"Your minister is the very man who spoke to me yesterday in the depot."
Abbie nodded and smiled her surprise at this information; and Ester looked about her. Presently another whisper:
"Why, Abbie, there is the blue-ribboned girl I told you about, sitting in the third seat from the front."
"That," said Abbie, looking and whispering back, "is Fanny Ames; one of our teachers."
Presently Ester set to work to select Mr. Foster from the rows of young men who were rapidly filling the front seats in the left aisle.
"I believe that one in glasses and brown kids is he," she said to herself, regarding him curiously; and as if to reward her penetration he rose suddenly and came over, book in hand, to the seat directly in front of where they were sitting.
"Good evening, Abbie," was his greeting. "We want to sing this hymn, and have not the tune. Can you lead it without the notes?"
"Why, yes," answered Abbie slowly, and with a little hesitation. "That is, if you will help me."
"We'll all help," he said, smiling and returning to his seat.
"Yes, I'm sure that is he," commented Ester. Then the meeting commenced; it was a novel one. One person at least had never attended any just like it. Instead of the chapter of proper length, which Ester thought all ministers selected for public reading, this reader read just three verses, and he did not even rise from his seat to do it, nor use the pulpit Bible, but read from a bit of a book which he took from his pocket. Then the man in spectacles started a hymn, which Ester judged was the one which had no notes attached from the prompt manner in which Abbie took up the very first word.
"Now," said the leader briskly, "before we pray let us have requests."And almost before he had concluded the sentence a young man responded.
"Remember, especially, a boy in my class, who seems disposed to turn every serious word into ridicule."
"What a queer subject for prayer," Ester thought.
"Remember my little brother, who is thinking earnestly of those things," another gentleman said, speaking quickly, as if he realized that he must hasten or lose his chance.
"Pray for every one of my class. I want them all." And at this Esther actually started, for the petition came from the lips of the blue-ribboned Fanny in the corner. A lady actually taking part in a prayer-meeting when gentlemen were present! How very improper. She glanced around her nervously, but no one else seemed in the least surprised or disturbed; and indeed another young lady immediately followed her with a similar request.
"Now," said the leader, "let us pray." And that prayer was so strange in its sounding to Ester. It did not commence by reminding God that he was the maker and ruler of the universe, or that he was omnipotent and omnipresent and eternal, or any of the solemn forms of prayer to which her ears were used, but simply: "Oh, dear Savior, receive these petitions which we bring. Turn to thyself the heart of the lad who ridicules the efforts of his teacher; lead the little brother into the strait and narrow way; gather that entire class into thy heart of love"—and thus for each separate request a separate petition; and as the meeting progressed it grew more strange every moment to Ester. Each one seemed to have a word that he was eager to utter; and the prayers, while very brief, were so pointed as to be almost startling. They sang, too, a great deal, only a verse at a time, and whenever they seemed to feel like it. Her amazement reached its hight when she felt a little rustle beside her, and turned in time to see the eager light in Abbie's eyes as she said:
"One of my class has decided for Christ."
"Good news," responded the leader. "Don't let us forget this item of thanksgiving when we pray."
As for Ester she was almost inclined not to believe her ears. Had her cousin Abbie actually "spoken in meeting?" She was about to sink into a reverie over this, but hadn't time, for at this point the leader arose.
"I am sorry," said he, "to cut the thread that binds us, but the hour is gone. Another week will soon pass, though, and, God willing, we shall take up the story—sing." And a soft, sweet chant stole through the room: "Let my prayer be set forth before thee as incense; and the lifting of my hands as evening sacrifice." Then the little company moved with a quiet cheerfulness toward the door.
"Have you enjoyed the evening?" Abbie asked in an eager tone, as they passed down the aisle.
"Why, yes, I believe so; only it was rather queer."
"Queer, was it? How?"
"Oh, I'll tell you when we get home. Your minister is exactly behind us, Abbie, and I guess he wants to speak with you."
There was a bright flush on Abbie's face, and a little sparkle in her eye, as she turned and gave her hand to the minister, and then said in a demure and softly tone: "Cousin Ester, let me make you acquainted with my friend, Mr. Foster."
"I don't know what to decide, really," Mrs. Ried said thoughtfully, standing, with an irresolute air, beside the pantry door. "Sadie, hadn't I better make these pies?"
"Is that the momentous question which you can't decide, mother?"
Mrs. Ried laughed. "Not quite; it is about the new boarder. We have room enough for another certainly, and seven dollars a week is quite an item just now. If Ester were at home, I shouldn't hesitate."
"Mother, if I weren't the meekest and most enduring of mortals, I should be hopelessly vexed by this time at the constancy with which your thoughts turn to Ester; it is positively insulting, as if I were not doing remarkably. Do you put anything else in apple-pies? I never mean to have one, by the way, in my house. I think they're horrid; crust—apples—nutmeg—little lumps of butter all over it. Is there anything else, mother, before I put the top on?"
"Sometimes I sweeten mine a little," Mrs. Ried answered demurely.
"Oh, sure enough; it was that new boarder that took all thoughts of sweetness out of me. How much sugar, mother? Do let him come. We are such a stupid family now, it is time we had a new element in it; besides, you know I broke the largest platter yesterday, and his seven dollars will help buy another. I wish he was anything but a doctor, though; one ingredient of that kind is enough in a family, especially of the stamp which we have at present."
"Sadie," said Mrs. Ried gravely and reprovingly; "I never knew a young man for whom I have a greater respect than I have for Dr. Van Anden."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Sadie, with equal gravity; "I have an immense respect for him I assure you, and so I have for the President, and I feel about as intimate with the one as the other. I hope Dr. Douglass will be delightfully wild and wicked. How will Dr. Van Anden enjoy the idea of a rival?"
"I spoke of it to him yesterday. I told him we would't give the matter another thought if it would be in any way unpleasant to him. I thought we owed him that consideration in return for all his kindness to us; but he assured me that it could make not the slightest difference to him."
"Do let him come, then. I believe I need another bed to make; I'm growing thin for want of exercise, and, by the way, that suggests an item in his favor; being a doctor, he will be out all night occasionally, perhaps, and the bed won't need making so often. Mother, I do believe I didn't put a speck of soda in that cake I made this morning. What will that do to it? or, more properly speaking, what will itnotdo, inasmuch as it is not there todo? As for Ester, I shall consider it a personal insult if you refer to her again, when I am so magnificently filling her place."
And this much enduring mother laughed and groaned at nearly the same time. Poor Ester never forgot the soda, nor indeed anything else, in her life; but then Sadie was so overflowing with sparkle and good humor.
