Chapter Five
A
t dinner, refreshed with my long rest, I feel unusually light-hearted and gay. I laugh and chat with Señor Noma and the rough old Captain, till Mrs. Steele leans over and gives me a look of surprise. Not once do the eyes of the Peruvian turn in my direction, and he leaves the table before dessert. He is not visible on deck when we go up later and, after talking awhile to the others, I start off on a tour of discovery.
Down at the further end of the steamer, to windward of the smokestack, stands the Baron in a depressed attitude smoking a pipe and looking out to sea.
"Oh, you're here!" I call out in friendly fashion. "I've been looking for you. I'm sorry if I was rude about the reading"—I look as meek and penitent as I know how.
The Baron takes out his pipe and walks to the vessel's side, where he knocks out the ashes.
"Well!" I insist, "I've said I'm sorry, and in English the proper reply to that is 'I forgive you.'"
A curious, lingering look out of those dark eyes of his.
"I forgif you," he says, as a child repeats a lesson.
"And we must be friends again,nicht wahr?" I hold out my hand.
"No, Señorita." He takes the hand, but shakes his head.
"No!" I echo; "why not?"
"Because I haf nefer been your friend. I haf always loaf you, I haf forget vhat it vas like not to loaf you. It ees true you vere scarce polite about dthe reading. I did not know I bore you. I feel it fery deep. It might not matter to zome Nordthern zhentlemen, but I am dthe most sensible man you ever know."
"Sensible!" I say, in a tone scarcely flattering, trying to keep my lips from twitching.
"Yes, I am terrible sensible; a fery leedle dthing vill hurt me."
"Well, well, I'll beyourfriend, anyhow, and I'll try to be very considerate. I'll show you what a good friend a North American can be."
"My gude friend haf make my head zo ache I dthink it vill burst."
He pushes back his cap, and carries my hand to his forehead; it is very hot and the temples throb under my fingers.
"Poor fellow!" I say, hoping with might and main that no one sees. "Shall I send you someeau de Cologne?"
"No! no! If you vould gif me your hand again."
"No," I say, "not here. Anyone who saw us would misunderstand. Come to Mrs. Steele; she'll give you something."
"No!" says the Peruvian. "I vill stay here; you stay, too. Ah, Señorita, how can you be so indifferent to my loaf?"
"I can't stay here if you talk nonsense."
"Mein Gott! Vhat more sense can a man haf dthan to loaf you?"
"Oh, see the porpoises!" I say abruptly. The great clumsy fish are floundering about us in schools.
"Vhat heafen eyes you haf, Señorita!"
"I do believe that's 'San José Joe.'" I run to the rail. "You know! the huge old shark all covered with barnacles the seamen tell about."
"You vill nefer listen," says the Peruvian, plunging his hands far down in his yachtsman's jacket. "I dthink, Señorita, ven you die, and St. Peter meet you at dthe gate and say, 'You haf lif gude life, come into Heaven'—you vill fery like look over your shoulder and say, 'Oh, Peter! vhere go all dthose nice leedle devils?'"
The Peruvian's last shot certainly diverts me from all finny creatures, and we sit down on a pile of lumber, and the Baron shows me his ringsand seals—tells me where each came from and the story attached. He finally pulls out of his pocket a rosary. "I haf carry dthis efer since I was in Egypt."
This simple little string of olive stones and carved ebony beads quite captivates my fancy, and the penalty for the expression of my liking is that I must try it on. He winds it about my wrist and, having forced open one of the silver links, he bends down and with those sharp, white teeth bites the open link close again—the blond moustache sweeps my wrist and the rosary is securely fastened.
"Now," I say, "see what you've done! How will you get it off?"
"It comes not off till you are zomething less dthan my friend or zomething more."
"Oh, but I can't take your rosary; that's absurd!"
"You cannot take a few leedle pieces of vood from your friend? Vhy, dthose leedle voods are only dthe—dthe—dthe—how you say?—bones off dthe olive."
