"HEAVENS and earth! Why doesn't some one go to the door?" exclaimed
Mr. Spencer Birtwell, rousing himself from a heavy sleep as the bell
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.
"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 intervened 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 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 up all right."
But Mrs. Birtwell did not return to her bed. With 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 of Archie, with flushed face and eyes
too bright for sober health, holding in his hand a glass of
sparkling champagne, came vividly before him.
"Not more freely than other young men," he replied. "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 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. Birtwell, 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, particularly 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--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 putteth 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."
Mr. Birtwell started to his feet and walked the floor with
considerable excitement.
"If _we_ had a son just coming to manhood--and I 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 and 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. Birtwell, evidently
disturbed at this communication.
"I wish to Heaven that I were! But the fact was 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 disgraceful."
"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 herself 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 occasional glass of wine too much at an
evening party and confirmed bad habits. We must not hope to make her
see with our eyes, nor to take our judgment 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," returned Mrs. Birtwell,
gloomily. "Ellis would be hurt and offended."
"So far so good. He'd be on guard at the next party."
"Perhaps so. But what hope is there for a young man in any danger of
acquiring a love of liquor as things now are in our best society? He
cannot always be on guard. Wine is poured for him everywhere. He may
go unharmed in his daily walks through the city though thousands of
drinking-saloons crowd its busy streets. They may hold out their
enticements for him in vain. But he is too weak to refuse the
tempting glass when a fair hostess offers it, or when, in the midst
of a gay company wine is in every hand and at every lip. One glass
taken, and caution and restraint are too often forgotten. He drinks
with this one and that one, until his clear head is gone and
appetite, like a watchful spider, throws another cord of its fatal
web around him."
"I don't see what we are to do about it," said Mr. Birtwell. "If men
can't control themselves--" He did not finish the sentence.
"We can at least refrain from putting temptation in their way,"
answered his wife.
"How?"
"We can refuse to turn our houses into drinking-saloons," replied
Mrs. Birtwell, voice and manner becoming excited and intense.
"Margaret, Margaret, you are losing yourself," said the astonished
husband.
"No; I speak the words of truth and soberness," she answered, her
face rising in color and her eyes brightening. "What great
difference is there between a drinking-saloon, where liquor is sold,
and a gentleman's dining-room, where it is given away? The harm is
great in both--greatest, I fear, in the latter, where the weak and
unguarded are allured and their tastes corrupted. There is a ban on
the drinking-saloon. Society warns young men not to enter its
tempting doors. It is called the way of death and hell. What makes
it accursed and our home saloon harmless? It is all wrong, Mr.
Birtwell--all wrong, wrong, wrong! and to-day we are tasting some of
the fruit, the bitterness of which, I fear, will be in our mouths so
long as we both shall live."
Mrs. Birtwell broke down, and sinking back in her chair, covered her
face with her hands.
"I must go to Frances," she said, rising after a few moments.
"Not now, Margaret," interposed her husband. "Wait for a while.
Archie is neither murdered nor frozen to death; you may take my word
for that. Wait until the morning advances, and he has time to put in
an appearance, as they say. Henry can go round after breakfast and
make inquiry about him. If he is still absent, then you might call
and see Mrs. Voss. At present the snow lies inches deep and unbroken
on the street, and you cannot possibly go out."
Mrs. Birtwell sat down again, her countenance more distressed.
"Oh, if it hadn't happened in our house!" she said. "If this awful
thing didn't lie at our door!"
"Good Heavens, Margaret! why will you take on so? Any one hearing
you talk might think us guilty of murder, or some other dreadful
crime. Even if the worst fears are realized, no blame can lie with
us. Parties are given every night, and young men, and old men too,
go home from them with lighter heads than when they came. No one is
compelled to drink more than is good for him. If he takes too much,
the sin lies at his own door."
"If you talked for ever, Mr. Birtwell," was answered "nothing you
might say could possibly change my feelings or sentiments. I know we
are responsible both to God and to society for the stumbling-blocks
we set in the way of others. For a long time, as you know, I have
felt this in regard to our social wine-drinking customs; and if I
could have had my way, there would have been one large party of the
season at which neither man nor woman could taste wine."
