I sha'n't keep you so long. In fact, as you are the only scholar,
we sha'n't bind ourselves to so many hours, but rather to so much
learned, so that it will depend a good deal on how well you study."
"That's good," said Bert. "Only, Mrs. Codman, you mustn't be too hard
upon me. I don't believe I can get very long lessons."
"I mean to be quite easy at first. I shall not ask much, but that
little I shall be strict in requiring."
Bert wasn't quite sure how she liked the latter part of this remark.
"Before setting you any lessons, I must find out how much you know."
"I guess it won't take me long to tell you all I ever learned."
"Here is a reading-book. Let me hear you read."
Bert took the book, and stumbled through a paragraph, invariably
mispronouncing all words of over one syllable.
"There," said she, taking a long breath; "I'm glad that is over."
"Now," said Mrs. Codman, taking the book, "let me read it aloud."
She was an excellent reader, and Bert, though she could not read
herself, recognized the fact.
"I wish I could read as well as that," said Bert. "How awfully you must
have studied when you were a girl."
"Not so hard as you think for, perhaps," said her teacher, smiling.
"Success depends more upon a series of small efforts, than any great
one."
"Do you think I shall ever read well?" asked Bert doubtfully.
"I am sure you will, if you will give a moderate amount of attention.
Do you know anything of arithmetic?"
"Do you mean the Multiplication Table?"
"Yes, that is a part of it."
"Yes," said Bert, "I know some lines about it. Charlie Morrill taught
me them one day."
"What are they?"
Bert repeated these lines, which no doubt are familiar to many of my
readers:
Multiplication is vexation,
Division is as bad,
The rule of Three doth trouble me,
And Practice makes me mad.
Mrs. Codman smiled. "Perhaps you will like them better as you grow
better acquainted. Can you tell me how much are four times four?"
Bert went through a variety of motions in counting her fingers, and
finally announced as the result of her computation, that four times
four made twenty-nine.
"That is hardly right."
"I'm awful ignorant, ain't I?" asked Bert.
"Considerably so, I confess. But we shall be able to remedy that."
"You won't make me study my eyes out?"
"That would be a pity. You see mine are not yet gone, and I don't mean
to ask you to study any harder than I did."
Bert looked at the eyes of her teacher which were quite as bright as
her own, and lost her apprehensions on that score.
"I'll tell you why I asked," said she, after a pause. "There's a girl
that goes to school--she's only twelve years old--and she has to wear
spectacles, and I heard somebody say it was because she studied so
hard. I shouldn't want to be obliged to wear spectacles."
Mrs. Codman could not forbear laughing at the idea of her frolicsome
little scholar, with a pair of glasses perched upon her nose, and
promised her that if she found there was any prospect of her being
obliged to wear them, she would advise her at once giving up study.
"Then I hope," thought Bert, "I shall need them soon."
"Now," proceeded Mrs. Codman. "I am going to give you short and easy
lessons in reading, spelling, and arithmetic. It won't take you long to
get there, if you only try. When you have recited them, we are to go
out and ride in the carriage."
"Oh, that will be nice," exclaimed the child. "Tell me what the lesson
is, quick."
The lessons were got and said sooner than could have been expected, and
so Bert had taken the first step in ascending the hill of learning.
XXXIII.
A LETTER FROM CHARLIE.
Bert had plenty of capacity. She could get her lessons in an incredibly
short time when there was any inducement. At other times she would sit
for two or three hours with the book before her, but with her attention
straying to other things, and, as a natural consequence, would know no
more at the end of that time than at the beginning. Fortunately Mrs.
Codman had the gift of patience, and though she was gentle, was, at the
same time, firm.
Of one thing Bert became convinced,--that study was not so terrible
as she had imagined. At the end of three months she had made so great
an improvement, that her father was equally surprised and delighted,
and was disposed to do full justice to Mrs. Codman's merits as a
governess. "Who knows but you will become quite a learned lady in time,
Bert?" he said, playfully.
"No doubt of it, papa," replied Bert. "By the time I am eighteen, I
expect to wear green glasses and write books."
"That will, indeed, be a miraculous transformation. And what is to
become of Topsy, then?"
"Oh, she'll be an old cat then, and won't feel any more like racing
round than I do. She'll just curl up in a chair beside me, and I will
use her fur to wipe my pens on. She is just the right color for that,
you know."
