CHAPTER III.
FLORENCE VANE.
Of the same opinion concerning Florence was Ester, a few weeks later, when, one evening as she was hurrying past him, Dr. Van Anden detained her:
"I want to see you a moment, Miss Ester."
During these weeks Ester had been roused. Sadie was sick; had been sick enough to awaken many anxious fears; sick enough for Ester to discover what a desolate house theirs would have been, supposing her merry music had been hushed forever. She discovered, too, how very much she loved her bright young sister.
She had been very kind and attentive; but the fever was gone now, and Sadie was well enough to rove around the house again; and Ester began to think that it couldn't be so very hard to have loving hands ministering to one's simplest want, to be cared for, and watched over, and petted every hour in the day. She was returning to her impatient, irritable life. She forgot how high the fever had been at night, and how the young head had ached; and only remembered how thoroughly tired she was, watching and ministering day and night. So, when she followed Dr. Van Anden to the sitting-room, in answer to his "I want to see you, Miss Ester," it was a very sober, not altogether pleasant face which listened to his words.
"Florence Vane is very sick to-night. Some one should be with her besides the housekeeper. I thought of you. Will you watch with her?"
If any reasonable excuse could have been found, Ester would surely have said "No," so foolish did this seem to her. Why, only yesterday she had seen Florence sitting beside the open window, looking very well; but then, she was Sadie's friend, and it had been more than two weeks since Sadie had needed watching with at night. So Ester could not plead fatigue.
"I suppose so," she answered, slowly, to the waiting doctor, hearing which, he wheeled and left her, turning back, though, to say:
"Do not mention this to Sadie in her present state of body. I don't care to have her excited."
"Very careful you are of everybody," muttered Ester, as he hastened away. "Tell her what, I wonder? That you are making much ado about nothing, for the sake of showing your astonishing skill?"
In precisely this state of mind she went, a few hours later, over to the cottage, into the quiet room where Florence lay asleep—and, for aught she could see, sleeping as quietly as young, fresh life ever did.
"What do you think of her?" whispered the old lady who acted as housekeeper, nurse and mother to the orphaned Florence.
"I think I haven't seen her look better this great while," Ester answered, abruptly.
"Well, I can't say as she looks any worse to me either; but Dr. Van
Anden is in a fidget, and I suppose he knows what he's about."
The doctor came in at eleven o'clock, stood for a moment by the bedside, glanced at the old lady, who was dozing in her rocking-chair, then came over to Ester and spoke low:
"I can't trust the nurse. She has been broken of her rest, and is weary. I want you to keep awake. If she" (nodding toward Florence) "stirs, give her a spoonful from that tumbler on the stand. I shall be back at twelve. If she wakens, you may call her father, and send John for me; he's in the kitchen. I shall be around the corner at Vinton's."
Then he went away, softly, as he had come.
The lamp burned low over by the window, the nurse slept on in her arm-chair, and Ester sat with wide-open eyes fixed on Florence. And all this time she thought that the doctor was engaged in getting up a scene, the story of which should go forth next day in honor of his skill and faithfulness; yet, having come to watch, she would not sleep at her post, even though she believed in her heart that, were she sleeping by Sadie's side, and the doctor quiet in his own room, all would go on well until the morning.
But the doctor's evident anxiety had driven sleep from the eyes of the gray-haired old man whose one darling lay quiet on the bed. He came in very soon after the doctor had departed.
"I can't sleep," he said, in explanation, to Ester. "Some way I feel worried. Does she seem worse to you?"
"Not a bit," Ester said, promptly. "I think she looks better than usual."
"Yes," Mr. Vane answered, in an encouraged tone; "and she has been quite bright all day; but the doctor is all down about her. He won't say a single cheering word."
Ester's indignation grew upon her. "He might, at least, have let this old man sleep in peace," she said, sharply, in her heart.
At twelve, precisely, the doctor returned. He went directly to the bedside.
"How has she been?" he asked of Ester, in passing.
"Just as she is now." Ester's voice was not only dry, but sarcastic.
Mr. Vane scanned the doctor's face eagerly, but it was grave and sad. Quiet reigned in the room. The two men at Florence's side neither spoke nor stirred. Ester kept her seat across from them, and grew every moment more sure that she was right, and more provoked. Suddenly the silence was broken. Dr. Van Anden bent low over the sleeper, and spoke in a gentle, anxious tone: "Florence." But she neither stirred nor heeded. He spoke again: "Florence;" and the blue eyes unclosed slowly and wearily. The doctor drew back quickly, and motioned her father forward.
"Speak to her, Mr. Vane."
"Florence, my darling," the old man said, with inexpressible love and tenderness sounding in his voice. His fair young daughter turned her eyes on him; but the words she spoke were not of him, or of aught around her. So clear and sweet they sounded, that Ester, sitting quite across the room from her, heard them distinctly.
"I saw mother, and I saw my Savior."
Dr. Van Anden sank upon his knees, as the drooping lids closed again, and his voice was low and tremulous:
"Father, into thy hands we commit this spirit. Thy will be done."
In a moment more all was bustle and confusion. The nurse was thoroughly awakened; the doctor cared for the poor childless father with the tenderness of a son; then came back to send John for help, and to give directions concerning what was to be done.
Through it all Ester sat motionless, petrified with solemn astonishment. Then the angel of death had really been there in that very room, and she had been "so wise in her own conceit," that she did not know it until he had departed with the freed spirit!
Florence really was sick, then—dangerously sick. The doctor had not deceived them, had not magnified the trouble as she supposed; but it could not be that she was dead! Dead! Why, only a few minutes ago she was sleeping so quietly! Well, she was very quiet now. Could the heart have ceased its beating?
Sadie's Florence dead! Poor Sadie! What would they say to her? How could they tell her?
Sitting there, Ester had some of the most solemn, self-reproachful thoughts that she had ever known. God's angel had been present in that room, and in what a spirit had he found this watcher?
Dr. Van Anden went quietly, promptly, from room to room, until every thing in the suddenly stricken household was as it should be; then he came to Ester:
"I will go over home with you now," he said, speaking low and kindly.
He seemed to under stand just how shocked she felt.
They went, in the night and darkness, across the street, saying nothing. As the doctor applied his key to the door, Ester spoke in low, distressed tones:
"Doctor Van Anden, I did not think—I did not dream—." Then she stopped.
"I know," he said, kindly. "It was unexpected. I thought she would linger until morning, perhaps through the day. Indeed, I was so sure, that I ventured to keep my worst fears from Mr. Vane. I wanted him to rest to-night. I am sorry—it would have been better to have prepared him; but 'At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning'—you see we know not which. I thank God that to Florence it did not matter."
Those days which followed were days of great opportunity to Ester, if she had but known how to use them. Sadie's sad, softened heart, into which grief had entered, might have been turned by a few kind, skillful words, from thoughts of Florence to Florence's Savior. Ester did try; she was kinder, more gentle with the young sister than was her wont to be; and once, when Sadie was lingering fondly over memories of her friend, she said, in an awkward, blundering way, something about Florence having been prepared to die, and hoping that Sadie would follow her example. Sadie looked surprised, but answered, gravely:
"I never expect to be like Florence. She was perfect, or, at least,
I'm sure I could never see any thing about her that wasn't perfection.
You know, Ester, she never did any thing wrong."
And Ester, unused to it, and confused with her own attempt, kept silence, and let poor Sadie rest upon the thought that it was Florence's goodness which made her ready to die, instead of the blood of Jesus.
So the time passed; the grass grew green over Florence's grave, and Sadie missed her indeed. Yet the serious thoughts grew daily fainter, and Ester's golden opportunity for leading her to Christ was lost.