Charlie Codman's Cruise
- -
- 100%
- +
"It seems to me," said his visitor, dryly, taking in at a glance all the appointments of the room, "that you don't care much about the luxuries of life."
"I," said Peter, "I'm obliged to live very plain,—very plain, indeed,—because I am so poor."
"Poor or not," said the visitor, "you must afford to have a better fire while I am here. I don't approve of freezing."
He rose without ceremony, and taking half a dozen sticks from the hearth, deposited them in the stove, which now contained only some burning embers.
"Stay," said Peter, hastily. "Don't put so much on; it's wasteful, and I sha'n't have any left for to-morrow."
"I'll risk that," said the other, carelessly. "At any rate, it's better to be comfortable one day than to shiver through two."
The flame caught the wood, which soon blazed up, diffusing an unusually cheerful glow over the apartment. Peter, in spite of the dismay with which he had at first contemplated the sudden movement on the part of his visitor, and the awful consumption of wood which he knew must ensue, nevertheless appeared to enjoy the increased heat. He drew his chair nearer the stove, and an expression of satisfaction was visible in his face as he spread out both hands to catch a little warmth.
"There, Peter," said the stranger, "I knew you'd like it after it was fairly done. Isn't it worth while to have a good warm fire?"
"If it didn't cost so much," groaned Peter, the one thought intruding.
"Hush, Peter; if what people say be true, and as I am inclined to believe, there's no one better able to afford a good fire than you."
"No one better able!" repeated Peter, at once taking alarm, and lifting up both hands in earnest deprecation, "when I can hardly get enough together to keep from absolute starvation. Oh, it's a strange world, it's a strange world!"
"Well, Peter, some strange people do live in it, to be sure. But people do say, Peter, that you have a power of money hidden away in this old house somewhere."
Peter started to his feet in affright, then feeling that his movement might lead to suspicion, sank back into his seat, saying, uneasily, "I only wish it were true. People say such strange things. But it's only idle talk, idle talk. They know better."
"You'd be very grateful, I have no doubt, to anybody that would show you where all these treasures are that people talk about, wouldn't you, hey?"
"Ye—Yes," answered Peter Manson, who did not know quite how to understand his companion, whose tone seemed to have a hidden meaning which made him uneasy.
"And will you give me leave to search the house, if I will promise to give you half the gold I find?"
"But you wouldn't find any," answered the miser, hastily.
"Then there would be no harm done. Suppose now I should remove the flooring, just here for instance, don't you think I might possibly find something underneath that would repay me for my search?"
Unconsciously the speaker had hit upon one of Peter's places of deposit. Directly under where he was seated there was a box of gold coins. Accordingly this remark, which seemed to indicate to Peter some knowledge of his hiding-place, filled him with fearful apprehensions.
"No, no," said he, vehemently; "go away, there isn't any there. If that is all you have got to say, go away and leave me to my rest. I ought to be in bed; it is getting late."
"I have something more to say, Peter Manson," returned his companion. "If I had not, I should not have sought you to-night. What I have to say is of great importance to you as you will find. Will you hear it?"
"Go on," muttered Peter, his attention arrested, in spite of his fears, by the stranger's peculiar tone.
"First, then, let me tell you a story. It may be real, it may be only fancy. I won't say anything about that. By the way, Peter, were you ever in the West Indies?"
This question produced a singular effect upon Peter, considering its apparently unimportant character. He started, turned as pale as his ghastly complexion permitted, fixed an anxious glance upon the stranger, who looked as if nothing particular had happened, and said hastily, "No, I was never there. What made you ask?"
"Nothing particular," said the other, carelessly; "if you were never there, no matter. Only it is there that what I am going to tell you happened. But to my story.
"Some twenty years ago there lived in the city of Havana an American gentleman, no matter about his name, who had established himself in business in the city. He had married before he went there, and had a daughter about sixteen years of age. Well, his business flourished. Good luck seemed to attend him in all his ventures, and he seemed likely to accumulate enough to retire upon before many years."
