CHAPTER X.—But Clarence Must Not be Encouraged.
The wharf was over-crowded. The steamer was about to leave. The last car-load of baggage had been quickly shipped, and Clarence had not been able to say a word to Mercedes which might not have been heard by the persons surrounding her. He was pale and desperate. He had gone on board the steamer just to ask her one question, but she had never been alone for an instant. And thus they must part,—for the embodied “Fuerza del destino” now came in the shape of a boy clanging in deafening clatter a most discordant bell, saying that those who were not going on the steamer must go ashore. A hurried hand-shaking, and the troop of friends marched down the gang-plank to turn round and look many more tender adieus from the wharf.
Don Mariano had observed Clarence's deathly pallor, and how faithfully it was reflected on Mercedes' face; he saw the unhappy young man standing aloof from the crowd on the extreme edge of the wharf. He went to him, and laying his hand gently on his shoulder, said:
“That position is dangerous—you might lose your balance,” and he pulled him gently away. “You are very pale. I fear, my dear boy, that you are more troubled than you have admitted to any one. What is it? Tell me.”
Clarence shook his head, but suppressing his emotion, said:
“I cannot express my misery. She is sent away that I may not even have the pleasure of seeing her. No one can love her as I do, impossible!”
“Why have you not spoken to me of this before?” asked Don Mariano, kindly.
“Because I did not dare. I thought of doing so a thousand times, but did not dare. I did not fear unkindness or rejection from you, but from Doña Josefa and the young ladies I did, and I have never had an opportunity to speak alone to Miss Mercedes.”
“That was an additional reason for speaking to me. Cheer up. ‘Faint heart never won fair lady.’”
“Tell me that again. Say you do not reject me, and I'll jump aboard and follow her.”
“I do not reject you, and I repeat what I said, follow her if you wish, and try your luck. I want to see you both happy, and both of you are very unhappy.”
Clarence looked toward the boat. The gang-plank had been removed.
“What a happy girl you are, Mercedes, to visit New York. How I wish I, too, could go,” he heard Corina Holman say.
“Come on, it is not too late yet,” George replied.
Clarence looked up, and met Mercedes' eyes. It seemed as if George's words were intended for him.
He clasped Don Mariano's hand, saying hurriedly:
“If I understand you, I have your permission to go. May I? Tell me ‘yes.’”
“‘Faint heart never won fair lady,’” he repeated, smiling, and returning the warm pressure of his hand, added: “Yes, go and try your luck.”
Clarence turned, and without another word quickly made his way through the crowd.
The steamer's wheels began to move; the captain was already on the bridge, over the starboard wheel, and had given the order to let go the hawsers. In another instant the steamer would leave the wharf.
Clarence felt himself pulled by the arm, he turned impatiently, and met Everett, who handed him two telegrams, saying:
“I have looked for you everywhere. These telegrams followed each other quickly.”
“Yes, I know,” Clarence said, taking them; adding, without stopping his hurried walking, “Retty, I am going. Tell them at home I got three telegrams calling me to San Francisco.”
“But you haven't read them,” urged Everett, trying to follow him.
“But I know what they are; I have another in my pocket.”
Lifting his arm with the telegrams in his hand, he said to the captain:
“Captain, one moment. I must go north. Please take me.”
The captain did not hear him, and at the same time called out:
“Let go that hawser! Do you want it to snap?”
The crowd ran off, giving a wide berth to the heavy rope, which now, by its own tension, made it impossible to be slipped off the pile, although many pairs of hands were tugging at it manfully.
The stern expression of the captain's face softened as he saw Clarence standing on the brink of the wharf.
“Step back, Mr. Darrell, quickly, the rope might part,” said he; but noticing that Clarence desired to speak to him, motioned to the first officer to take his place, and ran down to hear what Clarence said.
A minute after the steamer stood still for an instant, then the wheels began to revolve in reversed motion.
“There she is, Mr. Darrell; she'll be alongside in a minute,” the captain said, pleased with the opportunity to oblige Clarence.
And the steamer, propelled by one wheel, began to back as if with the side-long motion of a highly intelligent crab who understood the situation.
“Read your telegrams,” Everett repeated.
“All right—to please you,” said Clarence, tearing them open. Adding, after reading a few words, “It is as I expected. I am wanted by Hubert. Send him a dispatch to-night saying I left, and to accept M.'s offer, and pay the money at once.”
“Now, Mr. Darrell, come on,” the captain said.
