POOR PLINY!
The surliness 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? _make_ drunkards, 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 I am. 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, and _have_ been 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
heaven _am_ I designed for after such a training?"
"Pliny," said Theodore, speaking low and with great significance, "for
what do you suppose _my_ father designed and reared _me_?"
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 was _born_ with
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 what _my_ father
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, why
_will_ you not accept a helper? One who is mighty to save? I do solemnly
assure you that in him you would _certainly_ find 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 you
_will_ not? 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, and _can not_ give 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 the hypocrite, and I have sense enough left to know that the
effort which you desire me to make, will not accord 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 one _great_ proof 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, I _won't_ go."
"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 this morning, 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 tempted on 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 I _am_ anything
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?"
"You _can_, 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 glowing and 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 demon _rum_, 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 who had 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. _Is_ it 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."
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