TERRIBLE NEWS
Noddy Newman’s confession promised to get him into trouble with
Richard, if the latter should discover that he was the cause of the
mischief. Ben, the old boatman, fully sympathized with the young savage
in what he had done; for, when the latter related the conversation
between Bertha and her brother, to which he had listened, and told how
badly he felt when Mr. Richard scolded at her, and declared that he
would go to the race, his indignation was as deeply roused as that of
the listener had been, and he decided that it would be better for all
parties if the truth were concealed.
Richard had gone to the race, and there was nothing more that could
be done to save him from the consequences of his own folly and
waywardness. Noddy was well satisfied with what he had done, especially
after the approval of Ben. All he lived for was to please Miss Bertha,
and, if he could do anything to carry out her views, he was not very
particular to avoid displeasing anybody else. If she wished to prevent
Richard from going to the race, he was ready to sink the boat, or even
to burn and destroy it. What the owner of her liked or disliked was a
matter of no consequence to him.
Noddy’s ideas of right and wrong, of truth and justice, were not very
clearly defined. He had no particular devotion to the truth as such,
and no particular love of justice for its own sake. He did not remain
at Woodville because he liked the place, after he had strength enough
to return to his former vagabond life, but because Bertha was there.
He was willing to do right, so far as he understood it, because she
desired him to do so. It must be confessed that principle had not yet
been developed in his character. His only law was to do what his fair
and loving mistress wished him to do, and he had no higher idea of duty
than this. He cared for no one, was afraid of no one. Her friends were
his friends, and, if she had had any foes, they would have been his
foes.
Ben sat on the wharf, watching the _Greyhound_, as she swept forward
on her course. He was sad and dull, for the information which Noddy
had given him was full of grief to the old servant of the family. As
he reflected upon the import of the fearful words which expressed the
misfortune of Mr. Grant, the tears gathered on his brown cheek.
“What ails you, Ben?” asked Noddy, who was lying upon the wharf, gazing
into the face of the boatman.
“What ails me? You young sculpin, are you here? I thought you had
gone,” replied Ben, roughly, as he wiped away the tears.
“You are crying!”
“Crying? Nonsense! Did you ever see an old sailor cry?”
“I never did before.”
“I am not crying, you little lubber! I am getting old, and my eyes are
weak. The sun makes them water a little.”
“Tell me what it is about, Ben, and perhaps I will cry, too,” added
Noddy, suddenly dropping his chin, and looking as gloomy as though he
had lost his best friend.
“Run away, boy--up to the house. Miss Bertha wants you to help her
about the party. You must turn somersets, stand on your head, and cut
all the capers you can this afternoon, to please the children who will
come to the party, for I think it will be the last party the young
folks will ever have at Woodville. Go and limber up your back, boy.”
“I will do anything Miss Bertha wants me to do, if it is to swallow my
own head, or turn inside out,” replied Noddy, as he walked away, with
the feeling that there was a chance for him to do something to please
his young mistress.
On the way up to the house, he stopped in the grove to practice a few
gymnastic feats, for he was not certain whether his ribs were yet in
condition to enable him to entertain a party of young ladies. But his
bones were all right, and his gyrations would have been creditable to a
traveling circus company. When he had satisfied himself that he was in
condition to perform, he walked leisurely up to the house to report to
Bertha.
She did not give him much encouragement that his entertainment would be
an acceptable one to the delicate young ladies who were to come from
the homes of wealth and taste in the vicinity; but she was pleased with
his devotion--with his efforts to do something for the amusement of the
party. During the rest of the forenoon she kept him busy in preparing
the rooms for the reception of the company, and Noddy was never so
well satisfied as when he felt that he was doing something to assist or
amuse Bertha.
At two o’clock in the afternoon everything was ready for the party.
Miss Fanny was dressed like a fairy queen; Bertha, more plainly robed,
was not less fascinating, and even Noddy Newman was so disguised by
his new clothes that he looked very much like a little gentleman. Two
o’clock came, and half-past two, and three, but not a single young lady
who had been invited to the party made her appearance.
