Danger; Or, Wounded in the House of a Friend Part 28

The lesson of this disaster was clear, and as Mrs. Voss brooded over it, the folly, the wrong--nay, the crime--of those who pour out wine like water for their guests in social entertainments magnified themselves in her thought, and thought found utterance in speech. Few came into her chamber upon whom she did not press a consideration of this great evil, the magnitude of which became greater as her mind dwelt upon it, and very few of these went away without being disturbed by questions not easily answered.

One day one of her attentive friends who had called on her said:

"I heard a sorrowful story yesterday, and can't get it out of my mind."

Before Mrs. Voss could reply a servant came in with a card.

"Oh, Mrs. Birtwell. Ask her to come up."

The visitor saw a slight shadow creep over her face, and knew its meaning. How could she ever hear the name or look into the face of Mrs.

Birtwell without thinking of that dreadful night when her boy pa.s.sed, almost at a single step, from the light and warmth of her beautiful home into the dark and frozen river? It had cost her a hard and painful struggle to so put down and hold in check her feelings as to be able to meet this friend, who had always been very near and dear to her. For a time, and while her distress of mind was so great as almost to endanger reason, she had refused to see Mrs. Birtwell; but as that lady never failed to call at least once a week to ask after her, always sending up her card and waiting for a reply, Mrs. Voss at last yielded, and the friends met again. Mrs. Birtwell would have thrown her arms about her and clasped her in a pa.s.sion of tears to her heart, but something stronger than a visible barrier held her off, and she felt that she could never get as near to this beloved friend as of old. The interview was tender though reserved, neither making any reference to the sad event that was never a moment absent from their thoughts.

After this Mrs. Birtwell came often, and a measure of the old feeling returned to Mrs. Voss. Still, the card of Mrs. Birtwell whenever it was placed in her hand by a servant never failed to bring a shadow and sometimes a chill to her heart.

In a few moments Mrs. Birtwell entered the room; and after the usual greetings and some pa.s.sing remarks, Mrs. Voss said, speaking to the lady with whom she had been conversing:

"What were you going to say--about some sorrowful story, I mean?"

The pleasant light which had come into the lady's face on meeting Mrs.

Birtwell, faded out. She did not answer immediately, and showed some signs of embarra.s.sment. But Mrs. Voss, not particularly noticing this, pressed her for the story. After a slight pause she said:

"In visiting a friend yesterday I observed a young girl whom I had never seen at the house before. She was about fifteen or sixteen years of age, and had a face of great refinement and much beauty. But I noticed that it had a sad, shy expression. My friend did not introduce her, but said, turning to the girl a few moments after I came in:

"'Go up to the nursery, Ethel, and wait until I am disengaged!'

"As the girl left the room I asked, 'Who is that young lady?' remarking at the same time that there was something peculiarly interesting about her.

"'It's a sad case, remarked my friend, her voice falling to a tone of regret and sympathy. 'And I wish I knew just what to do about it.'

"'Who is the young girl?' I asked repeating my question.

"'The daughter of a Mr. Ridley,' she replied."

Mrs. Birtwell gave a little start, while an expression of pain crossed her face. The lady did not look at her, but she felt the change her mention of Mr. Ridley had produced.

"'What of him?' I asked; not having heard the name before.

"'Oh, I thought you knew about him. He's a lawyer, formerly a member of Congress, and a man of brilliant talents. He distinguished himself at Was.h.i.+ngton, and for a time attracted much attention there for his ability as well as for his fine personal qualities. But unhappily he became intemperate, and at the end of his second term had fallen so low that his party abandoned him and sent another in his place. After that he reformed and came to this city, bringing his family with him. He had two children, a boy and a girl. His wife was a cultivated and very superior woman. Here he commenced the practice of law, and soon by his talents and devotion to business acquired a good practice and regained the social position he had lost.

