AN OPEN DOOR.
THEREAFTER Miss Benedict thought much about the Ansteds. She herself
could hardly have told why they interested her so much, though she
attributed it to the fact that the surroundings of the old house spoke
to her of home. The family returned and established themselves there,
and the blinds were thrown open, and through the half-drawn shades,
as she took her after-school walks, she could see glimpses of bright,
beautiful life inside; she longed to get nearer, and saw no way to
accomplish it.
The Ansted girls had been invited to join the workers. Miss Benedict's
influence reached as far as this, though that lady wished she had been
sure that the invitation had sounded cordial and hearty. But they had
hesitated and hesitated, and proposed to talk with mamma about it, and
mamma was reported to have said that it was hardly worth while; they
were such entire strangers to the church and the people that of course
they could not be expected to have the interest in it which others had;
and the girls had tossed their heads and said they knew it would be
just so, they were sorry they had invited them, and they would not be
caught that way again, not even for Miss Benedict.
Meantime, Miss Benedict studied the Ansteds from a distance, and tried
to understand the reasons for their utter isolation from the good
people of the village. She cultivated the friendship of the two girls
who were her pupils, and who, now that they had declined the invitation
to join the others, were more shut off from them than before. Miss
Benedict took care, however, not to refer to this episode; there were
reasons why she did not desire to know the particulars. But she made
herself as winning as she could to the girls, and wondered how and
when she could reach their home.
As is often the case, the way opened unexpectedly.
It was a wintry evening, and she, having walked further than she had
intended, was making the return trip with all speed, lest the darkness
fast closing on the village, should envelop her before she reached the
academy.
"How foolish I was," she told herself, "to go so far! I must have
walked two miles, and it is beginning to snow. What would mamma think
to see me on the dark street alone?"
In common with most city-bred ladies, accustomed to treading the
brightly-lighted city streets with indifference, she looked upon the
darkness and silence of the country with a sort of terror, and was
making swift strides, not pausing even to get the glimpse of "home"
which shone out broadly across the snow from all the front windows of
the house on Curve Hill.
It looked very home-like, but her only home was that plain, little
upper room, at the academy, and thither she must go with all speed.
Underneath the freshly-falling snow lay a treacherous block of ice,
and as the hurrying feet touched it, they slipped from their owner's
control, and she was lying a limp heap at the foot of Curve Hill.
No use to try to rise and hasten on. A very slight effort in that
direction told her that one ankle was useless. What was to be done? She
looked up and down the street; not a person was to be seen in either
direction. Would it be of any use to call through this rising wind for
assistance? How plainly she could see the forms flitting about that
bright room! yet they might as well be miles away, so far as her power
to reach them was concerned. She made a second effort to rise, and fell
back with a groan; it was best not to attempt that again, or she should
faint, and certainly she had need of her senses now. If only one of
those queer-looking wood-sleighs, over which she had laughed only this
afternoon, would come along and pick her up, how grateful she would
be! Somebody else was coming to pick her up.
"What have we here?" said a brisk voice. "Fallen humanity? plenty of
that to be found. What is the immediate cause?" Then in a lower tone:
"I believe it is a woman!" By this time he had reached her side, a
young man, prepared to make merry over the fallen fortunes of some
child; so he had evidently at first supposed.
"I beg pardon, ma'am," he said, and even at that moment he waited to
lift his hat, "did you fall? Are you injured? How can I best help you?"
Claire Benedict of old had one peculiarity which had often vexed her
more nervous young sister: under embarrassing or trying circumstances
of any sort, where the average young woman would be likely to cry, she
was nearly certain to laugh. It was just what she did at this moment.
"I think I have sprained my ankle," she said between her laughs; "at
least, it will not allow me to move without growing faint, so I am
keeping still; I thought I needed my senses just now. If you can think
of any way of securing a wagon of some sort in which I can ride to the
academy, it will help me materially."
"To the academy! Why, that is a mile away! You must take a shorter ride
than that for the first one. You can not be very heavy, I should say.
