Read Ebook: Interrupted by Pansy

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 250 lines and 16616 words, and 5 pages

orning over the news. Occasionally she glanced at Harry, and told herself that she would have known, just to look at him, that the highest experience this life has for us had come to him.

The little church was unusually full on this triumphant morning, and yet most of the faces were known to Claire. Strangers were not frequent at South Plains. Yet there was one, a gentleman, who gave that reverent heed to the service which even among strangers distinguishes those who really join in worship from those who merely look on. This man joined, and with his heart. Claire was sure of it. It was this man that Harry Matthews watched, a satisfied smile on his face the while. Harry could imagine just how surprised the stranger was.

On the evening before, when he had reached his room, after giving his wonderful news to Claire, instead of finding it in darkness, his kerosene lamp had been turned to its highest capacity, and a gentleman sat in front of his little stove, feeding it from time to time, apparently for the sole purpose of brightening the somewhat dismal room.

"Halloo!" had been Harry's greeting.

"Just so," was the quiet response. "You did not know you had company, did you, my boy?"

And then there had been such eager grasping of hands, and such lighting up of faces, as evinced the satisfaction of both parties at meeting. For this was Harry Matthews' favorite uncle, and he must lately have come from the home where Harry's mother waited for him.

Of course there was a high-tide of question and answer at once. It was not until an hour afterward that Harry reached the subject of which he had instantly thought, on seeing his uncle.

"Uncle Harold, didn't you know the Benedicts?"

"What Benedicts?"

"Why, the Boston ones. Sydney L. He failed, and died, less than a year ago, don't you remember?"

"I remember. I knew him well. I met him abroad."

"And didn't you know his daughter?"

"I knew that he had a daughter, and, in fact, I think I saw her once; but we were not acquainted."

"Why, I wonder?"

"Why?" with a slightly-curious laugh. "There might be many reasons, I am sure. Boston spreads over a good deal of ground. Besides, you know I never spent a great deal of time in Boston, and I am not a society man. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular; only the lady is here, and I thought if you were old acquaintances, it would be pleasant to meet her."

"Here in South Plains! What in the world is she doing here?"

"Teaching music."

"I wonder if this is where she has hidden herself! I occasionally hear queries as to what has become of her, but I believe I never met a person who knew. No, I don't suppose there would be any mutual pleasure in a meeting. I may be said to be a stranger. I have not the least idea how she looks; and I may never have met her, though I think I did somewhere. I remember having a passing interest in seeing how a daughter of Sydney Benedict would look. He was a grand man, but I suspected that his daughter was a butterfly of fashion. She lived in the very centre of that sort of thing, and her father was supposed to have immense wealth. I suppose she is a poor, crushed little morsel, done up in crape and disappointment. I am always sorry for music-scholars who have to take broken-down ladies for teachers. Still, I don't know but I would like to shake hands with her for her father's sake. Have you met her?"

"I should say I had! but I don't believe you ever have. You couldn't draw such a queer picture of her as that, if you had ever seen her. She doesn't wear crape at all. Somebody told me she did not believe in mourning for people who had gone to heaven; at least, not in putting on black clothes and looking doleful, you know. And as to being crushed! why, uncle Harold, she is the brightest, sweetest, grandest girl I ever heard of in all my life."

"Possible!" said his uncle, with a good-humored laugh. "Why, my boy, she must be several years older than you! What does this mean?"

"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply of the excited young man. "It is just as evident as can be, that you don't know what you are talking about. If you had been here this winter, and watched things work, and known the hand that she had in it all, why--look here! you wait until to-morrow; I can show you a few things, I fancy."

Whereupon he immediately closed his lips; and although his uncle pretended to be extremely curious, and to be unable to wait until morning for light, no hints or questions could draw out further information in the same direction.

DANGERS SEEN AND UNSEEN.

