THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 DAVIS 
 
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 MR 
 
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FRONTISPIECE. 
 
 PAGB 123. 
 
DANGER; 
 
 WOUNDED IN THE HOUSE OF A FRIEND, 
 
 T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 AUTHOR or "THRKK YBAKS IN A MAW-TRAP." "CAJTT AUKIFT, 
 "TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR-ROOM," ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
 142 TO 150 WORTH STREET 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1875, BY J. M. STODDARI & Co. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 ALL efforts at eradicating evil must, to be succea&iuj 
 begin as near the beginning as possible. It is ez*cier U 
 destroy a weed when but an inch above the ground than 
 after it has attained a rank growth and set ita hundred 
 rootlets in the soil. Better if the evil seed wtie not sown 
 at all ; better if the ground received only good seed into 
 its fertile bosom. How much richer and sweeter the 
 harvest ! 
 
 Bars and drinking-saloons are, in reality, not so much 
 the causes as the effects of intempennce. The chief 
 causes lie back of these, and are to be found in our 
 homes. Bars and drinking-saloons minister to, stimulate 
 and increase the appetite already formed, and give accel 
 erated speed to those whose feet have begun to move 
 along the road to ruin. 
 
 In " THREE YEARS IN A MAN-TRAP" the author of this 
 volume uncovered the terrible evils of the liquor traffic ; 
 in this he goes deeper, and unveils the more hidden 
 
4 Preface. 
 
 sources of that widespread ruin which is cursing our land 
 From the public licensed saloon, where liquor is sold to 
 men not to boys, except in violation of law he turns 
 to the private home saloon, where it is given away in un 
 stinted measure to guests of both sexes and of all ages, 
 and seeks to show in a series of swiftly-moving panoramic 
 scenes the dreadful consequences that flow therefrom. 
 
 This book is meant by the author to be a startling cry 
 of "DANGER!" Different from "THE MAN-TRAP," as 
 dealing with another aspect of the temperance question, 
 its pictures are wholly unlike those presented in that 
 book, but none the less vivid or intense. It is given as 
 an argument against what is called the temperate use of 
 liquor, and as an exhibition of the fearful disasters that 
 flow from our social drinking customs. In making this 
 argument and exhibition the author has given his best 
 effort to the work. 
 
WOUNDED IN THE HOUSE OF A FRIEND 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SNOW had been falling for more than three hours, 
 the large flakes dropping silently through the 
 still air until the earth was covered with an even 
 carpet many inches in depth. 
 
 It was past midnight. The air, which had been 
 so still, was growing restless and beginning to whirl 
 the snow into eddies and drive it about in an angry 
 kind of way, whistling around sharp corners and 
 rattling every loose sign and shutter upon which it 
 could lay its invisible hands. 
 
 In front of an elegant residence stood half 3 
 dozen carriages. The glare of light from hall and 
 windows and the sound of music and dancing told 
 of a festival within. The door opened, and a group 
 of young girls, wrapped in shawls and waterproofs, 
 came out and ran, merrily laughing, across the snow- 
 covered pavement, and crowding into one of the 
 carriages, were driven off at a rapid speed. Follow 
 ing them came a ypung man on whqse lip and cheeky 
 the downy beard had* scarcely thrown a shadow. 
 The strong light of the vestibule lamp fell upon a 
 handsome face, but it wore an unnatural flush, 
 
6 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 There was an unsteadiness about his movements as 
 he descended the marble steps, and he grasped the 
 iron railing like one in danger of falling. A waiter 
 who had followed him to the door stood looking at 
 him with a half-pitying, half-amused expression on 
 his face as he went off, staggering through the blind 
 ing drift. 
 
 The storm was one of the fiercest of the season, 
 and the air since midnight had become intensely 
 cold. The snow fell no longer in soft and filmy 
 flakes, but in small hard pellets that cut like sand 
 and sifted in through every crack and crevice against 
 which the wild winds drove it. 
 
 The young man boy, we might better say, for he 
 was only nineteen moved off in the very teeth of 
 this storm, the small granules of ice smiting him in 
 the face and taking his breath. The wind set itself 
 against him with wide obstructing arms, and he 
 reeled, staggered and plunged forward or from side 
 to side in a sort of blind desperation. 
 
 " Ugh !" he ejaculated, catching his breath and 
 standing still as a fierce blast struck him. Then, 
 shaking himself like one trying to cast aside an 
 impediment, he moved forward with quicker steps, 
 and kept onward for a distance of two or three 
 blocks. Here, in crossing a street, his foot struck 
 against some obstruction which the snow had con 
 cealed, and he fell with his face downward. It took 
 some time for him to struggle to his feet again, and 
 then he seemed to be in a state of complete bewilder- 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. j 
 
 ment, for he started along one street, going for a 
 short distance, and then crossing back and going in 
 an opposite direction. He was in no condition to 
 get right after cnce going wrong. With every few 
 steps he would stop and look up and down the street 
 and at the houses on each side, vainly trying to 
 make out his locality. 
 
 " Police !" he cried two or three times ; but the 
 faint, alarmed call reached no ear of nightly guar 
 dian. Then, with a shiver as the storm swept down 
 upon him more angrily, he started forward again, 
 going he knew not whither. 
 
 The cold benumbed him ; the snow choked and 
 blinded him ; fear and anxiety, so far as he was capa 
 ble of feeling them, bewildered and oppressed him. 
 A helmless ship in storm and darkness was in no 
 more pitiable condition than this poor lad. 
 
 On, on he went, falling sometimes, but struggling 
 to his feet again and blindly moving forward. All 
 at once he came out from the narrow rows of houses 
 and stood on the edge of what seemed a great white 
 field that stretched away level as a floor. Onward 
 a few paces, and then Alas for the waiting mother 
 at home ! She did not hear the cry of terror that 
 cut the stormy air and lost itself in the louder shriek 
 of the tempest as her son went over the treacherous 
 line of snow and dropped, with a quick plunge, into 
 the river, sinking instantly out of sight, for the tide 
 was up and the ice broken and drifting close to the 
 water's edge. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 * /^OME, Fanny," said Mr. Wilmer Voss, speak- 
 
 V ' ing to his wife, " you must get to bed. It is 
 past twelve o'clock, and you cannot bear this loss of 
 rest and sleep. It may throw you all back again." 
 
 The woman addressed was sitting in a large easy- 
 chair with a shawl drawn closely about her person. 
 She had the pale, shrunken face and large, bright 
 eyes of a confirmed invalid. Once very beautiful, 
 she yet retained a sweetness of expression which 
 gave a tenderness and charm to every wasted feature. 
 You saw at a glance the cultured woman and the 
 patient sufferer. 
 
 As her husband spoke a fierce blast of wind drove 
 the fine sand-like snow against the windows, and 
 then went shrieking and roaring away over house 
 tops, gables and chimneys. 
 
 " Oh what a dreadful night !" said the lady, lean 
 ing forward in her chair and listening to the wild wail 
 of the storm, while a look of anxiety, mingled with 
 dread, swept across her face. " If Archie were only 
 at home!" 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself about Archie. He'll be 
 here soon. You are not yourself to-night, Fanny." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but I can't help it. I feel such an 
 
 8 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 9 
 
 awful weight here ;" and Mrs. Voss drew her hands 
 against her bosom. 
 
 " All nervous," said her husband. " Come ! You 
 must go to bed." 
 
 " It will be of nc use, Wilmer," returned the lady. 
 " I will be worse in bed than sitting up. You don't 
 know what a strange feeling has come over me. Oh, 
 Archie, if you were only at home! Hark! What 
 was that ?" 
 
 The pale face grew paler as Mrs. Voss bent for 
 ward in a listening attitude. 
 
 " Only the wind," answered her husband, betray 
 ing some impatience. " A thousand strange sounds 
 are on the air in a night like this. You must com 
 pose yourself, Fanny, or the worst consequences may 
 follow." 
 
 " It's impossible, husband. I cannot rest until I 
 have my son safe and sound at home again. Dear, 
 dear boy!" 
 
 Mr. Voss urged no further. The shadow of fear 
 which had come down upon his wife began to creep 
 over his heart and fill it with a vague concern. 
 And now a thought flashed into his mind that he 
 would not have uttered for the world ; but from that 
 moment peace fled, and anxiety for his son grew into 
 alarm as the time wore on and the boy did not come 
 home. 
 
 " Oh, my husband," cried Mrs. Voss, starting from 
 her chair, and clasping her hands as she threw them 
 upward, " I cannot bear this much longer. Hark ! 
 
IO Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 That was his voice! Mother f 'Mother/' Don't 
 you hear it ?" 
 
 Her face was white as the snow without, her eyes 
 wild and eager, her lips apart, her head bent for 
 ward. 
 
 A shuddering chill crept along the nerves of Mr. 
 Voss. 
 
 " Go, go quickly ! Run ! He may have fallen at 
 the door !" 
 
 Ere the last sentence was finished Mr. Voss was 
 halfway down stairs. A blinding dash of snow 
 came swirling into his face as he opened the street 
 door. It was some moments before he could see 
 with any distinctness. No human form was visible, 
 and the lamp just in front of his house shone down 
 upon a trackless bed of snow many inches in depth. 
 No, Archie was not there. The cry had come to the 
 mother's inward ear in the moment when her boy 
 went plunging down into the engulfing river and 
 heart and thought turned in his mortal agony to the 
 one nearest and dearest in all the earth. 
 
 When Mr. Voss came back into the house after 
 his fruitless errand, he found his wife standing in the 
 hall, only a few feet back from the vestibule, her face 
 whiter, if that were possible, and her eyes wilder 
 than before. Catching her in his arms, he ran with 
 her up stairs, but before he had reached their cham 
 ber her light form lay nerveless and unconscious 
 against his breast. 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse, the old family physician, called 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 1 1 
 
 up in the middle of that stormy night, hesitated to 
 obey the summons, and sent his assistant with word 
 that he would be round early in the morning if 
 needed. Doctor Angier, the assistant, was a young 
 physician of fine ability and great promise. Hand 
 some in person, agreeable in manner and thoroughly 
 in love with his profession, he was rapidly coming 
 into favor with many of the old doctor's patients, the 
 larger portion of whom belonged to wealthy and 
 fashionable circles. Himself a member of one of 
 the older families, and connected, both on his father's 
 and mother's side, with eminent personages as well 
 in his native city as in the State, Doctor Angier was 
 naturally drawn into social life, which, spite of his 
 increasing professional duties, he found time to 
 enjoy. 
 
 It was past two o'clock when Doctor Angier made 
 his appearance, his garments white with snow and 
 his dark beard crusted with tiny icicles. He found 
 Mrs. Voss lying in a swoon so deep that, but for 
 the faintest perceptible heart-beat, he would have 
 thought her dead. Watching the young physician 
 closely as he stood by the bedside of his wife, Mr. 
 Voss was quick to perceive something unusual in his 
 manner. The professional poise and coolness for 
 which he was noted were gone, and he showed a 
 degree of excitement and uncertainty that alarmed 
 the anxious husband. What was its meaning ? Did 
 it indicate apprehension for the condition of his 
 patient, or something else ? A closer look into the 
 
12 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 young physician's face sent a flash of suspicion 
 through the mind of Mr. Voss, which was more than 
 confirmed a moment afterward as the stale odor of 
 wine floated to his nostrils. 
 
 "Were you at Mr. Birtwell's to-night?" There 
 was a thrill of anxious suspense in the tones of Mr. 
 Voss as he grasped the physician's arm and looked 
 keenly at him. 
 
 " 1 was," replied Doctor Angier. 
 
 " Did you see my son there ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " At what time did you leave ?" 
 
 " Less than an hour ago. I had not retired when 
 your summons came." 
 
 "Was Archie there when you left?" 
 
 " No, I think not." 
 
 " Are you sure about it ?" 
 
 " Yes, very sure. I remember now, quite dis 
 tinctly, seeing him come down from the dressing- 
 loom with his hat in his hand and go through the 
 hall toward the street door." 
 
 " How long ago was that ?" 
 
 " About an hour and a half; perhaps longer." 
 
 A groan that could not be repressed broke from 
 the father's lips. 
 
 " Isn't he at home ?" asked the young physician, 
 turning round quickly from the bed and betraying a 
 sudden concern. 
 
 " No ; and I am exceedingly anxious about him." 
 The eyes of Mr. Voss were fixed intently on Doctor 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 13 
 
 Angler, and he was reading every varying expression: 
 of his countenance. 
 
 " Doctor," he said, laying his hand on the physi 
 cian's arm and speaking huskily, " I want you to 
 answer me truly. Had he taken much wine ?" 
 
 It was some moments before Doctor Angier re 
 plied : 
 
 " On such occasions most people take wine freely. 
 It flows like water, you know. I don't think your 
 son indulged more than any one else ; indeed, not 
 half so much as some young men I saw there." 
 
 Mr. Voss felt that there was evasion in the an 
 swer. 
 
 " Archie is young, and not used to wine. A single 
 glass would be more to him than half a dozen to 
 older men who drink habitually. Did you see him 
 take wine often ?" 
 
 " He was in the supper-room for a considerable 
 time. When I left it, I saw him in the midst of a 
 group of young men and girls, all with glasses of 
 champagne in their hands." 
 
 " How long was this before you saw him go 
 away ?" 
 
 " Half an hour, perhaps," replied the doctor. 
 
 " Did he go out alone ?" 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 Mr. Voss questioned no further, and Doctor An 
 gier, who now understood better the meaning of his 
 patient's condition, set himself to the work of re 
 storing her to consciousness. He did not find the 
 
14 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 task easy. It was many hours before the almost 
 stilled pulses began beating again with a perceptible 
 stroke, and the quiet chest to give signs of normal 
 respiration. Happily for the poor mother, thought 
 and feeling were yet bound. 
 
 Long before this the police had been aroused and 
 every effort made to discover a trace of the young 
 man after he left the house of Mr. Birtwell, but with 
 out effect. The snow had continued falling until 
 after five o'clock, when the storm ceased and the sky 
 cleared, the wind blowing from the north and the 
 temperature falling to within a few degrees of zero. 
 
 A faint hope lingered with Mr. Voss the hope that 
 Archie had gone home with some friend. But as 
 the morning wore on and he did not make his ap 
 pearance this hope began to fade away, and died 
 before many hours. Nearly every male guest at 
 Mrs. Birtwell's party was seen and questioned during 
 the day, but not one of them had seen Archie after 
 he left the house. A waiter who was questioned 
 said that he remembered seeing him : 
 
 " I watched him go down the steps and go off 
 alone, and the wind seemed as if it would blow him 
 away. He wasn't just himself, sir, I'm afraid." 
 
 If a knife had cut down into the father's quivering 
 flesh, the pain would have been as nothing to that 
 inflicted by this last sentence. It only confirmed his 
 worst fears. 
 
 The afternoon papers contained a notice of the fact 
 that a young gentleman who had gone away from a 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 1 5 
 
 fashionable party at a late hour on the night before 
 had not been heard of by his friends, who were 
 anxious and distressed about him. Foul play was 
 hinted at, as the young man wore a valuable diamond 
 pin and had a costly gold watch in his pocket. On 
 the morning afterward advertisements appeared offer 
 ing a large reward for any information that would 
 lead to the discovery of the young man, living or 
 dead. They were accompanied by minute descrip 
 tions of his person and dress. But there came no 
 response. Days and weeks passed ; and though the 
 advertisements were repeated and newspapers called 
 public attention to the matter, not a single clue was 
 found. 
 
 A young man, with the kisses of his mother sweet 
 on his pure lips, had left her for an evening's social 
 enjoyment at the house of one of her closest and 
 dearest friends, and she never looked upon his face 
 again. He had entered the house of that friend 
 with a clear head and steady nerves, and he had gone 
 out at midnight bewildered with the wine that had 
 been poured without stint to her hundred guests, 
 young and old. How it had fared with him the 
 reader knows too well. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 u T_T EAVENS and earth ! Why doesn't some 
 
 A -I one go to the door ?" exclaimed Mr. Spencer 
 Birtwell, rousing himself from a heavy sleep as the 
 hell was rung for the third time, and now with four 
 or five vigorous and rapid jerks, each of which caused 
 the handle of the bell to strike with the noise of a 
 hammer. 
 
 The gray dawn was just breaking. 
 
 41 There it is again ! Good heavens ! What does 
 it mean ?" and Mr. Birtwell, now fairly awake, started 
 up in bed and sat listening. Scarcely a moment in 
 tervened before the bell was pulled again, and this 
 time continuously for a dozen times. Springing 
 from the bed, Mr. Birtwell threw open a window, and 
 looking out, saw two policemen at the door. 
 
 " What's wanted ?" he called down to them. 
 
 "Was there a young man here last night named 
 Voss ?" inquired one of the men. 
 
 " What about him ?" asked Mr. Birtwell. 
 
 " He hasn't been home, and his friends are alarmed. 
 Do you know where he is ?" 
 
 " Wait," returned Mr. Birtwell ; and shutting down 
 the window, he dressed himself hurriedly. 
 
 "What is it?" asked his wife, who had been 
 
 16 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. ij 
 
 awakened from a heavy slumber by the noise at the 
 window. 
 
 " Archie Voss didn't get home last night." 
 
 " What?" and Mrs. Birtwell started out of bed. 
 
 " There are two policemen at the door." 
 
 "Policemen!" 
 
 " Yes ; making a grand row for nothing, as if 
 young men never stayed away from home. I must 
 go down and see them. Go back into bed again, 
 Margaret. You'll take your death o' cold. There's 
 nothing to be alarmed about. He'll come x.p all 
 right." 
 
 But Mrs. Birtwell did not return to her bed. With 
 a warm wrapper thrown about her person, she stood 
 at the head of the stairway while her husband went 
 down to admit the policemen. All that could be 
 learned from them was that Archie Voss had not 
 come home from the party, and that his friends were 
 greatly alarmed about him. Mr. Birtwell had no 
 information to give. The young man had been at 
 his house, and had gone away some time during 
 the night, but precisely at what hour he could not 
 tell. 
 
 " You noticed him through the evening?" said one 
 of the policemen. 
 
 " Oh yes, certainly. We know Archie very well. 
 He's always been intimate at our house." 
 
 " Did he take wine freely?" 
 
 An indignant denial leaped to Mr. Birtwell's 
 tongue, but the words died unspoken, for the image 
 2* B 
 
1 8 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 of Archie, with flushed face and eyes too bright foi 
 sober health, holding in his hand a glass of sparkling 
 champagne, came vividly before him. 
 
 " Not more freely than other young men," he re 
 plied. " Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " There are two theories of his absence," said the 
 policeman. " One is that he has been set upon in 
 the street, robbed and murdered, and the other that, 
 stupefied and bewildered by drink, he lost himself in 
 the storm, and lies somewhere frozen to death and 
 hidden under the snow." 
 
 A cry of pain broke from the lips of Mrs. Birtwell, 
 and she came hurrying down stairs. Too well did 
 she remember the condition of Archie when she last 
 saw him Archie, the only son of her oldest and 
 dearest friend, the friend she had known and loved 
 since girlhood. He was not fit to go out alone in 
 that cold and stormy night ; and a guilty sense of 
 responsibility smote upon her heart and set aside all 
 excuses. 
 
 "What about his mother?" she asked, anxiously. 
 " How is she bearing this dreadful suspense ?" 
 
 " I can't just say, ma'am," was answered, "but I 
 think they've had the doctor with her all night that 
 is, all the last part of the night. She's lying in a 
 faint, I believe." 
 
 "Oh, it will kill her! Poor Frances! Poor 
 Frances!" wailed out Mrs. Birtwell, wringing her 
 hands and beginning to cry bitterly. 
 
 " The police have been on the lookout for the last 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 19 
 
 two or three hours, but can't find any trace of him," 
 said the officer. 
 
 " Oh, he'll turn up all right," broke in Mr. Birt> 
 well, with a confident tone. " It's only a scare. Gone 
 home with some young friend, as like as not. Young 
 fellows in their teens don't get lost in the snow, par 
 ticularly in the streets of a great city, and footpads 
 generally know their game before bringing it down. 
 I'm sorry for poor Mrs. Voss ; she isn't strong 
 enough to bear such a shock. But it will all come 
 right ; I don't feel a bit concerned." 
 
 But for all that he did feel deeply concerned. The 
 policemen went away, and Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell sat 
 down by an open grate in which the fire still burned. 
 
 " Don't let it distress you so, Margaret," said the 
 former, trying to comfort his wife.. " There's nothing 
 to fear for Archie. Nobody ever heard of a man 
 getting lost in a city snow-storm. If he'd been out 
 on a prairie, the case would have been different, but 
 in the streets of the city ! The thing's preposterous, 
 Margaret." 
 
 " Oh, if he'd only gone away as he came, I 
 wouldn't feel so awfully about it," returned Mrs. 
 Birtwell. " That's what cuts me to the heart. To 
 think that he came to my house sober and went 
 away " 
 
 She caught back from her tongue the word she 
 would have spoken, and shivered. 
 
 " Nothing of the kind, Margaret, nothing of the 
 kind/' said her husband, quickly. "A little gay - 
 
2O Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 that was all. Just what is seen at parties every 
 night. Archie hasn't much head, and a single glass 
 of champagne is enough to set it buzzing. But it's 
 soon over. The effervescence goes off in a little 
 while, and the head comes clear again." 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell did not reply. Her eyes were cast 
 down and her face deeply distressed. 
 
 " If anything has happened to Archie," she said, 
 after a long silence, " I shall never have a moment's 
 peace as long as I live." 
 
 " Nonsense, Margaret ! Suppose something has 
 happened to him ? We are not responsible. It's his 
 own fault if he took away more wine than he was 
 able to carry." Mr. Birtwell spoke with slight 
 irritation. 
 
 " If he hadn't found the wine here, he could not 
 have carried it away," replied his wife. 
 
 " How wildly you talk, Margaret !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Birtwell, with increased irritation. 
 
 " We won't discuss the matter," said his wife. " It 
 would be useless, agreement being, I fear, out of the 
 question ; but it is very certain that we cannot escape 
 responsibility in this or anything else we may do, 
 and so long as these words of Holy Writ stand, 
 ' Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that put- 
 teth the bottle to him and maketh him drunken' we 
 may well have serious doubts in regard to the right 
 and wrong of these fashionable entertainments, at 
 which wine and spirits are made free to all of both 
 sexes, young and old." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 21 
 
 Mr. Birtwell started to his feet and walked the 
 flcor with considerable excitement. 
 
 " If we had a son just coming to manhood and 1 
 sometimes thank God that we have not would you 
 feel wholly at ease about him, wholly satisfied that 
 he was in no danger in the houses of your friends ? 
 May not a young man as readily acquire a taste for 
 liquors in a gentleman's dining-room as in a drinking- 
 saloon nay, more readily, if in the former the wine 
 is free and bright eyes and laughing lips press him 
 with invitations ?" 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell's voice had gained a steadiness and 
 force that made it very impressive. Her husband 
 continued to walk the floor, but with slower steps. 
 
 " I saw things last night that troubled me," she 
 went on. " There is no disguising the fact that most 
 of the young men who come to these large parties 
 spend a great deal too much time in the supper- 
 room, and drink a great deal more than is good for 
 them. Archie Voss was not the only one who did 
 this last evening. I watched another young man 
 very closely, and am sorry to say that he left our 
 house in a condition in which no mother waiting at 
 home could receive her son without sorrow an<! 
 shame." 
 
 "Who was that?" asked Mr. Birtwell, turning 
 quickly upon his wife. He had detected more than 
 a common concern in her voice. 
 
 " Ellis," she replied. Her manner was very grave. 
 
 "You must be mistaken about that," said Mr. 
 
22 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 Birtwell, evidently disturbed at this communica 
 tion. 
 
 " I wish to Heaven that I were ! But the fact wis 
 too apparent. Blanche saw it, and tried to get him 
 out of the supper-room. He acted in the silliest 
 kind of a way, and mortified her dreadfully, poor 
 child !" 
 
 " Such things will happen sometimes," said Mr. 
 Birtwell. "Young men like Ellis don't always know 
 how much they can bear." His voice was in a lower 
 key and a little husky. 
 
 " It happens too often with Ellis," replied his wife, 
 "and I'm beginning to feel greatly troubled about it." 
 
 " Has it happened before ?" 
 
 " Yes ; at Mrs. Gleason's, only last week. He was 
 loud and boisterous in the supper-room so much so 
 that I heard a lady speak of his conduct as dis 
 graceful." 
 
 "That will never do," exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, 
 betraying much excitement. " He will have to 
 change all this or give up Blanche. I don't care 
 what his family is if he isn't all right himself." 
 
 " It is easier to get into trouble than out of it," 
 was replied. "Things have gone too far between 
 them." 
 
 " I don't believe it. Blanche will never throw her 
 self away on a man of bad habits." 
 
 " No ; I do not think she will. But there may be, 
 in her view, a very great distance between an occa 
 sional glass of w ; .ne too much at an evening party 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 23 
 
 and confirmed bad habits. We must not hope to 
 make her see with our eyes, nor to take our judg 
 ment of a case in which her heart is concerned. 
 Love is full of excuses and full of faith. If Ellis 
 Whitford should, unhappily, be overcome by this 
 accursed appetite for drink which is destroying so 
 many of our most promising young men, there is 
 trouble ahead for her and for us." 
 
 " 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," re 
 turned 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 every 
 where. 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, 
 
24 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 wine is in every hand and at every lip. One glass 
 taken, and caution and restraint are too often for 
 gotten. 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 be 
 tween 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. Birt 
 well all wrong, wrong, wrong ! and to-day we are 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 25 
 
 tasting some of the fruit, the bitterness of which, 1 
 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 4 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 com 
 pelled to drink more than is good for him. If he 
 takes too much, the sin lies at his own door." 
 
 3 
 
26 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 '' If you talked for ever, Mr. Birtwell," was an 
 swered, "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 socety, we must do as society does. Individuals 
 are net 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 cus 
 toms, 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 confi 
 dent 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, 
 n his degree, for the conduct of society?" 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 27 
 
 " 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 cus 
 tom, and the great mass follow them. Because they 
 do this or that, it is right or in good taste and be 
 comes 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 indi 
 vidual 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 Dr 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 
 
28 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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." 
 
 41 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 ha**e 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 29 
 
 whether we provide it for them or not, it is no rea 
 son why we should set it before the young whoso 
 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 over 
 eat themselves." 
 
 " But," broke in Mr. Birtwell, with the manner of 
 one who gave an unanswerable reason, " if we ex 
 clude wine that men may not hurt themselves by 
 over-indulgence, why not exclude the oysters and 
 terrapin ? If we set up for reformers and philan 
 thropists, why not cover the whole ground ?" 
 
 "Oysters and terrapin/' replied Mrs. Birtwell, in 
 a voice out of which she could hardly keep the con 
 tempt she felt for her husband's weak rejoinder, 
 " don't confuse the head, dethrone the reason, brut 
 alize, 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 fam 
 ily 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. 
 
 " 1\/T R> VOSS '" said the waiter as he 
 
 -*-VJL 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 Ar 
 chie ?" 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. "If 
 must be a dreadful shock to her in her weak state." 
 
 30 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 3 1 
 
 " 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 bear 
 ing 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 ex 
 pression 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 con 
 fused 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 ? 
 
32 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 sym 
 pathy 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 com 
 forted 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. Birt- 
 well, " to get the names of a few of the guests who 
 were here last night. Some of them may have seen 
 Archie go oat, 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 look 
 ing 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 con 
 clusion 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." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 3^ 
 
 " 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 
 c 
 
34 Wounded in tJie House of a Friend. 
 
 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 \vere assault 
 ing her life. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 A HANDSOME man of forty-five stood linger 
 ing 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 comfort 
 able. 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 
 
 85 
 
36 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 
 came 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 37 
 
 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 man 
 hood. 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 peo 
 ple 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 desper 
 ately than ever, and was in a state of intoxication 
 nearly all the while. His poor wife, who clung to 
 him through all wi^h an unwavering fidelity, was 
 
 4 
 
38 Wounded in tlu House of a Fncnd. 
 
 nearly broken-hearted. In vain had relatives and 
 friends interposed. No argument nor persuasion 
 could induce her to abandon him. " He is my hus 
 band," 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 with 
 out 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 35 
 
 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 chil 
 dren, 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 re 
 main 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 argu 
 ment 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 cumula 
 tive and explicit, that he gained not only an easy 
 victory, but made for himself a very favorable im 
 pression. 
 
 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 temp 
 tation. He was promptly at his office in the morn 
 ing, 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 
 
4O Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 
 
 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 con 
 scious sense of power. Men treated him with defer 
 ence and respect. 
 
 In less than a year Mr. Ridley was able to remove 
 his family into a better house and to afford the ex 
 pense of a servant. So far they had kept out of the 
 city's social life. Among strangers and living hum 
 bly, 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 
 tlready served two terms in Congress could not long 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 41 
 
 remain in social obscurity; and as it gradually be 
 came 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 hum 
 ble 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 insen 
 sible 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 invita 
 tions to drink meeting him at every turn. 
 
 But this could not always be. Mr. and Mrs. Rid 
 ley 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 profes 
 sional advantages society would give him, and he 
 wanted, moreover, to prove his manhood and take 
 iway the reproach under which he felt himself lying. 
 
42 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 van 
 quished him so many times. 
 
 " We will go," he said, on receiving cards of invi 
 tation to a party given by a prominent and influen 
 tial 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 hei 
 voice : 
 
 " Very well, but it will cost you the price of a 
 new dress, for I have nothing fit to appear in." 
 
 The shadow swept off Mr. Ridley's face. 
 
 " All right," he returned. " I received a fee of 
 fifty dollars to-day, and you shall have every cent 
 of it." 
 
 In the week that intervened Mrs. Ridley made 
 herself ready for the party ; but had she been pre 
 paring for a funeral, her heart could scarcely have 
 been heavier. Fearful dreams haunted her sleep, 
 and through the day imagination would often draw 
 pictures the sight of which made her cry out in sud 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 43 
 
 den pain and fear. All this she concealed from her 
 husband, and affected to take a pleased interest in 
 the coming entertainment. 
 
 Mrs. Ridley was still a handsome woman, and het 
 husband felt the old pride warming his bosom when 
 he saw her again among brilliant and attractive 
 women and noted the impression she made. He 
 watched her with something of the proud interest a 
 mother feels for a beautiful daughter who makes her 
 appearance in society for the first time, and his heart 
 beat with liveliest pleasure as he noticed the many 
 instances in which she attracted and held people by 
 the grace of her manner and the charm of her con 
 versation. 
 
 " God bless her !" he said in his heart fervently 
 as the love he bore her warmed into fresher life and 
 moved him with a deeper tenderness, and then he 
 made for her sake a new vow of abstinence and set 
 anew the watch and ward upon his appetite. And he 
 had need of watch and ward. The wine-merchant's 
 bill for that evening's entertainment was over eight 
 hundred dollars, and men and women, girls and 
 boys, all drank in unrestrained freedom. 
 
 Mrs. Ridley, without seeming to do so, kept close 
 to her husband while he was in the supper-room, 
 and he, as if feeling the power of her protecting 
 influence, was pleased to hav her near. The smell 
 of wine, its sparkle in the glasses, the freedom and 
 apparent safety with which every one drank, the fre 
 quent invitations received, and the little banter and 
 
44 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 half-surprised lifting of the eyebrows that came no if 
 and then upon refusal were no light draught on Mr 
 Ridley's strength. 
 
 " Have you tried this sherry, Mr. Ridley ?" saiu 
 the gentlemanly host, taking a bottle from the sup 
 per-table and filling two glasses. " It is very choice " 
 He lifted one of the glasses as he spoke and handed 
 it to his guest. There was a flattering cordiality in 
 his manner that made the invitation almost irresist 
 ible, and moreover he was a prominent and influen 
 tial citizen whose favorable consideration Mr. Ridley 
 wished to gain. If his wife had not been standing 
 by his side, he would have accepted the glass, and foi 
 what seemed good breeding's sake have sipped a lit 
 tie, just tasting its flavor, so that he could compli 
 ment his host upon its rare quality. 
 
 " Thank you," Mr. Ridley was able to say, " but 
 I do not take wine." His voice was not clear and 
 manly, but unsteady and weak. 
 
 " Oh, excuse me," said the gentleman, setting 
 down the glass quickly. " I was not aware of that.' 
 He stood as if slightly embarrassed for a moment, 
 and then, turning to a clergyman who stood close 
 by, said : 
 
 " Will you take a glass of wine with me, Mr. 
 Elliott?" 
 
 An assenting smile broke into Mr. Elliott's face, 
 and he reached for the glass which Mr. Ridley had 
 just refused. 
 
 " Something very choice," said the host. 
 
"The clergyman tasted and sipped with the air of a eon 
 moisseur." 
 
 PAGE 45. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 45 
 
 The clergyman tasted and sipped with the air of 
 a connoisseur. 
 
 " Very choice indeed, sir," he replied. " But you 
 always have good wine." 
 
 Mrs. Ridley drew her hand in her husband's arm 
 and leaned upon it. 
 
 " If it is to be had," returned the host, a little 
 proudly ; " and I generally know where to get it. A 
 good glass of wine I count among the blessings for 
 which one may give thanks wine, I mean, not 
 drugs." 
 
 " Exactly ; wine that is pure hurts no one, unless, 
 indeed, his appetite has been vitiated through alco 
 holic indulgence, and even then I have sometimes 
 thought that the moderate use of strictly pure wine 
 would restore the normal taste and free a man from 
 the tyranny of an enslaving vice." 
 
 That sentence took quick hold upon the thought 
 of Mr. Ridley. It gave him a new idea, and he lis 
 tened with keen interest to what followed. 
 
 " You strike the keynote of a true temperance 
 reformation, Mr. Elliott," returned the host. " Give 
 men pure wine instead of the vile stuff that bears its 
 name, and you will soon get rid of drunkenness. 
 I have always preached that doctrine." 
 
 "And I imagine you are about right," answered 
 Mr. Elliott. " Wine is one of God's gifts, and must 
 be good. If men abuse it sometimes, it is nothing 
 more than they do with almost every blessing the 
 Father of all mercies bestows upon his children. 
 
46 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 The abuse of a thing is no argument against its 
 use." 
 
 Mrs. Ridley drew upon the arm of her husband. 
 She did not like the tenor of this conversation, and 
 wanted to get him away. But he was interested in 
 what the clergyman was saying, and wished to hear 
 what further he might adduce in favor of the healthy 
 influence of pure wine. 
 
 " I have always used wine, and a little good brandy 
 too, and am as free from any inordinate appetite as 
 your most confirmed abstainer ; but then I take espe 
 cial care to have my liquor pure." 
 
 "A thing not easily done," said the clergyman, 
 replying to their host. 
 
 " Not easy for every one, but yet possible. I have 
 never found much difficulty." 
 
 44 There will be less difficulty, I presume," returned 
 Mr. Elliott, " when this country becomes, as it soon 
 will, a large wine-producing region. When cheap 
 wines take the place of whisky, we will have a re 
 turn to temperate habits among the lower classes. 
 and not, I am satisfied, before. There is, and always 
 has been, a craving in the human system for some 
 kind of stimulus. After prolonged effort there is 
 exhaustion and nervous languor that cannot always 
 wait upon the restorative work of nutrition ; indeed, 
 the nutritive organs themselves often need stimula 
 tion before they can act with due vigor. Isn't that 
 so, Dr. Hillhouse ?" 
 
 And the clergyman addressed a handsome old 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 47 
 
 man with hair almost as white as snow who stood 
 listening to the conversation. He held a glass of 
 wine in his hand. 
 
 "You speak with the precision of a trained path 
 ologist," replied the person addressed, bowing grace 
 fully and with considerable manner as he spoke. " I 
 could not have said it better, Mr. Elliott." 
 
 The clergyman received the compliment with a 
 pleased smile and bowed his acknowledgments, 
 then remarked : 
 
 44 You think as I do about the good effects that 
 must follow a large product of American wines ?" 
 
 Dr. Hillhouse gave a little shrug. 
 
 " Oh, then you don't agree with me ?" 
 
 "Pure wine is one thing and too much of what 
 is called American wine quite another thing," replied 
 the doctor. " Cheap wine for the people, as matters 
 now stand, is only another name for diluted alcohol. 
 It is better than pure whisky, maybe, though the 
 larger quantity that will naturally be taken must 
 give the common dose of that article and work 
 about the same effect in the end." 
 
 " Then you are not in favor of giving the people 
 cheap wines ?" said the clergyman. 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders again. 
 
 " I have been twice to Europe," he replied, " and 
 while there looked a little into the condition of the 
 poorer classes in wine countries. I had been told 
 that there was scarcely any intemperance among 
 them, but I did not find it so. There, as here, the 
 
48 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 use of alcohol in any form, whether as beer, wine 
 or whisky, produces the same result, varied in its 
 effect upon the individual only by the peculiarity of 
 temperament and national character of the people. 
 I'll take another glass of that sherry ; it's the best 
 I've tasted for a year." 
 
 And Dr. Hillhouse held out his glass to be filled 
 by the flattered host, Mr. Elliott doing the same, 
 and physician and clergyman touched their brim 
 ming glasses and smiled and bowed " a good health." 
 Before the hour for going home arrived both were 
 freer of tongue and a little wilder in manner than 
 when they came. 
 
 " The doctor is unusually brilliant to-night," said 
 one, with just a slight lifting of the eyebrow. 
 
 " And so is Mr. Elliott," returned the person ad 
 dressed, glancing at the clergyman, who, standing in 
 the midst of a group of young men, glass in hand, 
 was telling a story and laughing at his own witti 
 cisms. 
 
 " Nothing strait-laced about Mr. Elliott," remarked 
 the other. " I like him for that. He doesn't think 
 because he's a clergyman that he must always wear 
 a solemn face and act as if he were conduct 
 ing a funeral service. Just hear him laugh! It 
 makes you feel good. You can get near to such a 
 man. All the young people in his congregation like 
 him because he doesn't expect them to come up to 
 liis official level, but is ever ready to come down to 
 them and enter into their feelings and tastes." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 49 
 
 " He likes a good glass of wine," said the first 
 speaker. 
 
 " Of course he does. Have you any objection?" 
 
 " Shall I tell you what came into my thought just 
 now ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What St. Paul said about eating meat." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " ' If meat make my brother to offend, I will eat 
 no flesh while the world standeth, lest I make my 
 brother to offend.' And again : ' Take heed lest by 
 any means this liberty of yours become a stumbling- 
 block to them that are weak.' " 
 
 " How does that apply to Mr. Elliott ?" 
 
 " There are more than one or two young men in 
 the group that surrounds him who need a better 
 example than he is now setting. They need repres 
 sion in the matter of wine-drinking, not encour 
 agement a good example of abstinence in their 
 minister, and not enticement to drink through his 
 exhibition of liberty. Do you think that I, church 
 member though I am not, could stand as Mr. Elliott 
 is now standing, glass in hand, gayly talking to 
 young Ellis Whitford, who rarely goes to a party 
 without poor weak young man ! drinking too 
 much, and so leading him on in the way of destruc 
 tion instead of seeking in eager haste to draw him 
 back ? No, sir ! It is no light thing, as I regard it, 
 to put a stumbling-block in another's way or to lead 
 the weak or unwary into temptation." 
 6 l> 
 
5O Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right about it," was the answer, 
 "and I must confess that, though not a temperance 
 man myself, I never feel quite comfortable about it 
 when I see clergymen taking wine freely at public 
 dinners and private parties. It is not a good exam 
 ple, to say the least of it ; and if there is a class of 
 men in the community to whom we have some right 
 to look for a good example, it is the class chosen and 
 set apart to the work of saving human souls." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MR. RIDLEY went home from that first party 
 with his head as clear and his pulse as cool 
 as when he came. The wine had not tempted him 
 very strongly, though its odor had been fragrant to 
 his nostrils, and the sparkle in the glasses pleasant 
 to his sight. Appetite had not aroused itself nor 
 put on its strength, but lay half asleep, waiting 
 for some better opportunity, when the sentinels 
 should be weaker or off their guard. 
 
 It had been much harder for him to refuse the 
 invitation of his host than to deny the solicitations 
 of the old desire. He had been in greater danger 
 from pride than from appetite ; and there remained 
 with him a sense of being looked down upon and 
 despised by the wealthy and eminent citizen who 
 had honored him with an invitation, and who doubt 
 less regarded his refusal to take wine with him as 
 little less than a discourtesy. There were moments 
 when he almost regretted that refusal. The wine 
 which had been offered was of the purest quality, 
 and he remembered but too well the theory ad 
 vanced by Mr. Elliott, that the moderate use of 
 pure wine would restore the normal taste and free a 
 man whose appetite had been vitiated from its 
 
 51 
 
52 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 enslaving influence. His mind recurred to that 
 thought very often, and the more he dwelt upon it, 
 the more inclined he was to accept it as true. If it 
 were indeed so, then he might be a man among 
 men again. 
 
 Mr. Ridley did not feel as comfortable in his 
 mind after as before this party, nor was he as strong 
 as before. The enemy had found a door unguarded, 
 had come in stealthily, and was lying on the alert, 
 waiting for an opportunity. 
 
 A few weeks afterward came another invitation. 
 It was accepted. Mrs. Ridley was not really well 
 enough to go out, but for her husband's sake she 
 went with him, and by her presence and the quiet 
 power she had over him held him back from the 
 peril he might, standing alone, have tempted. 
 
 A month later, and cards of invitation were re 
 ceived from Mr. and Mrs. Spencer Birtwell. This 
 was to be among the notable entertainments of the 
 season. Mr. Birtwell was a wealthy banker who, 
 like other men, had his weaknesses, one of which 
 was a love of notoriety and display. He had a 
 showy house and attractive equipages, and managed 
 to get his name frequently chronicled in the news 
 papers, now as the leader in some public enter 
 prise or charity, now as the possessor of some rare 
 work of art, and now as the princely capitalist 
 whose ability and sagacity had lifted him from 
 obscurity to the proud position he occupied. He 
 built himself a palace for a residence, and when it 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 5 3 
 
 was completed and furnished issued tickets of ad 
 mission, that the public might see in what splendor 
 he was going to live. Of course the newspapers 
 described everything with a minuteness of detail 
 and a freedom of remark that made some modest 
 and sensitive people fancy that Mr. Birtwell must be 
 exceedingly annoyed. But he experienced no such 
 feeling. Praise of any kind was pleasant to his 
 ears; you could not give him too much, nor was 
 he over-nice as to the quality. He lived in the eyes 
 of his fellow-citizens, and in all his walk and con 
 versation he looked to their good opinion. 
 
