It really seemed as though each worker had an uncle, or brother, or cousin, of whom she had not given a thought in this connection, who yet grew interested and offered help.
It was Anna Graves who started this special form of help, by an announcement that she made one morning:
"Girls, what do you think! My uncle Will is coming to stay two weeks, and he says he will fresco the church ceiling for us, if we will be content with plain work that he can do rapidly."
It did not take the eager listeners long to promise to be content with the very plainest work that could be imagined. Their imagination had not thought of reaching after frescoed ceilings.
"That is an idea!" said Nettie Burdick. "I wonder if Joe and Charlie would not help us?"
Now Joe and Charlie were wall-paperers in the city; and it was only a few days thereafter that Nettie announced with great satisfaction that they would come out and paper the old church, for their share in the good work.
Then came Ruth Jennings' brother-in-law who was in business in a more distant city, and having called for Ruth and waited for her on the evening when that perplexing question of window-shades was being discussed, he volunteered a delightful bit of information:
"Didn't they know about the new paper in imitation of stained glass? So good an imitation that when well laid it would take an expert to distinguish the difference."
No, indeed, they had never heard of such a thing; and all other business was suspended while the brother-in-law was plied with questions, the conclusion of the matter being that he said "their firm" dealt quite largely in this new invention, and he could have enough for this little church supplied at cost, if they would like to go into it. And being able to give in round numbers the probable cost, the girls gleefully voted to "go into it," provided they could secure any person who knew how to manage it. This at once developed further resources belonging to the brother-in-law. He knew all about it, and would lay the paper for them with pleasure, if some of the "fellows" would help. He would just as soon spend a day in that way as not.
"Stained-glass windows!" said Ruth Jennings, with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction. "As if South Plains had ever dreamed of attaining to such heights! Girls, will the old red curtains do for dusters, do you believe, if we wash them tremendously?"
The very next day brought them another surprise. Miss Benedict read part of a letter from "mamma," wherein it appeared that a certain Mr. Stuart, of the firm of Stuart, Greenough & Co., had become interested in the church at South Plains, through Dora's reports of what absorbed her sister's energies, and in grateful remembrance of certain helps which Claire's father had given their church in its struggling infancy, he had selected a walnut desk and two pulpit chairs, which he had taken the liberty to ship to Miss Claire Benedict, with his kind regards and earnest wish that her efforts might be prospered, even as her father's had been before her.
Over this astonishing piece of news some of the girls actually cried. The pulpit desk and chairs had represented a formidable bill of expense looming up before them.
Each had been privately sure that they would be obliged at last to take those which would jar on their esthetic tastes, out of respect to the leanness of the church purse. And here was solid walnut, selected by a man of undoubted taste and extensive knowledge in this direction. I don't think it strange that they cried!
Mary Burton, while she wiped her eyes, made a remark which was startling to some of the girls:
"How much your father has done for us this winter!" and she looked directly at Claire Benedict. Didn't Mary remember that the dear father was dead?
But Miss Benedict understood. Her eyes which had remained bright with excitement until then, suddenly dimmed; but her smile and her voice were very sweet.
"Oh, Mary! thank you!" was all she said.
Among the workers it would have been hard to find one more faithful or more energetic than Bud. He was full of eager, happy life. Much depended upon him. He could blacken stoves with the skill of a professional, and none were ever more vigorously rubbed than those rusty, ash-be-strewn ones which had so long disgraced the church. It had been good for Bud to have others awaken to the fact that there were certain things which he could do, and do well.
An eventful winter this was to him. Having made an actual start toward Jerusalem, it was found that he put more energy into the journey than many who had been long on the way; and, as a matter of course, before long it became apparent that he was taking rapid strides.
