CHAPTER I.

"AND now," concluded Mr. Vanderburgh, "you are acquainted by name at least with all the families in Grandville—all that you are likely to come in contact with."

"But, who lives in this house?" asked Mr. Ellison. "You have said nothing about them, have you? They must be poor enough to need attention, judging from the outside of the dwelling and its surroundings."

Mr. Ellison was the new minister. He had arrived in Grandville only the day before, and in company with two prominent members of his church, he was now taking a walk through the village, and making his own observations upon what he saw, while Mr. Vanderburgh amused himself and his companions with a kind of "catalogue raisonné" of the family inhabiting each house which they passed.

Mr. Vanderburgh's remarks were shrewd and amusing enough, and perhaps sufficiently tempered with the spirit of kindness, but a tolerably acute observer would have had no difficulty in discovering that they had one prominent aim, namely, to exalt himself in the eyes of the new minister, and to show conclusively, that the Vanderburgh family, in all its branches, constituted the most important part of the congregation. Mr. Vanderburgh was a short and rather thick-set man, with a partially bald head, blue eyes, and a sharp, shrewd, and withal a pleasant countenance; he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and carried a handsome cane with an ivory top, which he seemed to use simply for the purpose of giving emphasis to his conversation.

Dr. George Huntley, the minister's other companion, was of quite a different stamp, and never said more than one word to Mr. Vanderburgh's six. He was very tall and large in proportion, with curling chestnut hair and whiskers, partially striped with gray, fine eyes, and a grave, serious, abstracted manner, which, however, gave place to a smile full of kindness and gentleness whenever he was addressed. He was Mr. Vanderburgh's brother-in-law, and they were firm friends, though they often disagreed, and sometimes rather warmly.

The house which they were passing, and to which Mr. Ellison had referred, was, indeed, rather discouraging in its appearance. It was a long, thin, two-story house, and seemed to have had some few pretensions to gentility in its day, but it was now dilapidated and weather-worn. The paint was almost entirely washed off, and the color of the boards was farther diversified with green moss and weather stains. The porch, or stoop as it was called, had lost one of its pillars, and was propped up with rails in a very insecure-looking fashion, while two of the steps were entirely missing. Some attempt seemed to have been made towards keeping the lower story habitable, as the windows were mended with paper in some places, and bits of board in others, but the upper floor was evidently abandoned to the weather. A few old lilacs and cinnamon roses were trying to make a living in the yard, and in one corner, protected by a few boards and rails, were some patches of corn, peas, and potatoes, which seemed to have been carefully attended to, and presented quite a thriving appearance. A girl, apparently about fifteen years old, holding a sickly-looking baby in her arms, was standing at the gate, but turned into the house as the party approached, while two or three other children peeped out at the window, or round the corner of the house.

"You have said nothing of these people," said Mr. Ellison again. "Who and what are they?"

"A miserable set, sir, a miserable set," replied Mr. Vanderburgh, with emphasis, "the less we say about them the better. Merritt is a dissolute, drunken creature, who drinks more than he earns every day of his life, and abuses his wife, who is the best of the set, shamefully. Her children are up to every species of mischief, and Bob especially, who is the eldest, is at the bottom of half the trouble that goes on in Grandville."

"That is a sad state of things, certainly," said Mr. Ellison, "but can nothing be done to improve it?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing. We have tried every way to reform the man, and finally to break up the family, but all in vain. They seem to hang together in spite of every thing."

"Some body seems to have tried to make a garden," observed Mr. Ellison, "and to have taken a good deal of pains with it."

"That is Bob's doing, I presume," replied Mr. Vanderburgh, "he is a smart boy enough, when his own interests are concerned, I assure you."

"The boy is just what you might expect a boy to be under such circumstances, no better and no worse," remarked Dr. George. "It would be strange, indeed, if he should have any very clear ideas of right and wrong, considering how he has been brought up. He is smart and active, and does more than his father for the support of the family, though not always in the most creditable way. He is fond of his mother, and takes a good deal of pains to make her comfortable, with very little encouragement on her part."

"But he is a bad boy, George, you can not deny that. He swears like a young dragoon."

"Dragoons do not always swear," interrupted the Doctor.

"He swears like a trooper," continued Mr. Vanderburgh, disregarding the interruption, "robs hen-roosts and orchards, goes in swimming, when he ought to be in church and at Sunday-school, and raises the mischief generally."

"What is the father like?" inquired the minister.

"Like a good-for-nothing, drunken loafer," replied Mr. Vanderburgh. "He is a painter by trade, and might easily earn enough to support his family, if he did not spend all he earned, and more too in drink. His father was a respectable man, a man of property, sir, and owned the place they live in, with about twenty acres of land. Titus was his only child, and began the world with quite a nice little property besides this house; but it is all gone now, scattered to the four winds, and this would have gone with it, only it is so secured that he can not sell it till the children are of age."

"Was the father a temperate man?" asked Mr. Ellison.

"Why, yes; he was, and he was not. He was not a total abstinence man, by any means. He took his glass or two of brandy every day, and on extra occasions, such as election or Thanksgiving day, he would be a little merry; but I don't think any one ever saw him really the worse for liquor. But Titus always seemed to take to it more than his father."

"And can nothing be done to reform him?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing. We have talked to him time and again, but it does no good. I expect he will go to destruction, and his son after him. They are a hard set, sir, a very hard set, indeed."

The minister said no more, but walked on with a sad and thoughtful countenance, not seeming to pay as much attention as at first to Mr. Vanderburgh's sprightly remarks. Perhaps he was thinking of the last words of his companion: "He will go to destruction, and his son after him." And indeed, when one considers what is the fate, both in regard to this world and the next, which awaits the drunkard, it does seem rather an awful thing to prophecy in regard to a brother man. Perhaps he was contriving in his own mind some way of getting at these unfortunate people, and making an impression on them. However it might be, he excused himself at the next corner, and turned towards his boarding-place, leaving his companions to pursue their walk together, if they were so inclined.

Mr. Vanderburgh returned to his office, feeling very well satisfied with the new minister, the prospects of the parish, and above all, with himself. And in the excess of his complaisance, informed his clerk that he might take that afternoon to go home if he pleased: it was almost too fine to be shut up in the office. "And, Webster, you may as well call and see what has become of Allan; he ought to have paid his interest the day before yesterday."

Mr. Vanderburgh's description of the Merritt family had one more auditor than he was aware of. As the party passed on their way, Robert Merritt descended from the old cherry tree where he had been ensconced, and where he had heard every word of the conversation. Robert was a pale, thin boy, with light brown hair, and dark eyes, and an expression of face much too old for his years. His clothes had evidently seen long and hard service though they were mended, if not very neatly yet with considerable ingenuity, and his hat looked as though it might have served alternately the office of foot-ball and water-dipper for several years. Robert might with justice be called a pretty hard-looking boy, but yet there was, on close inspection, something in his face which promised the elements of a good character, if he could have been placed in circumstances at all favorable to its development. He now stood for some minutes, leaning on the end of the broken stone wall, and looking after the retreating party.

"A pretty character Old Vanderburgh gives to the new parson," he muttered. "I must say I think he might as well have let him find out for himself; if he has been giving him the history of the whole congregation in the same style, they won't thank him much, I reckon. And yet he is a clever man too, and didn't say a word more than what was true: we are a hard set, and I don't blame any one for saying so; but if Old Vanderburgh had only had such a father as mine, he wouldn't have been so very much better. I think I should like to change places with some boy that had a decent father for a little while, just to see how it would seem. Here is poor Celia, too, as good a girl as ever was; she might be getting a good education, or learning a trade, only no body will take her, because they don't want father coming round; so she just drags about the children from morning till night, learning nothing that can do her any good, and getting just as tired every day as though she was working for a living. And Ben and Mark will grow up in the same way, I suppose, learning nothing but mischief, and very likely coming to the State's prison, or worse. I do declare, it's too bad!"

Bob did not look like a very hard boy, just then, as he leaned his head on the wall, and the tears dropped on his brown and dirty hands. "I wish I was dead," he sobbed. "I wish we all were; though if all the parsons say is true, some of us would not gain much. Mr. Ellison's a real kind, clever-looking man, any how, and I mean to go and hear him preach to-morrow; I can get into the gallery without any one's seeing me. But I promised to go a-fishing with Dick Childs and Joe Adams in the morning; I believe I'll go to church in the evening. I do mean to try and make something of myself if I can."

Bob remained for a long time leaning on the wall and apparently absorbed in thought. His meditations did not seem to be of a very pleasant nature, for it was with a deep sigh, and an impatient exclamation, that he roused himself at last, and turned towards the house.

As he came in sight of it, he uttered an oath and quickened his steps into a run; the rails that surrounded his garden, his cherished garden, were broken down or displaced, and the cow and pig were busy in the midst of his vegetables, the one pulling at the luxuriant pea—vines and the other rooting among the potatoes. It was the work of a moment to drive them out of the yard, and securing the rickety gate as well as he could, Bob returned to ascertain the extent of the mischief and to repair the damaged fence, but as he cast a glance over the beds and saw the uprooted potatoes and trampled corn, his courage seemed to forsake him entirely, and sitting down on the fence, he again burst into tears.