 Such was Mr. Birtwell, at whose house a grand 
 entertainment was to be given. Among the large 
 number of invited guests were included Mr. and 
 Mrs. Ridley. But it so happened that Mrs. Ridley 
 could not go. A few days before the evening on 
 which this party was to be given a new-born babe 
 had been laid on her bosom. 
 
 " Good-night, dear, and God bless you !" Mr. 
 Ridley had said, in a voice that was very tender, as 
 he stooped over and kissed his wife. No wonder 
 that all the light went out of her face the moment 
 she was alone, nor that a shadow fell quickly over 
 it, nor that from beneath the fringes of her shut eye 
 lids tears crept slowly and rested upon her cheeks. 
 If her husband had left her for the battlefield, she 
 could not have felt a more dreadful impression of 
 danger, nor have been oppressed by a more terrible 
 fersr for his safety. No wonder that her nurse, com- 
 
 5 
 
54 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 ing into the chamber a few minutes after Mr. Ridley 
 *vent out, found her in a nervous chill. 
 
 The spacious and elegant drawing-rooms of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Birtwell were crowded with the elite of the 
 city, and the heart of the former swelled with pride; 
 as he received his guests and thought of their social, 
 professional or political distinction, the lustre of 
 which he felt to be, for the time, reflected upon him 
 self. It was good to be in such company, and to 
 feel that he was equal with the best. He had not 
 always been the peer of such men. There had been 
 an era of obscurity out of which he had slowly 
 emerged, and therefore he had the larger pride and 
 self-satisfaction in the position he now held. 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell was a woman of another order. 
 All her life she had been used to the elegancy that 
 a wealthy parentage gave, and to which her husband 
 had been, until within a few years, an entire stranger. 
 She was " to the manner born," he a parvenu with 
 a restless ambition to outshine. Familiarity with 
 things luxurious and costly had lessened their value 
 in her eyes, and true culture had lifted her above the 
 weakness of resting in or caring much about them, 
 while their newness and novelty to Mr. Birtwell 
 made enjoyment keen, and led him on to extrava 
 gant and showy exhibitions of wealth that caused 
 most people to smile at his weakness, and a* good 
 many to ask who he was and from whence he came 
 that he carried himself so loftily. Mrs. Birtwell die 4 
 not like the advanced position to which her husband 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 5 5 
 
 carried her, but she yielded to his weak love of 
 notoriety and social eclat as gracefully as possible, 
 and did her best to cover his too glaring violations 
 of good taste and conventional refinement. In this 
 she was not always successful. 
 
 Of course the best of liquors in lavish abundance 
 were provided by Mr. Birtwell for his guests. Be 
 sides the dozen different kinds of wine that were on 
 the supper-table, there was a sideboard for gentle 
 men, in a room out of common observation, well 
 stocked with brandy, gin and whisky, and it was a 
 little curious to see how quickly this was discovered 
 by certain of the guests, who scented it as truly as 
 a bee scents honey in a clover-field, and extracted 
 its sweets as eagerly. 
 
 Of the guests who were present we have now to 
 deal chiefly with Mr. Ridley, and only incidentally 
 with the rest. Dr. Hillhouse was there during the 
 first part of the evening, but went away early that 
 is, before twelve o'clock. He remained long enough, 
 however, to do full justice to the supper and wines. 
 His handsome and agreeable young associate, Dr. 
 Angier, a slight acquaintance with whom the reader 
 has already, prolonged his stay to a later hour. 
 
 The Rev. Dr. Elliott was also among the guests, 
 displaying his fine social qualities and .attracting about 
 him the young and the old. Everybody liked Dr. 
 Elliott, he was so frank, so cordial, free and sympa 
 thetic, and, withal, so intelligent. He did not bring 
 the clergyman with him into a gay drawing-room, 
 
56 Wounded in the hoitst of a Friend. 
 
 nor the ascetic to a feast. He could talk with the 
 banker about finance, with the merchant about trade, 
 with the student or editor about science, literature 
 and the current events of the day, and with young 
 men and maidens about music and the lighter mat 
 ters in which they happened to be interested. And. 
 moreover, he could enjoy a good supper and knew 
 the flavor of good wine. A man of such rare ac 
 complishments came to be a general favorite, and 
 so you encountered Mr. Elliott at nearly all the fash 
 ionable parties. 
 
 Mr. Ridley had met the reverend doctor twice, 
 and had been much pleased with him. What he 
 had heard him say about the healthy or rather saving 
 influences of pure wine had taken a strong hold of 
 his thoughts, and he had often wished for an oppor 
 tunity to talk with him about it. On this evening 
 he found that opportunity. Soon after his arrival 
 at the house of Mr. Birtwell he saw Mr. Elliott in 
 one of the parlors, and made his way into the little 
 group which had already gathered around the affable 
 clergyman. Joining in the conversation, which was 
 upon some topic of the day, Mr. Ridley, who talked 
 well, was not long in awakening that interest in the 
 mind of Mr. Elliott which one cultivated and intel 
 ligent person naturally feels for another; and in a 
 little while they had the conversation pretty much 
 to themselves. It touched this theme and that, 
 and finally drifted in a direction which enabled Mr. 
 Ridley to refer to what he had heard Mr. Elliott say 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 57 
 
 about the healthy effect of pure wine on the taste 
 of men whose appetites had become morbid, and 
 to ask him if he had any good ground for his be 
 lief. 
 
 " I do not know that I can bring any proof of my 
 theory," returned Mr. Elliott, " but I hold to it on 
 the ground of an eternal fitness of things. Wine 
 is good, and was given by God to make glad the 
 hearts of men. and is to be used temperately, as are 
 all other gifts It may be abused, and is abused 
 daily. Men hurt themselves by excess of wine as 
 by excess of food. But the abuse of a thing is no 
 argument against its use. If a man through epicur 
 ism or gormandizing has brought on disease, what 
 do you do with him ? Deny him all food, or give 
 him of the best in such quantities as his nutritive 
 system can appropriate and change into healthy 
 muscle, nerve and bone? You do the latter, of 
 course, and so would I treat the case of a man who 
 had hurt himself by excess of wine. I would see 
 that he had only the purest and in diminished quan 
 tity, so that his deranged system might not only 
 have time but help in regaining its normal condi 
 tion." 
 
 " And you think this could be safely done ?" said 
 Mr. Ridley. 
 
 " That is my view of the case." 
 
 " Then you do not hold to the entire abstinence 
 theory ?" 
 
 " No sir ; on that subject our temperance people 
 
58 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 have run into what we might call fanaticism, and 
 greatly weakened their influence. Men should be 
 taught self-control and moderation in the use of 
 things. If the appetite becomes vitiated through 
 over-indulgence, you do not change its condition by 
 complete denial. What you want for radical cure is 
 the restoration of the old ability to use without abus 
 ing. In other words, you want a man made right 
 again as to his rational power of self-control, by 
 which he becomes master of himself in all the de 
 grees of his life, from the highest to the lowest." 
 
 "All very well," remarked Dr. Hillhouse, who 
 had joined them while Mr. Elliott was speaking. 
 " But, in my experience, the rational self-control of 
 which you speak is one of the rarest things to be 
 met with in common life, and it may be fair to con 
 clude that the man who cannot exercise it before a 
 dangerous habit has been formed will not be very 
 likely to exercise it afterward when anything is 
 done to favor that habit. Habits, Mr. Elliott, are 
 dreadful hard things to manage, and I do not know 
 a harder one to deal with than the habit of over 
 indulgence in wine or spirits. I should be seriously 
 afraid of your prescription. The temperate use of 
 wine I hold to be good ; but for those who have 
 once lost the power of controlling their appetites I 
 am clear in my opinion there is only one way of 
 safety, and that is the way of entire abstinence from 
 any drink in which there is alcohol, call it by what 
 name you will; and this is the view now held by 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 59 
 
 the most experienced and intelligent men in GUI 
 profession." 
 
 A movement in the company being observed, Mr. 
 Elliott, instead of replying, stepped toward a lady, 
 and asked the pleasure of escorting her to the sup 
 per-room. Dr. Hillhouse was equally courteous, 
 and Mr. Ridley, seeing the wife of General Regan, 
 whom he had often met in Washington, standing a 
 little way off, passed to her side and offered his arm, 
 which was accepted. 
 
 There was a crowd and crush upon the stairs, 
 fine gentlemen and ladies seeming to forget their 
 courtesy and good breeding in their haste to be 
 among the earliest who should reach the banquet- 
 ing-hall. This was long and spacious, having been 
 planned by Mr. Birtwell with a view to grand enter 
 tainments like the one he was now giving. In an 
 almost incredibly short space of time it was filled to 
 suffocation. Those who thought themselves among 
 the first to move were surprised to rind the tables 
 already surrounded by young men and women, who 
 had been more interested in the status of the supper- 
 room than in the social enjoyments of the parlors, 
 and who had improved their advanced state of ob 
 servation by securing precedence of the rest, and 
 stood waiting for the signal to begin. 
 
 Mr. Birtwell had a high respect for the Church, 
 and on an occasion like this could do no less than 
 honor one of its dignitaries by requesting him to 
 ask a blessing on the sumptuous repast he had pro- 
 
bo Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 vided on the rich food and the good wine and 
 brandy he was about dispensing with such a liberal 
 hand. So, in the waiting pause that ensued after 
 the room was well filled, Mr. Elliott was called upon 
 to bless the feast, which he did in a raised, im 
 pressive and finely modulated voice. Then came 
 the rattle of plates and the clink of glasses, fol 
 lowed by the popping of champagne and the multi 
 tudinous and distracting Babel of tongues. 
 
 Mr. Ridley, who felt much inclined to favor the 
 superficial and ill-advised utterances of Mr. Elliott, 
 took scarcely any heed of what Dr. Hillhouse had 
 replied. In fact, knowing that the doctor was free 
 with wine himself, he did not give much weight to 
 what he said, feeling that he was talking more for 
 argument's sake than to express his real senti 
 ments. 
 
 A feeling of repression came over Mr. Ridley as 
 he entered the supper-room and his eyes ran down 
 the table. Half of this sumptuous feast was for 
 bidden enjoyment. He must not taste the wine. 
 All were free but him. He could fill a glass for the 
 elegant lady whose hand was still upon his arm, 
 but must not pledge her back except in water. A 
 sense of shame and humiliation crept into his heart. 
 So he felt when, in the stillness that fell upon the 
 company, the voice of Mr. Elliott rose in blessing 
 on the good things now spread for them in such 
 lavish profusion. Only one sentence took hold on 
 Mr. Ridley's mind. It was this : "Giver of all natu- 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 6 1 
 
 ral as well as spiritual good things, of the corn and 
 the wine equally with the bread and the water of 
 life, sanctify these bounties that come from thy 
 beneficent hand, and keep us from any inordinate or 
 hurtful use thereof." 
 
 Mr. Ridley drew a deeper breath. A load seemed 
 taken from his bosom. He felt a sense of freedom 
 and safety. If the wine were pure, it was a good 
 gift of God, and could not really do him harm. A 
 priest, claiming to stand as God's representative 
 among men, had invoked a blessing on this juice of 
 the grape, and given it by this act a healthier 
 potency. All this crowded upon him, stifling reason 
 and experience and hushing the voice of prudence. 
 
 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 considera 
 tions. 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 
 Regan 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. 
 
 6 
 
62 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " 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 in 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 in- 
 voxication, and staggered off in the blinding snow 
 that soon covered his garments like a winding s 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE nurse of Mrs. Ridley had found her in a 
 nervous chill, at which she was greatly trouMed. 
 More clothing was laid upon the bed, and bottl/s of 
 hot water placed to her feet. To all this Mrs. R idlcy 
 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 to 
 gether 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 
 Stiying 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 
 
 63 
 
64 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 asleep. The paleness of her countenance had given 
 way to a fever hue, and she noticed occasional rest 
 less movements of the hands, twitches of the eyelidi, 
 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 ques 
 tioned. 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, rat 
 tling 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 shiv 
 ered and the fever-flush died out of her face. 
 
 " You must lie down !" said the nurse, speak 
 ing with decision and putting her hands on Mrs. 
 Ridley to press her back. But the latter resisted. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, ma'am," urged the nurse, sliow 
 ing great anxiety, "you must lie 1 down and keep 
 covered up in bed. It might be the death of you." 
 
Wounded in the Hoiise of a Friend. 65 
 
 " Oh, thitt'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 de 
 ceived 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 hun 
 dred rods of these anxious watchers, the great clock 
 of the city, which in the still hours of a calm night 
 c^uld be heard ringing out clear but afar off, threw 
 ? resonant clang upon the air, pealing the first 
 6* B 
 
66 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 
 tnat 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 dis 
 tance, 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 suc 
 ceeded 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 dis 
 tance 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. Foi 
 ten minutes he wrought with the blinding and suf 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 67 
 
 focating 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 dis 
 covered soon afterward and carried to a police sta,- 
 tion, 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 cUyftght, befpjre 
 him. 
 
 Ridley stood dumb in presen.ce of the officer, who 
 was touched by the helpless misery of his face 
 
 " You were at ]\Ir. ^irtwell'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 him 
 self 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. 
 
68 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 conse 
 quences 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 69 
 
 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-won 
 dering 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 pos 
 sible, Mr. Ridley. The case is serious." 
 
7<D Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 "Where is Dr. Hillhouse ? Why did not he 
 come ?" demanded Mr. Ridley. 
 
 '* He will be here after a while. It is too early for 
 hirn," replied Dr. Angier. 
 
 " He must come now. Go for him at once, doc 
 tor." 
 
 " 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. An 
 gier 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 morn 
 ing. 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, 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 71 
 
 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 
 / 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 confer 
 ence 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 
 jpoke aside to his assistant as 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. 
 
72 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 Dr. Hillhouse did not reply. 
 
 " I knew there was danger," pursued the nurse 
 " Oh, doctor, if you had only come when I sent fof 
 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 care 
 ful 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 im 
 mediately." 
 
 " 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 ai m tightly 
 and held him fast : 
 
 " Is it is it puer-p-p " His voice shook so 
 
Wounded in the House of a Fnend. 73 
 
 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 super 
 natural, "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 
 
 7 
 
74 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 excite or disturb her in any way, you must pru 
 dently 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. 
 
 "TT 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 window- 
 panes and the wind roared angrily. ' I could not 
 keep her down/ said the nurse. ' She would spring 
 
 76 
 
76 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 hei 
 eyes, that fever had set in. I was alarmed, and sent 
 for the doctor.' " 
 
 "And did this go on all night?" asked Dr. Hill- 
 house. 
 
 " Yes. She never closed her eyes except in in 
 tervals 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 hun 
 dred 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 sur 
 prised resolution is beaten down and conquered. 
 To invite such a man to an entertainment where 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 77 
 
 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 a company there will be some, like Mr. 
 Ridley, to whom the cup of wine offered in hospi 
 tality 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 bitter 
 ness 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 indul- 
 1* 
 
78 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 gence. 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 dis 
 eases 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 even 
 ing, into a drinking-saloon I harp on the words, 
 you see, for I am feeling bitter escape responsi 
 bility ? No man goes blindly in this way." 
 
 " Taking your view of the case," replied Dr. An- 
 gier, " 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 stand 
 ing in their office. 
 
 " Nothing has been heard of Archie Voss since 
 he left Mr. BirtwelPs 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." 
 
 44 I found Mrs. Voss in a state of coma, from which 
 she had only partially recovered when I left at day 
 light. 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 79 
 
 friend. Had too much to drink, it may be, and wanted 
 to sleep it off before coming into his mother's pres- 
 sence." 
 
 "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 
 ^rave : 
 
 "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 
 (Joes 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 
 
80 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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," 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 81 
 
 icturned 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 un 
 fortunate of all that I should have been compelled 
 to go o-it so early this morning. That doesn't look 
 right." 
 
 And the doctor held up his hand, which showed 
 a nervo ns unsteadiness. 
 
 " It v ill pass off after you have taken breakfast" 
 
 "I h >pe so. Confound these parties! I should 
 not hai e gone last night, and if I'd given the mat 
 ter 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. " 1 
 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 dif 
 ference. But my system was stimulated beyond 
 its wont, and, I fear, will not be in the right tone to 
 day." 
 
82 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " You will have to bring it up, then, doctor," said 
 the assistant. " To touch that work with an un 
 steady hand might be death." 
 
 " A glass or two of wine will do it ; but when 1 
 operate, I always prefer to have my head clear. 
 Stimulated nerves are not to be depended upon, and 
 the brain that has wine in it is never a sure guide. 
 A surgeon must see at the point of his instrument ; 
 and if there be a mote or any obscurity in his 
 mental vision, his hand, instead of working a cure, 
 may bring disaster." 
 
 " You operate at twelve ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You will be all right enough by that time ; but 
 it will not do to visit many patients. I am sorry 
 about this case of child-bed fever ; but I will see it 
 again immediately after breakfast, and report." 
 
 While they were still talking the bell rang vio 
 lently, and in a few moments Mr. Ridley came dash 
 ing into the office. His face wore a look of the 
 deepest distress. 
 
 " Oh, doctor," he exclaimed, " can't you do some 
 thing for my wife ? She'll die if you don't. Oh, do 
 go to her again !" 
 
 " Has any change taken place since we left ?" 
 asked Dr. Hillhouse, with a professional calmness it 
 required some effort to assume. 
 
 "She is in great distress, moaning and sobbing 
 and crying out as if in dreadful pain, and she doesn't 
 know anything you say to her." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 83 
 
 The two physicians looked at each other with 
 sober faces. 
 
 " You'd better see her again," said Dr. Hiilhouse, 
 speaking to his assistant. 
 
 " No, no, no, Dr. Hiilhouse ! You must see her 
 yourself. It is a case of life and death !" cried out 
 the distracted husband. " The responsibility is yours, 
 and I must and will hold you to that responsibility. 
 1 placed my wife in your charge, not in that of this 
 or any other man." 
 
 Mr. Ridley was beside himself with fear. At first 
 Dr. Hiilhouse felt like resenting this assault, but he 
 controlled himself. 
 
 " You forget yourself, Mr. Ridley," he answered, 
 in a repressed voice. " We do not help things by 
 passion or intemperance of language. I saw your 
 wife less than half an hour ago, and after giving the 
 utmost care to the examination of her case made 
 the best prescription in my power. There has not 
 been time for the medicines to act yet. I know how 
 troubled you must feel, and can pardon your not 
 very courteous bearing; but there are some things 
 that can and some things that cannot be done. 
 There are good reasons why it will not be right for 
 me to return to your house now reasons affecting 
 the safety, it may be the life, of another, while my 
 not going back with you can make no difference to 
 Mrs. Ridley. Dr. Angier is fully competent to re 
 port on her condition, and I can decide OP any 
 change of treatment that may be required as cer- 
 
84 Wounded in the House uf a Friend. 
 
 tainly as if I saw her myself. Should he find any 
 change for the worse, I will consider it my duty to 
 see hei without delay." 
 
 " Don't neglect her, for God's sake, doctor !" an 
 swered Mr. Ridley, in a pleading voice. His man 
 ner had grown subdued. " Forgive my seeming dis 
 courtesy. I am wellnigh distracted. If I lose her, I 
 lose my hold on everything. Oh, doctor, you can 
 not know how much is at stake. God help me if 
 she dies !" 
 
 " My dear sir, nothing in our power to do shall be 
 neglected. Dr. Angier will go back with you ; and 
 if, on his return, I am satisfied that there is a change 
 for the worse, I will see your wife without a mo 
 ment's delay. And in the mean time, if you wish 
 to call in another physician, I shall be glad to have 
 you do so. Fix the time for consultation at any 
 hour before half-past ten o'clock, and I will meet 
 him. After that I shall be engaged professionally 
 for two or three hours." 
 
 Dr. Angier returned with Mr. Ridley, and Di. 
 Hillhouse went to his chamber to make ready for 
 breakfast. His hands were so unsteady as he made 
 his toilette for the day that, in the face of what he 
 had said to his assistant only a little while before, 
 he poured himself a glass of wine and drank it off, 
 remarking aloud as he did so, as if apologizing for 
 fhe act to some one invisibly present : 
 
 " I can't let this go on any longer." 
 
 The breakfast-bell rang, and the doctor sat down 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 85 
 
 to get the better nerve-sustainer of a good meal. 
 But even as he reached his hand for the fragrant 
 coffee that his wife had poured for him, he felt a 
 single dull throb in one of his temples, and knew too 
 well its meaning. He did not lift the coffee to his 
 mouth, but sat with a grave face and an unusually 
 quiet manner. He had made a serious mistake, and 
 he knew it. That glass of wine had stimulated the 
 relaxed nerves of his stomach too suddenly, and 
 sent a shock to the exhausted brain. A slight feel 
 ing of nausea was perceived, and then came another 
 throb stronger than the first, and with a faint sugges 
 tion of pain. This was followed by a sense of phys 
 ical depression and discomfort. 
 
 " What's the matter, doctor ?" asked his wife, who 
 saw something unusual in his manner. 
 
 "A feeling here that I don't just like," he replied, 
 touching his temple with a finger. 
 
 " Not going to have a headache ?" 
 
 " I trust not. It would be a bad thing for me to 
 day." 
 
 He slowly lifted his cup of coffee and sipped a part 
 of it. 
 
 " Late suppers and late hours may do for youngei 
 people," said Mrs. Hillhouse. "/ feel wretched this 
 morning, and am not surprised that your nerves are 
 out of order, nor that you should be threatened 
 with headache." 
 
 The doctor did not reply. He sipped his coffee 
 again, but without apparent relish, and, instead of 
 8 
 
8tf Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 eating anything, sat in an unusually quiet mannei 
 and with a very sober aspect of countenance. 
 
 " I don't want a mouthful of breakfast," said Mrs. 
 Hillhouse, pushing away her plate. 
 
 "Nor I," replied the doctor; "but I can't begin 
 to-day on an empty stomach." 
 
 And he tried to force himself to take food, but 
 made little progress in the effort. 
 
 " It's dreadful about Archie Voss," said Mrs. Hill- 
 house. 
 
 " Oh, he'll come up all right," returned her hus 
 band, with some impatience in his voice. 
 
 " I hope so. But if he were my son, I'd rather see 
 him in his grave than as I saw him last night." 
 
 " It's very easy to talk in that way ; but if Archie 
 were your son, you'd not be very long in choosing 
 between death and a glass or two of wine more 
 than he had strength to carry." 
 
 " If he were my son," replied the doctor's wife, 
 "I would do all in my power to keep him away 
 from entertainments where liquor is served in such 
 profusion. The danger is too great." 
 
 "He would have to take his chances with the 
 rest," replied the doctor. " All that we could pos 
 sibly do would be to teach him moderation and self- 
 denial." 
 
 " If there is little moderation and self-denial among 
 -the full-grown men and women who are met on 
 these occasions, what can be expected from lads 
 and young men?" 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 8; 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders, but made no 
 reply. 
 
 " We cannot shut our eyes to the fact," continued 
 his wife, " that this free dispensation of wine to old 
 and young is an evil of great magnitude, and that it 
 is doing a vast amount of harm." 
 
 The doctor still kept silent. He was not in a 
 mood for discussing this or any other social ques 
 tion. His mind was going in another direction, and 
 his thoughts were troubling him. Dr. Hillhouse 
 was a surgeon of great experience, and known 
 throughout the country for his successful opera 
 tions in some of the most difficult and dangerous 
 cases with which the profession has to deal. On 
 this particular day, at twelve o'clock, he had to per 
 form an operation of the most delicate nature, in 
 volving the life or death of a patient. 
 
 He might well feel troubled, for he knew, from 
 signs too well understood, that when twelve o'clock 
 came, and his patient lay helpless and unconscious 
 before him, his hand would not be steady nor his 
 brain clear. Healthy food would not restore the 
 natural vigor which stimulation had weakened, for 
 he had no appetite for food. His stomach turned 
 away from it with loathing. 
 
 By this time the throb in his temple had become 
 a stroke of pain. While still sitting at the break 
 fast-table Dr. Angier returned from his visit to Mrs 
 Ridley. Dr. Hillhouse saw by the expression of 
 bis face that he did not bring a good report. 
 
88 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " How is she?" he asked. 
 
 '* In a very bad way," replied Dr. Angier. 
 
 " New symptoms ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Intense pain, rigors, hurried respiration and pulse 
 up to a hundred and twenty. It looks like a case of 
 puerperal peritonitis." 
 
 Dr. Hillhouse started from the table; the trouble 
 on his face grew deeper. 
 
 " You had better see her with as little delay as 
 possible," said Dr. Angier. 
 
 " Did you make any new prescription ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 Dr. Hillhouse shut his lips tightly and knit his 
 brows. He stood irresolute for several moments. 
 
 " Most unfortunate !" he ejaculated. Then, going 
 into his office, he rang the bell and ordered his car 
 riage brought round immediately. 
 
 Dr. Angier had made no exaggerated report of 
 Mrs. Ridley's condition. Dr. Hillhouse found that 
 serious complications were rapidly taking place, and 
 that all the symptoms indicated inflammation of the 
 peritoneum. The patient was in great pain, though 
 with less cerebral disturbance than when he had seen 
 her last. There was danger, and he knew it. The 
 disease had taken on a form that usually baffles 
 the skill of our most eminent physicians, and Dr. 
 Hillhouse saw little chance of anything but a fatal 
 termination. He could do nothing except to palliate 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 89 
 
 as far as possible the patient's intense suffering and 
 endeavor to check farther complications. But he 
 saw little to give encouragement. 
 
 Mr. Ridley, with pale, anxious face, and eyes in 
 which were pictured the unutterable anguish of his 
 soul, watched Dr. Hillhouse as he sat by his wife's 
 bedside with an eager interest and suspense that was 
 painful to see. He followed him when he lett the 
 room, and his hand closed on his arm with a spasm 
 as the door shut behind them. 
 
 "How is she, doctor?" he asked, in a noarse, 
 panting whisper. 
 
 " She is very sick, Mr. Ridley," replied Dr. Hill- 
 house. " It would be wrong to deceive you." 
 
 The pale, haggard face of Mr. Ridley grew whrter. 
 
 " Oh, doctor," he gasped, " can nothing be done ?" 
 
 " I think we had better call in another physician," 
 replied the doctor. " In the multitude of counselors 
 there is wisdom. Have you any choice ?" 
 
 But Mr. Ridley had none. 
 
 " Shall it be Dr. Ainsworth ? He has large expe 
 rience in this class of diseases." 
 
 " I leave it entirely with you, Dr. Hillhouse. Get 
 the best advice and help the city affords, and for 
 God's sake save my wife." 
 
 The doctor went away, and Mr. Ridley, shaking 
 with nervous tremors, dropped weak and helpless 
 into a chair, and bending forward until his head 
 rested on his knees, sat crouching down, an image 
 "){ suffering and despair. 
 
 8* ' 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 'T^LLIS, my son." 
 
 J <* There was a little break and tremor in the 
 voice. The young man addressed was passing the 
 door of his mother's room, and paused on hearing 
 his name, 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, stepping inside and look 
 ing curiously into his mother's face, where he saw a 
 more than usually serious expression. 
 
 " Sit down, Ellis ; I want to say a word to you be 
 fore going to Mrs. Birtwell's." 
 
 The lady had just completed her toilette, and 
 was elegantly dressed for an evening party. She 
 was a handsome, stately-looking woman, with dark 
 hair through which ran many veins of silver, large, 
 thoughtful eyes and a mouth of peculiar sweetness. 
 
 The young man took a chair, and his mother 
 seated herself in front of him. 
 
 " Ellis." 
 
 The tremor still remained in her voice. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 The young man assumed a careless air, but was 
 not at ease. 
 
 " There is a good old adage, my son, the remem- 
 90 
 
Wounded in the Hotise of a Ft lend. <ji 
 
 brance of which has saved many a one in the hour 
 of danger: Forewarned, forearmed'' 
 
 " Oh, then you think we are going into danger 
 to-night?" he answered, in a light tone. 
 
 " I am sorry to say that we are going where some 
 will find themselves in great peril," replied the 
 mother, her manner growing more serious ; " and it 
 is because of this that I wish to say a word or two 
 now." 
 
 " Very well, mother ; say on." 
 
 He moved uneasily in his chair, and showed signs 
 of impatience. 
 
 " You must take it kindly, Ellis, and remember 
 that it is your mother who is speaking, your best 
 and truest friend in all the world." 
 
 " Good Heavens, mother ! what are you driving 
 at? One would think we were going into a howling 
 wilderness, among savages and wild beasts, instead 
 of into a company of the most cultured and refined 
 people in a Christian city." 
 
 " There is danger everywhere, my son," the mother 
 replied, with increasing sobriety of manner, " and 
 the highest civilization of the day has its perils as 
 well as the lowest conditions of society. The enemy 
 hides in ambush everywhere in the gay drawing- 
 room as well as in the meanest hovel." 
 
 She paused, and mother and son looked into each 
 other's faces in silence for several moments. Then 
 the former said : 
 
 " I must speak plainly, Ellis. You are not as 
 
%2 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 guarded as you should be on these occasions. You 
 take wine too freely." 
 
 " Oh, mother!" His voice was half surprised, half 
 angry. A red flush mounted to cheeks and fore 
 head. Rising, he walked the room in an agitated 
 manner, and then came and sat down. The color 
 had gone out of his face: 
 
 " How could you say so, mother ? You do me 
 wrong. It is a mistake." 
 
 The lady shook her head : 
 
 " No, my son, it is true. A mother's eyes rarely 
 deceive her. You took wine too freely both at Mrs, 
 Judson's and Mrs. Ingersoll's, and acted so little 
 like my gentlemanly, dignified son that my cheeks 
 burned and my heart ached with mortification. I 
 saw in other eyes that looked at you both pity and 
 condemnation. Ah, my son ! there was more of bit' 
 terness in that for a mother's heart than you will 
 ever comprehend." 
 
 Her voice broke into a sob. 
 
 " My dear, dear mother," returned the young 
 man, exhibiting much distress, "you and others 
 exaggerated what you saw. I might have been a 
 trifle gay, and who is not after a glass or two of 
 champagne ? I was no gayer than the rest. When 
 young people get together, and one spurs another on, 
 they are apt to grow a little wild. But to call high 
 spirits, even noisy high spirits, intoxication is unjust. 
 You must not be too hard on me, mother, nor let 
 your care for your son lead you into needless appre- 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 93 
 
 hensions. I am in no danger here. Set your heart 
 at rest on that score." 
 
 But this was impossible. Mrs. Whitford knew 
 there was danger, and that of the gravest character. 
 Two years before, her son had come home from col 
 lege, where he had graduated with all the honors 
 her heart could desire, a pure, high-toned young 
 man, possessing talents of no common order. His 
 father wished him to study law ; and as his own in 
 clinations led in that direction, he went into the 
 office of one of the best practitioners in the city, and 
 studied for his profession with the same thorough- 
 ne^s that had distinguished him while in college. 
 He had just been admitted to the bar. 
 
 For the first year after his return home Mrs. Whit- 
 ford saw nothing in her son to awaken uneasiness. 
 His cultivated tastes and love of intellectual things 
 held him above the enervating influences of the 
 social life into which he was becoming more and 
 more drawn. Her first feeling of uneasiness came 
 when, at a large party given by one of her most 
 intimate friends, she heard his voice ring out sud 
 denly in the supper-room. Looking down the table, 
 she saw him with a glass of champagne in his hand, 
 which he was flourishing about in rather an excited 
 way. There was a gay group of young girls around 
 him, who laughed merrily at the sport he made. 
 Mrs. Whitford's pleasure was gone for that evening. 
 A shadow came down on the bright future of her 
 son a future to which her heart had turned with 
 
94 Wounded m the House of a Friend. 
 
 such proud anticipations. She was oppressed by a 
 sense of humiliation. Her son had stepped down 
 from his pedestal of dignified self-respect, and stood 
 among the common herd of vulgar young men to 
 whom in her eyes he had always been superior. 
 
 But greater than her humiliation were the fears 
 of Mrs. Whitford. A thoughtful and observant 
 woman, she had reason for magnifying the dangers 
 that lay in the path of her son. The curse of more 
 than one member of both her own and husband's 
 family had been intemperance. While still a young 
 man her father had lost his self-control, and her 
 memory of him was a shadow of pain and sorrow. 
 He died at an early age, the victim of an insatiable 
 and consuming desire for drink. Her husband's 
 father had been what is called a " free liver" that is, 
 a man who gave free indulgence to his appetites, eat 
 ing and drinking to excess, and being at all times 
 more or less under the influence of wine or spirits. 
 
 It was the hereditary taint that Mrs. Whitford 
 dreaded. Here lay the ground of her deepest anx 
 iety. She had heard and thought enough on this 
 subject to know that parents transmit to their chil 
 dren an inclination to do the things they have done 
 from habit strong or weak, according to the power 
 of the habit indulged. If the habit be an evil one, 
 then the children are in more than common danger, 
 and need the wisest care and protection. She knew, 
 also, from reading and observation, that an evil habit 
 of mind or body which did not show itself in the 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 95 
 
 second generation would often be reproduced in the 
 th-ird, ^and assert a power that it required the ut 
 most strength of will and the greatest watchfulness 
 to subdue. 
 
 And so, when her son, replying to her earnest 
 warning, said, " I am in no danger. Set your heart 
 at rest," she knew better knew that a deadly ser 
 pent was in the path he was treading. And she 
 answered him with increasing earnestness : 
 
 " The danger may be far greater than you imagine, 
 Ellis. It is greater than you imagine." 
 
 Her voice changed as she uttered the last sen 
 tence into a tone that was almost solemn. 
 
 "You are talking wildly," returned the young 
 m-an, " and pay but a poor compliment to your son's 
 character and strength of will. In danger of be 
 coming a sot ! for that is what you mean. If you 
 were not my mother, I should be angry beyond self- 
 control." 
 
 " Ellis," said Mrs. Whitford, laying her hand upon 
 the arm of her son and speaking with slow impress- 
 iveness, " I am older than you are by nearly thirty 
 years, have seen more of life than you have, and 
 know some things that you do not know. I have your 
 welfare at heart more deeply than any other being 
 except God. I know you better in some things than 
 you know yourself. Love makes me clear-seeing. 
 And this is why I am in such earnest with you to 
 night. Ellis, I want a promise from you. I ask it 
 in the name of all that is dearest to you in my 
 
96 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 name in the name of Blanche in the name of 
 God !" 
 
 All the color had gone out of Mrs. Whitford's 
 face, and she stood trembling before her son. 
 
 " You frighten me, mother," exclaimed the young 
 man. " What do you mean by all this ? Has any 
 one been filling your mind with lies about me ?" 
 
 " No ; none would dare speak to me of you in 
 anything but praise. But I want you to promise 
 to-night, Ellis. I must have that, and then my heart 
 will be at ease. It will be a little thing for you, but 
 for me rest and peace and confidence in the place of 
 terrible anxieties." 
 
 " Promise ! What ? Some wild fancies have taken 
 hold of you." 
 
 " No wild fancies, but a fear grounded in things 
 of which I would not speak. Ellis, I want you to 
 give up the use of wine." 
 
 The young man did not answer immediately. All 
 the nervous restlessness he had exhibited died out 
 in a moment, and he stood very still, the ruddy 
 marks of excitement going out of his face. His 
 eyes were turned from his mother and cast upon the 
 floor. 
 
 " And so it has come to this," he said, huskily, 
 and in a tone of humiliation. " My mother thinks 
 me in danger of becoming a drunkard thinks me 
 so weak that I cannot be trusted to take even a 
 glass of wine." 
 
 " Ellis 1" Mrs. Whitford again laid her hand upon 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 97 
 
 the arm of her son. "Ellis," her voice had fallen 
 to a deep whisper, "if I must speak, I must. There 
 are ancestors who leave fatal legacies to the genera 
 tions that come after them, and you are one accursed 
 by such a legacy. There is a taint in your blood, a 
 latent fire that a spark may kindle into a consuming 
 flame." 
 
 She panted as she spoke with hurried utterance. 
 
 " My father !" exclaimed the young man, with an 
 indignant flash in his eyes. 
 
 " No, no, no ! I don't mean that. But there is a 
 curse that descends to the third and fourth genera 
 tion," replied Mrs. Whitford, "and you have the 
 legacy of that curse. But it will be harmless unless 
 with your own hand you drag it down, and this is 
 why I ask you to abstain from wine. Others may 
 be safe, but for you there is peril." 
 
 "A scarecrow, a mere fancy, a figment of some 
 fanatic's brain ;" and Ellis Whitford rejected the idea 
 in a voice full of contempt. 
 
 But the pallor and solemnity of his mother's face 
 warned him that such a treatment of her fears could 
 not allay them. Moreover, the hint of ancestral 
 disgrace had shocked his family pride. 
 
 " A sad and painful truth," Mrs. Whitford returned, 
 " and one that it will be folly for you to ignore. You 
 do not stand in the same freedom in which many 
 others stand. That is your misfortune. But you 
 can no more disregard the fact than can one born 
 with a hereditary taint of consumption in his blood 
 9 G 
 
98 Wounded in the House of a, Friend. 
 
 disregard the loss of health and hope to escape the 
 fatal consequences. There is for every one of us ' a 
 sin that doth easily beset,' a hereditary inclination 
 that must be guarded and denied, or it will grow 
 and strengthen until it becomes a giant to enslave 
 us. Where your danger lies I have said ; and if 
 you would be safe, set bars and bolts to the door 
 of appetite, and suffer not your enemy to cross the 
 threshold of life." 
 
 Mrs. Whitford spoke with regaining calmness, but 
 in tones of solemn admonition. 
 
 A long silence followed, broken at length by the 
 young man, who said, in a choking, depressed voice 
 that betrayed a quiver of impatience : 
 
 " I'm sorry for all this. That your fears ar^ 
 groundless I know, but you are none the less tor 
 mented by them. What am I to do ? To spare 
 you pain I would sacrifice almost anything, but this 
 humiliation is more than I am strong enough to 
 encounter. If, as you say, there has been intemper 
 ance in our family, it is not a secret locked up in 
 your bosom. Society knows all about the ancestry 
 of its members, who and what the fathers and grand 
 fathers were, and we have not escaped investigation. 
 Don't touch wine, you say. Very well. I go to 
 Mrs. Birtwell's to-night. Young and old, men and 
 women, all are partakers, but I stand aloof I, of all 
 the guests, refuse the hospitality I have pretended to 
 accept. Can I do this without attracting attention 
 5r occasioning remark? No; and what will be 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 99 
 
 said ? Simply this that I know my danger and 
 am afraid; that there is in my blood the heredi 
 tary taint of drunkenness, and that I dare not touch 
 a glass of wine. Mother, I am not strong enough 
 to brave society on such an issue, and a false one at 
 that. To fear and fly does not belong to my nature. 
 A coward I despise. If there is danger in my way 
 and it is right for me to go forward in that way, I 
 will walk steadily on, and fight if I must. I am not 
 a craven, but a man. If the taint of which you 
 speak is in my blood, I will extinguish it. If I am 
 in danger, I will not save myself by flight, but by 
 conquest. The taint shall not go down to another 
 generation ; it shall be removed in this." 
 
 He spoke with a fine enthusiasm kindling ovei 
 his handsome face, and his mother's heart beat with 
 a pride that for the moment was stronger than fear. 
 
 " Ask of me anything except to give up my self- 
 respect and my manliness," he added. " Say that 
 you wish me to remain at home, and I will not gq 
 to the party." 
 
 " No, I do not ask that. I wish you to go. But " 
 " If I go, I must do as the rest, and you must 
 have faith in me. Forewarned, forearmed. I will 
 heed your admonition." 
 
 So the interview ended, and mother and son went 
 to the grand entertainment at Mr. Birtwell's. Ellis 
 did mean to heed his mother's admonition. What 
 she had said about the danger in which he stood 
 had made a deeper impression on him than Mrs. 
 
I GO Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 Whitford thought. But he did not propose to heed 
 by abstinence, but by moderation. He would be on 
 guard and always ready for the hidden foe, if such 
 a foe really existed anywhere but in his mother's 
 fancy. 
 
 " Ah, Mrs. Whitford ! Glad to see you this even 
 ing;" and the Rev. Mr. Brantley Elliott gave the 
 lady a graceful and cordial bow. " Had the plea 
 sure of meeting your son a few moments ago a 
 splendid young man, if you will pardon me for say 
 ing so. How much a year has improved him !" 
 
 Mrs. Whitford bowed her grateful acknowledg 
 ment. 
 
 " Just been admitted to the bar, I learn," said Mr. 
 Elliott. 
 
 " Yes, sir. He has taken his start in life." 
 
 " And will make his mark, or I am mistaken. 
 You have reason to feel proud of him, ma'am." 
 
 "That she has," spoke out Dr. Hillhouse, who 
 came up at the moment. " When so many of our 
 young men are content to be idle drones to let 
 their fathers achieve eminence or move the world 
 by the force of thought and will it is gratifying 
 to see one of their number taking his place in the 
 ranks and setting his face toward conquest. When 
 the sons of two-thirds of our rich men are forgotten, 
 or remembered only as idlers or nobodies, or worse, 
 your son will stand among the men who leave their 
 'nark upon the generations." 
 
 " If he escapes the dangers that lie too thickly iu 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 101 
 
 the way of all young men," returned Mrs. Whitford, 
 speaking almost involuntarily of what was in her 
 heart, and in a voice that betrayed more concern 
 than she had meant to express. 
 
 The doctor gave a little shrug, but replied: 
 
 " His earnest purpose in life will be his protec 
 tion, Mrs. Whitford. Work, ambition, devotion to 
 a science or profession have in them an aegis of 
 safety. The weak and the idle are most in dan- 
 ger." 
 
