Three People

P >> Pansy >> Three People

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

"Pliny, you will have to take the room that opens into this, for the
night. I am too nervous to be left alone. Dora is going to have the room
on the other side of the hall. She doesn't mind it in the least, she
says. I wish I had her nerves; and, Pliny, I feel that distressing
faintness every few minutes. You may order a bottle of wine brought up,
then pour out a glass and set it on that light stand by my bedside; then
do try to have the house quiet--the utter inconsiderateness of some
people is surprising!"

Had Theodore been less occupied, or been at that moment within hearing,
he would have contrived to have these orders countermanded, or at least
carried out by some one besides Pliny; but he was making final
arrangements with the doctor in regard to meeting him on the next
morning's train, so he knew nothing about that fatal bottle of wine.

"There is barely time for us to reach the cars," said Theodore,
hurriedly, the next morning, not turning his head from his valise to
look at the new-comer, but knowing by the step that it was Pliny.

"I am sorry that we shall have to hurry your mother and sister so. How
are you feeling? Did you get any rest last night, my poor fellow?"

"Feeling like a spinning-wheel going round backward and tipping over
every now and then," Pliny answered, in a thick, unnatural voice, and
then Theodore let valise and bundle and keys drop to the floor together,
and turned a face blanched with horror and dismay upon his friend. There
was no disguising the fearful fact--Pliny had been drinking, and even
then did not know in the least what he was about, or what was expected
from him. Removed by just a flight of stairs from his father's corpse,
having the charge of his mother on one side, and his young sister on the
other, he yet had forgotten it all, and lost himself in rum. Poor,
wretched Pliny! Poor Theodore as well! Which way should he turn? What do
or say next? How could he help yielding to utter despair? There were
circumstances about it that he did not know of; he knew nothing yet
about that bottle of wine, nor how Pliny had trembled before it; how he
had walked his floor and struggled with the evil spirit; how he had even
dropped upon his knees and tried to pray for strength; how he had even
lain down at last, considering the tempter vanquished; how it was not
until he was called toward morning to minister to his mother's needs,
and she had said, as she set down the wine-glass:

"How deathly pale you look, Pliny! Take a swallow of wine; it will
strengthen you, and we all need to keep up our strength for this fearful
day. Just try it, dear--I know it will help you!"

Then, indeed, had Pliny's courage failed him; he took the glass from his
mother's offering hand, and drained its contents. After that you might
as soon have tried to chain a tiger with a silken thread as to save
Pliny when once that awful appetite had been again aroused. Wine was as
nothing to him, but he was in a regularly licensed hotel, and there was
plenty of liquid fire displayed in a respectable and proper manner in
the bar-room. Thither he went, and speedily put himself in such a state
that he whistled and yelled and sang while his father's coffin was
being carried down stairs.

Now, what was Theodore to do? He flung himself into a chair opposite his
bed, where Pliny had just sense enough left to throw himself, and tried
to think. Dora first--this knowledge, or if that were not possible, at
least this sight, must be spared her. But there was no time to spare--he
resolutely put down the heavy bitter feelings at his heart, and thought
hard and fast. Then he hastened down stairs. "I want two carriages
instead of one," he said to the landlord, who long ere this had felt a
dawning of the importance and wealth of this company that he was
entertaining, and was all attention.

The second carriage was obtained, and Pliny, with the aid of the little
doctor, who had proved himself kind-hearted and discreet, was gotten
into it.

"Where is Pliny?" queried Mrs. Hastings, as, after much trouble and
delay, she stood ready for Theodore's offered arm.

"He has gone ahead with the baggage," was Theodore's brief explanation.
Then he hurried them so that there was no time for further questioning,
though Mrs. Hastings found chance to say that, "It was a very singular
arrangement--that she should suppose his mother and sister were of more
importance than the baggage." The train was in when they reached the
depot; but the faithful little doctor had obeyed Theodore's instructions
to the very letter--seating Pliny in the rear car, and checking baggage
and purchasing tickets for the entire party. When they were seated and
moving, Theodore left the ladies and sought out Pliny. He occupied a
full seat, and was asleep. With a relieved sigh, Theodore returned to
the mother and daughter--evaded the questions of the former as best he
could, speaking of headache and faintness, both of which troubles Pliny
undoubtedly had--but the great truthful eyes of Dora sought for, and
found the truth in his.

