The Rover of the Andes, Robert Michael Ballantyne [my reading book .TXT] 📗

cliffs, and clothing the mountain slopes in rich, and, in many places, soft luxuriance. It was one of those scenes of grandeur and loveliness in profound solitude which tend to raise in the thoughtful mind the perplexing but not irreverent question, "Why did the good and bountiful Creator form such places of surpassing beauty to remain for thousands of years almost, if not quite, unknown to man?"

For, as far as could be seen, no human habitation graced the mountain-sides, no sign of cultivation appeared in the valley, though myriads of the lower animals sported on and in the waters, among the trees and on the ground.

Perchance man over-estimates his own importance--at least underrates that of the animal kingdom below him--and is too apt to deem everything in nature wasted that cannot be directly or indirectly connected with himself! Is all that glows in beauty in the wilderness doomed to "blush unseen"? Is all the sweetness expended on the desert air "wasted?"

As the guide rode slowly forward, he glanced from side to side with thoughtful yet mournful looks, as if his mind were engaged in meditating on some such insoluble problems. As he neared the head of the valley, however, he seemed to awake from a trance, suddenly put spurs to his mule, and went off at a canter. The rest of the party followed at some distance behind, but at so slow a pace, compared with that of the guide, that the latter was soon lost to sight among the trees.

Somewhat surprised at his unusual state of mind Lawrence pushed on and soon reached an open glade which showed some signs of having been cultivated. At the end of it stood a pretty little cottage, in front of which Pedro was standing motionless, with clasped hands and drooping head.

Lawrence hesitated to disturb him, but as Quashy had no such hesitations, and rode smartly forward, his companions followed.

Pedro turned with a grave look as they came up, and said--

"My home. I bid you welcome."

"Your home!" echoed Lawrence, in surprise.

"Ay, a happy home it once was--but--desolate enough now. Come, we will sleep here to-night. Unload the mules, Quashy, and kindle a fire. Go into the room on the right, Manuela. You will find a couch and other civilised comforts there. Senhor Armstrong, will you come with me?"

Without even awaiting a reply, the guide walked smartly into the bushes in rear of his lonely dwelling, followed by our hero. In a few minutes they reached a mound or hillock, which had been cleared of trees and underwood, and from the summit of which one could see over the tree-tops and the cottage roof away down the valley to the horizon of the table-lands beyond. It was a lovely spot, and, as Lawrence saw it that quiet sunny afternoon, was suggestive only of peace and happiness.

There was a rustic bower on the mound, in which a roughly-constructed seat was fixed firmly to the ground. In front of the bower was a grave with a headstone, on which was carved the single word "Mariquita."

Lawrence looked at his companion, but refrained from speech on observing that he seemed to be struggling with strong emotion. In a few seconds Pedro, having mastered his feelings, turned and said, in a tone that betrayed nothing save profound sadness--

"The body of my wife lies there. Her pure spirit, thank God, is with its Maker."

Lawrence's power of sympathy was so great that he hesitated to reply, fearing to hurt the feelings of one for whom, by that time, he had come to entertain sincere regard. He was about to speak, when Pedro raised his head gently, as if to check him.

"Sit beside me, senhor," he said, seating himself on the rustic seat already referred to. "You have from our first meeting given me your confidence so frankly and freely that the least I can do is to give you mine in return--as far, at least, as that is possible. You are the first human being I have invited to sit _there_ since Mariquita left me. Shall I tell you something of my history, Senhor Armstrong?"

Of course Lawrence assented, with a look of deep interest.

"Well, then," said Pedro, "it may perhaps surprise you to learn that I am an Irishman."

To this Lawrence replied, with a slight smile, that he was not very greatly surprised, seeing that the perplexing character of that race was such as to justify him in expecting almost anything of them.

"I'm not sure whether to take that remark as complimentary or otherwise," returned Pedro; "however, the fighting tendency with which my countrymen are credited has departed from me. I won't quarrel with you on the point. At the age of sixteen I was sent to America to seek my fortune. My mother I never knew. She died when I was a child. My father died the year after I left home. How I came to drift here it would be difficult, as well as tedious, to explain. Many of the men with whom I have chummed in years gone by would have said that it was chance which led me to South America. I never could agree with them on this point. The word `chance' fitly describes the conditions sometimes existing between man and man, and is used in Scripture in the parable of the Good Samaritan, but there can be no such thing as chance with the Almighty. I must have been led or guided here.