 " It is wrong, I have sometimes thought," said 
 Mrs. Whitford, speaking both to the physician and 
 the clergyman, " for society to set so many tempta 
 tions before its young men the seed, as some one 
 has forcibly said, of the nation's future harvest." 
 
 " Society doesn't care much for anything but its 
 own gratification," replied Dr. Hillhouse, " and says 
 as plainly as actions can do it, ' After me the 
 deluge.' " 
 
 " Rather hard on society," remarked Mr. Elliott. 
 
 " Now take, for instance, its drinking customs, 
 its toleration and participation in the freest public 
 and private dispensation of intoxicating liquors to 
 all classes, weak or strong, young or old. Is there 
 not danger in this great danger? I think I un 
 derstand you, Mrs. Whitford." 
 
 " Yes, doctor, you understand me ;" and dropping 
 her voice to a lower tone, Mrs. Whitford added: 
 "There are wives and mothers and sisters not a few 
 here to-night whose hearts, though they may wear 
 
IO2 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 smiles on their faces, are ill at ease, and some of 
 them will go home from these festivities sadder than 
 when they came." 
 
 " Right about that," said the doctor to himself as 
 he turned away, a friend of Mrs. Whitford's having 
 come up at the moment and interrupted the conver 
 sation " right about that ; and you, I greatly fear, 
 will be one of the number." 
 
 " Our friend isn't just herself to-night," remarked 
 Mr. Elliott as he and Dr. Hillhouse moved across the 
 room. " A little dyspeptic, maybe, and so inclined 
 to look on the dark side of things. She has little 
 cause, I should think, to be anxious for her own son 
 or husband. I never saw Mr. Whitford the worse 
 for wine ; and as for Ellis, his earnest purpose in life, 
 as you so well said just now, will hold him above 
 the reach of temptation." 
 
 " On the contrary, she has cause for great anxiety," 
 returned Dr. Hillhouse. 
 
 " You surprise me. What reason have you for 
 saying this ?" 
 
 " A professional one a reason grounded in path 
 ology." 
 
 " Ah ?" and Mr. Elliott looked gravely curious. 
 
 " The young man inherits, I fear, a depraved appe 
 tite." 
 
 " Oh no. I happen to be too well acquainted 
 with his father to accept that view of the case." 
 
 " His father is well enough," replied Dr. Hill- 
 house, " but as much could not be said of either of 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 103 
 
 his grandfathers while living. Both drank freely, 
 and one of them died a confirmed drunkard." 
 
 * 4 If the depraved appetite has not shown itself in 
 the children, it will hardly trouble the grandchil 
 dren," said Mr. Elliott. " Your fear is groundless, 
 doctor. If Ellis were my son, I should feel no par 
 ticular anxiety about him." 
 
 " If he were your son," replied Dr. Hillhouse, " I 
 am not so sure about your feeling no concern. Our 
 personal interest in a thing is apt to give it a new 
 importance. But you are mistaken as to the break 
 ing of hereditary influences in the second genera 
 tion. Often hereditary peculiarities will show them 
 selves in the third and fourth generation. It is no 
 uncommon thing to see the grandmother's red hair 
 reappear in her granddaughter, though her own 
 child's hair was as black as a raven's wing. A 
 crooked toe, a wart, a malformation, an epileptic 
 tendency, a swart or fair complexion, may disappear 
 in all the children of a family, and show itself again 
 in the grand- or great-grandchildren. Mental and 
 moral conditions reappear in like manner. In medi 
 cal literature we have many curious illustrations of 
 this law of hereditary transmission and its strange 
 freaks and anomalies." 
 
 "They are among the curiosities of your litera 
 ture," said Mr. Elliott, speaking as though not in 
 clined to give much weight to the doctor's views- 
 " the exceptional and abnormal things that come 
 under professional notice." 
 
104 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " The law of hereditary transmission," replied 
 Dr. Hillhouse, " is as certain in its operation as the 
 law of gravity. You may disturb or impede or 
 temporarily suspend the law, but the moment you re 
 move the impediment the normal action goes on, and 
 the result is sure. Like produces like that is the 
 law. Always the cause is seen in the effect, and its 
 character, quality and good or evil tendencies are sure 
 to have a rebirth and a new life. It is under the 
 action of this law that the child is cursed by the 
 parent with the evil and sensual things he has made 
 a part of himself through long indulgence." 
 
 There came at this moment a raid upon Mr. 
 Elliott by three or four ladies, members of his con 
 gregation, who surrounded him and Dr. Hillhouse, 
 and cut short their conversation. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ellis Whitford had already half for 
 gotten his painful interview with his mother in the 
 pleasure of meeting Blanche Birtwell, to whom he 
 had recently become engaged. She was a pure and 
 lovely young woman, inheriting her mother's personal 
 beauty and refined tastes. She had been carefully 
 educated and kept by her mother as much within 
 the sphere of home as possible and out of society 
 of the hoydenish girls who, moving in the so-called 
 best circles, have the free and easy manners of the 
 denizens of a public garden rather than the modest 
 demeanor of unsullied maidenhood. She was a sweet 
 exception to the loud, womanish, conventional girl 
 we meet everywhere on the street, in places of pub- 
 
Wounded in tlie House of a Friend. \ of 
 
 lie amusement and in the drawing-room a fragrant 
 human flower with the bloom of gentle girlhood on 
 every unfolding leaf. 
 
 It was no slender tie that bound these lovers 
 together. They had moved toward each other, 
 drawn by an inner attraction that was irresistible to 
 each ; and when heart touched heart, their pulses 
 took a common beat. The life of each had become 
 bound up in the other, and their betrothal was no 
 mere outward contract. The manly intellect and 
 the pure heart had recognized each other, tender 
 love had lifted itself to noble thought, and thought 
 had grown stronger and purer as it felt the warmth 
 and life of a new and almost divine inspiration. 
 Ellis Whitford had risen to a higher level by virtue 
 of this betrothal. 
 
 They were sitting in a bay-window, out of the 
 crowd of guests, when a movement in the company 
 was observed by Whitford. Knowing what it meant, 
 he arose and offered his arm to Blanche. As he 
 did so he became aware of a change in his compan 
 ion, felt rather than seen ; and yet, if he had looked 
 closely into her face, a change in its expression would 
 have been visible. The smile was still upon her 
 beautiful lips, and the light and tenderness still in 
 her eyes, but from both something had departed. 
 It was as if an almost invisible film of vapor had 
 ' drifted across the sun of their lives. 
 
 In silence they moved on to the supper-room 
 moved with the light and heavy-hearted, for, as Dr. 
 
ro6 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 Hillhoise had intimated, there were some there to 
 whom that supper-room was regarded with anxiety 
 and fear wives and mothers and sisters who knew, 
 alas ! too well that deadly serpents lie hidden among 
 the flowers of every banqueting-room. 
 
 How bright and joyous a scene it was ! You did 
 not see the trouble that lay hidden in so many 
 hearts ; the light and glitter, the flash and brilliancy, 
 were too strong. 
 
 Reader, did you ever think of the power of 
 spheres ? The influence that goes out from an 
 individual or mass of individuals, we mean that 
 subtle, invisible power that acts from one upon an 
 other, and which when aggregated is almost irre 
 sistible ? You have felt it in a company moved by 
 a single impulse which carried you for a time with 
 the rest, though all your calmer convictions were 
 in opposition to the movement. It has kept you 
 silent by its oppressive power when you should have 
 spoken out in a ringing protest, and it has borne 
 you away on its swift or turbulent current when 
 you should have stood still and been true to right. 
 Again, in the company of good and true men, moved 
 by the inspiration of some noble cause, how all 
 your weakness and hesitation has died out ! and you 
 have felt the influence of that subtle sphere to which 
 we refer. 
 
 Everywhere and at all times are we exposed to 
 the action of these mental and moral spheres, which 
 act upon and impress us in thousands of different 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 107 
 
 ways, now carrying us along in some sudden public 
 excitement in which passion drowns the voice of 
 reason, and now causing us to drift in the wake of 
 some stronger nature than our own whose active 
 thought holds ours in a weak, assenting bondage. 
 
 You understand what we mean. Now take the 
 pervading sphere of an occasion like the one we are 
 describing, and do you not see that to go against it 
 is possible only to persons of decided convictions 
 and strong individuality ? The common mass of 
 men and women are absorbed into or controlled by 
 its subtle power. They can no more set themselves 
 against it, if they would, than against the rush of a 
 swiftly-flowing river. To the young it is irresistible. 
 
 As Ellis Whitford, with Blanche leaning on his 
 arm, gained the supper-room, he met the eyes of his 
 mother, who was on the opposite side of the table, 
 and read in them a sign of warning. Did it awaken 
 a sense of danger and put him on his guard ? No ; 
 it rather stirred a feeling of anger. Could she not 
 trust him among gentlemen and ladies not trust 
 him with Blanche Birtwell by his side ? It hurt his 
 pride and wounded his self-esteem. 
 
 He was in the sphere of liberty and social enjoy 
 ment and among those who did not believe that 
 wine was a mocker, but something to make glad the 
 heart and give joy to the countenance ; and when it 
 began to flow he was among the first to taste its 
 delusive sweets. Blanche, for whom he poured a 
 glass of champagne, took it from his hand, but with 
 
IO8 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 only half a smile on her lips, which was veiled b> 
 something so like pain or fear that Ellis felt as if 
 the lights about him had suddenly lost a portion of 
 their brilliancy. He stood holding his own glass, 
 after just tasting its contents, waiting for Blanche to 
 raise the sparkling liquor to her lips, but she seemed 
 like one under the influence of a spell, not moving 
 or responding. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 7JLANCHE still held the untasted wine in her 
 .JD hand, when her father, who happened to be 
 near, filled a glass, and said as he bowed to her : 
 
 " Your good health, my daughter ; and yours, Mr. 
 Whitford," bowing to her companion also. 
 
 The momentary spell was broken. Blanche smiled 
 back upon her father and raised the glass to her lips. 
 The lights in the room seemed to Ellis to flash up 
 again and blaze with a higher brilliancy. Never had 
 the taste of wine seemed more delicious. What a 
 warm thrill ran along his nerves ! What a fine ex 
 hilaration quickened in his brain ! The shadow 
 which a moment before had cast a veil over the face 
 of Blanche he saw no longer. It had vanished, or 
 his vision was not now clear enough to discern its 
 subtle texture. 
 
 " Take good care of Blanche," said Mr. Birtwell, 
 in a light voice. " And you, pet, see that Mr. Whit- 
 ford enjoys himself." 
 
 Blanche did not reply. Her father turned away. 
 Eyes not veiled as Whitford's now were would have 
 seen that the filmy cloud which had come over her 
 face a little while before was less transparent, and 
 sensibly dimmed its brightness. 
 
 ' 10 lov 
 
HO Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 Scarcely had Mr. Birtwell left them when Mr. 
 Elliott, who had only a little while before heard of 
 their engagement, said to Blanche in an undertone, 
 and with one of his sweet paternal smiles : 
 
 14 1 must take a glass of wine with you, dear, in 
 commemoration of the happy event." 
 
 Mr. Elliott had not meant to include young Whit- 
 ford in the invitation. The latter had spoken to a 
 lady acquaintance who stood near him, and was say 
 ing a few words to her, thus disengaging Blanche. 
 But observing that Mr. Elliott was talking to Blanche, 
 he turned from the lady and joined her again. And 
 so Mr. Elliott had to say : 
 
 *' We are going to have a glass of wine in honor 
 of the auspicious event." 
 
 Three glasses were filled by the clergyman, and 
 then he stood face to face with the young man and 
 maiden, and each of them, as he said in a low, pro 
 fessional voice, meant for their ears alone, " Peace 
 and blessing, my children !" drank to the sentiment. 
 Whitford drained his glass, but Blanche only tasted 
 the wine in hers. 
 
 Mr. Elliott stood for a few moments, conscious 
 that something was out of accord. Then he remem 
 bered his conversation with Dr. Hillhouse a little 
 while before, and felt an instant regret. He had 
 noted the manner of Whitford as he drank, and the 
 manner of Blanche as she put the wine to her lips. 
 In the one case was an enjoyable eagerness, and in 
 the other constraint. Something in the expression 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. ill 
 
 of the girl's face haunted and troubled him a long 
 time afterward. 
 
 "Our young friend is getting rather gay," said 
 Dr. Hillhouse to Mr. Elliott, half an hour afterward. 
 He referred to Ellis Whitford, who was talking and 
 laughing in a way that to some seemed a little too 
 loud and boisterous. " I'm afraid for him," he added. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! I remember what you were saying 
 about his two grandfathers," returned the clergyman. 
 " And you really think he may inherit something 
 from them ?" 
 
 " Don't you ?" asked the doctor. 
 
 " Well, yes, of course. But I mean an inordinate 
 desire for drink, a craving that makes indulgence 
 perilous ?" 
 
 " Yes ; that is just what I do believe." 
 
 " If that be so, the case is a serious one. In taking 
 wine with him a short time ago, I noticed a certain 
 enjoyable eagerness as he held the glass to his lips 
 not often observed in our young men." 
 
 " You drank with him ?" queried the doctor. 
 
 " Yes. He and Blanche Birtwell have recently 
 become engaged, and I took some wine with them 
 in compliment." 
 
 The doctor, instead of replying, became silent and 
 thoughtful, and Mr. Elliott moved away among the 
 crowd of guests. 
 
 " I am really sorry for Mrs. Whitford," said a lady 
 with whom he soon became engaged in conversation 
 
 " Why so ?" asked the clergyman, betraying sur 
 
TI2 Won mt cd in the House of a Friend. 
 
 prise. " What's the matter ? No family trouble, I 
 hope ?" 
 
 ' Very serious trouble I should call it were it 
 my own," returned the lady. 
 
 " I am pained to hear you speak so. What has 
 occurred ?" 
 
 " Haven't you noticed her son to-night? There! 
 That was his laugh. He's been drinking too much. 
 I saw his mother looking at him a little while ago 
 with eyes so full of sorrow and suffering that it 
 made my heart ache." 
 
 " Oh, I hope it's nothing," replied Mr. Elliott. 
 " Young men will become a little gay on these occa 
 sions ; we must expect that. All of them don't bear 
 wine alike. It's mortifying to Mrs. Whitford, of 
 course, but she's a stately woman, you know, and 
 sensitive about proprieties." 
 
 Mr. Elliott did not wait for the lady's answer, but 
 turned to address another person who came forward 
 at the moment to speak to him. 
 
 " Sensitive about proprieties," said the lady to her 
 self, with some feeling, as she stood looking down 
 the room to where Ellis Whitford in' a group of 
 young men and women was giving vent to his exu 
 berant spirits more noisily than befitted the place 
 and occasion. " Mr. Elliott calls things by dainty 
 names." 
 
 " I call that disgraceful," remarked an elderly 
 lady, in a severe tone, as if replying to the other's 
 thought. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 1 1 3 
 
 " Young men will become a little gay on these 
 occasions," said the person to whom she had spoken, 
 with some irony in her tone. " So Mr. Elliott 
 says." 
 
 " Mr. Elliott !" There was a tone of bitterness 
 and rejection in the speaker's voice. " Mr. Elliott 
 had better give our young men a safer example than 
 he does. A little gay ! A little drunk would be 
 nearer the truth." 
 
 " Oh dear ! such a vulgar word ! We don't use it 
 in good society, you know. It belongs to taverns 
 and drinking-saloons to coarse, common people. 
 You must say 'a little excited/ 'a little gay,' but 
 not drunk. That's dreadful !" 
 
 " Drunk !" said the other, with emphasis, but 
 speaking low and for the ear only of the lady with 
 whom 'she was talking. "We understand a great 
 deal better the quality of a thing when we call it by 
 its right name. If a young man drinks wine or 
 brandy until he becomes intoxicated, as Whitford 
 has done to-night, and we say he is drunk instead of 
 exhilarated or a little gay, we do something toward 
 making his conduct odious. We do not excuse, but 
 condemn. We make it disgraceful instead of palli 
 ating the offence." 
 
 The lady paused, when her companion said : 
 
 " Look ! Blanche Birtwell is trying to quiet him. 
 Did you know they were engaged?" 
 
 "What!" 
 
 " Engaged.'' 
 
 10* a 
 
114 Wounded in tlie House of a Friend. 
 
 " Then I pity her from my heart. A young man 
 who hasn't self-control enough to keep himself sobei 
 at an evening party can't be called a very promising 
 subject for a husband." 
 
 " She has placed her arm in his and is looking up 
 into his face so sweetly. What a lovely girl she is ! 
 There ! he's quieter already ; and see, she is drawing 
 him out of the group of young men and talking to 
 him in such a bright, animated way." 
 
 " Poor child ! it makes my eyes wet ; and this is 
 her first humiliating and painful duty toward hei 
 future husband. God pity and strengthen her is 
 my heartfelt prayer. She will have need, I fear, of 
 more than human help and comfort." 
 
 " You take the worst for granted ?" 
 
 The lady drew a deep sigh : 
 
 " I fear the worst, and know something of what 
 the worst means. There are few families of any 
 note in our city," she added, after a slight pause, 
 " in which sorrow has not entered through the door 
 of intemperance. Ah ! is not the name of the evil 
 that comes in through this door Legion? and we 
 throw it wide open and invite both young and old 
 to enter. We draw them by various allurements 
 We make the way of this door broad and smooth 
 and flowery, full of pleasantness and enticement. 
 We hold out our hands, we smile with encourage 
 ment, we step inside of the door to show them the 
 way." 
 
 In her ardor the lady half forgot herself, and 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 115 
 
 stopped suddenly as she observed that two or three 
 of the company who stood near had been listening. 
 
 Meantime, Blanche Birtwell had managed to get 
 VVhitford away from the table, and was trying to 
 induce him to leave the supper-room. She hung on 
 , his arm and talked to him in a light, gay manner, 
 as though wholly unconscious of his condition. 
 They had reached the door leading into the hall, 
 when VVhitford stopped, and drawing back, said : 
 
 " Oh, there's Fred Lovering, my old college friend. 
 I didn't know he was in the city." Then he called 
 out, in a voice so loud as to cause many to turn and 
 look at him, " Fred ! Fred ! Why, how are you, old 
 boy ? This is an unexpected pleasure." 
 
 The young man thus spoken to made his way 
 through the crowd of guests, who were closely 
 packed together in that part of the room, some 
 going in and some trying to get out, and grasping 
 the hand of Whitford, shook it with great cordiality. 
 
 " Miss Birtwell," said the latter, introducing 
 Blanche. " But you know each other, I see." 
 
 " Oh yes, we are old friends. Glad to see you 
 looking so well, Miss Birtwell." 
 
 Blanche bowed with cold politeness, drawing a 
 little back as she did so, and tightening her hold on 
 Whitford's arm. 
 
 Lovering fixed his eyes on the young lady with 
 an admiring glance, gazing into her face so intently 
 that her color heightened. She turned partly away, 
 an expression of annoyance on her countenance, 
 
Ii6 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 drawing more firmly on the arm of her companion 
 as she did so, and taking a step toward the door. 
 But Whitford was no longer passive to her will. 
 
 Any one reading the face of Lovering would have 
 seen a change in its expression, the evidence of 
 some quickly formed purpose, and he would have 
 seen also something more than simple admiration 
 of the beautiful girl leaning on the arm of his friend. 
 His manner toward Whitford became more hearty. 
 
 " My dear old friend," he said, catching up the 
 hand he had dropped and giving it a tighter grip 
 than before, " this is a pleasure. How it brings 
 back our college days ! We must have a glass of 
 wine in memory of the good old times. Come !" 
 
 And he moved toward the table. With an im 
 pulse she could not restrain, Blanche drew back 
 toward the door, pulling strongly on Whitford's 
 arm : 
 
 "Come, Ellis; I am faint with the heat of this 
 room. Take me out, please." 
 
 Whitford looked into her face, and saw that it 
 had grown suddenly pale. If his perceptions had 
 not been obscured by drink, he would have taken 
 her out instantly. But his mind was not clear. 
 
 "Just a moment, until I can get you a glass of 
 wine," he said, turning hastily from her. Lovering was 
 filling three glasses as he reached the table. Seiz 
 ing one of them, he went back quickly to Blanche ; 
 but she waved her hand, saying: " No, no, Ellis; it 
 Isn't wine that I need, only cooler air." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 117 
 
 " Don't be foolish," replied Whitford, with visible 
 impatience. " Take a few sips of wine, and you 
 will feel better." 
 
 Levering, with a glass in each hand, now joined 
 them. He saw the change in Blanche's face, and 
 having already observed the exhilarated condition 
 of Whitford, understood its meaning. Handing the 
 latter one of the glasses, he said : 
 
 " Here's to your good health, Miss Birtwell, and 
 to yours, Ellis," drinking as he spoke. Whitford 
 drained his glass, but Blanche did not so much as 
 wet her lips. Her face had grown paler. 
 
 " If you do not take me out, I must go alone," 
 she said, in a voice that made itself felt. There was 
 in it a quiver of pain and a pulse of indignation. 
 
 Lovering lost nothing of this. As his college 
 friend made his way from the room with Blanche on 
 his arm, he stood for a moment in an attitude of 
 deep thought, then nodded two or three times and 
 said to himself: 
 
 " That's how the land lies. Wine in and wit out, 
 and Blanche troubled about it already. Engaged, 
 they say. All right. But glass is sharp, and love's 
 fetters are made of silk. Will the edge be duller if 
 the glass is filled with wine ? I trow not." 
 
 And a gleam of satisfaction lit up the young man's 
 face. 
 
 With an effort strong and self-controlling for one 
 so young, Blanche Birtwell laid her hand upon her 
 troubled heart as soon as she was out of the supper- 
 
1 1 8 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 room, and tried to still its agitation. The color 
 came back to her cheeks and some of the lost bright 
 ness to her eyes, but she was not long in discover 
 ing that the glass of wine taken with his college 
 friend had proved too much for the already confused 
 brain of her lover, who began talking foolishly and 
 acting in a way that mortified and pained her ex 
 ceedingly. She now sought to get him into the 
 library and out of common observation. Her father 
 had just received from France and England some 
 rare books filled with art illustrations, and she in 
 vited him to their examination. But he was feeling 
 too social for that. 
 
 "Why, no, pet." He made answer with a fond famil 
 iarity he would scarcely have used if they had been 
 alone instead of in a crowded drawing-room, touch 
 ing her cheek playfully with his fingers as he spoke. 
 " Not now. We'll reserve that pleasure for another 
 time. This is good enough for me ;" and he swung 
 his arms around and gave a little whoop like an 
 excited rowdy. 
 
 A deep crimson dyed for a moment the face of 
 Blanche. In a moment afterward it was pale as 
 ashes. Whitford saw the death-like change, and it 
 partially roused him to a sense of his condition. 
 
 " Of course I'll go to the library if your heart's 
 set on it," he said, drawing her arm in his and 
 taking her out of the room with a kind of flourish. 
 Many eyes turned on them. In some was surprise, 
 n some merriment and in some sorrow and pain 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 119 
 
 " Now for the books," he cried as he placed 
 Blanche in a large chair at the library-table. " Where 
 are they ?" 
 
 Self-control has a masterful energy when the de 
 mand for its exercise is imperative. The paleness 
 went out of Blanche's face, and a tender light came 
 into her eyes as she looked up at Whitford and 
 smiled on him with loving glances. 
 
 " Sit down," she said, in a firm, low, gentle voice. 
 
 The young man felt the force of her will and sat 
 down by her side, close to the table, on which a 
 number of books were lying. 
 
 " I want to show you Dore's illustrations of Don 
 Quixote ;" and Blanche opened a large folio volume. 
 
 Whitford had grown more passive. He was having 
 a confused impression that all was not just right 
 with him, and that it was better to be in the library 
 looking over books and pictures with Blanche than 
 in the crowded parlors, where there was so much to 
 excite his gayer feelings. So he gave himself up 
 to the will of his betrothed, and tried to feel an 
 interest in the pictures she seemed to admire so 
 much. 
 
 They had been so engaged for over twenty min 
 utes, Whitford beginning to grow dull and heavy as 
 the exhilaration of wine died out, and less respon 
 sive to the efforts made by Blanche to keep him 
 interested, when Levering came into the library, and 
 seeing them, said, with a spur of banter in his voice : 
 
 "Come, come, this will never do! You're a fine 
 
1 20 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 fellow, Whitford, and I don't wonder that Miss Birt- 
 well tolerates you, but monopoly is not the word 
 to-night. I claim the privilege of a guest and a 
 word or two with our fair hostess." 
 
 And he held out his arm to Blanche, who had 
 lisen from the table. She could do no less than 
 take it. He drew her from the room. As they 
 passed out of the door Blanche cast a look back at 
 Whitford. Those who saw it were struck by its 
 deep concern. 
 
 " Confound his impudence !" ejaculated Ellis Whit 
 ford as he saw Blanche vanish through the library 
 door. Rising from the table he stood with an irres 
 olute air, then went slowly from the apartment and 
 mingled with the company, moving about in an aim 
 less kind of way, until he drifted again into the supper- 
 room, the tables of which the waiters were constantly 
 replenishing, and toward which a stream of guests 
 still flowed. The company here was noisier now than 
 when he left it a short time before. Revelry had 
 taken the place of staid propriety. Glasses clinked 
 like a chime of bells, voices ran up into the higher 
 keys, and the loud musical laugh of girls mingled 
 gaily with the deeper tones of their male compan 
 ions. Young maidens with glasses of sparkling 
 champagne or rich brown and amber sherry in their 
 hands were calling young men and boys to drink 
 with them, and showing a freedom and abandon of 
 manner that marked the degree of their exhilara 
 tion. Wine does not act in one way on the brain 
 
Wounded in ike House of a Friend. 1 2 \ 
 
 of a young man and in another way on the brain of 
 a young woman. Girls of eighteen or twenty will 
 become as wild and free and forgetful of propriety 
 as young men of the same age if you bring them 
 together at a feast and give them wine freely. 
 
 We do not exaggerate the scene in Mr. Birtwell's 
 supper-room, but rather subdue the picture. As 
 Whitford drew nigh the supper-room the sounds of 
 boisterous mirth struck on his ears and stirred him 
 like the rattle of a drum. The heaviness went out of 
 his limbs, his pulse beat more quickly, he felt a new 
 life in his veins. As he passed in his name was called 
 in a gay voice that he did not at first recognize, and 
 at the same moment a handsome young girl with 
 flushed face and sparkling eyes came hastily toward 
 him, and drawing her hand in his arm, said, in a loud 
 familiar tone : 
 
 " You shall be my knight, Sir Ellis." 
 
 And she almost dragged him down the room to 
 where half a dozen girls and young men were hav 
 ing a wordy contest about something. He was in 
 the midst of the group before he really understood 
 who the young lady was that had laid such violent 
 hands upon him. He then recognized her as the 
 daughter of a well-known merchant. He had met 
 her a few times in company, and her bearing toward 
 him had always before been marked by a lady-like 
 dignity and reserve. Now she was altogether an 
 other being, loud, free and familiar almost to rude 
 ness. 
 
 11 
 
r22 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " You must have some wine, Sir Knight, to give 
 you mettle for the conflict," she said, running to the 
 cable and filling a glass, which she handed to him 
 with the air of a Hebe. 
 
 Whitford did not hesitate, but raised the glass to 
 his lips and emptied it at a single draught. 
 
 " Now for knight or dragon, my lady fair. I am 
 yours to do or die," he exclaimed, drawing up his 
 handsome form with a mock dignity, at which a 
 loud cheer broke out from the group of girls and 
 young men that was far more befitting a tavern- 
 saloon than a gentleman's dining-room. 
 
 Louder and noisier this little group became, Whit- 
 ford, under a fresh supply- of wine, leading in the 
 boisterous mirth. One after another, attracted by 
 the gayety and laughter, joined the group, until .it 
 numbered fifteen or twenty half-intoxicated young 
 men and women, who lost themselves in a kind of 
 wild saturnalia. 
 
 It was past twelve o'clock when Mrs. Whitford 
 entered the dining-room, where the noise and laugh 
 ter were almost deafening. Her face was pale, her 
 lips closely compressed and her forehead contracted 
 with pain. She stood looking anxiously through 
 the room until she saw her son leaning against the 
 wall, with a young lady standing in front of him 
 holding a glass in her hand which she was trying to 
 induce him to take. One glance at the face of 
 Ellis told her too plainly his sad condition. 
 
 To go to him and endeavor to get him away Mrs, 
 
Wounded in the Houst of a Friend. 123 
 
 Whitford feared might arouse his latent pride and 
 make him stubborn to her wishes. 
 
 " You see that young man standing against the 
 wall ?" she said to one of the waiters. 
 
 " Mr. Whitford do you mean?" asked the waiter. 
 
 " Yes," she replied. " Go to him quietly, and say 
 that his mother is going home and wants him. Speak 
 low, if you please." 
 
 Mrs. Whitford stood with a throbbing heart as the 
 waiter passed down the room. The tempter was 
 before her son offering the glass of wine, which he 
 yet refused. She saw him start and look discon 
 certed as the waiter spoke to him, then wave the 
 glass of wine aside. But he did not stir from him 
 place. 
 
 The waiter came back to Mrs. Whitford : 
 
 " He says don't wait for him, ma'am." 
 
 The poor mother felt an icy coldness run along 
 her nerves. For some moments she stood irreso 
 lute, and then went back to the parlor. She re 
 mained there for a short time, masking her counte 
 nance as best she could, and then returned to the 
 dining-room, where noise and merriment still pre 
 vailed. She did not at first see her son, though her 
 eyes went quickly from face to face and from form 
 to form. She was about retiring, under the impression 
 that he was not there, when the waiter to whom she 
 had spoken before said to her : 
 
 "Are you looking for Mr. Whitford?" 
 
124 Wounded in the House of a Ft lend. 
 
 There was something in his voice that made hei 
 heart stand still. 
 
 " Yes," she replied. 
 
 "You will find him at the lower end of the room, 
 just in the corner," said the man. 
 
 Mrs. Whitford made her way to the lower end of 
 the room. Ellis was sitting in a chair, stupid and 
 maudlin, and two or three thoughtless girls were 
 around his chair laughing at his drunken efforts to 
 be witty. The shocked mother did not speak to 
 him, but shrunk away and went gliding from the 
 room. At the door she said to the waiter who had 
 followed her out, drawn by a look she gave him : 
 
 " I will be ready to go in five minutes, and I want 
 Mr. Whitford to go with me. Get him down to the 
 door as quietly as you can." 
 
 The waiter went back into the supper-room, and 
 with a tact that came from experience in cases similar 
 to this managed to get the young man away without 
 arousing his opposition. 
 
 Five minutes afterward, as Mrs. Whitford sat in 
 her carriage at the door of Mr. Birtwell's palace 
 home, her son was pushed in, half resisting, by two 
 waiters, so drunk that his wretched mother had to 
 support him with her arm all the way home. Is it 
 any wonder that in her aching heart the mother 
 cried out, "Oh, that he had died a baby on my 
 breast " ? 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AMONG the guests at Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell's 
 was an officer holding a high rank in the army, 
 named Abercrombie. He had married, many years 
 before, a lady of fine accomplishments and rare cul 
 ture who was connected with one of the oldest 
 families in New York. Her grandfather on hei 
 mother's side hud distinguished himself as an officer 
 in the Revolutionary war ; and on her father's side 
 she could count statesmen and lawyers whose names 
 were prominent in the early history of our country. 
 
 General Abercrombie while a young man had 
 fallen into the vice of the army, and had acquired 
 the habit of drinking. 
 
 The effects of alcohol are various. On some they 
 are seen in the bloated flesh and reddened eyes. 
 Others grow pale, and their skin takes on a dead 
 and ashen hue. With some the whole nervous sys 
 tem becomes shattered; while with others organic 
 derangements, gout, rheumatism and kindred evils 
 attend the assimilation of this poison. 
 
 Quite as varied are the moral and mental effects 
 of alcoholic disturbance. Some are mild and weak 
 inebriates, growing passive or stupid in -their cups. 
 Others become excited, talkative and intrusive ; 
 
 11 * 126 
 
126 Wounded in the House of a Frit nd. 
 
 others good-natured and merry; not a few coarse, 
 arbitrary, brutal and unfeeling ; and some jealous, 
 savage and fiend-like. 
 
 Of the last-named class was General Abercrornbie. 
 When sober, a kinder, gentler or more considerate 
 man toward his wife could hardly be found; but 
 when intoxicated, he was half a fiend, and seemed to 
 take a devilish delight in tormenting her. It had 
 been no uncommon thing for him to point a loaded 
 pistol at her heart, and threaten to shoot her dead 
 if she moved or cried out ; to hold a razor at his 
 own throat, or place the keen edge close to hers; 
 to open a window at midnight and threaten to fling 
 himself to the ground, or to drag her across the 
 floor, swearing that they should take the leap to 
 gether. 
 
 For years the wretched wife had borne all this, 
 and worse if possible, hiding her dreadful secret as 
 best she could, and doing all in her power to hold 
 her husband, for whom she retained a strong attach 
 ment, away from temptation. Friends who only 
 half suspected the truth wondered that Time was so 
 aggressive, taking the flash and merriment out of 
 her beautiful eyes, the color and fullness from her 
 cheeks, the smiles from her lips and the glossy 
 blackness from her hair. 
 
 " Mrs. Abercrombie is such a wreck," one would 
 say on meeting her after a few years. " I would 
 hardly have known her ; and she doesn't look at all 
 happy." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 127 
 
 "I wonder if the general drinks as hard as ever?" 
 would in all probability be replied to this remark, 
 followed by the response : 
 
 " I was not aware that he was a hard drinker, 
 He doesn't look like it." 
 
 " No, you would not suspect so much ; but I am 
 sorry to say that he has very little control over his 
 appetite." 
 
 At which a stronger surprise would be expressed. 
 
 General Abercrombie was fifty years old, a large, 
 handsome and agreeable man, and a favorite with 
 his brother officers, who deeply regretted his weak 
 ness. As an officer his drinking habits rarely in 
 terfered with his duty. Somehow the discipline of 
 the army had gained such a power over him as to 
 hold him repressed and subordinate to its influ 
 ence. It was only when official restraints were off 
 that the devil had power to enter in and fully possess 
 him. 
 
 A year before the time of which we are writing 
 General Abercrombie had been ordered to duty in 
 the north-eastern department. His headquarters 
 were in the city where the characters we have intro 
 duced resided. Official standing gave him access to 
 some of the wealthiest and best circles in the city, 
 and his accomplished wife soon became a favorite 
 with all who were fortunate enough to come into 
 close relations with her. Among these was Mrs. 
 Birtwell, the two ladies drawing toward each other 
 with the magnetism of kindred spirits. 
 
128 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 A short time before coming to the city General 
 Abercrombie, after having in a fit of drunken insan 
 ity come near killing his wife, wholly abandoned the 
 use of intoxicants of every kind. He saw in this 
 his only hope. His efforts to drink guardedly and 
 temperately had been fruitless. The guard was off 
 the moment a single glass of liquor passed his lips, 
 and he came under the influence of an aroused appe 
 tite against which resolution set itself feebly and in 
 vain. 
 
 Up to the evening of this party at Mr. Birtwell's 
 General Abercrombie had kept himself free from 
 wine, and people who knew nothing of his history 
 wondered at his abstemiousness. When invited to 
 drink, he declined in a way that left no room for the 
 invitation to be repeated. He never went to pri 
 vate entertainments except in company with his wife, 
 and then he rarely took any other lady to the sup 
 per-room. 
 
 The new hope born in the sad heart of Mrs. Aber 
 crombie had grown stronger as the weeks and months 
 went by. Never for so long a time had the general 
 stood firm. It looked as if he had indeed gained 
 the mastery over an appetite which at one time 
 seemed wholly to have enslaved him. 
 
 With a lighter heart than usual on such occasions, 
 Mrs. Abercrombie made ready for the grand enter 
 tainment, paying more than ordinary attention to 
 her toilette. Something of her old social and per 
 sonal pride came back into life, giving her face and 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 129 
 
 bearing the dignity and prestige worn in happier 
 days. As she entered the drawing-room at Mr. and 
 Mrs. Birtwell's, leaning on her husband's arm, a rip 
 ple of admiration was seen on many faces, and the 
 question, " Who is she ?" was heard on many lips. 
 Mrs. Abercrombie was a centre of attraction that 
 evening, and no husband could have been prouder 
 of such a distinction for his wife than was the gene 
 ral. He, too, found himself an object of interest and 
 attention. Mr. Birtwell was a man who made the 
 most of his guests, and being a genuine parvenu, 
 did not fail through any refinement of good breed 
 ing in advertising to each other the merits or achieve 
 ments of those he favored with introductions. If he 
 presented a man of letters to an eminent banker, he 
 informed each in a word or two of the other's distin 
 guished merits. An officer would be complimented 
 on his rank or public service, a scientist on his last 
 book or essay, a leading politician on his statesman 
 ship. At Mr. Birtwell's you always found yourself 
 among men with more in them than you had sus 
 pected, and felt half ashamed of your ignorance in 
 regard to their great achievements. 
 
 General Abercrombie, like many others that even 
 ing, felt unusually well satisfied with himself. Mr. 
 Birtwell complimented him whenever they happened 
 to meet, sometimes on his public services and some 
 times on the "sensation " that elegant woman .Mrs. 
 Abercrombie was making. He grew in his own 
 estimation under the flattering attentions of his host, 
 
 I 
 
1 30 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 and felt a manlier pride swelling in his heart than 
 he had for some time known. His bearing became 
 more self-poised, his innate sense of strength more 
 apparent. He was a man among men. 
 
 This was the general's state of mind when, after 
 an hour or two of social intercourse, he entered the 
 large supper-room, whither he escorted a lady. He 
 had not seen his wife for half an hour. If she had 
 been, as usual on such occasions, by his side, he 
 would have been on guard. But the lady who 
 leaned on his arm was not his good angel. She was 
 a gay, fashionable woman, and as fond of good eat 
 ing and drinking as any male epicure there. The 
 general was polite and attentive, and as prompt as 
 any younger gallant in the work of supplying his 
 fair companion with the good things she was so 
 ready to appropriate. 
 
 " Will you have a glass of champagne ?" 
 
 Of course she would. Her eyebrows arched a 
 little in surprise at the question. The general filled 
 a glass and placed it in her hand. Did she raise it 
 to her lips ? No ; she held it a little extended, look 
 ing at him with an expression which said, " I will 
 wait for you." 
 
 For an instant General Abercrombie felt as if he 
 were sinking through space. Darkness and fear 
 were upon him. But there was no time for inde 
 cision. The lady stood holding her glass and look 
 ing at him fixedly. An instant and the struggle was 
 over. He turned to the table and filled another 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 131 
 
 glass. A smile and a bow, and then a draught that 
 sent the blood leaping along his veins with a hot 
 and startled impulse. 
 
 Mrs. Abercrombie, who had entered the room a 
 little while before, and was some distance from the 
 place where her husband stood, felt at the moment 
 a sudden chill and weight fall upon her heart. A 
 gentleman who was talking to her saw her face grow 
 pale and a look that seemed like terror come into 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Are you ill, Mrs. Abercrombie ?" he asked, in 
 some alarm. 
 
 " No," she replied. " Only a slight feeling of 
 faintness. It is gone now;" and she tried to recover 
 herself. 
 
 " Shall I take you from the room ?" asked the 
 gentleman, seeing that the color did not come back 
 to her face. 
 
 " Oh no, thank you." 
 
 " Let me give you a glass of wine." 
 
 But she waved her hand with a quick motion, 
 saying, " Not wine; but a little ice water." 
 
 She drank, but the water did not take the white 
 ness from her lips nor restore the color to her 
 cheeks. The look of dread or fear kept in her eyes, 
 and her companion saw her glance up and down the 
 room in a furtive way as if in anxious search for 
 some one 
 
 In a few moments Mrs. Abercrombie was able to 
 lise in some small degree above the strange impres- 
 
132 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 sion which had fallen upon her like the shadow oi 
 some passing evil ; but the rarely flavored dishes, 
 the choice fruits, confections and ices with which she 
 was supplied scarcely passed her lips. She only 
 pretended to eat. Her ease of manner and fine 
 freedom of conversation were gone, and the gentle 
 man who had been fascinated by her wit, intelligence 
 and frank womanly bearing now felt an almost re- 
 pellant coldness. 
 
 " You cannot feel well, Mrs. Abercrombie," he 
 said. " The air is close and hot. Let me take you 
 back to the parlors." 
 
 She did not reply, nor indeed seem to hear him. 
 Her eyes had become suddenly arrested by some 
 object a little way off, and were fixed upon it in a 
 frightened stare. The gentleman turned and saw 
 only her husband in lively conversation with a lady. 
 He had a glass of wine in his hand, and was just 
 raising it to his lips. 
 
 " Jealous !" was the thought that flashed through 
 his mind. The position was embarrassing. What 
 could he say? In the next moment intervening 
 forms hid those of General Abercrombie and his fair 
 companion. Still as a statue, with eyes that seemed 
 staring into vacancy, Mrs. Abercrombie remained for 
 some moments, then she drew her hand within the 
 gentleman's arm and said in a low voice that was 
 little more than a hoarse whisper: 
 
 " Thank you ; yes, I will go back to the par 
 lors." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 133 
 
 They retired from the room without attracting 
 notice. 
 
 41 Can I do anything for you ?" asked the gentle 
 man as he seated her on a sofa in one of the bay- 
 windows where she was partially concealed from 
 observation. 
 
 " No, thank you," she answered, with regaining 
 self-control. She then insisted on being left alone, 
 and with a decision of manner that gave her attend 
 ant no alternative but compliance. 
 
 The gentleman immediately returned to the sup 
 per-room. As he joined the company there he met 
 a friend to whom he said in a half-confidential way : 
 
 " Do you know anything about General Aber- 
 crombie's relations with his wife ?" 
 
 " What do you mean ?" inquired the friend, with 
 evident surprise. 
 
 " I saw something just now that looks very sus 
 picious." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I came here with Mrs. Abercrombie a little while 
 ago, and was engaged in helping her, when I saw her 
 face grow deadly pale. Following her eyes, I ob 
 served them fixed on the general, who was chatting 
 gayly and taking wine with a lady." 
 
 " What ! taking wine did you say ?" 
 
 The gentleman was almost as much surprised at 
 the altered manner of his friend as he had been with 
 that of Mrs. Abercrombie : 
 
 " Yes ; anything strange in that ?" 
 
 12 
 
1 34 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " I ess strange than sad," was replied. " I don't 
 wonder you saw the color go out of Mrs. Abercrom- 
 hie's face." 
 
 " Why so ? What does it mean ?" 
 
 " It means sorrow and heartbreak." 
 
 " You surprise and pain me. I thought of the 
 lady by his side, not of the glass of wine in his 
 hand." 
 
 The two men left the crowded supper-room in 
 order to be more alone. 
 
 " You know something of the general's life and 
 habits ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He has not been intemperate, I hope ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Oh, I am pained to hear you say so." 
 
 " Drink is his besetting sin, the vice that has more 
 than once come near leading to his dismissal from the 
 army. He is one of the men who cannot use wine 
 or spirits in moderation. In consequence of some 
 diseased action of the nutritive organs brought on 
 by drink, he has lost the power of self-control when 
 under the influence of alcoholic stimulation. He is 
 a dypso-maniac. A glass of wine or brandy to him 
 is like the match to a train of powder. I don't won 
 der, knowing what I do about General Abercrombie, 
 that his wife grew deadly pale to-night when she 
 saw him raise a glass to his lips." 
 
 " Has he been abstaining for any length of time ?" 
 
 " Yes ; for many months he has kept himself free. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 135 
 
 I am intimate with an officer who told me all about- 
 him. When not under the influence of drink, the 
 general is one of the kindest-hearted men in the 
 world. To his wife he is tender and indulgent 
 almost to a fault, if that were possible. But liquor 
 seems to put the devil into him. Drink drowns his 
 better nature and changes him into a half-insane 
 fiend. I am told that he came near killing his wife 
 more than once in a drunken phrensy." 
 
 " You pain me beyond measure. Poor lady ! I 
 don't wonder that the life went out of her so sud 
 denly, nor at the terror I saw in her face. Can 
 nothing be done ? Has he no friends here who will 
 draw him out of the supper-room and get him away 
 before he loses control of himself?" 
 
 " It is too late. If he has begun to drink, it is all 
 over. You might as well try to draw off a wolf who 
 has tasted blood." 
 
 " Does he become violent ? Are we going to 
 have a drunken scene ?" 
 
 " Oh no ; we need apprehend nothing of that 
 kind. I never heard of his committing any public 
 folly. The devil that enters into him is not a riot 
 ing, boisterous fiend, but quiet, malignant, suspi 
 cious and cruel." 
 
 "Suspicious? Of what?" 
 
 " Of everybody and everything. His brother offi 
 cers are in league against him ; his wife is regarded 
 with jealousy; your frankest speech covers in his 
 view some hidden and sinister meaning. You must 
 
136 Wounded in the house of a Friend. 
 
 be careful of your attentions to Mrs. Abercrombie 
 to-night, for he will construe them adversely, and 
 pour out his wrath on her defenceless head when 
 they are alone." 
 
 " This is frightful," was answered. " I never heard 
 of such a case." 
 
 " Never heard of a drunken man assaulting his 
 wife when alone with her, beating, maiming or mur 
 dering her?" 
 
 " Oh yes, among the lowest and vilest. But we 
 are speaking now of people in good society people 
 of culture and refinement." 
 
 " Culture and social refinements have no influence 
 over a man when the fever of intoxication is upon 
 him. He is for the time an insane man, and subject 
 to the influx and control of malignant influences. 
 Hell rules him instead of heaven." 
 
 " It is awful to think of. It makes me shudder." 
 
 " We know little of what goes on at home after 
 an entertainment like this," said the other. " It all 
 looks so glad and brilliant. Smiles, laughter, gayety, 
 enjoyment, meet you at every turn. Each one is at 
 his or her best. It is a festival of delight. But you 
 cannot at this day give wine and brandy without 
 stint to one or two or three hundred men and 
 women of all ages, habits, temperaments and heredi 
 tary moral and physical conditions without the pro 
 duction of many evil consequences. It matters 
 little what the social condition may be; the hurt of 
 drink is the same. The sphere of respectability 
 
Wounded i.*t the House of a Friend. 137 
 
 may and does guard many. Culture and pride of 
 position hold others free from undue sensual in 
 dulgence. But with the larger number the entice 
 ments of appetite are as strong and enslaving in one 
 grade* of society as in another, and the disturbance 
 of normal conditions as great. And so you see 
 that the wife of an intoxicated army officer or law 
 yer or banker may be in as much danger from his 
 drunken and insane fury, when alone with him and 
 unprotected, as the wife of a street-sweeper or hod- 
 carrier." 
 
 " I have never thought of it in that way." 
 
 " No, perhaps not. Cases of wife-beating and 
 personal injuries, of savage and frightful assaults, of 
 terrors and sufferings endured among the refined 
 and educated, rarely if ever come to public notice. 
 Family pride, personal delicacy and many other 
 considerations seal the lips in silence. But there arc 
 few social circles in which it is not known that some 
 of its members are sad sufferers because of a hus 
 band's or a father's intemperance, and there are many, 
 many fimilies, alas ! which have always in their 
 homes the shadow of a sorrow that embitters every 
 thing. They hide it as best they can, and few know 
 or dream of what they endure." 
 
 Dr. Angier joined the two men at this moment, 
 and heard the last remark. The speaker added, ad 
 dressing him : 
 
 " Your professional experience will corroborate 
 this, Dr. Angier." 
 12* 
 
138 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " Corroborate what ?" he asked, with a slight aj> 
 pearance of evasion in his manner. 
 
 " We were speaking of the effects of intemperance 
 on the more cultivated and refined classes, and I 
 said that it mattered little as to the social condition ; 
 the hurt of drink was the same and the disturbance 
 of normal conditions as great in one class of society 
 as in another, that a confirmed inebriate, when under 
 the influence of intoxicants, lost all idea of respect 
 ability or moral responsibility, and would act out his 
 insane passion, whether he were a lawyer, an army 
 officer or a hod-carrier. In other words, that social 
 position gave the wife of an inebriate no immunity 
 from personal violence when alone with her drunken 
 husband." 
 
 Dr. Angier did not reply, but his face became 
 thoughtful. 
 
 " Have you given much attention to the pathol 
 ogy of drunkenness ?" asked one of the gentlemen. 
 
 " Some ; not a great deal. The subject is one of 
 the most perplexing and difficult we have to deal 
 with." 
 
 " You class intemperance with diseases, do you 
 not ?" 
 
 " Yes ; certain forms of it. It may be hereditary 
 or acquired like, any other disease. One man may 
 have a pulmonary, another a bilious and another a 
 dypso-maniac diathesis, and an exposure to exciting 
 causes in one case is as fatal to health as in the 
 other. If there exist a predisposition to consump- 
 
IVctindcd in the House of a Friend. 139 
 
 tion, the disease will be developed under peculiar 
 morbific influences which would have no deleterious 
 effect upon a subject not so predisposed. The same 
 law operates as unerringly in the inherited predispo 
 sition to intemperance. Let the man with a dypso- 
 maniac diathesis indulge in the use of intoxicating 
 liquors, and he will surely become a drunkard. 
 There is no more immunity for him than for the 
 man who with tubercles in his lungs exposes him 
 self to cold, bad air and enervating bodily condi 
 tions." 
 
 " A more serious view of the case, doctor, than is 
 usually taken." 
 
 " I know, but a moment's consideration to say 
 nothing of observed facts will satisfy any reason 
 able man of its truth." 
 
 " What do you mean by dypso-mania as a medi 
 cal term ?" 
 
 " The word," replied Dr. Angier, " means crazy 
 for drink, and is used in the profession to designate 
 that condition of alcoholic disease in which the sub 
 ject when under its influence has no power of self- 
 control. It is characterized by an inordinate and 
 irresistible desire for alcoholic liquors, varying in 
 intensity from a slight departure from a normal ap 
 petite to the most depraved and entire abandonment 
 to its influence. When this disease becomes devel 
 oped, its action upon the brain is to deteriorate its 
 quality and impair its functions. All the faculties 
 become more or less weakened. Reason, judgment, 
 
140 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 perception, memory and understanding lose theil 
 vigor and capacity. The will becomes powerless 
 before the strong propensity to drink. The moral 
 sentiments and affections likewise become involved 
 in the general impairment. Conscience, the feeling 
 of accountability, the sense of right and wrong, all 
 become deadened, while the passions are aroused 
 and excited." 
 
 " What an awful disease !" exclaimed one of the 
 listeners. 
 
 " You may well call it an awful disease," returned 
 the doctor, who, under the influence of a few glasses 
 of wine, was more inclined to talk than usual. " It 
 has been named the mother of diseases. Its death- 
 roll far outnumbers that of any other. When it has 
 fairly seized upon a man, no influence seems able 
 to hold him back from the indulgence of his passion 
 for drink. To gratify this desire he will disregard 
 every consideration affecting his standing in society, 
 his pecuniary interests and his domestic relations, 
 while the most frightful instances of the results of 
 drinking have no power to restrain him. A hundred 
 deaths from this cause, occurring under the most 
 painful and revolting circumstances, fail to impress 
 him with a sense of his own danger. His under 
 standing will be clear as to the cases before him, and 
 he will even condemn the self-destructive acts which 
 he sees in others, but will pass, as it were, over the 
 very bodies of these victims, without a thought of 
 warning or a sense of fear, in order to gratify his 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 141 
 
 own ungovernable propensity. Such is the power 
 of this terrible malady." 
 
 " Has the profession found a remedy ?" 
 
 " No ; the profession is almost wholly at fault in 
 its treatment. There are specialists connected with 
 insane and reformatory institutions who have given 
 much attention to the subject, but as yet we have no 
 recorded line of treatment that guarantees a cure." 
 
 " Except/' said one of his listeners, " the remedy 
 of entire abstinence from drinks in which alcohol is 
 present." 
 
 The doctor gave a shrug : 
 
 " You do not cure a thirsty man by withholding 
 water." 
 
 His mind was a little clouded by the wine he had 
 taken. 
 
 " The thirsty mail's desire for water is healthy ; 
 and if you withhold it, you create a disease that will 
 destroy him," was answered. " Not so the crav 
 ing for alcohol. With every new supply the craving 
 is increased, and the man becomes more and more 
 helpless in the folds of an enslaving appetite. Is it 
 not true, doctor, that with few exceptions all who 
 have engaged in treating inebriates agree that only 
 in entire abstinence is cure possible ?" 
 
 " Well, yes ; you are probably right there," Dr. 
 Angier returned, with some professional reserve. 
 " In the most cases isolation and abstinence are no 
 doubt the only remedies, or, to speak more cor 
 rectly, the only palliatives. As for cure, I am one 
 
142 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 of the skeptics. If you have the diathesis, you have 
 the danger of exposure always, as in consumption." 
 
 " An occasion like this," remarked the other, " \* 
 to one with a dypso- maniac diathesis like a draft of 
 cold, damp air on the exposed chest of a delicate 
 girl who has the seeds of consumption in her lungs. 
 Is it not so, doctor?" 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " There are over three hundred persons here to 
 night." 
 
 " Not less." 
 
 " In so large a company, taking society as we have 
 it to-day, is it likely that we have none here with 3 
 hereditary or acquired love of drink ?" 
 
 11 Scarcely possible," replied Dr. Angier. 
 
 " How large do you think the percentage?" 
 
 " I have no means of knowing ; but if we are tc 
 judge by the large army of drunkards in the land, 
 it must be fearfully great." 
 
 " Then we cannot invite to our houses fifty or a 
 hundred guests, and give them as much wine and 
 spirits as they care to drink, without serious-ly hurt 
 ing some of them. I say nothing of the effect upon 
 unvitiated tastes ; I refer only to those with diseased 
 appetites who may happen to be present." 
 
 " It will be bad for them, certainly. Such people 
 should stay at home." 
 
 And saying this, Dr. Angier turned from the two 
 gentlemen to speak with a professional friend who 
 came toward him at the moment. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " *THHE doctor likes his glass of \vine," remarked 
 A one of the gentlemen as Dr. Angier left 
 them. 
 
 " Is that so ?" 
 
 " Didn't you observe his heightened color and 
 the gleam in his eyes ?" 
 
 " I noticed something unusual in his manner, but 
 did not think it the effect of wine." 
 
 " He is a reticent man, with considerable of what 
 may be called professional dignity, and doesn't often 
 let himself down to laymen as he did just now." 
 
 " There wasn't much letting down, that I could 
 see." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but professional pride is reserved 
 and sensitive in some persons. It hasn't much re 
 spect for the opinions of non-experts, and is chary 
 of discussion with laymen. Dr. Angier is weak, or 
 peculiar if you please, in this direction. I saw that 
 he was annoyed at your reply to his remark that 
 you do not cure a thirsty man by withholding water. 
 It was a little thing, but it showed his animus. The 
 argument was against him, and it hurt his pride. 
 As I said, he likes his glass of wine, and if he does 
 
 US 
 
1 44 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 not take care will come to like it too well. A doctor 
 has no more immunity from dypso-mania than his 
 patient. The former may inherit or acquire the 
 disease as well as the latter." 
 
 " How does the doctor know that he has not from 
 some ancestor this fatal diathesis ? Children rarely 
 if ever betray to their children a knowledge of the 
 vices or crimes of their parents. The death by con 
 sumption, cancer or fever is a part of oral family 
 history, but not so the death from intemperance. 
 Over that is drawn a veil of silence and secresy, and 
 the children and grandchildren rarely if ever know 
 anything about it. There may be in their blood the 
 taint of a disease far more terrible than cancer or 
 consumption, and none to give them warning of the 
 conditions under which its development is certain." 
 
 " Is it not strange," was replied, " that, knowing as 
 Dr. Angier certainly does, from what he said just 
 now, that in all classes of society there is a large 
 number who have in their physical constitutions the 
 seeds of this dreadful disease that, as I have said, 
 knowing this, he should so frequently prescribe wine 
 and whisky to his patients ?" 
 
 " It is a little surprising. I have noticed, now that 
 you speak of it, his habit in this respect." 
 
 " He might as well, on his own theory, prescribe 
 thin clothing and damp air to one whose father or 
 mother had died of consumption as alcoholic stimu 
 lants to one who has the taint of dypso-mania in his 
 blood. In one case as in the other the disease will 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 145 
 
 almost surely be developed. This is common sense, 
 and something that can be understood by all men." 
 
 " And yet, strange to say, the very men who have 
 in charge the public health, the very men whose 
 business it is to study the relations between cause 
 and effect in diseases, are the men who in far too 
 many instances are making the worst possible pre 
 scriptions for patients in whom even the slightest 
 tendency to inebriety may exist hereditarily. We 
 have, to speak plainly, too many whisky doctors, 
 and the harm they are doing is beyond calculation. 
 A physician takes upon himself a great responsibil 
 ity when, without any knowledge of the antecedents 
 of a patient or the stock from which he may have 
 come, he prescribes whisky or wine or brandy as a 
 stimulant. I believe thousands of drunkards have 
 been made by these unwise prescriptions, against 
 which I am glad to know some of the most emi 
 nent men in the profession, both in this country and 
 Europe, have entered a solemn protest." 
 
 " There is one thing in connection with the dis 
 ease of intemperance," replied the other, "that is 
 very remarkable. It is the only one from which 
 society does not protect itself by quarantine and 
 sanitary restrictions. In cholera, yellow fever and 
 small-pox every effort is made to guard healthy dis 
 tricts from their invasion, and the man who for gain 
 or any other consideration should be detected in the 
 work of introducing infecting agents would be exe 
 crated and punished. But society has another way 
 is K 
 
146 Wounded in the Hjuse of a Friend. 
 
 of dealing with the men who are engaged in spread 
 ing the disease of intemperance among the people. 
 It enacts laws for their protection, and gives them 
 the largest liberty to get gain in their work of dis 
 seminating disease and death, and, what is still more 
 remarkable, actually sells for money the r ght to do 
 this." 
 
 " You put the case sharply." 
 
 " Too sharply ?" 
 
 " Perhaps not. No good ever comes of calling 
 evil things by dainty names or veiling hard truth 
 under mild and conservative phrases. In granting 
 men a license to dispense alcohol in every variety of 
 enticing forms and in a community where a large 
 percentage of the people have a predisposition to 
 intemperance, consequent as well on hereditary 
 taint as unhealthy social conditions, society com 
 mits itself to a disastrous error the fruit of which is 
 bitterer to the taste than the ashen core of Dead 
 Sea apples." 
 
 "What about Dead Sea apples?" asked Mr. 
 Elliott, who came up at the moment and heard the 
 last remark. The two gentlemen were pew-holders 
 in his church. Mr. Elliott's countenance was radiant. 
 All his fine social feelings were active, and he HMS 
 enjoying a "flow of soul," if not "a feast of rea 
 son." Wine was making glad his heart not excess 
 of wine, in the ordinary sense, for Mr. Elliott had 
 no morbid desire for stimulants. He was of the 
 lumber who could take a social glass and not fee 1 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 147 
 
 a. craving for more. He believed in wine as a good 
 thing, only condemning its abuse. 
 
 " What were you saying about Dead Sea apples ?" 
 Mr. Elliott repeated his question. 
 
 " We were speaking of intemperance," replied one 
 of the gentlemen. 
 
 " O h !" in a prolonged and slightly indifferent 
 tone. Mr. Elliott's countenance lost some of its 
 radiance. "And what were you saying about it?" 
 
 Common politeness required as much as this, 
 even though the subject was felt to be out of place. 
 
 " We were talking with Dr. Angier just now about 
 hereditary drunkenness, or rather the inherited pre 
 disposition to that vice disease, as the doctor calls it. 
 This predisposition he says exists in a large number 
 of persons, and is as well defined pathologically, 
 and as certain to become active under favoring causes, 
 as any other disease. Alcoholic stimulants are its 
 exciting causes. Let, said the doctor, a man so pre 
 disposed indulge in the use of intoxicating liquors, 
 and he will surely become a drunkard. There is no 
 more immunity for him, he added, than for the man 
 who with tubercles in his lungs exposes himself to 
 cold, bad air and enervating bodily condition^. 
 Now, is not this a very serious view to take of tfye 
 matter ?" 
 
 " Certainly it is," replied Mr. Elliott. " Intemper 
 ance is a sad thing, and a most fearful curse." 
 
 He did not look comfortable. It was to him an 
 untimely intrusion of an unpleasant theme, " But 
 
148 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 what in the world set the doctor off on this sub 
 ject?" he asked, trying to make a diversion. 
 
 " Occasions are apt to suggest subjects for conver 
 sation," answered the gentleman. " One cannot be 
 present at a large social entertainment like this with 
 out seeing some things that awaken doubts and 
 questionings. If it be true, as Dr. Angier says, that 
 the disease of intemperance is as surely transmitted, 
 potentially, as the disease of consumption, and will 
 become active under favoring circumstances, then a 
 drinking festival cannot be given without fearful risk 
 to some of the invited guests." 
 
 " There is always danger of exciting disease 
 where a predisposition exists," replied Mr. Elliott. 
 " A man can hardly be expected to make himself 
 acquainted with the pathology of his guests before 
 inviting them to a feast. If that is to be the rule, 
 the delicate young lady with the seeds of consump 
 tion in her system must be left at home for fear she 
 may come with bare arms and a low-necked dress, 
 and expose herself after being heated with dancing 
 to the draught of an open window. The bilious and 
 dyspeptic must be omitted also, lest by imprudent 
 eating and drinking they make themselves sick. 
 We cannot regulate these things. The best we can 
 do is to warn and admonish. Every individual is 
 responsible for his own moral character, habits and 
 life. Because some may become the slaves of appe 
 tite, shall restraint and limitation be placed on those 
 who make no abuse of liberty? We must teach 
 
Wou-k ded in the House of a Friend. 149 
 
 men self-control and self-mastery, if we would truly 
 help and save them. There is some exaggeration, 
 in my opinion, about this disease-theory of intem 
 perance. The deductions of one-idea men are not 
 always to be trusted. They are apt to draw large 
 conclusions from small facts. Man is born a free 
 agent, and all men have power, if they will, to hold 
 their appetites in check. This truth should be 
 strongly impressed upon every one. Your disease- 
 theory takes away moral responsibility. It assumes 
 that a man is no more accountable for getting drunk 
 than for getting the consumption. His diathesis 
 excuses him as much in one case as in the other. 
 Now, I don't believe a word of this. I do not class 
 appetites, however inordinate, with physical diseases 
 over which the will has no control. A man must 
 control his appetite. Reason and conscience require 
 this, and God gives to every one the mastery of 
 himself if he will but use his high prerogative." 
 
 Mr. Elliott spoke a little loftily, and in a voice 
 that expressed a settlement of the argument. But 
 one at least of his listeners was feeling too strongly 
 on the subject to let the argument close. 
 
 "What," he asked, "if a young man who did not, 
 because he could not, know that he had dypso- 
 mania in his blood were enticed to drink often at 
 parties where wine is freely dispensed ? Would he 
 not be taken, so to speak, unawares ? Would he be 
 any more responsible for acts that quickened into 
 .ife an over-mastering appetite than the young girl 
 
 13 
 
150 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 who, not knowing that she had in her lungs the 
 seeds of a fatal disease, should expose herself to 
 atmospheric changes that were regarded by her com 
 panions as harmless, but which to her were fraught 
 with peril?" 
 
 " In both cases," replied Mr. Elliott, " the respon 
 sibility to care for the health would come the mo 
 ment it was found to be in danger." 
 
 " The discovery of danger may come, alas ! too 
 late for responsible action. We know that it does 
 in most cases with the consumptive, and quite as 
 often, I fear, with the dypso-maniac." 
 
 As the gentleman was closing the last sentence he 
 observed a change pass over the face of Mr. Elliott, 
 who was looking across the room. Following the 
 direction of his eyes, he saw General Abercrombie 
 in the act of offering his arm to Mrs. Abercrombie. 
 It was evident, from the expression of his counte 
 nance and that of the countenances of all who were 
 near him, that something had gone wrong. The 
 general's face was angry and excited. His eyes 
 had a fierce restlessness in them, and glanced from 
 his wife to a gentleman who stood confronting him 
 and then back to her in a strange and menacing 
 way. 
 
 Mrs. Abercrombie's face was deadly pale. She 
 said a few words hurriedly to her husband, and then 
 drew him from the parlor. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" asked Mr. Elliott, crossing 
 over and speaking to the gentleman against whom 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 151 
 
 the anger of General Abercrombie had seemed to 
 be directed. 
 
 " Heaven knows," was answered, " unless he's 
 jealous of his wife." 
 
 " Very strange conduct," said one. 
 
 " Been drinking too much," remarked another. 
 
 " What did he do ?" inquired a third. 
 
 " Didn't you see it ? Mr. Ertsen was promenad 
 ing with Mrs. Abercrombie, when the general swept 
 down upon them as fierce as a lion and took the 
 lady from his arm." 
 
 This was exaggeration. The thing was done more 
 quietly, but still with enough of anger and menace to 
 create something more than a ripple on the surface. 
 
 A little while afterward the general and Mrs. Aber 
 crombie were seen coming down stairs and going 
 along the hall. His face was rigid and stern. He 
 looked neither to the right nor the left, but with eyes 
 set forward made his way toward the street door. 
 Those who got a glimpse of Mrs. Abercrombie as 
 she glided past saw a face that haunted them a long 
 time afterward. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AS General and Mrs. Abercrombie reached the 
 vestibule, and the door shut behind them, the 
 latter, seeing that her husband was going out into 
 the storm, which was now at it, height, drew back, 
 asking at the same time if their carriage had been 
 called. 
 
 The only answer made by General Abercrombie 
 was a fiercely-uttered imprecation. Seizing at the 
 same time the arm she had dropped from his, he 
 drew her out of the vestibule and down the snow- 
 covered step with a sudden violence that threw her 
 to the ground. As he dragged her up he cursed her 
 again in a cruel undertone, and then, grasping her 
 arm, moved off in the very teeth of the blinding 
 tempest, going so swiftly that she could not keep 
 pace with him. Before they had gone a dozen steps 
 she fell again. 
 
 Struggling to her feet, helped up by the strong grasp 
 of the madman whose hand was upon her arm, Mrs. 
 Abercrombie tried to rally her bewildered thoughts. 
 She knew that her life was in danger, but she knew 
 also that much, if not everything, depended on her 
 own conduct. The very extremity of her periJ 
 
 152 
 
Wounded in the Rouse of a Friend. 153 
 
 calmed her thoughts and gave them clearness an<? 
 decision. Plunging forward as soon as his wife 
 could recover herself again, General Abercrombie 
 strode away with a speed that made it almost im 
 possible for her to move on without falling, espe 
 cially as the snow was lying deep and unbroken on 
 the pavement, and her long dress, which she had not 
 taken time to loop up before starting, dragged about 
 her feet and impeded her steps. They had not 
 gone half a block before she fell again. A wild 
 beast could hardly have growled more savagely 
 than did this insane man as he caught her up from 
 the bed of snow into which she had fallen and shook 
 her with fierce passion. A large, strong man, with 
 an influx of demoniac strength in every muscle, his 
 wife was little more than a child in his hands. He 
 could have crushed the life out of her at a single 
 grip. 
 
 Not a word or sound came from Mrs. Abercrombie 
 The snow that covered the earth was scarcely whiter 
 than her rigid face. Her eyes, as the light of a 
 flickering gas-lamp shone into them, hardly reflected 
 back its gleam, so leaden was their despair. 
 
 He shook her fiercely, the tightening grasp on her 
 arms bruising the tender flesh, cursed her, and then, 
 in a blind fury, cast her from him almost into the 
 middle of the street, where she lay motionless, half 
 buried in the snow. For some moments he stood 
 looking at the prostrate form of his wife, on which 
 the snow sifted rapidly down, making the dark gar- 
 
154 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 ments white in so short a space of time that she 
 seemed to fade from his view. It was this, perhaps, 
 that wrought a sudden change in his feelings, for 
 he sprang toward her, and taking her up in his 
 arms, called her name anxiously. She did not reply 
 by word or sign. He carried her back to the pave 
 ment and turned her face to the lamp ; it was white 
 and still, the eyes closed, the mouth shut rigidly. 
 
 But Mrs. Abercrombie was not unconscious. 
 Every sense was awake. 
 
 " Edith ! Edith !" her husband cried. His tones, 
 anxious at first, now betrayed alarm. A carriage 
 went by at the moment. He called to the driver, 
 but was unheard or unheeded. Up and down the 
 street, the air of which was so filled with snow that 
 he could see only a short distance, he looked in 
 vain for the form of a policeman or citizen. He was 
 alone in the street at midnight, blocks away from 
 his residence, a fierce storm raging in the air, the 
 cold intense, and his wife apparently insensible in 
 his arms. If anything could free his brain from its 
 illusions, cause enough was here. He shouted aloud 
 for help, but there came no answer on the wild 
 careering winds. Another carnage went by, moving 
 in ghostly silence, but his call to the driver was 
 unheeded, as before. 
 
 Feeling the chill of the intensely cold air going 
 deeper and deeper, and conscious of the helpless 
 ness of their situation unless she used the strength 
 that yet remained, Mrs. Abercrombie showed symp- 
 
Wounded in the House of a Pritnd. 155 
 
 toms of returning life and power of action. Per 
 ceiving this, the general drew an arm around her 
 for support and made a motion to go on again, to 
 which she responded by moving forward, but with 
 slow and not very steady steps. Soon, however, 
 she walked more firmly, and began pressing on with 
 a haste that ill accorded with the apparent condition 
 out of which she had come only a few moments 
 before 
 
 The insane are often singularly quick in percep 
 tion, and General Abercrombie was for the time 
 being as much insane as any patient of an asylum. 
 It flashed into his mind that his wife had been 
 deceiving him, had been pretending a faint, when she 
 was as strong of limb and clear of intellect as when 
 they left Mr. Birtwell's. At this thought the half- 
 expelled devil that had been controlling him leaped 
 back into his heart, filling it again with evil passions. 
 But the wind was driving the fine, sand-like, sharp- 
 cutting snow into his face with such force and 
 volume as to half suffocate and bewilder him. 
 Turning at this moment a corner of the street that 
 brought him into the clear sweep of the storm, the 
 wind struck him with a force that seemed given by 
 a human hand, and threw him staggering against 
 his wife, both falling. 
 
 Struggling to his feet, General Abercrombie cursed 
 his wife as he jerked her from the ground with a 
 sudden force that came near dislocating her arm. 
 She gave no word of remonstrance nor cry of pain 
 
156 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 or fear, but did all in her power to keep up with her 
 husband as he drove on again with mad precipi 
 tation. 
 
 How they got home Mrs. Abercrombie hardly 
 knew, but home they were at last and in their own 
 room, the door closed and locked and the key with 
 drawn by her husband, out of whose manner all the 
 wild passion had gone. His movements were quiet 
 and his voice when he spoke low, but his wife knew 
 by the gleam of his restless eyes that thought and 
 purpose were active. 
 
 Their room was in the third story of a large board 
 ing-house in a fashionable part of the city. The 
 outlook was upon the street. The house was dou 
 ble, a wide hall running through the centre. There 
 were four or five large rooms on this floor, all occu 
 pied. In the one adjoining theirs were a lady and 
 gentleman who had been at Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell's 
 party, and who drove up in a carriage just as the 
 general and Mrs. Abercrombie, white with snow, 
 came to the door. They entered together, the lady 
 expressing surprise at their appearance, at which the 
 general growled some incoherent sentences and 
 strode away from them and up the stairs, Mrs. Aber 
 crombie following close after him. 
 
 " There's something wrong, I'm afraid," said the 
 gentleman, whose name was Craig, as he and his wife 
 gained their own room. "They went in a carriage, 
 I know. What can it mean ?" 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friena. 157 
 
 " I hope the general has not been drinking too 
 much," remarked the wife. 
 
 "I'm afraid he has. He used to be very intem 
 perate, I've heard, but reformed a year or two ago. 
 A man with any weakness in this direction would 
 be in danger at an entertainment such as Mr. and 
 Mrs. Birtwell gave to-night." 
 
 " I saw the general taking wine with a lady," said 
 Mrs. Craig. 
 
 " If he took one glass, he would hardly set that as 
 a limit. It were much easier to abstain altogether; 
 and we know that if a man over whom drink has 
 once gained the mastery ventures upon the smallest 
 indulgence of his appetite he is almost sure to give 
 way and to fall again. It's a strange thing, and sad 
 as strange." 
 
 " Hark !" 
 
 Mr. Craig turned quickly toward the door which 
 when opened made a communication between their 
 apartment and that of General and Mrs. Abercrom- 
 bie. It was shut, and fastened on both sides, so that 
 it could not be opened by the occupants of either 
 room. 
 
 A low but quickly-stifled cry had struck on the 
 ears of Mr. and Mrs. Craig. They looked at each 
 other with questioning glances for several moments, 
 listening intently, but the cry was not repeated. 
 
 " I don't like that," said Mr. Craig. He spoke 
 with concern. 
 
 " What can it mean ?" asktd his wife. 
 
 14 
 
158 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " Heaven knows !" he replied. 
 
 They sat silent and listening. A sharp click, 
 which the ear of Mr. Craig detected as the souna 
 made by the cocking of a pistol, struck upon the 
 still air. He sprang to his feet and took a step or 
 two toward the door leading into the hall, but his 
 wife caught his arm and clung to it tightly. 
 
 " No, no ! Wait ! wait !" she cried, in a deep whis 
 per, while her face grew ashen pale. For some mo 
 ments they stood with repressed breathing, every 
 instant expecting to hear the loud report of a pistol. 
 But the deep silence remained unbroken for nearly 
 a minute ; then a dull movement of feet was heard 
 in the room, and the opening and shutting of a 
 drawer. 
 
 " No, general, you will not do that," they heard 
 Mrs. Abercrombie say, in a low, steady tone in 
 which fear struggled with tenderness. 
 
 " Why will I not do it ?" was sternly demanded. 
 They were standing near the door, so that their 
 voices could be heard distinctly in the next room. 
 
 " Because you love me too well," was the sweet, 
 quiet answer. The voice of Mrs. Abercrombie did 
 not betray a single tremor. 
 
 All was hushed again. Then came another move 
 ment in the room, and the sound of a closing drawer. 
 
 Mi. and Mrs. Craig were beginning to breathe 
 more freely, when the noise as of some one spring 
 ing suddenly upon another was heard, followed by 
 a struggle and a choking cry. It continued so long 
 
Wound td in tlie House of a Friend. 159 
 
 that Mr. Craig raft out into the hall and knocked at 
 
 the door of General Abercrombie's room. As he 
 
 \\ 
 
 did so the noise of struggling ceased, and all grevy 
 still. The door was not opened to his sumrnops^ 
 and after waiting for a little while he went back to 
 his own room. 
 
 " This is dreadful," he said. " What can. it; mean ? 
 The general must be insane from drink. Something 
 will have to be done. He may be strangling his 
 poor wife at this very moment. I cannot bear it 
 I must break open the door." 
 
 Mr. Craig started toward the hall, but his wife 
 seized hold of him and held, him back. 
 
 " No, no, no !" she cried, in a low voice. " Let 
 them alone. It may be her only chance of safety. 
 Hark !" 
 
 The silence in General Abercrombie's room was 
 again broken. A man's firm tread was on the floor 
 and it could be heard passing clear across the apart;- 
 ment, then returning and then, going from side to 
 side. At lengln the sound of mpving furniture was 
 heard. It was as if a person were lifting a heavy 
 wardrobe or bureau, ancj getting it with some diffi 
 culty from one part of the room to the other. 
 
 " What can he be dqing ?/' questioned Mrs. Craig, 
 with great alarm. 
 
 " He is going to barricade the door, most likely," 
 replied her husband. 
 
 " Barricade the door? What for? Good heavens, 
 Mr. Craig ! He may have killed his wife. She may 
 
1 60 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 be lying in there dead at this very moment. Oh, it 
 is fearful ! Can nothing be done?" 
 
 " Nothing, that 1 know of, except to break into 
 the room." 
 
 " Hadn't you better rouse some of the boarders, 
 or call a waiter and send for the police ?" 
 
 The voice of Mrs. Abercrombie was heard at this 
 moment. It was calm and clear. 
 
 " Let me help you, general," she said. 
 
 The noise of moving furniture became instantly 
 still. It seemed as it the madman had turned in sur 
 prise from his work and stood confronting his wife, 
 but whether in wrath or not it was impossible to 
 conjecture. They might hear her fall to the floor, 
 stricken down by her husband, or cry out in mortal 
 agony at any moment. The suspense was dreadful. 
 
 " Do it ! I am ready." 
 
 It was Mrs. Abercrombie speaking again, and in a 
 calm, even voice. They heard once more, and with 
 curdling blood, the sharp click of a pistol-lock as 
 the hammer was drawn back. They held their 
 breaths in horror and suspense, not moving lest 
 even the slightest sound they made should precipi 
 tate the impending tragedy. 
 
 *' I have been a good and true wife to you always, 
 and I shall remain so even unto death." 
 
 The deep pathos of her quiet voice brought tears 
 to the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Craig. 
 
 " If you are tired of me, T am ready to go. Look 
 into my eyes. You see that 1 am not afraid." 
 
" I have been a good and true wife to you always, and shall 
 
 oemain so even unto death." 
 
 PAGE 160. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. i6l 
 
 It was still as death again. The clear, tender eyes 
 that looked so steadily into those of General Aber- 
 crombie held him like a spell, and made his fingers 
 so nerveless that they could not respond to the 
 passion of the murderous fiend that possessed him. 
 That was why the scared listeners did not hear the 
 deadly report of the pistol he was holding within a 
 few inches of his wife's head. 
 
 " Let me put it away. It isn't a nice thing to 
 have in a lady's chamber. You know I can't bear 
 the sight of a pistol, and you love me too well to 
 give me the smallest pain or uneasiness. That's a 
 dear, good husband." 
 
 They could almost see Mrs. Abercrombie take 
 the deadly weapon from the general's hand. They 
 heard her dress trailing across the room, and heard 
 her open and shut and then lock a drawer. For 
 some time afterward they could hear the low sound 
 of voices, then all became silent again. 
 
 " Give me that pistol !" startled them not long 
 afterward in a sudden wild outbreak of frenzied 
 passion. 
 
 "What do you want with it?" they heard Mrs. 
 Abercrombie ask. There was no sign of alarm in 
 her tones. 
 
 " Give me that pistol, I say !" The general's voice 
 was angry and imperious. " How dared you take 
 it out of my hand !" 
 
 " Oh, I thought you wished it put away because 
 the sight of a pistol is unpleasant to me." 
 
 14 *4 
 
1 62 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 And they heard the dress trailing across the room 
 again. 
 
 " Stop !" cried the general, in a commanding tone. 
 
 "Just as you please, general. You can have the 
 pistol if you want it," answered Mrs. Abercrombie, 
 without the smallest tremor in her voice. " Shall I 
 get it for you ?" 
 
 " No !" He flung the word out angrily, giving it 
 emphasis by an imprecation. Then followed a growl 
 as if from an ill-natured beast, and they could hear 
 his heavy tread across the floor. 
 
 44 Oh, general !" came suddenly from the lips of 
 Mrs. Abercrombie, in a surprised, frightened tone. 
 Then followed the sound of a repressed struggle, 
 of an effort to get free without making a noise or 
 outcry, which continued for a considerable time, 
 accompanied by a low muttering and panting as of 
 a man in some desperate effort. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Craig stood with pale faces, irreso 
 lute and powerless to help, whatever might be the 
 extremity of their neighbor. To attempt a forcible 
 entry into the room was a doubtful expedient, and 
 might be attended with instant fatal consequences. 
 The muttering and panting ceased at length, and so 
 did all signs of struggling and resistance. The mad 
 man had wrought his will, whatever that might be. 
 Breathlessly they listened, but not a sound broke 
 the deep silence. Minutes passed, but the stillness 
 reigned. 
 
 " He may have killed her," whispered Mrs. Craig, 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 163 
 
 with white lips. Her husband pressed his ear closer) 
 to the door. 
 
 " Do you hear anything ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What?* 
 
 They spoke in a low whisper. 
 
 " Put your ear against the door." 
 
 Mrs. Craig did so, and after a moment or two 
 could hear a faint movement, as of something being 
 pulled across the carpet. The sound was intermit 
 tent, now being very distinct and now ceasing alto 
 gether. The direction of the movement was toward 
 that part of the room occupied by the bed. The 
 listeners' strained sense of hearing was so acute that 
 it was able to interpret the meaning of each varying 
 sound. A body had been slowly dragged across the 
 floor, and now, hushed and almost noiselessly as the 
 work went on, they knew that the body was being 
 lifted from the floor and placed upon the bed. For 
 a little while all was quiet, but the movements soon 
 began again, and were confined to the bed. Some 
 thing was being done with the dead or unconscious 
 body. What, it was impossible to make out or even 
 guess. Mrs. Abercrombie might be lifeless, in a 
 swoon or only feigning unconsciousness. 
 
 " It won't do to let this go on any longer," said 
 Mr. Craig as he came back from the door at which 
 he had been listening. "I must call some of the 
 boarders and have a consultation." 
 
 He was turning to go out, when a sound as of a 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 falling chair came from General Abercrombie's room, 
 and caused him to stop and turn back. This was 
 followed by the quick tread of heavy feet going up 
 and down the chamber floor, and continuing without 
 intermission for as much as five minutes. It stopped 
 as suddenly as it had begun, and all was silent 
 again. They knew that the general was standing 
 close by the bed. 
 
 " My God !" in a tone full of anguish and fear 
 dropped from his lips. " Edith ! Edith ! oh, Edith !" 
 he called in a low wail of distress. " Speak to me, 
 Edith ! Why don't you speak to me ?" 
 
 They listened, but heard no answer. General 
 Abercrombie called the name of his wife over and 
 over again, and in terms of endearment, but for all 
 Mr. and Mrs, Craig could tell she gave back no 
 sign. 
 
 " O my God ! what have I done ?" they heard 
 him say, the words followed by a deep groan. 
 
 " It is my time now ;" and Mr. Craig ran out into 
 the hall as he said this and knocked at the general's 
 door. But no answer came. He knocked again, 
 and louder than at first. After waiting for a short 
 time he heard the key turn in the lock. The door 
 was opened a few inches, and he saw through the 
 aperture the haggard and almost ghastly face of 
 General Abercrombie. His eyes were wild and dis 
 tended. 
 
 " What do you want?" he demanded, impatiently. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Abercrombie sick ? Can we do anything 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 165 
 
 for you, general ?" said Mr. Craig, uttering the sen 
 tences that came first to his tongue. 
 
 " No !" in angry rejection of the offered service. 
 The door shut with a jar, and the key turned in the 
 lock. Mr. Craig stood for a moment irresolute, and 
 then went back to his wife. Nothing more was 
 heard in the adjoining room. Though they lis 
 tened for a long time, no voice nor sound of any kind 
 came to their ears. The general had, to all appear 
 ance, thrown himself upon the bed and fallen asleep. 
 
 It was late on the next morning when Mr. and 
 Mrs. Craig awoke. Their first thought was of their 
 neighbors, General and Mrs. Abercrombie. The 
 profoundest silence reigned in their apartment a 
 silence death-like and ominous. 
 
 "If he 'has murdered her!" said Mrs. Craig, shiv 
 ering at the thought as she spoke. 
 
 " I hope not, but I shouldn't like to be the first 
 one who goes into that room," replied her husband. 
 Then, after a moment's reflection, he said : 
 
 " If anything has gone wrong in there, we must be 
 on our guard and make no admissions. It won't do 
 for us to let it be known that we heard the dreadful 
 things going on there that we did, and yet gave no 
 alarm. I'm not satisfied with myself, and can hardly 
 expect others to excuse where I condemn." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 WHEN Mr. and Mrs. Craig entered the break 
 fast-room, they saw, to their surprise, General 
 Abercrombie and his wife sitting in their usual places. 
 They bowed to each other, as was their custom on 
 meeting at the table. 
 
