiment I shan't leave the shores of the Pacific without some kind of misfortune or hair-breadth escape."
"Nonsense!" says my practical friend, "you've eaten something that has disagreed with you. Hurry as fast as you can; the Captain says we weigh anchor at eight o'clock."
I finish a hasty toilet and follow Mrs. Steele on deck. The Baron is waiting—he looks pale and rather graver than usual.
"Good-morning, Señorita," he says, and we shake hands. "Haf you sleep?"
"Oh, yes," I say, accepting thecoffee he has ordered. "I always sleep."
The first faint flush of the coming splendour spreads above the hills as we push off from theSan Miguel. Deeper and deeper grow the purple and the saffron till long shafts of golden light shoot up from hilltop to high heaven, and the great red sun of the tropics peers an instant over the mountain wall that shuts in Acapulco.
"This is a sunrise I think we shall never forget," says Mrs. Steele with grave enjoyment.
The Baron and I say nothing.
The air blows cool and fresh, and we skirt the rugged beach, close to the high-piled rocks at the water'sedge, till we come to a cocoa grove sheltering a few thatched cottages.
The Baron gives some direction to the boatman, and we are moored in shallow water. The Mexican jumps out of the boat and disappears in the grove. The water is so clear we have been able to see the bottom for a long time, and now the Baron shows me how to use a boathook in spearing the red starfish. We succeed in bringing up several, but they turn brown when out of the water and are said to sting. So we throw them back and turn to hear the Indian water-women singing and laughing as they follow the winding, rugged path half way up the heights. The red-brown feet and ankles mustbe as strong as they are shapely; the arms holding aloft the water jars are well moulded and taper finely to the wrist; splendid freedom is in every motion and a grace their fairer sisters have forgotten. I see the admiration in Baron de Bach's face.
"You like that type?" I ask.
"It ees part of dthe landscape," he answers; "ve like it in dthe picture. Ve put more deeferent vomans in our hearts and homes."
"H'm!" coughs Mrs. Steele. "My dear, the boatman is coming back with a huge bunch of cocoanuts."
"Yes," the Baron says, "I dthought you vould like to taste dthe milk."
The Mexican rolls up his white trousers and wades back to the boat. He pulls his naked knife out of his sash and begins to cut away the thick green rind of the nut. That done, the Baron takes it from him and shows us the three eyes at one end where the fibre is soft. When the sharp point of the knife is inserted the liquid within spurts up into the Baron's face.
"Oh!" he says, with a comical look of dismay, "ve haf no cup; ve must drink like dthe natives," and he saws away an opening and hands the cocoanut to Mrs. Steele. She puts her lips to the shell and tastes a drop with dainty distrust.
"Oh, Madame, it ees fery gude—youvill like it if you drink more!" But Mrs. Steele passes it on to me. The first sip is so cool and refreshing I greedily tip the shell to take a long draught, and the liquid runs down both sides of my mouth into my lap. The Baron insists there is an art in cocoanut tippling.
"You must hold dthe mout' zo—" and he illustrates, "and dthe cocoa zo." He puts it cautiously to his lips. "Now!" he says, after taking a sip, "you try!"
With childish good faith I take the clumsy nut, but as I lift it to drink I notice a covert gleam of satisfaction in the Peruvian's eyes, and I realise in a flash that the cocoa shell is becoming a sort of a loving-cup—for there was but one little place cut for drinking where first I essayed the draught and then the Baron.
"My dear," remarks my quiet but observant chaperon, "I have never been able before to account for the milk in the cocoanut. I know all about it now!"
I throw the shell into the water with an impatient gesture.
"I know all I wish to. It's a great bother and very little gained."
The Baron looks disagreeably amused, and I feel hot.
"Capitan," he says to me, "vill you take dthe tiller again?"
I pick up the tiller ropes and steer out towards some small schoonersgrouped to the left of the town near the entrance of the harbour.
"I do believe those are pearl fishers," says Mrs. Steele, who has been looking through her glass. The Baron starts up and questions the Mexican.
"Si! Si!" he answers, and with long, even strokes he brings us within speaking distance of the nearest vessel. Baron de Bach stands up and shouts out a series of inquiries in Spanish. I look over the side of the boat, and at a vision in the water I start from my seat with a shriek of delight and almost capsize the poor Peruvian. He clutches wildly at the air and finally keels over backwards on the astonished Mexican.
When they recover they find Mrs. Steele and me leaning over the side of the boat following the uncertain motions of a bloated crab-like monster crawling along the bottom of the deep.
"Why, that's the diver," explains Mrs. Steele. "You see that rubber tube—one end is attached to the machine on the schooner, the other to his helmet; he breathes through that. They are pumping air through it every moment."
"Yes," says the Baron, having regained his equilibrium. "You cannot zee, but he haf a basket tie vidth a cord to hees belt; he fill it vidth shaills, and vhen he make apull dthey draw it up and empty it. Zee, now!"
