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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"'She was in no condition to bear any shock or strain, much less the
shock and strain of a fear like this. As best she could she held her
restless anxiety in check, though fever had crept into her blood and
an enemy to her life was assaulting its very citadel. But as the
hour at which her husband had promised to return passed by and he
came not, anxiety gave place to terror. The fever in her blood
increased, and sent delirium to her brain. Hours passed, but her
husband did not return. Not until the cold dawn of the next
sorrowful morning did he make his appearance, and then in such a
wretched plight that it was well for his unhappy wife that she could
not recognize his condition. He came too late--came from one of the
police stations, it is said, having been found in the street too
much intoxicated to find his way home, and in danger of perishing in
the snow--came to find his wife, dying, and before the sun went down
on that day of darkness she was cold and still as marble. Happily
for the babe, it went the way its mother had taken, following a few
days afterward.

"'That was months ago. Alas for the wretched man! He has never risen
from that terrible fall, never even made an effort, it is said, to
struggle to his feet again. He gave up in despair.

"'His eldest child, Ethel, the young lady you saw just now, was away
from home at school when her mother died. Think of what a coming
back was hers! My heart grows sick in trying to imagine it. Poor
child! she has my deepest sympathy.

"'Ethel did not return to school. She was needed at home now. The
death of her mother and the unhappy fall of her father brought her
face to face with new duties and untried conditions. She had a
little brother only six years old to whom she must be a mother as
well as sister. Responsibilities from which women of matured years
and long experience might well shrink were now at the feet of this
tender girl, and there was no escape for her. She must stoop, and
with fragile form and hands scarce stronger than a child's lift and
bear them up from the ground. Love gave her strength and courage.
The woman hidden in the child came forth, and with a self-denial and
self-devotion that touches me to tears when I think of it took up
the new life and new burdens, and has borne them ever since with a
patience that is truly heroic.

"'But new duties are now laid upon her. Since her father's fall his
practice has been neglected, and few indeed have been willing to
entrust him with business. The little he had accumulated is all
gone. One article of furniture after another has been sold to buy
food and clothing, until scarcely anything is left. And now they
occupy three small rooms in an out-of-the-way neighborhood, and
Ethel, poor child! is brought face to face with the question of
bread.'"

CHAPTER XX.

THE voice of the speaker broke as she uttered the last sentence. A
deep silence fell upon the little company. Mrs. Birtwell had turned
her face, so that it could not be seen, and tears that she was
unable to keep back were falling over it. She was first to speak.

"What," she asked, "was this young lady doing at the house of your
friend?"

"She had applied for the situation of day-governess. My friend
advertised, and Ethel Ridley, not knowing that the lady had any
knowledge of her or her family came and offered herself for the
place. Not being able to decide what was best to be done, she
requested Ethel to call again on the next day, and I came in while
she was there."

"Did your friend engage her?" asked Mrs. Birtwell.

"She had not done so when I saw her yesterday. The question of
fitness for the position was one that she had not been able to
determine. Ethel is young and inexperienced. But she will do all for
her that lies in her power."

"What is your friend's name?" asked Mrs. Birtwell.

"The lady I refer to is Mrs. Sandford. You know her, I believe?"

"Mrs. Sandford? Yes; I know her very well."

By a mutual and tacit consent the subject was here dropped, and soon
after Mrs. Birtwell retired. On gaining the street she stood with an
air of indetermination for a little while, and then walked slowly
away. Once or twice before reaching the end of the block she paused
and went back a few steps, turned and moved on again, but still in
an undecided manner. At the corner she stopped for several moments,
then, as if her mind was made up, walked forward rapidly. By the
firm set of her mouth and the contraction of her brows it was
evident that some strong purpose was taking shape in her thoughts.

As she was passing a handsome residence before which a carriage was
standing a lady came out. She had been making a call. On seeing her
Mrs. Birtwell stopped, and reaching out her hand, said:

"Mrs. Sandford! Oh, I'm glad to see you. I was just going to your
house."

The lady took her hand, and grasping it warmly, responded:

"And I'm right glad to see you, Mrs. Birtwell. I've been thinking
about you all day. Step into the carriage. I shall drive directly
home."

Mrs. Birtwell accepted the invitation. As the carriage moved away
she said:

"I heard something to-day that troubles me. I am told that Mr.
Ridley, since the death of his wife, has become very intemperate,
and that his family are destitute--so much so, indeed, that his
daughter has applied to you for the situation of day-governess in
order to earn something for their support."

