T
HEsurliness of that November night broke into dazzling sunlight the next morning, and the sun was nearly two hours high when Pliny Hastings rolled himself heavily over in bed, uttered a deep groan, and awoke to the wretchedness of a new day of shame and misery and self-loathing.
For he loathed himself, this poor young man born and reared in the very hotbed of temptation, struggling to break the chain that he had but recently discovered was bound around him, making resolutions many and strong, and gradually awakening to the knowledge that resolutions were flimsy as paper threads compared with the iron bands with which his tyrant held him. After the groan, he opened his eyes, and staring about him in a bewildered way, tried to take in his unfamiliar surroundings.
"Where in the name of wonders am I now?" he said at last and aloud. Whereupon Theodore came to the bedside and said, "Good-morning, Pliny."
"What the mischief!" began Pliny, then he stopped; and as memory came to his aid, added a short, sharp, "Oh!" and relapsed into silence.
"Are you able to get up and go down to breakfast with me?" questioned Theodore. And then Pliny raised himself on his elbow, and burst forth:
"I say, Mallery, why didn't you just leave me to my confounded fate? I should have blundered home somehow, and if that long-suffering sister of mine had chanced to fail in her plans, why my precious father would have discovered my condition and kicked me out of doors, for good. He has threatened to do it—and that is the way they all do anyhow. Isn't it, Mallery?makedrunkards, and when their handiwork just begins to do them credit, kick them out."
"I think it would be well for you to get up and dress for breakfast," was Theodore's quiet answer.
"Why don't you give it up, Mallery?" persisted Pliny, making no effort to change his position. "Don't you see it's no sort of use; no one was ever more possessed to be a fool than Iam. What have all my everlasting promises amounted to but straws! I tell you, my father designed and planned me for a drunkard, and I'm living up to the light that has been given me."
"I see it is quite time you were ready for breakfast, Pliny. I am waiting, andhavebeen for two hours, and I really haven't time to waste, while you lie there and talk nonsense. Whatever else you do, don't be foolish enough to cast all the blame of your misdeeds on your father."
Pliny turned fiercely. "Who else is there to blame, I should like to know?" he asked, savagely. "Didn't he give me the sugar to sip from the bottom of his brandy glass in my babyhood? Haven't I drank my wine at his table, sitting by his side, three times a day for at least fifteen years? Haven't I seen him frown on every effort at temperance reform throughout the country? Haven't I seen him sneer at my weak, feeble efforts to break away from the demon with which he has constantly tempted me? If he didn't rear me up for a drunkard, what in the name of heavenamI designed for after such a training?"
"Pliny," said Theodore, speaking low and with great significance, "for what do you supposemyfather designed and rearedme?"
One evening, months before, Theodore had,in much pain and shrinking, told the whole sad story of his early life to Pliny, told it in the vague hope that it might some day be a help to him. Now, as he referred to it, Pliny answered only with a toss and a groan, and then was entirely silent. At last he spoke again in a quieter, but utterly despairing tone.
"Mallery, you don't know anything about it. I tell you I wasbornwith this appetite; I inherited it, if you will; it is my father's legacy to me, and the taste has been petted and fostered in every imaginable way; you need not talk of my manhood to me. I have precious little of that article left. No mortal knows it better than I do myself; I would sell what little I have for a glass of brandy this minute."
Theodore came over to him and laid a quiet hand on the flushed and throbbing temples. "I know all about it, my friend;" he said, gently. "I know more about this thing in some respects than you do; remember the atmosphere in which I spent my early boyhood; remember whatmyfather is. Oh, I know how hard it is so well, that it seems to me almost impossible for one in his own strength to be freed; but, Pliny, whywillyou not accept a helper? One who is mighty to save? I do solemnly assure you that in him you wouldcertainlyfind the strength you need."
Pliny moved restlessly, and spoke gloomily, "You are talking a foreign language to me, Mallery. I don't understand anything about that sort of thing, you know."
"Yes, I know. But, what has that to do with it? I am asking you why youwillnot? How is it possible that you can desire to be released from this bondage; can feel your own insufficiency, and yet will not accept aid?"
"And I am telling you that I don't understand anything about this matter."
"But, my dear friend, is there any sense to that reply? If you wished to become a surveyor, and I should assure you that you would need to acquire a knowledge of a certain branch of mathematics in order to perfect yourself, would you coldly reply to me that you knew nothing about that matter, and consider the question settled? You certainly would not, if you had any confidence in me."
Pliny turned quickly toward him.
"You are wrong in that last position, at least," he said, eagerly. "If I have confidence in any living being, I have in you, and certainly I have reason to trust you. The way in which you cling to me, patiently and persistently, through all manner of scrapes and discouragements, is perfectly marvelous! Now, tell me why you do it?"
Theodore hesitated a moment before he answered, gravely:
"If you want to know the first cause, Pliny, it is because I pledged you to my Redeemer, as a thank-offering for a gracious answer to my prayers, which he sent me, even when I was unbelieving; and the second is, because, dear friend, I love you, andcan notgive you up."
Pliny lay motionless and silent, and something very like a tear forced itself from between his closed eyelids.
"Pliny, will you utterly disappoint me?" said Theodore at last, breaking the silence. "Won't you promise me to seek this Helper of mine?"
"How?"
"Pray for his aid; it will surely be given. You trust me, you say; well, I promise you of a certainty that he stands ready to receive you. Will you begin to-day, Pliny?"
"You will despise me if I tell you why I can not," Pliny said, hesitatingly, after a long, and, on Theodore's part, an anxious silence.
"No, I shall not;" he answered, quickly.
"Tell me."
