HARTLEY BRANDON.
When the squire was left alone, he began rather ruefully to think over
the unexpected turn which affairs had taken. If he had disliked Harry
before, he hated him now. He felt that the sturdy determination of our
young hero was likely to place him in a very unpleasant dilemma. If he
should not collect the insurance money, the house would be a total loss,
and this would be very provoking. If he should collect it, he had every
reason to believe that Harry would keep his word; and, as he was a boy of
truth, many would no doubt believe him, and the insurance company would
be sure to stir in the matter. There was another consideration. If he
guiltily let the matter pass, and failed to make his claim, or recalled
it,—for it was already made,—it would excite a great deal of surprise,
and perhaps suspicion, and thus again he would be disagreeably situated.
There seemed to be only a choice of difficulties, as the squire
realized. He fervently wished now that he had never burnt the house down.
But it was done and could not be undone.
“I wish the young rascal was out of the way,” he muttered to himself.
He wished it the more because Harry stood in the way of another plan
which he had in view, namely, marrying Mrs. Raymond, in case the Western
property proved as valuable as he anticipated. He had an instinctive
feeling that our hero would not fancy him for a step-father, and would
exert all his influence over his mother to prevent her accepting him,
even if she might otherwise be willing.
“Plague take the young whelp!” muttered the squire. “I wish he was in
Nova Zembla, or somewhere else, where he would never come back.”
His uncomfortable reflections were here broken in upon by the entrance of
the servant.
“There’s a man at the door wants to see you, Squire Turner.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s a stranger.”
“Well, tell him to come in.”
The invitation was duly given, and directly there entered a tall man,
very seedy in his appearance, with a repulsive aspect, who looked as
if the world and he had not been on good terms for some time. He was
probably about the same age as Squire Turner,—that is, fifty,—but looked
still older, probably in consequence of the life he had led.
Squire Turner looked at the intruder in surprise.
“How do you do, Squire Turner?” said the stranger, familiarly.
“You have the advantage of me,” said the squire, coldly.
“Yet you used to know me well,” was the reply, as the visitor sat down
uninvited.
“I don’t know you now. Who are you?” demanded Squire Turner, who didn’t
feel it necessary to use much ceremony with a man so evidently under the
frowns of fortune.
“I am your cousin, Hartley Brandon.”
Squire Turner started.
“Hartley Brandon!” he repeated, in amazement. “I thought you were dead
years ago.”
“And wished it, no doubt,” said the other, with a laugh. “Confess now you
are not very glad to see me.”
“I am not very glad to see you, as you are sharp enough to guess,” said
the squire, with a sneer. “You are not a relative to be proud of.”
“True enough,” said the other. “I see you are not afraid of hurting my
feelings. However, I’ve had so many hard rubs that my feelings have got
worn off, if I ever had any.”
“What is your object in coming down here, for I suppose you have an
object?”
“Suppose I say that it is for the sake of seeing about the only relative
I have in the world. There’s something in that, you know.”
“Not in this case. We may be cousins, but we are not friends, and never
will be.”
“Come, that’s frank,—true, too, I dare say,” said Hartley Brandon, who
didn’t appear by any means disturbed at the coldness of the squire.
“Well, as you say, it wasn’t that. Blood’s thicker than water, they
say, but there are plenty of people I like better than you, who are my
cousin.”
“That is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” said the squire,
coldly. “I don’t want to know what your object is not, but what it is.”
“I am rather seedy, as you see.”
“So it appears.”
“This shabby suit, with half a dollar, constitutes all my worldly
possessions.”
“Supposing it to be so, what is that to me?”
“Can’t you help me a little?”
The squire’s mouth tightened, as it always did when there was an attack
on his purse-strings. He seldom gave away money, unless he thought it
would help him in some way, and he felt even more than usually unwilling
to do so at a time when, owing to Harry’s obduracy, he was threatened
with a serious loss. No poorer time could have been selected by his
cousin for his application than this.
“I can do nothing for you,” he said, coldly.
“I don’t mean you to give me money,” said Brandon. “I only want an
advance of thirty or forty dollars, which I will faithfully repay you
with interest.”
Squire Turner laughed scornfully.
“What security can you offer?” he asked.
“None at all, except my word.”
“That isn’t satisfactory.”
“I thought you’d say so; but listen, and I will tell you how the matter
stands. First, I suppose you would like to know how I have been employed
for the last twenty odd years.”
“You may tell or not, just as you like. I feel no particular interest in
the matter.”
“I have followed the sea,—I see you are surprised; but this is the way
it happened. Twenty-five years since, I found myself high and dry in New
York, with no resources, and nobody to look to for help. In my distress
I fell in with a sailor, who treated me kindly, and proposed to me to
adopt his profession. It was not particularly to my taste, and I knew
it was rather late in life to begin; but I had no other resource, and I
allowed myself to be persuaded. I had a hard time of it at first, as you
may suppose, but after a while I became acquainted with my duties, and
turned out a very fair sailor. Being possessed of a better education than
belongs to the generality of seamen, I found myself able to rise. On the
second voyage, I shipped third mate. Then I rose to second mate; finally
to first mate. I might have become captain if I had been a little more
steady, but a fondness for drink stood in the way of my advancement.”
“So you have been a sailor for twenty-five years.”
“Yes.”
“It was no doubt the best thing you could do. You don’t think of giving
it up?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t see what I can do for you.”
“I’ve a chance to sail as mate next week in the ship Sea Eagle bound for
China.”
“Why don’t you go, then?”
“Because there’s a trifle in the way. I owe twenty-five dollars in New
York, and if I don’t pay it up square the party’ll put a spoke in my
wheel, and prevent my getting the situation.”
“So you want me to advance you the necessary money?”
“Yes, I’ll pay you back at the end of the voyage.”
“Do you know the captain under whom you are to sail?” asked the squire,
thoughtfully.
“Yes, a little.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“Oh, an average sort of a man,—rather a Tartar, so I hear from some who
have sailed under him. He likes his ease, and leaves the vessel pretty
much in the hands of his first officer.”
A train of reflection had been started in the squire’s mind by the
communication of his kinsman. He wanted to be rid of Harry Raymond. Why
could he not arrange with Hartley Brandon to smuggle him off to sea,
where he would be out of the way of interfering with his plans? It might
be difficult to manage, but no doubt some way would suggest itself. As
for Brandon, there was no fear of his refusing. He was not troubled with
scruples, and a small sum of money would buy his co-operation.
Then, again, the sea was a treacherous element. Accidents were frequent.
Should Harry once embark on its smooth but fickle expanse, he might never
come back again, or, if he did, it might be to find him, the squire, his
mother’s second husband, and the relationship would seal his lips from
disclosing the secret of which he had become possessed.
All these thoughts passed through the squire’s mind much more quickly
than I have been able to state them. The plan which has been briefly
sketched seemed the only way out of the labyrinth in which he had become
involved, and he resolved to make a trial of it.
“Well, will you help me?” asked Brandon, growing impatient of his
kinsman’s silence.
“I will,” answered the squire, “upon conditions.”
“Name them,” said Brandon, brightening up.