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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And now, alas! he was as a feather on the surface of a wind-struck
lake, and given up to the spirit and pressure of the hour. The
dangerous fallacy to which Mr. Elliott had given utterance held his
thoughts to the exclusion of all other considerations. A clear path
out of the dreary wilderness in which he had been, straying seemed
to open before him, and he resolved to walk therein. Fatal delusion!

As soon as Mr. Ridley had supplied Mrs. General Locran with terrapin
and oysters and filled a plate for himself, he poured out two
glasses of wine and handed one of them to the lady, then, lifting
the other, he bowed a compliment and placed it to his lips. The lady
smiled on him graciously, sipping the wine and praising its flavor.

"Pure as nectar," was the mental response of Mr. Ridley as the
long-denied palate felt the first thrill of sweet satisfaction. He
had taken a single mouthful, but another hand seemed to grasp the
one that held the cup of wine and press it back to his lips, from
which it was not removed until empty.

The prescription of Mr. Elliott failed. Either the wine was not pure
or his theory was at fault. It was but little over an hour from the
fatal moment when Mr. Ridley put a glass of wine to his lips ere he
went out alone into the storm of a long-to-be-remembered night in a
state of almost helpless intoxication, and staggered off in the
blinding snow that soon covered his garments like a winding sheet.

CHAPTER VII.

THE nurse of Mrs. Ridley had found her in a nervous chill, at which
she was greatly troubled. More clothing was laid upon the bed, and
bottles of hot water placed to her feet. To all this Mrs. Ridley
made no objection--remained, in fact, entirely passive and
irresponsive, like one in a partial stupor, from which she did not,
to all appearance, rally even after the chill had subsided.

She lay with her eyes shut, her lips pressed together and her
forehead drawn into lines, and an expression of pain on her face,
answering only in dull monosyllables to the inquiries made every now
and then by her nurse, who hovered about the bed and watched over
her with anxious solicitude.

As she feared, fever symptoms began to show themselves. The evening
had worn away, and it was past ten o'clock. It would not do to wait
until morning in a case like this, and so a servant was sent to the
office of Dr. Hillhouse, with a request that he would come
immediately. She returned saying that the doctor was not at home.

Mrs. Ridley lay with her eyes shut, but the nurse knew by the
expression of her face that she was not asleep. The paleness of her
countenance had given way to a fever hue, and she noticed occasional
restless movements of the hands, twitches of the eyelids and nervous
starts. To her questions the patient gave no satisfactory answers.

An hour elapsed, and still the doctor did not make his appearance.
The servant was called and questioned. She was positive about having
left word for the doctor to come immediately on returning home.

"Is that snow?" inquired Mrs. Ridley, starting up in bed and
listening. The wind had risen suddenly and swept in a gusty dash
against the windows, rattling on the glass the fine hard grains
which had been falling for some time.

She remained leaning on her arm and listening for some moments,
while an almost frightened look came into her face.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"After eleven o'clock," replied the nurse.

All at once the storm seemed to have awakened into a wild fury. More
loudly it rushed and roared and dashed its sand-like snow against
the windows of Mrs. Ridley's chamber. The sick woman shivered and
the fever-flush died out of her face.

"You must lie down!" said the nurse, speaking with decision and
putting her hands on Mrs. Ridley to press her back. But the latter
resisted.

"Indeed, indeed, ma'am," urged the nurse, showing great anxiety,
"you must lie down and keep covered up in bed. It might be the death
of you."

"Oh, that's awful!" exclaimed Mrs. Ridley as the wind went howling
by and the snow came in heavier gusts against the windows. "Past
eleven, did you say?"

"Yes, ma'am, and the doctor ought to have been here long ago. I
wonder why he doesn't come?"

"Hark! wasn't that our bell?" cried Mrs. Ridley, bending forward in
a listening attitude.

The nurse opened the chamber door and stood hearkening for a moment
or two. Not hearing the servant stir, she ran quickly down stairs to
the street door and drew it open, but found no one.

There was a look of suspense and fear in Mrs. Ridley's face when the
nurse came back:

"Who was it?"

"No one," replied the nurse. "The wind deceived you."

A groan came from Mrs. Ridley's lips as she sank down upon the bed,
where, with her face hidden, she lay as still as if sleeping. She
did not move nor speak for the space of more than half an hour, and
all the while her nurse waited and listened through the weird,
incessant noises of the storm for the coming of Dr. Hillhouse, but
waited and listened in vain.

