The Lord Came at Twilight

by Daniel Mills

  *

  At the time, I thought nothing of it. It was a curious encounter, yes, but I felt reasonably confident I would have no more interaction with the Reverend Danforth. I had no intention of visiting his church and was likewise certain I would not find him on my lawn again. As it happened, though, I was to encounter the Reverend once more before that summer was out—and in nearly the last place I expected.

  By this time, it was mid-August. The days were long and sunny, characterized by damp heat and an ever-present drowsiness. It was, as I recall, a summer of exquisite contrasts: sunlit days, rain-filled nights. On the morning after a particularly violent storm (which had done no more to further the cause of my nasturtiums than had the minister’s visit), I received a letter from my friend Franklin Talbot.

  Franklin and I had met twenty years earlier when we were students at Yale. Since then, we had remained close, frequently seeking each other’s counsel on matters both practical and aesthetic. Some time before, I had recommended Westminster as a suitable spot in which to escape the Boston summer, and Franklin had accordingly rented a house in nearby Putney, no more than ten miles from my own summer retreat. His house was a grand Georgian pile, easily a hundred years old, and named, somewhat mysteriously, Willow Wood—mysterious, I mean, given the total absence of willow trees on the property.

  On that particular morning (glorious, as I remember it, but so, too, were all mornings that summer) Franklin invited me to a dinner party that was to be held at Willow Wood in one week’s time. Several months had passed since I had last seen my friend, and I looked forward to this opportunity to catch up properly.

  He wrote: “You may expect an intimate affair—and no, Julius, not that kind of affair—with no more than seven or eight attending (your esteemed self, included). Do write back to tell me you can make it. There will be one or two new guests, including my cousin Ann Margaret, up from New York. I’m hoping I might show off the Tempest Glass.”

  Ah, yes. The Tempest Glass.

  Franklin had discovered this curious object in the attic of Willow Wood some five years before. It was a thing of real beauty, a cut glass mirror measuring some three-feet-by-one and inset within an exquisite design of sheaves and laurels. Evidently, the previous owners had not approved, finding it gaudy. But Franklin was besotted. He blew the dust from the glass and decided then and there that he would display it in the house. After careful consideration, he chose the parlor and selected a position of prominence over the hearth.

  For a month, all was quiet. And then, one morning, the maid noticed something queer. It was not yet dawn, unseasonably cold, and she had risen early to light the fires. Having banked the parlor fire, she stood and collected her bucket. But something stopped her.

  The mirror had changed. Where it should have reflected the opposite wall (dominated by a portrait of Talbot himself), it had gone completely blank: cold and gray, the color of slate. What's more, the surface of the mirror was in motion. The glass itself rippled, teeming with waves that traversed it horizontally, dark and foaming, as though whipped up by a storm.

  Understandably, she turned and took flight. Later, she described her ordeal to Sanders, the butler, who in turn presented the matter to Franklin.

  My friend laughed. “My God,” he said. “I’ve never heard such nonsense. Isn’t it a little early in the year for her to be reading ghost stories?”

  The butler said nothing. His bearing was grim.

  Normally, this would not have given Franklin much pause (grimness was, after all, rather the man’s usual state of being), but there was something else there too: a tremble of the lip, an aversion of the eyes. Sanders was frightened.

  Franklin decided to tackle the matter head on. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  “It isn’t ‘nonsense,’” the butler replied. “And you mustn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” (Did I mention that Mr. Sanders was a member of Danforth’s congregation?)

  “But surely you don't believe her story?”

  The butler nodded. Grimly. “I do,” he said. “I have seen it myself.”

  He would say no more about the matter. Franklin consulted the maid, who told him the tale much as I have related it here. At this, my friend’s curiosity was well and truly kindled and could not be extinguished by mere second-hand experience.

