Ester Ried

by Pansy

Oh, Ester would mind it dreadfully. She was actually afraid of death. She was afraid of the effect of such a scene upon this strange Abbie. She raised her head, shivering with pain and apprehension, and looked a volume of petition and remonstrance; but ere she spoke Abbie's hand rested lovingly on her arm, and her low sweet voice continued the pleading:

"You do not quite understand my mood, Ester. I am not unlike others; I have wept bitter tears this past night; I have groaned in agony of spirit; I have moaned in the very dust. I shall doubtless have such struggles again. This is earth, and the flesh is weak; but now is my hour of exaltation—and while it is given me now to feel a faint overshadowing of the very glory which surrounds him, I want to go and look my last upon the dear clay which is to stay here on earth with me."

And Ester rose up, and wound her arm about the tiny frame which held this brave true heart, and without another spoken word the two went swiftly down the stairs, and entered the silent, solemn parlor. Yet, even while she went, a fierce throb of pain shook Ester's heart, as she remembered how they had arranged to descend the staircase on this very day—in what a different manner, and for what a different purpose. Apparently no such thought as this touched Abbie. She went softly and yet swiftly forward to the still form, while Ester waited in almost breathless agony to see what would result from this trial of faith and nerve; but what a face it was upon which death had left its seal! No sculptured marble was ever so grand in its solemn beauty as was this clay-molded face, upon which the glorious smile born not of earth rested in full sweetness. Abbie, with clasped hands and slightly parted lips, stood and almost literally drank in the smile; then, sweet and low and musical, there broke the sound of her voice in that great solemn room.

"So he giveth his beloved sleep."

Not another word or sound disturbed the silence. And still Abbie stood and gazed on the dear, dead face. And still Ester stood near the door, and watched with alternations of anxiety and awe the changeful expressions on the scarcely less white face of the living, until at last, without sound or word, she dropped upon her knees, a cloud of white drapery floating around her, and clasped her hands over the lifeless breast. Then on Ester's face the anxiety gave place to awe, and with softly moving fingers she opened the door, and with noiseless tread went out into the hall and left the living and the dead alone together.

There was one more scene for Ester to endure that day. Late in the afternoon, as she went to the closed room, there was bending over the manly form a gray-haired old woman. By whose friendly hands she had been permitted to enter, Ester did not stop to wonder. She had seen her but once before, but she knew at a glance the worn, wrinkled face; and, as if a picture of the scene hung before her, she saw that old, queer form, leaning trustfully on the strong arm, lying nerveless now, being carefully helped through the pushing throng—being reverently cared for as if she had been his mother; and she, looking after the two, had wondered if she should ever see them again. Now she stood in the presence of them both, yet what an unmeasurable ocean rolled between them! The faded, tearful eyes were raised to her face after a moment, and a quivering voice spoke her thoughts aloud, rather than addressed any body. "He gave his life for poor old useless me, and it was such a beautiful life, and was needed, oh so much; but what am I saying, God let it be him instead of me, who wanted so to go—and after trusting him all along, am I, at my time of life, going to murmur at him now? He came to see me only yesterday"—this in a more natural tone of voice, addressed to Ester—"he told me good-by. He said he was going a long journey with his wife; and now, may the dear Savior help the poor darling, for he has gone his long journey without her."

Ester waited to hear not another word. The heavy sense of pain because of Abbie, which she had carried about with her through all that weary day, had reached its height with that last sentence: "He has gone his long journey without her."

She fled from the room, up the stairs, to the quiet little chamber, which had been given to her for her hours of retirement, locked and bolted the door, and commenced pacing up and down the room in agony of soul.

It was not all because of Abbie that this pain knocked so steadily at her heart, at least not all out of sympathy with her bitter sorrow. There was a fearful tumult raging in her own soul; her last stronghold had been shattered. Of late she had come to think that Abbie's Christian life was but a sweet reflection of Mr. Foster's strong, true soul; that she leaned not on Christ, but on the arm of flesh. She had told herself very confidently that if she had such a friend as he had been to Abbie, she should be like her. In her hours of rebellion she had almost angrily reminded herself that it was not strange that Abbie's life could be so free from blame; she had some one to turn to in her needs. It was a very easy matter for Abbie to slip lightly over the petty trials of her life, so long as she was surrounded and shielded by that strong, true love. But now, ah now, the arm of flesh had faltered, the strong staff had broken, and broken, too, only a moment, as it were, before it was to have been hers in name as well as in spirit. Naturally, Ester had expected that the young creature, so suddenly shorn of her best and dearest, would falter and faint, and utterly fail. And when, looking on, she saw the triumph of the Christian's faith, rising even over death, sustained by no human arm, and yet wonderfully, triumphantly sustained, even while she bent for the last time over that which was to have been her earthly all—looking and wondering, there suddenly fell away from her the stupor of years, and Ester saw with wide, open eyes, and thoroughly awakened soul, that there was a something in this Christian religion that Abbie had and she had not.

And thus it was that she paced her room in that strange agony that was worse than grief, and more sharp than despair. No use now to try to lull her conscience back to quiet sleep again; that time was past, it was thoroughly and sharply awake; the same All-wise hand which had tenderly freed one soul from its bonds of clay and called it home, had as tenderly and as wisely, with the same stroke, cut the cords that bound this other soul to earth, loosed the scales from her long-closed eyes, broke the sleep that had well-nigh lulled her to ruin; and now heart and brain and conscience were thoroughly and forever awake.