MR. JONES MAKES A CALL
When morning dawned a new face was put upon the matter. Steps were
discovered leading from the scene of the murder along the beach and up
the cliff. There were also discovered signs of a struggle in the cave,
and it became clear that there had been a conflict and that one of the
two concerned had escaped.
Of course it could not have been the hermit, for he was now in custody.
Moreover, a fisherman who had been out in his boat in the evening
remembered meeting the hermit rowing at about the time the murder must
have been committed.
These discoveries cleared the hermit, but the question arose:
“Who was this other man?” There was no difficulty in solving this
question. There were plenty who remembered the stranger who had spent a
part of the previous evening in the barroom of the tavern, and his
evident curiosity as to the wealth of the hermit was also remembered.
The real state of the case was now pretty well understood. This stranger
had suddenly resolved to rob the hermit and had secretly found his way
to the cavern.
But how did he happen to find the fisherman there and what was the
object of the latter?
Then it was remembered that Trafton also had seemed much interested in
the supposed hoards of the hermit, and, when his own want of money was
considered, it was suspected that he, too, went on an errand similar to
the burglar.
But he was dead, and his neighbors, who knew that he must have yielded
to the force of a sudden and new temptation, did not care to speculate
upon his object.
They were disposed to spare their old neighbor and charitably drop a
veil over his attempted crime, which had brought upon him such fearful
retribution.
Of course the hermit was released from custody, and there was not a
person in the village who did not acquit him of all wrong except Mrs.
Scott, who could not forgive him for proving her suspicions groundless.
“You may say what you will,” she said perversely, “I know the man’s a
burglar, or a murderer, or something else bad.”
“He couldn’t have murdered John Trafton, for we traced the murderer’s
steps on the beach. There is no doubt it was that stranger we saw in the
barroom.”
So said her husband.
“I don’t care whether he murdered John Trafton or not,” said Mrs. Scott.
“I’m sure he’s murdered somebody, and I’m ready to take my Bible oath of
it.”
“What makes you so prejudiced against the poor man? He hasn’t done you
any harm, Mrs. Scott.”
“I don’t like the airs he puts on. He looks at you jest as if you were
dust beneath his feet. What right has he to look down upon honest
people, I want to know?”
But Mrs. Scott did not succeed in creating a prejudice against the
hermit, whose courageous and dignified bearing had impressed all who
observed his manner in this trying crisis.
When the funeral was over the hermit called in the evening upon the
widow of John Trafton. It was the first he had ever made upon any of his
neighbors and it excited surprise.
Robert brought forward the rocking-chair and invited the visitor
cordially to sit down.
“Mrs. Trafton,” said the hermit, “I want to thank you and Robert for the
confidence you showed in me at a time when all others suspected me of a
terrible deed. You were the ones most affected, yet you acquitted me in
your hearts.”
“Just for a moment I suspected you when I saw you standing by the dead
body of my uncle,” said Robert, “but it was only for a moment.”
“I respect you for your fearless candor, my boy. You were justified in
your momentary suspicion.”
“I am ashamed of it. You had been such a kind friend.”
“It was only natural. And now, my friends, what are your plans? How will
you be able to maintain yourselves?”
“I don’t think it will make much difference,” began Robert
hesitatingly.
“My husband did very little for our support,” said Mrs. Trafton. “Not
more, certainly, than his own food amounted to. You know, sir, I think
Robert must have told you the unfortunate habits of my poor husband. He
was enslaved by drink, and he spent nearly all he earned in the
barroom.”
“Yes, I knew what your husband’s habits were,” said the hermit gently.
“It is a great pity he could not have lived to change them.”
“I am afraid he never would,” said the widow.
“They had grown upon him from year to year, and he seemed to get weaker
and weaker in purpose.”
“I had a brother who was equally unfortunate,” said the hermit. “There
are few families who are wholly free from the evils of intemperance. But
have you formed any plans?”
“I suppose we can get along as we have,” answered Mrs. Trafton. “With
what you kindly pay Robert, and what he can pick up elsewhere, and the
sewing I do, I think we can get along.”
“Do you own this cottage?” inquired the hermit.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you will have no rent to pay.”
“No, I don’t know how we could do that.”
The hermit looked thoughtful.
“I will see you again,” he said as he rose to go.
On the whole, Mrs. Trafton and Robert were likely to get along as well
as before John Trafton’s death. Robert could use his uncle’s boat for
fishing, selling what they did not require, while regularly every week
two dollars came in from the hermit.
It was a great source of relief that no rent must be paid. The
fisherman’s cabin and lot originally cost about five hundred dollars and
the household furniture was of little value. The taxes were small and
could easily be met. So there seemed nothing to prevent their living on
in the same way as before.
Some time Robert hoped and expected to leave Cook’s Harbor. He was a
smart, enterprising, ambitious boy, and he felt that he would like a
more stirring life in a larger place.
He was not ashamed of the fisherman’s business, but he felt qualified
for something better. It did not escape his notice that most of his
neighbors were illiterate men, who had scarcely a thought beyond the
success of their fishing trips, and he had already entered so far into
the domain of study and books as to feel the charm of another world--the
great world of knowledge--which lay spread out before him and beckoned
him onward. But he was not impatient.
“My duty at present,” he reflected, “Is to stay in Cook’s Harbor and
take care of my aunt. I am young and strong, and I don’t mean that she
shall want for any comforts which I can get for her.”
He soon learned, however, that there was one great mistake in his
calculations.
Robert was sitting by the door reading, after his return from a fishing
trip, about a week after his uncle’s funeral, when he heard the steps of
some one approaching.
Looking up, he saw advancing toward their humble residence the stout,
ponderous figure of Nahum Jones, the landlord of the village inn.