"'Unhappily, his return to society was his return to the sphere of danger. If invited to dine with a respectable citizen, he had to encounter temptation in one of its most enticing forms. Good wine was poured for him, and both appet.i.te and pride urged him to accept the fatal proffer. If he went to a public or private entertainment, the same perils compa.s.sed him about. From all these he is said to have held himself aloof for over a year, but his reputation at the bar and connection with important cases brought him more and more into notice, and he was finally drawn within the circle of danger. Mrs. Ridley's personal accomplishments and relations.h.i.+p with one or two families in the State of high social position brought her calls and invitations, and almost forced her back again into society, much as she would have preferred to remain secluded.

"'Mr. Ridley, it is said, felt his danger, and I am told never escorted any lady but his wife to the supper-room at a ball or party, and there you would always see them close together, he not touching wine. But it happened last winter that invitations came, for one of the largest parties of the season, and it happened also that only a few nights before the party a little daughter had been born to Mrs. Ridley. Mr.

Ridley went alone. It was a cold and stormy night. The wind blew fiercely, wailing about the roofs and chimneys and das.h.i.+ng the fast-falling snow in its wild pa.s.sion against the windows of the room in which his sick wife lay. Rest of body and mind was impossible, freedom from anxiety impossible. There was everything to fear, everything to lose. The peril of a soldier going into the hottest of the battle was not greater than the peril that her husband would encounter on that night; and if he fell! The thought chilled her blood, as well it might, and sent a s.h.i.+ver to her heart.

"'She was in no condition to bear any shock or strain, much less the shock and strain of a fear like this. As best she could she held her restless anxiety in check, though fever had crept into her blood and an enemy to her life was a.s.saulting its very citadel. But as the hour at which her husband had promised to return pa.s.sed by and he came not, anxiety gave place to terror. The fever in her blood increased, and sent delirium to her brain. Hours pa.s.sed, but her husband did not return. Not until the cold dawn of the next sorrowful morning did he make his appearance, and then in such a wretched plight that it was well for his unhappy wife that she could not recognize his condition.

He came too late--came from one of the police stations, it is said, having been found in the street too much intoxicated to find his way home, and in danger of peris.h.i.+ng in the snow--came to find his wife, dying, and before the sun went down on that day of darkness she was cold and still as marble. Happily for the babe, it went the way its mother had taken, following a few days afterward.

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

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

"'Ethel did not return to school. She was needed at home now. The death of her mother and the unhappy fall of her father brought her face to face with new duties and untried conditions. She had a little brother only six years old to whom she must be a mother as well as sister.

Responsibilities from which women of matured years and long experience might well shrink were now at the feet of this tender girl, and there was no escape for her. She must stoop, and with fragile form and hands scarce stronger than a child's lift and bear them up from the ground.

Love gave her strength and courage. The woman hidden in the child came forth, and with a self-denial and self-devotion that touches me to tears when I think of it took up the new life and new burdens, and has borne them ever since with a patience that is truly heroic.

"'But new duties are now laid upon her. Since her father's fall his practice has been neglected, and few indeed have been willing to entrust him with business. The little he had acc.u.mulated is all gone.

One article of furniture after another has been sold to buy food and clothing, until scarcely anything is left. And now they occupy three small rooms in an out-of-the-way neighborhood, and Ethel, poor child!

is brought face to face with the question of bread.'"

CHAPTER XX.

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

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

"She had applied for the situation of day-governess. My friend advertised, and Ethel Ridley, not knowing that the lady had any knowledge of her or her family came and offered herself for the place.

Not being able to decide what was best to be done, she requested Ethel to call again on the next day, and I came in while she was there."

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

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

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

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

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

By a mutual and tacit consent the subject was here dropped, and soon after Mrs. Birtwell retired. On gaining the street she stood with an air of indetermination for a little while, and then walked slowly away.

Once or twice before reaching the end of the block she paused and went back a few steps, turned and moved on again, but still in an undecided manner. At the corner she stopped for several moments, then, as if her mind was made up, walked forward rapidly. By the firm set of her mouth and the contraction of her brows it was evident that some strong purpose was taking shape in her thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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