"I wonder," she soliloquized, returning to gravity the moment she was alone, "I wonder what that man has been saying to him now? How unhappy these two gentlemen make themselves. It would be a consolation to know right from wrong. I just wish I believed in everybody as I used to. The idea of this gray-headed minister being a hypocrite! that's absurd. But then the idea of Dr. Van Anden being what he is! Well, it's a queer world. I believe I'll go to bed."
Be it understood that Dr. Douglass was very much astonished, and not a little disgusted with himself. As he marched defiantly up and down the long piazza he tried to analyze his state of mind. He had always supposed himself to be a man possessed of keen powers of discernment, and yet withal exercising considerable charity toward his erring fellow-men, willing to overlook faults and mistakes, priding himself not a little on the kind and gentlemanly way in which he could meet ruffled human nature of any sort. In fact, he dwelt on a sort of pedestal, from the hight of which he looked calmly and excusingly down on weaker mortals. This, until to-night: now he realized, in a confused, blundering sort of way, that his pedestal had crumbled, or that he had tumbled from its hight, or at least that something new and strange had happened. For instance, what had become of his powers of discernment? Here was this miserable doctor, who had been one of the thorns of his life, whom he had looked down upon as a canting hypocrite. Was he, after all, mistaken? The explanation of to-night looked like it; he had been deceived in that matter which had years ago come between them; he could see it very plainly now. In spite of himself, the doctor's earnest, manly apology would come back and repeat itself to his brain, and demand admiration.
Now Dr. Douglass was honestly amazed at himself, because he was not pleased with this state of things. Why was he not glad to discover that Dr. Van Anden was more of a man than he had ever supposed? This would certainly be in keeping with the character of the courteous, unprejudiced gentleman that he had hitherto considered himself to be; but there was no avoiding the fact that the very thought of Dr. Van Anden was exasperating, more so this evening than ever before. And the more his judgment became convinced that he had blundered, the more vexed did he become.
"Confound everybody!" he exclaimed at length, in utter disgust. "What on earth do I care for the contemptible puppy, that I should waste thought on him. What possessed the fellow to come whining around me to-night, and set me in a whirl of disagreeable thought? I ought to have knocked him down for his insufferable impudence in dragging me out publicly in that meeting." This he said aloud; but something made answer down in his heart: "Oh, it's very silly of you to talk in this way. You know perfectly well that Dr. Van Anden is not a contemptible puppy at all. He is a thoroughly educated, talented physician, a formidable rival, and you know it; and he didn't whine in the least this evening; he made a very manly apology for what was not so very bad after all, and you more than half suspect yourself of admiring him."
"Fiddlesticks!" said Dr. Douglass aloud to all this information, and went off to his room in high dudgeon.
The next two days seemed to be very busy ones to one member of the Ried family. Dr. Douglass sometimes appeared at meal time and sometimes not, but the parlor and the piazza were quite deserted, and even his own room saw little of him. Sadie, when she chanced by accident to meet him on the stairs, stopped to inquire if the village was given over to small-pox, or any other dire disease which required his constant attention; and he answered her in tones short and sharp enough to have been Dr. Van Anden himself:
"It is given over to madness," and moved rapidly on.
This encounter served to send him on a long tramp into the woods that very afternoon. In truth, Dr. Douglass was overwhelmed with astonishment at himself. Two such days and nights as the last had been he hoped never to see again. It was as if all his pet theories had deserted him at a moment's warning, and the very spirit of darkness taken up his abode in their place. Go whither he would, do what he would, he was haunted by these new, strange thoughts. Sometimes he actually feared that he, at least, was losing his mind, whether the rest of the world were or not. Being an utter unbeliever in the power of prayer, knowing indeed nothing at all about it, he would have scoffed at the idea that Dr. Van Anden's impassioned, oft-repeated petitions had aught to do with him at this time. Had he known that at the very time in which he was marching through the dreary woods, kicking the red and yellow leaves from his path in sullen gloom, Ester in her little clothes-press, on her knees, was pleading with God for his soul, and that through him Sadie might be reached, I presume he would have laughed. The result of this long communion with himself was as follows: That he had overworked and underslept, that his nervous system was disordered, that in the meantime he had been fool enough to attend that abominable sensation meeting, and the man actually had wonderful power over the common mind, and used his eloquence in a way that was quite calculated to confuse a not perfectly balanced brain. It was no wonder, then, in his state of bodily disorder, that the sympathetic mind should take the alarm. So much for the disease, now for the remedy. He would study less, at least he would stop reading half the night away; he would begin to practice some of his own preaching, and learn to be more systematic, more careful of this wonderful body, which could cause so much suffering; he would ride fast and long; above all, he would keep away from that church and that man, with his fanciful pictures and skillfully woven words.
Having determined his plan of action he felt better. There was no sense, he told himself, in yielding to the sickly sentimentalism which had bewitched him for the past few days; he was ashamed of it, and would have no more of it. He was master of his own mind, he guessed, always had been, and alwayswouldbe. And he started on his homeward walk with a good deal of alacrity, and much of his usual composure settling on his face.
Oh, would the gracious Spirit which had been struggling with him leave him indeed to himself? "O God," pleaded Ester, "give me this one soul in answer to my prayer. For the sake of Sadie, bring this strong pillar obstructing her way to thyself. For the sake of Jesus, who died for them both, bring them both to yield to him."