"At all events, hither I came, and wandered about for some years, with that aimless indifference to the future which is but too characteristic of youth--content to eat and sleep and toil, so that I might enjoy life, and get plenty of excitement! I went to Peru first, and of course I joined in the fights that were so frequently stirred up between that country and its neighbour, Chili. A very little of that, however, sufficed. The brutal ferocity of the soldiery with whom I was mixed up, and their fearful disregard of age, sex, infirmity, or helpless childhood during war disgusted me so much that I finally cut the army, and took to hunting and doing a little trade between the countries lying on the east and west sides of the Andes. It was while thus engaged that I became acquainted with your good father, Senhor Armstrong, who has more than once helped me over financial difficulties and set me on my legs.

"At last came the grand crisis of my life. One evening when travelling over the pampas of La Plata, I, with a dozen Gauchos, arrived at a post-house where we meant to put up for the night. On coming in sight of it we saw that something was wrong, for there were a number of Indians fighting about the door. On seeing us they made off; but one, who was in the house struggling with the postmaster, did not observe the flight of his comrades, or could not get clear of his enemy. We all went madly after the savages. As I was about to pass the door of the house, I heard a woman shriek. The Gauchos paid no attention, but passed on. I glanced inside, and saw the Indian in the act of cutting a man's throat, while a girl strove wildly to prevent him. You may be sure I was inside in a moment, and I brained the savage with the butt of a pistol. But it was too late. The knife had already done its work, and the poor man only lived long enough to bless his daughter, who, covered with her father's blood, sank fainting on the floor. It was my first meeting with Mariquita!

"Around her," continued Pedro, in deepening tones, "lay her mother and two brothers--all slaughtered. I will not describe the harrowing scene. I tried to comfort the poor girl, and we took her on with us to the next post, where the postmaster's wife attended to her.

"On seeing her next morning I felt that my life's happiness or sorrow lay in her hands. She was innocence, simplicity, beauty, combined. With artless gratitude she grasped and kissed my hand, regarding me, she said, as her deliverer, and one who would have saved her father if he had been in time.

"Often before had my comrades twitted me with my indifference to the female sex. To say truth, I had myself become impressed with the feeling that I was born to be one of the old bachelors of the world--and I cannot say that the doom gave me much concern. But now--well, if you understand me, senhor, I need not explain, and if you don't understand, explanation is useless! Mariquita was left alone in the wide world. I would not, for all the gold and silver of Peru, have spoken of love to her at that time; but I made arrangements with the postmaster and his wife to take care of the poor girl till I should return. In time I did return. She accepted me. We were married, and I brought her up here, for I wanted no society but hers. I was content to live in absolute solitude with her. She was much of the same mind, dear girl, but God had touched her heart, and in her sweet talk--without intending it, or dreaming of it--she showed me how selfish I was in thinking only of our own happiness, and caring nothing for the woes or the joys of our fellow-men.

"My conscience reproached me, and I began to think how I could manage to live a less selfish life, but before I could make up my mind what course to follow an event occurred which caused delay. A little girl was sent to us. I called her Mariquita, of course, and thought no more of leaving our happy home in the mountains. For five years we remained here, and the little Mariquita grew to be an angel of light and beauty-- like her mother in all respects, except that she was very fair, with curly golden hair.

"About that time war broke out--doubly accursed war! One night a band of deserters came and attacked my cottage. It had always been well prepared for anything of the sort with bolts, and bars and shutters, and even flanking loop-holes, as well as plenty of fire-arms and ammunition. But the party was too numerous. The villains forced the door in spite of me, and fired a volley before making a rush. From that moment I remembered nothing more until I recovered and found my head supported on the knee of an old man. I knew him at once to be a poor lonely old hunter who ranged about in the mountains here, and had paid us occasional visits. When he saw I was able to understand him, he told me that he had come suddenly on the villains and shot two of them, and that the others, perhaps thinking him the advance-guard of a larger party, had taken fright and made off. `But,' he said, in a low, hesitating tone, `Mariquita is dead!'

"I sprang up as if I had been shot, but instantly fell again, for my leg had been broken. I had seen enough, however. My beloved one lay dead on the floor, not