marshy spots, growing more cheerful with every step. In one place he
had the good-luck to raise a flock of water birds, which he took for
purple gallinule and spur-wing plover, although they were unlike any he
had ever seen. In some scattered groves beyond he bagged a pigeon and
missed a quail which unexpectedly whirred out of a thicket. Then he
continued past herds of grazing cattle to another patch of woodland,
where he came upon something that looked like a path. Through rankly
growing banana-patches, yam-fields, and groves of mango-trees, he
followed it, penetrating ever deeper into the rolling country, until at
last he reached the real forest. He had come several miles, and
realized that he could not retrace his steps, for the trail had
branched many times; he had crossed other pathways and made many
devours. He rejoiced in the thought that he had successfully lost
himself.
At midday he paused in an open glade against a hillside to eat his
lunch. Back of him the rising ground was heavily timbered; beneath him
a confusion of thickets and groves and cleared fields led out to a
green plain as clean as any golf links, upon which were scattered
dwellings.
Evidently this was the Savannas of which he had heard so much, and
these foreign-looking bungalows were the country homes of the rich
Panamanians. Beyond, the bay stretched, in unruffled calm, like a sheet
of quicksilver, its bosom dotted with rocky islets, while hidden in the
haze to the southward, as he knew, were the historic Pearl Islands,
where the early Spaniards had enriched themselves.
Gazing at this view in lazy enjoyment, Kirk found himself thinking how
good it was to be young and free, and to be set down in such a
splendidly romantic country. Above all, it was good to be heart-whole
and unfettered by any woman's spell--men in love were unhappy persons,
harassed by a thousand worries and indecisions, utterly lacking in
poise. It was a lamentable condition of hysteria with which he decided
to have nothing to do. He did not care for women, anyhow. One could
scarcely have any dealings with them without becoming involved in some
affair that unduly harrowed one's feelings. How much better it was to
know the clean spirit of adventure and the joy of living, undisturbed
by feverish emotions!
As he reclined there, busied with these thoughts, two vivid little
paroquets alighted near him, to quarrel noisily, then make up and kiss
each other like any pair of lovers. It was disgusting. A toucan peered
at him with an appearance of exaggerated curiosity, due to its huge,
grotesquely proportioned beak. Now and then came the harsh notes of
parrots as they fluttered high above the tree-tops. Meanwhile the young
man's ears became attuned to the jungle noises, his eyes observant of
the many kinds of life about him.
The wood was crowded with plant-life utterly strange to him. On the
hill above towered a giant ceiba-tree, its trunk as smooth as if
polished by hand and bare of branches except at the very top, where,
instead of tapering, it ended abruptly in a tuft of foliage. Here and
there stood tremendous cotton-trees, their limbs so burdened with
air-plants as to form a series of aerial gardens, their twigs bearing
pods filled with down. Beside them palm-trees raised their heads, heavy
with clusters of nuts resembling dates in size and form, but fit only
for wild pigs. Clumps of bamboo were scattered about, their shoots
springing from a common centre like the streams from a fountain, and
sweeping through graceful curves to a spray of shimmering green. He had
never seen such varieties of growth. There were thick trees with
bulbous swellings; tall trees with buttressed roots that ran high up
the trunks; slender trees propped up head-high above the earth on
tripod-like roots or clusters of legs; trees with bark that shone like
a mirror; trees guarded with an impregnable armor of six-inch bony
spikes--Kirk did not know the names of half of them, nor did he care to
learn.
Vines and creepers abounded, from the tiny honeysuckle that reared
itself with feeble filaments, to the giant liana creeping through the
forest like a python, throttling full-grown trees in its embrace. On
every side was the never-ceasing battle for light and the struggle of
the weak against the strong. The air was heavy with the breath of
triumphant blooms and the odor of defeated, decaying life. A thousand
voiceless tragedies were being enacted; the wood was peopled by
distorted shapes that spoke of forgotten encounters; rich, riotous,
parasitic growths flourished upon starved limbs or rotting trunks. It
was weird and beautiful and pitiless. Unlike the peaceful order of our
Northern forests, here was a savage riot, an unending treacherous
warfare without light or room or mercy. There was something terrible in
it all.
