Three People

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"Well but, Cranmer," interposed the old gentleman, "explain your
position. It isn't the money belonging to the poor drunken wretches
that we use for the library, it's only what we make the scamps pay for
the privilege of doing business."

"For the privilege of making drunkards," retorted Mr. Cranmer. "Here,
I'll explain my position by illustrating. As I was coming up just now I
met old Connor's boy; he was coming up here, too. The poor fellow is
hungering and thirsting after books. He has been at work over hours to
my certain knowledge, for six weeks, to earn his dollar with which to
join this Library Association. He just accomplished the feat last night,
and was rushing over here, dollar in hand, and joy in his face. Just as
he reached the door old Connor stumbled and staggered along with his jug
in his hand, of course. 'Here you,' he said to the boy, 'what you hiding
under your arm? And what you about, anyhow? Mischief, I'll be bound.
Here give it to me whatever 'tis.' Now, gentlemen, I stood there, more
shame to me, and saw that poor wretch of a father deliberately take that
hard-earned dollar away from his boy. I saw the boy go crying off, and
the father stagger to that rum hole across the street, get his jug
filled, and pay that dollar! Now when that respectable rum-seller comes
to pay his license money, he is as likely to bring that stolen dollar as
any other--and they are all stolen in the first place from wives and
children; and when this _splendid_ Library Association, which is an
honor to the town, buys its next books, it buys them with money stolen
from the Jimmy Connors of the world. That's my opinion in plain English,
and I don't propose to pay my dollar in supporting any such
anti-temperance institution."

Theodore had listened attentively to this conversation, and his blood
was roused and boiling. He turned quickly away from the long line of
splendid books, and addressed Mr. Cranmer.

"I entirely agree with your position, sir," he said, earnestly. "And I
do not see how it is possible for any strictly temperance man to feel
otherwise."

"Good for you, young man," responded Mr. Cranmer, warmly. "I like
especially to see a _young_ man sound and square on this subject."

"Well, now, I call that straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel,"
remarked a gentleman who had heretofore taken no part in the
conversation. "I'm a temperance man myself, always have been, but I
consider that carrying the thing to a ridiculous extreme."

At this point Theodore, much to his regret, heard the train whistle, and
was obliged to leave the question unsettled; but the first remark he
made to Mr. Stephens on his return, after business was disposed of,
was:

"Well, sir, I found my inspiration."

"Ah, ha!" said Mr. Stephens. "Glad of that. What is your text?"

"The amazing consistency of the so-called temperance world," answered
Theodore, dryly.

It was this combination of circumstances that led him to take his seat
one wintry morning in a Buffalo train, himself ticketed through to
Albany. There was still five minutes before the train would start; and
while he chatted with Jim who had come to see him off, the opening door
revealed the portly form of Mr. Hastings, muffled to the throat in furs,
and with the identical "Wolfie" thrown over his arm--newly lined indeed
in brilliant red, but recognized in an instant by its soft peculiar fur,
and familiar to Theodore as the face of an old friend. Instantly his
memory traveled back to the scenes connected with that long-ago and
well-remembered journey when "Wolfie" proved such a faithful friend to
him. His face flushed at the thought of it, and yet the corners of his
mouth quivered with laughter. He flushed at the memory of the wretched
little vagrant that he was at that time, and he laughed at the
recollection of "Wolfie's" protecting folds and the new and delicious
sense of warmth that they imparted to him. What a curious world it was.
There sat Mr. Hastings in front of him now, as he had sat then, a
trifle older, more portly, but in all essential respects the same
haughty, handsome gentleman. But what mortal could recognize in himself
the little wretched vagabond known familiarly as "Tode Mall!" He tried
to travel backward and imagine himself that young scamp who stole his
passage from Albany to Buffalo, at which thought the blood rolled again
into his face, and he felt an instinctive desire to go at once and seek
out the proper authorities and pay for that surreptitious ride.
Moreover, he resolved that being an honest man now it was his duty so to
do, and that it should be the first item of business to which he would
attend after leaving the cars. Then he glanced about him to see if he
could establish his identity with the little ragged boy. A gentleman
with gray hair and gold spectacles bowed and addressed him.

"Good-morning, Mr. Mallery. Going East far?"

