Interrupted

by Pansy

  CHAPTER II.

  WHY?

  JUST at midnight--that is, just at the dawning of the "to-morrow"for which so much had been planned--Claire was awakened by a quick,decisive knock at her door, followed by a voice which expressed hasteand terror:

  "Miss Claire, your mother wants you to come right away, and bring MissDora. Your father is sick."

  And Claire was alert in an instant, wakening, soothing and helping thefrightened Dora. She herself was not greatly alarmed. It is true, herfather was not subject to sudden illnesses; but then, men were oftensick, and very sick, too, while the attack lasted. She called to mindthe story Nettie Stuart had told her that afternoon, how "papa wasso ill the night before that they really thought he would die, andeverybody in the house was up waiting on him." Yet "papa" had been atthe bank that next day, looking nearly as well as usual. Had it beenher frail mother who was ill, Claire felt that her pulses would havequickened more than they did now. Mamma did not seem strong enough tobear much pain, but papa was a man of iron frame, everybody said.

  She told over some of these encouraging thoughts to Dora, while shehelped her to dress:

  "Don't tremble so, darling; there is nothing to be frightened about.Papa has one of his dreadful headaches, I presume, and mamma needs usto help care for him. You know she is not feeling so well as usual.She promised to call me the next time papa needed nursing. Men are sounused to suffering, that a pain is something terrible to them while itlasts."

  They sped down the stairs together, Claire having slackened none of herspeed because she believed there was no cause for alarm. Her hand wason her mother's doorknob, when the door swung open, and the mother'swhite face made her start back in affright.

  "Where are they?" she said, in a strange, agonized voice, groping aboutwith her hand as though she did not see distinctly, though the hallwas brightly lighted. "O, children, children, you are too late! Oh,why"--and she fell senseless at their feet; and Claire was bending overher, lifting her in trembling arms, trying to speak soothing words, allthe time wondering in a terror-stricken way what all this could mean!Too late for what?

  They had to settle down to inevitable facts, as so many poor soulsbefore, and since, have had to do. Of course, the first wildness ofgrief passed, and they realized but too well that the father who hadkissed them and bade them look out for a bright to-morrow, had goneaway, and taken all the brightness of the to-morrow with him. At firstthey could not believe it possible. Father dead! Why, his robust frameand splendid physique had been the remark of guests ever since theycould remember! He had been fond of boasting that a physician had notbeen called for him in twenty years.

  Well, the physician arrived too late on this particular night, whenhe had been called; another call had been louder, and the father wentto answer to it. Well for him that he had long before made ready forthis journey, and that there was nothing in the summons that would havealarmed him, had he been given time to have realized it.

  The poor widow went over, again and again, the details of that awfulhour:

  "We had a little talk together, just as usual. Much of it was aboutyou; that was natural, too; he talked a great deal about you, children;and on that evening, he said, after you left the room, that you bothneeded developing in different ways, and sometimes it troubled himto know how it was to be done. I did not understand him, and I askedwhat he meant. He said some things that I will try to tell you when myhead is clearer. He was very earnest about it, and asked me to kneeldown with him, and he prayed again for you, dear girls, and for me, awonderful prayer. It wasn't like any that I ever heard before. Oh, Imight have known then that it was to prepare me; but I didn't think ofsuch a thing. I asked him if he felt well, and he said, oh, yes, onlymore tired than usual; it had been a hard day, and there were businessmatters that were not so smooth as he could wish. But he told me therewas nothing to worry about; only affairs that would require carefulhandling, such as he meant to give them. Then he dropped to sleep, andI lay awake a little, thinking over what he had said about you two, andwondering if he was right in his conclusions. At last I slept, too, andI knew nothing more until his heavy breathing awakened me.

  "I made all possible haste for lights, and sent for the doctor and foryou just as soon as I could get an answer to the bell; and Thomas wasquick, too, but it seemed an age. The moment I had a glimpse of yourfather's face, I knew something dreadful was the matter; but I did notthink, even then, that he was going to leave me."

  At this point the desolate wife would break into a storm of tears,and the daughters would give themselves to soothing words and tenderkisses, and put aside as best they could the consuming desire to knowwhat that dear father's last thoughts had been for them.

  Well, the days passed. Isn't it curious how time moves along steadily,after the object for which we think time was made has slipped away?

  This sudden death, however, had made an unusual break in the usualorder of things. Mr. Benedict's name was too closely identified withall the business interests of the city, as well as with its moral andreligious interests, not to have his departure from their midst makegreat differences, and be widely felt.

  The few days following his death were days of general and spontaneouspublic demonstration. On the afternoon of the funeral, greatwarehouses were closed, because his name was identified with them;stores were closed, because crape waved from the doors of his, thelargest in the line. The First National Bank was closed, for he was oneof the Directors. The public schools were closed, because he had beenprominent among their Board of Directors; and it was so that on everystreet some token of the power of the great man gone was shown.

  As for the church, and the Sabbath-school, and the prayer-room, theywere draped in mourning; but that feebly expressed the sense of loss.

  "We cannot close our doors to show our sorrow," said Doctor Ellis, hislips tremulous; "we have need to throw them more widely open, and rallywith renewed effort, for one of the mighty is fallen."

  To the widow and her girls, there was, as the hours passed, a sort ofsad pleasure in noting this universal mourning; in listening to thetearful words expressing a sense of personal loss, which came rightfrom the hearts of so many men and women and children. They beganto see that they had not half realized his power in the community,as young men in plain, sometimes rough dress, men whose names theyhad never heard, and whose faces they had never seen, came and stoodover the coffin, and dropped great tears as they told in the briefand subdued language of the heart, of some lift, or word, or touch ofkindness, that this man had given them, just when they needed it most.

