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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A slight tinge of color came into Ridley's pale face. He bit his
lips and clenched his hands nervously.

From the office he went to the bar-room. At the door he met a
well-known lawyer with whom he had crossed swords many times in
forensic battles oftener gaining victory than suffering defeat.
There was a look of pity in the eyes of this man when they rested
upon him. He suffered his hand to be taken by the poor wretch, and
even spoke to him kindly.

"B----," said Ridley as he held up one of his hands and showed its
nerveless condition, "you see where I am going?"

"I do, my poor fellow!" replied the man; "and if you don't stop
short, you will be at the end of your journey sooner than you
anticipate."

"I can't stop; it's too late. For God's sake get me a glass of
brandy! I haven't tasted a drop since morning."

His old friend and associate saw how it was--saw that his
over-stimulated nervous system was fast giving way, and that he was
on the verge of mania. Without replying the lawyer went back to the
bar, at which he had just been drinking. Calling for brandy, he
poured a tumbler nearly half full, and after adding a little water
gave it to Ridley, who drank the whole of it before withdrawing the
glass from his lips.

"It was very kind of you," said the wretched man as he began to feel
along his shaking nerves the stimulating power of the draught he had
taken. "I was in a desperate bad way."

"And you are not out of that way yet," replied the other. "Why don't
you stop this thing while a shadow of hope remains?"

"It's easy enough to say stop"--Ridley spoke in a tone of
fretfulness--"and of about as much use as to cry 'Stop!' to a man
falling down a precipice or sweeping over a cataract. I can't stop."

His old friend gazed at him pityingly, then, shrugging his
shoulders, he bade him good-morning. From the bar Ridley drifted to
the reading-room, where he made a feint of looking over the
newspapers. What cared he for news? All his interest in the world
had become narrowed down to the ways and means of getting daily
enough liquor to stupefy his senses and deaden his nerves. He only
wanted to rest now, and let the glass of brandy he had taken do its
work on his exhausted system. It was not long before he was asleep.
How long he remained in this state he did not know. A waiter, rudely
shaking him, brought him back to life's dreary consciousness again
and an order to leave the reading room sent him out upon the street
to go he knew not whither.

Night had come, and Ethel, with a better meal ready for her father
than she had been able to prepare for him in many weeks, sat
anxiously awaiting his return. Toward her he had always been kind
and gentle. No matter how much he might be under the influence of
liquor, he had never spoken a harsh word to this patient, loving,
much-enduring child. For her sake he had often made feeble efforts
at reform, but appetite had gained such mastery; over him that
resolution was as flax in the flame.

It was late in the evening when Mr. Ridley returned home. Ethel's
quick ears detected something unusual in his steps as he came along
the entry. Instead of the stumbling or shuffling noise with which he
generally made his way up stairs, she noticed that his footfalls
were more distinct and rapid. With partially suspended breath she
sat with her eyes upon the door until it was pushed open. The moment
she looked into her father's face she saw a change. Something had
happened to him. The heavy, besotted look was gone, the dull eyes
were lighted up. He shut the door behind him quickly and with the
manner of one who had been pursued and now felt himself in a place
of safety.

"What's the matter, father dear?" asked Ethel as she started up and
laying her hand upon his shoulder looked into his face searchingly.

"Nothing, nothing," he replied. But the nervousness of his manner
and the restless glancing of his eyes, now here and now there, and
the look of fear in them, contradicted his denial.

"What has happened, father? Are you sick?" inquired Ethel.

"No, dear, nothing has happened. But I feel a little strange."

He spoke with unusual tenderness in his manner, and his voice shook
and had a mournful cadence.

"Supper is all ready and waiting. I've got something nice and hot
for you. A strong cup of tea will do you good," said Ethel, trying
to speak cheerily. She had her father at the table in a few minutes.
His hand trembled so in lifting his cup that he spilled some of the
contents, but she steadied it for him. He had better control of
himself after drinking the tea, and ate a few mouthfuls, but without
apparent relish.

"I've got something to tell you," said Ethel, leaning toward her
father as they still sat at the table. Mr. Ridley saw a new light in
his daughter's face.

"What is it, dear?" he said.

"Mrs. Birtwell was here to-day, and is going--"

The instant change observed in her father's manner arrested the
sentence on Ethel's lips. A dark shadow swept across his face and he
became visibly agitated.

