THE SICK ROOM.
When Mrs. Huntley came up to see him about dark, she was so much alarmed at the state in which she found him, that she immediately dispatched an express for her husband, who at once pronounced the boy to be laboring under severe inflammation of the lungs. He was at once removed from his room at the barn, to an apartment over the kitchen, and then put to bed; but despite the measures taken for his relief, he grew worse through the night, and continued for many days so ill, that his life was despaired of.
Celia, almost broken-hearted for her brother's disgrace and his danger together, left her work at the factory, and came to take care of him, and even Mrs. Merritt exerted herself sufficiently to walk up and see him. But she gave way to such a tempest of tears and exclamations on beholding his state that she was quickly removed from the room, and forbidden to enter it again—a prohibition which she considered as very hard-hearted and unnatural, besides being rather unaccountable; for, as she said to her friend Mrs. Smith, "she was sure no one could show more feeling than she did."
CHAPTER VII.
"SO, GEORGE," said Mr. Vanderburgh, entering the Doctor's office one morning, soon after the events recorded in the last chapter, "our 'protégé' has turned out just as expected."
"So it would seem," replied the Doctor, gravely.
"I knew it would be just so," continued the gentleman, taking a chair; "I never expected any thing else. He is a regular hard case, and will come to the gallows as sure as he is alive."
"His chances of coming to the gallows are rather small just now," returned Dr. Huntley. "He is almost as likely to die with inflammation of the lungs as any body I ever saw. I shall be surprised if he lives thirty-six hours longer."
"Indeed! You don't say so," exclaimed Mr. Vanderburgh. "It serves him right, though; just good for him! Inflammation of the lungs! Poor fellow, I hope he will get over it. Can't you do any thing to help him, George?"
"I shall do all I can, you may depend upon that, though there is little hope for him as regards this world, I fear."
"Poor boy!" exclaimed Mr. Vanderburgh again, blowing his nose rather suspiciously. "I should like to do something for him myself, I declare I should."
"You may do something for some one else, if not for him, William. If you can break up that infamous nest of gamblers and dram-sellers at the Union, you will be conferring a great benefit upon society."
"I wish I could, I am sure," replied Mr. Vanderburgh. "It is an infamous nest, as you say, and has been the destruction of more than one young man: the trouble is to get at it. It is owned and rented by one of our most respectable men, Mr. Haylett, you know, and even if the present set were turned out, he would let it again for the same purpose. I can't think what his conscience is made of; for my part. But I will take it into consideration, and see what can be done. How unlucky for you, that the boy should be left on your hands."
"On the contrary, I consider it a very happy thing."
"You do! What, to have a boy dying of inflammation of the lungs in your house?"
"Not precisely that, though I think his sickness has been of great service to him; but I do think it extremely fortunate that he should have been brought here, where he could be cared for, body and soul."
"Well, well, you are not like any one else—and never will be, though, in fact, my wife is just the same. But if he gets well, what will you do with him?"
"Give him another trial," said the Doctor.
"What! Keep him to get drunk again, and perhaps set your house on fire."
"I hardly think there will be any danger of that. He has had a lesson that will make an impression on him, if any thing will, and I shall not give him up till I have tried every means to reclaim him."
"Well," said Mr. Vanderburgh, "I don't know but it is all right, but I should not do so."
"Yes, you would!" rejoined the Doctor smiling. "That is, you would want to, but ten to one, you would do some hasty thing first, that would put it out of your power. That is your way."
Mr. Vanderburgh frowned and then laughed, and again repeating his desire of serving poor Bob, took his leave.
"I say, Childs," said Joe Adams, as they met in the bar-room of the Union, "have you heard about Merritt?"
"I heard he had got turned out of doors," said Childs indifferently.
"Then you heard wrong. He has not been turned out, but is very sick at the Doctor's, and they are taking care of him. Vanderburgh's man says he is dying as sure as a gun."
"There will be one fool less in the world, then," replied his companion, lighting his segar. "He has paid me all he owes me, that is one comfort, and the saintly folks will be tripped up in their schemes for him, that's another."
"I declare, Child; you are too bad!" said Charley Brown. "You made the poor fellow tipsy, and got his money away, and now that he is sick and dying, you care no more for him than though he were a dog."
"As to that," replied Childs, "I had no more to do with his coming here than yourself, nor so much; but if you are so much interested in him, you had better go up and see him. That pretty sister of his is taking care of him, they say, which may, perhaps, be another inducement."
Charley made no reply, but slipped out of the room, and not long after, he might be seen hanging about the door of the Doctor's office as if desirous of seeing some body. He hoped the Doctor himself would come out; but after waiting some time in vain, he got his courage up to the necessary point, and entered the office. Dr. Huntley was not there, but another person was, whom Charley would much rather not have seen; whom he had, in fact, always avoided—and that person was Mr. Ellison. This gentleman had been acquainted with Charley's father and mother, and knew the height from which he had fallen, and from the first of his coming to Grandville, the wretched young man had carefully kept out of his way. It was with some little consternation that he now found himself face to face with him.
"Is the Doctor in?" asked he, bashfully.
"No," replied Mr. Ellison, "but he will be here presently. Please to take a seat."
"Oh! It's no matter," returned Charley, edging towards the door; "I only came up to inquire about Robert. I heard he was very sick."
"He 'is' very sick," said Mr. Ellison, gravely. "Thanks to your cares and those of your associates, he will probably live but a few hours longer at most."
Charley was confounded by this unexpected address, which showed clearly that the minister was acquainted with the whole affair. Strange as it may seem, the idea that he was at all to blame for what had passed, had never entered his mind. To be sure he was not much accustomed to reflect upon any thing.
"I am sure," he stammered, "I did not mean any harm. It was only a joke. I did not think any thing would come of it."
"Did you not?" asked Mr. Ellison. "You contrived a story to get him over to the Union, into your den of robbers and drunkards. You persuaded him to drink and then to gamble, though you knew well that it would be the means of his losing his place and destroy all his hopes of advancement. You knew how much his fall would distress his friends, who have been making efforts to reclaim him, as well as his sister, who is devoted to him. How, then, can you say you meant no harm?"
Charley could make no reply. Degraded as he was, his conscience was not yet dead, and now it made itself heard.
The minister saw his advantage, and pursued it. "You knew more," he continued; "for I know that you were well taught when you were young. You know that no drunkard can inherit the kingdom of God. You know that the course you and your associates are pursuing leads down to hell!—that it is destruction in this world and perdition in the next. Did you ever see any one die of delirium tremens?"
"I saw a man have it once."
"Did you think it a pleasant or easy death?"
"No," replied Charley shuddering, "it was horrible."
"And yet it was to this horrible fate that you wished to lead this poor young man, for the sake of a joke, as you are pleased to say. And now, I warn you solemnly, that his death will rest upon you; if he dies, you are his murderer. You would have killed him body and soul if you could; but God, in his mercy, has given him time to repent, and I trust all is well there. But I warn you, and as you love your own soul, I beseech you not to slight the warning, that you are on your way to eternal ruin, and that it is not far off. The pit may open at any moment under your feet, for drunkards are not long-lived, as you know very well. Oh! Be entreated; leave off your evil courses, repent, and be saved. Do you remember your mother?"