 The face of Mrs. Abercrombie was pale and her 
 features pinched. She had the appearance of one 
 who had been ill and was just recovering, or of 
 one who had endured exhausting pain of mind or 
 body. She arose from the table soon after Mr. and 
 Mrs. Craig made their appearance, and retired with 
 her husband from the room. 
 
 "The general is all out of sorts this morning," 
 remarked a lady as soon as they were gone. 
 
 " And so is Mrs. Abercrombie," said another. 
 " Dissipation does not agree with them. They were 
 at the grand party given last night by Mr. and 
 Mrs. Birtwell. You were among the guests, Mrs. 
 Craig?" 
 
 The lady addressed bowed her affirmative. 
 
 " A perfect jam, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Who were there? But I needn't ask. All the 
 world and his wife, of course, little bugs and big 
 Dugs. How was the entertainment ?" 
 1M 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 167 
 
 " Splendid ! I never saw such a profusion of every 
 thing." 
 
 " Fools make feasts for wise men to eat," snapped 
 out the sharp voice of a lady whose vinegar face 
 gave little promise of enjoyment of any kind. " No 
 body thinks any more of them for it. Better have 
 given the money to some charity. There's want and 
 suffering enough about, Heaven knows." 
 
 " I don't imagine that the charity fund has suffered 
 anything in consequence of Mr. Birtwell's costly 
 entertainment," replied Mr. Craig. " If the money 
 spent for last night's feast had not gone to the wine- 
 merchant and the caterer, it would have remained as 
 it was." 
 
 The lady with the vinegar face said something 
 about the Dives w'lo have their good things here, 
 adding, with a zest in her voice, that " Riches, 
 thank God ! can't be taken over to the other side, 
 and your nabobs will be no better off after they die 
 than the commonest beggars." 
 
 " That will depend on something more than the 
 money-aspect of the case," said Mr. Craig. " And 
 as to the cost of giving a feast, what would be 
 extravagance in one might only be a liberal hospi 
 tality in another. Cake and ice cream for my friends 
 might be as lavish an expenditure for me as Mr. 
 Birtwell's banquet last night was for him, and as 
 likely to set me among the beggars when I get over 
 to the other side." 
 
 " Then you don't believe that God holds rich men 
 
1 68 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 to a strict account for the manner in which they 
 spend the money he has placed in their hands? 
 Are they not his almoners ?" 
 
 " No more than poor men, and not to be held to 
 any stricter accountability," was replied. " Mr. Birt- 
 well does not sin against the poor when he lavishes 
 his hundreds, or it may be thousands, of dollars in 
 the preparation of a feast for his friends any more 
 than you do when you buy a box of French candies 
 to eat alone in your room or share with your visitors, 
 maybe not so much." 
 
 There was a laugh at the expense of the vinegar- 
 faced lady, who did not fail in a sharp retort which 
 was more acid than convincing. The conversation 
 then went back to General Abercrombie and his 
 wife. 
 
 " Didn't she look dreadful ?" remarked one of the 
 company. 
 
 "And her manner toward the general was so 
 singular." 
 
 " In what respect ?" asked Mrs. Craig. 
 
 " She looked at him so strangely, so anxious and 
 scared-like. I never knew him to be so silent. 
 He's social and talkative, you know such good 
 company. But he hadn't a word to say this morn 
 ing. Something has gone wrong between him and 
 his wife. I wonder what it can be ?" 
 
 But Mr. and Mrs. Craig, who were not of the gos 
 siping kind, were disposed to keep their own coun- 
 lei. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 169 
 
 " I thought I heard some unusual noises in their 
 room last night after they came home from the 
 party," said a lady whose chamber was opposite 
 theirs across the hall. " They seemed to be moving 
 furniture about, and twice I thought I heard a 
 scream. But then the storm was so high that one 
 might easily have mistaken a wail of the wind for 
 a cry of distress." 
 
 " A cry of distress ! You didn't imagine that the 
 general was maltreating his wife ?" 
 
 " I intimated nothing of the kind," returned the 
 lady. 
 
 " But what made you think about a cry of dis 
 tress ?" 
 
 " I merely said that I thought I heard a scream ; 
 and if you had been awake from twelve to one or 
 two o'clock this morning, you would have thought 
 the air full of wailing voices. The storm chafed 
 about the roof and chimneys in a dreadful way. I 
 never knew a wilder night." 
 
 " You saw the general at the party ?" said one, 
 addressing Mr. Craig. 
 
 " Yes, a few times. But there was a crowd in all 
 the rooms, and the same people were not often 
 thrown together." 
 
 " Nothing unusual about him ? Hadn't been drink 
 ing too much ?" 
 
 " Not when I observed him. But " Mr. Craig 
 hesitated a moment, and then went on : " But there's 
 one thing has a strange look. They went in a car- 
 
 16 
 
170 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 riage, I know, but walked home in all that dreadful 
 storm." 
 
 " Walked home !" Several pairs of eyes and 
 hands were upraised. 
 
 " Yes ; they came to the door, white with snow, 
 just as we got home." 
 
 " How strange ! What could it have meant ?" 
 
 " It meant," said one, " that their carriage disap 
 pointed them nothing else, of course." 
 
 " That will hardly explain it. Such disappoint 
 ments rarely, if ever, occur," was replied to this. 
 " Did you say anything to them, Mr. Craig ?" 
 
 " My wife did, but received only a gruff response 
 from the general. Mrs. Abercrombie made no reply, 
 but .went hastily after her husband. There was 
 something unusual in the manner of both." 
 
 While this conversation was going on General 
 Abercrombie and his wife stood in the hall, she try 
 ing, but in vain, to persuade him not to go out. 
 He said but little, answering her kindly, but with a 
 marked decision of manner. Mrs. Abercrombie* 
 went up slowly to their room after he left her, walk 
 ing as one who carried a heavy load. She looked 
 ten years older than on the day previous. 
 
 No one saw her during the morning. At dinner 
 time their places were vacant at the table. 
 
 " Where are the general and his wife ?" was asked 
 as time passed and they did not make their appear 
 ance. 
 
 No one had seen either of them since breakfast 
 
Wounded in the Housf of a Friend. \"J\ 
 
 Mrs. Craig knew that Mrs. Abercrombie nad not 
 been out of her room all the morning, but she did 
 not feel inclined to take part in the conversation, anc 
 so said nothing. 
 
 " 1 saw the general going into the Clarendon 
 about two o'clock," said a gentleman. " He's dining 
 with some friend, most probably." 
 
 " I hear," remarked another, "that he acted rather 
 strangely a*- Mr. Birtwell's last night." 
 
 Every ear pricked up at this. 
 
 " How ?" " In what way ?" " Tell us about it," 
 came in quick response to the speaker's words. 
 
 " I didn't get anything like a clear story. But 
 there was some trouble about his wife." 
 
 " About his wife ?" Faces looked eagerly down 
 and across the table. 
 
 " What about his wife ?" came from half a dozen 
 lips. 
 
 " He thought some one too intimate with her, I 
 believe. A brother officer, if I am not mistaken. 
 Some old flame, perhaps. But I couldn't learn any 
 of the particulars." 
 
 "Ah! That accounts for their singular conduct 
 this morning. Was there much of a row?" This 
 came from a thin-visaged young man with eye 
 glasses and a sparse, whitish moustache. 
 
 " I didn't say anything about a row," was the 
 rather sharp reply. " I only said that I heard that 
 the general had acted strangely, and that there had 
 seen some trouble about his wife." 
 
1/2 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 ".What was the trouble ?" asked two or three 
 anxious voices anxious for some racy scandal. 
 
 " Couldn't learn any of the particulars, only that 
 he took his wife from a gentleman's arm in a rude 
 kind of way, and left the party." 
 
 " Oh ! that accounts for their not coming home in 
 a carriage," broke in one of the listeners. 
 
 " Perhaps so. But who said they didn't ride 
 home ?" 
 
 " Mr. Craig. He and Mrs. Craig saw them as 
 they came to the door, covered with snow. They 
 were walking." 
 
 " Oh, you were at the party, Mr. Craig ? Did you 
 see or hear anything about this affair ?" 
 
 " Nothing," replied Mr. Craig. " If there had 
 been any trouble, I should most likely have heard 
 something of it." 
 
 " I had my information from a gentleman who was 
 there," said the other. 
 
 " I don't question that," replied Mr. Craig. " A 
 trifling incident but half understood will often give 
 rise to exaggerated reports so exaggerated that 
 but little of the original truth remains in them. The 
 general may have done something under the excite 
 ment of wine that gave color to the story now in 
 circulation. I think that very possible. But I don't 
 believe the affair to be half so bad as represented." 
 
 While this conversation was going on Mrs. Aber- 
 crombie sat alone in her room. She had walked 
 the floor restlessly as the time drew near for the 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 173 
 
 general's return, but after the hour went by, and 
 there was no sign of his coming, all the life seemed 
 to go out of her. She was sitting now, or rather 
 crouching down, in a large cushioned chair, her face 
 white and still and her eyes fixed in a kind of fright 
 ened stare. 
 
 Time passed, but she remained so motionless that 
 but for her wide-open eyes you would have thought 
 her asleep or dead. 
 
 No one intruded upon her during the brief after 
 noon ; and when darkness shut in, she was still sit 
 ting where she had dropped down nerveless from 
 mental pain. After it grew dark Mrs. Abercrombie 
 arose, lighted the gas and drew the window cur 
 tains. She then moved about the room putting 
 things in order. Next she changed her dress and 
 gave some careful attention to her personal appear 
 ance. The cold pallor which had been on her face all 
 the afternoon gave way to a faint tinge of color, her 
 eyes lost their stony fixedness and became restless 
 and alert. But the trouble did not go out of her 
 face or eyes ; it was only more active in expression, 
 more eager and expectant. 
 
 After all the changes in her toilette had been 
 made, Mrs. Abercrombie sat down again, waiting and 
 listening. It was the general's usual time to come 
 home from headquarters. How would he come ? 
 or would he come at all ? These were the ques 
 tions that agitated her soul. The sad, troubled, 
 humiliating, suffering past, how its records of sorrow 
 
 16* 
 
174 \Voiindcd in the House of a Friend. 
 
 and shame and fear kept unrolling themselves before 
 her eyes ! There was little if anything in these 
 records to give hope or comfort. Ah ! how many 
 times had he fallen from his high estate of manhood, 
 each time sinking lower and lower, and each time 
 recovering himself from the fall with greater dif 
 ficulty than before ! He might never rise again. 
 The chances were largely against him. 
 
 How the wretched woman longed for yet dreaded 
 the return of her husband ! If he had been drink 
 ing again, as she feared, there was before her a night 
 of anguish and terror a night which might have 
 for her no awaking in the world. But she had learned 
 to dread some things more than death. 
 
 Time wore on until it was past the hour for Gene 
 ral Abercrombie's return, and yet there was no sign 
 of his coming. At last the loud clang of the sup 
 per-bell ringing through the halls gave her a sudden 
 start. She clasped her hands across her forehead, 
 while a look of anguish convulsed her face, then 
 held them tightly against her heart and groaned 
 aloud. 
 
 " God pity us both !" she cried, in a low, wailing 
 voice, striking her hands together and lifting upward 
 her eyes, that were full of the deepest anguish. 
 
 For a few moments her eyes were upraised. Then 
 her head sunk forward upon her bosom, and she sat 
 an image of helpless despair. 
 
 A knock at the door roused her. She started to 
 her feet and opened it with nervous haste. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 175 
 
 " A letter for you," said a servant. 
 
 She took it from his hand and shut and locked 
 the door before examining the handwriting on the 
 envelope. It was that of her husband. She tore it 
 open with trembling hand and read : 
 
 " DEAR EDITH : An order requiring my presence 
 in Washington to-morrow morning has just reached 
 me, and I have only time to make the train. I shall 
 be gone two or three days." 
 
 The deep flush which excitement had spread over 
 the face of Mrs. Abercrombie faded off, and the 
 deadly pallor returned. Her hands shook so that 
 the letter dropped out of them and fell to the floor. 
 Another groan as of a breaking heart sobbed through 
 her lips as she threw herself in despairing abandon 
 ment across the bed and buried her face deep among 
 the pillows. 
 
 She needed no interpreter to unfold the true mean 
 ing of that letter. Its unsteady and blotted words 
 and its scrawled, uncertain signature told her too 
 well of her husband's sad condition. His old enemy 
 had stricken him down, his old strong, implacable 
 enemy, always armed, always lying in wait for him, 
 and always ready for the unguarded moment. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 DOCTOR HILLHOUSE was in his office one 
 morning when a gentleman named Carlton, in 
 whose family he had practiced for two or three years, 
 came in. This was a few weeks before the party at 
 Mr. Birtwell's. 
 
 " Doctor" there was a troubled look on his vis 
 itor's face " I wish you would call in to-day and 
 examine a lump on Mrs. Carlton's neck. It's been 
 coming for two or three months. We thought it 
 only the swelling of a gland at first, and expected it 
 to go away in a little while. But in the last few 
 weeks it has grown perceptibly." 
 
 " How large is it ?" inquired the doctor. 
 
 " About the size of a pigeon's egg." 
 
 " Indeed ! So large ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and I am beginning to feel very much con 
 cerned about it." 
 
 " Is there any discoloration ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Any soreness or tenderness to the touch ?" 
 
 " No ; but Mrs. Carlton is beginning to feel a 
 sense of tightness and oppression, as though the 
 lump, whatever it may be, were beginning to press 
 jpon some of the blood-vessels." 
 
 " Nothing serious, I imagine," replied Dr. Hill- 
 
 176 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 1 77 
 
 house, speaking with a lightness of manner he did 
 not feel. " I will call about twelve o'clock. Tell 
 Mrs. Carlton to expect me at that time." 
 
 Mr. Carlton made a movement to go, but came 
 back from the door, and betraying more anxiety of 
 manner than at first, said : 
 
 " This may seem a light thing in your eyes, doc 
 tor, but I cannot help feeling troubled. I am afraid 
 of a tumor." 
 
 "What is the exact location?" asked Dr. Hill- 
 house. 
 
 " On the side of the neck, a little back from the 
 lower edge of the right ear." 
 
 The doctor did not reply. After a brief silence 
 Mr. Carlton said : 
 
 " Do you think it a regular tumor, doctor ?" 
 
 " It is difficult to say. I can speak with more 
 certainty after I have made an examination," re 
 plied Doctor Hillhouse, his manner showing some 
 reserve. 
 
 " If it should prove to be a tumor, cannot its 
 growth be stopped? Is there no relief except 
 through an operation no curative agents that will 
 restore a healthy action to the parts and cause the 
 tumor to be absorbed ?" 
 
 " There is a class of tumors," replied the doctor, 
 "that may be absorbed, but the treatment is preju 
 dicial to the general health, and no wise physician 
 will. I think, resort to it instead of a surgical oper 
 ation, which is usually simple and safe." 
 
 M 
 
178 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " Much depends on the location of a tumor," said 
 Mr. Carlton. "The extirpation may be safe and 
 easy if the operation be in one place, and difficult 
 and dangerous if in another." 
 
 " It is the surgeon's business to do his work so 
 well that danger shall not exist in any case," replied 
 Doctor Hillhouse. 
 
 " I shall trust her in your hands," said Mr. Carl- 
 ton, trying to assume a cheerful air. " But I cannor 
 help feeling nervous and extremely anxious." 
 
 " You are, of course, over-sensitive about evei y- 
 thing that touches one so dear as your wife," replied 
 the doctor. " But do not give yourself needless 
 anxiety. Tumors in the neck are generally of the 
 kind known as ' benignant,' and are easily removed." 
 
 Dr. Angier came into the office while they were 
 talking, and heard a part of the conversation. As 
 soon as Mr. Carlton had retired he asked if the 
 tumor were deep-seated or only a wen-like protu 
 berance. 
 
 " Deep-seated, I infer, from what Mr. Carlton said," 
 replied Dr. Hillhouse. 
 
 " What is her constitution ?" 
 
 " Not as free from a scrofulous tendency as I should 
 like." 
 
 " Then this tumor, if it should really prove to be 
 one, may be of a malignant character." 
 
 " That is possible. But I trust to find only a 
 simple cyst, or, at the worst, an adipose or fibrous 
 tumor easy of removal, though I aui sorry it is in 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 179 
 
 the neck. I never like to cut in among the large 
 blood-vessels and tendons of that region." 
 
 At twelve o'clock Doctor Hillhouse made the 
 promised visit. He found Mrs. Carlton to all ap 
 pearance quiet and cheerful. 
 
 " My husband is apt to worry himself when any 
 thing ails me," she said, with a faint smile. 
 
 The doctor took her hand and felt a low tremor 
 of the nerves that betrayed the nervous anxiety she 
 was trying hard to conceal. His first diagnosis was 
 not satisfactory, and he was not able wholly to con 
 ceal his doubts from the keen observation of Mr. 
 Carllon, whose eyes never turned for a moment from 
 the doctor's lace. The swelling was clearly out 
 lined, but neither sharp nor protuberant. From the 
 manner of its presentation, and also from the fact 
 that Mrs. Carlton complained of a feeling of pressure 
 on the vessels of the neck, the doctor feared the 
 tumor was larger and more deeply seated than the 
 lady's friends had suspected. But he was most con 
 cerned as to its true character. Being hard and 
 nodulated, he feared that it might prove to be of a 
 malignant type, and his apprehensions were increased 
 by the fact that his patient had in her constitution a 
 taint of scrofula. There was no apparent conges 
 tion of the veins nor discoloration of the skin around 
 the hard protuberance, no pulsation, elasticity, fluc 
 tuation or soreness, only a solid lump which the 
 doctor's sensitive touch recognized as the small sec 
 tion or lobule of a deeply-seated tumor already 
 
1 80 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 beginning to press upon and obstruct the blood 
 vessels in its immediate vicinity. Whether it were 
 fibrous or albuminous, "benignant" or "malignant," 
 he was not able in his first diagnosis to deter 
 mine. 
 
 Dr. Hillhouse could not so veil his face as to hide 
 from Mr. Carlton the doubt and concern that were 
 in his mind. 
 
 " Deal with me plainly," said the latter as he 
 stood alone with the doctor after the examination 
 was over. " I want the exact truth. Don't conceal 
 anything." 
 
 Mr. Carlton's lips trembled. 
 
 " Is it a a tumor ?" He got the words out in a 
 low, shaky voice. 
 
 " I think so," replied Doctor Hillhouse. He saw 
 the face of Mr. Carlton blanch instantly. 
 
 " It presents," added the doctor, " all the indica 
 tions of what we call a fibrous tumor." 
 
 " Is it of a malignant type ?" asked Mr. Carlton, 
 with suspended breath. 
 
 "No; these tumors are harmless in themselves, 
 but their mechanical pressure on surrounding blood 
 vessels and tissues renders their removal necessary." 
 
 Mr Carlton caught his breath with a sigh of re 
 lief. 
 
 " Is their removal attended with danger ?" he 
 %sked. 
 
 " None," replied Dr. Hillhouse. 
 
 " Have you ever taken a tumor from the neck ?" 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. iS'l 
 
 "Yes. I have operated in cases of this kind 
 often." 
 
 " Were you always successful ?" 
 
 " Yes ; in every instance." 
 
 Mr. Carl ton breathed more freely. After a pause, 
 he said, his lips growing white as he spoke: 
 
 "There will have to be an operation in this 
 case ?" 
 
 " It cannot, I fear, be avoided," replied the doctor. 
 
 " There is one comfort," said Mr. Carlton, rallying 
 and speaking in a more cheerful voice. "The tumor 
 is small and superficial in character. The knife will 
 not have to go very deep among the veins and 
 arteries." 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse did not correct his error. 
 
 " How long will it take ?" queried the anxious hus 
 band, to whom the thought of cutting down into 
 the tender flesh of his wife was so painful that it 
 completely unmanned him. 
 
 *' Not very long," answered the doctor. 
 
 "Ten minutes?" 
 
 " Yes, or maybe a little longer." 
 
 " She will feel no pain ?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Nor be conscious of what you are doing ?" 
 
 " She will be as much in oblivion as a sleeping in 
 fant." replied the doctor. 
 
 Mr. Carlton turned from Dr. Hillhouse and walked 
 the whole length of the parlor twice, then stood 
 still, and said, with painful impressiveness : 
 
 16 
 
1 82 Wounded in tJie House of a Friend. 
 
 " Doctor, I place her in your hands. She is ready 
 for anything we may decide upon as best." 
 
 He stopped and turned partly away to hide his 
 feelings. But recovering himself, and forcing a 
 smile to his lips, he said : 
 
 " To your professional eyes I show unmanly weak 
 ness. But you must bear in mind how very dear 
 she is to me. It makes me shiver in every nerve to 
 think of the knife going down into her tender flesh. 
 You might cut me to pieces, doctor, if that would 
 save her." 
 
 " Your fears exaggerate everything," returned 
 Doctor Hillhouse, in an assuring voice. " She will 
 go into a tranquil sleep, and while dreaming pleasant 
 dreams we will quickly dissect out the tumor, and 
 leave the freed organs to continue their healthy 
 action under the old laws of unobstructed life." 
 
 " When ought it to be done ?" asked Mr. Carlton, 
 the tremor coming back into his voice. 
 
 " The sooner, the better, after an operation is de 
 cided upon," answered the doctor. " I will make 
 another examination in about two weeks. The 
 changes that take place in that time will help me 
 to a clearer decision than it is possible to arrive at 
 now." 
 
 After a lapse of two weeks Doctor Hillhouse, in 
 company with another surgeon, made a second ex 
 amination. What his conclusions were will appear 
 in the following conversation held with Dr. Angier. 
 
 " The tumor is not of a malignant character," 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 183 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse replied, in answer to his assist 
 ant's inquiry. " But it is larger than I at first sus 
 pected, and is growing very rapidly. From a slight 
 suffusion of Mrs. Carlton's face which I did not 
 observe at any previous visit, it is evident that the 
 tumor is beginning to press upon the carotids. 
 Serious displacements of blood-vessels, nerves, 
 glands and muscles must soon occur if this growth 
 goes on." 
 
 " Then her life is in danger ?" said Dr. Angler. 
 
 " It is assuredly, and nothing but a successful op 
 eration can save her." 
 
 " What does Doctor Kline think of the case?" 
 
 " He agrees with me as to the character of the 
 tumor, but thinks it larger than an orange, deeply 
 cast among the great blood-vessels, and probably so 
 attached to their sheaths as to make its extirpation 
 not only difficult, but dangerous." 
 
 " Will he assist you in the operation ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Dr. Hillhouse became thoughtful and silent. His 
 countenance wore a serious, almost troubled aspect. 
 
 44 Never before," he said, after a long pause, 
 " have I looked forward to an operation with such 
 a feeling of concern as I look forward to this. Three 
 or four months ago, when there was only a little 
 sack there, it could have been removed without risk. 
 But I greatly fear that in its rapid growth it has 
 become largely attached to the blood-vessels and 
 the sheaths of nerves, and you know how difficult 
 
184 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 this will make the operation, and that the risk wiL 
 be largely increased. The fact is, doctor, I am free 
 to say that it would be more agreeable to me if 
 some other surgeon had the responsibility of this 
 case." 
 
 " Dr. Kline would, no doubt, be very ready to 
 take it off of your hands." 
 
 " If the family were satisfied, I would cheerfully 
 delegate the work to him," said Doctor Hillhouse. 
 " He's a younger man, and his recent brilliant opera 
 tions have brought him quite prominently before the 
 public." 
 
 As he spoke Doctor Hillhouse, who was past 
 sixty-five and beginning to feel the effects of over 
 forty years of earnest professional labor, lifted his 
 small hand, the texture of which was as fine as that 
 of a woman's, and holding it up, looked at it steadily 
 for some moments. It trembled just a little. 
 
 " Not quite so firm as it was twenty years ago," 
 he remarked, with a slight depression in his voice. 
 
 44 But the sight is clearer and the skill greater," 
 said Doctor Angier. 
 
 44 1 don't know about the sight," returned Doctor 
 Hillhouse. " I'm afraid that is no truer than the 
 hand." 
 
 44 The inner sight, I mean, the perception that 
 comes from long-applied skill," said Doctor Angier. 
 14 That is something in which you have the advan 
 tage of younger men." 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse made no reply to this, but sat 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 185 
 
 like one in deep and perplexed thought for a consid 
 erable time. 
 
 " I must see Doctor Kline and go over the case 
 with him more carefully/' he remarked at length. 
 " I shall then be able to see with more clearness 
 what is best. The fact that I feel so averse to op 
 erating myself comes almost like a warning; and f 
 no change should occur in my feelings, I shall, with 
 the consent of the family, transfer the knife to Doc 
 tor Kline." 
 
 16 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MRS. CARLTON was a favorite in the circle 
 where she moved; and when it became known 
 that she would have to submit to a serious operation 
 in order to save her life, she became an object of 
 painful interest to her many friends. Among the 
 most intimate of these was Mrs. Birtwell, who, as 
 the time approached for the great trial, saw her 
 almost every day. 
 
 It was generally understood that Doctor Hill- 
 house, who was the family physician, would perform 
 the operation. For a long series of years he had 
 held the first rank as a surgeon. But younger men 
 were coming forward in the city, and other reputa 
 tions were being made that promised to be even 
 more notable than his. 
 
 Among those who were steadly achieving success 
 in the walks of surgery was Doctor Kline, now over 
 thirty-five years of age. He held a chair in one of 
 the medical schools, and his name was growing more 
 and more familiar to the public and the profession 
 every year. 
 
 The friends of Mrs. Carlton were divided on the 
 question as to who could best perform the operation, 
 some favoring Doctor Kline and some Doctor Hill- 
 
 186 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 187 
 
 house. The only objection urged by any one agairist 
 the latter was on account of his age. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Carlton had no doubt or hesitation 
 on the subject. Their confidence in the skill of 
 Doctor Hillhouse was complete. As for Doctor 
 Kline, Mr. Carlton, who met him now and then at 
 public dinners or at private social entertainments, 
 had not failed to observe that he was rather free in 
 his use of liquor, drinking 'so frequently on these 
 occasions as to produce a noticeable exhilaration. 
 Tie had even remarked upon the fact to gentlemen 
 of his acquaintance, and found that others had no 
 ticed this weakness of Doctor Kline as well as him 
 self. 
 
 As time wore on Doctor Hillhouse grew more 
 and more undecided. No matter how grave or dif 
 ficult an operation might be, he had always, when 
 satisfied of its necessity, gone forward, looking 
 neither to the right nor to the left But so troubled 
 and uncertain did he become as the necessity for 
 fixing an early day for the removal of this tumor 
 became more and more apparent that he at last 
 referred the whole matter to Mr. Carlton, and pro 
 posed that Doctor Kline, whose high reputation for 
 surgical skill he knew, should be entrusted with 
 the operation. To this he received an emphatic 
 "No!" 
 
 " All the profession award him the highest skill in 
 our city, if not the whole country," said Doctor 
 Hillhouse. 
 
1 88 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " I have no doubt of his skill," replied Mr. Carl 
 ten. " But" 
 
 " What ?" asked the doctor, as Mr. Carlton hesi 
 tated. 
 
 " Are you not aware that he uses wine too freely ?" 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse was taken by surprise at this 
 intimation. 
 
 " No, I am not aware of anything of the kind," he 
 replied, almost indignantly. " He is not a teetotal 
 ler, of course, any more than you or I. Socially and 
 at dinner he takes his glass of wine, as we do. But 
 to say that he uses liquor too freely is, I am sure, 
 a mistake." 
 
 " Some men, as you know, doctor, cannot use 
 wine without a steady increase of the appetite until 
 it finally gets the mastery, and I am afraid Doctor 
 Kline is one of them." 
 
 " I am greatly astonished to hear you say this," 
 replied Dr. Hillhouse, " and I cannot but hold you 
 mistaken." 
 
 " Have you ever met him at a public dinner, at 
 the club or at a private entertainment where there 
 was plenty of wine ?" 
 
 " Oh yes." 
 
 " And observed no unusual exhilaration ?" 
 
 Dr. Hillhouse became reflective. Now that his 
 attention was called to the matter, some doubts 
 began to intrude themselves. 
 
 " We cannot always judge the common life by 
 what we see on convivial occasions," he made 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 189 
 
 answer. " One may take wine freely with his friends 
 and be as abstemious as an anchorite during busi 
 ness- or profession-hours." 
 
 "Not at all probable," replied Mr. Carlton, "and 
 not good in my observation. The appetitt that 
 leads a man into drinking more when among friends 
 than his brain will carry steadily is not likely to 
 sleep when he is alone. Any over-stimulation, as 
 you know, doctor, leaves in the depressed state that 
 follows a craving for renewed exhilaration. I am 
 very sure that on the morning after one of the occa 
 sions to which I have referred Doctor Kline finds 
 himself in no condition for the work of a delicate 
 surgical operation until he has steadied his relaxed 
 nerves with more than a single glass." 
 
 He paused for a moment, and then said, with 
 strong emphasis : 
 
 " The hand, Doctor Hillhouse, that cuts down 
 into her dear flesh must be steadied by healthy 
 nerves, and not by wine or brandy. No, sir; I will 
 not hear to it. I will not have Doctor Kline. In 
 your hands, and yours alone, I trust my wife in this 
 great extremity." 
 
 "That is for you to decide," returned Dr. Hill- 
 house. " I felt it to be only right to give you an op 
 portunity to avail of Doctor Kline's acknowledged 
 skill. I am sure you can do so safely." 
 
 But Mr. Carlton was very emphatic in his rejec 
 tion of Dr. Kline. 
 
 " I may be a little peculiar," he said, " but do you 
 
190 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 know I never trust any important interest \vith a 
 man who drinks habitually? one of your temperate 
 drinkers, I mean, who can take his three or four 
 glasses of wine at dinner, or twice that n umbel 
 during an evening while playing at whist, but who 
 never debases himself by so low a thing as intoxica 
 tion." 
 
 "Are not you a little peculiar, or, I might say, 
 over-nice, in this ?" remarked Doctor Hillhouse. 
 
 " No, I am only prudent. Let me give you a 
 fact in my own experience. I had a law-suit several 
 years ago involving many thousands of dollars. My 
 case was good, but some nice points of law were 
 involved, and I needed for success the best talent 
 
 the bar afforded. A Mr. B , I will call him, 
 
 stood very high in the profession, and I chose him 
 for my counsel. He was a man of fine social quali 
 ties, and admirable for his after-dinner speeches. 
 You always met him on public occasions. He was 
 one of your good temperate drinkers, and not afraid 
 of a glass of wine, or even brandy, and rarely, if 
 ever, refused a friend who asked him to drink. 
 
 " He was not an intemperate man, of course. No 
 one dreamed of setting him over among that banned 
 and rejected class of men whom few trust, and 
 against whom all are on guard. He held his place 
 of honor and confidence side by side with the most 
 trusted men in his profession. As a lawyer, in 
 terests of vast magnitude were often in his hands, 
 3tnd largely depended on his legal sagacity, clearness 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 191 
 
 of thought and sleepless vigilance. He was usually 
 successful in his cases. 
 
 " I felt my cause safe in his hands that is, as 
 safe as human care and foresight could majce it. 
 But to my surprise and disappointment, his manage 
 ment of the case on the day of trial was faulty and 
 blind. I had gone over all the points with him 
 carefully, and he had seemed to hold them with a 
 masterly hand. He was entirely confident of success, 
 and so was I. But now he seemed to lose his grasp 
 on the best points in the case, and to bring forward 
 his evidence in a way that, in my view, damaged 
 instead of making our side strong. Still, I forced 
 myself to think that he knew best what to do, and 
 that the meaning of his peculiar tactics would soon 
 become apparent. I noticed, as the trial went on, 
 
 a bearing of the opposing counsel toward Mr. B 
 
 that appeared unusual. He seemed bent on annoying 
 him with little side issues and captious objections, not 
 so much showing a disposition to meet him squarely 
 upon the simple and clearly defined elements of the 
 case, as to draw him away from them and keep 
 them as far out of sight as possible. 
 
 " In this he was successful. Mr. B seemed 
 
 in his hands more like a bewildered child than 
 a strong, clear-seeing man. When, after all the 
 evidence was in, the arguments on both sides were 
 submitted to the jury, I saw with alarm that Mr. 
 
 B had failed signally. His summing up was 
 
 weak and disjointed, and he did not urge with 
 
192 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 force and clearness the vital points in the case on 
 which all our hopes depended. The contrast of his 
 closing argument with that of the other side was 
 yery^great, and I knew when the jury retired from 
 the court-room that all was lost, and so it proved. 
 
 " It was clear to me that I had mistaken my man 
 
 that Mr. B 's reputation was higher than his 
 
 ability. He was greatly chagrined at the result, and 
 urged me to take an appeal, saying he was confident 
 we could get a reversal of the decision. 
 
 " While yet undecided as to whether I would 
 appeal or not, a friend who had been almost as 
 much surprised and disappointed at the result of the 
 trial as I was came to me in considerable excitement 
 of manner, and said: 
 
 " ' I heard something this morning that will sur 
 prise you, I think, as much as it has surprised me. 
 Has it never occurred to you that there was some 
 thing strange about Mr. B on the day your case 
 
 was tried ?' 
 
 " ' Yes,' I replied, ' it has often occurred to me , 
 and the more I think about it, the more dissatisfied 
 I am with his management of my case. He is 
 urging me to appeal ; but should I do so, I have 
 pretty well made up my mind to have other counsel.' 
 
 " ' That I should advise by all means,' returned 
 my friend. 
 
 "'The thought has come once or twice/ said I, 
 ' that there might have been false play in the case/ 
 
 " ' There has been/ returned my friend. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 193 
 
 " ' What !' I exclaimed. ' False play ? No, no, I 
 will not believe so base a thing of Mr. B- ^ .' 
 
 "'I do not mean false play on his part,' replied 
 my friend. ' Far be it from me to suggest a thought 
 against his integrity of character. No, no ! I be~ 
 lieve him to be a man of honor. The false play, 
 if there has been any, has been against him.' 
 
 " ' Against him ?' I could but respond, with increas 
 ing surprise. Then a suspicion of the truth flashed 
 into my mind. 
 
 " ' He had been drinking too much that morning/ 
 said my friend. ' That was the meaning of his 
 strange and defective management of the case, and 
 of his confusion of ideas when he made his closing 
 argument to the jury.' 
 
 " It was clear to me now, and I wondered that I 
 had not thought of it before. ' But/ I asked, ' what 
 has this to do with foul play ? You don't mean to 
 intimate that his liquor was drugged ?' 
 
 " ' No. The liquor was all right, so far as that 
 goes/ he replied. * The story I heard was this. It 
 came to me in rather a curious way. I was in the 
 reading-room at the League this morning looking 
 ov^r a city paper, when I happened to hear your 
 name spoken by one of two gentlemen whp sat ^ 
 little behind me talking in a confidential way, bvjt 
 in a louder key than they imagined. I could not 
 help hearing what they saicj. After the mention of 
 your name I listened with close attention, and four^d 
 that they were talking abput the }aw-suit, and about 
 17 v 
 
194 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 Mr. B in connection therewith. "It was a 
 
 sharp game," one of them said. *' How was it 
 done ?" inquired the other. 
 
 " ' I partially held my breath/ continued my friend, 
 ' so as not to lose a word. " Neatly enough," was 
 the reply. " You see our friend the lawyer can't 
 refuse a drink. He's got a strong head, and can 
 take twice as much as the next man without show 
 ing it. A single glass makes no impression on him, 
 unless it be to sharpen him up. So a plan was laid 
 to get half a dozen glasses aboard, more or less, 
 before court opened on the morning the case of 
 Walker vs. Carlton was to be called. But not will 
 ing to trust to this, we had a wine-supper for his 
 special benefit on the night before, so as to break his 
 nerves a little and make him thirsty next morning. 
 
 Well, you see, the thing worked, and B drank 
 
 his bottle or two, and went to bed pretty mellow. 
 Of course he must tone up in the morning before 
 leaving home, and so come out all right. He would 
 tone up a little more on his way to his office, and 
 then be all ready for business and bright as a new 
 dollar. This would spoil all. So five of us arranged 
 to meet him at as many different points on his way 
 down town and ask him to drink. The thing worked 
 like a charm. We got six glasses into him before 
 he reached his office. I saw as soon as he came into 
 
 Cpurt that it was a gone case for Carlton. B 
 
 lost his head. And so it proved. We had an 
 yictpry." ' 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 195 
 
 " I took the case out of B 's hands," said Mr. 
 
 Carlton, " and gained it in a higher court, the costs 
 of both trials falling upon the other side. Since 
 that time, Dr. Hillhouse, I have had some new 
 views on the subject of moderate drinking, as it is 
 called." 
 
 " What are they ?" asked the doctor. 
 
 " An experience like this set me to thinking. If, 
 I said to myself, a man uses wine, beer or spirits 
 habitually, is there no danger that at some time 
 when great interests, or even life itself, may be at 
 stake, a glass too much may obscure his clear intel 
 lect and make him the instrument of loss or disas 
 ter ? I pursued the subject, and as I did so was led 
 to this conclusion that society really suffers more 
 from what is called moderate drinking than it does 
 from out-and-out drunkenness." 
 
 " Few will agree with you in that conclusion," 
 returned Doctor Hillhouse. 
 
 " On the contrary," replied Mr. Carlton, " I think 
 that most people, after looking at the subject from 
 the right standpoint, will see it as I do." 
 
 " Men who take a glass of wine at dinner and 
 drink with a friend occasionally," remarked Doctor 
 Hillhouse, " are not given to idleness, waste of prop 
 erty and abuse and neglect of their families, as we 
 find to be the case with common drunkards. They 
 don't fill our prisons and almshouses. Their wives 
 and children do not go to swell the great army of 
 beggars, paupers and criminals. I fear, my friend, 
 
196 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 that you are looking through the wrong end of 
 your glass." 
 
 " No ; my glass is all right The number of 
 drunken men and women in the land is small com 
 pared to the number who drink moderately, and very 
 few of them are to be found in places of trust or 
 responsibility. As soon as a man is known to be a 
 drunkard society puts a mark on him and sets him 
 aside. If he is a physician, health and life are no 
 longer entrusted to his care ; if a lawyer, no man 
 will give an important case into his hands. A ship 
 owner will not trust him with his vessel, though a 
 more skilled navigator cannot be found ; and he may 
 be the best engineer in the land, yet will no railroad 
 or steamship company trust him with life and prop 
 erty. So everywhere the drunkard is ignored. 
 Society will not trust him, and he is limited in his 
 power to do harm. 
 
 " Not so with your moderate drinkers. They fill 
 our highest places and we commit to their care our 
 best and dearest interests.. We put the drunkard 
 aside because we know he cannot be trusted, and 
 give to moderate drinkers, a sad percentage of whom 
 are on the way to drunkenness, our unwavering con 
 fidence They sail our ships, they drive our engines, 
 they make and execute our laws, they take our lives 
 in their hands as doctors and surgeons ; we trust them 
 to defend or maintain our legal rights, we confide to 
 them our interests in hundreds of different ways 
 that we would never dream of confiding to men who 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. (97 
 
 were regarded as intemperate. Is it not fair to con 
 clude, knowing as we do how a glass of wine too 
 much will confuse the brain and obscure the judg 
 ment, that society in trusting its great army of mod 
 erate drinkers is suffering loss far beyond anything we 
 imagine ? A doctor loses his patient, a lawyer his 
 case, an engineer wrecks his ship or train, an agent 
 hurts his principal by a loose or bad bargain, and 
 all because the head had lost for a brief space its 
 normal clearness. 
 
 " Men hurt themselves through moderate drinking 
 in thousands of ways," continued Mr. Carlton. " We 
 have but to think for a moment to see this. Many 
 a fatal document has been signed, many a disastrous 
 contract made, many a ruinous bargain consummated, 
 which but for the glass of wine taken at the wrong 
 moment would have been rejected. Men under the 
 excitement of drink often enter into the unwise 
 schemes of designing men only to lose heavily, 
 and sometimes to encounter ruin. The gambler 
 entices his victim to drink, while he keeps his own 
 head clear. He knows the confusing quality of 
 wine." 
 
 " You make out rather a strong case," said Doc 
 tor Hillhouse. 
 
 " Too strong, do you think ?" 
 
 " Perhaps not. Looking at the thing through 
 your eyes, Mr. Carlton, moderate drinking is an 
 evil of great magnitude.'* 
 
 " It is assuredly, and far greater, as I have said, 
 17* 
 
198 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 than is generally supposed. The children of this 
 world are very wise, and some of them, I am sorry 
 to add, very unscrupulous in gaining their ends. 
 They know the power of all the agencies that are 
 around them, and do not scruple to make use of 
 whatever comes to their hand. Three or four capi 
 talists are invited to meet at a gentleman's house 
 to consider some proposition he has to lay before 
 them. They are liberally supplied with wine, and 
 drink without a lurking suspicion of what the service 
 of good wine means. They see in it only the com 
 mon hospitality of the day, and fail to notice that 
 one or two of the company never empty their 
 glasses. On the next day these men will most 
 likely feel some doubt as to the prudence of certain 
 large subscriptions made on the previous afternoon 
 or evening, and wonder how they could have been 
 so infatuated as to put money into a 'scheme that 
 promised little beyond a permanent investment. 
 
 " If," added Mr. Carlton, " we could come at any 
 proximate estimate of the loss which falls upon 
 society in consequence of the moderate use of in 
 toxicating drinks, we would find that it exceeded a 
 hundred nay, a thousand fold that of the losses 
 sustained through drunkenness. Against the latter 
 society is all the while seeking to guard itself, 
 against the former it has little or no protection 
 does not, in fact, comprehend the magnitude of its 
 power for evil. But I have wearied you with my 
 talk, and forgotten for the time being the anxiety 
 
Woundea tn the House of a Friend. 199 
 
 that lies so near my heart. No, doctor, I will not 
 trust the hand of Doctor Kline, skillful as it may be, 
 to do this work ; for I cannot be sure that a glass 
 too much may not have been taken to steady the 
 nerves a night's excess of wine may have left un 
 strung " 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse sat with closely knit brows for 
 some time after Mr. Carlton ceased speaking. 
 