"Going to do what?" he inquired, betraying some anger.

"Going to help me all she can. She was very kind, and wants me to go
and see her to-morrow. I think she's very good, father."

Mr. Ridley dropped his eyes from the flushed, excited face of his
child. The frown left his brow. He seemed to lose himself in
thought. Leaning forward upon the table, he laid his face down upon
his folded arms, hiding it from view.

A sad and painful conflict, precipitated by the remark of his
daughter, was going on in the mind of this wretched man. He knew
also too well that he was standing on the verge of a dreadful
condition from the terrors of which his soul shrunk back in
shuddering fear. All day he had felt the coming signs, and the hope
of escape had now left him. But love for his daughter was rising
above all personal fear and dread. He knew that at any moment the
fiend of delirium might spring upon him, and then this tender child
would be left alone with him in his awful conflict. The bare
possibility of such a thing made him shudder, and all his thought
was now directed toward the means of saving her from being a witness
of the appalling scene.

The shock and anger produced by the mention of Mrs. Birtwell's name
had passed off, and his thought was going out toward her in a vague,
groping way, and in a sort of blind faith that through her help in
his great extremity might come. It was all folly, he knew. What
could she do for a poor wretch in his extremity? He tried to turn
his thought from her, but ever as he turned it away it swung back
and rested in-this blind faith.

Raising his eyes at last, his mind still in a maze of doubt, he saw
just before him an the table a small grinning head. It was only by a
strong effort that he could keep from crying out in fear and
starting back from the table. A steadier look obliterated the head
and left a teacup in its place.

No time was now to be lost. At any moment the enemy might be upon
him. He must go quickly, but where? A brief struggle against an
almost unconquerable reluctance and dread, and then, rising from the
table, Mr. Ridley caught up his hat and ran down stairs, Ethel
calling after him. He did not heed her anxious cries. It was for her
sake that he was going. She heard the street door shut with a jar,
and listened to her father's departing feet until the sound died out
in the distance.

It was over an hour from this time when Mr. Ridley, forcing his way
past the servant who had tried to keep him back, stood confronting
Mr. Elliott. A look of disappointment, followed by an angry cloud,
came into his face. But seeing Mrs. Birtwell, his countenance
brightened; and stepping past the clergyman, he advanced toward her.
She did not retreat from him, but held out her hand, and said, with
an earnestness so genuine that it touched his feeling:

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Ridley."

As he took her extended hand Mrs. Birtwell drew him toward a sofa
and sat down near him, manifesting the liveliest interest.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked.

"No, ma'am," he replied, in a mournful voice--"not for me. I didn't
come for that. But you'll be good to my poor Ethel, won't you,
and--and--"

His voice broke into sobs, his weak frame quivered.

"I will, I will!" returned Mrs. Birtwell with prompt assurance.

"Oh, thank you. It's so good of you. My poor girl! I may never see
you again."

The start and glance of fear he now threw across the room revealed
to Mr. Elliott the true condition of their visitor, and greatly
alarmed him. He had never been a witness of the horrors of delirium
tremens, and only knew of it by the frightful descriptions he had
sometimes read, but he could not mistake the symptoms of the coming
attack as now seen in Mr. Ridley, who, on getting from Mrs. Birtwell
a repeated and stronger promise to care for Ethel, rose from the
sofa and started for the door.

But neither Mr. Elliott nor Mrs. Birtwell could let him go away in
this condition. They felt too deeply their responsibility in the
case, and felt also that One who cares for all, even the lowliest
and most abandoned, had led him thither in his dire extremity.

Following him quickly, Mr. Elliott laid his hand firmly upon his
arm.

"Stop a moment, Mr. Ridley," he said, with such manifest interest
that the wretched man turned and looked at him half in surprise.

"Where are you going?" asked the clergyman.

"Where?" His voice fell to a deep whisper. There was a look of
terror in his eyes. "Where? God only knows. Maybe to hell."

A strong shiver went through his frame.

"The 'Home,' Mr. Elliott! We must get him into the' Home,'" said Mrs.
Birtwell, speaking close to the minister's ear.

"What home?" asked Mr. Ridley, turning quickly upon her.

She did not answer him. She feared to say a "Home for inebriates,"
lest he should break from them in anger.

"What home?" he repeated, in a stronger and more agitated voice; and
now both Mr. Elliott and Mrs. Birtwell saw a wild eagerness in his
manner.

"A home," replied Mr. Elliott, "where men like you can go and
receive help and sympathy. A home where you will find men of large
and hopeful nature to take you by the hand and hold you up, and
Christian women with hearts full of mother and sister love to
comfort, help, encourage and strengthen all your good desires. A
home in which men in your unhappy condition are made welcome, and in
which they are cared for wisely and tenderly in their greatest
extremity."

"Then take me there, for God's sake!" cried out the wretched man,
extending his hand eagerly as he spoke.

"Order the carriage immediately," said Mrs. Birtwell to the servant
who stood in the half-open parlor door.

Then she drew Mr. Ridley back to the sofa, from which he had started
up a little while before, and said, in a voice full of comfort and
persuasion:

"You shall go there, and I will come and see you every day; and you
needn't have a thought or care for Ethel. All is going to come out
right again."

The carriage came in a few minutes. There was no hesitation on the
part of Mr. Ridley. The excitement of this new hope breaking in so
suddenly upon the midnight of his despair acted as a temporary
stimulant and held his nerves steady for a little while longer.

"You are not going?" said Mr. Elliott, seeing that Mrs. Birtwell was
making ready to accompany them in the carriage.

"Yes," she replied. "I want to see just what this home is and how
Mr. Ridley is going to be received and cared for."

She then directed their man-servant to get into the carriage with
them, and they drove away. Mr. Ridley did not stir nor speak, but
sat with his head bent down until they arrived at their destination.
He left the carriage and went in passively. As they entered a large
and pleasant reception-room a gentleman stepped forward, and taking
Mr. Elliott by the hand, called him by name in a tone of pleased
surprise.

"Oh, Mr. G----!" exclaimed the clergyman. "I am right glad to find
you here. I remember seeing your name in the list of directors."

"Yes, I am one of the men engaged in this work," replied Mr. G----.
Then, as he looked more closely at Mr. Ridley, he recognized him and
saw at a glance his true condition.

"My dear sir," said he, stepping forward and grasping his hand, "I
am glad you have come here."

Mr. Ridley looked at, or rather beyond, him in a startled way, and
then drew back a few steps. Mr. G----saw him shiver and an
expression of fear cross his face. Turning to a man who sat writing
at a desk, he called him by name, and with a single glance directed
his attention to Mr. Ridley. The man was by his side in a moment,
and as Mr. Elliott did not fail to notice all on the alert. He spoke
to Mr. Ridley in a kind but firm voice, and drew him a little way
toward an adjoining room, the door of which stood partly open.

"Do the best you can for this poor man," said Mrs. Birtwell, now
addressing Mr. G----. "I will pay all that is required. You know
him, I see."

"Yes, I know him well. A sad case indeed. You may be sure that what
can be done will be done."

At this moment Mr. Ridley gave a cry and a spring toward the door.
Glancing at him, Mrs. Birtwell saw that his countenance was
distorted by terror. Instantly two men came in from the adjoining
room and quickly restrained him. After two or three fruitless
efforts to break away, he submitted to their control, and was
immediately removed to another part of the building.

With white lips and trembling limbs Mrs. Birtwell stood a frightened
spectator of the scene. It was over in a moment, but it left her
sick at heart.

"What will they do with him?" she asked, her voice husky and
choking.

"All that his unhappy case requires," replied Mr. G----. "The man
you saw go first to his side can pity him, for he has himself more
than once passed through that awful conflict with the power of hell
upon which our poor friend has now entered. A year ago he came to
this Home in a worse condition than Mr. Ridley begging us for God's
sake to take him in. A few weeks saw him, to use sacred words,
'clothed and in his right mind,' and since then he has never gone
back a single step. Glad and grateful for his own rescue, he now
devotes his life to the work of saving others. In his hands Mr.
Ridley will receive the gentlest treatment consistent with needed
restraint. He is better here than he could possibly be anywhere
else; and when, as I trust in God the case may be, he comes out of
this dreadful ordeal, he will find himself surrounded by friends and
in the current of influences all leading him to make a new effort to
reform his life. Poor man! You did not get him here a moment too
soon."

CHAPTER XXIV.

MRS. BIRTWELL slept but little that night and in the brief periods
of slumber that came to her she was disturbed by unquiet dreams. The
expression of Mr. Ridley's face as the closing door shut it from her
sight on the previous evening haunted her like the face of an
accusing spectre.

