Interrupted

by Pansy

  CHAPTER XVII.

  SPREADING NETS.

  THE morning found her her own quiet self. Her first waking thoughtswere 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 someverses that she meant to mark for Bud.

  All day she went about her many duties with a quiet heart. Even thesting of a false friendship seemed to have been taken away. In theafternoon, she refused to ride with Mr. Ansted, on the plea that shehad a music-lesson to give, but when the scholar failed to appear,she, in nowise discomfited, set herself to the answering of the homeletters. A long, genial letter to her mother; longer than she had takentime for of late, fuller of detail as to the work that occupied handsand heart.

  Something about Bud, his lonely life, his one tender memory, her desirethat he might find a Friend who would never fail him; her wish that themother would remember him when she prayed; her longing to be in a faintsense a helper to him, as her father would surely have been, were he onthe earth. "I cannot do for him what papa would," so she wrote, "butChrist can do much more; and it gives me a thrill of joy to rememberthat he is not only in heaven with papa, but here, watching for Bud."

  A detailed account of the last evening's rehearsal, and the newrecruits. A hint of her desire to lead this restless Alice into clearerlight--if, indeed, the true Light had ever shined into her heart. Aword even about Louis Ansted: "Would mamma pray for him, too? It wassaid that he was in danger from several sources, and he said that hismother was not at all anxious about him. If you were his mother," soshe wrote, "you would be anxious. Be a mother to him for Christ'ssake, mamma dear, and pray for him, as I am afraid his own mother doesnot. 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 tornbit of paper, but I have written all the news to mamma, which means toyou, too, of course, and this bit is just large enough for the subjectabout 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 hismanliness can afford such a slight as he gave you, we certainly canafford to bear it. In a sense, it was hard; but much harder, I shouldthink, for him than for us.

  "No, little Dora; the church here has not my whole heart, though Iwill own that a large piece of it has gone out to the dreary littlesanctuary so sadly in need of a human friend--for the Lord will notdo what his people ought to do, you know; but I will tell you who isfilling my heart, and keeping me at rest and happy: the Lord JesusChrist. Not happy without papa, but happy in the sure hope of meetinghim again, and never parting any more. Don't you remember, dear, therecan never be another parting from papa? Some sorrowful places there maybe for your feet and mine on our journey home; but so far as papa isconcerned, there will be no more need for tears. Bear the thorns of theway, little sister, in patience, for they are only _on the way_ throughthe woods; not a thorn in the home.

  "I trust you will be so brave as to dismiss Pierce Douglass from yourthoughts; unless, indeed, you take the trouble to ask him for what hewill let us have some handsome chairs for the pulpit! I remember atthis moment that his money is invested in furniture. But perhaps youwill not like to do that, and he might not let us have them at anylower rates than we could secure elsewhere. Good-by, darling, brave,lonely sister. I both laughed and cried over your letter, though thetears were not about the things you thought would move them."

  She folded and addressed this letter with a smile. No need to tell thissensitive fierce-hearted Dora that the wound rankled for a time, anddid 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 beforeher; not that there was not plenty to do, but that curious aversion tosetting about any of it, which busy workers so well understand, cameover her in full force. A sort of unreasonable and unreasoning desirethat the hour might be marked by something special hovered around her.She stood at the window and looked out on the snow, and watched thesleighs fly past. A sleigh-ride would be pleasant. Why could she nothave known that her music-scholar was to disappoint her, and so had thebenefit of a ride?

  Possibly she might have said a word in season to Louis Ansted, thoughthere was about her the feeling that he was not ready for the word inseason, and would make poor use of it. Perhaps the Master knew that itwas better left unsaid, and so had held her from the opportunity; butshe longed to do something.

  A sleigh was stopping at the Academy. The young man who sprang out andpresently pealed the bell, was Harry Matthews. Did he want her? shewondered, and was this her special opportunity? No, he only wanteda roll of music, to study the part which he was to sing; but onlearning that the teacher was in, and at leisure, he came to her in themusic-room, and asked questions about this particular song, and aboutthe rehearsal, and asked to have the tenor played for him, and as hebent forward to turn the music, the breath of wine floated distinctlyto her. Was this an opportunity? Was there something that she mightsay, and ought to say?

  It was Louis Ansted's belief that this young man's special danger layin this direction; but what a delicate direction it was to touch!

  He thanked her heartily for the help which she had given him about thedifficult 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 wasdoing so much for them all, that it would certainly be a great pleasureto feel that he could in any way serve her. He wished he could tell herhow much he and some of the other boys appreciated this opportunityto study music. There had never been any good singing in South Plainsbefore.

  There was a flush on Claire's cheeks as she replied, holding forward alittle book at the same time.

  It _would_ serve me. She could think of scarcely anything else, soeasily done, that would give her greater pleasure than to have himwrite his name on her pledgebook; she had an ambition to fill everyblank. There was room for five hundred signers, and she and her sisterat home were trying to see which could get their pledge-book filledfirst. Would he give her his name?

  And so, to his amazement and dismay, was Harry Matthews brought face toface with a total abstinence pledge. What an apparently simple requestto make! How almost impossible it seemed to him to comply with it!

  He made no attempt to take the little book, but stood in embarrassmentbefore it.

  "Isn't there anything else?" he said, at last, trying to laugh. "Ihadn't an idea that you would ask anything of this sort. I can't signit, 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 tosign it?"

  The flush on his cheek mounted to his forehead, but still he tried tolaugh and speak gayly.

  "Hardly! my mother's petitions do not lie in that direction. But Ireally am principled against signing pledges. I don't believe in afellow making a coward of himself and hanging his manhood on a piece ofpaper."

  This was foolish. Would it do to let the young fellow know that sheknew it was?

