ROLAND GRAEME:
KNIGHT
A Novel of Our Time
by
AGNES MAULE MACHAR
Author of "Stories of New France," "Marjorie's Canadian Winter," etc.
"_To Ride Abroad, Redressing Human Wrongs_"
Montreal
Wm. Drysdale & Company
Entered according to Act of Parliament, in the year of Our Lord, One
Thousand, Eight Hundred and Ninety-Two, by W. Drysdale
& Co., in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture at
Ottawa.
TO
Lyman Abbott, D.D.,
ONE OF THE FIRST VOICES IN AMERICA TO ENFORCE THE RELATION OF
CHRISTIANITY TO THE LABOR PROBLEM, THESE PAGES ARE
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
"The highest truth the wise man sees he will fearlessly utter;
knowing that, let what may come of it, he is thus playing his
right part in the world; knowing that, if he can effect the
change he aims at--well: if not--well also; though not so
well."
HERBERT SPENCER.
CONTENTS.
I. ROLAND'S THREE VISITS
II. A TWILIGHT REVERIE
III. AN UNEXPECTED INTERRUPTION
IV. A CONSULTATION
V. A FAMILY PARTY
VI. LOOKING BACKWARD
VII. A MIDNIGHT MEETING
VIII. NORA'S DREAM
IX. IN THE HOSPITAL
X. A FIRESIDE TALK
XI. THORNS AND ROSES
XII. TABLE-TALK
XIII. PIPPA PASSES
XIV. A REPORTER AT CHURCH
XV. HELPING HANDS
XVI. A LUNCHEON-PARTY
XVII. A CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENT
XVIII. AFTERNOON VISITORS
XIX. "MODERN MIRACLES"
XX. BREAKERS AHEAD
XXI. WORK AND WAGES
XXII. NORA'S STRATEGY
XXIII. UNEXPECTED DENOUEMENTS
XXIV. A REVELATION
XXV. BEWILDERMENT
XXVI. AN EMPTY PLACE
XXVII. A THUNDER-BOLT
XXVIII. CONSCIENCE STRICKEN
XXIX. RECONCILIATION
XXX. AN EASTER MORNING
XXXI. AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL
XXXII. A NARROW ESCAPE
XXXIII. IN ARCADY
XXXIV. LOOKING FORWARD
ROLAND GRAEME, KNIGHT.
CHAPTER I.
ROLAND'S THREE VISITS.
The Reverend Cecil Chillingworth sat in his quiet study, absorbed in the
preparation of his next Sunday evening's discourse. It was to be one of
those powerful pulpit "efforts"--so comprehensive in its grasp, so
catholic in its spirit, so suggestive in its teachings--for which Mr.
Chillingworth, to quote the Minton _Minerva_, "was deservedly famous."
In fact, this "fame" of his sat already like "black care" on his
shoulders; or, as the Minton _Minerva_ might have said, had it only
known the secret, like a jockey determined on all occasions to whip and
spur him up to his own record. The strongest forces are often those of
which the subject of them is least conscious, and, though Mr.
Chillingworth would not have admitted it to himself, he stood in mortal
dread of "falling off" in his reputation as a preacher. Should that
happen, he would feel--or so he would have put it to himself--that his
"usefulness was gone," a reason that would have justified to him every
possible effort to avert the calamity.
He was now hard at work, with the critical presence of the reporter of
the _Minerva_ painfully before his mind, as he racked his brain for new
and original thoughts, fresh illustrations, apt and terse expressions,
with an eager anxiety that often threatened to put too great a strain on
even his fine and well-balanced _physique_. There were indeed already,
in his inward experience, some unwelcome tokens of overstrain in a
growing nervous irritability, and a miserable day, now and then, in
which all the brightness of life, and faith, and hope seemed to
disappear before the deadly touch of nervous prostration.
It was not wonderful, then, if on the days which he set apart more
especially for preparation for the pulpit, Mr. Chillingworth was
peculiarly impatient of interruption. It was not consistent with his
principles absolutely to deny himself, on these days, to all who sought
him; but he always yielded under protest, with the impatient sense of
injury which is often caused by the inconvenient pressure of our ideals
on our preferences. The subject of the particular sermon on which he was
at this time engaged was, the absolute self-surrender and self-sacrifice
demanded by the religion of Christ. He was in the full flow of clear and
elevated thought, and was just elaborating what he thought a specially
apt illustration, with the enthusiasm of an artist.
