CHAPTER VII.

"SO, GEORGE," said Mr. Vanderburgh, entering the Doctor's office one morning, soon after the events recorded in the last chapter, "our 'protégé' has turned out just as expected."

"So it would seem," replied the Doctor, gravely.

"I knew it would be just so," continued the gentleman, taking a chair; "I never expected any thing else. He is a regular hard case, and will come to the gallows as sure as he is alive."

"His chances of coming to the gallows are rather small just now," returned Dr. Huntley. "He is almost as likely to die with inflammation of the lungs as any body I ever saw. I shall be surprised if he lives thirty-six hours longer."

"Indeed! You don't say so," exclaimed Mr. Vanderburgh. "It serves him right, though; just good for him! Inflammation of the lungs! Poor fellow, I hope he will get over it. Can't you do any thing to help him, George?"

"I shall do all I can, you may depend upon that, though there is little hope for him as regards this world, I fear."

"Poor boy!" exclaimed Mr. Vanderburgh again, blowing his nose rather suspiciously. "I should like to do something for him myself, I declare I should."

"You may do something for some one else, if not for him, William. If you can break up that infamous nest of gamblers and dram-sellers at the Union, you will be conferring a great benefit upon society."

"I wish I could, I am sure," replied Mr. Vanderburgh. "It is an infamous nest, as you say, and has been the destruction of more than one young man: the trouble is to get at it. It is owned and rented by one of our most respectable men, Mr. Haylett, you know, and even if the present set were turned out, he would let it again for the same purpose. I can't think what his conscience is made of; for my part. But I will take it into consideration, and see what can be done. How unlucky for you, that the boy should be left on your hands."

"On the contrary, I consider it a very happy thing."

"You do! What, to have a boy dying of inflammation of the lungs in your house?"

"Not precisely that, though I think his sickness has been of great service to him; but I do think it extremely fortunate that he should have been brought here, where he could be cared for, body and soul."

"Well, well, you are not like any one else—and never will be, though, in fact, my wife is just the same. But if he gets well, what will you do with him?"

"Give him another trial," said the Doctor.

"What! Keep him to get drunk again, and perhaps set your house on fire."

"I hardly think there will be any danger of that. He has had a lesson that will make an impression on him, if any thing will, and I shall not give him up till I have tried every means to reclaim him."

"Well," said Mr. Vanderburgh, "I don't know but it is all right, but I should not do so."

"Yes, you would!" rejoined the Doctor smiling. "That is, you would want to, but ten to one, you would do some hasty thing first, that would put it out of your power. That is your way."

Mr. Vanderburgh frowned and then laughed, and again repeating his desire of serving poor Bob, took his leave.

"I say, Childs," said Joe Adams, as they met in the bar-room of the Union, "have you heard about Merritt?"

"I heard he had got turned out of doors," said Childs indifferently.

"Then you heard wrong. He has not been turned out, but is very sick at the Doctor's, and they are taking care of him. Vanderburgh's man says he is dying as sure as a gun."

"There will be one fool less in the world, then," replied his companion, lighting his segar. "He has paid me all he owes me, that is one comfort, and the saintly folks will be tripped up in their schemes for him, that's another."

"I declare, Child; you are too bad!" said Charley Brown. "You made the poor fellow tipsy, and got his money away, and now that he is sick and dying, you care no more for him than though he were a dog."

"As to that," replied Childs, "I had no more to do with his coming here than yourself, nor so much; but if you are so much interested in him, you had better go up and see him. That pretty sister of his is taking care of him, they say, which may, perhaps, be another inducement."

Charley made no reply, but slipped out of the room, and not long after, he might be seen hanging about the door of the Doctor's office as if desirous of seeing some body. He hoped the Doctor himself would come out; but after waiting some time in vain, he got his courage up to the necessary point, and entered the office. Dr. Huntley was not there, but another person was, whom Charley would much rather not have seen; whom he had, in fact, always avoided—and that person was Mr. Ellison. This gentleman had been acquainted with Charley's father and mother, and knew the height from which he had fallen, and from the first of his coming to Grandville, the wretched young man had carefully kept out of his way. It was with some little consternation that he now found himself face to face with him.

"Is the Doctor in?" asked he, bashfully.

"No," replied Mr. Ellison, "but he will be here presently. Please to take a seat."

"Oh! It's no matter," returned Charley, edging towards the door; "I only came up to inquire about Robert. I heard he was very sick."

