[Illustration: Chapter Four]
I DRINK COCOANUT MILK AND GO FISHING FOR PEARLS
I fancy I have just fallen asleep when I am roused by hearing someone
speaking at the port hole. I open my eyes to find it is the peep o'
day, and out of the dull, grey dawn a Mexican's face looks in at my
window.
"What do you want?" I demand, and in the same breath, "Go away! Mrs.
Steele! Mrs. Steele!" To my amazement Mrs. Steele appears in the
doorway all dressed.
"That's only the Baron's boatman, my dear, come to call you. I've had
a raging headache, and the place was so hot I dressed and went up on
deck, and there was the Baron de Bach pacing up and down--_he_
couldn't sleep, either. He suggests we take a boat and go out to catch
the early breeze and see the sun rise from the other side of the bay.
Will you come?"
"Of course I will," I say sleepily, and not in the best of tempers.
"There was no need to send that evil-looking brigand to wake me! My
nerves are in a continual tremor in this blessed place. Do you know,
Mrs. Steele," I say, fishing under the berth for a renegade stocking,
"I've a sort of presentiment I shan't leave the shores of the Pacific
without some kind of misfortune or hair-breadth escape."
"Nonsense!" says my practical friend, "you've eaten something that has
disagreed with you. Hurry as fast as you can; the Captain says we
weigh anchor at eight o'clock."
I finish a hasty toilet and follow Mrs. Steele on deck. The Baron is
waiting--he looks pale and rather graver than usual.
"Good-morning, Señorita," he says, and we shake hands. "Haf you
sleep?"
"Oh, yes," I say, accepting the coffee he has ordered. "I always
sleep."
The first faint flush of the coming splendour spreads above the hills
as we push off from the _San Miguel_. Deeper and deeper grow the
purple and the saffron till long shafts of golden light shoot up from
hilltop to high heaven, and the great red sun of the tropics peers an
instant over the mountain wall that shuts in Acapulco.
"This is a sunrise I think we shall never forget," says Mrs. Steele
with grave enjoyment.
The Baron and I say nothing.
The air blows cool and fresh, and we skirt the rugged beach, close to
the high-piled rocks at the water's edge, till we come to a cocoa
grove sheltering a few thatched cottages.
The Baron gives some direction to the boatman, and we are moored in
shallow water. The Mexican jumps out of the boat and disappears in the
grove. The water is so clear we have been able to see the bottom for a
long time, and now the Baron shows me how to use a boathook in
spearing the red starfish. We succeed in bringing up several, but they
turn brown when out of the water and are said to sting. So we throw
them back and turn to hear the Indian water-women singing and laughing
as they follow the winding, rugged path half way up the heights. The
red-brown feet and ankles must be as strong as they are shapely; the
arms holding aloft the water jars are well moulded and taper finely to
the wrist; splendid freedom is in every motion and a grace their
fairer sisters have forgotten. I see the admiration in Baron de Bach's
face.
"You like that type?" I ask.
"It ees part of dthe landscape," he answers; "ve like it in dthe
picture. Ve put more deeferent vomans in our hearts and homes."
"H'm!" coughs Mrs. Steele. "My dear, the boatman is coming back with a
huge bunch of cocoanuts."
"Yes," the Baron says, "I dthought you vould like to taste dthe
milk."
The Mexican rolls up his white trousers and wades back to the boat. He
pulls his naked knife out of his sash and begins to cut away the thick
green rind of the nut. That done, the Baron takes it from him and
shows us the three eyes at one end where the fibre is soft. When the
sharp point of the knife is inserted the liquid within spurts up into
the Baron's face.
"Oh!" he says, with a comical look of dismay, "ve haf no cup; ve must
drink like dthe natives," and he saws away an opening and hands the
cocoanut to Mrs. Steele. She puts her lips to the shell and tastes a
drop with dainty distrust.
"Oh, Madame, it ees fery gude--you vill like it if you drink more!"
But Mrs. Steele passes it on to me. The first sip is so cool and
refreshing I greedily tip the shell to take a long draught, and the
liquid runs down both sides of my mouth into my lap. The Baron insists
there is an art in cocoanut tippling.