He points to the steamer where, hand over hand, they haul in a cable. At the end is the square wicker basket filled with great pearl shell oysters. They turn them out and lower the receptacle for another load. The Baron throws some money to a man in the schooner, and soon three or four pearl oysters are tossed into our boat. The Mexican's knife is again called into requisition and the shells are forced open. Nothing in the first—nothing in the second—nothing in th——stop! the Baron has found a pearl!
"THE BARON HAS FOUND A PEARL!""THE BARON HAS FOUND A PEARL!"
"It ees von chance out of a dthousand!" he says, amazed. "I neferfound von before—but it ees so leedle!"
"Never mind!" I say with enthusiasm. "We've been pearl-fishing and we've found a pearl!"
Mrs. Steele is examining it minutely; the Baron leans over to me and says low, in German:
"It shall be set for you in diamonds, Fräulein; it will remind you of spilt cocoanut milk and pearl-fishing in Acapulco's shining bay—it will mean to me a woman, Blanca, fine and fair, I found on the ocean. As I think of all it signifies to me, I believe I must ask you to let me keep my pearl," and he gazes into my eyes with such a world of meaning in his own, I look away and trail my handin the water. "What say you, Fräulein?" he persists. "I have travelled so far to find it, I have so nearly missed it, and here at last it lies in my possession."
"Are you so sure it is in your possession?" I say, looking across to Mrs. Steele, who is rolling the tiny treasure about in her palm.
"At least," he says, "it is within the reach of a strong arm, and if a jewel begged is not generously given, it can be snatched out of a capricious hand, if only for safer keeping——" and the Peruvian's deep eyes look into my half-averted face.
"My friend does not speak German," I say; "she will think you very rude." Then in English,"Please let me see the pearl again, Mrs. Steele."
"It is absolutely flawless," she says, holding it out to me. The Peruvian intercepts it. He draws out of an inner pocket a gold-mounted letter-case and a book of cigarette paper. Deliberately he wraps the pearl in one of the tissue leaves, and, looking steadily at me, pushes the new treasure far into a corner of the crested case. There is more significance than mirth in the laugh with which he says:
"I vill show all unbeliefers dthat I know how to value and tokeepa pearl vhen I find von."
Mrs. Steele succumbs to one of her old headaches on our return tothe steamer, and I pass the greater part of the day in seclusion with her. After luncheon, as I linger to superintend the arrangements of the invalid's tea-tray, the Baron joins me.
"I am vairy sorry about Madame Steele's headache. Tell me, please, vhat can I do?"
"Nothing, thank you," I say; "there is no remedy. She is accustomed to these attacks."
"If nodthing does gude dthen vhy stay you efer in dthat room; you vill be ill, too."
"Oh, no," I say, "no fear of that."
"But," he insists, "if you do nodthing only sit in dthat room, let me stay vidth her and you come out indthe air. Madame Steele ees not like you; she like me vairy vell."
"She likes me better, and I can't leave her."
"Haf you no care for your healdth? You air not fit to take care of yourself—dthat old voman in Acapulco vas right; you should nefer be leaf alone."
"Doesn't it ever occur to you that I might be so accustomed to managing my own affairs that interference from an outsider might seem strange?"
"Outsidah!" he repeats. "I know not dthat word. I know only dthat you American vomans haf yust one fault: you air—how you zay?—spoil vidth too great power;you raispect no von's judgment, you need zome strong man to rule."
"To rule!" I echo, scornfully; "that may do for Peruvians, but our women are neither slaves nor imbeciles."
"No," he retorts, "but zome zay your men air a leedle of bodth!"
"It is not to the credit of 'some'"—I set down the salt cellar hard on the tray—"that they fail to appreciate my countrymen. They have at least encouraged our learning to take such good care of ourselves that no Peruvian need trouble his head about us."
I beckon to the Chinese waiter.
"Take this tray up to 49," and I follow him with some show ofdisdain. Señor Noma meets me at the foot of the dining-room stairs.
"I haf sent for a jar of chili-peppers for Mrs. Steele. Will you say your friend I raicommend chili-peppers, and I advice you put a little cayenne in the bif-tea. It makes vairy seeck without."
"Thank you, Señor Noma," I say; "Wah-Ching will bring up the peppers and I will tell Mrs. Steele what you say." I glance back at the Peruvian. He is sitting by the table just as I left him, his chin in one hand, while with the other he strokes the wavy moustache and regards me with lowering looks. "He's a handsome creature," Ithink, as I go upstairs; "but he's been told it too often, and he has abominably mediæval ideas about women."
All that hot afternoon I sit in the stuffy stateroom with Mrs. Steele. The wind has veered to the other side and not a breath stirs the curtains at our little window. About four o'clock the "Church of England" knocks at the door. She is profuse in proffers of assistance, and kindly tells me I am looking very badly. "You'd better go out for a little air," she says; "you'll find my daughter and Baron de Bach sitting in the breeze on the other side. He has teased Nellie to get out her guitar; we've had quite a concert.What a charming, bright companion he is!" she says, appealing to me.