Miss Alice Ansted was among the first to realize it. She came to Claire one evening with embarrassed laughter, and a half-serious, half-amused request for instruction:
"I'm trying to follow out some of your hints, and they are getting me into more trouble than anything I ever undertook. Sewing societies and charity parties are as nothing in comparison. I am trying to teach Bud! He wants to study arithmetic; it is an absurd idea, I think; what will he ever want of arithmetic? But he was determined, and you were determined, and between you I have been foolish enough to undertake it, and now it appears that arithmetic is a very small portion of what he wants to learn. He wants to know everything that there is in the Bible; and where church-members get their ideas about all sorts of things, and what the ministers study in the theological seminary, and why all the people in the world don't attend prayer-meeting, and I don't know what not! He acts as though his brain had been under a paralysis all his life, which had just been removed. I must say he astonishes me with his questions; but it is easier to ask questions than it is to answer them. What, for instance, am I to say to ideas like these? Since you have gotten me into this scrape, it is no more than fair that you should help me to see daylight."
And then would follow a discussion, nearly always pertaining to some of the practical truths of the Christian life, or to some direction that Bud had found in the course of his daily Bible verse, which seemed to him at variance with the life which was being lived by the professing Christians about him, and which he turned to his arithmetic-teacher to reconcile.
Bud, being ignorant, found it impossible to understand why people who professed to take the Bible for their rule of life, did not follow its teachings, and he brought each fresh problem to Alice Ansted with such confident expectation that she knew all about it, that she, who had only volunteered to explain to him the rules of arithmetic, was in daily embarrassment. From these conversations, which constantly grew more close and searching as Bud stumbled on new verses, Claire Benedict used to turn with a smile of satisfaction, as well as with almost a feeling of awe, over the wisdom of the Great Teacher. Alice Ansted might be teaching Bud the principles of arithmetic, but he was certainly daily teaching her the principles of the religion which she professed, but did not live.
In fact, others beside Alice Ansted were being taught, or, at least, were being roused, by the newly-awakened mind. The minister had by no means forgotten the visit which had glorified the study for that day, and he was still bathing his almost discouraged heart in the brightness of its memory, when a vigorous knock one morning again interrupted his studies. His eyes brightened when he saw that the visitor was Bud, and he invited him in with cordial tone. But no, Bud was in haste. There was not a trace of the hesitancy and embarrassment which had characterized his first visit. He spoke with the confidence of one who had obtained great and sufficient help at this source before, and who knew that it was the place where help could be found.
"I haven't any time this morning," he said, speaking with a rapidity which had begun to characterize his newly awakened life. "I'm down at Snyder's, waiting for the pony to be shod, and there is a fellow there talking. He says the Bible ain't true; that it is just a lot of made-up stories to cheat women and children and folks that don't know nothing, like me. Well, now, I know that it is no such a thing. I know the Bible is true, because I've tried it; but he hasn't tried it, you see, sir, and he won't because he don't believe in it, and I thought I would just run up here and ask you to give me something to show him that it is all true; something that I can tell him in a hurry, because the pony will be ready in a few minutes."
What in the world was that minister to say? Was ever such an embarrassing question thrust at him?
The evidences of Christianity—yes, he had studied them carefully; of course he had. He had written sermons to prove the truth of the Holy Scriptures; he had a row of books on the upper shelf of his library, all of them treating more or less of this subject. He turned and looked at them; ponderous volumes; it was not possible to take down even the smallest of them and set Bud to reading it. In the first place, Bud would no more understand the language in which it was written than he would understand the Greek Testament which stood by its side; and, in the second place, Bud wanted knowledge that could be transmitted while the pony was being shod!
Certainly, this dilemma had its ludicrous side, but had it not also its humiliating one? Ought there not to be some word which an educated man like himself could give in haste to an ignorant boy like Bud? Something so plain that even the pony need not wait while it was being explained? Suppose the man at the blacksmith-shop had chosen to sneer over the fact that the earth is round, and Bud had come for an argument to prove the truth of this fact, how easy it would be to produce one!
Ought he not to be equally ready to defend this much-slandered Bible? Thoughts are very rapid in their transit. Something like these ideas rushed through the scholar's mind while he stood looking up at his row of books, and Bud stood looking up at him with an air of confident expectation.
