Two conversations took place shortly after the scene in the ballroom,
and to these we now draw attention. The first was in the hotel--in the
private apartment of Colonel Marchbanks.
Having got rid of the ladies, the fiery man of war led his victim--if we
may so style him--into the apartment referred to, and shut the door.
Without asking Lawrence to be seated, he stalked into the middle of the
room.
"Now, senhor," he said, wheeling round suddenly, and confronting
Lawrence with a tremendous frown, "what do you mean by this?"
The look and the tone were such as the youth would in ordinary
circumstances have resented, but he was far removed from ordinary
circumstances just then. He was a victim! As such he looked at his
questioner with perplexity in his countenance, and said--
"I beg pardon?"
"What do you mean by your conduct, I say?" repeated the colonel,
fiercely; for he mistook and was rendered more irritable by the youth's
apparent stupidity. "You have insulted my daughter in the ballroom--"
"Your daughter?" said Lawrence, with the air of a man whose eyes are
dazzled by some sudden burst of strong light which he does not quite
understand.
"Yes, sir. You know quite well what I mean," cried the colonel, waxing
angrier. "It may be true, for all I know or care, that you have saved
her life more than once, as Pedro tells me, but--"
"I saved the life of an Indian girl," interrupted Lawrence, gently, and
gazing wistfully in the colonel's angry face, as if he saw a distant
landscape of marvellous beauty through it, "the daughter of a great
chief, and a descendant of the Incas."
"A descendant of the Hottentots, sir!" exclaimed the colonel, becoming
furious, for he now thought the young man was attempting to jest; "the
fact that my daughter--my daughter, sir, was persuaded to assume that
useless and ridiculous disguise, and the fact that you rendered her
assistance when so disguised, gives you no right to--to insult her in
public, and--and--I have heard, sir, from Manuela herself, that--"
"Manuela!" interrupted the victim, in a soft, unbelieving voice, and
with an eager, wistful look at the exquisite landscape again,--"is it
possible?"
"Sir, you're a fool!" shouted the old soldier, unable to contain
himself. "Pedro told me much about you, but he did not say you were a
fool!"
"Impossible! I knew it must be a dream," murmured Lawrence, as if to
himself, "I was never called a fool before. No gentleman would have
done it--least of all an English gentleman."
This shot, although not aimed, hit the mark fairly.
"Forgive me, senhor," said the colonel, modifying his tone, though
evidently still much annoyed, "but your manners and language are so
strange that, really--"
He stopped, as a new light broke upon him.
"Surely," he said, "you cannot have been in ignorance all this time that
Manuela _is_ my daughter?"
"Tell me," cried Lawrence, suddenly shaking off the dream of unbelief,
advancing a step, and gazing so intensely into the colonel's eyes that
the man of war made a quick, involuntary, motion with his right hand
towards his sword,--"Tell me, Colonel Marchbanks--is Manuela, who, I
thought, was an Inca princess, _really_ your daughter!"
"I know nothing about the Inca princesses, senhor," replied the old man,
sternly, but with a perplexed air; "all I know is that the disguised
girl with whom you have been unfortunately travelling of late is _my_
daughter, and, although your ignorance of the fact accounts in some
degree--"
He got no further, for Lawrence gave a full, free, shout of joy, such as
he had not vented since he was a schoolboy, raised himself to his full
height, and threw up his arms, clearing off a very constellation of
crystal gimcracks from a chandelier in the mighty stretch, and
exclaimed--
"I'll have her: I'll have her! Yes, in spite of all--"
The door opened at that moment and he stood transfixed, for there was
Spotted Tiger--glaring horribly, and obviously charged with important
tidings.
"Come in," cried the colonel in Spanish.
"Come out," cried the savage in some other language, which Lawrence did
not understand, but which the colonel evidently did, for he clapped on
his hat, and, without a word of explanation, hurried with Tiger out of
the room, leaving Lawrence to solitary meditation.
The other conversation that we have referred to was held in the garden
of the hotel, under a thick overhanging tree, between Pedro and the
lovely lady who had been the cause of Lawrence's little affair with the
colonel.
"What have you done with her, Pedro?" asked the lovely lady.
"Taken her to the villa, where she will be well cared for."
"But why so quickly? Why not wait for me?" The voice was in very truth
that of Manuela, though the countenance was that of a Spanish senhorina!
"Because time is precious. We have received news which calls for speedy
action, and I must be in close attendance on your father, Manuela. As I
am likely to have quarter of an hour to spare while he holds a palaver
with Tiger, I have sought you out to ask an explanation, for I'm eager
to know how and where my darling was found. I can wait as well as most
men, but--"
"Yes, yes, _I_ know," said Manuela, drawing her mantilla a little more
closely over her now fair face. "You shall hear. Listen. You know
that my father loves you?"