Finally the question was decided, and the new boarder came, and was duly installed in the family; and thence commenced a new era in Sadie's life. Merry clerks and schoolboys she counted among her acquaintances by the score. Grave, dignified, slightly taciturn men of the Dr. Van Anden stamp she numbered also among her friends; but never one quite like Dr. Douglass. This easy, graceful, courteous gentleman, who seemed always to have just the right thing to say or do, at just the right moment; who was neither wild nor sober; who seemed the furthest possible remove from wicked, yet who was never by any chance disagreeably good. His acquaintance with Sadie progressed rapidly. A new element had come to mix in with her life. The golden days wherein the two sisters had been much together, wherein the Christian sister might have planted much seed for the Master in Sadie's bright young heart, had all gone by. Perchance that sleeping Christian, nestled so cosily among the cushions in Cousin Abbie's morning-room, might have been startled and aroused, could she have realized that days like those would never come back to her; that being misspent they had passed away; that a new worker had come to drop seed into the unoccupied heart; that never again would Sadie be as fresh, and as guileless, and as easily won, as in those days which she had let slip in idle, aye, worse than idle, slumber.
Sadie sealed and directed a letter to Ester and ran with it down stairs. Dr. Douglass stood in the doorway, hat in hand.
"Shall I have the pleasure of being your carrier?" he said courteously.
"Do you suppose you are to be trusted?" Sadie questioned, as she quietly deposited the letter in his hat.
"That depends in a great measure on whether you repose trust in me. The world is safer in general than we are inclined to think it. Who lives in that little birdsnest of a cottage just across the way?"
"A dear old gentleman, Mr. Vane," Sadie answered, her voice taking a tender tone, as it always did when any chance word reminded her of Florence. "That is he standing in the gateway. Doesn't he look like a grand old patriarch?"
As they looked Dr. Van Anden drove suddenly from around the corner, and reined in his horses in front of the opposite gateway. They could hear his words distinctly.
"Mr. Vane, let me advise you to avoid this evening breeze; it is blowing up strongly from the river."
"Is Dr. Van Anden the old gentleman's nurse, or guardian, or what?" questioned Sadie's companion.
"Physician," was her brief reply. Then, after a moment, she laughed mischievously. "You don't like Dr. Van Anden, Dr. Douglass?"
"I! Oh, yes, I like him; the trouble is, he doesn't like me, for which he is not to blame, to be sure. Probably he can not help it. I have in some way succeeded in gaining his ill-will. Why do you think I am not one of his admirers?"
"Oh," answered this rude and lawless girl, "I thought it would be very natural for you to be slightly jealous of him, professionally, you know."
If her object was to embarrass or annoy Dr. Douglass, apparently she did not gain her point. He laughed good humoredly as he replied:
"Professionally, he is certainly worthy of envy; I regard him as a very skillful physician, Miss Ried."
Ere Sadie could reply the horses were stopped before the door, and Dr.Van Anden addressed her:
"Sadie, do you want to take a ride?"
Now, although Sadie had no special interest in, or friendship for, Dr. Van Anden, she did exceedingly like his horses, and cultivated their acquaintance whenever she had an opportunity. So within five minutes after this invitation was received she was skimming over the road in a high state of glee. Sadie marked that night afterward as the last one in which she rode after those black ponies for many a day. The Doctor seemed more at leisure than usual, and in a much more talkative mood; so it was quite a merry ride, until he broke a moment's silence by an abrupt question:
"Sadie, haven't your mother and you always considered me a sincere friend to your family?"
Sadie's reply was prompt and to the point.
"Certainly, Dr. Van Anden; I assure you I have as much respect for, and confidence in, you as I should have had for my grandfather, if I had ever known him."
"That being the case," continued the Doctor, gravely, "you will give me credit for sincerity and earnestness in what I am about to say. I want to give you a word of warning concerning Dr. Douglass. He is not a man whomIcan respect; not a man with whom I should like to see my sister on terms of friendship. I have known him well and long, Sadie; therefore I speak."
Sadie Ried was never fretful, never petulant, and very rarely angry; but when she was, it was a genuine case of unrestrained rage, and woe to the individual who fell a victim to her blazing eyes and sarcastic tongue. To-night Dr. Van Anden was that victim. What right had he to arraign her before him, and say with whom she should, or should not, associate, as if he were indeed her very grandfather! What business had he to think that she was too friendly with Dr. Douglass!
With the usual honesty belonging to very angry people, it had not once occurred to her that Dr. Van Anden had said and done none of these things. When she felt that her voice was sufficiently steady, she spoke:
"I am happy to be able to reassure you, Dr. Van Anden, you areverykind—extremely so; but as yet I really feel myself in no danger from Dr. Douglass' fascinations, however remarkable they may be. My mother and I enjoy excellent health at present, so you need have no anxiety as regards our choice of physicians, although it is but natural that you should feel nervous, perhaps; but you will pardon me for saying that I consider your interference with my affairs unwarrantable and uncalled for."
If Dr. Van Anden desired to reply to this insulting harangue, there was no opportunity, for at this moment they whirled around the corner and were at home.
Sadie flung aside her hat with an angry vehemence, and, seating herself at the piano, literally stormed the keys, while the Doctor re-entered his carriage and quietly proceeded to his evening round of calls.
What a whirlwind of rage there was in Sadie's heart! What earthly right had this man whom shedetestedto giveheradvice? Was she a child, to be commanded by any one? What right had any one to speak in that way of Dr. Douglass? He was a gentleman,certainly, much more of a one than Dr. Van Anden had shown himself to be—and she liked him; yes, and she would like him, in spite of a whole legion of envious doctors.
A light step crossed the hall and entered the parlor. Sadie merely raised her eyes long enough to be certain that Dr. Douglass stood beside her, and continued her playing. He leaned over the piano and listened.
"Had you a pleasant ride?" he asked, as the tone of the music lulled a little.
"Charming." Sadie's voice was full of emphasis and sarcasm.
"I judged, by the style of music which you were playing, that there must have been a hurricane."
"Nothing of the sort; only a little paternal advice."
"Indeed! Have you been taken into his kindly care? I congratulate you."
Sadie was still very angry, or she would never have been guilty of the shocking impropriety of her next remark. But it is a lamentable fact that people will say and do very strange things when they are angry—things of which they have occasion to repent in cooler moments.
Fixing her bright eyes full and searchingly on Dr. Douglass, she said abruptly:
"He was warning me against the impropriety of associating with your dangerous self."
