The emigrant childhood of Rose Nott had been more than once shadowed by

scalping-knives, and she was acquainted with Death. She went fearlessly

to the couch, and found that the dressing-gown was only an enwrapping

of the emaciated and lifeless body of De Ferrières. She did not retreat

or call for help, but examined him closely. He was unconscious, but not

pulseless; he had evidently been strong enough to open the door for air

or succor, but had afterwards fallen into a fit on the couch. She flew

to her father's locker and the galley fire, returned, and shut the door

behind her, and by the skillful use of hot water and whiskey soon had

the satisfaction of seeing a faint color take the place of the faded

rouge in the ghastly cheeks. She was still chafing his hands when he

slowly opened his eyes. With a start, he made a quick attempt to push

aside her hand and rise. But she gently restrained him.

"Eh--what!" he stammered, throwing his face back from hers with an

effort and trying to turn it to the wall.

"You have been ill," she said quietly. "Drink this."

With his face still turned away he lifted the cup to his chattering

teeth. When he had drained it he threw a trembling glance round the

room and at the door.

"There's no one been here but myself," she said quickly. "I happened to

see the door open as I passed. I didn't think it worth while to call

any one."

The searching look he gave her turned into an expression of relief,

which, to her infinite uneasiness, again feebly lightened into one of

antiquated gallantry. He drew the dressing-gown around him with an air.

"Ah! it is a goddess, Mademoiselle, that has deigned to enter the cell

where--where--I amuse myself. It is droll, is it not? I came here to

make--what you call--the experiment of your father's fabric. I make

myself--ha! ha!--like a workman. Ah, bah! the heat, the darkness, the

plebeian motion make my head to go round. I stagger, I faint, I cry

out, I fall. But what of that? The great God hears my cry and sends me

an angel. _Voilà_!"

He attempted an easy gesture of gallantry, but overbalanced himself and

fell sideways on the pallet with a gasp. Yet there was so much genuine

feeling mixed with his grotesque affectation, so much piteous

consciousness of the ineffectiveness of his falsehood, that the young

girl, who had turned away, came back and laid her hand upon his arm.

"You must lie still and try to sleep," she said gently. "I will return

again. Perhaps," she added, "there is some one I can send for?"

He shook his head violently. Then in his old manner added, "After

Mademoiselle--no one."

"I mean"--she hesitated; "have you no friends?"

"Friends,--ah! without doubt." He shrugged his shoulders. "But

Mademoiselle will comprehend"--

"You are better now," said Rosey quickly, "and no one need know

anything if you don't wish it. Try to sleep. You need not lock the door

when I go; I will see that no one comes in."

He flushed faintly and averted his eyes. "It is too droll,

Mademoiselle, is it not?"

"Of course it is," said Rosey, glancing round the miserable room.

"And Mademoiselle is an angel."

He carried her hand to his lips humbly--his first purely unaffected

action. She slipped through the door, and softly closed it behind her.

Reaching the upper deck she was relieved to find her father had not

returned, and her absence had been unnoticed. For she had resolved to

keep De Ferrières' secret to herself from the moment that she had

unwittingly discovered it, and to do this and still be able to watch

over him without her father's knowledge required some caution. She was

conscious of his strange aversion to the unfortunate man without

understanding the reason, but as she was in the habit of entertaining

his caprices more from affectionate tolerance of his weakness than

reverence of his judgment, she saw no disloyalty to him in withholding

a confidence that might be disloyal to another. "It won't do father any

good to know it," she said to herself, "and if it _did_ it oughtn't

to," she added with triumphant feminine logic. But the impression made

upon her by the spectacle she had just witnessed was stronger than any

other consideration. The revelation of De Ferrièfres' secret poverty

seemed a chapter from a romance of her own weaving; for a moment it

lifted the miserable hero out of the depths of his folly and

selfishness. She forgot the weakness of the man in the strength of his

dramatic surroundings. It partly satisfied a craving she had felt; it

was not exactly the story of the ship, as she had dreamed it, but it

was an episode in her experience of it that broke its monotony. That

she should soon learn, perhaps from De Ferrières' own lips, the true

reason of his strange seclusion, and that it involved more than

appeared to her now, she never for a moment doubted.

At the end of an hour she again knocked softly at the door, carrying

some light nourishment she had prepared for him. He was asleep, but she

was astounded to find that in the interval he had managed to dress

himself completely in his antiquated finery. It was a momentary shock

to the allusion she had been fostering, but she forgot it in the

pitiable contrast between his haggard face and his pomatumed hair and

beard, the jauntiness of his attire and the collapse of his invalid

figure. When she had satisfied herself that his sleep was natural, she

busied herself softly in arranging the miserable apartment. With a few

feminine touches she removed the slovenliness of misery, and placed the

loose material and ostentatious evidences of his work on one side.

Finding that he still slept, and knowing the importance of this natural

medication, she placed the refreshment she had brought by his side and

noiselessly quitted the apartment. Hurrying through the gathering

darkness between decks, she once or twice thought she heard footsteps,

and paused, but encountering no one, attributed the impression to her

over-consciousness. Yet she thought it prudent to go to the galley

first, where she lingered a few moments before returning to the cabin.

On entering she was a little startled at observing a figure seated at

her father's desk, but was relieved at finding it was Mr. Renshaw.

He rose and put aside the book he had idly picked up. "I am afraid I am

an intentional intruder this time, Miss Nott. But I found no one here,

and I was tempted to look into this ship-shape little snuggery. You see

the temptation got the better of me."

His voice and smile were so frank and pleasant, so free from his

previous restraint, yet still respectful, so youthful yet manly, that

Rosey was affected by them even in her preoccupation. Her eyes

brightened and then dropped before his admiring glance. Had she known

that the excitement of the last few hours had brought a wonderful charm

into her pretty face, had aroused the slumbering life of her

half-wakened beauty, she would have been more confused. As it was, she

was only glad that the young man should turn out to be "nice." Perhaps

he might tell her something about ships; perhaps if she had only known

him longer she might, with De Ferrières' permission, have shared her

confidence with him, and enlisted his sympathy and assistance. She

contented herself with showing this anticipatory gratitude in her face

as she begged him, with the timidity of a maiden hostess, to resume his

seat.

But Mr. Renshaw seemed to talk only to make her talk, and I am forced

to admit that Rosey found this almost as pleasant. It was not long

before he was in possession of her simple history from the day of her

baby emigration to California to the transfer of her childish life to

the old ship, and even of much of the romantic fancies she had woven

into her existence there. Whatever ulterior purpose he had in view, he

listened as attentively as if her artless chronicle was filled with

practical information. Once, when she had paused for breath, he said

gravely, "I must ask you to show me over this wonderful ship some day

that I may see it with your eyes."

"But I think you know it already better than I do," said Rosey with a

smile.

Mr. Renshaw's brow clouded slightly. "Ah," he said, with a touch of his

former restraint; "and why?"

"Well," said Rosey timidly, "I thought you went round and touched

things in a familiar way as if you had handled them before."

The young man raised his eyes to Rosey's and kept them there long

enough to bring back his gentler expression. "Then, because I found you

trying on a very queer bonnet the first day I saw you," he said,

mischievously, "I ought to believe you were in the habit of wearing

one."

In the first flush of mutual admiration young people are apt to find a

laugh quite as significant as a sigh for an expression of sympathetic

communion, and this master-stroke of wit convulsed them both. In the

midst of it Mr. Nott entered the cabin. But the complacency with which

he viewed the evident perfect understanding of the pair was destined to

suffer some abatement. Rosey, suddenly conscious that she was in some

way participating in the ridicule of her father through his unhappy

gift, became embarrassed. Mr. Renshaw's restraint returned with the

presence of the old man. In vain, at first, Abner Nott strove with

profound levity to indicate his arch comprehension of the situation,

and in vain, later, becoming alarmed, he endeavored, with cheerful

gravity, to indicate his utter obliviousness of any but a business

significance in their _tête-à-tête_.

"I oughtn't to hev intruded, Rosey," he said, "when you and the

gentleman were talkin' of contracts, mebbee; but don't mind me. I'm on

the fly, anyhow, Rosey dear, hevin' to see a man round the corner."

But even the attitude of withdrawing did not prevent the exit of

Renshaw to his apartment and of Rosey to the galley. Left alone in the

cabin, Abner Nott felt in the knots and tangles of his beard for a

reason. Glancing down at his prodigious boots, which, covered with mud

and gravel, strongly emphasized his agricultural origin, and gave him a

general appearance of standing on his own broad acres, he was struck

with an idea. "It's them boots," he whispered to himself, softly; "they

somehow don't seem 'xactly to trump or follow suit in this yer cabin;

they don't hitch into anythin' but jist slosh round loose, and so to

speak play it alone. And them young critters nat'rally feels it and

gets out o' the way." Acting upon this instinct with his usual

precipitate caution, he at once proceeded to the nearest second-hand

shop, and, purchasing a pair of enormous carpet slippers, originally

the property of a gouty sea-captain, reappeared with a strong

suggestion of newly upholstering the cabin. The improvement, however,

was fraught with a portentous circumstance. Mr. Nott's footsteps, which

usually announced his approach all over the ship, became stealthy and

inaudible.

Meantime Miss Rosey had taken advantage of the absence of her father to

visit her patient. To avoid attracting attention she did not take a

light, but groped her way to the lower deck and rapped softly at the

door. It was instantly opened by De Ferrières. He had apparently

appreciated the few changes she had already made in the room, and had

himself cleared away the pallet from which he had risen to make two low

seats against the wall. Two bits of candle placed on the floor

illuminated the beams above, the dressing-gown was artistically draped

over the solitary chair, and a pile of cushions formed another seat.

With elaborate courtesy he handed Miss Rosey to the chair. He looked

pale and weak, though the gravity of the attack had evidently passed.

Yet he persisted in remaining standing. "If I sit," he explained with a

gesture, "I shall again disgrace myself by sleeping in Mademoiselle's

presence. Yes! I shall sleep--I shall dream--and wake to find her

gone!"

More embarrassed by his recovery than when he was lying helplessly

before her, she said hesitatingly that she was glad he was better, and

that she hoped he liked the broth.

"It was manna from heaven, Mademoiselle. See, I have taken it

all--every precious drop. What else could I have done for

Mademoiselle's kindness?"

He showed her the empty bowl. A swift conviction came upon her that the

man had been suffering from want of food. The thought restored her

self-possession even while it brought the tears to her eyes. "I wish

you would let me speak to father--or some one," she said impulsively,

and stopped.

A quick and half insane gleam of terror and suspicion lit up his deep

eyes. "For what, Mademoiselle! For an accident--that is

nothing--absolutely nothing, for I am strong and well now--see!" he

said tremblingly. "Or for a whim--for a folly you may say, that they

will misunderstand. No, Mademoiselle is good, is wise. She will say to

herself, 'I understand, my friend Monsieur de Ferrières for the moment

has a secret. He would seem poor, he would take the rôle of artisan, he

would shut himself up in these walls--perhaps I may guess why, but it

is his secret. I think of it no more.'" He caught her hand in his with

a gesture that he would have made one of gallantry, but that in its

tremulous intensity became a piteous supplication.

"I have said nothing, and will say nothing, if you wish it," said Rosey

hastily; "but others may find out how you live here. This is not fit

work for you. You seem to be a--a gentleman. You ought to be a lawyer,

or a doctor, or in a bank," she continued timidly, with a vague

enumeration of the prevailing degrees of local gentility.

He dropped her hand. "Ah! does not Mademoiselle comprehend that it is

_because_ I am a gentleman that there is nothing between it and this?

