SPREADING NETS.
THE morning found her her own quiet self. Her first waking thoughts
were of Bud, and the first thing she did, after her toilet was made,
was to sit down and study her Bible with a view to selecting some
verses that she meant to mark for Bud.
All day she went about her many duties with a quiet heart. Even the
sting of a false friendship seemed to have been taken away. In the
afternoon, she refused to ride with Mr. Ansted, on the plea that she
had a music-lesson to give, but when the scholar failed to appear,
she, in nowise discomfited, set herself to the answering of the home
letters. A long, genial letter to her mother; longer than she had taken
time for of late, fuller of detail as to the work that occupied hands
and heart.
Something about Bud, his lonely life, his one tender memory, her desire
that he might find a Friend who would never fail him; her wish that the
mother would remember him when she prayed; her longing to be in a faint
sense a helper to him, as her father would surely have been, were he on
the earth. "I cannot do for him what papa would," so she wrote, "but
Christ can do much more; and it gives me a thrill of joy to remember
that he is not only in heaven with papa, but here, watching for Bud."
A detailed account of the last evening's rehearsal, and the new
recruits. A hint of her desire to lead this restless Alice into clearer
light--if, indeed, the true Light had ever shined into her heart. A
word even about Louis Ansted: "Would mamma pray for him, too? It was
said that he was in danger from several sources, and he said that his
mother was not at all anxious about him. If you were his mother," so
she wrote, "you would be anxious. Be a mother to him for Christ's
sake, mamma dear, and pray for him, as I am afraid his own mother does
not. Still, I ought not to say that, for she is a member of the church,
and it may be that her son does not know her heart."
To Dora there was but a scrap of paper:
"It is a pity, Doralinda dear, to put you off with this little torn
bit of paper, but I have written all the news to mamma, which means to
you, too, of course, and this bit is just large enough for the subject
about which I want to speak to you alone. Don't worry, little sister,
about me, nor about Pierce Douglass' treatment of me or of you; if his
manliness can afford such a slight as he gave you, we certainly can
afford to bear it. In a sense, it was hard; but much harder, I should
think, for him than for us.
"No, little Dora; the church here has not my whole heart, though I
will own that a large piece of it has gone out to the dreary little
sanctuary so sadly in need of a human friend--for the Lord will not
do what his people ought to do, you know; but I will tell you who is
filling my heart, and keeping me at rest and happy: the Lord Jesus
Christ. Not happy without papa, but happy in the sure hope of meeting
him again, and never parting any more. Don't you remember, dear, there
can never be another parting from papa? Some sorrowful places there may
be for your feet and mine on our journey home; but so far as papa is
concerned, there will be no more need for tears. Bear the thorns of the
way, little sister, in patience, for they are only _on the way_ through
the woods; not a thorn in the home.
"I trust you will be so brave as to dismiss Pierce Douglass from your
thoughts; unless, indeed, you take the trouble to ask him for what he
will let us have some handsome chairs for the pulpit! I remember at
this moment that his money is invested in furniture. But perhaps you
will not like to do that, and he might not let us have them at any
lower rates than we could secure elsewhere. Good-by, darling, brave,
lonely sister. I both laughed and cried over your letter, though the
tears were not about the things you thought would move them."
She folded and addressed this letter with a smile. No need to tell this
sensitive fierce-hearted Dora that the wound rankled for a time, and
did not bring tears only because it was too deep for tears.
Yet assuredly her heart was not broken over Pierce Douglass.
The letter sealed and laid aside, an unemployed half-hour lay before
her; not that there was not plenty to do, but that curious aversion to
setting about any of it, which busy workers so well understand, came
over her in full force. A sort of unreasonable and unreasoning desire
that the hour might be marked by something special hovered around her.
She stood at the window and looked out on the snow, and watched the
sleighs fly past. A sleigh-ride would be pleasant. Why could she not
have known that her music-scholar was to disappoint her, and so had the
benefit of a ride?
Possibly she might have said a word in season to Louis Ansted, though
there was about her the feeling that he was not ready for the word in
season, and would make poor use of it. Perhaps the Master knew that it
was better left unsaid, and so had held her from the opportunity; but
she longed to do something.
