FAMILY MATTERS.
"Well," said Mr. Bill Hen, "I only want to put it to you, you
understand. Intelligent man like you, no need for me to do more than put
it to you. There's the child, and there's the old man, and they 'pear to
have got separated. I don't want to be understood as implying anything,
not anything in the living world; but there's where it is, you see. And
me being a justice of the peace, and sworn, you observe, to--well, I'm
sure you will see for yourself the position I'm placed in. Point is, you
seemed consid'able interested in the child, as one may say. Nothing
strange in that,--nice little boy! would interest an Injin chief, if he
had any human feelin' in him. But _bein'_ a justice of the peace, you
see,--well, Mr. Scraper has sent me to make inquiries, and no offence in
the world, I trust--no _insult_, you understand, if I jest--well, all
about it--do you know where in thunder the child is?"
Mr. Bill Hen, standing on the bank, delivered himself of these remarks
with infinite confusion, perspiring freely, and wiping his face with a
duster, which he had brought by mistake instead of a handkerchief. He
looked piteously at the Skipper, who stood leaning over the side,
cheerfully inscrutable, clad in spotless white, and smoking a long
cigar.
"The child?" the Skipper repeated, thoughtfully. "You allude to the boy
called John, Señor Pike; yes, I had that suppose. Now, sir, the day
before this, you tell me that this child is not well placed by that old
gentleman Scraper; that the old man is cruel, is base, is a
skin-the-flint, shortly. You tell me this, and I make reply to you that
there are powers more high than this old person, who have of that child
charge. How, if those powers had delivered to me the child? how then, I
ask you, Señor Pike?"
Mr. Bill Hen wiped his brow again and gasped feebly. "'Tis as I
thought!" he said. "You've got the child aboard."
The Skipper nodded, and blew rings from his cigar. "I have the child,"
he repeated, "aboard. What will you in this case do, Señor? I propose to
take him with me away, to make of him a sailor, to care for him as my
son. You think well of this; you have been kind to the child always, as
he tell me? You are glad to have him remove from the slavery of this old
fish, yes?" He smiled, and bent his dark eyes on his unhappy visitor.
Mr. Bill Hen writhed upon the hook. "There--there's truth in what you
say," he admitted, at length, after seeking counsel in vain from his red
bandanna. "There's truth in what you say, I aint denyin' that. But what
I look at, you see, is my duty. You may have your idees of duty, and I
may have mine; and I'm a justice of the peace, and I don't see anything
for it but to ask you to give up that child to his lawful guardeen, as
has sent me for him."
A pause ensued, during which Franci sauntered to the side with easy
grace. "Shall I put a knife into him, Patron?" he asked, indicating Mr.
Bill Hen with a careless nod. "How well he would stick, eh? The fatness
of his person! It is but to say the word, Patron."
Mr. Bill Hen recoiled with a look of horror, and prepared for instant
flight; but the Skipper's gesture reassured him. "Franci, look if there
is a whale on the larboard bow!" said the latter.
"Perfectly, Patron!" replied Franci, withdrawing with his most courtly
bow. "When I say that no one will be killed at all in this cursed place,
and I shall break my heart! but as you will."
Again there was a pause, while Mr. Bill Hen wondered if this were a
floating lunatic asylum or a nest of pirates, that had come so easily up
their quiet river and turned the world topsy-turvy. At length--"Your
force, Señor Pike," the Skipper said, "I perceive it not, for to take
away this child. Have you the milizia--what you call soldiers,
police--have you them summoned and concealed behind the rocks, as in the
theatres of Havana? I see no one but your one self. Surely you have no
thought to take the child of your own force from me?"
Mr. Bill Hen gasped again. "Look here!" he broke out at last. "What kind
of man are you, anyway? you aint no kind that we're used to in these
parts, so now I tell you! When a man hears what is law in this part of
the world, he gives in, as is right and proper, to that law and
that--and--and in short to them sentiments. Are you going to stand out
against the law, and keep that child? and who give you a right to do for
that child? I suppose I can ask that question, if you are a grandee, or
whatever you are. Who give you a right, I ask?"
"Who shall say?" replied the Skipper. "Perhaps--" He said no more, but
raised his hand with a gesture that was solemn enough; and Mr. Bill Hen
Pike decided that he was beyond doubt a madman. But now the Skipper
dropped his tone and attitude of smiling ease, and, throwing away his
cigar, stood upright. "Enough, Señor!" he said. "You are a good man, but
you have not the courage. Now, you shall see Colorado." He turned toward
the cabin and called: "Colorado, my son, come to me!" Then, after a
pause, "He sleeps yet. Rento, bring to me the child!" Rento, who had
been hovering near, lending a careful ear to all that was said, now
vanished, and reappeared, bearing the boy John in his arms. The child
was but newly awake, and was still rubbing his eyes and looking about
him in bewilderment.
"Colorado, the Señor Pike, already well known to you!" said the Skipper,
with a graceful wave of the hand. "Your guardian, the old gentleman
Scraper, desires of our company at breakfast. How then, son of mine?
