POOR PLINY!
HE surliness of that November night broke into dazzling sunlight the next morning, and the sun was nearly two hours high when Pliny Hastings rolled himself heavily over in bed, uttered a deep groan, and awoke to the wretchedness of a new day of shame and misery and self-loathing.
For he loathed himself, this poor young man born and reared in the very hotbed of temptation, struggling to break the chain that he had but recently discovered was bound around him, making resolutions many and strong, and gradually awakening to the knowledge that resolutions were flimsy as paper threads compared with the iron bands with which his tyrant held him. After the groan, he opened his eyes, and staring about him in a bewildered way, tried to take in his unfamiliar surroundings.
"Where in the name of wonders am I now?" he said at last and aloud. Whereupon Theodore came to the bedside and said, "Good-morning, Pliny."
"What the mischief!" began Pliny, then he stopped; and as memory came to his aid, added a short, sharp, "Oh!" and relapsed into silence.
"Are you able to get up and go down to breakfast with me?" questioned Theodore. And then Pliny raised himself on his elbow, and burst forth:
"I say, Mallery, why didn't you just leave me to my confounded fate? I should have blundered home somehow, and if that long-suffering sister of mine had chanced to fail in her plans, why my precious father would have discovered my condition and kicked me out of doors, for good. He has threatened to do it—and that is the way they all do anyhow. Isn't it, Mallery? make drunkards, and when their handiwork just begins to do them credit, kick them out."
"I think it would be well for you to get up and dress for breakfast," was Theodore's quiet answer.
"Why don't you give it up, Mallery?" persisted Pliny, making no effort to change his position. "Don't you see it's no sort of use; no one was ever more possessed to be a fool than I am. What have all my everlasting promises amounted to but straws! I tell you, my father designed and planned me for a drunkard, and I'm living up to the light that has been given me."
"I see it is quite time you were ready for breakfast, Pliny. I am waiting, and have been for two hours, and I really haven't time to waste, while you lie there and talk nonsense. Whatever else you do, don't be foolish enough to cast all the blame of your misdeeds on your father."
Pliny turned fiercely. "Who else is there to blame, I should like to know?" he asked, savagely. "Didn't he give me the sugar to sip from the bottom of his brandy glass in my babyhood? Haven't I drank my wine at his table, sitting by his side, three times a day for at least fifteen years? Haven't I seen him frown on every effort at temperance reform throughout the country? Haven't I seen him sneer at my weak, feeble efforts to break away from the demon with which he has constantly tempted me? If he didn't rear me up for a drunkard, what in the name of heaven am I designed for after such a training?"
"Pliny," said Theodore, speaking low and with great significance, "for what do you suppose my father designed and reared me?"
One evening, months before, Theodore had, in much pain and shrinking, told the whole sad story of his early life to Pliny, told it in the vague hope that it might some day be a help to him. Now, as he referred to it, Pliny answered only with a toss and a groan, and then was entirely silent. At last he spoke again in a quieter, but utterly despairing tone.
"Mallery, you don't know anything about it. I tell you I was born with this appetite; I inherited it, if you will; it is my father's legacy to me, and the taste has been petted and fostered in every imaginable way; you need not talk of my manhood to me. I have precious little of that article left. No mortal knows it better than I do myself; I would sell what little I have for a glass of brandy this minute."
Theodore came over to him and laid a quiet hand on the flushed and throbbing temples. "I know all about it, my friend;" he said, gently. "I know more about this thing in some respects than you do; remember the atmosphere in which I spent my early boyhood; remember what my father is. Oh, I know how hard it is so well, that it seems to me almost impossible for one in his own strength to be freed; but, Pliny, why will you not accept a helper? One who is mighty to save? I do solemnly assure you that in him you would certainly find the strength you need."
Pliny moved restlessly, and spoke gloomily, "You are talking a foreign language to me, Mallery. I don't understand anything about that sort of thing, you know."
"Yes, I know. But, what has that to do with it? I am asking you why you will not? How is it possible that you can desire to be released from this bondage; can feel your own insufficiency, and yet will not accept aid?"
"And I am telling you that I don't understand anything about this matter."
"But, my dear friend, is there any sense to that reply? If you wished to become a surveyor, and I should assure you that you would need to acquire a knowledge of a certain branch of mathematics in order to perfect yourself, would you coldly reply to me that you knew nothing about that matter, and consider the question settled? You certainly would not, if you had any confidence in me."
Pliny turned quickly toward him.
"You are wrong in that last position, at least," he said, eagerly. "If I have confidence in any living being, I have in you, and certainly I have reason to trust you. The way in which you cling to me, patiently and persistently, through all manner of scrapes and discouragements, is perfectly marvelous! Now, tell me why you do it?"
Theodore hesitated a moment before he answered, gravely:
"If you want to know the first cause, Pliny, it is because I pledged you to my Redeemer, as a thank-offering for a gracious answer to my prayers, which he sent me, even when I was unbelieving; and the second is, because, dear friend, I love you, and can not give you up."
Pliny lay motionless and silent, and something very like a tear forced itself from between his closed eyelids.
