Danger; or Wounded in the House of a Friend

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18

"Something must be done about it. We cannot let this thing go on,"
said Mr. Birtwell, in a kind of helpless passion. "A drunkard is a
beast. Our Blanche tied to a beast! Ugh! Ellis must be talked to. I
shall see him myself. If he gets offended, I cannot help it. There's
too much at stake--too much, too much!"

"Talking never does much in these cases," returned Mrs. Birtwell,
gloomily. "Ellis would be hurt and offended."

"So far so good. He'd be on guard at the next party."

"Perhaps so. But what hope is there for a young man in any danger of
acquiring a love of liquor as things now are in our best society? He
cannot always be on guard. Wine is poured for him everywhere. He may
go unharmed in his daily walks through the city though thousands of
drinking-saloons crowd its busy streets. They may hold out their
enticements for him in vain. But he is too weak to refuse the
tempting glass when a fair hostess offers it, or when, in the midst
of a gay company wine is in every hand and at every lip. One glass
taken, and caution and restraint are too often forgotten. He drinks
with this one and that one, until his clear head is gone and
appetite, like a watchful spider, throws another cord of its fatal
web around him."

"I don't see what we are to do about it," said Mr. Birtwell. "If men
can't control themselves--" He did not finish the sentence.

"We can at least refrain from putting temptation in their way,"
answered his wife.

"How?"

"We can refuse to turn our houses into drinking-saloons," replied
Mrs. Birtwell, voice and manner becoming excited and intense.

"Margaret, Margaret, you are losing yourself," said the astonished
husband.

"No; I speak the words of truth and soberness," she answered, her
face rising in color and her eyes brightening. "What great
difference is there between a drinking-saloon, where liquor is sold,
and a gentleman's dining-room, where it is given away? The harm is
great in both--greatest, I fear, in the latter, where the weak and
unguarded are allured and their tastes corrupted. There is a ban on
the drinking-saloon. Society warns young men not to enter its
tempting doors. It is called the way of death and hell. What makes
it accursed and our home saloon harmless? It is all wrong, Mr.
Birtwell--all wrong, wrong, wrong! and to-day we are tasting some of
the fruit, the bitterness of which, I fear, will be in our mouths so
long as we both shall live."

Mrs. Birtwell broke down, and sinking back in her chair, covered her
face with her hands.

"I must go to Frances," she said, rising after a few moments.

"Not now, Margaret," interposed her husband. "Wait for a while.
Archie is neither murdered nor frozen to death; you may take my word
for that. Wait until the morning advances, and he has time to put in
an appearance, as they say. Henry can go round after breakfast and
make inquiry about him. If he is still absent, then you might call
and see Mrs. Voss. At present the snow lies inches deep and unbroken
on the street, and you cannot possibly go out."

Mrs. Birtwell sat down again, her countenance more distressed.

"Oh, if it hadn't happened in our house!" she said. "If this awful
thing didn't lie at our door!"

"Good Heavens, Margaret! why will you take on so? Any one hearing
you talk might think us guilty of murder, or some other dreadful
crime. Even if the worst fears are realized, no blame can lie with
us. Parties are given every night, and young men, and old men too,
go home from them with lighter heads than when they came. No one is
compelled to drink more than is good for him. If he takes too much,
the sin lies at his own door."

"If you talked for ever, Mr. Birtwell," was answered nothing you
might say could possibly change my feelings or sentiments. I know we
are responsible both to God and to society for the stumbling-blocks
we set in the way of others. For a long time, as you know, I have
felt this in regard to our social wine-drinking customs; and if I
could have had my way, there would have been one large party of the
season at which neither man nor woman could taste wine."

"I know," replied Mr. Birtwell. "But I didn't choose to make myself
a laughing-stock. If we are in society, we must do as society does.
Individuals are not responsible for social usages. They take things
as they find them, going with the current, and leaving society to
settle for itself its code of laws and customs. If we don't like
these laws and customs, we are free to drift out of the current. But
to set ourselves against them is a weakness and a folly."

Mr. Birtwell's voice and manner grew more confident as he spoke. He
felt that he had closed the argument.

"If society," answered his wife, "gets wrong, how is it to get
right?"

Mr. Birtwell was silent.

"Is it not made up of individuals?"

"Of course."

"And is not each of the individuals responsible, in his degree, for
the conduct of society?"

"In a certain sense, yes."

"Society, as a whole, cannot determine a question of right and
wrong. Only individuals can do this. Certain of these, more
independent than the rest, pass now and then from the beaten track
of custom, and the great mass follow them. Because they do this or
that, it is right or in good taste and becomes fashionable. The many
are always led by the few. It is through the personal influence of
the leaders in social life that society is now cursed by its
drinking customs. Personal influence alone can change these customs,
and therefore every individual becomes responsible, because he might
if he would set his face against them, and any one brave enough to
do this would find many weaker ones quick to come to his side and
help him to form a better social sentiment and a better custom."

"All very nicely said," replied Mr. Birtwell, "but I'd like to see
the man brave enough to give a large fashionable party and exclude
wine."

"So would I. Though every lip but mine kept silence, there would be
one to do him honor."

"You would be alone, I fear," said the husband.

"When a man does a right and brave thing, all true men honor him in
their hearts. All may not be brave enough to stand by his side, but
a noble few will imitate the good example. Give the leader in any
cause, right or wrong, and you will always find adherents of the
cause. No, my husband, I would not be alone in doing that man honor.
His praise would be on many lips and many hearts would bless him. I
only wish you were that man! Spencer, if you will consent to take
this lead, I will walk among our guests the queenliest woman, in
heart at least, to be found in any drawing-room this season. I shall
not be without my maids-of-honor, you may be sure, and they will
come from the best families known in our city. Come! say yes, and I
will be prouder of my husband than if he were the victorious general
of a great army."

"No, thank you, my dear," replied Mr. Birtwell, not in the least
moved by his wife's enthusiasm. "I am not a social reformer, nor in
the least inclined that way. As I find things I take them. It is no
fault of mine that some people have no control of their appetites
and passions. Men will abuse almost anything to their own hurt. I
saw as many of our guests over-eat last night as over-drink, and
there will be quite as many headaches to-day from excess of terrapin
and oysters as from excess of wine. It's no use, Margaret.
Intemperance is not to be cured in this way. Men who have a taste
for wine will get it, if not in one place then in another; if not in
a gentleman's dining-room, then in a drinking-saloon, or somewhere
else."

The glow faded from Mrs. Birtwell's face and the light went out of
her eyes. Her voice was husky and choking as she replied:

"One fact does not invalidate another. Because men who have acquired
a taste for wine will have it whether we provide it for them or not,
it is no reason why we should set it before the young whose
appetites are yet unvitiated and lure them to excesses. It does not
make a free indulgence in wine and brandy any the more excusable
because men overeat themselves."

"But," broke in Mr. Birtwell, with the manner of one who gave an
unanswerable reason, "if we exclude wine that men may not hurt
themselves by over-indulgence, why not exclude the oysters and
terrapin? If we set up for reformers and philanthropists, why not
cover the whole ground?"

"Oysters and terrapin," replied Mrs. Birtwell, in a voice out of
which she could hardly keep the contempt she felt for her husband's
weak rejoinder, "don't confuse the head, dethrone the reason,
brutalize, debase and ruin men in soul and body as do wine and
brandy. The difference lies there, and all men see and feel it, make
what excuses they will for self-indulgence and deference to custom.
The curse of drink is too widely felt. There is scarcely a family in
the land on which its blight does not lie. The best, the noblest,
the purest, the bravest, have fallen. It is breaking hopes and
hearts and fortunes every day. The warning cross that marks the
grave of some poor victim hurts your eyes at every turn of life. We
are left without excuse."

Mrs. Birtwell rose as she finished speaking, and returned to her
chamber.

CHAPTER IV.

"MR. VOSS," said the waiter as he opened the door of the
breakfast-room.

Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell left the table hurriedly and went to the
parlor. Their visitor was standing in the middle of the floor as
they entered.

"Oh, Mr. Voss, have you heard anything of Archie?" exclaimed Mrs.
Birtwell.

"Nothing yet," he replied.

"Dreadful, dreadful! What can it mean?"

"Don't be alarmed about it," said Mr. Birtwell, trying to speak in
an assuring voice. "He must have gone home with a friend. It will be
all right, I am confident."

"I trust so," replied Mr. Voss. "But I cannot help feeling very
anxious. He has never been away all night before. Something is
wrong. Do you know precisely at what time he left here?"

