BERTHA LEAVES WOODVILLE
There was no longer any room, if there was any desire, to conceal the
misfortunes which had overtaken the owner of Woodville. The servants
were all talking about the matter, and the astounding intelligence
that Mr. Grant had been sent to the Tombs for fraud was spreading
in every direction. Before night the steward and the housekeeper,
the boatman and the grooms--indeed, all who had held any position at
Woodville--were discharged. Not even Mrs. Green was allowed to remain,
for Grayle feared that the affection of the late owner’s employees
might lead them to appropriate some of the property of their master.
Perhaps his principal object was to drive the children from the place.
Whether it was or not, it had this effect, for they could not remain
any longer in the deserted home.
“What shall we do? We can’t remain here any longer,” said Richard, as
the three lonely children met together in the chamber of Bertha. “There
is not a servant left in the house. For one, I cannot remain here any
longer.”
“I feel that we are intruders; but where shall we go?” added Bertha.
“Anywhere--I care not where.”
“But we have no place to go. Our rich and proud neighbors will not
receive us now.”
“If I knew they would, I wouldn’t darken their doors,” replied Richard,
proudly.
“Nor I, after what they did yesterday,” added Fanny.
“I cannot stay here, to be watched and dogged by that man whom Grayle
has left in charge of the place. If I move, he follows me, as though he
were afraid I would steal something,” continued Richard, chafing under
the new order of things. “I will not remain under this roof a single
hour longer.”
“Where shall we go?”
“We will go to the hotel over at Whitestone.”
“To the hotel? How can we go to the hotel? We have not money enough to
pay for a single day’s board.”
“Yes, we have. I have over thirty dollars in my pocket.”
“Thirty dollars?” repeated Bertha, with an inquiring glance.
“Yes; thirty-five, I think.”
“Oh, Richard!” sighed Bertha.
“Come, Berty, don’t reprove me any more; and, as I have no longer any
reason for keeping it secret, I will tell you that I had fifty dollars.
I saved the man on the steamer from drowning, and gave him the name of
John Green.”
Bertha was not disposed to criticise his conduct at this time, but
she was rejoiced to know that he had so much money, and that he came
honestly by it. She readily assented to the plan of going to the hotel
in Whitestone, and hastily packed up her own and Fanny’s clothing in a
trunk which belonged to her, as Richard had already done with his own
wardrobe.
The trunks were carried downstairs by Richard and Bertha, and placed
upon the piazza. They were heavy, and their weight reminded the proud
youth of the condition to which he had fallen. He had never done such a
thing as to carry his own trunk downstairs before. There were a dozen
willing servants ready to do such work, but they had all been driven,
like unclean beasts, from the premises.
But some of them had not gone far. Old Ben, like a guardian angel,
hovered around the house, in spite of the orders of the keeper to
leave; and no sooner were the trunks visible on the piazza than the
boatman made his appearance. He had been up to Bertha’s room several
times during the day, and had done what he could to comfort her; but
he was old and poor, and he had nothing to offer but words of hope and
consolation.
“Are you going, Miss Bertha?” he asked, as the children came out of the
house.
“Yes, Ben; we cannot stay here, where we are not wanted, any longer. We
are going over to the hotel at Whitestone.”
“Then I will go with you; and I am glad that you are going where I may
have a chance to speak to you. These lubberly land sharks have been
trying to drive me away from Woodville, but I shall not lose sight of
the place while any of you remain. Dear me! This is the saddest day I
ever knew in my life; but after a storm there’s always a calm. Keep a
cheery heart, and it will all come out right in the end,” said Ben, as,
with much difficulty, he shouldered the big trunk, and walked toward
the wharf.
“Stop, there!” said a voice, in the direction of the stable.
At this moment Noddy Newman came bounding over the lawn, closely
pursued by the keeper of the estate. The little savage had been driven
off the premises a dozen times during the day, but he had as many times
returned, determined not to desert Bertha in this hour of her extremity.
