[Illustration: Chapter Three]
I AM LECTURED
"Blanche," says Mrs. Steele the next morning as she brushes out the
lovely waves of prematurely grey hair, "what are you going to do about
t h e Baron?"
"Do?" I repeat innocently. "What's the matter with him?"
"Now, Blanche, you said if I would promise not to interfere you would
be frank. I'm not sure I am wise to adhere to my side of the bargain
under any circumstances. I never thought you the kind of a girl to go
on letting a man fall more and more in love knowing all the while you
would never be able to give him more than a passing interest."
"How do you know that? Perhaps I'm disguising all sorts of fierce and
fiery feelings under my cool exterior?"
"No, my dear, you can't impose on an old friend so far as that. You
are a queer girl and not always easy to understand, but you care less
for the Baron de Bach than I do, and you know it. Now, what makes you
act so?" and she arraigns me with uplifted brush.
"Dear Mrs. Steele, I'm a student of human nature in a small way. If I
know anything about our Peruvian friend he will fall out of 'love,' as
you are pleased to call his chronic state of sentiment, as readily as
he fell in, and no bones broke, either. He would have forgotten all
about me before this and gone over to pretty Miss Rogers and the study
of photography except that I've been a bit obdurate--unusually so, he
is naïve enough to assure me, and his vanity is piqued."
Mrs. Steele lays down her brush and begins to coil up the long, soft
hair.
"My dear, you are very old for your years. When I was twenty I would
have made a hero out of that man instead of calmly picking out his
foibles--girls are not what they used to be."
I retire to my stateroom after breakfast to read. The Baron retaliates
by becoming aware of pretty Miss Rogers' existence. Pretty Miss
Rogers' mamma is conspicuously polite to him, and pretty Miss Rogers'
self offers to play the piano to his violin. It is Mrs. Steele who
brings me these tidings and assures me that Miss Rogers plays well,
and, as for the Baron de Bach, he is a master! I resolutely read my
book till luncheon time and, going up on deck afterwards, I am
surprised that the ever-watchful Baron has not hurried to meet me. He
seems utterly indifferent to the fact of my presence and leans beside
Miss Rogers at the ship's rail talking contentedly.
"H'm!" I muse, "music _hath_ charms! At all events he must not be
allowed to suppose that I notice, much less care for, his defection,"
and I turn to talk animatedly with Captain Ball about Mazatlan. His
wife comes up with an aggressive-looking Californian who has asked
several persons to present him, but I've successfully evaded his
acquaintance till now.
"It's not often we have the pleasure of a word with you," says Mrs.
Ball, after introducing her companion. "Baron de Bach is such a
monopolist. Just see how he is engrossing Miss Rogers now. What a
pretty girl she is, and how well she plays. Did you hear her and the
Baron this morning?"
"No," I say calmly, "I was so unfortunate as to miss that. Baron de
Bach has contracted a benevolent habit of reading French aloud to Mrs.
Steele and me every morning, and one doesn't _always_ yearn to listen
to French with a dreadful German accent, so I excused myself and
passed the forenoon in my room."
"You must be glad to hear the Baron has found some other congenial
occupation." Mrs. Ball laughs, and exchanges a look with the
Californian.
"It may have its advantages," I reply, determined not to be ruffled.
At that moment the Peruvian comes up to ask me if I will sit in a
group to be photographed.
"Oh, please don't ask me," I say pleasantly; "I hate sitting for my
picture."
"But I beg you. Madame Steele haf promise to help us. She ask me to
zay she will spik vidth you."
With a show of indolence I accompany him to where Mrs. Steele's chair
is stretched out under the awning, for the day is very sultry.
"I haf play vidth Mees Rogair," he whispers on the way, "and haf make
her promise to get out her camarah--I vould haf your photographie."
Mrs. Steele groups the party, and we succeed in getting several
unusually grotesque and dreadful pictures. If anything could cure one
person's sentimental regard for another, it would be the sight of just
such amateur caricatures as were turned out that afternoon. Mrs.
Steele looks a little like her handsome self in the proofs shown us
next day. Miss Rogers develops an unflattering likeness to a dutch
doll--I am as black as a Congo negro and wear the scowl of a brigand,
while Baron de Bach, after carefully brushing his hair and twirling
his moustache to the proper curve, comes out with a white blot
instead of a face; a suggestion of one eye peers shyly forth from the
moon-like mask, and the Peruvian is greatly disgusted. I shall ever
regard an amateur's camera as a great moral engine for the extirpation
of personal vanity.
On the evening of the eighth day we steam into the far-famed Bay of
Acapulco.
