In the Way (22 page)

             
But Ellen Amelia was engrossed in Latin and saw nothing else that went on, though she did honestly try to do her best in everything that came to her hand. This Latin was something that came nearly up to the measure of her heart's desire. Joseph had promised to give her every lesson he took himself, and while she knew very well that he was not doing it on her account at all, but only for the sake of doing his best to keep his part of the promise, she meekly accepted the help she got and began to look up to and admire her teacher with a kind of awe mingled with deep respect.

             
Things went on at this rate for about six or eight weeks, and at last Mother Haskins got the deacon sufficiently aroused to the danger of his daughter's present amusements to send her to West Winterton to the academy. Ellen Amelia was perhaps a little disappointed to give up her Latin lessons, but she was told that Latin was taught there and that by real teachers, and was bidden look upon the added advantages of the other studies she would have. So she stifled the wish she felt to have things to go on as they were, and managed to feel a degree of the gratitude that would have been hers a half-year before, and took her departure, leaving Joseph free to use all his time in study. He felt relieved at first to find that the task he had set himself was no longer required of him, but after a few days he began to miss the pleasure he had had in imparting knowledge to this eager learner, and to think it might even be an advantage to him to teach some one else, for in teaching he learned so much himself, and so he looked about for another pupil. Ellen Amelia came home every Friday now and saw Joseph across the church every Sunday, and once he bowed and asked her how she was getting on in her studies. She remembered that bow with pleasure, for there seemed to be a touch of the courteous respect in it which he gave to his own sister.

             
The communion occurred soon after she had begun to attend the West Winterton Academy, and Ellen Amelia, David and Joseph Benedict, were among those who, having publicly professed their faith in the Lord Jesus, were welcomed to membership. This first accession to the church since the coming of the new pastor created a stir of astonishment in the community. It was long since there had been any one to unite with their church save an occasional person by letter from the city. The young people had almost without exception remained outside the church. Now to see them coming in so willingly, nay eagerly, made their elders ask, “What is it?” There had been no special services as yet, only the earnest preaching of the conscientious young pastor. They did not know of the quiet, heart-to-heart talks he had taken time for, with this one and that. They only saw the results. Men who had heretofore stayed at home on Sunday now were uniting with God's church. David Benedict was generally supposed to be somewhat indifferent, if not slightly infidel in his tendencies; but yet he had been the first to offer himself; even before the meeting at which the invitation had been given, and his brother had not been far behind. The deacons shook their heads and said they did not know about taking in people in such a wholesale way, to be put out perhaps in a year or two, or else be a dead weight to the church; and Deacon Chatterton allowed that in his opinion the examination ought to be a very rigid one. He certainly did his part to make it as much of an ordeal as possible. Poor Ellen Amelia Haskins felt that there were no more trials left in life for her worth mentioning when she came out of that lecture room. She trembled from head to foot and her face was almost as white as her handkerchief. Mrs. Chatterton never quite understood how it was that all her prophecies concerning the harm that Benedict girl would do in Summerton and in her own home never came to anything. She looked with doubt on the three young people as they stood together in the front of the church. She would not believe that there would not come retribution of some sort upon them all, just for what, she did not state even to herself.

             
Ruth was very happy. She had longed and prayed that her brothers might find Jesus and yet she had hardly hoped that they would come so soon. After that Thanksgiving night when David had asked her to pray for some one, she had been able to talk with him about being a Christian. They had had many long talks together and David had ended by becoming a simple-hearted, earnest Christian, giving himself to God as a little child might do, and having the glad heart-rejoicing just as a child rejoices over his sins forgiven. He was so happy he went about singing and whistling all the time. There seemed to be a bond warm and deep between the brother and sister now which never could be broken. They had begun at once to pray for Joseph, claiming the promise “If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them,” never knowing that their prayer was already answered and that Joseph was trying every day to walk in the straight and narrow way. David and Ruth had been sitting together in the twilight of the Sunday afternoon talking about their brother. They were worried about him lately. He spent a great many evenings away from the house and never explained where he went. He seemed much absorbed in something too. Ruth wondered if it could be one of the village girls. She was always a little troubled about those village girls. Just as they were saying that they must tell Joseph about their intention to unite with the church next Sabbath, he entered the room and, sitting down beside Ruth, began in his straightforward way to say what he had come to tell them.               “I wanted you to know beforehand,” he said, “that I am going to unite with the church. I've been thinking about it a long time and I'm going to do it now.”

