Interrupted

by Pansy

  CHAPTER XI.

  A "FANATIC."

  I DO not suppose people realize how much such things influence them.For instance, Alice Ansted was the sort of girl who would have beenashamed of herself had she realized how much more important a personClaire Benedict was to her as soon as it became known that she belongedto the Boston Benedicts. But the fact was very apparent to others,if not to Alice. She had been very glad, before this, to have MissBenedict enjoy the comforts of the house, but now she hovered abouther, and gave her crumbs of personal attention, and found a fascinationin hearing her talk, and, in short, was interested in her to a degreethat she could never have been simply in the poor music-teacher.

  She brought her work one morning, and sat by the luxurious chair whereClaire had been imprisoned, with her injured foot skillfully arrangedon a hassock.

  "How pretty it is," Claire said, watching the crimson silk flowers growon the canvas under skillful fingers; "do you enjoy working on it?"

  The tone of voice which answered her was dissatisfied in the extreme:

  "Oh, I suppose so; as well as I enjoy anything that there is to do. Onemust employ one's self in some way, and we live such a humdrum lifehere that there is chance for very little variety. I am puzzled to knowhow you manage it, Miss Benedict; you have been accustomed to suchdifferent surroundings. This is a sharp enough contrast to Chester.Have you been in Chester yet, Miss Benedict? Well, it is just a nicelittle city; hardly large enough to be called a city. The society isgood, and there is always something going on, and when I come out hereI am at an utter loss what to do with myself. But then, Chester is veryfar from being Boston, and if I had had the advantages of Boston allmy life, as you have, I feel sure I could not endure a month of SouthPlains. It is bad enough for me. How do you bear it?"

  Claire could only smile in answer to this. There were circumstancesconnected with her removal from Boston which were too keenly felt totouch with a careless hand. She hastened to ask questions.

  "What is there pleasant in Chester? I have promised myself to go theresome Saturday, and see what I can find in the library."

  "Oh, there is a very fair library there, I believe, for a town of itssize, but I never patronize it; we have books enough. By the way, MissBenedict, you are welcome to the use of our library. Papa will beglad to have some one enjoying the books. The girls have as much asthey can endure of books in school, and Louis is not literary in histastes; I am almost the only reader. Mamma is so busy with various citybenevolences that, what with her housekeeping and social cares, sherarely has time for much reading. Oh, Chester is well enough. There areconcerts, you know, and lectures, or entertainments of some sort; onecan keep busy there, if one accepts invitations. But, to tell you thetruth, the whole thing often bores me beyond endurance, and I am gladto get out here to be away from it all. I don't like my life. I thinkI have talents for something better, if one could only find what itis--the something better, I mean."

  There was a pretty flush on her discontented face as she looked upeagerly to see how this confidence was being received. Claire's facewas gently sympathetic, and grave. Alice took courage.

  "Mamma laughs at me, and says I am visionary, and that I want to havea career, and that I must be content to fill my sphere in life, as myancestors have done before me; but really I am not content. I don'tlike the sort of life spread out before me for generations back;marrying, you know, and keeping up a handsome house, and receiving andpaying visits, and giving a grand party once a year, when you are sureto offend somebody to whom you were indebted in some way, and whom youforgot. Now, do you see any particular enjoyment in that sort of thing?"

  "No," said Claire unhesitatingly, "I do not."

  "I'm real glad to hear you say so. Mamma thinks it is dreadful to bediscontented with one's lot; but I am. I would like a career of somesort; anything that would absorb me. And yet I don't want to be poor. Ishould shrink from that. Do you really find it easier to get along withlife, now that you have not time to think, as you used?"

  Another question to be gently put aside. What did this girl know of thecharmed life which she had lived at home, and of the father who hadbeen its centre? She could not go into the depths of her heart and dragout its memories, unless there were a very grave reason for so doing.