Pedro smiled assent, and nodded.
"His is a loving and loveable nature," resumed our heroine.
("So is his daughter's," thought Pedro, but he did not say so.)
"And he never forgets a friend," continued Manuela. "He has often,
often spoken to me about you, and your dear ones, and many a time in his
military wanderings has he made inquiries about the dear child who was
stolen so long ago--ten years now, is it not?"
"Ay, not far short of eleven. She was just turned five when last I
beheld her angel face--no, not _last_, thank God."
"Well, Pedro, you may easily believe that we had many raisings of our
hopes, like yourself, and many, many disappointments, but these last
arose from our looking chiefly in wrong directions. It somehow never
occurred to us that her lot might have fallen among people of rank and
wealth. Yet so it was. One day when out on the Pampas not far from
Buenos Ayres, visiting a friend, and never thinking of dear Mariquita,
we saw a young girl coming towards us down the garden walk.
"As she came near, my father stopped short, and laid his hand on my
shoulder with such a grasp that I nearly cried out. I looked up in
surprise, and never before saw such an expression of eager inquiry on
his face.
"`Manuela!' he said, in a low, tremulous voice, `if Mariquita is alive I
see her now. I see our friend Pedro in every line of her pretty face.'
"I looked, but could not see the likeness. You know how differently
people seem to be affected by the same face. I failed to see in the
sweet countenance framed in curling fair hair, and in the slight girlish
figure of surpassing grace, my swarthy friend Pedro. She seemed
startled at first by my father's abrupt manner. He questioned her.
What was her name--`Mariquita,' she said. `I was sure of it,' rejoined
my father. `Your surname, my girl?'
"`Arnold, senhor,' she replied, with surprise.
"My dear father is very impulsive. His hopes sank as fast as they had
risen. `Of course,' he said afterwards, `Mariquita is a common name,
and should not have raised my expectations so quickly, but the likeness,
you see, staggered me.'
"Dear father!" continued Manuela, casting down her eyes, and speaking in
a pensive tone, "I _do_ love him so, because of his little
imperfections. They set off his good points to so much greater
advantage. I should not like to have a perfect father. Would you,
Pedro?"
She raised her eyes to the guide's face with an arch look--and those
eyes had become wonderfully lustrous since the skin had lost its brown
hue.
"Really, Manuela," returned the impatient guide, "I have not yet
considered what degree of perfection I should like in my father--but how
about--"
"Forgive me, yes--Mariquita. Well, finding that we were going to the
house where she dwelt, Mariquita walked with us, and told us that she
had lived with our English friends, Mr and Mrs Daulton, since she was
a little child. Did she remember her parents? we asked. Yes, she
remembered them perfectly, and tried to describe them, but we could make
nothing of that for evidently she thought them handsomer, grander, and
more beautiful than any other people in the world. She did not remember
where they dwelt--except that it was in the woods and among mountains.
"`That corresponds exactly,' cried my father, becoming excited.
`Forgive me, child; I am an eccentric old fellow, but--did you quit your
home amid fire and smoke and yells--'
"My father was stopped at this point by our arrival at the house, and
the appearance of our friends. But he was too much roused by that time
to let the matter drop, so he carried Mrs Daulton off to the library,
and learned from her that the child had been lent to her by a priest!
"`Lent, my dear madam?' said my father.
"`Yes, lent. The priest laughed when he presented her, but said the
child was the orphan daughter of a distant relation of his who had left
her to his care. He did not want her, or know what to do with her, and
offered to _give_ her to us. My husband said he could not accept such a
gift, but he would gladly accept her as a loan! We both disbelieved the
priest, for he was a bad man; but, as we were much in want of a
companion for our own little girl at the time, we accepted her, and
brought her here. The priest died suddenly, and as there was no one
else to claim her, we have kept her ever since, and right glad we are to
have her.'
"`You won't have her long,' said my sweet father, in his usual blunt and
pleasant way. `I am convinced that I know her father. Of course Arnold
is a name you gave her?' `No; when she came to us she said her name was
Mariquita, but she knew of no other name. It was the priest who told,
us her surname was Arnold.'
"Well, Pedro, to bring my story to an end, my father told the Daultons
all about you, and got them to lend Mariquita to us. That was two years
ago. Since then she has dwelt with us as my very dear sister. My
father knew you were in Peru at the time, and his purpose was to wait
till you should return, and present Mariquita unexpectedly to you to see
if you would recognise each other. Therefore he did not mention her
when he wrote asking you so urgently to return here. Neither did he
mention his suspicions to Mariquita herself. We just led her to
understand that we found her company so pleasant that we wished her to
remain with us for a long visit. Then came news of the illness of a
dear relation of mine in Chili. I was sent by my father to see and
nurse her. At parting he told me if I should by any chance meet with
you, I was on no account to speak or even hint at this matter. Little
did either of us think at the time that I was destined to make so long a
journey under your care. And you know, Senhor Pedro, that I am not bad
at keeping secrets. I not only obeyed my father in this matter, but I
faithfully obeyed yourself when you imposed on me the necessity of
keeping my disguise secret from Senhor Armstrong."
"You did, Manuela, faithfully."
"And it was very hard to do, let me assure you, as well as needless,"
returned Manuela, in a slightly hurt tone. "Over and over again I have
been on the point of betraying myself. Why did you require me to
maintain such secrecy, and afflict myself with such constant care and
watchfulness?"
"Because I knew full well," replied Pedro, with a twinkle in his eye,
"that if poor Senhor Armstrong knew your true character, he would
infallibly fall in love with you in spite of your brown skin."
"And pray, senhor, why should you object to Senhor Armstrong, or any one
else, falling in love with me in spite of my brown skin?"
"You know very well, Manuela, that, your father being my friend, it is
my duty in all circumstances to be faithful to him. You are also aware
that your father entertains a strong objection to very young men, who
have no money or prospects, presuming to think of marriage with his
daughter, and that he would never consent to your being engaged to
Senhor Armstrong in present circumstances. It was my simple duty,
therefore, when I saw the danger, to warn and protect you. Indeed I
saw, almost the first day after we met the youth, that I had made a
great mistake in asking him to join us; but it was too late then to
change, so I imposed secrecy on you, and admit that you have acted your
part well; but my well-meant efforts have been utterly in vain."
"How so!"
"Why, because the poor wretch has fallen hopelessly in love with you in
spite of your disguise--ay, and in spite of his own efforts to the
contrary, for I have watched him carefully, and regard him as an
uncommonly fine specimen of an amiable, self-denying, and honourable
man. And now, as I had feared, your father is furious at his presuming
even to think of you, though I have done my best to show him that he has
acted nobly all through our journey; that, after all, he may not really
care for you at all, and that at all events you have given him no
encouragement whatever, and do not care a straw for _him_."
Manuela flushed deeply at the last words, and there was the slightest
possible contraction of her fine eyebrows as she replied, somewhat
loftily--
"Senhor Pedro, you are a kind friend and a faithful guide, but you
pretend to a greater knowledge of these matters than you possess. You
do not understand my beloved father as well as I do, and you are totally
ignorant of the state of my feelings. However, I believe you have done
all for the best, and my earnest request now is that, having discharged
what you conceive to be your duty on this point, you will say and do
nothing more."
"Your will would be law in this matter, even if I were not under such a
deep debt of gratitude to you," returned Pedro, "and it is all the more
easy to obey you now that I have handed you over to your father and am
no longer responsible. Are you aware that we start immediately in
pursuit of the Indians who have attacked and murdered the poor people of
Rolland's Ranch?"
"Yes, my father has told me all about it."
"Has he told you that you and Mariquita are to accompany the force so
far on the road, and that when we get beyond the disturbed district I am
to carry you on with a small party to Buenos Ayres, while the main body
pursues the savages?"
"Yes, he told me that too," replied Manuela; "but," she added, with a
little hesitation, "he did not say who was to go with our small
detachment."
The slightest possible twinkle in Pedro's eye indicated suppressed
feeling as he replied that he also was ignorant on that point--the only
things which he was quite sure of being, that Senhor Armstrong and
Quashy were to go with the main body.
"Indeed!" exclaimed the maiden in surprise. "I had thought Senhor
Armstrong objected to fighting."
Pedro laughed. "So he does, senhorina; but when the rescue of captive
women and children is in the case, he holds fighting to be a duty, as
you are aware. But I must go now," continued Pedro, becoming grave and
earnest as he took the girl's hand. "Words can never express my
feelings towards you and your father, dear Manuela. Indeed I have never
been in the habit of saying much--least of all when I have felt much.
Mariquita and I will bless you both to the latest hour of our lives.
Adieu. We meet in the morning at the house in which you are staying--
Lawrence has named it the house with the rustic porch--and we start from
there. You are all ready, I suppose?"
"Yes. You know I have little luggage to look after," said Manuela, with
a laugh, "and I shall continue to travel as an Indian girl--as an Inca
princess!"
"Indeed. Why so?"
"That, Senhor Pedro, is a matter with which you have nothing whatever to
do!"