What Necessity Knows | Page 3

It seemed that the task to
which he had set himself was almost harder than could appear possible,
for, as he became more absorbed in it, there was evidence of discomfort
in his attitude, and although the room was not warm, the moisture on
his forehead became visible in the strong light of the lamp above him.
At length, after preliminary pauses had been followed by a lengthened
period of vigorous writing, the letter was copied, and the writer sealed
it with an air of obvious relief.
That done, he wrote another letter, the composition of which, although
it engaged his care, was apparently so much pleasanter, that perhaps the
doing of it was chosen on the same principle as one hears a farce after a

tragedy, in order to sleep the more easily.
This second letter was to a lady. When it was written, Trenholme
pulled an album from a private drawer, and looked long and with
interested attention at the face of the lady to whom he had written. It
was the face of a young, handsome girl, who bore herself proudly. The
fashion of the dress would have suggested to a calculating mind that the
portrait had been taken some years before; but what man who imagines
himself a lover, in regarding the face of the absent dear one in the
well-known picture, adds in thought the marks of time? If he had been
impartial he would have asked the portrait if the face from which it was
taken had grown more proud and cold as the years went by, or more sad
and gentle--for, surely, in this work-a-day world of ours, fate would not
be likely to have gifts in store that would wholly satisfy those eager,
ambitious eyes; but, being a man no wiser than many other men, he
looked at the rather faded phonograph with considerable pleasure, and
asked no questions.
It grew late as he contemplated the lady's picture, and, moreover, he
was not one, under any excuse, to spend much time in idleness. He put
away his album, and then, having personally locked up his house and
said good-night to his housekeeper, he went upstairs.
Yet, in spite of all that Trenholme's pleasure in the letter and the
possession of the photograph might betoken, the missive, addressed to
a lady named Miss Rexford, was not a love-letter. It ran thus:--
I cannot even feign anger against "Dame Fortune," that, by so
unexpected a turn of her wheel, she should be even now bringing you
to the remote village where for some time I have been forced to make
my home, and where it is very probable I shall remain for some years
longer. I do, of course, unfeignedly regret the financial misfortune
which, as I understand, has made it necessary for Captain Rexford to
bring you all out to this young country; yet to me the pleasure of
expecting such neighbours must far exceed any other feeling with
which I regard your advent.
I am exceedingly glad if I have been able to be of service to Captain

Rexford in making his business arrangements here, and hope all will
prove satisfactory. I have only to add that, although you must be
prepared for much that you will find different from English life, much
that is rough and ungainly and uncomfortable, you may feel confident
that, with a little patience, the worst roughness of colonial life will soon
be overcome, and that you will find compensation a thousand times
over in the glorious climate and cheerful prospects of this new land.
As I have never had the pleasure of meeting Captain and Mrs. Rexford,
I trust you will excuse me for addressing this note of welcome to you,
whom I trust I may still look upon as a friend. I have not forgotten the
winter when I received encouragement and counsel from you, who had
so many to admire and occupy you that, looking back now, I feel it
strange that you should have found time to bestow in mere kindness.
Here there followed courteous salutations to the lady's father and
mother, brothers and sisters. The letter was signed in friendly style and
addressed to an hotel in Halifax, where apparently it was to await the
arrival of the fair stranger from some other shore.
It is probable that, in the interfacings of human lives, events are
happening every moment which, although bearing according to present
knowledge no possible relation to our own lives, are yet to have an
influence on our future and make havoc with our expectations. The
train is laid, the fuse is lit, long before we know it.
That night, as Robert Trenholme sealed his letters, an event took place
that was to test by a strange influence the lives of