Look!" he continued almost fiercely. "What if I told you it is the

lawyer, it is the doctor, it is the banker that brings me, a gentleman,

to this, eh? Ah, bah! What do I say? This is honest, what I do! But the

lawyer, the banker, the doctor, what are they?" He shrugged his

shoulders, and pacing the apartment with a furtive glance at the half

anxious, half frightened girl, suddenly stopped, dragged a small

portmanteau from behind the heap of bales and opened it. "Look,

Mademoiselle," he said, tremulously lifting a handful of worn and

soiled letters and papers. "Look--these are the tools of your banker,

your lawyer, your doctor. With this the banker will make you poor, the

lawyer will prove you a thief, the doctor will swear you are crazy, eh?

What shall you call the work of a gentleman--this"--he dragged the pile

of cushions forward--"or this?"

To the young girl's observant eyes some of the papers appeared to be of

a legal or official character, and others like bills of lading, with

which she was familiar. Their half theatrical exhibition reminded her

of some play she had seen; they might be the clue to some story, or the

mere worthless hoardings of some diseased fancy. Whatever they were, De

Ferrières did not apparently care to explain further; indeed, the next

moment his manner changed to his old absurd extravagance. "But this is

stupid for Mademoiselle to hear. What shall we speak of? Ah! what

_should_ we speak of in Mademoiselle's presence?"

"But are not these papers valuable?" asked Rosey, partly to draw her

host's thoughts back to their former channel.

"Perhaps." He paused and regarded the young girl fixedly. "Does

Mademoiselle think so?"

"I don't know," said Rosey. "How should I?"

"Ah! if Mademoiselle thought so--if Mademoiselle would deign"--He

stopped again and placed his hand upon his forehead. "It might be so!"

he muttered.

"I must go now," said Rosey hurriedly, rising with an awkward sense of

constraint. "Father will wonder where I am."

"I shall explain. I will accompany you, Mademoiselle."

"No, no," said Rosey, quickly; "he must not know I have been here!" She

stopped. The honest blush flew to her cheek, and then returned again,

because she had blushed.

De Ferrières gazed at her with an exalted look. Then drawing himself to

his full height, he said, with an exaggerated and indescribable

gesture, "Go, my child, go. Tell your father that you have been alone

and unprotected in the abode of poverty and suffering, but--that it was

in the presence of Armand de Ferrières."

He threw open the door with a bow that nearly swept the ground, but did

not again offer to take her hand. At once impressed and embarrassed at

this crowning incongruity, her pretty lips trembled between a smile and

a cry as she said, "Good-night," and slipped away into the darkness.

Erect and grotesque De Ferrières retained the same attitude until the

sound of her footsteps was lost, when he slowly began to close the

door. But a strong arm arrested it from without, and a large carpeted

foot appeared at the bottom of the narrowing opening. The door yielded,

and Mr. Abner Nott entered the room.

IV.

With an exclamation and a hurried glance around him, De Ferrières threw

himself before the intruder. But slowly lifting his large hand, and

placing it on his lodger's breast, he quietly overbore the sick man's

feeble resistance with an impact of power that seemed almost as moral

as it was physical. He did not appear to take any notice of the room or

its miserable surroundings; indeed, scarcely of the occupant. Still

pushing him, with abstracted eyes and immobile face, to the chair that

Rosey had just quitted, he made him sit down, and then took up his own

position on the pile of cushions opposite. His usually underdone

complexion was of watery blueness; but his dull, abstracted glance

appeared to exercise a certain dumb, narcotic fascination on his

lodger.

"I mout," said Nott, slowly, "hev laid ye out here on sight, without

enny warnin', or dropped ye in yer tracks in Montgomery Street,

wherever there was room to work a six-shooter in comf'ably? Johnson, of

Petaluny--him, ye know, ez hed a game eye--fetched Flynn comin' outer

meetin' one Sunday, and it was only on account of his wife, and she a

second-hand one, so to speak. There was Walker, of Contra Costa,

plugged that young Sacramento chap, whose name I disremember, full o'

holes jest ez he was sayin' 'Good-by' to his darter. I mout hev done

all this if it had settled things to please me. For while you and Flynn

and that Sacramento chap ez all about the same sort o' men, Rosey's a

different kind from their sort o' women."

"Mademoiselle is an angel!" said De Ferrières, suddenly rising, with an

excess of extravagance. "A saint! Look! I cram the lie, ha! down his

throat who challenges it."

"Ef by mam'selle ye mean my Rosey," said Nott, quietly laying his

powerful hands on De Ferrières' shoulders, and slowly pinning him down

again upon his chair, "ye're about right, though she ain't mam'selle

yet. Ez I was sayin', I might hev killed you off-hand ef I hed thought

it would hev been a good thing for Rosey."

"For, her? Ah, well! Look, I am ready," interrupted De Ferrières, again

springing to his feet, and throwing open his coat with both hands.

"See! here at my heart--fire!"

"Ez I was sayin'," continued Nott, once more pressing the excited man

down in his chair, "I might hev wiped ye out--and mebbee ye wouldn't

hev keered--or _you_ might hev wiped _me_ out, and I mout hev said.

'Thank'ee,' but I reckon this ain't a case for what's comfable for you

and me. It's what's good for _Rosey_. And the thing to kalkilate is,

what's to be done."

His small round eyes for the first time rested on De Ferrières' face,

and were quickly withdrawn. It was evident that this abstracted look,

which had fascinated his lodger, was merely a resolute avoidance of De

Ferrières' glance, and it became apparent later that this avoidance was

due to a ludicrous appreciation of De Ferrières' attractions.

"And after we've done _that_ we must kalkilate what Rosey _is_, and

what Rosey wants. P'r'aps, ye allow, _you_ know what Rosey is? P'r'aps

you've seen her prance round in velvet bonnets and white satin

slippers, and sich. P'r'aps you've seen her readin' tracks and v'yages,

without waitin' to spell a word, or catch her breath. But that ain't

the Rosey ez _I_ knows. It's a little child ez uster crawl in and out

the tail-board of a Mizzouri wagon on the alcali-pizoned plains, where

there wasn't another bit of God's mercy on yearth to be seen for miles

and miles. It's a little gal as uster hunger and thirst ez quiet and

mannerly ez she now eats and drinks in plenty; whose voice was ez

steady with Injins yellin' round yer nest in the leaves on Sweetwater

ez in her purty cabin up yonder. _That's_ the gal ez I knows! That's

the Rosey ez my ole woman puts into my arms one night arter we left

Laramie when the fever was high, and sez, 'Abner,' sez she, 'the

chariot is swingin' low for me to-night, but thar ain't room in it for

her or you to git in or hitch on. Take her and rare her, so we kin all

jine on the other shore,' sez she. And I'd knowed the other shore

wasn't no Kaliforny. And that night, p'r'aps, the chariot swung lower

than ever before, and my ole woman stepped into it, and left me and

Rosey to creep on in the old wagon alone. It's them kind o' things,"

added Mr. Nott thoughtfully, "that seem to pint to my killin' you on

sight ez the best thing to be done. And yet Rosey mightn't like it."

He had slipped one of his feet out of his huge carpet slippers, and, as

he reached down to put it on again, he added calmly: "And ez to yer

marrying _her_ it ain't to be done."

The utterly bewildered expression which transfigured De Ferrières' face

at this announcement was unobserved by Nott's averted eyes, nor did he

perceive that his listener the next moment straightened his erect

figure and adjusted his cravat.

"Ef Rosey," he continued, "hez read in v'yages and tracks in Eyetalian

and French countries of such chaps ez you and kalkilates you're the

right kind to tie to, mebbee it mout hev done if you'd been livin' over

thar in a pallis, but somehow it don't jibe in over here and agree with

a ship--and that ship lying comf'able ashore in San Francisco. You

don't seem to suit the climate, you see, and your general gait is

likely to stampede the other cattle. Agin," said Nott, with an

ostentation of looking at his companion but really gazing on vacancy,

"this fixed-up, antique style of yours goes better with them

ivy-kivered ruins in Rome and Palmyry that Rosey's mixed you up with,

than it would yere. I ain't sayin'," he added as De Ferrières was about

to speak, "I ain't sayin' ez that child ain't smitten with ye. It ain't

no use to lie and say she don't prefer you to her old father, or young

chaps of her own age and kind. I've seed it afor now. I suspicioned it

afor I seed her slip out o' this place to-night. Thar! keep your hair

on, such ez it is!" he added, as De Ferrières attempted a quick

deprecatory gesture. "I ain't askin' yer how often she comes here, nor

what she sez to you nor you to her. I ain't asked her and I don't ask

you. I'll allow ez you've settled all the preliminaries and bought her

the ring and sich; I'm only askin' you now, kalkilatin' you've got all

the keerds in your own hand, what you'll take to step out and leave the

board?"

The dazed look of De Ferrières might have forced itself even upon

Nott's one-idead fatuity, had it not been a part of that gentleman's

system delicately to look another way at that moment so as not to

embarrass his adversary's calculation. "Pardon," stammered De

Ferrières, "but I do not comprehend!" He raised his hand to his head.

"I am not well--I am stupid. Ah, mon Dieu!"

"I ain't sayin'," added Nott more gently, "ez you don't feel bad. It's

nat'ral. But it ain't business. I'm asking you," he continued, taking

from his breast-pocket a large wallet, "how much you'll take in cash

now, and the rest next steamer day, to give up Rosey and leave the

ship."

De Ferrières staggered to his feet despite Nott's restraining hand. "To

leave Mademoiselle and leave the ship?" he said huskily, "is it not?"

"In course. Yer can leave things yer just ez you found 'em when you

came, you know," continued Nott, for the first time looking round the

miserable apartment. "It's a business job. I'll take the bales back

agin, and you kin reckon up what you're out, countin' Rosey and loss o'

time."

"He wishes me to go--he has said," repeated De Ferrières to himself

thickly.

"Ef you mean _me_ when you say _him_, and ez thar ain't any other man

around, I reckon you do--'yes!'"

"And he asks me--he--this man of the feet and the daughter--asks me--De

Ferrières--what I will take," continued De Ferrières, buttoning his

coat. "No! it is a dream!" He walked stiffly to the corner where his

portmanteau lay, lifted it, and going to the outer door, a cut through

the ship's side that communicated with the alley, unlocked it and flung

it open to the night. A thick mist like the breath of the ocean flowed

into the room.

"You ask me what I shall take to go," he said as he stood on the

threshold. "I shall take what _you_ cannot give, Monsieur, but what I

would not keep if I stood here another moment. I take my Honor,

Monsieur, and--I take my leave!"

For a moment his grotesque figure was outlined in the opening, and then

disappeared as if he had dropped into an invisible ocean below.

Stupefied and disconcerted a this complete success of his overtures,

Abner Nott remained speechless, gazing at the vacant space until a cold

influx of the mist recalled him. Then he rose and shuffled quickly to

the door.

"Hi! Ferrers! Look yer--Say! Wot's your hurry, pardner?"

But there was no response. The thick mist, which hid the surrounding

objects, seemed to deaden all sound also. After a moment's pause he

closed the door, but did not lock it, and retreating to the center of

the room remained blinking at the two candles and plucking some

perplexing problem from his beard. Suddenly an idea seized him. Rosey!

Where was she? Perhaps it had been a preconcerted plan, and she had

fled with him. Putting out the lights he stumbled hurriedly through the

passage to the gangway above. The cabin--door was open; there was the

sound of voices--Renshaw's and Rosey's. Mr. Nott felt relieved but not

unembarrassed. He would have avoided his daughter's presence that

evening. But even while making this resolution with characteristic

infelicity he blundered into the room. Rosey looked up with a slight

start; Renshaw's animated face was changed to its former expression of

inward discontent.

"You came in so like a ghost, father," said Rosey with a slight

peevishness that was new to her. "And I thought you were in town. Don't

go, Mr. Renshaw."

But Mr. Renshaw intimated that he had already trespassed upon Miss

Nott's time, and that no doubt her father wanted to talk with her. To

his surprise and annoyance, however, Mr. Nott insisted on accompanying

him to his room, and without heeding Renshaw's cold "Goodnight,"

entered and closed the door behind him.

