CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.
DESCRIBES SEVERAL MYSTERIOUS MEETINGS AND CONVERSATIONS.
Descriptions, however graphic or faithful, are for the most partmisleading and ineffective. Who ever went to a town or a region, andfound it to resemble the picture of it which had been previously paintedon his imagination by description?
For an account of Buenos Ayres we refer the inquiring reader to otherbooks.
Our business at present is with Quashy and "Sooz'n."
That sable and now united couple stand under the shade of a marblecolonnade watching with open-mouthed interest the bustle of the streetin which men and women of many nations--French, Italian, Spanish,English, and other--are passing to and fro on business or pleasure.
This huge, populous town was not only a new sight, but an almost newidea to the negroes, and they were lost alike in amusement andamazement.
"Hi!" exclaimed Quashy in his falsetto, "look, look dar, Sooz'n--dasfunny."
He pointed to a little boy who, squatted like a toad on a horse's back,was galloping to market with several skins of milk slung on either sideof the saddle, so that there was no room for his legs.
"O Quash!" exclaimed the bride, "dar's pumpkins for you. Look!"
They were indeed notable pumpkins--so large that five of them completelyfilled a wagon drawn by two oxen.
"But come, Sooz'n, da'ling," said Quashy, starting as if he had justrecollected something, "you said you was gwine to tell me suffin aswould make my hair stan' on end. It'll be awrful strong if it doos dat,for my wool am stiff, an' de curls pritty tight."
"Yes, I comed here wid you a-purpose to tell you," replied the bride,"an' to ax your 'pinion. But let's go ober to dat seat in de sun. Inot like de shade."
"Come along, den, Sooz'n. It's all one to me where we goes, for youreyes dey make sunshine in de shade, an' suffin as good as shade in desunshine, ole gurl."
"Git along wid your rubbish!" retorted Susan as they crossed the street.It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallantspouse.
"Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art'," said Quashy, sittingdown with a contented sigh. "To be here a-frizzlin' in de sunshine widSooz'n a-smilin' at me like a black angel. D'you know, Sooz'n," headded, with a serious look, "it gibs me a good deal o' trouble tobeliebe it."
"Yes, it _am_ awrful nice," responded Susan, gravely, "but we's not comehere to make lub, Quashy, so hol' your tongue, an' I'll tell you what Iheared."
She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reducedher husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy, she began in a lowvoice--
"You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob hisfadder's fortin."
"Yes, I knows dat, Sooz'n," replied her husband, with an expression ofthe deepest woe.
"Well, den--"
"No, Sooz'n, it's _ill_ den."
"Quashy!" (remonstratively.)
"Yes?" (interrogatively.)
"Hol' your tongue."
"Yes, da'ling."
"Well, den," began Susan again, with serious emphasis, "don' 'trupt meagin, or I'll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat hewouldn't deceive nobody--not even a skeeter."
"I knows _dat_, Sooz'n, not even a nigger."
"Ob course not," continued Susan; "so what does massa do, but goes offstraight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an' he says, says he, `Kurnel, you's abeggar.'"
"No, Sooz'n, he di'n't say dat. Dough you says it wid your own sweetlips, I don' beliebe it."
"Right, Quashy. You's allers right," returned the bride, with a beamingsmile. "I made a 'stake--das all. I should hab said dat massa he said,says he, `Kurnel Muchbunks,' says he, `I's a beggar.'"
"Dat was a lie, Sooz'n," said Quashy, in some surprise.
"I's afeard it was," assented Susan, gravely.
"Well, an' what says de kurnel to dat?" asked the saddened negro, with asigh.
"Oh! he beliebed it, an' he says, says he, `I's griebed to hear it,Mis'r Amstrung, an' ob course you cannot 'spect me to gib my consent tomy darter marryin' a beggar!' O Quash, w'en I hears dat--I--bu'steda'most! I do beliebe if I'd bin 'longside o' dat kurnel at dat momint Ihab gib him a most horrible smack in de face."
