Three People Part 28

"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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d 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? G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sing 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. G.o.d 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.