Complete Works of R M Ballantyne, page 583
“It is plain we can make nothing out of Mr Zulino,” said Will, with a look of chagrin, on quitting the office. “Come, let us go hunt up the hotels.”
“Agreed,” cried Captain Dall. Mr Cupples groaned his readiness to follow, so they set off.
All that day the three wandered about the city into every hotel and shipping office, and every public place they could find, until they were thoroughly exhausted, but without success.
“Now, doctor,” said the captain, wiping his heated brow, “if we are to gain our ends, it is plain that we must feed. I feel like a ship’s hold without a cargo. See, here is a comfortable-looking inn; let us go and stow away something solid, have a pipe, and then turn in, so as to go at it fresh to-morrow morning early.”
“Very well,” said Will, languidly; “but I cannot rest, so do you go and order something while I try to cool myself by taking a stroll up this hill; I’ll be back before supper is ready.”
“I will go with you,” said Mr Cupples, gloomily.
Poor Will would have gladly gone alone, but as he had no good reason for declining the companionship of his tall and solemn friend, he merely said “Very good,” and walked away. Passing over the hill they came to a neat little cottage with a small garden in front, in which were a variety of flowers that evidently were well tended. The windows and doors of the cottage were invitingly open. As they passed the garden-gate a voice suddenly exclaimed, “Walk in.”
They stopped abruptly, looked at the open door, and then at each other in surprise.
“Walk in,” repeated the voice, louder than before.
“Well, really, I don’t see why we should refuse so pressing an invitation,” said Will with a smile.
“You may go in; I’ll wait for you,” said Mr Cupples.
In another minute our hero was in the lobby of the cottage, and then he discovered, — on the words “walk in” being reiterated very gruffly, — that it was a grey parrot which had been thus taught to use the language of hospitality! Will laughed, and was about to turn on his heel when he observed a female reclining on a couch in one of the rooms. She looked up quickly on hearing his step and laugh, and Will, hesitating for a moment, advanced with the intention of explaining and apologising.
“Forgive my apparent intrusion, madam,” he said, “but your parrot deceived — what! — am I — Flora — Miss Westwood!” he exclaimed in amazement, leaping forward and seizing her hand.
“Mr Osten!” said Flora, with a look of unfeigned surprise, “can it be — I — I — did not know — really—”
Now, reader, it would be ungenerous were we to give you a detailed account of all the absurd things that were uttered at the commencement of the conversation. Suffice it to say that Will and Flora stammered and blushed, and grew hot and cold, and tried to look cool and failed, signally, and then, feeling how very awkward their position was, made a desperate effort to be commonplace, and so began to talk with intense solicitude about “the weather!” Will soon perceived, however, that in the circumstances this was utterly ridiculous, so he made another effort and asked about Flora’s father and mother, and then, happy thought, he suddenly remembered Buckawanga, and began to descant upon him, after which he naturally slid into ships and voyaging, and so came abruptly to the question: —
“By the way, Miss Westwood, is it true that you are trying to secure a passage to England just now?”
“We have succeeded in securing one,” said Flora, with a deep blush and a peculiar look. “We sail to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” cried Will, in consternation.
There was for a moment a great swelling of something in our hero’s breast; then a sudden thought occurred, “Never venture never — ;” next instant he seized Flora’s hand. “Oh, Miss West — Flora, dearest Flora — forgive — nay, do not turn away, I entreat, I beseech—”
“Old rascal!” exclaimed a stern voice at his back at that moment.
Will sprang up, burning with anger, and turning sharply round, observed the parrot gazing at him in mute surprise.
“Walk in — old rascal,” repeated the bird.
Will laughed, but there was a touch of bitterness in his tone as he turned again to Flora, who had risen from the couch.
“This is an awkward interruption, Flo — Miss Westwood, but necessity constrains me. I must, I will speak now, if — bear with me, dear girl, I did not mean to be rude, but—”
A footstep was heard in the passage.
“Supper will be cooling, I fear,” said the hollow voice of Mr Cupples. “Oh! I beg pardon. I did not know — I—”
Will turned, and rushed at his friend with savage intentions. At the same moment the figure of a man darkened the doorway. Mr Cupples vanished out of the house, Flora glided away, and Will Osten found himself face to face with Mr Westwood!
It might have been expected that the scene which followed would have been an embarrassing one, but such was not the case. Our hero had reached that point of nervous and mental turmoil and exasperation in which extremes meet. As the strong current of a river meets the rush of the rising tide, and at a certain point produces dead calm, so the conflicting currents in Will’s bosom reached the flood, and he became desperately serene, insomuch that he held out his hand to Mr Westwood, and, with a smile of candour and a tone of deep earnestness, explained “the situation,” and made “a clean breast of it.” The result was, that Mr and Mrs Westwood received his advances favourably, but, being naturally cautious and solicitous about the happiness of their daughter, they pointed out that it was impossible to come to any conclusion at that time, because, in the first place, Will was, by his own showing, a poor wanderer with only the prospect of an income at his mother’s death, and without professional practice; and, in the second place, as they were to set sail for England on the morrow, there was no time left even for consideration. Mr Westwood, therefore, said that he could not permit Will to see Flora again, except to bid her farewell, and advised him to have patience until he should return to England, where, he said frankly, he would be happy to see him. Will thereupon left the cottage, in a state of distraction, to lay his case before Captain Dall.
