Breaking through the stream of ocean vapors, the morning sun showed the
jungle raising a languid head above the ruins of the flood. Long rents
in its green mantle, bare patches of yellow mud, dark bruises where
acres of debris had been piled in twisted masses, testified to the force
of the wave. But, overlooking the wreckage from the smelter, Seyd took
notice principally of a fact that suited his purpose--the river had been
swept clean of driftwood. Not since the beginning of the rains had it
shown such open stretches.
"Good!" he muttered. "The sooner we get away the better. I'll call her
at once."
When, however, he knocked at the office door Francesca answered "Come!"
When he entered she smiled at his surprise. "You said that we were to
start early. Here I am, dressed and dried."
"Not before breakfast," he laughed. "It is ready. I'll have it brought
right in."
All through the meal her eyes questioned, but, denying her curiosity, he
talked of anything and everything but that which filled her mind. Even
when, clothed in his waterproof, she took her seat opposite him in the
stern of the dugout he denied their eloquent appeal. While sending the
boat with vigorous strokes flying downstream he drew her attention to
this and that phase of devastation and commented on the beauty of the
morning, but not a word as to his purpose. It was cruel, and her eyes
said so. But, remorseless, he held on till, about midway of the morning,
they sighted San Nicolas. All the way down he had hugged the Santa
Gertrudis side, and she received the first inkling when he replied to
her question if it were not time to pull across.
"We are not going there."
"Not going there?" she repeated, surprised.
"No, we shall keep right on--down to sea."
"The sea?"
"The sea." He nodded firmly. "And the minute we land there we're going
to be married."
The idea was altogether too radical to be absorbed at once. No doubt she
thought he was joking, for a smile broke around her mouth. Not until
they were almost opposite San Nicolas did it give place to puzzled
alarm.
"But, senor--Rob--Roberto." She changed it in answer to his quick look.
"But, Roberto--"
"Might as well make it Bob," he cut in, crisply. "It may seem strange at
first, but seeing that we're to be married you might as well begin to
get used to it now."
The San Nicolas walls now lay, a long, warm band, across their beam.
From them her glance returned to the pendulum swing of his body.
Finality centered in his steady stroke. It told that he had settled down
for the day. Had he calculated its effect beforehand he could not have
done better. Accustomed to Spanish deference, she was nonplussed by his
authoritative air, yet its very unusualness invested it with a certain
charm.
"But--Bob?" Somehow the curt appellation acquired grace and softness
from her Spanish lisp. It fell so prettily that he made her repeat it.
But, though she added to its attraction an appealing glance, he remained
grimly obdurate.
"Give me time to think?"
"All you want. At this speed"--the oars creaked under his stroke--"you
will have about twenty-four hours."
She looked at him, frightened. "_Please?_ At least let us talk it over."
The cheerful roll of oars in the rowlocks returned wooden answer.
"Won't you?"
He stopped rowing and sat regarding her sternly. "I'm allowing you more
time than you gave me. If"--he paused, then, judging it necessary,
relentlessly continued--"if _he_ were here in my place do you suppose--"
"Oh, he would! He did! After he had insured me against--"
"--Me," he supplied, with a dogged shake of the head, then went on,
"Well, even if he would, I won't." As he bent again to the oars the
touch of admiration that leavened her undoubted fright paid tribute to
his stubborn logic. Settling to his stroke, he began again: "Supposing
that I complied and put you ashore at San Nicolas? Do you think that Don
Luis would be any more favorably inclined toward me? You know that he
wouldn't. I should do well to escape with my life. But if you go back as
my wife--well, the most they can do is to turn us out. Of course I can
understand your feeling. It will be a frightful breach of the
conventions--"
"No, it is not that," she interrupted him. "My friends will be
scandalized, _si_, but they are long ago broken to that. They would be
dreadfully disappointed if I did not fulfil their predictions by making
a shameful end. And it isn't--he. It is wicked to acknowledge it, but I
know--I know now that no matter how hard I tried to school myself I
should sooner or later have run away to you. They'll think it
shocking--my friends, my mother--but I can endure it."
"And that can be avoided. I'll take you away--throw up everything
here--make a new start somewhere else."
"No! no!" She shook her head. "Your work is here, and I am just as proud
of it as you could be. Let them chatter. No, it isn't even that."
"Then what is it?"
"You wouldn't understand. It is silly, just a woman's reason. No, you
would not understand."
"I'll try."
"It is _so_ foolish." Nevertheless, encouraged by his sympathy, she
continued: "Do you know that since the first kiss passed between us a
year ago we have had speech together only for a few minutes in the
presence of others? And her courtship is of such supreme importance in a
girl's life. It is her love time, and she loves to lengthen and draw out
its lingering sweetness. And ours has been so short."
It was the poignant cry of her girl's heart expressing the yearning of
her starved love, and, coming from such spirited lips, it moved him
deeply. Slipping the oars, he seized her two hands and pulled her
forward into his arms. Then, while her dark head lay pillowed upon his
shoulder, he continued the argument to better advantage.
The walls of San Nicolas had dwindled to a golden streak before she
looked up in his face. "Supposing that I had refused?"
"I'd have carried you off in spite of yourself."
And, whether she believed him or not, she clung the closer in that
embrace.