by Pansy
CHAPTER XXIII.
UNPALATABLE TRUTHS.
"YES," said Claire, "I will try."
But she said it with a long-drawn sigh. This was work that was utterlydistasteful to her, and she saw but little hope of accomplishinganything by attempting it.
She wanted to fight the demon of alcohol wherever found--at least, shehad thought that she did; but who would have supposed that it couldbring her into such strange contact with Mrs. Russel Ansted?
In order that you may understand why this plan of rescue had suggesteditself to Alice Ansted's mind, it will be necessary to explain that theacquaintance which had been commenced by accident had been allowed tomature into what might almost be called friendship.
At least, it had pleased Mrs. Ansted to encourage the intimacy betweenher young people and the attractive music-teacher.
"It is not as though she had been simply a music-teacher, and nothingelse, all her life," was Mrs. Ansted wont to explain to her cityfriends. "She is a daughter of the Boston Benedicts, and, of course,her opportunities have been rare. She is simply faultless in hermanners; the girls learn a great deal from her, and are devoted to her,and she really is a charming companion. You know in the country we haveno society."
So Claire had been made almost oppressively welcome to the lovely houseon the hill, and the sleigh or the carriage had been sent for her manytimes when she could not go, and in many kind and pleasant ways hadthe entire family sought to show their interest in her society. Mrs.Ansted, indeed, patronized her to such an extent that Alice had madeherself imagine that in this direction might be found the light whichwould open the mother's eyes to certain things which she ought to seeand did not.
Claire did not share her hopes. She had always felt herself held backfrom real heart intimacy with the fair and worldly woman; had alwaysdetected the tinge of patronage in the kindness shown her, and hadeven smiled sometimes at the thought of how the very attentions whichshe received placidly, and, in a sense gratefully, would chafe herhot-headed young sister Dora. It had given her joy of heart and causefor gratitude to realize that she herself had been lifted above suchchafings. There were trials in her lot, but Mrs. Ansted's patronage wasnot one of them. Still it made her feel that little would be gained byattempted interference in her family affairs. Under the circumstances,she felt herself intrusive, yet determined to submit and therebyconvince Alice of her willingness and powerlessness. The most she hadto fear was a little drawing up of the aristocratic shoulders, and acold and courteous hint that some things belonged exclusively to thedomain of very close friendship.
It was on the following Saturday that opportunity offered for anattempt. Claire was spending the day with the Ansteds; the invitationhad come from the mother, and was unusually cordial. Louis was in town,would probably remain over the Sabbath, and the girls were lonely. Themother did not know how much more readily the invitation was acceptedbecause Louis was in town.
They were in Mrs. Ansted's own sitting-room. The young girls had beencalled to the sewing-room at the mandate of the dressmaker, and Alice,telegraphing Claire that now was her opportunity, slipped away. Haveyou ever observed how much harder it becomes to set about a delicateand embarrassing duty when circumstances have been carefully made foryou, and you are left to stare in the face the thought "I am to do thisthing, _now_; it is expected of me?"
Immediately Claire began to feel that it would be preposterous in herto try to advise or enlighten Mrs. Ansted. But that lady unconsciouslyhelped her by asking:
"Did you ever meet Mr. Harold Chessney in Boston? I believe he callsthat his home, though he is abroad a great deal. I wish he were abroadnow, instead of planning an excursion to the Rocky Mountains and allsorts of out-of-the-world places, and putting Louis into a fever toaccompany him. I have a horror of those Western expeditions enteredinto by young men. Louis will not go contrary to my approval, however,so I need not worry about it. It is a great comfort to a mother to havea dutiful son, my dear."
"It must be," Claire hastened to say, but added that she should thinkit would be a delightful trip for a young man, and a rare opportunityto see his own country. She was not personally acquainted with Mr.Chessney, but she had heard him very highly spoken of.
