THE next Monday after the conversation recorded in the last chapter,
Robert went to live at Dr. Huntley's. He had anticipated a good deal of
opposition from his father, but in this he was agreeably disappointed.
Not that he himself would have cared very particularly about any thing
his father might have to say; but he knew very well, that Mr. Merritt
would be exceedingly apt to visit upon the rest of the family, the
wrath which he dared not bestow upon his son.
The fact was, Mr. Merritt was not at all unwilling to have his eldest
son out of his way; he had lost the little control he had ever
possessed over him, now that Bob was stout enough to defend himself,
and the boy's industry and steadiness were a perpetual reproach upon
his own idle and vicious way of life. So he only grumbled a little at
the foolishness of the thing, and ended by telling Bob, that he might
go and welcome; he was a good riddance.
Robert found himself very pleasantly situated at the Doctor's; he had
a comfortable room over the stable—by far the neatest place he had
ever slept in—his work was not at all burdensome, though he was kept
constantly busy, and he was at liberty in the evening to sit down with
his books in the neat, well-ordered kitchen, or in his own room if he
preferred it. The Doctor advised him to devote at least half his time
to study, instead of spending it all upon miscellaneous reading, and
George offered to give him lessons in grammar and arithmetic, in both
of which he became much interested and made great progress. He entered,
too, upon a regular course of historical reading, which opened to him a
new world of ideas and aspirations.
Once or twice a week he went home to spend an evening, and Celia
sometimes came up to the Doctor's after factory hours, and staid till
nine o'clock. She was now earning eighteen shillings a week, and thanks
to the peremptory kindness of Mr. Westall, she was able to retain in
her own hands enough of her wages to clothe herself nicely. Good Miss
Green was of great service to her, giving her instructions in making
and mending her clothes, and some other matters of the toilet, such as
cleaning her teeth, keeping her hair in nice order, bathing, etc.
As she became accustomed to her work, it grew less fatiguing, and she
did not feel like going directly to bed, as soon as she had eaten her
supper. As her friend Ruth Cummings lived near, they were often able
to spend their evenings together, employing themselves in sewing, or
in reading some volume selected by Miss Green, who had a considerable
knowledge of books, and possessed quite a little library of her own. In
this way, Celia's time passed both pleasantly and profitably.
Things went on in this manner for about two months, Robert giving
satisfaction to every one in the family, and feeling himself all
the time more and more at home with them, when he one evening asked
permission to go out before dark. Cold weather was coming on, and he
wished to purchase some wood for his mother, as well as to consult
with Celia about getting comfortable clothes for his brothers. The
permission was readily given, with the request, that he would stop at
the railway station on his way, and see if a certain package, which the
Doctor was expecting, had arrived.
As he stood on the platform, awaiting the arrival of the train, he
heard himself accosted by a familiar voice, and turning round, he
beheld Charley Brown. If it had been any other of the set, he would
probably have turned away at once, but Charley had always been a
favorite. He was rather a good-natured fellow, and kind when it did not
interfere with his own self-indulgence, and he had several times done
Robert little services in the way of lending him money.
Charley was one of that class of people, who are sometimes said to be
no body's enemy but their own. He always drank and often gambled; he
was always ready to stand treat, if he had any money, or could get
trusted, and he was ever ready to do a kindness for any body, when
it did not involve too much exertion. He belonged to a respectable
family, the members of which, after many vain attempts to reclaim him,
had finally abandoned the case as hopeless, and now held no sort of
communication with him, except to send him a certain monthly allowance,
which was his only means of support, for he had no business pursuit
whatever. Upon this he contrived to live some how or other, spending
most of his time at the bar of the Union House, where he not only drank
himself; but was the cause of drink in others. He was one of Childs'
most useful tools, generally keeping himself so much in debt to him as
to be entirely in his power.
"Why, Bob!" said he, as Robert returned his greeting. "How smart you
look; I should not have known you. You must have a good place, I think.
But where have you kept yourself these three months?"
"I have been pretty busy," replied Bob, "and have not been about much;
and by the way, I will pay you the dollar I have owed you so long."