  For the better part of a week, he took to studying the mirror, watching it for hours at a time, though the waves never appeared. One night, I even joined him in keeping vigil in the parlor. Again the glass remained defiantly mirror-like, revealing nothing save the reflection of Franklin’s portrait, which appeared to us with startling suddenness when I lit a candle, giving us both a fright. Nerves aside, the night proved uneventful. All the same, we agreed there was something distinctly odd about the thing and swore an oath to each other on our friendship that we would not spend a night alone in its presence.

  Meanwhile, rumors were spread among the servants, followed by the usual superstitious whispers one encounters in such places. Matters devolved to the point where none of the house staff would enter the parlor as long as the mirror remained. It was, they said, a thing of ill omen. The previous owners had done right by locking it in the attic.

  Franklin had little choice but to remove the mirror from the parlor and relocate it upstairs to one of the guest rooms on the third floor. After a time, he took to treating the whole thing as a joke. The mirror became nothing more than an object of curiosity, something to be shown off to relatives and guests at dinner parties.

  Five years later, the majority of Franklin’s acquaintances were all too familiar with “The Tempest Glass,” as he had fancifully dubbed it. However, my friend’s enthusiasm for the thing had not yet waned, and I fully anticipated an evening of spiritual talk and general good cheer. I accepted his invitation.

  *

  And so it was that one week later I found myself in Willow Wood’s parlor (now distinctly mirror-less) engaged in conversation with the beautiful Ann Margaret Smythe, my friend’s young cousin. She was eighteen years of age and as enchanting a creature as any I’ve encountered: possessed of a naiveté that seemed half-affected, as though she knew far more of the world than she was willing to let on.

  Despite the difference in our ages, I found myself much taken with her, and it was with some sadness that I noticed the ring on her finger. She was, I thought, altogether too lovely to belong to one man alone. She had been in Westminster for no more than a month, and in that time had managed to get herself engaged to one of the locals. I counted this as society’s loss and expressed a hope that I might meet her husband-to-be.

  “And so you shall,” she said. “He will join us tonight for dinner.”

  Shortly afterward, the bell sounded, and she allowed me to escort her into the dining room. I showed her to her seat beside her cousin—the seat to her right was left open, awaiting her fiancé—before sitting down opposite Franklin, sandwiched between two older women by the names of Rose Montgomery and Ethel Ford. Though they resided together in New York, it was clear to me that their relationship was Bostonian in nature.

  At the far end of the table sat Mr. Lattice, a local man and owner of a dry goods shop in Brattleboro. Among our happy company, he had achieved near-legendary status, noted chiefly for his singular dullness.

  Soup was served and cleared away, followed by the fish course. We consumed the meal in near-silence, punctuated by bursts of conversation that sparked and faded away. An atmosphere of expectation had fallen over us as we awaited the arrival of our final guest: an empty chair at table often produces such an effect.

  Midway through the second course, we heard the bell. The tinkle of chimes was followed by low voices and the din of footsteps in the hall. Then the door swung open—Ann Margaret’s face exploded into a smile—and the Reverend Danforth entered the room.

  Franklin stood. “Welcome, Reverend!” he exclaimed and gestured to the empty seat beside Ann Margaret.

  “Thank you, Franklin,” said he.
“It is, as always, a pleasure.”

  He spoke stiffly, and even on this happy occasion, appeared singularly detached. He greeted his fiancée with the vaguest of nods—which only caused her smile to widen—and sat down between her and the housekeeper Mrs. Carr, who had been pressed into service at the last minute to ensure an even number round the table.

  Franklin made the usual introductions. Danforth in turn acknowledged each guest in a perfunctory manner: “A pleasure, I’m sure,” or “Pleased to make your acquaintance” and so on.

  When it was my turn to be introduced, our eyes met across the table. He must have recognized me, but if he did, he showed no sign of it. “A great pleasure,” he said, and then it was on to Miss Ford.

  Sanders arrived with the meat course and proceeded to lay our plates before us. All was quiet for a spell, save for the rattle of plates and cutlery, and then we became aware of something else: the Reverend Danforth sitting with head bowed, lips moving in a murmured prayer.