A look as of sadness and deep pain crossed Dr. Douglass' face, and he thought aloud, rather than said: "Is that man determined I shall have no friends?"
Sadie was touched; she struck soft, sweet chords with a slow and gentle movement as she asked:
"What is your offense in his eyes, Dr. Douglass?"
Then, indeed, Dr. Douglass seemed embarrassed; maintaining, though, a sort of hesitating dignity as he attempted a reply.
"Why—I—he—I would rather not tell you, Miss Ried, it sounds badly." Then, with a little, slightly mournful laugh—"And that half admission sounds badly, too; worse than the simple truth, perhaps. Well, then, I had the misfortune to cross his path professionally, once; a little matter, a slight mistake, not worth repeating—neither would I repeat it if it were, in honor to him. He is a man of skill and since then has risen high; one would not suppose that he would give that little incident of the past a thought now; but he seems never to have forgiven me."
The music stopped entirely, and Sadie's great truthful eyes were fixed in horror on his face. "Is it possible," she said at length, "thatthatis all, and he can bear such determined ill-will toward you? and they call him an earnest Christian!"
At which remark Dr. Douglass laughed a low, quick laugh, as if he found it quite impossible to restrain his mirth, and then became instantly grave, and said:
"I beg your pardon."
"For what, Dr. Douglass; and why did you laugh?"
"For laughing; and I laughed because I could not restrain a feeling of amusement at your innocently connecting his unpleasant state of mind with his professions of Christianity."
"Should they not be connected?"
"Well, that depends upon how much importance you attach to them."
"Dr. Douglass, what do you mean?"
"Treason, I suspect, viewed from your standpoint; and therefore it would be much more proper for me not to talk about it."
"But I want you to talk about it. Do you mean to say that you have no faith in any one's religion?"
"How much have you?"
"Dr. Douglass, that is a very Yankee way of answering a question."
"I know; but it is the easiest way of reaching my point; so I repeat: How much faith have you in these Christian professions? or, in other words, how many professing Christians do you know who are particularly improved in your estimation by their professions?"
The old questioning of Sadie's own heart brought before her again! Oh, Christian sister, with whom so many years of her life had been spent, with whom she had been so closely connected, if she could but have turned to you, and remembering your earnest life, your honest endeavors toward the right, your earnest struggles with sin and self; the evident marks of the Lord Jesus all about you; and, remembering this, have quelled the tempter in human form, who stood waiting for a verdict, with a determined—"I have knownone"—what might not have been gained for your side that night?
As it was she hesitated, and thought—not of Ester,herlife had not been such as to be counted for a moment—of her mother.
Well, Mrs. Ried's religion had been of a negative rather than of a positive sort, at least outwardly. She never spoke much of these matters, and Sadie positively did not know whether she ever prayed or not. How was she to decide whether the gentle, patient life was the outgrowth of religion in her heart, or whether it was a natural sweetness of disposition and tenderness of feeling?
Then there was Dr. Van Anden, an hour ago she would surely have said him, but now it was impossible; so as the silence, and the peculiar smile on Dr. Douglass' face, grew uncomfortable, she answered hurriedly: "I don't know many Christian people, Doctor." And then, more truthfully: "But I don't consider those with whom I am acquainted in any degree remarkable; yet at the same time I don't choose to set down the entire Christian world as a company of miserable hypocrites."
"Not at all," the Doctor answered quickly. "I assure you I have many friends among that class of people whom I respect and esteem; but since you have pressed me to continue this conversation I must frankly confess to you that my esteem is not based on the fact that they are called Christians. I—but, Miss Ried, this is entirely unlike, and beneath me, to interfere with and shake your innocent, trusting faith. I would not do it for the world."
Sadie interrupted him with an impatient shake of her head.
"Don't talk nonsense, Dr. Douglass, if you can help it. I don't feel innocent at all, just now at least, and I have no particular faith to shake; if I had I hope you would not consider it such a flimsy material as to be shaken by any thing which you have said as yet. I certainly have heard no arguments. Occasionally I think of these matters, and I have been surprised, and not a little puzzled, to note the strange inconsistency existing between the profession and practice of these people. If you have any explanation I should like to hear it; that is all."
Clearly this man must use at least the semblance of sense if he were going to continue the conversation. His answer was grave and guarded.
"I have offered no arguments, nor do I mean to. I was apologizing for having touched upon this matter at all. I am unfortunate in my belief, or rather disbelief; but it is no part of my intention to press it upon others. I incline to the opinion that there are some very good, nice, pleasant people in the world, whom the accidents of birth and education have taught to believe that they are aided in this goodness and pleasantness by a more than human power, and this belief rather helps than otherwise to mature their naturally sweet, pure lives. My explanation of their seeming inconsistencies is, that they have never realized the full moral force of the rules which they profess to follow. I divide the world into two distinct classes—the so-called Christian world, I mean. Those whom I have just named constitute one class, and the other is composed of unmitigated hypocrites. Now my friend, I have talked longer on this subject than I like, or than I ought. I beg you will forget all I have said, and give me some music to close the scene."
Sadie laughed, and ran her fingers lightly over the keys; but she asked:
"In which class do you place your brother in the profession, Doctor?"
Dr. Douglass drew his shoulder into a very slight though expressive shrug, as he answered.
"It is exceedingly proper, and also rather rare, for a physician to be eminent not only for skill but piety, and my brother practitioner is a wise and wary man, who—" and here he paused abruptly—"Miss Ried," he added after a moment, in an entirely changed tone: "Which of us is at fault to-night, you or myself, that I seem bent on making uncharitable remarks? I really did not imagine myself so totally depraved. And to be serious, I am very sorry that this style of conversation was ever commenced. I did not intend it. I do not believe in interfering with the beliefs, or controverting the opinions of others."
Apparently Sadie had recovered her good humor, for her laugh was as light and careless as usual when she made answer:
"Don't distress yourself unnecessarily, Dr. Douglass; you haven't done me the least harm. I assure you I don't believe a word you say, and I do you the honor of believing that you don't credit more than two-thirds of it yourself. Now I'm going to play you the stormiest piece of music you ever heard in your life." And the keys rattled and rang under her touch, and drew half a dozen loungers from the halls to the parlor, and effectually ended the conversation.
Three people belonging to that household held each a conversation with their own thoughts that night, which to finite eyes would have aided the right wonderfully had it been said before the assembled three, instead of in the quiet and privacy of their own rooms.
