"OUR CHURCH."
THE dreary weather was not gone by the next morning. A keen wind was
blowing, and ominous flakes of snow were fluttering their signals in
the air; but the music-room was warm, and the music-teacher herself had
gotten above the weather. She was at the piano, waiting for the bell to
ring that should give the signal for morning prayers.
Around the stove were gathered a group of girls who had hushed their
voices at her entrance. They were afraid of the pale music-teacher.
Hitherto they had regarded her with mingled feelings of awe and dislike.
Her very dress, plain black though it was, with its exquisite fit
and finish, seemed to mark her as belonging to another world than
themselves. They expected to learn music of her, but they expected
nothing else.
It was therefore with a visible start of surprise that they received
her first advances in the shape of a question, as she suddenly wheeled
on the piano-stool and confronted them:
"Girls, don't you think our church is just dreadful?"
Whether it was a delicate tact, or a sweet spirit born of the last
evening's experience, that led Claire Benedict to introduce that potent
little "our" into her sentence, I will leave you to judge.
It had a curious effect on the girls around the stove. These
bright-faced, keen-brained, thoroughly-good girls, who had lived
all their lives in a different atmosphere from hers. They were good
scholars in algebra, they were making creditable progress in Latin,
and some of them were doing fairly well in music; but they could no
more set their hats on their heads with the nameless grace which
hovered around Claire Benedict's plainly-trimmed plush one, than they
could fly through the air. This is just one illustration of the many
differences between them. This young lady had lived all her days in
the environments of city culture; they had caught glimpses of city
life, and it meant to them an unattainable fairy-land, full of lovely
opportunities and probabilities, such as would never come to them. It
struck every one of those girls as a peculiarly pleasant thing that
their lovely music-teacher had said "our" instead of "your."
One of the less timid presently rallied sufficiently to make answer:
"Dreadful? It is just perfectly horrid! It fairly gives me the blues
to go to church. Girls, mother has almost spoiled her new cashmere
sweeping the church floor with it. She says she would be ashamed to
have our wood-shed look as badly as that floor does. I don't see why
the trustees allow such slovenliness."
"It is because we can not afford to pay a decent sexton," sighed one of
the others. "We are so awful poor! That is the cry you always hear if
there is a thing said. I don't believe we deserve a church at all."
Claire had partially turned back to the piano, and she touched the keys
softly, recalling a long-forgotten strain about "Girding on the armor,"
before she produced her next startling sentence.
"Girls, let us dress up that church until it doesn't know itself."
If the first words had astonished them, this suggestion for a moment
struck them dumb. They looked at one another, then at the resolute face
of the musician. Then one of them gasped out:
"Us girls?"
"You don't mean it!" from two dismayed voices.
"How could we do anything?" from a gentle timid one.
"But the girl who had found courage to speak before, and to volunteer
her opinion as to the disgraced church, sounded her reply on a
different note:
"When?"
"Right away," said the music teacher, smiling brightly on them all, but
answering only the last speaker.
Then she left the piano, and came over to the centre of the group,
which parted to let her in.
"Just as soon as we can, I mean. We must first secure the money; but I
think we can work fast, with such a motive."
Then came the chorus of discouragements:
"Miss Benedict, you don't know South Plains. We never can raise this
money in the world. It has been tried a dozen different times, and
there are a dozen different parties, as sure as we try to do anything.
Some people won't give toward the old church, because they want a new
one. As if we could ever have a new church! Others think it is well
enough as it is, if it could be swept now and then. And there is one
woman who always goes to talking about the time she gave the most for
that old rag of a carpet on the platform, and then they went and bought
it at another store instead of at theirs, where they ought to, and
for her part, she will never give another cent toward fixing up that
church."
Another voice chimed in:
"Yes; and there is an old man who says honesty comes before
benevolence. He seems to think it would be quite a benevolence to
somebody to fix up that old rookery; and they owe him ten dollars for
coal, and they will never prosper in the world until they pay him."
"Is it true about the society owing him?"
"No, ma'am; it isn't. Father says they paid him more than the coal was
worth. He is an old scamp. But it is just a specimen of the way things
go here; hundreds of reasons seem to pop up to hinder people from
doing a thing; and all the old stories are raked up, and after awhile
everybody gets mad with everybody else, and won't try to do anything.
You never saw such a place as South Plains."
But the music-teacher laughed. She was so sure of what ought to be
done, and therefore, of course, of what could be done, that she could
afford to laugh over the ludicrous side of this doleful story.
The girls, however, did not see the ludicrous side.
"It makes me cold all over, just thinking about trying to beg money in
South Plains for anything; and for the church most of all!"
To be sure this was Nettie Burdick's statement, and she was noted for
timidity; but none of the bolder ones controverted her position.
But Miss Benedict had another bomb-shell to throw into their midst.
"Begging money is dreadful work, I suppose. I never did much of it.
My collecting route lay among people who were pledged to give just so
much, and who as fully expected to pay it when the collector called,
as they expected to pay their gas bill or their city taxes. But don't
let us think of doing any such thing. Let us raise the money right here
among ourselves."
Blank silence greeted her. Had she been able to look into their
hearts, she would have seen something like this: Oh, yes! it is all
very well for you to talk of raising money. Anybody can see by your
dress, and your style, and everything, that you have plenty of it; but
if you expect money from us, you don't know what you are talking about.
The most of us have to work so hard, and coax so long to get decent
things to wear, that we are almost tired of a dress or a bonnet before
it is worn. But this they did not want to put into words. Neither did
Miss Benedict wait for them.
