A REPORTER AT CHURCH.
The Blanchards were an old Puritan family, and Dr. Blanchard, who inherited a good deal of the Puritan steadiness of temperament, held staunchly by the old ways, notwithstanding the fact of his having married an Episcopalian wife. Mrs. Blanchard's family were parishioners of Mr. Chillingworth, she herself having married shortly after he had entered on his present charge, and he had always been treated as a friend and welcome guest. But Mr. Alden had been Dr. Blanchard's minister since he had first come to Minton. He had owed much, as a young physician, to Mr. Alden's kind brotherly counsels and warm Christian influence; and his preaching just suited men like the doctor, to whom plain, downright, unpretentious, practical teaching was most acceptable.
Nobody ever heard Mr. Alden dealing with any abstract "plans" or "systems," or with purely commercial considerations of future "rewards and punishments"; or with a so-called "salvation," uncomprehended as to its real nature, to be procured by a certain vague assent to an equally uncomprehended formula. He gave his people, not scholastic theology, but religion, as he found it in the Bible, warm, concrete, throbbing with the human heart. He showed them the Infinite as he saw Him in every page of his Bible, but especially in the Man of Nazareth; not as the cold, stern Law-giver, ready to make His creatures suffer for even intellectual shortcomings and mistakes, but as the infinitely loving—infinitely righteous Father, seeking to raise all His children to their highest possibilities; while, at the same time, he laid down the irreversible laws of spiritual and moral life and health, with the faithful candor of a true physician. And he was perpetually seeking, first to call out in the hearts of his people a grateful and loving response to that Infinite Love, so divine yet so human; and, next, to show how the truth of that response lay in real turning from sin, a willing and faithful obedience to the voice of God in duty, in every relation of life, and that duty nothing less than that of "loving our neighbor as ourselves." No one ever left his church without feeling more strongly impressed with some point of his duty to his brother man—without having had another lesson in the truth that "love is the fulfilling of the law." Some critics, especially clerical ones, who missed a certain familiar terminology, and a well-worn conventional way of putting things, shook their heads over what seemed to them "superficial" and "latitudinarian," but Mr. Alden only smiled quietly to himself. He knew that he was not superficial; that what he taught people went to the very root of the matter; that, if he sought to be "broad as God's love," he sought also to show, in its divine distinctness, the sharp line of demarcation between good and evil, love and selfishness. And he knew that, in the real and quickened life of many, his ministry was not without its fruit.
But Roland Graeme, with the best will in the world, could not find much material for a striking "report," as he sat next morning, note-book in hand, anxious to do Mr. Alden some justice in the Minerva. There were no high imaginative flights, like those in which Mr. Chillingworth indulged; though now and then there would be a burst of real eloquence, struck out of the tense emotion of a tender heart, yet almost impossible to summarize in a sentence. All Roland could do was to give the outline of the clear, practical teaching addressed to the heart and conscience, the appeals to do battle with the demon of selfishness, the close analysis of the base substratum of so many current usages and maxims, and the condemnation of them by a simple comparison of them with the teachings and example of Christ.
Miss Blanchard's quick eye soon noticed the young man, though he sat at some distance on the opposite side of the church. She recognized, at once, the slightly upward poise of the head, the clear candid eyes, the earnest, kindling look, as the preacher warmed to his subject. She observed, also, his pencil and note-book, and wondered if he were taking notes for his own benefit. For no one ever thought of "reporters" in Mr. Alden's church. Once Roland's eye caught the graceful figure and spirituelle face that he had by no means forgotten, and saw by its expression, that he too was recognized. Nora fancied that his glance wandered frequently, from the preacher to the sweet childlike face of Grace Alden, sitting with a troop of little ones in the minister's pew near the pulpit. She did not wonder at it, for she, herself, loved to look at Gracie, of whom she had grown very fond. There was in her fair face, such a heavenly purity, combined with a sunny brightness, of which the golden wavy hair seemed the natural outward expression, that she attracted Nora's eyes as if by a magnetic influence. And Nora knew, too, that the outward beauty was only a symbol of the genuine goodness and sweetness of a nature of rare gentleness and purity. Kitty was as fair in all external points—more exquisite and finished indeed; but her face could never "hold" Nora as did that of this child of sixteen.