Tiring of the scene at last, Kirk continued his wanderings, bearing
gradually toward the right, that he might eventually emerge upon the
Savannas below, where he knew there was a good paved road leading to
the city. But the trails were devious and seemed to lead nowhere, so at
last he struck out through the jungle itself. Having no machete with
which to clear a way, his progress was slow, but he took his time,
keeping a wary outlook for game, twisting back and forth to avoid the
densest thickets, until he finally came out upon the margin of a
stream. Through the verdure beyond it he saw the open, sunlit meadows,
and he followed the bank in the hope of finding a foot-log or a bridge
upon which to cross. He had gone, perhaps, a hundred yards when he
stumbled out into a cleared space, where he paused with an exclamation
of surprise.
The brook had been dammed and widened into a deep, limpid pool to which
the clean, white sand of its bottom lent a golden hue. At the lower end
it overflowed in a waterfall, the purling music of which filled the
glade. Overhead the great trees were arched together and interlaced,
their lower branches set with flowering orchids like hothouse plants
upon a window-ledge. The dense foliage allowed only a random beam of
sunlight to pass through and pierce the pool, like a brilliant,
quivering javelin. Long vines depended from the limbs above, falling
sheer and straight as plumb-lines; a giant liana the size of a man's
body twined up and up until lost in the tangle overhead.
Although set just within the border of the untouched forest, it was
evident that this spot had been carefully cut away and artfully
cultivated. But, if man's hand had aided nature by a few deft touches
here and there and a careful pruning of her lavish riches, it could be
seen that no human artist had designed the wondrous stage effect. To
step suddenly out of an uncut wilderness into such a scene as this was
bewildering, and made the American gasp with delight. The place had an
air of strictest privacy. A spring-board mirrored in the depths below
invited one to plunge, a pair of iron gymnasium rings were swung by
chains to a massive limb, a flight of stone steps led up the bank and
into a hut artistically thatched and walled with palm-leaves to
harmonize with its setting. Kirk thanked his fortune that he had not
blundered in while the place was in use, for it had almost the sacred
air of a lady's boudoir.
Instead of promptly withdrawing, he allowed his admiration full play,
and stood staring for a long time. What a delightful nook in which to
dream away the days! It was dim and cool and still, although outside
its walls of green the afternoon sun was beating down fiercely. A
stranger might pass and never guess its presence. It had been cunningly
shaped by fairies, that was evident. Doubtless it was peopled by them
also, and his mistake had been in coming upon it so suddenly. If he had
approached with caution he would surely have surprised them at their
play, for yonder was the music of their dances--that chuckling, singing
waterfall could serve no other purpose. Perhaps one was hidden under it
at present. Kirk was half tempted to conceal himself and wait for them
to reappear, though he knew that it requires extraordinary cunning to
deceive wood-sprites once they have been alarmed. But, undoubtedly,
they were somewhere close by, probably watching him from behind the
leaves, and if they were not such timid bodies he might try to search
them out.
As it was, he took a lingering, farewell look and turned to retrace his
steps, whereupon the queen fairy laughed at him softly. He paused
abruptly, then turned around, with care, so as not to frighten her. But
of course she was invisible. Then she spoke again with the sweetest
foreign accent imaginable.
"You had better cross upon the waterfall, sir. There is no bridge
above." After an instant, during which he strained his eyes to find
her, she laughed again.
"Here I am, in the tree, across the pond."
"Oh!" Looking over the fork of a tree-trunk, perhaps twice the height
of his head above the ground, Anthony beheld a ravishing face and two
very bright eyes. Without removing his gaze, he leaned his gun
carefully against a bush--firearms have an abominable effect upon
hamadryads--and said:
"I knew you were here all the time."
"Indeed!" The eyes opened in astonishment. "You did not see me at all."
"Of course, but I knew you were somewhere close by, just the same. How
did you get up there?"
"I climbed up."
"Why didn't you hide under the waterfall?"
"I did not hide, senor. I am trying to reach my orchid."
A little hand appeared beside the face, and a finger pointed to one of
the big air plants above her. Kirk beheld a marvellous white,
dove-shaped flower, nodding upon a slender stalk.
"I climbed up on the big vine; it is just like a ladder."
"Then you can't be the queen!"
Two very large, very dark eyes looked at him questioningly.
"Queens don't pick flowers," he explained. "They hide in 'em."
"The queen?"
"Some of them live in trees, and some preside over lakes and fountains.
Which kind are you?"
"Oh! I am neither, I live in my father's house." She tossed her head in
the direction of the Savannas behind her. "Do you wish to cross the
stream?"
"If you please."
"Wait." The face disappeared. There was a sound from behind the twisted
tree-trunk, a twig fell, then a piece of bark, and the next instant the
girl herself stepped into view.
