Low, shadowy, the sky painted Maura's face bronze. The sea, noisy,
enraged, sent a blob of wind about her black, wavy hair. And with her
back to the sea, her hair blew loosely about her face.
"D'ye think, d'ye think he really likes me, Philip?"
"I'm positive he do, Maura," vowed the youth.
And an ageing faith shone in Maura's eyes. No longer was she a silly,
insipid girl. Something holy, reverent had touched her. And in so doing
it could not fail to leave an impress of beauty. It was worshipful.
And it mellowed, ripened her.
Weeks she had waited for word of San Tie. And the springs of Maura's
life took on a noble ecstasy. Late at night, after the others had
retired, she'd sit up in bed, dreaming. Sometimes they were dreams of
envy. For Mama began to look with eyes of comparison upon the happiness
of the Italian wife of the boss riveter at the Dry Dock--the lady on
the other side of the railroad tracks in the "Gold Quarters" for whom
she sewed--who got a fresh baby every year and who danced in a world of
silks and satins. Yes, Maura had dreams, love dreams of San Tie, the
flashy half-breed, son of a Chinese beer seller and a Jamaica Maroon,
who had swept her off her feet by a playful wink of the eye.
"Tell me, Philip, does he work? Or does he play the lottery--what does
he do, tell me!"
"I dunno," Philip replied with mock lassitude, "I dunno myself--"
"But it doesn't matter, Philip. I don't want to be nosy, see? I'm
simply curious about everything that concerns him, see?"
Ah, but Philip wished to cherish Maura, to shield her, be kind to her.
And so he lied to her. He did not tell her he had first met San Tie
behind the counter of his father's saloon in the Colon tenderloin, for
he would have had to tell, besides, why he, Philip, had gone there.
And that would have led him, a youth of meager guile, to Celestin
Baptiste's mulish regard for anisette which he procured her. He dared
not tell her, well-meaning fellow that he was, what San Tie, a fiery
comet in the night life of the district, had said to him the day
before. "She sick in de head, yes," he had said. "Ah, me no dat saht o'
man--don't she know no bettah, egh, Philip?" But Philip desired to be
kindly, and hid it from Maura.
"What is to-day?" she cogitated, aloud, "Tuesday. You say he's comin'
fo' hunt Saturday, Philip? Wednesday--four more days. I can wait. I can
wait. I'd wait a million years fo' 'im, Philip."
But Saturday came and Maura, very properly, was shy as a duck. Other
girls, like Hilda Long, a Jamaica brunette, the flower of a bawdy cabin
up by the abattoir, would have been less genteel. Hilda would have
caught San Tie by the lapels of his coat and in no time would have got
him told.
But Maura was lowly, trepid, shy. To her he was a dream--a luxury to
be distantly enjoyed. He was not to be touched. And she'd wait till
he decided to come to her. And there was no fear, either, of his
ever failing to come. Philip had seen to that. Had not he been the
intermediary between them? And all Maura needed now was to sit back,
and wait till San Tie came to her.
And besides, who knows, brooded Maura, San Tie might be a bashful
fellow.
But when, after an exciting hunt, the Chinese mulatto returned from the
lagoon, nodded stiffly to her, said good-by to Philip and kept on to
the scarlet city, Maura was frantic.
"Maffi," she said, "tell Philip to come here quick--"
It was the same as touching a match to the _patois_ girl's dynamite.
"Yo' mek me sick," she said. "Go call he yo'self, yo' ole hag, yo' ole
fire hag yo'." But Maura, flighty in despair, had gone on past the
lawn.
"Ah go stop _ee, oui_," she muttered diabolically, "Ah go stop it, yes.
This very night."
Soon as she got through lathering the dishes she tidied up and came out
on the front porch.
It was a humid dusk, and the glowering sky sent a species of
fly--bloody as a tick--buzzing about Jean Baptiste's porch. There
he sat, rotund, and sleepy-eyed, rocking and languidly brushing the
darting imps away.
"Wha' yo' gwine, Maffi?" asked Celestin Baptiste, fearing to wake the
old man.
"Ovah to de Jahn Chinaman shop, mum," answered Maffi unheeding.
"Fi' what?"
"Fi' buy some wash blue, mum."
And she kept on down the road past the Hindu kiosk to the Negro mess
house.