BERTHA VISITS THE WIDOW LAMB
On the following morning Bertha, who, in spite of her cares and trials,
had slept well, rose early, and applied herself, with zeal and energy,
to the great work before her--a work so difficult and delicate that it
would have challenged the whole ability of a mature and experienced
mind. Her pathway was full of trials and perplexities, for she had but
little knowledge of the world, and was without the aid of influential
friends.
There were two very difficult problems, which required an immediate
solution. The first was, what to do with Fanny; and the second, whether
Richard would be a help or a hindrance to her. If there had been no one
but herself to provide for, the task would have been an easy one. Fanny
was too young to do anything for herself, and Richard’s pride was a
stumbling-block in his path. The thirty-five dollars in her brother’s
possession was but a small sum to pay the expenses of a family; but she
was not sure that even this would be devoted to the purpose.
Her father was languishing in prison. He was suffering for himself and
suffering for them, for she knew that his greatest grief would be the
thought of his children, now cast, penniless and unprotected, upon the
cold world. She wanted to do something for him, and she would gladly
have gone to his prison, and shared its gloom and its horrors with him,
if she could take the weight of one straw from the heavy burden he was
compelled to bear. But the nearer and more pressing duties of the hour
would not permit her to yield even this filial offering till she had
done something to prepare for the cold and forbidding future.
These were some of the perplexities; but the perils and difficulties
that surrounded her seemed to give her new strength and new courage.
The words of the Scripture, “As thy day, so shall thy strength be,” as
embodied in a beautiful and comforting poem by Mrs. Sigourney, lingered
encouragingly in her mind, to sweeten the cup of adversity and nerve
her soul for the conflict of the day. On this morning, therefore, she
was calm and resolute, and looked hopefully forward to what the day
might bring forth.
Her first care was for Fanny, and she had already decided what
disposition to make of her. She intended, with the assistance of Ben,
to find a place in some poor but respectable family, where she could
be boarded for a small sum. Bertha hoped that before many weeks the
family might be united again under one roof, however humble; and this
arrangement was to be only a temporary one.
While Richard and Fanny were still sleeping, she looked out of her
window, and saw the old boatman walking up and down in front of the
house. He had lodged with Bob Bleeker; but, very much as a faithful
watchdog keeps guard over the property of his master, he kept his eyes
upon the children, without being forward, or intruding upon them at
unseemly hours. Bertha passed through the silent halls of the hotel and
joined the boatman upon the piazza, where she informed him of her plan
in regard to Fanny.
“Now, Ben, can you help me find a good place where she can be boarded
for a small sum? For, you know, we cannot afford to pay much.”
“I know a poor widow woman, with whom I used to board myself, years
ago; but the place would not suit Miss Fanny. It wouldn’t be stylish
enough.”
“No matter for that, Ben. It will come hard to her, but she must learn
to live as poor folks live. Is she a good woman?”
“There isn’t a better on the face of the earth. She took care of me
when I was laid up with the rheumatism. Mrs. Lamb is a Christian woman,
if there is one in this world,” said Ben, with emphasis; “and, if I
had a daughter, I don’t know another person with whom I would more
willingly trust her.”
“Do you think Mrs. Lamb would be willing to take Fanny?”
“I think she would; only I am afraid Miss Fanny would give her a great
deal of trouble. You know, she has very fine notions, and Mrs. Lamb’s
house isn’t a bit like Woodville.”
“Of course not; but Fanny may as well begin first as last to learn her
lesson. I am sorry for her, poor child; I pity her, for I know it is a
terrible blow to her to be deprived of the nice things she had at home.”
“It is no worse for her than it is for you, Miss Bertha,” added Ben,
with a smile.
“I never cared so much for fine things as Richard and Fanny. It is no
credit to me, for I suppose I was born so.”
“Yes, Miss Bertha, one who has been rich and humble can be humble
enough in poverty, but pride and want don’t go well together.”
“Where does Mrs. Lamb live?”
“About half a mile from here, just outside of the village. She has a
very pretty cottage, which her husband left her when he died; but that
is all she has, and she is obliged to work pretty hard for a living.
