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."