"He 'is' very sick," said Mr. Ellison, gravely. "Thanks to your cares and those of your associates, he will probably live but a few hours longer at most."

Charley was confounded by this unexpected address, which showed clearly that the minister was acquainted with the whole affair. Strange as it may seem, the idea that he was at all to blame for what had passed, had never entered his mind. To be sure he was not much accustomed to reflect upon any thing.

"I am sure," he stammered, "I did not mean any harm. It was only a joke. I did not think any thing would come of it."

"Did you not?" asked Mr. Ellison. "You contrived a story to get him over to the Union, into your den of robbers and drunkards. You persuaded him to drink and then to gamble, though you knew well that it would be the means of his losing his place and destroy all his hopes of advancement. You knew how much his fall would distress his friends, who have been making efforts to reclaim him, as well as his sister, who is devoted to him. How, then, can you say you meant no harm?"

Charley could make no reply. Degraded as he was, his conscience was not yet dead, and now it made itself heard.

The minister saw his advantage, and pursued it. "You knew more," he continued; "for I know that you were well taught when you were young. You know that no drunkard can inherit the kingdom of God. You know that the course you and your associates are pursuing leads down to hell!—that it is destruction in this world and perdition in the next. Did you ever see any one die of delirium tremens?"

"I saw a man have it once."

"Did you think it a pleasant or easy death?"

"No," replied Charley shuddering, "it was horrible."

"And yet it was to this horrible fate that you wished to lead this poor young man, for the sake of a joke, as you are pleased to say. And now, I warn you solemnly, that his death will rest upon you; if he dies, you are his murderer. You would have killed him body and soul if you could; but God, in his mercy, has given him time to repent, and I trust all is well there. But I warn you, and as you love your own soul, I beseech you not to slight the warning, that you are on your way to eternal ruin, and that it is not far off. The pit may open at any moment under your feet, for drunkards are not long-lived, as you know very well. Oh! Be entreated; leave off your evil courses, repent, and be saved. Do you remember your mother?"

Charley nodded.

"What sort of a woman was she?"

"She was a good woman," said Charley, with a trembling lip. "She used to try to make me a good boy, and it is not her fault that I am not a good man."

"Did she use to teach you to say your prayers at her knee?"

"Yes," replied the young man with tears starting in his eyes; "and to read the Bible. If I had minded her, I should not have been such a miserable fellow as I am."

"Then, if you love her memory, as I see you do, you will wish to see her again. But can you ever hope to do so, if you die as you are now? Come, Charley, be entreated before it is too late. There is time for repentance now—to-morrow there may be none. Think of your mother in heaven! Think of God, who loves you more than she does, and is waiting for you to return. Repent, leave off the drink which degrades you to a level lower than the lowest beast, in your own eyes and those of others. If you are unable to do it where you are, go where you can not get liquor; study your Bible and pray, and you may yet be a man and a Christian. There are enough ready to help you. We will stand by you, as we did by Robert, and assist you in every way. God himself will be on your side. Come, Charley, lose no more time—begin now!"

Charley was much moved. He brushed the tears from his eyes and grasped the minister's hand warmly, as he promised to consider the matter.

But alas! for deferred resolutions.

That afternoon he was persuaded by Childs to get into his buggy and ride up the river to see a foot-race which was going on about ten miles off. He was unwilling to consent, yet had not the strength to refuse, and he went, excusing himself by thinking that it was the last time he would have any thing to do with Childs. It was, indeed, the last time! He had made a solemn resolution that he would not drink a drop, but in the hands of his tormentor, he was as helpless as an infant.

Both the young men drank enough to deprive them of all self-control. The spirited horse took fright as they were coming down a steep hill, the reins gave way, and the wagon, horse, and all were dashed over a considerable precipice. Their danger was seen by some men who were at work in a field not far off, and who ran to their assistance, but too late to prevent the catastrophe. Childs was dead! A kick from the frantic horse had fractured his skull, and he never spoke or moved again.

Charley lived three or four days, but he never recovered his senses or seemed to know those about him. Once, indeed, he opened his eyes for a few moments, and seeing Mr. Ellison standing over him, he made a feeble movement to grasp his hand.

Mr. Ellison took it in his own, and bending over him, said distinctly: "Charley, can you hear me?"

A feeble movement of the head seamed to say yes. "It is not too late yet. Pray, my friend, say in your heart, God have mercy on me! Press my hand if you can say so."

