Charlie Codman's Cruise

"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."