Chapter Eighteen.Pedro becomes communicative; Manuela vocal; Lawrence preposterous; Quashy and Tiger violent—The Whole ending in a Grand Catastrophe.“Senhor Armstrong,” said Pedro, the evening after that on which the capture of turtles took place, “I have received some bad news—at least unsatisfactory news—which will necessitate a change in our style of travelling, and a more rapid progress towards our journey’s end.”“I’m sorry for that,” Lawrence answered, “for, to my mind, our style of travelling is very agreeable, and the rate quite fast enough, especially for one who has no definite purpose in view.”“That may be so, senhor,” returned Pedro, with a grim smile, “but asIhave something of a definite purpose in view, the case is different.”“True, Pedro,—true. I do not object to any change in your plans; I merely comment on the very pleasant time we are having, and shall be ready to act as you desire; so, you see, I am as I promised to be—an obedient follower. But where got you this news from? I have seen no one arrive in the camp since we came. What may the nature of the news be, if I may venture to ask of one who is so—so very reticent?”The guide pondered some time before replying to these questions. Then, with the air of one who has made up his mind on an uncertain point, said—“I had no intention of rousing your curiosity by needless secrecy. I have not very many or very profound secrets. Only, in a disturbed country it behoves a man to hold his tongue in regard to his affairs. But I feel that you are a friend, Senhor Armstrong, who may be trusted; not that I have much to trust to you,—and yet, my doings are so mixed up with the affairs of other people that to some extent I am tongue-tied. I may tell you, however, that I am a secret agent of the government, to which I have volunteered my services solely because I love peace and hate war, and am desirous of doing all I can to promote the first and abate the last. The idea may appear to you Quixotic, but—”“Pardon me, Senhor Pedro,” interrupted Lawrence, promptly. “I think you the reverse of Quixotic. I honour you for your sentiments, and sympathise with you most heartily. Do I not remember that it is written, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’ and also, ‘Scatter thou the people that delight in war?’”“Yes, I have gathered from your conversation that such are your sentiments, but do not misunderstand me. I am not of those who would have peace at any price. I believe in the right of self-defence. I recognise the right of oppressed nations to rise up and draw the sword in order to free themselves from tyrants; in short, I believe that there are some things that are worse even than war; but while I concede so much, I hold that most of the wars recorded in history have been undertaken without just cause, many of them without any real or obvious cause at all, too many of them with a distinctly bad cause. Even in the present day, and among Christian nations, there is far too little tendency to appeal to arbitration, which is the only legitimate way forreasonablemen to settle any dispute or quarrel. Does your sympathy go with me thus far?”Lawrence, with a glow of enthusiasm on his face, extended his hand, and, grasping that of his companion, shook it warmly.“I go with you in every word, Pedro. You are a man after my own heart; and I say, God prosper you in your good work wherever you go!”Manuela, who was standing near at the time, looked up at the enthusiastic youth quickly. Her knowledge of English must have been improving, despite the badness of her pronunciation, for she seemed to understand the conversation, and to regard Lawrence with profound interest.The youth was so carried away with his feelings, however, that he did not observe the girl’s look or expression.“That is well,” Pedro said, with a pleased look, as he returned his friend’s grasp; “but I fear you won’t find many of our way of thinking in this unhappy country. You are aware, no doubt, that it is frequently—I might almost say every three or four years—disturbed by factious quarrels which too often end in riot and bloodshed, though these are not often on so large a scale as to be styled civil war. Well, there is a party of peace-lovers even here, who do their best to bring about a better state of things, and a more settled and powerful government. Some of the men of influence at Buenos Ayres, and some even of the military men, are of this party. I am, as I have said, their secret agent—secret, because if I were to attempt the thing openly, or as a government agent, I should be treated with ridicule by some, or be murdered perhaps by others, in either of which cases my influence would be gone. Of course, as you have seen, I run considerable risk in travelling through the land on my mission, for I have been several times taken for a spy, but I don’t object to run risk, the cause being a good one.“As to the news, which I have received by mere chance from a passing Indian, it is another outbreak in the San Juan district which makes a change in the disposition of troops necessary; and as I have particular business with one of the officers, I must change my route and make for Buenos Ayres as straight as possible. That is all the mystery about it; so you see, as I said, it is not very profound.”“It is very interesting, however,” returned Lawrence, “and you may depend on my falling in with your plans, whatever they are.”“Well, then,” returned the guide, “the first part of my plan is simple enough—merely to start off to-morrow by the first peep of day. Will you go, therefore, and tell Quashy to get ready, while I have a talk with Manuela?”We do not intend to inflict on the reader the whole of the conversation that took place in the Indian tongue between the little brown maiden and the guide. A small portion of it will suffice.“I repeat, Manuela,” said the latter, in a remonstrative tone, “that you are not wise.”“My kind protector forgets,” replied the girl, with a modest look, “that I have never set up any claim to wisdom.”“But what will your father say?”“I really cannot guess what he will say,” she answered, with one of her prettiest little smiles.“But you may be quite sure that the thing is impossible. Consider the immense difference between you, and, forgive me, Manuela, but I think it is not fair.”“Now my protector forgetshimself,” returned the maiden, drawing herself up and bestowing a look on the guide which was quite worthy of an Inca princess—supposing Lawrence to have been right in his conjecture on that point!“Well, well, please yourself, Manuela,” returned Pedro, with a laugh, in which exasperation slightly mingled, “but do me the justice to tell your father when you meet that I fairly remonstrated with and warned you. After all, nothing would please me better,—if it should ever come about.”He turned on his heel and went off, with a mingling of expressions on his handsome face, to look after the canoe and make preparations for an early start in the morning.Canoe travelling appears to be rather slow work while it is going on, even when descending the current of a river. Each point of land seems to be reached and passed so gradually; every vista of the river seems so extensive, and the trees on shore drop so leisurely astern, that when you think of the hundreds of miles which lie in advance, you are apt to feel as if the journey or voyage would never come to an end. But when you forget the present and reflect on the past, when you think how many hundreds of miles now lie behind, although it seems but yesterday that you set out on the journey, then you realise the fact that the “power of littles,” of steady, daily unremitting perseverance, has had too little weight with you in your estimates, and that, just as fast as your starting-point recedes from you, exactly so fast does your goal approach, although those misleading factors, your feelings, may have induced you to think otherwise.Five days after the occurrence of the events on what we may style Turtle-beach, Lawrence found himself wondering at what appeared to be the far-off-ness of the spot, considering the slowness of the hourly progress, yet at the same time wondering if they shouldevertraverse the nine hundred or a thousand miles that yet intervened between him and Buenos Ayres.To do Lawrence Armstrong justice, however, he was by no means impatient. He was quite satisfied that things should go as slowly as they pleased, for was he not travelling through the most interesting of countries, in which the flora and the fauna and the geological features furnished abundant—ay, superabundant—food for the satisfaction of his scientific appetite, while his companions were of the pleasantest character? Pedro, since the opening up of his heart to him, had laid aside much—though not all—of his reserve, and shown himself to be a man of extensive information and profound thought.Spotted Tiger was a splendid specimen, physically and mentally, of the sons of the soil, in the contemplation of whom he could expend whatever smattering he possessed of ethnological science. Then Quashy—was not that negro the very soul and embodiment of courage, fidelity, and good-humour, the changes of whose April face alone might have furnished rich material for the study of a physiognomist or a Rembrandt.And as for Manuela—we cannot analyse his thoughts about her. It is probable that he could not have expounded them himself. Take the following sample of them, as overheard by us one day when he had strayed into the wild woods alone, and was seated on the roots of a mighty tree, pencil in hand, attempting unsuccessfully to make a sketch.“I do believe,” he murmured, with a gesture of impatience—for he had drawn a small convolvulus, hanging from a tree, with such disregard for the rules of linear perspective that it was the proportionate size of an omnibus—“I do believe that that girl has come between me and my wits. Of course it is not love. That is quite out of the question. A white mancouldnot fall in love with a black woman.”Yes, he did the poor girl the injustice, in his perplexed indignation with himself, to call her black, although it must have been obvious to the most careless observer that she was only reddish-brown, or, to speak more correctly, brownish-red.“I can’t understand it,” he continued to murmur in that low, slow, absent far-away tone and manner characteristic of artists when at work. “No doubt her nose is Grecian, and her mouth small, as well as exquisitely formed, her chin full and rounded, her teeth faultless, her eyes gorgeous, and her whole contour perfect, but—but—she’s black—at least,” (correcting himself with a touch of compunction), “she’s brown. No; I see what it is—it’s—(well that’s more like a balloon than a water-lily)—yes, itmustbe that I am in love with her spirit. That’s it! I’ve said so before, and—and—I say it again.”He drew back his head at this point, and looked critically—even sternly—at the sketch. There was room both for criticism and indignation, for the display, in so small a compass, of bad drawing, vile composition, ridiculous chiaro-oscuro, and impossible perspective, could only have been justified by the supposition that his intellect had been warped through the heart, in consequence of an unheard of perplexity connected therewith.“Yes,” he continued, resuming his work with the air of an invincible man, “there is something distinctly and exasperatingly wrong here. I am in love with her spirit, and not with her person! Is it possible that the human race, descending from Adam and Eve, should have reached the nineteenth century without such a case ever having been heard of before, and that I—I should be the first wretched example—or—or victim! It is like loving the jewel without caring for the cas— no, that’s a bad simile, for one could throw away a casket and keep the jewel, which could not conveniently be done in this case. I wonder what it is that makes the rules of perspective so difficult, and the practice so im—”His meditations were checked at this point by a sound so sweet that his heart almost stood still, his pencil remained suspended over the sketch, and the half-formed word remained in the half-opened mouth. It was as if an angel had come to earth, and were warbling the airs of paradise.Peeping through the bushes, Lawrence saw that it was Manuela! She was sauntering along pensively, humming as she went. He sat still, amazed and silent. From what cause we know not, but the Indian girl had not until that day opened her mouth in song. The youth’s surprise was increased when she came near enough to let him hear that the words were Spanish; but suddenly remembering that English girls sometimes learned Italian songs by rote, like parrots, his surprise partly abated—why should not an Indian girl learn Spanish songs by rote?Manuela passed close to the tree behind which our hero sat. On observing him she stopped, and blushed intensely red. Evidently she had thought herself quite alone, and experienced the usual dislike of humanity to being caught in the act of singing to itself!In a burst of great enthusiasm Lawrence sprang up, overturned his drawing materials, seized the girl’s hand, and dropped it again as if it had burnt him, as he exclaimed—“I wish—oh! Iwish, Manuela, that I were yourbrother!”The lightning flash is said to be quick, and we suppose, relatively speaking, it is so, but we are quite sure that lightning cannot hold a candle to thought in this respect. Lawrence, as the reader has doubtless observed, was not a man of much more than average intelligence, or action of mind, yet between the first “wish” and the word “brother,” he had perceived and condemned the impropriety of exhibiting strong feeling in thus grasping Manuela’s hand; the unmanliness of doing or saying anything to her that had the remotest approach to love-making while in circumstances where the poor girl could not get out of his way, however much she might wish to do so, and the meanness, not to say absurdity, of showing anything like a lover’s affection for a spirit which could only make itself known through the medium of a brown visage. Hence Lawrence, who was the soul of honour and gallantry, got out of the dilemma by suddenly conceiving and expressing the above intense wish to be Manuela’s brother!It did not occur to him that the gratification of his wish might have involved war-paint and feathers, a semi-nude body, a wild unlettered life, and a predilection for raw meat and murder. No, rapid though thought is, it did not convey these ideas to his mind. His one desire—after the first unguarded “exclamation” and impulsive grasp of the hand, was to escape from his false position without committing himself, and without giving pain or annoyance to the unprotected girl. And his success was in proportion to his boldness, for Manuela burst into a hearty laugh, and said—“Why you wants be my brudder?”