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Gilbert Parker - "The Money Master, Volume 3."

Samuel Pepys - "Diary of Samuel Pepys, May/June 1665"

Nathaniel Hawthorne - "Monsieur du Miroir (From Mosses From An Old Manse)"

Samuel Pepys - "Diary of Samuel Pepys, January/February 1964/65"

Danger; or Wounded in the House of a Friend

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




"Ah!" he said, in tones of deep solicitude, "if we but knew how to
reach and influence him!"

"We can do nothing if we stand afar off, Mr. Elliott," replied Mrs.
Birtwell. "We must try to get near him. He must see our outstretched
hands and hear our voices calling to him to come back. Oh, sir, my
heart tells me that all is not lost. God's loving care is as much
over him as it is over you and me, and his providence as active for
his salvation."

"How are we to get near him, Mrs. Birtwell? This is our great
impediment."

God will show us the way if we desire it. Nay, he is showing us the
way, though we sought it not," replied Mrs. Birtwell, her manner
becoming more confident.

"How? I cannot see it," answered the clergyman.

"There has come a crisis in his life," said Mrs. Birtwell. "In his
downward course he has reached a point where, unless he can be held
back and rescued, he will, I fear, drift far out from the reach of
human hands. And it has so happened that I am brought to a knowledge
of this crisis and the great peril it involves. Is not this God's
providence? I verily believe so, Mr. Elliott. In the very depths of
my soul I seem to hear a cry urging me to the rescue. And, God
giving me strength, I mean to heed the admonition. This is why I
have called today. I want your help, and counsel."

"It shall be given," was the clergyman's answer, made in no
half-hearted way. "And now tell me all you know about this sad case.
What is the nature of the crisis that has come in the life of this
unhappy man?"

"I called on Mrs. Sandford this morning," replied Mrs. Birtwell,
"and learned that his daughter, who is little more than a child, had
applied for the situation of day-governess to her children. From
Ethel she ascertained their condition, which is deplorable enough.
They have been selling or pawning furniture and clothing in order to
get food until but little remains, and the daughter, brought face to
face with want, now steps forward to take the position of
bread-winner."

"Has Mrs. Sandford engaged her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Ethel is scarcely more than a child. Deeply as Mrs. Sandford feels
for her, she cannot give her a place of so much responsibility. And
besides, she does not think it right to let her remain where she is.
The influence upon her life and character cannot be good, to say
nothing of the tax and burden far beyond her strength that she will
have to bear."

"Does she propose anything?"

"Yes. To save the children and let the father go to destruction."

"She would take them away from him?"

"Yes, thus cutting the last strand of the cord that held him away
from utter ruin."

A groan that could not be repressed broke from Mr. Elliott's lips.

This must not be--at least not now," added Mrs. Birtwell, in a firm
voice. "It may be possible to save him through his home and
children. But if separated from them and cast wholly adrift, what
hope is left?"

"None, I fear," replied Mr. Elliott.

"Then on this last hope will I build my faith and work for his
rescue," said Mrs. Birtwell, with a solemn determination; "and may I
count on your help?"

"To the uttermost in my power." There was nothing half-hearted in
Mr. Elliott's reply. He meant to do all that his answer involved.

"Ah!" remarked Mrs. Birtwell as they talked still farther about the
unhappy case, "how much easier is prevention than cure! How much
easier to keep a stumbling-block out of another's way than to set
him on his feet after he has fallen! Oh, this curse of drink!"

"A fearful one indeed," said Mr. Elliott, "and one that is
desolating thousands of homes all over the land."

"And yet," replied Mrs. Birtwell, with a bitterness of tone she
could not repress, "you and I and some of our best citizens and
church people, instead of trying to free the land from this dreadful
curse, strike hands with those who are engaged in spreading
broadcast through society its baleful infection."

Mr. Elliott dropped his eyes to the floor like one who felt the
truth of a stinging accusation, and remained silent. His mind was in
great confusion. Never before had his own responsibility for this
great evil looked him in the face with such a stern aspect and with
such rebuking eyes.

"By example and invitation--nay, by almost irresistible
enticements," continued Mrs. Birtwell--"we tempt the weak and lure
the unwary and break down the lines of moderation that prudence sets
up to limit appetite. I need not describe to you some of our social
saturnalias. I use strong language, for I cannot help it. We are all
too apt to look on their pleasant side, on the gayety, good cheer
and bright reunions by which they are attended, and to excuse the
excesses that too often manifest themselves. We do not see as we
should beyond the present, and ask ourselves what in natural result
is going to be the outcome of all this. We actually shut our eyes
and turn ourselves away from the warning signs and stern admonitions
that are uplifted before us.