  My ears caught only one or two words here and there, but it was the usual sort of thing you might expect, replete with references to “Grace” and “faithfulness,” etc. I don’t mind saying that it made us distinctly uncomfortable—well, most of us anyway. Ann Margaret sat beside her fiancé with head lowered, eyes closed. After an interminable two or three minutes, the Reverend muttered a sulky “Amen” that was echoed by the beautiful creature beside him.

  Heads were raised, eyes opened, and the rest of us, taking our cue, immediately fell upon our rapidly cooling food with the hunger of Tantalus. Perhaps it was the august presence of this man of God, but the topic of our conversation soon shifted to unearthly matters—and inevitably—to the mystery of the Tempest Glass.

  Most of us had heard the maid’s story many times before—though, to Franklin’s credit, it really did change very little with the telling. However, the tale was clearly unfamiliar to Ann Margaret. She pressed her cousin for details, inquired into past owners of the house, and even hazarded a theory (ingenious but flawed) on the illusion-producing properties of mirror-glass.

  By contrast, her fiancé remained silent, his face a mask of cold composure. Clearly the man was not enjoying the story, for all of my friend’s efforts. Franklin even went so far as to mimic the maid’s piping voice, making a rather creditable attempt at the Yankee burr. Nevertheless, Danforth remained unmoved.

  Franklin addressed him directly. “Tell me, Reverend. You are a man of the church. Do you not share my maid’s belief in the supernatural?”

  Danforth exhaled heavily. His spectacles had slipped to the end of his nose, where they threw back the candlelight. I noted my reflection in both lenses. “It’s true,” he said, “that I am a man of God. And yes, my faith is a simple one. But I am no simpleton.”

  “I assure you,” said Franklin, “I meant to imply no such thing.”

  “I know—and no offense was taken. The fault lies not with you but with the question itself. Whatever you may think, all beliefs in the supernatural are not in themselves equivalent—and this so called ‘spiritualism’ is the exclusive territory of fools and charlatans.”

  Ann Margaret protested. “Surely, Abel, you are too harsh—”

  Franklin lifted his hand. “No, my dear cousin, he is correct. And I do not profess any active belief in spiritualism. But I do think there are matters that cannot be so easily explained away—either by science or by theology.”

  Here I added my assent. “The Bard put it best, I think. ‘More things in Heaven and Earth’ and so on.”

  The minister shook his head vehemently. “Utter nonsense,” he said. “True faith in the Word allows for no mysteries but one.”

  I could not let such a remark slip past me unchallenged. The hook was well and truly baited: what choice had I but to bite?

  “What, then, of Mr. Darwin’s theories? Or those of William James?”

  “What of them?”

  “You must concede that the world is changing—more rapidly now than ever before. Things once thought impossible have proven all too easy. The phonograph. Electric light. Islands are emerging from the seas of ignorance that have hitherto surrounded us. Soon a new continent will be revealed, more wondrous and dangerous than unexplored Africa.”

  “And the Scripture?”

  “It will have to change, adapt itself. Much as it has always done. We no longer believe in the geocentric model—as did Martin Luther, or your Calvin. And the science of geology casts significant doubts on the reality of the Flood account. I wonder if you are familiar with the recent work of the German theologians? Wellhausen writes that…”

  As I continued, Danforth’s face darkened to the color of cooked beets. Up to this point, our debate had been spirited but good-natured. But now I trailed off, sensing that my hapless barque may have passed (once more) into dangerous waters.

  The minister's brow hardened. An edge like steel came into his voice. “First you profess some openness to the tenets of spiritualism—which would be laughable were it not outright blasphemous—and now you dare to openly question the authority of Scripture. I fear, sir, that I cannot abide such talk.”

  He stood up from the table in what struck me as a rather theatrical fashion. Ann Margaret looked at me, her blue eyes showing surprise and hurt, her pretty face warped with anguish. In that instant, I repented of all my sins and blasphemies and resolved, from here on out, to be kinder to the minister, whatever the madness of his convictions.

