Mr. Fortescue - William Westall (i read a book .txt) 📗

was small yet picturesque, its verdant banks deepening by contrast the dark desolation of the arid mountains in which it was embosomed. Some three thousand feet above it rose the extinct volcano, the slopes of which in the days of the Incas were terraced and cultivated. Angela and I half rode, half walked to the top; but the abbe, on the plea that he had some business to look after, stayed at the bottom.

The crater was about eight hundred yards in diameter and filled nearly to the brim with crystal water, which outflowed by a wide and well made channel into the lake, the supply being kept up by the in-flow from the _azequia_, whose course we could trace far into the mountains.

The view from our coigne of vantage was unspeakably grand. Behind us rose the stupendous range of the Andes, with its snow-white peaks and smoking volcanoes; before us the oasis of Quipai rolled like a river of living green to the shores of the measureless ocean, whose shining waters in that clear air and under that azure sky seemed only a few miles away, while, as far as the eye could reach, the coast-line was fringed with the dreary waste where I had so nearly perished.

The oasis, as I now for the first time discovered, was a valley, a broad shallow depression in the desert falling in a gentle slope from the foot of the Cordillera to the sea, whereby its irrigation was greatly facilitated.

"How beautiful Quipai looks, and how like a river!" said Angela. "That is what I always think when I come here--how like a river!"

"Who knows that long ago the valley was not the bed of a river!"

"It must be very long ago, then, before there was any Cordillera. Rain-clouds never cross the Andes, and for untold ages there can have been no rain here on the coast."

"You are right. Without rain you cannot have much of a river, and if the _azequia_ were to fail there would be very little left of Quipai."

"Don't suggest anything so dreadful as the failure of the _azequia_. It is the Palladium of the mission and the source of all our prosperity and happiness. Besides, how could it fail? You see how solidly it is built, and every month it is carefully inspected from end to end."

"It might be destroyed by an earthquake."

"You are pleased to be a Job's comforter, Monsieur Nigel. Damaged it might be, but hardly destroyed, except in some cataclysm which would destroy everything, and that is a risk which, like all dwellers in countries subject to earthquakes, we must run. We cannot escape from the conditions of our existence; and life is so pleasant here, we are spared so many of the miseries which afflict our fellow-creatures in other parts of the world--war, pestilence, strife, and want--that it were as foolish and ungrateful to make ourselves unhappy because we are exposed to some remote danger against which we cannot guard, as to repine because we cannot live forever."

"You discourse most excellent philosophy, Mademoiselle Angela."

"Without knowing it, then, as Monsieur Jourdan talked prose."

"So! You have read Moliere?"

"Over and over again."

"Then you must have a library at San Cristobal."

"A very small one, as you may suppose; but a small library is not altogether a disadvantage, as the abbe says. The fewer books you have the oftener you read them; and it is better to read a few books well than many superficially."

"The abbe has been your sole teacher, I suppose?"

"Has been! He is still. He has even written books for me, and he is the author of some of the best I possess--But don't you think, monsieur, we had better descend to the valley? The abbe will have finished his business by this time, and though he is the best man in the world he has the fault of kings; he does not like to wait."


CHAPTER XXVIII.

I BID YOU STAY.

"You have been here a month, Monsieur Nigel, living in close intimacy with Angela and myself," said the abbe, as we sat on the veranda sipping our morning coffee. "You have mixed with our people, seen our country, and inspected the great _azequia_ in its entire length. Tell me, now, frankly, what do you think of us?"

"I never passed so happy a month in my life, and--"

"I am glad to hear you say so, very glad. My question, however, referred not to your feelings but your opinion. I will repeat it: What think you of Quipai and its institutions?"

"I know of but one institution in Quipai, and I admire it more than I can tell."

"And that is?"

"Yourself, Monsieur l'Abbe."

The abbe smiled as if the compliment pleased him, but the next moment his face took the "pale cast of thought," and he remained silent for several minutes.

"I know what you mean," he said at length, speaking slowly and rather sadly. "You mean that I am Quipai, and that without me Quipai would be nowhere."

"Exactly, Monsieur l'Abbe. Quipai is a miracle; you are its creator, yet I doubt whether, as it now exists, it could long survive you. But that is a contingency which we need not discuss; you have still many years of life before you."

