A TWILIGHT REVERIE.
After his unceremonious dismissal of his unwelcome visitors, Mr.
Chillingworth betook himself once more to the quiet sanctum into which
no profane foot ever intruded. The fire was blazing brightly now,
lighting up, with its warm glow, the stately ordered rows of books that
lined the walls, and the two or three fine engravings which Mr.
Chillingworth's fastidious taste had selected to relieve their monotony.
A charming etching of Holman Hunt's picture, "The Hireling Shepherd,"
opposite the fireplace, came out distinct in the warm light that just
touched another of the "Light of the World," by the same painter, above
the mantel. Mr. Chillingworth threw himself luxuriously into his
easy-chair by the fire, to enjoy this twilight hour of meditation, when,
the dull winter day shut out, his thoughts could roam freely in that
realm of religious speculation which was most congenial to his mind. He
wanted to complete the particular train of thought which had been
flowing so successfully when he had been interrupted by Roland Graeme.
He took the unfinished page that he had been writing, and held it in the
glow of the firelight, so that he might read again the last completed
sentences, and so recall the thoughts with which he had intended to
follow them. The subject of the sermon was, the opposition of the
religion of Christ to the easy-going, selfish materialism of the age.
And the last sentences he had written ran thus:--
"Men often labor under the delusion that Christianity is an
easy religion. Its Founder taught another lesson. The palm is
to be won, only in the blood and dust of the battle; the battle
with sin, with the world, aye, hardest of all, with _self_! The
warp and woof of the 'white raiment' are the incarnadined hues
of self-denial and self-sacrifice, which, collected and fused
by the prismatic power of love, blend in the dazzling purity of
light itself."
Mr. Chillingworth did not feel quite satisfied with this illustration,
though he had been delighted with it while in the glow of composition.
Now it seemed to him a trifle confused, and he tried to think it
out--for of all things he disliked mere vague and glittering rhetoric in
pulpit oratory. But, somehow, his mind refused to stick to the point,
and insisted in slipping off perpetually into the reverie which the
dreamy influences of twilight and firelight are so apt to foster. There
was nothing uncomfortable or self-reproachful in his reflection. No
thought of the earnest young man he had repulsed, or of the child to
whom he had refused to listen, troubled him in the least. Mr.
Chillingworth was a conscientious man, and he had not done anything
contrary to his own sense of right. He was simply protecting himself
from the profitless invasion of time dedicated to important work, by
matters that lay outside of his sphere. This, at least, is how he would
have put it, had any one ventured to argue the point with the dignified
Mr. Chillingworth.
But his mind this evening seemed caught by some hidden link of
association, operating sub-consciously as such things often do, and was
thereby carried off to scenes and events long left behind. Mr.
Chillingworth did not often indulge in retrospection. When one gives
one's self up to its influence, one cannot select at will. Pleasant
recollections are interwoven with painful ones, which have a way of
pouncing unawares on the unwary dreamer. And men whose lives are filled
to overflowing with present engrossing interests, do not usually give
much play to the power of painful memories. Still, whatever it might be
that had stirred the vision, he was haunted to-night by a picture that
stood, as real as the engravings opposite him, before that "inward eye"
which is not always
"... the _bliss_ of solitude."
The picture was one of an old-fashioned English garden, sweet with pinks
and lavender, bright with early roses and laburnum, framed in by walls
clustered over with masses of glossy ivy, by stately old cedars, and,
beyond these, by blue, wooded hills, soft-tinted in the dreamy hue of an
English June. And the centre of the vision he saw might have served as
an illustration for Tennyson's "Gardener's Daughter":
"But the full day dwelt on her brows and sunned
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom,
And doubled his own warmth against her lips,
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,
She stood, a sight to make an old man young."
For a few minutes, Mr. Chillingworth closed his eyes and yielded himself
without stint to the overpowering reminiscences of days that could never
be entirely effaced, not even by the remembrance of succeeding
bitterness. Sweet voice, sweet eyes, sweet lips! how sweet you were! And
why, ah why, should all that sweetness have been swallowed up in a
horror of great darkness? Cruel fate! No, he did not believe in fate.
Was it then one of those mysterious providences which seemed so often to
mar human lives, or had he, himself, been to blame? He supposed he had.
The temptation of a mere outward beauty had been too strong for him, who
should have been proof against it. Well, that old folly was all past,
long ago! All trace of it seemed to have vanished from his life. Old
wounds were healed. Why should he let them smart again? Fruitless
regrets for the past were contrary to his principles. So, to fight off
the troublesome recollection, he rose and went to an open parlor-organ
that stood near his study-table, his one special recreation and delight.
And, taking up a score of the "Messiah" that lay open upon it, he struck
a few opening chords, and, in a fine tenor voice, began the recitative
"Comfort ye, Comfort ye my People."
But the music could not soothe him to-night as it usually did. The
restless mood was too strong, and presently he rose abruptly, as a
sudden thought occurred to him. He had promised to drop in, very soon,
at Dr. Blanchard's, to talk with Miss Blanchard about the proposed
rendering of this oratorio for the benefit of his projected new church,
in which he wished to enlist her coöperation as a vocalist. This was the
hour at which he was most likely to find her at home, the hour at which
Mrs. Blanchard usually dispensed afternoon tea, a ceremony of which he
thoroughly approved. The pleasant cosy drawing-room, with Miss
Blanchard's graceful figure as a centre-piece, seemed, just then,
infinitely more attractive than even the tranquil study with its glowing
fire and the prospect of a summons, erelong, to a solitary tea-table.
For Mr. Chillingworth was a comparatively young man still, and,
notwithstanding a certain fastidious exclusiveness, his social instincts
were by no means weak. He gave himself a little inward pinch as he
thought of some sentences of Thomas à Kempis that he had read that
morning; but, as he said to himself, he had a good reason for breaking
through his ordinary rule of shutting himself up on the last days of the
week, and he was no ascetic, nor meant to be! So, after telling the trim
maid that she need not bring up his evening meal till his return, he
took what had of late been his frequent way to Dr. Blanchard's
hospitable home.
In the bright, daintily furnished drawing-room he sought, there were at
that moment assembled three or four persons who were, as it happened,
discussing him, and perhaps, like "superior" people in general, he would
have been a little surprised at the freedom of some of their remarks.
These people were: Mrs. Blanchard, arrayed in one of the first
"tea-gowns" that had ever been seen in Minton, whose delicate green set
off the warm tints of her hair and complexion; Miss Blanchard, whose
quiet afternoon dress, soft and close fitting, contrasted with the more
pretentious attire of her sister-in-law, and showed a fine figure to
perfection; and two afternoon visitors, who were evidently very much at
home. One of these was a young lady, with fair fluffy hair and very
fashionable dress, of a peculiarly fresh and delicate prettiness, and a
manner that every one called very "taking." The other was a slender,
undersized young man, fairly good-looking, with regular features, dark
hair and eyes, and an expression of nothing in particular save
satisfaction with himself, his surroundings, and his carefully faultless
attire. Two children completed the party; a tiny girl in a mass of white
embroidery, playing with a pet terrier on the hearth-rug, and a small
boy with an aureole of reddish curls, who sat on Miss Blanchard's knee,
thoughtfully gazing into the fire.
"Oh!" exclaimed the fair young lady, as she handed her empty cup to the
young man who was waiting for it. "_Did_ you hear, Nora, about my
cousin, Janie Spencer?"
"What about her, Kitty? Is _she_ engaged, too?"
"Oh, dear no! nothing, so common! Something _you'll_ say is a great deal
better! In fact, I call it grand, heroic! Don't you know she's actually
made up her mind to be a nurse, and she's gone to the Saint Barnabas
hospital for training!"
"Has she, really?" exclaimed Miss Blanchard, with great interest, her
cheek flushing a little, and her dark-blue eyes lighting up. "Well,
that's good!"
"I knew you would say that," said Kitty, complacently, rejoicing in the
effect of her bit of news. "And, do you know, she tells me it was all
through Mr. Chillingworth's lovely sermons about self-sacrifice,
and--giving up, don't you know. They made her feel so selfish, and as if
she had no object in life but enjoying herself, and so, she said, she
couldn't rest in her mind till she set to work to do something for other
people. And then, she said, they had girls enough at home without her,
and she was tired of doing nothing in particular, and she always did
have a fancy for nursing. Now, you must be sure and tell Mr.
Chillingworth all about it, the first time you see him."
"Why not tell him yourself, Kitty?" was the laughing reply. "You see him
oftener than I do."
"Oh, I never can talk to him about such serious things! He looks as if
he didn't expect it, or as if it was a sort of liberty; and then he
seems to think I'm making fun of him, and I never feel sure that _he_
isn't making fun of _me_."
"Well, I shouldn't say that Mr. Chillingworth was overburdened with
'fun,'" said the young man, smiling at Kitty. "He wouldn't make his
fortune as a humorist; his views of life are too serious, and it seems
he is making other people's views serious, too."
"A good thing, too, if he were to do a little for you in that way," she
replied.
"Yes, I'm sadly aware that I am far behind you in that respect, Miss
Farrell," he retorted, with mock gravity.
"Don't be impertinent, Mr. Pomeroy!" replied the young lady.
Here a diversion was made by the curly-haired Eddie, from his post on
Miss Blanchard's lap. His long and serious contemplation of the fire
ended with a sigh, and the subject of it came out in the remark:
"I like the Crusaders a great deal better than the Giant-killers,
Auntie! Don't you think they were the best?"
"I don't know, Eddie," replied Miss Blanchard, truthfully. "I never
thought about it, I am afraid."
"Well, think! Auntie, _think_!" persisted the child, hugging her neck
very tightly, while the others laughed.
"I think some of the Crusaders _were_ Giant-killers, Eddie," said the
young man, not sorry to air his historical knowledge. "Saladin gets the
credit of being a pretty fairish giant, doesn't he, Miss Blanchard? or
so I think my school-books used to say. By the way, wouldn't
Chillingworth have made a first-class Crusader, a Crusader _chaplain_,
you know?"
"Why, it was only the other Sunday he was telling us what mistaken views
the Crusaders had, and how they often left real duties for visionary
enterprises. See how well I have remembered _that_!" exclaimed Kitty.
"I doubt if _he_ would have seen it, _then_," replied Mr. Pomeroy,
chuckling over a happy thought.
"Oh, Nora, are you going to help in the oratorio, the 'Messiah,' you
know? Mr. Chillingworth is taking such an interest in it! All we girls
in the choir are to sing in the choruses. Hasn't he asked you?"
"Yes," said Nora, quietly.
"Why, he's been here three times within the last fort-night," said Mrs.
Blanchard; "he's just set on getting Nora to sing; and she's got some
sort of idea in her head about it, I don't know what. There's another
ring, Nora; look if there's any tea left, there's a dear!"