GOOD NEWS AND BAD
The return of her father from the city was a happy event to Bertha,
and she was always the first to greet him on his arrival. It was an
everyday occurrence, but it lost none of its interest on this account.
He was the only parent she had, and his smile, as she welcomed him
home, was worth all the watching and waiting which it cost.
When, therefore, on that eventful evening, the man who had gone to
drive him up from the railroad station returned without him, gloomy
forebodings filled her mind. Her father was very regular and methodical
in his habits, and had never missed a train, or remained away overnight
without announcing his intention to do so beforehand. This fact, added
to the sad and anxious look which Mr. Grant had worn for several days,
was enough to awaken painful thoughts, even in a mind less sensitive
than that of Bertha.
The long, gloomy night wore away without any tidings from the absent
father. Richard slept, and Fanny slept, but Bertha scarcely closed
her eyes, so deeply was she impressed with the dread of some coming
calamity. Long before sunrise, she left her chamber, and wandered up
and down the walks upon the lawn, trying to make herself believe that
nothing had happened to her father.
“Why, Miss Bertha, how pale you are this morning!” exclaimed Noddy, as
he met her on the lawn, after the first bell had rung. “Are you sick?”
“No, Noddy, I am not sick.”
“What ails you, then? Is it because your father did not come home last
night?”
“Not because he did not come home, but because I fear something has
happened to him.”
“Well, I am glad I haven’t got any father to bother me like that! I
never had any trouble about my relations,” laughed Noddy.
“You must not talk so, Noddy; it does not sound well. If you had a good
and kind father, as I have, he would be a great joy to you.”
“But your father don’t seem to be a great joy to you just now,” added
Noddy, whose philosophy had been developed at the expense of his
affections.
“Yes, he is; and even if I knew that he were dead”--and Bertha
shuddered as she uttered the words--“the remembrance of his love and
kindness would still be a great joy to me.”
“Well, I don’t understand those things, and I suppose I ought not to
say anything about them,” said Noddy, as he observed the great tear
that slid down the pale cheek of Bertha. “There’s going to be a race
to-day.”
“What kind of a race?”
“Mr. Richard is going to race with Tom Mullen. Each one put up five
dollars, and Bob Bleeker has got the money.”
Bertha was shocked at this piece of news, for it assured her that her
brother had never made a resolution to abandon his evil associates, or
that he had broken it.
“Are you sure of what you say, Noddy?”
“Yes; I am certain of it. Tom Mullen told me all about it yesterday.”
“Where did you see him?”
“I saw him on the river. You know you lent me your boat to go up to the
island, and I met him on my way back. The reason why he told me was,
that he wanted to know what Mr. Richard had been doing to his boat, to
make her sail faster.”
The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the breakfast bell.
Bertha noticed that Richard was more than usually excited. He hurried
through the morning meal, and hastened down to the wharf, whither
Bertha followed him, and joined him on board the _Greyhound_.
“I wish you would take the morning train to the city, Richard, and
ascertain what has become of father,” said Bertha, as she stepped into
the sailboat. “I feel almost sure something has happened to him.”
“I can’t go to-day,” replied Richard, impatiently.
“Why not, Dick?”
“Because I can’t. I think that is reason enough.”
“How rude you are! If you felt as badly as I do, you would be glad to
go.”
“Badly? Why should you feel badly? Don’t you think father is old
enough, and knows enough, to take care of himself?”
“You know he has the heart complaint, and----”
Bertha could not complete her sentence, for there was in her mind a
vivid picture of her father lying dead in his office, where he might
have fallen when there was no one near to help him, or even to witness
his expiring agony. She burst into tears and wept in silence, with the
awful picture still before her mental vision. Richard, disturbed by
none of his sister’s doubts or fears, coolly cast loose the sails of
the _Greyhound_, and made his preparations for the exciting event of
the day. Bertha continued to weep, without his sympathy or even his
notice, for a time.
“My poor father!” sobbed Bertha.
“What are you crying about, Berty?”
“I am almost certain that something has happened to father. He never
stayed away overnight before without letting us know where he was.”
“Oh, nonsense! He is full of business, and something has detained him.