"P'raps," said Mr. Nott with a troubled air, "you disremember that when

you first kem here you asked me if you could hev that 'er loft that the

Frenchman had downstairs."

"No, I don't remember it," said Renshaw almost rudely. "But," he added,

after a pause, with the air of a man obliged to revive a stale and

unpleasant memory, "if I did--what about it?"

"Nuthin', only that you kin hev it to-morrow, ez that 'ere Frenchman is

movin' out," responded Nott. "I thought you was sorter keen about it

when you first kem."

"Umph! we'll talk about it to-morrow." Something in the look of wearied

perplexity with which Mr. Nott was beginning to regard his own _mal à

propos_ presence, arrested the young man's attention. "What's the

reason you didn't sell this old ship long ago, take a decent house in

the town, and bring up your daughter like a lady?" he asked, with a

sudden blunt good-humor. But even this implied blasphemy against the

habitation he worshiped did not prevent Mr. Nott from his usual

misconstruction of the question.

"I reckon, now, Rosey's got high-flown ideas of livin' in a castle with

ruins, eh?" he said cunningly.

"Haven't heard her say," returned Renshaw abruptly. "Good-night."

Firmly convinced that Rosey had been unable to conceal from Mr. Renshaw

the influence of her dreams of a castellated future with De Ferrières,

he regained the cabin. Satisfying himself that his daughter had

retired, he sought his own couch. But not to sleep. The figure of De

Ferrières, standing in the ship side and melting into the outer

darkness, haunted him, and compelled him in dreams to rise and follow

him through the alleys and byways of the crowded city. Again, it was a

part of his morbid suspicion that he now invested the absent man with a

potential significance and an unknown power.

What deep-laid plans might he not form to possess himself of Rosey, of

which he, Abner Nott, would be ignorant? Unchecked by the restraint of

a father's roof, he would now give full license to his power. "Said

he'd take his Honor with him," muttered Abner to himself in the dim

watches of the night; "lookin' at that sayin' in its right light, it

looks bad."

V.

The elaborately untruthful account which Mr. Nott gave his daughter of

De Ferrières' sudden departure was more fortunate than his usual

equivocations. While it disappointed and slightly mortified her, it did

not seem to her inconsistent with what she already knew of him. "Said

his doctor had ordered him to quit town under an hour, owing to a

comin' attack of hay fever, and he had a friend from furrin parts

waitin' him at the Springs, Rosey," explained Nott, hesitating between

his desire to avoid his daughter's eyes and his wish to observe her

countenance.

"Was he worse?--I mean did he look badly, father?" inquired Rosey,

thoughtfully.

"I reckon not exactly bad. Kinder looked as if he mout be worse soon ef

he didn't hump hisself."

"Did you see him?--in his room?" asked Rosey anxiously. Upon the answer

to this simple question depended the future confidential relations of

father and daughter. If her father had himself detected the means by

which his lodger existed, she felt that her own obligations to secrecy

had been removed. But Mr. Nott's answer disposed of this vain hope. It

was a response after his usual fashion to the question he _imagined_

she artfully wished to ask, _i.e._ if he had discovered their

rendezvous of the previous night. This it was part of his peculiar

delicacy to ignore. Yet his reply showed that he had been unconscious

of the one miserable secret that he might have read easily.

"I was there an hour or so--him and me alone--discussin' trade. I

reckon he's got a good thing outer that curled horse-hair, for I see

he's got in an invoice o' cushions. I've stowed 'em all in the forrard

bulkhead until he sends for 'em, ez Mr. Renshaw hez taken the loft."

But although Mr. Renshaw had taken the loft, he did not seem in haste

to occupy it. He spent part of the morning in uneasily pacing his room,

in occasional sallies into the street from which he purposelessly

returned, and once or twice in distant and furtive contemplation of

Rosey at work in the galley. This last observation was not unnoticed by

the astute Nott, who at once conceiving that he was nourishing a secret

and hopeless passion for Rosey, began to consider whether it was not

his duty to warn the young man of her preoccupied affections. But Mr.

Renshaw's final disappearance obliged him to withhold his confidence

till morning.

This time Mr. Renshaw left the ship with the evident determination of

some settled purpose. He walked rapidly until he reached the

counting-house of Mr. Sleight, when he was at once shown into a private

office. In a few moments Mr. Sleight, a brusque but passionless man,

joined him.

"Well," said Sleight, closing the door carefully. "What news?"

"None," said Renshaw bluntly. "Look here, Sleight," he added, turning

to him suddenly. "Let me out of this game. I don't like it."

"Does that mean you've found nothing?" asked Sleight, sarcastically.

"It means that I haven't looked for anything, and that I don't intend

to without the full knowledge of that d--d fool who owns the ship."

"You've changed your mind since you wrote that letter," said Sleight

coolly, producing from a drawer the note already known to the reader.

Renshaw mechanically extended his hand to take it. Mr. Sleight dropped

the letter back into the drawer, which he quietly locked. The

apparently simple act dyed Mr. Renshaw's cheek with color, but it

vanished quickly, and with it any token of his previous embarrassment.

He looked at Sleight with the convinced air of a resolute man who had

at last taken a disagreeable step but was willing to stand by the

consequences.

"I _have_ changed my mind," he said coolly. "I found out that it was

one thing to go down there as a skilled prospector might go to examine

a mine that was to be valued according to his report of the

indications, but that it was entirely another thing to go and play the

spy in a poor devil's house in order to buy something he didn't know he

was selling and wouldn't sell if he did."

"And something that the man _he_ bought of didn't think of selling;

something _he_ himself never paid for, and never expected to buy,"

sneered Sleight.

"But something that _we_ expect to buy from our knowledge of all this,

and it is that which makes all the difference."

"But you knew all this before."

"I never saw it in this light before. I never thought of it until I was

living there face to face with the old fool I was intending to

overreach. I never was _sure_ of it until this morning, when he

actually turned out one of his lodgers that I might have the very room

I required to play off our little game in comfortably. When he did

that, I made up my mind to drop the whole thing, and I'm here to do

it."

"And let somebody else take the responsibility--with the

percentage--unless you've also felt it your duty to warn Nott too,"

said Sleight with a sneer.

"You only dare say that to me, Sleight," said Renshaw quietly, "because

you have in that drawer an equal evidence of my folly and my

confidence; but if you are wise you will not presume too far on either.

Let us see how we stand. Through the yarn of a drunken captain and a

mutinous sailor you became aware of an unclaimed shipment of treasure,

concealed in an unknown ship that entered this harbor. You are enabled,

through me, to corroborate some facts and identify the ship. You

proposed to me, as a speculation, to identify the treasure if possible

before you purchased the ship. I accepted the offer without

consideration; on consideration I now decline it, but without prejudice

or loss to any one but myself. As to your insinuation I need not remind

you that my presence here to-day refutes it. I would not require your

permission to make a much better bargain with a good-natured fool like

Nott than I could with you. Or if I did not care for the business I

could have warned the girl"--

"The girl--what girl?"

Renshaw bit his lip, but answered boldly: "The old man's daughter--a

poor girl--whom this act would rob as well as her father."

Sleight looked at his companion attentively. "You might have said so at

first, and let up on this camp-meetin' exhortation. Well

then--admitting you've got the old man and the young girl on the same

string, and that you've played it pretty low down in the short time

you've been there--I suppose, Dick Renshaw, I've got to see your bluff.

Well, how much is it? What's the figure you and she have settled on?"

For an instant Mr. Sleight was in physical danger.

But before he had finished speaking Renshaw's quick sense of the

ludicrous had so far overcome his first indignation as to enable him

even to admire the perfect moral insensibility of his companion. As he

rose and walked towards the door, he half wondered that he had ever

treated the affair seriously. With a smile he replied:

"Far from bluffing, Sleight, I am throwing my cards on the table.

Consider that I've passed out. Let some other man take my hand. Rake

down the pot if you like, old man, _I_ leave for Sacramento to-night.

_Adios_."

When the door had closed behind him Mr. Sleight summoned his clerk.

"Is that petition for grading Pontiac Street ready?"

"I've seen the largest property holders, sir; they're only waiting for

you to sign first," Mr. Sleight paused and then affixed his signature

to the paper his clerk laid before him. "Get the other names and send

it up at once."

"If Mr. Nott doesn't sign, sir?"

"No matter. He will be assessed all the same." Mr. Sleight took up his

hat.

"The Lascar seaman that was here the other day has been wanting to see

you, sir. I said you were busy."

Mr. Sleight put down his hat. "Send him up."

Nevertheless Mr. Sleight sat down and at once abstracted himself so

completely as to be apparently in utter oblivion of the man who

entered. He was lithe and Indian-looking; bearing in dress and manner

the careless slouch without the easy frankness of a sailor.

"Well!" said Sleight without looking up.

"I was only wantin' to know ef you had any news for me, boss?"

"News?" echoed Sleight as if absently; "news of what?"

"That little matter of the Pontiac we talked about, boss," returned the

Lascar with an uneasy servility in the whites of his teeth and eyes.

"Oh," said Sleight, "that's played out. It's a regular fraud. It's an

old forecastle yarn, my man, that you can't reel off in the cabin."

The sailor's face darkened.

"The man who was looking into it has thrown the whole thing up. I tell

you it's played out!" repeated Sleight, without raising his head.

"It's true, boss--every word," said the Lascar, with an appealing

insinuation that seemed to struggle hard with savage earnestness. "You

can swear me, boss; I wouldn't lie to a gentleman like you. Your man

hasn't half looked, or else--it must be there, or"--

"That's just it," said Sleight slowly; "who's to know that your friends

haven't been there already--that seems to have been your style."

"But no one knew it but me, until I told you, I swear to God. I ain't

lying, boss, and I ain't drunk. Say--don't give it up, boss. That man

of yours likely don't believe it, because he don't know anything about

it. I _do--I_ could find it."

A silence followed. Mr. Sleight remained completely absorbed in his

papers for some moments. Then glancing at the Lascar, he took his pen,

wrote a hurried note, folded it, addressed it, and, holding it between

his fingers, leaned back in his chair.

"If you choose to take this note to my man, he may give it another

show. Mind, I don't say that he _will_. He's going to Sacramento

to-night, but you could go down there and find him before he starts.

He's got a room there, I believe. While you're waiting for him you

might keep your eyes open to satisfy yourself."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the sailor, eagerly endeavoring to catch the eye of

his employer. But Mr. Sleight looked straight before him, and he turned

to go.

"The Sacramento boat goes at nine," said Mr. Sleight quietly.

This time their glances met, and the Lascar's eye glistened with subtle

intelligence. The next moment he was gone, and Mr. Sleight again became

absorbed in his papers.

Meanwhile Renshaw was making his way back to the Pontiac with that

light-hearted optimism that had characterized his parting with Sleight.

It was this quality of his nature, fostered perhaps by the easy

civilization in which he moved, that had originally drawn him into

relations with the man he just quitted; a quality that had been

troubled and darkened by those relations, yet, when they were broken,

at once returned. It consequently did not occur to him that he had only

selfishly compromised with the difficulty; it seemed to him enough that

he had withdrawn from a compact he thought dishonorable; he was not

called upon to betray his partner in that compact merely to benefit

others. He had been willing to incur suspicion and loss to reinstate

himself in his self-respect, more he could not do without justifying

that suspicion. The view taken by Sleight was, after all, that which

most business men would take--which even the unbusinesslike Nott would

take--which the girl herself might be tempted to listen to. Clearly he

could do nothing but abandon the Pontiac and her owner to the fate he

could not in honor avert. And even that fate was problematical. It did

not follow that the treasure was still concealed in the Pontiac, nor

that Nott would be willing to sell her. He would make some excuse to

Nott--he smiled to think he would probably be classed in the long line

of absconding tenants--he would say good-by to Rosey, and leave for

Sacramento that night. He ascended the stairs to the gangway with a

freer breast than when he first entered the ship.