"I like a well-turned compliment, Monsieur Nigel, because in order to be acceptable it must possess both a modicum of truth and a _soupcon_ of wit. But flattery I detest, for it must needs be insincere. A man of ninety cannot, in the nature of things, have many years of life before him. What are even ten years to one who has already lived nearly a century? This is a solemn moment for both of us, and I want to be sincere with you. You were sincere just now when you said Quipai would perish with me. And it will--unless I can find a successor who will continue the work which I have begun. My people are good and faithful, but they require a prescient and capable chief, and there is not one among them who is fitted either by nature or education to take the place of leader. Will you be my successor, Monsieur Nigel?"

This was a startling proposal. To stay in Quipai for a few weeks or even a few months might be very delightful. But to settle for life in an Andean desert! On the other hand, to leave Quipai were to lose Angela.

"You hesitate. But reflect well, my friend, before denying my request. True, you are loath to renounce the great world with its excitements, ambitions, and pleasures. But you would renounce them for a life free from care, an honorable position, and a career full of promise. It will take years to complete the work I have begun, and make Quipai a nation. As I said when you first came, Providence sent you here, as it sent Angela, for some good end. It sent the one for the other. Stay with us, Monsieur Nigel, and marry Angela! If you search the world through you could find no sweeter wife."

My hesitation vanished like the morning mist before the rising sun.

"If Angela will be my wife," I said, "I will be your successor."

"It is the answer I expected, Monsieur Nigel. I am content to let Angela be the arbiter of your fate and the fate of Quipai. She will be here presently. Put the question yourself. She knows nothing of this; but I have watched you both, and though my eyes are growing dim I am not blind."

And with that the abbe left me to my thoughts. It was not the first time that the idea of asking Angela to be my wife had entered my mind. I loved her from the moment I first set eyes on her, and my love has become a passion. But I had not been able to see my way. How could I ask a beautiful, gently nurtured girl to share the lot of a penniless wanderer, even if she could consent to leave Quipai, which I greatly doubted. But now! Compared with Angela, the excitements and ambitions of which the abbe had spoken did not weigh as a feather in the balance. Without her life would be a dreary penance; with her a much worse place than Quipai would be an earthly paradise.

But would she have me? The abbe seemed to think so. Nevertheless, I felt by no means sure about it. True, she appeared to like my company. But that might be because I had so much to tell her that was strange and new; and though I had observed her narrowly, I had detected none of that charming self-consciousness, that tender confusion, those stolen glances, whereby the conventional lover gauges his mistress's feelings, and knows before he speaks that his love is returned. Angela was always the same--frank, open, and joyous, and, except that her caresses were reserved for him, made no difference between the abbe and me.

"A _chirimoya_ for your thoughts, senor!" said a well-known voice, in musical Castilian. "For these three minutes I have been standing close by you, with this freshly gathered chirimoya, and you took no notice of me."

"A thousand pardons and a thousand thanks, senorita!" I answered, taking the proffered fruit. "But my thoughts were worth all the chirimoyas in the world, delicious as they are, for they were of you."

"We were thinking of each other then."

"What! Were you thinking of me?"

"_Si, senor._"

"And what were you thinking, senorita?"

"That God was very good in sending you to Quipai."

"Why?"

"For several reasons."

"Tell me them."

"Because you have done the abbe good. Aforetime he was often sad. You remember his saying that he had cares. I know not what, but now he seems himself again."

"Anything else?"

"_Si, senor._ You have also increased my happiness. Not that I was unhappy before, for, thanks to the dear abbe, my life has been free from sorrow; but during the last month--since you came--I have been more than happy, I have been joyous."

"You don't want me to go, then?"

"O senor! Want you to go! How can you--what have I done or said?" exclaimed the girl, impetuously and almost indignantly. "Surely, sir, you are not tired of us already?"

"Heaven forbid! If you want me to stay I shall not go. It is for you to decide. _Angela mia_, it depends on you whether I go away soon--how or whither I know not--or stay here all my life long."

"Depends on me! Then, sir, I bid you stay."

"Oh, Angela, you must say more than that. You must consent to become my wife; then do with me what you will."

"Your wife! You ask me to become your wife?"

"Yes, Angela. I have loved you since the day we first met; every day my love grows stronger and deeper, and unless you love me in return, and will be my wife, I cannot stay; I must go--go at once."

"_Quipai, senor_," said Angela, archly, at the same time giving me her hand.

"Quipai! I don't quite understand--unless you mean--"

"Quipai," she repeated, her eyes brightening into a merry smile.

"Unless you mean--"

"Quipai."

"Oh, how dull I am! I see now. Quipai--rest here."

"_Si, senor._"

"And if I rest here, you will--"

"Do as you wish, senor, and with all my heart; for as you love me,