Three People

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"That being the case," said Dr. Arnold, briskly, "I will resume command
at once, and order every single one of you from the room, except you,
Dr. Vincent, if you have time to remain and administer an anodyne, and
you, young man, must go directly back to bed."

Mr. Hastings promptly opened a side door and invited Dr. Armitage to a
few moments' private conversation, and Theodore departed, jubilant over
the turn affairs had taken, and fully determined that Dr. Vincent should
be _his_ family physician.

CHAPTER XXV.

STEPS UPWARD.

"Can you take another boarder, grandma?"

This was the question with which Theodore startled the dear old lady,
while she and Winny still lingered with him at the breakfast table. Jim
had eaten in haste, and hurried away to his daily-increasing business.
But Theodore had seemed lost in thought, and for some little time had
occupied himself with trying to balance his spoon on the edge of his
cup, instead of eating his breakfast. At last he let the spoon pitch
into the cup with a decisive click, and asked the aforesaid question.
Grandma McPherson, looking a little older, it is true, than on the
blessed day in which "Tode Mall" first sought her out, but still having
the look of a wonderfully well preserved old lady, in an immaculate cap
frill, a trifle finer than in the days of yore, and a neat black dress,
presided still at the head of her table. She dropped her knife, at
Theodore's question, and gave vent to her old-time exclamation: "Deary
me, what notion has the dear boy got now?"

"He has an Inebriate Asylum in view, mother, and wants to engage you for
physician, and your daughter for matron."

This was Winny's grave explanation. Theodore did not even smile. She had
unwittingly touched too near the subject of his thoughts.

"Don't tease the boy, Winny dear," said the little gentle mother; then
she turned her kind, interested eyes on him, and waited for his
explanation.

"The fact is, I want to get Pliny away from home," he said, anxiously.
"You have no idea of the temptations that constantly beset him there. I
don't think it is possible for him to sit down to his father's table at
any time without being beset by what the poor fellow calls his imps."

"What a world it is, to be sure," sighed Grandma McPherson, "when a
boy's worst enemy is his own father. Well, deary, I'm ready to help you
fight the old serpent to the very last, and so I am sure is Winny. What
is your plan?"

"He thinks of coming into the store--he can have poor Winter's place for
the present. At least, Mr. Stephens has made him that offer. He seems
to feel the necessity of doing something, if for no other purpose than
to use up his time."

Winny glanced up quickly. "Is that all his splendid collegiate education
is going to amount to?" she asked, wonderingly, and possibly with a
little touch of scorn in her voice. "A clerk in Mr. Stephens' store! I
thought he was going to study law?"

"He has used up his brain-power too thoroughly to have any hope of
carrying out these plans--at least at present," answered Theodore,
sadly. "But, after all, I think we may consider his life not _quite_ a
failure, if he should become such a man as Mr. Stephens. Well, grandma,
my plan is, that he could room with me, and so make you no extra work in
that direction, and, if you _could_ manage the other part, I believe it
would be a blessed thing for Pliny."

"Oh, we can manage that all nicely! Can't we, Winny dear? You are
willing to try it, I know!"

"Oh, _certainly_, mother--anything to be on the popular side--only I
think we might hang out a sign, and have the advantage of a little
notoriety in the matter."

There was this alleviating circumstance connected with Winny: She didn't
mean a single one of the sharp and rather unsympathetic things that she
said--and those that met her daily had come to understand this and
interpret her accordingly. So Theodore arose from the table, greatly
relieved in mind, and not a little gratified, that daughter, as well as
mother, was willing to co-operate with him. Thus it was that Pliny found
himself domiciled that very evening in Theodore's gem of a room--his
favorite books piled with Theodore's on the table, his dressing-case
standing beside Theodore's on the toilet-table opposite.

"This is jolly!" he said, eagerly, surveying with satisfied eye all the
neat appointments of the room, when at last everything had been arranged
in accordance with his fastidious taste.

"I declare I feel as if I had been made over new, or was somebody else
altogether--ready to begin life in decent, respectable earnest!"

And then he suddenly dropped into the arm-chair at his side, and buried
his face in his hands.

"Well now!" said Theodore, cheerily. "That's rather an April change,
when one considers that it is only January. My dear fellow, what spell
has come over you?"