Mr. Nott was evidently absent, and after a quick glance at the

half-open cabin-door, Renshaw turned towards the galley. But Miss Rosey

was not in her accustomed haunt, and with a feeling of disappointment,

which seemed inconsistent with so slight a cause, he crossed the deck

impatiently and entered his room. He was about to close the door when

the prolonged rustle of a trailing skirt in the passage attracted his

attention. The sound was so unlike that made by any garment worn by

Rosey that he remained motionless, with his hand on the door. The sound

approached nearer, and the next moment a white veiled figure with a

trailing skirt slowly swept past the room. Renshaw's pulses halted for

an instant in half superstitious awe. As the apparition glided on and

vanished in the cabin-door he could only see that it was the form of a

beautiful and graceful woman--but nothing more. Bewildered and curious,

he forgot himself so far as to follow it, and impulsively entered the

cabin. The figure turned, uttered a little cry, threw the veil aside,

and showed the half troubled, half blushing face of Rosey.

"I--beg--your pardon," stammered Renshaw; "I didn't know it was you."

"I was trying on some things," said Rosey, recovering her composure and

pointing to an open trunk that seemed to contain a theatrical

wardrobe--"some things father gave me long ago. I wanted to see if

there was anything I could use. I thought I was all alone in the ship,

but fancying I heard a noise forward I came out to see what it was. I

suppose it must have been you."

She raised her clear eyes to his, with a slight touch of womanly

reserve that was so incompatible with any vulgar vanity or girlish

coquetry that he became the more embarrassed. Her dress, too, of a

slightly antique shape, rich but simple, seemed to reveal and accent a

certain repose of gentlewomanliness, that he was now wishing to believe

he had always noticed. Conscious of a superiority in her that now

seemed to change their relations completely, he alone remained silent,

awkward, and embarrassed before the girl who had taken care of his

room, and who cooked in the galley! What he had thoughtlessly

considered a merely vulgar business intrigue against her stupid father,

now to his extravagant fancy assumed the proportions of a sacrilege to

herself.

"You've had your revenge, Miss Nott, for the fright I once gave you,"

he said a little uneasily, "for you quite startled me just now as you

passed. I began to think the Pontiac was haunted. I thought you were a

ghost. I don't know why such a ghost should _frighten_ anybody," he

went on with a desperate attempt to recover his position by gallantry.

"Let me see--that's Donna Elvira's dress--is it not?"

"I don't think that was the poor woman's name," said Rosey simply; "she

died of yellow fever at New Orleans as Signora Somebody."

Her ignorance seemed to Mr. Renshaw so plainly to partake more of the

nun than the provincial, that he hesitated to explain to her that he

meant the heroine of an opera.

"It seems dreadful to put on the poor thing's clothes, doesn't it?" she

added.

Mr. Renshaw's eyes showed so plainly that he thought otherwise, that

she drew a little austerely towards the door of her state-room.

"I must change these things before any one comes," she said dryly.

"That means I must go, I suppose. But couldn't you let me wait here or

in the gangway until then, Miss Nott? I am going away to-night, and I

mayn't see you again." He had not intended to say this, but it slipped

from his embarrassed tongue. She stopped with her hand on the door.

"You are going away?"

"I--think--I must leave to-night. I have some important business in

Sacramento."

She raised her frank eyes to his. The unmistakable look of

disappointment that he saw in them gave his heart a sudden throb and

sent the quick blood to his cheeks.

"It's too bad," she said, abstractedly. "Nobody ever seems to stay here

long. Captain Bower promised to tell me all about the ship, and he went

away the second week. The photographer left before he finished the

picture of the Pontiac; Monsieur de Ferrières has only just gone; and

now _you_ are going."

"Perhaps, unlike them, I have finished my season of usefulness here,"

he replied, with a bitterness he would have recalled the next moment.

But Rosey, with a faint sigh, saying, "I won't be long," entered the

state-room and closed the door behind her.

Renshaw bit his lip and pulled at the long silken threads of his

mustache until they smarted. Why had he not gone at once? Why was it

necessary to say he might not see her again--and if he had said it, why

should he add anything more? What was he waiting for now? To endeavor

to prove to her that he really bore no resemblance to Captain Bower,

the photographer, the crazy Frenchman De Ferrières? Or would he be

forced to tell her that he was running away from a conspiracy to

defraud her father--merely for something to say? Was there ever such

folly? Rosey was "not long," as she had said, but he was beginning to

pace the narrow cabin impatiently when the door opened and she

returned.

She had resumed her ordinary calico gown, but such was the impression

left upon Renshaw's fancy that she seemed to wear it with a new grace.

At any other time he might have recognized the change as due to a new

corset, which strict veracity compels me to record Rosey had adopted

for the first time that morning. Howbeit, her slight coquetry seemed to

have passed, for she closed the open trunk with a return of her old

listless air, and sitting on it rested her elbows on her knees and her

oval chin in her hands.

"I wish you would do me a favor," she said after a reflective pause.

"Let me know what it is and it shall be done," replied Renshaw quickly.

"If you should come across Monsieur de Ferrières, or hear of him, I

wish you would let me know. He was very poorly when he left here, and I

should like to know if he was better. He didn't say where he was going.

At least, he didn't tell father; but I fancy he and father don't

agree."

"I shall be very glad of having even _that_ opportunity of making you

remember me, Miss Nott," returned Renshaw with a faint smile. "I don't

suppose either that it would be very difficult to get news of your

friend--everybody seems to know him."

"But not as I did," said Rosey, with an abstracted little sigh.

Mr. Renshaw opened his brown eyes upon her. Was he mistaken? Was this

romantic girl only a little coquette playing her provincial airs on

him? "You say he and your father didn't agree? That means, I suppose,

that _you_ and he agreed?--and that was the result."

"I don't think father knew anything about it," said Rosey simply.

Mr. Renshaw rose. And this was what he had been waiting to hear!

"Perhaps," he said grimly, "you would also like news of the

photographer and Captain Bower, or did your father agree with them

better?"

"No," said Rosey quietly. She remained silent for a moment, and lifting

her lashes said, "Father always seemed to agree with _you_, and

that"--she hesitated.

"That's why _you_ don't."

"I didn't say that," said Rosey, with an incongruous increase of

coldness and color. "I only meant to say it was that which makes it

seem so hard you should go now."

Notwithstanding his previous determination Renshaw found himself

sitting down again. Confused and pleased, wishing he had said more--or

less--he said nothing, and Rosey was forced to continue.

"It's strange, isn't it--but father was urging me this morning to make

a visit to some friends at the old Ranch. I didn't want to go. I like

it much better here."

"But you cannot bury yourself here forever, Miss Nott," said Renshaw,

with a sudden burst of honest enthusiasm. "Sooner or later you will be

forced to go where you will be properly appreciated, where you will be

admired and courted, where your slightest wish will be law. Believe me,

without flattery, you don't know your own power."

"It doesn't seem strong enough to keep even the little I like here,"

said Rosey, with a slight glistening of the eyes. "But," she added

hastily, "you don't know how much the dear old ship is to me. It's the

only home I think I ever had."

"But the Ranch?" said Renshaw.

"The Ranch seemed to be only the old wagon halted in the road. It was a

very little improvement on out-doors," said Rosey, with a little

shiver. "But this is so cosy and snug, and yet so strange and foreign.

Do you know I think I began to understand why I like it so since you

taught me so much about ships and voyages. Before that I only learned

from books. Books deceive you, I think, more than people do. Don't you

think so?"

She evidently did not notice the quick flush that covered his cheeks

and apparently dazzled his troubled eyelids, for she went on

confidentially:

"I was thinking of you yesterday. I was sitting by the galley door,

looking forward. You remember the first day I saw you when you startled

me by coming up out of the hatch?"

"I wish you wouldn't think of that," said Renshaw, with more

earnestness than he would have made apparent.

"_I_ don't want to, either," said Rosey, gravely, "for I've had a

strange fancy about it. I saw once, when I was younger, a picture in a

print shop in Montgomery Street that haunted me. I think it was called

'The Pirate.' There were a number of wicked-looking sailors lying

around the deck, and coming out of the hatch was one figure, with his

hands on the deck and a cutlass in his mouth."

"Thank you," said Renshaw.

"You don't understand. He was horrid-looking, not at all like you. I

never thought of _him_ when I first saw you; but the other day I

thought how dreadful it would have been if some one like him and not

like you had come up then. That made me nervous sometimes of being

alone. I think father is too. He often goes about stealthily at night,

as if he was watching for something."

Renshaw's face grew suddenly dark. Could it be possible that Sleight

had always suspected him, and set spies to watch--or was he guilty of

some double intrigue?

"He thinks," continued Rosey, with a faint smile, "that some one is

looking round the ship, and talks of setting bear-traps. I hope you're

not mad, Mr. Renshaw," she added, suddenly catching sight of his

changed expression, "at my foolishness in saying you reminded me of the

pirate. I meant nothing."

"I know you're incapable of meaning anything but good to anybody, Miss

Nott, perhaps to me more than I deserve," said Renshaw, with a sudden

burst of feeling. "I wish--I wish--you would do _me_ a favor. _You_

asked me one just now." He had taken her hand. It seemed so like a mere

illustration of his earnestness, that she did not withdraw it. "Your

father tells you everything. If he has any offer to dispose of the

ship, will you write to me at once before anything is concluded?" He

winced a little--the sentence of Sleight, "What's the figure you and

she have settled upon?" flashed across his mind. He scarcely noticed

that Rosey had withdrawn her hand coldly.

"Perhaps you had better speak to father, as it is _his_ business.

Besides, I shall not be here. I shall be at the Ranch."

"But you said you didn't want to go?"

"I've changed my mind," said Rosey, listlessly. "I shall go to-night."

She rose as if to indicate that the interview was ended. With an

overpowering instinct that his whole future happiness depended upon his

next act, he made a step towards her, with eager outstretched hands.

But she slightly lifted her own with a warning gesture, "I hear father

coming--you will have a chance to talk _business_ with him," she said,

and vanished into her state-room.

VI.

The heavy tread of Abner Nott echoed in the passage. Confused and

embarrassed, Renshaw remained standing at the door that had closed upon

Rosey as her father entered the cabin. Providence, which always

fostered Mr. Nott's characteristic misconceptions, left that

perspicacious parent but one interpretation of the situation. Rosey had

evidently just informed Mr. Renshaw that she loved another!

"I was just saying good-by to Miss Nott," said Renshaw, hastily

regaining his composure with an effort. "I am going to Sacramento

to-night, and will not return. I"--

"In course, in course," interrupted Nott, soothingly; "that's wot you

say now, and that's wot you allow to do. That's wot they allus do."

"I mean," said Renshaw, reddening at what he conceived to be an

allusion to the absconding propensities of Nott's previous tenants,--"I

mean that you shall keep the advance to cover any loss you might suffer

through my giving up the rooms."

"Certingly," said Nott, laying his hand with a large sympathy on

Renshaw's shoulder; "but we'll drop that just now. We won't swap hosses

in the middle of the river. We'll square up accounts in your room," he

added, raising his voice that Rosey might overhear him, after a

preliminary wink at the young man. "Yes, sir, we'll just square up and

settle in there. Come along, Mr. Renshaw." Pushing him with paternal

gentleness from the cabin, with his hand still upon his shoulder, he

followed him into the passage. Half annoyed at his familiarity, yet not

altogether displeased by this illustration of Rosey's belief of his

preference, Renshaw wonderingly accompanied him. Nott closed the door,

and pushing the young man into a chair, deliberately seated himself at

the table opposite. "It's jist as well that Rosey reckons that you and

me is settlin' our accounts," he began, cunningly, "and mebbee it's

just ez well ez she should reckon you're goin' away."

