BERTHA PROVES HER INNOCENCE
It was now quite dark, and in the friendly shades of night poor Bertha
was spared the shame of being gazed upon by unthinking people in the
street. The policeman took her by the hand, and conducted her to the
station, where she was to remain till morning, when she would be taken
before a magistrate to be examined on the charge of “breaking and
entering.”
She was so terrified by the scene through which she had just passed,
that she had not the courage to say anything to the officers in
vindication of her innocence. They looked at her with curiosity, and
some of them seemed to regard her as a different person from those who
were usually brought to the station.
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed a sergeant, when he came to look at her. “I
have certainly seen that face before.”
“Oh, Nathan!” groaned Bertha, as she recognized in the officer a man
who had formerly been employed as coachman at Woodville.
“Bertha Grant!” ejaculated he, holding up both hands with astonishment.
“It can’t be possible!”
“I am innocent, Nathan,” sobbed Bertha. “I have not done anything to
bring me to this place.”
“Poor girl! I can’t do anything for you, I’m afraid.”
“You will not keep me in this terrible place? You will not let them
carry me before the court? It would kill my poor father.”
“I would not, if I could help it, Bertha,” replied Nathan, sadly; “but
we have to keep people who are arrested on such charges till they are
proved to be innocent.”
“I am innocent! I have not done anything wrong.”
“But I have no right to let you go--at least, while you stand charged
with breaking and entering. If I dared, I would let you go at once.”
“Let me tell you all about it, and then perhaps you will know what is
best to be done.”
“I will do everything I can for you, Bertha. You were always kind to
me, and I would do anything to get you out of trouble.”
“I don’t want you to do wrong, Nathan. I would not have you neglect
your duty even to save me from prison.”
Bertha then told the sergeant everything that had occurred at the house
of Mr. Presby during the day, from the moment she rang the bell in the
forenoon till she had been taken out of the house by the policeman.
“Poor girl!” sighed the policeman, when she had finished her simple
narrative. “I think we can get you out of trouble very soon. If Mr.
Presby, the old gentleman, will only say that you were lawfully in the
house, that you had a right to be there, we will not keep you a moment.”
“Mr. Presby would come to me at once, if he only knew I was here; I
know he would,” added Bertha.
“It is a plain case, and all we want is a word from him. Now I will go
right down to his house, and tell him all about it.”
“I am afraid they will not let you see him.”
“I will see him. Don’t disturb yourself about that, Bertha. I shall
certainly see him.”
The sergeant then spoke to the principal officers of the station, and
Bertha, instead of being put into a cell with the wretched thieves and
drunkards who had already been brought in, was permitted to remain in
the office.
At nine o’clock, Nathan had not returned, and Bertha was sure that
he had found some difficulty in seeing Mr. Presby; but she was sure,
too, that he would do all he could for her, and so she waited in hope
and patience. Occasionally a thief or a vagabond was brought in, but
Bertha did not even care to look at him. At ten o’clock, while she was
wondering that the sergeant did not come, an officer led a boy into the
room.
“What have you got there?” demanded the captain.
“A little fellow that I picked up in the next street. He is so tipsy he
can’t stand alone, and had stretched himself on the curbstone, where he
was near having his legs broken by a carriage.”
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know, sir. He is well dressed. I asked him where his home was,
and he said he hadn’t any.”
“No, sir,” said the boy, rousing from his stupor, “I haven’t any home;
but I belong to the yacht _Whirlwind_.”
“Merciful heavens!” cried Bertha, rushing to the side of the
intoxicated youth.
“Do you know him, miss?” asked the captain.
“Yes, sir, I do,” stammered Bertha.
“Who is he?”
“He is my brother.”
“What! Is that you, Berty?” stammered Richard Grant. “Well, I am glad
to see you, Berty. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Richard!” was all that the poor girl could utter, as she threw
herself into a chair, and wept bitterly.
“Put him to bed,” said the captain, in a low tone.
The officers took the drunken boy out of his chair, and laid him in one
of the bunks of an adjoining cell. The captain gave Bertha permission
to stay with him, but he was unable to talk much, and soon dropped
asleep. She covered him up, and seated herself by his side. When she
heard the outer door open again, she hastened out to see if Nathan had
come.
“Where is she? Poor child!” said Mr. Presby, as he entered the room.
Bertha hastened to him, her eyes still filled with the tears called
forth by the new grief that had come upon her.
