Saved as by Fire! CHAPTER 8.
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A day or two afterwards, as I stood talking with a friend in the Continental Hotel, I saw Granger pass into the bar. I moved to a position from which I could observe him. He called for a glass of ale, and drank it off at a single draught. His manner was slightly nervous and a little hurried. I threw myself in his way as he left the bar, and noticed a startle of surprise when his eyes rested on me.
"Ah! Lyon. Glad to see you!" The salutation was given with heartiness. But he did not look me steadily in the face. We walked out into the street, both silent until we reached the pavement.
"I'm sorry about this, Granger," I said.
"About what?" He affected not to understand me.
"You cannot use ale — and be safe. You know this as well as I do."
His lips closed tightly, and his brows fell. We walked for a little way, neither of us speaking.
"Come round to my office, and let us have a talk about this matter," said I, as we reached the next corner.
"Not today." He drew out his watch and looked at the time. "I have an engagement with a client. But don't give yourself any trouble about me, Lyon, I'm alright"
"But tomorrow may tell a different story," I replied. "No, no, Granger! You must not go a step farther in this way. A precipice lies just beyond!"
"Another time; but now I must hurry to my engagement." Saying which, he left me abruptly.
My concern was great. That he could stand secure feeding his old, fierce appetite with a glass of ale now and then, I knew to be impossible, and he knew it as well — only, subtle desire was pressing for indulgence, and blinding him with false assurances.
I did not see him again for two or three days, though I had twice called at his office. At last I found him in. It was late in the afternoon, and I could see from the color of his face, that he had been drinking, though not to excess. He received me with the old friendliness of manner, and without any sign of embarrassment
"You've come for that talk with me, I suppose," he said, smiling, and with a twinkle in his eyes. "Alright. You see I'm not down in the gutter, for all the prophecy that was in your face the other day."
There was a certain lightness of tone and manner about him, that in view of the subject to which he referred, almost shocked me. He must have noticed this, for he added, in a more serious voice: "I know how you feel, Mr. Lyon, but let me assure you that I am in no danger of falling back into that wretched slough from which you helped to extricate me. I have too vivid a remembrance of its suffocating mire and horrible foulness ever to let my feet go near its treacherous margin again."
"What and where are the margins of this dreadful slough?" I asked.
He did not answer.
"I saw you on one of these margins, your feet in the very slime of the pit, only a few days ago."
A smile broke over his face.
"Your way of putting it. But, seriously, Lyon, I am not in the danger you think. How long do you suppose it is, since I've been using a little ale every day? More than two months. I was getting run down from too close application to business, and the doctor said I must have a tonic. 'Take a glass of stout or bitter ale with your dinner,' he said. Of course that couldn't be. My wife would have been frightened to death."
"Did the doctor know anything of your previous life?" I inquired.
"Can't say about that. He may, or he may not."
"Your regular family physician?"
"No. Haven't had a regular doctor in the family for three or four years."
"And you have followed his prescription?"
"Yes; only I don't take the ale with my dinner. I've felt like a new man ever since. Can do more work with less exhaustion. Have a clearer head, and more elastic feelings. The ale simply gives a needed tonic, which the system absorbs, and there the matter ends."
"You think so?"
"I'm sure of it."
"With all your sad experience, Mr. Granger, to take so fearful a risk!"
"I know how the thing looks to you, Mr. Lyon; and I know how it stands with me. I am not taking this ale to gratify an appetite, but simply as a tonic, which my system requires. Here lies my safety. I am not off guard for a single moment. I am not only using the will-power which held me secure so long, but motives of good citizenship, and love and duty towards my family — are more powerful than ever. If appetite attempts to lift its head again — I shall set my crushing heel upon it. I am standing in the strength of a true manhood."
"Have you forgotten," I said, "that testimony of a physician in regard to the enlargement of the blood globules in the habitually intemperate?"
Granger made a slight gesture of impatience as he replied: "Nothing in it. I've talked with half a dozen physicians and scientific men on the subject."
