The meeting of my fellow-travellers took place next day on board the
ship, where we three were the only cabin passengers. On going down into
the little saloon I found Demetria waiting for us, considerably improved
in appearance by her new dress, but looking pale and anxious, for she
probably found this meeting a trying one. The two women looked earnestly
at each other, but Demetria, to hide her nervousness, I suppose, had
framed her face in the old, impassive, almost cold expression it had
worn when I first knew her, and Paquíta was repelled by it; so after a
somewhat lukewarm greeting they sat down and made commonplace remarks.
Two women more unlike each other in appearance, character, education,
and disposition it would have been difficult to find; still, I had hoped
they might be friends, and felt keenly disappointed at the result of
their first meeting. After an uncomfortable interval we all rose. I
was about to proceed to the deck, they to their respective cabins, when
Paquíta, without any warning of what was coming, suddenly burst into
tears and threw her arms about Demetria's neck.
“Oh, dear Demetria, what a sad life yours has been!” she exclaimed.
That was like her, so impulsive, and with such a true instinct to
make her do the right thing always! The other gladly responded to the
embrace, and I hastily retreated, leaving them kissing and mingling
their tears.
When I got out on deck I found that we were already on our way, sails
up, and a fresh wind sending us swiftly through the dull green water.
There were five steerage passengers, disreputable-looking fellows in
_ponchos_ and slouch hats, lounging about the deck smoking; but when we
got outside the harbour and the ship began to toss a little, they very
soon dropped their cigars and began ignominiously creeping away out of
sight of the grinning sailors. Only one remained, a grizzly-bearded,
rough-looking old gaucho, who firmly kept his seat at the stern, as if
determined to see the last of “The Mount,” as the pretty city near the
foot of Magellan's Hill is called by the English people in this region.
To satisfy myself that none of these fellows were sent in pursuit of
Demetria, I asked our Italian captain who they were and how long
they had been on board, and was much relieved to hear that they were
fugitives--rebels probably--and had all been concealed for the past
three or four days in the ship, waiting to get away from Montevideo.
Towards evening it came on very rough, the wind veering to the south and
blowing half a gale, a very favourable wind, as it happened, to take us
across this unlovely “Silver Sea,” as the poets of the Plata insist
on calling it, with its villainous, brick-red, chopping waves, so
disagreeable to bad sailors. Paquíta and Demetria suffered agonies, so
that I was obliged to keep with them a good deal. I very
imprudently told them not to be alarmed, that it was nothing--_only
sea-sickness_--and I verily believe they both hated me with all their
hearts for a little while in consequence. Fortunately I had anticipated
these harrowing scenes, and had provided a bottle of champagne for the
occasion; and after I had consumed two or three glassfuls to encourage
them, showing how easy this kind of medicine is to take, I prevailed
on them to drink the remainder. At length, about ten o'clock in the
evening, they began to suspect that their malady was not going to prove
fatal, and, seeing them so much better, I went up to get some fresh air.
There at the stern still sat the stoical old gaucho, looking extremely
miserable.
“Good evening, old comrade,” said I; “will you smoke a cigar?”
“Young master, you seem to have a good heart,” he returned, shaking his
head at the proffered cigar, “do, for God's sake, get me a little rum.
I am dying for something to warm my inside and stop my head from going
round like a top, but nothing can I get from these jabbering foreign
brutes on board.”
“Yes, why not, my old friend,” said I, and, going to the master of the
boat, I succeeded in getting a pint of rum in a bottle.
The old fellow clutched it with eager delight and took a long draught.
“Ah!” he said, patting first the bottle, then his stomach, “this puts
new life into a man! Will this voyage never end, master? When I am on
horseback I can forget that I am old, but these cursed waves remind me
that I have lived many years.”
I lit my cigar and sat down to have a talk with him.
“Ah, with you foreigners it is just the same--land or water,” he
continued. “You can even smoke--what a calm head and quiet stomach you
must have! But what puzzles me is this, señor; how you, a foreigner,
come to be travelling with native women. Now, there is that beautiful
young señora with the violet eyes, who can she be?”
