Interrupted

  CHAPTER IX.

  OUTSIDE THE CIRCLE.

  "WHY are not the Ansted girls included among our workers?"

  It was the music-teacher who asked this question, as she waited inthe music-room for recess to close, and her work to begin. Around thestove gathered the usual group of girls, talking eagerly. An absorbingtopic had been opened before them, one with unending resources. RuthJennings had had unprecedented success, the Saturday before, disposingof pie-lifters. She was detailing some of her curious experiences. Alsoshe had received an order for a certain kind of egg-beater, the likeof which had never been seen in South Plains. She had duly reportedthe mysteriously-described thing to Miss Benedict, who had at oncerecognized it, and sent her order out by the morning mail--not forone, but two dozen. Why should not other families in South Plains beateggs in comfort? It was strange that she had not thought of those nicelittle egg-beaters.

  This and a dozen other matters of interest were being repeated anddiscussed, the lady at the piano being constantly appealed to forinformation, or to confirm some surprising statement. During amomentary lull in the talk, she asked her question.

  Ruth Jennings answered:

  "Oh, the Ansted girls! Why, Miss Benedict, is it possible that you havenot discovered that they belong to a higher sphere? Dear me! They havenothing to do with South Plains, except to tolerate it during a fewmonths of the summer because the old homestead is here, and they can'tvery well move it to the city. They live in that lovely place at thetop of Curve Hill. You have been up there, haven't you? It is the onlyreally lovely spot in South Plains. In summer their grounds are justelegant!"

  Yes, Miss Benedict had been in that direction, and every other. Sherested herself, body and soul, by long, brisk, lonely walks. She hadnoticed the place and wondered over it, and had meant to ask itshistory. So unlike every other spot in the withered village. Greatbroad fields stretching into the distance; handsome iron fence, withmassive gate-posts, guarded by fierce-looking dogs in iron; a trellisedarbor, the outline of a croquet-ground; a hint of wide-spreading,carefully kept lawns, showing between patches of the snow; asummerhouse that in the season of vines and blossoms must be lovely;a circle that suggested an artificial pond, centred with a fountain,where she could imagine the water playing rainbows with the sunshine inthe long summer days.

  And in short, there were all about this place very unmistakable tokensof the sort of refinement which is only to be secured by a full purseand an abundance of elegant leisure on the part of some one whosetastes are cultured to the highest degree. Shrouded in the snows ofmidwinter, with a shut-up look about the large, old-fashioned, roomyhouse, kept in a state of perfect repair, yet kept carefully for whatit was, a country home, the place was marked and exceptional.

  It spoke a language that could be found nowhere else, in the villageor out of it for miles around. Miss Benedict had looked upon it withloving eyes. It spoke to her of the world from which she had comeaway; of the sort of life which had always heretofore been hers. Itdid not look elegant to her, except by contrast with the surroundingshabbiness. She had been used to much greater elegance. It simply said"home" to her sad heart; and only the Saturday before, she had wonderedwhose home it was, and why she never saw people who seemed to match it,and when it would be opened again for residence, and whether she shouldever get a chance to visit that lovely greenhouse, all aglow even now.

  It came to her as a surprise that it really was the home of two of herpupils.

  "Do you mean that the Ansteds _live_ there?" she questioned. "Where isthe family? and why are the girls here?"

  "Oh, the family are everywhere. They scatter in the winter like thebirds. Go South, you know, or West, or wherever suits their royalfancy. They have no home but this, because they can not make up theirminds where to settle down for one, so they board all over the world.Do business in the city, live in South Plains, and stay in Europe; thatis about their history."

  "And the girls remain here while their parents are away?"

  "Part of the time, yes'm. Mrs. Ansted was a schoolmate of Mrs. Foster,I have heard, and respects her very highly, and would prefer having thegirls with her to sending them anywhere else. Mr. Ansted is a merchantin the city. In the summer he comes out home every night, and some ofthem stay in town with him a great deal. It is only ten miles away,you know. If they did not charge so dreadfully on the new railroad, wemight get a chance to look at its splendors once in a while ourselves;but the Ansteds don't care for high prices. Mr. Ansted is one of thedirectors, and I suppose they ride for nothing, just because they couldafford to pay eighty cents a day as well as not. That seems to be theway things work."

  "But the family attend this church, of course, while they are here. Ishould think the girls would be interested to join us."

  "Oh, no, ma'am; indeed, they don't. They haven't been inside the churchsix times in as many years. They go to town."

  "Not to church!"

  "Yes'm; they do. Every pleasant day their carriage rolls by our houseabout half-past eight, and makes me feel cross and envious all day."

  "But do you really mean that they habitually go ten miles to churcheach Sabbath, when there is one right at their doors that they mightattend? What denomination are they?"

  "The very same as our own," the girl said, laughing over MissBenedict's astonished face.

  Then the gentle Nettie added her explanation:

  "Well, but, girls, you know they don't really go _ten_ miles. There isan elegant church, Miss Benedict, just about seven, or maybe almosteight, miles from here. It was built by wealthy people who live outthere in the suburbs, and it is said to be the prettiest church intown, and the Ansteds go to that."

  "But eight miles every Sabbath, and return, must make a busy andwearying day of the Sabbath, I should think, when there is no occasion.How came they to fall into the habit of going so far?"

  "Why, they did not use to spend their summers here; only a few weeksduring August. They had a house in town, and then Mrs. Ansted was sick,and the doctors said she could not live in the city, and they had alittle delicate baby, who they said would die unless they kept it inthe country. So, they sold their town house, and came out here to stayuntil they decided what to do, and then the railroad was built, andMr. Ansted found it easy enough to get back and forth to his business,and the baby began to grow strong, and they spent a great deal of moneyon the place, and grew to liking it, and they just stay on. They keeprooms in town, and are there a great deal, but they really live inSouth Plains."

