That sable and now united couple stand under the shade of a marble
colonnade watching with open-mouthed interest the bustle of the street
in which men and women of many nations--French, Italian, Spanish,
English, and other--are passing to and fro on business or pleasure.
This huge, populous town was not only a new sight, but an almost new
idea to the negroes, and they were lost alike in amusement and
amazement.
"Hi!" exclaimed Quashy in his falsetto, "look, look dar, Sooz'n--das
funny."
He pointed to a little boy who, squatted like a toad on a horse's back,
was galloping to market with several skins of milk slung on either side
of the saddle, so that there was no room for his legs.
"O Quash!" exclaimed the bride, "dar's pumpkins for you. Look!"
They were indeed notable pumpkins--so large that five of them completely
filled a wagon drawn by two oxen.
"But come, Sooz'n, da'ling," said Quashy, starting as if he had just
recollected something, "you said you was gwine to tell me suffin as
would make my hair stan' on end. It'll be awrful strong if it doos dat,
for my wool am stiff, an' de curls pritty tight."
"Yes, I comed here wid you a-purpose to tell you," replied the bride,
"an' to ax your 'pinion. But let's go ober to dat seat in de sun. I
not like de shade."
"Come along, den, Sooz'n. It's all one to me where we goes, for your
eyes dey make sunshine in de shade, an' suffin as good as shade in de
sunshine, ole gurl."
"Git along wid your rubbish!" retorted Susan as they crossed the street.
It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallant
spouse.
"Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art'," said Quashy, sitting
down with a contented sigh. "To be here a-frizzlin' in de sunshine wid
Sooz'n a-smilin' at me like a black angel. D'you know, Sooz'n," he
added, with a serious look, "it gibs me a good deal o' trouble to
beliebe it."
"Yes, it _am_ awrful nice," responded Susan, gravely, "but we's not come
here to make lub, Quashy, so hol' your tongue, an' I'll tell you what I
heared."
She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reduced
her husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy, she began in a low
voice--
"You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob his
fadder's fortin."
"Yes, I knows dat, Sooz'n," replied her husband, with an expression of
the deepest woe.
"Well, den--"
"No, Sooz'n, it's _ill_ den."
"Quashy!" (remonstratively.)
"Yes?" (interrogatively.)
"Hol' your tongue."
"Yes, da'ling."
"Well, den," began Susan again, with serious emphasis, "don' 'trupt me
agin, or I'll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat he
wouldn't deceive nobody--not even a skeeter."
"I knows _dat_, Sooz'n, not even a nigger."
"Ob course not," continued Susan; "so what does massa do, but goes off
straight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an' he says, says he, `Kurnel, you's a
beggar.'"
"No, Sooz'n, he di'n't say dat. Dough you says it wid your own sweet
lips, I don' beliebe it."
"Right, Quashy. You's allers right," returned the bride, with a beaming
smile. "I made a 'stake--das all. I should hab said dat massa he said,
says he, `Kurnel Muchbunks,' says he, `I's a beggar.'"
"Dat was a lie, Sooz'n," said Quashy, in some surprise.
"I's afeard it was," assented Susan, gravely.
"Well, an' what says de kurnel to dat?" asked the saddened negro, with a
sigh.
"Oh! he beliebed it, an' he says, says he, `I's griebed to hear it,
Mis'r Amstrung, an' ob course you cannot 'spect me to gib my consent to
my darter marryin' a beggar!' O Quash, w'en I hears dat--I--bu'sted
a'most! I do beliebe if I'd bin 'longside o' dat kurnel at dat momint I
hab gib him a most horrible smack in de face."
"De skownril!" muttered Quashy between his clenched teeth. "But what
happen arter dat, Sooz'n?"
"Nuffin happen. Only poor massa he look bery sad, an' says, says he,
`Kurnel, I's come to say farewell. I would not t'ink ob asking your
consent to such a marriage, but I do ask you to hold out de hope dat if
I ebber comes back agin wid a kumpitincy, (don' know 'zactly what dat
is, but dat's what he called it)--wid a kumpitincy, you'll not forbid me
payin' my 'dresses to your darter.' What he wants to pay her dresses
for, an' why he calls dem _his_ dresses, is more nor I can guess, but
das what he say, an' de kurnel he says, says he, `No, Mis'r Amstrung,
I'll not hold out no sich hope. It's time enough to speak ob dat when
you comes back. It's bery kind ob you to sabe my darter's life, but--'
an' den he says a heap more, but I cou'n't make it rightly out, I _was_
so mad."
"When dey was partin', he says, says he, `Mis'r Amstrung, you mus'
promise me not to 'tempt to meet my darter before leaving.' I know'd,
by de long silence and den by de way he speak dat Massa Lawrence no like
dat, but at last he says, says he, `Well, kurnel, I do promise dat I'll
make no 'tempt to meet wid her,' an' den he hoed away. Now, Quashy,
what you t'ink ob all dat?"
