Part 42 (2/2)

”No, I shall _not_ leave you, dear friend, and all is _not_ over. You are going to try harder than ever before, and I am _never_ going to give you up--NEVER!”

Silence for a little, then Pliny said:

”Then don't leave me, Theodore, not for an _instant_, _day or night_--promise.”

And Theodore, ignoring all the strangeness of his position, promised, and remained in the house, the watcher-guard and helper of more than Pliny.

Not for an instant did he lose sight of his friend; through all the trying ordeal of the following days he was constantly present. Even in Pliny's private interviews with his mother, Theodore hovered near, and his was the first face that Pliny met when he came to the door to issue any orders. It was Theodore's hand that held open the carriage door when the son came to follow his father to his final resting-place, and it was Theodore's arm that was linked in his when he walked down the hall on his return.

These were sad things to Theodore in another way. Despite all Mr.

Hastings' coldness to him, he had never been able to lose sight of the memory of those days, now long gone by, in which the rich man had in a sense been his protector and friend. He could not forget that it was through _him_ that his first step upward had been taken. Aside from his mother, Mr. Hastings was perhaps the first person for whom he felt a touch of love. He could not forget him--could not cease to mourn for him.

There was, only a week after this, another funeral. There was no long line of coaches, and no display of magnificence this time--only a quiet, slow-moving procession following the unplumed hea.r.s.e. Only one store in the city was closed, and not a hundred people knew for whom the bell tolled that day; but did ever truer mourners or more bleeding hearts follow a coffin to its final resting-place than were those who gathered around that open grave, and saw the body of Grandma McPherson laid to rest for awhile, awaiting the call of the great Maker, when he should bid it come up to meet its glorified spirit, and dwell in that wonderful _Forever_!

The messenger came suddenly to her, in the quiet of a moonlight night, when all the household were asleep; and none who saw her in the morning, with that blessed look upon her face, that told of earth receding and heaven coming in, could doubt but that when in the silent night she heard the Master whisper, ”Come up higher,” she made answer, ”Even so, Lord Jesus.”

So they laid her in the silent city on the hill, very near the spot where, by and by, there towered and blazed Mr. Hastings' monument; but when they set up _her_ white headstone they marked on it the blessed words: ”So he giveth his beloved sleep.”

But oh, that home left without a mother--the dear, loving, toiling, patient, self-sacrificing mother!

”Dear old lady,” were the words in which Theodore had most often thought of her, and I find on thinking back that I have constantly spoken of her thus, but in reality she was not old at all; her early life of toil and privation and sorrow had whitened her hair and marked heavy lines as of age on her face. Her quaint dress gave added strength to this impression, and Theodore when he first met her was at that age when all women in caps and spectacles are old, so ”Grandma” she had always been to him, but they only wrote ”sixty-three” on her coffin.

They were sitting together, Theodore and Pliny, the first evening they had spent alone since the changes had come to them. They were in their pleasant room which must soon be vacated, for the guiding presence that had made of them a family was wanting now. They had not been talking, only the quietest common-places--neither of them seemed to have words that they chose to utter. They were sitting in listless att.i.tudes, each occupying a great arm-chair, which they called ”study-chairs.” Theodore with his hands clasped at the back of his head, and Pliny with his face half hidden in his hands. The latter was the first to break the silence.

”Mallery, you are _such_ a wonderment to me! What is there about me that makes you cling so? I thought it was all over during that awful time. I don't know how you can help despising me, but you don't know how it was.

Oh, Theodore, I tried, I struggled, I _meant_ to keep my promise, and even at such a time as that the sight of my enemy conquered me. Now, _what_ am I to do? There is no hope for me at all. I have no trust, no confidence in myself.”

”That at least would be hopeful if it were strictly true,” Theodore answered, earnestly. ”But, Pliny, it is not _quite_ true. If you utterly distrusted yourself, _so_ utterly that you would stop trying to save yourself alone, and accept the All-powerful Helper's aid, I should be at rest about you forever.”

Contrary to his usual custom, Pliny had no answer ready, seemed not in the least inclined to argue, and so Theodore only dropped a little sigh and waited. It was not despair with him during these days--his faith had reached high ground. ”Ask, and ye _shall_ receive,” had come home to him with wonderful force just lately, while he waited on his knees; he felt that he should never let go again for a moment. Still there seemed nothing now for him to do, nothing but that constant watching and constant praying; and he had only lately come to realize how much these two things meant. Presently, sitting there in the silence, he bethought himself of Winny in her desolation.

”Pliny,” he said, suddenly, ”shall not you and I go down and try to help poor Winny endure her loneliness? Do you know she is utterly alone?

Rick's wife is in her room with the child, and Rick and Jim just went down the walk together.”

Pliny seemed nothing loth, and the two descended to the dear little parlor where so many happy hours had been pa.s.sed. Winny had turned down the gas to its lowest ebb, and was curled into a corner of the sofa, giving up to the form of grief in which she most indulged--utter, white silence. She sat erect as the two young men entered, and Theodore turned on the gas; Pliny took the other corner of the sofa, and Theodore the chair opposite them. He looked from one to the other of the white worn faces. What utter misery was expressed on both! A great longing came over him to comfort them. But what comfort could he offer for such troubles as theirs, save the one thing that both rejected? He gave voice to his thoughts almost without intending it, with no other feeling than that his great pity and desire for them were beyond his control.

”How much, _how very much_, you two people need the same help! What utter nothingness any other aid is. I have not the heart to offer either of you the mockery of human sympathy,” he spoke in gentle, sad tones, and straight way was startled with himself for speaking at all. Winny turned her great gray solemn eyes on her companion in the other corner.

”Do _you_ feel the need of help?” she asked, gravely. ”Heaven knows I _do_ feel the need of something I don't possess. I am utterly s.h.i.+pwrecked. I don't know which way to turn. I do, if I only would turn that way. Mother had help all her life long--help that you and I know nothing about. Do you doubt that?”

”No, I _don't_,” answered Pliny, solemnly.

”Then why can't we have it if we both need it, and can get it for the asking? Mother prayed for you as well as for me. The very last night of her life I heard her. I know what she prayed for is so. I'm tired of struggling. I've been at it, Theodore knows, for a great many years. If mother were here to-night I would say to her: 'Mother, I'm not going to struggle any more; I'm going to give myself up,' and that would make her happy--oh, too happy for earth. Well, I'm going to, anyway. I'm sick of myself; I want to get away from myself; I need help. You've struggled, too; I know by myself. Suppose we both give up. Suppose we both kneel down here this minute, and say that we are tired of ourselves, and ashamed of ourselves and we want Christ. Theodore will say it for us.

Will you do it, Mr. Hastings?”

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