by Pansy
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A FAMILY SECRET.
YOU are not to suppose that during this press of work the moving spiritin it did not have her homesick hours, when it seemed to her that shemust fly to her mother, and that at once; that she did not have heranxious hours, when to provide as she would like for that dear motherand that beautiful young sister seemed a dreary impossibility; thatshe did not have her discouraged hours, when new carpet and frescoingand stained-glass windows seemed only "vanity of vanities," and thesharp-toned cabinet organ seemed to wheeze loud enough to drive allother improvements out of mind. But there was always this comfort; shewas much too busy to brood long or often over thoughts like these; andanother thing; weary and disheartened as some rainy evening mightfind her, there was forever an undertone of thanksgiving about Budand Harry Matthews, not only, but about others as well; not exceptingseveral of the girls, who, though Christians before she knew them,had stepped upon higher planes of thought and action--been vitalized,indeed, in their Christian life, and would never go back to the folliesof the past. Then came the trouble in the Ansted home, and the weeks ofwaiting and watching, and the final defeat which was still a triumph.During the solemnities of those hours, things which had seemed liketrials sank into trivialities, and life grew to her more earnest andsolemn than ever before.
In all these ways the summer waned. And now changes of variouskinds were pending. Harry Matthews was about closing his engagementwith the telegraph company, to enter upon a secretaryship under hisuncle--a position involving grave responsibilities and conscientiousstewardship. What joy it was to remember that the new young man wasequal to the trust. Bud was to be regularly entered as a pupil at theAcademy, and his face was radiant. The Ansteds were to stay at SouthPlains all winter, and the girls were happy over the prospect ofuniting with the little church at its coming communion. Mrs. Ansted hadsubscribed a hundred dollar addition to the minister's salary, and toldthe people that they ought to feel disgraced for not each giving doublythe original amount; that her son Louis, she felt sure, would havetaken the matter up had he lived, and she could not rest until she sawit accomplished.
Meantime, there was more or less gossip in the town, of course, aboutaffairs with which the people, if they had really stopped to think,had nothing to do. Among other things, there was wonderment as to whyHarold Chessney came to South Plains so often. What business was therein this direction which could require so much attention? To be sure, hewas one of the Directors of the railroad, but this branch of it had notheretofore been considered so important as to need constant lookingafter by its chief. Also there were some who thought it very strangethat that Miss Benedict would receive so many attentions from him, whenshe was as good as Louis Ansted's widow! Of course that was so, forMrs. Ansted herself had as good as said so dozens of times; and see howintimate she was with the entire family. Yes, they knew that HaroldChessney was a very particular friend of Louis Ansted; but they shouldthink that would hardly account for such a degree of intimacy, whenLouis had only been buried a few weeks.
Meantime, the central figures of this anxious talk went their busyways, and seemed in no sense troubled by the tongues. Harold Chessneycame often, and always visited the Ansteds and the Academy, and theintimacy between all parties seemed to increase instead of diminish.
It was about this time that Claire received an unusually lengthy letterfrom Dora; a letter over which she laughed much, and also shed sometears.
Dora had some family perplexities to ask advice about, and indulgedrather more than was her wont over forebodings in regard to the comingwinter. Then suddenly she launched into the main channel of her letterafter this fashion:
"Oh, Claire, my dear, you are good! If I could be half like you, oreven one third, it would be such a relief to mamma as well as tomyself. But Claire (this next that I am going to say is mean, andsmall, and will serve to show you that I have a correct estimate ofmyself), I can not help thinking it would be much easier for me tobe good if I were away off in South Plains, or North Mountains, oranywhere else than here, right around the corner from the old home. Doyou have any conception of what a difference it makes to be around thecorner from things, instead of being on the same street with them? Ithink it possible that I might throw myself intensely into plans forthat North Mountain Church, you know, if I were there, and forget thisone, and these people, and the old ways.
