Interrupted

  CHAPTER VII.

  "OUR CHURCH."

  THE dreary weather was not gone by the next morning. A keen wind wasblowing, and ominous flakes of snow were fluttering their signals inthe air; but the music-room was warm, and the music-teacher herself hadgotten above the weather. She was at the piano, waiting for the bell toring that should give the signal for morning prayers.

  Around the stove were gathered a group of girls who had hushed theirvoices at her entrance. They were afraid of the pale music-teacher.Hitherto they had regarded her with mingled feelings of awe and dislike.

  Her very dress, plain black though it was, with its exquisite fitand finish, seemed to mark her as belonging to another world thanthemselves. They expected to learn music of her, but they expectednothing else.

  It was therefore with a visible start of surprise that they receivedher first advances in the shape of a question, as she suddenly wheeledon the piano-stool and confronted them:

  "Girls, don't you think our church is just dreadful?"

  Whether it was a delicate tact, or a sweet spirit born of the lastevening's experience, that led Claire Benedict to introduce that potentlittle "our" into her sentence, I will leave you to judge.

  It had a curious effect on the girls around the stove. Thesebright-faced, keen-brained, thoroughly-good girls, who had livedall their lives in a different atmosphere from hers. They were goodscholars in algebra, they were making creditable progress in Latin,and some of them were doing fairly well in music; but they could nomore set their hats on their heads with the nameless grace whichhovered around Claire Benedict's plainly-trimmed plush one, than theycould fly through the air. This is just one illustration of the manydifferences between them. This young lady had lived all her days inthe environments of city culture; they had caught glimpses of citylife, and it meant to them an unattainable fairy-land, full of lovelyopportunities and probabilities, such as would never come to them. Itstruck every one of those girls as a peculiarly pleasant thing thattheir lovely music-teacher had said "our" instead of "your."

  One of the less timid presently rallied sufficiently to make answer:

  "Dreadful? It is just perfectly horrid! It fairly gives me the bluesto go to church. Girls, mother has almost spoiled her new cashmeresweeping the church floor with it. She says she would be ashamed tohave our wood-shed look as badly as that floor does. I don't see whythe trustees allow such slovenliness."

  "It is because we can not afford to pay a decent sexton," sighed one ofthe others. "We are so awful poor! That is the cry you always hear ifthere is a thing said. I don't believe we deserve a church at all."

  Claire had partially turned back to the piano, and she touched the keyssoftly, recalling a long-forgotten strain about "Girding on the armor,"before she produced her next startling sentence.

  "Girls, let us dress up that church until it doesn't know itself."

  If the first words had astonished them, this suggestion for a momentstruck them dumb. They looked at one another, then at the resolute faceof the musician. Then one of them gasped out:

  "Us girls?"

  "You don't mean it!" from two dismayed voices.

  "How could we do anything?" from a gentle timid one.

  "But the girl who had found courage to speak before, and to volunteerher opinion as to the disgraced church, sounded her reply on adifferent note:

  "When?"

  "Right away," said the music teacher, smiling brightly on them all, butanswering only the last speaker.

  Then she left the piano, and came over to the centre of the group,which parted to let her in.

  "Just as soon as we can, I mean. We must first secure the money; but Ithink we can work fast, with such a motive."

  Then came the chorus of discouragements:

  "Miss Benedict, you don't know South Plains. We never can raise thismoney in the world. It has been tried a dozen different times, andthere are a dozen different parties, as sure as we try to do anything.Some people won't give toward the old church, because they want a newone. As if we could ever have a new church! Others think it is wellenough as it is, if it could be swept now and then. And there is onewoman who always goes to talking about the time she gave the most forthat old rag of a carpet on the platform, and then they went and boughtit at another store instead of at theirs, where they ought to, andfor her part, she will never give another cent toward fixing up thatchurch."

  Another voice chimed in:

  "Yes; and there is an old man who says honesty comes beforebenevolence. He seems to think it would be quite a benevolence tosomebody to fix up that old rookery; and they owe him ten dollars forcoal, and they will never prosper in the world until they pay him."

  "Is it true about the society owing him?"

  "No, ma'am; it isn't. Father says they paid him more than the coal wasworth. He is an old scamp. But it is just a specimen of the way thingsgo here; hundreds of reasons seem to pop up to hinder people fromdoing a thing; and all the old stories are raked up, and after awhileeverybody gets mad with everybody else, and won't try to do anything.You never saw such a place as South Plains."

  But the music-teacher laughed. She was so sure of what ought to bedone, and therefore, of course, of what could be done, that she couldafford to laugh over the ludicrous side of this doleful story.

  The girls, however, did not see the ludicrous side.

  "It makes me cold all over, just thinking about trying to beg money inSouth Plains for anything; and for the church most of all!"

  To be sure this was Nettie Burdick's statement, and she was noted fortimidity; but none of the bolder ones controverted her position.

  But Miss Benedict had another bomb-shell to throw into their midst.

  "Begging money is dreadful work, I suppose. I never did much of it.My collecting route lay among people who were pledged to give just somuch, and who as fully expected to pay it when the collector called,as they expected to pay their gas bill or their city taxes. But don'tlet us think of doing any such thing. Let us raise the money right hereamong ourselves."

  Blank silence greeted her. Had she been able to look into theirhearts, she would have seen something like this: Oh, yes! it is allvery well for you to talk of raising money. Anybody can see by yourdress, and your style, and everything, that you have plenty of it; butif you expect money from us, you don't know what you are talking about.The most of us have to work so hard, and coax so long to get decentthings to wear, that we are almost tired of a dress or a bonnet beforeit is worn. But this they did not want to put into words. Neither didMiss Benedict wait for them.

