CHAPTER IV.
THE next morning, Bob dressed himself as neatly as he was able with his limited means, and at an early hour presented himself at Mr. Vanderburgh's office. The clerks had not yet come in, and Mr. Vanderburgh and Dr. George were the only occupants of the room.
"Ah! Good morning, Robert," said the former gentleman kindly; "well, I suppose you have come after your money, eh?"
"Yes, sir, if you please."
"You must have done pretty well last week," continued Mr. Vanderburgh taking out his pocket-book. "I should think you must have earned nearly enough to buy a new suit of clothes, and I should advise you to do so if you can."
"I haven't got money enough yet," returned Robert coloring. "I lost part of my earnings, and besides, I have got to pay some money that I borrowed."
"That is right, pay your debts first always. But how did you come to lose it? Seems to me that was rather careless; you must learn to be careful of your money."
"It was not my fault, sir; I could not help it."
"Oh! Don't say you could not help it; that's nonsense! People can help losing things if they are only careful. I don't suppose any body stole it, and I don't see how you could lose it in any other way," and Mr. Vanderburgh was proceeding with a very well-intended homily on carefulness and attention, when a glance from his brother-in-law checked him. "But never mind that now; I dare say you will do better another time. Here is your money, and whenever I have another job, you shall have it, I promise you."
Bob received the money with a bow, which, considered as a first attempt, was really very creditable, and wishing the gentlemen good morning, he left the room.
The Doctor followed him; he saw that there was something unusual in Robert's loss, and partly guessed the truth.
"Tell me, Robert," he said, as soon as they were by themselves, "how did you lose your money? I don't want to force myself into your confidence, my boy," he added, as Robert hesitated; "but I rather think I can be of service to you, and I shall be glad to do so."
"You are very kind, sir! It is almost too bad to tell, but you may as well know all about us first as last," and so saying, he related the whole story.
The Doctor listened attentively, and without remark till he had finished. Then he asked, "Do you owe any one else?"
"Only a dollar to Charley Brown, and about two dollars at the grocery on the corner. Mr. Bride has trusted me for tea and sugar several times, and I have never had the money to pay him. He says he will trust me any time, but I have only been there once or twice."
"Does not Mr. Bride sell liquor?" asked the Doctor:
"Yes; sir, he lets father have it very often: he hardly ever passes there without stopping in, if he has any money."
"I do not think it is a very good place for you to buy provisions, if that is the case. You had better go somewhere else, where they do not keep rum to sell."
"Yes, sir, but then who will trust me? And then, if I leave off going to Mr. Bride's, he will want me to pay him."
"But if you are earning money, you will not want to be trusted, and can buy what you want much cheaper, without the danger of being drawn into bad company, and led on to drink."
"I do not think there is much danger, sir. I have drank sometimes I own; but I have seen enough of its consequences never to want to touch it again."
"Do not be too sure, my boy! No body knows when they may be drawn aside, and the best way is to keep out of the way of temptation." The Doctor mused a little, and then said:
"Robert, if I were to lend you three dollars to pay all your debts with, might I trust you to work it out? Would you not be tempted to leave me, and go to work for some one else, who would pay you ready money?"
Robert hesitated a little, and then said: "Yes, sir, I think you might trust me; but I don't care much about paying Mr. Bride and Charley. They can wait as well as not."
"But is that right, Robert? Is it doing as you would be done by? No, no, my boy, you must pay your just debts, before you can hope to prosper. And besides, do you not see, that as long as you owe these people money, you are in their power? You would like to buy your provisions of Jenner, instead of Mr. Bride, because he sells them cheaper, and they are of better quality, but you are afraid to make the change, because you are in debt to Mr. Bride already. You can not refuse to do what Charley wants of you, though it may be something very wrong, lest he should ask you for the money you owe him? Don't you see?"
Robert nodded assent.
"Now if you will work steadily for me this week, I will pay you six shillings a day. How much will that be?"
"Thirty-six shillings," replied Bob after a little consideration.
"And how many dollars?"
"Four dollars and a half," after another interval of study.
"Perfectly right! I see you know something of arithmetic. Well, I will either pay you entirely in money, or I will give you an order on Jenner for half the sum, and he will let you have provisions for the family, at the same rate that he supplies me. Thus you will be able to pay your debts, and begin anew at a respectable shop. How would you like that?"
"Very much, sir," said Robert, with sparkling eyes; "I should like nothing better than to work for you; but," he added, his countenance suddenly falling, "I am afraid my father will claim all my earnings."
"Leave that to me," said the Doctor; "I will settle the matter with him, and I do not think we shall have any difficulty. Your father would hardly care to come into collision with me just now. But if you are going to work for me, I must make some conditions with you. The first is, that you shall always come to your work at seven in the morning."
"Well, sir. We don't have breakfast very early, but I will come whether I have my breakfast or not. What else?"
"You shall not have any thing to say to Childs or Adams, or any of that set."
"Well, sir, I'll agree to that, I am sure."
"You shall not swear."
"I won't if I can help it, but I have got into such a habit of it that I do so without thinking. I don't mean any thing by it."
"Don't you? When you call upon the Almighty God, in whose power you are, body and soul—more helpless than a baby in the jaws of a lion—when you call on Him to destroy you eternally, don't you mean any thing by it?"
Robert seemed struck by this view of the case. "I never thought of it in that way! But God is not like a lion. He is good and merciful—at least the ministers say so."
"And because He is good and merciful, will you insult him to his face? Remember that though he is indeed merciful, he is also just, and will by no means clear the guilty. Christ himself is all mercy and love, yet a time will come, when he will say: 'Depart ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels!' And God has expressly declared that he will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain."
Robert drew a long breath. "I will try to break it off, Doctor. Any thing else?"
"Nothing else that I can specify particularly. Some people would say that I am risking a great deal in thus taking you into my family, where you must necessarily associate more or less with my own boy; but I am willing to trust you, and thus give you a chance for rising in the world, and becoming a respectable man: I hope you will not give me cause to repent of having done so. Now go and pay your debts, and then come back to my office, and I will show you what I want you to do."
Robert accordingly went in pursuit of his creditor, and found him with his shadow, Joe Adams, standing in front of a billiard—saloon, which was the pest of the village.
"Hallo, Bob!" said the former. "You have come just in time to make yourself useful. Come, and have a game with us."
