house stood in the extreme skirt of the town, the Promontory lay more
than a mile below, but she could see neither it nor the night's
devastation because of the river's bend. Because of the same bend, she
had the aid of the current, which set strongly over to the other shore,
but apart from this the river was one great danger. Floating logs, huge
trees, acres of tangled greenery, the sweepings of a hundred miles of
jungle, covered its surface with other and ghastlier trove. Here the
saurians of Pancha's curse worried a drowned pig, there they fought over
a cow's swollen carcass; yet because of carrion taste or food plethora,
they let her by. There an enormous saber, long and thick as a church,
turned and tumbled, threshing air and water with enormous spreading
branches, creating dangerous swirls and eddies. These she avoided, and,
having swum the river at ebb and flood every day of her life from a
child, she now easily clove its roar and tumble; swam on, her heat
unabated by the water's chill, till, sweeping around the bend, she
sighted the lone house on the Promontory.
That gave her pause. Had death, then, robbed her anger? The thought
broke the spring of her magnificent energy. Feeling at last the touch of
fatigue, she steered straight for the building and climbed in, to rest,
at a lower window, without a thought of its being occupied till Ethel
moved above.
Who shall divine her thoughts as, standing there in the door, she gazed
upon her rival? Did she not recognize her as such, or was she moved by
the touch of sorrow, aftermath of the morning's bitterness, that still
lingered on the young wife's face? Events seemed to predicate the
former, but, be that as it may, the eyes which grief and despair had
heated till they flamed like small crucibles of molten gold, now cooled
to their usual soft brown; smiling, she refused the proffered blanket.
"_Ven tu! Ven tu!_" she exclaimed, beckoning. Her urgent accent and
gesture carried her meaning, and without question Ethel followed down to
a lower window.
"But the canoe?" she objected, when Andrea motioned for her to disrobe.
"It will soon be here!"
"_Canoa_?" From the one word Andrea caught her meaning. "_No hay tiempo.
Mira!_"
Leaning out, Ethel looked and shrank back, her inexperience convinced by
a single glance at the wall. She assisted the strong hands to rip away
her encumbering skirts. It took only a short half-minute, and with that
afforded time for a small femininity to come into play. Placing her own
shapely arm against Ethel's, Andrea murmured soft admiration at the
other's marvelous whiteness. But it was done in a breath. Slipping an
arm about Ethel's waist, Andrea jumped with her from the window, one
minute before the soaked walls collapsed.
If Ethel's head had remained above, she might have retained her presence
of mind, and so have made things easier for her saviour, but, not
supposing that the whole world contained a mature woman who could not
swim, Andrea loosed her as they took the water. A quick dive partially
amended the error, retrieving Ethel, but not her composure. Coming up,
half-choked, she grappled Andrea, and the two went down together. The
Tewana could easily have broken the white girl's grip and--have lost
her. Instead, she held her breath and presently brought her senseless
burden to the surface.
Of itself, the struggle was but a small thing to her strength, but
coming on top of the long swim under the shock and play of emotion, it
left her well nigh spent. Yet she struggled shoreward, battling, waging
the war of the primal creature that yields not till Death himself
reenforces bitter odds.
To this exhaustion, the tales that float in Tehuantepec lay her end, and
Bachelder has never taken time to contradict them. But as she floated
almost within reach of his hand, she steadied at Paul's shout as under
an accession of sudden strength, and looked at her erstwhile husband.
Then, if never before, she knew--him, as well as his works! From him her
glance flashed to the fair face at her shoulder. What power of
divination possessed her? Or was it Bachelder's fancy? He swears to the
chosen few, the few who understand, that her face lit with the same
glory of tender pity that she held over her sick child. Then, before
they could reach her, she shot suddenly up till her bust gleamed wet to
the waist, turned, and dived, carrying down the senseless bride.
Shouting, Bachelder also dived--in vain. In vain, the dives of his men.
Death, that mighty potentate, loves sweetness full well as a shining
mark. Swiftly, silently, a deep current bore them far out on the flooded
lands and there scoured a sepulcher safe from saurian teeth, beyond the
scope Pancha's curse. Later, the jungle flowed in after the receding
waters and wreathed over the twin grave morning-glories pure as the
white wife, glorious orchids rich as Andrea's bronze.
HERE ENDS THE SPINNERS' BOOK OF FICTION BEING SHORT STORIES BY
CALIFORNIA WRITERS COMPILED BY THE BOOK COMMITTEE OF THE SPINNERS' CLUB
FOR THE SPINNERS' BENEFIT FUND INA D. COOLBRITH FIRST BENEFICIARY
ILLUSTRATED BY VARIOUS WESTERN ARTISTS THE DECORATIONS BY SPENCER WRIGHT
THE TYPOGRAPHY DESIGNED BY J. H. NASH PUBLISHED BY PAUL ELDER AND
COMPANY AND PRINTED FOR THEM AT THE TOMOYE PRESS NEW YORK NINETEEN
HUNDRED AND SEVEN
End of Project Gutenberg's The Spinner's Book of Fiction, by Various