Chapter III: Without Christ

MRS. CHERITON did not return from her walk for an hour after Marion left. She came in looking so brilliantly beautiful that it made her mother's heart ache. Her eyes always shone like stars, and the rich color crimsoned her cheeks when she was excited either by joy or anger. Eugene, too, seemed overflowing with spirits. His hands were full of toys and sweetmeats, given him, he said, by the nice gentleman. When he threw off his cap, his grandmother noticed that his hair was wet with perspiration, and told her daughter he ought not to sit in the draught; but she retorted with some indifferent reply. Finding she could not induce the child to move, nor to give up the colored candies he was eagerly devouring, with a sigh the grandmother left the room.

During the rest of the day, the young mother went about with a smile on her lips, quite absorbed in thoughts of a pleasant nature. Toward night her boy coughed two or three times; but she, usually so ready to take alarm, laughed at her mother's suggestion that he must have taken cold.

At an early hour Mr. Alford called to accompany her to the theatre, and poured out such a torrent of flattery at her beauty as quite turned her head.

Scarcely bidding her mother good by, she went gayly down the stairs, little imagining what her return would be.

The clock was just striking twelve when, in turning the corner of the street, the house she called home came into view. At this hour it was usually dark. Now the hall and her mother's room were brilliantly lighted. Just at this moment a carriage dashed up to the door.

"What does it mean?" she cried, in a startled voice, trying to pull her hand from her companion's arm.

"When can I see you again?"

The insinuating tone was lost on her, for with a sudden fear she had released herself and flown away. Bounding up the stairs, she stopped one instant to gaze into the lighted room. On her mother's lap lay Geenie, struggling for breath. Before them stood the doctor, with a spoonful of medicine in his hand,—just brought by his servant,— which he was vainly trying to force down the child's throat. One of the servants was bringing through another door a foot-tub filled with boiling water, while another was pulling the blanket from the bed.

All this the mother took in at one glance, then sprang forward with a loud shriek and threw herself on her knees before her boy.

"Mamma, help Geenie! Make the bad man go away! Geenie can't breathe!"

"It's the croup," gasped her mother, in reply to her agonized gaze into the child's face, darkened and convulsed with this struggle for breath.

"It is a case of life and death," added the physician, in a solemn voice. "If you love your brother, persuade him to take this medicine."

"My brother! He's my boy, my own, my precious child!"

Her voice rose to a shriek, as she saw that his features became more convulsed. She cried, she wrung her hands, calling continually, "Eugene, my pet, my darling! I won't give you up! You sha'n't die!"

"He will die, and very soon, if you do not control yourself. You must be calm."

Addressing one of the servants, who had just returned with the prescription, he ordered Eugene's head to be held, while he forced down the medicine. Then turning to Mrs. Douglass, he said, "Madam, will you try to bring your daughter to reason? Every moment of delay makes the boy's situation more dangerous. With the aid of the servants, I wish to use the steam."

He really pitied the child-mother, as he saw her fixed gaze in her son's convulsed face; but he knew that unless vigorous measures were used, a short time would end the struggle. Taking Eugene in his own arms, he directed the girl to wrap the boy in the large blanket and hold him over the boiling water. The other girl was to furnish a fresh supply.

Mrs. Douglass tried to persuade her daughter to leave the room; but she would not. She sank into a chair and watched every movement which took place. She seemed suddenly to be turned into an automaton, only that those wondrous eyes flashed so continuously they seemed to light up the room.

In half an hour the medicine began to take effect, the terrible sound, never to be forgotten, grew less harsh. The doctor, with his coat off, worked like a hero. It was evident that the steam produced relief in breathing. More and more heavily drooped the child's head, his eyelids closed, the terrible heaving of his breast was more natural. The doctor put his hand under the blanket, found the pulse, and nodded approval. Without awakening the boy, he put a small powder on his tongue and sat down to watch.

Another hour passed. Mrs. Douglass had quietly retired to the next room. Eugene slept still. He had been removed to the sofa. The doctor still waited. The struggle for life had been so great, he did not like to leave his patient till assured that he would have no return of the frightful convulsions. He was a father too, and aside from his desire as a physician to control the disease, he was interested in the unusual circumstances of the patient. At home, he had a daughter growing up, now in her seventeenth year, who looked more fit to be a mother than this passionate girl, who at one moment gave free vent to her frenzied agony, and the next controlled herself so wonderfully that she had sat for hours scarcely daring to breathe.

