"Oh, I've often noticed it!" said Miss Spencer. "She always wore it round her neck, and seemed afraid of any one's touching it."
As they examined it, they noticed the peculiar monogram, three "C's" intertwined together on one side, and the word, "Celia," engraved on the other. Nora took it and pressed the spring. One look at the two portraits was enough to settle the question they had been discussing, beyond a doubt.
No one spoke Mr. Chillingworth's name, but all felt that they knew his sad secret; and knew, too, that of which he himself had not the slightest idea.
CHAPTER XXV.
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.