Earlier text: IN THE TWILIGHT.THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.
“ONLY this once,” said Edward Allston, fixing a pair of loving eyes on the beautiful girl beside him—“only this once, sister mine. “Your dress will be my gift, and will not, therefore, diminish your charity fund; and besides, if the influences of which you have spoken, do, indeed, hang so alluringly about a ball room, should you not seek to guard me from their power? You will go will you not? For me—for me?” The Saviour, too, whispered to the maiden, “Decide for me—for me.” But her spirit did not recognize the tones, for of late it had been bewildered with earthly music. She paused, however, and her brother waited her reply in silence. Beware! Helen Allston, beware! The sin is not lessened that the tempter is so near to thee. Like the sparkle of the red wine to the inebriate are the seductive influences of the ball-room. Thy foot will fall upon roses, but they will be roses of this world, not those that bloom for eternity.113Thou wilt lose the fervor and purity of thy love, the promptness of thy obedience, the consolation of thy trust. The holy calm of thy closet will become irksome to thee, and thy power of resistance will be diminished many fold, for this is the first great temptation. But Helen will not beware. She forgets her Saviour. The melody of that rich voice is dearer to her than the pleadings of gospel memories. Two years previous to the scene just described, Helen Allston hoped she had been converted. At times she was exact in the discharge of her social duties, regular in her closet exercises, ardent, yet equable, in her love. Conscious of her weakness, she diligently used all those aids, so fitted to sustain and cheer. Day by day, she rekindled her torch at the holy fire which comes streaming on to us from the luminaries of the past—from Baxter, Taylor, and Flavel, and many a compeer whose names live in our hearts, and lingers on our lips. She was alive to the present also. Upon her table a beautiful commentary, upon the yet unfulfilled prophecies, lay, the records of missionary labor and success. The sewing circle busied114her active fingers, and the Sabbath-school kept her affections warm, and rendered her knowledge practical and thorough. But at length the things of the world began insensibly to win upon her regard. She was the child of wealth, and fashion spoke of her taste and elegance. She was very lovely, and the voice of flattery mingled with the accents of honest praise. She was agreeable in manners, sprightly in conversation, and was courted and caressed. She heard with more complacency, reports from the gay circles she had once frequented, and noted with more interest the ever shifting pageantry of folly. Then she lessened her charities, furnished her wardrobe more lavishly, and was less scrupulous in the disposal of her time. She formed acquaintances among the light and frivolous, and to fit herself for intercourse with them, read the books they read, until others became insipid. Edward Allston was proud of his sister, and loved her, too, almost to idolatry. They had scarcely been separated from childhood, and it was a severe blow to him when she shunned the amusements they had so long shared together. He admired indeed115the excellency of her second life, the beauty of her aspirations, the loftiness of her aims, but he felt deeply the want of that unity in hope and purpose which had existed between them. He felt, at times, indignant, as if something had been taken from himself. Therefore, he strove by many a device to lure her into the path he was treading. He was very selfish in this, but he was unconscious of it. He would have climbed precipices, traversed continents, braved the ocean in its wrath, to have rescued her from physical danger, but, like many others, thoughtless as himself, he did not dream of the fearful importance of the result; did not know that the Infinite alone could compute the hazard of the tempted one. Thus far had he succeeded, that she had consented to attend with him a brilliant ball. “It will be a superb affair,” he said, half aloud, as he walked down the street. “The music will be divine, too. And she used to be so fond of dancing! ’Twas a lovely girl spoiled, when the black-coated gentry preached her into their notions. And yet—and yet—pshaw!—all cant!—all cant! What harm can there be in it? And if she does withstand116all this, I will yield the point that there is something—yes, a great deal in her religion. So musing, he proceeded to the shop of Mrs. Crofton, the most fashionable dressmaker in the place, and forgot his momentary scruples in the consultation as to the proper materials for Helen’s dress, which was to be a present from himself, and which he determined should be worthy her grace and beauty. The ball was over, and Helen stood in her festal costume, before the ample mirror in her chamber, holding in one hand a white kid glove she had just withdrawn. She had indeed been the belle of the ball-room. Simplicity of life, and a joyous spirit, are the wonder-workers, and she was irresistibly bright and fresh among the faded and hackneyed of heated assembly rooms. The most delicate and intoxicating flattery had been offered her, and wherever she turned, she met the glances of admiration. Her brother, too, had been proudly assiduous, had followed her with his eyes so perpetually as to seem scarcely conscious of the presence of another; and there she stood, minute after minute,117lost in the recollections of her evening triumph. Almost queen-like looked she, the rich folds of her satin robe giving fullness to her slender form, and glittering as if woven with silver threads. A chain of pearls lay on her neck, and gleamed amid the shading curls, which floated from beneath a chaplet of white roses. She looked up at length, smiled at her lovely reflection in the mirror, and then wrapping herself in her dressing-gown, took up a volume of sacred poems. But when she attempted to read, her mind wandered to the dazzling scene she had just quitted. She knelt to pray, but the brilliant vision haunted her still, and ever as the wind stirred the vines about the window, there came back that alluring music. She rose with a pang of self-reproach. Instead of the confidence, the consciousness of protection, the holy serenity with which she usually sought her pillow, she experienced an excitement and restlessness which nothing could allay. She attempted to meditate, but with every thought of duty came memories of the festal garlands, and the blazing lamps, and the flitting figures of the merry dancers. An open Bible lay on the window-seat and as she passed it she read: “Another parable put he forth unto them, saying: The kingdom of heaven is likened to a man which sowed good seed in his field. But while he slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat, and went his way.” Tears sprang to her eyes, and she exclaimed, “In the field of my heart also hath the enemy sown tares.” She took up the book, and read again; then too soul-full to remain quiet, she rapidly paced the chamber. Resolutely and carefully she reviewed the past, back, back to her first faint trembling hope. Rigorously, as in the presence of her Maker, she scanned her first departure from the narrow path; and if her earlier convictions were pungent, ten-fold more intense was the agony of this her second awakening. In the solitude of his chamber, Edward thought with less elation of his successful plan. He believed that Helen would have yielded to no ordinary temptation, and felt that he had been scarcely generous to enlist her affections against her principles. His repeated, “It is but a trifle,” did not satisfy him; and when he had listened hour after hour to119her footfall, he could no longer restrain his inclination to soothe her emotion. In vain he assayed all the arguments, all the sophistry, which the world employs to attract the luke-warm professor. “Do not seek to console me,” said Helen “for such tears are salutary, my dear brother. I have virtually said that the joys of religion are fading and unsatisfactory; I must sometimes seek for others. I have quieted more than one uneasy conscience, by throwing the influence of a professing Christian into the scale of the world. I have wandered from my Father’s side to the society of his rebel subjects. And yet I have cause to mourn less for this one transgression, than the alienation of heart, which led the way to it. Had I not fallen far, very far, from the strength and purity of my earlier love, even your pleadings could not have moved me.” “But the Bible says nothing about such amusements, Helen.” “Not in words, perhaps, but in effect. Put the case to your own heart, Edward. Would you have me choose for my companions those who treat you with neglect? Would you wish me to frequent places,120whence I should return, careless and cold in my manner toward you? Ah, brother! I loved God once. I saw his hand in every thing around me. I felt his presence perpetually, and trusted, child-like, to his protecting arm. But now I regard him less, pray less, read less, and give less.” And then she revealed to her brother her beautiful experience—beautiful till she grew negligent and formal—with a truth, an earnestness, a loving simplicity, that for the first time gave him some insight into the nature of true piety. “And now, dear Edward,” she said, “read to me Christ’s prayer to the people, that I may feel sure that they prayed for me.” As she listened, the varying expressions of countenance indicated many and varied emotions. Submission, sorrow, love, and faith—all were there. When Edward had finished they knelt together, and Helen sorrowfully, yet hopefully, poured out her full soul in confession, and most touchingly she besought the divine compassion upon her erring brother. The carol of the birds went up with the whispered amen of the penitent, the blossoms121of the climbing honeysuckle sent in her fragrance, and the morning sun smiled on them as they rose from prayer. The face of Helen reflected her inward gladness, and restored peace shone in her dark eyes and tranquil countenance. “Thou art happier than I,” said Edward: as he turned from the chamber. “Aye, and the race is just begun,
The world is all before me now,
The sun is in the eastern sky
And long the shadows westward lie;
In everything that meets my eye
A splendor and a joy I mind
A glory that is undesigned.”