Dr. Douglass paused at the place where two roads forked and mused, and the subject of his musing was no more important than this: Should he go home by the river path or through the village? The river path was the longer, and it was growing late, nearly tea time; but if he took the main road he would pass his office, where he was supposed to be, as well as several houses where he ought to have been, besides meeting probably several people whom he would rather not see just at present. On the whole, he decided to take the river road, and walked briskly along, quite in harmony with himself once more, and enjoying the autumn beauty spread around him. A little white speck attracted his attention; he almost stopped to examine into it, then smiled at his curiosity, and moved on. "A bit of waste paper probably," he said to himself. "Yet what a curious shape it was as if it had been carefully folded and hidden under that stone. Suppose I see what it is? Who knows but I shall find a fortune hidden in it?" He turned back a step or two, and stooped for the little white speck. One corner of it was nestled under a stone. It was a ragged, rumpled, muddy fragment of a letter, or an essay, which rain and wind and water had done their best to annihilate, and finally, seeming to become weary of their plaything, had tossed it contemptuously on the shore, and a pitying stone had rolled down and covered and preserved a tiny corner. Dr. Douglass eyed it curiously, trying to decipher the mud-stained lines, and being in a dreamy mood wondered meanwhile what young, fair hand had penned the words, and what of joy or sadness filled them. Scarcely a word was readable, at least nothing that would gratify his curiosity, until he turned the bit of leaf, and the first line, which the stone had hidden, shone out distinctly: "Sometimes I can not help asking myself why I was made—." Here the corner was torn off, and whether that was the end of the original sentence or not, it was the end to him. God sometimes uses very simple means with which to confound the wisdom of this world. Such a sudden and extraordinary revulsion of feeling as swept over Dr. Douglass he had never dreamed of before. He did not stop to question the strangeness of his state of mind, nor why that bit of soiled, torn paper should possess so fearful a power over him. He did not even realize at the moment that it was connected with this bewilderment, he only knew that the foundation upon which he had been building for years seemed suddenly to have been torn from under him by invisible hands, and left his feet sinking slowly down on nothing; and his inmost soul took suddenly up that solemn question with which he had never before troubled his logical brain: "I can not help asking myself why I was made?" There was only one other readable word on that paper, turn it whichever way he would, and that word was "God;" and he started and shivered when his eye met this, as if some awful voice had spoken it to his ear.
"What unaccountable witchcraft has taken possession of me?" he muttered, at length. And turning suddenly he sat himself down on an old decaying log by the river side, and gave himself up to real, honest, solemn thought.
"Where is Dr. Douglass?" queried Julia, appearing at the dining-room door just at tea time. "There is a boy at the door says they want him at Judge Beldon's this very instant."
"He'snowhere" answered Sadie solemnly, pausing in the work of arranging cups and saucers. "It's my private opinion that he has been and gone and hung himself. He passed the window about one o'clock, looking precisely as I should suppose a man would who was about to commit that interesting act, since which time I've answered the bell seventeen times to give the same melancholy story of his whereabouts."
"My!" exclaimed the literal Julia, hurrying back to the boy at the door. She comprehended her sister sufficiently to have no faith in the hanging statement, but honestly believed in the seventeen sick people who were waiting for the doctor.
The church was very full again that evening. Sadie had at first declared herself utterly unequal to another meeting that week, but had finally allowed herself to be persuaded into going; and had nearly been the cause of poor Julia's disgrace because of the astonished look which she assumed as Dr. Douglass came down the aisle, with his usual quiet composure of manner, and took the seat directly in front of them. The sermon was concluded. The text: "See I have set before thee this day life and good, death and evil," had been dwelt upon in such a manner that it seemed to some as if the aged servant of God had verily been shown a glimpse of the two unseen worlds waiting for every soul, and was painting from actual memory the picture for them to look upon. That most solemn of all solemn hymns had just been sung:
"There is a time, we know not whenA point, we know not where,That marks the destiny of men'Twixt glory and despair.
"There is a line, by us unseen,That crosses every path,The hidden boundary betweenGod's mercy and his wrath."
Silence had but fairly settled on the waiting congregation when a strong, firm voice broke in upon it, and the speaker said:
"I believe in my soul that I have met that point and crossed that line this day. I surely met God's mercy and his wrath, face to face, and struggled in their power. Your hymn says, 'To cross that boundary is to die;' but I thank God that there are two sides to it. I feel that I have been standing on the very line, that my feet had well-nigh slipped. To-night I step over on to mercy's side. Reckon me henceforth among those who have chosen life."
"Amen," said the veteran minister, with radiant face.
"Thank God," said the earnest pastor, with quivering lip.
Two heads were suddenly bowed in the silent ecstasy of prayer—they were Ester's and Dr. Van Anden's. As for Sadie, she sat straight and still as if petrified with amazement, as she well-nigh felt herself to be, for the strong, firm voice belonged to Dr. Douglass!
An hour later Dr. Van Anden was pacing up and down the long parlor, with quick, excited steps, waiting for he hardly knew what, when a shadow fell between him and the gaslight. He glanced up suddenly, and his eyes met Dr. Douglass, who had placed himself in precisely the same position in which he had stood when they had met there before. Dr. Van Anden started forward, and the two gentlemen clasped hands as they had never in their lives done before. Dr. Douglass broke the beautiful silence first with earnestly spoken words:
"Doctor, will you forgive all the past?"
And Dr. Van Anden answered: "Oh, my brother in Christ!"
As for Ester, she prayed, in her clothes-press, thankfully for Dr. Douglass, more hopefully for Sadie, and knew not that a corner of the poor little letter which had slipped from Julia's hand and floated down the stream one summer morning, thereby causing her such a miserable,miserableday, was lying at that moment in Dr. Douglass' note-book, counted as the most precious of all his precious bits of paper. Verily "His ways are not as our ways."
"Oh," said Sadie, with a merry toss of her brown curls, "don'twaste any more precious breath over me, I beg. I'm an unfortunate case, not worth struggling for. Just let me have a few hours of peace once more. If you'll promise not to say 'meeting' again to me, I'll promise not to laugh at you once after this long drawn-out spasm of goodness has quieted, and you have each descended to your usual level once more."
"Sadie," said Ester, in a low, shocked tone, "doyou think we are all hypocrites, and mean not a bit of this?"
"Bynomeans, my dear sister of charity, at least not all of you. I'm a firm believer in diseases of all sorts. This is one of the violent kind of highly contagious diseases; they must run their course, you know. I have not lived in the house with two learned physicians all this time without learning that fact, but I consider this very nearly at its height, and live in hourly expectation of the 'turn.' But, my dear, I don't think you need worry about me in the least. I don't believe I'm a fit subject for such trouble. You know I never took whooping-cough nor measles, though I have been exposed a great many times."
To this Ester only replied by a low, tremulous, "Don't, Sadie, please."
Sadie turned a pair of mirthful eyes upon her for a moment, and noting with wonder the pale, anxious face and quivering lip of her sister, seemed suddenly sobered.