If he were sick, or anything worse had happened to him, we should have
heard of it before this time. I tell you it is all right.”
“Even if it is all right, it will do no harm to ascertain the fact. You
can go to the city this morning, and return by the noon train,” said
Bertha, whose anxiety for her father had overshadowed everything else,
and even made her forget the race of which Noddy had told her.
“I told you I couldn’t go this morning,” answered he, petulantly. “Why
don’t you go yourself?”
“I cannot leave to-day. Fanny is to have her party this afternoon.”
“Well, I can’t go, and it is of no use to talk about it. I have an
engagement that I must keep.”
“I hope you are not going with that wicked Tom Mullen again,” added
she, as Noddy’s unpleasant intelligence recurred to her mind.
“I don’t want any preaching.”
“You are going with those boys again! Oh, Richard! I beg of you, do
not.”
“What’s the matter now?” sneered Richard.
“Stay at home to-day with me, Richard. You don’t know how lonely and
sad I feel.”
“The more fool you!”
“How unkind you are, Dick!”
“Come, Berty, don’t whine any more; that’s a good girl,” said he,
changing his tone as policy, rather than feeling, seemed to dictate.
“If father doesn’t come home before three o’clock, and you don’t hear
from him, I will agree to go to the city by the afternoon train, and
find out where he is. Positively, Berty, that is the best I can do.
Now, be a good girl, Berty, and go ashore, or you won’t be ready for
Fanny’s party.”
“I feel almost as bad for you as I do for father,” sobbed Bertha.
“Why, what under the canopy of Jupiter has got into you now?” exclaimed
Richard, suspending his work, and looking in her face with astonishment.
“I know you are going to do something wrong to-day, Dick.”
“Do you, indeed? Then you are a long way ahead of my time. What do you
mean?”
“You are going to sail your boat against Tom Mullen’s.”
“Who told you that?”
“Isn’t it so, Dick?”
“Well, suppose it is; what then? There is no great harm in racing
boats, I hope.”
“And you have put up five dollars, as a bet, on the race.”
“Who told you this?”
“Is it true, Dick?”
“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn’t; what then?”
“You don’t answer me, Dick!”
“Did you ever hear of such a thing as a race for nothing?” answered he,
sullenly. “I would give another five dollars to know who told you this.”
“Money seems to be very plenty with you, though father hasn’t given you
any for six or seven weeks.”
“Now, you have said enough, Berty, and you may go ashore. Do you think
I am going to listen to your preaching, and have you domineer over me,
like that? If you don’t leave the boat, I will help you ashore,” said
Richard, who was now so angry that he had lost control of himself.
“Don’t be angry, Richard. You are my brother and you know I would not
willingly offend you.”
“That’s just what you are doing.”
“But you are going with those bad boys again. You are taking your first
steps in gambling. If you knew how bad these things make me feel, you
wouldn’t be cross to me. I don’t want to have my brother like Tom
Mullen.”
“Now, shut up! Don’t whine any more over me. I am able to take care of
myself, and I don’t want a sermon from you every time you happen to
have the blues.”
“Where did you get the money, Dick, to bet on the race?”
“That’s none of your business,” replied Richard, rudely. “Do you mean
to hint that I stole it?”
“I hope not, Dick.”
“If you haven’t any better opinion of me than that, you had better hold
your tongue.”
“You remember the other time, when you were going to have this race
with Tom Mullen? You know what you were tempted to do that time?”
“That was father’s money, and just as much mine as it was yours. You
wouldn’t lend me the money, and you see what you made me do.”
“I only wanted to keep you away from those boys. If father were at
home, you know he wouldn’t let you go.”
“He couldn’t help himself,” growled Richard; “and you can’t; so you may
as well go into the house, and hold your tongue.”
“Won’t you give up this race for my sake, Richard?” pleaded the poor
girl, whose solicitude was now divided between her father and her
brother.
“No, I won’t! All the teasing, scolding, preaching, fretting and
threatening in the world won’t make me back out this time.”
“At least tell me where you got the money that you put up.”
