CHAPTER XV
BERTHA MYSTIFIED BY STRANGE THINGS
The old gentleman conducted Bertha up the stairs to the large front room which was fitted up as a library. It was furnished in a plain, old-fashioned manner, and was well supplied with sofas, lounges and easy-chairs. As they entered this room, the old gentleman closed the door behind them, and offered her a chair.
Bertha almost wished she had not come in, when Mr. Presby closed the door, for being alone with an insane man was the most terrible thing she could imagine. She did not at first dare to take the chair to which the old gentleman beckoned her, but lingered near the door, ready to make her escape when she should discover the first symptom of insanity in the invalid.
“Be seated, if you please,” said the old gentleman.
“Thank you, sir,” stammered Bertha, keeping near the door, and gazing at the invalid with the deepest anxiety.
But then it occurred to her that the rude servant had told her Mr. Presby was out of town, which was certainly a falsehood; and perhaps the statement that he was crazy was equally false. She had never seen an insane person; but Mr. Presby did not look any different from any other person. He was sad and pale, and seemed to be harmless.
“Won’t you take a seat?” asked he again, in a tone so mild that she was almost convinced he was not crazy.
She had heard that insane people are sometimes quite rational, and only have fits of madness at times. This might be the case with Mr. Presby, and he might, at any moment, become a raving maniac. But she took the chair, though she trembled as she did so, and kept one eye upon the door all the time.
“You wished to see me,” continued the old gentleman, as he seated himself near her--much nearer than she wished to have him under the circumstances.
“Yes, sir,” replied Bertha, looking him in the eye, that she might discover the first symptom of wildness in season to make her escape before he could proceed to violence.
“Don’t be alarmed,” added Mr. Presby, with a smile, as he evidently noticed her agitation.
“I--I’m--not alarmed,” stammered Bertha, in doubt whether she should apply for the situation.
“You are, I presume, an applicant for the place which I advertised in the morning paper.”
“Yes, sir; I called to see about that; but--I--I don’t know as the place will suit me,” answered she, still very much embarrassed at the thought of becoming reader and amanuensis for a crazy man.
“Well, my child, I don’t wish you to take the situation if you think it will not suit you,” added Mr. Presby, with a fatherly smile. “What is your name?”
“Bertha Grant, sir.”
“Why do you think the place would not suit you?”
“Because--I, really, sir----”
“You seem to have changed your mind very suddenly.”
“The servant told me you were out of town----”
“And out of my head,” said the invalid, with a smile. “I begin to understand why you think the situation will not suit you. The servant told you that Mr. Presby was crazy, and did not want any young lady.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bertha, frankly.
“I am not crazy. I thank God that amid the misfortunes He has visited upon me, I am still permitted to enjoy my reason unimpaired. No, child, I am not insane.”
“I am so glad to hear it!” exclaimed Bertha.
But the glowing expression with which she received this assurance quickly gave place to a sad look again, as she considered that the invalid might not be aware of his own infirmity.
“You have some doubts,” added he, as he observed the change upon her face. “It is sad for me to have to defend myself from such a charge. You know that John told you one falsehood.”
“Yes, sir; and I am satisfied,” replied Bertha; “but it seems very strange to me.”
“If you would like the situation, I think I can convince you that I am not crazy.”
“I would like it very much, sir, if you would please to give me the place.”
“Perhaps you will not suit me,” added Mr. Presby.
“I will try to do so, sir.”
“You are very young.”
“I shall be fourteen in a short time.”
“Younger than I thought you were; it will be hard for a girl like you to be shut up with an old man like me.”
“I shall not mind that, sir.”
“And there will be a great many annoyances and trials to endure.”
“I will try to be faithful and patient.”
“I suppose there have been a dozen applicants at the door for the place this forenoon, but you are the first that I have seen. They were all sent away, as you were. I should not have seen you if I had not happened to overhear the conversation between you and John in the hall.”
“How very strange!” said Bertha, not able to comprehend this singular state of things.
“You will understand it soon enough. I like your appearance, young as you are; and as I may not see another applicant, I am the more desirous of engaging you, if you will answer my purpose. I presume you have been well educated, or you would not have applied for the place.”
Bertha briefly stated the history of her education, which seemed to be satisfactory to Mr. Presby. He then questioned her in regard to her family, and, without telling any more than was necessary, she informed him in regard to her past life. He was not inquisitive, and she passed the examination without informing him what her father’s first name was, or where he had resided.
“Now, Miss Grant, I should like to hear you read.”
He then handed her Kirk White’s poems, and she read a couple of pages.
“You read very well indeed for one so young, and you appear to understand what you read. Now I will dictate a letter for you to write, and if your penmanship is plain and distinct, you will satisfy me in every respect.”
Mr. Presby dictated to Bertha a letter of about a page in length. Her taste and skill in drawing had materially improved her writing, and she wrote a beautiful hand, much larger and plainer than fashionably educated young ladies usually write.
“That is admirable!” exclaimed Mr. Presby, as she handed him the sheet. “It is as plain as print. I commend your hand to the bookkeepers downtown. I can read that writing.”
“I am very glad it suits you, sir,” said Bertha, delighted with the success of her examination.
“You have spelled all the words right, and the letter is neat and well arranged. I suppose you know something about arithmetic and geography?”
“Yes, sir; I am very willing to be examined.”
“No, I will not trouble you any further. If the place will suit you, it is yours.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Bertha was sure it would suit her, if Mr. Presby was not insane; and she was well satisfied now that he was not.