  "Then you do not believe in bonds, or mortgages, or receipts, orpromises 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. Whatdo you want me to do, give you a receipt? Come, I want your name tohelp 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 inhand. What I want is your name on my total abstinence pledge. If youdo not intend to be a drinker, you can certainly have no objection togratifyi
ng me in this way."

  "Ah! but I have. The promise trammels me unnecessarily and foolishly. Iam often thrown among people with whom it is pleasant to take a sip ofwine, 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 deliberateintention of becoming such, or even with the fear that they might? orwere they led along step by step?"

  "Oh, I know all that; but I assure you I am very careful with whom Idrink liquor. There are people who seem unable to take a very littlehabitually; they must either let it alone, or drink to excess. Suchpeople ought to let it alone, and to sign a pledge to do so. I neverdrink with any such; and I never drink, any way, save with men mucholder than I, who ought to set me the example instead of looking tome, and who are either masters of themselves, or too far gone to beinfluenced by anything that I might do."

  Was there ever such idiotic reasoning! But the young man before herwas very young, and did not know his own heart, much less understandhuman nature. He was evidently in earnest, and would need anyamount of argument--would need, indeed, a much better knowledge ofhimself--before she could convince him of his false and dangerousposition; and her opportunity, if it were one, was swiftly passing.What was there that she could accomplish here and now? Since he wasin such a state of bewilderment as to logic, she resolved to lay adelicate little snare for his feet.

  "Well, I am sorry that you will not sign my pledge. I do not like yourarguments; I think they are painfully weak. I wish at your leisure youwould look into them carefully, and see if you think them worthy oflodgment in an honest mind. But in the meantime, there is somethingelse. This little favor that I am about to ask, will you promise togrant?"

  The young man looked immensely relieved. He had not expected herto abandon the ground so promptly; he had been on the verge ofpleading fear lest his horse was restive, and so breaking away fromthe embarrassment. He tumbled eagerly into the pretty net. What couldshe ask that would not be easy enough, now that the total abstinencepledge was out of the way? He could think of nothing else that a ladysuch as Miss Benedict certainly was, could ask, which would not becomparatively easy of accomplishment.

  "I don't believe in that way of doing business," he said, lookingwise, and smiling down on her in a superior way. "As a rule, I promisenothing with my eyes shut; but I am sure to be able to trust you, and Iwill try to do anything else that you ask of me, if only to prove howsincere I am in my desire to please."

  "It is a very good rule, as a rule," she said, quickly; "I would notviolate it often; but this is easy enough to do; I want your signatureto that."

  She turned the leaves rapidly, and pointed to a few lines in theback part of the little book. Two signatures were appended; but theastounding words that arrested the young man's attention were these:

  "I promise that within twenty-four hours after I have taken a taste ofanything that will intoxicate, I will report the same, either in personor by letter, to my friend, Miss Benedict."

  The hot blood spread all over the face of the gay boy before her, as heread and re-read this singular pledge.

  "I am fairly caught," he said at last, in a constrained voice, "and ina way that I least expected. May I ask you what possible good it can doyou to burden yourself with such senseless confidences as these?"

  "You are right," she said, "they are confidences. I should not haveshown you the book if I were not sure that the names there are utterlyunknown to you, and will be likely always to remain so. I had a goodmotive, and the effort resulted in good. So much you must believe ontrust. But I did not mean to catch you--at least, not in the way youmean--and to prove it, I will release you from your promise. I judgedfrom what you told me that you would not consider it a hard one."

  She was speaking with cold dignity now. She was willing that heshould not sign this pledge if he wished to be released. If only hisunwillingness to sign would lead him to think on what dangerous groundhe stood, part of her object would have been attained.

  But no, his pride was roused now, and came to the rescue. He refusedto be released. Since she chose to burden herself in this way, he wasquite willing, and should certainly add his name. This he did with aflourish, trying to be gay again, and went away assuring her that hewas sorry for her, for he always kept a pledge.

  After he was gone, she tormented herself as to whether she haddone wisely. She was more than doubtful. Those two other names hadbeen written by friendless and sorely-tempted boys, who distrustedthemselves and their resolutions to such an extent that she haddevised this little plan for helping them up from the depths ofdespair. They were gone now, both of them, where stronger arms thanhers upheld them, where they were forever safe from falling; and HarryMatthews' knowledge of their names could harm no one. But Harry wasof a different world. Had she been foolish in thus almost stealinghis promise? He had not taken it as she had thought he would. She hadbelieved him to be gayly indifferent to his habits in this direction;she had believed that he was unaware how frequently he acceptedbusiness invitations of this character.

  On the whole, she was more than doubtful as to the unusual work donein this leisure half-hour, and looked with apprehension rather thanpleasure at the name in her book. Nevertheless, she prayed over it asshe had been wont to do for those who were gone now. There was nothingfor it but to ask Him who never made mistakes, to overrule hers, if itwas 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 servehim!

  Meantime, Bud! The little lamp which belonged to his quarters over thestable, was left wholly to his care, and he did not get the best. Heoften stumbled his way to bed in the dark, rather than take the troubleof filling the lamp in the daytime. But to-night, with his treasureunder his arm, he rejoiced to remember that part of his morning workhad been to fill that lamp and put it in unusual order. It was withsatisfaction that he lighted and set it on the inverted barrel that hehad 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 hadnothing 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 hadbut marked a verse for him as she had planned! Well, what then? Itwould not have been likely to have been the one over which he stoppedat random, and slowly spelled out, going back over each word until hehad the sentence complete: "As one whom his mother comforteth, so willI comfort you, and ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem." What a versefor poor, ignorant, blundering Bud! Might it not as well have been inGreek?