by Pansy
CHAPTER X.
AN OPEN DOOR.
THEREAFTER Miss Benedict thought much about the Ansteds. She herselfcould hardly have told why they interested her so much, though sheattributed it to the fact that the surroundings of the old house spoketo 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 toaccomplish it.
The Ansted girls had been invited to join the workers. Miss Benedict'sinfluence reached as far as this, though that lady wished she had beensure that the invitation had sounded cordial and hearty. But they hadhesitated and hesitated, and proposed to talk with mamma about it, andmamma was reported to have said that it was hardly worth while; theywere such entire strangers to the church and the people that of coursethey 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 bejust so, they were sorry they had invited them, and they would not becaught that way again, not even for Miss Benedict.
Meantime, Miss Benedict studied the Ansteds from a distance, and triedto understand the reasons for their utter isolation from the goodpeople of the village. She cultivated the friendship of the two girlswho were her pupils, and who, now that they had declined the invitationto join the others, were more shut off from them than before. MissBenedict took care, however, not to refer to this episode; there werereasons why she did not desire to know the particulars. But she madeherself as winning as she could to the girls, and wondered how andwhen 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 hadintended, was making the return trip with all speed, lest the darknessfast closing on the village, should envelop her before she reached theacademy.
"How foolish I was," she told herself, "to go so far! I must havewalked two miles, and it is beginning to snow. What would mamma thinkto see me on the dark street alone?"
In common with most city-bred ladies, accustomed to treading thebrightly-lighted city streets with indifference, she looked upon thedarkness and silence of the country with a sort of terror, and wasmaking swift strides, not pausing even to get the glimpse of "home"which shone out broadly across the snow from all the front windows ofthe house on Curve Hill.
It looked very home-like, but her only home was that plain, littleupper 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'scontrol, 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 thatdirection told her that one ankle was useless. What was to be done? Shelooked up and down the street; not a person was to be seen in eitherdirection. Would it be of any use to call through this rising wind forassistance? How plainly she could see the forms flitting about thatbright room! yet they might as well be miles away, so far as her powerto reach them was concerned. She made a second effort to rise, and fellback with a groan; it was best not to attempt that again, or she shouldfaint, and certainly she had need of her senses now. If only one ofthose queer-looking wood-sleighs, over which she had laughed only thisafternoon, would come along and pick her up, how grateful she wouldbe! Somebody else was coming to pick her up.
"What have we here?" said a brisk voice. "Fallen humanity? plenty ofthat 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, ayoung man, prepared to make merry over the fallen fortunes of somechild; so he had evidently at first supposed.
"I beg pardon, ma'am," he said, and even at that moment he waited tolift 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 hermore nervous young sister: under embarrassing or trying circumstancesof any sort, where the average young woman would be likely to cry, shewas 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; "atleast, it will not allow me to move without growing faint, so I amkeeping still; I thought I needed my senses just now. If you can thinkof any way of securing a wagon of some sort in which I can ride to theacademy, it will help me materially."
"To the academy! Why, that is a mile away! You must take a shorter ridethan that for the first one. You can not be very heavy, I should say.Allow me." And before she understood what he was planning sufficientlyto attempt a protest, he had stooped and unceremoniously picked her up,and was taking swift strides across the snow-covered lawn to the sidepiazza of the Ansted house. The gate leading to the carriage-drive wasthrown open, so there had been no obstacle in his way.
It was ridiculous to laugh under such circumstances, but this was justwhat Claire did, while her porter threw open the door, strode throughthe 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 ofyou?"
"Oh, Louis!" said a familiar voice, "what's the matter? Did you runover 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 openagain; "I was very foolish to faint."
A pleasant, motherly face was bending over her, with eyes like Ella andhair 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 fora 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 weregoing 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 thismanner, and glad to be of service. Bring another pillow, Ella."
It was all gracefully and graciously said. Mrs. Ansted was not a womanwho would have thought of seeking out, and calling in a friendlyway on her daughter's music-teacher; but she was one who, when thatmusic-teacher appeared at her door in need of assistance, could bestowit heartily and delicately.
"She is not like mamma in the least--oh, not in any particular--and yetI think she means to be a good woman, so far as she sees the way to itout of the environments of her world. I wonder if there is any way inwhich I am to help her, and if this is a beginning?"
This was the mental comment of the music-teacher, who was supposed tobe absorbed in her own troubles.
