JUDGMENTS.
Only a 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 fraught with 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.
How _could_ he 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, they _shall not_ get you. Do
you understand? They _shall 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, they _shall_ not."
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. "_I_ don'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 is Dr. 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 what meager 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 eminent man, 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 day rolled down her cheeks; but
she only answered:
"I thank you _very_ much," 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--and _he_ was 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 in person 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 suppressed tears, 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! How _very_ different 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 had _his_ been 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 the
gracious 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, what
_their_ love, when put in defiance to _His_, 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, _my_ Father, 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--save _his_ life yet a
little--give him time. Oh, be _thou_ his 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 and mother. 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 they _had_ feared, and prayed, "Lead him not into
temptation," and made earnest effort to answer their own prayers, would
the end have been as it was?
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