  "I have always lived a very busy life," she answered, evasively; "butbefore I can help you with any of my experiences, I must ask onequestion: Are you not a Christian, Miss Ansted?"

  Apparently it was an amazing question to the young girl. Her cheekstook a deeper flush; she let her canvas half drop from her hand, andfixed inquiring eyes on her questioner.

  "Why, yes; that is, I suppose I am, or hope I am, or something; I am amember of the church, if that is what you mean."

  "It is not in the least what I mean. That is only the outwardsign--worthless, if it is not indeed a sign of union with Christ. Sucha union as furnishes a career, Miss Ansted, which alone is worthy ofyou. Such a union as carries you captive--making your time and yourmoney, and your talents, not your own, but his. There is nothingdissatisfying about such a life, my friend. It almost lifts one abovethe accident of outward surroundings."

  There was an undoubted amazement expressed on Miss Ansted's face now.

  "I don't in the least understand you," she said. "What has my beinga member of the church to do with all this time which lies on myhands just now, I should like to know. If you mean mission bands andbenevolent societies, and all that sort of thing, my tastes don't liein that direction, in the least. Mamma does enough of that for theentire family; she always has some poky board meeting to attend. I havesat shivering in the carriage, and waited for her last words so manytimes, that I am utterly sick of the whole thing. Oh, I am a member, ofcourse, and give money; that is all they want. But you are mistaken insupposing that these things help me in the least."

  "I don't think so," Claire said, unable to help smiling over thedarkness which had so misunderstood and misinterpreted Christian work,and yet feeling that it called for tears rather than smiles; "thesethings are only more of the 'outward signs.'"

  They were interrupted then, and Claire was not sorry. She wanted tothink over her ground. There was no use in casting these pearls oftruth before Alice Ansted, she was too utterly in the dark to seethem. A young lady she was, well educated, in the common acceptationof that term, accomplished, so far as music and French were concerned,skillful as regards embroidery and worsted work; but evidently theveriest child as regarded the Christian life, though she had been amember of the visible church for years. If she were to be helped atall, Claire must come down from the heights where she walked and meether on some common ground.

  "I wonder how the old church would do?" she asked herself. "I wish Icould get her interested in it, both for her sake and for the sake ofthe church."

  Had she heard the report given below of this brief conversation, shemight have been discouraged, for she was but a young worker after all,and had not met with many rebuffs.

  "Mamma, she is a regular little fanatic," so Alice affirmed. "You oughtto have heard her talk to me! It sounded just like quotations from thatold book of sermons that grandma used to pore over. I didn't know whatshe meant."

  "Probably she did not either," was the comment of this Christianmother. "Some very young people occasionally fall into that style,talking heroics, using theological terms of which they can not graspthe meaning, and fancy it a higher type of religion. She will probablyknow both less and more as she grows older."

  Then was Miss Benedict's pupil, Ella, emboldened to come to the rescueof her teacher's reputation:

  "But, mamma, she is not so very young. I saw her birthday book, and thedate made her twenty in September."

  "Indeed!" said Mrs. Ansted, with amused smile, "that is quite apatriarchal age. She certainly ought to be well posted in alltheological dogmas by this time. My dear, it is one of the worst agesfor a young woman--if she isn't absorbed with an engagement by thattime to fancy herself superior."

  "
Oh, mamma! you don't know Miss Benedict. She doesn't fancy herselfsuperior to anybody. She is just as sweet and lovely as she can be. Allthe girls like her, and I think she has the nicest religion of anybodyI know!" This outburst was from Fannie.

  "Very well, dear," answered the mother complacently; "admire her asmuch as you like. She is quite as safe a shrine as any for a young girllike you to worship at. You must always have some one. I am glad thegirls like her, poor thing; her life must be doleful enough at best.It is certainly a great change." And the benevolent mother sighed insympathy. She was glad to be able to put what she thought was a littlesunshine from her elegant home into the poor music-teacher's lot. Sheeven wondered, as she waited for her carriage to drive down town,whether the sprained ankle were not a providential arrangement toenable her to give a few days of rest and luxury to this unfortunategirl.