"I was reminded of Ben--I don't know how or why just then--except that
thoughts of him are constantly coming to haunt, and sometimes almost
madden me. Oh, Mallery! that is a past that can never, _never_ be
undone!" He spoke in a hollow, dreary tone, and his slight form,
enfeebled by disease, was quivering with emotion; yet what could his
friend say? How try to administer comfort for such a grief as that? He
remained entirely silent for a few moments, then offered the only
consolation that he could bear.

"The past is not yours, Pliny, but in a sense the present and future
are. Let us have it such a future that it can be looked back upon with
joy, when you and I have become gray-haired men. Now, Pliny, it is late.
Will you join me in my Bible reading--since you and I are a family, can
not we have family worship?"

Pliny arose quickly. "I will not disturb your meditations," he said, a
little nervously. "But you know my taste don't run in that line."

Then he began a slow, monotonous walk up and down the room. Theodore
opened his Bible without further entreaty or comment; but as Pliny
watched the grave face, he could not fail to notice the disappointed
droop of his friend's features, and the line of sadness that gathered
about his sensitive mouth. Suddenly Pliny came to a stand-still, and
finally went abruptly to Theodore's side.

"Dear old fellow!" he said, impulsively--laying his hand with a
familiar, almost caressing, movement on the arm of the other--"Would it
afford you an unparalleled satisfaction if I should settle quietly down
there, and read in that big book with you?"

Theodore looked up with a faint smile, and returned steadily the look
from those handsome blue eyes as he said--

"More than I can tell you."

"Then hang me if I don't do it! Mind, I don't see in what the
satisfaction consists, but that is not necessary, I suppose, in order to
make my act meritorious. Now, here goes!" Down he dropped into a chair,
and resolutely took hold of one side of the large handsome Bible.
Theodore reveled in Bibles; he had them of numerous sizes and of great
beauty; he had not forgotten the time when he had none at all, and after
that how precious two leaves of the Sacred Book became to him. After the
reading, he linked his arm in Pliny's, and said in so winning and withal
so natural and matter-of-course a tone, "It will be very pleasant to
have a companion to kneel with me--I have always felt a desire for one,"
that Pliny did not choose to decline. So the young man, reared in a
Christian city, surrounded by hundreds of Christian men and women, felt
himself personally prayed for, for the first time in his life.

The rest of that winter was a busy one--full of many and bewildering
cares. Besides his pressing duties at the store--and they daily grew
more pressing, as the responsibilities of the business were thrown more
and more upon him--Theodore had undertaken to be a constant shield and
guard to the constantly tempted young man.

No one who has not tried it knows or _can_ know how heavy is such a
weight. Daily the sense of it grew upon Theodore; not for an hour did he
dare relax his vigilance; he was perfectly overwhelmed with the
countless snares that lay in wait _everywhere_ to tempt to ruin. Not a
journey to or from the store, not a trip to any part of the city or any
errand whatever, but was fraught with danger, and evening parties and
receptions and concerts were absolute terrors to Theodore; nor was it a
light task to arrange his affairs in such a manner as to be always ready
for any whim that chanced to possess Pliny's brain--and when that was
arranged, it was sometimes equally difficult to discover a pretext for
his constant attendance, in order that Pliny's sensitive blood might not
arise in opposition to this surveillance. However, the plans, most
carefully and prayerfully formed, were not to be lightly resigned, and
with one new excuse after another, and with Mr. Stephens always for his
aid, Theodore managed to get successfully through the winter--or, if not
successfully, at least with but few drawbacks. And of these--oh, strange
and bitter thought!--the Hastings family were the worst.

On his visits to his father's house, Pliny had to go alone. Mr. Hastings
had been sore opposed to the new arrangements, both as regarded business
and boarding, from the very first, and, though he could not conquer
Pliny's determination, had managed to make it very uncomfortable for
him; had chosen also to lay the principal blame of the entire
arrangement--where, indeed, it belonged--on Theodore, and glowered on
him accordingly. So Theodore staid away from the great house altogether,
and struggled between his desire to keep Pliny away from that direst of
all temptations, and his desire not to interfere with the filial duties
which Pliny ought to have had, even though no such ideas possessed him.
Twice during the winter Pliny took from his father's hand the glass of
sparkling wine, and thereby roused afresh the demon who was only
slumbering within him--he came out from the grand mansion disgusted,
frightened at his broken resolves, and yet, towering above every other
feeling, was the awful desire to have more of the poison; and what would
have been the closing scene of that visit home, but for one thing,
Pliny in his sane moments next day shuddered to think. The one thing
was, that Theodore, first worried, and then alarmed at his friend's long
stay, finally started in search of him, and took care that their ride
down town should be in the same car, and by coaxings and beguilings, and
also by force of a stronger will, enticed him home, and petted him
tenderly through the fiery headache which the one glass and the
tremendous excitement had induced.

