Roland Graeme: Knight. A Novel of Our Time

by Agnes Maule Machar

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."