THE "THREE PEOPLE" MEET AGAIN.
It is not to be supposed, because nothing has been said of intervening
days, that the events recorded in the last two chapters followed each
other in quick succession. In reality, when Theodore Mallery bought his
first suit of ready-made clothing he had been but a very short time in
his new place of business, but when the perilous railroad carriage drive
was taken with the Hastings' carriage he had been Mr. Stephens'
confidential clerk for three years, and was as much trusted and as
promptly obeyed as was Mr. Stephens himself. He allowed a reasonable
length of time to elapse after that momentous drive, and then one
evening availed himself of Dora Hastings' cordial invitation to call.
This was an attempt which he had never made before. Although he had gone
somewhat into society since that memorable first evening at his
pastor's house, yet the society in which he had grown most familiar,
namely: that connected with his beloved church and Sabbath-school, was
not the society in which Miss Hastings more generally mingled. This and
her frequent and prolonged absences from the city, combined, perhaps,
with other and minor causes, were the reasons why they had not again met
socially; and, beyond an occasional bow as they passed each other in the
church aisle, they had been as strangers to each other; this until the
dangerous ride taken together. Then, as I said, after a little Theodore
rang at the Hastings' mansion, had a peep of Dora sitting at the window,
a peep of Mr. Hastings composedly pacing the length of the room, and
after waiting what seemed to him an unreasonably long time for answer to
his card, was courteously informed that the family were "not at home!"
This was the great man's gratitude for the preservation of his
daughter's life! He _was_ grateful--was willing to make the young man
his coachman, and to pay him in money; but he was not willing to receive
him in his parlor on an equal social footing, for who knew better than
he from what depths of poverty and degradation the young upstart had
sprung! Theodore did not look very grave; he even laughed as he turned
and ran lightly down the granite steps; and he was pleased but not
surprised when a few days thereafter he met Dora on the square, and she
stopped and frankly and distinctly disclaimed any complicity in her
father's uncourteous act, or sympathy with his feelings. And there once
more the matter dropped.
On this evening, four weeks after the call, Theodore was walking rather
rapidly toward his home; he had been spending the evening with Jim
McPherson; the old stand had been enlarged and beautified, until now it
was a very marvel of taste and elegance. Jim had evidently found his
level or his hight. Theodore still retained his interest in the
business, and guided it skillfully by a word of advice now and then.
This evening of which I speak had been an eventful one. After a running
commentary on the business in general, and the business of that day in
particular, the talk had turned into another channel, and went on after
this fashion:
"Do you know you are a kind of a standing marvel to me?" Theodore
questioned.
"No," answered Jim, laughing. "Hadn't an idea of such a thing. I knew
that you had been a _walking_ marvel to me ever since I first laid eyes
on you at the Euclid House; but I thought _I_ was a commonplace kind of
an individual who astonished nobody. Enlighten me."
"Why," said Theodore, "you're such a square out-and-out honorable
business man; as particular to be honest in trifles as in greater sums;
as careful to render just exactly every man his due as it is possible to
be."
"And that surprises you, does it? Much obliged." And Jim spoke in a
laughing tone, but with a bright flush on his face.
"No, the marvel doesn't come in there," his companion had returned with
gravity; "but in the fact that one so particular with his fellow-man
should ignore or forget the obligations under which he is bound to
render account for every day's work in the sight of God."
"How do you know that I do forget?"
"Because I know you to be _so_ honest and honorable, that if you gave
this matter thought and weight, its reasonableness would so press itself
upon you that you would not even _try_ to shake it off."
"How do you know that I _do_ try?"
"My dear friend," said Theodore, tenderly, "how can I help knowing when
I know so well the love of Christ for you, his yearning over you, and
the fact that your mother's prayers are constantly going up for you, and
yet that you still slight such love?"
"But how do you know that last to be a fact?"
"My dear Jim, if you were not you would be a praying man, a Christian."
"And I still ask, how do you know that I am not? Is my life so at
variance with the principles of the gospel that you can not doubt it?"
Theodore turned eager, searching eyes upon his friend's face, and
questioned tremulously:
"_Are_ you a praying man, Jim?"
"I do hope and trust that I am."
The reply came in firm, clear tones, with a sort of undertone of solemn
triumph in them; and Theodore rose suddenly, and going around to his
side clasped hands with him in token of a new bond of fellowship, and
his voice was husky as he said:
"My dear brother, forgive me for taking for granted that your position
on this subject was unchanged because you did not choose to tell me so;
but why did you not? Oh, if I _could_ tell you how I have longed and
prayed for this."