The second visit was the more dangerous, and fraught with direr
consequences. Theodore was unexpectedly detained by pressing business,
and Pliny seized upon that unfortunate evening in which to go home; and
he reeled back to his room at midnight, just sense enough left to find
his way home, with the aid of a policeman.

Theodore sat up during the rest of that long, weary night, and bathed
the throbbing temples, and soothed as best he could the crazed brain,
and groaned in spirit, and prayed in almost hopeless agony; yet, while
he prayed, his faith arose once more, and once more the assurance seemed
to come to him that Christ had not died for this soul in vain.

There was one important matter that occurred during the winter. Over the
doors of Mr. Stephens' dry-goods establishment had hung for a dozen
years the sign: "Stephens & Co.," the "Co." standing for a branch house
in Chicago. It was a glowing April morning in which Theodore and Pliny,
both a little belated by a business entanglement of bills and figures
that had taken half the night to set straight, were rushing along with
rapid strides. They had left the street-car at the corner, and the hight
of their present ambition was to reach the store before the city clock
struck again, which thing it seemed on the point of doing, when suddenly
both came to a halt and stared first at the store opposite, and then at
each other in speechless amazement. The familiar sign was gone, and in
its place there glittered and sparkled in the crisp air and early
sunshine a new one--

"STEPHENS, MALLERY & CO."

Theodore rubbed his eyes, and stared in speechless wonder, while Pliny
gave vent to his emotions in lucid ejaculatory sentences:

"Well! upon my word and honor!--As sure as I'm alive!--If that don't
beat me!"

Meantime Theodore dashed abruptly across the road and entered the store,
Pliny following more leisurely, still staring at the magic sign. The
clerks all bowed and smiled most broadly as the junior partner passed
down the store; but that gentleman was too excited to notice them
closely, and hurried into the private office. Mr. Stephens came forward
on his entrance, his face all aglow with smiles, and cordially held out
his hand.

"Mr. Stephens!" gasped Theodore, "how--what?" and then, utterly
overcome, sank into one of the office-chairs, and covered his face with
his hands.

"My dear boy," said Mr. Stephens, with an outward calmness and an inward
chuckle, "what is the matter with you this morning?"

"What does it mean, sir? How came you to? How could you?"

"Lucid questions, my boy! I stand for one pronoun, but who is _it_?"

"_You_ know, Mr. Stephens. The sign! The name!"

"As for the sign, my dear fellow, it announces the name of the firm, as
heretofore. I hope my partner will pardon me for keeping my name first.
The new name means a great deal to me. It has meant a great deal in past
days, and I mean it shall mean a great deal more in many ways. Are you
answered, my friend?"

Then followed a long, long talk--eager and excited on Theodore's part;
earnest and serious on Mr. Stephens'--the substance of which was that
the young clerk had been entered as full partner in the extensive and
ever-increasing business, or at least was to be so entered as soon as
what Mr. Stephens called the trivialities of the law had been attended
to.

"You told me a few days ago that you had fully decided to make the
mercantile business yours for life, and as I thought I could offer you
as good advantages as you could find elsewhere, I couldn't resist the
temptation to give you a bit of a surprise," explained Mr. Stephens, as
Theodore still looked bewildered. "I hope you are not offended at my
rudeness?" This he added gravely, but with a little roguish twinkle in
his eyes.

"But, Mr. Stephens, how can it be? Why I I haven't a cent of money in
the world to put in the firm. It is utterly unjust to yourself,"
explained Theodore, in distressed tones.