Sadie had calmed down, and, as a natural consequence, was somewhat ashamed of herself; and as she rolled up and pinned, and otherwise snugged her curls into order for the night, scolded herself after this fashion:
"Sadie Ried, you made a simpleton of yourself in that speech which you made to Dr. Van Anden to-night; because you think a man interferes with what doesn't concern him, is no reason why you should grow flushed and angry, and forget that you're a lady. You said some very rude and insulting words, and you know your poor dear mother would tell you so if she knew any thing about it, which she won't; that's one comfort; and besides you have probably offended those delightful black ponies, and it will be forever before they will take you another ride, and that's worse than all the rest. But who would think of Dr. Van Anden being such a man? I wish Dr. Douglass had gone to Europe before he told me—it was rather pleasant to believe in the extreme goodness of somebody. I wonder how much of that nonsense which Dr. Douglass talks he believes, any way? Perhaps he is half right; only I'm not going to think any such thing, because it would be wicked, and I'm good. And because"—in a graver tone, and with a little reverent touch of an old worn book which lay on her bureau—"this is my father's Bible, and he lived and died by its precepts."
Up another flight of stairs, in his own room, Dr. Douglass lighted his cigar, fixed himself comfortably in his arm-chair, with his feet on the dressing-table, and, between the puffs, talked after this fashion:
"Sorry we ran into this miserable train of talk to-night; but that young witch leads a man on so. I'm glad she has a decided mind of her own; one feels less conscience-stricken. I'm what they call a skeptic myself, but after all, I don't quite like to see a lady become one.Ishan't lead her astray. I wouldn't have said any thing to-night if it hadn't been for that miserable hypocrite of a Van Anden; the fellow must learn not to pitch into me if he wants to be let alone; but I doubt if he accomplished much this time. What a witch she is!" And Dr. Douglass removed his cigar long enough to give vent to a hearty laugh in remembrance of some of Sadie's remarks.
Just across the hall Dr. Van Anden sat before his table, one hand partly shading his eyes from the gaslight while he read. And the words which he read were these: "O let not the oppressed returned ashamed: let the poor and needy praise thy name. Arise, O God, plead thine own cause: remember how the foolish man reproacheth thee daily. Forget not the voice of thine enemies; the tumult of those that rise up against thee increaseth continually."
Something troubled the Doctor to-night; his usually grave face was tinged with sadness. Presently he arose and paced with slow measured tread up and down the room.
"I ought to have done it," he said at last. "I ought to have told her mother that he was in many ways an unsafe companion for Sadie, especially in this matter; he is a very cautious, guarded, fascinating skeptic—all the more fascinating because he will be careful not to shock her taste with any boldly-spoken errors. I should have warned them—how came I to shrink so miserably from my duty? What mattered it that they would be likely to ascribe a wrong motive to my caution? It was none the less my duty on that account." And the sad look deepened on his face as he marched slowly back and forth; but he was nearer a solution of his difficulties than was either of those others for at last he came over to his chair again, and sank before it on his knees.
Now, let us understand these three people each of them, in their separate ways, were making mistakes. Sadie had said that she was not going to believe any of the nonsense which Dr. Douglass talked; she honestly supposed that she was not influenced in the least. And yet she was mistaken; the poison had entered her soul. As the days passed on, she found herself more frequently caviling over the shortcomings of professing Christians; more quick to detect their mistakes and failures; more willing to admit the half-uttered thought that this entire matter might be a smooth-sounding fable. Sadie was the child of many prayers, and her father's much-used Bible lay on her dressing-table, speaking for him, now that his tongue was silent in the grave; so she did notquiteyield to the enemy—but she was walking in the way of temptation—and the Christian tongues around her, which the grave hadnotsilenced, yet remained as mute as though their lips were already sealed; and so the path in which Sadie walked grew daily broader and more dangerous.
Then there was Dr. Douglass—not by any means the worst man that the world can produce. He was, or fancied himself to be, a skeptic. Like many a young man, wise in his own conceit, he had no very distinct idea of what he was skeptical about, nor to what hights of illogical nonsense his own supposed views, carried out, would lead him; like many another, too, he had studied rhetoric, and logic, and mathematics, and medicine, thoroughly and well; he would have hesitated long, and studied hard, and pondered deeply, before he had ventured to dispute an established point in surgery. And yet, with the inconsistent folly of the age, he had absurdly set his seal to the falsity of the Bible, after giving it, at most, but a careless reading here and there, and without having ever once honestly made use of the means by which God has promised to enlighten the seekers after knowledge. And yet, his eyes being blinded, he did not realize how absurd and unreasonable, how utterly foolish, was his conduct. He thought himself sincere; he had no desire to lead Sadie astray from her early education, and, like most skeptical natures, he quite prided himself upon the care with which he guarded his peculiar views, although I could never see why that was being any other than miserably selfish or inconsistent; for it is saying, in effect, one of two things, either: "My belief is sacred to myself alone, and nobody else shall have the benefit of it, if I can help it;" or else: "I am very much ashamed of my position as a skeptic, and I shall keep it to myself as much as possible." Be that as it may, Dr. Douglass so thought, and was sincere in his intentions to do Sadie no harm; yet, as the days came and went, he was continually doing her injury. They were much in each other's society, and the subject which he meant should be avoided was constantly intruding. Both were so constantly on the alert, to see and hear the unwise, and inconsistent, and unchristian acts and words, and also, alas! there were so many to be seen and heard, that these two made rapid strides in the broad road.
Finally, there was Dr. Van Anden, carrying about with him a sad and heavy heart. He could but feel that he had shrunken from his duty, hidden behind that most miserable of all excuses: "What will people think?" If Dr. Douglass had had any title but that particular one prefixed to his name, he would not have hesitated to have advised Mrs. Ried concerning him; but how could he endure the suspicion that he was jealous of Dr. Douglass? Then, in trying to right the wrong, by warning Sadie, he was made to realize, as many a poor Christian has realized before him, that he was making the sacrifice too late, and in vain. There was yet another thing—Dr. Douglass' statements to Sadie had been colored with truth. Among his other honest mistakes was the belief that Dr. Van Anden was a hypocrite. They had clashed in former years. Dr. Douglass had been most in the wrong, though what man, unhelped by Christ, was ever known to believe this of himself? But there had been wrong also on the other side, hasty words spoken—words which rankled, and were rankling still, after the lapse of years. Dr. Van Anden had never said: "I should not have spoken thus; I am sorry." He had taught himself to believe that it would be an unnecessary humiliation for him to say this to a man who had so deeply wronged him!
But, to do our doctor justice, time had healed the wound with him; it was not personal enmity which prompted his warning, neither had he any idea of the injury which those sharp words of his were doing in the unsanctified heart. And when he dropped upon his knees that night he prayed earnestly for the conversion of Sadie and Dr. Douglass.
