THE GIANT OF THE WESTERN STAR.
Come, let us range the subterranean vast,
Dark catacombs of ages, twilight dells,
And footmarks of the centuries long past,
Which look on us from their sepulchral cells.
Then glad emerge we to the cheering day,
Some sun-ranged height, or Alpine snowy crown,
Or Chimborazo towering far away
O'er the great Andes chain, and, looking down,
On flaming Cordilleras, mountain thrown
O'er mountain, vast new realms.
The Creation--REV. I. WILLIAMS.
The same impression of the Illustrated London News which delighted Jane
Beckett's simple heart in England, caused no small sensation at Lima.
Dona Rosita cast one glance at El Visconde there portrayed, and then
became absorbed in Clara's bonnet; Mr. Robson pronounced Lord
Ormersfield as good a likeness as Mr. Dynevor, Mr. Ponsonby cast a
scornful look and smile at the unlucky figure representing Fitzjocelyn;
and not a critical voice was heard, excepting Tom Madison's, who
indignantly declared that they had made the young Lord look as if he
had stood behind a counter all his life.
The juxtaposition of Lord Fitzjocelyn and Mr. Dynevor's niece, was not
by any means forgotten. It looked very like a graceful conclusion to
Oliver's exertions that he should crown their union, and the county
paper, which had likewise been forwarded, very nearly hinted as much.
Mr. Ponsonby took care that the paragraph should be laid in his
daughter's way, and he offered her the sight of Oliver Dynevor's own
letter.
Mary suspected that he regarded it as something conclusive, and took
care to read it when there were no eyes to mark her emotions.
'Ormersfield and his son were there,' wrote Oliver. 'The young man is
not so soft as he looks. They tell me he is going to work sensibly at
the estate, and he has a sharp eye for the main chance. I hear he
played fast and loose till he found your daughter had better prospects
than Miss Conway, whom my fool of a nephew chose to marry, and now he
is making up to my niece. My mother dotes on him, and I shall make no
objection--no extravagance that I can see, and he will take care of the
property. You will take no offence, since you refuse the tender
altogether.'
Of this Mary believed two sentences--namely, that Aunt Catharine doted
on Fitzjocelyn, and that he was not so soft as he looked, which she
took as an admission that he was not comporting himself foolishly. She
was quite aware that the friendship between him and Clara might deceive
an uninitiated spectator; and, though she commanded herself to think
that an attachment between them would be equally natural and desirable,
she could not but look with great satisfaction at the easy unsuspicious
tone of Mrs. Frost's letter, which, after mentioning with much
affection and gratitude all Oliver's attempts to make her happy, in
spite of the many sad changes around, ended by saying that poor Clara
felt the separation from her brother so much, that without dear Louis
she did not know how she would have gone through the festivities. 'You
can guess how he is everything to us all,' said Aunt Kitty, 'and I
brightened up his looks with giving him your last letter to read. I
dare say, Miss Mary, you would like to scold me.'
Aunt Kitty! Aunt Kitty! you dearly loved a little kindly mischief! Let
that be as it might, Mr. Ponsonby thought that Mr. Dynevor's letter had
certainly not had much effect, for Mary was more lively and cheerful
than he had seen her since her first arrival. Mary's cheerfulness was
becoming the more necessary to him, since he was beginning a little to
weary of the childish charms of his young Limenian wife. Rosita had
neither education nor conversation; and when all her pretty ways had
been tried on him in succession, they began to grow tedious. Moreover,
the playful submission which she had brought from her convent was
beginning to turn into wilfulness. Her extravagances in dress were
appalling. She refused to wear the same dresses twice, and cried,
stamped her graceful foot, and pouted when he remonstrated. She
managed to spend every evening in amusement, either at the Opera, or at
evening parties, where her splendid eyes, and scraps of broken English,
made great havoc among young lieutenants and midshipmen visiting Lima.
