A feeling of repression came over Mr. Ridley as he entered the supper-room and his eyes ran down the table.  Half of this sumptuous feast was forbidden enjoyment.  He must not taste the wine.  All were free but him.  He could fill a glass for the elegant lady whose hand was still upon his arm, but must not pledge her back except in water.  A sense of shame and humiliation crept into his heart.  So he felt when, in the stillness that fell upon the company, the voice of Mr. Elliott rose in blessing on the good things now spread for them in such lavish profusion.  Only one sentence took hold on, Mr. Ridley’s mind.  It was this:  “Giver of all natural as well as spiritual good things, of the corn and the wine equally with the bread and the water of life, sanctify these bounties that come from thy beneficent hand, and keep us from any inordinate or hurtful use thereof.”

Mr. Ridley drew a deeper breath.  A load seemed taken from his bosom.  He felt a sense of freedom and safety.  If the wine were pure, it was a good gift of God, and could not really do him harm.  A priest, claiming to stand as God’s representative among men, had invoked a blessing on this juice of the grape, and given it by this act a healthier potency.  All this crowded upon him, stifling reason and experience and hushing the voice of prudence.

And now, alas! he was as a feather on the surface of a wind-struck lake, and given up to the spirit and pressure of the hour.  The dangerous fallacy to which Mr. Elliott had given utterance held his thoughts to the exclusion of all other considerations.  A clear path out of the dreary wilderness in which he had been, straying seemed to open before him, and he resolved to walk therein.  Fatal delusion!

As soon as Mr. Ridley had supplied Mrs. General Locran with terrapin and oysters and filled a plate for himself, he poured out two glasses of wine and handed one of them to the lady, then, lifting the other, he bowed a compliment and placed it to his lips.  The lady smiled on him graciously, sipping the wine and praising its flavor.

“Pure as nectar,” was the mental response of Mr. Ridley as the long-denied palate felt the first thrill of sweet satisfaction.  He had taken a single mouthful, but another hand seemed to grasp the one that held the cup of wine and press it back to his lips, from which it was not removed until empty.

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.