MASTER CHARLEY BYRON
Bertha was not a little startled when the clerk of the hotel handed her
the letter, upon which she recognized the handwriting of her brother.
It was ominous of disaster; at least, it suggested that Richard was not
at hand to speak for himself, and she feared that his quick impulses
had led him to take a step of which he had not, probably, considered
the consequences. It required some courage to open a letter from him
under such circumstances, and she held it in her hand for some moments
before she could muster resolution enough to break the seal; and, when
she did so, her worst fears were confirmed.
Richard wrote that he had been engaged by a gentleman to take his boat
down to New York. He was to receive five dollars for the job, and, as
it admitted of no delay, he had been obliged to sail at once, without
seeing her. At the close of the epistle, Richard boasted a little of
his first success in earning money, and declared that, when he got
to the city, he should certainly find employment which would be both
agreeable and profitable; and, when he did, he would inform her of the
fact.
The thoughtless, impulsive boy had actually abandoned his sister, and,
full of hope and conceit, had embarked in his career of life. Perhaps
he thought Bertha was abundantly able to take care of herself, and did
not need any assistance from him.
Bertha’s doubts and fears were not for herself. She knew that Richard
was thoughtless and flighty, and she trembled lest he should again
fall into evil company. The city would have been a bad place for him,
under any circumstances, but doubly so if he had no one to give him a
friendly word of advice. He had gone, and, whatever she thought or felt
in regard to him, nothing could be done to bring him back. She was now
alone. The family had separated, and the path of each seemed to be in
a different direction from that of the others.
She could not think of her situation without a feeling of sadness.
A sense of loneliness, which she had not before experienced, came
over her, which, with her anxiety for the fate of her father and her
brother, had a very depressing influence upon her. But she had no time
to indulge in sentimental emotions, for life had suddenly become real
to her, and stern necessity compelled her to make it earnest.
As she had now disposed of Fanny, and Richard had disposed of himself,
she had nothing to do but to apply herself to the remaining duty of the
hour. She must go to work; but what to do, and where to find a place,
were very perplexing questions. She was willing to do anything that she
could, even to labor with her hands, if it would afford her the means
of supporting herself and her sister.
With these thoughts in her mind, she walked through the principal
street of Whitestone, to obtain any suggestion which the stores and
other business places might give her. In her walks through the place,
in more prosperous days, she had occasionally seen a notice posted
in the windows of a “Saleswoman Wanted,” or “A Young Lady to Act as
Cashier.” She walked up the street on one side and down on the other,
attentively examining every window and door, in search of such a
notice. But Whitestone, at the present time, did not need a saleswoman
or a cashier. Disappointed and disheartened by her ill success, she
walked down to the river, not from any motive, but because she had
nowhere else to go.
Now for the first time since she had read her brother’s letter, the
thought came to her with fearful force that she had less than half a
dollar in the world. This was not enough to pay for her lodging at the
hotel, and she had not been to supper. Poverty seemed more terrible to
her now than ever before. She began to feel that her situation was not
only trying, but absolutely appalling. Even hunger and cold threatened
to assail her, for the little money she had would not supply the
necessities of life for even a single day. She could not dig, and she
was ashamed to beg.
It was now growing dark, and she could not with safety remain in the
streets any longer. There was only one house in the vicinity at which
she believed she should be welcome, and this was the house of the Widow
Lamb. It was revolting to her pride to force herself, as it were, upon
a stranger; but she could not go to the hotel, and there was no other
way to do. It was after the supper hour, and on her way through the
village she stopped at a restaurant, and had a very simple supper of
tea and bread and butter; but even this was purchased with a large part
of all her worldly wealth.
Mrs. Lamb welcomed her to her humble cottage, and she passed the night
with Fanny. But the future looked so blank and dismal to poor Bertha
that she was less cheerful than usual, though she tried to conceal
her doubts and fears from the widow and from her sister. Fanny had a
thousand questions to ask, to only a few of which Bertha could give
satisfactory answers.
