[Illustration: Chapter Seven]
THE INCA EYE
Mr. and Mrs. Dalton give us a beautiful Spanish-French dinner in a
private room of the Gran Hotel where they live. Mrs. Dalton is
palpably delighted with the Baron de Bach. He is unusually reserved,
but gravity sits well on him, and, as I see him crossing swords with
this clever woman of the world, I find my admiration growing. He seems
not to see me all through dinner, and, like the stupid young person I
am, I fall to regretting that by the side of our brilliant, travelled
hostess I must seem provincial and dull. I am not sorry when, shortly
after dinner, Mrs. Steele, regretting we have to leave so early the
following day, remembers a friend she must see that night, and we take
our leave.
"Señorita look fery tire--she better stay in dthe hotel. I vill escort
you, Madame, vidth plaisir."
We stop a moment on the stairs.
"Oh, no! I especially want Blanche to see the interior of a handsome
native house. You're not too tired, are you, dear?"
"No," I say, "I'll go."
"She vould zay dthat if she die. You stay here, Señorita; Madame
Steele be not long."
The idea flits across my mind he has some reason of his own for not
wanting me to go; but I've no notion of being left alone.
"No, I'll go with you, Mrs. Steele."
"After I escort Madame, I go to dthe photographic gallery; I buy you
all dthose pictures ve haf not time to get dthis afternoon. I send
dthem to your room; you vill not be lonely."
"Oh, why can't we all go to the gallery? I do so want a collection of
views. I want nothing else so much!" I plead.
It ends by our driving to Casa 47, in a wide street opposite the
public gardens. The Baron dismisses the coachman, telling him to come
back in a couple of hours, and I drop the iron knocker on the massive
door. A native servant draws the bolts, and our interpreter asks for
"Señora Baldwin." We follow the picturesque little maid through a
tiled vestibule into a starlight patio. The usual ground veranda
encloses this fragrant court, the various rooms opening on it.
We are ushered into one brilliantly lit and luxuriously furnished, and
the hostess and her sister make us welcome. The French consul is there
with his secretary, and the conversation is mostly in their tongue.
Mrs. Baldwin shows us an album of enchanting views of Guatemala and
the abandoned city of Antigua, so beautifully situated and so
earthquake-cursed.
"More than ever," says Mrs. Steele, "I regret we did not omit
something else, and take time to get photographs."
"It's not too late," our hostess says.
"Oh, no," the Baron interposes. "I go now to get dthem. I vas
dthinking if Madame vould like Señorita to choose them."
"No; Blanche does seem a little tired. I couldn't let her go. I think
we must trust your taste, Baron; I can hardly spare the time and
strength for any more exploring tonight."
"No, indeed, you mustn't go," says Mrs. Baldwin. "I've some wonderful
antiquities from a buried Aztec city to show you. When you finish
those views"--she glances at me--"you'll find us in the next room. I
won't say good-bye to you, Baron; of course, you'll be back. Come,
Mrs. Steele"--and they go into an adjoining room.
"If you air not too tire, Señorita, you better come to dthe gallery
and choose dthe pictures. Dthe Consul say it ees near here."
"Oh, really? Yes, I'll go; I know just the ones Mrs. Steele wants. You
will tell her where we've gone, won't you?--we won't be long," I say
to Mrs. Baldwin's young sister, who is chattering French to the
consul.
"Yes," she answers. "It's my opinion you won't find the gallery open
so late as this; but, of course, you can try."
"Oh, I hope it won't be shut. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
The small servant nodding on the veranda takes us past the palm-shaded
_patio_, and through the dark vestibule.
"_Gracias!_" I say to the dusky little servitor as the huge door
opens.
"_Si! Si!_ Dthousand thanks," mutters the Baron as the bolts fall
behind us, and we are out in the moonlit street. He draws my hand
through his arm.
"What makes your heart beat so?" I say.
"Come on the right side;" he changes me quickly to the other arm, and
I laugh at my acuteness, little dreaming what the Baron's
well-disguised excitement foreboded. We turn down a narrow,
ill-lighted street.