"Bud," said the minister, turning suddenly away from his book-shelves, "how many persons are there at Snyder's?"
"Eight or nine, sir; maybe more."
"Are they from around here?"
"No, sir; mostly from the country; I don't know any of 'em."
"Well, Bud, I want you to listen carefully while I ask two or three questions. Suppose you had been there before any of those men, and as one after another began to come in, each should tell of a fire there had been last night in the city. Suppose you knew that they were not acquainted with each other, and had not met until they reached the blacksmith's shop, and suppose they told the same story, without contradicting one another in any of the important particulars, what do you believe you would conclude about them? Would you think that they had told the truth or a made-up story?"
"I reckon it would be the truth, sir; cause how would they know how to make it up alike?"
"That is just the point," said the gratified minister. While he talked he had been watching Bud carefully, much in doubt as to whether he had mind enough to grasp the illustration, but so far it had evidently been grasped; now he must see if it could be applied.
"Listen! Did you know that thirty-six people told the story of the Bible, and that many of them not only never saw one another, but many of them died before others of them were born; and that they told the same story, without contradicting one another at all?"
"No, sir," said Bud, "I didn't know nothing about it. Is that so?" Extreme delight glowed in his honest eyes, and he clutched at his cap and made a movement toward the door. "I thank you, sir; I'll go back and tell him; it will be a stunner!"
Away went the newly awakened preacher of the Evidences of Christianity, and the minister went back to his Greek Testament with great satisfaction. Bud might not be able to convince the scoffer at the blacksmith's shop; Mr. Ramsey did not expect that he would; he knew that Satan had many skillful ways of using false weapons and making them flash like true steel. The thing which gave him pleasure was, that Bud had understood. He felt nearly certain that the boy's mind would not leave the question there; it would have to be investigated, and he, the minister, would have to get ready to help him.
"We ought to be careful to speak about all these things in such a way that uneducated people could follow us," he said.
And all that morning, while he worked over his sermon for the following Sabbath, he worked to secure simple words in which to clothe his thought; he sought illustrations to give it clearness; in short, he preached to Bud; almost unconsciously he brought the boy before his mind's eye, cap in hand—a symbol of the people whose thoughts rested for a moment on what you were saying, and then flitted away to something else—unless, indeed, the owners were caught during that moment. This particular minister had never before so fully realized this truth. He had never before labored so hard to catch the attention of the unskilled listener; nor had he ever become so intensely interested in any sermon as he did in that one. If he was to preach it for Bud, it must be very simple; and in making it very simple, his own heart took hold of it as a tremendous reality, instead of a thought out of a book.
I hope I shall be understood when I say that Bud wrote the greater part of the minister's sermon that week; though he of course, was utterly unconscious of the fact.
CHAPTER XXI.
ONE OF THE VICTIMS.
It became more and more apparent that he was in great and growing danger. Claire saw much of him. He had been one of the most faithful helpers during the preparations for the concert, and he was still one of the energetic workers, being included in all their plans. Moreover, he was a genial, society-loving, warm-hearted young fellow; one of the sort with whom a sympathetic girl soon becomes intimate. Claire had often, in the earlier days of her girlhood, sighed over the fact that she had no brother; and now it seemed sometimes to her as if this Harry were a sort of brother, over whose interests she must watch. So she exercised an older sister's privilege in growing very anxious about him.