All at once, as if transferred to within a few hundred rods of these
anxious watchers, the great clock of the city, which in the still
hours of a calm night could be heard ringing out clear but afar off,
threw a resonant clang upon the air, pealing the first stroke of the
hour of twelve. Mrs. Ridley started up in bed with a scared look on
her face. Away the sound rolled, borne by the impetuous wind-wave
that had caught it up as the old bell shivered it off, and carried
it away so swiftly that it seemed to die almost in the moment it was
born. The listeners waited, holding their breaths. Then, swept from
the course this first peal had taken, the second came to their ears
after a long interval muffled and from a distance, followed almost
instantly by the third, which went booming past them louder than the
first. And so, with strange intervals and variations of time and
sound as the wind dashed wildly onward or broke and swerved from its
course, the noon of night was struck, and the silence that for a
brief time succeeded left a feeling of awe upon the hearts of these
lonely women.

To the ears of another had come these strange and solemn tones,
struck out at midnight away up in the clear rush of the tempest, and
swept away in a kind of mad sport, and tossed about in the murky
sky. To the ears of another, who, struggling and battling with the
storm, had made his way with something of a blind instinct to within
a short distance of his home, every stroke of the clock seemed to
come from a different quarter; and when the last peal rang out, it
left him in helpless bewilderment. When he staggered on again, it
was in a direction opposite to that in which he had been going. For
ten minutes he wrought with the blinding and suffocating snow,
which, turn as he would, the wind kept dashing into his face, and
then his failing limbs gave out and he sunk benumbed with cold upon
the pavement. Half buried in the snow, he was discovered soon
afterward and carried to a police station, where he found himself
next morning in one of the cells, a wretched, humiliated, despairing
man.

"Why, Mr. Ridley! It can't be possible!" It was the exclamation of
the police magistrate when this man was brought, soon after
daylight, before him.

Ridley stood dumb in presence of the officer, who was touched by the
helpless misery of his face.

"You were at Mr. Birtwell's?"

Ridley answered by a silent inclination of his head.

"I do not wonder," said the magistrate, his voice softening, "that,
you lost your way in the storm last night. You are not the only one
who found himself astray and at fault. Our men had to take care of
quite a number of Mr. Birtwell's guests. But I will not detain you,
Mr. Ridley. I am sorry this has happened. You must be more careful
in future."

With slow steps and bowed head Mr. Ridley left the station-house and
took his way homeward. How could he meet his wife? What of her? How
had she passed the night? Vividly came up the parting scene as she
lay with her babe, only a few days old, close against her bosom, her
tender eyes, in which he saw shadows of fear, fixed lovingly upon
his face.

He had promised to be home soon, and had said a fervent "God bless
you!" as he left a kiss warm upon her lips.

And now! He stood still, a groan breaking on the air. Go home! How
could he look into the face of his wife again? She had walked with
him through the valley of humiliation in sorrow and suffering and
shame for years, and now, after going up from this valley and
bearing her to a pleasant land of hope and happiness, he had plunged
down madly. Then a sudden fear smote his heart. She was in no
condition to bear a shock such as his absence all night must have
caused. The consequences might be fatal. He started forward at a
rapid pace, hurrying along until he came in sight of his house. A
carriage stood at the door. What could this mean?

Entering, he was halfway up stairs when, the nurse met him.

"Oh, Mr. Ridley," she exclaimed, "why did you stay away all night?
Mrs. Ridley has been so ill, and I couldn't get the doctor. Oh, sir,
I don't know what will come of it. She's in a dreadful way--out of
her head. I sent for Dr. Hillhouse last night, but he didn't come."

She spoke in a rapid manner, showing much alarm and agitation.

"Is Dr. Hillhouse here now?" asked Mr. Ridley, trying to repress his
feelings.

"No, sir. He sent Dr. Angier, but I don't trust much in him. Dr.
Hillhouse ought to see her right away. But you do look awful, sir!"

The nurse fixed her eyes upon him in a half-wondering stare.

Mr. Ridley broke from her, and passing up the stairs in two or three
long strides, made his way to the bath-room, where in a few moments
he changed as best he could his disordered appearance, and then
hurried to his wife's chamber.

A wild cry of joy broke from her lips as she saw him enter; but when
he came near, she put up her hands and shrunk away from him, saying
in a voice that fairly wailed, it was so full of disappointment:

"I thought it was Ralph--my dear, good Ralph! Why don't he come
home?"

Her cheeks were red with fever and her eyes bright and shining. She
had started up in bed on hearing her husband's step, but now shrunk
down under the clothing and turned her face away.

