for three days i watched with growing amazement the strange behavior of my uncle. now he would sit hunched up over his desk and search through a great pile of documents from the safe; now he would toss the papers into his strong box, lock it, and return it to its place in the vault, and pace the floor in a revery so deep that you could speak in his very ear without getting a reply. at one minute he would be as cross as a devil's imp, and turn on you in fury if you wished to do him a favor; at the next he would fairly laugh aloud with good humor.
the only man at whom he never flew out in a rage was cornelius gleazen, and why this should be so, i could only guess. you may be sure that i, and others, tried hard to fathom the secret, when the two of them were sitting at my uncle's desk over a huge mass of papers, as they were for hours at a time.
on the noon of the third day they settled themselves together at the desk and talked interminably in undertones. now uncle seth would bend over his papers; now he would look off across the road and the meadows to the woods beyond. now he would put questions; now he would sit silent. an hour passed, and another, and another. at four o'clock they were still there, still talking in undertones. at five o'clock their heads were closer together than ever. now neil gleazen was tapping on the top of his beaver. he had a strange look, which i did not understand, and between his eyes and the flashing of his diamond as his finger tapped the hat, he charmed me as if he were a[pg 37] snake. even sim muzzy was watching them curiously, and on arnold lamont's fine, sober face there was an expression of mingled wonder and distrust.
customers came, and we waited on them; and when they had gone, the two were still there. the clocks were striking six when i faced about, hearing their chairs move, and saw them shaking hands and smiling. then cornelius gleazen went away, and my uncle, carefully locking up his papers, went out, too.
supper was late that night, for i waited until uncle seth came in; but he made no excuse for his long absence and late return. he ate rapidly and in silence, as if he were not thinking of his food, and he took no wine until he had pushed his plate away. then he poured himself a glass from the decanter, tasted it, and said, "i am to be away to-morrow, joe."
"yes, sir," said i.
"i may be back to-morrow night and i may not. as to that, i can't say. but i wish, come afternoon, you'd go to abe guptil's for me. i've an errand there i want you to do."
i waited in silence.
"i hold a mortgage of two thousand dollars on his place," he presently went on. "i've let it run, out of good-nature. good-nature don't pay. well, i'm going to need the money. give him a month to pay up. if he can't, tell him i'll sell him out."
"you'll what?" i cried, not believing that i heard him aright.
"i'll sell him out. pringle has been wanting the place and he'll give at least two thousand."
"now, uncle seth, abraham guptil's been a long time sick. his best horse broke a leg a while back and he had to shoot it, and while he was sick his crops failed. he can't[pg 38] pay you now. give him another year. he's good for the money and he pays his interest on the day it's due."
uncle seth frowned. "i've been too good-natured," he said sharply. "i need the money myself. i shall sell him out."
"but—"
"well?"
i stopped short. after all, i could not save abe guptil—i knew uncle seth too well for that. and it might be easier for abe if i broke the news than if, say, uncle seth did.
"very well," i replied after a moment's thought. "i will go."
uncle seth, appeased by my compliance, gave a short grunt, curtly bade me good-night and stumped off to bed. but i, wondering what was afoot, sat a long time at table while the candles burned lower and lower.
next morning, clad in his sunday best, uncle seth waited in front of the store, with his horses harnessed and ready, until the tall familiar figure, with cane, cigar, and beaver hat, came marching grandly down from the inn. then the two got into the carriage and drove away.
some hours later, leaving arnold lamont in charge of the store, i set off in turn, but humbly and on foot, toward the white house by the distant sea where poor abraham guptil lived; and you can be sure that it made me sick at heart to think of my errand.
from the pine land and meadows of topham, the road emerged on the border of a salt marsh, along which i tramped for an hour or two; then, passing now through scrubby timber, now between barren farms, it led up on higher ground, which a few miles farther on fell away to tawny rocks and yellow sand and the sea, which came rolling in on the beach in long, white hissing waves. islands[pg 39] in the offing seemed to give promise of other, far-distant lands; and the sun was so bright and the water so blue that i thought to myself how much i would give to go a-sailing with uncle seth in search of adventure.
late in the afternoon i saw ahead of me, beside the road, the small white house, miles away from any other, where abraham guptil lived. a dog came barking out at me, and a little boy came to call back the dog; then a woman appeared in the door and told me i was welcome. abe, it seemed, was away working for a neighbor, but he would be back soon, for supper-time was near. if i would stay with them for the meal, she said, they should be glad and honored.
so i sat down on the doorstone and made friends with the boy and the dog, and talked away about little things that interested the boy, until we saw abraham guptil coming home across the fields with the sun at his back.
he shook hands warmly, but his face was anxious, and when after supper we went out doors and i told him as kindly as i could the errand on which my uncle had sent me, he shook his head.