He could not comprehend, skilled as he was in controlling disease, the torture which that poor girl was undergoing from an accusing conscience. She saw herself at last as in a mirror,—wilful, proud of her outward charms, undutiful to her long-suffering, self-sacrificing mother,—her best friend,—idolizing her boy, but blind to his faults, and not restraining her own temper that she might teach him self-control. Then her thoughts reverted to her absent husband, and conscience, resolved to be heard at last, set before her a catalogue of her offences toward him,—wilful neglect of his wishes, too evident want of affection, etc., which had at last weaned him from her and sent him far away. "Where is he now?" It seemed to her that this question was screamed in her ears. "You drove him wild with your taunts and neglect."

At length she remembered the events of the previous night. How long ago that seemed! The whispers of flattery that had sounded so sweetly in her ears, how she loathed them now! How she loathed herself, that they could have pleased her! She seemed to herself to have been suddenly snatched away from the very brink of a precipice, and to be frantically seizing some sure support which would prevent her from falling back into the dreadful abyss. Oh, how dark it looked! And yet how eagerly only last night she had rushed toward it!

"Oh, my boy! my boy! If you die your mother is justly punished."

Mrs. Cheriton had not lived nineteen years with her mother without understanding that this dearest friend was of late governed by different principles from those which controlled her in earlier life. She acknowledged in this dark hour that when all other help had failed, the poor widow, bearing alone her heavy burden of grief and self-reproach, had found comfort and solace in the truths contained in the sacred book hitherto so little prized. God was no longer to her an angry judge, but a tender, loving father, whose heart yearned over her. Jesus Christ was her sympathizing Saviour, who had voluntarily come to earth, suffered poverty, temptation, and ignominy, that he might know how to succor his children in like sorrow. Many, many times Mrs. Douglass had endeavored to impress these blessed teachings on her daughter; but they only seemed to her like idle tales. Of late, since her acquaintance with Marion Howard, she had been urged to trust in the kind care of One whose eye of love was always watching her; but these faithful words, instead of drawing her heart toward the friend who uttered them, had led her to treat Marion with cold contempt.

As is frequently the case with persons in the near prospect of death, the events of the past life flash like lightning through the mind, so in Juliette's agony, circumstances connected with her childhood, youth, and brief married life rushed to her memory with a force and vividness which well nigh overwhelmed her. As she afterward described it, "I seemed to be living my life over again: I was wooed and won. I tasted the purest joy of all when my child was placed in my arms. I sinned and was punished. I went on sinning and repenting. I went headlong into the arms of a destroyer, when a hand was stretched out and saved me. I can never make myself believe that all this occurred in only five hours."

At last the physician, who had for some time been dozing in his chair, rose quietly, and, coming toward the rigid figure, said, encouragingly,—

"He is sleeping quietly now. Be careful that he does not get a chill. I will be in again at nine."

She gazed in his face, scarcely understanding his words, looking so bewildered that he mechanically placed his fingers on her pulse. Her hand was like ice.

"He, your child, is better. I am quite hopeful now. You have controlled yourself admirably."

"Do you mean that he will not die? That God will not punish me by taking him away?"

"Yes, my poor child. I mean that I hope God in mercy intends to spare him to you. He is given to you afresh, to train up to a good and useful life."

What a change came over that young face, on which despair had been stamped! The hard eyes softened, the lips quivered, the crimson tide came rushing back, painting cheeks and brow; the whole countenance grew luminous, as with quickened breath the child-mother clasped her hands, exclaiming,—

"Oh, how I will love Him! He is so good, and I have been so bad."

Forgetful of the physician's presence, or of anything, except that the God, whom she had not loved, had dealt with her in such infinite mercy, she fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands.

"Lord, help me! Save me!" she cried. "I have tried living without Thy help. I was all but lost. Do help, dear Lord."

These words, so different from what he expected under the circumstances, seemed too sacred for a stranger's ears, and the kind physician silently took his leave, wiping his eyes as he went down the stairs, then walked quickly to his home in the gray dawn of a new day.