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 AVE T A^r"o^^ 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BT 
 
 EDNA LYALL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "DONOVAN," ETC. 
 
 "Men are so made as to resent nothing more impatiently than to be 
 treated as criminal for opinions which they deem true/'— Spinoza. 
 
 " We two are a multitude. "—Ovid. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON : 
 HUEST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1884. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 
 
 F^RO c o isr. 
 
 
 1871—1884. 
 "Knowledge by suffering entereth." 
 
 ^
 
 "W^E TTVO. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 
 
 Still humanity grows dearer, 
 
 Being learned the more. 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 There are three things in this world which deserve no 
 quarter — Hypocrisy, Pharisaism, and Tyranny. 
 
 F. Robertson. 
 
 People who have been brought up in the 
 country, or in small places where e"^ry neigh- 
 bour is known by sight, are apt to think that 
 life in a large town must lack many of the 
 interests which they have learned to find in 
 their more limited communities. In a some- 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 WE TWO. 
 
 what bewildered wa}^, they gaze at the shifting 
 crowd of strange faces, and wonder whether it 
 would be possible to feel completely at home 
 where all the surroundings of life seem ever 
 changing and unfamiliar. 
 
 But those who have lived long in one quarter 
 of London, or of any other large town, know 
 that there are in reality almost as many links 
 between the actors of the town life-drama as 
 between those of the country life-drama. 
 
 Silent recognitions pass between passengers 
 who meet day after day in the same morning 
 or evening train, on the way to or from work ; 
 the faces of omnibus conductors grow familiar ; 
 we learn to know perfectly well on what day of 
 the week and at what hour the well-known 
 organ-grinder will make his appearance, and in 
 what street Ave shall meet the city clerk or the 
 care-worn little daily governess on their way 
 to office or school. 
 
 It so happened that Brian Osmond, a young- 
 doctor who had not been very long settled hi 
 the Bloomsbury regipns^ had an engagement 
 which took him every afternoon down Gower
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 3 
 
 Street, and here many faces had grown fam- 
 iHar to him. He invariably met the same 
 sallow-faced postman, the same nasal-voiced 
 milkman, the same pompous-looking man with 
 the bushy whiskers and the shiny black bag, on 
 his way home from the city. But the only 
 passenger in Avhom he took any interest was a 
 certain bright-faced little girl whom he gener- 
 ally met just before the Montague Place cross- 
 ing. He always called her his 'little girl,' 
 though she was by no means little in the or- 
 dinary acceptation of the word, being at least 
 sixteen, and rather tall for her years. But 
 there was a sort of freshness and naivete and 
 youthfulness about her which made him use 
 that adjective. She usually carried a pile of 
 books in a strap, so he conjectured that she 
 must be coming from school, and, ever since he 
 had first seen her, she had worn the same 
 rough blue serge dress, and the same quaint little 
 fur hat. In other details however, he could 
 never tell in the least how he should find her. 
 She seemed to have a mood for every diSij, 
 Sometimes she would be in a great hurry and 
 
 B 2
 
 4 WE TWO. 
 
 would almost run past him ; sometimes she 
 would saunter along in the most unconvention- 
 al way, glancing from time to time at a book 
 or a paper ; sometimes her eager face would 
 look absolutely bewitching in its brightness ; 
 sometimes scarcely less bewitching in a con- 
 suming anxiety which seemed unnatural in one 
 so young. 
 
 One rainy afternoon in November, Brian was 
 as usual making his way down Gower Street, 
 his umbrella held low to shelter him from the 
 driving rain which seemed to come in all direc- 
 tions. The milkman's shrill voice was still far 
 in the distance, the man of letters was still 
 at work upon knockers some way off, it was 
 not yet time for his little girl to make her 
 appearance, and he was not even thinking of 
 her, when suddenly his umbrella was nearly 
 knocked out of his hand by coming violently 
 into collision with another umbrella. Brought 
 thus to a sudden stand, he looked to see who 
 it was who had charged him with such violence, 
 and found himself face to face with his unknown 
 friend. He had never been quite so close to
 
 BRIAN FALLS IX LOVE. 5 
 
 her before. Her quaint face had always fascin- 
 ated him, but on nearer view he thought it the 
 loveliest face he had ever seen— it took his 
 heart by storm. 
 
 It was framed in soft, silky masses of dusky 
 auburn hair which hung over the broad white 
 forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer 
 than a boy^s. The features, though not regu- 
 lar, were delicate and piquant, the usual faint 
 rose-flush on the cheeks deepened noAv to car- 
 nation, perhaps because of the slight contretemps, 
 perhaps because of some deeper emotion — Brian 
 fancied the latter, for the clear, golden-brown 
 eyes that were lifted to his seemed bright 
 either with indignation or with unshed tears. 
 To-day it was clear that the mood was not 
 a happy one : his little girl was in trouble. 
 
 ' I am very sorry,' she said, looking up at 
 him, and speaking in a low, musical voice, but 
 with the unembarrassed frankness of a child. 
 ' I really wasnH thinking or looking, it was very 
 careless of me.' 
 
 Brian of course took all the blame to him- 
 self, and apologised profusely ; but though he
 
 6 WE TWO. 
 
 would have given much to detain her, if only 
 for a moment, she gave him no opportunity, but 
 with a slight inclination passed rapidly on. He 
 stood quite still, watching her till she was out 
 of sight, aware of a sudden change in his life. 
 He was a busy, hard-working man, not at all 
 given to dreams, and it was no dream that he 
 was in now. He knew perfectly well that he 
 had met his ideal, had spoken to her and she 
 to him ; that somehow in a single moment 
 a new world had opened out to him. For 
 the first time in his life he had fallen 
 in love. 
 
 The trifling occurrence had made no great 
 impression on the ' little girl ' herself. She was 
 rather vexed with herself for the carelessness, 
 but a much deeper trouble was filling her heart. 
 She soon forgot the passing interruption and 
 the brown-bearded man with the pleasant grey 
 eyes who had apologised for what was quite 
 her fault. Something had gone wrong that 
 day, as Brian had surmised ; the eyes grew 
 brighter, the carnation flush deepened as she 
 hurried along, the delicate lips closed with a
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOYE. 7 
 
 curiously hard expression, the hands were 
 clasped with unnecessary tightness round the 
 umbrella and the handle of the book-strap. 
 
 She passed up Guilford Square, but did not 
 turn into any of the old decayed houses ; her 
 home was far less imposing. At the corner of 
 the square there is a narrow opening which 
 leads into a sort of blind alley paved with 
 grirc flag-stones. Here, facing a high blank 
 wall, are four or five very dreary houses. She 
 entered one of these, put down her wet um- 
 brella in the shabby little hall, and opened the 
 door of a barely-furnished room, the walls 
 of which were, however, lined with books. Be- 
 side the fire was the one really comfortable 
 piece of furniture in the room, an Ilkley couch, 
 and upon it lay a very wan-looking invalid, 
 who, as the door opened, glanced up with a 
 smile of welcome. 
 
 * Why, Erica, you are home early to-day. 
 How is that V 
 
 ' Oh, I donH know,' said Erica, tossing down 
 her books in a way which showed her mother 
 that she was troubled about something. ' I
 
 8 WE TWO. 
 
 Suppose I tore along at a gcfod rate, and 
 there was no temptation to stay at the Higli 
 School.' 
 
 * Come and tell me about it,' said the mother, 
 gently, ' what has gone wrong, little one V 
 
 ' Everything !' exclaimed Erica, vehemently. 
 * Everything always does go wrong with us 
 and always will, I suppose. I wish you had 
 never sent me to school, mother ; I wish I need 
 never see the place again !' 
 
 * But till to-day you enjoyed it so much.' 
 
 * Yes, the classes and the being with Ger- 
 trude. But that will never be the same again. 
 It's just this, mother, I'm never to speak to 
 Gertrude again— to have nothing more to do 
 Avith her.' 
 
 ' Who said so ? And why V 
 
 ' Why ? Because I'm myself,' said Erica, 
 with a bitter little laugh. ' How I can help it, 
 nobody seems to think. But Gertrude's father 
 has come back from Africa and was horri- 
 fied to learn that we were friends, made 
 her promise never to speak to me again, and 
 made her write this note about it. Look !'
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 9 
 
 and she took* a crumpled envelope from ber 
 pocket. 
 
 The mother read the note in silence, and an 
 expression of pain came over her face. Erica, 
 who was very impetuous, snatched it away from 
 her when she saw that look of sadness. 
 
 ' Don't read the horrid thing !' she exclaimed, 
 crushing it up in her hand. ' There, we will 
 burn it !' and she threw it into the fire with a 
 vehemence which somehow relieved her. 
 
 ' You shouldn't have done that,' said her 
 mother. * Your father will be sure to want to 
 see it.' 
 
 'No, no, no,' cried Erica, passionately. 'He 
 must not know, you must not tell him, mother.' 
 
 * Dear child, have you not learnt that it is 
 impossible to keep anything from him ! He will 
 find out directly that something is wrong.' 
 
 * It will grieve him so, he must not hear it,' 
 said Erica. ' He cares so much for what hurts 
 us. Oh, why are people so hard and cruel? 
 Why do they treat us like lepers ? It isn't all 
 because of losing Gertrude — I could bear that if 
 there were some real reason, if she went away
 
 10 WE TWO. 
 
 or died. But there's no reason ! It's all preju- 
 dice and bigotry and iujustice — it's that which 
 makes it sting so.' 
 
 Erica was not at all given to tears, but there 
 was now a sort of choking in her throat, and a 
 sort of dimness in her eyes, whioc made her 
 rather hurriedly settle down on the floor in her 
 own particular nook beside her mother's couch, 
 where her face could not be seen. There was a 
 silence. Presently the mother spoke, stroking 
 back the wavy, auburn hair with her thin white 
 hand. 
 
 ' For a long time I have dreaded this for you, 
 Erica. I was afraid you didn't realise the sort 
 of position the world will give you. Till lately 
 you have seen scarcely any but our own people, 
 but it can hardly be, darling, that you can go 
 on much longer without coming into contact 
 with others, and then, more and more, you must 
 realise that you are cut off from much that other 
 girls may enjoy.' 
 
 ' Why V questioned Erica, ' why can't they be 
 friendly? Why must they cut us off from 
 everything?'
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 11 
 
 ' It does seem uDJust, but you must remember 
 that we belong to an unpopular minority.' 
 
 ' But if I belonged to the larger party I would 
 at least be just to the smaller,' said Erica. 
 ' How can they expect us to think their system 
 beautiful wheA the very first thing they show 
 us is hatred and meanness. Oh, if I belonged 
 to the other side I would show them how differ- 
 ent it might be.' 
 
 ' I believe you would,' said the mother, smil- 
 ing a little at the idea, and at the vehemence of 
 the speaker. ' But, as it is, Erica, I am afraid 
 you must school yourself to endure. After all, 
 I fancy you will be glad to share so soon in your 
 father's vexations.' 
 
 ' Yes,"* said Erica, pushing back the hair from 
 her forehead, and giving herself a kind of mental 
 shaking, ' I am glad of that. After all, they 
 can't spoil the best part of our lives ! I shall 
 go into the garden to get rid of my bad temper ; 
 it doesn't rain now.' 
 
 She struggled to her feet^ picked up the little 
 fur hat which had fallen off, kissed her mother,, 
 and went out of the room.
 
 12 WE TWO. 
 
 The ' garden ' was Erica's favourite resort, 
 her own particular property. It was about 
 fifteen feet square, and no one but a Londoner 
 would have bestowed on it so dignified a name. 
 But Erica, who was of an inventive turn, had 
 contrived to make the most of the little patch of 
 ground, had induced ivy to grow on the ugly 
 brick walls, and with infinite care and satisfac- 
 tion had nursed a few flowers and shrubs into 
 tolerably healthy though smutty life. In one 
 of the corners Tom Craigie, her favourite cousin, 
 had put up a rough wooden bench for her, aud 
 here she read and dreamed as contentedly as if 
 her ' garden ground ' had been fairyland. Here, 
 too, she invariably came when anything had gone 
 wrong, when the endless troubles about money 
 which had weighed upon her all her life became 
 a little less bearable than usual, or when some 
 act of discourtesy or harshness to her father 
 had roused in her a tingling, burning sense of 
 indignation. 
 
 Erica was not one of those people who take 
 life easily : things went very deeply with her. 
 In spite of her brightness and vivacity, in spite
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 13 
 
 of her readiness to see the ludicrous in every- 
 thing, and her singularly quick perceptions, 
 she was also very keenly alive to other and 
 graver impressions. 
 
 Her anger had passed, but still, as she paced 
 round and round her small domain, her heart 
 was very heavy. Life seemed perplexing to 
 her ; but her mother had somehow struck the 
 right key-note when she had spoken of the 
 vexations which might be shared. There was 
 something inspiriting in that thought, certain- 
 ly, for Erica worshipped her father. By degrees 
 the trouble and indignation died away and a 
 very sweet look stole over the grave little face. 
 
 A smutty sparrow came and peered down at 
 her from the ivy-covered wall^ and chirped and 
 twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps recog- 
 nising the scatterer of its daily bread. 
 
 'After all,' thought Erica, ' with ourselves and 
 the animals, we might let the rest of the world 
 treat us as they please. I am glad they can't 
 turn the animals and birds against us ! That 
 would be worse than anything.' 
 
 Then, suddenly turning from the abstract to-
 
 14 WE TWO. 
 
 the pi-actical, she took out of her pocket a 
 shabby little sealskin purse. 
 
 ' Still sixpence of ray prize-money over,' she 
 remarked to herself. ' I'll go and buy some 
 scones for tea. Father likes them.' 
 
 Erica's father was a Scotchman, and, though 
 so-called scones were to be had at most shops, 
 there was only one place where she could buy 
 scones which she considered worthy the name, 
 and that was at the Scotch baker's in South- 
 ampton Row. She hurried along the wet pave- 
 ments, glad that the rain was over, for as soon 
 as her purchase was completed she made up her 
 mind to indulge for a few minutes in what had 
 lately become a very frequent treat, namely, a 
 pause before a certain tempting store of second- 
 hand books. She had never had money enough 
 to buy anything except the necessary school 
 books, and, being a great lover of poetry, she 
 always seized with avidity on anything that 
 was to be found outside the book-shop. Some- 
 time^ she would carry away a verse of Swin- 
 burne which would ring in her ears for days and 
 days ; sometimes she would read as much as
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 1 5 
 
 two or three pages of Shelley. No one had 
 ever interrupted her, and a certain sense of 
 impropriety and daring was rather stimula- 
 ting than otherwise. It always brought to 
 her mind a saying in the proverbs of Solomon, 
 * Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in 
 secret is pleasant.' 
 
 For three successive days she had found to 
 her great delight Longfellow's ' Hiawatha.' 
 The strange metre, the musical Indian names, 
 the delightfully described animals, all served to 
 make the poem wonderfully fascinating to her. 
 She thought a page or two of •' Hiawatha ' would 
 greatly sweeten her somewhat bitter world this 
 afternoon, and with her bag of scones in one 
 hand and the book in the other she read on 
 happily, quite unconscious that three pair of 
 eyes were watching her from within the shop. 
 
 The wrinkled old man who was the presiding 
 genius of the place had two customers^ a tall 
 grey-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly 
 eyes, and his son, the same Brian Osmond 
 whom Erica had charged with her umbrella in 
 Gower Street.
 
 16 WE TWO. 
 
 *An outside customer for you,' remarked 
 Charles Osmond, the clergyman, glancing at 
 the shopkeeper. Then to his son, ' What a pic- 
 ture she makes !' 
 
 Brian looked up hastily from some medical 
 books which he had been turning over. 
 
 * Why, that's my little Gower Street friend,* 
 he exclaimed, the words being somehow sur- 
 prised out of him, though he would fain have 
 recalled them the next minute. 
 
 ' I don't interrupt her/ said the shop-owner. 
 ' Her father has done a great deal of business 
 with me, and the little lady has a fancy for 
 poetry, and don't get much of it in her life, I'll 
 be bound.' 
 
 - Why, who is she V asked Charles Osmond, 
 who was on very friendly terms with the old 
 book-collector. 
 
 ' She's the daughter of Luke Raeburn,' was 
 the reply, * and whatever folks may say, I know 
 that Mr. Raeburn leads a hard enough life.' 
 
 Brian turned away from the speakers, a 
 sickening sense of dismay at his heart. His 
 ideal was the daughter of Luke Raeburn !
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 17 
 
 And Luke Raeburn was an atheist leader! 
 
 For a few minntes he lost consciousness of 
 time and place, though always seeing in a sort 
 of dark mist Erica's lovely face bending over 
 her book. The shop-keeper's casual remark 
 had been a fearful bloAV to him ; yet, as he 
 came to himself again, his heart went out more 
 and more to the beautiful girl who had been 
 brought up in what seemed to him. so barren 
 a creed. His dream of love, which had been 
 bright enough only an hour before, was sud- 
 denly shadowed by an unthought-of pain, but 
 presently began to shine with a new and alto- 
 gether different lustre. He began to hear again 
 what was passing between his father and the 
 shop-keeper. 
 
 ' There's a sight more good in him than 
 folks think. However wrong his views, he 
 believes them right, and is ready to suffer for 
 'em, too. Bless me, that's odd, to be sure I 
 There is Mr. Raeburn, on the other side of the 
 Eovv ! Fine looking man, isn't he !' 
 
 Brian, looking up eagerly, fancied he must 
 be mistaken, for the only passenger in sight 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 WE TWO. 
 
 was a very tall man of remarkably benign 
 aspect, middle-aged, yet venerable — or perhaps 
 better described by the word ' devotional- 
 looking,' pervaded too by a certain majesty of 
 calmness which seemed scarcely suited to his 
 character of public agitator. The clean-shaven 
 and somewhat rugged face was unmistakably 
 that of a Scotchman, the thick waves of tawny 
 hair overshadowing the wide brow, and the 
 clear golden-brown eyes showed Brian at once 
 that this could be no other than the father 
 of his ideal. 
 
 In the meantime, Raeburn, having caught 
 sight of his daughter, slowly crossed the road, 
 and coming noiselessly up to her, suddenly 
 took hold of the book she was reading, and 
 with laughter in his eyes, said, in a peremptory 
 voice, 
 
 ' Five shillings to pay, if you please, 
 miss !' 
 
 Erica, who had been completely absorbed in 
 the poem, looked up in dismay ; then seeing 
 who had spoken she began to laugh. 
 
 * What a horrible fright you gave me, father !
 
 BRIAX FALLS IN LOVE. 19 
 
 But do look at this, it's the loveliest thing iu the 
 world. I've just got to the " very strong man 
 Kwasind." I think he's a little like you !' 
 
 Raeburn, though no very great lover of 
 poetry, took the book and read a few lines. 
 
 ' Long they lived in peace together, 
 Spake with naked hearts together, 
 Pondering much and much contriving 
 How the tribes of men might prosper.' 
 
 ' Good ! That will do very well for you and 
 me, little one. I'm ready to be your Kwasind. 
 What's the price of the thing — four-and-six- 
 pence ! Too much for a luxury. It must wait 
 till our ship comes in.' 
 
 He put down the book and they moved on 
 together, but had not gone many paces before 
 they were stopped by a most miserable-looking 
 beggar child. Brian standing now outside the 
 shop, saw and heard all that passed. 
 
 Raeburn was evidently investigating the 
 case, Erica a little impatient of the interruption 
 was remonstrating. 
 
 ' I thought you never gave to beggars, and I 
 am sure that harrowing story is made up.' 
 
 c2
 
 20 WE TWO. 
 
 * Very likely,' replied her father, ' but the 
 hunger is real, and I know well enough what 
 hunger is. What have you here?' he added, 
 indicating the paper bag which Erica held. 
 
 ' Scones,' she said, unwillingly. 
 
 ' That will do/ he said, taking them from 
 her and giving them to the child. ' He is too 
 young to be anything but the victim of an- 
 other's laziness. There! sit down and eat 
 them v/hile you can.' 
 
 The child sat dov/n on a doorstep with the 
 bag of scones clasped in both hands, but he 
 continued to gaze after his benefactor till he 
 had passed out of sight, and there was a 
 strange look of surprise and gratification in his 
 eyes. That was a man who knew ! Many peo- 
 ple had, after hard begging, thrown him pence^ 
 many had warned him off harshly, but this man 
 had looked straight into his eyes, and had at 
 once stopped and questioned him, had singled 
 out the one true statement from a mass of lies, 
 and had given him — not a stale loaf Avith the 
 top cut off, a suspicious sort of charity which 
 always angered the waif — but his own food.
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 21 
 
 bought for bis own consumption. Most won- 
 derful of all, too, this man knew what it was 
 to be hungry, and had even the insight and 
 shrewdness to be aware that the waif's best 
 chance of eating the scones at all was to eat 
 them then and there. For the first time a feel- 
 ing of reverence and admiration was kindled in 
 the child's heart ; he would have done a great 
 deal for his unknown friend. 
 
 Raeburn and Erica had meanwhile walked on 
 in the direction of Guilford Square. 
 
 ' I had bought them for you/ said Erica re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 *And I ruthlessly gave them away,' said 
 Raeburn^ smiling. ' That was hard lines ; I 
 thought they were only household stock. But 
 after all it comes to the same thing in the 
 end, or better. You have given them to me by 
 giving them to the child. Never mind, "Little 
 son Eric !" ' 
 
 This was his pet name for her, and it meant 
 a great deal to them. She was his only child, 
 and it had at first been a great disappointment 
 to everyone that she was not a boy. But Rae-
 
 22 WE TWO. 
 
 burn had long ago ceased to regret this, and 
 the nick-name referred more to Erica's capa- 
 bility of being both son and daughter to him, 
 able to help him in his work and at the same 
 to brighten his home. Erica was very proud of 
 her name, for she had been called after her 
 father's greatest friend Eric Haeberlein, a cele- 
 brated republican, who once during a long exile 
 had taken refuge in London. His views were 
 in some respects more extreme than Raeburn's, 
 but in private life he was the gentlest and most 
 fascinating of men, and had quite won the heart 
 of his little namesake. 
 
 As Mrs. Raeburn had surmised, Erica's father 
 had at once seen that something had gone 
 wrong that day. The all-observing eyes, which 
 had noticed the hungry look in the beggar 
 child's face, noticed at once that his own child 
 had been troubled. 
 
 ' Something has vexed you,' he said. ^ What 
 is the matter. Erica V 
 
 ' I had rather not tell you^ father, it isn't any- 
 thing much,' said Erica, casting down her eyes 
 as if all at once the paving-stones had become 
 absorbingly interesting.
 
 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 23 
 
 * I fancj^ I know already,' said Raeburn. * It 
 is about your friend at the High School, is it 
 not? I thought so. This afternoon 1 had a 
 letter from her father.' 
 
 ' AVhat does he say ? May I see it V asked 
 Erica. 
 
 * I tore it lip,' said Kaeburn, ' I thought you 
 would ask to see it, and the thing was really 
 so abominably insolent that I didn't want you 
 to. How did you hear about it V 
 
 ' Gertrude Avrote me a note,' said Erica. 
 
 *At her father's dictation, no doubt,' said 
 Raeburn, ' I should know his style directly, let 
 me see it.' 
 
 * I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I 
 burnt it,' said Erica. 
 
 Then, unable to help being amused at their 
 efforts to save each other, they both laughed, 
 though the subject was rather a sore one. 
 
 * It is the old story,' said Raeburn. ' Life 
 only, as Pope Innocent III. benevolently re- 
 marked, *' is to be left to the children of mis- 
 believers, and that only as an act of 
 mercy." You must make up your mind to bear
 
 24 WE TWO. 
 
 the social stigma, little one. Do you see the 
 moral of this V 
 
 'No,' said Erica, with something between a 
 smile and a sigh. 
 
 *" The moral of it is that you must be content 
 with your own people,' said Raeburn. ' There 
 is this one good point about persecution — it 
 does draw us all nearer together, really 
 strengthens us in a hundred ways. So, little 
 son Eric, you must forswear school friends 
 and be content with your " very strong man 
 Kwasind," and we will 
 
 " Live in peace together, 
 Speak with naked hearts together." 
 
