Some one stood beside him and put a large cool hand on his aching brow,
and a woman’s voice, gentle and low, said “Drink this.”
Then, although his very being was filled with disgust at the thought of
eating or drinking anything, he let himself be raised from the pillow
and swallow down the hot steaming coffee that was held for him. Miss
Hannah gave his pillows a shake, and he settled back again with his eyes
closed. He did not care for the coffee; he wondered that he could have
drunk it, and yet he knew by the aroma of it that it was unlike any
coffee he had ever drank in that house before, and there gradually crept
over him a sense of relief from the drinking of it. It was not that the
throbbing in his temples was any less, but perhaps he felt a little
better able to bear it. Miss Hannah brought a clean linen cloth and a
large soft towel, and washed his hot face and hands, just as his mother
used to do when he was sick, and gently smoothed his tumbled hair. He
did not look at her. His eyes were closed tight, and he was trying with
all his might to force back the hot tears that were surely burning their
way out beneath his lashes. The tears came and Miss Hannah saw them. She
stooped and kissed him softly on his forehead and said in that gentle
pitying voice again, “Poor boy!” and then she slipped away and left him
alone.
If Hiram Bartlett had been there he would have said that aunt Hannah was
encouraging drunkenness by giving the young man so much attention; that
pity was not what such a fellow needed, he ought to be soundly thrashed.
He would get an idea that it was a fine thing to come home drunk, if he
were petted and taken care of for it. But Hiram Bartlett was not there,
and aunt Hannah was glad. She did what she felt in her inmost soul Jesus
Christ would have her do, if she could hear his voice telling her.
When she slipped away and left Harry alone, it was to tap lightly on the
minister’s door and tell him Harry was awake.
It was not the first time that day she had been to the minister’s room.
She had resolved in the watches of the night that she would discover for
herself what sort of a man was the stranger whom she had taken in the
first night she came. He seemed to be all right, and he had helped nobly
in this emergency. Now, if he only were a Christian, how much help he
might be with this young man. She thought she knew a way to discover for
herself without asking him, so instead of letting Molly “do his room”
the next morning, she attended to that hall herself. She knew, if he
were a Christian, she would be likely to find evidence of it somewhere
about his room. It therefore gave her much pleasure and some surprise,
when she found on entering to make the bed, not only the Bible in full
view, but also a number of what appeared to be theological books. She
glanced them over. There was a row of old familiar ones, in rusty
bindings, “Barnes’ Notes” and a few kindred commentaries standing
against the wall, on the floor. There was a soap box beside them
containing other volumes yet unpacked, not many, but at the top lay two
of F. B. Meyer’s, and Andrew Murray’s “With Christ in the School of
Prayer.” These were dear favorites and friends of hers, and she began to
hope that perhaps she was entertaining a minister. This hope was
confirmed a few minutes afterward when the postman came and brought
several letters for the Rev. Horace Stafford. She made his bed and set
in order that room with a light in her face then, for was she not
serving one of her Master’s high messengers? When Mr. Stafford came in
later, she had a short conference about young Mr. Knowles, and they
agreed that he should go to the store, and after the young man awoke he
should have a little talk with him.
Harry lay still for some minutes reviewing his miserable existence, and
going over the last few months of mistakes and sins. Suddenly it
occurred to him that it must be late and he ought to get up and go to
his work. With a moan, he turned over and tried to get out of bed, but
he was dizzy and sick, and he had to sit still and cover his eyes. He
was not yet so used to dissipation that he could rise and go about like
any one else the next day, and the dissipation had been deeper than he
knew. What mixed or drugged glasses were given him, after he began to
drink, he did not remember. Therefore, he could scarcely account for the
effect they had had.
Just then there came a knock at his door and Mr. Stafford entered. He
had been listening for some sound, and was ready. He wanted to help the
boy when he should fully come to his senses and realize his condition,
and keep him, perhaps, from rushing out to drink again. Of course, he
knew nothing about Harry’s past life, but he judged from his appearance
and from what little he could learn of his character that this was
probably a first experience, or if not the first, that at least he was
not yet a hardened sinner.
