Sue—Careful, Nat. He’ll hear you if you shout like that.
Nat—But we have a right to know—his own children. What if he dies without ever speaking?
Sue—[Uneasily.] Be sensible, Nat. There’s nothing to tell except in your imagination. [Taking his arm—persuasively.] Come on downstairs. I’ll get you something to eat. You must be starved, aren’t you?
Nat—No—I don’t know—I suppose I ought to be. [He gets to his feet and glances around with a shudder.] What a place for him to build to wait in—like the cabin of a ship sunk deep under the sea—like the Sarah Allen’s cabin as it is now, probably. [With a shiver.] There’s a chill comes over you. No wonder he’s mad. [He listens.] Hear him. A year ago today she sailed. I wonder if he knows that. Back and forth, always staring out to sea for the Sarah Allen. Ha-ha! God! It would be funny if it didn’t make your flesh creep. [Brusquely.] Come on. Let’s leave him and go down where there’s light and warmth. [They go down the stairs, closing the door behind them. There is a pause. Then the door of the companionway above is heard being opened and shut. A gust of wind sweeps down into the room. Bartlett stamps down the stairs. The madness which has taken almost complete possession of him in the past year is clearly stamped on his face, particularly in his eyes which seem to stare through and beyond objects with a hunted, haunted expression. His movements suggest an automaton obeying invisible wires. They are quick, jerky, spasmodic. He appears to be laboring under a state of extraordinary excitement. He stands for a second at the foot of the stairs, peering about him suspiciously. Then he goes to the table and sits down on the edge of a chair, his chin supported on his hands.]
Bartlett—[Takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and spreads it out on the table in the light of the lantern—pointing with his finger—mumblingly.] Where the cross be—ye’ll not forget that, Silas Horne. Ye had a copy o’ this—no chance for a mistake, bullies—the gold’s there, restin’ safe—back to me and we’ll share it fair and square. A year ago today—ye remember the orders I wrote ye, Horne. [Threateningly.] Ye’ll not be gone more nor a year or I’ll—and if ye make port to home here at night, hang a red and a green light at the mainm’st head so I’ll see ye comin.’ A red and a green—— [He springs up suddenly and goes to a porthole to look out at the sea—disappointedly.] No light be there—but they’ll come. The year be up today and ye’ve got to come or I’ll—— [He sinks back on the chair, his head in his hands. Suddenly he starts and stares straight in front of him as if he saw something in the air—with angry defiance.] Aye, there ye be again—the two o’ ye! Makin’ a mock o’ me! Brass and junk, ye say, not worth a damn! Ye don’t believe, do ye? I’ll show ye! [He springs to his feet and makes a motion as if grabbing someone by the throat and shaking them—savagely.] Ye lie! Is it gold or no? Answer me! [With a mocking laugh.] Aye, ye own up to it now, right enough. Too late, ye swabs! No share for ye! [He sinks back on the chair again—after a pause, dully.] Jimmy’s gone. Let them rot. But I spoke no word, Silas Horne, remember! [Then in a tone of fear.] Be ye dyin’, Sarah? No, ye must live—live to see your ship come home with the gold—and I’ll buy ye all in the world ye set your heart on. No, not ambergris, Sarah—gold and diamonds and sech! We’re rich at last! [Then with great anguish.] What woman’s stubborn talk be this? Confess, ye say? But I spoke no word, I swear to ye! Why will ye hound me and think evil o’ what I done? Men’s business, I tell ye. They would have killed us and stolen the gold, can’t ye see? [Wildly.] Enough o’ talk, Sarah! I’ll sail out in spite o’ ye! [He gets to his feet and paces up and down the room. The door in the rear is opened and Nat re-enters. He glances at his father, then looks down the stairs behind him cautiously to see if he is followed. He comes in and closes the door behind him carefully.]
Nat—[In a low voice.] Pa! [Then as his father does not appear to notice his presence—louder.] Pa!
Bartlett—[Stops short and stares at his son as if he were gradually awakening from a dream—slowly.] Be that ye, Nat?
Nat—[Coming forward.] Yes. I want to talk with you.
Bartlett—[Struggling to bring his thoughts under control.] Talk? Ye want to talk—to me? Men’s business—no room for a boy in it—keep clear o’ this.
Nat—[Defiantly.] That’s what you’ve always said. But I won’t be put off any longer. I won’t, do you hear?