As Miss Blanchard passed out, Grace pressed up to her as she usually did, for the affectionate greeting they always exchanged.
"Father wants you to come, to-morrow evening, to a private meeting of the 'Helping Hands,'" she said. "He's going to make arrangements for a Christmas festival. He wants you on the programme for a song or two, and you are to come to tea, of course, he says."
"You can depend on my coming, then," was Nora's ready reply. Few people lingered when Mr. Alden said "Come!"
That afternoon, Nora prepared for a visit to Lizzie Mason, with a little nervous trepidation. She had been accustomed from childhood to visiting among her poor friends in Rockland, and loved to do it. But, much as she was interested in Lizzie, she felt shy about going in among a set of strange faces, and into such a home as she could but dimly picture, with the formidable figure of "Jim" in it, too, as a subject for her exhortations. However, the thing must be done, and she braced herself to do it, accordingly.
It was not so hard, after all as she found when she reached the poor street, with the dingy unattractive houses, and stopped at the door to which Roland Graeme had guided her. Lizzie was on the lookout for her, and showed her into a little family sitting-room, where everything was poor and shabby enough, but yet clean and tidy. No one was there but "Jim," a rather good-looking young fellow, with a somewhat sullen brow and weak mouth and chin, who sat reading a newspaper, quite unconscious of the various little wiles whereby Lizzie had managed to detain him indoors till her expected visitor should arrive. He rose and saluted Miss Blanchard awkwardly, with evident surprise at her appearance, and then retreated into the background, where he could look at her at leisure without being observed. The children were out at Sunday-school, Lizzie explained, "and mother had gone in to see a neighbor." She herself looked rather better and much brighter than she had done the day before.
"After you were gone, yesterday afternoon," she said, "the nurse came in, and thought I wanted a tonic, so she went and got me one from the dispensary, and I declare I feel quite set up by it already; and she talked a good deal to us, too. My! it was just beautiful! it brightened me up ever so much to see her and you!"
Of course, thought Nora, the poor girl needed a tonic; she wondered she had not thought of it. Certainly Janie Spencer was cut out for a nurse. But it was not the tonic alone which had done Lizzie good; the kind sympathy and cheering talk had been quite as effectual.
Nora tried to draw "Jim" out a little, but it was hard work. He replied by monosyllables, chiefly negatives. He didn't care for reading; he didn't go to church, he didn't think it would do him any good if he did. As for approaching the special subject of Lizzie's dread, it would, of course, have been impossible without something to lead up to it. Nora was rather relieved when the door opened, and Nelly stepped in, very much "got up" for a Sunday walk, and looking prettier and more pert than ever. She was really a good deal taken aback at seeing Miss Blanchard seated there, but she nodded familiarly, and answered in a tone meant to assert the dignity and independence of one who felt herself "as good as anybody."
Nora did her best to try to get at the girl's real self—talked to her patiently and gently, overlooking the pertness that offended her fastidious sense of the fitness of things. At last she asked her if she ever went to church with her friend Lizzie.
"No," said Nelly, "I guess I've got enough of big stuffy rooms full of people, all the week! I want some gayer kind of a picnic than that!"
Jim laughed, and even Lizzie smiled a little. They evidently thought this a clever speech of Nelly's. Nora made no reply, indeed she was at a loss what to say; and presently Nelly rose, remarking that she must go on for her walk, as the afternoon was nearly over. Jim, of course, accompanied her. Nora could not help thinking of the tender-hearted, dreamy Pippa of the poem; and wondered what could be done with such a hard and frivolous specimen as this. Yet, had she only known it, her grace and gentleness and culture had had their effect on this girl, under all her insouciance; had set her vaguely longing for something that as yet she only dimly felt, something better and nobler than anything she yet knew. We are not, as a rule, ready to show outwardly when our self-satisfaction has been upset, and more than half of the elevating influences of life arise out of mere contact of the higher with the lower; far more out of what we are, than out of what we say.
Nora remained a little longer with Lizzie, gently trying to raise her mind to the ideal that had so cheered herself in thinking about the poor overweighted life. The girl did, evidently, lay hold of it to some extent. She had that in her already, which prepared her for it, even if she could not yet comprehend the words in which the poet had put the truth, that:
"All service ranks the same with God."