“She is my wife, old man,” said I, laughing, a little amused at his
curiosity.
“Ah, you are married then--so young? She is beautiful, graceful, well
educated, the daughter of wealthy parents, no doubt, but frail, frail,
señor; and some day, not a very distant day--but why should I predict
sorrow to a gay heart? Only her face, señor, is strange to me; it does
not recall the features of any Oriental family I know.”
“That is easily explained,” I said, surprised at his shrewdness, “she is
an Argentine, not an Oriental.”
“Ah, that explains it,” he said, taking another long pull at the bottle.
“As for the other señora with you, I need not ask you who _she_ is.”
“Why, who is she?” I returned.
“A Peralta, if there ever was one,” he returned confidently.
His reply disturbed me not a little, for, after all my precautions, this
old man had perhaps been sent to follow Demetria.
“Yes,” he continued, with an evident pride in his knowledge of families
and faces which tended to allay my suspicions; “a Peralta and not a
Madariaga, nor a Sanchez, nor a Zelaya, nor an Ibarra. Do I not know a
Peralta when I see one?” And here he laughed scornfully at the absurdity
of such an idea.
“Tell me,” I said, “how do you know a Peralta?”
“The question!” he exclaimed. “You are a Frenchman or a German from over
the sea, and do not understand these things. Have I borne arms forty
years in my country's service not to know a Peralta! On earth they are
with me; if I go to Heaven I meet them there, and in Hell I see them;
for when have I charged into the hottest of the fight and have not found
a Peralta there before me? But I am speaking of the past, señor; for now
I am also like one that has been left on the field forgotten--left for
the vultures and foxes. You will no longer find them walking on the
earth; only where men have rushed together sword in hand you will find
their bones. Ah, friend!” And here, overcome with sad memories, the
ancient warrior took another drink from his bottle.
“They cannot all be dead,” said I, “if, as you imagine, the señora
travelling with me is a Peralta.”
“As I imagine!” he repeated scornfully. “Do I not know what I am talking
about, young sir? They are dead, I tell you--dead as the past, dead as
Oriental independence and honour. Did I not ride into the fight at Gil
de los Medanos with the last of the Peraltas, Calixto, when he received
his baptism of blood? Fifteen years old, señor, only fifteen, when he
galloped into the fight, for he had the light heart, the brave spirit,
and the hand swift to strike of a Peralta. And after the fight our
colonel, Santa Coloma, who was killed the other day at San Paulo,
embraced the boy before all the troops. He is dead, señor, and with
Calixto died the house of Peralta.”
“You knew Santa Coloma, then?” I said. “But you are mistaken, he was not
killed at San Paulo, he made his escape.”
“So they say--the ignorant ones,” he returned. “But he is dead, for he
loved his country, and all who are of that mind are slain. How should he
escape?”
“I tell you he is not dead,” I repeated, vexed at his stubborn
persistence. “I also knew him, old man, and was with him at San Paulo.”
He looked at me for a long time, and then took another swig from his
bottle.
“Señor, this is not a thing I love joking about,” said he. “Let us talk
of other things. What I want to know is, what is Calixto's sister doing
here? Why has she left her country?”
Receiving no reply to this question, he went on: “Has she not got
property? Yes, a large _estancia_, impoverished, ruined, if you like,
but still a very large tract of land. When your enemies do not fear you,
then they cease to persecute. A broken old man, bereft of reason--surely
they would not trouble him! No, no, she is leaving her country for
other reasons. Yes, there is some private plot against her; some design,
perhaps, to carry her off, or even to destroy her and get possession of
her property. Naturally, in such a case, she would fly for protection
to Buenos Ayres, where there is one with some of her blood in his veins
able to protect her person and her property.”
I was astonished to hear him, but his last words were a mystery to me.