"Blanche! Blanche!" Mr. Ridley called the name of his wife tenderly
as he stood leaning over her.

Moving her head slowly, like one in doubt, she looked at him in a
curious, questioning way. Then, closing her eyes, she turned her
face from him again.

"Blanche! Blanche!" For all the response that came, Mr. Ridley might
as well have spoken to deaf ears. Dr. Angier laid his hand on his
arm and drew him away:

"She must have as little to disturb her as possible, Mr. Ridley. The
case is serious."

"Where is Dr. Hillhouse? Why did not he come?" demanded Mr. Ridley.

"He will be here after a while. It is too early for him," replied
Dr. Angier.

"He must come now. Go for him at once, doctor."

"If you say so," returned Doctor Angier, with some coldness of
manner; "but I cannot tell how soon he will be here. He does not go
out until after eight or nine o'clock, and there are two or three
pressing cases besides this."

"I will go," said Mr. Ridley. "Don't think me rude or uncourteous,
Dr. Angier. I am like one distracted. Stay here until I get back. I
will bring Dr. Hillhouse."

"Take my carriage--it is at the door; and say to Dr. Hillhouse from
me that I would like him to come immediately," Dr. Angier replied to
this.

Mr. Ridley ran down stairs, and springing into the carriage, ordered
the driver to return with all possible speed to the office. Dr.
Hillhouse was in bed, but rose on getting the summons from Dr.
Angier and accompanied Mr. Ridley. He did not feel in a pleasant
humor. The night's indulgence in wine and other allurements of the
table had not left his head clear nor his nerves steady for the
morning. A sense of physical discomfort made him impatient and
irritable. At first all the conditions of this case were not clear
to him; but as his thought went back to the incidents of the night,
and he remembered not only seeing Mr. Ridley in considerable
excitement from drink, but hearing it remarked upon by one or two
persons who were familiar with his life at Washington, the truth
dawned upon his mind, and he said abruptly, with considerable
sternness of manner and in a quick voice:

"At what time did you get home last night?"

Ridley made no reply.

"Or this morning? It was nearly midnight when _I_ left, and you were
still there, and, I am sorry to say, not in the best condition for
meeting a sick wife at home. If there is anything seriously wrong in
this case, the responsibility lies, I am afraid, at your door, sir."

They were in the carriage, moving rapidly. Mr. Ridley sat-with his
head drawn down and bent a little forward; not answering, Dr.
Hillhouse said no more. On arriving at Mr. Ridley's residence, he
met Dr. Angier, with whom he held a brief conference before seeing
his patient. He found her in no favorable condition. The fever was
not so intense as Dr. Angier had found it on his arrival, but its
effect on the brain was more marked.

"Too much time has been lost." Dr. Hillhouse spoke aside to his
assistant a's they sat together watching carefully every symptom of
their patient.

"I sent for you before ten o'clock last night," said the nurse, who
overheard the remark and wished to screen herself from any blame.

Dr. Hillhouse did not reply.

"I knew there was danger," pursued the nurse. "Oh, doctor, if you
had only come when I sent for you! I waited and waited until after
midnight."

The doctor growled an impatient response, but so muttered and
mumbled the words that the nurse could not make them out. Mr. Ridley
was in the room, standing with folded arms a little way from the
bed, stern and haggard, with wild, congested eyes and closely shut
mouth, a picture of anguish, fear and remorse.

The two physicians remained with Mrs. Ridley for over twenty minutes
before deciding on their line of treatment. A prescription was then
made, and careful instructions given to the nurse.

"I will call again in the course of two or three hours," said Dr.
Hillhouse, on going away. "Should any thing unfavorable occur, send
to the office immediately."

"Doctor!" Mr. Ridley laid his hand on the arm of Dr. Hillhouse.
"What of my wife?" There was a frightened look in his pale, agitated
face. His voice shook.

"She is in danger," replied the doctor.

"But you know what to do? You can control the disease? You have had
such cases before?"

"I will do my best," answered the doctor, trying to move on; but Mr.
Ridley clutched his arm tightly and held him fast:

"Is it--is it--puer-p-p--" His voice shook so that he could not
articulate the word that was on his tongue.

"I am afraid so," returned the doctor.

A deep groan broke from the lips of Mr. Ridley. His hand dropped
from the arm of Dr. Hillhouse and he stood trembling from head to
foot, then cried out in a voice of unutterable despair:

"From heaven down to hell in one wild leap! God help me!"