Neither was he so gayly happy as he had been early in the season. He had kept his pledge, coming to her at first with laughing eyes and mock gravity of face, pretending to making confession like the good little boy in the story book, who is sorry, and won't do so any more if he can help it. She always received these admissions with a gentle gravity, so unmistakably tinged with sadness and disappointment, that they presently ceased to be amusing to him. He was beginning to make discoveries: first, that it was by no means an agreeable thing for a manly young man to seek a young woman whom he respected, and voluntarily admit that he had again been guilty of what he knew she looked upon with distrust, not only, but with actual dismay; and second that he had the confession to make much more frequently than he had supposed could possibly be the case; that, in short, the habit which he had supposed such a light one, was growing upon him; that on occasions when he withstood the invitations and temptations, the struggle was a hard one, which he shrank from renewing. Still he made resolves. It was absurd to suppose that he could keep running after Miss Benedict, or sending her notes to say that he had again indulged in a habit that he had assured her was of no consequence, and that he could break in a day if he chose. He knew now that this was folly. It was not to be broken in a day. He began to suspect that possibly he was a slave, with little or no power to break it at all. The tenor of his notes changed steadily. The first one ran thus:
"I have to inform your most gracious majesty that I have this day committed the indiscretion of taking about two thirds of a glass of champagne with an old school chum whom I have not seen for six months. It is another chapter of the old story—he 'beguiled me and I did' drink. Of course it was no fault of mine; and it gives me comfort to inform you that the tempter has gone on his way to Chicago, and that I do not expect to see him for another six months. So humbly craving your majesty's pardon for being thus obliged to trouble her—owing to a certain foolish pledge of mine—I remain your humble subject.
"Harry Matthews."
The last one she received was briefly this:
"Miss Benedict:—I have failed again, though I did not mean to do so. I beg you will erase my name from that page, and care nothing more about it or me."
Over the first note Claire had lingered with a troubled air, but on this last one there dropped tears. She had adopted Harry by this time as a young brother, and she could not help carrying his peril about in her heart. Still, if he had not gone too far, there was more hope for the writer of this brief note, with its undertone of fierce self-disgust, than for the one who could so merrily confess what he believed was, at the worst, a foible.
One evening they walked home together from the church. She was silent, and her heart was heavy. She had caught the odor of wine about him, though he had made a weak effort to conceal it with rich spices. They walked half the distance from the church to the Academy, having spoken nothing beyond an occasional commonplace. Truth to tell, Claire was in doubt what to say, or whether to say anything. She had spoken many words to him; she had written him earnest little notes; what use to say more? It was he who broke the silence, speaking moodily:
"It is of no use, Miss Benedict; I shall have to ask you to release me from that pledge. I cannot keep rushing around to the Academy to tell you what befalls me; it is absurd. And—well, the fact is, as I am situated, I simply can not keep from using liquor now and then; oftener, indeed, than I had supposed when I signed that paper. It must have been a great bore to you, and I owe you a thousand apologies; but you see how it is, I must be released and left to myself. I have been true to my promise, as I knew I should be when I made it, but I can't have you troubled any longer; and, as I say, I have to drink occasionally."
He did not receive the sort of answer which he had expected. He was prepared for an earnest protest, for an argument; but Claire said, her voice very sad the while:
"I know you can not keep from drinking, Harry, and I have known it for a long while."
Now, although he had told himself several times in a disgusted way that he was a coward, and a fool, and a slave, and that he did not deserve to have the respect of a lady, his pride was by no means so far gone that he liked to hear the admission from other lips than his own that he was bound in chains which he could not break.
"What do you mean?" he asked, haughtily enough.
"I mean, Harry, that you are tempted, awfully tempted, to become a drunkard! I mean that I do not think you can help yourself; I think you have gone beyond the line where your strength would be sufficient. You inherit the taste for liquor. Never mind how I learned that; I know it, and have known it for a long time. As surely as Satan lives, he has you in his toils. Oh, Harry!"
There were tears in her voice. She was not one who easily lost self-control before others, but this was a subject on which her heart was sore. He did not know how many times she had said to herself: "What if he were my brother, and mamma sat at home watching and praying for him, and he were as he is! And his mother is a widow, and has only this one, and she sits at home and waits!" And this mother's fast-coming agony of discovery had burned into her soul until it is no wonder that the tears choked what else she might have said.
But Harry was haughty still. He was more than that, however; he was frightened. If the darkness of the night had not shielded his face from observation, its pallor would have frightened her. He tried, however, to steady his voice as he said:
"Miss Benedict, what do you mean? I do not understand. Do you mean that I am foreordained to become a drunkard, and that I can not help myself?"