Shall we go, or shall I keep you here, and bid Sir Scraper find his way
to the devil, which will be for him little difficult?" He smiled on the
boy, and took his hand with a caressing gesture.
Little John heaved a great sigh, and the cares of the world floated
from him like a summer cloud. "Oh, I knew it!" he cried, smiling
joyously up into his friend's face. "I knew it all the time, or almost
all! You never meant anything but fun, did you? and we will go back,
won't we? And we shall feel all right inside, and things will not
sit--I--I mean nothing will feel bad any more. I--I can't say all I
mean," he added, rather lamely, "because I had thoughts in the night;
but we will go now, you and I, you and I!"
* * * * *
As they approached the gate, John stopped a moment, and looked up at his
companion. "Would you mind holding my hand?" he asked. "I am all right
in my mind, but I think I am rather queer in my legs; I think I should
feel better if I held the hand of--of somebody who wasn't little, or--or
weak."
Oh, the strong, cordial pressure of the big, brown hand! how it sent
warmth and cheer and courage through the little quivering frame! John
was all right in his mind, as he said, but his body felt already the
stinging blows of the cane, his ears rang already with the burning words
of rage and spite.
"But it is the inside that matters!" said John, aloud; and he shut his
eyes and went into the house.
"Good-morning, gentleman," the Skipper began, always at his courteous
ease.
"I have to ask your forgiveness, that I carry off yesterday our young
friend here. You were not at house, I desired greatly of his company; I
have the ways of the sea, waiting not too long for the things I like;
briefly, I take him away. That I bear the blame of this is my desire.
And now, shall we pleasantly converse, ha?"
He seated himself, drew the boy between his knees, and looked Mr.
Scraper squarely in the eyes. Now, Mr. Scraper did not like to be looked
at in this manner; he shifted on his chair, and his mouth, which had
been opened to pour out a flood of angry speech, closed with a spiteful
snap, and then opened, and then closed again.
The Skipper observed these fish-like snappings with grave attention. At
length,--
"Who are you, I should like to know?" the old man cried in an angry
twitter.
"Why in--why do you come meddling here, and carrying off boys from their
lawful guardeens, and talking folderol, and raising Ned generally? I've
seen skippers before, but I never heered of no such actions as these,
never in my days! Why, no one here so much as knows your name; and here
you seem to own the hull village, all of a sudden. You, John," he added,
with a savage snarl, "you go about your business, and I'll see to you
afterwards. I reckon you won't go out again without leave for one
while!"
The child started obediently, but the strong hand held him fast.
"Quiet, Colorado," said the Skipper. "Quiet, my son! Time enough for the
work, plenty time! I desire you here now, see you." Then he turned once
more to the old man.
"You have, I already say, a beautiful name, Sir Scraper," he said with
cheerful interest. "Endymion! a fine name, truly--of poetry, of
moonlight and beauty; you have had great joy of that name, I cannot
doubt?"
"What's my name to you, I should like to know?" retorted Mr. Scraper,
with acrimony. "This aint the first time you've took up my name, and
I'll thank you to leave it alone! You let go that boy, or I'll let you
know more 'n you knew before."
"Perfectly!" said the Skipper. "Attend but a moment, dear sir. Let us
pursue for a moment thoughts of poetry! Such a name as Endymion proves a
poetic fancy in the giver of it; at a guess, this was your lady mother,
now probably with the saints, and if others so fortunate as to belong to
your family, surely this excellent lady would have given to them, also,
names of soul, of poetry! If there was a sister, for example, would she
be named Susan? No! Jane? Never! Find me then a name! Come! at a
venture. Zenobia? Aha! what say you?"
He leaned forward, and his glance was like the flash of a sword. The
child looked in wonder from one to the other; for the old man had sunk
back in his chair, and his jaw had fallen open in an ugly way, and
altogether he was a sad object to look at.
"What--what d'ye mean?" he gasped, after a moment. But the Skipper went
on, speaking lightly and cheerfully, as if talking of the weather.
"What pleasure to bring before the mind a picture of a family so
charming! Of you, dear sir, in your gracious childhood, how endearing
the image! how tenderly guarded, how fondly cherished here by your side
the little sister? Ah! the smiling picture, making glad the heart! This
sister, Zenobia, let us say, grows up, after what happy childhood with
such a brother needs for me not to say. They are three, these
children,--how must they love each other! But one brother goes early
away from the home! In time comes for Zenobia, as to young maidens will
come, a suitor, a foreigner, shall we say? a man, like myself, of the
sea? May it not have been possible, dear sir?"
"A roving nobody!" the old man muttered, striving to pull himself
together. "A rascally"--but here he stopped abruptly, for a stern hand
was laid on his arm.
"I am speaking at this present, sir!" said the Skipper. "Of this man I
do not ask you the character. I tell my story, if you please, in my own
way.
"The mother, by this time, is dead. The father, unwilling to part with
his daughter,--alas! the parental heart, how must it be torn? As yours,
the tender one, last night, on missing this beloved child, Sir Scraper.
