Three People

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"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?

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXIV.

A DOUBLE CRISIS.

Theodore was at his post in the private office deep in business when his
next hasty summons came. Pliny was raving and repeating his name
incessantly, and Dr. Arnold had said that he must come immediately or
the consequences would be fatal.

"I shall remain all night if I am permitted to do so," Theodore
explained to Mr. Stephens while he was putting bills and notes under
lock and key. "And in the morning--"

"In the morning get rest if you can," interrupted Mr. Stephens. "At all
events, do not worry about the store. Remain with the poor boy just as
much as you can while he lives. I will see that all goes right here.
McPherson is coming in to help me; he has his new clerk under splendid
training."

Theodore looked the thanks that his heart was too heavy to speak. Mr.
Hastings glanced up grimly as he entered Pliny's room, twenty minutes
afterward, but did not choose to speak. Nobody noticed the omission--for
eyes and thoughts were too entirely engrossed with the sufferer. And
then commenced a hand-to-hand encounter with death. Day by day he
relentlessly pursued his victim, and yet was mercifully kept at bay. The
fever burned fiercely, and the faithful, watchful doctors worked
constantly and eagerly. Theodore was constantly with his friend. When
the delirium ran high this was absolutely necessary, for while Pliny did
not seem to recognize him, yet he was calmer in his presence. Mr.
Hastings had ceased to demur or grumble--indeed, sharp and persistent
anxiety and fear had taken the place of all other feelings. Pliny had
disappointed him, had angered him, had disgraced him at times, yet he
reigned an idol in his father's heart.

During all these anxious days and nights Dr. Arnold's face had been
grave and impassive, and his voice had failed to utter a single
encouraging word. But one night he said, peremptorily:

"There are too many people, and there is too much moving around in this
room every night. I want every single one of you to go to bed and to
sleep, except this young man. You can stay, can you not?" This with a
glance toward Theodore, who bowed in answer. "Well, then, you are the
only watcher he needs, and the sooner the rest of you retire the better
it will be for the patient."

Mr. Hastings rebelled utterly.

"There was no occasion for depending upon strangers," he said,
haughtily. "Any or all of the family were ready to sit up; and besides,
there were scores of intimate friends who had offered their aid."

And the doctor, quite as accustomed to having his own way as Mr.
Hastings could possibly be, answered, testily:

"But the family and the 'scores of intimate friends' are just the beings
that I don't want to-night, and this 'stranger' has proved himself a
very faithful and efficient nurse during the last few weeks, and _he_ is
the one _I'm_ going to leave in charge."

He carried his point, of course. Dr. Arnold always did. When the door
was closed on the last departure he came with very quiet tread to
Theodore's side, and spoke in subdued tones.

"This night is a matter of life and death with us; he needs the most
close and careful watching; above all, he needs absolute quiet and the
absence of all nervousness. There will be a change before morning--a
very startling one perhaps. It is for this reason I have banished the
family. I trust _you_, you see."

"I don't trust myself," answered Theodore, huskily, yet making a great
effort to control his voice.

"It is more to the point that _I do_ just at present; the next eight
hours will be likely to determine whether it has all been in vain. I
will give you very careful directions, and I will be in twice during the
night, although I am absolutely powerless now; can do no more than you
will be able to do yourself. Meantime that friend of yours, McPherson I
think his name is, will be on guard in the room next to this, ready to
answer your lightest call. Indeed, you may open the door between the two
rooms, but on no account speak or move unless absolutely necessary. This
heavy sleep will grow lighter _perhaps_. Now, I want your fixed
attention." Then followed very close and careful directions--what to do,
and, above all, what _not_ to do.

"Doctor, tell me one word more," said Theodore, quivering with
suppressed emotion. "How do _you_ think it will end?"

"I have hardly the faintest atom of hope," answered this honest, earnest
man. "If, as I said, after midnight this sleep grows heavier, and you
fail to catch the regular breathing, you may call the family. I think no
human sound will disturb him after that; but if, on the contrary, the
breathing grows steadier, and occasionally he moves a little, then I
want you fairly to hold your breath, and then we may begin to hope,
provided nothing shall occur to startle him; but I will be in by twelve
or a little after."

The doctor went away with lightest tread, and Theodore opened the door
of communication with the next room, met the kind, sympathetic eyes of
Jim resting on him, returned his grave, silent bow, and felt sustained
by his presence, then went back to his silent, solemn work. Close by the
bedside, and thus, his head resting on one hand, his eyes fixed on the
sleepless face, his heart going up to God in such wordless agony of
entreaty as he had never felt before, passed the long, long hours. "The
eyes of the Lord are in every place." How this watcher blessed God for
that promise now! His, then, were not the only watcher's eyes bent on
that white face; but He who knew the end from the beginning--aye, who
held both beginning and end in the hollow of his hand, was watching too.
More than that, the loving Redeemer, who had shed his blood for this
poor man's soul, who loved it to-night with a love passing all human
knowledge, was the other watcher. So Theodore waited and prayed, and the
burden of his prayer was, "Lord, save him." Ten, eleven, twelve
o'clock, still that solemn silence, still that wordless prayer. No
doctor yet "I would not leave you if it were not absolute necessity," he
had said. "Life or death in another family, with more for human
knowledge to do than there is here, takes me away; but I will be back as
soon after twelve as possible." Would he _never_ come? It was ten
minutes after twelve now, still no change--or, was there? Could he catch
the breathing as distinctly now? Was the sleep heavier? Ought he to call
the family? Oh, compassionate Savior! must they give him up? Had not his
been the prayer of faith? And yet the breathing was certainly distinct,
the pulse was steady--a half hour more, one or two little sighs had
escaped the sleeper; other than that death-like stillness reigned. _Was_
he better or worse? Oh for the doctor's coming! Suddenly Pliny gave a
quick restless movement, then lay quiet; and then for the first time in
long, long days, spoke in natural yet astonished tones:

"Theodore!" Then with a sudden nervous tremor and a startled tone: "What
is it? What is it?"

Theodore knew that great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead,
but his voice sounded natural and controlled as he stood with cup and
spoon beside the bed.

"Hush, Pliny, you have had the headache, it is night. Swallow that and
go to sleep."

Like a weary, submissive child Pliny obeyed; and Theodore, trembling in
every limb so that he dropped rather than sat down in his chair, again
watched and waited. A shadow fell between him and the light and his
raised eyes met the doctor's. He had come in through the room where Jim
was waiting. He came with noiseless tread to the bedside, and the
instant his practiced eyes fell on the sleeping face they lighted up
with a quick, glad look. Moving silently back to the door again he
signaled Theodore to come to him, while as silently Jim slipped by and
took his place. Rapidly the story of the night was rehearsed.

"Well," said the doctor, with smiling eyes, "I believe we have now to
'thank God and take courage.' Can you follow the rest of my instructions
as implicitly as you have these? I would remove this strain on your
nerves if I dared, but it is a fearfully important night, and you see I
can trust you."

"I can do it," said Theodore, with a curious ring of joy in his softly
voice. "I can do _anything now_."

And the rest of that night was given not only to faithful watching and
nursing, but to thankful prayer, and to solemn promises that his spared
life should be more than ever his special charge, his constant care,
until one of those "many mansions" should be set apart as his.

It was four weeks after this eventful night. Pliny was bolstered back
among the pillows in the rocking-chair, resting after a walk half way
across his room. It was a clear, sharp winter morning, but there was
freshness and sunshine in Pliny's room. Both Theodore and Dr. Vincent
were his companions. Theodore was making his morning call, and the young
doctor was waiting to see what effect the morning walk would have upon
the invalid, who was so slowly and feebly rallying back to life. Mrs.
Hastings and Dora had gone to Hastings' Hall, where they were now able
to spend a small part of each day. The conversation between the two
gentlemen, faintly helped along by Pliny, was interrupted by the
entrance of Mr. Hastings, and with him a stranger to Theodore, but he
was greeted by Pliny as Dr. Armitage, whereupon Theodore made him an
object of close scrutiny, and discovered that his face not only bore
traces of the frequent use of liquor, but stood near enough to learn
from his breath that he had so early in the morning indulged in a glass
of brandy. He came forward with an easy, half-swaggering air, bestowed
an indifferent glance on Theodore, and a supercilious one on Dr.
Vincent, and addressed Pliny.

"Well, young gentleman, you've had a hard pull, they tell me, as well as
myself. Fortunately I could consult with _myself_ or I should have died.
How is it with you?"

"I had better advisers than myself," answered Pliny, smiling.

"Wants building up," said the doctor, turning abruptly from the son to
the father. "Never'll gain strength in this way--ought to have begun
tonics three weeks ago. Well, we'll do what we can to repair the
mischief. Port wine is as good as anything to begin on. You may order a
bottle brought up, if you please."

As Mr. Hastings rang the bell and gave the order, Pliny stole a glance
of mingled entreaty and dismay at Theodore and Dr. Vincent. The latter
immediately advanced, and respectfully addressed the old doctor.

"I beg your pardon, sir; but if you will study the patient's pulse a
moment you will observe that his nerves are not in a condition to bear
liquors of any sort."

Dr. Armitage answered him first by a prolonged stare before he said:

"I studied pulse and nerves, and things of that sort, before you were
born, young man."

