Danger; or Wounded in the House of a Friend

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Danger; or Wounded in the House of a Friend

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The doctor gave a little shiver, which was observed by Doctor Kline.

"Not a nervous chill?" said the latter, manifesting concern.

"No; a moral chill, if I may use such a term," replied Doctor
Hillhouse--"a shudder at the thought of what might have been as one
of the consequences of Mr. Birtwell's liberal dispensation of wine."

"The strain of the morning's work has been too much for you, doctor,
and given your mind an unhealthy activity," said his companion. You
want rest and time for recuperation."

"It would have been nothing except for the baleful effects of that
party," answered the doctor, whose thought could not dissever itself
from the unhappy consequences which had followed the carousal (is
the word too strong?) at Mr. Birtwell's. "If I had not been betrayed
into drinking wine enough to disturb seriously my nervous system and
leave it weak and uncertain to-day, if Mr. Ridley had not been
tempted to his fall, if poor Archie Voss had been at home last night
instead of in the private drinking-saloon of one of our most
respected citizens, do you think that hand," holding up his right
hand as he spoke, "would have lost for a moment its cunning to-day
and put in jeopardy a precious life?"

The doctor rose from his chair in much excitement and walked
nervously about the room.

"It did not lose its cunning," said Doctor Kline, in a calm but
emphatic voice. I watched you from the moment of the first incision
until the last artery was tied, and a truer hand I never saw."

"Thank God that the stimulus which I had to substitute for nervous
power held out as long as it did. If it had failed a few moments
sooner, I might have--"

Doctor Hillhouse checked himself and gave another little shudder.

"Do you know, doctor," he said, after a pause speaking in a low,
half-confidential tone and with great seriousness of manner, "when I
severed that small artery as I was cutting close to the internal
jugular vein and the jet of blood hid both the knife-points and the
surrounding tissues, that for an instant I was in mental darkness
and that I did not know whether I should cut to the right or to the
left? If in that moment of darkness I had cut to the right, my
instrument would have penetrated the jugular vein."

It was several moments before either of the surgeons spoke again.
There was a look something like fear in both their faces.

"It is the last time," said Doctor Hillhouse, breaking at length the
silence and speaking with unwonted emphasis, "that a drop of wine or
brandy shall pass my lips within forty-eight hours of any
operation."

"I am not so sure that you will help as much as hurt by this
abstinence," replied Doctor Kline. "If you are in the habit of using
wine daily, I should say keep to your regular quantity. Any change
will be a disturbance and break the fine nervous tension that is
required. It is easy to account for your condition to-day. If you
had taken only your one or two or three glasses yesterday as the
case may be, and kept away from the excitement and--pardon me
excesses of last night--anything beyond the ordinary rule in these
things is an excess, you know--there would have been no failure of
the nerves at a critical juncture."

"Is not the mind clearer and the nerves steadier when sustained by
healthy nutrition than when toned up by stimulants?" asked Doctor
Hillhouse.

"If stimulants have never been taken, yes. But you know that we all
use stimulants in one form or another, and to suddenly remove them
is to leave the nerves partially unstrung."

"Which brings us face to face with the question whether or not
alcoholic stimulants are hurtful to the delicate and wonderfully
complicated machinery of the human body. I say alcoholic, for we
know that all the stimulation we get from wine or beer comes from
the presence of alcohol."

While Doctor Hillhouse was speaking, the office bell rang violently.
As soon as the door was opened a man came in hurriedly and handed
him, a slip of paper on which were written these few words:

"An artery has commenced bleeding. Come quickly! ANGIER"

Doctor Hillhouse started to his feet and gave a quick order for his
carriage. As it drove up to the office-door soon after, he sprang
in, accompanied by Doctor Kline. He had left his case of instruments
at the house with Doctor Angier.

Not a word was spoken by either of the two men as they were whirled
along over the snow, the wheels of the carriage giving back only a
sharp crisping sound, but their faces were very sober.

Mr. Carlton met them, looking greatly alarmed.

"Oh, doctor," he exclaimed as he caught the hand of Doctor
Hillhouse, almost crushing it in his grasp, "I am so glad you are
here. I was afraid she might bleed to death."

