CHAPTER XXVII. DAWN AND DARKNESS. T WEDDLE HALL was reasonably full. The citizens of Albany had turned out well to do their townsman honor, howbeit they did not know that he had tumbled about in their gutters and straggled about their streets up almost to the verge of young manhood. Theodore had felt many misgivings since that day when he suddenly and almost unexpectedly to himself pledged his word to address an Albany audience on this evening; but he had three things to assist him. First, he was thoroughly and terribly in earnest; secondly, he was entirely posted on all the arguments for and against this mammoth subject of temperance--he had studied it carefully and diligently; and, finally, he always grew so tremendously indignant and sarcastic over the monstrous wrong, and the ridiculous and in consistent opinions held by the masses, that in ten minutes after he commenced talking about it he would have forgotten his audience in his massive subject, even though the President and his Cabinet had been among them. So on this particular evening, his blood roused to the boiling point through brooding over the wrongs that had come to him by the help of this fiend, he spoke as he had no idea that he could speak. Had Mr. Stephens been one of his auditors his face might have glowed with pride over his protege. Had Mr. Birge been present to listen to the eloquent appeal his heart might have thanked God that the little yellow-haired boy who stood in solemn awe and took in the meaning of his mother's only prayer, had lived to answer it so fully and grandly in the city of his birth.

After the address there was a pledge circulated. Theodore was the first to write his name in bold, firm letters, and he remarked to the chairman as he wrote: "This is the fifteenth pledge that I have signed. I am prouder every time I write my name in one." There were many signers that evening, among them several whose tottering steps had to be steadied as they came forward. Then presently there came a pretty girl, leading with gentle hand the trembling form of an old man; both faces looked somewhat familiar to Theodore, yet he could not locate them.

"Who are those two?" he said, as the little girlish white hand steadied the feeble fingers of the old man.

"That is an interesting case. The girl has been the salvation of the old man; he is her grandfather. They belonged to a miserable set, the lowest of the low, but there seemed to be something more than human about the child. Her father was killed in a drunken broil, and her mother lay drunk at the time, and died soon after; but she clung to this old man, followed him everywhere, even to rum holes. She got mixed in with a mission Sabbath-school about that time, started down in that vile region where she lived; that was a great thing, too; it was sustained principally by an earnest young man by the name of Birge—and, by the way, I have heard that he has since become a minister and is preaching in Cleveland."

"He is my pastor," answered Theodore, while his eyes sparkled.

"Is it possible! Well, now, if that isn't a remarkable coincidence!"

Theodore knew of some more coincidences quite as remarkable, but he only said:

"And what further about this child?"

"Why, I really think she became a Christian, then and there, young as she was—not more than five or six. After that she followed up her grandfather more closely than ever. People have seen her kneel right down in the street, and ask God to 'make grandpa come home with her right away.' The old man gave up his rum after a time, though no one ever thought he would. He has since been converted, and they two are the most active temperance reformers that we have in the city. They are at every meeting, and are constantly signing pledges and leading up others to do so."

"What are their names?"

"He is Grandfather Potter—used to be known as 'old Toper Potter;' and she is known throughout the city as 'Little Kitty McKay.'"

"Why! she lived—" exclaimed Theodore; then he stopped. What possible use could there be in telling the chairman of this great meeting that "little Kitty McKay" lived in the attic of a certain house on Rensselaer Street at the same time that he lived in the basement; that her father was killed on the same night in which his mother died, and that in consequence of the fight and the murder, both of which took place in his father's rum cellar, he and his father had hurriedly decamped in the night, and wandered aimlessly for two years, thereby missing Mr. Birge's little mission school?

"What did you say, sir?" said the chairman, bending deferentially toward the distinguished orator of the evening.

"She lived in Albany during this time, did you say?"

"Oh yes, sir; she has never been out of this city."

And then, leaving the chairman to wonder what that could possibly have to do with the subject, Theodore bent eagerly forward. Two men were taking slow steps down the central aisle, trying to urge on the irresolute steps of the third—and the third one was Jerry! They were trying to get him forward to the pledge table. Would they succeed? It looked extremely doubtful. Jerry was shaking his head in answer to their low entreaties, and trying to turn back. Theodore arose suddenly, ran lightly down the steps, and advanced to his side.

"Jerry," he said, in distinct, low tones, "come; you used to be a good friend of mine, and I want you to do a good turn for me now, and sign this pledge."

Jerry turned bleared, rum-weakened eyes on him, and said in a thick, wondering voice:

"Who the dickens be you?"