"Quite a sensible plan. I confess. Indeed, it will be well for you to
have something of that kind to be employed about, as you will probably
have no beaux."
"No beaux, papa? And why am I to have no beaux, I should like to know?"
"Because it takes two to make a bargain."
"Well, perhaps I sha'n't," replied Bert, tossing her head. "Perhaps you
don't know that I have picked out my future husband."
"Whew! That is getting along faster than I had anticipated. May I be
permitted to know who is to be my son-in-law? I think I can guess,
however."
"Who?"
"Mr. Bradley."
Mr. Bradley was an old bachelor, of about fifty, partially bald and
more than partially homely, who had now and then dined with Mr. Bowman
and had taken more notice of the young lady than she at all desired.
"Mr. Bradley!" repeated Bert, in a contemptuous manner. "I'd a good
deal rather marry Topsy."
"Perhaps," suggested her father, "the superior length of the kitten's
whiskers causes you to give her the preference. Am I to understand that
she is your choice?"
"No, it is a very handsome boy, and his name is Charlie Codman."
A look of regret stole over Mrs. Codman's face--the expression of a
sorrow caused by her uncertainty with regard to Charlie's fate.
"A son of yours?" asked Mr. Bowman, in some surprise.
Mrs. Codman replied in the affirmative.
"You ought to see his miniature, papa. He is very handsome."
"And you have lost your heart to him. Perhaps he may not return the
compliment."
"I hope he will," said the young lady.
"Perhaps Mrs. Codman will allow me to look at the miniature of my
future son-in-law," said Mr. Bowman, not guessing the mother's sorrow
and its cause.
While Mrs. Codman was absent from the room, Bert gave her father a
brief account of Charlie's disappearance.
"You must pardon me, Mrs. Codman," said Mr. Bowman, in a tone of
feeling, when she had returned, "for speaking in the lively tone I did.
I little guessed the anxiety you must feel about your son. Is this the
miniature?"
"A very attractive face!" he said. "I don't wonder at Bert's taking a
fancy to it."
"I cannot wonder at your sorrow in losing, even for a time, such a boy
as this face seems to indicate," he added.
"You think there is a chance of his coming back to me?" asked Mrs.
Codman, anxiously.
"I am hardly prepared to express an opinion on the scanty information
which Bert has been able to give me. If you are willing to tell me the
story in detail, I will tell you what I think of the chances."
Mrs. Codman told the story, mentioning, also, the name of Peter Manson,
and the language which he had used.
"I sometimes see this man," said the merchant, "and know him by
reputation. He is a miser."
"He pretends to be very poor."
"All pretence. I do not see what object he could have had in spiriting
your son away."
Further conversation followed, but, as might be expected, no
satisfactory result was reached. Mrs. Codman, however, felt relieved
and more hopeful in the knowledge that her employer knew of her loss,
and would do what he could to discover Charlie.
It was only a week later that he came into the school-room with a smile
upon his face.
"Father, you bring good news; isn't it so?" said Bert.
"I hope so."
Mrs. Codman looked up with a glance of eager inquiry.
"As I took up the morning paper," said the merchant, "my eyes, by
chance, ran down the list of advertised letters. Recognizing the name
of Mrs. Codman among them, I took the liberty of sending to the office
for it. It is post-marked at Rio Janeiro."
"Oh, give it to me quick!" exclaimed Mrs. Codman, in agitation.
"Is it from Charlie?" asked Bert.
"It is, it is!" exclaimed the happy mother, as she recognized the
familiar handwriting; and too impatient to unseal the letter, she tore
it open and devoured the contents.
It was the letter which Charlie had commenced on shipboard. We will
give the greater part of it.
"DEAREST MOTHER,--
"I hope this letter will reach you in safety, and will relieve you of
some of the anxiety you must have felt about your wandering boy. You
will start with surprise when you see where this is dated. I am three
thousand miles from you, dear mother, but not by my own act. But I
must tell you how I came to leave you. (This portion of the letter is
omitted.) You mustn't think I have suffered all the time on board the
ship, though it is hard work, and, for some reason, the captain and
mate have both been my enemies. I have had one faithful friend, to whom
I am very much indebted. He is a rough sailor, and neither educated nor
refined, but he has a warm heart, and has been very kind to your boy.
Indeed, mother, I don't know how much trouble I should have had, if it
hadn't been for honest Bill Sturdy. Some time I hope you will have the
pleasure of taking him by the hand, and thanking him for all he has
done for me. The greatest act of friendship for which I have to thank
him I will not write here, but I will tell you some time.
