Four Girls at Chautauqua Part 22

"I have been thinking a good deal about what you said this afternoon, Marion, and there is truth in it. I do not think as you do, and I ought to take some measures to let people know it. I have the most perfect respect for and confidence in religion, and I mean to prove it by uniting with the church. I have decided to attend to that matter as soon as I get home again after the season is over. I am surprised at myself for not doing so before, for I certainly consider it eminently proper, in fact a duty."

Now, it was very provoking to have so religious a sentence as this received in the manner that it was. Marion tilted her stool back against the bed, and gave herself up to the luxury of a ringing laugh.

"Really," Ruth said, "you have returned from church in a very hilarious mood; something very funny must have happened; it can not be that anything in my sentence had to do with your amus.e.m.e.nt."

"Yes, but it has," squealed Marion, holding her sides and laughing still. "Oh, Ruthie, Ruthie, you will be the death of me! And so you think that this is religion! You honestly suppose that standing up in church and having your name read off const.i.tutes Christianity! Don't do it, Ruthie; you have never been a hypocrite, and I have always honored you because you were not. If this is all the religion you can find, go without it forever and ever, for I tell you there is not a single bit in it."

Her laughter had utterly ceased, and her voice was solemn in its intensity.

"I don't know what you mean in the least," Ruth said, testily. "You are talking about something of which you know nothing."

"So are you. Oh, Ruthie, so are you! Yes, I know something about it; I know that you haven't reached the A, B, C, of it. Why, Ruthie, do you remember that story this afternoon? Do you remember that little boy in the garret, how he turned his face to the wall and asked G.o.d to save him? Have you done that? Do you honestly think that _you_, Ruth Erskine, have anything to be saved from? Don't you know the little fellow said, '_He answered_.' Has He answered you? Why, Ruth, do you never listen to the church covenant? How does it read: 'That it is eminently fit and proper for those who believe that G.o.d made them to join the church?'

Ruth Erskine, you can never take more solemn vows upon you than you will have to take if you unite with the church, and I beg you not to do it. I tell you it means more than that. I had a father who was a member of the church and he prayed--oh, how he prayed! He was the best man who ever lived on earth! Every one knew he was good; every one thought he was a saint; and it seems to me as though I could never love any G.o.d who did not give him a happier lot than he had as a reward for his holy life.

But do you think he thought himself good? I tell you he felt that no one could be more weak and sinful and in need of saving than he was. Oh, I know the people who make up churches have more than this in them. _I_ think it is all a deception, but it is a blessed one to have. I know these people at Chautauqua have it, hundreds of them. I see the same look in their faces that my father had in his, and if I could only get the same delusion into my heart I would hug it for my blessed father's sake; but don't you ever go into the church and subscribe to these things that they will ask of you until you have felt the same need of help and the same sense of being helped that they have. If you do, and there is a G.o.d, I would rather stand my chance with him than to have yours."

And Marion seized her hat and rushed out into the night, leaving Ruth utterly dumbfounded.

CHAPTER XXII.

ONE MINUTE'S WORK.

Marion struck out into the darkness, caring little which way she went; she had rarely been so wrought upon; her veins seemed to glow with fire.

What difference did it make? she asked herself. If there was nothing at all in it, why not let Ruth amuse herself by joining the church and playing at religion? It would add to her sense of dignity, and who would be hurt by it?

There was a difficulty in the way. Turn where she would, it confronted Marion during these days. There was a solemn haunting "if" that would not be put down. What _if_ all these things were true? She by no means felt so a.s.sured as she had once done: indeed, the foundations for her disbelief seemed to have been shaken from under her during the last week.

Remember, she had never spent a week with Christians before in her life; not, at least, a week during which she was made to realize all the time that they were Christians; that they stood on a different platform from herself.

Now, as she tramped about through the darkening woods, meeting constantly groups of people on their way home from the meeting, hearing from them s.n.a.t.c.hes of what had been said and sung, she suddenly paused, and so vivid was the impression that for long afterward she could not think of it without feeling that a voice must certainly have spoken the words in her ear. Yet she recognized them as a sentence which had struck her from Dr. Pierce's sermon in the morning.

"G.o.d honors his gospel, even though preached by a bad man; honors it sometimes to the saving of a soul. But think of a meeting between the two! the sinner saved and the sinner lost, who was the means of the other's salvation." It had thrilled Marion at the time, with her old questioning thrill: What if such a thing were possible! Now it came again.

She stood perfectly still, all the blood seeming to recede from and leave her faint with the strange solemnity of the thought! What if she had this evening been preaching the gospel to Ruth! What if the words of hers should lead Ruth to think, and to hunt, and to find this light that those who were not blind--if there were any such--succeeded in finding!

What if, as a result of this, she should go to heaven! and what if it were true that there was to be a judgment, and they two should meet, and then and there she should realize that it was because of this evening's talk that Ruth stood in glory on the other side of the great gulf of separation! What kind of a feeling would that be?

"Oh, if I only knew," she said aloud, sitting suddenly down on a fallen log, "if I _only_ knew that any of these things were so! or if I could only get to imagining that they were, I would take them up and have the comfort out of them that some of these people seem to get, for I have so little comfort in my life. It can not be that it is all a farce, such as Ruth's horrid resolve would lead one to think; that is not the way that Dr. Vincent feels about it; it is not the way that Dr. Pierce preached about it this morning; it is not the way that man Bliss sings about it.

There is more to it than that. My father had more than that. If he could only look down to-night and tell me whether it is so, whether he is safe and well and perfectly happy. Oh, it seems to me if I could only be sure, _sure_ beyond a doubt that G.o.d did give an eternal heaven to my father, I could love him forever for doing that, even though there is a h.e.l.l and I go to it."