Dr. Hillhouse was deeply moved at this. He had felt stern and angry,
ready each moment to accuse and condemn, but the intense emotion
displayed by the husband shocked, subdued and changed his tone of
feeling.

"You must calm, yourself, my dear sir," he said. "The case looks
bad, but I have seen recovery in worse cases than this. We will do
our best. But remember that you have duties and responsibilities
that must not fail."

"Whatsoever in me lies, doctor," answered Mr. Ridley, with a sudden
calmness that seemed supernatural, "you may count on my doing. If
she dies, I am lost." There was a deep solemnity in his tones as he
uttered this last sentence. "You see, sir," he added, "what I have
at stake."

"Just for the present little more can be done than to follow the
prescriptions we have given and watch their effect on the patient,"
returned Dr. Hillhouse. "If any change occurs, favorable or
unfavorable, let us know. If your presence in her room should excite
or disturb her in any way, you must prudently abstain from going
near her."

The two physicians went away with but little hope in their hearts
for the sick woman. Whatever the exciting cause or causes might have
been, the disease which had taken hold of her with unusual violence
presented already so fatal a type that the issue was very doubtful.

CHAPTER VIII.

"IT is too late, I am afraid," said Dr. Hillhouse as the two
physicians rode away, "The case ought to have been seen last night.
I noticed the call when I came home from Mr. Birtwell's, but the
storm was frightful, and I did not feel like going out again. In
fact, if the truth must be told, I hardly gave the matter a thought.
I saw the call, but its importance did not occur to me. Late hours,
suppers and wine do not always leave the head as clear as it should
be."

"I do not like the looks of things," returned Dr. Angier. "All the
symptoms are bad."

"Yes, very bad. I saw Mrs. Ridley yesterday morning, and found her
doing well. No sign of fever or any functional disturbance. She must
have had some shock or exposure to cold."

"Her husband was out all night. I learned that much from the nurse,"
replied Dr. Angier. "When the storm became violent, which was soon
after ten o'clock, she grew restless and disturbed, starting up and
listening as the snow dashed on the windowpanes and the wind roared
angrily. 'I could not keep her down,' said the nurse. 'She would
spring up in bed, throw off the clothes and sit listening, with a
look of anxiety and dread on her face. The wind came in through
every chink and crevice, chilling the room in spite of all I could
do to keep it warm. I soon saw, from the color that began coming
into her face and from the brightness in her eyes, that fever had
set in. I was alarmed, and sent for the doctor.'"

"And did this go on all night?" asked Dr. Hillhouse.

"Yes. She never closed her eyes except in intervals of feverish
stupor, from which she would start up and cry out for her husband,
who was, she imagined, in some dreadful peril."

"Bad! bad!" muttered Dr. Hillhouse. "There'll be a death, I fear,
laid at Mr. Birtwell's door."

"I don't understand you," said his companion, in a tone of surprise.

"Mr. Ridley, as I have been informed," returned Dr. Hillhouse, has
been an intemperate man. After falling very low, he made an earnest
effort to reform, and so far got the mastery of his appetite as to
hold it in subjection. Such men are always in danger, as you and I
very well know. In nine cases out of ten--or, I might say, in
ninety-nine cases in a hundred--to taste again is to fall. It is
like cutting the chain that holds a wild beast. The bound but not
dead appetite springs into full vigor again, and surprised
resolution is beaten down and conquered. To invite such a man to, an
entertainment where wines and liquors are freely dispensed is to put
a human soul in peril."

"Mr. Birtwell may not have known anything about him," replied Dr.
Angier.

"All very true. But there is one thing he did know."

"What?"

"That he could not invite a company of three hundred men and women
to his house, though he selected them from the most refined and
intelligent circles in our city, and give them intoxicating drinks
as freely as he did last night, without serious harm. In such
accompany there will be some, like Mr. Ridley, to whom the cup of
wine offered in hospitality will be a cup of cursing. Good
resolutions will be snapped like thread in a candle-flame, and men
who came sober will go away, as from any other drinking-saloon,
drunk, as he went out last night."

"Drinking-saloon! You surprise me, doctor."