"Ester," she said quietly, "I don't think you are 'playing good;' Idon'tpositively. I believe you are thoroughly in earnest, but I think you have been through some very severe scenes of late, sickness and watching, and death, and your nerves are completely unstrung. I don't wonder at your state of feeling, but you will get over it in a little while, and be yourself again."
"Oh," said Ester, tremulously, "I pray God I mayneverbe myself again; not the old self that you mean."
"You will," Sadie answered, with roguish positiveness. "Things will go cross-wise, the fire won't burn, and the kettle won't boil, and the milk-pitcher will tip over, and all sorts of mischievous things will go on happening after a little bit, just as usual, and you will feel like having a general smash up of every thing in spite of all these meetings."
Ester sighed heavily. The old difficulty again—things would not be undone. The weeds which she had been carelessly sowing during all these past years had taken deep root, and would not give place. After a moment's silence she spoke again.
"Sadie, answer me just one question. What do you think of Dr.Douglass?"
Sadie's face darkened ominously. "Never mind what I think ofhim," she answered in short, sharp tones, and abruptly left the room.
What shedidthink of him was this: That he had become that which he had affected to consider the most despicable thing on earth—a hypocrite. Remember, she had no personal knowledge of the power of the Spirit of God over a human soul. She had no conception of how so mighty a change could be wrought in the space of a few hours, so her only solution of the mystery was that to serve some end which he had in view Dr. Douglass had chosen to assume a new character.
Later, on that same day, Sadie encountered Dr. Douglass, rather, she went to the side piazza equipped for a walk, and he came eagerly from the west end to speak with her.
"Miss Sadie, I have been watching for you. I have a few words that are burning to be said."
"Proceed," said Sadie, standing with demurely folded hands, and a mock gravity in her roguish eyes.
"I want to do justice at this late day to Dr. Van Anden. I misjudged him, wronged him, perhaps prejudiced you against him. I want to undo my work."
"Some things can be done more easily than they can be undone," was Sadie's grave and dignified reply. "You certainly have done your best to prejudice me against Dr. Van Anden not only, but against all other persons who hold his peculiar views, and you have succeeded splendidly. I congratulate you."
That look of absolute pain which she had seen once or twice on this man's face, swept over it now as he answered her.
"I know—I have been blind and stupid,wickedany thing you will.Most bitterly do I regret it now; most eager am I to make reparation."
Sadie's only answer was: "What a capital actor you would make, Dr.Douglass. Are you sure you have not mistaken your vocation?"
"I know what you think of me." This with an almost quivering lip, and a voice strangely humble and as unlike as possible to any which she had ever heard from Dr. Douglass before. "You think I am playing a part. Though what my motive could be I can not imagine, can you? But I do solemnly assure you that if ever I was sincere in any thing in all my life I am now concerning this matter."
"There is a most unfortunate 'if' in the way, Doctor. You see, the trouble is, I have very serious doubts as to whether you ever were sincere in any thing in your life. As to motives, a first-class anybody likes to try his power. You will observe that 'I have a very poor opinion of the world.'"
The Doctor did not notice the quotation of his favorite expression, but answered with a touch of his accustomed dignity:
"I may have deserved this treatment at your hands, Miss Sadie. Doubtless I have, although I am not conscious of ever having said to you any thing which I did notthinkImeant. I have been afool. I am willing—yes, and anxious to own it. But there are surely some among your acquaintances whom you can trust if you can not me. I—"
Sadie interrupted him. "For instance, that 'first-class fanatic of the most objectionable stamp,' the man who Dr. Douglass thought, not three days ago, ought to be bound by law to keep the peace. I suppose you would have me unhesitatingly receive every word he says?"
Dr. Douglass' face brightened instantly, and he spoke eagerly:
"I remember those words, Miss Sadie, and just how honestly I spoke them, and just how bitterly I felt when I spoke them, and I have no more sure proof that this thing is of God than I have in noting the wonderful change which has come over my feelings in regard to that blessed man. I pray God that he may be permitted to speak to your soul with the tremendous power that he has to mine. Oh, Sadie, I have led you astray, may I not help you back?"
"I am not a weather-vane, Dr. Douglass, to be whirled about by every wind of expediency; besides I am familiar with one verse in the Bible, of which you seem never to have heard: Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. You have sowed well and faithfully; be content with your harvest."
I do not know what the pale, grave lips would have answered to this mocking spirit, for at that moment Dr. Van Anden and the black ponies whizzed around the corner, and halted before the gate.
"Sadie," said the doctor, "are you in the mood for a ride? I have five miles to drive."
"Dr. Van Anden," answered Sadie, promptly, "the last time you and I took a ride together we quarreled."
"Precisely," said the Doctor, bowing low. "Let us take another now and make up."
"Very well," was the gleeful answer which he received, and in another minute they were off.
For the first mile or two he kept a tight rein, and let the ponies skim over the ground in the liveliest fashion, during which time very little talking was done. After that he slackened his speed, and leaning back in the carriage addressed himself to Sadie:
"Now we are ready to make up."
"How shall we commence?" asked Sadie, gravely.
"Who quarreled?" answered the Doctor, sententiously.
"Well," said Sadie, "I understand what you are waiting for. You think I was very rude and unladylike in my replies to you during that last interesting ride we took. You think I jumped at unwarrantable conclusions, and used some unnecessarily sharp words. I think so myself, and if it will be of any service to you to know it, I don't mind telling you in the least."
"That is a very excellent beginning," answered the Doctor, heartily. "I think we shall have no difficulty in getting the matter all settled Now, for my part, it won't sound as well as yours, because however blunderingly I may have said what I did, I said it honestly, in good faith, and with a good and pure motive. But I am glad to be able to say in equal honesty that I believe I was over-cautious, that Dr. Douglass was never so little worthy of regard as I supposed him to be, and that nothing could have more rejoiced my heart than the noble stand which he has so recently taken. Indeed his conduct has been so noble that I feel honored by his acquaintance."
He was interrupted by a mischievous laugh.
"A mutual admiration society," said Sadie, in her most mocking tone. "Did you and Dr. Douglass have a private rehearsal? You interrupted him in a similar rhapsody over your perfections."
