Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
When Christians go to sleep then the devil thinks he may sleep also, or go awhile to other more important places perhaps; but when some Christian gets awake and goes to praying, and one and another and another are stirred by this one's prayers to kneel, then does the devil hasten back and send a good force of his emissaries to the front. There is no time so easy as a young Christian's start to turn him in another direction. If you can spoil everything for him then you have him with no more trouble. And so the devil, seeing that some good live Christian workers had come to Summerton, and that things in the sleepy old church were waking up, and some souls were asking the way to light, concluded to have a ball. A ball was an extraordinary thing in Summerton. People could not remember when there had been such a thing before. It happened that Thanksgiving Day was the tenth or fiftieth or hundredth anniversary—it matters little which—of something or other of mild importance in the town, and what more fitting than at such a season there should be a celebration, and what better for a celebration than a ball? And because it was such a strange, new thing for Summerton, and because it was in commemoration of some sacred little event, people who in general utterly disapproved of dancing and frowned upon worldly amusements with more than usual vigor, condoned the offense of the committee of arrangements, and even consented to lend their presence for a time. It was more to them as if they were playing at having a ball than as if they were to have a real one. Of course everybody in the town did not feel in this way, and the whole matter was kept as quiet as possible so that not until two or three days before Thanksgiving did the story leak out and get itself talked about. The invitations had been in the hands of a few, and had been given quietly, at first to those they were sure of, and afterward where they had occasioned much discussion and some bitter words and bitterer tears on the part of strict parents and greatly longing children. It is needless to say that the Brower boys had it in their power to invite whom they would. And thus poor Ellen Amelia met her first great temptation.
The ball was to be held in a public hall. It had not even the excuse of being strictly private, but then it was to be only village people, no strangers, and what was the harm?
Ellen Amelia Haskins, on the first Sabbath afternoon after she had promised to give her life to the Lord Jesus Christ, sat herself down to look over her wardrobe, and see what it was possible to construct out of the accumulations of her few years that would answer for a ball dress, and wished for the hundredth time that her good fairy would waft a wand over her beautiful blue serge and change it into a nile-green silk with real point lace trimming and
Maréchal Neil
roses.
IT was not until the day before Thanksgiving that the minister heard about it and knew that some of the principal members of his church were involved in the arrangements. He sat in troubled silence after the messenger who brought this unpleasant news had departed, and wondered if he should do anything and what he could do. He half wished his mother were at home that he might consult her, and then remembered that his mother would not understand and would have no help to offer. A faint color stole into his cheek as he realized who was the only helper he felt he could find in true sympathy with his feelings in all his church; for while there were many good and true members who would frown upon the ball, they would one and all censure the ones who had gotten it up and those who would attend it so severely that there would be no use in asking them to help in any way.
Later in the afternoon he found his way to Ruth Benedict's home and inquired for her. She was in the little music room back of the parlor. Joseph had thrown himself down on the easy couch by the piano after lunch and begged for a song, and she had given him not only one but many, bright, funny ones, and gay and sad; and at last as he lay still she ventured others in a tenderer tone, some old hymns she loved, one or two which gave the invitation to Christ in pleading words, “O prodigal child, come home, come home.”
There were tears in Joseph's eyes under those closely closed lashes, and he dared not open them lest the tears would show themselves. He did not understand the feelings that were moving him these days, new manliness and courage. He knew that he had accepted that invitation to come home, and yet he did not feel that he was farther than on the threshold of the gateway. He would have liked to ask Ruth something about the way, and what he should do with his new resolutions, but he could not think how to put it, and the courage was utterly lacking to speak a word of the matter.
When the knocker sounded through the house Ruth turned softly, and seeing her brother as she supposed asleep, she quietly drew the heavy portiere behind the lighter one of beads, and went to meet the visitor. Joseph lay there, not asleep, but thinking over his life, and trying to form some idea of the filture out of the chaos he stood in at present. He heard the minister's low, troubled tones, and knew that he was asking advice of his sister, and felt that it was fitting he should do so. Almost unnoticed the thought passed through his mind that the minister and his sister were very much alike in a good many ways, and ought to enjoy one another's company; and he was glad that Robert Clifton had come there to live to make a pleasant friend for Ruth, as well as for the rest of them. But suddenly his wandering thoughts stopped, and he listened intently to what the minister was saying.