"But I _am_ going," interrupted Renshaw, impatiently. "I leave

to-night."

"Surely, surely," said Nott, gently, "that's wot you kalkilate to do;

that's just nat'ral in a young feller. That's about what I reckon _I'd_

hev done to her mother if anythin' like this hed ever cropped up, which

it didn't. Not but what Almiry Jane had young fellers enough round her,

but, 'cept ole Judge Peter, ez was lamed in the War of 1812, there

ain't no similarity ez I kin see," he added, musingly.

"I am afraid I can't see any similarity either, Mr. Nott," said

Renshaw, struggling between a dawning sense of some impending absurdity

and his growing passion for Rosey. "For Heaven's sake, speak out if

you've got anything to say."

Mr. Nott leaned forward and placed his large hand on the young man's

shoulder. "That's it. That's what I sed to myself when I seed how

things were pintin'. 'Speak out,' sez I, 'Abner! Speak out if you've

got anything to say. You kin trust this yer Mr. Renshaw. He ain't the

kind of man to creep into the bosom of a man's ship for pupposes of his

own. He ain't a man that would hunt round until he discovered a poor

man's treasure, and then try to rob'"--

"Stop!" said Renshaw, with a set face and darkening eyes. "_What_

treasure? _what_ man are you speaking of?"

"Why Rosey and Mr. Ferrers," returned Nott, simply.

Renshaw sank into his seat again. But the expression of relief which

here passed swiftly over his face gave way to one of uneasy interest as

Nott went on.

"P'r'aps it's a little high-falutin' talkin' of Rosey ez a treasure.

But, considerin', Mr. Renshaw, ez she's the only prop'ty I've kept by

me for seventeen years ez hez paid interest and increased in valoo, it

ain't sayin' too much to call her so. And ez Ferrers knows this, he

oughter been content with gougin' me in that horse-hair spec, without

goin' for Rosey. P'r'aps yer surprised at hearing me speak o' my own

flesh and blood ez if I was talkin' hoss-trade, but you and me is

bus'ness men, Mr. Renshaw, and we discusses ez such. We ain't goin' to

slosh round and slop over in po'try and sentiment," continued Nott,

with a tremulous voice, and a hand that slightly shook on Renshaw's

shoulder. "We ain't goin' to git up and sing, 'Thou 'st lamed to love

another thou 'st broken every vow we've parted from each other and my

bozom's lonely now oh is it well to sever such hearts as ourn forever

kin I forget thee never farewell farewell farewell.' Ye never happen'd

to hear Jim Baker sing that at the moosic hall on Dupont Street, Mr.

Renshaw," continued Mr. Nott, enthusiastically, when he had recovered

from that complete absence of punctuation which alone suggested verse

to his intellect. "He sorter struck water down here," indicating his

heart, "every time."

"But what has Miss Nott to do with M. de Ferrières?" asked Renshaw,

with a faint smile.

Mr. Nott regarded him with, dumb, round, astonished eyes. "Hezn't she

told yer?"

"Certainly not."

"And she didn't let on anythin' about him?" he continued, feebly.

"She said she'd like to know where"--He stopped, with the reflection

that he was betraying her confidences.

A dim foreboding of some new form of deceit, to which even the man

before him was a consenting party, almost paralyzed Nott's faculties.

"Then she didn't tell yer that she and Ferrers was sparkin' and keepin'

kimpany together; that she and him was engaged, and was kalkilatin' to

run away to furrin parts; that she cottoned to him more than to the

ship or her father?"

"She certainly did not, and I shouldn't believe it," said Renshaw,

quickly.

Nott smiled. He was amused; he astutely recognized the usual

trustfulness of love and youth. There was clearly no deceit here!

Renshaw's attentive eyes saw the smile, and his brow darkened.

"I like to hear yer say that, Mr. Renshaw," said Nott, "and it's no

more than Rosey deserves, ez it's suthing onnat'ral and spell-like

that's come over her through Ferrers. It ain't my Rosey. But it's

Gospel truth, whether she's bewitched or not; whether it's them damn

fool stories she reads--and it's like ez not he's just the kind o'

snipe to write 'em hisself, and sorter advertise hisself, don't yer

see--she's allus stuck up for Lim. They've had clandesent interviews,

and when I taxed him with it he ez much ez allowed it was so, and

reckoned he must leave, so ez he could run her off, you know--kinder

stampede her with 'honor.' Them's his very words."

"But that is all past; he is gone, and Miss Nott does not even know

where he is!" said Renshaw, with a laugh, which, however, concealed a

vague uneasiness.

Mr. Nott rose and opened the door carefully. When he had satisfied

himself that no one was listening, he came back and said in a whisper,

"That's a lie. Not ez Rosey means to lie, but it's a trick he's put

upon that poor child. That man, Mr. Renshaw, hez been hangin' round the

Pontiac ever since. I've seed him twice with my own eyes pass the cabin

windys. More than that, I've heard strange noises at night, and seen

strange faces in the alley over yer. And only jist now ez I kem in I

ketched sight of a furrin-lookin' Chinee nigger slinking round the back

door of what useter be Ferrers' loft."

"Did he look like a sailor?" asked Renshaw quickly, with a return of

his former suspicion.

"Not more than I do," said Nott, glancing complacently at his

pea-jacket. "He had rings on his yeers like a wench."

Mr. Renshaw started. But seeing Nott's eyes fixed on him, he said

lightly, "But what have these strange faces and this strange

man--probably only a Lascar sailor out of a job--to do with Ferrières?"

"Friends o' his--feller furrin citizens--spies on Rosey, don't you see?

But they can't play the old man, Mr. Renshaw. I've told Rosey she must

make a visit to the old Ranch. Once I've got her thar safe, I reckon I

kin manage Mr. Ferrers and any number of Chinee niggers he kin bring

along."

Renshaw remained for a few moments lost in thought. Then rising

suddenly, he grasped Mr. Nott's hand with a frank smile but determined

eyes. "I haven't got the hang of this, Mr. Nott--the whole thing gets

me! I only know that I've changed my mind. I'm _not_ going to

Sacramento. I shall stay _here_, old man, until I see you safe through

the business, or my name's not Dick Renshaw. There's my hand on it!

Don't say a word. Maybe it is no more than I ought to do--perhaps not

half enough. Only remember, not a word of this to your daughter. She

must believe that I leave to-night. And the sooner you get her out of

this cursed ship the better."

"Deacon Flint's girls are goin' up in to-night's boat. I'll send Rosey

with them," said Nott, with a cunning twinkle. Renshaw nodded. Nott

seized his hand with a wink of unutterable significance.

Left to himself, Renshaw tried to review more calmly the circumstances

in these strange revelations that had impelled him to change his

resolution so suddenly. That the ship was under the surveillance of

unknown parties, and that the description of them tallied with his own

knowledge of a certain Lascar sailor, who was one of Sleight's

informants--seemed to be more than probable. That this seemed to point

to Sleight's disloyalty to himself while he was acting as his agent, or

a double treachery on the part of Sleight's informants, was in either

case a reason and an excuse for his own interference. But the

connection of the absurd Frenchman with the case, which at first seemed

a characteristic imbecility of his landlord, bewildered him the more he

thought of it. Rejecting any hypothesis of the girl's affection for the

antiquated figure whose sanity was a question of public criticism, he

was forced to the equally alarming theory that Ferrières was cognizant

of the treasure, and that his attentions to Rosey were to gain

possession of it by marrying her. Might she not be dazzled by a picture

of this wealth? Was it not possible that she was already in part

possession of the secret, and her strange attraction to the ship, and

what he had deemed her innocent craving for information concerning it,

a consequence? Why had he not thought of this before? Perhaps she had

detected his purpose from the first, and had deliberately checkmated

him. The thought did not increase his complacency as Nott softly

returned:

"It's all right," he began with a certain satisfaction in this rare

opportunity for Machiavellian diplomacy, "it's all fixed now. Rosey

tumbled to it at once, partiklerly when I said you was bound to go.

'But wot makes Mr. Renshaw go, father,' sez she; 'wot makes everybody

run away from the ship?' sez she, rather peart-like and sassy for her.

'Mr. Renshaw hez contractin' business,' sez I; 'got a big thing up in

Sacramento that'll make his fortun','sez I--for I wasn't goin' to give

yer away, don't ye see?' He had some business to talk to you about the

ship,' sez she, lookin' at me under the corner of her

pocket-handkerchief. 'Lots o' business,' sez I. 'Then I reckon he don't

care to hev me write to him,' sez she. 'Not a bit,' sez I; 'he wouldn't

answer ye if ye did. Ye'll never hear from that chap agin.'"

"But what the devil"--interrupted the young man impetuously.

"Keep yer hair on!" remonstrated the old man with dark intelligence.

"Ef you'd seen the way she flounced into her state-room!--she, Rosey,

ez allus moves ez softly ez a spirit--you'd hev wished I'd hev unloaded

a little more. No sir, gals is gals in some things all the time."

Renshaw rose and paced the room rapidly. "Perhaps I'd better speak to

her again before she goes," he said, impulsively.

"P'r'aps you'd better not," replied the imperturbable Nott.

Irritated as he was, Renshaw could not avoid the reflection that the

old man was right. What, indeed, could he say to her with his present

imperfect knowledge? How could she write to him if that knowledge was

correct?

"Ef," said Nott, kindly, with a laying on of large benedictory and

paternal hands, "ef ye're willin' to see Rosey agin, without _speakin_?

to her, I reckon I ken fix it for yer. I'm goin' to take her down to

the boat in half an hour. Ef yer should happen--mind, ef yer should

_happen_ to be down there, seein' some friends off and sorter

promenadin' up and down the wharf like them high-toned chaps on

Montgomery Street--ye might ketch her eye unconscious like. Or, ye

might do this!" He rose after a moment's cogitation and with a face of

profound mystery opened the door and beckoned Renshaw to follow him.

Leading the way cautiously, he brought the young man into an open

unpartitioned recess beside her state-room. It seemed to be used as a

store-room, and Renshaw's eye was caught by a trunk the size and shape

of the one that had provided Rosey with the materials of her

masquerade. Pointing to it, Mr. Nott said in a grave whisper: "This yer

trunk is the companion trunk to Rosey's. _She's_ got the things them

opery women wears; this yer contains the _he_ things, the duds and

fixins o' the men o' the same stripe." Throwing it open he continued:

"Now, Mr, Renshaw, gals is gals; it's nat'ral they should be took by

fancy dress and store clothes on young chaps as on theirselves. That

man Ferrers hez got the dead wood on all of ye in this sort of thing,

and hez been playing, so to speak, a lone hand all along. And ef thar's

anythin' in thar," he added, lifting part of a theatrical wardrobe,

"that you think you'd fancy--anythin' you'd like to put on when ye

promenade the wharf down yonder--it's yours. Don't ye be bashful, but

help yourself."

It was fully a minute before Renshaw fairly grasped the old man's

meaning. But when he did--when the suggested spectacle of himself

arrayed _à la_ Ferrières, gravely promenading the wharf as a last

gorgeous appeal to the affections of Rosey, rose before his fancy, he

gave way to a fit of genuine laughter. The nervous tension of the past

few hours relaxed; he laughed until the tears came into his eyes; he

was still laughing when the door of the cabin suddenly opened and Rosey

appeared cold and distant on the threshold.

"I--beg your pardon," stammered Renshaw hastily. "I didn't mean--to

disturb you--I"--

Without looking at him Rosey turned to her father. "I am ready," she

said coldly, and closed the door again.

A glance of artful intelligence came into Nott's eyes, which had

remained blankly staring at Renshaw's apparently causeless hilarity.

Turning to him he winked solemnly. "That keerless kind o' hoss-laff

jist fetched her," he whispered, and vanished before his chagrined

companion could reply.