"i feared it," said he. "it's rumored round the country that seth upham's collecting money wherever he can. without this, i've been in desperate straits, and now—"
he spread his hands hopelessly and leaned against the fence. his eyes wandered over the acres on which he was raising crops by sheer strength and determination. it was a poor, stony farm, yet the man had claimed it from the wilderness and, what with fishing and odd jobs, had been making a success of life until one misfortune after another had fairly overwhelmed him.
"it must go," he said at last.
as best i could, i was taking leave of him for the long[pg 40] tramp home, when he suddenly roused himself and cried, "but stay! see! the storm is hard upon us. you must not go back until to-morrow."
heavy clouds were banking in the west, and already we could hear the rumble of thunder.
it troubled me to accept the hospitality of the guptils when i had come on such an errand; but the kindly souls would hear of no denial, so i joined abe in the chores with such good-will, that we had milked, and fed the stock, and closed the barns for the night before the first drops fell.
meanwhile much had gone forward indoors, and when we returned to the house i was shown to a great bed made up with clean linen fragrant of lavender. darkness had scarcely fallen, but i was so weary that i undressed and threw myself on the bed and went quietly to sleep while the storm came raging down the coast.
as one so often does in a strange place, i woke uncommonly early. dawn had no more than touched the eastern horizon, but i got out of bed and, hearing someone stirring, went to the window. a door closed very gently, then a man came round the corner of the house and struck off across the fields. it was abraham guptil. what could he be doing abroad at that hour? going to the door of my room, which led into the kitchen, i softly opened it, then stopped in amazement. someone was asleep on the kitchen floor. i looked closer and saw that it was a woman with a child; then i turned back and closed the door again.
rather than send me away, even though i brought a message that meant the loss of their home, those good people had given me the one bed in the house, and themselves, man, woman, and child, had slept on hard boards, with only a blanket under them.
since i could not leave my room without their knowing that i had discovered their secret, i sat down by the window[pg 41] and watched the dawn come across the sea upon a world that was clean and cool after the shower of the night. for an hour, as the light grew stronger, i watched the slow waves that came rolling in and poured upon the long rocks in cascades of silver; and still the time wore on, and still abe remained away. another hour had nearly gone when i saw him coming in the distance along the shore, and heard his wife stirring outside.
now someone knocked at my door.
i replied with a prompt "good-morning," and presently went into the kitchen, where the three greeted me warmly. all signs of their sleeping on the kitchen floor had vanished.
"i don't know what i shall do, joe," said abraham guptil when i was taking leave of him an hour later. "this place is all i have."
i made up my mind there and then that neither abraham guptil nor his wife and child should suffer want.
"i'll see to that," i replied. "there'll be something for you to do and some place for you to go."
then, with no idea how i should fulfil my promise, i shook his hand and left him.
when at last i got back to the store, arnold lamont was there alone. my uncle had not returned, and sim muzzy had gone fishing. it was an uncommonly hot day, and since there were few customers, we sat and talked of one thing and another.
when i saw that arnold was looking closely at the foils, which stood in a corner, an idea came to me. cornelius gleazen had praised my swordsmanship to the skies, and, indeed, i was truly becoming a match for him. twice i had actually taken a bout from him, with a great swishing and clattering of blades and stamping of feet, and now, although he continued to give me lessons, he no longer[pg 42] would meet me in an assault. as for the other young fellows, i had far and away outstripped them.
"would you like to try the foils once, arnold?" i asked. "i'll give you a lesson if you say so."
for a moment i thought there was a twinkle in the depths of his eyes; but when i looked again they were sober and innocent.
"why, yes," he said.
something in the way he tested the foils made me a bit uneasy, in spite of my confidence, but i shrugged it off.
"you have learned well by watching," i said, as we came on guard.
"i have tried it before," said he.
"then," said i, "i will lunge and you shall see if you can parry me."
"very well."
after a few perfunctory passes, during which i advanced and retreated in a way that i flattered myself was exceptionally clever, and after a quick feint in low line, i disengaged, deceived a counter-parry by doubling, and confidently lunged. to my amazement my foil rested against his blade hardly out of line with his body—so slightly out of line that i honestly believed the attack had miscarried by my own clumsiness. certainly i never had seen so nice a parry. that i escaped a riposte, i attributed to my deft recovery and the constant pressure of my blade on his; but even then i had an uncomfortable suspicion that behind the veil of his black mask arnold was smiling, and i was really dazed by the failure of an attack that seemed to me so well planned and executed.
then, suddenly, easily, lightly, arnold lamont's blade wove its way through my guard. his arms, his legs, his body moved with a lithe precision such as i had never dreamed of; my own foil, circling desperately, failed to[pg 43] find his, and his button rested for a moment against my right breast so surely and so competently that, in the face of his skill, i simply dropped my guard and stood in frank wonder and admiration.