"As we were neither of us treated as well as we ought to be, we have
deserted the vessel, and transferred ourselves to a ship bound to
Liverpool, and thence to New York; so that it may be some months from
now before I see you again.
"I am so afraid you have suffered since I left you, not only from
solitude and anxiety about me, but have been compelled to labor beyond
your strength. You were so poorly paid for that horrid sewing, and had
to work so hard at it. But when I come back we will live together, as
we once did; and though it will not be a luxurious home, it shall be a
happy one. As you may have moved elsewhere, you must leave word with
those who occupy our old room where you live, so that when I come back,
which will be just as soon as I can, I may come at once to you, and
tell you how much I have missed you.
"From your affectionate,
"CHARLIE."
Knowing that Mr. Bowman felt a friendly interest in Charlie's welfare,
Mrs. Codman, her eyes dim with happy tears, handed him the letter,
which he read attentively.
"A very good letter," he said, "and very creditable to the writer. When
he returns, if you and he are both willing, I will receive him at once
into my counting-room. His letter is sufficient recommendation."
How differently the world looks according to the mood in which we view
it. No one could have convinced Mrs. Codman, after the reception of
this letter, that it was not a perfect paradise. The patient sorrow
which her face had worn the day before, gave place to a sweet and happy
expression, which made her look quite charming.
"Mrs. Codman is really a beautiful woman," thought Mr. Bowman, as
unobserved, he watched her laughing with Bert, glancing over the
newspaper which he was supposed to be reading.
XXXIV.
THE RETURN OF THE BETSEY.
It was a fine morning when the Bouncing Betsey, after a quick and
prosperous voyage from Valparaiso, entered Boston harbor. There had
been few or no changes on board since the ship left Rio Janeiro on the
passage out. Captain Brace is still in command, and unfortunately has
not at all mended his ways, but has richly merited, as he has obtained,
the general dislike of the crew, not one of whom will sail with him
again unless forced by dire necessity. Second in odium as he is in
command, comes Randall the mate. He cares little how he is regarded
by the men under him. To him the voyage has proved in some respects
a disappointment. He has not recovered from the vexation occasioned
by the escape of Bill Sturdy and Charlie. He has anticipated with
eagerness the return to Boston, where he hopes first to meet with the
deserters, and secondly intends to wrest a further sum from the fears
of Peter Manson.
Before visiting the miser, however, it is his intention to find out
what he can about Mrs. Codman, and how she has fared. He hopes in his
vindictiveness she has been reduced to the deepest distress, and the
hardest shifts to procure a livelihood.
He made his way to the tenement-house where Mrs. Codman formerly
lodged. He went up to the door of her former room and knocked, but it
was opened by a stranger, who could give him no information about the
person for whom he inquired.
Perplexed and quite at a loss to obtain a clew to the knowledge he
desired, he went back to Washington Street, and mingled in the busy
throng that crowded the sidewalks. He walked leisurely along, gazing
listlessly into the shop windows, but intent upon his own thoughts.
Chancing to let his eyes rest upon a passing carriage, he was startled
by the glimpse of a face which he was sure he knew. It was an elegant
carriage, drawn by two spirited horses, and evidently the equipage
of a person of wealth. A negro coachman in livery sat upon the box,
and wielded the reins with a dexterous hand. There were two persons
inside--one was a child of ten, a lively young girl, across whose face
a hundred changeful expressions flit. She was talking in an animated
strain to a lady with a beautiful and expressive face, who sat beside
her.
These two persons were Bert and her governess. The latter was looking
better than when she was introduced to the reader. Surrounded by
comforts and luxuries, and above all relieved from her most pressing
anxiety by the letter which she had received from Charlie, her cheeks
had recovered their wonted fullness and bloom, and the rare beauty for
which she had been distinguished in her youth.
Randall could scarcely believe his eyes. This was the woman whom he had
pictured to himself as struggling amid the deepest poverty to obtain a
scanty subsistence, worn out by harrowing anxiety for the loss of her
only son. What a contrast to his anticipations was the reality! He saw
her tastefully dressed--the picture of health and happiness--with the
same beauty that had dazzled him in times past, surrounded by evidence
of prosperity and luxury.
"What can it mean?" he thought in bewilderment. "Is it possible that my
eyes are deceived by an accidental resemblance?"
