"ADIOS CALIFORNIA!"
A bright sun rises over San Francisco, in all likelihood the last Don
Gregorio Montijo will ever witness in California. For just as the orb
of day shows its disc above the dome-shaped _silhouette_ of Monte
Diablo, flinging its golden shimmer across the bay, a boat leaves the
town-pier, bearing him and his towards the Chilian vessel, whose signals
for sailing are out.
Others are in the boat; a large party of ladies and gentlemen, who
accompany them to do a last handshaking on board. For, in quitting
California, the ex-haciendado leaves many friends behind; among them,
some who will pass sleepless hours thinking of Carmen Montijo; and
others whose hearts will be sore as their thoughts turn to Inez Alvarez.
It may be that none of those are present now; and better for them if
not; since the most painful of all partings is that where the lover sees
his sweetheart sail away, with the knowledge she cares neither to stay,
nor come back.
The young ladies going off show but little sign of regret at leaving.
They are hindered by remembrance of the last words spoken at another
parting, now painfully recalled: "_Hasta Cadiz_!" The thought of that
takes the sting out of this.
The boat reaches the ship, and swinging around, lies alongside.
Captain Lantanas stands by the gangway to receive his passengers, with
their friends; while his first officer helps them up the man-ropes.
Among the ladies, Harry Blew distinguishes the two he is to have charge
of, and with them is specially careful. As their soft-gloved fingers
rest in his rough horny hand, he mentally registers a vow that it shall
never fail them in the hour of need--if such there ever be.
On the cabin-table is spread a refection of the best; and around it the
leave-takers assemble, the Chilian skipper doing the honours of his
ship. And gracefully, for he is a gentleman.
Half-an-hour of merry-making, light chatter, enlivened by the popping of
corks, and clinking of glasses; then ten minutes of converse more
serious; after which hurried graspings of the hand and a general
scattering towards the shore-boat, which soon after moves off amid
exclamations of "_Adios_!" and "_Bueno viage_!" accompanied by the
waving of hands, and white slender fingers saluting with tremulous
motion--like the quiver of a kestrel's wing--the fashion of the
Spanish-american fair.
While the boat is being rowed back to the shore, the _Condor_ puts out
her canvas, and stands away towards the Golden Gate.
She is soon out of sight of the port; having entered the strait which
gives access to the great land-locked estuary. But a wind blowing in
from the west hinders her; and she is all the day tacking through the
eight miles of narrow water which connects San Francisco Bay with the
Pacific.
The sun is nigh set as she passes the old Spanish fort and opens view of
the outside ocean. But the heavenly orb that rose over Mont Diablo like
a globe of gold goes down beyond `Los Farrallones' more resembling a
ball of fire about to be quenched hissing in the sea.
It is still only half-immersed behind the blue expanse, when, gliding
out from the portals of the Golden Gate, the _Condor_ rounds Seal Rock,
and stands on her course West-South-West.
The wind shifts, the evening breeze begins to blow steadily from the
land. This is favourable; and after tacks have been set, and sails
sheeted home, there is but little work to be done.
It is the hour of the second dog-watch, and the sailors are all on deck,
grouped about the fore hatch, and gleefully conversing. Here and there
an odd individual stands by the side, with eyes turned shoreward, taking
a last look at the land. Not as if he regretted leaving it, but is
rather glad to get away. More than one of that crew have reason to feel
thankful that the Chilian craft is carrying them from a country, where,
had they stayed much longer, it would have been to find lodgment in a
jail. Out at sea, their faces seem no better favoured than when they
first stepped aboard. Scarce recovered from their shore carousing, they
show swollen cheeks, and eyes inflamed with alcohol; countenances from
which the breeze of the Pacific, however pure, cannot remove that
sinister cast.
At sight of them, and the two fair creatures sailing in the same ship, a
thought about the incongruity--as also the insecurity of such
companionship--cannot help coming uppermost. It is like two beautiful
birds of Paradise shut up in the same cage with wolves, tigers, and
hyenas.