“Yes, Miss Benedict, I'm afraid it will reach a good many of our young people, and hurt them the more because it seems it is an unusual thing. You know a new thing always has more influence than an old one. If they were accustomed to having dances here we might hope that one more might not do any especial harm, but some of the young people who have never tasted the charms of it before are to have an opportunity now. I understand that several of our best families have promised to allow their young people to attend, and that some have gone so fir as to take a few lessons in dancing in the city in order that they may appear to advantage on this occasion. There is one young woman in particular about whom I feel very anxious. She promised me two weeks ago to think carefully over the matter of personal religion. I had hoped she might soon unite with the church. But now she is to be allowed to attend this ball, and I fear much that it may turn her thoughts in other directions. She is very young and so easily influenced. It is Miss Haskins of whom I speak; and by the way, she is in your Sunday-school class I remember. Perhaps you can do something. I am told that her father cannot say no to any request of hers—he is rather weak in a good many ways I should judge—and that her mother, though strict in such matters usually, has for once been overruled and the girl is to go. Just the mere fact of her going might not be so bad, perhaps, if she were not to be escorted by a low-lived scoundrel who is not fit to be in decent society. Those Brower boys are really much beneath her in every way. I cannot understand what her father can be about to allow it. The poor girl is too young to understand how dangerous they are.”
The minister and Ruth said a good deal more and made some plans for future work, and possible help for some of the young ball-goers, but Joseph heard no more. He was making some plans of his own. Then as the minister took his departure he thanked the earnest hostess gravely and told her, his face illumined with a kind of spiritual light, that he always had occasion to thank God for her words whenever he met her. And then their eyes met and these words which he had intended should sound so common-place took on an added meaning, because his eyes could not keep it secret that they meant a great deal to him, and Ruth's eyes went down and her cheeks flushed a little as she tried to take them in the commonplace way in which he had spoken, and then after he had gone she went to her room to think it all over, and make up her mind why it was that she seemed to feel so happy over what Mr. Clifton had said more than over ordinary praise. But she remembered her brother Joseph soon, and going softly to the closed portiere to see if he had awakened, found him gone. Joseph was in his room making a toilet for his first call upon a young lady. When he made up his mind a thing had to be done he did it right away.
Louise Clifton's plans had progressed very well. She found all the things at the stores that she had come in search of, and her mother had consented to her buying several things she had set her heart upon. Mr. and Miss Brummel had met them at the appointed hour, and gone with them to the appointed high-class restaurant where they had indulged themselves in all the indigestibles that Summerton did not produce. They were now on their way to the opera house. Georgiana and Mrs. Clifton were ahead. Alonzo Brummel and Louise lingered behind chatting and stopping to look at a fine display of orchids in a florist's window. Mrs. Clifton walked rather rapidly. She felt uncomfortable about this part of the journey, and she wanted to have it over as soon as possible. Georgiana wished she would not go quite so fast, and suggested once or twice that the others were far behind, but Mrs. Clifton said she wanted to get there and sit down, she was tired. So they had stood for several minutes waiting in the entrance way when Louise and her escort finally came up the many stone steps.
It was nearly time for the early train to Summerton, and David Benedict was hurrying along the street. He noticed young Brummel's peculiar jaunty hat ahead of him, and as he rapidly drew nearer he recognized Louise Clifton walking with him. It gave him an unpleasant sensation as it always did when he saw something pure and white in close proximity to something filthy, but he thought nothing of it except to wonder mildly how they happened both to be here; but then he was here himself, and it was no great wonder if they had happened to meet upon the street in a city so near their homes. However, just as he was passing them they turned across his path and mounted the stone steps. He bowed and looked up quickly to see where it was they were going, and then with a shade of something like disappointment crossing his face his eyes met Louise's smiling face, and she felt almost imperceptibly that she was in danger of falling from the high eminence where he had seemed to place her in his esteem. She bowed and smiled and the color mounted into her cheek and David was gone. But though she laughed and talked freely she felt uncomfortable, and could not forget the look in David's eyes. Young Brummel had seen her bow, and from force of habit had lifted his hand to his hat, and then, looking to see who was the recipient of her favor, he gave a coarse, familiar nod, and laughed, asking her how she came to be so intimate with that clodhopper. Louise's face grew suddenly pink with indignation. She never could bear to see injustice done, and she knew in her heart that David was far superior in every way—unless it might be in the cut of his clothes, which indeed were not bad – to the young man who was making fun of him. With a touch of the hauteur she could sometimes employ to advantage, she told him icily that Mr. Benedict was the brother of her dearest friend, the loveliest girl in the world. And then young Brummel thought it wise to change the subject. But somehow Louise's pleasure in the afternoon's performance was clouded. She criticised the scenery and the dresses, and did not like the soprano's voice, and curled her lip over some of the jokes which Alonzo thought exceedingly funny and laughed uncontrollably over. She wondered how he could enjoy it. Indeed the play itself seemed vapid and uninteresting. She did not know that she was defiantly trying to look at it all through David Benedict's eyes, and prove to herself that if he were here he could not possibly see anything out of the way in it, while she saw a great deal that did not please even herself, now that her eyes were somewhat opened.
