There are, we suppose, in the lives of all men, critical periods--
testing-points, as it were--when their faith in everything true is
shaken almost, if not quite, to the foundation, and when they are
tempted to ask with more or less of bitterness, "Who will show us any
good?"
Well is it for such when, in the hour of trial, they can look up to the
Fountain of all good and, in the face of doubt, darkness, difficulty,
ay, and seeming contradiction, simply "believe" and "trust."
When Lawrence Armstrong slowly sauntered back to the inn after his final
interview with Manuela, it surprised even himself to find how strong had
been his feelings, how profound his faith in the girl's goodness of
heart, and how intensely bitter was his disappointment.
"But it's all over now," he muttered, thrusting his hands deep into the
pockets of his coat, and frowning ferociously at some imaginary wrong,
though he would have been puzzled, if required, to state exactly what
the wrong was. "All over," he repeated, and then continued with an
affected air of indifference, "and what of that? What matters it to me
that I have been mistaken? I never was in love with the girl. How
could I be with a black--well, a brown squaw. Impossible! It was only
admiration--strong admiration I admit--of what I had fancied were rarely
fine qualities, especially in a sav--an Indian; and I've been mistaken;
that's all. That's all. But," (after a pause), "_have_ I been
mistaken? Does this unaccountably callous indifference at saying
good-bye to one who is nothing to her--who never can be anything to
her--argue that all the good qualities I have admired so much are
non-existent, or _bad_ qualities? Surely not! Let me consider. Let me
look this perplexing matter straight in the face, and see what is to be
made of it. What _are_ the good qualities that I seem to have been so
mistaken about?"
Frowning still more ferociously, as if with a view to constrain himself
to the performance of a deed of impartial justice, our hero continued to
mutter--
"Earnest simplicity--that's the first--no, that's two qualities. Be
just, Lawrence, whatever you are, be just. Earnestness, then, that's
the first point. Whatever else I may have been wrong about, there can
be no mistake about that. She is intensely earnest. How often have I
noticed her rapt attention and the eager flash of her dark eyes when
Pedro or I chanced to tell any anecdote in which injustice or cruelty
was laid bare. She is so earnest that I think sometimes she has
difficulty in perceiving when one is in jest. She does not understand a
practical joke--well, to be sure there was that upsetting of the coffee
on Quashy's leg! But after all I _must_ have been mistaken in that. So
much, then, for her earnestness. Next, simplicity. No child could be
more simple. Utterly ignorant of the ways of the world--the nauseous
conventionalities of civilised life! Brought up in a wigwam, no doubt,
among the simple aborigines of the Pampas, or the mountains--yes, it
must have been the mountains, for the Incas of Peru dwelt in the Andes."
He paused here for a few minutes and sauntered on in silence, while a
tinge of perplexity mingled with the frown. No doubt he was thinking of
the tendency exhibited now and then by the aborigines of the Pampas and
mountains to raid on the white man now and then, and appropriate his
herds as well as scalp himself!
"However, _she_ had nothing to do with that," he muttered,
apologetically, "and cannot help the peculiarities of her kindred.
Gentleness; that is the next quality. A man may mistake motives, but he
cannot mistake facts. Her gentleness and sweetness are patent facts,
and her modesty is also obvious. Then, she is a Christian. Pedro told
me so. She never omits to pray, night and morning. Of course, _that_
does not constitute a Christian, but--well, then the Sabbath-day she has
all along respected; and I am almost sure that our regular halts on that
day, although ordered by Pedro, were suggested by Manuela. Of course,
praying and Sabbath-keeping may be done by hypocrites, and for a bad
end; but who, save a consummately blind idiot, would charge that girl
with hypocrisy? Besides, what could she gain by it all? Pshaw! the
idea is ridiculous. Of course there are many more good qualities which
I might enumerate, but these are the most important and clearly
pronounced--very clearly."
He said this very decidedly, for somehow a counteracting suggestion came
from somewhere, reminding him that he had twice saved the Indian girl's
life; that he had tried with earnest devotion to help and amuse her in
all their journeyings together, and that to be totally indifferent about
final separation in these circumstances argued the absence of even
ordinary gratitude, which is clearly one of the Christian virtues!
"But, after all," he muttered, indignantly, "would not any young fellow
have done the same for any woman in the circumstances? And why should
she care about parting from _me_? I wouldn't care much about parting
from myself just now, if I could. There, now, that's an end o' the
matter. She'll go back to the wigwam of her father, and I'll go and
have a jolly good splitting gallop across the Pampas with Pedro and
Quashy."