"De skownril!" muttered Quashy between his clenched teeth. "But whathappen arter dat, Sooz'n?"
"Nuffin happen. Only poor massa he look bery sad, an' says, says he,`Kurnel, I's come to say farewell. I would not t'ink ob asking yourconsent to such a marriage, but I do ask you to hold out de hope dat ifI ebber comes back agin wid a kumpitincy, (don' know 'zactly what datis, but dat's what he called it)--wid a kumpitincy, you'll not forbid mepayin' my 'dresses to your darter.' What he wants to pay her dressesfor, an' why he calls dem _his_ dresses, is more nor I can guess, butdas what he say, an' de kurnel he says, says he, `No, Mis'r Amstrung,I'll not hold out no sich hope. It's time enough to speak ob dat whenyou comes back. It's bery kind ob you to sabe my darter's life, but--'an' den he says a heap more, but I cou'n't make it rightly out, I _was_so mad."
"When dey was partin', he says, says he, `Mis'r Amstrung, you mus'promise me not to 'tempt to meet my darter before leaving.' I know'd,by de long silence and den by de way he speak dat Massa Lawrence no likedat, but at last he says, says he, `Well, kurnel, I do promise dat I'llmake no 'tempt to meet wid her,' an' den he hoed away. Now, Quashy,what you t'ink ob all dat?"
"I t'ink it am a puzzler," replied the negro, his face twisted up intowrinkles of perplexity. "I's puzzled to hear dat massa tell a big lieby sayin' he's a beggar, an' den _show_ dat it's a lie by offerin' topay for de kurnel's darter's dresses. It's koorious, but white folk_has_ sitch koorious ways dat it's not easy to understan' dem. Let's bet'ankful, Sooz'n, you an' me, that we're bof black."
"So I is, Quash, bery t'ankful, but what's to be dooed? Is massa to goaway widout sayin' good-bye to Miss Manuela?"
"Cer'nly not," cried the negro, with sudden energy, seizing his wife'sface between his hands, and giving her lips a smack that resounded overthe place--to the immense delight of several little Gaucho boys, who,clothed in nothing but ponchos and pugnacity, stood gazing at thecouple.
Quashy jumped up with such violence that the boys in ponchos fled as hehurried along the street with his bride, earnestly explaining to her ashe went, his new-born plans.
At the same moment that this conversation was taking place, LawrenceArmstrong and Pedro--_alias_ Conrad of the Mountains--were holdingequally interesting and perhaps more earnest converse over two pots ofcoffee in a restaurant.
"I have already told you, senhor," said Pedro, "that old Ignaciofollowed us thus hotly, and overtook us as it happened so opportunely,for the purpose of telling me of a piece of good fortune that has justbeen sent to me."
"True," returned Lawrence, "and in the bustle of the moment when youtold me I forgot to congratulate you, whatever the good fortune may be.What was it?"
"Good old Ignacio little knew," continued Pedro, sipping his coffee withan air of supreme contentment, "what glad news I had in store forhimself about my little Mariquita--the light of my eyes, the very echoof her mother! The good fortune he had to tell me of was but as acandle to the sun compared with what I had to reveal to _him_, for whatis wealth compared with love? However, the other piece of good news isnot to be sneezed at."
"But what _is_ this good news, Pedro?" asked Lawrence, with a touch ofimpatience, for his curiosity was aroused, and Pedro's mode ofcommunicating glad tidings was not rapid.
Before he could reply their attention was attracted by the noisy andself-assertive entrance of two jovial British sailors, who, although notquite drunk, were in that condition which is styled by some people"elevated"--by others, debased. Whatever view may be taken of theircondition, there could be only one opinion as to their effusivegood-humour and universal good-will--a good-will which would probablyhave expanded at once into pugnacity, if any one had ventured to suggestthat the couple had had more than enough of strong drink.
"Now
then, Bill," cried one, smiting the other with facetious violenceon the back, "what'll you have?" Then, without waiting for a reply, headded, to the waiter, "Let's have some brary-an'-warer!"