Charley nodded.
"What sort of a woman was she?"
"She was a good woman," said Charley, with a trembling lip. "She used to try to make me a good boy, and it is not her fault that I am not a good man."
"Did she use to teach you to say your prayers at her knee?"
"Yes," replied the young man with tears starting in his eyes; "and to read the Bible. If I had minded her, I should not have been such a miserable fellow as I am."
"Then, if you love her memory, as I see you do, you will wish to see her again. But can you ever hope to do so, if you die as you are now? Come, Charley, be entreated before it is too late. There is time for repentance now—to-morrow there may be none. Think of your mother in heaven! Think of God, who loves you more than she does, and is waiting for you to return. Repent, leave off the drink which degrades you to a level lower than the lowest beast, in your own eyes and those of others. If you are unable to do it where you are, go where you can not get liquor; study your Bible and pray, and you may yet be a man and a Christian. There are enough ready to help you. We will stand by you, as we did by Robert, and assist you in every way. God himself will be on your side. Come, Charley, lose no more time—begin now!"
Charley was much moved. He brushed the tears from his eyes and grasped the minister's hand warmly, as he promised to consider the matter.
But alas! for deferred resolutions.
That afternoon he was persuaded by Childs to get into his buggy and ride up the river to see a foot-race which was going on about ten miles off. He was unwilling to consent, yet had not the strength to refuse, and he went, excusing himself by thinking that it was the last time he would have any thing to do with Childs. It was, indeed, the last time! He had made a solemn resolution that he would not drink a drop, but in the hands of his tormentor, he was as helpless as an infant.
Both the young men drank enough to deprive them of all self-control. The spirited horse took fright as they were coming down a steep hill, the reins gave way, and the wagon, horse, and all were dashed over a considerable precipice. Their danger was seen by some men who were at work in a field not far off, and who ran to their assistance, but too late to prevent the catastrophe. Childs was dead! A kick from the frantic horse had fractured his skull, and he never spoke or moved again.
Charley lived three or four days, but he never recovered his senses or seemed to know those about him. Once, indeed, he opened his eyes for a few moments, and seeing Mr. Ellison standing over him, he made a feeble movement to grasp his hand.
Mr. Ellison took it in his own, and bending over him, said distinctly: "Charley, can you hear me?"
A feeble movement of the head seamed to say yes. "It is not too late yet. Pray, my friend, say in your heart, God have mercy on me! Press my hand if you can say so."
He thought there was a faint pressure, but he would not be sure. The hand relaxed, the eyes closed, and all was over for this world. Thus died one who might have been a useful and respected member of society, instead of being its pest and bane. Thus die hundreds—yes, hundreds of young men every year. This is no fiction. It is a true story, and your own physician and clergyman can probably tell you many more such tales.
Contrary to all expectations, Robert's disorder took a favorable turn, and after many days of suspense and watching, he was pronounced out of danger. It was a long time before he could leave his room, and all winter long he was feeble and unable to do much work. He still continued to live at the Doctor's, doing what he could in return for his board and lodging, and spending his spare time in study, of which he was becoming very fond. He was no longer self-reliant and confident; he had found out now what such confidence was worth. When he became able to talk and to be read to, his kind friends Mrs. Huntley and George were ready to lead him to right and profitable thoughts, and during the many long hours, when he lay unable to talk or to employ himself in any way, he revolved in his mind all he had learned in church and Bible-class, and the Holy Spirit made the truth effectual to his salvation. Robert came out of his sickness a sincere and humble Christian.
Thus passed the winter. Celia returned to her work in the factory, though it did not seem to suit her very well; for she grew thin and pale, and sometimes had a pain in her chest which hindered her from working at all. Robert became alarmed about her, and tried to communicate his fears to his mother, but she could or would see nothing wrong. Celia was growing very fast, she said; it was natural for girls to grow thin at her age; and as for the pains in her chest they were nothing; she often had much worse ones herself, which no one thought were worth noticing. She would not hear of her going out to service, and so Celia continued working in the factory when she was able, and taking the greatest care of herself.
Benny and Mark were at last prevailed upon to go to school by the gift of a comfortable suit a-piece, on condition that they would attend regularly every day. Once broken in, to habits of quietness, they began to enjoy the warmth, the cleanliness, and the society of the school-room. Thus their ambition was aroused, and they grew ashamed of being so much behind the boys of their own age, and finally, by the judicious pains of their teacher, the desire of knowledge for its own sake was aroused in their minds.
When Benny came to Miss Williams one night, and asked permission to carry his Reader home with him, that he might show Celia and Bob how much he had learned, she felt as though her work was almost done. It now became their greatest pleasure and reward to be allowed to go up with Celia and spend the evening with Robert at Dr. Huntley's, where Maude took great pains to make the time pass pleasantly to them.
And though Mrs. Merritt now and then grumbled a little, and sometimes cried as she said that her children cared more for any one else in the world than they did for her, she did not often refuse permission. She grew more and more indolent every day, and, though now and then, spurred by the earnest representations of her visitors, Mrs. Vanderburgh and Mrs. Huntley, she would make some effort to clean her house and make her children more comfortable, they soon relaxed, and the family would have fared badly but for Celia.
And what did the father say all this time? He said very little one way or the other. He was fast sinking into a state of utter imbecility. He was never sober so long as he had the means of drinking in his hands, and the means were supplied pretty regularly by that part of Celia's earnings of which he got possession. She managed to keep enough in her own hands to clothe herself comfortably, and to do something for her mother, besides providing some comforts for the family. Robert was unable to earn any thing, so that this, with the allowance made by the poor-master, was all they had to depend upon.
This allowance was sufficiently liberal, some people thought quite too much so, but Mrs. Merritt's careless improvidence made it little enough. While her cord of wood lasted, she would stuff it into the fire by armfuls, keeping the stove red-hot half the time, without bestowing a thought on what they were to do when it was gone. She would cook meat three times a day while she had a bit remaining, and the same with tea and coffee. Twenty times the poor-master, vexed past all patience, had threatened to carry them off to the poor-house; but he was a good-natured man, and had become interested in the efforts of Robert and Celia to raise themselves and their brothers to respectability, and so when they would beset him with their entreaties, he would decide to postpone the removal a little longer.
The poor little baby died in the course of this winter. It had been ailing from its birth; and had never been properly taken care of. And though Celia was very fond of the poor little thing, and cried bitterly over its little coffin, she could not be sorry that it was taken to its rest so early. The little boys behaved as well as possible at the funeral, and showed so much thoughtfulness and seriousness in their questions and remarks about the matter, that Celia was quite comforted. Mr. Merritt paid but little attention to the matter, and hardly seemed to understand that the child was dead. And so, between working, studying, suffering, and enjoyment, the winter passed away, in spite of sickness and anxiety, by far the happiest winter our young friends had ever passed.
CHAPTER VIII.