Peter started, and as the story progressed seemed to be internally agitated. A keen glance satisfied his visitor of this; without appearing to notice it, however, he went on,—
"But things don't always turn out as well as we expect. Just when things looked brightest there came a sudden blow, for which the merchant was unprepared. On going to his counting-room one morning, he discovered that his book-keeper had disappeared, and what was worse, had carried off with him the sum of twenty thousand dollars—a large sum, was it not?"
"What is all this to me?" demanded Peter, with sudden fierceness.
"I will tell you by and by," said the stranger, coolly.
"I will take the liberty to put a little more wood into the stove, and then go on with my story."
"I—I'll put some in," said Peter.
He took a small stick about half as large round as his wrist, and opening the stove-door, put it in.
"That'll do to begin with," said the stranger, following it, to Peter's dismay, with half a dozen larger ones. "Now we'll be comfortable."
IV.
A STARTLING QUESTION
While Peter's uneasiness became every moment more marked, his visitor continued,—
"This sad defalcation was the more unfortunate because, on that very day notes to a heavy amount became due. Of course the merchant was unable to pay them. Do you know what was the result?"
"How should I know?" asked Peter, testily, avoiding the gaze of the stranger, and fixing his eyes uneasily upon the fire.
"Of course you couldn't know, I was foolish to think such a thing."
"Then what made you think it?" said Peter, in a petulant tone. "I don't care to hear your story. What has it got to do with me?"
"Don't be in too much of a hurry, and perhaps you will learn quite as soon as you care to. The same result followed, which always does follow when a business man cannot meet his engagements. He failed."
Peter stirred uneasily, but said nothing.
"His character for integrity was such that there were many who would have lent him a helping hand, and carried him safely through his troubles; but he was overwhelmed by the blow, and sank under it. Refusing all offers of assistance, he took to his bed, and some six months after died."
"And what became of his daughter?" asked Peter, showing a little curiosity for the first time.
"Ha! you seem to be getting interested," exclaimed the other, fixing his keen eyes upon Peter, who seemed confused. "His daughter was beautiful and had already won the heart of a young American, who had little money but a handsome figure and good business habits."
"Did she marry this young Codman?"
"Who told you his name was Codman?" asked Peter's visitor, watching him keenly.
"I—I thought you did," stammered the miser, disconcerted.
"You are mistaken. I have mentioned no name."
"Then I—I must have misunderstood you."
"I dare say," said the other, ironically. "However, we won't dispute that point. Well, this young Codman,—for singularly enough you hit upon the right name, not knowing anything of the circumstances of course,—this young Codman married Isabel."
"Isabel!" repeated the old man. "Her name was–"
Here he paused in sudden confusion, feeling that he was betraying himself by his incautious correction.
"Yes, Peter," said the other with a shrewd smile, "you are right. Her name was not Isabel, but Eleanor. I acknowledge that I was wrong; but it seems to me that, for one who is entirely a stranger to the events I have been describing, you show a wonderful shrewdness in detecting my mistakes."
Peter maintained a confused silence, and wriggled about uneasily, as if the stranger's fixed and watchful gaze disturbed him.
"Humph! well they say that some people have the gift of second sight, and others can see through millstones, and various other wonderful things."
"What has all this to do with me?" asked Peter, crossly, for he felt it necessary to make some demonstration. "It's getting late, and I want to go to bed. Go away, and—and come again to-morrow, if you want to."
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Peter, which means that I am sure of you now, and perhaps you wouldn't let me in if I should call to-morrow. If you are sleepy I have no objection to your going to bed. I can talk to you as well as if you were sitting up. I will stay here and keep the fire going."
Peter looked at the small pile of wood with a groan, and muttered something about "its being awful extravagant to keep such a fire."
"I believe," said the stranger, "I have not yet told you the name of the defaulted clerk."
Peter said nothing.
"It was Thornton, but his first name was Peter, the same as yours. Singular, isn't it, Peter?"
"I suppose there are a good many Peters in the world," muttered the old man.
"Very likely; though I hope most of them are better than this Peter Thornton. He got off without being taken, with the twenty thousand dollars in his possession. He was fond of money, and many thought this explained the defalcation. However, there were not wanting others who assigned a different motive. It was said that he had been smitten by the youthful charms of his employer's daughter Eleanor, who did not favor his suit."
