Interrupted

by Pansy

  CHAPTER XVI.

  LOST FRIENDS.

  "I NEVER knew nothing about it," Bud said, earnestly. "I never heard asanybody cared in particular what became of me, only so that I got outof folks' way and didn't bother."

  "Why, Bud! have you never heard the minister urge you to give yourselfto Jesus?"

  But Bud shook his head energetically.

  "No minister never spoke to me," he said. "I goes to church everyonce in a while, because I gets my work all done, and don't know whatelse to do. When the horses are gone, and the dog is gone, I'm awfullonesome up there," inclining his head toward the hill up which theAnsted horses were now speeding, "and the dog always goes to town tochurch, along with the horses, and so I went down here for company kindof; but the minister never said nothing to me. I've listened a goodbit, off and on, because I felt lonesome, and did not know what else todo; but he never said nothing about me, nor told me a body cared. Itwas all for them other folks, that has homes and good clothes."

  What a pitiful story was this, coming up from the depths of the great,lonesome heart, surrounded on every hand by nominal Christians! Clairecould not keep the tears from her eyes, and dared not speak for amoment, her voice was so full of them.

  "Did you never read any verses in the Bible?" she asked at last. "Youcan read, can't you?"

  "Oh, yes'm, I can read. I learned how when I lived with Mr. Stokes,back there in the country. Little Jack, he showed me my letters, andmy easy readings, and all, and I could read to him quite a bit. Jackwasn't but eight years old; but he was smart, and he was good, andhe died." The lonely story ended with a sigh. There was evidently amemory of better times enjoyed in the dim past.

  Claire questioned to get at the utmost of his knowledge:

  "And didn't Jack tell you anything about Jesus and Heaven?"

  "He did that, ma'am. He talked a good deal about being sent for to gothere; and he was, too; I make sure of that, for he went away sudden inthe night, the _life_ did, you know, and he had a smile on his face inthe morning, just as he looked when he was very glad about anything,and I am about sure that it was just as he said it would be about theangels coming, and all; and he used to think they would come for me,too. 'Your turn will come, Bud,' he used to say to me. He was a littlefellow, you see"--this last was in an apologetic tone--"he thought theworld of Bud, and he thought everybody else was like him, and that whatwas fixed for him would be fixed for Bud. I used to like to hear himsay it, because he was a little fellow, and he liked me; but I knewthat what was for him wasn't for me."

  "Bud, you are mistaken. Little Jack was right about it all. There wasno doubt but that the angels came for him, and they will come for you,if you want to go where Jack is. Jesus Christ, Jack's Saviour, was theone who told him to tell you about it."

  "Eh!" said Bud, in a sort of stupid amaze. "Did you know Jack, ma'am?"

  "No, I didn't know him, but I know his Saviour, the one who sent forhim to go home to heaven; and I know that what he told you is true; forthe same one has told me the same thing: told me to coax you, Bud, tobe ready to go where little Jack is. Will you?"

  "I'd go on my hands and knees all night through the woods to see littleJack again, but I don't know the way."

  "Bud, did you know that the Bible was God's book, and told all aboutJack's home, and the way to get to it? Have you a Bible?"

  "No," said Bud, slowly, "I haven't got no book at all. I never had nobook."

  What desolation of poverty was this! Claire took her instant resolution.

  "Bud, I have a Bible which I think little Jack and little Jack'sSaviour want me to give to you for your very own. I'll get it for youto-night, and then I want you to promise me that every day you willread one verse in it. It is all marked off into verses--and will youbegin to-night?"

  "I will so," said Bud, with a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I'vethought a good many times that it would be nice to have one book; but Ididn't much expect to, ever. I'll read in it this very night, ma'am."

  And as he received the treasure wrapped in paper, and, tucking itcarefully under his arm, trudged away, Claire, could she have followedhim, would have found that every once in a while, during that long,homeward walk, he chuckled, and hugged the book closer.

  Claire went to her room, and to her knees, her heart full for Bud,poor, dreary, homeless Bud! If he _could_ be made to understand thatthere were home and friends waiting for him! If she had only had timeto mark a few of the verses, some of those very plain ones, over themeaning of which Bud could not stumble! She was sorry that she had notretained the book for a day and done this work. It was too late now.She could only pray that God would lead him toward the right verse.To-morrow evening she would ask him for his Bible, and on the Sabbathshe would employ her leisure moments in marking such verses as he oughtto know.

  As she arose from her knees, a letter lying on her table caught hereye. A home letter, from Dora, with perhaps a few lines in it frommamma herself. She seized it like a hungry child, dropping on a hassockbefore the fire to enjoy it. Four closely written pages from Dora,crossed and re-crossed, after the fashion of schoolgirls, who seem tobe provident only in the line of note-paper.