 By-the-by^ it is rather doubtful if Tom will be 
 able to come to the lecture to-night : do you 
 think you can take notes for me instead V 
 
 This was in reality the most delicate piece 
 of tact and consideration, for it was of course 
 Erica's delight and pride to help her father.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 
 
 Only the acrid spirit of the times, 
 Corroded this true steel. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 Xot Thine the bigot's partial plea, 
 Not Thine the zealot's ban ; 
 Thou well canst spare a love of Thee 
 Which ends in hate of man. 
 
 AVhittiee. 
 
 Luke Raeburn was the son of a Scotch clergy- 
 man of the Episcopal church. His history, 
 though familiar to his own followers and to 
 them more powerfully convincing than many 
 arguments against modern Christianity, was 
 not generally known. The orthodox were apt
 
 26 WE TWO. 
 
 to content themselves with shudderiog at the 
 mention of his name ; very few troubled them- 
 selves to think or inquire how this man had been 
 driven into atheism. Had they done so they 
 might, perhaps, have treated him more con- 
 siderately, at any rate they must have learnt 
 that the much-disliked prophet of atheism was 
 the most disinterested of meu, one who had the 
 courage of his opinions, a man of fearless 
 honesty. 
 
 Raebm-n had lost his mother very early ; his 
 father, a w^ell-to-do man, had held for many 
 years a small living in the west of Scotland. 
 He was rather a clever man, but one-sided and 
 bigoted; cold-hearted, too, and caring very 
 little for his children. Of Luke, however, he 
 was, in his peculiar fashion, very proud, for at 
 an early age the boy showed signs of genius. 
 The father was no great worker; though shrewd 
 and clever, he had no ambition, and was quite 
 content to live out his life in the retired little 
 parsonage where, with no parish to trouble him, 
 and a small and unexacting congregation on 
 Sundays, he could do pretty much as he pleased.
 
 FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 27 
 
 But for bis son be was ambitions. Ever since 
 bis sixteentb year — wben^ at a public meeting, 
 tbe boy bad, to tbe astonisbment of everyone, 
 suddenly sprung to bis feet and contradicted a 
 false statement made by a great landowner as 
 to tbe condition of tbe cottages on bis estate — ^ 
 tbe fatber bad foreseen future triumpbs for bis 
 son. For tbe speecb tbougb unpremeditated 
 was marvellously clever, and tbere was a power 
 in it not to be accounted for by a certain ring 
 of indignation ; it was tbe speecb of a future 
 orator. 
 
 Tben, too, Luke bad by tbis time sbown signs 
 of religious zeal, a zeal wbicb bis fatber, tbough 
 far from attempting to copy, could not but ad- 
 mire. His Sunday services over, be relapsed 
 into tbe comfortable, easy-going life of a country 
 gentleman for tbe rest of tbe week ; but bis son 
 was indefatigable, and, tbougb little more tban 
 a boy bimself, gatbered round bim tbe rougbest 
 lads of tbe village, and by bis eloquence, and a 
 certain peculiar personal fascination wbicb be 
 retained all bis life, absolutely forced tbem to 
 listen to bim. Tbe fatber augured great tbiugs
 
 '28 WE TWO. 
 
 for him, and invariably prophesied that he 
 would 'live to see him a bishop yet.' 
 
 It was a settled thing that he should take 
 Holy Orders, and for some time Raeburn was 
 onl}^ too happy to carry out his father's plans. 
 In his very first term at Cambridge, however, 
 he began to feel doubts, and, becoming con- 
 vinced that he could never again accept the 
 doctrines in which he had been educated, he 
 told his father that he must give up all thought 
 of taking Orders. 
 
 Now, unfortunately, Mr. Raeburn was the 
 very last man to understand or sympathise with 
 any phase of life through which he had not 
 himself passed. He had never been troubled 
 with religious doubts ; scepticism seemed to him 
 monstrous and unnatural. He met the con- 
 fessioUj which his son had made in pain and 
 diffidence, with a most deplorable want of tact. 
 In answer to the perplexing questions which 
 were put to him, he merely replied testily 
 that Luke had been overworking himself, 
 that he had no business to trouble his head 
 with matters which were beyond him, and
 
 FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 29 
 
 would fain have dismissed the whole affair at 
 once. 
 
 ' But,' urged the son, ' how is it possible for 
 me to turn mj back upon these matters when I 
 am prepariug to teach them?' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' replied the father, angrily. ' Have 
 not I taught all my life, preached twice a Sun- 
 day these thirty years without perplexing my- 
 self with your questionings ! Be off to your 
 shooting and your golf, and let me have no 
 more of this morbid fuss.' 
 
 No more was said ; but Luke Raeburn, with 
 his doubts and questions shut thus into himself, 
 drifted rapidly from scepticism to the most 
 positive form of unbelief. When he next came 
 home for the long vacation, his father was at 
 length awakened to the fact that the son, upon 
 whom all his ambition was set, was hopelessly 
 lost to the church ; and with this consciousness 
 a most bitter sense of disappointment rose in 
 his heart. His pride, the only side of father- 
 hood which he possessed, was deeply wounded, 
 and his dreams of honourable distinction were 
 laid low. His wrath was great.^^ Luke found the
 
 30 WE TWO. 
 
 borne made almost unbearable to him. Ilis col- 
 lege career was of course at an end, for his 
 father would not hear of providing him with the 
 necessary funds now that he had actually con- 
 fessed his atheism. He w\as hardly allowed to 
 «peak to his sisters, every request for money to 
 start him in some profession met with a sharp 
 refusal, and matters were becoming so des- 
 perate that he would probably have left the 
 place of his own accord before long, had not 
 Mr. Kaeburn himself put an end to a state of 
 things which had grown insufferable. 
 
 With some lurking hope, perhaps, of convinc- 
 ing his son, he resolved upon trying a course of 
 argument. To do him justice he really tried to 
 prepare himself for it^ dragged down volumes 
 of dusty divines, and got up with much pains 
 Paley's ' watch ' argument. There was some 
 honesty, even perhaps a very little love_, in his 
 mistaken endeavours ; but he did not recognise 
 that, ^vhile he himself was unforgiving, unloving, 
 harsh, and self-indulgent, all his arguments for 
 Christianity were of necessity null and void. 
 He argued for the existence of a perfectly-
 
 FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 31 
 
 loving, good God, all the while treating his son 
 with injustice and tyranny. Of course there 
 could be only one result from a debate between 
 the two. Luke Raeburn with his honesty, his 
 great abilities, his gift of reasoning, above 
 all his thorough earnestness, had the best 
 of it. 
 
 To be beaten in argument was naturally the 
 one thing which such a man as Mr. Raeburn 
 could not forgive. He might in time have 
 learnt to tolerate a difference of opinion, he 
 would beyond a doubt have forgiven almost 
 any of the failings that he could understand, 
 would have paid his son's college debts without a 
 murmur, would have overlooked anything con- 
 nected with what he considered the necessary 
 process of ' sowing his wild oats.' Blit that 
 the fellow should presume to think out the 
 greatest problems in the world, should set 
 up his judgment against Paley's, and worst 
 of all should actually and palpably beat 
 1dm in argument — this was an unpardonable 
 offence. 
 
 A stormy scene ensued. The father in ungov-
 
 32 WE TWO. 
 
 ernable fury heaped upon the son every abusive 
 epithet he could think of. Luke Raeburn spoke 
 not a word ; he was strong and self-controlled ; 
 moreover, he knew that he had had the best of 
 the argument. He was human, however, and 
 his heart was wrung by his father's bitterness. 
 Standing there on that summer day, in the study 
 of the Scotch parsonage, the man's future was 
 sealed. He suffered there the loss of all things, 
 but at the very time there sprang up in him an 
 enthusiasm for the cause of free-thought, a pas- 
 sionate_, burning zeal for the opinions for which 
 lie suffered, which never left him, but served as 
 the great moving impulse of his whole subse- 
 quent life. 
 
 'I tell you, you are not fit to be in a 
 gentleman's house,' thundered the father. ' A 
 rank atheist, a lying infidel! It is against 
 nature that you should call a parsonage your 
 home.' 
 
 ' It is not particularly home-like,' said 
 the son, bitterly. 'I can leave it when you 
 please.J., 
 
 ' Can !' exclaimed his father, in a fury, ' you
 
 FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 3^ 
 
 will leave it, sir^ and this very da}^ too ! I dis- 
 own yon from this time. I'll have no atheist for 
 my son ! Change your views or leave the house 
 at once.' 
 
 Perhaps he expected his son to make some 
 compromise ; if so he showed what a very slight 
 knowledge he had of his character. Luke Kae- 
 burn had certainly not been prepared for such 
 extreme harshness^ but with the pain and 
 grief and indignation there rose in his heart a 
 mighty resoluteness. With a face as hard 
 and rugged as the granite rocks without, 
 he wished his father good-bye, and obeyed his 
 orders. 
 
 Then had followed such a struggle with the 
 W'orld as few men would have gone through 
 with. Cut off from all friends and relations by 
 his avowal of atheism, and baffled again and 
 again in seeking to earn his living, he had 
 more than once been on the very brink of star- 
 vation. By sheer force of will he had won his 
 way, had risen above adverse circumstances, 
 had fought down obstacles, and conquered op- 
 posing powers. Before long he had made fresh 
 
 VOL. T. D
 
 34 WE TWO. 
 
 friends and gained many followers, for there 
 was an extraordinary magnetism about the 
 man which almost compelled those who -were 
 brought into contact with him to reverence him. 
 
 It was a curious history. First there had 
 been that time of grievous doubt ; then he had 
 been thrown upon the world friendless and 
 penniless, with the beliefs and hopes hitherto 
 most sacred to him dead, and in their place 
 an aching blank. He had suffered much. 
 Treated on all sides with harshness and injus- 
 tice, it was indeed wonderful that he had not 
 developed into a mere hater, a passionate down- 
 puller. But there was in his character a 
 nobility which would not allow him to rest at 
 this low level. The bitter hostility and injus- 
 tice which he encountered did indeed warp his 
 mind^ and every year of controveisy made it 
 more impossible for him to take an unprejudiced 
 view of Christ's teaching ; but nevertheless he 
 could not remain a mere destroyer. 
 
 In that time of blankness, when he had lost 
 all faith in God, when he had been robbed of 
 friendship and family love, he had seized des-
 
 FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 35 
 
 perately on the one thing left him, — the love of 
 humanity. To him atheism meant not only the 
 assertion— ' The word God is a word with- 
 out meaning, it conveys nothing to ray under- 
 standing.' He added to this barren confes- 
 sion of an intellectual state, a singularly high 
 code of duty. Such a code as could only have 
 emanated from one about whom there lingered 
 what Carlyle has termed, a great 'Aftershine 
 of Christianity.' He held that the only happi- 
 ness worth having was that Avhich came to a 
 man while engaged in promoting the general 
 good. That the whole duty of man was to 
 devote himself to the service of others. And 
 he lived his creed. 
 
 Like other people he had his faults, but he 
 was always ready to spend and be spent for 
 what he considered the good of others, while 
 every act of injustice called forth his unsparing 
 rebuke, and every oppressed person or cause was 
 sure to meet with his support at whatever cost 
 to himself. His zeal for what he regarded as 
 the ' gospel ' of atheism grew and strengthened 
 year by year. He was the untiring advocate of 
 
 D 2
 
 3d we two. 
 
 what he considered the truth. Neither illness, 
 nor small results, nor loss, could quench his 
 ardour, while opposition invariably stimulated 
 him to fresh efforts. After long years of toil, 
 he had at length attained an influential posi- 
 tion in the country, and though crippled by 
 debts incurred in the struggle for freedom 
 of speech, and living in absolute penury, 
 he was one of the most powerful men of 
 the day. 
 
 The old book-seller had very truly ob- 
 served that there was more good in him than 
 people thought, he was in fact a noble char- 
 acter twisted the wrong way by clumsy and 
 mistaken handling. 
 
 Brian Osmond was by no means bigoted ; 
 he had, moreover, known those who were in- 
 timate with Raeburn, and consequently had 
 heard enough of the truth about him to dis- 
 believe the gross libels which were constantly 
 being circulated by the unscrupulous among 
 his opponents. Still, as on that November 
 afternoon he watched Raeburn and his daugh- 
 ter down Southampton Row, he was conscious
 
 FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 37 
 
 that for the first time he fully regarded the 
 atheist as a fellow-man. The fact was, that Hae- 
 burn had for long years been the champion of a 
 hated cause ; he had braved the full flood of 
 opposition ; and like an isolated rock had been 
 the mark for so much of the rage and fury of 
 the elements that people who knew him only 
 by name had really learned to regard him more 
 as a target than as a man. It was who could 
 hit him hardest, who could most effectually 
 bafiSe and ruin him ; while the quieter spirits 
 contented themselves with rarely mentioning 
 his obnoxious name, and endeavouring as far as 
 possible to ignore his existence. Brian felt that 
 till now he had followed with the multitude to 
 do evil. He had as far as possible ignored his 
 existence ; had even been rather annoyed when 
 his father had once publicly urged that Rae- 
 burn should be treated with as much justice 
 and courtesy and consideration as if he had 
 been a Christian. He had been vexed that his 
 father should suffer on behalf of such a man, 
 had been half inclined to put down the scorn 
 and contempt and anger of the narrow-mind-
 
 38 WE TWO. 
 
 ed to the atheist's account. The feeling had 
 perhaps been natural, but all was changed now ; 
 he only revered his father all the more for hav- 
 ing suffered in an unpopular cause. With some 
 eagerness, he went back into the shop to see if 
 he could gather any more particulars from the 
 old book-seller. Charles Osmond had, however, 
 finished his purchases and his conversation, and 
 was ready to go. 
 
 * The second house in Guilford Terrace, you 
 say/ he observed, turning at the door. ' Thank 
 you, I shall be sure to find it. Good-day.' 
 Then, turning to his son, he added, ^I had no 
 idea we were such near neighbours ! Did you 
 hear what he told me ? Mr. Raeburn lives in 
 Guilford Terrace.' 
 
 ' What, that miserable blind-alley, do you 
 mean, at the other side of the square V 
 
 ' Yes, and I'm just going round there now, 
 for our friend, the "Bookworm," tells me he 
 has heard it rumoured that some unscrupulous 
 person, who is going to answer Mr. Raeburn 
 this evening, has hired a band of roughs to 
 make a disturbance at the meeting. Fancy
 
 FRO:Sl EFFECT TO CAUSE. 39 
 
 how indignant Donovan would be ! I only 
 wish he were here to take word to Mr. Rae- 
 burn.' 
 
 ' Will he not most likely have heard from 
 some other source V said Brian. 
 
 ' Possibly ; but I shall go round and see. Such 
 abominations ought to be put down, and if by 
 our own side all the better.' 
 
 Brian was only too glad that his father 
 should go, and indeed, he would probably have 
 wished to take the message himself had not his 
 mind been set upon getting the best edition of 
 Longfellow to be found in all London for his 
 ideal. So, at the turning into Guilford Square, 
 the father and son parted. 
 
 The book-seller's information had roused in 
 Charles Osmond a keen sense of indignation ; 
 he walked on rapidly as soon as he had left his 
 sou, and in a very few minutes had reached the 
 gloomy entrance to Guilford Terrace. It was 
 currently reported that Raeburn made fabulous 
 sums by his work, and lived in great luxury ; 
 but the real fact was that, whatever his income, 
 few men led so self-denying a life, or voluntarily
 
 40 WE TWO. 
 
 endured such privations. Charles Osmond could 
 not help wishing that he could bring some of 
 the intolerant with him down that gloomy little 
 alley^ to the door of that comfortless lodging- 
 house. He rang, and was admitted into the 
 narrow passage, then shown into the private 
 study of the great man. The floor was un- 
 carpeted, the window uncurtained, the room 
 was almost dark; but a red glow of firelight 
 served to show a large writing-table strewn 
 with papers, and walls literally lined with 
 books ; also on the hearthrug a little figure 
 curled up in the most unconventionally com- 
 fortable attitude, dividing her attention be- 
 tween making toast and fondling a loudly- 
 purring cat.
 
 41 
 
 CHAPTER TIL 
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 
 
 Toleration an attack on Christianity? AVhat, then, are 
 we to come to this pass, to suppose that nothing can sup- 
 port Christianity but the principles of persecution ? . . . 
 I am persuaded that toleration, so far from being an attack 
 on Christianity, becomes the best and surest support that 
 can possibly be given to it. . . Toleration is good for 
 all, or it is good for none. . . God forbid ! I may be 
 mistaken, but I take toleration to be a part of religion. 
 
 BUEKE. 
 
 Erica was, apparently, well used to receiving 
 strangers. She put down the toasting-fork, but 
 kept the cat in her arms, as she rose to greet 
 Charles Osmond, and her frank and rather 
 child-like manner fascinated him almost as 
 much as it had fascinated Brian.
 
 42 WE TWO. 
 
 * My father will be home in a few minutes.' 
 she said, * I almost wonder you didn't meet him 
 in the square ; he has only just gone to send off 
 a telegram. Can you wait? Or will you leave 
 a message V 
 
 ' I will wait, if I may,' said Charles Osmond. 
 ' Oh, don't trouble about a light, I like this dim- 
 ness very well, and, please, don't let me interrupt 
 you.' 
 
 Erica relinquished a vain search for candle- 
 lighters, and took up her former position on the 
 hearthrug with her toasting-fork. 
 
 ' I like the gloaming, too,' she said. ' It's al- 
 most the only nice thing w^hich is economical! 
 Everything else that one likes specially costs 
 too much ! I wonder whether people with 
 money do enjoy all the great treats.' 
 
 * Very soon grow blase, I expect,' said Charles 
 Osmond. ' The essence of a treat is rarity, 
 you see.' 
 
 ' I suppose it is. But I think I could enjoy 
 ever so many things for years and years with- 
 out growing hlaseej said Erica. ' Sometimes I 
 like jnst to fancy what life might be if there
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 43 
 
 were no tiresome Christians, and bigots^ and 
 law-suits.' 
 
 Charles Osmond laughed to himself in the 
 dim light ! the remark was made with such per- 
 fect sincerity, and it evidently had not dawned 
 on the speaker that she could be addressing 
 any but one of her father's followers. Yet the 
 words saddened him too. He just caught a 
 glimpse through them of life viewed from a 
 directly opposite point. 
 
 ' Your father has a law-suit going on now, 
 has he not?' he observed, after a little pause. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, there is almost always one either 
 looming in the distance or actually going on. 
 I don't think I can ever remember the time 
 when we were quite free. It must feel very 
 funny to have no worries of that kind. I think, 
 if there wasn't always this great load of debt 
 tied round our necks like a millstone, I should 
 feel almost light enough to fly ! And then it is 
 hard to read in some of those horrid religious 
 papers that father lives an easy-going life. Did 
 you see a dreadful paragraph last week in the 
 Church Chronicle T
 
 44 WE TWO. 
 
 ' Yes, I did,' said Charles Osmond, sadly. 
 
 'It always has been the same,' said Erica. 
 'Father has a delightful story about an old 
 gentleman who at one of his lectures accused 
 him of being rich and self-indulgent — it was a 
 great many years ago when I was a baby, and 
 father was nearly killing himself with over- 
 work — and he just got up and gave the people 
 the whole history of his day, and it turned out 
 that he had had nothing to eat. Mustn't the 
 old gentleman have felt delightfully done? 
 I always wonder how he looked w^hen he 
 heard about it, and whether after that he be- 
 lieved that atheists are not necessarily every- 
 thing that's bad.' 
 
 ' I hope such days as those are over for Mr. 
 Raeburn,' said Charles Osmond, touched both 
 by the anecdote and by the loving admiration 
 of the speaker. 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Erica, sadly. ' It has 
 been getting steadily worse for the last few 
 years ; we have had to give up thing after thing. 
 Before long I shouldn't wonder if these rooms 
 in what father calls " Persecution Alley " grew
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 45 
 
 too expensive for us. But, after all, it is this 
 sort of thing which makes our own people love 
 him so much, don't you think V 
 
 ' I have no doubt it is,' said Charles Osmond, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 And then for a minute or two there was si- 
 lence. Erica, having finished her toasting, 
 stirred the fire into a blaze, and Charles Os- 
 mond sat watching the fair, childish face which 
 looked lovelier than ever in the soft glow of 
 the firelight. What would her future be_, he 
 wondered. She seemed too delicate and sensi- 
 tive for the stormy atmosphere in which she 
 lived. Would the hard life embitter her, or 
 would she sink under it ? But there was a 
 certain curve of resoluteness about her well- 
 formed chin which was sufficient answer to the 
 second question, while he could not but think 
 that the best safe-guard against the danger of 
 bitterness lay in her very evident love and loy- 
 alty to her father. 
 
 Erica in the meantime sat stroking her cat 
 Friskarina, and wondering a little who her visitor 
 could be. She liked him very much and could
 
 46 WE TWO. 
 
 not help responding to the bright kindly eyes 
 which seemed to plead for confidence ; though 
 he was such an entire stranger, she found 
 herself quite naturally opening out her heart to 
 him. 
 
 ' I am to take notes at my father's meeting 
 to-night,' she said, breaking the silence, ' and 
 perhaps write the account of it afterwards too ; 
 and there's such a delightfully funny man com- 
 ing to speak on the other side,' 
 
 ' Mr. Randolph^ is it not V 
 
 ' Yes, a sort of male Mrs. Malaprop. Oh, 
 such fun !' and, at the remembrance of some 
 past encounter, Erica's eyes positively danced 
 with laughter. But the next minute she was 
 very grave. 
 
 * I came to speak to Mr. Raeburn about this 
 evening/ said Charles Osmond. ' Do you know 
 if he has heard of a rumour that this Mr. Ran- 
 dolph has hired a baud of roughs to interrupt 
 the meeting V 
 
 Erica made an indignant exclamation. 
 
 ' Perhaps that was what the telegram was 
 about,' she continued, after a moment's thought.
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 47 
 
 ' We found it here when we came hi. Father 
 said nothing, but went out very quickly to an- 
 swer it. Oh ! now we shall have a dreadful 
 time of it, I suppose, and perhaps he'll get hurt 
 again. I did hope they had given up that sort 
 of thing.' 
 
 She looked so troubled that Charles Osmond 
 regretted he had said anything, and has- 
 tened to assure her that what he had heard was 
 the merest rumour, and very possibly not 
 true. 
 
 * I am afraid,' she said, ' it is too bad not to be 
 true.' 
 
 It struck Charles Osmond that that was 
 about the saddest little sentence he had ever 
 heard. 
 
 Partly wishing to change the subject, partly 
 from real interest, he made some remark about 
 a lovely little picture, the only one in the room ; 
 its frame was lighted up by the flickering blaze, 
 and even in the imperfect light he could see that 
 the subject was treated in no ordinary way. It 
 w^^^s a little bit of the Thames far away from 
 London, with a bank of many-tinted trees on
 
 48 WE TWO. 
 
 one side, aud out beyond a range of low bills, 
 purple in tbe evening ligbt. In tbe skj was a 
 rosy sunset glow, melting above into saffron 
 colour, and tbis was reflected in tbe water, 
 gilding and mellowing tbe foreground of sedge 
 and water-lilies. But wbat made tbe picture 
 specially cbarming was tbat tbe artist bad 
 really caugbt tbe peculiar solemn stilbiess of 
 evening ; merely to look at tbat quiet, peaceful 
 river brougbt a feeling of busb and calmness. 
 It seemed a strange picture to find as tbe sole 
 ornament in tbe study of a man wbo bad all 
 bis life been figbting tbe world. 
 
 Erica brigbtened up again, and seemed to 
 forget ber anxiety wben be questioned ber as 
 to tbe artist. 
 
