Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 724

'This is a vile forgery, Grey! I never wrote that, never dreamt of giving such a mad order. Heaven alone knows what results, what complications may arise from it! I shudder to think of the Daring still aground on the Short Reefs, or perhaps altogether broken up long ere this.'

'The Leoni couldn't help her much, I fear.'

'Help her! She'll never reach her. I should not be surprised if she were a wreck herself by this time; a hideous, top-heavy, unmanageable craft like that couldn't take care even of herself in such a storm.'

'What had better be done now, Sir Herbert?'

'Despatch the Leo at once; though I fear her services will come too late.'

Practical discussions follow, that keep the Admiral and his secretary employed for some time longer. When Sir Herbert returns home, it is no vain excuse that makes him retire to his room in very weariness of spirit, very fatigue of body. He finds Walter Reeves is already gone away; but some of the guests are still lingering in the rooms, trying to prolong their amusements to the last minute.

CHAPTER XIII. – CONFESSION

The storm has spent itself before the next morning. Katie can see that, as she listlessly looks out of the bay-window of the breakfast-room. One would hardly suppose the treacherous gale had been holding such wild revels the night before. The tossing waves that had leaped with frothy crests over the serrated rocks of the Short Reefs, are placid enough now – dancing perhaps over those who went down a few hours before into the cruel depths. Lady Dillworth has a headache; she listens calmly to Liddy, who blushing and blooming, pours forth her rose-coloured confidences, and swallows her coffee between whiles. Hunter is helping the groom to carry her boxes down-stairs; and Miss Delmere, with only a few minutes to spare, is selfish in the exuberance of her joy, and cannot see the dark circles round Katie's sleepless eyes nor note the deep sadness of her looks. At length she goes away, and the Admiral enters the room.

'You are just in time, Herbert; Hunter has brought up some fresh coffee.'

'None for me, thank you. I knew you would be engaged with Miss Delmere; and as I had papers to examine, I had my breakfast brought to the library.'

'Liddy is gone away now.'

'Yes; I met her in the hall, and saw her into the carriage. I've brought you the newspaper, Katie; you will see the wreck of the unfortunate ship I told you of yesterday.'

'The Daring! Is she wrecked?' Katie takes the paper into her trembling hands, but cannot read a word for the throbbing of her brows and the dizziness of her eyes.

Her husband goes on: 'Yes; she went to pieces in the gale, and every soul on board would have gone down with her had not a merchant-ship passed by the merest chance. Twenty-three men are lost. At least they went away in the Daring's large cutter; but no boat could have lived out the storm.'

'How dreadful!' Katie starts at the sound of her own voice, it is so deep and hoarse.

'Dreadful indeed! What makes the matter worse is, that in all human probability every man might have been saved and the ship also, had not an atrociously wrong act been perpetrated.'

Katie hears a rustle of paper; she knows by instinct what is coming, but she dares not lift her head.

The Admiral goes on in an agitated tone: 'Some one has tampered with my papers, has even dared to meddle with my orders. I directed the Leo to be sent out at once to the scene of the wreck; but from malignity or some other motive, the name Leoni was substituted.'

'Wouldn't that ship do as well, Herbert?'

'Certainly not. She would never reach the Short Reefs in such a gale. I fully suspect she's foundered at sea or gone on the rocks herself. I'll find out who did it! If I thought Reeves, or any one else at his instigation, had been guilty, I'd, I'd' —

There is no saying how the sentence might have ended. Katie has risen from her seat, and stands before her husband trembling.

'I did it, Herbert! I altered your order!'

'You, Katie! – you, my wife!'

'Yes; but I never thought my silly act would lead to such misfortune.'

'What was your motive, Kate? Surely you could not have wished to injure me? To set me up as a mark of inefficiency and ridicule?'

'O no; a thousand times no. But Captain Reeves was helping me to get up our charade, and I altered the ship's name that he might not have to go away.' Here Lady Dillworth's voice fails her. She cannot utter another word, so choked and gasping is her breath; the bare blank sentence remains as it was: 'I altered the ship's name that he might not have to go away.'

