WE shall not attempt to follow our friend Robert through his whole
college career; suffice it to say, that he worked hard, and kept
himself conscientiously out of the way of temptation, endeavoring to
behave himself in all things, as became a Christian and a gentleman.
When he had resided in B. about three months, an unexpected assistance
presented itself, in the shape of an offer of the place of teacher of
mathematics and Latin in a private school, a situation which he was
very glad to accept. The salary was rather small, to be sure, but still
it was something, and his duties did not occupy more than two hours a
day, which left him ample time to pursue his studies. He found great
advantage to himself from his exertions, not only in a pecuniary point
of view, but also as it obliged him to reexamine the foundation of his
information, in imparting elementary knowledge to others.
Robert did not make a great many acquaintances, except among his
class-mates, with whom his good temper and cheerfulness made him a
great favorite, notwithstanding his steady refusal to join in any of
those doubtful performances which are sometimes called sprees, and
sometimes frolics. He was always ready for a ball-play or a ramble
at a proper time, and entered into them with great spirit; but his
class-mates knew very well that it would be in vain to ask Merritt's
assistance in any unlawful frolic, and the sensible ones among them
respected him the more for his steadiness. He visited sometimes in the
families of the professors, especially the professor of chemistry, with
whom he soon became a great favorite, and in whose parlor or study he
was always a welcome guest.
There was one other family in which he felt at home—that of Mr.
Compton, an old college friend of Dr. Huntley's, and a very cultivated
and intelligent man, to whom he had been introduced when he first came
to B. Mrs. Compton was a very kind and extremely elegant woman, and her
friendship was of great service to the young man, who, aware of his own
deficiencies, was not too proud to learn of any one who was kind enough
to teach him. There he frequently spent his evenings, and here it one
day chanced that he met his old acquaintance, Mr. Eugene Augustus
Mandeville.
Eugene Augustus had given up the study of medicine, as too fatiguing
and disagreeable, and was now spending his spare time in a law-office,
where he professed to be qualifying himself for the bar, though none of
his friends had very strong expectations of his passing an examination.
The meeting chanced in this wise. Robert had come in, as he often did,
soon after tea, and finding Mr. Compton examining some daguerreotypes,
then a new discovery, he at once plunged with that gentleman into a
profound discussion on the chemical effects of light, and as chemistry
chanced to be a hobby of his host's as well, they were soon deep in
the mysteries of the science, Mrs. Compton and her daughters entering
with interest into the subject, when the doorbell rung, and in a moment
Eugene Augustus walked in, in all the majesty of a faultless suit
of clothes, and irreproachable boots. Mrs. Compton looked a little
annoyed; for, sooth to say, that charming youth was no favorite of
hers; but she was always well bred, and therefore giving him a graceful
welcome, she turned round and presented him to "my young friend, Mr.
Merritt."
Eugene Augustus looked astonished, and felt as though he wanted to
rub his eyes to assure himself of the reality of the vision. Here was
Robert Merritt, whom he had a hundred times seen at work in a blue
frock and overalls, whom he had last beheld on the box of the Doctor's
carriage, actually sitting in Mr. Compton's parlor, and very evidently
upon equal terms with the finest people in B.; people, indeed, who
were quite too fine to care whether they were fashionable or not. He
could not understand it at all, but of one thing he was very sure—that
there was some mistake, some gross imposition on Robert's part—that
Mr. Compton could not know his true history—and he determined that he
should be informed of it on the first opportunity. Meanwhile, he would
do all in his power to put this presumptuous youth down to his proper
position.
"Why, Robert, is this you?" he said, in a tone of surprise, but with
great condescension. "I supposed you were still 'working' at Dr.
Huntley's."—A particular emphasis on the word "working," which was
intended to be very stinging.
"I am, in vacation time," replied Robert, smiling, though his cheek
flushed a little.
"Indeed! In vacation! You are probably teaching in some public school.
I congratulate you upon your advancement."
"Thank you; but your congratulations are uncalled-for, as I am only
teaching in a small private school at present."
"Mr. Merritt is in the University," said General Compton, with some
emphasis; "and, as I am assured by his teachers, takes a very high
place there."
