Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
“You do have the loveliest life!” said Ellen Amelia with an adoring look in her eyes. “My! I just wish I was you.”
“Oh no, you don't!” said Ruth quickly with something of fun, and something of sadness too, in her tone. “Why, no one's life would exactly suit any one else. And then think” and her voice saddened, “you have a mother and father; and I, though I had two, have been left without either. You wouldn't change places with me for a minute if you would stop to think. You would not give up your father and mother and your grandmother—didn't you tell me you had a grandmother? Just think what it would be to be without them.”
“Oh well,” said Ellen Amelia uneasily, “of course I wouldn't want them to die; but if I had never known them and could be you it would be lovely. I think it must be awful nice to have things the way you want them without having to ask a soul, and not have your mother always saying 'No' to everything you want. Ma and I just had a time about something. I must say, I think I'm old enough to do as I please.”
Ruth's face grew sad and her heart heavy. How was one to talk to a girl who had such unnatural feelings as this one?
“Oh, you don't know what you are saying, I'm sure, my dear,” said Ruth earnestly, placing her pretty white hand on Ellen .Amelia's arm. “I can't bear to hear you talk like that. If you were tried once you would feel so differently. Why. I would give all the world just now to have my mother, or some one, tell me what to do. It seems to mc I would be willing to do the most disagreeable thing if only I might have them to please once more. And you should not feel so about your mother. A mother is such a wonderful being, almost like God in some of her qualities. A mother has to bear so much. Your mother, I'm sure, does not hinder you from anything that she feels is for your good.”
“Oh no, of course not,” said Ellen Amelia with a little of the shrug of her shoulders which she used at home when she did not like things; “but her ideas of what is for my good, and mine, are very different. My mother thinks it isn't for my good to ever have my own way in anything. You have your own way all the time.”
“That is where you are utterly mistaken, my dear,” said Ruth, determining to be bright and not seem to be too severe on the girl the first time. Indeed, her first feeling on hearing her guest speak so of her mother to a stranger, had been one of shocked horror, and she could scarcely forbear a severe rebuke; but further reflection made her feel that probably the mother might be a little hard on her daughter, and if she would help any she must gain the girl's confidence. “Nobody can have his own way in anything in this world without getting into trouble. God is guiding this world, and if we try to take hold and do his work we should get all mixed up. I don't often get my own way and I sometimes have to do things that I don't in the least want to do; but never mind that now. Suppose you tell me the particular thing you want to do, if it is something I may know. I would like to sympathize with you in it at least; or perhaps I can show you it isn't a real trouble after all,” and Ruth laughed her happy, contagious laugh.
Ellen Amelia looked down. She suddenly felt shy. She did not like to tell Miss Benedict about her troubles over dress. But the winning voice was saying, “Can you tell me dear, or is it something I must not know? I don't want to pry into things that are not my affairs, of course.” Ellen Amelia flushed. She did not wish to seem to refuse anything that Miss Benedict asked her, and somehow it was all like a story, her asking her in that frank pleasant way, just like “Ethel” when “Mr. Atholind” asked her if—what was it he asked her in last Saturday night's paper?
“My! but you would make a good character for a book now, you look so pretty sitting in that attitude,” said Ellen Amelia suddenly, raising her admiring eyes to Ruth's face.
Ruth was disappointed and showed it in her eyes at once. If Ruth wanted to keep a secret ever, she always had to hide her eyes, but they would tell all they knew in spite of her. Ellen Amelia saw the disappointment and knew it had to do with her. She was repentant at once, and with eyes drooping again she said: “Yes, I'm going to tell you. It's a thing you can know if you want to; only I just know you'll laugh at me.”
AFTER repeated assurances from Ruth that she would not laugh, Ellen Amelia burst out with her confidence:
“Well, then, it's my clo'es. I can't have a thing made the way I want it. Just look at that dress!” and she stood up and surveyed the front of a faded novelty-cloth, which had evidently been purchased more for its style than its durability. “You know it doesn't hang right. I don't know what's the matter with it, so I can't fix it. I've got a new dress today, a present from my uncle in New York. It's real pretty and I'd like to have it made nice, like some of yours, but ma will have to make it, and she'll make it the way she did my last year's, only with the sleeves a little bigger, I suppose. I want some jackets and front fixings, but she don't know how to make them and she thinks it's a waste of time for me to fuss; and besides, she says I don't know how any more than she does, so I have to have them the way she makes them. I started out here this afternoon to ask you if you had a skirt pattern and would lend it to me, but when I got out .here I got scared; besides, I remembered that probably you never had a skirt pattern in the house; you most likely sent your dresses all to some dressmaker and didn't know how they were made, so I decided to go on. I wouldn't have come in at all if you hadn't called me. Now don't you think I'm an awful fool?”
Ellen Amelia's courage was high pitched and failed her just now, while tears of mortification and embarrassment filled her eyes. But Ruth soothed her and made her sit down again.