“Have you got a place to work yet?” was asked a dozen times by the
inquisitive little girl.
“I have not,” answered Bertha, sadly; “and I am afraid I shall not be
able to find one in Whitestone.”
“What will you do?”
“I must go to the city, I suppose.”
“Then you will see father.”
“I shall certainly try to see him.”
“You will tell him that I am a good girl--won’t you?”
“I will, Fanny, and I am afraid that will be the best news I shall have
for him.”
“Tell him, too, that I am very sorry he is in prison, and I would do
anything to get him out.”
“I will, Fanny,” replied Bertha, as she threw her arms around her neck
and kissed her. “You have been a good girl to-day, and Mrs. Lamb says
you have not only given her no trouble, but that you have helped her a
great deal about her work.”
“I tried to be good, Bertha,” said Fanny. “I haven’t complained a bit.”
“I hope you never will.”
“But I don’t want you to go off and leave me.”
“I must go, Fanny; but one of these days we shall meet again, and be
all the happier for the trials and sorrow which we have been called
upon to endure.”
“I hope we shall,” replied Fanny, whose conduct during the first day of
her residence at the cottage had been very hopeful.
Fanny turned over and went to sleep after she had been duly praised and
encouraged for her excellent demeanor. But Bertha’s cup was too full to
permit her to sleep. The morrow’s sun promised to dawn upon a day of
greater trial and difficulty than she had yet known. Twenty cents was
all the money she had in the world, and Whitestone had no employment to
give her. She must go to New York; but how to get there was beyond her
comprehension. The distance was twenty-five miles, and she had not the
means to pay her fare by railroad or steamboat.
The thought of borrowing a few dollars occurred to her; but there was
no one, except the old boatman, of whom she would dare ask such a
favor. Her pride--that self-respect which gives dignity and nobility
to the character--revolted at the idea of asking even him for money,
which she might never be able to pay. But while she was perplexed and
agitated by these difficult problems, nature kindly came to her aid,
and she dropped asleep without any plan for the coming day.
She was going to leave the cottage at an early hour the next morning,
but Mrs. Lamb pressed her to remain until after breakfast; and then,
with many tears, she bade farewell to her sister, not daring to
believe that they would soon meet again. Bertha was stronger and more
courageous than she had been on the preceding evening; for the more we
look trials and troubles in the face, the more familiar we become with
them and the less terrible do they seem to us.
With a feeling that she had only half done her work the night before,
she again walked through the main street, and even had the hardihood to
enter several of the larger stores and apply for a situation. Although
she had no better success than before, she was strengthened by the
consciousness that she had permitted no false pride to come between her
and the attainment of her purpose. She had done all she could do in
Whitestone, and it would be of no avail to remain there any longer.
Then came up the question again, how should she get to the city; for
she had fully determined to go there. She could not walk, and she
could not pay her fare. Why should she not walk, she asked herself.
She was healthy and strong, and had always been accustomed to a great
deal of outdoor exercise. There were no impossibilities to one in her
situation, and whatever the result she would be no worse off on the
way than if she remained in Whitestone. She decided at once to start,
and leave the issue in the hands of that kind Providence which never
permits the true and the good to be utterly cast down.
She would not think of leaving Whitestone without saying good-by to Ben
and Noddy; and for this purpose she went down to the wharf, where the
boatman had the day before commenced business with his new boat. Much
to her regret, she found they had gone up the river with a party of
gentlemen, and would not return till late in the evening. Disappointed
at this intelligence, she went to the hotel, where she had left her
trunk, and wrote a short note to Ben, informing him of her intention.
The clerk kindly promised to take care of her trunk till she sent for
it, and she turned from the house to commence her weary pilgrimage.
Following the road near the bank of the river, she walked patiently
and perseveringly for three hours, till she heard a clock on a church
strike twelve. She was so faint and weary that she could walk no
further, and seated herself under a tree by the side of the river to
rest herself. She had retired a short distance from the road, so that
she need not be subject to the rude gaze of those who passed.