BY the time that the weather became settled in the spring, Robert's health was again fully established, and he was able to do more work than ever. His horticultural tastes found full scope in Mrs. Huntley's flower-garden, which garden was her especial pet, and the pride of her heart. She had never allowed any former gardener to set foot within its sacred boundaries, but Robert displayed such genuine love for her favorites, and went into such ecstasies over the first bunch of blue and white hyacinths, that she allowed him henceforth to assist her in all her nice operations, and even to weed, and hoe, and rake, when she was not there to overlook him. Besides, he reigned supreme over the kitchen-garden, tying up raspberries, trimming currant-bushes, and planting seeds according to his own pleasure, and evincing so much discretion and taste, that the Doctor had seldom occasion to interfere with his arrangements.
As he could not, of course, attend to his garden at home, Dr. George allowed him to cultivate, on his own account, a small piece of ground at the back of the orchard. Here he planted the seeds he had purchased with his own money, and here Benny and Mark, coming up before and after school, received their first lessons in the sublime art of weeding onions.
Celia continued her work in the factor where some changes had occurred, which made a decided change for the worse in her situation. In the first place, Mr. Westall married and went away to the city, his place being supplied by an overseer who took no interest in the hands, except to see that they did not slight their work. He allowed them to talk as much, and on such subjects as they pleased, and as many of the girls had been far from well brought up, Celia often heard things which made her feel very uncomfortably, and wish herself anywhere else. A year before, she would have been in great danger, but now she had a principle within, which might possibly preserve her from contamination. Still she would sometimes find herself listening to the stories related by her companions in the intervals of labor, and thinking of them afterwards, and though she always checked herself as soon as she became aware of it, it made her very unhappy.
Her two friends Miss Green and Ruth Cummings, also left the mill, the one to teach a little school in a neighboring village, the other to go into a family, to do house-work. Miss Green strongly urged Celia to do the same, as soon as she possibly could.
"The mill is no place for you now, Celia; things are entirely changed there. Mr. Smith takes no sort of oversight of the girls' doings, and some of them are up to any sort of mischief. You are young, and likely enough to be led astray, and I should certainly advise you to get a place in some respectable family as soon as possible."
"Lydia Hinds says she would not work in a family for any thing," observed Celia. "She says she lived with Mrs. Ainsworth once, and that she could not go out anywhere without coming to ask, and telling where she was going, and Mrs. Ainsworth would not let her be out after nine o'clock."
"Lydia Hinds is a foolish, giddy girl," returned Miss Green with some severity; "and if you listen to her, you will be certain to get into trouble. The things of which she complains, are the very ones which should make a sensible girl like her place. Do you suppose Miss Maude Huntley ever goes anywhere, without first asking her mother?"
"No!" replied Celia. "I know she does not, and her mother is very particular about always knowing where she is. One night while Robert was sick, Miss Maude went home from school with one of the young ladies, and staid till nine o'clock, without telling her mother where she was going, and Mrs. Huntley was very much displeased about it. But all mothers are not so very particular."
"Nor all mistresses, but all sensible ones are, especially with girls of your age. If you live with a lady, you should always go to her, just as if she were your mother, and never do any thing without asking. A great many giddy girls I know, prefer to live in rooms by themselves, and take in sewing, or work in the mills, instead of going into families, because they fancy it is a fine thing to be independent; and a nice piece of work they make of it sometimes."
"I should like to live in a family, I am sure," said Celia; "and I would look for a place in a minute, if mother would let me, but she won't. She says I ought to have more self-respect than to think of such a thing. But for my part, I think that people who are not above being helped by the poor-master, should not feel bad about going out to work."
"Pride takes all sorts of curious shapes, my dear. But now bear in mind what I say, and get a place as soon as you can. Don't have any thing to do with the foolish talk of the girls about beaux and such things; and don't listen to them if you can help it. Above all, be very careful what you read. I have seen Lydia finds reading such books as any decent girl ought to be ashamed to look into; and nine tenths of the yellow and green-covered pamphlets which the girls have among them, are not fit to light a fire with. Let them all alone; that is the best way for you. You can procure books enough from the district and parish library, to occupy your leisure hours without running any risk of getting what is not proper for you. Well, my dear, I have preached you quite a sermon; I hope I have not tired you."
"No, indeed!" replied Celia. "I could hear you preach all day without being tired."
"Then I will add a little more. You will have a new teacher in Sunday-school, I presume, or perhaps be put into one of the larger classes. Do not fail to go every Sunday, and to have your lessons perfectly. I hope, Celia, that you love to read your Bible?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"And to pray?"
"Yes ma'am," returned Celia in a lower tone.
"Then, my dear, remember that these two things must be your great safe-guards. Whenever you find yourself tempted to do wrong, as you will often be, pray for strength to resist that temptation; whenever you feel that you have sinned in any way, lose no time in asking forgiveness and strength for the future. When you are perplexed and troubled and know not which way to turn, go to God, and ask Him to enlighten you; cast all your desires and plans before him, and he will make your way very plain before you. God bless and keep you, my dear! I feel badly about leaving you here, in the midst of so much evil; but I hope He will soon show you a way out of it."
Celia felt forlorn enough, when Miss Green and Ruth were both gone, and she could hardly bear to go into the mill, next day; but there was no help for it, so she went, fully resolved to attend only to her work, and have nothing to do with the follies of the girls. For many days, she persevered in this resolution, but after a while she became careless, and relaxed her guard. She began to listen with interest to the talk and stories of the girls, and even joined in them herself. She went out walking in the evening once or twice, with Lydia Hinds, and one or two of her male associates; but chancing, happily for her, to meet Robert on one of these occasions, he gave her such a lecture on the subject, that she was afraid to do it again.
Still, she talked with Lydia and listened to her, and thus having begun a degree of intimacy, she found it hard to leave off. Then she began to read a little at a time, in some of the books, that Miss Green had cautioned her against, and finally went so far as to borrow one of them, and take it home with her. Her Bible lost its interest for her, and lay neglected day after day; her Sunday-school lessons were very badly learned, and she began to feel ashamed, when her new friend laughed at her for going every Sunday, like a little girl. Thus she was once more in the downward way, which might have led her to utter destruction, had she not been mercifully arrested, before she had taken any fatal step.
It was very warm weather. The authorities of Grandville were not remarkably careful about cleaning the streets, and keeping the sewers in order, despite the energetic representations of Dr. George, and his brother-in-law. Mr. Ellison talked sanitary reform with all his might, and threatened to preach a sermon about it, but all to very little purpose. People were still allowed to keep pigs in their back-gardens, and to pour their slops into the street to dry away in the sun. Mr. Haylett still rented the Union for a drinking-house, and got a good rent for it, too, though the drains were all stopped up, and the cellars filled with water. Mr. Jones was not forced to remove his slaughter-house, though it was a terrible nuisance to all the thickly-settled neighborhood; to be sure, none but poor Dutch and Irish families lived there. And when Dr. George complained that the streets were never cleaned, that the drains were very offensive, and that all sorts of rubbish was thrown into the river, now very low, as was usual at that season, he only got himself laughed at, for being so notional.
