Part 4 (1/2)
In the midst of this the musical voice of Maruja was heard saying, ”What is a tramp?”
Raymond, on her right, was ready but not conclusive.
A tramp, if he could sing, would be a troubadour; if he could pray, would be a pilgrim friar--in either case a natural object of womanly solicitude. But as he could do neither, he was simply a curse.
”And you think that is not an object of womanly solicitude? But that does not tell me WHAT he is.”
A dozen gentlemen, swept in the radius of those softly-inquiring eyes, here started to explain. From them it appeared that there was no such thing in California as a tramp, and there were also a dozen varieties of tramp in California.
”But is he always very uncivil?” asked Maruja.
Again there were conflicting opinions. You might have to shoot him on sight, and you might have him invariably run from you. When the question was finally settled, Maruja was found to have become absorbed in conversation with some one else.
Amita, a taller copy of Maruja, and more regularly beautiful, had built up a little pile of bread crumbs between herself and Raymond, and was listening to him with a certain shy, girlish interest that was as inconsistent with the serene regularity of her face as Maruja's self-possessed, subtle intelligence was incongruous to her youthful figure. Raymond's voice, when he addressed Amita, was low and earnest; not from any significance of matter, but from its frank confidential quality.
”They are discussing the new railroad project, and your relations are all opposed to it; to-morrow they will each apply privately to Aladdin for the privilege of subscribing.”
”I have never seen a railroad,” said Amita, slightly coloring; ”but you are an engineer, and I know they must be some thing very clever.”
Notwithstanding the coolness of the night, a full moon drew the guests to the veranda, where coffee was served, and where, mysteriously m.u.f.fled in cloaks and shawls, the party took upon itself the appearance of groups of dominoed masqueraders, scattered along the veranda and on the broad steps of the porch in gypsy-like encampments, from whose cloaked shadow the moonlight occasionally glittered upon a varnished boot or peeping satin slipper. Two or three of these groups had resolved themselves into detached couples, who wandered down the acacia walk to the sound of a harp in the grand saloon or the occasional uplifting of a thin Spanish tenor. Two of these couples were Maruja and Garnier, followed by Amita and Raymond.
”You are restless to-night, Maruja,” said Amita, shyly endeavoring to make a show of keeping up with her sister's boyish stride, in spite of Raymond's reluctance. ”You are paying for your wakefulness to-day.”
The same idea pa.s.sed through the minds of both men. She was missing the excitement of Captain Carroll's presence.
”The air is so refres.h.i.+ng away from the house,” responded Maruja, with a bright energy that belied any suggestion of fatigue or moral disquietude. ”I'm tired of running against those turtle-doves in the walks and bushes. Let us keep on to the lane. If you are tired, Mr.
Raymond will give you his arm.”
They kept on, led by the indomitable little figure, who, for once, did not seem to linger over the attentions, both piquant and tender, with which Garnier improved his opportunity. Given a shadowy lane, a lovers' moon, a pair of bright and not unkindly eyes, a charming and not distant figure--what more could he want? Yet he wished she hadn't walked so fast. One might be vivacious, audacious, brilliant, at an Indian trot; but impa.s.sioned--never! The pace increased; they were actually hurrying. More than that, Maruja had struck into a little trot; her lithe body swaying from side to side, her little feet straight as an arrow before her; accompanying herself with a quaint musical chant, which she obligingly explained had been taught her as a child by Pereo. They stopped only at the hedge, where she had that morning encountered the tramp.
There is little doubt that the rest of the party was disconcerted: Amita, whose figure was not adapted to this Camilla-like exercise; Raymond, who was annoyed at the poor girl's discomfiture; and Garnier, who had lost a golden opportunity, with the faint suspicion of having looked ridiculous. Only Maruja's eyes, or rather the eyes of her lamented father, seemed to enjoy it.
”You are too effeminate,” she said, leaning against the fence, and shading her eyes with her fan, as she glanced around in the staring moonlight. ”Civilization has taken away your legs. A man ought to be able to trust to his feet all day, and to nothing else.”
”In fact--a tramp,” suggested Raymond.
”Possibly. I think I should like to have been a gypsy, and to have wandered about, finding a new home every night.”
”And a change of linen on the early morning hedges,” said Raymond. ”But do you think seriously that you and your sister are suitably clad to commence to-night. It is bitterly cold,” he added, turning up his collar. ”Could you begin by showing a pal the nearest haystack or hen-roost?”
”Sybarite!” She cast a long look over the fields and down the lane.
Suddenly she started. ”What is that?”
She pointed to a tall erect figure slowly disappearing on the other side of the hedge.
”It's Pereo, only Pereo. I knew him by his long serape,” said Garnier, who was nearest the hedge, complacently. ”But what is surprising, he was not there when we came, nor did he come out of that open field. He must have been walking behind us on the other side of the hedge.”
The eyes of the two girls sought each other simultaneously, but not without Raymond's observant glance. Amita's brow darkened as she moved to her sister's side, and took her arm with a confidential pressure that was returned. The two men, with a vague consciousness of some contretemps, dropped a pace behind, and began to talk to each other, leaving the sisters to exchange a few words in a low tone as they slowly returned to the house.
Meanwhile, Pereo's tall figure had disappeared in the shrubbery, to emerge again in the open area by the summer-house and the old pear-tree. The red sparks of two or three cigarettes in the shadow of the summer-house, and the crouching forms of two shawled women came forward to greet him.
”And what hast thou heard, Pereo?” said one of the women.