Immediately after breakfast she dressed herself to go out, intending
to visit the Home for reforming inebriates and learn something of
Mr. Ridley. Just as she came down stairs a servant opened the street
door, and she saw the slender figure of Ethel.

"My poor child!" she said, with great kindness of manner, taking her
by the hand and drawing her in. "You are frightened about your
father."

"Oh yes, ma'am," replied Ethel, with quivering lips. "He didn't come
home all night, and I'm so scared about him. I don't know what to
do. Maybe you'll think it wrong in me to trouble you about it, but I
am in such distress, and don't know where to go.

"No, not wrong, my child, and I'm glad you've come. I ought to have
sent you word about him."

"My father! Oh, ma'am, do you know where he is?"

"Yes; he came here last night sick, and I took him in my carriage to
a Home for just such as he is, where he will be kindly taken care of
until he gets well."

Ethel's large brown eyes were fixed in a kind of thankful wonder on
the face of Mrs. Birtwell. She could not speak. She did not even try
to put thought or feeling into words. She only took the hand of Mrs.
Birtwell, and after touching it with her lips laid her wet cheek
against it and held it there tightly.

"Can I go and see him?" she asked, lifting her face after some
moments.

"It will not be best, I think," replied Mrs. Birtwell--"that is, not
now. He was very sick when we took him there, and may not be well
enough to be seen this morning."

"Very sick! Oh, ma'am!" The face of Ethel grew white and her lips
trembled.

"Not dangerously," said Mrs. Birtwell, "but yet quite ill. I am
going now to see him; and if you will come here in a couple of
hours, when I shall return home--"

"Oh. ma'am, let me go along with you," broke in Ethel. "I won't ask
to see him if it isn't thought best, but I'll know how he is without
waiting so long."

The fear that Mr. Ridley might die in his delirium had troubled Mrs.
Birtwell all night, and it still oppressed her. She would have much
preferred to go alone and learn first the good or ill of the case,
but Ethel begged so hard to be permitted to accompany her that she
could not persist in objection.

On reaching the Home, Mrs. Birtwell found in the office the man in
whose care Mr. Ridley had been placed. Remembering what Mr. G----had
said of this man, a fresh hope for Ethel's father sprang up in her
soul as she looked into his clear eyes and saw his firm mouth and
air of conscious poise and strength. She did not see in his manly
face a single scar from the old battle out of which he had come at
last victorious. Recognizing her, he called her by name, and not
waiting for her to ask the question that looked out of her face,
said:

"It is all right with him."

A cry of joy that she could not repress broke from Ethel. It was
followed by sobbing and tears.

"Can we see him?" asked Mrs. Birtwell.

"The doctor will not think it best," replied the man. "He has had a
pretty hard night, but, the worst is over. We must keep him quiet
to-day."

"In the morning can I see him?" asked Ethel lifting her eyes, half
blinded by tears, to the man's face.

"Yes; I think I can say yes," was the reply.

"How soon?"

"Come at ten o'clock."

"You'll let me call and ask about him this evening, won't you?"

"Oh yes, and you will get a good report, I am sure."

The care and help and wise consideration received in the Home by Mr.
Ridley, while passing through the awful stages of his mania, had
probably saved his life. The fits of frenzy were violent, so
overwhelming him with phantom terrors that in his wild and desperate
struggles to escape the fangs of serpents and dragons and the horrid
crew of imaginary demons that crowded his room and pressed madly
upon him he would, but for the restraint to which he was subjected,
have thrown himself headlong from a window or bruised and broken
himself against the wall.

It was the morning of the second day after Mr. Ridley entered the
Home. He had so far recovered as to be able to sit up in his room, a
clean and well ventilated apartment, neatly furnished and with an
air of home comfort about it. Two or three pictures hung on the
walls, one of them representing a father sitting with a child upon
each knee and the happy mother standing beside them. He had looked
at this picture until his eyes grew dim. Near it was an illuminated
text: "WITHOUT ME YE CAN DO NOTHING."

There came, as he sat gazing at the sweet home-scene, the beauty and
tenderness of which had gone down into his heart, troubling its
waters deeply, a knock at the door. Then the matron, accompanied by
one of the lady managers of the institution, came in and made kind
inquiries as to his condition. He soon saw that this lady was a
refined and cultivated Christian woman, and it was not long before
he felt himself coming under a new influence and all the old desires
and purposes long ago cast away warming again into life and
gathering up their feeble strength.