"It is too true," replied Mrs. Sandford. "The poor child came to see
me in answer to an advertisement."

"Have you engaged her?"

"No. She is too young and inexperienced for the place. But something
must be done for her."

"What? Have you thought out anything? You may count on my sympathy
and co-operation."

"The first thing to be done," replied Mrs. Sandford, "is to lift her
out of her present wretched condition. She must not be left where
she is, burdened with the support of her drunken and debased father.
She is too weak for that--too young and beautiful and innocent to be
left amid the temptations and sorrows of a life such as she must
lead if no one comes to her rescue."

"But what will become of her father if you remove his child from
him?" asked Mrs. Birtwell.

Her voice betrayed concern. The carriage stopped at the residence of
Mrs. Sandford, and the two ladies went in.

"What will become of her wretched father?"

Mrs. Birtwell repeated her question as they entered the parlors.

"He is beyond our reach," was answered. "When a man falls so low,
the case is hopeless. He is the slave of an appetite that never
gives up its victims. It is a sad and a sorrowful thing, I know, to
abandon all efforts to save a human soul, to see it go drafting off
into the rapids with the sound of the cataract in your ears, and it
is still more sad and sorrowful to be obliged to hold back the
loving ones who could only perish in their vain attempts at rescue.
So I view the case. Ethel must not be permitted to sacrifice herself
for her father."

Mrs. Birtwell sat for a long time without replying. Her eyes were
bent upon the floor.

"Hopeless!" she murmured, at length, in a low voice that betrayed
the pain she felt. "Surely that cannot be so. While there is life
there must be hope. God is not dead."

She uttered the last sentence with a strong rising inflection in her
tones.

"But the drunkard seems dead to all the saving influences that God
or man can bring to bear upon him," replied Mrs. Sandford.

"No, no, no! I will not believe it," said Mrs. Birtwell, speaking
now with great decision of manner. "God can and does save to the
uttermost all who come unto him."

"Yes, all who come unto him. But men like Mr. Ridley seem to have
lost the power of going to God."

"Then is it not our duty to help them to go? A man with a broken leg
cannot walk to the home where love and care await him, but his Good
Samaritan neighbor who finds him by the way can help him thither.
The traveler benumbed with cold lies helpless in the road, and will
perish if some merciful hand does not lift him up and bear him to a
place of safety. Even so these unhappy men who, as you say, seem to
have lost the power of returning to God, can be lifted up, I am
sure, and set down, as it were, in his very presence, there to feel
his saving, comforting and renewing power."

"Perhaps so. Nothing is impossible," said Mrs. Sandford, with but
little assent in her voice. "But who is to lift them up and where
will you take them? Let us instance Mr. Ridley for the sake of
illustration. What will you do with him? How will you go about the
work of rescue? Tell me."

Mrs. Birtwell had nothing to propose. She only felt an intense
yearning to save this man, and in her yearning an undefined
confidence had been born. There must be away to save even the
most wretched and abandoned of human beings, if we could but find
that way, and so she would not give up her hope of Mr. Ridley--nay,
her hope grew stronger every moment; and to all the suggestions of
Mrs. Sanford looking to help for the daughter she supplemented
something that included the father, and so pressed her views that
the other became half impatient and exclaimed:

"I will have nothing to do with the miserable wretch!"

Mrs. Birtwell went away with a heavy heart after leaving a small sum
of money for Mrs. Sandford to use as her judgment might dictate,
saying that she would call and see her again in a few days.

The Rev. Mr. Brantly Elliott was sitting in his pleasant study,
engaged in writing, when a servant opened the door and said:

"A gentleman wishes to see you, sir."

"What name?" asked the clergyman.

"He did not give me his name. I asked him, but he said it wasn't any
matter. I think he's been drinking, sir."

"Ask him to send his name," said Mr. Elliott, a slight shade of
displeasure settling over his pleasant face.

The servant came back with information that the visitor's name was
Ridley. At mention of this name the expression on Mr. Elliott's
countenance changed:

"Did you say he was in liquor?"

"Yes, sir. Shall I tell him that you cannot see him, sir?"

"No. Is he very much the worse for drink?"

"He's pretty bad, I should say, sir."

Mr. Elliott reflected for a little while, and then said:

"I will see him."

The servant retired. In a few minutes he came back, and opening the
door, let the visitor pass in. He stood for a few moments, with his
hand on the door, as if unwilling to leave Mr. Elliott alone with
the miserable-looking creature he had brought to the study.
Observing him hesitate, Mr. Elliott said:

"That will do, Richard."

The servant shut the door, and he was alone with Mr. Ridley. Of the
man's sad story he was not altogether ignorant. His fall from the
high position to which he had risen in two years and utter
abandonment of himself to drink were matters of too much notoriety
to have escaped his knowledge. But that he was in the slightest
degree responsible for this wreck of a human soul was so far from
his imagination as that of his responsibility for the last notorious
murder or bank-robbery.

The man who now stood before him was a pitiable-looking object
indeed. Not that he was ragged or filthy in attire or person. Though
all his garments were poor and threadbare, they were not soiled nor
in disorder. Either a natural instinct of personal cleanliness yet
remained or a loving hand had cared for him. But he was pitiable in
the signs of a wrecked and fallen manhood that were visible
everywhere about him. You saw it most in his face, once so full of
strength and intelligence, now so weak and dull and disfigured. The
mouth so mobile and strong only a few short months before was now
drooping and weak, its fine chiseling all obliterated or overlaid
with fever crusts. His eyes, once steady and clear as eagles', were
now bloodshotten and restless.

He stood looking fixedly at Mr. Elliott, and with a gleam in his
eyes that gave the latter a strange feeling of discomfort, if not
uneasiness.

"Mr. Ridley" said the clergyman, advancing to his visitor and
extending his hand. He spoke kindly, yet with a reserve that could
not be laid aside. "What can I do for you?"

A chair was offered, and Mr. Ridley sat down. He had come with a
purpose; that was plain from his manner.

"I am sorry to see you in this condition, Mr. Ridley," said the
clergyman, who felt it to be his duty to speak a word of reproof.

"In what condition, sir?" demanded the visitor, drawing himself up
with an air of offended dignity. "I don't understand you."

"You have been drinking," said Mr. Elliott, in a tone of severity.

"No, sir. I deny it, sir!" and the eyes of Mr. Ridley flashed.
"Before Heaven, sir, not a drop has passed my lips to-day!"

His breath, loaded with the fumes of a recent glass of whisky, was
filling the clergyman's nostrils. Mr. Elliott was confounded by this
denial. What was to be done with such a man?

"Not a drop, sir," repeated Mr. Ridley. "The vile stuff is killing
me. I must give it up."

"It is your only hope," said the clergyman. "You must give up the
vile stuff, as you call it, or it will indeed kill you."

"That's just why I've come to you, Mr. Elliott. You understand this
matter better than most people. I've heard you talk."

"Heard me talk?"

"Yes, sir. It's pure wine that the people want. My sentiments
exactly. If we had pure wine, we'd have no drunkenness. You know
that as well as I do. I've heard you talk, Mr. Elliott, and you talk
right--yes, right, sir."

"When did you hear me talk?" asked Mr. Elliott, who was beginning to
feel worried.

Oh, at a party last winter. I was there and heard you."

"What did I say?"

"Just these words, and they took right hold of me. You said that
'pure wine could hurt no one, unless indeed his appetite were
vitiated by the use of alcohol, and even then you believed that the
moderate use of strictly pure wine would restore the normal taste
and free a man from the tyranny of an enslaving vice.' That set me
to thinking. It sounded just right. And then you were a clergyman,
you see, and had studied out these things and so your opinion was
worth something. There's no reason in your cold-water men; they
don't believe in anything but their patent cut-off. In their eyes
wine is an abomination, the mother of all evil, though the Bible
doesn't say so, Mr. Elliott, does it?"

At this reference to the Bible in connection with wine, the
clergyman's memory supplied a few passages that were not at the
moment pleasant to recall. Such as, "Wine is a mocker;" "Look not
upon the wine when it is red;" "Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? ...
They that tarry long at the wine;" "At last it biteth like a
serpent, and stingeth like an adder."

"The Bible speaks often of the misuse of wine," he answered, "and
strongly condemns drunkenness."

"Of course it does, and gluttony as well. But against the moderate
use of good wine not a word is said. Isn't that so, sir?"

"Six months ago you were a sober man, Mr. Ridley, and a useful and
eminent citizen. Why did you not remain so?"

Mr. Elliott almost held his breath for the answer. He had waived the
discussion into which his visitor was drifting, and put his question
almost desperately.

"Because your remedy failed." Mr. Ridley spoke in a repressed voice,
but with a deliberate utterance. There was a glitter in his eyes,
out of which looked an evil triumph.

"My remedy? What remedy?"