So these three lived their lives under that same roof, and guessed not what the end might be.
"Abbie," said Ester, wriggling herself around from before an open trunk, and letting a mass of collars and cuffs slide to the floor in her earnestness, "do you know I think you're the very strangest girl I ever knew in my life?"
"I'm sure I did not," Abbie answered gaily. "If it's a nice 'strange' do tell me about it. I like to be nice—ever so much."
"Well, but I am in earnest, Abbie; you certainly are. These very collars made me think of it. Oh dear me! they are all on the floor." And she reached after the shining, sliding things.
Abbie came and sat down beside her, presently, with a mass of puffy lace in her hands, which she was putting into shape.
"Suppose we have a little talk, all about myself," she said gently and seriously. "And please tell me, Ester, plainly and simply, what you mean by the term 'strange.' Do you know I have heard it so often that sometimes I fear I really am painfully unlike other people. You are just the one to enlighten me."
Ester laughed a little as she answered: "You are taking the matter very seriously. I did not mean any thing dreadful."
"Ah! but you are not to be excused in that way, my dear Ester. I look to you for information. Mother has made the remark a great many times, but it is generally connected in some way with religious topics, and mother, you know, is not a Christian; therefore I have thought that perhaps some things seemed strange to her which would not to—you, for instance. But since you have been here you have spoken your surprise concerning me several times, and looked it oftener; and to-day I find that even my stiff and glossy, and every way proper, collars and cuffs excite it. So do please tell me, ought I to be in a lunatic asylum somewhere instead of preparing to go to Europe?"
Now although Ester laughed again, at the mixture of comic and pathetic in Abbie's tone, yet something in the words had evidently embarrassed her. There was a little struggle in her mind, and then she came boldly forth with her honest thoughts.
"Well, the strangeness is connected with religious topics in my mind also; even though I am a professing Christian I do not understand you. I am an economist in dress, you know, Abbie. I don't care for these things in the least; but if I had the money as you have, there are a great many things which I should certainly have. You see there is no earthly sense in your economy, and yet you hesitate over expenses almost as much as I do."
There was a little gleam of mischief in Abbie's eyes as she answered: "Will you tell me, Ester, why you would take the trouble to get 'these things' if you do not care for them in the least?"
"Why because—because—they would be proper and befitting my station in life."
"Do I dress in a manner unbecoming to my station in life."
"No," said Ester promptly, admiring even then the crimson finishings of her cousin's morning-robe. "But then—Well, Abbie, do you think it is wicked to like nice things?"
"No," Abbie answered very gently; "but I think it is wrong to school ourselves into believing that we do not care for any thing of the kind; when, in reality, it is a higher, better motive which deters us from having many things. Forgive me, Ester, but I think you are unjust sometimes to your better self in this very way."
Ester gave a little start, and realized for the first time in her life that, truth-loving girl though she was, she had been practicing a pretty little deception of this kind, and actually palming it off on herself. In a moment, however, she returned to the charge.
"But, Abbie, did Aunt Helen really want you to have that pearl velvet we saw at Stewart's?"
"She really did."
"And you refused it?"
"And I refused it."
"Well, is that to be set down as a matter of religion, too?" This question was asked with very much of Ester's old sharpness of tone.
Abbie answered her with a look of amazement. "I think we don't understand each other," she said at length, with the gentlest of tones. "That dress, Ester, with all its belongings could not have cost less than seven hundred dollars. Could I, a follower of the meek and lowly Jesus, living in a world where so many of his poor are suffering, have been guilty of wearing such a dress as that? My dear, I don't think you sustain the charge against me thus far. I see now how these pretty little collar (and, by the way, Ester, you are crushing one of them against that green box) suggested the thought; but you surely do not consider it strange, when I have such an array of collars already, that I did not pay thirty dollars for that bit of a cobweb which we saw yesterday?"
"But Aunt Helen wanted you to."
A sad and troubled look stole over Abbie's face as she answered: "My mother, remember, dear Ester, does not realize that she is not her own, but has been bought with a price. You and I know and feel that we must give an account of our stewardship. Ester, do you see how people who ask God to help them in every little thing which they have to decide—in the least expenditure of money—can after that deliberately fritter it away?"
"Do you ask God's help in these matters?"
"Why, certainly—" with the wondering look in her eyes, which Ester had learned to know and dislike—"'Whatsoever therefore ye do'—you know."
"But, Abbie, going out shopping to buy—handkerchiefs, for instance; that seems to me a very small thing to pray about."
"Even the purchase of handkerchiefs may involve a question of conscience, my dear Ester, as you would realize if you had seen the wicked purchases that I have in that line; and some way I never can feel that any thing that has to do with me is of less importance than a tiny sparrow, and yet, you know, He looks after them."
"Abbie, do you mean to say that in every little thing that you buy you weigh the subject, and discuss the right and wrong of it?"
"I certainly do try to find out just exactly what is right, and then do it; and it seems to me there is no act in this world so small as to be neither right nor wrong."
"Then," said Ester, with an impatient twitch of her dress from underAbbie's rocker, "I don't see the use in being rich."
"Nobody is rich, Ester, only God; but I'm so glad sometimes that he has trusted me with so much of his wealth, that I feel like praying a prayer about that one thing—a thanksgiving. What else am I strange about, Ester?"
"Everything," with growing impatience. "I think it was as queer in you as possible not to go to the concert last evening with Uncle Ralph?"
"But, Ester, it was prayer-meeting evening."
"Well, suppose it was. There is prayer-meeting every week, and there isn't this particular singer very often, and Uncle Ralph was disappointed. I thought you believed in honoring your parents."
"You forget, dear Ester, that father said he was particularly anxious that I should do as I thought right, and that he should not have purchased the tickets if he had remembered the meeting. Father likes consistency."
"Well, that is just the point. I want to know if you call it inconsistent to leave your prayer meeting for just one evening, no matter for what reason?"
Abbie laughed in answer. "Do you know, Ester, you wouldn't make a good lawyer, you don't stick to the point. It isn't a great many reasons that might be suggested that we are talking about, it is simply a concert." Then more gravely—"I try to be very careful about this matter. So many detentions are constantly occurring in the city, that unless the line were very closely-drawn I should not get to prayer-meeting at all. There are occasions, of course, when I must be detained; but under ordinary circumstances it must be more than a concert that detains me."
"I don't believe in making religion such a very solemn matter as that all amounts to; it has a tendency to drive people away from it."
