THE NEW OWNER OF WOODVILLE
Bertha was shocked and almost paralyzed when she realized the condition
of her brother. It was dreadful to see a mere boy, only fifteen years
of age, in a state of beastly intoxication, and that boy her only
brother, he to whom she had looked for counsel and encouragement in
this hour of bitter trial. All her hopes seemed to be dissipated by
this greatest calamity, and despair to be her only resort.
Tom Mullen’s coarseness--for he alluded to the condition of Richard
as though it were a matter of no consequence--grated harshly upon her
feelings, and in a low tone she begged Ben, who had now come to her
assistance, to send him off. The boatman and Tom bore Richard to the
seat upon the pier, and then the former thanked the rowdy for what he
had done for Mr. Richard, and proposed to take him back to Whitestone
in one of the rowboats. Tom assented to the arrangement, and, much to
the relief of Bertha, he bade her good-night, and stepped into the
boat, leaving her alone with the helpless boy.
“Too bad,” sighed Ben. “Too bad for a fine boy like Mr. Richard to come
home in such a situation as that.”
“That’s a fact, Ben. I told him he had got enough, and advised him not
to take the last glass. I did all I could to keep him straight, so it
is not my fault that he comes home drunk.”
“If he had never seen you, and the rest of the boys on the other side
of the river, he might have been a decent boy.”
“That is talking pretty close to the point!” replied Tom Mullen, sourly.
“Perhaps it is. Mr. Richard is a smart boy, and worth a dozen of the
rowdies he goes with.”
“Maybe he is; but, if he don’t want my company, I am sure I don’t want
his. I can get along as well without him as he can without me. He
wanted to race boats with me, and he did, and lost the race. I am five
dollars better off for the affair than before, it is true, but I paid
for all the liquor he drank.”
“Don’t say any more, Tom Mullen, or you will tempt me to throw you into
the river!”
“But don’t you see I am not to blame?”
“Silence! You have led this poor boy into all sorts of iniquity, and,
if I thought you knew any better, I would take it out of your bones!”
Tom Mullen was a boy of seventeen. His feelings were deeply injured
by the plain speech of the old boatman, if a person of his stamp had
feelings, and he was disposed to resent these home thrusts; but he knew
old Ben well enough not to attempt anything of the kind at present, and
laid up his revenge for a more convenient season.
Ben landed his dissolute passenger on the pier at Whitestone, and
hastened back to comfort Bertha, and attend to the besotted youth. On
his return, he found the poor girl weeping over her brother.
“This is terrible, Ben!” sobbed she. “To think that Richard should ever
come to this!”
“It’s awful to see a man drunk, and I think the angels must weep to see
a boy in such a state.”
“What shall we do? I don’t want to expose him to all the servants in
the house.”
“Leave him to me, Miss Bertha. I will take good care of him, and not a
soul shall see him till he is all right again. Go up to the house; go
to bed, and sleep as though nothing had happened.”
“Thank you, Ben; you are very kind to save my feelings, and Richard’s,
too, for he will hide his head with shame when he realizes what he has
done.”
“I hope he will; and, bad as this thing is, it may be all for the best.
It may be the very thing he needs to open his eyes and reform his life.”
Bertha tried to hope that what the old man said might prove true, but
just then there seemed to be no stability in anything human, and she
could not help feeling that Richard was ruined forever--that his life
would be that of the miserable sot, and end in the drunkard’s grave.
So many terrible events had suddenly been hurled upon her that she had
begun to give way to the sense of gloom and despondency which the dark
clouds of human ill often induce.
With a repeated charge to Ben to see that Richard was well cared for,
she bade him good-night, and slowly walked up toward the house. She
went to her chamber, and her prayers that night were longer and more
earnest than usual, but they gave her hope and strength, for “earth
has no sorrow which Heaven cannot heal.” Exhausted by her physical
exertions, as well as by her mental struggles, she soon wept herself to
sleep.
As soon as Bertha left the wharf, the boatman at once applied himself
to the redeeming of his promise. Lifting the inebriated boy in his
arms, he carried him to a shallow place by the bank of the river,
and, having removed his clothing, he commenced a vigorous course of
hydropathic treatment, which partially brought the patient to his
senses. Richard thought is was rather rough, when he had so far
recovered from his stupor to be able to comprehend his situation,
and he begged the doctor to desist; but Ben persevered till he was
satisfied he had done his work thoroughly. He then carefully rubbed him
dry, and led him back to the boathouse, where he made a bed for him of
sails and boat cushions. The patient was still too stupid to offer any
objection, and dropped asleep almost as soon as he touched his bed.
