get rheumatism, at least. By-the-way, do you notice the thickness of
those walls? They say that a king of Spain was seen standing at his
palace window one day staring anxiously toward the west. When a
courtier presumed to ask him what he was looking at, he said, 'I am
searching for those costly walls of Panama. They ought to be visible
even from here.' They cost ten million dollars, you know, when dollars
were worth a good deal more than they are now. Look! There's Taboga."
Following her gaze, Kirk beheld a mountain of amethyst rising out of
the bay. Behind them the shores stretched away into misty distances,
while low mountains, softened by a delicate purple, rolled up from the
jungle plain. Ahead of them the turquoise waters were dotted by islets
whose heights were densely overgrown, while sands of coral whiteness
ringed their shore lines. Here and there a fleet of fishing-boats
drifted. Far out in the roadstead lay two cruisers, slate-gray and
grim. The waters over-side purled soothingly, the heavens beamed, the
breeze was like a gentle caress. The excursionists lost themselves in
silent enjoyment.
Even before they had come to anchor a dozen boatmen were racing for
them and crying for their patronage. At the water's edge they saw a
tiny village nestled close against the mountains, its tiled roofs
rust-red and grown to moss, its walls faded by wind and weather to
delicate mauves and dove colors and greens impossible to describe. Up
against the slope a squat 'dobe chapel sat, while just beyond reach of
the tide was a funny little pocket-size plaza, boasting a decrepit
fountain and an iron fence eaten by the salt. Backing it all was a
marvellous verdure, tipped up on edge, or so it seemed, and cleared in
spots for pineapples.
The launch, when it came to rest, seemed suspended in air, and beneath
it lay an entrancing sea-garden. Once the engine had stopped its
clatter, a sleepy, peaceful silence settled over the harbor, unbroken
by wheel or whistle, for in Taboga no one works and there are no
vehicles.
"What a wonderful place!" exclaimed the young man, fervently. "Why,
it's like a dream--it can't be real!" Then, as the boatmen renewed
their begging, "I wonder which barge gentleman I had better hire."
"Take the little boy, please." Edith called to an urchin who was
manfully struggling with a pair of oars twice his own length, whereupon
the older boatmen began to shove off with many scowls and much
grumbling.
"Our choice has offended these genial bandits," Kirk observed as he
helped her to a seat. "When shall we tell the lad to bring us off?"
"Four o'clock," answered Mrs. Cortlandt. "I arranged with the captain
to be ready at that hour, so, you see, we have the whole day ahead of
us."
Across the limpid shallows they glided, bravely propelled by their
nine-year-old oarsman, but when the bow of their skiff grated upon the
bottom they were still some yards from the shore.
"Looks as if we'd have to wade," said Kirk, then called to one of the
near-by boatmen to lend the child a hand. But the fellow replied
gruffly in some unintelligible jargon.
"He says he carries HIS passengers ashore in his arms," Edith
translated.
"Really? Competition is spirited even on this heavenly isle. Well,
that's easy!" Anthony untied his low shoes, kicked them off, and rolled
up his trousers.
"Permit me to help you," he said, "without embarrassing our pilot."
"Oh! I want to wade, too," the woman exclaimed, enviously, as he
stepped out, "but--it's too pebbly."
She stood up and allowed him to gather her in his arms. Then for the
first time she felt his strength as her body leaned to his. Slowly he
picked his way ashore while she reclined in his embrace, her arms about
his neck, her smooth cheek brushing his. A faint, intoxicating perfume
she used affected him strangely, increasing the poignant sense of her
nearness; a lock of her hair caressed him. When he deposited her gently
upon her feet he saw her face had gone white and that she was trembling.
"Did I hurt you?" he queried, quickly.
"Oh no!" she answered, but as she turned away he saw her breathe as if
for the first time since he had taken her up.
His own face was glowing as he waded back to fetch the lunch-basket and
his foot-gear. Under the circumstances he had done the only natural,
the only possible thing, yet it had queerly perturbed them both. There
was an artificial note in their voices as they mounted to the village,
and unconsciously they avoided each other's glances.
