FullReads

“I’ll tell ye what’s about the worst of the matter,” and the captain pulled a letter out of his deep coat pocket. His feelings had been pent up too long. At the sight of the pretty handwriting and aggravatingly soft-spoken sentences, Asaph Ball was forced to inconsiderate speech. The would-be housekeeper pushed back her rocking-chair as he began, and tucked her feet under, beside settling her bonnet a little, as if she were close-reefed and anchored to ride out the gale.

“I’m in most need of an able person,” he roared, “on account of this letter’s settin’ me adrift about knowing what to do. ‘T is from a gal that wants to come and make her home here. Land sakes alive, puts herself right forrard! I don’t want her, an’ I won’t have her. She may be a great-niece; I don’t say she ain’t; but what should I do with one o’ them jiggetin’ gals about? In the name o’ reason, why should I be set out o’ my course? I’m left at the mercy o’ you women-folks,” and the captain got stiffly to his feet. “If you’ve had experience, an’ think you can do for me, why, stop an’ try, an’ I’ll be much obleeged to ye. You’ll find me a good provider, and we’ll let one another alone, and get along some way or ‘nother.”

The captain’s voice fairly broke; he had been speaking as if to a brother man; he was tired out and perplexed. His sister Ann had saved him so many petty trials, and now she was gone. The poor man had watched her suffer and seen her die, and he was as tender-hearted and as lonely as a child, however he might bluster. Even such infrequent matters as family letters had been left to his busy sister. It happened that they had inherited a feud with an elder half-brother’s family in the West, though the captain was well aware of the existence of this forth-putting great-niece, who had been craftily named for Miss Ann Ball, and so gained a precarious hold on her affections; but to harbor one of the race was to consent to the whole. Captain Ball was not a man to bring down upon himself an army of interferers and plunderers, and he now threw down the poor girl’s well-meant letter with an outrageous expression of his feelings. Then he felt a silly weakness, and hastened to wipe his eyes with his pocket-handkerchief.

“I’ve been beat, I tell ye,” he said brokenly.

There was a look of apparent sympathy, mingled with victory, on the housekeeper’s face. Perhaps she had known some other old sailor of the same make, for she rose and turned her face aside to look out of the window until the captain’s long upper lip had time to draw itself straight and stern again. Plainly she was a woman of experience and discretion.

“I’ll take my shawl and bunnit right off, sir,” she said, in a considerate little voice. “I see a-plenty to do; there’ll be time enough after I get you your dinner to see to havin’ my trunk here; but it needn’t stay a day longer than you give the word.”

“That’s clever,” said the captain. “I’ll step right down street and get us a good fish, an’ you can fry it or make us a chowder, just which you see fit. It now wants a little of eleven”–and an air of pleased anticipation lighted his face–“I must be on my way.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I guess we don’t want no company till we get to rights a little. You’re kind of tired out, sir,” said the housekeeper, feelingly. “By-and-by you can have the young girl come an’ make you a visit, and either let her go or keep her, ‘cordin’ as seems fit. I may not turn out to suit.”

“What may I call you, ma’am?” inquired Captain Ball. “Mis’ French? Not one o’ them Fleet Street Frenches?” (suspiciously). “Oh, come from Massachusetts way!” (with relief).