To Natalie, Shenton, and Lewis the scant twenty acres that surrounded
Consolation Cottage was a vast demesne. Even on a full holiday one could
choose one's excursions within its limits. From the high-plumed wall of
bamboos that lined Consolation Street, through the orange-grove, across
the hollow where were stable and horses, cows and calves, then up again
to the wood on the other hillside--ah, that was a journey indeed, never
attempted in a single day. They chose their playground. To-day the
bamboos held them, to-morrow the distant grove, where were pungent
fruits, birds'-nests, fantastic insects, and elusive butterflies and
moths.
Then there was the brier-patch, with its secret chamber. By dint of long
hours of toil and a purloined kitchen-knife they had tunneled into a
clearing in the center of the thicket. Of all their retreats, this one
alone had foiled their watchful overseers. Here was held, undetected,
many an orgy over stolen fruit.
Nor did they have to seek far for a realm of terror. Behind the
brier-patch was the priest's wall. Over it was wafted the fragrance of
unknown flowers and of strange fruits--and the barking of a fierce dog.
With the same kitchen-knife they pried loose a brick and slipped it out.
They took turns at peeking through this tiny window on a strange world.
What ecstasy when first they glimpsed the flat-hatted, black-robed
figure strolling in the wondrous garden! Then terror seized them, for
the quick-eyed priest had seen the hole, and before they could flee his
toe was in it, and his frowning face, surmounted by the flaring hat,
popped above the wall and glared down upon them.
"Do you hear my dog?" whispered the priest.
It was Natalie, trembling with fright, who answered, feeling a certain
kinship for anything in skirts.
"Yeth, I do."
"Well," whispered the priest, his face twitching in the effort to look
stern, "he eats little children." With that he dropped from view.
Lewis and Shenton stared at each other. Natalie began to cry. Lewis
picked up the brick and slipped it back into place. Shenton helped him
wedge it in with twigs; then all three stole away, to break into giggles
and laughter when distance gave them courage.
Natalie and Lewis had another terror, unshared by Shenton. Manoel, the
Portuguese gardener, who lived in a little two-room house in the hollow,
had nothing but scowls for them. They feared him with the instinctive
fear of children, but Shenton was his friend. Did any little tiff arise,
Shenton was off to see Manoel. He knew the others were afraid to follow.
Sometimes Manoel took him to his little house.
To Lewis this strange friendship was the one cloud in childhood's happy
sky. He could not have defined what he felt. It was jealousy mixed with
hurt pride--jealousy of the hated Manoel, hurt pride at the thought that
Shenton went where he could not follow.
One day Shenton had been gone an hour. Lewis had seen him with Manoel.
He knew he was in Manoel's house. What were they doing? Lewis turned to
Natalie.
"I am going to Manoel's house. Stay here."
Natalie stared at him with wide eyes.
"O, Lewis," she cried after him, "aren't you _'fraid_?"
Lewis crawled stealthily to a back window. He stood on tiptoe and tried
to look in. His eyes were just below the level of the window-sill. He
dragged a log of wood beneath the window and climbed upon it. For a long
time he kept his face glued against one of the little square panes of
glass.
He forgot fear. In the room which the window commanded was a broad,
rough table, and Manoel was seated on a bench before it, leaning
forward, his long arms outstretched along its edge. The table was pushed
almost against the wall, and in its center stood Shenton, laughing till
the tears ran down his cheeks. His curly hair was damp and clung to his
white forehead. His blouse was soiled, his kilt awry. One short stocking
had fallen down over his shoe. Manoel was also laughing, but silently.
Lewis did not have to wait long to divine the source of mirth, for
Shenton soon essayed to walk the length of the table. Lifting his arm,
he pointed along a crack, and swung one leg around to take a first step.
But he seemed unable to place his foot as he wished. He reeled and fell
in a giggling ball, which Manoel saved from rolling to the floor.
Shrieks of laughter, deadened by the closed window, came from the child,
and Manoel's broad shoulders shook with enjoyment. He stood Shenton on
his feet, and held him till he got his balance; then the play began
again. Now Lewis felt fear steal over him, yet he could not go away.
There was something inexpressibly comical in the scene, but it was not
this that held him. A strange terror had seized him. Something was the
matter with Shenton. Lewis did not know what it was.
Suddenly Shenton's mood changed to sullen stupor, and Manoel, whose gait
was also unsteady, picked him up and carried him to a spigot, where he
carefully unbuttoned the child's waist and soaked his head in cold
water. The charm was broken. Lewis fled.