"Oh! Indeed!" replied the discomfited young gentleman, who felt himself
rather uncomfortable under the General's tone and glance, and still
more so under the politely repressed smiles of the young ladies. "I did
not know—I was not aware that Robert had left Grandville—I—in fact, I
was quite surprised at seeing him."
"Very naturally so," said Robert with perfect composure. And then
returned to his examination of the photographs, and his conversation
with his host, leaving Mr. Mandeville to his own devices, and the
tender mercies of the young ladies.
Eugene, as may well be supposed, did not spend a very pleasant evening,
but he was determined to outstay Robert at all events. And accordingly,
when the latter arose, a little after nine, to take his leave, he bade
him good evening in a most lofty tone, and still retained his seat,
much to the annoyance of the ladies.
"You have met Mr. Merritt before?" remarked Miss Compton, by way of
saying something.
"Oh! Yes—that is, not exactly met him; but—in fact, I never was more
surprised in my life, than I was to see him here; and I think it no
more than right that you should know his true history, before he
imposes on you any farther."
"Thank you!" returned Mrs. Compton, in rather a peculiar tone, but
which Eugene Augustus took for encouragement.
"Well, the fact is, that when I was in Grandville, this person lived
at Dr. Huntley's as groom and stable-boy, and did all the work about
the place. He was, though of the very lowest origin, greatly inclined
to be insolent at that time, and I was often obliged to make him know
his place, especially after the Doctor, who is a most eccentric man,
allowed him to attend the academy: but I never thought he would have
the brazen impudence to pass himself off on you as a gentleman. How he
comes to be in the University, I can not conceive."
"The matter is easily enough explained," said Mr. Compton, quietly.
"Mr. Vanderburgh of Grandville has a scholarship in the University, and
as his own son inclines to an out-of-door life, he very kindly, and,
in my opinion, very wisely, bestowed it upon young Merritt. As to his
being here, that is also easily explained. He was introduced to me by
Dr. Huntley himself, who is a very particular friend of mine, and who
told me his whole history. I was much interested in him, not only from
the fact of his having educated himself, in a great measure, by his own
exertions, but also because he is really a very modest and remarkably
well-informed young man; and as he rides the chemical hobby as well as
myself, we agree very well. I hope to be able to serve him essentially
when he shall have finished his studies, and shall take great pleasure
in doing so; for a more deserving, and I will add, a more agreeable
young man I have seldom met."
This speech, though delivered in the blandest manner, did not, as may
be imagined, tend to make Eugene feel any more at his ease. He found he
had made a mistake all round, and he did not exactly see which way to
retreat. So he wisely judged it best to let the matter drop entirely,
and made his exit, feeling as though he should not care about calling
at Mrs. Compton's again in some time.
Robert, however, was not at all discomfited by his encounter, nor
did he visit his friends at all the less. Through their kindness, he
became acquainted with some other cultivated families, whose society
made his stay in B. very pleasant. He did not, however, allow his
social enjoyments to draw him in the least degree from his studies,
feeling that he owed it to those friends who had given him the means of
improvement, to make the most of his advantages. His friends, on their
part, were entirely satisfied with him, and George Huntley himself was
scarcely more welcome home in vacation time than Robert.
George had finished his collegiate course, and was pursuing his studies
for the ministry, when Robert returned home for his last college
vacation. And the two young men held a great many serious conversations
while they were working together in the garden, or resting at noon at
harvest and haying-time; for Robert still continued to work for Mr.
Dennison during those busy seasons, and George was very fond of lending
a hand.
"I could almost find it in my heart to envy you, George," said Robert
on one of these occasions, "though I am not dissatisfied with my own
decision, mind. But you will have such powers for usefulness in your
hands—such grand opportunities of doing good!"
"And also such great and fearful responsibilities," replied George;
"don't forget that. I assure you that though I am, as you say, not
at all dissatisfied with my decision, I often tremble at the thought
of what is before me. I do not suppose I shall ever have as much
influence as Mr. Ellison; but when I spend a day with him and see how
he is looked up to for advice and instruction in the gravest matters,
my heart sinks at the idea of bearing half the burden. But you will
have opportunity enough of doing good if you are faithful. Look at my
father! There is hardly a minister in the land that does more than he."
"I shall never be like your father," said Robert; "it is not in me.
