That night Lawrence Armstrong slept little. Next morning he found that Pedro had to delay a day in order to have some further intercourse with Colonel Marchbanks. Having nothing particular to do, and being still very unhappy--though his temper had quite recovered--he resolved to take a stroll alone. Just as he left the inn, a tall, powerfully-built, soldierly man entered, and bestowed on him a quick, stern glance in pa.s.sing. He seemed to be between fifty and sixty, straight as a poplar, and without any sign of abated strength, though his moustache and whiskers were nearly white.

Lawrence would have at once recognised a countryman in this old officer, even if the waiter had not addressed him by name as he presented him with a note.

At any other time the sociable instincts of our hero would have led him to seek the acquaintance both of the Colonel and the awful sportsman; but he felt misanthropical just then, and pa.s.sed on in silence.

Before he had been gone five minutes, Quashy came running after him.

"You no want _me_, ma.s.sa?"

"No, Quash, I don't."

"P'r'aps," suggested the faithful man, with an excess of modesty and some hesitation,--"P'r'aps you'd like me to go wid you for--for-- company?"

"You're very kind, Quash, and I should like to have you very much indeed; but at present I'm very much out of sorts, and--"

"O ma.s.sa!" interrupted the negro, a.s.suming the sympathetic gaze instantly, and speaking with intense feeling, "it's not in de stummik, am it?" He placed his hand gently on the region referred to.

"No, Quash," Lawrence replied, with a laugh, "it is not the body at all that affects me; it is the mind."

"Oh! is dat all?" said the negro, quite relieved. "Den you not need to boder you'self. n.o.body ebber troubled long wid dat complaint. Do you know, ma.s.sa, dat de bery best t'ing for dat is a little cheerful s'iety.

I t'ink you'll be de better ob me."

He said this with such self-satisfied gravity, and withal seemed to have made up his mind so thoroughly to accompany his young master, that Lawrence gave in, and they had not gone far when he began really to feel the benefit of Quashy's light talk. We do not mean to inflict it all on the reader, but a few sentences may, perhaps, be advantageous to the development of our tale.

"Splendid place dis, ma.s.sa," observed the negro, after they had walked and chatted some distance beyond the town.

"Yes, Quash,--very beautiful."

"Lots ob nice shady trees an' bushes, and flowers, an' fruits, an' sweet smells ob oranges, an'--"

He waved his arms around, as if to indicate a profusion of delights which his tongue could not adequately describe.

"Quite true, Quash," replied Lawrence, who was content to play second violin in the duet.

"Is you gwine," inquired Quashy, after a brief pause, "to de gubner's ball to-night?"

"No. I did not know there was a governor, or that he intended to give a ball."

The negro opened his eyes in astonishment.

"You not know ob it!" he exclaimed; "why eberybody knows ob it, an'

a'most eberybody's agwine--all de 'spectable peepil, I mean, an' some ob dem what's not zactly as 'spectable as dey should be. But dey's all agwine. He's a liberal gubner, you see, an' he's gwine to gib de ball in de inn at de lan'lord's expense."

"Indeed; that's a curiously liberal arrangement."

"Yes, an' a bery clebber 'rangement for de lan'lord. He's a cute man de lan'lord. I s'pose you's agwine?"

"_No_, I am not going. I have received no invitation; besides, I have no evening dress."

"Bless you, ma.s.sa, you don't need no invitation, nor evenin' dress needer! You just go as you are, an' it's all right."

"But I have no wish to go. I would rather prepare for an early start to-morrow."

"Das a prutty house we's a-comin' to, ma.s.sa," said Quashy, not hearing, or ignoring, the last remark.

Lawrence looked up with a start. Unwittingly, quite unwittingly, he had rambled in the direction of the villa with the rustic porch!

"An' dere's de missis ob de villa, I suppose," said Quashy. "No, she's on'y a redskin. Why, ma.s.sa!" he continued, opening his eyes to their widest, "it's Manuela--or her ghost!"

It was indeed our little Indian heroine, walking alone in the shrubbery.

She had not observed her late companions, who were partly concealed by bushes.

"Quashy," said Lawrence, impressively, laying his hand on the negro's shoulder, "get out of the way. I want to speak to her alone,--to say good-bye, you know, for we start early to-morrow."

The negro promptly threw himself on the ground and nodded his head.

"You go ahead, ma.s.sa. All right. When you comes dis way agin, you'll find dis n.i.g.g.e.r am vanisht like a wreaf ob smoke."

A few seconds more, and Lawrence suddenly appeared before Manuela. She met him without surprise, but with an embarra.s.sed look. Instantly a dark chilling cloud seemed to settle down on the poor youth's spirit.

Mingled with a host of other indescribable feelings, there was one, very strong, of indignation; but with a violent effort he controlled his features, so as to indicate no feeling at all.

"This is an unexpected meeting, Manuela. I had hardly hoped for it, as we set off very early to-morrow; but I'm glad we have met, for I should never have got over the feeling that I had been unkind in going off without saying good-bye. Do you make out what I mean? I think you understand English better than my bad Spanish."

"Yes--I understan'. I very sorry we part. Very, _very_ sorry.

Good-bye."

She put out her hand, and Lawrence mechanically took it. There was something so ridiculous in this prompt and cool way of parting, after having been so long together, that the youth could scarcely believe he was awake. Had this pretty little Inca princess, then, no feeling whatever--no touch of common tenderness, like other girls? Did the well-known stoicism of her race require that she should part for the last time from the man who had twice saved her life, with a simple "I'm very sorry. Good-bye?"

He felt cured now, completely. Such a _spirit_, he thought, could not command esteem, much less affection. As neither body nor spirit was now left to him, he began to feel quite easy in his mind--almost desperately easy--and that paternal, fraternal Platonic interest in the child which we have before mentioned began to revive.

"Well, Manuela," he said at last, with a stupendous sigh, as though he were heaving the entire Andes off his rugged old shoulders, yet with a brotherly smile as he patted the little brown hand, "you and I have had pleasant times together. I could have wished--oh! how I--well, hem! but no matter. You will soon, no doubt be among your own people again. All I would ask of you is sometimes, when far-away, to think of me; to think of me as perhaps, the presumptuous young fellow who did his best to make a long and rather trying journey agreeable to you. Think of me, Manuela, as a father, and I will think of you as my little Indian girl!"

"I will fink," she said, dropping her grave eyes on the ground, and the stoicism of all the Incas seemed to be concentrated in her look and bearing at that moment, "t'ink of you as a fadder."

"Good-bye," he said again.

"Good-bye," she replied.

He had intended to print a fatherly kiss on the little brown hand, but this parting was too much. He dropped her hand, and, turning abruptly away with a final "Farewell--G.o.d bless you," quickly left the spot, in a sort of bewildered amazement that a heartless Indian girl should ever have been able to obtain, even for a time, so powerful an influence over him.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

IS c.u.mULATIVELY ASTONISHING.

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?"