CHAPTER XV.
Dealing Mostly with Money.
Pilot Summerhayes stood in his garden, with that look on his face which a guilty schoolboy wears when the eye of his master is upon him.
In his hand he held a letter, at which he glanced furtively, as if he feared to be caught in the act of reading, although the only eyes that possibly could have detected him were those of two sparrows that were discussing the purple berries of the Portuguese laurel which grew near by.
“‘I enclose the usual half-yearly allowance of £250.’” The Pilot was reading from the letter. “Damnation take him and his allowance!” ejaculated the irascible old sailor, which was a strange anathema to hurl at the giver of so substantial a sum of money. “I suppose he thinks to make me beholden to him: I suppose he thinks me as poor as a church-rat, and, therefore, I’m to be thankful for mercies received—his mercies—and say what a benefactor he is, what a generous brother. Bah! it makes me sicker than ever to think of him.” He glanced at the letter, and read, “‘Hoping that this small sum is sufficient for yourself and my very dear niece, to whom I ask to be most kindly remembered, I remain your affectionate brother, Silas Summerhayes.’” A most brotherly epistle, containing filial expressions, and indicating a bountiful spirit; and yet upon reading it the Pilot swore deep and dreadful oaths which cannot be recorded.
Every six months, for at least fifteen years, he had received a similar letter, expressing in the same affectionate terms the love of his brother Silas, which was accentuated by a like draft for £250, and yet the Pilot had persistently cursed the receipt of each letter.
There was a footstep on the verandah behind him. With a start the old man thrust the epistle and draft into his pocket, and stood, with a look on his face as black as thunder, confronting almost defiantly his charming daughter.
“Have you got your letters, father? I heard the postman’s knock.” As she spoke, Rose looked rather anxiously at her frowning parent. “Good news, I hope—the English mail arrived last night.”
“I daresay it did, my gal,” growled the Pilot. “But I don’t see what you and me have to do with England, seeing we’ve quit it these fifteen years.”
“But we were born there! Surely people should think affectionately of their native country.”