Hurriedly Clarence shook hands with Don Mariano, Gabriel, Everett and Victoriano.
“Take care, jump in on the downward swing, when about on a level with the wharf,” said Gabriel.
Clarence nodded, gave him his hand, and planting his foot firmly on the wharf, gave one spring, and wiry as a cat, alighted on the steamer beside the captain, who hugged him, saying:
“Bravo, my boy, I could have done that twenty years ago.”
Don Mariano and Gabriel lifted their hats in congratulatory salutation; Victoriano and Everett twirled theirs in the air hurrahing; the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the steamer giving a dip and a plunge—by way of a very low courtesy—bounded up and started onwards, as if satisfied she had been good natured long enough, and now must attend to business. In a few minutes she had made up for lost time, and was heading for Ballast Point, leaving San Diego's shore to be merged into the blue hills of Mexico beyond, as if obeying the immutable law which says that all things must revert to their original source.
Elvira's beautiful eyes were so filled with tears that she could see nothing. Still, she kept her gaze riveted upon that fast receding wharf. George stood a few feet apart, prudently thinking that the two sisters would perhaps prefer to be by themselves while taking their last look at the dear ones standing on the wharf. He, too, felt much moved; he would have preferred to remain with his family at Alamar. He would come next year—he thought—and perhaps remain in California permanently. With this thought in his mind, almost shaped into resolve, he came to Elvira's side, and quietly slipping his arm round her waist, said:
“Don't cry, sweetest, I will bring you back next year, and we will make our home near our parents. No matter if I make less money, we will have more happiness.”
Elvira looked unutterable thanks.
“Do you hear him, Mercedes?” she said, and Mercedes nodded, but moved a little further off, not yet trusting her voice to make any reply.
“Look here, this won't do; this will spoil our blue eyes,” said George, putting his other arm around Mercedes' pretty shoulders. “I insist upon you turning your thoughts toward New York, Long Branch, Newport and Washington; think of all the fun we will have visiting all those places. Then we will come back gay and happy, and our dear ones will be so glad to see us again. Think of all that,” and thus George exerted his eloquence to administer consolation. “I am sure all at home will be thinking of our return by to-morrow morning,” he added, by way of climax to his consoling rhetoric.
But George was mistaken. The Alamar ladies found it very hard and difficult to reconcile themselves to be separated from Elvira and Mercedes.
The fact that Clarence had gone in the same steamer, added much bitterness to Doña Josefa's sorrow at separating from both daughters. She did not even wish any one to mention Clarence's name in her presence. Don Mariano's arguments in favor of the bold young man were at first ineffectual, but after a while she began to think that she ought to trust more in Mercedes' pride and Elvira's vigilance.
In the meantime the travelers continued their voyage very happily. Clarence rightly conjectured that Mercedes would suppose he had followed her to declare his love, and this supposition would redouble her shyness. Her manner at first, fully confirmed this surmise, so, to put her at her ease, he was very kind and attentive, but never betrayed by word or look, his heart's devotion. His manner was exactly all that she could wish, the behavior of a devoted brother, and in consequence she began to be less shy. He spoke of having received three telegrams, calling him north; this surely was a good reason for his unexpected journey.
They visited Los Angeles, went ashore at Port Harford and Santa Barbara, and as George was naturally devoted to his bride, there seemed no alternative for Mercedes but to accept Clarence's escort, and lean on his arm whenever that operation became necessary.
The nights were lovely, with a full moon in the azure sky, and the sea air, neither cold nor warm, but of that California temperature, which seems to invite people to be happy, giving to all an idea of the perfect well-being we expect to find in the hereafter.
There was a great deal of freight to be landed at Santa Barbara. The passengers going to San Francisco were already on board. Still the steamer tarried. Some lady friends of Elvira, who were going north had come aboard, and as they had much to say, took her away to their staterooms.
“Wait for me here, I'll return in half an hour,” said she to George; but he thought he knew how ladies measure time when engaged in talking, so he slowly arose and said he would go to play cribbage with the captain.
The steamer now shivered and trembled, as if awakening from a nice nap. The wheels revolved lazily and then she was off, dragging a luminous wake of myriads of evanescent diamonds.
“If you wish to go, Mr. Darrell, please do so; do not remain on my account,” said Mercedes, when George rose to go.
“Not at all. I remain entirely on my own, as I do not particularly desire to play cut-throat cribbage, and as it is too early for you to retire, suppose you permit me to remain until your sister returns.”