“You have not spoken of the salary, sir,” suggested Bertha, who had some doubts on this subject.
“You may suit yourself about that, Miss Grant,” replied Mr. Presby, with a smile. “Money is the least of my cares in this world.”
“If you thought four dollars a week was not too much,” said she, after some hesitation.
“I will give you five with pleasure,” added Mr. Presby. “It is of no consequence what I pay, if you answer my purpose.”
“You are very kind and very generous, sir; and I will do the best I can to please you.”
“That is all I require; and you need not come in the morning till ten o’clock.”
Ten o’clock! Then she had no home, after all, and she must find a place to board somewhere in the vicinity. The five dollars a week seemed to melt away all at once, for it would take three dollars a week to pay her board, and there was only two left to pay Fanny’s board, and nothing for clothes and other expenses.
“Where do you live?” asked Mr. Presby. “I suppose you will want to go home before it is very dark at night.”
“I have no home,” answered Bertha, sadly.
“No home! Poor child! Then your parents are dead?”
She did not dare to tell him that her father was in prison; so she made no reply.
“But you shall have a home here,” continued Mr. Presby, rising and opening a door which led into a small chamber over the front hall. “You shall have this room, and take your meals with me.”
“Thank you, sir; I shall never be able to repay you for your kindness.”
“Poor child! This is the happiest day I have known for a long time. I thank the Lord for sending you to me, for we shall be a blessing to each other.”
Bertha could not help crying, the old gentleman was so kind. She was sure now that he could not be crazy; and she wondered more than ever at the strange conduct of John, and the female voice she had heard in the hall.
She looked into the chamber, and found it was nicely furnished, and had a very pleasant aspect. With the devout old gentleman she thanked God for conducting her to this new home. She felt Mr. Presby would not turn her out of the house, even if he should find out that her father was a prisoner in the Tombs.
“Poor child,” said Mr. Presby, which seemed to be growing into a favorite expression with him. “You said your name was----”
“Bertha Grant, sir.”
“Bertha; I shall call you Bertha, for you are only a child now, and I mean to be a father to you, if you are a good girl, as I am sure you will be. Poor child! no home, and no friends.”
The old man walked slowly up and down the room, as he uttered these words, and seemed to be thinking of something.
“I wish I had a better home than this for you, poor child,” said Mr. Presby, stopping in front of her chair.
“I could not ask a better home,” replied Bertha.
“Poor child! It is hearts that make home, not fine rooms, rich carpets, and costly furniture,” added Mr. Presby, with a deep sigh, as he shook his head, and resumed his walk. “Hearts, not rooms and furniture,” he murmured several times.
“I could ask no kinder heart than yours to warm my home,” said Bertha, pitying the old man, he was so sad.
“Poor child! I love you already,” exclaimed Mr. Presby, as he paused by her side, bent over and kissed her on the forehead, while a great tear dropped from his sunken eye upon her brow.
Bertha thought the old gentleman acted very strangely. There was a mystery connected with him which she could not penetrate. The conduct of John, and the female who had spoken, added to the mystery, rather than assisted in its solution. It was evident that they had prevented several applicants for the situation she had obtained from seeing the invalid, and had attempted to prevent her from doing so. Why they should act in this manner was unaccountable to her; but she had no desire to pry into matters which did not concern her.
“This shall be your home, my child,” said Mr. Presby, pausing again, and looking tenderly upon her.
“Thank you, sir. You fixed my wages before you knew that I had no other home. You will wish to change the sum now.”
“No, child, no!” answered Mr. Presby, impatiently. “Now, do not say anything more about money. It has been the bane of my life. I do not like the sound of the word. You shall have five dollars a week, or ten, or any other sum you desire, only let me have one true friend in the world, and I care not for all the gold in the universe.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said Bertha, deeply moved by the earnestness of the old gentleman; for, as he spoke, the tears coursed down his pale, wrinkled cheek, and his soul seemed to be filled with anguish. “I would not have mentioned the subject again, if it had not been a matter of great consequence to me. I have a sister in the country, and I only wish to earn money enough to support her.”
“I knew that one so young could not love money. It has been a curse to me. God has punished me by making me rich. I am worth at least half a million of dollars. I own houses and lands, stocks, bonds and mortgages, I have the notes of rich men in my safe, and I have over a hundred thousand dollars in the banks; but I would give all I have in the world, every dollar, for a poor cottage in the country, if I could have with it the respect and affection of my--of my--of those whom Heaven sent to bless my declining years, and smooth my pathway to the grave.”
The old man dropped into his chair, and wept as though his heart would break. Bertha tried to comfort him. She brushed back the long, white locks from his forehead, and kissed his wrinkled brow. Gentle-hearted as she was, she could not help weeping with him.
“Poor child!” sobbed Mr. Presby. “You must not love me; if you do, others will hate you.”
“I wish I could do something to make you happy,” replied Bertha.
“No; they will hate you, if you do.”
“Who will hate me?”
The old man looked at her in silence for a moment.
“I dare not tell you,” said he. “I am a great sufferer. God has sorely afflicted me; but I try to be patient and resigned to my lot. It is hard, very hard.”
Mr. Presby wiped his eyes, and, after a struggle, calmed his strong emotion.
“Come, Bertha, you shall read to me now,” he added.
“What shall I read?” asked she.
“You shall select something yourself.”
She took the Bible, and read the twenty-third Psalm, and then a portion of the Sermon on the Mount.