ONE MINUTE'S WORK.
Marion struck out into the darkness, caring little which way she went;
she had rarely been so wrought upon; her veins seemed to glow with fire.
What difference did it make? she asked herself. If there was nothing at
all in it, why not let Ruth amuse herself by joining the church and
playing at religion? It would add to her sense of dignity, and who would
be hurt by it?
There was a difficulty in the way. Turn where she would, it confronted
Marion during these days. There was a solemn haunting "if" that would
not be put down. What _if_ all these things were true? She by no means
felt so assured as she had once done: indeed, the foundations for her
disbelief seemed to have been shaken from under her during the last
week.
Remember, she had never spent a week with Christians before in her life;
not, at least, a week during which she was made to realize all the time
that they were Christians; that they stood on a different platform from
herself.
Now, as she tramped about through the darkening woods, meeting
constantly groups of people on their way home from the meeting, hearing
from them snatches of what had been said and sung, she suddenly paused,
and so vivid was the impression that for long afterward she could not
think of it without feeling that a voice must certainly have spoken the
words in her ear. Yet she recognized them as a sentence which had struck
her from Dr. Pierce's sermon in the morning.
"God honors his gospel, even though preached by a bad man; honors it
sometimes to the saving of a soul. But think of a meeting between the
two! the sinner saved and the sinner lost, who was the means of the
other's salvation." It had thrilled Marion at the time, with her old
questioning thrill: What if such a thing were possible! Now it came
again.
She stood perfectly still, all the blood seeming to recede from and
leave her faint with the strange solemnity of the thought! What if she
had this evening been preaching the gospel to Ruth! What if the words of
hers should lead Ruth to think, and to hunt, and to find this light that
those who were not blind--if there were any such--succeeded in finding!
What if, as a result of this, she should go to heaven! and what if it
were true that there was to be a judgment, and they two should meet, and
then and there she should realize that it was because of this evening's
talk that Ruth stood in glory on the other side of the great gulf of
separation! What kind of a feeling would that be?
"Oh, if I only knew," she said aloud, sitting suddenly down on a fallen
log, "if I _only_ knew that any of these things were so! or if I could
only get to imagining that they were, I would take them up and have the
comfort out of them that some of these people seem to get, for I have so
little comfort in my life. It can not be that it is all a farce, such as
Ruth's horrid resolve would lead one to think; that is not the way that
Dr. Vincent feels about it; it is not the way that Dr. Pierce preached
about it this morning; it is not the way that man Bliss sings about it.
There is more to it than that. My father had more than that. If he could
only look down to-night and tell me whether it is so, whether he is safe
and well and perfectly happy. Oh, it seems to me if I could only be
sure, _sure_ beyond a doubt that God did give an eternal heaven to my
father, I could love him forever for doing that, even though there is a
hell and I go to it."
Within the tent they were having talk that would seem to amount to very
little. Even Eurie appeared to be subdued, and to have almost nothing to
say. Ruth was roused from the half stupor of astonishment into which
Marion's unexpected words had thrown her by hearing Flossy say, "Oh,
Ruth, I forgot to tell you something; Mrs. Smythe stopped at the door on
Saturday evening before you came home; her party leave for Saratoga
to-morrow morning, and she wanted to know whether any of us would go
with them."
"Did you tell her I was going?" Ruth asked, quickly. It was utterly
distasteful to her to think of having Mrs. Smythe's company. She did not
stop to analyze her feelings; she simply shrank from contact with Mrs.
Smythe and from others who were sure to be of her stamp.
"No," Flossy said, "I did not know what you had decided upon; I said it
was possible that you might want to go, but some one joined us just then
and the conversation changed: I did not think of it again."
"I am glad you didn't," Ruth said, emphatically. "I don't want her
society. I won't go in the morning if I am to be bored with that party;
I would rather wait a week."
"They are going in the morning train," Eurie said; "I heard that tall
man who sometimes leads the singing say so. He said there was quite a
little party to go, among them a party from Clyde, who were _en route_
for Saratoga. That is them, you know; nearly all of them are from Clyde.
'Oh, yes,' the other man said; 'we must expect that. Of course there is
a froth to all these things that must evaporate toward Saratoga, or some
other resort. There is a class of mind that Chautauqua is too much for.'
Think of that, Ruthie, to be considered nothing but froth that is to
evaporate!"