  Claire looked at it lovingly, and laid it aside to be enjoyedafterward. Here was a scrap from mamma; only a few lines on ahalf-sheet of paper; after these she dived. Letters from Dora weredelightful, and could wait; the heart of the girl was homesick formamma.

  It was over the last page of Dora's sheet that she lingered the longest.

  "I have not told you our piece of news, yet. We have moved. We keptit a secret from you, mamma and I, because we were sure you wouldthink that we could not do such a thing without you; and as we werewell aware that the church at South Plains could not spare you--tosay nothing of the school--we determined to take the burdens of lifeupon our own shoulders, and give you nothing to worry over, until wewere settled. It is done, and we are alive and comfortable; so you maydismiss those troubled wrinkles that I can distinctly see gathering onyour forehead.

  "Now for the reason why: the same law which seems of late to have takenpossession of us--necessity. The house you so deftly settled us in wassold, and three weeks' notice given to renters. We could have held themfor a longer time, as Mr. Winfield indignantly told us, and as we verywell knew, for you know how papa held that house for the Jones familywhen the owner said they must vacate. But what was the use? Mamma saidshe would rather move at once, than have any words about it. So I felt,and one day when we went out hunting the proper shade of curtain forthe church you own, we hunted rooms also. Where do you think we foundthem? Within a square of our old home! In the Jenkins Block, you know.They chanced to be vacant, because the former occupants had bought aplace on the square, and gone to housekeeping on a larger scale. Therent is the same as that which we were paying. I think Mr. Clevelandmade his conscience somewhat elastic in arranging it so, for, whilethe rooms are smaller and less convenient than those we vacated, youknow what the neighborhood is. However, he offered them on the sameterms we were then paying, and of course we could not demur. I urgedthe taking of them at once, for mamma's sake; for, though I think withyou that the farther we are away from the old home, the better, andthough I hate every spot within a mile of our house, still I could seethat mamma did not share the feeling. There were old friends for whosefaces she pined. Good old friends, you know, who love her for herself,and not for the entertainments she used to give. And then there wasthe old church. I could see mamma's face brighten over the thought ofbeing there once more; and though I hate that too, for mamma's sake,I was glad that we listened to Dr. Ellis again last Sabbath. We arecomfortably situated, though you know, better than I can tell you,what a sort of mockery it is of our former way of living; but formamma I think it will be better in every way, and she is the one to beconsidered. But I believe in my heart the dear woman thinks I wanted tocome, and imagines that that is why she consented to the plan. I hopeshe does. I never mean to let her know how I grind my teeth over itall. Not fiercely, Cl
aire; I do try to be submissive, and I know thatGod knows what is best, and that papa is happy, and that I must notwish him back; but the bearing it is very bitter all the time.

  "I am less like you even than I used to be, and papa said I was to tryto be more like you.

  "I wonder if one thing that I have to tell will surprise you, or vexyou, or whether you will not care anything about it? I have held my penfor a full minute to try to decide, and I find that I don't know. It issomething that has hurt me cruelly, but then I am easily hurt. I don'twant to make you feel as I do; but if you care, you ought to know, andif you don't care, no harm can come of my telling you.

  "Claire, I used to think in the old days that seem to have been fiftyyears ago, that you liked Pierce Douglass rather better than theother young men who used to be so fond of coming to our home; and Ithought--in fact, I felt almost certain--that he liked you better thanhe did anybody else. Well, he has returned; and only yesterday I sawhim on Clark Avenue. I was just coming down Reubens street, and I madeall possible haste, because I thought it would be so pleasant to seehis familiar face once more, and to answer his many questions. Besides,I presume I was silly, but I thought it more than probable that he wasin correspondence with you, and would have some news of you to giveme. I called to him, breathlessly, as I saw he was about to enter acar, and I thought more than likely he was looking for our address.'Pierce,' I said, you know I have called him Pierce ever since I was alittle bit of a girl, and he used to help me down the seminary stairs.He stopped and looked about him, and looked right at me, and made nomovement toward me, though I was hastening to him. 'I am so glad to seeyou,' I said, for even then I did not understand. And then he spoke:'Miss Benedict, is it? Why, I was not aware that you were in the city.I thought I had heard of a removal. I trust you are having a pleasantwinter, Miss Benedict. We have a good deal of snow for this region,have we not? You will pardon my haste; I had signaled my car before youspoke.'

  "And he lifted his hat, with one of his graceful bows, and sprang inand was gone. Yes, I pardoned his haste! I was glad to see the carswing around the corner. I was burning and choking. The idea of beingmet in that way by Pierce Douglass! Only six months since he calledme 'little Doralinda Honora,' and begged me not to forget to mentionhis name ten times a day while he was absent. Claire, I could hardlyget home, my limbs trembled so. Mamma was out executing one of yourcommissions, and I was glad, for I was not fit to see her for hours.

