it may have been hours that i sat at my little table, overcome by the bitterness of my loss. and for more hours i tossed restlessly upon my hard bed, striving in vain for comfort. but suddenly, as i recalled a little affectionate gesture of my father’s, i burst into a flood of tears, and oh, what a relief it was to be able to cry—to sob away the load that had well-nigh overburdened my young heart!
after that last paroxysm of grief i fell asleep, worn out by my own emotions, and it was long past my usual hour for rising that i finally awoke.
in a moment, as i lay staring at the bright morning sunshine, the sorrow that had been forgotten in sleep swept over me like a flood, and i wept again at the thought of my utter loneliness and the dreadful fate that had overtaken my dear father. but presently, with the elasticity of youth, i was enabled to control myself, and turn my thoughts toward the future. then i remembered that mrs. ranck and i were to enter the captain’s locked room, and take an inventory of his possessions, and i began hurriedly to dress myself, that this sad duty might be accomplished as soon as possible. the recollection of the woman’s preposterous claims moved me to sullen anger. it seemed like a reflection on father’s honesty to claim that he had been in her debt all these years, and i resolved that she should be paid every penny she demanded, that the captain’s honor might remain untarnished in death, even as it had ever been during his lifetime.
as soon as i was ready i descended the stairs to the living-room, where mrs. ranck sat rocking in her chair, just as i had left her the night before. she was always an early riser, and i noticed that she had eaten her own breakfast and left a piece of bacon and corn-bread for me upon the hearth.
she made no reply to my “good morning, aunt,” so i took the plate from the hearth and ate my breakfast in silence. i was not at all hungry; but i was young, and felt the need of food. not until i had finished did mrs. ranck speak.
“we may as well look into the cap’n’s room, an’ get it done with,” she said. “it’s only nat’ral as i should want to know if i’m goin’ to get the money back i’ve spent on your keepin’.”
“very well,” said i.
she went to a drawer of a tall bureau and drew out a small ivory box. within this i knew were the keys belonging to my father. never before had mrs. ranck dared to meddle with them, for the captain had always forbidden her and everyone else to enter his room during his absence. even now, when he was dead, it seemed like disobedience of his wishes for the woman to seize the keys and march over to the door of the sacred room. in a moment she had turned the lock and thrown open the door.
shy and half startled at our presumption, i approached and peered over her shoulder. occasionally, indeed, i had had a glimpse of the interior of this little place, half chamber and half office; and, once or twice, when a little child, i had entered it to seek my father. now, as i glanced within, it seemed to be in perfect order; but it struck me as more bare and unfurnished than i had ever seen it before. father must have secretly removed many of the boxes that used to line the walls, for they were all gone except his big sea-chest.
the sight of the chest, however, reassured me, for it was in this that he had told me to look for my fortune, in case anything should happen to him.
the old woman at once walked over to the chest, and taking a smaller key from the ivory box, fitted it to the lock and threw back the lid with a bang.
“there’s your fortune!” she said, with a sneer; “see if you can find it.”
i bent over the chest, gazing eagerly into its depths. there was an old bible in one end, and a broken compass in the other. but that was all.
standing at one side, the woman looked into my astonished face and laughed mockingly.
“this was another o’ the cap’n’s lies,” she said. “he lied to you about ownin’ the house; he lied to you about takin’ me out o’ charity; an’ he lied to you about the fortune in this chest. an easy liar was cap’n steele, i must say!”
i shrank back, looking into her exultant eyes with horror in my own.
“how dare you say such things about my father?” i cried, in anger.
“how dare i?” she retorted; “why, because they’re true, as you can see for yourself. your father’s deceived you, an’ he’s deceived me. i’ve paid out over four hundred dollars for your keep, thinkin’ there was enough in this room to pay me back. an’ now i stand to lose every penny of it, jest because i trusted to a lyin’ sea-captain.”
“you won’t lose a dollar!” i cried, indignantly, while i struggled to keep back the tears of disappointment and shame that rushed to my eyes. “i’ll pay you every cent of the money, if i live.”
she looked at me curiously, with a half smile upon her thin lips.
“how?” she asked.
“i’ll work and earn it.”
“pish! what can a boy like you earn? an’ what’s goin’ to happen while you’re earnin’ it? one thing’s certain, sam steele; you can’t stay here an’ live off’n a poor lone woman that’s lost four hundred dollars by you already. you’ll have to find another place.”
“i’ll do that,” i said, promptly.
