BEWILDERMENT.
When her visitors were gone, Nora sat for a long time gazing into the
flickering firelight, thankful that she could be alone and undisturbed.
She wanted to try to think quietly; to calm, if possible, the tumult of
conflicting feelings that contended for the mastery, intense pity for
the poor woman, in whose lot she had been led to feel so strong an
interest; bitter disappointment and indignation with the man of whom she
had thought so highly, who had so heartlessly thrown aside the duties he
owed, as a man and a minister of Christ, to the woman whom he had taken
"for better or worse," in her weakness and misery; and yet, also,
mingled with a sorrowful sense of "the pity of it" all, and with
something of that divine quality of compassionate charity, which is
always ready to believe that, "_Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner_."
To Nora, indeed, with her own simple directness, staunch loyalty, and
passionate impulse to help and sympathize, it was almost impossible to
understand the workings of a self-centred, coldly fastidious nature like
Mr. Chillingworth's. Yet she dimly felt that he, too, must have
suffered, and must suffer much more; and suffering always, to some
extent, enlisted her sympathy. But he had shattered her ideal, and that
was indeed hard to get over and forgive. His eloquent expositions and
high standard of moral duty, his glowing appeals to live the nobler
life, had so captivated her imagination, as to attract her irresistibly
to the _man_, whom she in her inexperience identified with the ideals he
preached. If he himself had so failed, how could he teach others? And
bitter tears rose to her eyes as she thought of the contrast between the
mental image she had cherished and the poor and pitiable reality. And
as, moreover, there rose before her the picture of Mr. Pomeroy, a man
Mr. Chillingworth treated with special consideration, handing over this
poor woman to the police with bland unconcern, she could not refrain
from one of those sweeping conclusions in which an enthusiastic nature
is so apt to indulge, in a moment of bitter disappointment. Was it all
mere talk, then? Did no one try to live out the spirit of the Master
they all professed to honor? Was there no one who aimed at being really
Christ-like, at "loving his neighbor as himself"? Was there _no one_?
But almost at once--with a sharp pang of self-reproach--came the
recollection of Mr. Alden's earnest life of love and labor, of Grace's
sweet loving nature, of her own brother, never talking about grand
ideals, but living and working from hour to hour; of Miss Spencer's
happy and tender ministry in the laborious service of suffering
humanity; of poor Lizzie Mason's life of humble self-sacrifice; and,
last but not least, of Roland Graeme, with his self-forgetful enthusiasm
and his passion for helping and raising the down-trodden and oppressed.
Yes, she was glad to think of such examples. And yet, as far as she
knew, Lizzie Mason was not a "professing Christian;" and Roland
Graeme--did they not call him an "unbeliever"? It was a bewildering
puzzle to her, with her _a priori_ conceptions. Might it then be true
that, while some people--so-called believers--only "_believed_ they
believed," others, so-called unbelievers, only believed that they did
_not_ believe? And she remembered the Master's own grieved
expostulation:--
"Why call ye me Lord! Lord! and do not the things which I say?"
But, beneath all the heart-sickness produced by this miserable story,
she was dimly conscious of an involuntary relief from a conflict which
had been going on in her mind, for some time, between what she wished to
think about Mr. Chillingworth, and the disappointing conviction that was
being forced in upon that underlying consciousness which will not be
hoodwinked even by strong inclination. Of whatever kind had been the
attraction that had biassed her in Mr. Chillingworth's favor, it was
broken now, forever; and her present temptation was, perhaps, in her
youthful intolerance, to think too hardly of him, to forget what most
people would call the "extenuating circumstances," and his blindness and
limitations. But, in a nature like Nora's, a long-cherished ideal dies
hard. And at last, retreating to the seclusion of her own room, she
threw herself on her knees--the natural instinct of an oppressed
heart--the pain soon finding expression in irresistible tears, which at
least brought some relief.
Next morning, Roland was in attendance at the police court, and
succeeded in procuring the release of the so-called "Mrs. Travers," by
the payment of a fine, thereby saving the poor victim of a hereditary
craving from a period of humiliating confinement in gaol, among
criminals of the lowest class. His interference called forth sneering
and ill-natured comments from some of the low bystanders, of a type
whose natural tendency is to put the worst possible construction on
every action. But for this he cared little, putting the unhappy young
woman into a cab, and sending her to the hospital, while he himself
hurried back to his office-work, satisfied with having rescued one
sufferer from further degradation.
Miss Spencer was ready to receive her without a reference to this
miserable episode. But when, exhausted and miserable, her beauty quite
obscured by the effects of the intoxication and of her wretched night,
the poor girl, as she still seemed, was led back into the peaceful
retreat she had so insanely left, she threw one look around her, and
then cast herself at the nurse's feet in a passion of tears and sobs.
And in the same spirit in which the Man of Sorrows had comforted and
encouraged the repentant Magdalen, did the tender-hearted Christian
nurse comfort and encourage this poor penitent. This, at least, was the
thought that passed through the mind of Nora, who, having come early to
the hospital to inquire whether the wanderer had returned, was an
unnoticed but deeply interested spectator of the scene.
Nora never knew how she got through the performance of the oratorio that
evening. The brilliancy of the scene, the dress-display, the crowded
audience, distasteful as they were in her present mood, were powerless
to banish oppressive thoughts, and that scene in the hospital, which
stood before her, as the touching chorus rose in all the tender beauty
of the music:--
"Surely He hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; He
was wounded for our transgressions; He was bruised for our
iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and
with His stripes we are healed."
As she stood singing these words with her heart in her voice, and that
sad scene before her, she caught Roland's earnest absorbed eyes, lighted
with a softened emotion that made her for the moment wonder whether he,
too, had the same thought in his mind. But she carefully avoided looking
at Mr. Chillingworth, who, with an unusually bright and animated
expression, was enjoying to the full both the music and the "success"
which every one declared the oratorio to be. The soloists were admirable
both in voice and manner, the choruses had been carefully practised and
were remarkably well rendered, the "Halellujah Chorus" in particular,
bursting forth with great effect, and, as the Minton _Minerva_ expressed
it, "taking the house by storm." It seemed to thrill through every nerve
of Roland Graeme, as he caught the grand old words:
"The kingdom of this world has become the kingdom of our Lord
and of his Christ; and He shall reign for ever and ever!"
In his own sense he could profoundly sympathize with the glorious hope.
Mr. Chillingworth sang in this and some other choruses, though he
preferred to be a listener and spectator through the greater part of it.
He naturally sought Miss Blanchard at the close, to exchange
congratulations on the result of the long preparation. But her response
was not the natural, enthusiastic one he expected, and he noticed her
unusual paleness, attributing it to over-fatigue, a plea she was very
ready to adopt, as an excuse for getting off to her cab, with her
sister-in-law, as soon as possible.
It often happens, when we are thinking with dread and anxiety how some
particular crisis is to be passed, that the "logic of events" settles it
for us in a totally unexpected manner. While Nora was perplexing herself
as to what was to be done with this secret, of which Mr. Chillingworth
ought to be told, circumstances arose that gave her thoughts a new
direction, and took matters for the present entirely out of her hands.