"Well then, it is because, whatever else I may have been, I have never played thehypocrite, and I have sense enough left to know that the effort which you desire me to make, will notaccord with an engagement which I have this very evening."
"What is it?"
"To accompany Ben Phillips to the dance at the hotel on the turnpike, nine miles from here. I'm as sure that I will drink wine and brandy to-night, as I am that I lie here, in spite of all the helps in creation, or out of it. So what's the use?"
"Will you give me onegreatproof of your friendship, Pliny?" was Theodore's eager question.
"I'll give you 'most anything quicker than I would any other mortal," answered Pliny, wearily.
"Then will you promise me not to go with Phillips this evening?"
"Ho!" said Pliny, affecting astonishment. "I thought you were a tremendous man of your word?"
"There are circumstances under which I am not; if I promise to commit suicide, I am justified in saner moments in changing my mind."
"I didn't exactly promise either," said Pliny, thoughtfully. "I had just brains enough left for that. Well, Mallery, I'll be hanged if I haven't a mind to promise you; I'm sure I've no desire to go, it's only that confounded way I have of blundering into engagements."
"I'm waiting," said Theodore, gravely.
"Well, Iwon'tgo."
"Thank you;" this time he smiled, and added:
"How about the other matter, Pliny?"
"That is different;" said Pliny, restlessly. "Not so easily decided on. I don't more than half understand you, and yet—yes, I know theoretically what you want of me. Theodore, I'll think of it."
A little quickly checked sigh escaped Theodore; he must bide his time, but a great point had been gained. There came a tapping at the chamber door. Theodore went forward and opened it, and Pliny, listening, heard a clear, smoothly modulated voice ask:
"Will your friend take breakfast with you, Theodore, and have you any directions?"
"No special directions," answered Theodore, smiling. "Is that a hint that we are woefully late, Winny? It is too bad; we will be down very soon now."
"I'm a selfish dog, with all the rest," Pliny said, sighing heavily, as he went around making a hurried toilet. "How is it that you have any time to waste on a wretch like myself? Did you ever have your head whirl around like a spinning wheel, Mallery?"
"I sent a note to Mr. Stephens early thismorning, saying I should not be at the store until late. Try ice water for your head, Pliny." This was Theodore's reply to the last query.
The dainty little breakfast room, all in a glow of sunlight, and bright with ivy and geranium, looked like a patch of paradise to Pliny Hastings' splendor-wearied eyes. Winny presided at the table in a crimson dress—that young lady was very fond of crimson dresses—and fitted very nicely into the clear, crisp, fresh brightness of everything about her. Pliny drank the strong coffee that she poured him with a relish, and though he shook his head with inward disgust at the sight or thought of food, gradually the spinning-wheel revolved more and more slowly, and ere the meal was concluded, he was talking with almost his accustomed vivacity to Winny. He hadn't the least idea that she had stood in the doorway the evening before, and watched him go stumbling and grumbling up the stairs. Theodore glanced from one bright handsome face to the other, and grew silent and thoughtful.
"Where is your mother?" he said at last, suddenly addressing Winny.
"She is lying down, nearly sick with a headache. I feel troubled about mother; she doesn't seem well. I wish you would call on your way down town, Theodore, and send the doctor up."
Pliny noted the look of deep anxiety that instantly spread over Theodore's face, and the many anxious questions that he asked, and grew puzzled and curious. What position did this young man occupy in this dainty little house? Was he adopted brother, friend, or only boarder? Why was he so deeply interested in the mother? Oh he didn't know the dear little old lady and her story of the "many mansions," nor the many dear and tender and motherly deeds that she had done for this boarder of hers, and how, now that he was in a position to pay her with "good measure, pressed down and running over," he still gave to her respectful, loving, almost adoring reverence. Pliny had not been a familiar friend of Theodore's in the days when the latter had heated his coffee at the old lady's little kitchen stove, and the stylish Winny had made distracting little cream cakes for his saloon. Indeed the friendship that had sprung up between these two was something singular to them both, and had been the outgrowth of earnest efforts on Theodore's part, and many falls and many repentings on Pliny's.
"What a delightful home you have," Pliny said, eagerly, as the two young men lingered together in the hall; and then his face darkened as he added: "It is the first table I have sat down to in many a day without being temptedon every side by my faithful imp, starting up in some shape or other, to coax me to ruin. I tell you, Mallery, you know nothing about it."
"Yes, I do," Theodore answered, positively. "And I know you're in dire need of help. Come home with me to dinner, will you?"
Pliny shook his head.
"Can't. Some wretched nuisance and her daughter are to dine with us, and I promised mother I would be at home and on duty. I must go up directly, and there is a car coming. Theodore, don't think me an ungrateful fool. I know what I think of myself and of you, and if ever Iamanything but a drunkard, why—Never mind, only may the God in whom you trust bless you forever." And this warm-hearted, whole-souled, hot-brained, sorely-tempted young man wrung his friend's hand with an almost convulsive grasp, and was gone.
Theodore looked after him wistfully. Winny came to the window while he still stood looking out; he turned to her suddenly.
"Winny, enter the lists with me, and help me fight rum and his allies, and save the young man."
"How?" said Winny, earnestly.
"Every way. Help me to meet him at every time, to save him from himself, and, worst and hardest of all, to save him from his family. I would like to ask you to pray for him."
"Very well," answered Winny, gravely, returning his searching look with one as calm. "Why don't you then?"
"Because I have reason to fear that you do not pray for yourself."
This time she colored violently, but still spoke steadily:
"Suppose I do not. Can't I possibly pray for any one else?"
"Youcan, certainly, if you will; but the question is, will you?" And receiving no sort of reply to this question, Theodore turned away and prepared to go down town.
