Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read for students .TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read for students .TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“I’m glad you have given in, senhor,” said Pedro, “for it saves me the trouble of dragging you there by force, in order that I may have the pleasure of seeing how you will look under the influence of a surprise.”
“A surprise, Pedro?”
“Yes. But come; the ball is about to begin.”
At the end of the corridor they encountered the English sportsman, who at the same moment chanced to meet his friend, to whom he said—
“I say, just come and—aw—have a look at the company. All free and easy, no tickets required, no dress, no—aw—there goes the governor—”
The remainder was lost in distance as the two sporting characters sauntered to the ballroom, where they stood near the door, looking on with condescending benignity, as men might for whose amusement the whole affair had been arranged.
And truly there was much to be amused at, as Lawrence and his companion, standing just within the doorway, soon found. Owing to the situation of the little town near the base of the mountains, there were men there of many nations and tongues on their way to various mines, or on business of some sort in or on the other side of the mountains—Germans, French, Italians, English, Spanish, and Portuguese. All strangers were welcomed by the hospitable governor and landlord—the latter of whom felt, no doubt, that his loss on food was more than counterbalanced by his gain on drink. Among the guests there were Gauchos of the Pampas, and the head men of a band of peons, who had just arrived with a herd of cattle. As these danced variously, in camp-dresses, top-boots, silver spurs, ponchos, and shirt sleeves, and as the ladies of the town appeared in picturesque and varied costumes with mantillas and fans, Lawrence felt as if he were witnessing a fancy dress gathering, and soon became so absorbed as to forget himself and his companion entirely.
He was aroused from his reverie by the drawling exclamation—
“Aw! indeed?”
“Yes,” replied the landlord to the sportsman, “the colonel’s coming. He’s a jolly old man, and likes to see other people enjoyin’ a bit o’ fun. An’ what’s more, he’s goin’ to bring his daughter with him, and another girl—a niece, I suppose. They say they’re both splendid creatures.”
“Aw! indeed,” languidly replied the sportsman, twisting his moustache.
It was evident that the landlord had failed to arouse his interest.
At that moment the first dance came to an end, and there was a stir at the upper end of the room, where was another door of entrance.
“It’s the colonel,” exclaimed the landlord, hurrying forward.
Colonel Marchbanks entered with a lady on either arm. He was a splendid old man—so tall that Lawrence could distinguish his fine bald head, with its fringe of white hair, rising high above the intervening guests.
People became silent and fell away from him, as if to have a better look at him.
“Come,” said Pedro, suddenly, “I will introduce you.”
There was a strange gleam in Pedro’s eyes, and unwonted excitement in his manner, as he pushed his way through the crowd.
Lawrence followed in some surprise.
Suddenly he heard a sharp, strange, indescribable shout. It was the voice of Pedro, who was only a few yards in advance of him. Our hero sprang forward and beheld a sight which filled him with surprise. One of the girls who leaned on the colonel’s arm was a beautiful blonde of about fifteen, with flowing golden hair and rich brown eyes. She stood as if petrified, with the brown eyes gazing intensely at Pedro, who also stood transfixed returning the gaze with compound interest.
“Mariquita!” he murmured, holding out both hands.
“Yes,” said the delighted colonel, “I felt quite sure she was your child, but said nothing about—”
“Father!” burst from the girl, as, with a cry of joy, she bounded into Pedro’s arms.
“Just so,” continued the colonel, “I didn’t like to mention my suspicions for fear of raising false hopes, and thought the surest way would be to bring them face to face. Wasn’t it so, Manuela?”
Lawrence turned as if he had received an electric shock. He had been so absorbed in the scene we have just described, that he had not looked at the girl who leaned on the colonel’s other arm. He now turned and beheld—not the Indian girl of his travels, but a fair-skinned, dark-eyed senhorina. Yet as he gazed, the blood seemed to rush to his brain, for these were the eyes of Manuela, and the slightly open little mouth was hers—the straight Grecian nose, and the graceful figure. It seemed as if his wildest dream were realised, and that Manuela had become white!
He clasped his hands and gazed, as Pedro had just done, with such intensity that the sportsman, observing the rudeness, said to his friend—
“Aw—don’t you think it would be as well to—aw—kick the fellow out of the room?”
“Hallo! what’s this?” exclaimed the old colonel, turning sharply on Lawrence with a magnificent frown.
It was quite evident that he, as well as Pedro and our hero, had also received a most unexpected surprise, for, not only did the youth continue to stand gazing, with clasped hands, but the young lady did not seem in the least offended. On the contrary, she looked up at the colonel with an incomprehensible expression and a bewitching smile, as she said, in excellent English—
“He is not rude, father, only astonished. Let me introduce my friend and preserver, Mr Lawrence Armstrong.”
But Lawrence heard not, and cared nothing for the introduction.
“It is Manuela!” he exclaimed, with a hesitating step forward, and a look of unbelief still lingering in his eyes.
She held out her little white hand!
He grasped it. The same hand certainly! There could be no doubt about that.
“’Pon my honour—aw—the most interesting tableau vivant I ever—aw—saw!”
“Come, come,” cried the colonel, whose pleased smile had given place to unimaginable astonishment. “You—you should have prepared me for this, Manuela. I—I’m obliged to you, senhor, of course, for—for saving my daughter; but—come, follow me!”
He turned and left the room with rapid strides, and would have dragged Manuela after him, if that young lady had not been endued with a pace—neat, active, and what is sometimes called “tripping,”—which kept her easily alongside of the ancient man of war.
Lawrence followed mechanically.
Pedro, with an arm round Mariquita’s waist, brought up the rear.
As they vanished through the doorway the people gave them a hearty cheer, and resumed dancing.
The sportsman found himself so much overcome that he could only ejaculate, “aw!” But presently he recovered so far as to say, “Let’s go an’ have a ciga’,” and he also melted from the scene.
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
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