"No danger of that," replied Doctor Hillhouse, trying to look
assured and to speak with confidence. "It is only the giving way of
some small artery which will have to be tied again."

On reaching his patient, Doctor Hillhouse found that one of the
small arteries he had been compelled to sever in his work of cutting
the tumor away from the surrounding parts was bleeding freely. Half
a dozen handkerchiefs and napkins had already been saturated with
blood; and as it still came freely, nothing was left but to reopen
the wound and religate the artery.

Ether was promptly given, and as soon as the patient was fairly
under its influence the bandages were removed and the sutures by
which the wound had been drawn together cut. The cavity left by the
tumor was, of course, full of blood. This was taken out with
sponges, when at the lower part of the orifice a thin jet of blood
was visible. The surrounding parts had swollen, thus embedding the
mouth of the artery so deeply that it could not be recovered without
again using the knife. What followed will be best understood if
given in the doctor's own words in a relation of the circumstances
made by him a few years afterward.

"As you will see," he said, "I was in the worst possible condition
for an emergency like this. I had used no stimulus since returning
from Mr. Carlton's though just going to order wine when the summons
from Doctor Angier came. If I had taken a glass or two, it would
have been better, but the imperative nature of the summons
disconcerted me. I was just in the condition to be disturbed and
confused. I remembered when too late the grave omission, and had
partly resolved to ask Mr. Carlton for a glass of wine before
proceeding to reopen the wound and search for the bleeding artery.
But a too vivid recollection of my recent conversation with him
about Doctor Kline prevented my doing so.

"I felt my hand tremble as I removed the bandages and opened the
deep cavity left by the displaced tumor. After the blood with which
it was filled had been removed, I saw at the deepest part of the
cavity the point from which the blood was flowing, and made an
effort to recover the artery, which, owing to the uncertainty of
hand which had followed the loss of stimulation, I had tied
imperfectly. But it was soon apparent that the parts had swollen,
and that I should have to cut deeper in order to get possession of
the artery, which lay in close contact with the internal jugular
vein. Doctor Kline was holding the head and shoulders of the patient
in such a way as to give tension to all the vessels of the neck,
while my assistant held open the lips of the wound, so that I could
see well into the cavity.

"My hand did not recover its steadiness. As I began cutting down to
find the artery I seemed suddenly to be smitten with blindness and
to lose a clear perception of what I was doing. It seemed as if some
malignant spirit had for the moment got possession of me, coming in
through the disorder wrought in my nervous system by over
stimulation, and used the hand I could no longer see to guide the
instrument I was holding, for death instead of life. I remember now
that a sudden impulse seemed given to my arm as if some one had
struck it a blow. Then a sound which it had never before been my
misfortune to hear--and I pray God I may never hear it
again--startled me to an agonized sense of the disaster I had
wrought. Too well I knew the meaning of the lapping, hissing,
sucking noise that instantly smote our ears. I had made a deep cut
across the jugular vein, the wound gaping widely in consequence of
the tension given to the vein by the position of the patient's head.
A large quantity of air rushed in instantly.

"An exclamation of alarm from Doctor Kline, as he changed the
position of the patient's neck in order to force the lips of the
wound together and stop the fatal influx of air, roused me from a
momentary stupor, and I came back into complete self-possession. The
fearful exigency of the moment gave to nerve and brain all the
stimulus they required. Already there was a struggle for breath, and
the face of Mrs. Carlton, which had been slightly suffused with
color, became pale and distressed. Sufficient air had entered to
change the condition of the blood in the right cavities of the
heart, and prevent its free transmission to the lungs. We could hear
a churning sound occasioned by the blood and air being whipped
together in the heart, and on applying the hand to the chest could
feel a strange thrilling or rasping sensation.

"The most eminent surgeons differ in regard to the best treatment in
cases like this, which are of very rare occurrence; to save life the
promptest action is required. So large an opening as I had unhappily
made in this vein could not be quickly closed, and with each
inspiration of the patient more, air was sucked in, so that the
blood in the right cavities of the heart soon became beaten into a
spumous froth that could not be forced except in small quantities
through the pulmonary vessels into the lungs.

