“The sea’s no place for a lad that has a comfortable home,” he used to reply, in his slow, thoughtful way. “Keep to your studies, Sam, my boy, and you’ll be a bigger man some day than any seaman of us all.”
The Captain’s brief visits home were the only bright spots in my existence, and because I had no one else to love I lavished upon my one parent all the affection of which I was capable. Therefore my present sudden bereavement was so colossal and far reaching in its effects upon my young life that it is no wonder the news staggered me and curiously dulled my senses.
Almost as if in a dream I heard Mrs. Ranck’s fierce questions and the sailor’s reluctant answers. And when he had told everything that he knew about the matter he got upon his feet and took my hands gently in both his big, calloused ones.
“I’m right sorry, lad, as ye’ve had this blow,” he muttered, feelingly. “The Cap’n were a good man an’ a kind master, an’ many’s a time I’ve heard him tell of his boy Sam. I s’pose he’s left ye provided with plenty o’ this world’s goods, for he were a thrifty man and mostly in luck. But if ye ever run aground, lad, or find ye need a friend to cast a bowline, don’t ye forget that Ned Britton’ll stand by ye through thick an’ thin!”
With this he wrung my hands until I winced under the pressure, and then he nodded briefly to Mrs. Ranck and hurried from the room.
The twilight had faded during the interview, and the housekeeper had lit a tallow candle. As Ned Britton’s footsteps died away the woman bent forward to snuff the wick, and I noted a grim and determined look upon her features that was new to them. But her hands trembled somewhat, in spite of her assumed calmness, and the fact gave me a certain satisfaction. Her loss could not be compared with mine, but the Captain’s death was sure to bring about a change in her fortunes, as well as my own.
She resumed her regular rocking back and forth, riveting her eyes the while upon my face. I did not sit, but leaned against the table, trying hard to think. And thus for a long time we regarded each other in silence.
Finally she cried out, sharply:
“Well, what are you a–goin’ to do now?”
“In what way?” I asked, drearily.
“In every way. How are you goin’ to live, fer one thing?”
“Why, much the same as I am doing now, I suppose,” said I, trying to rouse myself to attend to what she was saying. “Father owned this house, which is now mine; and I’m sure there is considerable property besides, although the ship is lost.”
“Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Mrs. Ranck, scornfully.
I wondered what she meant by that, and looked my question.
“Your father didn’t own a stick o’ this house,” she cried, in a tone that was almost a scream. “It’s mine, an’ the deed’s in my own name!”
“I know,” I replied, “but father has often explained that you merely held the deed in trust for me, until I became of age. He turned it over to you as a protection to me in case some accident should happen to him. Many times he has told me that this plan insured my having a home, no matter what happened.”
“I guess you didn’t understand him,” she answered, an evil flash in her eye. “The facts is, this house were put into my name because the Cap’n owed me money.”
“What for?” I asked.
“I’ve kep’ ye in food an’ clothes ever sence ye was a baby. Do ye s’pose that don’t cost money?”
I stared at her bewildered.
“Didn’t father furnish the money?”
“Not a cent. He jest let it run on, as he did any wages. An’ it counts up big, that a–way.”
“Then the house isn’t mine, after all?”
“Not an inch of it. Not a stick ner a stone.”
I tried to think what this would mean to me, and what reason the woman could have for claiming a right to my inheritance.
“Once,” said I, musingly, “father told me how he had brought you here to save you from the poor–house, or starvation. He was sorry for you, and gave you a home. That was while mother was living. Afterwards, he said, he trusted to your gratitude to take good care of me, and to stand my friend in place of my dead mother.”
“Fiddlesticks” she snapped, again. It was the word she usually used to express contempt, and it sounded very disagreeable coming from her lips.
“The Cap’n must ’a’ been a–dreamin’ when he told you that stuff an’ nonsense,” she went on. “I’ve treated ye like my own son; there’s no mistake about that. But I did it for wages, accordin’ to agreement atween me an’ the Cap’n. An’ the wages wasn’t never paid. When they got to be a big lump, he put the house in my name, to secure me. An’ it’s mine—ev’ry stick of it!”
My head was aching, and I had to press my hand to it to ease the pain. In the light of the one flickering candle Mrs. Ranck’s hard face assumed the expression of a triumphant demon, and I drew back from it, shocked and repelled.
“If what you say is true,” I said, listlessly, “I would rather you take the old home to wipe out the debt. Yet father surely told me it was mine and it isn’t like him to deceive me, or to owe any one money. However, take it, Aunt, if you like.”
“I’ve got it,” she answered; “an’ I mean to keep it.”
“I shall get along very well,” said I, thinking, indeed, that nothing mattered much, now father was gone.
“How will you live?” she enquired.
“Why, there’s plenty besides the house,” I replied. “In father’s room,” and I nodded my head toward the door that was always kept locked in the Captain’s absence, “there must be a great many valuable things stored. The very last time he was home he said that in case anything ever happened to him I would find a little fortune in his old sea–chest, alone.”
“May be,” rejoined the old woman, uneasily. “I hope that story o’ his’n, at least, is true, for your sake, Sam. I hain’t anything agin you; but right is right. An’ the house don’t cover all that’s comin’ to me, either. The Cap’n owed me four hundred dollars, besides the house, for your keep durin’ all these years; an’ that’ll have to be paid afore you can honestly lay claim to a cent o’ his property.”
“Of course,” I agreed, meekly enough, for all this talk of money wearied me. “But there should be much more than that in the chest, alone, according to what father said.”
“Let’s hope there is,” said she. “You go to bed, now, for you’re clean done up, an’ no wonder. In the mornin’ we’ll both look into the Cap’n’s room, an’ see what’s there. I ain’t a–goin’ to take no mean advantage o’ you, Sam, you can depend on’t. So go to bed. Sleep’s the best cure–all fer troubles like yours.”
This last was said in a more kindly tone, and I was glad to take her at her word and creep away to my little room in the attic.
Chapter II
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.