"What a lovely night! It makes one feel strangely, doesn't it, to be
out after dark in a foreign city that no one you know has ever
visited, and that seemed in geography days as far off as the moon?" I
get no answer to my small observations, and we walk on. "The gallery
isn't as near as I thought."
"It ees not far, Blanca; you air fery lofely in dthe moonlight."
"I'm glad to know what is required to make me lovely."
"You air alvays 'wonderschön' to me--but you look too clevair
zometimes in dthe day. In dthis moonlight you look so gentle--like a
leedle child. Blanca, zay again you loaf me."
He holds my hand close and bends down until I feel his hot breath on
my cheek.
"I can't say _again_ what I never said once."
I begin to walk faster.
"Ve air not _abord du San Miguel_; no von see, no von hear. I know in
my heart you loaf me; tell me so vonce! Blanca!" The music and
entreaty in the deep voice thrill me strangely. "Oh, Blanca darling,
keess me!" My puny resistance is nothing to those athlete's arms; he
holds me close one instant and I, breathless, struggle to free my
hands, and push his hot cheek away from mine.
"How dare you; you are no gentleman!"
"No, I am a loaver, Blanca, not von cold Nordthern zhentleman, who haf
so leedle heart it can be hush, and zo dthin, poor blood it nefer rush
fire at a voman's touch. Blanca, I haf been still for days, vaiting
for dthis hour. I loaf you, darling, till all my life is nodthing but
von longing--I loaf you till I haf no conscience, no _religion_ but my
loaf. No, you shall not spik now! Blanca, you must marry me, _here_ in
Guatemala. You and I go not back to _San Miguel_ unless you air my
vife."
"Baron!"
"Hush! Spik not so loud, and if you vill not make me mad call me not
Baron."
An awful sense of loneliness chokes me. The streets of that buried
Aztec city are not more silent than this one in Guatemala.
"Guillermo, listen! I have no friend here but you; you must take me
back to Mrs. Steele. Come!"
"How vell you know men! But not _me_, Blanca--not a Peruvian. I know
it ees better for you, as vell as for myself, dthat you marry me. You
haf nefer been so gentle and so gude as since I hold you near dthat
baranca. But you did not like it! You loaf me, but you air like a vild
deer; you air so easy startle, and so hard to hold. But I vill be zo
gude to Blanca, I vill make her glad I vas so strong not to let her
haf her own way. If you keess me and zay before God you marry me, I
take you back to Casa 47--if not, Madame Steele go alone to _San
Miguel_."
[Illustration: "YOU MUST TAKE ME BACK!"--_Page 210_]
"Baron de Bach, you're talking crazy nonsense. You don't frighten
me, but you _do_ disgust me. You think to get some Peruvian amusement
out of frightening a woman; well, you had better go to a bull-fight. I
detest you! Let me go or I'll cry out!"
He puts one hand over my mouth and holds me as in a vise.
"Dthank you, Blanca! You gif me courage. I haf tell you how a Peruvian
loaf; I vill tell you how he plan. In dthe bay off Panama ees my
yacht. I vill keep you in Guatemala vhile I send for her, and dthen ve
go to Peru, to Ceylon--anyvhere you like but America. I write Madame
Steele you air my vife, and she vill soon zee ve air not to be find;
she vill go back to New York. It ees no use dthat you cry out, no von
hear, or if von do, you spik no Spanish, and I haf my pistol if any
interfere. I tell you so much dthat you make no meestake. Ve air not
far from dthe house of two old friends of me. Dthey vill take care off
you, till my yacht come; you need not fear me, Señorita." He loosens
his grasp for an instant, and the dark street seems to whirl. I would
have fallen if he had not caught me. I hear, as one dreaming, the
caressing words of Spanish--I scarcely feel the hot kisses.
"I'm all alone," I think, looking down the silent street to a far-off
lamp, and then up to the brilliant sky, but even that seems strange,
for instead of my old friends in heaven, the Southern Cross shines
cold and far above me.
