A FIRESIDE TALK.
The fog and moisture had turned to snow, and the cold grayness of the early winter dusk emphasized the cheeriness that lighted up Mrs. Blanchard's drawing-room with its warm glow. Nora was practising, perseveringly, the choruses that were to be sung that evening at the first general practice for the oratorio, whither Mr. Chillingworth was to escort her, after dinner, to which he had been invited. Mrs. Blanchard reclined luxuriously in an easy-chair in front of the fire, half-lulled to sleep by the combined influence of the heat and the music, undisturbed by the prattle of the children, who, in the absence of visitors, were in full possession. Cecilia held "Tatters," the pet terrier, cuddled close to her with one hand, while with the other she helped Eddie and Daisy to set up the animals from their Noah's Ark, in a "'nagery percession" between two lines of stiff, conical trees taken from Eddie's "village," and supposed to represent an "avenue," with occasional little painted wooden houses behind it. As several of the animals had lost some of their legs, the setting up was a task of some difficulty, and presented some curious situations, the maimed wolf having to lean for support against his neighbor the lamb, while a hen that had lost one of her stout pedestals had to be similarly propped up against a fox of equal size. The long procession having been finally completed, Nora was called to come and admire.
"See, Auntie, it isn't a Noah's Ark percession," said Eddie, "it's a 'nagery percession. And those ar'n't Noah and his sons either. They're Barnum and the keepers."
"Oh, young America!" said Nora, laughing, in a semi-soliloquy. "You must remodel everything, even Noah's Ark."
"Well, Noah's Ark was a sort of 'nagery," replied Eddie, answering the tone rather than the words, "and I guess Noah was about as clever as Mr. Barnum."
Nora walked back to the piano, concealing an irresistible laugh. After all, she thought, children had to interpret those old stories of the past through present-day experiences—but her own childish conceptions had never been quite so realistic.
Cecilia followed her to the piano, and stood by her in her usual attitude of absorbed attention, while Miss Blanchard went through the passage, "He Shall Feed His Flock Like a Shepherd." Neither heard the doorbell ring, and Mr. Chillingworth had quietly opened the door some time before his presence was noticed.
"Thank you," he said, advancing, with a smile, "I wanted to hear that to the end before you knew you had an audience of even one—though I should say two," he added, glancing at the child, whom in her altered dress and surroundings, he did not in the least recognize.
"I was listening, too," said Mrs. Blanchard, rousing herself to greet him, and continuing to her sister-in-law: "Oh, you needn't laugh, Nora, I could hear the music quite well, if my eyes were shut. There's nothing that soothes one so."
"Yes, I know you find it soothing, Sophy, dear," replied Nora, demurely, while Mr. Chillingworth discreetly held his peace. Meantime Cecilia had stolen away, back to the other children, whom the nurse had come to summon to tea. She recognized the clergyman at once, and she instinctively shrank from another encounter with him.
"You have a visitor there, I see," remarked Mr. Chillingworth, as the children disappeared. "What a pretty child she is! She has such lovely eyes. Who is she? Somehow her face seems familiar to me, or else she is like some one I know."
"Oh, I don't think you can have seen her before," said Nora. "She's the child of a poor young woman Will sent to the hospital—the young woman he was sent for to go to see that evening, you know."
"Oh, the one to whom you went to act the Good Samaritan? I meant to ask you how you found her."
"She was very ill indeed," replied Miss Blanchard, gravely; then turning fully round, she looked up at him and exclaimed: "Oh, Mr. Chillingworth, I never could have imagined any one living in such a wretched place! Scarcely any furniture, and the poor thing lying on such a miserable bed on the floor! And she seemed so refined and pretty! It is horrible to think that such things can be!"
Mr. Chillingworth half closed his eyes for a moment, as if to shut out the picture she conjured up. Such scenes always jarred terribly on his æsthetic sense, and on principle, he avoided them as much as possible. They always upset him so, and he could do so little to help!
"Yes, my dear Miss Blanchard, this fleeting life of ours has many mysteries about it, sad and strange enough, but we should only be making ourselves perpetually miserable, if we were always looking at them and trying to solve them. And then you must remember that things often look worse, when we see them from the outside. Human nature has a wonderful way of adapting itself to circumstances, and this life is only a fleeting one, you know. The great thing is—to lead the sufferers to look beyond!"
"Yes, I know," said Nora, somewhat impatiently. "But then, I do think it would be better, for us as well as for them, if we were to try to make it better for them now! That was what the Good Samaritan did—you spoke of just now, wasn't it, when the priest and the Levite passed by on the other side?"
"Undoubtedly, as you say, that is best for us, as it is for them," he replied. "Yes, the life for others is the true life.
"'The quality of mercy is not strained,
It blesses him that gives and him that takes.'"