Well, by and by people began to talk about the cholera. It had made its appearance in the neighboring city of B., and was very bad there, and a great many people were leaving the city in consequence; so the Grandville people stopped going to B. to do their shopping, greatly to the delight of the merchants in the village, who were much benefited thereby. The doctor and the minister urged more and more strongly the necessity of taking urgent measures to cleanse and purify the village, and now people began to be seriously angry with them for trying to create a panic.
"Did not every one know," Mr. Haylett said, "that people were very often frightened into the disorder? Nothing could be worse than to go and make every one think that they must certainly have the disorder; such measures would be certain to bring it on." He even did not scruple to accuse the Doctor of trying to serve his own ends in getting customers for himself. As for Mr. Ellison, Mr. Haylett was of opinion that a minister's business was to preach the Gospel, and not to go poking round among the lower classes, looking into their cellars and cisterns, and trying to make them discontented with their houses and their landlords.
By and by, a man who lived down near the slaughter-house, in one of Mr. Haylett's tenements, died very suddenly. He went home from his work, in the afternoon, a little unwell, and before morning he was dead; so sudden was he taken, that there was no time to send for a doctor. It was cholera morbus—clearly cholera morbus, Mr. Haylett said—at the same time taking good care to keep away from that part of the village.
But Dr. Huntley talked with the priest, who, the man being a Roman Catholic, had been sent for in his last moments, and made up his own mind as to the matter. Mr. O'Brien had seen a great deal of the disease during his ministrations in the neighboring city, and he had no hesitation in telling the Doctor that he considered it a clear case of cholera, adding, that in his opinion, it would not be the last.
Dr. George thought so, too, and so it proved. He was sent for, before night, to see the wife of the man who was first attacked; and before the next evening not only this woman, but another in the same house, had died, and two or three of the neighbors lay sick enough. There was no doubt now of the nature of the disease, though many people still persisted that there was no danger, and declaimed angrily enough against those who, by active sanitary measures, wished to "create a panic."
The merchants were very indignant at the proposition made by Mr. Ellison, that the number of cases should be published daily, (Grandville, as became a place of its importance, had a daily paper,) in order that people might know exactly how bad the disease was, and not be deceived by rumors which always made things appear worse than they really were. So it went on from day to day, and nothing was done that should have been done. The pestilence increased frightfully. Dr. George and Mr. Ellison were called upon at all hours of the day and night; whole families were prostrated at once in the poorer parts of the village, and people began to wonder where it would end.
In the midst of the distress, Celia came home from the factory rather late one night to find Benny quite unwell, complaining of pain and sickness at the stomach. He was rather subject to such attacks, so she was not at all alarmed. But after giving him a little hot tea and bathing his feet, she put him to bed early, and thought little more about the matter, except to visit him again before she retired, when she found him sleeping soundly. Her own bed-room was next to that of the boys, and she was awakened from her first nap to find little Mark crying by her bed.
"Benny is very sick," he said. "I can't make him say any thing that I can understand, only he says his feet cramp. Do get up and see him."
"You must run for the doctor, Mark," she said as soon as she had a look at Benny; "I am afraid he is very sick indeed."
"I am afraid to go in the dark," said Mark, crying afresh. "Jim Dolan says there is a ghost down by the old church that comes out at night."
"Jim Dolan is a dunce," replied Celia. "Come, Mark, dear, do go as quick as you can. Nothing will hurt you; there are no such thing as ghosts, you know."
"Oh! But there are!" persisted Mark. "For Jim's father saw this one once, and it chased him."
"Well, then, stay here and I will go myself; I am not afraid of the ghost."
But Mark was as unwilling to stay alone with Benny as to go alone for the doctor, and Celia concluded that she must call her mother and leave her with Ben while she did her errand herself.
She did not take much by her motion. Mrs. Merritt, peevish at being awakened, at first insisted that nothing more than common ailed the child, and that it was nonsense to send for the doctor. Finally, when she did get frightened, she would not be left alone either, and thus a precious hour was wasted in useless remonstrances, the boy all the time growing worse.
Finally, just as Celia was getting desperate, she heard some one passing in the street. The firm, steady step and clear whistle of the stranger showed that he was sober, at any rate, and she opened the window and called, "Who is there?"
"Hullo," was the answer, "any thing the matter?"
"Yes," replied Celia, "my little brother is very sick. I am afraid he is dying, and I have no one to send for the doctor."
"I'll send him," replied the man at once, "I am going right past there. Who shall I say wants him?"
"Celia Merritt, and please tell him to make haste; and, oh! Do tell my brother Robert to come home directly. He lives at the Doctor's. Tell him Benny is very sick."
The stranger set off on his errand of kindness, with an apparent hearty good will, and after what seemed an age to poor Celia, Robert made his appearance, but without the Doctor. He had been called in another direction, and Mrs. Huntley promised to send him the moment he came in. Meantime she had given Robert careful directions what to do in case the child should be very ill.
Very ill indeed he was, and grew worse every moment, despite the care of his brother and sister, so that when the Doctor appeared, as he did about five o'clock in the morning, the case was hopeless. The child was in the last stages of collapse, and died a few minutes after sunrise. As soon as possible, a coffin was procured, and at sunset Robert and Celia saw him deposited in his last resting-place by the side of his baby sister.
This was a terrible blow to Celia; she was not exactly aware how far she had wandered from the right way till it came upon her; but now she naturally sought refuge in prayer, and was distressed that it did not as formerly afford her relief in her distress. There now seemed no one to hear her; her attention wandered in spite of herself, and thoughts from the book she had lately been reading—such thoughts as she had indulged with pleasure—haunted her, showing themselves in all their true ugliness. How deeply now did she repent having forgotten the councils of her truest friend, and silenced the voice of her own conscience, as she had done of late. Bitterly, bitterly she wept, and most earnestly she prayed for forgiveness; and when at last, in answer to her prayers, a degree of peace was vouchsafed to her, she felt humbled in the very dust as she thought of what she had done.
But she had little time for thought now, and perhaps it was as well for her that all her attention was necessarily occupied. Before the next morning, Mark was attacked with the same disease, and though his case was taken in time to save his life, he was very ill for some days, and required constant attention. At last he grew better, and was able to sit up, and Celia began to hope that the worst was over, and that she and her brother might be able to take the rest they so much needed.
One day, when she had been out to do some marketing, and returned, she found her mother eating some cherries which one of the neighbors had given her.
"Why, mother!" she exclaimed in terror. "How can you eat those things? You will surely have the cholera. Don't you know the Doctor said there could be nothing worse than sour fruit?"
"They are not sour; they are as ripe as they can be."
"But pray don't eat any more; I hope you have not given Mark any of them."
"I am not such a fool as to give fruit to a sick child, I hope. Of course I have not; but there is no danger of their hurting me," she continued, finishing the last of them as she spoke.
Celia was distressed and terrified; but there was nothing to be done, except to watch the first approach of the malady, and meet it in time. For some time no bad symptoms appeared, and she hoped that she might have been alarmed for nothing. But the next day showed that she was mistaken: before the evening of the third day, Mrs. Merritt was dying in spite of all that could be done to save her.