The brandy and water having been supplied, Bill nodded his head, cried,"Here's luck, Jim," and drained his first glass. Jim responded with thebriefer toast, "Luck!" and followed the other's draining example.
"Now, I'll tell you wot it is, Jim," said Bill, setting down his glassand gazing at the brandy bottle with a solemnly virtuous look, "Iwouldn't go for to see another bull-fight like that one we saw justbefore we left Monte Video, no, not if you was to give me a thousan'pound down."
"No more would I," responded Jim, regarding the water-jug with avirtuously indignant air.
"Such dis-_gusting_ cruelty," continued Bill. "To see two strong menstand up o' their own accord an' hammer their two noses into somethin'like plum duff, an' their two daylights into one, ain't more nor aor'nary seaman can stand; but to see a plucky little bull set to gorean' rip up a lot o' poor blinded horses, with a lot o' cowardly beggarseggin' it on, an' stickin' darts all over it, an' the place reekin' wi'blood, an' the people cheerin' like mad--why--it--it made me a'mostsea-sick, which I never was in my life yet. Bah! Pass the bottle,Jim."
"You're right, Bill," assented Jim, passing the bottle, "an' it madepoor young Ansty sick altogether. Leastwise, I saw his good-lookin'face turn a'most green as he got up in a hurry like an' left the place,for you know, big an' well made as he is, an' able to hold his own wi'the best, Dick Ansty has the heart of a woman for tenderness. His onlyfault is that he's a tee-totaller."
"Ay, a g-great fault that," said Bill, pouring out and spilling most ofanother glass. "I wouldn't give much for him."
"You couldn't help likin' him, though, if you'd sailed with him as I'vedone," returned Jim. "He's a reg'lar brick, though he don't smokeneither."
"Don't smoke?" exclaimed Bill, aghast. "Then he ain't fit for _this_world! Why, what does he think 'baccy was made for?"
"I dun know as to that, Bill, but I do know that he's goin' to leave us.You see, he's only a sort of half-hand--worked his passage out, youknow, an' well he did it too, though he is only a land-lubber, bein' aCornishman, who's bin lookin' arter mines o' some sort ever since he wasa boy. He says he's in great luck, havin' fallen in wi' a party as isjust agoin' to start for the west under a feller they call Conrad o' theMountains."
Lawrence and Pedro, who had been trying to ignore the presence of thesailors, and to converse in spite of their noise, became suddenlyinterested at this point, and the former glanced inquiringly at thelatter.
"Listen," said Pedro, in a low voice, and with a nod of intelligence.
"It's a queer story," continued Jim. "I heard all about it this verymornin' from himself. He'd bin givin' some on us a lot o' good advice.You see, he's a sort of edicated chap, an' got a tremendjous gift o' thegab, but none of us could take offence at 'im, for he's such a quiet,modest feller--although he _is_ big! Well, you must know that--that--what was I sayin'?"
"P-pash th' bottle," said Bill.
"No, that's not what I was--Oh yes, I was goin' to say he'd bin givin'us good advice, `because you must know, shipmates,' says he, `that I'vebin in good luck on shore, havin' fallen in with a most interestin' man,whose right name I don't know yet, because everybody speaks of him asConrad of the Mountains, though some calls him Pedro, and others theRover of the Andes, and a good lot say he's a robber. But I don't caretwopence what they say, for I've seen him, and believe him to be afirst-rate feller. Anyhow, he's a rich one, and has bin hirin' a fewmen to help him to work his silver-mine, and as I know somethin' aboutmining, he has engaged me to superintend the underground work.'
