New Temperance Tales. No. 1: The Son of My Friend | Page 2

cards for a party always gave her a fit of low spirits. She has three sons, you know."
"Rather fast young men, as the phrase is. I've noticed them in supper-rooms, this winter, several times. A little too free with the wine."
We both stood silent for the space of nearly a minute.
"Well, Agnes," said my husband, breaking the silence, "how are we to decide this matter?"
"We must give a party, or decline invitations in future," I replied.
"Which shall it be?" His eyes looked steadily into mine. I saw that the thing troubled him.
"Turn it in your thought during the day, and we'll talk it over this evening," said I.
After tea my husband said, laying down the newspaper he had been reading and looking at me across the centre-table, "What about the party, Agnes?"
"We shall have to give it, I suppose." We must drop out of the fashionable circle in which I desired to remain; or do our part in it. I had thought it all over--looking at the dark side and at the bright side--and settled the question. I had my weaknesses as well as others. There was social eclat in a party, and I wanted my share.
"Wine, and brandy, and all?" said my husband.
"We cannot help ourselves. It is the custom of society; and society is responsible, not we."
"There is such a thing as individual responsibility," returned my husband. "As to social responsibility, it is an intangible thing; very well to talk about, but reached by no law, either of conscience or the statute-book. You and I, and every other living soul, must answer to God for what we do. No custom or law of society will save us from the consequences of our own acts. So far we stand alone."
"But if society bind us to a certain line of action, what are we to do? Ignore society?"
"If we must ignore society or conscience, what then?"
His calm eyes were on my face. "I'm afraid," said I, "that you are magnifying this thing into an undue importance."
He sighed heavily, and dropped his eyes away from mine. I watched his countenance, and saw the shadows of uneasy thought gathering about his lips and forehead.
"It is always best," he remarked, "to consider the probable consequences of what we intend doing. If we give this party, one thing is certain."
"What?"
"That boys and young men, some of them already in the ways that lead to drunkenness and ruin, will be enticed to drink. We will put temptation to their lips and smilingly invite them to taste its dangerous sweets. By our example we will make drinking respectable. If we serve wine and brandy to our guests, young and old, male and female, what do we less than any dram-seller in the town? Shall we condemn him, and ourselves be blameless? Do we call his trade a social evil of the direst character, and yet ply our guests with the same tempting stimulants that his wretched customers crowd his bar-room to obtain?"
I was borne down by the weight of what my husband said. I saw the evil that was involved in this social use of wines and liquors which he so strongly condemned. But, alas that I must say it! neither principle nor conscience were strong enough to overcome my weak desire to keep in good standing with my fashionable friends. I wanted to give a party--I felt that I must give a party. Gladly would I have dispensed with liquor; but I had not the courage to depart from the regular order of things. So I decided to give the party.
"Very well, Agnes," said my husband, when the final decision was made. "If the thing has to be done, let it be well and liberally done."
I had a very dear friend--a Mrs. Martindale. As school-girls, we were warmly attached to each other, and as we grew older our friendship became closer and tenderer. Marriage, that separates so many, did not separate us. Our lots were cast in the same city, and in the same social circle. She had an only son, a young man of fine intellect and much promise, in whom her life seemed bound up. He went into the army at an early period of the war, and held the rank of second lieutenant; conducting himself bravely. A slight, but disabling wound sent him home a short time previous to the surrender of Lee, and before he was well enough to join his regiment, it was mustered out of service.
Albert Martindale left his home, as did thousands of other young men, with his blood untouched by the fire of alcohol, and returned from the war, as thousands of other young men returned, with its subtle poison in all his veins.
The dread of this very thing had haunted his mother during all the years