Chapter Fourteen.
Why come they not?
A night of dread suspense has been passed at the estancia of Ludwig Halberger. No one there has thought of sleep. Even the dark-skinned domestics—faithful Guano Indians—touched with sympathy for the señora, their mistress, do not retire to rest. Instead, retainers all, outside the house as within, sit up throughout the night, taking part with her in the anxious vigil.
As the hours drag wearily along, the keener become her apprehensions; that presentiment of the morning, which during all the day has never left her, now pressing upon her spirit with the weight of woe itself. She could scarce be sadder, or surer that some terrible mischance had happened to her husband and daughter, had she seen it with her own eyes. And were both to be brought back dead, ’twould be almost what she is anticipating.
In vain her son Ludwig, an affectionate lad, essays to cheer her. Do his best to assign or invent reasons for their prolonged absence, he cannot chase the dark shadow from her brow, nor lift the load off her heart. And Cypriano, who dearly loves his aunt, has no more success. Indeed, less, since almost as much does he need cheering himself. For although Francesca’s fate is a thing of keen inquietude to the brother, it is yet of keener to the cousin. Love is the strongest of the affections.
But youth, ever hopeful, hinders them from despairing; and despite their solicitude, they find words of comfort for her who hears them without being comforted.
“Keep up heart, mother!” says Ludwig, feigning a cheerfulness he far from feels. “’Twill be all right yet, and we’ll see them home to-morrow morning—if not before. You know that father has often stayed out all night.”
“Never alone,” she despondingly answers. “Never with Francesca. Only when Gaspar was along with him.”
“Well, Gaspar’s with him now, no doubt; and that’ll make all safe. He’s sure to have found them. Don’t you think so, Cypriano?”
“Oh! yes,” mechanically rejoins the cousin, in his heart far from thinking it so, but the reverse. “Wherever they’ve gone he’ll get upon their tracks; and as Gaspar can follow tracks, be they ever so slight, he’ll have no difficulty with those of uncle’s horse.”
“He may follow them,” says the señora, heaving a sigh, “but whither will they lead him to. Alas, I fear—”
“Have no fear, tia!” interrupts the nephew, with alacrity, an idea occurring to him. “I think I know what’s detaining them—at least, it’s very likely.”
“What?” she asks, a spark of hopefulness for an instant lighting up her saddened eyes; Ludwig, at the same time, putting the question.
“Well,” replies Cypriano, proceeding to explain, “you know how uncle takes it, when he comes across a new object of natural history, or anything in the way of a curiosity. It makes him forget everything else, and everybody too. Suppose while riding over the campo he chanced upon something of that sort, and stayed to secure it? It may have been too big to be easily brought home.”
“No, no!” murmurs the señora, the gleam of hope departing suddenly as it had sprung up. “It cannot be that.”
“But it can, and may,” persists the youth, “for there’s something I haven’t yet told you, tia—a thing which makes it more probable.”
Again she looks to him inquiringly, as does Ludwig, both listening with all ears for the answer.
“The thing I’m speaking of is an ostrich.”
“Why an ostrich? your uncle could have no curiosity about that. He sees them every day.”
“True, but it’s not every day he can catch them. And it was only yesterday I heard him tell Caspar he wanted one, a cock bird, for some purpose or other, though what, he didn’t say. Now, it’s likely, almost certain, that while on their way to the tolderia, or coming back, he has seen one, given chase to it, leaving Francesca somewhere to wait for him. Well, tia, you know what an ostrich is to chase? Now lagging along as if you could easily throw the noose round its neck, then putting on a fresh spurt—’twould tempt any one to keep on after it. Uncle may have got tantalised in that very way, and galloped leagues upon leagues without thinking of it. To get back to Francesca, and then home, would take all the time that’s passed yet. So don’t let us despair.”
The words well meant, and not without some show of reason, fail, however, to bring conviction to the señora. Her heart is too sad, the presentiment too heavy on it, to be affected by any such sophistry. In return, she says despairingly—
“No, sobrino! that’s not it. It your uncle had gone after an ostrich, you forget that Caspar has gone after him. If he had found them, they’d all have been back before this. Ay de mi! I know they’ll never be back—never more!”
“Nay, mamma! don’t say that,” breaks in Ludwig, flinging his arms around her neck, and kissing the tears from her cheek. “What Cypriano says appears to me probable enough, and likely to be true. But if it isn’t, I think I can tell what is.”
Again the sorrowing mother looks inquiringly up; Cypriano, in turn, becoming listener.
“My idea,” pursues Ludwig, “is that they went straight on to the tolderia, and are there still—detained against their will.”
Cypriano starts, saying. “What makes you think that, cousin?”
“Because of Naraguana. You know how the old Indian’s given to drinking guarapé. Every now and then he gets upon a carousal, and keeps it up for days, sometimes weeks. And he may be at that now, which would account for none of them having been to see us lately. If that’s the reason, the silly old fellow might just take it into his head to detain father and Francesca. Not from any ill will, but only some crazy notion of his own. Now, isn’t that likely enough?”
“But Gaspar? they wouldn’t detain him. Nor would he dare stay, after what I said to him at parting.”
It is the señora who speaks, for Cypriano is now all absorbed in thoughts which fearfully afflict him.
“Gaspar couldn’t help himself, mamma, any more than father or sister. If the chief be as I’ve said—intoxicated—all the other Indians will be the same, sure enough; and Gaspar would have to stay with them, if they wished it. Now, it’s my opinion they have wished it, and are keeping all of them there for the night. No doubt, kindly entertaining them, in their own rough way, however much father and Francesca may dislike it, and Gaspar growl at it. But it’ll be all right. So cheer up, madre mia! We’ll see them home in the morning—by breakfast time, or before it.”
Alas! Ludwig’s forecast proves a failure; as his mother too surely expected it would. Morning comes, but with it no word of the missing ones. Nor is any sign seen of them by anxious eyes, that from earliest daybreak have been scanning the plain, which stretches away in front of the estancia. Nothing moves over it but the wild creatures, its denizens; while above it, on widely extended wings, soars a flock of black vultures—ill omen in that moment of doubt and fear.
And so passes the hour of breakfast, with other hours, on till it is mid-day, but still no human being appears upon the plain. ’Tis only later, when the sun began to throw elongated shadows, that one is seen there, upon horseback, and going in a gallop; but he is heading from the house, and not toward it. For the rider is Cypriano himself, who, no longer able to bear the torturing suspense, has torn himself away from aunt and cousin, to go in search of his uncle and another cousin—the last dearer than all.