It is sunset, and from the Captain's bridge we watch the headlands
taking bolder shape against the brilliant sky, the lighthouse flushing
pink in the reflection. We see the long, low red-roofed Lazaretto set
peacefully among the hills, and away to the right the straggling town
of Acapulco, fringed with cocoa palms and guarded on the other side
by an old and primitive fort.
A wonderful land-locked harbour is Acapulco, and the bold hills
circling it seemed that night to shut it out from all the rest of the
world.
"That town is more like old Spain than Spain herself," I hear a
gentleman from Madrid say to Mrs. Steele. "It has remained since
Cortes' day, with no other land communication than an occasional mule
train affords; and the manners and customs and speech of Cortes'
followers are preserved there to-day."
"Can't we go ashore?" I ask the Captain, pleadingly.
"Well, you can't stay long," is the gruff answer. "We must get away
early to-morrow morning."
But Baron de Bach, overhearing, says:
"I tell Madame Steele ve can haf supper in dthe town. Vill you come,
Señorita?"
"Thanks, with pleasure, if Mrs. Steele agrees," and my spirits rise
high at the prospect.
The great red sun rests one splendid moment on the wooded heights and
dyes the waters of Acapulco's bay in dusky carmine, and it throws into
bolder silhouette the black hull of the disabled man-of-war _Alaska_,
anchored after many storms in this fair and quiet haven. The health
commissioners are long in coming, and it is late before Mrs. Steele,
the Baron and I are pushed off from the _San Miguel_ and headed
towards the town. It is dark when we reach the wharf, and Baron de
Bach gives us each an arm, saying:
"It ees not safe dthat you leaf me; stay close beside."
"Yes," observes Mrs. Steele encouragingly, "I've heard that these
wretches think nothing of murdering a stranger for a ring or a few
reales."
"Dthere ees no fear; I haf mine pistol."
But nevertheless I have a delightfully creepy sensation as we pass the
occasional groups of evil-looking natives, and I keep close beside the
muscular Peruvian, with a new sense of comfort in his presence. At
the little hotel not far from the wharf the Baron orders supper, and
then takes us into the market.
This interesting place is lit with smoky old lamps and flaring
torches, and the fitful light shows weird pictures to our unaccustomed
eyes. Each booth is in charge of one or more women, and here and there
is a man resplendent in overshadowing sombrero, with heavy silver
braid wound about the crown. The women have the scantiest of clothing,
arms and neck bare, dark eyes glittering, and dusky unkempt hair. The
atmosphere is stifling, but we must endure it long enough to get some
of the wares. The women chatter volubly, and even leave their booths
to come and take us by the dress and urge us to some dingy stall.
Vegetables and fruit are piled about in profusion, but we make our way
to the pottery tables. I am afraid to admire the curious designs and
archaic workmanship, for everything I notice approvingly the Peruvian
straightway buys, and we soon have a basket full.
"Ah! Figurines you must haf!" he exclaims as we approach a booth
populous with little clay figures, tiny men and women in native dress,
engaged in native avocations. These evidence no small cleverness in
the modeller, and the Baron insists on taking a dozen. Far on the
other side of the market some Indian women crouch in a semi-circle
over an open air fire.
"What are they doing?" asks Mrs. Steele.
"Dthey make tortillas," says the Baron.
"Oh, yes, I've heard about these meal cakes," says my friend, stopping
to look at the queer group. One old woman jumps up and offers her
something smoking in a pan. Mrs. Steele, bent upon discovery, bravely
tears off a bit and tastes it, throwing the woman a coin.
"Give me some," I say.
"No," interposes the Baron, with a fatherly decision; "you vill haf
supper soon, and I haf order tortillas. Mine vill be better. Vait
leedle."
Really, the Baron has quite taken me in hand, I think, half amused.
But he is a very necessary quantity in this pilgrimage ashore, and I
walk on obediently by his side, meditating how queer that one who
appeared so masterful and imperious at times could be at others so
weak and almost childish. It shed a new light on his character to see
him ashore. Here he knows the people and their tongue, all our wants
must pass through his interpretation, and he is master of the
situation. He seems, moreover, to fall naturally and simply into the
new office, and treats me quite as if I were a child. I want to stop
and get some plantains as we pass a fruit stall.
"No," says the Baron, "you must not eat dthem; dthey air--_unreif_."
"Ah, but really," I say, "I _must_ taste a plaintain; suppose you had
never seen one of that kind before."
"I vill not buy dthem; I vill not see you ill," he says.
"Very well, I'll buy one for myself." I drop his arm and run to the
booth, and, laying my finger on the greenest plantain I can find, I
say:
"_Quantos?_"
The old woman in charge gabbles away for dear life, and, not feeling
that I am progressing very rapidly, I lay down a media and take up
the plantain. The Baron comes to my rescue with a half-amused,
half-vexed smile.
"She haf cheat you," and he levels a volley of Spanish at the old
criminal. "See," he says, "she vill gif you all dthose limes if you
gif back dthat plantain, you vill be glad of limes _abord du San
Miguel_."
"Yes," I say. "I'll have the limes, too." And I put down another
media. He looks at me curiously.
"Ask her to send them to the hotel," I say. He gives the old woman
some rapid directions.
"Now ve vill haf supper," and we are soon sitting in a private room at
the hotel discussing soup, fish, tortillas and frejoles (the Mexican
black bean) and enchalades, which are only the coarse Indian meal
cakes, "tortillas," rolled up like a French pancake, with cheese and
cayenne pepper and a variety of disagreeable things inside, but
considered quite a delicacy among Mexicans. It is long before I
recover from my first mouthful, and the Baron stands over me with a
fan and a glass of wine, while Mrs. Steele laughs until the tears come
into her eyes.
"Water! water!" I gasp.
"No, _vino blanco_, Señorita," says the Baron, putting the glass to my
lips. I drain the last drop.
"Now some water, please."
"Yes, leedle more _vino blanco_," says the Peruvian, pouring out
another glass.
"Don't you understand?" I say hotly. "I want water--_Wasser_! _De
l'eau--Aqua!_"
The waiter starts at the last word and takes up a clay carafe.
The Baron shakes his head and gives some brief command in Spanish. The
servant looks sulky and puts down the bottle.
"What do you mean?" I say, with still smarting tongue. "Is it Spanish
etiquette to ask a lady to supper and then refuse her a glass of
water?"
"Madame," says the Peruvian quietly to Mrs. Steele, "no von here
drink vater; it makes always fery seeck," and he signs to the servant
to serve the next course.
"I despise _vino blanco_," I say; "I'd as soon drink weak vinegar."
Nevertheless I sip my second glass, as there is no prospect of
anything else.
A "moso" comes in with a big basket containing our purchases. I beckon
him to bring it to me, and look among the limes for my precious
plantain.
"Señorita," says the Peruvian, breaking off a conversation with Mrs.
Steele upon native dishes, "I haf here pineapple sairve vidth ice and
sugar and vine; it is dthe most delicieux of all fruit. Allow me to
raicommend you." And the waiter puts the tempting plate before me.
"Thank you," I say, "but I am looking for my plantain. Will you have
the boy find it, there are so many things in this basket?" A few words
between the "moso" and the Baron, the latter smiles a little.
"_Très curieux_, dthat old voman forget to put in dthat plantain!"
Mrs. Steele's amusement is most offensive.
"My dear, you are in the power of the interpreter; you will find our
friend less manageable on shore than on board the _San Miguel_."
The Baron looks innocence itself and creates a diversion by throwing
pieces of roll out over the lattice to the street children, whose
black eyes and black fingers appear through the slats. Each piece is
received with squeals, a grand rush and protracted squabbling, and
finally the more audacious appear at the door. They peep in, throw us
a flower and then scuttle away. One tiny beggar brings a small bouquet
and puts it in my lap. The Baron gives her a media and says something
about "vamos." She flies off, but only to tell the rest of the success
of her mission, and the whole horde troop in and pile the corner of
the table with more or less faded roses and appeal vociferously for
"Media! media!" The Baron, seeing that we are amused, tosses a coin
over their heads. It goes over the lattice and into the street, and
the black little troop tear out and fight and scuffle under the
window. They come in again and again, but finally, Peruvian patience
and Mexican medias being alike exhausted, the Baron rises in his seat
looking remarkably ferocious, and addresses them in stirring Spanish.
The whole crowd take to their heels, tumbling one over another in
excited haste.
"What in the world have you said?" asked Mrs. Steele, greatly amused.
"Oh, nodthing much," says the Baron in his usual low and gentle tone;
"I only zay if dthey effer come again I vill cut dthem up vidth a big
knife and haf dthem boil for breakfast."
"You barbarian!" laughs Mrs. Steele, rising. And then she looks about.
"We might have a glimpse of the church before we go if there's time."