"Claire, part of the time I am pretty good; I am, indeed; but reallyand truly, it is hard. The girls try to be good, too, some of them.Occasionally I think if they did not _try_ so hard, I could get alongbetter. You see, they stop talking about things when I appear, forfear I will be hurt, and I am hurt; but it is because they think Iwill be foolish enough to care for what they have been saying. Doyou understand that? It reads as though there were no sense in it;but I know what I mean. It is clothes, half of the time. Clothes aredreadful! I find I had no conception of their cost. Not that I amhaving any new ones. Don't be frightened, dear. I am not so lost toa sense of what has befallen us as such a proceeding would indicate.Why, even a pair of gloves is often beyond my means! Neither am Icomplaining. It is not the gloves; I am quite willing to go withoutthem. If mamma could have the things which we used to considernecessities for her I would be willing to go bare-handed for the restof my days.
"Well, what am I talking about? Let me see if I can put it intowords. The girls, you know, are always arranging for this and thatentertainment. I meet them oftener, now that you have insisted onmy going back to the music class. To some of these entertainments Iam invited, and to more of them I am not. I never go, on account ofclothes and some other things.
"Imagine a party of girls gathered in the music-room or the hall, infull tide of talk about what they will wear, and how they will arrangetheir hair, and their ribbons, and all that sort of thing; and imaginea sudden silence settling over them because I have appeared in sight,as though I were a grim fairy before whom it was their misfortune tohave to be forever silent about everything that was pretty, or costmoney!
"Now I am going to make a confession, and I know it is just as silly asit can be, but sometimes I can not help rushing home, and running upto my room, and locking my door, and crying as though my heart wouldbreak.
"I am thoughtful, though, about choosing times and occasions for theseoutbreaks. I generally select an afternoon when mamma is out executingsome of your numerous commissions; but even then I have to bathe myeyes for half an hour so that the poor, dear, sweet, patient woman willknow nothing about it. I never do let her know, Claire. She thinks thatI am good and happy, and occasionally she tells me that I am growingself-controlled like you, and then I feel like a hypocrite; but all thesame, for her own good I don't enlighten her.
"Claire, dear, don't you suppose it is the silly parties to which I donot go which trouble me. I have not the slightest desire to go, and Idon't think of them often; I don't, really. Well, that about having nodesire, needs qualifying. I mean I would not have, if I could go; Imean I should like to be perfectly able to go if I chose, and then tochoose to remain at home. Do you understand?
"If the girls would only be free and social, and talk with me asthough nothing had happened, I should learn not to care. But it is sohard to always feel that people are saying: 'Hush! there she comes,poor thing, don't talk about it now, or we shall hurt her feelings!' Iwould rather have them drop me entirely, I believe, as Estelle Mitchellhas done. She doesn't bow to me any more, even when we meet face toface; doesn't see me, you know, but she does even _that_ politely.I don't know how she manages. Claire, do you remember the time papasigned that ten thousand dollar note for her father? Well, never mind.I am writing a silly and, a wicked letter. I haven't written so to youbefore, have I? I'll tell you what has stirred me so, lately, everybodyis in a flutter about the house. Claire, it is sold. You know whathouse I mean; the dear old one on the avenue, every separate stone ofwhich speaks of papa. That Mr. Chessney bought it, who spends halfof his time abroad. There is a rumor that he is to be married s
ometime--nobody seems to know just when--and bring his bride there tolive. It is well for me that I shall not have a chance to move in hercircle, for I feel almost certain that I should have to hate her alittle.
"It is very absurd, of course, but the girls are actually beginningalready to talk about the possible reception, though they don't evenknow who the prospective bride is. Some have located her in Chicago,and some in Europe. I can not discover that there is an absolutecertainty about there being any bride, and yet some of the young ladiesare planning what would be pretty and unique to wear.
"Estelle Mitchell is sure of being invited, because her brother Dickused to be quite intimately acquainted with one of the Chessney family;and Dora Benedict is sure of not being invited, because she is notintimately acquainted with anybody any more. I wonder who will have ourrooms--our dear old rooms? Yes, that largest blot is a tear. I couldn'thelp it, and I haven't time to copy, and could not afford to waste thepaper, if I had. I don't cry very often, but I was foolish enough towalk by the blessed old home this morning, and look up at the openwindow in papa's study!
"Oh, Claire, darling, I wish you could come home, if it is only for alittle while, and we could go away from here. Don't you think mammamight be made comfortable in South Plains for the winter?
