THE MIDNIGHT CONSULTATION
Oh, it is hard for rich men in their pride,
To know how dear a thing it is to give;
When, for sweet charity, the poor divide
The little pittance upon which they live,
And from their scanty comforts take a share,
To save a wretched brother from despair.
Chester was sitting by the fire, and a serious expression settled
on his features--he was pondering over the events of the evening;
his mind reverting constantly in spite of himself to the conversation
which he had held with the Mayor. Like most excitable persons, he
found, on reviving his own words, much to regret in them. His impulse
had been kind, his intention good, but notwithstanding this, he was
compelled to admit that his entrance into the Mayor's house must have
seemed singular and his words imprudent. Both were certainly justified
by the occasion. Still, Chester felt that he had made an enemy of
one who had the power to injure him deeply, and this thought gave
a serious cast to his features.
Jane Chester had put her little charge to bed. She now drew a chair
close to her husband, and placed her hand upon his.
"You are tired, John," she said. "You seem worn out. Has anything
gone wrong that you look so grave?"
"I fear, Jane," said Chester, turning his eyes upon the benign face
of his wife, with a look of anxious affection; "I fear that I have
not acted in the wisest manner to-night--by a few rash words I may
have made an enemy."
"An enemy, and of whom?" inquired the wife, entering as she always
did, heart and soul, into any subject that disturbed her husband.
Seeing her look of anxiety, Chester told her of his interview with
the Mayor, and the rash words which he had used regarding the little
girl. As Jane Chester listened, the anxious expression on her face
gave way to a glow of generous indignation.
"Why, what else could you have done with the poor little thing in
that dreadful state, and the station-house so far off? Surely, the
Mayor deserved all that you said and more--he must be conscious of
this, and glad enough to forget it."
"I don't know," said Chester, thoughtfully; "I should think him
capable of anything, but a frank and honest feeling of forgiveness."
"Well," said Jane Chester, hopefully, "we must not anticipate evil
in this way. Let the Mayor be ever so angry, he really has no power
to harm us. You can only be broken for bad conduct, and there we can
defy him, you know."
Chester smiled, but more at the trust and exulting love that beamed
in his wife's face, than from any confidence excited by her words.
He had relieved his mind by this little confidential chat, and made
an effort to be cheerful again.
Mrs. Chester turned and glanced toward the bed where her little guest
lay quite still, and to all appearance asleep. She looked so
comfortable in her snow-white gown and the little cap of spotted
muslin, with its border of cheap lace falling softly around the high
forehead and hollow temples, that Mrs. Chester could not help smiling.
"How contented she looks," murmured the happy wife, pressing her
husband's hand, and thus drawing his attention toward the little bed.
"Did you ever see such a change in your life?"
"She does sleep very quietly and looks almost pretty, now that she
is comfortable and quiet. You are pleased that I brought her home,
Jane?"
"Pleased, why yes, of course I am pleased, but then this is only for
one night, John. What will become of her to-morrow?" and Mrs. Chester
looked with a sort of pleading earnestness into her husband's face,
as if she had something on her mind which he might not quite sanction.
"I know--it was that partly which made me a little downhearted just
now. It will be hard for her to go away to-morrow--she will feel it
very much after you have made her so snug and comfortable."
"But why send her away?" said Mrs. Chester softly, as if she were
proposing something very wrong, only that her eyes were brim full
of kindness, and a world of gentle persuasion lay in the smile with
which she met his surprised look--it was a smile of audacious
benevolence, if we may use the term.
"If we could afford it," said Chester, heaving a sigh; "but no--no,
Jane, we must not think of this, remember I am in debt still. Let
us be just before we are charitable. We have no right to give while
we owe a cent which is not yet earned."
The smile left Jane Chester's face--she sighed and looked gravely
in the fire; this view of the matter dampened her spirits. After a
little her face brightened up.
"Well, John, I suppose you are right, but then what if I manage to
keep the child, and save just as much as usual at the end of the week?
then it would be my own little charity, you know."
"But how can you manage that, Jane?"
"Well, now, promise to let me have my own way--just promise that
before we go another step--and I will manage it; you shall see."
Chester shook his head, and was about to speak, but his wife rose
just then half leaning on his chair, her arm somehow got around his
neck, and bending her red lips close to his cheek she raised the only
hand that was disengaged and folded the fingers over his mouth.
"Not a word, John--not a word; only promise to let me have my own
way--I will have it--you know that well enough!"
"Well," said Chester, laughing, and trying to speak through the
fingers that held his lips, "well, go on--I promise--only don't quite
stop my breath!"
"Very well," said Jane Chester, removing her hand, and clasping it
with the other that fell over his shoulder; "now you shall hear."
"With our little family, you know, I have a great deal of spare time."
"I don't know any such thing, Jane--you are always at work."
"Oh, yes, stitching your shirt-bosoms in plaits so fine that nobody
can see them; ruffling Isabel's pantalets, and knitting lace to trim
morning-gowns and frocks--but what does that amount to?"
