Interrupted

by Pansy

  CHAPTER V.

  TRYING TO ENDURE.

  OF course there were other contrasts than those suggested by the twochurches which persisted in presenting themselves to this lonely girl.

  How could she help remembering that in the old home she had been SidneyBenedict's daughter? A fact which of itself gave her place and power inall the doings of the sanctuary. Alas for the changes that a few briefmonths can make!

  Sidney Benedict lying in his grave, and his daughter an obscuremusic-teacher in an obscure boarding and day school; an object to bestared at, and pointed out by the villagers as the new teacher.

  But for another contrast, which from some divine source stole overher just then, the hot tears which burned her eyes would surelyhave fallen. Sidney Benedict was not sleeping in the grave; that wasonly the house of clay in which he had lived. She knew, and suddenlyremembered it with a thrill, that his freed soul was in Heaven. Whatdid that mean? she wondered. In vain her imagination tried to paint thecontrast. There had been times since his going when she had longed withall the passion of her intense nature to know by actual experience justwhat Heaven is. But these were cowardly moments. Generally, she hadbeen able to feel thankful that she was here to help mamma and Dora.She remembered this now, along with the memory of her father's joy, andit helped her to choke back the tears, and struggle bravely with herhomesickness.

  Meantime, it was hard for her to forget that she was the observedof all observers. But she did not half understand why this was so.She could not know what a rare bit of beauty she looked in the dingychurch; almost like a ray of brightness astray from another world.

  From her standpoint, her dress was simplicity itself; and she hadnot lived long enough in this outer circle of society to understandthat there are different degrees of simplicity, as well as differentopinions concerning the meaning of the word.

  Her black silk dress was very plainly made, and her seal sacque hadbeen so long worn, that Claire, the millionnaire's daughter, hadremarked only last winter that it had served its time and must besupplanted by a new one; the present Claire, of course, did not thinkof such a thing, but meekly accepted it as part of her cross!

  Her plain black velvet hat had no other trimming than the long plumewhich swept all around it, and had been worn the winter before. Howcould she be expected to have any conception of the effect of hertoilet on the country people by whom she was surrounded. Her world hadbeen so far removed from theirs, that had one told her that to themshe seemed dressed like a princess, she would have been bewildered andincredulous.

  Her dress was very far from suiting herself. Her mood had been toenvelop herself in heaviest black, and shroud her face from curiousgaze behind folds of crape. The only reason she had not done so, hadbeen because the strict sense of honor which governed the fallen familywould not allow them to add thus heavily to their expenses. Indeed, tohave dressed in such mourning as would have alone appeared suitable tothem, would have been impossible. The mother had not seemed to feelthis much. "It doesn't matter, children," she had said gently; "theyknow we miss papa; we have no need of crape to help us tell that story,and for ourselves it would not make our sorrow any less heavy." But thegirls had shrunk painfully from curious eyes and conjectured curiousremarks, and had shed tears in secret over even this phase of thetrouble.

  The bell whose sharp clang was a continued trial to her cultured ears,ceased its twanging at last, and then it was the wheezy little cabinetorgan's turn; and, indeed, those who do not know the capabilities fortorture that some of those instruments have, are fortunate. ClaireBenedict set her teeth firmly. This was an hundred degrees more painfulthan the bell, for the name of this was music. How could any person beso depraved in taste as to believe it other than a misnomer!

  While the choir of seven voices roared through the hymn, Claire shuther eyes, grasped her hymn-book tightly with both hands, set her lips,and endured. What a tremendous bass it was! How fearfully the leadingsoprano "sang through her nose," in common parlance, though almosteverybody understands that we mean precisely opposite! How horribly thetenor flatted, and how entirely did the alto lose the key more thanonce during the infliction of those six verses!

  The hymn was an old one, a favorite with Claire, as it had been withher father; but as that choir shrieked out the familiar words--

  I love her gates, I love the road, The church adorned with grace, Stands like a palace built for God, To show his milder face,

  it seemed hardly possible for one reared as she had been, to turnfrom her surroundings and lose herself in the deep spiritual meaningintended. Nay, when the line,

  Stands like a palace built for God,

  was triumphantly hurled at her through those discordant voices, shecould hardly keep her sad lips from curling into a sarcastic smile, asshe thought of the cracked and smoky walls, the dreadful curtains, thedust and disorder.

  "A palace built for God!" her heart said in disdain, almost in disgust."It isn't a decent stopping-place for a respectable man."

  Then her momentary inclination to smile yielded to genuine indignation.What possible excuse could be offered for such a state of things? Whydid respectable people permit such a disgrace? She had seen at leastthe outside of several of the homes in South Plains, and nothing likethe disorder and desolation which reigned here, was permitted aboutthose homes. How could Christian people think they were honoring Godby meeting for his worship in a place that would have made the worsthousekeeper among them blush for shame had it been her own home.

  Indignation helped her through the hymn, and with bowed head andthrobbing heart, she tried, during the prayer, to come into accord withthe spirit of worship.

  But the whole service was one to be remembered as connected with aweary and nearly fruitless struggle with wayward thoughts. What was theburden of the sermon? She tried in vain afterwards to recall it.

  A series of well-meant and poorly expressed platitudes. "Nothing wrongabout it," thought poor Claire, "except the sin of calling it thegospel, and reading it off to these sleepy people as though he reallythought it might do them some good!"

  Indeed, the minister was almost sleepy himself, or else utterlydiscouraged. Claire tried to rouse herself to a little interest in him,to wonder whether he were a down-hearted, disappointed man. His coatwas seedy, his collar limp and his cuffs frayed at the edges.

