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 heart had grown calmer. She was turning, in her 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 looking 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, protect 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 darkness 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 off another dreary winter
night began to draw their solemn 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 restoration 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 soon
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, the 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 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 recovery 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 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 submission, 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 spiritually 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 of her days were spent
without feeling the sphere of 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 comforted 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
themselves in her thought, and thought found utterance in speech.
Few came into her chamber upon whom she did not press a
consideration of this great evil, the magnitude of which became
greater as her mind dwelt upon it, and very few of these went away
without being disturbed by questions not easily answered.
One day one of her attentive friends who had called on her said:
"I heard a sorrowful story yesterday, and can't get it out of my
mind."
Before Mrs. Voss could reply a servant came in with a card.
"Oh, Mrs. Birtwell. Ask her to come up."
The visitor saw a slight shadow creep over her face, and knew its
meaning. How could she ever hear the name or look into the face of
Mrs. Birtwell without thinking of that dreadful night when her boy
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
feelings as to be able to meet this friend, who had always been very
near and dear to her. For a time, and while her distress of mind was
so great as almost to endanger reason, she had refused to see Mrs.
Birtwell; but as that lady never failed to call at least once a week
to ask after her, always sending up her card and waiting for a
reply, Mrs. Voss at last yielded, and the friends met again. Mrs.
Birtwell would have thrown her arms about her and clasped her in a
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 reference to the sad event that was
never a moment absent from their thoughts.
After this Mrs. Birtwell came often, and a measure of the old
feeling returned to Mrs. Voss. Still, the card of Mrs. Birtwell
whenever it was placed in her hand by a servant never failed to
bring a shadow and sometimes a chill to her heart.
In a few moments Mrs. Birtwell entered the room; and after the usual
greetings and some passing remarks, Mrs. Voss said, speaking to the
lady with whom she had been conversing:
"What were you going to say--about some sorrowful story, I mean?"
The pleasant light which had come into the lady's face on meeting
Mrs. Birtwell, faded out. She did not answer immediately, and showed
some signs of embarrassment. But Mrs. Voss, not particularly
noticing this, pressed her for the story. After a slight pause she
said:
"In visiting a friend yesterday I observed a young girl whom I had
never seen at the house before. She was about fifteen or sixteen
years of age, and had a face of great refinement and much beauty.
But I noticed that it had a sad, shy expression. My friend did not
introduce her, but said, turning to the girl a few moments after I
came in:
"'Go up to the nursery, Ethel, and wait until I am disengaged!'
"As the girl left the room I asked, 'Who is that young lady?'
remarking at the same time that there was something peculiarly
interesting about her.
"'It's a sad case, remarked my friend, her voice falling to a tone
of regret and sympathy. 'And I wish I knew just what to do about
it.'
"'Who is the young girl?' I asked repeating my question.
"'The daughter of a Mr. Ridley,' she replied."
Mrs. Birtwell gave a little start, while an expression of pain
crossed her face. The lady did not look at her, but she felt the
change her mention of Mr. Ridley had produced.
"'What of him?' I asked; not having heard the name before.
"'Oh, I thought you knew about him. He's a lawyer, formerly a member
of Congress, and a man of brilliant talents. He distinguished
himself at 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 business
acquired a good practice and regained the social position he had
lost.
"'Unhappily, his return to society was his return to the sphere of
danger. If invited to dine with a respectable citizen, he had to
encounter temptation in one of its most enticing forms. Good wine
was poured for him, and both appetite and pride urged him to accept
the fatal proffer. If he went to a public or private entertainment,
the same perils compassed him about. From all these he is said to
have held himself aloof for over a year, but his reputation at the
bar and connection with important cases brought him more and more
into notice, and he was finally drawn within the circle of danger.
Mrs. Ridley's personal accomplishments and relationship with one or
two families in the State of high social position brought her calls
and invitations, and almost forced her back again into society, much
as she would have preferred to remain secluded.
"'Mr. Ridley, it is said, felt his danger, and I am told never
escorted any lady but his wife to the supper-room at a ball or
party, and there you would always see them close together, he not
touching wine. But it happened last winter that invitations came,
for one of the largest parties of the season, and it happened also
that only a few nights before the party a little daughter had been
born to Mrs. Ridley. Mr. Ridley went alone. It was a cold and stormy
night. The wind blew fiercely, wailing about the roofs and chimneys
and 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 impossible. There was
everything to fear, everything to lose. The peril of a soldier going
into the hottest of the battle was not greater than the peril that
her husband would encounter on that night; and if he fell! The
thought chilled her blood, as well it might, and sent a 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 anxiety in check, though fever had crept into her blood and
an enemy to her life was assaulting its very citadel. But as the
hour at which her husband had promised to return passed by and he
came not, anxiety gave place to terror. The fever in her blood
increased, and sent delirium to her brain. Hours passed, but her
husband did not return. Not until the cold dawn of the next
sorrowful morning did he make his appearance, and then in such a
wretched plight that it was well for his unhappy wife that she could
not recognize his condition. He came too late--came from one of the
police stations, it is said, having been found in the street too
much intoxicated to find his way home, and in danger of 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 mother had taken, following a few
days afterward.
"'That was months ago. Alas for the wretched man! He has never risen
from that terrible fall, never even made an effort, it is said, to
struggle to his feet again. He gave up in despair.
"'His eldest child, Ethel, the young lady you saw just now, was away
from home at school when her mother died. Think of what a coming
back was hers! My heart grows sick in trying to imagine it. Poor
child! she has my deepest sympathy.
"'Ethel did not return to school. She was needed at home now. The
death of her mother and the unhappy fall of her father brought her
face to face with new duties and untried conditions. She had a
little brother only six years old to whom she must be a mother as
well as sister. Responsibilities from which women of matured years
and long experience might well shrink were now at the feet of this
tender girl, and there was no escape for her. She must stoop, and
with fragile form and hands scarce stronger than a child's lift and
bear them up from the ground. Love gave her strength and courage.
The woman hidden in the child came forth, and with a self-denial and
self-devotion that touches me to tears when I think of it took up
the new life and new burdens, and has borne them ever since with a
patience that is truly heroic.
"'But new duties are now laid upon her. Since her father's fall his
practice has been neglected, and few indeed have been willing to
entrust him with business. The little he had 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! is brought face to face with the question of
bread.'"