Part 31 (1/2)
”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 a.s.sent, 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 G.o.d.”
”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 surpa.s.sing 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 l.u.s.trous 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!