I laugh till I ache. "Bones of the olive!" I almost roll off the lumber in a spasm of merriment. Mrs. Steele, who wonders at my long absence, comes with Señor Noma to find me, and soon there are three laughing at the poor Baron's expense.
"Hush, Blanche, it's really toobad—you must pardon her, Baron," says Mrs. Steele.
"I mind it not more," says the Peruvian, with new philosophy. "Señorita vould laugh in dthe face of St. Peter."
When the gong sounds for service on the morning of the second Sunday out, the Baron grumbles feelingly at the interruption. He is sketching Mrs. Steele and me and says he "hates playing on a zo bad violin"—but a promise is a promise, and we all go down "to church" in the close dining-room. The Captain reads the beautiful Morning Prayers and Litanies like a schoolboy, but the music is really admirable. Pretty Miss Rogers appears to striking advantage. Dressed simply in white, she plays the accompaniments and leads the singing in a sweet, true voice. Mrs. Steele and I sit in the background, and I'm afraid I think but little of the service. Now what perversity is in the mind of man, I meditate, that blinds him to such real beauty and accomplishment as Miss Rogers is blessed with? Of course, I'm not such a fool as not to see that with all my sadly palpable defects of face and temper, the big Peruvian finds me somehow interesting and "Miss Rogair a nice girl, but, like a dthousand odthers I haf know, a leedle stupeed." Ah, the "stupidity" is on the other side, I'm afraid! Miss Rogers is too inexperienced, my thoughts run on, to disguise her liking for the Baron, and instead of being pleased or flattered as he should be, he will leave her at a look from me, only to get laughed at for his pains. A strange world! I say to myself. "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be!" sings the choir, and Miss Rogers' clear voice lingers in the "Amen."
As I walk the deck with the Baron that evening he tells me about his lovely sister, "Alvida," and about Peruvian customs.
"My sister ees dthe most beautiful voman in Peru; she haf many suitors, but she ees nefer allow to see dthem except when dthe family airvidth her. It ees not like your country; a man can nefer know dthe voman he loaf till he marry her."
"Very stupid custom," I say. "I wouldn't give a fig for such love. You could only care for the face or the fortune of a woman so hemmed about. What could you know of the character, of the real individual, that after all is the only safe thing to pin one's faith to."
"I like your customs better in zome dthings, but it makes you vomans too clevair; you know men better dthan ve know you."
"You have the same opportunities. It's not our fault if you don't profit by them."
"You tell me yourself," he goeson, unheeding, "you haf many gude friends among your fadther's and brodthers' acquaintances; dthat make you care so leedle for men."
"Not a bit of it!" I laugh. "On the contrary, it has so accustomed me to their friendship I would find life utterly unendurable without it."
"I vill make you fery angry pairhaps, but I have deescovair you likemeleedle more dthan a friend."
"I suppose it is often flattering to a man's vanity to have a fancy like that," I say coolly, but I am conscious of a twinge; what if I do like him more than I want to think?
"It ees not fancy, Señorita; you do not know yourself you care, but you do."
"Nonsense; I know all about it. I'm not a sentimental person and I don't mind telling you in plain English Ilikeyou. I must like you rather more than usual, or I wouldn't see so much of you." By this time we are away from the rest of the passengers, down by the smokestack. "I feel as if I'd known youfor years!" I end with a sense of having turned the tide of sentiment by a little frank speaking, and feel rather proud of myself.
"Señorita," he clasps his hand over mine and speaks hurriedly, "I know you loaf me; tell me so."
Oddly enough, I feel no indignation, but I open my lips for a denial.
"If you tell me not," he says excitedly, laying one hand on the rail and looking greatly wrought-up, tragic and comical all at once, "if you tell me not," he repeats, raising his voice, "I yump in dthe vater."
I tighten my hold on his arm, trying not to let him see how much I want to laugh.
"Of course, one loves one's friends; don't be silly."
A quick light leaps into the dark eyes. I am reproached and vaguely uneasy at the sight of his gladness.
"I'm going back to Mrs. Steele; she doesn't like me to leave her so long." I turn away and like a flash he is at my side. He draws my handthrough his arm, holding it against his heart. I can feel the great leaps under the yachtman's gay jacket.