"I do not," replied Mr. Birtwell. "We had a large company, and I did
not note particularly the coming or going of any one."

"Doctor Angier thinks it was soon after twelve o'clock. He saw him
come out of the dressing-room and go down stairs about that time."

"How is Frances?" asked Mrs. Birtwell. "It must be a dreadful shock
to her in her weak state."

"Yes, it is dreadful, and I feel very anxious about her. If anything
has happened to Archie, it will kill her."

Tears fell over Mrs. Birtwell's face and she wrung her hands in
distress.

"She is calmer than she was," said Mr. Voss. "The first alarm and
suspense broke her right down, and she was insensible for some
hours. But she is bearing it better now--much better than I had
hoped for."

"I will go to see her at once. Oh, if I knew how to comfort her!"

To this Mr. Voss made no response, but Mrs. Birtwell, who was
looking into his, face, saw an expression that she did not
understand.

"She will see me, of course?"

"I do not know. Perhaps you'd better not go round yet. It might
disturb her too much, and the doctor says she must be kept as quiet
as possible."

Something in the manner of Mr. Voss sent a chill to the heart of
Mrs. Birtwell. She felt an evasion in his reply. Then a suspicion of
the truth flashed upon her mind, overwhelming her with a flood of
bitterness in which shame, self-reproach, sorrow and distress were
mingled. It was from her hand, so to speak, that the son of her
friend had taken the wine which had bewildered his senses, and from
her house that he had gone forth with unsteady step and confused
brain to face a storm the heaviest and wildest that had been known
for years. If he were dead, would not the stain of his blood be on
her garments?

No marvel that Mr. Voss had said, "Not yet; it might disturb her too
much." Disturb the friend with whose heart her own had beaten in
closest sympathy and tenderest love for years--the friend who had
flown to her in the deepest sorrow she had ever known and held her
to her heart until she was comforted by the sweet influences of
love. Oh, this was hard to bear! She bowed her head and stood
silent.

"I wish," said Mr. Voss, speaking to Mr. Birtwell, "to get the names
of a few of the guests who were here last night. Some of them may
have seen Archie go out, or may have gone away at the time he did. I
must find some clue to the mystery of his absence."

Mr. Birtwell named over many of his guests, and Mr. Voss made a note
of their addresses. The chill went deeper down into the heart of
Mrs. Birtwell; and when Mr. Voss, who seemed to grow colder and more
constrained every moment, without looking at her, turned to go away,
the pang that cut her bosom was sharp and terrible.

"If I can do anything, Mr. Voss, command--" Mr. Birtwell had gone to
the door with his visitor, who passed out hastily, not waiting to
hear the conclusion of his sentence.

"A little strange in his manner, I should say," remarked Mr.
Birtwell as he came back. "One. might infer that he thought us to
blame for his son's absence."

"I can't bear this suspense. I must see Frances." It was an hour
after Mr. Voss had been there. Mrs. Birtwell rang a bell, and
ordering the carriage, made herself ready to go out.

"Mrs. Voss says you must excuse her," said the servant who had taken
up Mrs. Birtwell's card. "She is not seeing any but the family,"
added the man, who saw in the visitor's face the pain of a great
disappointment.

Slowly retiring, her head bent forward and her body stooping a
little like one pressed down by a burden, Mrs. Birtwell left the
house of her oldest and dearest friend with an aching sense of
rejection at her heart. In the darkest and saddest hour of her life
that friend had turned from the friend who had been to her more than
a sister, refusing the sympathy and tears she had come to offer.
There was a bitter cup at the lips of both; which was the bitterest
it would be hard to tell.

"Not now," Mrs. Voss had said, speaking to her husband; "I cannot
meet her now."

"Perhaps you had better see her," returned the latter.

"No, no, no!" Mrs. Voss put up her hands and shivered as she spoke.
"I cannot, I cannot! Oh, my boy! my son! my poor Archie! Where are
you? Why do you not come home? Hark!"

The bell had rung loudly. They listened, and heard men's voices in
the hall below. With face flushing and paling in quick alternations,
Mrs. Voss started up in bed and leaned forward, hearkening eagerly.
Mr. Voss opened the chamber door and went out. Two policemen had
come to report that so far all efforts to find a trace of the young
man had been utterly fruitless. Mrs. Voss heard in silence. Slowly
the dark lashes fell upon her cheeks, that were white as marble. Her
lips were rigid and closely shut, her hands clenched tightly. So she
struggled with the fear and agony that were assaulting her life.