As she bent over the body of her mother, now as cold as a corpse, and almost breathless, Celia forgot all that had been wrong; she forgot the indolence, the shiftlessness, the false pride, and remembered only what was good. She thought now of the young woman who came to the house as her father's second wife, when Robert was seven and she six years old; how pretty and neat she was, and how kindly she had talked to them, the first night that she put them to bed. She remembered how much more comfortable they were for a long time after she came, till illness and discomfort had made her indolent, and the removal of her own family had taken away the spur which prompted her to show them that all their predictions of misery were unfounded.
How she longed to have her speak once more; to have her show some signs of intelligence, that she might ask her pardon for the many instances of disrespect and disobedience of which she painfully felt she had been guilty. But the poor soul never spoke nor opened her eyes again; and not long after sunset, her children closed her eyes and prepared her for the grave as decently as they could; the husband for whose sake she had deserted her home and broken the hearts of her parents, lying in a state of stupid intoxication in the next room. How very very seldom do runaway matches turn out happily! We almost wish they never did.
In three days' time, the house was deserted. Mark who was almost entirely recovered, was taken to board by a kind neighbor, till he could be placed as an apprentice with some respectable farmer or mechanic. While Mr. Merritt, who had not been sober for three weeks, was taken to the poor-house. At first, Robert could not hear of such a thing; but he yielded at last to the representations of the poor-master and the Doctor.
"Your father will be perfectly comfortable there," said good Mr. Wheeler; "you can go and see him whenever you please, and above all, he will not have any thing to drink there."
This last argument was decisive. Robert could not help hoping, that when his father was entirely out of the sight and reach of liquor, he might perhaps reform. Dr. George was not very sanguine, but he held his peace and allowed the children to please themselves with the prospect of their father's amendment. Celia went to Mrs. Vanderburgh's to stay a while, till she could put her clothes in order, and till her friends could find her a place. She at first inclined to a situation in the village, but this was decidedly opposed by Robert; for though he felt that he should miss his sister sadly, he was most desirous to see her placed out of the reach of all her factory associations, of which he knew the danger much better than she did.
Celia herself had the sense to see the force of her brother's representations, and hearing that Mrs. Dennison's girl had left her, she requested her kind friend, Mrs. Huntley, to obtain the place for her. Mrs. Dennison was quite willing to make trial of any body whom Mrs. Huntley recommended, and thus the affair was finally settled.
CHAPTER IX.
THE Sunday before she was to go to her place, as Celia took her accustomed seat in church, she was surprised to find her old associate Lydia Hinds in the pew before her. She had not seen Lydia since she left the mill, and had no desire to renew their acquaintance, but she could not help feeling rather glad at seeing her in church, and returned her salutation gravely, but with civility; though she made no reply to the observations which Lydia addressed to her both before and during service, and felt very uncomfortable under them, as she feared that Mr. Ellison would think she was whispering, a thing she would have been very much ashamed to do. Lydia, finding her advances thus repulsed, tossed her head, and turning away, began an observation of the bonnets and mantles which came within the range of her vision.
"So, Miss Merritt," she said, almost before the congregation was dismissed, "you don't want to talk to me, it seems."
"Not in church," replied Celia, feeling that she might with truth add, "nor anywhere else."
"Well, so it is only that, I'll excuse you, though I do not see any sense in being so particular. Well, and when are you coming back to the mill? We miss you very much, I can tell you. Jim Harris has lent me some delightful books, and he says you may take them if you want to."
"I am not coming back to the mill," returned Celia; "I am going to work in a family."
"You are not going to be such a goose! Why, you won't have any fun at all!"
"I do not feel much like having fun just now," replied Celia, glancing at her new mourning frock; "but I do feel as though I should like to have a home."
"To be sure! I forgot you had lost your mother, but that is no reason you should make a nun of yourself. I should think you would need diversion all the more. But where are you going to live? Tell me, and I will come and see you sometimes."
"At Mrs. Dennison's, on the river road," replied Celia, rejoicing that she was going to be out of walking distance.
"Well, if ever I heard the like! Clear out there on that lonesome farm, with no body to speak to, and nothing to see but cows and horses. I should die in a week! But I suppose you are afraid of the cholera, and no wonder. Do you know that Myra William died of it last night? Only sick three or four hours."
Celia was shocked to hear of the sudden fate of the giddy, reckless girl, whom she had so lately seen in perfect health, and tried to learn something of the particulars, but Lydia could tell her nothing.
"I didn't go near her," she said, "I am so much afraid of catching it."
"Poor Anne!" said Celia. "She was so well, and always so gay and giddy. It does not seem possible. I should think, Lydia, you would begin to think a little about yourself; when so many are dying around you. Suppose you should be taken away suddenly."
"Well, then, I suppose I should, and that would be all about it. I did feel a little scared when I heard of Myra's death, but after all, there is no use in thinking more of it than one can help. It only makes you more likely to have the sickness, they say."
"I don't know about that being all about it: after death comes the judgment, the Bible says. If you knew that you were likely any day to be called into court to be tried for your life, you would want to be ready, I should think, and much more when it is to be for eternity. Just think if you should be taken away, without any time for repentance!"
"What is the use of thinking and talking about such things?" said Lydia, who was evidently uncomfortable under the turn the conversation was taking. "They only make one feel bad, and spoil all one's pleasure."
"The use is, that we may be ready when our time comes," replied Celia. "I am afraid you will think me very inconsistent, Lydia," she continued, blushing; "but I can not help asking you to think of these things more than you do. I know I was as bad—I mean, as thoughtless—as any of you, the latter part of the time that I was in the mill, and I have been sorry enough since. But you were kind to me, at least you meant to be, and I can not help saying one word. I do wish you would stop reading that kind of books. You know they don't do you any good, and there are a great many things in them that are downright wicked and shameful. I am sure I wish I had never looked into them myself. But now, just look at it! We must all die some time, and we don't know how soon; at this time, especially, it seems as though we might be called into the other world at any moment; and if we should not be ready to go—only think how dreadful it would be! I wish you would read the Bible, and try to do differently. Come, why not begin now?"
"You are a good girl!" Lydia said, evidently a good deal moved. "And I do believe you mean kindly in what you say. I have sometimes thought myself that I should not like to be taken with my head full of Jim's novels. But even if one wanted to be a Christian, there would be no use in trying, situated as I am now. You might as well try to be pious in Bedlam as in the mill."
"I do not think myself it is the best place, but then it can be done. There were Miss Green and Ruth Cummings, and there is Charity Bateman now. They are all pious."
"Oh! Well. It was natural to Miss Green: she was just cut out for a Sunday-school teacher; and Ruth's father and mother were very pious. As for Charity Bateman, she is not a very good one to hold up for an example: she is so sour and disagreeable, and always acts as though she felt herself too good to associate with any one. There never was any one worse named, for she has no charity in her."
"She is not very amiable, to be sure, but she is very good. Don't you remember how she sat up night after night with Matilda Smith last winter?"
"So she did. I admit that she is ready enough to do kindnesses for people, but then she need not be so crabbed the rest of the time."
"Perhaps if you did not plague her and laugh at her so much, she would not be so crabbed. But whatever she is, that is no excuse for you, you know very well. Come, Lydia, perhaps I shall never see you again; no one knows what may happen. Do promise me now that you will read your Bible and go to church, and thus try to become a Christian. You know how much depends on it, and how miserable you will be, if you neglect it till it is too late. Do try, there's a good girl!"