"_Don't_ despair," he said to her, gently, even while his own heart was
heavy with something very like that feeling. "The Lord knows all about
it. He _will not_ forsake us."

It was not to be supposed that a car ride of scarcely two hours would
steady poor Pliny's brain. Theodore had thought of that, and prepared
for saving him any unnecessary disgrace. McPherson, sitting in the
little office back of his "Temperance House" that morning, saw a boy
approaching with a telegram for him. It read:

"Meet the 10.20 Express with a _close_ carriage.

"THEODORE MALLERY."

So, when the train steamed into the depot, the first person whom
Theodore saw was the faithful Jim. A few hurried words between them
explained matters, and Pliny was quietly helped by Jim and Mr. Stephens
into the close carriage and whirled away before Theodore had possessed
himself of all of Mrs. Hastings' extra shawls and wraps.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXVIII.

DEATH AND LIFE.

There had been a grand and solemn funeral. A long line of splendid
coaches had followed the millionaire to his last resting-place. Rosewood
and silver and velvet and crape had united to do him honor. Many stores
in the city were closed because Mr. Hastings had extensive business
connections with them. The hotels were closed because Mr. Hastings owned
three of the largest; the Euclid House was shuttered and bolted, and
long lines of heavy crape floated from the numerous doors. Many hats had
been uplifted, many gray heads bared, while the closing words of the
solemn burial service were once more repeated, and then the mourners had
returned to their places, and the long line of carriages had swept back,
and the city had taken down its shutters and opened its doors again, and
the world had rushed onward as before. Only in that one home--there the
desolation tarried. Through all the trouble and the pain Theodore had
been with them constantly. That first day he had accompanied them home
of necessity, their rightful protector being still in his drunken sleep.
Arrived there, they needed help and comfort even more than they had
before. There were friends by the hundreds, but Theodore could not fail
to see that while Mrs. Hastings appeared incapable of directing, and
indeed very indifferent as to what was done, Dora turned steadily and
constantly to him for advice and assistance. Pliny was prevailed upon to
go at once to his room, and was very soon asleep. When the wretched
stupor of sleep had worn itself out upon him, and left the fearful
headache to throb in his temples, Theodore was at his side, grave and
sad and silent, but patient still, and gentle as a woman. Only a few
words passed between them, Pliny speaking first in a cold, hard tone.

"Go away, Mallery, and let me alone--everything is over. All I ask of
you is to send me a bottle of brandy, and never let me see your face
again."

Theodore's only answer was to dip his hand again into cool water, and
pass it gently over the burning temples; then he said:

"I think it would be well to lie still, Pliny. They do not need you
below at present, and your head is very hot."

Pliny pushed feebly with his hand.

"Go away, Mallery, I can not endure the sight of you. It is all over, I
say. I will never try again."

Very quietly and steadily went the firm, cool hand across his forehead,
and the voice that answered him was quiet and firm.

"No, I shall _not_ leave you, dear friend, and all is _not_ over. You
are going to try harder than ever before, and I am _never_ going to give
you up--NEVER!"

Silence for a little, then Pliny said:

"Then don't leave me, Theodore, not for an _instant_, _day or
night_--promise."

And Theodore, ignoring all the strangeness of his position, promised,
and remained in the house, the watcher-guard and helper of more than
Pliny.

Not for an instant did he lose sight of his friend; through all the
trying ordeal of the following days he was constantly present. Even in
Pliny's private interviews with his mother, Theodore hovered near, and
his was the first face that Pliny met when he came to the door to issue
any orders. It was Theodore's hand that held open the carriage door when
the son came to follow his father to his final resting-place, and it
was Theodore's arm that was linked in his when he walked down the hall
on his return.

These were sad things to Theodore in another way. Despite all Mr.
Hastings' coldness to him, he had never been able to lose sight of the
memory of those days, now long gone by, in which the rich man had in a
sense been his protector and friend. He could not forget that it was
through _him_ that his first step upward had been taken. Aside from his
mother, Mr. Hastings was perhaps the first person for whom he felt a
touch of love. He could not forget him--could not cease to mourn for
him.