"I know it," said Jim, holding the proffered hand in a hearty grasp. "I
have been wrong in that respect; but I felt so weak, so doubtful at
times, so afraid of making blunders, that I thought it best to keep
quiet, and if my life could not speak for me then it would be because
there was nothing to speak. But I was at prayer-meeting last evening;
sat over in the seat by the door. I heard what you said, and I came to
the conclusion that the Lord had lighted my candle for me, and that I
had hidden it away under a bushel as if I were ashamed of it; and I have
been planning all day how to bring it out from the shadow and have it
shine."
You may imagine that the rest of that evening was blessed to those two
young men. Those of you who by experience know any thing about it will
understand how Theodore believed that he could never hear words more
blessed than those which Jim spoke to him as they shook hands for
good-night.
"Least of all, my dear fellow, should I have hid the story from you, for
from the first to the last you have been the means, under God, of my
finding him; and, Mallery, one of the longest strides I ever took toward
the 'strait gate' was that evening when you almost _made_ me sign the
pledge. Oh, we have a new name to our roll. Did I tell you? Mr. Ryan."
"Not the lawyer?"
"Yes, the lawyer. Boards at the Euclid House, you know; signed at our
last meeting. _You_ had something to do with that, hadn't you? He said
something to me in that queer way he has about meeting Habakkuk not long
ago, and finding that he had added the whole Bible to his bottle
argument."
And so it was that Theodore did not go yet after all, but sat down again
to discuss this new delight.
And thus it came to pass that he was walking rapidly down town at rather
a late hour, and overtook two persons who were stumbling and muttering
along the now nearly deserted street.
"Poor wretches," he said to himself; "poor miserable wretches! I wonder
whether the rum-hole that sent them out in this condition was gilded and
glittering, or was a veritable cellar stripped of its disguise? This is
what I used to fear for Jim, the splendid fellow! I never half did him
justice. What a boy, though, not to tell his mother. I wonder who the
dear old saint will take up for her 'most special subject' now? Jim and
Rick both gathered in. It will be Winny with twofold earnestness now, I
presume. Oh, the mansions are filling up, and I thank God that he is
letting me help to fill them. But who will I take now?"
"Le me lone," interrupted one of the poor drunkards, giving his
companion a vigorous push, "I can walk without your help, I guess; pity
if I couldn't!"
"Suppose," continued Theodore to his inner self; "suppose I should take
that poor fellow who is leaning against the post? God's mercy is great
enough for him. I want somebody to bring as a thank-offering for Jim and
Rick--yes, and for Mr. Ryan, too. I believe I'll choose him. I'll find
out who he is, and follow him up, with the Lord's help, until he chooses
one of the many mansions for himself. How shall I go to work to discover
who he is and where he belongs? I really doubt his knowledge of either
subject just at present."
Then the man embracing the post spoke for the first time.
"What you s'pose ails this confounded lamp-post? Won't stand still;
whirls round like a wind-mill or a church-steeple, or suthin. B'lieve
it's drunk, sure's you live."
Something in the manner, in the tones, thick and foolish and unnatural
though they were, brought Theodore to a full stop before the poor
fellow, and caused him to look eagerly in the upturned face, while the
blood surged violently through his veins.
"Drunk!" returned the less intoxicated companion, contemptuously.
"You're drunk yourself, that's what's the matter. You better come on now
and let that lamp-post stay where it is. I ain't going to drag you both
home, I reckon."
Meantime Theodore laid a firm steady hand on the arm of the drunken man,
and spoke in a low quiet tone, "Pliny," for he had too surely
recognized the voice, and knew now beyond the shadow of a doubt that the
"poor wretch" in question was Pliny Hastings, and that his drunken
companion was the old friend of his boyhood, Ben. Phillips. So these
three, whose lives had commenced on the same day of time, had crossed
each other's paths once more. With very little effort he persuaded the
poor bewildered fellow to desert his whirling post, and a carriage
returning empty from the midnight train came at his call, and the three
were promptly seated therein, and the order given by Theodore,
No.--Euclid Avenue. A strange ride it was for him. His companions sang
and yelled and quarreled by turns, until at last the sleepy stage came
upon them, and this but for one thing was a relief. It had been no part
of his plan to be seen by any dweller in the Hastings' mansion that
night; but if this man was to be an utterly helpless log how could he
help it? However, he comforted himself with the thought that a servant
was probably in waiting, and that they could get him quickly and quietly
to his room. So when the carriage rolled up the avenue and halted before
the door, he sprang out, and once more rang the bell and awaited
admittance to Hastings' Hall. He had not long to wait; he heard the
night-latch click sharply, and a moment thereafter the door swung open,
and he confronted not a servant but Dora, looking nearly as white and
quite as grave as she had on the day of the ride.