"Oh, Harry! I mean that the great enemy of your soul has discovered just how he can ruin you, body and soul, and he means to do it. You have toyed with him until you can not help yourself. You can not, Harry. There is no use to fancy that you can. He has ruined many a young man as self-reliant as you. He is too strong for you, and too mean! He has ways of dissembling that you would scorn. He is not honest with you. He has made you believe what was utterly false. He has you in his toils, and as surely as you are here to-night, just so surely will you fail in the battle with him. You do not know how to cope with Satan; you need not flatter yourself that you do. He has played with many a soul, coaxed it to feel just that sense of superiority over him which you feel, until it was too late, and then laughed at his victim for being a dupe."
During the first part of this sentence, Harry Matthews, though startled, was also angry. He had always prided himself on his self-control, upon being able to go just so far in a given direction and no farther unless he chose; and even in this matter, when he had accused himself of being a slave, he had not believed it; he had believed simply that he had discovered himself to be more fond of intoxicants than he had supposed, and that the effect to give them up involved more self-sacrifice than it was worth while to make; and while he was vexed that even this was so, he had honestly believed this to be the whole story. It was not until this moment that the sense of being in actual peril, and being insufficient for his own rescue, rushed over him. I do not know why it did at that time, unless the Holy Spirit saw his opportunity and willed that it should be so.
There was almost mortal anguish in the low voice that sounded at last in answer to Claire's cry of fear.
"God help me, then! What can I do?"
The question surprised Claire, startled her. She had prayed for it, but she was like many another Christian worker in that she had not seemed to expect the answer to her prayer. Verily, He has to be content with exceeding little faith! Claire had expected the blind young man would go on excusing himself, and assuring her of her mistake. None the less was she eager with her answer:
"If you only meant that cry! If you only would give up the unequal strife, and stand aside and cry out, 'O Lord, undertake for me'! what a world would be revealed to you. Harry Matthews, there is just One who fought a battle with Satan and came off victor, and there never will be another. The victory must come through Him, or it is at best a very partial, and at all times a doubtful one. In Him are safety and everlasting strength, and outside of Him is danger."
She did not say another word, nor did he, other than a half-audible "Good-night!" as he held open the Academy gate for her to pass. She went in feeling frightened over much that she had said. Ought she to have spoken so hopelessly to him? What if he turned in despair, and plunged into excesses such as he had not known before? Men had reformed, and signed the pledge and kept it, apparently without the aid of Christ; at least, they had not owned allegiance to him, though well she knew that his restraining grace was, after all, what kept any man from rushing headlong to ruin. God held back even those who would not own his detaining arm. But she had felt so hopeless in regard to Harry, so certain that nothing short of an acknowledged leaning on Christ would be sufficient for his needs. The more she had prayed for him, the more sure had she been that in Christ alone lay his refuge. She had not meant to say this to him. Yet the thoughts seemed to crowd out of themselves, when he gave them opportunity. Now she went to her room shivering and trembling over the possible results.
She had very little opportunity, however, for thought; and there was that awaiting her which was not calculated to quiet her mind.
It was Alice Ansted who rose up from before the east window, where a fine view was to be had of the rising moon, and came forward to meet her as she entered her own room.
"I beg your pardon for having taken possession. There was company in the parlor, and Mrs. Foster said she thought I might come here and wait for you. Is there another committee meeting this evening? or can I hope to have you to myself for five minutes?"
"There is no committee meeting this evening," Clarie said, smiling, "we have been down to measure the platform, and arrange for the organ, but I believe now that everything is done. Take this easy-chair. I am glad you waited for me. There are several things about which I wish to consult you," she added.
"They have to do with that church, I know. I shall not let you get started on that topic. I should be perfectly certain not to get you back to any other to-night; and I want to do the talking myself. I can not see why you care so much for that church."
Claire laughed.
"We care for anything for which we work, and especially for which we sacrifice a little, you know. Why, you care for it yourself. Don't you think you do, a little?"