“Brother, Manuela, not brudder,” replied Lawrence, joining in the laugh, and much relieved in mind. “The word is spelt with t-h, not with two d’s. The reason is that I should then have the right to order you to sit at my feet and sing me these pretty songs whenever I liked. And I fear I should be a very tyrannical brother to you, for I would make you sing all day.”“What—is—t’rannical?” asked the girl, whose tendency to laugh was evidently not yet quite subdued.“Hallo! hi! Quashy!” came the guide’s strong voice at that moment, ringing through the arches of the forest, and preventing the explanation, that might have been, of “t’rannical.”But Quashy replied not. It was the end of the noontide siesta. While Lawrence, as we have seen, had taken to sketching and Manuela to singing, the negro had gone off on his own account, and Pedro was now anxious to have his assistance in getting ready to start.As Lawrence hurriedly collected his pencils the Indian girl stood admiring his work—poor ignorant thing! Just then there arose in the forest a sound which filled them both with mingled surprise and alarm.It was a peculiar, dull sound, almost indescribable, but something like what one might expect to hear from a hundred spades or pickaxes working together in the depths of the forest. After a minute or two it ceased, and profound silence reigned. Dead silence in critical circumstances is even more alarming than definite noise, for then the imagination is allowed full play, and only those who have got the imagination powerfully developed know of what wild and terrifying vagaries it is capable!Lawrence and Manuela looked at each other. The former had often before admired the gorgeous black orbs of the latter, but he had not till then thought them to be so very large.Suddenly the earth trembled under their feet; it seemed as if a volcano were heaving underground. The memory of San Ambrosio rushed upon them, and they too trembled—at least the girl did. At the same time a shout arose which seemed to them not unfamiliar. The noise increased to something like the galloping of a distant squadron of cavalry.“Let me lift you into this tree,” said Lawrence, quickly.Manuela did not object. He lifted her by the waist with his two large hands as if she had been a little child, and placed her on a branch that happened to be just within his reach. Scarcely had he done so when a host, a very army, of American wild-hogs, or peccaries, burst from the bushes like a tornado and bore down on them. They were so near that there was no time for Lawrence to climb up beside Manuela. He could only seize the branch with both hands and draw up his long legs. The living torrent passed under him in a few seconds, and thus—thanks to his gymnastic training at school—he escaped being ripped up in all directions by the creatures’ tusks.It was these same tusks digging round trees for the purpose of grubbing up roots that had produced the strange sounds, and it was the shouts of Quashy and Tiger in pursuit that had awakened the echoes of the forest.On the heels of the large animals came galloping and squealing a herd of little ones, and close upon these followed the two hunters just named—panting, war-whooping, and cheering. Several of the little pigs were speared; some were even caught by the tail, and a goodly supply of meat was obtained for at least that day and the next. But before noon of that next day an event of a very different and much more serious nature occurred.It was early morning at the time. They were traversing a wide sheet of water, both banks of which were high, richly-wooded, and all aglow with convolvuli and other flowers, and innumerable rope-like creepers, the graceful festoons and hanging tendrils of which gave inexpressible softness to the scene. In the middle of the lake-like expanse were numerous mud-flats, partly covered with tropical reeds and rushes of gigantic size.The course our voyagers had to pursue made it necessary to keep close under the right bank, which was unusually steep and high. They were all silent, for the hour and the slumbering elements induced quiescence. A severe thunderstorm accompanied by heavy rains had broken over that district two days before, and Lawrence observed that deep watercourses had been ploughed among the trees and bushes in several places, but every other trace of the elemental war had vanished, and the quiet of early morning seemed to him sweet beyond expression, inducing his earnest spirit to wish that the mystery of sin had never been permitted, and that it were still possible for man to walk humbly with his God in a world of peacefulness as real as that of inanimate nature around him.When the sun arose, a legion of living creatures came out from wood and swamp and reedy isle to welcome him. Flamingoes, otters, herons white and grey, and even jaguars, then began to set about their daily work of fishing for breakfast. Rugged alligators, like animated trunks of fallen trees, crawled in slimy beds or ploughed up the sands of the shore in deep furrows, while birds of gorgeous plumage and graceful—sometimes clumsy—form audibly, if not always visibly, united to chant their morning hymn.Such were the sights on which our travellers’ eyes rested, with a sort of quiet delight, when Pedro broke the silence in a low voice.“You’d better keep a little farther out into the stream,” he said to Tiger.The Indian silently obeyed.It was well that he did so promptly, for, in less than a minute, and without the slightest premonition, the immense bank above them slid with a terrific rumbling noise into the river. The enormous mass of sand and vegetable detritus thus detached could not have been much, if at all, less than half a mile in extent. It came surging and hurling down—trees and roots and rocks and mud intermingling in a chaos of grand confusion, the great cable-like creepers twining like snakes in agony, and snapping as if they were mere strands of packthread; timber crashing; rock grinding, sometimes bursting like cannon shots, and the whole plunging into the water and raising a great wave that swept the alligators from the mud-flats, and swallowed up the reeds and rushes, sending herons, kingfishers, and flamingoes screaming into the air, and dashing high into the jungle on the opposite shore.As we have said, the canoe got out of reach of the terrible avalanche just in time, but it could not escape the wave. The Indian, however, was prepared for that. It was not the first time he had seen such a catastrophe. Turning the bow of the canoe instantly towards the falling bank, he thus met the wave, as it were, in the teeth, and rode safely over it.If he had been less alive to the danger, or less prompt to meet it, or if he had under-estimated it, and allowed the wave to catch them on the side of the canoe, the adventures of our five friends had that day come to an abrupt close, and, what is probably of greater consequence to the reader, this faithful record would never have been written!
“Senhor Armstrong,” said Pedro, the evening after that on which the capture of turtles took place, “I have received some bad news—at least unsatisfactory news—which will necessitate a change in our style of travelling, and a more rapid progress towards our journey’s end.”
“I’m sorry for that,” Lawrence answered, “for, to my mind, our style of travelling is very agreeable, and the rate quite fast enough, especially for one who has no definite purpose in view.”
“That may be so, senhor,” returned Pedro, with a grim smile, “but asIhave something of a definite purpose in view, the case is different.”
“True, Pedro,—true. I do not object to any change in your plans; I merely comment on the very pleasant time we are having, and shall be ready to act as you desire; so, you see, I am as I promised to be—an obedient follower. But where got you this news from? I have seen no one arrive in the camp since we came. What may the nature of the news be, if I may venture to ask of one who is so—so very reticent?”
The guide pondered some time before replying to these questions. Then, with the air of one who has made up his mind on an uncertain point, said—
“I had no intention of rousing your curiosity by needless secrecy. I have not very many or very profound secrets. Only, in a disturbed country it behoves a man to hold his tongue in regard to his affairs. But I feel that you are a friend, Senhor Armstrong, who may be trusted; not that I have much to trust to you,—and yet, my doings are so mixed up with the affairs of other people that to some extent I am tongue-tied. I may tell you, however, that I am a secret agent of the government, to which I have volunteered my services solely because I love peace and hate war, and am desirous of doing all I can to promote the first and abate the last. The idea may appear to you Quixotic, but—”
“Pardon me, Senhor Pedro,” interrupted Lawrence, promptly. “I think you the reverse of Quixotic. I honour you for your sentiments, and sympathise with you most heartily. Do I not remember that it is written, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’ and also, ‘Scatter thou the people that delight in war?’”
“Yes, I have gathered from your conversation that such are your sentiments, but do not misunderstand me. I am not of those who would have peace at any price. I believe in the right of self-defence. I recognise the right of oppressed nations to rise up and draw the sword in order to free themselves from tyrants; in short, I believe that there are some things that are worse even than war; but while I concede so much, I hold that most of the wars recorded in history have been undertaken without just cause, many of them without any real or obvious cause at all, too many of them with a distinctly bad cause. Even in the present day, and among Christian nations, there is far too little tendency to appeal to arbitration, which is the only legitimate way forreasonablemen to settle any dispute or quarrel. Does your sympathy go with me thus far?”
Lawrence, with a glow of enthusiasm on his face, extended his hand, and, grasping that of his companion, shook it warmly.
“I go with you in every word, Pedro. You are a man after my own heart; and I say, God prosper you in your good work wherever you go!”
Manuela, who was standing near at the time, looked up at the enthusiastic youth quickly. Her knowledge of English must have been improving, despite the badness of her pronunciation, for she seemed to understand the conversation, and to regard Lawrence with profound interest.
The youth was so carried away with his feelings, however, that he did not observe the girl’s look or expression.
“That is well,” Pedro said, with a pleased look, as he returned his friend’s grasp; “but I fear you won’t find many of our way of thinking in this unhappy country. You are aware, no doubt, that it is frequently—I might almost say every three or four years—disturbed by factious quarrels which too often end in riot and bloodshed, though these are not often on so large a scale as to be styled civil war. Well, there is a party of peace-lovers even here, who do their best to bring about a better state of things, and a more settled and powerful government. Some of the men of influence at Buenos Ayres, and some even of the military men, are of this party. I am, as I have said, their secret agent—secret, because if I were to attempt the thing openly, or as a government agent, I should be treated with ridicule by some, or be murdered perhaps by others, in either of which cases my influence would be gone. Of course, as you have seen, I run considerable risk in travelling through the land on my mission, for I have been several times taken for a spy, but I don’t object to run risk, the cause being a good one.
“As to the news, which I have received by mere chance from a passing Indian, it is another outbreak in the San Juan district which makes a change in the disposition of troops necessary; and as I have particular business with one of the officers, I must change my route and make for Buenos Ayres as straight as possible. That is all the mystery about it; so you see, as I said, it is not very profound.”
“It is very interesting, however,” returned Lawrence, “and you may depend on my falling in with your plans, whatever they are.”
“Well, then,” returned the guide, “the first part of my plan is simple enough—merely to start off to-morrow by the first peep of day. Will you go, therefore, and tell Quashy to get ready, while I have a talk with Manuela?”
We do not intend to inflict on the reader the whole of the conversation that took place in the Indian tongue between the little brown maiden and the guide. A small portion of it will suffice.
“I repeat, Manuela,” said the latter, in a remonstrative tone, “that you are not wise.”
“My kind protector forgets,” replied the girl, with a modest look, “that I have never set up any claim to wisdom.”
“But what will your father say?”
“I really cannot guess what he will say,” she answered, with one of her prettiest little smiles.
“But you may be quite sure that the thing is impossible. Consider the immense difference between you, and, forgive me, Manuela, but I think it is not fair.”
“Now my protector forgetshimself,” returned the maiden, drawing herself up and bestowing a look on the guide which was quite worthy of an Inca princess—supposing Lawrence to have been right in his conjecture on that point!
“Well, well, please yourself, Manuela,” returned Pedro, with a laugh, in which exasperation slightly mingled, “but do me the justice to tell your father when you meet that I fairly remonstrated with and warned you. After all, nothing would please me better,—if it should ever come about.”
He turned on his heel and went off, with a mingling of expressions on his handsome face, to look after the canoe and make preparations for an early start in the morning.
Canoe travelling appears to be rather slow work while it is going on, even when descending the current of a river. Each point of land seems to be reached and passed so gradually; every vista of the river seems so extensive, and the trees on shore drop so leisurely astern, that when you think of the hundreds of miles which lie in advance, you are apt to feel as if the journey or voyage would never come to an end. But when you forget the present and reflect on the past, when you think how many hundreds of miles now lie behind, although it seems but yesterday that you set out on the journey, then you realise the fact that the “power of littles,” of steady, daily unremitting perseverance, has had too little weight with you in your estimates, and that, just as fast as your starting-point recedes from you, exactly so fast does your goal approach, although those misleading factors, your feelings, may have induced you to think otherwise.
Five days after the occurrence of the events on what we may style Turtle-beach, Lawrence found himself wondering at what appeared to be the far-off-ness of the spot, considering the slowness of the hourly progress, yet at the same time wondering if they shouldevertraverse the nine hundred or a thousand miles that yet intervened between him and Buenos Ayres.
To do Lawrence Armstrong justice, however, he was by no means impatient. He was quite satisfied that things should go as slowly as they pleased, for was he not travelling through the most interesting of countries, in which the flora and the fauna and the geological features furnished abundant—ay, superabundant—food for the satisfaction of his scientific appetite, while his companions were of the pleasantest character? Pedro, since the opening up of his heart to him, had laid aside much—though not all—of his reserve, and shown himself to be a man of extensive information and profound thought.
Spotted Tiger was a splendid specimen, physically and mentally, of the sons of the soil, in the contemplation of whom he could expend whatever smattering he possessed of ethnological science. Then Quashy—was not that negro the very soul and embodiment of courage, fidelity, and good-humour, the changes of whose April face alone might have furnished rich material for the study of a physiognomist or a Rembrandt.
And as for Manuela—we cannot analyse his thoughts about her. It is probable that he could not have expounded them himself. Take the following sample of them, as overheard by us one day when he had strayed into the wild woods alone, and was seated on the roots of a mighty tree, pencil in hand, attempting unsuccessfully to make a sketch.
“I do believe,” he murmured, with a gesture of impatience—for he had drawn a small convolvulus, hanging from a tree, with such disregard for the rules of linear perspective that it was the proportionate size of an omnibus—“I do believe that that girl has come between me and my wits. Of course it is not love. That is quite out of the question. A white mancouldnot fall in love with a black woman.”
Yes, he did the poor girl the injustice, in his perplexed indignation with himself, to call her black, although it must have been obvious to the most careless observer that she was only reddish-brown, or, to speak more correctly, brownish-red.
“I can’t understand it,” he continued to murmur in that low, slow, absent far-away tone and manner characteristic of artists when at work. “No doubt her nose is Grecian, and her mouth small, as well as exquisitely formed, her chin full and rounded, her teeth faultless, her eyes gorgeous, and her whole contour perfect, but—but—she’s black—at least,” (correcting himself with a touch of compunction), “she’s brown. No; I see what it is—it’s—(well that’s more like a balloon than a water-lily)—yes, itmustbe that I am in love with her spirit. That’s it! I’ve said so before, and—and—I say it again.”
He drew back his head at this point, and looked critically—even sternly—at the sketch. There was room both for criticism and indignation, for the display, in so small a compass, of bad drawing, vile composition, ridiculous chiaro-oscuro, and impossible perspective, could only have been justified by the supposition that his intellect had been warped through the heart, in consequence of an unheard of perplexity connected therewith.
“Yes,” he continued, resuming his work with the air of an invincible man, “there is something distinctly and exasperatingly wrong here. I am in love with her spirit, and not with her person! Is it possible that the human race, descending from Adam and Eve, should have reached the nineteenth century without such a case ever having been heard of before, and that I—I should be the first wretched example—or—or victim! It is like loving the jewel without caring for the cas— no, that’s a bad simile, for one could throw away a casket and keep the jewel, which could not conveniently be done in this case. I wonder what it is that makes the rules of perspective so difficult, and the practice so im—”
His meditations were checked at this point by a sound so sweet that his heart almost stood still, his pencil remained suspended over the sketch, and the half-formed word remained in the half-opened mouth. It was as if an angel had come to earth, and were warbling the airs of paradise.
Peeping through the bushes, Lawrence saw that it was Manuela! She was sauntering along pensively, humming as she went. He sat still, amazed and silent. From what cause we know not, but the Indian girl had not until that day opened her mouth in song. The youth’s surprise was increased when she came near enough to let him hear that the words were Spanish; but suddenly remembering that English girls sometimes learned Italian songs by rote, like parrots, his surprise partly abated—why should not an Indian girl learn Spanish songs by rote?
Manuela passed close to the tree behind which our hero sat. On observing him she stopped, and blushed intensely red. Evidently she had thought herself quite alone, and experienced the usual dislike of humanity to being caught in the act of singing to itself!
In a burst of great enthusiasm Lawrence sprang up, overturned his drawing materials, seized the girl’s hand, and dropped it again as if it had burnt him, as he exclaimed—
“I wish—oh! Iwish, Manuela, that I were yourbrother!”
The lightning flash is said to be quick, and we suppose, relatively speaking, it is so, but we are quite sure that lightning cannot hold a candle to thought in this respect. Lawrence, as the reader has doubtless observed, was not a man of much more than average intelligence, or action of mind, yet between the first “wish” and the word “brother,” he had perceived and condemned the impropriety of exhibiting strong feeling in thus grasping Manuela’s hand; the unmanliness of doing or saying anything to her that had the remotest approach to love-making while in circumstances where the poor girl could not get out of his way, however much she might wish to do so, and the meanness, not to say absurdity, of showing anything like a lover’s affection for a spirit which could only make itself known through the medium of a brown visage. Hence Lawrence, who was the soul of honour and gallantry, got out of the dilemma by suddenly conceiving and expressing the above intense wish to be Manuela’s brother!
It did not occur to him that the gratification of his wish might have involved war-paint and feathers, a semi-nude body, a wild unlettered life, and a predilection for raw meat and murder. No, rapid though thought is, it did not convey these ideas to his mind. His one desire—after the first unguarded “exclamation” and impulsive grasp of the hand, was to escape from his false position without committing himself, and without giving pain or annoyance to the unprotected girl. And his success was in proportion to his boldness, for Manuela burst into a hearty laugh, and said—
“Why you wants be my brudder?”
“Brother, Manuela, not brudder,” replied Lawrence, joining in the laugh, and much relieved in mind. “The word is spelt with t-h, not with two d’s. The reason is that I should then have the right to order you to sit at my feet and sing me these pretty songs whenever I liked. And I fear I should be a very tyrannical brother to you, for I would make you sing all day.”
“What—is—t’rannical?” asked the girl, whose tendency to laugh was evidently not yet quite subdued.
“Hallo! hi! Quashy!” came the guide’s strong voice at that moment, ringing through the arches of the forest, and preventing the explanation, that might have been, of “t’rannical.”
But Quashy replied not. It was the end of the noontide siesta. While Lawrence, as we have seen, had taken to sketching and Manuela to singing, the negro had gone off on his own account, and Pedro was now anxious to have his assistance in getting ready to start.
As Lawrence hurriedly collected his pencils the Indian girl stood admiring his work—poor ignorant thing! Just then there arose in the forest a sound which filled them both with mingled surprise and alarm.
It was a peculiar, dull sound, almost indescribable, but something like what one might expect to hear from a hundred spades or pickaxes working together in the depths of the forest. After a minute or two it ceased, and profound silence reigned. Dead silence in critical circumstances is even more alarming than definite noise, for then the imagination is allowed full play, and only those who have got the imagination powerfully developed know of what wild and terrifying vagaries it is capable!
Lawrence and Manuela looked at each other. The former had often before admired the gorgeous black orbs of the latter, but he had not till then thought them to be so very large.
Suddenly the earth trembled under their feet; it seemed as if a volcano were heaving underground. The memory of San Ambrosio rushed upon them, and they too trembled—at least the girl did. At the same time a shout arose which seemed to them not unfamiliar. The noise increased to something like the galloping of a distant squadron of cavalry.
“Let me lift you into this tree,” said Lawrence, quickly.
Manuela did not object. He lifted her by the waist with his two large hands as if she had been a little child, and placed her on a branch that happened to be just within his reach. Scarcely had he done so when a host, a very army, of American wild-hogs, or peccaries, burst from the bushes like a tornado and bore down on them. They were so near that there was no time for Lawrence to climb up beside Manuela. He could only seize the branch with both hands and draw up his long legs. The living torrent passed under him in a few seconds, and thus—thanks to his gymnastic training at school—he escaped being ripped up in all directions by the creatures’ tusks.
It was these same tusks digging round trees for the purpose of grubbing up roots that had produced the strange sounds, and it was the shouts of Quashy and Tiger in pursuit that had awakened the echoes of the forest.
On the heels of the large animals came galloping and squealing a herd of little ones, and close upon these followed the two hunters just named—panting, war-whooping, and cheering. Several of the little pigs were speared; some were even caught by the tail, and a goodly supply of meat was obtained for at least that day and the next. But before noon of that next day an event of a very different and much more serious nature occurred.
It was early morning at the time. They were traversing a wide sheet of water, both banks of which were high, richly-wooded, and all aglow with convolvuli and other flowers, and innumerable rope-like creepers, the graceful festoons and hanging tendrils of which gave inexpressible softness to the scene. In the middle of the lake-like expanse were numerous mud-flats, partly covered with tropical reeds and rushes of gigantic size.
The course our voyagers had to pursue made it necessary to keep close under the right bank, which was unusually steep and high. They were all silent, for the hour and the slumbering elements induced quiescence. A severe thunderstorm accompanied by heavy rains had broken over that district two days before, and Lawrence observed that deep watercourses had been ploughed among the trees and bushes in several places, but every other trace of the elemental war had vanished, and the quiet of early morning seemed to him sweet beyond expression, inducing his earnest spirit to wish that the mystery of sin had never been permitted, and that it were still possible for man to walk humbly with his God in a world of peacefulness as real as that of inanimate nature around him.
When the sun arose, a legion of living creatures came out from wood and swamp and reedy isle to welcome him. Flamingoes, otters, herons white and grey, and even jaguars, then began to set about their daily work of fishing for breakfast. Rugged alligators, like animated trunks of fallen trees, crawled in slimy beds or ploughed up the sands of the shore in deep furrows, while birds of gorgeous plumage and graceful—sometimes clumsy—form audibly, if not always visibly, united to chant their morning hymn.
Such were the sights on which our travellers’ eyes rested, with a sort of quiet delight, when Pedro broke the silence in a low voice.
“You’d better keep a little farther out into the stream,” he said to Tiger.
The Indian silently obeyed.
It was well that he did so promptly, for, in less than a minute, and without the slightest premonition, the immense bank above them slid with a terrific rumbling noise into the river. The enormous mass of sand and vegetable detritus thus detached could not have been much, if at all, less than half a mile in extent. It came surging and hurling down—trees and roots and rocks and mud intermingling in a chaos of grand confusion, the great cable-like creepers twining like snakes in agony, and snapping as if they were mere strands of packthread; timber crashing; rock grinding, sometimes bursting like cannon shots, and the whole plunging into the water and raising a great wave that swept the alligators from the mud-flats, and swallowed up the reeds and rushes, sending herons, kingfishers, and flamingoes screaming into the air, and dashing high into the jungle on the opposite shore.
As we have said, the canoe got out of reach of the terrible avalanche just in time, but it could not escape the wave. The Indian, however, was prepared for that. It was not the first time he had seen such a catastrophe. Turning the bow of the canoe instantly towards the falling bank, he thus met the wave, as it were, in the teeth, and rode safely over it.