 ' Tbere is sucb a nice story about tbat picture,' 
 sbe said, ' I always like to look at it. It was 
 about two years ago^ one very cold winter's 
 day, and a woman came witb some oil-paintings 
 wbicb sbe was trying to sell for ber busband, 
 wbo was ill : be was ratber a good artist, but 
 bad been in bad bealtb for a long time, till at 
 last sbe bad really come to bawking about bis
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 49 
 
 pictures in this way, because they were in such 
 dreadful distress. Father was very much wor- 
 ried just then, there was a horrid libel case 
 going on, and that morning he was very busy, 
 and he sent the woman away rather sharply, 
 said he had no time to listen to her. Then 
 presently he was vexed with himself because 
 she really had looked in great trouble, and he 
 thought he had been harsh, and, though he 
 was dreadfully pressed for time^ he would go 
 out into the square to see if he couldn't find her 
 again. I went with him, and we had walked 
 all round and had almost given her up, when 
 we caught sight of her coming out of a house 
 on the opposite side. And then it was so 
 nice^ father spoke so kindly to her, and found 
 out more about her history, and said that he 
 was too poor to buy her pictures ; but she look- 
 ed dreadfully tired and cold, so he asked her to 
 come in and rest, and she came and sat by the 
 fire, and stayed to dinner with us, and we look- 
 ed at her pictures, because she seemed so proud 
 of them and liked us to. One of them was 
 that little river-scene, which father took a great 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 WE TWO. 
 
 faucy to, and praised a great deal. She left us 
 her address, and later on, when the libel case 
 was ended, and father had got damages, and so 
 had a little spare money, he sent some to this 
 poor artist, and they were so grateful, though, 
 do you know, I think the dinner pleased them 
 more than the money, and they would insist on 
 sending this picture to father. I'll light the 
 gas, and then you^ll see it better.' 
 
 She twisted a piece of paper into a spill, and 
 put an end to the gloaming. Chailes Osmond 
 stood up to get a nearer view of the painting, 
 and Erica, too, drew nearer, and looked at it for 
 a minute in silence. 
 
 ' Father took me up the Thames once,' she 
 said, by-and-by. 'It was so lovely. Some 
 day, when all these persecutions are over, we 
 are going to have a beautiful tour, and see all 
 sorts of places. But I don't know when they 
 
 will be over ! As soon as one bigot ' she 
 
 broke off suddenly, with a stifled exclamation 
 of dismay. 
 
 Charles Osmond, in the dim light, with his 
 long grey beard, had not betrayed his clerical
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 51 
 
 -dress ; but^ glancing round at him now, she saw 
 at once that the stranger to whom she had 
 spoken so unreservedly was by no means one of 
 her father's followers. 
 
 ' Well !' he said, smiling, half understanding 
 her confusion. 
 
 ' You are a clergyman !' she almost gasped. 
 
 * Yes; why not r 
 
 ' 1 beg your pardon, I never thought — you 
 seemed so much too ' 
 
 * Too what?' urged Charles Osmond. Then, 
 as she still hesitated, ' Now, you must really let 
 me hear the end of that sentence, or I shall ima- 
 gine everything dreadful !' 
 
 * Too nice/ murmured Erica, wishing that 
 she could sink through the floor. 
 
 But the confession so tickled Charles Osmond 
 that he laughed aloud, and his laughter was so 
 infectious that Erica, in spite of her confusion, 
 could not help joining in it. She had a very 
 keen sense of the ludicrous, and the position 
 was, undoubtedly, a laughable one ; still there 
 were certain appalling recollections of the past 
 conversation which soon made her serious 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UMiVERSJTY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 ^YE TWO. 
 
 again. She had talked of persecutions to one 
 ■who was, at any rate, on the side of the persecu- 
 tors ; had alluded to bigots, and, worst of all, 
 had spoken in no measured terms of ' tiresome 
 Christians.' 
 
 She turned, rather shyly, and yet with a 
 touch of dignity, to her visitor, and said, 
 
 'It was very careless of me not to notice 
 more; but it was dark, and I am not used to 
 seeing any but our own people here. I am 
 afraid I said things which must have hurt you : 
 I wished you had stopped me.' 
 
 The beautiful colour had spread and deep- 
 ened in her cheeks, and there was something 
 indescribably sweet and considerate in her 
 tone of apology. Charles Osmond was touched 
 by it. 
 
 ' It is I who should apologise,' he said. ' I 
 am not at all sure that I was justified in 
 sitting there quietly, knowing that you were 
 under a delusion ; but it is always very delight- 
 ful to me in this artificial world to meet anyone 
 who talks quite naturally, and the interest of 
 hearing your view of the question kept me
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 53 
 
 silent. You must forgive me, and as you know 
 I'm too nice to be a clergyman ' 
 
 * Oh, I beg your pardon ! How rude I have 
 been,' cried Erica, blushing anew, ' but you did 
 make me say it.' 
 
 ' Of course^ and I take it as a high compli- 
 ment from you,' said Charles Osmond, laughing 
 again at the recollection. ^ Come, may we not 
 seal our friendship ? We have been sufficiently 
 frank with each other to be something more 
 than acquaintances for the future.' 
 
 Erica held out her hand and found it 
 taken in a strong, firm clasp, which somehow 
 conveyed much more than an ordinary hand- 
 shake. 
 
 'And, after all, you are too nice for a clergy- 
 roan I' she thought to herself. Then, as a fresh 
 idea crossed her mind, she suddenly exclaimed, 
 ' But you came to tell us about Mr. Randolph's 
 roughs, did you not % How came you to care 
 that we should know beforehand f 
 
 * Why, naturally, I hoped that a disturbance 
 might be stopped.' 
 
 ' Is it natural?' questioned Erica. 'I should
 
 54 WE TWO. 
 
 have thought it more natural for you to think 
 with your own party.' 
 
 ' But peace and justice and freedom of speech 
 must all stand before party questions.' 
 
 * Yet you think that we are wrong and that 
 Christianit}^ is right V 
 
 ' Yes, but to my mind perfect justice is part 
 of Christianity.' 
 
 ' Oh/ said Erica, in a tone which meant un- 
 utterable things. 
 
 ' You think that Christians do not show per- 
 fect justice to you?' said Charles Osmond, read- 
 ing her thoughts. 
 
 ' I can't say I think they do,' she replied. 
 Then, suddenly firing up at the recollection of 
 her afternoon's experiences, she said, ' They are 
 not just to us, though they preach justice ; they 
 are not loving, though they talk about love ! 
 If they want us to think their religion true, I 
 wonder they don't practise it a little more and 
 preach it less. What is the use of talking of 
 " brotherly kindness and charity " when they 
 hardly treat us like human beings, when the}" 
 make up wicked lies about us, and will hardly
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 55 
 
 let lis sit in the same room with them V 
 
 ' Come^ now, we really are sitting in the same 
 room/ said Charles Osmond, smiling. 
 
 ' Oh, dear, what am I to do !' exclaimed Erica. 
 ' I can't remember that you are one of them ! 
 you are so very unlike most.' 
 
 ' I think,' said Charles Osmond, ' you have 
 come across some very bad specimens.' 
 
 Erica in her heart considered her visitor as 
 the exception which proved the rule ; but, not 
 wishing to l^e caught tripping again, she re- 
 solved to say no more upon the subject. 
 
 * Let us talk of something else,' she said. 
 
 ' Something nicer V said Charles Osmond, 
 with a little mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 ' Safer,' said Erica, laughing. ' But, stop, I 
 hear my father.' 
 
 She went out into the passage to meet him. 
 Charles Osmond heard her explaining his visit 
 and the news he had brought, heard Raeburn's 
 brief responses ; then, in a few moments_, the 
 two entered the room^ a; picturesque-lookiog 
 couple, the clergyman thought, the tall, stately 
 man with his broad forehead and overshadow-
 
 56 WE TWO. 
 
 ing masses of auburn hair, the little, eager-faced 
 impetuous girl^ so -winsome in her unconven- 
 tional frankness. 
 
 The conversation became a trifle more cere- 
 monious, though with Erica perched on the arm 
 of her father's chair, ready to squeeze his hand 
 at every word which pleased her, it could hardly 
 become stiff. Raeburn had just heard the re- 
 port of Mr. Randolph's scheme and had already 
 taken precautionary measures ; but he was sur- 
 prised and gratified that Charles Osmond shoald 
 have troubled to bring him word about it. The 
 two men talked on with the most perfect friend- 
 liness, and by-and-by, to Erica's great delight, 
 Charles Osmond expressed a wish to be present 
 at the meeting that night, and made inquiries 
 as to the time and place. 
 
 ' Oh, couldn't you stay to tea and go with us V 
 she exclaimed, forgetting for the third time that 
 he was a clergyman, and offering the ready 
 hospitality she would have offered to anyone 
 else. 
 
 ' I should be delighted,' he said, smiling, ' if 
 you can really put up with one of the cloth.'
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 57 
 
 Raeburn, amused at his daughter's spontan- 
 eous hospitality and pleased with the friendly 
 acceptance it had met with, was quite ready to 
 second the invitation. Erica was delighted ; 
 she carried off the cat and the toast into the 
 next room, eager to tell her mother all about 
 the visitor. 
 
 ' The most delightful man, mother, not a bit 
 like a clergyman ! I didn't jSnd out for ever so 
 long what he was, and said all sorts of dreadful 
 things, but he didn't mind and was not the 
 least offended.' 
 
 ' When will J'ou learn to be cautious, I won- 
 der/ said Mrs. Raeburn, smiling. ' You are a 
 shocking little chatterbox.' 
 
 And as Erica flitted busily about, arranging 
 the tea-table, her mother watched her half 
 amusedly, half anxiously. She had always 
 been remarkably frank and outspoken, and 
 there was something so transparently sincere 
 about her that she seldom gave offence; but 
 the mother could not help wondering how it 
 would be as she grew older and mixed with a 
 greater variety of people. In fact, in every
 
 58 WE TWO. 
 
 way she was anxious about the child's future, 
 for Erica's was a somewhat perplexing charac- 
 ter, and seemed very ill-fitted for her position. 
 
 Eric Haeberlein had once compared her to a 
 violin, and there was a good deal of truth in 
 his idea. She was very sensitive, responding 
 at once to the merest touch, and easily moved 
 to admiration and devoted love, or to strong 
 indignation. Naturally high-spirited, she was 
 subject, too, to fits of depression, and was 
 always either in the heights or the depths. Yet 
 Avith all these characteristics was blended her 
 father's indomitable courage and tenacity; 
 though feeling the thorns of life far more keen- 
 ly than most people, she was one of those who 
 will never yield ; though pricked and wounded 
 by outward events, she would never be conquer- 
 ed by circumstance. At present her capabilities 
 for adoration, which were very great, were 
 lavished in two directions : in the abstract she 
 worshipped intellect, in the concrete she wor- 
 shipped her father. 
 
 From the grief and indignation of the after- 
 noon, she had passed with extraordinary rapidity
 
 LIFE FKOM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 59 
 
 to a state of merriment which would have been 
 incomprehensible to one who did not understand 
 her peculiarly complex character. Mrs. Rae- 
 burn listened with a good deal of amusement to 
 her racy description of Charles Osmond. 
 
 ' Strange that this should have happened so 
 soon after our talk this afternoon,' she said, 
 musingly. 'Perhaps it is as well that you 
 should have a glimpse of the other side, against 
 which you were inveighing, or you might be 
 growing narrow.' 
 
 ' He is much too good to belong to them V 
 said Erica, enthusiastically. 
 
 As she spoke, Raeburn entered, bringing the 
 visitor with him, and they all sat down to their 
 meal, Erica pouring out tea and attending to 
 everyone's wants, fondling her cat, and listening 
 to the conversation, with all the time a curious 
 perception that to sit down to table with one of 
 her father's opponents was a very novel experi- 
 ence. She could not help speculating as to the 
 thoughts and impressions of her companions. 
 Her mother was, she thought, pleased and- 
 interested, for about her worn face there was
 
 60 WE TWO. 
 
 the look of contentment which invariably came 
 when for a time the bitterness of the struggle 
 of life was broken by any sign of friendliness. 
 Her father was — as he generally was in his own 
 house — quiet, gentle in manner, ready to be both 
 an attentive and an interested listener. This 
 gift he had almost as markedly as the gift of 
 speech ; he at once perceived that his guest was 
 no ordinary man, and by a sort of instinct he 
 had discovered on what subjects he was best 
 calculated to speak, and wherein they could 
 gain most from him. Charles Osmond's thoughts 
 she could only speculate about ; but that he was 
 ready to take them all as friends, and did not 
 regard them as a different order of beings, was 
 plain. 
 
 The conversation had drifted into regions of 
 abstruse science, when Erica, who had been 
 listening attentively, was altogether diverted 
 by the entrance of the servant, who brought her 
 a brown-paper parcel. Eagerly opening it, she 
 was almost bewildered by the delightful sur- 
 prise of finding a complete edition of Long- 
 fellow's poems, bound in dark-blue morocco.
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 61 
 
 Inside was written, ' From another admirer of 
 '' Hiawatha." ' 
 
 She started np with a rapturous exclamation, 
 and the two men paused in their talk, each un- 
 able to help watching the beautiful little face all 
 aglow with happiness. Erica almost danced 
 round the room with her new treasure. 
 
 ' What lieavenly person can have sent me 
 this !' she cried. * Look, father ! Did you ever 
 see such a beauty !' 
 
 Science went to the winds^ and Raeburn gave 
 all his sympathy to Erica and Lon*gfellow. 
 
 * The very thing you were wishing for ! Who 
 could have sent it?' 
 
 * I can't think ! It can't be Tom, because I 
 know he's spent all his money, and Auntie 
 would never call herself an admirer of " Hiawa- 
 tha,'' nor Herr Haeberlein, nor Monsieur Noirol, 
 nor anyone I can think of.' 
 
 ' Dealings with the fairies,' said Raeburn, 
 smiling. ' Your beggar-child with the scones sud- 
 denly transformed into a beneficent rewarder.' 
 
 * Not from you, father?' 
 Raeburn laughed.
 
 62 WE TWO. 
 
 ' A pretty substantial fairy for you ! No, uo, 
 I had no hand in it. I can't give yon presents 
 while I am in debt, my bairn.' 
 
 ^Oh, isn't it jolly to get what one wants!* 
 said Erica, with a fervour which made the three 
 grown-up people laugh. 
 
 * Very jolly,' said Raeburn, giving her a little 
 mute caress. 'But now, Eric, please to go back 
 and eat something, or I shall have my reporter 
 fainting in the middle of a speech.' 
 
 She obeyed, carrying away the book with her 
 and enlivening them with extracts from it ; 
 once delightedly discovering a most appropriate 
 passage. 
 
 ^ Why, of course !' she exclaimed, ' you and 
 Mr. Osmond, father, are smoking the Peace- 
 Pipe!' And with much force and animation 
 she read them bits from the first canto. 
 
 Raeburn left the room before long to get 
 ready for his meeting, but Erica still lingered 
 over her new treasure, putting it down at 
 length with great reluctance to prepare her 
 note-book and sharpen her pencil. 
 
 'Isn't that a dehghtful bit where Hiawatha
 
 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 63 
 
 was angry/ she said, ' it has been running in my 
 
 head all day — 
 
 ' ' For his heart was hot within him, 
 Like a living coal his heart was." 
 
 That's what I shall feel like to-night when 
 
 Mr. Randolph attacks father.' 
 
 She ran upstairs to dress, and, as the door 
 closed upon her, Mrs. Raeburn turned to Charles 
 Osmond with a sort of apology. 
 
 ' She finds it very hard not to speak out her 
 thoughts ; it will often ^-et her into trouble, I 
 am afraid.' 
 
 * It is too fresh and delightful to be checked 
 though,' said Charles Osmond^ 'I assure you 
 she has taught me many a lesson to-night.' 
 
 The mother talked on almost unreservedly 
 about the subject that was evidently nearest 
 her heart — the diflSculties of Erica's education, 
 the harshness they so often met with, the harm 
 it so evidently did the child — till the subject 
 of the conversation came down again, much 
 too excited and happy to care just then for 
 any unkind treatment. Had she not got a 
 Longfellow of her Yery own, and did not
 
 64 WE TWO. 
 
 that unexpected pleasure make up for a thou- 
 sand privations and discomforts ! 
 
 Yet, with all her childishness and impetu- 
 osity, Erica was womanly too, as Charles 
 Osmond saw by the way she waited on her 
 mother, thinking of everything which the 
 invalid could possibly want while they were 
 gone, brightening the whole place with her 
 sunshiny presence. Whatever else was lack- 
 ing, there was no lack of love in this house. 
 The tender considerateness which softened 
 Erica's impetuosity in her mother's presence, 
 the loving comprehension between parent and 
 child, was very beautiful to see.
 
 6a 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ^ SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 
 
 A man "who strives earnestly and perseveringly to con- 
 vince others, at least convinces us that he is cominced 
 
 himself. 
 
 Guesses at Truth. 
 
 The rainy afternoon had given place to a 
 fine and starlight night. Erica, apparently ia 
 high spirits, walked between her father and 
 Charles Osmond. 
 
 'Mother won't be anxious about us,' she 
 said. ' She has not heard a word about Mr. 
 Randolph's plans. I was so afraid some one 
 would speak about it at tea-time, and then she 
 would have been in a fright all the evening, 
 and would not have liked my going.' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 WE TWO. 
 
 'Mr. Randolph is both energetic and unscru- 
 pulous,' said Raeburn. ' But I doubt if even 
 he would set his roughs upon you, little one, 
 unless he has become as bloodthirsty as a 
 certain old Scotch psalm we used to sing.' 
 
 'What was that?' questioned Erica. 
 
 *I forget the beginning, but the last verse 
 always had a sort of horrible fascination for 
 vs — 
 
 " How happy should that trooper be 
 Who, riding on a naggie, 
 Should take thy little children up, 
 And dash them 'gin the craggie !'" 
 
 Charles Osmond and Erica laughed heart- 
 ily. 
 
 ' They will only dash you against metaphor- 
 ical rocks in the nineteenth century,' continued 
 Raeburn. ' I remember wondering why the 
 old clerk in my father's church always sang 
 that verse so lustily ; but you see we have ex- 
 actly the same spirit now, only in a more civil- 
 ised form, barbarity changed to polite cruelty, 
 as for instance the way you were treated this 
 afternoon.'
 
 ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 67 
 
 'Ob, don't talk about tbat,' said Erica, 
 quickly, 'I am going to enjoy my Longfellow 
 and forget tbe rest.' 
 
 In trutb, Charles Osmond was struck with 
 this both in the father and daughter ; each had 
 a wa}^ of putting back their bitter thoughts, 
 of dwelling whenever it was possible on the 
 brighter side of life. He knew that Raeburn 
 was involved in most harassing litigation, was 
 burdened with debt, was confronted every- 
 ^vhere with bitter and often violent opposi- 
 tion ; yet he seemed to live above it all^ for 
 there was a w^onderful repose about him, an 
 extraordinary serenity in his aspect, which 
 would have seemed better fitted to a hermit 
 than to one who had spent his life in fighting 
 against desperate odds. One thing was quite 
 clear, the man was absolutely convinced that he 
 was suffering for the truth, and was ready to en- 
 dure anything in what he considered the service 
 of his fellow-men. He did not seem particularly 
 anxious as to the evening's proceedings. On the 
 whole, they were rather a merry party as they 
 walked along Gower Street to the station. 
 
 f2
 
 68 WE TWO. 
 
 But wheo they got out again at their destin- 
 ation, and walked through the busy streets to 
 the hall where the lecture was to be given, a 
 sort of seriousness fell upon all three. They 
 were each going to work in their different 
 ways for what they considered the good of 
 humanity, and instinctively a silence grew and 
 deepened. 
 
 Erica was the first to break it as they came 
 
 in sight of the hall. 
 
 * What a crowd there is !' she exclaimed. ' Are 
 these Mr. Randolph's roughs ?' 
 
 ' We can put up with them outside,' said 
 Raeburn ; but Charles Osmond noticed that as 
 he spoke he drew the child nearer to him, with a 
 momentary look of trouble in his face, as though 
 he shrank from taking her through the rabble. 
 Erica, on the other hand, looked interested and 
 perfectly fearless. With great difficulty they 
 forced their way on, hooted and yelled at by 
 the mob, who, however, made no attempt at 
 violence. At length, reaching the shelter of the 
 entrance lobby, Raebiu-n left them for a moment, 
 pausing to give directions to the doorkeepers.
 
 ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 69 
 
 Just then, to his great surprise, Charles Osmond 
 caught sight of his son standing only a few 
 paces from them. His exclamation of astonish- 
 ment made Erica look up. Brian came forward 
 eagerly to meet them. 
 
 ' You here !' exclaimed his father, with a la- 
 tent suspicion confirmed into a certainty. * This 
 is my son. Miss Raeburn.' 
 
 Brian had not dreamed of meeting her, he had 
 waited about, curious to see how Raeburn would 
 get on with the mob ; it was with a strange pang 
 of rapture and dismay that he had seen his fair 
 little ideah That she should be in the midst of 
 that hooting mob made his heart throb with in- 
 dignation, yet there was something so sweet 
 in her grave stedfast face that he was, never- 
 theless, glad to have witnessed the scene. Her 
 colour was rather heightened, her eyes bright 
 but very quiet, yet as Charles Osmond spoke, 
 and she looked at Brian, her face all at once 
 lighted up, and with an irresistible smile she 
 exclaimed, in the most childlike of voices, 
 
 ' Why, it's my umbrella man !' The informality 
 of the exclamation seemed to make them at once
 
 70 WE TWO. 
 
 something more than ordinary acquaintances; 
 They told Charles Osmond of their encounter in 
 the afternoon, and in a very few minutes Brian, 
 hardly knowing whether he were not in some 
 strange dream, found himself sitting with his 
 father and Erica in a crowded lecture hall^ rea- 
 lising with an intensity of joy and an intensity 
 of pain how near he was to the queen of his 
 heart and yet how far from her. 
 
 The meeting was quite orderly. Though 
 Kaeburn was addressing many who disagreed 
 with him, he had evidently got the whole and 
 imdivided attention of his audience ; and in- 
 deed his gifts both as rhetorician and orator 
 were so great that they must have been either 
 wilfully deaf or obtuse who, when under the 
 spell of his extraordinary earnestness and elo- 
 quence, could resist listening. Not a word was 
 lost on Brian ; every sentence which emphasis- 
 ed the great difference of belief between himself 
 and his love seemed to engrave itself on his 
 heart; no minutest detail of that evening escap- 
 ed him. 
 
 He saw the tall, commanding figure of the ora-
 
 ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 71 
 
 tor, the vast sea of upturned faces below, the 
 eager attention imprinted on all^ sometimes a 
 wave of sympathy and approval sweeping over 
 them, resulting in a storm of applause, at times 
 a more divided disapproval, or a shout of ' No, 
 no,' which invariably roused the speaker to a 
 more vigorous, clear, and emphatic repetition of 
 the questioned statement. And, through all, he 
 was ever conscious of the young girl at his side, 
 who with her head bent over her note-book was 
 absorbed in her work. While the most vital ques- 
 tions of life were being discussed, he was yet 
 always aware of that hand travelling rapidly to 
 and fro, of the pages hurriedly turned, of the 
 quick yet weary looking change of posture. 
 
 Though not without a strong vein of sarcasm, 
 Kaeburn's speech was, on the whole, temperate ; 
 it certainly should have been met with considera- 
 tion. But, unfortunately, Mr. Randolph was in- 
 capable of seeing any good in his opponent ; his 
 combative instincts were far stronger than his 
 Christianity, and Brian, who had winced many 
 times, while listening to the champion of atheism, 
 was even more keenly wounded by the cham-
 
 72 WE TWO. 
 
 pion of his own cause. Abusive epithets abound- 
 ed in his retort ; at last he left the subject under 
 discussion altogether, and launched into person- 
 alities of the most objectionable kind. Raeburn 
 sat with folded arms, listening with a sort of 
 cold dignity. He looked very different now from 
 the genial-mannered, quiet man whom Charles 
 Osmond had seen in his own home but an hour 
 or two ago. There was a peculiar look in his 
 tawny eyes hardly to be described in words, a 
 look which was hard, and cold, and steady. It 
 told of an originally sensitive nature, inured to 
 ill-treatment ; of a strong will w^hich had long 
 ago steeled itself to endure ; of a character which, 
 though absolutely refusing to yield to opposi- 
 tion, had grown slightly bitter, even slightly 
 vindictive in the process. 
 