"The good wine remedy. I tried it at Mr. Birtwell's one night last
winter. But it didn't work. _And here I am!_"

Mr. Elliott made no reply. A blow from the arm of a strong man could
not have hurt or stunned him more.

"You needn't feel so dreadfully about it," said Mr. Ridley seeing
the effect produced on the clergy man. "It wasn't any fault of
yours. The prescription was all right, but, you see, the wine wasn't
good. If it had been pure, the kind you drink, all would have been
well. I should have gained strength instead of having the props
knocked from under me."

But Mr. Elliott did not answer. The magnitude of the evil wrought
through his unguarded speech appalled him. He had learned, in his
profession, to estimate the value of a human soul, or rather to
consider it as of priceless value. And here was a human soul cast by
his hand into a river whose swift waters were hurrying it on to
destruction. The sudden anguish that he felt sent beads of sweat to
his forehead and drew his flexible lips into rigid lines.

"Now, don't be troubled about it," urged Mr. Ridley. "You were all
right. It was Mr. Birtwell's bad wine that did the mischief."

Then his manner changed, and his voice falling to a tone of
solicitation, he said:

"And now, Mr. Elliott, you know good wine--you don't have anything
else. I believe in your theory as much as I believe in my existence.
It stands to reason. I'm all broken up and run down. Not much left
of me, you see. Bad liquor is killing me, and I can't stop. If I do,
I shall die.' God help me!"

His voice shook now, and the muscles of his face quivered.

"Some good wine--some pure wine, Mr. Elliott!" he went on, his voice
rising and his manner becoming more excited. "It's all over with me
unless I can get pure wine. Save me, Mr. Elliott, save me, for God's
sake!"

The miserable man held out his hands imploringly. There was wild
look in his face. He was trembling from head to foot.

"One glass of pure wine, Mr. Elliott--just one glass." Thus he kept
on pleading for the stimulant his insatiable appetite was craving.
"I'm a drowning man. The floods are about me. I am sinking in dark
waters. And you can save me if you will!"

Seeing denial still on the clergyman's face, Mr. Ridley's manner
changed, becoming angry and violent.

"You will not?" he cried, starting from the chair in which he had
been sitting and advancing toward Mr. Elliott.

"I cannot. I dare not. You have been drinking too much already,"
replied the clergyman, stepping back as Mr. Ridley came forward
until he reached the bell-rope, which he jerked violently. The door
of his study opened instantly. His servant, not, liking the
visitor's appearance, had remained in the hall outside and came in
the moment he heard the bell. On seeing him enter, Mr. Ridley turned
from the clergyman and stood like one at bay. His eyes had a fiery
gleam; there was anger on his brow and defiance in the hard lines of
his mouth. He scowled at the servant threateningly. The latter, a
strong and resolute man, only waited for an order to remove the
visitor, which he would have done in a very summary way, but Mr.
Elliott wanted no violence.

The group formed a striking tableau, and to any spectator who could
have viewed it one of intense interest. For a little while Mr.
Ridley and the servant stood scowling at each other. Then came a
sudden change. A start, a look of alarm, followed by a low cry of
fear, and Mr. Ridley sprang toward the door, and was out of the room
and hurrying down stairs before a movement could be made to
intercept him, even if there had been on the part of the other two
men any wish to do so.

Mr. Elliott stood listening to the sound of his departing feet until
the heavy jar of the outer door resounded through the passages and
all became still. A motion of his hand caused the servant to retire,
As he went out Mr. Elliott sank into a chair. His face had become
pale and distressed. He was sick at heart and sorely troubled. What
did all this mean? Had his unconsidered words brought forth fruit
like this? Was he indeed responsible for the fall of a weak brother
and all the sad and sorrowful consequences which had followed? He
was overwhelmed, crushed down, agonized by the thought, It was the
bitterest moment in all his life.

CHAPTER XXI.

MR. ELLIOTT still sat in a kind of helpless maze when his servant
came in with the card of Mrs. Spencer Birtwell. He read the name
almost with a start. Nothing, it seemed to him, could have been more
inopportune, for now he remembered with painful distinctness that it
was at the party given by Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell that Ridley had
yielded to temptation and fallen, never, he feared, to rise again.

Mrs. Birtwell met him with a very serious aspect.

"I am in trouble," was the first sentence that passed her lips as
she took the clergyman's hand and looked into his sober countenance.

"About what?" asked Mr. Elliott.

They sat down, regarding each other earnestly.

"Mr. Elliott," said the lady, with solemn impressiveness, "it is an
awful thing to feel that through your act a soul may be lost."