“There is no one in Buenos Ayres to protect her,” I said; “I only will
be there as I am here to shield her, and if, as you think, she has an
enemy, he must reckon with me--one who, like that Calixto you speak of,
has a hand quick to strike.”
“There spoke the heart of a Blanco!” he exclaimed, clutching my arm, and
then, the boat giving a lurch at that moment, almost dragging me down in
his efforts to steady himself. After another sip of rum he went on: “But
who are you, young sir, if that is not an impertinent question? Do you
possess money, influence, powerful friends, that you take upon yourself
the care of this woman? Is it in your power to baffle and crush her
enemy or enemies, to protect not only her person, but her property,
which, in her absence, will become the prey of robbers?”
“And who are you, old man?” I returned, unable to give a satisfactory
answer to one of his searching questions, “and why do you ask me these
things? And who is this powerful person you speak of in Buenos Ayres
with some of her blood in his veins, but of whose existence she is
ignorant?”
He shook his head silently, then deliberately proceeded to take out and
light a cigarette. He smoked with a placid enjoyment which made me think
that his refusal of my cigar and his bitter complaints about the effects
of the ship's tossing on him had merely been to get the bottle of rum
out of me. He was evidently a veteran in more senses than one, and now,
finding that I would tell him no more secrets, he refused to answer any
questions. Fearing that I had imprudently told him too much already, I
finally left him and retired to my bunk.
Next morning we arrived at Buenos Ayres, and cast anchor about two miles
from shore, for that was as near the land as we could get. Presently we
were boarded by a Custom House officer, and for some time longer I was
engaged in getting out our luggage and in bargaining with the captain to
put us on shore. When I had completed these arrangements I was very much
surprised to see the cunning old soldier I had talked with the evening
before sitting in the Custom House boat, which was just putting off from
the side. Demetria had been looking on when the old fellow had left the
ship, and she now came to me looking very excited.
“Richard,” she said, “did you notice that man who was a passenger with
us and who has just gone off in the boat? It is Santa Coloma.”
“Oh, absurd!” I exclaimed. “I talked with that old man last night for
an hour--an old grey-bearded gaucho, and no more like Santa Coloma than
that sailor.”
“I know I am right,” she returned. “The General has visited my father
at the _estancia_ and I know him well. He is disguised now and has made
himself look like a peasant, but when he went over the side into the
boat he looked full into my face; I knew him and started, then he
smiled, for he saw that I had recognised him.”
The very fact that this common-looking old man had gone on shore in
the Custom House boat proved that he was a person of consequence
in disguise, and I could not doubt that Demetria was right. I felt
excessively annoyed at myself for having failed to penetrate his
disguise; for something of the old Marcos Marcó style of speaking might
very well have revealed his identity if I had only had my wits about me.
I was also very much concerned on Demetria's account, for it seemed that
I had missed finding out something for her which would have been to her
advantage to know. I was ashamed to tell her of that conversation about
a relation in Buenos Ayres, but secretly determined to try and find
Santa Coloma to get him to tell me what he knew.
After landing we put our small luggage into a fly and were driven to
an hotel in Calle Lima, an out-of-the-way place kept by a German; but I
knew the house to be a quiet, respectable one and very moderate in its
charges.
About five o'clock in the afternoon we were together in the sitting-room
on the first floor, looking down on the street from the window, when a
well-appointed carriage with a gentleman and two young ladies in it drew
up before the door.
“Oh, Richard,” exclaimed Paquíta in the greatest excitement, “it is Don
Pantaleon Villaverde with his daughters, and they are getting out!”
“Who is Villaverde?” I asked.
“What, do you not know? He is a Judge of First Instance, and his
daughters are my dearest friends. Is it not strange to meet them like
this? Oh, I must see them to ask for _papa_ and _mamita!_” and here she
began to cry.
The waiter came up with a card from the Señor Villaverde requesting an
interview with the Señorita Peralta.
