The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America

“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 was only her 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 want me, 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.