| Walter Traprock 2006-09-27, 8:20 am |
| Afraid of it, by T. S. Arthur
"If you are afraid of it, all right. I wouldn't tempt you
for the world." And the speaker drew back the wine-bottle
he had pushed toward his friend.
"All men should be afraid of it," was the steady answer.
"I am not," said the other, with an air of proud
self-confidence. He was a young man named Hargrave, a
handsome fellow, with a fine physique and vigorous
health -- one who felt his life in every limb.
"You will be before you die," answered his friend, speaking
quite as confidently.
"If I didn't know you as well and like you as well as I
do, Barclay, I'd be angry for that saying -- it's a
reflection on my manhood."
"No, not on your particular manhood, but on manhood in
general. No one ever uses intoxicating drinks regularly
without cause to be sorry for it," said Barclay.
"I've taken my glass of wine, or ale, or brandy ever
since I was a man, and haven't been sorry yet," replied
the friend.
"You've had occasion to be sorry many times, I doubt not,"
returned Barclay.
"Now look here, Harry! I'll not stand for this! Did you
ever see me the worse for drink?"
"No, not what is usually meant by the phrase. And yet,
very few men take a glass of any kind of intoxicating
drink -- and all distilled or fermented liquors come
under that head, you know -- without being the worse
for it. Something of the brain's fine equipoise is
gone. The man's reason is not so clear, nor his
self-control so perfect."
"You draw it very fine," said Hargrave.
"Too fine, eh?"
"Too fine for me," said the other.
"On reflection, I think you will see that I am right,"
answered Barclay.
"Not right so far as I am concerned."
"Then your brain has never been confused by a glass of
wine or brandy?"
A slight shadow fell across Hargrave's ace.
"You and Harry Boyd were once the closest of friends,"
said Barclay. "In an instant of time the bond of
friendship was broken, and by an unguarded word. And
from that day to this, you have stood coldly apart."
"Don't speak of that, if you please," answered Hargrave,
in a tone of annoyance, as he poured out a glass of wine
and drank it off hastily. There was a higher color on
his face, and a brighter gleam in his eyes after this.
Barclay did not reply, for he saw that his friend's blood
was growing hot, and his brain losing its clearness. After
a few moments of silence, Hargrave said, almost
offensively: "I have no patience with your narrow, one-idea
men; and I hate a fanatic!"
Barclay felt the remark as a personal thrust; but he tried
to repress the irritation it occasioned. If a glass of
wine had been at work on his brain also, there would have
been a quarrel, for he would have answered the speech with
a sharp retort.
"The world is largely indebted to what are called one-idea
men," he quietly answered, "and even a fanatic may do good
in persistently thrusting on public attention the baleful
effects of a social evil."
"Do you call wine-drinking a social evil?" There was an
angry flash in Hargrave's eyes.
"The evil effects are to be seen everywhere," replied
Barclay.
"Then you class wine-drinkers and evil-doers together?"
said Hargrave.
"No, I do not so class them."
"Then I don't know the meaning of terms." There was slight
curl on Hargrave's lip.
"Wine-drinking leads to evil-doing in too many cases," said
Barclay. "This is no new statement. It is as old as
Scripture. And any practice that tends to social
demoralization must be regarded as a social evil."
"Oh! you needn't try to explain it away," returned Hargrave,
with considerable irritation, sipping as he spoke. "I'm an
evil-doer because I take my glass of wine, and you are a
well-doer because you do not."
"Let's change the subject," said the friend, "and agree to
disagree."
"That's all very well, after you've had your say," retorted
Hargrave. "But I can't see it so. Because, forsooth, I take
my good wine, and some weak-headed noodle can't touch a glass
without making a fool of himself, I'm to be set down as an
evil-doer -- a bad member of society, and all that! And after
I'm so set down, you say, 'Let's agree to disagree!' "I
don't like it! It's an offense! It's an insult!"
"Nothing of the kind was intended, I assure you," urged
Barclay.
"Then take it back," said the other.
"Take what back?"
"The charge you brought against me just now."
"What charge?"
"Why, that I was an evil-doer -- a bad member of society, and
all that."
"I did not say so." In spite of his effort to control himself,
Barclay was becoming irritated.
"You did!" exclaimed Hargrave, his face growing dark with anger.
"No; but I'll tell you what I did say," replied Barclay, his
brows beginning to contract.
"What?"
"That all men should be afraid of wine, and that you would be
afraid of it before you died."
"Pshaw!" And Hargrave curled his lip contemptuously.
Barclay arose, and was taking his hat to go, when the other
said, stepping between him and the door, "Not yet; we must
settle this matter first."
"What matter?"
"About my being an evil-doer. No man ever said that of me
before." He poured out another glass and drank it off.
