Miss Verinder suffered from sea-sickness in a more or less acute
form throughout the interminable voyage. The ship touched at Lisbon
and Dyke wanted to put her ashore, but she refused to stir. They
encountered terrible weather in the long trudge to St. Vincent;
and there, in a spell of stifling heat while the ship coaled, she
seemed so desperately ill that he tried again, with the aid of a
German physician. She refused to move; she might be dying, but she
certainly would not leave the ship. She faintly declared that of
course she was not dying; very soon now she would be quite well.
With the ship in motion again, and a cool head wind in their
faces, she seemed to revive a little; but she relapsed as they
worked southwards towards the equator--a relapse not occasioned
but perhaps intensified by the well-meant efforts of Reynolds to
tempt her appetite with pork and beans, and kindred dainties. She
lived on tea and biscuits--and on the sound of Dyke’s voice. He
was her steward, lady’s maid, and nurse. At meal-time she liked to
have the door of her cabin wide open, so that through the narrow
passage she could hear him laugh and talk. Along with the sound of
his voice, came perfumes of hot coarse food that made her writhe in
sudden spasms of nausea; yet she never closed the door. She took
what gave her joy at the cost of all that gave her torment. Indeed
she never counted the cost in regard to this or any other matter
that concerned her love. Not for an hour, not for a minute, did
she regret that she had come with him. She merely apologized for
causing him such dreadful trouble.
“Tony dear, I shall wear out even your patience. How can you
forgive me?”
He used to tell her that each trifling service he had the honour to
perform was like a tiny piece of flax, and that out of such pieces
she had made a rope so strong as to bind him to her invincibly.
He could never break loose now if he wanted to be free. And he
wouldn’t want. He became husky when he spoke of her courage,
and then he would laugh to cheer her; promising that she should
have three happy weeks at Buenos Ayres while he and that staunch
old sportsman Pedro del Sarto were preparing their jaunt to the
Andes--weeks to make up for all this. “Our honey-moon, Emmie!”
Truly he served her and waited upon her with a surpassing
tenderness. He had a trick of kneeling by the berth, making one
arm her pillow, and with his other hand softly playing with her
hair. That rough muscular hand grew light as a rose leaf while it
swept back the hair and touched her face. And once, while in this
attitude, perhaps because of noticing her debility and frailness,
or because of thinking of what she had done for his sake, he
began to weep. Then, till he recovered composure, she did really
believe she might die; it seemed that in her weak state the mingled
sweetness and pain of their love must surely kill her; and she
thought that, for bringing tears to those eyes, she deserved death.
“There. You musn’t let me get too sentimental, Emmie. Check me.
It’s a fault of mine. Now here’s cheerful news. Cairns says we may
see land in four days. So the worst is over. Down the Brazilian
coast it’s nothing at all.”
They got her up on deck, after they had entered the glorious
harbour of Rio de Janeiro. And she sat, wrapped with shawls,
languidly surveying the broad smooth waters, the vast semi-circle
of mountains, and the garden-like beauty of town and shore. It was
a vague dream-panorama, so far as she was concerned.
Here the ship was joined by two Italians from the southernmost
province of Brazil. These, it seemed, were the consignees of those
bicycles and accessories. They were citizens of Brazil--adventurous
merchants--dealers in bicycles, and a variety of other
things--anything, in fact, likely to prove quickly marketable. As
Dyke informed her, confidentially, it was at their option where
they would accept delivery of his merchandise. They had made all
arrangements for landing the goods, and they would pop them over
the border into Uruguay, as appeared best and most convenient. It
was all going to be as easy as falling off a house.
As soon as the ship steamed out of the placid bay Miss Verinder
went below again. She remained there, listening day after day
to the gaiety of the saloon, a gaiety largely increased by the
addition to their party.