"I was afraid you'd gone for good," acknowledged the young man,
gravely. He took up his gun and stepped out upon the crest of the dam.
"You must look where you go," she admonished, "or you will
fall--splash!" She laughed delightedly at the thought, and he saw that
her eyes had a way of wrinkling almost shut in the merriest fashion. He
balanced upon the slippery surface of the waterway with the stream up
to his ankles.
"Will you promise not to whisk yourself away if I look down?" he asked.
"Yes."
But even with this assurance he found it difficult to remove his eyes
from her even for the brief instant necessary for a safe passage; and
when at last he stood beside her he felt an irresistible desire to
seize her gently so that she could not escape.
"Well?" she said at length, and he found he had been standing
stock-still staring at her for several seconds.
"Excuse me! I really took you for a wood-nymph. I'm not sure yet--you
see the place is so well suited. It--it was a natural mistake."
She dropped her eyes shyly and turned away at his look.
"It is only our swimming-pool. There have been no fairies here since I
was a very little girl. But once upon a time there were many--oh, a
great many." It was impossible to describe the odd, sweet sound her
tongue gave to the English words. It was not a dialect, hardly an
accent, just a delicious, hesitating mannerism born of unfamiliarity.
"Did you ever see them?"
"N-no! I arrived always a little too late. But there are such things."
He nodded. "Everybody knows that since 'Peter Pan.'"
Another shy glance told her that he was still regarding her with his
look of wondering admiration. She pointed to a path, saying:
"This way will bring you to the road, sir, if you wish."
"But--I don't wish--not yet." He sought wildly for an excuse to stay,
and exclaimed: "Oh, the orchid. I must get it for you."
"That will be very nice of you, sir. For two years I have awaited its
blooming. If you had not arrived I would have got it, anyhow."
"Girls shouldn't climb trees," he said, severely. "It tears their
dresses."
"Oh, one cannot tear a dress like this." She glanced down at her skirt.
Allowing his eyes to leave her face for a moment, Kirk saw that she was
clad, oddly enough, in a suit of denim, which was buttoned snugly clear
to her neck. It struck him as most inappropriate, yet it was extremely
well made, and he could not complain of the effect.
He broke his gun and removed the shells; then, leaving it beside the
bath-house, went to the tree where he had first seen her. With one hand
resting upon the trunk, he turned to say:
"Promise you won't disappear while I'm up there, or change into a
squirrel, or a bird, or anything like that."
"What a funny man you are!"
"Do you promise?"
"Yes, yes."
"Do you live around here?"
"Of course."
"Why do you want this orchid?"
"To put it in the house."
Instead of beginning his climb, the young man lounged idly against the
tree.
"Funny how I found you, wasn't it?" he remarked. "I mean it's funny I
should have stumbled right on you this way--there's only one of you and
one of me, and--er--this country is so big! I might have gone some
other way and then perhaps we'd never have met." He contemplated this
contingency for an instant. "And if you hadn't spoken I'd never have
seen you, either."
"But I had to speak. You could not cross above."
"Awfully nice of you. Some people would have let me go away."
"But the orchid, senor. Do you fear to climb so high?" she inquired,
with the faintest gleam of amusement at his obvious effort to prolong
the conversation.
"Oh no!"
He cast about for something further to talk about, but, failing to find
it, began slowly to clamber upward, supporting himself upon the natural
steps afforded by the twining vine and the protuberances of the trunk
itself.
When he had reached the first fork, he turned and seated himself
comfortably, peering downward through the leaves for a sight of her.
"Not gone yet!" he exclaimed. "That's good."
"Are you out of breath that you stop so soon?"
He nodded. "I need to rest a minute. Say, my name is Anthony--Kirk
Anthony." Then, after a pause, "I'm an American."
"So am I, at least I am almost. My mother was an American."
"You don't say!" The young man's face lighted up with interest, and he
started eagerly down the tree-trunk, but she checked him promptly.
"The orchid!"
"Oh yes!" He reseated himself. "Well, well, I suppose your mother
taught you to speak English?"
"I also attended school in Baltimore."
Anthony dangled his legs from his perch and brushed aside a troublesome
prickly pod that depended in such a position as to tickle his neck.
"I'm from Yale. Ever been to New Haven? What are you laughing at?"
"At you. Do you know what it is which you are fighting from your neck?"
"This?" Kirk succeeded in locating the nettle that had annoyed him.