The Hastings' family had filed out to the dining-room after the orthodox fashion—Mr. Hastings leading out the fashionable Boston stranger, Mrs. De Witt, and Pliny following with her elegant daughter. All traces of last night's dissipation had been carefully petted and smoothed away from the young man's face and dress, and he looked the very impersonation of refined manhood. As for Dora no amount of care and anxiety on her mother's part could transform her into a fashionable young lady—no amount of persuasion could induce her to follow fashion's freaks in the matter of dress, unless they chanced to accord with her own grave, rather mature, taste. So on this November day, while Miss De Witt was glowingand sparkling in garnet silk and rubies, Dora was pale and fair in blue merino, and soft full laces; and in spite of plainness and simplicity, or perhaps by the help of them, was queenly and commanding still. The table was dazzling and gorgeous, with silver and cut glass and flowers. Pliny established his lady and devoted himself to her wishes, eating little himself, and declining utterly at least half of the dishes that were offered. Brandy peaches, wine jellies, custards flavored with wine, fruits with just a touch of brandy about them, how they flitted and danced about him like so many imps, all allies of that awful demonrum, and all seeming bent on his destruction. Pliny's usually pale face was flushed, and his nerves were quivering. How much he wanted every one of these spiced and flavored dainties only his poor diseased appetite knew; how thoroughly dangerous every one of them was to him only his troubled, tempted conscience knew. He heartily loathed every article of simple unflavored food; he absolutely longed to seize upon that elegant dish of brandy peaches, and devour every drop of the liquid to quench his raging thirst. Still he chatted and laughed, and swallowed cup after cup of coffee, and struggled with his tempter, and tried to call up and keep before him all his numerous promises to that one true friend whohad stood faithfully beside him through many a disgraceful downfall.
"What an abstemious young gentleman!" simpered Miss De Witt, as for the fourth time Pliny briefly and rather savagely declined the officious waiter's offer of wine custard. "Don't you eat any of these frivolous and demoralizing articles? Mrs. Hastings, is your son one of the new-lights? I have really been amused to see how persistently he declines all the tempting articles of peculiar flavor.Isit a question of temperance, Mr. Hastings? I'm personally interested in that subject. I heard your star speaker, Mr. Ryan, hold forth last evening. Did you hear him, Mr. Hastings?"
"I did not," answered Pliny, laconically, remembering how far removed from a temperance lecture was the scene in which he had mingled the evening before. He was spared the trouble of further answer by his father's next remark.
"It is a remarkable recent conversion if Pliny has become interested in the temperance question," he said, eyeing him curiously. "I really don't know but total abstinence is a good idea for weak-minded young men who can not control themselves."
Pliny flushed to his very forehead, and answered in a sharp cutting tone of biting sarcasm:
"Elderly gentlemen who seem to be similarly weak ought to set the example then, sir."
This bitter and pointed reference to his father's portly form, flushed face, and ever growing fondness for his brandies, was strangely unlike Pliny's courteous manner, and how it might have ended had not Miss De Witt suddenly determined on a conquest, I can not say.
"Look, look!" she suddenly exclaimed, clapping her hands in childish glee. "The first snow-storm of the season. Do see the great flakes! Mr. Hastings, let me pledge your health, and your prospect of a glorious sleigh ride," and she rested jeweled fingers on the sparkling glass before her.
Pliny's head was throbbing, and the blood seemed racing in torrents through his veins. He turned a stern, fierce look upon the lady by his side, muttered in low hoarse tones, "Pledge me for a glorious fool as I am," drained his glass to the very bottom, and abruptly left the table and the room. And Miss De Witt was serenely and courteously surprised, while the embarrassed mother covered her son's retreat as best she might, and Dora sat white and silent. On the table in Pliny's room lay a carefully-worded note of apology and explanation from Pliny to Ben Phillips. It was folded and ready for delivery. Pliny dashed up to his room,seized upon the note and consigned it to the glowing coals in the grate, then rang his bell furiously and left this message in its stead:
"Tell Phillips when he calls that I'm going, and he'll find me at Harcourt's."
O
NLYa few of the clerks had assembled as yet at the great store. It was still early morning, and the business of the day had not commenced when young McPherson rushed in, breathless, and in his haste nearly overturned a clerk near the door; then he stopped, panting as he questioned:
"Is Mr. Mallery in?"
"Yes, sir; he's always in. It's my opinion he sleeps in the safe," added his informant, in discontented under tone. Theodore's promptness was sometimes a great inconvenience to the sleepy clerks.
"I want him immediately. Where is he?"
"In the private office, sir. We have sent for him," said Tommy, coming forward with the air of one who was at least a partner. Two minutes more and Theodore was beside him.
"There's been an accident," explained Jim, rapidly, "and you are very much needed."
"Where, and for what?"
"At the Euclid House. Pliny Hastings and Ben Phillips, they were thrown from their carriage. Hastings asked for you at once."
Theodore glanced behind him and issued a few brief directions.
"Tommy, bring my hat. Edwards, keep these keys in your safe until Mr. Stephens comes. Holden, tell Mr. Jennings when he calls that the bill of sale is made out, and shall be ready for him at noon. Tommy, you may take the letters that are on my desk to the post-office. Now, McPherson, I am ready. Give me the particulars. Is it serious?"
"I fear so. What few particulars we know is that they tried to drive across the track with the Express coming at full speed. The horses took fright, of course, backed into the gully, and both gentlemen were thrown some distance. Why they were not killed, or how they escaped being dashed in pieces by the train, is a wonderful mystery."
"What insane spirit prompted them to attempt crossing the track at such a time?"
"The spirit of rum. They were both intoxicated."
His listener uttered an exclamation fraughtwith more dismay than he had before expressed, and asked his next question in a low, troubled tone:
"Where were they going?"