  "We must earn it, of course, you know."

  "Earn it! How?" Half a dozen voices this time.

  "Oh, in a dozen ways," smiling brightly. "To begin with, there isvoluntary contribution. Perhaps we can not all help in that way, butsome of us can, and every little helps. My salary, for instance, isthree hundred a year."

  She caught her breath as she said this, and paled a little. It was muchless than Sydney Benedict had allowed his daughter for spending money;but to those girls it sounded like a little fortune.

  "That is twenty-five dollars a month, and a tenth of that is twodollars and a half. Now I propose to start this scheme by giving the'tenths' of two months' salary. Come, Nettie, get your pencil, and beour secretary. We might as well put it in black and white, and make abeginning."

  "Do you always give a tenth of everything you have?"

  It was Nannie Howard's question, asked in a hesitating, thoughtfultone, while Nettie blushing and laughing, went into the depths of herpocket for a pencil, tore a fly-leaf from her algebra, and wrote MissBenedict's name.

  "Always!" said the music-teacher, gently, her lip trembling and hervoice quivering a little. "It was my father's rule. He taught it to mewhen I was a little, little girl."

  They could not know how pitiful it seemed to her that the daughter ofthe man who had given his annual thousands as tenths, had really tospend an hour in planning, so that she might see her way clear towardgivi
ng two dollars and a half a month! Not that this young Christianintended to wait until she could see her way clear. Her education hadbeen, The tenth belongs to God. As much more as you can conscientiouslyspare, of course; but this is to be laid aside without question. Hereducation, built on the rock of Christian principle, had laid it asideas a matter of course, and then her human nature had lain awake andplanned how to get along without it, and yet not draw on the sacredfund at the bank.

  "I suppose it is a good rule," Mary Burton said, "though I neverthought of doing such a thing. Well," after another thoughtful pause,"I may as well begin, I suppose. I have a dollar a month to do what Ilike with. I'll give two dollars to the fund."

  "Good!" said Miss Benedict. "Why, girls, we have a splendid beginning."

  But Mary Burton was an exception; not another girl in the group had anallowance. A few minutes of total silence followed; then a new type ofcharacter came to the front.

  "Father gave me a dollar this morning to get me a new pair of gloves;but I suppose I can make the old ones do. I'll give that."

  "O, Kate! your gloves look just horrid." This from a younger sister.

  "I know they do, but I don't care," with a little laugh that belied thewords; "so does the church."

  "That's true," said Anna Graves. "It gives one the horrors just tothink of it. I gave up all hope of its being fixed, long ago, because Iknew the men would never do it in the world; but if there is anythingwe can accomplish, let's do it. I say we try. I was going to trim mybrown dress with velvet. It will cost two dollars. I'll give it up andtrim with the same. Nettie Burdick, put me down for two dollars."

  This, or something else, set the two timid ones, who were sisters,to whispering; presently they nodded their heads in satisfaction.Whatever their plan was, they kept it to themselves. It undoubtedlyincluded self-sacrifice, as they belonged to a family who honestly hadbut little from which to give, but they presently directed that theirnames be set down for a dollar each.

  Apparently, the crowning bit of sacrifice came from Ruth Jennings.

  "Father has been promising me a piano-stool for more than a year," sheexplained, laughing. "This morning he gave me the money, and I have anote written to Benny Brooks to bring it down with him next Saturday;but I do so dreadfully hate those red curtains, that if you willpromise to do something with the windows the first thing, I'll sit onthe dictionary and the Patent Office Reports for another year. A stoolsuch as I was going to get, costs four dollars. Put it down, Nettie,quick!"

  A general clapping of hands ensued. Not a girl present but appreciatedthat to Ruth Jennings this was quite a sacrifice. As for Miss Benedict,her eyes were brimming.

  "You dear girls," she said, eagerly, "I feel as though I wanted tokiss every one of you. We will certainly have our church made over.I feel sure of it now. I think some of you must prefer it above yourchief joy."

  This called forth a chorus of voices:

  "O, Miss Benedict, you don't think that velvet ribbons, and gloves, andsuch things, are our chief joys, do you?"

  "Or even piano-stools!" This from Ruth Jennings, amid much laughter.But Miss Benedict's face was grave.

  "Has the _church_ been?" She asked the question gently, yet in asufficiently significant tone.

  The reply was prompt.

  "I should think not! Such a horrid old den as it is! How could there beany joy about it!"

  The words of the evening's text were repeating themselves so forciblyin their teacher's heart that she could not refrain from quoting: "Letmy tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I prefer not Jerusalemabove my chief joy."

  The laughter was hushed.

  "But that doesn't mean the building, does it, Miss Benedict?"

  "The building is the outward sign of His presence, is it not? Andsuggests one of the ways in which we can show our love for the God towhose worship the church is dedicated?"

  As she spoke she wound an arm around the young girl's waist, and wasanswered, thoughtfully:

  "I suppose so. It seems wrong to talk about worshipping God in a placethat is not even clean, doesn't it?"

  How familiar they were growing with their pretty young teacher, ofwhom they had thought, only the day before, that they should always beafraid.

  "Isn't she sweet?"

  This question they repeated one to another, as, in answer to the bellsummoning them to morning prayers, they moved down the hall.

  "So quick-witted and so unselfish!" said a second.

  "And not a bit 'stuck up'!" declared a third.

  And with their brains throbbing with new ideas, they went in toprayers. They glanced at one another and smiled, when Mrs. Fosterannounced the hymn,

  Work, for the night is coming, Work through the morning hour.

  They every one meant to work.