Trimblerigg

by Laurence Housman

A CROCEAN dawn was outside and around him when he awoke—yellow, of the metropolitan variety; it was, that is to say, a fog. But in spite of the dullness of the outer world, Mr. Trimblerigg awoke happy, with the happiness of a man whose prayer has been answered.

For many days he had been praying fervently that his character might be placed above suspicion: and now that Davidina’s suspicion of him had gone, and his own with it, he had just everything for the present that he could pray for. And on the top of it, he had forgiven an enemy—in such a way that, if he did not miscalculate, his enemy would presently have to forgive him.

There, in that purified spiritual atmosphere, another great work was awaiting him. All omens were auspicious; he knew now for certain that he was going to achieve fame, and that very soon, among the Free Churches, he would be able to have almost whatever position he liked, and do almost anything he chose. And so, as he got up in that crocean dawn, he felt all about him, but especially in his brain, an effusing sense of well-being and happiness. And as he looked at himself in the glass before shaving, he smiled: and it seemed to him then that his countenance was wonderfully bright.

Presently, as he shaved, he began to have a suspicion that the illumination was different and strange: that there was a curious absence of shadow about his chubby cheeks and under his chin, which made shaving easy; and this, too, on a dark morning.

This fact only dawned on him gradually; for close above his head hung the electric pendant, with its bulb of powerful light directed downwards by the white porcelain shade. But when, thoughtful of the high price of electricity, he turned it out and once more faced his glass to give a final polish to his hair, there could no longer be any doubt that he was in the presence of something which waited to be explained—something too mysterious, too incredible to be described as a phenomenon.

‘Crocean dawn’: the embodied phrase looked him in the face. But how had it located itself? Was it physical, or spiritual, or was it only mental? ‘Miracle’ he did not think of calling it; his Free Church upbringing had given him an instinctive repugnance to such Romish things as modern miracles; though he admitted the possibility (but that was different) of miraculous answer to prayer. But miracles of a personal and a phenomenal kind he regarded with a certain suspicion—had indeed published in The Rock of Ages an article against them, wherein, with unrelenting logic, he had traced them to spiritual agencies—if spiritual they might be called—not of good but of evil. And now—this!

But if it was not a miracle in the accepted sense, if it was only something seen with the eye of the spirit, nevertheless there it was, carrying implications, and imposing if not exactly a burden—a problem, a weight of responsibility, which he did not quite know how he was to solve.

He could not help feeling that, for the present at least, he would like to keep it to himself, until he was a little more sure. But then a sudden sense of elation carried him away; for of what he had hoped might be true, this surely was proof; he really was—good! Even if it was only a recognition—an encouragement sent confidentially, for his eye alone, it meant—it must mean—that Heaven approved of him. The beauty of holiness was upon him in visible form—a certificate of character unimpeachable in its completeness; and yet, for an uncomfortable instant, the thought had flashed—how was he going to live up to it? Could he be as holy in practice as this advertised him to be? No, for the present at least, he would rather that it should not be seen. This was early dawn: he was hardly up to it. He must acclimatize himself.

So here, in the privacy of his own chamber, he examined the portent at leisure, and from all points of view. Trying to see himself, as others might presently be seeing him, he continued his study of the glass. Around a face broader than it was long, a wide forehead, puckered eyes, short nose, a neat bunch of a mouth, and hair worn rather long, turning up at the ends like the hair of the knave of hearts, a faint lemon-coloured radiance emerged, effused, flowed for a few inches, and then suddenly stopped short.

It was that abrupt ending which gave it so uncanny a character. Earthly radiance diminishes as it travels from its source; but this behaved differently—was indeed, if anything, brighter where it ended than where it started. Thus, from a front view, it had that plate-like appearance with which stained-glass windows and pictures of mediæval saints had made him familiar.