             
Before he had finished speaking, David had grasped him by the hand and there was a pleasant surprise for Joseph to find that his elder brother was already a Christian. “Before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear,” repeated Ruth solemnly.

             
And that night there was a family altar set up in the Benedict home, and from it went up prayers of thanksgiving and praise. There must have been joy around the throne of God and among the angels in heaven and among the saved ones there, for the father and mother surely were permitted to look down to earth and know that their two boys would meet them by and by, and that it was through the agency of their dear daughter.

ELLEN Amelia Haskins was certainly changing greatly. Her mother noticed that she was quieter and more willing to help when she came home Friday nights. She really began to have hope that her daughter would settle down and be like other girls. She still read books to be sure, but they were solid-looking study books. There came no more illustrated story papers into the house. They had ceased suddenly, shortly after Ellen Amelia began the study of Latin. Mrs. Haskins supposed that the deacon had “braced up” at last, and heeded her many injunctions to stop the paper; but the truth was that Joseph Benedict had asked her what paper it was she took that she had mentioned to him the other night, and she had triumphantly displayed the latest arrival to him, whereupon his decided face took on a decided frown, and he tore the paper in half and told her it was not fit for her to read. Ellen Amelia was dismayed, but by this time Latin and her teacher had such a hold upon her that she did not say him nay, and after a good cry by herself, and a good deal of faltering resolution, she wrote a letter and stopped her paper nine weeks before its subscription ran out. And when in due course of time her father had asked her if it wasn't about time she needed to fix up that paper business for another year, and secretly handed out the money with a confidential nod, she surprised him by saying that she wouldn't take the paper any more, but if he would just as soon she would take the money for a study book she needed very much.

              Her father and mother had been much surprised and pleased when she united with the church, though her mother's expression of it to her was that she was “sure Ellen Amelia hadn't acted much like a Christian durin' the past year, but she hoped they'd see a change now.” And Ellen had made up her mind that not only they but God should see a change in her. And they did, although it did not come all at once. She was still Ellen Amelia. She still showed much silliness. It was not to be expected that her habits of thought could change all at once. But God and his workers were molding her for her place in the world, and although she did not see it, wonderful things were in preparation for her.

             
Out of the Thanksgiving party had grown a permanent source of culture and growth, not only to Ellen Amelia, but to many other of the young girls in Summerton, beginning with Ruth Benedict's Sunday-school class. Something had been said about Ellen Amelia's new dress, and it had been admired openly by the other girls. Ruth answered brightly, “Yes, isn't it pretty? And she made it herself too.” The girls exclaimed over this, and would have been almost inclined to doubt it had any other than Miss Benedict made the statement. But Ellen Amelia with her native honesty came to the front at once:

             
“Yes; I made it myself after I was taught. Girls, you don't know what a teacher we've got. She can do anything. She showed me how to cut and fit this dress, and helped sew it. I think it would be a good deal ho nester myself to say she made it and I helped a little, but she insists that I did it.”

             
The others girls admired more, and wistfully wished they could have something as nice, and before the evening was over Miss Benedict had an eager class in dressmaking, all ready to begin work whenever she should set the day. Ruth sighed when she went to her room that night, to think how much more eager they were to learn dressmaking than they had been to take up some extra Bible study she had suggested. She wondered if maybe she was doing right to go on and get them interested in things of the world? Might it not take their thoughts from higher things? These things were important, of course, but were they worth while if they took the entire attention? She pondered long over the question, but at last decided that it was worth while, and that she felt she might be able to make the class profitable in other ways, as well as to teach the girls how to make pretty dresses well and economically.