She was once more very unwell--at her worst almost during
forty-eight hours when, as Dyke explained, they were standing on
and off by the lagoon in front of Porto Alegre. They were waiting
for a river steamer of shallow draught that was coming out to
meet them. This steamer, as Miss Verinder gathered, duly arrived
alongside, and, before the dawn of another day, the most delicate
part of their cargo was transferred to her. Miss Verinder listened
with anxious interest to gentle bumps and jarrings, produced by
their temporary consort--to the noisy racket of steam winches,
the shouted orders, the general hubbub that continued during the
lengthy task of transshipment.
Then they were under way again, and Dyke came down to her joyous
and smiling, snapping his fingers in innocent glee. Those Italians
and their perhaps slightly compromising bicycles had gone for ever.
The deed was done. All the cargo now on board was good honest
domestic stuff for the Argentine, and, as Dyke said, laughing, “the
Pope himself might come and look at it, if he cared to.”
They steamed steadily southward, and although Miss Verinder felt
relief of mind, and delighted in the thought that Dyke’s cleverness
and resource had met with a prosperous issue, she still remained
far from well. Then at last they were on the brown mud-stained
bosom of the River Plate. They were between the black stretching
arms of the Ensenada Canal. They were on shore. Emmie stood upon
a stone pier that did not undulate beneath her feet, and leant
against a post that yielded no vibration to her shoulder. She was
better, even as she staggered through the Custom House on Dyke’s
arm; she was convalescent when she entered the train, able to take
pleasure in looking at the flat low land and herds of cattle,
in catching glimpses of a huge two-wheeled country cart, and
fantastic, brightly-coloured figures on horseback; she was almost
well when Dyke helped her out of the train, in the fine noisy
station at Buenos Ayres.
He kept his promise. He gave her the happy weeks. Flush of money,
joyous after the successful voyage, he had only one slight care or
disappointment, and he did not allow this to trouble him long. He
insisted on buying for her wonderful, gay-coloured dresses that had
come to the street called Florida direct from the Rue de la Paix;
like a debonair honey-moon husband with a runaway bride, he could
not buy enough for her; and himself, with hair cropped and beard
trimmed, faultlessly attired, too, in white flannels, was now a not
unworthy companion to those enticing Paris frocks. In the sunshine
and the warmth, lulled by all the charms of exotic novelty,
revelling in the strangeness and freedom of her environment, Miss
Verinder blossomed with beauty and health.
She drank deep of the brimming cup of life. As a favourite poet
expressed the thought that was often in her mind--whatever happened
now, she would have had her day.
She felt that this Buenos Ayres, although the biggest city in the
world if judged by extent, was not large enough to hold her joy.
It flowed out from her beyond the vast chess-board of houses and
far over the dusty plains; it danced with the sunlight on the water
that she saw in flashes as they drove in their two-horse fly along
the incredibly uneven pavement of the streets; it filled the whole
summer night as they sat drinking their coffee under the palm-trees
of Palermo’s park.
They were staying at one of the lesser hotels--a place built
in the Spanish style about a garden-courtyard that was full of
sweet-smelling flowers and shrubs; with the very modern addition
of a wooden hall in which was set forth the one long table at
which the guests assembled twice a day. There were fifty or
sixty of them often at the table d’hôte dinner, a gathering of
many races with representatives of many trades; German commercial
travellers, Argentine farmers come from their estancias to pass a
few days in the city; comfortable Chilian families en route for
Europe, sea captains and their mates like Cairns and O’Donnell,
Frenchmen travelling for pleasure; and generally some of the
engineers and surveyors whose work related to the construction
of the trans-Andine railway. The talk frequently ran on this
wonderful railway that was soon to pierce the great mountain
barrier and enable you to travel from one ocean to the other as
easily as if you were going from London to Brighton. A Frenchman
said that although the railway would be marvellous and admirable as
an engineering feat, he regretted it as something which attacked
one of nature’s last remaining strongholds, which would rob you
of romance and mystery; but Dyke jovially laughed away this
notion, vowing that the Andes were big enough and strong enough to
withstand a hundred such inroads, and referring them to a certain
book on the subject which it might not become him to particularise
more fully.
Those of the hotel guests who did not know him already made his
ripe acquaintance during the progress of a single meal; and they
rarely failed to felicitate Emmie on her good fortune in having
such a man to act as escort and guide.
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Fleming. Vairy well-known man throughout the
Argentine Republic. Vairy well respected man to the populace and
the government.”
Dyke had given out that she was Mrs. Fleming, a lady journalist,
visiting South America for the purpose of gathering literary
materials, and that it was his task to show her things of interest;
but these chance friends drew their own conclusions as to the
bond that subsisted between the two. Dyke was not really good at
deception; after making those hidalgo bows when they met for dinner
and ceremoniously standing by the door as she passed out, he would
allow his far-reaching voice to be heard in the gardens as he
called up to her in her room: “Emmie, my darling, come down for a
stroll. It’s a perfect night.”
Moreover, they could not do otherwise than notice the meek
adoration in her face as she looked at him. But this crowd did not
mind. They liked her; they felt sure that Fleming, her husband,
was a blackguard, and that she had been driven by his ill usage to
place herself under the protection of the illustrious Don Antonio
Dyke.
On the other hand the official people, with their wives, daughters,
and young lady visitors, fought shy of Mrs. Fleming, dodging
introduction to her and ignoring it afterwards if undodgable--more
especially at the Lawn Tennis Club, where nothing could prevent
him from taking her. Indeed one might say that just as he had been
“that man” in Prince’s Gate, so she had become “that woman” in
Buenos Ayres.
When he left her in the hired victoria outside consulates,
ministries, or government offices--and necessarily he did thus
leave her now and then,--frivolous clerks and minor officials
peeped at her from behind sunblinds or even came forth to get a
good stare at her. Aware both of this curiosity and its cause, she
did not at all suffer because of them. The swarthy coachman drew
the carriage into the shade of some gum trees, mounted the box
seat again, and immediately fell asleep; and Emmie brought out her
grammar or conversation book, and unconcernedly pursued her study
of that Spanish tongue which Dyke lisped so fluently. She would
not trouble to change the position of her flaming parasol when the
silly young men passed to and fro, staring. Let them say what they
pleased. She could not now bother even to think of such trivial
matters as conventional etiquette or orthodox relationships. She
was in another hemisphere--too far from the Albert Hall for it to
be worth while.
From the Argentine government--a government that has always
proved the most liberal in the world towards colonists and
travellers--Dyke was obtaining every facility and authorisation
that he required for his new journey to the Andes. Emeralds had
not been mentioned, but it was understood that he would explore in
search of mineral deposits, and if he found anything worth finding
a full share of the value of the discovery would be secured to him.
For the best of all reasons, he was going to make the trip alone
and not in company with his associate, del Sarto.
To his great disappointment Pedro del Sarto had totally vanished.
It seemed that his varied business had gone wrong, he himself was
obviously dropping into low water, and then, of a sudden, more than
a year and a half ago, he had left Buenos Ayres without a word to
anybody. Dyke hunted throughout the city for a faithful underling
of Pedro’s, a man called Juan Pombal. But this man had also
disappeared. Then, after more hunting, he found an Indian woman who
had been Pedro’s cook, housekeeper, and perhaps other things as
well; but beyond confirming the fact of the departure she could
supply no information. She expected to see her master again one of
these days, and meantime she bore his absence philosophically.
The loss of the expected comrade and partner was a blow to Dyke;
but, as has been indicated, it was temperamentally impossible to
him to permit any disappointment either to weigh upon his spirits
or to turn him from his purpose. He must go by himself--that was
all about it. Nevertheless, during his first surprise at so strange
a failure to keep a business appointment, he confessed to Mrs.
Fleming that he felt “flummuxed” by dear old Pedro’s conduct.
“I told him I would be back here in two years--at the very latest.