"Pliny, will you utterly disappoint me?" said Theodore at last, breaking the silence. "Won't you promise me to seek this Helper of mine?"
"How?"
"Pray for his aid; it will surely be given. You trust me, you say; well, I promise you of a certainty that he stands ready to receive you. Will you begin to-day, Pliny?"
"You will despise me if I tell you why I can not," Pliny said, hesitatingly, after a long, and, on Theodore's part, an anxious silence.
"No, I shall not;" he answered, quickly.
"Tell me."
"Well then, it is because, whatever else I may have been, I have never played the hypocrite, and I have sense enough left to know that the effort which you desire me to make, will not accord with an engagement which I have this very evening."
"What is it?"
"To accompany Ben Phillips to the dance at the hotel on the turnpike, nine miles from here. I'm as sure that I will drink wine and brandy to-night, as I am that I lie here, in spite of all the helps in creation, or out of it. So what's the use?"
"Will you give me one great proof of your friendship, Pliny?" was Theodore's eager question.
"I'll give you 'most anything quicker than I would any other mortal," answered Pliny, wearily.
"Then will you promise me not to go with Phillips this evening?"
"Ho!" said Pliny, affecting astonishment. "I thought you were a tremendous man of your word?"
"There are circumstances under which I am not; if I promise to commit suicide, I am justified in saner moments in changing my mind."
"I didn't exactly promise either," said Pliny, thoughtfully. "I had just brains enough left for that. Well, Mallery, I'll be hanged if I haven't a mind to promise you; I'm sure I've no desire to go, it's only that confounded way I have of blundering into engagements."
"I'm waiting," said Theodore, gravely.
"Well, I won't go."
"Thank you;" this time he smiled, and added:
"How about the other matter, Pliny?"
"That is different;" said Pliny, restlessly. "Not so easily decided on. I don't more than half understand you, and yet—yes, I know theoretically what you want of me. Theodore, I'll think of it."
A little quickly checked sigh escaped Theodore; he must bide his time, but a great point had been gained. There came a tapping at the chamber door. Theodore went forward and opened it, and Pliny, listening, heard a clear, smoothly modulated voice ask:
"Will your friend take breakfast with you, Theodore, and have you any directions?"
"No special directions," answered Theodore, smiling. "Is that a hint that we are woefully late, Winny? It is too bad; we will be down very soon now."
"I'm a selfish dog, with all the rest," Pliny said, sighing heavily, as he went around making a hurried toilet. "How is it that you have any time to waste on a wretch like myself? Did you ever have your head whirl around like a spinning wheel, Mallery?"
"I sent a note to Mr. Stephens early this morning, saying I should not be at the store until late. Try ice water for your head, Pliny." This was Theodore's reply to the last query.
The dainty little breakfast room, all in a glow of sunlight, and bright with ivy and geranium, looked like a patch of paradise to Pliny Hastings' splendor-wearied eyes. Winny presided at the table in a crimson dress—that young lady was very fond of crimson dresses—and fitted very nicely into the clear, crisp, fresh brightness of everything about her. Pliny drank the strong coffee that she poured him with a relish, and though he shook his head with inward disgust at the sight or thought of food, gradually the spinning-wheel revolved more and more slowly, and ere the meal was concluded, he was talking with almost his accustomed vivacity to Winny. He hadn't the least idea that she had stood in the doorway the evening before, and watched him go stumbling and grumbling up the stairs. Theodore glanced from one bright handsome face to the other, and grew silent and thoughtful.
"Where is your mother?" he said at last, suddenly addressing Winny.
"She is lying down, nearly sick with a headache. I feel troubled about mother; she doesn't seem well. I wish you would call on your way down town, Theodore, and send the doctor up."
Pliny noted the look of deep anxiety that instantly spread over Theodore's face, and the many anxious questions that he asked, and grew puzzled and curious. What position did this young man occupy in this dainty little house? Was he adopted brother, friend, or only boarder? Why was he so deeply interested in the mother? Oh he didn't know the dear little old lady and her story of the "many mansions," nor the many dear and tender and motherly deeds that she had done for this boarder of hers, and how, now that he was in a position to pay her with "good measure, pressed down and running over," he still gave to her respectful, loving, almost adoring reverence. Pliny had not been a familiar friend of Theodore's in the days when the latter had heated his coffee at the old lady's little kitchen stove, and the stylish Winny had made distracting little cream cakes for his saloon. Indeed the friendship that had sprung up between these two was something singular to them both, and had been the outgrowth of earnest efforts on Theodore's part, and many falls and many repentings on Pliny's.
"What a delightful home you have," Pliny said, eagerly, as the two young men lingered together in the hall; and then his face darkened as he added: "It is the first table I have sat down to in many a day without being tempted on every side by my faithful imp, starting up in some shape or other, to coax me to ruin. I tell you, Mallery, you know nothing about it."
"Yes, I do," Theodore answered, positively. "And I know you're in dire need of help. Come home with me to dinner, will you?"
Pliny shook his head.