Peter shifted uneasily in his chair.
"No one could blame her. In fact it was perfectly preposterous for him to think of mating with her. Did you speak?"
"No!" snarled Peter.
"I thought you said something. I repeat, that she had plenty of reasons for rejecting him. She was just sixteen, and beautiful as she was young, and had no lack of admirers ready to devote themselves to her. As for Peter Thornton, ha! ha! he never could have been very handsome, from all I have heard of him. In the first place, he was forty or more."
"Thirty-eight," muttered Peter, below his breath.
"And his features were irregular, besides being marked with the small-pox, which he had had in early life. He had a long, hooked nose like a bird's beak, an enormous mouth, little sharp gray eyes like a ferret's, and his hair was already mingled with gray. On the whole, he hadn't much beauty to boast of. Did you say anything?"
"No!" snarled Peter, sourly. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, and his face resting on his hands.
"Beg pardon, I thought you spoke. To add to Peter's charms of person, his disposition was not the sweetest that ever was. He had a harsh and crabbed manner, which would have led to his discharge if he had not had one saving trait. I will say, to his credit, that he was a capital book-keeper. Of his honesty his employer thought he was well assured, and probably if nothing had occurred of a character to wound Peter's pride, he might have continued faithful to his trust. One day, however, Peter took an opportunity, when he had been calling at the house of his employer on business connected with the counting-room, to declare his love to the young lady, whom he found alone in the drawing-room. You can imagine how much she was amused—why don't you laugh, Peter? You look as glum as if it were you that had met with this disappointment. The young lady told him plainly, as soon as she got over her astonishment, that she could give him no encouragement whatever. Perhaps there might have been in her tone something of the aversion which it was natural for her to feel at such a proposition from one so much beneath her. If they had married, it would have been a second case of Beauty and the Beast. Beg pardon, Peter, I believe you said something."
"No!" snarled Peter, fiercely. "Have you got nearly through? Your story is nothing to me—nothing, I say. I want to go to bed. You have kept me up too late already."
"I can't help that, Peter. It took me too long to get in for me to resign readily the pleasure of your society. I say, Peter, what a jolly good fellow you are,—quite a lively companion,—only it strikes me you might be a little more civil to your company. It isn't exactly polite to keep telling one how anxious you are for him to go.
"As I was saying, when you interrupted me, Eleanor told Peter very decidedly that she could not for an instant entertain his suit. He endeavored to change her determination, being an ardent, impulsive lover, and probably in her impatience she said something which irritated her lover, who went off in a rage. After a while, however, he was foolish enough to open the subject again. Of course she was extremely annoyed at his persistence, and seeing no other way of escaping the persecution, she felt it necessary to acquaint her father with what had transpired. The merchant was naturally indignant at his book-keeper's presumption, and calling him aside one morning threatened to discharge him from his employment unless he should forthwith desist. This was, of course, a great blow to Peter's pride. He had the good sense to say nothing, however, but none the less determined within himself to be revenged upon those who had scorned his advances, as soon as an opportunity offered. I don't know as I blame him. Perhaps I should have done the same under similar circumstances."
There was a trace of agitation upon the pale and wrinkled countenance of the miser.
"This it was," continued the stranger, "taken in connection with Peter's natural cupidity that led to the defalcation I have mentioned. So far as the merchant was concerned his revenge was completely successful, for he was the means of his ruin and premature death. And now, Peter," he added, suddenly changing his tone, "can you tell me what induced you to change your name from Thornton to Manson?"
"Me!" exclaimed the miser, starting to his feet in consternation, and glaring wildly at the speaker.
V.
THE COMPACT
"Yes," said the stranger, composedly; "I repeat the question, why did you change your name to Manson?"
"What—do—you—mean?" the old man faltered slowly.
"I mean just what I say, and I see you understand me well enough."
"You can't prove it," said Peter, with an uneasy glance at his imperturbable companion.
"Can't I? Perhaps not. I should say the mysterious knowledge you seem to possess of the main incidents in my story would prove something."