When Mr. Nott and his daughter departed, Renshaw was not in the ship,

neither did he make a spectacular appearance on the wharf as Mr. Nott

had fondly expected, nor did he turn up again until after nine o'clock,

when he found the old man in the cabin awaiting his return with some

agitation. "A minit ago," he said, mysteriously closing the door behind

Renshaw, "I heard a voice in the passage, and goin' out, who should I

see agin but that darned furrin nigger ez I told yer 'bout, kinder

hidin' in the dark, his eyes shinin' like a catamount. I was jist

reachin' for my weppins when he riz up with a grin and handed me this

yer letter. I told him I reckoned you'd gone to Sacramento, but he said

he wez sure you was in your room, and to prove it I went thar. But when

I kem back the d----d skunk had vamosed--got frightened I reckon--and

wasn't nowhar to be seen."

Renshaw took the letter hastily. It contained only a line in Sleight's

hand. "If you change your mind, the bearer may be of service to you."

He turned abruptly to Nott. "You say it was the same Lascar you saw

before?"

"It was."

"Then all I can say is, he is no agent of De Ferrières'," said Renshaw,

turning away with a disappointed air. Mr. Nott would have asked another

question, but with an abrupt "Good-night" the young man entered his

room, locked the door, and threw himself on his bed to reflect without

interruption.

But if he was in no mood to stand Nott's fatuous conjectures, he was

less inclined to be satisfied with his own. Had he been again carried

away through his impulses evoked by the caprices of a pretty coquette

and the absurd theories of her half imbecile father? Had he broken

faith with Sleight and remained in the ship for nothing, and would not

his change of resolution appear to be the result of Sleight's note? But

why had the Lascar been haunting the ship before? In the midst of these

conjectures he fell asleep.

VII.

Between three and four in the morning the clouds broke over the

Pontiac, and the moon, riding high, picked out in black and silver the

long hulk that lay cradled between the iron shells and warehouses and

the wooden frames and tenements on either side. The galley and covered

gangway presented a mass of undefined shadow, against which the white

deck shone brightly, stretching to the forecastle and bows, where the

tiny glass roof of the photographer glistened like a gem in the

Pontiac's crest. So peaceful and motionless she lay that she might have

been some petrifaction of a past age now first exhumed and laid bare to

the cold light of the stars.

Nevertheless, this calm security was presently invaded by a sense of

stealthy life and motion. What had seemed a fixed shadow suddenly

detached itself from the deck and began to slip stanchion by stanchion

along the bulwarks toward the companion-way. At the cabin-door it

halted and crouched motionless. Then rising, it glided forward with the

same staccato movement until opposite the slight elevation of the

forehatch. Suddenly it darted to the hatch, unfastened and lifted it

with a swift, familiar dexterity, and disappeared in the opening. But

as the moon shone upon its vanishing face, it revealed the whitening

eyes and teeth of the Lascar seaman.

Dropping to the lower deck lightly, he felt his way through the dark

passage between the partitions, evidently less familiar to him, halting

before each door to listen.

Returning forward he reached the second hatchway that had attracted

Rosey's attention, and noiselessly unclosed its fastenings. A

penetrating smell of bilge arose from the opening. Drawing a small

bull's-eye lantern from his breast he lit it, and unhesitatingly let

himself down to the further depth. The moving flash of his light

revealed the recesses of the upper hold, the abyss of the well

amidships, and glanced from the shining backs of moving zigzags of rats

that seemed to outline the shadowy beams and transoms. Disregarding

those curious spectators of his movements, he turned his attention

eagerly to the inner casings of the hold, that seemed in one spot to

have been strengthened by fresh timbers. Attacking this stealthily with

the aid of some tools hidden in his oil-skin clothing, in the light of

the lantern he bore a fanciful resemblance to the predatory animals

around him. The low continuous sound of rasping and gnawing of timber

which followed heightened the resemblance. At the end of a few minutes

he had succeeded in removing enough of the outer planking to show that

the entire filling of the casing between the stanchions was composed of

small boxes. Dragging out one of them with feverish eagerness to the

light, the Lascar forced it open. In the rays of the bull's-eye, a

wedged mass of discolored coins showed with a lurid glow. The story of

the Pontiac was true--the treasure was there!

But Mr. Sleight had overlooked the logical effect of this discovery on

the natural villainy of his tool. In the very moment of his triumphant

execution of his patron's suggestions the idea of keeping the treasure

to himself flashed upon his mind. _He_ had discovered it--why should he

give it up to anybody? _He_ had run all the risks; if he were detected

at that moment, who would believe that his purpose there at midnight

was only to satisfy some one else that the treasure was still intact?

No. The circumstances were propitious; he would get the treasure out of

the ship at once, drop it over her side, hastily conceal it in the

nearest lot adjacent, and take it away at his convenience. Who would be

the wiser for it?

But it was necessary to reconnoiter first. He knew that the loft

overhead was empty. He knew that it communicated with the alley, for he

had tried the door that morning. He would convey the treasure there and

drop it into the alley. The boxes were heavy. Each one would require a

separate journey to the ship's side, but he would at least secure

something if he were interrupted, He stripped the casing, and gathered

the boxes together in a pile.

Ah, yes, it was funny too that he--the Lascar hound--the d----d

nigger--should get what bigger and bullier men than he had died for!

The mate's blood was on those boxes, if the salt water had not washed

it out. It was a hell of a fight when they dragged the captain--Oh,

what was that? Was it the splash of a rat in the bilge, or what?

A superstitious terror had begun to seize him at the thought of blood.

The stifling hold seemed again filled with struggling figures he had

known, the air thick with cries and blasphemies that he had forgotten.

He rose to his feet, and running quickly to the hatchway, leaped to the

deck above. All was quiet. The door leading to the empty loft yielded

to his touch. He entered, and, gliding through, unbarred and opened the

door that gave upon the alley. The cold air and moonlight flowed in

silently; the way of escape was clear. Bah! He would go back for the

treasure.

He had reached the passage when the door he had just opened was

suddenly darkened. Turning rapidly, he was conscious of a gaunt figure,

grotesque, silent, and erect, looming on the threshold between him and

the sky. Hidden in the shadow, he made a stealthy step towards it, with

an iron wrench in his uplifted hand. But the next moment his eyes

dilated with superstitious horror; the iron fell from his hand, and

with a scream, like a frightened animal, he turned and fled into the

passage. In the first access of his blind terror he tried to reach the

deck above through the forehatch, but was stopped by the sound of a

heavy tread overhead. The immediate fear of detection now overcame his

superstition; he would have even faced the apparition again to escape

through the loft; but, before he could return there, other footsteps

approached rapidly from the end of the passage he would have to

traverse. There was but one chance of escape left now--the forehold he

had just quitted. He might hide there until the alarm was over. He

glided back to the hatch, lifted it, and closed it softly over his head

as the upper hatch was simultaneously raised, and the small round eyes

of Abner Nott peered down upon it. The other footsteps proved to be

Renshaw's, but, attracted by the open door of the loft, he turned aside

and entered. As soon as he disappeared Mr. Nott cautiously dropped

through the opening to the deck below, and, going to the other hatch

through which the Lascar had vanished, deliberately refastened it. In a

few moments Renshaw returned with a light, and found the old man

sitting on the hatch.

"The loft-door was open," said Renshaw. "There's little doubt whoever

was here escaped that way."

"Surely," said Nott. There was a peculiar look of Machiavellian

sagacity in his face which irritated Renshaw.

"Then you're sure it was Ferriferes you saw pass by your window before

you called me?" he asked.

Nott nodded his head with an expression of infinite profundity.

"But you say he was going _from_ the ship. Then it could not have been

he who made the noise we heard down here."

"Mebbee no, and mebbee yes," returned Nott, cautiously.

"But if he was already concealed inside the ship, as that open door,

which you say you barred from the inside, would indicate, what the

devil did he want with this?" said Renshaw, producing the

monkey--wrench he had picked up.

Mr. Nott examined the tool carefully, and shook his head with momentous

significance. Nevertheless, his eyes wandered to the hatch on which he

was seated.

"Did you find anything disturbed _there_?" said Renshaw, following the

direction of his eye. "Was that hatch fastened as it is now?"

"It was," said Nott, calmly. "But ye wouldn't mind fetchin' me a hammer

and some o' them big nails from the locker, would yer, while I hang

round here just so ez to make sure against another attack."

Renshaw complied with his request; but as Nott proceeded to gravely

nail down the fastenings of the hatch, he turned impatiently away to

complete his examination of the ship. The doors of the other lofts and

their fastenings appeared secure and undisturbed. Yet it was undeniable

that a felonious entrance had been made, but by whom or for what

purpose, still remained uncertain. Even now, Renshaw found it difficult

to accept Nott's theory that De Ferrières was the aggressor and Rosey

the object, nor could he justify his own suspicion that the Lascar had

obtained a surreptitious entrance under Sleight's directions. With a

feeling that if Rosey had been present he would have confessed all, and

demanded from her an equal confidence, he began to hate his feeble,

purposeless, and inefficient alliance with her father, who believed but

dared not tax his daughter with complicity in this outrage. What could

be done with a man whose only idea of action at such a moment was to

nail up an undisturbed entrance in his invaded house! He was so

preoccupied with these thoughts that when Nott rejoined him in the

cabin he scarcely heeded his presence, and was entirely oblivious of

the furtive looks which the old man from time to time cast upon his

face.

"I reckon ye wouldn't mind," broke in Nott, suddenly, "ef I asked a

favor of ye, Mr. Renshaw. Mebbee ye'll allow it's askin' too much in

the matter of expense; mebbee ye'll allow it's askin' too much in the

matter o' time. But _I_ kalkilate to pay all the expense, and if you'd

let me know what yer vally yer time at, I reckon I could stand that.

What I'd be askin' is this. Would ye mind takin' a letter from me to

Rosey, and bringin' back an answer?"

Renshaw stared speechlessly at this absurd realization of his wish of a

moment before. "I don't think I understand you," he stammered.

"P'r'aps not," returned Nott, with great gravity. "But that's not so

much matter to you ez your time and expenses."

"I meant I should be glad to go if I can be of any service to you,"

said Renshaw, hastily.

"You kin ketch the seven-o'clock boat this morning, and you'll reach

San Rafael at ten"--

"But I thought Miss Rosey went to Petaluma," interrupted Renshaw

quickly.

Nott regarded him with an expression of patronizing superiority.

"That's what we ladled out to the public gin'rally, and to Ferrers and

his gang in partickler. We _said_ Petalumey, but if you go to Madrono

Cottage, San Rafael, you'll find Rosey thar."

If Mr. Renshaw required anything more to convince him of the necessity

of coming to some understanding with Rosey at once it would have been

this last evidence of her father's utterly dark and supremely

inscrutable designs. He assented quickly, and Nott handed him a note.

"Ye'll be partickler to give this inter her own hands, and wait for an

answer," said Nott gravely.

Resisting the proposition to enter then and there into an elaborate

calculation of the value of his time and the expenses of the trip,

Renshaw found himself at seven o'clock on the San Rafael boat. Brief as

was the journey it gave him time to reflect upon his coming interview

with Rosey. He had resolved to begin by confessing all; the attempt of

last night had released him from any sense of duty to Sleight. Besides,

he did not doubt that Nott's letter contained some reference to this

affair only known to Nott's dark and tortuous intelligence.

VIII.

Madroño Cottage lay at the entrance of a little _cañada_ already green

with the early winter rains, and nestled in a thicket of the harlequin

painted trees that gave it a name. The young man was a little relieved

to find that Rosey had gone to the post-office a mile away, and that he

would probably overtake her or meet her returning--alone. The

road--little more than a trail--wound along the crest of the hill

looking across the _cañada_ to the long, dark, heavily-wooded flank of

Mount Tamalpais that rose from the valley a dozen miles away. A

cessation of the warm rain, a rift in the sky, and the rare spectacle

of cloud scenery, combined with a certain sense of freedom, restored

that light-hearted gayety that became him most. At a sudden turn of the

road he caught sight of Rosey's figure coming towards him, and

quickened his step with the impulsiveness of a boy. But she suddenly

disappeared, and when he again saw her she was on the other side of the

trail apparently picking the leaves of a manzanita. She had already

seen him.