Indeed, if it were possible, I would rather be a tutor in a college or
some such institution, with an ultimate view to a professorship, than
to study medicine at all, but of course I shall not think of such a
thing."
"Why not?" asked George.
"Oh! Because your father has set his heart on my studying with him, and
of course I should not dream of acting contrary to his wishes, when I
owe to him, under God, all that there is of good about me."
"But if my father knew which way your wishes tended, he would advance
them to the extent of his power, I am certain."
"That is the very reason I do not want him to know, and I beg that
you will not intimate such a thing to him. But after all, if any such
situation should offer, I should be all the better prepared for it by
going through a regular course of medical study. So don't, for the
world, say that I am at all dissatisfied, for indeed I am not. To
think," he continued in a musing tone, "how wonderfully my prospects
have changed since I first knew your father! And there is one thing
that has surprised me, George."
"If there is only one thing that surprises you, you are more fortunate
than most people. There are a dozen things that surprise me every day.
But what in particular?"
"Just this," replied his friend, "that every body is so ready to forget
all about the first part of my career, and to lend me a helping hand.
To be sure there is now and then a dunce like Mandeville, who tries to
look down upon me; but as a general thing, the moment a man tries to
help himself, there are plenty of people to assist him; and as soon as
he shows a desire to become respectable, they begin to respect him."
"Then you don't think," said George, smiling, "that the rich always
oppress the poor, and look down on them."
"It may be so in some instances, but they have not come under my
observation. I have often heard people talk in that way, but they have
always been either those whose poverty was the least of their faults,
scheming politicians who were fishing for votes, or else extremely
ignorant people. For myself, I have found too many friends ever to
believe any such cant. I only wish I could in any way repay their
kindness to me."
"You will have a great many opportunities of being of service to my
father," remarked George. "He has always had a tendency to absence of
mind, and I can see that it grows upon him. If you are at his elbow,
you can save him from a great many uncomfortable mistakes, and a deal
of annoyance; for he always feels badly when he finds that he has made
a blunder. He is as fond of you as if you were his son, and you can
serve him a great many times when a stranger could not."
"I know it," replied Robert, "and I desire nothing better than to be
able to do so; and I beg you once more, George, never to hint to him
that I have ever thought of any other line of life."
George gave the required promise, and Robert returned for his last year
in college, fully determined to devote himself heart and soul to the
study of medicine. He graduated with great honor, and then immediately
returned to Grandville, and entered the Doctor's office, where he
gave himself to the study of his profession with as much ardor as he
had done to his college pursuits. He was constantly on the watch for
opportunities of being of service to the Doctor, who, as George had
remarked, was growing absent-minded; and he often stood between him
and annoyance, by finding lost papers and reminding him of forgotten
engagements, so that Dr. George was wont to say, he could as well
dispense with his right hand as with Robert.
Especially was this the case, when the death of Maude in her early
womanhood, threw a deep shade of sadness over the hitherto happy
family. Robert had loved Maude as an own sister, and his unobtrusive
sympathy and heart-felt grief endeared him still more to the family,
who now treated him in all respects as a cherished son and brother. He
passed through his course of medical study as he had done through his
college course; working hard, and never doing less than his best; and
having passed an excellent examination, he was admitted to partnership
with the Doctor, and soon obtained a fair share of the confidence of
the community.
About the time that Robert left college, Celia was married to a young
farmer in the neighborhood—a man of some property, and in every way
unexceptionable, who wanted a good wife to take with him to Michigan,
where he owned an excellent new farm. Auntie Dennison made a grand
party on the occasion, to which all the Huntleys and Vanderburghs, as
well as Mr. Ellison's family, were invited; at which time she fairly
outdid herself in cookery, providing cakes, pies, preserves, and all
other good things in such quantity and variety, that Robert laughingly
told her he hoped she would make two or three more such after he got
his diploma, as in that case he should be sure of plenty of patients;
whereupon she promised to celebrate that event by another feast of fat
things.
Celia looked very pretty and happy in her wedding-dress, presented
by Mrs. Huntley. And among the property which Mr. and Mrs. Bradbury
carried with them to their new home, was a securely-packed crate of
crockery, including among other things, a pretty china dinner and
tea-set, a nice set of silver spoons, Bob's present, and a plentiful
"plenishing" of table and bed-linen, blankets and comforters, all the
bridal gifts of her friends.