She does washing and ironing for the rich people of the place, and she
has as many friends as a member of congress. We will walk over to the
widow’s house, if you please, Miss Bertha. If you will walk along, I
will follow you.”
“Come with me, Ben,” said Bertha, with a smile, as she took hold of his
arm, and led him along for a few paces.
“I didn’t know as you would like to walk with a rough-looking man like
me,” added Ben, as he dashed away a truant tear, which his pride and
his affection had jointly contributed to form.
“I am not proud, Ben.”
“You never were, Miss Bertha.”
“What are you going to do, Ben? I have been so selfish that I have
hardly thought of you.”
“Oh, I shall do very well, Miss Bertha,” answered Ben, with a smile of
pleasure at this manifestation of interest on the part of his master’s
daughter.
“I had hoped you would always remain in our family; and it hurts my
feelings to see you now, an old man, and rather infirm, thrown upon the
world to take care of yourself.”
“Don’t think of me. I have my plans all formed.”
“My father never gave you large wages, for I know he meant to take care
of you as long as you lived. I suppose you haven’t saved much?”
“Hardly anything, Miss Bertha. I sent all the money I could spare to my
daughter, out West, after her husband died. I don’t know how she will
get along now. But I can manage to make some money. I have a matter of
a hundred dollars or so salted down in the savings bank in Whitestone
for a rainy day.”
“That will not support you.”
“No; I bargained for a boat, last night, with Bob Bleeker, and was to
have given him this hundred dollars in part pay, but I----”
The old man suspended his speech at this point, and walked along, with
his eyes fixed on the ground, while the long breaths he drew indicated
the emotion that agitated his bosom.
“What, Ben?” gently asked Bertha.
“I didn’t dare to pay away this money.”
“Why not?”
“Since you were driven out of Woodville, I have thought this hundred
dollars might be of some help to you.”
“To me!” exclaimed Bertha. “I could not think of touching your money.
Besides, we shall not need it. Richard has some money, and we shall get
along very well. Keep it, Ben, for you will need it yourself.”
“It is all at your service, Miss Bertha. It is little I can offer, but
you are welcome to it.”
“We shall not need it, Ben--really, we shall not.”
“Then, perhaps, I had better buy the boat. I am going boating. There
are plenty of people and parties in Whitestone who like to sail on the
river; and, since Bob Bleeker gave up the business, there has been no
regular boatman. I think I can do very well.”
“I hope so, I am sure, Ben,” replied Bertha, heartily. “I am rejoiced
to find you have something to do that will suit your taste.”
“I shall do very well, Miss Bertha. No one need worry about old Ben,
as long as he has the use of his limbs. There is one thing more, Miss
Bertha, which, I suppose, you have not thought about. What is to become
of Noddy Newman?”
“Poor little fellow!” sighed Bertha. “I suppose I can do nothing more
for him. Where is he now?”
“He slept with me at Bob Bleeker’s last night. I suppose he will take
to the woods, and become a vagabond again, if he can’t stay with you.
He don’t seem to care for anybody on earth, Miss Bertha, but you,
though he will mind me, for your sake. I believe the little fellow
would die for you in a moment.”
“Poor Noddy!” said Bertha. “I wish I could take care of him! He is a
smart boy. I have taught him to read, and I had great hopes that I
should make something of him.”
“I have been thinking, Miss Bertha,” added Ben, taking off his hat,
and scratching his bald head, as though a magnificent idea had taken
possession of his mind, “if you could induce the boy to stay with me, I
will do as well by him as I can. I can read, and write, and cipher, and
I will help him along with these things. He is smart and active, and
having him with me in the boat would ease my old bones a great deal.”
Bertha was delighted with this plan, and readily promised to do all she
could to make Noddy stay with Ben. At this point in the conversation
they arrived at the house of the Widow Lamb. The cottage, as the
boatman had represented, was very neat, and even pretty, and Bertha
thought her sister ought to be happy in such a place.
Mrs. Lamb was willing to take Fanny to board, for she was very fond
of children, but Bertha frankly told her that the little miss might
cause her a great deal of trouble, for she had been used to having a
great many servants around her. The widow thought she could manage
her; at any rate, she would try it, and she hoped she should be able
to make her happy and contented. Bertha thought her price--two dollars
a week--was very reasonable for one who was likely to be so difficult
to please, and she took her leave of the laundress, agreeing to bring
Fanny to her new home in the course of the day.