Somehow the frankness of his greeting was checked. She looked up at him

with cheeks that retained enough of their color to suggest why she had

hesitated, and said, "_You_ here, Mr. Renshaw? I thought you were in

Sacramento."

"And I thought _you_ were in Petaluma," he retorted gayly. "I have a

letter from your father. The fact is, one of those gentlemen who has

been haunting the ship actually made an entry last night. Who he was,

and what he came for, nobody knows. Perhaps your father gives you his

suspicions." He could not help looking at her narrowly as he handed her

the note. Except that her pretty eyebrows were slightly raised in

curiosity she seemed undisturbed as she opened the letter. Presently

she raised her eyes to his.

"Is this all father gave you?"

"All."

"You're sure you haven't dropped anything?"

"Nothing. I have given you all he gave me."

"And that is all it is." She exhibited the missive, a perfectly blank

sheet of paper folded like a note!

Renshaw felt the angry blood glow in his cheeks. "This is unpardonable!

I assure you, Miss Nott, there must be some mistake. He himself has

probably forgotten the inclosure," he continued, yet with an inward

conviction that the act was perfectly premeditated on the part of the

old man.

The young girl held out her hand frankly. "Don't think any more of it,

Mr. Renshaw. Father is forgetful at times. But tell me about last

night."

In a few words Mr. Renshaw briefly but plainly related the details of

the attempt upon the Pontiac, from the moment that he had been awakened

by Nott, to his discovery of the unknown trespasser's flight by the

open door to the loft. When he had finished, he hesitated, and then

taking Rosey's hand, said impulsively, "You will not be angry with me

if I tell you all? Your father firmly believes that the attempt was

made by the old Frenchman, De Ferrières, with a view of carrying you

off."

A dozen reasons other than the one her father would have attributed it

to might have called the blood to her face. But only innocence could

have brought the look of astonished indignation to her eyes as she

answered quickly:

"So _that_ was what you were laughing at?"

"Not that, Miss Nott," said the young man eagerly; "though I wish to

God I could accuse myself of nothing more disloyal. Do not speak, I

beg," he added impatiently, as Rosey was about to reply. "I have no

right to hear you; I have no right to even stand in your presence until

I have confessed everything. I came to the Pontiac; I made your

acquaintance, Miss Nott, through a fraud as wicked as anything your

father charges to De Ferrières. I am not a contractor. I never was an

honest lodger in the Pontiac. I was simply a spy."

"But you didn't mean to be--it was some mistake, wasn't it?" said

Rosey, quite white, but more from sympathy with the offender's emotion

than horror at the offense.

"I am afraid I did mean it. But bear with me for a few moments longer

and you shall know all. It's a long story. Will you walk on, and--take

my arm? You do not shrink from me, Miss Nott. Thank you. I scarcely

deserve the kindness."

Indeed so little did Rosey shrink that he was conscious of a slight

reassuring pressure on his arm as they moved forward, and for the

moment I fear the young man felt like exaggerating his offense for the

sake of proportionate sympathy. "Do you remember," he continued, "one

evening when I told you some sea tales, you said you always thought

there must be some story about the Pontiac? There _was_ a story of the

Pontiac, Miss Nott--a wicked story--a terrible story--which I might

have told you, which I _ought_ to have told you--which was the story

that brought me there. You were right, too, in saying that you thought

I had known the Pontiac before I stepped first on her deck that day. I

had."

He laid his disengaged hand across lightly on Rosey's, as if to assure

himself that she was listening.

"I was at that time a sailor. I had been fool enough to run away from

college, thinking it a fine romantic thing to ship before the mast for

a voyage round the world. I was a little disappointed, perhaps, but I

made the best of it, and in two years I was the second mate of a whaler

lying in a little harbor of one of the uncivilized islands of the

Pacific. While we were at anchor there a French trading vessel put in,

apparently for water. She had the dregs of a mixed crew of Lascars and

Portuguese, who said they had lost the rest of their men by desertion,

and that the captain and mate had been carried off by fever. There was

something so queer in their story that our skipper took the law in his

own hands, and put me on board of her with a salvage crew. But that

night the French crew mutinied, cut the cables, and would have got to

sea if we had not been armed and prepared, and managed to drive them

below. When we had got them under hatches for a few hours they

parleyed, and offered to go quietly ashore. As we were short of hands

and unable to take them with us, and as we had no evidence against

them, we let them go, took the ship to Callao, turned her over to the

authorities, lodged a claim for salvage, and continued our voyage. When

we returned we found the truth of the story was known. She had been a

French trader from Marseilles, owned by her captain; her crew had

mutinied in the Pacific, killed their officers and the only

passenger--the owner of the cargo. They had made away with the cargo

and a treasure of nearly half a million of Spanish gold for trading

purposes which belonged to the passenger. In course of time the ship

was sold for salvage and put into the South American trade until the

breaking out of the Californian gold excitement, when she was sent with

a cargo to San Francisco. That ship was the Pontiac which your father

bought."

A slight shudder ran through the girl's frame. "I wish--I wish you

hadn't told me," she said. I shall never close my eyes again

comfortably on board of her, I know."

"I would say that you had purified her of _all_ stains of her past--but

there may be one that remains. And _that_ in most people's eyes would

be no detraction. You look puzzled, Miss Nott--but I am coming to the

explanation and the end of my story. A ship of war was sent to the

island to punish the mutineers and pirates, for such they were, but

they could not be found. A private expedition was sent to discover the

treasure which they were supposed to have buried, but in vain. About

two months ago Mr. Sleight told me one of his shipmasters had sent him

a Lascar sailor who had to dispose of a valuable secret regarding the

Pontiac for a percentage. That secret was that the treasure was never

taken by the mutineers out of the Pontiac! They were about to land and

bury it when we boarded them. They took advantage of their imprisonment

under hatches _to bury it in the ship_. They hid it in the hold so

securely and safely that it was never detected by us or the Callao

authorities. I was then asked, as one who knew the vessel, to undertake

a private examination of her, with a view of purchasing her from your

father without awakening his suspicions. I assented. You have my

confession now, Miss Nott. You know my crime. I am at your mercy."

Rosey's arm only tightened around his own. Her eyes sought his. "And

you didn't find anything?" she said.

The question sounded so oddly like Sleight's, that Renshaw returned a

little stiffly:

"I didn't look."

"Why?" asked Rosey simply.

"Because," stammered Renshaw, with an uneasy consciousness of having

exaggerated his sentiment, "it didn't seem honorable; it didn't seem

fair to you."

"Oh you silly! you might have looked and told _me_."

"But," said Renshaw, "do you think that would have been fair to

Sleight?"

"As fair to him as to us. For, don't you see, it wouldn't belong to any

of us. It would belong to the friends or the family of the man who lost

it."

"But there were no heirs," replied Renshaw. "That was proved by some

impostor who pretended to be his brother, and libelled the Pontiac at

Callao, but the courts decided he was a lunatic."

"Then it belongs to the poor pirates who risked their own lives for it,

rather than to Sleight, who did nothing." She was silent for a moment,

and then resumed with energy, "I believe he was at the bottom of that

attack last night."

"I have thought so too," said Renshaw.

"Then I must go back at once," she continued, impulsively. "Father must

not be left alone."

"Nor _must you_," said Renshaw, quickly. "Do let me return with you,

and share with you and your father the trouble I have brought upon you.

Do not," he added in a lower tone, "deprive me of the only chance of

expiating my offense, of making myself worthy your forgiveness."

"I am sure," said Rosey, lowering her lids and half withdrawing her

arm, "I am sure I have nothing to forgive. You did not believe the

treasure belonged to us any more than to anybody else, until you knew

_me_"--

"That is true," said the young man, attempting to take her hand.

"I mean," said Rosey, blushing, and showing a distracting row of little

teeth in one of her infrequent laughs, "oh, you know what I mean." She

withdrew her arm gently, and became interested in the selection of

certain wayside bay leaves as they passed along. "All the same, I don't

believe in this treasure," she said abruptly, as if to change the

subject. "I don't believe it ever was hidden inside the Pontiac."

"That can be easily ascertained now," said Renshaw.

"But it's a pity you didn't find it out while you were about it," said

Rosey. "It would have saved so much talk and trouble."

"I have told you why I didn't search the ship," responded Renshaw, with

a slight bitterness. "But it seems I could only avoid being a great

rascal by becoming a great fool."

"You never intended to be a rascal," said Rosey, earnestly, "and you

couldn't be a fool, except in heeding what a silly girl says. I only

meant if you had taken me into your confidence it would have been

better."

"Might I not say the same to you regarding your friend, the old

Frenchman?" returned Renshaw. "What if I were to confess to you that I

lately suspected him of knowing the secret, and of trying to gain your

assistance?"

Instead of indignantly repudiating the suggestion, to the young man's

great discomfiture, Rosey only knit her pretty brows, and remained for

some moments silent. Presently she asked timidly:

"Do you think it wrong to tell another person's secret for their own

good?"

"No," said Renshaw, promptly.

"Then I'll tell you Monsieur de Ferrières'! But only because I believe

from what you have just said that he will turn out to have some right

to the treasure."

Then with kindling eyes, and a voice eloquent with sympathy, Rosey told

the story of her accidental discovery of De Ferrières' miserable

existence in the loft. Clothing it with the unconscious poetry of her

fresh, young imagination, she lightly passed over his antique gallantry

and grotesque weakness, exalting only his lonely sufferings and

mysterious wrongs. Renshaw listened, lost between shame for his late

suspicions and admiration for her thoughtful delicacy, until she began

to speak of De Ferrières' strange allusions to the foreign papers in

his portmanteau. "I think some were law papers, and I am almost certain

I saw the word Callao printed on one of them."

"It may be so," said Renshaw, thoughtfully. "The old Frenchman has

always passed for a harmless, wandering eccentric. I hardly think

public curiosity has ever even sought to know his name, much less his

history. But had we not better first try to find if there _is_ any

property before we examine his claims to it?"

"As you please," said Rosey, with a slight pout; "but you will find it

much easier to discover him than his treasure. It's always easier to

find the thing you're not looking for."

"Until you want it," said Renshaw, with sudden gravity.

"How pretty it looks over there," said Rosey, turning her conscious

eyes to the opposite mountain.

"Very."

They had reached the top of the hill, and in the near distance the

chimney of Madroño Cottage was even now visible. At the expected sight

they unconsciously stopped--unconsciously disappointed. Rosey broke the

embarrassing silence.

"There's another way home, but it's a roundabout way," she said

timidly.

"Let us take it," said Renshaw.

She hesitated. "The boat goes at four, and we must return to-night."

"The more reason why we should make the most of our time now," said

Renshaw with a faint smile. "To-morrow all things may be changed;

to-morrow you may find yourself an heiress, Miss Nott. To-morrow," he

added, with a slight tremor in his voice, "I may have earned your

forgiveness, only to say farewell to you forever. Let me keep this

sunshine, this picture, this companionship with you long enough to say

now what perhaps I must not say to-morrow."

They were silent for a moment, and then by a common instinct turned

together into a narrow trail, scarce wide enough for two, that diverged

from the straight practical path before them. It was indeed a

roundabout way home, so roundabout, in fact, that as they wandered on

it seemed even to double on its track, occasionally lingering long and

becoming indistinct under the shadow of madroño and willow; at one time

stopping blindly before a fallen tree in the hollow, where they had

quite lost it, and had to sit down to recall it; a rough way, often

requiring the mutual help of each other's hands and eyes to tread

together in security; an uncertain way, not to be found Without

whispered consultation and concession, and yet a way eventually

bringing them hand in hand, happy and hopeful, to the gate of Madroño

Cottage. And if there was only just time for Rosey to prepare to take

the boat, it was due to the deviousness of the way. If a stray curl was

lying loose on Rosey's cheek, and a long hair had caught in Renshaw's

button, it was owing to the roughness of the way; and if in the tones

of their voices and in the glances of their eyes there was a maturer

seriousness, it was due to the dim uncertainty of the path they had

traveled, and would hereafter tread together.

