Clarence had passed the night on deck, walking about in the moonlight, or sitting down to muse by the hour, with no one near—no company but his thoughts. He felt ill and weary, but wakeful, and could not bear to lie down to rest. He must be moving about and thinking. He felt convinced that his father had some other cause of irritation than the mere fact of the land having been paid for, but what that cause could be he had not the remotest idea. Then his thoughts would go back to their center of attraction, and pass in review, over and over again, the last scene at the Alamar house, and every word that Mercedes had said. The more he reflected upon them, the clearer it seemed to him that Mercedes could not help thinking it would be humiliating to marry him, for how could a lady marry the son of a man who used such low language? And if she did, out of the purest devotion and tenderest love, could she avoid a feeling of loathing for such a man? Certainly not; and such a man was his father; and Clarence's thoughts traveled around this painful circle all night.
On arriving at Wilmington, he heard the puffing of the little tug boat, coming to ferry the passengers to Los Angeles. He had nothing to do at Los Angeles, but he would go with the passengers, rather than wait all day in the steamer at anchor, rolling like a little canoe, and whose fate was too much like his own—as he, too, was tossing over a broad expanse, a boundless ocean, like a block of wood, helpless, compelled to obey, as though he was an infant. He took a cup of coffee, and joined the passengers on the little tug boat, which was soon meandering over the shallow, muddy creek, or rather swamp, with its little crooked channels, which is to be made into an harbor, with time, patience and money.
At Los Angeles a surprise awaited Clarence, an incident which, coming after those of the previous night, was delightful, indeed. He was sauntering past a hotel, when he heard the well known voice of Fred Haverly, calling him.
“You are the very man I came to see. I am now expecting at any moment, a dispatch from Hubert in answer to my inquiry for your whereabouts,” Fred said, conducting Clarence to his room, where they could talk business without being interrupted.
The business which brought Fred up from the mines was soon explained, and in conclusion Fred said:
“I wish you could go with me, see the ores yourself, and talk with the men who wish to buy the mines. But the weather is frightfully hot, and you are not looking well. What is the matter? May I inquire?”
Clarence soon told Fred all that had happened at home, and how he was exiled, and did not care where he went. Fred was truly distressed, for he had never seen Clarence take anything so much to heart and be so cast down.
“I'll tell you what we had better do to-day. Let us take a carriage, and go for a drive among the orange groves. Then we will come back to dinner. After dinner we will kill time somehow for a couple of hours, then you go to bed. To-morrow you will decide what to do.”
“But to-morrow there will be no steamer to take me to San Francisco.”
“Then wait for the next. The matters you have under consideration are too important to decide hastily.”