"Guillermo," I say, steadying myself against his arm, "you would make
a terrible mistake. You don't understand Northern women. You say you
love me, and in the next breath you plan to ruin my whole life. I
would make you more misery than ever a man endured, and I should hate
you bitterly and without end."
"It ees no use dthat you zay such dthings."
"Guillermo, don't let your love be such a curse to me."
"A curse----"
"Yes. If any other man had roughly treated me, had abused my
confidence, and, finding me defenceless, had forgotten what all brave
men owe to women--what would you do to such a man?"
The Peruvian puts his hand before his eyes.
"I listen not to anydthing you zay."
"Yes, you will. You know you would half kill the man who would strike
a woman. Some half-mad man has done worse than strike me, Guillermo,
and his name is Guillermo de Bach. You are so strong, and you say you
love me; will you take my part against this man?"
The moon comes out of a cloud, and shows me a white face above my
own, drawn tense with emotion. "It ees all settle, Blanca; I go not
back."
"Oh, God! what shall I do! What kind of man are you? You complain that
my countrymen are cold and deliberate; do you know why we love them?
They know how to keep faith, but _you_ not twenty-four hours."
"Vhat mean you?" His voice is husky and sounds strange.
"You promised in the _San Miguel_ this morning, if we trusted you
enough to come with you to Guatemala, you would see that the _San
Miguel_ did not sail without us. Guillermo!"--with an inspiration I
draw the white face down to mine--"forgive me for doubting you; you
will keep your word," and I kiss him between the pain-contracted
brows.
"Oh, Blanca, Blanca, you vill kill me!"
Is it a tear that drops on my face? I put my arm in his and draw him
up the dark street, whispering some incoherent prayer.
"Blanca, I _cannot_! I am not a man dthat I gif you up!"
We have turned into the broad avenue and an occasional pedestrian
passes by. The Baron seems to see nothing.
"You are not a man when you break your word. Come, Guillermo!"
We are back at last before the great door; I lift a hand trembling
with excitement to raise the iron knocker. The Baron stops me.
"I am von fool, Blanca! Like your countrymen, I let you rule. But vhen
you forget all else off me, remembair you haf find von Peruvian who
loaf you so he let you ruin hees life--you vill nefer see anodther
such Peruvian madman. If I haf trouble you, I haf not spare myself,
keess me gude-night, Blanca ... and good-bye."
A moment later the great knocker had fallen.
Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Baldwin are waiting for us in the star-lit
_patio_. My friend is evidently displeased at my having gone out
without consulting her. I feel with sharp self-condemnation that in
agreeing to go I was not only rash, but seemed even worse; it looked
as if I had courted a _tête-à-tête_ alone at night with the Baron. Ah,
why can't we see things in the present as we shall be obliged to see
them when the time is past and the mistake beyond recall!
"Well, I suppose you've ordered an album full of views," says Mrs.
Baldwin, pleasantly trying to cover up the awkwardness of our return.
"No," I answer, taken unawares, for by this time I have quite
forgotten the object of my errand. "We found the gallery farther away
than I expected, and----"
"Vhen ve get dthere it vas close," says the Baron in a calm,
well-controlled voice. The carriage is announced, and we bid Mrs.
Baldwin good-bye. The drive home is very quiet, and we say good-night
to the Baron in the vestibule.
Mrs. Steele oddly enough asks me no questions, and I know her
disapproval must be strong. I think little about that, however--I am
going over and over that sharp conflict in the dim, deserted street.
Did it really happen or did I dream it! This is the nineteenth century
and I am a plain American girl to whom nothing remarkable ever
happened before, and yet it _was_ true! How was I to blame for
it--what will the Baron do--how long will he remember? My last waking
sensation is a weary surprise to find my pillow wet with tears.
Mrs. Steele rouses me the next morning, holding an open letter in her
hand:
"Blanche! Blanche! Wake up! We've overslept and lost our train. Here's
a note the Baron's just sent up. The servant has neglected to call him
as well, and he thinks we could not by any exertion catch the train we
intended. He has ascertained that a 'special' leaving Guatemala two
hours after regular train time will reach San José an hour at least
before the steamer can possibly sail. He has engaged this 'special'
and will see us safely on board at ten o'clock. He begs I will excuse
his absence at breakfast, as he has already been served, and remains
with assurances of his profound regard, my obedient servant, Federico
Guillermo de Bach! So there's no time to be lost!"
My friend returns to her room to dress; I sit bolt upright in bed
staring straight before me at the great shaft of yellow sunlight that
lies across the floor. "You and I go not back to _San Miguel_ unless
you air my vife." Was it a curious dream or had he said those words?
"Are you hurrying, Blanche?" calls Mrs. Steele. "It won't do to miss
our last train unless you've decided you would like to stay in
Guatemala."
I fly out of bed and begin to rush into my clothes. Mrs. Steele's
voice has a touch of sarcasm in it that reminds me she may still be
dissatisfied and suspicious about last night. "She mustn't think
there's been any scene," I admonish myself; "she would say it was
entirely my fault, and she will lose all confidence in me. No! Mrs.
Steele must never know!"
As we enter the breakfast room an officious waiter bows and scrapes,
and seats us at a table giving full view of the sunny _patio_. We have
a quiet breakfast, boasting neither special cheer nor appetite, and it
is soon finished. We are beginning to wonder how we shall manage to
find our train if the Baron does not come for us, when the doorway is
darkened and a shadow falls across the table.
Without looking up, I am sure it is he.
"Gude-morning, Madame Steele. Gude-morning, Señorita. I hope you haf
slept well?"
"Good-morning," I say, observing how white and heavy-eyed he looks in
the sunlight.
"Yes, thank you, _we've_ slept well," says Mrs. Steele, "too well, I'm
afraid."
"Oh, no, belief me, dthis extra train ees better."
"You look ill, Baron; how did you sleep?"
"Dthank you, I sleep not at all till yust dthe time to
rise--dtherefore am I late. If your dthings air ready ve vill start at
once." He sends a servant upstairs after our various purchases and
wraps, etc., and we find them all stowed in the carriage waiting at
the entrance, when we come down a few minutes later. The Baron stands
by the landau, waiting to help us in. On our drive to the station he
points out this and that bit of interest, quite in his usual way.
"You zee dthat, Madame?" He points to a circular roof supported on
stone pillars sheltering water-tanks and primitive laundry essentials
"Dthat ees a 'pila,' a place vhere dthe vomans vash dthe garments." It
is surrounded by buxom young girls with dripping linen in their hands
which they seemed to be beating on stone slabs. "Dthat tree dthat grow
beside ees palma cristi."
"Why, it's only what we call the castor-bean, only this is larger," I
venture to say.
"Of course, my dear! 'A palma cristi by the pila' is the Baron's way
of saying a castor-oil bean by the wash-house."
My laugh is a little forced, I'm afraid, and the Baron seems not to
have heard.
"What is growing inside that fence?" I ask, with a stern
determination to keep up appearances.
"A kind off cactus," says the Baron, "vhat cochineal bugs lif
on--dthey--how you say it?--'raise' much cochineal bugs in Guatemala."
* * * * *
The three volcanoes loom up mightily. The smoke is denser and darker
to-day, the "spirits" of Air, Fire and Water look down with menacing
aspect on the white city in the plain.
"You must notice after you leaf Acajulta dthe volcano 'Yzalco'; it ees
_acteef_, as you say; it ees all fire by dthe dark of dthe night. And
in dthose bay off La Libertad and Puenta Arenas you must look at
dthose devil-feesh--_ach schrecklich_; dthey haf terrible great vings
vhat dthey wrap around vhat dthey eat."
"You speak almost as if you would not be there to point them out on
the spot," says Mrs. Steele, smiling as we pass the Trocadero and draw
up at the station.
"Qvite right! I am advise by a friend to stay and zee dthe Dthursday
bull-fight--I dthink I must."
