STARTING FOR HOME.
IT had been a stormy evening, and the little company of busy people who
had gathered in the church for a rehearsal, were obliged to plod home
through an incipient snow-storm; but they were in happy mood, for the
most successful rehearsal of the enterprise had been held, and certain
developments had delighted their hearts.
To begin with: just as they had completed a difficult chorus, the door
leading into the outside world had opened with a decisive bang, and
there had been an energetic stamping of feet in the little entry, and
there appeared Alice and Louis Ansted.
There was still on Alice's face that curious mixture of superiority and
discontent which Claire had always seen in her.
"Here we are!" she said, in a tone that expressed a sort of surprise
with herself at the idea. "It would be difficult to tell why. Now, what
do you want of me?"
Claire went forward to meet them, her face bright with welcome.
"Have you really come to help us?" she asked.
"I suppose so. I don't know why else we should have appeared here in
the storm. It is snowing. I don't mind the storm, though; only, why did
I come? I don't know; if you do, I wish you would tell me."
"Well, I do. I know exactly. You came to take the alto in this
quartette we are arranging. My girls were just assuring me that there
was not an alto voice in our midst that could sustain the other parts.
What do you say now, girls?"
There was a good deal of satisfaction in her tones. It amused her to
think of Ruth's discontented grumble but a moment before:
"If Alice Ansted did not feel so much above us, she would be a glorious
addition to this piece. Miss Benedict, her voice is splendid. I don't
like her, but I would tolerate her presence if we could get her to take
the alto in this."
Then Mary Burton:
"Well, she won't; and you needn't think of such a thing." It was at
that moment that the door had opened, and she came.
Claire went at once to the organ, and the rehearsal of the quartette
began.
I do not know but the girls themselves would have been almost
frightened had they been sufficiently skilled in music to know what a
rare teacher they had. Claire Benedict's voice was a special talent,
God-given as surely as her soul. Time was when it had been one of her
temptations, hard to resist. Such brilliant and flattering futures
had opened before her, if she would but consent to give "private
rehearsals." There is an intoxication about extravagant praise, and
Claire had for weeks been intoxicated to the degree that she could
not tell where the line was drawn, and when the world stepped in
and claimed her as its special prize. It was then that the keen,
clear-seeing wise and tender father had used his fatherly influence,
and showed her the net which Satan had warily spread. She had supposed
herself secure, after that. But when the great financial crash came
upon them, and when the father was gone where he could advise and
shield no more, there had come to her the temptation of her life. It
would have been so easy to have supported her mother and sister in
a style somewhat like that to which they had been accustomed; and
to do this, she need not descend in any sense to that which was in
itself wrong or unladylike. Those who would have bought her voice
were willing that she should be as exclusive as she pleased. But for
the clear-sightedness of the father, in those days when the other
temptations had been met, she would surely have yielded to the pressure.
She came off victorious, but wounded. When she had with determined
face turned from all these flattering offers, and entered the only
door which opened to her conscience--this one at South Plains--she
had told herself that three hundred dollars a year did not hire her
voice. So much of herself she would keep to _herself_. She would do no
singing, either in public or private; not a note. In order to teach
even vocal music, it was not necessary to exhibit her powers of song.
That sermon, however, had swept this theory away, along with many
others. It is true, it had been almost exclusively about the church;
but you will remember that it had dealt with the conscience; and the
conscience awakened on one point, is far more likely to see plainly in
other directions. When next the subject of song presented itself to her
mind, Claire Benedict was somewhat astonished to discover that she had
not given her _voice_ when she gave herself. She had not known it at
the time, but there had evidently been a mental reservation, else she
would not shrink so from using her powers in this direction, in this
her new sphere of life. Some earnest heart-searching had to be done.
Was she vain of her voice? she wondered, that she was so unwilling
to use it in the desolate little sanctuary at South Plains; that she
could not even bring herself to do other than _peep_ the praises of
God in the school chapel. It was a revelation of self that brought
much humiliation with it. It was even humiliating to discover that it
took a long and almost fierce struggle to overcome the shrinking which
possessed her. It was not all pride; there was a relief in remembering
that. There was a sense in which her voice seemed to belong to her
happy and buried past; something which her father had loved, even
exulted in, and which had been largely kept for him. But this thought
of her father helped her. There was never a thought connected with him
that did not help and strengthen. He would not have approved--no, she
did not put it that way, she hated those past tenses as connected with
him--he _did not_ approve of her hiding her talent in a napkin; her
happiness should not be labeled "past;" was she not in God's world?
was she not the child of a King? was not heaven before her, and an
eternity there, with her father who had just preceded the family by
a few days? Did she grudge him that? Was it well for her to sit down
weeping, and dumb, because he had entered the palace a little in
advance?
