Three People Part 34

"But, my dear friend, is there any sense to that reply? If you wished to become a surveyor, and I should a.s.sure 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 sc.r.a.pes 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d 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.