Within the tent they were having talk that would seem to amount to very little. Even Eurie appeared to be subdued, and to have almost nothing to say. Ruth was roused from the half stupor of astonishment into which Marion's unexpected words had thrown her by hearing Flossy say, "Oh, Ruth, I forgot to tell you something; Mrs. Smythe stopped at the door on Sat.u.r.day evening before you came home; her party leave for Saratoga to-morrow morning, and she wanted to know whether any of us would go with them."

"Did you tell her I was going?" Ruth asked, quickly. It was utterly distasteful to her to think of having Mrs. Smythe's company. She did not stop to a.n.a.lyze her feelings; she simply shrank from contact with Mrs.

Smythe and from others who were sure to be of her stamp.

"No," Flossy said, "I did not know what you had decided upon; I said it was possible that you might want to go, but some one joined us just then and the conversation changed: I did not think of it again."

"I am glad you didn't," Ruth said, emphatically. "I don't want her society. I won't go in the morning if I am to be bored with that party; I would rather wait a week."

"They are going in the morning train," Eurie said; "I heard that tall man who sometimes leads the singing say so. He said there was quite a little party to go, among them a party from Clyde, who were _en route_ for Saratoga. That is them, you know; nearly all of them are from Clyde.

'Oh, yes,' the other man said; 'we must expect that. Of course there is a froth to all these things that must evaporate toward Saratoga, or some other resort. There is a cla.s.s of mind that Chautauqua is too much for.'

Think of that, Ruthie, to be considered nothing but froth that is to evaporate!"

"Nonsense!" Ruth said, sharply. She seemed to consider that an unanswerable argument, and in a sense it is. Nevertheless Eurie's words had their effect; she began to wish that letter unwritten, and to wish that she had not said so much about Saratoga, and to wish that there was some quiet way of changing her plans.

In fact, an utter distaste for Saratoga seemed suddenly to have come upon her. Conversation palled after this; Marion came in, and the four made ready for the night in almost absolute silence. The next thing that occurred was sufficiently startling in its nature to arouse them all. It was one of those sudden, careless movements that this life of ours is full of, taking only a moment of time, and involving consequences that reached away beyond time, and death, and resurrection.

"Eurie," Ruth had said, "where is your head ache bottle that you boast so much of? I believe I am going to have a sick headache."

"In my satchel," Eurie answered, sleepily. She was already in bed.

"There is a spoon on that box in the corner; take a tea-spoonful."

Another minute of silence, then Eurie suddenly raised her head from the pillow and looked about her wildly. The dim light of the lamp showed Ruth, slowly pulling the pins from her hair.

"Did you take it?" she asked, and her voice was full of eager, intense fright. "Ruth, you didn't _take_ it!"

"Yes, I did, of course. What is the matter with you?"

"It was the wrong bottle. It was the liniment bottle in my satchel. I forgot. Oh, Ruth, Ruth, what will we do? It is a deadly poison."

Then to have realized the scene that followed you should have been there to sea. Ruth gave one loud shriek that seemed to re-echo through the trees, and Eurie's moan was hardly less terrible. Marion sprang out of bed, and was alert and alive in a moment.

"Ruth, lie down; Eurie, stop groaning and act. What was it? Tell me this instant."

"Oh, I don't _know_ what it was, only he said that ten drops would kill a person, and she took a tea-spoonful."

"I know where the doctor's cottage is," said Flossy, dressing rapidly.

"I can go for him." And almost as soon as the words were spoken she had slipped out into the darkness.

Ruth had obeyed the imperative command of Marion and laid herself on the bed. She was deadly pale, and Eurie, who felt eagerly for her pulse, felt in vain. Whether it was gone, or whether her excitement was too great to find it, she did not know. Meantime, Marion fumbled in Flossy's trunk and came toward them with a bottle.

"Hold the light, Eurie; this is Flossy's hair-oil. I happen to know that it is harmless, and oil is an antidote for half the poisons in the world. Ruth, swallow this and keep up courage; we will save you."

Down went the horrid spoonful, and Marion was eagerly at work chafing her limbs and rubbing her hands, hurrying Eurie meantime who had started for the hotel in search of help and hot water.

That dreadful fifteen minutes! Not one of them but that thought it was hours. They never forgot the time when they fought so courageously, and yet so hopelessly, with death. Ruth did not seem to grow worse, but she looked ghastly enough for death to have claimed her for his victim; and Flossy did not return. Eurie came back to report a fire made and water heating, and seizing a pail was about to start again, when her eye caught the open satchel, and a bottle quietly reposing there, closely corked and tied over the top with a bit of kid; she gave a scream as loud as the first had been.

"What _is_ the matter now?" Marion said. "Eurie, do have a little common sense."

"She didn't take it!" burst forth Eurie. "It is all a mistake. It _was_ the right bottle. Here is the other, corked, just as I put it."

Before this sentence was half concluded Ruth was sitting up in bed, and Marion, utterly overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, was crying hysterically. There is no use in trying to picture the rest of that excitement. Suffice it to say that the events of the next hour are not likely to be forgotten by those who were connected with them. Eurie came back to her senses first, and met and explained to the people who had heard the alarm, and were eagerly gathering with offers of help. There was much talk, and many exclamations of thankfulness and much laughter, and at last everything was growing quiet again.

"I can not find the doctor," Flossy had reported in despair. "He has gone to Mayville, but Mr. Roberts will be here in a minute with a remedy, and he is going right over to Mayville for the doctor."

"Don't let him, I beg," said Marion, who was herself again. "There is nothing more formidable than a spoonful of your hair-oil. I don't know but the poor child needs an emetic to get rid of that. Eurie, my dear, can't you impress it on those dear people that we _don't want_ any hot water? I hear the fourth pail coming."