CHAPTER V.

A HANDSOME man of forty-five stood lingering by the bedside of his
wife, whose large tender eyes looked up at him almost wistfully. A
baby's head, dark with beautiful hair that curled in scores of
silken ringlets, lay close against her bosom. The chamber was not
large nor richly furnished, though everything was in good taste and
comfortable. A few articles were out of harmony with the rest and
hinted at better days. One of these was a large secretary of curious
workmanship, inlaid with costly woods and pearl and rich with
carvings. Another was a small mantel clock of exquisite beauty. Two
or three small but rare pictures hung on the walls.

Looking closely into the man's strong intellectual face, you would
have seen something that marred the harmony of its fine features and
dimmed its clear expression--something to stir a doubt or awaken a
feeling of concern. The eyes, that were deep and intense, had a
shadow in them, and the curves of the mouth had suffering and
passion and evidences of stern mental conflict in every line. This
was no common man, no social drone, but one who in his contact with
men was used to making himself felt.

"Come home early, Ralph, won't you?" said his wife.

The man bent down and kissed her, and then pressed his lips to the
baby's head.

"Yes, dear; I don't mean to stay late. If it wasn't for the
expectation of meeting General Logan and one or two others that I
particularly wish to see, I wouldn't go at all. I have to make good,
you know, all the opportunities that come in my way."

"Oh yes, I know. You must go, of course." She had taken her
husband's hand, and was holding it with a close pressure. He had to
draw it away almost by force.

"Good-night, dear, and God bless you." His voice trembled a little.
He stooped and kissed her again. A moment after and she was alone.
Then all the light went out of her face and a deep shadow fell
quickly over it. She shut her eyes, but not tightly enough to hold
back the tears that soon carne creeping slowly out from beneath the
closed lashes.

Ralph Ridley was a lawyer of marked ability. A few years before, he
had given up a good practice at the bar for an office under the
State government. Afterward he was sent to Congress and passed four
years in Washington. Like too many of our ablest public men, the
temptations of that city were too much for him. It was the old sad
story that repeats itself every year. He fell a victim to the
drinking customs of our national capital. Everywhere and on all
social occasions invitations to wine met him. He drank with a friend
on his way to the House, and with another in the Capitol buildings
before taking his seat for business. He drank at lunch and at
dinner, and he drank more freely at party or levee in the evening.
Only in the early morning was he free from the bewildering effects
of liquor.

Four years of such a life broke down his manhood. Hard as he
sometimes struggled to rise above the debasing appetite that had
enslaved him, resolution snapped like thread in a flame with every
new temptation. He stood erect and hopeful to-day, and to-morrow lay
prone and despairing under the heel of his enemy.

At the end of his second term in Congress the people of his district
rejected him. They could tolerate a certain degree of drunkenness
and demoralization in their representative, but Ridley had fallen
too low. They would have him no longer, and so he was left out in
the party nomination and sent back into private life hurt,
humiliated and in debt. No clients awaited his return. His
law-office had been closed for years, and there was little
encouragement to open it again in the old place. For some weeks
after his failure to get the nomination Ridley drank more
desperately than ever, and was in a state of intoxication nearly all
the while. His poor wife, who clung to him through all with an
unwavering fidelity, was nearly broken-hearted. In vain had
relatives and friends interposed. No argument nor persuasion could
induce her to abandon him. "He is my husband," was her only reply,
"and I will not leave him."

One night he was brought home insensible. He had fallen in the
street where some repairs were being made, and had received serious
injuries which confined him to the house for two or three weeks.
This gave time for reflection and repentance. The shame and remorse
that filled his soul as he looked at his sad, pale wife and
neglected children, and thought of his tarnished name and lost
opportunities, spurred him to new and firmer resolves than ever
before made. He could go forward no longer without utter ruin. No
hope was left but in turning back. He must set his face in a new
direction, and he vowed to do so, promising God on his knees in
tears and agony to hold, by his vow sacredly.