The carriage had already passed him, but as it was obliged to proceed
slowly on account of a press of carriages, he had no difficulty, by
quickening his pace a little, in overtaking it, and again scanning the
face whose presence there had filled him with so much surprise.
The first explanation which suggested itself to him as possible was,
that Mrs. Codman had attracted the attention of some wealthy gentleman,
who forgetting the distance which circumstances had established between
them, had laid himself and his fortune at her feet. But even then how
could she appear so lighthearted and happy unless Charlie had returned?
There was another supposition that old Peter Manson had died, and on
his deathbed, repenting his past wickedness and injustice, had repaired
the wrong of which he had been guilty, as far as he could, by leaving
all his possessions to Mrs. Codman. This was to Randall the most
disagreeable supposition of the two, for it would effectually stand in
the way of the designs which he cherished against the same property.
Determined not to lose sight of Mrs. Codman, he with considerable
difficulty kept pace with the carriage. It chanced that Bert and her
governess were just returning from a drive, otherwise they might have
led Randall a long chase. At present they were not very far from home.
From the opposite side of the street Randall watched them descend the
steps of the carriage, and enter the house. He paused long enough
afterwards to cross the street, note down the name of Bowman together
with the number, that he might be able to identify it hereafter. He
then examined the house itself with some curiosity. The appearance of
the house indicated clearly enough the wealth of the owner.
"I wish I knew," muttered the mate, "on what footing Mrs. Codman
resides here. She must either be the wife of the proprietor or his
housekeeper, one or the other."
At this moment an infirm old woman limped out of the side-gate, with a
basket slung on her arm.
Pressing forward, he accosted her.
"You seem heavily laden, my good woman."
"Yes," said she, "thanks to the good lady who lives in the house."
"What is her name?"
"It's Mrs. Codman. Do you know her, sir?"
"I am not sure. I once knew some one of the name. But there is a
different name on the door--Bowman."
"Yes, he is the gentleman of the house."
"And Mrs. Codman?"
"She is the young lady's governess."
"How long has she been there?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Never mind. It doesn't matter much."
"I wish I could tell you, sir."
"It's of no consequence at all, and you needn't mention that any
questions have been asked you. But I am afraid I have been detaining
you. Here is something to pay you for your trouble."
So saying he slipped half a dollar into her hand and, avoiding her
profuse thanks, walked hastily away.
"Now, for a visit to the miser," he said to himself.
XXXV.
CHARLIE TURNS UP UNEXPECTEDLY.
There was but little variety in the monotonous life of Peter Manson.
His life was one struggle for gold, his thoughts were continually upon
gold; gold seemed to be the end and aim of his existence. But what did
he propose to do with it all? He was not an old man yet, but all the
infirmities of age were upon him.
Peter had not forgotten nor ceased to lament the heavy draft which
had been made upon him by Randall. The thousands which he had left
could not compensate to him for the one he had lost. So, in the hope
of making it up, he strove to live even more economically than before,
if, indeed, that were possible. The additional privations to which he
subjected himself began to tell upon the old man's constitution. He
grew thinner and weaker and more shrivelled than before, and all this
to save a penny or two additional each day.
As Peter was crawling feebly along towards his gloomy den one
afternoon, clad in the invariable blue cloak, he was startled by
hearing a hoarse voice behind him, calling out, "Peter Manson--Peter, I
say!"
"Who calls?" asked Peter, in a quavering voice, slowly turning round.
"Don't you remember me?" asked Randall, for it was he.
Peter muttered something unintelligible as he cast a terrified glance
at the mate, and quickened his pace.
"You're not very polite, Peter," said the other, quickly overtaking and
joining the old man. "Is this the way to greet an old friend, whom you
have not seen for nearly a year?"
Peter looked anxious and alarmed, and glanced askance at his companion.
By this time they had reached the miser's quarters, and Peter, taking
out a key, opened the door.
He opened it just sufficiently to admit himself, and was then about to
close it when Randall, unceremoniously pushing him aside, entered also.
"By your leave, Peter, I will spend a short time with you."
"I have no fire," said Peter Manson, hastily.
"I dare say not," said Randall, carelessly, "but you can easily kindle
one."
"I--I have no fuel."
"None at all?"
"Why, a little--a very little," stammered Peter, uneasily.
"I thought so. Come, lead the way. I won't trouble you to light the
fire. I'll do it myself."
