XVI
"There is something weird about this whole proceeding," I observed tothe pretty stenographer next morning.
"These pies will be weird if you don't stop talking to me," she said,opening the doors of Professor Farrago's portable camping-oven andpeeping in at the fragrant pastry.
The professor had gone off somewhere into the woods early thatmorning. As he was not in the habit of talking to himself, theservices of Miss Barrison were not required. Before he started,however, he came to her with a request for a dozen pies, theconstruction of which he asked if she understood. She had been tocooking-school in more prosperous days, and she mentioned it; so athis earnest solicitation she undertook to bake for him twelveapple-pies; and she was now attempting it, assisted by advice from me.
"Are they burned?" I asked, sniffing the air.
"No, they are not burned, Mr. Gilland, but my finger is," sheretorted, stepping back to examine the damage.
I offered sympathy and witch-hazel, but she would have none of myofferings, and presently returned to her pies.
"We can't eat all that pastry," I protested.
"Professor Farrago said they were not for us to eat," she said,dusting each pie with powdered sugar.
"Well, what are they for? The dog? Or are they simply objets d'art toadorn the shanty--"
"You annoy me," she said.
"The pies annoy me; won't you tell me what they're for?"
"I have a pretty fair idea what they're for," she observed, tossingher head. "Haven't you?"
"No. What?"
"These pies are for bait."
"To bait hooks with?" I exclaimed.
"Hooks! No, you silly man. They're for baiting the cage. He means totrap these transparent creatures in a cage baited with pie."
She laughed scornfully; inserted the burned tip of her finger in hermouth and stood looking at me defiantly like a flushed and bright-eyedschool-girl.
"You think you're teasing me," she said; "but you do not realize whata singularly slow-minded young man you are."
I stopped laughing. "How did you come to the conclusion that pies wereto be used for such a purpose?" I asked.
"I deduce," she observed, with an airy wave of her disengaged hand.
"Your deductions are weird--like everything else in this vicinity.Pies to catch invisible monsters? Pooh!"
"You're not particularly complimentary, are you?" she said.
"Not particularly; but I could be, with you for my inspiration. Icould even be enthusiastic--"
"About my pies?"
"No--about your eyes."
"You are very frivolous--for a scientist," she said, scornfully;"please subdue your enthusiasm and bring me some wood. This fire isalmost out."
When I had brought the wood, she presented me with a pail of hot waterand pointed at the dishes on the breakfast-table.
"Never!" I cried, revolted.
"Then I suppose I must do them--"
She looked pensively at her scorched finger-tip, and, pursing up herred lips, blew a gentle breath to cool it.
"I'll do the dishes," I said.
Splashing and slushing the cups and saucers about in the hot water, Ireflected upon the events of the last few days. The dog, stupefied byunwonted abundance of food, lay in the sunshine, sleeping the sleep ofrepletion; the pretty stenographer, all rosy from her culinaryexertions, was removing the pies and setting them in neat rows tocool.
"There," she said, with a sigh; "now I will dry the dishes for you....You didn't mention the fact, when you engaged me, that I was alsoexpected to do general housework."
"I didn't engage you," I said, maliciously; "you engaged me, youknow."
She regarded me disdainfully, nose uptilted.
"How thoroughly disagreeable you can be!" she said. "Dry your owndishes. I'm going for a stroll."
"May I join--"
"You may _not_! I shall go so far that you cannot possibly discoverme."
I watched her forestward progress; she sauntered for about thirtyyards along the lake and presently sat down in plain sight under ahuge live-oak.
A few moments later I had completed my task as general bottle-washer,and I cast about for something to occupy me.
First I approached and politely caressed the satiated dog. He woke up,regarded me with dully meditative eyes, yawned, and went to sleepagain. Never a flop of tail to indicate gratitude for blandishments,never the faintest symptom of canine appreciation.
Chilled by my reception, I moused about for a while, poking into boxesand bundles; then raised my head and inspected the landscape. Throughthe vista of trees the pink shirt-waist of the pretty stenographerglimmered like a rose blooming in the wilderness.