Instead of seeming annoyed, Dr. Van Anden's face glowed with pleasure.
"Did he explain to you our misunderstanding?" he asked, eagerly. "That was very noble in him."
"Ofcourse. He is the soul of nobility—a villain yesterday and a saint to-day. I don't understand such marvelously rapid changes, Doctor."
"I know you don't," the Doctor answered quietly. "Although you have exaggerated both terms, yet there is a great and marvelous change, which must be experienced to be understood. Will you never seek it for yourself, Sadie?"
"I presume I never shall, as I very much doubt the existence of any such phenomenon."
The Doctor appeared neither shocked nor surprised, but favored her with a cool and quiet reply:
"Oh, no, you don't doubt it in the least. Don't try to make yourself out that foolish and unreasonable creature—an unbeliever in what is as clear to a thinking mind as is the sun at noonday. You and I have no need to enter into an argument concerning this matter. You have seen some unwise and inconsistent acts in many who are called by the name of Christian. You imagine that they have staggered your belief in the verity of the thing itself. Yet it is not so. You had a dear father who lived and died in the faith, and you no more doubt the fact that he is in heaven to-day, brought there by the power of the Savior in whom he trusted, than you doubt your own existence at this moment."
Sadie sat silenced and grave; she was very rarely either, perhaps. Dr. Van Anden was the one person who could have thus subdued her, but in her inmost heart she felt his words to be true; that dear,dearfather, whose weary suffering life had been one long evidence to the truth of the religion which he professed—yes, it was so, she no more doubted that he was at this moment in that blessed heaven toward which his hopes had so constantly tended, than she doubted the shining of that day's sun—so he, being dead, yet spoke to her. Besides, her keen judgment had, of late, settled back upon the belief that Dr. Van Anden lived a life that would bear watching—a true, earnest, manly life; also, that he was a man not likely to be deceived. So, sitting back there in the carriage, and appearing to look at nothing, and be interested in nothing, she allowed herself to take in again the firm conviction that whatever most lives were, there was always that father—safe,safein the Christian's heaven—and there were besides some few, a very few, she thought; but there weresomestill living, whom she knew, yes, actuallyknew, were fitting for that same far-away, safe place. No, Sadie had stood upon the brink, was standing there still, indeed; but reason and the long-buried father still kept her from toppling over into the chasm of settled unbelief. "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them."
But something must be said. Sadie was not going to sit there and allow Dr. Van Anden to imagine that she was utterly quieted and conquered; she would rather quarrel with him than have that. He had espoused Dr. Douglass' cause so emphatically, let him argue for him now; there was nothing like a good sharp argument to destroy the effect of unpleasant personal questions—so she blazed into sudden indignation:
"I think Dr. Douglass is a hypocrite!"
Nothing could have been more composed than the tone in which she was answered:
"Very well. What then?"
This question was difficult to answer, and Sadie remaining silent, her companion continued:
"Mr. Smith is a drunkard; therefore I will be a thief. Is that MissSadie Ried's logic?"
"I don't see the point."
"Don't you? Wasn't that exclamation concerning Dr. Douglass a bit of hiding behind the supposed sin of another—a sort of a reason why you were not a Christian, because somebody else pretended to be? Is that sound logic, Sadie? When your next neighbor in class peeps in her book, and thereby disgraces herself, and becomes a hypocrite, do you straightway declare that you will study no more? You see it is fashionable, in talking of this matter of religion, to drag out the shortcomings and inconsistencies of others, and try to make of them a garment to covet our own sins; but it is very senseless, after all, and you will observe is never done in the discussion of any other question."
Clearly, Sadie must talk in a common-sense way with this straightforward man, if she talked at all. Her resolution was suddenly taken, to say for once just what she meant; and a very grave and thoughtful pair of eyes were raised to meet the doctor's when next she spoke.
"I think of these things sometimes, doctor, and though a great deal of it seems to be humbug, it is as you say—I knowsomeare sincere, and I know there is a right way. I have been more than half tempted many times during the last few weeks to discover for myself the secret of power, but I am deterred by certain considerations, which you would, doubtless, think very absurd, but which, joined with the inspiration which I receive from the ridiculous inconsistencies of others, have been sufficient to deter me hitherto."
"Would you mind telling me some of the considerations?"
And the moment Sadie began to talk honestly, the doctor's tones lost their half-indifferent coolness, and expressed a kind and thoughtful interest.
"No," she said, hesitatingly. "I don't know that I need, but you will not understand them; for instance, if I were a Christian I should have to give up one of my favorite amusements—almost a passion, you know, dancing is with me, and I am not ready to yield it."
"Why should you feel obliged to do so if you were a Christian?"
Sadie gave him the benefit of a very searching look. "Don'tyouthink I would be?" she queried, after a moment's silence.
"I haven't said what I thought on that subject, but I feel sure that it is not the question for you to decide at present; first settle the all-important one of your personal acceptation of Christ, and then it will be time to decide the other matter, for or against, as your conscience may dictate."
"Oh, but," said Sadie, positively, "I know very well what my conscience would dictate, and I am not ready for it."
"Isn't dancing an innocent amusement?"
"Formeyes, but not for a Christian."
"Does the Bible lay down one code of laws for you and another forChristians?"
"I think so—it says, 'Be not conformed to the world.'"
"Granted; but does it anywhere say to those who are of the world, 'Youhave a right to do just what you like; that direction does not apply to you at all, it is all intended for those poor Christians?'"
"Dr. Van Anden," said Sadie with dignity, "don't you think there should be a difference between Christians and those who are not?"
"Undoubtedly I do. Doyouthink that every person ought or oughtnotto be a Christian?"