"Going home. They had been out on that South road, nine miles from the city, to attend a dance; had danced and drank by turns all night, and were dashing home between five and six in the morning. So Harcourt says, and he is good authority, for he was right behind them, returning from the same place, and in not much better condition than they until the accident sobered him."
Poor Theodore! he had had particulars enough; his heart felt like lead. Howcouldhe hope, or work, or pray, any more? They walked in absolute silence to the corner, signaled a car, and made as rapid progress as possible. Only two questions more did Theodore venture:
"Did you say Pliny asked for me?"
"Yes—or, no, not exactly asked for you, but kept constantly talking about you in a wild sort of way, referring to some promise or pledge of his own, we judged, for he kept saying: 'I never deliberately broke my word to him before,' and then adding in a pitiful tone: 'He will have nothing to do with me now; he will never believe me again,' I think the doctor fears that his brain is injured."
It was some moments before Theodore could trust his voice to speak; and then he said, inquiringly:
"His parents have been apprised of the accident, of course?"
"Why, no," answered Jim, in a startled tone. "At least I doubt it. Nobody seemed to think of it. The fact is, Theodore, we were all frightened out of our wits, and needed your executive ability. I had been down at the depot to see if my freight had come, and arrived on the scene just after the accident occurred. I had just brains enough left to have both gentlemen taken to the hotel and come for you."
Arrived at the Euclid House the two young men went up the steps and through the halls so familiar to both of them, and sought at once the room where Pliny had been placed. Two physicians were busy about him, but they drew back thoughtfully as Pliny, catching a glimpse of the new-comer, uttered an eager exclamation.
"It's no use," he said, wildly, as Theodore bent over him. "No use, you see; the imps have made up their mind to have me, and they'll get me, body and soul. I'm bound—I can't stir. I promised you—oh yes, I can promise—I'm good at that—they don't mind that at all; but when it comes to performing then they chain me."
"That is the way he has raved ever since the accident," said the elder physician, addressing Theodore. "It is an indication of a disordered brain. Are you the young man whom he has been calling? We were in hopes you could quiet him."
"Does the disorder arise from liquor," said Theodore, sadly.
"Oh no, not at all; at least it is not the immediate cause. Can you control him, do you think?"
Theodore bent over him; he was still repeating wildly, "They'll get me, body and soul," when a cool hand was laid on his burning forehead, and a quiet, firm voice spoke the words: "Pliny, theyshall notget you. Do you understand? Theyshall not." And at that forlorn and apparently hopeless hour the young man's faith arose. Some voice from that inner world seemed to reach his ear, and repeat his own words with strong meaning: "No, theyshallnot."
The physicians, who had hoped a great deal from the coming of this young man, about whom the thoughts of their patient seemed to center, had not hoped in vain. He grew quieter and gradually sank into a sort of stupor, which, if it were not very encouraging, seemed less heart-rending than the wild restlessness of the other state.
Then Theodore bethought himself again of the Hastings' family. No, they had not been sent for, everybody had thought about it, but nobody had acted. Mr. Roberts was not at home, and the two doctors had been busy about more necessary business.
"It must be attended to immediately," Theodore said. "Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Hastings' family physician?"
"Neither of us," answered the elder gentleman, laconically. "Idon't even know who his family physician is."
"Dr. Armitage is," added the younger, from his position at the foot of the bed. "And he is out of town."
"That's lucky," was the sententious comment of the old doctor.
"Why?" asked Theodore, fixing earnest, searching eyes on his face.
"Because Dr. Armitage uses rum,rum,rum, everywhere and always: and ten drops of it would be as certain death to this young man, in his present state, as a dose of prussic acid would."
"Who is the elder of those two physicians?" questioned Theodore of one of the waiters as they left the room together.
"That's Dr. Arnold, just the greatest man in this city folks think, and the young fellow isDr. Vincent, a student once, and now a partner of Dr. Arnold."
Theodore mentally hoped, as he recognized the familiar names, that Dr. Armitage's absence would be indefinitely prolonged. He glanced into the room where Ben Phillips lay. He was insensible, and had been from the first. Two more physicians were in attendance there, but seemed to be doing nothing, and shook their heads very gravely in answer to Theodore's inquiring look. Mr. Phillips had been seen down town, near the freight office, and thither Jim had gone in search of him. There seemed to be nothing for Theodore but to go to Hastings' Hall himself. He shrank from it very much—nothing but messages of evil, or scenes of danger, seemed to connect him with this house.
"They will learn to look on me as the very impersonation of evil tidings," he said, nervously, as he awaited admittance. His peremptory ring was promptly answered by John.
"Was Mr. Hastings in?"
No, he was not; he and Mrs. Hastings had accompanied Mrs. and Miss De Witt to the house of a friend, nine miles distant, and were to be absent two days. In spite of himself Theodore felt a sense of relief.
"Then tell Miss Hastings I would like to see her at once," was his direction.
John stared.
"It was very early. Miss Hastings had not yet left her room. If Mr. Mallery could—"
Theodore interrupted him.
"Tell her I must see her at once, or as soon as possible." And at this opportune moment Dora came down the stairs. Theodore advanced to meet her, and feeling almost certain of the character with which he had to deal, came to the point at once without hesitation or circumlocution.
"I am not the bearer of good news this morning, Miss Hastings. There has been an accident, and Pliny is injured, not seriously we hope. He is at the Euclid House. Would you wish to go to him at once?"
Dora's face had grown paler, but she neither exclaimed nor fainted, and answered him promptly and firmly.
"I will go to him at once. Mr. Mallery, our carriage is away, will you signal a car for me? I will be ready in five minutes. But tell me this much. Ought I to send for my father and mother?"
