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XII.
LANDLORD AND TENANT

The payment of a thousand dollars to Randall had been a severe blow to old Peter Manson, and this consideration materially lessened the satisfaction which he felt in Charlie's removal.

We re-introduce him to our readers, engaged, as usual, in counting over his hoards. Preparatory to doing so, he carefully secured the outer door, and also the door of the apartment which he occupied.

Then lifting up a plank from the floor, he raised from beneath a large box containing gold coins. It was very heavy, and it was not without difficulty that the old man, who was very feeble, succeeded in lifting it to a level with the floor.

The box was, perhaps, four fifths full.

The old man surveyed the deficiency with a groan.

"It might have been full," he muttered, "if I hadn't been obliged to pay away such a sight of money to that determined man. One thousand dollars! two hundred bright, sparkling coins! How many, many weary days it will take before I can supply their place. It was all but full. It wanted only ten more coins to make five thousand dollars. Oh gold, gold, gold! How beautiful you are! To me you are food and drink and clothing and friends and relations. I care for nothing but you."

While Peter was indulging in this soliloquy, he was engaged in counting the coins in the box.

The result of the count showed one less than he had anticipated.

The old man turned pale.

"Some one has robbed me," he muttered. "Or, perchance, I have counted wrong. I will go over it again."

This he did with eager haste and a feeling of nervous anxiety, and, to his no small dismay, the count resulted as before.

"They have taken my money!" exclaimed Peter, tearing his white hair in anguish. "They will make me a beggar, and I shall be reduced to want in my old age. Oh, oh!"

In the midst of his lamentations he suddenly discovered the missing coin, which had rolled away, without his observing it, to the opposite side of the room.

Chuckling with delight, he picked it up and replaced it in the box.

His duty satisfactorily performed, the miser put on his cloak, and prepared for another task. This was, to raise Mrs. Codman's rent, and so compel her to leave the rooms which she rented of him. This, however, was unnecessary, since, deprived of Charlie's earnings, his mother would have found it impossible to pay the rent previously demanded.

Peter Manson resolved to call upon his tenant in person. He was not afraid of recognition. He felt that the changes which twenty years had wrought in his appearance, would be a sufficient protection. Indeed, this had already been tested; for Peter had already called several times on the same errand, without attracting a glance which could be construed into recognition.

It was the morning after Charlie had disappeared. He had been absent twenty-four hours, and his mother had heard nothing of him. She was in a terrible state of apprehension and anxiety, for few boys were more regular than he in repairing home as soon as his daily duties were over.

Mrs. Codman had sat up late into the night, hoping against her fears that he would return. At length, exhausted by her vigils, she sank upon the bed, but not to sleep. In the morning she rose, unrefreshed, to prepare her solitary meal. But it was in vain. Sorrow and anxiety had taken away her appetite, and she was unable to eat anything.

Soon afterwards a knock was heard at the door. She hastened to open it, hoping to hear some tidings of her lost boy. What was her disappointment to meet the bent form and wrinkled face of Peter Manson, her landlord.

The old man gave her a stealthy glance.

"Why did I not know her before?" he thought. "She is not so very much changed. But I—ha, ha! she don't know who I am."

Mrs. Codman went to a drawer in her bureau, and took therefrom six dollars.

"This is the amount of your rent, I believe," she said.

The old man greedily closed his fingers upon the money, and then, after intimating that it was very small, avowed his determination to raise the rent to two dollars per week.

The miser watched with gleeful exultation the look of dismay which came over the face of his tenant.

Two dollars a week was not only beyond Mrs. Codman's means, but was, at that time, an exorbitant rent for the rooms which she occupied. She would scarcely have been justified in paying it while she had Charlie's earnings as well as her own to depend on. Yet there seemed now an imperative necessity for remaining where she was, for a time at least. It was possible that Charlie would come back, and if she should remove, where would he find her? Of course, he would come back! The thought that there was even a possibility of her son being lost to her was so full of shuddering terror, that Mrs. Codman would not for a moment indulge it. Life without Charlie would be so full of sadness, that she could not believe him lost.

She resolved to make an effort to arouse the old man's compassion. She did not dream of the spite and hatred which he felt towards her. There are none whom the wicked hate so heartily as those whom they have injured. That is something beyond forgiveness.

Mrs. Codman knew that Peter Manson was avaricious, and to this she attributed the increase in the rent. She had no suspicion that he had a particular object in distressing her.

"Surely, Mr. Manson," she remonstrated, "You do not think these rooms worth two dollars a week. It is all we are able to do to raise the rent we now pay."

"Humph!" muttered Peter, avoiding the eye of his tenant, "they are worth all I can get for them."

"Have you raised the rent on the other rooms in this house?"

"No, but I—I shall soon."

"Then I tremble for your tenants. Mr. Manson, if you were poor yourself, perhaps you would have a heart to sympathize with and pity the poor."

"If I were poor!" exclaimed the old man, betrayed into his customary whine; "I am poor; indeed, I am very poor."

"You!" repeated Mrs. Codman, incredulously. "Why, you must receive a thousand dollars a year from this building."

"Yet I—I am poor," persisted Peter. "I am only an agent. I—I do not own this building; at least—I mean—there are heavy incumbrances on it; I have to pay away nearly every dollar I receive."

"Can you let me remain a month longer for the same rent as heretofore?" asked Mrs. Codman, anxiously.

"I—I couldn't do it," said Peter, hastily. "Either you must pay two dollars a week, or move out."

Mrs. Codman hesitated.

She went to her bureau, and found that she had between five and six dollars remaining in her purse. This would enable her, in addition to what she could earn by sewing, to get along for a month.

"Very well, sir," said she, "I must stay a month longer, at any rate. I must for my boy's sake."

"Have you a son?" asked Peter, desirous of learning from the mother's lips that the blow had struck home.

"Yes; you have probably seen him here sometimes."

"I haven't noticed him."

"I am feeling very anxious about him. Yesterday morning he went out on an errand for some one who had engaged him, and he hasn't been back since. I am afraid something must have happened to him," and the mother's eyes filled with tears.

"Perhaps he has fallen off from one of the wharves, and got drowned," suggested Peter, with a savage delight in the pain he was inflicting.

"You don't think it possible!" exclaimed Mrs. Codman, starting to her feet, and looking in the old man's face with a glance of agonized entreaty, as if he could change by his words the fate of her son.

"Such things often happen," said Peter, chuckling inwardly at the success of his remark; "I knew a boy—an Irish boy, about the size of yours—drowned the other day."

"About the size of my boy! I thought you had not noticed him."

"I—I remember having seen him once," stammered Peter. "He is about a dozen years old, isn't he?"

"Yes; but you don't—you can't think him drowned."

"How should I know?" muttered Peter. "Boys are careless, very careless, you know that; and like as not he might have been playing on the wharf, and–"

"No, it can't be," said Mrs. Codman, with a feeling of relief which her knowledge of Charlie's habits gave her. "Charlie was not careless, and never went to play on the wharf."

The old man was disappointed to find that his blow had failed of its effect, but ingenious in devising new methods of torture, he now suggested the true cause of Charlie's absence.

"Perhaps," he said, with his cruel gray eyes fixed upon the mother, "perhaps he's been carried off in a ship."

"Carried off in a ship!" faltered Mrs. Codman.

"Yes," said Peter, delighted by the evident dismay with which this suggestion was received.

"But," said Mrs. Codman, not quite comprehending his meaning, "Charlie never had any inclination to go to sea."

"Perhaps they didn't consult him about it," suggested Peter.

"What do you mean?" exclaimed the mother, with startling emphasis, half advancing towards the old man.

"You—you shouldn't be so violent," said Peter, trembling, and starting back in alarm.

"Violent! Deprive a mother of her only child, and she may well show some vehemence."

"I—I didn't do it," said Peter, hastily.

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Codman, wondering at his thinking it necessary to exculpate himself; "but you were saying something about—about boys being carried to sea against their will."

"I didn't mean anything," muttered Peter, regretting that he had put her on the right track.

"But you did, otherwise you would not have said it. For heaven's sake, tell me what you did mean, and all you meant. Don't fear to distress me. I can bear anything except this utter uncertainty."

She looked up earnestly in the old man's face.

Peter was somewhat amused at the idea that he might be afraid to distress her, but decided, on reflection, to tell her that all he chose she should be made acquainted with.

"Sometimes," he explained, "a captain is short of hands, and fills out his number the best way he can. Now perhaps one of the ships at the wharves might have wanted a boy, and the captain might have invited your son on board, and, ha, ha! it almost makes me laugh to think of it, might carry him off before he thought where he was."

"Do you laugh at the thought of such a cruel misfortune?" asked Mrs. Codman, startled from her grief by the old man's chuckle.

"I—excuse me, I didn't intend to; but I thought he would be so much surprised when he found out where he was."

"And does that seem to you a fitting subject for merriment?" demanded the outraged mother.

The miser cowed beneath her indignant glance, and muttering something unintelligible, slunk away.

"Curse her!" he muttered, in his quavering tones, "why can't I face her like a man? I never could. That was the way when—when she rejected me. But I shall have my revenge yet."

Strange to say, Peter's last suggestion produced an effect quite different from that which he anticipated and intended. Days passed, and Charlie did not come; but his mother feeling certain, she hardly knew why, that he had been inveigled on board some vessel, felt sure he would some day return.

"He will write to me as soon as he gets a chance," thought the mother, "and I shall soon see him again."

XIII.
CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE

Small as was the remuneration which Mrs. Codman received for sewing, she hoped, by great economy, to get along with the money which she already had on hand. But troubles never come singly, and of this she was destined to feel the full significance.

One morning she made up a bundle of completed work, and proceeded with it to the ready-made clothing store of Messrs. Sharp & Keene, her employers. It was a trial to one reared as Mrs. Codman had been, to come into contact with men who did not think it necessary to hide their native coarseness from one who made shirts for them at twenty cents apiece.

On the present occasion she was kept waiting for some time, before her presence appeared to be noticed. At length, Sharp nodded to her from the desk.

"Ahem! Mrs. Wiggins," commenced Sharp.

"Codman, sir," corrected the one addressed.

"Well, the name don't signify, I suppose. How many shirts have you got there?"

"Half a dozen, sir."

"Half a dozen at twenty cents apiece make a dollar and twenty cents. Present this card at the other desk, and you will be paid."

He scratched on a card "6 shirts—$1.20," and handed to her, at the same time calling, in a loud voice, "Here, Thomas, pay Mrs. Wigman a dollar and twenty cents."

"Codman, sir."

"It seems to me you are mighty particular about your name."

"Shall I have more work?" asked Mrs. Codman, with some anxiety.

"Well, not at present. Business is dull just now. Nothing doing, and won't be for some time to come."

"How long before you can probably give me something to do?" inquired Mrs. Codman, apprehensively.

"Can't say," was the careless reply. "It may be a month, or six weeks. You can call round in four or five weeks."

"What am I to do between now and then?" thought the poor woman, her heart sinking.

She must get something to do. She could not live otherwise, more especially since the rise in the rent, and her resources had been so largely diminished by the withdrawal of Charlie's services.

She applied at several other shops which she passed on the way home, but found, in every case, that they were already overrun with applications, and in the slack of business would be compelled to discharge some of those at present employed.

But the hour is the darkest that's just before day, and when fortune has done its worst, oftentimes the tide turns, and affairs improve.

So it proved with Mrs. Codman.

On reaching home, not a little depressed at the idea of remaining inactive, when she stood so much in need of the proceeds of her labor, Mrs. Codman had scarcely removed her bonnet and shawl, when she heard a knock at her door.

In answer to her "Come in," the door opened, and the washer-woman, who roomed just above, entered.

"How do you do, Mrs. O'Grady?" said Mrs. Codman.

"I am very well, Miss Codman, and I hope it's the same wid yerself. Have you heard anything of the swate boy that was lost?"

"Nothing," was the sad reply.

"Cheer up, then, Miss Codman. He'll be coming back bimeby, wid his pockets full of gold, so that you won't have to work any more."

"I am afraid that I shall not be able to work any more at present," returned Mrs. Codman.

"And what for not? Is it sick that ye are?"

Mrs. Codman related the want of success which she had met with in procuring work. She also mentioned Peter's visit and the increased rent.

