The Weekly Perrysburg Journal

An Interesting Story
THE DRESS MAKER.
BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.

"Out west. How far out west, Miss Winslow? Out west' is a very large country."

"Somewhere in Iowa, near Prairie du Chien—on the opposite side of the Mississippi, of course."

"So far as that!" said Raymond in a disappointed voice.

Clarice left the room, looking as though she were in a high fever, and Bertha very adroitly changed the subject. She said many enchanting things; but Raymond seemed thoughtful and absent, and soon after took his leave; not, however, until Bertha made him promise to call the next morning and walk to church with her.

"Ruth, my child, I don't feel well enough to leave the house this morning. You will have to go to church without me."

"I had thought to go to our old church this morning, dear mother, I have not been there since we moved here, so far out of the way."

"Is it not too great a distance for you to walk, my dear child?"

"I think not, dear mother."

Ruth had dressed herself with uncommon care that morning, although she would not have acknowledged to herself the reason.

As she neared the church, she felt as though she were almost guilty of some wrong—as though she had deceived her kind, good mother, in not confessing her real motive for not going to the place of worship they were of late attending. A soft blush stole over her sweet face, as she confessed to herself there could be no harm in seeing him once more, just once more, to see if the last year and a half had changed his looks any.

The church was situated in the most fashionable part of the city, and the most fashionable people of the city attended it. For in religion, or its outward manifestation as in all things else, there is the same spirit of exclusiveness that strives to bar the door against the vulgar "mass," and admit only those who possess the golden key to its entrance. The many familiar faces which she had not seen for nearly a year and a half filled Ruth's heart with sadness as she softly stole up the side aisle, and quietly seated herself in one of the wall pews.

There, in the broad aisles, near the pulpit, was her own well-remembered pew, now occupied by strangers, and near it, that of her Aunt Winslow's, velvet-lined and velvet-cushioned. No one was in it but Bertha and—how the hot blood poured from her heart and burned upon her pale cheeks, when she saw once more his handsome face! She averted her own instantly, and, for a few moments, she thought she was going to faint; but tears came into her eyes, and she turned herself to the wall, and poured out her heart in bitter, silent tears.

She thought of the difference that now was between them, and magnified the difference until it seemed to her that he must spurn her as the dust under his feet. She had never felt until now her position so degraded and her employment so mean. A feeling of independence, and the strong desire to make her mother comfortable, had hitherto supported her. But now she almost hated herself for having undertaken anything that severed herself so utterly from the life she had been accustomed to.

Then the strange, unnatural state of society and its self-imposed laws rose to her mind. A panorama of her former numerous acquaintances, who had been hand-in-glove with her, but who now, when she met them in the street, either pretended not to see her or unfeelingly cut her, until, to her dizzy mind, it seemed as though she were really less worthy of esteem since she had undertaken that hateful employment. She thought of her weary, toiling days—days of toil that often extended into the night and she felt that she and her mother had better accepted the invitation of uncle Richard, or done anything than what she was now doing. Such a loathing for that weary, weary toil, and its endless privations, came over her as made her heart sick and sink within her.

The services of the church went on meantime, and Ruth alone and in her sorrow seemed to read the hearts of those present. And very few there were who were sincere in the prayers their lips uttered. The responses of most of those gaily dressed worshipers of mammon were spoken with a ready lip, but with a thoughtless heart and a wandering eye.

Ruth felt sickened to the very soul with the sad thoughts that crowded through her mind: and then that such thoughts, to the exclusion of those more suited to the place and day, had taken possession of her, filled her with the keenest remorse. With a strong effort she banished them from her mind, and, with a devout and penitent heart, she followed the remainder of the service, not once daring to trust her eyes in the direction of her cousin and Lincoln Raymond.

In the church yard just as she was going out of the gate a voice close behind her, that made her very soul stand still, remarked—

"Do you know, Miss Winslow, that just now, as we left the church, I caught a glimpse of a face so like Ruth Lee's that it seemed to belong to her very self? I have been looking in vain for the same face under every bonnet around ever since."

"Resemblances are very common," said the voice of her cousin Bertha: "but it could not have been Ruth Lee, unless they have carried the art of balloon-making in Iowa to a greater extent of perfection than they have with us."

Ruth heard as in a dream, and glided on, reaching her home at last, worn out both in mind and body.

"My darling Ruth, what is it? You are as pale as your own white dress, and you tremble like a frightened bird. What has disturbed my precious child?"

