Orchids do not, by preference, grow upon a cactus plant. Littlethough she recked of botany, Miss Brewster was aware of thisfundamental truth. Neither do they, without extraneous impulsion,go hurtling through the air along deserted mountain-sides, to finda resting-place far below; another natural-history fact which theyoung lady appreciated without being obliged to consult theliterature of the subject. Therefore, when, from the top of theappointed rock, she observed a carefully composed bunch of mauveCattleyas describe a parabola and finally join two previousclusters upon the spines of a prickly-pear patch, she divined someenergizing force back of the phenomenon. That energizing force shesurmised was temper.
"Fie!" said she severely. "Beetle gentlemen should control theirlittle feelings. Naughty, naughty!"
From below rose a fervid and startled exclamation.
"Naughtier, naughtier!" deprecated the visitor. "Are these thecold and measured terms of science?"
"You haven't lived up to your bet," complained the censured one.
"Indeed I have! I always play fair, and pay fair. Here I am, asper contract."
"Nearly half an hour late."
"Not at all. Four-thirty was the time."
"And now it is three minutes to five."
"Making twenty-seven minutes that I've been sitting here waitingfor a welcome."
"Waiting? Oh, Miss Brewster--"
"I'm not Miss Brewster. I'm a voice in the wilderness."
"Then, Voice, you haven't been there more than one minute. A voiceisn't a voice until it makes a noise like a voice. Q.E.D."
"There is something in that argument," she admitted. "But whydidn't you come up and look for me?"
"Does one look for a sound?"
"Please don't be so logical. It tires my poor little brain. Youmight at least have called."
"That would have been like holding you up for payment of the bet,wouldn't it? I was waiting for you to speak."
"Not good form in Caracuna. The senor should always speak first."
"You began the other time," he pointed out.
"So I did, but that was under a misapprehension. I hadn't learnedthe customs of the country then. By the way, is it a local customfor hermits of science to climb breakneck precipices for golden-hearted orchids to send to casual acquaintances?"
"Is that what you are?" he queried in a slightly depressed tone.
"What on earth else could I be?" she returned, amused.
"Of course. But we all like to pretend that our fairy tales arepermanent, don't we?"
"I can readily picture you chasing beetles, but I can't see youchasing fairies at all," she asserted positively.
"Nor can I. If you chase them, they vanish. Every one knows that."
"Anyway, your orchids were fit for a fairy queen. I haven'tthanked you for them yet."
"Indeed you have. Much more than they deserve. By coming here to-day."
"Oh, that was a point of honor. Are you going to let those lovelypurple ones wither on that prickly plant down there? Think howmuch better they'd look pinned on me--if there were any one hereto see and appreciate."
If this were a hint, it failed of its aim, for, as the hermitscuttled out from his shelter, looking not unlike some bulkyprotrusive-eyed insect, secured the orchids, and returned, henever once glanced up. Safe again in his rock-bound retreat, hespoke:--
"'Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.'"
"So you do know something of fairies and fairy lore!" she cried.
"Oh, it wasn't much more than a hundred years ago that I read myGrimm. In the story, only one call was necessary."
"Well, I can't spare any more of my silken tresses. I brought astring this time. Where's the other hair line?"
"I've used it to tether a fairy thought so that it can't fly awayfrom me. Draw up slowly."
"Thank you so much, and I'm so glad that you are feeling better."
"Better?"
"Yes. Better than the day before yesterday."
"Day before yesterday?"
"Bless the poor man! Much anxious waiting hath bemused his wits.He thinks he's an echo."
"But I was all right the day before yesterday."
"You weren't. You were a prey to the most thrilling terrors. Youwere a moving picture of tender masculinity in distress. You letbashfulness like a worm i' th' bud prey upon your damask cheek.Have you a damask cheek? Stand out! I wish to consider youimpartially. You needn't look at me, you know."
"I'm not going to," he assured her, stepping forth obediently.
"Basilisk that I am!" she laughed. "How brown you are! How longdid you say you'd been here? A year?"
"Fourteen weary Voiceless months. Not on this island, you know,but around the tropics."
"Yet you look vigorous and alert; not like the men I've seen comeback from the hot countries, all languid and worn out. And you dolook clean."
"Why shouldn't I be clean?"
"Of course you should. But people get slack, don't they, when theylive off all alone by themselves? Still, I suppose you spruced upa little for me?"
"Nothing of the sort," he denied, with heat.
"No? Oh, my poor little vanity! He wouldn't dress up for us,Vanity, though we did dress up for him, and we're looking awfullynice--for a voice, that is. Do you always keep so soft and pinkand smooth, Mr. Beetle Man?"
"I own a razor, if that's what you mean. You're making fun of me.Well, I don't mind." He lifted his voice and chanted:--
"Although beyond the pale of law, He always kept a polished jaw; For he was one of those who saw A saving hope In shaving soap."
"Oh, lovely! What a noble finish. What is it?"
"Extract from 'Biographical Blurbings.'"
"Autobiographical?"
"Yes. By Me."
"And are you beyond the pale of law?"
"Poetical license," he explained airily. "Hold on, though." Hefell silent a moment, and out of that silence came a short laugh."I suppose I am beyond the pale of law, now that I come to thinkof it. But you needn't be alarmed, I'm not a really dangerouscriminal."
Later she was to recall that confession with sore misgivings. Nowshe only inquired lightly:
"Is that why you ran away from the tram car yesterday?" "Ran away?I didn't run away," he said, with dignity. "It just happened thatthere came into my mind an important engagement that I'dforgotten. My memory isn't what it should be. So I just turnedover the matter in hand to an acquaintance of mine."
"The matter in hand being me."
"Why, yes; and the acquaintance being Mr. Cluff. I saw him throwfour men out of a hotel once for insulting a girl, so I knew thathe was much better at that sort of thing than I. May I go back nowand sit down?" "Of course. I don't know whether I ought to thankyou about yesterday or be very angry. It was such an extraordinaryperformance on your part--"
"Nothing extraordinary about it." His voice came up out of theshadow, full of judicial confidence. "Merely sound common sense."
"To leave a woman who has been insulted--"
"In more competent hands than one's own."
"Oh, I give it up!" she cried. "I don't understand you at all.Fitzhugh is right; you haven't a tradition to your name."
"Tradition," he repeated thoughtfully. "Why, I don't know. They'repretty rigid things, traditions. Rusty in the joints and all thatsort of thing. Life isn't a process of machinery, exactly. One hasto meet it with something more supple and adjustable thantraditions."
"Is that your philosophy? Suppose a man struck you. Wouldn't youhit him back?"
"Perhaps. It would depend."
"Or insulted your country? Don't you believe that men should beready to die, if necessary, in such a cause?"
"Some men. Soldiers, for instance. They're paid to."
"Good Heavens! Is it all a question of pay in your mind? Wouldn'tyou, unless you were paid for it?"
"How can I tell until the occasion arises?"
"Are you afraid?"
"I suppose I might be."
"Hasn't the man any blood in his veins?" cried his inquisitor,exasperated. "Haven't you ever been angry clear through?"
"Oh, of course; and sorry for it afterward. One is likely to loseone's temper any time. It might easily happen to me and drive meto make a fool of myself, like--like--" His voice trailed off intoa silence of embarrassment.
"Like Fitzhugh Carroll. Why not say it? Well, I much prefer himand his hot-headedness to you and your careful wisdom."
"Of course," he acquiesced patiently. "Any girl would. It's theromantic temperament."
"And yours is the scientific, I suppose. That doesn't take intoaccount little things like patriotism and heroism, does it? Tellme, have you actually ever admired--really got a thrill out of--any deed of heroism?"
"Oh, yes," he replied tranquilly. "I've done my bit of heroworship in my time. In fact, I've never quite recovered from it."
"No! Really? Do go on. You're growing more human every minute."
"Do you happen to know anything about the Havana campaign?"
"Not much. It never seemed to me anything to brag of. Dad says theSpanish-American War grew a crop of newspaper-made heroes,manufactured by reporters who really took more risks and showedmore nerve than the men they glorified."