"Sairtainly!" agrees the Baron, and we find our way through the now
quieter and dimmer thoroughfare to the Catholic Cathedral behind the
Plaza. The occasional candle gives out too dim a light for us to form
much of an idea of the interior, but it is cool and damp and
mysterious. Mrs. Steele, who is a thorough and highly intelligent
sightseer, explores the dim corners and finally goes back for a last
look at some detail she found specially interesting. I wait for her
in the dusk down by the door; the Baron has disappeared for the
moment. "I wish Mrs. Steele wouldn't be so particular about taking
notes," I say to myself. "I'm tired, and it's very uncanny and
grave-like here." A little sound beside me, and I turn with a start.
In the dim light I see a chimpanzee-like face looking up to mine. It
is horribly seared and wrinkled, one tooth sticks out from the wide,
shrivelled lips, and the beady animal-like eyes glare through grey elf
locks. I am speechless with fright, till the dreadful apparition
stretches out a skinny arm and with some strange words lays a
claw-like hand on my bare wrist. I shrink back, uttering a little
muffled cry of horror.
The big Peruvian comes hurriedly towards me from the other side of the
church.
"Vas dthat you, Señorita?" he says.
Faint with fatigue and fright, I put out a shaking hand to steady
myself self against the damp pillar.
"Señorita, you air so white!" he says hurriedly, and coming near he
draws me away from the clammy wall.
"You haf been frighten?" he asks softly, his face close to mine.
"Yes," I find breath to say; "a witch or a monkey is in the church,
and it touched me in the dark."
A shiver runs over me again at the remembrance, but I try to draw away
from the strong, close grasp.
"You vill faint, Señorita--I cannot let you go; dthere ees no seat
here." He takes off my hat and fans me. "Zome boy try to frighten
you," he says consolingly.
Mrs. Steele calls from the other side: "Where are you, Blanche?"
The Baron answers for me, holds me closer for an instant, and I think
he touches my hair lightly with his lips.
"Forgif me, Señorita. I vill find dthat boy vhat frighten you zo; I
vill gif him von hundred pesos for my sake, and I vill kill him
afterwards for yours."
I put on my hat a little unsteadily, still thinking more of that awful
brutish face than of the Baron. Mrs. Steele comes up with note-book
open in her hand.
"I've just seen the most dreadful little old crone," she says
cheerily; "she's like some grotesque dream--why, what's the
matter----?"
She breaks off, looking at me as we stand under the lamplight just
outside the door.
"It must be the same thing I saw," I say to the Baron; "what a goose I
am--but it looked like nothing human in the half light. I was so
scared," I confess, a little nervously.
"You look like a ghost, child; it was only a withered old beggar." And
Mrs. Steele puts her arm about me, and we go to inspect an ancient
well where the native women are filling clay jars and chatting merrily
as they file in and out of the gateway of the enclosure with their
picturesque burdens gracefully poised on head or shoulder.
"Let us go to dthe Plaza; Madame and Señorita can sit down for a
leedle."
It is only a step, and we are soon resting on one of the semi-circular
stone seats, listening to some primitive music and watching the
enjoyment of the people. Mrs. Steele draws my head down on her
shoulder and I shut my eyes. The Baron puts a coat over me and hums a
low accompaniment to the fantastic air. Suddenly I become aware of
someone touching me from behind the stone seat. I start up and turn
quickly, to find my apparition of the church chattering at my back.
Her restless eyes and the one white fang shine out from the shrivelled
monkey-face, and the skeleton arms with wrinkled, black skin drawn
loosely over the bones hold out long strings of shells. The strong
light shows her even uglier than I had thought, but it robs her of her
ghostliness, and I interrupt the Baron's probably impolite remarks by
saying:
"Don't drive her away. I'll buy some of her shells in remembrance of
the worst shock I've received in Mexico."
Soon I am decorated with chains of sea-treasures wound about waist and
neck and arms, and the old crone stands by gibbering and nodding
approval.
The Baron laughs at her last shot as she moves away with my media in
her hand and some unusually rich guerdon from him.
"What is she chattering about?" asks Mrs. Steele.
"She zay she know dthe Señorita vidth dthe pretty eyes would like dthe
shaills, and dthat vas vhy she follow her in dthe church, but Señorita
ees easy frighten. Señor must take gude care off her and nefer leaf
her."
Mrs. Steele smiles indulgently and draws out her watch.
"It's time we were going," she says. "The _San Miguel's_ lights will
be all out, I'm afraid."
The Baron's "cargodor" meets us at the wharf laden with our bizarre
purchases, and, after bestowing us and them in the boat, he dips his
oars and we glide out into the bay. The far-off steamer is wrapped in
darkness, the lamps are all extinguished in the staterooms, for it is
long past eleven, but the waves flash every attack of the oar, and the
Southern Cross shines aslant the sky.