“I'm very glad you came to me, I am indeed. I think I can help you. Indeed I have plenty of skirt patterns in the house, some very pretty simple ones too, and I do not think I have a single dress that was made by a dressmaker. I made every one myself. My mother thought every girl ought to know about that and so she sent me to the finest institution that could be found in the city for learning dressmaking. You know the schools of domestic science are very fine now. I made all my own and my mother's dresses for a year or two. It isn't so hard when you know how. Suppose you come up here and spend the day on Thursday and bring your new dress along and we'll make it. I think we can finish it in a day or two if we work fast. I have done a dress in a day with some one to help. Are you a good seamstress? I'm to be alone all day on Thursday, for my brothers have to drive over to West Winterton with some sheep. Will your mother mind? Tell her I know all about dressmaking, for I went to one of the best schools. Perhaps she'll be glad to be relieved of it.”
Ellen Amelia's eyes shone and her breath came quick. Could it be true? This young woman with the immaculate apparel made all her wonderful garments herself! And could she believe her ears? Was she offering to help her? Would it be possible that a Haskins could ever look like this city maiden? And a school for dressmaking! Would the wonders never cease? She had supposed that dressmaking was some special gift conferred upon a few maiden ladies and unfortunate widows, who by patient service had been granted an ability to make things look different from anything any one else could do, and by this earned their living.
She gave her eager and ready consent to spend Thursday, dress and all, with her new friend, if she were not imposing too much upon her. She said she was certain her mother would be pleased, which I fear was a polite little lie she had learned from the “Fireside Companion.” In her heart she much feared that her mother would put her foot down most decidedly upon the proposition, but also in her heart she meant to contrive some way to carry out her purpose and have one dress made as she wanted it; for did not this dress belong to herself? And surely she ought to have the right to say how it should be made.
On her return home however, she found to her surprise that her way had been made plain. Her mother looked very tired and a shade of oldness seemed to be upon her face. Ellen Amelia had never before noticed that her mother was growing old, and it came to her with something of a shock. She remembered Miss Benedict's words, “You would not give up your mother.” It gave her a strange feeling and she did up the dishes of her own accord after supper without waiting to be asked, which was unusual. She never wanted to leave her reading after supper. The mother seemed to appreciate this unusual mark of daughterliness, for with a gentler tone than she was accustomed to use she said, when Ellen Amelia came back to the sitting room after the kitchen was all in order for the morning:
“Ellen 'Melia, I'm just afraid you'll have to give up havin' that new dress nude up till after Thanksgivin', 'tany rate. I've been thinkin' how I could get it in, and I just can't see my way clear, not if I go to nurse at Miss Crampton's them two weeks, and I've give my promise, you know. I feel sort o' done out to-day, and ef 'twan't fer your grandmother I'm sure I don't see how I would've got through the work. As it is, I think I'll go to bed early. I'm sorry you'll have to wait for your dress, but it can't be helped. You can console yourself by thinkin' you wouldn't have lied any at all ef it hadn't been for your Uncle Timothy.”
Now was Ellen Amelia's opportunity.
“Now ma, don't you worry about that dress; I'm goin' to make it myself. I went to call on Miss Benedict this afternoon, and she's invited me to spend the day with her Thursday and she'll help me make it. She's been to a big school where she learned how to make all her clo'es, sacks and hats and everything, and she said she would just like nothin' better'n to show me. I thought it would be a real relief to you, ma, and so I told her I'd come if you didn't need me for anything on Thursday.”
Mrs. Haskins did not altogether approve of the plan, but her pride was somewhat pleased to have Miss Benedict, with her pretty clothes, actually willing to help her daughter make a dress, and the weary mother consented, with many a sigh and a misgiving. She told Ellen Amelia she had her doubts about the hang of the skirt, the set of the waist, and was afraid there would be too many newfangled things on it, but she supposed if Ellen Amelia's heart was set on it, nothing else would do, and as it was a present she had a right to spoil it if she pleased. With which ungracious permission she reflected with satisfaction that her daughter would have a dress and she would not have to worry over it.
Thursday morning dawned bright and clear and found Ellen Amelia on her way to the Benedict farm. Such a gala day had not been before her since she was a little girl and anticipated for months beforehand the yearly Mayday all-day picnic. Now she was to have her beloved Miss Benedict all to herself for a whole day in that lovely house. To be sure it would have been no drawback to have -had David and Joseph in the background of the setting for an hour or two at mealtimes, and it had been no part of the inducement to her coming when Ruth had mentioned their intended absence. Ellen Amelia had felt the least bit disappointed. But then one could not mind about so small a thing when there was so much in the day besides. She hummed a tune as she hurried along with her face very bright. She met the minister hurrying toward the station and wondered if he was going to meet “his folks” and wondered what they would be like and if she would like them. She wished she could linger to see them, but knew that every moment was precious to the finishing of the blue serge, and hastened on.