  Born of these tender and grateful tributes from all classes, was adrop of bitterness that seemed to spread as Claire turned it over inher troubled heart. It could all be suggested to those familiar withthe intricacies of the human heart, by that one little word, Why?It sometimes becomes an awful word, with power to torture the tornheart almost to madness. "Why was father, a man so good, so true, sogrand, so sadly needed in this wicked world, snatched from it justin the prime of his power?" She brooded over this in silence and insecret--not wishing to burden her mother's heart by the query, notliking to add a suggestion of bitterness to Dora's sorrowful cup. Onlyonce, when a fresh exhibition of his care for others, and the fruit itbore, was unexpectedly made to them, she was betrayed into exclaiming:

  "I cannot understand why it was!"

  Whether the mother understood her or not, she did not know. She hopednot; she was sorry she had spoken. But presently the mother rousedherself to say gently:

  "You girls were on your father's heart in a strange way. That last talkabout you I must try to tell you of, when I can. The substance of itI have told you. He thought you both needed developing. Dora dear, hesaid you needed more self-reliance; that you had too many props, anddepended on them. He might have said the same of me; I depended on himmore than I knew. He said you needed to be thrust out a little, andlearn to stand alone, and brave winds and storms. And Claire, I don'tthink I fully understood what he wanted
for you, only he said that youneeded to trust less to your own self, and lean on Christ."

  After this word from her father, Claire sat in startled silence for afew minutes, then took it to her room.

  Did you ever notice that the storms of life seem almost never to comein detached waves, but follow each other in rapid succession?

  When the Benedict family parted for the night, less than a week afterthe father had been laid in the grave, Dora said listlessly to hersister:

  "There is one little alleviation, I think, to a heavy blow--for awhile, at least, nothing else seems heavy. Things that troubled me lastweek seem so utterly foolish to-day. I don't this evening seem to carefor anything that could happen to us now; to us three, I mean."

  Before noon of the next day she thought of that sentence again with asort of dull surprise at her own folly.

  How do such things occur? I can not tell. Yet how many times in yourlife have you personally known of them--families who are millionnairesto-day, and beggars to-morrow? It was just that sort of blow whichcame to the Benedicts. Came, indeed, because of the other one, andfollowed hard after it. Business men tried to explain matters to thewidow. A peculiar complication of circumstances existed, which calledfor her husband's clear brain and wise handling. Had he lived, allwould have been well; there was scarcely a doubt of it. Had he beenable to give one week more to business, he would have shaped everythingto his mind; but the call came just at the moment when he could leastbe spared, and financial ruin had followed.

  Mrs. Benedict, in her widow's cap, with her plaintive white face, herdelicate, trembling hands working nervously in her lap, from which thecrimson fancy work was gone, tried to understand the bewildermentswhich, one after another, were presented to her, and grew less andless able to take in the meaning of the great words, and at lastraised herself from her easy chair, looked round pitifully for Claire,and sank back among the cushions--her face, if possible, whiter thanbefore.

  The elder daughter came swiftly forward from her obscurity in the backparlor, and stood beside her mother.

  "I beg pardon, gentlemen, but mamma does not understand business terms;my father never burdened her with them. Will you let me ask you a fewplain questions? Is my father's money all gone?"

  The gentlemen looked from one to another, and hesitated. At last thelawyer among them said he feared--that is, it was believed--it seemedto be almost certain that when all the business was settled, therewould be a mere pittance left.

  The next question caused two red spots to glow on Claire's cheeks, butshe held her head erect, and her voice was steady:

  "And do they--does anybody think that my father did wrong in any way?"

  "Mamma," with a tender, apologetic glance at her, "people say suchthings sometimes, you know, when they do not understand."

  But the gentlemen could be voluble now:

  "Oh, no! no, indeed! not a breath of suspicion attached to his name.His intentions were as clear as the sunlight, and the fact was, he hadperiled his own fortune in a dangerous time, to help others who were instraits, and he had been called to leave it at a dangerous time, anddisaster has followed."

  One question more:

  "Will others be sufferers through this disaster?"

  The answer was not so ready. The gentlemen seemed to find it necessaryto look again at one another. They, however, finally admitted, to eachother, that there was property enough to cover everybody's loss, ifthat were the wish of the family; this, without any doubt, but therewould be almost nothing left.

  "Very well," Claire said, "then we can bear it. We thank you,gentlemen, and you may be sure of this one thing--that no person shalllose a penny through our father's loss, if we can help it. Now, mayI ask you to leave further particulars until another time? Mamma hasborne as much as she can to-day."

  And the gentlemen, as they went down the steps of the great brownstonefront, said to each other that Benedict had left a splendid girl, withself-reliance enough to manage for herself and take care of the family.

  Yet I suppose there had never been a time when Claire Benedict feltmore as though all the powers which had hitherto sustained her,were about to desert, and leave her helpless, than she did when shecontrolled her own dismay, and helped her mother to bed, and sat besideher, and bathed her head, and steadily refused to talk, or to hear hermother talk, about this new calamity, but literally hushed her intoquiet and to sleep.

  Then, indeed, she took time to cry, as few girls cry; as ClaireBenedict had never cried before in her life.

  Her self-reliance seemed gone. As the passion of her voiceless griefswayed and fairly frightened her, there stole suddenly into her heartthe memory of the last message: "Claire needs to trust less to herself,and lean on Christ."