Chapter Fifty Nine.
In the Campo.
Five years spent in foreign travel, confined to the continent of America, found me in the southern division of it—on the banks of the River La Plata.
Choice and chance combining—a little business with the prospect of a large amount of pleasure—had conducted me into the Argentine Republic; and the same had carried me into one of its upper provinces, bordering upon the Parana.
I was journeying through the campo about twenty miles north of Rosario, from which place I had taken my departure. My object was to reach the estancia of an English colonist—an old college friend—who had established himself as a cattle-breeder and wool-grower some fifty miles from Rosario.
I went on horseback, and alone. I had failed in engaging a guide; but, knowing that my friend’s house stood near the banks of the river, I fancied there could be no difficulty in finding it. There were other estancias along the route; sparsely scattered, it is true; but still thick enough to give me a chance of inquiring the way. Besides, the river itself should guide me to a certain extent; at all events, it would keep me from going many miles astray. My horse was an excellent roadster; and I was expecting to do the fifty miles—a mere bagatelle to a South American steed—before sunset. And in all likelihood I should have succeeded, if in the kingdom of animated nature there had been no such creature as a biscacha. But, unluckily, there is—an animal whose habit is to honeycomb the campo with holes, in places forming most treacherous traps for the traveller’s horse. In one of these, while traversing a stretch of pampa, my steed was imprudent enough to plant his hoof; when first sinking, and then stumbling, he rolled over upon the plain; and, of course, his rider along with him. The rider was but slightly injured, but the horse very seriously. On getting him upon his feet, I found he could scarce stand—much less carry me the thirty miles that still separated us from my friend’s estancia. He had injured one of his forelegs, and was just able to limp after me as I led him from the spot. I felt that I had got into a dilemma, and would have to walk the rest of the way, besides making a second day of it. Perhaps not, I reflected, on seeing before me, at no great distance, some signs of a habitation.
There was a clump of trees, most of which appeared to be peaches. This of itself would not have proved the proximity of a dwelling, for in many parts of the Argentine territory the peach-trees grow wild. But I saw something more;—a bit of white wall gleaming through the green foliage, with something like smoke ascending. Around all was a stretch of stockade fence, indicating an enclosure.
Turning directly towards it, I led on my lame horse, in the hope of the chance to exchange him for one better able to bear me to the end of the journey.
Even if I could not make such an exchange, it would be wiser to leave him, and proceed onward afoot.
On approaching a little nearer to the place, I could see that it promised at least a shelter for my crippled quadruped; and getting still closer, I began to indulge the hope of being able to obtain a remount.
The house gradually becoming disclosed, through the shrubbery by which it was beset, if not a grand mansion, had all the appearance of a well-to-do estancia. There was a comfortable dwelling, with verandah in front, in style not unlike an Italian villa; and at the back were out-buildings, apparently in good repair, standing inside an enclosure. There were enough of these to predicate a stable containing a spare horse.
With the one belonging to me, I was soon standing before a gate. It was that of a railed parterre that fronted the dwelling.
I made my presence known by striking the butt-end of my whip against the rails.
Whilst waiting for an answer to my summons, I took a survey of the place.
It did not exactly resemble the dwelling of a Criollo, or native. There was evidence of care about the garden and the rose-trellised verandah, that bespoke European culture. The owner might be English, French, German, or Italian; for, in the Argentine Provinces, all are allowed to colonise without prejudice or distinction. Which nationality would respond to my summons? With curious interest I awaited to see.
I was not kept very long. A man, who appeared to issue from behind the house, came forward to the gate. His thick black head and eagle glance, with white teeth, and nose prominently aquiline, were all Italian. An organ upon his abdomen, and a monkey upon his shoulder, would not more unquestionably have declared his national origin. I knew it before he opened his lips to put the interrogatory, “Chi è, signore?”
Despite the man’s blackness, there was nothing forbidding in his aspect. On the contrary, the impression made upon me was that I had fallen among good Samaritans. As the luck would have it, I could talk Italian, or at least “smatter” it, so as to be understood.
“My horse!” I said, pointing to the quadruped, which stood with his forefoot suspended six inches from the ground; “he has had an accident, as you see; and can carry me no further. I am desirous of leaving him in your care until I can send for him. I shall pay you for the trouble, and perhaps,” I continued, nodding towards the buildings at the back, “you would have no objection to lend me a nag in his place? Anything capable of carrying me to the house of a friend farther on.”
The man looked at me for a moment with a puzzled air—then at my horse—and then back at myself—and at length turned his eyes toward the house, as if from it he designed drawing the inspiration of his answer.
He could scarce have sought it at a shrine more like the celestial.
As I stood to catch his reply, the door of the dwelling was opened from within, and a woman stepped forth into the verandah—a creature who might have been mistaken for an angel; but still only a woman, and for that not the less beautiful. Coming forward to the trellis, and looking through the roses, that appeared to form a chaplet around her brow, she repeated the question already asked by the man, adding to it his own name—for to him was the interrogatory directed—“Chi è, Tommaso?”
Tommaso in answer gave a literal translation of what I had said to him; and then waited for instructions.
“Tell the stranger,” responded the sweet voice from the verandah, “tell him he can leave his horse, and have another to continue his journey. But if he will come inside, and wait till my husband returns home, he is welcome. Perhaps that would be the best thing, Tommaso!”
Tommaso thought it would; and, I need scarce say, I quite agreed with him.
The man took the horse out of my hands, and led him towards the stable.
I was left free to enter the house; and, availing myself of the gracious invitation, I stepped straight across the threshold, and was soon seated inside—in converse with one of the most charming creatures it had ever been my privilege to speak with.