"I am not so sure of that first statement, my boy;" and now both eyes
and face expressed a business-like gravity. "I remember, if you do not,
that I am twenty thousand dollars better off to-day than I should have
been but for your courage and unparalleled presence of mind. Moreover,
you have more funds than you seem to be aware of. Do you remember a
certain ten-dollar bill which you brought to me one midnight? Well, I
held that bill in my hand, intending to present it to you to assist you
in setting up business for yourself; but on learning that your
intentions were to open a hotel, I concluded to await the development of
affairs and invest otherwise. After I became conversant with your
peculiar ideas concerning hotels, I discovered that you needed no
assistance from me. But that ten dollars I invested sacredly for you,
and a more remarkable ten dollars never came into my hands. Everything
that I have touched through it has turned to gold. Your bank-book is in
the left hand private drawer of my secretary. So, young man, you can
investigate the state of your funds whenever you choose, and bestow
whatever portion of them upon the new firm that your wisdom suggests."

Theodore still remained with his elbow leaning on the table, and his
face shaded with his hand. After a little silence Mr. Stephens came
around to him and placed two hands trembling with earnestness on his
slightly bowed head, and spoke in gentler tones than he had used
heretofore.

"Above and beyond all these things, my dear boy, you are the only son I
ever had, and you have well and faithfully filled a son's place to me.
May I not do what I will for my own?"

CHAPTER XXVI.

THEODORE'S INSPIRATION.

"New York postmark--that's from Ingolds & Ferry, I suppose. Chicago,
that must be from Southy, and this is Ned's scrawling hand; now for the
fourth--Albany. Who the mischief writes me from Albany?"

This was Mr. Stephens' running commentary on his letters. He broke the
seal of the Albany one, and glanced at its contents.

"Um," he said, meditatively, leaning his elbow on the table and his chin
on his hand. "Now to whom shall I send this appeal? I don't know of any
one. Mallery?"

"Yes, sir," answered Theodore from behind the screen.

"Do you know of any one who could go to Albany in December and
give--stop, I know myself. Yes, that's an idea."

"You certainly know more than I do then," answered Theodore, laughing.
"What do you happen to be talking about, sir?"

"How soon can you give me ten minutes of your valuable time?"

"At once, if you so desire," and the young man emerged into the main
office, and came forward to the desk.

"Read that, then," answered Mr. Stephens, tossing him the Albany letter.

"A temperance lecture, eh, before the Association; that's good," said
Theodore, running his eye rapidly over the few lines of writing. "Mr.
Ryan would be a capital man to send them. Don't you think so, sir? But
then it's in December. Ryan will not have returned from Chicago by that
time, I fear; but then there's Mr. Williams, he is a fine speaker and--"

"I tell you I've found a man," interrupted Mr. Stephens; "the very man.
Theodore, you must deliver that temperance lecture yourself."

"What a preposterous idea!" And before Theodore proceeded further he
gave himself up to a burst of merriment; then he added: "I thought you a
wiser man than that, sir. Why, I have never peeped in public."

"Don't you take part in the Wednesday meetings every evening, and lead
three out of four of the Saturday evening ones, and speak in the Young
Men's Association meetings every month?"

"Yes, sir, certainly; but those are religious meetings, entirely
different matters, and I--why, Mr. Stephens, I never thought of such a
thing!"

"I have often. I tell you, Theodore, you have talents in that direction.
You think and feel deeply on this matter of intemperance. If you don't
understand it thoroughly in all its bearings, I'm sure I don't know who
does, and you speak fluently and logically on any subject. Of course
there must be a first time, and Albany is as good a place as any. This
old friend of mine who has written for a speaker, will treat you like a
prince, and there is plenty of time for preparation; the meeting is not
until the 22d of December, and this is only October. My heart is very
much set on this, my boy."

But Theodore could not do much besides laugh; he burst into another
merry peal as he said:

"My dear sir, I _can't_ jump into the person of a full-fledged orator in
a month, not even to please _you_."

"I'll send in your name and acceptance," was Mr. Stephens' positive
answer. "There is no reason why you should grow into the character of a
quiet, rusty merchant like myself. I mean to send you adrift now and
then. Besides, you owe it to the cause, I tell you; you could do
incalculable good in that way."

But Theodore was not to be persuaded. The most that Mr. Stephens could
win from him was permission to delay answering the letter a few days,
and the promise that meantime he would make the matter a subject of
prayerful consideration.

"Meantime there is another matter on hand," said Mr. Stephens, turning
promptly, as was his custom, from one item of business to another.
"Information derived from Hoyt demands either your or my immediate
presence in their establishment. You understand the state of their
affairs, do you not?"

