“Quixotic nonsense!” she declared. “Was there ever a man so wise that a woman couldn’t make a fool of him?”
CHAPTER IX.
Could there be a crueler irony of fate than to be absolutely convinced of the widowhood of her you love and to be unable, practically, to establish the fact?
Stephen French had expatriated himself, resigned the work he valued, put the seas between himself and Deena, only to be baffled at every turn. For two months he had used his utmost acumen in prosecuting the search without even finding a clew, and when finally he made his great discovery, it was by yielding to the impulse of the moment rather than the suggestions of reason.
From March to May Mrs. Star’s great ocean-going yacht had steamed along the southeastern shores of Patagonia. Sometimes within the confines of the Straits, sometimes rounding its headlands into the Atlantic, and dropping anchor wherever the line of coast gave any facility for landing an exploring party, until the hopelessness of the quest was patent to everybody except Stephen.
On his way down he had stopped at Buenos Ayres, where he provided himself with the charts and surveys made by the newly returned expedition, and secured Simeon’s personal effects left on the Tintoretto, together with his diary, scientific memoranda and specimens, which had been carefully preserved, and were of rare value, from a botanist’s point of view.
French was fortunate enough to induce both Lopez and the captain of the Tintoretto to accompany him as guests, and they proved invaluable allies, especially the captain, whose topographical knowledge and recent experience were always to be relied upon. From him Stephen learned all the particulars of Simeon’s disappearance, though the last home letter dispatched by the poor fellow, on the eve of the guanaco hunt, covered the first part of the story. It appeared that Ponsonby had landed with a surveying party from the ship, one morning in January, on the Patagonian side of the Straits, and set out to botanize while his companions worked. He had climbed a steep bank, in order to secure a particular shrub just in flower, when he saw on the plain beyond a party of Indians gathered by the shore of a small, fresh-water lake. Most of them were watering their horses, but half a dozen were grouped round a man lying on the ground, apparently injured. Their sharp eyes quickly marked Simeon filling his vasculum with the coveted specimens, and, waving their hands in friendly greeting, two of them advanced at a gallop. One spoke fairly good Spanish, and explained that the son of their chief had broken his leg by a fall from his horse, and he begged Simeon—whom he conceived, from his occupation of gathering simples, to be a medicine man—to come to their assistance.
Simeon’s own Spanish was too poor to undeceive them, but, thinking he might be of some use, he went back with them, and rigged out a set of splints, that made it possible to carry the young man to their encampment, about a mile away. In gratitude for his services, they accompanied him to the ship on his return, mounting him on one of their horses and forming a bodyguard round him. It was then that they proposed the guanaco hunt to the officers of the ship; their own visit to the Straits being simply in pursuit of game.
The morning of the hunt the captain described as unusually warm for that region, even in January, and not particularly clear; there was a haze that was just not a fog. The Indians met them about a mile back from the shore, bringing a dozen extra horses for their guests. The quietest beast was selected for Ponsonby, but its docility was so questionable, and the rider’s inexperience so evident, that the captain persuaded him to give up the chase, and content himself with a ride to the encampment to inquire about his patient. The last ever seen of him he was sitting on horseback watching the departing hunt.
Guanacos in large numbers had been seen on the plains to the northwest, whereas the Indian camp lay to the northeast, and Ponsonby’s route was widely divergent to that of the hunters. All that was known is that he never reached the encampment; perhaps he mistook the trail, and, having left his compass in his cabin, had no means of ascertaining his direction—or perhaps his horse became unmanageable and bolted, carrying him far inland; at all events, his chance without a compass was poor, for a tremendous rain came on, which lasted for three days, leadening the sky to an even gray, with no mark of setting or rising sun.