"I fear you ought," said Theodore, gently.
She turned at once, and issued brief, rapid and explicit orders to the waiting John, and in less than five minutes they were in the car. On the way down Theodore gave her whatmeager knowledge he possessed concerning the accident, withholding the bitter cause of it all, which, however, he saw she too readily guessed. As they passed Dr. Armitage's house he said: "Dr. Armitage is not at home." And she answered emphatically: "I am glad of it." Then he wondered if she were glad for the same reason he was. At noon Mr. and Mrs. Hastings arrived, and before the day was done the other anxious watchers had reason heartily to wish that their coming had been longer delayed. Evidently Dora had not inherited her self-control from her mother, or if she had Mrs. Hastings had not a tithe of it remaining, and her nervousness added not a little to the wildness of the suffering patient. Mr. Hastings on his part seemed anxious and angry, both in one. He said to Dora savagely that he hoped it would teach the reckless fellow a lesson that he would never forget, and resented with haughty silence Dr. Arnold's sententious reply, that "it was likely to do just that." Then he openly and unhesitatingly regretted Dr. Armitage's absence, sent twice to his home to learn concerning his whereabouts, and was not improved in temper by learning that he was lying ill at Buffalo; and, finally, with much hesitancy and visible annoyance, that would have provoked to withdrawal a younger and less eminentman, committed the case into Dr. Arnold's hands. The doctor skillfully evaded the questions that were trembling on Mrs. Hastings' lips and hungering in Dora's eyes concerning the nature and extent of Pliny's injuries, which fact led Theodore to be very much alarmed, and yet he was totally unprepared for the abrupt answer which he received when he first found a chance to ask the question in private.
"He hasn't a chance in a hundred; brain is injured; is morally certain to have a course of fever, and he has burned his system so thoroughly with poison that he has no rallying power."
It was late in the afternoon before the doctor, after issuing very strict and careful orders, left his patient for a few hours. Mr. Hastings turned at once to Theodore, and spoke in the haughty, half-sarcastic tone which he always assumed toward him.
"Now, young man, I don't know how you became mixed up with this sad accident; some people have a marvelous faculty for getting mixed up with troubles. Neither do I know to what extent you have attempted to serve me; but if you have put yourself out in any way for me or mine, I am duly grateful, and stand ready, as you very well know, to liquidate your claims with a check whenever you are prepared to receive it."
In justice to Mr. Hastings, be it said that he had drank a glass of brandy just before this insulting speech, and its fumes were already busy with his brain. Theodore made no sort of reply; his heart was too heavy with a sickening dread of what was to come to be careful about maintaining his own dignity—and, indeed, Mr. Hastings gave him very little time, for he immediately added: "And now, as the doctor has ordered absolute quiet, it is advisable for all who are not useful, to absent themselves from the sick-room. Therefore, it would perhaps be well for you to retire at once."
Theodore bowed gravely, and immediately left the room. Dora immediately followed him—her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes were unusually bright.
"Mr. Mallery," she began—speaking in a quick, excited tone—"I beg you will not consider yourself grossly insulted. Papa does not mean—does not know——" and she stopped in pitiful confusion.
Theodore spoke gently—"I am not offended, Miss Dora—your father is excited, and withal does not understand me. But do not think that I have deserted Pliny, or can desert him. And we will give ourselves continually to prayer concerning him. Shall we not?"
The first tears that Dora had shed that dayrolled down her cheeks; but she only answered:
"I thank youverymuch," and vanished.
Deprived thus suddenly of the privilege of doing for and watching over his friend, Theodore bethought himself of the other sufferer, and sought the room where he had been carried. He tapped lightly at the door, but received no answer, and afraid to make further demonstrations, lest he might disturb the sick one, he turned away. But a waiter just at that moment flung open the door, and to his amazement, Theodore saw that the room was empty!
"Where is Mr. Phillips?" he inquired, in surprise.
"They have taken him home, sir. Didn't you know it?"
"No, I did not," answered Theodore, shortly, and turned quickly away. In spite of himself, a bitter feeling of almost rebellion possessed him.
"He is able to be carried home," he muttered, "while his partner in trouble must toss in delirium—andhewas much the most to blame this time, I have no doubt!"
No sooner had these sullen thoughts been uttered than he was startled at them, and ashamed of himself. He struggled to regain a right feeling toward the more fortunate man, and punished himself by determining to go at once to Mr. Phillips' residence, and inquire inperson for his son, instead of returning to the store and sending a message, as he had at first intended. A flushed-faced, swollen-eyed servant answered his ring, and to his inquiry as to how Mr. Phillips was, answered:
"Well, sir, he's doing the best he can."
"Can I see him?" asked Theodore, wondering at the strangeness of the answer.
"I guess so—or I'll see. Come in!" and she flung open the parlor door and left him. In a few minutes the elder Mr. Phillips entered. He recognized Theodore at once, though the two had met but once in their lives. The look of unreconciled pain on his face settled into a sterner form as he encountered Theodore, and he spoke with a marked sternness—"Young man! were you with my son last night? Are you one of those who helped lead him astray?"
"I thank God I am not!" answered Theodore, fervently, yet in gentle tone. Even though he believed that the young man's father had been one of the most potent influences in the ruin of his son, yet the present was no time to have it appear.
"I called to see if I could in any way serve you, and to know if I might see your son."