"I care for you, and for your opinion. I have been telling mamma only this evening, that when the old barn gets fixed up, I believe I will go down there to church. I am not so fond of riding that I care to take an eight-mile ride every Sunday; besides, I think it looks silly. Mamma thinks we are all becoming idiotic, for all the daughters and the son sided with me, and papa said he didn't care a rush light which we did; that it would be easier for the horses to come down here."
"Good news," said Claire, brightly. "I have been hoping for something of the kind. Then you will begin to attend the prayer-meeting, of course, and it does need you so much!"
"I'm sure I don't see why I should. I never attended prayer-meeting in town, and I have belonged to that church for years. The idea of my helping along a prayer-meeting! You do have some very absurd ideas, Claire Benedict, though I may as well admit that the only reason I would have for coming here to church would be to give you pleasure. But this is not in the least what I came to talk to you about, I knew we should get on that subject, and never get away from it."
"Let us go right away from it, and tell me, please, just what you want to talk about. Only let me say this one little thing: I want you to come down to prayer-meeting next Wednesday evening, and discover in how many ways you can help it. Now I am ready."
CHAPTER XXII.
NEW LINES OF WORK.
"I don't know why I should come to you," she said, at last, speaking half-angrily; "I suppose I am a simpleton, and shall get little thanks for any interference, yet it certainly seems to me as though something ought to be done, and as though you might do it."
"If there is any way in which I can help you," Claire said, "you hardly need to have me say how glad I shall be to do so."
"Would you, I wonder? Would you help in a perplexity that seems to me to be growing into a downright danger, and which I more than half suspect you could avert?"
There was something so significant in her tone, that Claire looked at her in wonderment for a moment, then said, choosing her words with care:
"You surely know that I would be only too glad to help you in any way that was right, and of course you would not ask me to do anything that I thought wrong."
"Oh, I'm not so sure of that. You have such peculiar ideas of right and wrong. They are not according to my standard, I presume. How I wish I knew, without telling you, just what you would think right; it would settle several questions for me, or else it would unsettle me, for I might not want to do what was right, you see, any more than you would want to do what was wrong."
"I am not a witch," said Claire, lightly, "and I confess that I have no more idea what you mean than if you were speaking in Sanscrit. Suppose you speak English for a few minutes, my friend, and enlighten me."
"I will, presently. I want to ask you a few general questions first, which have nothing special to do with the question at hand. Would you marry a man who was not a Christian?"
"No," said Claire, wondering, startled yet nevertheless prompt enough with her answer; "that is, I do not now see how I could. In the first place, I would not be likely to have the opportunity; for I could not be sufficiently interested in a man who had no sympathy with me in these vital questions, to ever reach the point as to my possible opportunities and duties."
"Oh, well, that doesn't materially enlighten me. You see I am talking about people who could become sufficiently interested to reach a great many questionings, and not know what to do with them. Let me suppose a case. We will say the people live in China, and become deeply interested in each other. In the course of time one of them goes to the Fiji Islands for instance, and meets a missionary, and comes somewhat under her influence—enough, we will say, to make her uncomfortable and to make her suspect that she is a good deal of a heathen herself, though she was a member in good and regular standing of a church in China. To make the circumstances more interesting you may suppose that one of the converted heathen begins to interest himself in her, and to enlighten her as to the power of genuine religion over the heathen heart and mind to such an extent that she is almost sure she knows nothing about it experimentally; and at the same time has a yearning desire to know and to receive the mysterious something which she discovers in this one. We will also suppose that she receives letters from China occasionally, which show her that the other party has met neither missionary nor heathen to impress him in any way, and that his plans and determinations are all of the earth and decidedly earthy, and yet that he is disposed to think that the lady ought to be thinking about returning to China, and joining him in his effort to have a good time. What, in your estimation, ought the half-awakened Fiji resident to do?"
"Alice, is some not very distant city representing China? and is South Plains Fiji? and is Bud the converted heathen?"
"There is enough witch about you to have secured you a very warm experience in the olden days. Never mind translating, if you please; this was not to be in English. What ought the Fiji to do?"