"You must hold dthe mout' zo--" and he illustrates, "and dthe cocoa
zo." He puts it cautiously to his lips. "Now!" he says, after taking a
sip, "you try!"
With childish good faith I take the clumsy nut, but as I lift it to
drink I notice a covert gleam of satisfaction in the Peruvian's eyes,
and I realise in a flash that the cocoa shell is becoming a sort of a
loving-cup--for there was but one little place cut for drinking where
first I essayed the draught and then the Baron.
"My dear," remarks my quiet but observant chaperon, "I have never been
able before to account for the milk in the cocoanut. I know all about
it now!"
I throw the shell into the water with an impatient gesture.
"I know all I wish to. It's a great bother and very little gained."
The Baron looks disagreeably amused, and I feel hot.
"Capitan," he says to me, "vill you take dthe tiller again?"
I pick up the tiller ropes and steer out towards some small schooners
grouped to the left of the town near the entrance of the harbour.
"I do believe those are pearl fishers," says Mrs. Steele, who has been
looking through her glass. The Baron starts up and questions the
Mexican.
"_Si! Si!_" he answers, and with long, even strokes he brings us
within speaking distance of the nearest vessel. Baron de Bach stands
up and shouts out a series of inquiries in Spanish. I look over the
side of the boat, and at a vision in the water I start from my seat
with a shriek of delight and almost capsize the poor Peruvian. He
clutches wildly at the air and finally keels over backwards on the
astonished Mexican.
When they recover they find Mrs. Steele and me leaning over the side
of the boat following the uncertain motions of a bloated crab-like
monster crawling along the bottom of the deep.
"Why, that's the diver," explains Mrs. Steele. "You see that rubber
tube--one end is attached to the machine on the schooner, the other to
his helmet; he breathes through that. They are pumping air through it
every moment."
"Yes," says the Baron, having regained his equilibrium. "You cannot
zee, but he haf a basket tie vidth a cord to hees belt; he fill it
vidth shaills, and vhen he make a pull dthey draw it up and empty it.
Zee, now!"
He points to the steamer where, hand over hand, they haul in a cable.
At the end is the square wicker basket filled with great pearl shell
oysters. They turn them out and lower the receptacle for another load.
The Baron throws some money to a man in the schooner, and soon three
or four pearl oysters are tossed into our boat. The Mexican's knife is
again called into requisition and the shells are forced open. Nothing
in the first--nothing in the second--nothing in th----stop! the Baron
has found a pearl!
[Illustration: "THE BARON HAS FOUND A PEARL!"--_Page 112_]
"It ees von chance out of a dthousand!" he says, amazed. "I nefer
found von before--but it ees so leedle!"
"Never mind!" I say with enthusiasm. "We've been pearl-fishing and
we've found a pearl!"
Mrs. Steele is examining it minutely; the Baron leans over to me and
says low, in German:
"It shall be set for you in diamonds, Fräulein; it will remind you of
spilt cocoanut milk and pearl-fishing in Acapulco's shining bay--it
will mean to me a woman, Blanca, fine and fair, I found on the ocean.
As I think of all it signifies to me, I believe I must ask you to let
me keep my pearl," and he gazes into my eyes with such a world of
meaning in his own, I look away and trail my hand in the water. "What
say you, Fräulein?" he persists. "I have travelled so far to find it,
I have so nearly missed it, and here at last it lies in my
possession."
"Are you so sure it is in your possession?" I say, looking across to
Mrs. Steele, who is rolling the tiny treasure about in her palm.
"At least," he says, "it is within the reach of a strong arm, and if a
jewel begged is not generously given, it can be snatched out of a
capricious hand, if only for safer keeping----" and the Peruvian's
deep eyes look into my half-averted face.
"My friend does not speak German," I say; "she will think you very
rude." Then in English, "Please let me see the pearl again, Mrs.
Steele."
"It is absolutely flawless," she says, holding it out to me. The
Peruvian intercepts it. He draws out of an inner pocket a gold-mounted
letter-case and a book of cigarette paper. Deliberately he wraps the
pearl in one of the tissue leaves, and, looking steadily at me, pushes
the new treasure far into a corner of the crested case. There is more
significance than mirth in the laugh with which he says:
"I vill show all unbeliefers dthat I know how to value and to _keep_ a
pearl vhen I find von."