Ruth threw herself upon her mother's bosom, and gave way to her feelings in a flood of tears. She had restrained herself so long that now the sympathizing voice of her mother unlocked the tear-gates of her heart.

"Oh, mother, I am weak and wrong: but when I am able I will tell you what troubles me."

"My dear child," said Mrs. Lee, when Ruth had made a clean breast, and told her all she had felt and thought that day "my dear child, have patience; all will yet be right and well; evil may prosper for a time, but truth must prevail, goodness must meet its own reward. You can see what is the design of your cousin Bertha, but she will outwit herself. It would be too great a wrong that one so artful and truthless as she should be the wife of one so pure and noble-minded as Lincoln Raymond."

"But mother"

"Now your good heart is seeking to excuse her; I can read it in your face." Well, it is better so. Charity comes from God; and, of all God's precious gifts, it is the one least in use.

Day after day passed on, and Bertha Winslow laid her snares more and more closely around her victim, until blinded by their artificial glitter, he seemed ready to fall into their artful meshes. Her eyes were very bright and the most dazzling red burned upon her cheeks: her voice was very soft and the touch of her hand, as it met his, vibrated through every fiber of his being, so full of electricity was it; for, oh! she loved him with all the intensity and fire of her nature. It might have been well it might have been, if he could, by little and little, have influenced her naturally noble spirit back to its original simplicity and truth; but, though young in years, she had become so old in the ways of the world that she would have been more likely to influence him through unholy love, to the destruction of his own purest and loftiest feelings.

Day after day passed on, leaving Ruth Lee more weary and pale from the endless toil. Every few days would bring her some fresh rumor of the intimacy of her cousin Bertha and Lincoln Raymond. Her whilom companions, who made her now feel herself to be their servant, seemed to take peculiar delight in telling her the welcome news, probably from sympathy for her knowing that she and Raymond used to be so much together.

One such had just gone, when a carriage drove up rapidly, and in a moment, Clarice came bounding into the room where Ruth was.

"Oh, cousin Ruth," said she, throwing her arms lovingly around her, "how glad I am to see you once more! And oh! I have something to tell you to which you must listen at once."

"What is it, my dearest cousin? I am all attention."

"Oh, it is a masquerade! Will it not be delightful? A real masquerade—a private one—no one is to know about it; for, you know, it is against the law. Mrs. Sumner is going to have it. It is to be at her house, which you know, is nearly an acre large; so we will not want for room. She is going to have every thing in style. The whole house is to be thrown open to the guests. I am going in the character of tambourine dancer and fortune teller, and you are to make my dress. I teased mamma so hard that for this once she consented. But you need not put much work on it; make it as slightly as you can, so that it will hold together for one evening; you need not mind the stitches, for no one will see them. Here is a complete Persian costume," continued Clarice, opening a bundle. "It is of the richest materials, for I chose them myself, and ordered the dress to be made after this pattern. See, is it not beautiful? It will be the most becoming dress you could wear. You may have to take in the seams of the tunic a little to fit your slender waist; the skirts, I think, will be just the right length. And here the little shoes—number three: you see I remember your number. And here is the mask to tie over your sweet face, and"—

"Dearest Clarice, what are you talking about? Not surely, of my going to this"—

"Now, do not say a word, for I see the no upon your lips. I have set my heart upon it. No one will know you. Your mask will shield you, and you can see every thing and every body, and enjoy the brilliant scene, and mingle with it without any person ever suspecting who you are."

"It will be very pleasant, certainly; but"—

"There are to be no buts. Mrs. Sumner and I have arranged it all. There is your ticket: and Mrs. Sumner is going to send a coach for you at eight o'clock this night week. She has always felt kindly toward you; but to keep peace with her family has seemed to give you up."

"But the dress, dear Clarice"—

"Never mind the dress, it is a present from Mrs. Sumner. Now don't look proud. We must not be too independent in this world, but do as we would be done by, and accept favors from others, when sincerely given, as we would give them, lovingly, and in the spirit of trust. Oh, there is so little of that spirit in this wicked world!"
"My dearest Clarice, where did you learn so much of the true spirit of Christ But I need look no farther than your own truth-inspired, genuine little heart, for an answer to my question. You have prevailed, darling. I could not refuse you much more important request, whatever pain it might cost me."

"Pain, dear Ruth! But this will cost you nothing but pleasure."

"And now your dress, my darling Clarice?"

"Yes, yes, here it is, and here is the pattern to guide you in making it. You will go?"

"Yes, dear Clarice."

"Mrs. Sumner, recollect, is to send a coach for you; but you will not come home alone, unless I am greatly mistaken."