"You may be sure we was surprised as well as pleased to hear all this,an' we pumped him, in course, a good deal, an' he told us that the minewas in the Andes somewheres, at a place called Murrykeety Valley, orsome such name. This Conrad had discovered the mine a good while ago,and had got an old trapper an' a boy to work it, but never made much ofit till a few months back, when the old man an' the boy came suddenly onsome rich ground, where the silver was shovelled up in buckets. Incourse I don't rightly know what like silver is when first got hold on.It ain't in ready-made dollars, I dare say, but anyhow, they say thisConrad'll be as rich as a nabob; an' he's got a pretty darter too, ashas bin lost the most of her life, and just turned up at the same timewi' the silver. I don't rightly know if they dug her up in the mine,but there she is, an' she's goin' up to the mountains too, so youngAnsty will be in good company."
"Jim," said Bill at this point, looking with unsteady solemnity at hiscomrade, and speaking slowly, "I d-don' b-b'lieve a single word on't.Here, give us a light, an'--an'--pash th' borle."
Rising at this point, Lawrence and Pedro left those jovial British tarsto their elevating occupations.
"Well, senhor," said the latter as they walked away, "you have heard itall, though not just in the way I had intended!"
"But tell me, Pedro, is this all true?"
"Substantially it is as you have heard it described, only I have hadmore people than old Ignacio and his boy to work my silver-mine. I havehad several men at it for a long time, and hitherto it has paidsufficiently well to induce me to continue the works; but when Ignaciovisited it a few weeks ago, in passing on his way here to meet me, hefound that a very rich lode had been found--so rich, indeed, andextensive, that there is every reason to expect what men call `afortune' out of it. There is a grave, as you know, which dims for methe lustre of any fortune, but now that it has pleased the Almighty togive me back my child, I will gladly, for her sake, try to extract alittle more than the mere necessaries of life out of my silver-mine.Now, my friend," added Pedro, suddenly stopping and confronting our herowith a decided air, and an earnest look, "will you join me in thisventure? I would not give up my life's work here for all the mines inPeru. In order to raise the people and improve the condition of thisland, I must continue to be a Rover of the Andes to the end of my days.So, as I cannot superintend extensive mining operations at the sametime, I must have a manager, and I know of no one whom I should like tohave associated with me half so well as Senhor Lawrence Armstrong. Willyou go with me to the Mariquita Valley?"
Lawrence paused a minute, with his eyes on the ground, before answering.
"I am flattered by your good opinion, Pedro," he said at length, "andwill give you an answer to-morrow, if that will do. I never take anyimportant step in haste. This afternoon I have an appointment withQuashy, and as the hour is near, and I promised to be _very_ punctual,you will excuse my leaving you now."
"Certainly--to-morrow will do," said Pedro, "I hope to take Quashy alsowith me. He is a queer fellow."
"He is particularly queer just now," returned Lawrence. "I think hismarriage with Susan has turned his brain. So, good-bye, Pedro--tillto-morrow."
They shook hands heartily, and parted.
That same afternoon Quashy paid a formal visit to Manuela at herfather's residence in the suburbs of Buenos Ayres, and told her, with avisage elongated to the uttermost, and eyes in which solemnity satenthroned, that a very sick man in the country wanted to see herimmediately before he died.
"Dear me, Quashy," said Manuela, an expression of sympathy appearing atonce on her fine eyebrows, "who is it? what is his name? and why does hesend for me?"
"I can't tell you his name, miss. I's not allowed. But it's a badcase, an' it will be awrful if he should die widout seein' you. You'dbetter be quick, miss, an' I'll promise to guide _you_ safe, an' takegreat care ob you."
"That I know you will, Quashy. I can trust you. I'll order my horseim--"
"De hoss am at de door a'ready, miss. I order 'im afore I come here."
Manuela could not restrain a little laugh at the cool presumption of hersable friend, as she ran out of the room to get ready.
A few minutes more and the pair were cantering through the streets inthe direction of the western suburbs of the town.
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CHAPTER THIRTY.
THE LAST.
We regret to have to record the fact that Quashy's deep-laid schemes inbehalf of Manuela and the "sick man" miscarried.
That same night, by the light of the full moon, he revealed to Susan hisaccount of the affair, with a visage in which the solemnity of thewondering eyes seemed to absorb the expression of all the otherfeatures.
"Sooz'n," he said, "de white folk is past my compre'nshin altogidder,an' I ha'n't got words to tell you how t'ankful I am dat you an' me wasborn black."
"Das true, Quash. We's got reasin to rejoice. But what went wrong?"
"What went wrong? why, my lub, eberyt'ing went wrong. Look here, diswas de way ob it. When me an' Miss Manuela got to de place whar I hadfix on, dar was de lub-sick man sure 'nuff, an' you may b'liebe he look'stonished to see Manuela, but he wasn't half so 'stonished as me at deway dey hoed on. What d'ee t'ink dey dooed, Sooz'n?"
"Dun know. S'pose dey run into each oder's arms, an' hab a danceround--like me an' you."
"Nuffin ob de sort. I wouldn't hab bin suprised at dat at all. No,arter de fust look o' suprise, Massa Lawrence looked orkerd, an' MissManuela looked orkerder!"
"It had bin in my mind," continued Quashy, "arter I had bring 'emtogidder, to turn about, an' enter into conbersation wid my hoss--what'spritty well used to my talk by dis time--but when I see how t'ings went,I forgot to turn about, so ob course I heard an' saw'd."
"You wasn't innercent _dat_ time, Quashy."
"I di'n't say I was, Sooz'n, but I cou'n't help it. Well, MassaLawrence, who's too much of a man to remain orkerd long, goes up to MissManuela wid a leetle smile, an' holds out his hand. She shakes it quitegently-like, zif dey was on'y noo acquaintances jest interdooced. Obcourse I di'n't hear rightly all dey said--"
"Ha! wantin' to keep up a _leetle_ innercence?"
"Jest so, Sooz'n, but I couldn't help hearin' a good deal--somet'inglike dis:--
"Says Massa Lawrence, says he, `Arternoon, Miss Muchbunks.' `Ditto toyou, sir,' says Manuela--"
"No, she didn't say dat," interrupted Susan, with decision.
"Well, no, p'r'aps not 'zactly dat, Sooz'n, but suffin wid de samemeanin'. You know it i'n't possible for me to speak like dem. An' deybof seemed to hab got deir go-to-meetin' langwidge on--all stiff an'stuck up grammar, same zif dey was at school. Well, arter de speechabout de wedder, dey bof blushed--I could see dat, dough I was tryin'hard not to look,--and dey was so long silent dat I begin to t'ink obofferin' to help, when Massa Lawrence he plucked up heart all ob asuddent, an' went in like a good un.
"`Manuela,' says he, quite bold-like, `I promised your fadder dat Iwould not make any 'tempt to meet you before leabing for de mountains,an' I hab fait'fully striben to keep dat promise. It is by mere chance,I assure you, dat I hab meet you here now, and I would not, for all dewurl' break my word to your fadder. But as chance _hab_ t'rown you inmy way, it cannot be wrong to tell you--what you knows a'ready--dat Ilub you, and dat, God permittin', I will return ere long to BuenosAyres. Farewell.'
"Wid dat he wheel round, zif he was afraid to trust hisself to say more,an' went off at full gallop."
"An' what did Miss Manuela say?" asked Susan.
"She say not'ing--not one word--on'y she smile a leetle, an' kiss herhand to him when he hoed away. It passes my compre'nshin, kite. An' aswe rode home she says to me, says she, `Quashy, you's a good boy!' Ibery near say to her, `Manuela, you's a bad gurl,' but I di'n't feelkite up to dat."
"Quashy, you're a fool," said Susan, abruptly.
"Das no news," returned the amiable man, "I's said dat ob myself oberan' ober again since I's growed up. De on'y time I feel kite sure Iwasn't a fool was de time I falled in lub wid you, Sooz'n."
As the negro's account of this inflecting and parting was substantiallycorrect, we feel indisposed to add more to it, except to say that ourhero stuck manfully to his resolve, and finally went off to the distantvalley in the Andes without again meeting the Inca princess.