Fanny fretted, pouted and stormed at this want of punctuality, and even
Bertha did not know what to make of it. But when four o’clock came, and
still not a single guest appeared, Fanny gave up to despair, and Bertha
was as puzzled as though she had been solving problems in Euclid.
Five o’clock, and six o’clock, came, and still the great parlor of
Woodville, with all its flowers and draperies, was “like some banquet
hall deserted.” Not a single guest came to the party of Miss Fanny,
and the rich feast that decked the table in the great dining-room was
“wasting its sweetness on the desert air.”
Great were the astonishment and mortification of all in the house.
Fanny had gone to her chamber, thrown off her fine clothes, and
was weeping great tears of grief and vexation. The steward and the
housekeeper were vainly trying to explain the circumstance. It was very
remarkable.
“It is very singular,” said Mrs. Green, “and such a slight was never
put upon this family before.”
“I can’t understand it,” added the steward.
“Neither can I.”
“I can,” said Noddy, thrusting his hands down to the bottom of the
pockets in his new pants.
“You! What do you know about it?” said the steward.
“I think there must have been some mistake in the invitations,”
continued the housekeeper.
“I tell you, I know all about it,” said Noddy.
“What do you know?”
“Mr. Grant has failed, and the people round here don’t want to have
anything more to do with him.”
Neither the steward nor the housekeeper had heard anything of this kind
before, and they were incredulous; but, Bertha, to whom Mrs. Green
carried this piece of information, confirmed it.
“That is no reason why people should keep their children from coming to
Fanny’s party. Two or three of our neighbors have failed, and people
sympathized with them, instead of insulting them, in their misfortune,”
said Bertha.
The failure of Mr. Grant certainly was not enough to explain the
singular unanimity with which the guests of the party stayed away.
The steward and the housekeeper were more indignant than before, and
declared that they lived in the midst of the heathen. The cakes and
the creams, the fruits and the candies, for the feast, were put away,
the parlor was restored to its wonted condition; but grief, chagrin
and indignation pervaded every hall and apartment at Woodville for the
slight that had been put upon the family.
The hour for the return of Mr. Grant had arrived, and a man had been
sent down to the railroad station to drive him up, as usual, for Bertha
hoped that he might come that night, in spite of what he had said in
his note. But the man returned alone, bringing the mail and the city
newspapers.
As there was no letter from her father, Bertha took up one of
the papers. The excitement of the party had passed away, and the
all-engrossing theme of her father’s misfortune once more began to prey
upon her mind. Richard had not yet returned from the race, and she had
a sad thought for him. Fanny and the housekeeper were discussing the
party still, and Bertha tried to read the newspaper. She ran her eyes
up and down the columns, in search of any item or article that might
interest her.
Suddenly her gaze was fixed upon a paragraph, which accidentally
caught her eye. It chained her attention, while her cheeks paled, her
eyes dilated and her lips quivered. She read it through, as though some
terrible fascination attracted her to the words; then the paper dropped
from her hands, a slight groan escaped her pallid lips, and she dropped
senseless from her chair upon the floor.
Mrs. Green, alarmed at her fall, hastened to her assistance, and,
with a strong arm, placed her upon a sofa. She saw that Bertha had
only fainted, and immediately applied herself with all zeal to her
restoration.
“What ails her?” asked Fanny, who was greatly terrified by the
deathlike appearance of her sister.
“She has only fainted; she will get over it in a few minutes,” replied
Mrs. Green, as she dashed a tumbler of ice water in the patient’s face.
“What made her faint?”
“Poor child! She is all worn out. She didn’t sleep any last night,
worrying because her father didn’t come home; and I suppose this affair
of the party has vexed and tormented her, as it has all the rest of us.”
“It is enough to make anyone faint. I wonder I don’t faint,” added Miss
Fanny, who, no doubt, thought she had more sorrows, just then, than all
the rest of the world put together.
Mrs. Green labored diligently and skillfully for the restoration of
Bertha, and in a very short time the poor girl opened her eyes, and
gazed languidly around the room.
“My poor father!” sighed she, and she shuddered so that her whole frame
shook with the paroxysm, as she uttered the words.
“Come, dear, don’t take it so sorely to heart; your father will come
back again.”
