Interrupted

  CHAPTER III.

  OUT IN THE WORLD.

  I AM not sure that I would, even if I could, give you a detailedaccount of the days which followed.

  What is the use of trying to live pain over again on paper? Yet somepeople need practice of this sort to enable them to have any idea ofthe sorrows of other hearts.

  I wonder if you ever went through a large, elegantly furnished house,from room to room, and dismantled it? Packing away this thing as far aspossible from curious eyes, soiling the velvet, or the satin, or thegilding of it, perhaps, with bitter tears while you worked; markingthat thing with a ticket containing two words which had become hatefulto you, "For sale;" hiding away some special treasure in haste, lestthe unexpected sight of it might break a heart that was just nowbearing all it could. Has such experience ever been yours? Then youknow all about it, and can in imagination follow Claire Benedict fromattic to basement of her father's house; and no words of mine can makethe picture plainer. If it is something you have never experienced, oreven remotely touched, you may think you are sympathetic, and you maygravely try to be, but nothing that printed words can say will be aptto help you much in realizing the bitterness of such hours.

  Isn't it a blessed thing that it is so? Suppose we actually bore onour hearts the individual griefs of the world? How long would our poorbodies be in breaking under the strain? "He hath borne our griefs andcarried our sorrows." It took the Infinite to do this.

  Through all the miseries of the two weeks during which the processof dismantling went on, Claire Benedict sustained her character forself-reliance and systematic energy. She stood between her mother andthe world. She interviewed carmen, and porters, and auctioneers, andtalked calmly about the prices of things, the thought of selling whichmade her flesh fairly quiver.

  She superintended the moving of heavy furniture, and the packing ofdelicate glasses and vases, after they had been chosen from the hometreasures at private sale.

  She discussed with possible purchasers the value of this or thatcarpet, and calculated back to see how long it had been in use, whenthe very bringing of it into the home had marked an anniversary whichmade her cheek pale and her breath come hard as she tried to speak thedate.

  There were some who tried to shield her from some of these bitterexperiences. There were kind offers of assistance; made, it is true, inthe main, by those who were willing, but incompetent; but Claire wasin the mood to decline all the help she could. Do her best, there wasstill so much help actually required, that it made her blush to thinkof it.

  "There are a hundred things they want to know," she would explain tothose who begged her not to tear her heart and wear her strengthby walking through the rooms with those who had come to purchase,possibly, certainly to see, and to ask. "There are a hundred thingsthey want to know that only mamma or I can tell them. It shall neverbe mamma, and I would rather face them and wait on them alone, than tocreep out at call, like an ashamed creature, to answer their demands.There is nothing wicked about it, and I ought to be able to bear whatothers have had to."

  Nevertheless, it was cruel work. She knew when the two weeks of privatesale were over, and she stood battered and bruised in soul, over theforlorn wrecks of the ruined home, that she had not understood beforewhat a strain it was to be. She had almost borne it alone. It was true,as she had said, that it must be either mamma or herself. Those who inall loving tenderness had tried to help, realized this after the firstday. "I don't know, really; I will ask Miss Benedict," was the mostfrequent answer to the endless questions. Dora's pitiful attempts tohelp bear the burden seemed to give her sister more pain than anythingelse. And one day, when to the persistent questioning of a woman in acotton velvet sack, about the first value of a Persian rug of peculiarpattern and coloring, Dora dropped down on a hassock in a burst oftears, and sobbed: "Oh, I don't know how much it cost; but I know papabrought it when he came from Europe the day I was fourteen. Oh, papa,papa, what shall I do!" Claire came from the next room, calm, pale,cold as a statue, just a swift touch of tenderness for Dora as shestooped over her, saying--

  "Run away, darling, I will attend to this," then she was ready todiscuss the merits, possible and probable, of the Persian rug, or ofanything else in the room. When the woman in the sham velvet bunglinglyattempted to explain that she did not mean to hurt poor Dora'sfeelings, she was answered quietly, even gently, that no harm had beendone, that Dora was but a child. When the woman was gone, without thePersian rug--the price having been too great for her purse--Clairewent swiftly to the sobbing Dora, and extracted a promise from her thatshe would never, no, never, attempt to enter one of the public roomsagain during those hateful two weeks, and she kept her promise.

  The next thing, now that the private sale had closed, and Clairecould be off guard, was house-hunting. Not in the style of some ofher acquaintances, with whom she had explored certain handsome rowsof houses "for rent," feeling secretly very sorry for them that theyhad to submit to the humiliation of living in rented houses and beoccasionally subject to the miseries of moving. Claire Benedict hadnever moved but once, which was when her father changed from hishandsome house on one avenue to his far handsomer one on a granderavenue, which experience was full of delight to the energetic younggirl. Very different was this moving to be. She was not looking fora house; she was not even looking for a handsome half of a doublehouse, which wore the air of belonging to one family; nor could sheeven honestly say she was looking for a "flat," because they must, ifpossible, get along with even less room than this. To so low an estatehad they fallen in an hour!

  You do not want me to linger over the story, nor try to give you anyof the shuddering details. The rooms were found and rented, Claireadding another drop to her bitter cup by seeking out Judge Symonds asher security. They were moved into; not until they had been carefullycleaned and brightened to the best of the determined young girl'sability. Two carpets had been saved from the wreck for mother's roomand the general sitting-room; and a pitiful, not to say painful,effort had been made to throw something like an air of elegance around"mamma's room." She recognized it the moment she looked on it, withlips that quivered, but with a face that bravely smiled as she said:"Daughter, you have done wonders." She wanted, instead, to cry out:"Woe is me! What shall I do?"

  This little mother, used to sheltering hands, had been a constant andtender lesson to Claire all through the days.