"I t'ink it am a puzzler," replied the negro, his face twisted up into
wrinkles of perplexity. "I's puzzled to hear dat massa tell a big lie
by sayin' he's a beggar, an' den _show_ dat it's a lie by offerin' to
pay for de kurnel's darter's dresses. It's koorious, but white folk
_has_ sitch koorious ways dat it's not easy to understan' dem. Let's be
t'ankful, Sooz'n, you an' me, that we're bof black."
"So I is, Quash, bery t'ankful, but what's to be dooed? Is massa to go
away widout sayin' good-bye to Miss Manuela?"
"Cer'nly not," cried the negro, with sudden energy, seizing his wife's
face between his hands, and giving her lips a smack that resounded over
the place--to the immense delight of several little Gaucho boys, who,
clothed in nothing but ponchos and pugnacity, stood gazing at the
couple.
Quashy jumped up with such violence that the boys in ponchos fled as he
hurried along the street with his bride, earnestly explaining to her as
he went, his new-born plans.
At the same moment that this conversation was taking place, Lawrence
Armstrong and Pedro--_alias_ Conrad of the Mountains--were holding
equally interesting and perhaps more earnest converse over two pots of
coffee in a restaurant.
"I have already told you, senhor," said Pedro, "that old Ignacio
followed us thus hotly, and overtook us as it happened so opportunely,
for the purpose of telling me of a piece of good fortune that has just
been sent to me."
"True," returned Lawrence, "and in the bustle of the moment when you
told me I forgot to congratulate you, whatever the good fortune may be.
What was it?"
"Good old Ignacio little knew," continued Pedro, sipping his coffee with
an air of supreme contentment, "what glad news I had in store for
himself about my little Mariquita--the light of my eyes, the very echo
of her mother! The good fortune he had to tell me of was but as a
candle to the sun compared with what I had to reveal to _him_, for what
is wealth compared with love? However, the other piece of good news is
not to be sneezed at."
"But what _is_ this good news, Pedro?" asked Lawrence, with a touch of
impatience, for his curiosity was aroused, and Pedro's mode of
communicating glad tidings was not rapid.
Before he could reply their attention was attracted by the noisy and
self-assertive entrance of two jovial British sailors, who, although not
quite drunk, were in that condition which is styled by some people
"elevated"--by others, debased. Whatever view may be taken of their
condition, there could be only one opinion as to their effusive
good-humour and universal good-will--a good-will which would probably
have expanded at once into pugnacity, if any one had ventured to suggest
that the couple had had more than enough of strong drink.
"Now then, Bill," cried one, smiting the other with facetious violence
on the back, "what'll you have?" Then, without waiting for a reply, he
added, to the waiter, "Let's have some brary-an'-warer!"
The brandy and water having been supplied, Bill nodded his head, cried,
"Here's luck, Jim," and drained his first glass. Jim responded with the
briefer toast, "Luck!" and followed the other's draining example.
"Now, I'll tell you wot it is, Jim," said Bill, setting down his glass
and gazing at the brandy bottle with a solemnly virtuous look, "I
wouldn't go for to see another bull-fight like that one we saw just
before we left Monte Video, no, not if you was to give me a thousan'
pound down."
"No more would I," responded Jim, regarding the water-jug with a
virtuously indignant air.
"Such dis-_gusting_ cruelty," continued Bill. "To see two strong men
stand up o' their own accord an' hammer their two noses into somethin'
like plum duff, an' their two daylights into one, ain't more nor a
or'nary seaman can stand; but to see a plucky little bull set to gore
an' rip up a lot o' poor blinded horses, with a lot o' cowardly beggars
eggin' it on, an' stickin' darts all over it, an' the place reekin' wi'
blood, an' the people cheerin' like mad--why--it--it made me a'most
sea-sick, which I never was in my life yet. Bah! Pass the bottle,
Jim."
"You're right, Bill," assented Jim, passing the bottle, "an' it made
poor young Ansty sick altogether. Leastwise, I saw his good-lookin'
face turn a'most green as he got up in a hurry like an' left the place,
for you know, big an' well made as he is, an' able to hold his own wi'
the best, Dick Ansty has the heart of a woman for tenderness. His only
fault is that he's a tee-totaller."
"Ay, a g-great fault that," said Bill, pouring out and spilling most of
another glass. "I wouldn't give much for him."
"You couldn't help likin' him, though, if you'd sailed with him as I've
done," returned Jim. "He's a reg'lar brick, though he don't smoke
neither."
"Don't smoke?" exclaimed Bill, aghast. "Then he ain't fit for _this_
world! Why, what does he think 'baccy was made for?"
"I dun know as to that, Bill, but I do know that he's goin' to leave us.
You see, he's only a sort of half-hand--worked his passage out, you
know, an' well he did it too, though he is only a land-lubber, bein' a
Cornishman, who's bin lookin' arter mines o' some sort ever since he was
a boy. He says he's in great luck, havin' fallen in wi' a party as is
just agoin' to start for the west under a feller they call Conrad o' the
Mountains."
Lawrence and Pedro, who had been trying to ignore the presence of the
sailors, and to converse in spite of their noise, became suddenly
interested at this point, and the former glanced inquiringly at the
latter.
"Listen," said Pedro, in a low voice, and with a nod of intelligence.