"Spanish-American War? That isn't what I'm talking about. I'mspeaking of Walter Reed and his fellow scientists, who went downthere and fought the mosquitoes."
The girl's lip curled.
"So that's your idea of heroism! Scrubby peckers into the lives ofhelpless bugs!"
"Have you the faintest idea what you are talking about?"
His voice had abruptly hardened. There was an edge to it; such anedge as she had faintly heard on the previous night, when Carrollhad pressed him too hard. She was startled.
"Perhaps I haven't," she admitted.
"Then it's time you learned. Three American doctors went down intothat pesthole of a Cuban city to offer their lives for a theory.Not for a tangible fact like the flag, or for glory and fame as inbattle, but for a theory that might or might not be true. Therewasn't a day or a night that their lives weren't at stake. Carrolllet himself be bitten by infected mosquitoes on a final test, andgrazed death by a hair's breadth. Lazear was bitten at his work,and died in the agony of yellow-fever convulsions, a martyr and ahero if ever there was one. Because of them, Havana is safe andlivable now. We were able to build the Panama Canal because oftheir work, their--what did you call it?--scrubby peeking into thelives of--"
"Don't!" cried the girl. "I--I'm ashamed. I didn't know."
"How should you?" he said, in a changed tone. "We Americans set upmonuments to our destroyers, not to our preservers, of life.Nobody knows about Walter Reed and James Carroll and Jesse Lazear--not even the American Government, which they officially served--except a few doctors and dried-up entomologists like myself.Forgive me. I didn't mean to deliver a lecture."
There was a long pause, which she broke with an effort.
"Mr. Beetle Man?"
"Yes, Voice?"
"I--I'm beginning to think you rather more man than beetle attimes."
"Well, you see, you touched me on a point of fanaticism," heapologized.
"Do you mind standing up again for examination? No," she decided,as he stepped out and stood with his eyes lowered obstinately."You don't seem changed to outward view. You still remind me,"with a ripple of irrepressible laughter, "of a near-sighted frog.It's those ridiculous glasses. Why do you wear them?"
"To keep the sun out of my eyes."
"And the moon at night, I suppose. They're not for purposes ofdisguise?"
"Disguise! What makes you say that?" he asked quickly.
"Don't bark. They'd be most effective. And they certainly giveyour face a truly weird expression, in addition to its otherdetriments."
"If you don't like my face, consider my figure," he suggestedoptimistically. "What's the matter with that?"
"Stumpy," she pronounced. "You're all in a chunk. It does looklike a practical sort of a chunk, though."
"Don't you like it?" he asked anxiously.
"Oh, well enough of its kind." She lifted her voice and chanted:--
"He was stubby and square, But she didn't much care.
"There's a verse in return for yours. Mine's adapted, though.Examination's over. Wait. Don't sit down. Now, tell me youropinion of me."
"Very musical."
"I'm not musical at all."
"Oh, I'm considering you as a voice."
"I'm tired of being just a voice. Look up here. Do," she pleaded."Turn upon me those lucent goggles."
When orbs like thine the soul disclose, Tee-deedle-deedle-dee.
Don't be afraid. One brief fleeting glance ere we part."
"No," he returned positively. "Once is enough."
"On behalf of my poor traduced features, I thank you humbly. Didthey prove as bad as you feared?"
"Worse. I've hardly forgotten yet what you look like. Your kind offace is bad for business."
"What is business?"
"Haven't I told you? I'm a scientist."
"Well, I'm a specimen. No beetle that crawls or creeps or hobbles,or does whatever beetles are supposed to do, shows any greatervariation from type--I heard a man say that in a lecture once--than I do. Can't I interest you in my case, O learned one? Theproper study of mankind is--"
"Woman. Yes, I know all about that. But I'm a groundling."
"Mr. Beetle Man," she said, in a tremulous voice, "the rock ismoving."
"I don't feel it. Though it might be a touch of earthquake. Wehave 'em often."