"Ah!" sighs the wearer, "I feel suffocate on dthis boat—it ees so small, people eferywhere and you and I so leedle alone. Ah, ve vill soon be at San José!"
"I don't see how that will mend matters." I am anxious to see what he has in mind.
"Madame Steele vant to go to Guatemala."
"Yes, but so do most of the other passengers."
"From San José to Guatemala ees seventy mile, and dthe Paris of Central America ees zomething more large dthan dthisSan Miguel.Much can happen before ve come back."
We join Mrs. Steele and talk over our plan.
The next day we arrive at Champerico, but no one goes ashore; we stay so short a time.
The deck party breaks up early that night, everyone anxious to be ready for the six o'clock breakfast call next morning.
"To-morrow ve air at San José de Guatemala, and much can happen before ve seeSan Miguelagain." The Baron takes my hand at the saloon door as I say good-night.
"That's the second time you've made that ominous remark, Baron de Bach. What do you mean?"
"Baron de Bach!" he echoes. "My name ees 'Guillermo,' Blanca."
Somehow it doesn't seem so familiar or significant as if he said "Blanche."
"What do you think will happen to us in Guatemala, Guillermo?"
"Blanca vill see;" he lifts the hand with the rosary falling about it to his lips and kisses the crucifix.
"Good-night, Guillermo."
"Good-night, Blanca."
By half-past seven the next morning all who purpose going ashore are standing on the lower deck of theSan Miguel, wondering how they are to get from the steamer to the clumsy "lighter" or freight boat that the great breakers are tossing about below, and which is reported to be our sole means of making the shore.
"The passengers are hauled up and down in a big barrel," says the Captain, who has come from the bridge to receive some official from the settlement. "You're not going ashore, Mrs. Steele!" He fixes a look of astonishment on my friend in her travelling dress.
"Of course I am."
"Why, there's nothing to see but huts and sand-piles."
"Ve go to Guatemala," says the Baron, giving our wraps to the Chinese porter.
"You do nothing of the kind." The brusque Captain is nothing if not unceremonious. "We'll havethis Hamburg cargo loaded in a day, and you can't go and get back in time; and I won't wait—I won't wait a second for anyone mad enough to go to Guatemala! You'll have to give it up," he says to Mrs. Steele.
There is a chorus of disappointment from the assembled crowd, but Mrs. Steele, with evident reluctance, says:
"Of course, it would never do to be left behind; there's yellow fever in all these ports, I'm told."
"Place is full of it—stay on the ship like sensible people. There's nothing worth seeing in Guatemala. I hate to be bothered with passengers going off—" and the Captain walks to the railing to wave his handwith stiff pomposity to a Mexican who sits in the lighter.
"You air meestake, Captain," says the Baron de Bach; "all dthose vorkmen say it vill be two days loading dthis café."
The Captain, never very good-tempered at the best of times, is especially peppery to-day.
"Are you runnin' this ship, young man, or am I?" He seems to think he has made a forcible and irrefutable rejoinder and turns away like one who has settled something forever.
"I vill spik vidth you inside." The Baron sets down his small valise and follows the apparently unheeding Captain into the saloon. We standundecided, looking down at the lighter shifting about in the breakers, and watching a stout Mexican get into a huge barrel that has one side cut down and a seat fitted in—a rope with huge iron hook attached is lowered from a pulley on the steamer, and the barrel full of San José official is lifted into the air. The barrel twirls about, the official puts his hand to his eyes, and in a moment he is landed like a mammoth fish on the deck of theSan Miguel.
We hear the voices in the saloon rising with anger. Mrs. Steele looks apprehensive and makes a step towards the door. Out strides the Baron, looking hot and excited.
"Ladies, ve vill go. I promise you ve vill be back in time."
Already the crowd is lessened and some have given up going even to San José, and several have made the trip in the barrel and are safely landed in the lighter.
"I think we won't run any risk," says Mrs. Steele gently, "though we can go to San José, of course."
