Some of it is in bags, some in boxes; and he now rearranges it in the most convenient form for carriage to the Chilian ship, and safe stowage in her cabin-lockers.
He has not yet completed his task, when he hears the trampling of hoofs on the gravelled sweep outside. The riding-party has returned.
The saguan bell rings; the heavy door grates back on its hinges; and, soon after, the horses, with the riders still on their backs, stand panting in the patio.
The master of the house sallies forth to receive his guests. He sees them hastening to assist the ladies in dismounting. But before either cavalier can come near them, both leap lightly out of their saddles; then, gliding into the corridor, fling their arms around Don Gregorio’s neck—daughter and grand-daughter alike calling him “papa.”
They are effusively affectionate—more than usually so—for this night both have a favour to ask of him. And he knows, or can guess, what it is. He has not been blind to what has been passing between them, and the young English officers. He suspects that vows have been exchanged—a double proposal made—and anticipates a demand upon himself to sanction it.
In both cases he is prepared to do this. For he is not unacquainted with either the character, or social standing, of those seeking an alliance with him. He has been aboard the British frigate, and from Captain Bracebridge obtained information on these points. Satisfactory in every sense. Both the young officers bear an excellent reputation. Though differing in other respects, they are alike skilled in their profession—each “every inch a seaman,” as their commander worded it. Besides, both are of good family—Cadwallader moderately rich—Crozier in prospect of being immensely so—either of them fit mate for the proudest señora in Spain. Don Gregorio’s reason for supposing that on this day engagements have been entered into, is, that the young officers are about to take departure from the port. The Crusader is under Admiralty orders to sail for the Sandwich Islands, soon as a corvette coming thence reaches San Francisco. Captain Bracebridge has been commissioned by the British Government to transact some diplomatic business with King Kamehameha. That done, he is to look in at the ports of Panama and Callao; then home—afterwards to join the Mediterranean squadron. As the Crusader, on her way to the Mediterranean, will surely call at Cadiz, the vows this day exchanged on the shore of the Pacific, can be thus conveniently renewed on the other side of the Atlantic.
At dinner—which is served soon after and in sumptuous style—Don Gregorio makes his guests aware of the fact, that he has secured passages for Panama, and may leave San Francisco soon as they. He confides to them the secret of his having chartered the Chilian ship—in short, telling them all he has told her captain—echoing the lament made by the latter about his difficulty in obtaining a crew.
“Perhaps,” rejoins Crozier, after hearing this, “I can help your skipper to at least one good sailor. Do you think, Will,” he continues, addressing himself to the young Welshman, “that Harry Blew is still in San Francisco, or has he gone off to the diggings?”
“I fancy he’s still here,” responds Cadwallader. “He was aboard the frigate only the day before yesterday—having a shake hands with his old comrades of the forecastle.”
“Who is the Señor Bloo?” inquires their host.