Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
Ruth's eyes brightened and her heart grew glad. This brother was joining with her in her plans to help others, and also he was showing his confidence in her by inviting a dinner party for her before he told her. She was pleased beyond expression. Entering heartily into the plan she wrote a graceful note to Ellen Amelia saying that she was so glad she could come, that they wanted to have a pleasant little frolic on Thanksgiving evening. This she dispatched the next morning by the willing Joseph, together with a little note to the minister in which she asked his presence at her impromptu dinner and desired that he should tell her if there were any others whom he would like her to invite. David to her surprise quite entered into the affair, offering several helpful suggestions. She had feared he might wish to withdraw from the party altogether, but instead he seemed to be planning things on a much larger scale than she had thought of. When Ruth wondered what she should do for extra help in the kitchen, so that Sally might be able to attend to the waiting at the table, it was David who thought of a woman, went to see if she would come, and promised to take her back before nine o'clock to put her little children to bed. So though the party was hastily gotten up, things were in fine trim for the evening before the high-noon had come. And then Ruth had time to go to her room and pray with trembling and with hope for the success of her evening. For there were others to come besides Ellen Amelia, suggested by the minister and Joseph, who suddenly developed into an excellent enemy to the town-hall ball.
Could Ruth have known as she knelt for those few moments by her bed in prayer before she went to finish her other arrangements, that her brother Joseph was just then standing soberly by the couch in his room, looking out at the window, thinking that some higher power than theirs must be asked to help their plans, and wondering how people prayed, and finally kneeling solemnly down and closing his eyes how would her heart have throbbed with joy! No words came. His thoughts took no expression. Common words that he had heard other people pray in meeting did not fit his thought, besides he felt awkward and afraid of blundering in such a grave matter. But he knelt there for several minutes in reverent waiting, and then arose and went to carry out a commission of his sister's. And that was Joseph Benedict's first real prayer; and it was not for himself.
IT was near six o'clock. The last tardy member of the decorating committee had left the hall and the janitor had thankfully locked the door and hurried home to his supper, feeling glad that the affair would be over before many more hours, and his responsibility and attendance would cease. He had scarce ever had such arduous labor connected with his duties, except the time when those city people had taken possession and tried to raise some money to found a Home for Aged and Decrepit Canines, by a fancy bazaar and amateur theatricals, and had made three dollars and seventy-five cents over expenses, which they had given to the janitor for his five days of extra labor, and then having had their fun, departed for more fertile pastures, leaving the Summerton cats and dogs to live and die unblessed and uncared for.
The members of the committee of arrangements were eating hasty suppers, and scolding their husbands for forgetting to send certain last things to the hall. Some few had even begun to dress, or were exhibiting hastily constructed dresses to admiring grandmothers, who were to remain at home with the small children, and who must get their pleasure in some way.
Ellen Amelia, not having to eat any supper, stood before her small looking-glass arrayed in coarse pink tarletan. She had bought it in the village drygoods store, and it cost very little because it had been on hand for several years, Summerton not being given to pink tarletan except by the eighth of a yard to dress an occasional doll, or make popcorn bags for the Christmas tree. Mrs. Haskins had set her lips firmly when she discovered what had been bought, but the money had been Ellen Amelia's own, saved for a long time, and it was spent, so what was the use in scolding? She only said, “I'd like to know what earthly use you'll ever make of that thing afterward! It ain't strong enough for mosquito bars,” and shut Ellen Amelia's bedroom door hard and went downstairs, and the daughter had sighed and thought how very hard it was to be like other people with such a mother. It is true she had her doubts about the propriety of wearing it to a dinner at the Benedicts', but they were largely overbalanced by her desire to wear the gown now that she had sacrificed her money and her time to get it ready. Besides, a dinner, according to her literary experience, was a grand affair, at which Miss Benedict would probably be arrayed in “black velvet, with a necklace of large solitaire diamonds encircling her lily white throat, whose whiteness far outshone the gems in brilliancy.” She wondered if Ruth would have her brothers adopt full evening dress. She was not quite sure what that was, but she was full of anxiety to see it.
The dress certainly was pretty and becoming; although, had she but known it, she would have looked better in blue. But her cheeks were red with excitement and her eyes shone like two stars. She was not going to the ball, but she was going to something, and with a young man, and that was a great deal, even if he had told her he cared nothing for her except for his sister's sake. The pink dress had large puffed sleeves to the elbow, below which her plump arms were bare. She looked regretfully at them with a sort of apologetic feeling because she had no gorgeous bracelets to deck them with. She had cut the neck as
décolleté
as she dared, her father being a deacon and her mother a little behind the times as to fashion, and being frightened with the rather undressed effect, had shirred a full ruffle of soft, very old muslin in to help piece out the way to her throat. The muslin had been a dainty little fancy apron that had been a treasure and delight in days gone by, but she had ruthlessly cut it up without a sigh for this grand occasion. An old summer hat contained three very pink, very crushed roses and some buds. These she renovated and placed on her left shoulder where they drooped as gracefully among the cheap pink and white ruches as if they had been real flowers amid costly silk and chiffon. She surveyed the effect awhile and longed for a necklace of pearls or something of that sort, even if it were but a gold chain; gold chains were not plentiful in the Haskins family, and she finally contented herself with a rusty bit of black velvet ribbon tied about her throat, which added much to the effect and really helped to bring out the color in her cheeks. Altogether she made a pretty picture as she came down the stairs into the dining room where the young Haskinses were gathered, prepared to get what comfort they could from the remains of the dinner's turkey. Tommy stopped chewing, with one end of the wishbone in his mouth, and Amos dropped his under jaw in mild amaze. Deacon Haskins looked and saw before him his young wife as she was years ago in a pretty pink calico, and wondered, and was delighted that his daughter could look so like an angel, and the heart of the New York grandmother throbbed with pleased exultation that a grandchild of hers should appear in such good style. But practical Mother Haskins, who had yet good common sense among her virtues, stood in the kitchen door with the coffee pot and spoke out in indignation:
“Ellen Amelia Haskins, you little fool! Are you actually thinkin' of wearin' that tawdry rag to Farmer Benedict's house to supper? Now you can turn right round and go back upstairs and dress yourself decent. Bare neck an' arms in the middle o' winter, and you a deacon's daughter too. Pa, why don't you speak up an' tell her she's a disgrace to her bringin'-up. This is some more o'them trashy papers! Now I shall clean them out o' this house. Deacon, I hope you see now what you've done by humorin' her in them story-readin' notions.”
But Ellen Amelia, with a graceful sweep of the gown, long practised before her nine-inch mirror in imitation of that given by the Countess Luclarion, swept out of the door into the hall leading to the front room, only saying impressively and in tones that should not reach the ears of the waiting young man, “Certainly, ma, I shall wear it. Did you s'pose I paid my money out and made it for nothin'?”
Then did Ellen Amelia appear before Joseph Benedict, and in the smoky light made by the kerosene lamp which Amos had hastily brought when he opened the door for Joseph, she looked like some delicate pink angel floating before him. He did not know that the tarletan was coarse and cheap, nor the velvet ribbon rusty and creased, nor the flowers soiled and crumpled. He only saw the artistic whole, with all the defects hidden by the kindly shadows of the room. He looked and dropped his eyes, for it seemed that it was some beautiful vision which almost ought not to be looked upon by common, disinterested eyes. Neither was he used to décolleté dressing and he felt a little startled by it. He had an innate instinct that made him drop his eyes from the plump round neck. But there was no denying that Ellen Amelia had been suddenly transformed into a beautiful being, the like of which he had never seen before. At last he gained his senses and his voice. He spoke gravely. It seemed that he could not be otherwise with this girl. She was to him like the visible presence of his promise to God. She was the paper on which his promise was written and must be guarded and reverenced, not for the paper's sake but for the promise it held. Ellen Amelia felt this, and although she did not understand it, she resented it. She wanted to be reverenced for her own sake and not for the promise, however sacredly she might regard the promise.
“You are very beautiful,” he said, slowly brushing his hand across his eyes as if to clear them from the blinding vision; "but isn't that rather thin?" and he reached out a rough finger and awkwardly felt of the material in the enormous puff that surrounded her arm. “You'll catch an awful cold such a night as this. It isn't safe. just sit down and wait while you go get a good warm flannel dress on,” and he suited the word to the deed and sat down.
Poor Ellen Amelia! Her humiliation was complete. She turned without a word and fairly flew through the hall and dining room and up the stairs and threw herself upon her bed and cried. It was some twenty minutes later that she appeared in the front room arrayed in her dark blue serge, with her coat and hat and a thick veil over her face. She had washed the tear stains away as much as possible, and she trusted to the cold air and snowflakes to do the rest. As for Mother Haskins, there never was a more surprised mother in her life. She had no more expected that Ellen Amelia would go upstairs and change her dress than she had expected the gray cat to change his fur for white. What had happened to the girl?
That ride was a peculiar one. Ellen Amelia scarcely spoke a word from the time she was carefully tucked into the sleigh until she was handed out on the doorstep at the Benedict home. There was something in her silence which embarrassed Joseph, and made him endeavor to get up a conversation. However, he was not encouraged much and he soon gave it up.
Early in the evening young Brummel called at the parsonage for Miss Clifton. He had a horse and cutter and asked her if she would mind taking a short turn in the snow before going to the hall. It was not until they had taken quite a ride and were turned toward the village once more that Mr. Brummel casually mentioned that his sister was suffering from a severe headache and would not be able to go with them that evening, and, “How about it?” Should he stop at the hall at once? It was later than he supposed, and fully time to go if they meant to have any fun before the rather early hour when Louise's mother would expect her to return. Louise consented to go at once to the hall, though she felt just the least bit uncomfortable about going without even Georgiana as chaperon. At the door he left her, pointing out the dressing room and telling her he would return in just a moment, as soon as he could find a man to take the horse to a neighboring stable.
David Benedict had slipped away from the table as soon as dinner was over. He had promised Mrs. Stevens to get her home as soon as possible after the dinner was out of the way, and David never neglected a promise. He went and harnessed the horses to the sleigh, the same one in which Joseph and Ellen Haskins had taken their silent ride, and in a few minutes Mrs. Stevens was flying through the snow to her children with a basket of good things under the seat for their delectation.
David deposited Mrs. Stevens and her basket at her own door, and then, bethinking himself that possibly the post office might be open this late in the evening, even though it was a holiday, and there might be a letter for Ruth, he drove over to the stores. The town hall was the next door but one to the post office, and as David hitched his horses he naturally looked over toward the hall and wondered who would go there. He saw another cutter standing before the door and a lady being helped out. As the lady parted from the gentleman at the door the full light of the entrance-way fell on her face and he saw it for just an instant before she passed in. It was Louise Clifton. One glance at the retreating form in the cutter and he felt certain that her escort was Alonzo Brummel. Hot indignation burned in David's veins. Here was this girl's brother at his home, doing his best to save some of the young people from going to the hall, and here was his sister entering as if it were a matter of course. But no thought that it was her fault crossed his mind. She did not know of course, where she was going. It was all the fault of young Bnimmel. He was capable of any sort of misrepresentation, David believed, if he was at all like what he had been in their old days in the village school. With a sudden impulse that was unusual for him, for he was a cool-headed man, David flung the reins into the sleigh and strode across the intervening space between himself and the open hall door. Louise had disappeared within. The two Brower boys were lounging in the doorway, evidently just preparing to go in. He heard their coarse laugh and more. He heard a sentence about the lady who had just passed in, that sent his blood racing at fever heat to his brain. Then these men were exulting over the thought that the minister's sister was to be a guest with themselves this evening, and were even boasting of the number of times they would put their vile arms about her, and take her pure white fingers in their polluted ones. David could scarcely keep his hands off them as they entered the door with him. He set his teeth hard and clenched his fists unconsciously. One thing he meant to do. Louise must be rescued from this open door to the pit even if he had to carry her away by main force. He would not have it rest upon his soul that a pure girl should be allowed to suffer the touch of hands like those that had just gone in, and he knew many others who were in all probability in the hall now, who were no better. If he did anything, it must be done at once before Alonzo Brummel returned. With desperate haste he turned to the door labeled, “ladies' dressing room,” and knocked.
“Is Miss Clifton here?” he asked of the frightened girl with a curling-iron in her hand and several hairpins in her mouth who opened the door a very small crack. “Please tell her someone is waiting for her at the door, and wishes her to make haste. It is very important.” David did not stop to think what he should say. He spoke with authority, and his face looked white and drawn. He turned and went outside. He did not wish to meet her in the glare of the light before every one. He did not yet know what he should say to her.
The girl with the curling iron conveyed her message and added by way of explanation as Louise turned with a scornful surprise toward the messenger, “I suppose it is the minister waiting outside perhaps. I guess something's happened. He looked awful scared when he give me the word.” This was spoken in a cheerful tone and intended to excite her interest, but it struck terror to Louise's heart. What had happened? Her mother? Her brother? Was some one sick or was Robert merely angry? No, Robert had gone out to dinner, she did not know where. He could not have found out possibly, so soon, for not a soul knew yet except herself and Mr. Brummel that she had come here. It must be sudden illness, or the house on fire, or something dreadful—a telegram from New York perhaps. A hundred awful possibilities rushed through Louise's excited brain as she struggled with her wraps and hurried out to the steps.