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AVE T A^r"o^^
A NOVEL
BT
EDNA LYALL
AUTHOR OF "DONOVAN," ETC.
"Men are so made as to resent nothing more impatiently than to be treated as criminal for opinions which they deem true/'— Spinoza.
" We two are a multitude. "—Ovid.
IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. L
LONDON : HUEST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1884.
All rights reserved.
F^RO c o isr.
1871—1884. "Knowledge by suffering entereth."
^
"W^E TTVO.
CHAPTER I.
BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE.
Still humanity grows dearer,
Being learned the more.
Jean Ingelow.
There are three things in this world which deserve no quarter — Hypocrisy, Pharisaism, and Tyranny.
F. Robertson.
People who have been brought up in the country, or in small places where e"^ry neigh- bour is known by sight, are apt to think that life in a large town must lack many of the interests which they have learned to find in their more limited communities. In a some- VOL. I. B
2 WE TWO.
what bewildered wa}^, they gaze at the shifting crowd of strange faces, and wonder whether it would be possible to feel completely at home where all the surroundings of life seem ever changing and unfamiliar.
But those who have lived long in one quarter of London, or of any other large town, know that there are in reality almost as many links between the actors of the town life-drama as between those of the country life-drama.
Silent recognitions pass between passengers who meet day after day in the same morning or evening train, on the way to or from work ; the faces of omnibus conductors grow familiar ; we learn to know perfectly well on what day of the week and at what hour the well-known organ-grinder will make his appearance, and in what street Ave shall meet the city clerk or the care-worn little daily governess on their way to office or school.
It so happened that Brian Osmond, a young- doctor who had not been very long settled hi the Bloomsbury regipns^ had an engagement which took him every afternoon down Gower
BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 3
Street, and here many faces had grown fam- iHar to him. He invariably met the same sallow-faced postman, the same nasal-voiced milkman, the same pompous-looking man with the bushy whiskers and the shiny black bag, on his way home from the city. But the only passenger in Avhom he took any interest was a certain bright-faced little girl whom he gener- ally met just before the Montague Place cross- ing. He always called her his 'little girl,' though she was by no means little in the or- dinary acceptation of the word, being at least sixteen, and rather tall for her years. But there was a sort of freshness and naivete and youthfulness about her which made him use that adjective. She usually carried a pile of books in a strap, so he conjectured that she must be coming from school, and, ever since he had first seen her, she had worn the same rough blue serge dress, and the same quaint little fur hat. In other details however, he could never tell in the least how he should find her. She seemed to have a mood for every diSij, Sometimes she would be in a great hurry and
B 2
4 WE TWO.
would almost run past him ; sometimes she would saunter along in the most unconvention- al way, glancing from time to time at a book or a paper ; sometimes her eager face would look absolutely bewitching in its brightness ; sometimes scarcely less bewitching in a con- suming anxiety which seemed unnatural in one so young.
One rainy afternoon in November, Brian was as usual making his way down Gower Street, his umbrella held low to shelter him from the driving rain which seemed to come in all direc- tions. The milkman's shrill voice was still far in the distance, the man of letters was still at work upon knockers some way off, it was not yet time for his little girl to make her appearance, and he was not even thinking of her, when suddenly his umbrella was nearly knocked out of his hand by coming violently into collision with another umbrella. Brought thus to a sudden stand, he looked to see who it was who had charged him with such violence, and found himself face to face with his unknown friend. He had never been quite so close to
BRIAN FALLS IX LOVE. 5
her before. Her quaint face had always fascin- ated him, but on nearer view he thought it the loveliest face he had ever seen— it took his heart by storm.
It was framed in soft, silky masses of dusky auburn hair which hung over the broad white forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer than a boy^s. The features, though not regu- lar, were delicate and piquant, the usual faint rose-flush on the cheeks deepened noAv to car- nation, perhaps because of the slight contretemps, perhaps because of some deeper emotion — Brian fancied the latter, for the clear, golden-brown eyes that were lifted to his seemed bright either with indignation or with unshed tears. To-day it was clear that the mood was not a happy one : his little girl was in trouble.
' I am very sorry,' she said, looking up at him, and speaking in a low, musical voice, but with the unembarrassed frankness of a child. ' I really wasnH thinking or looking, it was very careless of me.'
Brian of course took all the blame to him- self, and apologised profusely ; but though he
6 WE TWO.
would have given much to detain her, if only for a moment, she gave him no opportunity, but with a slight inclination passed rapidly on. He stood quite still, watching her till she was out of sight, aware of a sudden change in his life. He was a busy, hard-working man, not at all given to dreams, and it was no dream that he was in now. He knew perfectly well that he had met his ideal, had spoken to her and she to him ; that somehow in a single moment a new world had opened out to him. For the first time in his life he had fallen in love.
The trifling occurrence had made no great impression on the ' little girl ' herself. She was rather vexed with herself for the carelessness, but a much deeper trouble was filling her heart. She soon forgot the passing interruption and the brown-bearded man with the pleasant grey eyes who had apologised for what was quite her fault. Something had gone wrong that day, as Brian had surmised ; the eyes grew brighter, the carnation flush deepened as she hurried along, the delicate lips closed with a
BRIAN FALLS IN LOYE. 7
curiously hard expression, the hands were clasped with unnecessary tightness round the umbrella and the handle of the book-strap.
She passed up Guilford Square, but did not turn into any of the old decayed houses ; her home was far less imposing. At the corner of the square there is a narrow opening which leads into a sort of blind alley paved with grirc flag-stones. Here, facing a high blank wall, are four or five very dreary houses. She entered one of these, put down her wet um- brella in the shabby little hall, and opened the door of a barely-furnished room, the walls of which were, however, lined with books. Be- side the fire was the one really comfortable piece of furniture in the room, an Ilkley couch, and upon it lay a very wan-looking invalid, who, as the door opened, glanced up with a smile of welcome.
* Why, Erica, you are home early to-day. How is that V
' Oh, I donH know,' said Erica, tossing down her books in a way which showed her mother that she was troubled about something. ' I
8 WE TWO.
Suppose I tore along at a gcfod rate, and there was no temptation to stay at the Higli School.'
* Come and tell me about it,' said the mother, gently, ' what has gone wrong, little one V
' Everything !' exclaimed Erica, vehemently. * Everything always does go wrong with us and always will, I suppose. I wish you had never sent me to school, mother ; I wish I need never see the place again !'
* But till to-day you enjoyed it so much.'
* Yes, the classes and the being with Ger- trude. But that will never be the same again. It's just this, mother, I'm never to speak to Gertrude again— to have nothing more to do Avith her.'
' Who said so ? And why V
' Why ? Because I'm myself,' said Erica, with a bitter little laugh. ' How I can help it, nobody seems to think. But Gertrude's father has come back from Africa and was horri- fied to learn that we were friends, made her promise never to speak to me again, and made her write this note about it. Look !'
BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 9
and she took* a crumpled envelope from ber pocket.
The mother read the note in silence, and an expression of pain came over her face. Erica, who was very impetuous, snatched it away from her when she saw that look of sadness.
' Don't read the horrid thing !' she exclaimed, crushing it up in her hand. ' There, we will burn it !' and she threw it into the fire with a vehemence which somehow relieved her.
' You shouldn't have done that,' said her mother. * Your father will be sure to want to see it.'
'No, no, no,' cried Erica, passionately. 'He must not know, you must not tell him, mother.'
* Dear child, have you not learnt that it is impossible to keep anything from him ! He will find out directly that something is wrong.'
* It will grieve him so, he must not hear it,' said Erica. ' He cares so much for what hurts us. Oh, why are people so hard and cruel? Why do they treat us like lepers ? It isn't all because of losing Gertrude — I could bear that if there were some real reason, if she went away
10 WE TWO.
or died. But there's no reason ! It's all preju- dice and bigotry and iujustice — it's that which makes it sting so.'
Erica was not at all given to tears, but there was now a sort of choking in her throat, and a sort of dimness in her eyes, whioc made her rather hurriedly settle down on the floor in her own particular nook beside her mother's couch, where her face could not be seen. There was a silence. Presently the mother spoke, stroking back the wavy, auburn hair with her thin white hand.
' For a long time I have dreaded this for you, Erica. I was afraid you didn't realise the sort of position the world will give you. Till lately you have seen scarcely any but our own people, but it can hardly be, darling, that you can go on much longer without coming into contact with others, and then, more and more, you must realise that you are cut off from much that other girls may enjoy.'
' Why V questioned Erica, ' why can't they be friendly? Why must they cut us off from everything?'
BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 11
' It does seem uDJust, but you must remember that we belong to an unpopular minority.'
' But if I belonged to the larger party I would at least be just to the smaller,' said Erica. ' How can they expect us to think their system beautiful wheA the very first thing they show us is hatred and meanness. Oh, if I belonged to the other side I would show them how differ- ent it might be.'
' I believe you would,' said the mother, smil- ing a little at the idea, and at the vehemence of the speaker. ' But, as it is, Erica, I am afraid you must school yourself to endure. After all, I fancy you will be glad to share so soon in your father's vexations.'
' Yes,"* said Erica, pushing back the hair from her forehead, and giving herself a kind of mental shaking, ' I am glad of that. After all, they can't spoil the best part of our lives ! I shall go into the garden to get rid of my bad temper ; it doesn't rain now.'
She struggled to her feet^ picked up the little fur hat which had fallen off, kissed her mother,, and went out of the room.
12 WE TWO.
The ' garden ' was Erica's favourite resort, her own particular property. It was about fifteen feet square, and no one but a Londoner would have bestowed on it so dignified a name. But Erica, who was of an inventive turn, had contrived to make the most of the little patch of ground, had induced ivy to grow on the ugly brick walls, and with infinite care and satisfac- tion had nursed a few flowers and shrubs into tolerably healthy though smutty life. In one of the corners Tom Craigie, her favourite cousin, had put up a rough wooden bench for her, aud here she read and dreamed as contentedly as if her ' garden ground ' had been fairyland. Here, too, she invariably came when anything had gone wrong, when the endless troubles about money which had weighed upon her all her life became a little less bearable than usual, or when some act of discourtesy or harshness to her father had roused in her a tingling, burning sense of indignation.
Erica was not one of those people who take life easily : things went very deeply with her. In spite of her brightness and vivacity, in spite
BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 13
of her readiness to see the ludicrous in every- thing, and her singularly quick perceptions, she was also very keenly alive to other and graver impressions.
Her anger had passed, but still, as she paced round and round her small domain, her heart was very heavy. Life seemed perplexing to her ; but her mother had somehow struck the right key-note when she had spoken of the vexations which might be shared. There was something inspiriting in that thought, certain- ly, for Erica worshipped her father. By degrees the trouble and indignation died away and a very sweet look stole over the grave little face.
A smutty sparrow came and peered down at her from the ivy-covered wall^ and chirped and twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps recog- nising the scatterer of its daily bread.
'After all,' thought Erica, ' with ourselves and the animals, we might let the rest of the world treat us as they please. I am glad they can't turn the animals and birds against us ! That would be worse than anything.'
Then, suddenly turning from the abstract to-
14 WE TWO.
the pi-actical, she took out of her pocket a shabby little sealskin purse.
' Still sixpence of ray prize-money over,' she remarked to herself. ' I'll go and buy some scones for tea. Father likes them.'
Erica's father was a Scotchman, and, though so-called scones were to be had at most shops, there was only one place where she could buy scones which she considered worthy the name, and that was at the Scotch baker's in South- ampton Row. She hurried along the wet pave- ments, glad that the rain was over, for as soon as her purchase was completed she made up her mind to indulge for a few minutes in what had lately become a very frequent treat, namely, a pause before a certain tempting store of second- hand books. She had never had money enough to buy anything except the necessary school books, and, being a great lover of poetry, she always seized with avidity on anything that was to be found outside the book-shop. Some- time^ she would carry away a verse of Swin- burne which would ring in her ears for days and days ; sometimes she would read as much as
BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 1 5
two or three pages of Shelley. No one had ever interrupted her, and a certain sense of impropriety and daring was rather stimula- ting than otherwise. It always brought to her mind a saying in the proverbs of Solomon, * Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.'
For three successive days she had found to her great delight Longfellow's ' Hiawatha.' The strange metre, the musical Indian names, the delightfully described animals, all served to make the poem wonderfully fascinating to her. She thought a page or two of •' Hiawatha ' would greatly sweeten her somewhat bitter world this afternoon, and with her bag of scones in one hand and the book in the other she read on happily, quite unconscious that three pair of eyes were watching her from within the shop.
The wrinkled old man who was the presiding genius of the place had two customers^ a tall grey-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly eyes, and his son, the same Brian Osmond whom Erica had charged with her umbrella in Gower Street.
16 WE TWO.
*An outside customer for you,' remarked Charles Osmond, the clergyman, glancing at the shopkeeper. Then to his son, ' What a pic- ture she makes !'
Brian looked up hastily from some medical books which he had been turning over.
* Why, that's my little Gower Street friend,* he exclaimed, the words being somehow sur- prised out of him, though he would fain have recalled them the next minute.
' I don't interrupt her/ said the shop-owner. ' Her father has done a great deal of business with me, and the little lady has a fancy for poetry, and don't get much of it in her life, I'll be bound.'
- Why, who is she V asked Charles Osmond, who was on very friendly terms with the old book-collector.
' She's the daughter of Luke Raeburn,' was the reply, * and whatever folks may say, I know that Mr. Raeburn leads a hard enough life.'
Brian turned away from the speakers, a sickening sense of dismay at his heart. His ideal was the daughter of Luke Raeburn !
BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 17
And Luke Raeburn was an atheist leader!
For a few minntes he lost consciousness of time and place, though always seeing in a sort of dark mist Erica's lovely face bending over her book. The shop-keeper's casual remark had been a fearful bloAV to him ; yet, as he came to himself again, his heart went out more and more to the beautiful girl who had been brought up in what seemed to him. so barren a creed. His dream of love, which had been bright enough only an hour before, was sud- denly shadowed by an unthought-of pain, but presently began to shine with a new and alto- gether different lustre. He began to hear again what was passing between his father and the shop-keeper.
' There's a sight more good in him than folks think. However wrong his views, he believes them right, and is ready to suffer for 'em, too. Bless me, that's odd, to be sure I There is Mr. Raeburn, on the other side of the Eovv ! Fine looking man, isn't he !'
Brian, looking up eagerly, fancied he must be mistaken, for the only passenger in sight
VOL. I. C
18 WE TWO.
was a very tall man of remarkably benign aspect, middle-aged, yet venerable — or perhaps better described by the word ' devotional- looking,' pervaded too by a certain majesty of calmness which seemed scarcely suited to his character of public agitator. The clean-shaven and somewhat rugged face was unmistakably that of a Scotchman, the thick waves of tawny hair overshadowing the wide brow, and the clear golden-brown eyes showed Brian at once that this could be no other than the father of his ideal.
In the meantime, Raeburn, having caught sight of his daughter, slowly crossed the road, and coming noiselessly up to her, suddenly took hold of the book she was reading, and with laughter in his eyes, said, in a peremptory voice,
' Five shillings to pay, if you please, miss !'
Erica, who had been completely absorbed in the poem, looked up in dismay ; then seeing who had spoken she began to laugh.
* What a horrible fright you gave me, father !
BRIAX FALLS IN LOVE. 19
But do look at this, it's the loveliest thing iu the world. I've just got to the " very strong man Kwasind." I think he's a little like you !'
Raeburn, though no very great lover of poetry, took the book and read a few lines.
' Long they lived in peace together, Spake with naked hearts together, Pondering much and much contriving How the tribes of men might prosper.'
' Good ! That will do very well for you and me, little one. I'm ready to be your Kwasind. What's the price of the thing — four-and-six- pence ! Too much for a luxury. It must wait till our ship comes in.'
He put down the book and they moved on together, but had not gone many paces before they were stopped by a most miserable-looking beggar child. Brian standing now outside the shop, saw and heard all that passed.
Raeburn was evidently investigating the case, Erica a little impatient of the interruption was remonstrating.
' I thought you never gave to beggars, and I am sure that harrowing story is made up.'
c2
20 WE TWO.
* Very likely,' replied her father, ' but the hunger is real, and I know well enough what hunger is. What have you here?' he added, indicating the paper bag which Erica held.
' Scones,' she said, unwillingly.
' That will do/ he said, taking them from her and giving them to the child. ' He is too young to be anything but the victim of an- other's laziness. There! sit down and eat them v/hile you can.'
The child sat dov/n on a doorstep with the bag of scones clasped in both hands, but he continued to gaze after his benefactor till he had passed out of sight, and there was a strange look of surprise and gratification in his eyes. That was a man who knew ! Many peo- ple had, after hard begging, thrown him pence^ many had warned him off harshly, but this man had looked straight into his eyes, and had at once stopped and questioned him, had singled out the one true statement from a mass of lies, and had given him — not a stale loaf Avith the top cut off, a suspicious sort of charity which always angered the waif — but his own food.
BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 21
bought for bis own consumption. Most won- derful of all, too, this man knew what it was to be hungry, and had even the insight and shrewdness to be aware that the waif's best chance of eating the scones at all was to eat them then and there. For the first time a feel- ing of reverence and admiration was kindled in the child's heart ; he would have done a great deal for his unknown friend.
Raeburn and Erica had meanwhile walked on in the direction of Guilford Square.
' I had bought them for you/ said Erica re- proachfully.
*And I ruthlessly gave them away,' said Raeburn^ smiling. ' That was hard lines ; I thought they were only household stock. But after all it comes to the same thing in the end, or better. You have given them to me by giving them to the child. Never mind, "Little son Eric !" '
This was his pet name for her, and it meant a great deal to them. She was his only child, and it had at first been a great disappointment to everyone that she was not a boy. But Rae-
22 WE TWO.
burn had long ago ceased to regret this, and the nick-name referred more to Erica's capa- bility of being both son and daughter to him, able to help him in his work and at the same to brighten his home. Erica was very proud of her name, for she had been called after her father's greatest friend Eric Haeberlein, a cele- brated republican, who once during a long exile had taken refuge in London. His views were in some respects more extreme than Raeburn's, but in private life he was the gentlest and most fascinating of men, and had quite won the heart of his little namesake.
As Mrs. Raeburn had surmised, Erica's father had at once seen that something had gone wrong that day. The all-observing eyes, which had noticed the hungry look in the beggar child's face, noticed at once that his own child had been troubled.
' Something has vexed you,' he said. ^ What is the matter. Erica V
' I had rather not tell you^ father, it isn't any- thing much,' said Erica, casting down her eyes as if all at once the paving-stones had become absorbingly interesting.
BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 23
* I fancj^ I know already,' said Raeburn. * It is about your friend at the High School, is it not? I thought so. This afternoon 1 had a letter from her father.'
' AVhat does he say ? May I see it V asked Erica.
* I tore it lip,' said Kaeburn, ' I thought you would ask to see it, and the thing was really so abominably insolent that I didn't want you to. How did you hear about it V
' Gertrude Avrote me a note,' said Erica.
*At her father's dictation, no doubt,' said Raeburn, ' I should know his style directly, let me see it.'
* I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I burnt it,' said Erica.