"Nonsense!" Ruth said, sharply. She seemed to consider that an
unanswerable argument, and in a sense it is. Nevertheless Eurie's words
had their effect; she began to wish that letter unwritten, and to wish
that she had not said so much about Saratoga, and to wish that there was
some quiet way of changing her plans.
In fact, an utter distaste for Saratoga seemed suddenly to have come
upon her. Conversation palled after this; Marion came in, and the four
made ready for the night in almost absolute silence. The next thing that
occurred was sufficiently startling in its nature to arouse them all. It
was one of those sudden, careless movements that this life of ours is
full of, taking only a moment of time, and involving consequences that
reached away beyond time, and death, and resurrection.
"Eurie," Ruth had said, "where is your head ache bottle that you boast
so much of? I believe I am going to have a sick headache."
"In my satchel," Eurie answered, sleepily. She was already in bed.
"There is a spoon on that box in the corner; take a tea-spoonful."
Another minute of silence, then Eurie suddenly raised her head from the
pillow and looked about her wildly. The dim light of the lamp showed
Ruth, slowly pulling the pins from her hair.
"Did you take it?" she asked, and her voice was full of eager, intense
fright. "Ruth, you didn't _take_ it!"
"Yes, I did, of course. What is the matter with you?"
"It was the wrong bottle. It was the liniment bottle in my satchel. I
forgot. Oh, Ruth, Ruth, what will we do? It is a deadly poison."
Then to have realized the scene that followed you should have been there
to sea. Ruth gave one loud shriek that seemed to re-echo through the
trees, and Eurie's moan was hardly less terrible. Marion sprang out of
bed, and was alert and alive in a moment.
"Ruth, lie down; Eurie, stop groaning and act. What was it? Tell me this
instant."
"Oh, I don't _know_ what it was, only he said that ten drops would kill
a person, and she took a tea-spoonful."
"I know where the doctor's cottage is," said Flossy, dressing rapidly.
"I can go for him." And almost as soon as the words were spoken she had
slipped out into the darkness.
Ruth had obeyed the imperative command of Marion and laid herself on the
bed. She was deadly pale, and Eurie, who felt eagerly for her pulse,
felt in vain. Whether it was gone, or whether her excitement was too
great to find it, she did not know. Meantime, Marion fumbled in Flossy's
trunk and came toward them with a bottle.
"Hold the light, Eurie; this is Flossy's hair-oil. I happen to know that
it is harmless, and oil is an antidote for half the poisons in the
world. Ruth, swallow this and keep up courage; we will save you."
Down went the horrid spoonful, and Marion was eagerly at work chafing
her limbs and rubbing her hands, hurrying Eurie meantime who had started
for the hotel in search of help and hot water.
That dreadful fifteen minutes! Not one of them but that thought it was
hours. They never forgot the time when they fought so courageously, and
yet so hopelessly, with death. Ruth did not seem to grow worse, but she
looked ghastly enough for death to have claimed her for his victim; and
Flossy did not return. Eurie came back to report a fire made and water
heating, and seizing a pail was about to start again, when her eye
caught the open satchel, and a bottle quietly reposing there, closely
corked and tied over the top with a bit of kid; she gave a scream as
loud as the first had been.
"What _is_ the matter now?" Marion said. "Eurie, do have a little common
sense."
"She didn't take it!" burst forth Eurie. "It is all a mistake. It _was_
the right bottle. Here is the other, corked, just as I put it."
Before this sentence was half concluded Ruth was sitting up in bed, and
Marion, utterly overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, was crying
hysterically. There is no use in trying to picture the rest of that
excitement. Suffice it to say that the events of the next hour are not
likely to be forgotten by those who were connected with them. Eurie came
back to her senses first, and met and explained to the people who had
heard the alarm, and were eagerly gathering with offers of help. There
was much talk, and many exclamations of thankfulness and much laughter,
and at last everything was growing quiet again.
"I can not find the doctor," Flossy had reported in despair. "He has
gone to Mayville, but Mr. Roberts will be here in a minute with a
remedy, and he is going right over to Mayville for the doctor."
"Don't let him, I beg," said Marion, who was herself again. "There is
nothing more formidable than a spoonful of your hair-oil. I don't know
but the poor child needs an emetic to get rid of that. Eurie, my dear,
can't you impress it on those dear people that we _don't want_ any hot
water? I hear the fourth pail coming."