"Dat's just de bery best t'ing what you can do, massa."
Lawrence turned round abruptly, and found that his faithful servant was
hurrying after him, and grinning tremendously.
"Why, you're always laughing, Quash," said the youth, a little sharply.
"O massa!" exclaimed the negro, turning his mouth the other way. "I's
nebber laugh no more if you don' like it."
"Like it, my good fellow!" exclaimed Lawrence, himself giving way to a
short laugh to conceal his feelings, "of course I like it, only you came
on me unexpectedly, and, to say truth, I am--"
"Still out ob sorts, massa?"
"Yes, that's it--exactly."
"Well, for a man out ob sorts, you walk most awrful irriglar--one time
slow, noder time so quick. I was 'bleeged to run to obertake you."
Further converse was checked by their arrival in the town. On reaching
the hotel they found the place in considerable confusion and bustle
owing to preparations for the governor's ball, about to take place that
evening.
They met Pedro at the door.
"You'll go, I suppose?" he said to Lawrence, referring to the ball.
"Indeed I will not. I've had no invitation, and have no evening dress."
"Why, Senhor Armstrong forgets he is not now in England," said Pedro.
"We require neither invitation nor evening dress in an out-o'-the-way
place like this. You'll find all sorts of people there. Indeed, a few
are likely to be of the class who prefer to dance with their coats off."
"No matter, I'll not go. Nothing will induce me to go," returned
Lawrence, firmly--almost testily.
"Don't say that," rejoined Pedro, regarding his companion with a
peculiar smile. "You may perhaps meet friends there."
"You know that I have no friends here," returned our hero, who thereupon
went off to his own room to meditate over his uncomfortable feelings.
But when he had reached his room and shut his door, Pedro's reference to
meeting with friends, coupled with his peculiar look, recurred to him.
What could the fellow mean? What friends had he in the country except
Pedro himself and Quashy and Spotted Tiger and--and--Manuela, but of
course he could not refer to the last, for who ever heard of a governor
inviting an unknown Indian girl to a ball! No; Pedro must have been
jesting. He would _not_ go!
But the longer he thought over the matter, the more were his perplexity
and curiosity increased, until at last he wavered in his firm
determination not to go, and when the ball was about to begin, of which
the sounds of hurrying steps and musical instruments apprised him, he
changed his mind. Combing his hair slightly, he tried to brush his
rough garments with his hands, arranged his necktie and flannel collar a
little, dusted his long boots with a towel, washed his hands, laid aside
his weapons, and went off to the hall with the intention of at least
looking in at the door to see what was going on.
He met Pedro in the corridor.
"Ha! Senhor Armstrong has changed his mind?"
"Yes, I have."
Lawrence said this in the slightly defiant tone of a man who gives in
with a bad grace. He was altogether "out of sorts" and unlike himself,
but Pedro, like a true friend, took no notice of that.
"I'm glad you have given in, senhor," said Pedro, "for it saves me the
trouble of dragging you there by force, in order that I may have the
pleasure of seeing how you will look under the influence of a surprise."
"A surprise, Pedro?"
"Yes. But come; the ball is about to begin."
At the end of the corridor they encountered the English sportsman, who
at the same moment chanced to meet his friend, to whom he said--
"I say, just come and--aw--have a look at the company. All free and
easy, no tickets required, no dress, no--aw--there goes the governor--"
The remainder was lost in distance as the two sporting characters
sauntered to the ballroom, where they stood near the door, looking on
with condescending benignity, as men might for whose amusement the whole
affair had been arranged.
And truly there was much to be amused at, as Lawrence and his companion,
standing just within the doorway, soon found. Owing to the situation of
the little town near the base of the mountains, there were men there of
many nations and tongues on their way to various mines, or on business
of some sort in or on the other side of the mountains--Germans, French,
Italians, English, Spanish, and Portuguese. All strangers were welcomed
by the hospitable governor and landlord--the latter of whom felt, no
doubt, that his loss on food was more than counterbalanced by his gain
on drink. Among the guests there were Gauchos of the Pampas, and the
head men of a band of peons, who had just arrived with a herd of cattle.
As these danced variously, in camp-dresses, top-boots, silver spurs,
ponchos, and shirt sleeves, and as the ladies of the town appeared in
picturesque and varied costumes with mantillas and fans, Lawrence felt
as if he were witnessing a fancy dress gathering, and soon became so
absorbed as to forget himself and his companion entirely.