 Brian could only watch in silent pain the 
 little figure beside him. Once at some violent 
 term of abuse she looked up, and glanced 
 for a moment at the speaker ; he just caught a 
 swift, indignant flash from her bright eyes, then 
 her head was bent lower than before over her 
 note-book, and the carnation deepened in her
 
 ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 73 
 
 cheek, whilst her peucil sped over the paper fast 
 and furiously. Presently came a sharp retort 
 from Raebnrn, ending with the perfectly war- 
 rantable accusation that Mr. Randolph was 
 wandering from the subject of the evening 
 merely to indulge his personal spite. The audi- 
 ence was beginning to be roused by the unfair- 
 ness, and a storm might have ensued had not 
 Mr. Randolph unintentionally turned the whole 
 proceedings from tragedy to farce. 
 
 Indignant at Raeburn's accusation^ he sprang 
 to his feet and began a vigorous protest. 
 
 ^ Mr. Chairman, I denounce my opponent as a 
 liar. His accusation is utterly false. I deny 
 the allegation, and I scorn the allegator !' 
 
 He was interrupted by a shout of laughter, 
 the w^hole assembly was convulsed, even Erica's 
 anger changed to mirth. 
 
 ' Fit for Punch/ she whispered to Brian, her 
 face all beaming with merriment. 
 
 Raeburn, whose grave face had also relaxed 
 into a smile, suddenly stood up, and, with a 
 sort of dry Scotch humour, remarked, 
 
 ' My enemies have compared me to many ob-
 
 74 WE TWO. 
 
 noxious things, but never till to-night have I 
 been called a crocodile ! Possibly Mr. Randolph 
 has been reading of the crocodiles recently dis- 
 sected at Paris. It has been discovered that 
 they are almost brainless, and_, being without 
 reason, are probably animated by a violent in- 
 stinct of destruction. 1 believe, however, that 
 the power of their "jaw " is unsurpassed !' 
 
 Then, amidst shouts of laughter and applause,, 
 he sat down again, leaving the field to the 
 much discomfited Mr. Randolph. 
 
 Much harm had been done that evening to 
 the cause of Christianity. The sympathies of 
 the audience could not be with the weak 
 and immannerly Mr. Randolph ; they were 
 Englishmen, and were, of course, inclined to 
 side with the man who had been unjustly dealt 
 with, who, moreover, had really spoken to 
 them — had touched their very hearts. 
 
 The field was practically lost when, to the 
 surprise of all, another speaker came forward. 
 Erica, who knew that their side had had the 
 best of it, felt a thrill of admiration when she 
 saw Charles Osmond move slowly to the front
 
 * SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 75 
 
 of the platform. She was very tired, but out of 
 a sort of gratitude for his friendliness, a readi- 
 ness to do him honour, she strained her energies 
 to take dovrn his speech verbatim. It was not a 
 long one, it was hardly, perhaps, to be called a 
 speech at all, it was rather as if the man had 
 thrown his very self into the breach made by 
 the unhappy wrangle of the evening. 
 
 He spoke of the universal brotherliood and of 
 the wrong done to it by bitterness and strife ; he 
 stood there as the very incarnation of brother- 
 liness, and the people, whether they agreed 
 with him or not, loved him. In the place where 
 the religion of Christ had been reviled as well 
 by the Christian as by the atheist, he spoke of 
 the revealer of the Father, and a hush fell on the 
 listening men ; he spoke of the Founder of the 
 great brotherhood, and by the very reality, by 
 the fervour of his convictions, touched a new 
 chord in many a heart. It was no time for 
 argument, the meeting was- almost over ; he 
 scarcely attempted an answer to many of th& 
 difficulties and objections raised by Raebura 
 earlier in the evening. But there was in his 
 
 ;
 
 76 WE TWO. 
 
 ten miuutes' speech the whole essence of 
 Christianity, the spirit of loving sacrifice of 
 self, the strength of an absolute certainty which 
 no argument, however logical, can shake, the 
 extraordinary power which breathes in the as- 
 sertion, 'I hiow Him whom 1 have believed.' 
 
 To more than one of Raeburn's followers 
 there came just the slightest agitation of doubt, 
 the questioning whether these things might not 
 be. For the first time in her life the question 
 began to stir in Erica's heart. She had heard 
 many advocates of Christianity, and had re- 
 garded them much as we might regard Bud- 
 dhist missionaries speaking of a religion that 
 had had its day and was now only fit to be dis- 
 carded, or perhaps studied as an interesting 
 relic of the past, about which in its later years 
 many corruptions had gathered. 
 
 Raeburn, being above all things a just man, 
 had been determined to give her mind no bias 
 in favour of his own views, and as a child he 
 had left her perfectly free. But there was a 
 certain Scotch proverb which he did not call to 
 mind, that ' As the auld cock craws, the young
 
 ' SUPPOSIXG IT IS TRUE !' 77 
 
 cock learns.' When the time came at which he 
 considered her old enough really to study the 
 Bible for herself, she had already learnt from 
 bitter experience that Christianity — at any rate, 
 what called itself Christianity — was the religion 
 whose votaries were constantly slandering and 
 ill-treating her father, and that all the priva- 
 tions and troubles of their life were directly or 
 indirectly due to it. She of course identified 
 the conduct of the most unfriendly and per- 
 secuting with the religion itself; it could hardly 
 be otherwise. 
 
 But to-night as she toiled away, bravely act- 
 ing up to her lights, taking down the opponent's 
 speech to the best of her abilities, though pre- 
 disposed to think it all a meaningless rhapsody, 
 the faintest attempt at a question began to take 
 shape in her mind. It did not form itself exactly 
 into words, but just lurked there like a cloud- 
 shadow, — 'Supposing Christianity were true?' 
 
 All doubt is pain. Even this faint beginning 
 of doubt in her creed made Erica dreadfully 
 uncomfortable. Yet she could not regret that 
 Charles Osmond had spoken, even though she
 
 78 WE TWO. 
 
 imagined him to be greatly mistaken, and feared 
 that that uncomfortable question might have 
 been suggested to others among the audience. 
 She could not wish that the speech had not 
 been made, for it had revealed the nobility of 
 the man, his broad-hearted love, and she in- 
 stinctively reverenced all the really great and 
 good, however widely different their creeds. 
 
 Brian tried in vain to read her thoughts ; but 
 as soon as the meeting was over her temporary 
 seriousness vanished, and she was once more 
 almost a child again, ready to be amused by 
 anything. She stood for a few minutes talking 
 to the two Osmonds ; then, catching sight of an 
 acquaintance a little way off, she bade them a 
 hasty good-night, much to Brian's chagrin, and 
 hurried forward with a warmth of greeting 
 which he could only hope was appreciated by 
 the thick-set honest-looking mechanic who 
 was the happy recipient. When they left the 
 ball, she was still deep in conversation with 
 him. 
 
 The fates Avere kind, however, to Brian that 
 day ; they were just too late for a train, and
 
 ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 79 
 
 before the next one arrived, Eaeburn and Erica 
 were seen slowly coming down the steps, and 
 in another minute had joined them on the plat- 
 form. Charles Osmond and Raeburn fell into an 
 amicable discussion, and Brian, to his great satis- 
 faction, was left to an uninterrupted tete-a-tete 
 with Erica. There had been no further demon- 
 stration by the crowd, and Erica, now that the 
 anxiety w^as over, was ready to make fun of Mr. 
 Randolph and his band, checking herself every 
 now and then for fear of hurting her companion_, 
 but breaking forth again and again into irresist- 
 ible merriment as she recalled the ' alligator ' 
 incident and other grotesque utterances. All 
 too soon they reached their destination. There 
 was still, however, a ten minutes' walk before 
 them, a walk which Brian never forgot. The 
 wind was high, and it seemed to excite Erica ; 
 he could always remember exactly how she 
 looked, her eyes bright and shining, her short, 
 auburn hair all blown about by the wind, one 
 stray wave lying across the quaint little seal- 
 skin hat. He remembered, too, how, in the 
 middle of his argument, Raeburn had stepped
 
 80 WE TWO. 
 
 forward, and had wrapped a white woollen 
 scarf more closely round the child, securing the 
 fluttering ends. Brian would have liked to do 
 it himself had he dared, and yet it pleased him, 
 too, to see the father's thoughtfulness ; perhaps, 
 in that ' touch of nature,' he for the first time 
 fully recognised his kinship with the atheist. 
 
 Erica talked to him in the meantime with a 
 delicious, childlike frankness, gave him an en- 
 thusiastic account of her friend Hazeldine, the 
 working-man whom he had seen her speaking 
 to, and unconsciously revealed in her free con- 
 versation a great deal of the life she led, a busy, 
 earnest, self-denying life Brian could see. When 
 they reached the place of their afternoon's en- 
 counter, she alluded merrily to what she called 
 the 'charge of umbrellas.' 
 
 * Who would have thought, now, that in a 
 few hours' time we should have learnt to know- 
 each other !' she exclaimed. ' It has been alto- 
 gether the very oddest day, a sort of sandwich 
 of good and bad, two bits of the dry bread of 
 persecution^ but in between, you and Mr. Os- 
 mond and my beautiful new Longfellow.'
 
 ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 81 
 
 Brian could not help laughing at the simile, 
 and was not a little pleased to hear the refer- 
 ence to his book ; but his amusement was soon 
 dispelled by a grim little incident. Just at that 
 minute they happened to pass an undertaker's 
 cart which was standing at the door of one of 
 the houses ; a coffin was borne across the pave- 
 ment in front of them. Erica, with a quick 
 exclamation, put her hand on his arm and 
 shrank back to make room for the bearers to 
 pass. Looking down at her, he saw that she 
 was quite pale. The coffin was carried into the 
 house and they passed on. 
 
 *HowIdo hate seeing anything like that!' 
 she exclaimed. Then looking back and up to 
 the windo\ys of the house, 'Poor people I I 
 Avonder whether they are very sad. It seems 
 to make all the world dark when one comes 
 across things like that. Father thinks it is 
 good to be reminded of the end, that it makes 
 one more eager to work, but he doesn't even 
 wish for anything after death, nor do any of the 
 best people I know. It is silly of me, but I 
 never can bear to think of quite coming to an 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 WE TWO. 
 
 end, I suppose because I am not so unselfish as 
 the others.' 
 
 ' Or may it not be a natural instinct which is 
 implanted in all, which perhaps you have not 
 yet crushed by argument.' 
 
 Erica shook her head. 
 
 ' More likely to be a Httle bit of one of my 
 covenanting ancestors coming out in me. Still 
 I own that the hope of the hereafter is the one 
 point in which you have the better of it. Life 
 must seem very easy if you believe that all will 
 be made up to you and all wrong set right 
 after you are dead. You see we have rather 
 hard measure here, and don't expect anything 
 at all by-and-by. But all the same I am al- 
 ways rather ashamed of this instinct, or self- 
 ishness, or Scottish inheritance, whichever it is !' 
 
 ' Ashamed ! why should you be V 
 
 * It is a sort of weakness, I think, which 
 strong characters like my father are without. 
 You see he cares so much for everyone, and 
 thinks so much of making the world a little less 
 miserable in this generation, but most of my 
 love is for him and for my mother ; and so when
 
 ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 83 
 
 I think of death — of their death ' she broke 
 
 off abruptly. 
 
 ' Yet do not call it selfishness,' said Brian, 
 with a slightly choked feeling, for there had 
 been a depth of pain in Erica's tone. * My father, 
 who has just that love of humanity of which you 
 speak, has still the most absolute belief in — yes, 
 and longing for — immortality. It is no selfish- 
 ness in him.' 
 
 *I am sure it is not,' said Erica, warmly, 'I 
 shouldn't think he could be selfish in any way. 
 I am glad he spoke to-night ; it does one good 
 to hear a speech like that, even if one doesn't 
 agree with it. I wish there were a few more 
 clergymen like him, then perhaps the tolerance 
 and brotherliness he spoke of might become pos- 
 sible. But it must be a long way off, or it 
 would not seem such an unheard-of thing that 
 I should be talking like this to you. Why, it is 
 the first time in my whole life that I have 
 spoken to a Christian except on the most every- 
 day subjects.' 
 
 ' Then I hope you won't let it be the last,' 
 said Brian. 
 
 g2
 
 84 WE TWO. 
 
 ' I should like to know Mr. Osmond better/ 
 said Erica_, ' for you know it seems very extra- 
 ordinary to me that a clever scientific man can 
 speak as he spoke to-night. I sliould like to 
 know how you reconcile all the contradictions, 
 how you can believe what seems to me so un- 
 likely, how even if you do believe in a God you 
 can think Him good while the world is what it 
 is. If there is a good God why doesn't he 
 make us all know him, and end all the evil and 
 cruelty V 
 
 Brian did not reply for a moment. The familiar 
 gaslit streets, the usual number of passengers, 
 the usual careworn or viceworn faces passing by, 
 damp pavements, muddy roads, fresh winter 
 wind, all seemed so natural, but to talk of the 
 deepest things in heaven and earth was so un- 
 natural ! He was a very reserved man, but 
 looking down at the eager, questioning face 
 beside him his reserve all at once melted. 
 He spoke very quietly, but in a voice which 
 showed Erica that he was, at least, as she 
 expressed it 'honestly deluded.' Evidently he 
 did from his very heart believe what he said.
 
 * SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 85 
 
 ' But how are we to judge what is best V he 
 replied. ' My belief is that God is slowly and 
 gradually educating the world, not forcing it on 
 unnaturally, but drawing it on step by step, 
 making it work out its own lessons as the best 
 teachers do with their pupils. To me^the idea of 
 a steady progression, in which man himself may 
 be a co-worker with God, is far more beautiful 
 than the conception of a Being who does not 
 work by natural laws at all, but arbitrarily 
 causes this and that to be or not to be.' 
 
 ^But then if your God is educating the 
 ■world, He is educating many of us in ignorance 
 of Himself, in atheism. How can that be good 
 or right'? Surely you, for instance, must be 
 rather puzzled when you come across atheists, 
 if you believe in a perfect God, and think 
 atheism the most fearful mistake possible V 
 
 ' If I could not believe that God can, and 
 does, educate some of us through atheism I 
 should indeed be miserable,' said Brian, with a 
 thrill of pain in his voice which startled Erica. 
 * But I do believe that even atheism, even blank 
 ignorance of Him, may be a stage through.
 
 SQ WE TWO. 
 
 ^ which alone some of us can be brought onward. 
 
 • The noblest man I ever knew passed through 
 
 that stage, and I can't think he would have 
 
 C=i5: been half the man he is if he had not passed 
 
 through it.' 
 
 ' I have only known two or three people who 
 from atheists became theists, and they were 
 horrid !' said Erica, emphatically. * People 
 always are spiteful to the side they have left.' 
 
 ' You could not say that of my friend/ said 
 Brian, musingly. ' I wish you could meet 
 him.' 
 
 They had reached the entrance to Guilford 
 Terrace_, Kaeburn and Charles Osmond over-^ 
 took them, and the conversation ended abruptly* 
 Perhaps because Erica had made no answer to 
 the last remark, and was conscious of a touch 
 of malice in her former speech^ she put a little 
 additional warmth into her farewell. At any 
 rate, there was that which touched Brian's very 
 heart in the frank innocence of her hand-clasp, 
 in the sweet yet questioning eyes that wer& 
 raised to his. 
 
 He turned away, happier and yet sadder than
 
 « SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE I' 87 
 
 he had ever beeu in his life. Not a word pass- 
 ed between him and his father as they crossed 
 the square, but when they reached home they 
 instinctively drew together over the study fire. 
 There was a long silence even then, broken at 
 last by Charles Osmond. 
 
 ' Well, my son V he said. 
 
 ' I cannot see how I can be of the least use to 
 her,' said Brian, abruptly, as if his father had 
 been following the whole of his train of 
 thought, which, indeed^ to a certain extent he 
 had. 
 
 ' Was this afternoon your first meeting V 
 
 ' Our first speaking. I have seen her many 
 times, but only to-day realised what she 
 is.' 
 
 ' Well, your little Undine is very bewitching, 
 and much more than bewitching, true to the 
 core and loyal and loving. If only the hard- 
 ness of her life does not embitter her, I think 
 she will make a grand woman.' 
 
 ' Tell me what you did this afternoon/ said 
 Brian, ' you must have been some time with 
 them.'
 
 88 WE TWO. 
 
 Charles Osmond told him all that had pass- 
 ed ; theu continued, 
 
 ' She is, as I said, a fascinating bright little 
 Undine, inclined to be wilful, I should fancy, 
 and with a sort of warmth and quickness about 
 her whole character ; in many ways still a child, 
 and yet in others strangely old for her years ; 
 on the whole I should say as fair a specimen of 
 the purely natural being as you would often 
 meet with. The spiritual part of her is, I fancy, 
 asleep.' 
 
 ' No, I fancy to-night has made it stir for the 
 first time,' said Brian, and he told his father a 
 little of what had passed between himself and 
 Erica. 
 
 ^ And the Longfellow was, 1 suppose, from 
 you,' said Charles Osmond. ' I wish you could 
 have seen her delight over it ! Words absolute- 
 ly failed her. I don't think anyone else noticed 
 it, but, her own vocabulary coming to an end, 
 she turned to ours, it was '' What heavenly per- 
 son can have sent me this?" ' 
 
 Brian smiled^ but sighed too. 
 
 ' One talks of the spiritual side remaining
 
 ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 89 
 
 untouched,' he said, ^ yet how is it ever to be 
 otherwise than chained and fettered, while such 
 men as that Randolph are recognised as the 
 champions of our cause, while injustice and un- 
 kindness meet her at every turn, while it is 
 something rare and extraordinary for a Chris- 
 tian to speak a kind word to her ! If to-day 
 she has first reahsed that Christians need not 
 necessarily behave as brutes, I have realised a 
 little what life is from her point of view.' ' 
 
 ' Then realising that perhaps you may help 
 her, perhaps another chapter of the old legend 
 may come true, and you may be the means of 
 waking the spirit in your Undine.' 
 
 ' I ? Oh, no ! How can you think of it ! 
 You or Donovan, perhaps, but even that idea 
 seems to me wildly improbable.' 
 
 There was something in his humility and 
 sadness which touched his father inexpres- 
 sibly. 
 
 ' Well/ he said, after a pause, ' if you are 
 really prepared for all the suffering this love 
 must bring you, if you mean to take it, and 
 cherish it, and live for it, even though it brings
 
 90 WE TWO. 
 
 you no gain, but apparent pain and loss, then I 
 think it can only raise both you and your 
 Undine.' 
 
 Brian knew that not one man in a thousand 
 would have spoken in such a way : his father's 
 unworldliness was borne in upon him as it had 
 never been before. Greatly as he had always 
 reverenced and loved him, to-night his love and 
 reverence deepened unspeakably — the two were 
 drawn nearer to each other than ever. 
 
 It was not the habit in this house to make 
 the most sacred ties of life the butt for ill-timed 
 and ill-judged joking. No knight of old thought 
 or spoke more reverently or with greater re- 
 serve of his lady-love than did Brian of Erica. 
 He regarded himself now as one bound to do 
 her service, consecrated from that day forward 
 as her loyal knight.
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ERICA^S RESOLVE. 
 
 Men are tatooed with their special beliefs like so many 
 South-Sea Islanders ; but a real human heart, with Divine 
 love in it, beats with the same glow under all the patterns 
 of all earth's thousand tribes. 
 
 O. AVendell Holmes. 
 
 For the next fortnight Brian and Erica con- 
 tinued to pass each other every afternoon in 
 Gower Street, as they had done for so long, the 
 only difference was that now they greeted each 
 other, that occasionally Brian would be render- 
 ed happy for the rest of the day by some brief, 
 passing remark from his Undine, or by one of 
 her peculiarly bright smiles. One day, how- 
 ever, she actually stopped ; her face was 
 radiant.
 
 "92 WE TWO. 
 
 ' 1 must just tell you our good news,' she 
 said. ^ My father has won his case, and has got 
 heavy damages.' 
 
 'lam very glad,' said Brian. 'It must be a 
 great relief to you all to have it over.' 
 
 * Immense I Father looks as if a ton's weight 
 had been taken off his mind ! Now I hope we 
 shall have a little peace.' 
 
 With a hasty good-bye, she hurried on^ an 
 unusual elasticity in her light footsteps. In 
 Ouilford Square she met a political friend of her 
 father's, and was brought once more to a stand- 
 still. This time it was a little unwillingly, for 
 Monsieur Noirol teased her unmercifully, and at 
 their last meeting had almost made her angry by 
 talking of a friend of his at Paris who offered un- 
 told advantages to any clever and well-educated 
 English girl who wished to learn the language, 
 and who would in return teach her own. Erica 
 had been made miserable by the mere sugges- 
 tion that such a situation Avould suit her ; the 
 slightest hint that it might be well for her to 
 go abroad had roused in her a sort of terror lest 
 her father might ever seriously think of the
 
 erica's resolve. 93 
 
 scheme. She had not quite forgiven Monsieur 
 Noirol for having spoken, although the proposal 
 had not been gravely made, and probably only 
 persevered in out of the spirit of teasing. But 
 to-day Monsieur Noirol looked very grave. 
 
 ' You have heard our good news V said Erica. 
 ' Now, don't begin again about Madame Lemer- 
 cier's school ; I don't want to be made cross to- 
 day of all days, when 1 am so happy !' 
 
 ' I will tease you no more, dear mademoiselle,' 
 said the Frenchman ; but he offered no con- 
 gratulations, and there was somethiug in his 
 manner w^hich make Erica uneasy. 
 
 ' Is anything wrong? Has anything happen- 
 ed V she asked, quickly. 
 
 The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Who knows ! It is an evil world, Mademoi- 
 selle Erica, as you will realise when you have 
 lived in it as loug as I have. But I detain you. 
 Good-bye. Au rcvoir P 
 
 He took off his hat with a flourish, and passed 
 
 OD. 
 
 Erica, feeling baffled and a little cross,. 
 hurried home. Monsieur Noirol had not teased
 
 ^4 WE TWO. 
 
 her to-day, but he had been inscrutable and 
 tiresome, and he had made her feel uneasy. 
 She opened the front door, and went at once to 
 her father's study, pausing for a moment at the 
 sound of voices within. She recognised, how- 
 ever, that it was her cousin, Tom Craigie, who 
 was speaking, and without more dehiy she 
 entered. Then in a moment she understood 
 why M. Noirol had been so mysterious. Tom 
 was speaking quickly and strongly, and there 
 was a glow of anger on his face. Her father 
 "vvas standing with his back to the mantelpiece, 
 there was a sort of cold light in his eyes, which 
 filled Erica with dismay. Never in the most 
 anxious days had she seen him look at once so 
 anguy, jet so weighed down with care. 
 
 ' What is the matter V she questioned, breath- 
 lessly, instinctively turning to Tom, whose hot 
 anger was more approachable. 
 
 ' The scamp of a Christian has gone bank- 
 rupt,' he said, referring to the defendant in 
 the late action, but too furious to speak very 
 intelHgibly. 
 
 'Mr. Cheale, you mean'^ asked Erica.
 
 erica's resolve. 95 
 
 * The scoundrel ! Yes ! So not a farthing of 
 costs and damages shall we see ! It's the most 
 fiendish thing ever heard of 1' 
 
 ' \Yi]l the costs be very heavy?' 
 
 ' Heavy ! I should think they would indeed !' 
 He named the probable sum ; it seemed a fearful 
 addition to the already existing burden of debts. 
 
 A look of such pain and perplexity came over 
 Erica's face that Raeburn, for the first time 
 realising what was passing in the room, drew 
 her towards him, his face softening, and the 
 cold angry light in his eyes changing to 
 sadness. 
 