"Just like him, the old spalpeen!" broke out Mrs. O'Grady, indignantly. "He wants to squeeze the last cint out of us poor folks, and it don't do him any good neither. I'd be ashamed if Mr. O'Grady wint about dressed as he does. But may be, Miss Codman, I'll get you a chance that'll take you out of his reach, the mane ould rascal!"

"You get me a chance! What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Codman, turning with surprise to her Hibernian friend and defender.

"I'll tell ye, only jist sit down, for it may take me some time."

This was Mrs. O'Grady's explanation, which it may be better to abridge, for the good lady was wont to be somewhat prolix and discursive in her narratives.

It seems she had been employed, at sundry times, in the house of a Mr. Bowman, a wealthy merchant living on Mt. Vernon Street. This gentleman had lost his wife some months before. The only child arising from this union was a daughter, about ten years of age. Her father did not like schools, either public or private, for a child of her years, and preferred that his daughter, for the present, should be educated at home. Hitherto she had been left pretty much to herself, and had never been willing to apply herself to study.

Mr. Bowman was now looking out for a suitable governess for his daughter, and it had struck Mrs. O'Grady—who, though ignorant and uncultivated herself, was sharp-sighted enough to detect the marks of education and refinement in another—that Mrs. Codman would suit him.

So Mrs. O'Grady, in her zeal, made bold to intimate to the servants, through whom it reached Mr. Bowman, that she knew a sweet lady who would be just the one for a governess for the young lady.

Now the recommendation of an Irish washer-woman may not be considered the most valuable in an affair of this kind; but it so happened that the suggestion reached Mr. Bowman at a time when he was so oppressed with business cares that he did not know how to spare the time necessary to seek out a governess. He accordingly summoned Mrs. O'Grady to a conference, and asked some hasty questions of her, which she answered by such a eulogistic account of Mrs. Codman, whose condescending kindness had quite won her heart, that Mr. Bowman desired her to request Mrs. Codman to call upon him the next day at a stated hour.

"So you see, Miss Codman," concluded the warmhearted Irish woman, "that you're in luck, and all you've got to do is to call upon Mr. Bowman to-morrow, and you'll get a nice home, and won't have to work any more at your sewing."

Mrs. Codman did not at once reply.

"And won't you go?" asked Mrs. O'Grady, wondering at her silence.

"I think I will," said Mrs. Codman; "and I feel much obliged to you, my good friend, for saying a kind word for me, though I do not feel at all confident that I shall obtain this place."

"Niver fear for that," said the sanguine washer-woman; "he'll see at once that you're a rale lady, and it's in luck he'll be to get you."

Undoubtedly the position of a governess would be more remunerative, and less laborious, than that of a seamstress, and, under present circumstances, Mrs. Codman felt that she could not afford to throw the chance away. She retired that night a little more cheerful and hopeful than would have been the case had not this door of escape from the evil of want been shown her.

XIV.
BERT

In the breakfast-room of a house on Mt. Vernon Street sat two persons with whom it is necessary that we should become acquainted.

The first is a gentleman of perhaps forty-five, rather stout, and with a pleasant expression of countenance. He has finished his cup of coffee, and taken up the morning paper, which he scans carefully, more especially those parts relating to business.

At the opposite side of the table is a young lady of ten, with mirthful black eyes, and very red cheeks, which are well set off by her black hair. Altogether, she is very handsome, a fact of which she is not altogether unconscious. She is lively, fresh, original, and impulsive, not under very much restraint, but with an excellent disposition and kindly feelings, which do not allow her to go very far wrong. Yet it must be confessed that thus far her education has been sadly neglected, so that, as far as learning goes, she probably knows less than most girls two years younger.

The room, in which the father and daughter were seated, is tastefully furnished with that regard to comfort which is found in our American houses.

The two whom we have thus introduced are Benjamin Bowman, a wealthy merchant, and his daughter Bertha, though, in that shortening of names which is apt to take place in a family, hers has been shortened to Bert, which she appears to prefer to the longer and more strictly feminine name.

"Papa," she said, pushing away her plate, "you ain't good company at all."

"Thank you for the compliment, Bert," he said.

"But you're not, though. There you are wearing out your eyes over that stupid paper, and leaving me to talk to myself or Topsy. Here, Topsy, isn't it so?"