A knock at his study door suddenly awoke him from his preoccupation; his
brow involuntarily contracted, as, without looking up, he uttered a
reluctant "Come in!"
A trim maid-servant entered and handed him a card. On it was inscribed,
in clear and decided, though small characters, the name, _Roland
Graeme_.
"Roland Graeme!" he mentally re-echoed. "I don't know the name--and yet
it seems familiar." Then a ready misgiving crossed his mind, and,
turning to the waiting maid, he asked, "Does he seem to be a
book-canvasser?"
"No, sir, I don't just think he is," she replied, somewhat doubtfully;
then in a tone of more satisfied decision she added, "any way, he hain't
got any books with him _now_, as far as I can see."
"Well, say I'll be down presently," said the clergyman, with a sigh of
forced resignation, dipping his pen into the ink to finish the
interrupted sentence, in which he spent some minutes, with a
half-conscious determination to have at least the satisfaction of
keeping the unwelcome visitor waiting. The plan did not work well, so
far as he was concerned. He wrote a few words, read them over, thought
them tame and feeble, drew his pen through them, and then, as the dull
winter day was fast fading, he thought he might as well go down at once;
first putting some fresh coal on his grate, so that, when he returned,
he might find the bright glowing fire which his soul loved, for its
suggestiveness as well as its comfort, in a twilight meditation. It is
curious on what trivial things great issues do often depend. That little
delay of five minutes, as it turned out, was the means of changing the
whole course of Mr. Chillingworth's life, as well as that of some other
persons with whom this story is concerned.
Down-stairs, in the handsomely furnished parlor, whose somewhat prim
arrangement betokened the absence of any feminine occupancy, the
clergyman found his visitor, a young man of more than middle height and
noticeable figure, with a broad fair brow and wavy chestnut hair, candid
blue-gray eyes, somewhat dreamy in expression, yet full of earnestness
and hope, and lighted with a smile of peculiar sweetness as he rose at
Mr. Chillingworth's entrance. That gentleman's manner, however, retained
an expression of protest, and he remained standing, without any
invitation to his visitor to resume his seat. If he did not say--"To
what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?"--it was so clearly
written on every line of his face, that the young man was constrained to
begin in a tone of apology:
"I trust, sir, you will pardon the seeming intrusion of a stranger on
your valuable time. May I ask you to grant me the favor of a brief
conference on an important subject?" inquired the visitor, with a gentle
courtesy of manner that impressed Mr. Chillingworth in spite of himself.
"As a Christian minister, you----"
"As a Christian minister, sir, my time is much engaged. I must ask you
to state the object of your visit as briefly as possible. Just at
present, I am specially occupied with important work."
"I shall be as brief as possible," the young man replied. "I think you
will recognize my object also as important. May I ask you to be kind
enough to look at this prospectus?"
Mr. Chillingworth's high, arched forehead assumed a more and more
clouded aspect. He made an impatient gesture as he said:
"I am afraid you really must excuse me! I cannot undertake to examine a
long prospectus. Time is precious, and my own work is too exacting in
its claims."
"That is what brings me here," the young man replied, still with a
cheerful, undaunted look. "It is, I think, in line with your work, the
importance of which I fully recognize. This is the prospectus of a paper
which I propose to issue in the interest of our common humanity. It is
designed to promote the brotherhood of man, to secure a better feeling
between class and class, employer and employed,--a fairer scale of wages
and hours for the operative, fuller coöperation between employer and
_employés_ and mutual consideration for each other's interests; in
short, to propagate that spirit of Christian socialism which the
minister of Christ----"
But here the clergyman's ill-controlled impatience broke its bounds.
Preoccupied as he was, he had caught little more than the last words.
"I can have nothing to do with any socialistic schemes," he exclaimed.
"There is far too much mischievous nonsense afloat!--simply producing
discontent with existing conditions, and with the differences which, in
Providence, have always existed. I must really decline any further
conversation on this subject," and, with unmistakable suggestiveness,
Mr. Chillingworth placed his hand on the half-open door.
A faintly perceptible shade of vexation seemed just to flit across the
bright serenity of the young man's frank, open face. He saw very well
that persistence would do no good, and yielded to the force of
circumstances with the best grace he could muster.