IT was this man, then, to whom Harry Matthews' eyes often wandered during that morning service. The look of profound amazement which had settled on his uncle's face after the first sweeping glance which he gave the little church, had caused Harry the keenest satisfaction. The more so that during the morning he had been addressed after this fashion:

"The only regret I had, when I found that I could drop off at South Plains and spend a day or two, was that it was Saturday, and the Sabbath would have to be spent in that forlorn little box where you go to church. I have vivid recollections of the day I spent with you a year ago. Harry, my boy, I don't like to think of your Sabbaths being passed amid such unpleasant surroundings. I shall be glad when your engagement here closes. You don't think of renewing it, I hope? I have plans which I want to talk over with you to-morrow?"

But Harry had been too full of the surprise in store, to make any reply to these questionings, other than to say:

"Come on, uncle Harold; I sing in the choir, and I promised to be there in good time."

None the less was he watching for that first look, and it satisfied him. He wanted to laugh outright, but of course he did no such thing; instead, he seated his amazed relative in one of the best pews, then took his place in the choir, all of his face save his eyes in decorous repose.

All the bright Sabbath afternoon they sat together, uncle and nephew; the one an eager narrator, the other an attentive listener. Every step of the colossal plan, as it appeared to others, and was matured and carried out by the unfaltering zeal of Claire Benedict, was detailed for the uncle's benefit. And certainly Claire's reputation did not suffer in the young man's hands. He could not help glorifying her. None knew better than he, what she had been to him; but of this more sacred story he as yet said nothing. Its time was to come.

"Why, uncle Harold, you remember Bud," he burst forth afresh after a moment's silence, "that queer fellow who worked for the Ansteds; he came down here that night you spent here last spring, with papers, you know, for Mr. Ansted, and you talked with him a little, and laughed so over his queer notions. Remember?

"Well, sir, that fellow is simply made over! It is a great deal more wonderful than the church! We used to think he was not more than half-witted. I'll tell you what it is: I shouldn't wonder if it turned out that he was double-witted. You didn't recognize his name to-day, of course; it is a wonder that he did himself. Hubbard Myers, that's the boy. Yes, sir, he has joined the church; and a help he will be to it, too. Uncle Harold, you ought to hear him pray! He says queer things even in prayer; at least, they sound queer; but in spite of yourself you can not help wondering sometimes whether it is not because he has gotten ahead of all the rest, and sees things that they don't understand. I believe he thinks Miss Benedict is an angel sent here from heaven to help him. That's no wonder, though; perhaps she is; anyhow, she has helped him as well, and perhaps better than a real angel could have done; and she is the first one who ever took any notice of him, or remembered that he had a soul."

It is no special wonder that the uncle was deeply interested in this story. It told more than Harry suspected. How came this gay young nephew, who had cost him many sleepless nights, to be sufficiently familiar with a prayer-meeting to know who prayed, or how? He studied the bright face before him most attentively. It was changed, certainly; he had felt the change in the boy all day. What was it? How much did it mean? There had certainly been need for change. It made his heart beat fast to think of Harry's mother, and the possibility of news for her such as would make her feel young again.

"Harry," he said gently, "do you know, I half hope that I have not heard the best yet of this wonderful story; that there has been another 'making over.' How is it, my boy?"

A bright flush mantled Harry's face as he bent his eyes closer over the paper on which he was scribbling his own and his uncle's names with all sorts of flourishes.

Suddenly he raised his head, and looked full into the kind eyes bent wistfully on him, and smiled:

"I don't know why I should hesitate to tell you that, I am sure," he said, speaking in a firm, manly tone. "It is true enough. I have been made over, I believe. Certainly nobody ever needed it more, and nobody ever struggled harder against it, as you very well know. At least, you know part; but I have been lower down than you think, uncle Harold. Talk about angels! I know that I don't see how any angel can ever do more for me than Miss Benedict has done! I've engaged for life as a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ. And I owe more to Miss Benedict, this minute, than I do to any human being, not excepting even you and my mother."

