By Shore and Sedge by Bret Harte (first e reader txt) 📖

leaves of a manzanita. She had already seen him.

Somehow the frankness of his greeting was checked. She looked up at him with cheeks that retained enough of their color to suggest why she had hesitated, and said, “YOU here, Mr. Renshaw? I thought you were in Sacramento.”

“And I thought YOU were in Petaluma,” he retorted gayly. “I have a letter from your father. The fact is, one of those gentlemen who has been haunting the ship actually made an entry last night. Who he was, and what he came for, nobody knows. Perhaps your father gives you his suspicions.” He could not help looking at her narrowly as he handed her the note. Except that her pretty eyebrows were slightly raised in curiosity she seemed undisturbed as she opened the letter. Presently she raised her eyes to his.

“Is this all father gave you?”

“All.”

“You’re sure you haven’t dropped anything?”

“Nothing. I have given you all he gave me.”

“And that is all it is.” She exhibited the missive, a perfectly blank sheet of paper folded like a note!

Renshaw felt the angry blood glow in his cheeks. “This is unpardonable! I assure you, Miss Nott, there must be some mistake. He himself has probably forgotten the inclosure,” he continued, yet with an inward conviction that the act was perfectly premeditated on the part of the old man.

The young girl held out her hand frankly. “Don’t think any more of it, Mr. Renshaw. Father is forgetful at times. But tell me about last night.”

In a few words Mr. Renshaw briefly but plainly related the details of the attempt upon the Pontiac, from the moment that he had been awakened by Nott, to his discovery of the unknown trespasser’s flight by the open door to the loft. When he had finished, he hesitated, and then taking Rosey’s hand, said impulsively, “You will not be angry with me if I tell you all? Your father firmly believes that the attempt was made by the old Frenchman, de Ferrieres, with a view of carrying you off.”

A dozen reasons other than the one her father would have attributed it to might have called the blood to her face. But only innocence could have brought the look of astonished indignation to her eyes as she answered quickly:

“So THAT was what you were laughing at?”

“Not that, Miss Nott,” said the young man eagerly: “though I wish to God I could accuse myself of nothing more disloyal. Do not speak, I beg,” he added impatiently, as Rosey was about to reply. “I have no right to hear you; I have no right to even stand in your presence until I have confessed everything. I came to the Pontiac; I made your acquaintance, Miss Nott, through a fraud as wicked as anything your father charges to de Ferrieres. I am not a contractor. I never was an honest lodger in the Pontiac. I was simply a spy.”

“But you didn’t mean to be—it was some mistake, wasn’t it?” said Rosey, quite white, but more from sympathy with the offender’s emotion than horror at the offense.

“I am afraid I did mean it. But bear with me for a few moments longer and you shall know all. It’s a long story. Will you walk on, and—take my arm? You do not shrink from me, Miss Nott. Thank you. I scarcely deserve the kindness.”

Indeed so little did Rosey shrink that he was conscious of a slight reassuring pressure on his arm as they moved forward, and for the moment I fear the young man felt like exaggerating his offense for the sake of proportionate sympathy. “Do you remember,” he continued, “one evening when I told you some sea tales, you said you always thought there must be some story about the Pontiac? There was a story of the Pontiac, Miss Nott—a wicked story—a terrible story—which I might have told you, which I OUGHT to have told you—which was the story that brought me there. You were right, too, in saying that you thought I had known the Pontiac before I stepped first on her deck that day. I had.”

He laid his disengaged hand across lightly on Rosey’s, as if to assure himself that she was listening.

“I was at that time a sailor. I had been fool enough to run away from college, thinking it a fine romantic thing to ship before the mast for a voyage round the world. I was a little disappointed, perhaps, but I made the best of it, and in two years I was second mate of a whaler lying in a little harbor of one of the uncivilized islands of the Pacific. While we were at anchor there a French trading vessel put in, apparently for water. She had the dregs of a mixed crew of Lascars and Portuguese, who said they had lost the rest of their men by desertion, and that the captain and mate had been carried off by fever. There was something so queer in their story that our skipper took the law in his own hands, and put me on board of her with a salvage crew. But that night the French crew mutinied, cut the cables, and would have got to sea if we had not been armed and prepared, and managed to drive them below. When we had got them under hatches for a few hours they parleyed, and offered to go quietly ashore. As we were short of hands and unable to take them with us, and as we had no evidence against them, we let them go, took the ship to Callao, turned her over to the authorities, lodged a claim for salvage, and continued our voyage. When we returned we found the truth of the story was known. She had been a French trader from Marseilles, owned by her captain; her crew had mutinied in the Pacific, killed their officers and the only passenger—the owner of the cargo. They had made away with the cargo and a treasure of nearly half a million of Spanish gold for trading purposes which belonged to the passenger. In course of time the ship was sold for salvage and put into the South American trade until the breaking out of the Californian gold excitement, when she was sent with a cargo to San Francisco. That ship was the Pontiac which your father bought.”