From whatever point I viewed the prospect that pink spot seemed tointrude; I turned my back and examined the jungle, but there it wasrepeated in a hundred pink blossoms among the massed thickets; Ilooked up into the tree-tops, where pink mosses spotted the palms; Ilooked out over the lake, and I saw it in my mind's eye pinker thanever. It was certainly a case of pink-eye.
"I'll go for a stroll, too; it's a free country," I muttered.
After I had strolled in a complete circle I found myself within threefeet of a pink shirt-waist.
"I beg your pardon," I said; "I had no inten--"
"I thought you were never coming," she said, amiably.
"How is your finger?" I asked.
She held it up. I took it gingerly; it was smooth and faintly rosy atthe tip.
"Does it hurt?" I inquired.
"Dreadfully. Your hands feel so cool--"
After a silence she said, "Thank you, that has cooled the burning."
"I am determined," said I, "to expel the fire from your finger if ittakes hours and hours." And I seated myself with that intention.
For a while she talked, making innocent observations concerning thetropical foliage surrounding us. Then silence crept in between us,accentuated by the brooding stillness of the forest.
"I am afraid your hands are growing tired," she said, considerately.
I denied it.
Through the vista of palms we could see the lake, blue as a violet,sparkling with silvery sunshine. In the intense quiet the splash ofleaping mullet sounded distinctly.
Once a tall crane stalked into view among the sedges; once an unseenalligator shook the silence with his deep, hollow roaring. Then thestillness of the wilderness grew more intense.
We had been sitting there for a long while without exchanging a word,dreamily watching the ripple of the azure water, when all at oncethere came a scurrying patter of feet through the forest, and, lookingup, I beheld the hound-dog, tail between his legs, bearing down on usat lightning speed. I rose instantly.
"What is the matter with the dog?" cried the pretty stenographer. "Ishe going mad, Mr. Gilland?"
"Something has scared him," I exclaimed, as the dog, eyes like lightedcandles, rushed frantically between my legs and buried his head inMiss Barrison's lap.
"Poor doggy!" she said, smoothing the collapsed pup; "poor, p-oorlittle beast! Did anything scare him? Tell aunty all about it."
When a dog flees _without yelping_ he's a badly frightened creature. Iinstinctively started back towards the camp whence the beast had fled,and before I had taken a dozen steps Miss Barrison was beside me,carrying the dog in her arms.
"I've an idea," she said, under her breath.
"What?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the camp.
"It's this: I'll wager that we find those pies gone!"
"Pies gone?" I repeated, perplexed; "what makes you think--"
"They _are_ gone!" she exclaimed. "Look!"
I gaped stupidly at the rough pine table where the pies had stood inthree neat rows of four each. And then, in a moment, the purport ofthis robbery flashed upon my senses.
"The transparent creatures!" I gasped.
"Hush!" she whispered, clinging to the trembling dog in her arms.
I listened. I could hear nothing, see nothing, yet slowly I b
ecameconvinced of the presence of something unseen--something in the forestclose by, watching us out of invisible eyes.
A chill, settling along my spine, crept upward to my scalp, untilevery separate hair wiggled to the roots. Miss Barrison was pale, butperfectly calm and self-possessed.
"Let us go in-doors," I said, as steadily as I could.
"Very well," she replied.
I held the door open; she entered with the dog; I followed, closingand barring the door, and then took my station at the window, rifle inhand.
There was not a sound in the forest. Miss Barrison laid the dog on thefloor and quietly picked up her pad and pencil. Presently she was deepin a report of the phenomena, her pencil flying, leaf after leaf fromthe pad fluttering to the floor.
Nor did I at the window change my position of scared alertness, untilI was aware of her hand gently touching my elbow to attract myattention, and her soft voice at my ear--
"You don't suppose by any chance that the dog ate those pies?"
I collected my tumultuous thoughts and turned to stare at the dog.