This was the merchant whose store joined their own. He knew nothing
about "Tode Mall," but he held intimate business relations with the
junior partner of the great firm. Even Mr. Hastings bowed stiffly. Mr.
Stephens' partner and the small boy who traveled in his company years
before were two different persons even to him. At one of the branch
stations that gentleman left the train, much to Theodore's regret, as
he had a curious desire to follow him once more in his journeyings and
note the contrasts time had made. Arrived in Albany, he looked with
curious eyes on the familiar and yet unfamiliar streets. Every five
minutes he met men whom he had known well in his boyhood. He recognized
them instantly now. They did not look greatly changed to him, yet not a
living soul knew him. He went into establishments from which he had been
unceremoniously ordered, not to say kicked, years before, and presented
their business card, "Stephens, Mallery & Co.," and was treated by those
same business men with the utmost courtesy and cordiality. He went down
some of the old familiar haunts, and could not feel that they had much
improved. He met a bloated, disfigured, wretched looking man, and
something in the peculiar slouching gate seemed familiar to him. He made
inquiries, and found him to be the person whom he had half surmised, the
old-time friend of his boyhood, Jerry, the only one who had had a word
of half comfort to bestow on him when he landed in Albany that eventful
night after his trip with Mr. Hastings, homeless and desolate. Jerry
stared at him now, a drunken, sleepy stare, and then instinctively stood
aside to let the gentleman pass, never dreaming that they had rolled in
the same gutter many a time. Does it seem strange to you that during all
these years Theodore had not long ere this returned to this old home of
his and sought out that wretched father? Sometimes it seemed very
strange to him. Don't imagine that he had not given it long and serious
thought, but he had shrunken from it with unutterable terror and dismay;
he had no loving, tender memories of his father--nothing but cruelty and
drunkenness and sin by which to remember him. Still oftentimes during
these later years he had told himself that he ought to seek out his
father; he ought to make some effort to reclaim him. He had prayed for
him constantly, fervently, had poured out his whole soul in that one
great desire; still he knew and remembered that "faith without works is
dead." He had made some effort, had written earnest appeals hot from his
heart, to which he had received no sort of a reply. He had written to
one and another in Albany, prominent names that he remembered, clergymen
of the city as he learned their addresses, begging for some assistance
in the search after his father. Each and all of these attempts had
proved failures. To some of his letters he had received answers,
courteous, Christian answers, and the gentlemen had lent him their time
and aid, but to no purpose. Apparently the name and place of the poor,
low rum-seller had faded from the memory of the Albanians. He had
disappeared one night after a more tremendous drunken row than usual,
and had never been seen or heard of since. This was all. And Theodore,
baffled and discouraged, had yet constantly meant to come to the search
in person, and as constantly had shrunken from setting out, and delayed
and excused himself until the present time. Now, however, he intended to
set about it with vigor. "No matter what he is, nor how low he has
sunken, he is _my father_, and as such I owe him a duty; and I must
constantly remember that it is not he of whom I have bitter memories,
but rum, rum! rum!!" This he told himself with firmly set lips, and a
white, determined face.

CHAPTER XXVII.

DAWN AND DARKNESS.

Tweddle Hall was reasonably full. The citizens of Albany had turned out
well to do their townsman honor, howbeit they did not know that he had
tumbled about in their gutters and straggled about their streets up
almost to the verge of young manhood. Theodore had felt many misgivings
since that day when he suddenly and almost unexpectedly to himself
pledged his word to address an Albany audience on this evening; but he
had three things to assist him. First, he was thoroughly and terribly in
earnest; secondly, he was entirely posted on all the arguments for and
against this mammoth subject of temperance--he had studied it carefully
and diligently; and, finally, he always grew so tremendously indignant
and sarcastic over the monstrous wrong, and the ridiculous and
inconsistent opinions held by the masses, that in ten minutes after he
commenced talking about it he would have forgotten his audience in his
massive subject, even though the President and his Cabinet had been
among them. So on this particular evening, his blood roused to the
boiling point through brooding over the wrongs that had come to him by
the help of this fiend, he spoke as he had no idea that he _could_
speak. Had Mr. Stephens been one of his auditors his face might have
glowed with pride over his protege. Had Mr. Birge been present to listen
to the eloquent appeal his heart might have thanked God that the little
yellow-haired boy who stood in solemn awe and took in the meaning of his
mother's only prayer, had lived to answer it so fully and grandly in the
city of his birth.