 * Never mind, my child,' be said, with a sigh. 
 * 'Tis a hard blow, but we must bear up. In- 
 justice won't triumph in the end.' 
 
 There was something in his voice and look 
 which made Erica feel dreadfully inclined to cry ; 
 but that would have disgraced her for ever in 
 the eyes of stoical Tom, so she only squeezed 
 Lis hand hard and tried to think of that far 
 distant future of which she had spoken to 
 Charles Osmond, when there would be no 
 tiresome Christians and bigots and law-suits.'
 
 96 WE TWO. 
 
 There was, however, one person in the house 
 wlio was invariably the recipient of all the 
 troubled confidences of others. In a very few- 
 minutes Erica had left the study and was curl- 
 ed up beside her mother's couch, talking out 
 unreservedly all her grief, and anger, and per- 
 plexity. 
 
 Mrs. Raeburn, delicate and invalided as she 
 was, had nevertheless a great deal of influence^ 
 though perhaps neither Raeburn, nor Erica, nor 
 warm-hearted Tom Craigie, understood how 
 much she did for them all. She was so unas- 
 suming, so little given to unnecessary speech, 
 so reticent, that her life made very little show, 
 while it had become so entirely a matter of 
 course that everyone should bring his private 
 troubles to her that it would have seemed 
 extraordinary not to meet with exactly the 
 sympathy and counsel needed. To-day, how- 
 ever, even Mrs. Raeburn was almost too despon- 
 dent to cheer the others. It comforted Erica to 
 talk to her, but she could not help feeling very 
 miserable as she saw the anxiety and sadness in 
 her mother's face.
 
 erica's resolve. 97 
 
 ' What more can we do, mother V she 
 questioned. 'I can't think of a single thing we 
 can give np.' 
 
 ' I really don't know, dear,' said her mother, 
 with a sigh. ' We have nothing but the abso- 
 lute necessaries of life now, except indeed your 
 education at the High School, and that is a very 
 trifling expense, and one which cannot be inter- 
 fered with.' 
 
 Erica was easily depressed, like most high- 
 spirited persons ; but she was not used to seeing 
 either her father or her mother despondent, and 
 the mere strangeness kept her from going down 
 to the very deepest depths. She had the feel- 
 ing that at least one of them must try to keep 
 up. Yet, do what she would, that evening was 
 one of the saddest and dreariest she had ever 
 spent. All the excitement of contest was over, 
 and a sort of dead weight of gloom seemed to 
 oppress them. Eaeburn was absolutely silent. 
 From the first Erica had never heard him com« 
 plain, but his anger, and afterwards his intense 
 depression, spoke volumes. Even Tom, her 
 friend and playfellow, seemed changed this 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 WE TWO. 
 
 evening, grown somehow from. a boy to a man ; 
 for there was a sternness about him which she 
 had never seen before, and which made the 
 days of their childhood seem far away. And 
 yet it was not so very long ago that she and 
 Tom had been the most light-hearted and care- 
 less beings in the world, and had imagined the 
 chief interest of life to consist in tending dor- 
 mice, and tame rats, and silkworms ! She won- 
 dered whether they could ever feel free again, 
 whether they could ever enjoy their long 
 Saturday afternoon rambles, or whether this 
 weight of care would always be upon them. 
 
 AVith a very heavy heart she prepared her 
 lessons for the next day, finding it somewhat 
 hard to take much interest in Magna Charta and 
 legal enactments in the time of King John, 
 when the legal enactments of to-day were so 
 much more mind-engrossing. Tom was sitting 
 opposite to her writing letters for Raeburn. 
 Once, notwithstanding his grave looks, she haz- 
 arded a question. 
 
 ' Tom/ she said, shutting up her ' History
 
 erica's. RESOLVE. 99 
 
 of the English People,' ' Tom, what do you think 
 will happen V 
 
 Tom looked across at her with angry yet 
 sorrowful eyes. 
 
 ' 1 think,^ he said, sternly, ' that the chieftain 
 will try to do the work of ten men at once, 
 and will pay off these debts or die in the at- 
 tempt.' 
 
 The ' chieftain ' was a favourite name among 
 the Raeburnites for their leader, and there was 
 a great deal of the clan feeling among them. 
 The majority of them were earnest, hard-work- 
 ing, thoughtful men, and their society was both 
 powerful and well-organised, while their per- 
 sonal devotion to Raeburn lent a vigour and 
 vitality to the whole body which might other- 
 wise have been lacking. Perhaps comparatively 
 few would have been enthusiastic for the 
 cause of atheism had not that cause been repre- 
 sented by a high-souled, self-denying man 
 whom they loved with all their hearts. 
 
 The dreary evening ended at length, Erica 
 helped her mother to bed, and then with slow 
 
 h2
 
 100 WE TWO. 
 
 steps climbed up to her little attic room. It 
 was cold and comfortless enough, bare of all 
 luxuries, but even here the walls were lined 
 with books, and Erica's little iron bedstead 
 looked somewhat incongruous, surrounded as it 
 was with dingy-looking volumes, dusty old 
 legal books, works of reference, books atheist- 
 ical^ theological, metaphysical, or scientific. On 
 one shelf amid this strangely heterogeneous 
 collection she kept her own particular treasures 
 — Brian's Longfellow, one or two of Dickens' 
 books which Tom had given her, and the 
 beloved old Grimm and Hans Andersen, which 
 had been the friends of her childhood, and which 
 for ' old sakes' sake ' she had never had the 
 heart to sell. The only other trace of her in 
 the strange little bed-room was in a wonderful 
 array of china animals on the mantelpiece. She 
 was a great animal-lover, and, being a favour- 
 ite with everyone^ she received many votive 
 offerings. Her shrine was an amusing one to 
 look at. A green china frog played a tuneless 
 guitar ; a pensive monkey gazed with clasped 
 hands and dreadfully human eyes into futurity;
 
 erica's resolve. 101 
 
 there were sagacious-looking elephants, placid 
 rhinoceroses, rampant hares, two pug dogs 
 clasped in an irrevocable embrace, an enormous 
 lobster, a diminutive polar bear, and in the 
 centre of all a most evil-looking jackdaw about 
 half-an-inch high. 
 
 But to-night the childish side of Erica was in 
 abeyance ; the cares of womanhood seemed 
 gathering upon her. She put out her candle 
 and sat down in the dark, racking her brain 
 for some plan by which to relieve her father and 
 mother. Their life was growing harder and 
 harder. It seemed to her that poverty in itself 
 Avas bearable enough, but that the ever-increas- 
 ing load of debt was not bearable. As long as 
 she could remember, it had always been like a 
 mill-stone tied about their necks, and the cease- 
 less petty economies and privations seemed of 
 little avail ; she felt very much as if she were 
 one of the Danaids, doomed for ever to pour 
 water into a vessel with a hole in it. 
 
 Yet in one sense she was better off than many, 
 for these debts were not selfish debts — no one 
 had ever known Raeburn to spend an unneces-
 
 102 WE TWO. 
 
 sary sixpence on himself; all this load had been 
 incurred in the defence of what he considered 
 the truth — by his unceasing struggles for liberty.. 
 She was proud of the debts, proud to suffer in 
 what she regarded as the sacred cause ; but in 
 spite of that she was almost in despair this 
 evening, the future looked so hopelessly black. 
 
 Tom's words rang in her head — ' The chief- 
 tain will try to do the work often men !' What 
 if he overworked himself as he had done once a 
 few years ago ? What if he died in the attempt ? 
 She wished Tom had not spoken so strongly. In 
 the friendly darkness she did not try to check 
 the tears which would come into her eyes at the 
 thought. Something must be done ! She must 
 in some way help him ! And then, all at once, 
 there flashed into her mind Monsieur Noirol's 
 teasing suggestion that she should go to Paris; 
 Here was a way in which, free of all expense, she 
 might finish her education, might practically 
 earn her living ! In this way she might indeed 
 help to lighten the load, but it would be at the 
 cost of absolute self-sacrifice. She must leave 
 home, and father and mother, and country I
 
 erica's resolve. 103 
 
 Erica was not exactly selfish but she was very 
 young. For a time the thought of the volun- 
 tary sacrifice seemed quite unbearable, she could 
 not make up her mind to it. 
 
 ' Why should I give up all this ! Why should 
 prejudice and bigotry spoil my whole life V she 
 thought, beginning to pace up and down the 
 room with quick agitated steps. ' Why should 
 we suffer because that w^retch has gone bank- 
 rupt '^ It is unfair, unjust, it can't be right.' 
 
 She leant her arms on the window-sill, and 
 looked out into the silent night. The stars 
 Avere shiniog peacefully enough, looking down 
 on this world of strife and struggle ; Erica grew 
 a little calmer as she looked ; Nature, with its 
 majesty of calmness, seemed to quiet her 
 troubled heart and ' sweep gradual gospels 
 in.' 
 
 From some recess of memory there came to 
 her some half-enigmatical w^ords;they had been 
 quoted by Charles Osmond in his speech, but 
 she did not remember where she had heard 
 them, only they began to ring in her ears 
 now :
 
 104 WE TWO. 
 
 ' There is no gain except by loss, 
 There is no life except by death, 
 
 Nor glory but by bearing shame. 
 Nor justice but by taking blame.' 
 
 She did not altogether understand the verse, 
 but there was a truth in it which could hardly 
 fail to come home to one who knew what per- 
 secution meant. What if the very blame and 
 injustice of the present brought in the future' 
 I'eign of justice ! She seemed to hear her 
 father's voice saying again, 
 
 ' We must bear up, child ; injustice won't 
 triumph in the end.' 
 
 ' There is no gain except by loss !' 
 
 What if her loss of home and friends brought 
 gain to the world ! That was a thought which 
 brought a glow of happiness to her even in the 
 midst of her pain. There was, after all, much 
 of the highest Christianity about her, though 
 she would have been very much vexed if any- 
 one had told her so, because Christianity meant 
 to her narrow-mindedness instead of brotherly 
 love. However it might be, there was no
 
 erica's resolve. 105 
 
 cleoying that the child of the great teacher of 
 atheism had grasped the true meaning of life, 
 had grasped it, and -svas prepared to act on it too. 
 She had always lived with those who were 
 ready to spend all in the promotion of the 
 general good ; and all that was true, all that 
 •was noble in her creed, all that had filled her 
 with admiration in the lives of those she loved, 
 came to her aid now. 
 
 She went softly down the dark staircase to 
 Kaeburn's study ; it was late, and, anxious not 
 to disturb the rest of the house, she opened 
 the door noiselessly and crept in. Her father 
 was sitting at his desk writing ; he looked 
 very stern, but there was a sort of grandeur 
 about his rugged face. He was absorbed in his 
 work and did not hear her, and for a minute she 
 stood quite still watching him, realising with 
 pain and yet with a happy pride how greatly 
 she loved him. Her heart beat fast at the 
 thought of helping him, lightening his load even 
 a little. 
 
 ' Father,' she said^ softly. 
 
 Raeburn w^as the sort of man who could not
 
 106 WE TWO. 
 
 be startled, but he looked up quickly, appar- 
 ently returning from some speculative region 
 Avith a slight effort. He was the most practical 
 of men, and yet for a minute he felt as if he 
 were living in a dream, for Erica stood beside him, 
 pale and beautiful, with a sort of heroic light 
 about her whole face which transformed her 
 from a merry child to a high-souled woman. 
 Instinctively he rose to speak to her. 
 
 '1 will not disturb you for more than a 
 minute, father,' she said, ' it is only that I have 
 thought of a way in which I think I could help 
 you if you would let me."* 
 
 ' Well, dear, what is it V said Raeburn, still 
 watching half-dreamily the exceeding beauty 
 of the face before him. Yet an undefined sense 
 of dread chilled his heart. Was anything too 
 hard or high for her to propose? He listened 
 without a word to her account of Monsieur 
 Noirol's Parisian scheme, to her voluntary 
 suggestion that she should go into exile for 
 two years. At the end he merely put a brief 
 question.
 
 107 
 
 ' Are you ready to bear two years of lone- 
 liness V 
 
 * I am ready to help yon,' she said_, with a 
 little quiver in her voice and a cloud of pain in 
 her eyes. 
 
 Raeburn turned away from her and began to 
 pace up and down the little room, his eyes not 
 altogether free from tears, for, pachydermatous 
 as he was accounted by his enemies, this man was 
 very tender over his child, he could hardly en- 
 dure to see her pain. Yet after all, though she 
 had given him a sharp pang, she had brought 
 him happiness which any father might envy. 
 He came back to her, his stern face inexpressibly 
 softened. 
 
 'And I am ready to be helped, my child ; it 
 shall be as you say.' 
 
 There was something in his voice and in the 
 gentle acceptance of help from one so strong 
 and self-reliant which touched Erica more than 
 any praise or demonstrative thanks could have 
 done. They were going to work together, he 
 had promised that she should fight side by side 
 with him.
 
 108 WE TWO. 
 
 ' Law-suits may ruin us,' said Raeburn, ' but, 
 after all, the evil has a way of helping out the 
 good.' He put his arm round her and kissed 
 her. ' You have taught me, little one, how 
 powerless and weak are these petty persecutions. 
 They can only prick and sting us ! Nothing 
 can really hurt us while we love the truth and 
 love each other.' 
 
 That was the happiest moment Erica had 
 ever known, already her loss had brought a rap- 
 turous gain. 
 
 ' I shall never go to sleep to-night,' she said. 
 ' Let me help you with your letters.' 
 
 Raeburn demurred a little, but yielded to her 
 entreaties, and for the next two hours the father 
 and daughter worked in silence. The bitter- 
 ness which had lurked in the earlier part of the 
 pamphlet that Raeburn had in hand was quite 
 lacking in its close ; the writer had somehow 
 been lifted into a higher, purer atmosphere, and 
 if his pen flew less rapidly over the paper, 
 it at any rate wrote words which would 
 long outlive the mere overflow of an angry 
 heart.
 
 erica's resolve. 109 
 
 Coming back to the world of realities at last 
 somewhere in the small hours, he found his fire 
 out, a goodly pile of letters ready for his signa- 
 ture, and his little amanuensis fast asleep in her 
 chair. Reproaching himself for having allowed 
 her to sit up, he took her in his strong arms as 
 though she had been a mere baby, and carried 
 her up to her room so gently that she never 
 woke. The next morning she found herself so 
 swathed in plaids and rugs and blankets that 
 she could hardly move, and, in s;)ite of a bad 
 headache_, could not help beginning the day 
 with a hearty laugh. 
 
 Raeburn was not a man who ever let the 
 grass grow under his feet_, his decisions were 
 made with thought, but with very rapid thought^ 
 and his action was always prompt. His case 
 excited a good deal of attention ; but long be- 
 fore the newspapers had ceased to wage war 
 either for or against him, long before the week- 
 ly journals had ceased to team with letters re- 
 lating to the law-suit, he had formed his plans 
 for the future. His home was to be completely 
 broken up. Erica was to go to Paris, his wife
 
 110 WE TWO. 
 
 was to live with his sister, Mrs. Craigie, and her 
 son Tom, who had agreed to keep on the lodg- 
 ings in Guilford Terrace, while for himself he 
 had mapped out such a programme of work as 
 could only have been undertaken by a man of 
 ' Titanic energy ' and * Herculean strength,' 
 epithets which even the hostile press invariably 
 bestowed on him. How great the sacrifice was 
 to him few people knew. As we have said be- 
 fore, the world regarded him as a target, and 
 would hardly have believed that he was in 
 reality a man of the gentlest tastes, as fond of 
 his home as any man in England_, a faithful 
 friend and a devoted father, and perhaps all the 
 more dependent on the sympathies of his own 
 circle because of the bitter hostility he encoun- 
 tered from other quarters. But he made his 
 plans resolutely, and said very little about 
 them either one way or the other, sometimes 
 even checking Erica when she grumbled for 
 him^ or gave vent to her indignation with re- 
 gard to the defendant. 
 
 * We work for freedom, little one,' he used to
 
 erica's resolve. Ill 
 
 say ; ' and it is ao honour to suffer in the cause 
 of liberty.' 
 
 ' But everyone says you will kill yourself with 
 overwork/ said Erica, ' and especially when you 
 are in America.' 
 
 ' They donH know what stuff I'm made of/ 
 said Raeburn ; ' and, even if it should use me up, 
 what then? It's better to wear out than to 
 rust out, as a wise man once remarked.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Erica, rather faintly. 
 
 • But I've no intention of wearing out just 
 yet,' said Raeburn, cheerfully. • You need not be 
 afraid, little son Eric ; and, if at the end of 
 these two years you do come back to find me 
 grey and wrinkled, what will that matter so 
 long as we are free once more. There's a good 
 time coming : we'll have the cosiest little home 
 in London yet.' 
 
 ' With a garden for you to work in,' said 
 Erica, brightening up like a child at the castle 
 in the air. ' And we'll keep lots of animals, 
 and never bother again about money all our 
 lives.'
 
 112 WE TWO. 
 
 Raeburn smiled at her ideas of felicity — no 
 cares, and plenty of dogs and cats ! He did 
 not anticipate any haven of rest at the end of 
 the two years for himself He knew that his life 
 must be a series of conflicts to the very end. 
 Still he hoped for relief from the load of debt, 
 and looked forward to the re-establishment of 
 his home. 
 
 Brian Osmond heard of the plans before long, 
 but he scarcely saw Erica ; the Christmas holi- 
 days began, and he no longer met her each 
 afternoon in Gower Street, while the time drew 
 nearer and nearer for her departure for Paris. 
 At lengthy on the very last day, it chanced that 
 they were once more thrown together. 
 
 Raeburn was a great lover of flowers, and he 
 very often received floral offerings from his 
 followers. It so ha])pened that some beautiful 
 hot-house flowers had been sent to him from a 
 nursery garden one day in January, and, un- 
 willing to keep them all, he had suggested that 
 Erica should take some to the neighbouring 
 hospitals. Now there were two hospitals in Guil- 
 ford Square ; Erica felt much more interested
 
 erica's resolve. 113 
 
 in the children's hospital than in the one for 
 grown-iip people ; but, wishing to be impartial, 
 she arranged a basketful for each, and well- 
 pleased to have anything to give^ hastened on 
 her errand. Much to her delight_, her first basket 
 of flowers was not only accepted very grate- 
 fully, but the lady superintendent took her over 
 the hospital, and let her distribute the flowers 
 among the children. She was very fond of 
 children, and was as happy as she could be 
 passing up and down among the little beds, 
 while her bright manner attracted the little 
 ones, and made them unusually affectionate and 
 responsive. 
 
 Happy at having been able to give them 
 pleasure^ and full of tender womanly thoughts, 
 she crossed the square to another small hospital ; 
 she was absorbed in pitiful loving humanity, 
 had forgotten altogether that the world count- 
 ed her as a heretic, and, wholly unprepared for 
 what awaited her, she was shown into the 
 visitors' room and asked to give her name. 
 Not only was Raeburn too notorious a name to 
 pass muster, but the head of the hospital knew 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 WE TWO. 
 
 Erica by sight, and had often met her out 
 of doors with her father. She was a stiff, 
 narrow-minded, uncompromising sort of person, 
 and in her own words was ' determined to have 
 no fellowship with the works of darkness.' 
 How she could consider bright-faced Erica, 
 with her loving thought for others and her 
 free gift, a ' work of darkness,' it is hard to 
 understand. She was not at all disposed, how- 
 ever, to be under any sort of obligation to an 
 atheist, and the result of it was that, after a 
 three minutes' interview. Erica found herself 
 once more in the square, with her flowers still 
 in her hand, * declined ivitJwut thanks.' 
 
 No one ever quite knew what the superinten- 
 dent had said to her, but apparently the rebuff 
 bad been very hard to bear. Not content with 
 declining any fellowship with the poor little 
 ' work of darkness,' she had gone on in accord- 
 ance with the letter of the text to reprove 
 her; and Erica left the house with burning 
 cheeks, and with a tumult of angry feeling 
 stirred up in her heart. She was far too angry 
 to know or care what she w^as doing ; she walk-
 
 erica's resolve. 115 
 
 ed down the quiet square in the very opposite 
 direction to ' Persecution Alley,' and might 
 have walked on for an indefinite time had not 
 some one stopped her. 
 
 ' I was hoping to see you before you left,' 
 said a pleasant, quiet voice close by her. She 
 looked up^ and saw Charles Osmond. 
 
 Thus suddenly brought to a standstill, she 
 became aware that she was trembling from 
 head to foot. A little delicate sensitive thing, 
 the unsparing censure and the rude reception 
 3he had just met with had quite upset her. 
 
 Charles Osmond retained her hand in his 
 strong clasp, and looked questioningly into her 
 bright, indignant eyes. 
 
 ' What is the matter my child V he asked. 
 
 ^ I am only angry,' said Erica, rather breath- 
 lessly, ' hurt and angry, because one of your 
 bigots has been rude to me.' 
 
 ' Come in, and tell me all about it,' said 
 Charles Osmond ; and there was something so 
 irresistible in his manner that Erica at once 
 allowed herself to be led into one of the tall, 
 old-fashioned houses and taken into a comfort- 
 
 i2
 
 116 WE TWO. 
 
 able and roomy study, the nicest room she had 
 ever been in. It was not luxurious, indeed, the 
 Turkey carpet was shabby and the furniture 
 well-worn, but it was homelike, and warm and 
 cheerful, evidently a room which was dear to 
 its owner. 
 
 Charles Osmond made her sit down in a cap- 
 acious arm-chair close to the fire. 
 
 ' Well, now, who was the bigot V he said, 
 in a voice that would have won the confidence 
 of a flint. 
 
 Erica told as much of the story as she could 
 bring herself to repeat, quite enough to show 
 Charles Osmond the terrible harm which may 
 be wrought by tactless modern Christianity. 
 He looked down very sorrowfully at the eager 
 expressive face of the speaker, it was at once 
 very white and very pink, for the child was 
 sorely wounded as well as indignant. She was 
 evidently, however, a little vexed with herself 
 for feeling the insult so keenly. 
 
 ' It is very stupid of me,' she said, laughing 
 a little, * it is time I was used to it, but I never 
 can help shakiug in this silly way when any-
 
 ERICA^S RESOLVE. Il7 
 
 one is rude to us. Tom laughs at me, aud says 
 I am made on wire springs like a twelfth- 
 cake butterfly ! But it is rather hard, isn't it, 
 to be shut out from everything, even from 
 giving V 
 
 ' I think it is both hard and wrong,' said 
 Charles Osmond. ' But we do not all shut you 
 out.' 
 
 ' No,' said Erica. ' You have always been 
 kind, you are not a bit like a Christian. .AVould 
 you,' — she hesitated a little, — ' would you take 
 the flowers instead V 
 
 It was said with a shy grace inexpressibly 
 winning. Charles Osmond was touched and 
 gratified. 
 
 ' They will be a great treat to us/ he said. 
 ' My mother is very fond of flowers. Will you 
 come upstairs and see her ? We shall find 
 afternoon tea going on, I expect.' 
 
 So the rejected flowers found a resting-place 
 in the clergyman's house^ and Brian coming in 
 from his rounds was greeted by a sight which 
 made his heart beat at double time. In the 
 <drawing-room beside his grandmother sat
 
 118 WE TWO. 
 
 Erica, her little fur hat pushed back, her gloves 
 off, busily arranging Christmas roses and red 
 camellias. Her anger had died away, she was 
 talking quite merrily. It seemed to Briau 
 more like a beautiful dream than a bit of every- 
 day life, to have her sitting there so naturally 
 in his home ; but the note of pain was struck 
 before long. 
 
 ' I must go home,' she said. ' This is my 
 last day, you know. I am going to Paris to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 A sort of sadness seemed to fall on them at 
 the words, only gentle Mrs. Osmond said, 
 cheerfully, 
 
 * You will come to see us again when you 
 come back, will you not V 
 
 And then with the privilege of the aged she 
 drew down the young fresh face to hers and 
 kissed it. 
 
 ' You will let me see you home,' said Brian. 
 ' It is getting dark.' 
 