“Stop!” shouted the keeper. “Put down that trunk!” and the man placed
himself in front of Ben, who, followed by Bertha and Richard, with the
smaller trunk, was heading the little procession down to the pier.
“What do you want?” said Ben, gruffly, as he deposited the trunk upon
the ground.
“I ordered you to leave these premises!”
“And I am going to leave them now, once and for all,” replied Ben. “The
children are going with me.”
“You cannot carry off those trunks!”
“I think we can, if our strength holds out. Here, Noddy, take hold of
that trunk with Mr. Richard.”
“Stop, I say! You shall not carry those trunks off the place!”
“They contain nothing but our clothes,” interposed Bertha.
“I don’t know that,” said the keeper, who was evidently a close
imitator of his employer.
“I know it; go ahead, Ben,” added Richard.
“I say you cannot carry off those trunks!” persisted the man.
“Can’t we have our own clothes?” asked Bertha. “There is nothing else
in them.”
“Open them, and let me see!” added the man, roughly.
“I will not do it!” answered Richard, stoutly. “I give my word that
they contain nothing but our clothing.”
“What is your word good for, young man? You may open them, or carry
them back to the house!”
“I will do neither! Move on, Ben.”
Ben attempted to take up the trunk again, but the man put his hands
upon it in such a manner as to prevent him from doing so.
“You miserable land shark!” said Ben, letting go the trunk. “You have
all the law on your side, perhaps, but I have all the common sense and
humanity on mine! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, to persecute these
poor children in this manner?”
“I only do my duty,” whined the keeper.
“I am going to take these things down to the pier, whether you are
willing or not! I am ready to shake hands or fight with you; but I am
going to do what I say!” and Ben proceeded once more to shoulder the
trunk.
The keeper did not deem it prudent to interfere with him again, and
perhaps he thought he was doing more than his duty required of him.
The party reached the pier, and were on the point of putting the
trunks into the four-oar barge, when the keeper again interposed, to
prevent them from using the boat. This was plainly a part of Grayle’s
property, and there could be no question in regard to the man’s right
to interfere. He was inflexible, though Ben and Bertha both begged the
use of the boat for a single hour.
Noddy stood by, watching, with intense interest, the proceedings, and
so indignant that he could no longer contain himself. He began to abuse
the keeper in round terms, and, finding this did him no damage, he
picked up a large stone, and would have thrown it, if Bertha had not
commanded him to drop it and be silent.
“Why don’t you take the boat?” said he.
“Because it is not right to take it.”
“Right! Humph!” pouted Noddy. “I would take it quick enough! But hold
on a minute, Miss Bertha, and I will get you a boat,” and away he ran
down the bank of the river before she could stop him.
In half an hour he returned in a boat, with Bob Bleeker, whom he had
hailed from the point below. Bob was what would be called a “rough”
in the city of New York, but he was a man of generous heart, and had
many good qualities. As his boat rounded up by the side of the wharf,
he stepped ashore, and offered his services to convey the party over
to Whitestone, for Noddy had already told him, with a good deal of
coloring, about the conduct of the keeper.
He helped Ben put the trunks in the boat and then handed Bertha and
Fanny to their seats. The keeper stood by, watching the movements of
the party, and, when they were seated in the boat, and Bob was about to
shove off, he uttered some insolent remarks.
“Stand by the boat hook a moment, Ben,” said Bob, as he jumped on the
wharf again.
“What do you want now?” said the keeper. “Be off--quick as you can!”
“I can’t go till I have paid my respects to you!” replied Bob Bleeker.
“You are the meanest Hottentot that ever landed on this side of North
River! Couldn’t you let these children have a boat to get out of your
sight in?”
“Begone! None of your insolence here! I have got rid of them now!”
growled the keeper.
“But you haven’t got rid of me just yet! I want to leave you my card!
There it is!” he added, striking the brutal wretch in the face with
such force that the blow knocked him down. “I know how you’ve treated
these children; I have heard all about it; and I couldn’t leave you
without something to remember me by. My name is Bob Bleeker, of
Whitestone, and, if you want to meet me in a court of justice, I shall
be willing to pay ten dollars or so for the sake of showing up such a
villain as you are!”