Ruth had prepared a large sunny room on the second floor as a sewing room, and all her cutting and sewing appliances were arranged ready. The sewing machine was one of the best and would almost sew of itself. Ellen Amelia admired and wondered over it while she was being shown the difference between it and her mother's lumbering old one. The cutting table, the tracing wheel and bright shears, all had a charm that implements of common everyday, work did not usually have for this girl. She was fonder of reading than of work. But she sighed and told herself she would love to sew ifshe could work with such tools. They studied awhile over some fashion plates Ruth had brought out, and Ellen Amelia supposed she was choosing from them the one she would like her dress made after, but in reality she was being advised as to what would become her and suit her material, and was having her eyes opened with regard to a number of points which had heretofore escaped her notice. It would appear that a style suited to a light, thin evening dress for the lazy beauties who lolled on velvet cushions in the weekly story papers, was not suited to heavy wool material intended for church and street wear, nor indeed for sensible, every-day living. Neither did it appear to be in good taste to put much trimming on even handsome material which was to be worn to church or to any other quiet place in the world where one was in earnest. Ellen Amelia learned, without exactly knowing how, that one's dress always expresses one's self, and that if we do not wish to give false impressions of ourselves we must be careful that the dress shall express what we would have our lives show. She pondered over this fact all day and wondered if religion had anything to do with dress, and tried to forgive herself for thinking a thought so irreverent.
Every moment of that morning was an inexpressible delight and excitement to Ellen Amelia. Fortunately the sewing room held no decorations save the simplest, or the mind of the young girl would certainly have been too upset to do much work. But the rapid, trained 6ngers of the young teacher were making progress all the time, and she had the rare talent of being able to talk pleasantly and without impatience, the while she worked as rapidly as her fingers could fly.
They had as dainty a lunch together as the lofty Sally could prepare. She sniffed a good deal to herself at having to waste her fine arts of cookery on a village girl who would much rather have ham and eggs, she presumed, but she did her mistress' bidding thoroughly, in spite of her sniffing. Ruth had tried to have everything as dainty as possible and yet not so elaborate that it could not be easily remembered and copied if her guest should choose to do so. She believed most emphatically in the elevating power of little things. A girl's manners could not but be made better if she habitually ate at a dainty table. Also, she tried to have everything eatable as unlike as possible to that to which she thought Ellen Amelia was accustomed. And indeed the girl felt that she was dining on the proverbial nectar and ambrosia. There was a delicate soup of pale pink color, in whose rich, creamy deliciousness she would never have recognized the familiar tomato. There were tiny, shell-like cups of rich chocolate, foamed with whipped cream, and there was some strange, new delectable custard in little molds, and thin, sweet wafer crackers. Ellen Amelia's eyes were bright and her wits were quick. She was rather afraid of the array of spoons and forks, but she watched her hostess and tried to appear at her case, and really succeeded remarkably well. Ruth had guessed well that the ceremony and the strangeness of the dishes would please her guest more than to have a simple dinner, such as she had every day at home. Ellen Amelia was one who liked mystery and newness beyond anything else in life.
After lunch Ruth left her guest in the parlor for a few minutes to wander about and look as much as she pleased, and then she came and played and sang a few bright little songs for her and one tender, sweet one, about a mother and a home. She had selected these songs with care and prayer and a view to reaching the different longings she thought she saw in Ellen Amelia's eyes. Then, arm in arm, they went back to their work. Said Ellen Amelia:
“Do you think it is wicked to care awfully for pretty things? I don't suppose you do, because you have so many around you; but I don't quite understand it. You talked in Sunday-school as if you were terribly good.”
“No,” said Ruth, "I don't think it is at all wicked. On the contrary, I think it is wrong not to have things just as pretty as you can. If it were wicked to have things pretty God would not have made the world beautiful. He might just as well have made the sun go down in gray every night, instead of throwing crimson and gold and purple clouds in the west. Just look at the landscape the next sunset hour and see if it isn't beautiful, and then tell me whether you do not think God likes beautiful things, and loves to have us enjoy them too.”
“Well,” said Ellen Amelia, “I s'pose that's true about the things he made. But it's wicked to like pretty clo'es, ain't it?”
“Well, no; I don't think it is. There is a difference between liking pretty clothes, and being so fond of attracting attention by showy dressing that one thinks of nothing else. I think every one ought to be as careful about having the dress neat and tasteful and becoming as they are about having their faces washed clean every day and their hair neatly combed. It is a duty. Did you ever read 'Ethics of the Dust' or 'Sesame and Lilies'? No? Well, Mr. Ruskin says dressing is a virtue. Here, let me read you a few words while you sew on those hooks. You'll be interested in that book if you never read it. Take it home and enjoy all about the Crystal life and the Crystal sorrows and the Crystal virtues. I'm sure you will like it if you read it carefully.”
Ruth left the room a moment and while she was gone her visitor reflected with joy that she should have a book to take home. She wondered who this "Sesame" was, and if the Lilies had to do with another girl, and what the Crystal things were she had spoken of, if they were anything like that story of the lady of the crystal palace and the sleeping knight she read last year. Then Ruth came back and read: