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The Son Of My Friend
by
I tried to console myself by the argument that I was only doing as the rest did–following a social custom; and that society was responsible–not the individual. But this did not lift the weight of concern and self-condemnation that so heavily oppressed me.
At last word came that all was ready in the supper-room. The hour was eleven. Our guests passed in to where smoking viands, rich confectionery and exhilarating draughts awaited them. We had prepared a liberal entertainment, a costly feast of all available delicacies. Almost the first sound that greeted my ears after entering the supper-room was the “pop” of a champagne cork. I looked in the direction from whence it came, and saw a bottle in the hands of Albert Martindale. A little back from the young man stood his mother. Our eyes met. Oh, the pain and reproach in the glance of my friend! I could not bear it, but turned my face away.
I neither ate nor drank anything. The most tempting dish had no allurement for my palate, and I shivered at the thought of tasting wine. I was strangely and unnaturally disturbed; yet forced to commend myself and be affable and smiling to our guests.
“Observe Mrs. Gordon,” I heard a lady near me say in a low voice to her companion.
“What of her?” was returned.
“Follow the direction of her eyes.”
I did so, as well as the ladies near me, and saw that Mrs. Gordon was looking anxiously at one of her sons, who was filling his glass for, it might be, the second or third time.
“It is no place for that young man,” one of them remarked. “I pity his mother. Tom is a fine fellow at heart, and has a bright mind; but he is falling into habits that will, I fear, destroy him. I think he has too much self-respect to visit bar-rooms frequently; but an occasion like this gives him a liberty that is freely used to his hurt. It is all very respectable; and the best people set an example he is too ready to follow.”
I heard no more, but that was quite enough to give my nerves a new shock and fill my heart with a new disquietude. A few minutes afterwards I found myself at the side of Mrs. Gordon. To a remark that I made she answered in an absent kind of way, as though the meaning of what I said did not reach her thought. She looked past me; I followed her eyes with mine, and saw her youngest boy, not yet eighteen, with a glass of champagne to his lips. He was drinking with a too apparent sense of enjoyment. The sigh that passed the mother’s lips smote my ears with accusation. “Mrs. Carleton!” A frank, cheery voice dropped into my ear. It was that of Albert Martindale, the son of my friend. He was handsome, and had a free, winning manner. I saw by the flush in his cheeks, and the gleam in his eyes, that wine had already quickened the flow of blood in his veins.
“You are enjoying yourself,” I said.
“Oh, splendidly!” then bending to my ear, he added.–“You’ve given the finest entertainment of the season.”
“Hush!” I whispered, raising my finger. Then added, in a warning tone–“Enjoy it in moderation, Albert.”
His brows knit slightly. The crowd parted us, and we did not meet again during the evening.
By twelve o’clock, most of the ladies had withdrawn from the supper-room; but the enticement of wine held too many of the men there–young and old. Bursts of coarse laughter, loud exclamations, and snatches of 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.