Sadie was silent, and a little indignant. After a moment she spoke again, this time with a touch of hauteur:
"I think you understand what I mean, Doctor, though you would not admit it for the world. I don't suppose I feel very deeply on the subject, else I would not advance so trivial an excuse; but this is honestly my state of mind. Whenever I think about the matter at all, this thing comes up for consideration. I think it would be very foolish for me to argue against dancing, for I don't know much about the arguments, and care less. I know only this much, that there is a very distinctly defined inconsistency between a profession of religion and dancing, visible very generally to the eyes of those who make no profession; the other class don't seem so able to see it; but there exists very generally among us worldlings a disposition to laugh a little over dancing Christians. Whether this is a well-founded inconsistency, or only a foolish prejudice on our part, I have never taken the trouble to try to determine, and it would make little material difference which it was—it is enough for me that such is the case; and it makes it very plain to me that if I were an honest professor of that religion which leads one of its teachers to say, 'He will eat no meat while the world stands if it makes his brother to offend,' I should be obliged to give up my dancing. But since I am not one of that class, and thus have no such influence, I can see no possible harm in my favorite amusement, and am not ready to give it up; and that is what I mean by its being innocent for me, and not innocent for professing Christians."
Dr. Van Anden made no sort of reply, if Sadie could judge from his face; he seemed to have grown weary of the whole subject; he leaned back in his carriage, and let the reins fall loosely and carelessly. His next proceeding was most astounding; coolly possessing himself of one of the small gloved hands that lay idly in Sadie's lap, he said, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone: "Sadie, would you allow me to put my arm around you?"
In an instant the indignant blood surged in waves over Sadie's face; the hand was angrily withdrawn, and the graceful form drawn to an erect hight, and it is impossible to describe the freezing tone of astonished indignation in which she ejaculated, "Dr. Van Anden!"
"Just what I expected," returned that gentleman in a composed manner, bestowing a look of entire satisfaction upon his irate companion. "And yet, Sadie, I hope you will pardon my obtuseness, but I positively can not see why, if it is proper and courteous, and all that sort of thing, I, who am a friend of ten years' standing, should not enjoy the same privilege which you accord to Fred Kenmore, to whom you were introduced last week, and with whom I heard you say you danced five times."
Sadie looked confused and annoyed, but finally she laughed; for she had the good sense to see the folly of doing any thing else under existing circumstances.
"That is the point which puzzles me at present," continued the Doctor, in a kind, grave tone. "I do not understand how young ladies of refinement can permit, under certain circumstances, and often from comparative strangers, attentions which, under other circumstances, they repel with becoming indignation. Won't you consider the apparent inconsistency a little? It is the only suggestion which I wish to offer on the question at present. When you have settled that other important matter, this thing will present itself to your clear-seeing eyes in other and more startling aspects. Meantime, this is the house at which I must call. Will you hold my horses, Miss Sadie, while I dispatch matters within?"
But the autumn days were notallbright, and glowing, and glorious. One morning it rained—not a soft, silent, and warm rain, but a gusty, windy, turbulent one; a rain that drove into windows ever so slightly raised, and hurled itself angrily into your face whenever you ventured to open a door. It was a day in which fires didn't like to burn, but smoldered, and sizzled, and smoked; and people went around shivering, their shoulders shrugged up under little dingy, unbecoming shawls, and the clouds were low, and gray, and heavy—and every thing and every body seemed generally out of sorts.
Ester was no exception; the toothache had kept her awake during the night, and one cheek was puffy and stiff in the morning, and one tooth still snarled threateningly whenever the slightest whisper of a draught came to it. The high-toned, exalted views of life and duty which had held possession of her during the past few weeks seemed suddenly to have deserted her. In short, her body had gained that mortifying ascendency over the soul which it will sometimes accomplish, and all her hopes, and aims, and enthusiasms seemed blotted out. Things in the kitchen were uncomfortable. Maggie had seized on this occasion for having the mumps, and acting upon the advice of her sympathizing mistress, had pinned a hot flannel around her face and gone to bed. The same unselfish counsel had been given to Ester, but she had just grace enough left to refuse to desert the camp, when dinner must be in readiness for twenty-four people in spite of nerves and teeth. Just here, however, the supply failed her, and she worked in ominous gloom.
Julia had been pressed into service, and was stoning raisins, or eating them, a close observer would have found it difficult to discover which. She was certainly rasping the nerves of her sister in a variety of those endless ways by which a thoughtless, restless, questioning child can almost distract a troubled brain. Ester endured with what patience she could the ceaseless drafts upon her, and worked at the interminable cookies with commendable zeal. Alfred came with a bang and a whistle, and held open the side door while he talked. In rushed the spiteful wind, and all the teeth in sympathy with the aching one set up an immediate growl.
"Mother, I don't see any. Why, where is mother?" questioned Alfred; and was answered with an emphatic
"Shut that door!"
"Well, but," said Alfred, "I want mother. I say, Ester, will you give me a cookie?"
"No!" answered Ester, with energy. "Did you hear me tell you to shut that door this instant?"
"Well now, don't bite a fellow." And Alfred looked curiously at his sister. Meantime the door closed with a heavy bang. "Mother, say, mother," he continued, as his mother emerged from the pantry, "I don't see any thing of that hammer. I've looked every-where. Mother, can't I have one of Ester's cookies? I'm awful hungry."
"Why, I guess so, if you are really suffering. Try again for the hammer, my boy; don't let a poor little hammer get the better of you."
"Well," said Alfred, "I won't," meaning that it should answer the latter part of the sentence; and seizing a cookie he bestowed a triumphant look upon Ester and a loving one upon his mother, and vanished amid a renewal of the whistle and bang.
This little scene did not serve to help Ester; she rolled away vigorously at the dough, but felt some way disturbed and outraged, and finally gave vent to her feeling in a peremptory order.
"Julia, don't eat another raisin; you've made away with about half of them now."
Julia looked aggrieved. "Mother lets me eat raisins when I pick them over for her," was her defense; to which she received no other reply than—
"Keep your elbows off the table."
Then there was silence and industry for some minutes. Presently Julia recovered her composure, and commenced with—
"Say, Ester, what makes you prick little holes all over your biscuits?"
"To make them rise better."
"Does every thing rise better after it is pricked?"
Sadie was paring apples at the end table, and interposed at this point—
"If you find that to be the case, Julia, you must be very careful after this, or we shall have Ester pricking you when you don't 'rise' in time for breakfast in the morning."
Julia suspected that she was being made a dupe of, and appealed to her older sister:
"Honestly, Ester,doyou prick them so they will rise better?"
"Of course. I told you so, didn't I?"
"Well, but why does that help them any? Can't they get up unless you make holes in them, and what is all the reason for it?"