There was, only a week after this, another funeral. There was no long
line of coaches, and no display of magnificence this time--only a quiet,
slow-moving procession following the unplumed hearse. Only one store in
the city was closed, and not a hundred people knew for whom the bell
tolled that day; but did ever truer mourners or more bleeding hearts
follow a coffin to its final resting-place than were those who gathered
around that open grave, and saw the body of Grandma McPherson laid to
rest for awhile, awaiting the call of the great Maker, when he should
bid it come up to meet its glorified spirit, and dwell in that wonderful
_Forever_!

The messenger came suddenly to her, in the quiet of a moonlight night,
when all the household were asleep; and none who saw her in the morning,
with that blessed look upon her face, that told of earth receding and
heaven coming in, could doubt but that when in the silent night she
heard the Master whisper, "Come up higher," she made answer, "Even so,
Lord Jesus."

So they laid her in the silent city on the hill, very near the spot
where, by and by, there towered and blazed Mr. Hastings' monument; but
when they set up _her_ white headstone they marked on it the blessed
words: "So he giveth his beloved sleep."

But oh, that home left without a mother--the dear, loving, toiling,
patient, self-sacrificing mother!

"Dear old lady," were the words in which Theodore had most often thought
of her, and I find on thinking back that I have constantly spoken of her
thus, but in reality she was not old at all; her early life of toil and
privation and sorrow had whitened her hair and marked heavy lines as of
age on her face. Her quaint dress gave added strength to this
impression, and Theodore when he first met her was at that age when all
women in caps and spectacles are old, so "Grandma" she had always been
to him, but they only wrote "sixty-three" on her coffin.

They were sitting together, Theodore and Pliny, the first evening they
had spent alone since the changes had come to them. They were in their
pleasant room which must soon be vacated, for the guiding presence that
had made of them a family was wanting now. They had not been talking,
only the quietest common-places--neither of them seemed to have words
that they chose to utter. They were sitting in listless attitudes, each
occupying a great arm-chair, which they called "study-chairs." Theodore
with his hands clasped at the back of his head, and Pliny with his face
half hidden in his hands. The latter was the first to break the silence.

"Mallery, you are _such_ a wonderment to me! What is there about me that
makes you cling so? I thought it was all over during that awful time. I
don't know how you can help despising me, but you don't know how it was.
Oh, Theodore, I tried, I struggled, I _meant_ to keep my promise, and
even at such a time as that the sight of my enemy conquered me. Now,
_what_ am I to do? There is no hope for me at all. I have no trust, no
confidence in myself."

"That at least would be hopeful if it were strictly true," Theodore
answered, earnestly. "But, Pliny, it is not _quite_ true. If you utterly
distrusted yourself, _so_ utterly that you would stop trying to save
yourself alone, and accept the All-powerful Helper's aid, I should be at
rest about you forever."

Contrary to his usual custom, Pliny had no answer ready, seemed not in
the least inclined to argue, and so Theodore only dropped a little sigh
and waited. It was not despair with him during these days--his faith had
reached high ground. "Ask, and ye _shall_ receive," had come home to him
with wonderful force just lately, while he waited on his knees; he felt
that he should never let go again for a moment. Still there seemed
nothing now for him to do, nothing but that constant watching and
constant praying; and he had only lately come to realize how much these
two things meant. Presently, sitting there in the silence, he bethought
himself of Winny in her desolation.

"Pliny," he said, suddenly, "shall not you and I go down and try to help
poor Winny endure her loneliness? Do you know she is utterly alone?
Rick's wife is in her room with the child, and Rick and Jim just went
down the walk together."

Pliny seemed nothing loth, and the two descended to the dear little
parlor where so many happy hours had been passed. Winny had turned down
the gas to its lowest ebb, and was curled into a corner of the sofa,
giving up to the form of grief in which she most indulged--utter, white
silence. She sat erect as the two young men entered, and Theodore turned
on the gas; Pliny took the other corner of the sofa, and Theodore the
chair opposite them. He looked from one to the other of the white worn
faces. What utter misery was expressed on both! A great longing came
over him to comfort them. But what comfort could he offer for such
troubles as theirs, save the one thing that both rejected? He gave voice
to his thoughts almost without intending it, with no other feeling than
that his great pity and desire for them were beyond his control.

"How much, _how very much_, you two people need the same help! What
utter nothingness any other aid is. I have not the heart to offer either
of you the mockery of human sympathy," he spoke in gentle, sad tones,
and straight way was startled with himself for speaking at all. Winny
turned her great gray solemn eyes on her companion in the other corner.

