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We Two

by Edna Lyall

December, 1999 [Etext #2007]

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Etext typed by Theresa Armao

We Two

By Edna Lyall

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 every neighbor 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 somewhat

bewildered way, 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 we 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 in

the Bloomsbury regions, had an engagement which took him every

afternoon down Gower Street, and here many faces had grown familiar

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 whom he took any interest was a certain

bright-faced little girl whom he generally met just before the

Montague Place crossing. He always called her his "little girl,"

though she was by no means little in the ordinary 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

day. Sometimes she would be in a great hurry and would almost run

past him; sometimes she would saunter along in the most

unconventional 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 consuming

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 directions. 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 her before. Her quaint face had always fascinated 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 regular, were delicate and

piquant; the usual faint rose-flush on the cheeks deepened now to

carnation, 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. Today it was clear

that the mood was not a happy one.

"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 wasn't thinking or looking; it was very careless

of me."

Brian of course took all the blame to himself, and apologized

profusely; but though he would have given much to detain her, if

only 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. 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 gray eyes who had apologized 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 curiously hard expression,

the hands were clasped with unnecessary tightness round the

umbrella.

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 grim flagstones. Here, facing a high blank

wall, are four or five very dreary houses. She entered one of

these, put down her wet umbrella in the shabby little hall, and

opened the door of a barely furnished room, the walls of which

were, however, lined with books. Beside the fire was the one

really comfortable piece of furniture in the room, an Ikeley couch,

and upon it lay a very wan-looking invalid, who glanced up with a

smile of welcome. "Why, Erica, you are home early today. How is

that?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Erica, tossing down her books in a way

which showed her mother that she was troubled about something. "I

suppose I tore along at a good rate, and there was no temptation to

stay at the High School."

"Come and tell me about it," said the mother, gently, "what has

gone wrong, little one?"

"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 today you enjoyed it so much."

"Yes, the classes and the being with Gertrude. But that will never

be the same again. It's just this, mother, I'm never to speak to

Gertrude again--to have noting more to do with her."

"Who said so? And Why?"

"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 horrified to learn that we were

friends, made her promise never to speak to me again, and made her

write this note about it. Look!" and she took a crumpled envelope

from her 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 learned 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 or died. But there's no reason! It's all

prejudice and bigotry and injustice; 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 which 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 realize 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

realize that you are cut off from much that other girls may

enjoy."

"Why?" questioned Erica. "Why can't they be friendly? Why must

they cut us off from everything?"

"It does seem unjust; 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 when the very first thing they show us is hatred

and meanness. Oh! If I belonged to the other side I would show

them how different it might be."

"I believe you would," said the mother, smiling 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.

The "garden" was Erica's favorite 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 satisfaction had nursed a few

flowers and shrubs into tolerably healthy though smutty life. In

one of the corners, Tom Craigie, her favorite cousin, had put up a

rough wooden bench for her, and here she read and dreamed as

contentedly as if her "garden ground" had been fairy-land. 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 of her readiness to see the ludicrous in everything, 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, certainly, 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-colored

wall, and chirped and twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps

recognizing the scatter of its daily bread.

"After all," though 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 the practical, she took

out of her pocket a shabby little sealskin purse.

"Still sixpence of my 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 Southampton Row. She hurried along the wet

pavements, 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. Sometimes

she would carry away a verse of Swinburne, which would ring in her

ears for days and days; sometimes she would read as much as two or

three pages of Shelley. No one had every interrupted her, and a

certain sense of impropriety and daring was rather stimulating 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 meter, 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, gray-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly

eyes, and his son, the same Brian Osmond whom Erica had charged

with her umbrella in Gower Street.

"An outside customer for you," remarked Charles Osmond, the

clergyman, glancing at the shop keeper. Then to his son, "What a

picture 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 surprised 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?" 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! And Luke

Raeburn was an atheist leader!

For a few minutes 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

blow 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 suddenly shadowed by an

unthought of pain, but presently began to shine with a new and

altogether different luster. 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! There is Mr. Raeburn, on

the other side of the Row! Fine-looking man, isn't he?"

Brian, looking up eagerly, fancied he must be mistaken for the

only passenger in sight 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 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! But do look at this,

it's the loveliest thing in 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

sixpence! 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."

"Very likely," replied the 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

another's laziness. There! Sit down and eat them while you can."

The child sat down on the 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 people 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 with the top cut off, a suspicious sort of charity

which always angered the waif--but his own food, bought for his

own consumption. Most wonderful 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 feeling 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, reproachfully.

"And I ruthlessly gave them away," said Raeburn, smiling. "That

was hard lines; I though 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 every one that she was not a boy. But Raeburn

had long ago ceased to regret this, and the nickname referred more

to Erica's capability of being both son and daughter to him, able

to help him in his work and at the same time 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 celebrated 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?"

"I had rather not tell you, father, it isn't anything much," said

Erica, casting down her eyes as if all at once the paving stones

had become absorbingly interesting.

"I fancy I know already," said Raeburn. "It is about your friend

at the High School, is it not. I thought so. This afternoon I had

a letter from her father."

"What does he say? May I see it?" asked Erica.

"I tore it up," said Raeburn, "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?"

"Gertrude wrote 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 burned 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 remarked, 'is to be left to the children of

misbelievers, and that only as an act of mercy.' You must make up

your mind to bear the social stigma, child. Do you see the moral

of this?"

"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 one, 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 bye, it is rather doubtful if Tom will be able to come to

the lecture tonight; do you think you can take notes for me

instead?"

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.

Not 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.

Whittier.

Luke Raeburn was the son of a Scotch clergyman 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 to

content themselves with shuddering at the mention of his name; very

few troubled themselves to think or inquire how this man had been

driven into atheism. Had they done so they might, perhaps, have

treated him more considerately, at any rate they must have learned

that the much-disliked prophet of atheism was the most

disinterested of men, one who had the courage of his opinions, a

man of fearless honesty.

Raeburn had lost his mother very early; his father, a well-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

quietly 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. But for his son he was ambitious. Ever since his

sixteenth year--when, at a public meeting the boy had, to the

astonishment of every one, suddenly sprung to his feet and

contradicted a false statement made by a great landowner as to the

condition of the cottages on his estate--the father had foreseen

future triumphs for his son. For the speech, though

unpremeditated, was marvelously clever, and there was a power in it

not to be accounted for by a certain ring of indignation; it was

the speech of a future orator.

Then, too, Luke had by this time shown signs of religious zeal, a

zeal which his father, though far from attempting to copy, could

not but admire. His Sunday services over, he relapsed into the

comfortable, easy-going life of a country gentleman for the rest of

the week; but his son was indefatigable, and, though little more

than a boy himself, gathered round him the roughest lads of the

village, and by his eloquence, and a certain peculiar personal

fascination which he retained all his life, absolutely forced them

to listen to him. The father augured great things 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 only too happy to carry out his father's

plans. In his very first term at Cambridge, however, he began to

feel doubts, and, becoming convinced 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 sympathize with any phase of life through which he had not

himself passed. He had never been troubled with religious doubts;

skepticism seemed to him monstrous and unnatural. He met the

confession, 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, and that he had no business to

trouble his head with matters which were beyond him, and would fain

have dismissed the whole affair at once.

"But," urged the son, "how is it possible for me to turn my back on

these matters when I am preparing to teach them?"

"Nonsense," replied the father, angrily. "Have not I taught all my

life, preached twice a Sunday these thirty years without perplexing

myself 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 skepticism 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

fatherhood which he possessed, was deeply wounded, and his dreams

of honorable distinction were laid low. His wrath was great. Luke

found the home made almost unbearable to him. His college 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 confessed his

atheism. He was hardly allowed to speak to his sisters, every

request for money to start him in some profession met with a sharp

refusal, and matters were becoming so desperate that he would

probably have left the place of his own accord before long, had not

Mr. Raeburn himself put an end to a state of things which had grown

insufferable.

With some lurking hope, perhaps, of convincing 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 endeavors; but he did not recognize that while 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 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

learned 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 connected with what he

considered the necessary process of "sowing his wild oats." But

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 HIM in argument--this

was an unpardonable offense.

A stormy scene ensued. The father, in ungovernable 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 sprung up in him an

enthusiasm for the cause of free thought, a passionate, burning

zeal for the opinions for which he suffered, which never left him,

but served as the great moving impulse of his whole subsequent

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."

"Can!" exclaimed the father, in a fury, "you WILL leave it, sir,

and this very day too! I disown you 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

Raeburn 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 goodbye, and obeyed his

orders.

Then had followed such a struggle with the world 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

starvation. By sheer force of will he had won his way, had risen

above adverse circumstances, had fought down obstacles, and

conquered opposing powers. Before long he had made fresh 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 injustice, 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 injustice which he encountered did indeed warp his

mind, and every year of controversy 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

desperately on the one thing left him--the love of humanity. To

him atheism meant not only the assertion--"The word God is a word

without meaning, it conveys nothing to my understanding." He added

to this barren confession 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

after-shine of Christianity. He held that the only happiness worth

having was that which 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 he 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 what he considered the truth. Neither illness

nor small results, nor loss, could quench his ardor, while

opposition invariably stimulated him to fresh efforts. After long

years of toil, he had at length attained an influential position 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 bookseller had very truly observed that there was more good

in him than people thought, he was in fact a noble character

twisted the wrong way by clumsy and mistaken handling.

Brian Osmond was by no means bigoted; he had moreover, known those

who were intimate with Raeburn, and consequently had heard enough

of the truth about him to disbelieve 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 daughter down Southampton Row, he was conscious that for

the first time he fully regarded the atheist as a fellow-man. The

fact was that Raeburn 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 he

who could hit hardest, who could most effectually baffle and ruin

him; while the quieter spirits contented themselves with rarely

mentioning his obnoxious name, and endeavoring 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 Raeburn 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-minded 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 having 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

bookseller. 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 neighbors! 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?"

"Yes, and I am just going round there now, for our friend the

'book-worm' tells me he has heard it rumored 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 how

indignant Donovan would be! I only wish he were here to take a

word to Mr. Raeburn."

"Will he not most likely have heard from some other source?" 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 bookseller's information had roused in Charles Osmond a keen

sense of indignation; he walked on rapidly as soon as he had left

his son, 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 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

uncarpeted, the window uncurtained, the room was almost dark; but

a red-glow of fire light served to show a large writing table

strewn with papers, and walls literally lined with books; also on

the hearth-rug a little figure curled up in the most

unconventionally comfortable attitude, dividing her attention

between making toast and fondling a loud-purring cat.

CHAPTER III. Life From Another Point of View

Toleration an attack on Christianity? What, then, are we to come

to this pass, to suppose that nothing can support 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. Burke

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.

"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?"

"I will wait, if I may," said Charles Osmond. "Oh, don't trouble

about a light. I like this dimness 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 hearth rug with her toasting fork.

"I like the gloaming, too," she said. "It's almost the only nice

thing which 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 without growing blase," said Erica.

"Sometimes I like just to fancy what life might be if there were no

tiresome Christians, and bigots, and lawsuits."

Charles Osmond laughed to himself in the dim light; the remark was

made with such perfect 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 lawsuit 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?'"

"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 overwork--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 when he heard about it, and whether

after that he believed that atheists are not necessarily everything

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 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?"

"I have no doubt it is," said Charles Osmond, thoughtfully.

And then for a minute or two there was silence. Erica, having

finished her toasting, stirred the fire into a blaze, and Charles

Osmond sat watching the fair, childish face which looked lovelier

than ever in the soft glow of the fire light. What would her

future be, he wondered. She seemed too delicate and sensitive 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 safeguard against the danger of bitterness lay

in her very evident love and loyalty 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 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 tonight," she said,

breaking the silence, "and perhaps write the account of it

afterward, too, and there's such a delightfully funny man coming to

speak on the other side."

"Mr. Randolph, is it not?"

"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 rumor that this Mr.

Randolph has hired a band of roughs to interrupt the meeting?"

Erica made an indignant exclamation.

"Perhaps that was what the telegram was about," she continued,

after a moment's thought. "We found it here when we came in.

Father said nothing, but went out very quickly to answer 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 hastened to assure her that what he had heard was the

merest rumor, 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, party 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 was a little bit of the Thames far away from

London, with a bank of many-tinted trees on one side, and out

beyond a range of low hills, purple in the evening light. In the

sky was a rosy sunset glow, melted above into saffron color, and

this was reflected in the water, gilding and mellowing the

foreground of sedge and water lilies. But what made the picture

specially charming was that the artist had really caught the

peculiar solemn stillness of evening; merely to look at that quiet,

peaceful river brought a feeling of hush and calmness. It seemed

a strange picture to find as the sole ornament in the study of a

man who had all his life been fighting the world.

Erica brightened up again, and seemed to forget her anxiety when he

questioned her as to the artist.

"There is such a nice story about that picture," she said, "I

always like to look at it. It was about two years ago, one very

cold winter's day, and a woman came with some oil paintings which

she was trying to sell for her husband, who was ill; he was rather

a good artist, but had been in bad health for a long time, till at

last she had really come to hawking about his pictures in this way,

because they were in such dreadful distress. Father was very much

worried 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, and 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

looked 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 looked 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 fancy 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. Charles 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 gray beard, had not

betrayed his clerical 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?"

"I 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 imagine 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 again. She had talked of

persecutions to one who was, at any rate, on the side of

persecutors; 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 wish you had

stopped me."

The beautiful color had spread and deepened 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 apologize," 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 delightful to me in

this artificial world to meet any one who talks quite naturally,

and the interest of hearing your view of the question kept me

silent. You must forgive me, and as you know I am 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 compliment 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 handshake.

"And, after all, you ARE too nice for a clergyman!" 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?"

"Why, naturally I hoped that a disturbance might be stopped."

"Is it natural?" questioned Erica. "I should 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 Christianity is right?"

"Yes, but to my mind perfect justice is part of Christianity."

"Oh," said Erica, in a tone which meant unutterable things.

"You think that Christians do not show perfect justice to you?"

said Charles Osmond, reading 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 practice 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 they make up wicked lies about us, and will hardly let us sit

in the same room with them!"

"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 be caught tripping again, she

resolved to say no more upon the subject.

"Let us talk of something else," she said.

"Something nicer?" 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 looking couple, the clergyman thought; the

tall, stately man, with his broad forehead and overshadowing masses

of auburn hair; the little eager-faced, impetuous girl, so winsome

in her unconventional frankness.

The conversation became a trifle more ceremonious, 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 report of Mr. Randolph's scheme,

and had already taken precautionary measures; but he was surprised

and gratified that Charles Osmond should have troubled to bring him

word about it. The two men talked on with the most perfect

friendliness; 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?" she exclaimed,

forgetting for the third time that he was a clergyman, and offering

the ready hospitality she would have offered to any one else.

"I should be delighted," he said, smiling, "if you can really put

up with one of the cloth."

Raeburn, amused at his daughter's spontaneous 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 find 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 you learn to be cautious, I wonder," said Mrs. Raeburn,

smiling. "You are a shocking little chatter-box."

And as Erica flitted busily about, arranging the tea table, her

mother watched her half musedly, half anxiously. She had always

been remarkably frank and outspoken, and there was something so

transparently sincere about her, that she seldom gave offense. 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 way she was anxious about the child's future, for Erica's was

a somewhat perplexing character, 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 with all these characteristics

was blended her father's indomitable courage and tenacity. Though

feeling the thorns of life far more keenly than most people, she

was one of those who will never yield; though pricked and wounded

by outward events, she would never be conquered by circumstances.

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 worshipped her father.

From the grief and indignation of the afternoon she had passed

with extraordinary rapidity to a state of merriment, which would

have been incomprehensible to one who did not understand her

peculiarly complex character. Mrs. Raeburn 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!" 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 every one'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 experience. 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

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 being, 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 surprise of finding a complete edition of Longfellow's

poems, bound in dark blue morocco. Inside was written: "From

another admirer of 'Hiawatha.'"

She started up with a rapturous exclamation, and the two men paused

in their talk, each unable to help watching the beautiful little

face all aglow with happiness. Erica almost danced round the room

with her new treasure.

"What HEAVENLY 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 Longfellow. "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

'Hiawatha,' nor Herr Haeberlein, nor Monsieur Noirol, nor any one

I can think of."

"Dealings with the fairies," said Raeburn, smiling. "Your

beggar-child with the scones suddenly transformed into a beneficent

rewarder."

"Not from you, father?"

Raeburn laughed.

"A pretty substantial fairy for you. No, no, I had no hand in it.

I can't give you presents while I am in debt, my bairn."

"Oh, isn't it jolly to get what one wants!" said Erica, with a

fervor which made the three grown-up people laugh.

"Very jolly," said Raeburn, giving her a little mute caress.

"But now, Erica, 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 notebook and sharpen

her pencil. "Isn't that a delightful bit where Hiawatha 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 tonight 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 get 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

tonight."

The mother talked on almost unreservedly about the subject that was

evidently nearest her heart--the difficulties 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 very

own, and did not that unexpected pleasure make up for a thousand

privations and discomforts?

Yet, with all her childishness and impetuosity, 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 lacking, 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.

CHAPTER IV. "Supposing it is true!"

A man who strives earnestly and perseveringly to convince others,

at least convinces us that he is convinced himself. Guesses at

Truth.

The rainy afternoon had given place to a fine and starlit night.

Erica, apparently in 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."

"Mr. Randolph is both energetic and unscrupulous," said Raeburn.

"But I doubt if even he would set his roughs upon you, little one,

unless he has become as blood thirsty 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 us--

"'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 heartily.

"They will only dash you against metaphorical rocks in the

nineteenth century," continued Raeburn. "I remember wondering why

the old clerk in my father's church always sung that verse lustily;

but you see we have exactly the same spirit now, only in a more

civilized form, barbarity changed to polite cruelty, as for

instance the way you were treated this afternoon."

"Oh, don't talk about that," said Erica, quickly, "I am going to

enjoy my Longfellow and forget the rest."

In truth, Charles Osmond was struck with this both in the father

and daughter; each had a way 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 everywhere with bitter and often

violent opposition, yet he seemed to live above it all, for there

was a wonderful repose about him, an extraordinary serenity in his

aspect, which would have seemed better fitted to a hermit than to

one who has 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 endure 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.

But when they got out again at their destination, 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 shrunk 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, Raeburn left them for a moment, pausing to give

directions to the door keepers. Just then, to his great surprise,

Charles Osmond caught sight of his son standing only a few paces

from them. His exclamation of astonishment made Erica look up.

Brian came forward eagerly to meet them.

"You here!" exclaimed his father, with a latent 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 ideal.

That she should be in the midst of that hooting mob made his heart

throb with indignation, yet there was something so sweet in her

grave, steadfast face that he was, nevertheless, glad to have

witnessed the scene. Her color 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 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 was not in some strange dream, found himself sitting with his

father and Erica in a crowded lecture hall, realizing 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 Raeburn was addressing many

who disagreed with him, he had evidently got the whole and

undivided attention of his audience; and indeed his gifts both as

rhetorician and orator were so great that they must have been

either willfully deaf or obtuse who, when under the spell of his

extraordinary earnestness and eloquence, could resist listening.

Not a word was lost on Brian; every sentence which emphasized the

great difference of belief between himself and his love seemed to

engrave itself on his heart; no minutest detail of that evening

escaped him.

He saw the tall, commanding figure of the orator, 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

notebook, was absorbed in her work. While the most vital questions

of life were being discussed, he was yet always aware of that hand

traveling 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, Raeburn's speech was,

on the whole, temperate; it certainly should have been met with

consideration. But, unfortunately, Mr. Randolph was incapable 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 champion of his own cause. Abusive epithets

abounded in his retort; at last he left the subject under

discussion altogether, and launched into personalities 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 which had long ago

steeled itself to endure; of a character which, though absolutely

refusing to yield to opposition, 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 notebook, and the carnation deepened in her cheek, while her

pencil sped over the paper fast and furiously. Presently came a

sharp retort from Raeburn, ending with the perfectly warrantable

accusation that Mr. Randolph was wandering from the subject of the

evening merely to indulge his personal spite. The audience was

beginning to be roused by the unfairness, 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 sprung 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 whole 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 humor, remarked:

"My enemies have compared me to many obnoxious things, but never

till tonight have I been called a crocodile. Possibly Mr. Randolph

has been reading of the crocodiles recently dissected at Paris. It

has been discovered that they are almost brainless, and, being

without reason, are probably animated by a violent instinct of

destruction. I believe, however, that the power of their 'jaw' is

unsurpassed."

Then, amid 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

unmannerly 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 of the platform. She was

very tired, but out of a sort of gratitude for his friendliness, a

readiness to do him honor, she strained her energies to take down

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 brotherhood and of the wrong done to it

by bitterness and strife; he stood there as the very incarnation of

brotherliness, 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 Christians 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 fervor 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 to answer to many of the difficulties

and objections raised by Raeburn earlier in the evening. But there

was in his ten minutes' speech the whole essence of Christianity,

the spirit of loving sacrifice to self, the strength of an absolute

certainty which no argument, however logical, can shake, the

extraordinary power which breathes in the assertion: "I KNOW Him

whom I 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 regarded them much as we might regard

Buddhist missionaries speaking of a religion that had had its day

and was now only fit to be discarded, 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 favor 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 crows

the young cock learns." When the time came at which he considered

her old enough really to study the Bible for herself, she had

already learned 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 privations and troubles of their life were

directly or indirectly due to it. She, of course, identified the

conduct of the most unfriendly and persecuting with the religion

itself; it could hardly be otherwise.

But tonight as she toiled away, bravely acting up to her lights,

taking down the opponent's speech to the best of her abilities,

though predisposed 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 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 instinctively

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 thickset, honest-looking mechanic who was the happy

recipient. When they left the hall she was still deep in

conversation with him.

The fates were kind, however, to Brian that day; they were just too

late for a train, and before the next one arrived, Raeburn and

Erica were seen slowly coming down the steps, and in another minute

had joined them on the platform. Charles Osmond and Raeburn fell

into an amicable discussion, and Brian, to his great satisfaction,

was left to an uninterrupted tete-a-tete with Erica. There had

been no further demonstration by the crowd, and Erica, now that the

anxiety was 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 irresistible

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 sealskin

hat. He remembered, too, how, in the middle of his argument,

Raeburn had stepped forward and had wrapped a white woolen 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 recognized his

kinship with the atheist.

Erica talked to him in the meantime with a delicious, childlike

frankness, gave him an enthusiastic account of her friend,

Hazeldine, the working man whom he had seen her speaking to, and

unconsciously reveled in her free conversation 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 encounter, 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 learned to know each other!" she exclaimed. "It has been

altogether the very oddest day, a sort of sandwich of good and bad,

two bits of the dry bread of persecution, put in between, you and

Mr. Osmond and my beautiful new Longfellow."

Brian could not help laughing at the simile, and was not a little

pleased to hear the reference 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 born across the pavement 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.

"How I do hate seeing anything like that!" she exclaimed. Then

looking back and up to the windows of the house: "Poor people! I

wonder whether they are very sad. It seems to make all the world

dark when one comes across such things. 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 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 little 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 always rather ashamed of this instinct, or

selfishness, or Scottish inheritance, whichever it is!"

"Ashamed! Why should you be?"

"It is a sort of weakness, I think, which strong characters like my

father are without. You see he cares so much for every one, 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 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 selfishness 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 tonight; 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 possible.

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.

"I should like to know Mr. Osmond better," said Erica, "for you

know it seems very extraordinary to me that a clever scientific man

can speak as he spoke tonight. I should like to know how you

reconcile all the contradictions, how you can believe what seems to

me so unlikely, 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?"

Brian did not reply for a moment. The familiar gas-lit street, the

usual number of passengers, the usual care-worn or vice-worn 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 unnatural. 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.

"But how are we to judge what is best?" 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?"

"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 which alone some of us can be brought onward. The

noblest man I ever knew passed through that state, and I can't

think he would have 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, Raeburn and

Charles Osmond overtook 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 were raised to

his.

He turned away, happier and yet sadder than he had ever been in his

life. Not a word passed 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?" 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?"

"Our first speaking. I have seen her many times, but only today

realized 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

hardness 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."

Charles Osmond told him all that had passed; then continued:

"She is, as I said, a fascinating, bright little Undine, inclined

to be willful, 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 tonight 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, I suppose, from you," said Charles Osmond.

"I wish you could have seen her delight over it. Words absolutely

failed her. I don't think any one else noticed it, but, her own

vocabulary coming to an end, she turned to ours, it was "What

HEAVENLY person can have sent me this?"

Brian smiled, but sighed too.

"One talks of the spiritual side remaining untouched," he said,

"yet how is it ever to be otherwise than chained and fettered,

while such men as that Randolph are recognized as the champions of

our cause, while injustice and unkindness meet her at every turn,

while it is something rare and extraordinary for a Christian to

speak a kind word to her. If today she has first realized that

Christians need not necessarily behave as brutes, I have realized

a little what life is from her point of view."

"Then, realizing 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 inexpressibly.

"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 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, tonight 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 reserve 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.

CHAPTER V. Erica's Resolve

Men are tattooed 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. Wendell Holmes.

For the next fortnight Brian and Erica continued 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 rendered 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, however, she actually stopped;

her face was radiant.

"I must just tell you our good news," she said. "My father has won

his case, and has got heavy damages."

"I am very glad," said Brian. "It must be a great relief to you

all to have it over."

"Immense! 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 Guilford Square she met a political friend of

her father's, and was brought once more to a standstill. This time

it was a little unwillingly, for M. 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 untold 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 suggestion that such a situation would

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 scheme. She had not quite forgiven M.

Noirol for having spoken, although the proposal had not been

gravely made, and probably only persevered in out of the spirit of

teasing. But today M. Noirol looked very grave.

"You have heard our good news?" said Erica. "Now don't begin again

about Madame Lemercier's school; I don't want to be made cross

today of all days, when I am so happy."

"I will tease you no more, dear mademoiselle," said the Frenchman;

but he offered no congratulations, and there was something in his

manner which made Erica uneasy.

"Is anything wrong? Has anything happened?" she asked quickly.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

"Who knows! It is an evil world, Mademoiselle Erica, as you will

realize when you have lived in it as long as I have. But I detain

you. Good bye. AU REVOIR!"

He took off his hat with a flourish, and passed on.

Erica, feeling baffled and a little cross, hurried home. M. Noirol

had not teased her today, 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 recognized, however, that it was her

cousin, Tom Craigie, who was speaking, and without more delay 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 was standing with his back

to the mantlepiece, and 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 angry, yet as weighed down with care.

"What is the matter?" she questioned, breathlessly, instinctively

turning to Tom, whose hot anger was more approachable.

"The scamp of a Christian has gone bankrupt," he said, referring to

the defendant in the late action, but too furious to speak very

intelligibly.

"Mr. Cheale, you mean?" asked Erica.

"The scoundrel! Yes! So not a farthing of costs and damages shall

we see! It is the most fiendish thing ever heard of!"

"Will 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 realizing what was passing in the room,

drew her toward him, his face softening, and the cold, angry light

in his eyes changing to sadness.

"Never mind, my child," he said, with a sigh. "'Tis a hard blow,

but we must bear up. Injustice 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

forever in the eyes of stoical Tom, so she only squeezed his 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 lawsuits.

There was, however, one person in the house who was invariably the

recipient of all the troubled confidences of others. In a very few

minutes Erica had left the study and was curled up beside her

mother's couch, talking out unreservedly all her grief, and anger,

and perplexity.

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 unassuming, 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 every one should

bring his private troubles to her that it would have seemed

extraordinary not to meet with exactly the sympathy and counsel

needed. Today, however, even Mrs. Raeburn was almost too

despondent 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.

"What more can we do, mother?" she questioned. "I can't think of

a single thing we can give up."

"I really don't know, dear," said her mother with a sigh. "We have

nothing but the absolute necessaries of life now, except indeed

your education at the High School, and that is a very trifling

expense, and one which cannot be interfered 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 feeling 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. Raeburn was absolutely silent. From the

first Erica had never heard him complain, but his anger, and

afterward his intense depression, spoke volumes. Even Tom, her

friend and play fellow, seemed changed this 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 careless beings in the

world, and had imagined the chief interest of life to consist in

tending dormice, and tame rats, and silk worms! She wondered

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.

With a very heavy heart she prepared her lessons for the next day,

finding it hard to take much interest in Magna Charta and legal

enactments in the time of King John, when the legal enactments of

today were so much more mind-engrossing. Tom was sitting opposite

to her, writing letters for Raeburn. Once, notwithstanding his

grave looks, she hazarded a question."Tom," she said, shutting up

her "History of the English People," "Tom, what do you think will

happen?"

Tom looked across at her with angry yet sorrowful eyes.

"I 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

attempt."

The "chieftain" was a favorite 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-working, thoughtful men,

and their society was both powerful and well-organized, while their

personal devotion to Raeburn lent a vigor and vitality to the whole

body which might otherwise have been lacking. Perhaps

comparatively few would have been enthusiastic for the cause of

atheism had not that cause been represented 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 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, dusky old legal books, works of reference,

books atheistical, 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's 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 bedroom was in a

wonderful array of china animals on the mantlepiece. She was a

great animal lover, and, being a favorite with every one, 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; 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

center of all a most evil-looking jackdaw about half an inch high.

But tonight 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 was bearable

enough, but that the ever-increasing 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 ceaseless petty economies and

privations seemed of little avail; she felt very much as if she

were one of the Danaids, doomed forever 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

unnecessary sixpence on himself; all this load had been incurred in

the defense 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 chieftain will try to do the

work of ten 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 M. 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!

Erica was not exactly selfish, but she was very young. The thought

of the voluntary 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?" she thought, beginning to pace up and down

the room with quick, agitated steps. "Why should we suffer because

that wretch has gone bankrupt? It is unfair, unjust, it can't be

right."

She leaned her arms on the window sill and looked out into the

silent night. The stars were shining 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

words; 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:

"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

persecution meant. What if the very blame and injustice of the

present brought in the future reign 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 denying that the child of the great teacher of atheism

had grasped the true meaning of life, had grasped it, and was

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 Raeburn'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, realizing 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 was the sort of a man who could not be startled, but he

looked up quickly, apparently returning from some speculative

region with 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.

"I 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?" 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 M. 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."Are you ready to bear two years of

loneliness?"

"I am ready to help you," 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 endure 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.

"Lawsuits 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 rapturous gain.

"I shall never go to sleep tonight," 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

bitterness 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.

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 signature, 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 spite 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 before the newspapers had ceased to wage war

either for or against him, long before the weekly journals had

ceased to teem with letters relating to the lawsuit, he had formed

his plans for the future. His home was to be completely broken up,

Erica was to go to Paris, his wife was to live with his sister,

Mrs. Craigie, and her son, Tom, who had agreed to keep on the

lodgings 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 before, 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 encountered 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 regard to

the defendant.

"We work for freedom, little one," he used to say; "and it is an

honor to suffer in the cause of liberty."

"But every one says you will kill yourself with overwork," said

Erica, "and especially when you are in America."

'"They don't 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 those two years you do come back to find me gray and

wrinkled, what will that matter so long as we are free once more.

There's a good time coming; we'll have the coziest 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."

Raeburn smiled at her ides 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 reestablishment of

his home.

Brian Osmond heard of the plans before long, but he scarcely saw

Erica; the Christmas holidays 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 length, 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 happened that some

beautiful hot-house flowers had been sent to him from a nursery

garden one day in January, and, unwilling to keep them all, he had

suggested that Erica should take some to the neighboring hospitals.

Now there were two hospitals in Guilford Square; Erica felt much

more interested in the children's hospital than in the one for

grown-up 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 gratefully, 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 counted 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 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, however, 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 WITHOUT thanks."

No one ever quite knew what the superintendent had said to her, but

apparently the rebuff had been very hard to bear. Not content with

declining any fellowship with the poor little "work of darkness,"

she had gone on in accordance 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 was doing; she walked 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 she 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?" he asked.

"I am only angry," said Erica, rather breathlessly; "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 comfortable 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

home-like, and warm and cheerful, evidently a room which was dear

to its owner. Charles Osmond made her sit down in a capacious arm

chair close to the fire.

"Well, now, who was the bigot?" 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 shaking in this silly way

when any one is rude to us. Tom laughs at me, and 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?"

"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. Would you"--she hesitated a little--"would

you take the flowers instead?"

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 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 Brian 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 tomorrow."

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?"

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 well used to taking care of

herself, but it ended in Brian's triumphing. So together they

crossed the quiet square. Erica chattered away merrily enough, but

as they reached the narrow entrance to Guilford Terrace a shadow

stole over her face.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "this is the last time I shall come home for

two whole years."

"You go for so long," said Brian, stifling a sigh. "You won't

forget your English friends?"

"Do you mean that you count yourself our friend?" 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 any one 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 real beauty which I 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, returning in a few minutes with a very

playful-looking 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?" asked Brian.

"His name is St. Anthony," said Erica. "Oh, I hope, by the bye,

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!"

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 dare say 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 attended to, and, indeed

there was little doubt that St. Anthony would from that day forth

be lapped 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!"

Brian was pleased to have this token from his Undine, but at the

same time he 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 childishness

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 last quiet time they would 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 house 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 you alone, mother, I shouldn't mind so much," she said, in

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, doubtfully. "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. Raeburn.

"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?"

"You will learn to think differently, dear, by and by," said her

mother, kissing the eager, troubled face. "And, when you fancy me

lonely, 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 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 burned

in upon her brain. The dreary waking on the dark winter morning,

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 comments 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 a certain

satisfaction. And afterward 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 Mme Lemercier's

school. No one could deny that her new life had been bravely

begun.

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 moon 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,

perseverance 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 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 was 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 honor 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 nothing to prevent her from

observing and listening, and with some wonder she used to hear

discussions about the dresses for the "Premiere Communion," remarks

about the various services, or laments over the confession papers.

The girls went to confession once a month, and there was always a

day in which they had to prepare and write out their misdemeanors.

One day, a little, thin, delicate child from the south of France

came up to Erica with her confession 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 spelled. Before very long she came to the

sentence, "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," signed 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 would see the pale, thin face of the little

penitent, and realize the ludicrousness of the confession.

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?" 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

favorably impressed with Roman Catholicism.

She was a great favorite with all the girls; but, though she was

very patient and persevering, she did not succeed in making any of

them fluent English speakers, and learned their language far better

than they learned hers. Her three special friends were not among

the pupils, but among the teachers. Dear old Mme. Lemercier, with

her good-humored black eyes, her kind, demonstrative ways, and her

delightful stories about the time of the war and the siege, was a

friend worth having. So was her husband, M. Lemercier the

journalist. He was a little dried-up man, with a fierce black

mustache; he was sarcastic and witty, and he would talk politics by

the hour together to any one 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 listener, for she was always anxious to

learn and to understand, and before long she was quite AU FAIT, and

understood a great deal about that exceedingly complicated thing,

the French political system. M. 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, Mme. Lemercier loving her

for her brightness and readiness to help, and monsieur for her

beauty and her quickness of perception. It was surprising and

gratifying to meet with a girl who, without being a femme savante,

was yet capable of understanding the difference between the Extreme

Left and the Left Center, 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 unassuming humility that won Erica's

heart. She never would hear a word against the fraulein.

"Why do you care so much for Fraulein Sonnenthal?" 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 bedroom, 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 statements. Very often

they would argue far on into the night; they never quarreled,

however hot the dispute, but the fraulein often had a sore time of

it, for, naturally, Luke Raeburn's daughter was well up in all the

debatable 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

advantage of her, for they spoke in German.

One scene in that little bedroom 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 doctrine of

immortality. Erica, perhaps because she was conscious of the

"weakness" she had confessed 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 ineffectually. Her arguments seemed altogether extinguished

by Erica's remorseless logic; she was not nearly so clever, and her

very earnestness seemed to trip her up and make all her sentences

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 moonlight, the wooden 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 window, 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 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 humility! What have you been doing to grow so

like Murillo's Madonna?"

"I thought you were asleep," said the fraulein. "Good night,

Herzolattchen, 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 ordinary 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 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 Christianity

were true?"

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 German friend was lovable and to be

loved, whatever 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 stall, 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 fraulein.

It was fortunate in every way that Erica had the little German lady

for her friend, for 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 Fraulein Sonnenthal, she would more

than once have thoroughly overworked herself; and indeed 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 Mme. Lemercier, partly

because 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.

CHAPTER VII. What the New Year Brought

A voice grows with the growing years;

Earth, hushing down her bitter cry,

Looks upward from her graves, and hears,

"The Resurrection and the Life am I."

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,

Wide as our need Thy favors 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

distance had remained at school for the short 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 hearth rug 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 exclaimed. "What is it?"

"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 happiness, far more

child-like, indeed, than the grave little Ninette whom she was

nursing.

"Thou art not dignified enough for a teacher," said the fraulein,

laughingly.

"She is no teacher," cried the girls. "It is holiday time and she

need not talk that frightful English."

Erica made a laughing defense of her native tongue, and such a

babel ensued that the fraulein 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 l'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 Mme. Lemercier, when she

came to break it up, should find her eyes dim with tears.

"My dear Erica--" she said, and broke off abruptly.

Erica looked up with laughing eyes.

"Don't scold, dear madame," she said, coaxingly. "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, cherie."

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 gayly.

"The 'David Copperfield' is for monsieur's present tomorrow," 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? Oh, madame, why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Mme. Lemercier tried in vain to detain 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 gray-haired man. He raised himself as she

spoke. His news was in his face; it was written all too plainly

there.

"Father!" gasped Erica in a voice which seemed altogether different

from the first exclamation, almost as if it belonged to a different

person.

Raeburn took her in his arms.

"My child--my poor little Eric!" he said.

She did not speak a word, but 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

realize that her father was 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 have 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.

Erica made a desperate effort to realize it all; at last she

brought down the measureless agony to actual words, repeating them

over and over to herself--"Mother is dead."

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, while he

wrenched open the clumsy fastening of the casement, heard the

voices in the street below, heard, too, in the distance the sound

of church 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 realized it. Very slowly the

re-beginning of life set in; the consciousness of her father's

presence awakened 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 aching head rest on his shoulder.

Presently, in a low but steady voice, she said: "What would you

like me to do, father?"

"To come home with me now, if you are able," he said; "tomorrow

morning, though, if you would rather wait, dear."

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 Mme. 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

motionless 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!"

After a time her eyes fell on her elaborately drawn paper of days.

Every evening since her first arrival she had gone through the

almost 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 pieces; then sunk back again, pale and breathless. Fraulein

Sonnenthal saw and understood. She came to her, and kissed her.

"Herzbluttchen," she said, almost in a whisper, and, after a

moment's pause: "Ein feste Burg ist unser 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 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 kind, poor

Thekla, she didn't know it would hurt."

Mme. Lemercier came into the room with a cup of coffee 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 comfort. There was

something to be done, something hard and tiring--surely it would

blunt her perceptions. She started up with a strange sort of

energy, put on her hat and cloak, swallowed the food with an

effort, helped to lock her trunk, moved rapidly about the room,

looking for any chance possession which might have been left out.

There was such terrible anguish in her tearless eyes that little

Ninette shrunk away from her in alarm. Mme. Lemercier, who in the

time of the siege had seen great suffering, had never seen anything

like this; even Thekla Sonnenthal realized that for the 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 wet 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 already the streets and shops were

lighted; Paris, ever bright and gay, seemed tonight 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? Presently 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 fidgety school boy. She watched them

all as 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

uncomfortable, 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 sunk 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, terrible to all, 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 garment 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 deathly 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, sprung

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 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 cabin on board the steamer, than two

bright looking English girls settled themselves close by, 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

gayeties. "Lady Reedham's dance on Thursday, our own, you know,

next week," etc., etc. 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

hear 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, 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

companion, 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 recognized 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 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 passage; 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 were again in a railway carriage, but

this time alone. Raeburn made her lie down, and himself fell

asleep in the opposite corner; he had been traveling

uninterruptedly for twenty hours, had received a shock which had

tried him very greatly, now from sheer exhaustion he slept. But

Erica, to whom the grief was more new, could not sleep. Every

minute the pain of realization grew keener. Here she was in

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 expectations. 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. Raeburn

was a comparatively young man, very little over forty; but his

anxieties and the almost incredible amount of hard work of the past

two years had told upon him, and had turned his hair gray. 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 pathetic. Erica scarcely seemed to

realize 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; 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

understand 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?" 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 while they drove through the

familiar streets.

At last, early in the cold, new year's morning, they were set down

in Guilford Square, at the grim entrance to Persecution Alley. She

looked round at the gray 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 meet them, with a strange new

tenderness in her voice and look, and there was Tom in the

background, 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

farewells, 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 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

recognized her mother. Was that, indeed, all that was left? That

pale, rigid, utterly changed face and form? Was that her mother?

Could that once have been her mother? Very often had she heard

this great change wrought by death referred to in discussions; she

knew well the arguments which were brought forward by the believers

in immortality, the counter arguments with which her father

invariably met them, and which had always seemed to her conclusive.

But somehow 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 world indeed 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, when all was still,

she could not 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

tonight not even the description of the valiant unshrinking martyr

of Free-thought ascending the scaffold to meet his doom could in

the slightest degree affect her. She tried another book, this time

Dickens's "Tale of Two Cities." She had never read the last two

chapters without feeling a great desire to cry, but tonight she

read with perfect unconcern of Sydney Carton's wanderings through

Paris on the night before he gave himself up--read the last

marvelously written scene without the slightest 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 had so persistently

haunted Sydney 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 inconsistent 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 shivering, 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 it was a

freezing winter's night, she went noiselessly 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 compared each closely with the others, but in all

the words stood out in uncompromising greatness of assertion. This

man claimed to BE the resurrection, of as Wyclif had it, "the agen

risying 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.

CHAPTER VIII. "Why Do You Believe It?"

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. Proctor

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 illumined a breakfast table, at which

was seated one occupant only, apparently making a late and rather

hasty meal. He was a man of about eight-and-twenty, and though he

was not absolutely 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

luminousness which pervaded it. The eyes, which were dark gray,

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

characterized the whole man. His hair, short beard, and mustache

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, Brian?" she observed,

letting her knitting needles rest for a minute, and scrutinizing

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 knitted another round of her sock and then said:

"Have you seen Tom Craigie yet?"

"Yes, last night I came across him," replied Brian. "He told me

she had come home. They traveled 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 down, it won't somehow go on to paper, yet I can

hardly ask to see her."

"We 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 mused for a minute, seemed satisfied with the suggestion, and

moving across to the writing table, began his first letter to his

love. Apparently it was 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 Raeburn,--I hardly like to ask to see you yet for fear

you should think me intrusive, but a message was entrusted to me on

Tuesday night which I dare not of myself keep back from you. Will

you see me? 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, by 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

exhaustion.

"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 accustomed to visiting

sorrow-stricken people, but from meeting such sorrow as that in the

Raeburns' house he shrunk 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? Feeling her grief as he did, could he yet modify his manner

to suit that of a mere outsider--almost a stranger? He was 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, mechanical manner, the outward veil of

his inward agitation. About four o'clock he was free to go to

Guilford Terrace.

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 approaching

him. She was taller than she had been when he last saw her, and

now grief had given her a peculiar dignity which made her much more

like her father. Every shade of color had left her face, her eyes

wee full of a limitless pain, the eyelids were slightly reddened,

but apparently rather from sleeplessness than from tears, the whole

face was so altered that a mere casual acquaintance would hardly

have recognized it, except by the unchanged waves of short auburn

hair which still formed the setting as it were to a picture lovely

even now. Only one thing was unchanged, and that was the frank,

unconventional manner. Even in her grief she could 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 today."

"There is no great difference in says, I think," said Erica,

sitting down on a low chair beside the fire. "I do not very much

believe in degrees 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 moment'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 changed, I am still Erica;

can't you understand how much I want every one now?

"People differ so much," 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 any one 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 recollection 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 hear it

from the landlady. But you were here, you can tell me all. Don't

be afraid of hurting me; can't you understand, if the past were the

only thing left to you, you would want to know every tiniest

detail!"

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 summoned 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 unkindness.'

Then, after a minute's pause, she added, 'Be good to my little

girl, promise to be good to her.' After that, speech became

impossible, but I do not think she suffered. Once she motioned to

me to give her the frame off the mantlepiece with 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 incident 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 photograph, 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 talked on slowly, soothingly.

Presently he paused; then Erica suddenly looked up, and dashing

away her tears, said, in a voice which was terrible 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 went bankrupt; the fault of the

bigots who will not treat us fairly--who ruin us!"

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 you," said Brian; "but have you forgotten the

message I gave you? 'It is only love that can keep from

bitterness!'"

"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 him with a question, 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 Christianity? You ask us to believe what is

incredible. WHY do you believe in the resurrection: What reason

have you for thinking it true?"

She expected him to go into the evidence question, to quote the

number of Christ's appearances, to speak of the five hundred

witnesses 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 grief. Here was a

miracle supported 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 almost exultant expression in her

eyes, which spoke more plainly than words her perfect conviction:

"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 mankind."

Never would she so gladly have believed in the doctrine of

immortality as now, yet with characteristic honesty and

resoluteness she set herself into an attitude of rigid defense,

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 brothers, but the preparation was useless.

"I believe in the resurrection," said Brian, "because I cannot

doubt Jesus Christ. He is the most perfectly lovable and trustable

being 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."

"We 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 were so perfect as you try to make out. You are not

so hard-hearted as some 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."

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

intrusted to me ought to comfort your misery."

"I 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 goodbye 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 world's

unkindness."

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 limp red cover, labeled "Life of

Jesus of Nazareth--Luke Raeburn." 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 unfairness in the mode of treatment, the book satisfied

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 leaned back in

her chair with a still, white, hopeless face. Presently Friskarina

sprung up on her knee with a little sympathetic mew; she had been

too miserable as yet to notice even her favorite cat very much, now

a scarcely perceptible shade of relief came to her sadness, she

stroked the soft gray head. But scarcely had she spoken to her

favorite, when the cat suddenly turned away, sprung 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?"

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 feet made her look up,

and with one bound Friskarina sprung into her lap, carrying in her

mouth a young kitten. She purred contentedly, looking first at her

child and then at her mistress, saying as plainly as if she had

spoken:

"Will this comfort you?"

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.

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 today's paper,

headed, 'Mr. Luke Raeburn.' Is this another namesake who has

something to do with him?"

The speaker was a tall, bright-looking girl of eighteen, a

blue-eyed, flaxen-haired blond, with a saucy little mouth, about

which there now lurked an expression of undisguised 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 spoiled; but in spite of many

faults she was lovable, 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 gray

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 work, "if you go on

chatter-magging away like this, there'll be no frock ready for you

tonight," and with a most uncommunicative air, the old woman turned

away, and gave a little impressive shake to the billowy mass of

white tarletan 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 it be lovely! The prettiest dress

in the room, I'm sure." Then, her curiosity returning, "But,

Elspeth, I sha'nt 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 this?' And then mamma read it, and the color 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 is said, his wife died, and this

paragraph said it seemed like a judgment, which was rather cool, I

think."

"Poor laddie!" signed old Elspeth.

"Elspeth," cried Rose, "do you know who the man is?"

"Miss Rose," said the old woman severely, "in my young days there

was a saying that you'd do well to lay to heart, 'Ask no questions,

and you'll be told no stories.'"

"It isn't your young days now, it's your old days, Elsie," said the

imperturbable 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

nurse! Have I not a right to know about my own relations?"

"Oh, 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!" said Rose,

pouting. "I wish that book wasn't in the Bible! I'm sure such an

old grumbler ought to have been in the Apocrypha."

Elspeth shook her head, and muttered something about judgment and

trouble. Rose began to be doubly curious.

"Trouble, sadness, a mystery--perhaps a 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 exclaimed; "it's really

too bad of you."

"Maybe you're right, 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 overpowered her

reluctance.

Mrs. Fane-Smith, or, as she had been called in her maiden days,

Isabel Raeburn, was remarkably like her daughter in so far as

features and coloring were concerned, but she was exceedingly

unlike her in character, for whereas Rose was vain and

self-confident, and had a decided will of her own, her mother was

diffident and exaggeratedly humble. She was a kind-hearted and a

good woman, but she was in danger of harassing herself with the

question, "What will people say?"

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 to you today of all days."

"But I want to hear, mamma," said Rose, decidedly. "Please begin.

Who is this Mr. Raeburn?"

"He is my brother," said Mrs. Fane-Smith, with a little quiver in

her voice.

"Your brother! My uncle!" cried Rose, in amazement.

"Luke was the oldest of us," said Mrs. Fane-Smith, "then came Jean,

and I was the youngest of all, at least of those who lived."

"Then I have an aunt, too, an Aunt Jean?" exclaimed Rose.

"You shall hear the whole story," 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 was sent away from home, and I never have

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 reason for marrying 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 was not deeply interested in the story, it

fell a little flat after her expectations of a tragedy. It had,

moreover, a sort of missionary flavor, and she had till the last

few months lived in India, and had grown heartily tired of the

details of mission work, in which both her father and mother had

been interested. Conversions, relapses, heathenism, belief and

unbelief were words which had sounded so often in her ears that now

they bored her; as they were the merest words to her it could

hardly be otherwise. But Rose's best point was her loyalty to her

own family, she had the "clan" feeling very strongly, and she could

not understand how her mother could have allowed such a complete

estrangement to grow up between her and her nearest relations.

"Mamma," she said, quickly, "I should have gone to see Uncle Luke

if I had been you."

"It is impossible, dear," replied Mrs. Fane-Smith. "Your father

would not allow it for one thing, and then only think what people

would say! This is partly my reason for telling you, Rose; I want

to put you upon your guard. We heard little or nothing of your

uncle when we were in India, but you will find it very different

here. He is one of the most notorious men in England; you must

never mention his name, never allude to him, do you understand me?"

"Is he then so wicked?"

"My dear, consider what his teaching is, that is sufficient; I

would not for the whole world allow our Greyshot friends to guess

that we are connected with him in any way. It might ruin all your

prospects in life."

"Mamma," said Rose, "I don't think Mr. Raeburn will injure my

prospects--of course you mean prospects of marrying. If a man

didn't care enough for me to take me whether I am the niece of the

worst man in England or not, do you think I would accept him?"

There was an angry ring in her voice as she spoke, her little saucy

mouth looked almost grand. After a moment's pause, she added, more

quietly, but with all the force of the true woman's heart which lay

hidden beneath her silliness and frivolity, "Besides, mamma, is it

quite honest?"

"We are not bound to publish our family history to the world, Rose.

If any one asked me, of course I should tell the truth; if there

was any way of helping my brother or his child I would gladly serve

them, even though the world would look coldly on me for doing so;

but while they remain atheists how is it possible?"

"Then he has a child?"

"One only, I believe, a girl of about your own age."

"Oh, mamma, how I should like to know her!"

"My dear Rose, how can you speak of such a thing? You don't

realize that she is an atheist, has not even been baptized, poor

little thing!"

"But she is my cousin, and she is a girl just like me," said Rose.

"I should like to know her very much. I wonder whether she has

come out yet. I wonder how she enjoyed her first ball."

"My dear! They are not in society."

"How dull! What does she do all day, I wonder?"

"I cannot tell, I wish you would not talk about her, Rose; I should

not wish you even to think about her, except, indeed, to mention

her in your prayers."

"Oh, I'd much rather have her here to stay," said Rose, with a

little mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"Rose!"

"Why mamma, if she were a black unbeliever you would be delighted

to have her; it is only because she is white that you won't have

anything to do with her. You would have been as pleased as

possible if I had made friends with any of the ladies in the

Zenanas."

Mrs. Fane-Smith looked uncomfortable, and murmured that that was a

very different question. Rose, seeing her advantage, made haste to

follow it up.

"At any rate, mamma, you will write to Uncle Luke now that he is in

trouble, and you'll let me send a note to his daughter? Only

think, mamma, she has lost her mother so suddenly! Just think how

wretched she must be! Oh, mamma, dear, I can't think how she can

bear it!" and Rose threw her arms round her mother's neck. "I

should die too if you were to die! I'm sure I should."

Rose was very persuasive, Mrs. Fane-Smith's motherly heart was

touched; she sat down there and then, and for the first time since

the summer day when Luke Raeburn had been turned out of his

father's house, she wrote to her brother. Rose in the meantime had

taken a piece of paper from her mother's writing desk, and with a

fat volume of sermons by way of a desk was scribbling away as fast

as she could. This was her letter:

"My dear cousin,--I don't know your name, and have only just

heard anything about you, and the first thing I heard was that you

were in dreadful trouble. I only write to send you my love, and to

say how very sorry I am for you. We only came to England in the

autumn. I like it very much. I am going to my first ball tonight,

and expect to enjoy it immensely. My dress is to be white tarle--

Oh, dear! How horrid of me to be writing like this to you. Please

forgive me. I don't like to be so happy when you are unhappy; but,

you see, I have only just heard of you, so it is a little

difficult. With love, I remain, your affectionate cousin, Rose

Fane-Smith."

That evening, while Erica, with eyes dim with grief and weariness,

was poring over the books in her father's study, Rose was being

initiated into all the delights of the ballroom. She was in her

glory. Everything was new to her; she enjoyed dancing, she knew

that she looked pretty, knew that her dress was charming, knew that

she was much admired, and of course she liked it all. But the

chaperons shook their heads; it was whispered that Miss Fane-Smith

was a terrible flirt, she had danced no less than seven dances with

Captain Golightly. If her mother erred by thinking too much of

what people said, perhaps Rose erred in exactly the opposite way;

at any rate, she managed to call down upon her silly but innocent

little head an immense amount of blame from the mothers and elderly

ladies.

"A glorious moonlight night," said Captain Golightly. "What do you

say, Miss Fane-Smith? Shall we take a turn in the garden? Or are

you afraid of the cold?"

"Afraid! Oh, dear no," said Rose; "it's the very thing I should

enjoy. I suppose I must get my shawl, though; it is upstairs."

They were in the vestibule.

"Have my ulster," said Captain Golightly. "Here it is, just handy,

and it will keep you much warmer."

Rose laughed and blushed, and allowed herself to be put into her

partner's coat, rather to the detriment of her billowy tarletan.

After a while they came back again from the dim garden to the

brightly lighted vestibule, and as ill luck would have it, chanced

to encounter a stream of people going into the supper room. Every

one stared at the apparition of Miss Fane-Smith in Captain

Golightly's coat. With some difficulty she struggled out of it,

and with very hot cheeks sought shelter in the ballroom.

"How dreadfully they looked! Do you think it was wrong of me?" she

half whispered to her partner.

"Oh, dear, no! Sensible and plucky, and everything delightful!

You are much too charming to be bound down to silly

conventionalities. Come, let us have this dance. I'm sure you are

engaged to some one in the supper room who can't deserve such a

delightful partner. Let us have this TROIS TEMPS, and hurl

defiance at the Greyshot chaperons."

Rose laughed, and allowed herself to be borne off. She had been

excited before, now she was doubly excited, and Captain Golightly

had the most delicious step imaginable.

CHAPTER X. Hard at Work

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will

With our poor earthward striving;

We quench it that we may be still

Content with merely living;

But, would we learn that heart's full scope

Which we are hourly wronging,

Our lives must climb from hope to hope

And realize our longing. J. R. Lowell

Perhaps it was only natural that there should be that winter a good

deal of communication between the secularist's house in Guilford

Terrace and the clergyman's house in Guilford Square.

From the first Raeburn had taken a great fancy to Charles Osmond, and now

that Brian had become so closely connected with the memory of their

sudden bereavement, and had made himself almost one of them by his

silent, unobtrusive sympathy, and by his numberless acts of

delicate considerateness, a tie was necessarily formed which

promised to deepen into one of those close friendships that

sometimes exist between two entire families.

It was a bleak, chilly afternoon in March, when Charles Osmond,

returning from a long round of parish work, thought he would look

in for a few minutes at the Raeburns'; he had a proposal to make to

Erica, some fresh work which he thought might interest her. He

rang the bell at the now familiar door and was admitted; it carried

him back to the day when he had first called there and had been

shown into the fire-lit room, with the book-lined walls, and the

pretty little girl curled up on the rug, with her cat and her

toasting fork. Time had brought many changes since then. This

evening he was again shown into the study, but this time the gas

was lighted, and there was no little girl upon the hearth rug.

Erica was sitting at her desk hard at work. Her face lighted up at

the sight of her visitor.

"Every one is out except me," she said, more brightly than he had

heard her speak since her return. "Did you really come to see me.

How good of you."

"But you are busy?" said Charles Osmond, glancing at the papers on

the desk. "Press work?"

"Yes, my first article," said Erica, "it is just finished; but if

you'll excuse me for one minute, I ought to correct it; the office

boy will call for it directly."

"Don't hurry; I will wait and get warm in the meantime," said

Charles Osmond, establishing himself by the fire.

There was a silence broken only by the sound of Erica's pen as she

crossed out a word or a line. Charles Osmond watched her and

mused. This beautiful girl, whose development he could trace now

for more than two years back, what would she grow into? Already

she was writing in the "Idol Breaker." He regretted it. Yet it

was obviously the most natural employment for her. He looked at

her ever-changing face. She was absorbed in her work, her

expression varying with the sentences she read; now there was a

look of triumphant happiness as she came to something which made

her heart beat quickly; again, a shade of dissatisfaction at the

consciousness of her inability to express what was in her mind. He

could not help thinking that it was one of the noblest faces he had

ever seen, and now that the eyes were downcast it was not so

terribly sad; there was, moreover, for the first time since her

mother's death, a faint tinge of color in her cheeks. Before five

minutes could have passed, the bell rang again.

"That is my boy," she exclaimed, and hastily blotting her sheets,

she rolled them up, gave them to the servant, closed her desk, and

crossing the room, knelt down in front of the fire to warm her

hands, which were stiff and chilly.

"How rude I have been to you," she said, smiling a little; "I

always have been rude to you since the very first time we met."

"We were always frank with each other," said Charles Osmond; "I

remember you gave me your opinion as to bigots and Christians in

the most delightfully open way. So you have been writing your

first article?"

"Yes," and she stretched herself as though she were rather tired

and cramped. "I have had a delicious afternoon. Yesterday I was

in despair about it, but today it just came--I wrote it straight

off."

"And you are satisfied with it?"

"Satisfied? Oh, no! Is anybody ever satisfied? By the time it is

in print I shall want to alter every sixth line. Still, I dare say

it will say a little of what I want said?"

"Oh, you do want something said?"

"Of course!" she replied, a little indignantly. "If not, how could

I write."

"I quite agree with you," said Charles Osmond, "and you mean to

take this up as your vocation?"

"If I am thought worthy," said Erica, coloring a little.

"I see you have high ideas of the art," said Charles Osmond; "and

what is your reason for taking it up?"

"First of all, though it sounds rather illogical," said Erica, "I write

because I MUST; there is something in me which will have

its way. Then, too, it is part of our creed that every one should

do all in his power to help on the cause, and of course, if only

for my father's sake, it would be my greatest pleasure. Then, last

of all, I write because I must earn my living."

"Good reasons all," said Charles Osmond. "But I don't feel sure

that you won't regret having written when you look back several

years hence."

"Oh! I dare say it will all seem crude and ridiculous then, but

one must make a beginning," said Erica.

"And are you sure you have thought out these great questions so

thoroughly and fairly that you are capable of teaching others about

them?"

"Ah! Now I see what you mean!" exclaimed Erica; "you think I

write in defense of atheism, or as an attacker of Christianity. I

do nothing of the kind; father would not allow me to, he would not

think me old enough. Oh! No, I am only to write the lighter

articles which are needed every now and then. Today I had a

delightful subject--'Heroes--what are they?'"

"Well, and what is your definition of a hero, I wonder; what are

the qualities you think absolutely necessary to make one?"

"I think I have only two absolutely necessary ones," said Erica;

"but my heroes must have these two, they must have brains and

goodness."

"A tolerably sweeping definition," said Charles Osmond, laughing,

"almost equal to a friend of mine who wanted a wife, and said there

were only two things he would stipulate for--1,500 a year, and an

angel. But it brings us to another definition, you see. We shall

agree as to the brains, but how about goodness! What is your

definition of that very wide, not to say vague, term?"

"I don't think I can define it," she said; "but one knows it when

one sees it."

"Do you mean by it unselfishness, courage, truthfulness, or any

other virtue?"

"Oh, it isn't any one virtue, or even a parcel of virtues, it will

not go into words."

"It is then the nearest approach to some perfect ideal which is in

your mind?"

"I suppose it is," she said, slowly.

"How did that ideal come into your mind?"

"I don't know; I suppose I got it by inheritance."

"From the original moneron?"

"You are laughing at me. I don't know how of course, but I have

it, which, as far as I can see, is all that matters."

"I am not sure of that," said Charles Osmond. "The explanation of

that ideal of goodness which more or less clearly exists in all our

minds, seems to me to rest only in the conviction that all are

children of one perfect Father. And I can give you our definition

of goodness without hesitation, it is summed up for us in one word

--'Christlikeness.'"

"I cannot see it; it seems to me all exaggerated," said Erica. ?"I

believe it is only because people are educated to believe and

predisposed to think it all good and perfect that there are so many

Christians. You may say it is we who are prejudiced. If we are,

I'm sure you Christians have done enough to make us so! How could

I, for instance, be anything but an atheist? Shall I tell you the

very first thing I can remember?"

Her eyes were flashing with indignant light.

"I was a little tiny child--only four years old--but there are

some scenes one never forgets. I can see it all as plainly as

possible, the room in a hotel, the very doll I was playing with.

There was a great noise in the street, trampling, hissing, hooting.

I ran to the window, an immense crowd was coming nearer and nearer,

the street was black with the throng, they were all shouting and

yelling--'Down with the infidel!' 'Kill the atheist!' Then I saw

my father, he was there strong and fearless, one man against a

thousand! I tell you I saw him, I can see him now, fighting his

way on single-handed, not one creature brave enough to stand up for

him. I saw him pushed, struck, spit upon, stoned. At last a great

brick struck him on the head. I think I must have been too sick or

too angry to see any more after that. The next thing I remember is

lying on the floor sobbing, and hearing father come into the room

and say: 'Why, little son Eric, did you think they'd killed me?'

And he picked me up and let me sit on his knee, but there was blood

on his face, and as he kissed me it dropped upon my forehead. I

tell you, you Christians baptized me into atheism in my own

father's blood. They were Christians who stoned him, champions of

religion, and they were egged on by the clergy. Did I not hear it

all then in my babyhood? And it is true; it is all fact; ask

anybody you like; I have not exaggerated."

"My dear child, I know you have not," said Charles Osmond, putting

his strong hand upon hers. He could feel that she was all

trembling with indignation. Was it to be wondered at? "I remember

those riots perfectly well," he continued. "I think I felt and

feel as indignant about them as yourself. A fearful mistake was

made--Mr. Raeburn was shamefully treated. But, Erica"--it was

the first time he had called her by her name--"you who pride

yourself upon fairness, you who make justice your watchword must be

careful not to let the wrong doing of a few Christians prejudice

you against Christianity. You say that we are all predisposed to

accept Christ; but candidly you must allow, I think, that you are

trebly prejudiced against the very name of Christian. A Christian

almost inevitably means to you only one of your father's mistaken

persecutors."

"Yes, you are so much of an exception that I always forget you are

one," said Erica, smiling a little. "Yet you are not like one of

us--quite--you somehow stand alone, you are unlike any one I

ever met; you and Thekla Sonnenthal and your son make to me a sort

of new variety."

Charles Osmond laughed, and changed the subject."You are busy with

your examination work, I suppose?" And the question led to a long

talk about books and lectures.

In truth, Erica had plunged into work of all kinds, not merely from

love of it, but because she felt the absolute need of fresh

interests, the great danger of dwelling unduly on her sorrow.

Then, too, she had just grasped a new idea, an idea at once noble

and inspiriting. Hitherto she had thought of a happy future for

herself, of a home free from troubles and harassing cares. That

was all over now, her golden dream had come to an end, "Hope dead

lives nevermore." The life she had pictured to herself could never

be, but her nature was too strong to be crushed by the sorrow;

physically the shock had weakened her far more than any one knew,

but, mentally, it had been a wonderful stimulant. She rose above

herself, above her trouble, and life began to mean something

broader and deeper than before.

Hitherto her great desire had been to be free from care, and to be

happy; now the one important thing seemed not so much to be happy,

as to know. To learn herself, and to help others to learn, became

her chief object, and, with all the devotion of an earnest,

high-souled nature, she set herself to act out these convictions.

She read hard, attended lectures, and twice a week taught in the

night school attached to the Institute.

Charles Osmond could not help smiling as she described her days to

him. She still retained something of the childishness of an

Undine, and as they talked she had taken up her old position on the

hearth rug, and Friskarina had crept on to her knee. Here,

undoubtedly, was one whom ignorant people would stigmatize as

"blue" or as a "femme savante;" they would of course be quite wrong

and inexpressively foolish to use such terms, and yet there was,

perhaps, something a little incongruous in the two sides, as it

were, of Erica's nature, the keen intellect and the child-like

devotion , the great love of learning and the intense love of fun

and humor. Charles Osmond had only once in all his long years of

experience met with a character which interested him so much.

"After all," he said, when they had talked for some time, "I have

never told you that I came on a begging errand, and I half fear

that you will be too busy to undertake any more work."

Erica's face brightened at the word; was not work what she lived

for?

"Oh! I am not too busy for anything!" she exclaimed. "I shall

quote Marcus Aurelius to you if you say I haven't time! What sort

of work?"

"Only, when you can, to come to us in the afternoon and read a

little to my mother. Do you think you could? Her eyes are

failing, and Brian and I are hard at work all day; I am afraid she

is very dull."

"I should like to come very much," said Erica, really pleased at

the suggestion. "What sort of books would Mrs. Osmond like?"

"Oh, anything! History, travels, science, or even novels, if you

are not above reading them!"

"I? Of course not," said Erica, laughing. "Don't you think we

enjoy them as much as other people? When there is time to read

them, at least, which isn't often."

Charles Osmond laughed.

"Very well then, you have a wide field. From Carlyle to Miss Bird,

and from Ernst Haeckel to Charles Reade. I should make them into

a big sandwich if I were you."

He said goodbye, and left Erica still on the hearth rug, her face

brighter than it had been for months.

"I like that man," she said to herself. "He's honest and thorough,

and good all through. Yet how in the world does he make himself

believe in his creed? Goodness, Christlikeness. He looked so

grand, too, as he said that. It is wonderful what a personal sort

of devotion those three have for their ideal."

She wandered away to recollections of Thekla Sonnenthal, and that

carried her back to the time of their last parting, and the

recollection of her sorrow. All at once the loneliness of the

present was borne in upon her overwhelmingly; she looked around the

little room, the Ilkley couch was pushed away into a corner, there

was a pile of newspapers upon it. A great sob escaped her. For a

minute she pressed her hands tightly together over her eyes, then

she hurriedly opened a book on "Electricity," and began to read as

if for her life.

She was roused in about an hour's time by a laughing exclamation.

She started, and looking up, saw her cousin Tom.

"Talk about absorption, and brown studies!" he cried, "why, you eat

everything I ever saw. I've been looking at you for at least three

minutes."

Tom was now about nineteen; he had inherited the auburn coloring of

the Raeburns, but otherwise he was said to be much more like the

Craigies. He was nice looking, but somewhat freckled, and though

he was tall and strongly built, he somehow betrayed that he had led

a sedentary life and looked, in fact, as if he wanted a training in

gymnastics. For the rest he was shrewd, business-like,

good-natured, and at present very conceited. He had been Erica's

friend and playfellow as long as she could remember; they were

brother and sister in all but the name, for they had lived within

a stone's throw of each other all their lives, and now shared the

same house.

"I never heard you come in," she said, smiling a little. "You must

have been very quiet."

"I don't believe you'd hear a salute fired in the next room if you

were reading, you little book worm! But look here; I've got a

parody on the chieftain that'll make you cry with laughing. You

remember the smashed windows at the meeting at Rilchester last

week?"

Erica remembered well enough, she had felt sore and angry about it,

and the comments in the newspapers had not been consolatory. She

had learned to dread even the comic papers; but there was nothing

spiteful in the one which Tom produced that evening. It was

headed:

Scotch song (Tune--"Twas within a mile of Edinboro'town"

"Twas within a hall of Rilchester town,

In the bleak spring-time of the year,

Luke Raeburn gave a lecture on the soul of man,

And found that it cost him dear.

Windows all were smashed that day,

They said: 'The atheist can pay.'

But Scottish Raeburn, frowning cried:

'Na, na, it winna do,

I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna pay for you.'"

The parody ran on through the three verses of the song, the

conclusion was really witty, and there was no sting in it. Erica

laughed over it as she had not laughed for weeks. Tom, who had

been trying unsuccessfully to cheer her ever since her return, was

quite relieved.

"I believe the sixpence a day style suits you," he said. "But, I

say, isn't anything coming up? I'm as hungry as a hunter."

Their elders being away for a few days, Tom and Erica were amusing

themselves by trying to live on the rather strange diet of the man

who published his plan for living at the smallest possible cost.

They were already beginning to be rather weary of porridge, pea

soup and lentils. This evening pea soup was in the ascendant, and

Erica, tired with a long afternoon's work, felt as if she could

almost as soon have eaten Thames mud.

"Dear me," she said, "it never struck me, this is our Lenten

penance! Now, wouldn't any one looking in fancy we were poor

Romanists without an indulgence?"

"Certainly without any self-indulgence," said Tom, who never lost

an opportunity of making a bad pun.

"It would be a great indulgence to stop eating," said Erica,

sighing over the soup yet to be swallowed.

"Do you think it is more inspiriting to fast in order to save one's

soul than it is to pay the chieftain's debts? I wish I could

honestly say, like the little French girl in her confession: 'J'ai

trop mang.'"

Tom dearly loved that story, he was exceeding fond of getting

choice little anecdotes from various religious newspapers,

especially those which dealt in much abuse of the Church of Rome,

and he retailed them CON AMORE. Erica listened to several, and

laughed a good deal over them.

"I wonder, though, they don't see how they play into our hands by

putting in these things," she said after Tom had given her a

description of some ludicrous attack made by a ritualist on an

evangelical. "I should have thought they would have tried to agree

whenever they could, instead of which they seem almost as spiteful

to each other as they are to us."

"They'd know better if they'd more than a grain of sense between

them," said Tom, sweepingly, "but they haven't; and as they're

always playing battledoor and shuttlecock with that, it isn't much

good to either. Of course they play into our hands. I believe the

spiteful ultra-high paper, and the spiteful ultra-low paper do more

to promote atheism than the 'Idol-Breaker' itself."

"How dreadful it must be for men like Mr. Osmond, who see all

round, and yet can't stop what they must think the mischief. Mr.

Osmond has been here this afternoon."

"Ah, now, he's a stunning fellow, if you like," said Tom. "He's

not one of the pig-headed narrow-minded set. How he comes to be a

parson I can't make out."

"Well, you see, from their point of view it is the best thing to

be; I mean he gets plenty of scope for work. I fancy he feels as

much obliged to speak and teach as father does."

"Pity he's not on our side," said Tom; "they say he's a first-rate

speaker. But I'm, afraid he is perfectly crazy on that point;

he'll never come over."

"I don't think we've a right to put the whole of his religiousness

down to a mania," said Erica. "Besides, he is not the sort of man

to be even a little mad, there's nothing the least fanatical about

him."

"Call it delusion if you like it better. What's in a name? The

thing remains the same. A man can't believe what is utterly

against reason without becoming, as far as that particular belief

is concerned, unreasonable, beyond the pale of reason, therefore

deluded, therefore mad."

Erica looked perplexed; she did not think Tom's logic altogether

good, but she could not correct it. There was, however, a want of

generosity about the assertion which instantly appealed to her fine

sense of honor.

"I can't argue it out," she said at last, "but it doesn't seem to

me fair to put down what we can't understand in other people to

madness; it never seemed to me quite fair for Festus to accuse Paul

of madness when he really had made a splendid defense, and it

doesn't seem fair that you should accuse Mr. Osmond of being mad."

"Only on that one point," said Tom. "Just a little touched, you

know. How else can you account for a man like that believing what

he professes to believe?"

"I don't know," said Erica, relapsing into perplexed silence.

"Besides," continued Tom, "you cry out because I say they must be

just a little touched, but they accuse us of something far worse

than madness, they accuse us of absolute wickedness."

"Not all of them," said Erica.

"The greater part," said Tom. "How often do you think the

chieftain meets with really fair treatment from the antagonists?"

Erica had nothing to say to this. The harshness and intolerance

which her father had constantly to encounter was the great grief of

her life, the perpetual source of indignation, her strongest

argument against Christianity.

"Have you much to do tonight?" she asked, not anxious to stir up

afresh the revolt against the world's injustice which the merest

touch would set working within her. "I was thinking that, if there

was time to spare, we might go to see the professor; he has

promised to show me some experiments."

"Electricity?" Tom pricked up his ears. "Not half a bad idea. If

you'll help me we can polish off the letters in an hour or so, and

be free by eight o'clock."

They set to work, and between them disposed of the correspondence.

It was a great relief to Erica after her long day's work to be out

in the cool evening air. The night was fine but very windy, indeed

the sudden gusts at the street corners made her glad to take Tom's

arm. Once, as they rather slackened their speed, half baffled by

the storm, a sentence from a passer-by fell on their ears. The

speaker looked like a countryman.

"Give me a good gas-burner with pipes and a meter that a honest man

can understand! Now this 'ere elective light I say it's not canny;

I've no belief in things o' that kind, it won't never--"

The rest of the speech died away in the distance. Tom and Erica

laughed, but the incident set Erica thinking. Here was a man who

would not believe what he could not understand, who wanted "pipes

and a meter," and for want of comprehensible outward signs

pooh-poohed the great new discovery.

"Tom," she said slowly, and with the manner of one who makes a very

unpleasant suggestion, reluctantly putting forward an unwelcome

thought, "suppose if, after all, we are like that man, and reject

a grand discovery because we don't know and are too ignorant to

understand! Tom, just suppose if, after all, Christianity should

be true and we in the wrong!"

"Just suppose if, after all, the earth should be a flat plain with

the sun moving round it!" replied Tom scornfully.

They were walking down the Strand; he did not speak for some

minutes, in fact he was looking at the people who passed by them.

For the first time in his life a great contrast struck him.

Disreputable vulgarity, wickedness, and vice stared him in the

face, then involuntarily he turned to Erica and looked down at her

scrutinizingly as he had never looked before. She was evidently

wrapped in thought but it was not the intellect in her face which

he thought of just then, though it was ever noticeable, nor was it

the actual beauty of feature which struck him, it was rather an

undefined consciousness that here was a purity which was adorable.

From that moment he became no longer a boy, but a man with a high

standard of womanhood. Instantly he thought with regret of his

scornful little speech--it was contemptible.

"I beg your pardon," he said, abruptly ,as if she had been

following his whole train of thought. "Of course one is bound to

study the question fairly, but we have done that, and all that

remains for us is to live as usefully as we can and as creditably

to the cause as may be."

They had turned down one of the dingy little streets leading to the

river, and now stood outside Professor Gosse's door. Erica did not

reply. It was true she had heard arguments for and against

Christianity all her life, but had she ever studied it with strict

impartiality? Had she not always been strongly biased in favor of

secularism? Had not Mr. Osmond gone unpleasantly near the mark

when he warned her against being prejudiced by the wrong-doing of

a few modern Christians against Christianity itself! She was

coming now for special instruction in science from one who was best

calculated to teach; she would not have dreamed of asking

instruction from one who was a disbeliever in science. Would the

same apply in matters of religious belief? Was she bound actually

to ask instruction from Charles Osmond, for instance, even though

she believed that he taught error--harmful error? Yet who was to

be the judge of what was error, except by perfectly fair

consideration of both sides of the case. Had she been fair? What

was perfect fairness?

But people must go on living, and must speak and act even though

their minds are in a chaos of doubts and questionings. They had

reached Professor Gosse's study, or as he himself called it, his

workshop, and Erica turned with relief to the verifiable results of

scientific inquiry.

CHAPTER XI. The Wheels Run Down

Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More,

To him must needs be given,

Who heareth heresy, and leaves

The heretic to Heaven. Whittier.

The clock in a neighboring church tower was just striking five on

a warm afternoon in June. The pillar box stood at the corner of

Guilford Square nearest the church, and on this particular

afternoon there chanced to be several people running at the last

moment to post their letters. Among others were Brian and Erica.

Brian, with a great bundle of parish notices, had just reached the

box when running down the other side of the square at full speed he

saw his Undine carrying a bagful of letters. He had not met her

for some weeks, for it happened to have been a busy time with him,

and though she had been very good in coming to read to old Mrs.

Osmond, he had always just missed her.

"This is a funny meeting place," she exclaimed, rather

breathlessly. "It never struck me before what a truly national

institution the post office is--a place where people of all

creeds and opinions can meet together, and are actually treated

alike!"

Brian smiled.

"You have been very busy," he said, glancing at the innumerable

envelopes, which she was dropping as fast as might be into the

narrow receptacle. He could see that they were directed in her

small, clear, delicate handwriting.

"And you, too," she said, looking at his diminished bundle. "Mine

are secularist circulars, and yours, I suppose, are the other kind

of thing, but you see the same pillar eats them up quite

contentedly. The post office is beautifully national, it sets a

good example."

She spoke lightly, but there was a peculiar tone in her voice which

betrayed great weariness. It made Brian look at her more

attentively than he had yet done--less from a lover's point of

view, more from a doctor's. She was very pale. Though the running

had brought a faint color to her cheeks, her lips were white, her

forehead almost deathly. He knew that she had never really been

well since her mother's death, but the change wrought within the

last three weeks dismayed him; she was the mere shadow of her

former self.

"This hot weather is trying you," he said.

"Something is," she replied. "Work, or weather, or worry, or the

three combined."

"Come in and see my father," said Brian, "and be idle for a little

time; you will be writing more circulars if you go home."

"No, they are all done, and my examination is over, and there is

nothing special going on just now; I think that is why I feel so

like breaking down."

After a little more persuasion, she consented to go in and see Mr.

Osmond. The house always had a peculiarly restful feeling, and the

mere thought of rest was a relief to her; she would have liked the

wheels of life to stop for a little while, and there was rest in

the mere change of atmosphere. On the doorstep Brian encountered

a patient, much to his vexation; so he could only take Erica into

the study, and go in search of his father. He lingered however,

just to tell him of his fears.

"She looks perfectly worn out; you must find out what is wrong,

father, and make her promise to see some one."

His tone betrayed such anxiety that his father would not smile

although he was secretly amused at the task deputed to him.

However, clergyman as he was, he had a good deal of the doctor

about him, and he had seen so much of sickness and disease during

his long years of hard work among the poor that he was after all

about as ready an observer and as good a judge as Brian could have

selected.

Erica, leaning back in the great easy chair, which had been moved

into summer quarters beside the window, heard the slow soft step

she had learned to know so well, and before she had time to get up,

found her hand in Charles Osmond's strong clasp.

"How comfortable your chair is," she said, smiling; "I believe I

was nearly asleep."

He looked at her attentively, but without appearing to study her

face in any way. She was very pale and there was an indefinable

look of pain in her eyes.

"Any news of the examination?" he asked, sitting down opposite her.

"No, it is too soon yet," she replied. "I thought I should have

felt so anxious about it, but do you know, now that it is over, I

can't make myself care a bit. If I have failed altogether, I don't

believe I shall mind very much."

"Too tired to care for anything?"

"Yes, I seem to have come to the end. I wish I were a watch, and

could run down and rest for a few days and be wound up again."

He smiled. "What have you been doing with yourself to get so

tired?"

"Oh, nothing particular; it has been rather a long day. Let me

see! In the morning there were two delegates from Rilchester who

had to be kept in a good temper till my father was ready for them;

then there was father's bag to be packed, and a rush to get him off

in time for the morning express to Longstaff. Then I went to a

lecture at South Kensington, and then by train to Aldersgate Street

to see Hazeldine's wife, who is unconscionable enough to live at

the top of one of the model lodging houses. Then she told me of

another of our people whose child is ill, and they lived in another

row of Compton buildings up a hundred more steps, which left my

back nearly broken. And the poor little child was fearfully ill,

and it is so dreadful to see pain you can do nothing for; it has

made me feel wretched ever since. Then--let me think--oh, I

got home and found Aunt Jean with a heap of circulars to get off,

and there was a great rush to get them ready by post time."

She paused; Charles Osmond withdrew his eyes from the careful

scrutiny of her face, and noticed the position she had taken up in

his chair. She was leaning back with her arms resting on the arms

of the chair; not merely stretched out upon them, but rather as if

she used them for support. His eyes wandered back again to her

face. After a short silence, he spoke.

"You have been feeling very tired lately; you have had

unaccountable pains flying about all over you, but specially your

back has felt, as you just said, somewhat 'broken.' You have

generally noticed this when you have been walking, or bending over

your desk writing for the 'Idol-Breaker.'"

She laughed.

"Now please don't turn into a clairvoyant; I shall begin to think

you uncanny; and, besides, it would be an argument for Tom when we

quarrel about you."

"Then my surmises are true?"

"Substitute first person singular for second plural, and it might

have come from my own lips," said Erica, smiling. "But please

stop; I'm afraid you will try to turn prophet next, and I'm sure

you will prophesy something horrid."

"It would need no very clear-sighted prophet to prophesy that you

will have to let your wheels run down for a little while."

"Do you mean that you think I shall die?" asked Erica, languidly.

"It wouldn't be at all convenient just now; father couldn't spare

me. Do you know," and her face brightened, "he is really beginning

to use me a good deal?"

"I didn't mean that I thought your wheels would run down in that

way," said Charles Osmond, touched by the pathos of her words. "I

may even be wrong, but I think you will want a long rest, and I am

quite sure you mustn't lose a day before seeing a doctor. I should

like my brother to see you; Brian is only junior partner, you

know."

"What, another Mr. Osmond! How muddled we shall get between you

all!" said Erica, laughing.

"I should think that Brian might be Brian by this time," said

Charles Osmond; "that will dispose of one; and perhaps you would

like to follow the example of one of my servants, who, I hear,

invariably speaks of me as the 'dear rev.'"

Erica laughed.

"No, I shall call you my 'prophet,' though it is true you have

begun by being a prophet of evil! By the bye, you can not say

again that I am not impartial. What do you think Tom and I did

last week?"

"Read the New Testament backward?"

"No, we went to a Holy Scripture Society meeting at Exeter Hall."

"Hope you were edified," said Charles Osmond, with a little twinkle

in his eye; but he sighed, nevertheless.

"Well," said Erica, "it was rather curious to hear everything

reversed, and there was a good deal of fun altogether. They talked

a great deal about the numbers of bibles, testaments, and portions

which had been sent out. There was one man who spoke very broadly,

and kept on speaking of the 'PORTIONS,' and there was another whom

we called the 'Great Door,' because eight times in his speech he

said that a great door had been opened for them in Italy and other

places. Altogether, I thought them rather smug and self-satisfied,

especially one man whose face shone on the slightest provocation,

and who remarked, in broad Lincolnshire, that they had been

'aboondantly blessed.' After his speech a little short, sleek oily

man got up, and talked about Providence. Apparently it had been

very kind to him, and he thought the other sort of thing did best

for those who got it. But there were one or two really good

speakers, and I dare say they were all in earnest. Still, you

know, Tom and I felt rather like fish out of water, and especially

when they began to sing, 'Oh, Bible, blessed Bible!' and a lady

would make me share her hymn book. Then, too, there was a

collection, and the man made quite a pause in front of us, and of

course we couldn't give anything. Altogether, I felt rather horrid

and hypocritical for being there at all."

"Is that your only experience of one of our meetings?"

"Oh, no, father took me with him two or three times to Westminster

Abbey a good many years ago. We heard the dean; father admired him

very much. I like Westminster Abbey. It seems to belong a little

to us, too, because it is so national. And then it is so

beautiful, and I liked hearing the music. I wonder, though, that

you are not little afraid of having it so much in your worship. I

remember hearing a beautiful anthem there once, which just thrilled

one all through. I wonder that you don't fear that people should

mistake that for what you call spiritual fervor."

"I think, perhaps, there is a danger in any undue introduction of

externals, but any one whose spirit has ever been awakened will

never mistake the mere thrill of sensuous rapture for the

quickening of the spirit by the Unseen."

"You are talking riddles to me now!" said Erica; "but I feel sure

that some of the people who go to church regularly only like it

because of that appeal to the senses. I shall never forget going

one afternoon into Notre Dame with Mme. Lemercier. A flood of

crimson and purple light was shining in through the south transept

windows. You could see the white-robed priests and choristers--

there was one boy with the most perfect voice you can conceive. I

don't know what they were singing, something very sweet and

mournful, and, as that one voice rang up into the vaulted roof, I

saw Mme. Lemercier fall down on her knees and pray in a sort of

rapture. Even I myself felt the tears come to my eyes, just

because of the loveliness, and because the blood in one's veins

seemed to bound. And then, still singing, the procession passed

into the nave, and the lovely voice grew more and more distant. It

was a wonderful effect; no doubt, the congregation thought they

felt devout, but, if so, then I too felt devout--quite as

religious as they. Your spiritual fervor seems to me to resolve

itself into artistic effect produced by an appeal to the senses and

emotions."

"And I must repeat my riddle," said Charles Osmond, quietly. "No

awakened spirit could ever mistake the one for the other. It is

impossible! How impossible you will one day realize."

"One evil prophesy is enough for today!" said Erica laughing. "If

I stay any longer, you will be prophesying my acceptance of

Christianity. No, no, my father will be grieved enough if your

first prediction comes true, but, if I were to turn Christian, I

think it would break his heart!"

She rose to go, and Charles Osmond went with her to the door,

extracting a promise that she would discuss things with her aunt,

and if she approved send for Mr. Osmond at once. He watched her

across the square, then turning back into his study paced to and

fro in deep thought. Erica's words rang in his ears. "If I were

to turn Christian, I think it would break his heart." How

strangely this child was situated! How almost impossible it seemed

that she could ever in this world come to the light! And yet the

difficulty might perhaps be no hindrance to one so beautifully

sincere, so ready to endure anything and everything for the sake of

what she now considered truth. She had all her father's zeal and

self-devotion; surely the offering up of self, even in a mistaken

cause, must sooner or later lead to the Originator of all

self-sacrifice. Surely some of those who seem only to thwart God,

honestly deeming Christianity a mischievous delusion, are really

acting more in His spirit, unconsciously better doing His will than

many who openly declare themselves on His side! Yet, as Charles

Osmond mused over the past lives of Luke Raeburn and his daughter,

and pictured their probable future, a great grief filled his heart.

They wee both so lovable, so noble! That they should miss in a

great measure the best of life seemed such a grievous pity! The

chances that either of them would renounce atheism were, he could

not but feel, infinitesimally small. Much smaller for the father

than for the child.

It was true, indeed, that she had never fairly grasped any real

idea of the character of Christ. He had once grasped it to a

certain extent, and had lost the perception of its beauty and

truth. It was true also that Erica's transparent sincerity, her

quick perception of the beautiful might help very greatly to

overcome her deeply ingrained prejudices. But even then what an

agony--what a fearful struggle would lie before her; "I think it

would break his heart!" Charles Osmond felt his breath come fast

and hard at the mere thought of such a difference between the

father and daughter! Could human strength possibly be equal to

such a terrible trial? For these two were everything to each

other. Erica worshipped her father, and Raeburn's fatherhood was

the truest, deepest, tenderest part of his character. No, human

strength could not do it, but--

"I am; nyle ye drede!"

His eye fell on a little illuminated scroll above his mantelpiece,

Wycliff's rendering of Christ's reassuring words to the fearful

disciples. Yes, with the revelation of Himself, He would give the

strength, make it possible to dread nothing, not even the

infliction of grief to one's nearest and dearest. Much pain, much

sacrifice there would be in his service, but dread--never. The

strength of the "I am," bade it forever cease. In that strength

the weakest could conquer.

But he had wondered on into a dim future, had pictured a struggle

which in all probability would not take place. Even were that the

case, however, he needed these words of assurance all the more

himself. They wove themselves into his reverie as he paced to an

fro; they led him further and further away from perplexed surmises

as to the future of Raeburn and Erica, but closer to their souls,

because they took him straight to the "God and father of all, who

is above all, and through all, and in all."

The next morning as he was preparing a sermon for the following

Sunday, there came a knock at his study door. His brother came in.

He was a fine looking man of two or three-and-fifty.

"I can't stay," he said, "I've a long round, but I just looked in

to tell you about your little heretic."

Charles Osmond looked up anxiously.

"It is as you thought," continued his brother. "Slight curvature

of the spine. She's a brave little thing; I don't wonder you are

interested in her."

"It means a long rest, I suppose?"

"Yes, I told her a year in a recumbent posture; for I fancy she is

one of those restless beings who will do nothing at all unless you

are pretty plain with them. It is possible that six or eight

months may be sufficient."

"How did she take it?"

"Oh, in the pluckiest way you can conceive! Tried to laugh at the

prospect, wanted me to measure her to see how much she grew in the

time, and said she should expect at least three inches to reward

her."

"A Raeburn could hardly be deficient in courage. Luke Raeburn is

without exception the bravest man I ever met."

"And I'd back his daughter against any woman I know," said the

doctor.

He left the room, but the news he had brought caused a long pause

in his brother's sermon.

CHAPTER XII. Raeburn's Homecoming

He is a man both loving and severe,

A tender heart, a will inflexible. Longfellow

Luke Raeburn had been lecturing in one of the large manufacturing

towns. It was the hottest part of a sultry day in June. He was

returning home, and sat in a broiling third-class carriage reading

a paper. Apparently what he read was the reverse of gratifying for

there was a look of annoyance on his usually serene face; he was

displeased with the report of his lecture given in the local

papers, it was calculated to mislead very greatly.

Other matters, too, were harassing him just then and he was,

moreover, paying the penalty of his two years' campaign, in which

his almost superhuman exertions and the privations he had

voluntarily endured had told severely upon his health. Possessed

of a singularly well-regulated mind, and having in an unusual

degree the inestimable gift of common sense, he nevertheless often

failed to use it in his personal affairs. He had no idea of

sparing himself, no idea of husbanding his strength; this was

indeed great, but he treated himself as if it were inexhaustible.

The months of trouble had turned his hair quite white; he was now

a more noticeable-looking man than ever.

Not unfrequently he made friends with the men with whom he

traveled; he was always studying life from the workingman's point

of view, and there was such a charm in his genial manner and ready

sympathy that he invariably succeeded in drawing people out. But

on this day he was not in the humor for it; instead, he thought

over the abusive article and the mangled report in the "Longstaff

Mercury," and debated within himself whether it were worth an

action for libel. His love of fighting said yes, his common sense

said no; and in the end common sense won the day, but left him

doubly depressed. He moved to the shady side of the carriage and

looked out of the window. He was a great lover of Nature, and

Nature was looking her loveliest just then. The trees, in all the

freshness of early June, lifted their foliage to the bluest of

skies, the meadows were golden with buttercups, the cattle grazed

peacefully, the hay fields waved unmown in the soft summer air,

which, though sparing no breath for the hot and dusty traveler, was

yet strong enough to sweep over the tall grasses in long,

undulating waves that made them shimmer in the sunlight.

Raeburn's face grew serene once more; he had a very quick

perception of the beautiful. Presently he retired again behind a

newspaper, this time the "Daily Review," and again his brow grew

stern, for there was bad news from the seat of war; he read the

account of a great battle, read the numbers of his slain

countrymen, and of those who had fallen on the enemy's side. It

was an unrighteous war, and his heart burned within him at the

thought of the inhuman havoc thus caused by a false ambition.

Again, as if he were fated that day to be confronted with the dark

side of life, the papers gave a long account of a discovery made

in some charity school, where young children had been hideously

ill-treated. Raeburn, who was the most fatherly of men, could

hardly restrain the expression of his righteous indignation. All

this mismanagement, this reckless waste of life, this shameful

cruelty, was going on in what was called "Free England." And here

was he, a middle-aged man, and time was passing on with frightful

rapidity, and though he had never lost an opportunity of lifting up

his voice against oppression, how little had he actually

accomplished!

"So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be!"

That was the burden of the unuttered cry which filled his whole

being. That was the point where his atheism often brought him to

a noble despair. But far from prompting him to repeat the maxim

"Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die!" it spurred him rather

to a sort of fiery energy, never satisfied with what it had

accomplished. Neither the dissatisfaction, however, nor even the

despair ever made him feel the need of any power above man. On the

contrary, the unaccountable mystery of pain and evil was his

strongest argument against the existence of a God. Upon that rock

he had foundered as a mere boy, and no argument had ever been able

to reconvince him. Impatience of present ill had in this, as in

many other cases, proved the bane of his life.

He would write and speak about these cases of injustice, he would

hold them up to the obloquy they so richly deserved.

Scathing sentences already took shape in his brain, but deeper

investigation would be necessary before he could write anything.

In the meantime to cool himself, to bring himself into a judicial

frame of mind, he took a Hebrew book from his bag, and spent the

rest of the journey in hard study.

Harassed, and tired, and out of spirits as he was, he nevertheless

felt a certain pleasurable sensation as he left St. Pancras,

driving homeward through the hot crowded streets. Erica would be

waiting for him at home, and he had a comparatively leisure

afternoon. There was the meeting on the Opium Trade at eight, but

he might take her for a turn in one of the parks beforehand. She

had always been a companion to him since her very babyhood, but now

he was able to enjoy her companionship even more than in the olden

times. Her keen intellect, her ready sympathy, her eagerness to

learn, made her the perfection of a disciple, while not unnaturally

he delighted in tracing the many similarities of character between

himself and his child. Then, too, in his hard, argumentative,

fighting life it was an unspeakable relief to be able to retire

every now and then into a home which no outer storms could shake or

disturb. Fond as he was of his sister, Mrs. Craigie, and Tom, they

constituted rather the innermost circle of his friends and

followers; it was Erica who made the HOME, though the others shared

the house. It was to Erica's pure child-like devotion that he

invariably turned for comfort.

Dismissing the cab at the corner of Guilford Square, he walked down

the dreary little passage, looking up at the window to see if she

were watching for him as usual. But today there was no expectant

face; he recollected, however, that it was Thursday, always a busy

day with them.

He opened the door with his latch key, and went in; still there was

no sound in the house; he half paused for an instant, thinking that

he should certainly hear her quick footsteps, the opening of a

door, some sign of welcome, but all was as silent as death. Half

angry with himself for having grown so expectant of that loving

watch as to be seriously apprehensive at its absence, he hastily

put down his bag and walked into the sitting room, his calm

exterior belying a nameless fear at his heart.

What the French call expressively a "serrement de coeur" seized him

when he saw that Erica was indeed at home, but that she was lying

on the couch. She did not even spring up to greet him.

"Is anything the matter, dear? Are you ill?" he asked, hurriedly

crossing the little room.

"Oh, have you not seen Aunt Jean? She was going to meet you at St.

Pancras," said Erica, her heart failing her a little at the

prospect of telling her own bad news. But the exceeding anxiety of

her father's face helped her to rise to the occasion. She laughed,

and the laugh was natural enough to reassure him.

"It is nothing so very dreadful, and all this time you have never

even given me a kiss, father." She drew down the grand-looking

white head, and pressed her fair face to his. He sat down beside

her.

"Tell me, dear, what is wrong with you?" he repeated.

"Well, I felt rather out of order, and they said I ought to see

some one, and it seems that my tiresome spine is getting crooked,

and the long and the short of it is that Mr. Doctor Osmond says I

shall get quite well again if I'm careful; but" she added, lightly,

yet with the gentleness of one who thinks merely of the hearer's

point of view "I shall have to be a passive verb for a year, and

you will have to be my very strong man Kwasind.'"

"A year?" he exclaimed in dismay.

"Brian half gave me hope that it might not be so long," said Erica,

"if I'm, very good and careful, and of course I shall be both. I

am only sorry because it will make me very useless. I did hope I

should never have been a burden on you again, father."

"Don't talk of such a thing, my little son Eric," he said, very

tenderly. "Who should take care of you if not your own father?

Besides, if you never wrote another line for me, you would help me

by just being yourself. A burden!"

"Well, I've made you look as grave as half a dozen lawsuits," said

Erica, pretending to stroke the lines of care from his forehead.

"I've had the morning to ruminate over the prospect, and really now

that you know, it is not so very dreadful. A year will soon pass."

"I look to you, Eric," said her father, "to show the world that we

secularists know how to bear pain. You won't waste the year if you

can do it."

Her face lighted up.

"It was like you to think of that!" she said; "that would indeed be

worth doing."

Still, do what she would, Erica could not talk him back to

cheerfulness. He was terribly distressed at her news, and more so

when he found that she was suffering a good deal. He thought with

a pang of the difference of the reality to his expectations. No

walk for them in the park that evening, nor probably for many years

to come. Yet he was ignorant of these matters, perhaps he

exaggerated the danger or the duration; he would go across and see

Brian Osmond at once.

Left once more to herself, the color died out of Erica's cheeks;

she lay there pale and still, but her face was almost rigid with

resoluteness.

"I am not going to give way!" she thought to herself. "I won't

shed a single tear. Tears are wasteful luxuries, bad for body and

mind. And yet yet oh, it is hard just when I wanted to help father

most! Just when I wanted to keep him from being worried. And a

whole year! How shall I bear it, when even six hours has seemed

half a life time! This is what Thekla would call a cross, but I

only call it my horrid, stupid, idiotic old spine. Well, I must

try to show them that Luke Raeburn's daughter knows how to bear

pain; I must be patient, however much I boil over in private. Yet

is it honest, I wonder, to keep a patient outside, while inside you

are all one big grumble? Rather Pharisaical outside of the cup and

platter; but it is all I shall be able to do, I'm sure. That is

where Mr. Osmond's Christianity would come in; I do believe that

goes right through his life, privatest thoughts and all. Odd, that

a delusion should have such power, and over such a man! There is

Sir Michael Cunningham, too, one of the greatest and best men in

England, yet a Christian! Great intellects and much study, and

still they remain Christians 'tis extraordinary. But a Christian

would have the advantage over me in a case like this. First of

all, I suppose, they would feel that they could serve their God as

well on their backs as upright,while all the help I shall be able

to give the cause is dreadfully indirect and problematical. Then

ertainly they would feel that they might be getting ready for the

next world where all wrong is, they believe, to be set right, while

I am only terribly hindered in getting ready for this world a whole

year without the chance of a lecture. And then they have all kinds

of nice theories about pain, discipline, and that sort of thing,

which no doubt make it more bearable, while to me it is just the

one unmitigated evil. But, oh! They don't know what pain means!

For there is no death to them no endless separation. What a

delusion it is! They ought to be happy enough. Oh, mother!

mother!"

After all, what she really dreaded in her enforced pause was the

leisure for thought. She had plunged into work of all kinds, had

half killed herself with work, had tried to hold her despair at

arms' length. But now there was no help for it. She must rest,

and the thoughts must come.

CHAPTER XIII. Losing One Friend to Gain Another

For toleration had its griefs,

And charity its trial. Whittier

"Well, Osmond, you got into hot water a few years ago for defending

Raeburn in public, and by this time you will find it not merely

hot, but up to boiling point. The fellow is more notorious than

ever."

The speaker was one of Charles Osmond's college friends, a certain

Mr. Roberts, who had been abroad for a good many years, but, having

returned on account of his health, had for a few months been acting

as curate to his friend.

"A man who works as indefatigably as Mr. Raeburn has done can

hardly avoid being noticed," replied Charles Osmond.

"You speak as if you admired the fellow!"

"There is a good deal to admire in Mr. Raeburn. However greatly

mistaken he is, there is no doubt that he is a brave man, and an

honest man."

"You can speak in such a way of a man who makes his living by

speaking and writing against God."

"I hope I can speak the truth of every man, whether his creed

agrees with mine or not."

"A man who grows rich on blasphemy! Who sows poison among the

people and reaps the harvest!" exclaimed Mr. Roberts.

"That he teaches fearful error, I quite allow," said Charles

Osmond, "but it is the grossest injustice to say that he does it

for gain. His atheism brought him to the very brink of starvation

some years ago. Even now he is so crippled by the endless

litigation he has had that he lives in absolute penury."

"But that letter you sent to the 'Church Chronicle' was so uncalled

for, you put the comparison so broadly"

"I put it in plain "English," said Charles Osmond, "I merely said,

as I think, that he puts many of us to shame by his great devotion.

The letter was a reply to a very unfair article about the

Rilchester riot; it was absolutely necessary that some one should

speak. I tell you, Roberts, if you knew the man, you could not

speak so bitterly of him. It is not true that he leads a selfish,

easy-going life; he has spent thousands and thousands of pounds in

the defense of his cause. I don't believe there is a man in

England who has led a more self-denying life. It may be very

uncomfortable news for us, but we've no right to shut our ears to

it. I wish that man could stir up an honest sense of shame in

every sleepy Christian in the country. I believe that, indeed, to

be his rightful mission. Raeburn is a grand text for a sermon

which the nation sorely needs. 'Here is a man who spends his whole

strength in propagating his so-called gospel of atheism. Do you

spend your whole strength in spreading the gospel of Christ? Here

is a man, willing to leave his home, willing to live without one

single luxury, denying himself all that is not necessary to actual

health. Have you ever denied yourself anything? Here is a man who

spends his whole living all that he has on what he believes to be

the truth. What meager tithe do you bestow upon the religion of

which you speak so much? Here is a man who dares to stand up alone

in defense of what he holds true, a man who never flinches. How

far are you brave in the defense of your faith? Do you never keep

a prudent silence? Do you never howl with the wolves?'"

"Thank Heaven you are not in the pulpit!" ejaculated Mr. Roberts.

"I wish those words could be sent through the length and breadth

of the land," said Charles Osmond.

"No doubt Mr. Raeburn would thank you," said his friend, with a

sharp-edged smile. "It would be a nice little advertisement for

him. Why, from a Church of England parson it would make his

fortune! My dear Osmond, you are the best fellow in the world, but

don't you see that you are playing into the enemy's hands."

"I am trying to speak the words that God has given me to speak,"

said Charles Osmond. "The result I can well trust to Him. An

uncomfortable truth will never be popular. The words of our Lord

Himself were not popular; but they sunk into men's hearts and bore

fruit, though He was put to death as a blasphemer and a

revolutionary."

"Well, at least then, if you must take up the cudgels in his

defense, do not dishonor the clerical profession by personal

acquaintance with the man. I hear that he has been seen actually

in your house, that you are even intimate with his family."

"Roberts, I didn't think our beliefs were so very different. In

fact, I used to think we were nearer to each other on these points

than most men. Surely we both own the universal Fatherhood of

God?"

"Of course, of course," said Mr. Roberts, quickly.

"And owning that, we cannot help owning the universal brotherhood

of men. Why should you then cut yourself off from your brother,

Luke Raeburn?"

"He's no brother of mine!" said Mr. Roberts, in a tone of disgust.

Charles Osmond smiled.

"We do not choose our brothers, we have no voice in the growth of

the family. There they are."

"But the man says there is no God."

"Excuse me, he has never said that. What he says is, that the word

God conveys no meaning to him. If you think that the best way to

show your belief in the All-Father and your love to all His

children lies in refusing so much as to touch those who don't know

Him, you are of course justified in shunning every atheist or

agnostic in the world. But I do not think that the best way. It

was not Christ's way. Therefore, I hail every possible opportunity

of meeting Mr. Raeburn or his colleagues, try to find all the

points we have in common, try as far as possible to meet them on

their own ground."

"And the result will be that people will call you an atheist

yourself!" broke in Mr. Roberts.

"That would not greatly matter," said Charles Osmond. "It would be

a mere sting for the moment. It is not what men call us that we

have to consider, but how we are fulfilling the work God has given

us to do."

"'Pon my life, it makes me feel sick to hear you talk like this

about that miserable Raeburn!" exclaimed Mr. Roberts, hotly. "I

tell you, Osmond, that you are ruining your reputation, losing all

chance of preferment, just because of this mistaken zeal. It makes

me furious to think that such a man as you should suffer for such

a creature as Raeburn."

"Have you forgotten that such creatures as you and I and Luke

Raeburn had such a Saviour as Jesus Christ? Come, Roberts, in your

heart you know you agree with me. If one is indeed our Father,

then indeed we are all brethren."

"I do not hold with you!" retorted Mr. Roberts, the more angrily

because he had really hoped to convince his friend. "I wouldn't

sit in the same room with the fellow if you offered me the richest

living in England. I wouldn't shake hands with him to be made an

archbishop. I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs."

"Even less charitable than St. Dunstan to the devil," said Charles

Osmond, smiling a little, but sadly. "Except in that old legend,

however, I don't think Christianity ever mentions tongs. If you

can't love your enemies, and pray for them, and hold out a

brotherly hand to them, perhaps it were indeed better to hold aloof

and keep as quiet as you can."

"It is clearly impossible for us to work together any longer,

Osmond," said Mr. Roberts, rising. "I am sorry that such a cause

should separate us, but if you will persist in visiting an outcast

of society, a professed atheist, the most bitter enemy of our

church, I cannot allow my name to be associated with yours it is

impossible that I should hold office under you."

So the two friends parted.

Charles Osmond was human, and almost inevitably a sort of reaction

began in his mind the instant he was alone. He had lost one of his

best friends, he knew as well as possible that they could never be

on the same footing as before. He had, moreover, lost in him a

valuable co-worker. Then, too, it was true enough that his

defense of Raeburn was bringing him into great disfavor with the

religious world, and he was a sensitive and naturally a proud man,

who found blame, and reproach, and contemptuous disapproval very

hard to bear. Years of hard fighting, years of patient imitation

of Christ had wonderfully ennobled him, but he had not yet attained

to the sublime humility which, being free from all thought of self,

cares nothing, scarcely even pauses to think of the world's

judgment, too absorbed in the work of the Highest to have leisure

for thought of the lowest, too full of love for the race to have

love to spare for self. To this ideal he was struggling, but he

had not yet reached it, and the thought of his own reputation, his

own feelings would creep in. He was not a selfishly ambitious man,

but every one who is conscious of ability, every one who feels

within him energies lying fallow for want of opportunity, must be

ambitious for a larger sphere of work. Just as he was beginning to

dare to allow himself the hope of some change in his work, some

wider field, just as he was growing sure enough of himself to dare

to accept any greater work which might have been offered to him, he

must, by bringing himself into evil repute, lose every chance of

preferment. And for what? For attempting to obtain a just

judgment for the enemy of his faith; for holding out a brotherly

hand to a man who might very probably not care to take it; for

consorting with those who would at best regard him as an amiable

fanatic. Was this worth all it would cost? Could the exceedingly

problematical gain make up for the absolutely certain loss?

He took up the day's newspaper. His eye was at once attracted to

a paragraph headed: "Mr. Raeburn at Longstaff." The report, sent

from the same source as the report in the "Longstaff Mercury,"

which had so greatly displeased Raeburn that morning, struck

Charles Osmond in a most unfavorable light. This bitter opponent

of Christianity, this unsparing denouncer of all that he held most

sacred, THIS was the man for whom he was sacrificing friendship,

reputation, advancement. A feeling of absolute disgust rose within

him. For a moment the thought came: "I can't have any more to do

with the man."

But he was too honest not to detect almost at once his own

Pharisaical, un-Christlike spirit.

"Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the

things of others. Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ

Jesus."

He had been selfishly consulting his own happiness, his own ease.

Worse still, he, of all men in the world, had dared to set himself

up as too virtuous forsooth to have anything to do with an atheist.

Was that the mind which was in Christ? Was He a strait-laced,

self-righteous Pharisee, too good, too religious to have anything

to say to those who disagreed with Him? Did He not live and die

for those who are yet enemies to God? Was not the work of

reconciliation the work he came for? Did He calculate the loss to

Himself, the risk of failure? Ah, no, those who would imitate God

must first give as a free gift, without thought of self, perfect

love to all, perfect justice through that love, or else they are

not like the Father who "maketh His sun to shine on the evil and

the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust."

Charles Osmond paced to and fro, the look of trouble gradually

passing from his face. Presently he paused beside the open window;

it looked upon the little back garden, a tiny strip of ground,

indeed, but just now bright with sunshine and fresh with the beauty

of early summer. The sunshine seemed to steal into his heart as he

prayed.

"All-Father, drive out my selfish cowardice, my self-righteous

conceit. Give me Thy spirit of perfect love to all, give me Thy

pure hatred of sin. Melt my coldness with Thy burning charity, and

if it be possible make me fit to be Luke Raeburn's friend."

While he still stood by the window a visitor was announced. He had

been too much absorbed to catch the name, but it seemed the most

natural thing that on turning round he should find himself face to

face with the prophet of atheism.

There he stood, a splendid specimen of humanity; every line in his

rugged Scottish face bespoke a character of extraordinary force,

but the eyes which in public Charles Osmond had seen flashing with

the fire of the man's enthusiasm, or gleaming with a cold metallic

light which indicated exactly his steely endurance of ill

treatment, were now softened and deepened by sadness. His heart

went out to him. Already he loved the man, only hitherto the

world's opinions had crept into his heart between each meeting, and

had paralyzed the free God-like love. But it was to do so no

longer. That afternoon he had dealt it a final blow, there was no

more any room for it to rear its fair-speaking form, no longer

should its veiled selfishness, its so-called virtuous indignation

turn him into a Pharisaical judge.

He received him with a hand shake which conveyed to Raeburn much of

the warmth, the reality, the friendliness of the man. He had

always liked Charles Osmond, but he had generally met him either in

public, or when he was harassed and preoccupied. Now, when he was

at leisure, when, too, he was in great trouble, he instinctively

perceived that Osmond had in a rare degree the broad-hearted

sympathy which he was just now in need of. From that minute a

life-long friendship sprung up between the two men.

"I came really to see your son," said Raeburn, "but they tell me he

is out. I wish to know the whole truth about Erica." It was not

his way to speak very much where he felt deeply, and Charles Osmond

could detect all the deep anxiety, the half-indulged hope which lay

hidden behind the strong reserved exterior. He had heard enough of

the case to be able to satisfy him, to assure him that there was no

danger, that all must be left to time and patience and careful

observance of the doctor's regulations. Raeburn sighed with relief

at the repeated assurance that there was no danger, that recovery

was only a question of time. Death had so recently visited his

home that a grisly fear had taken possession of his heart. Once

free of that, he could speak almost cheerfully of the lesser evil.

"It will be a great trial to her, such absolute imprisonment; she

is never happy unless she is hard at work. But she is brave and

strong-willed. Will you look in and see her when you can?"

"Certainly," said Charles Osmond. "We must do our best to keep up

her spirits."

"Yes, luckily she is a great reader, otherwise such a long rest

would be intolerable, I should fancy."

"You do not object to my coming to see her?" said Charles Osmond,

looking full into his companion's eyes. "You know that we discuss

religious questions pretty freely."

"Religious questions always are freely discussed in my house," said

Raeburn. "It will be the greatest advantage to her to have to turn

things well over in her mind. Besides, we always make a point of

studying our adversaries' case even more closely than our own, and,

if she has a chance of doing it personally as well as through

books, all the better."

"But supposing that such an unlikely thing were to happen as that

she should see reason to change her present views? Supposing, if

you can suppose anything so unlikely, she should ever in future

years come to believe in Christianity?"

Raeburn smiled, not quite pleasantly.

"It is as you say such a very remote contingency!" He paused, grew

grave, then continued with all his native nobility: "Yet I like you

the better for having brought forward such an idea, improbable as

I hope it may be considered. I feel very sure of Erica. She has

thought a great deal, she has had every possible advantage. We

never teach on authority; she has been left perfectly free and has

learned to weigh evidences and probabilities, not to be led astray

by any emotional fancies, but to be guided by reason. She has

always heard both sides of the case; she has lived as it were in an

atmosphere of debate, and has been, and of course always will be,

quite free to form her own opinion on every subject. It is not for

nothing that we call ourselves Freethinkers. Absolute freedom of

thought and speech is part of our creed. So far from objecting to

your holding free discussions with my daughter, I shall be

positively grateful to you, and particularly just now. I fancy

Erica has inherited enough of my nature to enjoy nothing better

than a little opposition."

"I know you are a born fighter," said Charles Osmond. "We

sympathize with each other in that. And next to the bliss of a

hard-won victory, I place the satisfaction of being well

conquered."

Raeburn laughed.

"I am glad we think alike there. People are very fond of

describing me as a big bull dog, but if they would think a little,

they would see that the love of overcoming obstacles is deeply

rooted in the heart of every true man. What is the meaning of our

English love of field sports? What the explanation of the mania

for Alpine climbing? It is no despicable craving for distinction,

it is the innate love of fighting, struggling, and conquering."

"Well, there are many obstacles which we can struggle to remove,

side by side," said Charles Osmond. "We should be like one man, I

fancy on the question of the opium trade, for instance."

In a few vigorous words Raeburn denounced this monstrous national

sin.

"Are you going to the meeting tonight?" he added, after a pause.

"Yes, I had thought of it. Let us go together. Shall you speak?"

"Not tonight," said Raeburn, a smile flickering about his usually

stern lips. "The Right Reverend Father, etc., etc., who is to

occupy the chair, might object to announcing that 'Mr. Raeburn

would now address the meeting.' No, this is not the time or place

for me. So prejudiced are people that the mere connection of my

name with the question would probably do more harm than good. I

should like, I confess, to get up without introduction, to speak

not from the platform but from among the audience incognito. But

that is impossible for a man who has the misfortune to be five

inches above the average height, and whose white hair has become a

proverb, since some one made the unfortunate remark, repeated in a

hundred newspapers, that the 'hoary head was only a crown of glory

when found in the way of righteousness.'"

Charles Osmond could not help laughing.

"The worst of these newspaper days is that one never can make an

end of anything. That remark has been made to me since at several

meetings. At the last, I told the speaker that I was so tired of

comments on my personal appearance that I should soon have to

resort either to the dyer or the wigmaker. But here am I wasting

your time and my own, and forgetting the poor little maid at home.

Goodbye. I'll call in passing, then, at a quarter to eight. Tom

Craigie will probably be with me, he is very rabid on the subject."

"Craigie and I are quite old friends," said Charles Osmond.

And then, as on the preceding night he had stood at the door while

Erica crossed the square, so now involuntarily his eyes followed

Raeburn. In his very walk the character of the man was indicated

firm, steady, imperturbable, straightforward.

CHAPTER XIV. Charles Osmond Speaks His Mind

Fiat justitia ruat coelum. Proverb

Justice, the miracle worker among men. John Bright (July 14,

1868.)

"I thought you were never coming to see me," said Erica, putting

down a newspaper and looking up with eager welcome at Charles

Osmond, who had just been announced.

"It has not been for want of will," he replied, sitting down near

her couch, "but I have been overwhelmed with work the last few

days. How are you getting on? I'm glad you don't altogether

refuse to see your prophet of evil."

"It would have been worse if you hadn't spoken," she said, in the

tone of one trying hard to make the best of things. "I was rather

rash though to say that I should like my wheels to run down; I

didn't know how terrible it is to be still. One does so grudge all

the lost time."

"But you will not let this be lost time you will read."

"Oh, yes, happily I can do that. And Mrs. McNaughton is going to

give me physiology lessons, and dear old Professor Gosse has

promised to come and teach me whenever he can. He is so devoted to

father, you know, I think he would do anything for me just because

I am his child. It is a comfort that father has so many real good

friends. What I do so hate though is the thought of having to be

a passive verb for so long. You've no idea how aggravating it is

to lie here and listen to all that is going on, to hear of great

meetings and not to be able to go, to hear of work to be done and

not to be able to do it. And I suppose one notices little things

more when one is ill, for just to lie still and watch our clumsy

little servant lay the table for dinner, clattering down the knives

and forks and tossing down the plates, makes me actually cross.

And then they let the room get so untidy; just look at that stack

of books for reviewing, and that chaos of papers in the corner. If

I could but get up for just five minutes I shouldn't mind."

"Poor child," said Charles Osmond, "this comes very hard on you."

"I know I'm grumbling dreadfully, but if you knew how horrid it is

to be cut off from everything! And, of course, it happens that

another controversy is beginning about that Longstaff report. I

have been reading half a dozen of today's newspapers, and each one

is worse than the last. Look here! Just read that, and try to

imagine that it's your father they are slandering! Oh, if I could

but get up for one minute and stamp!"

"And is this untrue?" asked Charles Osmond, when he had finished

the account in question.

"There is just enough truth in it to make it worse than a direct

lie," said Erica, hotly. "They have quoted his own words, but in

a sense in which he never meant them, or they have quite

disregarded the context. If you will give me those books on the

table, I'll just show you how they have misrepresented him by

hacking out single sentences, and twisting and distorting all he

says in public."

Charles Osmond looked at the passages referred to, and saw that

Erica had not complained without reason.

"Yes, that is very unfair shamefully unfair," he said. Then, after

a pause, he added, abruptly: "Erica, are you good at languages?"

"I am very fond of them," she said, surprised at the sudden turn he

had given to the conversation.

"Supposing that Mr. Raeburn's speeches and doings were a good deal

spoken of in Europe, as no doubt they are, and that a long time

after his death one of his successors made some converts to

secularism in Italy, and wrote in Italian all that he could

remember of the life and words of his late teacher. Then suppose

that the Italian life of Raeburn was translated into Chinese, and

that hundreds of years after, a heathen Chinee sat down to read it.

His Oriental mind found it hard to understand Mr. Raeburn's

thoroughly Western mind; he didn't see anything noble in Mr.

Raeburn's character, couldn't understand his mode of thought, read

through the life, perhaps studied it after a fashion, or believed

he did; then shut it up, and said there might possibly have been

such a man, but the proofs were very weak, and, even if he had

lived, he didn't think he was any great shakes, though the people

did make such a fuss about him. Would you call that heathen Chinee

fair?"

Erica could not help smiling, though she saw what he was driving

at.

But Charles Osmond felt much too keenly to continue in such a light

strain. He was no weak-minded, pleasant conversationalist, but a

prophet, who knew how to speak hard truths sometimes.

"Erica," he said, almost sternly, "you talk much about those who

quote your father's words unfairly; but have you never misquoted

the words of Christ? You deny Him and disbelieve in Him, yet you

have never really studied His life. You have read the New

Testament through a veil of prejudice. Mind, I am not saying one

word in defense of those so-called Christians who treat you

unfairly or uncharitably; but I do say that, as far as I can see,

you are quite as unfair to Christ as they are to your father. Of

course, you may reply that Jesus of Nazareth lived nearly nineteen

hundred years ago, and that your father is still living; that you

have many difficulties and doubts to combat, while our bigots can

verify every fact or quotation with regard to Mr. Raeburn with

perfect ease and certainty. That is true enough. But the

difficulties, if honestly faced, might be surmounted. You don't

honestly face them; you say to yourself, 'I have gone into all

these matters carefully, and now I have finally made up my mind;

there is an end of the matter!' You are naturally prejudiced

against Christ; every day your prejudices will deepen unless you

strike out resolutely for yourself as a truth-seeker, as one who

insists on always considering all sides of the question. At

present you are absolutely unfair, you will not take the trouble to

study the life of Christ."

Few people like to be told of their faults. Erica could just

endure it from her father, but from no one else. She was, besides,

too young yet to have learned even the meaning of the word

humility. Had Charles Osmond been a few years younger, she would

not even have listened to him. As it was, he was a gray-haired

man, whom she loved and revered; he was, moreover, a guest. She

was very angry with him, but she restrained her anger.

He had watched her attentively while he spoke. She had at first

only been surprised; then her anger had been kindled, and she gave

him one swift flash from eyes which looked like live coals. Then

she turned her face away from him, so that he could only see one

crimson cheek. There was a pause after he had said his say.

Presently, with a great effort, Erica faced him once more, and in

a manner which would have been dignified had it not been a trifle

too frigid, made some casual remark upon a different subject. He

saw that to stay longer was mere waste of time.

When the door had closed behind him, Erica's anger blazed up once

more. That he should have dared to accuse her of unfairness! That

he should have dared actually to rebuke her! If he had given her

a good shaking she could not have felt more hurt and ruffled. And

then to choose this day of all others, just when life was so hard

to her, just when she was condemned to a long imprisonment. It was

simply brutal of him! If any one had told her that he would do

such a thing she would not have believed them. He had said nothing

of the sort to her before, though they had known each other so

long; but, now that she was ill and helpless and unable to get away

from him, he had seen fit to come and lecture her. Well, he was a

parson! She might have known that sooner or later the horrid,

tyrannical, priestly side of him would show! And yet she had liked

him so much, trusted him so much! It was indescribably bitter to

think that he was no longer the hero she had thought him to be.

That, after all, he was not a grand, noble, self-denying man, but

a fault-finding priest!

She spent the rest of the afternoon in alternate wrath and grief.

In the evening Aunt Jean read her a somewhat dry book which

required all her attention, and, consequently, her anger cooled for

want of thoughts to stimulate it. Her father did not come in till

late; but, as he carried her upstairs to bed, she told him of

Charles Osmond's interview.

"I told him you like a little opposition," was his reply.

"I don't know about opposition, but I didn't like him, he showed

his priestly side."

"I am sorry," replied Raeburn. "For my part I genuinely like the

man; he seems to me a grand fellow, and I should have said not in

the least spoiled by his Christianity, for he is neither exclusive,

nor narrow-minded, nor opposed to progress. Infatuated on one

point, of course, but a thorough man in spite of it."

Left once more alone in her little attic room, Erica began to think

over things more quietly. So her father had told him that she

liked opposition, and he had doled out to her a rebuke which was

absolutely unanswerable! But why unanswerable? She had been too

angry to reply at the time. It was one of the few maxims her

father had given her, "When you are angry be very slow to speak."

But she might write an answer, a nice, cold, cutting answer,

respectful, of course, but very frigid. She would clearly

demonstrate to him that she was perfectly fair, and that he, her

accuser, was unfair.

And then quite quietly, she began to turn over the accusations in

her mind. Quoting the words of Christ without regard to the

context, twisting their meaning. Neglecting real study of Christ's

character and life. Seeing all through a veil of prejudice.

She would begin, like her father, with a definition of terms. What

did he mean by study? What did she mean by study? Well such

searching analysis, for instance, as she had applied to the

character of Hamlet, when she had had to get up one of

Shakespeare's plays for her examination. She had worked very hard

at that, had really taken every one of his speeches and

soliloquies, and had tried to gather his true character from them

as well as from his actions.

At this point she wandered away from the subject a little and began

to wonder when she should hear the result of the examination, and

to hope that she might get a first. By and by she came to herself

with a sudden and very uncomfortable shock. If the sort of work

she had given to Hamlet was study, HAD she ever studied the

character of Christ?

She had all her life heard what her father had to say against Him,

and what a good many well-meaning, but not very convincing, people

had to say for Him. She had heard a few sermons and several

lectures on various subjects connected with Christ's religion. She

had read many books both for and against Him. She had read the New

Testament. But could she quite honestly say that she had STUDIED

the character of Christ? Had she not been predisposed to think her

father in the right? He would not at all approve of that. Had she

been a true Freethinker? Had she not taken a good deal to be truth

because he said it? If so, she was not a bit more fair than the

majority of Christians who never took the trouble to go into things

for themselves, and study things from the point of view of an

outsider.

In the silence and darkness of her little room, she began to

suspect a good many unpleasant and hitherto unknown facts about

herself.

"After all, I do believe that Mr. Osmond was right," she confessed

at length. "I am glad to get back my belief in him; but I've come

to a horrid bit of lath and plaster in myself where I thought it

was all good stone." She fell asleep and dreamed of the heathen

Chinee, reading the translation of the translation of her father's

words, and disbelieving altogether in "that invented demagogue,

Luke Raeburn."

The next day Charles Osmond, sitting at work in his study, and

feeling more depressed and hopeless than he would have cared to own

even to himself, was roused by the arrival of a little

three-cornered note. It was as follow:

"Dear Mr. Osmond, You made me feel very angry yesterday, and sad,

too, for of course it was a case of 'Et tu, Brute.' But last night

I came to the unpleasant conclusion that you were quite right, and

that I was quite wrong. To prove to you that I am no longer angry,

I am going to ask you a great favor. Will you teach me Greek?

Your parable of the heathen Chinee has set me thinking. Yours very

sincerely, Erica Raeburn"

Charles Osmond felt the tears come to his eyes. The

straightforward simplicity of the letter, the candid avowal of

having been "quite wrong," an avowal not easy for one of Erica's

character to make, touched him inexpressibly. Taking a Greek

grammar from his book shelves, he set off at once for Guilford

Terrace.

He found Erica looking very white and fragile, and with lines of

suffering about her mouth; but, though physically weary, her mind

seemed as vigorous as ever. She received him with her usual

frankness, and with more animation in her look than he had seen for

some weeks.

"I did think you perfectly horrid yesterday!" she exclaimed. "And

was miserable, besides, at the prospect of losing one of my heroes.

You can be very severe."

"The infliction of pain is only justified when the inflictor is

certain, or as nearly certain as he can be, that the pain will be

productive of good," said Charles Osmond.

"I suppose that is the way you account for the origin of evil,"

said Erica, thoughtfully.

"Yes," replied Charles Osmond, pleased that she should have thought

of the subject, "that to me seems the only possible explanation,

otherwise God would be either not perfectly good or not omnipotent.

His all-wisdom enables Him to overrule that pain which He has

willed to be the necessary outcome of infractions of His order.

Pain, you see, is made into a means of helping us to find out where

that order has been broken, and so teaching us to obey it in the

long run."

"But if there is an all-powerful God, wouldn't it have been much

better if He had made it impossible for us to go wrong?"

"It would have saved much trouble, undoubtedly; but do you think

that which costs us least trouble is generally the most worth

having? I know a noble fellow who has fought his way upward

through sins and temptations you would like him, by the way, for he

was once an atheist. He is, by virtue of all he has passed

through, all he has overcome, one of the fines men I have ever

known."

"That is the friend, I suppose, whom your son mentioned to me. But

I don't see your argument, for if there was an all-powerful God, He

could have caused the man you speak of to be as noble and good

without passing through pain and temptation."

"But God does not work arbitrarily, but by laws of progression.

Nor does His omnipotence include the working of contradictions. He

cannot both cause a thing to be and not to be at the same time. If

it is a law that that which has grown by struggle and effort shall

be most noble, God will not arbitrarily reverse that law or truth

because the creation of sinless beings would involve less trouble."

"It all seems to me so unreal!" exclaimed Erica. "It seems like

talking of thin air!"

"I expect it does," said Charles Osmond, trying to realize to

himself her position.

There was a silence.

"How did this man of whom you speak come to desert our side?" asked

Erica. "I suppose, as you say he was one of the finest men you

ever knew, he must, at least, have had a great intellect. How did

he begin to think all these unlikely, unreal things true?"

"Donovan began by seeing the grandeur of the character of Christ.

He followed his example for many years, calling himself all the

time an atheist; at last he realized that in Christ we see the

Father."

"I am sorry we lost him if he is such a nice man," was Erica's sole

comment. Then, turning her beautiful eyes on Charles Osmond, she

said, "I hope my note did not convey to you more than I intended.

I asked you if you would teach me Greek, and I mean to try to study

the character of Christ; but, quite to speak the truth, I don't

really want to do it. I only do it because I see I have not been

fair."

"You do it for the sake of being a truth-seeker, the best possible

reason."

"I thought you would think I was going to do it because I hoped to

get something. I thought one of your strong points was that people

must come in a state of need and expecting to be satisfied. I

don't expect anything. I am only doing it for the sake of honesty

and thoroughness. I don't expect any good at all."

"Is it likely that you can expect when you know so little what is

there? What can you bring better than an hones mind to the search?

Erica, if I hadn't known that you were absolutely sincere, I should

not have dared to give you the pain I gave you yesterday. It was

my trust in your perfect sincerity which brought you that strong

accusation. Even then it was a sore piece of work."

"Did you mind it a little," exclaimed Erica. But directly she had

spoken, she felt that the question was absurd, for she saw a look

in Charles Osmond's eyes that made the word "little" a mockery.

"What makes that man so loving?" she thought to herself. "He

reminded me almost of father, yet I am no child of his. I am

opposed to all that he teaches. I have spoken my mind out to him

in a way which must sometimes have pained him. Yet he cares for me

so much that it pained him exceedingly to give me pain yesterday."

His character puzzled her. The loving breath, the stern

condemnation of whatever was not absolutely true, the disregard of

what the world said, the hatred of shams, and most puzzling of all,

the often apparent struggle with himself, the unceasing effort to

conquer his chief fault. Yet this noble, honest, intellectual man

was laboring under a great delusion, a delusion which somehow gave

him an extraordinary power of loving! Ah, no! It could not be his

Christianity, though, which made him loving, for were not most

Christians hard and bitter and narrow-minded?

"I wish," she said, abruptly, "you would tell me what makes you

willing to be friends with us. I know well enough that the 'Church

Chronicle' has been punishing you for your defense of my father,

and that there must be a thousand disagreeables to encounter in

your own set just because you visit us. Why do you come?"

"Because I care for you very much."

"But you care, too, perhaps, for other people who will probably cut

you for flying in the face of society and visiting social

outcasts."

"I don't think I can explain it to you yet, he replied. "You

would only tell me, as you told me once before, that I was talking

riddles to you. When you have read your Greek Testament and really

studied the life of Christ, I think you will understand. In the

meantime, St. Paul, I think, answers your question better than I

could, but you wouldn't understand even his words, I fancy. There

they are in the Greek" he opened a Testament and showed her a

passage. "I believe you would think the English almost as great

gibberish as this looks to you in its unknown characters."

"Do you advise every one to learn Greek?"

"No, many have neither time nor ability, and those who are not apt

at languages would spend their time more usefully over good

translations, I think. But you have time and brains, so I am very

glad to teach you."

"I am afraid I would much rather it were for any other purpose!"

said Erica. "I am somehow weary of the very name of Christianity.

I have heard wrangling over the Bible till I am tired to death of

it, and discussions about the Atonement and the Incarnation, and

the Resurrection, till the very words are hateful to me. I am

afraid I shock you, but just put yourself in my place and imagine

how you would feel. It is not even as if I had to debate the

various questions; I have merely to sit and listen to a

never-ending dispute."

"You sadden me; but it is quite natural that you should be weary of

such debates. I want you to realize, though, that in the stormy

atmosphere of your father's lecture hall, in the din and strife of

controversy, it is impossible that you should gain any true idea of

Christ's real character. Put aside all thought of the dogmas you

have been wearied with, and study the life of the Man."

Then the lesson began. It proved a treat to both teacher and

pupil. When Charles Osmond had left, Erica still worked on.

"I should like, at any rate, to spell out his riddle," she thought

to herself, turning back to the passage he had shown her. And

letter by letter, and word by word, she made out "For the love of

Christ--"

The verb baffled her, however, and she lay on the sofa, chafing at

her helplessness till, at length, Tom happened to come in, and

brought her the English Testament she needed. Ah! There it was!

"For the love of Christ constraineth us."

Was THAT what had made him come? Why, that was the alleged reason

for half the persecutions they met with! Did the love of Christ

constrain Charles Osmond to be their friend, and at the same time

constrain the clergy of X______ not many years before to incite the

people to stone her father, and offer him every sort of insult?

Was it possible that the love of Christ constrained Mr. Osmond to

endure contempt and censure on their behalf, and constrained Mr.

Randolph to hire a band of roughs to interrupt her father's

speeches?

"He is a grand exception to the general rule," she said to herself.

"If there were many Christians like him, I should begin to think

there must be something more in Christianity than we thought.

Well, if only to please him I must try to study the New Testament

over again, and as thoroughly as I can. No, not to please him,

though, but for the sake of being quite honest. I would much

rather be working at that new book of Tyndall's."

CHAPTER XV. An Interval

How can man love but what he yearns to help? R. Browning

During the year of Erica's illness, Brian began to realize his true

position toward her better than he had hitherto done.

He saw quite well that any intrusion of his love, even any slight

manifestation of it, might do untold harm. She was not ready for

it yet why, he could not have told.

The truth was, that his Undine, although in many respects a

high-souled woman, was still in some respects a child. She would

have been merely embarrassed by his love; she did not want it. She

liked him very much as an acquaintance; he was to her Tom's friend,

or her doctor, or perhaps Mr. Osmond's son. In this way she liked

him, was even fond of him, but as a lover he would have been a

perplexing embarrassment.

He knew well enough that her frank liking boded ill for his future

success; but in spite of that he could not help being glad to

obtain any footing with her. It was something even to be "Tom's

friend Brian." He delighted in hearing his name from her lips,

although knowing that it was no good augury. He lived on from day

to day, thinking very little of the doubtful future as long as he

could serve her in the present. A reserved and silent man, devoted

to his profession, and to practical science of every kind, few

people guessed that he could have any particular story of his own.

He was not at all the sort of man who would be expected to fall

hopelessly in love at first sight, nor would any one have selected

him as a good modern specimen of the chivalrous knight of olden

times; he was so completely a nineteenth-century man, so

progressive, so scientific. But, though his devotion was of the

silent order, it was, perhaps for that reason, all the truer.

There was about him a sort of divine patience. As long as he could

serve Erica, he was content to wait any number of years in the hope

of winning her love. He accepted his position readily. He knew

that she had not the slightest love for him. He was quite

secondary to his father, even, who was one of Erica's heroes. He

liked to make her talk of him; her enthusiastic liking was

delightful perhaps all the more so because she was far from

agreeing with her prophet. Brian, with the wonderful

self-forgetfulness of true love, liked to hear the praises of all

those whom she admired; he liked to realize what were her ideals,

even when conscious how far he fell short of them.

For it was unfortunately true that his was not the type of

character she was most likely to admire. As a friend she might

like him much, but he could hardly be her hero. His wonderful

patience was quite lost upon her; she hardly counted patience as a

virtue at all. His grand humility merely perplexed her; it was at

present far beyond her comprehension. While his willingness to

serve every one, even in the most trifling and petty concerns of

daily life, she often attributed to mere good nature. Grand acts

of self-sacrifice she admired enthusiastically, but the more really

difficult round of small denials and trifling services she did not

in the least appreciate. Absorbed in the contemplation, as it

were, of the Hamlets in life, she had no leisure to spare for the

Horatios.

She proved a capital patient; her whole mind was set on getting

well, and her steady common sense and obedience to rules made her

a great favorite with her elder doctor. Really healthy, and only

invalided by the hard work and trouble she had undergone, seven or

eight months' rest did wonders for her. In the enforced quiet,

too, she found plenty of time for study. Charles Osmond had never

had a better pupil. They learned to know each other very well

during those lessons, and many were the perplexing questions which

Erica started. But they were not as before, a mere repetition of

the difficulties she had been primed with at her father's lecture

hall, nor did she bring them forward with the triumphant conviction

that they were unanswerable. They were real, honest questions,

desiring and seeking everywhere for the true answer which might be

somewhere.

The result of her study of the life of Christ was at first to make

her a much better secularist. She found to her surprise that there

was much in His teaching that entirely harmonized with secularism;

that, in fact, He spoke a great deal about the improvement of this

world, and scarcely at all about that place in the clouds of which

Christians made so much. By the end of a year she had also reached

the conviction that, whatever interpolations there might be in the

gospels, no untrue writer, no admiring but dishonest narrator COULD

have conceived such a character as that of Christ. For she had dug

down to the very root of the matter. She had left for the present

the, to her, perplexing and almost irritating catalogue of

miracles, and had begun to perceive the strength and indomitable

courage, the grand self-devotion, the all-embracing love of the

man. Very superficial had been her former view. He had been to

her a shadowy, unreal being, soft and gentle, even a little

effeminate, speaking sometimes what seemed to her narrow words

about only saving the lost sheep of the house of Israel. A

character somehow wanting in that Power and Intellect which she

worshipped.

But on a really deep study she saw how greatly she had been

mistaken. Extraordinarily mistaken, both as to the character and

the teaching. Christ was without doubt a grand ideal! To be as

broad-hearted as he was, as universally loving it would be no bad

aim. And, as in daily life Erica realized how hard was the

practice of that love, she realized at the same time the loftiness

of the ideal, and the weakness of her own powers.

"But, though I do begin to see why you take this man as your

ideal," she said, one day, to Charles Osmond, "I can not, of

course, accept a great deal that He is said to have taught. When

He speaks of love to men, that is understandable, one can try to

obey; but when he speaks about God, then, of course, I can only

think that He was deluded. You may admire Joan of Arc, and see the

great beauty of her character, yet at the same time believe that

she was acting under a delusion; you may admire the character of

Gotama without considering Buddhism the true religion; and so with

Christ, I may reverence and admire His character, while believing

Him to have been mistaken."

Charles Osmond smiled. He knew from many trifling signs, unnoticed

by others, that Erica would have given a great deal to see her way

to an honest acceptance of that teaching of Christ which spoke of

an unseen but everywhere present Father of all, of the

everlastingness of love, of a reunion with those who are dead. She

hardly allowed to herself that she longed to believe it, she

dreaded the least concession to that natural craving; she

distrusted her own truthfulness, feared above all things that she

might be deluded, might imagine that to be true which was in

reality false.

And happily, her prophet was too wise to attempt in any way to

quicken the work which was going on within her; he was one of those

rare men who can be, even in such a case, content to wait. He

would as soon have thought of digging up a seed to see whether he

could not quicken its slow development of root and stem as of

interfering in any way with Erica. He came and went, taught her

Greek, and always, day after day, week after week, month after

month, however much pressed by his parish work, however harassed by

private troubles, he came to her with the genial sympathy, the

broad-hearted readiness to hear calmly all sides of the question,

which had struck her so much the very first time she had met him.

The other members of the family liked him almost as well, although

they did not know him so intimately as Erica. Aunt Jean, who had

at first been a little prejudiced against him, ended by singing his

praises more loudly than any one, perhaps conquered in spite of

herself by the man's extraordinary power of sympathy, his ready

perception of good even in those with whom he disagreed most.

Mrs. Craigie was in many respects very like her brother, and was a

very useful worker, though much of her work was little seen. She

did not speak in public; all the oratorical powers of the family

seemed to have concentrated themselves in Luke Raeburn; but she

wrote and worked indefatigably, proving a very useful second to her

brother. A hard, wearing life, however, had told a good deal upon

her, and trouble had somewhat imbittered her nature. She had not

the vein of humor which had stood Raeburn in such good stead.

Severely mater-of-fact, and almost despising those who had any

poetry in their nature, she did not always agree very well with

Erica. The two loved each other sincerely, and were far too loyal

both to clan and creed to allow their differences really to

separate them; but there was, undoubtedly, something in their

natures which jarred. Even Tom found it hard at times to bear the

strong infusion of bitter criticism which his mother introduced

into the home atmosphere. He was something of a philosopher,

however, and knowing that she had been through great trouble, and

had had much to try her, he made up his mind that it was natural

therefore inevitable therefore to be borne

The home life was not without its frets and petty trials, but on

one point there was perfect accord. All were devoted to the head

of the house would have sacrificed anything to bring him a few

minutes' peace.

As for Raeburn, when not occupied in actual conflict, he lived in

a sort of serene atmosphere of thought and study, far removed from

all the small differences and little cares of his household. They

invariably smoothed down all such roughnesses in his presence, and

probably in any case he would have been unable to see such

microscopic grievances; unless, indeed, they left any shade of

annoyance on Erica's face, and then his fatherhood detected at once

what was wrong.

It would be tedious, however, to follow the course of Erica's life

for the next three years, for, though the time was that of her

chief mental growth, her days were of the quietest. Not till she

was two-and-twenty did she fully recover from the effects of her

sudden sorrow and the subsequent overwork. In the meantime, her

father's influence steadily deepened and spread throughout the

country, and troubles multiplied.

CHAPTER XVI. Hyde Park

Who spouts his message to the wilderness,

Lightens his soul and feels one burden less;

But to the people preach, and you will find

They'll pay you back with thanks ill to your mind.

Goethe. Translated by J.S.B.

Hyde Park is a truly national property, and it is amusing and

perhaps edifying to note the various uses to which it is often put.

In the morning it is the rendevous of nurses and children; in the

afternoon of a fashionable throng; on Sunday evenings it is the

resort of hard-working men and women, who have to content

themselves with getting a breath of fresh air once a week. But,

above all, the park is the meeting place of the people, the place

for mass meetings and monster demonstrations.

On a bright day in June, when the trees were still in their

freshest green, the crowd of wealth and fashion had beaten an

ignominious retreat before a great political demonstration to be

held that afternoon.

Every one knew that the meeting would be a very stormy one, for it

related to the most burning question of the day, a question which

was hourly growing more and more momentous, and which for the time

had divided England into two bitterly opposed factions.

These years which Erica had passed so quietly had been eventful

years for the country, years of strife and bloodshed, years of

reckless expenditure, years which deluded some and enraged others,

provoking most bitter animosity between the opposing parties. The

question was not a class question, and a certain number of the

working classes and a large number of the London roughs warmly

espoused the cause of that party which appealed to their love of

power and to a selfish patriotism. The Hyde Park meeting would

inevitably be a turbulent one. Those who wished to run no risk

remained at home; Rotten Row was deserted; the carriage road almost

empty; while from the gateways there poured in a never ending

stream of people some serious-looking, some eager and excited,

some with a dangerously vindictive look, some merely curious.

Every now and then the more motley and disorderly crowd was

reinforced by a club with its brass band and banners, and gradually

the mass of human beings grew from hundreds to a thousand, from one

thousand to many thousands, until, indeed, it became almost

impossible to form any idea of the actual numbers, so enormous was

the gathering.

"We shall have a bad time of it today," remarked Raeburn to Brian,

as they forced their way on. "If I'm not very much mistaken, too,

we are vastly outnumbered."

He looked round the huge assembly from his vantage ground of six

foot four, his cool intrepidity not one whit shaken by the

knowledge that, by what he was about to say, he should draw down on

his own head all the wrath of the roughest portion of the crowd.

"'Twill be against fearful odds!" said Tom, elbowing vigorously to

keep up with his companion.

"We fear nae foe!" said Raeburn, quoting his favorite motto. "And,

after all, it were no bad end to die protesting against wicked

rapacity, needless bloodshed."

His eye kindled as he thought of the protest he hoped to make; his

heart beat high as he looked round upon the throng so largely

composed of those hostile to himself. Was there not a demand for

his superabundant energy? A demand for the tremendous powers of

endurance, of influence, of devotion which were stored up within

him? As an athlete joys in trying a difficult feat, as an artist

joys in attempting a lofty subject, so Raeburn in his consciousness

of power, in his absolute conviction of truth, joyed in the

prospect of a most dangerous conflict.

Brian, watching him presently from a little distance, could not

wonder at the immense influence he had gained in the country. The

mere physique of the man was wonderfully impressive the strong,

rugged Scottish face, the latent power conveyed in his whole

bearing. He was no demagogue, he never flattered the people; he

preached indeed a somewhat severe creed, but, even in his sternest

mood, the hold he got over the people, the power he had of raising

the most degraded to a higher level was marvelous. It was not

likely, however, that his protest of today would lead to anything

but a free fight. If he could make himself effectually heard, he

cared very little for what followed. It was necessary that a

protest should be made, and he was the right man to make it;

therefore come ill or well, he would go through with it, and, if he

escaped with his life so much the better!

The meeting began. A moderate speaker was heard without

interruption, but the instant Raeburn stood up, a chorus of yells

arose. For several minutes he made no attempt to speak; but his

dignity seemed to grow in proportion with the indignities offered

him. He stood there towering above the crowd like a rock of

strength, scanning the thousands of faces with the steady gaze of

one who, in thinking of the progress of the race, had lost all

consciousness of his own personality. He had come there to protest

against injustice, to use his vast strength for others, to spend

and be spent for millions, to die if need be! Raeburn was made of

the stuff of which martyrs are made; standing there face to face

with an angry crowd, which might at any moment break loose and

trample him to death or tear him to pieces, his heart was

nevertheless all aglow with the righteousness of his cause, with

the burning desire to make an availing protest against an evil

which was desolating thousands of homes.

The majesty of his calmness began to influence the mob; the hisses

and groans died away into silence, such comparative silence, that

is, as was compatible with the greatness of the assembly. Then

Raeburn braced himself up; dignified before, he now seemed even

more erect and stately. The knowledge that for the moment he had

that huge crowd entirely under control was stimulating in the

highest degree. In a minute his stentorian voice was ringing out

fearlessly into the vast arena; thousands of hearts were vibrating

to his impassioned appeal. To each one it seemed as if he

individually were addressed.

"You who call yourselves Englishmen, I come to appeal to you today!

You, who call yourselves freemen, I come to tell you that you are

acting like slaves."

Then with rare tact, he alluded to the strongest points of the

British character, touching with consummate skill the vulnerable

parts of his audience. He took for granted that their aims were

pure, their standard lofty, and by the very supposition raised for

a time the most abject of his hearers, inspired them with his own

enthusiasm.

Presently, when he felt secure enough to venture it, when the crowd

was hanging on his words with breathless attention, he appealed no

longer directly to the people, but drew, in graphic language, the

picture of the desolations brought by war. The simplicity of his

phrases, his entire absence of showiness or bombast, made his

influence indescribably deep and powerful. A mere ranter, a frothy

mob orator, would have been silenced long before.

But this man had somehow got hold of the great assembly, had

conquered them by sheer force of will; in a battle of one will

against thousands the one had conquered, and would hold its own

till it had administered the hard home-thrust which would make the

thousands wince and retaliate.

Now, under the power of that "sledge-hammer Saxon," that

marvelously graphic picture of misery and bereavement, hard-headed,

and hitherto hard hearted men were crying like children. Then came

the rugged unvarnished statement shouted forth in the speaker's

sternest voice.

"All this is being done in your name, men of England! Not only in

your name, but at your cost! You are responsible for this

bloodshed, this misery! How long is it to go on? How long are you

free men going to allow yourselves to be bloody executioners? How

long are you to be slavish followers of that grasping ambition

which veils its foulness under the fair name of patriotism?"

Loud murmurs began to arise at this, and the orator knew that the

ground swell betokened the coming storm. He proceeded with tenfold

energy, his words came down like hailstones, with a fiery

indignation he delivered his mighty philippic, in a torrent of

forceful words he launched out the most tremendous denunciation he

had ever uttered.

The string had been gradually worked up to its highest possible

tension; at length when the strain was the greatest it suddenly

snapped. Raeburn's will had held all those thousands in check; he

had kept his bitterest enemies hanging on his words; he had lashed

them into fury, and still kept his grip over them; he had worked

them up, gaining more and more power over them, till at length, as

he shouted forth the last words of a grand peroration, the

bitterness and truth of his accusations proved keener than his

restraining influence.

He had foreseen that the spell would break, and he knew the instant

it was broken. A moment before, and he had been able to sway that

huge crowd as he pleased; now he was at their mercy. No will

power, no force of language, no strength of earnestness or truth

would avail him now. All that he had to trust to was his immense

physical strength, and what was that when measured against

thousands?

He saw the dangerous surging movement in the sea of heads, and knew

only too well what it betokened. With a frightful yell of mingled

hatred and execration, the seething human mass bore down upon him!

His own followers and friends did what they could for him, but that

was very little. His case was desperate. Desperation, however,

inspires some people with an almost superhuman energy. Life was

sweet, and that day he fought for his life. The very shouting and

hooting of the mob, the roar of the angry multitude, which might

well have filled even a brave man with panic, stimulated him,

strengthened him to resist to the uttermost.

He fought like a lion, forcing his way through the furious crowd,

attacked in the most brutal way on every side, yet ever struggling

on if only by inches. Never once did his steadfastness waver,

never for a single instant did his spirit sink. His unfailing

presence of mind enabled him to get through what would have been

impossible to most men, his great height and strength stood him in

good stead, while the meanness and the injustice of the attack, the

immense odds against which he was fighting nerved him for the

struggle.

It was more like a hideous nightmare than a piece of actual life,

those fierce tiger faces swarming around, that roar of vindictive

anger, that frightful crushing, that hail storm of savage blows!

But, whether life or nightmare, it must be gone through with. In

the thick of the fight a line of Goethe came to his mind, one of

his favorite mottoes; "Make good thy standing place and move the

world."

And even then he half smiled to himself at the forlornness of the

hope that he should ever need a standing place again.

With renewed vigor he fought his way on, and with a sort of glow of

triumph and new-born hope had almost seen his way to a place of

comparative safety, when a fearful blow hopelessly maimed him.

With a vain struggle to save himself he fell to the earth a vision

of fierce faces, green leaves, and blue sky flashed before his

eyes, an inward vision of Erica, a moment's agony, and then the

surging crowd closed over him, and he knew no more.

CHAPTER XVII. At Death's Door

Sorrow and wrong are pangs of a new birth;

All we who suffer bleed for one another;

No life may live alone, but all in all;

We lie within the tomb of our dead selves,

Waiting till One command us to arise. Hon. Boden Noel.

Knowing that Erica would have a very anxious afternoon, Charles

Osmond gave up his brief midday rest, snatched a hasty lunch at a

third-rate restaurant, finished his parish visits sooner than

usual, and reached the little house in Guilford Terrace in time to

share the worst part of her waiting. He found her hard at work as

usual, her table strewn with papers and books of reference.

Raeburn had purposely left her some work to do for him which he

knew would fully occupy her; but the mere fact that she knew he had

done it on purpose to engross her mind with other matters entirely

prevented her from giving it her full attention. She had never

felt more thankful to see Charles Osmond than at that moment.

"When your whole heart and mind are in Hyde Park, how are you to

drag them back to what some vindictive old early Father said about

the eternity of punishment?" she exclaimed, with a smile, which

very thinly disguised her consuming anxiety.

They sat down near the open window, Erica taking possession of that

side which commanded the view of the entrance of the cul-de-sac.

Charles Osmond did not speak for a minute or two, but sat watching

her, trying to realize to himself what such anxiety as hers must

be. She was evidently determined to keep outwardly calm, not to

let her fears gain undue power over her; but she could not conceal

the nervous trembling which beset her at every sound of wheels in

the quiet square, nor did she know that in her brave eyes there

lurked the most visible manifestation possible of haggard, anxious

waiting. She sat with her watch in her hand, the little watch that

Eric Haeberlein had given her when she was almost a child, and

which, even in the days of their greatest poverty, her father had

never allowed her to part with. What strange hours it had often

measured for her. Age-long hours of grief, weary days of illness

and pain, times of eager expectation, times of sickening anxiety,

times of mental conflict, of baffling questions and perplexities.

How the hands seemed to creep on this afternoon, at times almost to

stand still.

"Now, I suppose if you were in my case you would pray," said Erica,

raising her eyes to Charles Osmond. "It must be a relief, but yet,

when you come to analyze it, it is most illogical a fearful waste

of time. If there is a God who works by fixed laws, and who sees

the whole maze of every one's life before hand, then the particular

time and manner of my father's death must be already appointed, and

no prayer of mine that he may come safely through this afternoon's

danger can be of the least avail. Besides, if a God could be

turned round from His original purpose by human wills and much

speaking, I hardly think He would be worth believing in."

"You are taking the lowest view of prayer mere petition; but even

that, I think, is set on its right footing as soon as we grasp the

true conception of the ideal father. Do you mean to say that,

because your father's rules were unwavering and his day's work

marked out beforehand, he did not like you to come to him when you

were a little child, with all your wishes and longings and

requests, even though they were sometimes childish and often

impossible to gratify? Would he have been better pleased if you had

shut up everything in your own heart, and never of your own accord

told him anything about your babyish plans and wants?"

"Still, prayer seems to me a waste of time," said Erica.

"What! If it brings you a talk with your Father? If it is a

relief to you and a pleasure because a sign of trust and love to

Him? But in one way I entirely agree with you, unless it is

spontaneous it is not only useless but harmful. Imagine a child

forced to talk to its father. And this seems to me the truest

defense of prayer; to the 'natural man' it always will seem

foolishness, to the 'spiritual man' to one who has recognized the

All-Father it is the absolute necessity of life. And I think by

degrees one passes from eager petition for personal and physical

good things into the truer and more Christlike spirit of prayer.

'These are my fears, these are my wishes, but not my will but Thine

be done.' Shakespeare had got hold of a grand truth, it seems to

me, when he said:

"'So find we profit by losing of our prayers.'"

"And yet your ideal man distinctly said: 'Ask and ye shall

receive'" said Erica. "There are no limitations. For aught we

know, some pig-headed fanatic may be at this moment praying that

God in His mercy would rid the earth of that most dangerous man,

Luke Raeburn; while I might be of course I am not, but it is

conceivable that I might be praying for his safety. Both of us

might claim the same promise, 'Ask and ye shall receive.'"

"You forget one thing," said Charles Osmond. "You would both pray

to the Father, and His answer which you, by the way, might consider

no answer would be the answer of a father. Do you not think the

fanatic would certainly find profit in having his most unbrotherly

request disregarded? And the true loss or gain of prayer would

surely be in this: The fanatic would, by his un-Christlike request,

put himself further from God; you, by your spontaneous and natural

avowal of need and recognition of a Supreme loving will, would draw

nearer to God. Nor do we yet at all understand the extraordinary

influence exerted on others by any steady, earnest concentration of

thought; science is but just awakening to the fact that there is an

unknown power which we have hitherto never dreamed of. I have

great hope that in this direction, as in all others, science may

show us the hidden workings of our Father."

Erica forgot her anxiety for a moment; she was watching Charles

Osmond's face with mingled curiosity and perplexity. To speak to

one whose belief in the Unseen seemed stronger and more influential

than most people's belief in the seen, was always very strange to

her, and with her prophet she was almost always conscious of this

double life (SHE considered it double a real outer and an imaginary

inner.) His strong conviction; the every-day language which he

used in speaking of those truths which most people from a mistaken

notion of reverence, wrap up in a sort of ecclesiastical

phraseology; above all, the carrying out in his life of the idea of

universal brotherhood, with so many a mere form of words all served

to impress Erica very deeply. She knew him too well and loved him

too truly to pause often, as it were, to analyze his character.

Every now and then, however, some new phase was borne in upon her,

and some chance word, emphasizing the difference between them,

forced her from sheer honesty to own how much that was noble seemed

in him to be the outcome of faith in Christ.

They went a little more deeply into the prayer question. Then,

with the wonder growing on her more and more, Erica suddenly

exclaimed: "It is so wonderful to me that you can believe without

logical proof believe a thing which affects your whole life so

immensely, and yet be unable to demonstrate the very existence of

a God."

"Do you believe your father loves you?" asked Charles Osmond.

"My father! Why, of course."

"You can't logically prove that his love has any true existence."

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Erica. "Not a day passes without some word,

look, thought, which would prove it to any one. If there is one

thing that I am certain of in the whole world, it is that my father

loves me. Why, you who know him so well, you must know that! You

must have seen that."

"All his care of you may be mere self-interest," said Charles

Osmond. "Perhaps he puts on a sort of appearance of affection for

you just for the sake of what people would say not a very likely

thing for Mr. Raeburn to consider, I own. Still, you can't

demonstrate to me that his love is a reality."

"But I KNOW it is!" cried Erica, vehemently.

"Of course you know, my child; you know in your heart, and our

hearts can teach us what no power of intellect, no skill in logic

can every teach us. You can't logically prove the existence of

your father's love, and I can't logically prove the existence of

the all-Father; but in our hearts we both of us know. The deepest,

most sacred realities are generally those of heart-knowledge, and

quite out of the pale of logic."

Erica did not speak, but sat musing. After all, what COULD be

proved with absolute certainty? Why, nothing, except such bare

facts as that two and two make four. Was even mathematical proof

so absolutely certain? Were they not already beginning to talk of

a possible fourth dimension of space when even that might no longer

be capable of demonstration.

"Well, setting aside actual proof," she resumed, after a silence,

"how do you bring it down even to a probability that God is?"

"We must all of us start with a supposition," said Charles Osmond.

"There must on the one hand either be everlasting matter or

everlasting force, whether these be two real existences, or whether

matter be only force conditioned, or, on the other hand, you have

the alternative of the everlasting 'He.' You at present base your

belief on the first alternative. I base mine on the last, which,

I grant you, is at the outset the most difficult of the two. I

find, however, that nine times out of ten the most difficult theory

is the truest. Granting the everlasting 'He,' you must allow self-

consciousness, without which there could be no all powerful, all

knowledge-full, and all love-full. We will not quarrel about

names; call the Everlasting what you please. 'Father' seems to me

at once the highest and simplest name."

"But evil!" broke in Erica, triumphantly. "If He originates all,

he must originate evil as well as good."

"Certainly," said Charles Osmond, "He has expressly told us so. 'I

form the light and create darkness; I make peace, and create evil;

I, the Lord, do all these things.'"

"I recollect now, we spoke of this two or three years ago," said

Erica. "You said that the highest good was attained by passing

through struggles and temptations."

"Think of it in this way," said Charles Osmond. "The Father is

educating His children; what education was ever brought about

without pain? The wise human father does not so much shield his

child from small pains, but encourages him to get wisdom from them

for the future, tries to teach him endurance and courage. Pain is

necessary as an element in education, possibly there is no

evolution possible without it. The father may regret it, but, if

he is wise, knows that it must be. He suffers twice as much as the

child from the infliction of the pain. The All-Father, being at

once all-knowing and all-loving, can see the end of the education

while we only see it in process, and perhaps exclaim: 'What a

frightful state of things,' or like your favorite 'Stephen

Blackpool,' 'It's all a muddle.'"

"And the end you consider to be perfection, and eternal union with

God. How can you think immortality probable?"

"It is the necessary outcome of belief in such a God, such a Father

as we have spoken of. What! Could God have willed that His

children whom He really loves should, after a time, fade utterly

away? If so, He would be less loving than an average earthly

father. If He did indeed love them, and would fain have had them

ever with Him, but could not, then He would not be all-powerful."

"I see you a universalist, a great contrast to my Early Father

here, who gloats over the delightful prospect of watching from his

comfortable heaven the tortures of all unbelievers. But, tell me,

what do you think would be our position in your unseen world? I

suppose the mere realization of having given one's life in a

mistaken cause would be about the most terrible pain conceivable?"

"I think," said Charles Osmond, with one of his grave, quiet

smiles, "that death will indeed be your 'gate of life," that seeing

the light you will come to your true self, and exclaim, 'Who'd have

thought it?'"

The every day language sounded quaint, it made Erica smile; but

Charles Osmond continued, with a brightness in his eyes which she

was far from understanding: "And you know there are to be those who

shall say: 'Lord when saw we Thee in distress and helped Thee?'

They had not recognized Him here, but He recognized them there?

They shared in the 'Come ye blessed of my Father.'"

"Well," said Erica, thoughtfully, "if any Christianity be true, it

must be your loving belief, not the blood-thirsty scheme of the

Calvinists. If THAT could by any possibility be true, I should

greatly prefer, like Kingsley's dear old 'Wulf,' to share hell with

my own people."

The words had scarcely left her lips when, with a startled cry, she

sprung to her feet and hurried to the door. The next moment

Charles Osmond saw Tom pass the window; he was unmistakably the

bearer of bad news.

His first panting words were reassuring "Brian says you are not to

be frightened;" but they were evidently the mere repetition of a

message. Tom himself was almost hopeless; his wrath and grief

become more apparent every minute as he gave an incoherent account

of the afternoon's work.

The brutes, the fiends, had half killed the chieftain, had set on

him like so many tigers. Brian and Hazeldine were bringing him

home had sent him on to prepare.

Erica had listened so far with a colorless face, and hands tightly

clasped, but the word "prepare" seemed to bring new life to her.

In an instant she was her strongest self.

"They will never try to take him up that steep narrow staircase.

Quick, Tom! Help me to move this couch into the study."

The little Irish servant was pressed into the service, too, and

sent upstairs to fetch and carry, and in a very few minutes the

preparations were complete, and Erica had at hand all the

appliances most likely to be needed. Just as all was done, and she

was beginning to feel that a minute's pause would be the "last

straw," Tom heard the sound of wheels in the square, and hurried

out. Erica stood in the doorway watching, and presently saw a

small crowd of helpers bearing a deathly looking burden. Whiteness

of death redness of blood. The ground seemed rocking beneath her

feet, when a strong hand took hers and drew her into the house.

"Don't be afraid," said a voice, which she knew to be Brian's

though a black mist would not let her see him. "He was conscious

a minute ago; this is only from the pain of moving. Which room?"

"The study," she replied, recovering herself. "Give me something

to do, Brian, quickly."

He saw that in doing lay her safety, and kept her fully employed,

so much so, indeed, that from sheer lack of time she was able to

stave off the faintness which had threatened to overpower her.

After a time her father came to himself, and Erica's face, which

had been the last in his mind in full consciousness, was the first

which now presented itself to his awakening gaze. He smiled.

"Well, Erica! So, after all, they haven't quite done for me. Nine

lives like a cat, as I always told you."

His voice was faint, but with all his wonted energy he raised

himself before they could remonstrate. He was far more injured,

however, than he knew; with a stifled groan he fell back once more

in a swoon, and it was many hours before they were able to restore

him.

After that, fever set in, and a shadow as of death fell on the

house in Guilford Terrace. Doctors came and went; Brian almost

lived with his patient; friends Raeburn had hosts of them came with

help of every description. The gloomy little alley admitted every

day crowds of inquirers, who came to the door, read the bulletin,

glanced up at the windows, and went away looking graver than when

they came.

Erica lost count of time altogether. The past seemed blotted out;

the weight of the present was so great that she would not admit any

thought of the future, though conscious always of a blank dread

which she dared not pause to analyze, sufficient indeed for her day

was the evil thereof. She struggled on somehow with a sort of

despairing strength; only once or twice did she even recollect the

outside world.

It happened that on the first Wednesday after the Hyde Park meeting

some one mentioned the day of the week in her hearing. She was in

the sick-room at the time, but at once remembered that her week's

work was untouched, that she had not written a line for the

"Idol-Breaker." Every idea seemed to have gone out of her head;

for a minute she felt that to save her life she could not write a

line. But still she conscientiously struggled to remember what

subject had been allotted her, and in the temporary stillness of

the first night-watch drew writing materials toward her, and leaned

her head on her hands until, almost by an effort of will, she at

length recalled the theme for her article.

Of course! It was to be that disgraceful disturbance in the church

at Z______. She remembered the whole affair now, it all rose up

before her graphically not a bad subject at all! Their party might

make a good deal by it. Her article must be bright, descriptive,

sarcastic. Yet how was she to write such an article when her heart

felt like lead? An involuntary "I can't " rose to her lips, and

she glanced at her father's motionless form, her eyes filling with

tears. Then one of his sayings came to her mind: "No such word as

'Can't' in the dictionary," and began to write rapidly almost

defiantly. No sooner had she begun than her very exhaustion, the

lateness of the hour, and the stress of circumstance came to her

aid she had never before written so brilliantly.

The humor of the scene struck her; little flashes of mirth at the

expense of both priest and people, delicate sarcasms, the more

searching from their very refinement, awoke in her brain and were

swiftly transcribed. In the middle of one of the most daring

sentences Raeburn stirred. Erica's pen was thrown down at once;

she was at his side absorbed once more in attending to his wants,

forgetful quite of religious controversy, of the"Idol-Breaker," of

anything in fact in the whole world but her father. Not till an

hour had passed was she free to finish her writing, but by the time

her aunt came to relieve guard at two o'clock the article was

finished and Erica stole noiselessly into the next room to put it

up.

To her surprise she found that Tom had not gone to bed. He was

still toiling away at his desk with a towel round his head; she

could almost have smiled at the ludicrous mixture of grief and

sleepiness on his face, had not her own heart been so loaded with

care and sadness. The post brought in what Tom described as

"bushels" of letters every day, and he was working away at them now

with sleepy heroism.

"How tired you look," said Erica. "See! I have brought in this

for the 'Idol.'"

"You've been writing it now! That is good of you. I was afraid we

should have to make up with some wretched padding of Blank's."

He took the sheets from her and began to read. Laughter is often

only one remove from grief, and Tom, though he was sad-hearted

enough, could not keep his countenance through Erica's article.

First his shoulders began to shake, then he burst into such a

paroxysm of noiseless laughter that Erica, fearing that he could

not restrain himself, and would be heard in the sick-room, pulled

the towel from his forehead over his mouth; then, conquered herself

by the absurdity of his appearance, she was obliged to bury her own

face in her hands, laughing more and more whenever the

incongruousness of the laughter occurred to her. When they had

exhausted themselves the profound depression which had been the

real cause of the violent reaction returned with double force. Tom

sighed heavily and finished reading the article with the gravest of

faces. He was astonished that Erica could have written at such a

time an article positively scintillating with mirth.

"How did you manage anything so witty tonight of all nights?" he

asked.

"Don't you remember Hans Andersen's clown Punchinello," said Erica.

"He never laughed and joked so gayly as the night when his love

died and his own heart was broken."

There was a look in her eyes which made Tom reply, quickly: "Don't

write any more just now; the professor has promised us something

for next week. Don't write any more till till the chieftain is

well."

After that she wished him good night rather hastily, crept upstairs

to her attic, and threw herself down on her bed. Why had he spoken

of the future? Why had his voice hesitated? No, she would not

think, she would not.

So the article appeared in that week's "Idol-Breaker, and thousands

and thousands of people laughed over it. It even excited

displeased comment from "the other side," and in many ways did a

great deal of what in Guilford Terrace was considered "good work."

For Erica herself, it was long before she had time to give it

another thought; it was to her only a desperately hard duty which

she had succeeded in doing. Nobody every guessed how much it had

cost her.

The weary time dragged on, days and weeks passed by; Raeburn was

growing weaker, but clung to life with extraordinary tenacity. And

now very bitterly they felt the evils of this voluntarily embraced

poverty, for the summer heat was for a few days almost tropical,

and the tiny little rooms in the lodging-house were stifling.

Brian was very anxious to have the patient moved across to his

father's house; but, though Charles Osmond said all he could in

favor of the scheme, the other doctors would not consent, thinking

the risk of removal too great. And, besides, it would be useless,

they maintained the atheist was evidently dying. Brian, who was

the youngest, could not carry out his wishes in defiance of the

others, but he would not deny himself the hope of even yet saving

Erica's father. He devised punkahs, became almost nurse and doctor

in one, and utterly refused to lose heart. Erica herself was the

only other person who shared his hopefulness, or perhaps her

feeling could hardly be described by that word; she was not

hopeful, but she had so resolutely set herself to live in the

present that she had managed altogether to crowd out the future,

and with it the worst fear.

One day, however, it broke upon her suddenly. Some one had left a

newspaper in the sick-room; it was weeks since she had seen one,

and in a brief interval, while her father slept, or seemed to

sleep, she took it up half mechanically. How much it would have

interested her a little while ago, how meaningless it all seemed to

her now. "Latest Telegrams," "News from the Seat of War,"

"Parliamentary Intelligence" a speech by Sir Michael Cunningham,

one of her heroes, on a question in which she was interested. She

could not read it, all the life seemed gone out of it, today the

paper was nothing to her but a broad sheet with so many columns of

printed matter. But as she was putting it down their own name

caught her eye. All at once her benumbed faculties regained their

power, her heart began to beat wildly, for there, in clearest

print, in short, choppy, unequivocal sentences, was the hideous

fear which she had contrived so long to banish.

"Mr. Raeburn is dying. The bulletins have daily been growing less

and less hopeful. Yesterday doctor R______, who had been called

in, could only confirm the unfavorable opinion of the other

doctors. In all probability the days of the great apostle of

atheism are numbered. It rests with the Hyde Park rioters, and

those who by word and example have incited them, to bear the

responsibility of making a martyr of such a man as Mr. Luke

Raeburn. Emphatically disclaiming the slightest sympathy with Mr.

Raeburn's religious views, we yet--"

But Erica could read no more. Whatever modicum of charity the

writer ventured to put forth was lost upon her. The opening

sentence danced before her eyes in letters of fire. That morning

she met Brian in the passage and drew him into the sitting room.

He saw at once how it was with her.

"Look," she said, holding the newspaper toward him, "is that true?

Or is it only a sensation trap or written for party purposes?"

Her delicate lips were closed with their hardest expression, her

eyes only looked grave and questioning. She watched his face as he

read, lost her last hope, and with the look of such anguish as he

had never before seen, drew the paper from him, and caught his hand

in hers in wild entreaty.

"Oh, Brian, Brian! Is there no hope? Surely you can do something

for him. There MUST be hope, he is so strong, so full of life."

He struggled hard for voice and words to answer her, but the

imploring pressure of her hands on his had nearly unnerved him.

Already the grief that kills lurked in her eyes he knew that if her

father died she would not long survive him.

"Don't say what is untrue," she continued. " Don't let me drive you

into telling a lie but only tell me if there is indeed no hope no

chance."

"It may be," said Brian. "You must not expect, for those far wiser

than I say it can not be. But I hope yes, I still hope."

On that crumb of comfort she lived, but it was a weary day, and for

the first time she noticed that her father, who was free from

fever, followed her everywhere with his eyes. She knew

intuitively that he thought himself dying.

Toward evening she was sitting beside him, slowly drawing her

fingers through his thick masses of snow-white hair in the way he

liked best, when he looked suddenly right into her eyes with his

own strangely similar ones, deep, earnest eyes, full now of a sort

of dumb yearning.

"Little son Eric," he said, faintly, "you will go on with the work

I am leaving."

"Yes, father," she replied firmly, though her heart felt as if it

would break.

"A harmful delusion," he murmured, half to himself, "taking up our

best men! Swallowing up the money of the people. What's that

singing, Erica?"

"It is the children in the hospital," she replied. "I'll shut the

window if they disturb you, father."

"No, " he said. "One can tolerate the delusion for them if it

makes their pain more bearable. Poor bairns! Poor bairns! Pain

is an odd mystery."

He drew down her hand and held it in his, seeming to listen to the

singing, which floated in clearly through the open window at right

angles with the back windows of the hospital. Neither of them knew

what the hymn was, but the refrain which came after every verse as

if even the tinies were joining in it was quite audible to Luke

Raeburn and his daughter,

"Through life's long day, and death's dark night, Oh, gentle Jesus,

be our light."

Erica's breath came in gasps. To be reminded then that life was

long and that death was dark!

She thought she had never prayed, she had never consciously prayed,

but her whole life for the past three years had been an unspoken

prayer. Never was there a more true desire entirely unexpressed

than the desire which now seemed to possess her whole being. The

darkness would soon hide forever the being she most loved. Oh, if

she could but honestly think that He who called Himself the Light

of the world was indeed still living, still ready to help!

But to allow her distress to gain the mastery over her would

certainly disturb and grieve her father. With a great effort she

stifled the sobs which would rise in her throat, and waited in

rigid stillness. When the last notes of the hymn had died away

into silence, she turned to look at her father. He had fallen

asleep.

CHAPTER XVIII. Answered or Unanswered?

"Glory to God to God!" he saith,

"Knowledge by suffering entereth,

And life is perfected by death." E. B. Browning

"Mr. Raeburn is curiously like the celebrated dog of nursery lore,

who appertained to the ancient and far-famed Mother Hubbard. All

the doctors gave him up, all the secularists prepared mourning

garments, the printers were meditating black borders for the

'Idol-Breaker,' the relative merits of burial and cremation were

already in discussion, when the dog we beg pardon the leader of

atheism, came to life again.

"'She went to the joiners to buy him a coffin,

But when she came back the dog was laughing.'

"History," as a great man was fond of remarking, 'repeats itself.'"

Raeburn laughed heartily over the accounts of his recovery in the

comic papers. No one better appreciated the very clever

representation of himself as a huge bull-dog starting up into life

while Britannia in widow's weeds brought in a parish coffin. Erica

would hardly look at the thing; she had suffered too much to be

able to endure any jokes on the subject, and she felt hurt and

angry that what had given her such anguish should be turned into a

foolish jest.

At length, after many weeks of weary anxiety, she was able to

breathe freely once more, for her father steadily regained his

strength. The devotion of her whole time and strength and thought

to another had done wonders for her, her character had strangely

deepened and mellowed. But no sooner was she free to begin her

ordinary life than new perplexities beset her on every side.

During her own long illness she had of course been debarred from

attending any lectures or meetings whatever. In the years

following, before she had quite regained her strength, she had

generally gone to hear her father, but had never become again a

regular attendant at the lecture hall. Now that she was quite

well, however, there was nothing to prevent her attending as many

lectures as she pleased, and naturally, her position as Luke

Raeburn's daughter made her presence desirable. So it came to pass

one Sunday evening in July that she happened to be present at a

lecture given by a Mr. Masterman.

He was a man whom they knew intimately. Erica liked him

sufficiently well in private life, and he had been remarkably kind

and helpful at the time of her father's illness. It was some

years, however, since she had heard him lecture, and this evening,

by the virulence of his attack on the character of Christ, he

revealed to her how much her ground had shifted since she had last

heard him. It was not that he was an opponent of existing

Christianity her father was that, she herself was that, and felt

bound to be as long as she considered it a lie but Mr. Masterman's

attack seemed to her grossly unfair, almost willfully inaccurate,

and, in addition, his sarcasm and pleasantries seemed to her

odiously vulgar. He was answered by a most miserable

representative of Christianity, who made a foolish, weak,

blustering speech, and tried to pay the atheist back in his own

coin. Erica felt wretched. She longed to get up and speak

herself, longing flatly to contradict the champion of her own

cause; then grew frightened at the strength of her feelings. Could

this be mere love of fair play and justice? Was her feeling merely

that of a barrister who would argue as well on one side as the

other? And yet her displeasure in itself proved little or nothing.

Would not Charles Osmond be displeased and indignant if he heard

her father unjustly spoken of? Yes, but then Luke Raeburn was a

living man, and Christ was she even sure that he had ever lived?

Well, yes, sure of that, but of how much more?

When the assembly broke up, her mind was in a miserable chaos of

doubt.

It was one of those delicious summer evenings when even in East

London the skies are mellow and the air sweet and cool.

"Oh, Tom, let us walk home!" she exclaimed, longing for change of

scene and exercise.

"All right," he replied, "I'll take you a short cut, if you don't

mind a few back slums to begin with."

Now Erica was familiar enough with the sight of poverty and

squalor; she had not lived at the West End, where you may entirely

forget the existence of the poor. The knowledge of evil had come

to her of necessity much earlier than to most girls, and tonight,

as Tom took her through a succession of narrow streets and dirty

courts, misery, and vice, and hopeless degradation met her on every

side. Swarms of filthy little children wrangled and fought in the

gutters, drunken women shouted foul language at one another

everywhere was wickedness everywhere want. Her heart felt as if it

would break. What was to reach these poor, miserable fellow

creatures of hers? Who was to raise them out of their horrible

plight? The coarse distortion and the narrow contraction of

Christ's teaching which she had just heard, offered no remedy for

this evil. Nor could she think that secularism would reach these.

To understand secularism you meed a fair share of intellect what

intellect would these poor creatures have? Why, you might talk

forever of the "good of humanity," and "the duty of promoting the

general good," and they would not so much as grasp the idea of what

"good" was they would sink back to their animal-like state.

Instinctively her thoughts turned to the Radical Reformer who,

eighteen hundred years ago, had lived among people just as wicked,

just as wretched. How had He worked? What had He done? All

through His words and actions had sounded the one key-note, "Your

Father." Always He had led them to look up to a perfect Being who

loved them, who was present with them.

Was it possible that if Christians had indeed followed their Leader

and not obscured His teaching with hideous secretions of doctrine

which He had assuredly never taught was it possible that the

Christ-gospel in its original simplicity would indeed be the remedy

for all evil?

They were coming into broader thoroughfares now. A wailing child's

voice fell on her ear. A small crowd of disreputable idlers was

hanging round the closed doors of a public-house, waiting eagerly

for the opening which would take place at the close of

service-time. The wailing child's voice grew more and more

piteous. Erica saw that it came from a poor little half-clad

creature of three years old who was clinging to the skirts of a

miserable-looking woman with a shawl thrown over her head. Just as

she drew near, the woman, with a fearful oath, tried to shake

herself free of the child; then, with uplifted arms, was about to

deal it a heavy blow when Erica caught her hand as it descended,

and held it fast in both her hands.

"Don't hurt him," she said, "please don't hurt him."

She looked into the prematurely wrinkled face, into the half-dim

eyes, she held the hand fast with a pressure not of force but of

entreaty. Then they passed on, the by-standers shouting out the

derisive chorus of "Come to Jesus!" with which London roughs

delight in mocking any passenger whom they suspect of religious

tendencies. In all her sadness, Erica could not help smiling to

herself. That she, an atheist, Luke Raeburn's daughter, should be

hooted at as a follower of Jesus!

In the meantime the woman she had spoken to stood still staring

after her. If an angel had suddenly appeared to her, she could not

have been more startled. A human hand had given her coarse,

guilty, trembling hand such a living pressure as it had never

before received; a pure, loving face had looked at her; a voice,

which was trembling with earnestness and full of the pathos of

restrained tears, had pleaded with her for her own child. The

woman's dormant motherhood sprung into life. Yes, he was her own

child after all. She did not really want to hurt him, but a sort

of demon was inside her, the demon of drink and sometimes it made

her almost mad. She looked down now with love-cleared eyes at the

little crying child who still clung to her ragged skirt. She

stooped and picked him up, and wrapped a bit of her shawl round

him. Presently after a fearful struggle, she turned away from the

public-house and carried the child home to bed.

The jeering chorus was soon checked, for the shutters were taken

down, and the doors thrown wide, and light, and cheerfulness, and

shelter, and the drink they were all craving for, were temptingly

displayed to draw in the waiting idlers.

But the woman had gone home, and one rather surly looking man still

leaned against the wall looking up the street where Tom and Erica

had disappeared.

"Blowed if that ain't a bit of pluck!" he said to himself, and

therewith fell into a reverie.

Tom talked of temperance work, about which he was very eager, all

the way to Guilford Terrace. Erica, on reaching home, went at once

to her father's room. She found him propped up with pillows in his

arm chair; he was still only well enough to attempt the lightest of

light literature, and was looking at some old volumes of "Punch"

which the Osmonds had sent across.

"You look tired, Eric!" he exclaimed. "Was there a good

attendance?"

"Very," she replied, but so much less brightly than usual that

Raeburn at once divined that something had annoyed her.

"Was Mr. Masterman dull?"

"Not dull," she replied, hesitatingly. Then, with more than her

usual vehemence, "Father, I can't endure him! I wish we didn't

have such men on our side! He is so flippant, so vulgar!"

"Of course he never was a model of refinement," said Raeburn, "but

he is effective very effective. It is impossible that you should

like his style; he is, compared with you, what a theatrical poster

is to a delicate tete-de-greuze. How did he specially offend you

tonight?"

"It was all hateful from the very beginning," said Erica. "And

sprinkled all through with doubtful jests, which of course pleased

the people. One despicable one about the Entry into Jerusalem,

which I believe he must have got from Strauss. I'm sure Strauss

quotes it."

"You see what displeases an educated mind, wins a rough, uncultured

one. We may not altogether like it, but we must put up with it.

We need our Moodys and Sankeys as well as the Christians."

"But, father, he seems to me so unfair."

Raeburn looked grave.

"My dear," he said, after a minute's thought, "you are not in the

least bound to go to hear Mr. Masterman again unless you like. But

remember this, Eric, we are only a struggling minority, and let me

quote to you one of our Scottish proverbs: 'Hawks shouldna pick out

hawks' een.' You are still a hawk, are you not?"

"Of course," she said, earnestly.

"Well, then be leal to your brother hawks."

A cloud of perplexed thought stole over Erica's face. Raeburn

noted it and did his best to divert her attention.

"Come," he said, "let us have a chapter of Mark Twain to enliven

us."

But even Mark Twain was inadequate to check the thought-struggle

which had begun in Erica's brain. Desperate earnestness would not

be conquered even by the most delightful of all humorous fiction.

During the next few days this thought-struggle raged. So great was

Erica's fear of having biased either one way or the other that she

would not even hint at her perplexity either to her father or to

Charles Osmond. And now the actual thoroughness of her character

seemed a hindrance.

She had imagination, quick perception of the true and beautiful,

and an immense amount of steady common sense. At the same time she

was almost as keen and quite as slow of conviction as her father.

Honestly dreading to allow her poetic faculty due play, she kept

her imagination rigidly within the narrowest bounds. She was thus

honestly handicapped in the race; the honesty was, however, a

little mistaken and one-sided, for not the most vivid imagination

could be considered as a set-off to the great, the incalculable

counter-influence of her whole education and surroundings. How she

got through that black struggle was sometimes a mystery to her. At

last, one evening, when the load had grown intolerable, she shut

herself into her own room, and, forgetful of all her logical

arguments, spoke to the unknown God. Her hopelessness, her

desperation, drove her as a last resource to cry to the possibly

Existent.

She stood by the open window of her little room, with her arms on

the window sill, looking out into the summer night, just as years

before she had stood when making up her mind to exile and

sacrifice. Then the wintery heavens had been blacker and the stars

brighter, now both sky and stars were dimmer because more light.

Over the roofs of the Guilford Square houses she could see Charles'

Wain and the Pole-star, but only faintly.

"God!" she cried, "I have no reason to think that Thou art except

that there is such fearful need of Thee. I can see no single proof

in the world that Thou art here. But if what Christ said was true,

then Thou must care that I should know Thee, for I must be Thy

child. Oh, God, if Thou art oh, Father, if Thou art help us to

know Thee! Show us what is true!"

She waited and waited, hoping for some sort of answer, some

thought, some conviction. But she found, as many have found before

her, that "the heavens were as brass."

"Of course it was no use!" she exclaimed, impatiently, yet with a

blankness of disappointment which in itself proved the reality of

her expectations.

Just then she heard Tom's voice at the foot of the stairs calling;;

it seemed like the seal to her impatient "of course." There was no

Unseen, no Eternal of course not! But there was a busy every-day

life to be lived.

"All right," she returned impatiently, to Tom's repeated calls;

"don't make such a noise or else you'll disturb father."

"He is wide awake," said Tom, "and talking to the professor. Just

look here, I couldn't help fetching you down did you ever see such

a speech in your life? A regular brick he must be!"

He held an evening paper in his hand. Erica remembered that the

debate was to be on a question affecting all free-thinkers. During

the discussion of this, some one had introduced a reference to the

Hyde Park meeting and to Mr. Raeburn, and had been careful not to

lose the opportunity of making a spiteful and misleading remark

about the apostle of atheism. Tom hurried her through this,

however, to the speech that followed it.

"Wait a minute," she said. "Who is Mr. Farrant? I never heard of

him before."

"Member for Greyshot, elected last spring, don't you remember? One

of the by-elections. Licked the Tories all to fits. This is his

maiden speech, and that makes it all the more plucky of him to take

up the cudgels in our defense. Here! Let me read it to you."

With the force of one who is fired with a new and hearty

admiration, he read the report. The speech was undoubtedly a fine

one; it was a grand protest against intolerance, a plea for

justice. The speaker had not hesitated for an instant to raise his

voice in behalf of a very unpopular cause, and his generous words,

even when read through the medium of an indifferent newspaper

report, awoke a strange thrill in Erica's heart. The utter

disregard of self, the nobility of the whole speech struck her

immensely. The man who had dared to stand up for the first time in

Parliament and speak thus, must be one in a thousand. Presently

came the most daring and disinterested touch of all.

"The honorable member for Rilchester made what I can not but regard

as a most misleading and unnecessary remark with reference to the

recent occurrence in Hyde Park, and to Mr. Raeburn. I listened to

it with pain, for, if there can be degrees in the absolute evil of

injustice and lack of charity, it seems to me that the highest

degree is reached in that uncharitableness which tries to blacken

the character of an opponent. Since the subject has been

introduced, the House will, I hope, bear with me if for the sake of

justice I for a moment allude to a personal matter. Some years ago

I myself was an atheist, and I can only say that, speaking now from

the directly opposite standpoint, I can still look back and thank

Mr. Raeburn most heartily for the good service he did me. He was

the first man who ever showed me, by words and example combined,

that life is only noble when lived for the race. The statement

made by the honorable member for Rilchester seems to me as

incorrect as it was uncalled for. Surely this assembly will best

prove its high character not by loud religious protestations, not

by supporting a narrow, Pharisaical measure, but by impartiality,

by perfect justice, by the manifestation in deed and word of that

broad-hearted charity, that universal brotherliness, which alone

deserves the name of Christianity."

The manifestation of the speaker's generosity and universal

brotherliness came like a light to Erica's darkness. It did not

end her struggle, but it did end her despair. A faint, indefinable

hope rose in her heart.

Mr. Farrant's maiden speech made a considerable stir; it met with

some praise and much blame. Erica learned from one of the papers

that he was Mr. Donovan Farrant, and at once felt convinced that he

was the "Donovan" whom both Charles Osmond and Brian had mentioned

to her. She seemed to know a good deal about him. Probably they

had never told her his surname because they knew that some day he

would be a public character. With instinctive delicacy she

refrained from making any reference to his speech, or any inquiry

as to his identity with the "Donovan" of whose inner life she had

heard. Very soon after that, too, she went down to the sea side

with her father, and when they came back to town the Osmonds had

gone abroad, so it was not until the autumn that they again met.

Her stay at Codrington wonderfully refreshed her; it was the first

time in her life that she had taken a thorough holiday, with change

of scene and restful idleness to complete it. The time was

outwardly uneventful enough, but her father grew strong in body and

she grew strong in mind.

One absurd little incident she often laughed over afterward. It

happened that in the "On-looker" there was a quotation from some

unnamed medieval writer; she and her father had a discussion as to

whom it could be, Raeburn maintaining that it was Thomas a Kempis.

Wishing to verify it, Erica went to a bookseller's and asked for

the "Imitation of Christ." A rather prim-looking dame presided

behind the counter.

"We haven't that book, miss," she said, "it's quite out of fashion

now."

"I agree with you," said Erica, greatly amused. "It must be quite

out of fashion, for I scarcely know half a dozen people who

practice it." However, a second shop appeared to think

differently, for it had Thomas a Kempis in every conceivable size,

shape, and binding. Erica bought a little sixpenny copy and went

back to the beach, where she made her father laugh over her story.

They verified the quotation, and by and by Erica began to read the

book. On the very first page she came to words which made her

pause and relapse into a deep reverie.

"But he who would fully and feelingly understand the words of

Christ, must study to make his whole life conformable to that of

Christ."

The thought linked itself in her mind with some words of John

Stuart Mill's which she had heard quoted till she was almost weary

of them.

"Nor even now would it be easy, even for an unbeliever, to find a

better translation for the rule of virtue from the abstract into

the concrete, than to endeavor so to live that Christ would approve

our life."

While she was still musing, a sound of piteous crying attracted her

notice. Looking up she saw a tiny child wandering along the beach,

trailing a wooden spade after her, and sobbing as if her heart

would break. In a moment Erica was beside her coaxing and

consoling, but at last, finding it impossible to draw forth an

intelligible word from the sobs and tears, she took the little

thing in her arms and carried her to her father. Raeburn was a

great child lover, and had a habit of carrying goodies in his

pocket, much to the satisfaction of all the children with whom he

was brought in contact. He produced a bit of butterscotch, which

restored the small maiden's serenity for a minute.

"She must have lost her way," he said, glancing from the lovely

little tear-stained face to the thinly shod feet and ungloved hands

of the little one. The butterscotch had won her heart. Presently

she volunteered a remark.

"Dolly putted on her own hat. Dolly wanted to dig all alone.

Dolly ran away."

"Where is your home?" asked Erica.

"Me don't know! Me don't know!" cried Dolly, bursting into tears

again, and hiding her face on Raeburn's coat. "Father! Father,

Dolly wants father."

"We will come and look for him," said Erica, "but you must stop

crying, and you know your father will be sure to come and look for

you"

At this the little one checked her tears, and looked up as if

expecting to see him close by.

"He isn't there," she said, piteously.

"Come and let us look for him," said Erica.

Dolly jumped up, thrust her little hand into Erica's, and toiled up

the steep beach. They had reached the road, and Erica paused for

a moment, wondering which direction they had better take, when a

voice behind her made her start.

"Why Dorothy little one we've been hunting for you everywhere!"

Dolly let go Erica's hand, and with a glad cry rushed into the arms

of a tall, dark, rather foreign-looking man, who caught her up and

held her closely.

He turned to Erica and thanked her very warmly for her help. Erica

thought his face the noblest she had ever seen.

CHAPTER XIX. At The Museum

Methought I heard one calling: "Child,"

And I replied: 'My Lord!'"

George Herbert

A favorite pastime with country children is to watch the gradual

growth of the acorn into the oak tree. They will suspend the acorn

in a glass of water and watch the slow progress during long months.

First one tiny white thread is put forth, then another, until at

length the glass is almost filled with a tangle of white fibers, a

sturdy little stem raises itself up, and the baby tree, if it is to

live, must be at once transplanted into good soil. The process may

be botanically interesting, but there is something a little sickly

about it, too there is a feeling that, after all, the acorn would

have done better in its natural ground hidden away in darkness.

And, if we have this feeling with regard to vegetable growth, how

much more with regard to spiritual growth! To attempt to set up

the gradually awakening spirit in an apparatus where it might be

the observed of all observers would be at once repulsive and

presumptuous. Happily, it is impossible. We may trace influences

and suggestions, just as we may note the rain or drought, the heat

or cold that affect vegetable growth, but the actual birth is ever

hidden.

To attempt even to shadow forth Erica's growth during the next year

would be worse than presumptuous. As to her outward life it was

not greatly changed, only intensified. October always began their

busiest six months. There was the night school at which she was

able to work again indefatigably. There were lectures to be

attended. Above all there was an ever-increasing amount of work to

be done for her father. In all the positive and constructive side

of secularism, in all the efforts made by it to better humanity,

she took an enthusiastic share. Naturally she did not see so much

of Charles Osmond now that she was strong again. In the press of

business, in the hard, every-day life there was little time for

discussion. They met frequently, but never for one of their long

tete-a-tetes. Perhaps Erica purposely avoided them. She was

strangely different now from the little impetuous girl who had come

to his study years ago, trembling with anger at the lady

superintendent's insult. Insults had since then, alas, become so

familiar to her, that she had acquired a sort of patient dignity of

endurance, infinitely sad to watch in such a young girl.

One morning in early June, just a year after the memorable Hyde

Park meeting, Charles Osmond happened to be returning from the

death bed of one of his parishioners when, at the corner of

Guilford Square, he met Erica. It might have been in part the

contrast with the sad and painful scene he had just quitted, but he

thought she had never before looked so beautiful. Her face seemed

to have taken to itself the freshness and the glow of the summer

morning.

"You are early abroad," he said, feeling older and grayer and more

tired than ever as he paused to speak to her.

"I am off to the museum to read," she said, "I like to get there by

nine, then you don't have to wait such an age for your books; I

can't bear waiting."

"What are you at work upon now?"

"Oh, today for the last time I am going to hunt up particulars

about Livingstone. Hazeldine was very anxious that a series of

papers on his life should be written for our people. What a grand

fellow he was!"

"I heard a characteristic anecdote of him the other day," said

Charles Osmond. "He was walking beside one of the African lakes

which he had discovered, when suddenly there dawned on him a new

meaning to long familiar words: 'The blood of Christ,' he

exclaimed. 'That must be Charity! The blood of Christ that must

be Charity!' A beautiful thought, too seldom practically taught."

Erica looked grave.

"Characteristic, certainly, of his broad-heartedness, but I don't

think that anecdote will do for the readers of the 'Idol-Breaker.'"

Then, looking up at Charles Osmond, she added in a rather lower

tone: "Do you know, I had no idea when I began what a difficult

task I had got. I thought in such an active life as that there

would be little difficulty in keeping the religious part away from

the secular, but it is wonderful how Livingstone contrives to mix

them up."

"You see, if Christianity be true, it must, as you say, 'mix up'

with everything. There should be no rigid distinction between

secular and religious," said Charles Osmond.

"If it is true," said Erica, suddenly, and with seeming

irrelevance, "then sooner or later we must learn it to be so.

Truth MUST win in the end. But it is worse to wait for perfect

certainty than for books at the museum," she added, laughing. "It

is five minutes to nine I shall be late."

Charles Osmond walked home thoughtfully; the meeting had somehow

cheered him.

"Absolute conviction that truth must out that truth must make

itself perceptible. I've not often come across a more beautiful

faith than that. Yes, little Undine, right you are. 'Ye shall

know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.' Here or there,

here or there

"'All things come round to him who will but wait.'

There's one for yourself, Charles Osmond. None of your hurrying

and meddling now, old man; you've just got to leave it to your

betters."

Soliloquizing after this fashion he reached home, and was not sorry

to find his breakfast awaiting him, for he had been up the greater

part of the night.

The great domed library of the British Museum had become very

home-like to Erica, it was her ideal of comfort; she went there

whenever she wanted quiet, for in the small and crowded lodgings

she could never be secure from interruptions, and interruptions

resulted in bad work. There was something, too, in the atmosphere

of the museum which seemed to help her. She liked the perfect

stillness, she liked the presence of all the books. Above all,

too, she liked the consciousness of possession. There was no

narrow exclusiveness about this place, no one could look askance at

her here. The place belonged to the people, and therefore belonged

to her; she heretic and atheist as she was had as much share in the

ownership as the highest in the land. She had her own peculiar

nook over by the encyclopedias, and, being always an early comer,

seldom failed to secure her own particular chair and desk.

On this morning she took her place, as she had done hundreds of

times before, and was soon hard at work. She was finishing her

last paper on Livingstone when a book she had ordered was deposited

on her desk by one of the noiseless attendants. She wanted it to

verify one or two dates, and she half thought she would try to hunt

up Charles Osmond's anecdote. In order to write her series of

papers, she had been obliged to study the character of the great

explorer pretty thoroughly. She had always been able to see the

nobility even of those differing most widely from herself in point

of creed, and the great beauty of Livingstone's character had

impressed her very much. Today she happened to open on an entry in

his journal which seemed particularly characteristic of the man.

He was in great danger from the hostile tribes at the union of the

Zambesi and Loangwa, and there was something about his spontaneous

utterance which appealed very strongly to Erica.

"Felt much turmoil of spirit in view of having all my plans for the

welfare of this great region and teeming population knocked on the

head by savages tomorrow. But I read that Jesus came and said:

'All power is given unto me in Heaven and in earth. Go ye

therefore and teach all nations, and lo! I am with you always, even

unto the end of the world.' It is the word of a gentleman of the

most sacred and strictest honor, and there's an end on't. I will

not cross furtively by night as I intended . . . Nay, verily, I

shall take observations for latitude and longitude tonight, though

they may be the last."

The courage, the daring, the perseverance, the intense faith of the

man shone out in these sentences. Was it indeed a delusion, such

practical faith as that?

Blackness of darkness seemed to hem her in. She struggled through

it once more by the one gleam of certainty which had come to her in

the past year. Truth must be self-revealing. Sooner or later, if

she were honest, if she did not shut her mind deliberately up with

the assurance "You have thought out these matters fully and fairly;

enough! Let us now rest content" and if she were indeed a true

"Freethinker," she MUST know. And even as that conviction returned

to her the words half quaint, half pathetic, came to her mind: "It

is the word of a gentleman of the most sacred and strictest honor,

and there's an end on't."

Yes, there would "be an end on't," if she could feel sure that he,

too, was not deluded.

She turned over the pages of the book, and toward the end found a

copy of the inscription on Livingstone's tomb. Her eye fell on the

words: "And other sheep I have which are not of this fold; them

also I must bring, and they shall hear My voice."

Somehow the mention of the lost sheep brought to her mind the

little lost child on the beach at Codrington Dolly, who had "putted

on" her own hat, who had wanted to be independent and to dig by

herself. She had run away from home, and could not find the way

back. What a steep climb they had had up the beach how the little

thing's tiny feet had slipped and stumbled over the stones, and

just when they were most perplexed, the father had found them.

Exactly how it all came to her Erica never knew, nor could she ever

put into words the story of the next few moments. When "God's

great sunrise" finds us out we have need of something higher than

human speech there ARE no words for it. At the utmost she could

only say that it was like coming out of the twilight, that it

seemed as if she were immersed in a great wave of all pervading

light.

All in a moment the Christ who had been to her merely a noble

character of ancient history seemed to become to her the most real

and living of all living realities. Even her own existence seemed

to fade into a vague and misty shadow in comparison with the

intensity of this new consciousness this conviction of His being

which surrounded her which she knew, indeed, to be "way, and truth,

and life." They shall hear My voice." In the silence of waiting,

in the faithfulness of honest searching, Erica for the first time

in her life heard it. Yes, she had been right truth was

self-revealing. A few minutes ago those words had been to her an

unfulfilled, a vain promise the speaker, broad-hearted and loving

as he was, had doubtless been deluded. But now the voice spoke to

her, called her by name, told her what she wanted.

"Dolly," became to her a parable of life. She had been like that

little child; for years and years she had been toiling up over

rough stones and slippery pebbles, but at last she had heard the

voice. Was this the coming to the Father?

That which often appears sudden and unaccountable is, if we did but

know it, a slow, beautiful evolution. It was now very nearly seven

years since the autumn afternoon when the man "too nice to be a

clergyman," and "not a bit like a Christian," had come to Erica's

home, had shown her that at least one of them practiced the

universal brotherliness which almost all preached. It was nearly

seven years since words of absolute conviction, words of love and

power, had first sounded forth from Christian lips in her father's

lecture hall, and had awakened in her mind that miserably

uncomfortable question "supposing Christianity should be true?"

All the most beautiful influences are quiet; only the destructive

agencies, the stormy wind, the heavy rain and hail, are noisy.

Love of the deepest sort is wordless, the sunshine steals down

silently, the dew falls noiselessly, and the communion of spirit

with spirit is calmer and quieter than anything else in the world

quiet as the spontaneous turning of the sunflower to the sun when

the heavy clouds have passed away, and the light and warmth reveal

themselves. The subdued rustle of leaves, the hushed footsteps

sounded as usual in the great library, but Erica was beyond the

perception of either place or time.

Presently she was recalled by the arrival of another student, who

took the chair next to hers a little deformed man, with a face

which looked prematurely old, and sad, restless eyes. A few hours

before she would have regarded him with a sort of shuddering

compassion; now with the compassion there came to her the thought

of compensation which even here and now might make the poor fellow

happy. Was he not immortal? Might he not here and now learn what

she had just learned, gain that unspeakable joy? And might not the

knowledge go on growing and increasing forever? She took up her

pen once more, verified the dates, rolled up her manuscript, and

with one look at Livingstones's journal, returned it to the clerk

and left the library.

It was like coming into a new world; even dingy Bloomsbury seemed

beautiful. Her face was so bright, so like the face of a happy

child, that more than one passer-by was startled by it, lifted for

a moment from sordid cares into a purer atmosphere. She felt a

longing to speak to some one who would understand her new

happiness. She had reached Guilford Square, and looked doubtfully

across to the Osmonds' house. They would understand. But no she

must tell her father first. And then, with a fearful pang, she

realized what her new conviction meant. It meant bringing the

sword into her father's house; it meant grieving him with a

life-long grief; it meant leaving the persecuted minority and going

over to the triumphant majority; it meant unmitigated pain to all

those she loved best.

Erica had had her full share of pain, but never had she known

anything so agonizing as that moment's sharp revulsion.

Mechanically she walked on until she reached home; nobody was in.

She looked into the little sitting room but, only Friskarina sat

purring on the rug. The table was strewn with the Saturday papers;

the midday post had just come. She turned over the letters and

found one for herself in her father's handwriting. It was the one

thing needed to complete the realization of her pain. She snatched

it up with a stifled sob, ran upstairs to her room, and threw

herself down on the bed in silent agony.

A new joy had come to her which her father could not share; a joy

which he would call a delusion, which he spent a great part of his

life in combating. To tell him that she was convinced of the truth

of Christianity why, it would almost break his heart.

And yet she must inflict this terrible pain. Her nature was far

too noble to have dreamed for a single instant of temporizing, of

keeping her thoughts to herself. A Raeburn was not likely to fail

either in courage or in honesty; but with her courage and honesty,

Erica had the violin-like sensitiveness of nature which Eric

Haeberlein had noticed even in her childhood. She saw in the

future all the pain she must bring to her father, intensified by

her own sensitiveness. She knew so well what her feelings would

have been but a short time ago, if any one she greatly loved had

"fallen back" into Christianity. How could she tell him? How

COULD she!

Yet it was a thing which must be done. Should she write to him?

No, the letter might reach him when he was tired and worried yet,

to speak would be more painful.

She got up and went to the window, and let the summer wind blow on

her heated forehead. The world had seemed to her just before one

glorious presence-chamber full of sunshine and rejoicing. But

already the shadow of a life-long pain had fallen on her heart.

A revealed Christ meant also a revealed cross, and a right heavy

one.

It was only by degrees that she grew strong again, and

Livingstone's text came back to her once more, "I am with you

always."

By and by she opened her father's letter. It ran as follows:

"I have just remembered that Monday will be your birthday. Let us

spend it together, little son Erica. A few days at Codrington

would do us both good, and I have a tolerably leisure week. If you

can come down on Saturday afternoon, so much the better. I will

meet you there, if you will telegraph reply as soon as you get

this. I have three lectures at Helmstone on Sunday, but you will

probably prefer a quiet day by the sea. Bring me Westcott's new

book, and you might put in the chisel and hammer. We will do a

little geologizing for the professor, if we have time. Meeting

here last night a great success. Your loving father, Luke

Raeburn."

"He is only thinking how he can give me pleasure," sighed Erica.

"And I have nothing to give him but pain."

She went at once, however, for the "Bradshaw," and looked out the

afternoon trains to Codrington.

CHAPTER XX. Storm

And seems she mid deep silence to a strain

To listen, which the soul alone can know,

Saying: "Fear naught, for Jesus came on earth,

Jesus of endless joys the wide, deep sea,

To ease each heavy load of mortal birth.

His waters ever clearest, sweetest be

To him who in a lonely bark drifts forth

On His great deeps of goodness trustfully. From Vittoria Colonna

Codrington was one of the very few sea-side places within fairly

easy reach of London which had not been vulgarized into an ordinary

watering place. It was a primitive little place with one good,

old-established hotel, and a limited number of villas and lodging

houses, which only served as a sort of ornamental fringe to the

picturesque little fishing town.

The fact was that it was just midway between two large and

deservedly popular resorts, and so it had been overlooked, and to

the regret of the thrifty inhabitants and the satisfaction of the

visitors who came there for quiet, its peaceful streets and its

stony beach were never invaded by excursionists. No cockneys came

down for the Sunday to eat shrimps; the shrimps were sent away by

train to the more favored watering places, and the Codrington shop

keepers shook their heads and gave up expecting to make a fortune

in such a conservative little place. Erica said it reminded her of

the dormouse in "Alice In Wonderland," tyrannized over by the

hatter on one side and the March hare on the other, and eventually

put head foremost into the teapot. Certainly Helmstone on the east

and Westport on the west had managed to eclipse it altogether, and

its peaceful sleepiness made the dormouse comparison by no means

inapt.

It all looked wonderfully unchanged as she walked from the station

that summer afternoon with her father. The square, gray tower of

St. Oswald's Church, the little, winding, irregular streets, the

very shop windows seemed quite unaltered, while at every turn

familiar faces came into sight. The shrewd old sailor with the

telescope, the prim old lady at the bookseller's, who had

pronounced the "Imitation of Christ" to be quite out of fashion,

the sturdy milkman, with white smock-frock, and bright pails

fastened to a wooden yoke, and the coast-guardsman, who was always

whistling "Tom Bowling."

The sea was as calm as a mill pond; Raeburn suggested an hour or

two on the water and Erica, who was fond of boating, gladly

assented. She had made up her ind not to speak to her father that

evening; he had a very hard day's work before him on the Sunday;

they must have these few hours in peace. She did not in the least

dread any subject coming up which might put her into difficulty,

for, on the rare days when her father allowed himself any

recreation, he entirely banished all controversial topics from his

mind. He asked no single question relating to the work or to

business of any kind, but gave himself up to the enjoyment of a

much-needed rest and relaxation. He seemed in excellent spirits,

and Erica herself would have been rapturously happy if she had not

been haunted by the thought of the pain that awaited him. She knew

that this was the last evening she and her father should ever spend

together in the old perfect confidence; division the most painful

of all divisions lay before them.

The next day she was left to herself. She would not go to the old

gray-towered church, though as an atheist she had gone to one or

two churches to look and listen, she felt that she could not

honorably go as a worshiper till she had spoken to her father. So

she wandered about on the shore, and in the restful quiet learned

more and grew stronger, and conquered the dread of the morrow. She

did not see her father again that day for he could not get back

from Helmstone till a late train, and she had promised not to sit

up for him.

The morning of her twenty-third birthday was bright and sunshiny;

she had slept well, but awoke with the oppressive consciousness

that a terrible hard duty lay before her. When she came down there

was a serious look in her eyes which did not escape Raeburn's keen

observation. He was down before her, and had been out already, for

he had managed somehow to procure a lovely handful of red and white

roses and mignonette.

"All good wishes for your birthday, and 'sweets to the sweet' as

some one remarked on a more funereal occasion," he said, stooping

to kiss her. "Dear little son Eric, it is very jolly to have you

to myself for once. No disrespect to Aunt Jean and old Tom, but

two is company." "What lovely flowers!" exclaimed Erica.! "How

good of you! Where did they come from?"

"I made love to old Nicolls, the florist, to let me gather these

myself; he was very anxious to make a gorgeous arrangement done up

in white paper with a lace edge, and thought me a fearful Goth for

preferring this disorderly bunch."

They sat down to breakfast; afterward the morning papers came in,

and Raeburn disappeared behind the "Daily Review," while the

servant cleared the table. Erica stood by the open French window;

she knew that in a few minutes she must speak, and how to get what

she had to say into words she did not know. Her heart beat so fast

that she felt almost choked. In a sort of dream of pain she

watched the passers-by happy looking girls going down to bathe,

children with spades and pails. Everything seemed so tranquil, so

ordinary while before her lay a duty which must change her whole

world.

"Not much news," said Raeburn, coming toward her as the servant

left the room. "For dullness commend me to a Monday paper! Well,

Eric, how are we to spend your twenty-third birthday? To think

that I have actually a child of twenty-three! Why, I ought to feel

an old patriarch, and, in spite of white hair and life-long

badgering, I don't, you know. Come, what shall we do. Where would

you like to go?"

"Father," said Erica, "I want first to have a talk with you. I--I

have something to tell you."

There was no longer any mistaking that the seriousness meant some

kind of trouble. Raeburn put his arm round her.

"Why, my little girl," he said, tenderly. "You are trembling all

over. What is the matter?"

"The matter is that what I have to say will pain you, and it half

kills me to do that. But there is no choice tell you I must. You

would not wish me not to be true, not to be honest."

Utter perplexity filled Raeburn's mind. What phantom trouble was

threatening him? Had she been commissioned to tell him of some

untoward event? Some business calamity? Had she fallen in love

with some one he could not permit her to marry? He looked

questioningly at her, but her expression only perplexed him still

more; she was trembling no longer, and her eyes were clear and

bright, there was a strong look about her whole face.

"Father," she said, quietly, "I have learned to believe in Jesus

Christ."

He wrenched away his arm; he started back from her as if she had

stabbed him. For a minute he looked perfectly dazed.

At last, after a silence which seemed to each of them age-long, he

spoke in the agitated voice of one who has just received a great

blow.

"Do you know what you are saying, Erica? Do you know what such a

confession as you have made will involve? Do you mean that you

accept the whole of Christ's teaching?

"Yes," she replied, firmly, "I do."

"You intend to turn Christian?"

"Yes, to try to."

"How long have you and Mr. Osmond been concocting this?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Erica, terribly wounded by his

tone.

"Did he send you down here to tell me?"

"Mr. Osmond knows nothing about it," said Erica. "How could I tell

any one before you, father?"

Raeburn was touched by this. He took several turns up and down the

room before speaking again, but the more he grasped the idea the

deeper grew his grief and the hotter his anger. He was a man of

iron will, however, and he kept both under. When at length he did

speak, his voice was quiet and cold and repressed.

"Sit down," he said, motioning her to a chair. "This is not a

subject that we can dismiss in five minutes' talk. I must hear

your reasons. We will put aside all personal considerations. I

will consider you just as an ordinary opponent."