 Erica laughingly protested that she was Avell 
 used to taking care of herself, but it ended in 
 Brian's triumphing. So together they crossed
 
 erica's resolye. 119 
 
 the quiet square. Erica chattered away merrily 
 enough, but as they reached the narrow en- 
 trance to Guilford Terrace a shadow stole over 
 her face. 
 
 ' Oh !' she exclaimed, ' this is the last time I 
 shall come home for two w4iole years.' 
 
 ' You go for so long V said Brian, stifling a 
 sigh. 'You won't forget your English friends/ 
 
 ' Do you mean that you count yourself our 
 friend V asked Erica, smiling. 
 
 ' If you will let me.' 
 
 ' That is a funny word to use,' she replied, 
 laughing. 'You see, we are treated as outlaws 
 generally. I don't think anyone ever said 
 " will you let " to me before. This is our house ; 
 thank you for seeing me home.' Then, with a 
 roguish look in her eyes, she added, demurely, 
 but with a slight emphasis on the last word, 
 ' Good-bye, my friend.' 
 
 Brian turned away sadly enough, but he had 
 not gone far when he heard flying footsteps, 
 and looking back saw Erica once more. 
 
 ' Oh, I just came to know whether by any 
 chance you want a kitten,' she said, ' I have a
 
 120 WE TWO. 
 
 real beauty which T want to find a nice home for.' 
 
 Of course Brian wanted a kitten at once ; 
 one would have imagined by the eagerness of 
 his manner that he was devoted to the whole 
 feline tribe. 
 
 * Well, then, will you come in and see it,' 
 said Erica. ' He really is a very nice kitten, 
 and I shall go away much happier if I can see 
 him settled in life first.' 
 
 She took him in, introduced him to her 
 mother, and ran off in search of the cat, return- 
 ing in a few minutes with a very playful-look- 
 ing tabby. 
 
 ' There he is,' she said, putting the kitten on 
 the table with an air of pride. * I don't believe 
 he has an equal in all London.' 
 
 ' What do you call him V asked Brian. 
 
 'His name is St. Anthony/ said Erica. "Oh, 
 I hope, by-the-by, you won't object to that, it 
 was no disrespect to St. Anthony at all, but only 
 that he always will go and preach to my gold 
 fish. We'll make him do it now to show you. 
 Come along, Tony, and give them a sermon, 
 there's a good little kit !'
 
 erica's resolve. 121 
 
 She put him on a side table, and he at once 
 rested his front paws on a large glass bowl and 
 peered down at the gold fish with great 
 curiosity. 
 
 ' I believe he would have drowned himself 
 sooner or later, like Gray's cat, so I daresay it 
 is a good thing for him to leave. You will be 
 kind to him, won't you?' 
 
 Brian promised that he should be well attend- 
 ed to, and indeed there w^as little doubt that 
 St. Anthony would from that day forth be lap- 
 ped in luxury. He went away with his new 
 master very contentedly, Erica following them 
 to the door with farewell injunctions. 
 
 ' And you'll be sure to butter his feet well, or 
 -else he won't stay with you. Good-bye, dear 
 Tony. Be a good little cat I' 
 
 Brian was pleased to have this token from his 
 Undine, but at the same time ho could not help 
 seeing that she cared much more about parting 
 with the kitten than about saying good-bye to 
 him. Well, it was something to have that 
 lucky St. Anthony, who had been fondled and 
 kissed. And after all it was Erica's very child-
 
 122 WE TWO. 
 
 ishness and simplicity which made her so dear 
 to him. 
 
 As soon as they were out of sight, Erica, with 
 the thought of the separation beginning to 
 weigh upon her. went back to her mother. 
 They knew that this was the hist quiet time 
 they should have together for many long 
 months. But last days are not good days for 
 talking. They spoke very little. Every now 
 and then Mrs. Raeburn would make some 
 inquiry about the packing or the journey, or 
 would try to cheer the child by speaking of the 
 home they would have at the end of the two 
 years. But Erica was not to be comforted, a 
 dull pain was gnawing at her heart, and the 
 present was not to be displaced by any visions 
 of a golden future. 
 
 ' If it were not for leaving ^^ou alone, mother, 
 I shouldn't mind so much,' she said, in rather a 
 choked voice. ' But it seems to me that you 
 have the hardest part of all.' 
 
 ' Aunt Jean will be here, and Tom,' said Mrs. 
 Raeburn. 
 
 ' Aunt Jean is very kind,' said Erica, doubt-
 
 erica's resolve. 123 
 
 fully. 'But she doesn't know how to nurse 
 people. Tom is the one hope, and he has 
 promised always to tell me the whole truth 
 about you ; so, if you get worse, I shall come 
 home directly.' 
 
 ' You mustn't grudge me my share of the 
 work/ said Mrs. Kaeburn. ' It would make me 
 very miserable if I did hinder you or your 
 father.' 
 
 Erica sighed. 
 
 ' You and father are so dreadfully public 
 spirited ! And yet, oh, mother ! what does the 
 whole world matter to me if I think you are 
 uncomfortable, and wretched, and alone V 
 
 ' You will learn to think differently, dear, by- 
 and-by,' said her mother, kissing the eager 
 troubled face. * And, when you fancy me lone- 
 ly, you can picture me instead as proud and 
 happy in thinking of my brave little daughter 
 who has gone into exile of her own accord to 
 help the cause of truth and liberty.' 
 
 They were inspiriting words, and they 
 brought a glow to Erica's face ; she choked 
 down her own personal pain. No religious
 
 124 , WE TWO. 
 
 martyr went through the time of trial more 
 bravely than Luke Raeburn's daughter lived 
 through the next four-and-twenty hours. She 
 never forgot even the most trivial incident of 
 that day, it seemed burnt in upon her brain. 
 The dreary waking on the dark winter morn- 
 ing, the hurried farewells to her aunt and Tom, 
 the last long embrace from her mother, the 
 drive to the station, her father's recognition on 
 the platform, the rude staring and ruder com- 
 ments to which they were subjected, then the 
 one supreme wrench of parting, the look of 
 pain in her father s face, the trembling of his 
 voice, the last long look as the train moved off, 
 and the utter loneliness of all that followed. Then 
 came dimmer recollections, not less real but more 
 confused, of a merry set of fellow-passengers 
 who were going to enjoy themselves in the 
 South of France ; of a certain little packet which 
 her father had placed in her hand, and which 
 proved to be 'Mill on Liberty'; of her eager 
 perusal of the first two or three chapters ; of the 
 many instances of the ' tyranny of the majority ' 
 which she had been able to produce not without
 
 erica's resolve. 125 
 
 a certain satisfaction. And afterwards more 
 vividly she could recall the last look at England, 
 the dreary arrival at Boulogne, the long, weary 
 railway journey, and the friendly reception 
 at Madame Lemercier's school. No one could 
 deny that her new life had been bravely 
 begun.
 
 126 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PARIS. 
 
 But we wake in the young morning when the light is 
 
 breaking forth ; 
 And look out on its misty gleams, as if the noon were full ; 
 And the Infinite around, seems but a larger kind of earth 
 Ensphering this, and measured by the self-same handy rule. 
 Hilda among the Broken Gods. 
 
 Not unfrequently the most important years of a 
 life, the years which tell most on the character_, 
 are unmarked by any notable events. A steady, 
 orderly routine, a gradual progression, persever- 
 ance in hard work, often do more to educate 
 and form than a varied and eventful life. 
 Erica's two years of exile were as monotonous 
 and quiet as the life of the secularist's daughter 
 could possibly be. There came to her, of
 
 PARIS. 127 
 
 course, from the distance the echoes of her 
 father's strife ; but she was far removed from it 
 all, and there was little to disturb her mind in 
 the quiet Parisian school. There is no need to 
 dwell on her uneventful life, and a very brief 
 description of her surroundings will be sufficient 
 to show the sort of atmosphere in which she 
 lived. 
 
 The school w^as a large one, and consisted 
 principally of French provincial girls, sent to 
 Paris to finish their education. Some of them 
 Erica liked exceedingly ; every one of them was 
 to her a curious and interesting study. She 
 liked to hear them talk about their home life, 
 and, above all things, to hear their simple, naive 
 remarks about religion. Of course she was on 
 her honour not to enter into discussions with 
 them, and they regarded all English as heretics, 
 and did not trouble themselves to distinguish 
 between the different grades. But there was no- 
 thing to prevent her from observing and listen- 
 ing, and with some wonder she used to hear 
 discussions about the dresses for the ' Premiere 
 Communion,' remarks about the various services,
 
 128 WE TWO. 
 
 or laments over the coufession papers. The 
 girls went to confession once a month, and 
 there was always a day in which they had ta 
 prepare and write out their misdemeanours. 
 One day, a little, thin, delicate child from the 
 South of France came up to Erica with her con- 
 fession in her hand. 
 
 ' Dear, good Erica,' she said, wearily, ' have 
 the kindness to read this, and to correct my 
 mistakes.' 
 
 Erica took the little thing on her knee and 
 began to read the paper. It was curiously 
 spelt. Before very long she came to the sen- 
 tence, ' J^ai trop mange.' 
 
 ' Why, Ninette,' exclaimed Erica, * you hardly 
 eat enough to feed a sparrow ; it is nonsense to 
 put that.' 
 
 ' Ah, but it was a fast day,' sighed Ninette, 
 ' And I felt hungry, and did really eat more 
 than I need have.' 
 
 Erica felt half angry and contemptuous, half 
 amused, and could only hope that the priest 
 w^ould see the pale, thin face of the little penitent 
 and realise the ludicrousness of the confession.
 
 PARIS. 129 
 
 Another time all the girls had been to some 
 special service ; on their return she asked what 
 it had been about. 
 
 ' Oh,' remarked a bright-faced girl, 'it was about 
 the seven joys — or the seven sorrows — of Mary.'' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say you don't know whether 
 it was very solemn or very joyful V asked Erica, 
 astonished and amused. 
 
 ' I am really not sure,' said the girl, with the 
 most placid good-tempered indifference. 
 
 On the whole, it was scarcely to be wondered 
 at that Erica was not favourably impressed with 
 Roman Catholicism. 
 
 She was a great favourite with all the girls ; 
 but, though she was very patient and persever- 
 ing, she did not succeed in making any of them 
 fluent English speakers, and learnt their lan- 
 guage far better than they learnt hers. Her 
 three special friends were not among the pupils, 
 but among the teachers. Dear old Madame 
 Lemercier with her good-humoured black eyes, 
 her kind demonstrative ways, and her delight- 
 ful stories about the time of the war and 
 the siege, was a friend worth having. So was 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 IBO 
 
 WE TWO. 
 
 her husband, Monsieur Lemercier the journalist. 
 He was a little dried-up man, with a fierce 
 black moustache ; he was sarcastic and witty, 
 and he would talk politics by the hour together 
 to anyone who would listen to him, especially 
 if they would now and then ask a pertinent and 
 intelligent question which gave him scope for 
 
 an oration. 
 
 Erica made a delightful listeQei- for she was 
 always anxious to learia and to understaad, and 
 before long she was quite au fait, and under- 
 stood a great deal about that exceedingly com- 
 plicated thing, the French political system. 
 Monsieur Lemercier was a fiery, earnest little 
 man with very strong convictions ; he had been 
 exiled as a Communist but had now returned, 
 and was a very vigorous and impassioned writer 
 in one of the advanced Republican journals. He 
 and his wife became very fond of Erica, Madame 
 Lemercier loving her for her brightness and 
 readiness to help, and monsieur for her beauty 
 and her quickness of perception. It was sur- 
 prising and gratifying to meet with a girl who, 
 ■(vithout being afemme savante, was yet capable
 
 PARIS. 131 
 
 of understanding the difference between the 
 Extrenae Left and the Left Centre, and who took 
 a real interest in what was passing in the 
 world. 
 
 But Erica's greatest friend was a certain 
 Fraulein Sonnenthal, the German governess. 
 She was a kind-eyed Hanoverian, homely and 
 by no means brilliantly clever, but there was 
 something in her unselfishness and in her un- 
 assuming humility that won Erica's heart. She 
 never would hear a word against the Fraulein. 
 
 ' Wh}^ do you care so much for Fraulein 
 Sonnenthal V she was often asked. ' She seems 
 uninteresting and dull to us.' 
 
 ' I love her because she is so good,' was Erica's 
 invariable reply. 
 
 She and the Fraulein shared a bed-room, and 
 many were the arguments they had together. 
 The effect of being separated from her own 
 people was, very naturally, to make Erica a 
 more devoted Secularist. She was exceedingly 
 enthusiastic for what she considered the truth, 
 and not unfrequently grieved and shocked the 
 Lutheran Fraulein by the vehemence of her 
 
 k2
 
 132 WE TWO. 
 
 statements. Very often they would argne far 
 on into the niglit ; they never quarrelled, how- 
 ever hot the dispute, but the fraulein often had 
 a sore time of it ; for, naturally, Luke Raeburn's 
 daughter was w^ell-up in all the debateable 
 points, and she had, moreover, a good deal of 
 her father's rapidity of thought and gift of 
 speech. She was always generous, however, 
 and the Fraulein had in some respects the ad- 
 vantage of her, for they spoke in German. 
 
 One scene in that little bed-room Erica never 
 forgot. They had gone to bed one Easter-eve, 
 and had somehow fallen into a long and stormy 
 argument about the resurrection and the doc- 
 trine of immortality. Erica, perhaps because she 
 was conscious of the ' weakness ' she had con- 
 fessed to Brian Osmond, argued very warmly on 
 the other side ; the poor little Fraulein was 
 grieved beyond measure^ and defended her faith 
 gallantly, though as she feared very ineffectu- 
 ally. Her arguments seemed altogether ex- 
 tinguished by Erica's remorseless logic, she was 
 not nearly so clever, and her very earnestness 
 seemed to trip her up and make all her sen-
 
 PARIS. 133 
 
 tences broken and incomplete. They discussed 
 the subject till Erica was hoarse, and at last from 
 very weariness she fell asleep while the Lutheran 
 was giving her a long quotation from St. Paul. 
 
 She slept for two or three hours ; when she 
 woke, the room was flooded with silvery moon- 
 light, the w^ooden cross which hung over the 
 German's bed stood out black and distinct, but 
 the bed was empty. Erica looked round the 
 room uneasily, and saw a sight which she 
 never forgot. 
 
 The Fraulein was kneeling beside the win- 
 dow, and even the cold moonlight could not 
 chill or hide the wonderful brightness of her 
 face. She was a plain, ordinary little woman, 
 but her face was absolutely transformed ; there 
 was something so beautiful and yet so unusual 
 in her expression that Erica could not speak or 
 move, but lay watching her almost breathlessly. 
 The spiritual world about which they had been 
 speaking must be very real indeed to Thekla 
 Sonnenthal ! Was it possible that this was 
 the work of delusion ? While she mused, her 
 friend rose, came straight to her bedside, and
 
 134 ^VE T^YO. 
 
 bent over her with a look of such love and 
 tenderness that Erica, though not generally 
 demonstrative could not resist throwing her 
 arms round her neck. 
 
 ' Dear Sunnyvale ! you look just like your 
 name !' she exclaimed, ' all brightness and hu- 
 mility! AVhat have you been doing to grow so 
 like Murillo's Madonna V 
 
 'I thought you were asleep/ said the Frau- 
 lein. ' Good night, JierzhldttcJien, or rather 
 good morning, for the Easter Day has 
 begun/ 
 
 Perhaps Erica liked her all the better for 
 saying nothing more definite, but in the or- 
 dinary sense of the word she did not have a 
 good night, for long after Thekla Sonnenthal 
 was asleep, and dreaming of her German home, 
 Luke Raeburn's daughter lay awake, thinking 
 of the faith which to some was such an intense 
 reality. Had there been anything excited or 
 unreal about her companion's manner, she 
 would not have thought twice about it, but her 
 tranquillity and sweetness seemed to her very 
 remarkable. Moreover, Fraulein Sonnenthal
 
 PARIS. 135 
 
 was strangely devoid of imagination ; she was a 
 matter-of-fact little person, not at all a likely 
 subject for visions and delusions. Erica was 
 perplexed. Once more there came to her that 
 uncomfortable question, — ' Supposing Christi- 
 anity were true V 
 
 The moonlight paled and the Easter morn 
 broke, and still she tossed to and fro haunted 
 by doubts which would not let her sleep. But 
 by-and-by she returned to the one thing which 
 was absolutely certain, namely that her Ger- 
 man friend was loveable and to be loved, what- 
 ever her creed. 
 
 And, since Erica's love was of the practical 
 order, it prompted her to get up early, dress 
 noiselessly, and steal out of the room without 
 waking her companion ; then, with all the church 
 bells ringing and the devout citizens hurrying 
 to mass, she ran to the nearest flower-stali, 
 spent one of her very few half-francs on the 
 loveliest white rose to be had, and carried it 
 back as an Easter offering to the Frauleiu. 
 
 It was fortunate in every way that Erica 
 had the little German lady for her friend, for
 
 136 WE T^YO. 
 
 she would often have fared badly without some 
 one to nurse and befriend her. 
 
 She was very delicate, and worked far too 
 hard ; for, besides all her work in the school, she 
 was preparing for an English examination 
 which she had set her heart on trying as soon 
 as she went home. Had it not been for Frau- 
 lein Sonnenthal, she would more than once 
 have thoroughly overworked herself ; and in- 
 deed as it was, the strain of that two years 
 told severely on her strength. 
 
 But the time wore on rapidly, as very fully 
 occupied time always does, and Erica's list of 
 days grew shorter and shorter, and the letters 
 from her mother were more and more full of 
 plans for the life they would lead when she 
 came home. The two years would actually 
 end in January ; Erica was however to stay in 
 Paris till the following Easter, partly to oblige 
 Madame Lemercier, partly becan.se by that 
 time her father hoped to be in a great measure 
 free from his embarrassments, able once more 
 to make a home for her.
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 WHAT THE XEW YEAR BROUGHT. 
 
 A voice grows with tlie growing years ; 
 Earth, hushing down her bitter cry, 
 Looks upward from her graves, and hears, 
 ' The Resurrection and the Life am L' 
 
 O Love Divine, — whose constant beam 
 Shines on the eyes that will not see, 
 ' And waits to bless us, while we dream 
 Thou leavest us because we turn from Thee ! 
 
 Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed Thou know'st, 
 AVide as our need Thy favours fall ; 
 The white wings of the Holy Ghost 
 Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 It was the eve of the New Year, and great 
 excitement prevailed in the Lemerciers' house. 
 Many of the girls whose homes were at a dis- 
 tance had remained at school for the short
 
 138 WE TWO. 
 
 winter holiday, and on this particular afternoon 
 a number of them were clustered round the 
 stove talking about the festivities of the 
 morrow and the presents they were likely to 
 have. 
 
 Erica^ who was now a tall and very pretty girl 
 of eighteen, was sitting on the hearthrug with 
 Ninette on her lap ; she was in very high spirits 
 and kept the little group in perpetual laughter, 
 so much so indeed that Fraulein Sonnenthal 
 had more than once been obliged to interfere, 
 and do her best to quiet them. 
 
 ' How wild thou art, dear Erica !' she exclaim- 
 ed. ' What is it r 
 
 ' I am happy, that is all,' said Erica. ' You 
 would be happy if the year of freedom were 
 just dawning for you. Three months more and 
 I shall be home !' 
 
 She was like a child in her exultant happi- 
 ness, far more child-like, indeed, than the 
 grave little Ninette w^hom she was nursing. 
 
 'Thou art not dignified enough for a teacher,* 
 said the Fraulein, laughingly. 
 
 ' She is no teacher,' cried the girls. ' It i&
 
 TVHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 139 
 
 holiday time, and she need not talk that fright- 
 ful English.' 
 
 Erica made a laughing defence of her native 
 tongue, and such a babel ensned that the Frau- 
 lein had to interfere again. 
 
 ' Liebe Erica ! Thou art beside thyself. What 
 has come to thee?' 
 
 ' Only joy, dear Thekla, at the thought of the 
 beautiful New Year which is coming,' cried 
 Erica. 'Father would say I was ''fey," and 
 should pay for all this fun with a bad headache 
 or some misfortune. Come, give me the French 
 " David Copperfield," and let me read you how 
 " Barkis veut bien ' and ^' Mrs. Gummidge a pense 
 de I'ancien." ' 
 
 The reading was more exquisitely ludicrous 
 to Erica herself than to her hearers. Still the 
 wit of Charles Dickens, even when translated, 
 called forth peals of laughter from the French 
 girls, too. It was the brightest happiest little 
 group imaginable ; perhaps it was scarcely 
 wonderful that old Madame Lemercier, when 
 she came to break it up, should find her eyes 
 dim with tears.
 
 140 WE TWO. 
 
 ' My dear Erica ' she said, and broke-oft 
 
 abruptly. 
 
 Erica looked Tip with laughing eyes. 
 
 * Don't scold, dear madame,' she said, coax- 
 iugly. ' We have been very noisy ; but it is New 
 Year's Eve, and we are so happy.' 
 
 ^ Dear child, it is not that,' said madame. ' I 
 want to speak to you for a minute ; come with 
 me, chcrie.^ 
 
 Still Erica noticed nothing ; did not detect the 
 tone of pity, did not wonder at the terms of 
 endearment which were generally reserved for 
 more private use. She followed madame into 
 the hall, still chattering gaily. 
 
 'The " David Copperfield^' is for monsieur's 
 present to-morrow,' she said, laughingly. ' I 
 knew he was too lazy to read it in English, so 
 I got him a translation.' 
 
 'My dear,' said madame^ taking her hand, 
 ' try to be quiet a moment. I — I have something 
 to tell you. My poor little one, monsieur your 
 father is arrived ' 
 
 ' Father ! father here !' exclaimed Erica, in a 
 transport of delight. 'Where is he, where?'
 
 WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 141 
 
 Oh, madame, why didn't yoii tell me sooner?' 
 
 Madame Lemercier tried in vain to detaia 
 her, as with cheeks all glowing with happiness 
 and dancing eyes, she ran at full speed to the 
 salon. 
 
 ' Father !' she cried, throwing open the door 
 and running to meet him. Then suddenly she 
 stood quite still as if petrified. 
 
 Beside the crackling wood fire, his arms on 
 the chimney-piece, his face hidden, stood a grey- 
 haired man. He raised himself as she spoke. 
 His news was in his face, it was written all too 
 plainly there. 
 
 ' Father I' gasped Erica, in a voice which 
 seemed altogether different from the first ex- 
 clamation, almost as if it belonged to a differ- 
 ent person. 
 
 Raeburn took her in his arms. 
 
 ' My child — my poor little Eric,' he said. 
 
 She did not speak a word, hut clung to him 
 as though to keep herself from falling. In one 
 instant it seemed as though her whole world 
 had been wrecked, her life shattered. She 
 could not even realise that her father was
 
 142 WE TWO. 
 
 still left to her, except in so far as the mere 
 bodily support was concerned. He was strong ; 
 she clung to him as in a hurricane she would 
 iiave clung to a rock. 
 
 ' Say it/ she gasped, after a timeless silence 
 perhaps of minutes, perhaps of hours, it might 
 have been centuries for aught she knew. ' Say 
 it in words.' 
 
 She wanted to know everything, wanted to 
 reduce this huge, overwhelming sorrow to 
 something intelligible. Surely in words it 
 would not be so awful — so limitless. 
 
 And he said it, speaking in a low repressed 
 voice, yet very tenderly, as if she had been a 
 little child. She made a great effort to listen, 
 but the sentences only came to her disjointedly, 
 and as if from a great distance. It had been 
 very sudden — a two hours' illness, no very 
 great suffering. He had been lecturing at 
 Birmingham — had been telegraphed for — had 
 been too late. 
 
 Ei-ica made a desperate effort to realise it all ; 
 at last she brought down the measureless agony 
 to actual words, repeating them over and over 
 to herself — ' Mother is dead.'
 
 WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 143 
 
 At length she had grasped the idea ! Her 
 heart seemed to die within her, a strange blue 
 shade passed over her face, her limbs stiffened. 
 She felt her father carry her to the window, was 
 perfectly conscious of everything, watched as 
 in a dream whilst he wrenched open the clumsy 
 fastening of the casement, heard the voices in 
 the street below, heard too in the distance the 
 sound of churcli bells, was vaguely conscious of 
 relief as the cold air blew upon her. 
 
 She was lying on a couch, and, if left to 
 herself, might have lain there for hours in that 
 strange state of absolute prostration. But she 
 was not alone, and gradually she realised it. 
 Very slowly the re-beginning of life set in, the 
 consciousness of her father's presence awaken- 
 ed her as it were from her dream of unmitigated 
 pain. She sat up, put her arms round his neck 
 and kissed him ; then for a minute let her ach- 
 ing head rest on his shoulder. Presently, in a 
 low but steady voice, she said, 
 
 ' What would you like me to do, father V 
 
 ' To come home with me now if you are able,' 
 he said ; ' to-morrow morning, though, if you 
 would rather wait, dear.'
 
 144 WE TWO. 
 
 But the idea of waiting seemed intolerable to 
 her. The very sound of the word was hatefuL 
 Had she not waited two weary years, and this 
 was the end of it all? Any action, any present 
 doing however painful, but no more waiting ! 
 No terrible pause in which more thoughts and, 
 therefore, more pain might grow. Outside in. 
 the passage they met Madame Lemercier, and 
 presently Erica found herself surrounded by 
 kind helpers, wondering to find them all so 
 tearful when her own eyes felt so hot and dry. 
 They were very good to her ; but, separated 
 from her father, her sorrow again completely 
 overwhelmed her, she could not then feel the 
 slightest gratitude to them or the slightest 
 comfort from their sympathy. She lay motion- 
 less on her little white bed, her eyes fixed on the 
 wooden cross on the opposite wall, or from time 
 to time glancing at Fraulein Sonnenthal, who, 
 with little Ninette to help, was busily packing 
 her trunk. And all the while 'she said again 
 and again the words which summed up her 
 sorrow, 
 
 ' Mother is dead ! Mother is dead !'
 
 TVHAT THE NEW YEAK BROUGHT. 145 
 
 After a time her eyes fell on her elaborate- 
 ly-drawn paper of days. Every evening since 
 her first arrival she had gone through the al- 
 most religious ceremony of marking-ofF the 
 day ; it had often been a great consolation to 
 her. The paper was much worn ; the weeks 
 and days yet to be marked were few in number. 
 She looked at it now, and if there can be a 
 'more' to absolute grief, an additional pang to 
 unmitigated sorrow, it came to her at the sight 
 of that visible record of her long exile. She 
 snatched down the paper and tore it to jDieces ; 
 then sank back again, pale and breathless, 
 Fraulein Sonnenthal saw and understood. She 
 came to her, and kissed her. 
 
 ' Herzblattchen,' she said, almost in aw^iisper^ 
 and, after a moment's pause, ' Ein feste Burg ist 
 nnser Gott.' 
 
 Erica made an impatient gesture, and turned 
 away her head. 
 
 ' Why does she choose this time of all others 
 to tell me so,' she thought to herself. ' Now, 
 "when I can't argue or even think ! A sure 
 tower ! Could a delusion make one feel that 
 
 YOL. I. L
 
 146 WE TWO. 
 
 anything is sure but death at such a time as 
 this ! Everything is gone — or going. Mother 
 is dead ! — mother is dead ! Yet she meant to be 
 be kind, poor Thekla, she didn't know it would 
 hurt.' 
 
 Madame Lemercier came into the room with 
 a cup of coifee and a brioche. 
 
 ' You have a long journey before you, my 
 little one/ she said ; ' you must take this before 
 you start.' 
 
 Yes, there was the journey ! that was a com- 
 fort. There was som.ething to be done, some- 
 thing hard and tiring — surely it would blunt 
 her perceptions ! She started up with a strange 
 sort of energy, put on her hat and cloak, swal- 
 lowed the food with an effort, helped to lock 
 her trunk, moved rapidly about the room, look- 
 ing for any chance possession which might have 
 been left out. There was such terrible anguish 
 in her tearless eyes that little Ninette shrank 
 away from her in alarm. Madame Lemercier, 
 who in the time of the siege had seen great 
 suffering, had never seen anything like this ; 
 even Thekla Sonnenthal realised that for the
 
 WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 147 
 
 time she was beyond the reach of human 
 comfort. 
 
 Before long the farewells were over. Erica 
 was once more alone with her father, her cheeks 
 w^et with the tears of others, her own eyes still 
 hot and dry. They were to catch the four 
 o'clock train ; the afternoon was dark, and al- 
 ready the streets and shops were lighted ; 
 Paris, ever bright and gay, seemed to-night 
 brighter and gayer than ever. She watched 
 the placid-looking passengers_, the idle loungers 
 at the cafes ; — did they know what pain was ? 
 Did they know that death was sure ? Present- 
 ly she found herself in a second-class carriage, 
 wedged-in between her father and a heavy- 
 featured priest, who diligently read a little 
 dogs'-eared breviary. Opposite was a meek, 
 weasel-faced bourgeois, with a managing wife, 
 who ordered him about ; then came a bushy- 
 whiskered Englishman and a newly-married 
 couple, while in the further corner, nearly hidden 
 from view by the burly priest, lurked a gentle- 
 looking Sister of Mercy, and a mischievous and 
 fidgetty schoolboy. She watched them all as 
 
 l2
 
 148 WE TWO. 
 
 in a dream of pain. Presently the priest left-off 
 muttering and began to snore, and sleep fell, 
 too, upon the occupants of the opposite seat. 
 The little weasel-faced man looked most un- 
 comfortable, for the Englishman used him as 
 a prop on one side and the managing wife 
 nearly overwhelmed him on the other ; he slept 
 fitfully, and always with the air of a martyr, 
 waking up every few minutes and vainly trying 
 to shake off his burdens, who invariably made 
 stifled exclamations and sank back again. 
 
 ' That would have been funny once,' thought 
 Erica to herself. ' How I should have laughed. 
 Shall I always be like this all the rest of my 
 life, seeing what is ludicrous, yet with all the 
 fun taken out of it?' 
 
 But her brain reeled at the thought of the 
 ' rest of life.' The blank of bereavement, terri- 
 ble to allj was absolute and eternal to her, and 
 this was her first great sorrow. She had known 
 pain, and privation, and trouble and anxiety, 
 but actual anguish never. Now it had come to 
 her, suddenly, irrevocably, never to be either 
 more or less ; perhaps to be fitted on as a gar-
 
 WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 149 
 
 ment as time wore on, and to become a natural 
 part of her life ; but always to be the same, a 
 blank often felt, always present, till at length 
 her end came and she too passed away into the 
 great Silence. 
 
 Despair — the deprivation of all hope — is 
 sometimes wild, but oftener calm with a death- 
 ly calmness. Erica was absolutely still, — she 
 scarcely moved or spoke during the long weary 
 journey to Calais. Twice only did she feel the 
 slightest desire for any outward vent. At the 
 Amiens station the school-boy in the corner, 
 who had been growing more restless and 
 excited every hour, sprang from the carriage to 
 greet a small crowd of relations who were 
 waiting to welcome him. She saw him rush to 
 his mother, heard a confused, affectionate Babel 
 of tongues, inquiries, congratulations, laughter. 
 Oh! to think of that happy light-heartedness 
 and the contrast between it and her grief. 
 The laughter seemed positively to cut her ; she 
 could have screamed from sheer pain. And, as 
 if cruel contrasts were fated to confront her, 
 no sooner had her father established her in the
 
 150 WE TWO. 
 
 cabin on board the steamer, than two bright- 
 looking Enghsh girls settled themselves .close 
 hjj and began chatting merrily about the New 
 Year and the novel beginning it would be on 
 board a Channel steamer. Erica tried to stop 
 her ears that she might not hear the discussion 
 of all the forthcoming gaieties : ' Lady Keed- 
 ham's dance on Thursday, our own, you know, 
 next week/ &c,, &c. But she could not shut 
 out the sound of the merry voices, or that 
 wounding laughter. 
 
 Presently an exclamation made her look and 
 listen. 
 
 ' Hark !' said one of her fellow-passengers. 
 ' We shall start now ; I heard the clock striking 
 twelve. A happy New Year to you, Lily, and 
 all possible good fortune.' 
 
 ' Happy New Year !' echoed from different 
 corners of the cabin ; the little Sister of Mercy 
 knelt down and told her beads, the rest of the 
 passengers talked, congratulated, laughed. 
 Erica would have given worlds to be able to 
 cry, but she could not. The terrible mockery 
 of her surroundings was too great, however.
 
 WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 151 
 
 to be borne ; her heart seemed like ice, her head 
 like fire, with a sort of feverish strength she 
 rushed out of the cabin, stumbled up the wind- 
 ing staircase, and ran as if by instinct to that 
 part of the deck where a tall, solitary figure 
 stood up darkly in the dim light. 
 
 * It's too cold for you, my child,' said Raeburn, 
 turning round at her approach. 
 
 ' Oh, father, let me stay with you,' sobbed 
 Erica, *■ I can't bear it alone.' 
 
 Perhaps he was glad to have her near 
 him for his own sake, perhaps he recog- 
 nised the truth to which she unconsciously 
 testified that human nature does at times cry 
 out for something other than self, stronger and 
 higher. 
 
 He raised no more objections, they listened in 
 silence till the sound of the church bells died 
 away in the distance, and then he found a more 
 sheltered seat and wrapped her up closely in his 
 own plaid, and together they began their new 
 year. The first lull in Erica's pain came in that 
 midnight crossing; the heaving of the boat, the 
 angry dashing of the waves, the foam-laden
 
 152 WE TWO. 
 
 wind, all seemed to relieve her. Above all, 
 there was comfort in the strong protecting 
 arm round her. Yet she was too crushed and 
 numb to be able to wish for anything but that 
 the end might come for her there, that together 
 they might sink down into the painless silence 
 of death. 
 
 Raeburn only spoke once throughout the pas- 
 sage, instinctively he knew what was passing 
 in Erica's mind. He spoke the only word of 
 comfort which he had to speak : a noble one, 
 though just then very insufficient : 
 
 ' There is work to be done.'' 
 
 Then came the dreary landing in the middle 
 of the dark winter's night, and presently they 
 w^ere again in a railway carriage but this time 
 alone. Raeburn made her lie down, and him- 
 self fell asleep in the opposite corner; he had 
 been travelling uninterruptedly for twenty 
 hourSj had received a shock which had tried 
 him very greatly, now from sheer exhaustion he 
 slept. But Erica, to ^vhom the grief was more 
 new, could not sleep. Every minute the pain 
 of realisation grew keener. Here she w^as.in
 
 WHAT THE IsEW YEAR BROUGHT. 153 
 
 England once more, this was the journey she 
 had so often thought of and planned. This 
 was going home ! Oh, the dreariness of the 
 reality when compared with those bright ex- 
 pectations ! And yet it was neither this thought 
 nor the actual fact of her mother's death 
 which first brought the tears to her burning 
 eyes. 
 
 Wearily shifting her position, she looked 
 across to the other side of the carriage, and 
 saw, as if in a picture, her father. Kaeburn 
 was a comparatively young man, very little 
 over forty ; but his anxieties and the almost in- 
 credible amount of hard work of the past two 
 years had told upon him, and had turned his 
 hair grey. There was something in his stern 
 set face, in the strong man's reserved grief, in 
 the pose of his grand-looking head, dignified 
 even in exhaustion, that was strangely pa- 
 thetic. Erica scarcely seemed to realise that he 
 was her father. It was more as if she were 
 gazing at some scene on the stage, or on a 
 wonderfully graphic and heart-stirring picture. 
 The pathos and sadness of it took hold of her ;
 
 154 WE TWO. 
 
 she burst into a passion of tears, turned her 
 face from the light, and cried as if no power 
 on earth could ever stop her, her long-drawn 
 sobs allowed to go unchecked since the noise 
 of the train made them inaudible. She was so 
 little given to tears, as a rule, that now they 
 positively frightened her, nor could she under- 
 stand how, with a real and terrible grief for 
 which she could not weep, the mere pathetic 
 sight should have brought down her tears like 
 rain. But the outburst brought relief with it, 
 for it left her so exhausted that for a brief half- 
 hour she slept, and awoke just before they 
 reached London, with such a frightful headache 
 that the physical pain numbed the mental. 
 
 ' How soon shall we be ' home she would 
 
 have said, but the word choked her. ' How 
 soon shall we get there V she asked, faintly. 
 She was so ill, so weary, that the mere thought 
 of being still again — even in the death-visited 
 home — was a relief, and she was really too 
 much worn out to feel very acutely wdaile they 
 drove through the familiar streets. 
 
 At last, early in the cold, new year's morn-
 
 WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 155 
 
 lug, they were set down in Guilford Square, at 
 the grim entrance to 'Persecution Alley.' She 
 looked round at the grey old houses with a 
 shudder ; then her father drew her arm within 
 his, and led her down the dreary little cul de sac. 
 There was the house, looking the same as ever, 
 and there was Aunt Jean coming forward to 
 met them, with a strange new tenderness in her 
 voice and look, and there was Tom in the back- 
 ground, seeming half shy and afraid to meet 
 her in her grief, and there, above all, was the 
 one great eternal void. 
 
 To watch beside the dying must be anguish, 
 and yet surely not such keen anguish as to 
 have missed the last moments, the last fare- 
 wells, the last chance of serving. For those 
 who have to come back to the empty house^ 
 the home which never can be home again, may 
 God comfort them — no one else can. 
 
 Stillness, and food, and brief snatches of 
 sleep somewhat restored Erica. Late in the 
 afternoon she was strong enough to go into her 
 mother's room, for that last look so inexpressibly
 
 156 WE TWO. 
 
 painful to all, so entirely void of hope or comfort 
 to those who believe in no hereafter. Not even 
 the peacefulness of death was there to give 
 even a slight, a momentary relief to her pain ; 
 she scarcely even recognised her mother. Was 
 thatj indeed, all that was left ? that pale, rigid, 
 utterly changed face and form ? Was that her 
 mother? Could that once have been her mo- 
 ther? Very often had she heard this great 
 change wrought by death referred to in dis- 
 cussions ; she knew well the arguments which 
 w^ere brought forward by the believers in im- 
 mortality, the counter arguments with which 
 her father invariably met them, and which had 
 always seemed to her conclusive. But some- 
 how that which seemed satisfactory in the 
 lecture-hall did not answer in the room of 
 death. Her whole being seemed to flow out 
 into one longing question. Might there not be 
 a Beyond — an Unseen? Was this w^orld in- 
 deed only 
 
 ' A place to stand and love in for an hour, 
 With darkness and the death-hour rounding it ?' 
 
 She had slept in the afternoon, but at night.
 
 WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 157 
 
 when all was still, she could Dot sleep. The 
 question still lurked in her mind ; her sorrow 
 and loneliness grew almost unbearable. She 
 thought if she could only make herself cry 
 again perhaps she might sleep, and she took 
 down a book about Giordano Bruno, and read 
 the account of his martyrdom, an account 
 which always moved her very much. But to- 
 night not even the description of the valiant 
 unshrinking martyr of Freethought ascendiug 
 the scaffold to meet his doom could in the 
 slightest degree affect her. She tried another 
 book, this time Dickens' ' Tale of Two Cities.' 
 She had never read the last two chapters 
 without feeling a great desire to cry ; but to- 
 night she read with perfect unconcern of Sidney 
 Carton's wanderings through Paris on the 
 night before he gave himself up, — read the last 
 marvellously-written scene without the slight- 
 est emotion. It was evidently no use to try 
 anything else ; she shut the book, put out her 
 candle, and once more lay down in the- 
 dark. 
 
 Then she began to think of the words which
 
 158 WE TWO. 
 
 bad so persistently haunted Sidney Carton, * I 
 am the Resurrection and the Life.' She, too, 
 seemed to be wandering about the Parisian 
 streets, hearing these words over and over 
 again. She knew that it was Jesus of Nazareth 
 who had said this. What an assertion it was 
 for a man to make ! It was not even ' I bring 
 the resurrection ' or ' I give the resurrection,' but 
 * I am the Resurrection ' ! And yet, according 
 to her father, his humility had been excessive, 
 carried almost to a fault. Was he the most in- 
 consistent man that ever lived, or what was he ? 
 At last she thought she would get up and see 
 whether there was any qualifying context, and 
 when and where he had uttered this tremendous 
 saying. 
 
 Lighting her candle she crept, a little shiver- 
 ing, white-robed figure, round the book-lined 
 room, scanning the titles on every shelf, but 
 Bibles were too much in use in that house to be 
 relegated to the attics, she found only the least 
 interesting and least serviceable of her father's 
 books. There was nothing for it but to go 
 down to the study ; so wrapping herself up, for
 
 WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 159 
 
 it was a freezing wiiiter^s i^igtit, she went noise- 
 lessly downstairs, and soon found every possible 
 facility for biblical research. 
 
 A little baffled and even disappointed to find 
 the words in that which she regarded as the 
 least authentic of the gospels, she still resolved 
 to read the account ; she read it, indeed, in two 
 or three translations, and conapared each closely 
 with the others, but in all the words stood out 
 in uncompromising greatness of assertion. This 
 man claimed to he the resurrection, or as Wyclif 
 had it, the ^ agen risyng and lyf.' 
 
 And then poor Erica read on to the end 
 of the story and was quite thrown back 
 upon herself by the account of the miracle which 
 followed. It was a beautiful story, she said to 
 herself, poetically written, graphically described, 
 but as to believing it to be true, she could as 
 soon have accepted the ' Midsummer Night's 
 Dream ' as having actually taken place. 
 
 Shivering with cold she put the books back 
 on their shelf, and stole upstairs once more to 
 bear her comfortless sorrow as best she could.
 
 160 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ' WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT V 
 
 Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, came to 
 
 meet her, 
 With the life within departed that had given them each a 
 
 soul ; 
 And her sick heart even slighted gentle words that came to 
 
 greet her, 
 
 For grief spread its shadowy pinions like a blight upon the 
 
 whole. 
 
 A. A. Procter. 
 
 The winter sunshine which glanced in a side- 
 long, half-and-half way into ' Persecution Alley,' 
 and struggled in at the closed blinds of Erica's 
 little attic, streamed unchecked into a far more 
 cheerful room in Guilford Square, and illum- 
 ined a breakfast-table, at w^hich was seated 
 one occupant only, apparently making a late
 
 WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 161 
 
 and rather hasty meal. He was a man of about 
 eight and twenty, and though he was not ab- 
 solutely good-looking, his face was one which 
 people turned to look at again, not so much 
 because it was in any way striking as far as 
 features went, but because of an unusual lumiu- 
 ousness which pervaded it. The eyes, which 
 were dark grey, were peculiarly expressive, and 
 their softness, which might to some have seemed 
 a trifle unmasculine, was counterbalanced by the 
 straight, dark, noticeable eyebrows, as well as 
 by a thoroughly manly bearing and a general 
 impression of unfailing energy which character- 
 ised the whole man. His hair, short beard and 
 moustache were of a deep nut-brown. He was 
 of medium height and very muscular-looking. 
 
 On the whole it was as pleasant a face as you 
 would often meet with, and it was not to be 
 wondered at that his old grandmother looked 
 up pretty frequently from her arm-chair by the 
 fire, and watched him with that beautiful loving 
 pride which in the aged never seems exaggerated 
 and very rarely misplaced. 
 
 ' You were out very late, were you not, 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 WE TWO. 
 
 Brian V she observed, letting her knitting- 
 needles rest for a minute, and scrutinising the 
 rather weary-looking man. 
 
 ' Till half-past five this morning,' he replied, 
 in a somewhat preoccupied voice. 
 
 There was a sad look in his eyes, too, which 
 his grandmother partly understood. She knit- 
 ted another round of her sock and then said, 
 
 ' Have you seen Tom Craigie yet V 
 
 'Yes, last night I came across him,' replied 
 Brian. ' He told me she had come home. They 
 travelled by night and got in early yesterday 
 morning.' 
 
 * Poor little thing!' sighed old Mrs. Osmond. 
 ' What a home-coming it must have been !' 
 
 ' Grannie,' said Brian, pushing back his chair 
 and drawing nearer to the fire, ' I want you to 
 tell me what I ought to do. I have a message 
 to her from her mother, there was no one else 
 to take it, you know, except the landlady, and 
 I suppose she did not like that. I want to 
 know when I might see her; one has no right to 
 keep it back, and yet how am I to know 
 whether she is fit to bear it ? I can't write it
 
 WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 163 
 
 down, it won't somehow go on to paper, yet I 
 can hardly ask to see her yet.' 
 
 ' AVe cannot tell that the message might not 
 comfort her,' said Mrs. Osmond. Then after 
 a few minutes' thought she added, ' I think, 
 Brian, if I were you, I would write her a 
 little note, tell her why you want to see her, 
 and let her fix her own time. You will 
 leave it entirely in her own hands in that 
 way.' 
 
 He mnsed for a minute, seemed satisfied 
 with the suggestion, and, moving across to 
 the writing-table, began his first letter to his 
 love. Apparently it Avas hard to write, for 
 he wasted several sheets, and much time that 
 he could ill afford. When it was at length 
 finished, it ran as follows ; 
 
 * Dear Miss Raeburx, 
 
 ' I hardly like to ask to 
 see you yet for fear you should think me 
 intrusive, but a message was intrusted to me 
 on Tuesday night which I dare not of my- 
 self keep back from you. Will you see me ? 
 
 M 2
 
 164 WE TWO. 
 
 If you are able to, and will name the time 
 
 which will suit you best, I shall be very 
 
 grateful. Forgive me for troubling you, 
 and believe me, 
 
 ' Yours faithfully, 
 
 'Brian Osmond.' 
 
 He sent it off a little doubtfully, hy no 
 means satisfied that he had done a wise 
 thing. But when he returned from his rounds 
 later in the day the reply set his fears at 
 rest. 
 
 It was written lengthways across a sheet 
 of paper : the small delicate writing was full 
 of character, but betrayed great physical ex- 
 haustion. 
 
 *■ It is good of you to think of us. Please 
 come this afternoon if you are able. 
 
 ^ Erica.' 
 
 That very afternoon ! Now that his wish 
 was granted, now that he was indeed to see 
 her, Brian would have given worlds to have 
 postponed the meeting. He was well accus-
 
 WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 165 
 
 tomed to visiting sorrow-stricken people, but 
 from meeting such sorrow as that in theRaeburns' 
 house he shrank back feeling his insufficiency. 
 Besides, what words were delicate enough to 
 convey all that had passed in that death-scene? 
 How could he dare to attempt in speech all that 
 the dying mother would fain have had conveyed 
 to her child? And then his own love ! Would 
 not that be the greatest difficulty of all ? Feel- 
 ing her grief as he did^ could he yet modify 
 his manner to suit that of a mere outsider — • 
 almost a stranger? He w^as very diffident; 
 though longing to see Erica, he would yet have 
 given anything to be able to transfer his work 
 to his father. This, however, was of course 
 impossible. 
 
 Strange though it might seem^ he — the most 
 unsuitable of all men in his own eyes — was the 
 man singled out to bear this message, to go to 
 the death-visited household. He went about 
 his afternoon work in a sort of steady, mechan- 
 ical manner, the outward veil of his inward 
 agitation. About four o'clock he was free to go 
 to Guilford Terrace.
 
 166 WE TWO. 
 
 He was shown into the little. sitting-room ; it 
 was the room in which Mrs. Raeburn had died, 
 and the mere sight of the outer surroundings, 
 the well-worn furniture, the book-lined walls, 
 made the whole scene vividly present to him. 
 The room was empty, there was a blazing fire 
 but no other light, for the blinds were down, 
 and even the winter twilight shut out. Brian 
 sat down and waited. Presently the door 
 opened, he looked up and saw Erica approach- 
 ing him. She was taller than she had been 
 w^hen he last saw her, and now grief had given 
 her a peculiar dignity which made her much 
 more like her father. Every shade of colour 
 had left her face, her golden-brown eyes were 
 full of a limitless pain, the eyelids were slightly 
 reddened, but apparently rather from sleepless- 
 ness than from tears, the whole face was so 
 altered that a mere casual acquaintance would 
 hardly have recognised it, except by the un- 
 changed waves of short auburn hair which still 
 formed the setting as it were to a picture, love- 
 ly even now. Only one other thing was un- 
 changed, and that was the frank, unconvention-
 
 WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 167 
 
 al manner. Even in her grief she conld not be 
 quite like other people. 
 