“Certainly, do so, else I'll stay,” said George, going.
“Have I offended you in any way?” Clarence asked.
“No, of course not. What a question. What makes you ask that?”
“Because you must know it would be cruel punishment to send me off.”
“I didn't think anything of the kind, only I didn't wish to be selfish and keep you from going if you wished it.”
“How could I wish to go anywhere and leave you; I would not go to heaven, if to do so I would have to renounce you.”
“Please do not talk like that, some one might hear you.”
“There is not a soul within hearing. Our only witness is that lovely moon, and she will not betray.”
“No matter, please do not speak like that.”
“Like what? That I love you? I have never yet said it in words, but you know it.”
“Oh! Mr. Darrell!”
“Yes, you know it, and to avoid me you are going away; going from me, no matter if it killed me.”
“It is not my choice, I only obey,” said she, clasping her trembling hands, now cold as ice.
“Is it so? Did you not wish to avoid me?”
“Please do not ask me, you'll make me very miserable.”
“I would not cause you one single pang, if to avoid it I had to die. Believe me, all I wish to know is, whether I have been so blind as not to see your dislike; whether it was your own choice to go, or you were compelled to do so by your mother?”
“Please don't blame mamma.”
“I do not blame her in the least. She has a perfect right to object to me if she wishes, but I too, have at least, the sad privilege of asking whether you also object to me?”
“I have nothing against you; I like you very much, as—as a friend,” she said, trembling, painfully agitated.
Clarence laughed a hoarse, discordant laugh that made her feel miserable.
“I have been told that young ladies say that always, when they mean to let down easily a poor devil whom they pity and perhaps despise. Thanks, Miss Mercedes, for liking me ‘as a friend,’ thank you. Perhaps I am a presumptuous fool to love you, but love you I must, for I can not help it.”
He stood up and looked down at the dark ocean in silence. She looked up to his face and her beautiful features looked so pleadingly sad, that he forgot his own misery and thought only of the pain those superb eyes revealed.
He seated himself very near her, and took both of her hands in his own. Surely there was something troubling her.
“How cold these dear little hands are. Have I caused you pain?” he asked. She nodded but did not speak.
“Yes, I have pained you, when I would give my heart's blood to make you happy. Oh! Mercedes, I cannot give you up, it is impossible while I live. Do you command me to do so? Do you wish it? You know that I have loved you from the first moment I saw you; when I lifted you in my arms. The exquisite pleasure I felt then, and the yearning I have felt ever since, to hold you in my arms again, as my own sweet wife, that longing tells me incessantly that I can never love any one else; that I must win you or renounce love forever on earth. Tell me, will you cruelly repel me?”
She was silent, listening with averted face, as if afraid to meet his gaze, but she did not withdraw her hands, which he still held in both his own, as if he would never willingly release them again.
“Mercedes, say that you reject me only to obey your mother, and I will not despair, for I know that your father does not object to me; on the contrary, he sanctions my love, he would accept me as his son-in-law.”
She turned quickly, gazed at him with an eager, inquiring look.
“Yes, he gave me permission to follow you and ask you to be my wife.”
“What? He? My papa did that?”
“Yes. When he saw me looking so wretched with the pain of parting from you, he said to me, ‘Cheer up; faint heart never won fair lady.’ I said to him, if you tell me that in earnest, I'll jump aboard the steamer and follow her. He repeated the quotation, adding: ‘Go and try your luck.’ Is not that sufficient?”
“Darling papa, he is so kind,” she said, eluding Clarence's question, but her evident gratitude toward her father spoke volumes.
“Indeed he is. His heart is full of nobility. He does not permit unjust prejudices to influence him into dislikes.”
“You must not blame my poor mamma. She thinks you did some wrong act, but she is not prejudiced against you, nor does she dislike you.”
“I did some wrong act? What is it? When?”
“That I couldn't tell you, for I do not know, and perhaps I am wrong to have said so much. But I spoke because it was painful to me to think that you believe my own loving, lovely mamma prejudiced, for she is not. She might be mistaken, but she is kindness itself.”
Clarence mentally demurred to this warm praise, but wisely held his peace.
“Promise me you will not think mamma is prejudiced,” said she, without the least suspicion of the tyranny, the unreasonableness of such a request.
“I promise it, of course, if you desire it, but I would at the same time, like to know what is the wrong act of which I am accused, that has brought upon me her censure. I assure you I have not the slightest idea; I think my record as an honest man can well bear scrutiny. Can it be that I have made money in mining stocks?”