The night of the masquerade had arrived and Ruth had to acknowledge that she could not have worn a more becoming dress. Her mother could not sufficiently express her admiration of the beauty of her 'darling.' Every thing that could make her toilet complete, even to the embroidered and perfumed handkerchief, was sent with the dress. It was like some fairy tale to Ruth. And when, punctual to the moment, the carriage came, the tumult of her thoughts grew more strange and conflicting She was once more going into the midst of that circle of which she had formed a part and no insignificant part: but it was still like a fairy tale, for she was going to wear the invisible cap, and not one of the gay company would know who she was.

The scene was brilliant beyond her expectations, and she was charmed out of herself and all her old sad thoughts in watching the numerous beautiful and strange costumes, and in trying to make out this one and that. Her cousin Bertha she was sure she had discovered, dressed as Mary Queen of Scots, and a most queenly queen she made. A tall, graceful form, in the picturesque, close-fitting guise of the ancient Greek, complete in all, even to the light, flowing mantle over the shoulder, was, her heart told her, Lincoln Raymond.

Presently, tambourine in hand, came up to Ruth the merry little fortune-teller.

"Come with me, dear Ruth," whispered she very mysteriously; "I have something to show you."

Ruth followed her cousin through rooms and long entries all thronged with the gay maskers, until, coming to a door, Clarice drew a key from her pocket, and, opening it, said to Ruth—

"Go in dear, and stay till I return. It is a perfect love of a little room."

Ruth could not well do anything else than remain till her cousin's return, for she had locked the door and taken the key with her.

However, she soon returned, but not alone, for she brought with her the graceful Greek.

"Now," said the tambourine girl, "do me the favor, both of you, of unmasking, and tell me, when I return, if the surprise is not mutual and well conceived. You need not fear interruption."

Before Ruth had time to reply, the dancer was off with her tambourine, with the door locked after her, and the key in her own possession.

"This is a cool proceeding, to say the least of it," said the Greek. "But I will do my part of the obligation," continued he unmasking: "if my fair friend will do hers."

But the "fair friend," instead of unmasking, chose rather to faint. The Greek gently untied her mask to give her the air, and as her features were revealed to him, he could scarcely repress a scream. He caught her to his heart, and held her there so long and fervently that his own strong life infused vitality into the pale face resting on his bosom.

"Where am I? Oh, I have had such a strange dream?" exclaimed Ruth,

"You are safe, and will soon, I hope, be well. But, dearest Ruth—my dear Miss Lee when did you return from Iowa?"

"Oh, I have never, never been to Iowa in all my life." And Ruth looked as though she would faint again.

"Never been to Iowa! This is strange! Your cousin Bertha"

"Oh, do not say anything ill of her! She is my cousin. Never mind me. Let me leave the room. I had rather go."

"But my dearest—but, Miss Lee, the door is fastened upon the outside, and we are both prisoners. Let us make the best of it, and talk over the past. I can not tell you how I have longed to see you. I had decided soon to go to Iowa in search of you."

"They told me that you were soon to be united to my cousin Bertha."

"We will not talk of that: though I will confess that your false cousin somewhat bewildered me. But she never could succeed in effacing you from my heart, dearest, dearest Ruth. When I left the city two years ago, it was more suddenly than I expected and without any formal engagement or declaration of love between us. But my whole heart was yours, and I hoped and trusted your love was also mine. Was I—was I mistaken?"

Ruth trembled from head to foot, but could not say a word. The coming in, just at that moment, of their little jailor, was a great relief to Ruth: but, though she had given Raymond no verbal answer, the light of love in her soft eyes had illuminated her inmost soul and made him happy.

Clarice saw at a glance how things were, and all she said was—

"Oh, forgive my poor sister! And forgive me for not revealing to you sooner that cousin Ruth had not left this place: but oh, I could not speak the words! Bertha is my sister, and her untruth made my heart ache so much I could not speak it But, do say, am I forgiven?"

Raymond was too happy to harbor an unkind thought against any one, and certainly not the present author of his happiness. So, out of his full heart, he comforted the tearful little Clarice into smiles again.

Clarice was right. Ruth did not go home alone that night. Nor was there any more stitching for the weary dress-maker.

"How happy we shall all be, dearest Ruth in our old home again," said Mrs. Lee one evening. "It was so kind and thoughtful in your Lincoln Raymond to re-purchase the house your dear father built." I shall be, as I have been, the happiest mother alive; and now, more than ever, in having two such dear children instead of one."