A sleigh was stopping at the Academy. The young man who sprang out and
presently pealed the bell, was Harry Matthews. Did he want her? she
wondered, and was this her special opportunity? No, he only wanted
a roll of music, to study the part which he was to sing; but on
learning that the teacher was in, and at leisure, he came to her in the
music-room, and asked questions about this particular song, and about
the rehearsal, and asked to have the tenor played for him, and as he
bent forward to turn the music, the breath of wine floated distinctly
to her. Was this an opportunity? Was there something that she might
say, and ought to say?
It was Louis Ansted's belief that this young man's special danger lay
in this direction; but what a delicate direction it was to touch!
He thanked her heartily for the help which she had given him about the
difficult part, and in that brief time her resolution was taken:
"Now, do you know there is something that I want you to do for me?"
No, he did not know it, but was delighted to hear it. Miss Benedict was
doing so much for them all, that it would certainly be a great pleasure
to feel that he could in any way serve her. He wished he could tell her
how much he and some of the other boys appreciated this opportunity
to study music. There had never been any good singing in South Plains
before.
There was a flush on Claire's cheeks as she replied, holding forward a
little book at the same time.
It _would_ serve me. She could think of scarcely anything else, so
easily done, that would give her greater pleasure than to have him
write his name on her pledgebook; she had an ambition to fill every
blank. There was room for five hundred signers, and she and her sister
at home were trying to see which could get their pledge-book filled
first. Would he give her his name?
And so, to his amazement and dismay, was Harry Matthews brought face to
face with a total abstinence pledge. What an apparently simple request
to make! How almost impossible it seemed to him to comply with it!
He made no attempt to take the little book, but stood in embarrassment
before it.
"Isn't there anything else?" he said, at last, trying to laugh. "I
hadn't an idea that you would ask anything of this sort. I can't sign
it, Miss Benedict; I can't really, though I would like to please you."
"What is in the way, Mr. Matthews? Have you promised your mother not to
sign it?"
The flush on his cheek mounted to his forehead, but still he tried to
laugh and speak gayly.
"Hardly! my mother's petitions do not lie in that direction. But I
really am principled against signing pledges. I don't believe in a
fellow making a coward of himself and hanging his manhood on a piece of
paper."
This was foolish. Would it do to let the young fellow know that she
knew it was?
"Then you do not believe in bonds, or mortgages, or receipts, or
promises to pay, of any sort--not even bank-notes!"
He laughed again.
"That is business," he said.
"Well," briskly, "this is business. I will be very business-like. What
do you want me to do, give you a receipt? Come, I want your name to
help fill my book, and I am making as earnest a business as I know how,
of securing names."
"Miss Benedict, I am not in the least afraid of becoming a drunkard."
"Mr. Matthews, that has nothing whatever to do with the business in
hand. What I want is your name on my total abstinence pledge. If you
do not intend to be a drinker, you can certainly have no objection to
gratifying me in this way."
"Ah! but I have. The promise trammels me unnecessarily and foolishly. I
am often thrown among people with whom it is pleasant to take a sip of
wine, and it does no harm to anybody."
"How can you be sure of that? There are drunkards in the world, Mr.
Matthews; is it your belief that they started out with the deliberate
intention of becoming such, or even with the fear that they might? or
were they led along step by step?"
"Oh, I know all that; but I assure you I am very careful with whom I
drink liquor. There are people who seem unable to take a very little
habitually; they must either let it alone, or drink to excess. Such
people ought to let it alone, and to sign a pledge to do so. I never
drink with any such; and I never drink, any way, save with men much
older than I, who ought to set me the example instead of looking to
me, and who are either masters of themselves, or too far gone to be
influenced by anything that I might do."
Was there ever such idiotic reasoning! But the young man before her
was very young, and did not know his own heart, much less understand
human nature. He was evidently in earnest, and would need any
amount of argument--would need, indeed, a much better knowledge of
himself--before she could convince him of his false and dangerous
position; and her opportunity, if it were one, was swiftly passing.
What was there that she could accomplish here and now? Since he was
in such a state of bewilderment as to logic, she resolved to lay a
delicate little snare for his feet.
"Well, I am sorry that you will not sign my pledge. I do not like your
arguments; I think they are painfully weak. I wish at your leisure you
would look into them carefully, and see if you think them worthy of
lodgment in an honest mind. But in the meantime, there is something
else. This little favor that I am about to ask, will you promise to
grant?"
