AN EXPLANATION
Morn came. They had heard or seen nothing of the prince and his men. Mr.
Heatherbloom walked back for a cold plunge in a stream that had
whispered not far from their camping spot throughout the night. He and
Betty Dalrymple breakfasted together on an old log; it wasn't much of a
meal--a few crackers and crumbs that were left--but neither appeared to
mind the meagerness of the fare. With much gaiety (the dawn seemed to
have brought with it a special allegrezza of its own) she insisted upon
a fair and equitable division of their scanty store, even to the
apportioning of the crumbs into two equal piles. Then, prodigal-handed
for a castaway who knew not where her next meal might come from, she
tossed a bit or two to the birds, and was rewarded by a song.
All this seemed very wonderful to Mr. Heatherbloom; there had never
before been such a breakfast; compared to it, the _dejeuner à la
fourchette_ of a Durand or a Foyot was as starvation fare. It was
surprising how beautiful the dark places of the night before looked now;
daylight metamorphosed the spot into a sylvan fairyland. Mr.
Heatherbloom could have lingered there indefinitely. The soft moss wooed
him, somewhat aweary with world contact; she filled his eyes. The faint
shadowy lines beneath hers which he had noted at the dawn had now
vanished; the same sun-god that ordered the forest flowers to lift their
gay heads commanded the rosebuds to unfold their bright petals on her
cheeks. Her lips were as red berries; the cobwebs, behind, alight with
sunshine, gleamed no more than the tossed golden hair. She had striven
as best she might with the last, not entirely to her own satisfaction
but completely to Mr. Heatherbloom's. His untutored masculine sense
rather gloried in the unconventionally of a superfluous tangle or two;
he found her most charming with a few rents in her gown from branch or
brier. They seemed to establish a new bond of camaraderie, to make
blithe appeal to his nomadic soul. It was as if fate had directed her
footsteps until they had touched and lingered on the outer circle of his
vagabondage. Both seemed to have forgotten all about his excellency.
"Rested?" queried Mr. Heatherbloom.
"Quite," she answered. There was no trace of weariness in her voice.
"And you?"
"Ditto," he laughed. Then, more gravely, "You see, I fell asleep while
watching," he confessed.
"I'm glad."
"You'd make a lenient commanding officer. Shall we go on?"
"Where?"
"I don't exactly know," he confessed.
"That's lovely." Then, tentatively, "It's nice here."
"Fine," he assented. There was no hardness in the violet eyes as they
rested on him. He did not pause to analyze the miracle; he only
accepted it. A moment he yielded to the temptation of the lotus-eater
and continued to luxuriate in the lap of Arcadia. Then he bestirred
himself uneasily; it was not sufficient just to breathe in the golden
gladness of the moment. "Yes; it's fine," he repeated, "only you see--"
"Of course!" she said with a little sigh, and rose. "_I_ see you are
going to be very domineering, the way you were yesterday."
"I? Domineering?"
"Weren't you?" she demanded, looking at him from beneath long lashes.
"I'm sure I didn't intend--" He stopped for she was laughing at him.
They went on and her mood continued to puzzle him. Never had he seen her
so blithe, so gay. She waved her hand back at the woodland spot.
"Good-by," she said.
Then they came upon the little town suddenly--so suddenly that both
appeared bewildered. Only a hillock had separated them from the sight of
it the night before. They looked and looked. It lay beneath an upward
sweep of land, in a cosy indenture of a great circle that swept far
around and away, fringed with cocoanut trees. Small wisps or corkscrews
of smoke defiled the blue of the sky; a wharf, with a steamer at the
end, obtruded abruptly upon the curve of the shore. Mr. Heatherbloom
regarded the boat--a link from Arcadia to the mundane world. He should
have been glad but he didn't seem overwhelmed at the sight; he stood
very still. He hardly felt her hand on his sleeve; the girl's eyes were
full of sparkles.
"What luck!" he said at length, his voice low and somewhat more formal.
"Isn't it?" she answered. And drawing in her breath--"I can scarcely,
believe it."