"Do _you_ feel the need of help?" she asked, gravely. "Heaven knows I
_do_ feel the need of something I don't possess. I am utterly
shipwrecked. I don't know which way to turn. I do, if I only would turn
that way. Mother had help all her life long--help that you and I know
nothing about. Do you doubt that?"

"No, I _don't_," answered Pliny, solemnly.

"Then why can't we have it if we both need it, and can get it for the
asking? Mother prayed for you as well as for me. The very last night of
her life I heard her. I know what she prayed for is so. I'm tired of
struggling. I've been at it, Theodore knows, for a great many years. If
mother were here to-night I would say to her: 'Mother, I'm not going to
struggle any more; I'm going to give myself up,' and that would make her
happy--oh, too happy for earth. Well, I'm going to, anyway. I'm sick of
myself; I want to get away from myself; I need help. You've struggled,
too; I know by myself. Suppose we both give up. Suppose we both kneel
down here this minute, and say that we are tired of ourselves, and
ashamed of ourselves and we want Christ. Theodore will say it for us.
Will you do it, Mr. Hastings?"

She had spoken rapidly and with the same energy that characterized all
her words, but with solemn earnestness. Pliny bowed his head on his two
hands, while utter silence reigned; and Theodore, wonder-struck over the
turn that the conversation had taken, yet had breath enough left to say

"Lord Jesus, help them, help them. Oh, remember Calvary and the 'many
mansions,' and help them both. Let the decision be now." This prayer he
repeated and re-repeated. Then suddenly Pliny arose.

"If ever any one on earth needed help and strength it is I," he said,
hoarsely. "Yes, I _want_ to give up if I can," and he dropped upon his
knees.

In an instant Winny was kneeling, and Theodore's whole soul was being
poured out in prayer for those two. A moment and then Pliny, in low,
hoarse voice said:

"Lord, help me; I am sinking in deep waters." And Winny added: "Savior
of my mother, I am sick of sin; take me out of myself and into thee."

When they arose Theodore stole quietly from the room and left them
alone. He went up to his own closet and prayed such prayer of
thanksgiving as was recorded in heaven that night, and the angels around
the throne had great joy.

* * * * *

Not yet were the shocks and changes coming to these households over. Not
two weeks had the millionaire been sleeping his last sleep, when there
burst like a bombshell on the business world the startling news that his
millions had vanished into vapor, or perhaps it would be speaking more
properly to say into poison. Strange, wild speculations, that the acute,
far-sighted business man would never have touched for a moment had he
been himself, had been entered into while his brain was struggling with
the fumes of brandy. Notes had been signed, sales had been made and
debts contracted upon an enormous scale; in short, the whole business
was in a bewildering entanglement.

"There won't be five thousand dollars left out of the whole immense
property," said Edgar Ryan, one of the lawyers in charge, at the close
of a confidential conversation with Theodore, and Theodore, like the
rest of the world, stood for a little stunned and aghast over this new
calamity.

"I never saw such a tangle in all my days," continued Ryan, earnestly.
"The amount of property shipwrecked is almost incredible. The man was
never intoxicated in his life, and yet it may be truthfully said of him
that he has let rum swallow all his millions. I tell you, Mallery, you
and Habakkuk were undoubtedly correct."

Theodore turned and walked soberly and wearily away. He had not the
heart just then to smile over the memory of anything. There followed
weary, anxious, harassing days--days in which Pliny remained doggedly
behind the counter, and Theodore almost entirely ignored the store, and
gave himself up to following the footsteps of appraisers and auctioneers
and policemen, and in trying to shield Mrs. Hastings and Dora, for the
red flag floated out from the grand mansion proudly known for years as
Hastings' Hall. Oh change! Can anything in all time be compared in
swiftness and sharpness and terror to that monster who swoops down upon
our hearts and homes, and almost in the twinkling of an eye leaves them
desolate? Oh heaven! With all its glories and its joys, can anything in
all the bright description equal in peace and rest and comfort that one
precious sentence which admits of no thought of change: "And they shall
reign forever and ever?"

There were plans innumerable to be made and acted upon. Rick and his
wife had gone back ere this to their Western home. Winny had steadily
refused their urgent petitions to accompany them, and worked faithfully
on in her honored position in one of the great graded schools. She and
Jim had taken board together in a quiet house as far removed from the
dear old home as possible. Mrs. Hastings had promptly accepted the
invitation of her husband's brother in Chicago. The invitation had also
been extended to Dora, and she had as promptly declined it. Her strong,
independent nature asserted itself here. She would not go to live a
dependent in her uncle's home. She would not teach music, for which she
pronounced herself unfitted by nature and education; but she would take
the boys' room next to Winny's in the aforesaid graded school, and share
the quiet little room in the boarding house, whither Winny had carried
many of her household treasures.

* * * * *

It was all settled at last, and when Mrs. Hastings was ticketed and
checked for Chicago under the escort of one of the firm who was going
thither, and the young ladies were quietly domiciled in their new and
pleasant room, Pliny and Theodore came to the first breathing place they
had found for many a day, and felt absolutely forlorn and disconsolate.
They were together in the store, the last clerk had departed, and their
loneliness only served to add to their sense of gloom.

"Well," said Pliny, closing the ledger with a heavy sigh, "if we had a
local habitation we'd go to it now, wouldn't we?"

"Probably," answered Theodore, drumming on the counter with his fingers.
"Where _are_ we going to live, Pliny, anyway?"

"More than I know," was Pliny's gloomy answer. "In the street for all I
seem to care just at present."

And then the office door clicked behind them, and Mr. Stephens appeared.

"I thought you were gone, sir," said Pliny, rising in surprise.

"No, I was waiting your movements. Come, young gentlemen, I want you
both to come home with me. There is no use in remonstrating, my boy," he
added, laying his hand on Theodore's shoulder, as the latter would have
spoken. "I have had your and Pliny's rooms ready for you this week past,
and have only waited until you were at leisure to take possession. I
keep bachelor's hall, you know, and if ever a man needed something new
and fresh about him I do. So do as I want you to for once, just to see
how it will seem."

There was much talk about the matter, argument and counter argument; but
in the end Mr. Stephens prevailed, as in reality he generally did, when
he set his heart upon a thing, despite his statements that Theodore kept
him under complete control. Before another week closed the two young men
were cozily settled in their new quarters, and really feeling as much at
home as though half their lives had been spent there.

There was one other matter which came to Theodore as a source of great
satisfaction.

"Mallery," Mr. Stephens had said to him one morning when they were quite
alone in the private office, "have you any special interest in the
Hastings' place?"

Theodore hesitated a little, and then answered frankly enough:

"Yes, sir, I certainly have. There are many associations connected with
that house that will always endear it to me."

"Then you may be interested to know that I have become the purchaser of
it; and if at any time, for any reason, you should wish to make special
disposition of it, it shall always be in a state to await your orders.
Real estate is valuable property, and as good a way as any in which to
dispose of surplus funds."

Theodore came out from behind the screen to try to offer some word of
thanks, but Mr. Stephens had pushed open the green baize door and
vanished.

CHAPTER XXIX.

SOME MORE BABIES.

Mrs. Jenkins' Tommy stood on the sidewalk in front of the store, in a
nicely fitting new suit, white vest and kid gloves. It was not yet the
middle of the afternoon, but the great store was closed and shuttered
and barred. A gentleman came briskly down the street and halted before
the young man, with a surprised look on his face as he questioned:

"How now, Tommy, what's to pay? It isn't possible your firm has failed
and foreclosed? What are you all bolted and barred at this time of day
for?"

Tommy arched his eyebrows.

"Have you been out of town, sir?" he asked, in a tone which plainly
said, "It isn't possible that you've been _in_ town and not heard the
cause of this closed store?"

"Just so," answered the good-natured gentleman. "I've been West, and I
want to see Messrs. Stephens and Mallery in a twinkling."

"Can't do it," said Tommy, promptly, and with the air of a policeman.
"They are otherwise engaged, both of them--all three of them, I may say.
Mr. Hastings is in it, too. There's been a double wedding. Haven't you
heard of it, sir?"

"Not a word," answered his listener, with commendable gravity. "They've
been as whist as mice. Tell us all about it."

"Well, sir, it was to-day at twelve o'clock, in the First Church--Dr.
Birge's, you know. He married 'em. Splendid ceremony, too! and they
looked--well, they all looked just grand, I tell you!"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19