The Admiral does not reply. There is a stillness in the room as though some one had died there. A burst of passion, an angry storm of words would be a relief; and Katie glances up in alarm to see her husband looking down sadly at her. He is pale as death; his lips are set and firm; a dim haze has clouded his eyes, as though unshed tears are springing there; but there is no sign of resentment in his face – only pity, a tender, touching, tremulous pity, an infinite yearning for something gone, a regret, sorrowful and deep! Yet all so mixed with intense love, that Katie knows for the first time in her life what passionate boundless strength there is in his affection for her. A sudden understanding of how dear she is to him dawns upon her; she feels he would give his very life for her.

Katie would have flown to his arms, and told him his love is fully returned, that at last she feels his worth and goodness; she would have fallen at his feet and there have craved for pardon; but he puts her gently yet firmly away.

'My poor, poor Katie! Have I then spoiled your young life? I might have suspected this; but I was blind and selfish. Forgive me, my poor child, forgive me! I would give worlds to restore you your freedom again!'

Ere Katie has fully grasped the meaning of his words, he has gone out of the room; she hears him walk rapidly down the stairs and out of the house. A sense of numbness creeps over her; she sits for a while like one stunned. How long she remains crouching on the sofa she never knows; a whole lifetime of anguish seems crushed into that space. All the brightness of youth appears to die out at her husband's departure; his retreating footstep sounds like a knell of departed hope.

After a time, Lady Dillworth rouses herself; even sorrow cannot endure for ever. She recollects it is near the hour for luncheon, and then Herbert will come home. She dresses herself in the robes she had on when he made her the offer of marriage. Why she has done this, she does not confess even to herself; but perhaps she imagines old associations may soften present misunderstandings. She goes down to the dining-room and waits. The table is laid for luncheon, and the bright fire glitters on the silver and glasses and flowers. All is so pleasant and cheerful and homelike! And even then a thrill of satisfaction comes over her that now Liddy Delmere is gone she will be able to devote all her time to her husband – have him all to herself. But the luncheon hour passes, and then the door opens and Hunter enters with a letter on a salver. The address is written in a rapid unsteady hand, as though the fingers trembled. She sees it is Sir Herbert's writing, and tears open the envelope with a sense of impending trouble, that blanches her cheeks and chills her heart. The words run thus:

'No one shall ever know you did the mischief, my poor Katie; the blame shall rest on me alone, and I will bear it willingly for your sake. But my professional career is over; men will never again trust my judgment or deem me fit to command. I was proud of my standing in the service and of an untarnished reputation; but you have spoiled it all, merely to enjoy a short interval more of Walter Reeves's society. Why did you not tell me he was so dear to you? You should have said before we married I could never make you happy. Yet I will not blame you, my poor wife. My own selfish blindness has caused all this misery. Before this letter reaches you, I shall be on my way to London to resign my appointment.'

This was all! But the contents fell like a blow on her heart. Katie sits alone in that quiet room while the iron pierces her soul. The untasted luncheon stands on the table till the fire goes out and the shades of night gather round. Then Hunter knocks at the door in alarm, to know if 'my Lady' will have the things removed. Katie rouses herself to tell him that while his master is away she will henceforth have her meals laid in her boudoir, and that she will receive no visitors in Sir Herbert's absence.

Hunter sees her pallid face and tear-stained eyes, and draws his own conclusions, and thinks things 'never went on like that in the first Lady Dillworth's time, anyhow.'

THE GUACHO

'Will you ride over with me to the neighbouring village?' asked my friend Senhor Pedro da Silva. 'There is a festa there to-day. And as you are a stranger in the country, you will see some feats of horsemanship quite as clever as can be shewn in the circus rings of old England.'

'With the greatest pleasure,' I replied. 'I have often heard of the wonderful horsemen called Guachos, and desire much to see if the accounts are really true.'

'I think you will not be disappointed. He and his horse are one; sometimes he acts as its tyrant, but more frequently they are friends. From infancy they have scoured over the immense Pampas of South America, frequently amidst violent storms of thunder, wind, and rain. His address and grace on horseback yield neither to your best fox-hunters nor to the American Indian. But here is Antonio with our steeds; let us mount.'