With something that sounded like a groan, the old man led the way,
and ushered his unwelcome guest into the room described in one of the
earlier chapters.
Randall used as much wood in kindling a fire as would have lasted Peter
a whole day.
"You will ruin me," he said, in dismay.
"Then you'll be ruined in a good cause," said Randall. "But I say,
Peter, don't you remember what we talked about when I visited you last?"
The old man groaned, thinking of the thousand dollars.
"Seems to me it has not left a very agreeable impression upon your
mind," remarked his companion. "Don't you want me to tell you of the
boy that I spirited away?"
"Is he dead?" asked Peter, eagerly.
"No; curse him, he escaped from me."
"You--you didn't let him know about the money?"
"Which you feloniously kept from him? Was that what you mean?"
"Ye--yes."
"No, I didn't."
Peter looked relieved.
"Where is he now?"
"Heaven knows! I don't. He deserted from the ship at Rio Janeiro. But
let me ask you, in turn, Peter, what has become of the mother, whom
each of us has so much reason to hate?"
"I don't know."
"Then she is no longer a tenant of yours?"
"She moved in less than a month after you went away."
"Couldn't pay her rent, ha!"
"Yes; she paid it as long as she stayed. I have not seen or heard
anything of her since."
"I have," said the mate, significantly.
"You!" exclaimed Peter, eagerly.
"I saw her to-day."
"How--where?"
"In a carriage."
"A carriage!" echoed Peter, in surprise.
"Yes; looking as bright and handsome as when she rejected you with
scorn."
The miser frowned.
"Where did you meet her?"
"On Washington Street. I was walking there when I chanced to look into
a gay carriage that was driving by, and saw her."
"Are you sure you are not mistaken?"
"No. I followed her to her place of residence."
"Where is it?"
"No.----Mt. Vernon Street."
"She must be rich, then."
"No; she is a governess there, though enjoying, I should think, unusual
privileges, and is, no doubt, happy."
Peter made no reply, but seemed occupied by other thoughts.
"And now, Peter, have you any idea what I came for?"
"To tell me this."
"I am not fool enough to take all this trouble."
"Then I don't know."
"I want money, Peter."
Peter could not be said to change color, but he grew more ghastly than
before, at this demand.
"I have nothing to give you," he said.
"Tell that to the marines. You must give me another thousand dollars."
"Another thousand dollars!" exclaimed the old man. "Where do you think
I should get it? Did I not impoverish myself in satisfying your last
demand, and have I not been obliged to live on bread and water since?"
Randall shrugged his shoulders.
"I dare say you have lived on bread and water, but as to being obliged
to, that is nonsense. I ask you again, to give me a thousand dollars.
You will have thousands left."
"I shall be a beggar," said the old man, passionately.
"A beggar!" returned Randall, laughing scornfully.
"Yes," said Peter, with energy. "You promised, when I gave you
a thousand dollars,"--his voice faltered as he recalled the
sacrifice,--"that you would ask no more. Now, you come back for another
sum as large, and it is not yet a year. You shall not have it!" he
exclaimed, passionately; "not if I had it fifty times over."
"Bethink you what you are saying, old man," said Randall, menacingly.
"Do you know that I can go to Mrs. Codman and denounce you?"
"You will not," said Peter, trembling.
"But I will, unless you comply with my demand. Now what do you say?
Better be reasonable, and consent, before I compel you."
"Never!" exclaimed the miser, desperately.
"I will denounce you to the police. Shall I have the money?"
But Peter was no longer to be moved, even by his fears. His love of
money overcame every other consideration, and again he exclaimed,
"Never!" with all the energy of which he was capable.
"Is this your final answer?"
"It is."
"Then I will help myself," said Randall, coolly, leaving his chair, and
beginning to lift up the trap-door, beneath which was the miser's box
of treasure.
As soon as Peter fairly comprehended his design, and saw the gold coins
in the grasp of the purloiner, unable to restrain himself, he threw
himself upon the mate with a cry as of a lioness deprived of her young,
and grasped the strong man by the throat with fingers, which, though
naturally weak, despair and rage made strong. At all events, it was
not particularly comfortable, and provoked Randall, who seized the old
man in his strong arms, and, with a muttered curse, hurled him to the
floor, where he lay pale and senseless.
"Confusion!" muttered Randall, in dismay, for Peter had uttered a
shrill scream as he fell. "I am afraid I shall get into an ugly
scrape."
He was not altogether wrong.