Gradually the lady led him on to talk to her of himself as he would
have talked to his mother or his sister. She asked him of his
family, and got the story of his bereavement, his despair and his
helplessness. Then she sought to inspire him with new resolutions,
and to lead him to make a new effort.

"I will be a man again," he exclaimed, at last, rising to this
declaration under the uplifting and stimulating influences that were
around him.

Then the lady answered him in a low, earnest, tender voice that
trembled with the burden of its great concern:

"Not in your own strength. That is impossible."

His lips dropped apart. He looked at her strangely.

"Not in your own strength, but in God's," she said reverently. "You
have tried your own strength many times, but it has failed as often.
But his strength never fails."

She lifted her finger and pointed to the text on the wall, "Without
me ye can do nothing," then added: "But in him we can do all things.
Trusting in yourself, my friend, you will go forth from here to an
unequal combat, but trusting in him your victory is assured. You
shall go among lions and they will have no power to harm you, and
stand in the very furnace flame of temptation without even the smell
of fire being left upon your garments."

"Ah, ma'am, you are doubtless right in what you say," Mr. Ridley
answered, all the enthusiasm dying out of his countenance. But I am
not a religious man. I have never trusted in God."

"That is no reason why you should not trust in him now," she
answered, quickly. "All other hope for you is vain, but in God there
is safety. Will you not go to him now?"

There came a quick, nervous rap upon the door; then it was flung
open, and Ethel, with a cry of "Oh, father, my father, my father!"
sprang across the room and threw herself into Mr. Ridley's arms.

With an answering cry of "Oh, Ethel, my child, my child!" Mr. Ridley
drew her to his bosom, clasped her slender form to his heart and
laid his face, over which tears were flowing, down among the thick
masses of her golden hair.

"Let us pray," fell the sweet, solemn voice of the lady manager on
the deep stillness that followed. All knelt, Mr. Ridley with his arm
drawn tightly around his daughter. Then in tender, earnest
supplication did this Christian woman offer her prayers for help.

"Dear Lord and Saviour," she said, in hushed, pleading tones, "whose
love goes yearning after the lost and straying ones, open the eyes
of this man, one of thy sick and suffering children, that he may see
the tender beauty of thy countenance. Touch his heart, that he may
feel the sweetness of thy love. Draw him to come unto thee, and to
trust and confide in thee as his ever-present and unfailing Friend.
In thee is safety, in thee is peace, and nowhere else."

God could answer this prayer through its influence upon the mind of
him for whom it was offered. It was the ladder on which his soul
climbed upward. The thought of God and of his love and mercy with
which it filled all his consciousness inspired him with hope. He saw
his own utter helplessness, and felt the peril and disaster that
were before him when his frail little vessel of human resolution
again met the fierce storms and angry billows of temptation; and so,
in despairing abandonment of all human strength, he lifted his
thoughts to God and cried out for the help and strength he needed.

And then, for he was deeply and solemnly in earnest, there was a new
birth in his soul--the birth of a new life of spiritual forces in
which God could be so present with him as to give him power to
conquer when evil assailed him. It was not a life of his own, but a
new life from God--not a self-acting life by which he was to be
taken over the sea of temptation like one in a boat rowed by a
strong oarsman, but a power he must use for himself, and one that
would grow by use, gaining more and more strength, until it subdued
and subordinated every natural desire to the rule of heavenly
principles, and yet it was a life that, if not cherished and made
active, would die.

There was a new expression in Mr. Ridley's face when he rose from
his knees. It was calmer and stronger.

"God being your helper," said the lady manager, impressively,
"victory is sure, and he will help you and overcome for you if you
will let him. Do not trust to any mere personal motives or
considerations. You have tried to stand by these over and over
again, and every time you have fallen their power to help you has
become less. Pride, ambition, even love, have failed. But the
strength that God will give you, if you make his divine laws the
rule of your life, cannot fail. Go to him in childlike trust. Tell
him as you would tell a loving father of your sin and sorrow and
helplessness, and ask of him the strength you need. Read every
morning a portion of his holy word, and lay the divine precepts up
in your heart. He is himself the word of life, and is therefore
present in a more real and saving way to those who reverence and
obey this word than it is possible for him to be to those who do
not.

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