Celia spoke earnestly and kindly, and Lydia was evidently considerably affected. Her eyes filled with tears, as she returned her companion's earnest pressure of the hand, and she promised to consider the matter with an honest intention of keeping her word. But the cares of her daily labor, the giddiness of her companions, the fear of ridicule, all combined to destroy the slight serious impression which she had received, and in a week she was as careless as ever. In another week, she was beyond the reach of repentance or prayer—called, like many another, without hope, without preparation, into the presence of her Judge.
The next day, Celia went to her new home. It was a long, low, red house, about two miles from the village, and stood in the very centre of the large farm, so that the nearest neighbors were half a mile off. There was a glorious prospect of wood, mountain, and meadow from the front door, while back of the house was a deep, wooded glen, surrounded by high rocks, full of living springs, and abounding with all sorts of wood-plants. Mrs. Dennison received her very kindly; she was a tall, spare woman, between forty and fifty years old—rather plain, but with an expression of good temper and kindness which won the regard of every one that approached her. She had been born and brought up in Grandville, as were her parents before her. She had lived for fifteen years in the family of Mrs. Huntley's father, sometimes as seamstress, sometimes as nurse.
And there was no greater treat to the youthful Huntleys and Vanderburghs than to be allowed to spend a day at Auntie Dennison's, as they always called her. On these occasions, they raced in the pastures, and played hide-and-seek-in the glen, and swing in the barn, and gathered fruits and mushrooms, and hunted eggs, besides performing feats of eating and drinking which would be considered incredible by any one who has not had just such a dear old nurse to visit. Mrs. Dennison was in her element on these occasions, though between her pleasures and her anxieties, her fears of their getting cold and hurting themselves, of their running too much or not eating enough, she was, as she expressed it, something like a hen with ducklings.
Mr. Dennison was a tall, stalwart, sun-burnt man, who loved his wife, and was proud of her skill in all sorts of culinary and dairy arts. He was esteemed the best farmer in the town, and his farm was the pride and joy of his heart; his meadows were like green velvet; no unsightly weeds encumbered and deformed his pastures; his fences were always in repair, and his cattle always fat, and never unruly. They had no children, and the family consisted, besides themselves, of an old lady called Aunt Nancy, a relative of Mr. Dennison's, and dependent on him, and a boy who worked on the farm.
Besides these persons, there were four generations of cats—from old Dolly, who was the grandmother of all cats and quite too grand to condescend to be caressed by any one but her mistress, to Dick and Nelly, the youngest kittens, who were not old enough to catch mice and continually "aggravated" Dolly by taking liberties with her tail, undeterred by the numerous cuffs and scratches which they received; a lame and tame gander, who waddled all over after his mistress, whenever she appeared out of doors; and Prince, a wonderfully accomplished little black dog who learned all sorts of surprising tricks without ever being taught, and understood language as well, Mr. Dennison was wont to say, as "folks."
Such was the family in which Celia now found herself. Mrs. Dennison received her with great kindness, and showed her her bed-room, which, though small, was the very picture of comfort and neatness.
"I hope you will be contented here," she said, when Celia came down stairs; "though I expect it will seem rather lonely after being in the mill. I don't think it is, you see, because I am used to it, and always have so much to do; but very likely a young girl might find it different. But I do hope you will like it, for I can't bear to see any one discontented."
"I think I shall like it very much," replied Celia; "but I am afraid you will find me very awkward at work. I never did know much about it, and since I have been in the mill, I have done less than ever."
"Where there's a will, there's a way," remarked Mrs. Dennison encouragingly. "If you really want to learn, I have no doubt you can. I am very particular about such things, but I don't usually have much trouble with my girls. If you will only do just as you are told, we shall get on nicely."
"What shall I do, now?" asked Celia.
"Oh I wash up the dishes, that is the first thing. I can't bear to have a parcel of dirty dishes about. There's the pan and the cloth, and the towels are out on the grass. But what are you doing, child? You wouldn't take hard water to wash dishes, would you? Never mind, it is only a mistake. You will learn in time."
Mrs. Dennison went on with her washing, keeping her eye on Celia's proceedings, and now and then setting her right, in a good-natured way, so that she accomplished her task with great ease. She then helped to finish the washing, hung out the clothes, mopped the floor of the outer kitchen, and then washed the potatoes for dinner. By three o'clock the work was all done for the day, and Mrs. Dennison and Celia sat down with their sewing in the kitchen, which was the sitting-room in summer.
Two hours passed away pleasantly in sewing and talking, and then Celia set the table, and got tea. Then there were more dishes to be washed, and the milk to be taken care of. All the cats came round for their share, and Mrs. Dennison filled their basins with as much new milk as a city family would buy for a whole day's consumption. Celia remarked it.
"Well, it might seem wasteful to some people perhaps, but I like to give them as much as they want, and that keeps them from helping themselves. Just bring that pail into the milk-room, will you, if it is not too heavy?"
Celia had not been in the milk-room before, and she now gazed around her in astonishment, at the long table filled with milk-pans, the shelves of cheese, each on its well-scrubbed board, and the pots of cream and butter, with which it was filled.
"A nice parcel of it, isn't there?" said Auntie Dennison, well pleased with her admiration. "I suppose you never saw so much milk together before, did you? Well, I like to take care of milk, though it is dreadful particular work. Every thing has to be just so neat, or else the butter isn't worth any thing. Now, I never wash my pans with the same cloth, that I do my other dishes—I always have separate cloths, towels, and all, and though I say it myself, I always have good luck. Not a pound of soft butter have I had this summer."
The next day was ironing and churning-day, and then came baking-day, and so on round the week; each morning bringing with it its especial duties, for Mrs. Dennison was very systematic in her work. On Saturday, a pair of chickens were roasted, and some pies and cake baked; for Mrs. Dennison said, though she never calculated to have any cooking done on Sundays, she liked to have every thing nice. On Sunday morning the work was finished earlier than usual, because they had some distance to ride to church, and it would not do to be late. Accordingly, they were at the church door just as the first bells had finished ringing, thus illustrating the truth of the often-repeated saying, that those who live the farthest from church, are usually the most punctual in their attendance.
Celia took her accustomed seat, and glanced around for Lydia; she was not there. Robert and Mark came together, and sat with her; they were both well, and she had the satisfaction of hearing that Mark was apprenticed to a very respectable shoemaker, with whom he was to live. Certainly no one who had known them a year before, would have recognized in the quiet, well-dressed young people, who were so attentive both to the service and the sermon, the boy and girl whom Mr. Vanderburgh had pronounced such hopelessly hard cases, on the occasion of Mr. Ellison's first visit.
Mr. and Mrs. Dennison were both teachers at the Sunday-school, and therefore they did not return home till after the afternoon service. Then the table was set, and they had dinner and tea together, at half-past four, thus dispensing with one meal, and having the evening free. Mrs. Dennison's eyes were not good, and Aunt Nancy had long since lost almost the entire use of hers; and thus Celia found a new way of making herself useful, by reading aloud, which made the Sunday evenings pass away pleasantly as well as profitably.