"We must earn it, of course, you know."
"Earn it! How?" Half a dozen voices this time.
"Oh, in a dozen ways," smiling brightly. "To begin with, there is
voluntary contribution. Perhaps we can not all help in that way, but
some of us can, and every little helps. My salary, for instance, is
three hundred a year."
She caught her breath as she said this, and paled a little. It was much
less than Sydney Benedict had allowed his daughter for spending money;
but to those girls it sounded like a little fortune.
"That is twenty-five dollars a month, and a tenth of that is two
dollars and a half. Now I propose to start this scheme by giving the
'tenths' of two months' salary. Come, Nettie, get your pencil, and be
our secretary. We might as well put it in black and white, and make a
beginning."
"Do you always give a tenth of everything you have?"
It was Nannie Howard's question, asked in a hesitating, thoughtful
tone, while Nettie blushing and laughing, went into the depths of her
pocket for a pencil, tore a fly-leaf from her algebra, and wrote Miss
Benedict's name.
"Always!" said the music-teacher, gently, her lip trembling and her
voice quivering a little. "It was my father's rule. He taught it to me
when I was a little, little girl."
They could not know how pitiful it seemed to her that the daughter of
the man who had given his annual thousands as tenths, had really to
spend an hour in planning, so that she might see her way clear toward
giving two dollars and a half a month! Not that this young Christian
intended to wait until she could see her way clear. Her education had
been, The tenth belongs to God. As much more as you can conscientiously
spare, of course; but this is to be laid aside without question. Her
education, built on the rock of Christian principle, had laid it aside
as a matter of course, and then her human nature had lain awake and
planned how to get along without it, and yet not draw on the sacred
fund at the bank.
"I suppose it is a good rule," Mary Burton said, "though I never
thought of doing such a thing. Well," after another thoughtful pause,
"I may as well begin, I suppose. I have a dollar a month to do what I
like with. I'll give two dollars to the fund."
"Good!" said Miss Benedict. "Why, girls, we have a splendid beginning."
But Mary Burton was an exception; not another girl in the group had an
allowance. A few minutes of total silence followed; then a new type of
character came to the front.
"Father gave me a dollar this morning to get me a new pair of gloves;
but I suppose I can make the old ones do. I'll give that."
"O, Kate! your gloves look just horrid." This from a younger sister.
"I know they do, but I don't care," with a little laugh that belied the
words; "so does the church."
"That's true," said Anna Graves. "It gives one the horrors just to
think of it. I gave up all hope of its being fixed, long ago, because I
knew the men would never do it in the world; but if there is anything
we can accomplish, let's do it. I say we try. I was going to trim my
brown dress with velvet. It will cost two dollars. I'll give it up and
trim with the same. Nettie Burdick, put me down for two dollars."
This, or something else, set the two timid ones, who were sisters,
to whispering; presently they nodded their heads in satisfaction.
Whatever their plan was, they kept it to themselves. It undoubtedly
included self-sacrifice, as they belonged to a family who honestly had
but little from which to give, but they presently directed that their
names be set down for a dollar each.
Apparently, the crowning bit of sacrifice came from Ruth Jennings.
"Father has been promising me a piano-stool for more than a year," she
explained, laughing. "This morning he gave me the money, and I have a
note written to Benny Brooks to bring it down with him next Saturday;
but I do so dreadfully hate those red curtains, that if you will
promise to do something with the windows the first thing, I'll sit on
the dictionary and the Patent Office Reports for another year. A stool
such as I was going to get, costs four dollars. Put it down, Nettie,
quick!"
A general clapping of hands ensued. Not a girl present but appreciated
that to Ruth Jennings this was quite a sacrifice. As for Miss Benedict,
her eyes were brimming.
"You dear girls," she said, eagerly, "I feel as though I wanted to
kiss every one of you. We will certainly have our church made over.
I feel sure of it now. I think some of you must prefer it above your
chief joy."
This called forth a chorus of voices:
"O, Miss Benedict, you don't think that velvet ribbons, and gloves, and
such things, are our chief joys, do you?"
"Or even piano-stools!" This from Ruth Jennings, amid much laughter.
But Miss Benedict's face was grave.
"Has the _church_ been?" She asked the question gently, yet in a
sufficiently significant tone.
The reply was prompt.
"I should think not! Such a horrid old den as it is! How could there be
any joy about it!"
The words of the evening's text were repeating themselves so forcibly
in their teacher's heart that she could not refrain from quoting: "Let
my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I prefer not Jerusalem
above my chief joy."
The laughter was hushed.
"But that doesn't mean the building, does it, Miss Benedict?"
"The building is the outward sign of His presence, is it not? And
suggests one of the ways in which we can show our love for the God to
whose worship the church is dedicated?"
As she spoke she wound an arm around the young girl's waist, and was
answered, thoughtfully:
"I suppose so. It seems wrong to talk about worshipping God in a place
that is not even clean, doesn't it?"
How familiar they were growing with their pretty young teacher, of
whom they had thought, only the day before, that they should always be
afraid.
"Isn't she sweet?"
This question they repeated one to another, as, in answer to the bell
summoning them to morning prayers, they moved down the hall.
"So quick-witted and so unselfish!" said a second.
"And not a bit 'stuck up'!" declared a third.
And with their brains throbbing with new ideas, they went in to
prayers. They glanced at one another and smiled, when Mrs. Foster
announced the hymn,
Work, for the night is coming,
Work through the morning hour.
They every one meant to work.