"Perfectly. Am I to attend to that business?"

"Well, it would be a great relief to me if you could. I hate the cars."

"Very well, sir; I can go of course. What time shall I start?"

"What time _can_ you start?"

Theodore glanced at his watch.

"The Express goes up in forty minutes. Shall I take that train?"

Mr. Stephens smiled, and made what sounded like an irrelevant reply:

"Your executive ability is perfectly refreshing, Theodore, to a man of
my gray hairs and crushing weight of business."

Theodore seemed to consider the reply sufficiently explicit, and in
forty minutes afterward, valise in hand, swung himself on the Express
train just as it was leaving the depot. Mr. Stephens' last remark to him
had been, "Remember, my boy, to think of that matter carefully, and be
prepared to give me a favorable answer; my heart is set on it." And
Theodore had laughed and responded, "If I have an inspiration during my
absence I may conclude to gratify you."

* * * * *

This all happened on an October day. The rest of the winter that was in
progress during that last chapter, and the long, bright summer, had
rolled away, and now another winter was almost ready to begin its work.
The summer had been a quiet one aside from business cares and
excitements. Pliny still retained his boarding place in the quiet asylum
that had opened to him when his own home had proved so dangerous a
place. Dora Hastings had spent the most of the summer with her parents,
traveling East and North, but Pliny had remained bravely at his post
struggling still with his enemy, but still persisting in carrying on the
warfare alone. This one matter was a sharp trial to Theodore's faith;
indeed he felt himself growing almost impatient.

"Why _must_ it be that _he_ should halt and hesitate so long!" he
exclaimed in a nervous and almost a petulant tone, as he paced up and
down the back parlor one evening, after having had a talk with the
little mother. "I am sure if ever I had faith for any one in the world I
had for him."

"Have you got it now?" she asked him, gently. "It appears to me as if
you were pretty impatient--kind as if you thought you had prayed prayers
enough, and it was high time they were answered."

Theodore looked surprised and disturbed, and continued his walk up and
down the room for a few moments in silence; then he came over to the
arm-chair where she sat, and resting his hand on her arm, spoke low and
gently:

"You probe to the very depth, dear friend. Thank you for your
faithfulness. I see I must commence anew, and pray, 'Lord, I believe;
help thou mine unbelief.'"

* * * * *

Well, the Express train whizzed past half a dozen minor stations, and
halted at last at the place of Theodore's destination. Circumstances
favored him, and the business that brought him thither was promptly
dispatched. Then a consultation with his time-table and watch showed him
a full hour of unoccupied time. He cast about him for some way of
occupying it agreeably. Just across the street was a pleasant building,
and a pleasant sign, "General News Depot and Reading Room." Thither he
went. The collection of books was unusually large and choice, Theodore
selected a book of reference that he had long been desiring to see and
took a seat. Several gentlemen were present, engaged in reading.

Presently the quiet was interrupted by the entrance of a middle-aged
gentleman, to whom the courteous librarian immediately addressed
himself.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Cranmer. Can I serve you to a book?"

"No, sir," responded the new-comer, promptly. "I don't patronize this
institution, you know, sir."

Theodore glanced up to see what sort of a personage this could be who
was so indifferent to his privileges. He looked the gentleman in every
sense, refined, cultivated and intellectual. At the same moment one of
the other readers addressed him.

"Why the mischief don't you, Cranmer? Have you read every book there is
in the world, and feel no need of further information?"

"Not by any manner of means; but I'm a temperance man myself."

"What on earth has that to do with it?"

And Theodore found himself wondering and listening intently for the
answer.

"A great deal in this establishment. The truth is, if we had no
drunkards we'd have no books."

"What's the meaning of your riddle, Cranmer?" queried an older and
graver gentleman, who had been intently poring over a ponderous volume.

"Don't you know how the thing is done?" said Cranmer, turning briskly
around toward the new speaker. "They use the license money of this
honorable and respectable old town to replenish the library!"

"I don't see what that has to do with temperance," promptly retorted the
young man who had begun the conversation. "Using the money for a good
purpose doesn't make drunkards. To what wicked use would _you_ have the
funds put?"

"I would keep the potter's field in decent order, and defray the funeral
expenses of murderers and paupers. That would be putting liquor money to
a legitimate use, making it defray its own expenses," returned Mr.
Cranmer, composedly.

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