CHAPTER I
A MISSIONARY TO THE HEATHEN
“Please give me ten dollars, father?” said Bertha Grant.
“Ten dollars!” exclaimed Mr. Grant, with a smile which looked very encouraging to the applicant. “What in the world do you want ten dollars for?”
“Oh, I want to use it, father.”
“Well, I suppose you do. I have not the slightest doubt on that point.”
“You are in a hurry now, father, and I will tell you all about it another time,” replied Bertha, casting an anxious glance at her brother, who appeared to be an interested listener.
“Well, child, there is ten dollars,” added Mr. Grant, as he handed her two half eagles.
“Now, dad, do only half as much as that for me, and I will be satisfied,” said Richard Grant, the only brother of Bertha.
“Not a dollar, Richard. Where did you study politeness, my son? Dad! Do you think that is a proper term to apply to your father?”
“I meant papa,” whined the boy, in affected tones of humility.
“If you ever call me ‘dad’ again, I will send you off to a boarding school to mend your manners. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I am, papa, and I promise you I never will call you so again, though that is what all the fellows call their governors.”
“Enough of this. I do not wish to hear any slang talk in my house. Don’t call me ‘dad,’ or ‘governor,’ either; before my face or behind my back.”
“I will not, papa.”
“Nor papa, either. You need not be a little rowdy, nor a great calf.”
“I will not, father. Now give me five dollars,” whined the youth, as he extended his hand to receive the gift.
“Not a dollar, Richard!” replied Mr. Grant, sternly. “Money does you no good.”
“I don’t think that is fair, father,” protested Richard. “When Bertha asks you for ten dollars, you give it to her. When I ask you for only five, you will not give it to me. If she had asked for twenty or fifty, you would have let her have it.”
“Very likely I should,” replied the father, so coolly that it was clear the argument of his son had not moved him.
“I think you are partial.”
“You can think what you please, Richard.”
“Why won’t you give me money when I ask for it, as well as Bertha? I am older than she is, and I don’t see why I should be treated like a baby.”
“Because you act like one. When you behave like a man, you shall be treated like one.”
“What have I done, father?”
“You have not done anything that is noble, generous or manly. You want five dollars to enable you to visit some bowling alley, billiard saloon or horse race.”
“I don’t want it for any such use.”
“What do you want it for?”
“You did not ask Bertha what she wanted her money for; at least you did not make her tell you.”
“I know very well she will apply it to a good use.”
“Humph!” growled Richard. “She has gathered a crowd of beggars and paupers in the Glen, and she will waste the whole ten dollars upon them. I don’t think it is very proper for her to associate with those dirty savages from the Hollow.”
“It is more proper than to associate with the better-dressed savages from the other side of the river.”
“Now won’t you please let me have the five dollars, father?” pleaded Richard, who had a point to gain, and therefore was not disposed to carry his argument any further.
“I will not, Richard. I gave you five dollars the other day, and the next morning I heard that you had been seen with most disgraceful companions in a bowling saloon. Richard, if you have any respect for yourself, or regard for me and your sisters, do not associate with low and vile company.”
As Mr. Grant uttered this earnest warning, he put on his hat and left the room. When he had gone, and the wayward son realized that his father fully understood his position, he threw himself upon the sofa with an exclamation of anger and resentment. It was evident that the warning he had received produced no effect upon him, and that he was only smarting under the pain of disappointment.
His father had so often given him money when he asked for it that he did not expect to be refused in the present instance, especially when he saw his sister so liberally supplied. He remained for a few moments upon the sofa, venting his anger and disappointment by kicking and crying, as a very small child does when deprived of some coveted plaything.
“That’s too confounded bad!” exclaimed he, at last, rising from the sofa and walking toward Bertha, who had been a sad and silent spectator of the scene which had just transpired. “All my fun for the day is spoiled. Berty, won’t you help me out of this scrape?”
“What scrape, Dick?”
“I want five dollars very badly. I must have it, too. I can’t get along without it. I shall be a byword among all the fellows if I don’t have it,” added Richard, with a great deal of earnestness. “Lend me five dollars of the money father gave you, and I will pay you in a few days, when the governor is better natured.”
“The governor?” suggested Bertha, with a reproving smile.
“Father, I mean, of course. What is the use of being so nice about little things. I never saw the old man in such a ferment before in my life.”
“The old man?”
“There it is again!”
“I don’t like to hear such names applied to father. It really hurts my feelings, and I hope you will not do so.”
“Pooh! All the fellows call their fathers by these names. It sounds babyish to say ‘my father’; and I don’t like to be different from the rest of the fellows.”
“I hope you will not be like the young men on the other side of the river with whom you associate.”
“Nonsense! They are real good fellows. They don’t go to the prayer meetings, it is true, but, for all that, they are better than hundreds that do go.”
“I think they are bad boys, and I hope you won’t go with them any more.”
“Then it was you that told father I went with them,” said Richard, suddenly stopping in his walk across the room, and looking his sister full in the face.
“I did tell him, Richard; but you know I did so for your good.”
“Pooh! For my good! Do you think I cannot take care of myself?”
“I hope you can.”
“I didn’t think you were a little telltale, Berty,” sneered Richard.
“I have spoken to you about going with those bad boys, and begged you to keep away from them. If you knew how bad I feel when I see my brother in such company, you would not complain of me for telling father.”
“I won’t complain, Berty,” replied Richard, suddenly changing his tone. “You are a real good girl, and you intended to do me a heap of good when you told father. You are the best sister in the world. Now lend me the five dollars, Berty, and I never will find fault with you for anything you may do.”