He took out his pocket-book as he spoke, and Charley perceived that it
was well filled.
"Oh I never mind the dollar; I am sure you are welcome to it; but what
are you waiting here for?"
Bob told his errand, and at the same moment, the train came in. The
parcel was not forth-coming, and he prepared himself to go on his way.
"Where now?" asked Charley, as Robert bade him good evening.
"I have several matters to attend to," replied Robert. "I must buy a
load of wood for mother, and some other things for the family."
"You are a clever fellow, and no mistake, Bob! It is not every young
man, who would spend his own earnings buying wood and flour for his
mother. But talking of wood, there is a man at the Union, who has a
parcel for sale cheap. I heard Burke say it was first-rate wood, and
that he would take it himself, only he had got as much as he wanted for
the winter. Suppose you come over and see? It may be the very thing you
want."
Robert hesitated. He did not exactly like to go to the Union, even for
the purpose of buying wood.
"Come, man, what are you waiting for? You are not afraid the Doctor
will scold you for going to the Union, are you?"
"No," replied Robert coloring, "I am not afraid to go where I please."
"Come along, then, and show that you are independent."
Robert finally yielded to Charley's persuasions, saying to himself that
he might just as well buy his wood there, as anywhere else. He would
not go into the bar-room, but he would show them that he was his own
master.
Charley had penetration enough to take advantage of one of the weakest
points of his character—the desire of being thought independent.
"Burke," said Charley, entering the bar-room and giving the landlord a
signal, which he well understood, "where is that man who was here with
wood just now? Robert Merritt wants to see him."
"He has gone to the other end of the village," said the landlord,
readily understanding what was wanted of him. "He said he would be back
in about fifteen minutes, and wanted me to keep any one that called to
see him. Take a chair, Mr. Merritt."
"Have a segar, Bob," asked Charley.
Robert had formerly been exceedingly fond of smoking, but he had broken
off the habit, at the desire of Dr. Huntley, who very much disliked
it. There were two or three persons smoking in the room, and the fumes
overcame his resolution; he accepted a segar, and lighting it, sat
down by the stove to await the arrival of the man with the wood—a
personage it is perhaps needless to add, who existed only in Charley's
imagination.
"What will the Doctor and the parson say to you, Bob?" asked Childs in
a sneering tone; as he knocked the ashes off his segar. "Good little
boys that go to Sunday-school, should not smoke in bar-rooms."
"You mind your own business, Childs," replied Charley, interrupting
him: "Bob is no more afraid of the Doctor than you are."
"Oh! No, of course not! I tell you, he dare not say his soul is his
own, and he knows it."
"You lie!" exclaimed Bob, starting up.
"Hush, Bob, don't get in a passion," said Charley soothingly. "Childs
don't mean what he says. I know very well that you are not afraid of
any of the set. You will do as you please for all or any of them."
"I say," repeated Childs, in a more offensive tone than before, "that
Bob Merritt dare not say his soul is his own. He is as much afraid of
the Doctor, as he is of — and he knows it. He dare no more drink that
glass of brandy and water, than he dare jump over the falls."
"Oh! Come, Childs! Don't say that! Bob don't want to drink, very
likely, because he is afraid he can't stop when he pleases, or because
he don't like brandy; but he is not afraid of any one, I know."
"He is afraid!" repeated Childs again, as he saw that Robert was
growing very angry: "Let us see him do it, if he dares."
By this time Robert was too much enraged to think of consequences; he
snatched the glass from the bar, and drained it to the bottom without
stopping, amid the laughter and applause of the by-standers.
"Well done, old fellow!" said Childs starting up. "I see you have more
spunk than I gave you credit for. I am sorry I teased you about it.
Come, take another glass, and be friends."
Bob would willingly have excused himself, but he did not know how,
and moreover the spirits which he had already taken, and which was
very strong, mixed with the fumes of the tobacco, had already almost
deprived him of self-control. Partly by persuasion, partly by force, he
was induced to take another glass, and then another; and then some one
proposed that they should go up to Charley's room, and have a game of
cards. By this time, Robert was too much intoxicated to know what he
was doing, and he willingly consented.