The look on Abbie's face, in answer to this testily spoken sentence, was a mixture of bewilderment and pain.
"I don't understand"—she said at length—"How is that a solemn matter? If we really expect to meet our Savior at a prayer-meeting, isn't it a delightful thought? I am very happy when I can go to the place of prayer."
Ester's voice savored decidedly of the one which she was wont to use in her very worst moods in that long dining-room at home.
"Of course I should have remembered that Mr. Foster would be at the prayer-meeting, and not at the concert; that was reason enough for your enjoyment."
The rich blood surged in waves over Abbie's face during this rude address; but she said not a single word in answer. After a little silence, she spoke in a voice that trembled with feeling.
"Ester, there is one thought in connection with this subject that troubles me very much. Do you really think, as you have intimated, that I am selfish, that I consult my own tastes and desires too much, and so do injury to the cause. For instance, do you think I prejudiced my father?"
What a sweet, humble, even tearful, face it was! And what a question to ask of Ester! What had developed this disagreeable state of mind save the confused upbraidings of her hitherto quiet conscience over the contrast between Cousin Abbie's life and hers.
Here, in the very face of her theories to the contrary, in very defiance to her belief in the folly, and fashion, and worldliness that prevailed in the city, in the very heart of this great city, set down in the midst of wealth and temptation, had she found this young lady, daughter of one of the merchant princes, the almost bride of one of the brightest stars in the New York galaxy on the eve of a brilliant departure for foreign shores, with a whirl of preparation and excitement about her enough to dizzy the brain of a dozen ordinary mortals, yet moving sweetly, brightly, quietly, through it all, and manifestly finding her highest source of enjoyment in the presence of, and daily communion with, her Savior.
All Ester's speculations concerning her had come to naught. She had planned the wardrobe of the bride, over and over again, for days before she saw her; and while she had prepared proper little lectures for her, on the folly and sinfulness of fashionable attire, had yet delighted in the prospect of the beauty and elegance around her. How had her prospects been blighted! Beauty there certainly was in everything, but it was the beauty of simplicity, not at all such a display of silks and velvets and jewels as Ester had planned. It certainly could not be wealth which made Abbie's life such a happy one, for she regulated her expenses with a care and forethought such as Ester had never even dreamed of. It could not be a life of ease, a freedom from annoyance, which kept her bright and sparkling, for it had only taken a week's sojourn in her Aunt Helen's home to discover to Ester the fact that all wealthy people were not necessarily amiable and delightful. Abbie was evidently rasped and thwarted in a hundred little ways, having a hundred little trials whichshehad never been called upon to endure. In short, Ester had discovered that the mere fact of living in a great city was not in itself calculated to make the Christian race more easy or more pleasant. She had begun to suspect that it might not even be quite so easy as it was in a quiet country home; and so one by one all her explanations of Abbie's peculiar character had become bubbles, and had vanished as bubbles do. What, then, sustained and guided her cousin? Clearly Ester was shut up to this one conclusion—it was an ever-abiding, all-pervading Christian faith and trust. But then had notshethis same faith? And yet could any contrast be greater than was Abbie's life contrasted with hers?
There was no use in denying it, no use in lulling and coaxing her conscience any longer, it had been for one whole week in a new atmosphere; it had roused itself; it was not thoroughly awake as yet, but restless and nervous and on the alert—andwould notbe hushed back into its lethargic state.
This it was which made Ester the uncomfortable companion which she was this morning. She was not willing to be shaken and roused; she had been saying very unkind, rude things to Abbie, and now, instead of flouncing off in an uncontrollable fit of indignation, which course Ester could but think would be the most comfortable thing which could happen next, so far as she was concerned, Abbie sat still, with that look of meek inquiry on her face, humbly awaiting her verdict. How Ester wished she had never asked that last question! How ridiculous it would make her appear, after all that had been said, to admit that her cousin's life had been one continual reproach of her own; that concerning this very matter of the concert, she had heard Uncle Ralph remark that if all the world matched what they did with what they said, as well as Abbie did, he was not sure but he might be a Christian himself. Then suppose she should add that this very pointed remark had been made to her when they were on their way to the concert in question.
Altogether, Ester was disgusted and wished she could get back to where the conversation commenced, feeling certain now that she would leave a great many things unsaid.
I do not know how the conversation would have ended, whether Ester could have brought herself to the plain truth, and been led on and on to explain the unrest and dissatisfaction of her own heart, and thus have saved herself much of the sharp future in store for her; but one of those unfortunate interruptions which seem to finite eyes to be constantly occurring, now came to them. There was an unusual bang to the front door, the sound of strange footsteps in the hall, the echo of a strange voice floated up to her, and Abbie, with a sudden flinging of thimble and scissors, and an exclamation of "Ralph has come," vanished.
Left to herself, Ester found her train of thought so thoroughly disagreeable that she hastened to rid herself of it, and seized upon the new comer to afford her a substitute.
This cousin, whom she had expected to influence for good, had at last arrived. Ester's interest in him had been very strong ever since that evening of her arrival, when she had been appealed to to use her influence on him—just in what way she hadn't an idea. Abbie had never spoken of it since, and seemed to have lost much of her eager desire that the cousins should meet. Ester mused about all this now; she wished she knew just in what way she was expected to be of benefit. Abbie was evidently troubled about him. Perhaps he was rough and awkward; school-boys often were, even those born in a city. Very much of Ralph's life had been spent away from home, she knew; and she had often heard that boys away from home influences grew rude and coarse oftentimes. Yes, that was undoubtedly it. Shy, too, he was of course; he was of about the age to be that. She could imagine just how he looked—he felt out of place in the grand mansion which he called home, but where he had passed so small a portion of his time. Probably he didn't know what to do with his hands, nor his feet; and just as likely as not he sat on the edge of his chair and ate with his knife—school was a horrid place for picking up all sorts of ill manners. Of course all these things must annoy Abbie very much, especially at this time when he must necessarily come so often in contact with that perfection of gentlemanliness, Mr. Foster. "I wish," thought Ester at this point, growing a little anxious, "I wish there was more than a week before the wedding; however I'll do my best. Abbie shall see I'm good for something. Although I do differ with her somewhat in her peculiar views, I believe I know how to conduct myself with ease, in almost any position, if I have been brought up in the country." And by the time the lunch-bell rang a girl more thoroughly satisfied with herself and her benevolent intentions, than was this same Ester, could hardly have been found. She stood before the glass smoothing the shining bands of hair, preparatory to tying a blue satin ribbon over them, when Abbie fluttered in.