"I can't," replied Bob, coloring with a kind of false shame, for he was always very much afraid of being laughed at. "I must hurry back to my work; but here is your money, Childs, and I am much obliged to you."
"Back to your work, eh! You are very industrious all at once, seems to me. Who are you going to work for?" laying his hand on his arm, as Bob was turning away. "Come man, don't be in such a hurry, became you have something to do for once in your life."
"I am going to work for Dr. Huntley, if you must know. I promised to be back directly, so let me go if you please."
"Yes, yes, presently! Why, it is only eight o'clock, and half an hour hence will be time enough. Come, let's have one game. You are not getting too grand to associate with us, I hope."
Robert made no answer, but wrenching his arm from his tormentor, set off at full speed up the street, his ears tingling with the shouts of laughter which pursued him.
"What on earth has got into the fellow?" said Adams. "He seems to have taken up a new line of business lately."
"Oh! I suppose the saints have got 'posession' of him, and mean to make him a burning and a shining light; but they may do their best, and I will have hold of him yet. And by the bye, Joe, you didn't see him give me that money?"
"No!" replied Joe, rather surprised. "I was looking another way—why?"
"Never you mind, only you didn't see him give it to me, and don't know any thing about it."
A sudden light broke in upon Joe's mind. "You don't mean to deny that he paid you? Oh! Come, Childs, that would be too mean."
"You mind your own business, old fellow, and let me attend to mine. Only you be sure, you remember only what I want you to, or I'll find means to make you recollect something you don't like. You want to be like Bob, and set up for a gentleman, I suppose, but remember—" and he held up his finger warningly.
Joe sighed at the thought of the slavery to which he had reduced himself; but he was not inclined to trouble himself with unpleasant reflections, when it could be helped, so he dismissed the whole subject from his mind, and was soon deeply engaged in a game of ten-pins.
Robert returned to the Doctor's office, heated and out of breath, but rejoicing in his escape, and in having freed himself from his galling debt. He worked industriously all day, only pausing half an hour, to eat his luncheon of cold johnny-cake and pork, which was all Celia had to give him. Mrs. Huntley was going to send him a plate from the dinner-table, when her husband stopped her.
"Better not, my love! Let him do without luxuries till he earns them."
"I ought not to have any thing but bread and water either, by your rule, father," said George Huntley, a bright-looking boy of about Robert's age; "for I have done nothing to earn my dinner."
"No!" said his father. "Have you no then done your task in school to-day?"
"Yes, father, but that is not earning any thing."
"I do not agree with you, my son. I think it is earning a good deal. Studying Greek and Latin is your appointed work, as hoeing corn and potatoes is Robert's, and if you perform it well, you are entitled to as much credit as he. Moreover, roast fowl and custards are no luxuries to you: they are every-day matters. But it is not so with him: they are delicacies altogether beyond his reach, and it would be as unfortunate for him to acquire a taste for such things at present, as it would be for you to get the habit of living on the same scale as your cousins in New-York."
"I do not think the Merritt's limit themselves in any thing when they have the means of procuring it," remarked Mrs. Huntley. "I have seen them at breakfast, dinner, and supper; and they always have tea or coffee on the table, and sometimes both, and always meat and butter, even while the latter is at its highest price. I once ventured to hint to Mrs. Merritt that I thought they might use less tea and sugar, and thus have more money to lay out upon necessaries, such as shoes and stockings for instance, but she took it very much in dudgeon, and informed me that poor folks had as much right to be comfortable as rich folks, and that they were not to be trodden upon, because they were poor. So I did not venture to say any more, though it does seem to me, that when butter is twenty-five or thirty cents a pound, people who are dependent on the charity of their neighbors, ought to use it rather more sparingly."
"But, papa," said Maude Huntley, "don't you think, then, that poor people have a right to be made comfortable?"
"That is rather a vague question, my daughter."
"I mean," said Maude, striving to make her meaning more clear, "don't you think they have a right to tea, and sugar, and butter, and such things?"
"That depends upon circumstances. If an industrious man is suddenly incapacitated from supporting himself, by sickness or any other accident, he has a certain right to expect a 'maintainance' from the community, till such time as he is able to take care of himself, and few persons will grudge to him a supply of such provisions as he has been accustomed to. But when a man is able to work and will not, but depends on the community for all he eats and drinks, he has, in my view, no right to any thing, and if he is supplied with a moderate amount of the coarsest provisions it is all he ought to expect."
"Celia Merritt looks like a nice girl," remarked Maude. "I noticed her in church yesterday."
"It is a thousand pities," said Mrs. Huntley, "that she should not be learning something which would be useful to her, instead of growing up in ignorance and idleness, as she seems likely to do at present. We could procure a respectable place for her very easily, if her parents would only let her go. I believe I will make another effort to persuade them. Your aunt Maria is going out with me on some Sunday-school business this afternoon, and we will call there on our way."
Mrs. Vanderburgh was very willing to second her sister, in her attempt to do something for Celia, in whom she had long felt an interest, but she was not very sanguine in her expectations of success.
They found Mrs. Merritt seated as usual in her rocking-chair, with her hands before her, doing nothing except that she occasionally rocked with her foot, the cradle in which the baby was sleeping. Celia was working in the outer kitchen, and did not leave her work, except to dust out the most secure of the rickety chairs which she set for the accommodation of her visitors, and then returned to her tubs, leaving the door open that she might hear the conversation. After a few preliminary remarks, and inquiries after the health of the family, Mrs. Huntley opened the matter.
"Celia is growing a great girl," she remarked experimentally. "Don't you begin to think about setting her about something useful?"
"Well, she is growing tall, that's a fact, and I often tell her she don't do half as much as she might. When I was of her age, I could accomplish twice as much; but she has not much ambition, though she is a middling good girl."
"She ought to be going to school," said Mrs. Vanderburgh.
"Oh! I can not spare her for that, and besides, I should not like to have her go to the district-school. If her father only behaved half-way decently, she might be going to the academy, as I did at her age. When I was young, I should not have thought of going to the district-school."
"Our common-school is a very good one," replied Mrs. Huntley, suppressing a smile. "I sent Maude there till last summer, and we never had occasion to find fault with it. Do you not think it would be a good thing if she had a place where she could go to school, and, at the same time, be learning something about house-work, as well as supporting herself?"
"A place!" repeated Mrs. Merritt, rousing herself a little. "What sort of a place do you mean?"