We will not follow such a disgusting scene any further. Suffice it to
say that at five o'clock in the morning, he was carried out of the
house in a state of insensibility, and deposited, with many jokes and
much suppressed laughter, at the Doctor's stable—door.
His absence had occasioned considerable anxiety to his friends, who
could not help fearing that he might have fallen into the hands of his
old enemies. Mrs. Huntley, however, suggested that his father might
have returned home in a condition which rendered it dangerous to leave
him alone, with the women and children, and that Robert might have
staid on that account, which was thought a probable solution of the
mystery.
Dr. Huntley was accustomed to rise early, and walk in the garden before
breakfast, and on this occasion, he turned his steps toward the stable,
thinking that Robert might have come in late, and, unwilling to disturb
the family, gone directly up to bed. What was his amazement to see the
object of his search lying prostrate and insensible in a pool of water,
which the last night's rain had formed near the door of the stable.
At first he thought the boy was dead; but as he stooped to examine
him, his flushed face, and the disgusting smell of brandy and tobacco
revealed the mystery.
Dr. Huntley stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. He was at first
tempted to send for an officer, and have Robert carried direct to the
watch-house, but a little consideration showed him that no good could
be expected to result from a step which would not only disgrace him,
but would at once throw him again into all his old associations.
After some farther thought, he brought a pail of cold water, from
the neighboring trough, and dashing it on Robert's head and face,
succeeded in partly restoring him to consciousness. He then half-led,
half-carried him, into a little room in the barn, sometimes used as a
granary, and depositing him upon his bed of straw, he turned the key
upon him, and left him to sleep off his debauch.
As soon as breakfast was over, the Doctor walked round to the parsonage
to consult Mr. Ellison as to what was to be done. Mr. Ellison listened
with grief, but without much surprise, to the account of Robert's
backsliding.
"I do not know that it is any more than was to be expected," said he,
when the story was concluded. "He probably fell in with some of his
old companions, and they would naturally rejoice in the opportunity
of leading him astray. You know as well as I do, the almost fiendlike
cunning that is often exercised by such persons when they get a young
man into their clutches, especially if he has once before escaped from
them."
"I know," replied the Doctor; "but I hoped better things of Robert. He
has been so steady, and evinced so much resolution since he has been
with me, that I really thought he would persevere to the end. It is a
great disappointment to me. I have become very much interested in him,
and I do not like to give him up; but really, I do not see how I can
keep him after this."
"He will go to swift destruction, if we abandon him," said Mr. Ellison.
"Do you not think we had better make one more effort to save him?"
"How?"
"Let him remain where he is till he is quite sober. He will
probably—nay, I am quite certain, that he will be very much ashamed
of himself, for he has strong feelings. Then set before him in the
plainest terms, the sin he has been guilty of, and its consequences,
and if he seems thoroughly penitent, as I think he will be, offer to
give him one more trial upon more stringent conditions than ever."
"I wonder what my brother-in-law will say?"
"He will probably say that it was just what he expected," said Mr.
Ellison, smiling; "that is his general comment, you know, whatever
happens. He will probably think, at first, that there is no use in
doing anything more for such an ungrateful subject, but a little
consideration will bring him round. His wife is sure to be on our side."
"Yes, Maria is always on the side of mercy. Well, sir, I think I will
take your advice, if it is only for the sake of his sister, who seems
a very promising girl. I confess my hopes are not very sanguine as to
success."
"Nor mine," said Mr. Ellison, "but it is worth trying. If I had any
thing for him to do, I would take him off your hands, but I could not
keep him employed."
Bidding his friend good day, the Doctor now set out on his usual round
of morning visits in the village. He had informed his wife and son of
Robert's condition before leaving home, desiring them to leave him
entirely to himself, and not to mention the matter to any one.
