JUDGMENTS.
NLY a few of the clerks had assembled as yet at the great store. It was still early morning, and the business of the day had not commenced when young McPherson rushed in, breathless, and in his haste nearly overturned a clerk near the door; then he stopped, panting as he questioned:
"Is Mr. Mallery in?"
"Yes, sir; he's always in. It's my opinion he sleeps in the safe," added his informant, in discontented under tone. Theodore's promptness was sometimes a great inconvenience to the sleepy clerks.
"I want him immediately. Where is he?"
"In the private office, sir. We have sent for him," said Tommy, coming forward with the air of one who was at least a partner. Two minutes more and Theodore was beside him.
"There's been an accident," explained Jim, rapidly, "and you are very much needed."
"Where, and for what?"
"At the Euclid House. Pliny Hastings and Ben Phillips, they were thrown from their carriage. Hastings asked for you at once."
Theodore glanced behind him and issued a few brief directions.
"Tommy, bring my hat. Edwards, keep these keys in your safe until Mr. Stephens comes. Holden, tell Mr. Jennings when he calls that the bill of sale is made out, and shall be ready for him at noon. Tommy, you may take the letters that are on my desk to the post-office. Now, McPherson, I am ready. Give me the particulars. Is it serious?"
"I fear so. What few particulars we know is that they tried to drive across the track with the Express coming at full speed. The horses took fright, of course, backed into the gully, and both gentlemen were thrown some distance. Why they were not killed, or how they escaped being dashed in pieces by the train, is a wonderful mystery."
"What insane spirit prompted them to attempt crossing the track at such a time?"
"The spirit of rum. They were both intoxicated."
His listener uttered an exclamation fraught with more dismay than he had before expressed, and asked his next question in a low, troubled tone:
"Where were they going?"
"Going home. They had been out on that South road, nine miles from the city, to attend a dance; had danced and drank by turns all night, and were dashing home between five and six in the morning. So Harcourt says, and he is good authority, for he was right behind them, returning from the same place, and in not much better condition than they until the accident sobered him."
Poor Theodore! he had had particulars enough; his heart felt like lead. How could he hope, or work, or pray, any more? They walked in absolute silence to the corner, signaled a car, and made as rapid progress as possible. Only two questions more did Theodore venture:
"Did you say Pliny asked for me?"
"Yes—or, no, not exactly asked for you, but kept constantly talking about you in a wild sort of way, referring to some promise or pledge of his own, we judged, for he kept saying: 'I never deliberately broke my word to him before,' and then adding in a pitiful tone: 'He will have nothing to do with me now; he will never believe me again,' I think the doctor fears that his brain is injured."
It was some moments before Theodore could trust his voice to speak; and then he said, inquiringly:
"His parents have been apprised of the accident, of course?"
"Why, no," answered Jim, in a startled tone. "At least I doubt it. Nobody seemed to think of it. The fact is, Theodore, we were all frightened out of our wits, and needed your executive ability. I had been down at the depot to see if my freight had come, and arrived on the scene just after the accident occurred. I had just brains enough left to have both gentlemen taken to the hotel and come for you."
Arrived at the Euclid House the two young men went up the steps and through the halls so familiar to both of them, and sought at once the room where Pliny had been placed. Two physicians were busy about him, but they drew back thoughtfully as Pliny, catching a glimpse of the new-comer, uttered an eager exclamation.
"It's no use," he said, wildly, as Theodore bent over him. "No use, you see; the imps have made up their mind to have me, and they'll get me, body and soul. I'm bound—I can't stir. I promised you—oh yes, I can promise—I'm good at that—they don't mind that at all; but when it comes to performing then they chain me."
"That is the way he has raved ever since the accident," said the elder physician, addressing Theodore. "It is an indication of a disordered brain. Are you the young man whom he has been calling? We were in hopes you could quiet him."
"Does the disorder arise from liquor," said Theodore, sadly.
"Oh no, not at all; at least it is not the immediate cause. Can you control him, do you think?"
Theodore bent over him; he was still repeating wildly, "They'll get me, body and soul," when a cool hand was laid on his burning forehead, and a quiet, firm voice spoke the words: "Pliny, they shall not get you. Do you understand? They shall not." And at that forlorn and apparently hopeless hour the young man's faith arose. Some voice from that inner world seemed to reach his ear, and repeat his own words with strong meaning: "No, they shall not."
The physicians, who had hoped a great deal from the coming of this young man, about whom the thoughts of their patient seemed to center, had not hoped in vain. He grew quieter and gradually sank into a sort of stupor, which, if it were not very encouraging, seemed less heart-rending than the wild restlessness of the other state.
