The Ne'er-Do-Well Part 31

"Is it because--I'm with you?" questioned the young man, with an effort. "Is that why you don't want to apply there?"

"No, no. Stephen's particular enemy is in charge up there. I detest the man, and the feeling is mutual, I believe." She sighed, and her glance fell. "We can't spend the night outdoors."

"Of course not, but--"

"What?"

He laughed to hide his embarra.s.sment. "I'm wondering--what people will say."

"Oh, you mustn't be troubled about that. It isn't your fault, you know, anyhow. Besides, people won't say anything because they won't know anything about it--if we stay away from that sanitarium."

In the effort to put him at his ease, her own distress seemed to vanish, and Kirk immediately felt more cheerful.

"It's getting along toward dinner-time," he said, "so let's see what we can find in the way of food. You can be sheltered in one of these houses, I suppose, though from the looks I'd almost prefer the night air."

They stumbled out into the unlighted street and began their search; but, seen close at hand, the cooking arrangements of Taboga proved most unattractive. Outside the sanitarium, it seemed, there was not a stove on the island. Charcoal braziers set upon the floors or in the dirt yards served all culinary purposes, and the process of preparing meals was conducted with an indifference that promised no savory results. About the glowing points of light wrinkled hags appeared irregularly, as if brewing some witch's broth, but they could not understand the phenomenon of Americans being hungry and signified no readiness to relieve them. In several instances Kirk and Mrs. Cortlandt were treated with open suspicion. But eventually they found a more pretentious- looking place, where they were taken in, and, after an interminable wait, food was set before them--chicken, boiled with rice and cocoanut, black beans and cocoanut, fresh, warm milk, and a wondrous a.s.sortment of hothouse fruits. They would have enjoyed the meal had it not been for the curious faces that blocked every aperture in the room and the many bright eyes that peered at them from each shadow.

But in spite of their equivocal situation, Edith seemed fully to have regained her spirits. Even the prospect of spending the night in this place apparently did not dismay her.

"We have created quite a sensation," she said, laughingly. "I wonder if it makes the animals in the zoo as nervous to be stared at."

Kirk was half puzzled, half relieved by the lightness of her mood.

"If you have finished this health-food," he remarked, "we'll go back to the plaza and wait for the launch. I'm as full of cocoanut as a sh.e.l.l."

They descended to the square again, stared at all the way through open doors and followed by a subdued murmur of comment. Then they sat for a long time watching the stars, half minded not to regret the circ.u.mstance that had left them stranded together in such pleasant surroundings.

As if in despair over their impossible predicament, Edith gave way to a spirit of reckless vivacity, and Kirk, with a man's somewhat exaggerated sympathy for a woman's sensitive feelings, loyally strove to help her make the best of things in her own way. It was like a woman, he reflected, to follow her mood to the last extreme, and, being a man, he was not displeased. The change in her manner was too elusive for him to a.n.a.lyze. There was no real concession of her reserve--no sacrifice of the feminine privilege of prompt and complete withdrawal. If he had struck a false note, he knew that she would have turned frigid in an instant. But he could not help feeling that some barrier which had existed between them had been magically removed. Her apparent obliviousness to all that under the circ.u.mstances might have troubled her was a subtle compliment to himself, and soon he, too, forgot that there was anything in the world beyond their present relation to each other.

It was on their return to the house that the climax came, leaving him strangely shaken.

Their course took them past a tiny cantina. It was open in front, and brightly lighted, although at this hour most of the houses were dark and the village lay wrapped in the inky shadow of the mountain behind. Within, several men were carousing--dark-haired, swarthy fellows, who seemed to be fishermen. Drawn by the sound of argument, the strangers paused a moment to watch them. The quarrel seemed a harmless affair, and they were about to pa.s.s on, when suddenly one of the disputants lunged at his antagonist with a knife, conjured from nowhere, and the two came tumbling out into the street, nearly colliding with the onlookers.

Without a sound, Mrs. Cortlandt picked up her skirts and fled into the darkness, Kirk stumbling along behind her, both guiding themselves by instinct rather than sight. At last she stopped out of breath, and he overtook her.

"You mustn't run through these dark alleys," he cried, sharply.

"You'll break your neck." Half impatient at this hysterical behavior, he seized her by the arm.

"Oh, I'm so frightened!" she breathed, and he felt her tremble. "A drunken man frightens me--" Involuntarily she hid her face against his breast, then laughed nervously. "Don't mind me, please. It's the one thing I can't stand. I'll be all right in a moment." She lifted her white face, and her eyes were luminous in the gloom.