Ah! youth attempt that path with care,
The shadow of the cross is there.
“I’ve time,” he said, “to rest awhile,
And sip the fragrant wine of life,
My lute to pleasure’s halls I’ll bring
And while the sun ascends I’ll sing,
And all my world without shall ring
Like merry chiming bells that peal
Not half the rapture that they feel.”
Alas! he found but tangled moss,
Above the shadow of the cross.
It was the beginning of vacation when Mr. Davis, a friend of my father, came to see us, and asked to let me go home with him. I was much pleased with the thought of going out of town. The journey was delightful, and when we reached Mr. Davis’ house everything looked as if I were going to have a fine time. Fred Davis, a boy about my own age, took me cordially by the hand, and all the family soon seemed like old friends. “This is going to be a vacation worth having,” I said to myself several times during the evening, as we all played games, told riddles, and laughed and chatted merrily as could be. At last Mrs. Davis said it was almost bedtime. Then I expected family prayers, but we were very soon directed to our chambers. How strange it seemed to me, for I had never before been in a household without the family altar. “Come,” said Fred, “mother says you and I are going to be bed-fellows,” and I followed him up two pair of stairs to a nice123little chamber which he called his room; and he opened a drawer and showed me a box, and boat, and knives, and powder-horn, and all his treasures, and told me a world of new things about what the boys did there. He undressed first and jumped into bed. I was much longer about it, for a new set of thoughts began to rise in my mind. When my mother put my portmanteau into my hand, just before the coach started, she said tenderly, in a low tone, “Remember, Robert, that you are a Christian boy.” I knew very well what that meant, and I had now just come to a point of time when her words were to be minded. At home I was taught the duties of a Christian child; abroad I must not neglect them, and one of these was evening prayer. From a very little boy I had been in the habit of kneeling and asking the forgiveness of God, for Jesus’ sake, acknowledging his mercies, and seeking his protection and blessing. “Why don’t you come to bed, Robert?” cried Fred. “What are you sitting there for?” I was afraid to pray, and afraid not to pray. It seemed that I could not kneel down and pray before Fred. What would he say?124Would he not laugh? The fear of Fred made me a coward. Yet I could not lie down on a prayerless bed. If I needed the protection of my heavenly Father at home, how much more abroad. I wished many wishes; that I had slept alone, that Fred would go to sleep, or something else, I hardly knew what. But Fred would not go to sleep. Perhaps struggles like these take place in the bosom of every one when he leaves home and begins to act for himself, and on his decision may depend his character for time, and for eternity. With me the struggle was severe. At last, to Fred’s cry, “Come, boy, come to bed,” I mustered courage to say, “I will kneel down and pray first; that is always my custom.” “Pray?” said Fred, turning himself over on his pillow and saying no more. His propriety of conduct made me ashamed. Here I had long been afraid of him, and yet when he knew my wishes he was quiet and left me to myself. How thankful I was that duty and conscience triumphed. That settled my future course. It gave me strength for time to come. I believe that the decision of the “Christian boy,” by God’s125blessing, made me the Christian man; for in after years I was thrown amid trials and temptations, which must have drawn me away from God and from virtue, had it not been for my settled habit of secret prayer. Let every boy who has pious parents, read and think about this. You have been trained in Christian duties and principles. When you go from home do not leave them behind you. Carry them with you and stand by them, and then in weakness and temptation, by God’s help, they will stand by you. Take a manly stand on the side of your God and Saviour, of your mother’s God and Saviour, of your father’s God. It is by abandoning their Christian birthright that so many boys go astray, and grow up to be young men dishonoring their parents, without hope and without God in the world. The son of Mr. Jeremy Lord, aged fourteen, was spending the afternoon with one of his young friends, and his stay was prolonged into the evening, during which some male friends of the family dropped in. The boys withdrew into the recess of the bay-window, at the end of the room, and the men went on chatting about the most important matters of the day, politics, etc. Still apparently entertaining each other, the two boys yet