"Thank you—there is nothing more to do—but you can see him!" The voice that uttered those hopeless words was husky with suppressedtears, and yet, as he opened a door at his right, motioned Theodore forward, and abruptly left the room, the sad and solemn truth had not so much as glimmered on the young man's mind. Not until he had fairly entered and nearly crossed the back parlor, were his feet arrested by the presence of death. Even then he could not believe it possible that God had called for the soul, and it had gone. He stood still and looked on the straight motionless figure, covered with its drapery of white. He advanced and looked reverently upon the face that only yesterday he had seen bubbling with life and fun. The icy seal was surely there, the features had felt that solemn, mysterious touch, and grown sharper and more clearly defined under it. Nothing in his life had ever come to Theodore with such sudden and fearful surprise. Pliny, then, was the one still hovering this side, and the other gone. What an awful death! "Murdered," he said, with set lips and rigid face. "Just murdered! That is the proper term. Why could they not be hung like other murderers? Was it because their crime was committed by degrees, instead of at one fatal blow?" He could not trust himself to stand looking on that still face, and pursue these thoughts further. He turned quickly away, and mechanically opened the family Bible,in hope of something to steady his fierce, almost frightful, thoughts. He opened to the family record—saw the familiar name Benjamin Phillips—born Nov. 17th, 18—. The date was familiar too—the date of his own birthday—year, month, even day. How strange the coincidence! Pliny's birthday too—he had long known that; now here were the trio. Three young men launched upon life in the same day of time! Howverydifferent must have been the circumstances of each! He glanced about the pleasant room; he could imagine with what lavish love and tender care this young man's early years had been surrounded—he knew something of the high hopes which had centered in him. He knew all about the elegance and grandeur of Pliny's home—he had vivid memories of the horrors of his own. Now here they were, Pliny struggling wildly with his disordered brain—this one—where? Who had made them to differ? Was this the repeatal of the old, old sentence: "The iniquities of the fathers shall be visited upon the children?" But then what a father hadhisbeen to him, and yet how full of signal blessing and wonderful success had his life been! Then sounding sweetly through his brain came the sentence: "When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up." Had thegracious Lord, then, come to him, and thrice filled what a father's place should have been? And was he but showing these fathers, who had dared to take the responsibility upon themselves, and while they fed and petted and loved the poor bodies, starved and seared the souls, whattheirlove, when put in defiance toHis, could do? Being utterly deserted of human love, had it been better for him than this misguided, unsanctified, distorted love had been to these two young men? Aye; for they had kept the parents' place—assumed the responsibilities, and yet ignored the most solemn of them all. Moved by a powerful, all-controlling emotion, Theodore sank on his knees beside the silent form, and cried out in an agony of prayer—"Oh,myFather, thou hast taken this soul away beyond the reach of prayer or entreaty—bind up the broken hearts that this thy judgment has caused. Thou doest all things well. But oh, I pray thee, spare that other—savehislife yet a little—give him time. Oh, bethouhis Father, and lead him even as thou hast led me. Hear this cry, I beseech thee, for the sake of thy Son!"
Then he went softly and reverently from the room and the house of mourning. There stood two others beside that still head when it was pillowed in the coffin—the stricken father andmother. They stood and dropped tears of utter agony on the face of their first-born and only son. Did a vision come to them of the time when they had leaned lovingly over the sleeping baby in the great rocking-chair, standing empty there in the corner? Did they remember how merrily they had laughed, as they assured each other that they had no fear of "Baby Ben" becoming a drunkard? Oh, if theyhadfeared, and prayed, "Lead him not into temptation," and made earnest effort to answer their own prayers, would the end have been as it was?
T
HEODOREwas at his post in the private office deep in business when his next hasty summons came. Pliny was raving and repeating his name incessantly, and Dr. Arnold had said that he must come immediately or the consequences would be fatal.
"I shall remain all night if I am permitted to do so," Theodore explained to Mr. Stephens while he was putting bills and notes under lock and key. "And in the morning—"
"In the morning get rest if you can," interrupted Mr. Stephens. "At all events, do not worry about the store. Remain with the poor boy just as much as you can while he lives. I will see that all goes right here. McPherson is coming in to help me; he has his new clerk under splendid training."
Theodore looked the thanks that his heartwas too heavy to speak. Mr. Hastings glanced up grimly as he entered Pliny's room, twenty minutes afterward, but did not choose to speak. Nobody noticed the omission—for eyes and thoughts were too entirely engrossed with the sufferer. And then commenced a hand-to-hand encounter with death. Day by day he relentlessly pursued his victim, and yet was mercifully kept at bay. The fever burned fiercely, and the faithful, watchful doctors worked constantly and eagerly. Theodore was constantly with his friend. When the delirium ran high this was absolutely necessary, for while Pliny did not seem to recognize him, yet he was calmer in his presence. Mr. Hastings had ceased to demur or grumble—indeed, sharp and persistent anxiety and fear had taken the place of all other feelings. Pliny had disappointed him, had angered him, had disgraced him at times, yet he reigned an idol in his father's heart.
During all these anxious days and nights Dr. Arnold's face had been grave and impassive, and his voice had failed to utter a single encouraging word. But one night he said, peremptorily:
"There are too many people, and there is too much moving around in this room every night. I want every single one of you to go to bed and to sleep, except this young man. You can stay,can you not?" This with a glance toward Theodore, who bowed in answer. "Well, then, you are the only watcher he needs, and the sooner the rest of you retire the better it will be for the patient."
Mr. Hastings rebelled utterly.
"There was no occasion for depending upon strangers," he said, haughtily. "Any or all of the family were ready to sit up; and besides, there were scores of intimate friends who had offered their aid."
And the doctor, quite as accustomed to having his own way as Mr. Hastings could possibly be, answered, testily:
"But the family and the 'scores of intimate friends' are just the beings that I don't want to-night, and this 'stranger' has proved himself a very faithful and efficient nurse during the last few weeks, andheis the oneI'mgoing to leave in charge."
He carried his point, of course. Dr. Arnold always did. When the door was closed on the last departure he came with very quiet tread to Theodore's side, and spoke in subdued tones.
