Chapter Forty.
Dreading a “Desafio.”
Once more upon the azotea stand Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez.
It is the morning of the day succeeding that made sacred by their betrothal. Their eyes are upon the huge warship, that holds the men who holds their hearts, with promise of their hands—in short, every hope of their life’s happiness.
They could be happy now, but for an apprehension which oppresses them—causing them keen anxiety. Yesterday, with its scenes of pleasureable excitement, had also its incidents of the opposite kind; the remembrance of which too vividly remains, and is not to be got rid of. The encounter between the gamblers and their lovers cannot end with that episode, to which they were themselves witness. Something more will surely come from it.
And what will this something be? What should it? What could it, but a desafio—a duel?
However brave on yester-morn the two señoritas were, or pretended to be, however regardless of consequences, it is different to-day. The circumstances have changed. Then, their sweethearts were only suitors. Now, they are affianced, still standing in the relationship of lovers, but with ties more firmly, if not more tenderly, united. For are they not now their own.
Of the two girls, Iñez is less anxious than the aunt, having less cause to be. With the observant intelligence of woman, she has long since seen that Calderon is a coward, and for this reason has but little belief he will fight. With instinct equally keen, Carmen knows De Lara well. After his terrible humiliation, he is not the man to shrink away out of sight. Blackleg though he be, he possesses courage—perhaps the only quality he has deserving of admiration. Once, she herself admired the quality, if not the man! That remembrance itself makes her fear what may come.
She talks in serious tone, discussing with her niece the probabilities of what may arise. The delirious joy of yester-eve—of that hour when she sat in her saddle, looking over the ocean, and listening to the sweet words of love—is to-day succeeded by depression, almost despondency.
While conversing, she has her eyes upon the bay, watching the boats that, at intervals, are rowed off from the warship, fearing to recognise in one the form of him so dear. Fearing it; for they know that her lover is not likely to be ashore again, and his coming now could only be on that errand she, herself, so much dreads—the duel. Duty should retain him on his, the young officer’s, ship, but honour may require him once more to visit the shore—perhaps never to leave it alive!
Thus gloomily reflects Carmen, imparting her fears to the less frightened Iñez; though she too is not without apprehension. If they but understood the “Code of Signals,” all this misery would be spared them. Since from the frigate’s main-royal masthead floats a blue flag, with a white square in its centre, which is a portent she will soon spread her sails, and glide off out of sight—carrying their amantes beyond all danger of duels, or shore-scrapes of any kind.
They observe the “Blue-Peter,” but without knowing aught of its significance. They do not even try to interpret, or think of it; their thoughts, as their eyes, concentrated upon the boats that pass between ship and shore.
One at length specially arrests their attention, and keeps it for some time fixed. A small craft that, leaving the ship, is steered direct for the town. It passes near enough for them to see there are three men in it; two of them rowing, the other in the stern—this last in the uniform of an officer.
Love’s glance is keen, and, aided by an opera-glass, it enables Iñez Alvarez to identify the officer in the stern-sheets as Don Gulielmo. The other two—the oarsmen—are only sailors in blue serge shirts, with wide collars, falling far back.
For what the young officer is being rowed ashore, the ladies cannot guess. If for fighting, they know that another, and older, officer, would be with him. Where is Don Eduardo?
While still conjecturing, the boat glides on towards the town, and is lost to their view behind some sand-hills inshore.
Their glance going back to the ship, they perceive a change in her aspect. Her tall tapering masts, with their network of stays and shrouds, are half-hidden behind broad sheets of canvas. The frigate is unfurling sail! They are surprised at this, not expecting it so soon. With the help of their glasses, they observe other movements going on aboard the war-vessel: signal-flags running up and down their haulyards, while boats are being hoisted to the davits.
While still watching these manoeuvres, the little craft which carries the midshipman again appears, shooting out from behind the sand-hills, and rowed rapidly back to the ship, the young officer still in it.
On reaching the great leviathan, for a short time it shows like a tiny spot along her water-line; but, soon after, it too is lifted aloft, and over the bulwark rail.
Ignorant as the young ladies may be of nautical matters, they can have no doubt as to what all this manoeuvring means. The ship is about to sail!
As this is an event which interests all the family, Don Gregorio, summoned to the house-top, soon stands beside them.
“She’s going off, sure enough,” he says, after sighting through one of the glasses. “It’s rather strange—so abruptly!” he adds. “Our young friends said nothing about it last night.”
“I think they could not have known of it themselves,” says Carmen.
“I’m sure they couldn’t,” adds Iñez.
“What makes you sure, niña?” asked Don Gregorio.
“Well—because,”—stammers out the Andalusian, a flush starting into her cheeks—“because they’d have told us. They said they didn’t expect to sail for a day or two, anyhow.”
“Just so; but you see they’re setting sail now—evidently intending to take departure. However, I fancy I can explain it. You remember they spoke of another warship they expected to arrive. Yonder it is! It came into port last night, and, in all likelihood, has brought orders for the Crusader to sail at once. I only wish it was the Condor! I sha’n’t sleep soundly till we’re safe away from—”
“See!” interrupts Carmen; “is not that a sailor coming this way?”
She points to a man, moving along the shore-road in the direction of the house.
“I think so,” responds Don Gregorio, after a glance through the glass. “He appears to be in seaman’s dress.”
“Would he be coming here?” inquires Carmen, naïvely.
“I shouldn’t be surprised; probably with a message from our young friends. It may be the man they recommended to me.”
“That’s why somebody went ashore in the little boat,” whispers Iñez to her aunt. “He’s bringing us billetitas. I was sure they wouldn’t go away without leaving a last little word.”
Iñez’s speech imparts no information: for Carmen has been surmising in the same strain.
She replies by one of those proverbs, in which the Spanish tongue is so rich:
“Silencio! hay Moros en la costa,”—(Silence! there are Moors on the coast).
While this bit of by-play is being carried on, the sailor ascends the hill, and is seen entering at the road-gate. There can now be no uncertainty as to his calling. The blue jacket, broad shirt-collar, round-ribboned hat, and bell-bottomed trousers, are all the unmistakable toggery of a tar.
Advancing up the avenue in a rolling gait, with an occasional tack from side to side—that almost fetches him up among the manzanitas—he at length reaches the front of the house. There stopping, and looking up to the roof, he salutes those upon it by removing his hat giving a back-scrape with his foot, and a pluck at one of his brow-locks.
“Que guieres V., señor?”—(What is your business, sir?), asks the haciendado, speaking down to him.
Harry Blew—for it is he—replies by holding out a letter, at the same time saying:
“Your honour; I’ve brought this for the master o’ the house.”
“I am he. Go in through that door you see below. I’ll come down to you.”
Don Gregorio descends the escalera, and meeting the messenger in the inner court, receives the letter addressed to him.
Breaking it open, he reads:
“Estimable Sir,—Circumstances have arisen that take us away from San Francisco sooner than we expected. The corvette that came into port last night brought orders for the Crusader to sail at once; though our destination is the same as already known to you—the Sandwich Islands. As the ship is about to weigh anchor, I have barely time to write a word for myself, and Mr Cadwallader. We think it proper to make known some circumstances which will, no doubt, cause you surprise, as they did ourselves. Yesterday morning we met at your house two gentlemen—as courtesy would then have required me to call them—by name Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon. We encountered them at a later hour of the day; when an occurrence took place, which absolved us from either thinking of them as gentlemen, or treating them as such. And still later, after leaving your hospitable roof, we, for the third time, came across the same two individuals, under circumstances showing them to be professional gamblers! In fact, we found them to be the proprietors of a monté bank in the notorious ‘El Dorado;’ one of them actually engaged in dealing the cards! A spirit of fun, with perhaps a spice of mischief, led me into the play, and betting largely, I succeeded in breaking their bank. After that, for a short while we lost sight of them. But as we were making our way to the pier, where our boat was to meet us, we had a fourth interview with these ‘gentlemen;’ who on this occasion appeared with two others in the character of robbers and assassins! That they did not succeed in either robbing or murdering us, is due to the brave fellow who will bear this letter to you—the sailor of whom I spoke. He can give you all the particulars of the last, and latest, encounter with the versatile individuals, who claim acquaintance with you. You may rely on his truthfulness. I have no time to say more.
“Hoping to see you in Cadiz, please convey parting compliments to the señoritas—from the Señor Cadwallader and yours faithfully, Edward Crozier.”
The letter makes a painful impression on the mind of Don Gregorio. Not that he is much surprised at the information regarding De Lara and Calderon. He has heard sinister reports concerning them; of late so loudly spoken, that he had determined on forbidding them further intercourse with his family. That very day he has been displeased on learning of their ill-timed visit. And now he feels chagrin at something like a reproach conveyed by that expression in Crozier’s letter, “The versatile individuals who claim your acquaintance.” It hurts his hidalgo pride.
Thrusting the epistle into his pocket, he questions its bearer; taking him into his private room, as also into his confidence.
The sailor gives him a detailed account of the attempt at murder, so accidentally frustrated; afterwards making known other matters relating to himself, and how he has taken service on the Chilian ship—Don Gregorio inquiring particularly about this.
Meanwhile, the young ladies have descended from the azotea, and the ex-man-o’-war’s man makes their acquaintance.
They assist in showing him hospitality, loading him with pretty presents, and knick-knacks to be carried on board the Condor, to which they know he now belongs.
As he is about to depart, they flutter around him, speaking pleasant words, as if they expected to get something in return—those billetitas. For all, he takes departure, without leaving them a scrap!
A pang of disappointment—almost chagrin—shoots through the soul of Carmen, as she sees him passing out of sight. And similarly afflicted is Iñez; both reflecting alike.
Still they have hope; there may be something enclosed for them in that letter they saw him holding up. It seemed large enough to contain two separate notes. And if not these, there should at least be a postscript with special reference to themselves.
Daughters of Eve, they are not long before approaching the subject, and drawing Don Gregorio.
Yes; there is something said about them in the letter. He communicates it:
“Parting compliments to the señoritas!”