It all arranged itself speedily and naturally. The doctor came andpronounced the ankle badly sprained, advised entire quiet for a fewdays, heartily seconded Mrs. Ansted's suggestion that the prisonershould remain with them, and when Claire faintly demurred, that ladysaid, decidedly:
"Why, of course, it will be the proper thing to do. It is not as thoughyou were at home. The academy is at best, a poor place in which tosecure quiet, and there is no occasion for submitting to the discomfortof getting there. This is decidedly the place for you. Since it was thetreacherous ice on our walk that brought you to grief, you must allowus 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 couldmake their acquaintance, and interest them in matters that she believedrequired their aid. She had been doing more than wondering. Only thismorning, thinking of the subject, as she locked her door for prayer,she had carried it to Christ, and asked h
im for opportunities, ifindeed he meant that she was to work in this direction. What a signalopportunity! Certainly not of her planning. She must take care howshe closed the door on it. Behold her, then, an hour later, domiciledin one of the guest chambers of the beautiful old home, where everytouch of taste and refinement, yes, and luxury, soothed her heart likea breath from home. This was the home to which she had heretoforebeen accustomed. More elegant her own had been, it is true, but thesame disregard to money that had characterized the belongings of herfather's house were apparent here; everything spoke of a full purseand a cultured taste. It was very foolish, but Claire could not helpa little sigh of satisfaction over the delicacy of the curtains andthe fineness of the bed draperies. Had she really missed things ofthat sort so much? she asked herself. Yes, she had! her truthful heartresponded. She liked all soft and fair and pretty things; but, afterall, the main reason for their soothing influence now was that theysaid "home" and "mother" to her.
Laid aside thus suddenly from her regular line of work, the morningfound her, dressed, and lying on the fawn-colored couch in her prettyroom, considering what there was to do that day. She had alreadyfeasted royally; the delicate breakfast that had been sent up to herwas served on rare old china, and accompanied with the finest of damaskand 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 oflife. I quite enjoyed sending her that quaint old cream cup. I fancyshe has taste enough to admire it." This from the mother. Then Alice:
"Mamma, are not such things a sort of cruel kindness? Think of goingback to the thick dishes and cheap knives of the academy after beingserved in state for a few days!"
"I know, dear; but we can not help that part. She will probably notremain long enough to get spoiled. She is really quite interesting. Iwonder if she has seen better days?"
How would Claire have answered this question? "Fairyland?" yes, it wassomething of that to her, but she was like a fairy who had been astrayin 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 handeddown for generations, yet the style of it and the feel of it werequite familiar to her. Dainty and delicate things had been every-daymatters in her father's house. "Different" days she had seen, oh, verydifferent; yet this young girl, so suddenly stranded on what lookedlike a rough shore, was already beginning to question whether, afterall, these were not her "better days." Had she ever before leaned herheart on Christ as she was learning now to do? Busy in his cause shehad always been, eagerly busy, ever since she could remember; but shebegan to have a dim feeling that it was one thing to be busy in hiscause, and quite another to walk with him, saying, as a child, "Whatnext?" and taking up the "next" with a happy unquestioning as to theright of it. Something of this new experience was beginning to stealover 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, andClaire already felt that she would not be willing to take back the oldClaire 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 upto show Mrs. Foster the way, and who lingered and chatted with thecheerful young prisoner after Mrs. Foster had taken her departure. Shestooped for Claire's handkerchief, which had dropped, and said, as hereye fell on the name:
"I know of a young lady who has your full name. That is singular, is itnot? The name is not a common one."
"Who is she?" asked Claire, interested. "Is she nice? Shall Iimmediately claim relationship?"
"I am not in the least acquainted with her, though I fancy from whatI have heard that she may be very 'nice.' She was pointed out to meonce at a concert in Boston, by a gentleman who had some acquaintancewith her. She is the daughter of Sidney L. Benedict, a millionnaire. Isuppose you do not know of her, though she is a namesake. I heard moreabout her father perhaps than I did of her. Ever so many people seemedto admire him as a wonderful man; very benevolent, you know, and sortof hopelessly good, he seemed to me. I remember telling my brotherLouis that it must be rather oppressive to have such a reputation forgoodness to sustain. Were you ever in Boston?"
The music-teacher was so long in answering, that Miss Alice turnedtoward her questioningly, and found that the eyes, but a moment, beforeso bright, were brimming with tears.
"I beg your pardon," she said, sympathetically, "does your ankle painyou 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, andwhere I was, and everything. He was a good man, Miss Ansted; good andtrue to the heart's core, and his goodness was not oppressive, it washis joy. He has gone now to wear his crown, and I am proud to be hisdaughter Claire. But oh, there are times when the longing to see himrolls over me so that it swallows every other thought." And then thepoor little teacher buried her head in the lace-trimmed pillows andcried outright!
"Mamma, what do you think! Louis, can you believe it possible? She isone of the Boston Benedicts! A daughter of that Sidney L. about whom weheard so much when we were with the Maitlands!"
"I heard he had gone to smash!" said Louis, when the first astonishmentwas over, "but I thought he had done it fashionably, and providedhandsomely for his family."
