A MIDNIGHT MEETING.
Roland was writing busily on, scarcely conscious of the lateness of the
hour, absorbed in the pleasant task of pouring out on paper without
restraint the passionate pleas and arguments with which his mind was
filled, when he was roused by a rather peremptory knock at his door,
immediately followed by the apparition of a rugged old face with gray
shaggy locks and beard, surmounted by a picturesque red _toque_.
"Weel, lad, hard at work? Have ye got yer firebrands all ready for the
wee foxes' tails, that ye're gaun to send in amang the Philistines'
corn? There's a bit o' yer' 'modern interpretation' for ye!" The voice
was deep and guttural, and the accent a broad Doric.
"I hope you don't mean to compare me with that grim practical joker!"
said Roland, pleasantly. "I'm sure I don't want to do anything
destructive. My line is all _con_structive."
"Aye, that's weel enough! But sometimes the t'ane can't be done without
the t'ither. And ye'll soon be gettin' credit for that 'ither, or my
name's no' Sandy Dunlop!"
"Sandy Dunlop," as he called himself, and as his friends called him, did
not always indulge in broad Scotch; that, in his own estimation, would
have been "throwing pearls before swine." He reserved it for his moments
of expansion, for the seasons of unrestrained talk with the few in whose
company he did expand; especially when, like Roland, they were of
Scottish lineage, and could appreciate the beloved old Doric, his
affection for which was one of the soft spots in a somewhat hard and
caustic nature. Doubtless this point of sympathy was one of the
attractions that drew him to Roland. But "Sandy Dunlop" was a shrewd
judge of character.
Roland willingly threw down his pen, and settled himself back in his
chair, for one of the rambling talks which offered a little recreation
to his rather high-strung temperament.
"D'ye ken?" pursued the old man, "yon was a grand, simple kind o' way
they used to have o' settlin' their disputes! nane o' yer vile newspaper
calumniations or underhan' plottin's, but just a good honest tussle, and
done wi' it."
"But you don't suppose I'm going to calumniate anybody, I hope!" said
Roland, opening his eyes.
"_You_, laddie, deed na'! Weel I ken that," replied the old man, with a
sort of chuckling grunt. "It's just some o' thae poleetical articles
I've been readin', till I'm sick o' it all! When will ye get yer
_Brotherhood_ ideas into party politics? Tell me that, lad, if ye can!"
Roland smiled and sighed.
"Aye, aye! the warld'll tak' a wheen o' makin' over yet, an' it'll no be
you nor me that'll do it. However, ye might read me some o' yer
screeds," he added, looking at the young man with much the same air of
grim patronage with which a sagacious old mastiff might regard a
well-meaning but rash young terrier, attempting impossibilities.
As he spoke, the door below closed with a bang, and a snatch of an
operatic air, hummed _sotto voce_, was borne to their ears, as rapid
footsteps sounded lightly on the stairs.
"Here's that harum-scarum callant," said Mr. Dunlop, looking somewhat
glum. A light tap at the door was scarcely answered by Roland's "Come
in," when it was followed by the entrance of a young man of blonde
complexion and rather slight figure, dressed much more fashionably than
Roland. His blue eyes, fair hair, and Teutonic accent plainly bespoke
his origin, and his greeting showed him to be on the most unceremonious
terms with Roland, as he jauntily entered, nodding familiarly to the old
Scot.
"A midnight meeting in the interests of the _Brotherhood_!" he
exclaimed, theatrically, glancing at the sheets of manuscripts on
Roland's desk, and at the expectant attitude of the old Scotchman. "I
may come in for the rehearsal, too, _nicht wahr_?"
"Yes, if you will be quiet, and listen, and not interrupt too much,"
returned Roland.
"Quiet? Ah yes!--I will listen to the words of wisdom." And, throwing
down his hat, he seated himself on one corner of Roland's writing-table,
looking down at him with smiling expectancy. Mr. Dunlop, with both hands
resting on the table before him, listened with head bent forward, and
keen attention in his shrewd, observant eyes.
