CHAPTER XV.
STARTING FOR HOME.
IT had been a stormy evening, and the little company of busy people whohad gathered in the church for a rehearsal, were obliged to plod homethrough an incipient snow-storm; but they were in happy mood, for themost successful rehearsal of the enterprise had been held, and certaindevelopments had delighted their hearts.
To begin with: just as they had completed a difficult chorus, the doorleading into the outside world had opened with a decisive bang, andthere had been an energetic stamping of feet in the little entry, andthere appeared Alice and Louis Ansted.
There was still on Alice's face that curious mixture of superiority anddiscontent which Claire had always seen in her.
"Here we are!" she said, in a tone that expressed a sort of surprisewith herself at the idea. "It would be difficult to tell why. Now, whatdo you want of me?"
Claire went forward to meet them, her face bright with welcome.
"Have you really come to help us?" she asked.
"I suppose so. I don't know why else we should have appeared here inthe storm. It is snowing. I don't mind the storm, though; only, why didI come? I don't know; if you do, I wish you would tell me."
"Well, I do. I know exactly. You came to take the alto in thisquartette we are arranging. My girls were just assuring me that therewas not an alto voice in our midst that could sustain the other parts.What do you say now, girls?"
There was a good deal of satisfaction in her tones. It amused her tothink of Ruth's discontented grumble but a moment before:
"If Alice Ansted did not feel so much above us, she would be a gloriousaddition to this piece. Miss Benedict, her voice is splendid. I don'tlike her, but I would tolerate her presence if we could get her to takethe alto in this."
Then Mary Burton:
"Well, she won't; and you needn't think of such a thing." It was atthat moment that the door had opened, and she came.
Claire went at once to the organ, and the rehearsal of the quartettebegan.
I do not know but the girls themselves would have been almostfrightened had they been sufficiently skilled in music to know what arare teacher they had. Claire Benedict's voice was a special talent,God-given as surely as her soul. Time was when it had been one of hertemptations, hard to resist. Such brilliant and flattering futureshad opened before her, if she would but consent to give "privaterehearsals." There is an intoxication about extravagant praise, andClaire had for weeks been intoxicated to the degree that she couldnot tell where the line was drawn, and when the world stepped inand claimed her as its special prize. It was then that the keen,clear-seeing wise and tender father had used his fatherly influence,and showed her the net which Satan had warily spread. She had supposedherself secure, after that. But when the great financial crash cameupon them, and when the father was gone where he could advise andshield no more, there had come to her the temptation of her life. Itwould have been so easy to have supported her mother and sister ina style somewhat like that to which they had been accustomed; andto do this, she need not descend in any sense to that which was initself wrong or unladylike. Those who would have bought her voicewere willing that she should be as exclusive as she pleased. But forthe clear-sightedness of the father, in those days when the othertemptations had been met, she would surely have yielded to the pressure.
She came off victorious, but wounded. When she had with determinedface turned from all these flattering offers, and entered the onlydoor which opened to her conscience--this one at South Plains--shehad told herself that three hundred dollars a year did not hire hervoice. So much of herself she would keep to _herself_. She would do nosinging, either in public or private; not a note. In order to teacheven vocal music, it was not necessary to exhibit her powers of song.That sermon, however, had swept this theory away, along with manyothers. It is true, it had been almost exclusively about the church;but you will remember that it had dealt with the conscience; and theconscience awakened on one point, is far more likely to see plainly inother directions. When next the subject of song presented itself to hermind, Claire Benedict was somewhat astonished to discover that she hadnot given her _voice_ when she gave herself. She had not known it atthe time, but there had evidently been a mental reservation, else shewould not shrink so from using her powers in this direction, in thisher new sphere of life. Some earnest heart-searching had to be done.Was she vain of her voice? she wondered, that she was so unwillingto use it in the desolate little sanctuary at South Plains; that shecould not even bring herself to do other than _peep_ the praises ofGod in the school chapel. It was a revelation of self that broughtmuch humiliation with it. It was even humiliating to discover that ittook a long and almost fierce struggle to overcome the shrinking whichpossessed her. It was not all pride; there was a relief in rememberingthat. There was a sense in which her voice seemed to belong to herhappy and buried past; something which her father had loved, evenexulted in, and which had been largely kept for him. But this thoughtof her father helped her. There was never a thought connected with himthat did not help and strengthen. He would not have approved--no, shedid not put it that way, she hated those past tenses as connected withhim--he _did not_ approve of her hiding her talent in a napkin; herhappiness should not be labeled "past;" was she not in God's world?was she not the child of a King? was not heaven before her, and aneternity there, with her father who had just preceded the family bya few days? Did she grudge him that? Was it well for her to sit downweeping, and dumb, because he had entered the palace a little inadvance?