"Oh, that is foolish, I know; and you are a dear, brave,self-sacrificing sister, to give up your vacation and work away allsummer to help support us. To-morrow I shall not care anything aboutthis, only to be dreadfully ashamed that I sent you this wicked letter.
"I am going down now to make tea, and a bit of cream toast for mother,and I shall be as bright as a gold eagle, and hover around her likea moth-miller in the gaslight, and tell her all sorts of pleasantnothings, and never a word of the house, or the sale, or the possiblenew mistress for the old home. I am learning, dear, though from thisletter you might not think it. But I live such a pent-up, every-daylife that I have to say things to you once in a while, else what wouldbecome of me?"
Claire laughed a great deal over this letter, pitiful as the undertonein it must have been to a sympathetic heart. The tears came once ortwice; but after all, the predominant feeling seemed to be amusement.It was not answered promptly; in fact, she waited three days; then cameMr. Chessney for one of his brief visits, and she read the letter aloudto him.
What Dora would have thought, could she have seen that proceeding,passes my imagination.
What would she have thought of human sympathy, could she have heard thebursts of laughter over parts of it; albeit Mr. Chessney did once ortwice brush away a tear!
What would she have thought could she have heard the conversation whichfollowed:
"Now, my dear Claire, I hope you are convinced of yourhard-heartedness. Poor Dora ought not to have this strain kept on herduring the autumn, especially when it is so utterly unnecessary.
"The house will be in complete order in a few weeks' time, and Dora'sreception is just the thing. I can write to Phillips, and put everyarrangement into his hands and we can appoint Dora manager-in-chief.
"Claire, I have a plan worth a dozen of yours. Let us have the motherand Dora here for a visit. They want to see the little church whichthey have helped to build. Nothing could be pleasanter. Then all yourgirls, and all your boys, could be present at the ceremony. Think whatthat would be for Bud! He would never forget it. Neither would thisstruggling minister; it would afford an excuse for doing for him justwhat we want to do. The law does not regulate the amount of marriagefees, you know."
Mr. Chessney was an eloquent pleader; and Dora's letter, it must beconfessed, plead against the delay that Claire had thought was wise.Of course, she demurred; of course, she hinted at the plans that shehad formed for getting ready; but the party on the opposite side hadan answer for every argument. He was sure that the way to do would beto get ready afterward, when she would have leisure and his invaluablepresence and advice, instead of being hampered with music-scholars,and he miles away, alone, waiting, and Dora waiting and suffering,and the mother thinking her sad thoughts. Happy surprises were allvery well; they were delightful. He was entirely in sympathy with herdesire to tell mamma and Dora the story of the new home in person, onlyhe believed with all his heart that it would be cruel, and thereforewrong, to burden that young heart with the question of ways and means amoment longer than was necessary. As for Mrs. Foster, she could supplyClaire's place quietly, and thereby make some poor music-teacher'sheart unexpectedly glad.
Of course, Claire was overruled. She had really not one sensible reasonto offer why she should remain exiled from mamma and Dora any longer.
There was a little feeling of pride, it is true, about the "gettingready afterward;" but as she looked it over carefully and prayerfully,it seemed, even to herself, a mean pride, unworthy of the woman who wasto be Harold Chessney's wife.
Then there was a fascination in the thought of Dora planning for thatreception--really being the one to invite whom she would among "thegirls," instead of being the one left out in the cold.
Also it was pleasant to think what an event it would be to her girls,and to Bud; and her cheeks glowed over the thought of the marriage-feethat would find its way into the lean pocket-book of the overburdenedminister.
I would like to tell you the whole story in detail: what Dora saidwhen the letter came imploring her mother and herself to come to SouthPlains for a few weeks' visit; how the mother demurred on the ground ofexpense, and yet confessed that it made her heart beat wildly to thinkof getting her arms around Claire again.
"But I can not think what has become of the dear child's good sense,"she would add, with a sigh. "Why, Dora dear, she did not come home,you know, because the trip would cost so much, and here she is planningfor two of us to take it."