But the birds of Paradise are not troubling themselves about this, or
anything else in the ship. Lingering abaft the binnacle, with their
hands resting on the taffrail, they look back at the land, their eyes
fixed upon the summit of a hill, ere long to become lost to their view
by the setting of the sun. They have been standing so for some time in
silence, when Inez says:
"I can tell what you're thinking of, _tia_."
"Indeed, can you? Well, let me hear it."
"You're saying to yourself: `What a beautiful hill that is yonder; and
how I should like to be once more upon its top--not alone, but with
somebody beside me.' Now, tell the truth, isn't that it?"
"Those are your own thoughts, _sobrina_."
"I admit it, and also that they are pleasant. So are yours; are they
not?"
"Only in part. I have others, which I suppose you can share with me."
"What others?"
"Reflections not at all agreeable, but quite the contrary."
"Again distressing yourself about that! It don't give me the slightest
concern; and didn't from the first."
"No?"
"No!"
"Well; I must say you take things easily--which I don't. A lover--
engaged, too--to go away in that _sans facon_ way! Not so much as a
note, nor even a verbal message. _Santissima_! it was something more
than rude--it was cruel; and I can't help thinking so."
"But there was a message in the letter to grandpapa, for both of us.
What more would you wish?"
"Pff! who cares for parting compliments? A _lepero_ would send better
to his sweetheart in sleeveless _camisa_. That's not the message for
me."
"How can you tell there wasn't some other which has miscarried? I'm
almost sure there has been; else why should somebody have knocked at the
door an' said so. The Americano left in charge of the house has told
grandpa something about four men having come there the night after we
left it. One may have been this messenger we've missed--the others
going with him for company. And through his neglect we've not got
letters intended for us. Or, if they haven't written, it's because they
were pressed for time. However, we shall know when we meet them at
Cadiz."
"Ah! when we meet them there, I'll demand an explanation from Eduardo.
That shall I, and get it--or know the reason why."
"He will have a good one, I warrant. There's been a miscarriage,
somehow. For hasn't there been mystery all round? Luckily, no
fighting, as we feared, and have reason to rejoice. Neither anything
seen or heard of your California!! chivalry! That's the strangest thing
of all."
"It is indeed strange," rejoins Carmen, showing emotion; "I wonder what
became of them. Nobody that we know has met either after that day; nor
yet heard word of them."
"Carmen, I believe one _has_ heard of them."
"Who?"
"Your father."
"What makes you think so, Inez!"
"Some words I overheard, while he was conversing with the English sailor
who's now in the ship with us. I'm almost certain there was something
in Mr Crozier's letter relating to De Lara and Calderon. What it was,
grandpa seems desirous of keeping to himself; else he would have told
us. We must endeavour to find it out from the sailor."
"You're a cunning schemer, _sobrina_. I should never have thought of
that. We shall try. Now I remember, Eduardo once saved this man's
life. Wasn't it a noble, daring deed? For all, I'm very angry with
him, leaving me as he has done; and sha'n't be pacified until I see him
on his knees, and he apologise for it. That he shall do at Cadiz!"
"To confess the truth, _tia_, I was a little spited myself at first. On
reflection, I feel sure there's been some mischance, and we've been
wronging them both. I sha'n't blame my darling till I see him again.
Then if he can't clear himself, oh, won't I!"
"You forgive too easily. I can't."
"Yes, you can. Look at yonder hill. Recall the pleasant hour passed
upon it, and you will be lenient, as I am."
Carmen obeys, and again turns her glance toward the spot consecrated by
sweetest remembrances.
As she continues to gaze at it, the cloud lifts from her brow, replaced
by a smile, and promises easy pardon to him who has offended her.
In silence the two stand, straining their eyes upon the far summit, till
shore and sea become one--both blending into the purple of twilight.
"_Adios, California_!"
Land no longer in sight. The ship is _au large_ on the ocean.