“So you see, captain,” he added, after detailing all the circumstances, “there is only one course open to me, and that I am resolved to pursue. I shall sail for England in the — the what’s the name of the ship the Westwoods are to sail in?”
“Don’t know,” answered the captain.
“Of course not — no matter. We shall find out. She sails to-morrow at all events, and I go with her. You will go back with Mr Cupples to Grizzly Bear Gulch, work the gold, make what you can out of it, pay yourselves, and hold the estate for me. I’ll get that legally arranged to-night. You’ll tell my comrades how sorry I am to leave them so abruptly, but under the circumstances they will—”
“Softly,” interrupted Captain Dall; “if all this is to be settled to-night, we had better set about it at once, and not waste time with words.”
“Right, captain. Let us off to search for the captain of the ship.”
Leaving Mr Cupples to eat the supper alone, our hero and his friend went out in hot haste, and soon found themselves in the presence of the captain of the Roving Bess, which was to sail next day.
“By the way,” whispered Will to his friend, as they were entering the room in which the skipper sat, “do you happen to have any cash? for I have only twenty pounds.”
“Not a rap,” whispered the captain.
“You are the captain of the Roving Bess, I am told?” said Will, addressing a big rawboned man, who sat at a table solacing himself with a glass of spirits and water and a cigar.
“Ya–a–s, Cap’n Bra–a–o–wn, at y’r sarvice.”
Captain Brown drawled this out so slowly that one might have supposed he did it on principle, as a sort of general protest against the high-pressure speed and hurry that influenced every one around him.
“You have passengers going, I understand?”
“Ya–a–s. Reverend genlm’n an’ two ladies.”
“Can you take another?”
“A dozen mo–a–r, if need be.”
“Then put my name down. How much is the passage fare?”
“Fo–a–g–sl two hundred, cabin three hundred pa–o–unds.”
“What!” exclaimed Will.
Captain Brown smiled. “You see,” said he, “it c–a–unt be done for less — ha— ‘Bliged to give fa-bu-lous wages to crew, and only too thankful to get ’em at any price. Provisions cost their weight, a-most, in gold.”
“Will you be here an hour hence?” asked our hero.
“Ya–a–s, two hours hence,” drawled Captain Brown, lighting a fresh cigar at the stump of the old one.
Will Osten linked his arm through that of Captain Dall, and hurried him into the street.
“Now to the agent,” he said. “If he fails me, all is lost — stay! no; I can offer to work my passage. That did not occur to me till now. I shall keep it in reserve.”
A few minutes more and they stood in the presence of Mr Zulino.
“Is it possible,” said Will, with an anxious expression of face, “to sell the property in Grizzly Bear Gulch immediately?”
The dry visage of the agent wrinkled into a sarcastic smile as he replied “Ha! I see, you are like all the rest — wish to turn everything into gold. Well, it is possible to sell it, I make no doubt, because it is well situated and will increase in value; but what, do you mean by immediately?”
“To-night,” said Will.
“Impossible.”
“What’s to be done?” cried our hero, turning to Captain Dall with a look of such perplexity and disappointment that even the hard heart of Mr Zulino was touched.
“Why such haste?” he inquired.
“Because business of the most urgent kind requires that I should embark for England in a vessel which sails to-morrow, and I have not money enough to pay for my passage.”
“I can lend you some on the property, at a high rate of interest,” said the agent.
“Then do so, my dear sir,” said Will earnestly, “at any rate of interest you choose, and I will sign any papers you may require. My friend here, Captain Dall, will see that you are regularly paid. I assure you that I shall never forget the obligation.”
“Follow me,” said Mr Zulino, rising and putting on his hat.
He led them to the office of a man who appeared to be connected with the law, and who drew up a paper which, being duly signed and witnessed, Mr Zulino put in his pocket, at the same time handing Will Osten a cheque for four hundred pounds.
“Now, captain,” said Will, with a deep sigh of relief, as they, once more issued into the street, “we’ll go and enjoy our supper.”
Next morning Will Osten, with a small portmanteau containing his little all in his hand, and accompanied by Captain Dall and Mr Cupples, pushed his way through the crowded streets to the quay, where a boat awaited him.
“Once more, Captain Dall,” he said, turning round and grasping his friend’s hand, “farewell! I am sorry — more so than I can tell — to leave you. May God prosper you wherever you go. Remember my messages to our friends at the gulch. Tell Larry and Bunco, and the trapper especially, that I feel almost like a criminal for giving them the slip thus. But how can I help it?”
“Of course, of course,” said Captain Dall, returning the hearty squeeze of Will’s hand, “how could you? Love, like necessity, has no law — or, rather, itself is a law which all must obey. Good-bye, lad, and good luck attend ee.”
Silently shaking hands with Mr Cupples, whose lugubrious expression seemed appropriate to the occasion, Will leaped into the boat and was soon rowing over the bay to the spot where the Roving Bess lay with her anchor tripped and her sails loose. On approaching, he saw that Mr Westwood and his wife were pacing the quarterdeck, but Flora was not visible, the reason being that that busy little woman was down in her father’s berth putting it to rights — arranging and re-arranging everything, and puzzling her brains with numerous little contrivances which were all meant to add to the comfort and snugness of the place — wonderfully ingenious contrivances, which could not have emanated from the brain of any woman but one who possessed a warm heart, an earnest soul, a sweet face, and a turned-up nose! She was a good deal dishevelled about the head, in consequence of her exertions, and rather flushed, and her eyes were a little moist. Perhaps she was sad at the thought of leaving San Francisco — but no — she was leaving no friends behind her there. That could not have been the cause!
The little round port-hole of the berth was open, and she stopped ever and anon in the midst of her operations to look out and listen to the variety of shouts and songs that came from the boats, vessels, and barges in the bay. Suddenly she stopped, turned her head the least bit to one side, and listened intently.
“My dear,” said Mr Westwood to his wife, standing on the deck and leaning over the bulwarks, exactly above the open port near to which Flora stood, “can that be Mr Osten in yonder boat?”
Flora’s bosom heaved, and her colour vanished.
“I think it is — stay — no — it looks like — yes, it is he,” said Mrs Westwood.
Flora’s face and neck became scarlet.
Presently the plash of oars were heard near the vessel, and next moment a boat approached, but not from such a quarter as to be visible from the port-hole.
“Mind your starboard oar,” said a deep voice, which caused Flora’s heart to beat against her chest, as if that dear little receptacle of good thoughts and warm feelings were too small to contain it, and it wanted to get out.
“Good morning, Mr Osten,” cried Mr Westwood, looking down.
“Good morning, sir, — good morning, Mrs Westwood,” answered Will, looking up.
“It is very kind of you to take the trouble to come off to bid us good-bye,” said Mr Westwood.
Flora trembled a little, and leaned upon the side of the berth.
“I have not come to say good-bye,” said Will (Flora’s eyes opened wide with astonishment), “I am going — fend off, men, fend off, mind what you are about — I am going,” he said, looking up with a smile, “to sail with you to England.”
A peculiar gleam shot from Flora’s eyes; the blood mantled again on her brow, and, sinking into a chair, she pressed her hands to her face and buried her head in her father’s pillow!
Chapter Seven.
Rambling Reminiscences of Absent Friends, and a Happy Termination.
On the evening of a cold December day — the last day of the year — many months after the occurrence of the events narrated in the last chapter, old Mrs Osten sat in her drawing-room, toasting her toes before a cheerful fire. The widow looked very happy, and, to say truth, she had good reason for being so, for her stalwart son had come home to her safe and sound, and was at that moment sitting by her side talking in a most amazing way about his Flora — referring to her as a sort of captive bird which had now no chance of escaping, saying that he meant to take her to Paris, and Switzerland, and Rome, and in summer to the English Lakes, and Killarney, and the Scotch Highlands.
“In fact, mother,” said Will, “after that little event comes off, which is fixed to take place next week, I mean to act the part of Wandering Will over again under entirely new and much more interesting circumstances. Ah! mother,” he continued with enthusiasm, “how little did I think, when I was travelling through the wild regions of the far west, that I was being led to the spot where I should find such a wife!”
“Yes, dear, you were indeed led,” said Mrs Osten, “for that wild region was the very last place in the world to which you would have thought of going to look for a good wife, had you been guided by your own wisdom.”
“True, mother, most true. Gold is much more plentiful in that land than wives, either good or bad. I wonder how my old comrades are getting on there now. You remember Larry, mother, and Bunco. How I wish I could have had them all here at our wedding! You would have delighted in old Captain Dall, and Captain Blathers, too, he’s not a bad fellow though rather wild, but Big Ben would have pleased you most — by the way, this is the last night of the year. I doubt not they will be remembering me to-night, and drinking my health in clear cold water from the crystal springs of the Sierra Nevada. Come, I will pledge them in the same beverage,” said Will, seizing a glass of water that stood at his elbow; “may success, in the highest sense of the word, attend them through life.”
“Amen,” murmured the widow, as Will drained the glass; “I hope they may get plenty of gold without catching the gold-fever, which is just another name for the love of gold, and that, you know, is the root of all evil. But go on telling me about your adventures, Will; I never tire of hearing you relate them.”
“Well, mother, I’ll begin again, but if you will be for ever interrupting me with questions and remarks about Flora, I shall never get to the end of them. Now, then, listen.”
Hereupon Will began to talk, and his mother to listen, with, we need scarcely say, intense interest.