Then, unable to help being amused at their efforts to save each other, they both laughed, though the subject was rather a sore one.
* It is the old story,' said Raeburn. ' Life only, as Pope Innocent III. benevolently re- marked, *' is to be left to the children of mis- believers, and that only as an act of mercy." You must make up your mind to bear
24 WE TWO.
the social stigma, little one. Do you see the moral of this V
'No,' said Erica, with something between a smile and a sigh.
*" The moral of it is that you must be content with your own people,' said Raeburn. ' There is this one good point about persecution — it does draw us all nearer together, really strengthens us in a hundred ways. So, little son Eric, you must forswear school friends and be content with your " very strong man Kwasind," and we will
" Live in peace together, Speak with naked hearts together."
By-the-by^ it is rather doubtful if Tom will be able to come to the lecture to-night : do you think you can take notes for me instead V
This was in reality the most delicate piece of tact and consideration, for it was of course Erica's delight and pride to help her father.
CHAPTER II.
FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE.
Only the acrid spirit of the times, Corroded this true steel.
Longfellow.
Xot Thine the bigot's partial plea, Not Thine the zealot's ban ; Thou well canst spare a love of Thee Which ends in hate of man.
AVhittiee.
Luke Raeburn was the son of a Scotch clergy- man of the Episcopal church. His history, though familiar to his own followers and to them more powerfully convincing than many arguments against modern Christianity, was not generally known. The orthodox were apt
26 WE TWO.
to content themselves with shudderiog at the mention of his name ; very few troubled them- selves to think or inquire how this man had been driven into atheism. Had they done so they might, perhaps, have treated him more con- siderately, at any rate they must have learnt that the much-disliked prophet of atheism was the most disinterested of meu, one who had the courage of his opinions, a man of fearless honesty.
Raebm-n had lost his mother very early ; his father, a w^ell-to-do man, had held for many years a small living in the west of Scotland. He was rather a clever man, but one-sided and bigoted; cold-hearted, too, and caring very little for his children. Of Luke, however, he was, in his peculiar fashion, very proud, for at an early age the boy showed signs of genius. The father was no great worker; though shrewd and clever, he had no ambition, and was quite content to live out his life in the retired little parsonage where, with no parish to trouble him, and a small and unexacting congregation on Sundays, he could do pretty much as he pleased.
FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 27
But for bis son be was ambitions. Ever since bis sixteentb year — wben^ at a public meeting, tbe boy bad, to tbe astonisbment of everyone, suddenly sprung to bis feet and contradicted a false statement made by a great landowner as to tbe condition of tbe cottages on bis estate — ^ tbe fatber bad foreseen future triumpbs for bis son. For tbe speecb tbougb unpremeditated was marvellously clever, and tbere was a power in it not to be accounted for by a certain ring of indignation ; it was tbe speecb of a future orator.
Tben, too, Luke bad by tbis time sbown signs of religious zeal, a zeal wbicb bis fatber, tbough far from attempting to copy, could not but ad- mire. His Sunday services over, be relapsed into tbe comfortable, easy-going life of a country gentleman for tbe rest of tbe week ; but bis son was indefatigable, and, tbougb little more tban a boy bimself, gatbered round bim tbe rougbest lads of tbe village, and by bis eloquence, and a certain peculiar personal fascination wbicb be retained all bis life, absolutely forced tbem to listen to bim. Tbe fatber augured great tbiugs
'28 WE TWO.
for him, and invariably prophesied that he would 'live to see him a bishop yet.'
It was a settled thing that he should take Holy Orders, and for some time Raeburn was onl}^ too happy to carry out his father's plans. In his very first term at Cambridge, however, he began to feel doubts, and, becoming con- vinced that he could never again accept the doctrines in which he had been educated, he told his father that he must give up all thought of taking Orders.
Now, unfortunately, Mr. Raeburn was the very last man to understand or sympathise with any phase of life through which he had not himself passed. He had never been troubled with religious doubts ; scepticism seemed to him monstrous and unnatural. He met the con- fessioUj which his son had made in pain and diffidence, with a most deplorable want of tact. In answer to the perplexing questions which were put to him, he merely replied testily that Luke had been overworking himself, that he had no business to trouble his head with matters which were beyond him, and
FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 29
would fain have dismissed the whole affair at once.
' But,' urged the son, ' how is it possible for me to turn mj back upon these matters when I am prepariug to teach them?'
' Nonsense,' replied the father, angrily. ' Have not I taught all my life, preached twice a Sun- day these thirty years without perplexing my- self with your questionings ! Be off to your shooting and your golf, and let me have no more of this morbid fuss.'
No more was said ; but Luke Raeburn, with his doubts and questions shut thus into himself, drifted rapidly from scepticism to the most positive form of unbelief. When he next came home for the long vacation, his father was at length awakened to the fact that the son, upon whom all his ambition was set, was hopelessly lost to the church ; and with this consciousness a most bitter sense of disappointment rose in his heart. His pride, the only side of father- hood which he possessed, was deeply wounded, and his dreams of honourable distinction were laid low. His wrath was great.^^ Luke found the
30 WE TWO.
borne made almost unbearable to him. Ilis col- lege career was of course at an end, for his father would not hear of providing him with the necessary funds now that he had actually con- fessed his atheism. He w\as hardly allowed to «peak to his sisters, every request for money to start him in some profession met with a sharp refusal, and matters were becoming so des- perate that he would probably have left the place of his own accord before long, had not Mr. Kaeburn himself put an end to a state of things which had grown insufferable.
With some lurking hope, perhaps, of convinc- ing his son, he resolved upon trying a course of argument. To do him justice he really tried to prepare himself for it^ dragged down volumes of dusty divines, and got up with much pains Paley's ' watch ' argument. There was some honesty, even perhaps a very little love_, in his mistaken endeavours ; but he did not recognise that, ^vhile he himself was unforgiving, unloving, harsh, and self-indulgent, all his arguments for Christianity were of necessity null and void. He argued for the existence of a perfectly-
FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 31
loving, good God, all the while treating his son with injustice and tyranny. Of course there could be only one result from a debate between the two. Luke Raeburn with his honesty, his great abilities, his gift of reasoning, above all his thorough earnestness, had the best of it.
To be beaten in argument was naturally the one thing which such a man as Mr. Raeburn could not forgive. He might in time have learnt to tolerate a difference of opinion, he would beyond a doubt have forgiven almost any of the failings that he could understand, would have paid his son's college debts without a murmur, would have overlooked anything con- nected with what he considered the necessary process of ' sowing his wild oats.' Blit that the fellow should presume to think out the greatest problems in the world, should set up his judgment against Paley's, and worst of all should actually and palpably beat 1dm in argument — this was an unpardonable offence.
A stormy scene ensued. The father in ungov-
32 WE TWO.
ernable fury heaped upon the son every abusive epithet he could think of. Luke Raeburn spoke not a word ; he was strong and self-controlled ; moreover, he knew that he had had the best of the argument. He was human, however, and his heart was wrung by his father's bitterness. Standing there on that summer day, in the study of the Scotch parsonage, the man's future was sealed. He suffered there the loss of all things, but at the very time there sprang up in him an enthusiasm for the cause of free-thought, a pas- sionate_, burning zeal for the opinions for which lie suffered, which never left him, but served as the great moving impulse of his whole subse- quent life.
'I tell you, you are not fit to be in a gentleman's house,' thundered the father. ' A rank atheist, a lying infidel! It is against nature that you should call a parsonage your home.'
' It is not particularly home-like,' said the son, bitterly. 'I can leave it when you please.J.,
' Can !' exclaimed his father, in a fury, ' you
FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 3^
will leave it, sir^ and this very da}^ too ! I dis- own yon from this time. I'll have no atheist for my son ! Change your views or leave the house at once.'
Perhaps he expected his son to make some compromise ; if so he showed what a very slight knowledge he had of his character. Luke Kae- burn had certainly not been prepared for such extreme harshness^ but with the pain and grief and indignation there rose in his heart a mighty resoluteness. With a face as hard and rugged as the granite rocks without, he wished his father good-bye, and obeyed his orders.
Then had followed such a struggle with the W'orld as few men would have gone through with. Cut off from all friends and relations by his avowal of atheism, and baffled again and again in seeking to earn his living, he had more than once been on the very brink of star- vation. By sheer force of will he had won his way, had risen above adverse circumstances, had fought down obstacles, and conquered op- posing powers. Before long he had made fresh
VOL. T. D
34 WE TWO.
friends and gained many followers, for there was an extraordinary magnetism about the man which almost compelled those who -were brought into contact with him to reverence him.
It was a curious history. First there had been that time of grievous doubt ; then he had been thrown upon the world friendless and penniless, with the beliefs and hopes hitherto most sacred to him dead, and in their place an aching blank. He had suffered much. Treated on all sides with harshness and injus- tice, it was indeed wonderful that he had not developed into a mere hater, a passionate down- puller. But there was in his character a nobility which would not allow him to rest at this low level. The bitter hostility and injus- tice which he encountered did indeed warp his mind^ and every year of controveisy made it more impossible for him to take an unprejudiced view of Christ's teaching ; but nevertheless he could not remain a mere destroyer.
In that time of blankness, when he had lost all faith in God, when he had been robbed of friendship and family love, he had seized des-
FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 35
perately on the one thing left him, — the love of humanity. To him atheism meant not only the assertion— ' The word God is a word with- out meaning, it conveys nothing to ray under- standing.' He added to this barren confes- sion of an intellectual state, a singularly high code of duty. Such a code as could only have emanated from one about whom there lingered what Carlyle has termed, a great 'Aftershine of Christianity.' He held that the only happi- ness worth having was that Avhich came to a man while engaged in promoting the general good. That the whole duty of man was to devote himself to the service of others. And he lived his creed.
Like other people he had his faults, but he was always ready to spend and be spent for what he considered the good of others, while every act of injustice called forth his unsparing rebuke, and every oppressed person or cause was sure to meet with his support at whatever cost to himself. His zeal for what he regarded as the ' gospel ' of atheism grew and strengthened year by year. He was the untiring advocate of
D 2
3d we two.
what he considered the truth. Neither illness, nor small results, nor loss, could quench his ardour, while opposition invariably stimulated him to fresh efforts. After long years of toil, he had at length attained an influential posi- tion in the country, and though crippled by debts incurred in the struggle for freedom of speech, and living in absolute penury, he was one of the most powerful men of the day.
The old book-seller had very truly ob- served that there was more good in him than people thought, he was in fact a noble char- acter twisted the wrong way by clumsy and mistaken handling.
Brian Osmond was by no means bigoted ; he had, moreover, known those who were in- timate with Raeburn, and consequently had heard enough of the truth about him to dis- believe the gross libels which were constantly being circulated by the unscrupulous among his opponents. Still, as on that November afternoon he watched Raeburn and his daugh- ter down Southampton Row, he was conscious
FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 37
that for the first time he fully regarded the atheist as a fellow-man. The fact was, that Hae- burn had for long years been the champion of a hated cause ; he had braved the full flood of opposition ; and like an isolated rock had been the mark for so much of the rage and fury of the elements that people who knew him only by name had really learned to regard him more as a target than as a man. It was who could hit him hardest, who could most effectually bafiSe and ruin him ; while the quieter spirits contented themselves with rarely mentioning his obnoxious name, and endeavouring as far as possible to ignore his existence. Brian felt that till now he had followed with the multitude to do evil. He had as far as possible ignored his existence ; had even been rather annoyed when his father had once publicly urged that Rae- burn should be treated with as much justice and courtesy and consideration as if he had been a Christian. He had been vexed that his father should suffer on behalf of such a man, had been half inclined to put down the scorn and contempt and anger of the narrow-mind-
38 WE TWO.
ed to the atheist's account. The feeling had perhaps been natural, but all was changed now ; he only revered his father all the more for hav- ing suffered in an unpopular cause. With some eagerness, he went back into the shop to see if he could gather any more particulars from the old book-seller. Charles Osmond had, however, finished his purchases and his conversation, and was ready to go.
* The second house in Guilford Terrace, you say/ he observed, turning at the door. ' Thank you, I shall be sure to find it. Good-day.' Then, turning to his son, he added, ^I had no idea we were such near neighbours ! Did you hear what he told me ? Mr. Raeburn lives in Guilford Terrace.'
' What, that miserable blind-alley, do you mean, at the other side of the square V
' Yes, and I'm just going round there now, for our friend, the "Bookworm," tells me he has heard it rumoured that some unscrupulous person, who is going to answer Mr. Raeburn this evening, has hired a band of roughs to make a disturbance at the meeting. Fancy
FRO:Sl EFFECT TO CAUSE. 39
how indignant Donovan would be ! I only wish he were here to take word to Mr. Rae- burn.'
' Will he not most likely have heard from some other source V said Brian.
' Possibly ; but I shall go round and see. Such abominations ought to be put down, and if by our own side all the better.'
Brian was only too glad that his father should go, and indeed, he would probably have wished to take the message himself had not his mind been set upon getting the best edition of Longfellow to be found in all London for his ideal. So, at the turning into Guilford Square, the father and son parted.
The book-seller's information had roused in Charles Osmond a keen sense of indignation ; he walked on rapidly as soon as he had left his sou, and in a very few minutes had reached the gloomy entrance to Guilford Terrace. It was currently reported that Raeburn made fabulous sums by his work, and lived in great luxury ; but the real fact was that, whatever his income, few men led so self-denying a life, or voluntarily
40 WE TWO.
endured such privations. Charles Osmond could not help wishing that he could bring some of the intolerant with him down that gloomy little alley^ to the door of that comfortless lodging- house. He rang, and was admitted into the narrow passage, then shown into the private study of the great man. The floor was un- carpeted, the window uncurtained, the room was almost dark; but a red glow of firelight served to show a large writing-table strewn with papers, and walls literally lined with books ; also on the hearthrug a little figure curled up in the most unconventionally com- fortable attitude, dividing her attention be- tween making toast and fondling a loudly- purring cat.
41
CHAPTER TIL
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW.
Toleration an attack on Christianity? AVhat, then, are we to come to this pass, to suppose that nothing can sup- port Christianity but the principles of persecution ? . . . I am persuaded that toleration, so far from being an attack on Christianity, becomes the best and surest support that can possibly be given to it. . . Toleration is good for all, or it is good for none. . . God forbid ! I may be mistaken, but I take toleration to be a part of religion.
BUEKE.
Erica was, apparently, well used to receiving strangers. She put down the toasting-fork, but kept the cat in her arms, as she rose to greet Charles Osmond, and her frank and rather child-like manner fascinated him almost as much as it had fascinated Brian.
42 WE TWO.
* My father will be home in a few minutes.' she said, * I almost wonder you didn't meet him in the square ; he has only just gone to send off a telegram. Can you wait? Or will you leave a message V
' I will wait, if I may,' said Charles Osmond. ' Oh, don't trouble about a light, I like this dim- ness very well, and, please, don't let me interrupt you.'
Erica relinquished a vain search for candle- lighters, and took up her former position on the hearthrug with her toasting-fork.
' I like the gloaming, too,' she said. ' It's al- most the only nice thing w^hich is economical! Everything else that one likes specially costs too much ! I wonder whether people with money do enjoy all the great treats.'
* Very soon grow blase, I expect,' said Charles Osmond. ' The essence of a treat is rarity, you see.'
' I suppose it is. But I think I could enjoy ever so many things for years and years with- out growing hlaseej said Erica. ' Sometimes I like jnst to fancy what life might be if there
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 43
were no tiresome Christians, and bigots^ and law-suits.'
Charles Osmond laughed to himself in the dim light ! the remark was made with such per- fect sincerity, and it evidently had not dawned on the speaker that she could be addressing any but one of her father's followers. Yet the words saddened him too. He just caught a glimpse through them of life viewed from a directly opposite point.
' Your father has a law-suit going on now, has he not?' he observed, after a little pause.
' Oh, yes, there is almost always one either looming in the distance or actually going on. I don't think I can ever remember the time when we were quite free. It must feel very funny to have no worries of that kind. I think, if there wasn't always this great load of debt tied round our necks like a millstone, I should feel almost light enough to fly ! And then it is hard to read in some of those horrid religious papers that father lives an easy-going life. Did you see a dreadful paragraph last week in the Church Chronicle T
44 WE TWO.
' Yes, I did,' said Charles Osmond, sadly.
'It always has been the same,' said Erica. 'Father has a delightful story about an old gentleman who at one of his lectures accused him of being rich and self-indulgent — it was a great many years ago when I was a baby, and father was nearly killing himself with over- work— and he just got up and gave the people the whole history of his day, and it turned out that he had had nothing to eat. Mustn't the old gentleman have felt delightfully done? I always wonder how he looked w^hen he heard about it, and whether after that he be- lieved that atheists are not necessarily every- thing that's bad.'
' I hope such days as those are over for Mr. Raeburn,' said Charles Osmond, touched both by the anecdote and by the loving admiration of the speaker.
' I don't know,' said Erica, sadly. ' It has been getting steadily worse for the last few years ; we have had to give up thing after thing. Before long I shouldn't wonder if these rooms in what father calls " Persecution Alley " grew
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 45
too expensive for us. But, after all, it is this sort of thing which makes our own people love him so much, don't you think V
' I have no doubt it is,' said Charles Osmond, thoughtfully.
And then for a minute or two there was si- lence. Erica, having finished her toasting, stirred the fire into a blaze, and Charles Os- mond sat watching the fair, childish face which looked lovelier than ever in the soft glow of the firelight. What would her future be_, he wondered. She seemed too delicate and sensi- tive for the stormy atmosphere in which she lived. Would the hard life embitter her, or would she sink under it ? But there was a certain curve of resoluteness about her well- formed chin which was sufficient answer to the second question, while he could not but think that the best safe-guard against the danger of bitterness lay in her very evident love and loy- alty to her father.
Erica in the meantime sat stroking her cat Friskarina, and wondering a little who her visitor could be. She liked him very much and could
46 WE TWO.
not help responding to the bright kindly eyes which seemed to plead for confidence ; though he was such an entire stranger, she found herself quite naturally opening out her heart to him.
' I am to take notes at my father's meeting to-night,' she said, breaking the silence, ' and perhaps write the account of it afterwards too ; and there's such a delightfully funny man com- ing to speak on the other side,'
' Mr. Randolph^ is it not V
' Yes, a sort of male Mrs. Malaprop. Oh, such fun !' and, at the remembrance of some past encounter, Erica's eyes positively danced with laughter. But the next minute she was very grave.
* I came to speak to Mr. Raeburn about this evening/ said Charles Osmond. ' Do you know if he has heard of a rumour that this Mr. Ran- dolph has hired a baud of roughs to interrupt the meeting V
Erica made an indignant exclamation.
' Perhaps that was what the telegram was about,' she continued, after a moment's thought.
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 47
' We found it here when we came hi. Father said nothing, but went out very quickly to an- swer it. Oh ! now we shall have a dreadful time of it, I suppose, and perhaps he'll get hurt again. I did hope they had given up that sort of thing.'
She looked so troubled that Charles Osmond regretted he had said anything, and has- tened to assure her that what he had heard was the merest rumour, and very possibly not true.
* I am afraid,' she said, ' it is too bad not to be true.'
It struck Charles Osmond that that was about the saddest little sentence he had ever heard.