Mr. Ponsonby was growing tired of these constant gaieties, and
generally remained at home, sending Mary in his stead, as a sort of
guard over her; and Mary, always the same in her white muslin, followed
Rosita through all the salas of Lima--listened to the confidences of
Limenian beauties--talked of England to little naval cadets, more
homesick than they would have chosen to avow--and felt sure of some
pleasure and interest for the evening, when Mr. Ward came to stand by
her chair.
One afternoon, as Mary sat in her window reading, a gay voice
exclaimed, 'Beso las manos a Usted;' and looking up, she saw one of the
prettiest figures imaginable. A full dark purple satin skirt just
revealed the point of a dainty white satin shoe. It was plaited low on
the hips, and girded loosely with a brightly striped scarf. The head
and upper part of the person were shrouded in a close hood of elastic
black silk webbing, fastened behind at the waist, and held over the
face by the hand, which just allowed one be-ringed finger and one
glancing dark eye to appear, while the other hand held a fan and a
laced pocket-handkerchief. So perfectly did the costume suit the air
and shape of the lady, that, as she stood among Mary's orange trees, it
was like an illusion, of the fancy, but consternation took away all the
charm from Mary's eyes. 'Tapada, she cried; 'you surely are not going
out, tapada?'
'Ah, you have found me out,' cried Rosita. 'Yes, indeed I am! and I
have the like saya y manto ready for you. Come, we will be on the
Alameda; Xavier waits to attend us. Your Senor Ouard will be at his
evening walk.'
But Mary drew back. This pretty disguise was a freak, such as only the
most gay ladies permitted themselves; and she had little doubt that her
father would be extremely displeased at his wife and daughter so
appearing, although danger there was none; since, though any one might
accost a female thus veiled, not the slightest impertinence was ever
allowed. Mary implored Bosita to wait till Mr. Ponsonby's views should
be known; but she was only laughed at for her English precision, and
the pretty creature danced away to her stolen pleasure.
She came in, all glory and delight at the perplexity in which she had
involved the English officers, the guesses and courtesies of her own
countrymen, and her mystification of Mr. Robson, who had evidently
recognised her, though pretending to treat her as a charming stranger.
The triumph was of short duration. For the first time, she had aroused
one of Mr. Ponsonby's gusts of passion; she quailed under it, wept
bitterly, and made innumerable promises, and then she put on her black
mantilla, and, with Xavier behind her, went to her convent chapel, and
returned, half crying over the amount of repetitions of her rosary by
which her penance was to be performed, and thereby all sense of the
fault put away. Responsibility and reflection never seemed to be
impressed on that childish mind.
Mary had come in for some of the anger, for not having prevented
Rosita's expedition; but they were both speedily forgiven, and Mary
never was informed again of her using the saya y manto.
Their minds were diverted by the eager desire of one of the young
officers to visit the silver mines. It had been an old promise to Mary
from her father to take her to see them; but in her former residence in
Peru, it had never been fulfilled. He now wished to inspect matters
himself, in order to answer the numerous questions sent by Oliver; and
Rosita, eagerly catching at any proposal which promised a variety, a
party was made up for ascending to the San Benito mines, some days'
journey from Lima. Mary and Rosita were the only ladies; but there
were several gentlemen, three naval officers, and Mr. Ward, who was
delighted to have an opportunity of visiting the wonders which had
been, for many years, within his reach without his rousing himself from
his business to see them. Tents, bedding, and provisions were to be
carried with them, and Mary had full occupation in stimulating Dolores
to bring together the requisite preparations; while Mr. Ward and Robson
collected guides, muleteers, and litters.
It was a merry party, seated on the gaily-trapped mules, with an idle
young midshipman to make mischief, and all in spirits to enjoy his
nonsense, in the exhilaration of the mountain air blowing freshly from
the snowy summits which seemed to rise like walls before them. The
steaming, misty, relaxing atmosphere of Lima was left behind, and with
it many a care and vexation. Mr. Ponsonby brought his mule to the side
of his wife's litter, and exchanged many a joke in Anglo-Spanish with
her and the lieutenant; and Mr. Ward, his brow unfurrowed from
counting-house cares, walked beside Mary's mule, gathered each new
flower for her, and listened to her narrative of some of the causes for
which she was glad, with her own eyes, to see Tom Madison in his scene
of action.