"Don't cry, Bob," said a gentle voice behind him, and Celia sitting down by his side put her arm round his neck. "It is a real shame, any way, but I wouldn't cry."

"Isn't it enough to make any one cry, after all the pains I have taken, to have it all spoiled? How came the cow in there?"

"Father put her in," replied Celia, now crying in her turn; "he has come home just as tipsy as he can be, and broken half the dishes we had left. He turned them in to get their own supper, he said, and then he whipped Mark because he ran to drive them out. Mother has taken the baby and gone over to Mrs. Smith's, and the boys are in bed, and now father lies on mother's bed and swears at me every time I stir. I am afraid to go in till he goes to sleep."

"I wish he would go to sleep and never wake up again," muttered Bob between his teeth.

"O Bob! Don't say so," said Celia starting, "remember he is your father after all, and if you wish he was dead, it is the same as being a murderer."

"Well, I won't then, if I can help it, but I feel as though I could not stand it much longer. I was up in the cherry tree in the orchard this afternoon when the new parson came along with Mr. Vanderburgh and Dr. Huntley, and I heard him ask who lived here. Then Mr. Vanderburgh up and told him all about us; how father got drunk and abused his family, and he said we were a hard set; those were the very words he used, and that I was the hardest of all. But then Dr. George put in his word and said, I wasn't any worse than any one would expect, and that I did more for the family than father. But Vanderburgh stuck to it, and said I used to go swimming Sundays, and that I robbed orchards and so on, and then he said again that we were a hard set."

"What did Mr. Ellison say?"

"Nothing, but he looked rather sorrowful I thought; I like his looks very well, and I wish, Celia, you would go to church with me to-morrow; I have taken a great notion to hear him preach."

"I would, Bob, but to tell you the simple truth, I haven't a decent suit to wear."

"But can't you fix up something? Wash out the frock that Mrs. Huntley gave you, and mend it up, and it will do very well. We will sit in the gallery where no body will see us. Come, Sis, do try to go; it isn't often that I take such a notion."

"I'll try what I can do," said Celia, after a moment's reflection; "I guess I can make out some way."

They sat in silence for some minutes, when Bob asked, though without looking up: "Sis, do you think I could ever make any thing of myself if I was to try?"

"How do you mean?" asked Celia.

"Whether I could ever make a man like Dr. George or Mr. Metwood, if I were to begin now. I have heard that some of our best men were poor boys once."

"I don't know why you could not," replied Celia. "I am sure you are smart enough, if that is all; but, Bob," she continued, with some hesitation, "I think you would have to leave off some things that you do now."

"What things?"

"I am afraid you won't like it if I tell you?"

"Yes, I shall, and it's no matter if I don't. Come, tell me what you mean, though I guess I know pretty well beforehand what you are thinking about."

"Well, for one thing, what Mr. Vanderburgh said, going a-fishing and in swimming on Sundays. I've always noticed that it is only real hard cases, like Childs and Adams, that practise such things. Respectable people never do, and I don't think Dr. Huntley or Mr. Metwood would want to hire any body that had such ways."

"I'm sure Dr. Huntley goes out riding on Sundays, and that is just as bad," said Bob in rather a sulky tone.

"Not for the fun of it, he don't, only to see his patients, and he is obliged to do that. And George Huntley, though he is so daring at other times, and goes everywhere and does every thing, yet you never hear of his hunting or fishing on Sundays."

"I don't see that people are any better for being so very religious, though. They don't do any more for their neighbors as I see."

"Well, I don't know, I think they do. Who have done the most for us lately? Hasn't it been religious people, and members of the church, such as Dr. George and his wife, and Miss Metwood, and the Lyatts, all church members? Don't you remember how Miss Jane Lyatt came and sat up two nights when Benny was sick last summer, and what nice things Mrs. Huntley used to send us? Don't you know how Mr. Vanderburgh gave each of the little boys a pair of shoes last fall, and Mr. Hyde sent us a load of wood?"

"That's true enough, so they did; and I don't know that Childs or Adams or any of that set ever did any thing for us, except Charley Brown. He has been right clever, Sis, you must allow."

"I like Charley Brown the best of them all, I must say," replied Celia; "he is so good-hearted. But if I was you, I would leave off going out Sundays, and go to church and to Sunday-school, and then try to get something to do. If you are steady this summer, perhaps you can find a place in the winter where you can work for your board and go to school."

"I suppose I might," replied Robert, musingly; "well, Sis, at any rate, we will go and hear the new minister to-morrow, and after that I'll see what can be done. Now, let me put the garden in as good order as I can again, though there is not much encouragement to do it," he added sadly.