Ben slept by his side, faithful to the charge given him by his young
mistress.
The next morning Richard had entirely recovered from his debauch, with
the exception of a severe headache. The vigorous treatment of the
old boatman had, no doubt, been highly beneficial. At all events, he
was sufficiently recovered to be heartily ashamed of himself, for he
realized that he had been intoxicated, and had a faint recollection of
the energetic operations of Ben. But I am sorry to add that his pride
was more deeply wounded than his principle. He began to think of what
people would say, rather than of the wrong he had done. The feeling
that he had disgraced himself and his family, rather than sinned
against God and himself, took possession of his mind.
He was soon called to a realizing sense of his conduct by the vigorous
scolding which Ben gave him. The old man was as faithful in his
admonition as though the boy had been his own son; and Richard’s
shame and mortification did not permit him to utter a word in his own
defense. While he was undergoing this severe lecture, Bertha came down
to inquire for his health. The boatman brought his address to an abrupt
conclusion, and told Bertha what he had done, and that the patient was
in as good condition as could be expected after such a time.
“Come up to the house with me, Richard,” said Bertha; “I want to talk
with you.”
“I have had talk enough, and I don’t think any more would do me any
good,” replied Richard; but the remonstrance was very tame, for him.
“I will not reproach you for what you have done, Dick. I will leave
that to your own conscience. I have something else to say to you.”
“I don’t want to go up to the house, and be laughed at by all the
servants. I feel more like clearing out somewhere, and never seeing
anybody that knows me again.”
“No one at the house knows anything about your conduct.”
Richard thought it was very considerate on the part of Ben and his
sister to conceal his infirmity from others, and he felt grateful to
them for sparing his pride. He walked up to the house with Bertha, and,
after he had changed his clothes and eaten his breakfast, they met
again in the library.
Just before breakfast Mrs. Green had told him about the failure of
Fanny’s party, and the fainting of Bertha. He was indignant at the
slight upon the family, and pitied poor Bertha, who had taken it so
sorely to heart. He reproached himself more than ever for his own
conduct, and determined to make what reparation he could for it.
“I did not think our neighbors were so heartless before,” said Richard,
as he entered the library, where Bertha was waiting for him. “It makes
my blood boil to think of it.”
“I am not at all surprised at their conduct. Perhaps they kept their
children at home from the best of motives, for they probably knew more
of our affairs than we did ourselves,” replied Bertha, as she wiped
away the tears from her eyes, which would come in spite of all her
efforts to repress them.
“What do you mean by that, Bertha?”
“Father is utterly ruined.”
“Well, he has failed, I suppose; but I----”
“Or, worse than that--as much worse than that as can be!” exclaimed
Bertha.
“Why, what has happened? You had a letter from him yesterday, saying
that he was alive and well.”
“I did; but he did not tell us the whole truth.”
“Why, what do you mean, Bertha? What can have happened to him?”
“He is not only ruined, but he is in prison.”
“In prison!” exclaimed Richard, shocked at these words.
“In the Tombs,” replied she, covering her face with her hands. “I read
it in the newspaper last night.”
“What has he done?” demanded Richard, with quivering lip.
“He was arrested on the charge of fraud--the paper says stupendous
frauds in his business. I do not understand it, but I am sure, very
sure, that father has not done anything wrong. I know he would not do
it.”
“Certainly not,” added Richard, biting his lip till the blood ran.
“The newspaper says that he was arrested in an attempt to leave the
country, which rendered his guilt all the more apparent; but I do not
believe it.”
“Nor I,” added Richard.
“Here is the paper; you can read the paragraph, and perhaps you will
understand it better than I do,” said Bertha, as she took the paper
from her pocket.
Richard read the article, and then read it again; but the complicated
transactions which it described were as much beyond his comprehension
as they had been beyond his sister’s. The failure of an extensive
English banking house had been the beginning of Mr. Grant’s
misfortunes, and the alleged frauds were committed in attempting to
sustain himself against the pressure caused by being deprived of his
foreign resources. But, my young readers would be as much in the dark
as Richard and Bertha if I should attempt to explain the situation
of Mr. Grant’s affairs. It is enough to say that all the apparent
wealth of the broker, immense as it had appeared to himself and to his
neighbors, had suddenly been swept away, and that he was thrown into
prison on the charge of fraud.