"Good afternoon, then, sir," he said, in a tone that, if not quite so
cheery, was as amiable as ever. "I am sorry I cannot enlist your
sympathy in our undertaking, as I should like to have all Christian
ministers with us. I shall send you a specimen copy of the paper, and
hope you will kindly read it."
"Good afternoon," the minister reiterated curtly, showing his visitor to
the door with very scant courtesy.
Just as the door was about to close behind him, an unexpected
interruption occurred, in the shape of an apparition of a character very
unusual at Mr. Chillingworth's door. It was a little girl, who looked
about eight or nine years old, but might have been older, quaintly
wrapped in a shawl that had once been handsome, while a little
fur-trimmed hood that was quite too small for her framed a mass of dark
tangled curls, out of which large, lustrous gray eyes, strikingly
beautiful in form and color, looked up from under their long dark
eyelashes, with a soft, grave, appealing gaze. Her shabby, old-fashioned
garb gave her, at first sight, the appearance of an ordinary vagrant
child; but there was nothing sordid about the little creature. Her
childish beauty, indeed, caught Roland Graeme, whose heart was always
open to such spells, with an irresistible fascination.
The little girl looked eagerly up at the two men; then, seeming to
divine which was the object of her quest, she said timidly, yet with a
refinement of tone and accent somewhat out of keeping with her
poverty-stricken aspect:
"Please, minister, my mother is very ill, and she wants----"
"I never give anything to begging children," interrupted Mr.
Chillingworth, more sternly than he was himself aware of; for his
irritation with his previous visitor preoccupied him so much that he
heard and saw the child vaguely, without taking in the sense of her
words, or according her any more consideration, than, to his mind, was
ordinarily deserved by the nuisances he indiscriminately classed as
"juvenile mendicants." "If your mother wants anything, she can come
herself," he added, from behind the resolutely closing door. He was not
an unfeeling man, but he never knew what to do with children, and had
grown hardened by the sight of misery that he could not prevent;--the
words he used being a well-worn formula, the crystallized result of many
vexatious impositions. He had only, to "save his precious time,"
delivered himself over to a set of rules, and in so far, cramped and
limited the flow of human sympathy.
Roland, left on the door-steps with the little morsel of womanhood,
looked down at her, while she looked up at him with the keenly
scrutinizing glance, which, in some children as in animals, seems to
have been developed by force of circumstances. In the mutual glance,
brief and inquiring as it was, a certain sympathy seemed to establish
itself between the young man and the child. He noted, with an eye always
minutely observant of human faces, the grieved, discouraged look which
the child's flexible mouth had assumed at the unexpected rebuff. But she
only said, in an explanatory tone, as if answering an unspoken inquiry,
"Mother's too sick to come; she's _awful_ sick!"
"What's your name, my child, and where do you live?" asked Roland
Graeme, who could no more divest himself of the quick sympathy that was
always catching hold of other people's lives, than he could of the
winning candor of his blue-gray eyes.
"Miss Travers!"--was the unexpected reply to his first question, given
with a certain quaint dignity that touched Roland's sense of humor. "We
live way up there," pointing in the direction of a long street that ran
from the neighboring corner toward the outskirts of the city.
"And what ails your mother, and why did she send you here?" he
continued.
"She said I was to come to this house," pointing to the number above the
door, "and to say that she wanted to see _him_ very particularly," said
the child, evidently repeating her message, word for word, "and she's
very sick and can't eat bread, and there's nothing else in the house!"
she added, in a tone in which perplexity and resignation were strangely
mingled.
The young man sighed heavily. Here was another atom, added to that pile
of human misery which had begun to weigh upon his spirit like a
nightmare. But he replied in the same cheery tone he had used to the
minister:
"Well, I'm going that way, and if you'll wait a minute or two for me at
a house I have to stop at, I'll go with you to see your mother, and
perhaps I can help her a little." And, taking the little one's hand, the
two passed on in the fast gathering dusk. The child, who had acquiesced
with a look of real satisfaction, trotted on beside him, occasionally
looking up, to study the face of her new friend and to return his smile,
while doing her best to keep up with the unconsciously rapid pace which
had grown habitual with him.