“Oh, I am so glad to see you, Mr. Presby!” exclaimed she, as she
grasped the old gentleman’s extended hands.
“Poor child! Poor child! I told you they would hate you if you loved
me. They sent you to a prison--did they? Oh, God! They are my children.”
“It’s all right, Miss Bertha,” said Nathan, who had already told the
captain that the girl had spoken the truth.
“May Heaven bless you, Nathan!” said Bertha, taking him by the hand.
“You have saved me from a world of anguish, and I shall be grateful to
you as long as I live.”
“Never mind that, Bertha. You were always good to me, and I am too glad
of a chance to serve you.”
“Poor child!” added Mr. Presby. “Are you satisfied now, captain?”
“Entirely; the girl can go as soon as she pleases,” replied the captain.
“Come, Bertha, let us get away from this place; but we will remember
your friend the sergeant. I have a carriage at the door. I will not let
you go out of my sight again while we remain in the city. Come, Bertha.”
“I can’t go now,” she replied, glancing at the cell in which Richard
was sleeping off the fumes of the liquor he had drunk.
The captain now kindly came forward, and explained what had taken place
during the absence of the sergeant. Mr. Presby was full of sympathy for
the poor girl, and at once proposed to take Richard away with them; but
Nathan promised to take care of him till morning, and detain him till
Bertha could see him again.
“Now, Bertha, we will be happy,” said Mr. Presby, when they were seated
in the carriage. “I have just purchased a fine house in the country,
and we will go there to-morrow. You shall not be persecuted any more.”
“I do not care for myself,” added Bertha.
“Your brother shall go with you. The poor boy had no home, and I
suppose he was lonely. We will take care of him, and he will never do
such a thing again.”
“I hope not.”
“The house I have bought is a beautiful one. I have purchased all the
furniture, horses, boats, and everything, just as its late owner left
it. I am sure we shall be very happy there.”
“I hope you will be happy.”
“I shall be; perhaps if I leave them, it will do them good. They do not
believe that I will go, for I have threatened to do so a great many
times. But the place is bought this time, and I have given my check for
it. Did you think I never would come to you?”
“I thought John would not let the officer see you.”
“I was not at home when he came. I was at Mr. Grayle’s office, where
the sale was completed, and the deed given.”
“Mr. Grayle!” exclaimed Bertha, a new light appearing to her.
“Yes, Mr. Grayle; I bought the place of him. The estate is known by the
name of Woodville. Quite a pretty name--isn’t it?”
“Woodville!” repeated Bertha. “And you have bought it?”
“Yes; you appear to know the place.”
“It was my home till a few days ago,” answered Bertha, sadly.
“Your home! Good Heaven! Then you are the daughter of poor Franklin
Grant.”
“I am, sir.”
“Poor child! I was slightly acquainted with your father; but he had a
quarrel with Mr. Grayle, which concerned me, and I haven’t seen him for
several years.”
“Is Mr. Grayle your friend?” asked she.
“Not exactly my friend. I have had some business relations with him;
but I have nothing against your father.”
Bertha, in her own simple style, then told him what Mr. Grayle had done
to her father, and that he had turned his children out of Woodville.
Mr. Presby was indignant, and declared that he would never trust him
again.
When the carriage reached the house, they were admitted by John, who
was as polite as a French dancing master. They had no sooner entered
the library than Edward Presby presented himself. He declared that the
arrest of Bertha was a mistake. He did not know her, and none of the
family had ever seen her.
“Edward,” said the father, sternly, “it is useless for you to say
anything. We part to-morrow; let it be in peace.”
“Part, father?” exclaimed Edward.
Mr. Presby briefly informed his son what he had done, and stated his
plans for the future.
“Surely you will not leave us, father,” said Edward, who probably began
to realize that he had gone too far.
“I shall go to-morrow.”
The son tried to explain, and said all he could to alter his purpose;
but Mr. Presby remained firm to the last, and he finally retired in
anger, and with threats on his lips.
Bertha went to her chamber, but she could not sleep, she was so excited
by the events of the evening. On the morrow she was to return to
Woodville, though not with the family; and she was sad at the thought
of going without her father.
Uncle Obed would return from Philadelphia the next day, and she hoped
he would bring some comfort for her; for with Richard intoxicated in
the station house, and her father still in the Tombs, her mission
seemed further than ever from its accomplishment.