The first day of adventure they slept at a hacienda, surrounded with
fields where numerous llamas were pasturing. The next began the real
mountain work; the rock looked like a wall before them, and the white
summits were sharply defined against the blue sky. The sharper air
made Rosita shiver; but the English travellers congratulated themselves
on something like a breeze, consoling them for the glow with which the
sunbeams beat upon the rocks. The palms and huge ferns had given place
to pines, and these were growing more scanty. Once or twice they met a
brown Indian, robed in a coloured blanket, with a huge straw hat, from
beneath which he gazed with curious, though gentle eyes, upon the
cavalcade. By-and-by, looking like a string of ants descending a
perpendicular wall, Mary beheld a row of black specks slowly moving.
She was told that these were the mules bringing down the metal in
panniers--the only means of communication, until, as the lieutenant
promised, a perpendicular railroad should be invented. The electricity
of the atmosphere made jokes easily pass current. The mountain was
'only' one of the spurs of the Andes, a mere infant among the giants;
but, had it been set down in Europe, Mont Blanc must have hid his
diminished head; and the view was better than on some of the more
enormous neighbours, which were both further inland, and of such
height, that to gaze from them was 'like looking from an air-balloon
into vacancy.' Whereas here Mary had but to turn her head, as her mule
steadily crept round the causeway--a legacy of the Incas--to behold the
expanse of the Pacific, a sheet of glittering light in the sunshine,
the horizon line raised so high, that the first moment it gave her a
sense of there being something wrong with her eye, before the feeling
of infinity rushed upon her.
They were turning the flank of the mountain, and losing the sunshine.
The evening air was almost chill, and the clearness such that they
already saw the ragged height whither they were bound rising in craggy
shattered grandeur, every flat space or gentler declivity covered with
sheds and huts for the work-people, and cavernous mouths opening on the
cliff-side. Dark figures could be distinctly seen moving about; and as
to the descending mules, they seemed to be close on the other side of a
narrow ravine. Rosita, who, now it came to the point, was not without
fears of sleeping on the bare mountain-side, wanted to push on; she was
sure they could arrive before night, but she was told that she knew
nothing of mountain atmosphere; and she was not discontented with the
bright fire and comfortable arrangements on which they suddenly came,
after turning round a great shoulder of rock. Mr. Robson and the
sumpter-mules had quietly preceded them, and the gipsying on the Andes
was likely to be not much less luxurious than an English pic-nic. The
negro cook had done his best; Mary made her father's coffee, and Rosita
was waited on to her satisfaction. And when darkness came on, too
early for English associations with warm days, the lights of the
village at the mine glittered merrily, and, apparently, close at hand;
and the stars above shone as Mary had never seen them, so marvellously
large and bright, and the Magellan clouds so white and mysterious. Mr.
Ward came and told her some of the observations made on them by
distinguished travellers; and after an earnest conversation, she sought
her matted bed, with a pleasant feeling on her mind, as if she had been
unusually near Louis's world.
Clear, sharp, and cold was the air next day; the snow-fields glistened
gloriously in the rising sun, and a rose-coloured mist seemed to rise
from them. Rosita was shown the unusual spectacle of hoar frost, and
shiveringly profited by Mary's ample provision of wraps. The
hill-sides were beyond conception desolate and bare. Birds were an
almost unknown race in Peru; and here even green things had departed,
scarcely a tuft of blossom looking out on the face of the red and
purple rock; and the exceeding stillness so awful, that even the
boy-sailor scarce dared to speak above his breath. Rosita began to
repent of having come near so horrible a place; and when she put her
head out of her litter, and beheld herself winding along a ledge
projecting from the face of a sheer precipice, she would have begged to
go back instantly; but her husband spoke in a voice of authority which
subdued her; she drew in her head into her basket-work contrivance, and
had recourse to vows to Sta Rosa of Lima of a chaplet of diamond roses,
if she ever came safely down again.