"Forgive me, a great many times, for rushing off in the flutter I did, and leaving you behind, and staying away so long. You see I haven't seen Ralph in quite a little time, and I forgot everything else. Your hair doesn't need another bit of brushing, Ester, it's as smooth as velvet; they are all waiting for us in the dining-room, and I want to show you to Ralph." And before the blue satin ribbon was tied quite to her satisfaction, Ester was hurried to the dining-room, to take up her new role of guide and general assistant to the awkward youth.
"I suppose he hasn't an idea what to say to me," was her last compassionate thought, as Abbie's hand rested on the knob. "I hope he won't be hopelessly quiet, but I'll manage in some way."
At first he was nowhere to be seen; but as Abbie said eagerly: "Ralph, here is Cousin Ester!" the door swung back into its place, and revealed a tall, well-proportioned young man, with a full-bearded face, and the brightest of dancing eyes. He came forward immediately, extending both hands, and speaking in a rapid voice.
"Long-hoped-for come at last! I don't refer to myself, you understand, but to this much-waited-for, eagerly-looked-forward-to prospect of greeting my Cousin Ester. Ought I to welcome you, or you me—which is it? I'm somewhat bewildered as to proprieties. This fearfully near approach to a wedding has confused my brain. Sis"—turning suddenly to Abbie—"Have you prepared Ester for her fate? Does she fully understand that she and I are to officiate? that is, if we don't evaporate before the eventful day. Sis, how could you have the conscience to perpetrate a wedding in August? Whatever takes Foster abroad just now, any way?" And without waiting for answer to his ceaseless questions he ran gaily on.
Clearly whatever might be his shortcomings, inability to talk wasnotone of them. And Ester, confused, bewildered, utterly thrown out of her prepared part in the entertainment, was more silent and awkward than she had ever known herself to be; provoked, too, with Abbie, with Ralph, with herself. "HowcouldI have been such a simpleton?" she asked herself as seated opposite her cousin at table she had opportunity to watch the handsome face, with its changeful play of expression, and note the air of pleased attention with which even her Uncle Ralph listened to his ceaseless flow of words. "I knew he was older than Abbie, and that this was his third year in college. What could I have expected from Uncle Ralph's son? A pretty dunce he must think me, blushing and stammering like an awkward country girl. What on earth could Abbie mean about needing my help for him, and being troubled about him. It is some of her ridiculous fanatical nonsense, I suppose. I wish she could ever talk or act like anybody else."
"I don't know that such is the case, however," Ralph was saying, when Ester returned from this rehearsal of her own thoughts. "I can simply guess at it, which is as near an approach to an exertion as a fellow ought to be obliged to make in this weather. John, you may fill my glass if you please. Father, this is even better wine than your cellar usually affords, and that is saying a great deal. Sis, has Foster made a temperance man of you entirely; I see you are devoted to ice water?"
"Oh, certainly," Mrs. Ried answered for her, in the half contemptuous tone she was wont to assume on such occasions. "I warn you, Ralph, to get all the enjoyment you can out of the present, for Abbie intends to keep you with her entirely after she has a home of her own—out of the reach of temptation."
Ester glanced hurriedly and anxiously toward her cousin. How did this pet scheme of hers become known to Mrs. Ried, and how could Abbie possibly retain her habitual self-control under this sarcastic ridicule, which was so apparent in her mother's voice?
The pink on her cheek did deepen perceptibly, but she answered with the most perfect good humor: "Ralph, don't be frightened, please. I shall let you out once in a long while if you are very good."
Ralph bent loving eyes on the young, sweet face, and made prompt reply: "I don't know that I shall care for even that reprieve, since you're to be jailer."
What could there be in this young man to cause anxiety, or to wish changed? Yet even while Ester queried, he passed his glass for a third filling, and taking note just then of Abbie's quick, pained look, then downcast eyes, and deeply flushing face, the knowledge came suddenly that in that wine-glass the mischief lay. Abbie thought him in danger, and this was the meaning of her unfinished sentence on that first evening, and her embarrassed silence since; for Ester, with her filled glass always beside her plate, untouched indeed sometimes, but oftener sipped from in response to her uncle's invitation, was not the one from whom help could be expected in this matter. And Ester wondered if the handsome face opposite her could really be in absolute danger, or whether this was another of Abbie's whims—at least it wasn't pleasant to be drinking wine before him, and she left her glass untouched that day, and felt thoroughly troubled about that and everything.
The next morning there was a shopping excursion, and Ralph was smuggled in as an attendant. Abbie turned over the endless sets of handkerchiefs in bewildering indecision.
"Take this box; do, Abbie," Ester urged. "This monogram in the corner is lovely, and that is the dearest little sprig in the world."
"Which is precisely what troubles me," laughed Abbie. "It is entirely too dear. Think of paying such an enormous sum for just handkerchiefs!"
Ralph, who was lounging near her, trying hard not to look bored, elevated his eyebrows as his ear caught the sentence, and addressed her in undertone: "Is Foster hard up? If he is, you are not on his hands yet, Sis; and I'm inclined to think father is good for all the finery you may happen to fancy."
"That only shows your ignorance of the subject or your high opinion of me. I assure you were I so disposed I could bring father's affairs into a fearful tangle this very day, just by indulging a fancy for finery."
"Are his affairs precarious, Abbie, or is finery prodigious?"
Abbie laid her hand on a square of cobwebby lace. "That is seventy-five dollars, Ralph."
"What of that? Do you want it?" And Ralph's hand was in his pocket.
Abbie turned with almost a shiver from the counter. "I hope not, Ralph," she said with sudden energy. "I hope I may never be so unworthy of my trust as to make such a wicked use of money." Then more lightly, "You are worse than Queen Ester here, and her advice is bewildering enough."
"But, Abbie, how can you be so absurd," said that young lady, returning to the charge. "Those are not very expensive, I am sure, at least not for you; and you certainly want some very nice ones. I'm sure if I had one-third of your spending money I shouldn't need to hesitate."