"I'm an old friend of yours. Don't you know me? I used to be Tode Mall. Don't you remember? Come, take my arm; you and I have walked arm in arm down Broadway many a time; let us walk together now down this aisle and sign the pledge together."

For all answer Jerry turned astounded eyes upon the speaker, and muttered in an under tone:

"You be hanged! 'Tain't no such—yes, 'tis—no 'tain't—'tis, too—them's his eyes and his nose! I'll be shot if it ain't Tode Mall himself!"

"Yes," said Theodore, "I'm myself positively, and I want you to come with me and sign that pledge. I signed it years ago, and with God's help it has made a man of me. It will help you, Jerry. Come."

Great was the rustle of excitement in the hall as the notorious Jerry presently moved down the aisle leaning on the arm of the orator, and it began to be whispered through the crowd that he was once a resident of Albany, and actually a friend of that "dreadful Jerry Collins!" Many and wild were the surmises concerning him; but Theodore, all unconscious and indifferent, glowed with thankful pride as he steadied the pen in the trembling hand, and saw poor Jerry's name fairly written under the solemn pledge. On the morrow the eager search for the missing father was continued, aided by Jerry and by several others as it gradually began to dawn upon their minds who the father was, and who and what the son had become. Utterly in vain! Had the earth on some dark night opened suddenly and silently and swallowed him, he could not, it would seem, have passed more utterly from mortal knowledge than he had. As the search grew more fruitless Theodore's anxiety deepened. He prayed and mourned over that lost father, and it was with an unutterably sad heart that he finally dropped as a worthless straw the last seeming clew and gave him up.

There was one other sacred duty to perform. When the orphan son left Albany one winter morning there stood in one of the marble shops of the city, ready to be set up with the first breath of spring, a plain and simple tombstone bearing for record only these two words, "Dear Mother," and underneath this seemingly inappropriate inscription, understood only by himself, "Before they call I will answer, and while they are yet speaking I will hear." The day was unusually cold in which Theodore, on his homeward journey, was delayed at a quiet little town. The Express train, due at three o'clock, had been telegraphed three hours behind time, and he took his way somewhat disconsolately to a dingy little hotel to pass the intervening hours as best he might. "Strange!" he muttered drearily, "that I should have been delayed just here, only forty miles from home, with not a single earthly object of interest to help pass the hours away." He went forward to the forlorn little parlor, where a few sticks of wet wood were sizzling and smoking, and vainly trying to burn in a little monster of a stove over in one corner. Theodore flung himself into a seat in front of this attempt at a fire, kept his overcoat on for the sake of warmth, and looked about him for some entertainment. He found it promptly. Thrown over the back of a chair in the opposite corner was a great fur overcoat, with a brilliant red lining, and an unmistakable something about it that distinguished it from all other overcoats in the world. Theodore knew at a glance that it belonged to Mr. Hastings. He started up and went toward it, smiling and saying within himself: "Is this furry creature my good or evil genius, this time, I wonder?" Then he went out to the horrible bar-room to make inquiries. The clerk knew nothing about Mr. Hastings; had never heard his name as he knew of. There was a man there, a stranger—had been for two days; he was sick, and they had put him to bed, and they were doing what they could for him. He had seemed unable to give his name or his residence. Paralysis, or something of that sort, he believed the doctor called it. It had begun with a kind of a fit. Yes, that fur overcoat belonged to him. Theodore requested to be shown immediately to the stranger's room. Alone, helpless, speechless, in the dingiest and most comfortless of rooms, he found Mr. Hastings! He went forward with eager, pitying haste, and spoke to the poor man—no answer, only a pitiful contortion of the face, and a hopeless attempt to raise the useless hand. Clearly there was work enough for the next three hours! With the promptness, not only natural in him, but added to by long habit, Theodore went to work. Under his orders the room assumed very speedily a different aspect; the attending physician was sent for and consulted with; he was a dull little man, but appeared to know enough to say that he didn't know what to do for the sick man. "It was a curious case; he had never seen its like before."

"Then why haven't you telegraphed for his own physician and friends?" questioned Theodore, indignantly.

"Why, bless your heart, sir!" exclaimed the proprietor of the hotel, "where would you have us telegraph, and to whom? He came here and fell down in a fit, and hasn't spoken since; and he had no baggage nor papers about him, so far as I can find, for it was precious little he would let me look. I assure you we have done our best," he added, in an injured tone.

