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.
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