And you see, Emmie, he _believed_ in my discovery. He believed
we had got a fortune in it. He believed, even before I gave him
the map I had made. He trusted my judgment--just as I trusted his
fidelity. We were _fond_ of each other. Emmie, I don’t pretend that
Pedro is really a gentleman, but he is a clinking good sort all
the same. He and I met first at Punta Arenas--when I was messing
about after the beach gold--and we became like brothers. Well then,
if he was down on his luck, why didn’t he write to me? And since
he knew I was coming back, why couldn’t he wait? The very fact of
his losses would have made him all the keener for such a chance
as this. It beats me, his going without letting me know. I can
only explain it by a guess. More than eighteen months ago. Well, I
expect it was the gold again down south that tempted him--and he
and Pombal lit out for it, thinking they’d make a bit down there
and be back here again in time for me.”
Once more Emmie was taking intelligent interest in Dyke’s
preparations, and the three happy weeks glided into four and five
before everything was completed. A contractor at Mendoza was
supplying the mules and their equipment, with an excellent muleteer
as chief; seven other men, of whom four were Indians, stout hefty
fellows inured to hardship and capable of using picks to good
effect, had been engaged by Dyke himself; light mining tools,
shelter tents, suitable garments, and a tremendous provision of
food in the most conveniently compressed form, made up the outfit
of the expedition. It would assemble at Mendoza, and make its real
start higher in the hills, at the existing end of the railway.
The month of December had now begun, with settled summer weather.
As Emmie understood, any further delay would be unwise if not
inexcusable.
And so once more their parting drew very near. These were the last
days. One lovely night when after driving about the park they had
left their carriage in order to saunter among the crowd and listen
to the band, she spoke to him quietly but very seriously concerning
the risks that he would run on his mountain trip.
“Risks!” he said gaily. “There are no risks of any sort or kind.”
There was only one word that could adequately describe this amusing
little jaunt, the word that he had used all along. It would be a
picnic--a picnic, neither more nor less. And searching for similes,
he assured her that he would be as absolutely safe up there as he
could be on his native Devon cliffs, or Richmond Hill, or Hampstead
Heath.
But apparently not satisfied, she suggested dangers one after
another. Hostile Indians? Storms and mists? Ice crevasses? Snow
avalanches? Excessive cold?
“No, no--of course not.” He laughed at her suggestions. Hostile
Indians no longer existed, it was summer time, the only snow likely
to interfere with him would all be melted. She also laughed,
but then continued her serious talk, linking her arm in his and
pressing it to her side as they strolled away from the music, the
lamps, and the crowd.
“Tony dear, you make light of things because you yourself are so
wonderful. You don’t feel cold or fatigue. Danger is nothing to
you.”
“Oh, isn’t it, by Jove? Emmie, I’m the most cautious old bird
alive. It’s been my maxim and watchword never to take an avoidable
risk. No, that’s a fool’s game. And--see here--if I’ve been careful
in the past, how much more careful shall I be in the future--now
that I own the universe? I swear it’s true, Emmie. No chances
henceforth for Anthony Dyke.”
But she did not yet seem satisfied.
“I wasn’t thinking of your real work,” she said quietly.
“Only about this one little expedition. Supposing it wasn’t
yourself--suppose it was somebody else, not trained and clever like
you--suppose it was just an ordinary person--would you still say
there was no risk?”
“Yes, I would,” said Dyke, after a slight hesitation. “None worth
considering. No, any ordinary healthy person could do it as easily
as falling off a house.”
“Do you say that on your honour, Tony?”
“Yes, on my honour.”
“Very well,” said Miss Verinder firmly. “Then I’ll go with you.”
Throughout the drive back to the hotel, he was explaining that he
had spoken of ordinary men, not of women; that not for a moment
could he consent; that it was quite splendid of her to entertain
such a wild idea, but she must dismiss it at once and for ever.
“Oh, no, Tony,” she said, smiling in the darkness as she took his
hand and got out of the carriage. “We’ll consider it quite settled,
please. Of course I mean for the trip only. Directly you are ready
to go to Australia I’ll say good-bye--and no more nonsense.” And
she squeezed against him as they passed through the fragrance of
the hotel garden. “I’m too proud of you to be selfish. I’d never,
never try to come between you and your real work.”