“Do you feel any better?” asked Mr. Stafford, in a pleasant, everyday
tone, such as he would use for any illness of any one.
Harry looked up, his bloodshot eyes and white face making a pitiful
picture of wretchedness.
“I feel worse than I ever felt in my life before,” he answered, all the
bright gaiety with which he was usually bubbling over, gone entirely out
of his voice.
“Better lie down again,” said his visitor. “You are hardly able to get
up yet.”
“But I must get up,” said Harry in a despairing tone. “What time is it?
It must be late. I’ll get fired if I’m not on time. They’re terribly
particular down there.”
“Never mind the time. You’re not to go to the store to-day,” answered
the other quietly, in a tone that seemed used to commanding obedience.
“Why not!” asked Harry sharply, looking at Mr. Stafford with sudden
apprehension in his eyes. “Have they found out and sent me my walking
papers already? What time is it? How long have I been here? Let me up.
But it’s no use if they’ve found out. I’m done for. I might as well go
to destruction first as last,” and he sank back with a groan and turned
his face to the wall.
“Listen, my boy,” said the young minister bending over him and placing a
kindly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t say that. You are not going to
destruction. We won’t let you. And you need not feel like that. You have
not been dismissed. Your place is waiting for you when you are able to
go back. The firm knows nothing but that you are too ill to be at your
work to-day. It is afternoon, and you have slept all day. You are to lie
still now until you are perfectly able to get up, and I am going to take
care of you. Is there anything you would like to have?”
Harry turned over and opened his eyes in astonishment.
“How do you know I’m not to be dismissed? Has any one been there?”
“Yes, I was there this morning and had a good long talk with Mr.
Prescott. He seemed very sympathetic and asked me to send him word, if
you were not better to-morrow.”
Harry closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He was almost overcome by the
kindness that had been shown him. Suddenly, he remembered dimly the
scene of the night before.
“Say,” said he, huskily, “where was I, that is—how, what did I—do? Who
was down there last night when I came in? How did I get here?”
“I brought you up here,” answered Mr. Stafford, quietly, in a
matter-of-fact tone. “Miss Grant was present.” He thought it as well
that Harry should not know that Celia had been there; it could do no
good and would only add to his embarrassment. “You have slept ever
since,” he finished briefly.
“Were the boarders around? Do they know?”
“No.”
There was silence a moment. Harry was trying to recall some faint
memory. At last he spoke.
“Didn’t I,—Wasn’t Miss Murray there too? Did I talk nonsense to her?”
The minister turned about and faced the young man and said truthfully,
“Yes, she was there, and you didn’t speak very respectfully to her, I
must own.”
Harry groaned again. “Oh, she’s been very kind to me,” he moaned. Then
after a pause. “But yet they didn’t turn me out of the house. If they
had turned me out I could have stood it, but I can’t stand being treated
this way. I haven’t been treated kindly since mother died.” Then his
weakened nerves gave way and he cried, as if he had been a girl.
Horace Stafford let him cry for a few minutes. He thought it might do
him good. He had no mind to minimize the offence. It was grave and
serious and must be realized.
Presently he began to talk in low, grave tones, and the young man on the
bed ceased moaning and showed that he was listening. When he was
quieter, Mr. Stafford drew from him as much of the story of the evening
before as he could remember. He talked with him long and seriously about
life and the true meaning of it, about the wonderful trust that God gave
each one, when he put him upon the earth and gave him the responsibility
of doing the best he was capable of. He drew him on to speak of his
mother and his boyhood life. He did not talk too long. This man who was
a fisher of men had been gifted with rare tact. He seemed to know just
what to say and when to say it and, what is sometimes much more
important, he knew when to keep still. He gave just the right note of
warning to the young man before him, but he knew enough of human nature
to see at once that here was true repentance, and deep humiliation, and
that that lesson did not need to be further impressed this time. What he
needed now was kindly sympathy and help to get upon his feet again.