"I should think there could be no question. A half-awakened person would still be in danger of dropping back into darkness, and should, as surely as she believes in the petition, 'lead me not into temptation,' guard against anything that would be a contradiction to that prayer."
"Well, but suppose this half-awakened person were married to the party in China—what then?"
"That would be a very different matter. The irrevocable vows would have been taken before the world; the 'until death do you part' would have been accepted, and there would be no liberty of choice."
"I don't see the reasoning clearly. Suppose a person should take a vow to commit murder, and announce her determination before the world to do so, with as solemn a vow as you please, ought her conscience to hold her? Not," she added, with a slight and embarrassed laugh, "that I would put the idea of murder as a parallel case with the other imagining. I don't mean anything, you know, by all this, I am simply dealing with some imaginary people in China."
But Claire did not smile, and held herself carefully to the analogy of the illustration:
"You are supposing a moral impossibility, Alice. No one would be allowed to take a public and solemn oath to commit murder. The very oath would be a violation of the laws of God and of the land; but in the other case, the oath taken professes to be in keeping with God's revealed will and with the demands of respectable society. Surely, you see what an infinite difference this would make."
"Ah, yes, of course. Well, I'll suppose one thing more. For purposes of convenience, let us have these two people engaged to each other, but the pledge not consummated before the public—what then?"
But over this question Claire kept a troubled silence.
"I do not know," she said, at last; "I am not sure how that ought to be answered. Perhaps it is one of the things which each individual is called upon to answer for himself, or herself, taking it to God for special light. A betrothal seems to me a very solemn thing, not to be either entered into, or broken, lightly, and yet I can conceive of circumstances wherein it would be right to break the pledge—where it was wrong ever to have made it—and two wrongs cannot make a right, you know. But Alice, this is dangerous ground. I am almost inclined to think it is ground where a third party, on the human side, should not intermeddle; at least, unless it is one who has far more wisdom than I. It is not possible for me to advise you in this."
"You have advised me," Alice said, with exceeding gravity. "All I wanted was your individual opinion, and that you have given plainly, though you may not be aware of it. When one knows one is doing a thing that is wrong, I suppose the time has come to draw back."
"If the drawing back can right the wrong."
"It can help toward it. These people—who live in China, remember—are perhaps among those who ought never to have made the pledge. However, let us drop them. I want to talk to you about a more important matter."
Still she did not talk, but relapsed again into troubled silence, and Claire, not knowing what to say, waited, and said nothing.
"Would you marry a man, if you thought you might possibly be the means of saving his soul?"
Claire was startled and a trifle disturbed to think that the conversation was still to run in a channel with which she was so unfamiliar. Still, this first question was comparatively easy to deal with.
"That might depend on whether I could do so without assuming false vows. I could not promise a lie for the sake of saving any soul. Besides, it being wrong in itself, I would have no reason to hope that it would be productive of any good, for God does not save souls by means which are sinful. Why do you ask me all these questions, Alice? I have no experience, and am not wise. I wish you would seek a better counselor."
"Never mind, I have all the counsel I desire. I am not talking about those people in China any more, though you think I am. I was thinking of you, and of somebody who is in danger, and whom I believe you could save, but I know you won't—at least not in that way. Claire Benedict, I am troubled about my brother. Tell me this, do you know that he is in danger?"
"Yes," said Claire, her voice low and troubled.
"Do you know from what source I mean?"
"I think I do."
"I thought you did else I am not sure that my pride would have allowed me to open my lips. Well, do you know there is something you might do to help him?"
"Alice."
"No, you are not to interrupt me. I don't mean anything insulting. There are ways of which I would be more sure, and they are connected with you, but I know they are out of the question. I am not going to talk of them. But there is something I want you to do. I want you to talk with mamma. It is of no use for me to say a word to her. There are family reasons why she is specially vexed with me just now, and will not listen reasonably to anything that I might say. But she respects you, and likes you, and you have more or less influence over her. Are you willing to use it for Louis' sake?"