It was not often that Mr. Jones found his way to the beach. Usually he
kept close to the tavern, unless he rode to some neighboring town.
Therefore Robert was surprised to see him.
Nahum Jones nodded slightly, and, taking off his straw hat, wiped the
perspiration from his forehead.
“Here, you, Bob,” he said, “Is your aunt at home?”
“Yes, sir!” answered Robert, but not cordially, for he felt that Mr.
Jones had been no friend of his uncle.
“Well, tell her I’ve come to have a talk with her, do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear,” answered the boy coolly.
He rose from his chair and entered the house.
“Aunt Jane,” he said, “here is Mr. Jones come to see you.”
“What? The tavern keeper?” asked his aunt in great surprise.
“Yes, aunt.”
“What can that man want of me?”
The question was answered, not by Robert but by Nahum Jones himself.
“I want to have a little talk with you, ma’am,” said the burly landlord,
entering without an invitation and seating himself unceremoniously.
“I will listen to what you have to say, Mr. Jones,” said the widow, “but
I will not pretend that I am glad to see you. You were an enemy to my
poor husband.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Trafton. Did he ever tell you that I
was his enemy?”
“No, but it was you who sold him liquor and took the money which he
should have spent on his own family.”
“All nonsense, ma’am. You women are the most unreasonable creatures. I
didn’t ask him to drink.”
“You tempted him to do it.”
“I deny it!” said the landlord warmly. “I couldn’t refuse to sell him
what he asked for, could I? You must be a fool to talk so!” said the
landlord roughly.
“I’ll trouble you to speak respectfully to my aunt, Mr. Jones,” said
Robert with flashing eyes.
“Mind your own business, you young rascal!” said Nahum Jones, whose
temper was not of the best.
“I mean to,” retorted Robert. “My business is to protect my aunt from
being insulted.”
“Wait till you’re a little bigger, boy,” said Jones with a sneer.
Robert involuntarily doubled up his fist and answered:
“I mean to protect her now.”
“Mrs. Trafton,” said Nahum Jones, highly irritated, “you’d better
silence that young cub or I may kick him out of doors!”
“You appear to forget that you are not in your own house, Nahum Jones,”
said the widow with dignity. “My nephew has acted perfectly right and
only spoke as he should.”
“So you sustain him in his impudence, do you?” snarled Jones, showing
his teeth.
“If that is all you have come to say to me, Mr. Jones, you may as well
go.”
“By George, ma’am, you are mighty independent!”
“I am not dependent on the man who ruined my poor husband.”
“No, but you’re dependent on me!” exclaimed the landlord, pounding the
floor forcibly with his cane.
“Will you explain yourself, sir?”
“I will,” said Mr. Jones emphatically. “You talk about my not being in
my own house, but it’s just possible you are mistaken.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Trafton, startled.
“I mean this, that I hold a mortgage on this house for two hundred
dollars, and that’s as much as it will fetch at auction. What do you say
to that?”
Robert looked and felt as much troubled as his aunt. On his young
shoulders fell this new burden, and he was at an utter loss what could
be done.
“I thought I’d shut you up, you young cub!” said the landlord, glancing
maliciously at Robert.
“You haven’t shut me up!” retorted Robert with spirit.
“What have you got to say, hey?”
“That you ought to be ashamed to take all my uncle’s earnings and then
steal his home. That’s what I’ve got to say!”
“I’ve a great mind to give you a caning,” said Mr. Jones in a rage.
“You’d better not!” said Robert.
He was as tall as the landlord, and though not as strong, considerably
more active, and he did not feel in the least frightened.
Nahum Jones was of a choleric disposition, and his face was purple with
rage, but he hadn’t yet said all he intended.
“I give you warning, Mrs. Trafton,” he said, shaking his cane at our
hero, “that I’m going to foreclose this mortgage and turn you into the
street. You’ve got yourself to thank, you and this young rascal. I came
here thinking I’d be easy with you, but I don’t mean to stand your
insulting talk. I’ll give you four weeks to raise the money, and if you
don’t do it, out you go, bag and baggage. Perhaps when you’re in the
poorhouse you may be sorry you didn’t treat me better.”
“Oh, Robert, what shall we do?” asked the poor woman, her courage
failing as she reflected on the possibility that the landlord’s
prediction might be fulfilled.
“Don’t be alarmed, Aunt Jane; I’ll take care of you,” said Robert more
cheerfully than he felt.
“Oh, you will, will you?” sneered Mr. Jones. “Anybody’d think to hear
you that you were worth a pile of money. If your aunt depends on you to
keep her out of the poorhouse, I would not give much for her chance.”
“You won’t have the satisfaction of seeing either of us there,” said
Robert defiantly.
“You needn’t expect my wife to give you any more sewing,” said Mr.
Jones, scowling at the widow.
“I don’t think my aunt wants any, considering she hasn’t been paid for
the last work she did,” said Robert.
“What do you mean by that? I credited your uncle with twenty-five cents
on his score.”
“Without my aunt’s consent.”
Mr. Jones was so incensed at the defiant mien of the boy that he rocked
violently to and fro--so violently that the chair, whose rockers were
short, tipped over backward and the wrathful landlord rolled
ignominiously on the floor.
“Here’s you hat, Mr. Jones,” said Robert, smiling in spite of himself as
he picked it up and restored it to the mortified visitor.
“You’ll hear from me!” roared the landlord furiously, aiming a blow at
Robert and leaving the room precipitately. “You’ll repent this day, see
if you don’t!”
After he had left the room Robert and his aunt looked at each other
gravely. They had made an enemy out of a man who could turn them out of
doors.
The future looked far from bright.