Now, these were not easy questions to answer, especially to a girl with the toothache, and Ester's answer was not much to the point.
"Julia, I declare you are enough to distract one. If you ask any more questions I shall certainly send you up stairs out of the way."
Her scientific investigations thus nipped in the bud, Julia returned again to silence and raisins, until the vigorous beating of some eggs roused anew the spirit of inquiry. She leaned eagerly forward with a—
"Say, Ester, please tell me why the whites all foam and get thick when you stir them, just like beautiful white soapsuds." And she rested her elbow, covered with its blue sleeve, plump into the platter containing the beaten yolks. You must remember Ester's face-ache, but even then I regret to say that this disaster culminated in a decided box on the ear for poor Julia, and in her being sent weeping up stairs. Sadie looked up with a wicked laugh in her bright eyes, and said, demurely:
"You didn't keep your promise, Ester, and let me live in peace, so I needn't keep mine and I consider you pretty well out of the spasm which has lasted for so many days."
"Sadie, I am really ashamed of you." This was Mrs. Ried's grave, reproving voice; and she added, kindly: "Ester, poor child, I wish you would wrap your face up in something warm and lie down awhile. I am afraid you are suffering a great deal."
Poor Ester! It had been a hard day. Late in the afternoon, as she stood at the table, and cut the bread, and cake, and cheese, and cold meat for tea; when the sun had made a rift in the clouds, and was peeping in for good-night; when the throbbing nerves had grown quiet once more, she looked back upon this weary day in shame and pain. How very little her noble resolves, and efforts, and advances had been worth after all. How far back she seemed to have gone in that one day—not strength enough to bear even the little crosses that befell in an ordinarily quiet life! How she had lost the so-lately-gained influence over Alfred and Julia by a few cross words! How much reason she had given Sadie to think that her attempts at following the Master were, after all, only spasmodic and visionary! But Ester had been to that little clothes-press up stairs in search of help and forgiveness, and now she clearly saw there was something to do besides mourn over her failures. It was hard to do it, too. Ester's spirit was proud, and it was very humbling to confess herself in the wrong. She hesitated and shrank from the work, until she finally grew ashamed of herself for that; and at last, without turning her head from her work, or giving her resolve time to falter, she called to the twins, who were occupying seats in one of the dining-room windows, and talking low and soberly to each other:
"Children, come here a moment, will you?"
The two had been very shy of Ester since the morning's trials, and were at that moment sympathizing with each other in a manner uncomplimentary to her. However, they slid down from their perch and slowly answered her call.
Ester glanced up as they entered the storeroom, and then went on cutting her cheese, but speaking in low, gentle tones:
"I want to tell you two how sorry I am that I spoke so crossly and unkindly to you this morning. It was very wrong in me. I thought I never should displease Jesus so again, but I did, you see; and now I am very sorry indeed, and I want you to forgive me."
Alfred looked aghast. This was an Ester that he had never seen before, and he didn't know what to say. He wriggled the toes of his boots together, and looked down at them in puzzled wonder. At last he faltered out:
"I didn't know your cheek ached till mother told me, or else I'd have shut the door right straight. I'd ought to,any how, cheek or no cheek."
This last in a lower tone, and more looking down at his boots. It was new work for Alfred, this voluntarily owning himself in the wrong.
Julia burst forth eagerly. "And I was very careless and naughty to keep putting my elbows on the table after you had told me not to, and I am ever so sorry that I made you such a lot of trouble."
"Well, then," said Ester, "we'll all forgive each other, shall we, and begin over again? And, children, I want you to understand that Iamtrying to please Jesus; and when I fail it is because of my own wicked heart, not because there is any need of it if I tried harder; and I want you to know how anxious I am that you should love this same Jesus now while you are young, and get him to help you."
Their mother called the children at this moment, and Ester dismissed them each with a kiss. There was a little rustle in the flour-room, and Sadie, whom nobody knew was down stairs, emerged therefrom with suspiciously red eyes but a laughing face, and approached her sister.
"Ester," said she, "I'm positively afraid that you are growing into a saint, and I know that I'm a sinner. I consider myself mistaken about the spasm—it is evidently a settled disease."
While the bell tolled for evening service Ester stood in the front doorway, and looked doubtfully up and down the damp pavements and muddy streets, and felt of her stiff cheek. How much she seemed to need the rest and help of God's house to-night; and yet—
Julia's little hand stole softly into hers. "We've been talking about what you said you wanted us to do, Alfred and I have. We've talked about it a good deal lately.Wemost wish so, too."
Ere Ester could reply other than by an eager grasp of the small hand,Dr. Douglass came out. His horses and carriage were in waiting.
"Miss Ried," he said, pausing irresolutely with his foot on the carriage step, and finally turning back, "I am going to drive down to church this evening, as I have a call to make afterward. Will you not ride down with me; it is unpleasant walking?"
Ester's grave face brightened. "I'm so glad," she answered eagerly. "Ididwant to go to church to-night, and I was afraid it would be imprudent on account of my tooth."
Alfred and Julia sat right before them in church; and Ester watched them with a prayerful, and yet a sad heart What right had she to expect an answer to her petitions when her life had been working against them all that day? And yet the blood of Christ was all-powerful, and there was alwayshisrighteousness to plead; and she bent her head in renewed supplications for these two, "And it shall come to pass, that before they call I will answer, and while they are yet speaking I will hear."
Into one of the breathless stillnesses that came, while beating hearts were waiting for the requests that they hoped would be made, broke Julia's low, trembling, yet singularly clear voice:
"Please pray for me."
There was a little choking in Alfred's throat, and a good deal of shuffling done with his boots. It was so much more of a struggle for the sturdy boy than the gentle little girl; but he stood manfully on his feet at last, and his words, though few, were fraught with as much meaning as any which had been spoken there that evening, for they were distinct and decided:
"Me, too."
Life went swiftly and busily on. With the close of December the blessed daily meetings closed, rather they closed with the first week of the new year, which the church kept as a sort of jubilee week in honor of the glorious things that had been done for them.