"Never mind, mamma," would Dora reply, for Dora was desperatelydetermined on this trip to South Plains, "Claire has planned a way;and we shall save our food if we stay two weeks, and that will besomething; and she has sent us the tickets, so the money is spent. Oh,mamma, let us go _anyway_."
And of course they went. Yes, I would delight to tell you all about it.What a sensation there was in South Plains, and how full the littlechurch was, and how well Bud looked walking down the aisle as one ofthe ushers, and how people said the Ansteds certainly would not come,they would feel it a family insult, but how the Ansteds not only came,but took almost entire charge of everything.
Above all, I should like to have you look in with me at the parsonage,in the study, where the minister and his wife stopped to break theseal of that special envelope after it was all over; how he rubbed hiseyes, and looked, and looked again, and turned pale, and said, huskily:
"There is some mistake here, Mary; he has given me the wrong paper."
And how she came and looked over his shoulder, and said:
"Why, it has your full name. How can there be a mistake?" And then sheread, "Pay to Rev. Henry Ramsey, or order, one thousand dollars. --------."
Who ever heard of such a marriage-fee as that!
Oh, now, I have; there have been just such marriage-fees as that,really and truly. There had been such before Harold Chessney and ClaireBenedict were married, and there will be such again. There are poorministers and grand, rich men, and there will be, I presume, while theworld stands. More things than some people dream of are going on inthis world of ours.
There is one thing which it gives me great pleasure to record. Therewas a reception given in the old home. It was after mamma and Dora hadbeen established for several days in their old rooms, and it was theevening after the arrival of the bride and groom, and Estelle Mitchellwas invited to the reception. Not because her brother Dick had beenintimate with one of the Chessneys, but because because--
"My brother Harold gave me liberty to invite whoever I pleased among myclassmates, and it would give me pleasure to see you there."
Dora spoke truth. It really gave her great pleasure to see EstelleMitchell at the wedding reception of the Chessneys, and to realize thatshe was her guest!
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br /> "Oh, you wicked, wicked Dora!" some of them said, when the excitementcaused by the reception cards was at his height, "there you heard ustalking about the new furniture, and wondering as to who was the bride,and you never gave us so much as a hint!"
Dora laughed, and kept her own counsel. She did not choose to tellthem that during those trying days no hint of it had come to her.That was their pretty family secret, with which outsiders were not tointermeddle.
They agreed, every one of them, that Dora made a charming younghostess, and Estelle Mitchell said she was glad she was back in her oldhome, for she just fitted.
There are but two things which remain to tell you. One grew out of RuthJennings' farewell words to her beloved music-teacher, spoken while shewas half-laughing, half-crying, and wholly heart-broken:
"But the organ _does_ squeak horribly; you know it does; and it isalways getting out of tune."
Mr. Chessney heard it, and during their wedding-trip he said to hiswife:
"There is one thing I want you to help me select. I have not made mythank-offering yet to that blessed little church where I found you.It must have an organ that will keep in tune, and that will worthilycommemorate the harmony that was begun there."
Imagine, please, for I shall not attempt to tell you, the delight, tosay nothing of the unspeakable wonder, of the girls, and of the entirecommunity, when the beautifully-finished, exquisitely-toned bit ofmechanism was set up in the church.
Accompanying it were two organ stools, one for the church and one forRuth Jennings' home; so she sits on dictionaries and Patent OfficeReports no more.
The other item can be told more briefly. It is embodied in a sentencewhich the gentle mother spoke one morning at the breakfast-table:
"By the way, Claire, the committee about the Mission Band entertainmentwas here yesterday while you and Harold were out, to see if you wouldhelp them. I told them I thought you would."
The face of the bride flushed deeply, and a peculiarly tender lightshone in her eyes as she said:
"How very strange that is! It is the same Band which was preparing forthat exercise about which I told you. We were to have had it on theday in which papa was buried."
"It is the same exercise," Dora said, speaking gently. "The girlsdropped it entirely, and could never persuade themselves to take holdof it again, until last week they voted to attempt it."
"You were only interrupted in your work, you see," Mr. Chessney said,smiling down on eyes that were filling with tears. "Interrupted, thatyou might set some wheels in motion that had been clogged; now you arecalled back to finish the other, and I am here to help you."