"Is it any matter of surprise, Mr. Elliott, that we should be
confronted now and then with some of the dreadful consequences that
flow inevitably from the causes to which I refer? or that as
individual participants in these things we should find ourselves
involved in such direct personal responsibility as to make us
actually shudder?"

Mrs. Birtwell did not know how keen an edge these sentences had for
Mr. Elliott, nor how, deeply they cut. As for the clergyman, he kept
his own counsel.

"What can we do in this sad case?" he asked, after a few assenting
remarks on the dangers of social drinking. This is the great
question now. I confess to being entirely at a loss. I never felt so
helpless in the presence of any duty before."

"I suppose," replied Mrs. Birtwell, "that the way to a knowledge of
our whole duty in any came is to begin to do the first thing that we
see to be right."

"Granted; and what then? Do you see the first right thing to be
done?"

"I believe so."

"What is it?"

"If, as seems plain, the separation of Mr. Ridley from his home and
children is to cut the last strand of the cord that holds him away
from destruction, then our first work, if we would save him, is to
help his daughter to maintain that home."

"Then you would sacrifice the child for the sake of the father?"

"No; I would help the child to save her father. I would help her to
keep their little home as pleasant and attractive as possible, and
see that in doing so she did not work beyond her strength. This
first."

"And what next?" asked Mr. Elliott.

"After I have done so much, I will trust God to show me what next.
The path of duty is plain so far. If I enter it in faith and trust
and walk whither it leads, I am sure that other ways, leading higher
and to regions of safety, will open for my willing feet."

"God grant that it may be so," exclaimed Mr. Elliott, with a fervor
that showed how deeply he was interested. "I believe you are right.
The slender mooring that holds this wretched man to the shore must
not be cut or broken. Sever that, and he is swept, I fear, to
hopeless ruin. You will see his daughter?"

"Yes. It is all plain now. I will go to her at once. I will be her
fast friend. I will let my heart go out to her as if she were my own
child. I will help her to keep the home her tender and loving heart
is trying to maintain."

Mrs. Birtwell now spoke with an eager enthusiasm that sent the warm
color to her cheeks and made her eyes, so heavy and sorrowful a
little while before, bright and full of hope.

On rising to go, Mr. Elliott urged her to do all in her power to
save the wretched man who had fallen over the stumbling-block their
hands had laid in his way, promising on his part all possible
co-operation.






CHAPTER XXII.





AS Mrs. Birtwell left the house of Mr. Elliott a slender girl,
thinly clad, passed from the beautiful residence of Mrs. Sandford.
She had gone in only a little while before with hope in her pale
young face; now it had almost a frightened look. Her eyes were wet,
and her lips had the curve of one who grieves helplessly and in
silence. Her steps, as she moved down the street, were slow and
unsteady, like the steps of one who bore a heavy burden or of one
weakened by long illness. In her ears was ringing a sentence that
had struck upon them like the doom of hope. It was this--and it had
fallen from the lips of Mrs. Sandford, spoken with a cold severity
that was more assumed than real--

"If you will do as I suggest, I will see that you have a good home;
but if you will not, I can do nothing for you."

There was no reply on the part of the young girl, and no sign of
doubt or hesitation. All the light--it had been fading slowly as the
brief conference between her and Mrs. Sandford had progressed--died
out of her face. She shrunk a little in her chair, her head dropping
forward. For the space of half a minute she sat with eyes cast down.
Both were silent, Mrs. Sandford waiting to see the effect of what
she had said, and hoping it would work a change in the girl's
purpose. But she was disappointed. After sitting in a stunned kind
of way for a short time, she rose, and without trusting herself to
speak bowed slightly and left the room. Mrs. Sandford did not call
after the girl, but suffered her to go down stairs and leave the
house without an effort to detain her.

"She must gang her ain gait," said the lady, fretfully and with a
measure of hardness in her voice.

On reaching the street, Ethel Ridley--the reader has guessed her
name--walked away with slow, unsteady steps. She felt helpless and
friendless. Mrs. Sandford had offered to find her a home if she
would abandon her father and little brother. The latter, as Mrs.
Sandford urged, could be sent to his mother's relatives, where he
would be much better off than now.

Not for a single instant did Ethel debate the proposition. Heart and
soul turned from it. She might die in her effort to keep a home for
her wretched father, but not till then had she any thought of giving
up.

On leaving the house of Mr. Elliott, Mrs. Birtwell. went home, and
after remaining there for a short time ordered her carriage and
drove to a part of the town lying at considerable distance from that
in which she lived. Before starting she had given her driver the
name of the street and number of the house at which she was going to
make a call. The neighborhood was thickly settled, and the houses
small and poor. The one before which the carriage drew up did not
look quite so forlorn as its neighbors; and on glancing up at the
second-story windows, Mrs. Birtwell saw two or three flower-pots, in
one of which a bright rose was blooming.

"This is the place you gave me, ma'am," said the driver as he held
open the door. "Are you sure it is right?"

"I presume so;" and Mrs. Birtwell stepped out, and crossing the
pavement to the door, rang the bell. It was opened by a
pleasant-looking old woman, who, on being asked if a Miss Ridley
lived there, replied in the affirmative.

"You will find her in the front room up stairs, ma'am," she added.
"Will you walk up?"

The hall into which Mrs. Birtwell passed was narrow and had a rag
carpet on the floor. But the carpet was clean and the atmosphere
pure. Ascending the stairs, Mrs. Birtwell knocked at the door, and
was answered by a faint "Come in" from a woman's voice.

The room in which she found herself a moment afterward was almost
destitute of furniture. There was no carpet nor bureau nor
wash-stand, only a bare floor, a very plain bedstead and bed, a
square pine table and three chairs. There was not the smallest
ornament of any kind on the mantel-shelf but in the windows were
three pots of flowers. Everything looked clean. Some work lay upon
the table, near which Ethel Ridley was sitting. But she had, turned
away from the table, and sat with one pale cheek resting on her open
hand. Her face wore a dreary, almost hopeless expression. On seeing
Mrs. Birtwell, she started up, the blood leaping in a crimson tide
to her neck, cheeks and temples, and stood in mute expectation.

"Miss Ridley?" said her visitor, in a kind voice.

Ethel only bowed. She could not speak in her sudden surprise. But
recovering herself in a few moments she offered Mrs. Birtwell a
chair.

"Mrs. Sandford spoke to me about you."

As Mrs. Birtwell said this she saw the flush die out of Ethel's face
and an expression of pain come over it. Guessing at what this meant,
she added, quickly:

"Mrs. Sandford and I do not think alike. You must keep your home, my
child."

Ethel gave a start and caught her breath. A look of glad surprise
broke into her face.

"Oh, ma'am," she answered, not able to steady her voice or keep the
tears out of her eyes, "if I can only do that! I am willing to work
if I can find anything to do. But--but--" She broke down, hiding her
face in her hands and sobbing.

Mrs. Birtwell was deeply touched. How could she help being so in
presence of the desolation and sorrow for which she felt herself and
husband to be largely responsible?

"It shall all be made plain and easy for you, my dear child," she
answered, taking Ethel's hand and kissing her with almost a mother's
tenderness. "It is to tell you this that I have come. You are too
young and weak to bear these burdens yourself. But stronger hands
shall help you."

It was a long time before Ethel could recover herself from the
surprise and joy awakened by so unexpected a declaration. When she
comprehended the whole truth, when the full assurance came, the
change wrought in her appearance was almost marvelous, and Mrs.
Birtwell saw before her a maiden of singular beauty with a grace and
sweetness of manner rarely found.

The task she had now to perform Mrs. Birtwell found a delicate one.
She soon saw that Ethel had a sensitive feeling of independence, and
that in aiding her she would have to devise some means of self-help
that would appear to be more largely remunerative than it really
was. From a simple gratuity the girl shrank, and it was with some
difficulty that she was able to induce her to take a small sum of
money as an advance on some almost pretended service, the nature of
which she would explain to her on the next day, when Ethel was to
call at her house.

So Mrs. Birtwell took her first step in the new path of duty wherein
she had set her feet. For the next she would wait and pray for
guidance. She had not ventured to say much to Ethel at the first
interview about her father. The few questions asked had caused such
evident distress of mind that she deemed it best to wait until she
saw Ethel again before talking to her more freely on a subject that
could not but awaken the keenest suffering.

Mrs. Birtwell's experience was a common one. She had scarcely taken
her first step in the path of duty before the next was made plain.
In her case this was so marked as to fill her with surprise. She had
undertaken to save a human soul wellnigh lost, and was entering upon
her work with that singleness of purpose which gives success where
success is possible. Such being the case, she was an instrument
through which a divine love of saving could operate. She became, as
it were, the human hand by which God could reach down and grasp a
sinking soul ere the dark waters of sin and sorrow closed over it
for ever.

She was sitting alone that evening, her heart full of the work to
which she had set her hand and her mind beating about among many
suggestions, none of which had any reasonable promise of success,
when a call from Mr. Elliott was announced. This was unusual. What
could it mean? Naturally she associated it with Mr. Ridley. She
hurried down to meet him, her heart beating rapidly. As she entered
the parlor Mr. Elliott, who was standing in the centre of the room,
advanced quickly toward her and grasped her hand with a strong
pressure. His manner was excited and there was a glow of unusual
interest on his face:

"I have just heard something that I wish to talk with you about.
There is hope for our poor friend."

"For Mr. Ridley?" asked Mrs. Birtwell, catching the excitement of
her visitor.

"Yes, and God grant that it may not be a vain hope!" he added, with
a prayer in his heart as well as upon his lips.

They sat down and the clergyman went on:

"I have had little or no faith in any of the efforts which have been
made to reform drunkenness, for none of them, in my view, went down
to the core of the matter. I know enough of human nature and its
depravity, of the power of sensual allurement and corporeal
appetite, to be very sure that pledges, and the work usually done
for inebriates in the asylums established for their benefit, cannot,
except in a few cases, be of any permanent good. No man who has once
been enslaved by any inordinate appetite can, in my view, ever get
beyond the danger of re-enslavement unless through a change wrought
in him by God, and this can only take place after a prayerful
submission of himself to God and obedience to his divine laws so far
as lies in his power. In other words, Mrs. Birtwell, the Church must
come to his aid. It is for this reason that I have never had much
faith in temperance societies as agents of personal reformation. To
lift up from any evil is the work of the Church, and in her lies the
only true power of salvation."

"But," said Mrs. Birtwell, "is not all work which has for its end
the saving of man from evil God's work? It is surely not the work of
an enemy."

"God forbid that I should say so. Every saving effort, no matter how
or when made, is work for God and humanity. Do not misunderstand me.
I say nothing against temperance societies. They have done and are
still doing much good, and I honor the men who organize and work
through them. Their beneficent power is seen in a changed and
changing public sentiment, in efforts to reach the sources of a
great and destructive evil, and especially in their conservative and
restraining influence. But when a man is overcome of the terrible
vice against which they stand in battle array, when he is struck
down by the enemy and taken prisoner, a stronger hand than theirs is
needed to rescue him, even the hand of God; and this is why I hold
that, except in the Church, there is little or no hope for the
drunkard."

"But we cannot bring these poor fallen creatures into the Church,"
answered Mrs. Birtwell. "They shun its doors. They stand afar off."

"The Church must go to them," said Mr. Elliott--"go as Christ, the
great Head of the Church, himself went to the lowest and the vilest,
and lift them up, and not only lift them up, but encompass them
round with its saving influences."

"How is this to be done?" asked Mrs. Birtwell.

"That has been our great and difficult problem; but, thank God! it
is, I verily believe, now being solved."

"How? Where?" eagerly asked Mrs. Birtwell. "What Church has
undertaken the work?"

"A Church not organized for worship and spiritual culture, but with
a single purpose to go into the wilderness and desert places in
search of lost sheep, and bring them, if possible, back to the fold
of God. I heard of it only to-day, though for more than a year it
has been at work in our midst. Men and women of nearly every
denomination have joined in the organization of this church, and are
working together in love and unity. Methodists, Episcopalians,
Baptists, Presbyterians, Swedenborgians, Congregationalists,
Universalists and Unitarians, so called, here clasp hands in a
common Christian brotherhood, and give themselves to the work of
saving the lost and lifting up the fallen."

"Why do you call it a Church?" asked Mrs. Birtwell.

"Because it was founded in prayer to God, and with the
acknowledgment that all saving power must come from him. Men of deep
religious experience whose hearts yearned over the hapless condition
of poor drunkards met together and prayed for light and guidance.
They were willing to devote themselves to the task of saving these
unhappy men if God would show them the way. And I verily believe
that he has shown them the way. They have established a _Christian
Home_, not a mere inebriate asylum."

As he spoke Mr. Elliott drew a paper from his pocket.