“I cannot, Richard.”
“You cannot? Yes, you can. Haven’t you got two half eagles in your hand?”
“I have, but I got them for a particular use.”
“But I will pay you again.”
“I suppose you will, if you can.”
“If I can! Do you think dad--father, I mean--will always be as savage as he was this morning?”
“I am afraid you don’t understand him, Richard. He thinks that giving you money does you injury.”
“Don’t preach any more, Berty. Will you lend me the five dollars?”
“I cannot. It would not be right for me to do so, even if I could spare the money.”
“Why not?”
“Father refused to give it to you because he thought it would be an injury to you, and it would certainly be wrong for me to thwart his purpose.”
“Then you won’t let me have it?” demanded Richard, struggling to keep down his resentment.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“What odds does it make what I want it for?”
“If you want it for any good purpose I might let you have it,” answered Bertha, who was wavering between a desire to oblige her brother and the fear of doing wrong.
“I want it to put in the contribution box for the Hottentots in the Sandwich Islands, of course,” replied Richard, with a sneer.
“Tell me what you want it for Dick.”
“Well, I scorn to lie about it. I offered to bet five dollars with Tom Mullen that our sailboat would beat his, and he has taken me up. The race is to come off to-day, and if I don’t get the money I shall have to back down.”
“I hope you will, Dick,” said Bertha, sorrowfully. “What would father say if he knew you were betting on boats?”
“If he had any spunk at all he would hand out the money, and tell me to go it.”
“You know very well he would disapprove of it. I think it is very wicked to gamble and bet.”
“No preaching. Are you willing to have me tabooed as a sneak; to have me a byword and the laughingstock of the fellows?”
“I would rather have such fellows hate you than like you, Richard,” answered Bertha, sadly. “I did not think you had gone so far as to gamble.”
“Pshaw! There is no gambling about it. I am not going to be branded as a sneak. If you won’t lend me the money, I must get it somewhere else.”
“I cannot lend it to you, Richard, for such a purpose. You will be a disgrace to your family if you go on in this way.”
“I should like to know what you are doing! Don’t you spend half your time with those dirty savages from the Hollow? Do you think it is right for the daughter of Franklin Grant to associate with those dirty, filthy, half-civilized ragamuffins?”
“It will not injure either them or me.”
“I am ashamed of you. If it does not hurt your feelings it does mine, to hear that you spend your time with these dregs of society. The fellows on the other side are all laughing at you.”
“Let them laugh. While I do my duty, I need not fear them.”
“Come, Berty, we won’t quarrel. Let me have one of those half eagles, and I will let you go with the savages as much as you please.”
“No, Richard,” replied Bertha, shaking her head, with a smile which showed that there was no anger or resentment in her heart.
“Do, Berty!”
“I cannot; my conscience will not let me do so.”
“Confound your conscience!” exclaimed Richard, rushing out of the room in a paroxysm of anger.
Bertha was sorely tried by the conduct of her brother. She had observed, with anxiety and pain, the dissolute course of Richard. She had reasoned and pleaded with him to abandon his wayward companions, but no good result had attended her efforts to reform him.
Mr. Grant was a broker in the city of New York. He had the reputation of being a very wealthy man. He lived upon a magnificent estate on the Hudson, about twenty-five miles from the city. His wife had been dead several years, and his three children were under the guidance of a housekeeper, who, though an excellent woman, did not possess a mother’s influence, nor did she exercise a mother’s authority over her young charge.
Woodville, the residence of the broker, was a beautiful place. The mansion and its appointments were all that wealth and taste could make them. Servants, without number, came and went at the bidding of the children. Tutors and governesses had been employed to superintend the education of the young people. Boats on the river, carriages on the land, were ever ready to minister to their inclinations. There was no end to the dogs, ponies, rabbits, monkeys, squirrels, deer and other pets which were supplied to beguile their leisure hours.
Mr. Grant believed himself to be a rich man, and none of his friends or neighbors had any reason to suspect he was not a rich man. He lived like a nabob; but more than this, he was a generous and kind-hearted man, and those who knew him best respected him most, while his wealth purchased for him the worldly esteem of all within the circle of his influence.
As my young readers have already discovered, he was an indulgent parent. Since the death of Mrs. Grant, his children had been his sole domestic happiness. He was wholly devoted to them; but his immense business transactions obliged him to be absent from an early hour in the morning till a late hour in the evening, and they were thus left, for the greater portion of the time, to the care of the housekeeper and their instructors.
Our story opens in the month of July, and it was vacation with the young people. The tutor and the governess had two months’ leave of absence. Richard, Bertha and Fanny were free from the restraints of study. They had nothing to do but enjoy themselves. How Richard, who was fifteen years old, spent his time has already been shown.
Bertha, while wandering alone one May day in the Glen, a secluded valley on the bank of the river, half a mile from Woodville, had met a party of poor children from Dunk’s Hollow, which is a little village a mile or more from the mansion house. There were seven of them, and they were children of the poorest people in the neighborhood. They were dirty, ragged, barefoot, and their condition excited the pity of the child of plenty.
She gave them the cake and confectionery she had brought to grace her lonely May-day festival in the Glen, told them stories, and made herself as agreeable as though she had been an angel sent to mitigate the woes of poverty and want. The event opened a new vista to Bertha, and she at once began to devise means to instruct these children of want and improve their worldly condition. Without going to a far-off land, she became a missionary to the heathen, the friend and companion of the needy and neglected. Despising the taunts of her brother and sister, she spent most of her leisure hours with her ragged disciples in the Glen.