"Why, such a place as Annie Leavitt has, for instance. She lives with Mrs. Atwood and goes to school in winter, doing all she can before and after school. Mrs. Atwood tells me that she has learned to work quite nicely, and makes herself very useful about house. Now, I know an excellent woman, a Mrs. Dennison, who supplies us with butter, and who would be willing to take Celia on the same terms that Mrs. Atwood does Annie; namely, that she should go to school in winter and help do the work in summer, when of course there is more to be done. How would you like that, Celia?"
"Very much, ma'am," said Celia, coming forward with sparkling eyes. "I have always wanted just such a place. I would go to-morrow, if mother was willing, and if Bob thought it best, as I am sure he would."
"I am sure of it, too, Celia; Robert is a very sensible boy, and fond of his sister. What do you say to this plan, Mrs. Merritt?"
"I say I won't bear of such a thing," replied Mrs. Merritt, in such a tone of irritation that the ladies started astonished. "A likely story, indeed, that I would let a daughter of mine demean herself by going out to do house-work like a common Irish girl, and with Jane Dennison, too! Why, she used to be a hired girl herself, and lived with your father years upon years. I remember when I would no more have thought of associating with Jane True than I would with—with any one," said Mrs. Merritt, rather at a loss for a comparison whereby to express the greatness of the distance between herself and the former Jane True. "No, indeed, Celia Merritt, if you haven't any proper pride in yourself, I have, and I won't hear of any such whim, you may depend. Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" she continued. "You, the granddaughter of old Titus Merritt, and descended from some of the first families in the land, to want to go out for a hired girl?"
"No, I am not," returned Celia, with spirit, as Mrs. Merritt stopped to take breath. "I would rather go out digging potatoes, and earn an honest living, than go on as I do now. And as to our being descended from some of the first people, I should think we had descended a good way. I think we had better leave off descending, and try to get up a little."
"Hush, Celia, my child!" whispered Mrs. Vanderburgh. "Don't lose your temper. I am sorry your feelings are so much hurt by the mere mention of the thing, Mrs. Merritt, and really I do not understand why they should be. Mrs. Dennison is a most respectable woman, and always has been. I assure you, my children take it as a great favor to be allowed to spend two or three days with Amelia Dennison; and I intend next summer to place my second boy with them that he may learn something of out-of-door work."
"That is very different," returned Mrs. Merritt; "your girls only go visiting, and never think of doing any thing, and I dare say Jane True thinks it a great feather in her cap that she can tell her neighbors how Lawyer Vanderburgh's children come to visit her now and then. If she just wanted Celia to keep her company, and sew, and so on, I might think of it, but no daughter of mine shall go out as a kitchen drudge. I dare say you think you do us a great favor by coming to see us now and then and giving us something, but my father was as good as yours any day, and if I am poor, I am not to be trodden down and walked over by any body."
"You need not be so angry, Mrs. Merritt," said Mrs. Vanderburgh, coolly. "We thought we were doing you a service, but since you do not choose to accept it, it is your own affair. I hope you will think better of it when you come to consider the matter. I may as well tell you now, in plain terms, that the ladies of the Society have determined to allow you no more assistance unless you are willing to be guided by them in some degree. I suppose you will not mind that, however, as, of course, you would not be willing to receive any thing from such people as Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Sawtell, who are both liberal subscribers to the Society. Celia, my dear, don't cry. We will try and contrive some way to have you go to school."
The ladies took their leave before Mrs. Merritt had recovered from her astonishment at the idea of being cut off from the lists of the Society, as part of the family income and something to which she had an acknowledged right.
Poor Celia, to whom the idea of going to live with good Amelia Dennison seemed to open a vision of Paradise, could not restrain her grief at the disappointment. She cried over her washing all the afternoon, and it was with swollen eyes and a melancholy countenance that she welcomed Bob on his return. Mrs. Merritt regaled her husband at supper-time with an exaggerated account of the impertinence and pride of her visitors, who wanted to make a common drudge of old Titus Merritt's daughter, and expatiated on Celia's mean-spiritedness in crying because she could not go to work in Jane True's kitchen.
"The girl is a fool, and you are another," was the gruff response. "I don't see, for my part, what your gentility ever did for you, except to make all your relations ashamed of you. However, you needn't trouble yourself about her, nor they neither, for I have found a place for her myself, or two of them, for that matter."
"What sort of places?"
"One is to work in the factory. They will give her fourteen shillings a week for the first three months, and more afterwards. But I don't think much of that. I have promised Burke, at the Union House, that she shall go there and be dining-room girl. He is a good friend of mine, and I'd like to oblige him."
"Why, Mr. Merritt! You would not think of having a daughter of yours go to live at the Union, would you? Why, there is hardly a respectable person boards there."
"Think of it or not, it makes no difference," interposed Bob; "no sister of mine goes to live at that house. It is not a decent place, father, and you know it."
"Hoity-toity! Who asked your opinion? I should think any place that was good enough for me was good enough for you or your sister. I say she shall go."
"And I say she shall not! I would rather see her drowned."
"Hold your tongue, you impudent jackanapes. And you, wife, stop your whimpering, or I will give you something to cry for. Celia shall go to Burke's to-morrow, and stay there, too, or I will give her a lesson that she will remember the longest day she lives."
"Father," said Celia, speaking quite calmly, though she was very pale, "listen to me; I will not go to the Union to live. There is not a respectable servant in the house, and everybody knows what Burke's character is. I will never set foot in his house, and if you try to make me, I will go to Mr. Wheeler, the Poor-master, and ask him to bind me out to some decent person in the country. I know he has a right to do it if I ask him. As for working in the factory, I will think about it. I will ask some of the ladies, and if they say it is respectable, I am willing to go, though it is not what I want to do. But I will never go to live in any public-house, much less Burke's."
Mr. Merritt was astonished to see Celia show so much spirit, for she had never before opposed any thing to his tyranny but tears and entreaties. He knew she had it in her power to put into execution her threat of binding herself out, and he had sense enough to see that such a step would place her entirely out of his power, while if she worked in the factory, he would probably draw her wages at pleasure.
"Well, well, child, you needn't be so spunky," he replied at length. "You shall not go to Burke's if you are so set against it, though it is all nonsense to say that it is not respectable. But you must go to work at something, and that directly. As for you, Bob, you are laying up an account that will have to be settled some day, and in a way, perhaps, that you don't imagine. I shall not always put up with your impertinence though I do now. You need not think you are going to get off so easily, though you do have great folks to take your part."