"That isn't evidence in a court of law," said Peter, regaining a degree of confidence.
"Perhaps not; but I say, Peter, don't you recognize me?"
The old man scanned his features eagerly, and a sudden look of remembrance satisfied the latter that he was not forgotten.
"I see you do remember me," he said; "I thought you hadn't forgotten John Randall. At any rate he hasn't forgotten you, though twenty years have passed, and I was then but a young man. I used to see you too often about the streets of Havana not to remember that hooked nose, those gray eyes, and (excuse my plainness of speech) that large mouth. Yes, Peter, your features are impressed upon my memory too indelibly to be effaced."
Peter Manson remembered his companion as one who had had the reputation of being a "wild" young man. He had been placed at school by his father without any profitable result. On his father's death he squandered, in dissipation, the property which came to him, and had since devoted himself to the sea.
"Having settled this little matter of your identity," continued Randall, "I am ready to finish my story. I told you that Eleanor married the young man whose name you remembered so well. He was poor, dependent upon his salary as a clerk, and thanks to you his wife had nothing to hope from her father. They were obliged to live in a very humble way. At length, thinking he could do better here, he removed to Boston, where his early life had been spent."
"To Boston!" muttered Peter.
"The removal took place some six years since. They had three children when they first came here, but two died, leaving only the second, a boy, named Charlie. I should think he might be fourteen years of age. And now, would you like to know if the husband is still living?"
"Is he?" asked Peter, looking up.
"No. He died about a year since, of a fever."
"And—and Eleanor? What of her?"
"For six months past she has been a tenant of yours."
"A tenant of mine!" exclaimed the miser.
"It is even so. She occupies a second-story room in the tenement-house in–Street."
"And I have met her face to face?"
"I dare say you have. Your tenants are pretty sure to have that pleasure once a month. But doesn't it seem strange that Eleanor Gray, the beautiful daughter of your Havana employer, should after these twenty years turn up in Boston the tenant of her father's book-keeper?"
"Ha! ha!" chuckled the miser, hoarsely, "she isn't so much better off than if she had married old Peter."
"As to being better off," said Randall, "I presume she is better off, though she can't call a hundred dollars her own, than if she were installed mistress of your establishment. Faugh! Poorly as she is obliged to live, it is luxury, compared with your establishment."
He glanced about him with a look of disgust.
"If you don't like it," said Peter, querulously, "there is no use of your staying. It is past my bedtime."
"I shall leave you in a few minutes, Peter, but I want to give you something to think of first. Don't you see that your property is in danger of slipping from your hands?"
"My property in danger!" exclaimed Peter, wildly; "what do you mean; where is the danger?" Then, his voice sinking to its usual whine,—"not that I have any of any consequence, I am poor—very poor."
"Only from what I see I could easily believe it, but I happen to know better."
"Indeed, I am–"
"No more twaddle about poverty," said Randall, decidedly, "it won't go down. I am not so easily deceived as you may imagine. I know perfectly well that you are worth at the very least, thirty thousand dollars."
"Thirty thousand dollars!" exclaimed the miser, raising both hands in astonishment.
"Yes, Peter, and I don't know but I may say forty thousand. Why, it can't be otherwise, with your habits. Twenty years ago you made off with twenty thousand, which has been accumulating ever since. Your personal expenses haven't made very large inroads upon your income, judging from your scarecrow appearance. So much the worse for you. You might have got some good from it. Now it must go to others."
"To others!" exclaimed Peter, turning pale.
"Certainly. You don't think the law gives you whatever you've a mind to steal, do you? Of course there is no doubt that to your tenants, Eleanor and Charlie Codman, belongs this property which you wrongfully hold."
"They sha'n't have it. They never shall have it," said Peter Manson, hastily.
"Well, perhaps the law may have something to say about that."
"My gold!" groaned the miser. "If I lose that I lose everything. It will be my death. Good Mr. Randall, have pity upon me. I am sure you won't say anything that–"
"Will bring you to state's prison," said Randall, coolly.
"They—Eleanor and her son—need never know it."
"Unless I tell them."
"But you won't."
"That depends upon circumstances. How much will you give me to keep the thing secret?"