  She had not broken down, and lain down and died, as at first Clairehad feared she would; neither had she wept and moaned as one who wouldnot be comforted. She had leaned on Claire, it is true, but not ina way that seemed like an added burden; it was rather a balm to thesore heart to have "mamma" gently turn to her for a decisive word, anddepend on her advice somewhat as she had depended on the father.

  It had not been difficult to get a promise from her to have nothingto do with the dreadful sales. "No, dear," she had said quietly, whenClaire made her plea, "I will not try to help in that direction; I knowthat I should hinder rather than help. You can do it all, much betterthan I. You are like your father, my child; he always took the hardthings, so that I did not learn how."

  The very work with which the mother quietly occupied herself waspathetic. It had been their pleasure to see her fair hands busywith the bright wools, and silks and velvets of fancy work, such asthe restless young schoolgirl was too nervous to care for, and theenergetic elder daughter was too busy to find time for. It had beentheir pride to point to many delicate pieces of cunning workmanship,and say they were "mamma's."

  "So different from most other mothers," Dora would say, fondly andproudly.

  But on the morning that the sale commenced, the mother had gone overall the wools, and silks, and canvas, and packed them away with thatunfinished piece of crimson; and thereafter, her needle, though busy,took the stitches that the discharged seamstress had been wont to take.Claire found her one day patiently darning a rent in a fast breakingtablecloth, which had been consigned by the housekeeper to the drawerfor old linen. Scarcely an
ything in the history of the long, weary daytouched Claire so much as this.

  Such power have the little things to sting us! Some way we makeourselves proof against the larger ones.

  There had been very little about the experiences of these tryingweeks that had to be brought before the family for discussion. Theywere spared the pain of argument. There had not been two minds aboutthe matter for a moment. Everything must go; the creditors must besatisfied to the uttermost farthing, if possible. That, as a matter ofcourse. Never mind what the law allowed them. They knew nothing aboutthe law, cared nothing for it; they would even have given up theirkeepsakes and their very dresses, had there been need, and they couldhave found purchasers.

  But there had been no need. Disastrous as the failure had been, it wasfound that there was unincumbered property enough to pay every creditorand have more furniture left than they knew what to do with, besides asum of money; so small, indeed, that at first poor Claire, unused tocalculating on such a small scale, had curled her lip in very scorn,and thought that it might as well have gone with the rest.

  There came a day when they were settled in those ridiculously smallrooms, with every corner and cranny in immaculate order, and hadreached the disastrous moment when they might fold their hands and donothing. Alas for Claire! If there was one thing that she had alwayshated, it was to do nothing. She was almost glad that it was notpossible for her to do this. The absurd little sum set to their creditin the First National Bank, of which her father had for so many yearsbeen a part, would barely suffice to pay the ridiculously small rent ofthese wretched rooms and provide her mother with food and clothing. Shemust support herself. She must do more than that: Dora must be kept inschool. But how was all this to be done?

  The old question! She had puzzled over it a hundred times for some poorwoman on her list. She thought of them now only with shivers. Executiveability? Dear! yes, she had always been admired for having it.

  But it is one thing to execute, when you have but to put your handin your pocket for the money that is needed for carrying out yourdesigns; or, if there chance not to be enough therein, trip lightly upthe great, granite steps of the all-powerful bank, ask to see "papa"a minute, and come out replenished. It was quite another thing whenneither pocket nor bank had aught for her, and the first snows ofwinter were falling on the father's grave.

  She had one talent, marked and cultivated to an unusual degree. Shehad thought of it several times with a little feeling of assurance.Everybody knew that her musical education had been thorough in theextreme, and that her voice was wonderful.

  She had been told by her teachers many a time that a fortune lay lockedup in it. Now was the time for the fortune to come forth. She mustteach music; she must secure a position in which to sing on a salary.Claire Benedict of two months ago had been given to curling her lipjust a little over the thought that Christian young men and women hadto be paid for contributing with their voices to the worship of God onthe Sabbath day. The Claire Benedict of to-day, with that great gulfof experience between her and her yesterday, said, with a sob, thatshe would never sneer again at any honest thing which women did to earntheir living. She herself would become a salaried singer.

  Yes, but how bring it to pass? Did you ever notice how strangely theavenues for employment which have been just at your side seem to closewhen there is need? More than once had representatives of fashionablechurches said wistfully to Claire: "If we could only have your voice inour choir!" Now, a little exertion on her part served to discover toher the surprising fact that there were no vacancies among the churcheswhere salaried singers were in demand.

  Yes, there was one, and they sought her out. The offered salary wouldhave been a small fortune to her in her present need; but she could notworship in that church; she would not sing the praises of God merelyfor money.

  There was earnest urging, but she was firm. There was a specious hintthat true worship could be offered anywhere, but Claire replied:

  "But your hymns ignore the doctrine on which I rest my hope for thislife and for the future."

  It was a comfort to her to remember that when she mentioned the offerto her mother and sister, and said that she could not accept it, hermother had replied, promptly: "Of course not, daughter." And even Dora,who was at the questioning age, inclined to toss her head a littlebit at isms and creeds, and hint at the need for liberal views and abroader platform, said: "What an idea! I should have supposed that theywould have known better."

  But it was the only church that offered. Neither did Claire blame them.It was honest truth; there was no opening. A year ago--six monthsago--why, even two months ago, golden opportunities would have awaitedher; but just now every vacancy was satisfactorily filled. Why shouldthose giving satisfaction, and needing the money, be discharged,to make room for her who needed it no less? Claire was no weak,unreasoning girl who desired any such thing.

  As for two months ago, at that time the thought of the possibility ofever being willing to fill such a place had not occurred to her.