  Yes, these were actually some of the things she thought while he saidhis sermon over to them!

  She brought her thoughts with sharp reprimand back to the work of thehour, but they roved again almost as quickly as recalled. At lastshe gave over the struggle, and set herself to the dangerous workof wondering what Doctor Ellis was saying this morning in the dearold pulpit; whether mamma and Dora missed him as much as she did;whether he looked over occasionally to their vacant seat and missedall the absent ones, papa most of all. But the seat was not vacant,probably; already somebody sat at the head of the pew in papa's place,and somebody's daughters, or sisters, or friends, had her place, andmamma's and Dora's. The niches were filled, doubtless, and the work ofthe church was going on just the same, and it was only they who wereleft out in the cold, their hearts bleeding over a gap that would neverbe filled. Dangerous thoughts, these!

  One little strain in another key came in again to help her: Papa wasnot left out; he had gone up higher. What was the old church to him nowthat he had entered into the church triumphant? He might love it still,but there must be a little pity mingled with the love, and a wistfullooking forward to the time when they would all reach to his height,and at that time, mamma and Dora and she would not be left out.

  If this mood had but lasted, it would have been well; but herundisciplined heart was too much for her, and constantly she wanderedback to the thoughts which made the sense of desolation roll over her.

  She was glad when at last the dreary service was concluded, and shecould rush away from the dreary church to the privacy of her small,plain room in the academy, and throw herself on the bed, and indul
ge tothe utmost the passionate burst of sorrow.

  The tears spent their first force soon, but they left their victimalmost sullen. She allowed herself to go over, in imagination, theSundays which were to come, and pictured all their unutterabledreariness.

  Did I tell you about the rusty stoves, whose rusty and cobwebby pipesseemed to wander at their own erratic will about that church? It wascurious how poor Claire's excited brain fastened upon those stovepipesas the drop too much in her accumulation of horrors. It seemed toher that she could not endure to sit under them, no, not for anotherSabbath; and here was a long winter and spring stretching out beforeher! She was not even to go home for the spring vacation; her poor,ruined purse would not admit of any such extravagance. It would bealmost midsummer before she could hope to see mamma and Dora again. Andin the meantime, how many Sundays there were! She vexed herself tryingto make out the exact number and their exact dates.

  This mood, miserable as it was, possessed her all the afternoon. Itseemed not possible to get away from it. She crept forlornly from herbed presently, because of the necessity of seeing to her expiring fire.She was shivering with the cold; but as she struggled with the dampwood, trying to blow the perverse smoke into a flame, she went on withher indignant, not to say defiant thoughts. She went back again to thatdreadful church, and the fires in those neglected stoves.

  She determined resolutely that her hours spent in that building shouldbe as few as possible. Of course, she must attend the morning service;but nothing could induce her to spend her evenings there.

  "I might much better sit in my room and read my Bible, and write goodSunday letters to mamma and Dora," she told herself, grimly, as thespiteful smoke suddenly changed its course and puffed in her face."At least, I shall not go to church. I don't belong to that church,I am thankful to remember, and never shall; I have no special dutiestoward it; I shall just keep away from it and from contact with thepeople here, as much as possible. It is enough for me if I do my dutytoward those giggling girls who think they are to become musiciansunder my tuition. I will do my best for them, and I shall certainlyearn all the salary I am offered here; then my work in this placewill be accomplished. I have nothing to do with the horrors of thatchurch. If the people choose to insult God by worshiping him in such anabomination of desolations as that, it is nothing to me. I must justendure so much of it as I am obliged to, until I can get away fromhere. I am not to spend my life in South Plains, I should hope."

  She shuddered over the possibility of this. She did not understand herpresent state of mind. She seemed to herself not Claire Benedict atall, but a miserable caricature of her. What had become of the strong,bright, willing spirit with which she had been wont to take hold oflife? Energetic she had always been called; "self-reliant," she hadheard that word applied to herself almost from childhood. "A girl whohad a great deal of executive talent." Yes, she used to have; but sheseemed now to have no talent of any sort. She felt crushed; as thoughthe motive power had been removed from her.

  She had borne up bravely while with her mother and younger sister. Shehad felt the necessity for doing so; her mother's last earthly propmust not fail her, and therefore Claire had done her best. But nowthere was no more need for endurance. Her tears could not pain mamma orDora; she had a right to give her grief full sway. She felt responsibleto nobody. Her work in the world was done. Not by any intention ofhers, she told herself drearily; she had been willing and glad to work;she had rejoiced in it, and had planned for a vigorous and aggressivefuture, having to do with the best interests of the church. Only thinkhow full of work her hours had been, that day when the clouds shut downon her and set her aside! There was nothing more for her to do. Herplans were shattered, her opportunities swept away, everything had beencruelly interrupted; she could not help it, and she knew no reason forit; certainly she had tried to do her best. But, at least, with heropportunities closed, her responsibility was gone; nothing more couldbe expected of her; henceforth she must just _endure_.

  This is just the way life looked to the poor girl on this sad Sabbath.She was still trying to rely on herself; and because herself was foundto be such a miserable source of reliance, she gloomily blamed her hardfate, and said that at least her responsibility was over. She did notsay in words--"God has taken away all my chances, and he must just bewilling to bear the consequences of my enforced idleness;" she wouldhave been shocked had she supposed that such thoughts were being nursedin her heart; but when you look the matter over, what else was shesaying? A great many of our half-formed thoughts on which we brood,will not bear the clear gaze of a quiet hour when we mean honest work.