Robert made no reply to his father's threats. He advised Celia, as soon as Mr. Merritt was out of the way, to ask Mrs. Huntley or Mrs. Vanderburgh what she had better do, and act accordingly. "They are the best friends we ever had, except Mr. Ellison," said he. "I only wonder they have had patience to befriend us so long."
"You would wonder more, if you knew how mother talked to them this afternoon," replied Celia. "She talked as though Mrs. Dennison was not good enough to carry her shoes, just because she was a hired girl. A great deal of good my being Titus Merritt's granddaughter does me, to be sure. I almost wish sometimes that there had been no such person."
"Never mind, Sis. The time may come when I shall be able to buy the old place and make it look as well as it did in grandfather's time. More unlikely things have happened."
CHAPTER V.
AS soon as Celia had finished her evening's work, she dressed herself and went up to Mrs. Huntley to ask her advice, in the matter of going into the factory. The lady was very kind, and listened to her story with attention and interest. When she had finished, she asked:
"Do you think, ma'am, that the factory will be a proper place for me? Robert says I shall not go, unless you do."
"I think you may do very well there, Celia; but it will all depend upon yourself. I know several girls who work in the factory and are perfectly respectable, and I know others who are not so. If you are steady and industrious, and keep yourself out of the way of undesirable company; if you are careful not to associate with those of the girls who dress too much, and run about the streets in the evening, I do not see what harm can happen to you; but remember, my child, that evil communications corrupt good manners very soon. I should much prefer to have you find a place in some good family; but since that can not be done at present, the factory is at least better than nothing. By and by, perhaps, we may be able to arrange matters as we desire."
Thus assured by her kind friend, Celia consented to enter the factory, and it was settled that she should go the next day. It was with many misgivings that at the appointed time she found herself at the factory-gates, and with a still greater sinking of heart that she followed her employer into the large room, where she was to be occupied. But the overseer was kind and considerate, and the girls too much occupied to spend much time in staring at her, and though she was dizzy with the motion and noise, and the apparent confusion, and a little sickened by the smell of oil and dust, she became so much accustomed to them by the end of the day, as to be able to tell Bob, when he came home at night, that she thought she should like it very well, when she got a little used to it.
For three or four weeks, things went on quietly, and with comparative comfort. Robert remained in the Doctor's employ, carefully keeping out of the way of his old acquaintances, and taking great pains to give satisfaction. He was sometimes strongly tempted to help himself to the fruit and vegetables which lay so profusely in his way, and once, finding a large melon, the first ripe one of the season, already detached from its stalk, he actually took it under his arm to carry it home; but a second thought made him hastily lay it down again where he found it. He felt that it would be the height of meanness to rob the friend who had been so kind to him, and he had, moreover, begun to feel a certain pride in being honest and trustworthy.
Robert supposed that this little transaction was entirely unknown to any one but himself; but in this he was mistaken. Dr. Huntley had watched the whole from his office-window, which looked into the garden; and he rejoiced in spirit at this evident triumph of new principles over old habits. It showed, he thought, that the boy had that in him, which would well repay the care bestowed on him. At the same time, he knew that some relapses into dissipation were to be expected as a matter of course, and he meant to give him a pretty thorough trial, before taking him into his family. So Robert came to his work every morning, and returned home every night, waiting at the gates of the factory till his sister was released from her labors that they might walk together.
Celia was beginning to like her new employment very well. She was naturally a painstaking, careful girl, and though it came rather hard at first to work from morning till night, she became used to it by degrees, and was soon noticed by the overlooker, as a steady workwoman, who minded her own business, and always did her best, and she rose in his favor accordingly.
Mr. Westall, the official in question, was a tall, stout man, without an inch to spare about him, as they say. His neat dress and open handsome face, with its bright blue eyes, and carefully trimmed whiskers, prepossessed one in his favor at the first glance, and a farther acquaintance did not bely its promise. He was a man who never did any thing by halves; all that he knew was thoroughly mastered; all that he did was well done. His clarion voice could be heard above all the noises of the mill, and never failed to command attention; and hardened indeed was that offender who did not tremble at its tones, when raised in anger. Withal, he was a kind, conscientious man, and a sincere Christian; and being so, he felt it his duty to take a kind of fatherly oversight of all the young people under his charge. He knew all their domestic circumstances, was their confidant in many little and great embarrassments, and very often helped them out of scrapes into which their own ignorance or imprudence had brought them. He was well acquainted with the condition of Celia's family, and the vices of her father; and he made up his mind that the girl should have, to some extent, the benefit of her own earnings.
"Well, Celia," he said, as at the end of the month, she made her appearance with the rest of the hands, to receive her, wages; "you have got quite a fortune beforehand, hey? I suppose you will have a deal of shopping to do?"
"I don't know about that, sir! I should like very much to buy some new clothes; but I suppose father will want all the money."
"He shall not have it, then, that's all! I'll tell you—you stop on your way home, and buy what you want; and if your father finds fault with you, just say to him, that I told you to get a decent Sunday suit, and if that don't content him, tell him I won't have a girl in the mill who does not dress decently on a Sunday. You need not color up so, my girl," he added kindly; "I don't mean any thing against you; for I know you do as well as you can: I only want you to tell your father so. There is your money, and now go and purchase a nice dress—or stop! I suppose you have not much experience in shopping! Miss Green!"
Miss Green, a rather prim, old-maidish looking person, with a kind good face, immediately presented herself.
"Miss Green, I shall take it as a favor, if you will go with Celia Merritt to the store, and help her to buy a frock and such other things as she wants. I don't know much about women's trappings; but I want her to be properly dressed to go to church and Bible-class, and I have great confidence in your judgment."
Miss Green smiled, and assented; and she and Celia walked up to the store together.
"What kind of a frock do you want, Miss Merritt?"
"I don't know ma'am; something that will do to wear to church: a de laine or nice gingham, I suppose."
"Mr. Westall said something about Sunday-schools: I do not remember that I have seen you there."
"I have never been yet," replied Celia. "I have sometimes thought I should like to go; but I am so large, I feel almost ashamed."
