From the Ball-Room to Hell | Page 8

her hand wildly across her face.
"Do not excite yourself, my dear; you are not well. You will feel better presently."
"Better!" she cries, bursting into tears. "Better!! What is life to me now that you have robbed me of my virtue? Oh! that I should have sunken into such depths of sin, and that you, vile man, whom I trusted, should have led me to it."
She tries to rise, but finds herself too weak and dizzy, and falls back heavily upon her pillow.
"Lie still, my love, and when you are able I will let you go. But do not blame me for what has occurred, it was by your own consent. You know I am going to marry you, and all will be well."
"No," she sobs, "all will not be well; nothing will ever be well with me again," and she returns to the room which she has left a few hours before as a bright and happy girl, now broken hearted and on the verge of despair, with a blot upon her young life which nothing on earth can efface. To be sure, he who has brought all this upon her has promised to right the wrong by marriage, but poor consolation it seems to her to have to marry a man whom she feels to be worse than a murderer; even this poor consolation is denied her, however, for the wretch, when he gave the promise, had no thought of fulfilling it. Such trifles as this he thinks nothing of. It is the way of most high society men, and when he comes to her again it is not to marry her, but to seek to drag her lower down. She repels him and he is seen by her no more. He has no further use for her.
Days grow to months, and now added sorrow fills her cup of grief to overflowing. She is to become a mother, and the poor girl cries out in bitter anguish: "My God, what shall I do, must I commit murder. Oh, that I had never entered a ball-room."
All her old companions shun her, every one shuns her, even he who led her to her ruin shuns her. She goes to him, hoping he will have compassion upon her, but he meets her with a sneer, calls her a fool, and tells her to commit a yet greater crime than the first, which in her despair she does and "seals the band of death."
She soon became very ill and sank rapidly, and then came a time when she felt that life was short, and that if she wished to leave a message on earth it must be delivered quickly. Having heard of my conversion and that I intended exposing the evils which germinate in the ball-room she sent a messenger requesting me to call immediately.
On entering the house I was led to a couch in a cosy room where lay the beautiful young woman whose pale face showed all to plainly, an amount of sorrow and suffering unwarranted by her years. The countenance of the sufferer brightened as I entered, and she extended her hand saying: "I am so glad you came to see me, so glad to know that you are to expose the evil which buds in the dance hall. Do not delay your work. I have prayed God to spare my life that I might go and warn young girls against that which has made such a sad wreck of my once pure and happy life, for, when I entered dancing school, I was as innocent as a child and free from sin and sorrow, but under its influence and in its association I lost my purity, my innocence, my all, but I know that God has forgiven the sin which is sending me to my early grave, where I shall soon be forgotten by all earthly friends.
"Do not grieve for me. I am leaving this dark world for a bright and happy one where sin and sorrow are unknown. Mother is waiting for me there and I am not afraid to go."
We spoke of a hope that she might yet recover, but she only closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.
"No," she said, with considerable effort, "I shall never leave this room alive, never see the green hills of home, never see my father's face, but tell him not to mourn for me, I shall be happy in the arms of Jesus."
"Is there nothing I can do for you?" I asked. "Yes," said she faintly, looking earnestly into my face, "Yes, there is one thing; that which I had hoped I might live to do myself. Promise me that you will do that and I shall die content. Promise me that you will go before the world and