“Ah, my dear fellow,” faintly murmured the skipper, “there is far more than just body service I want from you. I want to learn the secret of your quiet happiness and I believe you can teach me. I’ve watched and wondered at you for a long time, envying you the peace that I saw you always enjoying, the power of living blamelessly in the midst of us ruffians and yet doing your work with the best of us. Perhaps the Almighty has given me this stroke in mercy because He saw that I would not give myself time to learn His ways without it. I don’t know, but He knows I’m willing to learn now, and with the prospect of having you with me I am quite resigned to what I at first felt would break my heart. So that’s settled. I’ll make inquiries now as to the method of getting from here to the States, to San Francisco, and thence across the Continent home, and as soon as I find out I’ll let you know. Now, I’m very tired again and I think I could sleep a little. God bless you, my boy, and I thank you with all my heart.”
As C. B. left the cabin to go on deck again he met Merritt, and one glance at his face gave him a feeling of terrible compunction. A flood of recollections rushed into his mind, the stern hatred and bitter jealousy that Merritt had shown to any one who he suspected of coming between him and the man he loved with an affection resembling that of the tigress for her cubs. What would he say? More painful and important question still, what would he do? In this trouble he went to his unfailing resource. Sitting down on a spar in a dark corner he buried his face in his hands, and prayed for guidance in this most difficult matter, and for poor Merritt. He felt a keen pang at the thought that he had never been able to return the affection the fourth mate had lavished upon him in anything like the same measure. He had loved Merritt only as he had loved the skipper and a little more than he had loved any other member of the ship’s company, the only difference being that he had cherished a belief that he had been the means of humanizing that stern and vengeful nature by becoming the object of its fierce affection.
He lifted his head refreshed by his communion, and there, quite near to him, sat Merritt, having stolen up noiselessly. As soon as he looked up Merritt edged towards him and said in a hoarse, constrained voice—
“What’s the matter with ye, chum? Ain’t ye feelin’ good?”
“Oh yes, thanks,” replied C. B. somewhat wearily, “but I’m worried about you. I don’t know how you’ll feel when I’m gone.”
There was a painful pause for at least a minute and then Merritt said—
“Gone! Then I was right. I thought I heard the skipper say somethin’ to ye ’bout comin’ with him to look after him. So you’re goin’, an’ I shan’t see ye any more. Well, they’s one thing about it, you’ve softened me a lot, my boy, I k’n tell ye that; for if I was now as I have ben, I’d a killed you fust an’ myself after, I wouldn’t a ben separated from you. Now I don’t feel able to say a crooked word t’ ye. But I feel all gone in here, an’ I know for certain that I shall peg out mighty quick after you’re gone. I hain’t got nothing t’ live fur an’ I don’t want t’ live anyhow. When are ye goin’?”
“I don’t know,” answered C. B.; “it depends upon the skipper getting a passage, I suppose; but don’t, chum, don’t talk like that.”
“Like what?” inquired Merritt harshly.
“About dying because I’m going away. It sounds awful; I can’t understand it.”