"But, my dear Alice, I do not understand you in the least. What could I say to your mother that she does not already know? and in any case, how could she materially help your brother? He needs the help of his own will."
"That is true, but there are ways in which mamma might help him, if she would. I can tell you of some. In the first place, you are mistaken as to her knowledge. She knows, it is true, that he takes more wine occasionally than is good for him, and has violent headaches in consequence; but she does not know that two nights in a week, at least, he comes home intoxicated! Isn't that a terrible thing to say of one's brother? What has become of the Ansted pride, when I can say it to almost a stranger?"
"Why does not your mother know?"
"Partly because she is blind, and partly because I have promised Louis not to tell her, and partly because there are reasons why it would be especially hard on my mother to have this knowledge brought to her through me. You see there are reasons enough. Now for what she could do. Claire, she fairly drives him into temptation. There is a certain house in the city which she is very anxious to see united to ours. She contrives daily pretexts for sending Louis there, and it is almost impossible for him to go there without coming home the worse for liquor. I wish I could talk more plainly to you. I will tell you this. There is a brother as well as a sister in that house, and it has been a pet dream of my mother to exchange the sons and daughters. It is a romantic, Old World scheme, grown up with the families from their early days; and mamma, who has never been accustomed to having her plans thwarted, is in danger of seeing all of these come to naught, and more than half believes that I am plotting against it for Louis, having first shown myself to be an undutiful and ungrateful daughter. Do you see how entirely my tongue is silenced? I wonder if you do understand?"
"I understand, my dear friend, and I thank you for your confidence; but I do not see how a stranger can help, or indeed, can interfere in any way, without being guilty of gross rudeness. How could I hope to approach your mother on such subjects as these, without having her feel herself insulted?"
Alice made a gesture of impatience.
"You can not," she said, "if you think more of the irritable words that a troubled mother may say to you than you do of a soul in peril; but I did not think you were of that sort."
Claire waited a moment before replying.
"I think I may be trusted to try to do what seems right, even though it were personally hard," she said at last, speaking very gently; "but, Alice, I do not understand how words of mine could do other than mischief."
"I can show you. This family, I have told you, is a continual snare to Louis. He simply can not go there without being led into great temptation, and mamma is responsible for the most of his visits. It would not be difficult for Louis to remain away, if mamma did not make errands for him. He would go abroad with the Husons next week, and be safe from this and many other temptations, or he would go to the Rocky Mountains with Harold Chessney—and he could not be in better society—if mamma would give her consent, and she would, if she could be made to realize his peril—if she knew that outsiders were talking about it. Don't you see?
"Now, who is going to enlighten her? I am not in favor—less so just at present than ever before; the girls, poor young things, do not know of our disgrace, and would have no influence with mamma if they did, and papa would like the alliance from a business point of view as well as mamma would from a romantic and fashionable one. Do you see the accumulation of troubles? and do you imagine, I wonder, what it is to me, when I have humbled myself to tell it all to you?"
"And this young lady?" said Claire, ignoring the personal questions. "Do you feel sure that there is no hope of help from that source? Is not her interest deep enough and her influence strong enough to come to the rescue if she fully understood?"
There was again that gesture of extreme impatience.
"That young lady! She has no more character than a painted doll! Claire Benedict, she is in as great danger to-day as Louis is, and from the same source! She dances every night, and buoys up her flagging strength by stimulants every day. I have seen her repeatedly when she was so excited with wine that I knew she did not know what she was saying."
"Is it possible!" This was Claire's startled exclamation.
"It is not only possible, but is an almost daily occurrence. And she fills the glass with her own silly little hand, which trembles at the moment with the excitement of wine, and holds it to my brother, and he, poor, foolish boy! accepts it because he knows that he likes it better than anything else in the world—at least, that is attainable. Claire, if my mother could be prevailed upon to urge Louis to go away with Harold Chessney, I believe he might be saved."
"Who is Harold Chessney?"
"He is one of God's saints, made for the purpose of showing us what a man might be, if he would. Claire Benedict, will you try?"