 " There is matter for grave consideration in what 
 you have said," he remarked, at length, "though 
 I apprehend your fears in regard to Doctor Kline 
 are more conjectural than real." 
 
 " I hope so," returned Mr. Carlton, "but as a pru 
 dent man I will not take needless risk in the face 
 of danger. If an operation cannot be avoided, I will 
 f ust that precious life to none but you." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 WE have seen how it was with Doctor Hill- 
 house on the morning of the day fixed for 
 the operation. The very danger that Mr. Carlton 
 sought to avert in his rejection of Doctor Klme was 
 at his door. Not having attended the party at Mr. 
 and Mrs. Birtwell's, he did not know that Doctor 
 Hillhouse had, with most of the company, indulged 
 freely in wine. If a suspicion of the truth had come 
 to him, he would have refused to let the operation 
 proceed. But like a passenger in some swiftly- 
 moving car who has faith in the clear head and 
 steady hand of the engineer, his confidence in Doc 
 tor Hillhouse gave him a feeling of security. 
 
 But far from this condition of faith in himself was 
 the eminent surgeon in whom he was reposing his 
 confidence. He had, alas ! tarried too long at the 
 feast of wine and fat things dispensed by Mr. Birt- 
 well, and in his effort to restore the relaxed tension 
 of his nerves by stimulation had sent too sudden an 
 impulse to his brain, and roused it to morbid action. 
 His coffee failed to soothe the unquiet nerves, his 
 stomach turned from the food on which he had de 
 pended for a restoration of the equipoise which the 
 night's excesses had destroyed. The dangerous con 
 dition of Mrs. Ridley and his forced visit to that 
 
 200 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 20 1 
 
 lady in the early morning, when he should have been 
 free from all unusual effort and excitement, but added 
 to his disturbance. 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse knew all about the previous hab 
 its of Mr. Ridley, and was much interested in his case. 
 He had seen with hope and pleasure the steadiness 
 with which he was leading his new life, and was 
 beginning to have strong faith in his future. But 
 when he met him on that morning, he knew by 
 unerring signs that the evening at Mr. Birrwell's 
 had been to him one of debauch instead of restrained 
 conviviality. The extremity of his wife's condition, 
 and his almost insane appeals that he would hold 
 her back from death, shocked still further the doc 
 tor's already quivering nerves. 
 
 The imminent peril in which Doctor Hillhouse 
 found Mrs. Ridley determined him to call in another 
 physician for consultation. As twelve o'clock on 
 that day had been fixed for the operation on Mrs. 
 Carlton, it was absolutely necessary to get his mind 
 as free as possible from all causes of anxiety or 
 excitement, and the best thing in this extremity was 
 to get his patient into the hands of a brother in the 
 profession who could relieve him temporarily from 
 all responsibility, and watch the case with all needed 
 care in its swiftly approaching crisis. So he sent 
 Doctor Angier, immediately on his return from his 
 visit to Mrs. Ridley, with a request to Doctor Ains- 
 worth, a physician of standing and experience, to 
 meet him in consultation at ten o'clock. 
 
2O2 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 Precisely at ten the physicians arrived at the house 
 of Mr. Ridley, and were admitted by that gentleman, 
 whose pale, haggard, frightened face told of his 
 anguish and alarm. They asked him no questions, 
 and he preceded them in silence to the chamber of 
 his sick wife. It needed no second glance at their 
 patient to tell the two doctors that she was in great 
 extremity. Her pinched face was ashen in color 
 and damp with a cold sweat, and her eyes, no longer 
 wild and restless, looked piteous and anxious, as of 
 one in dreadful suffering who pleaded mutely for 
 help. An examination of her pulse showed the beat 
 to be frequent and feeble, and on the slightest move 
 ment she gave signs of pain. Her respiration was 
 short and very rapid. Mr. Ridley was present, and 
 standing in a position that enabled him to observe 
 the faces of the two doctors as they proceeded with 
 their examination. Hope died as he saw the sig 
 nificant changes that passed over them. When they 
 left the sick-chamber, he left also, and walked the 
 floor anxiously while they sat in consultation, talk 
 ing together in low tones. Now and then he caught 
 words, such as " peritoneum," " lesion," " perfora 
 tion," etc., the fatal meaning of which he more than 
 half guessed. 
 
 They were still in consultation when a sudden cry 
 broke from the lips of Mrs. Ridley ; and rising has 
 tily, they went back to her chamber. Her face was 
 distorted and her body writhing with pain. 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse wrote a prescription hastily. 
 
Wounded in the house of a Friend. 203 
 
 saying to Mr. Ridley as he gave it to him: "Opium, 
 and get it as quickly as you can." 
 
 The sick woman had scarcely a moment's free 
 dom from pain of a most excruciating character dur 
 ing the ten minutes that elapsed before her husband's 
 return. The quantity of opium administered was 
 large, and its effects soon apparent in a gradual 
 breaking down of the pains, which had been almost 
 spasmodic in their character. 
 
 When Doctor Hillhouse went away, leaving Doc 
 tor Ainsworth in charge of his patient, she was 
 sinking into a quiet sleep. On arriving at his office 
 he found Mr. Wilmer Voss impatiently awaiting his 
 return. 
 
 " Doctor," said this gentleman, starting up on 
 seeing him and showing considerable agitation, "you 
 must come to my wife immediately." 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse felt stunned for an instant. He 
 drew his hand tightly against his forehead, that was 
 heavy with its dull, half-stupefying pain, which, spite 
 of what he could do, still held on. All his nerves 
 were unstrung. 
 
 " How is she ?" he asked, with the manner of one 
 who had received an unwelcome message. His hand 
 was still held against his forehead. 
 
 " She broke all down a little while ago, and now 
 lies moaning and shivering. Oh, doctor, come right 
 away ! You know how weak she is. This dreadful 
 uspcnse will kill her, I'm afraid." 
 
 " Have you no word of Archie yet ?" asked Doc- 
 
2O4 Wounded in the House of a Friend, 
 
 tor Hillhouse as he dropped the hand he had been 
 holding against his forehead and temples. 
 
 11 None ! So far, we are without a sign." 
 
 " What are you doing ?" 
 
 " Everything that can be thought of. More than 
 twenty of our friends, in concert with the police, are 
 at work in all conceivable ways to get trace of 
 him, but from the moment he left Mr. Birtwell's he 
 dropped out of sight as completely as if the sea had 
 gone over him. Up to this time not the smallest 
 clue to this dreadful mystery has been found. But 
 come, doctor. Every moment is precious." 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse drew out his watch. It was 
 now nearly half-past ten o'clock. His manner was 
 nervous, verging on to excitement. In almost any 
 other case he would have said that it was not possi 
 ble for him to go. But the exigency and the pecu 
 liarly distressing circumstances attending upon this 
 made it next to impossible for him to refuse. 
 
 "At twelve o'clock, Mr. Voss, I have a deli 
 cate and difficult operation to perform, and I have 
 too short a time now for the preparation I need. I 
 am sure you can rely fully on my assistant, Doctor 
 Angier." 
 
 " No, no !" replied Mr. Voss, waving his hand 
 almost impatiently. " I do not want Doctor Angier 
 You must see Mrs. Voss yourself." 
 
 He was imperative, almost angry. What was the 
 delicate and difficult operation to him ? What was 
 anything or anybody that stood in the way of sue- 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 205 
 
 cor for his imperiled wife ? He could not pause to 
 think of others' needs or danger. 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse had to decide quickly, and his 
 decision was on the side where pressure was strongest. 
 He could not deny Mr. Voss. 
 
 He found the poor distressed mother in a condi 
 tion of utter prostration. For a little while after 
 coming out of the swoon into which her first wild 
 fears had thrown her, she had been able to maintain 
 a tolerably calm exterior. But the very effort to do 
 this was a draught on her strength, and in a few hours, 
 under the continued suspense of waiting and hear 
 ing nothing from her boy, the overstrained nerves 
 broke down again, and she sunk into a condition of 
 half-conscious suffering that was painful to see. 
 
 For such conditions medicine can do but little. 
 All that Doctor Hillhouse ventured to prescribe was 
 a quieting draught. It was after eleven o'clock when 
 he got back to his office, where he found Mr. Ridley 
 waiting for him with a note from Doctor Ainsworth. 
 
 " Come for just a single moment," the note said. 
 "There are marked changes in her condition." 
 
 " I cannot ! It is impossible !" exclaimed Doctoi 
 Hillhouse, with an excitement of manner he could 
 not repress. " Doctor Ainsworth can do all that it 
 is in the power of medical skill to accomplish. It 
 will not help her for me to go again now, and an 
 other life is in my hands. I am sorry, Mr. Ridley, 
 but I cannot see your wife again until this afternoon." 
 
 " Oh, doctor, doctor, don't say that !" cried the poor, 
 
 18 
 
206 Wounded in the House of a Friend, 
 
 distressed husband, clasping his hands and looking 
 at Doctor Hillhouse with a pale, imploring face. 
 " Just for a single moment, doctor. Postpone your 
 operation. Ten minutes, or even an hour, can be 
 of no consequence. But life or death may depend 
 on your seeing my wife at once. Come, doctor! 
 Come, for God's sake 1" 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse looked at his watch again, stood 
 in a bewildered, uncertain way for a few moments, 
 and then turned quickly toward the door and went 
 out, Mr. Ridley following. 
 
 44 Get in," he said, waving his hand in the direc 
 tion of his carriage, which still remained in front of 
 his office. Mr. Ridley obeyed. Doctor Hillhouse 
 gave the driver a hurried direction, and sprang in 
 after him. They rode in silence for the whole dis 
 tance to Mr. Ridley's dwelling. 
 
 One glance at the face of the sick woman was 
 enough to show Doctor Hillhouse that she was be 
 yond the reach of professional skill. Her disease, 
 as he had before seen, had taken on its worst form, 
 and was running its fatal course with a malignant 
 impetuosity it was impossible to arrest. The wild 
 fever of anxiety occasioned by her husband's ab 
 sence during that dreadful night, the cold to which, 
 in her delirium of fear, she had exposed herself, 
 the great shock her delicate organism had sustained 
 at a time when even the slightest disturbance might 
 lead to serious consequences, all these causes com 
 bined had so broken down her vitality and poisoned 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 207 
 
 her blood that nature had no force strong enough 
 to rally against the enemies of her life. 
 
 A groan that sounded like a wail of desperation 
 broke from Mr. Ridley's lips as he came in with the 
 doctor and looked at the death-stricken countenance 
 of his wife. The two physicians gazed at each other 
 with ominous faces, and stood silent and helpless at 
 the bedside. 
 
 When Doctor Hillhouse hurried away ten minutes 
 afterward he knew that he had looked for the last 
 time upon his patient. Mr. Ridley did not attempt 
 to detain him. Hope had expired, and he sat bowed 
 and crushed, wishing that he could die. 
 
 The large quantity of opium which had been 
 taken by Mrs. Ridley held all her outward senses 
 locked, and she passed away, soon after Doctor Hill- 
 house retired, without giving her husband a parting 
 word or even a sign of recognition. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WHEN Doctor Hillhouse arrived at his office, 
 it lacked only a quarter of an hour to twelve, 
 the time fixed for the operation on Mrs. Carlton. He 
 found Doctor Kline and Doctor Angier, who were to 
 assist him, both awaiting his return. 
 
 " I thought twelve o'clock the hour ?" said Doctor 
 Kline as he came in hurriedly. 
 
 "So it is. But everything has seemed to work 
 adversely this morning. Mr. Ridley's wife is ex 
 tremely ill dying, in fact and I have had to see her 
 too or three times. Other calls have been impera 
 tive, and here I am within a quarter of an hour of 
 the time fixed for a most delicate operation, and my 
 preparations not half completed." 
 
 Doctor Kline regarded him for a few moments, 
 and then said : 
 
 "This is unfortunate, doctor, and I would advise 
 a postponement until to-morrow. You should have 
 had a morning free from anything but unimportant 
 calls." 
 
 " Oh no. I cannot think of a postponement." Doc 
 tor Hillhouse replied. " All the arrangements have 
 been made at Mr. Carlton's, and my patient is ready., 
 
 208 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 To put it off for a single day might cause a reaction 
 in her feelings and produce an unfavorable condition. 
 Tt will have to be done to-day." 
 
 " You must not think of keeping your appoint 
 ment to the hour," said Doctor Kline, glancing at 
 his watch. " Indeed, that would now be impossible. 
 Doctor Angier had better go and say that we will 
 be there within half an hour. Don't hurry your 
 self in the slightest degree. Take all the time you 
 need to make yourself ready. I will remain and 
 assist you as best I can." 
 
 A clear-seeing and controlling mind was just what 
 Doctor Hillhouse needed at that moment. He saw 
 the value of Doctor Kline's suggestion, and promptly 
 accepted it. Doctor Angier was despatched to the 
 residence of Mr. Carlton to advise that gentleman 
 of the brief delay and to make needed preparations 
 for the work that was to be done. 
 
 The very necessity felt by Doctor Hillhouse for a 
 speedy repression of the excitement from which he 
 was suffering helped to increase the disturbance, and 
 it was only after he had used a stimulant stronger 
 than he wished to take that he found his nerves be 
 coming quiet and the hand on whose steadiness so 
 much depended growing firm. 
 
 At half-past twelve Doctor Hillhouse, in company 
 with Doctor Kline, arrived at Mr. Carlton's. The 
 ivhite face and scared look of the female servant 
 who admitted them showed how strongly fear and 
 sympathy were at work in the house. She directed 
 is* o 
 
2IO Wounded in the Hottse of a Friend. 
 
 them to the room which had been set apart for their 
 use. In the hall above Mr. Carlton met them, and 
 returned with a trembling hand and silent pressure 
 the salutation of the two physicians, who passed into 
 a chamber next to the one occupied by their patient 
 and quickly began the work of making everything 
 ready. Acting from previous concert, they drew the 
 table which had been provided into the best light 
 afforded by the room, and then arranged instruments, 
 bandages and all things needed for the work to be 
 done. 
 
 When all these preparations were completed, notice 
 was given to Mrs. Carlton, who immediately entered 
 from the adjoining room. She was a beautiful wo 
 man, in the very prime of life, and never had she 
 appeared more beautiful than now. Her strong will 
 had mastered fear, strength, courage and resignation 
 looked out from her clear eyes and rested on her 
 firm lips. She smiled, but did not speak. Doctor 
 Hillhouse took her by the hand and led her to the 
 table on which she was to lie during the operation, 
 saying, as he did so, " It will be over in a few min 
 utes, and you will not feel it as much as the scratch 
 of a pin." 
 
 She laid herself down without a moment's hesita 
 tion, and as she did so Doctor Angier, according tc 
 previous arrangement, presented a sponge saturated 
 with ether to her nostrils, and in two minutes com 
 plete anaesthesis was produced. On the instant this 
 took place Doctor Hillhouse made an incision and 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 211 
 
 cut down quickly to the tumor. His hand was 
 steady, and he seemed to be in perfect command of 
 himself. The stimulants he had taken as a last 
 resort were still active on brain and nerves. On 
 reaching the tumor he found it, as he had feared, 
 much larger than its surface presentation indicated. 
 It was a hard, fibrous substance, and deeply seated 
 among the veins, arteries and muscles of the neck. 
 The surgeon's hand retained its firmness ; there was 
 a concentration of thought and purpose that gave 
 science and skill their best results. It took over 
 twenty minutes to dissect the tumor away from all 
 the delicate organs upon which it had laid its grasp, 
 and nearly half as long a time to stanch the flow of 
 blood from the many small arteries which had been 
 severed during the operation. One of these, larger 
 than the rest, eluded for a time the efforts of Doctor 
 Hillhouse at ligation, and he felt uncertain about it 
 even after he had stopped the effusion of blood. In 
 fact, his hand had become unsteady and his brain 
 slightly confused. The active stimulant taken half 
 an hour before was losing its effect and his nerves 
 beginning to give way. He was no longer master 
 of the situation, and the last and, as it proved, the 
 most vital thing in the whole operation was done 
 imperfectly. 
 
 At the end of thirty-five minutes the patient, still 
 under the influence of ether, was carried back to her 
 chamber and laid back upon her bed, quiet as a 
 sleeping infant. 
 
212 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " It is all over," said Doctor Hillhouse as the 
 eyes of Mrs. Carlton unclosed a little while after 
 ward and she looked up into his face. He was no 
 longer the impassive surgeon, but the tender and 
 sympathizing friend. His voice was flooded with 
 feeling and moisture dimmed his eyes. 
 
 What a look of sweet thankfulness came into the 
 face of Mrs. Carlton as she whispered, " And I knew 
 nothing of it !" Then, shutting her eyes and speaking 
 to herself, she said, " It is wonderful. Thank God, 
 thank God !" 
 
 It was almost impossible to restrain Mr. Carlton, 
 so excessive was his delight when the long agony 
 of suspense was over. Doctor Hillhouse had to 
 grasp his arm tightly and hold him back as he 
 stooped down over his wife. In the blindness of 
 his great joy he would have lifted her in his arms. 
 
 " Perfect quiet," said the doctor. " There must 
 be nothing to give her heart a quicker pulsation. 
 Doctor Angier will remain for half an hour to see 
 that all goes well," 
 
 The two surgeons then retired, Doctor Kline 
 accompanying Doctor Hillhouse to his office. The 
 latter was silent all the way. The strain over and 
 the alcoholic stimulation gone, mind and body had 
 alike lost their abnormal tension. 
 
 " I must congratulate you, doctor," said the friend 
 ly surgeon who had assisted in the operation. " It 
 was even more difficult than I had imagined. I 
 never saw a case in which the sheathings of the 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 213 
 
 internal jugular vein and carotid artery were so 
 completely involved. The tumor had made its ugly 
 adhesion all around them. I almost held my breath 
 when the blood from a severed artery spurted over 
 your scalpel and hid from sight the keen edge that 
 was cutting around the internal jugular. A false 
 movement of the hand at that instant might have 
 been fatal." 
 
 " Yes ; and but for the clearness of that inner sight 
 which, in great exigencies, so often supplements the 
 failing natural vision, all might have been lost," re 
 plied Doctor Hillhouse, betraying in his unsteady 
 voice the great reaction from which he was suffering. 
 " If I had known," he added, " that the tumor was 
 so large and its adhesion so extensive, I would not 
 have operated to-day. In fact, I was in no condition 
 for the performance of any operation. I committed 
 a great indiscretion in going to Mr. Birtwell's last 
 night. Late suppers and wine do not leave one's 
 nerves in the best condition, as you and I know very 
 well, doctor ; and as a preparation for work such as 
 we have had on hand to-day nothing could be worse." 
 
 " Didn't I hear something about the disappearance 
 of a young man who left Mr. Birtwell's at a late 
 hour ?" asked Doctor Kline. 
 
 " Nothing has been heard of the son of Wilmei 
 Voss since he went away from Mr. Birtwell's about 
 one o'clock," rep'ied Doctor Hillhouse, "and his fam 
 ily are in great distress about him. Mrs. Voss, who 
 is one of my patients, is in very delicate health, and 
 
214 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 when I saw her at eleven o'clock to-day was lying 
 in a critical condition." 
 
 '* There is something singular about that party at 
 Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell's," added Doctor Hillhouse, 
 after a pause. " I hardly know what to make of it." 
 
 " Singular in what respect ?" asked the other. 
 
 The face of Doctor Hillhouse grew more serious : 
 
 "You know Mr. Ridley, the lawyer? He was in 
 Congress a few years ago." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He was very intemperate at one time, and fell so 
 low that even his party rejected him. He then re 
 formed and came to this city, where he entered upon 
 the practice of his profession, and has been for a 
 year or two advancing rapidly. I attended his wife 
 a few days ago, and saw her yesterday afternoon, 
 when she was continuing to do well. There were 
 some indications of excitement about her, though 
 whether from mental or physical causes I could not 
 tell, but nothing to awaken concern. This morning 
 I found her in a most critical condition. Puerperal 
 fever had set in, with evident extensive peritoneal 
 involvement. The case was malignant, all the 
 abdominal viscera being more or less affected. I 
 learned from the nurse that Mr. Ridley was away all 
 night, and that Mrs. Ridley, who was restless and 
 feverish through the evening, became agitated and 
 slightly delirious after twelve o'clock, talking about 
 and calling for her husband, whom she imagined 
 dying in the storm, that now raged with dreadful 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 2 1 5 
 
 violence. No help could be had all night; and when 
 we saw her this morning, it was too late for medicine 
 to control the fatal disease which was running its 
 course with almost unprecedented rapidity. She was 
 dying when I saw her at half-past eleven this morn 
 ing. This case and that of Mrs. Voss were the ones 
 that drew so largely on my time this morning, and 
 helped to disturb me so much, and both were in con 
 sequence of Mr. Birtwell's party." 
 
 " They might have an indirect connection with the 
 party," returned Doctor Kline, " but can hardly be 
 called legitimate consequences." 
 
 " They are legitimate consequences of the free 
 wine and brandy dispensed at Mr. Birtwell's," said 
 Doctor Hillhouse. "Tempted by its sparkle and 
 flavor, Archie Voss, as pure and promising a young 
 man as you will find in the city, was lured on until 
 he had taken more than his brain would bear. In 
 this state he went out at midnight alone in a blind 
 ing storm and lost his way how or where is not 
 yet known. He may have been set upon and robbed 
 and murdered in his helpless condition, or he may 
 have fallen into a pit where he lies buried beneath 
 the snow, or he may have wandered in his blind 
 bewilderment to the river and gone down under its 
 chilling waters. 
 
 " Mr. Ridley, with his old appetite not dead, but 
 only half asleep and lying in wait for an opportunity, 
 goes also to Mr. Birtwell's, and the sparkle and flavor 
 of wine and the invitations that are pressed upon 
 
216 Wounded m tlte House of a Friend. 
 
 him from all sides prove too much for his good reso 
 lutions. He tastes and falls. He goes in his right 
 mind, and comes away so much intoxicated that he 
 cannot find his way home. How he reached there 
 at last I do not know he must have been in some 
 station-house until daylight ; but when I saw him, 
 his pitiable suffering and alarmed face made my 
 heart ache. He had killed his wife ! He, or the 
 wine he found at Mr. Birtwell's ? Which ?" 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse was nervous and excited, using 
 stronger language than was his wont. 
 
 "And I," he added, before Doctor Kline could 
 respond " I went to the party also, and the sparkle 
 and flavor of wine and spirit of conviviality that 
 pervaded the company lured me also not weak like 
 Archie, nor with a shattered self-control like Mr. 
 Ridley to drink far beyond the bounds of prudence, 
 as my nervous condition to-day too surely indi 
 cates. A kind of fatality seems to have attended 
 this party." 
 
 The doctor gave a little shiver, which was ob 
 served by Doctor Kline. 
 
 "Not a nervous chill?" said the latter, manifesting 
 concern. 
 
 "No; a moral chill, if I may use such a term," 
 replied Doctor Hillhouse "a shudder at the thought 
 of what might have been as one of the consequences 
 of Mr. Birtwell's liberal dispensation of wine." 
 
 " The strain of the morning's work has been too 
 much for you, doctor, and given your mind an un- 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 217 
 
 healthy activity," said his companion. " You want 
 rest and time for recuperation." 
 
 " It would have been nothing except for the bale 
 ful effects of that party," answered the doctor, whose 
 thought could not dissever itself from the unhappy 
 consequences which had followed the carousal (is 
 the word too strong?) at Mr. Birtwell's. "If I had 
 not been betrayed into drinking wine enough to dis 
 turb seriously my nervous system and leave it weak 
 and uncertain to-day, if Mr. Ridley had not been 
 tempted to his fall, if poor Archie Voss had been at 
 home last night instead of in the private drinking- 
 saloon of one of our most respected citizens, do you 
 think that hand," holding up his right hand as he 
 spoke, " would have lost for a moment its cunning 
 to-day and put in jeopardy a precious life ?" 
 
 The doctor rose from his chair in much excite 
 ment and walked nervously about the room. 
 
 " It did not lose its cunning," said Doctor Kline, 
 in a calm but emphatic voice. " I watched you from 
 the moment of the first incision until the last artery 
 was tied, and a truer hand I never saw." 
 
 "Thank God that the stimulus which I had to 
 substitute for nervous power held out as long as it 
 did. If it had failed a few moments sooner, I might 
 have " 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse checked himself and gave an 
 other little shudder. 
 
 " Do you know, doctor," he said, after a pause, 
 speaking in a low, half-confidential tone and with 
 
 19 
 
2 1 8 Wounded m the House of a Friend. 
 
 greit seriousness of manner, " when I severed that 
 small artery as I was cutting close to the inter 
 nal jugular vein and the jet of blood hid both the 
 knife-points and the surrounding tissues, that for an 
 instant I was in mental darkness and that I did not 
 know whether I should cut to the right or to the 
 left ? If in that moment of darkness I had cut to 
 the right, my instrument would have penetrated the 
 jugular vein." 
 
 It was several moments before either of the sur 
 geons spoke again. There was a look something 
 like fear in both their faces. 
 
 " It is the last time," said Doctor Hillhouse, break 
 ing at length the silence and speaking with unwonted 
 emphasis, " that a drop of wine or brandy shall pass 
 my lips within forty-eight hours of any operation." 
 
 " I am not so sure that you will help as much as 
 hurt by this abstinence," replied Doctor Kline. " If 
 you are in the habit of using wine daily, I should 
 say keep to your regular quantity. Any change 
 will be a disturbance and break the fine nervous ten 
 sion that is required. It is easy to account for your 
 c< edition to-day. If you had taken only your one 
 or two or three glasses yesterday, as the case may 
 be, and kept away from the excitement and par 
 don me excesses of last night anything beyond 
 the ordinary rule in these things is an excess, you 
 know there would have been no failure of the 
 nerves at a critical juncture." 
 
 " Is not the mind clearer and the nerves steadied 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 219 
 
 when sustained by healthy nutrition than when toned 
 up by stimulants?" asked Doctor Hillhouse. 
 
 " If stimulants have never been taken, yes. But 
 you know that we all use stimulants in one form or 
 another, and to suddenly remove them is to leave 
 the nerves partially unstrung." 
 
 " Which brings us face to face with the question 
 whether or not alcoholic stimulants are hurtful to 
 the delicate and wonderfully complicated machinery 
 of the human body. I say alcoholic, for we know 
 that all the stimulation we get from wine or beer 
 comes from the presence of alcohol." 
 
 While Doctor Hillhouse was speaking, the office 
 bell rang violently. As soon as the door was opened 
 a man came in hurriedly and handed him a slip of 
 paper on which were written these few words : 
 
 "An artery has commenced bleeding. Come 
 q'rickly! ANGIER." 
 
 Doctor Hillhouse started to his feet and gave a 
 quick order for his carriage. As it drove up to the 
 office-door soon after, he sprang in, accompanied by 
 Doctor Kline. He had left his case of instruments 
 at the house with Doctor Angier. 
 
 Not a word was spoken by either of the two men 
 as they were whirled along over the snow, the wheels 
 of the carriage giving back only a sharp crisping 
 sound, but their faces were very sober. 
 
 Mr. Carlton met them, looking greatly alarmed. 
 
 "Oh, doctor," he exclaimed as he caught the 
 hand of Doctor Hillhouse, almost crushing it in his 
 
22O Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 grasp, "I am so glad you are here. I was afraid 
 she might bleed to death." 
 
 " No danger of that," replied Doctor Hillhouse, 
 trying to look assured and to speak with confidence. 
 " It is only the giving way of some small artery 
 which will have to be tied again." 
 
 On reaching his patient, Doctor Hillhouse found 
 that one of the small arteries he had been compelled 
 to sever in his work of cutting the tumor away from 
 the surrounding parts was bleeding freely. Half a 
 dozen handkerchiefs and napkins had already been 
 saturated with blood; and as it still came freely, 
 nothing was left but to reopen the wound and re- 
 ligate the artery. 
 
 Ether was promptly given, and as soon as the 
 patient was fairly under its influence the bandages 
 were removed and the sutures by which the wound 
 had been drawn together cut. The cavity left by 
 the tumor was, of course, full of blood. This was 
 taken out with sponges, when at the lower part of 
 the orifice a thin jet of blood was visible. The sur 
 rounding parts had swollen, thus embedding the 
 mouth of the artery so deeply that it could not be 
 recovered without again using the knife. What fol 
 lowed will be best understood if given in the doc 
 tor's own words in a relation of the circumstances 
 made by him a few years afterward. 
 
 " As you will see," he said, " I was in the worst 
 possible condition for an emergency like this. I had 
 used no stimulus since returning from Mr. Carlton's, 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 22 i 
 
 though just going to order wine when the summons 
 from Doctor Angier came. If I had taken a glass or 
 two, it would have been better, but the imperative 
 nature of the summons disconcerted me. I was just 
 in the condition to be disturbed and confused. I 
 remembered when too late the grave omission, and 
 had partly resolved to ask Mr. Carlton for a glass 
 of wine before proceeding to reopen the wound and 
 search for the bleeding artery. But a too vivid recol 
 lection of my recent conversation with him about 
 Doctor Kline prevented my doing so. 
 
 " I felt my hand tremble as I removed the ban 
 dages and opened the deep cavity left by the dis 
 placed tumor. After the blood with which it was 
 filled had been removed, I saw at the deepest part 
 of the cavity the point from which the blood was 
 flowing, and made an effort to recover the artery, 
 which, owing to the uncertainty of hand which had 
 followed the loss of stimulation, I had tied imper 
 fectly. But it was soon apparent that the parts had 
 swollen, and that I should have to cut deeper in 
 order to get possession of the artery, which lay in 
 close contact with the internal jugular vein. Doctor 
 Kline was holding the head and shoulders of the 
 patient in such a way as to give tension to all the ves 
 sels of the neck, while my assistant held open the lip? 
 of the wound, so that I could see well into the cavity. 
 
 " My hand did not recover its steadiness. As I 
 began cutting down to find the artery I seemed sud 
 denly to be smitten with blindness and to lose a 
 10 
 
222 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 clear perception of what I was doing. It seemed 
 as if some malignant spirit had for the moment got 
 possession of me, coming in through the disorder 
 wrought in my nervous system by over stimulation, 
 and used the hand I could no longer see to guide 
 the instrument I was holding for death instead of 
 life. I remember now that a sudden impulse seemed 
 given to my arm as if some one had struck it a blow. 
 Then a sound which it had never before been my 
 misfortune to hear and I pray God I may never 
 hear it again startled me to an agonized sense of 
 the disaster I had wrought. Too well I knew the 
 meaning of the lapping, hissing, sucking noise that 
 instantly smote our ears. I had made a deep cut 
 across the jugular vein, the wound gaping widely in 
 consequence of the tension given to the vein by the 
 position of the patient's head. A large quantity of 
 air rushed in instantly. 
 
 " An exclamation of alarm from Doctor Kline, as 
 he changed the position of the patient's neck in 
 order to force the lips of the wound together and 
 stop the fatal influx of air, roused me from a mo 
 mentary stupor, and I came back into complete self- 
 possession. The fearful exigency of the moment gave 
 to nerve and brain all the stimulus they required. 
 Already there was a struggle for breath, and the 
 face of Mrs. Carlton, which had been slightly suf 
 fused with color, became pale and distressed. Suffi 
 cient air had entered to change the condition of the 
 blood in the right cavities of the heart, and prevent 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 223 
 
 its free transmission to the lungs. We could hear 3 
 churning sound occasioned by the blood and air 
 being whipped together in the heart, and on apply 
 ing the hand to the chest could feel a strange thrill 
 ing or rasping sensation. 
 
 " The most eminent surgeons differ in regard to 
 the best treatment in cases like this, which are of 
 very rare occurrence ; to save life the promptest 
 action is required. So large an opening as I had 
 unhappily made in this vein could not be quit kly 
 closed, and with each inspiration of the patient n ore 
 air was sucked in, so that the blood in the J.ght 
 cavities of the heart soon became beaten into a 
 spumous froth that could not be forced except in 
 small quantities through the pulmonary vessel? into 
 the lungs. 
 
 " The effect of a diminished supply of blood to 
 the brain and nervous centres quickly became ap 
 parent in threatened syncope. Our only hope lay 
 in closing the wound so completely that no more 
 air could enter, and then removing from the heart 
 and capillaries of the lungs the air already received, 
 and now hindering the flow of blood to the brain 
 One mode of treatment recommended by French 
 surgeons consists in introducing the pipe of a cathe 
 ter through the wound, if in the right jugular, vein 
 or if not, through an opening made for the purpose 
 in that vein and the withdrawal of the air from the 
 right auricle of the heart by suction. 
 
 " Doctor Kline favored this treatment, but I knew 
 
224 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 that it would be fatal. Any reopening of the wound 
 now partially closed in order to introduce a tube, 
 even if my instrument case had contained one of 
 suitable size and length, must necessarily have ad 
 mitted a large additional quantity of air, and so made 
 death certain. 
 
 " Indecision in a case like this is fatal. Nothing 
 but the right thing done with an instant promptness 
 can save the imperiled life. But what was the right 
 thing ? No more air must be permitted to enter, 
 and the blood must be unloaded as quickly as pos 
 sible of the air now obstructing its way to the lungs, 
 so that the brain might get a fresh supply before it was 
 too late. We succeeded in the first, but not in the 
 last. Too much air had entered, and my patient was 
 beyond the reach of professional aid. She sank 
 rapidly, and in less than an hour from the time my 
 hand, robbed of its skill by wine, failed m its wonted 
 cunning, she lay white and still before me." 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IT was late in the afternoon when Mrs. Voss came 
 out of the deep sleep into which the quieting 
 draught administered by Doctor Hillhouse had 
 thrown her. She awoke from a dream so vivid that 
 she believed it real. 
 
 " Oh, Archie, my precious boy !" she exclaimed, 
 starting up and reaching out her hands, a glad light 
 beaming on her countenance. 
 
 While her hands were still outstretched the light 
 began to fade, and then died out as suddenly as 
 when a curtain falls. The boy who stood before her 
 in such clear presence had vanished. Her eyes 
 swept about the room, but he was not there. A 
 deadly pallor on her face, a groan on her lips, she 
 fell back shuddering upon the pillow from which she 
 had risen. 
 
 Mr. Voss, who was sitting at the bedside, put his 
 arm under her, and lifting her head, drew it against 
 his breast, holding it there tightly, but not speaking. 
 He had no comfort to give, no assuring word to 
 offer. Not a ray of light had yet come in through 
 the veil of mystery that hung so darkly over the 
 fate of their absent boy. Many minutes passed ere 
 the silence was broken. In that time the mother's 
 
 P 225 
 
226 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 heart had grown calmer. She was turning, in hei 
 weakness and despair, with religious trust, to the 
 only One who was able to sustain her in this great 
 and crushing sorrow. 
 
 " He is in God's hands," she said, in a low voice, 
 lifting her head from her husband's breast and look 
 ing into his face. 
 
 " And he will take care of him," replied Mr. Voss, 
 falling in with her thought 
 
 " Yes, we must trust him. He is present in every 
 place. He knows where Archie is, and how to 
 shield and succor him. O heavenly Father, pro 
 tect our boy! If in danger, help and save him 
 And, O Father, give me strength to bear whatever 
 may come." 
 
 The mother closed her eyes and laid her head 
 back upon her husband's bosom. The rigidity and 
 distress went out of her face. In this hour of dark 
 ness and distress, God, to whom she looked and 
 prayed for strength, came very close to her, and in 
 his nearer presence there is always comfort. 
 
 But as the day declined and the shadows of 
 another dreary winter night began to draw their sol 
 emn curtains across the sky the mother's heart failed 
 again, and a wild storm of fear and anguish swept 
 over it Neither policemen nor friends had been 
 able to discover a trace of the missing young man, 
 and advertisements were given out for the papers 
 next morning, offering a large reward for his resto- 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 227 
 
 ration to his friends if living or for the recovery of 
 his body if dead 
 
 The true cause of Archie's disappearance began 
 to be feared by many of his friends. It did not seem 
 possible that he could have dropped so completely 
 out of sight unless on the theory that he had lost 
 his way in the storm and fallen into the river. This 
 suggestion as scon as it came to Mrs. Voss settled 
 into a conviction. Her imagination brooded over 
 the idea and brought the reality before her mind 
 with such a cruel vividness that she almost saw 
 the tragedy enacted, and heard again that cry of 
 "Mother!" which had seemed to mingle with the 
 wild shrieks of the tempest, but which came only to 
 her inner sense. 
 
 She dreamed that night a dream which, though it 
 confirmed all this, tranquilized and comforted her. 
 In a vision her boy stood by her bedside and smiled 
 upon her with his old loving smile. He bent over 
 and kissed her with his wonted tenderness ; he laid 
 his hand on her forehead with a soft pressure, and 
 she felt the touch thrilling to her heart in sweet and 
 tender impulses. 
 
 - It is all well with me," he said ; " I shall wait for 
 you, mother." 
 
 And then he bent over and kissed her again, thf 
 pressure of his lips bringing an unspeakable joy to 
 her heart With this joy filling and pervading it, she 
 awoke. From that hour Mrs. Voss never doubted 
 for a single moment that her son was dead, nor that 
 
228 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 he had come to her in a vision of the night. As a 
 Christian woman with whom faith was no mere ideal 
 thing or vague uncertainty, she accepted her great 
 affliction as within the sphere and permission of a 
 good and wise Providence, and submitted herself to 
 the sad dispensation with a patience that surprised 
 her friends. 
 
 Months passed, and yet the mystery was unsolved. 
 The large reward offered by Mr. Voss for the recov 
 ery of his son's remains kept hundreds of fishermen 
 and others who frequented the river banks and shores 
 of the bay leading down to the ocean on the alert. 
 As the spring opened and the ice began to give way 
 and float, these men examined every inlet, cove and 
 bar where the tide in its ebb and flow might possibly 
 have left the body for which they were in search ; 
 and one day, late in the month of March, they found 
 it, three miles away from the city, where it had drifted 
 by the current 
 
 The long-accepted theory of the young man's 
 death was proved by this recovery of his body. No 
 violence was found upon it. The diamond pin had 
 not been taken from his shirt-bosom, nor the gold 
 watch from his pocket. On the dial of his watch 
 the hands, stopping their movement as the chill of 
 the icy water struck the delicate machinery, had 
 recorded the hour of his death ten minutes to one 
 o'clock. 
 
 It was not possible, under the strain of such an 
 affliction and the wear of a suspense that no human 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 229 
 
 heart was able to endure without waste of life, for 
 one in feeble health like Mrs. Voss to hold her own. 
 Friends read in her patient face and quiet mouth, 
 and eyes that had a far-away look, the signs of a 
 coming change that could not be very far off. 
 
 After the sad certainty came and the looking and 
 longing and waiting were over, after the solemn 
 services of the church had been said and the cast- 
 off earthly garments of her precious boy hidden 
 away from sight for ever, the mother's hold upon 
 life grew feebler every day. She was slowly drifting 
 out from the shores of time, and no hand was strong 
 enough to hold her back. A sweet patience smoothed 
 away the lines of suffering which months of sorrow 
 and uncertainty had cut in her brow, the grieving 
 curves of her pale lips were softened by tender sub 
 mission, the far-off look was still in her eyes, but it 
 was no longer fixed and dreary. Her thought went 
 away from herself to others. The heavenly sphere 
 into which she had come through submission to her 
 Father's will and a humble looking to God for help 
 and comfort began to pervade her soul and fill it with 
 that divine self-forgetting which all who come spirit 
 ually near to him must feel. 
 
 She could not go out and do strong and widely- 
 felt work for humanity, could not lift up the fallen, 
 nor help the weak, nor visit the sick, nor comfort 
 the prisoner, though often her heart yearned to help 
 and strengthen the suffering and the distressed. But 
 few if any could come into the chamber where most 
 
 20 
 
230 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 of her days were spent without feeling the sphere 
 oi her higher and purer life, and many, influenced 
 thereby, went out to do the good works to which she 
 so longed to put her hands. So from the narrow 
 bounds of her chamber went daily a power for good, 
 and many who knew her not were helped or com 
 forted or lifted into purer and better lives because 
 of her patient submission to God and reception of 
 his love into her soul. 
 
 It is not surprising that one thought took a deep 
 hold upon her. The real cause of Archie's death 
 was the wine he had taken in the house of her friend. 
 But for that he could never have lost his way in the 
 streets of his native city, never have stepped from 
 solid ground into the engulfing water. 
 
 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 them 
 selves 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 an 
 swered. 
 
 One day one of her attentive friends who had 
 called on her said : 
 
 "I heard a sorrowful story yesterday, and can't 
 pet it out of my mind." 
 
Wounded irt the House of a Friend. 231 
 
 Before Mrs. Voss could reply a servant came in 
 with a card. 
 
 :4 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 passed, 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 feel 
 ings 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. Birt 
 well would have thrown her arms about her and 
 clasped her in a passion 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 refer 
 ence 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 
 
232 Wounded in the House of a Friend* 
 
 hand by a servant never failed to bring a shadoM 
 and sometimes a chill to her heart. 
 