She had passed two or three weeks in this quiet manner, when one day, as she was setting out her milk-pails in the sun, she heard Prince barking with all his might, as he always did when any one approached. And looking up she saw a man running across the field, apparently in great haste. As he came near, he called out something, but he was so much out of breath, that she could not understand what he said. The call brought Mrs. Dennison to the door.
"It's that unfortunate critter, Hewson," said she; "I wonder what has happened now?"
By this time the man came up, but so breathless with distress and haste, that he could hardly make out to say: "O Mrs. Dennison! Come over, do come over! My wife has fallen into the cistern, and hurt herself dreadful bad. Do come over while I go for the doctor."
"You go out there in the corn, and send Mr. Dennison after the doctor," said Mrs. Dennison, snatching her sun-bonnet. "Come along, Celia, may-be you can do some good. We will just go cross-lots and get there sooner. Take this bottle of camphor in your hand, and I'll carry the liniment; for they will be sure not to have any thing that's needed."
"I'll be bound it comes from some of Hewson's shiftless ways," she said, as they walked rapidly along; "he never did any thing at the right time, or in the right place yet. I don't believe there ever was a lazier man born into the world. You will hardly believe it, Celia, but they lived in their house a whole summer, with the rain pouring in by pailfuls, whenever there was a shower. He might have mended it in a day's time; but as he said, when it rained, he couldn't mend it, and when it didn't rain, it was as good as any body's."
"Does he drink?" asked Celia, who was accustomed to refer all sorts of misery to whiskey.
"Oh! No. He never does any thing he ought not to; but then again, he never does any thing he ought to. He is a member of the church, and in some respects a good man, but he never has prospered, because he is so shiftless, and his wife is just like him. Take care! You will be in the cistern yourself! Do put the cover on, before any other accident happens, and I will go in and see the woman."
No cover was to be found, however, and Celia secured it as well as she could, by means of some bits of boards which she found, and a rough bench, which stood by the kitchen-door with one of its legs out. She then followed Mrs. Dennison into the house, when a sad scene presented itself. Poor Mrs. Hewson, dripping with water, her face covered with blood, and groaning with pain, lay upon the bed, which evidently had not been made that day. A tub with dirty clothes, stood on one side of the fireplace, and the breakfast-table, still uncleared, on the other. The furniture had once been very good, and there was enough of it, and the dishes upon the table were of good stone china; but all things wore an aspect of dilapidation, dirt, and negligence, lamentable to behold.
"O Mrs. Dennison! I am so glad you have come!" said the poor woman. "I thought no body would ever get here, and I am in such distress. Can't you do something for me?"
"We must get off your wet clothes first," replied Mrs. Dennison. "You will get your death of cold, lying in them so. Where do you keep your nightgowns?"
"I don't know whether I have any clean ones or not," replied Mrs. Hewson. "I have not washed for three or four weeks, because I have been out of soap, and the wash-board was broken. If I have any, they are in that bureau in the parlor."
"Do you look for them, Celia, while I get her undressed."
Celia looked accordingly, but no nightgowns were to be found, except one which had no sleeves in it. There was abundance of dirty and faded finery, and several garments in various stages of progress, but not one nightgown, cap, or chemise that was in a wearable condition. She glanced around the parlor. It was a prettily finished room, with windows down to the floor, and well furnished, but dirty and comfortless beyond expression. The panes were thick with fly-specks, and the sashes adorned with dead flies. The carpet was so covered with dust that it was difficult to discover the original pattern or color, and you might, as the saying is, have written your name on any article of furniture in the room. The paper had been very pretty, but it was partly cracked from the walls, and covered, like every thing else, with dust, cobwebs, and dirt. Celia could not help wondering when she saw the quantities of flourishing spiders, how there came to be so many flies remaining. All these things she noticed as she was searching unsuccessfully for the nightgowns.
"I was afraid there were none," said Mrs. Hewson, feebly. "I thought I should get them washed out to-day. I don't know what I shall do."
"You run home, Celia, and bring a nightgown and chemise of mine out of my top drawer, and a pair of clean sheets and pillowcases from the press. Be as quick as you can; you know just where to find them, and ask Aunt Nancy for the roll of old linen."
Celia made all the haste possible, and returned just as the doctor drove up. Mrs. Hewson was undressed with great difficulty and suffering, and the bed put in order and made comfortable.
It was found, upon examination, that two of her ribs were broken, and she was severely bruised, besides having received a bad cut upon her forehead. It was almost a miracle that she escaped so easily. While the doctor and Mrs. Dennison were busy about the sick woman, Celia made an attempt to put the house a little in order; but it seemed almost a hopeless task, every thing was in such disorder that she did not know where to begin. However, she carried the washing apparatus out into the wood-house, cleaned away and washed the dirty dishes, brushed up the hearth, and swept the floor, while Hewson sat by the fire, bemoaning his bad luck.
"I always was the most unfortunate man in the whole world," he said, as the doctor came out of his wife's room. "Nothing ever went right with me, nor ever will. I lost a sheep in that cistern only two weeks ago."
"Why did you not make a cover for it?" asked the doctor.
"Well, I have been calculating to, this three or four weeks, but I had nothing just right to make one of."
"What became of the planks you got on purpose for it?" asked Mr. Dennison.
"Oh! I had to use them to mend the fence. It was knocked down in the spring, and the boards were handy for kindling-wood, so they got burned up. Then my sheep got into Peters' lot, and he threatened to prosecute me, so I had to take the first thing that came to hand to mend the fence. But that's just the way every thing always goes against me. It's Providence, I suppose!"
"I should think it was carelessness in this case," said the doctor, "and a carelessness which is likely to cost you pretty dear. I should think any man of common-sense would know better than to leave an open cistern directly in the way for three or four months."
"Well, how could I fix it when I had no boards?"
"You could have got some, I suppose!"
"Well, so I did try. I depended on Peters to get me some the first time he went to the mill; but he says I didn't mention it to him, though I am pretty sure I did. But that's just the way! One can't depend on any one now-a-days."
"Except on one's self! Well Mrs. Dennison, I will call again this evening and see how she is, and meantime I hope you will be able to stay."
It was neither easy nor convenient for Mrs. Dennison to spare the time; but with her an act of kindness was paramount to all other things. She set Celia to finish the washing, the accumulation of three or four weeks; but finding that it was quite too heavy for her, she bade her wash only such things as were absolutely necessary for the sick woman, telling Hewson that he must hire a washerwoman to do the rest. She put the bed-room in more decent order, driving out the swarming flies, and darkening the windows. She combed Mrs. Hewson's hair and bathed her face and hands, and then prepared her a cup of tea, first washing the kettle, the tea-pot, and a cup and saucer. Then, having done all things in her power to make her patient comfortable, she sent Celia home to get supper, and see to the milk, proposing to stay all night herself.
"How do they come to be so badly off?" asked Celia of Mr. Dennison at supper. "They do not seem as though they had always been poor."