“Oh, no. She does not know that, and if she did, she would not think it wrong, for she knows nothing about stocks.”
“Then I vow I have not the remotest idea of what it is.”
“Think no more about it now, and when you return, you ask papa. He will soon find out the mistake and vindicate you.”
“Yes, he will do so I am sure. I would blindly trust my life and honor in his hands,” said he, warmly, and quick as a flash came his reward, for she pressed his hands most gratefully. “Ah! Mercedes why did you do that?” The poor young man was trying to make up his mind not to press his suit until he had been vindicated, and Doña Josefa had nothing against him. But that pressure made him ambitious, impatient; he wished to have some promise that she would not accept any one else's suit. She was going from him, out of his sight. He was certain that dozens, yes hundreds, would fall in love with her as soon as they saw her. Would she not love some one? It would be natural to prefer to him, some of those elegant New Yorkers, or some fascinating foreigner whom she might meet in Washington. This thought made him wretched.
“I'm so glad you appreciate papa,” said she, withdrawing her hands, which she considered he had held long enough. Noticing that he looked troubled, and that his hand trembled, she added: “I fear I have been indiscreet, and have caused you pain by what I said; if so, I am very sorry. Have I pained you?”
“I have never done anything dishonorable. I can prove that to Doña Josefa at any time. But”—he broke off, and after a paused, added: “Oh! Mercedes! how wretched I shall be, thinking that you might love some one else. Is not your refusal to give me any encouragement a proof that you feel you never can care for me?”
“Please don't say that. I do care for you. That is, I mean, I ought not to tell you so, but—but”—she did not finish, for the rash young man had again seized her little hands, and was covering them with kisses, forgetting that any passenger had the right to come and sit there on the same bench to enjoy the silvery moonlight, sailing over the broad, sublime Pacific.
“Oh! Mr. Darrell! Don't do that. Please let us go now to call Elvira. She thinks George is with me,” she said, rising.
“We don't want Elvira, we don't want George. Let them be. Why do you grudge me this happiness of being alone with you for the first and, perhaps, for the last time in my life? Please sit down. I will behave myself. I will not kiss your hands, I promise; but won't you reward my self-restraint by answering one question?”
“What is the question?” said she, sitting down again, only a little further off; “tell me, and then we must go to find Elvira.”
“I want you to tell me—I mean, I beg and entreat you to tell me this—if I can prove that I have never done anything dishonorable, and your mother ceases to object to my marrying you, will you then consent to be my wife?”
The question gave Mercedes exquisite pleasure, for she loved him with all her heart. The word wife soundly so sweetly coming from his lips, but she had promised her mother “not to encourage him.” So she must not. It would be dishonorable to break her word. What could she say, not to make him unhappy, and yet not commit the sin of disobedience to her mother's command?
She looked down, and her expressive features again showed that she was troubled.
“Oh! I was mistaken. Your silence tells me I cannot hope.”
“Do not be impatient, please. I was trying to think how I could explain to you my position.”
“Your position?”
“Yes. How much what papa said to you might alter things. But I cannot see how I can say anything to you, except to be patient. Yes, let us both be patient.”
“Patience and despair do not travel together.”
“Discard despair, and trust to patience, and”—she was going to say, “trust me,” but remembered her mother's commands, and that to say so much even would be to encourage him. She was silent. She could have rejected an offer of marriage easily without taking away all hope, but as she “must not encourage him,” that was the most difficult dilemma for the poor girl. “Trust to papa, and—and do not be blaming me in your heart. I cannot bear that.”
“I shall not blame you. I shall do whatever you order me. But at all times I do not understand you,” said he, sadly.
“It is because my position is so—so difficult, so unnatural. I wish you could understand it without my explaining it. Can't you?”
“I'll try,” said he, in most dejected tones, again thinking of the elegant New Yorkers, and fascinating Washingtonians, on their knees before her. “But I do not understand why you refuse me one word of encouragement.”
“Oh! that is just the word I cannot give,” she sighed.
“This is all the work of Doña Josefa,” thought he, and the form of the handsome matron seemed to rise before him from the billows of the Pacific, and stand with Juno's lofty majesty in severe impassibility before his sad gaze.
Mercedes, too, was looking at the immense sea, as if trying to discover in that vast expanse some consoling words that a good, obedient daughter might speak on such an occasion.