Roland read with rapid utterance, but feeling intonation, one sheet
after another; first the leading article, setting forth the scope and
objects of the paper, then one or two minor ones, touching on matters of
detail. Mr. Dunlop occasionally interposed a criticism or a suggestion,
which Roland noted for consideration, while the fair-haired young Teuton
fired off a stray shot, now and then, at Roland's sometimes too florid
periods, which the latter took good-humoredly--sensible that there was
some ground for the strictures.
"He lets himself be run away with sometimes," said this critic, turning
to Dunlop. "Keep cool, _mein lieber_, keep cool! Keep thy head and
bridle-hand!"
"All very fine, Waldberg," said Roland. "See you practice what you
preach. Of course, these last are only rough drafts. The first article I
went over carefully with Burnett, and he thinks it will do well enough
now, though I think that little modification of yours, Mr. Dunlop, is a
decided improvement."
"Aye, lad--ye maun be canny! Nae guid in runnin' yer heid against stone
walls, for _they_ tak' nae ill frae it, an' yer heid does. Now,
guid-night to ye baith, an' remember it's time ye were in yer beds."
Waldberg threw himself into the chair the old man had left.
"Well, how did you find your parsons?" he asked. "Did they hail you as a
brother, and promise to read and support the _Brotherhood_?"
Roland smiled somewhat grimly. "One of them did, at any rate--at least
he promised to read it; and some of the others promised to give the
subject their best consideration."
"Well, you did better than I expected," the young man replied, "but this
one who promised to read it--this wonderful man--he wasn't the Reverend
Cecil Chillingworth? I'd bet my head against that!"
"Why, what do _you_ know about it?" asked Roland, in surprise.
"Oh, I've been having a sort of musical evening with him!" returned
Waldberg, smiling. "I went in to make some arrangements about the
practice for his oratorio--he's going to have the "Messiah" given for
the benefit of his church, you know, and I'm to be accompanist, of
course. So he got me to go over some of the tenor airs with him on his
parlor-organ, while he sang them. He has really a good voice, and he is
enthusiastic in music, if he is not in social reform."
"But how do you know about that last?" inquired Roland, who found it
difficult to imagine Mr. Chillingworth talking freely to Waldberg. And
what had become of the "important work" that prevented his having a few
minutes to bestow on _him_, and on these grave questions?
"Oh, very easily, indeed. He began to talk about some of the passages we
were going over, for my benefit, of course. And we were discussing the
question of a soprano for the air 'Come Unto Him, All Ye That Labor And
Are Heavy-laden,' for which he said he specially wanted an effective
rendering. He grew quite eloquent; I think he must have been rehearsing
a bit of his Sunday sermon. He said the world was 'laboring and
heavy-laden,' (thought I, '_That's_ true enough') and 'that it was
because men would not take upon them the right yoke. There was no end of
nostrums, nowadays,' he said, (and I felt quite sure he was thinking of
you and the _Brotherhood_,) 'but the only radical cure was the
self-surrender of each individual heart to the yoke which is easy and
the burden which is light.' There, you see how well I've got my lesson
off by heart! You are welcome to that, for your report of his next
sermon, in advance. It'll be there, sure enough!"
Roland could not help smiling at Waldberg's close imitation of Mr.
Chillingworth's measured and impressive manner. But he sighed the next
moment, a little impatient sigh, as he broke forth:
"That's the stereotyped way they all talk. But, how much
'self-surrender' does he get from his own 'prominent man,' Mr. Pomeroy,
for instance? _He_ could make a good many people's yoke easier and their
burdens lighter if he chose! When men like that show the cure, we'll
begin to believe in it. Yet he listens to Mr. Chillingworth, Sunday
after Sunday, and I don't suppose he ever hears a word to wake him up to
the fact that he's actually a murderer, in 'wearing out human creatures'
lives.' But, in the name of all that's honest, Waldberg, how can you go
through such a thing as the 'Messiah' with a man like Mr. Chillingworth,
when you know you don't believe either in the theme or the treatment of
it."
"Ah, but then, you don't understand Art, _mein Roland_; dramatically,
you see, I can feel the very spirit of the music; as for the words, what
matters? I rather suspect Mr. Chillingworth has a pretty good idea that
I don't believe very much, and no doubt he thinks he is doing a good
work in giving me some light, as we go along."
"Well, of course, you don't sing, only accompany," said Roland,
meditatively.
"Oh, that's nothing," said Waldberg, coolly. "Professionals simply go in
for art in all these things. I know one of the soloists, at any rate,
that I am getting for him, believes even less than I do--an atheist out
and out."
"Well, I know _I_ could not stand up and sing parts of that oratorio,
knowing how other people believe it," said Roland, "and I'm no atheist."
"No," said the other, "that's just where your scruple comes in. If you
an were atheist, you wouldn't think it mattered much what you sang, so
long as the music was good. As for the girls who sing the choruses, I
don't think they know half the time what they're singing."
Roland thought of his father's old-fashioned veneration for the sacred
words, and wondered how he would have borne what seemed to his own
fastidious taste a profanation of them, even while he maintained his own
negative position.
"There will be some pretty good voices in the choruses," continued
Waldberg, critically. "Miss Farrell's is sweet and clear like a bell,
though it is not very strong--wants compass. And another young lady I
had the honor of accompanying at Miss Farrell's last _soirée
musi-cale_--Miss Blanchard--has a very good voice too, plenty of feeling
and expression, as far as she goes, and wonderfully distinct
enunciation."
Roland had begun to listen with more interest. It was curious, as he had
noticed before, that you no sooner met persons for the first time, than
you were almost sure to hear of them very soon again.
Waldberg went on, not expecting a reply, simply talking because he liked
it.
"Mr. Chillingworth hopes to get her into the choruses. He was quite set
on putting her in for a solo, but she declined, and I think she's right.
She could never fill a hall, but Chillingworth, _entre nous_, seems to
admire her immensely."
"I have seen her," said Roland, carelessly. "She has a fine face,
whatever her voice may be." And the Madonna-like vision rose again
before him.
"Yes, she has a noble air, 'presence,' as you say, but she can't compare
with Miss Farrell for looks. _She_ is an exquisite creature, _herrlich
schöne_ she looked that evening."
"Take care of yourself, Waldberg," said Roland, looking up with a smile,
at his animated face. "She is not fair for _you_."
"Oh, I am not selfish, like that!" retorted the other, but with a
heightened color. "I can admire, where I can do no more; and Miss
Farrell likes me to find her fair, if I mistake not."
"Oh, I suppose she can flirt!" replied Graeme. "Most of the young ladies
here seem to be able to do that. Only 'beware,' she may be 'fooling
thee.'"
"Thou art growing cynical, _mein Roland_! Thou thinkest too much! I
shall bid thee good-night. _Schlafe wohl!_"
"_Du auch!_" returned Roland, who liked to keep up with Waldberg the
German colloquialisms he had learned abroad. "Poor fellow," he said to
himself, as he listened to the retreating footsteps, "I am afraid she
_is_ 'fooling' him." He had heard a great deal, of late, about Miss
Farrell, who was one of "Herr Waldberg's" most promising pupils as a
pianist, and from whom Roland believed that the young man was taking
lessons of a more dangerous kind. However, after all, it was no business
of his, and Waldberg ought to be able to take care of himself.
But he pondered a little over what seemed to him the strangeness of Mr.
Chillingworth's finding it so easy to spend an hour or two enjoyably,
talking music with a completely irreligious young man like Waldberg,
while he could not spare _him_ a few minutes for the discussion of
matters which affected the well-being, higher and lower, of so many
thousands, and which concerned the practical diffusion of principles of
action which he had supposed must be at least as dear to the clergyman
as they were to himself. Roland did not yet know how easily some men can
absorb themselves in beautiful ideals and vague generalities, till the
practical side of life, with its tiresome details and rude collisions,
becomes for them almost non-existent.
And so Mr. Chillingworth "admired Miss Blanchard immensely"! Roland felt
interest enough in the young lady to wish her a better fate than a man
whom he had begun mentally to sum up as "an egoistic iceberg." However,
his business in life was not to settle the destinies of either Mr.
Chillingworth or Miss Blanchard, or even of Miss Farrell and Hermann
Waldberg. So he presently forgot them all in finishing the article in
which he had been interrupted, and then went to bed to sleep that sleep
of the laborer, which is "sweet" only when neither brain nor muscles
have been overstrained to exhaustion.