  Ever the gracious host, Franklin caught hold of Danforth’s arm and begged him to remain. “You must forgive Julius. He is fond of friendly debate.” He cast a purposeful glance in my direction. “Overly fond, I sometimes think.”

  Here then was my opportunity to redeem myself in the eyes of Ann Margaret. “Alas,” I said. “My friend is correct. I apologize if I crossed a line.”

  Duly mollified, the minister resumed his seat at the table. His fiancée’s face registered relief, then joy. She grinned openly at the entire table, even sparing a glance for myself, who had come so perilously close to ruining her evening.

  And then—before my eyes—this charming smile transformed itself into something more subtle and curious and even a little wicked.

  “If you will allow me to speak,” she said. “I believe I see a means by which we might settle the question.”

  Instantly, she received our full attention. She turned to her cousin. “Franklin, you and Julius have expressed a fascination with spiritualism. While you may criticize the Christian religion, you are open to the idea of the supernatural as a force distinct from the miracles described by the scripture. Is that more or less accurate?”

  We had to concede that it was. Next she cast her gaze upon the minister. “Whereas you, dear Abel, profess a belief in the Word of God and a disdain for the vagaries of spiritualism—whether they may manifest themselves at a séance or, indeed, by way of a haunted mirror.”

  Two chairs down, Franklin grinned. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I believe I can see where this is headed—and I wholeheartedly approve.”

  On the other hand, I was still in the dark. “And for those of us who do not share my good friend’s apparent aptitude for mental transference…?”

  “Well,” Ann Margaret said. “It’s simple, really. Franklin related how the two of you once stayed up all night in the presence of the mirror and saw nothing. Nevertheless the experience left you sufficiently unnerved that you would not dare to pass a night alone with it.”

  “Quite right,” I said. Whatever my other faults, I have never shied away from admitting my essential cowardice.

  She went on: “As Franklin knows, Abel has already elected to stay here tonight as a guest. We have given him a room on the first floor, but perhaps we might allow him to stay on the third? The room with the mirror. What do you think, Abel?”

  Danforth pushed the spectacles up his nose, his eyes leaping into focus behind them. “Very well,” he said. “If it will help to lay these idiot rumors to rest, then I consider it my
duty as a Christian minister.”

  I will confess that I felt a twinge of nervousness then, though Franklin was all mirth. He clapped his hands with delight and declared the discussion at an end. “The matter is settled. By tomorrow morning, we shall finally have an answer to the riddle of the Tempest Glass.”

  *

  After dessert, our party adjourned to the parlor where a lively game of charades ensued (the Reverend Danforth abstaining on what I could only assume were moral grounds), followed by Franklin’s demonstration of the gramophone—an event that caused the minister no little distress. He seemed genuinely terrified of the voice that issued from it, even though it was sweetly singing Claire de Lune, and I found myself worried on his account for his upcoming stay in the third floor guest room.

  By this time, it was growing late, so I made my farewells to Lattice and the Bostonians and surprised myself by shaking the minister’s hand. “My apologies, Reverend, for any offense I may have given. I look forward to hearing about your experiences tonight.”

  “I accept your apology,” he replied, “and offer my own in return. I can see now that I overreacted. As for tonight, there will be little enough to discuss.”

  “Yes, well, be that as it may... some caution might be warranted, eh?”

  Next, I said goodnight to my host, saving the enchanting Ann Margaret for last. When I came to her, I bowed and kissed her outstretched hand. She regarded me placidly, the hints of a smile on her lips, her skin like warm honey in that light.

  “Farewell, dear child. You mustn’t worry yourself too much on account of your husband-to-be.”

  Her eyes glittered, sharp with firelight. “Oh,” she said. “I’m not worried.”

  “No?”

  “On the contrary, I think tonight will prove most interesting.”

  *

  The first indication I received that something was amiss came in the form of a telegram that was delivered to my door shortly after eleven the next morning.