What Necessity Knows | Page 2

is
true."
But he evidently did not suppose so. He sidled to the door, cap in hand.
The clergyman said no more. He was one of those sensitive men who
often know instinctively whether or not their words find response in the
heart of the hearer, and to whom it is always a pain to say anything,
even the most trivial, which awakes no feeling common to both.
Trenholme himself showed the visitors out of his house with a genial,
kindly manner, and when the departing footsteps had ceased to crunch
the garden path he still stood on his verandah, looking after the
retreating figures and feeling somewhat depressed--not as we might
suppose St. Paul would have felt depressed, had he, in like manner,
taken the Name for which he lived upon his lips in vain--and to render
that name futile by reason of our spiritual insignificance is surely the
worst form of profanity--but he felt depressed in the way that a

gentleman might who, having various interests at heart, had failed in a
slight attempt to promote one of them.
It was the evening of one of the balmy days of a late Indian summer.
The stars of the Canadian sky had faded and become invisible in the
light of a moon that hung low and glorious, giving light to the dry,
sweet-scented haze of autumn air. Trenholme looked out on a neat
garden plot, and beyond, in the same enclosure, upon lawns of ragged,
dry-looking grass, in the centre of which stood an ugly brick house,
built apparently for some public purpose. This was the immediate
outlook. Around, the land was undulating; trees were abundant, and
were more apparent in the moonlight than the flat field spaces between
them. The graceful lines of leafless elms at the side of the main road
were clearly seen. About half a mile away the lights of a large village
were visible, but bits of walls and gable ends of white houses stood out
brighter in the moonlight than, the yellow lights within the windows.
Where the houses stretched themselves up on a low hill, a little white
church showed clear against the broken shadow of low-growing pines.
As Trenholme was surveying the place dreamily in the wonderful light,
that light fell also, upon him and his habitation. He was apparently
intellectual, and had in him something of the idealist. For the rest, he
was a good-sized, good-looking man, between thirty and forty years of
age, and even by the moonlight one might see, from the form of his
clothes, that he was dressed with fastidious care. The walls and
verandah, of his house, which were of wood, glistened almost as
brightly with white paint as the knocker and doorplate did with brass
lacquer.
After a few minutes Trenholme's housekeeper, a wiry, sad-eyed woman,
came to see why the door was left open. When she saw the master of
the house she retired in abrupt, angular fashion, but the suggestion of
her errand recalled him from his brief relaxation.
In his study he again sat down before the table where he had been
talking to his visitors. From the leaves of his blotting-paper he took a
letter which he had apparently been interrupted in writing. He took it
out in a quick, business-like way, and dipped his pen in the ink as

though, to finish rapidly; but then he sat still until the pen dried, and no
further word had been added. Again he dipped his pen, and again let it
dry. If the first sentence of the letter had taken as long to compose as
the second, it was no wonder that a caller had caused an interruption.
The letter, as it lay before him, had about a third of its page written in a
neat, forcible hand. The arms of his young college were printed at the
top. He had written:--
My dear brother,--I am very much concerned not to have heard from
you for so long. I have written to your old address in Montreal, but
received no answer.
Here came the stop. At last he put pen to paper and went on:--
Even though we have disagreed as to what occupation is best for you to
follow, and also as to the degree of reserve that is desirable as to what
our father did, you must surely know that there is nothing I desire more
than your highest welfare.
After looking at this sentence for a little while he struck his pen
through the word "highest," and then, offended with the appearance of
the obliteration, he copied this much of the letter on a fresh sheet and
again stopped.
When he continued, it was on the old sheet. He made a rough copy of
the letter--writing, crossing out, and rewriting.