He was accompanied by Pedro and his daughter, Quashy and Susan, Ignacio,the old hunter, and his boy, as well as Spotted Tiger. In addition tothese there was a pretty large following--some engaged in the service ofPedro, others taking advantage of the escort. Among them were DickAnsty, the Cornish youth, Antonio, the ex-bandit, and the Englishsportsman with--aw--his friend.
It is not our purpose to drag the patient reader a second time over therolling Pampas, or to introduce him to the mysteries of silver-mining inthe Andes. Our end shall be sufficiently explained by stating the factthat as Lawrence was faithful to his promise to Colonel Marchbanks, hewas not less faithful to his promise to the daughter.
A year had barely elapsed when he found himself once again in BuenosAyres, with the faithful Quashy at his side, and presented himselfbefore the old colonel, not now as a beggar, but as part owner of one ofthe richest silver-mines in Peru.
Colonel Marchbanks, although a prudent man, was by no means avaricious.
"The chief bar which prevented my listening to your proposal," he saidto Lawrence at their first interview, "is now removed, but I have yet tolearn from my daughter's own lips that she will have you. I havecarefully avoided the subject from the very first, because I have nofaith whatever in forcing, or even leading, the affections of a younggirl. And let me tell you flatly, young senhor, that your being therichest man in Peru, and the greatest man as well, would not influenceme so much as the weight of a feather, if Manuela does not care for you.So, you will prepare yourself to abide as well as you can by her finaldecision."
"I am prepared to abide by Manuela's decision," replied Lawrence, withwhat may be termed a modest smile.
"'Pon my word, young man, you seem to be unwarrantably sure of yourposition," said the colonel, somewhat sternly. "However, you have heardall I mean to say on the subject just now. Leave me, and return here inthe evening."
When Lawrence was gone, the old soldier found his daughter in atastefully arranged closet which she called her boudoir, the miniatureglass-door of which opened on a luxuriant garden, where wood, water,sunshine, and herbage, wild and tame, seemed to revel for the mastery.
"That young fellow Armstrong has come back," said the old man, abruptly.
"I know it," was Manuela's brief reply. She did not look up, being toobusily engaged at the moment in the hideously commonplace act of darningthe smallest possible hole in one of her dear little stockings.
"You know it, child?"
"Yes, father."
"Do you also know that he has just been here, and formally asked yourhand in marriage?"
"Yes, father, I know it."
"Why, child, how could you know that? You surely have not been temptedto--to condescend to eavesdropping?"
"No, father, I have not condescended to that, but I have heard it on thebest authority. Have you not yourself just told me?"
"Oh--ah--well," exclaimed the stern man, relaxing into a smile in spiteof himself, as he observed the calm, quiet, earnest way in which thatprincess of the Incas applied herself to the reparation of that littlehole. "Now Manuela, my darling," continued the colonel, changing histone and manner suddenly as he sat down beside her and put a handlovingly on her shoulder, "you know that I would not for all the worldpermit, or induce you to do anything that would risk your happiness. Inow come to ask you seriously if you--if you are in--in short, if youadmire this young fellow."
Instead of answering, Manuela, while searching carefully for any otherlittle hole that might have been made, or that was on the eve of beingmade, by any other little toe, asked the astounding question--
"Is he rich, father?"
A mixture of surprise and annoyance marked the old man's tone and lookas he replied--
"Why, what has _that_ got to do with it?"
"Have you not over and over again warned me, father, to beware of thosegay young fellows who haven't got two sixpences to rub against eachother, but have presumption enough to trifle with the affections of
allthe silly girls in the world. And are you sorry that I should have laidyour lessons to heart?"
"Tut, child, don't talk nonsense. Whether he is rich or poor is a merematter of moonshine. The question I have to settle just now is--Are youfond of him?"
"Well, no, father, I can't exactly say that I--"
"I knew it! I was _sure_ of it! The presumptuous puppy!" shouted theold man of war, jumping up, overturning a work-table with itsinnumerable contents, and striding towards the door.