"I feel bitter this morning; and when the bitterness prevails, I am
apt to call things by strong names. Yes, I say drinking-saloon,
Doctor Angier. What matters it in the dispensation whether you give
away or sell the liquor, whether it be done over a bar or set out
free to every guest in a merchant's elegant banqueting-room? The one
is as much a liquor-saloon as the other. Men go away from one, as
from the other, with heads confused and steps unsteady and good
resolutions wrecked by indulgence. Knowing that such things must
follow; that from every fashionable entertainment some men, and
women too, go away weaker and in more danger than when they came;
that boys and young men are tempted to drink and the feet of some
set in the ways of ruin; that health is injured and latent diseases
quickened into force; that evil rather than good flows from
them,--knowing all this, I say, can any man who so turns his house,
for a single evening, into a drinking-saloon--I harp on the words,
you see, for I am feeling bitter--escape responsibility? No man goes
blindly in this way."

"Taking your view of the case," replied Dr. Angier, "there may be
another death laid at the door of Mr. Birtwell."

"Whose?" Dr. Hillhouse turned quickly to his assistant. They had
reached home, and were standing in their office.

"Nothing has been heard of Archie Voss since he left Mr. Birtwell's
last night, and his poor mother is lying insensible, broken down by
her fears."

"Oh, what of her? I was called for in the night, and you went in my
place."

"I found Mrs. Voss in a state of coma, from which she had only
partially recovered when I left at daylight. Mr. Voss is in great
anxiety about his son, who has never stayed away all night before,
except with the knowledge of his parents."

"Oh, that will all come right," said Dr. Hillhouse. "The young man
went home, probably, with some friend. Had too much to drink, it may
be, and wanted to sleep it off before coming into his mother's
pressence."

"There is no doubt about his having drank too much," returned Dr.
Angier. "I saw him going along the hall toward the street door in
rather a bad way. He had his overcoat on and his hat in his hand."

"Was any one with him?"

"I believe not. I think he went out alone."

"Into that dreadful storm?"

"Yes."

The countenance of Dr. Hillhouse became very grave:

"And has not been heard of since?"

"No."

"Have the police been informed about it?"

"Yes. The police have had the matter in hand for several hours, but
at the time I left not the smallest clue had been found."

"Rather a bad look," said Dr. Hillhouse. "What does Mr. Voss say
about it?"

"His mind seems to dwell on two theories--one that Archie, who had a
valuable diamond pin and a gold watch, may have wandered into some
evil neighborhood, bewildered by the storm, and there been set upon
and robbed--murdered perhaps. The other is that he has fallen in
some out-of-the-way place, overcome by the cold, and lies buried in
the snow. The fact that no police-officer reports having seen him or
any one answering to his description during the night awakens the
gravest fears."

"Still," replied Dr. Hillhouse, "it may all come out right. He may
have gone to a hotel. There are a dozen theories to set against
those of his friends."

After remaining silent for several moments, he said:

"The boy had been drinking too much?"

"Yes; and I judge from, his manner, when I saw him on his way to the
street, that he was conscious of his condition and ashamed of it. He
went quietly along, evidently trying not to excite observation, but
his steps were unsteady and his sight not true, for in trying to
thread his way along the hall he ran against one and another, and
drew the attention he was seeking to avoid."

"Poor fellow!" said Dr. Hillhouse, with genuine pity. "He was always
a nice boy. If anything has happened to him, I wouldn't give a dime
for the life of his mother."

"Nor I. And even as it is, the shock already received may prove
greater than her exhausted system can bear. I think you had better
see her, doctor, as early as possible."

"There were no especially bad symptoms when you left, beyond the
state of partial coma?"

"No. Her respiration had become easy, and she presented the
appearance of one in a quiet sleep."

"Nature is doing all for her that can be done," returned Dr.
Hillhouse. "I will see her as early as practicable. It's unfortunate
that we have these two cases on our hands just at this time, and
most unfortunate of all that I should have been compelled to go out
so early this morning. That doesn't look right."

And the doctor held up his hand, which showed a nervous
unsteadiness.

"It will pass off after you have taken breakfast."

"I hope so. Confound these parties! I should not have gone last
night, and if I'd given the matter due consideration would have
remained at home."

"Why so?"

"You know what that means as well as I do;" and Dr. Hillhouse held
up his tremulous hand again. "We can't take wine freely late at
night and have our nerves in good order next morning. A life may
depend on a steady hand to-day."

"It will all pass off at breakfast-time. Your good cup of coffee
will make everything all right."

"Perhaps yea, perhaps nay," was answered. "I forgot myself last
night, and accepted too many wine compliments. It was first this one
and then that one, until, strong as my head is, I got more into it
than should have gone there. We are apt to forget ourselves on these
occasions. If I had only taken a glass or two, it would have made
little difference. But my system was stimulated beyond its wont,
and, I fear, will not be in the right tone to-day."

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