kept their ears open, as boys will, and, taking their cue from the sentiments expressed by their elders, endorsed one or the other as they happened to agree with them. “Gentlemen, will you smoke?” asked Mr. Benedict, the host. A simultaneous “Thank you,” went round, and a smile of satisfaction lighted all faces but one. Not that he was gloomy, or a drawback on the rest, but his smile was not one of assent. A box of cigars was soon forthcoming, costly and fragrant, as the word goes. “Fine cigar,” said one, as he held it to his127nose, before lighting. “What, Linton, you don’t smoke?” “I’m happy to say I do not,” was the firm rejoinder. “Well, now, you look like a smoking man jolly, care free, and all that. I’m quite surprised,” said another. “We are hardly doing right, are we,” asked a rubicund-visaged man, who puffed away heartily “to smoke in the parlor? I condone that much to my wife’s dislike of the weed. She makes a great ado about the curtains, you know.” “For my part, that’s a matter I don’t trouble myself about,” said the host, broadly. “There’s no room in this house too good for me and my friends to smoke in. My wife has always understood that, and she yields, of course.” “But you don’t know how it chokes her,” said young Hal Benedict. “Yes, indeed, it gets all through the house, you know, and she almost always goes into aunt Nellie’s, when there are two or three smoking. There she goes now,” he added, as the front door shut. “Why, it’s absolutely driving her out of the house, isn’t it?” asked Johnny. “Too bad!” “Why don’t you smoke, Dalton?” queried one of the party. “’Fraid of it? Given it up lately? It don’t agree with some constitutions.” “Well, if you want to know why I don’t smoke, friend Jay,” was the answer, “I will tell you, I respect my wife too much.” “Why, you don’t mean—” stammered his questioner. “I mean simply what I said. When I was married I was addicted to the use of cigars. I saw that the smoke annoyed her, though she behaved with the utmost good taste and forbearance, and I cut down my cigars so as to smoke only when going and returning from business. I then considered what my presence must be to a delicate and sensitive woman, with breath and clothes saturated with the odor, and I began to be disgusted with myself, so that I finally dropped the habit, and I can’t say I’m sorry.” “I shouldn’t be I know,” said another, admiringly. “I’m candid enough to own it, and I think your wife ought to be very much obliged to you.” “On the contrary, it is I who ought to be obliged to my wife,” said Mr. Dalton, while129the host smoked on in silence, very red in the face, and evidently wincing under the reproof that was not meant. “I say that Dalton is a brick,” whispered young Benedict. “He’s splendid!” supplemented Johnny, who was thinking his own thoughts while the smoke was really getting too much for him, and presently he took his leave. The next day Johnny was thoughtful, so quiet, indeed, that everybody noticed it, and in the evening, when his father lighted his pipe with its strong tobacco, Johnny seemed on thorns. “I can’t think that you don’t respect mother,” he blurted out, and then his face grew scarlet. “What do you mean?” asked his father, in a severe voice. “I say, what do you mean, sir?” “Because mother hates the smoke so; because it gets into the curtains and carpet—and—and because I heard Mr. Dalton last night give as a reason that he did not smoke that he respected his wife too much.” “Pshaw! Your mother don’t mind my130smoking—do you, mother?” he asked, jocularly, as his wife entered just then. “Well—I—I used to rather more than I do now. One can get accustomed to anything, I suppose, so I go on the principle that what can’t be cured must be endured.” “Nonsense! you know I could stop tomorrow if I wanted to,” he laughed. “But you won’t want to,” she said, softly. I don’t know whether Johnny’s father gave up the weed. Most likely not; but if you want to see what really came of it, I will give you a peep at the following paper, written some years ago, and which happens to be in my possession. “I, John Lord, of sound mind, do make, this first day of January, 1861, the following resolutions, which I pray God I may keep:— “First, I will not get married till I own a house, for I expect my uncle will give me one, one of these days; mother says he will. “Second. I will never swear, because it is silly as well as wicked. “Third. I will never smoke and so make myself disagreeable to everybody who comes near me, and I will always keep these words as my motto after I am married:— ““I don’t smoke, because I respect my wife.” Mr. Dalton said that, and I will never forget it. Signed etc.; etc.” And Johnny kept his word like a hero. KEEP to the right as the law directs.