  "And drive to church every Sabbath!"

  "Well, every Sabbath when it is pleasant. They are not very regular.When it is too warm to go, they lounge under the trees, and when it istoo rainy they lounge in their handsome house, I suppose. At any rate,they don't appear in our church. We don't see much more of them whenthey are at home than when they are in Europe, only riding by."

  "And do the girls like to be here at school while the family is away?"

  "Well, that is a new thing, you see. Mrs. Foster has only been heresince September. Before that, they never looked at our school; butdirectly they heard she was coming, the Ansted girls came in, and areto board here until the family come back from Florida. We never any ofus spoke to Fannie and Ella Ansted in our lives until they appearedhere in October."

  Then Mary Burton spoke:

  "And we shall not get a chance to speak with their highnesses muchlonger. The Ansteds are coming home in two weeks. Lilian, that's thebaby, has had a low fever, and the doctors have decided that she needsto come home and get braced up, and the house is being aired for theircoming. Ella Ansted told me this morning. She says she and Fannie willonly be here at recitations after next week or week after. She doesn'tknow just when the folks will get here, they are going to stop in NewYork."

  "Girls," said the music-teacher in her most resolute tone, "let us getthe Ansted girls into our circle, and set them at work for the church."

  But this met with eager demurs. The Ansteds held themselves aloof fromS
outh Plains. They never made calls among the people, or invited themto their home, or noticed them in any way. They had nothing to do withthe poor little church; never came to the prayer meetings, nor to thesocials, nor in any way indicated that they belonged to the same fleshand blood as the worshipers there, and South Plains held its head toohigh and thought too much of itself to run after them. The girls werewell enough, Fannie and Ella, and they had been pleasant to them; butas for stooping to coax them to help, they did not feel that they coulddo it, even for Miss Benedict.

  "I don't want you to stoop," declared Miss Benedict, "nor to coax. Iwant you to give them a good hearty invitation to join us. Poor things!I am just as sorry for them as I can be! Eight miles away from theirchurch and all church friends; no prayer meeting to attend, and nopastor to interest himself in all they do! I have wondered why thosegirls seemed so out in the cold. I begin to understand it. You thinkyou have been cordial; but you have just edged out a little, made atiny opening in your circle, and said in effect: 'Oh, you may come in,if you will crawl in there! We will tolerate you while you are here,if you won't expect too much, nor ask us to invite you to our specialdoings of any sort. You are just outsiders, and we are not going tostoop to you, and let you be one with us.'"

  The girls laughed a little, but Ruth Jennings demurred. Nobody hadwanted them to stay outside; they had chosen to do so. They would notattend the church, though the trustees had invited Mr. Ansted, and theynever showed in any way an interest in South Plains or its people.

  Miss Benedict changed her tactics:

  "Girls, wait; let me ask you, are Fannie and Ella Ansted Christians?"

  "Not that I ever heard of," Ruth said, and Mary Burton added that sheknew they were not; that one day when they were talking about suchthings, Ella asked the strangest questions, almost as though she were aheathen; and Fannie did not seem to know much better.

  "Well, have you made them realize that you young people belong toChrist, and that it is a pleasant way, and you would like to have themjoin it, and work for his cause? Ruth, my dear, do they know that youdesire to have them happy in Christ, and that you pray for this everyday?"

  "It isn't likely they do, Miss Benedict, for it isn't true. I neverthought about them twice in my life in that connection, and I know Inever prayed for them."

  "And are there any of you who can give a better record than that?"She looked around upon the silenced group, and waited in vain for ananswer. At last she said, gently:

  "Now, girls, there are only two questions more that I want to ask you.One is: Which is it that stands aloof, and makes no effort to helpothers, you or the Ansted girls, if you know Christ and they do not?And the other is: Will you all agree to invite them to join us, and doit heartily?"

  The pealing bell cut short an answer, if one had been intended. MissBenedict was glad. She wanted no answer just then; she had planted herlittle seed, and hoped that it would take root and grow.

  "She has a way of taking things for granted," said one of the groupwhich moved out of the music-room, leaving Nettie to take her lesson."How does she know that any of us are Christians?"

  There was a moment's silence, then Mary Burton asked:

  "Do you really suppose there is no difference between us and others?Can't we be told in any way?"

  "I'm sure I don't know how. There hasn't been a communion service sinceshe came here, and we don't any of us go to prayer meeting. They sayshe does. Father said she sat in one corner of that dark old church theother night; the first woman there, and not many came afterward."

  Said Mary Burton:

  "I wonder what it means, any way, to come out from among them and beseparate? I came across that verse in my reading the other night, andI wondered, then, just what it meant. We girls are certainly not anymore 'separate' since we joined the church than we were before, so faras I know; and yet the verse some way made me think of Miss Benedict;she seems different from other Christians. I should like to know justwhat made the difference?"

  "She is 'gooder,'" said Ruth Jennings, laughing a little, "that isjust the whole of it; but I wish she hadn't started out on this ideaabout the Ansteds. They won't join us, and I don't want to feel myselfhumiliated by asking them."

  But Nettie, usually easy to be turned aside, held persistently to thethought which troubled her.

  "I know she is 'gooder,' that is what I say; but ought not we to be thesame? Ought the boys and girls with whom we five spend so much time, tofeel that we just belong to their set, and are in no sense differentfrom them? We are all the church-members there are among the youngpeople, you know. When I told Miss Benedict that the other day, shelooked astonished for a minute, and then she said: 'You dear girls,what a work you have to do!' But I don't feel as though we were doingit, and I, for one, don't know how; but I wish I did."

  There was no answer to that. The little seed was taking root, thoughnot in the way that the planter had planned.