Mrs. Dennison missed her sadly, and Aunt Nancy said the house was not
like the same place without her; she did not think she should ever
take, to another girl as she had to Celia. But when Mr. Dennison went
to the city one day, and brought home a pretty, delicate little girl
from the orphan asylum, the kind-hearted old lady "took" to her as
readily as she had done to Celia, and soon loved her like a daughter.
Mark, who was now a stout, well-grown lad of thirteen, went with his
brother-in-law. His kind master having died, his friends thought he
could not do better than to go out to a new country where, as Mr.
Bradbury expressed it, "there was twice as much room for a boy to grow
up, as there was in a stifled-up place like Grandville." So Mark left
his shoemaker's bench, and went out to the West to be made a farmer of.
We will now leave our young people, and passing over an interval of
no less than twenty years, we will take a peep at the homestead and
family of a thriving farmer in Michigan. It is a pretty white house
of two stories, and is charmingly shaded with trees; on one side is
a flourishing garden, on the other a beautiful meadow stretches its
velvet green down to the borders of one of those charming little lakes
which are the pride and beauty of Michigan. The front door stands
invitingly open, and indeed, it is seldom closed during the day-time in
summer, and a glimpse through a door which opens into the wide hall,
shows a parlor neatly furnished, most invitingly cool, and perfumed by
freshly gathered flowers, among which shines conspicuously, a vase of
splendid water-lilies.
But there is no body at present in the parlor, nor yet in the
dining-room, where the table, ready set for tea, with its plates
of bread, cheese, and cakes of all sorts, its dishes of fresh and
preserved fruits, and its two neat mats, suggestive of hot additions
yet to come, all make us think of Auntie Dennison. If we want to find
any body, we must pass through the hall, across the back-piazza, and
open the kitchen-door. There is a great fire in the stove, although it
is a summer evening, and a warm bluish haze pervades the atmosphere,
together with a smell of frying and baking, which reminds us not
disagreeably, that we have not had our supper, and that there is
something in the air of Michigan which makes people hungry.
Can this be Celia coming out of the milk-room, with a brimming pitcher
of rich cream in one hand and a plate of butter crowned with sparkling
ice in the other? Certainly it looks very much like Celia as we knew
her twenty years ago; but it can not be she. No, it is Miss Maude
Huntley Bradbury; and Miss Maude, is sixteen and begins to feel
very grown-up, indeed. There is Celia Bradbury, looking over those
strawberries, with a high apron protecting her nice white dress. If you
look out of the door you will see certain flaxen heads intently looking
over the gate, and down the road, who answer to the names of John
Vanderburgh and Jane Dennison, and Richard Ellison and Georgiana Maria
Bradbury, the last-mentioned young lady being considerably shorter than
her name, for Michigan folks have a passion for grand titles, and in
general, the less children have of any thing else, the more names they
possess.
But if you want to see the mother of all these promising young people,
as no doubt you do, you must wait a minute, for Mrs. Bradbury has
retired to make her toilet; she will return in time to give the last
touches to the fried chicken, and to take the biscuits out of the
oven herself, for Uncle Robert and his wife are coming to-night. Mr.
Bradbury and Robert the younger, have gone down to the station with the
carriage, and now John Vanderburgh and Jane Dennison run a race to the
house to announce that they have heard the cars.
Well, the biscuits are done just in time, so Mrs. Bradbury takes them
out of the oven and folds them in a nice white napkin, that they may be
piping hot, and setting the chicken off the fire, she goes to the door
to look out for herself.
Here they are!—Here they come! And Mrs. Bradbury runs down to the gate,
and is at once enfolded in the arms of a tall and stout gentleman,
with dark eyes and brown curling hair, who certainly bears a strong
resemblance to our friend Bob. Then Mrs. Merritt is embraced in her
turn; and Mrs. Merritt looks very much as the youngest Miss Compton
used to. Then various little Merritts are lifted down, and being taken
in custody by the young Bradburys, are conducted in triumph to the
house, amidst kisses and questions and exclamations, and a vast amount
of general confusion.
