"I shall ere long be upon it." He accompanies the speech with a sigh.
"And I, too," rejoins Carmen, in a tone, and with accompaniment,
singularly similar.
"How soon do you think of leaving California?" queries the young
officer.
"Oh, very soon! My father is already making arrangements, and hopes
being able to set sail in a week, if not less. Indeed, he has this day
been to see about taking passages to Panama. That's why he was not at
home to receive you; leaving me to do the honours of the house, and
apologise for his seeming rudeness."
For that not much apology was needed, thinks Crozier, who is for a time
silent, not knowing what next to say. Love, reputed eloquent, is oft
the reverse; and though opening the lips of a landsman, will shut those
of men who follow the sea. There is a remarkable modesty about the
latter more than the former--in the presence of women. Why, I cannot
tell; only knowing that as a rule it is so; and certainly in the case of
Edward Crozier.
In time he gets over his embarrassment, so far as to venture upon an
interrogatory, not very pertinent--
"I suppose, Dona Carmen, you are very happy at the prospect of returning
to Spain?"
"No, indeed," answers Don Gregorio's daughter. "On the contrary, it
makes me rather melancholy. I love dear California, and could live in
it all my life. Couldn't you?"
"Under certain circumstances, I could."
"But you like the country, don't you?"
"I do, now. In ten days from this time, I shall no longer care for it--
not three straws."
"Why do you say that, Don Eduardo? There's an enigma in your words.
Please explain them?"
While asking the question, her grey-blue eyes gaze into his, with an
expression of searching eagerness--almost anxiety.
"Shall I tell you why, senorita!"
"I have asked you, senor."
"Well, then, I like California now, because it contains the fairest
object on earth--to me the dearest--the woman I love. In ten days or
less, by her own showing, she will be away from it; why should I care
for it then? Now, Dona Carmen, I've given you the key to what you've
called an enigma."
"Not quite. Perhaps you will pardon a woman's curiosity, if I ask the
name of the lady who thus controls your likes and dislikes."
Crozier hesitates, a red spot flushing out upon his cheek. He is about
to pronounce a name--perhaps make a speech, the most important he has
ever made in his life--because laden with his life's happiness, or
leading to the reverse. What if it should be coldly received?
But no; he cannot be mistaken. Her question, so quaintly, yet so
impressively put--surely courts the answer he intends giving? And he
gives it without further reflection--her own name, not an added word.
"_Carmen Montijo_."
"Eduardo," she asks, after a pause, dropping the Don, "are you in
earnest? Can I take this as true? Do not deceive me--in honour do not!
To you--and I truly tell you--I have surrendered all my heart. Say
that I have yours!"
"I have said it, Carmen," he too adopting the familiar language of love.
"Have I not?"
"Sincerely?"
"Look in my eyes for the answer."
She obeys; and drawing closer, tiny gaze into one another's eyes; the
flashes from the blue crossing and commingling with those from the
brown. Neither could mistake the meaning of the glance, for it is the
true light of love, pure as passionate.
Not another word passes between them. The confession, with its dreaded
crisis, is passed; and, with hearts quivering in sweet content, they
turn their thoughts to the future, full of pleasant promise.
Near by are two other hearts, quite as happy as theirs; though after a
scene less sentimental, and a dialogue that, to a stranger overhearing
it, might appear to be in jest. For all, in real earnest, and so
ending--as may be inferred from the young Welshman's final speech, with
the reply of his Andalusian sweetheart:
"Inez, you're the dearest girl I've met in all my cruisings. Now, don't
let us beat about any longer, but take in sail, and bring the ship to an
anchor. Will you be mine, and marry me?"
"I will."
No need to stay longer there--no object in continuing to gaze over the
ocean.
The horses seem instinctively to understand this; and, turning together,
set their heads for home.