At this summons a kitten, black as the ace of spades, and very much addicted to fun and frolic, jumped into the lap of her young mistress, and purred a noisy acquiescence.

"There," said Bert, triumphantly, "Topsy says I am right. I don't know what I should do without Topsy."

"She makes a very suitable companion for you, Bert," said Mr. Bowman, smiling.

"Why?" asked the cat's mistress, suspiciously.

"Because you can sympathize so well. Both are equally mischievous, and it is very difficult to tell which knows the most of books."

"Now, papa, that is a slander. I will sue you for libel."

"On your own account, or the kitten's?" asked Mr. Bowman. "I really don't know which I have done injustice to."

"Now you are laughing at me, papa. I know you are."

"Not entirely, Bert. The fact is, you are terribly ignorant for one of your age."

"I suppose I am," said Bert, shaking her head in comic despair.

"You'll grow up with no more knowledge than a Hottentot."

"Don't they have any schools among the Hottentots?"

"I suppose not."

"How delightful that must be! Why can't we move out where they live?"

"I don't know but we shall have to," said her father, "as, hereabouts, young ladies are expected to know something about books. But that reminds me I don't know but I shall succeed in engaging a governess for you to-day."

"A governess to-day!" exclaimed Bert, in dismay.

"Yes. I have made an appointment with a lady to call here at nine o'clock, and, if I am satisfied with her, I intend to engage her."

"And if I am satisfied with her," added Bert.

"Is that essential?" asked her father, smiling.

"Yes, for you know she will be with me most of the time. If she is like Julia Campbell's governess, I sha'n't like her."

"Well, and what fault do you find with Julia Campbell's governess?" asked Mr. Bowman, with more interest than his tone conveyed; for he knew that if Bert did not fancy her governess she would be a most incorrigible little rebel, and would be likely to profit very little by her instructions.

"Oh, she's as disagreeable as she can be. In the first place, she's an old maid,—not that that's so very bad. In fact, I've about made up my mind to be an old maid myself."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Bowman, amused. "May I inquire your reasons?"

"Too numerous to mention."

"Perhaps one is, that you don't expect to have any chance to change your name."

"I have had a chance already," said Bert, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Had a chance already!" exclaimed her father, in amazement.

"Yes," said the young lady of ten, "Charlie Morrill offered himself the other day, and I refused him."

"What is the world coming to?" thought Mr. Bowman. "Why did you refuse him?"

"Because," said Bert, soberly, "I don't like the way he parts his hair. But as for Julia's governess, I know she never had an offer. She's as homely as—as—well, I don't know who. Then she wears glasses, and has a nose ever so long, and a long face, and she never smiles, and she makes Julia study terrible hard."

And Bert drew a long breath.

"Not a very charming picture, certainly," said Mr. Bowman; "but I'll promise you that, if the lady who applies for the post of governess to-day should be anything like this, I won't engage her."

"That's right, papa. When do you expect her?"

"Let me see. She was to be here at nine, and now it wants only ten minutes of that time."

"And you won't send me out of the room, papa, will you?"

Mr. Bowman hesitated.

"You know I am very anxious to see how she looks. If I like her, I will make a sign to you, and then you can engage her."

"What sign will you make, Bert?" asked her father, amused, and yet alive to the necessity of securing his daughter's acquiescence in his choice.

"I don't know," said Bert, reflecting; "suppose I wink."

"And suppose the lady should see you winking at me? What do you suppose she would think?"

"Oh, I could tell her afterwards, you know, and she would feel flattered, knowing it was a sign that I liked her."

"She might not think it very lady-like in you."

"What's the use of being lady-like? I don't want to be. There's Florence Gates; I suppose she's lady-like. I'll show you how she walks."

Bert imitated the gait of the young lady, swaying herself from side to side, as she walked with mincing step, tossing her head, and exhibiting a caricature of the airs and affectations which girls sometimes delight to display.

"Why, she wouldn't run for a thousand dollars," exclaimed Bert. "She would think it beneath her dignity. If she is lady-like, I don't want to be. But, hark! there goes the bell. She's coming. Now, papa, just remember, I shall wink if I like her, and if I don't I'll make up a face."

Bert transferred herself to an ottoman, and took Topsy into her lap.

Both she and her father looked towards the door with curiosity.