An hour's ride over the dull arid plains of Buenos Ayres, covered with the grass now so much cultivated in our gardens, and admired for its light leathery tufts waving in the wind, brought us to San Joachim, where the people were already collecting in their holiday attire, and exchanging friendly greetings on all sides. The gay striking dresses of the Guachos mingled in every group. The poncho or mantle of cloth, woven in bright coloured stripes, has a hole in the centre through which the head is passed, and falls down to the hips in graceful folds. The nether garment is a combination of bedgown and trousers, bordered by a fringe or even rich lace on these festa days, which varies from two to six inches deep according to the wealth of the wearer. Then to-day the great jack-boots of untanned leather are exchanged for the smartest patent leather, with bright scarlet tops, and enormous spurs at the heels. A wide-brimmed Spanish hat is worn, a purple or yellow handkerchief twisted round it; whilst the belt encircling the waist sparkles with the dollars sewn upon it – often the whole fortune of the owner. His weapons are attached to this girdle, consisting of a formidable knife, a lasso, and a bolas, which may not be so familiar to the English reader as the lasso. There are two balls fastened together by short leathern straps, to which another thong is attached, by which it is thrown; this is whirled violently round the head before propulsion, and entangles itself in the legs of the horse or cow to be captured.

But whilst we are gaily chatting to Senhor Pedro's many friends the games are beginning, and we hasten off to the ground. There we find two lines of mounted Guachos, from ten to twenty on each side, just so far apart as to allow a rider to pass between the ranks; all are on the alert and holding the lasso ready for use. One whom they call Massimo, an evident favourite with the crowd, comes tearing along at a gallop and dashes in between the lines. The first horseman in the ranks throws his lasso at Massimo's horse as he flashes past, but misses, amidst the derisive shouts of those around; then the second, quick as lightning casts his; and so on down the ranks. Presently, however, the horse is lassoed and brought to the ground; and the skilful rider alights uninjured on his feet, smoking his cigarette as coolly as when he started from the post. The dexterity and watchfulness of the men, who can throw the lasso so as to entangle the feet of a horse while going at full speed, are simply wonderful. Another and another followed with varying fortunes; sometimes the first struck down the horse and rider, rarely was it that one escaped altogether. The popularity of the famous chief Rosas was said to be founded on his proficiency in this adroit but cruel art, and no man can be their chief who is not the cleverest among them: renown on horseback is the one great virtue that exalts a man in their eyes; cruelty to their favourite animal does not seem to enter into their thoughts!

But at length they weary of this sport, and move off a little way to vary it with another. Now we seem to have moved back a few hundred years, and find a pastime of the middle ages still lingering among these descendants of the Spaniards, who doubtless introduced it into the New World. In those days it was called the game of the quintain. A pole was firmly planted in the ground, with a cross-bar, to which was hung the figure of a misbelieving Saracen, well armed and holding a large sword. The horseman tilted at full gallop against this puppet; and as it moved lightly on a pivot, unless it were well struck in the breast, it revolved, and the sword smote the assailant on the back amidst the laughter of the crowd. Here in the wild Pampas the trial of skill is greater. A kind of gibbet is erected, to which is hung a finger-ring by a string. The Guacho, instead of the spear of knightly days, holds a weapon more characteristic of his work in the saladero, where the cattle are killed and salted – namely, a skewer. One after another the Guachos gallop at full speed and try to push the skewer into the ring and carry it off. Antonio, Luis, and Melito succeeded admirably; but many a novice failed in the difficult task. Still it was a pretty sight, and enjoyed apparently by both horses and men.

