New Temperance Tales. No. 1: The Son of My Friend | Page 5

song rang out from the company in strange confusion. It
was difficult to realize that the actors in this scene of revelry were
gentlemen, and gentlemen's sons, so called, and not the coarse
frequenters of a corner tavern.
Guests now began to withdraw quietly. It was about half-past twelve
when Mrs. Martindale came down from the dressing-room, with her
daughter, and joined Mr. Martindale in the hall, where he had been
waiting for them.
"Where is Albert?" I heard the mother ask.
"In the supper-room, I presume; I've looked for him in the parlors," Mr.
Martindale answered.
"I will call him for you," I said, coming forward.
"Oh, do if you please," my friend replied. There was a husky tremor in
her voice.

I went to the supper-room. All the ladies had retired, and the door was
shut. What a scene for a gentleman's house presented itself! Cigars had
been lighted, and the air was thick with smoke. As I pushed open the
door, my ear was fairly stunned by the confusion of sounds. There was
a hush of voices, and I saw bottles from many hands set quickly upon
the table, and glasses removed from lips already too deeply stained
with wine. With three or four exceptions, all of this company were
young men and boys. Near the door was the person I sought.
"Albert!" I called; and the young man came forward. His face was
darkly flushed, and his eyes red and glittering.
"Albert, your mother is going," I said.
"Give her my compliments," he answered, with an air of mock courtesy,
"and tell her that she has my gracious permission."
"Come!" I urged; "she is waiting for you."
He shook his head resolutely. "I'm not going for an hour, Mrs. Carleton.
Tell mother not to trouble herself. I'll be home in good time."
I urged him, but in vain.
"Tell him that he must come!" Mrs. Martindale turned on her husband
an appealing look of distress, when I gave her Albert's reply.
But the father did not care to assert an authority which might not be
heeded, and answered, "Let him enjoy himself with the rest. Young
blood beats quicker than old."
The flush of excited feeling went out of Mrs. Martindale's face. I saw it
but for an instant after this reply from her husband; but like a
sun-painting, its whole expression was transferred to a leaf of memory,
where it is as painfully vivid now as on that never-to-be-forgotten
evening. It was pale and convulsed, and the eyes full of despair. A dark
presentiment of something terrible had fallen upon her--the shadow of
an approaching woe that was to burden all her life.

My friend passed out from my door, and left me so wretched that I
could with difficulty rally my feelings to give other parting guests a
pleasant word. Mrs. Gordon had to leave in her carriage without her
sons, who gave no heed to the repeated messages she sent to them.
At last, all the ladies were gone; but there still remained a dozen young
men in the supper-room, from whence came to my ears a sickening
sound of carousal. I sought my chamber, and partly disrobing threw
myself on a bed. Here I remained in a state of wretchedness impossible
to describe for over an hour, when my husband came in.
"Are they all gone?" I asked, rising.
"All, thank God!" he answered, with a sigh of relief. Then, after a
moment's pause, he said--"If I live a thousand years, Agnes, the scene
of to-night shall never be repeated in my house! I feel not only a sense
of disgrace, but worse--a sense of guilt! What have we been doing?
Giving our influence and our money to help in the works of elevating
and refining society? or in the work of corrupting and debasing it? Are
the young men who left our house a little while ago, as strong for good
as when they came in? Alas! alas! that we must answer, No! What if
Albert Martindale were our son?"
This last sentence pierced me as if it had been a knife.
"He went out just now," continued Mr. Carleton, "so much intoxicated
that he walked straight only by an effort."
"Why did you let him go?" I asked, fear laying suddenly its cold hand
on my heart. "What if harm should come to him?"
"The worst harm will be a night at the station house, should he happen
to get into a drunken brawl on his way home," my husband replied.
I shivered as I murmured, "His poor mother!"
"I thought of her," replied Mr. Carleton, "as I saw him depart just now,
and said to myself bitterly, 'To think of sending home from my house to

his mother a son in that