"Not your rock. The tarantula rock, I mean."
"Nonsense! A hundred tarantulas couldn't stir it."
"Well, it seems to be moving, and that's just as bad. I'm tiredand I'm lonely. Oh, please, Professor Scarab, have I got to fallon your neck again to introduce a little human companionship intothis conversation?"
"Caesar! No! My shoulder's still lame. What do you want, anyway?"
"I want to know about you and your work. All about you."
"Humph! Well, at present I'm making some microscopical studies ofinsects. That's the reason for these glasses. The light is soharsh in these latitudes that it affects the vision a trifle, andevery trifle counts in microscopy."
"Does the microscope add charm to the beetle?"
"Some day I'll show you, if you like. Just now it's the flea, thenational bird of Caracuna."
"The wicked flea?"
"Nobody knows how wicked until he has studied him on his nativeheath."
"Doesn't the flea have something to do with plague? They saythere's plague in the city now. You knew all about the Dutch. Doyou know anything about the plague?"
"You've been listening to bolas."
"What's a bola?"
"A bola is information that somebody who is totally ignorant ofthe facts whispers confidentially in your ear with the assurancethat he knows it to be authentic--in other words, a lie."
"Then there isn't any plague down under those quaint, old, red-tiled roofs?"
"Who ever knows what's going on under those quaint, old, red-tiledroofs? No foreigner, certainly."
"Even I can feel the mystery, little as I've seen of the place,"said the girl.
"Oh, that's the Indian of it. The tiled roofs are Spanish; thespeech is Spanish; but just beneath roof and speech, the life andthought are profoundly and unfathomably Indian."
"Not with all the Caracunans, surely. Take Mr. Raimonda, forinstance."
"Ah, that's different. Twenty families of the city, perhaps, arepure-bloods. There are no finer, cleaner fellows anywhere than thewell-bred Caracunans. They are men of the world, Europeaneducated, good sportsmen, straight, honorable gentlemen.Unfortunately not they, but a gang of mongrel grafters control thepolitics of the country."
"For a hermit of science, you seem to know a good deal of whatgoes on. By the way, Mr. Raimonda called on me--on us lastevening."
"So he mentioned. Rather serious, that, you know."
"Far from it. He was very amusing."
"Doubtless," commented the other dryly. "But it isn't fair to playthe game with one who doesn't know the rules. Besides, what willMr. Preston Fairfax--"
"For a professedly shy person, you certainly take a ratherintimate tone."
"Oh, I'm shy only under the baleful influence of the feminine eye.Besides, you set the note of intimacy when you analyzed mypersonal appearance. And finally, I have a warm regard for youngRaimonda."
"So have I," she returned maliciously. "Aren't you jealous?"
He laughed.
"Please be a little bit jealous. It would be so flattering."
"Jealousy is another tradition in which I don't believe."
"Then I can't flirt with you at all?" she sighed. "After takingall this long hot walk to see you!"
Plop! The sound punctured the silence sharply, though not loudly.Some large fruit pod bursting on a distant tree might have madesuch a report.
"What was that?" asked the girl curiously.
"That? Oh, that was a revolver shot," he remarked.
"Aren't you casual! Do revolver shots mean nothing to you?"
"That one shakes my soul's foundations." His tone by no meansindicated an inner cataclysm. "It may mean that I must excusemyself and leave. Just a moment, please."
Passing across the line of her vision, he disappeared to the left.When she next heard his voice, it was almost directly above her.
"No," it said. "There's no hurry. The flag's not up."
"What flag?"
"The flag in my compound."
"Can you see your home from here?"
"Yes; there's a ledge on the cliff that gives a direct view."
"I want to come up and see it."
"You can't. It's much too hard a climb. Besides, there are rockdevilkins on the way."
"And when you hear a shot, you go up there for messages?"
"Yes; it's my telephone system."
"Who's at the other end?"
"The peon who pretends to look after the quinta for me."
"A man! No man can keep a house fit to live in," she saidscornfully.
"I know it; but he's all I've got in the servant line."
"How far is the house from here?"