"What will I give you?"
"Precisely. That is what I have been so long in coming at. You see, Peter, that the secret is worth something. Either I reveal it to the parties interested, in which case I wouldn't give that," snapping his fingers, "for your chance of retaining the property, or I keep silence if you make it worth my while."
"Pity me," said the miser, abjectly, sinking on his knees before Randall; "pity me and spare my gold."
"Pity you!" said Randall, contemptuously. "Why didn't you pity your employer? You must make up your mind to pay me my price."
"I am very poor," whined Peter, in his customary phrase, "and I can't pay much."
"Oh yes, Peter," said the other, sarcastically, "I am well aware that you are poor,—wretchedly poor,—and I won't be too hard upon you."
"Thank you—thank you," said Peter, catching at this promise; "I will give you something—a little–"
"How much?" asked Randall, with some curiosity.
"Ten dollars!" said the miser, with the air of a man who named a large sum.
"Ten dollars!" returned Randall, with a laugh of derision. "Ten dollars to secure the peaceable possession of thirty thousand! Old man, you must be mad, or you must think that I am."
"I—I did not mean to offend," said the old man, humbly. "If I double the sum will it satisfy you? I—I will try to raise it, though it will be hard—very hard."
"This is mere trifling, Peter Manson," said his visitor, decidedly. "Twenty dollars! Why I wouldn't have come across the street to get it. No, you will have to elevate your ideas considerably."
"How much do you demand?" said the miser, groaning internally, and fixing his eyes anxiously upon Randall.
"You must not make a fuss when I name the amount."
"Name it," said Peter, in a choking voice.
"One thousand dollars will purchase my silence, and not a dollar less."
Peter sprang from his seat in consternation.
"One thousand dollars! Surely you are not in earnest."
"But I am, though. This is not a subject I care to jest upon."
"One thousand dollars! It will take all I have and leave me a beggar."
"If it should, Peter," said his visitor, composedly, "I will procure you admission to the poor-house, where, if I am not much mistaken you will be better off than in this tumble-down old shanty."
"Has the man no mercy?" groaned Peter, wringing his hands.
"None at all."
"Then," exclaimed the miser, in a sudden fit of desperation, "I won't pay you a cent—not a single cent."
"That is your final determination, is it?"
"Ye—yes," muttered Peter, but less firmly.
"Very well. I will tell you the result. I shall at once go to Eleanor, and inform her of the good fortune which awaits her. No fear but she will pay me a thousand dollars for the intelligence."
"She has no money."
"I will furnish her with money for the lawyers—she can repay me out of your hoards."
Peter groaned.
"Ay, groan away, Peter. You'll have cause enough to groan, by and by. There is one thing you don't seem to consider, that the law will do something more than take away your property. I will come to see you in jail."
He rose to leave the room, but Peter called him back hastily. "We may come to terms yet," he said.
"Then you accede to my terms."
"I will give you five hundred."
"Good-night, Peter. I wish you happy dreams."
"St-stay!" exclaimed Peter, terrified. "I will give eight hundred."
"I am in something of a hurry," said Randall. "I believe I will call on Eleanor. I don't think we can make any arrangement."
"Hold! perhaps I will do as you say."
"Ah! now you are beginning to be reasonable," said Randall, resuming his seat.
"What security can you give me for your silence?"
"I'll tell you what I will do, Peter. You remember I told you Eleanor had a son, a boy of fourteen."
"Yes."
"His mother is quite devoted to him. Indeed, he contributes to her support by selling papers, and by various little jobs. Now, as long as Eleanor lives here you are in danger."
"Yes."
"And if a blow is levelled at her it must be through her boy."
"I see."
"Then I'll tell you of a scheme I have arranged. You must first know that I am mate of a vessel now in port, which is bound for San Francisco. We are to sail in a few days."
"Well?"
"We happen to be in want of a boy to fill up our regular number. Suppose I kidnap Eleanor's boy. Don't you see, that as he is her chief support, she will soon be in difficulties? and this, with her uncertainty about her boy's fate, may rid you of your greatest peril, and the only one of the two who could identify you."