"It's there all right." He spoke slowly. "Come." And they went down. A
colored worker in the fields stared at them, but Betty nodded gaily, and
asked what town it was and the name of the island. He told them, growing
wonderment in his gaze. How could they be here and not know that; where
had they come from? To him they were as mysterious as two visitants
from Mars. Regardless of the effect they produced on the dusky toiler
they walked on. The island proved to be larger than they had thought and
commercially important. They had, the day before, but crossed a neck of
it.
Soon now they reached the verge of the town and stood on its main artery
of traffic; the cobblestone pavement resounded with the rattling of
carts and rough native vehicles. At a curb stood a dilapidated public
conveyance to which was attached a horse of harmoniously antique aspect.
Miss Dalrymple got in and Mr. Heatherbloom took his place at her side.
"The cable office," said the girl briefly, whereupon a lad of mixed
ancestry began to whack energetically the protuberant ribs of the drowsy
steed. It woke him and they clattered down the narrow way. Mr.
Heatherbloom leaned back, his gaze straight ahead, but Betty Dalrymple
looked around with interest at the people of divers shades and hues,
and, for the most part, in costumes of varying degrees of picturesque
originality. After having narrowly escaped running over a small
proportion of the juvenile colored population overflowing from odd
little shops and houses, they reached the transportable zinc shed that
served as a cable office. Here Miss Dalrymple indited rapidly a most
voluminous message, paid the clerk in a businesslike manner, and,
unmindful of his amazed expression as he read what she had written,
tranquilly re-entered the carriage.
"Miss Van Rolsen will be relieved when she gets that," observed Mr.
Heatherbloom mechanically. "It'll be a happy moment for her,"
meditatively.
"And won't she be gladder still when she sees us?" answered the girl
gaily.
The use of the plural slightly disconcerted Mr. Heatherbloom for the
moment, but he dismissed it as an inadvertence. "Where now?" he asked.
"Where do you think?" with dancing eyes. "Shopping, of course.
Fortunately I drew plenty of money before starting for California."
An hour or so later Mr. Heatherbloom sat with parcels in his arms and
bundles galore around him. He accepted the situation gracefully; indeed,
displayed an almost tender solicitude for those especial packages she
herself handed him.
"What next?" She had at length exhausted the somewhat limited resources
of the thoroughfare.
"Drive to the best hotel," was her command. She laughed at the picture
he made, or at something in her own thoughts. She had unconsciously
assumed toward him a manner in the least proprietary, but if he noticed
he did not resent it. They went faster; her voice was a low thread of
music running through an accompaniment of crashing dissonances. She wore
a hat now--the best she could find. He considered it most "fetching",
but her thrilling derision overwhelmed his expression of opinion. Though
the way was so rough that they were occasionally thrown rather violently
one against another, they arrived in high spirits at their destination,
Mr. Heatherbloom having performed the commendable feat of preserving
intact the parcels and bundles en route. In the "best hotel" they were
given two rooms overlooking a courtyard redolent with orchids. The girl
nodded a brief farewell to him from the threshold of her room.
"In about an hour, please, come back."
He did, brushed up and with shoes shined, as presentable as possible.
She wore the same gown, but the sundry rents were mended and there had
occurred other changes he could divine rather than define. He brought
her information--not agreeable, he said. He was very sorry, but the next
boat for the United States would not call at the island for a fortnight.
He expected her to show dismay, but she received the news with
commendable fortitude, if not resignation.
"I can cable aunt every day--so there can be no cause for worry--and she
will only be the more pleased when we actually do arrive."
Again the plural! And once more that prophetic picture which included
Mr. Heatherbloom within the pale of the venerable and austere Miss Van
Rolsen's jubilation. He looked embarrassed but said nothing. During the
hour of his exclusion from Miss Dalrymple's company he had sallied forth
on a small but necessary financial errand of his own. Francois had
placed in the basket of biscuits a revolver, and this latter Mr.
Heatherbloom, rightfully construing it as his own personal property in
lieu of the weapon his excellency had deprived him of, had exchanged for
a bit of cardboard and a greenback. The last named, reinforced by the
small amount Mr. Heatherbloom had left upon reaching the _Nevski_ and of
which the prince had not deprived him, would relieve his necessities for
the moment. After that? Well, he would take up the problem presently; he
had no time for it now. This day, at least, should be consecrated to
Betty Dalrymple.