The keeper picked himself up, and retreated from the spot, muttering
vengeance upon the head of the chivalrous “rough.”
Bob Bleeker did wrong to strike the keeper, however much the fellow
deserved a whipping for his brutality. Noddy stood by, and witnessed
the castigation, with a satisfaction that he expressed in the most
extravagant manner. Bertha alone condemned the conduct of Bob; but she
gave him credit for his good will.
The boat was pushed off, and in a few moments the fresh breeze
carried them over to Whitestone. Bob and Ben conveyed the trunks up
to the hotel, where they obtained two rooms. They were not such as
the children had occupied at Woodville, but they were cheerful and
comfortable. At an early hour Fanny, worn out by the exciting events of
the day, retired to rest, leaving Richard and Bertha to consider some
plan for the future.
Strange as it may seem, Bertha experienced a feeling of relief when she
found herself domiciled at the hotel. She had left Woodville--had been
almost driven from it; had been insulted and outraged in her feelings;
but the tie which bound her to the home of her childhood had been
snapped. There had been none of the sighs and tears with which she had
expected to bid farewell to Woodville; she and her brother and sister
had been too glad to get away from it. She felt stronger and more
hopeful than she had since the first note of disaster had sounded in
her ears.
However dark and forbidding the future might look, she was ready to
meet it, for it seemed as though all of grief and misfortune that the
world could have in store had already been hurled upon her afflicted
family.
“What are we to do, Richard?” said she, as she joined him in his room.
“I don’t know,” replied he, blankly; “I have not thought of that yet.”
“It is time to think of it.”
“What can we do?”
“There are a hundred things that we can do. You are strong and healthy,
and have been well educated. Perhaps you can find a place.”
“A place? A place for what?” said Richard, looking curiously into the
face of his sister.
“A place to work, of course,” answered she, with no attempt to soften
the words.
“A place to work!” repeated he, slowly, as if to obtain the full force
of the idea. “What do you suppose I can do?”
“You can get a place to learn a trade, or you can go into a store.”
“Get a place to learn a trade!” exclaimed Richard, rising suddenly from
his chair, and walking up and down the room. “Don’t you think the only
son of Franklin Grant would look very pretty learning a trade? Don’t
mention such a thing as that to me again!”
“Why, Richard, I am surprised to find that experience has taught you
nothing,” replied Bertha. “You surely do not expect to be a gentleman,
now that there is not a dollar of all your father’s wealth left?”
“I intend to be a gentleman as long as I live.”
“But you must work.”
“I have money.”
“Thirty-five dollars! How long do you suppose it will last? It will not
pay our board for more than two or three weeks.”
“Perhaps I can do something that is light and genteel. At any rate, I
will see what can be done to-morrow; but I shall not learn any trade,
I’ll warrant you.”
“You must conquer your pride, Richard, and remember that we are beggars
now.”
“Perhaps we are. I wonder when Uncle Obed is coming from Valparaiso? He
is immensely rich.”
“I don’t know; we might starve before we heard from him.”
“Starve? Pooh! What is the use of talking about such things!”
“We had better look things right in the face. I don’t think you have
considered our situation. We have neither money nor friends. We must
work for a living, unless you are willing to go to the almshouse and
live on charity. I am not, and I intend to go to work.”
“What are you going to do, Berty?” asked he, with an incredulous smile.
“I don’t know yet; I am going to work.”
“Don’t disgrace yourself and your family, Berty.”
“What nonsense you talk, Richard! We are beggars and outcasts, and it
is all folly to talk about disgracing myself or the family. I shall
find something to do in a few days. I wish I could see father. He would
tell me what to do.”
Richard’s pride could not yet be conquered, and Bertha retired, feeling
that the rude hand of necessity would soon make hard terms with them.
But, with such views as he held, it was not safe to remain at a hotel,
and she resolved to find a cheaper residence the next day.