"That may be," answered Dr. Vincent, firmly, "but Dr. Arnold and myself
have been studying this gentleman's for the past six weeks, and in a
fearful state they have been, I assure you. You must remember that you
have hardly seen him as yet, and have not examined the case."

By this time the wine had arrived, and Dr. Armitage, while he busied
himself in pouring out a glassful, assumed an air of jocoseness and
said:

"Perhaps you would not object to opening a private class instruction in
_nerves_ and the like, by which means I might gain some information, and
you prove a benefactor to your race." Then to Pliny: "Now, sir, drink
that, and it will put new life into you." And the tempting glass was
held exasperatingly near poor Pliny's weak and fearfully-tempted hand.
Theodore, standing close beside him, saw the great beads of perspiration
gathering on his white forehead, and fairly _felt_ the quiver of
excitement that shook his frame. To save Pliny from taking the glass,
and entirely uncertain as to what he should do next, he mechanically
reached out his hand for it. Dr. Armitage evidently regarded him as an
ally, and at once resigned it, saying, with his eyes still fixed on
Pliny: "Drink it slowly and enjoy it. I'm sure I don't wonder that you
are wasted to a skeleton."

Pliny's pleading eyes sought Theodore's, and he spoke in a low, husky
whisper:

"Finish this business quick in some way, or I shall drink it--I know I
shall."

Dr. Vincent had drawn near and caught the import of the whisper. With a
very quiet manner, but also with exceeding quickness, he took the glass
and deliberately poured it into the marble basin near which he stood,
and the fragrant old wine instantly gurgled down innumerable pipes, and
was harmless forever. Dr. Armitage's red face took a purplish tint, and
he turned fiercely to the man who dared to meddle with his orders.

"Do you know what you are about?" he shouted rather than said. "Are you
aware that I am the family physician at Hastings' Hall?"

"I am aware of it," was Dr. Vincent's quiet and composed reply. "And it
makes no sort of difference to me, so long as I remember that Dr. Arnold
has had this particular case in charge from the first, and his orders
are distinct and explicit, and I am here to see that they are obeyed,
which thing I shall do even if I have to send the entire contents of
that bottle in the same direction that part of it has traveled. At the
same time I am sorry to be _compelled_ to lay aside the courtesy due
from one physician to another."

At this most opportune moment the door opened quietly and Dr. Arnold
entered. He went at once to Pliny's side, and placed his finger on the
throbbing wrist, as he said with an inquiring glance about the room:

"It strikes me you are all forgetting the need of quiet and freedom from
excitement. This pulse is racing." Then for the first time noticing Dr.
Armitage, he addressed him courteously. "Good morning, Doctor, you are
on your feet again, are you? I congratulate you. Meantime Dr. Vincent
and myself have been doing your work here for you to the best of our
abilities."

In answer to which Dr. Armitage drew himself up with an air of extreme
hauteur, and said, addressing Mr. Hastings:

"The time has come, sir, for you to choose between this gentleman and
myself. If you desire any further service of him then I will consider
your name withdrawn from my list."

Dr. Arnold elevated his eyebrows, evidently astonished that even Dr.
Armitage should be guilty of so gross a violation of propriety, while
Dr. Vincent drew near and in rapid undertone related the cause of the
disturbance. Dr. Arnold at first frowned, and then as the story
progressed nodded approvingly.

"Quite right, quite right; he should not have touched the stimulus
under any circumstances whatever. Dr. Armitage, I am persuaded that even
you would have frowned on the idea had you watched this case through in
all its details."

Dr. Armitage did not so much as vouchsafe him a glance, but kept his
angry eyes still fixed on Mr. Hastings as he said:

"I repeat my statement. This matter must be decided at once. You have
but to choose between us."

Now this really placed Mr. Hastings in an extremely awkward dilemma. Dr.
Armitage was not only his family physician, but the two had had all
sorts of business dealings together of which only they two knew the
nature; but then, on the other hand, Mr. Hastings believed that Dr.
Arnold had saved the life of his son. He knew that life was in a very
feeble, dangerous state even now, and he actually feared that Dr.
Armitage occasionally drank brandy enough to bewilder his brain, and at
such times perhaps was hardly to be trusted, and yet he could not
dismiss him.

"Really," he stammered, "I--we--this is a very disagreeable matter. I
regret exceedingly--" And just here relief came to him from an
unexpected quarter. Pliny roused himself to speak with something of his
old spirit.

"You two gentlemen seem to ignore my existence or overlook it somewhat.
I believe I am the unfortunate individual who requires the service of a
physician. Dr. Armitage, I have no doubt that my father will continue to
look upon you as his guardian angel, physically speaking; but as for me,
I'm inclined to continue at present under charge of the pilot who has
steered me safely thus far."

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