A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
As they were rowing back they scanned the sea in every direction, but
nowhere did they discover any signs of Robert or his raft.
“Perhaps,” suggested Herbert, breaking a long silence, “Bob is already
at home.”
He looked inquiringly in the face of his companion to see what he
thought of the chances.
“Mayhap he is,” said Ben Bence slowly, “but I mistrust he found it too
rough for the raft.”
“In that case----” said Herbert anxiously and stopped without answering
the question.
“In that case the poor boy’s at the bottom of the sea, it’s likely.”
“He could swim, Mr. Bence.”
“Yes, but the tide would be too strong for him. Just about now there’s a
fearful undertow. I couldn’t swim against it myself, let alone a boy.”
“If anything has happened to him it’s his uncle’s fault,” said Herbert.
“John Trafton will have to answer for it,” said the fisherman sternly.
“There ain’t one of us that don’t love Bob. He’s a downright good boy,
Bob Coverdale is, and a smart boy, too.”
“If he’s lost I will never have anything more to do with George
Randolph. I will ask mother to pack him back to Boston to-morrow.”
“George ain’t a mite like you,” said Ben Bence.
“I hope not,” returned Herbert hastily. “He’s one of the meanest boys I
ever met. He might just as well have taken poor Bob off the island this
afternoon, if he hadn’t been so spiteful and ugly.”
“It would serve him right to leave him there a while himself,” suggested
Bence.
“I agree with you.”
There was another pause. Each was troubled by anxious thoughts about the
missing boy.
When they reached the shore Herbert said:
“I’m going to Mr. Trafton’s to see if Bob has got home.”
“I’ll go with you,” said the fisherman briefly.
They reached the humble cabin of the Traftons and knocked at the door.
Mrs. Trafton opened it.
“Good evening, Mr. Bence,” she said. “I believe this young gentleman is
Master Herbert Irving? I have often heard Robert speak of him.”
“Is Robert at home?” asked Herbert eagerly.
“No, he has been away all day,” answered his aunt.
“Do you know where he is?” inquired Ben Bence soberly.
“Mr. Trafton wouldn’t tell me. He said he had sent him away on some
errand, but I don’t see where he could have gone, to stay so long.”
It was clear Mrs. Trafton knew nothing of the trick which had been
played upon her nephew.
“Tell her, Mr. Bence,” said Herbert, turning to his companion.
“Has anything happened to Robert?” asked Mrs. Trafton, turning pale.
They told her how her husband had conveyed Robert to Egg Island and then
treacherously left him there, to get off as he might.
“Was there any difficulty between Bob and his uncle?” asked Ben Bence.
“Yes; the boy had a little money which had been given him and my husband
ordered him to give it up to him. He’d have done it, if he hadn’t wanted
to spend it for me. He was always a considerate boy, and I don’t know
what I should have done without him. Mr. Bence, I know it’s a good deal
to ask, but I can’t bear to think of Robert staying on the island all
night. Would you mind rowing over and bringing him back?”
As yet Mrs. Trafton did not understand that any greater peril menaced
her nephew.
“Mrs. Trafton, we have just been over to Egg Island,” said the
fisherman.
“And didn’t you find him?”
“No; he was not there.”
“But how could he get off?”
“He was seen this afternoon making a raft from the old timbers he found
in the wreck. He must have put to sea on it.”
“Then why is he not here?”
“The sea was rough, and----”
Mrs. Trafton, who had been standing, sank into a chair with a startled
look.
“You don’t think my boy is lost?”
“I hate to think so, Mrs. Trafton, but it may be.”
From grief there was a quick transition to righteous indignation.
“If the poor boy is drowned, I charge John Trafton with his death!” said
the grief-stricken woman with an energy startling for one of her usually
calm temperament.
“What’s this about John Trafton?” demanded a rough voice.
It was John Trafton himself, who, unobserved, had reached the door of
the cabin.
Ben Bence and Herbert shrank from him with natural aversion.
“So you’re talking against me behind my back, are you?” asked Trafton,
looking from one to the other with a scowl.
His wife rose to her feet and turned upon him a glance such as he had
never met before.
“What have you done with Robert, John Trafton?” she demanded sternly.
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” he said, laughing shortly. “I’ve served him as
he deserved.”
“What have you done with him?” she continued in a slow, measured voice.
“You needn’t come any tragedy over me, old woman!” he answered with
annoyance. “I left him on Egg Island to punish him for disobeying me!”
“I charge you with his murder!” she continued, confronting him with a
courage quite new to her.
“Murder!” he repeated, starting. “Come, now, that’s a little too strong!
Leaving him on Egg Island isn’t murdering him. You talk like a fool!”
“Trafton,” said Ben Bence gravely, “there is reason to think that your
nephew put off from the island on a raft, which he made himself, and
that the raft went to pieces.”
For the first time John Trafton’s brown face lost its color.
“You don’t mean to say Bob’s drowned?” he ejaculated.
“There is reason to fear that he may be.”
“I’ll bet he’s on the island now.”
“We have just been there and he is not there.”
At length Trafton began to see that the situation was a grave one, and
he began to exculpate himself.
“If he was such a fool as to put to sea on a crazy raft it ain’t my
fault,” he said. “I couldn’t help it, could I?”
“If you hadn’t left him there he would still be alive and well.”
John Trafton pulled out his red cotton handkerchief from his pocket and
began to wipe his forehead, on which the beads of perspiration were
gathering.