  "I have heard to-day that Pierce has been in town for six weeks, and isto be married in the spring to Emmeline Van Antwerp. Is that any reasonwhy he should have insulted me? I am certainly willing that he shallmarry whom he pleases, if he can secure her. Claire, do you rememberhow Emmeline's taste in dress used to amuse him? But she is very rich,you know; at least, she is an only daughter, and her father has notfailed. How does Pierce know but that in six months it will be Mr. VanAntwerp's turn?

  "Well, I only hope, dear Claire, that I was utterly and entirelymistaken in your friendship for that man. It seems to me now thatI must have been; for, with so base a nature, he could not haveinterested you.

  "Oh, Claire, do you suppose papa knows of all these little stings thatwe have to bear? I can hardly see how he can be happy in heaven if hedoes, for he guarded us all so tenderly. Does that old worn-out churchreally fill your heart as it seems to, so that you can be happy withoutpapa? That is wicked, I know, and if you are happy, I am glad you are.I do try to shield mamma, and she is like you, meek and patient.

  "Good-night, dear! I am very weary of this day. I am going to try tolose the memory of it in sleep."

  Claire rose up from reading this sheet, with a pale face out of whichthe brightness was strangely gone. It seemed a curious thing to herafterward, that she had thought to herself while reading it: "I am gladI spoke those words to Bud; I am glad I told him about a home wherethere is nothing but brightness. We need such homes."

  She went about with a slow step, setting the little room to rights,arranging the fire for the night; then she sat down and worked over herclass-book, arranging her averages for the week. She had not meant todo that work on that evening, but she seized upon it as something thatwould keep her thoughts employed. She did not want to think.

  Suddenly, in the midst of the figures, she pushed the book from her,and burying her face in her hands, said to her heart in a determinedway: "Now, what is the matter? Why do I not want to look this thing inthe face? What is wounded, my pride?" After a little she drew a long,relieved breath, and sat erect. There was no need in covering thisthing away; it would bear looking at.

  Dora had been both right and wrong. She had liked him better, yes,quite a little better than the other young men of her acquaintance.She had believed in him. When financial ruin came upon them, andfriends gathered around with well-meant, but often blundering words ofsympathy, she had comforted herself with thinking how gracefully PierceDouglass would have said and done these things had he been at home.

  When the burden of life strained heavily upon her, she had foundherself imagining how heartily he would have shouldered some of theweights that another could carry, and helped her through. She had notbeen in correspondence with him. He had asked to write to her, and shehad, following her father's gently-offered suggestion, assured him thatit would be better not; he was not to be absent many months.

  Yet during these weeks at South Plains, she had often told herselfthat perhaps Pierce would write a line for friendship's sake. Hewould know that a letter of sympathy offered at such a time would bevery different from ordinary correspondence. Yet when no letter came,she had told herself that of course he would not write; he was toothoroughly a gentleman to do so after she had, though never so gently,refused to receive his letters. Sometimes it was this story, andsometimes she reminded herself that of course he had not her address;he would not like to inquire for it; there had been nothing in theirfriendship to warrant it; when he reached home, and met Dora and hermother again, as he would assuredly, she would be quite likely to geta little message from him. Not a thought had crossed her mind but thathe would hasten to the old friends to offer his earnest sympathy andexpress his sorrow, for her father had been a friend to him. Now herewas the end of it. Six weeks in town, and nothing to say to Dora but acomment about the snow! If he had said ice, it would have been more inkeeping. Here was a shattered friendship; and no true heart but bleedsover such wounds.

  Yet, and this was the decision which made her lift her head again.There was wounded pride, certainly, and wounded feeling; but there wasa sense in which it did not matter how Pierce Douglass met her sisteron the street, or whom he married. She had not known it before; therehad been a time when she had imagined it otherwise; but somethingseemed to have come into her life since her brief residence in thislittle village, which made her clear-eyed. She knew that she did notwant to marry a man like Pierce Douglass. She knew that had he cometo her, before the revelations of this letter, and asked her to sharehis name and home, she would have been grateful and sorrowful, butshe would certainly have said, "I can not." She smiled a little asshe recurred to Dora's letter. Had the old church won her heart?Surely it could not be anything else in South Plains! Yes, oh, yes,it was something that she had found at South Plains; she had beenlifted up into daily fellowship with the Lord. She was learning tolive as "seeing him who is invisible," and in the light of his dailycompanionship she could not come into close relationship with such anone as Pierce Douglass, a man who did not profess allegiance to him.

  And yet, you who understand the intricacies of the human heart will beable to see how the letter had stung. She did not want to marry him,but she wanted to respect him, to look upon him as a friend; to feelthat he cared for her, and not for her father's millions. It was bitterto feel that here was yet another to whom friendship had been only anempty name, and to wonder how many more there were, and because of himto have less faith in the world.

  On the whole, I think it was well that at last she cried. They werehealthy tears; and helped to wa
sh away some of the bitterness.