Rensselaer Republican, Volume 21, Number 38, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 May 1889 — TOLD ON A PULLMAN. [ARTICLE]

TOLD ON A PULLMAN.

Youth s Companion. “Do not dare to take it, did you say? Well. I’m glad I can say that I can take it or leave it, as I please,” and the young fellow who had invited his traveling acquaintance to drink, screwed the ing-cup, and replaced it in his pocket. “I always carry a little of the right sort Al,” he said, with an air of superior judgment. “Are you a teetotaller, sir?” “I don’t like the word, teetotaller,’ sir, but I never drink. I dare not,” repeat* ed the older man. On flew the train, the swaying, the rattle becoming a roar when the door opened, the stillness at stopping-places emphasized by the sough of high wind and the beating or rain. Still neither of the men left the smoking compartment of the Pullman car. The younger traveller became absorbed in a bundle of formal-looking letters, over which he smoked two cigars before speaking again. ■-—--■■■■■' --7 “It must be late,” at length he said. "What! After eleven o’clock? Well, I’ll have another little taste and go to my berth. You’re about the most silent companion I’ve fallen in with, sir. Every time I’ve looked up for two hours I’ve observed you looking at me seriously. See anything wrong?” “I’ve been wondering what your alert face will be like in ten years.” “A regular sober-side face, you may depend or that. Full of business—that’s what I am going in for.” “Well, 1 hope it may be. Somehow I find mysel! taking at extraordinary in--7 terest in the question, if you will permit me, I’ll tell you why.” Teetotal story, sir? ’ said the voung man, banteringly. “You might call it that.” “I guess I must have heard it already. Teetotal stories are mighty stale.” “Degredation through drink- is a fact that is ever stale, and ever freshly illustrated. I was going to tell you a personal experience.” “You don’t look like a reformed drunkard, sir.” “No, I never drank. But I dearly loved one who did. Shall I tell you about, him?” “If it will not be too painful, sir,” said the you fellew, moved to sympathy by something in the man’s tone. “Well, first read a part of a letter I received some time ago,” said the older man, putting his handin his coat pocket, n which there were many papers, from which be took the letter. The young fellow took it, and read, with a strong sensation of intruding upon private grief: “Ah, my dear felloe, I have three little children and a wife whose childlike and innocent life should have led me to better things. Many a care and many a sorrow she has had since she married me, and many a time, God knows, I’ve been deeply penitent to have given her cause for grief. “But I Lave the. restless blood of a drunkard in my veins, and it carries me away to dreadful and disgraceful sprees. I promise— l swear off—l protest by all that’s good and holy that liquor shall never pass my lips again, but all to no pappose. A craving—a devil—takes possession of me, and after weeks, or even months, of abstention, I break out, and degrade myself and shame my children, and heap misery on them and «ny wife., “The old year is closing as 1 write, and the hew comes up before me like an enemy —so much do I feel my weakness. That God may close my old life and open a new and better one to me is the cry of my heart to-night. For if I do not find strength, that the past gives me no hope of gaining, before the leaves of next summer wither I shall fill a drunkard’s grave, and leave my wife and little ones to the mercy es the world.” "Surely the man who wrote that never drank again,” said the young traveller, handing back the page. “I will tell you. That letter was written by my own brother. I had not ’AI r-' ' " '