Since the preceding evening Bertha had borne this heavy load upon her
heart, made ten times heavier by the misconduct of her brother. The
consciousness that she could do nothing to aid her father, or even to
comfort him, was not the least of her troubles. Mr. Grant had concealed
from his children the fact of his arrest and imprisonment, and she had
given up her purpose to visit him in his prison, for it could only add
to his grief, since he now supposed her to be ignorant of his real
condition.
Among other items in the paragraph, the newspaper said that Mr. Grant
had secured his principal and most pressing creditor by making over
to him his splendid estate on the Hudson, with all its furniture,
appointments, boats, library--indeed, everything there was at
Woodville. This statement was even more startling to Richard than the
fact of his father’s arrest. All the worldly possessions of his father
had passed away, almost in the twinkling of an eye. When he heard of
the failure, he recalled the case of one of the neighbors, who, though
a bankrupt, had retained his house and lands, and he had expected that
his father would do the same. But now Woodville was gone; even the
furniture in the house, the boats and the horses--all were to be given
up, and the proud youth looked with disgust and contempt upon the poor
cottage, or other humble abode, which his fancy pictured as the future
residence of the family.
He was selfish, grossly selfish, in his pride and vanity, and he almost
forgot the situation of his father in his mournings over the loss of
the luxuries to which he had always been accustomed. Henceforth he was
to be no better than the young men of Whitestone, who had regarded him
with envy and admiration.
While he and Bertha were considering, from widely different points of
view, the sad misfortune which had overtaken them, the man to whom
Mr. Grant had transferred Woodville arrived to take possession of
his property. As he was a money lender, and had no other god but his
wealth, he was a hard man, rude and rough. Woodville would not pay him
for the money he had lent its late owner, and obtaining possession of
the place did not appease the anger which the failure of Mr. Grant had
occasioned.
He was duly armed with all the necessary papers to make his work legal,
and he had no regard for the feelings of the children or the servants.
He walked all over the house and grounds, with his followers, and gave
orders to the servants for the disposal of the boat and the horses.
“Can we remain here?” asked Bertha, in timid and trembling tones, as
the new owner, for the third time, rudely entered the library, where
Bertha and Richard were still seated, followed by all his train.
“How long do you want to stay?” demanded Mr. Grayle, the new
proprietor, with an unfeeling stare at her and her brother.
“I don’t know; till father comes home, I suppose,” answered Bertha,
alarmed and indignant at the coarse manner of the man.
“That will be a long time, I rather think,” said Mr. Grayle. “Haven’t
you got any uncles, or aunts, or other friends, you could visit for a
few weeks?”
“We have no relative but Uncle Obed, and he is in South America; but we
will not stay here, if you do not wish us to do so.”
“Well, I don’t want to be hard with you. I have a purchaser in view,
who will take the estate as it stands. He will be here to-morrow; but
you can stay till I sell the place,” said Grayle.
“Do you think he will buy it?” asked Richard.
“I am reasonably sure that he will.”
“Then we must, indeed, leave Woodville,” groaned Richard.
“I shouldn’t think you would want to stay here, after what has
happened,” sneered Grayle. “But, if you want to stay, of course I
shall not drive you out. As to your father’s coming home, don’t delude
yourself on that point, young man. In my opinion, you won’t see him for
some years, unless you go where he happens to be.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Richard, his face crimson with
shame.
“I suppose you know where Sing Sing is? If you call at the penitentiary
there, in the course of a month or two, you will probably find him.”
“You are an unfeeling brute!” gasped Richard, filled with rage at the
words and the sneers of the money lender.
“You are a little too bad,” whispered one of the attendants of Grayle.
“I speak the truth. This young cub has been living at my expense for
some time. He is prouder than his father, and it is time for him to
open his eyes. But I won’t be hard with them. I shall lock up the
parlors, the library and the dining-room. They may have the use of the
kitchen and their own chambers. We will send the servants off to-day.
They may have their rooms and welcome, though I suppose they won’t
thank me for them,” growled Grayle, as he left the library.
Richard and Bertha were almost stunned by these words; but they
hastened from the library to their own chambers, to avoid further
insult.