Charlie Codman's Cruise

And this is the way Charlie took leave of the Bouncing Betsey.

XXXII.

FIRST LESSONS

We will not attempt to depict the rage and vexation of Randall and the captain when they ascertained that Bill Sturdy had made his escape from the vessel and taken Charlie with him. For they entertained no doubt from the previous intimacy of the two that they had deserted the ship in company. They instituted as strict a search as they were able, and even offered a reward to any of the crew who should be instrumental in bringing back either, but particularly the boy. None of the sailors, however, would have betrayed our hero, even if they had had the opportunity. Captain Brace was finally obliged to put to sea without those whom he was so desirous of getting back into his power. He was compelled at the last to ship two new hands in place of Bill Sturdy and Antonio.

As for Bill Sturdy, he embarked on the Liverpool-bound vessel. He was desirous that Charlie should go as passenger, offering to pay his fare, that he might be spared the hardships of a boy on board ship. But to this arrangement our hero strongly objected. He said he had no intention of being idle, and as to the hardships, he was willing to encounter them. Bill, therefore, withdrew his objections, and Charlie became one of the crew. He soon became a favorite, and as the captain and mate were quite different in character and disposition from those of the Bouncing Betsey, his voyage proved much more pleasant and satisfactory.

We must now take leave of our young hero, well assured that he is in good hands, and, transferring the scene to Boston, inquire into the fate of our friends there.

It will be remembered that Mrs. Codman, after the abduction of her son, was successful in obtaining the post of governess to a rather playful and mischievous young lady, the only daughter of a wealthy merchant named Bowman.

Mrs. Codman found her pupil as playful as a kitten, and about as fond of study. To confess the truth, Miss Bert Bowman was deplorably ignorant for a young lady of her age. Her governess, however, soon ascertained that it was from no want of natural capacity, but rather because she had been so much indulged, that nothing had been required of her beyond what the young lady chose to perform, and that was exceedingly little. In a private conversation with Mrs. Codman, Mr. Bowman explained the deficiencies of Bert with their cause, and went on to say, "Now, my dear madam, I wish to surrender Bert to your charge entirely. I feel assured that I may rely upon your judgment to adopt such a course as may be best adapted to reconcile her to study, of which at present, she has a great dread. I would not counsel too great strictness at first, though I do not apprehend that from you. Neither perhaps ought we to try to advance very rapidly at first. Step by step, will be the most judicious way. In regard to hours, text-books, and studies generally, you will do as you think best."

"I thank you, Mr. Bowman," replied Mrs. Codman, "for your dependence on my judgment, and hope to deserve it. I hope my young pupil, who, I am convinced is not wanting in intelligence, will do justice to her natural capacity."

The next day Mrs. Codman commenced her undertaking, for such it may appropriately be called.

"Bertha," said she, pointing to the clock, "it is nine o'clock. Suppose we commence our studies."

"Just let me have another race with Topsy," said Bert, who was flying round the room in pursuit of the black kitten, who was evidently regarded by her young mistress as a congenial companion.

"I am afraid I must say no, my dear child," said Mrs. Codman gently; "there is nothing like punctuality. So if you will just ring the bell, I will ask Jane to take away Topsy for the present."

"Can't Topsy come to school with me?" asked Bert, disappointed.

"I am afraid if she did my other pupil would not make very much progress."

Bert unwillingly acquiesced in the dismission of her favorite companion.

"You won't keep me as long as they do in school, will you, Mrs. Codman?" asked Bert. "If I had to study four or six hours, I should certainly go into a fit."

"I dare say you would," replied her teacher, smiling. "Therefore 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.