seen him fer several years. He was a lawyer, practicing in a place far from me, or any of our family. I, we all, had thought of him as a prosperous and happy man. His marriage had set at rest some fears excited by his earlier life. “You can understand that that letter was a dreadful shock to me. “His reference to the drunkard’s blood ip his veins had a significance for me that you cannot understand, for on one side of my parentage I come of a family that has suffered beyond telling through the drinking habit. Clever jmen in it; witty, great-hearted fellows, much loved, popular, eloquent. One was a Supreme Court judge; two were among the foremost orators of their native State. Their feme blazed up in their very youth. It declined just as men began to expect something great of them. It ended before middle age in drunkenness and death. A miserable record sir! “On the other side, my relatives are steady-going people, .without any brilliant qualities. I take after them, and remembering the others, 1 have never dared to taste liquor. “But my brother did dare. You remember your expression awhile ago: *1 am glad I can say that I can take it, or leave it alone, as I please'.’ How often I had heard the very words and tone from poor Randal. Just about your age he must have been when he used to meet my expostulations by that current boast of young men. “ 'What’s the use of telling me about my uncles, Fred?’ he would say. ‘They craved liquor. I never touch it, except for .the sake of a little jollity. I can take it, or leave it alone, as I please.’ “But I’ll not weary you by details of bis youthful escapades. As I said, we believed him to have turned over a new leaf after his marriage in a distant State, He brought his wife home to us for a few weeks,—a lovely, golden-haired young creature. Weil! well! there’s no use telling about that. “He had finally sworn off then, he said, and they were very happy. After that I knew nothing more of him than that he reported, in occasional letters, the growth of his family and- hia_EKfe perity. “The letter which you have read came after a wide gap in our cones pondence. I instantly determined to make time for a long visit to him and wrote him to that effect. He responded joyfully, and in early summer I made the journey. “On arriving at the village, I was surprised that he did not meet me. Inquiring where Randal’s office was, the station master told me that he would not probably be at his office that day; he was a little out of sorts, the man had heard. I would find him at home; it wasn’t far, aud the railway man gave me directions. “I found the place a pretty little town of comfortable brick houses and shady, sandy streets—a most peaceful place. Reaching its outskirts as instructed, I soon faced a handsome house, withan extensive lawn in front, well kept, with flower-beds and many evidences of care. “I had associated my brother’s confession with the drunkenness seen in my own town, and conceived of him as being miserably poor; hence I was a good deal relieved by the appearance of prosperity about his residence. “‘Pooh!' I said to myself, going up the gravel path* ‘he has exaggerated his vice. No doubt he had taken too much about Christmas time, and was suffering from a bad headache in consequence.’ “As I approached, it struck me as rather strange that no one was to be seen about the place. I observed that the garden ran far back to a cedar wood or swamp behind the house, and from this wood I thought I heard faint shouts. "I ascended the veranda steps. Not a face appeared at the window. As I rang the bell, I heard a child crying within. With the faint jangle that came to me, the cry ceased. I stood expectant. The child again began its wail, but no one came. “I rang again and again. With each sound of the bell the child’s voice ceased, to rise again as the tinkle died away. Much puzzled, I went around to the rear wing. “The kitchen door stood wide open, a bright fire was in the stove, there were dishes unwashed, and food in course of preparation, but no servants. “I looked into three comfortable rooms, finding no one. In the fourth, a large sitting room, a very little girl sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by toys. I knew at once that she must' be little Flora, my brother’s youngest,— his pet, being the only girl,—a baby of something more than two years. “She looked up at me, round-eyed with wonder. ‘ls this little Flora?’ I asked. “ ‘l’s papa’s little girl,’ she answered, very distinctly. ‘Papal papal’ and she began to cry again* “Unwilling though she was, I took her in my arms and soon managed to soothe her by the ticking of my watch. Then I carried her through every room in the house without finding a person in it. "Trying in vain to account for the desertion, I returned down stairs and to the kitchen. As I reached it, t womnall boys came ip,—little Randal and Fred,— I knew them from photographs. "Alarmed, they stared at me. Both

had been crying, I could see. When I told them I was Uncle Fred, they came to me shyly. T , , “ ‘And where are papa and mamma?’ T aaltall x acauu, “The little fellows hung their heads. ‘Papa is sick,’ said Randal,the elder. “ 'But where is he?’ “ ‘He got up and ran out,’ said the poor little man. “ ‘And where are mamma and all the rest?’ “Mamma didn’t know papa had gone till he was"near into the woods,’ he said, pointing to the rear of the garden. ‘and then she ran after him, and she called Kitty and Jane and Thomas, and. we ran after them, and they sent us home to take care of tne baby. They can’t find papa, and he’s lost,’ so my little nephew explained through his sobs. "Scarcely had he done speaking when a man appeared at the edge of the wood, and soon afterwards a group following him. Boon he turned and shook his fist at them. ■‘"Go ’way! Lemme alone! Don’ comb near me!’ and I recognized my brother’s voice. “Those who followed seemed either to fear or to humor him, for they kept their distance. On he eame, tumbling over the fence into the garden. The he picked himself up, reeled, steadied himself, lurched forward again, and sometimes running, but always keeping his feet, approached me. “The boys, crying and shuddering, stood clutching me till he was two-lhirds of the way up the garden. “ ‘Come, Freddy,’ said little Randal then,‘we mustn’t see papa when he’s sick,’ and led the other in.— “It was the most piteous child’s voice piteous tuing, inat wrung nfy heart to its very depths—these two little lads ashamed of their own father! “He came on, not noticing me till within a few paces. He was unshod and only half-clad, just as he had run out in semi delirium, and had been passing through mud and water. “At last he looked at me in evident recognition, trying to control his swayings, then, as if unconscious of any shame, came towards me. “‘lt’s you, Fred. When’dyou come? Why din’ you lemme know, Fred?’ “His hand closed like a vise on mine, his whole strength—and he was a very large, powerful man—seemed to fly to his fingers, but his arm trembled as he grasped. “I could not speak. He looked stupidly into my face, with bloodshot eyes, half open, for a few moments; then, ignoring me as completely as if I had been al ways there, reached out his arms for Florry. “ ‘Come to papa—thass papa’s dear lill girl.’ His husky affection was most distressing to bear. I drew the child back, but she held out her arms to him, and staggering forward, he grasped her. “Kissing and fondling her; he entered the kitchen and cautiously ascended the steps leading to the hall. I kept my hand on his arm, and of this support he seemed wholly unconscious. It was plain that his debauch had been a long one, for his hair was neglected, his beard was of a week’s growth. “My brother fell into a chair, stil fondling his little daughter, and looked dumbly around. I seemed no more to him than any senseless abject in the room. To me, this sodden, silent man was as one I had never known, so changed was his from the bright, alert face of which yours has reminded me.” The young traveller shifted uneasily, and the tale again went on. “Soon I heard voices, and left the room to meet my brother’s wife. Poor Lucy! I was ashamed to meet her ashamed that she should know that I bad seen him; I wished that L could have escaped unobserved. Little did 1 know how far past the pangs of vain efforts to conceal her husband’s vice the poor girl had gbt! “She came silently to me, unsurprised —not. to be surprised by anything in life. Her fair hair, that I remembered as seeming blown about her flower like face, was smooth and lank each side her forehead. She looked vet y old and very pale. Her eyes—they give tragedy to black eyed women—l could not have believed that such settled misery could ever look forth from eyes of blue. “She did not weep, she did rot speak. Holding my hand, she only looked at me with those hopeless eyes. “Seeing us, the servant who had entered went back and closed the door. Then the bttfe boya stole spftly down, hand in hand, averting their looks of shame from the room wnere their father sat, and, standing by their mother, covered their faces with her skirts. “Not a vord was uttered in the group, and the hall oloek above us ticked aud ticked, like strokes of doom. “We could hear the unconscious biby crowing, and my brother’s affectionate mumbling to her. “ ‘Papa’s 1111 girl—papa’s dear till baby girl.’ “Sir; I don’t think I can toll you the rest,’ said the narrator, dashing his hand across his eyes. The young traveller sat silently with downcast eyes. "Well, we stood for some little time, listening. Then my brother said, coaxingly, ‘Papa ’ll leave lill dear girl down, ’n go'n' see lill girl‘B Unde Fred.’ At the same time he rose, and we entered. ‘“Let me take the baby, Randal,’ said Lucy, very gently.

~ “/Go ’way, Lucy dear! Mustn’t in’fere with baby,’ he expostulated with drunken, not unkindly gravity. “ ‘But you want to go upstairs, don’t you, Randal dear?’ ‘ "‘Yek. I wan’ to go petai ra. Go’n’ set baby down firs’, ’n’ give her toys. You oughtn’t take baby, Lucy; she’s too heav/—must take care not to hurt yourself, Lucy ’ . - * “The survival of his affection through his degradation was most heart breaking to witness. “I did not think he could set the child down, but, refusing to bp assisted in the .least, he stooped very carefully, though swaying a little, and placed her againameng her playthings on the floor. For a few moments he stood leaning, smiling down on her drunkenly, fumbling his fingers without sound in attempting to snap them for her amusement. The child looked up into his face and held out her arms. “ ‘Baby want to kiss papa,’ he said, and stooped lower. And then, before either of us could reach him, he fell forward his full length,Lis whole weight crushing little Florry down. “She cried out, and seemed to smother. The next instant he had rolled aside, and there the little, lovely child lay, bleeding at the mouth. “The poor mother, with a shriek, lifted her baby to her heart. It sighed twice, and then lay still. Randal, by my aid, had reached his feet. The unutterable horror of his face I shall never forget! “‘Baby’’ he said, stooping down. ‘Baby, look at papa. Baby—just once —look at papa. Oh, my God! Lucy, have I killed my little baby girl?’ “Even so it was,for little Florry never held but her armsTo~him or 'smiTed at him again. The mother— b 'it I need not describe the anguish of th at household. We hardlv knew when my brother recovered from the insanity of liquor, for it Wks followed by the delirium of brain fever. There he lay for a fortnight, talking constantly of Florry, and when consciousness returned still lay there, exhausted, silent, a mere wreck, often crying dumbly. Two months-ehtpsed before he left his room. ‘“He never could look at liquor again?’ questioned the young traveler. "Sir, he swore he never would, swore it, as his letter says, by all that was good and holy. And even between his protests, he said to me, ‘I can’t keep from it, Fred, I can’t—it’s too strong for me. I could not believe that he judged truly of the demon to which he had surrendered himself, but it was no longer for him to take it or leave it alone. "One day, when we believed him safe at his office, he entered the house, looking, I thought, remarkably well. But when Lucy saw his face, she sprang up with an exceeding bitter cry. He stood, as if listening, at the door of the room, looking in. “ ‘Lucy, where’s little Florry? I want to take her out with me,’ he said in a perfectly natural voice. "Though quite steady on his legs, and with perfect control of his utterance, he had drunk himself into absolute forgetfulness.

"And from that day out he could not be restrained. He would have liquor. Again and again he escaped from the room in which we tried to confine him. His cunning and agility were preternatural. The demon that he had dared to trifle with never left him afterward, and, searching for him after an escape in the night, we found him half naked face down, quite dead, in a ditch. * “ ‘Oh, horrible! sir, most terrible, said the young traveler. “And mow I ask you whether I can credit any man who says of liquor that he ‘can take it, or leave it alone’? The most boneless sot you may know began with that belief. You held,it firmly, and I wish I could have a clearer vision of what yonr face will be in ten years.” The young traveler took from his pocket the flask which had led to the story, and poured its A 1 contents into the wash basin of that Pullman car. That was nearly eleven years ago, and when he told me this story, or its substance, yesterday, it came from the firm lips as a prosperous man, scorning temptation.