Mary had made up her mind that they should not have been taken thither
if there were any real danger; and so, though she could have preferred
her mule taking the inner side of the ledge, and was not too happy when
it climbed like a cat, she smiled, and answered all inquiries that she
did not think she ought to be frightened. The region was in general
more stern than beautiful, the clefts between the hills looking so
deep, that it seemed as if an overthrown mountain could hardly fill
them; but now and then came sudden peeps of that wonderful ocean; or
almost under her feet, as if she could throw a stone into it, there
would lie an intensely green valley, shut in with feathering pines, and
the hacienda and grazing llamas dwindled, so that they could have been
taken for a Swiss farm and flocks of sheep.
Not till the middle of the day did they meet the line of mules, and not
until the sunset did they find themselves close before the wonderful
perforated San Benito summit. It was, unlike many other metalliferous
hills, an isolated, sharply-defined mass of rock, breaking into sudden
pinnacles and points, traversed with veins of silver. These veins had
been worked with galleries, which, even before the Spanish conquest,
had honeycombed the solid rock, and had been thought to have exhausted
its riches; but it had been part of Oliver Dynevor's bold speculations
to bring modern science to profit by the leavings of the Peruvians and
their destroyers. It was a marvellous work, but it might still be a
question whether the profit would bear out the expense.
However, that was not the present consideration. No one could feel
anything but admiring astonishment at the fantastic craggy height of
peaks and spires, rising against the darkening sky, like the very
stronghold of the Giant of the Western Star; and, with the black
openings of the galleries, here and there showing the lights of the
workmen within. Mary remembered the tales, in which Louis used vainly
to try to interest her, of metal-working Dwarfs within the mountains;
and would have been glad to tell him that, after all, reality was quite
as strange as his legends.
The miners, Indians and negroes, might truly have been Trolls, as, with
their brown and black countenances, and wild bright attire, they came
thronging out of their rude houses, built of piled stones on every
tolerably level spot. Three or four stout, hearty Cornish miners, with
picks on their shoulders, made the contrast stranger; and among them
stood a young man, whose ruddy open face carried Mary home to
Ormersfield in one moment; and she could not but blush almost as if it
had been Louis, when she bent her head in acknowledgment of his bow.
He started towards her as if to help her off her mule; but Mr. Ponsonby
was detaining him by questions, and Mr. Ward, as usual, was at her
rein. In a wonderfully brief time, as it seemed to her, all the
animals were led off to their quarters; and Robson, coming up,
explained that Madison's hut, the only habitable place, had been
prepared for the ladies--the gentlemen must be content to sleep in
their tent.
'The hut was at least clean,' said Robson, as he ushered them in; and
Mary felt as if it were a great deal more. It was rudely built, and
only the part near the hearth was lined with matting; the table and the
few stools and chairs were rough carpentry, chiefly made out of boxes;
but upon the wall hung a beautiful print from Raffaelle, of which she
knew the giver as surely as if his name had been written on it; and the
small bookcase suspended near contained, compressed together, an
epitome of Louis's tastes--the choicest of all his favourites, in each
class of book. Mary stood by it, reading the names, and trying to
perceive Louis's principle of selection in each case. It jarred upon
her when, as the gentlemen loitered about, waiting for the evening
meal, they came and looked at the titles, with careless remarks that
the superintendent was a youth of taste, and a laugh at the odd
medley--Spenser, Shakspeare, 'Don Quixote,' Calderon, Fouque, and
selections from Jeremy Taylor, &c.