"Why, nothing, only you and Isabel always look so pretty and lady-like
with these things."
"Very well--but does all this stitching and so on, help to pay your
debts?"
"No, perhaps not; but then it pleases me--it sends us into the world
well dressed, and"--
"Gratifies your pride a little, hey!" said Mrs. Chester, interrupting
him. "Very well, this shall not be all my own charity. You and Isabel
shall help--we will all adopt the little girl."
"Well, what do you mean--what would you be at?"
"Why, just this--all the extra work that occupies me so much, we must
do without; you shall be content with clean white linen, and Isabel's
frocks and things must go with less trimming--she is pretty enough
without them, you know--then I can take in sewing, and earn enough
to pay for what the poor little thing will eat. Perhaps she knows
how to sew a little; at any rate, she and Isabel will be handy about
the house, and give me more time. There, now, isn't my plan a good
one? after all, I shall only do about the same work as ever. You and
Isabel will make all the sacrifices."
"I'm afraid not," replied Chester, drawing his wife towards him and
kissing her forehead; "but we shall make some, for I have often
thought how dreadful it would be to have you--so pretty, so well
educated--obliged to go round from shop to shop inquiring for work;
and have felt with some pride, perhaps, that while I lived you should
never come to this."
"But," said Mrs. Chester, with animation, "if we had no other way--if
Isabel were crying for bread, then you would not object--you would
give up this feeling of pride--for after all, it is only that."
"No, it is something more than pride, Jane," said Chester, tenderly.
"I love to feel that your comforts are all earned by my own strength;
that I am soul and body your protector; were I able, you should never
soil these hands with labor again!"
Mrs. Chester lifted the hand which she held to her lips, and her eyes
beamed with joy through the tears that filled them.
"I know all this, John, and it makes me love you! oh, how dearly;
but then it is wrong--very, very delightful, but still wrong."
"Why wrong, Jane, I cannot understand that?"
"Wrong--why because it might, if I were only selfish enough to take
advantage of your tenderness, make me a very useless, gossiping, idle
sort of person."
"You would never come to that, Jane."
"No, I should not like to become one of those worthless drones in
the great hive of human life, who exist daintily on their husbands'
energies, making him the slave of capricious wants that would never
arise but for the idea that it is refined and feminine to be useless.
I would be a wife; a companion; a help to my husband."
"And so you are, all these and more," said Chester, gazing with
delight on her animated face. "God bless you, Jane, for you have been
to me a noble and a true wife."
"Well, then, of course I am to have my own way now. This poor child,
I shall not mind in the least asking about work, when it is for her."
"But the shopkeepers, they will not know why you do this."
"Well, what need I care for them?"
"They will think you have a very shiftless, or perhaps dissipated
husband, who obliges you to go about among them begging for work."
"No--no, these miseries are not written in my face, John, they will
never think that of me."
"Or a widow, perhaps!" rejoined Chester, with a faint smile.
"Don't talk in that way," and Mrs. Chester's eyes filled with tears.
"A widow--your widow--I should never live to be that. The very thought
makes my heart stand still. With you I can do anything--but alone--a
widow--John, never mention that word again!"
Chester drew down his wife's head and kissed her cheek very tenderly,
smoothing her bright tresses with his hand the while.
"Why you should learn to think of these things without so much terror,
Jane," he said, in a voice full of tenderness, but still sad, as if
some unconquerable presentiment were overshadowing him.
"No--no--I cannot! Talk of something else, John; the little girl,
we have forgotten her."
The husband and wife both looked toward the couch. Mary had half
risen, and with her elbow resting on the pillow, was regarding them
intently with her large and glittering eyes.
"We have disturbed her!" said Jane Chester. "How wide wake she is,"
and she went up to the couch.
"I could not help listening," said the child, falling back on the
pillow as Jane came up. "Besides I want to say something. I can sew
very nicely, and wash dishes, and sweep, and a great many other
things--if you will only let me stay!"
"You shall stay--now go to sleep--you shall stay. Is it not so, John?"
said Mrs. Chester turning to her husband.
"Yes," said Chester, "the child shall stay with us; let her go to
sleep."
They all slept sweetly that night; Chester, his wife, little Isabel,
and the orphan, and such dreams as they had--such soft, bright dreams.
Could you have seen them slumbering beneath the humble roof, smiling
tranquilly on their pillows, you might have fancied that those little
rooms were swarming with invisible angels--spirits from paradise that
had come down to make a little heaven of the poor man's home. Indeed,
I am not quite sure that the idea would have been all fancy--for
Charity, that brightest spirit of heaven, was there, and what a
glorious troop she always brings in her train. Talk of flinging your
bread upon the waters, waiting for it to be cast up after many
days--why the very joy of casting the bread you have earned with your
own strength upon the bright waves of humanity, is reward enough for
the true heart.