"I know," replied Mr. Birtwell. "But I didn't choose to make myself
a laughing-stock. If we are in society, we must do as society does.
Individuals are not responsible for social usages. They take things
as they find them, going with the current, and leaving society to
settle for itself its code of laws and customs. If we don't like
these laws and customs, we are free to drift out of the current. But
to set ourselves against them is a weakness and a folly."
Mr. Birtwell's voice and manner grew more confident as he spoke. He
felt that he had closed the argument.
"If society," answered his wife, "gets wrong, how is it to get
right?"
Mr. Birtwell was silent.
"Is it not made up of individuals?"
"Of course."
"And is not each of the individuals responsible, in his degree, for
the conduct of society?"
"In a certain sense, yes."
"Society, as a whole, cannot determine a question of right and
wrong. Only individuals can do this. Certain of these, more
independent than the rest, pass now and then from the beaten track
of custom, and the great mass follow them. Because they do this or
that, it is right or in good taste and becomes fashionable. The many
are always led by the few. It is through the personal influence of
the leaders in social life that society is now cursed by its
drinking customs. Personal influence alone can change these customs,
and therefore every individual becomes responsible, because he might
if he would set his face against them, and any one brave enough to
do this would find many weaker ones quick to come to his side and
help him to form a better social sentiment and a better custom."
"All very nicely said," replied Mr. Birtwell, "but I'd like to see
the man brave enough to give a large fashionable party and exclude
wine."
"So would I. Though every lip but mine kept silence, there would be
one to do him honor."
"You would be alone, I fear," said the husband.
"When a man does a right and brave thing, all true men honor him in
their hearts. All may not be brave enough to stand by his side, but
a noble few will imitate the good example. Give the leader in any
cause, right or wrong, and you will always find adherents of the
cause. No, my husband, I would not be alone in doing that man honor.
His praise would be on many lips and many hearts would bless him. I
only wish you were that man! Spencer, if you will consent to take
this lead, I will walk among our guests the queenliest woman, in
heart at least, to be found in any drawing-room this season. I shall
not be without my maids-of-honor, you may be sure, and they will
come from the best families known in our city. Come! say yes, and I
will be prouder of my husband than if he were the victorious general
of a great army."
"No, thank you, my dear," replied Mr. Birtwell, not in the least
moved by his wife's enthusiasm. "I am not a social reformer, nor in
the least inclined that way. As I find things I take them. It is no
fault of mine that some people have no control of their appetites
and passions. Men will abuse almost anything to their own hurt. I
saw as many of our guests over-eat last night as over-drink, and
there will be quite as many headaches to-day from excess of terrapin
and oysters as from excess of wine. It's no use, Margaret.
Intemperance is not to be cured in this way. Men who have a taste
for wine will get it, if not in one place then in another; if not in
a gentleman's dining-room, then in a drinking-saloon, or somewhere
else."
The glow faded from Mrs. Birtwell's face and the light went out of
her eyes. Her voice was husky and choking as she replied:
"One fact does not invalidate another. Because men who have acquired
a taste for wine will have it whether we provide it for them or not,
it is no reason why we should set it before the young whose
appetites are yet unvitiated and lure them to excesses. It does not
make a free indulgence in wine and brandy any the more excusable
because men overeat themselves."
"But," broke in Mr. Birtwell, with the manner of one who gave an
unanswerable reason, "if we exclude wine that men may not hurt
themselves by over-indulgence, why not exclude the oysters and
terrapin? If we set up for reformers and philanthropists, why not
cover the whole ground?"
"Oysters and terrapin," replied Mrs. Birtwell, in a voice out of
which she could hardly keep the contempt she felt for her husband's
weak rejoinder, "don't confuse the head, dethrone the reason,
brutalize, debase and ruin men in soul and body as do wine and
brandy. The difference lies there, and all men see and feel it, make
what excuses they will for self-indulgence and deference to custom.
The curse of drink is too widely felt. There is scarcely a family in
the land on which its blight does not lie. The best, the noblest,
the purest, the bravest, have fallen. It is breaking hopes and
hearts and fortunes every day. The warning cross that marks the
grave of some poor victim hurts your eyes at every turn of life. We
are left without excuse."
Mrs. Birtwell rose as she finished speaking, and returned to her
chamber.