THE PRAYER OF FAITH.
In her shabby serge dress, the marks of tears still round her eyes, her
cheeks flushed, her short hair tossed, Marjorie Chetwynd ran downstairs,
accompanied by Leslie. Mrs. Chetwynd was still lying in her room trying
to have a little rest; Lettie was writing letters to anxious friends.
The girls had just opened the door when they saw Belle Acheson coming up
the steps.
“How is she now?” said Belle. “Why, dear me, Leslie, how very quickly
you got here, and you look as if you were quite at home. How is Eileen,
Marjorie? By the way, you look rather bad yourself.”
“Please don’t speak about me; it doesn’t matter whether I am ill or
well,” replied Marjorie. “Don’t keep me now, Belle. Eileen is as ill as
she can be, and I am going to pray for her. Leslie says that is the only
thing to do, and we are both going to church. Will you come with us?
Surely the more who pray to God the better.”
“I will certainly come,” replied Belle quietly.
She turned at once, and the girls walked down the street side by side.
There was a church at the farther end of the square, a church which was
open all day to those who needed it.
The three girls entered. It was hot outside, but here it was still and
cool. They walked up the aisle, and turned into one of the pews and
knelt down. Marjorie knelt in the middle; her head was pressed upon her
hands.
Leslie had always found prayer easy; in her short life she had prayed a
good deal, finding prayer the greatest support in each hour of trial;
but of late, since her own great trouble had come, she had almost
forgotten to pray, and now it seemed difficult. It was not until she
ceased to remember herself, and thought only of her friend, that her
words went up to God, at first in broken utterances, then more earnestly
and more full of faith. A low sob came from Marjorie’s lips. This sob
was echoed by Leslie. Belle had taken up a prayer-book, had opened it,
and was reading in a semi-whisper some of the prayers for the sick.
After a very few moments Marjorie rose to her feet.
“I have prayed,” she said; “I have told God exactly what I want. He will
hear. He must. It would be wrong, cruel, monstrous for Eileen, beautiful
Eileen, to die. Come home now, Leslie,” she continued.
The three left the church as silently as they had entered. It was not
until they reached Marjorie’s door that Belle spoke.
“Good-by, Marjorie,” she said, holding out her hand; “good-by. I will
call again. But before I go, tell me—do tell me—if you seriously believe
in all this?”
“I——” said Marjorie—she hesitated; the look of peace which had dawned
upon her worn and anxious face left it. Before she could reply, Leslie
answered with flashing eyes:
“Marjorie believes, or she could not have prayed as she did; and of
course I believe,” she continued. “I believe in a God, and that He
answers prayer.”
“I wonder if he will,” said Belle, with a queer, new sort of expression
on her face. “It will be very strange. I shall be most curious to know.
Good-by, Marjorie—good-by, Leslie.”
She turned and walked down the street. When she had gone a couple of
hundred yards she turned back, and called out to the other girls, who
were still standing on the steps of the house:
“I will come to-morrow to find out. It will be very curious if it is
true. It will make an immense difference to me.”
Then she walked on, swaying slightly from side to side.
Marjorie put her hand quickly to her forehead.
“I never felt less in sympathy with Belle than I do at this moment,” she
said. “Now, you, Leslie, really soothe me; it was nice to feel you
kneeling by my side. It seemed to me that some of your faith came to me.
I do not feel nearly so unhappy now; not so restless, nor so uncertain.”
Leslie kissed her.
“I can understand that,” she said; “you have put the matter into God’s
hands—you are resting on God; that is the reason why you do not feel so
miserable.”
The girls entered the little boudoir which Mrs. Chetwynd had so
carefully prepared for her darlings. Lettie was seated by the window.
“Where have you both been?” she cried. “I have been looking for you
everywhere. Aunt Helen is in a painful state of excitement.”
“What about?”
“Well, nurse did not much like Eileen’s state, and Dr. Ericson came in a
hurry, and he says he wishes another doctor to be called in, one of the
very great specialists. The doctor is coming almost immediately. Aunt
Helen says we are none of us to go upstairs. There is to be the most
absolute quiet, and fresh straw has been ordered to be put down in the
street. Leslie, are you really going to stay here?”
“She certainly is,” said Marjorie. “I wouldn’t part with her on any
account.”
“I will write a line to mother if you will allow me,” said Leslie. “Of
course, if I can be of the least use to Marjorie, I shall be glad to
stay.”
“Here is paper, if you want it,” said Lettie. “I am very glad you are
staying, for my part.”
Leslie wrote a short note. When it was finished, Lettie took it from the
room.
“I cannot sympathize with Lettie either,” said Marjorie when Lettie had
gone. Then she sat down by the window, and did not speak any more.
Sometimes she closed her eyes, and sometimes Leslie, who had taken up a
book, and was trying to read, fancied she saw her lips moving. Was she
once again praying to God? Was faith, the first real faith she had ever
known, truly visiting her heart, and helping her through this dark hour
of tribulation?
Mrs. Chetwynd did not come downstairs again; and presently the footman
appeared, and told the girls that dinner was ready.
“I cannot eat,” said Marjorie. “Eat, when all that makes life valuable
hangs in the balance?”
“But you must eat, dear,” said Leslie; “you will feel much worse if you
do not. Come with me.”
“Do, Marjorie, try not to be such a humbug,” said Lettie in an almost
cross voice. “You don’t know how you add to the trouble of everybody
when you go on in that silly way. First of all, Leslie, she absolutely
immured herself in Eileen’s room, refused to leave it day or night, and
distracted poor Aunt Helen and the nurse, and now that she has come out
of the room, she is doing her utmost to make herself ill.”