A new day had dawned. As soon as Mr. Ridley was well enough to be
out again he took counsel of friends, and after careful deliberation
resolved to leave his native town and remove to the city. A lawyer
of fine ability, and known to the public as a clear thinker and an
able debater, he had made quite an impression on the country during
his first term in Congress; neither he nor his friends had any doubt
as to his early success, provided he was able to keep himself free
from the thraldom of old habits.

A few old friends and political associates made up a purse to enable
him to remove to the city with his family. An office was taken and
three rooms rented in a small house, where, with his wife and two
children, one daughter in her fourteenth year, life was started
anew. There was no room for a servant in this small establishment
even if he had been able to pay the hire of one.

So the new beginning was made. A man of Mr. Ridley's talents and
reputation could not long remain unemployed. In the very first week
he had a client and a retaining fee of twenty-five dollars. The case
was an important one, involving some nice questions of mercantile
law. It came up for argument in the course of a few weeks, and gave
the opportunity he wanted. His management of the case was so
superior to that of the opposing counsel, and his citations of law
and precedent so cumulative and explicit, that he gained not only an
easy victory, but made for himself a very favorable impression.

After that business began gradually to flow in upon him, and he was
able to gather in sufficient to keep his family, though for some
time only in a very humble way. Having no old acquaintances in the
city, Mr. Ridley was comparatively free from temptation. He was
promptly at his office in the morning, never leaving it, except to
go into court or some of the public offices on business, until the
hour arrived for returning home.

A new life had become dominant, a new ambition was ruling him. Hope
revived in the heart of his almost despairing wife, and the future
looked bright again. His eyes had grown clear and confident once
more and his stooping shoulders square and erect. In his bearing you
saw the old stateliness and conscious sense of power. Men treated
him with deference and respect.

In less than a year Mr. Ridley was able to remove his family into a
better house and to afford the expense of a servant. So far they had
kept out of the city's social life. Among strangers and living
humbly, almost meanly, they neither made nor received calls nor had
invitations to evening entertainments; and herein lay Mr. Ridley's
safety. It was on his social side that he was weakest. He could hold
himself above appetite and deny its cravings if left to the contest
alone. The drinking-saloons whose hundred doors he had to pass daily
did not tempt him, did not cause his firm steps to pause nor linger.
His sorrow and shame for the past and his solemn promises and hopes
for the future were potent enough to save him from all such
allurements. For him their doors stood open in vain. The path of
danger lay in another direction. He would have to be taken unawares.
If betrayed at all, it must be, so to speak, in the house of a
friend. The Delilah of "good society" must put caution and
conscience to sleep and then rob him of his strength.

The rising man at the bar of a great city who had already served two
terms in Congress could not long remain in social obscurity; and as
it gradually became known in the "best society" that Mrs. Ridley
stood connected with some of the "best families" in the State, one
and another began to call upon her and to court her acquaintance,
even though she was living in comparative obscurity and in a humble
way.

At first regrets were returned to all invitations to evening
entertainments, large or small. Mr. Ridley very well understood why
his wife, who was social and naturally fond of company, was so
prompt to decline. He knew that the excuse, "We are not able to give
parties in return," was not really the true one. He knew that she
feared the temptation that would come to him, and he was by no means
insensible to the perils that would beset him whenever he found
himself in the midst of a convivial company, with the odor of wine
heavy on the air and invitations to drink meeting him at every turn.

But this could not always be. Mr. and Mrs. Ridley could not for ever
hold themselves away from the social life of a large city among the
people of which their acquaintance was gradually extending. Mrs.
Ridley would have continued to stand aloof because of the danger she
had too good reason to fear, but her husband was growing, she could
see, both sensitive and restless. He wanted the professional
advantages society would give him, and he wanted, moreover, to prove
his manhood and take away the reproach under which he felt himself
lying.

Sooner or later he must walk this way of peril, and he felt that he
was becoming strong enough and brave enough to meet the old enemy
that had vanquished him so many times.

"We will go," he said, on receiving cards of invitation to a party
given by a prominent and influential citizen. "People will be there
whom I should meet, and people whom I want you to meet."

He saw a shadow creep into his wife's face; Mrs. Ridley saw the
shadow reflected almost as a frown from his. She knew what was in
her husband's thoughts, knew that he felt hurt and restless under
her continued reluctance to have him go into any company where wine
and spirits were served to the guests, and feeling that a longer
opposition might do more harm than good, answered, with as much
heartiness and assent as she could get into her voice:

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18