"Madame, I do assure you," and the Baron is most emphatic, "if you vill trust to go vidth me I see dthat you come safe back beforeSan Miguelsails."
The second mate comes up with an amused look.
"You ladies jest go 'long; th' Cap'n's alwus like that; nobuddyminds. We can't get away under two days, and he knows it. We ain't 'lowed to leave under forty-eight hours on 'count o' passengers from the coast."
That settles it, and each in turn we go spinning down in the barrel and sit on piles of freight in the unsteady lighter. The Mexican oarsmen stand up and propel the boat through the surf with long oars. It is rougher than it looks, and I suffer my first touch of sea-sickness. We understand why we are anchored so far away, and why the huge iron pier running out from San José extends such a distance seawards. I am quite faint and miserable when we reach the landing. The Baron isstill so consumed with rage at the Captain's "interference," he has no eyes, happily, for my pitiable condition. I look about disconsolately for the barrel elevator, for the pier is far above our heads, and the great waves are dashing us against its iron side. To Mrs. Steele's horror, we perceive a sort of iron cage is employed in the process of elevation at this end of the journey, and soon we three are swinging in mid-air between the angry waves and the iron pier.
"Oh!" I say, breathlessly, clutching at Mrs. Steele, "whatwouldUncle John say if he could see me now?"
"He would probably advise you to follow his example and make yourobservations from theoutsideof the cage."
I've observed that Mrs. Steele is sometimes lacking in sympathy at trying moments.
At last we are landed, and at the end of the long pier we find a narrow-gauge train—strange, primitive little cars and very dirty withal. We make ourselves as comfortable as possible—opening the windows and each one occupying a double seat, for the carriage is only half full.
"It's not more than seventy miles, I believe," says Mrs. Steele, "but it takes five hours to get there; it's an up-hill grade all the way."
"Five hours!" I repeat, dismayed. "Oh, why did no one tellme that before? I had scarcely a mouthful of breakfast."
"We haf another breakfast at Escuintla, mees, a gude one," says Señor Noma, passing through our coach to the smoking-car. I am consoled and full of interest at the prospect, as the dingy little train moves off. Mrs. Steele and I are facing each other, while the Baron sits behind me and points out the most noteworthy features of this notable expedition. We are in the tropics truly; the heat is overpowering, and the Baron leans over the back of my seat with my rough Mazatlan fan, and uses it with a generous devotion that tires him and does not cool me.
"Do fan yourself a little," I say."You've been the colour of a lobster ever since your interview with the Captain."
The Peruvian's brows contract—he looks ferocious in the extreme—and I am a little sorry I mentioned the Captain.
"Dthat Capitan ees von fool! He know not how to treat a zhentleman. I tell him I make a procès to dthe company and get him reprimand for how he spik to me."
"Why, what did he say?" asks Mrs. Steele.
"He tell me I act likeIvas Capitan, dthen he call me 'damn.' I tell him he vas a coachman!"
The Baron looks surprised and a bit resentful at our laughter.
"What made you call him a coachman?" Mrs. Steele is the first, as usual, to pull a straight face.
"Madame forget I know not all Eenglish vords. I could dthink of nodthing more vorse—I vas zo crazy vidth madness."
Chapter Six
S
ee the banana plantations! Oh, those date-palms!" Mrs. Steele leans out of her window, full of delight at the curious panorama moving past.
"Mrs. Steele!" I bend over and take her hand. "I hope all this will never grow dim. I want to remember it all my life."
"You will, dear." She turns away absorbed, eager to lose nothing of this new phase of Nature.
"Haf no fear—you vill not forget—Blanca."
The low voice over my shoulder is an interruption; to enjoy the gift of sight is all-sufficient for a time. With happy disregard of the man at my back, I take in the changeful, fantastic vision.