He had an inkling that on the morrow he would see less of her; the
girl's story would get around. The American consul would call and tender
his services. The governor, too, Sir Charles Somebody, whose palatial
residence looked down on the town from the side of the hill, might be
expected to become officially and paternally interested. The little
cable office, despite rules and regulations, could not long retain its
prodigious secret; moreover Mr. Heatherbloom, in an absent-minded
moment, had inscribed Miss Dalrymple's name on the register, or
visitors' book. He recalled how the eyes of the old mammy, the
proprietress, had fairly rolled with curiosity. No; he would not be
permitted long to have her to himself, he ruminated; better make the
most of his opportunity now. Besides, his present monetary position
forbade his presence for more than a day or two at the "best hotel"; its
rates were for him distinctly prohibitive. The exigencies of financial
differences would soon separate them; she could draw on Miss Van Rolsen
for thousands; he had but five dollars and twelve cents--or was it
thirteen?--to his name.
He kept these reflections, however, to himself and continued to bask in
the sunshine of a fool's paradise. They rode, walked and explored. They
went to the fruit and the flower market. He bought her a great bunch of
flowers, and she not only took it but wore it. For a time he stepped on
air; his flowers constituted a fine splash of color on the girl's gown.
Her heart beat beneath them; the thought was as wine.
"Shall we?" They had partaken of tea (or nectar) in a small shop, and
now she paused before that most modern manifestation of a restless
civilization, a begilded, over-ornamented nickelodeon. "Think of finding
one of them way off here! Just as at home!"
"More extraordinary your wanting to go in!" he laughed.
"Why not? It will be an experience."
They entered; the place was half filled and they took seats toward the
back. There were films, and songs of the usual character; it was very
gay. Gurgles of merriment from Creoles and darkies were heard on all
sides. They, too, yielded freely, gladly to its infection. Happy
Creoles! happy darkies! happy Betty Dalrymple and Horatio
Heatherbloom--heiress and outcast! There is a democracy in laughter; yon
darky smiled at Miss Dalrymple, while Mr. Heatherbloom laughed with
her, with them, and the world. For was she not near, right there by his
side? To Mr. Heatherbloom the tinsel palace had become a temple of
felicity and wonder. Suddenly he started and his face changed.
"The Great Diamond Robbery," one of the films, was in progress, and
there, depicted on the canvas, amid many figures, he saw himself, the
most pronounced in that realistic group. And Betty Dalrymple saw the
semblance of him, also, for she gave a slight gasp and sat more erect.
In the moving picture he was running away from a crowd.
"Shall--shall we go?" The face of the flesh-and-blood Mr. Heatherbloom
was very red; he looked toward the door.
She did not answer; her eyes continued bent straight before her, and she
saw the whole quick scene of the drama unfolded. Then the street became
cleared, the fleeing figure had turned a corner as an automobile, not
engaged for the performance, came around it and went by. A big car--her
own--she was in it. She caught, like a flash on the canvas, a glimpse of
herself looking around; then the scene came to an end. Betty Dalrymple
laughed--a little hysterically.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, oh!"
He became, if possible, redder.
"Oh," she repeated. Then, "Why"--with eyes full of mingled tragedy and
comedy--"did you not explain it all that day, when--"
Of course she knew even as she spoke why he could not, or would not.
"You had cause to think so many things," he murmured.
"But that! How--how strange! I saw you, and--"
He laughed. "And the manager told me I was a 'rotten bad' actor! Those
were his words; not very elegant. But I believed him, until now--"
"Say something harsh and hard to me," she whispered, almost fiercely. "I
deserve it."
The violet eyes were passionate. "Betty!" he exclaimed wonderingly.
"Do you call that harsh?" she demanded mockingly. "You--you should be
cross with me--scold me--punish me--"
"Well," he said calmly, "you haven't believed _that_, lately, anyhow."
"No; I just set it aside as something incomprehensible, not to be
thought of, or to be considered any more. I believed in you, with all my
soul, since last night--a good deal before that, yes, yes!--in my
innermost heart! You believe me, don't you?"
He answered, he hardly knew what. Some one was singing _Put on Your Old
Gray Bonnet_. Her shoulder touched his arm and lingered there. "Oh, my
dear!" she was saying to herself. The pianist banged; the vocalist
bawled, while Mr. Heatherbloom sat in ecstasy.