TESTED.
Ester was winding the last smooth coil of hair around her head when
Sadie opened her eyes the next morning.
"My!" she said. "Do you know, Ester, it is perfectly delightful to
me to lie here and look at you, and remember that I shall not be
responsible for those cakes this morning? They shall want a pint of
soda added to them for all that I shall need to know or care."
Ester laughed. "You will surely have _your_ pantry well stocked
with soda," she said, gayly. "It seems to have made a very strong
impression on your mind."
But the greeting had chimed with her previous thoughts and sounded
pleasant to her. She had come home to be the helper; her mother and
Sadie should feel and realize after this how very much of a helper
she could be. That very day should be the commencement of her old, new
life. It was baking day--her detestation heretofore, her pleasure now.
No more useful day could be chosen. How she would dispatch the pies
and cakes and biscuits, to say nothing of the wonderful loaves of
bread. She smiled brightly on her young sister, as she realized in
a measure the weight of care which she was about to lift from her
shoulders; and by the time she was ready for the duties of the day she
had lived over in imagination the entire routine of duties connected
with that busy, useful, happy day. She went out from her little
clothes-press wrapped in armor--the pantry and kitchen were to be
her battle-field, and a whole host of old temptations and trials
were there to be met and vanquished. So Ester planned, and yet it so
happened that she did not once enter the kitchen during all that long
busy day, and Sadie's young shoulders bore more of the hundred
little burdens of life that Saturday than they had ever felt before.
Descending the stairs, Ester met Dr. Van Anden for the first time
since her return. He greeted her with a hurried "good-morning," quite
as if he had seen her only the day before, and at once pressed her
into service:
"Miss Ester, will you go to Mr. Holland immediately? I can not find
your mother. Send Mrs. Holland from the room, she excites him. Tell
her _I_ say she must come immediately to the sitting-room; I wish to
see her. Give Mr. Holland a half teaspoonful of the mixture in the
wine-glass every ten minutes, and on no account leave him until I
return, which will be as soon as possible."
And seeming to be certain that his directions would be followed, the
doctor vanished.
For only about a quarter of a minute did Ester stand irresolute. Dr.
Van Anden's tone and manner were full of his usual authority--a habit
with him which had always annoyed her. She shrank with a feeling
amounting almost to terror from a dark, quiet room, and the position
of nurse. Her base of operations, according to her own arrangements,
had been the light, airy kitchen, where she felt herself needed at
this very moment. But one can think of several things in a quarter
of a minute. Ester had very lately taken up the habit of securing one
Bible verse as part of her armor to go with her through the day. On
this particular morning the verse was: "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to
do, do it with thy might." Now if her hands had found work waiting for
her down this first flight of stairs instead of down two, as she had
planned, what was that to her? Ester turned and went swiftly to
the sick room, dispatched the almost frantic wife according to the
doctor's peremptory orders, gave the mixture as directed, waited
patiently for the doctor's return, only to hear herself installed as
head nurse for the day; given just time enough to take a very hurried
second table meal with Sadie, listen to her half pitiful, half comic
complainings, and learn that her mother was down with sick headache.
So it was that this first day at home drew toward its closing; and not
one single thing that Ester had planned to do, and do so well, had she
been able to accomplish. It had been very hard to sit patiently there
and watch the low breathings of that almost motionless man on the bed
before her, to rouse him at set intervals sufficiently to pour some
mixture down his unwilling lips, to fan him occasionally, and that
was all. It had been hard, but Ester had not chafed under it; she had
recognized the necessity--no nurse to be found, her mother sick, and
the young, frightened, as well as worn-out wife, not to be trusted.
Clearly she was at the post of duty. So as the red sun peeped in a
good-night from a little corner of the closed curtain, it found Ester
not angry, but _very_ sad. _Such_ a weary day! And this man on the
bed was dying; both doctors had _looked_ that at each other at least
a dozen times that day. How her life of late was being mixed up with
death. She had just passed through one sharp lesson, and here at the
threshold awaited another. Different from that last though--oh, _very_
different--and herein lay some of the sadness. Mr. Foster had said
"every thing was ready for the long journey, even should there be no
return." Then she went back for a minute to the look of glory on that
marble face, and heard again that wonderful sentence: "_So_ he giveth
his beloved sleep." But this man here! every thing had not been made
ready by him. So at least she feared. Yet she was conscious, professed
Christian though she had been, living in the same house with him for
so many years, that she knew very little about him. She had seen much
of him, had talked much with him, but she had never mentioned to him
the name of Christ, the name after which she called herself. The sun
sank lower, it was almost gone; this weary day was nearly done; and
very sad and heavy-hearted felt this young watcher--the day begun in
brightness was closing in gloom. It was not all so clear a path as
she had thought; there were some things that she could not undo. Those
days of opportunity, in which she might at least have invited this man
to Jesus, were gone; it seemed altogether probable that there would
never come another. There was a little rustle of the drapery about the
bed, and she turned suddenly, to meet the great searching eyes of the
sick man, bent full upon her. Then he spoke in low, but wonderfully
distinct and solemn tones. And the words he slowly uttered were yet
more startling:
"Am I going to die?"
Oh, what _was_ Ester to say? How those great bright eyes searched her
soul! Looking into them, feeling the awful solemnity of the question,
she could not answer "No;" and it seemed almost equally impossible
to tell him "Yes." So the silence was unbroken, while she trembled
in every nerve, and felt her face blanch before the continued gaze of
those mournful eyes. At length the silence seemed to answer him;
for he turned his head suddenly from her, and half buried it in the
pillow, and neither spoke nor moved.
That awful silence! That moment of opportunity, perhaps the last of
earth for him, perhaps it was given to her to speak to him the last
words that he would ever hear from mortal lips. What _could_ she say?
If she only knew how--only had words. Yet _something_ must be said.
Then there came to Ester one of those marked Bible verses which had of
late grown so precious, and her voice, low and clear, filled the blank
in the room.
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."
No sound from the quiet figure on the bed. She could not even tell if
he had heard, yet perhaps he might, and so she gathered them, a little
string of wondrous pearls, and let them fall with soft and gentle
cadence from her lips.
"Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he shall bring
it to pass."
"The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him--the Lord is
gracious, and full of compassion."
"Thus saith the Lord, your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel, I, even
I, am he that blotteth out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and
will not remember thy sins."
"Look unto me and be ye saved, all ye ends of the earth; for I am God,
and there is none else."
"Incline your ear, and come unto me; hear, and your soul shall live."
Silence for a moment, and then Ester repeated, in tones that were full
of sweetness, that one little verse, which had become the embodiment
to her of all that was tender, and soothing and wonderful: "What time
I am afraid I will trust in thee." Was this man, moving toward the
very verge of the river, afraid? Ester did not know, was not to know
whether those gracious invitations from the Redeemer of the world had
fallen once more on unheeding ears, or not; for with a little sigh,
born partly of relief, and partly of sorrow, that the opportunity was
gone, she turned to meet Dr. Van Anden, and was sent for a few moments
out into the light and glory of the departing day, to catch a bit of
its freshness.
It was as the last midnight stroke of that long, long day was being
given, that they were gathered about the dying bed. Sadie was there,
solemn and awe-stricken. Mrs. Ried had arisen from her couch of
suffering, and nerved herself to be a support to the poor young wife.
Dr. Douglass, at the side of the sick man, kept anxious watch over
the fluttering pulse. Ester, on the other side, looked on in helpless
pity, and other friends of the Hollands were grouped about the room.
So they watched and waited for the swift down-coming of the angel of
death The death damp had gathered on his brow, the pulse seemed but
a faint tremble now and then, and those whose eyes were used to death
thought that his lips would never frame mortal sound again, when
suddenly the eyelids raised, and Mr. Holland, fixing a steady gaze
upon the eyes bent on him from the foot of the bed, whither Ester had
slipped to make more room for her mother and Mrs. Holland, said, in a
clear, distinct tone, one unmistakable word--"Pray!"
Will Ester ever forget the start of terror which thrilled her frame as
she felt that look and heard that word? She cast a quick, frightened
glance around her of inquiry and appeal; but her mother and herself
were the only ones present whom she had reason to think ever prayed.
Could she, _would_ she, that gentle, timid, shrinking mother? But Mrs.
Ried was supporting the now almost fainting form of Mrs. Holland, and
giving anxious attention to her. "He says pray!" Sadie murmured, in
low, frightened tones. "Oh, where is Dr. Van Anden?"
Ester knew he had been called in great haste to the house across the
way, and ere he could return, this waiting spirit might be gone--gone
without a word of prayer. Would Ester want to die so, with no voice to
cry for her to that listening Savior? But then no human being had
ever heard her pray. Could she?--must she? Oh, for Dr. Van Anden--a
Christian doctor! Oh, if that infidel stood anywhere but there, with
his steady hand clasping the fluttering pulse, with his cool, calm
eyes bent curiously on her--but Mr. Holland was dying; perhaps the
everlasting arms were not underneath him--and at this fearful thought,
Ester dropped upon her knees, giving utterance to her deepest need in
the first uttered words, "Oh, Holy Spirit, teach me just what to say!"
Her mother, listening with startled senses as the familiar voice fell
on her ear, could but think that _that_ petition was answered; and
Ester felt it in her very soul, Dr. Douglass, her mother, Sadie, all
of them were as nothing--there was only this dying man and Christ, and
she pleading that the passing soul might be met even now by the Angel
of the covenant. There were those in the room who never forgot that
prayer of Ester's. Dr. Van Anden, entering hastily, paused midway in
the room, taking in the scene in an instant of time, and then was
on his knees, uniting his silent petitions with hers. So fervent and
persistent was the cry for help, that even the sobs of the stricken
wife were hushed in awe, and only the watching doctor, with his finger
on the pulse, knew when the last fluttering beat died out, and the
death-angel pressed his triumphant seal on pallid lip and brow.
"Dr. Van Anden," Ester said, as they stood together for a moment
the next morning, waiting in the chamber of death for Mrs. Ried's
directions--. "Was--Did he," with an inclination of her head toward
the silent occupant of the couch, "Did he ever think he was a
Christian?"
The doctor bent on her a grave, sad look, and slowly shook his head.
"Oh, Doctor! you can not think that he--" and Ester stopped, her face
blanching with the fearfulness of her thought.
"Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?" This was the
doctor's solemn answer. After a moment, he added: "Perhaps that one
eagerly-spoken word, 'Pray,' said as much to the ears of Him
whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, as did that old-time
petition--'Remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.'"
Ester never forgot that and the following day, while the corpse of one
whom she had known so well lay in the house; and when she followed
him to the quiet grave, and watched the red and yellow autumn leaves
flutter down around his coffin--dead leaves, dead flowers, dead hopes,
death every-where--not just a going up higher, as Mr. Foster's death
had been--this was solemn and inexorable death. More than ever she
felt how impossible it was to call back the days that had slipped away
while she slept, and do their neglected duties. She had come for this,
full of hope; and now one of those whom she had met many times each
day for years, and never said Jesus to, was at this moment being
lowered into his narrow house, and, though God had graciously given
her an inch of time, and strength to use it, it was as nothing
compared with those wasted years, and she could never know, at least
never until the call came for her, whether or not at the eleventh hour
this "poor man cried, and the Lord heard him," and received him into
Paradise.
Dr. Van Anden moved around to where she was standing, with tightly
clasped hands and colorless lips. He had been watching her, and this
was what he said: "Ester, shall you and I ever stand again beside a
new-made grave, receiving one whom we have known ever so slightly, and
have to settle with our consciences and our Savior, because we have
not invited that one to come to Jesus?"
And Ester answered, with firmly-drawn lips "As that Savior hears me,
and will help me _never_!"