Just as he had finished his work, and was securing the rails round his beloved garden, now looking, if possible, neater than ever, he heard his name called, and looking up, saw two young men leaning over the wall and watching his proceedings.

"How wonderfully busy you are, Bob," said one of them; "I have called you three times without getting any answer. I began to think you were getting too grand to speak to us."

"I have been very busy," replied Bob, finishing his work without noticing the interruption. "The old cow got in and turned every thing topsy-turvey, but I believe it is all right now."

"You take a mighty deal of pains with that lot of garden stuff," remarked the other boy. "How much do you expect to get out of it?"

"Not a great deal more than we want to eat ourselves," replied Robert, "though I shall have some green corn and tomatoes to sell. We have had nice radishes and greens already."

"You must be fonder of them than I am to take so much pains about them. But, come, are you going fishing with us to-morrow? It promises to be a first-rate day."

"I guess not," replied Bob, in rather an embarrassed manner. "I don't think I can go to-morrow very well."

"Nonsense! What is there to hinder?"

"Nothing very particular, only I don't want to."

"That's clever, any way, when you have been promising all the week, and we have depended on you. Oh! Come, don't use a fellow that way."

"Don't go, Bob," whispered Celia, "I wouldn't."

"You are not going to turn saint, and be too good to go a-fishing Sundays, are you?" continued Adams.

"None of your business," replied Bob, angrily.

"That's it, get mad the first minute. I wouldn't sit up for a deacon, Bob; it won't pay, and besides, it don't run in the family. Come, now, don't be a fool! You know we shall have glorious times."

"Don't urge him, Adams," said the other young man, who was much better dressed than his companion; "if he won't go, there are others that will; only I'll just thank you, Bob Merritt, not to make a promise another time unless you mean to keep it; and by the bye, I wish you would pay me the three dollars I lent you more than two months ago. You promised to let me have it in a week, and I can't afford to let it run any longer."

"I would if I could, Childs," replied Bob coloring, "but I haven't a cent now. I'll pay you as soon as I can get any thing. I shall have green corn to sell the first of any body, and then you shall have your pay."

"So you said six weeks ago, and I don't choose to wait any longer."

"But how can I pay you unless I have the money?"

"You must get it, that's all?"

"I've got ten shillings, Bob," whispered Celia, "you are welcome to that, I am sure."

"That you saved to buy yourself a decent frock with—no indeed. I'm not so mean as that, I hope, if I 'am' a hard case."

"Come, Bob, I can't be standing here all night; hand over, will you?"

"I tell you, Childs, I have not got it, and how can I pay it?"

"You shall find some way to pay it, or I will make you wish you had never seen it. As long as you behaved yourself decently, you were welcome to it, but now that you are getting too grand to associate with me, you may borrow your money somewhere else."

"Who said I was too grand to associate with you? I'm sure I didn't."

"Why won't you go fishing with us, then? Now, I'll tell you what it is, Bob: if you have a mind to go with us to-morrow, and behave yourself, I'll say no more about the money at present, but if not, just pay down! There you have it in a nutshell."

"Come, Bob," said Adams, persuasively: "come along, and we'll settle it some how. I don't like to have you go unless you want to, but you see we depended on you, and Charley's sick a-bed. Come, there's a clever fellow, and we'll have a good time."

Thus urged, Bob gave a reluctant consent, and the young men went on their way.

"So you are going after all," said Celia, as they departed, and Robert returned to his labors with the rails.

"I don't see but I must. Childs has got such a hold on me with that confounded three dollars. I'll pay it next week, at any rate, if I have to steal it."

"It is too bad," replied Celia, looking just ready to cry. "I thought we should go to church to-morrow, like decent people, for once in our lives.'

"So you can; what hinders you?" said. Bob, rather gruffly. "You are not afraid to go alone, are you?"

"I don't want to go alone," replied Celia; "and, besides, Bob, I tell you, you will never be any body, unless you leave off going out on Sundays with those boys. It is no use for you to try."

"It is no use for me to try, any way. I may as well give it up first as last. Every thing goes against me."

"What a pity you borrowed that money of Childs!"

"You needn't twit me with that," returned Bob; "if it had not been for that three dollars, you would all have gone to the poor-house. It didn't do me much good."

"I didn't mean to twit you with it," said Celia, gently, "only I wish we could pay it. Can't we earn the money some way, I wonder?"

"I shall try next week. But do you go to church in the morning, there's a good girl, and tell me how you like the minister. I'll go with you in the evening, if we get home in time. If it wasn't for you and mother, I'd run away, and never show myself here again. But I can't leave you to go to the poor-house as long as I can help it."