If he had been less alive to the danger, or less prompt to meet it, or if he had under-estimated it, and allowed the wave to catch them on the side of the canoe, the adventures of our five friends had that day come to an abrupt close, and, what is probably of greater consequence to the reader, this faithful record would never have been written!
Chapter Nineteen.In which, among other things, Lawrence refuses an Invitation, and bids a Final Farewell to Manuela.A jump of several hundreds of miles at one mighty bound may seem difficult, perhaps impossible, but if the reader will kindly put on the grasshopper legs of imagination which we now provide, such a jump will be found not only possible, but, perchance, agreeable.We pass at one fell spring, then, from the thick forests of Bolivia to the wide rolling pampas, or plains, of South America.You are still within sight of the Andes, good reader. You may travel from north to south if you will—from the equatorial regions of the Mexican Gulf to the cold and stormy cape at Tierra del Fuego—without losing sight of that magnificent backbone of the grand continent.We have reached a frontier town which lies among the undulating hills at the base of the mountains, yet within sight of the outskirts of the grassy pampas. A small town it is, with little white houses and a church glittering in the sunshine. A busy town, too, with a mixed population fluttering in the streets in the variegated trappings and plumage of merchants, and priests, and muleteers, and adventurers, and dark-eyed senhoras, enveloped in all the mysterious witchery that seems inseparable from Spanish mantillas and fans.It was evening when our travellers arrived at the town. They were on horseback now, having, a considerable time previously, forsaken the rivers for the roads—if we may call by such a name those unmade highways which are merely marked out through the wilderness by the passage of men. Bells were ringing in the steeple as they entered the town, for some fête or holiday was in process of celebration, and the presence of a considerable number of men in uniform gave to the place the appearance of a garrison town.There were so many odd-looking and striking characters in the streets that the arrival of our party made no particular impression on the people, save that Manuela’s elegant little figure and pretty brown face drew some attention—admiration on the part of the men, scorn on that of a few—a very few—of the senhoras. You see, in all parts of the world some people are found who seem to hold, (though they would find it difficult to say why), that God’s creatures with brown and black skins ought to be looked down upon and held in contempt by His creatures who chance to have white skins! You will generally find that the people who think thus also hold the almost miraculous opinion that those who wear superfine clothing, and possess much money, have a sort of indefinable, but unquestionable, right to look down upon and lord it over those who own little money and wear coarse garments!You will carefully observe, unprejudiced reader, that we use the word “some” in speaking of those people. We are very far from pitting the poor against the rich. We are bound to recognise the fact that amongst both classes there are gems of brightest lustre, irradiated by rays from the celestial sun, while in both there are also found qualities worthy of condemnation. But when we record the fact that some of the white senhoras looked with jealousy and scorn upon our sweet little Indian heroine, we ought to recognise the undeniable truth that they themselves, (so long as actuated by such a spirit), were beneath contempt—fit subjects only for pity.As they passed along, much interested and somewhat excited by the comparatively novel sights around them, Pedro rode up to a mounted soldier and accosted him in Spanish.He returned to his party with a gleam of stronger excitement in his eyes than Lawrence had observed since they became acquainted. Riding alongside of Manuela, who was in advance, he entered into earnest and animated conversation with her. Then, reining back until he was abreast of Lawrence, he said—“Part of the object of my journey has been accomplished sooner than I had expected, Senhor Armstrong.”“Indeed? I hope it has been satisfactorily accomplished.”“Well, yes, as far as it goes. The fact is, I find that there has been a raid of the Indians into this part of the country, and a body of troops has been sent to quell them under Colonel Marchbanks. Now this colonel, as his name will suggest, is an Englishman, in the service of the Argentine army, under whose orders I have been serving, and to communicate with whom was one of my chief reasons for undertaking this journey.”“Will that, then, render your journey to Buenos Ayres unnecessary?” asked Lawrence, a slight feeling of anxiety creeping over him.“No, it won’t do that, but it will greatly modify my plans. Among other things, it will oblige me to leave Manuela behind and push on alone as fast as possible. I suppose you will have no objection to a tearing gallop of several hundred miles over the Pampas?” said Pedro, while a smile of peculiar meaning played for an instant on his handsome face.“Objections!” exclaimed our hero, with great energy, “of course not. A tearing gallop over the Pampas is—a—most—”He stopped, for a strange, unaccountable feeling of dissatisfaction which he could not understand began to overwhelm him. Was it that he was really in love after all with this Indian girl, and that the thought of final separation from her—impossible! No, he could not credit such an idea for a moment. But he loved her spirit—her soul, as it were—and he could not be blamed for being so sorry, so very sorry, to part withthatthus suddenly—thus unexpectedly. Yes, he wasnotin love. It was a fraternal or paternal—a Platonic feeling of a strong type. He would just see her once more, alone, before starting, say good-bye, and give her a little, as it were, paternal, or fraternal, or Platonic advice.“Senhor Armstrong is in a meditative mood,” said Pedro, breaking the thread of his meditations.“Yes, I was thinking—was wondering—that is—by the way, with whom will you leave Manuela?”“With a friend who lives in a villa in the suburbs.”“You seem to have friends wherever you go,” said Lawrence.“Ay, and enemies too,” returned Pedro with a slight frown. “However, with God’s blessing, I shall circumvent the latter.”“When do you start?” asked Lawrence, with an air of assumed indifference.“To-morrow or next day, perhaps, but I cannot tell until I meet Colonel Marchbanks. I am not, indeed, under his command—being what you may call a sort of freelance—but I work with him chiefly, that is, under his directions, for he and I hold much the same ideas in regard to most things, and have a common desire to see something like solid peace in the land. Look, do you see that villa with the rustic porch on the cliff; just beyond the town?”“Yes—it is so conspicuous and so beautifully situated that one cannot help seeing and admiring it.”“That is where the friend lives with whom I shall leave Manuela.”“Indeed,” said Lawrence, whose interest in the villa with the rustic porch was suddenly intensified, “and shall we find her there on our return?”“I was not aware that Senhor Armstrong intended to return!” said Pedro, with a look of surprise.Lawrence felt somewhat confused and taken aback, but his countenance was not prone to betray him.“Of course I mean, willyoufind her there when you return? Though, as to my returning, the thing is not impossible, when one considers that the wreck of part of my father’s property lies on the western side of the Andes.”“Ah! true. I forgot that for a moment. Well, I suppose she will remain here till my return,” said Pedro, “unless the Indians make a successful raid and carry her off in the meantime!” he added, with a quick glance at his companion.“And are we to stay to-night at the same villa?”“No, we shall stay at the inn to which we are now drawing near. I am told that the Colonel has his headquarters there.”The conversation closed abruptly at this point, for they had reached the inn referred to. At the door stood a tall, good-looking young man, whose shaven chin, cut of whisker, and Tweed shooting costume, betokened him an Englishman of the sporting class.Addressing himself to this gentleman with a polite bow, Pedro asked whether Colonel Marchbanks was staying there.“Well—aw—I’m not quite sure, but there is—aw—I believe, a military man of—aw—some sort staying in the place.”Without meaning to be idiotic, this sporting character was one of those rich, plucky, languid, drawly-wauly men, who regard the world as their special hunting-field, affect free-and-easy nonchalance, and interlard their ideas with “aw” to an extent that is absolutely awful.The same question, put to a waiter who immediately appeared, elicited the fact that the Colonel did reside there, but was absent at the moment.“Well, then,” said Pedro, turning quickly to Lawrence, “you had better look after rooms and order supper, while I take Manuela to the villa.”For the first time since they met, Lawrence felt inclined to disobey his friend. A gush of indignation seemed to surge through his bosom for a moment, but before he could reply, Pedro, who did not expect a reply, had turned away. He remounted his steed and rode off, meekly followed by the Indian girl. Quashy took the bridles of his own and his master’s horse, and stood awaiting orders; while Spotted Tiger, who was not altogether inexperienced in the ways of towns, led his animal and the baggage-mules round to the stables.“So,” thought Lawrence, bitterly, “I am ordered to look after things here, and Manuela goes quietly away without offering to say good-bye—without even a friendly nod, although she probably knows I may have to start by daybreak to-morrow, and shall never see her again. Bah! what else could I expect from a squaw—a black girl! But no matter. It’s all over! It wasonlyher spirit I admired, and I don’t care even for that now.”It will be observed that our poor hero did not speak like himself here, so grievous was the effect of his disappointment. Fortunately he did not speak at all, but only muttered and looked savage, to the amusement of the sportsman, who stood leaning against the door-post of the inn, regarding him with much interest.“Will you sup, senhor?” asked a waiter, coming up just then.“Eh! no—that is—yes,” replied Lawrence, savagely.“How many, senhor?”“How many? eh! How should I know? As many as you like. Come here.”He thundered off along a passage, clanking his heels and spurs like a whole regiment of dragoons, and without an idea as to whither the passage led or what he meant to do.“Aw—quite a wemarkable cweature. A sort of—aw—long-legged curiosity of the Andes. Mad, I suppose, or drunk.”These remarks were partly a soliloquy, partly addressed to a friend who had joined the sportsman, but they were overheard by Quashy, who, with the fire of a free negro and the enthusiasm of a faithful servant, said—“No more mad or drunk dan you’self—you whitefaced racoon!”Being unable conveniently to commit an assault at the moment, our free negro contented himself with making a stupendous face at the Englishman, and glaring defiance as he led the cattle away. As the reader knows, that must have been a powerful glare, but its only effect on the sportsman was to produce a beaming smile of Anglo-Saxon good-will.That night Lawrence Armstrong slept little. Next morning he found that Pedro had to delay a day in order to have some further intercourse with Colonel Marchbanks. Having nothing particular to do, and being still very unhappy—though his temper had quite recovered—he resolved to take a stroll alone. Just as he left the inn, a tall, powerfully-built, soldierly man entered, and bestowed on him a quick, stern glance in passing. He seemed to be between fifty and sixty, straight as a poplar, and without any sign of abated strength, though his moustache and whiskers were nearly white.Lawrence would have at once recognised a countryman in this old officer, even if the waiter had not addressed him by name as he presented him with a note.At any other time the sociable instincts of our hero would have led him to seek the acquaintance both of the Colonel and the awful sportsman; but he felt misanthropical just then, and passed on in silence.Before he had been gone five minutes, Quashy came running after him.“You no wantme, massa?”“No, Quash, I don’t.”“P’r’aps,” suggested the faithful man, with an excess of modesty and some hesitation,—“P’r’aps you’d like me to go wid you for—for—company?”“You’re very kind, Quash, and I should like to have you very much indeed; but at present I’m very much out of sorts, and—”“O massa!” interrupted the negro, assuming the sympathetic gaze instantly, and speaking with intense feeling, “it’s not in de stummik, am it?” He placed his hand gently on the region referred to.“No, Quash,” Lawrence replied, with a laugh, “it is not the body at all that affects me; it is the mind.”“Oh! is dat all?” said the negro, quite relieved. “Den you not need to boder you’self. Nobody ebber troubled long wid dat complaint. Do you know, massa, dat de bery best t’ing for dat is a little cheerful s’iety. I t’ink you’ll be de better ob me.”He said this with such self-satisfied gravity, and withal seemed to have made up his mind so thoroughly to accompany his young master, that Lawrence gave in, and they had not gone far when he began really to feel the benefit of Quashy’s light talk. We do not mean to inflict it all on the reader, but a few sentences may, perhaps, be advantageous to the development of our tale.“Splendid place dis, massa,” observed the negro, after they had walked and chatted some distance beyond the town.“Yes, Quash,—very beautiful.”“Lots ob nice shady trees an’ bushes, and flowers, an’ fruits, an’ sweet smells ob oranges, an’—”He waved his arms around, as if to indicate a profusion of delights which his tongue could not adequately describe.“Quite true, Quash,” replied Lawrence, who was content to play second violin in the duet.“Is you gwine,” inquired Quashy, after a brief pause, “to de gubner’s ball to-night?”“No. I did not know there was a governor, or that he intended to give a ball.”The negro opened his eyes in astonishment.“You not know ob it!” he exclaimed; “why eberybody knows ob it, an’ a’most eberybody’s agwine—all de ’spectable peepil, I mean, an’ some ob dem what’s not zactly as ’spectable as dey should be. But dey’s all agwine. He’s a liberal gubner, you see, an’ he’s gwine to gib de ball in de inn at de lan’lord’s expense.”“Indeed; that’s a curiously liberal arrangement.”“Yes, an’ a bery clebber ’rangement for de lan’lord. He’s a cute man de lan’lord. I s’pose you’s agwine?”“No, I am not going. I have received no invitation; besides, I have no evening dress.”“Bless you, massa, you don’t need no invitation, nor evenin’ dress needer! You just go as you are, an’ it’s all right.”“But I have no wish to go. I would rather prepare for an early start to-morrow.”“Das a prutty house we’s a-comin’ to, massa,” said Quashy, not hearing, or ignoring, the last remark.Lawrence looked up with a start. Unwittingly, quite unwittingly, he had rambled in the direction of the villa with the rustic porch!“An’ dere’s de missis ob de villa, I suppose,” said Quashy. “No, she’s on’y a redskin. Why, massa!” he continued, opening his eyes to their widest, “it’s Manuela—or her ghost!”It was indeed our little Indian heroine, walking alone in the shrubbery. She had not observed her late companions, who were partly concealed by bushes.“Quashy,” said Lawrence, impressively, laying his hand on the negro’s shoulder, “get out of the way. I want to speak to her alone,—to say good-bye, you know, for we start early to-morrow.”The negro promptly threw himself on the ground and nodded his head.“You go ahead, massa. All right. When you comes dis way agin, you’ll find dis nigger am vanisht like a wreaf ob smoke.”A few seconds more, and Lawrence suddenly appeared before Manuela. She met him without surprise, but with an embarrassed look. Instantly a dark chilling cloud seemed to settle down on the poor youth’s spirit. Mingled with a host of other indescribable feelings, there was one, very strong, of indignation; but with a violent effort he controlled his features, so as to indicate no feeling at all.“This is an unexpected meeting, Manuela. I had hardly hoped for it, as we set off very early to-morrow; but I’m glad we have met, for I should never have got over the feeling that I had been unkind in going off without saying good-bye. Do you make out what I mean? I think you understand English better than my bad Spanish.”“Yes—I understan’. I very sorry we part. Very,verysorry. Good-bye.”She put out her hand, and Lawrence mechanically took it. There was something so ridiculous in this prompt and cool way of parting, after having been so long together, that the youth could scarcely believe he was awake. Had this pretty little Inca princess, then, no feeling whatever—no touch of common tenderness, like other girls? Did the well-known stoicism of her race require that she should part for the last time from the man who had twice saved her life, with a simple “I’m very sorry. Good-bye?”He felt cured now, completely. Such aspirit, he thought, could not command esteem, much less affection. As neither body nor spirit was now left to him, he began to feel quite easy in his mind—almost desperately easy—and that paternal, fraternal Platonic interest in the child which we have before mentioned began to revive.“Well, Manuela,” he said at last, with a stupendous sigh, as though he were heaving the entire Andes off his rugged old shoulders, yet with a brotherly smile as he patted the little brown hand, “you and I have had pleasant times together. I could have wished—oh! how I—well, hem! but no matter. You will soon, no doubt be among your own people again. All I would ask of you is sometimes, when far-away, to think of me; to think of me as perhaps, the presumptuous young fellow who did his best to make a long and rather trying journey agreeable to you. Think of me, Manuela, as a father, and I will think of you as my little Indian girl!”“I will fink,” she said, dropping her grave eyes on the ground, and the stoicism of all the Incas seemed to be concentrated in her look and bearing at that moment, “t’ink of you as a fadder.”“Good-bye,” he said again.“Good-bye,” she replied.He had intended to print a fatherly kiss on the little brown hand, but this parting was too much. He dropped her hand, and, turning abruptly away with a final “Farewell—God bless you,” quickly left the spot, in a sort of bewildered amazement that a heartless Indian girl should ever have been able to obtain, even for a time, so powerful an influence over him.
A jump of several hundreds of miles at one mighty bound may seem difficult, perhaps impossible, but if the reader will kindly put on the grasshopper legs of imagination which we now provide, such a jump will be found not only possible, but, perchance, agreeable.
We pass at one fell spring, then, from the thick forests of Bolivia to the wide rolling pampas, or plains, of South America.
You are still within sight of the Andes, good reader. You may travel from north to south if you will—from the equatorial regions of the Mexican Gulf to the cold and stormy cape at Tierra del Fuego—without losing sight of that magnificent backbone of the grand continent.
We have reached a frontier town which lies among the undulating hills at the base of the mountains, yet within sight of the outskirts of the grassy pampas. A small town it is, with little white houses and a church glittering in the sunshine. A busy town, too, with a mixed population fluttering in the streets in the variegated trappings and plumage of merchants, and priests, and muleteers, and adventurers, and dark-eyed senhoras, enveloped in all the mysterious witchery that seems inseparable from Spanish mantillas and fans.
It was evening when our travellers arrived at the town. They were on horseback now, having, a considerable time previously, forsaken the rivers for the roads—if we may call by such a name those unmade highways which are merely marked out through the wilderness by the passage of men. Bells were ringing in the steeple as they entered the town, for some fête or holiday was in process of celebration, and the presence of a considerable number of men in uniform gave to the place the appearance of a garrison town.
There were so many odd-looking and striking characters in the streets that the arrival of our party made no particular impression on the people, save that Manuela’s elegant little figure and pretty brown face drew some attention—admiration on the part of the men, scorn on that of a few—a very few—of the senhoras. You see, in all parts of the world some people are found who seem to hold, (though they would find it difficult to say why), that God’s creatures with brown and black skins ought to be looked down upon and held in contempt by His creatures who chance to have white skins! You will generally find that the people who think thus also hold the almost miraculous opinion that those who wear superfine clothing, and possess much money, have a sort of indefinable, but unquestionable, right to look down upon and lord it over those who own little money and wear coarse garments!
You will carefully observe, unprejudiced reader, that we use the word “some” in speaking of those people. We are very far from pitting the poor against the rich. We are bound to recognise the fact that amongst both classes there are gems of brightest lustre, irradiated by rays from the celestial sun, while in both there are also found qualities worthy of condemnation. But when we record the fact that some of the white senhoras looked with jealousy and scorn upon our sweet little Indian heroine, we ought to recognise the undeniable truth that they themselves, (so long as actuated by such a spirit), were beneath contempt—fit subjects only for pity.
As they passed along, much interested and somewhat excited by the comparatively novel sights around them, Pedro rode up to a mounted soldier and accosted him in Spanish.
He returned to his party with a gleam of stronger excitement in his eyes than Lawrence had observed since they became acquainted. Riding alongside of Manuela, who was in advance, he entered into earnest and animated conversation with her. Then, reining back until he was abreast of Lawrence, he said—
“Part of the object of my journey has been accomplished sooner than I had expected, Senhor Armstrong.”
“Indeed? I hope it has been satisfactorily accomplished.”
“Well, yes, as far as it goes. The fact is, I find that there has been a raid of the Indians into this part of the country, and a body of troops has been sent to quell them under Colonel Marchbanks. Now this colonel, as his name will suggest, is an Englishman, in the service of the Argentine army, under whose orders I have been serving, and to communicate with whom was one of my chief reasons for undertaking this journey.”
“Will that, then, render your journey to Buenos Ayres unnecessary?” asked Lawrence, a slight feeling of anxiety creeping over him.
“No, it won’t do that, but it will greatly modify my plans. Among other things, it will oblige me to leave Manuela behind and push on alone as fast as possible. I suppose you will have no objection to a tearing gallop of several hundred miles over the Pampas?” said Pedro, while a smile of peculiar meaning played for an instant on his handsome face.
“Objections!” exclaimed our hero, with great energy, “of course not. A tearing gallop over the Pampas is—a—most—”
He stopped, for a strange, unaccountable feeling of dissatisfaction which he could not understand began to overwhelm him. Was it that he was really in love after all with this Indian girl, and that the thought of final separation from her—impossible! No, he could not credit such an idea for a moment. But he loved her spirit—her soul, as it were—and he could not be blamed for being so sorry, so very sorry, to part withthatthus suddenly—thus unexpectedly. Yes, he wasnotin love. It was a fraternal or paternal—a Platonic feeling of a strong type. He would just see her once more, alone, before starting, say good-bye, and give her a little, as it were, paternal, or fraternal, or Platonic advice.
“Senhor Armstrong is in a meditative mood,” said Pedro, breaking the thread of his meditations.
“Yes, I was thinking—was wondering—that is—by the way, with whom will you leave Manuela?”
“With a friend who lives in a villa in the suburbs.”
“You seem to have friends wherever you go,” said Lawrence.
“Ay, and enemies too,” returned Pedro with a slight frown. “However, with God’s blessing, I shall circumvent the latter.”
“When do you start?” asked Lawrence, with an air of assumed indifference.
“To-morrow or next day, perhaps, but I cannot tell until I meet Colonel Marchbanks. I am not, indeed, under his command—being what you may call a sort of freelance—but I work with him chiefly, that is, under his directions, for he and I hold much the same ideas in regard to most things, and have a common desire to see something like solid peace in the land. Look, do you see that villa with the rustic porch on the cliff; just beyond the town?”
“Yes—it is so conspicuous and so beautifully situated that one cannot help seeing and admiring it.”
“That is where the friend lives with whom I shall leave Manuela.”
“Indeed,” said Lawrence, whose interest in the villa with the rustic porch was suddenly intensified, “and shall we find her there on our return?”
“I was not aware that Senhor Armstrong intended to return!” said Pedro, with a look of surprise.
Lawrence felt somewhat confused and taken aback, but his countenance was not prone to betray him.
“Of course I mean, willyoufind her there when you return? Though, as to my returning, the thing is not impossible, when one considers that the wreck of part of my father’s property lies on the western side of the Andes.”
“Ah! true. I forgot that for a moment. Well, I suppose she will remain here till my return,” said Pedro, “unless the Indians make a successful raid and carry her off in the meantime!” he added, with a quick glance at his companion.
“And are we to stay to-night at the same villa?”
“No, we shall stay at the inn to which we are now drawing near. I am told that the Colonel has his headquarters there.”
The conversation closed abruptly at this point, for they had reached the inn referred to. At the door stood a tall, good-looking young man, whose shaven chin, cut of whisker, and Tweed shooting costume, betokened him an Englishman of the sporting class.
Addressing himself to this gentleman with a polite bow, Pedro asked whether Colonel Marchbanks was staying there.
“Well—aw—I’m not quite sure, but there is—aw—I believe, a military man of—aw—some sort staying in the place.”
Without meaning to be idiotic, this sporting character was one of those rich, plucky, languid, drawly-wauly men, who regard the world as their special hunting-field, affect free-and-easy nonchalance, and interlard their ideas with “aw” to an extent that is absolutely awful.
The same question, put to a waiter who immediately appeared, elicited the fact that the Colonel did reside there, but was absent at the moment.
“Well, then,” said Pedro, turning quickly to Lawrence, “you had better look after rooms and order supper, while I take Manuela to the villa.”
For the first time since they met, Lawrence felt inclined to disobey his friend. A gush of indignation seemed to surge through his bosom for a moment, but before he could reply, Pedro, who did not expect a reply, had turned away. He remounted his steed and rode off, meekly followed by the Indian girl. Quashy took the bridles of his own and his master’s horse, and stood awaiting orders; while Spotted Tiger, who was not altogether inexperienced in the ways of towns, led his animal and the baggage-mules round to the stables.
“So,” thought Lawrence, bitterly, “I am ordered to look after things here, and Manuela goes quietly away without offering to say good-bye—without even a friendly nod, although she probably knows I may have to start by daybreak to-morrow, and shall never see her again. Bah! what else could I expect from a squaw—a black girl! But no matter. It’s all over! It wasonlyher spirit I admired, and I don’t care even for that now.”
It will be observed that our poor hero did not speak like himself here, so grievous was the effect of his disappointment. Fortunately he did not speak at all, but only muttered and looked savage, to the amusement of the sportsman, who stood leaning against the door-post of the inn, regarding him with much interest.
“Will you sup, senhor?” asked a waiter, coming up just then.
“Eh! no—that is—yes,” replied Lawrence, savagely.
“How many, senhor?”
“How many? eh! How should I know? As many as you like. Come here.”
He thundered off along a passage, clanking his heels and spurs like a whole regiment of dragoons, and without an idea as to whither the passage led or what he meant to do.
“Aw—quite a wemarkable cweature. A sort of—aw—long-legged curiosity of the Andes. Mad, I suppose, or drunk.”
These remarks were partly a soliloquy, partly addressed to a friend who had joined the sportsman, but they were overheard by Quashy, who, with the fire of a free negro and the enthusiasm of a faithful servant, said—
“No more mad or drunk dan you’self—you whitefaced racoon!”
Being unable conveniently to commit an assault at the moment, our free negro contented himself with making a stupendous face at the Englishman, and glaring defiance as he led the cattle away. As the reader knows, that must have been a powerful glare, but its only effect on the sportsman was to produce a beaming smile of Anglo-Saxon good-will.
That night Lawrence Armstrong slept little. Next morning he found that Pedro had to delay a day in order to have some further intercourse with Colonel Marchbanks. Having nothing particular to do, and being still very unhappy—though his temper had quite recovered—he resolved to take a stroll alone. Just as he left the inn, a tall, powerfully-built, soldierly man entered, and bestowed on him a quick, stern glance in passing. He seemed to be between fifty and sixty, straight as a poplar, and without any sign of abated strength, though his moustache and whiskers were nearly white.
Lawrence would have at once recognised a countryman in this old officer, even if the waiter had not addressed him by name as he presented him with a note.
At any other time the sociable instincts of our hero would have led him to seek the acquaintance both of the Colonel and the awful sportsman; but he felt misanthropical just then, and passed on in silence.
Before he had been gone five minutes, Quashy came running after him.
“You no wantme, massa?”
“No, Quash, I don’t.”
“P’r’aps,” suggested the faithful man, with an excess of modesty and some hesitation,—“P’r’aps you’d like me to go wid you for—for—company?”
“You’re very kind, Quash, and I should like to have you very much indeed; but at present I’m very much out of sorts, and—”
“O massa!” interrupted the negro, assuming the sympathetic gaze instantly, and speaking with intense feeling, “it’s not in de stummik, am it?” He placed his hand gently on the region referred to.
“No, Quash,” Lawrence replied, with a laugh, “it is not the body at all that affects me; it is the mind.”
“Oh! is dat all?” said the negro, quite relieved. “Den you not need to boder you’self. Nobody ebber troubled long wid dat complaint. Do you know, massa, dat de bery best t’ing for dat is a little cheerful s’iety. I t’ink you’ll be de better ob me.”
He said this with such self-satisfied gravity, and withal seemed to have made up his mind so thoroughly to accompany his young master, that Lawrence gave in, and they had not gone far when he began really to feel the benefit of Quashy’s light talk. We do not mean to inflict it all on the reader, but a few sentences may, perhaps, be advantageous to the development of our tale.
“Splendid place dis, massa,” observed the negro, after they had walked and chatted some distance beyond the town.
“Yes, Quash,—very beautiful.”
“Lots ob nice shady trees an’ bushes, and flowers, an’ fruits, an’ sweet smells ob oranges, an’—”
He waved his arms around, as if to indicate a profusion of delights which his tongue could not adequately describe.
“Quite true, Quash,” replied Lawrence, who was content to play second violin in the duet.
“Is you gwine,” inquired Quashy, after a brief pause, “to de gubner’s ball to-night?”
“No. I did not know there was a governor, or that he intended to give a ball.”
The negro opened his eyes in astonishment.
“You not know ob it!” he exclaimed; “why eberybody knows ob it, an’ a’most eberybody’s agwine—all de ’spectable peepil, I mean, an’ some ob dem what’s not zactly as ’spectable as dey should be. But dey’s all agwine. He’s a liberal gubner, you see, an’ he’s gwine to gib de ball in de inn at de lan’lord’s expense.”
“Indeed; that’s a curiously liberal arrangement.”
“Yes, an’ a bery clebber ’rangement for de lan’lord. He’s a cute man de lan’lord. I s’pose you’s agwine?”
“No, I am not going. I have received no invitation; besides, I have no evening dress.”
“Bless you, massa, you don’t need no invitation, nor evenin’ dress needer! You just go as you are, an’ it’s all right.”
“But I have no wish to go. I would rather prepare for an early start to-morrow.”
“Das a prutty house we’s a-comin’ to, massa,” said Quashy, not hearing, or ignoring, the last remark.
Lawrence looked up with a start. Unwittingly, quite unwittingly, he had rambled in the direction of the villa with the rustic porch!
“An’ dere’s de missis ob de villa, I suppose,” said Quashy. “No, she’s on’y a redskin. Why, massa!” he continued, opening his eyes to their widest, “it’s Manuela—or her ghost!”
It was indeed our little Indian heroine, walking alone in the shrubbery. She had not observed her late companions, who were partly concealed by bushes.
“Quashy,” said Lawrence, impressively, laying his hand on the negro’s shoulder, “get out of the way. I want to speak to her alone,—to say good-bye, you know, for we start early to-morrow.”
The negro promptly threw himself on the ground and nodded his head.
“You go ahead, massa. All right. When you comes dis way agin, you’ll find dis nigger am vanisht like a wreaf ob smoke.”
A few seconds more, and Lawrence suddenly appeared before Manuela. She met him without surprise, but with an embarrassed look. Instantly a dark chilling cloud seemed to settle down on the poor youth’s spirit. Mingled with a host of other indescribable feelings, there was one, very strong, of indignation; but with a violent effort he controlled his features, so as to indicate no feeling at all.
“This is an unexpected meeting, Manuela. I had hardly hoped for it, as we set off very early to-morrow; but I’m glad we have met, for I should never have got over the feeling that I had been unkind in going off without saying good-bye. Do you make out what I mean? I think you understand English better than my bad Spanish.”
“Yes—I understan’. I very sorry we part. Very,verysorry. Good-bye.”
She put out her hand, and Lawrence mechanically took it. There was something so ridiculous in this prompt and cool way of parting, after having been so long together, that the youth could scarcely believe he was awake. Had this pretty little Inca princess, then, no feeling whatever—no touch of common tenderness, like other girls? Did the well-known stoicism of her race require that she should part for the last time from the man who had twice saved her life, with a simple “I’m very sorry. Good-bye?”
He felt cured now, completely. Such aspirit, he thought, could not command esteem, much less affection. As neither body nor spirit was now left to him, he began to feel quite easy in his mind—almost desperately easy—and that paternal, fraternal Platonic interest in the child which we have before mentioned began to revive.
“Well, Manuela,” he said at last, with a stupendous sigh, as though he were heaving the entire Andes off his rugged old shoulders, yet with a brotherly smile as he patted the little brown hand, “you and I have had pleasant times together. I could have wished—oh! how I—well, hem! but no matter. You will soon, no doubt be among your own people again. All I would ask of you is sometimes, when far-away, to think of me; to think of me as perhaps, the presumptuous young fellow who did his best to make a long and rather trying journey agreeable to you. Think of me, Manuela, as a father, and I will think of you as my little Indian girl!”
“I will fink,” she said, dropping her grave eyes on the ground, and the stoicism of all the Incas seemed to be concentrated in her look and bearing at that moment, “t’ink of you as a fadder.”
“Good-bye,” he said again.
“Good-bye,” she replied.
He had intended to print a fatherly kiss on the little brown hand, but this parting was too much. He dropped her hand, and, turning abruptly away with a final “Farewell—God bless you,” quickly left the spot, in a sort of bewildered amazement that a heartless Indian girl should ever have been able to obtain, even for a time, so powerful an influence over him.