The new year opened in joy for Ester; many things were different. The honest, straightforward little Julia carried all her earnestness of purpose into this new life which had possessed her soul; and the sturdy brother had naturally too decided a nature to do any thing half-way, so Ester was sure of this young sister and brother. Besides, there was a new order of things between her mother and herself; each had discovered that the other was bound on the same journey, and that there were delightful resting-places by the way.
For herself, she was slowly but surely gaining. Little crosses that she stooped and resolutely took up grew to be less and less, until they, some of them, merged into positive pleasures. There were many things that cast rays of joy all about her path; but there was still one heavy abiding sorrow. Sadie went giddily and gleefully on her downward way. If she perchance seemed to have a serious thought at night it vanished with the next morning's sunshine, and day by day Ester realized more fully how many tares the enemy had sown while she was sleeping. Sometimes the burden grew almost too heavy to be borne, and again she would take heart of grace and bravely renew her efforts and her prayers. It was about this time that she began to recognize a new feeling. She was not sick exactly, and yet not quite well. She discovered, considerably to her surprise, that she was falling into the habit of sitting down on a stair to rest ere she had reached the top of the first flight; also, that she was sometimes obliged to stay her sweeping and clasp her hands suddenly over a strange beating in her heart. But she laughed at her mother's anxious face, and pronounced herself quite well, quite well, only perhaps a little tired.
Meantime all sorts of plans for usefulness ran riot in her brain. She could not go away on a mission because her mission had come to her. For a wonder she realized that her mother needed her. She took up bravely and eagerly, so far as she could see it, the work that lay around her; but her restless heart craved more, more. Shemustdo something outside of this narrow circle for the Master. One evening her enthusiasm, which had been fed for several days on a new scheme that was afloat in the town, reached its hight. Ester remembered afterward every little incident connected with that evening—just how cozy the little family sitting-room looked, with her for its only occupant; just how brightly the coals glowed in the open grate; just what a brilliant color they flashed over the crimson cushioned rocker, which she had vacated when she heard Dr. Van Anden's step in the hall, and went to speak to him. She was engaged in writing a letter to Abbie, full of eager schemes and busy, bright work. "I am astonished that I ever thought there was nothing worth living for;" so she wrote. "Why life isn't half long enough for the things that I want to do. This new idea just fills me with delight. I am so eager to get to work—" Thus far when she heard that step, and springing up went with eagerness to the door.
"Doctor, are you in haste? Haven't you just five minutes for me?"
"Ten," answered the Doctor promptly, stepping into the bright little room.
In her haste, not even waiting to offer him a seat, Ester plunged at once into her subject.
"Aren't you the chairman of that committee to secure teachers for the evening school?"
"I am."
"Have you all the help you want?"
"Not by any means. Volunteers for such a self-denying employment as teaching factory girls are not easy to find."
"Well, Doctor, do you think—would you be willing to propose my name as one of the teachers? I should so like to be counted among them."
Instead of the prompt thanks which she expected, to her dismay Dr. Van Anden's face looked grave and troubled. Finally he slowly shook his head with a troubled—
"I don't think I can, Ester."
Such an amazed, grieved, hurt look as swept over Ester's face.
"It is no matter," she said at last, speaking with an effort. "Of course I know little of teaching, and perhaps could do no good; but I thought if help was scarce you might—well, never mind."
And here the Doctor interposed. "It is not that, Ester," with the troubled look deepening on his face. "I assure you we would be glad of your help, but," and he broke off abruptly, and commenced a sudden pacing up and down the room. Then stopped before her with these mysterious words: "I don't know how to tell you, Ester."
Ester's look now was one of annoyance, and she spoke quickly.
"Why, Doctor, you need tell me nothing. I am not a child to have the truth sugar-coated. If my help is not needed, that is sufficient."
"Your help is exactly what we need, Ester, but your health is not sufficient for the work."
And now Ester laughed. "Why, Doctor, what an absurd idea In a week I shall be as well as ever. If that is all you may surely count me as one of your teachers."
The Doctor smiled faintly, and then asked: "Do you never feel any desire to know what may be the cause of this strange lassitude which is creeping over you, and the sudden flutterings of heart, accompanied by pain and faintness, which take you unawares?"
Ester's face paled a little, but she asked, quietly enough: "How do you know all this?"
"I am a physician, Ester. Do you think it is kindness to keep a friend in ignorance of what very nearly concerns him, simply to spare his feelings for a little?"
"Why, Dr. Van Anden, you do not think—you do not mean that—tell meexactly whatyou mean."
But the Doctor's answer was grave, anxious, absolutesilence.
Perhaps the silence answered her—perhaps her own heart told the secret to her, for a sudden gray palor overspread her face. For an instant the room darkened and whirled around her, then she staggered as if she would have fallen, then she reached forward and caught hold of the little red rocker, and sank into it, and leaning both elbows on the writing-table before her, buried her face in her hands. Afterward Ester called to mind the strange whirl of thoughts which thrilled her brain at that time. Life in all the various phases that she had thought it would wear for her, all the endless plans that she had made, all the things that she had meant todoandbe, came and stared her in the face. Nowhere in all her plannings crossed by that strange creature Death; someway she had never planned for that. Could it be possible that he was to come for her so soon, before any of these things were done? Was it possible that she must leave Sadie, bright, brilliant, unsafe Sadie, and go away where she could work for her no more? Then, like a picture spread before her, there came back that day in the cars, on her way to New York, the Christian stranger, who was not a stranger now, but her friend, and was it heaven—the earnest little old woman with her thoughtful face, and that strange sentence on her lips: "Maybe my coffin will do it better than I can." Well, maybehercoffin could do it for Sadie. Oh the blessed thought! Plans? YES, but perhaps God had plans too. What mattered hers compared toHIS? If he would that she should do her earthly work by lying down very soon in the unbroken calm of the "rest that remaineth," "what was that to her?" Presently she spoke without raising her head.
"Are you very certain of this thing, Doctor, and is it to come to me soon?"
"That last we can not tell, dear friend. Youmaybe with us years yet, and itmaybe swift and sudden. I think it is worse than mistaken kindness, it is foolish wickedness, to treat a Christian woman like a little child. I wanted to tell you before the shock would be dangerous to you."