Then came the inevitable horse-races, which are of almost daily occurrence, when associates challenge one another, and they strike off in a moment in a straight line until they disappear in the horizon. In this case, however, a wide straight avenue near the village was chosen for a short, rapid, and often renewed race; a pastime for the idle, and the occasion of ruinous bets. The riders were dressed with the greatest elegance; their horses well chosen from the corral, and covered with silver ornaments. The bridle is of the leather of a foal, finely plaited and mounted with silver; stirrup, bit, and spurs of the same metal. A glittering silver belt, sometimes of a flowery pattern, and of colossal proportions, hangs round the breast, and a silver strap across the forehead. The saddle is a wonderful piece of mechanism, forming the Guacho's 'bed by night and chest of drawers by day;' it is very heavy, and consists of ten parts; skins, carpets, and cow-hides intermingled with other necessaries. Off they go at last from the post, spurring and urging their steeds like modern centaurs, handling them in a manner well worthy of admiration, and with the most perfect elegance. When the winner came in, many a by-stander had lost all his possessions, so mad a race of gamblers are they. As a last resource, they pledge their horse, and expose themselves, if they lose, to the lowest of humiliations – that of going away on foot!

We turned at last towards home, leaving the roystering spirits to finish off their day at the pulperia. This it is which takes the place of the club, the café, the newsroom, and the home. A cottage, neither more simple nor more luxurious than any other to be found in the Pampas, covered with thatch; the walls of dried mud, or more frequently of rushes sparged with mud; the flooring being of trodden earth; into which the rain penetrates, the sun never enters, and where a hot damp air is the prevailing atmosphere. Before the door stands a row of strong posts, to which the horses of the guests are tied; the new-comer jumps off, and there leaves his steed, saddled and bridled, for many weary hours in the hot sun or pouring rain; whilst he, to use a native expression, 'satisfies his vices' in the pulperia. The door is open to all comers, and great outward politeness reigns within; there is a continual exchange of gallantries, to which the Spanish language easily lends itself; but reason soon loses its sway, and the strangest bets are offered and taken. Sometimes it is between two friends as to who shall first lose blood; when the whole company sally out, knives are drawn between the duellers, and a combat, often much more ridiculous than valiant, ensues!

The following morning, Senhor Pedro proposed that we should ride out and see the Guacho at work and in his home. 'You seem to have been interested in him yesterday,' he said, 'and he belongs to a type that is unique. Notwithstanding the hatred of the original inhabitants towards their invaders, the two races were mixed, and these unions produced the Guacho. Look at his tall figure, bony square face embrowned by the sun, and stiff black hair – there you see the Indian; whilst the Spaniard is in his proud haughty manner, in his vanity, and also in his great sobriety. He drinks water and eats his dried meat without bread, not from contempt for better food, but from a horror of work. To earn his daily food is not so much his aim as to get money to bet with. He will go into the saladero, where, knife in hand, he will kill, skin, and cut up the cattle for salting, and find enjoyment rather than labour in it. He easily gains in a few hours a wage that suffices; and as soon as it is paid, he jumps on his horse and rides off to the pulperia to gamble it away.'

Thus conversing, we reached a hut which could scarcely be surpassed in its misery. Placed alone in the middle of the plain, without any garden or cultivated ground, not a tree to cast a welcome shadow, or a hand to repair the dilapidated walls, it seemed formed to repulse rather than attract the owner. At our approach, the mother came out, surrounded by her children, her complexion approaching the mulatto, for the air of the Pampas quickly destroys the fineness of the skin. It is only in the capital, Buenos Ayres, that handsome Creole types are to be seen, where fine features of an Indian class surpass European beauty, even when the tint is olive. The wife, like the husband, hates work: her only occupation is to boil some water, pour it over maté or tea of Paraguay, and drink it through a metal tube. Her children, at the age of three or four, can sit on horseback and gallop over the plain with no other bridle than a cord passed through the horse's mouth. At six they watch the sheep, and at ten are ready to break in the most spirited colts. Only everything they do must be on horseback: they will neither use their arms nor legs.

'Good-morning, Senorita,' said my friend. 'Where shall we find your husband?'

'He is gone, Senhor, to break in some horses for Senhor Melisos; it is not far from here.'

'So much the better. We will ride on and see him at work.'

We reached the place; and the Guacho came out to meet us.

'Will you shew my friend your feat at the gate?' said Senhor Pedro.