But the anxious, loving little heart could at least grasp and hold something of the "best love of all."
After waiting to see and greet the mother—a tired-looking woman, prematurely broken down by ceaseless toil, Nora bade Lizzie good-by, putting into her hand Ruskin's touching little "Story of Ida," of which she herself was very fond, and which she thought Lizzie might be able to appreciate. Later, she was thankful that she had followed the impulse to do it—one of those instincts that are quicker and often truer than reason.
Mr. Chillingworth's evening sermon was the one on which he was wont to "lay himself out." Strangers often came to hear it, and it was frequently reported. Roland Graeme was there as usual, as reporter; and Miss Blanchard again, from her seat in the gallery, caught a glimpse of the young man scribbling away in his note-book. It was odd, she thought, how often he had seemed to cross her path since their accidental meeting. The sermon was one of Mr. Chillingworth's most eloquent ones, full of grand ideals, with no lack of fine and forcible expressions; here and there, Roland thought, somewhat too rhetorical for a thoroughly cultivated taste. There were touches in which Nora could recognize traces of the Browning reading, the evening before, for Mr. Chillingworth could hardly refrain from bringing into his sermons anything which had strongly impressed him. But, however fine Mr. Chillingworth's ideals might be, there was always a gap between these and the realities of common life, which he seemed unable to fill up. Their uplifting influence did not, in general, last longer than the concluding words, except in the case of the few who could supply what he failed to give them. In that of most of his audience, there was a period of transient exaltation, followed by a collapse of the artificial wings, and a sudden descent to the commonplace flats of average life and feeling. Neither did his hearers, in general, connect these ideals with the humble details of daily life; especially as his presentation of good and evil was often drawn with such melodramatic intensity of light and shade, that his hearers failed utterly to connect either with themselves. It never occurred to Mr. Pomeroy, for instance, that the "self-surrender" so glowingly advocated implied that he should devote time, thought and sacrifice to the interests of his work-people. To Mrs. Pomeroy the idea meant only increased devotion and generosity to her favorite "missionary enterprise." It never occurred to her that it might mean, also, a loving, motherly interest in the many comparatively friendless girls, whose toil was helping to gather in for her the wealth she had to bestow, but for which she "neither toiled nor spun." As for young Pomeroy, he never once even thought of any reason why he should ever put himself out for anybody. Miss Pomeroy was perhaps beginning to think a little, though she was naturally neither responsive nor expansive; but it was not Mr. Chillingworth who had made her begin.
As the seat occupied by the Pomeroy family was not far from that occupied by the Farrells, Harold Pomeroy joined Nora and Kitty as they moved out. When they reached the foot of the stair, they encountered, in the full light of the vestibule, Roland Graeme, coming from the opposite side. Not being of the order of girls who can carelessly pass, without sign of recognition, a person with whom they have conversed, because they may not have been formally introduced, or because he or she may not be in "their set," Nora was glad of the opportunity of giving him a courteous salutation, and a pleasant "Good-evening," which was as courteously returned.
"Why, how on earth did you come to know that fellow?" exclaimed young Pomeroy in surprise, after Roland had passed on.
"Why should there be anything surprising in it?" returned Nora, rather stiffly. She cordially detested Mr. Pomeroy's "airs."
"Only I shouldn't have supposed you were likely to have met Graeme," he said, in a somewhat apologetic tone.
"Is that Roland Graeme!" she exclaimed, too much surprised to think of anything else for a moment. Kitty laughed heartily.
"So Nora, you didn't even know who it was that you were bowing to? That is funny!"
"No, I didn't know his name, certainly, but I know him. That was the young man who escorted me to see the sick woman I went to help that evening, don't you remember? I had a good deal of talk with him on the way, and I liked him very much. So that is the Roland Graeme they were talking about last night. Well, I don't think he's a 'crank' in the least."
"Oh, even a crank can be sensible sometimes, you know," said young Pomeroy. "But I hope he isn't going to make a disciple of you."
"I shall certainly read The Brotherhood now," replied Nora, maliciously. "I believe there's a copy in my brother's surgery."
"And I certainly shall not" returned the young man, as he and Kitty bade her good-night at Dr. Blanchard's door.