Partly wishing to change the subject, partly from real interest, he made some remark about a lovely little picture, the only one in the room ; its frame was lighted up by the flickering blaze, and even in the imperfect light he could see that the subject was treated in no ordinary way. It w^^^s a little bit of the Thames far away from London, with a bank of many-tinted trees on
48 WE TWO.
one side, aud out beyond a range of low bills, purple in tbe evening ligbt. In tbe skj was a rosy sunset glow, melting above into saffron colour, and tbis was reflected in tbe water, gilding and mellowing tbe foreground of sedge and water-lilies. But wbat made tbe picture specially cbarming was tbat tbe artist bad really caugbt tbe peculiar solemn stilbiess of evening ; merely to look at tbat quiet, peaceful river brougbt a feeling of busb and calmness. It seemed a strange picture to find as tbe sole ornament in tbe study of a man wbo bad all bis life been figbting tbe world.
Erica brigbtened up again, and seemed to forget ber anxiety wben be questioned ber as to tbe artist.
' Tbere is sucb a nice story about tbat picture,' sbe said, ' I always like to look at it. It was about two years ago^ one very cold winter's day, and a woman came witb some oil-paintings wbicb sbe was trying to sell for ber busband, wbo was ill : be was ratber a good artist, but bad been in bad bealtb for a long time, till at last sbe bad really come to bawking about bis
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 49
pictures in this way, because they were in such dreadful distress. Father was very much wor- ried just then, there was a horrid libel case going on, and that morning he was very busy, and he sent the woman away rather sharply, said he had no time to listen to her. Then presently he was vexed with himself because she really had looked in great trouble, and he thought he had been harsh, and, though he was dreadfully pressed for time^ he would go out into the square to see if he couldn't find her again. I went with him, and we had walked all round and had almost given her up, when we caught sight of her coming out of a house on the opposite side. And then it was so nice^ father spoke so kindly to her, and found out more about her history, and said that he was too poor to buy her pictures ; but she look- ed dreadfully tired and cold, so he asked her to come in and rest, and she came and sat by the fire, and stayed to dinner with us, and we look- ed at her pictures, because she seemed so proud of them and liked us to. One of them was that little river-scene, which father took a great VOL. I. E
50 WE TWO.
faucy to, and praised a great deal. She left us her address, and later on, when the libel case was ended, and father had got damages, and so had a little spare money, he sent some to this poor artist, and they were so grateful, though, do you know, I think the dinner pleased them more than the money, and they would insist on sending this picture to father. I'll light the gas, and then you^ll see it better.'
She twisted a piece of paper into a spill, and put an end to the gloaming. Chailes Osmond stood up to get a nearer view of the painting, and Erica, too, drew nearer, and looked at it for a minute in silence.
' Father took me up the Thames once,' she said, by-and-by. 'It was so lovely. Some day, when all these persecutions are over, we are going to have a beautiful tour, and see all sorts of places. But I don't know when they
will be over ! As soon as one bigot ' she
broke off suddenly, with a stifled exclamation of dismay.
Charles Osmond, in the dim light, with his long grey beard, had not betrayed his clerical
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 51
-dress ; but^ glancing round at him now, she saw at once that the stranger to whom she had spoken so unreservedly was by no means one of her father's followers.
' Well !' he said, smiling, half understanding her confusion.
' You are a clergyman !' she almost gasped.
* Yes; why not r
' 1 beg your pardon, I never thought — you seemed so much too '
* Too what?' urged Charles Osmond. Then, as she still hesitated, ' Now, you must really let me hear the end of that sentence, or I shall ima- gine everything dreadful !'
* Too nice/ murmured Erica, wishing that she could sink through the floor.
But the confession so tickled Charles Osmond that he laughed aloud, and his laughter was so infectious that Erica, in spite of her confusion, could not help joining in it. She had a very keen sense of the ludicrous, and the position was, undoubtedly, a laughable one ; still there were certain appalling recollections of the past conversation which soon made her serious
E 2
LIBRARY
UMiVERSJTY OF ILLINOIS
52 ^YE TWO.
again. She had talked of persecutions to one ■who was, at any rate, on the side of the persecu- tors ; had alluded to bigots, and, worst of all, had spoken in no measured terms of ' tiresome Christians.'
She turned, rather shyly, and yet with a touch of dignity, to her visitor, and said,
'It was very careless of me not to notice more; but it was dark, and I am not used to seeing any but our own people here. I am afraid I said things which must have hurt you : I wished you had stopped me.'
The beautiful colour had spread and deep- ened in her cheeks, and there was something indescribably sweet and considerate in her tone of apology. Charles Osmond was touched by it.
' It is I who should apologise,' he said. ' I am not at all sure that I was justified in sitting there quietly, knowing that you were under a delusion ; but it is always very delight- ful to me in this artificial world to meet anyone who talks quite naturally, and the interest of hearing your view of the question kept me
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 53
silent. You must forgive me, and as you know I'm too nice to be a clergyman '
* Oh, I beg your pardon ! How rude I have been,' cried Erica, blushing anew, ' but you did make me say it.'
' Of course^ and I take it as a high compli- ment from you,' said Charles Osmond, laughing again at the recollection. ^ Come, may we not seal our friendship ? We have been sufficiently frank with each other to be something more than acquaintances for the future.'
Erica held out her hand and found it taken in a strong, firm clasp, which somehow conveyed much more than an ordinary hand- shake.
'And, after all, you are too nice for a clergy- roan I' she thought to herself. Then, as a fresh idea crossed her mind, she suddenly exclaimed, ' But you came to tell us about Mr. Randolph's roughs, did you not % How came you to care that we should know beforehand f
* Why, naturally, I hoped that a disturbance might be stopped.'
' Is it natural?' questioned Erica. 'I should
54 WE TWO.
have thought it more natural for you to think with your own party.'
' But peace and justice and freedom of speech must all stand before party questions.'
* Yet you think that we are wrong and that Christianit}^ is right V
' Yes, but to my mind perfect justice is part of Christianity.'
' Oh/ said Erica, in a tone which meant un- utterable things.
' You think that Christians do not show per- fect justice to you?' said Charles Osmond, read- ing her thoughts.
' I can't say I think they do,' she replied. Then, suddenly firing up at the recollection of her afternoon's experiences, she said, ' They are not just to us, though they preach justice ; they are not loving, though they talk about love ! If they want us to think their religion true, I wonder they don't practise it a little more and preach it less. What is the use of talking of " brotherly kindness and charity " when they hardly treat us like human beings, when the}" make up wicked lies about us, and will hardly
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 55
let lis sit in the same room with them V
' Come^ now, we really are sitting in the same room/ said Charles Osmond, smiling.
' Oh, dear, what am I to do !' exclaimed Erica. ' I can't remember that you are one of them ! you are so very unlike most.'
' I think,' said Charles Osmond, ' you have come across some very bad specimens.'
Erica in her heart considered her visitor as the exception which proved the rule ; but, not wishing to l^e caught tripping again, she re- solved to say no more upon the subject.
* Let us talk of something else,' she said.
' Something nicer V said Charles Osmond, with a little mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
' Safer,' said Erica, laughing. ' But, stop, I hear my father.'
She went out into the passage to meet him. Charles Osmond heard her explaining his visit and the news he had brought, heard Raeburn's brief responses ; then, in a few moments_, the two entered the room^ a; picturesque-lookiog couple, the clergyman thought, the tall, stately man with his broad forehead and overshadow-
56 WE TWO.
ing masses of auburn hair, the little, eager-faced impetuous girl^ so -winsome in her unconven- tional frankness.
The conversation became a trifle more cere- monious, though with Erica perched on the arm of her father's chair, ready to squeeze his hand at every word which pleased her, it could hardly become stiff. Raeburn had just heard the re- port of Mr. Randolph's scheme and had already taken precautionary measures ; but he was sur- prised and gratified that Charles Osmond shoald have troubled to bring him word about it. The two men talked on with the most perfect friend- liness, and by-and-by, to Erica's great delight, Charles Osmond expressed a wish to be present at the meeting that night, and made inquiries as to the time and place.
' Oh, couldn't you stay to tea and go with us V she exclaimed, forgetting for the third time that he was a clergyman, and offering the ready hospitality she would have offered to anyone else.
' I should be delighted,' he said, smiling, ' if you can really put up with one of the cloth.'
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 57
Raeburn, amused at his daughter's spontan- eous hospitality and pleased with the friendly acceptance it had met with, was quite ready to second the invitation. Erica was delighted ; she carried off the cat and the toast into the next room, eager to tell her mother all about the visitor.
' The most delightful man, mother, not a bit like a clergyman ! I didn't jSnd out for ever so long what he was, and said all sorts of dreadful things, but he didn't mind and was not the least offended.'
' When will J'ou learn to be cautious, I won- der/ said Mrs. Raeburn, smiling. ' You are a shocking little chatterbox.'
And as Erica flitted busily about, arranging the tea-table, her mother watched her half amusedly, half anxiously. She had always been remarkably frank and outspoken, and there was something so transparently sincere about her that she seldom gave offence; but the mother could not help wondering how it would be as she grew older and mixed with a greater variety of people. In fact, in every
58 WE TWO.
way she was anxious about the child's future, for Erica's was a somewhat perplexing charac- ter, and seemed very ill-fitted for her position.
Eric Haeberlein had once compared her to a violin, and there was a good deal of truth in his idea. She was very sensitive, responding at once to the merest touch, and easily moved to admiration and devoted love, or to strong indignation. Naturally high-spirited, she was subject, too, to fits of depression, and was always either in the heights or the depths. Yet Avith all these characteristics was blended her father's indomitable courage and tenacity; though feeling the thorns of life far more keen- ly than most people, she was one of those who will never yield ; though pricked and wounded by outward events, she would never be conquer- ed by circumstance. At present her capabilities for adoration, which were very great, were lavished in two directions : in the abstract she worshipped intellect, in the concrete she wor- shipped her father.
From the grief and indignation of the after- noon, she had passed with extraordinary rapidity
LIFE FKOM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 59
to a state of merriment which would have been incomprehensible to one who did not understand her peculiarly complex character. Mrs. Rae- burn listened with a good deal of amusement to her racy description of Charles Osmond.
' Strange that this should have happened so soon after our talk this afternoon,' she said, musingly. 'Perhaps it is as well that you should have a glimpse of the other side, against which you were inveighing, or you might be growing narrow.'
' He is much too good to belong to them V said Erica, enthusiastically.
As she spoke, Raeburn entered, bringing the visitor with him, and they all sat down to their meal, Erica pouring out tea and attending to everyone's wants, fondling her cat, and listening to the conversation, with all the time a curious perception that to sit down to table with one of her father's opponents was a very novel experi- ence. She could not help speculating as to the thoughts and impressions of her companions. Her mother was, she thought, pleased and- interested, for about her worn face there was
60 WE TWO.
the look of contentment which invariably came when for a time the bitterness of the struggle of life was broken by any sign of friendliness. Her father was — as he generally was in his own house — quiet, gentle in manner, ready to be both an attentive and an interested listener. This gift he had almost as markedly as the gift of speech ; he at once perceived that his guest was no ordinary man, and by a sort of instinct he had discovered on what subjects he was best calculated to speak, and wherein they could gain most from him. Charles Osmond's thoughts she could only speculate about ; but that he was ready to take them all as friends, and did not regard them as a different order of beings, was plain.
The conversation had drifted into regions of abstruse science, when Erica, who had been listening attentively, was altogether diverted by the entrance of the servant, who brought her a brown-paper parcel. Eagerly opening it, she was almost bewildered by the delightful sur- prise of finding a complete edition of Long- fellow's poems, bound in dark-blue morocco.
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 61
Inside was written, ' From another admirer of '' Hiawatha." '
She started np with a rapturous exclamation, and the two men paused in their talk, each un- able to help watching the beautiful little face all aglow with happiness. Erica almost danced round the room with her new treasure.
' What lieavenly person can have sent me this !' she cried. * Look, father ! Did you ever see such a beauty !'
Science went to the winds^ and Raeburn gave all his sympathy to Erica and Lon*gfellow.
* The very thing you were wishing for ! Who could have sent it?'
* I can't think ! It can't be Tom, because I know he's spent all his money, and Auntie would never call herself an admirer of " Hiawa- tha,'' nor Herr Haeberlein, nor Monsieur Noirol, nor anyone I can think of.'
' Dealings with the fairies,' said Raeburn, smiling. ' Your beggar-child with the scones sud- denly transformed into a beneficent rewarder.'
* Not from you, father?' Raeburn laughed.
62 WE TWO.
' A pretty substantial fairy for you ! No, uo, I had no hand in it. I can't give yon presents while I am in debt, my bairn.'
^Oh, isn't it jolly to get what one wants!* said Erica, with a fervour which made the three grown-up people laugh.
* Very jolly,' said Raeburn, giving her a little mute caress. 'But now, Eric, please to go back and eat something, or I shall have my reporter fainting in the middle of a speech.'
She obeyed, carrying away the book with her and enlivening them with extracts from it ; once delightedly discovering a most appropriate passage.
^ Why, of course !' she exclaimed, ' you and Mr. Osmond, father, are smoking the Peace- Pipe!' And with much force and animation she read them bits from the first canto.
Raeburn left the room before long to get ready for his meeting, but Erica still lingered over her new treasure, putting it down at length with great reluctance to prepare her note-book and sharpen her pencil.
'Isn't that a dehghtful bit where Hiawatha
LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 63
was angry/ she said, ' it has been running in my
head all day —
' ' For his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was."
That's what I shall feel like to-night when
Mr. Randolph attacks father.'
She ran upstairs to dress, and, as the door closed upon her, Mrs. Raeburn turned to Charles Osmond with a sort of apology.
' She finds it very hard not to speak out her thoughts ; it will often ^-et her into trouble, I am afraid.'
* It is too fresh and delightful to be checked though,' said Charles Osmond^ 'I assure you she has taught me many a lesson to-night.'
The mother talked on almost unreservedly about the subject that was evidently nearest her heart — the diflSculties of Erica's education, the harshness they so often met with, the harm it so evidently did the child — till the subject of the conversation came down again, much too excited and happy to care just then for any unkind treatment. Had she not got a Longfellow of her Yery own, and did not
64 WE TWO.
that unexpected pleasure make up for a thou- sand privations and discomforts !
Yet, with all her childishness and impetu- osity, Erica was womanly too, as Charles Osmond saw by the way she waited on her mother, thinking of everything which the invalid could possibly want while they were gone, brightening the whole place with her sunshiny presence. Whatever else was lack- ing, there was no lack of love in this house. The tender considerateness which softened Erica's impetuosity in her mother's presence, the loving comprehension between parent and child, was very beautiful to see.
6a
CHAPTER IV.
^ SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !'
A man "who strives earnestly and perseveringly to con- vince others, at least convinces us that he is cominced
himself.
Guesses at Truth.
The rainy afternoon had given place to a fine and starlight night. Erica, apparently ia high spirits, walked between her father and Charles Osmond.
'Mother won't be anxious about us,' she said. ' She has not heard a word about Mr. Randolph's plans. I was so afraid some one would speak about it at tea-time, and then she would have been in a fright all the evening, and would not have liked my going.'
VOL. I. F
66 WE TWO.
'Mr. Randolph is both energetic and unscru- pulous,' said Raeburn. ' But I doubt if even he would set his roughs upon you, little one, unless he has become as bloodthirsty as a certain old Scotch psalm we used to sing.'
'What was that?' questioned Erica.
*I forget the beginning, but the last verse always had a sort of horrible fascination for vs —
" How happy should that trooper be Who, riding on a naggie, Should take thy little children up, And dash them 'gin the craggie !'"
Charles Osmond and Erica laughed heart- ily.
' They will only dash you against metaphor- ical rocks in the nineteenth century,' continued Raeburn. ' I remember wondering why the old clerk in my father's church always sang that verse so lustily ; but you see we have ex- actly the same spirit now, only in a more civil- ised form, barbarity changed to polite cruelty, as for instance the way you were treated this afternoon.'
' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 67
'Ob, don't talk about tbat,' said Erica, quickly, 'I am going to enjoy my Longfellow and forget tbe rest.'
In trutb, Charles Osmond was struck with this both in the father and daughter ; each had a wa}^ of putting back their bitter thoughts, of dwelling whenever it was possible on the brighter side of life. He knew that Raeburn was involved in most harassing litigation, was burdened with debt, was confronted every- ^vhere with bitter and often violent opposi- tion ; yet he seemed to live above it all^ for there was a w^onderful repose about him, an extraordinary serenity in his aspect, which would have seemed better fitted to a hermit than to one who had spent his life in fighting against desperate odds. One thing was quite clear, the man was absolutely convinced that he was suffering for the truth, and was ready to en- dure anything in what he considered the service of his fellow-men. He did not seem particularly anxious as to the evening's proceedings. On the whole, they were rather a merry party as they walked along Gower Street to the station.
f2
68 WE TWO.
But wheo they got out again at their destin- ation, and walked through the busy streets to the hall where the lecture was to be given, a sort of seriousness fell upon all three. They were each going to work in their different ways for what they considered the good of humanity, and instinctively a silence grew and deepened.
Erica was the first to break it as they came
in sight of the hall.
* What a crowd there is !' she exclaimed. ' Are these Mr. Randolph's roughs ?'
' We can put up with them outside,' said Raeburn ; but Charles Osmond noticed that as he spoke he drew the child nearer to him, with a momentary look of trouble in his face, as though he shrank from taking her through the rabble. Erica, on the other hand, looked interested and perfectly fearless. With great difficulty they forced their way on, hooted and yelled at by the mob, who, however, made no attempt at violence. At length, reaching the shelter of the entrance lobby, Raebiu-n left them for a moment, pausing to give directions to the doorkeepers.
' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 69
Just then, to his great surprise, Charles Osmond caught sight of his son standing only a few paces from them. His exclamation of astonish- ment made Erica look up. Brian came forward eagerly to meet them.
' You here !' exclaimed his father, with a la- tent suspicion confirmed into a certainty. * This is my son. Miss Raeburn.'
Brian had not dreamed of meeting her, he had waited about, curious to see how Raeburn would get on with the mob ; it was with a strange pang of rapture and dismay that he had seen his fair little ideah That she should be in the midst of that hooting mob made his heart throb with in- dignation, yet there was something so sweet in her grave stedfast face that he was, never- theless, glad to have witnessed the scene. Her colour was rather heightened, her eyes bright but very quiet, yet as Charles Osmond spoke, and she looked at Brian, her face all at once lighted up, and with an irresistible smile she exclaimed, in the most childlike of voices,
' Why, it's my umbrella man !' The informality of the exclamation seemed to make them at once
70 WE TWO.
something more than ordinary acquaintances; They told Charles Osmond of their encounter in the afternoon, and in a very few minutes Brian, hardly knowing whether he were not in some strange dream, found himself sitting with his father and Erica in a crowded lecture hall^ rea- lising with an intensity of joy and an intensity of pain how near he was to the queen of his heart and yet how far from her.