"This night is a matter of life and death with us; he needs the most close and careful watching; above all, he needs absolute quiet and the absence of all nervousness. There will be a change before morning—a very startling oneperhaps. It is for this reason I have banished the family. I trustyou, you see."
"I don't trust myself," answered Theodore, huskily, yet making a great effort to control his voice.
"It is more to the point thatI dojust at present; the next eight hours will be likely to determine whether it has all been in vain. I will give you very careful directions, and I will be in twice during the night, although I am absolutely powerless now; can do no more than you will be able to do yourself. Meantime that friend of yours, McPherson I think his name is, will be on guard in the room next to this, ready to answer your lightest call. Indeed, you may open the door between the two rooms, but on no account speak or move unless absolutely necessary. This heavy sleep will grow lighterperhaps. Now, I want your fixed attention." Then followed very close and careful directions—what to do, and, above all, whatnotto do.
"Doctor, tell me one word more," said Theodore, quivering with suppressed emotion. "How doyouthink it will end?"
"I have hardly the faintest atom of hope," answered this honest, earnest man. "If, as I said, after midnight this sleep grows heavier, and you fail to catch the regular breathing, you may call the family. I think no human soundwill disturb him after that; but if, on the contrary, the breathing grows steadier, and occasionally he moves a little, then I want you fairly to hold your breath, and then we may begin to hope, provided nothing shall occur to startle him; but I will be in by twelve or a little after."
The doctor went away with lightest tread, and Theodore opened the door of communication with the next room, met the kind, sympathetic eyes of Jim resting on him, returned his grave, silent bow, and felt sustained by his presence, then went back to his silent, solemn work. Close by the bedside, and thus, his head resting on one hand, his eyes fixed on the sleepless face, his heart going up to God in such wordless agony of entreaty as he had never felt before, passed the long, long hours. "The eyes of the Lord are in every place." How this watcher blessed God for that promise now! His, then, were not the only watcher's eyes bent on that white face; but He who knew the end from the beginning—aye, who held both beginning and end in the hollow of his hand, was watching too. More than that, the loving Redeemer, who had shed his blood for this poor man's soul, who loved it to-night with a love passing all human knowledge, was the other watcher. So Theodore waited and prayed, and the burden of his prayer was, "Lord, save him." Ten, eleven,twelve o'clock, still that solemn silence, still that wordless prayer. No doctor yet "I would not leave you if it were not absolute necessity," he had said. "Life or death in another family, with more for human knowledge to do than there is here, takes me away; but I will be back as soon after twelve as possible." Would henevercome? It was ten minutes after twelve now, still no change—or, was there? Could he catch the breathing as distinctly now? Was the sleep heavier? Ought he to call the family? Oh, compassionate Savior! must they give him up? Had not his been the prayer of faith? And yet the breathing was certainly distinct, the pulse was steady—a half hour more, one or two little sighs had escaped the sleeper; other than that death-like stillness reigned.Washe better or worse? Oh for the doctor's coming! Suddenly Pliny gave a quick restless movement, then lay quiet; and then for the first time in long, long days, spoke in natural yet astonished tones:
"Theodore!" Then with a sudden nervous tremor and a startled tone: "What is it? What is it?"
Theodore knew that great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, but his voice sounded natural and controlled as he stood with cup and spoon beside the bed.
"Hush, Pliny, you have had the headache, it is night. Swallow that and go to sleep."
Like a weary, submissive child Pliny obeyed; and Theodore, trembling in every limb so that he dropped rather than sat down in his chair, again watched and waited. A shadow fell between him and the light and his raised eyes met the doctor's. He had come in through the room where Jim was waiting. He came with noiseless tread to the bedside, and the instant his practiced eyes fell on the sleeping face they lighted up with a quick, glad look. Moving silently back to the door again he signaled Theodore to come to him, while as silently Jim slipped by and took his place. Rapidly the story of the night was rehearsed.
"Well," said the doctor, with smiling eyes, "I believe we have now to 'thank God and take courage.' Can you follow the rest of my instructions as implicitly as you have these? I would remove this strain on your nerves if I dared, but it is a fearfully important night, and you see I can trust you."
"I can do it," said Theodore, with a curious ring of joy in his softly voice. "I can doanything now."
And the rest of that night was given not only to faithful watching and nursing, but to thankful prayer, and to solemn promises thathis spared life should be more than ever his special charge, his constant care, until one of those "many mansions" should be set apart as his.
It was four weeks after this eventful night. Pliny was bolstered back among the pillows in the rocking-chair, resting after a walk half way across his room. It was a clear, sharp winter morning, but there was freshness and sunshine in Pliny's room. Both Theodore and Dr. Vincent were his companions. Theodore was making his morning call, and the young doctor was waiting to see what effect the morning walk would have upon the invalid, who was so slowly and feebly rallying back to life. Mrs. Hastings and Dora had gone to Hastings' Hall, where they were now able to spend a small part of each day. The conversation between the two gentlemen, faintly helped along by Pliny, was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Hastings, and with him a stranger to Theodore, but he was greeted by Pliny as Dr. Armitage, whereupon Theodore made him an object of close scrutiny, and discovered that his face not only bore traces of the frequent use of liquor, but stood near enough to learn from his breath that he had so early in the morning indulged in a glass of brandy. He came forward with an easy, half-swaggering air, bestowed an indifferentglance on Theodore, and a supercilious one on Dr. Vincent, and addressed Pliny.
"Well, young gentleman, you've had a hard pull, they tell me, as well as myself. Fortunately I could consult withmyselfor I should have died. How is it with you?"
"I had better advisers than myself," answered Pliny, smiling.