The adobe houses standing in orange groves, the long stretches of jungle, wild tangles of rank growth, cactus, giant ferns, brake and netted vines; birds of gorgeous plumage and discordant note, alligators basking on the sunny bank of a sluggish stream, half-dressed natives at work in coffee fincas, sugar-cane and cotton fields; nude children standing in the doorways of palm-thatched huts, staring with still and stupid wonder at the train, and looking like inanimate clay models of a fairer, finer race to come. It is all like a curious dream from which we waken at Escuintla to take our eleven o'clock breakfast. This place has been partially destroyed by earthquake, and Mrs. Steele urges despatch with breakfast that we may see what is left. A very tolerable meal is served in the wide, open veranda of the station.
"What a nice little spoon!" Mrs. Steele remarks, as we sit down, noticing one of tortoise shell quaintly carved.
"You like it?" is all the Baron says, and coolly puts it in his pocket.Mrs. Steele is aghast. "I pay dthem," he says unconcernedly. "Haf leedle salade?"
I have finished first and go out to the platform. Groups of natives are gathered about, carrying on their heads round shallow baskets like trays displaying fruit, eggs andwaterfor sale. These people seem very different from the Mexican Indians. They are blacker, their faces are more flat and stupid, and the women's dress is a straight piece of gay cotton cloth wound round the lower half of the body and secured at the waist with a scarf tied over. The only other encumbrance is a thin white cotton sacque, short and loose. The women immediately attack mewith vociferous gibberish, offering me their wares. Mrs. Steele sends the Baron out to look after me, and when he has bought a basket full of pineapples, sappadillos, mangoes and grenadillas, he proposes a little walk up the road. We have twenty minutes yet, he says, and Mrs. Steele is stopping to buy some grass baskets and fans. We walk up the dusty little highway, and the burning sun beats down strong and hot in our unaccustomed faces.
"How can people endure it?" I marvel, wiping away great drops of moisture.
"See dthat big house all come down? Dthat ees eardthquake," explains my escort.
"How dreadful! Look at the thatch roofs of those queer little huts—it makes me think of peaked Robinson Crusoe hats. Just see how they're pulled far down over the sun-burnt wall as if to shade their eyes from the scorching sun."
"Robeen Crusa?" The Baron looks puzzled. "I know not dthat kind of hat. Ees it like vhat you tell me about vhen I first see you—dthat 'Robeen Hood'?"
I stand still in the quiet street and wake a far-off echo with my laughter. The Peruvian gets red in the face and begins to look offended.
"Please don't mind me; I think you've said something a little 'komisch'—but perhaps I've got a sunstroke and it acts like laughing gas. Don't be cross, Guillermo." I take his arm and notice covertly that he is mollified.
"Blanca," he says, with a half smile, "dthat adobe house vidth vines look cool—suppose I buy dthat and ve stay here leedle vhile."
I follow his eyes.
"That mansion would hardly hold our party; it doesn't look as if it boasted more than two rooms."
"Dthat vould be enough. Madame Steele vish much to see Guatemala; she go on and ve miss dthat train."
"Brilliant scheme!" I admit,"but——" A shrill blast cuts through the air. "Heavens and earth! that's the whistle!"
Like one possessed I tear down the road with never a glance behind—it seems miles to the station, and as I come near I see the train is moving. I make a rush for the rear platform. Voices behind scream reproof and warning, but I never look back; I grasp the iron railing and am whisked off my feet by the motion. With a desperate wrench I pull myself up the steps and steady my trembling body against the door of the baggage car. I look in. It's locked, and no one is there. "Stupid idiot!" I mutter. "That mooning Baron hasn't the smallestgrain of sense—saying we had twenty minutes! Well,he'sleft anyhow—serves him right!" And then I cool down and reflect that going to Guatemala without the Baron may not be so amusing. I shake the door of the car, but no one hears, and I notice the train is slowing. "Mrs. Steele thinks I'm left and has made them come back—well, I'm not sorry, for now we'll get that stupid Baron again. Yes, just as I thought——" as we begin to move back to Escuintla—"there's the vine-covered hut that idiotic person proposed buying—here's the station and ... who's that?" Before my astonished eyes stand Mrs. Steele and the Baron de Bach, looking anxiously for the advancing train. As it stops they run forward.
"My dear, don't you ever do such a foolhardy thing again," begins Mrs. Steele, severely.
"If I had known vhat you vould do, I vould haf hold you till——"
"The train doesn't go for ten minutes," Mrs. Steele interrupts; "it was only shifting to another track. You might have known the Baron would watch the time."
Mrs. Steele looks weak with apprehension—it is only when she has been alarmed that I realise how delicate she is.
"I'm so sorry you were frightened," I say, feeling too utterly reduced to rebuff the Baron for liftingme down from the platform as he would have taken a child.
"Come," says Mrs. Steele, "we will get our old places."
An Indian woman comes to the window after we are seated and offers a paraquito for sale. The Baron buys it and shows me how to hold it on my fan and let it take a piece of sappadilla from my teeth. This performance somewhat restores my spirits, and the incident of catching the wrong train at the risk of life and limb fades before the crowding interests of an eventful day. It seems hotter and closer in the cramped little car. Mrs. Steele grows faint.
"Come in dthe air." The Baronand I support her to the door. She recovers a little and the Peruvian returns for his valise. He brings out a silver travelling flask and sprinkles a white silk handkerchief with deliciouseau de Cologneand gives it to Mrs. Steele. I can see it refreshes her, and I throw the Peruvian a grateful glance for his thoughtfulness. From the platform we have a far finer view of the country. The rugged wilderness of the Cordilleras hems us in on every side.
"Dthose air yust the zame mountains I look on from my home in Peru; it ees von chain from Tierra del Fuego to Mexico," and a look of welcome comes into the handsome face. "It ees four years since I zeedthose Cordilleras. I am glad I am near dthem vonce more.Ah!" he exclaims, as we break through the close circle of the mountains, and, coming out on a wide plateau, a shining sheet of water bursts on our delighted vision. "Lake Amatitlan!"
The world up here is wild and silent; one feels a breathless sense of discovery and is vaguely glad there is no trace of man. No canoe rises the waves save the grey feather-boat of the wild duck, and the majestic circling hawk is the only fisherman.
"It was like this when Cortes saw it!" I say.
"It was like this when God madeit!" says Mrs. Steele, under her breath.
The train stops by the lake and we gather wild Lantana and many a new flower during the few minutes' stay. I rush into a thicket after a red lily, and come out a mass of thorns and Spanish needles. When the train starts Mrs. Steele is tired, and goes inside to rest, but the Baron and I still stay on the platform. He sits on the top step and laboriously picks the needles off my dress.
"You zee dthat smoke, Blanca? Dthat ees a volcano."
"Oh, how delightful! but there's no fire!"
"No, not at present!"
"It's very disappointing," I say,"and the geography pictures are all wrong. They show a great burst of smoke and flame, and huge rocks shooting up out of the crater. I supposed a volcano was a sort of perpetual 'Fourth of July.'"
"Fourdth of Yuly! how mean you?"
"Oh, fireworks and explosions! but that little white funnel of steam—well, it's a disappointment!"
"You vill zee dthree volcano near Guatemala; dthey air dthe 'spirits' of dthe place—call in Eenglish 'Air,' 'Fire' and 'Vater.' Zee on dthis leedle coin dthey haf all dthree mountains on dthe back."
"Why, what's the matter with your hands?" I say, taking the coin.
"All dthose burrs on your dress make bleed," he says, looking a bit ruefully at his finger-tips, sore and red, and one stained a little where some obstinate briar or needle has drawn the blood.
"Oh! what a shame!" I take the shapely hand in mine and look compassionately at the hurt fingers.
"I feel it not, Blanca, vhen you hold it so!"
I drop the hand, instinctively steeling myself against all show of sympathy with this boyish sentimentalism.
"It should teach you a lesson. You take too much care of your hands; they are whiter and softerthan most women's—such hands are good for nothing."
"I vill show you you can be meestake." His face is quite changed, and there's something dimly threatening in the deep eyes.
"When will you show me?" I say, affecting a carelessness I do not quite feel.
"Perhaps in Guatemala." I leave that side of the platform and lean out over the other. "Come back, Blanca; it ees not zafe!"