"Oh, he is perfection, I suppose," Mrs. Ansted said carelessly; "tooperfect, my dear, for ordinary flesh and blood. He is very wealthyand very eccentric; has innumerable ways for wasting his money onsavages, and all that sort of thing. I should really almost fear hisinfluence over Louis, he is such an impressible boy. Harold might fancyit his duty to become a home missionary." This last was spoken with alittle satisfied laugh, as though Louis Ansted's position was too wellassured, after all, to suggest any reasonable fears of his sinking tothe level of a home missionary! The matron speedily composed her face,however, and added:
"Harold is a magnificent man, I have no doubt, and if Louis were ayoung man of depraved tendencies and low tastes, probably I shouldhope for nothing better than to exile him for awhile with such aguard; but in his position, and with his prospects, the idea is, ofcourse, absurd. I don't know what fancies Alice has in mind, the childseems quite to favor Louis' going. Alice is a little inclined to befanatical, I am afraid, in some things. I hope you will not encouragesuch tendencies, my dear. I have seen with pleasure that she isbecoming more interested in religion, and disposed to help poor Bud,though she has chosen some foolish ways of doing that--but still itis quite as it should be to rouse to the importance of these things; Ihave been pained with her indifference in the past. However, we shouldnot carry anything to extremes, you know."
They were not getting on. Claire did not feel like a diplomatist. Shewas disposed to be straightforward. Would not simple truth serve herpurpose in this case? At least, it would be less humiliating than totry to worm herself into family confidences. So she spoke her plainquestion:
"Mrs. Ansted, has it never seemed to you that it would be well forLouis to get away for a time from some of his associates who tempt himin the direction in which he is least able to bear temptation?"
Plain English was not palatable, or else it was not understood. Two redspots glowed on the mother's cheek, but her eyes were cold.
"And what is that, if you please? I was not aware that my son wasparticularly susceptible to any temptation."
Could this be true? Did she not know that he was tempted to reel homeat midnight like a common drunkard? If so, what an awful revelation fora stranger to make!
Claire hesitated, and the lady looked steadily at her and waited.Simple truth should serve her again; it would be insulting to offeranything else.
"Mrs. Ansted, you will pardon me for referring to it, but I know fromyour son's own statements that he is tempted in the direction ofliquor, and that he finds it hard to resist these temptations, and I amafraid he is in great danger. If I were his mother, and had confidencein this Mr. Chessney, I should beg him to go out with him, and breakaway from his present surroundings."
She was deceived in the mother--in the calm with which she listened tothese words. She did not cry out like one amazed and hurt, nor did shelook like one who was being shocked into a faint; and Claire, watchingher, hurried on, determined to make her disagreeable revelations asbrief as she could, and then to get away from the subject. Surely themother could not feel much humiliated before her, when she confessedthat she had received these intimations from the son.
But directly her voice ceased, the mother arose, her own tones low andladylike as usual:
"I am not aware, Miss Benedict, that our kind treatment of you canhave furnished any excuse for this direct and open insult. I did notknow that you had succeeded in securing my son's confidence to such adegree that he had been led to traduce his friends. I can not imaginehis motive; but allow me to say that yours is plain, and will fail. Thelady to whom Mr. Louis Ansted has been paying special attention foryears, can not be thrown off, even by his taking a trip to the RockyMountains; and if you hope to ingratiate yourself in the mother's heartby trying to arouse her
fears, you have made a grievous mistake. Mydaughters are evidently more susceptible, and I now understand somethings that were before mysterious to me.
"I am sorry for you, Miss Benedict. I can well imagine that it is ahard thing to be poor; but it is a pity to add disgrace to poverty. Youhave been unwise to try to work up fanatical ideas on my son. We arenone of us temperance fanatics."
There was a dangerous fire in Claire's eyes, but she struggled to keepback the words that hurried forward, clamoring to be spoken. This womanbefore her was old enough to be her mother, and was the mother of ayoung man whom she would try to save.