"Stay, father!" said Manuela, in a tone that military discipline forbadehim to disobey, and holding out both her hands with an air and gracethat love forbade him to resist. "I _don't_ admire him, and I'm _not_fond of him," continued the Inca princess, vehemently, as she graspedher parent's hands; "these terms are ridiculously inadequate. I lovehim, father--I _adore_ him--I--"
She stopped abruptly, for a noise at the glass-door caused her to turnher eyes in that direction. It was Quashy, who stood there staring atthem with all his eyes, and grinning at them with more than all hismouth--to say nothing of his ears!
"You black baboon!" shouted the colonel, when able to speak.
"Oh, nebber mind me, kurnel," said Quashy, with a deprecatory air,"'skuse me. I's on'y habin' a stroll in de gardin an' come here kite byhaxidint. Go on wid your leetle game, an' nebber mind me. I's on'y anigger."
Colonel Marchbanks could not decide whether to laugh or storm. Manueladecided the question for him by inviting the negro to enter, which hedid with humble urbanity.
"Shake hands with him, father. He's only a nigger, as he says, but he'sone of the very best and bravest and most faithful niggers that _I_ everhad to do with."
"You's bery good, Miss--a'most as good as Sooz'n."
"Oh, well, have it all your own way," cried the colonel, becomingreckless, and shaking the negro's hand heartily; "I surrender. Lawrencewill dine with us this evening, Manuela, so you'd better see to havingcovers laid for three--or, perhaps, for four. It may be that SenhorQuashy will honour us with--"
"T'ankee, kurnel, you's bery kind, but I's got a prebious engagement."
"A previous engagement, eh?" repeated the colonel, much tickled with theexcuse.
"Yes, kurnel; got to 'tend upon Massa Lawrence; but if you'll allow meto stan' behind his chair an' _wait_, I'll be much pleased to listen toall you says, an' put in a word now an' den if you chooses."
And so, good reader, all things came about as the little princess of theIncas had arranged, long before, in her own self-willed little mind.Shall we trouble you with the details? Certainly not. That would bealmost an insult to your understanding.
But we will trouble you to mount one of the fleetest steeds of thePampas and fly with us over the mighty plains into the wildest regionsof the Andes.
Though wild, we need not tell you that it is a lovely region, for youhave been there already. It is the Mariquita Valley. No longer asilent wilderness, however, as when we saw it last, for, not very longafter the events which we have just described, Lawrence Armstrong andhis blooming bride, accompanied by the white-haired colonel and theirrepressible Quashy, and another band of miners and selected emigrants,entered that valley in a sort of triumphal procession, and were met andescorted to the head of it by another triumphal procession, which wasunder the command of Conrad of the Mountains, whose pretty daughter wasthe first to welcome Manuela to her new home.
But now dismount. Put on these wings and soar with us to the brow ofyonder cliff, from which we can have a grand bird's-eye view of the valealmost from its entrance to the point where it is lost and absorbed inthe majestic recesses of the higher Andes.
See you yon cottage-like edifice, close to Pedro's old home, with therustic porch in front, and the well-stocked garden around? That is theresidence of the overseer of the silver-mine, Lawrence Armstrong,Esquire. The residence as well as the garden is well-stocked; for wehave ventured to gallop with you over Time as well as Space--one resultbeing that there are at least three descendants of the Incas, (by themother's side), romping in the garden.
On that mound a little way on the other side of Pedro's cottage standsanother building. It resembles the home of Lawrence, but with enough ofdifference to afford the charm of variety. It is the home of the fineyoung Cornish youth who worked his way across the sea as a sailor, andaccompanied Pedro to the mountains. That trip effectually settled _his_business, and resulted in the conversion of Mariquita into Mrs Ansty.The change may not strike ordinary readers as being very romantic, butit was attended with much felicity.