"Very, very!" I assent, with a slight yawn.
"Do go out, Blanche, I don't need you here." Mrs. Steele looks a little self-reproached.
"No, dear, I know you don't care about my staying," I answer, "but I'm a little tired of the deck."
The "Church of England" drones on about Nellie, who is "such a child, only seventeen; so unsophisticated and so unworldly."
"Just imagine, she quite snubs that handsome Peruvian nobleman, and he is reallydelightful, you know."
We draw a simultaneous sigh ofrelief when the "Church of England" leaves us to ourselves.
"Blanche," says Mrs. Steele, "you've been fighting again with the Baron. Those Rogers people would be only too glad to attach him to their party. I wouldn't let them do it if I were you. It would be too much of a feather in their cap to have distracted him from us after his very palpable devotion and our unusual friendliness."
"No, dear, I won't let our interpreter be wiled away from us. Leave him to me. He's very exasperating at times, but I'll bear with him in future; there's no denying it would be comparatively stupid without him."
Mrs. Steele raises the bandage from her eyes and looks at me.
"It strikes me you are about to experience a change of heart. If it were almost any other girl, I'd say beware!"
I laugh with confident unconcern.
"Oh, I don't deny I find him more interesting than I did at first. He enrages me with his imperious self-confidence, and then charms me with his curious, romantic ways. I look upon the Baron de Bach as a kind of blessed invention for my entertainment on this trip, and that I've grown to like him better than I expected makes the amusement keener, of course. I'm tired to death of the commonplace, mild and circumspectadorer. Baron de Bach is a continual surprise and an occasional alarm! Nothing reprehensible!" I say, in answer to the quick lifting of the bandage a second time. "Only he is so unlike all the other men I have known I can't judge him by any previous standard. I have the same interest in him Uncle John had in the new variety of anthropoid ape in the Zoo at home. I study his possibilities, I starve him, I feed him, I poke him, just to see what he'll do."
"You're a wicked girl," says Mrs. Steele, slowly, "and I'm afraid a righteous judgment will overtake you. Do you remember telling me how that same ape toreyour Uncle John's hand one day?—andhewas caged."
"Maybe the element of uncertainty accounts for some of the interest," I say, yawning. "I believe I'll have a nap before dinner." And soon all is quiet in stateroom 49.
On Saturday morning, the day following, Mrs. Steele, the Baron and I are sitting as usual under the deck awning. Baron de Bach is reading a French story aloud to Mrs. Steele, and I, lying back in my steamer chair, regard the reader with half-shut but attentive eyes.
"He's only a boy," I ruminate, "a romantic, absurd, but very nice boy. There's no reason why I shouldn't like him very much; and ifhe must be in love with someone, I'm a very safe person for him to select as the victim." I smile as the last word comes across my mind, for I am honest enough to doubt if I really mind it so much. The Baron turns a page and sees the look.
"Vhy you laugh, Señorita?"
"Thinking about something funny."
"I'd think you laugh at me."
"Don't you suppose I may once in a while think of someone else besides you?" The Baron looks puzzled and a little bit offended.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Steele," says the "Church of England," bustling up to my friend with Mrs. Ball behind her. "How tired youlook! Haven't you had enough of that French? Baron de Bach has promised to come and practise over the chants and hymns for to-morrow; can you spare him? As for you," she says, turning to me, "we shall earn your eternal gratitude if we carry off the Baron. You know her pet aversion is having French read out loud"—she nods in a commiserating way to the Peruvian.
"Certainly, don't let us keep you"—Mrs. Steele with her pleasant tact ignores the reference to me—"we will finish that charming chapter another time."
"Vhat means petta-vairsion?" says the Baron, looking undecided and not exactly delighted.
"Oh, it means favourite pastime," says Mrs. Steele.
"Oh! oh!" giggles Mrs. Ball. "Miss Blanche said the reading made her tired."
The Baron shuts up the book with a snap.
"Madame Rogair, I am at your sairvice!"
Without looking at me he raises his cap to Mrs. Steele and follows the "Church of England."
"Didyou say the reading tired you?" asks Mrs. Steele.
"I believe I did, or something of the kind."
"Pity! Those people will make all they can out of it. The Baron told me at breakfast that Mrs. Rogers had asked him to join their party at the next port."
"But he won't"—I open my journal to write up the previous day.
The morning was rather dull, to tell the truth, and the sounds of revelry that floated up from the scene of the practising below were not too "sacred" to be irritatingly attractive. But even after luncheon the Baron remains with the "Church of England."
"Gone over to the enemy. I told you so," Mrs. Steele observes, as we sit alone in our corner of the deck, while over on the opposite side Baron de Bach stands laughing and chatting with pretty Miss Rogers.
"Mrs. Steele," I whisper, "I believe he only does it for our edification and because I said the reading tired me. Let us go to our stateroom; the wind is on our side to-day." We read and sleep in seclusion until evening.