He helps us out of the carriage without noticing my unspoken amazement
or Mrs. Steele's incredulous, "What nonsense."
"I vill put you in dthe train and then come back to zee your dthings
come." He leads the way to the "special" standing with snorting
engine on the furthest track. He seats us and is gone again. A servant
brings in our effects and the Baron follows.
"Madame," he says, dropping into the seat behind Mrs. Steele, "I haf
arrange to haf dthis man zee you to the ship--he spik leedle English
and I am told gude off him as sairvant. I haf give him all
direction--he vill take gude care off you and you vill reach _San
Miguel_ in gude time, as I promeese."
"But when are you coming?" I say.
"I come not back to _San Miguel_." He speaks to Mrs. Steele and does
not meet my look. "I haf telegraph to Panama for my yacht. I vill
vait here till she come."
"But I don't understand, Baron; this is very sudden, isn't it?" Mrs.
Steele looks greatly astonished.
"Not so fery! Dthis train go soon; I must zay gude-bye. Here ees dthe
leedle carve spoon from Escuintla you zay you like. I haf had much
plaisir to know you, Madame. Gude-bye!" He holds out his shapely white
hand and Mrs. Steele takes it warmly.
"Indeed, Baron, I'm quite breathless with surprise, and really very
sorry to lose you. Blanche and I will miss you sorely. If you ever
come to New York you know where to find me and a warm welcome. Our
kindest thoughts will follow you. Thank you for the spoon, although at
any other time I might hesitate to become the receiver of stolen
goods. Good-bye!"
"Gude-bye, Madame--gude-bye, Señorita." He holds my hand the briefest
moment, and I feel a big lump come in my throat at the sight of his
face. My voice wavers a little as I say:
"I am so sorry to say good-bye to you."
"Dthank you, Señorita. I haf somedthing off yours I must not forget."
He puts a hand in his breast pocket and brings out the gold-crested
letter-book. He takes from it a tiny roll of cigarette paper. "Vidth
all my boast I haf not succeed to 'keep my pearl'; it ees yours,
Señorita."
"No, Baron----" I begin, with warm protest.
"If you vant me to haf it, Señorita, write me and I vill come from
dthe end of dthe vorld to get it. But you vill not, zo put dthis Inca
eye beside it. Dthey zay in my country it bring gude luck. But it look
like dthat sun ve haf ofer our heads in Acapulco Bay, dthink you not
zo, Madame?"
He shows her the curious jewel, like opaque amber sprinkled with gold
dust.
"It is very curious and interesting," says Mrs. Steele.
"Indeed it is," I agree; "thank you very much." But I scarcely see the
Inca eye; I am looking into his and trying to read his face.
"Zo, Señorita, dthough you go far nordthvard dthe Inca's eye from Peru
ees still upon you; I haf send him to take care off ... dthe _pearl_.
Gude-bye--Gude-bye, Madame!"
The tall figure turns away, and in a moment is gone.
"Why, Blanche, what is the matter?" Mrs. Steele's voice is sharp with
concern. I try to smile and instinctively my hand goes to my tightened
throat. "My poor child, do you care?"
"How absurd!" I say, with what scorn I can command. "Care about
_what_, anyhow?"
"Señorita!" The handsome face of the Peruvian looks in at an open
window near the far end of the car. A bell rings, the conductor shouts
some warning in Spanish. In the din I run to the window and the Baron
holds up a bunch of roses. "Dthink dthe best you can of me, Blanca; I
vill loaf you all my life."
The look of suffering in the wonderful dark eyes brings the lump again
to my throat. I take the roses and I know my eyes are misty.
"Thank you, Guillermo; it won't be hard to think good things of
you...."
I feel a warning hand on my shoulder. It is Mrs. Steele, and the
touch recalls all my resolutions.
"I shall always remember.... Good-bye!"
The train moves off, the Baron steps back with that same look in his
face, and lifts his hat. His courtesy shows at the last some flaw,
for, although Mrs. Steele is there, his lips and eyes say only:
"Gude-bye, Blanca!"