Chapter Twenty.Is cumulatively Astonishing.There are, we suppose, in the lives of all men, critical periods—testing-points, as it were—when their faith in everything true is shaken almost, if not quite, to the foundation, and when they are tempted to ask with more or less of bitterness, “Who will show us any good?”Well is it for such when, in the hour of trial, they can look up to the Fountain of all good and, in the face of doubt, darkness, difficulty, ay, and seeming contradiction, simply “believe” and “trust.”When Lawrence Armstrong slowly sauntered back to the inn after his final interview with Manuela, it surprised even himself to find how strong had been his feelings, how profound his faith in the girl’s goodness of heart, and how intensely bitter was his disappointment.“But it’s all over now,” he muttered, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and frowning ferociously at some imaginary wrong, though he would have been puzzled, if required, to state exactly what the wrong was. “All over,” he repeated, and then continued with an affected air of indifference, “and what of that? What matters it to me that I have been mistaken? I never was in love with the girl. How could I be with a black—well, a brown squaw. Impossible! It was only admiration—strong admiration I admit—of what I had fancied were rarely fine qualities, especially in a sav— an Indian; and I’ve been mistaken; that’s all. That’s all. But,” (after a pause), “haveI been mistaken? Does this unaccountably callous indifference at saying good-bye to one who is nothing to her—who never can be anything to her—argue that all the good qualities I have admired so much are non-existent, orbadqualities? Surely not! Let me consider. Let me look this perplexing matter straight in the face, and see what is to be made of it. Whatarethe good qualities that I seem to have been so mistaken about?”Frowning still more ferociously, as if with a view to constrain himself to the performance of a deed of impartial justice, our hero continued to mutter—“Earnest simplicity—that’s the first—no, that’s two qualities. Be just, Lawrence, whatever you are, be just. Earnestness, then, that’s the first point. Whatever else I may have been wrong about, there can be no mistake about that. She is intensely earnest. How often have I noticed her rapt attention and the eager flash of her dark eyes when Pedro or I chanced to tell any anecdote in which injustice or cruelty was laid bare. She is so earnest that I think sometimes she has difficulty in perceiving when one is in jest. She does not understand a practical joke—well, to be sure there was that upsetting of the coffee on Quashy’s leg! But after all Imusthave been mistaken in that. So much, then, for her earnestness. Next, simplicity. No child could be more simple. Utterly ignorant of the ways of the world—the nauseous conventionalities of civilised life! Brought up in a wigwam, no doubt, among the simple aborigines of the Pampas, or the mountains—yes, it must have been the mountains, for the Incas of Peru dwelt in the Andes.”He paused here for a few minutes and sauntered on in silence, while a tinge of perplexity mingled with the frown. No doubt he was thinking of the tendency exhibited now and then by the aborigines of the Pampas and mountains to raid on the white man now and then, and appropriate his herds as well as scalp himself!“However,shehad nothing to do with that,” he muttered, apologetically, “and cannot help the peculiarities of her kindred. Gentleness; that is the next quality. A man may mistake motives, but he cannot mistake facts. Her gentleness and sweetness are patent facts, and her modesty is also obvious. Then, she is a Christian. Pedro told me so. She never omits to pray, night and morning. Of course,thatdoes not constitute a Christian, but—well, then the Sabbath-day she has all along respected; and I am almost sure that our regular halts on that day, although ordered by Pedro, were suggested by Manuela. Of course, praying and Sabbath-keeping may be done by hypocrites, and for a bad end; but who, save a consummately blind idiot, would charge that girl with hypocrisy? Besides, what could she gain by it all? Pshaw! the idea is ridiculous. Of course there are many more good qualities which I might enumerate, but these are the most important and clearly pronounced—very clearly.”He said this very decidedly, for somehow a counteracting suggestion came from somewhere, reminding him that he had twice saved the Indian girl’s life; that he had tried with earnest devotion to help and amuse her in all their journeyings together, and that to be totally indifferent about final separation in these circumstances argued the absence of even ordinary gratitude, which is clearly one of the Christian virtues!“But, after all,” he muttered, indignantly, “would not any young fellow have done the same for any woman in the circumstances? And why should she care about parting fromme? I wouldn’t care much about parting from myself just now, if I could. There, now, that’s an end o’ the matter. She’ll go back to the wigwam of her father, and I’ll go and have a jolly good splitting gallop across the Pampas with Pedro and Quashy.”“Dat’s just de bery best t’ing what you can do, massa.”Lawrence turned round abruptly, and found that his faithful servant was hurrying after him, and grinning tremendously.“Why, you’re always laughing, Quash,” said the youth, a little sharply.“O massa!” exclaimed the negro, turning his mouth the other way. “I’s nebber laugh no more if you don’ like it.”“Like it, my good fellow!” exclaimed Lawrence, himself giving way to a short laugh to conceal his feelings, “of course I like it, only you came on me unexpectedly, and, to say truth, I am—”“Still out ob sorts, massa?”“Yes, that’s it—exactly.”“Well, for a man out ob sorts, you walk most awrful irriglar—one time slow, noder time so quick. I was ’bleeged to run to obertake you.”Further converse was checked by their arrival in the town. On reaching the hotel they found the place in considerable confusion and bustle owing to preparations for the governor’s ball, about to take place that evening.They met Pedro at the door.“You’ll go, I suppose?” he said to Lawrence, referring to the ball.“Indeed I will not. I’ve had no invitation, and have no evening dress.”“Why, Senhor Armstrong forgets he is not now in England,” said Pedro. “We require neither invitation nor evening dress in an out-o’-the-way place like this. You’ll find all sorts of people there. Indeed, a few are likely to be of the class who prefer to dance with their coats off.”“No matter, I’ll not go. Nothing will induce me to go,” returned Lawrence, firmly—almost testily.“Don’t say that,” rejoined Pedro, regarding his companion with a peculiar smile. “You may perhaps meet friends there.”“You know that I have no friends here,” returned our hero, who thereupon went off to his own room to meditate over his uncomfortable feelings.But when he had reached his room and shut his door, Pedro’s reference to meeting with friends, coupled with his peculiar look, recurred to him. What could the fellow mean? What friends had he in the country except Pedro himself and Quashy and Spotted Tiger and—and—Manuela, but of course he could not refer to the last, for who ever heard of a governor inviting an unknown Indian girl to a ball! No; Pedro must have been jesting. He wouldnotgo!But the longer he thought over the matter, the more were his perplexity and curiosity increased, until at last he wavered in his firm determination not to go, and when the ball was about to begin, of which the sounds of hurrying steps and musical instruments apprised him, he changed his mind. Combing his hair slightly, he tried to brush his rough garments with his hands, arranged his necktie and flannel collar a little, dusted his long boots with a towel, washed his hands, laid aside his weapons, and went off to the hall with the intention of at least looking in at the door to see what was going on.He met Pedro in the corridor.“Ha! Senhor Armstrong has changed his mind?”“Yes, I have.”Lawrence said this in the slightly defiant tone of a man who gives in with a bad grace. He was altogether “out of sorts” and unlike himself, but Pedro, like a true friend, took no notice of that.“I’m glad you have given in, senhor,” said Pedro, “for it saves me the trouble of dragging you there by force, in order that I may have the pleasure of seeing how you will look under the influence of a surprise.”“A surprise, Pedro?”“Yes. But come; the ball is about to begin.”At the end of the corridor they encountered the English sportsman, who at the same moment chanced to meet his friend, to whom he said—“I say, just come and—aw—have a look at the company. All free and easy, no tickets required, no dress, no—aw—there goes the governor—”The remainder was lost in distance as the two sporting characters sauntered to the ballroom, where they stood near the door, looking on with condescending benignity, as men might for whose amusement the whole affair had been arranged.And truly there was much to be amused at, as Lawrence and his companion, standing just within the doorway, soon found. Owing to the situation of the little town near the base of the mountains, there were men there of many nations and tongues on their way to various mines, or on business of some sort in or on the other side of the mountains—Germans, French, Italians, English, Spanish, and Portuguese. All strangers were welcomed by the hospitable governor and landlord—the latter of whom felt, no doubt, that his loss on food was more than counterbalanced by his gain on drink. Among the guests there were Gauchos of the Pampas, and the head men of a band of peons, who had just arrived with a herd of cattle. As these danced variously, in camp-dresses, top-boots, silver spurs, ponchos, and shirt sleeves, and as the ladies of the town appeared in picturesque and varied costumes with mantillas and fans, Lawrence felt as if he were witnessing a fancy dress gathering, and soon became so absorbed as to forget himself and his companion entirely.He was aroused from his reverie by the drawling exclamation—“Aw! indeed?”“Yes,” replied the landlord to the sportsman, “the colonel’s coming. He’s a jolly old man, and likes to see other people enjoyin’ a bit o’ fun. An’ what’s more, he’s goin’ to bring his daughter with him, and another girl—a niece, I suppose. They say they’re both splendid creatures.”“Aw! indeed,” languidly replied the sportsman, twisting his moustache.It was evident that the landlord had failed to arouse his interest.At that moment the first dance came to an end, and there was a stir at the upper end of the room, where was another door of entrance.“It’s the colonel,” exclaimed the landlord, hurrying forward.Colonel Marchbanks entered with a lady on either arm. He was a splendid old man—so tall that Lawrence could distinguish his fine bald head, with its fringe of white hair, rising high above the intervening guests.People became silent and fell away from him, as if to have a better look at him.“Come,” said Pedro, suddenly, “I will introduce you.”There was a strange gleam in Pedro’s eyes, and unwonted excitement in his manner, as he pushed his way through the crowd.Lawrence followed in some surprise.Suddenly he heard a sharp, strange, indescribable shout. It was the voice of Pedro, who was only a few yards in advance of him. Our hero sprang forward and beheld a sight which filled him with surprise. One of the girls who leaned on the colonel’s arm was a beautiful blonde of about fifteen, with flowing golden hair and rich brown eyes. She stood as if petrified, with the brown eyes gazing intensely at Pedro, who also stood transfixed returning the gaze with compound interest.“Mariquita!” he murmured, holding out both hands.“Yes,” said the delighted colonel, “I felt quite sure she was your child, but said nothing about—”“Father!” burst from the girl, as, with a cry of joy, she bounded into Pedro’s arms.“Just so,” continued the colonel, “I didn’t like to mention my suspicions for fear of raising false hopes, and thought the surest way would be to bring them face to face. Wasn’t it so, Manuela?”Lawrence turned as if he had received an electric shock. He had been so absorbed in the scene we have just described, that he had not looked at the girl who leaned on the colonel’s other arm. He now turned and beheld—not the Indian girl of his travels, but a fair-skinned, dark-eyed senhorina. Yet as he gazed, the blood seemed to rush to his brain, for these were the eyes of Manuela, and the slightly open little mouth was hers—the straight Grecian nose, and the graceful figure. It seemed as if his wildest dream were realised, and that Manuela had become white!He clasped his hands and gazed, as Pedro had just done, with such intensity that the sportsman, observing the rudeness, said to his friend—“Aw—don’t you think it would be as well to—aw—kick the fellow out of the room?”“Hallo! what’s this?” exclaimed the old colonel, turning sharply on Lawrence with a magnificent frown.It was quite evident thathe, as well as Pedro and our hero, had also received a most unexpected surprise, for, not only did the youth continue to stand gazing, with clasped hands, but the young lady did not seem in the least offended. On the contrary, she looked up at the colonel with an incomprehensible expression and a bewitching smile, as she said, in excellent English—“He is not rude, father, only astonished. Let me introduce my friend and preserver, Mr Lawrence Armstrong.”But Lawrence heard not, and cared nothing for the introduction.“ItisManuela!” he exclaimed, with a hesitating step forward, and a look of unbelief still lingering in his eyes.She held out her littlewhitehand!He grasped it. Thesamehand certainly! There could be no doubt about that.“’Pon my honour—aw—the most interestingtableau vivantI ever—aw—saw!”“Come, come,” cried the colonel, whose pleased smile had given place to unimaginable astonishment. “You—you should have prepared me for this, Manuela. I—I’m obliged to you, senhor, of course, for—for saving my daughter; but—come, follow me!”He turned and left the room with rapid strides, and would have dragged Manuela after him, if that young lady had not been endued with a pace—neat, active, and what is sometimes called “tripping,”—which kept her easily alongside of the ancient man of war.Lawrence followed mechanically.Pedro, with an arm round Mariquita’s waist, brought up the rear.As they vanished through the doorway the people gave them a hearty cheer, and resumed dancing.The sportsman found himself so much overcome that he could only ejaculate, “aw!” But presently he recovered so far as to say, “Let’s go an’ have a ciga’,” and he also melted from the scene.
There are, we suppose, in the lives of all men, critical periods—testing-points, as it were—when their faith in everything true is shaken almost, if not quite, to the foundation, and when they are tempted to ask with more or less of bitterness, “Who will show us any good?”
Well is it for such when, in the hour of trial, they can look up to the Fountain of all good and, in the face of doubt, darkness, difficulty, ay, and seeming contradiction, simply “believe” and “trust.”
When Lawrence Armstrong slowly sauntered back to the inn after his final interview with Manuela, it surprised even himself to find how strong had been his feelings, how profound his faith in the girl’s goodness of heart, and how intensely bitter was his disappointment.
“But it’s all over now,” he muttered, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and frowning ferociously at some imaginary wrong, though he would have been puzzled, if required, to state exactly what the wrong was. “All over,” he repeated, and then continued with an affected air of indifference, “and what of that? What matters it to me that I have been mistaken? I never was in love with the girl. How could I be with a black—well, a brown squaw. Impossible! It was only admiration—strong admiration I admit—of what I had fancied were rarely fine qualities, especially in a sav— an Indian; and I’ve been mistaken; that’s all. That’s all. But,” (after a pause), “haveI been mistaken? Does this unaccountably callous indifference at saying good-bye to one who is nothing to her—who never can be anything to her—argue that all the good qualities I have admired so much are non-existent, orbadqualities? Surely not! Let me consider. Let me look this perplexing matter straight in the face, and see what is to be made of it. Whatarethe good qualities that I seem to have been so mistaken about?”