"There is nothing to be ashamed of," said Miss Green; "a great many of the girls are older than yourself. Betsey Brown, and Ruth Cummings, and Anna Leavitt are all in our Sunday-school. Ruth is in my class, and a very good girl she is."
"I should like to go, if I could be in your class," said Celia, after a little reflection; "but I am afraid I could not get the lessons."
"I do not think you would have any difficulty. It is only to learn by heart, ten verses of the New Testament, and I am sure you could do that. I should like to have you in my class. Suppose you come next Sunday, and see how you like it!"
Celia assented, and Miss Green, taking a little Testament from her pocket, showed her the proper lesson. Her frock—a pretty muslin de laine—was purchased and paid for, and then arose a new difficulty.
"How shall I get it made, Miss Green? I have no time, even if I knew how; and I don't believe mother will do it, for it always tires her to sew."
"Don't you think you could make it, if it were cut and fitted?"
"Yes, I think I could."
"Jane Haywood will cut and baste it for two shillings, and then you can make it in the evenings. We will go there now, if you like, and get it under way."
Thus was Celia provided with a decent suit of outer garments, in which she was not ashamed to show herself at church and Sunday-school; and accordingly she began to attend both regularly.
Her father grumbled at finding her wages three dollars short of what he expected, and would probably have said a good deal more, but for Mr. Westall's message, which was faithfully repeated to him.
Celia formed quite an intimacy with Ruth Cummings, who was, as Miss Green said, a very nice good girl, sensible and religious, and this friendship was decidedly beneficial to her. Robert was glad that his sister had found a companion, though he sometimes felt a little bit jealous, lest her affection for her new friend should diminish her regard for himself. He still continued to call for her at night, and to walk over to the factory with her in the morning; and many were the confidential chats they had on these occasions over their prospects and plans.
By and by, he began to study her Sunday-school lessons with her, and to read the books that she brought home; and finally he was prevailed upon by George Huntley to enter the school himself, and become a member of Mr. Westall's class. He had now become, as it were, accustomed to respectability, and thought it would be impossible for him to relapse into his old habits. He had left off smoking and swearing, went regularly to church and to Sunday-school, employed his leisure hours in reading such books as he could procure, and seemed in a fair way of attaining the height of his ambition, and becoming a respectable man. He was yet to learn that self was a poor dependence in a struggle with the bad habits of a life-time.
At home, things went on much as usual, except that the house was rather dirtier and more comfortless than ever, now that Celia had no time to put things to rights. Mrs. Merritt, never a very energetic or systematic woman, had become completely disheartened by the trials of her married life, and no longer made any effort to improve her condition. She now sat all day in her rocking-chair, except when it became absolutely necessary to make an exertion in order to have something to eat. With no ideas of economy or management, she made the least of the little she had, and there was some truth in her husband's complaint that he never had a comfortable meal in his own house. She fancied that her health was very delicate, and she really did suffer a good deal from the combined effects of indolence, dirt, and unwholesome food. Her husband seldom spoke to her, except to taunt her with her inefficiency, or to reproach her for some mistake; her own children, as might be expected, were saucy and disobedient, and though her step-children treated her with more kindness than any one else, they showed her very little respect. Thus she led a miserable life.
Mark and Ben, the two younger boys, came and went pretty much as they pleased, sometime gathering chips and coopers' shavings for the fire, but more frequently playing in the streets, and on the borders of the canal, with other urchins of the same sort as themselves, of which the village afforded a plentiful supply. Robert had tried by bribes, threats, and entreaties to prevail on them to go to the district-school, but in vain; and they seemed likely enough to follow in the footsteps of their father. The baby was a miserable, sickly creature; always crying, when it was not under the influence of the paregoric which its mother administered with a liberal hand, there seemed very little probability of its living to grow up.
"Robert," said Dr. Huntley one day, going out to the field where Bob was busily engaged in digging some new potatoes, "I have a plan in my head which I wish to propose to you."
Robert suspended his operations, and prepared to hear with due attention what the Doctor had to say.
"I have concluded not to keep my horses at the livery-stable any longer," continued the Doctor; "it is expensive, and I do not think they are very well looked after. I think that henceforth I shall keep them in my own barn; but in that case I shall want a man to take care of them; it will be necessary for me to have some one who can stay here all the time, as I sometimes want the horses at night."
"Well, sir!" said Robert, his heart beating at the thought of what was to follow.
"Well, what I have to propose is this: I will take you in that capacity, and give you eight dollars a month and your board. Your work will be pretty much what it is now, with the addition of taking care of the horses, doing errands, and bringing in wood, and I may sometimes want you to go out with me in the carriage. I believe you know how to drive?"
Robert assented.
"You shall have your evenings, either to attend the night-school or to study at home, with what assistance we can give you; and thus in course of time, you will be prepared to learn a trade, or to do any thing else that seems desirable. I shall make the same conditions with you that I did when you first came to work for me, with this addition, that you shall always be at home in the evening, unless by special permission, and in that case I must know where you are."
"I should like nothing better than to work for you, sir. You are the first person, so far as I know, that ever spoke a kind word to me, or thought I could be good for any thing, and I should never have had the courage to try but for you. But I hope you will not think me ungrateful if I say that I should like to talk to Celia about it first. We always consult about every thing. I think I know what she will say, but still I should like to ask her. I hope you won't think me unthankful," he repeated, looking anxiously at the Doctor.
"Certainly not, Robert; you are quite right in wishing to consult your sister, who seems to me a very nice girl, and I will give you till Monday to decide. But you need say nothing to your father about the matter. I will settle it with him."
"Celia!" said Robert, as she joined him as usual at the factory-gates. "I wish, if you are not too tired, you would walk down by the river with me. I want to consult you about something."
Celia declared that the walk would refresh her, after being shut up in the close factory all day; and accordingly the brother and sister might soon be seen, arm in arm, pacing up and down in one of the green pastures on the bank of the river.
Robert explained the Doctor's plan for his benefit, expatiating on the advantages it offered, and concluded by saying: "There is only one thing against it, Sis; it would take us very much apart. I should not be at home evenings, except now and then, and I could not go with you to and from the factory, as I do now. I might spend an evening at home once in a while, and you could come up to Dr. Huntley's sometimes; but after all, it would be very different from what it is now."
"I know it," said Celia, brushing away a tear, which rose at the prospect of separation; "but still, Robert, I think you ought to go. You may never have such another opportunity, for there are few such men as the Doctor."