 In a few moments Mrs. Birtwell entered the room ; 
 and after the usual greetings and some passing re 
 marks, Mrs. Voss said, speaking to the lady with 
 whom she had been conversing : 
 
 "What were you going to say about some sor 
 rowful 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 
 embarrassment. But Mrs. Voss, not particularly no 
 ticing 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 atone of regret and sympathy. 'And I 
 wish I knew just what to do about it' 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 233 
 
 " ' 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 expres 
 sion 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 
 Washington, 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 busi 
 ness 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 appetite and pride urged 
 him to accept the fatal proffer. If he went to a pub- 
 
 20* 
 
234 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 lie or private entertainment, the same perils com 
 passed him about. From all these he is said to have 
 held himself aloof for over a year, but his reputa 
 tion 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. Rid 
 ley's personal accomplishments and relationship with 
 one or two families in the State of high social posi 
 tion 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 sup 
 per-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 dashing the fast-falling 
 snow in its wild passion against the windows of the 
 room in which his sick wife lay. Rest of body and 
 mind was impossible, freedom from anxiety impos 
 sible. 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 
 busband wo ild encounter on that night; and if he 
 
Wounded iu the House of a Friend. 235 
 
 fell ! The thought chilled her blood, as well it might, 
 and sent a shiver 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 anx 
 iety in check, though fever had crept into her blood 
 and an enemy to her life was assaulting its very cita 
 del. But as the hour at which her husband had prom 
 ised to return passed by and he came not, anxiety- 
 gave place to terror. The fever in her blood in 
 creased, and sent delirium to her brain. Hour^ 
 passed, but her husband did not return. Not untij 
 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 perishing 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 mpther had taken, following a few 
 days afterward. 
 
 " * That was months ago. Alas for the wretched 
 man ! He has never riser; from that terrible fall, 
 never even made arj effort, it is said, to struggle to 
 his feet again. He gave up in despair. 
 
 " ' His eldest child, Ethel, the young lady you 
 law just now, was away from home at school when 
 
336 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 expe 
 rience 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 cour 
 age. 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 accumulated 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 1 
 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-govern 
 ess. 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. Birt 
 well. 
 
 " 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. Birt 
 well. 
 
 237 
 
238 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " 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 inde- 
 termination 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 man 
 ner. 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 con 
 traction of her brows it was evident that some 
 strong purpose was taking shape in her thoughts. 
 
 As she was passing 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 car 
 riage moved away she said : 
 
 " I heard something to-day that troubles me. 
 I ^zm told that Mr. Ridley, since the death of his 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 239 
 
 wife, has become very intemperate, and that his 
 family are destitute so much so, indeed, that his 
 daughter has applied to you for the situation of day- 
 governess in order to earn something for their sup 
 port." 
 
 "It is too true," replied Mrs. Sandford. "The 
 poor child came to see me in answer to an adver 
 tisement." 
 
 " Have you engaged her ?" 
 
 "No. She is too young and inexperienced for 
 the place. But something must be done for her." 
 
 " What ? Have you thought out anything ? You 
 may count on my sympathy and co-operation." 
 
 " The first thing to be done," replied Mrs. Sand- 
 ford, " is to lift her out of her present wretched con 
 dition. She must not be left where she is, bur 
 dened with the support of her drunken and debased 
 father. She is too weak for that too young and 
 beautiful and innocent to be left amid the tempta 
 tions and sorrows of a life such as she must lead if 
 no one comes to her rescue." 
 
 " But what will become of her father if you re 
 move his child from him ?" asked Mrs. Birtwell. 
 
 Her voice betrayed concern. The carriage stopped 
 at the residence of Mrs. Sandford, and the two ladies 
 went in. 
 
 "What will become of her wretched father?" 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell repeated her question as they en 
 tered the parlors. 
 
 " He is beyond our reach," was answered. " When 
 
240 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 a man falls so low, the case is hopeless. He is the 
 slave of an appetite that never gives up its victims 
 It is a sad and a sorrowful thing, I know, to abandon 
 all efforts to save a human soul, to see it go drifting 
 off into the rapids with the sound of the cataract in 
 your ears, and it is still more sad and sorrowful to 
 be obliged to hold back the loving ones who could 
 only perish in their vain attempts at rescue. So I 
 view the case. Ethel must not be permitted to sac 
 rifice herself for her father." 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell sat for a long time without replying. 
 Her eyes were bent upon the floor. 
 
 " Hopeless !" she murmured, at length, in a low 
 voice that betrayed the pain she felt. " Surely that 
 cannot be so. While there is life there must be 
 hope. God is not dead !" 
 
 She uttered the last sentence with a strong rising 
 inflection in her tones. 
 
 " But the drunkard seems dead to all the saving 
 influences that God or man can bring to bear upon 
 him," replied Mrs. Sandford. 
 
 " No, no, no ! I will not believe it," said Mrs. 
 Birtwell, speaking now with great decision of man 
 ner. " God can and does save to the uttermost all 
 who come unto him." 
 
 " Yes, all who come unto him. But men like Mr. 
 Ridley seem to have lost the power of going to 
 God." 
 
 " Then is it not our duty to help them to go ? A 
 man with a broken leg cannot walk to the home 
 
Wounded in tJie House of a Friend. 24 i 
 
 where love and care await him, but his Good Samari 
 tan neighbor who finds him by the way can help him 
 thither. The traveler benumbed with cold lies help 
 less in the road, and will perish if some merciful 
 hand does not lift him up and bear him to a place 
 of safety. Even so these unhappy men who, as you 
 say, seem to have lost the power of returning to 
 God, can be lifted up, I am sure, and set down, as it 
 were, in his very presence, there to feel his saving, 
 comforting and renewing power." 
 
 44 Perhaps so. Nothing is impossible," said Mrs. 
 Sandford, with but little assent in her voice. " But 
 v./ho is to lift them up and where will you take them i* 
 Let us instance Mr. Ridley for the sake of illustra 
 tion. What will you do with him ? How will you 
 go about the work of rescue ? Tell me." 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell had nothing to propose. She only 
 felt an intense yearning to save this man, and in her 
 yearning an undefined confidence had been born 
 There must be a way to save even the most wretched 
 and abandoned of human beings, if we could but 
 find that way, and so she would not give up her 
 hope of Mr. Ridley nay, her hope grew stronger 
 every moment ; and to all the suggestions of Mrs 
 Sanford looking to help for the daughter she sup 
 plemented something that included the father, and so 
 pressed her views that the other became half impa 
 tient and exclaimed : 
 
 " I will have nothing to do with the miserable 
 wretch 1" 
 
 *l Q 
 
242 Wounded in .he House of a Friend. 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell went away with a heavy heart aftel 
 leaving a small sum of money for Mrs. Sandford to 
 use as her judgment might dictate, saying that she 
 would call and see her again in a few days. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Brantly Elliott was sitting in his 
 pleasant study, engaged in writing, when a servant 
 opened the door and said : 
 
 " A gentleman wishes to see you, sir." 
 
 " What name ?" asked the clergyman. 
 
 " He did not give me his name. I asked him, but 
 he said it wasn't any matter. I think he's been 
 drinking, sir." 
 
 " Ask him to send his name," said Mr. Elliott, a 
 slight shade of displeasure settling over his pleasant 
 face. 
 
 The servant came back with information that the 
 visitor's name was Ridley. At mention of this 
 name the expression on Mr. Elliott's countenance 
 changed : 
 
 " Did you say he was in liquor ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. Shall I tell him that you cannot sec 
 him, sir?" 
 
 " No. Is he very much the worse for drink ?" 
 
 " He's pretty bad, I should say, sir." 
 
 Mr. Elliott reflected for a little while, and then 
 said : 
 
 " I will see him." 
 
 The servant retired. In a few minutes he came 
 back, and opening the door, let the visitor pass in. 
 He stood for a few moments with his hand on the 
 
"The man who now stood before him was a pitiabU 
 object indeed 
 
 PAGE 243. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 243 
 
 door, as if unwilling to leave Mr. Elliott alone with 
 the miserable-looking creature he had brought to 
 the study. Observing him hesitate, Mr. Elliott said: 
 
 " That will do, Richard." 
 
 The servant shut the door, and he was alone with 
 Mr. Ridley. Of the man's sad story he was not 
 altogether ignorant. His fall from the high position 
 to which he had risen in two years and utter aban 
 donment of himself to drink were matters of too 
 much notoriety to have escaped his knowledge 
 But that he was in the slightest degree responsible 
 for this wreck of a human soul was so far from his 
 imagination as that of his responsibility for the last 
 notorious murder or bank-robbery. 
 
 The man who now stood before him was a piti 
 able-looking object indeed. Not that he was ragged 
 or filthy in attire or person. Though all his gar 
 ments were poor and threadbare, they were not soiled 
 nor in disorder. Either a natural instinct of per 
 sonal cleanliness yet remained or a loving hand had 
 cared for him. But he was pitiable in the signs of a 
 wrecked and fallen manhood that were visible every 
 where about him. You saw it most in his face, once 
 so full of strength and intelligence, now so weak 
 and dull and disfigured. The mouth so mobile and 
 strong only a few short months before was now 
 drooping and weak, its fine chiseling all obliterated 
 or overlaid with fever crusts. His eyes, once steady 
 and clear as eagles', were now bloodshotten and 
 restless. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 He stood looking fixedly at Mr. Elliott, and with 
 a gleam in his eyes that gave the latter a strange 
 feeling of discomfort, if not uneasiness. 
 
 " Mr. Ridley ," said the clergyman, advancing to 
 his visitor and extending his hand. He spoke 
 knully, yet with a reserve that could not be laid 
 aside. " What can I do for you ?" 
 
 A chair was offered, and Mr. Ridley sat down. 
 He had come with a purpose ; that was plain from 
 his manner. 
 
 "I am sorry to see you in this condition, Mr. 
 Ridley," said the clergyman, who felt it to be his 
 duty to speak a word of reproof. 
 
 " In what condition, sir?" demanded the visitor, 
 drawing himself up with an air of offended dignity. 
 " I don't understand you." 
 
 44 You have been drinking," said Mr. Elliott, in a 
 tone of severity. 
 
 "No, sir. I deny it, sir!" and the eyes of Mr. 
 Ridley flashed. 4t Before Heaven, sir, not a drop has 
 passed my lips to-day 1" 
 
 His breath, loaded with the fumes of a recent glass 
 of whisky, was filling the clergyman's nostrils. Mr. 
 Elliott was confounded by this denial. What was 
 to be done with such a man ? 
 
 " Not a drop, sir," repeated Mr. Ridley. " The 
 vile stuff is killing me. I must give it up." 
 
 "It is your only hope," said the clergyman. 
 '* You must give up the vile stuff, as you call it, or 
 it will indeed kill you." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 245 
 
 "That's just why I've come to you, Mr. Elliott 
 You understand this matter better than most people. 
 I've heard you talk." 
 
 " Heard me talk ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. It's pure wine that the people want. 
 My sentiments exactly. If we had pure wine, we'd 
 have no drunkenness. You know that as well as I 
 do. I've heard you talk, Mr. Elliott, and you talk 
 right yes, right, sir." 
 
 " When did you hear me talk ?" asked Mr. Elliott, 
 who was beginning to feel worried. 
 
 " Oh at a party last winter. I was there and heard 
 you." 
 
 "What did I say?" 
 
 " Just these words, and they took right hold of 
 me. You said that pure wine could hurt no one, un 
 less indeed his appetite were vitiated by the use of 
 alcohol, and even then you believed that the mode 
 rate use of strictly pure wine would restore the 
 normal taste and free a man from the tyranny of 
 an enslaving vice. That set me to thinking. It 
 sounded just right. And then you were a clergy 
 man, you see, and had studied out these things, and 
 so your opinion was worth something. There's no 
 reason in your cold-water men ; they don't believe m 
 anything but their patent cut-off. In their eyes 
 wine is an abomination, the mother of all evil, 
 though the Bible doesn't say so, Mr. Elliott, does 
 it?" 
 
 At this reference to the Bible in connection with 
 
 21 
 
246 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 wine, the clergyman's memory supplied a few pas 
 sages that were not at the moment pleasant to recall. 
 Such as, " Wine is a mocker ;" " Look not upon the 
 wine when it is red;" "Who hath woe? who hath 
 sorrow ? . . . They that tarry long at the wine ;" 
 " At last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like 
 an adder." 
 
 " The Bible speaks often of the misuse of wine," 
 he answered, "and strongly condemns drunkenness." 
 
 "Of course it does, and gluttony as well. But 
 against the moderate use of good wine not a word 
 is said. Isn't that so, sir ?" 
 
 "Six months ago you were a sober man, Mr. 
 Ridley, and a useful and eminent citizen. Why did 
 you not remain so ?" 
 
 Mr. Elliott almost held his breath for the answer. 
 He had waived the discussion into which his vis 
 itor was drifting, and put his question almost des 
 perately. 
 
 " Because your remedy failed." Mr. Ridley spoke 
 in a repressed voice, but with a deliberate utterance. 
 There was a glitter in his eyes, out of which looked 
 an evil triumph. 
 
 " My remedy ? What remedy ?" 
 
 " The good wine remedy. I tried it at Mr. Birt- 
 well's one night last winter. But it didn't work 
 And here I am /" 
 
 Mr. Elliott made no reply. A blow from the arm 
 of a strong man could not have hurt or stunned him 
 more. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 247 
 
 "You needn't feel so dreadfully about it," said 
 Mr. Ridley, seeing the effect produced on the clergy 
 man. " It wasn't any fault of yours. The prescrip 
 tion was all right, but, you see, the wine wasn't 
 good. If it had been pure, the kind you drink, 
 all would have been well. I should have gained 
 strength instead of having the props knocked from 
 under me." 
 
 But Mr. Elliott did not answer. The magnitude 
 of the evil wrought through his unguarded speech 
 appalled him. He had learned, in his profession, 
 to estimate the value of a human soul, or rather to 
 consider it as of priceless value. And here was a 
 human soul cast by his hand into a river whose 
 swift waters were hurrying it on to destruction. The 
 sudden anguish that he felt sent beads of sweat to 
 his forehead and drew his flexible lips into rigid 
 lines. 
 
 " Now, don't be troubled about it," urged Mr. Rid 
 ley. " You were all right. It was Mr. Birtwell's 
 bad wine that did the mischief." 
 
 Then his manner changed, and his voice falling 
 to a tone of solicitation, he said : 
 
 " And now, Mr. Elliott, you know good wine 
 you don't have anything else. I believe in your 
 theory as much as I believe in my existence. It 
 stands to reason. I'm all broken up and run down. 
 Not much left of me, you see. Bad liquor is killing 
 me, and I can't stop. If I do, I shall die. God 
 help me !" 
 
248 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 His voice shook now, and the muscles of his face 
 quivered. 
 
 " Some good wine some pure wine, Mr. Elliott P 
 he went on, his voice rising and his manner becom 
 ing more excited. " It's all over with me unless I 
 can get pure wine. Save me, Mr. Elliott, save me, 
 for God's sake !" 
 
 The miserable man held out his hands implor 
 ingly. There was a wild look in his face. He was 
 trembling from head to foot. 
 
 " One glass of pure wine, Mr. Elliott just one 
 glass." Thus he kept on pleading for the stimulant 
 his insatiable appetite was craving. " I'm a drown 
 ing man. The floods are about me. I am sinking 
 in dark waters. And you can save me if you will !" 
 
 Seeing denial still on the clergyman's face, Mr. Rid 
 ley's manner changed, becoming angry and violent. 
 
 " You will not ?" he cried, starting from the chair 
 in which he had been sitting and advancing toward 
 Mr. Elliott. 
 
 " I cannot. I dare not. You have been drinking 
 too much already," replied the clergyman, stepping 
 back as Mr. Ridley came forward until he reached 
 the bell-rope, which he jerked violently. The door 
 of his study opened instantly. His servant, not 
 liking the visitor's appearance, had remained in the 
 hall outside, and came in the moment he heard the 
 bell. On seeing him enter, Mr. Ridley turned from 
 the clergyman and stood like one at bay. His eyes 
 had a fiery gleam ; there was anger on his brow and 
 
Wounded in the Home of a Friend. 249 
 
 defiance in the hard lines of his mouth. He scowled 
 at the servant threateningly. The latter, a strong 
 and resolute man, only waited for an order to re 
 move the visitor, which he would have done in a very 
 summary way, but Mr. Elliott wanted no violence. 
 
 The group formed a striking tableau, and to any 
 spectator who could have viewed it one of intense 
 interest. For a little while Mr. Ridley and the ser 
 vant stood scowling at each other. Then came a 
 sudden change. A start, a look of alarm, followed by 
 i low cry of fear, and Mr. Ridley sprang toward the 
 door, and was out of the room and hurrying down 
 stairs before a movement could be made to intercept 
 him, even if there had been on the part of the other 
 two men any wish to do so. 
 
 Mr. Elliott stood listening to the sound of his 
 departing feet until the heavy jar of the outer door 
 resounded through the passages and all became still. 
 A motion of his hand caused the servant to retire. 
 As he went out Mr. Elliott sank into a chair. His 
 face had become pale and distressed. He was sick 
 at heart and sorely troubled. What did all this 
 mean ? Had his unconsidered words brought forth 
 fruit like this ? Was he indeed responsible for the 
 fall of a weak brother and all the sad and sorrowful 
 consequences which had followed? He was over 
 whelmed, crushed down, agonized by the thought 
 It was the bitterest moment in all his life. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MR. ELLIOTT still sat in a kind of helpless 
 maze when his servant came in with the card 
 of Mrs. Spencer Birtwell. He read the name almost 
 with a start. Nothing, it seemed to him, could have 
 been more inopportune, for now he remembered with 
 painful distinctness that it was at the party given by 
 Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell that Ridley had yielded to 
 temptation and fallen, never, he feared, to rise again. 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell met him with a very serious aspect. 
 
 " I am in trouble," was the first sentence that 
 passed her lips as she took the clergyman's hand 
 and looked into his sober countenance. 
 
 "About what?" asked Mr. Elliott. 
 
 They sat down, regarding each other earnestly. 
 
 " Mr. Elliott," said the lady, with solemn impress- 
 iveness, "it is an awful thing to feel that through 
 your act a soul may be lost'* 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell saw the light go out of her minis 
 ter's face and a look of pain sweep over it. 
 
 " An awful thing indeed," he returned, in a voice 
 that betrayed the agitation from which he was still 
 suffering. 
 
 " I want to talk with you about a matter that dis 
 tresses me deeply," said Mrs. Birtwell, wondering 
 
 250 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 251 
 
 as she spoke at Mr. Elliott's singular betrayal of 
 feeling. 
 
 " If I can help you, I shall do so gladly," replied 
 the clergyman. "What is the ground of your 
 trouble?" 
 
 " You remember Mr. Ridley ?" 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell saw the clergyman start and the 
 spasm of pain sweep over his face once more. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, in a husky whisper. But he 
 rallied himself with an effort and asked, " What of 
 him ?" in a clear and steady voice. 
 
 " Mr. Ridley had been intemperate before coming 
 to the city, but after settling here he kept himself 
 free from his old bad habits, and was fast regaining 
 the high position he had lost. I met his wife a num 
 ber of times. She was a very superior woman; and 
 the more I saw of her, the more I was drawn to her. 
 We sent them cards for our party last winter. Mrs. 
 Ridley was sick and could not come. Mr. Ridley 
 came, and and " Mrs. Birtwell lost her voice for 
 a moment, then added : " You know what I would 
 say. We put the cup to his lips, we tempted him 
 with wine, and he fell." 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell covered her face with her hands. 
 A few strong sobs shook her frame. 
 
 " He fell," she added as soon as she could recover 
 herself, " and still lies, prostrate and helpless, in the 
 grasp of a cruel enemy into whose power we be 
 trayed him." 
 
 " But you did it ignorantly," said Mr. Elliott 
 
252 \Voundcd in tJie House of a Friend. 
 
 " There was no intention on your part to betray 
 him. You did not know that your friend was his 
 deadly foe." 
 
 " My friend ?" queried Mrs. Birtwell. She did 
 not take his meaning. 
 
 " The wine, I mean. While to you and me it may 
 be only a pleasant and cheery friend, to one like 
 Mr. Ridley it may be the deadliest of enemies." 
 
 " An enemy to most people, I fear," returned Mrs. 
 Birtwell, " and the more dangerous because a hidden 
 foe. In the end it biteth like a serpent and stingeth 
 like an adder." 
 
 Her closing sentence cut like a knife, and Mr. 
 Elliott felt the sharp edge. 
 
 " He fell," resumed Mrs. Birtwell, " but the hurt 
 was not with him alone. His wife died on the next 
 day, and it has been said that the condition in which 
 he came home from our house gave her a shock that 
 killed her." 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell shivered. 
 
 " People say a great many things," returned Mr. 
 Elliott, " and this, I doubt not, is greatly exagger 
 ated. Have you asked Doctor Hillhouse in regard 
 to the facts in the case ? He attended Mrs. Ridley, I 
 think." 
 
 " No. I've been afraid to ask him." 
 
 " It might relieve your mind." 
 
 " Do you think I would fe'el any better if he said 
 yea instead of nay ? No, Mr. Elliott, I am afraid tc 
 question him." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 253 
 
 "It's a sad affair," remarked the clergyman, 
 gloomily, " and 1 don't see what is to be done about 
 it. When a man falls as low as Mr. Ridley has 
 fallen, the case seems hopeless." 
 
 " Don't say hopeless, Mr. Elliott," responded Mrs. 
 Birtwell, her voice still more troubled. " Until a 
 man is dead he is not wholly lost. The hand of 
 God is not stayed, and he can save to the uttermoot." 
 
 "All who come unto him," added the clergyman, 
 in a depressed voice that had in it the knell of a 
 human soul. " But these besotted men will not go 
 to him. I am helpless and in despair of salvation 
 when I stand face to face with a confirmed drunkard. 
 All one's care and thought and effort seem wasted. 
 You lift them up to-day, and they fall to-morrow. 
 Good resolutions, solemn promises, written pledges, 
 go for nothing. They seem to have fallen below the 
 sphere in which God's saving power operates." 
 
 " No, no, no, Mr. Elliott. I cannot, I will not, 
 believe it," was the strongly-uttered reply of Mrs. 
 Birtwell. " I do not believe that any man can fall 
 below this potent sphere." 
 
 A deep sigh came from the clergyman's lips, a 
 dreary expression crept into his face. There was a 
 heavy weight upon his heart, and he felt weak and 
 depressed. 
 
 "Something must be done." There was the im 
 pulse of a strong resolve in Mrs. Birtwell's tones. 
 " God works by human agencies. If we hold back 
 and let our hands lie idle, he cannot make us hi? 
 22 
 
254 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 instruments. If we say that this poor fallen fellow- 
 creature cannot be lifted out of his degradation and 
 fc urn away that he may perish, God is powerless to 
 help him through us. Oh, sir, I cannot do this and be 
 conscience clear. I helped him to fall, and, God 
 giving me strength, I will help him to rise again." 
 
 Her closing sentence fell with rebuking force upon 
 the clergyman. He too was oppressed by a heavy 
 weight of responsibility. If the sin of this man's 
 fall was upon the garments of Mrs. Birtwell, his 
 were not stainless. Their condemnation was equal, 
 their duty one. 
 
 " 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 lov 
 ing 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 clergy 
 man. 
 
 " There has come a crisis in his life," said Mrs. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 255 
 
 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 to 
 day. 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 un 
 happy 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 situa 
 tion of day-governess to her children. From Ethel 
 she ascertained their condition, which is deplorable 
 enough. They have been selling or pawning furni 
 ture 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 
 
256 Wounded in the PJouse of a Friend. 
 
 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 sol 
 emn 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 2$, 
 
 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 bitter 
 ness 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 spread 
 ing 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 re 
 mained 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 irre 
 sistible 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 can 
 not 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 
 22 a 
 
258 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 parti 
 cipants in these things we should find ourselves in 
 volved 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 con 
 fess to being entirely at a loss. I never felt so help 
 less in the presence of any duty before." 
 
 " I suppose," replied Mrs. Birtwell, " that the 
 way to a knowledge of our whole duty in any case 
 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 destr action, 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 259 
 
 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 pleas 
 ant 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 
 
260 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 her eyes, so heavy and sorrowful a little while be 
 fore, 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. Birtvvell left the house of Mr. Elliott a 
 slender girl, thinly clad, passed from the beau 
 tiful 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 fadi ig slowly as the brief conference 
 between her and Mrs. Sandford had progressed 
 died out of her face. She shrunk a little in her 
 
 261 
 
262 Wtitndcd in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 disap 
 pointed. 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, fret 
 fully 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, un 
 steady 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 prop 
 osition. 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 giv 
 ing 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 fiom that in 
 
Wounded in the House of a Fnend. 263 
 
 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 carnage 
 drew up did not look quite so forlorn as its neigh 
 bors ; and on glancing up at the second-story win 
 dows, 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 nar 
 row and had a rag carpet on the floor. But the 
 carpet was clean and the atmosphere pure. Ascend 
 ing 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 
 
264 Wounded in the house of a Friend. 
 
 smallest ornament of any kind on the mantel-shelfj 
 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 265 
 
 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 her 
 self from the surprise and joy awakened by so unex 
 pected 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 aid 
 ing her she would have to devise some means of 
 self-help that would appear to be more largely remu 
 nerative 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 ser 
 vice, 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 
 
 23 
 
266 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 be 
 fore talking to her more freely on a subject th it 
 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 sin 
 gleness of purpose which gives success where suc 
 cess 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 en 
 tered 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 267 
 
 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, far 
 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 asy 
 lums 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 appe 
 tite 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 obe 
 dience 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 
 
268 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 changea 
 and changing public sentiment, in efforts to reach 
 the sources of a great and destructive evil, and espe 
 cially 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, him 
 self 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." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 269 
 
 " How is this to be done ?" asked Mrs. Birtwell. 
 
 " That has been our great and difficult problem ; 
 aut, thank God! it is, I verily believe, now being 
 solved." 
 
 "How? Where?" eagerly asked Mrs. Birtueil. 
 " 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 to 
 gether in love and unity. Methodists, Episcopalians, 
 Baptists, Presbyterians, Swedenborgians, Congrega- 
 tionalists, Universalists and Unitarians, so called, 
 here clasp hands in a common Christian brother 
 hood, 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 ex 
 perience 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 un 
 happy men if God would show them the way. And 
 
 2'6* 
 
2/O Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 hia 
 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 drunken 
 ness, 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 dis 
 comfort, 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 possibili 
 ties 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 271 
 
 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 weak 
 ness 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 platfp,rm, 
 but by earnest, self-denying, sympathising Christian, 
 men and women standing face to face with the poqr 
 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-in*- 
 spired institution not a year old, but with accomi- 
 plished results that are a matter of wonder to all who 
 are familiar with its operations.' " 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell leaned toward Mr. Elliott as Le 
 read, the light of a new hope irradiating her coun 
 tenance. 
 
 " 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 Chris 
 tian men and women whose names I find here"- 
 Mr. Elliott referred to the paper in his hand "are 
 
2/2 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 well known to me personally, and others by reputa 
 tion." 
 
 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 to 
 gether in his name, have they not his promise to be 
 with them ? and when he is present, are not all sav 
 ing 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 say 
 ing, in an excited tone : 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 273 
 
 " 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. 
 
 8 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ON leaving the clergyman's residence, baffleJ in 
 his efforts to get the wine he had hoped to ob 
 tain, Mr. Ridley strode hurriedly away, almost run 
 ning, 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 perpet 
 ually from side to side. 
 
 There was no pause now until he reached the 
 doors of a large hotel in the centre of the city. En 
 tering, 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 call 
 ing 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. 
 
 A slight tinge of color came into Ridley's pale 
 face. He bit his lips and clenched his hands ner- 
 
 274 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 275 
 
 vously. 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 giv 
 ing 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." 
 
 44 And you are not out of that way yet," replied 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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, shrug 
 ging 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 news 
 papers. 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 con 
 sciousness 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 pre 
 pare 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 277 
 
 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 re 
 turned home. Ethel's quick ears detected some 
 thing 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, be 
 sotted 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 shoul 
 der looked into his face searchingly. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," he replied. But the nervous 
 ness 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 some- 
 
 24 
 
278 Wounded in the House of a Fnend. 
 
 thing nice and hot for you. A strong cup of tea 
 will do you good," said Ethel, trying to speak cheer 
 ily. She had her father at the table in a few min 
 utes. 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 with 
 out apparent relish. 
 
 " I've got something to tell you," said Ethel, lean 
 ing 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 asked. 
 
 " Mrs. Birtwell was here to-day, and is going " 
 
 The instant change observed in her father's man 
 ner 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, ex 
 cited 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 
 
Wounded in tlte House of a Friend. 279 
 
 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 per 
 sonal fear and dread. He knew that at any mo 
 ment 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 on 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 un 
 
280 Wounded in the House of a Fnend. 
 
 conquerable 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. Rid 
 ley, 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 cler 
 gyman, 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, manifest 
 ing 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 quiv 
 ered. 
 
 " 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." 
 
Wour&d in the House of a Friend. 281 
 
 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 tretn- 
 ens, and only knew of it by the frightful descrip 
 tions he had sometimes read, but he could not mis 
 take 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 aban 
 doned, 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. 
 
 24* 
 
282 Wounded in the House of a Fnend. 
 
 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 Chris 
 tian 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 great 
 est 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. Birt 
 well 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 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 283 
 
 no hesitation on the part of Mr. Ridley. The excite 
 ment 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 w<th 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 gen 
 tleman stepped forward, and taking Mr. Elliott by the 
 hand, called him by name in a tone of pleased sur 
 prise. 
 
 "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 grasp 
 ing his hand, " I am glad you have come here." 
 
 Mr. Ridley looked at, or rather beyond, him in a 
 
284 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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. Me 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. Birt 
 well saw that his countenance was distorted by ter 
 ror. 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 an 
 other 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 
 roice husky and choking. 
 
 " All that his unhappy case requires," replied Mr. 
 G- . " The man you saw go first to his side can 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 285 
 
 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 grate 
 ful 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 jet 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 1 , 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?" 
 
 286 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 287 
 
 " 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 oi 
 thankful wonder on the face of Mrs. Birtwell Shi 
 could not speak. She did not even try to put thought 
 or feeling into words. She only took the ha id 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. Birt 
 well " 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. 
 
 4< 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 op 
 pressed her. She would have much preferred to 
 go alone and learn first the goad or ill af the gase. 
 
288 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 but Ethel begged so hard to be permitted to accom 
 pany 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 vic 
 torious. 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 
 lilting 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 even 
 ing, won't you ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, and you will get a good report, I am 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 2$(j 
 
 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 over 
 whelming him with phantom terrors that in his wild 
 and desperate struggles to escape the fangs of ser 
 pents 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 recov 
 ered 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 pic 
 tures 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 NO 
 THING." 
 
 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 
 
 25 ' 
 
290 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 warm 
 ing 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 help 
 lessness. 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, ris 
 ing to this declaration under the uplifting and stimu 
 lating 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 hei 
 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 vic-v 
 tory is assured. You shall go among lions and they 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 291 
 
 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 sup 
 plication 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 
 
2Q 2 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 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 con 
 fide 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 influ 
 ence 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 earn 
 est, 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 tempta 
 tion 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 de 
 sire to the rule of heavenly principles, and yet it 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 293 
 
 was a life that, if not cherished and made active, 
 would die. 
 
 There was a new expression in Mr. Ridley's fact 
 when he rose from his knees. It was calmer anc 
 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 ovei 
 again, and every time you have fallen their power tc 
 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 i-ile 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. 
 
 " Herein will lie your strength. Hence will come 
 your deliverance. Take hold upon God our Saviour, 
 my friend, and all the powers of hell shall not pre 
 vail against you. You will be tempted, but in the 
 moment you hear the voice of the tempter look to 
 God and ask him for strength, and it will surely 
 come. Don't parley for a single moment. Let no 
 
 25* 
 
294 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 feeling of security lead you to test your own poor 
 strength in any combat with the old appetite, for 
 that would be an encounter full of peril. Trust in 
 God, and all will be safe. But remember that there 
 is no real trust in God without a life in harmony with 
 his commandments. All-abiding spiritual strength 
 comes through obedience only." 
 
 Mr. Ridley listened with deep attention, and when 
 the lady ceased speaking said : 
 
 " Of myself I can do nothing. Long ago I saw 
 that, and gave up the struggle in despair. If help 
 comes now, it must come from God. No power but 
 his can save me." 
 
 " Will you not, then, go to him ?" 
 
 " How am I to go ? What am I to do ? What 
 will God require of me ?" 
 
 He spoke hurriedly and with the manner of one 
 who felt himself in imminent danger and looked 
 anxiously for a way of escape. 
 
 "To do justly, to love mercy and to walk humbly 
 before him ; he requires nothing more," was the 
 calmly spoken reply. 
 
 A light broke into Mr. Ridley's face. 
 
 "You cannot be just and merciful if you touch 
 the accursed thing, for that would destroy your 
 power to be so. To touch it, then, will be to sin 
 against God and hurt your neighbor. Just here, 
 then, must your religious life begin. For you to 
 taste any kind of intoxicating drink would be a sin. 
 God cannot help you unless you shun this evil as a 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 295 
 
 sin against him, and he will give you the pov\ei to 
 shun it if, whenever you feel the desire to drink, you 
 resist that desire and pray for strength by which to 
 gain a victory. 
 
 " Every time you do this you will receive new 
 spiritual strength, and be so much nearer the ark of 
 safety. So resisting day by day, always in a hum 
 ble acknowledgment that every good gift comes 
 from a loving Father in heaven, the time is not far 
 distant when your feet will be on the neck of the 
 enemy that has ruled over you so long. Govl, even 
 our God, will surely bring you off conqueror." 
 
 Mr. Ridley, on whose calmer face the light of a 
 new confidence now rested, drew his arm closely 
 about Ethel, who was leaning against him, and said : 
 
 " Take heart, darling. If God is for us, who shall 
 be against us ? Henceforth I will trust in him." 
 
 Ethel put her arms about his neck, weeping 
 silently. The matron and lady manager went out 
 and left them alone. 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell did not visit the Home on this 
 morning to see how it fared with Mr. Ridley, as she 
 had intended doing. The shadow of a great evil 
 had fallen upon her house. For some time she had 
 seen its approaches and felt the gathering gloom. 
 
 If the reader will go back over the incidents and 
 characters of this story, he will recall a scene between 
 Mrs. Whitford and her son Ellis, the accepted lover 
 of Blanche Birtwell, and will remember with what 
 tarnestness the mother sought to awaken in the 
 
296 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 mind of the young man a sense of danger, going so 
 far as to uncover a family secret and warn him of 
 a taint in his blood. It will also be remembered 
 how the proud, self-confident young man rejected 
 her warnings and entreaties, and how wine betrayed 
 him. 
 
 The humiliation that followed was deep, but not 
 effective to save him. Wine to his inherited appe 
 tite was like blood to the wolf-nature. To touch it 
 was to quicken into life an irrepressible desire for 
 more. But his pride fought against any acknow 
 ledgment of his weakness, and particularly against 
 so public an acknowledgment as abstinence when 
 all around him were taking wine. Every time he 
 went to a dinner or evening-party, or to any enter 
 tainment where wine was to be served, he would go 
 self-admonished to be on guard against excess, but 
 rarely was the admonition heeded. A single glass 
 so weakened his power of restraint that he could 
 not hold back his hand ; and if it so happened that 
 from any cause this limit was forced upon him, as in 
 making a morning or an evening call, the stimulated 
 appetite would surely draw his feet to the bar of 
 some fashionable saloon or hotel in order that it 
 might secure a deeper satisfaction. 
 
 It was not possible, so impelled by appetite and so 
 
 indulging its demands, for Ellis Whitford to keep 
 
 from drifting out into the fatal current on whose 
 
 troubled waters thousands are yearly borne to de- 
 
 truction. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 297 
 
 After her humiliation at Mrs. Birtwell's, a smile 
 was never seen upon the mother's face. All that 
 she deemed it wise to say to her son when he awoke 
 in shame next morning she said in tears that she had 
 no power to hold back. He promised with solemn 
 asseverations that he would never again so debase 
 himself, and he meant to keep his promise. Hope 
 stirred feebly in his mother's heart, but died when, 
 in answer to her injunction, " Touch not, taste not, 
 handle not, my son. Herein lies your only chance 
 of safety," he replied coldly and with irritation : 
 
 44 1 will be a man, and not a slave. I will walk 
 in freedom among my associates, not holding up 
 manacled wrists." 
 
 Alas ! he did not walk in freedom. Appetite had 
 already forged invisible chains that held him in a 
 fatal bondage. It was not yet too late. With a 
 single strong effort he could have rent these bonds 
 asunder, freeing himself for ever. But pride and a 
 false shame held him back from making this effort, 
 and all the while appetite kept silently strengthen 
 ing every link and steadily forging new chains. 
 Day by day he grew feebler as to will-power and 
 less clear in judgment. His fine ambition, that once 
 promised to lift him into the highest ranks of his 
 profession, began to lose its stimulating influence. 
 
 None but his mother knew how swiftly this sad 
 demoralization was progressing, though others were 
 aware of the fact that he indulged too freely in wine. 
 
 With a charity that in too many instances was 
 
298 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 self-excusing, not a few of his friends and acquaint 
 ances made light of his excesses, saying : 
 
 " Oh, he'll get over it ;" or, " Young blood is hot 
 and boils up sometimes;" or, " He'll steady himself, 
 never fear." 
 
 The engagement between Ellis and Blanche still 
 existed, though Mr. and Mrs. Birtwell were begin 
 ning to feel very much concerned about the future 
 of their daughter, and were seriously considering the 
 propriety of taking steps to have the engagement 
 broken off. The young man often came to their 
 house so much under the influence of drink that 
 there was no mistaking his condition ; but if any re 
 mark was made about it, Blanche not only exhibited 
 annoyance, but excused and defended him, not unfre- 
 quently denying the fact that was apparent to all. 
 
 One day it was several months from the date of 
 that fatal party out of which so many disasters came, 
 as if another Pandora's box had been opened the 
 card of Mrs. Whitford was placed in the hands of 
 Mrs. Birtwell. 
 
 " Say that I will be down in a moment." 
 
 But the servant who had brought up the card 
 answered : 
 
 " The lady wished me to say that she would like 
 to see you alone in your own room, and would come 
 up if it was agreeable." 
 
 " Oh. certainly. Tell her to come right up." 
 
 Wondering a little at this request, Mrs. Birtwell 
 waited for Mrs. Whitford' 5 appearance, rising and 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 299 
 
 advancing toward the door as she heard her steps 
 approaching. Mrs. Whitford's veil was down as she 
 entered, and she did not draw it aside until she had 
 shut the door behind her. Then she pushed it away. 
 An exclamation of painful surprise fell from the 
 lips of Mrs. Birtwell the moment she saw the face 
 of her visitor. It was pale and wretched beyond 
 description, but wore the look of one who had re 
 solved to perform some painful duty, though it cost 
 her the intensest suffering. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 I HAVE come/' said Mrs. Whitford, after she 
 was seated and had composed herself, " to per 
 form the saddest duty of my whole life." 
 
 She paused, her white lips quivering, then rallied 
 her strength and went on : 
 
 " Even to dishonor my son." 
 
 She caught her breath with a great sob, and le- 
 mained silent for nearly half a minute, sitting so still 
 that she seemed like one dead. In that brief time 
 she had chained down her overwrought feelings and 
 could speak without a tremor in her voice. 
 
 " I have come to say," she now went on, " that 
 this marriage must not take place. Its consumma 
 tion would be a great wrong, and entail upon your 
 daughter a life of misery. My son is falling into 
 habits that will, I sadly fear, drag him down to hope 
 less ruin. I have watched the formation and growth 
 of this habit with a solicitude that has for a long 
 time robbed my life of its sweetness. All the while 
 I see him drifting away from me, and I am powerless 
 to hold him back. Every day he gets farther off, and 
 every day my heart grows heavier with sorrow. Can 
 nothing be done ? Alas ! nothing, I fear ; and I must 
 tell you why, Mrs. Birtwell. It is best that you 
 
 300 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 301 
 
 should see the case as hopeless, and save your daugh 
 ter if you can." 
 
 She paused again for a few moments, and then 
 continued : 
 
 " It is not with my son as with most young men. 
 He has something more to guard against than the 
 ordinary temptations of society. There is, as you 
 may possibly know, a taint in his blood the taint of 
 hereditary intemperance. I warned him of this and 
 implored him to abjure wine and all other drinks that 
 intoxicate, but he was proud and sensitive as well as 
 confident in his own strength. He began to imagine 
 that everybody knew the family secret I had revealed 
 to him, and that if he refused wine in public it would 
 be attributed to his fear of arousing a sleeping appe 
 tite which when fully awake and active might prove 
 too strong for him, and so he often drank in a kind 
 of bravado spirit. He would be a man and let every 
 one see that he could hold the mastery over himself. 
 It was a dangerous experiment for him, as I knew it 
 would be, and has failed." 
 
 Mrs. Whitford broke down and sobbed in an un 
 controllable passion of grief. Then, rising, she said : 
 
 " I have done a simple duty, Mrs. Birtwell. How 
 hard the task has been you can never know, for 
 through a trial like mine you will never have to pass. 
 It now remains for you to do the best to save your 
 child from the great peril that lies before her. I wish 
 that I could say, ' Tell Blanche of our interview and 
 of rny solemn warning.' But I cannot, I dare not 
 
302 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 do so, for it would be to cast up a wall between me 
 and my son and to throw him beyond the circle of 
 my influence. It would turn his heart against his 
 mother, and that is a calamity from the very thought 
 of which I shrink with a sickening fear." 
 
 The two women, sad partners in a grief that time 
 might intensify instead of making less, stood each 
 leaning her face down upon the other's shoulder and 
 wept silently, then raised their eyes and looked wist 
 fully at each other. 
 
 " The path of duty is very rough sometimes ; but 
 if we must walk it to save another, we cannot stay 
 our feet and be guiltless before God," said Mrs. 
 Whitford. " It has taken many days since I saw 
 this path of suffering and humiliation open its dreary 
 course for me to gather up the strength required to 
 walk in it with steady feet. Every day for more 
 than a week I have started out resolved to see you. 
 but every day my heart has failed. Twice I stood 
 at your door with my hand on the bell, then turned 
 and went away. But the task is over, the duty done, 
 and I pray that it may not be in vain." 
 
 What was now to be done? When Mr. Birtwell 
 was informed of this interview, he became greatly 
 excited, declaring that he should forbid any further 
 intercourse between the young people. The engage 
 ment, he insisted, should be broken off at once. But 
 Mrs. Birtwell was wiser than her husband, and knew 
 better than he did the heart of their daughter. 
 