Mary would hear no more comments. She went to the fire, and tried to
persuade Rosita they would come safe down again; and then, on the
apology for a mantelshelf, she saw some fossils and some dried grasses,
looking almost as if Fitzjocelyn had put them there.
She did not see Madison that night; but the next morning he presented
himself to act as their guide through the wonders of the extraordinary
region where his lot had been cast. She found that this was only the
first floor of the wondrous castle. Above and above, rose galleries,
whence the ore was lowered down to the buildings here placed, where it
underwent the first process of separation. The paths above were fit
for none, save a chamois, or a barefooted Indian, or a sailor--for the
midshipman was climbing aloft in such places, that Tom's chief work was
to summon him back, in horror lest he should involve himself in endless
galleries, excavated before the days of Atahualpa.
Much of the desperate scrambling which Madison recommended as
plain-sailing, was beyond Mr. Ponsonby; but where he went, Mary went;
and when he stopped, she, though she had not drawn since the master at
her school had resigned her, as a hopeless case, applied herself to the
perpetration of an outline of the rocks, that, as she said, 'her aunts
might see what sort of place it was.' Her steady head, and firm,
enterprizing hand and foot, enabled her to see the crowning wonder of
the mountain, one of the ventanillas or windows. Mr. Ward, having
visited it, came back bent on taking her thither; there was no danger,
if she were not afraid. So, between him and Tom Madison, she was
dragged up a steep path, and conducted into a gallery cut out in the
living rock, growing gloomier and gloomier, till suddenly there was a
spot of light on the sparkling floor, and Mary found herself beneath an
opening through the mountain crown, right up into the sky, which,
through the wild opening, looked of the deepest, most ultra-marine,
almost purple blue, utterly beyond conception in the glory of intense
colour, bringing only to her mind those most expressive, yet most
inexpressive words, 'the body of heaven in His clearness.' She felt,
what she had often heard said, that to all mountain tops is given
somewhat of the glory that dwelt on Sinai. That ineffable blue was
more dazzling than even the fields beyond fields of marvellous white
that met her eye on emerging from the dark gallery.
'I never wish so much that Lord Fitzjocelyn should see anything as
that,' said Tom Madison, when Mary, in her gratitude, was trying to say
something adequate to the trouble she had given, though the beauty was
beyond any word of admiration.
'He would--' she began to answer, but the rest died away, only answered
by Tom with an emphatic 'He _would_!' and then began the difficulties
of getting down.
But Mary had the pleasure at the next pause of hearing Mr. Ward say,
'That is a very fine intelligent young fellow, worthy of his library. I
think your father has a prize in him!'
Mary's eyes thanked Mr. Ward, with all her heart in them. It was worth
going up the Andes for such a sentence to put into a letter that Aunt
Kitty would show to Louis.
Robson seemed anxious to monopolize the attention of the gentlemen, to
the exclusion of Madison; and while Tom was thus thrust aside, Mary
succeeded in having a conversation with him, such as she felt was a
sort of duty to Louis. She asked him the names of the various
mountain-peaks in sight, whose bare crags, too steep to support the
snow, here and there stood out dark in salient contrast to the white
scenery, and as he gave them to her, mentioning the few facts that he
had been able to gather respecting them, she was able to ask him
whether he was in the habit of seeing anything approaching to society.
He smiled, saying that his nearest neighbours were many miles off--an
engineer conducting some far more extensive mining operations, whom he
sometimes met on business, and an old Spanish gentleman, who lived in a
valley far down the mountain side, with whom he sometimes smoked his
cigar on a Sunday, if he felt inclined for a perpendicular promenade on
a Peruvian causeway for nearly four miles. Mary asked whether he often
did feel inclined. No, he thought not often; he had generally worked
hard enough in the week to make his book the best company; but he liked
now and then to see something green for a change after these bare
mountains and rocks, and the old Don Manrique was very civil and
agreeable. Then, after a few minutes' conversation of this kind,
something of the old conscious abruptness of tone seemed to come over
the young man, and looking down, he said bluntly, 'Miss Ponsonby, do
you think there would be any objection to my coming into Lima just for
Christmas?'