"Yes. It is cow-eetch. Wait! By-and-by you will scratch like
everything." The young lady laughed with the most mischievous, elf-like
enjoyment of this prospect.
"All right. Just for that, I will wait."
Now that the first surprise of meeting was over, Kirk began a really
attentive scrutiny of this delightful young person. So far he had been
conscious of little except her eyes, which had exercised a most
remarkable effect upon him from the first. He had never cared for black
eyes--they were too hard and sparkling, as a rule--but these--well, he
had never seen anything quite like them. They were large and soft and
velvety, like--like black pansies! That was precisely what they were,
saucy, wide-awake black pansies, the most beautiful flower in all
creation; and, while they were shadowed by the intangible melancholy of
the tropics, they were also capable of twinkling in the most roguish
manner imaginable, as at the present moment. Her hair was soft and
fine, entirely free from the harsh lustre so common to that shade, and
it grew down upon her temples in a way that completed the perfect oval
of her face. His first glimpse had told him she was ravishingly pretty,
but it had failed to show how dainty and small she was. He saw now that
she was considerably below the usual height, but so perfectly
proportioned that one utterly lost perspective. Even her thick, coarse
dress could not conceal the exquisite mould in which she was cast. But
her chief charm lay in a certain winsome vivacity, a willful
waywardness, an ever-changing expression which showed her keenly alive
and appreciative. Even now pure mischief looked out of her eyes as she
asked:
"Have you rested enough to attack the orchid?"
"Yes." He roused himself from his trance, and with a strangely leaping
heart proceeded carefully to detach the big air plant from its
resting-place. The wonderful flower, nodding to his touch, was no more
perfect than this dryad whom he had surprised.
"Don't break it," she cautioned as he came gingerly down the tree. "It
is what we call 'Espiritu Santa,' the 'Holy Spirit' flower. See, it is
like a white bird."
"First one I've seen," he said, noting how the purity of the bloom
enhanced the olive of her cheek. Then he began another fruitless search
for a topic of conversation, fearing that if he allowed the slightest
pause she would send him away. But all his thoughts were of her, it
seemed. His tongue would frame nothing but eager questions--all about
herself. At last in desperation he volunteered to get another orchid;
but the suggestion met with no approval. There were no more, she told
him, of that kind.
"Maybe we can find one," he said, hopefully.
"Thank you. I know them all." She was looking at him now as if
wondering why he did not make a start, but wild horses could not have
dragged him away. Instead of picking up his gun, he inquired:
"May I rest a moment? I'm awfully tired."
"Certainly. You may stay as long as you wish. When you are rested the
little path will bring you out."
"But you mustn't go!" he exclaimed, in a panic, as she turned away.
"Oh, I say, please! You wouldn't do a thing like that?"
"I cannot speak to you this way, sir." The young lady blushed prettily.
"Why not, I'd like to know?"
"Oh!" She raised her hand and shook her head to express the absolute
impossibility of such a thing. "Already I have been terrible. What will
Stephanie say?"
"You've been nothing of the sort, and who is Stephanie?"
"She is a big black woman--very fierce. It is because of Stephanie that
the fairies have gone away from here."
"If we wait a minute, maybe they'll come out."
"No. I have waited many times and I never saw them."
"Somehow I feel sure we'll see 'em this time," he urged. Then, as she
shook her head doubtfully: "Good heavens! Don't you want to see 'em?
I'm so tired that I must sit down."
The corners of her eyes wrinkled as she said, "You are not very strong,
senor. Have you been ill?"
"Yes--no. Not exactly." He led her to a bamboo bench beside the palm
hut. "I've been hunting. Now won't you please tell me how you chanced
to be here? I thought these country places were unoccupied at this
season."
"So they are. But, you see, I am doing a penance."
"Penance! You?"
"Oh yes. And it is nothing to laugh about, either," she chided, as he
smiled incredulously, "I am a bad girl; I am disobedient. Otherwise I
would not allow you to speak to me alone like this. You are the first
gentleman I have ever been so long in the company with, Senor Antonio."
"Really?"
"Now I will have to do more penance." She sighed sadly, but her eyes
were dancing.
"I don't understand this penance affair. What do you do?"
She lifted a fold of her coarse denim dress. "For six months I must
wear these garments--no pretty ones. I must not go out in public also,
and I have been sent here away from the city for a time to cure my
rebellious spirit."
"Those dresses must be hot."
"Oh, very uncomfortable! But, you see, I was bad."
"Not very bad?"