From this heart-searching, there had come another victory; and if
Claire Benedict did not say in so many solemn words,
Take my voice, and let me sing
Always, only, for my King,
she nevertheless consecrated it to His service, and grew joyful over
the thought that she had this talent to give.
In making her selections for the coming concert, she had with rare good
taste kept in mind the character of the audience which would probably
gather to listen, and the capacities of her helpers. She chose simple,
tender melodies, narrative poems, such as appeal to the heart, with
one or two wonderful solos, and this quartette, which was new and
difficult, but full of power.
They sang it presently, for the first time; Claire and Alice Ansted,
Harry Matthews and a friend of his who had been drawn in for the
occasion. It was the first time that even her girls had heard Claire's
voice in its power.
They said not a word when it was ended, but they looked at one another
in a startled way, and presently Ruth Jennings apologized in under tone
for its power over her:
"I'm sure I don't know what was the matter with me. I never cried
before at the sound of music. I have read of people doing it, and I
thought it rather absurd, but I could not help it. Girls, I wonder what
the Ansteds think?"
What Alice Ansted thought might have been expressed, in part, in her
first astonished comment:
"The idea of your singing in South Plains!"
However, she said more than that in the course of the evening; said
things which gave Claire much more pleasure. For instance:
"How horridly out of order that little wretch is! Why don't you have
it tuned? It would be a little more endurable then; or, at least, a
little less intolerable. Our piano-tuner is coming out to-morrow, and
I mean to send him down here. The idea of having nothing but a rickety
chair for a music-stool! Louis, what has become of that piano-stool
we used to have in our library in town? Did you store it with the
other things? Well, just bring it out to-morrow. Miss Benedict will
get another fall if she depends on this old chair any longer. What is
that you are sitting on? A pile of old music-books, I declare! The
whole thing is disgraceful. Miss Benedict, do you sing 'Easter Bells?'
I should think it would just fit your voice. It runs so high that I
can do nothing with it; but I wouldn't mind taking the alto with you.
Louis, suppose you bring out the music to-morrow, and let her look at
it."
And before the evening was over, it became evident to those girls
that Miss Ansted was committed to the concert, at least. They were
half-jealous, it is true. They had enjoyed having their prize all to
themselves. Still, she had bloomed before them that evening into such
an unexpected prize, that they were almost awed, and a little glad that
her glorious voice should have such an appropriate setting as was found
in Alice Ansted; and besides, it was a sort of a triumph to say: "Why,
the Ansteds are going to help us at our concert! They have never sung
in South Plains before!"
Louis, too, contributed something besides his fine tenor voice:
"What makes your stove smoke so, Bud?" he questioned.
And Bud explained, with some stammering, that there was something wrong
about the pipe; one joint did not fit right into another joint--or, as
he expressively stated it, "One j'int was too small, and t'other was
too large, and so they didn't work well."
"I should say not," said Louis, amused. "The wonder is that they work
at all, with such a double difficulty as that to contend with. Well,
Bud, you tell Hawkins to come in to-morrow, and see what is the matter
with the joints, and make the large one small and the small one large,
or fix it in any other way that suits his genius, so that the thing
won't smoke, and send his bill to me. We will have our throats all raw
here, before the important day arrives."
"A music-stool, and an organ-tuner, and a new elbow for the
stove-pipe," commented Ruth Jennings, in a complacent tone, as they
walked home in the snow. "The Ansteds are good for something in the
world, after all."
About the home-going there was some talk. Claire, down by the stove
adjusting her rubbers, caught the watchful, wistful gaze of Bud, and
remembered what Ruth had said about her influence over him. How could
she exert it so that it would tell on Bud forever? What was there that
she could say to him? When was her opportunity? Right at hand, perhaps;
she would try.
"Bud," she said, "are you going to see me home through this snow-storm?
or must you make haste up the hill?"
It gave her a feeling of pain to see the sudden blaze of light on his
dark, swarthy face. What a neglected, friendless life he must have led,
that a kind word or two could have such power over him!
"Me!" he said. "Do you mean it? I'd like to carry your books and
things, and I could take the broom and sweep along before you. Might I
go? Oh, I haven't got to hurry. My work is all done."
She laughed lightly. What a picture it would be for Dora, could she see
her plunging through the freshly-fallen snow, Bud at her side, or a
step ahead, with a broom!