Harry, in a pause, reverted to Celia. What should he do? He never could
look her in the face again, and she had been so kind to him.
“Tell her so,” said Mr. Stafford, promptly, as if it were the easiest
thing in the world to do. “Just beg her pardon as manfully as you can,
and then look out that you are never so placed that you will do so
again.”
The slender frame of the young man on the bed shook involuntarily as he
said fiercely, “I should hope not.”
There came Miss Grant’s light tap at the door, and a dainty tray was
handed in. Harry thought to himself that he could not eat, that he never
could eat again, but when the tray was placed in front of him, and Mr.
Stafford said in his quiet, commanding voice, “Now eat every bit of
that,” he found that he could.
Miss Grant knew by instinct just what to prepare for the invalid. Not
dainties, and jellies and confectionery. Just a small, thin, white china
bowl of very strong soup, containing much nutrition in small compass and
sending forth an odor most delicious; some thin beautifully toasted
slices of bread, a ball of sweet butter and more of that black aromatic
coffee. The minister mentally decided that aunt Hannah must be an expert
in the culinary art. So many kind women would have brought forth sour
bread, muddy coffee and a piece of dyspeptic pudding or pie or cake, or
perhaps tried more solid substantial foods where there was no appetite.
He noted also the fineness of the napkin with which the tray was
covered, the thin transparency of the china bowl, and that the spoon was
apparently solid silver, old and thin as if it were an heirloom, but
bright and unmistakably of aristocratic origin and pleasant withal to
use. He noticed these things because they had been a part of his former
existence before he had given his life up to saving souls, and because
since he came to live in boarding-houses, he had sometimes missed their
absence in a vague, undefined way. He had not known that he cared about
these little accessories of a refined life, but he was conscious that he
recognized a friendly look in that spoon and bowl and fine linen. He did
not know that these things were among the very few bits of home that
Miss Grant had brought with her, and that she had carefully hunted them
out of a trunk that had not yet been unpacked, because she felt that
perhaps these dishes might help in the work of saving that soul.
Nor was she wrong. Harry knew silver when he saw it. This lunch seemed
like one his mother would have prepared for him.
“Now, sir,” said Mr. Stafford, as he lighted the gas and prepared to be
cheerful while the young man ate his supper, “you must forget everything
about this for a while, and just eat your supper and enjoy it.” He
laughed pleasantly, and Harry looked up with a wan smile and thanked him
in his heart for lifting the heavy burden for a few minutes. Mr.
Stafford could talk, even if Harry just then could not, and he showed
that he had no trouble in summoning to his command just the right thing
at the right time. He began to tell in detail the story of a young man
in whom he was interested, who had a wife and young family dependent
upon his efforts, and who was out of work, and unable to find a
position. He had spent some time that day trying to find him work,
unsuccessfully, and he told his various efforts describing the different
employers so well, that once Harry forgot his own troubles and was
beguiled into a laugh.
Celia, passing the door just then, heard them laughing and one more
little wrinkle crept into her white brow of care. She thought Mr.
Stafford must be a queer minister to laugh with a young man who had
recently committed so grave an offence against the laws of God and of
society. Poor Celia, she had had a hard day, what with doing her own
work, and carrying on her heart the thought of Harry Knowles drunk. It
was not that she cared more for that boy than she would have done for
any other, but it was the shock to her faith in human nature to find one
whom she had believed to be at least tolerably good and interesting,
suddenly appear in the condition in which he had been. Young people are
often prone to look upon their faith in human nature as something akin
to their faith in God, something holy and religious, which if broken
outrages their belief almost in the kindness of their God. Perhaps this
is the reason that sometimes, sweet honest souls have to pass through
the fiery trial of believing in, even to loving, some human brother or
sister, only to find them utterly false. Such need to learn the lesson
of quaint George Herbert, that
“Even the greatest griefs
May be reliefs,
Could he but take them right, and in their ways.
Happy is he whose heart
Hath found the art
To turn his double pains to double praise.”