Demetria, who had been trying to soothe Paquíta's intense excitement and
infuse a little courage into her, was too much amazed to speak; and in
another moment our visitors were in the room. Paquíta started up tearful
and trembling; then her two young friends, after staring at her for a
few moments, delivered a screech of astonishment and rushed into her
arms, and all three were locked together for some time in a triangular
embrace.
When the excitement of this tempestuous meeting had spent itself, Señor
Villaverde, who stood looking on with grave, impressive face, spoke to
Demetria, telling her that his old friend, General Santa Coloma, had
just informed him of her arrival in Buenos Ayres and of the hotel where
she was staying. Probably she did not even know who he was, he said;
he was her relation; his mother was a Peralta, a first cousin of
her unhappy father, Colonel Peralta. He had come to see her with his
daughters to invite her to make his house her home during her stay in
Buenos Ayres. He also wished to help her with her affairs, which, his
friend the General had informed him, were in some confusion. He had,
he concluded, many influential friends in the sister city, who would be
ready to assist him in arranging matters for her.
Demetria, recovering from the nervousness she had experienced on finding
that Paquíta's great friends were her visitors, thanked him warmly and
accepted his offer of a home and assistance; then, with a quiet dignity
and self-possession one would hardly expect from a girl coming amongst
fashionable people for the first time in her life, she greeted her
new-found relations and thanked them for their visit.
As they insisted on taking Demetria away with them at once, she left
us to make her preparations, while Paquíta remained conversing with
her friends, having many questions to ask them. She was consumed with
anxiety to know how her family, and especially her father, who made the
domestic laws, now, after so many months, regarded her elopement and
marriage with me. Her friends, however, either knew nothing or would not
tell her what they knew.
Poor Demetria! she had, with no time given her for reflection, taken
the wise course of at once accepting the offer of her influential
and extremely dignified kinsman; but it was hard for her to leave her
friends at such short notice, and when she came back prepared for her
departure the separation tried her severely. With tears in her eyes she
bade Paquíta farewell, but when she took my hand in hers, for some time
her trembling lips refused to speak. Overcoming her emotions by a great
effort, she at length said, addressing her visitors, “For my escape from
a sad and perilous position and for the pleasure of finding myself here
amongst relations, I am indebted to this young friend who has been a
brother to me.”
Señor Villaverde listened and bowed towards me, but with no softening in
his stern, calm face, while his cold grey eyes seemed to look straight
through me at something beyond. His manner towards me made me feel a
kind of despair, for how strong must have been his disapproval of
my conduct in running off with his friend's daughter--how great his
indignation against me, when it prevented him from bestowing one smile
or one kind word on me to thank me for all I had done for his kinswoman!
Yet this was only the reflected indignation of my father-in-law.
We went down to the carriage to see them off, and then, finding myself
for a moment by the side of one of the young ladies, I tried to find out
something for myself. “Pray tell me, señorita,” I said, “what you know
about my father-in-law. If it is very bad, I promise you my wife shall
not hear a word of it; but it is best that I should know the truth
before meeting him.”
A cloud came over her bright, expressive face, while she glanced
anxiously at Paquíta; then, bending towards me, she whispered, “Ah, my
friend, he is implacable! I am so sorry, for Paquíta's sake.” And then,
with a smile of irrepressible coquetry, she added, “And for yours.”
The carriage drove away, and Demetria's eyes, looking back at me, were
filled with tears, but in Señor Villaverde's eyes, also glancing back,
there was an expression that boded ill for my future. His feeling was
natural, perhaps, for he was the father of two very pretty girls.
Implacable, and I was now divided from him by no silver or
brick-coloured sea! By returning I had made myself amenable to the laws
I had broken by marrying a girl under age without her father's consent.
The person in England who runs away with a ward in Chancery is not a
greater offender against the law than I was. It was now in his power to
have me punished, to cast me into prison for an indefinite time, and if
not to crush my spirit, he would at least be able to break the heart of
his unhappy daughter. Those wild, troubled days in the Purple Land now
seemed to my mind peaceful, happy days, and the bitter days with no
pleasure in them were only now about to begin. Implacable!
