The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America, R. M. Ballantyne [world of reading .txt] 📗

We regret to have to record the fact that Quashy’s deep-laid schemes in behalf of Manuela and the “sick man” miscarried.

That same night, by the light of the full moon, he revealed to Susan his account of the affair, with a visage in which the solemnity of the wondering eyes seemed to absorb the expression of all the other features.

“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 was born 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, dis was de way ob it. When me an’ Miss Manuela got to de place whar I had fix 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 de way 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 dance round—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’ Miss Manuela looked orkerder!”

“It had bin in my mind,” continued Quashy, “arter I had bring ’em togidder, to turn about, an’ enter into conbersation wid my hoss—what’s pritty 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, Massa Lawrence, who’s too much of a man to remain orkerd long, goes up to Miss Manuela wid a leetle smile, an’ holds out his hand. She shakes it quite gently-like, zif dey was on’y noo acquaintances jest interdooced. Ob course 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’ing like dis:—

“Says Massa Lawrence, says he, ‘Arternoon, Miss Muchbunks.’ ‘Ditto to you, 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 same meanin’. You know it i’n’t possible for me to speak like dem. An’ dey bof 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 speech about 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 ob offerin’ to help, when Massa Lawrence he plucked up heart all ob a suddent, an’ went in like a good un.

“‘Manuela,’ says he, quite bold-like, ‘I promised your fadder dat I would 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 de wurl’ break my word to your fadder. But as chance hab t’rown you in my way, it cannot be wrong to tell you—what you knows a’ready—dat I lub you, and dat, God permittin’, I will return ere long to Buenos Ayres. 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 her hand to him when he hoed away. It passes my compre’nshin, kite. An’ as we rode home she says to me, says she, ‘Quashy, you’s a good boy!’ I bery near say to her, ‘Manuela, you’s a bad gurl,’ but I di’n’t feel kite up to dat.”

“Quashy, you’re a fool,” said Susan, abruptly.

“Das no news,” returned the amiable man, “I’s said dat ob myself ober an’ ober again since I’s growed up. De on’y time I feel kite sure I wasn’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 substantially correct, we feel indisposed to add more to it, except to say that our hero stuck manfully to his resolve, and finally went off to the distant valley 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 to these there was a pretty large following—some engaged in the service of Pedro, others taking advantage of the escort. Among them were Dick Ansty, the Cornish youth, Antonio, the ex-bandit, and the English sportsman with—aw—his friend.

It is not our purpose to drag the patient reader a second time over the rolling Pampas, or to introduce him to the mysteries of silver-mining in the Andes. Our end shall be sufficiently explained by stating the fact that as Lawrence was faithful to his promise to Colonel Marchbanks, he was not less faithful to his promise to the daughter.

A year had barely elapsed when he found himself once again in Buenos Ayres, with the faithful Quashy at his side, and presented himself before the old colonel, not now as a beggar, but as part owner of one of the 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 said to Lawrence at their first interview, “is now removed, but I have yet to learn from my daughter’s own lips that she will have you. I have carefully avoided the subject from the very first, because I have no faith whatever in forcing, or even leading, the affections of a young girl. And let me tell you flatly, young senhor, that your being the richest man in Peru, and the greatest man as well, would not influence me 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 final decision.”

“I am prepared to abide by Manuela’s decision,” replied Lawrence, with what may be termed a modest smile.

“’Pon my word, young man, you seem to be unwarrantably sure of your position,” said the colonel, somewhat sternly. “However, you have heard all I mean to say on the subject just now. Leave me, and return here in the evening.”

When Lawrence was gone, the old soldier found his daughter in a tastefully arranged closet which she called her boudoir, the miniature glass-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 too busily engaged at the moment in the hideously commonplace act of darning the 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 your hand in marriage?”

“Yes, father, I know it.”

“Why, child, how could you know that? You surely have not been tempted to—to condescend to eavesdropping?”

“No, father, I have not condescended to that, but I have heard it on the best authority. Have you not yourself just told me?”

“Oh—ah—well,” exclaimed the stern man, relaxing into a smile in spite of himself, as he observed the calm, quiet, earnest way in which that princess of the Incas applied herself to the reparation of that little hole. “Now Manuela, my darling,” continued the colonel, changing his tone and manner suddenly as he sat down beside her and put a hand lovingly on her shoulder, “you know that I would not for all the world permit, or induce you to do anything that would risk your happiness. I now come to ask you seriously if you—if you are in—in short, if you admire this young fellow.”

Instead of answering, Manuela, while searching carefully for any other little hole that might have been made, or that was on the eve of being made, 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 look as he replied—

“Why, what has that got to do with it?”

“Have you not over and over again warned me, father, to beware of those gay young fellows who haven’t got two sixpences to rub against each other, but have presumption enough to trifle with the affections of all the silly girls in the world. And are you sorry that I should have laid your lessons to heart?”

“Tut, child, don’t talk nonsense. Whether he is rich or poor is a mere matter of moonshine. The question I have to settle just now is—Are you fond of him?”

“Well, no, father, I can’t exactly say that I—”

“I knew it! I was sure of it! The presumptuous puppy!” shouted the old man of war, jumping up, overturning a work-table with its innumerable contents, and striding towards the door.

“Stay, father!” said Manuela, in a tone that military discipline forbade him to disobey, and holding out both her hands with an air and grace that love forbade him to resist. “I don’t admire him, and I’m not fond of him,” continued the Inca princess, vehemently, as she grasped her parent’s hands; “these terms are ridiculously inadequate. I love him, father—I adore him—I—”

She stopped abruptly, for a noise at the glass-door caused her to turn her eyes in that direction. It was Quashy, who stood there staring at them with all his eyes, and grinning at them with more than all his mouth—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 by haxidint. Go on wid your leetle game, an’ nebber mind me. I’s on’y a nigger.”

Colonel Marchbanks could not decide whether to laugh or storm. Manuela decided the question for him by inviting the negro to enter, which he did with humble urbanity.

“Shake hands with him, father. He’s only a nigger, as he says, but he’s one of the very best and bravest and most faithful niggers that I ever had 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, becoming reckless, and shaking the negro’s hand heartily; “I surrender. Lawrence will dine with us this evening, Manuela, so you’d better see to having covers laid for three—or, perhaps, for four. It may be that Senhor Quashy 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 the excuse.

“Yes, kurnel; got to ’tend upon Massa Lawrence;