"Twelve pies, twelve inches each in diameter," she reflected,musingly. "One dog, twenty inches in diameter. How many times will thepies go into the dog? Let me see." She made a few figures on her pad,thought awhile, produced a tape-measure from her pocket, and, kneelingdown, measured the dog.
"No," she said, looking up at me, "he couldn't contain them."
Inspired by her coolness and perfect composure, I set the rifle in thecorner and opened the door. Sunlight fell in bars through the quietwoods; nothing stirred on land or water save the great, yellow-stripedbutterflies that fluttered and soared and floated above the floweringthickets bordering the jungle.
The heat became intense; Miss Barrison went to her room to change hergown for a lighter one; I sat down under a live-oak, eyes and earsstrained for any sign of our invisible neighbors.
When she emerged in the lightest and filmiest of summer gowns, shebrought the camera with her; and for a while we took pictures of eachother, until we had used up all but one film.
Desiring to possess a picture of Miss Barrison and myself seatedtogether, I tied a string to the shutter-lever and attached the otherend of the string to the dog, who had resumed his interruptedslumbers. At my whistle he jumped up nervously, snapping the lever,and the picture was taken.
With such innocent and harmless pastime we whiled away the afternoon.She made twelve more apple-pies. I mounted guard over them. And wewere just beginning to feel a trifle uneasy about Professor Farrago,when he appeared, tramping sturdily through the forest, green umbrellaand butterfly-net under one arm, shot-gun and cyanide-jar under theother, and his breast all criss-crossed with straps, from whichdangled field-glasses, collecting-boxes, and botanizing-tins--aninspiring figure indeed--the embodied symbol of science indomitable,triumphant!
We hailed him with three guilty cheers; the dog woke up with aperfunctory bark--the first sound I had heard from him since he yelpedhis disapproval of me on the lagoon.
Miss Barrison produced three bowls full of boiling water and droppedthree pellets of concentrated soup-meat into them, while I preparedcoffee. And in a few moments our simple dinner was ready--the redants had been dusted from the biscuits, the spiders chased off thebaked beans, the scorpions shaken from the napkins, and we sat down atthe rough, improvised table under the palms.
The professor gave us a brief but modest account of his short tour ofexploration. He had brought back a new species of orchid, severalundescribed beetles, and a pocketful of coontie seed. He appeared,however, to be tired and singularly depressed, and presently welearned why.
It seemed that he had gone straight to that section of the forestwhere he had hitherto always found signs of the transparent andinvisible creatures which he had determined to capture, and he had notfound a single trace of them.
"It alarms me," he said, gravely. "If they have deserted this region,it might take a lifetime to locate them again in this wilderness."
Then, very quietly, sinking her voice instinctively, as though theunseen might be at our very elbows listening, Miss Barrison recountedthe curious adventure which had befallen the dog and the first batchof apple-pies.
With visible and increasing excitement the professor listened untilthe very end. Then he struck the table with clinched fist--aresounding blow which set the concentrated soup dancing in the bowlsand scattered the biscuits and the industrious red ants in everydirection.
"Eureka!" he whispered. "Miss Barrison, your deduction was not onlyperfectly reasonable, but brilliant. You are right; the pies are forthat very purpose. I conceived the idea when I first came here. Againand again the pies that my guide made out of dried apples disappearedin a most astonishing and mysterious manner when left to cool. Atlength I determined to watch them every second; and did so, with theresult that late one afternoon I was amazed to see a pie slowly risefrom the table and move swiftly away through the air about four feetabove the ground, finally disappearing into a tangle of jasmine andgrape-vine.
"The apparently automatic flight of that pie solved the problem; thesetransparent creatures cannot resist that delicacy. Therefore I decidedto bait the cage for them this very night--Look! What's the matterwith that dog?"
The dog suddenly bounded into the air, alighted on all fours, ears,eyes, and muzzle concentrated on a point directly behind us.
"Good gracious! The pies!" faltered Miss Barrison, half rising fromher seat; but the dog rushed madly into her skirts, scrambling forprotection, and she fell back almost into my arms.