“Don’t say any more!” cried Marjorie. “I will come downstairs.” Her face
was white as death.
The three girls entered the dining room. Leslie’s persuasions, joined,
perhaps, to some of Lettie’s tarter remarks, induced Marjorie to take a
little food; but the oppression and solemnity of the scene seemed to
have got into the air.
Presently the sound of wheels, muffled as they drove over the straw, was
distinctly heard, and then two doctors’ broughams drew up at the door.
Dr. Ericson got out of his and an elderly, benevolent-looking man out of
the other. They both entered the house.
“What shall I do?” cried Marjorie. “I cannot stand this.”
“Oh, I feel somehow it will be all right; and remember we have prayed
about it,” said Leslie.
She went up to Marjorie.
“Come back to the boudoir,” she said. “You are nearer to her there.”
“Well, I shall stay here,” said Lettie. “I don’t know what there is
about you, Leslie, and about Marjorie; but the pair of you make me feel
quite nervous. We are doing all we can—that is, Aunt Helen is; and
really I do think that one ought to try to retain a little strength of
mind. If the very worst of all had happened, you could not be going on
more terribly than you are at present, Marjorie.”
“I cannot help feeling, if that is what you mean,” said Marjorie. She
went upstairs, and Leslie followed her. The noise of people walking
overhead was heard.
“They are in her room now,” said Marjorie. She clutched hold of Leslie
still tighter.
“Oh, Leslie, what should I do if you were not with me? You know she is
my twin; no one was ever quite so near to me. We think the same, we do
everything the same. All our pursuits, all our desires, are the same. I
cannot live without her. If she dies I shall die.”
“But she shall not die, dear!”
“Oh, I know, but she is in such terrible danger now. You said, Leslie,
that if it were good for her, God would spare her.”
“And He will, Marjorie; cannot you try to understand? If it is best for
her to go to God, He will not leave her in the world just because you
selfishly wish it. But it may be best for her to stay here; she may have
much to do yet in her life on earth.”
“If she is spared I shall become religious at once,” said Marjorie.
Leslie could not help smiling.
“Were you not religious before?” she asked.
“Oh, after a fashion, but never the real thing. Eileen and I both
professed a little, and Eileen, the darling, was, I believe, in earnest;
but I don’t think I ever was. I wanted, of course, to lead a useful
life, and I thought myself very much better than mother or Mrs. Acheson.
I believe now that I was selfish about mother; perhaps we both were,
even darling Eileen; but, you know, she always did what I did. I was the
first to suggest a thing, and then Eileen followed suit. If we were
selfish she was not to blame. Leslie, Leslie, the doctors are coming
downstairs. I wonder if they will tell us anything? I know mother won’t
for a long, long time.”
“I’ll go and ask, then,” said Leslie, jumping up. She went to the door,
opened it, and stepped on to the landing.
The two doctors came downstairs.
“And what young lady is this?” said Dr. Howard, pausing for a moment and
looking at her. He was a tall and very benevolent-looking man, with
white hair and dark eyes.
“I want to know,” said Leslie—she paused. Marjorie had not dared to come
out of the boudoir. “I want to know the truth—if there is—any hope?”
“Are you the sister of the young lady?” asked the medical man.
“No, only a great friend; but her sister, her twin sister, is in the
other room, and she wants to know, and cannot find out.”
“I understand; too upset to ask, poor girl,” said the doctor. “Ericson,
if you will permit me, I’ll go in and see that young lady.”
“Oh, how kind of you!” said Leslie. She opened the door, and both
doctors went in.
Marjorie had flung herself down in a chair, and covered her face with
her hands.
“Now, my dear girl, what is this?” said Dr. Howard. “We shall be having
two patients instead of one if this sort of thing goes on. Give me your
hand. I assure you, Ericson, this young lady’s pulse is bounding at such
a rate that we shall have her in a fever if we don’t look out. This will
never do. As to your sister, Miss Chetwynd——”
“Oh, what about her?” cried Marjorie. She flung down her hands, and
looked up at the doctor with eyes full of agony.
“Good gracious! what a likeness between the two,” said Dr. Howard.
“Well, my dear, I will tell you the simple truth. I know you will be a
brave girl. Your sister is in danger—a bad case of typhoid fever always
means that, you understand; but I have hope, and so has my friend
Ericson, that we shall pull her through. There is no cause for immediate
anxiety; but much depends on the next twenty-four hours. Ericson is
going to stay up to-night with your sister; and as for you, Miss
Marjorie, you must go to bed and have a rest.”
“I am sorry to tell you, Dr. Howard,” said Dr. Ericson, “that Miss
Marjorie has been behaving in a very natural but also a very
reprehensible manner. She has insisted on living in her sister’s room,
has done herself no good, and——”
“Oh, well, as you say, that is natural,” said Dr. Howard, who could read
character like a book. “Poor child, she feels this terribly. Give her a
sleeping draught, Ericson, won’t you? And now, my dear, go to bed as
soon as possible, and leave your sister’s case in our hands, and,” he
added, dropping his voice to a whisper, “in the hands of a better
Physician.”
He left the room. When he had done so, Marjorie burst into tears.
“Oh, now I can breathe, now I can sleep,” she said. “The hard and
terrible strain has left my heart. Yes, Leslie, I shall sleep to-night;
I am dead tired.”