In the Way (14 page)

             
“Lecturer. I said their (a girl's) second virtue was dressing.

             
“Mary. Well! what did you mean by that?

             
“Lecturer. What do you mean by dressing?

             
“Mary. Wearing fine clothes.

             
“Lecturer. Ah! there's the mistake. I mean wearing plain ones.

             
“Mary. Yes, I daresay! but that's not what girls understand by dressing, you know.

             
“Lecturer. I can't help that. If they understand by dressing, buying dresses, perhaps they also understand by drawing, buying pictures. But when I hear them say they can draw, I understand that they can make a drawing; and when I hear them say they can dress, I understand that they can make a dress and—what is quite as difficult—wear one.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

              “Dora. Then we are all to learn dressmaking, are we?

             
“Lecturer. Yes; and always to dress yourselves beautifully; not finely, unless on occasion; but then very finely and beautifully too. Also, you arc to dress as many other people as you can; and to teach them how to dress, if they don't know; and to consider every ill-dressed woman or child whom you see anywhere, as a personal disgrace; and to get at them somehow, until everybody is as beautifully dressed as birds. . . . Now you needn't say you can't, for you can and it's what you were meant to do, always; and to dress your houses and your gardens too.”

             
Ruth closed the book and went to work at the blue serge sleeves.

             
“We shall certainly not get this dress done in a week,” she said, laughing, “if I stop to read to you any more, for you don't work while I read.” Ellen Amelia laughed and took up another hook, but her mind was on the reading.

             
“Miss Benedict, do you really mean you think everybody—do you think I could dress well, and—that other thing—how could I dress other people? I don't understand it at all. That book reads something like the Bible, but the Bible says just the other thing. I've had it dinged into my ears ever since I was three, and cried because my apron had a patch of another color right in front. I know it by heart: 'Whose adorning, let it not be oldie outward adorning, of the wearing of gold and plaiting the hair.”

             
“But, my dear, Mr. Ruskin says nothing opposed to that. He does not say you are to adorn yourself, or wear costly apparel or jewels, nor, in short, to be showy; but simply to make yourself a pleasant object to look upon, so that your presence will soothe others. There is no virtue in an ugly thing. The Bible says, 'He hath made all things beautiful in their season.' Then don't you remember all about Christ's garments? They were not royal, such as an earthly king would have worn, trimmed with ermine and rich gold embroidery, and made of velvets and silks and costly furs. But do you not remember how the seamless coat he wore was so good and fine that the soldiers would not divide it but cast lots for it instead? It has always seemed to me that Jesus would have worn nothing gay or fine to attract attention, but I think the wool was soft and firm and fine, and the color quiet. He was not rich, nor would he have spent his money for princely robes if he had been, for they were not fitting for his work then; but I do not think it is irreverent to think that Jesus selected what he wore with good taste and good sense. The highest ideal of dress that is given in the Bible is the robe of righteousness and the pure white robe that we shall wear in heaven. The Bible seems to hold up simplicity as an ideal of dress and purity. Ellen, may I ask you a question? I am anxious to know its answer. Do you belong to Jesus? Are you trying to follow him in everything?”

             
The question was a quiet one, spoken in a matter-of-fact tone, and the preceding name “Ellen” sounded sweet to the girl's ears. She had been accustomed to hearing the two names run into one, and, indeed, had been proud of her double name as something high-sounding, but this quiet, dignified “Ellen,” had a cultured sound far beyond the high-flown style she had been cultivating all her life. She liked it, and was pleased to be called so. It was the first time Miss Benedict had called her by her first name. But the question itself was embarrassing. She had never been asked this before in her life but once. The old white-haired minister, with his severe countenance, had come up to herself and three other girls as they stood chattering together at the back of the church after service, and said in a kindly, but very grown-up tone, “Little girls, have you entered the ark of safety?” They had been frightened, and had answered "I don't know," and one of them from sheer embarrassment had giggled, because she did not know what else to do, and the old man had sighed and gone on his way, feeling that he had done his duty, and the youthful heart was prone to wickedness. Neither father nor mother had ever said to her, “Daughter, will you give your heart to Jesus now?” They had taught her the words of the Bible and some of the severe side of the meaning, but had not thought anything more necessary, or else had failed in courage to do more.