"The effect of a diminished supply of blood to the brain and nervous
centres quickly became apparent in threatened syncope. Our only hope
lay in closing the wound so completely that no more air could enter,
and then removing from the heart and capillaries of the lungs the
air already received, and now hindering the flow of blood to the
brain. One mode of treatment recommended by French surgeons consists
in introducing the pipe of a catheter through the wound, if in the
right jugular vein--or if not, through an opening made for the
purpose in that vein--and the withdrawal of the air from the right
auricle of the heart by suction.

"Doctor Kline favored this treatment, but I knew that it would be
fatal. Any reopening of the wound now partially closed in order to
introduce a tube, even if my instrument case had contained one of
suitable size and length, must necessarily have admitted a large
additional quantity of air, and so made death certain.

"Indecision in a case like this is fatal. Nothing but the right
thing done with an instant promptness can save the imperiled life.
But what was the right thing? No more air must be permitted to
enter, and the blood must be unloaded as quickly as possible of the
air now obstructing its way to the lungs, so, that the brain might
get a fresh supply before it was too late. We succeeded in the
first, but not in the last. Too much air had entered, and my patient
was beyond the reach of professional aid. She sank rapidly, and in
less than an hour from the time my hand, robbed of its skill by
wine, failed in its wonted cunning, she lay white and still before
me."

CHAPTER XIX.

IT was late in the afternoon when Mrs. Voss came out of the deep
sleep into which the quieting draught administered by Doctor
Hillhouse had thrown her. She awoke from a dream so vivid that she
believed it real.

"Oh, Archie, my precious boy!" she exclaimed, starting up and
reaching out her hands, a glad light beaming on her countenance.

While her hands were still outstretched the light began to fade, and
then died out as suddenly as when a curtain falls. The boy who stood
before her in such clear presence had vanished. Her eyes swept about
the room, but he was not there. A deadly pallor on her face, a groan
on her lips, she fell back shuddering upon the pillow from which she
had risen.

Mr. Voss, who was sitting at the bedside, put his arm under her, and
lifting her head, drew it against his breast, holding it there
tightly, but not speaking. He had no comfort to give, no assuring
word to offer. Not a ray of light had yet come in through the veil
of mystery that hung so darkly over the fate of their absent boy.
Many minutes passed ere the silence was broken. In that time the
mother's heart had grown calmer. She was turning, in her weakness
and despair, with religious trust, to the only One who was able to
sustain her in this great and crushing sorrow.

"He is in God's hands," she said, in a low voice, lifting her head
from her husband's breast and looking into his face.

"And he will take care of him," replied Mr. Voss, falling in with
her thought.

"Yes, we must trust him. He is present in every place. He knows
where Archie is, and how to shield and succor him. O heavenly
Father, protect our boy! If in danger, help and save him. And, O
Father, give me strength to bear whatever may come."

The mother closed her eyes and laid her head back upon her husband's
bosom. The rigidity and distress went out of her face. In this hour
of darkness and distress, God, to whom she looked and prayed for
strength, came very close to her, and in his nearer presence there
is always comfort.

But as the day declined and the shadows off another dreary winter
night began to draw their solemn curtains across the sky the
mother's heart failed again, and a wild storm of fear and anguish
swept over it. Neither policemen nor friends had been able to
discover a trace of the missing young man, and advertisements were
given out for the papers next morning offering a large reward for
his restoration to his friends if living or for the recovery of his
body if dead.

The true cause of Archie's disappearance began to be feared by many
of his friends. It did not seem possible that he could have dropped
so completely out of sight unless on the theory that he had lost his
way in the storm and fallen into the river. This suggestion as soon
as it came to Mrs. Voss settled into a conviction. Her imagination
brooded over the idea and brought the reality before her mind with
such a cruel vividness that she almost saw the tragedy enacted, and
heard again that cry of "Mother!" which had seemed to mingle with
the wild shrieks of the tempest, but which came only to her inner
sense.

She dreamed that night a dream which, though it confirmed all this,
tranquilized and comforted her. In a vision her boy stood by her
bedside and smiled upon her with his old loving smile. He bent over
and kissed her with his wonted tenderness; he laid his hand on her
forehead with a soft pressure, and she felt the touch thrilling to
her heart in sweet and tender impulses.

"It is all well with me," he said; "I shall wait for you, mother."

And then he bent over and kissed her again, the pressure of his lips
bringing an unspeakable joy to her heart. With this joy filling and
pervading it, she awoke. From that hour Mrs. Voss never doubted for
a single moment that her son was dead, nor that he had come to her
in a vision of the night. As a Christian woman with whom faith was
no mere ideal thing or vague uncertainty, she accepted her great
affliction as within the sphere and permission of a good and wise
Providence, and submitted herself to the sad dispensation with a
patience that surprised her friends.

Months passed, and yet the mystery was unsolved. The large reward
offered by Mr. Voss for the recovery of his son's remains kept
hundreds of fishermen and others who frequented the river banks and
shores of the bay leading down to the ocean on the alert. As the
spring opened and the ice began to give way and float, these men
examined every inlet, cove and bar where the tide in its ebb and
flow might possibly have left the body for which they were in
search; and one day, late in the month of March, they found it,
three miles away from the city, where it had drifted by the current.

The long-accepted theory of the young man's death was proved by this
recovery of his body. No violence was found upon it. The diamond pin
had not been taken from his shirt-bosom, nor the gold watch from his
pocket. On the dial of his watch the hands, stopping their movement
as the chill of the icy water struck the delicate machinery, had
recorded the hour of his death--ten minutes to one o'clock.

It was not possible, under the strain of such an affliction and the
wear of a suspense that no human heart was able to endure without
waste of life, for one in feeble health like Mrs. Voss to hold her
own. Friends read in her patient face and quiet mouth, and eyes that
had a far-away look, the signs of a coming change that could not be
very far off.

After the sad certainty came and the looking and longing and waiting
were over, after the solemn services of the church had been said and
the cast-off earthly garments of her precious boy hidden away from
sight for ever, the mother's hold upon life grew feebler every day.
She was slowly drifting out from the shores of time, and no hand was
strong enough to hold her back. A sweet patience smoothed away the
lines of suffering which months of sorrow and uncertainty had cut in
her brow, the grieving curves of her pale lips were softened by
tender submission, the far-off look was still in her eyes, but it
was no longer fixed and dreary. Her thought went away from herself
to others. The heavenly sphere into which she had come through
submission to her Father's will and a humble looking to God for help
and comfort began to pervade her soul and fill it with that divine
self-forgetting which all who come spiritually near to him must
feel.

She could not go out and do strong and widely-felt work for
humanity, could not lift up the fallen, nor help the weak, nor visit
the sick, nor comfort the prisoner, though often her heart yearned
to help and strengthen the suffering and the distressed. But few if
any could come into the chamber where most of her days were spent
without feeling the sphere of her higher and purer life, and many,
influenced thereby, went out to do the good works to which she so
longed to put her hands. So from the narrow bounds of her chamber
went daily a power for good, and many who knew her not were helped
or comforted or lifted into purer and better lives because of her
patient submission to God and reception of his love into her soul.

It is not surprising that one thought took a deep hold upon her. The
real cause of Archie's death was the wine he had taken in the house
of her friend. But for that he could never have lost his way in the
streets of his native city, never have stepped from solid ground
into the engulfing water.

The lesson of this disaster was clear, and as Mrs. Voss brooded over
it, the folly, the wrong--nay, the crime--of those who pour out wine
like water for their guests in social entertainments magnified
themselves in her thought, and thought found utterance in speech.
Few came into her chamber upon whom she did not press a
consideration of this great evil, the magnitude of which became
greater as her mind dwelt upon it, and very few of these went away
without being disturbed by questions not easily answered.

One day one of her attentive friends who had called on her said:

"I heard a sorrowful story yesterday, and can't get it out of my
mind."

Before Mrs. Voss could reply a servant came in with a card.

"Oh, Mrs. Birtwell. Ask her to come up."

The visitor saw a slight shadow creep over her face, and knew its
meaning. How could she ever hear the name or look into the face of
Mrs. Birtwell without thinking of that dreadful night when her boy
passed, almost at a single step, from the light and warmth of her
beautiful home into the dark and frozen river? It had cost her a
hard and painful struggle to so put down and hold in check her
feelings as to be able to meet this friend, who had always been very
near and dear to her. For a time, and while her distress of mind was
so great as almost to endanger reason, she had refused to see Mrs.
Birtwell; but as that lady never failed to call at least once a week
to ask after her, always sending up her card and waiting for a
reply, Mrs. Voss at last yielded, and the friends met again. Mrs.
Birtwell would have thrown her arms about her and clasped her in a
passion of tears to her heart, but something stronger than a visible
barrier held her off, and she felt that she could never get as near
to this beloved friend as of old. The interview was tender though
reserved, neither making any reference to the sad event that was
never a moment absent from their thoughts.

After this Mrs. Birtwell came often, and a measure of the old
feeling returned to Mrs. Voss. Still, the card of Mrs. Birtwell
whenever it was placed in her hand by a servant never failed to
bring a shadow and sometimes a chill to her heart.

In a few moments Mrs. Birtwell entered the room; and after the usual
greetings and some passing remarks, Mrs. Voss said, speaking to the
lady with whom she had been conversing:

"What were you going to say--about some sorrowful story, I mean?"

The pleasant light which had come into the lady's face on meeting
Mrs. Birtwell, faded out. She did not answer immediately, and showed
some signs of embarrassment. But Mrs. Voss, not particularly
noticing this, pressed her for the story. After a slight pause she
said:

"In visiting a friend yesterday I observed a young girl whom I had
never seen at the house before. She was about fifteen or sixteen
years of age, and had a face of great refinement and much beauty.
But I noticed that it had a sad, shy expression. My friend did not
introduce her, but said, turning to the girl a few moments after I
came in:

"'Go up to the nursery, Ethel, and wait until I am disengaged!'

"As the girl left the room I asked, 'Who is that young lady?'
remarking at the same time that there was something peculiarly
interesting about her.

"'It's a sad case, remarked my friend, her voice falling to a tone
of regret and sympathy. 'And I wish I knew just what to do about
it.'

"'Who is the young girl?' I asked repeating my question.

"'The daughter of a Mr. Ridley,' she replied."

Mrs. Birtwell gave a little start, while an expression of pain
crossed her face. The lady did not look at her, but she felt the
change her mention of Mr. Ridley had produced.

"'What of him?' I asked; not having heard the name before.

"'Oh, I thought you knew about him. He's a lawyer, formerly a member
of Congress, and a man of brilliant talents. He distinguished
himself at Washington, and for a time attracted much attention there
for his ability as well as for his fine personal qualities. But
unhappily he became intemperate, and at the end of his second term
had fallen so low that his party abandoned him and sent another in
his place. After that he reformed and came to this city, bringing
his family with him. He had two children, a boy and a girl. His wife
was a cultivated and very superior woman. Here he commenced the
practice of law, and soon by his talents and devotion to business
acquired a good practice and regained the social position he had
lost.

"'Unhappily, his return to society was his return to the sphere of
danger. If invited to dine with a respectable citizen, he had to
encounter temptation in one of its most enticing forms. Good wine
was poured for him, and both appetite and pride urged him to accept
the fatal proffer. If he went to a public or private entertainment,
the same perils compassed him about. From all these he is said to
have held himself aloof for over a year, but his reputation at the
bar and connection with important cases brought him more and more
into notice, and he was finally drawn within the circle of danger.
Mrs. Ridley's personal accomplishments and relationship with one or
two families in the State of high social position brought her calls
and invitations, and almost forced her back again into society, much
as she would have preferred to remain secluded.

"'Mr. Ridley, it is said, felt his danger, and I am told never
escorted any lady but his wife to the supper-room at a ball or
party, and there you would always see them close together, he not
touching wine. But it happened last winter that invitations came,
for one of the largest parties of the season, and it happened also
that only a few nights before the party a little daughter had been
born to Mrs. Ridley. Mr. Ridley went alone. It was a cold and stormy
night. The wind blew fiercely, wailing about the roofs and chimneys
and dashing the fast-falling snow in its wild passion against the
windows of the room in which his sick wife lay. Rest of body and
mind was impossible, freedom from anxiety impossible. There was
everything to fear, everything to lose. The peril of a soldier going
into the hottest of the battle was not greater than the peril that
her husband would encounter on that night; and if he fell! The
thought chilled her blood, as well it might, and sent a shiver to
her heart.

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