It was midnight before this excited group settled down into anything
like quiet. But the strain had been so great, and the relief so
complete, that a sleep so heavy that it was almost a stupor at last held
the tired workers.
Now, what of it all? Why did this foolish mistake of bottles, which
might have been a tragedy, and was nothing but a causeless excitement,
reach so far with its results?
Let me tell you of one to whom sleep did not come. That was the one who
but half an hour before had believed herself face to face with death!
What mattered it to her that it was a mistake, and death no nearer to
her, so far as she knew, than to the rest of the sleeping world?
Death was not annihilated--he was only held at bay. She knew that he
_would_ come, and that there would be no slipping away when his hand
actually grasped hers. She believed in death; she had supposed herself
being drawn into his remorseless grasp. To her the experience, so far as
it had led her, was just as real as though there had been no mistake.
And the result? _She had been afraid_! All her proper resolutions, so
fresh in her mind, made only that very afternoon, had been of no more
help to her than so much foam. She had not so much as remembered in her
hour of terror whether there _was_ a church to join. But that there was
a God, and a judgment, and a Savior, who was not hers, had been as real
and vivid as she thinks it ever can be, even when she stands on the very
brink.
Oh, that long night of agony! when she tossed and turned and sought in
vain for an hour of rest. She was afraid to sleep. How like death this
sleeping was! Who could know, when they gave themselves up to the grasp
of this power, that he was not the very death angel himself in disguise,
and would give them no earthly awakening forever?
What should she do? Believe in religion? Yes. She knew it was true. What
then? What had Marion said? Was that all true? Aye, verily it was; she
knew that, too. Had she not stood side by side with death?
The hours went by and the conflict went on. There was a conflict. Her
conscience knew much more than her tongue had given it credit for
knowing that afternoon. Oh, she had seen Christians who had done more
than join the church! She had imagined that that act might have a
mysterious and gradual change on her tastes and feelings, so that some
time in her life, when she was old, and the seasons for her were over,
she might feel differently about a good many things.
But that hour of waiting for the messenger of death, who, she thought,
had called her, had swept away this film. "It is not teaching in
Sunday-school," said her brain. "It is not tract distributing; it is not
sewing societies for the poor; it is not giving or going. It is _none_
of these things, or _any_ of them, or _all_ of them, as the case may be,
and as they come afterward. But _first_ it is this question: Am I my own
mistress? do I belong to myself or to God? will I do as I please or as
he pleases? will I submit my soul to him, and ask him to keep it and to
show me what to do, or when and where to step?"
The night was utterly spent, and the gray dawn of the early sweet summer
morning was breaking into the grove, and still Ruth lay with wide-open
eyes, and thought. A struggle? Oh dear, yes! Such an one as she had
never imagined. That strong will of hers, which had led not only herself
but others, yield it, submit to other leadership, always to question: Is
this right? can I go here? ought I to say that? What a thing to do! But
it involved that; she knew it, felt it. She might have been blind during
the week past, but she was not deaf.
How they surged over her, the sentences from one and another to whom
she had listened! They were not at play, these great men. What did it
mean but that there was a life hidden away, belonging to Christ? She
felt no love in her heart, no longing for love, such as poor little
Flossy had yearned for. She felt instead that she was equal to life;
that the world was sufficient for her; that she wanted the world; but
that the world was at conflict with God, and that she belonged to God,
and that she _should_ give herself utterly into his hands.
Moreover, she knew there was coming a time when the world, and Saratoga,
and the season, with its pleasures, would not do. There was grim
death!--he would come. She could not always get away. He was coming
every hour for somebody around her. She must--yes, she _must_ get ready
for him. It would not do to be surprised again as she had been surprised
last night. It was not becoming in Ruth Erskine to live so that the
sound of death could palsy her limbs and blanch her cheek and make her
shudder with fear. She must get where she could say calmly: "Oh, are
_you_ here? Well, I am ready."
It was just as the sun which was rising in glory forced its smiles in
between the thick leaves of the Chautauqua birds' nests, and set all the
little birds in a twitter of delight, that Ruth raised herself on her
elbow and said aloud, and with the force that comes from a determined
will that has decided something in which there has been a struggle:
"I _will_ do it."