"It's a queer story," continued Jim. "I heard all about it this very
mornin' from himself. He'd bin givin' some on us a lot o' good advice.
You see, he's a sort of edicated chap, an' got a tremendjous gift o' the
gab, but none of us could take offence at 'im, for he's such a quiet,
modest feller--although he _is_ big! Well, you must know that--that--
what was I sayin'?"
"P-pash th' bottle," said Bill.
"No, that's not what I was--Oh yes, I was goin' to say he'd bin givin'
us good advice, `because you must know, shipmates,' says he, `that I've
bin in good luck on shore, havin' fallen in with a most interestin' man,
whose right name I don't know yet, because everybody speaks of him as
Conrad of the Mountains, though some calls him Pedro, and others the
Rover of the Andes, and a good lot say he's a robber. But I don't care
twopence what they say, for I've seen him, and believe him to be a
first-rate feller. Anyhow, he's a rich one, and has bin hirin' a few
men to help him to work his silver-mine, and as I know somethin' about
mining, he has engaged me to superintend the underground work.'
"You may be sure we was surprised as well as pleased to hear all this,
an' we pumped him, in course, a good deal, an' he told us that the mine
was in the Andes somewheres, at a place called Murrykeety Valley, or
some such name. This Conrad had discovered the mine a good while ago,
and had got an old trapper an' a boy to work it, but never made much of
it till a few months back, when the old man an' the boy came suddenly on
some rich ground, where the silver was shovelled up in buckets. In
course I don't rightly know what like silver is when first got hold on.
It ain't in ready-made dollars, I dare say, but anyhow, they say this
Conrad'll be as rich as a nabob; an' he's got a pretty darter too, as
has bin lost the most of her life, and just turned up at the same time
wi' the silver. I don't rightly know if they dug her up in the mine,
but there she is, an' she's goin' up to the mountains too, so young
Ansty will be in good company."
"Jim," said Bill at this point, looking with unsteady solemnity at his
comrade, and speaking slowly, "I d-don' b-b'lieve a single word on't.
Here, give us a light, an'--an'--pash th' borle."
Rising at this point, Lawrence and Pedro left those jovial British tars
to their elevating occupations.
"Well, senhor," said the latter as they walked away, "you have heard it
all, though not just in the way I had intended!"
"But tell me, Pedro, is this all true?"
"Substantially it is as you have heard it described, only I have had
more people than old Ignacio and his boy to work my silver-mine. I have
had several men at it for a long time, and hitherto it has paid
sufficiently well to induce me to continue the works; but when Ignacio
visited it a few weeks ago, in passing on his way here to meet me, he
found that a very rich lode had been found--so rich, indeed, and
extensive, that there is every reason to expect what men call `a
fortune' out of it. There is a grave, as you know, which dims for me
the lustre of any fortune, but now that it has pleased the Almighty to
give me back my child, I will gladly, for her sake, try to extract a
little more than the mere necessaries of life out of my silver-mine.
Now, my friend," added Pedro, suddenly stopping and confronting our hero
with a decided air, and an earnest look, "will you join me in this
venture? I would not give up my life's work here for all the mines in
Peru. In order to raise the people and improve the condition of this
land, I must continue to be a Rover of the Andes to the end of my days.
So, as I cannot superintend extensive mining operations at the same
time, I must have a manager, and I know of no one whom I should like to
have associated with me half so well as Senhor Lawrence Armstrong. Will
you go with me to the Mariquita Valley?"
Lawrence paused a minute, with his eyes on the ground, before answering.
"I am flattered by your good opinion, Pedro," he said at length, "and
will give you an answer to-morrow, if that will do. I never take any
important step in haste. This afternoon I have an appointment with
Quashy, and as the hour is near, and I promised to be _very_ punctual,
you will excuse my leaving you now."
"Certainly--to-morrow will do," said Pedro, "I hope to take Quashy also
with me. He is a queer fellow."
"He is particularly queer just now," returned Lawrence. "I think his
marriage with Susan has turned his brain. So, good-bye, Pedro--till
to-morrow."
They shook hands heartily, and parted.
That same afternoon Quashy paid a formal visit to Manuela at her
father's residence in the suburbs of Buenos Ayres, and told her, with a
visage elongated to the uttermost, and eyes in which solemnity sat
enthroned, that a very sick man in the country wanted to see her
immediately before he died.
"Dear me, Quashy," said Manuela, an expression of sympathy appearing at
once on her fine eyebrows, "who is it? what is his name? and why does he
send for me?"
"I can't tell you his name, miss. I's not allowed. But it's a bad
case, an' it will be awrful if he should die widout seein' you. You'd
better be quick, miss, an' I'll promise to guide _you_ safe, an' take
great care ob you."
"That I know you will, Quashy. I can trust you. I'll order my horse
im--"
"De hoss am at de door a'ready, miss. I order 'im afore I come here."
Manuela could not restrain a little laugh at the cool presumption of her
sable friend, as she ran out of the room to get ready.
A few minutes more and the pair were cantering through the streets in
the direction of the western suburbs of the town.