He drew up suddenly before a modest abode, the door-plate of which bore
the inscription, "Rev. John Alden." The door was opened by a bright
fair-haired boy, to whom Roland's heart went out at once--for he loved
boys, as much as some people detest them, and that is saying a good
deal. This boy was evidently accustomed to all sorts of visitors, and
did not even look surprised at Roland's odd little companion. Yes, his
father was at home. Would they walk in? He seemed to know just what to
do with the little girl, whom he carefully lifted to a chair in the
hall, while he courteously ushered the young man into a parlor whose
comfortable confusion and open piano, littered with music and books,
indicated as much life and occupancy as the precise and frigid order of
Mr. Chillingworth's reception-room betokened the reverse. A merry tumult
of children's voices and laughter came through open doors, seriously
diverting Roland's attention from the business part of his mission.
A quick decided step soon sounded in the hall, and, with a kindly word
to the child as he passed, Mr. Alden entered. He was a man of rather
less than medium height, and rather more than middle-age, strongly
built, alert, with a large head, broad forehead and bright gray eyes, in
which kindliness and humor often seemed to contend for the mastery. His
cordial greeting led Roland to feel him a friend at once, while his keen
observant glance took in every point of his visitor's appearance, and
read his character with a correctness that would have amazed him, could
he have known it.
"Sit down, sir, sit down! No intrusion in the world. I am always glad to
see young men, and to do anything I can to serve them."
It may be remarked in passing that Mr. Alden's congregation usually
contained more young men than any other in Minton. Perhaps this remark
partly explained it.
Roland had soon unfolded his errand, less systematically and more
discursively than he had done to Mr. Chillingworth. Mr. Alden listened
attentively, read the prospectus with his head bent toward his visitor,
and one arm resting on the back of his chair; then folded it up, and
handed it back to him, with a twinkle of both sympathy and fun in his
kindly eyes.
"Well, my dear fellow, I heartily sympathize with your object. I don't
know that I can give you much help other than sympathy; but whatever I
can do to promote your aims, I shall do with pleasure. Anything that can
promote the true brotherhood of man must always enlist the sympathy of a
minister of Christ."
"I wish all ministers felt as you do, sir," replied Roland, thinking of
his last visit.
"Well, you see, I fear some of us have to be converted yet--to that
doctrine, anyhow. As for me, I've had special advantages. My mother was
a Scotch lassie, and used to rock my cradle to Burns' grand song,"--and
the minister hummed the chorus:--
"For a' that and a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brithers be, for a' that!"
"My parents were both Scotch," said Roland, with quick pleasure. "But I
suppose you guessed that from my name."
"Yes, a good old Border name it is! I dip into Sir Walter and the Border
ballads now and then, and I think we've made some progress toward Burns'
idea since those days! Well, I believe that time is coming, but it won't
be in your day or mine; and only one thing will bring it about--the
growth of the _brother-love_. I preach, that in my way, and I bid you
God-speed if you preach it in yours. Send along your paper! We've got
enough and to spare already, but I couldn't shut my door against one
started on that platform. And if I conscientiously can, I will recommend
it to others, and give you any other help you may need. Only, my dear
fellow, don't be disappointed if you don't accomplish all you hope for.
Many of us are apt to think at twenty-five, that if 'the world is out of
joint,' we, in particular, were 'born to set it right.' I know I did,
and though I have not done a hundredth part of what I hoped to do, I
probably shouldn't have done that percentage, if I had not started with
great expectations. Only don't be discouraged, if they are not all
realized! Now--is this little girl with you?" he added, glancing out
into the hall where another girl, somewhat older than the boy who had
opened the door, was filling the child's hands with cake and fruit.
Roland, suddenly recollecting the child, told all he knew about her,
while Mr. Alden listened with evident sympathy and interest.
"Ah! Another of the sad cases of hidden misery that one is constantly
stumbling on," he said, his voice and eye grown soft with compassion.
"That child doesn't look like one accustomed to beg. If the poor woman
wants a minister, why shouldn't I go with you? I am at your service."
"If it's quite convenient," said Roland, "it would be very kind if you
would."
"Oh, as for that, ministers and doctors mustn't stand too much on
convenience. I've learned a good many lessons from my medical friend
Blanchard. We both own the same Master, and I've no more right to be
careful of my convenience than he has. Well, my dear, come away!"
