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!"