I.
AND now we are at the railway station, headed for Valencia and Puerto Cabello, still determined to continue unguided back to the coast.
There was to me something so extraordinary in the thought that, for once, we were really to get ahead of the professional guides, that it required repeated and oft repeated assurances to at least one of the women of our circle from the kindly official at the railway station, to relieve all doubts as to the wisdom of our plans. Of course, the men of our party had no doubts, at least, none were expressed; and yet some of us, particularly the writer, could hardly believe that the train we were to take would carry us on through Valencia, past the lovely Lake of Valencia down to Puerto Cabello, a half-hour in advance of the Special Train with the Special Courier; that we would be a half-hour earlier at luncheon in the mountains, and a half an hour earlier that evening in reaching Puerto Cabello; and this latter would be no small consideration after a long, hot ride from mountain-top to sandy beach.
But this was to be the case, so the official informed us, not only in Spanish, but in French, and very perfect French, too—for not understanding Spanish, we women of course had to hear it all over again in French; so we left the party, and boarded the regular morning train for Valencia, amidst the warnings of many, the doubts of all the timid ones, and the envy of a few jollier spirits. What would become of us, if this train should make up its mind not to go through to Puerto Cabello, and drop us at La Victoria, or San Joaquin perhaps; and what if the much-lauded Special should after all fly on and leave us in the mountains, high and dry, a half-day’s journey to Puerto Cabello, with no means of reaching the ship on sailing-time; and what if our pretty boat should sail away to God’s country, and leave us literally stranded, marooned for weeks, on the sun-blighted beach of Puerto Cabello, waiting for a ship?
A thousand “ifs” are flung at us, but there stands the big, handsome South American railway official, with a rose in his buttonhole, patent leathers on his feet, and a smile on his face, and visible support in every attitude of his fine body; so we settle down, reassured, and look around to count heads, and we check off—all but one, the Doctor,—he is not at the station. Where is he? Where is the Doctor? He has sworn to stand by us to the end; in fact had been one of the prime movers in this venture, and here we are ready to start, even the men are aboard the funny little train, and the Doctor not in sight.
Ten anxious heads lean out from ten abbreviated windows; ten distressed voices ask in all available tongues, “Where is the Doctor?” We ask the official—the one with the rose—if he has seen one called the Doctor, with bland, smiling face, round and jovial; blue eyes, light hair, walking with a confident, easy swing, wearing a linen suit and East Indian pith helmet. No one answering that description had come to the station. Fully half an hour before we left the Gran Hotel de Venezuela, the Doctor had taken a cab, so that there should be no doubt or question as to his being on time; for the Doctor was an orderly man, of decided opinions and exact habits. He was never known to be late at an appointment. He had with him the free untrammelled air of the unmarried man. He had neither wife to detain, nor sweetheart to beguile him. He was a free-lance, and yet here it was, a moment before the time for departure, and the Doctor nowhere to be seen.
The train shivers, quivers, gives a bump or so, squeaks out a funny foreign whistle, and we are moving out of Caracas. Ten of us instead of eleven. Ten much troubled wanderers, thinking and wondering a very great deal. We pass the curious little chapel upon the hill, with its five disjointed little steeples, looking as if one more quake of the grand old Mother would topple them all over for good; pass the low adobe huts on the outskirts of the city, and then catch a last glimpse of the Cathedral and its dear old bells, and the trees about the Square of Bolivar; and are almost into the rich country, outlaying the great city. But where is the Doctor! Had he been beguiled or waylaid, or had he waited for one too many a sip of the unforgettable lemonade; or had he gone to sleep with the priests under the magic of the old bells?
No, nothing seemed to fit in just right. The Doctor had reached years of discretion, he knew the wiles of women, and, as for being waylaid, that was hardly possible, for he always carried his chest high; and, as for the priests,—no, it was not the priests, for the Doctor had paid his respect to the Cathedral the day before. Hadn’t we seen his white hat disappear under the big, open doorway as we were on the way to market? But the lemonade,—there was the hitch; he might have longed for one more glimpse of the Dulceria, and the tall glass and the indescribable nectar,—con un poquito de Rom Imperial,—yes, he might have done so, any normal being might have done so, and that must be the whole trouble; then, just as we had decided on the lemonade, we stop at Palo-Grande, out in the gardens beyond the town, and into the car rushed a red-faced, very mad American, with satchels and luggage and souvenirs in his hands, and rage upon his face,—the Doctor; none more—none less,—the lost wanderer!
If any one was ever welcome, he was. We figuratively threw our arms about him, and wept with joy at the return of our long-lost brother. The Doctor’s face was a study. From despair, it changed to delight, and he flung himself into a seat, too happy to speak. But the Doctor was not slow in giving us an explanation. He had been experimenting on some very choice, newly acquired Spanish. That was the trouble, and instead of taking him to the city station, the cabby, probably anxious for a good fare, had driven about five miles to the first way-station on the road. I did not think the Doctor could ever have been disconcerted under any circumstances, but he was as thoroughly scared as one has need to be and live; and for the rest of the day, every few minutes, he would break out with some forceful expression about fool Americans who couldn’t speak Spanish and fool Spaniards who couldn’t speak English. We all then and there decided that we would learn Spanish or die. One or the other we are sure to do.