“Of course I wouldn’t have left him there if I’d known what he would
do,” he muttered.
“Did you mean to leave him there all night?” asked Bence.
“Yes, I meant it as a lesson to him,” said the fisherman.
“A lesson to him? You are a fine man to give a lesson to him! You, who
spend all your earnings for drink and leave me to starve! John Trafton,
I charge you with the death of poor Robert!” exclaimed Mrs. Trafton with
startling emphasis.
Perhaps nothing more contributed to overwhelm John Trafton than the
wonderful change which had taken place in his usually gentle and
submissive wife. He returned her accusing glance with a look of
deprecation.
“Come now, Jane, be a little reasonable,” he said. “You’re very much
mistaken. It was only in fun I left him. I thought it would be a good
joke to leave him on the island all night. Say something for me,
Ben--there’s a good fellow.”
But Ben Bence was not disposed to waste any sympathy on John Trafton. He
was glad to see Trafton brought to judgment and felt like deepening his
sense of guilt rather than lightening it.
“Your wife is right,” he said gravely. “If poor Bob is dead, you are
guilty of his death in the sight of God.”
“But he isn’t dead! It’s all a false alarm. I’ll get my boat and row
over to the island myself. Very likely he had gone to sleep among the
bushes and that prevented your seeing him.”
There was a bare possibility of this, but Ben Bence had little faith in
it.
“Go, if you like,” he said. “If you find him, it will lift a great
weight from your conscience.”
John Trafton dashed to the shore, flung himself into his boat, and, with
feverish haste, began to row toward the island. He bitterly repented now
the act which had involved him in such grave responsibility.
He was perfectly sober, for his credit at the tavern was temporarily
exhausted.
Of course those who remained behind in the cabin had no hope of Robert
being found. They were forced to believe that the raft had gone to
pieces and the poor boy, in his efforts to reach the shore, had been
swept back into the ocean by the treacherous undertow and was now lying
stiff and stark at the bottom of the sea.
“What shall I ever do without Robert?” said Mrs. Trafton, her defiant
mood changing, at her husband’s departure, to an outburst of grief. “He
was all I had to live for.”
“You have your husband,” suggested Ben Bence doubtfully.
“My husband!” she repeated drearily. “You know how little company he is
for me and how little he does to make me comfortable and happy. I will
never forgive him for this day’s work.”
Ben Bence, who was a just man, ventured to represent that Trafton did
not foresee the result of his action; but, in the sharpness of her
bereavement, Mrs. Trafton would find no excuse for him.
Herbert, too, looked pale and distressed. He had a genuine attachment
for Robert, whose good qualities he was able to recognize and
appreciate, even if he was a fisherman’s nephew.
He, too, thought sorrowfully of his poor friend, snatched from life and
swept by the cruel and remorseless sea to an ocean grave. He, too, had
his object of resentment.
But for George Randolph, he reflected, Robert would now be alive and
well, and he resolved to visit George with his severest reproaches.
While all were plunged in a similar grief a strange thing happened.
The door of the cabin was closed by John Trafton as he went out.
Suddenly there was heard a scratching at the door, and a sound was heard
as of a dog trying to excite attention.
“It must be my dog Dash,” said Herbert. “I wonder how he found me out?”
He advanced to the door and opened it. Before him stood a dog, but it
was not Dash. It was a large black dog, with an expression of
intelligence almost human. He had in his mouth what appeared to be a
scrap of writing paper. This he dropped on the ground when he saw that
he had attracted Herbert’s attention.
“What does this mean?” thought Herbert in great surprise, “and where
does this dog come from?”
He stooped and picked up the paper, greatly to the dog’s apparent
satisfaction. It was folded in the middle and contained, written in
pencil, the following message, which, not being directed to any one in
particular, Herbert felt at liberty to read:
“Feel no anxiety about Robert Coverdale. He is safe!”
Herbert read the message, the dog uttered a quick bark of satisfaction,
and, turning, ran down the cliff to the beach.
Herbert was so excited and delighted at the news of his friend’s safety
that he gave no further attention to the strange messenger, but hurried
into the cabin.
“Mrs. Trafton--Mr. Bence!” he exclaimed, “Bob is safe!”
“What do you mean? What have you heard?” they asked quickly.
“Read this!” answered Herbert, giving Mrs. Trafton the scrap of paper.
“Who brought it?” she asked, bewildered.
“A dog.”
Ben Bence quickly asked:
“What do you mean?”
“I know nothing more than that a large black dog came to the door with
this in his mouth, which he dropped at my feet.”
“That is very strange,” said Bence.
He opened the door and looked out, but no dog was to be seen.
“Do you believe this? Can it be true?” asked Mrs. Trafton.
“I believe it is true, though I can’t explain it,” answered Ben. “Some
dogs are wonderfully trained. I don’t know whom this dog belongs to, but
whoever it is he doubtless has Robert under his care. Let us be thankful
that he has been saved.”
“But why don’t he come home?” asked Mrs. Trafton. “Where can he be?”
“He was probably rescued in an exhausted condition. Cheer up, Mrs.
Trafton. You will no doubt see your boy to-morrow.”
“I feel like giving three cheers, Mr. Bence,” said Herbert.
“Then give ’em, boy, and I’ll help you!” said old Ben.
The three cheers were given with a will, and Herbert went home, his
heart much lighter than it had been ten minutes before.