In the last village through which she passed she had bought three small
rolls; and upon these she made her dinner. A few blackberries that
grew in the field were a great addition to the feast. Refreshed by her
meal, and by an hour of rest, she resumed her walk. She had gone but
a short distance before her attention was attracted by the loud cries
of a child in a pasture adjoining the highway. The screams were so
piteous that she could not help getting through the fence and hastening
to the spot from whence they came, where she found a little boy, very
prettily dressed, and evidently the child of wealthy parents, sitting
on a stone. His eyes were red and swollen with weeping, and he was
sobbing and moaning as though he had some real cause of grief. He was
apparently about six years old. Bertha, moved by his distress, took him
tenderly by the hand and gently patted his head, to assure him she was
his friend.
“What is the matter, little boy?” she asked, when she had fully
convinced him that she was not an evil spirit sent to torment him.
“I don’t know the way home,” blubbered the little fellow.
“Don’t cry any more, and I think we can find your home. What is your
name?”
“Charley.”
“Haven’t you got another name?”
“Charley Byron. I am six years old last May,” replied Charley, suddenly
brightening up and wiping away the great tears that still lingered on
his cheek.
“You are a nice little fellow, and your education has not been
neglected, I see.”
“I can spell cat; c-a-t, cat,” continued Charley, who appeared to have
forgotten all his sorrows.
“You spelled it right,” said Bertha, with a smile. “Do you know where
your father lives?”
“My father lives in a great house on the hill; and I guess Mary’ll
catch it for letting me get lost.”
“Where is Mary now?”
“I don’t know where she is. She sat down on a rock and went to sleep.
I was looking for blackberries, and when I wanted to find Mary again
I couldn’t. I have been walking ever so long, and I can’t find Mary,”
said Charley, beginning to look very sad again.
“Don’t cry any more, and I will help you find your father’s house.”
Bertha remembered that she had passed a large house on a hill, only a
short distance back, and taking Charley’s hand, she led him to the road.
It was a hard walk for little Charley, for he was so tired he could
hardly move at all; but Bertha assisted him as much as she could, and
at last they came to the gateway of the great house.
“That’s my father’s house,” said Charley, just before they reached the
gate.
“You can find your way now--can’t you?” asked Bertha.
“Yes, but I want you to come up and see my mother.”
“I think I will not go any further.”
“Yes, but I want you to come up and see my mother; and you must come.”
“I am very tired, Charley--almost as tired as you are--and I do not
feel like walking up the hill.”
“You can rest in my house.”
“I think I will not go up, Charley.”
“But you must come. I can’t find the way if you don’t,” said Charley,
tugging at Bertha’s hand with a zeal which would permit no denial.
“If I must I must,” said Bertha, yielding the point.
“I want to show you my new rocking-horse. Father sent it up yesterday,
and it is a real nice one.”
Charley led the way up to the front door of the house and pulled Bertha
in after him. His mother, who had been terribly worried at his long
absence, greeted him in the entry with a kiss, and asked him where the
nurse was. Charley told his story in his childish way, and it was fully
confirmed by the presence of Bertha, who was warmly welcomed by the
grateful lady.
“Mary is growing very remiss of late, and I must discharge her,” said
Mrs. Byron, when they were seated in the sitting-room. “It isn’t safe
to trust Charley with her. The dear little fellow may get into the
river. I have been worrying this half hour about him.”
“He was crying bitterly when I found him,” added Bertha.
“It was very good of you to take so much trouble.”
“I couldn’t leave him while he was so full of grief.”
While they were talking the delinquent nurse arrived, very much alarmed
at the sudden disappearance of her charge. But when she saw Charley she
was greatly relieved, and invented a very plausible story to account
for the accident. The story disproved itself, without any help from
Charley or Bertha; and the result was that her mistress, provoked by
her falsehood as much as by her neglect, promptly discharged her.
While Mrs. Byron was paying the girl, Charley exhibited his new
rocking-horse and other treasures; but Bertha was absorbed by a new
idea; she did not pay much attention to his prattle.