IX.

When Mr. Nott had satisfied himself of Renshaw's departure, he coolly

bolted the door at the head of the companion-way, thus cutting off any

communication with the lower deck. Taking a long rifle from the rack

above his berth, he carefully examined the hammer and cap, and then

cautiously let himself down through the forehatch to the deck below.

After a deliberate survey of the still intact fastenings of the hatch

over the forehold, he proceeded quietly to unloose them again with the

aid of the tools that still lay there. When the hatch was once more

free he lifted it, and, withdrawing a few feet from the opening, sat

himself down, rifle in hand. A profound silence reigned throughout the

lower deck.

"Ye kin rize up out o' that," said Nott gently.

There was a stealthy rustle below that seemed to approach the hatch,

and then with a sudden bound the Lascar leaped on the deck. But at the

same instant Nott covered him with his rifle. A slight shade of

disappointment and surprise had crossed the old man's face, and clouded

his small round eyes at the apparition of the Lascar, but his hand was

none the less firm upon the trigger as the frightened prisoner sank on

his knees, with his hands clasped in the attitude of supplication for

mercy.

"Ef you're thinkin' o' skippin' afore I've done with yer," said Nott

with labored gentleness, "I oughter warn ye that it's my style to drop

Injins at two hundred yards, and this deck ain't anywhere more 'n

fifty. It's an uncomfortable style, a nasty style--but it's _my_ style.

I thought I'd tell yer, so yer could take it easy where you air.

Where's Ferrers?"

Even in the man's insane terror, his utter bewilderment at the question

was evident. "Ferrers?" he gasped; "don't know him, I swear to God,

boss."

"P'r'aps," said Nott, with infinite cunning, "yer don't know the man ez

kem into the loft from the alley last night--p'r'aps yer didn't see an

airy Frenchman with a dyed mustache, eh? I thought that would fetch

ye!" he continued, as the man started at the evidence that his vision

of last night was a living man. "P'r'aps you and him didn't break into

this ship last night, jist to run off with my darter Rosey? P'r'aps yer

don't know Rosey, eh? P'r'aps yer don't know ez Ferrers wants to marry

her, and hez been hangin' round yer ever since he left--eh?"

Scarcely believing the evidence of his senses that the old man whose

treasure he had been trying to steal was utterly ignorant of his real

offense, and yet uncertain of the penalty of the other crime of which

he was accused, the Lascar writhed his body and stammered vaguely,

"Mercy! Mercy!"

"Well," said Nott, cautiously, "ez I reckon the hide of a dead Chinee

nigger ain't any more vallyble than that of a dead Injin, I don't care

ef I let up on yer--seein' the cussedness ain't yours. But ef I let yer

off this once, you must take a message to Ferrers from me."

"Let me off this time, boss, and I swear to God I will," said the

Lascar eagerly.

"Ye kin say to Ferrers--let me see"--deliberated Nott, leaning on his

rifle with cautious reflection. "Ye kin say to Ferrers like this--sez

you, 'Ferrers,' sez you, 'the old man sez that afore you went away you

sez to him, sez you, "I take my honor with me," sez you'--have you got

that?" interrupted Nott suddenly.

"Yes, boss."

"'I take my honor with me,' sez you," repeated Nott slowly. "'Now,' sez

you--'the old man sez, sez he--tell Ferrers, sez he, that his honor

havin' run away agin, he sends it back to him, and ef he ever ketches

it around after this, he'll shoot it on sight.' Hev yer got that?"

"Yes," stammered the bewildered captive.

"Then git!"

The Lascar sprang to his feet with the agility of a panther, leaped

through the hatch above him, and disappeared over the bow of the ship

with an unhesitating directness that showed that every avenue of escape

had been already contemplated by him. Slipping lightly from the

cutwater to the ground, he continued his flight, only stopping at the

private office of Mr. Sleight.

When Mr. Renshaw and Rosey Nott arrived on board the Pontiac that

evening, they were astonished to find the passage before the cabin

completely occupied with trunks and boxes, and the bulk of their

household goods apparently in the process of removal. Mr. Nott, who was

superintending the work of two Chinamen, betrayed not only no surprise

at the appearance of the young people, but not the remotest recognition

of their own bewilderment at his occupation.

"Kalkilatin'," he remarked casually to his daughter, "you'd rather look

arter your fixins, Rosey; I've left 'em till the last. P'r'aps yer and

Mr. Renshaw wouldn't mind sittin' down on that locker until I've

strapped this yer box."

"But what does it all mean, father?" said Rosey, taking the old man by

the lappels of his pea-jacket, and slightly emphasizing her question.

"What in the name of goodness are you doing?"

"Breakin' camp, Rosey dear, breakin' camp, jist ez we uster," replied

Nott with cheerful philosophy. "Kinder like ole times, ain't it? Lord,

Rosey," he continued, stopping and following up the reminiscence, with

the end of the rope in his hand as if it were a clue, "don't ye mind

that day we started outer Livermore Pass, and seed the hull o' the

Kaliforny coast stretchin' yonder--eh? But don't ye be skeered, Rosey

dear," he added quickly, as if in recognition of the alarm expressed in

her face. "I ain't turning ye outer house and home; I've jist hired

that 'ere Madroño Cottage from the Peters ontil we kin look round."

"But you're not leaving the ship, father," continued Rosey,

impetuously. "You haven't sold it to that man Sleight?"

Mr. Nott rose and carefully closed the cabin-door. Then drawing a large

wallet from his pocket, he said, "It's sing'lar ye should hev got the

name right the first pop, ain't it, Rosey? but it's Sleight, sure

enough, all the time. This yer check," he added, producing a paper from

the depths of the wallet, "this yer check for 25,000 dollars is wot he

paid for it only two hours ago."

"But," said Renshaw, springing to his feet furiously, "you're duped,

swindled--betrayed!"

"Young man," said Nott, throwing a certain dignity into his habitual

gesture of placing his hands on Renshaw's shoulders, "I bought this yer

ship five years ago jist ez she stood for 8,000 dollars. Kalkilatin'

wot she cost me in repairs and taxes, and wot she brought me in since

then, accordin' to my figgerin', I don't call a clear profit of 15,000

dollars much of a swindle."

"Tell him all," said Rosey, quickly, more alarmed at Renshaw's

despairing face than at the news itself. "Tell him everything,

Dick--Mr. Renshaw; it may not be too late."

In a voice half choked with passionate indignation Renshaw hurriedly

repeated the story of the hidden treasure, and the plot to rescue it,

prompted frequently by Rosey's tenacious memory and assisted by her

deft and tactful explanations. But to their surprise the imperturbable

countenance of Abner Nott never altered; a slight moisture of kindly

paternal tolerance of their extravagance glistened in his little eyes,

but nothing more.

"Ef there was a part o' this ship, a plank or a bolt, ez I don't know,

ez I hevn't touched with my own hand, and looked into with my own eyes,

thar might be suthin' in that story. I don't let on to be a sailor like

_you_, but ez I know the ship ez a boy knows his first boss, as a woman

knows her first babby, I reckon thar ain't no treasure yer, onless it

was brought into the Pontiac last night by them chaps."

"But are you mad? Sleight would not pay three times the value of the

ship to-day if he were not positive! And that positive knowledge was

gained last night by the villain who broke into the Pontiac--no doubt

the Lascar."

"Surely," said Nott, meditatively. "The Lascar! There's suthin' in

that. That Lascar I fastened down in the hold last night unbeknownst to

you, Mr. Renshaw, and let him out again this morning ekally

unbeknownst."

"And you let him carry his information to Sleight--without a word!"

said Renshaw, with a sickening sense of Nott's utter fatuity.

"I sent him back with a message to the man he kem from," said Nott,

winking both his eyes at Renshaw significantly, and making signs behind

his daughter's back.

Rosey, conscious of her lover's irritation, and more eager to soothe

his impatience than from any faith in her suggestion, interfered. "Why

not examine the place where he was concealed? he may have left some

traces of his search."

The two men looked at each other. "Seein' ez I've turned the Pontiac

over to Sleight jist as it stands, I don't know ez it's 'zactly on the

square," said Nott doubtfully.

"You've a right to know at least _what_ you deliver to him,"

interrupted Renshaw, brusquely. "Bring a lantern."

Followed by Rosey, Renshaw and Nott hurriedly sought the lower deck and

the open hatch of the forehold. The two men leaped down first with the

lantern, and then assisted Rosey to descend. Renshaw took a step

forward and uttered a cry.

The rays of the lantern fell on the ship's side. The Lascar had, during

his forced seclusion, put back the boxes of treasure and replaced the

planking, yet not so carefully but that the quick eye of Renshaw had

discovered it. The next moment he had stripped away the planking again,

and the hurriedly restored box which the Lascar had found fell to the

deck, scattering part of its ringing contents. Rosey turned pale;

Renshaw's eyes flashed fire; only Abner Nott remained quiet and

impassive.

"Are you satisfied you have been duped?" said Renshaw, passionately.

To their surprise Mr. Nott stooped down, and picking up one of the

coins handed it gravely to Renshaw. "Would ye mind heftin' that 'ere

coin in your hand--feelin' it, bitin' it, scrapin' it with a knife, and

kinder seem' how it compares with other coins?"

"What do you mean?" said Renshaw.

"I mean that that yer coin--that _all_ the coins in this yer box, that

all the coins in them other boxes--and thar's forty on 'em--is all and

every one of 'em counterfeits!"

The piece dropped unconsciously from Renshaw's hand, and striking

another that lay on the deck gave out a dull, suspicious ring.

"They waz counterfeits got up by them Dutch supercargo sharps for

dealin' with the Injins and cannibals and South Sea heathens ez bows

down to wood and stone. It satisfied them ez well ez them buttons ye

puts in missionary boxes, I reckon, and, 'cepting ez freight, don't

cost nothin'. I found 'em tucked in the ribs o' the old Pontiac when I

bought her, and I nailed 'em up in thar lest they should fall into

dishonest hands. It's a lucky thing, Mr. Renshaw, that they comes into

the honest fingers of a square man like Sleight--ain't it?"

He turned his small, guileless eyes upon Renshaw with such child-like

simplicity that it checked the hysterical laugh that was rising to the

young man's lips.

"But did any one know of this but yourself?"

"I reckon not. I once suspicioned that old Cap'en Bowers, who was

always foolin' round the hold yer, must hev noticed the bulge in the

casin', but when he took to axin' questions I axed others--ye know my

style, Rosey? Come."

He led the way grimly back to the cabin, the young people following;

but turning suddenly at the companion way he observed Renshaw's arm

around the waist of his daughter. He said nothing until they had

reached the cabin, when he closed the door softly, and looking at them

both gently, said with infinite cunning:

"Ef it is n't too late, Rosey, ye kin tell this young man ez how I

forgive him for havin' diskivered THE TREASURE of the Pontiac."

* * * * *

It was nearly eighteen months afterwards that Mr. Nott one morning

entered the room of his son-in-law at Mandroño Cottage. Drawing him

aside, he said with his old air of mystery, "Now ez Rosey's ailin' and

don't seem to be so eager to diskiver what's become of Mr. Ferrers, I

don't mind tellin' ye that over a year ago I heard he died suddenly in

Sacramento. Thar was suthin' in the paper about his bein' a lunatic and

claimin' to be a relation to somebody on the Pontiac; but likes ez not

it's only the way those newspaper fellows got hold of the story of his

wantin' to marry Rosey."