"Can't. Some wretched nuisance and her daughter are to dine with us, and I promised mother I would be at home and on duty. I must go up directly, and there is a car coming. Theodore, don't think me an ungrateful fool. I know what I think of myself and of you, and if ever I am anything but a drunkard, why—Never mind, only may the God in whom you trust bless you forever." And this warm-hearted, whole-souled, hot-brained, sorely-tempted young man wrung his friend's hand with an almost convulsive grasp, and was gone.
Theodore looked after him wistfully. Winny came to the window while he still stood looking out; he turned to her suddenly.
"Winny, enter the lists with me, and help me fight rum and his allies, and save the young man."
"How?" said Winny, earnestly.
"Every way. Help me to meet him at every time, to save him from himself, and, worst and hardest of all, to save him from his family. I would like to ask you to pray for him."
"Very well," answered Winny, gravely, returning his searching look with one as calm. "Why don't you then?"
"Because I have reason to fear that you do not pray for yourself."
This time she colored violently, but still spoke steadily:
"Suppose I do not. Can't I possibly pray for any one else?"
"You can, certainly, if you will; but the question is, will you?" And receiving no sort of reply to this question, Theodore turned away and prepared to go down town.
The Hastings' family had filed out to the dining-room after the orthodox fashion—Mr. Hastings leading out the fashionable Boston stranger, Mrs. De Witt, and Pliny following with her elegant daughter. All traces of last night's dissipation had been carefully petted and smoothed away from the young man's face and dress, and he looked the very impersonation of refined manhood. As for Dora no amount of care and anxiety on her mother's part could transform her into a fashionable young lady—no amount of persuasion could induce her to follow fashion's freaks in the matter of dress, unless they chanced to accord with her own grave, rather mature, taste. So on this November day, while Miss De Witt was glowing and sparkling in garnet silk and rubies, Dora was pale and fair in blue merino, and soft full laces; and in spite of plainness and simplicity, or perhaps by the help of them, was queenly and commanding still. The table was dazzling and gorgeous, with silver and cut glass and flowers. Pliny established his lady and devoted himself to her wishes, eating little himself, and declining utterly at least half of the dishes that were offered. Brandy peaches, wine jellies, custards flavored with wine, fruits with just a touch of brandy about them, how they flitted and danced about him like so many imps, all allies of that awful demon rum, and all seeming bent on his destruction. Pliny's usually pale face was flushed, and his nerves were quivering. How much he wanted every one of these spiced and flavored dainties only his poor diseased appetite knew; how thoroughly dangerous every one of them was to him only his troubled, tempted conscience knew. He heartily loathed every article of simple unflavored food; he absolutely longed to seize upon that elegant dish of brandy peaches, and devour every drop of the liquid to quench his raging thirst. Still he chatted and laughed, and swallowed cup after cup of coffee, and struggled with his tempter, and tried to call up and keep before him all his numerous promises to that one true friend who had stood faithfully beside him through many a disgraceful downfall.
"What an abstemious young gentleman!" simpered Miss De Witt, as for the fourth time Pliny briefly and rather savagely declined the officious waiter's offer of wine custard. "Don't you eat any of these frivolous and demoralizing articles? Mrs. Hastings, is your son one of the new-lights? I have really been amused to see how persistently he declines all the tempting articles of peculiar flavor. Is it a question of temperance, Mr. Hastings? I'm personally interested in that subject. I heard your star speaker, Mr. Ryan, hold forth last evening. Did you hear him, Mr. Hastings?"
"I did not," answered Pliny, laconically, remembering how far removed from a temperance lecture was the scene in which he had mingled the evening before. He was spared the trouble of further answer by his father's next remark.
"It is a remarkable recent conversion if Pliny has become interested in the temperance question," he said, eyeing him curiously. "I really don't know but total abstinence is a good idea for weak-minded young men who can not control themselves."
Pliny flushed to his very forehead, and answered in a sharp cutting tone of biting sarcasm:
"Elderly gentlemen who seem to be similarly weak ought to set the example then, sir."
This bitter and pointed reference to his father's portly form, flushed face, and ever growing fondness for his brandies, was strangely unlike Pliny's courteous manner, and how it might have ended had not Miss De Witt suddenly determined on a conquest, I can not say.
"Look, look!" she suddenly exclaimed, clapping her hands in childish glee. "The first snow-storm of the season. Do see the great flakes! Mr. Hastings, let me pledge your health, and your prospect of a glorious sleigh ride," and she rested jeweled fingers on the sparkling glass before her.
Pliny's head was throbbing, and the blood seemed racing in torrents through his veins. He turned a stern, fierce look upon the lady by his side, muttered in low hoarse tones, "Pledge me for a glorious fool as I am," drained his glass to the very bottom, and abruptly left the table and the room. And Miss De Witt was serenely and courteously surprised, while the embarrassed mother covered her son's retreat as best she might, and Dora sat white and silent. On the table in Pliny's room lay a carefully-worded note of apology and explanation from Pliny to Ben Phillips. It was folded and ready for delivery. Pliny dashed up to his room, seized upon the note and consigned it to the glowing coals in the grate, then rang his bell furiously and left this message in its stead:
"Tell Phillips when he calls that I'm going, and he'll find me at Harcourt's."