“you can have three days to git out,” she continued, pushing me out of the room and relocking the door, although there was little reason for that. “and you can take whatever clothes you’ve got along with you. nobody can say that jane ranck ain’t acted like a christian to ye, even if she’s beat an’ defrauded out’n her just rights. but if ye should happen to earn any money, sam, i hope you’ll remember what ye owe me.”
“i will,” said i, coldly; and i meant it.
to my surprise mrs. ranck gave a strange chuckle, which was doubtless meant for a laugh—the first i had ever known her to indulge in. it fired my indignation to such a point that i cried out: “shame!” and seizing my cap i rushed from the house.
the cottage was built upon a small hill facing the bay, and was fully a quarter of a mile distant from the edge of the village of batteraft. from our gate the path led down hill through a little group of trees and then split in twain, one branch running down to the beach, where the shipping lay, and the other crossing the meadows to the village. among the trees my father had built a board bench, overlooking the bay, and here i have known him to sit for hours, enjoying the beauty of the view, while the leafy trees overhead shaded him from the hot sun.
it was toward this bench, a favorite resort of mine because my father loved it, that i directed my steps on leaving mrs. ranck. at the moment i was dazed by the amazing discovery of my impoverished condition, and this, following so suddenly upon the loss of my father, nearly overwhelmed me with despair. but i knew that prompt action on my part was necessary, for the woman had only given me three days grace, and my pride would not suffer me to remain that long in a home where my presence was declared a burden. so i would sit beneath the trees and try to decide where to go and what to do.
but as i approached the place i found, to my astonishment, that a man was already seated upon the bench. he was doubtless a stranger in batteraft, for i had never seen him before, so that i moderated my pace and approached him slowly, thinking he might discover he was on private grounds and take his leave.
he paid no attention to me, being engaged in whittling a stick with a big jack-knife. in appearance he was short, thick-set, and of middle age. his round face was lined in every direction by deep wrinkles, and the scant hair that showed upon his temples was thin and grey. he wore a blue flannel shirt, with a black kerchief knotted at the throat; but, aside from this, his dress was that of an ordinary civilian; so that at first i was unable to decide whether he was a sailor or a landsman.
the chief attraction in the stranger was the expression of his face, which was remarkably humorous. although i was close by him, now, he paid no attention to my presence, but as he whittled away industriously he gave vent to several half audible chuckles that seemed to indicate that his thoughts were very amusing.
i was about to pass him and go down to the beach, where i might find a solitary spot for my musings, when the man turned his eyes up to mine and gave a wink that seemed both mysterious and confidential.
“it’s sam, ain’t it?” he asked, with another silent chuckle.
“yes, sir,” i replied, resenting his familiarity while i wondered how he should know me.
“cap’n steele’s son, i’m guessin’?” he continued.
“the same, sir,” and i made a movement to pass on.
“sit down, sam; there’s no hurry,” and he pointed to the bench beside him.
i obeyed, wondering what he could want with me. half turning toward me, he gave another of those curious winks and then suddenly turned grave and resumed his whittling.
“may i ask who you are, sir?” i enquired.
“no harm in that,” he replied, with a smile that lighted his wrinkled face most comically. “no harm in the world. i’m naboth perkins.”
“oh,” said i, without much interest.
“never heard that name before, i take it?”
“no, sir.”
“do you remember your mother?”
“not very well, sir,” i answered, wondering more and more. “i was little more than a baby when she died, you know.”
“i know,” and he nodded, and gave an odd sort of grunt. “did you ever hear what her name was, afore she married the cap’n?”
“oh, yes!” i cried, suddenly enlightened. “it was mary perkins.”
then, my heart fluttering wildly, i turned an intent and appealing gaze upon the little man beside me.
naboth perkins was seized with another of those queer fits of silent merriment, and his shoulders bobbed up and down until a cough caught him, and for a time i feared he would choke to death before he could control the convulsions. but at last he recovered and wiped the tears from his eyes with a brilliant red handkerchief.
“i’m your uncle, lad,” he said, as soon as he could speak.
this was news, indeed, but news that puzzled me exceedingly.
“why have i never heard of you before?” i asked, soberly.
“haven’t ye?” he returned, with evident surprise.
“never.”
he looked the stick over carefully, and cut another notch in it.