"Wants building up," said the doctor, turning abruptly from the son to the father. "Never'll gain strength in this way—ought to have begun tonics three weeks ago. Well, we'll do what we can to repair the mischief. Port wine is as good as anything to begin on. You may order a bottle brought up, if you please."
As Mr. Hastings rang the bell and gave the order, Pliny stole a glance of mingled entreaty and dismay at Theodore and Dr. Vincent. The latter immediately advanced, and respectfully addressed the old doctor.
"I beg your pardon, sir; but if you will study the patient's pulse a moment you will observe that his nerves are not in a condition to bear liquors of any sort."
Dr. Armitage answered him first by a prolonged stare before he said:
"I studied pulse and nerves, and things of that sort, before you were born, young man."
"That may be," answered Dr. Vincent, firmly,"but Dr. Arnold and myself have been studying this gentleman's for the past six weeks, and in a fearful state they have been, I assure you. You must remember that you have hardly seen him as yet, and have not examined the case."
By this time the wine had arrived, and Dr. Armitage, while he busied himself in pouring out a glassful, assumed an air of jocoseness and said:
"Perhaps you would not object to opening a private class instruction innervesand the like, by which means I might gain some information, and you prove a benefactor to your race." Then to Pliny: "Now, sir, drink that, and it will put new life into you." And the tempting glass was held exasperatingly near poor Pliny's weak and fearfully-tempted hand. Theodore, standing close beside him, saw the great beads of perspiration gathering on his white forehead, and fairlyfeltthe quiver of excitement that shook his frame. To save Pliny from taking the glass, and entirely uncertain as to what he should do next, he mechanically reached out his hand for it. Dr. Armitage evidently regarded him as an ally, and at once resigned it, saying, with his eyes still fixed on Pliny: "Drink it slowly and enjoy it. I'm sure I don't wonder that you are wasted to a skeleton."
Pliny's pleading eyes sought Theodore's, and he spoke in a low, husky whisper:
"Finish this business quick in some way, or I shall drink it—I know I shall."
Dr. Vincent had drawn near and caught the import of the whisper. With a very quiet manner, but also with exceeding quickness, he took the glass and deliberately poured it into the marble basin near which he stood, and the fragrant old wine instantly gurgled down innumerable pipes, and was harmless forever. Dr. Armitage's red face took a purplish tint, and he turned fiercely to the man who dared to meddle with his orders.
"Do you know what you are about?" he shouted rather than said. "Are you aware that I am the family physician at Hastings' Hall?"
"I am aware of it," was Dr. Vincent's quiet and composed reply. "And it makes no sort of difference to me, so long as I remember that Dr. Arnold has had this particular case in charge from the first, and his orders are distinct and explicit, and I am here to see that they are obeyed, which thing I shall do even if I have to send the entire contents of that bottle in the same direction that part of it has traveled. At the same time I am sorry to becompelledto lay aside the courtesy due from one physician to another."
At this most opportune moment the door opened quietly and Dr. Arnold entered. He went at once to Pliny's side, and placed his finger on the throbbing wrist, as he said with an inquiring glance about the room:
"It strikes me you are all forgetting the need of quiet and freedom from excitement. This pulse is racing." Then for the first time noticing Dr. Armitage, he addressed him courteously. "Good morning, Doctor, you are on your feet again, are you? I congratulate you. Meantime Dr. Vincent and myself have been doing your work here for you to the best of our abilities."
In answer to which Dr. Armitage drew himself up with an air of extreme hauteur, and said, addressing Mr. Hastings:
"The time has come, sir, for you to choose between this gentleman and myself. If you desire any further service of him then I will consider your name withdrawn from my list."
Dr. Arnold elevated his eyebrows, evidently astonished that even Dr. Armitage should be guilty of so gross a violation of propriety, while Dr. Vincent drew near and in rapid undertone related the cause of the disturbance. Dr. Arnold at first frowned, and then as the story progressed nodded approvingly.
"Quite right, quite right; he should not havetouched the stimulus under any circumstances whatever. Dr. Armitage, I am persuaded that even you would have frowned on the idea had you watched this case through in all its details."
Dr. Armitage did not so much as vouchsafe him a glance, but kept his angry eyes still fixed on Mr. Hastings as he said:
"I repeat my statement. This matter must be decided at once. You have but to choose between us."
Now this really placed Mr. Hastings in an extremely awkward dilemma. Dr. Armitage was not only his family physician, but the two had had all sorts of business dealings together of which only they two knew the nature; but then, on the other hand, Mr. Hastings believed that Dr. Arnold had saved the life of his son. He knew that life was in a very feeble, dangerous state even now, and he actually feared that Dr. Armitage occasionally drank brandy enough to bewilder his brain, and at such times perhaps was hardly to be trusted, and yet he could not dismiss him.
"Really," he stammered, "I—we—this is a very disagreeable matter. Iregretexceedingly—" And just here relief came to him from an unexpected quarter. Pliny roused himself to speak with something of his old spirit.
"You two gentlemen seem to ignore my existence or overlook it somewhat. I believe I am the unfortunate individual who requires the service of a physician. Dr. Armitage, I have no doubt that my father will continue to look upon you as his guardian angel, physically speaking; but as for me, I'm inclined to continue at present under charge of the pilot who has steered me safely thus far."
"That being the case," said Dr. Arnold, briskly, "I will resume command at once, and order every single one of you from the room, except you, Dr. Vincent, if you have time to remain and administer an anodyne, and you, young man, must go directly back to bed."
Mr. Hastings promptly opened a side door and invited Dr. Armitage to a few moments' private conversation, and Theodore departed, jubilant over the turn affairs had taken, and fully determined that Dr. Vincent should behisfamily physician.