"Dora!" he said, in his surprise and alarm. "Why, is it you? Where is
your father?"
"Papa is in his room. Is it Pliny, Mr. Mallery?"
"Yes," said Theodore, gently. "Don't be alarmed, Miss Hastings, he is
not injured; he--it is--"
Dora interrupted him.
"I understand but too well, Mr. Mallery. Is he unconscious--asleep, or
what?"
"Asleep," answered Theodore, briefly, feeling that words were worse than
useless.
"Then could you--could we _possibly_ get him to his room without the
knowledge of any one? If we _only could_."
"We will try," the brief reply breathing sympathy and pity in every
tone. "Have you a servant whom you can trust?"
Dora shook her head in distress.
"There isn't a servant up but John, and papa rang for him not five
minutes ago."
"Never mind then--I know the driver; he is trustworthy. Be prepared to
show us the way to his room, Miss Hastings."
Swift and quiet were their movements. The driver, one of the wisest of
his set, seemed to comprehend the situation by instinct, and trod the
halls and stairs as though his feet had been shod in velvet. He was a
strong man, too, and between them they carried the slight effeminate
form with ease and laid him upon the elegant bed in his elegant room, he
still sleeping the heavy drunken sleep which Dora had learned to know so
well.
She stood now in the hall with compressed lips and one hand pressing the
throbbing veins in her forehead, waiting while Theodore turned down and
shaded the gas, and arranged the sleeper's head in a more comfortable
position on the pillow. He had with a brief low-spoken sentence
dismissed his helper the moment they had deposited their burden on the
bed. Presently he came out into the hall, and closing the door behind
him followed Dora lightly and swiftly down the stairs. Not a word passed
between them until he stood with his hand on the night-latch; then he
said:
"Can I serve you in any way to-night, Miss Hastings?"
The reply was irrelevant but very earnest:
"Mr. Mallery, I do not know how to thank you for this night's kindness."
"There is no need of thanks," he said, gently. "Take heart of grace,
Miss Hastings. God helping us we will save him yet. I had selected him
for my subject of special pleading before I knew who he was."
Dora's white lips quivered a little.
"Then there are two to pray for him!" she said, eagerly.
"Yes, and 'if two of you shall agree'--you know. Good-night."
He had one more hard task to perform. The carriage was waiting, and the
other drunken son must be conveyed to his father's house. A few moments
of rapid driving brought them to the modest white house, with its green
blinds, one of them with the slats turned so that the pale tearful
watcher at the window could see the carriage, and before Theodore had
time to ring the door was unbolted, and this time it was a gray-haired
father who received them. Grim and silent was he, but ever and anon as
they were passing up the stairs they heard a low heart-rending moan from
the poor mother, who had left the window and buried her head among the
cushions of the sofa. Theodore knew nothing about the sweet sleeping
baby who had nestled so cozily in the great rocking-chair twenty-three
years before; but the mother did, and had lived to understand that had
her precious baby Benny slept the sleep that knows no waking when in his
infancy, it would have been infinitely better than the stupor of body
and brain that held him now.
"Young man," said Mr. Phillips, as they reached the outer door again, "I
don't know who you are, but I am thankful that you have saved us from
any further disgrace by bringing him home. God grant that this night's
work may be a warning to you, and that you may never need such
disgraceful help for yourself."
He evidently mistook Theodore for one of the boon companions of his son.
The driver, overhearing the remark, chuckled softly, and remarked to
himself: "That's a good one! He's mistook his chap this time, I could
tell him;" but Theodore bowed in respectful silence, and felt a
consuming pity for that heavily stricken father.
As he entered the carriage the driver volunteered some information.
"That man sells rum himself, in his grocery over there across the
street, and he fought against the 'no license' petition like a wild
tiger last fall."
"Drive me home now, please," said Theodore aloud, in answer to this; and
to himself he said, as he sank wearily among the cushions: "Then I pray
God to have mercy on him, and not make his judgment heavier than he can
bear."