"Let me read you," he said, "a few sentences from an article giving
an account of the work of this Church, as I have called it. I only
met with it to-day, and I am not sure that it would have taken such
a hold upon me had it not been for my concern about Mr. Ridley.

"The writer says, 'In the treatment of drunkenness, we must go
deeper than hospital or asylum work. This reaches no farther than
the physical condition and moral nature, and can therefore be only
temporary in its influence. We must awaken the spiritual
consciousness, and lead a man too weak to stand in his own strength
when appetite, held only in abeyance, springs back upon him to trust
in God as his only hope of permanent reformation. First we must help
him physically, we must take him out of his debasement, his foulness
and his discomfort, and surround him with the influences of a home.
Must get him clothed and in his right mind, and make him feel once
more that he has sympathy--is regarded as a man full of the noblest
possibilities--and so be stimulated to personal effort. But this is
only preliminary work, such as any hospital may do. The real work of
salvation goes far beyond this; it must be wrought in a higher
degree of the soul--even that which we call spiritual. The man must
be taught that only in Heaven-given strength is there any safety. He
must be led, in his weakness and sense of degradation, to God as the
only one who can lift him up and set his feet in a safe place. Not
taught this as from pulpit and platform, but by earnest,
self-denying, sympathizing Christian men and women standing face to
face with the poor repentant brother, and holding him tightly by the
hand lest he stumble and fall in his first weak efforts to walk in a
better way. And this is just the work that is now being done in our
city by a Heaven-inspired institution not a year old, but with
accomplished results that are a matter of wonder to all who are
familiar with its operations."

Mrs. Birtwell leaned toward Mr. Elliott as he read, the light of a
new hope irradiating her countenance.

"Is not this a Church in the highest and best sense?" asked Mr.
Elliott, with a glow of enthusiasm in his voice.

"It is; and if the membership is not full, I am going to join it,"
replied Mrs. Birtwell, "and do what I can to bring at least one
straying sheep out of the wilderness and into its fold."

"And I pray God that your work be not in vain," said the clergyman.
"It is that I might lead you to this work that I am now here. Some
of the Christian men and women whose names I find here"--Mr. Elliott
referred to the paper in his hand--"are well known to me personally,
and others by reputation."

He read them over.

"Such names," he added, "give confidence and assurance. In the hands
of these men and women, the best that can be done will be done. And
what is to hinder if the presence and the power of God be in their
work? Whenever two or three meet together in his name, have they not
his promise to be with them? and when he is, present, are not all
saving influences most active? Present we know him to be everywhere,
but his presence and power have a different effect according to the
kind and degree of reception. He is present with the evil as well as
the good, but he can manifest his love and work of saving far more
effectually through the good than he can through the evil.

"And so, because this Home has been made a Christian Home, and its
inmates taught to believe that only in coming to God in Christ as
their infinite divine Saviour, and touching the hem of his garments,
is there any hope of being cured of their infirmity, has its great
saving power become manifest."

Just then voices were heard sounding through the hall. Apparently
there was an altercation between the waiter and some one at the
street door.

"What's that?" asked Mrs Birtwell, a little startled at the unusual
sound.

They listened, and heard the voice of a man saying, in an excited
tone:

"I must see her!"

Then came the noise of a struggle, as though the waiter were trying
to prevent the forcible entry of some one.

Mrs. Birtwell started to her feet in evident alarm. Mr. Elliott was
crossing to the parlor door, when it was thrown open with
considerable violence, and he stood face to face with Mr. Ridley.






CHAPTER XXIII.





ON leaving the clergyman's residence, baffled in his efforts to get
the wine he had hoped to obtain, Mr. Ridley strode hurriedly away,
almost running, as though in fear of pursuit. After going for a
block or two he stopped suddenly, and stood with an irresolute air
for several moments. Then he started forward again, moving with the
same rapid speed. His face was strongly agitated and nearly
colorless. His eyes were restless, glancing perpetually from side to
side.

There was no pause now until he reached the doors of a large hotel
in the centre of the city. Entering, he passed first into the
reading-room and looked through it carefully, then stood in the
office for several minutes, as if waiting for some one. While here a
gentleman who had once been a client came in, and was going to the
clerk's desk to make some inquiry, when Ridley stepped forward, and
calling him by name, reached out his hand. It was not taken,
however. The man looked at him with an expression of annoyance and
disgust, and then passed him without a word.

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