even then i was vaguely aware that i could not fully appreciate it. though i had thought myself an accomplished swordsman, the man's dexterity, which had revealed me as a clumsy blunderer, was so amazingly superior to anything i had ever seen, that i simply could not realize to the full how remarkable it was.
i whipped off my mask and cried, "you,—you are a fencer."
he smiled. "are you surprised? a man does not tell all he knows."
as i looked him in the face, i wondered at him. uncle seth had come to rely upon him implicitly for far more than you can get from any ordinary clerk. yet we really knew nothing at all about him. "a man does not tell all he knows"—he had held his tongue without a slip for all those years.
i saw him now in a new light. his face was keen, but more than keen. there was real wisdom in it. the quiet, confident dignity with which he always bore himself seemed suddenly to assume a new, deeper, more mysterious significance. whatever the man might be, it was certain that he was no mere shopkeeper's clerk.
that afternoon uncle seth and gleazen, the one strangely elated, the other more pompous and grand than ever, returned in the carriage. of their errand, for the time being they said nothing.
uncle seth merely asked about abe guptil's note; and, when i answered him, impatiently grunted.
poor abe, i thought, and wondered what had come over my uncle.
[pg 44]
in the evening, as we were finishing supper, uncle seth leaned back with a broad smile. "joe, my lad," he said, "our fortunes are making. great days are ahead. i can buy and sell the town of topham now, but before we are through, joe, i—or you with the money i shall leave you—can buy and sell the city of boston—aye, or the commonwealth of massachusetts. there are great days ahead, joe."
"but what," i asked, with fear at my heart, "but what is this great venture?"
uncle seth looked at me with a smile that expressed whatever power of affection was left in his hard old shell of a heart,—a meagre affection, yet, as far as it went, all centred upon me,—and revealed a great conceit of his own wisdom.
"joe," he said, leaning forward on his elbows till his face, on which the light threw every testy wrinkle into sharp relief, was midway between the two candles at the end of the table, "joe, i've bought a ship and we're all going to africa."
for a moment his voice expressed confidence; for a moment his affection for me triumphed over his native sharpness.
"you're all i've got, joey," he cried, "you're all that's left to the old man, and i'm going to do well by you. whatever i have is yours, joey; it's all coming to you, every cent and every dollar. here,—you must be wanting a bit of money to spend,—here!" he thrust his hand into his pocket and flung half a dozen gold pieces down on the dark, well-oiled mahogany where they rang and rolled and shone dully in the candle-light. "i swear, joey, i think a lot of you."
i suppose that not five people in all topham had ever seen uncle seth in such a mood. i am sure that, if they[pg 45] had, the town could never have thought of him as only a cold, exacting man. but now a fear apparently overwhelmed him lest by so speaking out through his reticence he had committed some unforgivable offense—lest he had told too much. he seemed suddenly to snap back into his hard, cynical shell. "but of that, no more," he said sharply. "not a word's to be said, you understand. not a word—to any one."
when i went back to the store that evening, i sat on the porch in the darkness and thought of uncle seth as i had seen him across the table, his face thrust forward between the candles, his elbows planted on the white linen, with the dim, restful walls of the room behind him, with the faces of my father and my mother looking down upon us from the gilt frames on the wall. i knew him too well to ask questions, even though, as i sat on the store porch, he was sitting just behind me inside the open window.
what, i wondered, almost in despair, could we, of all people, do with a ship and a voyage to africa? had i not seen cornelius gleazen play upon my uncle's fear and vanity and credulity? i had no doubt whatever that the same neil gleazen, who had been run out of town thirty years before, was at the bottom of whatever mad voyage my uncle was going to send his ship upon.
then i thought of good old abraham guptil, so soon to be turned out of house and home, and of arnold lamont, who saw and knew and understood so much, yet said so little. and again i thought of cornelius gleazen; and when i was thinking of him, a strange thing came to pass.
down in the village a dog barked fiercely, then another nearer the store, then another; then i saw coming up the road a figure that i could not mistake. the man with that tall hat, that flowing coat, that nonchalant air, which even[pg 46] the faint light of the stars revealed, could be no other than cornelius gleazen himself.
in the store behind me i heard the low drone of conversation from the men gathered round the stove, the click of a chessman set firmly on the board, the voice of arnold lamont—so clear, so precise, and yet so definitely and indescribably foreign—saying, "check!" through the small panes of glass i saw my uncle frowning over his ledgers. now he noted some figure on the foolscap at his right, now he appeared to count on his fingers.
i turned again to watch cornelius gleazen. of course he could not know that anyone was sitting on the porch in the darkness. when he passed the store, he looked over at it with a turn of his head and a twist of his shoulders. his gesture gave me an impression of scorn and triumph so strong that i hardly restrained myself from retorting loudly and angrily. then i bit my lip and watched him go by and disappear.
"who," i wondered, "who and what really is cornelius gleazen?"