Well, by and by, they have eaten supper, and the younger children have,
in a manner, subsided and gone to bed. Now the elders sit down to have
a quiet chat, and to take a good look at each other, which they have
hardly been able to do yet for the noise of the young ones. Celia
notices how large and stout Robert has grown, and how thoughtful he
looks, and a nearer inspection discovers several threads of gray in his
hair and whiskers, which have no business to be there; but, then, he
has always worked so hard. Robert laughs at Celia for growing so fat,
and tells her she will soon be as stout as Aunt Nancy.
"And how is the dear old Doctor?" asks Celia.
"Very well," returns Robert, "and very happy. He seldom goes out now
except to church and to ride, but he is very well and enjoys himself
greatly. Mr. Vanderburgh spends a great deal of time with him since his
wife died, and if Mary marries and goes away, I think he will go to
live at the Doctor's. John is in your neighborhood, so I need tell you
nothing about him."
"When have you seen Auntie Dennison?"
"Just before I left. She is the same good soul as ever, and just as
fond of making people eat too much. The little girl they took from the
Orphan Asylum has been a great comfort to them."
"Mr. Ellison is the same as ever, I suppose?"
"Just the same, only more so, as they say out here. He does not seem to
grow old in heart at all, and is just as fond as ever of having young
people about him. George Huntley works with him heart and soul, and is
just the assistant that he ought to have. On the whole, he is as happy
a man as one will often see."
"I should really like to go back and see Grandville again," said Celia,
thoughtfully; "though I suppose there have been a great many changes
since I was there."
"Oh! Yes, a great many," replied Robert. "You would hardly know the
place. However, there are some landmarks still remaining, and our old
house is one of them."
"Still that must be very much altered."
"Yes, it is more like what it was in grandfather's time, though I have
been obliged to enlarge it a good deal. It is one of the prettiest
places in the village. Ah! Celia, do you remember that evening the cow
got into my garden—the evening Mr. Vanderburgh gave Mr. Ellison such an
account of us?"
"Remember it! Yes, indeed, and how we went to church the next Sunday
evening, and how you went to work in the parsonage garden next day. I
wonder if Mr. Vanderburgh ever remembers what he used to prophesy about
you."
"Not at all. The old gentleman tells every one that he knew from the
first I would turn out well. He told me the last time I went away to
P., to my lectures, that he always knew I was cut out for a professor.
I did not say any thing to the contrary, for, indeed, but for him I
should never have been one."
"I don't know that," said Celia. "It would have been harder, no doubt,
but I think you would have made your way first or last. Not but that
you owe him a great deal. And, by the way, do you remember that Mr.
Mandeville, who used to provoke you so? What has become of him?"
"He is a fourth or fifth-rate lawyer in B.," said Robert. "He just
passed his examination, and that was all, and now he practices when he
can get a chance, which is not often. He never had wit enough to make a
living."
"You stopped to see Mark, I suppose?" said Mr. Bradbury.
"Oh! Yes, and found him as comfortable as can be, with a nice little
house, and a nice little wife and baby. He seems to be prospering in
every way."
"Yes, Mark is doing very well now," remarked Celia. "He made us a
little uneasy at one time, lest he should fall into bad habits; but he
had the sense to stop in time, and he now bears a very good character,
and seems likely to be well off. After all, Robert, we have turned out
pretty well, for all we were such a hard set, as Mr. Vanderburgh said."
"Yes, thank God, we have nothing now to be ashamed of. But if we had
not found just the right kind of people to help us, we might have been
badly off in spite of our efforts. It was only the good old Doctor's
forbearance and patience that saved me from utter destruction; if he
had dealt with me according to my deserts, I should have been—God only
knows where—by this time."
The large family Bible, Mrs. Ellison's wedding present, was soon
brought and put into Robert's hands. He selected the one hundred and
seventh psalm:
"Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and the wonders
that he doeth for the children of men.
"Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he hath redeemed from the
hand of the enemy.
"For he satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with
goodness.
"He brought down their soul with heaviness: they fell down and there
was none to help them.
"Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and he delivered them
out of their distress. He brought them out of darkness and the shadow
of death, and broke their bonds in sunder.
"Oh! that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for the
wonderful works that he doeth for the children of men."