He thought there was a faint pressure, but he would not be sure. The hand relaxed, the eyes closed, and all was over for this world. Thus died one who might have been a useful and respected member of society, instead of being its pest and bane. Thus die hundreds—yes, hundreds of young men every year. This is no fiction. It is a true story, and your own physician and clergyman can probably tell you many more such tales.

Contrary to all expectations, Robert's disorder took a favorable turn, and after many days of suspense and watching, he was pronounced out of danger. It was a long time before he could leave his room, and all winter long he was feeble and unable to do much work. He still continued to live at the Doctor's, doing what he could in return for his board and lodging, and spending his spare time in study, of which he was becoming very fond. He was no longer self-reliant and confident; he had found out now what such confidence was worth. When he became able to talk and to be read to, his kind friends Mrs. Huntley and George were ready to lead him to right and profitable thoughts, and during the many long hours, when he lay unable to talk or to employ himself in any way, he revolved in his mind all he had learned in church and Bible-class, and the Holy Spirit made the truth effectual to his salvation. Robert came out of his sickness a sincere and humble Christian.

Thus passed the winter. Celia returned to her work in the factory, though it did not seem to suit her very well; for she grew thin and pale, and sometimes had a pain in her chest which hindered her from working at all. Robert became alarmed about her, and tried to communicate his fears to his mother, but she could or would see nothing wrong. Celia was growing very fast, she said; it was natural for girls to grow thin at her age; and as for the pains in her chest they were nothing; she often had much worse ones herself, which no one thought were worth noticing. She would not hear of her going out to service, and so Celia continued working in the factory when she was able, and taking the greatest care of herself.

Benny and Mark were at last prevailed upon to go to school by the gift of a comfortable suit a-piece, on condition that they would attend regularly every day. Once broken in, to habits of quietness, they began to enjoy the warmth, the cleanliness, and the society of the school-room. Thus their ambition was aroused, and they grew ashamed of being so much behind the boys of their own age, and finally, by the judicious pains of their teacher, the desire of knowledge for its own sake was aroused in their minds.

When Benny came to Miss Williams one night, and asked permission to carry his Reader home with him, that he might show Celia and Bob how much he had learned, she felt as though her work was almost done. It now became their greatest pleasure and reward to be allowed to go up with Celia and spend the evening with Robert at Dr. Huntley's, where Maude took great pains to make the time pass pleasantly to them.

And though Mrs. Merritt now and then grumbled a little, and sometimes cried as she said that her children cared more for any one else in the world than they did for her, she did not often refuse permission. She grew more and more indolent every day, and, though now and then, spurred by the earnest representations of her visitors, Mrs. Vanderburgh and Mrs. Huntley, she would make some effort to clean her house and make her children more comfortable, they soon relaxed, and the family would have fared badly but for Celia.

And what did the father say all this time? He said very little one way or the other. He was fast sinking into a state of utter imbecility. He was never sober so long as he had the means of drinking in his hands, and the means were supplied pretty regularly by that part of Celia's earnings of which he got possession. She managed to keep enough in her own hands to clothe herself comfortably, and to do something for her mother, besides providing some comforts for the family. Robert was unable to earn any thing, so that this, with the allowance made by the poor-master, was all they had to depend upon.

This allowance was sufficiently liberal, some people thought quite too much so, but Mrs. Merritt's careless improvidence made it little enough. While her cord of wood lasted, she would stuff it into the fire by armfuls, keeping the stove red-hot half the time, without bestowing a thought on what they were to do when it was gone. She would cook meat three times a day while she had a bit remaining, and the same with tea and coffee. Twenty times the poor-master, vexed past all patience, had threatened to carry them off to the poor-house; but he was a good-natured man, and had become interested in the efforts of Robert and Celia to raise themselves and their brothers to respectability, and so when they would beset him with their entreaties, he would decide to postpone the removal a little longer.

The poor little baby died in the course of this winter. It had been ailing from its birth; and had never been properly taken care of. And though Celia was very fond of the poor little thing, and cried bitterly over its little coffin, she could not be sorry that it was taken to its rest so early. The little boys behaved as well as possible at the funeral, and showed so much thoughtfulness and seriousness in their questions and remarks about the matter, that Celia was quite comforted. Mr. Merritt paid but little attention to the matter, and hardly seemed to understand that the child was dead. And so, between working, studying, suffering, and enjoyment, the winter passed away, in spite of sickness and anxiety, by far the happiest winter our young friends had ever passed.