CHAPTER VI.
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."