In the small clump of wood just behind Pedro's cottage--where you seethe lakelet or tarn glittering in the sunlight, and sending its infantwaters to brawl over the neighbouring precipices and scamper down thevalley--stands a group of huts. These form the homes of Ignacio, theold hunter, and Spotted Tiger with his family. Ignacio, you see,--stilltough and straight, as though he had made up his mind to live and huntfor ever--has a strange power of attracting men to him, and has inducedhis Indian friend to forsake his old home in the low grounds and dwellwith him in the mountains. Of course Spotted Tiger has brought his wifewith him, and Leetle Cub, (no longer little), and all the other cubs,including poor Manca, the sick girl, who--thanks to Dr Armstrong'sskill, and change of scene, and God's blessing on all--is no longersick, but, on the contrary, robust and grateful.
Strange to say, our English sportsman is living with Ignacio just now,with several sporting friends. He has been back to England and outagain since we last saw him, and goes aw-ing all over the settlementwith as much nonchalance and latent vigour as ever--when not betterengaged with Ignacio and Spotted Tiger, and Leetle Cub, in themountains.
In Lawrence's garden, among the romping descendants of the Incas, (bythe mother's side), may be seen four whitey-brown creatures. These arethe children of Quashy and Susan. Two of them are little Quashys andtwo are little "Sooz'ns." They are not, of course, all named so, butQuashy says if he had "fifty little bustin' gurls he'd regard 'em all aslittle Sooz'ns," and Susan retorts that if she had "five hundred littlebad boys she'd call 'em all Quashys." They dwell in a small hut in rearof the cottage of Massa Lawrence, for Quashy is his gardener and"_Sooz'n_" his washerwoman, and the little Quashys and "Sooz'ns" areplaymates of the little Incas, (by the mother's side).
Antonio, the ex-bandit, is assistant gardener to the Armstrongs, and itis said that that once ferocious man has become so changed under theinfluence of Christian treatment, that he not only serves his masterfaithfully, but has even made more than one attempt to rescue an oldenemy named Cruz from his evil ways. He has not yet been successful,but he is strong in faith and hope. Colonel Marchbanks, who has finallyretired from the army, dwells with the Armstrongs, and has organised theminers and settlers into a local force of which he is the chief.
For the place has grown much of late in importance as well as innumbers, and in such a wild region there is need for defensivearrangements. It has other arrangements, also, of a much more importantkind in which the Word of God plays the chief part, and Conrad of theMountains lends a helping hand. That earnest rover has built a churchand a schoolhouse, and, when at home, does what in him lies to advancethe cause of true religion and education. But he has not ceased towander in the mountains. True to his instincts as a reformer and loverof mankind, he visits with ceaseless activity the great and widelyseparated centres of population in South America, never losing sight ofthe great object he has set before him in the amelioration of thecondition of the people.
Most people think him a mysterious madman. Some, who know him well,think him an over-sanguine enthusiast, but all agree in regarding him asa calm, gentle, amiable man, with a determination of purpose thatnothing can turn aside, and with an intense desire for the welfare andadvancement of the country which Mariquita the elder called her nativeland. Indeed it is thought by some that Pedro must have made to hiswife some pledge or promise with reference to that subject, but no onecan ascertain the truth of that now.
Th
ere is ground for this belief, however, for, as we sit on our perch,overlooking the valley, we see this Pedro, this Conrad of the Mountains,seated in the bower on the mound behind his dwelling, restingcontemplatively at the well-loved spot, after one of his periodicalreturns. Mariquita the younger is beside him. They are both lookingearnestly at the grave, and conversing about the time when they shallonce again meet the lost one by the side of Jesus in the better land.
Till that day came, Pedro continued unflinchingly to prosecute hisself-imposed task, whatever it might be. Whether or what successattended his efforts we cannot tell; yet have we reason to hope that hislabour was not in vain. But of this much we are certainly sure, that,to the end of his days on earth he continued to be known as the Rover ofthe Andes; and when Death--at last--overtook him and arrested hisbenignant course, it found him advancing with trembling steps towardsthe old place, and closed with him, finally, as he pillowed his head onMariquita's grave.
THE END.
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