"I don't need the broom," she said; "it has not snowed enough for that;
and I am prepared, if it has; see my boots. I like the snow. You may
carry my books, please, and we will have a nice walk and talk. The
girls are all ready now, I think. You put out the lamps, and I will
wait for you at the door."
Out in the beautiful, snowy world, just as Bud's key clicked in the
look, Louis Ansted came up to Claire.
"Miss Benedict, let me take you home in the sleigh. I am sorry to have
kept you waiting a moment; but my blundering driver had something wrong
about the harness, and the horses were fractious. They are composed
enough now, and Alice is in the sleigh. Let me assist you out to it,
please."
If it had been moonlight, he might have seen the mischievous sparkle in
Claire's eyes. It was so amusing to be engaged to Bud, while his master
held out his hands for her books, as a matter of course, and poor Bud
stood aside, desolate and miserable. Evidently he expected nothing else
but to be left.
Claire's voice rang out clear, purposely to reach Bud's ear:
"Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Ansted! I am fond of walking; I don't mind
the snow in the least, and I have promised myself the pleasure of a
walk through it with Bud. Thank you!" as he still urged, "my ankle is
quite well again, and I have had no exercise to-day; I really want the
walk. We thank you very much for your help this evening, Mr. Ansted.
Good-night! Are you ready, Bud?"
And they trudged away, leaving the discomfited gentleman standing
beside his pawing horses.
"It is some absurd idea of benefiting Bud that has taken possession of
her," explained Alice, as the sleigh flew by the two. "She spoke to me
about trying to help him. She is just as full of queer notions as she
can be. The idea of helping Bud!"
But the master of the horses said nothing. He was prepared to think,
but not to confess, that such as she might help even Bud.
That young man, though his tread was certainly heavy enough, seemed
to himself to be walking on air, such a wonderful thing had come to
him! Years and years had passed since anybody had spoken to him, save
in short, sharp words, to give an order of some sort. Now this one,
who said "Good-morning!" and "Good-evening!" when she met him, as
pleasantly as she spoke to any, who had asked him kind questions about
himself, who had told him that the stoves were very clean, and that
it seemed pleasant to have the church warm, was actually letting him
walk home with her and carry her books! Poor Bud wished there were more
of them, and that they were as heavy as lead, that he might show how
gladly he carried them for her sake. She, meantime, was wondering how
she could best speak, to help him in any way.
"Don't you sing at all?" she asked, her eyes falling on the pile
of music-books, and seizing upon the question as a way of opening
conversation.
"Me!" said Bud, with an embarrassed laugh. "Oh, no, I can't sing, any
more than a calf can."
"But you like music, don't you?" She was still making talk, to try to
put him at his ease.
Bud found voice then for some of the feeling which possessed him.
"I don't like most folks' music a bit; but I like the kind you make, I
do so."
He spoke with tremendous energy; there was no mistaking the intensity
of his conclusions. Claire laughed a little. They were not getting on
very well.
Bud's musical tastes had probably not been cultivated. He liked the
music that she made, because the same voice had spoken kind words
to him. Well, in that case, what would he think of the music of the
angels? she wondered.
Some of the thought she put into words:
"I'll tell you where you will like the music, Bud--when you get to
heaven. Did you ever try to think what that singing would sound like?"
"Me!" said Bud again, and this time there was unutterable amazement in
his voice. It was clear that the idea of hearing the music of heaven
had never dawned on his mind.
Claire replied hesitatingly, in almost a plaintive tone. The desolation
of a soul that had no heaven to look to, touched her strangely just
then:
"Bud, you are going there to hear the music, are you not?"
"I reckon not." He spoke the words gravely, with a singularly mournful
intonation. "Heaven ain't for such as me. You see, ma'am, I'm nothing
but an ignorant, blundering fellow, that hadn't never ought to have
been born."
"Oh, Bud! I am so sorry to hear you speak such dreadful words! I didn't
expect it of you. Why, don't you know you are the same as saying that
the Lord Jesus Christ has not told the truth? He said he came to earth
in order that you might live forever with him in heaven, and he loves
you, Bud, and is watching for you to give yourself to him. And now, you
even say you ought not to have been made!"
"I didn't mean no harm! I was only a-sayin' what I've heard folks say
time and time again about me; they didn't see what I was made for, and
I didn't either."
"You were made to love God, and to do work for him, and to live with
him forever in his beautiful heaven. If you don't go there, it will
make his heart sad. Oh, Bud, if I were you, I wouldn't treat him so!"