'I suppose not; I cannot tell.'
Tom explained that all the miners would be making holiday, and the
senior Cornishman might safely be left in charge of the works, while he
only wished to spend Christmas-day itself in the city, and would be a
very short time absent. He blushed a little as he spoke, and Mary
ventured to reply to what she gathered of his thought, 'No other day
would suit you as well?'
'No, ma'am, it hardly would,' he answered, gravely.
'I will try what can be done,' said Mary, 'unless you would speak to
Mr. Ponsonby yourself.'
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Ponsonby's figure some paces distant, and
shook his head.
'I will try,' repeated Mary; and then she added, 'These grand hill-tops
and blue sky almost make a church--'
'Yes, ma'am,' said Tom, his black eyes lighting at the thought; 'I've
felt so sometimes, but 'tis a mighty lonely one after a time. I've
taken my book, and got out of earshot of the noise the blacks make; and
I do assure you, Miss Ponsonby, the stillness was enough to drive one
wild, with nothing but savage rocks to look at either! Not a green
plant, nor a voice to answer, unless one got to the mountain echoes,
and they are worse--'
'But surely you have the Cornishmen! What do they do on a Sunday?'
'They lie about, and smoke and sleep, or go down to the valley,' said
Tom. 'I never thought of them.'
'I think you should,' said Mary, gravely. 'If you are in any authority
over them, it must give you a charge over their souls. I think you
should, at least, give them the choice of reading the service with you.'
'I'll think about it,' said Madison, gruffly.
'I will send up some books for them to make an opening,' said Mary. 'I
should not like to think of men living in such scenes, without being
the better for them.'
Robson was here obliged to call Madison to refer some question to him;
but Mary had another talk with him, when he begged to know if there
were likely soon to be an opportunity of sending to England. He had
some fossils which he wished to send to Lord Fitzjocelyn; and he
fetched them, and explained his theories with regard to them as if he
had almost forgotten that she was not his young Lord. She carried his
request to her father, and was answered that of course he might take a
holiday if he could leave the works with safety; he had better spend a
few days in the town when he did come. With this answer she made him
happy; and they set off, to the extreme joy of Rosita, who had
engrossed much less attention than she had expected, and declared she
would never have come into these horrible places if she could have
imagined what they were like. Certainly, no one wished to have her
company there again.
When Mr. Ponsonby mentioned the permission which he had accorded to
Madison, Robson coughed and looked annoyed. Mary could not help
suspecting that this was because the request had not been preferred
through himself. 'So the young fellow wants to be coming down, does
he? I thought his ardour was too hot to last long.'
'Very natural that the poor lad should want a holiday,' said Mr.
Ponsonby. 'It must take a tolerable flow of spirits to stand long,
being so many feet above the level of the sea, in caves fit for a
robber's den at the theatre.'
'Oh, I am making no objection, sir,' returned Robson; 'the young man
may take his pleasure for what I care, so he can be trusted not to
neglect his business.'
Here the path narrowed, and Mary had to fall back out of hearing; but
she had an unpleasant suspicion that Robson was telling her father
something to Tom's disadvantage, and she had to consider how to avoid
rousing a jealousy, which she knew might be dangerous.
Mr. Ward, however, came up to interrupt her thoughts and watch the
steps of her mule. The worst difficulties of the descent had precluded
all conversation; and the party were just beginning to breathe freely,
think of terra firma as not far off, and gaze with easier minds on the
marvellous ocean. Mary went on in very comfortable discussion of the
wonders they had seen, and of Madison's remark that the performances of
the Incas made one quite ashamed of the achievements of modern
science--a saying in which Mr. Ward perfectly agreed; and then he began
to say something rather long, and a little disconnected, and Mary's
mind took an excursion to Aunt Kitty, and the reading of the letter
that she was going to write, when suddenly something in Mr. Ward's
voice startled her, and recalling her attention, she discovered, to her
dismay, that he was actually making her an offer! An offer! She would
as soon have expected one from her father! And oh! how well
expressed--how entirely what it ought to be! How unlike every one of
those three of her past experience!
