Letitia married six weeks after Judith. At Stephen Gunderam’s desire,
however, the wedding was a quiet one. There was a simple meal in a
hotel at Heidelberg, and those present were Frau von Febronius, the
countess, their two nephews Ottomar and Reinhold, and an Argentinian
friend of Stephen’s--a raw-boned giant who had been sent to Germany for
a year to acquire polish.
Ottomar recited an original poem in praise of his pretty cousin, and
Reinhold had composed an address in the style of Luther’s table-talk.
Stephen Gunderam showed small appreciation of the literary culture of
his new kinsman.
Frau von Febronius was silent even at the moment of farewell. The
countess wept very copiously. She provided Letitia with all manner of
rules and admonitions, but the most difficult of all she had delayed,
out of sheer cowardice to the very last. She drew Letitia into her own
room and, blushing and paling by turns, attempted to give the girl some
notion of the physiology of marriage. But her courage failed her even
now, and whenever she approached the real crux of her subject, she
began to stammer and grow confused. It amused Letitia immensely.
Stephen Gunderam wanted to depart in haste, like some one anxious to
secure his booty.
Frau von Febronius said to her sister: “I have evil presentiments in
regard to this marriage, even though the child seems quite happy. It is
only her own nature that protects her against unhappiness. It is her
only dowry, but a wonderful one.” Then the countess folded her hands,
and shed tears, and said: “If I have sinned, I pray God to forgive me.”
The voyage proved Letitia to be an excellent sailor. For a few days she
and her husband stopped in Buenos Ayres and met many people. Stephen’s
acquaintances regarded her with sympathetic curiosity; and everything
was strange and fascinating to her--the people, the houses, animals,
plants, the very earth and sky. But most fascinating and strange to her
was still the jealous tyranny of the man she had married, although at
times the fascination held a touch of fear. But when that assailed her,
she jested even with herself, and drove it away.
Early one morning there drew up a firmly built, heavy little coach,
with two small, swift horses, to carry them the thirty miles to the
Gunderam estate. Generously provisioned they left the city. After a
few hours the road ended as a brook is lost in sands, and before them
stretched to the very horizon the pathless plain of the pampas.
Yet they were not unguided. On either side of the way which the horses
had to travel, poles had been driven into the grassy earth. These poles
were of about human height, and stood at intervals of about twenty
yards. Thus the horses pursued their way calmly. The Negro on the box
had no need to urge them on. The safe and monotonous journey permitted
him to sleep.
There were no settlements at all. When the horses needed food or
came upon water, a halt was made under the open sky. No house, no
tree, no human being appeared from sun to sun, and a dread stole upon
Letitia. She had long given up talking, and Stephen had long given up
encouraging her. He slept like his coachman.
When the sun had sunk behind a veil of whitish clouds, Letitia stood
up, and gazed searchingly over the endless plain of grass. The high
wooden posts still projected with unwearying regularity at both sides
of the uncut road.
But suddenly she saw on one of the posts a greyish-brown bird, moveless
and bent, with huge, round, glowing eyes.
“What kind of a bird is that?” she asked.
Stephen Gunderam started from his slumber. “It’s an owl,” he answered.
“Have you never seen one? Every evening, when darkness falls, they sit
on the posts. Look, it is starting: there is one on each.”
Letitia looked and saw that it was true. On every post and on either
side, far as one’s sight could reach, sat with its great, circular,
glowing eyes a heavy, slothful, solemn owl.