Allow me." And before she understood what he was planning sufficiently
to attempt a protest, he had stooped and unceremoniously picked her up,
and was taking swift strides across the snow-covered lawn to the side
piazza of the Ansted house. The gate leading to the carriage-drive was
thrown open, so there had been no obstacle in his way.
It was ridiculous to laugh under such circumstances, but this was just
what Claire did, while her porter threw open the door, strode through
the wide hall, and dropped her among the cushions of a luxurious couch,
in one of the bright rooms.
"Here is a maimed lady," he said. "Mamma, Alice, where are some of
you?"
"Oh, Louis!" said a familiar voice, "what's the matter? Did you run
over her? Why, Fannie, it is Miss Benedict! Mamma! Louis, call mamma,
quick!"
And then Claire really accomplished what she had so often threatened,
and fainted entirely away.
"It is only a sprain," she explained, directly her eyes were open
again; "I was very foolish to faint."
A pleasant, motherly face was bending over her, with eyes like Ella and
hair like Fannie; this must be the mother.
"Is it a sprain, do you think?" she asked, "or only a sort of twist?
Those things are sometimes very painful for awhile. We have sent for
a physician, and shall soon know what to do for you. In the meantime,
Fannie, my dear, her boot should be removed."
Thus reminded, Fannie bent with eager fingers over the injured member.
"Did you fall, Miss Benedict? Wasn't it too bad? But since you were
going to fall, I am glad you did it right by our gate."
"Mamma, do you know? This is our music-teacher."
"So I judged, daughter. We are sorry to make her acquaintance in this
manner, and glad to be of service. Bring another pillow, Ella."
It was all gracefully and graciously said. Mrs. Ansted was not a woman
who would have thought of seeking out, and calling in a friendly
way on her daughter's music-teacher; but she was one who, when that
music-teacher appeared at her door in need of assistance, could bestow
it heartily and delicately.
"She is not like mamma in the least--oh, not in any particular--and yet
I think she means to be a good woman, so far as she sees the way to it
out of the environments of her world. I wonder if there is any way in
which I am to help her, and if this is a beginning?"
This was the mental comment of the music-teacher, who was supposed to
be absorbed in her own troubles.
It all arranged itself speedily and naturally. The doctor came and
pronounced the ankle badly sprained, advised entire quiet for a few
days, heartily seconded Mrs. Ansted's suggestion that the prisoner
should remain with them, and when Claire faintly demurred, that lady
said, decidedly:
"Why, of course, it will be the proper thing to do. It is not as though
you were at home. The academy is at best, a poor place in which to
secure quiet, and there is no occasion for submitting to the discomfort
of getting there. This is decidedly the place for you. Since it was the
treacherous ice on our walk that brought you to grief, you must allow
us to make what amends we can. I will send word to Mrs. Foster at once."
Claire yielded gracefully; in truth, she was rather anxious to do so.
She was interested in the Ansteds. She had been wondering how she could
make their acquaintance, and interest them in matters that she believed
required their aid. She had been doing more than wondering. Only this
morning, thinking of the subject, as she locked her door for prayer,
she had carried it to Christ, and asked him for opportunities, if
indeed he meant that she was to work in this direction. What a signal
opportunity! Certainly not of her planning. She must take care how
she closed the door on it. Behold her, then, an hour later, domiciled
in one of the guest chambers of the beautiful old home, where every
touch of taste and refinement, yes, and luxury, soothed her heart like
a breath from home. This was the home to which she had heretofore
been accustomed. More elegant her own had been, it is true, but the
same disregard to money that had characterized the belongings of her
father's house were apparent here; everything spoke of a full purse
and a cultured taste. It was very foolish, but Claire could not help
a little sigh of satisfaction over the delicacy of the curtains and
the fineness of the bed draperies. Had she really missed things of
that sort so much? she asked herself. Yes, she had! her truthful heart
responded. She liked all soft and fair and pretty things; but, after
all, the main reason for their soothing influence now was that they
said "home" and "mother" to her.
