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