             
And now, Ellen Amelia, at sixteen, remembered the scared little group of children huddled together and the old minister towering above them with his question, and giggled and made the same answer, “I don't know.”

THE dress was not finished that day. There was too much talking to be done. Ellen Amelia went home at dusk with her two little books of Ruskin, and a good many new thoughts. She had developed in some measure, be it ever so slightly, during that day, for she saw the sunset. For the first time in her life, really, she saw a sunset and realized that it was one, and was beautiful, and that God made it, and that he made it for her as much as for any one else. The day was cold, and as she started away from Ruth's she could see the great glowing disk of the sun just slipping down behind the long stretch of bare young trees which etched themselves against the sky for a mile or two away upon the horizon at her right. She watched the sun drop and the fire-red glory flame up and over the horizon, and then catching the bits of clouds, turn them from amber to gold, from violet to purple, from rose to the loveliest blush pink, and all set out by the fine lines of the delicate fringe of trees. She saw for the first time the shade of blue on the distant hills, and wondered that colors had existed before for her merely in dress goods and ribbons. She felt uplifted and happier, and then she wondered again how she should answer that last question of Miss Benedict's, for she had promised to bring her answer the next time she came.

              Her mother looked at her curiously and asked for the new dress, and when she found it was not yet completed said: “Humph! Just as I s'posed. You can't expect two young girls to get together and bone right down to work. You've dawdled half your time away, I suppose. I should think two people with two good pairs of hands and nothin' in the wide world to do from early mornin' to dusk at night, could have got one dress done and hung up if they was smart and knew what they was about. What's that you've got? A book? Well, you just tell your Miss Benedic' that I don't thank her for lending you any more books. I'm about crazy now with your everlastin' readin'. For pity sake, don't set down now to read! Here, take off your sack and dish up supper. When is your dress to get done? That's what I should like to know.”

             
The sharp words brought back the disagreeable expression to Ellen Amelia's face, and made her wish to return to the lovely home where the gate of so many new worlds had seemed to open to her that day, and to make her feel that she could almost be willing to try to live An ideal life even in her own home unchanged. She laid down the new books with a sigh, and went to do her mother's bidding. And she is not the first one who has found life, when one descends from a mountain, rather tame and spiritless. Nevertheless is it not a good thing, and a thing to be desired, to have been upon the mountain?

             
When the work was out of the way Ellen Amelia settled herself with great zest to the reading her new books, and for a solid half-hour she applied herself with all her might to gain an interest in what she was reading. It was all very wonderful reading, but she seemed not to understand quite so well as when Miss Benedict had read it aloud to her, and besides there was so much to be thought about that one could not go far at once. It did not hold the interest of the untrained reader half so well as did “Cyril Athol's Grief,” and in despair she got out her paper and read over a chapter of that. There seemed, however, to have come a staleness over this delightful story since she last read it two days ago. She put it away in disgust and went to bed, wondering what was worth while in life anyway, and lay awake a long time to think over that last serious question. Did she belong to Jesus? She had always felt a great reverence and awe for him, but, after serious thinking, she decided that she did not belong to him, nor love him. She was more afraid of him than anything else. Well, if that was so, whom did she belong to? She shuddered at this thought and tried to turn over and go to sleep, hut it would not go away. Altogether Ellen Amelia was glad when morning came and she could get up and do something. Thinking was hard work—unless it was dreaming. She was to go that afternoon again to work on the dress, and she had promised to answer that question definitely after thinking it over. It seemed strange now to her that she had not been able to say at once whether she belonged to Christ or not. Now she dreaded to tell Miss Benedict the real answer.