From this heart-searching, there had come another victory; and ifClaire Benedict did not say in so many solemn words,
Take my voice, and let me sing Always, only, for my King,
she nevertheless consecrated it to His service, and grew joyful overthe thought that she had this talent to give.
In making her selections for the coming concert, she had with rare goodtaste kept in mind the character of the audience which would probablygather to listen, and the capacities of her helpers. She chose simple,tender melodies, narrative poems, such as appeal to the heart, withone or two wonderful solos, and this quartette, which was new anddifficult, but full of power.
They sang it presently, for the first time; Claire and Alice Ansted,Harry Matthews and a friend of his who had been drawn in for theoccasion. It was the first time that even her girls had heard Claire'svoice in its power.
They said not a word when it was ended, but they looked at one anotherin a startled way, and presently Ruth Jennings apologized in under tonefor its power over her:
"I'm sure I don't know what was the matter with me. I never criedbefore at the sound of music. I have read of people doing it, and Ithought it rather absurd, but I could not help it. Girls, I wonder whatthe Ansteds think?"
What Alice Ansted thought might have been expressed, in part, in herfirst astonished comment:
"The idea of your singing in South Plains!"
However, she said more than that in the course of the evening; saidthings which gave Claire much more pleasure. For instance:
"How horridly out of order that little wretch is! Why don't you haveit tuned? It would be a little more endurable then; or, at least, alittle less intolerable. Our piano-tuner is coming out to-morrow, andI mean to send him down here. The idea of having nothing but a ricketychair for a music-stool! Louis, what has become of that piano-stoolwe used to have in our library in town? Did you store it with theother things? Well, just bring it out to-morrow. Miss Benedict willget another fall if she depends on this old chair any longer. What isthat you are sitting on? A pile of old music-books, I declare! Thewhole thing is disgraceful. Miss Benedict, do you sing 'Easter Bells?'I should think it would just fit your voice. It runs so high that Ican do nothing with it; but I wouldn't mind taking the alto with you.Louis, suppose you bring out the music to-morrow, and let her look atit."
And before the evening was over, it became evident to those girlsthat Miss Ansted was committed to the concert, at least. T
hey werehalf-jealous, it is true. They had enjoyed having their prize all tothemselves. Still, she had bloomed before them that evening into suchan unexpected prize, that they were almost awed, and a little glad thather glorious voice should have such an appropriate setting as was foundin Alice Ansted; and besides, it was a sort of a triumph to say: "Why,the Ansteds are going to help us at our concert! They have never sungin South Plains before!"
Louis, too, contributed something besides his fine tenor voice:
"What makes your stove smoke so, Bud?" he questioned.
And Bud explained, with some stammering, that there was something wrongabout the pipe; one joint did not fit right into another joint--or, ashe expressively stated it, "One j'int was too small, and t'other wastoo large, and so they didn't work well."
"I should say not," said Louis, amused. "The wonder is that they workat all, with such a double difficulty as that to contend with. Well,Bud, you tell Hawkins to come in to-morrow, and see what is the matterwith the joints, and make the large one small and the small one large,or fix it in any other way that suits his genius, so that the thingwon't smoke, and send his bill to me. We will have our throats all rawhere, before the important day arrives."
"A music-stool, and an organ-tuner, and a new elbow for thestove-pipe," commented Ruth Jennings, in a complacent tone, as theywalked home in the snow. "The Ansteds are good for something in theworld, after all."
About the home-going there was some talk. Claire, down by the stoveadjusting her rubbers, caught the watchful, wistful gaze of Bud, andremembered what Ruth had said about her influence over him. How couldshe exert it so that it would tell on Bud forever? What was there thatshe could say to him? When was her opportunity? Right at hand, perhaps;she would try.
"Bud," she said, "are you going to see me home through this snow-storm?or must you make haste up the hill?"
It gave her a feeling of pain to see the sudden blaze of light on hisdark, swarthy face. What a neglected, friendless life he must have led,that a kind word or two could have such power over him!
"Me!" he said. "Do you mean it? I'd like to carry your books andthings, and I could take the broom and sweep along before you. Might Igo? Oh, I haven't got to hurry. My work is all done."
She laughed lightly. What a picture it would be for Dora, could she seeher plunging through the freshly-fallen snow, Bud at her side, or astep ahead, with a broom!
"I don't need the broom," she said; "it has not snowed enough for that;and I am prepared, if it has; see my boots. I like the snow. You maycarry my books, please, and we will have a nice walk and talk. Thegirls are all ready now, I think. You put out the lamps, and I willwait for you at the door."
Out in the beautiful, snowy world, just as Bud's key clicked in thelook, Louis Ansted came up to Claire.
"Miss Benedict, let me take you home in the sleigh. I am sorry to havekept you waiting a moment; but my blundering driver had something wrongabout the harness, and the horses were fractious. They are composedenough now, and Alice is in the sleigh. Let me assist you out to it,please."
If it had been moonlight, he might have seen the mischievous sparkle inClaire's eyes. It was so amusing to be engaged to Bud, while his masterheld out his hands for her books, as a matter of course, and poor Budstood aside, desolate and miserable. Evidently he expected nothing elsebut to be left.
Claire's voice rang out clear, purposely to reach Bud's ear:
"Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Ansted! I am fond of walking; I don't mindthe snow in the least, and I have promised myself the pleasure of awalk through it with Bud. Thank you!" as he still urged, "my ankle isquite well again, and I have had no exercise to-day; I really want thewalk. We thank you very much for your help this evening, Mr. Ansted.Good-night! Are you ready, Bud?"
And they trudged away, leaving the discomfited gentleman standingbeside his pawing horses.
"It is some absurd idea of benefiting Bud that has taken possession ofher," explained Alice, as the sleigh flew by the two. "She spoke to meabout trying to help him. She is just as full of queer notions as shecan be. The idea of helping Bud!"
But the master of the horses said nothing. He was prepared to think,but not to confess, that such as she might help even Bud.
That young man, though his tread was certainly heavy enough, seemedto himself to be walking on air, such a wonderful thing had come tohim! Years and years had passed since anybody had spoken to him, savein short, sharp words, to give an order of some sort. Now this one,who said "Good-morning!" and "Good-evening!" when she met him, aspleasantly as she spoke to any, who had asked him kind questions abouthimself, who had told him that the stoves were very clean, and thatit seemed pleasant to have the church warm, was actually letting himwalk home with her and carry her books! Poor Bud wished there were moreof them, and that they were as heavy as lead, that he might show howgladly he carried them for her sake. She, meantime, was wondering howshe could best speak, to help him in any way.
"Don't you sing at all?" she asked, her eyes falling on the pileof music-books, and seizing upon the question as a way of openingconversation.
"Me!" said Bud, with an embarrassed laugh. "Oh, no, I can't sing, anymore than a calf can."
"But you like music, don't you?" She was still making talk, to try toput him at his ease.
Bud found voice then for some of the feeling which possessed him.
"I don't like most folks' music a bit; but I like the kind you make, Ido so."
He spoke with tremendous energy; there was no mistaking the intensityof his conclusions. Claire laughed a little. They were not getting onvery well.
Bud's musical tastes had probably not been cultivated. He liked themusic that she made, because the same voice had spoken kind wordsto him. Well, in that case, what would he think of the music of theangels? she wondered.
Some of the thought she put into words:
"I'll tell you where you will like the music, Bud--when you get toheaven. Did you ever try to think what that singing would sound like?"
"Me!" said Bud again, and this time there was unutterable amazement inhis voice. It was clear that the idea of hearing the music of heavenhad never dawned on his mind.
Claire replied hesitatingly, in almost a plaintive tone. The desolationof a soul that had no heaven to look to, touched her strangely justthen:
"Bud, you are going there to hear the music, are you not?"
"I reckon not." He spoke the words gravely, with a singularly mournfulintonation. "Heaven ain't for such as me. You see, ma'am, I'm nothingbut an ignorant, blundering fellow, that hadn't never ought to havebeen born."
"Oh, Bud! I am so sorry to hear you speak such dreadful words! I didn'texpect it of you. Why, don't you know you are the same as saying thatthe Lord Jesus Christ has not told the truth? He said he came to earthin order that you might live forever with him in heaven, and he lovesyou, Bud, and is watching for you to give yourself to him. And now, youeven say you ought not to have been made!"
"I didn't mean no harm! I was only a-sayin' what I've heard folks saytime and time again about me; they didn't see what I was made for, andI didn't either."
"You were made to love God, and to do work for him, and to live withhim forever in his beautiful heaven. If you don't go there, it willmake his heart sad. Oh, Bud, if I were you, I wouldn't treat him so!"