The meeting was quite orderly. Though Kaeburn was addressing many who disagreed with him, he had evidently got the whole and imdivided attention of his audience ; and in- deed his gifts both as rhetorician and orator were so great that they must have been either wilfully deaf or obtuse who, when under the spell of his extraordinary earnestness and elo- quence, could resist listening. Not a word was lost on Brian ; every sentence which emphasis- ed the great difference of belief between himself and his love seemed to engrave itself on his heart; no minutest detail of that evening escap- ed him.
He saw the tall, commanding figure of the ora-
' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 71
tor, the vast sea of upturned faces below, the eager attention imprinted on all^ sometimes a wave of sympathy and approval sweeping over them, resulting in a storm of applause, at times a more divided disapproval, or a shout of ' No, no,' which invariably roused the speaker to a more vigorous, clear, and emphatic repetition of the questioned statement. And, through all, he was ever conscious of the young girl at his side, who with her head bent over her note-book was absorbed in her work. While the most vital ques- tions of life were being discussed, he was yet always aware of that hand travelling rapidly to and fro, of the pages hurriedly turned, of the quick yet weary looking change of posture.
Though not without a strong vein of sarcasm, Kaeburn's speech was, on the whole, temperate ; it certainly should have been met with considera- tion. But, unfortunately, Mr. Randolph was in- capable of seeing any good in his opponent ; his combative instincts were far stronger than his Christianity, and Brian, who had winced many times, while listening to the champion of atheism, was even more keenly wounded by the cham-
72 WE TWO.
pion of his own cause. Abusive epithets abound- ed in his retort ; at last he left the subject under discussion altogether, and launched into person- alities of the most objectionable kind. Raeburn sat with folded arms, listening with a sort of cold dignity. He looked very different now from the genial-mannered, quiet man whom Charles Osmond had seen in his own home but an hour or two ago. There was a peculiar look in his tawny eyes hardly to be described in words, a look which was hard, and cold, and steady. It told of an originally sensitive nature, inured to ill-treatment ; of a strong will w^hich had long ago steeled itself to endure ; of a character which, though absolutely refusing to yield to opposi- tion, had grown slightly bitter, even slightly vindictive in the process.
Brian could only watch in silent pain the little figure beside him. Once at some violent term of abuse she looked up, and glanced for a moment at the speaker ; he just caught a swift, indignant flash from her bright eyes, then her head was bent lower than before over her note-book, and the carnation deepened in her
' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 73
cheek, whilst her peucil sped over the paper fast and furiously. Presently came a sharp retort from Raebnrn, ending with the perfectly war- rantable accusation that Mr. Randolph was wandering from the subject of the evening merely to indulge his personal spite. The audi- ence was beginning to be roused by the unfair- ness, and a storm might have ensued had not Mr. Randolph unintentionally turned the whole proceedings from tragedy to farce.
Indignant at Raeburn's accusation^ he sprang to his feet and began a vigorous protest.
^ Mr. Chairman, I denounce my opponent as a liar. His accusation is utterly false. I deny the allegation, and I scorn the allegator !'
He was interrupted by a shout of laughter, the w^hole assembly was convulsed, even Erica's anger changed to mirth.
' Fit for Punch/ she whispered to Brian, her face all beaming with merriment.
Raeburn, whose grave face had also relaxed into a smile, suddenly stood up, and, with a sort of dry Scotch humour, remarked,
' My enemies have compared me to many ob-
74 WE TWO.
noxious things, but never till to-night have I been called a crocodile ! Possibly Mr. Randolph has been reading of the crocodiles recently dis- sected at Paris. It has been discovered that they are almost brainless, and_, being without reason, are probably animated by a violent in- stinct of destruction. 1 believe, however, that the power of their "jaw " is unsurpassed !'
Then, amidst shouts of laughter and applause,, he sat down again, leaving the field to the much discomfited Mr. Randolph.
Much harm had been done that evening to the cause of Christianity. The sympathies of the audience could not be with the weak and immannerly Mr. Randolph ; they were Englishmen, and were, of course, inclined to side with the man who had been unjustly dealt with, who, moreover, had really spoken to them — had touched their very hearts.
The field was practically lost when, to the surprise of all, another speaker came forward. Erica, who knew that their side had had the best of it, felt a thrill of admiration when she saw Charles Osmond move slowly to the front
* SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 75
of the platform. She was very tired, but out of a sort of gratitude for his friendliness, a readi- ness to do him honour, she strained her energies to take dovrn his speech verbatim. It was not a long one, it was hardly, perhaps, to be called a speech at all, it was rather as if the man had thrown his very self into the breach made by the unhappy wrangle of the evening.
He spoke of the universal brotherliood and of the wrong done to it by bitterness and strife ; he stood there as the very incarnation of brother- liness, and the people, whether they agreed with him or not, loved him. In the place where the religion of Christ had been reviled as well by the Christian as by the atheist, he spoke of the revealer of the Father, and a hush fell on the listening men ; he spoke of the Founder of the great brotherhood, and by the very reality, by the fervour of his convictions, touched a new chord in many a heart. It was no time for argument, the meeting was- almost over ; he scarcely attempted an answer to many of th& difficulties and objections raised by Raebura earlier in the evening. But there was in his
;
76 WE TWO.
ten miuutes' speech the whole essence of Christianity, the spirit of loving sacrifice of self, the strength of an absolute certainty which no argument, however logical, can shake, the extraordinary power which breathes in the as- sertion, 'I hiow Him whom 1 have believed.'
To more than one of Raeburn's followers there came just the slightest agitation of doubt, the questioning whether these things might not be. For the first time in her life the question began to stir in Erica's heart. She had heard many advocates of Christianity, and had re- garded them much as we might regard Bud- dhist missionaries speaking of a religion that had had its day and was now only fit to be dis- carded, or perhaps studied as an interesting relic of the past, about which in its later years many corruptions had gathered.
Raeburn, being above all things a just man, had been determined to give her mind no bias in favour of his own views, and as a child he had left her perfectly free. But there was a certain Scotch proverb which he did not call to mind, that ' As the auld cock craws, the young
' SUPPOSIXG IT IS TRUE !' 77
cock learns.' When the time came at which he considered her old enough really to study the Bible for herself, she had already learnt from bitter experience that Christianity — at any rate, what called itself Christianity — was the religion whose votaries were constantly slandering and ill-treating her father, and that all the priva- tions and troubles of their life were directly or indirectly due to it. She of course identified the conduct of the most unfriendly and per- secuting with the religion itself; it could hardly be otherwise.
But to-night as she toiled away, bravely act- ing up to her lights, taking down the opponent's speech to the best of her abilities, though pre- disposed to think it all a meaningless rhapsody, the faintest attempt at a question began to take shape in her mind. It did not form itself exactly into words, but just lurked there like a cloud- shadow, — 'Supposing Christianity were true?'
All doubt is pain. Even this faint beginning of doubt in her creed made Erica dreadfully uncomfortable. Yet she could not regret that Charles Osmond had spoken, even though she
78 WE TWO.
imagined him to be greatly mistaken, and feared that that uncomfortable question might have been suggested to others among the audience. She could not wish that the speech had not been made, for it had revealed the nobility of the man, his broad-hearted love, and she in- stinctively reverenced all the really great and good, however widely different their creeds.
Brian tried in vain to read her thoughts ; but as soon as the meeting was over her temporary seriousness vanished, and she was once more almost a child again, ready to be amused by anything. She stood for a few minutes talking to the two Osmonds ; then, catching sight of an acquaintance a little way off, she bade them a hasty good-night, much to Brian's chagrin, and hurried forward with a warmth of greeting which he could only hope was appreciated by the thick-set honest-looking mechanic who was the happy recipient. When they left the ball, she was still deep in conversation with him.
The fates Avere kind, however, to Brian that day ; they were just too late for a train, and
' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 79
before the next one arrived, Eaeburn and Erica were seen slowly coming down the steps, and in another minute had joined them on the plat- form. Charles Osmond and Raeburn fell into an amicable discussion, and Brian, to his great satis- faction, was left to an uninterrupted tete-a-tete with Erica. There had been no further demon- stration by the crowd, and Erica, now that the anxiety w^as over, was ready to make fun of Mr. Randolph and his band, checking herself every now and then for fear of hurting her companion_, but breaking forth again and again into irresist- ible merriment as she recalled the ' alligator ' incident and other grotesque utterances. All too soon they reached their destination. There was still, however, a ten minutes' walk before them, a walk which Brian never forgot. The wind was high, and it seemed to excite Erica ; he could always remember exactly how she looked, her eyes bright and shining, her short, auburn hair all blown about by the wind, one stray wave lying across the quaint little seal- skin hat. He remembered, too, how, in the middle of his argument, Raeburn had stepped
80 WE TWO.
forward, and had wrapped a white woollen scarf more closely round the child, securing the fluttering ends. Brian would have liked to do it himself had he dared, and yet it pleased him, too, to see the father's thoughtfulness ; perhaps, in that ' touch of nature,' he for the first time fully recognised his kinship with the atheist.
Erica talked to him in the meantime with a delicious, childlike frankness, gave him an en- thusiastic account of her friend Hazeldine, the working-man whom he had seen her speaking to, and unconsciously revealed in her free con- versation a great deal of the life she led, a busy, earnest, self-denying life Brian could see. When they reached the place of their afternoon's en- counter, she alluded merrily to what she called the 'charge of umbrellas.'
* Who would have thought, now, that in a few hours' time we should have learnt to know- each other !' she exclaimed. ' It has been alto- gether the very oddest day, a sort of sandwich of good and bad, two bits of the dry bread of persecution^ but in between, you and Mr. Os- mond and my beautiful new Longfellow.'
' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 81
Brian could not help laughing at the simile, and was not a little pleased to hear the refer- ence to his book ; but his amusement was soon dispelled by a grim little incident. Just at that minute they happened to pass an undertaker's cart which was standing at the door of one of the houses ; a coffin was borne across the pave- ment in front of them. Erica, with a quick exclamation, put her hand on his arm and shrank back to make room for the bearers to pass. Looking down at her, he saw that she was quite pale. The coffin was carried into the house and they passed on.
*HowIdo hate seeing anything like that!' she exclaimed. Then looking back and up to the windo\ys of the house, 'Poor people I I Avonder whether they are very sad. It seems to make all the world dark when one comes across things like that. Father thinks it is good to be reminded of the end, that it makes one more eager to work, but he doesn't even wish for anything after death, nor do any of the best people I know. It is silly of me, but I never can bear to think of quite coming to an VOL. I. G
82 WE TWO.
end, I suppose because I am not so unselfish as the others.'
' Or may it not be a natural instinct which is implanted in all, which perhaps you have not yet crushed by argument.'
Erica shook her head.
' More likely to be a Httle bit of one of my covenanting ancestors coming out in me. Still I own that the hope of the hereafter is the one point in which you have the better of it. Life must seem very easy if you believe that all will be made up to you and all wrong set right after you are dead. You see we have rather hard measure here, and don't expect anything at all by-and-by. But all the same I am al- ways rather ashamed of this instinct, or self- ishness, or Scottish inheritance, whichever it is !'
' Ashamed ! why should you be V
* It is a sort of weakness, I think, which strong characters like my father are without. You see he cares so much for everyone, and thinks so much of making the world a little less miserable in this generation, but most of my love is for him and for my mother ; and so when
' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 83
I think of death — of their death ' she broke
off abruptly.
' Yet do not call it selfishness,' said Brian, with a slightly choked feeling, for there had been a depth of pain in Erica's tone. * My father, who has just that love of humanity of which you speak, has still the most absolute belief in — yes, and longing for — immortality. It is no selfish- ness in him.'
*I am sure it is not,' said Erica, warmly, 'I shouldn't think he could be selfish in any way. I am glad he spoke to-night ; it does one good to hear a speech like that, even if one doesn't agree with it. I wish there were a few more clergymen like him, then perhaps the tolerance and brotherliness he spoke of might become pos- sible. But it must be a long way off, or it would not seem such an unheard-of thing that I should be talking like this to you. Why, it is the first time in my whole life that I have spoken to a Christian except on the most every- day subjects.'
' Then I hope you won't let it be the last,' said Brian.
g2
84 WE TWO.
' I should like to know Mr. Osmond better/ said Erica_, ' for you know it seems very extra- ordinary to me that a clever scientific man can speak as he spoke to-night. I sliould like to know how you reconcile all the contradictions, how you can believe what seems to me so un- likely, how even if you do believe in a God you can think Him good while the world is what it is. If there is a good God why doesn't he make us all know him, and end all the evil and cruelty V
Brian did not reply for a moment. The familiar gaslit streets, the usual number of passengers, the usual careworn or viceworn faces passing by, damp pavements, muddy roads, fresh winter wind, all seemed so natural, but to talk of the deepest things in heaven and earth was so un- natural ! He was a very reserved man, but looking down at the eager, questioning face beside him his reserve all at once melted. He spoke very quietly, but in a voice which showed Erica that he was, at least, as she expressed it 'honestly deluded.' Evidently he did from his very heart believe what he said.
* SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 85
' But how are we to judge what is best V he replied. ' My belief is that God is slowly and gradually educating the world, not forcing it on unnaturally, but drawing it on step by step, making it work out its own lessons as the best teachers do with their pupils. To me^the idea of a steady progression, in which man himself may be a co-worker with God, is far more beautiful than the conception of a Being who does not work by natural laws at all, but arbitrarily causes this and that to be or not to be.'
^But then if your God is educating the ■world, He is educating many of us in ignorance of Himself, in atheism. How can that be good or right'? Surely you, for instance, must be rather puzzled when you come across atheists, if you believe in a perfect God, and think atheism the most fearful mistake possible V
' If I could not believe that God can, and does, educate some of us through atheism I should indeed be miserable,' said Brian, with a thrill of pain in his voice which startled Erica. * But I do believe that even atheism, even blank ignorance of Him, may be a stage through.
SQ WE TWO.
^ which alone some of us can be brought onward.
• The noblest man I ever knew passed through
that stage, and I can't think he would have
C=i5: been half the man he is if he had not passed
through it.'
' I have only known two or three people who from atheists became theists, and they were horrid !' said Erica, emphatically. * People always are spiteful to the side they have left.'
' You could not say that of my friend/ said Brian, musingly. ' I wish you could meet him.'
They had reached the entrance to Guilford Terrace_, Kaeburn and Charles Osmond over-^ took them, and the conversation ended abruptly* Perhaps because Erica had made no answer to the last remark, and was conscious of a touch of malice in her former speech^ she put a little additional warmth into her farewell. At any rate, there was that which touched Brian's very heart in the frank innocence of her hand-clasp, in the sweet yet questioning eyes that wer& raised to his.
He turned away, happier and yet sadder than
« SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE I' 87
he had ever beeu in his life. Not a word pass- ed between him and his father as they crossed the square, but when they reached home they instinctively drew together over the study fire. There was a long silence even then, broken at last by Charles Osmond.
' Well, my son V he said.
' I cannot see how I can be of the least use to her,' said Brian, abruptly, as if his father had been following the whole of his train of thought, which, indeed^ to a certain extent he had.
' Was this afternoon your first meeting V
' Our first speaking. I have seen her many times, but only to-day realised what she is.'
' Well, your little Undine is very bewitching, and much more than bewitching, true to the core and loyal and loving. If only the hard- ness of her life does not embitter her, I think she will make a grand woman.'
' Tell me what you did this afternoon/ said Brian, ' you must have been some time with them.'
88 WE TWO.
Charles Osmond told him all that had pass- ed ; theu continued,
' She is, as I said, a fascinating bright little Undine, inclined to be wilful, I should fancy, and with a sort of warmth and quickness about her whole character ; in many ways still a child, and yet in others strangely old for her years ; on the whole I should say as fair a specimen of the purely natural being as you would often meet with. The spiritual part of her is, I fancy, asleep.'
' No, I fancy to-night has made it stir for the first time,' said Brian, and he told his father a little of what had passed between himself and Erica.
^ And the Longfellow was, 1 suppose, from you,' said Charles Osmond. ' I wish you could have seen her delight over it ! Words absolute- ly failed her. I don't think anyone else noticed it, but, her own vocabulary coming to an end, she turned to ours, it was '' What heavenly per- son can have sent me this?" '
Brian smiled^ but sighed too.
' One talks of the spiritual side remaining
' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 89
untouched,' he said, ^ yet how is it ever to be otherwise than chained and fettered, while such men as that Randolph are recognised as the champions of our cause, while injustice and un- kindness meet her at every turn, while it is something rare and extraordinary for a Chris- tian to speak a kind word to her ! If to-day she has first reahsed that Christians need not necessarily behave as brutes, I have realised a little what life is from her point of view.' '
' Then realising that perhaps you may help her, perhaps another chapter of the old legend may come true, and you may be the means of waking the spirit in your Undine.'
' I ? Oh, no ! How can you think of it ! You or Donovan, perhaps, but even that idea seems to me wildly improbable.'
There was something in his humility and sadness which touched his father inexpres- sibly.
' Well/ he said, after a pause, ' if you are really prepared for all the suffering this love must bring you, if you mean to take it, and cherish it, and live for it, even though it brings
90 WE TWO.
you no gain, but apparent pain and loss, then I think it can only raise both you and your Undine.'
Brian knew that not one man in a thousand would have spoken in such a way : his father's unworldliness was borne in upon him as it had never been before. Greatly as he had always reverenced and loved him, to-night his love and reverence deepened unspeakably — the two were drawn nearer to each other than ever.
It was not the habit in this house to make the most sacred ties of life the butt for ill-timed and ill-judged joking. No knight of old thought or spoke more reverently or with greater re- serve of his lady-love than did Brian of Erica. He regarded himself now as one bound to do her service, consecrated from that day forward as her loyal knight.
91
CHAPTER V.
ERICA^S RESOLVE.
Men are tatooed with their special beliefs like so many South-Sea Islanders ; but a real human heart, with Divine love in it, beats with the same glow under all the patterns of all earth's thousand tribes.
O. AVendell Holmes.
For the next fortnight Brian and Erica con- tinued to pass each other every afternoon in Gower Street, as they had done for so long, the only difference was that now they greeted each other, that occasionally Brian would be render- ed happy for the rest of the day by some brief, passing remark from his Undine, or by one of her peculiarly bright smiles. One day, how- ever, she actually stopped ; her face was radiant.
"92 WE TWO.
' 1 must just tell you our good news,' she said. ^ My father has won his case, and has got heavy damages.'
'lam very glad,' said Brian. 'It must be a great relief to you all to have it over.'
* Immense I Father looks as if a ton's weight had been taken off his mind ! Now I hope we shall have a little peace.'
With a hasty good-bye, she hurried on^ an unusual elasticity in her light footsteps. In Ouilford Square she met a political friend of her father's, and was brought once more to a stand- still. This time it was a little unwillingly, for Monsieur Noirol teased her unmercifully, and at their last meeting had almost made her angry by talking of a friend of his at Paris who offered un- told advantages to any clever and well-educated English girl who wished to learn the language, and who would in return teach her own. Erica had been made miserable by the mere sugges- tion that such a situation Avould suit her ; the slightest hint that it might be well for her to go abroad had roused in her a sort of terror lest her father might ever seriously think of the
erica's resolve. 93
scheme. She had not quite forgiven Monsieur Noirol for having spoken, although the proposal had not been gravely made, and probably only persevered in out of the spirit of teasing. But to-day Monsieur Noirol looked very grave.
' You have heard our good news V said Erica. ' Now, don't begin again about Madame Lemer- cier's school ; I don't want to be made cross to- day of all days, when 1 am so happy !'
' I will tease you no more, dear mademoiselle,' said the Frenchman ; but he offered no con- gratulations, and there was somethiug in his manner w^hich make Erica uneasy.
' Is anything wrong? Has anything happen- ed V she asked, quickly.
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
' Who knows ! It is an evil world, Mademoi- selle Erica, as you will realise when you have lived in it as loug as I have. But I detain you. Good-bye. Au rcvoir P
He took off his hat with a flourish, and passed
OD.
Erica, feeling baffled and a little cross,. hurried home. Monsieur Noirol had not teased
^4 WE TWO.
her to-day, but he had been inscrutable and tiresome, and he had made her feel uneasy. She opened the front door, and went at once to her father's study, pausing for a moment at the sound of voices within. She recognised, how- ever, that it was her cousin, Tom Craigie, who was speaking, and without more dehiy she entered. Then in a moment she understood why M. Noirol had been so mysterious. Tom was speaking quickly and strongly, and there was a glow of anger on his face. Her father "vvas standing with his back to the mantelpiece, there was a sort of cold light in his eyes, which filled Erica with dismay. Never in the most anxious days had she seen him look at once so anguy, jet so weighed down with care.
' What is the matter V she questioned, breath- lessly, instinctively turning to Tom, whose hot anger was more approachable.
' The scamp of a Christian has gone bank- rupt,' he said, referring to the defendant in the late action, but too furious to speak very intelHgibly.
'Mr. Cheale, you mean'^ asked Erica.
erica's resolve. 95
* The scoundrel ! Yes ! So not a farthing of costs and damages shall we see ! It's the most fiendish thing ever heard of 1'
' \Yi]l the costs be very heavy?'
' Heavy ! I should think they would indeed !' He named the probable sum ; it seemed a fearful addition to the already existing burden of debts.
A look of such pain and perplexity came over Erica's face that Raeburn, for the first time realising what was passing in the room, drew her towards him, his face softening, and the cold angry light in his eyes changing to sadness.
* Never mind, my child,' be said, with a sigh. * 'Tis a hard blow, but we must bear up. In- justice won't triumph in the end.'
There was something in his voice and look which made Erica feel dreadfully inclined to cry ; but that would have disgraced her for ever in the eyes of stoical Tom, so she only squeezed Lis hand hard and tried to think of that far distant future of which she had spoken to Charles Osmond, when there would be no tiresome Christians and bigots and law-suits.'
96 WE TWO.
There was, however, one person in the house wlio was invariably the recipient of all the troubled confidences of others. In a very few- minutes Erica had left the study and was curl- ed up beside her mother's couch, talking out unreservedly all her grief, and anger, and per- plexity.
Mrs. Raeburn, delicate and invalided as she was, had nevertheless a great deal of influence^ though perhaps neither Raeburn, nor Erica, nor warm-hearted Tom Craigie, understood how much she did for them all. She was so unas- suming, so little given to unnecessary speech, so reticent, that her life made very little show, while it had become so entirely a matter of course that everyone should bring his private troubles to her that it would have seemed extraordinary not to meet with exactly the sympathy and counsel needed. To-day, how- ever, even Mrs. Raeburn was almost too despon- dent to cheer the others. It comforted Erica to talk to her, but she could not help feeling very miserable as she saw the anxiety and sadness in her mother's face.
erica's resolve. 97
' What more can we do, mother V she questioned. 'I can't think of a single thing we can give np.'
' I really don't know, dear,' said her mother, with a sigh. ' We have nothing but the abso- lute necessaries of life now, except indeed your education at the High School, and that is a very trifling expense, and one which cannot be inter- fered with.'
Erica was easily depressed, like most high- spirited persons ; but she was not used to seeing either her father or her mother despondent, and the mere strangeness kept her from going down to the very deepest depths. She had the feel- ing that at least one of them must try to keep up. Yet, do what she would, that evening was one of the saddest and dreariest she had ever spent. All the excitement of contest was over, and a sort of dead weight of gloom seemed to oppress them. Eaeburn was absolutely silent. From the first Erica had never heard him com« plain, but his anger, and afterwards his intense depression, spoke volumes. Even Tom, her friend and playfellow, seemed changed this
VOL. I. H
98 WE TWO.
evening, grown somehow from. a boy to a man ; for there was a sternness about him which she had never seen before, and which made the days of their childhood seem far away. And yet it was not so very long ago that she and Tom had been the most light-hearted and care- less beings in the world, and had imagined the chief interest of life to consist in tending dor- mice, and tame rats, and silkworms ! She won- dered whether they could ever feel free again, whether they could ever enjoy their long Saturday afternoon rambles, or whether this weight of care would always be upon them.
AVith a very heavy heart she prepared her lessons for the next day, finding it somewhat hard to take much interest in Magna Charta and legal enactments in the time of King John, when the legal enactments of to-day were so much more mind-engrossing. Tom was sitting opposite to her writing letters for Raeburn. Once, notwithstanding his grave looks, she haz- arded a question.
' Tom/ she said, shutting up her ' History
erica's. RESOLVE. 99
of the English People,' ' Tom, what do you think will happen V
Tom looked across at her with angry yet sorrowful eyes.
' 1 think,^ he said, sternly, ' that the chieftain will try to do the work of ten men at once, and will pay off these debts or die in the at- tempt.'
The ' chieftain ' was a favourite name among the Raeburnites for their leader, and there was a great deal of the clan feeling among them. The majority of them were earnest, hard-work- ing, thoughtful men, and their society was both powerful and well-organised, while their per- sonal devotion to Raeburn lent a vigour and vitality to the whole body which might other- wise have been lacking. Perhaps comparatively few would have been enthusiastic for the cause of atheism had not that cause been repre- sented by a high-souled, self-denying man whom they loved with all their hearts.
The dreary evening ended at length, Erica helped her mother to bed, and then with slow
h2
100 WE TWO.
steps climbed up to her little attic room. It was cold and comfortless enough, bare of all luxuries, but even here the walls were lined with books, and Erica's little iron bedstead looked somewhat incongruous, surrounded as it was with dingy-looking volumes, dusty old legal books, works of reference, books atheist- ical^ theological, metaphysical, or scientific. On one shelf amid this strangely heterogeneous collection she kept her own particular treasures — Brian's Longfellow, one or two of Dickens' books which Tom had given her, and the beloved old Grimm and Hans Andersen, which had been the friends of her childhood, and which for ' old sakes' sake ' she had never had the heart to sell. The only other trace of her in the strange little bed-room was in a wonderful array of china animals on the mantelpiece. She was a great animal-lover, and, being a favour- ite with everyone^ she received many votive offerings. Her shrine was an amusing one to look at. A green china frog played a tuneless guitar ; a pensive monkey gazed with clasped hands and dreadfully human eyes into futurity;
erica's resolve. 101
there were sagacious-looking elephants, placid rhinoceroses, rampant hares, two pug dogs clasped in an irrevocable embrace, an enormous lobster, a diminutive polar bear, and in the centre of all a most evil-looking jackdaw about half-an-inch high.
But to-night the childish side of Erica was in abeyance ; the cares of womanhood seemed gathering upon her. She put out her candle and sat down in the dark, racking her brain for some plan by which to relieve her father and mother. Their life was growing harder and harder. It seemed to her that poverty in itself Avas bearable enough, but that the ever-increas- ing load of debt was not bearable. As long as she could remember, it had always been like a mill-stone tied about their necks, and the cease- less petty economies and privations seemed of little avail ; she felt very much as if she were one of the Danaids, doomed for ever to pour water into a vessel with a hole in it.
Yet in one sense she was better off than many, for these debts were not selfish debts — no one had ever known Raeburn to spend an unneces-
102 WE TWO.
sary sixpence on himself; all this load had been incurred in the defence of what he considered the truth — by his unceasing struggles for liberty.. She was proud of the debts, proud to suffer in what she regarded as the sacred cause ; but in spite of that she was almost in despair this evening, the future looked so hopelessly black.
Tom's words rang in her head — ' The chief- tain will try to do the work often men !' What if he overworked himself as he had done once a few years ago ? What if he died in the attempt ? She wished Tom had not spoken so strongly. In the friendly darkness she did not try to check the tears which would come into her eyes at the thought. Something must be done ! She must in some way help him ! And then, all at once, there flashed into her mind Monsieur Noirol's teasing suggestion that she should go to Paris; Here was a way in which, free of all expense, she might finish her education, might practically earn her living ! In this way she might indeed help to lighten the load, but it would be at the cost of absolute self-sacrifice. She must leave home, and father and mother, and country I
erica's resolve. 103
Erica was not exactly selfish but she was very young. For a time the thought of the volun- tary sacrifice seemed quite unbearable, she could not make up her mind to it.
' Why should I give up all this ! Why should prejudice and bigotry spoil my whole life V she thought, beginning to pace up and down the room with quick agitated steps. ' Why should we suffer because that w^retch has gone bank- rupt '^ It is unfair, unjust, it can't be right.'
She leant her arms on the window-sill, and looked out into the silent night. The stars Avere shiniog peacefully enough, looking down on this world of strife and struggle ; Erica grew a little calmer as she looked ; Nature, with its majesty of calmness, seemed to quiet her troubled heart and ' sweep gradual gospels in.'
From some recess of memory there came to her some half-enigmatical w^ords;they had been quoted by Charles Osmond in his speech, but she did not remember where she had heard them, only they began to ring in her ears now :
104 WE TWO.
' There is no gain except by loss, There is no life except by death,
Nor glory but by bearing shame. Nor justice but by taking blame.'
She did not altogether understand the verse, but there was a truth in it which could hardly fail to come home to one who knew what per- secution meant. What if the very blame and injustice of the present brought in the future' I'eign of justice ! She seemed to hear her father's voice saying again,
' We must bear up, child ; injustice won't triumph in the end.'
' There is no gain except by loss !'
What if her loss of home and friends brought gain to the world ! That was a thought which brought a glow of happiness to her even in the midst of her pain. There was, after all, much of the highest Christianity about her, though she would have been very much vexed if any- one had told her so, because Christianity meant to her narrow-mindedness instead of brotherly love. However it might be, there was no
erica's resolve. 105
cleoying that the child of the great teacher of atheism had grasped the true meaning of life, had grasped it, and -svas prepared to act on it too. She had always lived with those who were ready to spend all in the promotion of the general good ; and all that was true, all that •was noble in her creed, all that had filled her with admiration in the lives of those she loved, came to her aid now.
She went softly down the dark staircase to Kaeburn's study ; it was late, and, anxious not to disturb the rest of the house, she opened the door noiselessly and crept in. Her father was sitting at his desk writing ; he looked very stern, but there was a sort of grandeur about his rugged face. He was absorbed in his work and did not hear her, and for a minute she stood quite still watching him, realising with pain and yet with a happy pride how greatly she loved him. Her heart beat fast at the thought of helping him, lightening his load even a little.
' Father,' she said^ softly.
Raeburn w^as the sort of man who could not
106 WE TWO.
be startled, but he looked up quickly, appar- ently returning from some speculative region Avith a slight effort. He was the most practical of men, and yet for a minute he felt as if he were living in a dream, for Erica stood beside him, pale and beautiful, with a sort of heroic light about her whole face which transformed her from a merry child to a high-souled woman. Instinctively he rose to speak to her.
'1 will not disturb you for more than a minute, father,' she said, ' it is only that I have thought of a way in which I think I could help you if you would let me."*
' Well, dear, what is it V said Raeburn, still watching half-dreamily the exceeding beauty of the face before him. Yet an undefined sense of dread chilled his heart. Was anything too hard or high for her to propose? He listened without a word to her account of Monsieur Noirol's Parisian scheme, to her voluntary suggestion that she should go into exile for two years. At the end he merely put a brief question.
107
' Are you ready to bear two years of lone- liness V
* I am ready to help yon,' she said_, with a little quiver in her voice and a cloud of pain in her eyes.
Raeburn turned away from her and began to pace up and down the little room, his eyes not altogether free from tears, for, pachydermatous as he was accounted by his enemies, this man was very tender over his child, he could hardly en- dure to see her pain. Yet after all, though she had given him a sharp pang, she had brought him happiness which any father might envy. He came back to her, his stern face inexpressibly softened.
'And I am ready to be helped, my child ; it shall be as you say.'
There was something in his voice and in the gentle acceptance of help from one so strong and self-reliant which touched Erica more than any praise or demonstrative thanks could have done. They were going to work together, he had promised that she should fight side by side with him.
108 WE TWO.
' Law-suits may ruin us,' said Raeburn, ' but, after all, the evil has a way of helping out the good.' He put his arm round her and kissed her. ' You have taught me, little one, how powerless and weak are these petty persecutions. They can only prick and sting us ! Nothing can really hurt us while we love the truth and love each other.'
That was the happiest moment Erica had ever known, already her loss had brought a rap- turous gain.
' I shall never go to sleep to-night,' she said. ' Let me help you with your letters.'
Raeburn demurred a little, but yielded to her entreaties, and for the next two hours the father and daughter worked in silence. The bitter- ness which had lurked in the earlier part of the pamphlet that Raeburn had in hand was quite lacking in its close ; the writer had somehow been lifted into a higher, purer atmosphere, and if his pen flew less rapidly over the paper, it at any rate wrote words which would long outlive the mere overflow of an angry heart.
erica's resolve. 109
Coming back to the world of realities at last somewhere in the small hours, he found his fire out, a goodly pile of letters ready for his signa- ture, and his little amanuensis fast asleep in her chair. Reproaching himself for having allowed her to sit up, he took her in his strong arms as though she had been a mere baby, and carried her up to her room so gently that she never woke. The next morning she found herself so swathed in plaids and rugs and blankets that she could hardly move, and, in s;)ite of a bad headache_, could not help beginning the day with a hearty laugh.
Raeburn was not a man who ever let the grass grow under his feet_, his decisions were made with thought, but with very rapid thought^ and his action was always prompt. His case excited a good deal of attention ; but long be- fore the newspapers had ceased to wage war either for or against him, long before the week- ly journals had ceased to team with letters re- lating to the law-suit, he had formed his plans for the future. His home was to be completely broken up. Erica was to go to Paris, his wife
110 WE TWO.
was to live with his sister, Mrs. Craigie, and her son Tom, who had agreed to keep on the lodg- ings in Guilford Terrace, while for himself he had mapped out such a programme of work as could only have been undertaken by a man of ' Titanic energy ' and * Herculean strength,' epithets which even the hostile press invariably bestowed on him. How great the sacrifice was to him few people knew. As we have said be- fore, the world regarded him as a target, and would hardly have believed that he was in reality a man of the gentlest tastes, as fond of his home as any man in England_, a faithful friend and a devoted father, and perhaps all the more dependent on the sympathies of his own circle because of the bitter hostility he encoun- tered from other quarters. But he made his plans resolutely, and said very little about them either one way or the other, sometimes even checking Erica when she grumbled for him^ or gave vent to her indignation with re- gard to the defendant.
* We work for freedom, little one,' he used to
erica's resolve. Ill
say ; ' and it is ao honour to suffer in the cause of liberty.'
' But everyone says you will kill yourself with overwork/ said Erica, ' and especially when you are in America.'
' They donH know what stuff I'm made of/ said Raeburn ; ' and, even if it should use me up, what then? It's better to wear out than to rust out, as a wise man once remarked.'
' Yes,' said Erica, rather faintly.
• But I've no intention of wearing out just yet,' said Raeburn, cheerfully. • You need not be afraid, little son Eric ; and, if at the end of these two years you do come back to find me grey and wrinkled, what will that matter so long as we are free once more. There's a good time coming : we'll have the cosiest little home in London yet.'
' With a garden for you to work in,' said Erica, brightening up like a child at the castle in the air. ' And we'll keep lots of animals, and never bother again about money all our lives.'
112 WE TWO.
Raeburn smiled at her ideas of felicity — no cares, and plenty of dogs and cats ! He did not anticipate any haven of rest at the end of the two years for himself He knew that his life must be a series of conflicts to the very end. Still he hoped for relief from the load of debt, and looked forward to the re-establishment of his home.
Brian Osmond heard of the plans before long, but he scarcely saw Erica ; the Christmas holi- days began, and he no longer met her each afternoon in Gower Street, while the time drew nearer and nearer for her departure for Paris. At lengthy on the very last day, it chanced that they were once more thrown together.
Raeburn was a great lover of flowers, and he very often received floral offerings from his followers. It so ha])pened that some beautiful hot-house flowers had been sent to him from a nursery garden one day in January, and, un- willing to keep them all, he had suggested that Erica should take some to the neighbouring hospitals. Now there were two hospitals in Guil- ford Square ; Erica felt much more interested
erica's resolve. 113
in the children's hospital than in the one for grown-iip people ; but, wishing to be impartial, she arranged a basketful for each, and well- pleased to have anything to give^ hastened on her errand. Much to her delight_, her first basket of flowers was not only accepted very grate- fully, but the lady superintendent took her over the hospital, and let her distribute the flowers among the children. She was very fond of children, and was as happy as she could be passing up and down among the little beds, while her bright manner attracted the little ones, and made them unusually affectionate and responsive.
Happy at having been able to give them pleasure^ and full of tender womanly thoughts, she crossed the square to another small hospital ; she was absorbed in pitiful loving humanity, had forgotten altogether that the world count- ed her as a heretic, and, wholly unprepared for what awaited her, she was shown into the visitors' room and asked to give her name. Not only was Raeburn too notorious a name to pass muster, but the head of the hospital knew
VOL. I. I
114 WE TWO.
Erica by sight, and had often met her out of doors with her father. She was a stiff, narrow-minded, uncompromising sort of person, and in her own words was ' determined to have no fellowship with the works of darkness.' How she could consider bright-faced Erica, with her loving thought for others and her free gift, a ' work of darkness,' it is hard to understand. She was not at all disposed, how- ever, to be under any sort of obligation to an atheist, and the result of it was that, after a three minutes' interview. Erica found herself once more in the square, with her flowers still in her hand, * declined ivitJwut thanks.'
No one ever quite knew what the superinten- dent had said to her, but apparently the rebuff bad been very hard to bear. Not content with declining any fellowship with the poor little ' work of darkness,' she had gone on in accord- ance with the letter of the text to reprove her; and Erica left the house with burning cheeks, and with a tumult of angry feeling stirred up in her heart. She was far too angry to know or care what she w^as doing ; she walk-
erica's resolve. 115
ed down the quiet square in the very opposite direction to ' Persecution Alley,' and might have walked on for an indefinite time had not some one stopped her.
' I was hoping to see you before you left,' said a pleasant, quiet voice close by her. She looked up^ and saw Charles Osmond.
Thus suddenly brought to a standstill, she became aware that she was trembling from head to foot. A little delicate sensitive thing, the unsparing censure and the rude reception 3he had just met with had quite upset her.
Charles Osmond retained her hand in his strong clasp, and looked questioningly into her bright, indignant eyes.
' What is the matter my child V he asked.
^ I am only angry,' said Erica, rather breath- lessly, ' hurt and angry, because one of your bigots has been rude to me.'
' Come in, and tell me all about it,' said Charles Osmond ; and there was something so irresistible in his manner that Erica at once allowed herself to be led into one of the tall, old-fashioned houses and taken into a comfort-
i2
116 WE TWO.
able and roomy study, the nicest room she had ever been in. It was not luxurious, indeed, the Turkey carpet was shabby and the furniture well-worn, but it was homelike, and warm and cheerful, evidently a room which was dear to its owner.
Charles Osmond made her sit down in a cap- acious arm-chair close to the fire.
' Well, now, who was the bigot V he said, in a voice that would have won the confidence of a flint.
Erica told as much of the story as she could bring herself to repeat, quite enough to show Charles Osmond the terrible harm which may be wrought by tactless modern Christianity. He looked down very sorrowfully at the eager expressive face of the speaker, it was at once very white and very pink, for the child was sorely wounded as well as indignant. She was evidently, however, a little vexed with herself for feeling the insult so keenly.
' It is very stupid of me,' she said, laughing a little, * it is time I was used to it, but I never can help shakiug in this silly way when any-
ERICA^S RESOLVE. Il7
one is rude to us. Tom laughs at me, aud says I am made on wire springs like a twelfth- cake butterfly ! But it is rather hard, isn't it, to be shut out from everything, even from giving V
' I think it is both hard and wrong,' said Charles Osmond. ' But we do not all shut you out.'
' No,' said Erica. ' You have always been kind, you are not a bit like a Christian. .AVould you,' — she hesitated a little, — ' would you take the flowers instead V
It was said with a shy grace inexpressibly winning. Charles Osmond was touched and gratified.
' They will be a great treat to us/ he said. ' My mother is very fond of flowers. Will you come upstairs and see her ? We shall find afternoon tea going on, I expect.'
So the rejected flowers found a resting-place in the clergyman's house^ and Brian coming in from his rounds was greeted by a sight which made his heart beat at double time. In the <drawing-room beside his grandmother sat
118 WE TWO.
Erica, her little fur hat pushed back, her gloves off, busily arranging Christmas roses and red camellias. Her anger had died away, she was talking quite merrily. It seemed to Briau more like a beautiful dream than a bit of every- day life, to have her sitting there so naturally in his home ; but the note of pain was struck before long.
' I must go home,' she said. ' This is my last day, you know. I am going to Paris to- morrow.'
A sort of sadness seemed to fall on them at the words, only gentle Mrs. Osmond said, cheerfully,
* You will come to see us again when you come back, will you not V
And then with the privilege of the aged she drew down the young fresh face to hers and kissed it.
' You will let me see you home,' said Brian. ' It is getting dark.'
Erica laughingly protested that she was Avell used to taking care of herself, but it ended in Brian's triumphing. So together they crossed
erica's resolye. 119
the quiet square. Erica chattered away merrily enough, but as they reached the narrow en- trance to Guilford Terrace a shadow stole over her face.
' Oh !' she exclaimed, ' this is the last time I shall come home for two w4iole years.'
' You go for so long V said Brian, stifling a sigh. 'You won't forget your English friends/
' Do you mean that you count yourself our friend V asked Erica, smiling.
' If you will let me.'
' That is a funny word to use,' she replied, laughing. 'You see, we are treated as outlaws generally. I don't think anyone ever said " will you let " to me before. This is our house ; thank you for seeing me home.' Then, with a roguish look in her eyes, she added, demurely, but with a slight emphasis on the last word, ' Good-bye, my friend.'
Brian turned away sadly enough, but he had not gone far when he heard flying footsteps, and looking back saw Erica once more.
' Oh, I just came to know whether by any chance you want a kitten,' she said, ' I have a
120 WE TWO.
real beauty which T want to find a nice home for.'
Of course Brian wanted a kitten at once ; one would have imagined by the eagerness of his manner that he was devoted to the whole feline tribe.
* Well, then, will you come in and see it,' said Erica. ' He really is a very nice kitten, and I shall go away much happier if I can see him settled in life first.'
She took him in, introduced him to her mother, and ran off in search of the cat, return- ing in a few minutes with a very playful-look- ing tabby.
' There he is,' she said, putting the kitten on the table with an air of pride. * I don't believe he has an equal in all London.'
' What do you call him V asked Brian.
'His name is St. Anthony/ said Erica. "Oh, I hope, by-the-by, you won't object to that, it was no disrespect to St. Anthony at all, but only that he always will go and preach to my gold fish. We'll make him do it now to show you. Come along, Tony, and give them a sermon, there's a good little kit !'
erica's resolve. 121
She put him on a side table, and he at once rested his front paws on a large glass bowl and peered down at the gold fish with great curiosity.
' I believe he would have drowned himself sooner or later, like Gray's cat, so I daresay it is a good thing for him to leave. You will be kind to him, won't you?'
Brian promised that he should be well attend- ed to, and indeed there w^as little doubt that St. Anthony would from that day forth be lap- ped in luxury. He went away with his new master very contentedly, Erica following them to the door with farewell injunctions.
' And you'll be sure to butter his feet well, or -else he won't stay with you. Good-bye, dear Tony. Be a good little cat I'
Brian was pleased to have this token from his Undine, but at the same time ho could not help seeing that she cared much more about parting with the kitten than about saying good-bye to him. Well, it was something to have that lucky St. Anthony, who had been fondled and kissed. And after all it was Erica's very child-
122 WE TWO.
ishness and simplicity which made her so dear to him.
As soon as they were out of sight, Erica, with the thought of the separation beginning to weigh upon her. went back to her mother. They knew that this was the hist quiet time they should have together for many long months. But last days are not good days for talking. They spoke very little. Every now and then Mrs. Raeburn would make some inquiry about the packing or the journey, or would try to cheer the child by speaking of the home they would have at the end of the two years. But Erica was not to be comforted, a dull pain was gnawing at her heart, and the present was not to be displaced by any visions of a golden future.
' If it were not for leaving ^^ou alone, mother, I shouldn't mind so much,' she said, in rather a choked voice. ' But it seems to me that you have the hardest part of all.'
' Aunt Jean will be here, and Tom,' said Mrs. Raeburn.
' Aunt Jean is very kind,' said Erica, doubt-
erica's resolve. 123
fully. 'But she doesn't know how to nurse people. Tom is the one hope, and he has promised always to tell me the whole truth about you ; so, if you get worse, I shall come home directly.'
' You mustn't grudge me my share of the work/ said Mrs. Kaeburn. ' It would make me very miserable if I did hinder you or your father.'
Erica sighed.
' You and father are so dreadfully public spirited ! And yet, oh, mother ! what does the whole world matter to me if I think you are uncomfortable, and wretched, and alone V
' You will learn to think differently, dear, by- and-by,' said her mother, kissing the eager troubled face. * And, when you fancy me lone- ly, you can picture me instead as proud and happy in thinking of my brave little daughter who has gone into exile of her own accord to help the cause of truth and liberty.'
They were inspiriting words, and they brought a glow to Erica's face ; she choked down her own personal pain. No religious
124 , WE TWO.
martyr went through the time of trial more bravely than Luke Raeburn's daughter lived through the next four-and-twenty hours. She never forgot even the most trivial incident of that day, it seemed burnt in upon her brain. The dreary waking on the dark winter morn- ing, the hurried farewells to her aunt and Tom, the last long embrace from her mother, the drive to the station, her father's recognition on the platform, the rude staring and ruder com- ments to which they were subjected, then the one supreme wrench of parting, the look of pain in her father s face, the trembling of his voice, the last long look as the train moved off, and the utter loneliness of all that followed. Then came dimmer recollections, not less real but more confused, of a merry set of fellow-passengers who were going to enjoy themselves in the South of France ; of a certain little packet which her father had placed in her hand, and which proved to be 'Mill on Liberty'; of her eager perusal of the first two or three chapters ; of the many instances of the ' tyranny of the majority ' which she had been able to produce not without
erica's resolve. 125
a certain satisfaction. And afterwards more vividly she could recall the last look at England, the dreary arrival at Boulogne, the long, weary railway journey, and the friendly reception at Madame Lemercier's school. No one could deny that her new life had been bravely begun.
126
CHAPTER VI.
PARIS.
But we wake in the young morning when the light is
breaking forth ; And look out on its misty gleams, as if the noon were full ; And the Infinite around, seems but a larger kind of earth Ensphering this, and measured by the self-same handy rule. Hilda among the Broken Gods.
Not unfrequently the most important years of a life, the years which tell most on the character_, are unmarked by any notable events. A steady, orderly routine, a gradual progression, persever- ance in hard work, often do more to educate and form than a varied and eventful life. Erica's two years of exile were as monotonous and quiet as the life of the secularist's daughter could possibly be. There came to her, of
PARIS. 127
course, from the distance the echoes of her father's strife ; but she was far removed from it all, and there was little to disturb her mind in the quiet Parisian school. There is no need to dwell on her uneventful life, and a very brief description of her surroundings will be sufficient to show the sort of atmosphere in which she lived.
The school w^as a large one, and consisted principally of French provincial girls, sent to Paris to finish their education. Some of them Erica liked exceedingly ; every one of them was to her a curious and interesting study. She liked to hear them talk about their home life, and, above all things, to hear their simple, naive remarks about religion. Of course she was on her honour not to enter into discussions with them, and they regarded all English as heretics, and did not trouble themselves to distinguish between the different grades. But there was no- thing to prevent her from observing and listen- ing, and with some wonder she used to hear discussions about the dresses for the ' Premiere Communion,' remarks about the various services,
128 WE TWO.
or laments over the coufession papers. The girls went to confession once a month, and there was always a day in which they had ta prepare and write out their misdemeanours. One day, a little, thin, delicate child from the South of France came up to Erica with her con- fession in her hand.
' Dear, good Erica,' she said, wearily, ' have the kindness to read this, and to correct my mistakes.'
Erica took the little thing on her knee and began to read the paper. It was curiously spelt. Before very long she came to the sen- tence, ' J^ai trop mange.'
' Why, Ninette,' exclaimed Erica, * you hardly eat enough to feed a sparrow ; it is nonsense to put that.'
' Ah, but it was a fast day,' sighed Ninette, ' And I felt hungry, and did really eat more than I need have.'
Erica felt half angry and contemptuous, half amused, and could only hope that the priest w^ould see the pale, thin face of the little penitent and realise the ludicrousness of the confession.
PARIS. 129
Another time all the girls had been to some special service ; on their return she asked what it had been about.
' Oh,' remarked a bright-faced girl, 'it was about the seven joys — or the seven sorrows — of Mary.''
' Do you mean to say you don't know whether it was very solemn or very joyful V asked Erica, astonished and amused.
' I am really not sure,' said the girl, with the most placid good-tempered indifference.
On the whole, it was scarcely to be wondered at that Erica was not favourably impressed with Roman Catholicism.
She was a great favourite with all the girls ; but, though she was very patient and persever- ing, she did not succeed in making any of them fluent English speakers, and learnt their lan- guage far better than they learnt hers. Her three special friends were not among the pupils, but among the teachers. Dear old Madame Lemercier with her good-humoured black eyes, her kind demonstrative ways, and her delight- ful stories about the time of the war and the siege, was a friend worth having. So was
VOL. I. K
IBO
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her husband, Monsieur Lemercier the journalist. He was a little dried-up man, with a fierce black moustache ; he was sarcastic and witty, and he would talk politics by the hour together to anyone who would listen to him, especially if they would now and then ask a pertinent and intelligent question which gave him scope for
an oration.
Erica made a delightful listeQei- for she was always anxious to learia and to understaad, and before long she was quite au fait, and under- stood a great deal about that exceedingly com- plicated thing, the French political system. Monsieur Lemercier was a fiery, earnest little man with very strong convictions ; he had been exiled as a Communist but had now returned, and was a very vigorous and impassioned writer in one of the advanced Republican journals. He and his wife became very fond of Erica, Madame Lemercier loving her for her brightness and readiness to help, and monsieur for her beauty and her quickness of perception. It was sur- prising and gratifying to meet with a girl who, ■(vithout being afemme savante, was yet capable
PARIS. 131
of understanding the difference between the Extrenae Left and the Left Centre, and who took a real interest in what was passing in the world.
But Erica's greatest friend was a certain Fraulein Sonnenthal, the German governess. She was a kind-eyed Hanoverian, homely and by no means brilliantly clever, but there was something in her unselfishness and in her un- assuming humility that won Erica's heart. She never would hear a word against the Fraulein.
' Wh}^ do you care so much for Fraulein Sonnenthal V she was often asked. ' She seems uninteresting and dull to us.'
' I love her because she is so good,' was Erica's invariable reply.
She and the Fraulein shared a bed-room, and many were the arguments they had together. The effect of being separated from her own people was, very naturally, to make Erica a more devoted Secularist. She was exceedingly enthusiastic for what she considered the truth, and not unfrequently grieved and shocked the Lutheran Fraulein by the vehemence of her
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132 WE TWO.
statements. Very often they would argne far on into the niglit ; they never quarrelled, how- ever hot the dispute, but the fraulein often had a sore time of it ; for, naturally, Luke Raeburn's daughter was w^ell-up in all the debateable points, and she had, moreover, a good deal of her father's rapidity of thought and gift of speech. She was always generous, however, and the Fraulein had in some respects the ad- vantage of her, for they spoke in German.
One scene in that little bed-room Erica never forgot. They had gone to bed one Easter-eve, and had somehow fallen into a long and stormy argument about the resurrection and the doc- trine of immortality. Erica, perhaps because she was conscious of the ' weakness ' she had con- fessed to Brian Osmond, argued very warmly on the other side ; the poor little Fraulein was grieved beyond measure^ and defended her faith gallantly, though as she feared very ineffectu- ally. Her arguments seemed altogether ex- tinguished by Erica's remorseless logic, she was not nearly so clever, and her very earnestness seemed to trip her up and make all her sen-
PARIS. 133
tences broken and incomplete. They discussed the subject till Erica was hoarse, and at last from very weariness she fell asleep while the Lutheran was giving her a long quotation from St. Paul.
She slept for two or three hours ; when she woke, the room was flooded with silvery moon- light, the w^ooden cross which hung over the German's bed stood out black and distinct, but the bed was empty. Erica looked round the room uneasily, and saw a sight which she never forgot.
The Fraulein was kneeling beside the win- dow, and even the cold moonlight could not chill or hide the wonderful brightness of her face. She was a plain, ordinary little woman, but her face was absolutely transformed ; there was something so beautiful and yet so unusual in her expression that Erica could not speak or move, but lay watching her almost breathlessly. The spiritual world about which they had been speaking must be very real indeed to Thekla Sonnenthal ! Was it possible that this was the work of delusion ? While she mused, her friend rose, came straight to her bedside, and
134 ^VE T^YO.
bent over her with a look of such love and tenderness that Erica, though not generally demonstrative could not resist throwing her arms round her neck.
' Dear Sunnyvale ! you look just like your name !' she exclaimed, ' all brightness and hu- mility! AVhat have you been doing to grow so like Murillo's Madonna V
'I thought you were asleep/ said the Frau- lein. ' Good night, JierzhldttcJien, or rather good morning, for the Easter Day has begun/
Perhaps Erica liked her all the better for saying nothing more definite, but in the or- dinary sense of the word she did not have a good night, for long after Thekla Sonnenthal was asleep, and dreaming of her German home, Luke Raeburn's daughter lay awake, thinking of the faith which to some was such an intense reality. Had there been anything excited or unreal about her companion's manner, she would not have thought twice about it, but her tranquillity and sweetness seemed to her very remarkable. Moreover, Fraulein Sonnenthal
PARIS. 135
was strangely devoid of imagination ; she was a matter-of-fact little person, not at all a likely subject for visions and delusions. Erica was perplexed. Once more there came to her that uncomfortable question, — ' Supposing Christi- anity were true V
The moonlight paled and the Easter morn broke, and still she tossed to and fro haunted by doubts which would not let her sleep. But by-and-by she returned to the one thing which was absolutely certain, namely that her Ger- man friend was loveable and to be loved, what- ever her creed.
And, since Erica's love was of the practical order, it prompted her to get up early, dress noiselessly, and steal out of the room without waking her companion ; then, with all the church bells ringing and the devout citizens hurrying to mass, she ran to the nearest flower-stali, spent one of her very few half-francs on the loveliest white rose to be had, and carried it back as an Easter offering to the Frauleiu.
It was fortunate in every way that Erica had the little German lady for her friend, for
136 WE T^YO.
she would often have fared badly without some one to nurse and befriend her.
She was very delicate, and worked far too hard ; for, besides all her work in the school, she was preparing for an English examination which she had set her heart on trying as soon as she went home. Had it not been for Frau- lein Sonnenthal, she would more than once have thoroughly overworked herself ; and in- deed as it was, the strain of that two years told severely on her strength.
But the time wore on rapidly, as very fully occupied time always does, and Erica's list of days grew shorter and shorter, and the letters from her mother were more and more full of plans for the life they would lead when she came home. The two years would actually end in January ; Erica was however to stay in Paris till the following Easter, partly to oblige Madame Lemercier, partly becan.se by that time her father hoped to be in a great measure free from his embarrassments, able once more to make a home for her.
137
CHAPTER VII.
WHAT THE XEW YEAR BROUGHT.
A voice grows with tlie growing years ; Earth, hushing down her bitter cry, Looks upward from her graves, and hears, ' The Resurrection and the Life am L'
O Love Divine, — whose constant beam Shines on the eyes that will not see, ' And waits to bless us, while we dream Thou leavest us because we turn from Thee !
Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed Thou know'st, AVide as our need Thy favours fall ; The white wings of the Holy Ghost Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all.
Whittier.
It was the eve of the New Year, and great excitement prevailed in the Lemerciers' house. Many of the girls whose homes were at a dis- tance had remained at school for the short
138 WE TWO.
winter holiday, and on this particular afternoon a number of them were clustered round the stove talking about the festivities of the morrow and the presents they were likely to have.
Erica^ who was now a tall and very pretty girl of eighteen, was sitting on the hearthrug with Ninette on her lap ; she was in very high spirits and kept the little group in perpetual laughter, so much so indeed that Fraulein Sonnenthal had more than once been obliged to interfere, and do her best to quiet them.
' How wild thou art, dear Erica !' she exclaim- ed. ' What is it r
' I am happy, that is all,' said Erica. ' You would be happy if the year of freedom were just dawning for you. Three months more and I shall be home !'
She was like a child in her exultant happi- ness, far more child-like, indeed, than the grave little Ninette w^hom she was nursing.
'Thou art not dignified enough for a teacher,* said the Fraulein, laughingly.
' She is no teacher,' cried the girls. ' It i&
TVHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 139
holiday time, and she need not talk that fright- ful English.'
Erica made a laughing defence of her native tongue, and such a babel ensned that the Frau- lein had to interfere again.
' Liebe Erica ! Thou art beside thyself. What has come to thee?'
' Only joy, dear Thekla, at the thought of the beautiful New Year which is coming,' cried Erica. 'Father would say I was ''fey," and should pay for all this fun with a bad headache or some misfortune. Come, give me the French " David Copperfield," and let me read you how " Barkis veut bien ' and ^' Mrs. Gummidge a pense de I'ancien." '
The reading was more exquisitely ludicrous to Erica herself than to her hearers. Still the wit of Charles Dickens, even when translated, called forth peals of laughter from the French girls, too. It was the brightest happiest little group imaginable ; perhaps it was scarcely wonderful that old Madame Lemercier, when she came to break it up, should find her eyes dim with tears.