Abbie's voice was very low and sweet, and reached only her cousin's ear. "Ester, 'the silver and the gold areHis,' and I have asked Him this very morning to help me in every little item to be careful of His trust. Now do you think—" But Ester had turned away in a vexed uncomfortable state of mind, and walked quite to the other end of the store, leaving Abbie to complete her purchases as she might see fit. She leaned against the door, tapping her fingers in a very softly, but very nervous manner against the glass. How queer it was that in the smallest matters she and Abbie could not agree? How was it possible that the same set of rules could govern them both? And the old ever-recurring question came up to be thought over afresh. Clearly they were unlike—utterly unlike. Now was Abbie right and she wrong? or was Abbie—no, not wrong, the word would certainly not apply; there absolutelycouldbe no wrong connected with Abbie's way. Well, then, queer!—unlike other people, unnecessarily precise—studying the right and wrong of matters, which she had been wont to suppose had no moral bearing of any sort, rather which she had never given any attention to? While she waited and queried, her eye caught a neat little card-receiver hanging near her, apparently filled with cards, and bearing in gilt lettering, just above them, the winning words: "FREE TO ALL. TAKE ONE." This was certainly a kindly invitation; and Ester's curiosity being aroused as to what all this might be for, she availed herself of the invitation, and drew with dainty fingers a small, neat card from the case, and read:
As God Shall Help Me:
1. To observe regular seasons of secret prayer, it least in the morning and evening of each day.
2. To read daily at least a small portion of the Bible.
3. To attend at one or more prayer-meetings every week, if I have strength to get there.
4. To stand up for Jesus always and everywhere.
5. To try to save at least one soul each year.
6. To engage in no amusement where my Savior could not be a guest.
Had the small bit of card-board been a coal of fire it could not have been more suddenly dropped upon the marble before her than was this, as Ester's startled eyes took in its meaning. Who could have written those sentences? and to be placed there in a conspicuous corner of a fashionable store? Was she never to be at peace again? Had the world gone wild? Was this an emanation from Cousin Abbie's brain, or were there many more Cousin Abbies in what she had supposed was a wicked city, or—oh painful question, which came back hourly nowadays, and seemed fairly to chill her blood—was this religion, and had she none of it? Was her profession a mockery, her life a miserably acted lie?
"Is that thing hot?" It was Ralph's amused voice which asked this question close beside her.
"What? Where?" And Ester turned in dire confusion.
"Why that bit of paper—or is it a ghostly communication from the world of spirits? You look startled enough for me to suppose anything, and it spun away from your grasp very suddenly. Oh," he added, as he glanced it through, "rather ghostly, I must confess, or would be if one were inclined that way; but I imagined your nerves were stronger. Did the pronoun startle you?"
"How?"
"Why I thought perhaps you considered yourself committed to all this solemnity before your time, or willy-nilly, as the children say. What a comical idea to hang one's self up in a store in this fashion. I must have one of these. Are you going to keep yours?" And as he spoke he reached forward and possessed himself of one of the cards. "Rather odd things to be found in our possession, wouldn't they be? Abbie now would be just one of this sort."
That cold shiver trembled again through Ester's frame as she listened. Clearly he did not reckon her one of "that sort." He had known her but one day, and yet he seemed positive that she stood on an equal footing with himself. Oh why was it? How did he know? Was her manner then utterly unlike that of a Christian, so much so that this young man saw it already, or was it that glass of wine from which she had sipped last evening?—and at this moment she would have given much to be back where she thought herself two weeks ago, on the wine question; but she stood silent and let him talk on, not once attempting to define her position—partly because there had crept into her mind this fearful doubt, unaccompanied by the prayer:
"If I've never loved before,Help me to begin to-day"—
and partly, oh poor Ester, because she was utterly unused to confessing her Savior; and though not exactly ashamed of him, at least she would have indignantly denied the charge, yet it was much less confusing to keep silence, and let others think as they would—this had been her rule, she followed it now, and Ralph continued:
"Queer world this? Isn't it? How do you imagine our army would have prospered if one-fourth of the soldiers had been detailed for the purpose of coaxing the rest to follow their leader and obey orders? That's what it seems to me the so-called Christian world is up to. Does the comical side of it ever strike you, Ester? Positively I can hardly keep from laughing now and then to hear the way in which Dr. Downing pitches into his church members, and they sit and take it as meekly as lambs brought to the slaughter. It does them about as much good, apparently, as it does me—no not so much, for it amuses me, and serves to make me good-natured, on good terms with myself for half an hour or so. I'm so thoroughly rejoiced, you see, to think that I don't belong to that set of miserable sinners."
"Dr. Downing does preach very sharp, harsh sermons," Ester said at last, feeling the necessity of saying something. "I have often wondered at it. I think them calculated to do more harm than good."
"OhIdon't wonder at it in the least. I'd make it sharper yet if I were he; the necessity exists evidently. The wonder lies inthatto my mind. If a fellow really means to do a thing, what does he wait to be punched up about it everlastingly for? Hang me, if I don't like to see people act as though they meant it, even if the question is a religious one. Ester, how many times ought I to beg your pardon for using an unknown tongue—in other words, slang phrases? I fancied myself talking to my chum, delivering a lecture on theology, which is somewhat out of my sphere, as you have doubtless observed. Yet such people as you and I can't help having eyes and ears, and using them now and then, can we?"
Still silence on Ester's part, so far as defining her position was concerned. She was not ashamed of her Savior now, but of herself. If this gay cousin's eyes were critical she knew she could not bear the test. Yet she rallied sufficiently to condemn within her own mind the poor little cards.
"They will do more harm than good," she told herself positively. To such young men as Ralph, for instance, what could he possibly want with one of them, save to make it a subject of ridicule when he got with some of his wild companions. But it transpired that his designs were not so very wicked after all; for as they left the store he took the little card from his pocket, and handed it to Abbie with a quiet: "Sis, here is something that you will like."
And Abbie read it and said: "How solemn that is. Did you get it for me, Ralph? Thank you." And Ralph bowed and smiled on her, a kind, almost tender smile, very unlike the roguish twinkle that had shone in his eyes while he talked with Ester.
All through the busy day that silent, solemn card haunted Ester. It pertinaciously refused to be lost. She dropped it twice in their transit from store to store, but Ralph promptly returned it to her. At home she laid it on her dressing-table, but piled scarfs and handkerchiefs and gloves over it as high as she might, it was sure to flutter to the floor at her feet, as she sought hurriedly in the mass of confusion for some missing article. Once she seized and flung it from the window in dire vexation, and was rewarded by having Maggie present it to her about two minutes thereafter, as a "something that landed square on my head, ma'am, as I was coming around the corner." At last she actually grew nervous over it, felt almost afraid to touch it, so thoroughly had it fastened itself on her conscience. These great black letters in that first sentence seemed burned into her brain: "I solemnly agree, as God shall help me."
At last she deposited the unwelcome little monitor at the very bottom of her collar-box, under some unused collars, telling herself that it was for safe keeping, that she might not lose it again; not letting her conscience say for a moment that it was because she wanted to bury the haunting words out of her sight.