"I should not think twice about it if it were not for you."
"Never mind me. I shall miss you, to be sure, but I shall not mind it so much as long as I know you are in a good place. And beside, it will be very different from what it would have been three months ago. You know Ruth lives so near that we can always go and come together, and she is so much older, that I always feel as though I could depend upon her to advise me about things. Then there is Miss Green too; you know we are in the same room at the mill now, and she is always good to me."
"She seems to be a real good woman," remarked Robert; "I did not like her at first, her manners are so prim and stiff. Well, Sis, if you think you can do without me, I believe I will tell the Doctor that I will come."
"That is right," said Celia. "O Bob! Who would have thought two months ago, when we were sitting there on the garden-rails, talking about what we should do, that it would have turned out so?"
"I know!" said Bob. "It seems like a fairy story."
"I told Miss Green so," continued Celia, "and she said it made her think of a verse in the Bible: 'He leadeth the blind by a way that they know not of.' She always finds something in the Bible to suit every thing that happens."
"She is a good soul," said Robert. "I wonder why she never got married."
"Perhaps she did not want to. She looks as though she must have been pretty when she was young. I am so glad I have got acquainted with her."
"Yes, it is a good thing for you. I hope, Sis, you will be very careful whom you associate with. Don't have any thing to say to any of the men about the factory."
"No danger!" said Celia. "And that reminds me: Have you seen Adams or any of that set lately?"
"No, I have kept out of their way as much as I could. Why?"'
"Because Adams was talking to Mark last night, and trying to find out something about you. Mark said he asked him where you lived, and what wages you had. He said, Adams laughed like every thing, when he heard you went to Sunday-school."
"He had better leave off talking about me," said Bob, coloring, "or I will teach him a lesson."
"I would not have any thing to do with him," replied Celia, alarmed for the consequences of what she had said; "what signifies the talk of an idle loafer like Adams? But keep out of their way altogether, or they may get hold of you again."
"I hope you don't think I am such a fool as that. Depend upon it, now I am out of the scrape, I shall keep out. I shall never have any thing more to do with them."
"Don't be too confident, Robert. Miss Green says, having confidence in ourselves is the sure way to get into trouble. She says, if we have no help but our own, we shall never accomplish much; and I think she is right, too," she added, in a lower tone.
"What are we to depend on, then?" asked Bob.
"Miss Green says, we must ask God for his grace to assist us," replied Celia, blushing; and in a still lower tone, "and she says we can't expect to prosper if we don't."
Robert made no reply. Not long before, he would have been very much vexed at discovering in his darling sister any tendency to sanctimoniousness, as he would have called it; and would probably have tried to laugh her out of it. But he was learning to feel a respect for religion and religious people, and though his own heart was as yet very slightly affected by its power, he was not sorry to find that Celia was thinking on the subject. The dew was now beginning to fall heavily, and they retraced their steps to the village; but before they reached home, it was fully determined that Robert should accept the Doctor's proposal.
It was true, as Celia had said, that Adams had been making inquiries of the little boys concerning their brother. This he had done at the instigation of Childs, who was determined not to lose his power over his former associate without at least a struggle to retain it. He at first thought it would not be long before Robert would tire of his steady habits, and be very willing to return to his old companions and his former haunts; but as day after day went by without his even succeeding in getting speech or even sight of him, he grew angry, and determined to do his best to regain one who was a useful tool and companion. With this view, he caused Adams, who was completely his slave, to gather all the information he could from the children. As soon as he learned that Robert was to live entirely at the Doctor's, he set his wits at work to devise some means of bringing him into irreparable disgrace with his new friends, hoping by that means to make him once more dependent on himself. The result of his cogitations will be seen in the next chapter.
CHAPTER VI.
THE next Monday after the conversation recorded in the last chapter, Robert went to live at Dr. Huntley's. He had anticipated a good deal of opposition from his father, but in this he was agreeably disappointed. Not that he himself would have cared very particularly about any thing his father might have to say; but he knew very well, that Mr. Merritt would be exceedingly apt to visit upon the rest of the family, the wrath which he dared not bestow upon his son.
The fact was, Mr. Merritt was not at all unwilling to have his eldest son out of his way; he had lost the little control he had ever possessed over him, now that Bob was stout enough to defend himself, and the boy's industry and steadiness were a perpetual reproach upon his own idle and vicious way of life. So he only grumbled a little at the foolishness of the thing, and ended by telling Bob, that he might go and welcome; he was a good riddance.
Robert found himself very pleasantly situated at the Doctor's; he had a comfortable room over the stable—by far the neatest place he had ever slept in—his work was not at all burdensome, though he was kept constantly busy, and he was at liberty in the evening to sit down with his books in the neat, well-ordered kitchen, or in his own room if he preferred it. The Doctor advised him to devote at least half his time to study, instead of spending it all upon miscellaneous reading, and George offered to give him lessons in grammar and arithmetic, in both of which he became much interested and made great progress. He entered, too, upon a regular course of historical reading, which opened to him a new world of ideas and aspirations.
Once or twice a week he went home to spend an evening, and Celia sometimes came up to the Doctor's after factory hours, and staid till nine o'clock. She was now earning eighteen shillings a week, and thanks to the peremptory kindness of Mr. Westall, she was able to retain in her own hands enough of her wages to clothe herself nicely. Good Miss Green was of great service to her, giving her instructions in making and mending her clothes, and some other matters of the toilet, such as cleaning her teeth, keeping her hair in nice order, bathing, etc.
As she became accustomed to her work, it grew less fatiguing, and she did not feel like going directly to bed, as soon as she had eaten her supper. As her friend Ruth Cummings lived near, they were often able to spend their evenings together, employing themselves in sewing, or in reading some volume selected by Miss Green, who had a considerable knowledge of books, and possessed quite a little library of her own. In this way, Celia's time passed both pleasantly and profitably.
Things went on in this manner for about two months, Robert giving satisfaction to every one in the family, and feeling himself all the time more and more at home with them, when he one evening asked permission to go out before dark. Cold weather was coming on, and he wished to purchase some wood for his mother, as well as to consult with Celia about getting comfortable clothes for his brothers. The permission was readily given, with the request, that he would stop at the railway station on his way, and see if a certain package, which the Doctor was expecting, had arrived.