"I understand." When she spoke again it was in a more hesitating tone. "Does Dr. Douglass agree with you?" And the quick, pained way in which the Doctor answered showed her that he understood.
"Dr. Douglass will notlethimself believe it."
Then a long silence fell between them. The Doctor kept his position, leaning against the mantel, but never for a moment allowed his eyes to turn away from that motionless figure before him. Only the loving, pitying Savior knew what was passing in that young heart.
At last she arose and came toward the Doctor, with a strange sweetness playing about her mouth, and a strange calm in her voice.
"Dr. Van Anden, I amsomuch obliged to you. Don't be afraid to leave me now. I think I need to be quite alone."
And the Doctor, feeling that all words were vain and useless, silently bowed, and softly let himself out of the room.
The first thing upon which Ester's eye alighted when she turned again to the table was the letter in which she had been writing those last words: "Why life isn't half long enough for the things that I want to do." Very quietly she picked up the letter and committed it to the glowing coals upon the grate. Her mood had changed. By degrees, very quietly and very gradually, as such bitter thingsdocreep in upon a family, it grew to be an acknowledged fact that Ester was an invalid. Little by little her circle of duties narrowed, one by one her various plans were silently given up, the dear mother first, and then Sadie, and finally the children, grew into the habit of watching her footsteps, and saving her from the stairs, from the lifting, from every possible burden. Once in a long while, and then, as the weeks passed, more frequently, there would come a day in which she did not get down further than the little sitting-room, but was established amid pillows on the couch, "enjoying poor health," as she playfully phrased it.
So softly and silently and surely the shadow crept and crept, until when June brought roses and Abbie. Ester received her in her own room, propped up among the pillows in her bed. Gradually they grew accustomed to that also, as God in his infinite mercy has planned that human hearts shall grow used to the inevitable. They even told each other hopefully that the warm weather was what depressed her so much, and as the summer heat cooled into autumn she would grow stronger. And she had bright days in which she really seemed to grow strong, and which deceived every body save Dr. Van Anden and herself.
During one of those bright days Sadie came from school full of a new idea, and curled herself in front of Ester's couch to entertain her with it.
"Mr. Hammond's last," she said. "Such a curious idea, as like him as possible, and like nobody else. You know that our class will graduate in just two years from this time, and there are fourteen of us, an even number, which is lucky for Mr. Hammond. Well, we are each, don't you think, to write a letter, as sensible, honest, and piquant as we can make it, historic, sentimental, poetic, or otherwise, as we please, so that it be the honest exponent of our views. Then we are to make a grand exchange of letters among the class, and the young lady who receives my letter, for instance, is to keep it sealed, and under lock and key, until graduation day, when it is to be read before scholars, faculty, and trustees, and my full name announced as the signature; and all the rest of us are to perform in like manner."
"What is supposed to be the object?" queried Abbie.
"Precisely the point which oppressed us, until Mr. Hammond complimented us by announcing that it was for the purpose of discovering how many of us, after making use of our highest skill in that line, could write a letter that after two years we should be willing to acknowledge as ours."
Ester sat up flushed and eager. "That is a very nice idea," she said, brightly. "I'm so glad you told me of it. Sadie, I'll write you a letter for that day. I'll write it to-morrow, and you are to keep it sealed until the evening of that day on which you graduate. Then when you have come up to your room and are quite alone, you are to read it. Will you promise, Sadie?"
But Sadie only laughed merrily, and said "You are growing sentimental,Ester, as sure is the world. How can I make any such promise as that?I shall probably chatter to you like a magpie instead of reading anything."
This young girl utterly ignored so far as was possible the fact of Ester's illness, never allowing it to be admitted in her presence that there were any fears as to the result. Ester had ceased trying to convince her, so now she only smiled quietly and repeated her petition.
"Will you promise, Sadie?"
"Oh yes, I'll promise to go to the mountains of the moon on foot and alone, across lots—any thingto amuse you. You're to be pitied, you see, until you get over this absurd habit of cuddling down among the pillows."
So a few days thereafter she received with much apparent glee the dainty sealed letter addressed to herself, and dropped it in her writing-desk, but ere she turned the key there dropped a tear or two on the shining lid.
Well, as the long, hot summer days grew longer and fiercer, the invalid drooped and drooped, and the home faces grew sadder. Yet there still came from time to time those rallying days, wherein Sadie confidently pronounced her to be improving rapidly. And so it came to pass that so sweet was the final message that the words of the wonderful old poem proved a Siting description of it all.
"They thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died."
Into the brightness of the September days there intruded one, wherein all the house was still, with that strange, solemn stillness that comes only to those homes where death has left a seal. From the doors floated the long crape signals, and in the great parlors were gathering those who had come to take their parting look at the white, quiet face. "ESTER RIED, aged 19," so the coffin-plate told them. Thus early had the story of her life been finished.
Only one arrangement had Ester made for this last scene in her life drama.
"I am going to preach my own funeral sermon," she had said pleasantly to Abbie one day. "I want every one to know what seemed to me the most important thing in life. And I want them to understand that when I came just to the end of my life it stood out the most important thing still—for Christians, I mean. My sermon is to be preached for them. No it isn't either; it applies equally to all. The last time I went to the city I found in a bookstore just the kind of sermon I want preached. I bought it. You will find the package in my upper bureau drawer, Abbie. I leave it to you to see that they are so arranged that every one who comes to look atmewill be sure to see them."
So on this day, amid the wilderness of flowers and vines and mosses that had possession of the rooms, ranged along the mantel, hanging in clusters on the walls, were beautifully illuminated texts—and these were some of the words that they spoke to those who silently gathered in the parlors:
"And that knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep."
"But wilt thou know, O vain man, that faith without works is dead?"
"What shall we do that we might work the works of God?"
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest."
"I must work the work of him that sent me while it is day: the night cometh when no man can work."
"Awake to righteousness and sin not."
"Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light."
"Redeeming the time, because the days are evil."
"Let us not sleep as do others, but let us watch, and be sober."
Chiming in with the thoughts of those who knew by whose direction the illuminated texts were hung, came the voice of the minister, reading:
"And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them."
So it was that Ester Ried, lying quiet in her coffin, was reckoned among that number who "being dead, yet speaketh."