  This thought she kept quite to herself. She did not quite accept suchstrained and peculiar views of Providence. It savored a little offanaticism--a thing which she disapproved, and Mr. Ansted disliked; butthen, some people thought such things, and it was barely possible thatthey were sometimes correct.

  She went out to her carriage still thinking these thoughts, and Claire,watching her from the upper window, said to herself:

  "I wonder if I can help her? I wonder if God means me to? Of course, Iam set down here for something." _She_ had no doubt at all about theprovidence in it.

  The son of the house had added one sentence to the family discussion:

  "You might have known that she would be a fanatic, after you foundthat she was Sydney Benedict's daughter. He was the wildest kind of avisionary. Porter was talking about him to-day. He knew them in Boston.He says Benedict gave away enough every year to support his family insplendid style. They are reaping the results of his extravagance."

  This is only one of the many different ways which there are of lookingat things.

  Nevertheless the fair fanatic seemed to be an attractive object tothe entire family. Louis, not hitherto particularly fond of eveningsat home, found himself lingering in the up-stairs library, whither hehad himself wheeled the large chair with the patient seated therein.As the days passed, she persisted in making herself useful, and Ellaand Fannie, under her daily tuition, were making very marked progressin music, as well as in some other things that their mother did notunderstand about so well. It was on one of these cosey evenings thatLouis occupied the piano-stool, he and Alice having been performingsnatches of favorite duets, until Alice was summoned to the parlors.

  "Come down, won't you, Louis? that is a good boy. It is the Powellgirls, and Dick will be with them, I presume." This had been Alice'spetition just as she was leaving the room.

  But Louis had elevated both eyebrows and shoulders.

  "The Powell girls!" he repeated. "Not if this individual knows himself!I never inflict myself on the Powell girls, if there is any possibilityof avoiding it; and as for Dick, I would go a square out of my way anytime, to save boring him. Excuse me, please, Alice; I am not at home,or I _am_ at home, and indisposed--just as you please; the latter hasthe merit of truth. It is my duty to stay here and entertain MissBenedict, since the girls have deserted her.

  "I have no doubt that you would excuse me with pleasure, butnevertheless I consider it my duty to stay!" This last was merrilyadded, just as Alice closed the door.

  Claire did not wait to reply to the banter, but plunged at once intothe centre of the thought which had been growing on her for severaldays.

  "Mr. Ansted, do you know, I wish I could enlist both you and yoursisters as helpers in the renovation of the old church down town?"

  "What! the old brick rookery on the corner? My dear young lady, yourfaith is sublime, and your knowledge of this precious village limited!That concern was past renovating some years before the flood. It wasabout that time, or a little later, that my respected grandfather triedto remodel the seats, and raised such a storm of indignation about hisears that it took a century to calm the people down; so tradition says.Whatever you undertake to do will be a failure; I feel it my duty toinform you of so much. And now I am burning with a desire to ask a rudequestion: Why do you care to do anything with it? Why does it interestyou in the least? I beg your pardon if I am meddling with what does notconcern me, but I was amused over the affair when the girls came homeand petitioned to join the charmed circle. Why a lady who was here butfor a passing season or so, should interest herself in the old horror,was beyond my comprehension. Is it strictly benevolence, may I ask?"

  "I don't think it is benevolence at all. It is a plain-faced duty."

  "Duty!" The heavy eyebrows were raised again. "I don't comprehend you.Why should a stranger to this miserable, little, squeezed-up village,and one who by all the laws of association and affinity will surely notspend much of her time here, have any duties connected with that oldbox, which the church fathers have allowed to run into desolation anddisgrace for so many years, that the present generation accepts it as amatter of course?"

  "Will you allow me to ask _you_ one question, Mr. Ansted? Are you aChristian?"