Laid aside thus suddenly from her regular line of work, the morning
found her, dressed, and lying on the fawn-colored couch in her pretty
room, considering what there was to do that day. She had already
feasted royally; the delicate breakfast that had been sent up to her
was served on rare old china, and accompanied with the finest of damask
and the brightest of solid silver.
They commented on her in the dining-room below after this fashion:
"Poor creature, I suppose she thinks she has dropped into fairy-land.
She looks as though she could appreciate the little refinements of
life. I quite enjoyed sending her that quaint old cream cup. I fancy
she has taste enough to admire it." This from the mother. Then Alice:
"Mamma, are not such things a sort of cruel kindness? Think of going
back to the thick dishes and cheap knives of the academy after being
served in state for a few days!"
"I know, dear; but we can not help that part. She will probably not
remain long enough to get spoiled. She is really quite interesting. I
wonder if she has seen better days?"
How would Claire have answered this question? "Fairyland?" yes, it was
something of that to her, but she was like a fairy who had been astray
in a new world, and had reached home again. The silver might be choice,
but she had seen as choice, and the china might have been handed
down for generations, yet the style of it and the feel of it were
quite familiar to her. Dainty and delicate things had been every-day
matters in her father's house. "Different" days she had seen, oh, very
different; yet this young girl, so suddenly stranded on what looked
like a rough shore, was already beginning to question whether, after
all, these were not her "better days." Had she ever before leaned her
heart on Christ as she was learning now to do? Busy in his cause she
had always been, eagerly busy, ever since she could remember; but she
began to have a dim feeling that it was one thing to be busy in his
cause, and quite another to walk with him, saying, as a child, "What
next?" and taking up the "next" with a happy unquestioning as to the
right of it. Something of this new experience was beginning to steal
over her; there seemed to be less of Claire Benedict than ever before,
but there was in her place one who was growing willing to be led, and
Claire already felt that she would not be willing to take back the old
Claire Benedict; she was growing attached to this new one.
Before that day closed, the Ansteds had a revelation.
It was Alice, the young lady daughter of the house, who had come up
to show Mrs. Foster the way, and who lingered and chatted with the
cheerful young prisoner after Mrs. Foster had taken her departure. She
stooped for Claire's handkerchief, which had dropped, and said, as her
eye fell on the name:
"I know of a young lady who has your full name. That is singular, is it
not? The name is not a common one."
"Who is she?" asked Claire, interested. "Is she nice? Shall I
immediately claim relationship?"
"I am not in the least acquainted with her, though I fancy from what
I have heard that she may be very 'nice.' She was pointed out to me
once at a concert in Boston, by a gentleman who had some acquaintance
with her. She is the daughter of Sidney L. Benedict, a millionnaire. I
suppose you do not know of her, though she is a namesake. I heard more
about her father perhaps than I did of her. Ever so many people seemed
to admire him as a wonderful man; very benevolent, you know, and sort
of hopelessly good, he seemed to me. I remember telling my brother
Louis that it must be rather oppressive to have such a reputation for
goodness to sustain. Were you ever in Boston?"
The music-teacher was so long in answering, that Miss Alice turned
toward her questioningly, and found that the eyes, but a moment, before
so bright, were brimming with tears.
"I beg your pardon," she said, sympathetically, "does your ankle pain
you so badly? Something ought to be done for it. I will call mamma."
But Claire's hand detained her.
"It is not that," she said gently, and smiled. "I forgot my ankle, and
where I was, and everything. He was a good man, Miss Ansted; good and
true to the heart's core, and his goodness was not oppressive, it was
his joy. He has gone now to wear his crown, and I am proud to be his
daughter Claire. But oh, there are times when the longing to see him
rolls over me so that it swallows every other thought." And then the
poor little teacher buried her head in the lace-trimmed pillows and
cried outright!
"Mamma, what do you think! Louis, can you believe it possible? She is
one of the Boston Benedicts! A daughter of that Sidney L. about whom we
heard so much when we were with the Maitlands!"
"I heard he had gone to smash!" said Louis, when the first astonishment
was over, "but I thought he had done it fashionably, and provided
handsomely for his family."