Part 32 (1/2)

”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 partic.i.p.ants in these things we should find ourselves involved 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 a.s.senting remarks on the dangers of social drinking. ”This is the great question now. I confess to being entirely at a loss. I never felt so helpless in the presence of any duty before.”

”I suppose,” replied Mrs. Birtwell, ”that the way to a knowledge of our whole duty in any came 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 destruction, 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 pleasant 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 G.o.d 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.”

”G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e 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 her eyes, so heavy and sorrowful a little while before, 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. Birtwell left the house of Mr. Elliott a slender girl, thinly clad, pa.s.sed from the beautiful 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 a.s.sumed 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 fading slowly as the brief conference between her and Mrs. Sandford had progressed--died out of her face. She shrunk a little in her chair, her head dropping forward.

For the s.p.a.ce 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 disappointed. 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, fretfully 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, unsteady 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 proposition. 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 giving up.