The prescription of Mr. Elliott failed. Either the wine was not pure
or his theory was at fault. It was but little over an 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 intoxication, and staggered off in the
blinding snow that soon covered his garments like a winding sheet.
CHAPTER VII.
THE nurse of Mrs. Ridley had found her in a nervous chill, at which
she was greatly troubled. More clothing was laid upon the bed, and
bottles of hot water placed to her feet. To all this Mrs. Ridley
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 together 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 saying that the doctor was not at home.
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