Miguel and Nicanor were the Damon and Phintias of Lima. Their
devotion to one another, in a city of gamblers—who are not, as a
rule, very wont to sentimental and disinterested friendships—was a
standing pleasantry. The children of rich Peruvian neighbours, they
had grown up together, passed their school-days together (at an
English Catholic seminary), and were at last, in the dawn of their
young manhood, to make the “grand tour” in each other’s company,
preparatory to their entering upon the serious business of life, which
was to pile wealth on wealth in their respective fathers’ offices.
In the meanwhile, awaiting a prosaic destiny, they continued
inseparable—a proverb for clean though passionate affection.
The strange thing was that, in the matters of temperament and
physique, they appeared to have nothing in common. Nicanor, the
younger by a few months, was a little dark, curly-haired creature,
bright-eyed as a mouse. He was, in fact, almost a dwarf, and with all
the wit, excitability, and vivaciousness which one is inclined to
associate with elfishness. At the same time he was perfectly formed—a
man in miniature, a little sheath crammed with a big dagger.
Miguel, on the other hand, was large and placid, a smooth, slumberous
faun of a youth, smiling and good-natured. He never said anything
fine; he never did anything noteworthy; he was not so much admirable
as lovable.
The two started, well-equipped in every way, on their tour. The flocks
of buzzards, which are the scavengers of Lima, flapped them good-bye
with approval. They were too sweetening an element to be popular with
the birds.
Miguel and Nicanor travelled overland to Cayenne, in French Guiana,
where they took boat for Marseilles, whence they were to proceed to
the capital. The circular tour of the world, for all who would make it
comprehensively, dates from Paris and ends there. They sailed in a
fine vessel, and made many charming acquaintances on board.
Among these was Mademoiselle Suzanne, called also de la Vénerie,
which one might interpret into Suzanne of the chase, or Suzanne of the
kennel, according to one’s point of view. She had nothing in common
with Diana, at least, unless it were a very seductive personality. She
was a fashionable Parisian actress, travelling for her health, or
perhaps for the health of Paris—much in the manner of the London
gentleman, who was encountered touring alone on the Continent because
his wife had been ordered change of air.
Suzanne, as a matter of course, fell in love with Miguel first, for
his white teeth and sleepy comeliness; and then with Nicanor, for his
impudent bright spirit. That was the beginning and end of the trouble.
One moonlight night, in mid-Atlantic, Miguel and Nicanor came together
on deck. The funnel of the steamer belched an enormous smoke, which
seemed to reach all the way back to Cayenne.
“I hate it,” said Nicanor; “don’t you? It is like a huge cable paid
out and paid out, while we drift further from home. If they would only
stop a little, keeping it at the stretch, while we swarmed back by it,
and left the ship to go on without us!”
Miguel laughed; then sighed.
“Dear Nicanor,” he said; “I will have nothing more to do with her, if
it will make you happy.”
“I was thinking of _your_ happiness, Miguel,” said Nicanor. “If I
could only be certain that it would not be affected by what I have to
tell you!”
“What have you to tell me, old Nicanor?”
“You must not be mistaken, Miguel. Your having nothing more to do with
her would not lay the shadow of our separation, which the prospect of
my union with her raises between us—though it would certainly comfort
me a little on your behalf.”
“I did not mean that at all, Nicanor. I meant that, for your sake, I
would even renounce my right to her hand.”
“That would be an easy renunciation, dear Miguel. I honour your
affection; but I confess I expect more from it than a show of
yielding, for its particular sake, what, in fact, is not yours to
yield.”
Miguel had been leaning over the taffrail, looking at the white
wraiths of water which coiled and beckoned from the prow. Now he came
upright, and spoke in his soft slow voice, which was always like that
of one just stretching awake out of slumber—
“I cannot take quite that view, Nicanor, though I should like to. But
I do so hate a misunderstanding, at all times; and when it is with
you——!”