"But, apart from that particular theory," I said, "the fact remains, as you know, that in a man who has once been intemperate, certain changes in the state of the body have been wrought, which remain permanent. Whether this change be in the blood globules or not — the imminent danger of the man, should alcohol be introduced into his blood, is just the same. The truth or falsity of the physician's theory, in no way impacts the essential facts in the case."
As I spoke, I saw a quick, startled motion of his eyes, but it was gone in an instant.
"Have you forgotten Mr. Talbot?" I asked.
"Such cases are exceptional," he replied, with a toss of the head. "We don't meet with them once in an age."
"The history of alcoholism, is the history of such cases," I replied. "You are deceiving yourself. Thousands and thousands of such men go down to dishonored graves every year. My dear friend, you are taking a fearful risk!"
Granger drew a little away from me with a slightly offended air.
"We shall see," he answered, somewhat coldly, and then changed the subject. I tried to come back to it again, but he pushed it aside with so manifest a purpose not to continue the discussion, that I had nothing left but silence.
Every day I expected his fall. But it did not come suddenly, as I had feared. The usual business hour found him at his office with each new morning, and his presence in court was as prompt and as regular as usual. But there was not an observant friend or acquaintance who did not see the steady downward change that was in progress. It was slow, butsure. The man was most warily on guard; limiting his appetite — holding it down — saying to it, "I am your master. So much — and no more. Enough for tonic and strength — but nothing for indulgence." And yet, from a single glass of ale a day, the concession to appetite had reached, at the end of three months, to as many as three or four, by which time the strong will, and the motives of interest, honor and affection, in which he had entrenched himself — were beginning to show signs of weakness.
I met him one day about this period of his declension. It was in the court-room. I had been drawn there through my interest in a case in which he appeared as counsel for the defendant, a man on trial for his life — an old man, gray-headed, bent and broken — one of the saddest wrecks I had ever seen. This man had once been a successful merchant, and the possessor of considerable wealth. I well remember the time when he occupied a handsome residence on Walnut Street, and when his wife and daughters moved in the best social circles of our city. But his head was not strong enough for the wine that proved his betrayer, and in the very prime and glory of his manhood — he began to fall. Methodic habits, and the orderly progression of a long-established business, kept him free from losses in trade for some years after his sagacity as a merchant had left him. But the time came, when the tide began to turn adversely. Younger partners, who had new ideas of business, were impatient of slow gains. Into their hands came a larger and a larger control of things, and the opportunity for speculation. As in all other kinds of gambling, trade speculations lead surely to ultimate losses. Winning is the exception; loss the rule. It took only a few years, to bring the firm to bankruptcy.
The merchant never recovered himself. Capital gone, and brain and body enervated by intemperance — he did not even make a struggle, and at the age of fifty-five dropped out of useful life, and became a burden, a shame and a sorrow to his friends and family. An income in her own right of a few hundred dollars possessed by his wife, saved them from utter poverty. There were two beautiful daughters, as refined and intelligent as any you meet in the most cultivated circles. Alas for them! The pleasant places in which they had moved, saw them no more.
Ten years later, and the broken merchant, in a frenzy of drunken delirium, struck down his wife with a blow that caused her death. A trial for murder was the consequence, in which Mr. Granger conducted the defense. One of the saddest and most painful features of this trial, was the appearance in court of the two daughters as witnesses, and the evidence they were compelled to give. I can see them now, with ten years of sorrow and humiliation written in their pale, suffering faces, as they stood in the witness-box, tearful and reluctant. Pity made even the lawyers tender and considerate in pressing their examination; but enough came out to give the heart-ache to nearly all who were in the court-room. It was one of the most painful scenes I had ever witnessed.
When all the evidence was in, and Mr. Granger's turn came to address the jury in behalf of the prisoner, the pause and expectation became breathless. The poor old white-haired man bent toward him with a helpless, anxious face, and the two daughters sat pale with suspense, their eyes riveted on the man who was to plead for the life of their father.
"Gentlemen of the jury." His subdued voice, in which a slight tremor was apparent, made deeper the silence of the hushed court-room. It was genuine emotion that came thrilling in his tones, not the art of the pleader. There was a waiting and a holding of the breath for his next words. Turning slowly, he looked at the old man and at the two white-faced women — his daughters — and stretching out a hand toward them, said, his voice still lower than at first: "The most sorrowful thing I have seen in this courtroom, since my admission to the bar!"
There is no form of words by which to convey any true conception of the pity and deeply moving pathos that were in his voice.
"The most sorrowful thing, gentlemen of the jury!" turning partly round to the jury-box. "I need not tell you what it means. The pitiful story has been fully rehearsed. You know it all. There was once an honorable merchant, a tender husband, a loving father. The city was proud of him. His name was the synonym for high integrity and generous feeling. His home was the dwelling-place of all sweet affections. But an evil eye fell upon the merchant and his happy home. The locust and the canker-worm found their way into his garden of delight. Leaf withered and flower faded, and singing birds departed. Under the spell of this evil eye, the generous merchant lost his wealth and his fine sense of honor; thehusband, his tenderness and devotion; the father, his love. A demon had taken possession of his soul, subsidizing all its noble powers, and making them the ministers of evil instead of good. Shall I tell you the name of this demon?"
He paused for a few moments. Then with a slow utterance and deep impressiveness: "It was the demon of strong drink! You all know him. You cannot walk the streets of this great city — without feeling his hot breath strike into your faces a hundred times an hour! His wretched victims are everywhere about us; and the homes he has ruined may be counted by tens of thousands all over the land. Where has not the blight of his foul breath fallen? Whose home is free from the curse of his presence?
"Look!" He turned to the prisoner and his daughters. "All that the demon has left! Ah, gentlemen! he is a pitiless demon, and without respect of persons.
"And now what shall I say for my poor, unhappy client? For this man whom the devil of drink has held in chains for these many, many years, and made the slave of his infernal will. Who wronged and beggared his family — the man — or the demon that was in him? The man was kind, and tender, and loving. The man cared for his wife and his children, and would have given his very life, if need be, for their safety. Years of unselfish devotion to those he loved, bear him witness. You have heard the testimony of his daughters; and I think your eyes must still remain half-blinded by the tears with which their touching story filled them. No, no! It was not the man who dealt that cruel blow. He would never have laid on the dear and precious head of his faithful wife a stroke as light as that of a feather's fall. It was the demon who did it — and not the man! The demon of drink.
"No, gentlemen! You cannot find the man guilty of murder. He was only a passive instrument, with no more responsibility for crime, than the club with which a ruffian fells a citizen, or the pistol with which an assassin does his fatal work. It was the devil who did it. Ah! if the law could only reach this devil!"
The jury retired on the conclusion of Granger's plea, and were not out for half an hour. The evidence had been very direct and clear. The prisoner had developed in the past year, an irritable and malignant spirit, and would grow violent and threatening when his wife refused him money. It was proved that he had struck her several times, and that she had once carried the marks of a blow in her face for many weeks. In the evidence bearing on the cause of her death, it was shown that her husband had been wrought into a rage of insane anger by her refusal to give him money, and that in his blind passion he had knocked her down. The blow was a violent one. When her daughters, who had heard the heavy fall of her body, reached the room and attempted to lift her from the floor, she was dead!
At the end of half an hour, the jury came in with a verdict of guilty of murder in the second degree, and a recommendation to mercy. Granger had remained in the court-room while the jury was out, taking part in another case that came up for trial. I saw from his manner, that a strong impression, from which he had not been able to break free, had been left on his mind by the incidents of the trial just closed. The two daughters of the prisoner remained in the court-room, waiting for the verdict in their father's case. More than once I noticed Granger's eyes resting upon them with a pitiful, almost sad expression. Was he thinking of his own daughter and their mother, and of the demon that might desolate their home and drag them down to a fate like this?
When the verdict came, and the wretched prisoner was removed, under a sentence of three years' incarceration in the penitentiary. I saw Mr. Granger go out with the two daughters, who moved through the crowd with bent heads and slow, uncertain steps. What a heartache the sight gave me! As I reached the street, I observed him enter a carriage with them and drive away. I was touched by his considerate care and kindness.
"Ah," I said to myself, "if he will but take this dreadful lesson to heart, and cast out once and forever, that devil of drink to which he made, a little while ago, such an eloquent and truthful reference."
I felt a strong hope that this would be so. That the incidents of this trial, and his absorption into it as counsel, would make so deep an impression on Granger as to cause him to startle back in alarm from the brink of the precipice on which he was standing, and over which he might at any moment plunge! That he had been strongly moved, was very evident. It was not possible for him to look on the wrecked and ruined family of the old merchant, or to contemplate the awful tragedy which had been enacted — without a shudder at the thought of such a catastrophe reaching his own home. He was dallying with the devil of drink, who might at any moment bind him hand and foot, as he had once before bound him, and make him again the slave of his will.
It was about eight o'clock in the evening, two days after the trial, that I was informed by a servant that a lady was in the parlor and wished to see me. She had not given her name. On going down I was met by Mrs. Granger. I saw the worst at a single glance. It was written, alas! too plainly in her face.
"I would like to have some talk with you, Mr. Lyon," she said. Her voice was low and steady; but I could detect an under-thrill of feeling held down by a strong effort.
"I am entirely at your service," I replied, using the first form of speech that came into my mind. "And if I can be of any use to you, command me freely."
"You know about my husband." The firmness went out of her voice.
"What about him?" I had neither seen him nor heard anything in regard to him since the day of the trial.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what, Mrs. Granger?"
"That he has — " She could not finish the sentence; her voice breaking in a sob, that was followed by a low, shivering cry.
"I am pained beyond measure to hear of this," said I. "How long has it been?"
"It has been coming on him for two or three months past, and I've been in awful dread. Little by little, day by day — his old appetite for alcohol has gained strength. What the endmust be, I knew too well."
"I saw him in court on the day of that murder trial. He was all right then."
"He has never been right since. It was late in the evening before he came home. His condition, I will not describe." Tears, in large drops, were falling over her face.
"Has he been to his office since?"
"I think not," was answered. "He goes out in the morning, and does not return until late at night. If I ask him a question, or venture a word of remonstrance, he gets angry. Oh! sir; this must not go on. I am helpless. He will hear nothing and bear nothing from me. It was not so once. But you are his friend, Mr. Lyon. He has great respect for you; and I know of no one who has more influence over him."
"Any and everything in my power, shall be done," I replied. "My regret is that I did not know of this earlier." I let more of hope and encouragement go into my voice, than I really felt.
"Oh! sir. If you will only do your best for him." The poor wife looked at me with a pleading face.
"Is he at home now?" I asked.
"Oh, no, no. I haven't seen him since morning, and it may be after midnight before he returns. Oh! isn't it dreadful, dreadful, Mr. Lyon, the way this fearful appetite takes hold of a man! I thought, when he told me about that poor, old, broken-down merchant, who, in a fit of drunken insanity, had killed his wife, and whom he had to defend on a charge of murder, that he would take the terrible lesson to heart. The case had drawn largely on his sympathies, and his pity was great for the daughters who were to appear in court and give evidence that might send their father to the gallows. I have rarely known a case to affect him so much. And to think, Mr. Lyon, that he should go from this trial, with all its warning incidents fresh in his mind — and give himself into the power of the very agency which had wrought so fearful a ruin, that the very sight of it sent a shudder through his soul! There is something awful and mysterious in all this, sir! It passes my comprehension."
"And not yours only, ma'am. It is one of the dark problems men find it difficult to explain. Into all hurtful and disorderly things, evil forces seem to flow with an intenser life, than into things innocent and orderly. There is violence, aggression, destruction or slavery in every evil agency. And it is never satisfied under any limitation; it must have complete mastery — and work complete ruin."
"A terrible thought!" Mrs. Granger shivered as she spoke.
"Will you try to find him tonight?" she asked, a moment afterwards.
"Yes. I will go in search of him at once." She arose to depart.
"Wait for a moment; I will see you home first."
"No, no, Mr. Lyon. I'm not afraid. Don't lose a moment. I want my husband found as soon as possible."
And she went quickly from the room, passing into the street before I could make another effort to detain her.
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