"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 far from me, with a bullet through her brain. And
now," added Pedro, pointing in deep despondency to the little mound at
their feet--"she lies there!"
"Not so, my friend," said Lawrence, in a low but earnest tone, as he
grasped the man's hand, "it is only her dust that lies there, and even
_that_ is precious in the sight of her Lord."
"Thank you, senhor, for reminding me," returned Pedro; "but when the
memory of that awful night is strong upon me, my faith almost fails."
"No wonder," rejoined Lawrence, "but what of the child?"
"Ah! that is what I asked the old hunter," returned Pedro. "He started
up, and searched high and low, but could not find her. Then he went
out, calling her by name loudly, and searched the bushes. Then he
returned with a wild look and said the robbers must have taken her
away--he would pursue! I knew it would be useless, for the scoundrels
were mounted and the old hunter was on foot; but I let him go, and was
not surprised when, two hours later, he returned quite exhausted. `It
is in vain,' he said. `Yet if I could have come up with them, I would
have died for her.'
"I was long ill after that. A good while, they say, I was out of my
mind, but old Ignacio nursed me through. He also buried Mariquita where
she now lies."
The guide paused.
"And the child?" asked Lawrence, anxiously.
"I have sought her far and wide, year after year, over mountain and
plain. She may be dead--she may be alive--but I have never seen her nor
heard of her from that day to this."
"Your story is a very, very sad one," said Lawrence, his face expressing
the genuine sympathy which he felt. "May I ask--are your wanderings
mere haphazard? Have you no idea who they were that stole your little
one, or where they went to?"
"None whatever. The broken leg, you know, prevented my commencing the
search at once, and when I was able to go about I found that all trace
of the band was gone. No wonder, for the country was at war at the
time, and many marauding parties had traversed the land since then."
"I--I shrink," said Lawrence, with some hesitation, "from even the
appearance of unkindness, but I cannot help expressing the fear that
this vague, undirected wandering will be useless."
"It would be so," returned Pedro, "if God did not direct all human
affairs. If it be His will, I shall yet find my child on earth. If
not, I shall find her above--with her mother. In our intercourse,
senhor, I have observed in you a respect for God's Word. Is it not
written, `Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him, and He will
bring it to pass?'"
"Most true," replied Lawrence, feeling the reproof, "yet God works by
means. If we do not take the right means, we cannot expect to attain
our end, however much we may trust."
"Right, senhor, and I have taken the _only_ means open to me. Since I
cannot give direction to my search, I search _everywhere_. Fortunately
my business permits of this, and also of doing a little service to my
fellow-men as I go on my way. Periodically I return here to rest,"--(he
pointed to the little mound,)--"and when my powers begin to wane, either
through disease or age, it is my purpose, if God permit, to return and
die beside Mariquita's grave."