As he stood on the platform, awaiting the arrival of the train, he heard himself accosted by a familiar voice, and turning round, he beheld Charley Brown. If it had been any other of the set, he would probably have turned away at once, but Charley had always been a favorite. He was rather a good-natured fellow, and kind when it did not interfere with his own self-indulgence, and he had several times done Robert little services in the way of lending him money.
Charley was one of that class of people, who are sometimes said to be no body's enemy but their own. He always drank and often gambled; he was always ready to stand treat, if he had any money, or could get trusted, and he was ever ready to do a kindness for any body, when it did not involve too much exertion. He belonged to a respectable family, the members of which, after many vain attempts to reclaim him, had finally abandoned the case as hopeless, and now held no sort of communication with him, except to send him a certain monthly allowance, which was his only means of support, for he had no business pursuit whatever. Upon this he contrived to live some how or other, spending most of his time at the bar of the Union House, where he not only drank himself; but was the cause of drink in others. He was one of Childs' most useful tools, generally keeping himself so much in debt to him as to be entirely in his power.
"Why, Bob!" said he, as Robert returned his greeting. "How smart you look; I should not have known you. You must have a good place, I think. But where have you kept yourself these three months?"
"I have been pretty busy," replied Bob, "and have not been about much; and by the way, I will pay you the dollar I have owed you so long."
He took out his pocket-book as he spoke, and Charley perceived that it was well filled.
"Oh I never mind the dollar; I am sure you are welcome to it; but what are you waiting here for?"
Bob told his errand, and at the same moment, the train came in. The parcel was not forth-coming, and he prepared himself to go on his way.
"Where now?" asked Charley, as Robert bade him good evening.
"I have several matters to attend to," replied Robert. "I must buy a load of wood for mother, and some other things for the family."
"You are a clever fellow, and no mistake, Bob! It is not every young man, who would spend his own earnings buying wood and flour for his mother. But talking of wood, there is a man at the Union, who has a parcel for sale cheap. I heard Burke say it was first-rate wood, and that he would take it himself, only he had got as much as he wanted for the winter. Suppose you come over and see? It may be the very thing you want."
Robert hesitated. He did not exactly like to go to the Union, even for the purpose of buying wood.
"Come, man, what are you waiting for? You are not afraid the Doctor will scold you for going to the Union, are you?"
"No," replied Robert coloring, "I am not afraid to go where I please."
"Come along, then, and show that you are independent."
Robert finally yielded to Charley's persuasions, saying to himself that he might just as well buy his wood there, as anywhere else. He would not go into the bar-room, but he would show them that he was his own master.
Charley had penetration enough to take advantage of one of the weakest points of his character—the desire of being thought independent.
"Burke," said Charley, entering the bar-room and giving the landlord a signal, which he well understood, "where is that man who was here with wood just now? Robert Merritt wants to see him."
"He has gone to the other end of the village," said the landlord, readily understanding what was wanted of him. "He said he would be back in about fifteen minutes, and wanted me to keep any one that called to see him. Take a chair, Mr. Merritt."
"Have a segar, Bob," asked Charley.
Robert had formerly been exceedingly fond of smoking, but he had broken off the habit, at the desire of Dr. Huntley, who very much disliked it. There were two or three persons smoking in the room, and the fumes overcame his resolution; he accepted a segar, and lighting it, sat down by the stove to await the arrival of the man with the wood—a personage it is perhaps needless to add, who existed only in Charley's imagination.
"What will the Doctor and the parson say to you, Bob?" asked Childs in a sneering tone; as he knocked the ashes off his segar. "Good little boys that go to Sunday-school, should not smoke in bar-rooms."
"You mind your own business, Childs," replied Charley, interrupting him: "Bob is no more afraid of the Doctor than you are."
"Oh! No, of course not! I tell you, he dare not say his soul is his own, and he knows it."
"You lie!" exclaimed Bob, starting up.
"Hush, Bob, don't get in a passion," said Charley soothingly. "Childs don't mean what he says. I know very well that you are not afraid of any of the set. You will do as you please for all or any of them."
"I say," repeated Childs, in a more offensive tone than before, "that Bob Merritt dare not say his soul is his own. He is as much afraid of the Doctor, as he is of — and he knows it. He dare no more drink that glass of brandy and water, than he dare jump over the falls."
"Oh! Come, Childs! Don't say that! Bob don't want to drink, very likely, because he is afraid he can't stop when he pleases, or because he don't like brandy; but he is not afraid of any one, I know."
"He is afraid!" repeated Childs again, as he saw that Robert was growing very angry: "Let us see him do it, if he dares."
By this time Robert was too much enraged to think of consequences; he snatched the glass from the bar, and drained it to the bottom without stopping, amid the laughter and applause of the by-standers.
"Well done, old fellow!" said Childs starting up. "I see you have more spunk than I gave you credit for. I am sorry I teased you about it. Come, take another glass, and be friends."
Bob would willingly have excused himself, but he did not know how, and moreover the spirits which he had already taken, and which was very strong, mixed with the fumes of the tobacco, had already almost deprived him of self-control. Partly by persuasion, partly by force, he was induced to take another glass, and then another; and then some one proposed that they should go up to Charley's room, and have a game of cards. By this time, Robert was too much intoxicated to know what he was doing, and he willingly consented.
We will not follow such a disgusting scene any further. Suffice it to say that at five o'clock in the morning, he was carried out of the house in a state of insensibility, and deposited, with many jokes and much suppressed laughter, at the Doctor's stable—door.
His absence had occasioned considerable anxiety to his friends, who could not help fearing that he might have fallen into the hands of his old enemies. Mrs. Huntley, however, suggested that his father might have returned home in a condition which rendered it dangerous to leave him alone, with the women and children, and that Robert might have staid on that account, which was thought a probable solution of the mystery.
Dr. Huntley was accustomed to rise early, and walk in the garden before breakfast, and on this occasion, he turned his steps toward the stable, thinking that Robert might have come in late, and, unwilling to disturb the family, gone directly up to bed. What was his amazement to see the object of his search lying prostrate and insensible in a pool of water, which the last night's rain had formed near the door of the stable. At first he thought the boy was dead; but as he stooped to examine him, his flushed face, and the disgusting smell of brandy and tobacco revealed the mystery.
Dr. Huntley stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. He was at first tempted to send for an officer, and have Robert carried direct to the watch-house, but a little consideration showed him that no good could be expected to result from a step which would not only disgrace him, but would at once throw him again into all his old associations.