Frowning still more ferociously, as if with a view to constrain himself to the performance of a deed of impartial justice, our hero continued to mutter—
“Earnest simplicity—that’s the first—no, that’s two qualities. Be just, Lawrence, whatever you are, be just. Earnestness, then, that’s the first point. Whatever else I may have been wrong about, there can be no mistake about that. She is intensely earnest. How often have I noticed her rapt attention and the eager flash of her dark eyes when Pedro or I chanced to tell any anecdote in which injustice or cruelty was laid bare. She is so earnest that I think sometimes she has difficulty in perceiving when one is in jest. She does not understand a practical joke—well, to be sure there was that upsetting of the coffee on Quashy’s leg! But after all Imusthave been mistaken in that. So much, then, for her earnestness. Next, simplicity. No child could be more simple. Utterly ignorant of the ways of the world—the nauseous conventionalities of civilised life! Brought up in a wigwam, no doubt, among the simple aborigines of the Pampas, or the mountains—yes, it must have been the mountains, for the Incas of Peru dwelt in the Andes.”
He paused here for a few minutes and sauntered on in silence, while a tinge of perplexity mingled with the frown. No doubt he was thinking of the tendency exhibited now and then by the aborigines of the Pampas and mountains to raid on the white man now and then, and appropriate his herds as well as scalp himself!
“However,shehad nothing to do with that,” he muttered, apologetically, “and cannot help the peculiarities of her kindred. Gentleness; that is the next quality. A man may mistake motives, but he cannot mistake facts. Her gentleness and sweetness are patent facts, and her modesty is also obvious. Then, she is a Christian. Pedro told me so. She never omits to pray, night and morning. Of course,thatdoes not constitute a Christian, but—well, then the Sabbath-day she has all along respected; and I am almost sure that our regular halts on that day, although ordered by Pedro, were suggested by Manuela. Of course, praying and Sabbath-keeping may be done by hypocrites, and for a bad end; but who, save a consummately blind idiot, would charge that girl with hypocrisy? Besides, what could she gain by it all? Pshaw! the idea is ridiculous. Of course there are many more good qualities which I might enumerate, but these are the most important and clearly pronounced—very clearly.”
He said this very decidedly, for somehow a counteracting suggestion came from somewhere, reminding him that he had twice saved the Indian girl’s life; that he had tried with earnest devotion to help and amuse her in all their journeyings together, and that to be totally indifferent about final separation in these circumstances argued the absence of even ordinary gratitude, which is clearly one of the Christian virtues!
“But, after all,” he muttered, indignantly, “would not any young fellow have done the same for any woman in the circumstances? And why should she care about parting fromme? I wouldn’t care much about parting from myself just now, if I could. There, now, that’s an end o’ the matter. She’ll go back to the wigwam of her father, and I’ll go and have a jolly good splitting gallop across the Pampas with Pedro and Quashy.”
“Dat’s just de bery best t’ing what you can do, massa.”
Lawrence turned round abruptly, and found that his faithful servant was hurrying after him, and grinning tremendously.
“Why, you’re always laughing, Quash,” said the youth, a little sharply.
“O massa!” exclaimed the negro, turning his mouth the other way. “I’s nebber laugh no more if you don’ like it.”
“Like it, my good fellow!” exclaimed Lawrence, himself giving way to a short laugh to conceal his feelings, “of course I like it, only you came on me unexpectedly, and, to say truth, I am—”
“Still out ob sorts, massa?”
“Yes, that’s it—exactly.”
“Well, for a man out ob sorts, you walk most awrful irriglar—one time slow, noder time so quick. I was ’bleeged to run to obertake you.”
Further converse was checked by their arrival in the town. On reaching the hotel they found the place in considerable confusion and bustle owing to preparations for the governor’s ball, about to take place that evening.
They met Pedro at the door.
“You’ll go, I suppose?” he said to Lawrence, referring to the ball.
“Indeed I will not. I’ve had no invitation, and have no evening dress.”
“Why, Senhor Armstrong forgets he is not now in England,” said Pedro. “We require neither invitation nor evening dress in an out-o’-the-way place like this. You’ll find all sorts of people there. Indeed, a few are likely to be of the class who prefer to dance with their coats off.”
“No matter, I’ll not go. Nothing will induce me to go,” returned Lawrence, firmly—almost testily.
“Don’t say that,” rejoined Pedro, regarding his companion with a peculiar smile. “You may perhaps meet friends there.”
“You know that I have no friends here,” returned our hero, who thereupon went off to his own room to meditate over his uncomfortable feelings.
But when he had reached his room and shut his door, Pedro’s reference to meeting with friends, coupled with his peculiar look, recurred to him. What could the fellow mean? What friends had he in the country except Pedro himself and Quashy and Spotted Tiger and—and—Manuela, but of course he could not refer to the last, for who ever heard of a governor inviting an unknown Indian girl to a ball! No; Pedro must have been jesting. He wouldnotgo!
But the longer he thought over the matter, the more were his perplexity and curiosity increased, until at last he wavered in his firm determination not to go, and when the ball was about to begin, of which the sounds of hurrying steps and musical instruments apprised him, he changed his mind. Combing his hair slightly, he tried to brush his rough garments with his hands, arranged his necktie and flannel collar a little, dusted his long boots with a towel, washed his hands, laid aside his weapons, and went off to the hall with the intention of at least looking in at the door to see what was going on.
He met Pedro in the corridor.
“Ha! Senhor Armstrong has changed his mind?”
“Yes, I have.”
Lawrence said this in the slightly defiant tone of a man who gives in with a bad grace. He was altogether “out of sorts” and unlike himself, but Pedro, like a true friend, took no notice of that.
“I’m glad you have given in, senhor,” said Pedro, “for it saves me the trouble of dragging you there by force, in order that I may have the pleasure of seeing how you will look under the influence of a surprise.”
“A surprise, Pedro?”
“Yes. But come; the ball is about to begin.”
At the end of the corridor they encountered the English sportsman, who at the same moment chanced to meet his friend, to whom he said—
“I say, just come and—aw—have a look at the company. All free and easy, no tickets required, no dress, no—aw—there goes the governor—”
The remainder was lost in distance as the two sporting characters sauntered to the ballroom, where they stood near the door, looking on with condescending benignity, as men might for whose amusement the whole affair had been arranged.
And truly there was much to be amused at, as Lawrence and his companion, standing just within the doorway, soon found. Owing to the situation of the little town near the base of the mountains, there were men there of many nations and tongues on their way to various mines, or on business of some sort in or on the other side of the mountains—Germans, French, Italians, English, Spanish, and Portuguese. All strangers were welcomed by the hospitable governor and landlord—the latter of whom felt, no doubt, that his loss on food was more than counterbalanced by his gain on drink. Among the guests there were Gauchos of the Pampas, and the head men of a band of peons, who had just arrived with a herd of cattle. As these danced variously, in camp-dresses, top-boots, silver spurs, ponchos, and shirt sleeves, and as the ladies of the town appeared in picturesque and varied costumes with mantillas and fans, Lawrence felt as if he were witnessing a fancy dress gathering, and soon became so absorbed as to forget himself and his companion entirely.
He was aroused from his reverie by the drawling exclamation—
“Aw! indeed?”
“Yes,” replied the landlord to the sportsman, “the colonel’s coming. He’s a jolly old man, and likes to see other people enjoyin’ a bit o’ fun. An’ what’s more, he’s goin’ to bring his daughter with him, and another girl—a niece, I suppose. They say they’re both splendid creatures.”
“Aw! indeed,” languidly replied the sportsman, twisting his moustache.
It was evident that the landlord had failed to arouse his interest.
At that moment the first dance came to an end, and there was a stir at the upper end of the room, where was another door of entrance.
“It’s the colonel,” exclaimed the landlord, hurrying forward.
Colonel Marchbanks entered with a lady on either arm. He was a splendid old man—so tall that Lawrence could distinguish his fine bald head, with its fringe of white hair, rising high above the intervening guests.
People became silent and fell away from him, as if to have a better look at him.
“Come,” said Pedro, suddenly, “I will introduce you.”
There was a strange gleam in Pedro’s eyes, and unwonted excitement in his manner, as he pushed his way through the crowd.
Lawrence followed in some surprise.
Suddenly he heard a sharp, strange, indescribable shout. It was the voice of Pedro, who was only a few yards in advance of him. Our hero sprang forward and beheld a sight which filled him with surprise. One of the girls who leaned on the colonel’s arm was a beautiful blonde of about fifteen, with flowing golden hair and rich brown eyes. She stood as if petrified, with the brown eyes gazing intensely at Pedro, who also stood transfixed returning the gaze with compound interest.
“Mariquita!” he murmured, holding out both hands.
“Yes,” said the delighted colonel, “I felt quite sure she was your child, but said nothing about—”
“Father!” burst from the girl, as, with a cry of joy, she bounded into Pedro’s arms.
“Just so,” continued the colonel, “I didn’t like to mention my suspicions for fear of raising false hopes, and thought the surest way would be to bring them face to face. Wasn’t it so, Manuela?”
Lawrence turned as if he had received an electric shock. He had been so absorbed in the scene we have just described, that he had not looked at the girl who leaned on the colonel’s other arm. He now turned and beheld—not the Indian girl of his travels, but a fair-skinned, dark-eyed senhorina. Yet as he gazed, the blood seemed to rush to his brain, for these were the eyes of Manuela, and the slightly open little mouth was hers—the straight Grecian nose, and the graceful figure. It seemed as if his wildest dream were realised, and that Manuela had become white!
He clasped his hands and gazed, as Pedro had just done, with such intensity that the sportsman, observing the rudeness, said to his friend—
“Aw—don’t you think it would be as well to—aw—kick the fellow out of the room?”
“Hallo! what’s this?” exclaimed the old colonel, turning sharply on Lawrence with a magnificent frown.
It was quite evident thathe, as well as Pedro and our hero, had also received a most unexpected surprise, for, not only did the youth continue to stand gazing, with clasped hands, but the young lady did not seem in the least offended. On the contrary, she looked up at the colonel with an incomprehensible expression and a bewitching smile, as she said, in excellent English—
“He is not rude, father, only astonished. Let me introduce my friend and preserver, Mr Lawrence Armstrong.”
But Lawrence heard not, and cared nothing for the introduction.
“ItisManuela!” he exclaimed, with a hesitating step forward, and a look of unbelief still lingering in his eyes.
She held out her littlewhitehand!
He grasped it. Thesamehand certainly! There could be no doubt about that.
“’Pon my honour—aw—the most interestingtableau vivantI ever—aw—saw!”
“Come, come,” cried the colonel, whose pleased smile had given place to unimaginable astonishment. “You—you should have prepared me for this, Manuela. I—I’m obliged to you, senhor, of course, for—for saving my daughter; but—come, follow me!”
He turned and left the room with rapid strides, and would have dragged Manuela after him, if that young lady had not been endued with a pace—neat, active, and what is sometimes called “tripping,”—which kept her easily alongside of the ancient man of war.
Lawrence followed mechanically.
Pedro, with an arm round Mariquita’s waist, brought up the rear.
As they vanished through the doorway the people gave them a hearty cheer, and resumed dancing.
The sportsman found himself so much overcome that he could only ejaculate, “aw!” But presently he recovered so far as to say, “Let’s go an’ have a ciga’,” and he also melted from the scene.