The young man looked immensely relieved. He had not expected her
to abandon the ground so promptly; he had been on the verge of
pleading fear lest his horse was restive, and so breaking away from
the embarrassment. He tumbled eagerly into the pretty net. What could
she ask that would not be easy enough, now that the total abstinence
pledge was out of the way? He could think of nothing else that a lady
such as Miss Benedict certainly was, could ask, which would not be
comparatively easy of accomplishment.
"I don't believe in that way of doing business," he said, looking
wise, and smiling down on her in a superior way. "As a rule, I promise
nothing with my eyes shut; but I am sure to be able to trust you, and I
will try to do anything else that you ask of me, if only to prove how
sincere I am in my desire to please."
"It is a very good rule, as a rule," she said, quickly; "I would not
violate it often; but this is easy enough to do; I want your signature
to that."
She turned the leaves rapidly, and pointed to a few lines in the
back part of the little book. Two signatures were appended; but the
astounding words that arrested the young man's attention were these:
"I promise that within twenty-four hours after I have taken a taste of
anything that will intoxicate, I will report the same, either in person
or by letter, to my friend, Miss Benedict."
The hot blood spread all over the face of the gay boy before her, as he
read and re-read this singular pledge.
"I am fairly caught," he said at last, in a constrained voice, "and in
a way that I least expected. May I ask you what possible good it can do
you to burden yourself with such senseless confidences as these?"
"You are right," she said, "they are confidences. I should not have
shown you the book if I were not sure that the names there are utterly
unknown to you, and will be likely always to remain so. I had a good
motive, and the effort resulted in good. So much you must believe on
trust. But I did not mean to catch you--at least, not in the way you
mean--and to prove it, I will release you from your promise. I judged
from what you told me that you would not consider it a hard one."
She was speaking with cold dignity now. She was willing that he
should not sign this pledge if he wished to be released. If only his
unwillingness to sign would lead him to think on what dangerous ground
he stood, part of her object would have been attained.
But no, his pride was roused now, and came to the rescue. He refused
to be released. Since she chose to burden herself in this way, he was
quite willing, and should certainly add his name. This he did with a
flourish, trying to be gay again, and went away assuring her that he
was sorry for her, for he always kept a pledge.
After he was gone, she tormented herself as to whether she had
done wisely. She was more than doubtful. Those two other names had
been written by friendless and sorely-tempted boys, who distrusted
themselves and their resolutions to such an extent that she had
devised this little plan for helping them up from the depths of
despair. They were gone now, both of them, where stronger arms than
hers upheld them, where they were forever safe from falling; and Harry
Matthews' knowledge of their names could harm no one. But Harry was
of a different world. Had she been foolish in thus almost stealing
his promise? He had not taken it as she had thought he would. She had
believed him to be gayly indifferent to his habits in this direction;
she had believed that he was unaware how frequently he accepted
business invitations of this character.
On the whole, she was more than doubtful as to the unusual work done
in this leisure half-hour, and looked with apprehension rather than
pleasure at the name in her book. Nevertheless, she prayed over it as
she had been wont to do for those who were gone now. There was nothing
for it but to ask Him who never made mistakes, to overrule hers, if it
was a mistake, and use it in some way for his glory. This rested her.
It was so wonderful to remember that He could make even mistakes serve
him!
Meantime, Bud! The little lamp which belonged to his quarters over the
stable, was left wholly to his care, and he did not get the best. He
often stumbled his way to bed in the dark, rather than take the trouble
of filling the lamp in the daytime. But to-night, with his treasure
under his arm, he rejoiced to remember that part of his morning work
had been to fill that lamp and put it in unusual order. It was with
satisfaction that he lighted and set it on the inverted barrel that he
had improvised for a table. He was to read a verse in a book!
He had little knowledge as to whether the verses were long or short,
whether it would take until midnight or longer to read one, and it had
nothing to do with his promise. He reflected that the lamp was full,
and resolved that as long as it would burn he would work at the verse,
if necessary. But where to begin? What a big book it was! If Clare had
but marked a verse for him as she had planned! Well, what then? It
would not have been likely to have been the one over which he stopped
at random, and slowly spelled out, going back over each word until he
had the sentence complete: "As one whom his mother comforteth, so will
I comfort you, and ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem." What a verse
for poor, ignorant, blundering Bud! Might it not as well have been in
Greek?