             
The dress was farther on its way than when she left it the night before, for the head dressmaker had been working. Ruth met her gayly with chat about the dress, and Ellen Amelia's trepidation concerning the solemn talk she expected to have, had almost been forgotten when Ruth finally came around to the question again as sweetly and naturally as if she had been asking if Ellen Amelia wished her sleeves large or small.

             
“And what about my question, Ellen? Did you find out that you belong to Jesus or not?”

             
After a long pause came Ellen Amelia's slow, hesitating, “No.”

             
“Well, then, dear, I have one more question to ask: Will you?”

             
The young girl did not answer.

             
“You would, Ellen, if you once knew him. You could not help it. You love beautiful things and he is most beautiful of all. If I mistake not you are very fond of romance. You could not find more of it than in his life. You are a loving-hearted girl. Look how easily you have given me your love and confidence, me an utter stranger.”

             
“Oh, but,” said Ellen Amelia, her face all eagerness, you are so good and lovely, and you were so good to me right away. You made me feel as if you loved me.”

             
“Well, but Ellen, he loves you more than any earthly being ever could. He has been waiting for you to give him your love for long years. He has called you many times.”

             
Joseph Benedict was in his room just around a little turn in the hallway. He often came to his room now to lie on that couch and read some of the interesting books his sister had placed there. He had fallen into the habit of the house, of leaving his door open. It was such a cheery house now that they could not any of them bear to cut one corner of it off for a time from the rest by a closed door unless it was necessary. He was weary from extra heavy work they had been doing in the morning. He heard his sister's voice, low and clear, and could hear the words she was speaking. He knew that Haskins girl was in the sewing room with Ruth and that she was doing her some good turn, but he had paid little attention to what was going on. Now he heard his sister's pleading tones and he could but listen for the answers which came so softly that he could not tell whether they were of assent or not. It was strange to him that he should care to have Ellen Amelia Haskins say or do anything, but he really felt quite out of patience with her for not consenting to what his sister put before her. It seemed to him a natural thing that she should do so. As to applying the words to himself just then it never occurred to him. He was interested to have Ruth satisfied, and to have that troubled note dropped from her voice. He went off into meditation of what Ruth was, and all that she had done for them since she came into their home. Pretty soon he heard her voice again as clear as before.

             
“I couldn't live without Jesus Christ, Ellen,” she was saying. “He is my very dearest, most intimate friend. He would be just such a friend to you. You can ask him about everything. You can talk to him about everything, and be sure of his sympathy, and sometimes when I come to the hard places in my life it has seemed to me I could almost hear his voice telling me what to do. I wish you would take him for your friend. It is very easy. I want everybody I love to know him.”

             
Joseph did not hear any more that afternoon. Sally came up for some direction and interrupted the conversation, and when she went down she closed the sewing-room door, so he did not know the result of the talk. He lay there wondering, trying to imagine what the Haskins girl would answer, trying vainly to make an answer that he felt would satisfy Ruth. Once he thought of his sister's last sentence, “I want everybody I love to know him,” and wondered vaguely if she ever wanted it for him, and felt sure if she asked him some such question he would at least try to frame such an answer as would keep her from being troubled with him. What the answer might involve otherwise than the mere giving of it he did not stop to ask. It was enough that Ruth wanted it.

             
Several times that evening he found himself almost on the point of asking Ruth how that talk of hers with that stubborn Haskins girl came out, and then he would remember suddenly what had been the subject of the conversation and would stop and look embarrassed. He saw too a troubled look in Ruth's eyes, and rightly guessed she was thinking of the young girl, and was troubled over some unmade decision. Of course Joseph had understood in a vague way that Ruth was trying to persuade Ellen Amelia to become a Christian. He had heard sermons enough to understand the language. But he supposed in a general way that there must be some special need for this urgency in the case of Miss Haskins. She must be under some great temptation or danger and Ruth was trying, as her Sunday-school teacher, to guard her against it. He knew nothing whatever of personal religion himself and cared less, but he was willing to try to help a young girl, especially if his sister's desire was in that direction. He would sooner have bitten off his tongue than speak to Ruth on such a subject; he was not familiar enough with her for it, but he made up his mind that if ever had a chance to shield that Haskins girl and persuade her to give up any dangerous amusement, or whatever it was that Ruth saw she was in peril from, he would do it.

             
It was not unlike him then, after such thought, to follow his impulse the next evening when he met her returning from his sister's as it was growing dark, and carrying a large package, to turn and taking the bundle from her, to walk back to the village with her. Ellen Amelia was utterly astonished. Joseph was not the kind of young man who had shown himself fond of offering attentions to young girls, and what little attention he had bestowed had never come in her direction. Her delight at having so unexpected an escort caused her to be a little silly. There were so many stories during last year's serials about young men who had suddenly developed a liking for a lady that it was impossible not to remember some of them now. She proceeded to giggle a good deal and make a few flat remarks about the moon. Perhaps she could not have chosen a topic more suited to disgust Joseph had his mind been wholly occupied with what she was saying. But the evening before he and his brother and sister had been reading together a wonderful poem about the moonlight, and they had discussed it at length. His memory was full of magnificent phrases which his rapidly awakening intellect was beginning to appreciate, and the contrast must have been painful. Perhaps her remarks on the moonlight may have hastened his purpose in what he had to say. Certainly a wiser than himself was guiding his words, for he meditated not on what he said, and he, who knew not Christ, was bearing a message for him that night.

             
“Miss Ellen,” he began; he remembered hearing his sister call her that and it pleased him as being a dignified way to address her. He had no wish to make a comrade of her except in so far as it was necessary in order to accomplish his purpose, which then was to please his sister and help her gain her point with Ellen Amelia.

             
“Miss Ellen, my sister is very much troubled about you. I happened to overhear a few words of what she said to you yesterday, and I can sec by her face she feels pretty bad that you won't do as she wants you to.” He began to hesitate for words now. Just what was it he was going to ask her to do, and how did people ask such things of others? He tried to remember some of his sister's over-heard phrases, but they had nearly all escaped. “She told you it wasn't hard to do," he went on blindly; “and it seems to me you might be willing to do it.” He stopped. He wanted to tell her that she ought to be ashamed of herself to make such a girl as his sister feel badly about anything in the world; that she wasn't worth speaking of in the same day with her, and a few like sentences; but they did not sound entirely polite and he was trying to be polite these days to please his sister. Besides, if he said such things he would fail of his purpose.

             
But Ellen Amelia was struck dumb with amazement. Could this be Joseph Benedict, talking religion with her? What in the world had come over him? Then her words came to her.

             
“Why don't you do it yourself, Joe Benedict, if you think it's so easy? She thinks a heap sight more about your being a Christian than she ever did about me. And she is praying and praying for you, I know, for she told me she had some 'very specials' that she prayed for every little while all day. I knew straight-off you and Dave was them. If I was you with her right there in the house with me all the time, I'd do it. You better not talk to me; you don't know how hard it would be for me, nor how bad I want to do it either.”

             
“Me!” said Joseph, stopping short in the moonlit road and looking down at the girl. “Me!”

             
The new dress in the crackly paper under Joseph Benedict's arm was forgotten. Ellen Amelia's eyes were full of tears, and Ellen Amelia Haskins was not a girl who easily cried “before folks.” Joseph saw the tears and felt sorry for her. There was something pleasant as well as astonishing in the message that had been brought to his soul. “Why of course, you. I guess if it's for me it's for you too. We've both been taught well enough to know that, haven't we? If you heard what she said yesterday you know that it is for you too. He died for you all alone by yourself, just the same as he died for me all alone by myself. You've got a call to answer for as well as I.”