Roland Graeme: Knight. A Novel of Our Time

by Agnes Maule Machar

"Oh yes! I think she will get round, though it will be a good while before she is strong again. But I wish she could get on without the brandy."

"Oh, do you think—" Nora asked, and she stopped.

"Yes, I am almost sure that that's been at the root of all her troubles. I shouldn't wonder if it were a case of dipsomania. I've seen such a case here, already. Some times she seems to have a nervous dread of it—to shrink from taking it—and then again she will take it so greedily that I have to be very careful not to leave it about, lest she might help herself when I am not looking."

"Oh dear, how dreadful!" Nora exclaimed.

"Yes, it is dreadful! God help such poor creatures, for man can do little! Still, good care and nourishment will do something for her. She's safe in here, for the present."

But the thought haunted Nora, and she watched little Cecilia more closely than ever. Dr. Blanchard told her that this malady was hereditary, and she found herself often wondering whether this child could have been born to such a fatal inheritance. Meantime she was teaching her at home, finding her a very apt pupil, and she also gave her a short music lesson daily, and was much pleased with her progress. There was no doubt as to this inheritance, at any rate, and Nora could only hope that, in the worst event, the higher passion might overpower the lower.

Christmas-day came, as it always does, before people are quite ready for it. Nora had planned several little Christmas surprises and pleasures for the people in whom she was most interested—such as a new dress for Lizzie Mason, to "go with" the jacket she did not need to buy. Then there was a pretty and comfortable invalid's wrapper lying on Mrs. Travers' bed, when she awoke from a tranquil sleep on Christmas morning, ready to be put on as soon as the doctor should pronounce her able to try sitting up. It was long since the poor woman had had anything pretty to wear—longer still since she had had anything supplied by tender and thoughtful care—and the tears that rose to her eyes at the sight, were tears that seemed to refresh and moisten a parched life and a thirsting heart.

There were appropriate little gifts, too, ready for Mrs. Alden and Grace, as well as for the home-circle; and not least for the children, who were jubilant over the usual Christmas offertory of toys, picture-books and pictures, that were scattered about the nursery in the confusion they delighted in. Cecilia, of course, had not been forgotten. For her, Nora had provided a little accordion, on which she could play, to her heart's content, all the tunes she had already picked up; accompanying them with her voice whenever she thought herself unnoticed. Instigated by Eddie's eager persuasions, the three children organized a little "minstrel band," he and Daisy accompanying the accordion with drum and bugle, and producing an amount of noise which vastly delighted themselves, if not other people. As Nora, unseen, caught a glimpse of them, marching along the passages, she thought Cecilia, with her graceful poise of head and figure, and absorbed, serious eyes, would make a picturesque study for a painter who wanted a model for a little strolling musician. Every step and motion seemed to express the child's strong artistic instinct and impulse. Nora had her own private pleasures, too, besides the great one of contributing to the happiness of other people. She had her own Christmas letters from Rockland, from her father and Aunt Margaret, sympathizing with her interests and pleasures, and rejoicing that so large a portion of the time of her absence was now over. And, among her own gifts—each one expressive of the love she prized for itself—there was a small box, most neatly put up, and addressed in Mr. Chillingworth's characteristic handwriting, which, on being opened, disclosed a charmingly arranged bouquet of mingled roses and lilies. It brought the color to her cheek, and made her feel almost remorseful for the disappointment she had been obliged to give him, about his Christmas evening music. She had, however, taken the edge off the disappointment, by volunteering to assist in the morning music, when she and Kitty took their share in the Christmas anthem assigned to the quartette. Roland Graeme was present in his capacity of reporter, and his rendering of the sermon gratified Mr. Chillingworth so much, when he saw it next day, that he ordered a number of copies of the paper to send to his English friends. Waldberg was in his place as organist, a post to which he had been recently appointed through the influence of Mr. Chillingworth, who did not seem particular about religious qualifications in the matter of musicians, at any rate. Nora noticed that the young man was waiting at the door of the church, to exchange a Christmas greeting with Kitty, who was unattended, her fiancé not having "put in an appearance," as he himself would have expressed it And she saw, too, with some uneasiness, that as soon as Kitty had disengaged herself from a lively group of saluting friends, the two strolled off together in a leisurely, insouciant fashion. Roland Graeme, taking his solitary way homeward, noticed the same thing with much the same feeling. And yet, he thought, in the dreamy poetic vein into which he often relapsed, when not spurred on by his dominant philanthropic impulse, if Kitty had only been some simple rustic Phyllis, and Hermann a corresponding Corydon, what a charming bright pair of Arcadian lovers they would have made to figure in a pretty poetic idyl. What a pity, he thought, that we cannot always live in Arcadia!

The lecture-room of the "Good-fellows' Hall" that evening was anything but an Arcadian scene. The bare whitewashed walls, relieved only by the ubiquitous portraits of Washington and Lincoln, Jefferson and Garfield, the flaring gas-jets, the straight-backed rows of benches filled with what Kitty would have relentlessly styled "very common-looking people," in the "common looking" finery which many of them affected, did not seem a particularly inspiring assemblage. Nevertheless, Nora scanned the benches eagerly, till she espied Lizzie and Nellie and Jim, and then the gathering was interesting to her, at least. As for Roland, wherever men and women with human hearts were gathered, there was interest for him, and to Mr. Alden each meeting here was part of an intensely interesting experiment, freighted, in his mind, with wider, more weighty issues than were present to the minds of any one else present—even of his own Grace, who, with her instinctive divination, could, in her simple way, sympathize with him more fully than any one else there.

The programme seemed to be fully appreciated by almost all the audience, though here and there a hard-looking "tough" would occasionally grow tired of sitting still, and would accordingly retire, with scant ceremony and carelessness as to making a somewhat noisy exit, that would have set all Mr. Chillingworth's nerves on edge. But Mr. Alden took no notice. It was understood that no compulsion of any kind was exercised; and, generally speaking, the absentees would return after a while; having, in the meantime, had a smoke, which restored them to better humor. There were one or two comic recitations, in the earlier part of the entertainment, by young workingmen like Jim, given with great spirit and some dramatic effect. Nora's music, and the magic-lantern slides led up gradually to Mr. Alden's simple colloquial address, setting before the audience, as vividly as possible, the great event which made Christmas, and some of its chief bearings on human life. And then bringing his talk to a close, before any one had had time to grow tired of it, he introduced the reading of "My friend, Mr. Roland Graeme."