"A mile, by air. Seven by trail from town."
"Isn't it lonely?"
"Yes."
Suddenly she felt very sorry for him. There was such a quiet,conclusive acceptance of cheerlessness in the monosyllable.
"How soon must you go back?"
"Oh, not for an hour, at least."
"If it's a call, it must be an important one, so far fromcivilization."
"Not necessarily. Don't you ever have calls that are notimportant?"
No answer came.
"Miss Brewster!" he called. "Oh, Voice! You haven't gone?"
Still no response.
"That isn't fair," he complained, making his way swiftly down, andsatisfying himself by a peep about the angle commanding her pointof the rock that she had, indeed, vanished. Sadly he descended tohis own nook--and jumped back with a half-suppressed yell.
"You needn't jump out of your skin on my account," said Miss PollyBrewster, with a gracious smile. "I'm not a devilkin."
"You are! That is--I mean--I--I--beg your pardon. I--I--"
"The poor man's having another bashful fit," she observed, withmalicious glee. "Did the bold, bad, forward American minx scare italmost out of its poor shy wits?"
"You--you startled me."
"No!" she exclaimed, in wide-eyed mock surprise. "Who would havesupposed it? You didn't expect me down here, did you?"
Thereupon she got a return shock.
"Yes, I did," he said; "sooner or later."
"Don't fib. Don't pretend that you knew I was here."
"W-w-well, no. Not just now. B-b-but I knew you'd come if--if--ifI pretended I didn't want you to long enough."
"Young and budding scientist," said she severely, "you're a gaydeceiver. Is it because you have known me in some former existencethat you are able thus accurately to read my character?"
"Well, I knew you wouldn't stay up there much longer."
"I'm angry at you; very angry at you. That is, I would be if itweren't that you really didn't mean it when you said that youreally didn't want to see my face again."
"Did any one ever see your face once without wanting to see itagain?"
"Ah, bravo!" She clapped her hands gayly. "Marvelous improvementunder my tutelage! Where, oh, where is your timidity now?"
"I--I--I forgot," he stammered, "As long as I don't think, I'm allright. Now, you--you--you've gone and spoiled me."
"Oh, the pity of it! Let's find some mild, impersonal topic, then,that won't embarrass you. What do you do under the shadow of thisrock, in a parched land?"
"Work. Besides, it isn't a parched land. Look on this side."
Half a dozen steps brought her around the farther angle, where,hidden in a growth of shrubbery, lay a little pool of fairyloveliness,
"That's my outdoor laboratory."
"A dreamery, I'd call it. May I sit down? Are there devilkinshere? There's an elfkin, anyway," she added, as a silvered dragon-fly hovered above her head inquisitively before darting away onhis own concerns.
"One of my friends and specimens. I'm studying his methods ofaviation with a view to making some practical use of what I learn,eventually."
"Really? Are you an inventor, too? I'm crazy about aviation."
"Ah, then you'll be interested in this," he said, now quite at hisease. "You know that the mosquito is the curse of the tropics."
"Of other places, as well."
"But in the tropics it means yellow fever, Chagres fever, andother epidemic illness. Now, the mosquito, as you doubtlessrealize, is a monoplane."
"A monoplane?" repeated the girl, in some puzzlement. "How amonoplane?"
"I thought you claimed some knowledge of aviation. Its wings areall on one plane. The great natural enemy of the mosquito is thedragon-fly, one of which just paid you a visit. Now, modernwarfare has taught us that the most effective assailant of themonoplane is a biplane. You know that."
"Y-y-yes," said the girl doubtfully.
"Therefore, if we can breed a biplane dragonfly in sufficientnumbers, we might solve the mosquito problem at small expense."
"I don't know much about science," she began, "but I should hardlyhave supposed--"
"It's curious how nature varies the type of aviation," hecontinued dreamily. "Now, the pigeon is, of course, a Zeppelin;whereas the sea urchin is obviously a balloon; and the thistledownan undirigible--"
"You're making fun of me!" she accused, with sharp enlightenment.
"What else have you done to me ever since we met?" he inquiredmildly.
