Three People Part 33

"The heir of Hastings' Hall," said Theodore, briefly and sadly.

Winny looked both startled and shocked

"Oh, Theodore! not Pliny Hastings?"

"Yes, Pliny Hastings. The admiration of half the young ladies in the city, and they are industriously helping him to be what he is.

Good-night, Winny. Don't, for pity's sake, study any later," and Theodore ran lightly up stairs and entered his own room on tiptoe. The room was utterly unlike Tode Mall's early dream. No square of red and green and yellow carpet adorned the spot in front of the bed--instead a soft thick carpet of mossy green covered the floor, and Theodore had pleased himself in gathering many a dainty trifle with which to beautify this one room that he called home. To-night the drop-light was carefully shaded, and in the dimness Theodore had to look twice before he distinguished McPherson mounted on guard in the rocking-chair beside the bed, while on it lay, sunken in heavy sleep, Pliny Hastings.

"Well!" was Theodore's brief greeting.

"Yes!" was Jim's equally laconic reply.

"What did you think had become of me that I could not attend to my own business?" asked Theodore, dropping wearily into the nearest chair.

"Tommy said you were putting three policemen in jail, or something."

"It was _something_, sure enough," answered Theodore, smiling faintly; and then he gave a rapid and condensed account of the midnight scene, interrupted by many exclamations of horror and amaze from his listener.

"Had you much trouble in this quarter?" he asked presently, going to the bedside and looking long and earnestly at Pliny.

"Very little. Tommy had some difficulty before they reached me; but he is a plucky little chap, and was firmly resolved upon carrying out your instructions to the letter, so he gained the day. Isn't it remarkable that he should have been the one to a.s.sist in the rescue of Mr.

Hastings' son?"

"Isn't it?" said Theodore, emphatically. "And Mr. Hastings would not lift one finger to a.s.sist in _his_ rescue."

"What in the world are you going to do next?" said Jim. "In this case I mean," nodding his head toward Pliny.

"Going to keep on doing, and when I have done all that I can, give myself up to patient waiting and hopeful praying," was Theodore's solemn answer.

When he spoke again it was in a slightly hesitating tone, with a glance at his watch.

"There is just one thing more which ought to be done to-night, Jim."

"All right," said Jim, promptly. "There's no special use in going to bed to-night, or rather this morning. Too late to pay, so bring on your business. What comes next?"

"They ought to know at Hastings' Hall where this young man is."

"Ho!" said Jim, with an astonished and incredulous air, "I don't imagine there will be many sleepless eyes in that house if they don't hear of his whereabouts until he appears again. I fancy they are too much accustomed to it."

"There is one member of the family who will wait for him, nevertheless."

"Who?"

"His sister. He remembered it himself, as bad as he was."

Jim looked searchingly at the half-averted face of his friend for a moment; then seeming to have come to some conclusion, arose and began to don his overcoat.

"Then if I understand you, Mallery, you think that his sister ought to be apprised of his safety, and you judge it would be well, if possible, to do so without disturbing any other members of the family?" This he said after having waited a moment in vain for his friend to speak again.

Theodore turned toward him, and eagerly grasped his hand as he spoke:

"You understand everything, my dear fellow, better than I can tell it.

G.o.d bless you for your kindness and thoughtfulness."

CHAPTER XXII.

POOR PLINY!

The 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 gla.s.s 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 appet.i.te; 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sure 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."