“I won’t do that, either,” said Richard, stoutly. “I came honestly by
it, and that’s enough for you to know. You need not scold or threaten
any more, but go home.”
“I haven’t threatened you,” sighed Bertha; “you know I didn’t tell
father about the ten dollars.”
“I know you didn’t; but you told him I went with Tom Mullen and the
rest of the fellows, and that was just as bad.”
“I did it for your good.”
“If you won’t go ashore, I will!” said Richard, angrily, as he jumped
into his skiff and paddled to the wharf as fast as he could.
Poor Bertha, trembling for her father and her brother, was sorely tried
by the unfeeling conduct of the latter. She could do nothing to restore
the one or redeem the other. Richard would go, though she had done all
she could to prevent him from doing so. As she sat weeping in the boat,
she tried to think of some plan to keep Richard at home. She knew that
Ben could do it; that he would even lock him up in the boathouse, if
she wished him to do so; but she was unwilling to resort to extreme
measures.
Whatever else might be, it was certain that crying would do no good;
and summoning all her resolution, she dried her tears, and determined
to make the best of her trying situation. Stepping into the boat, she
rowed to the shore. Her resolution was already imparting new courage
to her soul, and she felt that she could endure all that might be in
store for her. But she did not abandon her purpose to save her brother.
He had left her in anger, and she hoped, when he became himself again,
that he would hear her.
As she passed up the path toward the house, where Richard had gone,
she saw Ben hastening toward her with all the speed his rheumatic
joints would permit. As he approached he held up a letter, which caused
Bertha’s heart to beat with hope and fear.
“Here is a letter, Miss Bertha. The handwriting is your father’s; so
I suppose nothing has happened to him,” said Ben, as he gave her the
letter.
“I hope not. Where did you get it?” asked Bertha, as she tore open the
envelope.
“The conductor on the morning train brought it up.”
Bertha’s face lighted up with pleasure as she read the first line; but
as she proceeded with the letter, her expression changed, and the shade
of sadness deepened into a look of grief and alarm. The letter was as
follows:
“NEW YORK CITY, August 12th.
“MY DEAR CHILDREN: An unexpected event detained me in the city last
night, and prevented me from sending you any word that I could not
go home as usual; but I am alive and well, and I hope my unexplained
absence did not cause you any anxiety or alarm.
“But, my dear children, the event to which I allude promises the
most serious consequences to me in my business relations, and before
many days you may be called upon to share with me the trials and
misfortunes from which only a few men in active business life can be
exempted. You may be compelled to give up the comforts and luxuries
of our elegant home; but while your father retains his honor and
integrity, can you not bear with him the loss of everything else?
I do not yet know the extent of my misfortune, and I have only
mentioned it that you might the sooner learn to endure with patience
the change to which we must submit.
“I shall not be able to go home to-night or to-morrow night--perhaps
not for several days. I am much distressed by the aspect of my
business affairs; but it would be a great relief to me, when I do go
home, to find that my children have the courage to endure the heavy
blow that has come upon us. Be patient and hopeful, and all will yet
be well with us.
“Your affectionate father,
“FRANKLIN GRANT.”
Bertha was astonished and bewildered by the contents of this letter.
She told the boatman that her father was alive and well; but she deemed
it prudent to conceal the rest of the letter from him for the present.
The bad news it contained would travel fast enough, without any
assistance from her.
While reading the letter, she had seen Richard come out of the house
and walk off in another direction. She asked Ben to find him, and send
him to the house, where she went herself, rejoiced to find her worst
fears were not realized, but almost stunned by the shock which the
letter had given her. It was terrible to think of leaving Woodville; to
step down from the pinnacle of wealth to the low level of poverty; but,
as she had been rich and humble, the fall would be a gentle one to her;
yet how terrible to Richard and Fanny!
Richard read the letter, turned pale, and wondered what it all meant.
Bertha said it was plain that her father had failed in business. She
was calm and resigned, he was morose and sullen.
“You will not go to the race now, Dick?” she asked.
“I will!” and he rushed out of the house, down the hill, to the wharf;
but when he got there, nothing but the topmast of the _Greyhound_ could
be seen.
She had sunk in fifteen feet of water!