His coldness chilled her to the heart. Was it always to be like

this? How could she possibly endure it? How was she to answer his

questions how was she to vindicate her faith when the mere tone of

his voice seemed to paralyze her heart? He was indeed treating her

with the cold formality of an opponent, but never for a single

instant could she forget that he was her father the being she loved

best in the whole world.

But Erica was brave and true; she knew that this was a crisis in

their lives, and, thrusting down her own personal pain, she forced

herself to give her whole heart and mind to the searching and

perplexing questions with which her father intended to test the

reality of her convictions. Had she been unaccustomed to his mode

of attack he would have hopelessly silenced her, as far as argument

goes in half an hour; but not only was Erica's faith perfectly

real, but she had, as it were, herself traversed the whole of his

objections and difficulties. Though far from imagining that she

understood everything, she had yet so firmly grasped the innermost

truth that all details as yet outside her vision were to her no

longer hindrances and bugbears, but so many new possibilities other

hopes of fresh manifestations of God.

She held her ground well, and every minute Raeburn realized more

keenly that whatever hopes he had entertained of reconvincing her

were futile. What made it all the more painful to him was that the

thoroughness of the training he had given her now only told against

him, and the argument which he carried on in a cold, metallic voice

was really piercing his very heart, for it was like arguing against

another self, the dearest part of himself gone over to the enemy's

side.

At last he saw that argument was useless, and then, in his grief

and despair, he did for a time lose his self-control. Erica had

often felt sorry for the poor creatures who had to bear the brunt

of her father's scathing sarcasm. But platform irony was a trifle

to the torrent which bore down upon her today. When a strong man

does lose his restraint upon himself, the result is terrific.

Raeburn had never sufficiently cared for an adversary as to be

moved beyond an anger which could be restricted and held within due

bounds; he of course cared more for the success of his cause and

his own dignity. But now his love drove him to despair; his

intolerable grief at the thought of having an opponent in his own

child burst all restraining bonds. Wounded to the quick, he who

had never in his life spoken a harsh word to his child now poured

forth such a storm of anger, and sarcasm, and bitter reproach, as

might have made even an uninterested by-stander tremble.

Had Erica made any appeal, had she even begun to cry, his chivalry

would have been touched; he would have recognized her weakness, and

regained his self control. But she was not weak, she was strong

she was his other self gone over to the opposite side; that was

what almost maddened him. The torrent bore down upon her, and she

spoke not a word, but just sat still and endured. Only, as the

words grew more bitter and more wounding, her lips grew white, her

hands were locked more tightly together. At last it ended.

"You have cheated yourself into this belief," said Raeburn, "you

have given me the most bitter grief and disappointment of my whole

life. Have you anything else you wish to say to me?"

"Nothing," replied Erica, not daring to venture more; for, if she

had tried to speak, she knew she must have burst into tears.

But there was as much pain expressed in her voice as she spoke that

one word as there had been in all her father's outburst. It

appealed to him at once. He said no more, but stepped out of the

French window, and began to pace to an fro under the veranda.

Erica did not stir; she was like one crushed. Sad and harassed as

her life had been, it yet seemed to her that she had never known

such indescribably bitter pain. The outside world looked bright

and sunshiny; she could see the waves breaking on the shore, while

beyond, sailing out into the wide expanse was a brown-sailed

fishing boat. Every now and then her vision was interrupted by a

tall, dark figure pacing to and fro; every now and then the

sunlight glinted on snow-white hair, and then a fresh stab of pain

awoke in her heart.

The brown-sailed fishing boat dwindled into a tiny dark spot on the

horizon, the sea tossed and foamed and sparked in the sunshine.

Erica turned away; she could not bear to look at it, for just now

it seemed to her merely the type of the terrible separation which

had arisen between herself and her father. She felt as if she were

being borne away in the little fishing boat, while he was left on

the land, and the distance between them slowly widened and widened.

All through that grievous conversation she had held in her hand a

little bit of mignonette. She had held it unconsciously; it was

withered and drooping, its sweetness seemed to her now sickly and

hateful. She identified it with her pain, and years after the

smell of mignonette was intolerable to her. She would have thrown

it away, but remembered that her father had given it her. And

then, with the recollection of her birthday gift, came the

realization of all the long years of unbroken and perfect love, so

rudely interrupted today. Was it always to be like this? Must

they drift further and further apart?

Her heart was almost breaking; she had endured to the very

uttermost, when at length comfort came. The sword had only come to

bring the higher peace. No terrible sea of division could part

those whom love could bind together. The peace of God stole once

more into her heart.

"How loud soe'er the world may roar,

We know love will be

conqueror."

Meanwhile Raeburn paced to and fro in grievous pain The fact that

his pain could scarcely perhaps have been comprehended by the

generality of people did not make it less real or less hard to

bear. A really honest atheist, who is convinced that Christianity

is false and misleading, suffers as much at the sight of what he

considers a mischievous belief as a Christian would suffer while

watching a service in some heathen temple. Rather his pain would

be greater, for his belief in the gradual progress of his creed is

shadowy and dim compared with the Christian's conviction that the

"Saviour of all men" exists.

Once, some years before, a very able man, one of his most devoted

followers, had "fallen back" into Christianity. That had been a

bitter disappointment; but that his own child whom he loved more

than anything in the world, should have forsaken him and gone over

to the enemy, was a grief well-nigh intolerable. It was a grief he

had never for one moment contemplated.

Could anything be more improbable than that Erica, carefully

trained as she had been, should relapse so strangely? Her whole

life had been spent among atheists; there was not a single

objection to Christianity which had not been placed before her.

She had read much, thought much; she had worked indefatigably to

aid the cause. Again and again she had braved personal insult and

wounding injustice as an atheist. She had voluntarily gone into

exile to help her father in his difficulties. Through the shameful

injustice of a Christian, she had missed the last years of her

mother's life, and had been absent from her death bed. She had

borne on behalf of her father's cause a thousand irritating

privations, a thousand harassing cares; she had been hard-working,

and loyal, and devoted; and now all at once she had turned

completely round and placed herself in the opposing ranks!

Raeburn had all his life been fighting against desperate odds, and

in the conflict he had lost well-nigh everything. He had lost his

home long ago, he had lost his father's good will, he had lost the

whole of his inheritance; he had lost health, and strength, and

reputation, and money; he had lost all the lesser comforts of life;

and now he said to himself that he was to lose his dearest treasure

of all, his child.

Bitter, hopeless, life-long division had arisen between them. For

twenty-three years he had loved her as truly as ever father loved

child, and this was his reward! A miserable sense of isolation

arose in his heart. Erica had been so much to him how could he

live without her? The muscles of his face quivered with emotion;

he clinched his hands almost fiercely.

Then he tortured himself by letting his thoughts wander back to the

past. That very day years ago, when he had first learned what

fatherhood meant; the pride of watching his little girl as the

years rolled on; the terrible anxiety of one long and dangerous

illness she had passed through how well he remembered the time!

They were very poor, could afford no expensive luxuries; he had

shared the nursing with his wife. One night he remembered toiling

away with his pen while the sick child was actually on his knee; he

always fancied that the pamphlet he had then been at work on was

more bitterly sarcastic than anything he had ever written. Then on

once more into years of desperately hard work and disappointingly

small results, imbittered by persecution, crippled by penalties and

never-ending litigation; but always there had been the little child

waiting for him at home, who by her baby-like freedom from care

could make him smile when he was overwhelmed with anxiety. How

could he ever have endured the bitter obloquy, the slanderous

attacks, the countless indignities which had met him on all sides,

if there had not been one little child who adored him, who followed

him about like a shadow, who loved him and trusted him utterly?

Busy as his life had been, burdened as he had been for years with

twice as much work as he could get through, the child had never

been crowded out of his life. Even as a little thing of four years

old, Erica had been quite content to sit on the floor in his study

by the hour together, quietly amusing herself by cutting old

newspapers into fantastic shapes, or by drawing impossible cats and

dogs and horses on the margins. She had never disturbed him; she

used to talk to herself in whispers.

"Are you happy, little one?" he used to ask from time to time, with

a sort of passionate desire that he should enjoy her unconscious

childhood, foreseeing care and trouble for her in the future.

"Yes, very happy," had been the invariable response; and generally

Erica would avail herself of the interruption to ask his opinion

about some square-headed cat, with eyes askew and an astonishing

number of legs, which she had just drawn. Then would come what she

called a "bear's hug," after which silence reigned again in the

study, while Raeburn would go on writing some argumentative

pamphlet, hard and clear as crystal, his heart warmed by the little

child's love, the remains of a smile lingering about his lips at

the recollection of the square-headed cat.

And the years passed on, and every year deepened and strengthened

their love. And by slow degrees he had watched the development of

her mind; had gloried in her quick perception, had learned to come

to her for a second opinion every now and then; had felt proud of

her common sense, her thoughtful judgments; had delighted in her

enthusiastic, loving help. All this was ended now. Strange that,

just as he hoped most from her, she should fail him! It was a

repetition of his own early history exactly reversed. His thoughts

went back to his father's study in the old Scottish parsonage. He

remembered a long, fierce argument; he remembered a storm of

abusive anger, and a furious dismissal from the house. The old

pain came back to him vividly.

"And she loves me fifty thousand times more than I ever loved my

father," he reflected. "And, though I was not abusive, I was hard

on her. And, however mistaken, she was very brave, very honest.

Oh, I was cruel to her harsh, and hateful! My little child! My

poor little child! It shall not it cannot divide us. I am hers,

and she is mine nothing can ever alter that."

He turned and went back into the room. Never had he looked grander

than at that minute; this man who could hold thousands in

breathless attention this man who was more passionately loved by

his friends, more passionately hated by his enemies than almost any

man in England! He was just the ideal father.

Erica had not stirred, she was leaning back in her chair, looking

very still and white. He came close to her.

"Little son Eric!" he said, with a whole world of love in his tone.

She sprang up and wreathed her arms round his neck.

By and by, they began to talk in low tones, to map out and piece

together as well as they could the future life, which was

inevitably severed from the past by a deep gulf. They spoke of the

work which they could still share, of the interests they should

still have in common. It was very sad work for Erica infinitely

sadder for Raeburn; but they were both of them brave and noble

souls, and they loved each other, and so could get above the

sadness. One thing they both agreed upon. They would never argue

about their opinions. They would, as far as possible, avoid any

allusion to the grave differences that lay between them.

Late in the afternoon, a little group of fishermen and idlers stood

on the beach. They were looking out seaward with some "anxiety,

for a sudden wind had arisen, and there was what they called 'an

ugly sea.'"

"I tell you it was madness to let 'em go alone on such a day,"

said the old sailor with the telescope.

"And I tell you that the old gentleman pulls as good an oar as any

of us," retorted another man, in a blue jersey and a sou'wester.

"Old gentleman, indeed!" broke in the coast guardsman. "Better say

devil at once! Why, man alive! Your old gentleman is Luke Raeburn,

the atheist."

"God forbid!" exclaimed the first speaker, lowering his telescope

for a moment. "Why, he be mighty friendly to us fishermen."

"Where be they now, gaffer? D'ye see them?" asked a keen-looking

lad of seventeen.

"Ay, there they be! There they be! God have mercy on 'em!

They'll be swamped sure as fate!"

The coast guardsman, with provoked sang-froid and indifference,

began to sing:

"For though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone alo-o-ft."

And then breaking off into a sort of recitative.

"Which is exactly the opposite quarter to what Luke Raeburn's soul

will go, I guess."

"Blowed if I wouldn't pull an oar to save a mate, if I were so

mighty sure he was going to the devil!" observed a weather-beaten

seaman, with gold earrings and a good deal of tattooing on his

brawny arms.

"Would you now!" said the coast guardsman, with a superior and

sardonic smile. "Well, in my 'umble opinion, drowning's too good

for him."

With which humane utterance, the coast guardsman walked off,

singing of Tom who

"Never from his word departed, Whose heart was kind and soft."

"Well, I, for one, will lend a hand to help them. Now then, mates!

Which of you is going to help to cheat the devil of his due?" said

the man with the earrings.

Three men proffered their services, but the old seaman with the

telescope checked them.

"Bide a bit, mates, bide a bit; I'm not sure you've a call to go."

He wiped the glasses of his telescope with a red handkerchief, and

then looked out seaward once more.

In the meantime, while their fate was being discussed on the shore,

Raeburn and Erica were face to face with death. They were a long

way from land before the wind had sprung up so strongly. Raeburn,

who in his young days had been at once the pride and anxiety of the

fishermen round his Scottish home, and noted for his readiness and

daring, had now lost the freshness of his experience, and had grown

forgetful of weather tokens. The danger was upon them before he

had even thought of it. The strong wind blowing upon them, the

delicious salt freshness, even the brisk motion, had been such a

relief to them after the pain and excitement of the morning. But

all at once they began to realize that their peril was great.

Their little boat tossed so fearfully that Erica had to cling to

the seat for safety; one moment they were down in the hollow of a

deep green wave, the next they would be tossed up upon its crest as

though their boat had been a mere cockle shell.

"I'm afraid we've made a mistake, Eric," said Raeburn. "I ought to

have seen this storm coming up."

"What?" cried Erica, for the dashing of the waves made the end of

the sentence inaudible.

He looked across the boat at her, and an almost paralyzing dread

filled his heart. For himself he could be brave, for himself death

had no terrors but for his child!

A horrible vision rose before him. He saw her lying stiff and

cold, with glazed eyes and drenched hair. Was there to be a yet

more terrible separation between them? Was death to snatch her

from him? Ah, no that should never be! They would at least go

down together.

The vision faded; he saw once more the fair, eager face, no longer

pallid, but flushed with excitement, the brave eyes clear and

bright, but somewhat anxious. The consciousness that everything

depended on him helped him to rise above that overmastering horror.

He was once more his strongest self.

The rudder had been left on the beach, and it was only possible to

steer by the oars. He dismissed even the thought of Erica, and

concentrated his whole being on the difficult task before him. So

grand did he look in that tremendous endeavor that Erica almost

forgot her anxiety; there was something so forceful in his whole

aspect that she could not be afraid. Her heart beat quickly

indeed, but the consciousness of danger was stimulating.

Yet the waves grew more and more furious, rolling, curling, dashing

up in angry, white foam "raging horribly." At length came one

which broke right over the little boat, blinding and drenching its

occupants.

"Another like that will do for us," Said Raeburn, in a quiet voice.

The boat was half full of water. Erica began to bale out with her

father's hat, and each knew from the other's face that their plight

was hopeless.

Raeburn had faced death many times. He had faced it more than once

on a sick bed, he had faced it surrounded by yelling and furious

mobs, but he had never faced it side by side with his child. Again

he looked at the angry gray-green waves, at the wreaths of curling

white foam, again that awful vision rose before him, and, brave man

as he was, he shuddered.

Life was sweet even though he was harassed, persecuted, libeled.

Life was sweet even though his child had deserted his cause, even

though she had "cheated herself into a belief." Life was

infinitely worth living, mere existence an exquisite joy, blank

nothingness a hideous alternative.

"Bale out!" he cried, despair in his eyes, but a curve of

resoluteness about his lips.

A few more strokes warily pulled, another huge wave sweeping along,

rearing itself up, dashing down upon them. The boat reeled and

staggered. To struggle longer was useless. Raeburn threw his oars

inboard, caught hold of Erica, and held her fast. When they could

see once more, they found the boat quite three parts full.

"Child!" he said, "child!" But nothing more would come. For once

in his life words failed him; the orator was speechless. Was it a

minute or an eternity that he waited there through that awful pause

waited with his arm round Erica, feeling the beating of her heart,

the heart which must soon cease beating forever, feeling her warm

breath on his cheek alas! How few more breaths would she draw!

How soon would the cold water grave close over all that he

His thoughts were abruptly checked. That eternal minute of waiting

was over. It was coming death was coming riding along with mocking

scorn on the crest of a giant wave. Higher and higher rose the

towering, sea-green wall, mockingly it rushed forward,

remorselessly swooped down upon them! This time the boat was

completely swamped.

"I will at least die fighting!" thought Raeburn, a despairing,

defiant courage inspiring him with almost superhuman strength.

"Trust to me!" he cried. "Don't struggle!" And Erica who would

naturally have fallen into that frantic and vain convulsion which

seizes most people when they find themselves in peril of drowning,

by a supreme effort of will made no struggle at all, but only clung

to her father.

Raeburn was a very strong man, and an expert swimmer, but it was a

fearful sea. They were dashed hither and thither, they were

buffeted, and choked, and blinded, but never once did he lose his

presence of mind. Every now and then he even shouted out a few

words to Erica. How strange his voice sounded in that chaos, in

that raging symphony of winds and waves.

"Tell me when you can't hold any longer," he cried.

"I can't leave go," returned Erica.

And even then, in that desperate minute, they both felt a momentary

thrill of amusement. The fact was, that her effort of will had

been so great when she had obeyed him, and clung with all her might

to him, that now the muscles of her hands absolutely would not

relax their hold.

It seemed endless! Over the cold green and white of the waves

Raeburn seemed to see his whole life stretched out before him, in

a series of vivid pictures. All the long struggles, all the

desperate fights wreathed themselves out in visions round this

supreme death struggle. And always there was the consciousness

that he was toiling for Erica's life, struggling, agonizing,

straining every fiber of his being to save her.

But what was this paralyzing cold creeping over his limbs? What

this pressure at his heart? This dimness of his eyes? Oh! Was

his strength failing him? Was the last hope, indeed, gone?

Panting, he struggled on.

"I will do thirty more strokes!" he said to himself. And he did

them.

"I will do ten more!"

And he forced himself to keep on.

"Ten more!"

He was gasping now. Erica's weight seemed to be dragging him down,

down, into nothingness.

Six strokes painfully made! Seven! After all nothingness would

mean rest. Eight! No pain to either, since they were together.

Nine! He should live on in the hearts of his people. Ten! Agony

of failure! He was beaten at last!

What followed they neither of them knew, only there was a shout, an

agony of sinking, a vision of a dark form and a something solid

which they grasped convulsively.

When Erica came to herself they were by no means out of danger, but

there was something between them and the angry sea. She was lying

down at the bottom of a boat in close proximity to some

silvery-skinned fishes, and her father was holding her hand.

Wildly they tossed for what seemed to her a very long time; but at

length fresh voices were heard, the keel grated on the shore, she

felt herself lifted up and carried on to the beach. Then, with an

effort, she stood up once more, trembling and exhausted, but

conscious that mere existence was rapture.

Raeburn paused to reward and thank the men who had rescued them in

his most genial manner, and Erica's happiness would have been

complete had not the coast guardsman stepped up in an insolent and

officious way, and observed:

"It is a pity, Mr. Luke Raeburn, that you don't bring yourself to

offer thanks to God almighty!"

"Sir," replied Raeburn, "when I ask your opinion of my personal and

private matters, it will be fitting that you should speak not

before!"

The man looked annihilated, and turned away.

Raeburn grasped the rough hands of his helpers and well-wishers,

gave his arm to Erica, and led her up the steep beach.

Later on in the evening they sat over the fire, and talked over

their adventure. June though it was, they had both been thoroughly

chilled.

"What did you think of when we were in the water?' asked Erica.

"I made a deep calculation," said Raeburn, smiling, "and found

that the sale of the plant and of all my books would about clear

off the last of the debts, and that I should die free. After that

I thought of Cicero's case of the two wise men struggling in the

sea with one plank to rescue them sufficient only for one. They

were to decide which of their lives was most useful to the

republic, and the least useful man was to drop down quietly into

the deep. It struck me that you and I should hardly come to such

a calculation. I think we would have gone down together, little

one! What did you think of?"

But Erica's thoughts could not so easily be put into words.

"For one thing," she said, "I thought we should never be divided

any more."

She sighed a little; for, after all, the death they had so narrowly

escaped would have been so infinitely easier than the life which

lay before her.

"Clearly we are inseparable!" said Raeburn. "In that sense, little

son Eric, we can still say, 'We fear nae foe!'"

Perhaps the gentle words, and the sadness which he could not

entirely banish from his tone, moved Erica almost more than his

passionate utterances in the morning.

The day was no bad miniature of her whole life. Very sad, very

happy, full of danger, conflict and strife, warmed by outside

sympathy, wounded by outside insolence.

CHAPTER XXI. What it Involved

Stronger than steel

Is the sword of the spirit;

Swifter than arrows

The life of the truth is;

Greater than anger

Is love, and subdueth. Longfellow

The two or three days at Codrington lengthened out into a week, for

both Raeburn and Erica felt a good deal exhausted after the

eventful Monday. Raeburn, anxious to spare her as much as

possible, himself wrote to Mrs. Craigie, and told her of Erica's

change of views.

"It is a great grief," he wrote, "and she will be a serious loss to

our cause, but I am determined that we will not enact over again

the course of action which drove both you and me from home. Odd!

That she should just reverse our story! Anyhow, you and I, Jean,

have been too much persecuted to turn into persecutors. The child

is as much in earnest for her delusion as we for our truth.

Argument and remonstrance will do no good, and you must understand,

and make Tom understand, that I'll not have her bullied. Don't

think that I am trying to make her mistaken way all easy for her.

She won't find it easy. She will have a miserable time of it with

our own set, and how many Christians, do you imagine, will hold out

a hand to Luke Raeburn's daughter, even though her views have

changed? Maybe half a dozen! Not more, I fancy, unless she

renounced us with atheism, and that she never will do! She will be

between two fires, and I believe between the two she will be

worried to death in a year unless we can keep the peace at home.

I don't blame Osmond for this, though at first I did suspect it was

his doing; but this has been no cram-work. Erica has honestly

faced the questions herself, and has honestly arrived at this

mistaken conclusion. Osmond's kindness and generosity of course

influenced her, but for the rest they have only had the free

discussions of which from the first I approved. Years ago he said

to me plainly, 'What if she should see reasons to change her mind?'

I scouted the notion then, it seemed and still seems almost

INCREDIBLE. He has, you see, acted quite honorably. It is Erica's

own doing. I remember telling him that our name of freethinkers

was a reality, and so it shall still be! She shall be free to

think the untrue is true; she shall be free to confess herself a

Christian before the whole world, though it deal me the hardest of

blows."

This letter soon spread the news. Aunt Jean was too much vexed and

not deeply grieved enough to keep silence. Vexation finds some

relief in talking, deep grief as a rule prefers not to speak. Tom,

in his odd way, felt the defection of his favorite cousin as much

as anybody, except Raeburn himself. They had been play-fellows,

they had always been like brother and sister together, and he was

astounded to think that Erica, of all people in the world, should

have deserted the cause. The letter had come by one of the evening

posts. He went out and paced up and down the square in the soft

midsummer twilight, trying to realize the facts of the case.

Presently he heard rapid steps behind him; no one walked at that

pace excepting Brian, and Tom was quite prepared to feel an arm

link itself within his.

"Hallo, old fellow!" exclaimed Brian. "Moonlight meditations?"

"Where did you drop from?" said Tom, evasively.

"Broken leg, round the corner a public-house row. What brutes men

are!" exclaimed the young doctor, hotly.

"Disappointing world altogether," said Tom with a sigh. "What do

you think we have just heard about Erica?"

Brian's heart almost stopped beating; he hardly knew what he

feared.

"How can I tell?" he answered, hoarsely. "No bad news, I hope?"

"She's gone and turned Christian," said Tom, in a tone of deep

disgust.

Brian started.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed, under his breath.

"Confound it!" cried Tom. "I'd forgot you'd be triumphant. Good

night," and he marched off in high dudgeon.

Brian did not even miss him. How could he at such a time? The

weight of years had been lifted off his soul. A consuming

happiness took possession of him; his whole being was a

thanksgiving. By and by he went home, found his father in the

study, and was about to speak, when Charles Osmond put an open

letter into his hand. While Raeburn had written to his sister,

Erica had written to her "prophet" a sad, happy, quaint letter

exactly like herself. Its straightforward simplicity brought the

tears to Brian's eyes.

"It will be a fearful life for her now!" he exclaimed. "She will

never be able to endure it. Father, now at last I may surely speak

to her."

He spoke very eagerly. Charles Osmond looked grave.

"My dear old fellow, of course you must do as you think best," he

replied, after a minute's pause; "but I doubt if it is wise just

now."

"Why, it is the very time of all others when she might be glad of

me," said Brian.

"But can't you see," returned his father, "that Erica is the last

girl in the world to marry a man because she was unhappy, or

because she had got a difficult bit of life in front of her? Of

course, if you really think she cares for you, it is different; but--"

"She does not care for me," said Brian quickly; "but in time I

think she would. I think I could make her happy."

"Yes, I think you could, but I fancy you will make shipwreck of

your hopes if you speak to her now. Have patience."

"I am sick of patience!" cried Brian desperately. "Have I not been

patient for nearly seven years? For what would you have me wait?

Am I to wait till, between our injustice to secularists and their

injustice to Christians, she is half badgered out of life? If she

could but love me, if she would marry me now, I could save her from

what must be a life of misery."

"If I could but get you to see it from what I am convinced is

Erica's point of view!" exclaimed Charles Osmond. "Forget for a

minute that you are her knight and champion, and try to see things

as she sees them. Let us try to reverse things. Just imagine for

a minute that you are the child of some leading man, the head and

chief of a party or association we'll say that you are the child of

an Archbishop of Canterbury. You are carefully educated, you

become a zealous worker, you enter into all your father's

interests, you are able to help him in a thousand ways. But, by

slow degrees, we will say that you perceive a want in the system in

which you have been educated, and, after many years of careful

study and thought, you are obliged to reject your former beliefs

and to accept that other system which shall most recommend itself

to you. We will suppose for the sake of analogy that you become a

secularist. Knowing that your change of views will be a terrible

grief to your father the archbishop, it takes your whole strength

to make your confession, and you not only feel your father's

personal pain, but you feel that his pain will be increased by his

public position. To make it worse, too, we must suppose that a

number of people calling themselves atheists, and in the name of

atheism, have at intervals for the last thirty years been annoying

and insulting your father, that in withstanding their attacks he

has often received bodily injury, and that the atheists have so

often driven him into the law courts that he has been pretty nearly

beggared. All his privations you have shared for instance, you

went with him and lived for years in a poky little lodging, and

denied yourself every single luxury. But now you have, in spite of

all these persecutions carried on in the name of secularism,

learned to see that the highest form of secularism is true. The

archbishop feels this terribly. However, being a very loving

father, he wisely refuses to indulge in perpetual controversy with

his child. You agree still to live together, and each try with all

your might to find all the possible points of union still left you.

Probably, if you are such a child as I imagine, you love your

father ten times more than you did before. Then just as you have

made up your mind to try to be more to him, when all you care about

in life is to comfort and help him, and when your heart is much

occupied with your new opinions, a friend of yours a secularist

comes to you, and says: 'A miserable life lies before you. The

atheists will never thoroughly take up with you while you live with

your father the archbishop, and of course it is wretched for you to

be surrounded by those of another creed. Come with me. I love you

I will make you happy, and save you from persecution."

In spite of himself Brian had smiled many times at this putting of

an Archbishop of Canterbury into the position of Luke Raeburn. But

the conclusion arrived at seemed to him to admit of only one

answer, and left him very grave.

"You may be right," he said, very sadly. "But to stand still and

watch her suffer--"

He broke off, unable to finish his sentence.

Charles Osmond took it up.

"To stand still and watch her suffer will be the terribly hard work

of a brave man who takes a true, deep view. To rush in with offers

of help would be the work of an impetuous man who took a very

superficial view. If Erica were selfish, I would say go and appeal

to her selfishness, and marry her at once; for selfishness will

never do any good in Guilford Terrace. But she is one of the most

devoted women I know. Your appeal would be rejected. I believe

she will feel herself in the right place there, and, as long as

that is the case, nothing will move her."

"Father," said Brian, rather desperately, "I would take your

opinion before any other opinion in the world. You know her well

far better than I do. Tell me honestly do you think she could ever

love me?"

"You have given me a hard task," said Charles Osmond. "But you

have asked for my honest opinion, and you must have it. As long as

her father lives I don't believe Erica will ever love a man well

enough to marry him. I remember, in my young days, a beautiful

girl in our neighborhood, the belle of the whole county; and years

went by, and she had countless offers, but she rejected them all.

People used to remonstrate with her, and ask her how it was. 'Oh,'

she used to reply, 'that is very easily explained.. I never see a

man I think equal to my own brothers!' Now, whatever faults

Raeburn has, we may be sure Erica sees far less plainly than we

see, and nobody can deny that he is a grand fellow. When one bears

in mind all that he has had against him, his nobility of character

seems to me marvelous. He puts us to shame. And that is why he

seems to me the wholesome though powerful medicine for this

nineteenth century of ours, with its great professions and its

un-Christlike lives."

"What is the use of patience what is the use of love," exclaimed

Brian, "if I am never to serve her?"

"Never! Who said so?" said his father smiling. "Why, you have

been serving her every blessed day since you first loved her. Is

unspoken love worth nothing? Are prayers useless? Is it of no

service to let your light shine? But I see how it is. As a

doctor, you look upon pain as the one great enemy to be fought

with, to be bound down, to be conquered. You want to shield Erica

from pain, which she can't be shielded from, if she is to go on

growing.

"'Knowledge by suffering entereth!'

No one would so willingly indorse the truth of that as she herself.

And it will be so to the end of the chapter. You can't shut her up

in a beautiful casket, and keep her from all pain. If you could

she would no longer be the Erica you love. As for the rest, I may

be wrong. She may have room for wifely love even now. I have only

told you what I think. And whether she ever be your wife or not

and from my heart I hope she may be your love will in no case be

wasted. Pure love can't be wasted; it's an impossibility."

Brian sighed heavily, but made no answer. Presently he took up his

hat and went out. He walked on and on without the faintest idea of

time or place, occupied only with the terrible struggle which was

going on in his heart, which seemed only endurable with the help of

rapid and mechanical exercise. When at length he came to himself,

he was miles away from home, right down at Shepherd's Bush, and he

heard the church clocks striking twelve. Then he turned back, and

walked home more quietly, his resolution made.

If he told Erica of his love, and she refused him now, he should

not only add to her troubles, but he should inevitably put an end

to the comfort of the close friendship which now existed between

the two families. He would keep silence.

Erica and her father returned on the Saturday, and then began a

most trying time. Tom seemed to shrink from her just as he had

done at the time of her mother's death. He was shy and vexed, too,

and kept as much out of her way as possible. Mrs. Craigie, on the

contrary, could not leave her alone. In spite of her brother's

words, she tried every possible argument and remonstrance in the

hope of reconvincing her niece. With the best intentions, she was

often grossly unfair, and Erica, with a naturally quick temper, and

her Raeburn inheritance of fluency and satire, found her patience

sorely tried. Raeburn was excessively busy, and they saw very

little of him; perhaps he thought it expedient that Erica should

fight her own battles, and fully realize the seriousness of the

steps she had taken.

"Have you thought," urged Mrs. Craigie, as a last argument "have

you thought what offense you will give to our whole party? What do

you think they will slay when they learn that you of all people

have deserted the cause?"

The tears started to Erica's eyes, for naturally she did feel this

a great deal. But she answered bravely, and with a sort of ring in

her voice, which made Tom look up from his newspaper.

"They will know that Luke Raeburn's daughter must be true to her

convictions at whatever cost."

"Will you go on writing in the 'Idol'?" asked Tom, for the first

time making an observation to her which was not altogether

necessary.

"No," said Erica "how can I?"

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and made no further remark.

"Then how do you mean to live? How else can you support yourself?"

asked Aunt Jean.

"I don't know," said Erica. "I must get some other work

somewhere."

But her heart failed her, though she spoke firmly. She knew that

to find work in London was no easy matter.

"Offer yourself to the 'Church Chronicle,'" said Mrs. Craigie

sarcastically, "or, better still, to the 'Watch Dog.' They always

make a good deal of capital out of a convert."

Erica colored and had to bite her lip hard to keep back the quick

retort which occurred to her all too naturally.

By and by Mr. Masterman and another well-known secularist walked

in. They both knew of Erica's defection. Mr. Masterman attacked

her at once in a sort of bantering way.

"So Miss Raeburn, now I understand why some time ago you walked out

in the middle of my lecture one evening."

And then followed a most irritating semi-serious remonstrance, in

questionable taste. Erica writhed under it. A flippant canvassing

of her most private and sacred thoughts was hard to bear, but she

held her ground, and, being not without a touch of her father's

dignity, Mr. Masterman presently beat a retreat, not feeling quite

so well satisfied with himself as usual. His companion did not

allude directly to her change of views, but treated her with a sort

of pitying condescension, as if she had been a mild lunatic.

There was some sort of committee being held in the study that

evening. The next person to arrive was Professor Gosse and almost

immediately after came Mr. Harmston, a charming old man, whom Erica

had known from her childhood. They came in and had some coffee

before going into the study. Mrs. Craigie talked to Mr. Harmston.

Erica, looking her loveliest waited on them. Tom watched them all

philosophically from the hearth rug.

"I am sorry to hear you have deserted your colors," said the

professor, looking more grave than she had ever seen him look

before. Then, his voice softening a little as he looked at her, "I

expect it all comes of that illness of yours. I believe religion

is just an outgrowth of bad health mens sana in corpore sano, you

know. Never mind, you must still come to my workshop, and I shall

see if science won't reconvert you."

He moved away with his good-humored, shaggy-looking face, leaving

Erica to old Mr. Harmston.

"I am much grieved to hear this of you, Erica," he said, lowering

his voice, and bringing his gray head near to hers "as grieved as

if you were my own child. You will be a sore loss to us all."

Erica felt this keenly, for she was very fond of the old man.

"Do you think it does not hurt me to grieve you all?" she said,

piteously. "But one must be honest."

"Quite right, my dear," said the old man, "but that does not make

our loss the less heavy. We had hoped great things of you, Erica.

It is grievous to me that you should have fallen back to the

miserable superstitions against which your father has fought so

bravely."

"Come, Mr. Harmston," said the professor; "we are late, I fancy."

And before Erica could make any reply Mrs. Craigie and the two

visitors had adjourned to the committee room, leaving her alone

with Tom.

Now, for two or three days Erica had been enduring Tom's coldness

and Mrs. Craigie's unceasing remonstrances; all the afternoon she

had been having a long and painful discussion with her friend, Mrs.

MacNaughton; this evening she had seen plainly enough what her

position would be for the future among all her old acquaintances,

and an aching sense of isolation filled her heart. She was just

going to run upstairs and yield to her longing for darkness and

quiet, when Tom called her back. She could not refuse to hear, for

the coldness of her old playmate had made her very sad, but she

turned back rather reluctantly, for her eyes were brimming with

tears.

"Don't go," said Tom, quite in his natural voice. "Have you any

coffee for me, or did the old fogies finish it?"

Erica went back to the table and poured him out a cup of coffee,

but her hand trembled, and, before she could prevent it, down

splashed a great tear into the saucer.

"Come!" said Tom, cheerfully. "Don't go and spoil my coffee with

salt water! All very well for David, in a penitential psalm, to

drink tears, but in the nineteenth century, you know--"

Erica began to laugh at this, a fatal proceeding, for afterward

came a great sob, and the tears came down in good earnest.

Philosophical Tom always professed great contempt for tears, and he

knew that Erica must be very much moved indeed to cry in his

presence, or, indeed, to cry at all; for, as he expressed it: "It

was not in her line." But somehow, when for the first time he saw

her cry, he did not feel contemptuous; instead, he began to call

himself a "hard-hearted brute," and a narrow-minded fool, and to

feel miserable and out of conceit with himself.

"I say, Erica, don't cry," he pleaded. "Don't, I say, I can't bear

to see you. I've been a cold-blooded wretch I'm awfully sorry!"

"It's very cowardly of me," sobbed Erica. "But--but--"with a rush

of tears, "you don't know how I love you all it's like being killed

by inches."

"You're not cowardly," said Tom, warmly. "You've been brave and

plucky; I only wish it were in a better cause. Look here, Erica,

only stop crying, and promise me that you'll not take this so

dreadfully to heart. I'll stand by you I will, indeed, even though

I hate your cause. But it sha'n't come between us any longer, the

hateful delusion has spoiled enough lives already. It sha'n't

spoil ours."

"Oh, don't!" cried Erica, wounded anew by this.

"Well," said Tom, gulping down his longing to inveigh against

Christianity, "it goes hard with me not to say a word against the

religion that has brought us all our misery, but for your sake I'll

try not when talking with you. Now let us begin again on the old

footing."

"Not quite on the old footing either," said Erica, who had

conquered her tears. "I love you a thousand times more, you dear

old Tom."

And Tom, who was made of sterling stuff, did from that day forward

stand by her through everything, and checked himself when harsh

words about religious matters rose to his lips, and tried his best

to smooth what could not fail to be a rough bit of walking.

The first meeting between Charles Osmond and Erica, after her

return from Codrington, did not come about till the morning after

her conversation with Tom. They had each called on the other, but

had somehow managed to miss. When at length Erica was shown into

the study, connected in her mind with so many warm discussions, she

found it empty. She sat down in the great arm chair by the window,

wondering if she were indeed the same Erica who had sat there years

before, on the day when her "prophet" had foretold her illness.

What changes had come about since then!

But her "Prophet" was unchanged, his brisk, "Well Erica!" was

exactly what it had been when she had come to him in the days of

her atheism. It had always been full of welcome and sympathy, and

now the only difference was that a great happiness shone in his

eyes as he came forward with his soft, steady tread and took her

hand in both his.

They sat silent for awhile, then talked a little but reservedly,

for both felt that the subject which filled their thoughts was at

once too sacred and too personal to be altogether put into words.

Then by and by they began to discuss the practical consequences of

the change, and especially the great difficulty as to Erica's means

of supporting herself.

"Could you not try teaching?" said Charles Osmond.

"The market is already overstocked."

"True, but I should think that your brains and certificates ought

to secure you work in spite of that."

"I should like it in many ways," said Erica, "but, you see, except

at the night school it is out of the question, and I could not live

upon my grant even if every one of my class passed the examination.

For any other sort of teaching who do you imagine would have the

courage to employ any one bearing the name of Raeburn? Why, I

can't give an order in a shop without being looked all over by the

person who takes the address. No, governessing would be all very

well if one might assume a nom de guerre, but that would not do,

you see."

"You couldn't find work of that sort among your own set, I

suppose?"

"Not now," said Erica. "You see, naturally enough, I am very much

out of favor with them all."

"Falling between two stools," said Charles Osmond, half to himself.

"But don't lose heart, Erica: 'A stone that is fit for the wall

will not be left in the way;' there is work for you somewhere. By

the way, I might see old Crutchley he knows all the literary folk,

and might get you an introduction to some one, at any rate."

Just as Erica was leaving Brian came in from his rounds, and they

met at the door. Had he known her trouble and perplexity as to

work, no power on earth could have induced him to keep silence any

longer; but he knew nothing. She looked a little pale, but that

was natural enough, and in her eyes he could see a peace which he

had never seen there before. Then deep unselfish happiness filled

his heart again, and Erica recognized in his greeting a great deal

more than an ordinary by-stander would have seen. She went away

feeling bettered by that handclasp.

"That is a downright good man!" she thought to herself. "Perhaps

by the time he's fifty-five, he'll be almost equal to his father."

CHAPTER XXII. An Editor

Socrates How singular is the thing called pleasure, and how

curiously related to pain, which might be thought to be the

opposite; for they never come to a man together, and yet he who

pursues either of them is generally compelled to take the other.

They are two, and yet they grow together out of one head or stem;

and I can not help thinking that, if Aesop had noticed them, he

would have made a fable about God trying to reconcile their strife,

and when he could not, he fastened their heads together; and this

is the reason why when one comes the other follows. Plato

That Erica should live any longer upon the money which her father

chiefly made by the dissemination of views with which she disagreed

was clearly impossible, at least impossible to one of her sincere

and thorough nature. But to find work was very difficult, indeed.

After an anxious waiting and searching, she was one day surprised

by receiving through Charles Osmond's friend, Mr. Crutchley, an

introduction to the editor of a well-known and widely read paper.

Every one congratulated her, but she could not feel very hopeful,

it seemed too good to prove true it was, in fact, so exactly the

position which she would herself have chosen that it seemed

unlikely it should ever really be hers. Still of course she hoped,

and arrangements were made for an interview with Mr. Bircham,

editor and part proprietor of the "Daily Review."

Accordingly, one hot summer morning Erica dressed herself

carefully, tried to look old and serious, and set off with Tom to

the city.

"I'll see you safe to the door of the lion's den," said Tom as they

made their way along the crowded streets. "I only wish I could be

under the table during the interview; I should like to see you

doing the dignified journalist."

"I wouldn't have you for the world!" said Erica, laughing. Then,

growing grave again, "Oh, Tom! How I wish it were over! It's worse

than three hundred visits to a dentist rolled into one."

"Appalling prospect!" said Tom. "I can exactly picture what it

will be. BIRCHAM! Such a forbidding name for an editor. He'll be

a sort of editorial Mr. Squeers; he'll talk in a loud, blustering

way, and you'll feel exactly like a journalistic Smike."

"No," said Erica, laughing. "He'll be a neat little dapper man,

very smooth and bland, and he'll talk patronizingly and raise my

hopes, and then, in a few days' time will send me a polite

refusal."

"Tell him at once that you hero-worship Sir Michael Cunningham, the

statesman of the age, the most renowned 'Sly Bacon!'"

"Tom, do be quiet!" said Erica. "I wish you had never thought of

that horrid name."

"Horrid! I mean to make my fortune out of it. If you like, you

can offer the pun on reasonable terms to Mr. Bircham."

"Why, this is Fleet Street! Doesn't it lead out of this?" said

Erica, with an indescribable feeling in the back of her neck. "We

must be quite near."

"Nearer than near," said Tom. "Now then, left wheel! Here we are,

you see. It's a mercy that you turn pink with fright, not green

like the sea-green Robespierre. Go in looking as pretty as that,

and Mr. Squeers will graciously accept your services, unless he's

sand-blind."

"What a tease you are. Do be quiet!" implored Erica. And then, in

what seemed to her an alarmingly short time she was actually left

by herself to beard the lion, and a clerk was assuring her that Mr.

Bircham was in, and would she walk upstairs.

For reasons best known to himself, the editor of the "Daily Review"

had his private room at the very top of the house. A sedate clerk

led the way up a dingy staircase, and Erica toiled after him,

wondering how much breath she should have left by the time she

reached the end. On one of the landings she caught sight of a

sandy cat and felt a little reassured at meeting such an every-day

creature in this grim abode; she gave it a furtive stroke as she

passed, and would have felt it a protection if she could have

picked it up and taken it with her. That would have been

undignified, however, and by the time she reached the editor's room

only a very observant person could have discovered in her frank,

self-possessed manner any trace of nervousness.

So different was Mr Bircham from their preconceived notions that

she could almost have laughed at the contrast. He was very tall

and pompous, he wore a lank brown wig which looked as if it might

come off at any moment, he had little keen gray eyes which

twinkled, and a broad mouth which shut very closely; whether it was

grim or humorous she could not quite decide. He was sitting in a

swivel chair, and the table strewn with letters, and the desk with

its pigeon holes crammed with papers, looked so natural and so like

her father's that she began to feel a reassuring sense of

fellowship with this entire stranger. The inevitable paste-pot and

scissors, the piles of newspapers, the books of reference, all

looked homelike to her.

Mr. Bircham rose and bowed rather formally, motioned her to a seat,

and swung round his own seat so that they faced one another. Then

he scanned her from head to foot with the sort of appraising glance

to which she was only too well accustomed a glance which said as

plainly as words: "Oh!" So you are that atheist's daughter are

you?"

But whatever impression Erica made upon Mr. Bircham, not a muscle

of his face altered, and he began to discuss business in a most

formal and business-like way. Things did not seem very hopeful,

and Erica began to doubt more and ore whether she had the smallest

chance of acceptance. Something in the dry formal manner of the

editor struck a chill to her heart. So much, so very much depended

on this interview, and already the prospect seemed far from

hopeful.

"I should like to see some of your work," observed Mr. Bircham.

"How long have you been in the habit of writing in Mr. Raeburn's

organ?"

"For the last five years," said Erica.

Mr. Bircham lifted his shaggy eyebrows at this, for Erica looked

even younger than she really was. However, he made no comment, but

took up the end of a speaking tube.

"Send up Jones with the file of 'Idol-Breakers' I ordered."

Erica's color rose. Presently the answer from the lower regions

appeared in the shape of the sedate clerk carrying a great bundle

of last year's 'Idol-Breakers.'

"Perhaps you will show me one or two of your average articles,"

said Mr. Bircham, and, while Erica searched through the bundle of

papers, he took up one of the copies which she had put aside, and

studied the outside page critically. "'The Idol-Breaker:' Advocate

of Freethought and Secularism. Edited by Luke Raeburn."

"They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three."

Mr. Bircham put it down and began to watch her attentively. She

was absorbed in her search, and was quite unconscious of his

scrutiny. Even had she noticed him, she would not have understood

what was passing in his mind. His little gray eyes grew bright;

then he pushed back his wig impatiently; then he cleared his

throat; finally he took snuff, sneezed violently, and walked to the

window. When he returned he was even more dry and formal than

before.

"These, I think, are fairly representative," said Erica. "I have

marked them on the margin."

He took the three or four copies she handed to him, and began to

look through one of the articles, muttering a sentence half aloud

every now and then, and making little ejaculations which might have

been either approval or disapproval.

Finally the interview ended. Mr. Bircham put down the papers with

a sigh of utter weariness, Erica thought.

"Well, Miss Raeburn," he remarked, "I will look at one or two of

your other articles, and will communicate with you in a few days'

time."

Then he shook hands with her with frigid politeness, and in another

minute she was slowly making her way down the dingy staircase.

Partly from the reaction after her excitement, partly from mental

worry and physical weariness, she felt by the time she was fairly

out of the office as if she could hardly drag herself along. Her

heart was like lead, blank loss of hope and weary anxiety as to the

next effort to be made were weighing her down. She was naturally

high-spirited, but when high-spirited people do get depressed, they

go down to the very deepest depths; and her interview with Mr.

Bircham, by its dry cheerlessness, by its lack of human interest,

had chilled her all through. If he had even made a remark on the

weather, she thought she could have liked him better; if he had

expressed an opinion on any subject, even if she had disagreed with

him, it would have been a relief; as it was, he seemed to her more

like a hard steel pen dressed in broadcloth than a man.

As to his last remark, that could only mean one thing. He did not

like to tell her to her face that she would not suit him, but, he

would communicate with her in a few days, and say it comfortably on

paper.

She had never felt quite so desolate and forlorn and helpless as

she felt that day when she left the "Daily Review" office, and

found herself in the noise and bustle of Fleet Street. The midday

sun blazed down upon her in all its strength; the pavements seemed

to scorch her feet; the weary succession of hurrying, pushing,

jostling passengers seemed to add to her sense of isolation.

Presently a girl stopped her, and asked the way to Basinghall

Street. She knew it well enough, but felt too utterly stupid to

direct her.

"You had better ask a policeman," she replied, wearily.

Then, recollecting that she had several commissions to do for her

father, besides a great deal to do at the stores, she braced

herself up, and tried to forget Mr. Bircham, and to devote her

whole mind to the petty details of shopping.

]The next evening she was in the study with her father when Tom

brought in a bundle of letters. One of them was for Erica. She at

once recognized Mr. Bircham's writing, and a new pang of

disappointment shot through her, though she had really lost all

hope on the previous day. This very speedy communication could

only mean that his mind had been practically made up before. She

began to think of her next chance, of the next quarter she must

try, and slowly opened the unwelcome letter. But in a moment she

had sprung to her feet in an ecstasy of happiness.

"Oh, father! Oh, Tom! He will have me!"

Raeburn looked up from his correspondence, and together they read

Mr. Bircham's letter. It was quite as business-like as he himself

had been at the interview.

"Dear Madame, Having fully considered the matter, we are prepared

to offer you a place on our staff. The work required was explained

to you yesterday. For this we offer a salary of 200 pounds per

annum. Should you signify your acceptance of these terms, we will

send you our usual form of agreement. I am yours faithfully, Jacob

Bircham. "To Miss Raeburn."

"Commend me to people who don't raise one's expectations!" said

Erica, rapturously. "Three cheers for my dear, stiff old editor!"

So that anxiety was over, and Erica was most thankful to have such

a load taken off her mind. The comfort of it helped her through a

very trying summer.

CHAPTER XXIII. Erica to the Rescue

Isabel: I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the

truth of my spirit.

Duke: Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.

Measure for Measure

It was the first of September. Watering places were crowded with

visitors, destruction had begun among the partridges, and a certain

portion of the hard-working community were taking their annual

holiday.

Raeburn, whose holidays were few and far between, had been toiling

away all through the summer months in town. This evening, as he

sat in his stifling little study, he had fallen into a blank fit of

depression. He could neither work nor read. Strong as his nature

was, it was not always proof against this grim demon, which avenged

itself on him for overtasking his brain, shortening his hours of

sleep, and in other ways sacrificing himself to his work. Tonight,

however, there was reason for his depression; for while he sat

fighting his demon at home, Erica had gone to Charles Osmond's

church it was the evening of her baptism.

Of course it was the necessary sequence of the confession she had

made a few months before, and Raeburn had long known that it was

inevitable; but none the less did he this evening suffer more

acutely than he had yet suffered, realizing more fully his child's

defection The private confession had startled, shocked, grieved

him inexpressibly; but the public profession, with its sense of

irrevocableness, filled his heart with a grief for which he could

find no single ray of comfort.

Erica's brave endurance of all the trials and discomforts involved

in her change of faith had impressed him not a little, and even

when most hurt and annoyed by her new views, he had always tried to

shield her; but it had been a hard summer, and the loss of the home

unity had tried him sorely.

Moreover, the comparative quiet of the last year was now ended. A

new foe had arisen in the person of a certain retired cheesemonger,

who had sworn war to the knife against the apostle of atheism.

Unfortunately, Mr. Pogson's war was not undertaken in a Christ-like

spirit; his zeal was fast changing into personal animosity, and he

had avowed the he would crush Raeburn, though it should cost him

the whole of his fortune. This very day he had brought into action

the mischievous and unfair blasphemy laws, and to everybody's

amazement, had commenced a prosecution against Raeburn for a

so-called "blasphemous libel" in one of his recent pamphlets. An

attack on the liberty of the press was to Raeburn what the sound of

the trumpet is to the war horse. Yet, now that the first

excitement was over, he had somehow sunk into a fit of black

depression. How was it? Was his strength failing? Was he growing

old unfit for his work?

He was roused at length by a knock at his door. The servant

entered with a number of letters. He turned them over mechanically

until some handwriting which reminded him of his mother's made him

pause. The letter bore the Greyshot postmark; it must be from his

sister Isabel. He opened it with some eagerness; there had been no

communication between them since the time of his wife's death, and

though he had hoped that the correspondence once begun might have

been continued, nothing more had come of it. The letter proved

short, and not altogether palatable. It began with rejoicings over

Erica's change of views, the report of which had reached Mrs.

Fane-Smith. It went on to regret that he did not share in the

change. Raeburn's lip curled as he read. Then came a request that

Erica might be allowed to visit her relations, and the letter ended

with a kindly-meant but mistaken offer.

"My husband and I both feel that there are many objections to

Erica's remaining in her present home. We should be much pleased

if she would live with us at any rate, until she has met with some

situation which would provide her with a suitable and permanent

residence."

The offer was not intended to be insulting, but undoubtedly, to

such a father as Raeburn, it was a gross insult. His eyes flashed

fire, and involuntarily he crushed the letter in his hand; then, a

little ashamed of the passionate act, he forced himself

deliberately to smooth it out again, and, folding it accurately,

put it in his pocket. A note for Erica remained in the envelope;

he placed it on the mantel piece, then fell back in his chair again

and thought.

After all, might not the visit to Greyshot be a very good thing for

her? Of course she would never dream of living with her aunt,

would indeed be as angry at the proposal as he had been. But might

not a visit of two or three weeks open her eyes to her new

position, and prove to her that among Christians such people as the

Osmonds were only in the minority! He knew enough of society to be

able to estimate the position it would accord to Erica. He knew

that her sensitiveness would be wounded again and again, that, that

her honesty would be shocked, her belief in the so-called Christian

world shaken. Might not all this be salutary? And yet he did not

like the thought; he could not bear sending her out alone to fight

her own battles, could not endure the consciousness that she was

bearing his reproach. Oh, why had this miserable, desolating

change ever occurred? At this very moment she was making public

profession of a faith which could only place her in the most trying

of positions; at this very moment she was pledging herself to a

life of bondage and trouble; while he, standing aside, could see

all the dangers and difficulties of her future, and could do

absolutely nothing!

It reminded him of one of the most horrible moments of his life.

Walking up Regent Street one afternoon, years ago, Erica, walking

with Mrs. Craigie on the opposite side, had caught sight of him,

and regardless of the fourfold chain of carriages, had rushed

across to him with the fearless daring of a six-year-old child, to

whom the danger of horses' hoofs was a mere nothing when compared

with the desire to get a walk with her father. His heart beat

quicker even now as he thought of the paralyzing dread of long ago,

nor had Miss Erica ever been scolded for her loving rashness; in

his relief he had been unable to do anything but clasp the little

hand in his as though nothing should ever part them again.

But her loving disregard of all danger and difficulty was no longer

inspired by love of him, but by love of what Raeburn considered a

myth and a delusion.

In that lay the real sting. He courage, her suffering, all seemed

to him wasted, altogether on the wrong side. Once more black gloom

fell upon him. The room grew dusk then dark, but still he remained

motionless.

Again he was interrupted by a knock at his door.

"Signor Civita wished to speak to him."

He braced himself up for an interview with some stranger, and in

walked a foreigner wrapped in a long cloak, and looking exceedingly

like a stage brigand.

He bowed, the brigand bowed too, and said something rapid and

unintelligible in Italian. Then glanced at the door to see that it

was safely closed, he made a bound to the open window and shut it

noiselessly. Raeburn quietly reached down a loaded revolver which

hung about the mantel piece, and cocked it, whereupon the brigand

fell into a paroxysm of laughter, and exclaimed in German:

"Why, my good friend! Do you not know me?"

"Haeberlein!" exclaimed Raeburn, in utter amazement, submitting to

a German embrace.

"Eric himself and no other!" returned the brigand. "Draw your

curtains and lock your door and you shall see me in the flesh. I

am half stifled in this lordly wig."

"Wait," said Raeburn. "Be cautious."

He left him for a minute, and Haeberlein heard him giving orders

that no one else was to be admitted that evening. Then he came

back, quietly bolted the door, closed the shutters, and lighted the

gas. In the meantime his friend threw off his cloak, removed the

wig of long, dark hair, and the drooping mustache and shaggy

eyebrows, revealing his natural face and form. Raeburn grasped his

hand once more.

"Now I feel that I've got you, Eric!" he exclaimed. "What lucky

chance has brought you so unexpectedly?"

"No lucky one!" said Haeberlein, with an expressive motion of the

shoulders. "But of that anon; let me look at you, old fellow why

you're as white as a miller! Call yourself six-and-forty! You

might pass for my grandfather!"

Raeburn, who had a large reserve fund of humor, caught up his

friend's black wig from the table and put it on above his own

thick, white hair, showing plainly enough that in face and spirits

he was as young as ever. It was seven years since they had met,

and they fell to talk of reminiscences, and in the happiness of

their meeting put off the more serious matters which must be

discussed before long. It was a good half hour before Haeberlein

alluded to the occasion of his present visit.

"Bring actually in London, I couldn't resist looking in upon you,"

he said, a cloud of care coming over his face. "I only hope it

won't get you into a scrape. I came over to try to avert this

deplorable business about poor Kellner too late, I fear. And the

worst of it is, I must have blundered somehow for my coming leaked

out, and they are on the watch for me. If I get safe across to

France tonight, I shall be lucky."

"Incautious as ever," sighed Raeburn. "And that Kellner richly

deserves his fate. Why should you meddle?"

"I was bound to," said Haeberlein. "He did me many a good turn

during my exile, and though he has made a grave mistake, yet--"

"Yet you must run your chivalrous head into a halter for his sake!"

exclaimed Raeburn. "You were ever Quixote. I shall live to see

you hanged yet."

Haeberlein laughed.

"No, I don't think you will," he said, cheerfully. "I've had some

bad falls, but I've always fallen on my feet. With a good cause,

a man has little to fear."

"If this WERE a good cause," said Raeburn, with significant

emphasis.

"It was the least I could do," said Haeberlein, with the chivalrous

disregard of self which was his chief characteristic. "I only fear

that my coming here may involve you in it which Heaven forfend! I

should never forgive myself if I injured your reputation."

Raeburn smiled rather bitterly.

"You need not fear that. My reputation has long been at the mercy

of all the lying braggarts in the country. Men label me socialist

one day, individualist the next. I become communist or egotist, as

is most convenient to the speaker and most damaging to myself. But

there," he exclaimed, regaining the tranquil serenity which

characterized him, "why should I rail at the world when I might be

talking to you? How is my old friend Hans?"

The sound of a key in the latch startled them.

"It is only Erica," said Raeburn. "I had forgotten she was out."

"My pretty little namesake! I should like to see her. Is she

still a zealous little atheist?"

"No, she has become a Christian," said Raeburn, speaking with some

effort.

"So!" exclaimed Haeberlein, without further comment. He himself

was of no particular creed; he was just indifferent, and the zeal

of his friend often surprised him.

Raeburn went out into the passage, drew Erica into the front

sitting room, and closed the door.

"There is an old friend of yours in my study," he said. "He wishes

to see you, but you must promise secrecy, for he is in danger."

"Is it Herr Haeberlein?" asked Erica.

"Yes, on one of his rash, kindly errands, but one of which I don't

approve. However, his work is over, and we must try to get him

safely off to France. Come in with me if you will, but I wanted to

tell you about it first, so that you should not be mixed up with

this against your will, which would be unfair!"

"Would it?" said Erica, smiling, as she slipped her hand into his.

Haeberlein had taken a newspaper out of his pocket, and was

searching for something. The gas light fell on his clean-shaven

face, revealing a sweet-tempered mouth, keen blue eyes, a broad

German forehead, and closely cropped iron-gray hair. Erica thought

him scarcely altered since their last meeting. He threw down his

newspaper as she approached.

"Well, my Herzblattchen!" he exclaimed, saluting her with a double

kiss, "so you are not ashamed of your old friend? So," holding her

at arms' length and regarding her critically, POtztausend! The

English girls do beat ours all to nothing. Well, my Liebchen, dost

thou remember the day when thou carried the Casati dispatches in

thy geography book under the very nose of a spy? It was a brave

deed that, and it saved a brave man's life."

Erica smiled and colored. "I was not so brave as I seemed," she

said. "My heart was beating so loud, I thought people must hear

it."

"Has thou never heard the saying of the first Napoleon, 'The

bravest man is he who can conceal his fear?' I do not come under

that category, for I never had fear never felt it. Thou wouldst

not dream, Herzblattchen, that spies are at this moment dogging my

steps while I jest here with thee?"

"Is that indeed true?" exclaimed Erica.

They explained to her a little more of Haeberlein's errand and the

risk he ran; he alluded to his hopes that Raeburn might not be

involved in any unpleasant consequences. Erica grew pale at the

bare suggestion.

"See," exclaimed Haeberlein, "the little one cares more for your

reputation than you do yourself, my friend. See what it is to have

a daughter who can be afraid for you, though she can not be afraid

for herself! But, Liebchen, Thou must not blame me for coming to

see him. Think! My best friend, and unseen for seven years!"

"It is worth a good deal of risk," said Erica, brightly. But as

the terror or having her father's name mentioned in connection with

Herr Kellner's once more returned to her, she added, pleadingly,

"And you WILL be careful when you leave the house?"

"Yes, indeed," said Haeberlein. See what a disguise I have."

He hastily donned the black wig, mustache and eyebrows, and the

long Italian cloak.

Erica looked at him critically.

"Art thou not satisfied?" he asked.

"Not a bit," she said, promptly. "In London every one would turn

to look twice at such a dress as that, which is what you want to

avoid. Besides, those eyebrows are so outrageous, so evidently

false."

She thought for a minute.

"My brown Inverness," suggested Raeburn.

"Too thick for a summer night," said Erica, "and" glancing from her

father to Haeberlein "too long to look natural. I think Tom's

ulster and traveling hat would be better."

"Commend me to a woman when you want sound advice!" cried

Haeberlein.

Erica went to search Tom's room for the ulster, and in the meantime

Haeberlein showed his friend a paragraph in one of the evening

papers which proved to Raeburn that the risk was indeed very great.

They were discussing things much more gravely when Erica returned.

"The stations will be watched," Haeberlein was saying.

"What station do you go to?" asked Erica.

"I thought of trying Cannon Street," replied the German.

"Because," continued Erica, "I think you had better let me see you

off. You will look like a young Englishman, and I shall do all the

talking, so that you need not betray your accent. They would never

dream of Herr Haeberlein laughing and talking with a young girl."

"They would never dream that a young girl would be brave enough to

run such a risk!" said Haeberlein. "No, my sweet Herzblattchen, I

could not bring thee into danger."

"There will be none for me," said Erica, "and it may save you from

evil and my father from suspicion. Father, if you will let me, it

would be more of a disguise than anything."

"You might meet some one you know," said Raeburn.

"Very unlikely," she replied. "And even if I did, what would it

matter? I need not tell them anything, and Herr Haeberlein would

get off all the same."

He saw that she was too pure and too unconventional to understand

his objection, but his whole heart rebelled against the idea of

letting her undertake the task, and it was only after much

persuasion that she drew from him a reluctant consent. After all,

it would be a great safeguard to Haeberlein, and Haeberlein was his

dearest friend. For no one else could he have risked what was so

precious to him. There was very little time for discussion. The

instant his permission was given, Erica ran upstairs to Tom's

private den, lighted his gas stove, and made a cup of chocolate, at

the same time blackening a cork very carefully. In a few minutes

she returned to the study, carrying the chocolate and a plate of

rusks, which she remembered were a particular weakness of Herr

Haeberlein's. She found that in her absence the two had been

discussing matters again, for Haeberlein met her with another

remonstrance.

"Liebe Erica," he began, "I yielded just now to thy generous

proposal; but I think it will not do. For myself I can be rash,

but not for thee. Thou art too frail and lovely, my little one, to

get mixed up with the grim realities of such a life as mine."

She only laughed. "Why, I have been mixed up with them ever since

I was a baby!"

"True; but now it is different. The world might judge thee

harshly, people might say things which would wound thee."

"They say! LET them say!'" quoted Erica, smiling. "mens conscia

recti will carry one through worse things than a little slander.

No, no, you must really let me have my own way. It is right, and

there's an end of it!"

Raeburn let things run their course; he agreed with Erica all the

time, though his heart impelled him to keep her at home. And as to

Eric Haeberlein, it would have needed a far stronger mind than that

of the sweet-tempered, quixotic German to resist the generous help

offered by such a lovely girl.

There was no time to lose; the latest train for the Continent left

at 9:25, and before Haeberlein had adjusted his new disguise the

clock struck nine. Erica very carefully blackened his eyebrows and

ruthlessly sheared the long black wig to an ordinary and

unnoticeable length, and, when Tom's ulster and hat were added, the

disguise was so perfect, and made Haeberlein look so absurdly

young, that Raeburn himself could not possibly have recognized him.

In past years Raeburn had often risked a great deal for his friend.

At one time his house had been watched day and night in consequence

of his well-known friendship with the Republican Don Quixote.

Unfortunately, therefore, it was only too probable that Haeberlein

in risking his visit this evening might have run into a trap. If

he were being searched for, his friend's house would almost

inevitably be watched.

They exchanged farewells, not without some show of emotion on each

side, and just at the last Raeburn hastily bent down and kissed

Erica's forehead, at his heart a sickening sense of anxiety. She

too was anxious, but she was very happy to have found on the

evening of her baptism so unusual a service to render to her

father, and, besides, the consciousness of danger always raised her

spirits.

When, as they had half expected, they found the would-be

natural-looking detective prowling up and down the cul-de-sac, it

was no effort to her to begin at once a laughing account of a

school examination which Charles Osmond had told her about, and so

naturally and brightly did she talk that, though actually brushing

past the spy under the full light of the street lamp., she entirely

disarmed suspicion.

It was a horrible moment, however. Her heart beat wildly as they

passed on, and every moment she thought she should hear quick steps

behind them. But nothing came of it, and in a few minutes they

were walking down Southampton Row. When this was safely passed,

she began to feel comparatively at ease. Haeberlein thought they

might take a cab.

"Not a hansom," she said, quickly, as he was on the point of

hailing one. "You would be so much more exposed, you know!"

Haeberlein extolled her common sense, and they secured a

four-wheeler and drove to Cannon Street.

Talking now became more possible. Haeberlein leaned far back in

the corner, and spoke in low tones.

"Thou has been my salvation, Erica," he said, pressing her hand.

"That fellow would never have let me pass in the Italian costume.

Thou wert right as usual, it was theatrical how do you call stagey,

is it not?

"I am a little troubled about your mouth," said Erica, smiling,

"the mustache doesn't disguise it, and it looks so good-tempered

and like itself. Can't you feel severe just for half an hour?"

Haeberlein smiled his irresistibly sweet smile, and tried to comply

with her wishes, but not very successfully.

"I think," said Erica, presently, "it will be the best way, if you

don't mind, for you just to stroll through the booking office while

I take your ticket. I can meet you by the book stall and I will

still talk for us both in case you betray your accent."

"HERZBLATTCHEN!" exclaimed Haeberlein, "how shall I ever repay

thee! Thou art a real canny little Scot! I only wish I had half

thy caution and forethought!"

"Don't look like that!" said Erica, laughing, as the benignant

expression once more came over his lips. "You really must try to

turn down the corners! Your character is a silent, morose

misanthrope. I am the chatter box, pure and simple."

They were both laughing when they drew near to the station, but a

sense of the risk sobered Haeberlein, and Erica carried out her

programme to perfection. It was rather a shock to her, indeed, to

find a detective keenly inspecting all who went to the ticket

office. He stood so close to the pigeon hole that Erica doubted

whether Herr Haeberlein's eyebrows, improved though they were,

could possibly have escaped detection. It required all her self

command to prevent her color from rising and her fingers from

trembling as she received the ticket and change under that steady

scrutiny. Then she passed out on to the platform and found that

Herr Haeberlein had been wise enough to buy the paper which least

sympathized with his views, and in a few minutes he was safely

disposed in the middle of a well-filled carriage.

Erica took out her watch. There were still three minutes before

the train started, three long, interminable minutes! She looked

down the platform, and her heart died within her; for, steadily

advancing toward them, she saw two men making careful search in

every carriage.

Herr Haeberlein was sitting with his back to the engine. Between

him and the door sat a lady with a copy of the "Graphic" on her

knee. If she could only have been persuaded to read it, it might

have made an effectual screen. She tried to will her to take it up,

but without success. And still the detectives moved steadily

forward with their keen scrutiny.

Erica was in despair. Herr Haeberlein imagined himself safe now,

and she could not warn him without attracting the notice and

rousing the suspicion of the passengers. To complete her misery,

she saw that he had pushed his wig a little on one side, and

through the black hair she caught a glimpse of silver gray.

Her heart beat so fast that it almost choked her, but still she

forced herself to talk and laugh, though every moment the danger

drew nearer. At the very last moment an inspiration came to her.

The detectives were examining the next carriage.

"They are taking things in the most leisurely way tonight!" she

exclaimed. "I'm tired of waiting. I shall say goodbye to you, and

go home, I think.

As she spoke, she opened the carriage door stepped in, and

demonstratively kissed her silent companion, much to the amusement

of the passengers, who had been a good deal diverted by her racy

conversation and the grumpy replies of the traveler. There was a

smile on every face when one of the detectives looked in. He

glanced to the other side of the carriage and saw a dark-haired

young man in an ulster, and a pretty girl taking leave of her

lover. Erica's face entirely hid Herr Haeberlien's from view and

the man passed on with a shrug and a smile. She had contrived to

readjust his wig, and with many last words, managed to spin out the

remaining time, till at last the welcome signal of departure was

given.

Haeberlein's mouth relaxed into a benignant smile, as he nodded a

farewell; then he discreetly composed himself into a sleeping

posture, while Erica stood on the platform and waved her

handkerchief.

As she moved away the two detectives passed by her.

"Not there! At any rate," she heard one of them say. "Maybe they

got him by the nine o'clock at Waterloo."

"More likely trapped him in Guilford Terrace," replied the other.

Erica, shaking with suppressed laughter, saw the men leave the

station; and then, springing into a cab, drove to a street in the

neighborhood of Guildford Square.

Now that her work was over, she began to feel what a terrible

strain it had been. At first she lay back in the corner of the cab

in a state of dreamy peace, watching the gas-lighted streets, the

hurrying passengers, with a comfortable sense of security and rest.

But when she was set down near Guilford Square, her courage, which

in real danger had never failed her, suddenly ebbed away, and left

her merely a young girl, with aching back and weary limbs, with a

shrinking dislike of walking alone so late in the evening. Worse

of all, her old childish panic had taken hold of her once more; her

knees trembled beneath her, as she remembered that she must pass

the spy, who would assuredly still be keeping watch in Guilford

Terrace. The dread of being secretly watched had always been a

torment to her. Spies, sometimes real, sometimes imaginary, had

been the terror of her childhood had taken the place of the ghost

and bogy panics which assail children brought up in other creeds.

The fact was, she had been living at very high pressure, and she

was too much exhausted to conquer her unreasonable fright,