"You misapprehend me altogether," was returned, with much
seriousness of manner; for Barclay saw that the wine taken
by his friend had already unbalanced him, and put him in
a captious and quarrelsome frame of mind. "I only
referred tp the effect of wine-drinking on society."
"And don't I drink wine, ha?" cried Hargrave fiercely.
"Yes; but if under the influence of wine you have never
done a wrong act, no one will call you a wrong-doer."
The quiet, serious way in which this was said, subdued
Hargrave; and ere the current of his unreasoning anger
flowed on again, Barclay said a quick "Good-morning!"
and was gone.
"I am more afraid of it than ever," exclaimed the young man
to himself, as he gained the street, and drew a deep
breath. "He's a good fellow and I like him; but his
harmless wine came near getting us into a quarrel, and has,
I fear, turned the fine edge of our friendship. We can
hardly meet again without reserve or embarrassment."
Nor did they; for in Hargrave's remembrance of the
interview was an impression that his friend had classed
him with social evil-doers. Just what he said he could
distinctly remember; but he was sure about its being
derogatory to his manhood or his honor. As for Barclay,
he felt that it was not safe to be on intimate terms
with a man who had in so marked a way illustrated the
adage, "that when the wine is in, the wit is out." But
he was not yet done with this friend. A few weeks
afterward he received a note from him, saying: "I want
to see you this evening very particularly. I've got
an unpleasant affair on my hands, and would like the
aid of your clear head. Be sure to come. I will be
in my room at eight."
Barclay called, as desired, at Hargrave's room. He
found him walking the floor in a disturbed state of
mind.
"Ah! good-evening!" he said, holding out his hand as
Barclay entered. "It was kind of you to come so
promptly. Sit down. You see I've got, as I said, an
unpleasant affir on my hands, and want your help."
A bottle of wine and two glasses stood on his table.
As Barclay sat down, Hargrave filled the two glasses,
and was about handing one out to his friend, when he
checked himself, and grew slightly embarassed.
"Oh! I forgot," he said in an apologetic way, "you
don't take wine."
Barclay remembered but too distinctly his narrow
escape from a quarrel in that very room only a few
weeks before; and for a moment or two he hesitated to
speak as duty prompted -- but only for a moment or two.
Then he said, with a manly force and bearing that gave
a power to his words: "No, I'm afraid of it. It came
near getting us in trouble the last time I was here; and
now, my friend, if you want counsel from me, you must
put up the wine and keep a cool head."
He spoke bravely and emphatically. Hargrave's face
crimsoned to his temples. His eyes flashed with a
sudden fire. But they soon dropped away from the
steady gaze of his friend, who saw the firm line of
his lips give place to weak irresolution. For a
little while he remained silent and still. Then in a
slow, forced sort of manner, as one acting under
impulsion, he took the small tray on which stood the
bottle and glasses, and put it out of sight.
"Will that do?" he asked in a strangely quiet tone.
"Thank you for meeting my wishes -- prejudices -- if you
prefer to call them so," said Barclay, with a softened
manner. "We can not always see alike, and must have
patience one with another. And now, my friend, in
what way can I serve you?"
Hargarve's face grew very serious.
"I'm getting unfortunate of late," said he, "and hardly
know what to make of it. It really seems as if people
put themselves out to annoy or insult me."
"What has happened?" asked his friend.
"George Glenn behaved so rudely last night, at the Westons'
party, that I don't see how I can pass it over," replied
Hargrave.
"Annie Glenn's brother?"
"Yes; and what makes it so much worse, is the fact that it
was done in her presence."
"I heard something about it to-day," said Barclay.
"You did?"
"Yes."
"Well, what did you hear?" Hargrave turned to the table
at which he was sitting, and reached out his hand. The
movement was not to be mistaken. But the bottle and
glasses were gone. He looked a little confused.
"I heard," replied Barclay, "that while you and Miss
Glenn were standing together in the supper-room, her
brother came up, and without noticing you, put out his
arm to his sister, and said 'Come' -- and that his
sister took his arm in some confusion of manner, and
was escorted to the other side of the room."
"Well; and what else did you hear?"
Barclay did not asnswer, until the question was repeated.
"It is said," he replied, speaking deliberately, and in a
firm voice, "that you had been taking to much wine."
Hargrave started to his feet -- flushing deeply, and then
growing pale.
"Who said it?" he demanded, with suppressed anger.
"I can not give you names. But I heard it so said by at
least three persons who were there and saw the incident;
and each of them said the George Glenn acted right."
Hargrave sat down as if some one had pushed him forcibly.
"Said that George Glenn acted right! Said that I had
taken too much wine!" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.
"I simply repeat what I heard; and it was said with no
ill-feeling toward you, but with evident pain and
regret."
"Do you believe it?" demanded Hargrave.