140 WE TWO.
' My dear Erica ' she said, and broke-oft
abruptly.
Erica looked Tip with laughing eyes.
* Don't scold, dear madame,' she said, coax- iugly. ' We have been very noisy ; but it is New Year's Eve, and we are so happy.'
^ Dear child, it is not that,' said madame. ' I want to speak to you for a minute ; come with me, chcrie.^
Still Erica noticed nothing ; did not detect the tone of pity, did not wonder at the terms of endearment which were generally reserved for more private use. She followed madame into the hall, still chattering gaily.
'The " David Copperfield^' is for monsieur's present to-morrow,' she said, laughingly. ' I knew he was too lazy to read it in English, so I got him a translation.'
'My dear,' said madame^ taking her hand, ' try to be quiet a moment. I — I have something to tell you. My poor little one, monsieur your father is arrived '
' Father ! father here !' exclaimed Erica, in a transport of delight. 'Where is he, where?'
WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 141
Oh, madame, why didn't yoii tell me sooner?'
Madame Lemercier tried in vain to detaia her, as with cheeks all glowing with happiness and dancing eyes, she ran at full speed to the salon.
' Father !' she cried, throwing open the door and running to meet him. Then suddenly she stood quite still as if petrified.
Beside the crackling wood fire, his arms on the chimney-piece, his face hidden, stood a grey- haired man. He raised himself as she spoke. His news was in his face, it was written all too plainly there.
' Father I' gasped Erica, in a voice which seemed altogether different from the first ex- clamation, almost as if it belonged to a differ- ent person.
Raeburn took her in his arms.
' My child — my poor little Eric,' he said.
She did not speak a word, hut clung to him as though to keep herself from falling. In one instant it seemed as though her whole world had been wrecked, her life shattered. She could not even realise that her father was
142 WE TWO.
still left to her, except in so far as the mere bodily support was concerned. He was strong ; she clung to him as in a hurricane she would iiave clung to a rock.
' Say it/ she gasped, after a timeless silence perhaps of minutes, perhaps of hours, it might have been centuries for aught she knew. ' Say it in words.'
She wanted to know everything, wanted to reduce this huge, overwhelming sorrow to something intelligible. Surely in words it would not be so awful — so limitless.
And he said it, speaking in a low repressed voice, yet very tenderly, as if she had been a little child. She made a great effort to listen, but the sentences only came to her disjointedly, and as if from a great distance. It had been very sudden — a two hours' illness, no very great suffering. He had been lecturing at Birmingham — had been telegraphed for — had been too late.
Ei-ica made a desperate effort to realise it all ; at last she brought down the measureless agony to actual words, repeating them over and over to herself — ' Mother is dead.'
WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 143
At length she had grasped the idea ! Her heart seemed to die within her, a strange blue shade passed over her face, her limbs stiffened. She felt her father carry her to the window, was perfectly conscious of everything, watched as in a dream whilst he wrenched open the clumsy fastening of the casement, heard the voices in the street below, heard too in the distance the sound of churcli bells, was vaguely conscious of relief as the cold air blew upon her.
She was lying on a couch, and, if left to herself, might have lain there for hours in that strange state of absolute prostration. But she was not alone, and gradually she realised it. Very slowly the re-beginning of life set in, the consciousness of her father's presence awaken- ed her as it were from her dream of unmitigated pain. She sat up, put her arms round his neck and kissed him ; then for a minute let her ach- ing head rest on his shoulder. Presently, in a low but steady voice, she said,
' What would you like me to do, father V
' To come home with me now if you are able,' he said ; ' to-morrow morning, though, if you would rather wait, dear.'
144 WE TWO.
But the idea of waiting seemed intolerable to her. The very sound of the word was hatefuL Had she not waited two weary years, and this was the end of it all? Any action, any present doing however painful, but no more waiting ! No terrible pause in which more thoughts and, therefore, more pain might grow. Outside in. the passage they met Madame Lemercier, and presently Erica found herself surrounded by kind helpers, wondering to find them all so tearful when her own eyes felt so hot and dry. They were very good to her ; but, separated from her father, her sorrow again completely overwhelmed her, she could not then feel the slightest gratitude to them or the slightest comfort from their sympathy. She lay motion- less on her little white bed, her eyes fixed on the wooden cross on the opposite wall, or from time to time glancing at Fraulein Sonnenthal, who, with little Ninette to help, was busily packing her trunk. And all the while 'she said again and again the words which summed up her sorrow,
' Mother is dead ! Mother is dead !'
TVHAT THE NEW YEAK BROUGHT. 145
After a time her eyes fell on her elaborate- ly-drawn paper of days. Every evening since her first arrival she had gone through the al- most religious ceremony of marking-ofF the day ; it had often been a great consolation to her. The paper was much worn ; the weeks and days yet to be marked were few in number. She looked at it now, and if there can be a 'more' to absolute grief, an additional pang to unmitigated sorrow, it came to her at the sight of that visible record of her long exile. She snatched down the paper and tore it to jDieces ; then sank back again, pale and breathless, Fraulein Sonnenthal saw and understood. She came to her, and kissed her.
' Herzblattchen,' she said, almost in aw^iisper^ and, after a moment's pause, ' Ein feste Burg ist nnser Gott.'
Erica made an impatient gesture, and turned away her head.
' Why does she choose this time of all others to tell me so,' she thought to herself. ' Now, "when I can't argue or even think ! A sure tower ! Could a delusion make one feel that
YOL. I. L
146 WE TWO.
anything is sure but death at such a time as this ! Everything is gone — or going. Mother is dead ! — mother is dead ! Yet she meant to be be kind, poor Thekla, she didn't know it would hurt.'
Madame Lemercier came into the room with a cup of coifee and a brioche.
' You have a long journey before you, my little one/ she said ; ' you must take this before you start.'
Yes, there was the journey ! that was a com- fort. There was som.ething to be done, some- thing hard and tiring — surely it would blunt her perceptions ! She started up with a strange sort of energy, put on her hat and cloak, swal- lowed the food with an effort, helped to lock her trunk, moved rapidly about the room, look- ing for any chance possession which might have been left out. There was such terrible anguish in her tearless eyes that little Ninette shrank away from her in alarm. Madame Lemercier, who in the time of the siege had seen great suffering, had never seen anything like this ; even Thekla Sonnenthal realised that for the
WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 147
time she was beyond the reach of human comfort.
Before long the farewells were over. Erica was once more alone with her father, her cheeks w^et with the tears of others, her own eyes still hot and dry. They were to catch the four o'clock train ; the afternoon was dark, and al- ready the streets and shops were lighted ; Paris, ever bright and gay, seemed to-night brighter and gayer than ever. She watched the placid-looking passengers_, the idle loungers at the cafes ; — did they know what pain was ? Did they know that death was sure ? Present- ly she found herself in a second-class carriage, wedged-in between her father and a heavy- featured priest, who diligently read a little dogs'-eared breviary. Opposite was a meek, weasel-faced bourgeois, with a managing wife, who ordered him about ; then came a bushy- whiskered Englishman and a newly-married couple, while in the further corner, nearly hidden from view by the burly priest, lurked a gentle- looking Sister of Mercy, and a mischievous and fidgetty schoolboy. She watched them all as
l2
148 WE TWO.
in a dream of pain. Presently the priest left-off muttering and began to snore, and sleep fell, too, upon the occupants of the opposite seat. The little weasel-faced man looked most un- comfortable, for the Englishman used him as a prop on one side and the managing wife nearly overwhelmed him on the other ; he slept fitfully, and always with the air of a martyr, waking up every few minutes and vainly trying to shake off his burdens, who invariably made stifled exclamations and sank back again.
' That would have been funny once,' thought Erica to herself. ' How I should have laughed. Shall I always be like this all the rest of my life, seeing what is ludicrous, yet with all the fun taken out of it?'
But her brain reeled at the thought of the ' rest of life.' The blank of bereavement, terri- ble to allj was absolute and eternal to her, and this was her first great sorrow. She had known pain, and privation, and trouble and anxiety, but actual anguish never. Now it had come to her, suddenly, irrevocably, never to be either more or less ; perhaps to be fitted on as a gar-
WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 149
ment as time wore on, and to become a natural part of her life ; but always to be the same, a blank often felt, always present, till at length her end came and she too passed away into the great Silence.
Despair — the deprivation of all hope — is sometimes wild, but oftener calm with a death- ly calmness. Erica was absolutely still, — she scarcely moved or spoke during the long weary journey to Calais. Twice only did she feel the slightest desire for any outward vent. At the Amiens station the school-boy in the corner, who had been growing more restless and excited every hour, sprang from the carriage to greet a small crowd of relations who were waiting to welcome him. She saw him rush to his mother, heard a confused, affectionate Babel of tongues, inquiries, congratulations, laughter. Oh! to think of that happy light-heartedness and the contrast between it and her grief. The laughter seemed positively to cut her ; she could have screamed from sheer pain. And, as if cruel contrasts were fated to confront her, no sooner had her father established her in the
150 WE TWO.
cabin on board the steamer, than two bright- looking Enghsh girls settled themselves .close hjj and began chatting merrily about the New Year and the novel beginning it would be on board a Channel steamer. Erica tried to stop her ears that she might not hear the discussion of all the forthcoming gaieties : ' Lady Keed- ham's dance on Thursday, our own, you know, next week/ &c,, &c. But she could not shut out the sound of the merry voices, or that wounding laughter.
Presently an exclamation made her look and listen.
' Hark !' said one of her fellow-passengers. ' We shall start now ; I heard the clock striking twelve. A happy New Year to you, Lily, and all possible good fortune.'
' Happy New Year !' echoed from different corners of the cabin ; the little Sister of Mercy knelt down and told her beads, the rest of the passengers talked, congratulated, laughed. Erica would have given worlds to be able to cry, but she could not. The terrible mockery of her surroundings was too great, however.
WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 151
to be borne ; her heart seemed like ice, her head like fire, with a sort of feverish strength she rushed out of the cabin, stumbled up the wind- ing staircase, and ran as if by instinct to that part of the deck where a tall, solitary figure stood up darkly in the dim light.
* It's too cold for you, my child,' said Raeburn, turning round at her approach.
' Oh, father, let me stay with you,' sobbed Erica, *■ I can't bear it alone.'
Perhaps he was glad to have her near him for his own sake, perhaps he recog- nised the truth to which she unconsciously testified that human nature does at times cry out for something other than self, stronger and higher.
He raised no more objections, they listened in silence till the sound of the church bells died away in the distance, and then he found a more sheltered seat and wrapped her up closely in his own plaid, and together they began their new year. The first lull in Erica's pain came in that midnight crossing; the heaving of the boat, the angry dashing of the waves, the foam-laden
152 WE TWO.
wind, all seemed to relieve her. Above all, there was comfort in the strong protecting arm round her. Yet she was too crushed and numb to be able to wish for anything but that the end might come for her there, that together they might sink down into the painless silence of death.
Raeburn only spoke once throughout the pas- sage, instinctively he knew what was passing in Erica's mind. He spoke the only word of comfort which he had to speak : a noble one, though just then very insufficient :
' There is work to be done.''
Then came the dreary landing in the middle of the dark winter's night, and presently they w^ere again in a railway carriage but this time alone. Raeburn made her lie down, and him- self fell asleep in the opposite corner; he had been travelling uninterruptedly for twenty hourSj had received a shock which had tried him very greatly, now from sheer exhaustion he slept. But Erica, to ^vhom the grief was more new, could not sleep. Every minute the pain of realisation grew keener. Here she w^as.in
WHAT THE IsEW YEAR BROUGHT. 153
England once more, this was the journey she had so often thought of and planned. This was going home ! Oh, the dreariness of the reality when compared with those bright ex- pectations ! And yet it was neither this thought nor the actual fact of her mother's death which first brought the tears to her burning eyes.
Wearily shifting her position, she looked across to the other side of the carriage, and saw, as if in a picture, her father. Kaeburn was a comparatively young man, very little over forty ; but his anxieties and the almost in- credible amount of hard work of the past two years had told upon him, and had turned his hair grey. There was something in his stern set face, in the strong man's reserved grief, in the pose of his grand-looking head, dignified even in exhaustion, that was strangely pa- thetic. Erica scarcely seemed to realise that he was her father. It was more as if she were gazing at some scene on the stage, or on a wonderfully graphic and heart-stirring picture. The pathos and sadness of it took hold of her ;
154 WE TWO.
she burst into a passion of tears, turned her face from the light, and cried as if no power on earth could ever stop her, her long-drawn sobs allowed to go unchecked since the noise of the train made them inaudible. She was so little given to tears, as a rule, that now they positively frightened her, nor could she under- stand how, with a real and terrible grief for which she could not weep, the mere pathetic sight should have brought down her tears like rain. But the outburst brought relief with it, for it left her so exhausted that for a brief half- hour she slept, and awoke just before they reached London, with such a frightful headache that the physical pain numbed the mental.
' How soon shall we be ' home she would
have said, but the word choked her. ' How soon shall we get there V she asked, faintly. She was so ill, so weary, that the mere thought of being still again — even in the death-visited home — was a relief, and she was really too much worn out to feel very acutely wdaile they drove through the familiar streets.
At last, early in the cold, new year's morn-
WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 155
lug, they were set down in Guilford Square, at the grim entrance to 'Persecution Alley.' She looked round at the grey old houses with a shudder ; then her father drew her arm within his, and led her down the dreary little cul de sac. There was the house, looking the same as ever, and there was Aunt Jean coming forward to met them, with a strange new tenderness in her voice and look, and there was Tom in the back- ground, seeming half shy and afraid to meet her in her grief, and there, above all, was the one great eternal void.
To watch beside the dying must be anguish, and yet surely not such keen anguish as to have missed the last moments, the last fare- wells, the last chance of serving. For those who have to come back to the empty house^ the home which never can be home again, may God comfort them — no one else can.
Stillness, and food, and brief snatches of sleep somewhat restored Erica. Late in the afternoon she was strong enough to go into her mother's room, for that last look so inexpressibly
156 WE TWO.
painful to all, so entirely void of hope or comfort to those who believe in no hereafter. Not even the peacefulness of death was there to give even a slight, a momentary relief to her pain ; she scarcely even recognised her mother. Was thatj indeed, all that was left ? that pale, rigid, utterly changed face and form ? Was that her mother? Could that once have been her mo- ther? Very often had she heard this great change wrought by death referred to in dis- cussions ; she knew well the arguments which w^ere brought forward by the believers in im- mortality, the counter arguments with which her father invariably met them, and which had always seemed to her conclusive. But some- how that which seemed satisfactory in the lecture-hall did not answer in the room of death. Her whole being seemed to flow out into one longing question. Might there not be a Beyond — an Unseen? Was this w^orld in- deed only
' A place to stand and love in for an hour, With darkness and the death-hour rounding it ?'
She had slept in the afternoon, but at night.
WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 157
when all was still, she could Dot sleep. The question still lurked in her mind ; her sorrow and loneliness grew almost unbearable. She thought if she could only make herself cry again perhaps she might sleep, and she took down a book about Giordano Bruno, and read the account of his martyrdom, an account which always moved her very much. But to- night not even the description of the valiant unshrinking martyr of Freethought ascendiug the scaffold to meet his doom could in the slightest degree affect her. She tried another book, this time Dickens' ' Tale of Two Cities.' She had never read the last two chapters without feeling a great desire to cry ; but to- night she read with perfect unconcern of Sidney Carton's wanderings through Paris on the night before he gave himself up, — read the last marvellously-written scene without the slight- est emotion. It was evidently no use to try anything else ; she shut the book, put out her candle, and once more lay down in the- dark.
Then she began to think of the words which
158 WE TWO.
bad so persistently haunted Sidney Carton, * I am the Resurrection and the Life.' She, too, seemed to be wandering about the Parisian streets, hearing these words over and over again. She knew that it was Jesus of Nazareth who had said this. What an assertion it was for a man to make ! It was not even ' I bring the resurrection ' or ' I give the resurrection,' but * I am the Resurrection ' ! And yet, according to her father, his humility had been excessive, carried almost to a fault. Was he the most in- consistent man that ever lived, or what was he ? At last she thought she would get up and see whether there was any qualifying context, and when and where he had uttered this tremendous saying.
Lighting her candle she crept, a little shiver- ing, white-robed figure, round the book-lined room, scanning the titles on every shelf, but Bibles were too much in use in that house to be relegated to the attics, she found only the least interesting and least serviceable of her father's books. There was nothing for it but to go down to the study ; so wrapping herself up, for
WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 159
it was a freezing wiiiter^s i^igtit, she went noise- lessly downstairs, and soon found every possible facility for biblical research.
A little baffled and even disappointed to find the words in that which she regarded as the least authentic of the gospels, she still resolved to read the account ; she read it, indeed, in two or three translations, and conapared each closely with the others, but in all the words stood out in uncompromising greatness of assertion. This man claimed to he the resurrection, or as Wyclif had it, the ^ agen risyng and lyf.'
And then poor Erica read on to the end of the story and was quite thrown back upon herself by the account of the miracle which followed. It was a beautiful story, she said to herself, poetically written, graphically described, but as to believing it to be true, she could as soon have accepted the ' Midsummer Night's Dream ' as having actually taken place.
Shivering with cold she put the books back on their shelf, and stole upstairs once more to bear her comfortless sorrow as best she could.
160
CHAPTER VIII.
' WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT V
Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, came to
meet her, With the life within departed that had given them each a
soul ; And her sick heart even slighted gentle words that came to
greet her,
For grief spread its shadowy pinions like a blight upon the
whole.
A. A. Procter.
The winter sunshine which glanced in a side- long, half-and-half way into ' Persecution Alley,' and struggled in at the closed blinds of Erica's little attic, streamed unchecked into a far more cheerful room in Guilford Square, and illum- ined a breakfast-table, at w^hich was seated one occupant only, apparently making a late
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 161
and rather hasty meal. He was a man of about eight and twenty, and though he was not ab- solutely good-looking, his face was one which people turned to look at again, not so much because it was in any way striking as far as features went, but because of an unusual lumiu- ousness which pervaded it. The eyes, which were dark grey, were peculiarly expressive, and their softness, which might to some have seemed a trifle unmasculine, was counterbalanced by the straight, dark, noticeable eyebrows, as well as by a thoroughly manly bearing and a general impression of unfailing energy which character- ised the whole man. His hair, short beard and moustache were of a deep nut-brown. He was of medium height and very muscular-looking.
On the whole it was as pleasant a face as you would often meet with, and it was not to be wondered at that his old grandmother looked up pretty frequently from her arm-chair by the fire, and watched him with that beautiful loving pride which in the aged never seems exaggerated and very rarely misplaced.
' You were out very late, were you not, VOL. I. M
162 WE TWO.
Brian V she observed, letting her knitting- needles rest for a minute, and scrutinising the rather weary-looking man.
' Till half-past five this morning,' he replied, in a somewhat preoccupied voice.
There was a sad look in his eyes, too, which his grandmother partly understood. She knit- ted another round of her sock and then said,
' Have you seen Tom Craigie yet V
'Yes, last night I came across him,' replied Brian. ' He told me she had come home. They travelled by night and got in early yesterday morning.'
* Poor little thing!' sighed old Mrs. Osmond. ' What a home-coming it must have been !'
' Grannie,' said Brian, pushing back his chair and drawing nearer to the fire, ' I want you to tell me what I ought to do. I have a message to her from her mother, there was no one else to take it, you know, except the landlady, and I suppose she did not like that. I want to know when I might see her; one has no right to keep it back, and yet how am I to know whether she is fit to bear it ? I can't write it
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 163
down, it won't somehow go on to paper, yet I can hardly ask to see her yet.'
' AVe cannot tell that the message might not comfort her,' said Mrs. Osmond. Then after a few minutes' thought she added, ' I think, Brian, if I were you, I would write her a little note, tell her why you want to see her, and let her fix her own time. You will leave it entirely in her own hands in that way.'
He mnsed for a minute, seemed satisfied with the suggestion, and, moving across to the writing-table, began his first letter to his love. Apparently it Avas hard to write, for he wasted several sheets, and much time that he could ill afford. When it was at length finished, it ran as follows ;
* Dear Miss Raeburx,
' I hardly like to ask to see you yet for fear you should think me intrusive, but a message was intrusted to me on Tuesday night which I dare not of my- self keep back from you. Will you see me ?
M 2
164 WE TWO.
If you are able to, and will name the time
which will suit you best, I shall be very
grateful. Forgive me for troubling you, and believe me,
' Yours faithfully,
'Brian Osmond.'
He sent it off a little doubtfully, hy no means satisfied that he had done a wise thing. But when he returned from his rounds later in the day the reply set his fears at rest.
It was written lengthways across a sheet of paper : the small delicate writing was full of character, but betrayed great physical ex- haustion.
*■ It is good of you to think of us. Please come this afternoon if you are able.
^ Erica.'
That very afternoon ! Now that his wish was granted, now that he was indeed to see her, Brian would have given worlds to have postponed the meeting. He was well accus-
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 165
tomed to visiting sorrow-stricken people, but from meeting such sorrow as that in theRaeburns' house he shrank back feeling his insufficiency. Besides, what words were delicate enough to convey all that had passed in that death-scene? How could he dare to attempt in speech all that the dying mother would fain have had conveyed to her child? And then his own love ! Would not that be the greatest difficulty of all ? Feel- ing her grief as he did^ could he yet modify his manner to suit that of a mere outsider — • almost a stranger? He w^as very diffident; though longing to see Erica, he would yet have given anything to be able to transfer his work to his father. This, however, was of course impossible.
Strange though it might seem^ he — the most unsuitable of all men in his own eyes — was the man singled out to bear this message, to go to the death-visited household. He went about his afternoon work in a sort of steady, mechan- ical manner, the outward veil of his inward agitation. About four o'clock he was free to go to Guilford Terrace.
166 WE TWO.
He was shown into the little. sitting-room ; it was the room in which Mrs. Raeburn had died, and the mere sight of the outer surroundings, the well-worn furniture, the book-lined walls, made the whole scene vividly present to him. The room was empty, there was a blazing fire but no other light, for the blinds were down, and even the winter twilight shut out. Brian sat down and waited. Presently the door opened, he looked up and saw Erica approach- ing him. She was taller than she had been w^hen he last saw her, and now grief had given her a peculiar dignity which made her much more like her father. Every shade of colour had left her face, her golden-brown eyes were full of a limitless pain, the eyelids were slightly reddened, but apparently rather from sleepless- ness than from tears, the whole face was so altered that a mere casual acquaintance would hardly have recognised it, except by the un- changed waves of short auburn hair which still formed the setting as it were to a picture, love- ly even now. Only one other thing was un- changed, and that was the frank, unconvention-
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 167
al manner. Even in her grief she conld not be quite like other people.
' It is very good of you to let me see you,' said Brian, ' you are sure you are doing right ; it will not be too much for you to-day.' * * There is no great difference in days^ I think,' said Erica, sitting down on a low chair beside the fire. 'I do not very much believe in de- grees in this kind of grief, I do not see why it should be ever more or ever less. Perhaps I am, wrong, it is all new to me.'
She spoke in a slow, steady, low-toned voice. There was an absolute hopelessness about her whole aspect which was terrible to see. A mo- ment's pause followed, then, looking up at Brian, she fancied that she read in his face something of hesitation, of a consciousness that he could ill express what he wished to say, and her innate courtesy made her even now hasten to relieve him.
* Don't be afraid of speaking,' she said, a softer light coming into her eyes. 'I don't know why people shrink from meeting trouble. Even Tom is half afraid of me. I am not
168 WE TWO.
changed, I am still Erica; can't you understand how much I want everyone now V
* People differ so much V said Brian, a little huskily, ' and then when one feels strongly words do not come easily.'
' Do you think I would not rather have your sympathy than an oration from anyone else ! You who were here to the end ! you who did everything for — for her. My father has told me very little, he was not able to, but he told me of you, how helpful you were, how good, not like an outsider at all !'
Evidently she clung to the comforting recol- lection that at least one trustable, sympathetic person had been with her mother at the last. Brian could only say how little he had done, how much more he would fain have done had it been possible.
' I think you do comfort me by talking,' said Erica. ' And now I want you, if you don't mind, to tell me all from the very first. I can't torture my father by asking him, and I couldn't bear it from the landlady. But you were here, you can tell me all. Don't be afraid of hurting
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 169
me ; can't you understand, if the past were the only thing left to you, you would want to know every tiniest detail V
He looked searchingly into her eyes, he thought she was right. There were no degrees to pain like hers ! besides, it was quite possible that the lesser details of her mother's death might bring tears which would relieve her. Very quietly, very reverently, he told her all that had passed, — she already knew that her mother had died from aneurism of the heart, — he told her how in the evening he had been sum- moned to her, and from the first had known that it was hopeless, had been obliged to tell her that the time for speech even was but short. He had ordered a telegram to be sent to her father at Birmingham, but Mrs. Craigie and Tom were out for the evening, and no one knew where they were to be found. He and the landlady had been alone.
'She spoke constantly of you,' he continued. ' The very last words she said were these, " Tell Erica that only love can keep from bitterness, that love is stronger than the world's un-
170 WE TWO.
kindness." Then after a minute's pause she added, " Be good to my little girl, promise to be good to her." After that, speech became im- possible, but I do not think she suffered. Once she motioned to me to give her the frame off the mantelpiece w^ith your photograph; she looked at it and kept it near her, — she died ■with it in her hand.'
Erica hid her face ; that one trifling little in- cident was too much for her, the tears rained down between her fingers. That it should have come to that ! no one whom she loved there at the last — but she had looked at the photo- graph, had held it to the very end, the voiceless, useless picture had been there, the real Erica had been laughing and talking at Paris ! Brian talk- ed on slowly, soothingly. Presently he paused; then Erica suddenly looked up, and dashing away her tears, said, in a voice which was terri- ble in its mingled pain and indignation,
*■ I might have been here ! I might have been with her ! It is the fault of that wretched man who w^ent bankrupt ; the fault of the bigots who will not treat us fairly — who ruin us !'
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 171
She sobbed with passionate pain, a vivid streak of crimson dyed her cheek, contrasting strangely with the deathly whiteness of her brow.
' Forgive me if I pain yon,' said Brian ; ' but have you forgotten the message I gave you ? " It is only love that can keep from bitter- ness !" '
' Love !^ cried Erica ; she could have screamed it, if she had not been so physically exhausted. ' Do you mean I am to love our enemies !'
* It is only the love of all humanity that can keep from bitterness,' said Brian.
Erica began to think over his reply, and in thinking grew calm once more. By-and-by she lifted up her face; it was pale again now, and still, and perfectly hopeless.
' I suppose you think that only Christians can love all humanity,' she said, a little coldly.
' I should call all true lovers of humanity Christians,' replied Brian, ' whether they are consciously followers of Christ or not.'
She thought a little; then, with a curiously hard look in her face, she suddenly flashed round upon
172 WE TWO.
bim with a questioD, much as her father was in the habit of doing when an adversary had made some broad-hearted statement which had baffled him.
' Some of you give us a little more charity than others ; but what do you mean by Christ- ianity ? You ask us to believe what is iucredi- ble. Why do you believe in the resurrection? What reason have you for thinking it true V
She expected him to go into the evidence question, to quote the number of Christ's appearances, to speak of the five hundred wit- nesses of whom she was weary of hearing. Her mind was proof against all this ; what could be more probable than that a number of devoted followers should be the victims of some optical delusion, especially when their minds were disturbed by giief. Here was a miracle sup- ported on one side by the testimony of five hundred and odd spectators all longing to see their late Master, and contradicted on the other side by common-sense and the experience of the remainder of the human race during thousands of years ! She looked full at Brian, a hard yet
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 17^
almost exultant expression in her eyes, which spoke more plainly than words her perfect con- viction : —
'You can't set your evidences against my counter-evidences ! you can't logically maintain that a few uneducated men are to have more weight than all the united experience of man- kind.'
Never would she so gladly have believed in the doctrine of iai mortality as now, yet with characteristic honesty and resoluteness she set herself into an attitude of rigid defence, lest through strong desire or mere bodily weariness she should drift into the acceptance of what might be, what indeed she considered to be error. But to her surprise, half to her disappointment, Brian did not even mention the evidences. She had braced herself up to withstand arguments drawn from the five hundred brethren, but the preparation was useless.
' I believe in the resurrection/ said Brian, * because I cannot doubt Jesus Christ. He is the most perfectly loveable and trustable Being
174 WE TWO.
I know, or can conceive of knowing. He said He should rise again, I believe that He did rise. He was perfectly truthful, therefore He could not mislead : He knew, therefore He could not be misled.'
' W do not consider Him to be all that you assert,' said Erica. ' Nor do His followers make one inclined to think that either He or His teaching Avere so perfect as you try to make out. You are not so hard-hearted as most of them '
She broke off, seeing a look of pain on her companion's face.
' Oh, what am I saying !' she cried, in a very different tone, ' you who have done so much — you who were always good to us, — I did not indeed mean to hurt you^ it is your creed that I can't help hating, not you. You are our friend, you said so long ago.'
'Always,' said Brian, 'never doubt that.'
' Then you must forgive me for having wounded you/ said Erica, her whole face softening. ' You must remember how hard it all is, and that I am so very, very miserable.'
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 175
He would have given his life to bring her comfort, but he was not a very great believer in words, and, besides, he thought she had talked quite as long as she ought.
' I think,' he said, ' that, honestly acted out, the message entrusted to me ought to c iifort your misery.'
* 1 can't act it out,' she said.
' You will begin to try,' was Brian's answer ; and then, with a very full heart, he said good- bye and left his Undine sitting by the fire, with her head resting on her hands and the words of her mother's message echoing in her ears. 'It is only love that can keep from bitterness, love is stronger than the w^orld's un- kindness.*
Presently, not daring to dwell too much on that last scene which Brian had described, she turned to his strange, unexpected reason for his belief in the resurrection, and mused over the characteristics of his ideal. Then she thought she would like to see again what her ideal man had to say about his, and she got up and searched for a small book in a Hmp red cover.
176 WE TWO.
labelled ' Life of Jesus of Nazareth. Luke Rae- burn.' It was more than two years since she had seen it ; she read it through once more. The style was vigorous, the veiled sarcasms were not unpleasant to her, she detected no unfair- ness in the mode of treatment, the book satis- fied her, the conclusion arrived at seemed to her inevitable — Brian Osmond's ideal was not perfect.
With a sigh of utter weariness she shut the book and leant back in her chair with a still, white, hopeless face. Presently Friskarina spraug up on her knee with a little sympa- thetic mew ; she had been too miserable as yet to notice even her favourite cat very much, now a scarcely perceptible shade of relief came to her sadness, she stroked the soft grey head* But scarcely had she spoken to her favourite, w^hen the cat suddenly turned away, sprang from her knee and trotted out of the room. It seemed like actual desertion, and Erica could ill bear it just then.
' What, you too, Friskie,' she said to herself, ' are even you glad to keep away from me?'
WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 177
She hid her face in her hands ; desolate and miserable as she had been before, she now felt more completely alone.
In a few minutes something warm touching her foot made her look up, and with one bound Friskarina sprang into her lap, carrying in her mouth a young kitten. She purred contented- ly, looking first at her child and then at her mistress, saying as plainly as if she had spoken,
' Will this comfort you V
Erica stroked and kissed both cat and kitten, and for the first time since her trouble a feeling of warmth came to her frozen heart.
VOL. I. N
178
CHAPTER IX.
ROSE.
A life of unalloyed content,
A life like that of land-locked seas.
J. R. Lowell.
^ Elspeth, you really must tell me, I'm dying of curiosity, and I can see by your face you know all about it ! How is it that grandpapa^s name is in the papers when he has been dead all these years ? I tell you I saw it, a little paragraph in to-day's paper, headed, ' Mr. Luke Raeburn.' Is this another namesake who has something to do with him V
The speaker was a tall, bright-looking girl of eighteen, a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired blonde, with a saucy little mouth, about which there now lurked an expression of undisguised
ROSE. 179
curiosity. Rose^ for that was her name, was something of a coax, and all her life long she had managed to get her own way ; she was an only child, and had been not a little spoilt ; but in spite of many faults she was loveable, and beneath her outer shell of vanity and self- satisfaction there lay a sterling little heart.
Her companion, Elspeth, was a wrinkled old woman, whose smooth grey hair was almost hidden by a huge mob-cap, which, in defiance of modern custom, she wore tied under her chin. She had nursed Rose and her mother before her, and had now become more like a family friend than a servant.
''Miss Rose,' she replied, looking up from her workj ' if you go on chatter-magging aw^ay like this, there'll be no frock ready for you to- night/ and with a most uncommunicative air, the old woman turned away, and gave a little impressive shake to the billowy mass of white tarlatan to which she was putting the finishing- touches.
* The white lilies just at the side,' said Rose, her attention diverted for a moment. ' Won't
N 2
180 WE TWO.
it be lovely ! the prettiest dress in. the room, I'm sure/ Then, her en riositj returning, 'But, Els- peth. I shan't enjoy the dance a bit unless you tell me what Mr. Luke Raeburn has to do with us? Listen, and I'll tell you how I found out. Papa brought the paper up to mamma, and said, "Did you see thisf And then mamma read it, and the colour came all over her face, and she did not say a word, but went out of the room pretty soon. And then I took up the paper, and looked at the page she had been reading, and saw grandpapa's name.'
' What was it about?' asked old Elspeth.
' That's just what I couldn't understand; it was all about secularists. What are secularists ? But it seems that this Luke Raeburn, whoever he is, has lost his wife. While he was lecturing at Birmingham on the soul, it said his wife died, and this paragraph said it seemed like a judgment, which was rather cool^ I think.'
'Poor laddie !' sighed old Elspeth.
' Elspeth/ cried Rose. ' do you know who the man is V
' Miss Rose,^ said the old woman, severely,
ROSE. 181
*iii my youDg days there was a saying that you'd do well to lay to heart, '• Ask no ques- tions, and you'll be told no stories." '
'It isn't your young days now, it's your old days, Elsie/ said the inaperturbable Rose. ' I will ask you questions as much as I please, and you'll tell me what this mystery means, there's a dear old nursie ! Have I uot a right to know about my own relations?'
' Ohj bairn ! bairn ! if it were anything you'd like to hear; but why should you know what is all sad and gloomful ? No, no, go to your balls, and think of your fine dresses and gran' partners, though, for the matter of that, it is but vanity of vanities '
' Oh, if you're going to quote Ecclesiastes, I shall go I' said Rose, pouting. ' I wish that book wasnH in the Bible !' I'm sure such an old grumbler ought to have been in the Apocrypha.^
Elspeth shook her head, and muttered some- thing about judgment and trouble. Rose began to be doubly curious.
Trouble, sadness, a mystery — perhaps a
182 WE TWO.
tragedy ! Rose had read of such things in books ; were there such things actually in the family, and she had never known of them ? A few hours ago and she had been unable to think of anything but her first ball, her new dress, her flowers ; but she was seized now with the most intense desire to fathom this mystery. That it bid fair to be a sad mystery only made her more eager and curious. She was so young, so ignorant, there was still a halo of romance about those unknown things, trouble and sadness.
' Elspeth, you treat me like a child !' she ex- claimed; 'it's really too bad of you.'
' Maybe you're rights bairn,^ said the old nurse; 'but it's no doing of mine. But look here, Miss Rose, you be persuaded by me, go straight to your mamma and ask her yourself. Maybe there is a doubt whether you oughtn't to know, but there is no doubt that I mustn't tell you.'
Rose hesitated, but presently her curiosity overpowereel her reluctance.
Mrs. Fane-Smith, or, as she had been called
ROSE. 183
in her maiden days. Isabel RaeburD, was re- markably like her daughter in so far as features and colouring were concerned, but she was ex- ceedingly unlike her in character, for whereas Rose was vain and self-confident, and had a decided will of her own, her mother was diffi- dent and exaggeratedly humble. She was a kind-hearted and a good woman, but she was in danger of losing almost all the real blessed- ness of life by perpetually harassing herself with the question, ' What will people say V
She looked up apprehensively as her daughter came into the room. Rose felt sure she had been crying, her curiosity was still further stimulated, and with all the persuasiveness at her command, she urged her mother to tell her the meaning of the mysterious paragraph.
' I am sorry you have asked me,' said Mrs. Fane-Smith, 'but, perhaps, since you are no longer a child you had better know. It is a sad story, however. Rose, and I should not have chosen to tell it you to-day of all days.^
'But I want to hear, mamma,' said Rose, decidedly. ' Please begin. Who is this Mr. Raeburn?'
184 WE TWO.
' He is my brother,' said Mrs. Fane-Smitb, ^vith a little quiver in her voice.
' Your brother ! My uncle I' cried Rose, in amazement.
'Luke was the eldest of us,' said Mrs. Fane- Smith, *then came Jean, and I was the youngest of all, at least of those who lived.'
^ Then 1 have an aunt, too, an aunt Jean !' exclaimed Rose.
' You shall hear the whole stor}^' replied her mother. She thought for a minute, then in rather a low voice she began. ' Luke and Jean were always the clever ones, Luke especially ; your grandfather had set his heart on his being a clergyman, and you can fancy the grief it was to us when he threw up the whole idea, and declared that he could never take orders. He was only nineteen when he renounced religion altogether; he and my father had a great dispute, and the end of it was that Luke w^as sent away from home, and T have never seen him since. He has become a very notorious infidel lecturer. Jean was very much unsettled by his change of views, and I believe her real
ROSE. 185
reason for marrjii]^' old Mr. Craigie was that she had made him promise to let her see Luke again. She married young and settled down in London, and when, in a few years, her husband died, she too renounced Christianity.'
To tell the truth, Rose w^as not deeply inter- ested in the story, it fell a little flat after her expectations of a tragedy. It had, moreover, a sort of missionary flavour, and she had till the last few months lived in India, and had grown heartily tired of the details