Then Theodore bethought himself again of the Hastings' family. No, they had not been sent for, everybody had thought about it, but nobody had acted. Mr. Roberts was not at home, and the two doctors had been busy about more necessary business.
"It must be attended to immediately," Theodore said. "Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Hastings' family physician?"
"Neither of us," answered the elder gentleman, laconically. "I don't even know who his family physician is."
"Dr. Armitage is," added the younger, from his position at the foot of the bed. "And he is out of town."
"That's lucky," was the sententious comment of the old doctor.
"Why?" asked Theodore, fixing earnest, searching eyes on his face.
"Because Dr. Armitage uses rum, rum, rum, everywhere and always: and ten drops of it would be as certain death to this young man, in his present state, as a dose of prussic acid would."
"Who is the elder of those two physicians?" questioned Theodore of one of the waiters as they left the room together.
"That's Dr. Arnold, just the greatest man in this city folks think, and the young fellow is Dr. Vincent, a student once, and now a partner of Dr. Arnold."
Theodore mentally hoped, as he recognized the familiar names, that Dr. Armitage's absence would be indefinitely prolonged. He glanced into the room where Ben Phillips lay. He was insensible, and had been from the first. Two more physicians were in attendance there, but seemed to be doing nothing, and shook their heads very gravely in answer to Theodore's inquiring look. Mr. Phillips had been seen down town, near the freight office, and thither Jim had gone in search of him. There seemed to be nothing for Theodore but to go to Hastings' Hall himself. He shrank from it very much—nothing but messages of evil, or scenes of danger, seemed to connect him with this house.
"They will learn to look on me as the very impersonation of evil tidings," he said, nervously, as he awaited admittance. His peremptory ring was promptly answered by John.
"Was Mr. Hastings in?"
No, he was not; he and Mrs. Hastings had accompanied Mrs. and Miss De Witt to the house of a friend, nine miles distant, and were to be absent two days. In spite of himself Theodore felt a sense of relief.
"Then tell Miss Hastings I would like to see her at once," was his direction.
John stared.
"It was very early. Miss Hastings had not yet left her room. If Mr. Mallery could—"
Theodore interrupted him.
"Tell her I must see her at once, or as soon as possible." And at this opportune moment Dora came down the stairs. Theodore advanced to meet her, and feeling almost certain of the character with which he had to deal, came to the point at once without hesitation or circumlocution.
"I am not the bearer of good news this morning, Miss Hastings. There has been an accident, and Pliny is injured, not seriously we hope. He is at the Euclid House. Would you wish to go to him at once?"
Dora's face had grown paler, but she neither exclaimed nor fainted, and answered him promptly and firmly.
"I will go to him at once. Mr. Mallery, our carriage is away, will you signal a car for me? I will be ready in five minutes. But tell me this much. Ought I to send for my father and mother?"
"I fear you ought," said Theodore, gently.
She turned at once, and issued brief, rapid and explicit orders to the waiting John, and in less than five minutes they were in the car. On the way down Theodore gave her what meager knowledge he possessed concerning the accident, withholding the bitter cause of it all, which, however, he saw she too readily guessed. As they passed Dr. Armitage's house he said: "Dr. Armitage is not at home." And she answered emphatically: "I am glad of it." Then he wondered if she were glad for the same reason he was. At noon Mr. and Mrs. Hastings arrived, and before the day was done the other anxious watchers had reason heartily to wish that their coming had been longer delayed. Evidently Dora had not inherited her self-control from her mother, or if she had Mrs. Hastings had not a tithe of it remaining, and her nervousness added not a little to the wildness of the suffering patient. Mr. Hastings on his part seemed anxious and angry, both in one. He said to Dora savagely that he hoped it would teach the reckless fellow a lesson that he would never forget, and resented with haughty silence Dr. Arnold's sententious reply, that "it was likely to do just that." Then he openly and unhesitatingly regretted Dr. Armitage's absence, sent twice to his home to learn concerning his whereabouts, and was not improved in temper by learning that he was lying ill at Buffalo; and, finally, with much hesitancy and visible annoyance, that would have provoked to withdrawal a younger and less eminent man, committed the case into Dr. Arnold's hands. The doctor skillfully evaded the questions that were trembling on Mrs. Hastings' lips and hungering in Dora's eyes concerning the nature and extent of Pliny's injuries, which fact led Theodore to be very much alarmed, and yet he was totally unprepared for the abrupt answer which he received when he first found a chance to ask the question in private.
"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?