The uncle was out of his chair by this time, one hand on the shoulder of his dear boy, while he held out the other, which was promptly grasped; but he could not speak yet, and he could not see for the tears. This young fellow was very dear to him, and the waiting had been long.

"God bless you!" he said at last, his lips quivering, and unable to utter another word.

When he could speak again he said:

"My dear boy, have you told your mother?"

"Not yet," said Harry, his eyes shining, "but you can be sure that I am going to. You see, Uncle Harold, the articles of surrender were only signed, sealed and delivered, night before last in the middle of the night. Since then I have not had a moment's time that belonged to me; but I'll write her such a letter as she has never had from me."

While the uncle walked the parlor of the boarding-house, and waited for his nephew to make ready for evening service, he had some questions to settle which were personal. He became aware of the fact that he had certainly jumped to conclusions regarding some of the workers in the Master's vineyard which were apparently without foundation. Here was this Miss Benedict. He had heard her name mentioned frequently in the days gone by, and always as one of the dependences of the church to which she belonged; and yet he had always thought of her with curling lip. "Workers!" he had told himself, being mentally very sarcastic, "yes, didn't all the initiated know what that meant when applied to a fashionable young lady who lived in an elegant home and mingled with the fashionable world? It meant that she helped at the fancy fairs, and festivals, and bazaars, and what not? Worked them up, probably, with all their accompanying train of evils. It meant that she was a district visitor, perhaps, and left a tract on 'Redeeming the Time' in a home where they were starving for lack of employment, and needed a loaf of bread." He had seen workers of that sort, and he found it difficult to feel for them anything but contempt. The thing for which he was now to take himself to task was the fact that he had classed Claire Benedict among these, knowing nothing of her, meantime, save that she was a member of a fashionable up-town church; and that, too, after knowing her father, and singling him out as a man among thousands. The simple truth was, that he had imagined a character of which he disapproved, and named it Claire Benedict, and then let himself disapprove of her heartily.

"The sole thing that I know about the young woman is that she was once wealthy, and on this account I have judged her as I have; and I find that it is what I am apt to do." This is what he told himself as he walked the length of that little parlor, and waited. He was much ashamed of himself. "It is an excellent standpoint from which to judge character," he said, severely. "If there is any justice in it I must be a worthless person myself. I wonder how many people are setting me down as one who merely plays at Christian work, because my father left me one fortune and my old aunt another!"

I am glad that this man had this severe talk with himself. He needed it. The truth is, he was very apt to judge of people in masses; as though they were specimens, and belonged to certain types.

The conclusion of his self-examination at this time was, that he declared that if one third of what Harry thought about this young person was true, it had taught him a lesson. He went to church that evening apparently for the purpose of studying the lesson more thoroughly; at least, he gave some attention to the organist. He had recognized her in the morning, because she had eyes like her father; and this evening he decided that her head was shaped like his, and that she had the firm mouth and yet sweet set of lips that had characterized the father, and he told himself that he might have known that the daughter of such a man would be an unusual woman.

After service was concluded, he walked deliberately forward and claimed acquaintance with Sydney Benedict's daughter. The glow that he brought to her face, and the tender light which shone in her eyes, when he mentioned that dear father's name, gave him a glimpse of what the daughter's memories were.

Harry came up to them eagerly, having been detained by the pastor for a moment.

"You have introduced yourself, Uncle Harold, I see. Miss Benedict, I wanted my Uncle Harold to know you for very special reasons."

Uncle Harold was unaccountably embarrassed. What a strange thing for that boy to say! and what did he propose to say next? But Claire relieved the embarrassment, and plunged him into a maze of questioning, by the sudden, eager interest which flashed in her face with the mention of his name.

"Are you Harold Chessney?" she asked as though a new thought came to her with the union of the two names, "and are you going to the Rocky Mountains?"

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet