Ester Ried

<h2 id="id01460" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> <h5 id="id01461">AT LAST.</h5> <p id="id01462" style="margin-top: 2em">The busy, exciting, triumphant day was done. Sadie Ried was no longer a school-girl; she had graduated. And although a dress of the softest, purest white had been substituted for the blue silk, in which she had so long ago planned to appear, its simple folds had swept the platform of Music Hall in as triumphant a way as ever she had planned for the other. More so, for Sadie's wildest flights of fancy had never made her valedictorian of her class, yet that she certainly was. In some respects it had been a merry day—the long sealed letters had been opened and read by their respective holders that morning, and the young ladies had discovered, amid much laughter and many blushes, that they were ready to pronounce many of the expressions which they had carefully made only two years before, "ridiculously out of place" or "absurdly sentimental."</p> <p id="id01463">"Progress," said Mr. Hammond, turning for a moment to Sadie, after he had watched with an amused smile the varying play of expression on her speaking face, while she listened to the reading of her letter.</p> <p id="id01464">"You were not aware that you had improved so much in two years, now, were you?"</p> <p id="id01465">"I was not aware that I ever was such a simpleton!" was her half-provoked, half-amused reply.</p> <p id="id01466">To-night she loitered strangely in the parlors, in the halls, on the stairs, talking aimlessly with any one who would stop; it was growing late. Mrs. Ried and the children had long ago departed. Dr. Van Anden had not yet returned from his evening round of calls. Every body in and about the house was quiet, ere Sadie, with slow, reluctant steps, finally ascended the stairs and sought her room. Arrived there, she seemed in no haste to light the gas; moonlight was streaming into the room, and she put herself down in front of one of the low windows to enjoy it. But it gave her a view of the not far distant cemetery, and gleamed on a marble slab, the lettering of which she knew perfectly well was—"Ester, daughter of Alfred and Laura Ried, died Sept. 4, 18—, aged 19. Asleep in Jesus—Awake to everlasting life." And that reminded her, as she had no need to be reminded, of a letter with the seal unbroken, lying in her writing-desk—a letter which she had promised to read this evening—promised the one who wrote it for her, and over whose grave the moonlight was now wrapping its silver robe. Sadie felt strangely averse to reading that letter; in part, she could imagine its contents, and for the very reason that she was still "halting between two opinions," "almost persuaded," and still on that often fatal "almost" side, instead of the "altogether," did she wait and linger, and fritter away the evening as best she could, rather than face that solemn letter. Even when she turned resolutely from the window, and lighted the gas, and drew down the shade, she waited to put every thing tidy on her writing-table, and then, when she had finally turned the key in her writing-desk, to read over half a dozen old letters and bits of essays, and scraps of poetry, ere she reached down for that little white envelope, with her name traced by the dear familiar hand that wrote her name no more. At last the seal was broken, and Sadie read:</p> <p id="id01467">"My Darling Sister:</p> <p id="id01468">"I am sitting to-day in our little room—yours and mine. I have been taking in the picture of it; every thing about it is dear to me, from our father's face smiling down on me from the wall, to the little red rocker in which he sat and wrote, in which I sit now, and in which you will doubtless sit, when I have gone to him. I want to speak to you about that time. When you read this, I shall have been gone a long, long time, and the bitterness of the parting will all be past; you will be able to read calmly what I am writing. I will tell you a little of the struggle. For the first few moments after I knew that I was soon to die, my brain fairly reeled; It seemed to me that I <i>could</i> not. I had so much to live for, there was so much that I wanted to do; and most of all other things, I wanted to see you a Christian. I wanted to live for that, to work for it, to undo if I could some of the evil that I knew my miserable life had wrought in your heart. Then suddenly there came to me the thought that perhaps what my life could not do, my coffin would accomplish—perhaps that was to be God's way of calling you to himself perhaps he meant to answer my pleading in that way, to let my grave speak for me, as my crooked, marred, sinful living might never be able to do. My darling, then I was content; it came to me so suddenly as that almost the certainty that God meant to use me thus, and I love you so, and I long so to see you come to him, that I am more than willing to give up all that this life seemed to have for me, and go away, if by that you would be called to Christ.</p> <p id="id01469">"And Sadie, dear, you will know before you read this, how much I had to give up. You will know very soon all that Dr. Douglass and I looked forward to being to each other—but I give it up, give him up, more than willingly—joyfully—glad that my Father will accept the sacrifice, and make you his child. Oh, my darling, what a life I have lived before you! I do not wonder that, looking at me, you have grown into the habit of thinking that there is nothing in religion—you have looked at me, not at Jesus, and there has been no reflection of his beauty in me, as there should have been, and the result is not strange. Knowing this, I am the more thankful that God will forgive me, and use me as a means to bring you home at last. I speak confidently. I am sure, you see, that it will be; the burden, the fearful burden that I have carried about with me so long, has gone away. My Redeemer and yours has taken it from me. I shall see you in heaven. Father is there, and I am going, oh <i>so</i> fast, and mother will not be long behind, and Alfred and Julia have started on the journey, and you <i>will</i> start. Oh, I know it—we shall all be there! I told my Savior I was willing to do any thing, <i>any thing</i>, so my awful mockery of a Christian life, that I wore so long, might not be the means of your eternal death. And he has heard my prayer. I do not know when it will be; perhaps you will still be undecided when you sit in our room and read these words. Oh, I hope, I <i>hope</i> you will not waste two years more of your life, but if you do, if as you read these last lines that I shall ever write, the question is unsettled, I charge you by the memory of your sister, by the love you bear her not to wait another <i>moment</i>—not one. Oh, my darling, let me beg this at your hands; take it as my dying petition—renewed after two years of waiting. Come to Jesus now.</p> <p id="id01470">"That question settled, then let me give you one word of warning. Do not live as I have done—my life has been a failure—five years of stupid sleep, while the enemy waked and worked. Oh, God, forgive me! Sadie, never let that be your record. Let me give you a motto—'Press toward the mark.' The mark is high; don't look away from or forget it, as I did; don't be content with simply sauntering along, looking toward it now and then, but take in the full meaning of that earnest sentence, and live it—'Press toward the mark!'</p> <p id="id01471">"And now good-by. When you have finished reading this letter, do this last thing for me: If you are already a Christian, get down on your knees and renew your covenant; resolve anew to live and work, and suffer and die, for Christ. If you are not a Christian—Oh, I put my whole soul into this last request—I beg you kneel and give yourself up to Jesus. My darling, good-by until we meet in heaven.</p> <h5 id="id01472">"ESTER RIED."</h5> <p id="id01473">The letter dropped from Sadie's nerveless fingers. She arose softly, and turned down the gas, and raised the shade—the moonlight still gleamed on the marble slab. Dr. Van Anden came with quick, firm tread up the street. She gave a little start as she recognized the step, and her thoughts went out after that other lonely Doctor, who was to have been her brother, and then back to the long, earnest letter and the words, "I give him up"—and she realized as only those can who know by experience, what a giving up that would be, how much her sister longed for her soul. And then, moved by a strong, firm resolve, Sadie knelt in the solemn moonlight, and the long, long struggle was ended. Father and sister were in heaven, but on earth, this night, their prayers were being answered.</p> <p id="id01474">"Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them."</p> <h5 id="id01475">THE END.</h5> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />