Rom. 13: 11.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS.
Slowly, slowly, the night wore away, and the eastern sky grew rosy with the blush of a new morning—the bridal morning! How strangely unreal, how even impossible did it seem to Ester, as she raised the curtains and looked drearily out upon the dawn, that this was actually the day upon which her thoughts had centered during the last three weeks What a sudden shutting down had there been to all their plans and preparations! How strangely the house looked—here a room bedecked in festive beauty for the wedding; there one with shrouded mirrors, and floating folds of crape! Life and death, a wedding and a funeral—they had never either of them touched so close to her before; and now the one had suddenly glided backward, and left her heart heavy with the coming of the other. Mechanically, she turned to look upon the silvery garment gleaming among the white furnishings of the bed, for she was that very morning to have assisted in arraying the bride in those robes of beauty. Her own careful fingers had laid out all the bewildering paraphernalia of the dressing-room—sash and gloves, and handkerchief and laces. Just in that very spot had she stood only yesterday, and talking the while with Abbie; had altered a knot of ribbons, and given the ends a more graceful droop, and just at that moment Abbie had been summoned below stairs to see Mr. Foster—and now he was waiting down there, not for Abbie, but for the coffin and the grave, and Abbie was——. And here Ester gave a low, shuddering moan, and covered her eyes with her hands. Why had she come into that room at all? And why was all this fearful time allowed to come to Abbie? Poor, poor Abbie she had been so bright and so good, and Mr. Foster had been so entirely her guide—how could she ever endure it? Ester doubted much whether Abbie could ever bear to see her again, she had been so closely connected with all these bright days, over which so fearful a pall had fallen. It would be very natural if she should refuse even to see her—and, indeed, Ester almost hoped she would. It seemed to her that this was a woe too deep to be spoken of or endured, only she said with a kind of desperation, "Things must be endured;" and there was a wild thought in her heart, that if she could but have the ordering of events, all this bitter sorrow should never be. There came a low, tremulous knock as an interruption to her thoughts, and Maggie's swollen eyes and tear-stained face appeared at the door with a message.
"If you please, Miss Ester, she wants you."
"Who?" asked Ester, with trembling lips and a sinking at her heart.
"Miss Abbie, ma'am; she asked for you, and said would you come to her as soon as you could."
But it was hours after that before Ester brought herself to feel that she could go to her. Nothing had ever seemed so hard to her to do. How to look, how to act, what to say, and above all, what not to say to this poor, widowed bride. These questions were by no means answered, when she suddenly, in desperate haste, decided that if it must be done, the sooner it was over the better, and she made all speed to prepare herself for the visit; and yet there was enough of Ester's personal self left, even on that morning, to send a little quiver of complacency through her veins, as she bathed her tear-stained face, and smoothed her disordered hair. Abbie had sent for her. Abbie wanted her; she had sent twice. Evidently she had turned to her for help. Miserably unable as she felt herself to give it, still it was a comfort to feel that she was the one selected from the household for companionship. Ester knew that Mrs. Ried had been with her daughter for a few moments, and that Ralph had rushed in and out again, too overcome to stay, but Ester had asked no questions, and received no information concerning her. She pictured her lying on the bed, with disordered hair and swollen eyes, given over to the abandonment of grief, or else the image of stony despair; and it was with a very trembling hand that at last she softly turned the knob and let herself into the morning room, which she and Abbie had enjoyed together; and just as she pushed open the door, a neighboring clock counted out twelve strokes, and it was at twelve o'clock that Abbie was to become a wife! Midway in the room Ester paused, and, as her eyes rested on Abbie, a look of bewildering astonishment gathered on her face. In the little easy chair by the open window, one hand keeping the place in the partly closed book, sat the young creature, whose life had so suddenly darkened around her. The morning robe of soft pure white was perfect in its neatness and simplicity, the brown curls clustered around her brow with their wonted grace and beauty, and while under her eyes indeed there were heavy rings of black, yet the eyes themselves were large and full and tender. As she held out the disengaged hand, there came the soft and gentle likeness of a smile over her face; and Ester, bewildered, amazed, frightened, stood almost as transfixed as if she had been one of those who saw the angel sitting at the door of the empty tomb. Stood a moment, then a sudden revulsion of feeling overcoming her, hurried forward, and dropping on her knees, bowed her head over the white hand and the half-open Bible, and burst into a passion of tears.
"Dear Ester!" This said Abbie in the softest, most soothing of tones. The mourner turned comforter!