“Oh, Mrs. Green!” sobbed Bertha, as she looked at the housekeeper, and
her eyes filled with tears. “What will become of me?”
“Don’t take on so, Bertha. You have no reason to feel so badly, even if
your father has failed.”
“Failed!” exclaimed Miss Fanny, to whom this intelligence now came for
the first time.
To the proud little miss this was the most terrible thing that could
happen, and Mrs. Green began to fear that she should have another
patient on her hands, for Fanny began to cry and rave as though she was
to be the only sufferer by her father’s misfortune.
“Come, children, you will make yourselves sick, if you take on in this
way. It may not be half as bad as you think it is.”
“My poor father!” sighed Bertha.
“No more parties, no more fine dresses; the horses and carriages must
be sold, and all the servants discharged!” added Fanny, who, though
only eleven years of age, knew what a failure meant, and had read some
novels from which she had obtained the romantic idea of bankruptcy.
“What will become of him?” said Bertha.
“What shall I do?” added Fanny. “No one thinks anything of poor people.”
“Come, Bertha, you had better go up to your chamber and lie down. You
are all beat out with this party, and last night,” suggested Mrs. Green.
“Has Richard come home?”
“He has not.”
“I wish he would come, Mrs. Green. I must go to the city by the first
train to-morrow morning.”
“By the first train? Why! what for?”
“I must see father,” sighed she.
“You must be calm, Bertha. This violent taking on don’t seem like you.”
“You don’t understand it, Mrs. Green,” added Bertha, looking sadly at
the housekeeper.
“Oh, yes, I do; I have known a hundred people to fail, and some of
them did not sell a single horse, nor discharge a single servant, but
lived on just the same as they did before they failed. It isn’t such a
terrible thing, after all.”
“You don’t understand it,” groaned Bertha, her eyes filling with tears
again.
“Why, yes, I do. Some folks fail on purpose, and make ever so much
money by it. Don’t cry about it.”
“It is nothing of that kind that makes me feel so.”
“What in the world is it, then?” asked the housekeeper, astonished and
alarmed by the reply.
“I cannot tell you. Do not ask me. You will know too soon. But I will
try to be calm, and not disturb you and others by my conduct.”
“Bless you, child! You don’t disturb me, but I feel as bad as you do. I
hope nothing bad has happened?”
“I cannot answer you,” replied Bertha, as she shuddered at the thought
of the terrible thing she had read in the newspaper. “There, I will not
cry any more.”
She rose from the sofa, and summoned all her strength to her aid; she
tried to recover her wonted self-possession, but the blow she had
received was too heavy and too awful to be easily resisted. She picked
up the newspaper from the floor, and put it in her pocket, that none of
the family might read the terrible paragraph which had taken away her
reason for the time.
In her own bosom she locked up the fearful truth. She had no one to
whom she dared to impart it. The reason why none of the children had
come to the party was painfully apparent to her. The neighbors had read
that stunning paragraph, and Woodville was no place for their children
to visit after such a revelation.
Poor Bertha tried to eat her supper, but she could not. The terrible
secret was burning at her heart. She dared not utter it, lest the
housekeeper and the steward, and even old Ben, should desert the
family, as the neighbors had done. But Richard was her brother, and
she must tell him. He was older than she was, and such a shock as this
would electrify him.
The secret seemed to gnaw at her soul, and she felt the need of a
friend comforter, and Richard was the only one to whom she could muster
courage to reveal it. After rising from the supper table, where she
had vainly tried to eat, she hastened down to the wharf, to meet
her brother on his return. As she approached the pier, she saw the
_Greyhound_ coming around the island. In a few moments it was within
hail of the wharf, when Bertha discovered, with intense alarm, that
Richard was not at the helm.
The boat was steered by Tom Mullen; but, on its nearer approach, the
poor girl perceived the form of her brother lying in the bottom. She
uttered a scream of terror, for he appeared to be dead.
“Don’t be frightened, miss,” said Tom Mullen, as he brought the boat
alongside the wharf.
“Is he dead?” gasped Bertha.
“Oh, no, Miss Grant. Nothing of the kind. He took one glass more than
he can carry, and it threw him,” laughed Tom.
Richard was intoxicated! It was scarcely better than dead!