"Nor have they," he replied. "They need not be poor now, if Hewson had any industry, or his wife any economy; but they have neither the one nor the other. His farm might be as good as mine if it were properly treated; but under his bad management, it is almost worthless. He goes upon the principle of never doing to-day what can possibly be put off till to-morrow. This affair of the cistern is just a specimen. His barn-door is off the hinges; well, there he will let it lie, for the cows to walk over and knock to pieces, perhaps for a month, when half an hour's work would put it to rights. Then he has to pay twice as much for a new one as it would have cost to fix the old one, and has his barn-floor spoiled besides. It is just so in the house. They never have a bit of good butter or good bread. They can not get more than half the market price for their cheese or their fowls, because they are not half-pressed or half-dressed. Mrs. Hewson buys twice as many dresses as my wife, and yet she never looks half as well."
"You can see from them, Celia," remarked Aunt Nancy, "the great importance of what Jane is always saying about doing things thoroughly. You think it rather hard sometimes because she makes you sweep the room over, or wash the pans a second time, and always do things just at the right minute; but if Mrs. Hewson had had some one to do the same by her when she was young, how much better off she would be now! I am not sorry that you have had a chance to see how things go there, because you have been quite put out several times lately at being made to do things nicely."
Celia blushed, and acknowledged her error. It was true that she had, as Aunt Nancy said, been considerably "put out" at Mrs. Dennison for insisting on her doing things exactly at the right time and in the right way; and it was only the day before that she had showed a great deal of temper about it. Mrs. Dennison reproved her, which added to her irritation, and she was beginning to remember what Lydia Hinds used to say about the slavery of working in a family, and to cast a longing glance back to the freedom of the mill. The day at Mrs. Hewson's, however, partly set her right, and several subsequent visits deepened the impression. She saw plainly enough the discomfort arising from indolence and carelessness to make her willing to be directed as to the best way of doing things, and Mrs. Dennison had much seldomer occasion to reprove her for ill-temper or carelessness. She took pains to give satisfaction, and succeeded, as people almost always do who take pains.
CHAPTER X.
THE lessons which Celia had received at Mrs. Hewson's, as we remarked in the last chapter, did her a great deal of good, inasmuch as they made her very willing to take pains with her work, and to be directed into the best way of doing it. She saw clearly the misery resulting from careless and dilatory habits in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Hewson who, with abundant means to make themselves comfortable and even rich, were always poor and in trouble. Mrs. Dennison observed, with pleasure, that Celia now seldom needed to be reproved for slighting her work; on the contrary, she seemed to give her mind to what she had to do, and performed it in the best manner she was able, asking for instructions whenever she found herself at a loss.
Celia had naturally a strong will and a great deal of perseverance, and having once made up her mind to learn to do every thing in the very best manner, she adhered with great steadiness to her resolution. Sometimes, indeed, she carried it rather too far, and spent so much time in making a bed or washing the dishes, that Aunt Nancy complained, "that it made her have the fidgets."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Dennison one day, after some such remark made by the old lady. "It's always just so with beginners; the extra particularity will wear off in time. She had better waste five minutes in the pantry or over the beds than not learn to do them just right. I am very glad to see it for my part, as it shows that she is in earnest about learning."
So Celia went on, being as particular as she pleased, and becoming every day more and more attached to the family and more useful about the house. When the district-school opened for the winter, she attended it, walking three quarters of a mile every night and morning, and carrying her dinner. It was almost a new experience for her; for she had been to school very little, and she felt rather unpleasantly at being so much behind the other girls of her age and size in the school. But Mr. Dennison was always ready to help her out with her arithmetic, (her great trouble,) and having a good natural capacity, and a retentive memory, she improved very fast. Soon she was able to get all her lessons in school hours, and then the evenings were spent in sewing, while Mr. Dennison read aloud some volume procured from the district or parish library, or drawn from their own stores.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Dennison were very fond of books, and they were not, like some farmers we wot of, too "stingy" to spend money in buying them or time in reading them. A certain portion of the profits of the poultry-yard was regularly set aside for this purpose every year, and thus, in the course of time, they had accumulated quite a little library. A good edition of Hume, another of Josephus, Bancroft, and Rollins, occupied the lower shelves of the neat book-case, while Cook's Voyages, Mungo Park's, and Lewis and Clarke's Travels, Bishop Heber's and Henry Martyn's Journals, with a number of well-chosen volumes adorned the upper part, besides a number of agricultural works, (for Mr. Dennison was a good deal of a book farmer,) and some handsome editions of standard poets.
Thus Celia's winter was passed quietly and pleasantly, with constant improvement on her part, and a growing regard and affection on that of her kind friends.
In the Doctor's family some changes occurred. George went away to college and Maude to boarding-school, and a young gentleman came to live in the family, and study medicine in the Doctor's office. This youth was a cousin of Mrs. Vanderburgh's, and rejoiced in the romantic name of Eugene Augustus Mandeville—a name, as Mr. Vanderburgh observed, enough to ruin any boy; if he had been christened Peter, he might have had some chance: He was a very handsome youth, with good manners, and a great sufficiency of modest assurance, which last, added to very exalted ideas of his own consequence, and a rather slender stock of information, made him rather ridiculous at times.
Robert did not like him at all, and was several times on the point of an out-and-out quarrel with him, which only his sense of obligation to the family prevented. Robert had improved during the summer in health and strength as well as in good manners and general knowledge; for though he had not had a great deal of time to study, he had improved all his spare minutes, and was really becoming a very good scholar. Winter was now coming on, and he began to think very anxiously about going to school, but he did not like to speak first about it, and waited for the Doctor to introduce the subject, which he did one day after the following conversation with his wife:
"I am thinking, my dear," said he at dinner, "of sending Robert to school."
"Well," replied Mrs. Huntley, "the district-school opens this week."
"There would be no particular use in his going to the district-school," said the Doctor meditatively; "he went through the arithmetic and grammar last winter with George, and he is pretty well drilled in geography."
"Why does he want to go to school at all, then?" asked Eugene Augustus, carelessly.
"There are several things in the world to be learned beside grammar and arithmetic," returned the Doctor, "though these are no doubt essential."
"I do not see what else is needed by a boy in his station in life," persisted Eugene. "I don't imagine he would make better shoes or become a more careful driver from learning the higher mathematics and the ologies. Such information could only tend to make him dissatisfied with his own proper position in life."
"What do you consider his proper position in life?" asked Dr. George. While his wife looked annoyed, as she always did, when Eugene sported aristocracy.
"Why, I don't know. Learning a trade or driving, as I said, or—what do you say is his proper station?"
"The very highest he can attain to," replied the Doctor, emphatically, "whatever that may be. If he chooses to learn a trade, well and good, he will make none the worse shoemaker for understanding algebra and geometry, nor the worse stone-mason for being acquainted with the nature of the stones with which he has to do. It has long been a maxim of mine, that no knowledge comes amiss to any body."
"And then he may not choose to learn a trade," added Mrs. Huntley; "indeed, I think it doubtful if he does, for he has an excellent capacity and is very fond of study. I should not be surprised, if we live to see him a distinguished lawyer or physician."
"Maybe you will live to see him President," sneered the young exquisite.