"I'm very glad you don't drink." Her hand crept up to the lapel of his coat. "What will you think of me?" she said, tremulously.

Before he realized what he was doing his arms had closed around her and his lips had met hers. It may have been the romance of the night, the solitude, the intoxicating warmth of her breath--at any rate, he lost his head and knew nothing save that she was a woman and he a man. As for her, she offered no resistance, made no sign beyond a startled sigh as their lips came together.

But, impulsive as his action had been, it was no more sudden than his recoil. He released her and stepped back, crying:

"Oh, my G.o.d! I--I didn't mean that. Forgive me. PLEASE." She said nothing, and he stammered desperately again: "You'll hate me now, of course, but--I don't know what ails me. I forgot myself--you-- everything. It was unpardonable, and I ought to be shot." He started off down the blind street, his whole body cold with apprehension and self-disgust.

"Where are you going?" she called after him.

"I don't know. I can't stay here now. Oh, Mrs. Cortlandt, what can I say?"

"Do you intend to leave me here in the middle of this--"

"No, no! Of course not. I'm rattled, that's all. I've just got a cowardly desire to flee and b.u.t.t my head against the nearest wall.

That's what I ought to do. I don't know what possessed me. I don't know what you'll think of me."

"We won't speak of it now. Try to compose yourself and find our lodging-place."

"Why, yes, of course. I'll see that you're fixed up comfortably and then I'll get out."

"Oh, you mustn't leave me!" she cried in a panic. "I couldn't stay in that awful place alone." She drew a little nearer to him as if demanding his protection.

A wave of tenderness swept over him. She was just a girl, after all, he reflected, and if it were not for what had happened a moment before the most natural thing in the world would be to take her in his arms and comfort her.

"I--I won't leave you--I'll stay near you," he stammered.

But as they trudged along together through the dark his chagrin returned in full force. Mrs. Cortlandt maintained a distressing silence, and he could not see her face. Presently he began to plead brokenly for forgiveness, stumbling in the effort not to offend her further and feeling that he was making matters worse with every word he uttered. For a long time she made no reply, but at last she said:

"Do you think I ought ever to see you again after this?"

"I suppose not," said Kirk, miserably.

"I won't believe," she went on, "that you could have taken me for the kind of woman who--"

"No, no!" he cried, in an anguish of self-reproach. "I was a fool--"

"No," she said, "I don't--I couldn't bear to think that. Perhaps I was partly to blame--but I didn't think--I ought to have known that no man can really be trusted. But I thought our friendship was so beautiful, and now you've spoiled it."

"Don't say that!" exclaimed Kirk. "Say you'll forgive me some time."

But instead of answering him directly she proceeded in the same strain, probing his wounded self-respect to the quick, making his offence seem blacker every moment.

Although he a.s.sured her over and over that he had simply followed the irresponsible, unaccountable impulse of a moment--that he had regarded her only as the best of friends, and respected her more than he could say, she showed him no mercy. The melancholy, regretful tone she adopted was ten times worse than anger, and by the time they reached the inn where they had dined he was sunk in the depths of self-abas.e.m.e.nt.

If he had been less preoccupied with his own remorse he might have reflected that Edith's att.i.tude, especially as she did not expressly withhold the prospect of ultimate pardon, established a closer bond between them than ever before. But there was no room in his mind for such a thought.

In reply to his knock an old woman came to the door and sleepily admitted them. Edith stood for a moment on the threshold, then, seeing that he made no motion to accompany her, she said good- night, and, quietly entering, closed the door behind her.

Kirk experienced a sudden desire to escape. To remain where he was simply prolonged his humiliation. Instinctively he felt that, if he could only get away where he could view the matter in an every- day light, it would cease to trouble him. But evidently he could not desert Edith. He sat down upon the doorstep and gave himself up to bitter thoughts.

She was such a wonderful woman, he told himself; she had been such a true friend to him that he had been worse than criminal to lose her respect. And Cortlandt had been so decent to him! It was significant that this gave him the most discomfort of all. He had betrayed a man's friendship, and the thought was unbearable. No punishment could be too severe for that!

He was still sitting there cramped and stiff when the first faint flush of dawn stole over the hill-crest behind him. Then he rose to wander toward the water-front. As the harbor a.s.sumed definite form, he beheld a launch stealing in toward the village, and ten minutes later greeted Stephen Cortlandt as that gentleman stepped out of the tender.

"Where's Edith?" eagerly demanded her husband.

"She's asleep. I found a place for her--"