His tone is entirely too dictatorial. I close my hand firmly round the iron rail and lean out further still. At that instant, as ill-luck would have it, the train encounters some obstruction on the track, something is struck, andthere is a jolt and concussion. Before I have time to recover myself I feel my hand wrested from the iron, and a powerful arm is closed around me, but instead of being drawn back, I am held out in the very position I myself had taken. Bewildered and frightened, I give one scream "on account" and turn my head with an endeavour to grasp the horrible situation. The Peruvian is holding to the rail with one hand and has me grasped under one arm as an inconsiderate child holds a kitten.
"Let me go!"
"I ask you before dthat you lean not out—but if you vill, I must zee dthat you fall not."
"I tell you I'll come back, let mego!" and I glance out shudderingly. We have passed over the obstruction, whatever it was, and are running along the side of a steep descent.
"I am sorry you dthink my hands zo weak, for if dthey fail ve bodth go down."
"Oh, please, please!" I gasp.
"Now ve come to a baranca. I am curious to zee vill you like a 'baranca.'"
The wretch speaks as calmly as if we sat in a Pullman car. Through all my fright and indignation I wonder what on earth's a "baranca"—and forget to scream.
"Now, Señorita, if I hold you not zo far out as you like, tell me."
I look down, and under my veryeyes the solid ground ends, my horrified vision drops hundreds of feet to the bottom of a mighty gash in Cordilleras' flank, and for one sick instant I shut my eyes.
"How like you a baranca?"
Is it the wind jeering after me as I drop down, down, down? With a supreme effort I turn to see if that face is behind me, and behold! the Peruvian calmly meets my eyes with actually a smile on his lips. He is still holding me jauntily over the platform steps, and it was only my giddy fancy that fell so far.
We have passed the gorge, and, looking back, I see the "narrow-gauge" track lying across the chasm like a herring-bone over a hole.
"Ve haf more barancas if you like dthem."
"Oh, Guillermo," I say, "please let me go in!"
"Not for my sake! I can hold you here von hour vidth dthese 'gude-for-nodthing' hands."
"Oh, I don't doubt it; you're the strongest man I ever knew, but I don't like barancas. Please,please, Guillermo!"
He draws me back on the platform, and without asking my pardon or looking the least bit penitent, he opens the door for me to go inside.
Mrs. Steele looks away from her window as we take our former seats.
"How deliciously cool it'sgrown," she says. "What makes you so white, Blanche?"
"Vas it not for dthat she ees call Blanca?"
"What is it, child? Are you faint?"
"Yes, a little," I answer, wondering whether I had better tell how that Peruvian monster has been behaving.
"That's strange! It's quite unlike you to be faint. Baron, will you mix a little of this brandy with some water? That will make her feel better."
Again he takes out his traveller's cup of silver. Calling the negro conductor, he tells him to bring some "agua."
"He's afraid to leave us," I think indignantly; "he doesn't want me to tell Mrs. Steele."
"Did you notice that great cleft in the mountain we went over?" asks the latter, fanning me gently.
"Yes, dthat ees call 'baranca.' Señorita seem not to like it."
"Neither would Mrs. Steele if she had——"
"She nefer vould! Madame Steele ees a too vise voman. Vhat you dthink, Madame? Señorita inseest to lean out far ofer dthose steps; I beg her not, but——" he ends with a modest gesture of incompetence.
"And you," I begin, with a sudden determination to unmaskhis villainy, "you rushed over and——"
"And hold you zo dthat you fall not. Madame Steele, desairve I not dthanks?"
"Ah! yes, Baron. You are certainly very kind and watchful; but, Blanche, if you don't care for yourself, you ought to consider other people. It's a terrible responsibility to travel with such a foolhardy person. I can't say I'm sorry if you've been a little frightened. Take the brandy, dear."
My good friend is never severe long. The Baron holds the silver cup to my lips, and I shut out the sight of him—with closed eyes I drink the mixture obediently.