In great distress she exclaimed, 'Oh, Mr. Ward, pray do not--indeed, I
cannot!'
'I feared that I was but too likely to meet with such an answer,' said
Mr. Ward; 'and yet your father encouraged me to hope, that in course of
time--'
'Then papa has told you what he thinks?' said Mary.
'I applied to him before I could venture to join this party. Mary, I
am aware that I can bring none of the advantages which have'--his voice
faltered--'which have forestalled me; but the most true and earnest
affection is already yours.'
'I am very sorry for it, Mr. Ward,' said Mary, gravely, though much
touched. 'It is very kind of you, but it is only fair and candid to
tell you that papa has probably led you into a mistake. He thinks that
the--the object was weak and unworthy, and that my feelings could be
easily overcome. He does not know--'
'He assured me that all was at an end--'
'It is,' said Mary; 'but I am certain that I shall never feel for any
one else the same as'--and the tears were coming last. 'You are very
kind, Mr. Ward, but it is of no use to think that this can ever be.'
'Forgive me for having harassed you,' said Mr. Ward, and they went on
so long in silence that Mary hoped it was over, and yet he did not go
away from her. She was sorry to see the grieved, dejected expression
on his good, sensible, though somewhat worn countenance; and she
esteemed him highly; but who could have thought of so unlucky a fancy
coming into his head? When, at length, he spoke again, it was to say
that he begged that she would forget what was past, and allow him to
continue on his former footing. Mary was glad to have something
grateful to say, and answered that she should have been very sorry to
lose him as a friend; whereupon his face cheered up, he thanked her,
and fell back from her rein. In spite of her past trials of the
futility of the attempt to live with a rejected suitor as if nothing
had happened, she had hopes of the possibility when her own heart was
untouched, and the gentleman nearly doubled her years; but when she
talked to her father, she gathered that it was considered by both
gentlemen that the proposal had been premature, and that her final
detachment from Louis was reckoned on as so certain that Mr. Ward was
willing to wait, as if it were only a matter of time. He was so
wealthy and prosperous, and a connexion with him would have been so
useful to the firm, that Mary was grateful to her father for forbearing
to press her on what he evidently wished so earnestly. Mr. Ward had
exactly the excellent, well-balanced character, which seemed made to
suit her, and she could have imagined being very happy with him,
if--No, no--Mr. Ward could not be thought of at the same moment.
Yet, whatever she might say, no one would believe her; so she held her
peace, and wrote her history of the silver mines; and Mr. Ward haunted
the house, and was most kindly forbearing and patient, and Mary found
at every turn, how good a man he was, and how cruel and mistaken his
sister thought her.
And Christmas came, when the churches were perfect orange-groves, and
the scene of the wanderers of Bethlehem was acted from house to house
in the twilight. The scanty English congregation met in the room that
served as a chapel in the Consul's house--poor Mary alone of all her
household there to keep the feast; and Mr. Ward was there, and Madison
had come down from his mountain. There were hearts at home that would
rejoice to hear that.
Mary saw him afterwards, and he thanked her for her suggestion
respecting the miners. Two had been only as shy as Tom himself; they
had been reading alone, and were glad to join company, a third was
beginning to come, and it had led to a more friendly intercourse. Mary
sent him away, very happy with some books for them, some new Spanish
reading for himself, an astronomical book, and her little celestial
globe--for the whole firmament of stars had been by no means lost on
him. That interview was her Christmas treat. Well for her that she
did not hear Robson say, 'That young man knows how to come over the
ladies. I shall keep a sharper look-out after him. I know no harm of
him, but if there's one man I trust less than another, it is one that
tries the serious dodge.'