Mr. Chillingworth always rendered the quotation so as to convey the impression that the "giver" was a good deal more to be considered than the "taker."
"Well, Nora did her duty as a Good Samaritan," interposed Mrs. Blanchard, tired of being left out of the conversation. "She stayed in that wretched room all night, and sat up with the poor woman. I only wonder she didn't catch something dreadful, herself."
"Is it possible!" the clergyman exclaimed. "But that seems too great a sacrifice on your part. Was there no one else at hand?"
"Yes," said Nora, with a touch of satire in her tone. "There was a poor girl, a mill hand, who had been working all day, and sitting up at night with this poor sick woman. I thought that was too great a sacrifice!"
Mr. Chillingworth's dark eyes lighted up. "Ah," he said, "such scenes transfigure the dark places of life, do they not?"
Nora sighed—a little impatient sigh. She could not, it seemed, convey to the mind of any one else the intolerance she felt of a social state in which such hard conditions of life could prevail, for any portion of humanity. Every one about her seemed to acquiesce resignedly in the inevitable.
"And so you have added to your kindness, that of taking in the poor woman's child?" he continued.
"Yes," again interposed Mrs. Blanchard. "There seemed to be no one else to take care of her, so Nora begged to be allowed to take her in, and you know we are all her abject slaves!"
Nora laughed. "I'd like to see you an abject slave to any one," she said.
"Indeed, I feel abject enough just now," she replied, yawning slightly. "Mr. Chillingworth, how many visits do you think Nora and I paid this afternoon?"
"I shouldn't venture to guess," he said, smiling.
"Fifteen! not one less. Haven't I a right to feel tired after such a day's work? Just think of all the talking I've done."
"But then several of the people weren't at home, so we only had to leave the cards and come away," explained the severely truthful Nora.
"Well, eight visits, with all the talking that means, is a very good afternoon's work."
And having successfully diverted the conversation from such unpleasant topics, Mrs. Blanchard kept up a little skirmishing small-talk till dinner was announced.
Kitty Farrell came in to join them after dinner, as had been arranged. She was looking particularly bright and pretty in her soft white wraps. She had brought her father's neat little brougham, in which they drove down to the hall, where the practice would be held.
"I suppose you're both going to Mrs. Pomeroy's dinner-party, on Saturday evening?" said Mr. Chillingworth, on the way.
"I am," Nora replied, "and it is scarcely necessary to ask if Miss Farrell is."
"Indeed, I don't see any reason for taking it for granted," said Kitty, coquettishly; "but if you really want to know, I believe we're all going. It will be quite large for a dinner-party; so, Nora, mind you are to look your best!"
Just as they got out of the brougham, and stood full in the light of the lamp at the entrance, a young man, passing hurriedly, looked up and took a rapid survey of the trio. Nora caught the glance, and recognized the young man who had walked with her through the lamp-lighted streets a few evenings before. She was sorry that she had not had time to show that she recognized him, for he had interested her almost as much as the new trains of thought he had started.
The practice went on very much as all practices do. The choruses had to be gone over again and again, till the time and harmony were, in the conductor's estimation at least, approximately correct. Nora could not help wishing that some other words could have been used for the practice, than those carrying such sacred meanings and associations. She began to see why her Aunt Margaret did not care for oratorios, when she noticed some of the girls tittering over mistakes in the rendering of some of the most solemn and touching passages. Mr. Chillingworth watched it all carefully from the artistic point of view—which, for the time at least, he seemed to have disassociated from the religious. At last it was over, for that evening, and Kitty and Nora were resuming their wraps, while Mr. Chillingworth was holding an animated talk with the conductor and the accompanist, Herr Waldberg, on points connected with the rendering of some of the passages. Waldberg, his handsome face lighted up with the glow and sparkle of musical enthusiasm, came up with Mr. Chillingworth, and, courteously bowing to the young ladies, exchanged a few words with Kitty in an undertone. She lingered a moment, as Nora waited for her at the entrance.
"I needn't take you and Mr. Chillingworth out of your way to walk round with me," she said. "You know I didn't order the carriage to come back, as I didn't know just when it would be over, and father does not like to have the horses standing at night. But Mr. Waldberg has kindly offered to see me home, so you won't have to come all that way round, and it's snowing quite fast, isn't it?"
Nora felt vaguely dissatisfied, she hardly knew why, at the proposed arrangement. But of course she could offer no objection, and Mr. Chillingworth was by no means sorry to be permitted to walk home with Miss Blanchard, tête-à-tête. They were both enthusiasts in music, and could talk about it, the oratorio and its rendering, with more freedom from distraction than when Kitty, with her butterfly nature was at hand, ready at any moment to strike off on some other tack. And again, as they walked on, Nora observed that her unknown friend passed them at a rapid pace, but this time he was going the same way, and she did not know whether he observed her or not.