Clasping her tightly, I looked over my shoulder; the last pie wassnatched from the table before my eyes and I saw it borne swiftly awayby something unseen, straight into the deepening shadows of theforest.
The professor was singularly calm, even slightly ironical, as heturned to me, saying:
"Perhaps if you relinquish Miss Barrison she may be able to freeherself from that dog."
I did so immediately, and she deposited the cowering dog in my arms.Her face had suddenly become pink.
I passed the dog on to Professor Farrago, dumping it viciously intohis lap--a proceeding which struck me as resembling a pastime ofextreme youth known as "button, button, who's got the button?"
The professor examined the animal gravely, feeling its pulse, countingits respirations, and finally inserting a tentative finger in anattempt to examine its tongue. The dog bit him.
"Ouch! It's a clear case of fright," he said, gravely. "I wanted a dogto aid me in trailing these remarkable creatures, but I think this dogof yours is useless, Gilland."
"It's given us warning of the creatures' presence twice already," Iargued.
"Poor little thing," said Miss Barrison, softly; "I don't know why,but I love that dog.... He has eyes like yours, Mr. Gilland--"
Exasperated, I rose from the table. "He's got eyes like holes burnedin a blanket!" I said. "And if ever a flicker of intelligence lightedthem I have failed to observe it."
The professor regarded me dreamily. "We ought to have more pies," heobserved. "Perhaps if you carried the oven into the shanty--"
"Certainly," said Miss Barrison; "we can lock the door while I maketwelve more pies."
I carried the portable camping-oven into the cabin, connected thepatent asbestos chimney-pipes, and lighted the fire. And in a fewminutes Miss Barrison, sleeves rolled up and pink apron pinned underher chin, was busily engaged in rolling pie-crust, while ProfessorFarrago measured out spices and set the dried apples to soak.
The swift Southern twilight had already veiled the forest as Istepped out of the cabin to smoke a cigar and promenade a bit andcogitate. A last trace of color lingering in the west faded out as Ilooked; the gray glimmer deepened into darkness, through which thewhite lake vapors floated in thin, wavering strata across the water.
For a while the frog's symphony dominated all other sounds, thenlagoon and forest and cypress branch awoke; and through the steadilysustained tumult of woodland voices I could hear the dry
bark of thefox-squirrel, the whistle of the raccoon, ducks softly quacking orwhimpering as they prepared for sleep among the reeds, the softbooming of bitterns, the clattering gossip of the heronry, theSouthern whippoorwill's incessant call.
At regular intervals the howling note of a lone heron echoed thestrident screech of a crimson-crested crane; the horned owl's savagehunting-cry haunted the night, now near, now floating from infinitedistances.
And after a while I became aware of a nearer sound, low-pitched butceaseless--the hum of thousands of lesser living creatures blending toa steady monotone.
Then the theatrical moon came up through filmy draperies of wavingSpanish moss thin as cobwebs; and far in the wilderness a cougar fella-crying and coughing like a little child with a bad cold.
I went in after that. Miss Barrison was sitting before the oven, kneesgathered in her clasped hands, languidly studying the fire. She lookedup as I appeared, opened the oven-doors, sniffed the aroma, andresumed her attitude of contented indifference.
"Where is the professor?" I asked.
"He has retired. He's been talking in his sleep at moments."
"Better take it down; that's what you're here for," I observed,closing and holding the outside door. "Ugh! there's a chill in theair. The dew is pelting down from the pines like a steady fall ofrain."
"You will get fever if you roam about at night," she said. "Mercy!your coat is soaking. Sit here by the fire."
So I pulled up a bench and sat down beside her like the traditionalspider.
"Miss Muffitt," I said, "don't let me frighten you away--"
"I was going anyhow--"
"Please don't."
"Why?" she demanded, reseating herself.
"Because I like to sit beside you," I said, truthfully.
"Your avowal is startling and not to be substantiated by facts," sheremarked, resting her chin on one hand and gazing into the fire.
"You mean because I went for a stroll by moonlight? I did that becauseyou always seem to make fun of me as soon as the professor joins us."
"Make fun of you? You surely don't expect me to make eyes at you!"
There was a silence; I toasted my shins, thoughtfully.
"How is your burned finger?" I asked.
She lifted it for my inspection, and I began a protracted examination.
"What would you prescribe?" she inquired, with an absent-minded glanceat the professor's closed door.
"I don't know; perhaps a slight but firm pressure of thefinger-tips--"
"You tried that this afternoon."
"But the dog interrupted us--"
"Interrupted _you_. Besides--"
"What?"
"I don't think you ought to," she said.
Sitting there before the oven, side by side, hand innocently claspedin hand, we heard the drumming of the dew on the roof, the night-windstirring the palms, the muffled snoring of the professor, the faintwhisper and crackle of the fire.
A single candle burned brightly, piling our shadows together on thewall behind us; moonlight silvered the window-panes, over whichcrawled multitudes of soft-winged moths, attracted by the candlewithin.
"See their tiny eyes glow!" she whispered. "How their wings quiver!And all for a candle-flame! Alas! alas! fire is the undoing of usall."
She leaned forward, resting as though buried in reverie. After a whileshe extended one foot a trifle and, with the point of her shoe,carefully unlatched the oven-door. As it swung outward a deliciousfragrance filled the room.
"They're done," she said, withdrawing her hand from mine. "Help me tolift them out."
Together we arranged the delicious pastry in rows on the bench tocool. I opened the door for a few minutes, then closed and bolted itagain.
"Do you suppose those transparent creatures will smell the odor andcome around the cabin?" she suggested, wiping her fingers on herhandkerchief.
I walked to the window uneasily. Outside the pane the moths crawled,some brilliant in scarlet and tan-color set with black, somesnow-white with black tracings on their wings, and bodies peacock-blueedged with orange. The scientist in me was aroused; I called her tothe window, and she came and leaned against the sill, nose pressed tothe glass.
"I don't suppose you know that the antennae of that silvery-winged mothare distinctly pectinate," I said.
"Of course I do," she said. "I took my degree as D.E. at BarnardCollege."
"What!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "You've been through Barnard? Youare a Doctor of Entomology?"
"It was my undoing," she said. "The department was abolished the yearI graduated. There was no similar vacancy, even in the Smithsonian."
She shrugged her shoulders, eyes fixed on the moths. "I had to make myown living. I chose stenography as the quickest road toself-sustenance."
She looked up, a flush on her cheeks.
"I suppose you took me for an inferior?" she said. "But do you supposeI'd flirt with you if I was?"
She pressed her face to the pane again, murmuring that exquisite poemof Andrew Lang:
"Spooning is innocuous and needn't have a sequel, But recollect, if spoon you must, spoon only with your equal."
Standing there, watching the moths, we became rather silent--I don'tknow why.
The fire in the range had gone out; the candle-flame, flaring above asaucer of melted wax, sank lower and lower.
Suddenly, as though disturbed by something inside, the moths all leftthe window-pane, darting off in the darkness.
"That's curious," I said.
"What's curious?" she asked, opening her eyes languidly. "Goodgracious! Was that a bat that beat on the window?"
"I saw nothing," I said, disturbed. "Listen!"
A soft sound against the glass, as though invisible fingers werefeeling the pane--a gentle rubbing--then a tap-tap, all but inaudible.
"Is it a bird? Can you see?" she whispered.
The candle-flame behind us flashed and expired. Moonlight flooded thepane. The sounds continued, but there was nothing there.
We understood now what it was that so gently rubbed and patted theglass outside. With one accord we noiselessly gathered up the pies andcarried them into my room.
Then she walked to the door of her room, turned, held out her hand,and whispering, "Good-night! A demain, monsieur!" slipped into herroom and softly closed the door.
And all night long I lay in troubled slumber beside the pies, a rifleresting on the blankets beside me, a revolver under my pillow. And Idreamed of moths with brilliant eyes and vast silvery wings harnessedto a balloon in which Miss Barrison and I sat, arms around each other,eating slice after slice of apple-pie.