I lean my head against the window, and the voices of my friend and the Baron grow less and less distinct. The next thing I know Mrs. Steele is saying, "Is that Guatemala?" I rouse myself and look out. A white city on a wide plateau. Is this the "Paris of Central America," with its 70,000 inhabitants? Mrs. Steele is met in the dépot by some friends, Californians, who live here part of the year. We promise to dine with them, and the Baron comes back from his search for a carriage, saying one will be here presently.
"Vhile Madame Steele talks vidth her friends, vill you come zee dthe Trocadero, vhere dthey haf bull-fights?"
"No, thank you."
"Oh, I dthought you vould like."
"Where is it?"
"Yust ofer dthere, dthree steps—dthat round house."
"I'd better see it perhaps while I have time," I think, and I walk towards the circular building indicated. Baron de Bach keeps at my side. He tries the door—shakes it—but it is evidently locked; he leans down and looks through the keyhole.
"Oh, you can zee qvite vell dthrough here."
I put my eye to the little opening and can dimly descry an open arena with seats in tiers opposite.
"Dthey zay dthey haf a bull-fight Dthursday"—the Baron is readingthe Spanish bill posted at the door. "Ve had better stay and let you zee."
"There's the carriage!" I exclaim, and we hurry back, take leave of Mrs. Steele's friends and drive over roughly cobbled streets to the Gran Hotel. Our rooms are secured to us in three languages by the Baron; he scolds the proprietor for delays in German, conciliates the wife in French, and gives orders to the servant of this polyglot establishment in Spanish. Finally we are stowed in rooms opening on the wide veranda that encloses the patio. A hasty toilet and we meet the Baron in the vestibule downstairs. We wander about the crooked streetsfrom shop to shop, getting at a jeweller's some ancient coins, unalloyed gold and silver rudely stamped and cut out in irregular shapes, the only currency when Central America was a Spanish province. We are longest in the great market, buying curious pottery from the Indians—calabash cups, brilliant serapes of native weaving and lovely silk rebosas. We order a variety of fans—one kind is of braided palm with clumsy handle ending in a rude brush. An Indian girl shows me how the fan is used to make the fire burn more brightly, and the brush to sweep the hearth. From market into the main Plaza, and then to the cool shelter of the Cathedral, bringsour short afternoon to an end; we must hurry back to our dinner appointment. The Baron grumbles vigorously when he discovers he was included in the invitation, and that Mrs. Steele promised to bring him.
"Really, he hasn't seemed like himself all this afternoon," says Mrs. Steele, when we are once more in our rooms, which conveniently adjoin.
"No, he can be conspicuously disagreeable when he likes." I have in mind the "baranca" episode.
"What do you suppose makes him so absent-minded and constrained, Blanche?"
"Simple perversity, very likely." I stand in the communicating doorway, brushing a jacket. I am conscious that Mrs. Steele pauses in her toilet and looks keenly in my direction.
"I still like the Baron extremely, but I'm glad to see you are not so unsophisticated or so unpractical as to be captivated by a pair of fine eyes and a melodious voice. I was once uncomplimentary enough to be afraid of the effect of such close intercourse for both of you. You two are cut out to make each other happy for a few weeks, and miserable for a lifetime. You should both be thankful that your acquaintance is to be counted by pleasant days and ended before the regretful years begin."
"Really, I don't know what put all that in your head!"
"Observation, my dear! In spite of the velvet cloak of courtesy, our Peruvian is a born tyrant, and you—forgive me—but you know you're the very child of caprice. I am most thankful, however, that you are not impressionable. Otherwise this experience might leave a bitter taste in your mouth."
"You seem content withmyescape. You don't feel any concern that the Baron may lack the valuable qualities you think are my safeguard? Suppose, just for argument's sake, he should say I had——?"
"Broken his heart? Ah, my dear, he has probably said that to a dozen. It's a tough article, the masculineheart, and the kind of women who strain it most are——"
"Bewildering beauties, such asyouwere at twenty! And I may rest in my defects with an easy conscience. Thank you!"
"That was not what I was going to say."
In my heart I knew it was what she was thinking.