For, as he talked in his rapid energetic manner, he had been as rapidly
donning overcoat and gloves, and, hat in one hand, now extended the
other to the little girl.
"That's right, Gracie, wrap her well up! Tell Mother that I'll be back
as soon as I can, but you needn't keep tea waiting for me, if you are
all too hungry. Now then, you can shut the door."
Roland courteously raised his hat to the young girl, as she stood
looking after them with a smile very like her father's, while her long,
wavy, golden hair was rippled by the cold December wind. He felt a
wistful regret at leaving the warm, homelike atmosphere behind, when the
door at last closed upon them.
Mr. Alden drew a few more particulars from the child as they hastened
on. Her mother had been ill a good many days, she couldn't tell how
many. No, there had not been any doctor to see her. Mother said she
hadn't money enough. They had bread, but no tea, and mother could take
nothing but tea!
Mr. Alden darted into a little grocery and came out carrying two small
brown parcels. Frequent practice had made him equal to all such
emergencies. They had gone a good way past the better class of houses,
into a region of unpromising and dingy tenements--a region long ago
deserted by all who could afford to leave it. At last the child stopped
at an entry door.
"It's here--up-stairs," she said, looking up at her companions. They
went up a rickety stair, black with years of unwashed footmarks, and
followed the child into the room. She entered; but they stood still on
the threshold, while Roland's brow contracted as if with a sharp
sensation of physical pain.
It was a wretched little room, bare beyond anything Roland had ever seen
in Minton. There was no table, only one dilapidated chair and a low
wooden stool. On a shake-down on the floor lay the slender form of a
young woman, nearly covered by an old shawl which did not quite conceal
her poor and shabby attire. There was scarcely any fire in the rusty
little stove. On an old trunk near the window were an evidently
much-used box of water-colors, a few brushes, and a card or two, with
flower designs painted sketchily, yet with some spirit;--objects so much
out of keeping with the rest of the apartment that they at once
attracted the eye. The young woman, who eagerly pushed the shawl aside
and looked up the moment the door opened, was evidently very ill indeed.
Her face was slightly flushed, though the room was far from warm, and
her labored breathing told Mr. Alden's experienced ear that it was a
severe case of bronchitis.
The little girl ran up to her mother at once, throwing her arms around
her neck with a passionate clasp. Then in answer to the eager inquiring
eyes that met hers, she explained:
"Here's a minister, Mammy! _That_ one wouldn't come--but _he_ did! So
now you'll be better--won't you?"
As the mother remained for a moment in the child's close embrace,
Roland, absorbed as he was in the distressing scene, could not help
thinking that it was very evident whence the latter had derived her
unusual type of beauty. The mother had the same dark rings of clustering
curls--tangled now with the restless tossing of illness; the same large
liquid eyes of dark gray, under long, dark lashes; the same exquisite
curves of mouth and chin, even though suffering--physical and
mental--had dimmed a beauty that must once have been bewitching. But the
eyes had a restless, pining look; and now, all at once, the fevered
flush ebbed away, leaving her deadly pale, while she seemed to struggle
for breath, unable to speak.
Mr. Alden rushed to her assistance, and raised her a little, with
difficulty detaching the clinging arms of the child; then, glancing
around the room, his quick eye fell on a small flask that stood in a
corner cupboard, otherwise empty enough. He motioned to Roland, who
followed his glance, and brought him the flask. Mr. Alden seized a cup
that stood near containing a little water, and, pouring into it some of
the spirits that the flask contained, put it to her lips. She drank it
down eagerly, and then lay back on the pillow, in a sort of exhausted
stupor.
"She must have medical attendance at once," said Mr. Alden. "She is
dying from neglect and exhaustion. I suppose you don't know any doctor
near?"
"No," said Roland, "I am a stranger here as yet."
"Then I must go for my friend, Blanchard. Or stay--it won't do to leave
this poor woman alone with that child! She might have died just now. And
you'll make better time than I should. I'm sure you won't think it too
much trouble to take a note to Doctor Blanchard, and to pilot him here."
Roland willingly assented. Mr. Alden tore a leaf out of his note-book,
on which he hastily wrote a few lines, addressed it to his friend, and
handed it to Roland, who hurried off at his customary "railroad pace,"
leaving Mr. Alden in charge of the scarcely conscious patient and the
frightened child.