Mrs. Steele succumbs to one of her old headaches on our return to the
steamer, and I pass the greater part of the day in seclusion with her.
After luncheon, as I linger to superintend the arrangements of the
invalid's tea-tray, the Baron joins me.
"I am vairy sorry about Madame Steele's headache. Tell me, please,
vhat can I do?"
"Nothing, thank you," I say; "there is no remedy. She is accustomed to
these attacks."
"If nodthing does gude dthen vhy stay you efer in dthat room; you vill
be ill, too."
"Oh, no," I say, "no fear of that."
"But," he insists, "if you do nodthing only sit in dthat room, let me
stay vidth her and you come out in dthe air. Madame Steele ees not
like you; she like me vairy vell."
"She likes me better, and I can't leave her."
"Haf you no care for your healdth? You air not fit to take care of
yourself--dthat old voman in Acapulco vas right; you should nefer be
leaf alone."
"Doesn't it ever occur to you that I might be so accustomed to
managing my own affairs that interference from an outsider might seem
strange?"
"Outsidah!" he repeats. "I know not dthat word. I know only dthat you
American vomans haf yust one fault: you air--how you zay?--spoil vidth
too great power; you raispect no von's judgment, you need zome strong
man to rule."
"To rule!" I echo, scornfully; "that may do for Peruvians, but our
women are neither slaves nor imbeciles."
"No," he retorts, "but zome zay your men air a leedle of bodth!"
"It is not to the credit of 'some'"--I set down the salt cellar hard
on the tray--"that they fail to appreciate my countrymen. They have at
least encouraged our learning to take such good care of ourselves that
no Peruvian need trouble his head about us."
I beckon to the Chinese waiter.
"Take this tray up to 49," and I follow him with some show of
disdain. Señor Noma meets me at the foot of the dining-room stairs.
"I haf sent for a jar of chili-peppers for Mrs. Steele. Will you say
your friend I raicommend chili-peppers, and I advice you put a little
cayenne in the bif-tea. It makes vairy seeck without."
"Thank you, Señor Noma," I say; "Wah-Ching will bring up the peppers
and I will tell Mrs. Steele what you say." I glance back at the
Peruvian. He is sitting by the table just as I left him, his chin in
one hand, while with the other he strokes the wavy moustache and
regards me with lowering looks. "He's a handsome creature," I think,
as I go upstairs; "but he's been told it too often, and he has
abominably mediæval ideas about women."
All that hot afternoon I sit in the stuffy stateroom with Mrs. Steele.
The wind has veered to the other side and not a breath stirs the
curtains at our little window. About four o'clock the "Church of
England" knocks at the door. She is profuse in proffers of assistance,
and kindly tells me I am looking very badly. "You'd better go out for
a little air," she says; "you'll find my daughter and Baron de Bach
sitting in the breeze on the other side. He has teased Nellie to get
out her guitar; we've had quite a concert. What a charming, bright
companion he is!" she says, appealing to me.
"Very, very!" I assent, with a slight yawn.
"Do go out, Blanche, I don't need you here." Mrs. Steele looks a
little self-reproached.
"No, dear, I know you don't care about my staying," I answer, "but I'm
a little tired of the deck."
The "Church of England" drones on about Nellie, who is "such a child,
only seventeen; so unsophisticated and so unworldly."
"Just imagine, she quite snubs that handsome Peruvian nobleman, and he
is really _delightful_, you know."
We draw a simultaneous sigh of relief when the "Church of England"
leaves us to ourselves.
"Blanche," says Mrs. Steele, "you've been fighting again with the
Baron. Those Rogers people would be only too glad to attach him to
their party. I wouldn't let them do it if I were you. It would be too
much of a feather in their cap to have distracted him from us after
his very palpable devotion and our unusual friendliness."
"No, dear, I won't let our interpreter be wiled away from us. Leave
him to me. He's very exasperating at times, but I'll bear with him in
future; there's no denying it would be comparatively stupid without
him."
