Home Scenes and Home Influence Part 18

The old man was touched by this reply, for he felt that it was from the heart. It sounded strangely to his ears from the lips of one who had just been whirling in the mazy dance.

"There is no real pleasure in any thing selfish," he remarked. "Yes, you say truly, it does us good to contribute to the happiness of others."

"For this reason," said Anna, "I like dancing as a social recreation. It is a mutual pleasure. We give and receive enjoyment."

The old minister's face grew serious.

"I have been to three or four parties," continued the young girl, "where dancing was excluded, under some strange idea that it was wrong; and I must say that so much evil-speaking and censoriousness it has never been my lot to encounter in any company. The time, instead of being improved as a season of mental and bodily recreation, was worse than wasted. I know that I was worse instead of better on returning from each of these companies, for I insensibly fell into the prevailing spirit."

"That was very bad, certainly," remarked Mr. Archer, before whose mind arose some pictures of social gatherings, in which had prevailed the very spirit condemned by his young companion. "But I don't see how you are going to make dancing a sovereign remedy for the evil."

"It is not a sovereign remedy," was answered, "but it is a concert of feeling and action, in which the mind is exhilarated, and in which a mutual good-will is produced. You cannot dance without being pleased, to a greater or less extent, with your partners on the floor. Often and often have I had a prejudice against persons wear off as we moved together in the dances, and I have afterwards discovered in them good qualities to which I was before blinded."

"Uncle," said Grace to the old man, just at this moment, bending to his ear as she spoke, and taking his hand in hers,--"come! I want to show you something."

Grace drew him into the adjoining parlour, where another set was on the floor. Two children, her younger brother and sister, were in it.

"Now, just look at Ada and w.i.l.l.y," whispered Grace in his ear, as she brought him in view of the young dancers. Ada was a lovely child, and the old uncle's heart had already taken her in. She was a graceful little dancer, and moved in the figures with the lightness of a fairy. It was a beautiful sight, and in the face of all the prejudices which half a century had worn into him, he felt that it was beautiful. As he looked upon it, he could keep the dimness from his eyes only by a strong effort.

"Is there evil in that, uncle?" asked Grace, drawing her arm within that of the old man's.

"Is it good?" he replied.

"Yes; it is good," said Grace, emphatically, as she lifted her eyes to his.

Mr. Archer did not gainsay her words. He at least felt that it was not evil, though he could not admit that it was good.

Spite of the dancing, which soon ceased to offend the good old man, he pa.s.sed a pleasant evening. Perhaps, he enjoyed the Christmas party as much as any one there.

Nothing was said, on the next day, by any one, on the subject of dancing; though Mr. Archer, especially, thought a great deal about the matter. Some ideas had come into his mind that were new there, and he was pondering them attentively. On the third day of his arrival, he had a severe attack of rheumatism, from which he suffered great pain, besides a confinement to his room for a couple of weeks. During that time, the untiring devotion and tender solicitude of Grace touched the old man's heart deeply. When the pain had sufficiently abated to let his mind attain composure, she sought to interest him in various ways. Sometimes she would read to him by the hour; sometimes she would entertain him with cheerful conversation; and sometimes she would bring in one or two of her young friends whom he had met at the Christmas party.

With these, he had more than one discussion, in his sick room, on the subject of dancing, and the old minister found these gay young girls rather more than a match for him. During a discussion of this kind, Grace left the room. In her absence, one of her companions said to him--

"Grace is a good girl."

A quick light went over the old man's countenance; and he replied, with evident feeling--

"Good? Yes; I look at her, sometimes, and think her almost an angel."

"She dances."

The old man sighed.

"She is a Christian."

"I wish there were more such in the world," said he, unhesitatingly.

"And yet she dances."

"My dear child," said Mr. Archer, turning with an affectionate smile towards his young interlocutor, "don't take such an advantage of me in the argument."

"Then it is settled," was continued, in triumph, "that if dancing is not a Christian grace, a maiden may dance and yet be a Christian?"

"G.o.d bless you, and keep you from all the evil of the world," said the old man, fervently, as he took the young girl's hand and pressed it between his own. "It may be all right! it may be all right!"

Grace came back at the moment, and he ceased speaking.

From that time the venerable minister said no more on the subject, and it is but fair to believe that when he returned home he had very serious doubts in regard to the sin of dancing, which had once been as fairly held as if it had been an article in the Confession of Faith.

IS SHE A LADY?

"MRS. TUDOR is a perfect lady," said my wife, Mrs. Sunderland, to me one day, after having received a visit from the individual she named.

"She may have the manners of a lady," I replied, "when abroad; but whether she be a lady at home or not, is more than I can tell. It is easy to put on the exterior of a lady; but to be a lady is a very different thing."

"All that is true enough; but why do you connect such remarks with the name of Mrs. Tudor? Do you know any thing to the contrary of her being a lady?--a lady at home, as you say, for instance?"

"No, I can't say that I do; but, somehow or other, I am a little inclined to be doubtful of the genuineness of Mrs. Tudor's claims to being a lady. Once or twice I have thought that I perceived an air of superciliousness to persons who were considered inferior. This is a rigid but true test of any one's claims to being either a lady or a gentleman. No true lady is less careful of the feelings of those below her than she is of those who are upon an equality."

"But you only thought you saw this," said Mrs. Sunderland.

"True, and my thought may be only a thought," I returned, "and unjust to Mrs. Tudor, who may be as much of a lady at home and under all circ.u.mstances, as she appears to be when abroad."

"What she is, I have not the least doubt," said my wife.

I never altogether fancied this Mrs. Tudor, although Mrs. Sunderland liked her very much. Before we built our new house, Mrs. Tudor did not know us, notwithstanding the fact that our pews had adjoined for two or three years. But after that event, Mrs. Tudor found out that we had an existence, and became uncommonly gracious with my wife.

Not long after I had spoken out my mind in regard to Mrs. Tudor, that lady, in company with her husband, paid us a visit one evening, and after sitting an hour, invited us to come around and take tea with them on a certain evening in the ensuing week.

When the time came, as we had accepted the invitation, we went. We found about a dozen persons a.s.sembled, half of whom were entire strangers to us. Among these I soon perceived that there were two or three who, in the eyes of Mrs. Tudor, were a little superior to her other guests. On our entrance, we were introduced to them first, and with particular formality, our lady hostess p.r.o.nouncing their names in a very distinct manner, while her articulation of ours was so low that they were scarcely, if at all, heard. During the hour that pa.s.sed before tea was announced, Mrs. Tudor confined her attentions almost exclusively to these two or three individuals, who were evidently persons of more consequence than the rest of us. So apparent was all this, that most of those who were in the room, instead of joining in the conversation, sat looking at the more favoured guests.

"They must be persons of some importance," I could not help saying to my wife in an undertone, in which her quick ear detected something of sarcasm.

"For mercy's sake, Mr. Sunderland!" she replied, in a voice that only reached my own ears, "don't make remarks upon any of the company."

If she had said, "It is not gentlemanly to do so," she could not have conveyed what she wished to utter more distinctly than she did.

I felt the force of her reproof, but could not resist the inclination I felt to reply.

"We have so good an example of what is polite and genteel, that it is not to be wondered if we profit a little."

"Mr. Sunderland! Why, will you!" My wife seemed distressed.

I said no more on the subject, content with having let her know that I was noticing the conduct of her perfect lady. I believe, if I could have seen her thoughts, that among them I would have detected this one among the rest; that it was not exactly fair and gentlemanly in me to remind her so promptly of the error she had probably committed in her estimate of Mrs. Tudor's character.