A slight shudder ran through the girl’s frame. “I wish—I wish you hadn’t told me,” she said. “I shall never close my eyes again comfortably on board of her, I know.”

“I would say that you had purified her of ALL stains of her past— but there may be one that remains. And THAT in most people’s eyes would be no detraction. You look puzzled, Miss Nott—but I am coming to the explanation and the end of my story. A ship of war was sent to the island to punish the mutineers and pirates, for such they were, but they could not be found. A private expedition was sent to discover the treasure which they were supposed to have buried, but in vain. About two months ago Mr. Sleight told me one of his shipmates had sent him a Lascar sailor who had to dispose of a valuable secret regarding the Pontiac for a percentage. That secret was that the treasure was never taken by the mutineers out of the Pontiac! They were about to land and bury it when we boarded them. They took advantage of their imprisonment under hatches to BURY IT IN THE SHIP. They hid it in the hold so securely and safely that it was never detected by us or the Callao authorities. I was then asked, as one who knew the vessel, to undertake a private examination of her, with a view of purchasing her from your father without awakening his suspicions. I assented. You have my confession now, Miss Nott. You know my crime. I am at your mercy.”

Rosey’s arm only tightened around his own. Her eyes sought his. “And you didn’t find anything?” she said.

The question sounded so oddly like Sleight’s, that Renshaw returned a little stiffly—

“I didn’t look.”

“Why?” asked Rosey simply.

“Because,” stammered Renshaw, with an uneasy consciousness of having exaggerated his sentiment, “it didn’t seem honorable; it didn’t seem fair to you.”

“Oh, you silly! you might have looked and told ME.”

“But,” said Renshaw, “do you think that would have been fair to Sleight?”

“As fair to him as to us. For, don’t you see, it wouldn’t belong to any of us. It would belong to the friends or the family of the man who lost it.”

“But there were no heirs,” said Renshaw. “That was proved by some impostor who pretended to be his brother, and libelled the Pontiac at Callao, but the courts decided he was a lunatic.”

“Then it belongs to the poor pirates who risked their own lives for it, rather than to Sleight, who did nothing.” She was silent for a moment, and then resumed with energy, “I believe he was at the bottom of that attack last night.”

“I have thought so too,” said Renshaw.

“Then I must go back at once,” she continued impulsively. “Father must not be left alone.”

“Nor must YOU,” said Renshaw, quickly. “Do let me return with you, and share with you and your father the trouble I have brought upon you. Do not,” he added in a lower tone, “deprive me of the only chance of expiating my offense, of making myself worthy your forgiveness.”

“I am sure,” said Rosey, lowering her lids and half withdrawing her arm, “I am sure I have nothing to forgive. You did not believe the treasure belonged to us any more than to anybody else, until you knew ME—”

“That is true,” said the young man, attempting to take her hand.

“I mean,” said Rosey, blushing, and showing a distracting row of little teeth in one of her infrequent laughs, “oh, you know what I mean.” She withdrew her arm gently, and became interested in the selection of certain wayside bay leaves as they passed along. “All the same, I don’t believe in this treasure,” she said abruptly, as if to change the subject. “I don’t believe it ever was hidden inside the Pontiac.”

“That can easily be ascertained now,” said Renshaw.

“But it’s a pity you didn’t find it out while you were about it,” said Rosey. “It would have saved so much talk and trouble.”

“I have told you why I didn’t search the ship,” responded Renshaw, with a slight bitterness. “But it seems I could only avoid being a great rascal by becoming a great fool.”

“You never intended to be a rascal,” said Rosey, earnestly, “and you couldn’t be a fool, except in heeding what a silly girl says. I only meant if you had taken me into your confidence it would have been better.”

“Might I not say the same to you regarding your friend, the old Frenchman?” returned Renshaw. “What if I were to confess to you that I lately suspected him of knowing the secret, and of trying to gain your assistance?”

Instead of indignantly repudiating the suggestion, to the young man’s great discomfiture, Rosey only knit her pretty brows, and remained for some minutes silent. Presently she asked timidly,—

“Do you think it wrong to tell another person’s secret for their own good?”

“No,” said Renshaw, promptly.

“Then I’ll tell you Monsieur de Ferrieres’s! But only because I believe from what you have just said that he will turn out to have some right to the treasure.”

Then with kindling eyes, and a voice eloquent with sympathy, Rosey told the story of her accidental discovery of de Ferrieres’s miserable existence in the loft. Clothing it with the unconscious poetry of her fresh, young imagination, she lightly passed over his antique gallantry and grotesque weakness,