A narrow, crooked street, fronted by old stone houses, opened before
them, and the many tints they had seen from a distance became more
pronounced. Even the rough flags and cobbles under foot were of a faint
lichen gray, chrome yellow, or pink, as if painted at cost of infinite
labor. Out of dark, open doorways peered swarthy faces, naked bronze
children scampered away on fat legs at their approach, and in one house
were a number of cassocked priests droning in Spanish. Everywhere was
the same slumberous content, the same peaceful buzz of bees and birds
and soft-toned human voices.
The two visitors explored the village, even to the quaint, tawdry
chapel, with its impossible blues and rusted gilt, and noon found them
eager to investigate the contents of their lunch-basket. Taking a
random path up the hill, they came at last to a spring of cool water,
and here they spread their meal under a mango-tree bent beneath tons of
fruit.
"Oh, it's intoxicating!" cried Edith, as she sank to a seat, feasting
her eyes upon the scene below. "After lunch, shall we climb the
mountain?"
"I'm ready for anything," Kirk assured her. "Maybe we'll go swimming.
That seems to be the main occupation of the inhabitants."
Up the path toward them came two timid children, one bearing a
pineapple half as large as himself, the other lugging an armful of
strange fruit. Kirk bought their entire burden, and they scuttled away
in high glee.
By now the spirit of the woods was in the picnickers; the gladness of
the day possessed them wholly, and the afternoon sped quickly. If at
times Kirk found his companion regarding him with a strangely timid,
half-defiant look, he refused to connect it with the episode of their
landing. It was a fleeting look, at most, gone almost before he
surprised it, and, for the most part, Edith showed a seemingly quite
natural gayety that helped him to forget his recent self-consciousness.
Promptly at four they came down the drunken little main street and out
upon the beach. But no launch was in sight.
"Hello! Where's our boat?" exclaimed Kirk.
"The captain told me he'd be ready at four. Perhaps he has run over to
Taboguilla or--" She hesitated, with a troubled frown.
"You told him to wait?"
"Distinctly." Seeing an idler in the square above she questioned him in
Spanish. "This man says the launch left for Panama two hours ago." She
turned tragic eyes upon Kirk.
"Do you think they intend to leave us?"
"I don't know. These people are liable to do any thing." Once more she
questioned the loiterer. "It is just as I suspected," she explained;
"they went on a Sunday spree. He says they came ashore and bought a lot
of liquor, and he heard them quarrelling later."
"That means we'll have to get another boat."
"I don't know where we shall find one."
"Neither do I, but there must be some sort of craft that plies back and
forth regularly."
"Only once or twice a week, I believe, and it belongs to the
sanitarium." She nodded toward some buildings perched upon a point
farther around the bay. "Mr. Cortlandt looked it up before leaving and
found the boat doesn't run on Sundays, so he hired that launch. Perhaps
we'd better wait awhile; our men may come back."
They found seats in the square and were grateful for the rest; but an
hour passed and the sun was getting low, while no sign of their truant
craft appeared.
"There must be sail-boats to be had," said Kirk; but on inquiry they
learned that, although a few belonged to the island, they all happened
to be away. He suggested that they hire a man to row them across.
"It's twelve miles," Edith demurred. "Do you think it would be safe?"
He scanned the twilit sea and gave up the idea; for the afternoon
trades, balmy and soothing as they were, had lifted a swell that would
prove difficult for a skiff to navigate. Uneasily they settled
themselves for a further wait. At last, as the sun was dipping into a
bed of gold, Kirk broke out:
"Gee whiz! We've got to do SOMETHING. Mr. Cortlandt will be getting
worried."
"In all probability he won't know anything about it until too late to
come for us. He is dining with these people from Bocas, and may not get
back to the Tivoli before midnight."
"Nice fix we're in!" remarked Anthony. "I'd like to lay hands on that
captain."
"We may have to stay here all night!"
"Well, at least we have a haven of refuge. They'll take us in at the
hospital."
"I don't care to ask them. There's some one up there I don't wish to
see. That's why I didn't go near the place to-day."
"You know best, of course. But, see here, don't you think you'd better
go up there--"
"Not for worlds! We must find some other way." She began to pace back
and forth in the dusk. "How unfortunate it is!"
"Is it because--I'm with you?" questioned the young man, with an
effort. "Is that why you don't want to apply there?"
"No, no. Stephen's particular enemy is in charge up there. I detest the
man, and the feeling is mutual, I believe." She sighed, and her glance
fell. "We can't spend the night outdoors."
"Of course not, but--"
"What?"
He laughed to hide his embarrassment. "I'm wondering--what people will
say."
"Oh, you mustn't be troubled about that. It isn't your fault, you know,
anyhow. Besides, people won't say anything because they won't know
anything about it--if we stay away from that sanitarium."
In the effort to put him at his ease, her own distress seemed to
vanish, and Kirk immediately felt more cheerful.
"It's getting along toward dinner-time," he said, "so let's see what we
can find in the way of food. You can be sheltered in one of these
houses, I suppose, though from the looks I'd almost prefer the night
air."
They stumbled out into the unlighted street and began their search;
but, seen close at hand, the cooking arrangements of Taboga proved most
unattractive. Outside the sanitarium, it seemed, there was not a stove
on the island. Charcoal braziers set upon the floors or in the dirt
yards served all culinary purposes, and the process of preparing meals
was conducted with an indifference that promised no savory results.
About the glowing points of light wrinkled hags appeared irregularly,
as if brewing some witch's broth, but they could not understand the
phenomenon of Americans being hungry and signified no readiness to
relieve them. In several instances Kirk and Mrs. Cortlandt were treated
with open suspicion. But eventually they found a more
pretentious-looking place, where they were taken in, and, after an
interminable wait, food was set before them--chicken, boiled with rice
and cocoanut, black beans and cocoanut, fresh, warm milk, and a
wondrous assortment of hothouse fruits. They would have enjoyed the
meal had it not been for the curious faces that blocked every aperture
in the room and the many bright eyes that peered at them from each
shadow.
But in spite of their equivocal situation, Edith seemed fully to have
regained her spirits. Even the prospect of spending the night in this
place apparently did not dismay her.
"We have created quite a sensation," she said, laughingly. "I wonder if
it makes the animals in the zoo as nervous to be stared at."
Kirk was half puzzled, half relieved by the lightness of her mood.
"If you have finished this health-food," he remarked, "we'll go back to
the plaza and wait for the launch. I'm as full of cocoanut as a shell."
They descended to the square again, stared at all the way through open
doors and followed by a subdued murmur of comment. Then they sat for a
long time watching the stars, half minded not to regret the
circumstance that had left them stranded together in such pleasant
surroundings.
As if in despair over their impossible predicament, Edith gave way to a
spirit of reckless vivacity, and Kirk, with a man's somewhat
exaggerated sympathy for a woman's sensitive feelings, loyally strove
to help her make the best of things in her own way. It was like a
woman, he reflected, to follow her mood to the last extreme, and, being
a man, he was not displeased. The change in her manner was too elusive
for him to analyze. There was no real concession of her reserve--no
sacrifice of the feminine privilege of prompt and complete withdrawal.
If he had struck a false note, he knew that she would have turned
frigid in an instant. But he could not help feeling that some barrier
which had existed between them had been magically removed. Her apparent
obliviousness to all that under the circumstances might have troubled
her was a subtle compliment to himself, and soon he, too, forgot that
there was anything in the world beyond their present relation to each
other.
It was on their return to the house that the climax came, leaving him
strangely shaken.
Their course took them past a tiny cantina. It was open in front, and
brightly lighted, although at this hour most of the houses were dark
and the village lay wrapped in the inky shadow of the mountain behind.
Within, several men were carousing--dark-haired, swarthy fellows, who
seemed to be fishermen. Drawn by the sound of argument, the strangers
paused a moment to watch them. The quarrel seemed a harmless affair,
and they were about to pass on, when suddenly one of the disputants
lunged at his antagonist with a knife, conjured from nowhere, and the
two came tumbling out into the street, nearly colliding with the
onlookers.
Without a sound, Mrs. Cortlandt picked up her skirts and fled into the
darkness, Kirk stumbling along behind her, both guiding themselves by
instinct rather than sight. At last she stopped out of breath, and he
overtook her.
"You mustn't run through these dark alleys," he cried, sharply. "You'll
break your neck." Half impatient at this hysterical behavior, he seized
her by the arm.
"Oh, I'm so frightened!" she breathed, and he felt her tremble. "A
drunken man frightens me--" Involuntarily she hid her face against his
breast, then laughed nervously. "Don't mind me, please. It's the one
thing I can't stand. I'll be all right in a moment." She lifted her
white face, and her eyes were luminous in the gloom. "I'm very glad you
don't drink." Her hand crept up to the lapel of his coat. "What will
you think of me?" she said, tremulously.
Before he realized what he was doing his arms had closed around her and
his lips had met hers. It may have been the romance of the night, the
solitude, the intoxicating warmth of her breath--at any rate, he lost
his head and knew nothing save that she was a woman and he a man. As
for her, she offered no resistance, made no sign beyond a startled sigh
as their lips came together.
But, impulsive as his action had been, it was no more sudden than his
recoil. He released her and stepped back, crying:
"Oh, my God! I--I didn't mean that. Forgive me. PLEASE." She said
nothing, and he stammered desperately again: "You'll hate me now, of
course, but--I don't know what ails me. I forgot
myself--you--everything. It was unpardonable, and I ought to be shot."
He started off down the blind street, his whole body cold with
apprehension and self-disgust.
"Where are you going?" she called after him.
"I don't know. I can't stay here now. Oh, Mrs. Cortlandt, what can I
say?"
"Do you intend to leave me here in the middle of this--"
"No, no! Of course not. I'm rattled, that's all. I've just got a
cowardly desire to flee and butt my head against the nearest wall.
That's what I ought to do. I don't know what possessed me. I don't know
what you'll think of me."
"We won't speak of it now. Try to compose yourself and find our
lodging-place."
"Why, yes, of course. I'll see that you're fixed up comfortably and
then I'll get out."
"Oh, you mustn't leave me!" she cried in a panic. "I couldn't stay in
that awful place alone." She drew a little nearer to him as if
demanding his protection.
A wave of tenderness swept over him. She was just a girl, after all, he
reflected, and if it were not for what had happened a moment before the
most natural thing in the world would be to take her in his arms and
comfort her.
"I--I won't leave you--I'll stay near you," he stammered.
But as they trudged along together through the dark his chagrin
returned in full force. Mrs. Cortlandt maintained a distressing
silence, and he could not see her face. Presently he began to plead
brokenly for forgiveness, stumbling in the effort not to offend her
further and feeling that he was making matters worse with every word he
uttered. For a long time she made no reply, but at last she said:
"Do you think I ought ever to see you again after this?"
"I suppose not," said Kirk, miserably.
"I won't believe," she went on, "that you could have taken me for the
kind of woman who--"
"No, no!" he cried, in an anguish of self-reproach. "I was a fool--"
"No," she said, "I don't--I couldn't bear to think that. Perhaps I was
partly to blame--but I didn't think--I ought to have known that no man
can really be trusted. But I thought our friendship was so beautiful,
and now you've spoiled it."
"Don't say that!" exclaimed Kirk. "Say you'll forgive me some time."
But instead of answering him directly she proceeded in the same strain,
probing his wounded self-respect to the quick, making his offence seem
blacker every moment.
Although he assured her over and over that he had simply followed the
irresponsible, unaccountable impulse of a moment--that he had regarded
her only as the best of friends, and respected her more than he could
say, she showed him no mercy. The melancholy, regretful tone she
adopted was ten times worse than anger, and by the time they reached
the inn where they had dined he was sunk in the depths of
self-abasement.
If he had been less preoccupied with his own remorse he might have
reflected that Edith's attitude, especially as she did not expressly
withhold the prospect of ultimate pardon, established a closer bond
between them than ever before. But there was no room in his mind for
such a thought.
In reply to his knock an old woman came to the door and sleepily
admitted them. Edith stood for a moment on the threshold, then, seeing
that he made no motion to accompany her, she said good-night, and,
quietly entering, closed the door behind her.
Kirk experienced a sudden desire to escape. To remain where he was
simply prolonged his humiliation. Instinctively he felt that, if he
could only get away where he could view the matter in an every-day
light, it would cease to trouble him. But evidently he could not desert
Edith. He sat down upon the doorstep and gave himself up to bitter
thoughts.
She was such a wonderful woman, he told himself; she had been such a
true friend to him that he had been worse than criminal to lose her
respect. And Cortlandt had been so decent to him! It was significant
that this gave him the most discomfort of all. He had betrayed a man's
friendship, and the thought was unbearable. No punishment could be too
severe for that!
He was still sitting there cramped and stiff when the first faint flush
of dawn stole over the hill-crest behind him. Then he rose to wander
toward the water-front. As the harbor assumed definite form, he beheld
a launch stealing in toward the village, and ten minutes later greeted
Stephen Cortlandt as that gentleman stepped out of the tender.
"Where's Edith?" eagerly demanded her husband.
"She's asleep. I found a place for her--"
"Not at the SANITARIUM?"
"No, no. One of these houses. Lord, I'm glad to see you! We'd begun to
feel like real castaways. I've been up all night."
"What happened?" It was plain that Mr. Cortlandt was deeply agitated.
"Our boatmen evidently got drunk and pulled out. I tried to get a
sail-boat, but there weren't any, and it was too rough to try crossing
with a skiff."
It took them but a moment to reach the house, and soon the three were
back at the water-front.
"What a miserable night!" Mrs. Cortlandt complained, stifling a yawn.
"I thought you'd never come, Stephen!"
"I didn't get back to the Tivoli until midnight, and then I had trouble
in finding a boat to bring me over."
"I suppose they were alarmed at the hotel?"
"I said nothing about it," he returned, quietly, at which his wife's
face flushed. Seizing the first occasion, he exclaimed, in a low voice:
"God! How unfortunate--at this time. Were you mad?"
She looked at him and her eyes burned, but she said nothing.
XIII
CHIQUITA
The next day Kirk borrowed a shot-gun and went hunting. The events of
the night before seemed like a dream. Could it be that he had really
blundered irretrievably? Was it possible that he had offended his best
friend past forgiveness? He wanted to get away somewhere and collect
his thoughts. For the present, at least, he wished to avoid an
interview with Mrs. Cortlandt.
A mile or two beyond the railroad track, to the north and east, began
what appeared to be an unbroken wilderness, and thither he turned his
steps. Low, rolling hills lay before him, densely over-grown and
leading upward to a mountain range which paralleled the coast until the
distant haze swallowed it up. These mountains, he reflected with a
thrill of interest, led on to South America, the land of the Incas,
hidden in mystery as the forests close at hand were veiled in faint
purple. The very thought was romantic. Balboa had strained his eyes
along these self-same placid shores; Pizarro, the swineherd, had
followed them in search of Dabaiba, that fabled temple of gold, leaving
behind him a trail of blood. It was only yonder, five miles away, that
Pedrarias, with the murder of a million victims on his soul, had
founded the ancient city which later fell to Morgan's buccaneers. Even
now, a league back from the ocean, the land seemed as wild as then.
Anthony suspected that there were houses--perhaps villages--hidden from
his view; but vast stretches of enchanted jungle intervened, which he
determined to explore, letting his feet stray whither they would. If
game, of which he had heard great stories, fell to his hand, so much
the better.
Heeding a warning not to bear arms through the streets of Panama
without a permit from the alcalde, he struck off across the fields in a
bee-line for the woods. It was a vast relief to be out in the open air
with a gun upon his arm once more, and he felt his blood coursing
vigorously. The burden upon his spirits insensibly began to lighten.
After all, he had done nothing for which he needed to be ashamed the
rest of his life. Edith, of course, was right in being deeply offended.
That was to be expected. Yet his conduct, regrettable as it was, had
been only natural under the circumstances. Now that the first tumult of
feeling had subsided, he found that his conscience did not accuse him
very severely.
And, somehow, he was unable to believe that the breach with Edith would
prove irreparable. She was a sensible woman of the world--not a mere
school-girl. Perhaps when the immediate shock of the occurrence had
passed she would consent to take a different view of it, and they might
return to their old friendly footing. If not--well, he would be his own
man soon, anyhow. Their lives would part, and the incident would be
forgotten. He was sorry that in his momentary madness he had behaved
improperly toward a woman to whom he owed so much, yet it was not as if
he had shown meanness or ingratitude.