"Indeed. I disobeyed my father, my uncle, everybody." For the first
time her eyes grew bright with anger. "But I did not wish to be
married."
"Now, I see. They wanted you to marry some fellow you don't like?"
"I do like him--"
"You did exactly right to refuse. By all means stand pat, and don't--"
"'Stand pat.' I have not heard that word since I was in Baltimore."
"It's awful to marry somebody you don't like," he declared, with such
earnest conviction that she inquired, quickly:
"Ah, then are you married?"
"No! But everybody says it's positively criminal to marry without love."
"The gentleman is very handsome."
He shuddered, "Beware of handsome men. If you have any idea of
marriage, select a large, plain man with blue eyes and light hair."
"I do not know such a person."
"Not yet, of course; that is, not well enough to marry him."
"It is not nice to speak of such things," said the young lady, primly.
"And it is not nice also to speak with strange gentlemen who come out
of the forest when one is doing penance. But I am a half American, you
know. Perhaps that is what makes me so bad."
"Will you catch it for talking to me?"
"Oh yes. It is not allowed. It is most improper."
"Then I suppose I'd better leave." Anthony settled himself more
comfortably upon the bench. "And yet there is nothing really wrong
about it, is there? Why, it's done every day in my country. Besides,
who's going to know?"
"The padre. I tell him everything."
"You girls down here have a pretty tough time of it; you are guarded
pretty closely, aren't you?"
She gave him a puzzled look.
"I mean, you don't have any liberty. You don't go out alone, or let
fellows take you to lunch, or to the matinee, or anything like that?"
Evidently the mere mention of such things was shocking. "Oh, senor,"
she cried, incredulously, "such terrible actions cannot be permitted
even in your country. It is awful to think of!"
"Nonsense! It's done every day."
"Here it would not do at all. One's people know best about such things.
One must be careful at all times. But you Americans are so wicked!"
"How does a fellow ever get acquainted with a girl down here? How does
he get a chance to propose?"
But this frank questioning on so sacred a topic was a little more than
the young lady was prepared to meet, and for the moment confusion held
her tongue-tied.
"One's people attend to that, of course," she managed to say, at
length, then changed the subject quickly.
"Do you live in Panama?" she asked.
"Yes. I work on the railroad, or will, in a few days."
"You are so young for such authority. It must be very difficult to
manage railroads."
"Well--I won't have to run the whole works--at first. I'm beginning
gradually, you know--one train at a time."
"That will be easier, of course. What did you say is your whole name?"
"Kirk Anthony."
"Keerk! It has a fonny sound, has it not?"
"I never noticed it. And yours?"
"Do you speak Spanish?" She regarded him curiously.
"Not a word."
"My name is Chiquita."
He repeated it after her. "It's pretty. What is your last name?"
"That is it. If I told you my first name, you could not use it; it
would not be proper."
"It ought to be something like Ariel. That means 'spirit of the air and
water,' I believe. Ariel Chiquita. No, they don't go together. What are
you laughing at?"
"To see you scratch your neck."
Anthony became conscious of a growing sensation where the strange pod
had dangled against his skin, and realized that he had been rubbing the
spot for some time.
"You did not know it was the cow-nettle, eh?"
"You enjoy seeing me suffer," he said, patiently.
"You do not soffer," she retorted, mimicking his tone. "You only eetch!
You wish me to sympathize."
"See here, Miss Chiquita, may I call on you?"
"Oh!" She lifted her brows in amazement. "Such ideas! Of a certainly
not."
"Why?"
"You do not onderstand. Our young men do not do those things."
"Then I'll do whatever is customary--really I will, but--I'm awfully
anxious to see you again--and--'
"I do not know you--My father--"
"I'll look up Mr. Chiquita and be introduced."
At this the young lady began to rock back and forth in an abandon of
merriment. The idea, it seemed, was too utterly ridiculous for words.
Her silvery laughter filled the glade and caused the jealous waterfall
to cease its music.
"No, no," she said, finally. "It is impossible. Besides, I am doing
penance. I can see no one. In the city I cannot even sit upon the
balcony." She fetched a palpably counterfeit sigh, which ended in a
titter.
Never had Kirk beheld such a quaintly mischievous, such a madly
tantalizing creature.
"Say! You're not really going to marry that fellow!" he exclaimed, with
considerable fervor.
She shrugged her shoulders wearily. "I suppose so. One cannot forever
say no, and there are many reasons--"
"Oh, that's the limit. You'll go nutty, married to a chap you don't
care for."
"But I am naughty, now."