             
And so the class began in a large upper room which Ruth had decided should he used for any Christian work the Lord sent to her. It had been used as an attic, and had never been entirely finished off, for the rafters and beams were uncovered. But the ceiling was high, and the windows large and many. Ruth saw possibilities for a gymnasium and many other things as well as dressmaking classes. David, her helper now in all good schemes—for it is a great thing to have one person who believes in you, when you have a plan to carry out—made several long, strong tables, rough but serviceable, and one bright Saturday morning the girls, including Ellen Amelia, gathered there with scissors and thimble and cloth and thread, prepared to do as they were bidden. The first lesson proved a success. The girls were wild over their work, and would have been delighted to meet oftener. They were given a certain amount of sewing each to have finished before the next lesson. While they sewed they talked, and the talk ran on various themes, all suggested by the girls, but guided by Ruth.

             
“Miss Ruth,” said Effie Haines, a pretty butterfly sort of girl who hummed from one thing to another, like a bee among the flowers, and who was very fond of brightness and fun, “Miss Ruth, you didn't go to the ball the other night, and you didn't want any of us to go; we know that, but would you please tell us just all the reasons why? I know some people say dancing is wicked, but I never knew why. Do you think it is?”

             
“Not in the least,” answered Ruth smiling, at which every girl in the room stopped sewing, and opened her eyes wide in amazement.

             
“You don't!” ejaculated Ellen Amelia. “Why, I thought—Joe sa-” then she stopped unnoticed, but the red blood stole up in her cheeks, and she said no more.

             
“Why, no; of course not,” answered Ruth innocently. “What possible harm could there be in getting up on the floor and hopping around?”              

             
They all laughed uneasily, feeling certain that there was a catch somewhere.

             
“They danced in the Bible, you know,” said Ruth, and danced unto the Lord. There were a great many times when dancing was used as praise to God in the old days. It's a pity it wasn't used more nowadays that way.” Ruth went quietly on with her sewing, as if she had said the most commonplace thing.

             
The girls could not see whither she was leading them and Effie Haines protested. “But, Miss Ruth, that isn't real dancing; they just danced around with timbrels all alone.”

             
“Well, we use a piano. What's the difference? A piano isn't wicked, is it?” The girls laughed embarrassedly now. Ruth saw that they did not know what to answer her.

             
“Dear girls,” she said, “you asked me an honest question and I answered it honestly. I do think that dancing as it is carried on today is wrong, and not only wrong, but exceedingly dangerous. I do not believe that dancing just of itself is wicked, and by that I mean whirling around to music just from pure joy in life. But I know that you meant more than that by your question. You meant to ask me whether I would dance myself, and whether I would advise you to dance, and I say no to that, most decidedly. The dangers that lurk in dancing are so great that it seems to me one is only safe to let it entirely alone in every form. You see dancing nowadays isn't merely hopping about alone as Effie has said. It means hopping around with some one else, and that some one else is sometimes a man. Now tell me honestly girls, would you, any of you, allow a man under any other circumstances, unless you were engaged or married to him of course, to take such liberties with you as are allowed in dancing?" The girls looked down at their work and their cheeks grew a shade redder. All of them had not had such careful teaching as had their teacher, but they knew what she meant, and if some few of them had occasionally allowed a young man to hold their hands in the dark on their way home from meeting, and to kiss them at the gate just for fun occasionally, they were ashamed of it now, and hoped Miss Ruth would never find it out, and resolved never to allow such a liberty again.

             
And then Ruth entered into a serious talk which would have done credit to a wiser head than her own. She told them solemnly what a wonderful, awful power was this gift of God, this influence of woman over man, and man over woman. She reminded them that when they came to give their earthly lives into the keeping of some man who was all the world to them, they would want to bring hands unsoiled by the touch of other men, and lips unkissed by any other half-love or play love. The girls sat back and neglected their work while they watched her earnest face and drank in her words. They had never heard such talk before and it appealed to the best that was in their natures.

             
Ellen Amelia, watching her, made up her mind that here was a higher ideal of manhood and womanhood than any which she had ever found in the columns of her weekly story paper.