Keep from others thy friend’s defects.
Keep all thy thoughts on purest themes.
Keep from thine eyes the motes and beams.
Keep true thy deed. Thy honor bright.
Keep firm thy faith in God and right.
Keep free from every sin and stain.
Keep from the ways that bring thee pain.
Keep free thy tongue from words of ill.
Keep right thy aim and good thy will.
Keep all thy acts from passion free.
Keep strong in hope; no envy see.
Keep watchful care o’er tongue and hand.
Keep firm thy feet, by justice stand.
Keep true thy word, a sacred thing.
Keep from the snares the tempters bring.
Keep faith with each you call a friend.
Keep full in view the final end.
Keep from all hate and malice free.
Keep firm thy courage bold and strong.
Keep up the right and down the wrong.
Boys are apt to think they are kept too strict, having to get such perfect lessons, and to work, and to go to Sabbath-school, and having to be so punctual, and so particular, and not allowed a great many amusements and indulgences which they would like so much. “What’s the use?” they often discontentedly ask. Well, boys, there is a great deal of use in being brought up right; and the discipline which sometimes seems to you so hard, is precisely what your parents see that you need in order to make you worth anything; and I will tell you an incident, which has just come to my knowledge, to illustrate it. William was the oldest child of a widowed mother, and she looked upon him, under God, as her future staff and support. He was trained to industrious habits, and in the fear of God. The day-school and Sabbath-school seldom saw his seat vacant. Idleness, that rust which eats into character, had no opportunity to fasten upon him. By and by he got through being a schoolboy, and succeeded in getting a situation in a store in the city. William soon found himself in quite altered circumstances; the stir and bustle of the streets was very unlike the quiet of his village home; then the tall stores, loft upon loft, piled with goods—boxes and bales now, instead of books and bat; then the strange faces of the clerks, and the easy manners and handsome appearance of the rich boy, Ashton, just above him in the store. William looked at Ashton almost with admiration, and thought how new and awkward everything was to himself, and how tired he got standing so many hours on duty, and crowding his way through the busy thoroughfares. But his good habits soon made him good friends. The older clerks liked his obliging and active spirit, and all had a good word for his punctuality. But William had his trials. One morning he was sent to the bank for money; and returning, laid the pile on the counting-room desk. His master was gone, and there was no one in the room but Ashton. Mr. Thomas soon came back. “Two dollars are missing,” said he, counting the money. The134blood mounted to poor William’s face, but he answered firmly, “I laid it all on your desk, sir.” Mr. Thomas looked steadily into the boy’s face, and seeing nothing but an honest purpose there, said, “Another time put the money into my hands, my boy.” When the busy season came on, one of the head clerks was taken sick, and William rendered himself useful to the book-keeper by helping him add up some of his tall columns. Oh, how glad he was now for his drilling in arithmetic, as the book-keeper thanked him for his valuable help. Ashton often asked William to go and ride, or to visit the oyster-saloons, or the bowling-alley, or the theater. To all invitations of this kind William had but one answer, and that answer was, No. William always said he had no time, or money, to spare for such things. After the day’s work was done, he loved to get back to his chamber to read. He did not crave perpetual excitement, or any more eating and drinking than was supplied at his usual meals. Not so with Ashton. Ashton had indulgent parents, and a plenty of money, or it seemed so to William; and yet he ate it, or135drank it, or spent it in other things, so fast and so soon that he was often borrowing from the other clerks. Ashton joked William upon his stiff notions, but the truth was that William was far the happier of the two. At last a half bale of goods was missing; searching inquiries were made, and the theft was traced to Ashton. Oh! the shame and disgrace of the discovery; yet, alas, it was not his first theft. Ashton had been in the habit of petty pilfering, in order to get the means of gratifying his taste for pleasure; and now that his guilt had come to light, he ran off, and before his parents were aware of it, fled to a far country, an outcast from his beautiful home, from his afflicted friends, from all the comforts and blessings of virtuous life. William is rapidly rising in the confidence and respect of his employers, fearing God, and faithful in duty. There is nothing new in all this; such things are happening every day; and what I want to do boys, is to mark the lesson which they teach, that vicious indulgences will certainly lead to shame and ruin, while true religion and solid worth have an exceeding great reward. It was winter twilight. Shadows moved about the room with noiseless feet, while the ruddy light flickered pleasantly between the ancient andirons. A venerable old lady, whose hair old time had silvered, but whose heart he had left fresh and young, sat musing in an arm-chair, drawn up closely by the fire-side. Suddenly the door opened, and fairy footsteps bounded to her side. “Well, Bessie,” said the old lady, laying her hand lovingly on the child’s sunny ringlets, “have you had a good slide?” “Beautiful, aunt Ruth; and now won’t you tell me one of your nice stories?” Bessie was an only child. Her mother had recently died, and Bessie had come to visit her aunt, of whose heart she at once took possession by her winning ways and affectionate disposition. But aunt Ruth’s eyes were of the clear sort, and she soon discovered that Bessie was not only unscrupulous as to the truth, but that she displayed little sensitiveness when detected in a falsehood.137Now, if there was any one trait for which aunt Ruth was particularly distinguished, it was her unswerving rectitude; if there was any one thing that annoyed her more than all others, it was aught that came under the category of falsities. It was the language of her heart, “A liar shall not stand in my sight.” She determined, with the help of God, to root out from her darling’s character the noxious weed, whatever effort it might cost her. Of this she had been musing, and her resolve was formed. “Get your cricket, dear, and come close beside me;” and in a moment the child’s blue eyes were upturned to hers. “I am old now, Bessie,” and she tenderly stroked that fair brow, “and my memory is failing. But I can recall the time when I was a little dancing, sunny-haired girl, like you. You open your eyes wonderingly, but, if your life is spared, before you know it, child, you will be an old lady like aunt Ruth.” “In those young days I was in a spelling-class, at school, with a little girl named Amy, a sweet tempered, sensitive child, and a very good scholar. She seemed disposed138to cling to me, and I could not well resist her timid advances. Yet I did not quite like her, because she often went above me in the class, when, but for her, I should have stood at the head. Poor Amy could not account for my occasional coolness, for I was too proud to let her know the reason. I had been a truthful child, Bessie, but envy tempted me, and I yielded. I sometimes tried to prejudice the other girls against Amy, and this was the beginning of my deceit. She was too diffident to defend herself, and so I usually carried my point. “One day our teacher gave out to us the word, believe. In her usual low voice, Amy spelt ‘b-e-l-i-e-v-e, believe.’ Her teacher misunderstanding her said, quickly, ‘Wrong—the next,’ but turning to her again, asked, ‘Did you not spell it l-e-i-v-e?’ ‘No ma’am, I said l-i-e-v-e.’ Miss R——, still in doubt, looking at me, inquired, ‘You heard Ruth; how was it?’ A wicked thought occurred to me—to disgrace her, and raise myself. Deliberately I uttered a gross falsehood, ‘Amy said l-e-i-v-e.’ The teacher turning toward her, but, confounded by my accusation, she was silent, while her flushed face139and streaming eyes gave her the appearance of guilt. ‘Amy,’ said her teacher sternly, ‘I did not expect a lie from you. Go, now, to the foot of the class, and remember to remain after school.’ “I had triumphed, Bessie; Amy was disgraced, and I stood proudly at the head of my class, but I was not happy.” “When school was dismissed, I pretended to have lost something, and lingered in the hall. I heard the teacher say,—