“well, for one thing,” he remarked, “i’ve never been in these parts afore sence the day i was born. fer another thing, it stands to reason you was too young to remember, even if mary had talked to ye about her only brother afore she died an’ quit this ’ere sublunatic spear. an’, fer a third an’ last reason, cap’n steele were a man that had little to say about most things, so it’s fair to s’pose he had less to say about his relations. eh?”
“perhaps it is as you say, sir.”
“quite likely. yet it’s mighty funny the cap’n never let drop a word about me, good or bad.”
“were you my father’s friend?” i asked, anxiously.
“that’s as may be,” said mr. perkins, evasively. “friends is all kinds, from acquaintances to lovers. but the cap’n an’ me wasn’t enemies, by a long shot, an’ i’ve been his partner these ten year back.”
“his partner!” i echoed, astonished.
the little man nodded.
“his partner,” he repeated, with much complacency. “but our dealin’s together was all on a strict business basis. we didn’t hobnob, ner gossip, ner slap each other on the back. so as fer saying we was exactly frends—w’y, i can’t honestly do it, sam.”
“i understand,” said i, accepting his explanation in good faith.
“i came here at this time,” continued mr. perkins, addressing his speech to the jack-knife, which he held upon the palm of his hand, “to see cap’n steele on an important business matter. he had agreed to meet me. but i saw ned britton at the tavern, las’ night, an’ heerd fer the first time that the ‘saracen’ had gone to davy jones an’ took the cap’n with her. so i come up here to have a little talk with you, which is his son and my own nevvy.”
“why didn’t you come up to the house?” i enquired.
mr. perkins turned upon me his peculiar wink, and his shoulders began to shake again, till i feared more convulsions. but he suddenly stopped short, and with abrupt gravity nodded his head at me several times.
“the woman!” he said, in a low voice. “i jest can’t abide women. ’specially when they’s old an’ given to argument, as ned britton says this one is.”
i sympathized with him, and said so. whereat my uncle gave me a look gentle and kindly, and said in a friendly tone:
“sam, my boy, i want to tell you all about myself, that’s your blood uncle an’ no mistake; but first i want you to tell me all about yourself. you’re an orphan, now, an’ my dead sister’s child, an’ i take it i’m the only real friend you’ve got in the world. so now, fire away!”
there was something about the personality of naboth perkins that invited confidence; or perhaps it was my loneliness and need of a friend that led me to accept this astonishing uncle in good faith. anyway, i did not hesitate to tell him my whole story, including my recent grief at the news of my dear father’s death and the startling discovery i had just made that i was penniless and in debt for my living to mrs. ranck.
“father has often told me,” i concluded, “that the house was mine, and had been put in mrs. ranck’s name because he felt she was honest, and would guard my interests in his absence. and he told me there was a store of valuable articles in his room, which he had been accumulating for years, and that the old sea-chest alone contained enough to make me independent. but when we examined the room this morning everything was gone, and the chest was empty. i don’t know what to think about it, i’m sure; for father never lied, in spite of what mrs. ranck says.”
uncle naboth whistled a sailor’s hornpipe in a slow, jerky, and altogether dismal fashion. when it was quite finished, even to the last quavering bar, he said:
“sam, who kept the keys to the room, an’ the chest?”
“mrs. ranck.”
“m—m. was the room dark, an’ all covered over with dust, when you went in there this mornin’?”
“i——i don’t think it was,” i answered, trying to recollect. “no! i remember, now. the blind was wide open, and the room looked clean and in good order.”
“sailors,” remarked mr. perkins, impressively, “never is known to keep their rooms in good order. the cap’n been gone five months an’ more. if all was straight the dust would be thick on everything.”
“to be sure,” said i, very gravely.
“then, sam, it stands to reason the ol’ woman went inter the room while you was asleep, an’ took out everything she could lay her hands on. cap’n steele didn’t lie to you, my boy. but he made the mistake of thinkin’ the woman honest. she took advantage of the fact that the cap’n was dead, an’ couldn’t prove nothin’. and so she robbed you.”
the suspicion had crossed my mind before, and i was not greatly surprised to hear my uncle voice it.
“then, can’t we make her give it up?” i asked. “if she has done such a wicked thing, it seems as though we ought to accuse her of it, and make her give me all that belongs to me.”
uncle naboth rose slowly from the bench, settled his felt hat firmly upon his head, pulled down his checkered vest, and assumed a most determined bearing.
“you wait here,” he said, “an’ i’ll beard the she-tiger in her den, an’ see what can be done.”
then he gave a great sigh, and turning square around, marched stiffly up the path that led to the house.