Then she began wondering how it was that David had any ideas about theatre-going at all, living as he did in the country where there were no theatres. Why should he have opinions on the subject? It was absurd. Surely Ruth could not have had reason or opportunity to speak to him on the subject. She must have been mistaken in thinking she saw disapproval in his eyes, and what right had he to disapprove of her actions, anyway? But indignation with him did not suit her mood. She was anxious to help him in some way. She truly wanted to be a missionary, and had an indistinct idea that while she was not a Christian herself, nor had any personal interest in the matter, she supposed it was a very good thing for a young man, and if she could help him to procure some religion of the right sort to help him well through the world and keep him from being wild—which term in her mind had a very dim and misty meaning—she would like to do so. It was certainly annoying to be blocked in her influence at the outset by some notion of his concerning theatre-going. It was also provoking when one had once tasted the joy of being an angel of light to a young man to suddenly see him discover a flaw in his angel. Altogether Louise was cross and a little unreasonable, and when on the journey home, Alonzo Brummel contrived it so that his sister and Mrs. Clifton should sit together and he should be with Louise again, she was very quiet and unresponsive. He had been getting ready all the afternoon and making this opportunity to tell her of the Summerton ball, and ask if she would not like to go just for fun, and “to laugh at the rest,” for he had taken it for granted that she felt as superior to the village as he did.
However, when Alonzo Brummel broached the subject of the ball Louise was all attention. It sounded even more like what she was wont to call a "lark" than this trip to the city. Of course her brother would object, but what of that? He might as well learn soon as late that he could not control her movements and that she was not going to walk in a straitlaced fashion just because he was a minister and she had been forced to come and live with him. She felt a little uncertain about her mother's con-sent however, for Mrs. Clifton had shown decided signs of wavering concerning this city trip, and it would be better not to endanger the ball by mentioning it to her SO soon after the other escapade. Better let her have time to recover from her worry and sec that no harm came from it. Besides, Mr. Brummel suggested that she should spend the evening at their house and they would all go from there. He represented that his sister would be going. Poor Georgiana served her brother many a turn that she never knew of during this short vacation. He forgot perhaps to state that Georgiana could not tread a measure to music to safe her life, and that his mother was so bitterly opposed to the grand affair getting up at the hall that Georgiana would no more be allowed to enter its precincts than she would to take a walk down the broad road to destruction. Mrs. Brummel had a few stanch principles which she had inherited with the “Lives of the Martyrs,” and from which she in nowise allowed herself or her daughter to depart. She supposed that her son reverenced them also, and he took care that she should not find out otherwise.
And so Louise Clifton arranged to spend the evening with the Brummels, and did not notice that Georgiana looked rather surprised when, as they parted, she said: “Well, I shall see you tomorrow evening,” and Alonzo had difficulty during the remainder of their walk home to invent a suitable reason for her having said this which should not interfere with his plans.
And while these plans were going on, those who had been set to watch the walls of Zion were continuing in prayer, and planning for warfare with the evil one. Ruth in her own quiet chamber was trying to remember once again that the work was God's and not hers, and that he could make right come from even what seemed all wrong. She turned over plan after plan. Should she try, for instance, to have a little impromptu Thanksgiving party of her own?—have her Sabbath-school class and any others who were in peculiar danger from the next evening's entertainment, and invite the minister and have a delightful time that would outshine the other's attraction? No, there were objections to that. It was too late. The young people who were going had all gotten ready by this time and could not be detained now by a quiet evening of popcorn and conundrums. Besides, she could not hope to prolong such an entertainment late enough to save them all from going to the hall afterward, for that entertainment was likely to last till the small hours of the morning. She saw ideas in this thought for future use, but none that would do to carry out now, for the simple reason that none of her guests who needed it would be willing to come to anything she might offer them that night. But Summerton wanted entertaining, it was plain, and if the good of life would not give it them then they were ready to take it from the evil. David was wondering in his heart why he was so certain that his sister Ruth would not go to that ball nor have anything to do with it. His first intimation of it had been some days before. He had heard the Brower boys talking in the grocery, and he thought he heard his sister's name mentioned, but when he came in sight of them there was no more said. He ground his teeth to think that his sister might be mentioned by such lips as theirs and was thankful that breath of theirs need never reach her ears.