Mrs. Birtwell saw the light go out of her minister's face and a look
of pain sweep over it.

"An awful thing indeed," he returned, in a voice that betrayed the
agitation from which he was still suffering.

"I want to talk with you about a matter that distresses me deeply,"
said Mrs. Birtwell, wondering as she spoke at Mr. Elliott's singular
betrayal of feeling.

"If I can help you, I shall do so gladly," replied the clergyman.
"What is the ground of your trouble?"

"You remember Mr. Ridley?"

Mrs. Birtwell saw the clergyman start and the spasm of pain sweep
over his face once more."

"Yes," he replied, in a husky whisper. But he rallied himself with
an effort and asked, "What of him?" in a clear and steady voice.

"Mr. Ridley had been intemperate before coming to the city, but
after settling here he kept himself free from his old bad habits,
and was fast regaining the high position he had lost. I met his wife
a number of times. She was a very superior woman; and the more I saw
of her, the more I was drawn to her. We sent them cards for our
party last winter. Mrs. Ridley was sick and could not come. Mr.
Ridley came, and--and--" Mrs. Birtwell lost her voice for a moment,
then added: "You know what I would say. We put the cup to his lips,
we tempted him with wine, and he fell."

Mrs. Birtwell covered her face with her hands. A few strong sobs
shook her frame.

"He fell," she added as soon as she could recover herself," and
still lies, prostrate and helpless, in the grasp of a cruel enemy
into whose power we betrayed him."

"But you did it ignorantly," said Mr. Elliott.

"There was no intention on your part to betray him. You did not know
that your friend was his deadly foe."

"My friend?" queried Mrs. Birtwell. She did not take his meaning.

"The wine, I mean. While to you and me it may be only a pleasant and
cheery friend, to one like Mr. Ridley it may be the deadliest of
enemies."

"An enemy to most people, I fear," returned Mrs. Birtwell, "and the
more dangerous because a hidden foe. In the end it biteth like a
serpent and stingeth like an adder."

Her closing sentence cut like a knife, and Mr. Elliott felt the
sharp edge.

"He fell," resumed Mrs. Birtwell, "but the hurt was not with him
alone. His wife died on the next day, and it has been said that the
condition in which he came home from our house gave her a shock that
killed her."

Mrs. Birtwell shivered.

"People say a great many things," returned Mr. Elliott, "and this, I
doubt not is greatly exaggerated. Have you asked Doctor Hillhouse in
regard to the facts in the case? He attended Mrs. Ridley, I think."

"No. I've been afraid to ask him."

"It might relieve your mind."

"Do you think I would feel any better if he said yea instead of nay?
No, Mr. Elliott. I am afraid to question him."

"It's a sad affair," remarked the clergyman, gloomily, "and I don't
see what is to be done about a it. When a man falls as low as Mr.
Ridley has fallen, the case seems hopeless."

"Don't say hopeless, Mr. Elliott." responded Mrs. Birtwell, her
voice still more troubled. "Until a man is dead he is not wholly
lost. The hand of God is not stayed, and he can save to the
uttermost."

"All who come unto him," added the clergyman, in a depressed voice
that had in it the knell of a human soul. But these besotted men
will not go to him. I am helpless and in despair of salvation, when
I stand face to face with a confirmed drunkard. All one's care and
thought and effort seem wasted, You lift them up to-day, and they
fall to-morrow. Good resolutions, solemn promises, written pledges,
go for nothing. They seem to have fallen below the sphere in which
God's saving power operates."

"No, no, no, Mr. Elliott. I cannot, I will not, believe it," was the
strongly-uttered reply of Mrs. Birtwell. "I do not believe that any
man can fall below this potent sphere."

A deep, sigh came from the clergyman's lips, a dreary expression
crept into his face. There was a heavy weight upon his heart, and he
felt weak and depressed.

"Something must be done." There was the impulse of a strong resolve
in Mrs. Birtwell's tones.

"God works by human agencies. If we hold back and let our hands lie
idle, he cannot make us his instruments. If we say that this poor
fallen fellow-creature cannot be lifted out of his degradation and
turn away that he may perish, God is powerless to help him through
us. Oh, sir, I cannot do this and be conscience clear. I helped him
to fall, and, God giving me strength, I will help him to rise
again."

Her closing sentence fell with rebuking force upon the clergyman. He
too was oppressed by a heavy weight of responsibility. If the sin of
this man's fall was upon the garments of Mrs. Birtwell, his were not
stainless. Their condemnation was equal, their duty one.

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