 Blanche had taken more from her mother than from 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 303 
 
 her father, and the current of her life ran far deeper 
 than that of most of the frivolous girls around her. 
 Love with her could not be a mere sentiment, but a 
 deep and all-pervading passion. Such a passion she 
 felt for Ellis Whitford, and she was ready to link her 
 destinies with his, whether the promise were for good 
 or for evil. To forbid Ellis the house and lay upon 
 her any interdictions in regard to him would, the 
 mother knew, precipitate the catastrophe they were 
 anxious to avert. 
 
 It was not possible for either Mr. or Mrs. Birtwell 
 to conceal from their daughter the state of feeling 
 into which the visit of Mrs. Whitford had thrown 
 them, nor long to remain passive. The work of 
 separation must be commenced without delay. 
 Blanche saw the change in her parents, and felt an 
 instinct of danger ; and when the first intimations of 
 a decided purpose to make a breach between her and 
 Ellis came, she set her face like flint against them,, 
 not in any passionate outbreak, but with a calrr\ 
 assertion of her undying love and her readiness tq 
 accept the destiny that lay before her.. To, the De 
 claration of her mother that Ellis was doomed by 
 inheritance to the life of a drunkard, she replied : 
 
 " Then he will p,n,ly th,e. mp.re n.eecl my love and 
 eare." 
 
 Persuasion, appeal, remqnstraiice, were useless. 
 Then Mr. Birtwell interposed with authority. 
 was denied the house and Blanche forbidden to 
 him. 
 
JG4 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 This was the condition of affairs at the time Mra 
 Birtwell became so deeply interested in Mr. Ridley 
 and his family. Blanche had risen, in a measure, 
 above the deep depression of spirits consequent on 
 the attitude of her parents toward her betrothed 
 husband, and while showing no change in her feel 
 ings toward him seemed content to wait for what 
 might come. Still, there was something in her man 
 ner that Mrs. Birtwell did not understand, and that 
 occasioned at times a feeling of doubt and uneasi 
 ness. 
 
 " Where is Blanche ? w asked Mr. Birtwell. It was 
 the evening following that on which Mr. Ridley had 
 been taken to the Home for .inebriates. He was 
 sitting at the tea-table with his wife. 
 
 " She is in her room," replied Mrs. Birtwell. 
 
 " Are you sure ?" inquired her husband. 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell noticed something in his voice that 
 made her say quickly : 
 
 " Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " For no particular reason, only she's not down to 
 tea." 
 
 Mr. Birtwell's face had grown very serious. 
 
 " She'll be along in a few moments," returned 
 Mrs. Birtwell. 
 
 But several minutes elapsed, and still she did not 
 make her appearance. 
 
 " Go up and knock at Miss Blanche's door," said 
 Mrs. Birtwell to the waiter. " She may have fallen 
 asleep." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 30$ 
 
 The man left the room. 
 
 " I feel a little nervous," said Mr. Birtwell, setting 
 Jown his cup, the moment they were alone. " Has 
 Blanche been out since dinner?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "All right, then. It was only a fancy, as I knew 
 it to be at the time. But it gave me a start." 
 
 " What gave you a start ?" asked Mrs. Birtwell. 
 
 "A face in a carriage. I saw it for an instant 
 only." 
 
 "Whose face?" 
 
 " I thought for the moment it was that of Blanche." 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell grew very pale, leaned back in her 
 chair and turned her head, listening for the waiter. 
 N-either of them spoke until he returned. 
 
 " Miss Blanche is not there." 
 
 Both started from the table and left the room, the 
 waiter looking after them in surprise. They were 
 not long in suspense. A letter from Blanche, ad 
 dressed to her mother, which was found lying on her 
 bureau, told the sad story of her perilous life-ven 
 ture, and overwhelmed her parents with sorrow and 
 dismay. It read : 
 
 " MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER : When you 
 receive this, I shall be married to Ellis Whitford. 
 There is nothing that I can say to break for you 
 the pain of this intelligence. If there was, oh how 
 gladly would I say it ! My destiny is on me, and I 
 must walk in the way it leads. It is not that I love 
 
 26* U 
 
306 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 you less that I go away from you, but because 1 
 feel the voice of duty which is calling to me to be 
 the voice of God. Another life and another destiny 
 are bound up in mine, and there is no help for me. 
 God bless you and comfort you, and keep your hearts 
 from turning against your loving BLANCHE." 
 
 In all their fond looks forward to the day when 
 their beautiful child should stand in bridal robes 
 and what parents with lovely daughters springing 
 up toward womanhood do not thus look forward 
 and see such visions ? no darkly brooding fancy 
 had conceived of anything like this. The voice 
 that fell upon their ears was not the song of a happy 
 bride going joyously to the altar, but the cry of their 
 pet lamb bound for the sacrifice. 
 
 " Oh, madness, madness !" exclaimed Mr. Birtwell 
 in anger and dismay. 
 
 " My poor unhappy child ! God pity her !" sobbed 
 the white-lipped mother, tearless under the sudden 
 shock of this great disaster that seemed as if it would 
 beat out her life. 
 
 There was no help, no remedy. The fatal step 
 had been taken, and henceforth the destiny of their 
 child was bound up with that of one whose inherited 
 desire for drink had already debased his manhood. 
 For loving parents we can scarcely imagine a drearier 
 outlook upon life than this. 
 
 The anger of Mr. Birtwell soon wasted its strength 
 amid the shallows of his weaker character, but the 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 307 
 
 pain and hopeless sorrow grew stronger and went 
 deeper down into the heart of Mrs. Birtwell day by 
 day. Their action in the case was such as became 
 wise and loving parents. What was done was done, 
 and angry scenes, coldness and repulsion could now 
 only prove hurtful. As soon as Blanche returned 
 from a short bridal-tour the doors of her father's house 
 were thrown open lor her and her husband to come 
 in. But the sensitive, high-spirited young man said, 
 " No." He could not deceive himself in regard to 
 the estimation in which he was held by Mr. and Mrs. 
 Birtwell, and was not willing to encounter the humil 
 iation of living under their roof and coming in daily 
 but restrained contact with them. So he took his 
 bride to his mother's house, and Mrs. Birtwell had no 
 alternative but to submit, hard as the trial was, to 
 this separation from her child. 
 
 This was the shadow of the great evil in which 
 Mrs. Birtwell was sitting on the day Mr. Ridley 
 found himself amid the new influences and new 
 friends that were to give him another start in life 
 and another chance to redeem himself. She had 
 passed a night of tears and agony, and though suf 
 fering deeply had gained a calm exterior. Ethel, 
 after leaving the Home, came with a heart full of 
 new hope and joy to see Mrs. Birtwell and tell her 
 about her father. 
 
 The first impulse of the unhappy mother, sitting 
 in the shadows of her own great sorrow, was to send 
 the girl away with a simple denial. 
 
305 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 "Say that I cannot see her this morning," she 
 said, coldly. But before the servant could leave the 
 room she repented of this denial. 
 
 "Stay!" she called. Then, while the servant 
 paused, she let her thoughts go from herself to 
 Ethel and her father. 
 
 " Tell the young lady to wait for a little while," 
 she said. " I will ring for you in a few minutes." 
 
 The servant went out, and Mrs. Birtwell turned to 
 her secretary and wrote a few lines, saying that she 
 was not feeling well and could not see Miss Ridley 
 then, but would be glad to have her call in two or 
 three days. Placing this with a bank-bill in an 
 envelope, she rang for the servant, who took the let 
 ter down stairs and gave it to Ethel. 
 
 But Mrs. Birtwell did not feel as though she had 
 done her whole duty in the case. A pressure was 
 left upon her feelings. What of the father ? How 
 was it faring with him ? She hesitated about recall 
 ing the servant until it was too late. Ethel took the 
 letter, and without opening it went away. 
 
 A new disquiet came from this cause, and Mrs. 
 Birtwell could not shake it off. Happily for her 
 relief, Mr. Elliott, whose interest in the fallen man 
 was deep enough to take him to the Home that 
 morning, called upon her with the most gratifying 
 intelligence. He had seen Mr. Ridley and held a 
 long interview with him, the result of which was a 
 strong belief that the new influences under which he 
 had been brought would be effectual in saving him. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 309 
 
 " I have faith in these influences," said the clergy 
 man, " because I understand their ground and force. 
 Peter would have gone down hopelessly in the Sea of 
 Galilee if he had depended on himself alone. Only 
 the divine Saviour, on whom he called and in whom 
 he trusted, could save him ; and so it is in the case 
 of men like Mr. Ridley who try to walk over the sea 
 of temptation. Peter's despairing cry of 4 Save, 
 Lord, or I perish,' must be theirs also if they would 
 keep from sinking beneath the angry waters, and no 
 one ever calls sincerely upon God for help without 
 receiving it. That Mr. Ridley is sincere I have no 
 doubt, and herein lies my great confidence." 
 
 At the end of a week Blanche returned from her 
 wedding-tour, and was received by her parents with 
 love and tenderness instead of repioaches. These 
 last, besides being utterly useless, would have pushed 
 the young husband away from them and out of the 
 reach of any saving influences it might be in their 
 power to exercise. 
 
 The hardest trial now for Mrs. Birtwell was the 
 separation from Blanche, whose daily visits were a 
 poor substitute for the old constant and close com 
 panionship. If there had not been a cloud in the sky 
 of her child's future, with its shadow already dim 
 ming the brightness of her young life, the mother's 
 heart would have still felt an aching and a void, 
 would have been a mourner for love's lost delights 
 and possessions that could nevermore return. But 
 to all this was added a fear and dread that made 
 
UO Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 her soul grow faint when thought cast itself forward 
 into the coming time. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Brantley Elliott was a wiser and truer 
 man than some who read him superficially imagined. 
 His churchmanship was sometimes narrower than 
 his humanity, while the social element in his charac 
 ter, which was very strong, often led him to forget 
 in mixed companies that much of what he might 
 say or do would be judged of by the clerical and not 
 the personal standard, and his acts and words set 
 down at times as favoring worldliness and self-indul 
 gence. Harm not unfrequently came of this. But 
 he was a sincere Christian man, deeply impressed 
 with the sacredness of his calling and earnest in his 
 desire to lead heavenward the people to whom he 
 ministered. 
 
 The case of Mr. Ridley had not only startled and 
 distressed him, but filled him with a painful concern 
 lest other weak and tempted ones might have fallen 
 through his unguarded utterance or been betrayed 
 through his freedom. The declaration of Paul came 
 to him with a new force : " Wherefore, if meat make 
 my brother to offend, I will eat no meat while the 
 world standeth, lest I make my brother to offend ;" 
 and he resolved not only to abstain from wine here 
 after in mixed companies, but to use his influence to 
 discourage a social custom fraught, as he was now 
 beginning to see, with the most disastrous conse 
 quences. 
 
 The deep concern felt for Mr. Ridley by Mr. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 311 
 
 Elliott and Mrs. Birtwell drew them oftener together 
 no\v and took them frequently to the Home for ine 
 briates, in which both took a deep interest. For over 
 three weeks Mr. Ridley remained at the institution, its 
 religious influences growing deeper and deeper every 
 day. He met there several men who had fallen 
 from as high an estate as himself men of cultured 
 intellect, force of character and large ability and a 
 feeling of brotherhood grew up between them. 
 They helped and strengthened each other, entering 
 into a league offensive and defensive and pledging 
 themselves to an undying antagonism toward every 
 form of intemperance. 
 
 When Mr. Ridley returned to his home, he found 
 it replete with many comforts not there when love 
 and despair sent him forth to die, for aught he knew, 
 amid nameless horrors. An office had been rented 
 for him, and Mr. Birtwell had a case of consider 
 able importance to place in his hands. It was a 
 memorable occasion in the Court of Common Pleas 
 when, with the old clear light in his eyes and bear 
 ing of conscious power, he stood among his former 
 associates, and in the firm, ringing voice which had 
 echoed there so many times before, made an argu 
 ment for his client that held both court and jury 
 almost spellbound for an hour. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE seed and the harvest are alike in quality 
 Between cause and effect there is an unchang 
 ing and eternal relation. Men never find grapes on 
 thorns nor figs on thistles. 
 
 As an aggregate man, society has no escape from 
 this law. It must reap as it sows. If its customs 
 be safe and good, its members, so far as they are influ 
 enced by these customs, will be temperate, orderly 
 and virtuous ; but if its tone be depraved and its cus 
 toms evil or dangerous, moral and physical ruin must 
 in too many sad cases be the inevitable result. 
 
 It is needless to press this view, for it is self-evi 
 dent and no one calls it in question. Its truth has 
 daily and sorrowful confirmation in the wan faces 
 and dreary eyes and wrecks of a once noble and 
 promising manhood one meets at every turn. 
 
 The thorn and the thistle harvest that society 
 reaps every year is fearfully great, and the seed from 
 which too large a portion of this harvest comes is its 
 drinking customs. Men of observation and intelli 
 gence everywhere give this testimony with one con 
 sent. All around us, day and night, year by year, in 
 palace and hovel, the gathering of this sad and bit 
 ter harvest goes on the harvest of broken hearts 
 
 312 
 
Wounded tn the House of a Friend. 313 
 
 and ruined lives. And still the hand of the sower 
 is not stayed. Refined and lovely women and men 
 of low and brutal instincts, church members and 
 scoffers at religion, stately gentlemen and vulgar 
 clowns, are all at work sowing the baleful seed that 
 ripens, alas ! too quickly its fruit of woe. The home 
 saloon vies with the common licensed saloon in its 
 allurements and attractions, and men who would 
 think themselves degraded by contact with those 
 who for gain dispense liquor from a bar have a sense 
 of increased respectability as they preside over the 
 good wine and pure spirits they offer to their guests 
 in palace homes free of cost. 
 
 We are not indulging in forms of rhetoric. To 
 do so would only weaken the force of our warning. 
 What we have written is no mere fancy work. The 
 pictures thrown upon our canvas with all the power 
 of vivid portraiture that we possess are but feeble 
 representations of the tragic scenes that are enacted 
 in society year by year, and for which every member 
 of society who does not put his hand to the work 
 of reform is in some degree responsible. 
 
 We are not developing a romance, but trying, 
 as just said, to give from real life some warning 
 pictures. Our task is nearly done. A few more 
 scenes, and then our work will be laid for the pres 
 ent aside. 
 
 There are men who never seem to comprehend 
 the lesson of events or to feel the pressure of per 
 sonal responsibility. They drift with the tide, doing 
 
 27 
 
3 14 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 as their neighbors do, and resting satisfied. The 
 heroism of self-sacrifice or self-denial is something 
 to which they cannot rise. Nothing is farther from 
 their ambition than the role of a reformer. Com 
 fortable, self-indulgent, placid, they move with the 
 current and manage to keep away from its eddies. 
 Such a man was Mr. Birtwell. He knew of some 
 of the disasters that followed so closely upon his 
 grand entertainment, but refused to connect there 
 with any personal responsibility. It was unfoi tunate, 
 of course, that these things should have happened 
 with him, but he was no more to blame for them 
 than if they had happened with his neighbor across 
 the way. So he regarded the matter. But not so 
 Mrs. Birtwell. As we have seen, a painful sense of 
 responsibility lay heavily upon her heart. 
 
 The winter that followed was a gay one, and many 
 large entertainments were given. The Birtwells 
 always had a party, and this party was generally the 
 event of the season, for Mr. Birtwell liked eclat and 
 would get it if possible. Time passed, and Mrs. 
 Birtwell, who had sent regrets to more than half the 
 entertainments to which they received invitations, 
 said nothing. 
 
 " When are we going to have our party ?" asked 
 Mr. Birtwell of his wife as they sat alone one even- 
 ; ng. He saw her countenance change. After a few 
 moments she replied in a low but very firm and 
 decided voice : 
 
 " Whenever we can have it without wine." 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 315 
 
 " Then we'll never have it," exclaimed Mr. Birt 
 well, in considerable excitement. 
 
 " It will be better so," returned his wife, "than again 
 to lay stumbling-blocks at the feet of our neighbors." 
 
 There came a sad undertone in her voice that her 
 husband did not fail to perceive. 
 
 " We don't agree in this thing," said Mr. Birtwell, 
 with some irritation of manner. 
 
 " Then will it not be best to let the party go over 
 until we can agree? No harm can come of that, 
 and harm might come, as it did last year, from turn 
 ing our house into a drinking-saloon." 
 
 The sting of these closing words was sharp. It 
 was not the first time Mr. Birtwell had heard his 
 wife use them, and they never failed to shock his 
 fine sense of respectability. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Margaret," he broke out, in 
 a passion he could not control, " don't say that again ! 
 It's an outrage. You'll give mortal offence if you 
 use such language." 
 
 " It is best to call things by their right names," 
 replied Mrs. Birtwell, in no way disturbed by her 
 husband's weak anger. "As names signify qual 
 ities, we should be very careful how we deceive 
 others by the use of wrong ones. To call a lion a 
 lamb might betray a blind or careless person into 
 the jaws of a ferocious monster, or to speak of the 
 fruit of the deadly nightshade as a cherry might 
 deceive a child into eating it." 
 
 "You are incorrigible," said Mr. BirtwelJ, his 
 
316 Wounded in the house of a Friend. 
 
 anger subsiding. It never went very deep, for his 
 nature was shallow. 
 
 " No, not incorrigible, but right," returned Mrs. 
 Birtwell. 
 
 " Then we are not to have a party this winter ?" 
 
 " I did not say so. On the contrary, I am ready 
 to entertain our friends, but the party I give must be 
 one in which no wine or brandy is served." 
 
 " Preposterous !" ejaculated Mr. Birtwell. " We'd 
 make ourselves the laughing-stock of the city." 
 
 " Perhaps not," returned his wife. 
 
 Mr. Birtwell shook his head and shut his mouth 
 tightly: 
 
 " There's no use in talking about it. If the thing 
 can't be done right, it can't be done at all." 
 
 "So say I. Still, I would do it right and show 
 society a better way if you were brave enough to 
 stand by my side. But as you are not, our party 
 must go by default this winter." 
 
 Mrs. Birtwell smiled faintly to soften the rebuke 
 of her words. They had reached this point in their 
 conversation when Mr. Elliott, their clergyman, 
 called. His interest in the Home for inebriates 
 had increased instead of abating, and he now held 
 the place of an active member in the board of 
 directors. Mrs. Birtwell had, months before, given 
 in her adhesion to the cause of reform, and the 
 board of lady managers, who had a close super 
 vision of the internal arrangements of the Home, 
 had few more efficient workers. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 3 1 7 
 
 In the beginning Mr. Birtwell had " pooh-poohed " 
 at his wife's infatuation, as he called it, and prophe 
 sied an early collapse of the whole affair. " The best 
 thing to do with a drunkard," he would say, with 
 mocking levity, " is to let him die. The sooner he 
 is out of the way, the better for himself and society." 
 But of late he had given the matter a more respect 
 ful consideration. Still, he would have his light 
 word and pleasant banter both with his wife and 
 Mr. Elliott, who often dropped in to discuss with 
 Mrs. Birtwell the interests of the Home. 
 
 " Just in the nick of time," exclaimed Mr. Birt 
 well, smiling, as he took the clergyman's hand. 
 " My wife and I have had a disagreement we quar 
 rel dreadfully, you know and you must decide be 
 tween us." 
 
 "Indeed! What's the trouble now?" said Mr. 
 Elliott, looking from one to the other. 
 
 " Well, you see, we've been discussing the party 
 question, and are at daggers' points." 
 
 The light which had spread over Mr. Elliott's 
 countenance faded off quickly, and Mr. Birtwell saw 
 it assume a very grave aspect. But he kept on : 
 
 "You never heard anything so preposterous. 
 Mrs. Birtwell actually proposes that we give a cold- 
 water-and-lemonade entertainment. Ha ! ha !" 
 
 The smile he had expected to provoke by this 
 sally did not break into the clergyman's face. 
 
 "But I say," Mr. Birtwell added, "do the thing 
 right, or don't do it all." 
 
3 1 8 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 "What do you call right?" asked Mr. Elliott. 
 
 " The way it is done by other people as we did 
 it last year, for instance." 
 
 " I should be sorry to see last year's entertain 
 ment repeated if like consequences must follow," 
 replied Mr. Elliott, becoming still more serious. 
 
 Mr. Birtwell showed considerable annoyance at 
 this. 
 
 " I have just come from a visit to your friend 
 Mrs. Voss," said the clergyman. 
 
 " How is she ?" Mrs. Birtwell asked, anxiously. 
 
 " I do not think she can last much longer," was 
 replied. 
 
 Tears came into Mrs. Birtwell's eyes and fell over 
 her cheeks. 
 
 " A few days at most a few hours, maybe and 
 she will be at rest. She spoke of you very ten 
 derly, and I think would like to see you." 
 
 " Then I will go to her immediately," said Mrs. 
 Birtwell, rising. "You must excuse me, Mr. Elliott. 
 I will take the carriage and go alone," she added, 
 glancing toward her husband. 
 
 The two men on being left alone remained silent 
 for a while. Mr. Birtwell was first to speak. 
 
 " I have always felt badly," he said, " about the 
 death of Archie Voss. No blame attaches to us 
 of course, but it was unfortunate that he had been 
 at our house." 
 
 " Yes, very unfortunate," responded the clergy 
 man. Something in his voice as well as in his man- 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 319 
 
 ner awakened an uncomfortable feeling in the mind 
 of Mr. Birtwell. 
 
 They were silent again, neither of them seeming 
 at his ease. 
 
 " I had hoped," said Mr. Elliott, breaking at length 
 this silence, " to find you by this time over upon our 
 side." 
 
 "The cold-water side, you mean?" There was 
 perceptible annoyance in Mr. Birtwell's tone. 
 
 " On the side of some reform in our social cus 
 toms. Why can't you join with your excellent wife 
 in taking the initiative ? You may count on me to 
 endorse the movement and give it my countenance 
 and support." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Elliott, but I'm not your man," 
 returned Mr. Birtwell. He spoke with decision. 
 " I have no desire to be counted in with reform 
 ers." 
 
 " Think of the good you might do." 
 
 " I am not a philanthropist." 
 
 *' Then think of the evil you might prevent." 
 
 " The good or the evil resulting from my action, 
 take which side I may, will be, very small," said 
 Mr. Birtwell, with an indifference of manner that 
 showed his desire to drop the subject. But Mr. 
 Elliott was only leading the way for some plainer 
 talk, and did not mean to lose his opportunity. 
 
 " It is an error," he said, " to make light of our 
 personal influence or the consequences that may 
 flow from what we do. The hand of a chili is not 
 
320 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 too weak to hold the match that fires a cannon. 
 When evil elements are aggregated, the force re 
 quired to release them is often very small. We may 
 purpose no wrong to our neighbor in the indulgence 
 of a freedom that leads him into fiery temptation; 
 but if we know that our freedom must of necessity 
 do this, can we escape responsibility if we do not 
 deny ourselves ?" 
 
 " It is easy to ask questions and to generalize," 
 returned Mr. Birtwell, not hiding the annoyance he 
 felt. 
 
 " Shall I come down to particulars and deal in 
 facts ?" asked Mr. Elliott. 
 
 " If you care to do so." 
 
 " I have some facts very sad and sorrowful ones. 
 You may or may not know them at least not all. 
 But you should know them, Mr. Birtwell." 
 
 There was no escape now. 
 
 "You half frighten me, Mr. Elliott. What are 
 you driving at?" 
 
 " I need not refer," said the clergyman, " to the 
 cases of Archie Voss and Mr. Ridley." 
 
 Mr. Birtwell raised his hands in deprecation. 
 
 "Happily," continued Mr. Elliott, "Mr. Ridley 
 has risen from his fall, and now stands firmer, I 
 trust, than ever, and farther away from the reach 
 of temptation, resting not in human but in divine 
 strength. Archie is in heaven, where before many 
 days his mother will join him." 
 
 "Why are you saying this?" demanded Mr. Birt- 
 
Wounded in the Hottse of a Friend. 321 
 
 well. " You are going too far." His face had grown 
 a little pale. 
 
 " I say it as leading to something more," replied 
 the clergyman. " If there had been no more bitter 
 fruit than this, no more lives sacrificed, it would have 
 been sad enough. But " 
 
 "Sir, you are trifling," exclaimed Mr. Birtwell, 
 starting from his chair. " I cannot admit your right 
 to talk to me in this way." 
 
 " Be calm, my dear sir," answered Mr. Elliotc, ay- 
 ing his hand upon his companion. " I am not trifling 
 with you. As your warm personal friend as well as 
 your spiritual counselor, I am here to-night to give 
 a solemn admonition, and I can best do this through 
 the communication of facts facts that stand on 
 record for ever unchangeable whether you know 
 them or not. Better that you should know them." 
 
 Mr. Birtwell sat down, passive now, his hand 
 grasping the arms of his chair like one bracing him 
 self for a shock. 
 
 " You remember General Abercrombie ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Do you know what has become of him ?" 
 
 " No. I heard something about his having been 
 dismissed from the army." 
 
 " Did you hear the cause ?" 
 
 " It was drunkenness, I believe." 
 
 " Yes, that was the cause. He was a fine officer 
 and a man of high character, but fell into habits of 
 intemperance. Seeing himself drifting to certain 
 
 V 
 
322 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 ruin, he made a vigorous effort to reform his life. 
 Experience told him that his only safety lay in com 
 plete abstinence, and this rule he adopted. For 
 many months he remained firm. But he fell at your 
 house. The odor of wine that pervaded all the air 
 and stirred within him the long-sleeping appetite, 
 the freedom he saw around him, the invitations that 
 met him from .distinguished men and beautiful 
 women, the pressure of a hundred influences upon 
 his quickened desires, bore him down at last, and 
 he fell. 
 
 " I heard the whole sad story to-day," continued 
 Mr. Elliott. " He did not even attempt to struggle 
 up again, but abandoned himself to his fate. Soon 
 aftei, he was removed from the command of this 
 department and sent off to the Western frontier, 
 and finally court-martialed and dismissed from the 
 army. 
 
 44 To his wife, who was deeply attached to him, 
 General Abercrombie was when sober one of the 
 kindest and most devoted of husbands, but a crazy 
 and cruel fiend when drunk. It is said that on the 
 night he went home from your house last winter 
 strange noises and sudden cries of fear were heard 
 in their room, and that Mrs. Abercrombie when seen 
 next morning looked as if she had just come from 
 a bed of sickness. She accompanied him to the 
 West, but I learned to-day that since his dismissal 
 from the army his treatment of her has been so 
 outrageous and cruel that she has had to leave him 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 323 
 
 in fear of her life, and is now with her friends, a 
 poor broken-hearted woman. As for the general, no 
 one seems to know what has become of him." 
 
 " And the responsibility of all this you would lay 
 at my door?" said Mr. Birtwell, in a husky voice, 
 through which quivered a tone of anger. " But I 
 reject your view of the case entirely. General Aber- 
 crombie fell because he had no strength of purpose 
 and no control of his appetite. He happened to 
 trip at my house that is all. He would have fallen 
 sooner or later somewhere." 
 
 " Happened to trip ! Yes, that is it, Mr. Birtwell ; 
 you use the right word. He tripped at your house. 
 But who laid the stone of stumbling in his path? 
 Suppose there had been no wine served to your 
 guests, would he have stumbled on that fatal night ? 
 If there had been no wine served, would Archie Voss 
 have lost his way in the storm or perished in the icy 
 waters ? No, my friend, no ; and if there had been 
 no wine served at your board that night, three human 
 lives which have, alas ! been hidden from us by 
 death's eclipse would be shedding light and warmth 
 upon many hearts now sorrowful and desolate. 
 Three human lives, and a fourth just going out. 
 There is responsibility, and neither you nor I can 
 escape it, Mr. Birtwell, if through indifference or 
 design we permit ourselves to become the instru 
 ments of such dire calamities." 
 
 Mr. Birtwell had partly risen from his chair in 
 making the weak defence to which this was a reply, 
 
324 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 but now sunk back with an expression that was half 
 bewilderment and half terror on his countenance. 
 
 " In Heaven's name, Mr. Elliott, what does all this 
 mean?" he cried. "Three lives and a fourth going 
 out, and the responsibility laid at my door !" 
 
 " It is much easier to let loose an evil power than 
 to stay its progress," said Mr. Elliott. " The near 
 and more apparent effects we may see, rarely the 
 remote and secondary. But we know that the action 
 of all forces, good or evil, is like that of expanding 
 wave-circles, and reaches far beyond our sight. It 
 has done so in this case. Yes, Mr. Birtwell, three 
 lives, and a fourth now flickering like an expiring 
 candle. 
 
 " I would spare you all this if I dared, if I could 
 be conscience-clear," continued Mr. Elliott " But 
 I would be faithless to my duty if I kept silent. 
 You know the sad case of Mrs. Carlton ?" 
 
 " You don't mean to lay that, too, at my door !" 
 exclaimed Mr. Birtwell. 
 
 " Not directly ; it was one of the secondary effects. 
 I had a long conversation with Dr. Hillhouse to-day. 
 His health has failed rapidly for some months past, 
 and he is now much broken down. You know that 
 he performed the operation which cost Mrs. Carlton 
 her life ? Well, the doctor has never got over the 
 shock of that catastrophe. It has preyed upon his 
 mind ever since, and is one of the causes of his im 
 paired health." 
 
 " I should call that a weakness." returned Mr 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 32$ 
 
 Birlwell. " He did his best. No one is safe from 
 accidents or malign influences. I never heard that 
 Mr. Carlton blamed him." 
 
 " Ah, these malign influences !" said the clergy 
 man. " They meet us everywhere and hurt us at 
 every turn, and yet not one of them could reach and 
 affect our lives if some human hand did not set them 
 free and send them forth among men to hurt and to 
 destroy. And now let me tell you of the interview 
 I had with Dr. Hillhouse to-day. He has given his 
 consent, but with this injunction : we cannot speak 
 of it to others." 
 
 " I will faithfully respect his wishes," said Mr. 
 Birtwell. 
 
 " This morning," resumed Mr. Elliott, " I received 
 a note from the doctor, asking me to call and see 
 him. He was much depressed, and said he had long 
 wanted to have a talk with me about something that 
 weighed heavily on his mind. Let me give you his 
 own words as nearly as I am able to remember them. 
 After some remarks about personal influence and our 
 social responsibilities, he said : 
 
 "'There is one thing, Mr. Elliott, in which you 
 and I and a great many others I could name have 
 not only been derelict of duty, but serious wrong 
 doers. There is an evil in society that more than 
 all others is eating out its life, and you and I have 
 encouraged that evil even by our own example, call 
 ing it innocent, and so leading the weak astray and 
 the unwary into temptation.' 
 
 28 
 
326 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 " I understood what he meant, and the shock of 
 his including accusation, his 'Thou art the man,' 
 sent a throb of pain to my heart. That I had already 
 seen my false position and changed front did not les 
 sen the shock, for I was only the more sensitive to 
 pain. 
 
 " ' Happily for you, Mr. Elliott/ he went on, ' no 
 such bitter fruit has been plucked by your hands as 
 by mine, and I pray God that it may never be. For 
 a long time I have carried a heavy load here ' he 
 drew his hand against his breast 'heavier than I 
 have strength to bear. Its weight is breaking me 
 down. It is no light thing, sir, to feel at times that 
 you are a murderer.' 
 
 " He shivered, and there passed across his face a 
 look of horror. But it was gone in a moment, 
 though an expression of suffering remained. 
 
 " ' My dear doctor,' I interposed, ' you have per 
 mitted yourself to fall into a morbid state. This 
 is not well. You are overworked and need change 
 and relaxation.' 
 
 " ' Yes,' he replied, a little mournfully, ' I am over 
 worked and morbid and all that, I know, and I must 
 have change and relaxation or I shall die. Ah, if I 
 could get rid of this heavy weight!' He laid his 
 hand upon his breast again, and drew a deep inspira 
 tion. ' But that is impossible. I must tell you all 
 about it, but place upon you at the same time an 
 injunction of silence, except in the case of one 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 327 
 
 man, Mr. Spencer Birtwell. He is honorable and 
 he should know, and I can trust him. 
 
 " ' You remember, of course, the entertainment he 
 gave last winter and some of the unhappy effects 
 that came of it, but you do not know all. I was 
 there and enjoyed the evening, and you were there, 
 Mr. Elliott, and I am afraid led some into temptation 
 through our freedom. Forgive me for saying so, 
 but the truth is best. 
 
 " ' Wine was free as water good wine, tempting 
 to the taste. I meant to be very guarded, to take 
 only a glass or two, for on the next day I had a deli 
 cate and dangerous operation to perform, and needed 
 steady nerves. But the wine was good, and my one 
 or two glasses only made way for three or four. 
 The temptations of the hour were too much for my 
 habitual self-restraint. I took a glass of wine with 
 you, Mr. Elliott, after I had already taken more than 
 was prudent under the circumstances, another with 
 Mr. Birtwell, another with General Abercrombie 
 alas for him ! he fell that night so low that he has 
 never risen again and another with some one else. 
 It was almost impossible to put a restraint upon 
 yourself Invitation and solicitation met you at 
 every turn. The sphere of self-indulgence was so 
 strong that it carried almost every one a little too 
 far, and many into excess and debauch. I was told 
 afterward that at a late hour the scene in the sup 
 per-room was simply disgraceful. Boys and men, 
 and sadder still, young women, were more than half 
 
328 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 drunk, and behaved most unseemly. I can believe 
 this, for I have seen such things too often. 
 
 "' As I went out from Mr. Birtwell's that night, 
 and the cold, snow-laden air struck into my face on 
 crossing the pavement to my carnage, cooling my 
 blood and clearing my brain, I thought of Mrs. 
 Carlton and the life that had been placed in my 
 hands, and a feeling of concern dropped into my 
 heart. A night's indulgence in wine-drinking was 
 a poor preparation for the work before ine, in which 
 a clear head and steady nerves were absolutely essen 
 tial. How would I be in the morning? The ques 
 tion thrust itself into my thoughts and troubled me. 
 My apprehensions were not groundless. Morning 
 found me with unsteady nerves. But this was not 
 all. From the moment I left my bed until within 
 half an hour of the time when the operation was to 
 begin, I was under much excitement and deeply anx 
 ious about two of my patients, Mrs. Voss and Mrs. 
 Ridley, both dangerously ill, Mrs. Voss, as you know, 
 in consequence of her alarm about her son, and 
 Mrs. Ridley But you have heard all about her 
 case and its fatal termination, and understand in what 
 way it was connected with the party at Mr. and Mrs. 
 Birtwell's. The consequence of that night's excesses 
 met me at every turn. The unusual calls, the immi 
 nent danger in which I found Mrs. Ridley and the 
 almost insane demands made upon me by her despair 
 ing husband, all conspired to break down my un 
 steady nerves and unfit me for the work I had to do. 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 329 
 
 When the time came, there was only one desperate 
 expedient left, and that was the use of a strong stimu 
 lant, under the effect of which I was able to extract 
 the tumor from Mrs. Carlton's neck. 
 
 " ' Alas for the too temporary support of my stimu 
 lant ! It failed me at the last moment. My sight was 
 not clear nor my hand steady as I tied the small arte 
 ries which had been cut during the operation. One of 
 these, ligated imperfectly, commenced bleeding soon 
 after I left the house. A hurried summons reached 
 me almost immediately on my return home, and 
 before I had steadied my exhausted nerves with a 
 glass of wine. Hurrying back, I found the wound 
 bleeding freely. Prompt treatment was required. 
 Ether was again administered. But you know the 
 rest, Mr. Elliott. It is all too dreadful, and I cannot 
 go over it again. Mrs. Carlton fell another victim 
 ';o excess in wine. This is the true story. I was not 
 blamed by the husband. The real cause of the great 
 calamity that fell upon him he does not know to this 
 day, and I trust will never know. But I have not 
 since been able to look steadily into his dreary eyes. 
 A guilty sense of wrong oppresses me whenever I 
 come near him. As I said before, this thing is break 
 ing me down. It has robbed me, I know, of many 
 years of professional usefulness to which I had looked 
 forward, and left a bitter thought in my mind and a 
 shadow on my feelings that can never pass away. 
 
 " ' Mr. Elliott,' he continued, ' you have a position 
 of sacred trust. Your influence is large. Set your 
 
 28* 
 
330 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 self, I pray you, against the evil which has wrought 
 these great disasters. Set yourself against the dan 
 gerous self-indulgence called "moderate drinking." 
 It is doing far more injury to society than open drun 
 kenness, more a hundred nay, a thousand fold. 
 If I had been a drunkard, no such catastrophe as this 
 I have mentioned could have happened in my prac 
 tice, for Mr. Carlton would not then have trusted his 
 wife in my hands. My drunkenness would have 
 stood as a warning against me. But I was a respect 
 able moderate drinker, and could take my wine with 
 out seeming to be in any way affected by it. But 
 sec how it betrayed me at last.' " 
 
 Mr. Birtwell had been sitting during this relation 
 with his head bowed upon his breast. When Mr. 
 Elliott ceased speaking, he raised himself up in a 
 slow, weary sort of way, like one oppressed by fatigue 
 or weak from illness. 
 
 "Dreadful, dreadful!" he ejaculated. "I never 
 dreamed of anything like this. Poor Carlton !" 
 
 " You see," remarked Mr. Elliott, " how easily a 
 thing like this may happen. A man cannot go to 
 one of these evening entertainments and indulge 
 with anything like the freedom to which he is in 
 vited and be in a condition to do his best work on 
 the day following. Some of your iron-nerved men 
 may claim an exemption here, but we know that all 
 Dver-sti mutation must leave the body in some degree 
 unstrung when the excitement dies out, and they 
 suffer loss with the rest a loss the aggregate of 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 331 
 
 which makes itself felt in the end. We have to 
 think for a moment only to satisfy ourselves that 
 the wine- and brandy-drinking into which men and 
 women are enticed at dinner-parties and fashionable 
 entertainments is a fruitful source of evil. The effect 
 upon body and mind after the indulgence is over is 
 seen in headaches, clouded brain, nervous irritation, 
 lassitude, inability to think, and sometimes in a gene 
 ral demoralization of both the physical and mental 
 economy. Where there is any chronic or organic 
 ailment the morbid condition is increased and some 
 times severe attacks of illness follow. 
 
 "Are our merchants, bankers, lawyers, doctors 
 and men holding responsible trusts as fit for duty 
 after a social debauch is the word too strong ? as 
 before ? If we reflect for a moment you see, Mr 
 Birtwell, in what current my thoughts have been 
 running it must be clear to us that after every 
 great entertainment such as you and other good 
 citizens are in the habit of giving many business 
 and professional mistakes must follow, some of them 
 of a serious character. All this crowds upon and 
 oppresses me, and my wonder is that it did not long 
 ago so crowd upon and oppress me. It seems as 
 though scales had dropped suddenly from my eyes 
 and things I had never seen before stood out in 
 clearest vision." 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THEY were still in conversation when Mrs. Birt- 
 well returned. Her eyes were wet and her 
 face pale and sorrowful. She sat down beside her 
 husband, and without speaking laid her head against 
 him and sobbed violently. Mr. Birtwell feared to 
 ask the question whose answer he guessed too well. 
 
 " How is it with our friend ?" Mr. Elliott inquired 
 as Mrs. Birtwell grew calmer. She looked up, an 
 swering sorrowfully : 
 
 " It is all over," then hid her face again, borne 
 down by excessive emotion. 
 
 " The Lord bless and comfort his stricken ones," 
 said the minister as he arose and stood for a few 
 moments with his hand resting on the bowed head 
 of Mrs. Birtwell. " The Lord make us wiser, more 
 self-denying and more loyal to duty. Out of sor 
 row let joy come, out of trouble peace, out of suf 
 fering and affliction a higher, purer and nobler life 
 for us all. We are in his merciful hands, and he will 
 make us instruments of blessing if we but walk in 
 the ways he would lead us. Alas that we have 
 turned from him so often to walk -in our own paths 
 and follow the devices of our own hearts ! His ways 
 are ways of pleasantness and his paths are peace, 
 
 332 
 
Wounded in the House of a Friend. 333 
 
 but ours wind too often among thorns and briars, or 
 go clown into the gloomy valley and shadow of 
 death." 
 
 A solemn silence followed, and in that deep hush 
 vows were made that are yet unbroken. 
 
 " If any have stumbled through us and fallen by 
 the way," said Mr. Elliott, " let us here consecrate 
 ourselves to the work of saving them if possible." 
 
 He reached his hand toward Mr. Birtwell. The 
 Danker did not hesitate, but took the minister's 
 extended hand and grasped it with a vigor that 
 expressed the strength of his new-formed purpose. 
 
 Light broke through the tears that blinded the 
 eyes of Mrs. Birtwell. Clasping both of her hands 
 over those of her husband and Mr. Elliott, she cried 
 out with irrepressible emotion : 
 
 " I give myself to God also in this, solemn con 
 secration !" 
 
 " The blessing of our Lord Jesus Christ rest upon 
 it, and make us true and faithful," dropped reveren 
 tially from the minister's lips. 
 
 Somewhere this panorama of life must close. 
 Scene after scene might still be given ; but if those 
 already presented have failed to stir the hearts and 
 quicken the consciences of many who have looked 
 upon them, rousing some to a sense of danger and 
 others to a sense of duty, it were vain to display 
 another canvas ; and so we leave our work as it 
 stands, but in the faith that it will do good. Here- 
 
334 Wounded in the House of a Friend. 
 
 after we may take it up again and bring into view 
 once more some of the actors in whom it is impos 
 sible not to feel a strong interest. Life goes on, 
 though the record of events be not given, life, 
 with its joys and sorrows, its tempests of passion 
 and its sweet calms, its successes and its failures, its 
 all of good and evil ; goes on though we drop the 
 pencil and leave our canvas blank. 
 
 It is no pleasant task to paint as we have been 
 painting, nor as we must still paint should the work 
 now dropped ever be resumed. But as we take a 
 last look at some of the scenes over which we now 
 draw the curtain we see strong points of light and 
 a promise of good shining clear through the shadows 
 of the evil. 
 
 THE KMD. 
 
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