On their return to the hotel, Ben hastened back to Bob Bleeker’s, to
close the bargain for the boat, while Bertha went upstairs to announce
the new arrangement to Fanny and Richard. The former had not yet risen,
and as Bertha assisted in dressing her she told her what had been done.
“Then I am to live with a washerwoman!” said Miss Fanny, with a toss of
her head.
“It is a very pretty cottage, and Mrs. Lamb is a very nice woman. You
will be quite happy and contented there, if you are willing to be so
anywhere that our small means will permit you to live.”
“But only to think of it! Live with a washerwoman!”
“Fanny, we are all beggars now. We are poorer than Mrs. Lamb, with whom
you will board. Beggars cannot be choosers, you know.”
“Father will find me a better place than that.”
“Father can do nothing for us now, if he ever can,” replied Bertha, the
tears filling her eyes. “He is in prison, and you ought to be thankful
that you have a home at all.”
The tears in the eyes of her sister touched the heart of Fanny. Her
pride was the greatest defect of her character. She had never known
much of a mother’s care; if she had, she might have been a different
person.
“What are you going to do, Bertha?” asked Fanny.
“I am going to work. I shall find a place where I can earn money enough
to pay your board. I hope Richard will help me.”
“Of course he will.”
“Now, if you will go to your new place, and never complain of anything,
nor cause Mrs. Lamb any trouble, you will do all I can expect of you.”
“I will do the best I can.”
“That is all I ask.”
Bertha spent an hour in talking to her sister about her conduct in
her new home; and Fanny, who seemed to be in a better frame of mind
than ever before, listened attentively to all she said, and promised
faithfully to conquer her pride and give Mrs. Lamb no trouble. She said
she would wait upon herself, and never complain of her food or her
apartment. Bertha regarded this as a triumph, for she felt that Fanny
would try to do all she promised.
Richard turned up his nose at the idea of having his sister board with
a washerwoman; but, as neither his figures nor his common sense would
suggest a better plan, he was compelled to yield.
“Now, Richard, you must let me have some of your money, for, to guard
against any accident, I wish to pay Fanny’s board for two or three
months in advance.”
“I can’t spare any money now. What’s the use of paying her board before
it is due?”
“We do not know what may happen. You and I can take care of ourselves
and I think it is no more than right that we should provide for Fanny
beyond the chance of an accident.”
“But we must pay our own board.”
“Of course, we cannot remain at this hotel.”
“Certainly we can, at least for a time.”
“What do you intend to do, Richard, for a living?”
“I don’t know. I shall find something. How much money do you want?”
“You had better give me ten dollars. That will pay Fanny’s board for
five weeks.”
“Ten dollars! Why, that is a third of all I have!” replied Richard,
dismayed at the prospect of parting with so much of his funds.
Bertha had a double motive in asking for this large proportion of
Richard’s money. The first was to secure the payment of Fanny’s board,
in case her plans for the future should fail, and the second was that
she had but little confidence in her brother’s firmness. She feared
that, while his money lasted, he would do nothing to help himself;
that, while his pride had even thirty-five dollars for a foundation, he
would spend his time in idleness, and perhaps do worse.
Actuated by these motives, she reasoned with him so forcibly and
eloquently that he at last handed her the money, but he gave it up with
a protest, and with many regrets. After breakfast the bill at the hotel
was paid, and Fanny was taken to her new home. Bertha remained with her
that day, putting her room and her wardrobe in order, and instructing
her still further in the duties and relations of her new position.
Notwithstanding the odium of boarding with a washerwoman, Fanny liked
the place very well and even thought she should be contented with Mrs.
Lamb, who certainly did everything she could to smooth down the fall
from the palace to the cottage.
During the day Ben and Noddy paid them a visit. The little savage
seemed to take quite a sensible view of the new order of things, and
when Bertha told him what had been done for him he agreed to remain
with Ben, and be a good boy, if she would come and see him as often as
she could.
Toward night Bertha returned to the hotel, where she found a letter
from Richard.