Besides, she had the force of habit to help her. The controlled voicewhich belongs to the cultured lady, even under strong provocation, wasas much a part of her as it was of Mrs. Ansted.
"I will pass by your personalities, Mrs. Ansted, as unworthy of you,and ask you to pardon my apparent intrusion into family affairs, onthe sole ground that I have come into possession of some knowledgeconcerning your son's danger which I have reason to believe you do notpossess, and I thought I ought, as a Christian woman, to warn you."
Mrs. Ansted was already repenting of some of her words--beginning, thatis, to realize that she had been unnecessarily insulting to a guest inher own home, and one whom her son, as well as her daughters, liked andadmired. She was not less angry, but more controlled.
"Possibly you mean well," she said, dropping into the patronizingtone which was habitual, "and I may have spoken too plainly, in myhaste; a mother's feelings, when she considers the characters of herchildren insulted, are sometimes not sufficiently held in check. Wewill conclude, Miss Benedict, that your motive was good, though yourwords were unfortunate, and your conclusions unwarrantable. My son isentirely capable of taking care of himself. If you are really sincerein supposing him to be in danger, because he takes an occasional glassof wine, it only proves you to be lamentably ignorant of the customs ofpolite society. And now I must beg you to excuse me. Excitement alwayswearies me, and I feel that I must lie down for awhile. I presume mydaughter will be in soon."
And Claire was left alone to gather her startled thoughts and determinewhat to do next. She was greatly excited. In all her imaginings of amother's heart, nothing of this kind had occurred.
It had been a serious failure, as she had feared it would be, but notof the kind which she had planned.
She looked about her for paper on which to write a line to Alice; thendetermined that she would do no such thing, lest Alice might have tobear blame in consequence.
She would just slip quietly away, and go home and think. It wasnot clear in her mind what ought to be said to Alice. She had beeninsulted, and by Alice's mother, and she could not longer remain aguest in the house; but perhaps it was not necessary that Alice shouldknow all this. She must wait, and think, and pray.
At least, it would not be wise to make any expression about Mrs.Ansted until she could think less bitterly of the words spoken to her;for it is by no means a pleasant thing to be misjudged, and it isespecially difficult to keep one's mouth closed when one has that totell which would silence all the hints forever. It had required allthe self-control which Claire possessed not to tell Mrs. Ansted to askher son whether the insinuations which had been flung at her meantanything. Certainly she was not in the mood to have an interview withAlice.
She hastily and quietly possessed herself of her wraps, and stole outof the house and down the avenue which had in the few weeks past becomeso familiar to her. Bud saw her from the distant stables, but he onlymade her a most respectful bow. It was no strange sight to him. He knewthat she came and went often during these days; he did not know she wasthinking that in all probability she would never walk down that avenueagain.
There is no use explaining to you that she cried when she reachedhome; cried bitterly, and with a perfect abandon, as though her heartwere broken. She was young and had not had many hard words to bear, andall her sharp thrusts from life had come upon her lately; her knowledgeof human nature had been increasing with painful rapidity, and therewere times when she shrank from it all, and wanted to go to her father.
But after the crying--or, indeed, in the very midst of it--she prayed:for herself first--she felt so sore, and ill-used, and friendless; thenfor Louis Ansted--the special danger and the special friendlessness ofa man with such a mother, took hold of her with power, and at last sheprayed for the mother; not _at_ her, but for her.
There is a way of praying about a soul with whom we are offended--or,at least, we call it praying--which is simply pouring out one'sknowledge of that person's shortcomings in an almost vindictive waybefore the One whom we almost unconsciously feel ought to come to ourhelp and administer rebuke. Claire honestly prayed for Louis Ansted'smother. Her eyes must be opened, but how? Must it be that they were tobe opened by the utter ruin of her only son?
That this might not be necessary, Claire prayed, and rose up presently,almost forgetful that she had received deep wounds, and quite ready toshield that mother's shortcomings from her children.