             
“My goodness!” said Effie Haines thoughtfully as she wended her way home with the rest of the girls. “It must be an awful lot of trouble to live with all those ideas; but they're lovely though, aren't they, girls? Isn't she good! My! I wish I was like her.” That was the first talk they had. Thereafter it became a regular thing after the special lesson in cutting or fitting had been given for the day, to ask questions. Sometimes the questions were written, and the themes discussed were as various as the characters of the girls. The mysteries of love, the sacredness of marriage, were themes which interested these girls, who discovered that they truly wanted to find out the right about everything. Not that Ruth laid down her way of thinking as law to them. She only talked over things and suggested reasons to them. Sometimes she read a selection from some good writer bearing on their topic. Sometimes she was ready with clippings from the newspapers and quotations from the encyclopaedia to prove certain facts which they had never heard of before. She was teaching these girls to think, and to reason out right and wrong for themselves, and above all she had the Bible to refer to constantly. Sometimes the girls had dainty cards given them containing a single verse which answered a question they had asked at the last Saturday class. The class grew larger and the members were quite regular. When Ruth found that they all loved dancing so, and that the mere motion to music was pleasure to them, she suggested some gymnastics, and at a certain hour the various gowns and other garments upon which they had been working were laid aside and they all stood up in the great attic room and went through some most delightful exercises which were utterly new to them. Ruth was an adept in all sorts of gymnastics, and made the little work she gave them intensely interesting as well as profitable physically to them. This last feature of the class took like wildfire in Summerton. The girls told their friends of course, and every girl in town was crazy to join. Ruth was flooded with petitions from interested mothers and eager girls, and at last a class was formed in the town hall, and a piano and an accompanist hired. “I can do some good and gain some influence by it perhaps, and certainly I can give them something delightful which may take the place of dancing,” she said to herself, and she went to her class feeling that her Master had called her to it.

             
Deacon Chatterton shook his head of course and declared it was all wrong and just as had as dancing—frivolous, wicked to waste time in such useless ways—and no good would come of it.

             
But many and many a time Ruth had opportunity before or after her class, when she was helping some girl in a particularly difficult turn with the Indian clubs, or the dumb-bells, to get in a little word about her longing to have the girl give herself to Jesus, and many a one first found Jesus Christ in the old town hall, sitting in a darkened corner late in the afternoon after the rest of the class had gone, and talking in low tones with the earnest-faced little teacher.

             
The dressmaking-class was confined, however, to Ruth's own Sunday-school class, and the earnest talks over the sewing were long to be remembered by all of them. There came a day too when Ruth ventured a new plan. just before they were folding their work to go home she said:

             
“Girls, I wish you would kneel down with me here and let us have a little prayer meeting together. I know I am asking something unusual, but I would like it so much. You know I've been praying for you all ever since I took the class, and isn't it about time you helped me? Some of you don't belong to Jesus. I do want you to know him right away. Can't we just kneel down here together and will you try to think God is here and you could see him if you looked up, and then will you ask of him what you most want? I don't want to force any of you to pray, of course, if you are not willing, and I don't want any of you to do it just because I ask. If you have nothing in your heart to say, then never mind; but I think you all could say, 'Dear Jesus, I want to be saved,' or 'Dear Lord, show me the way to thee.' Ellen, dear, will you pray first and will the others follow right around the room, please?” And then as quietly as if she had been asking them to cut a skirt lining this peculiar girl knelt down and waited.

             
Her tone had been so everyday and matter-of-course that not one of them had thought to demur. Indeed they were too frightened to do so, had she given them a chance. They knelt quickly to get away from their own embarrassment.

             
Poor Ellen Amelia Haskins knelt, her heart beating faster than she had ever known it to do before, and wondered what she should say. There was an element of the dramatic and noble which would have struck her in this strange scene if she had not been a part of it, but as it was there suddenly came to her a sense of her utter inadequateness to fill the position required of her. And yet she was a professed Christian. She knelt and waited, and Ruth's words came to her: “Try to think God is here and you could see him if you looked up.” Then she was ashamed that she had no words for the great God, and she choked and the tears came, and at last in desperation she stumbled out the words, “O God, forgive me!” There were pauses, and then the others, all but two, asked something—some humble, frightened petition. And after Ruth had prayed a few words which seemed to bring the realization of Christ's presence plainly to their minds they rose with tears on their cheeks.