Theodore apologised for his suspicious words; and failing to get even a nod from the sick man, to show that he understood his eager questions, acted on his own responsibility, and made all haste to the telegraph office. There he dispatched separate messages to Mrs. Hastings and Pliny, adding to Pliny's the words, "Bring a doctor." To Mr. Stephens he said, "Unavoidably detained." Then one, utterly on his own private responsibility, to Dr. Arnold, "Will you come to C—— by first train? A case of life and death." After that there was nothing to do but wait. Another sick-bed! Theodore sat down beside it in solemn wonderment over the incidents, many and varied, that were constantly bringing him in contact with this man and his family. The great troubled eyes of the sick man followed his every movement, and he could not resist the impression that at last they seemed to recognize him and take in some thought of hope. It seemed terrible, this living death, this unutterable silence, and yet those staring eyes, he did not know whether it was a hopeful indication or otherwise, but at last they closed and the sufferer seemed to sleep heavily. Wearily passed the hours; he chose not to leave his charge to meet the two o'clock train, but sent a carriage and waited in nervous torture for the whistle of the train. At last there was a sound of arrival, and eager voices of inquiry below. He left in charge the stupid little doctor, who was doing his utmost to keep awake, and went down stairs. They were all there, frightened and inquiring—Mrs. Hastings, Dora, Pliny, and, oh joy! Dr. Arnold himself! Theodore threw open the door of the dingy parlor.

"Come in, please all of you," he said, in a tone of gentle authority; "and be as quiet as possible." Nevertheless they all talked at once.

"Is it a fever?" Mrs. Hastings asked, shivering and cowering in a frightened way over the wretch of a stove.

"What is it, Mallery?" Pliny asked in the same breath; while even the taciturn doctor questioned, "What is the meaning of my imperative summons?"

For them all Theodore had prompt answers.

"No, madam"—to Mrs. Hastings—"Not a fever, I think. Pliny, I hardly know what it is—the doctor in attendance seems equally ignorant. Dr. Arnold, if you will come with me, and these friends will wait a few moments, perhaps I can bring them an encouraging report."

In this commotion only Dora kept white, silent lips, nerved herself as best she could for whatever this night was to bring forth, and waited. Theodore could not resist going over to her for an instant. She turned quickly to him, and laid a small quivering hand on his arm—

"Mr. Mallery, I know you will tell me the truth!"

"The entire truth, Miss Dora, just as soon as I know it. I do not know how much the danger is; yet, meantime, flee to the Strong for strength. Will you come, Dr. Arnold?"

Pliny followed, and the three moved silently up to the quiet chamber. Dr. Arnold stood quietly before the sleeper—felt his pulse, bent his head and listened to the beating heart, touched with practiced fingers the swollen veins in his temples, then stood up and turned toward the waiting gentlemen.

"Well, doctor?" said Theodore, with nervous impatience, while Pliny fairly held his breath to hear the answer; it came distinct and firm from the doctor's lips—not harshly, but with terrible truthfulness:

"He is entirely beyond human aid, Mr. Mallery!"

Then the room seemed to Pliny suddenly to reel and pitch forward, and both doctors were busy, not with the father, but the son.

What a fearful night it was! Pliny's shattered nervous system was not strong enough to endure the shock. Mrs. Hastings went from one fainting fit to another, with wild shrieks of anguish between—but all sound that escaped Dora, when Theodore gently and tenderly told her "the truth," was, "Oh, God, have mercy!" and the rest of that night she spent at her father's bedside, on her knees.

It was high noon before his heavy slumber changed to that unending sleep, but the change came—without word or sound or the quiver of a muscle—suddenly, touched by its Maker's hand, the busy heart stopped.

"Can you get through the rest of this fearful scene without me?" Dr. Arnold asked in the afternoon when all was over. "I must go home. I have had three telegrams this morning. Dr. Armitage is ill again, and his wife has sent for me. I will try to make all arrangements for you in the city, if you think you can get along."

"Yes," said Theodore, "I can manage. Pliny is up again, you know. But, doctor, tell me what this sickness was. What was the cause of the sudden death?"

"Rum!" said the doctor, in short, stern tones. "That is, an over-dose of brandy was the immediate cause of the fit, and the continued use of stimulants through many years the cause of the paralysis. It is just another instance of a rum murder—that's hard language, but it's true—and the son is fearfully predisposed to follow in his father's footsteps. I fear for him."

"Pliny has overcome that predisposition at last, I hope and trust. I think he is safe now."

"They are never safe, I think sometimes, until they are in their graves," answered the doctor, moodily.

"Or in the 'Everlasting Arms,'" returned Theodore, reverently. But while this conversation was in progress, there was a more dangerous one going on up-stairs. Mrs. Hastings had recovered from her swoons, but was lying in a state of semi-exhaustion in her room. She raised her head languidly as she heard Pliny's step, and gave her orders for the night.

"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:

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.

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