It was not till afternoon that he sought the place where he had left
his prisoner. He found Robert sitting up on his straw bed, supporting
his head with both hands, and groaning with pain. When he saw the
Doctor, he turned away, and hid his face in the straw; but the agony
he suffered on laying his head down, forced him to resume an upright
position.
"Well, Robert!" said his friend in a kind though grave tone, and taking
a seat beside him. "This is a sad state of things. You seem to be in a
great deal of pain."
Robert burst into an agony of weeping. "O Doctor!" he said, in a
suffocated tone. "Pray don't speak so to me! Kick me out of the yard,
as I deserve, or send me to the station-house, but don't speak kindly
to me. I can not bear it. Oh! What shall I do; what shall I do?"
"Be composed, if you can, my boy," said the Doctor. "You will only make
yourself worse by this agitation, and I want you to become quiet enough
to tell me how it all happened. You had better get up stairs to your
own room, and then I will see what can be done to relieve you."
With some difficulty, the removal was accomplished. The Doctor bathed
his head in cool water, brought him a cup of tea, and by degrees he
became composed enough to talk. He told the whole story from the
beginning, without concealment or excuse. It was impossible to doubt
the sincerity of his penitence and humility, and Dr. Huntley rejoiced
that he had not yielded to his first feelings of anger. He now set
before Robert, in the plainest terms, the enormity of his sin and its
consequences; the injury to his reputation, which was just beginning to
be firmly established; the distress it would occasion to his sister;
and the hold that it would give his enemies upon him.
"And now, Robert, I want you to see where the trouble began. How came
you to go to that drinking-hole in the first place? Was it not because
you thought yourself firm enough to resist temptation?"
"Yes, sir."
"You relied entirely upon yourself; and thus foolishly thrust yourself
into danger, and you have learned by bitter experience, how much your
self-reliance is worth. You can see now, how utterly powerless you are.
I tell you, my boy, that unless you learn to depend entirely upon a
higher power for strength, your resolution is no better than a broken
reed."
"What must I do then, Doctor?"
"You must ask of God, who giveth liberally, and upbraideth not, and he
will strengthen you. You must seek him in earnest prayer, repenting
heartily of your sins, and begging of him to grant you that help which
you need; otherwise, you are lost. As surely as you depend on yourself,
you will become a drunkard, and go into eternal destruction, for no
drunkard shall inherit eternal life."
"But I should not dare to pray," said Robert; "I am such a sinner."
"If you were the chief of sinners, that should not hinder you from
praying. If you do truly feel yourself a great sinner, you will feel
your need of a Saviour, and that Saviour is already provided. You must
ask God, for Christ's sake, to forgive and blot out your sins. You must
beseech Him to grant you true repentance and his Holy Spirit, that the
rest of your life hereafter may be pure and holy. I tell you again,
that unless you do this, you are lost for ever."
"Do you think He would hear me? I should like to pray, but I am afraid."
"Do not be afraid. Seek God with your whole soul. Ask him to renew your
heart by his Holy Spirit, and to grant you a death unto sin, and a new
birth unto righteousness for Jesus Christ's sake. He is more ready to
give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him, than earthly parents to give
good gifts to their children. Surely, Robert, if your earthly friends
are ready to forgive you and give you another trial, you need not
distrust the mercy of God."
Robert could hardly believe his ears. He had supposed of course that
Dr. Huntley would at once dismiss him from his service, after he had
made such an ungrateful return for all his kindness, and the thought
that he might be forgiven, that his friend intended to afford him
another opportunity of redeeming his character, was too much for him.
He became so agitated, that the Doctor thought it best to discontinue
the conversation, and he left him alone for a while, advising him to
lie still and try to sleep.
But Robert could not sleep; his head grew more oppressed every moment,
and with every breath he drew, a sharp and almost insupportable pain
darted through his chest. He felt that he was very ill, and the thought
that he might die, overwhelmed him with terror. He tried to pray, but
he could not collect his thoughts.
At last, his agony found vent in those words which have always been,
and will always be the refuge for the over-laden heart—
"Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!"
For the first time in his life, he had really prayed.
[Illustration: 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."