Suddenly looking up, I found Paquíta's violet eyes, full of sad
questioning, fixed on my face.
“Tell me truly, Richard, what have you heard?” she asked.
I forced a smile, and, taking her hand, assured her that I had heard
nothing to cause her any uneasiness. “Come,” I said, “let us go in and
prepare to leave town to-morrow. We will go back to the point we started
from--your father's _estancia_, for the sooner this meeting you are
thinking about so anxiously is over the better will it be for all of
us.”
APPENDIX
HISTORY OF THE BANDA ORIENTÁL
The country, called in this work the Purple Land, was discovered by
Magellan in the year 1500, and he called the hill, or mountain,
which gives its name to the capital, Monte Vidi. He described it as a
hat-shaped mountain; and it is probable that, four centuries ago, the
tall, conical hat, which is worn to this day by women in South Wales,
was a common form in Spain and Portugal.
In due time settlements were made; but the colonists of those days loved
gold and adventure above everything, and, finding neither in the Banda,
they little esteemed it. For two centuries it was neglected by its white
possessors, while the cattle they had imported continued to multiply,
and, returning to a feral life, overran the country in amazing numbers.
The heroic period in South American history then passed away. El Dorado,
the Spaniard's New Jerusalem, has changed into a bank of malarious mist
and a cloud of mosquitoes, Amazons, giants, pigmies.
“The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders,”
when closely looked for, turned out to be Red Indians of a type which
varied but little throughout the entire vast continent. Wanderers
from the Old World grew weary of seeking the tropics only to sink into
flowery graves. They turned away sick at heart from the great desolation
where the splendid empire of the Children of the Sun had so lately
flourished. The accumulated treasures had been squandered. The cruel
crusades of the Paulists against the Jesuit missions had ceased for the
inhuman slave-hunters had utterly destroyed the smiling gardens in the
wilderness. A remnant of the escaped converts had gone back to a wild
life in the woods, and the Fathers, who had done their Master's work so
well, drifted away to mingle in other scenes or die of broken hearts.
Then, in the sober eighteenth century, when the disillusion was
complete, Spain woke up to the fact that in the temperate part of the
continent, shared by her with Portugal, she possessed a new bright
little Spain worth cultivating. About the same time, Portugal discovered
that the acquisition of this pretty country, with its lovely Lusitanian
climate, would nicely round off her vast possessions on the south side.
Forthwith these two great colonising powers fell to fighting over the
Banda, where there were no temples of beaten gold, or mythical races of
men, or fountains of everlasting youth. The quarrel might have continued
to the end of time, so languidly was it conducted by both parties, had
not great events come to swallow up the little ones.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century the English invasion burst
like a sudden terrible thunderstorm on the country. Montevideo on
the east and Buenos Ayres on the west side of the sea-like river were
captured and lost again. The storm was soon over, but it had the effect
of precipitating the revolution of 1810, which presently ended in the
loss to Spain of all her American possessions. These changes brought
only fresh wars and calamities to the long-suffering Banda. The ancient
feud between Spain and Portugal descended to the new Brazilian Empire
and the new Argentine Confederation, and these claimants contended for
the country until 1828, when they finally agreed to let it govern itself
in its own fashion. After thus acquiring its independence, the little
Belgium of the New World cast off its pretty but hated appellation of
Cisplatina and resumed its old joyous name of Banda Orientál. With light
hearts the people then proceeded to divide themselves into two political
parties--Whites and Reds. Endless struggles for mastery ensued, in which
the Argentines and Brazilians, forgetting their solemn compact, were for
ever taking sides. But of these wars of crows and pies it would be idle
to say more, since, after going on for three-quarters of a century, they
are not wholly ended yet. The rambles and adventures described in the
book take us back to the late 'sixties or early 'seventies of the last
century, when the country was still in the condition in which it
had remained since the colonial days, when the ten years' siege of
Montevideo was not yet a remote event, and many of the people one met
had had a part in it.