Mrs. Steele raises the bandage from her eyes and looks at me.
"It strikes me you are about to experience a change of heart. If it
were almost any other girl, I'd say beware!"
I laugh with confident unconcern.
"Oh, I don't deny I find him more interesting than I did at first. He
enrages me with his imperious self-confidence, and then charms me with
his curious, romantic ways. I look upon the Baron de Bach as a kind of
blessed invention for my entertainment on this trip, and that I've
grown to like him better than I expected makes the amusement keener,
of course. I'm tired to death of the commonplace, mild and
circumspect adorer. Baron de Bach is a continual surprise and an
occasional alarm! Nothing reprehensible!" I say, in answer to the
quick lifting of the bandage a second time. "Only he is so unlike all
the other men I have known I can't judge him by any previous standard.
I have the same interest in him Uncle John had in the new variety of
anthropoid ape in the Zoo at home. I study his possibilities, I starve
him, I feed him, I poke him, just to see what he'll do."
"You're a wicked girl," says Mrs. Steele, slowly, "and I'm afraid a
righteous judgment will overtake you. Do you remember telling me how
that same ape tore your Uncle John's hand one day?--and _he_ was
caged."
"Maybe the element of uncertainty accounts for some of the interest,"
I say, yawning. "I believe I'll have a nap before dinner." And soon
all is quiet in stateroom 49.
On Saturday morning, the day following, Mrs. Steele, the Baron and I
are sitting as usual under the deck awning. Baron de Bach is reading a
French story aloud to Mrs. Steele, and I, lying back in my steamer
chair, regard the reader with half-shut but attentive eyes.
"He's only a boy," I ruminate, "a romantic, absurd, but very nice boy.
There's no reason why I shouldn't like him very much; and if he must
be in love with someone, I'm a very safe person for him to select as
the victim." I smile as the last word comes across my mind, for I am
honest enough to doubt if I really mind it so much. The Baron turns a
page and sees the look.
"Vhy you laugh, Señorita?"
"Thinking about something funny."
"I'd think you laugh at me."
"Don't you suppose I may once in a while think of someone else besides
you?" The Baron looks puzzled and a little bit offended.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Steele," says the "Church of England," bustling up
to my friend with Mrs. Ball behind her. "How tired you look! Haven't
you had enough of that French? Baron de Bach has promised to come and
practise over the chants and hymns for to-morrow; can you spare him?
As for you," she says, turning to me, "we shall earn your eternal
gratitude if we carry off the Baron. You know her pet aversion is
having French read out loud"--she nods in a commiserating way to the
Peruvian.
"Certainly, don't let us keep you"--Mrs. Steele with her pleasant tact
ignores the reference to me--"we will finish that charming chapter
another time."
"Vhat means petta-vairsion?" says the Baron, looking undecided and not
exactly delighted.
"Oh, it means favourite pastime," says Mrs. Steele.
"Oh! oh!" giggles Mrs. Ball. "Miss Blanche said the reading made her
tired."
The Baron shuts up the book with a snap.
"Madame Rogair, I am at your sairvice!"
Without looking at me he raises his cap to Mrs. Steele and follows the
"Church of England."
"_Did_ you say the reading tired you?" asks Mrs. Steele.
"I believe I did, or something of the kind."
"Pity! Those people will make all they can out of it. The Baron told
me at breakfast that Mrs. Rogers had asked him to join their party at
the next port."
"But he won't"--I open my journal to write up the previous day.
The morning was rather dull, to tell the truth, and the sounds of
revelry that floated up from the scene of the practising below were
not too "sacred" to be irritatingly attractive. But even after
luncheon the Baron remains with the "Church of England."
"Gone over to the enemy. I told you so," Mrs. Steele observes, as we
sit alone in our corner of the deck, while over on the opposite side
Baron de Bach stands laughing and chatting with pretty Miss Rogers.
"Mrs. Steele," I whisper, "I believe he only does it for our
edification and because I said the reading tired me. Let us go to our
stateroom; the wind is on our side to-day." We read and sleep in
seclusion until evening.