After some farther thought, he brought a pail of cold water, from the neighboring trough, and dashing it on Robert's head and face, succeeded in partly restoring him to consciousness. He then half-led, half-carried him, into a little room in the barn, sometimes used as a granary, and depositing him upon his bed of straw, he turned the key upon him, and left him to sleep off his debauch.
As soon as breakfast was over, the Doctor walked round to the parsonage to consult Mr. Ellison as to what was to be done. Mr. Ellison listened with grief, but without much surprise, to the account of Robert's backsliding.
"I do not know that it is any more than was to be expected," said he, when the story was concluded. "He probably fell in with some of his old companions, and they would naturally rejoice in the opportunity of leading him astray. You know as well as I do, the almost fiendlike cunning that is often exercised by such persons when they get a young man into their clutches, especially if he has once before escaped from them."
"I know," replied the Doctor; "but I hoped better things of Robert. He has been so steady, and evinced so much resolution since he has been with me, that I really thought he would persevere to the end. It is a great disappointment to me. I have become very much interested in him, and I do not like to give him up; but really, I do not see how I can keep him after this."
"He will go to swift destruction, if we abandon him," said Mr. Ellison. "Do you not think we had better make one more effort to save him?"
"How?"
"Let him remain where he is till he is quite sober. He will probably—nay, I am quite certain, that he will be very much ashamed of himself, for he has strong feelings. Then set before him in the plainest terms, the sin he has been guilty of, and its consequences, and if he seems thoroughly penitent, as I think he will be, offer to give him one more trial upon more stringent conditions than ever."
"I wonder what my brother-in-law will say?"
"He will probably say that it was just what he expected," said Mr. Ellison, smiling; "that is his general comment, you know, whatever happens. He will probably think, at first, that there is no use in doing anything more for such an ungrateful subject, but a little consideration will bring him round. His wife is sure to be on our side."
"Yes, Maria is always on the side of mercy. Well, sir, I think I will take your advice, if it is only for the sake of his sister, who seems a very promising girl. I confess my hopes are not very sanguine as to success."
"Nor mine," said Mr. Ellison, "but it is worth trying. If I had any thing for him to do, I would take him off your hands, but I could not keep him employed."
Bidding his friend good day, the Doctor now set out on his usual round of morning visits in the village. He had informed his wife and son of Robert's condition before leaving home, desiring them to leave him entirely to himself, and not to mention the matter to any one.
It was not till afternoon that he sought the place where he had left his prisoner. He found Robert sitting up on his straw bed, supporting his head with both hands, and groaning with pain. When he saw the Doctor, he turned away, and hid his face in the straw; but the agony he suffered on laying his head down, forced him to resume an upright position.
"Well, Robert!" said his friend in a kind though grave tone, and taking a seat beside him. "This is a sad state of things. You seem to be in a great deal of pain."
Robert burst into an agony of weeping. "O Doctor!" he said, in a suffocated tone. "Pray don't speak so to me! Kick me out of the yard, as I deserve, or send me to the station-house, but don't speak kindly to me. I can not bear it. Oh! What shall I do; what shall I do?"
"Be composed, if you can, my boy," said the Doctor. "You will only make yourself worse by this agitation, and I want you to become quiet enough to tell me how it all happened. You had better get up stairs to your own room, and then I will see what can be done to relieve you."
With some difficulty, the removal was accomplished. The Doctor bathed his head in cool water, brought him a cup of tea, and by degrees he became composed enough to talk. He told the whole story from the beginning, without concealment or excuse. It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of his penitence and humility, and Dr. Huntley rejoiced that he had not yielded to his first feelings of anger. He now set before Robert, in the plainest terms, the enormity of his sin and its consequences; the injury to his reputation, which was just beginning to be firmly established; the distress it would occasion to his sister; and the hold that it would give his enemies upon him.
"And now, Robert, I want you to see where the trouble began. How came you to go to that drinking-hole in the first place? Was it not because you thought yourself firm enough to resist temptation?"
"Yes, sir."
"You relied entirely upon yourself; and thus foolishly thrust yourself into danger, and you have learned by bitter experience, how much your self-reliance is worth. You can see now, how utterly powerless you are. I tell you, my boy, that unless you learn to depend entirely upon a higher power for strength, your resolution is no better than a broken reed."
"What must I do then, Doctor?"
"You must ask of God, who giveth liberally, and upbraideth not, and he will strengthen you. You must seek him in earnest prayer, repenting heartily of your sins, and begging of him to grant you that help which you need; otherwise, you are lost. As surely as you depend on yourself, you will become a drunkard, and go into eternal destruction, for no drunkard shall inherit eternal life."
"But I should not dare to pray," said Robert; "I am such a sinner."
"If you were the chief of sinners, that should not hinder you from praying. If you do truly feel yourself a great sinner, you will feel your need of a Saviour, and that Saviour is already provided. You must ask God, for Christ's sake, to forgive and blot out your sins. You must beseech Him to grant you true repentance and his Holy Spirit, that the rest of your life hereafter may be pure and holy. I tell you again, that unless you do this, you are lost for ever."
"Do you think He would hear me? I should like to pray, but I am afraid."
"Do not be afraid. Seek God with your whole soul. Ask him to renew your heart by his Holy Spirit, and to grant you a death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteousness for Jesus Christ's sake. He is more ready to give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him, than earthly parents to give good gifts to their children. Surely, Robert, if your earthly friends are ready to forgive you and give you another trial, you need not distrust the mercy of God."
Robert could hardly believe his ears. He had supposed of course that Dr. Huntley would at once dismiss him from his service, after he had made such an ungrateful return for all his kindness, and the thought that he might be forgiven, that his friend intended to afford him another opportunity of redeeming his character, was too much for him. He became so agitated, that the Doctor thought it best to discontinue the conversation, and he left him alone for a while, advising him to lie still and try to sleep.
But Robert could not sleep; his head grew more oppressed every moment, and with every breath he drew, a sharp and almost insupportable pain darted through his chest. He felt that he was very ill, and the thought that he might die, overwhelmed him with terror. He tried to pray, but he could not collect his thoughts.
At last, his agony found vent in those words which have always been, and will always be the refuge for the over-laden heart—
"Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!"
For the first time in his life, he had really prayed.