"How much wine had you taken?" asked Barclay.
"Two or three glasses only."
"What were you doing at the time Glenn came up?"
"Nothing out of the way that I can remember."
"You had a glass of wine in your hand?"
"Yes."
"And were making a little speech to Miss Glenn?"
"I was saying something to her; I don't know what."
"Gesticulating, and spilling the wine in your glass
over her beautiful dress?"
"Who says that?"
"It is so said," replied Barclay.
A look of blank surprise came into Hargrave's face.
"And you believe it?"
"I was not there, and have only heard one side of the
story. I will listen to you patiently for the other
side; and I will be a true friend in all possible
efforts to set you right in this unpleasant affair.
You are sure that the statement about your gesticulating
and spilling the wine is incorrect?"
Hargrave did not reply.
"Think closely," said his friend. "You should be able to
recall every particular of your conduct."
"Yes, that is true," he answered in an uncertain way, "but,
somehow, there is a slight obscurity in my mind. It is
all clear enough from the mement Glenn came up in his rude
way; but just what I was saying or doing at the time has
faded out of my memory."
"Why should this be? Have you soberly questioned yourself
as to the reason?"
"Do you mean to insinuate that I was drunk?" Fire
flashed again in the young man's eyes.
"I insinuate nothing. What you were saying or doing at a
certain time you can not remember. Others say that they
remember it distinctly, and agree in declaring it as
their opinion that you had taken wine too freely."
The fiery flash went out of Hargarve's eyes once more.
He bent his head in a tired, baffled kind of way, drawing,
as he did so, a deep sigh that was almost a groan.
"I am at fault," said he, speaking slowly. "There is a
muddle somewhere. As to my having taken too much wine,
the thing is so absurd that --" He checked himself
without finishing the sentence.
"Wine is a mocker," said his friend.
"And so you believe with the rest?" Hargrave spoke
reproachfully.
"It is never safe, my friend," returned Barclay, "to take
an enemy into the citadel of life."
"An enemy!"
"Was it a friend or an enemy that did you such a grievous
wrong last night? A friend or an enemy that took away
rational self-control, and so blurred the book of
memory that one of its pages can not be read? If an
enemy, who or what was it? Answer these questions to
your own soul, my friend. The testimony as to your
conduct is clear and corrobative, and you wrong yourself
when you attempt to ignore it."
"And so I was drunk!" exclaimed Hargrave, in a helpless,
injured kind of way, like one who submits to a wrong and
absurd judgment of his case.
"No one says that; only that you had taken too much wine,
and you didn't know what you were doing."
"And isn't that being drunk, I wonder!" said Hargrave, with
a mocking laugh.
"My friend!" returned Barclay, laying his hand upon Hargrave,
and speaking with impressive earnestness, "wine is your
enemy. I have seen this for a good while. A single glass
obscures your fine perceptions; makes your judgment less
clear, and quickens all your feelings. The last time I
met you in this room, it came neat breaking the bond of
friendship that has so long held us together."
"Come now," interrupted Hargrave, "don't charge that upon
wine. You forgot yourself, and classed me, if I
remember, with evil-doers."
"Nothing of the kind," answered Barclay. "I said
something in connection with wine-drinking about social
evils, when you turned on me sharply with the
question -- 'Do you call wine-drinking a social evil?'
and I simply answered that its evil effects were to be
seen everywhere. And then you insisted that I had
called you an evil-doer, and would have forced a
quarrel on me, if I had not left you abrubtly."
"And you say this in all soberness?" There was a look
of surprise and pain in Hargrave's face.
"In all soberness, as your friend," replied Barclay.
"And let me add this, now that I have the opportunity,
which may never occur again: Your singular obscurity
of mind on that occasion, and the persistent way in
which you tried to misapply my words and draw me into
a quarrel, warned me of the danger that was in the
way of a continued intimate friendship."
Hargrave sat with bowed head for a long time. His
countance, when he looked up, was pale, but resolved.
"It may be all so," he said. "I'm not sure of it --
I'm not sure of anything, in fact; except that of late,
people run against me a great deal oftener than they
used to do. You say it's the wine?"
"I am sure of it," replied his friend.
"Very well, we'll see. Wine and I will part company;
at least, for a while. There's no harm in trying the
experiment."
-----
"Do people run against you as often as before?" asked
Barclay, meeting his friend a few weeks afterward.
"No, I think not," replied Hargrave, smiling.
"You've kept to your word about the wine?"
"To the letter."
"And will so continue?"
"As long as I am in my right senses. You told me once
that the time would come when I'd be afraid of a glass
of wine; and the time is here. I am not as strong-headed
as I thought myself. Thank you, my friend, for your
honest speech. It has saved me, I think, from much that
I now shudder to contemplate."
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