“Amy, come here,” and then I caught the light footsteps of the gentle child. “How could you tell that lie?” ‘Miss R——I did not tell a lie,’ but even as she denied it, I could see through the key-hole that in her grief at the charge, and her dread of punishment, she stood trembling like a culprit. “There I stood, as if spell-bound. Stroke after stroke of the hard ferule I heard fall upon the small white hand of the innocent child. You may well hide your eyes from me, Bessie. Oh, why did I not speak? Every stroke went to my heart, but I would not confess my sin, and so I stole softly from140the door. As I lingered on the way, Amy walked slowly along, with her books in one hand, while with the other she kept wiping away the tears, which yet would not cease to flow. Her sobs seeming to come from a breaking heart, sank deep into my own. As she walked weepingly on, her foot stumbling, she fell, and her books were scattered on the ground. I picked them up and handed them to her. Turning toward me her soft blue eye, swimming in tears, in the sweetest tones, she said,— “It made my guilty heart beat faster, but I would not speak; so we went on silently together. “When I reached home, ‘what is the use,’ said I to myself; ‘nobody knows it, and why should I be so miserable?’ I resolved to throw off the hated burden, and, going into the pleasant parlor, I talked and laughed as if nothing were the matter. But the load on my poor heart only grew the heavier. I needed no one, Bessie, to tell me the wages of sin. The eye of God seemed consuming me. But the worse I felt, the gayer I seemed; and more than once I was checked141for my boisterous mirth, while tears were struggling to escape. “At length I went to my room. I could not pray, and so hurrying to bed, I resolutely shut my eyes. But sleep would not come to me. The ticking of the old clock in the hall seemed every moment to grow louder, as if reproaching me; and when it slowly told the hour of midnight, it smote upon my ear like a knell. I turned and turned upon my little pillow, but it was filled with thorns. Those sweet blue eyes, swimming in tears, were ever before me; the repeated strokes of the hard ferule kept sounding in my ears. At length, unable to endure it longer, I left my bed, and sat down by the window. The noble elms stood peacefully in the moonlight, the penciled shadow of their spreading branches lying tremulously on the ground. The white fence, the graveled walks, the perfect quietness in which everything without was wrapped, seemed to mock my restlessness, while the solemn midnight sky filled me with awe I never felt before. Ah! Bessie, a reproving conscience and an angry God are too hard for a child to wrestle with! “As I turned from the window, my eyes142rested on the snow-white coverlet of my little bed, a birth-day gift from my mother. All her patient kindness, rushed upon my mind. I felt her dying hand upon my head. I listened once more to her fluttering voice, as she fervently besought the blessing of heaven upon her first-born. ‘Oh, make her a truthful, holy child!’ I tried to banish from my thoughts this last petition of my dying mother; but the more resolute was my purpose, the more distinctly did those pleading tones fall upon my heart, till, bowing, upon the window, I wept convulsively. But tears, Bessie, could give me no relief. “My agony became every moment more intense, till at length, I rushed, almost in terror, to my father’s bed-side. “ ‘Father! father!’ but I could say no more. Tenderly putting his arm around me, he laid my throbbing head upon his bosom; and there he gently soothed me, till I could so far control the torrent, as to explain its cause. Then, how fervently did he plead with heaven, that his sinning child might be forgiven! “Dear father,” said I, “will you go with me to-night to see poor Amy?” He answered, ‘To-morrow morning, my child.’ “Delay was torture; but, striving to suppress my disappointment, I received my father’s kiss and went back to my room. But slumber still fled from my weary eyelids. My longing to beg Amy’s forgiveness amounted to frenzy; and after watching for the morning, for what seemed to me hours, my anguish became so intolerable that I fled once more to my father, and with tears streaming down my cheeks, I knelt by his side, beseeching him to go with me to Amy that moment; adding, in a whisper, ‘She may die before she has forgiven me.’ He laid his hand upon my burning cheek, and, after a moment’s thought, replied, “I will go with you, my child.” “In a few moments we were on our way. As we approached Mrs. Sinclair’s cottage, we perceived lights hurrying from one room to another. Shuddering with an undefinable dread, I drew closer to my father. He softly opened the gate and silently we passed through it. “The doctor, who was just leaving the door, seemed greatly surprised to meet us144there at that hour. Words cannot describe my feelings, when in answer to my father’s inquiries, he told us that Amy was sick with a brain fever. “Her mother tells me,” he continued, “that she has not been well for several days, but that she was unwilling to remain from school. She came home yesterday afternoon, it seems, very unlike herself. She took no supper, but sat at the table mute, as if stupefied with grief. Her mother tried every way to draw from her the cause of her sorrow; but in vain. She went to bed with the same heart-broken appearance, and in less than an hour I was summoned. In her delirium she has been calling upon you, dear Ruth, beseeching you with the most mournful earnestness to pity and to save her.” “Bessie, may you never know how his words pierced my heart!” “My earnest pleas to see Amy just one minute, prevailed with her widowed mother. Kindly taking my hand—the murderer’s—she led me to the sick chamber. As I looked on the sweet sufferer, all hope deserted me. The shadows of death were already on her forehead, and in her large blue eyes.145Kneeling by her bed, in whispered words my heart pleaded, Oh, so earnestly! for forgiveness. But, when I looked entreatingly toward her, in her delirious gaze there was no recognition. No, Bessie! I never was to be comforted by the assurance of her pardon. “When I next saw Amy, she was asleep. The bright flush had faded from her cheek, whose marble paleness was shaded by her long eye-lashes. Delirium had ceased, and her aching heart was still. That small, white hand, which had been held out tremblingly, to receive the blows of the harsh ferule, now lay lovingly folded within the other. Never again would tears flow from those gentle eyes, nor that bosom heave with sorrow. —That sleep was the sleep of death! “My grief was wilder, if not deeper, than that mother’s of whose lost treasure I had robbed her. She forgave me; but I could not forgive myself. What a long, long winter followed. My sufferings threw me into a fever, and in my delirium I called continually upon Amy. But God listened to the prayers of my dear father, and raised me from this sickness. And when the light foot-steps of spring were seen upon the green146earth, and early flowers were springing up around the grave of Amy, for the first time, I was allowed to visit it. “My head swam, as I read, lettered so carefully on the white tablet:— “AMY SINCLAIR,
Fell asleep September third.”
“Beside that fresh turf I knelt down, and offered, as I trust, the prayer of faith. I was there relieved, and strengthened too, Bessie,” said aunt Ruth, as she laid her hand tenderly upon that young head bowed down upon her lap. Poor Bessie’s tears had long been flowing, and now her grief seemed uncontrollable. Nor did her aunt attempt consolation; for she hoped there was a healing in that sorrow. “Pray for me!” whispered Bessie, as, at length, looking up through her tears, she flung her arms about her aunt; and from a full heart aunt Ruth poured out her petitions in behalf of the weeping child. That scene was never forgotten by Bessie; for in that dim hour, from the depths of her repentant tears, a light dawned upon her, brighter than the morning. And, although147it had cost aunt Ruth not a little to call up this dark shadow from the past, yet she felt repaid a thousand-fold for her sacrifice. For that sweet young face, lovely as a May morning, but whose beauty had been often marred by the workings of deceit and falsehood, grew radiant in the clear light of that truthful purpose which was then born in her soul. THE past is lost to us—the book is sealed,
By mortal ne’er to be unclosed again;
The past is gone—beyond all human power
To change the record of but one short hour,
Though since repented of in tears and pain.
The future lies before us—a fair page,
Whereon ’tis ours to write whate’er we will!
Then let us pause in case our careless hand
Shall make a stain which will forever stand,
Through endless time a silent witness still.
’Tis not enough to keep the pages pure,
And let them ever but a blank remain;
Each leaf in turn should on its surface bear
Some writing that shall stand out clean and fair,
To prove our lives have not been spent in vain.