"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 ballroom, 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 ballroom. Thy foot will
fall upon roses, but they will be roses of this world, not those that
bloom for eternity. Thou 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. For a time 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 linger 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 busied her 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 indeed the 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! 'T was 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
withstand all 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 him, 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 ballroom.
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, lost in
the recollections of her evening triumph.
Almost queenlike 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 soulful to remain quiet, she rapidly paced the chamber.
Resolutely and carefully she reviewed the past, 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, tenfold 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 to her 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 lukewarm professor.
[Illustration: While He Slept His Enemy Came and Sowed Tares Among the
Wheat.]
"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 for 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, whence I should
return, careless and cold in my manner toward you? Ah, brother! I
loved God once. I saw his hand in everything around me. I felt his
presence perpetually, and trusted, childlike, 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 blossoms of 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.