Next morning, true to his word, Will Osten started off to retrace his steps to San Francisco, much to the regret as well as surprise of all his friends, except Larry O’Hale and Bunco, both of whom, being aware of his motive, chuckled mightily in their sleeves but wisely said nothing. Will was accompanied by Captain Dall and Mr Cupples, the former of whom gave him an account of his adventures since the period of their separation in the South Seas. As most of these adventures, however, were not particularly striking, and as they do not bear upon our tale, we will not inflict them on the reader, but merely refer to that part of the captain’s career which was mixed up with our hero’s new possessions in the Grizzly Bear Gulch, as his valley was named.
“You see, doctor,” said Captain Dall, as they cantered easily over the soft turf of a wide plain, which, a little beyond the entrance to the gulch, spread out for a considerable distance along the base of the Sierra Nevada, “you see, when we discovered that this valley, or gulch, as they call it here, was yours—or your father’s, which I suppose means the same thing—Captain Blathers, Mr Cupples, Muggins, Old Peter, and I held a council of war, and came to the conclusion that we would go up an’ have a look at it, hopin’ to find gold, but first of all we went to the regular diggin’s on the Sacramento River to learn how to wash out the dirt an’ make enough to keep us goin’. When we had done this an’ lined our pockets with enough of gold-dust to set us up, we started for Grizzly Bear Gulch, where we found nobody but Old Timothy, the native that had been your uncle’s servant.”
“Timothy,” said Will, “was that his name?”
“No, but he could not tell us his name, for the good reason that he does not understand a word of English, so we christened him Timothy, and he answers to it. The old man cut up rusty at first, and seemed disposed to drive us away, but by howling the name of Osten into his ears and giving him a little gold, we converted him into a friend, and got him to allow us to squat in the empty house. Then we went off prospecting, and found gold, sure enough, in the stream in front of the door, but there was not much in the places we tried—little more than enough to pay.”
“Then you don’t think much of the property, I suppose,” said Will, “for it is evident that in regard to agriculture it is not worth a straw?”
“I’m not so sure of that,” returned the captain. “What do you think, Mr Cupples?”
The mate, whose melancholy tones and expressions had increased with his shore-going experiences, said that he did not know; that he was no judge of such matters, but that gold might be found in quantity, and, if so, the place would be worth something!
“A safe conclusion,” said the captain, laughing; “but that is just the point. Gold has turned up in all directions near the valley, and why should we not find it there? Besides, there is a pretty fair bit of land under cultivation, and vegetables fetch fabulous prices at the diggin’s; in addition to which there are a good many cattle on the ground, and provisions of all kinds are as good as gold just now—so, you see, I think that even if we don’t find more of the dust on it, there is some chance that you may raise the wind by the property if you act wisely.”
“Well, we shall see,” said Will; “at all events I intend to make the most of my opportunities—and, talking of that, Captain Dall, as I see that Mr Cupples is lagging behind, a word in your ear—I’ll tell you a secret.”
Hereupon our hero made the captain his confidant; told him of the object of his journey, and begged his advice and assistance, both of which the worthy man agreed to give him, to any extent, at any time, and under all circumstances—proving the sincerity of his assurances on the spot by at once offering several pieces of advice. One of these was, that Will should hasten on the consummation of his wishes without delay. This, as may be believed, was so consonant with Will’s own opinion that he accepted it at once, and acted upon it then and there, as far as was possible, by plying whip and spur so vigorously that his steed skimmed over the plain more like a swallow than a quadruped.
Progressing thus they were not long in reaching the city of Sacramento, which was four or five days’ journey from Grizzly Bear Gulch. Here they embarked in a small schooner, and descended the noble Sacramento River, into which all the other rivers in California flow. Thence they coasted along the bay of San Francisco, which is a land-locked sea of more than forty miles in length, and, finally, anchored off the town of the same name. And a wonderful town it was! The news of the discovery of gold had drawn so many thousands of ships and men to the port, that the hamlet of former days had become a city of tents and iron and wooden edifices of every kind. Gold can indeed work wonders—and never was its power more wonderfully displayed than in the rapid growth of San Francisco.
But our hero took small note of such matters. He was bent on a mission which engrossed his whole soul and all his faculties, and the fear that the Westwoods had found a homeward-bound ship, and perhaps had already set sail, induced him to go about everything he did in feverish haste. During the few weeks that had passed since he last saw it, the town had so changed its features that Will could scarce find his way, but at last he managed to discover the office of the agent who had advised him to go and see his property. Mr Zulino, as he was named, received his visitor with his wonted crustiness mingled with surprise, which was somewhat increased when he found that Will could not give a very comprehensible reason for his sudden return to the city. He could give no information as to the Westwoods, knew nothing about them, but advised that Will should make inquiry at the principal hotels in the town and at the shipping office, adding that he believed one of the ships which had long been lying in the port, unable to sail for want of hands, had at last succeeded in getting up a crew, and was to sail in a day or two for England, but he did not know her name or anything about her.
“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!
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