After the address there was a pledge circulated. Theodore was the first
to write his name in bold, firm letters, and he remarked to the chairman
as he wrote: "This is the fifteenth pledge that I have signed. I am
prouder every time I write my name in one." There were many signers that
evening, among them several whose tottering steps had to be steadied as
they came forward. Then presently there came a pretty girl, leading with
gentle hand the trembling form of an old man; both faces looked
somewhat familiar to Theodore, yet he could not locate them.

"Who are those two?" he said, as the little girlish white hand steadied
the feeble fingers of the old man.

"That is an interesting case. The girl has been the salvation of the old
man; he is her grandfather. They belonged to a miserable set, the lowest
of the low, but there seemed to be something more than human about the
child. Her father was killed in a drunken broil, and her mother lay
drunk at the time, and died soon after; but she clung to this old man,
followed him everywhere, even to rum holes. She got mixed in with a
mission Sabbath-school about that time, started down in that vile region
where she lived; that was a great thing, too; it was sustained
principally by an earnest young man by the name of Birge--and, by the
way, I have heard that he has since become a minister and is preaching
in Cleveland."

"He is my pastor," answered Theodore, while his eyes sparkled.

"Is it possible! Well, now, if that isn't a remarkable coincidence!"

Theodore knew of some more coincidences quite as remarkable, but he only
said:

"And what further about this child?"

"Why, I really think she became a Christian, then and there, young as
she was--not more than five or six. After that she followed up her
grandfather more closely than ever. People have seen her kneel right
down in the street, and ask God to 'make grandpa come home with her
right away.' The old man gave up his rum after a time, though no one
ever thought he would. He has since been converted, and they two are the
most active temperance reformers that we have in the city. They are at
every meeting, and are constantly signing pledges and leading up others
to do so."

"What are their names?"

"He is Grandfather Potter--used to be known as 'old Toper Potter;' and
she is known throughout the city as 'Little Kitty McKay.'"

"Why! she lived--" exclaimed Theodore; then he stopped. What possible
use could there be in telling the chairman of this great meeting that
"little Kitty McKay" lived in the attic of a certain house on Rensselaer
Street at the same time that he lived in the basement; that her father
was killed on the same night in which his mother died, and that in
consequence of the fight and the murder, both of which took place in his
father's rum cellar, he and his father had hurriedly decamped in the
night, and wandered aimlessly for two years, thereby missing Mr. Birge's
little mission school?

"What did you say, sir?" said the chairman, bending deferentially toward
the distinguished orator of the evening.

"She lived in Albany during this time, did you say?"

"Oh yes, sir; she has never been out of this city."

And then, leaving the chairman to wonder what that could possibly have
to do with the subject, Theodore bent eagerly forward. Two men were
taking slow steps down the central aisle, trying to urge on the
irresolute steps of the third--and the third one was Jerry! They were
trying to get him forward to the pledge table. Would they succeed? It
looked extremely doubtful. Jerry was shaking his head in answer to their
low entreaties, and trying to turn back. Theodore arose suddenly, ran
lightly down the steps, and advanced to his side.

"Jerry," he said, in distinct, low tones, "come; you used to be a good
friend of mine, and I want you to do a good turn for me now, and sign
this pledge."

Jerry turned bleared, rum-weakened eyes on him, and said in a thick,
wondering voice:

"Who the dickens be you?"

"I'm an old friend of yours. Don't you know me? I used to be Tode Mall.
Don't you remember? Come, take my arm; you and I have walked arm in arm
down Broadway many a time; let us walk together now down this aisle and
sign the pledge together."

For all answer Jerry turned astounded eyes upon the speaker, and
muttered in an under tone:

"You be hanged! 'Tain't no such--yes, 'tis--no 'tain't--'tis,
too--them's his eyes and his nose! I'll be shot if it ain't Tode Mall
himself!"

"Yes," said Theodore, "I'm myself positively, and I want you to come
with me and sign that pledge. I signed it years ago, and with God's help
it has made a man of me. It will help you, Jerry. Come."

Great was the rustle of excitement in the hall as the notorious Jerry
presently moved down the aisle leaning on the arm of the orator, and it
began to be whispered through the crowd that he was once a resident of
Albany, and actually a friend of that "dreadful Jerry Collins!" Many and
wild were the surmises concerning him; but Theodore, all unconscious and
indifferent, glowed with thankful pride as he steadied the pen in the
trembling hand, and saw poor Jerry's name fairly written under the
solemn pledge. On the morrow the eager search for the missing father was
continued, aided by Jerry and by several others as it gradually began to
dawn upon their minds who the father was, and who and what the son had
become. Utterly in vain! Had the earth on some dark night opened
suddenly and silently and swallowed him, he could not, it would seem,
have passed more utterly from mortal knowledge than he had. As the
search grew more fruitless Theodore's anxiety deepened. He prayed and
mourned over that lost father, and it was with an unutterably sad heart
that he finally dropped as a worthless straw the last seeming clew and
gave him up.

There was one other sacred duty to perform. When the orphan son left
Albany one winter morning there stood in one of the marble shops of the
city, ready to be set up with the first breath of spring, a plain and
simple tombstone bearing for record only these two words, "Dear Mother,"
and underneath this seemingly inappropriate inscription, understood only
by himself, "Before they call I will answer, and while they are yet
speaking I will hear." The day was unusually cold in which Theodore, on
his homeward journey, was delayed at a quiet little town. The Express
train, due at three o'clock, had been telegraphed three hours behind
time, and he took his way somewhat disconsolately to a dingy little
hotel to pass the intervening hours as best he might. "Strange!" he
muttered drearily, "that I should have been delayed just here, only
forty miles from home, with not a single earthly object of interest to
help pass the hours away." He went forward to the forlorn little parlor,
where a few sticks of wet wood were sizzling and smoking, and vainly
trying to burn in a little monster of a stove over in one corner.
Theodore flung himself into a seat in front of this attempt at a fire,
kept his overcoat on for the sake of warmth, and looked about him for
some entertainment. He found it promptly. Thrown over the back of a
chair in the opposite corner was a great fur overcoat, with a brilliant
red lining, and an unmistakable something about it that distinguished it
from all other overcoats in the world. Theodore knew at a glance that it
belonged to Mr. Hastings. He started up and went toward it, smiling and
saying within himself: "Is this furry creature my good or evil genius,
this time, I wonder?" Then he went out to the horrible bar-room to make
inquiries. The clerk knew nothing about Mr. Hastings; had never heard
his name as he knew of. There was a man there, a stranger--had been for
two days; he was sick, and they had put him to bed, and they were doing
what they could for him. He had seemed unable to give his name or his
residence. Paralysis, or something of that sort, he believed the doctor
called it. It had begun with a kind of a fit. Yes, that fur overcoat
belonged to him. Theodore requested to be shown immediately to the
stranger's room. Alone, helpless, speechless, in the dingiest and most
comfortless of rooms, he found Mr. Hastings! He went forward with eager,
pitying haste, and spoke to the poor man--no answer, only a pitiful
contortion of the face, and a hopeless attempt to raise the useless
hand. Clearly there was work enough for the next three hours! With the
promptness, not only natural in him, but added to by long habit,
Theodore went to work. Under his orders the room assumed very speedily a
different aspect; the attending physician was sent for and consulted
with; he was a dull little man, but appeared to know enough to say that
he didn't know what to do for the sick man. "It was a curious case; he
had never seen its like before."

"Then why haven't you telegraphed for his own physician and friends?"
questioned Theodore, indignantly.

"Why, bless your heart, sir!" exclaimed the proprietor of the hotel,
"where would you have us telegraph, and to whom? He came here and fell
down in a fit, and hasn't spoken since; and he had no baggage nor papers
about him, so far as I can find, for it was precious little he would let
me look. I assure you we have done our best," he added, in an injured
tone.

Theodore apologised for his suspicious words; and failing to get even a
nod from the sick man, to show that he understood his eager questions,
acted on his own responsibility, and made all haste to the telegraph
office. There he dispatched separate messages to Mrs. Hastings and
Pliny, adding to Pliny's the words, "Bring a doctor." To Mr. Stephens he
said, "Unavoidably detained." Then one, utterly on his own private
responsibility, to Dr. Arnold, "Will you come to C---- by first train? A
case of life and death." After that there was nothing to do but wait.
Another sick-bed! Theodore sat down beside it in solemn wonderment over
the incidents, many and varied, that were constantly bringing him in
contact with this man and his family. The great troubled eyes of the
sick man followed his every movement, and he could not resist the
impression that at last they seemed to recognize him and take in some
thought of hope. It seemed terrible, this living death, this unutterable
silence, and yet those staring eyes, he did not know whether it was a
hopeful indication or otherwise, but at last they closed and the
sufferer seemed to sleep heavily. Wearily passed the hours; he chose not
to leave his charge to meet the two o'clock train, but sent a carriage
and waited in nervous torture for the whistle of the train. At last
there was a sound of arrival, and eager voices of inquiry below. He left
in charge the stupid little doctor, who was doing his utmost to keep
awake, and went down stairs. They were all there, frightened and
inquiring--Mrs. Hastings, Dora, Pliny, and, oh joy! Dr. Arnold himself!
Theodore threw open the door of the dingy parlor.

"Come in, please all of you," he said, in a tone of gentle authority;
"and be as quiet as possible." Nevertheless they all talked at once.

"Is it a fever?" Mrs. Hastings asked, shivering and cowering in a
frightened way over the wretch of a stove.

"What is it, Mallery?" Pliny asked in the same breath; while even the
taciturn doctor questioned, "What is the meaning of my imperative
summons?"

For them all Theodore had prompt answers.

"No, madam"--to Mrs. Hastings--"Not a fever, I think. Pliny, I hardly
know what it is--the doctor in attendance seems equally ignorant. Dr.
Arnold, if you will come with me, and these friends will wait a few
moments, perhaps I can bring them an encouraging report."

In this commotion only Dora kept white, silent lips, nerved herself as
best she could for whatever this night was to bring forth, and waited.
Theodore could not resist going over to her for an instant. She turned
quickly to him, and laid a small quivering hand on his arm--

"Mr. Mallery, I know _you_ will tell me _the truth_!"

"The _entire_ truth, Miss Dora, just as soon as I know it. I do not know
how much the danger is; yet, meantime, flee to the Strong for strength.
Will you come, Dr. Arnold?"

Pliny followed, and the three moved silently up to the quiet chamber.
Dr. Arnold stood quietly before the sleeper--felt his pulse, bent his
head and listened to the beating heart, touched with practiced fingers
the swollen veins in his temples, then stood up and turned toward the
waiting gentlemen.

"Well, doctor?" said Theodore, with nervous impatience, while Pliny
fairly held his breath to hear the answer; it came distinct and firm
from the doctor's lips--not harshly, but with terrible truthfulness:

"He is entirely beyond human aid, Mr. Mallery!"

Then the room seemed to Pliny suddenly to reel and pitch forward, and
both doctors were busy, not with the father, but the son.

What a fearful night it was! Pliny's shattered nervous system was not
strong enough to endure the shock. Mrs. Hastings went from one fainting
fit to another, with wild shrieks of anguish between--but all sound that
escaped Dora, when Theodore gently and tenderly told her "_the_ truth,"
was, "Oh, God, have mercy!" and the rest of that night she spent at her
father's bedside, on her knees.

It was high noon before his heavy slumber changed to that unending
sleep, but the change came--without word or sound or the quiver of a
muscle--suddenly, touched by its Maker's hand, the busy heart _stopped_.

"Can you get through the rest of this fearful scene without me?" Dr.
Arnold asked in the afternoon when all was over. "I must go home. I have
had three telegrams this morning. Dr. Armitage is ill again, and his
wife has sent for me. I will try to make all arrangements for you in the
city, if you think you can get along."

"Yes," said Theodore, "I can manage. Pliny is up again, you know. But,
doctor, tell me what this sickness was. What was the cause of the sudden
death?"

"Rum!" said the doctor, in short, stern tones. "That is, an over-dose of
brandy was the immediate cause of the fit, and the continued use of
stimulants through many years the cause of the paralysis. It is just
another instance of a rum murder--that's hard language, but it's
true--and the son is fearfully predisposed to follow in his father's
footsteps. I fear for him."

"Pliny has overcome that predisposition at last, I hope and trust. I
think he is safe now."

"They are never safe, I think sometimes, until they are in their
graves," answered the doctor, moodily.

"Or in the 'Everlasting Arms,'" returned Theodore, reverently. But while
this conversation was in progress, there was a more dangerous one going
on up-stairs. Mrs. Hastings had recovered from her swoons, but was lying
in a state of semi-exhaustion in her room. She raised her head languidly
as she heard Pliny's step, and gave her orders for the night.

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