"Now I am angry! I shall go home at once."
A second far-away plop! set a period to her decision.
"So shall I," said he briskly.
"Does that signal mean hurry up?" she asked curiously.
"Well, it means that I'm wanted. You go first. When will you comeagain?"
"Not at all."
"Do you mean that?"
"Of course. I'm angry. Didn't I tell you that? I don't permitpeople to make fun of me. Besides, you must come and see me next.You owe me two calls. Will you?"
"I--I--don't know."
"Afraid?"
"Rather."
"Then you must surely come and conquer this cowardice. Will youcome to-morrow?"
"No; I don't think so."
Miss Brewster opened wide her eyes upon him. She was littleaccustomed to have her invitations, which she issued rather in themanner of royal commands, thus casually received. Had the offenderbeen any other of her acquaintance, she would have dropped thematter and the man then and there. But this was a differentspecies. Graceful and tactful he might not be, but he was honest.
"Why?" she said.
"I've got something more important to do."
"You're reverting to type sadly. What is it that's so important?"
"Work."
"You can work any time."
"No. Unfortunately I have to eat and sleep sometimes."
The implication she accepted quite seriously.
"Are you really as busy as all that? I'm quite conscience-strickenover the time I've wasted for you."
"Not wasted at all. You've cheered me up."
"That's something. But you won't come to the city to be cheeredup?"
"Yes, I will. When I get time."
"Perhaps you won't find me at home."
"Then I'll wait."
"Good-bye, then," she laughed, "until your leisure day arrives."
She climbed the rock, stepping as strongly and surely as a litheanimal. At the top, the spirit of roguery, ever on her lips andeyes, struck in and possessed her soul.
"O disciple of science!" she called.
"Well?"
"Can you see me?"
"Not from here."
"Good! I'm a Voice again. So don't be timid. Will you answer aquestion?"
"I've answered a hundred already. One more won't hurt."
"Have you ever been in love?"
"What?"
"Don't I speak plainly enough? Have--you--ever--been--in--love?"
"With a woman?"
"Why, yes," she railed. "With a woman, of course. I don't meanwith your musty science."
"No."
"Well, you needn't be violent. Have you ever been in love withanything?"
"Perhaps."
"Oh, perhaps!" she taunted. "There are no perhapses in that. Withwhat?"
"With what every man in the world is in love with once in hislife," he replied thoughtfully.
She made a little still step forward and peeped down at him. Hestood leaning against the face of the rock, gazing out over thehot blue Caribbean, his hat pushed back and his absurd gogglesfirm and high on his nose. His words and voice were inpreposterous contrast to his appearance.
"Riddle me your riddle," she commanded. "What is every man in lovewith once in his life?"
"An ideal."
"Ah! And your ideal--where do you keep it safe from the commongaze?"
"I tether it to my heart--with a single hair," said the man below.
"Oh," commented Miss Brewster, in a changed tone. And, again,"Oh," just a little blankly. "I wish I hadn't asked that," sheconfessed silently to herself, after a moment.
Still, the spirit of reckless experimentalism pressed her onward.
"That's a peril to the scientific mind, you know," she warned."Suppose your ideal should come true?"
"It won't," said he comfortably.
Miss Brewster's regrets sensibly mitigated.
"In that case, of course, your career is safe from accident," sheremarked.
He moved out into the open.
"Mr. Beetle Man," she called,
He looked up and saw her with her chin cupped in her hand,regarding him thoughtfully.
"I'm not just a casual acquaintance," she said suddenly. "That is,if you don't want me to be."
"That's good," was his hearty comment. "I'm glad you like mebetter than you did at first."
"Oh, I'm not so sure that I like you, exactly. But I'm coming tohave a sort of respectful curiosity about you. What lies underthat beetle shell of yours, I wonder?" she mused, in a halfbreath.
Whether or not he heard the final question she could not tell. Hesmiled, waved his hand, and disappeared. Below, she watched themotion of the bush-tops where the shrubbery was parted by theprogress of his sturdy body down the long slope.