The father, I say, opposes the marriage; at length only, and after many
tears, much sorrow, some anger, consents; the daughter, sister, Zenobia,
goes with her husband away, promising quickly to return, to take her old
father to her home in the southern islands. Ah, the interesting tale, is
it not? Observe, Colorado, my son, how I am able to move this, your dear
guardian. The pleasant thing, to move the mind of age, so often
indifferent.
"Zenobia goes away, and the son, the good son, the one faithful and
devoted, who will not marry, so great his love for his parent, is left
with that parent alone. How happy can we fancy that parent, is it not?
How gay for him the days, how sweet for him the nights, lighted with
love, and smoothed his pillow by loving hands,--ah, the pleasant
picture! But how, my friend, you feel yourself not well? Colorado, a
glass of water for your guardian."
The old man motioned the child back, his little eyes gleaming with rage
and fear.
"You--you come a-nigh me, you brat, and I'll wring your neck!" he
gasped. "Well, Mister, have you finished your--your story, as you call
it? Why do I want to listen to your pack of lies, I should like to know?
I wonder I've had patience to let you go on so long."
"Why do you want to listen?" the Skipper repeated. "My faith, do I know?
But the appearance of interest in your face so venerable, it touch me to
the heart. Shall I go and tell the rest of my story to him there, that
other, the justice of the peace? But no, it would break your heart to
hear not the end. That we proceed then, though not so cheerful the
ending of my story. Zenobia, in her southern home, happy, with her child
at her knee, feels still in her heart the desire to see once more her
father, to bring him to her, here in the warm south to end his days of
age. She writes, but no answer comes; again she writes, and again, grief
in her soul, to think that anger is between her and one so dear. At
last, after a long time, a letter from her brother, the stay-at-home,
the faithful one; their father is dead; is dead,--without speaking of
her; the property is to him left, the faithful son. It is finished, it
is concluded, the earth is shut down over the old man, and no more is to
say.
"With what tender, what loving words this cruel news tells itself, needs
not to repeat to a person so of feeling as yourself, Sir Scraper.
Zenobia, sad woman, believes what she is told; bows her head, gathers to
her closer her husband and her son, and waits the good time when God
shall make to her good old father the clear knowledge that she has
always loved him. Ah, yes, my faith!
"Now, in a year, two years, I know not, what arrives? A letter, old and
worn; a letter soiled, discoloured, of carrying long in a sailor's
pocket, but still easily to be read. This letter--shall we guess, Sir
Scraper? Well, then, from her father! The old man in secret, in fear,
lying on his bed of death, makes come by stealth a neighbour, kindly
disposed to him; makes write by his hand this letter; makes draw up
besides, it may be, other papers, what do we know?
"Ah! but remain quiet, dear sir. Grieved that I do not interest you, I
must still pray of your presence, that you do not yet withdraw it.
Ancient fish-skin, do I tie thee in thy chair?
"So! that is well, and you will remain quiet, Señor, with a thousand
pardons!
"This letter, then, it is one to wring the heart. He has longed for his
daughter, this poor old man; in two grasping hands held as in a vise, he
turns to her who was always kind, he prays her to return, to let him
come to her, what she will. Failing this, and knowing that on earth the
time is short for him to remain, he bids her not grieve, but send to her
home a messenger of trust, and let him look for a certain paper, in a
certain place. Finally, he prays for her the blessing of God, this good
old man, and bids her farewell, if he may never see her more. Truly, a
letter over which a pirate, even a Malay pirate, Colorado of my heart,
might shed tears."
The Skipper's voice was still quiet, but its deep tones were stern with
suppressed feeling; with menace, was it? The child, bewildered, looked
from one to the other of his two companions. The Spaniard's eyes burned
red in their depths, his glance seemed to pierce marrow and sinew; he
sat leaning lightly forward in his chair, alert, possessing himself,
ready for any sudden movement on the part of his adversary; for the old
man must be his adversary; something deadly must lie between these two.
Mr. Scraper lay back in his chair like one half dead, yet the rage and
spite and hatred, the baffled wonder, the incredulity struggling with
what was being forced upon him, made lively play in his sunken face. His
lean hands clutched the arms of the chair as if they would rend the
wood; his frame shook with a palsy. Little John wondered what could ail
his guardian; yet his own heart was stirred to its depths by what he had
heard.
"The son was bad!" he cried. "He was a bad man! Things must have sat
upon his breast _all_ night, and I am sure he could not sleep at all.
Are you sorry for a person who is as bad as that? do you think any one
tried to help him to be better?"
But the Skipper raised his finger, and pointed to the evil face of the
old man.
"Does that man look as if he slept, my son?" he asked.
"Listen always, and you shall hear the last of the story."
"It's a lie!" Mr. Scraper screamed at last, recovering the power of
speech.
"It's a lie that you've cooked up from what you have heard from the
neighbours. May their tongues rot out! And if it were true as the sun,
what is it to you? She's dead, I tell you! She's been dead these twenty
years! I had the papers telling of her death; I've got 'em now, you
fool."
"Quiet then, my uncle!" said the Skipper, bending forward, and laying
his hand on the old man's knee.
"She is dead, she died in these arms. I am her son, do you see?"
But if Mr. Scraper saw, it was only for a moment, for he gave a scream,
and fell together sideways in his chair, struck with a fit.