 ' It is very good of you to let me see you,' 
 said Brian, ' you are sure you are doing right ; 
 it will not be too much for you to-day.' 
 * * There is no great difference in days^ I think,' 
 said Erica, sitting down on a low chair beside 
 the fire. 'I do not very much believe in de- 
 grees in this kind of grief, I do not see why it 
 should be ever more or ever less. Perhaps I 
 am, wrong, it is all new to me.' 
 
 She spoke in a slow, steady, low-toned voice. 
 There was an absolute hopelessness about her 
 whole aspect which was terrible to see. A mo- 
 ment's pause followed, then, looking up at 
 Brian, she fancied that she read in his face 
 something of hesitation, of a consciousness that 
 he could ill express what he wished to say, and 
 her innate courtesy made her even now hasten 
 to relieve him. 
 
 * Don't be afraid of speaking,' she said, a 
 softer light coming into her eyes. 'I don't 
 know why people shrink from meeting trouble. 
 Even Tom is half afraid of me. I am not
 
 168 WE TWO. 
 
 changed, I am still Erica; can't you understand 
 how much I want everyone now V 
 
 * People differ so much V said Brian, a little 
 huskily, ' and then when one feels strongly 
 words do not come easily.' 
 
 ' Do you think I would not rather have your 
 sympathy than an oration from anyone else ! 
 You who were here to the end ! you who did 
 everything for — for her. My father has told 
 me very little, he was not able to, but he told 
 me of you, how helpful you were, how good, 
 not like an outsider at all !' 
 
 Evidently she clung to the comforting recol- 
 lection that at least one trustable, sympathetic 
 person had been with her mother at the last. 
 Brian could only say how little he had done, 
 how much more he would fain have done had 
 it been possible. 
 
 ' I think you do comfort me by talking,' said 
 Erica. ' And now I want you, if you don't 
 mind, to tell me all from the very first. I can't 
 torture my father by asking him, and I couldn't 
 bear it from the landlady. But you were here, 
 you can tell me all. Don't be afraid of hurting
 
 WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 169 
 
 me ; can't you understand, if the past were the 
 only thing left to you, you would want to know 
 every tiniest detail V 
 
 He looked searchingly into her eyes, he 
 thought she was right. There were no degrees 
 to pain like hers ! besides, it was quite possible 
 that the lesser details of her mother's death 
 might bring tears which would relieve her. 
 Very quietly, very reverently, he told her all 
 that had passed, — she already knew that her 
 mother had died from aneurism of the heart, — he 
 told her how in the evening he had been sum- 
 moned to her, and from the first had known that 
 it was hopeless, had been obliged to tell her that 
 the time for speech even was but short. He had 
 ordered a telegram to be sent to her father at 
 Birmingham, but Mrs. Craigie and Tom were 
 out for the evening, and no one knew where 
 they were to be found. He and the landlady 
 had been alone. 
 
 'She spoke constantly of you,' he continued. 
 ' The very last words she said were these, " Tell 
 Erica that only love can keep from bitterness, 
 that love is stronger than the world's un-
 
 170 WE TWO. 
 
 kindness." Then after a minute's pause she 
 added, " Be good to my little girl, promise to be 
 good to her." After that, speech became im- 
 possible, but I do not think she suffered. Once 
 she motioned to me to give her the frame off 
 the mantelpiece w^ith your photograph; she 
 looked at it and kept it near her, — she died 
 ■with it in her hand.' 
 
 Erica hid her face ; that one trifling little in- 
 cident was too much for her, the tears rained 
 down between her fingers. That it should 
 have come to that ! no one whom she loved there 
 at the last — but she had looked at the photo- 
 graph, had held it to the very end, the voiceless, 
 useless picture had been there, the real Erica had 
 been laughing and talking at Paris ! Brian talk- 
 ed on slowly, soothingly. Presently he paused; 
 then Erica suddenly looked up, and dashing 
 away her tears, said, in a voice which was terri- 
 ble in its mingled pain and indignation, 
 
 *■ I might have been here ! I might have 
 been with her ! It is the fault of that wretched 
 man who w^ent bankrupt ; the fault of the bigots 
 who will not treat us fairly — who ruin us !'
 
 WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 171 
 
 She sobbed with passionate pain, a vivid 
 streak of crimson dyed her cheek, contrasting 
 strangely with the deathly whiteness of her 
 brow. 
 
 ' Forgive me if I pain yon,' said Brian ; ' but 
 have you forgotten the message I gave you ? 
 " It is only love that can keep from bitter- 
 ness !" ' 
 
 ' Love !^ cried Erica ; she could have screamed 
 it, if she had not been so physically exhausted. 
 ' Do you mean I am to love our enemies !' 
 
 * It is only the love of all humanity that can 
 keep from bitterness,' said Brian. 
 
 Erica began to think over his reply, and in 
 thinking grew calm once more. By-and-by 
 she lifted up her face; it was pale again now, 
 and still, and perfectly hopeless. 
 
 ' I suppose you think that only Christians 
 can love all humanity,' she said, a little coldly. 
 
 ' I should call all true lovers of humanity 
 Christians,' replied Brian, ' whether they are 
 consciously followers of Christ or not.' 
 
 She thought a little; then, with a curiously hard 
 look in her face, she suddenly flashed round upon
 
 172 WE TWO. 
 
 bim with a questioD, much as her father was in 
 the habit of doing when an adversary had 
 made some broad-hearted statement which had 
 baffled him. 
 
 ' Some of you give us a little more charity 
 than others ; but what do you mean by Christ- 
 ianity ? You ask us to believe what is iucredi- 
 ble. Why do you believe in the resurrection? 
 What reason have you for thinking it true V 
 
 She expected him to go into the evidence 
 question, to quote the number of Christ's 
 appearances, to speak of the five hundred wit- 
 nesses of whom she was weary of hearing. Her 
 mind was proof against all this ; what could be 
 more probable than that a number of devoted 
 followers should be the victims of some optical 
 delusion, especially when their minds were 
 disturbed by giief. Here was a miracle sup- 
 ported on one side by the testimony of five 
 hundred and odd spectators all longing to see 
 their late Master, and contradicted on the other 
 side by common-sense and the experience of the 
 remainder of the human race during thousands 
 of years ! She looked full at Brian, a hard yet
 
 WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 17^ 
 
 almost exultant expression in her eyes, which 
 spoke more plainly than words her perfect con- 
 viction : — 
 
 'You can't set your evidences against my 
 counter-evidences ! you can't logically maintain 
 that a few uneducated men are to have more 
 weight than all the united experience of man- 
 kind.' 
 
 Never would she so gladly have believed in 
 the doctrine of iai mortality as now, yet with 
 characteristic honesty and resoluteness she set 
 herself into an attitude of rigid defence, lest 
 through strong desire or mere bodily weariness 
 she should drift into the acceptance of what 
 might be, what indeed she considered to be 
 error. But to her surprise, half to her 
 disappointment, Brian did not even mention the 
 evidences. She had braced herself up to 
 withstand arguments drawn from the five 
 hundred brethren, but the preparation was 
 useless. 
 
 ' I believe in the resurrection/ said Brian, 
 * because I cannot doubt Jesus Christ. He is 
 the most perfectly loveable and trustable Being
 
 174 WE TWO. 
 
 I know, or can conceive of knowing. He said 
 He should rise again, I believe that He did rise. 
 He was perfectly truthful, therefore He could 
 not mislead : He knew, therefore He could not 
 be misled.' 
 
 ' W do not consider Him to be all that you 
 assert,' said Erica. ' Nor do His followers 
 make one inclined to think that either He or His 
 teaching Avere so perfect as you try to make 
 out. You are not so hard-hearted as most of 
 them ' 
 
 She broke off, seeing a look of pain on her 
 companion's face. 
 
 ' Oh, what am I saying !' she cried, in a very 
 different tone, ' you who have done so much — 
 you who were always good to us, — I did not 
 indeed mean to hurt you^ it is your creed that 
 I can't help hating, not you. You are our 
 friend, you said so long ago.' 
 
 'Always,' said Brian, 'never doubt that.' 
 
 ' Then you must forgive me for having 
 wounded you/ said Erica, her whole face 
 softening. ' You must remember how hard it 
 all is, and that I am so very, very miserable.'
 
 WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 175 
 
 He would have given his life to bring her 
 comfort, but he was not a very great believer 
 in words, and, besides, he thought she had talked 
 quite as long as she ought. 
 
 ' I think,' he said, ' that, honestly acted out, 
 the message entrusted to me ought to c iifort 
 your misery.' 
 
 * 1 can't act it out,' she said. 
 
 ' You will begin to try,' was Brian's answer ; 
 and then, with a very full heart, he said good- 
 bye and left his Undine sitting by the fire, 
 with her head resting on her hands and the 
 words of her mother's message echoing in her 
 ears. 'It is only love that can keep from 
 bitterness, love is stronger than the w^orld's un- 
 kindness.* 
 
 Presently, not daring to dwell too much on 
 that last scene which Brian had described, she 
 turned to his strange, unexpected reason for his 
 belief in the resurrection, and mused over the 
 characteristics of his ideal. Then she thought 
 she would like to see again what her ideal man 
 had to say about his, and she got up and 
 searched for a small book in a Hmp red cover.
 
 176 WE TWO. 
 
 labelled ' Life of Jesus of Nazareth. Luke Rae- 
 burn.' It was more than two years since she 
 had seen it ; she read it through once more. The 
 style was vigorous, the veiled sarcasms were 
 not unpleasant to her, she detected no unfair- 
 ness in the mode of treatment, the book satis- 
 fied her, the conclusion arrived at seemed to 
 her inevitable — Brian Osmond's ideal was not 
 perfect. 
 
 With a sigh of utter weariness she shut the 
 book and leant back in her chair with a still, 
 white, hopeless face. Presently Friskarina 
 spraug up on her knee with a little sympa- 
 thetic mew ; she had been too miserable as yet 
 to notice even her favourite cat very much, 
 now a scarcely perceptible shade of relief came 
 to her sadness, she stroked the soft grey head* 
 But scarcely had she spoken to her favourite, 
 w^hen the cat suddenly turned away, sprang 
 from her knee and trotted out of the room. It 
 seemed like actual desertion, and Erica could 
 ill bear it just then. 
 
 ' What, you too, Friskie,' she said to herself, 
 ' are even you glad to keep away from me?'
 
 WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 177 
 
 She hid her face in her hands ; desolate and 
 miserable as she had been before, she now felt 
 more completely alone. 
 
 In a few minutes something warm touching 
 her foot made her look up, and with one bound 
 Friskarina sprang into her lap, carrying in her 
 mouth a young kitten. She purred contented- 
 ly, looking first at her child and then at her 
 mistress, saying as plainly as if she had spoken, 
 
 ' Will this comfort you V 
 
 Erica stroked and kissed both cat and kitten, 
 and for the first time since her trouble a feeling 
 of warmth came to her frozen heart. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 A life of unalloyed content, 
 
 A life like that of land-locked seas. 
 
 J. R. Lowell. 
 
 ^ Elspeth, you really must tell me, I'm dying of 
 curiosity, and I can see by your face you know 
 all about it ! How is it that grandpapa^s name 
 is in the papers when he has been dead all these 
 years ? I tell you I saw it, a little paragraph in 
 to-day's paper, headed, ' Mr. Luke Raeburn.' Is 
 this another namesake who has something to do 
 with him V 
 
 The speaker was a tall, bright-looking girl of 
 eighteen, a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired blonde, 
 with a saucy little mouth, about which there 
 now lurked an expression of undisguised
 
 ROSE. 179 
 
 curiosity. Rose^ for that was her name, was 
 something of a coax, and all her life long she 
 had managed to get her own way ; she was an 
 only child, and had been not a little spoilt ; but 
 in spite of many faults she was loveable, and 
 beneath her outer shell of vanity and self- 
 satisfaction there lay a sterling little heart. 
 
 Her companion, Elspeth, was a wrinkled old 
 woman, whose smooth grey hair was almost 
 hidden by a huge mob-cap, which, in defiance 
 of modern custom, she wore tied under her 
 chin. She had nursed Rose and her mother 
 before her, and had now become more like a 
 family friend than a servant. 
 
 ''Miss Rose,' she replied, looking up from her 
 workj ' if you go on chatter-magging aw^ay 
 like this, there'll be no frock ready for you to- 
 night/ and with a most uncommunicative air, 
 the old woman turned away, and gave a little 
 impressive shake to the billowy mass of white 
 tarlatan to which she was putting the finishing- 
 touches. 
 
 * The white lilies just at the side,' said Rose, 
 her attention diverted for a moment. ' Won't 
 
 N 2
 
 180 WE TWO. 
 
 it be lovely ! the prettiest dress in. the room, I'm 
 sure/ Then, her en riositj returning, 'But, Els- 
 peth. I shan't enjoy the dance a bit unless you 
 tell me what Mr. Luke Raeburn has to do with 
 us? Listen, and I'll tell you how I found out. 
 Papa brought the paper up to mamma, and 
 said, "Did you see thisf And then mamma 
 read it, and the colour came all over her face, 
 and she did not say a word, but went out of 
 the room pretty soon. And then I took up the 
 paper, and looked at the page she had been 
 reading, and saw grandpapa's name.' 
 
 ' What was it about?' asked old Elspeth. 
 
 ' That's just what I couldn't understand; it 
 was all about secularists. What are secularists ? 
 But it seems that this Luke Raeburn, whoever 
 he is, has lost his wife. While he was lecturing 
 at Birmingham on the soul, it said his wife 
 died, and this paragraph said it seemed like a 
 judgment, which was rather cool^ I think.' 
 
 'Poor laddie !' sighed old Elspeth. 
 
 ' Elspeth/ cried Rose. ' do you know who the 
 man is V 
 
 ' Miss Rose,^ said the old woman, severely,
 
 ROSE. 181 
 
 *iii my youDg days there was a saying that 
 you'd do well to lay to heart, '• Ask no ques- 
 tions, and you'll be told no stories." ' 
 
 'It isn't your young days now, it's your old 
 days, Elsie/ said the inaperturbable Rose. ' I will 
 ask you questions as much as I please, and 
 you'll tell me what this mystery means, there's 
 a dear old nursie ! Have I uot a right to know 
 about my own relations?' 
 
 ' Ohj bairn ! bairn ! if it were anything you'd 
 like to hear; but why should you know what is 
 all sad and gloomful ? No, no, go to your balls, 
 and think of your fine dresses and gran' partners, 
 though, for the matter of that, it is but vanity 
 of vanities ' 
 
 ' Oh, if you're going to quote Ecclesiastes, I 
 shall go I' said Rose, pouting. ' I wish that 
 book wasnH in the Bible !' I'm sure such 
 an old grumbler ought to have been in the 
 Apocrypha.^ 
 
 Elspeth shook her head, and muttered some- 
 thing about judgment and trouble. Rose began 
 to be doubly curious. 
 
 Trouble, sadness, a mystery — perhaps a
 
 182 WE TWO. 
 
 tragedy ! Rose had read of such things in 
 books ; were there such things actually in the 
 family, and she had never known of them ? A 
 few hours ago and she had been unable to 
 think of anything but her first ball, her new 
 dress, her flowers ; but she was seized now with 
 the most intense desire to fathom this mystery. 
 That it bid fair to be a sad mystery only made 
 her more eager and curious. She was so 
 young, so ignorant, there was still a halo of 
 romance about those unknown things, trouble 
 and sadness. 
 
 ' Elspeth, you treat me like a child !' she ex- 
 claimed; 'it's really too bad of you.' 
 
 ' Maybe you're rights bairn,^ said the old 
 nurse; 'but it's no doing of mine. But look 
 here, Miss Rose, you be persuaded by me, go 
 straight to your mamma and ask her yourself. 
 Maybe there is a doubt whether you oughtn't 
 to know, but there is no doubt that I mustn't 
 tell you.' 
 
 Rose hesitated, but presently her curiosity 
 overpowereel her reluctance. 
 
 Mrs. Fane-Smith, or, as she had been called
 
 ROSE. 183 
 
 in her maiden days. Isabel RaeburD, was re- 
 markably like her daughter in so far as features 
 and colouring were concerned, but she was ex- 
 ceedingly unlike her in character, for whereas 
 Rose was vain and self-confident, and had a 
 decided will of her own, her mother was diffi- 
 dent and exaggeratedly humble. She was a 
 kind-hearted and a good woman, but she was 
 in danger of losing almost all the real blessed- 
 ness of life by perpetually harassing herself 
 with the question, ' What will people say V 
 
 She looked up apprehensively as her daughter 
 came into the room. Rose felt sure she had 
 been crying, her curiosity was still further 
 stimulated, and with all the persuasiveness at 
 her command, she urged her mother to tell her 
 the meaning of the mysterious paragraph. 
 
 ' I am sorry you have asked me,' said Mrs. 
 Fane-Smith, 'but, perhaps, since you are no 
 longer a child you had better know. It is a 
 sad story, however. Rose, and I should not have 
 chosen to tell it you to-day of all days.^ 
 
 'But I want to hear, mamma,' said Rose, 
 decidedly. ' Please begin. Who is this Mr. 
 Raeburn?'
 
 184 WE TWO. 
 
 ' He is my brother,' said Mrs. Fane-Smitb, 
 ^vith a little quiver in her voice. 
 
 ' Your brother ! My uncle I' cried Rose, in 
 amazement. 
 
 'Luke was the eldest of us,' said Mrs. Fane- 
 Smith, *then came Jean, and I was the youngest 
 of all, at least of those who lived.' 
 
 ^ Then 1 have an aunt, too, an aunt Jean !' 
 exclaimed Rose. 
 
 ' You shall hear the whole stor}^' replied her 
 mother. She thought for a minute, then in 
 rather a low voice she began. ' Luke and Jean 
 were always the clever ones, Luke especially ; 
 your grandfather had set his heart on his being 
 a clergyman, and you can fancy the grief it was 
 to us when he threw up the whole idea, and 
 declared that he could never take orders. He 
 was only nineteen when he renounced religion 
 altogether; he and my father had a great 
 dispute, and the end of it was that Luke w^as 
 sent away from home, and T have never seen 
 him since. He has become a very notorious 
 infidel lecturer. Jean was very much unsettled 
 by his change of views, and I believe her real
 
 ROSE. 185 
 
 reason for marrjii]^' old Mr. Craigie was that 
 she had made him promise to let her see Luke 
 again. She married young and settled down in 
 London, and when, in a few years, her husband 
 died, she too renounced Christianity.' 
 
 To tell the truth, Rose w^as not deeply inter- 
 ested in the story, it fell a little flat after her 
 expectations of a tragedy. It had, moreover, a 
 sort of missionary flavour, and she had till the 
 last few months lived in India, and had grown 
 heartily tired of the details of mission-work, in 
 which both her father and mother had been in- 
 terested. 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 w^ords to her it 
 could hardly be otherwise. But Rose's best 
 point was her loyalty to her own family, she 
 bad 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.'
 
 186 WE TWO. 
 
 ' It is impossible, dear,' replied Mrs. Fane- 
 Smith. ' Yonr 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 V 
 
 ' My dear, consider what his teaching is, that 
 is sufficient ; T 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 V 
 
 There was an angry ring in her voice as she
 
 ROSE. 1.87 
 
 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 V 
 
 ' We are not bound to publish our family 
 history to the world, Rose. If anyone 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 
 wliile they remain atheists how is it possible V 
 
 ' Then he has a child V 
 
 ' One only, I believe, a girl of about your own 
 age.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, how I should Hke to know 
 her!' . 
 
 ' My dear Rose, how can you speak of such a 
 thing ! You don't realise that she is an atheist^ 
 has not even been baptised, 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 ranch. I wonder whether she has come
 
 188 WE TWO. 
 
 out yet. I wonder how she enjo^^ed her first 
 ball.' 
 
 ' My dear ! they are not in society.' 
 
 ' How dull ! what does she do all day, I 
 wonder?' 
 
 ^I cannot tell, and 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 un- 
 believer 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 ques- 
 tion. Rose, seeing her advantage, made haste 
 to follow it up.
 
 ROSE. 189 
 
 'At any rate, mamma, you will write to Un- 
 cle Luke now that he is in trouble, and yon'll 
 let me send a note to his daughter? Only 
 think, mamma, she has lost her mother so sud- 
 denly I just think how v/retched she must be ! 
 Oh, mamma dear, I can't think how she can 
 bear it I' 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 dread-
 
 190 WE TWO. 
 
 ful trouble. I only write to send you my love 
 •and to say how very sony I am for yon. 
 AYe only came to England in the antumn. I 
 like it very much. I am going to my first ball 
 to-night, and expect to enjoy it immensely. 
 
 My dress is to be white tarla Oh, dear I 
 
 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 w^eariness, was poring over the 
 books in her father's study, Rose was being- 
 initiated into all the delights of the ball-room. 
 She was in her glory. Everything was new to 
 her ; she enjoyed dancing, she knew that she 
 looked pretty, knew that her dress was charm- 
 ing, knew that she was much admired, and of 
 course she liked it all. But the chaperons
 
 ROSE. 191 
 
 shook theii' beads ; it was Avhispered that Miss 
 Fane-Smith was a terrible flirt, she had danced 
 no less than seven dances with Captain Go- 
 ligbtlj. 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 inno- 
 cent 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 V 
 
 * Afraid ! oh, dear, no,^ said Rose, ' it is 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 her- 
 self to be put into her partner's coat', rather to 
 the detriment of her billowy tarlatan. x\fter a 
 while they came back again from the dim gar-
 
 192 WE TWO. 
 
 den to the brightly-lighted vestibule, and as 
 ill-luck would have it, chanced to encounter a 
 stream of people going into the supper-room. 
 Everyone stared at the apparition of Miss Fane- 
 Smith in Captain Gohghtly's coat. With some 
 difficulty she struggled out of it, and with 
 very hot cheeks sought shelter in the ball- 
 room. 
 
 ' 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 
 ever\^thing delightful ! You are much too 
 charming to be bound down to silly conven- 
 tionalities. 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 part- 
 ner. Let us have this trois temps, and hurl defi- 
 ance at the Greyshot chaperons.' 
 
 Rose laughed, and allowed herself to be 
 borne oiF. She had been excited before, 
 now she was doubly excited, and Cap- 
 tain Golightly had the most delicious step 
 imaginable.
 
 193 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HARD AT WORK. 
 
 Longing is God's fresli 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 realise 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 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 WE TWO. 
 
 the memory of their sudden bereavement, and 
 had made himself almost one of them by his 
 silent, unobtrusive sympathy, and by his num- 
 berless 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 ad- 
 mitted ; it carried him back to the day when he 
 had first called there and had been shown into 
 the fire-lit room, with the l30ok-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 even- 
 ing 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
 
 HARD AT ^YORK. 195 
 
 sitting at her desk hard at work. Her face 
 lighted up at the sight of her visitor. 
 
 ' Everyone 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 her desk. ' Press- 
 work V 
 
 ' 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 develop- 
 ment 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 
 
 2
 
 196 WE TWO. 
 
 most natural employment for her. He looked 
 at her ever-changing face, she was absorbed in 
 her work, her expression varying with the sen- 
 tences 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 
 colour 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.'
 
 HARD AT Y/ORK. 197 
 
 ' 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 to-day it just came — I wrote it 
 straight off.' 
 
 * And you are satisfied with it V 
 
 ' Satisfied ? oh, no ! Is anybody ever satis- 
 fied ? By the time it is in print I shall want to 
 alter every sixth line. Still, I daresay it will 
 say a little of what I want said.' 
 
 'Oh, you do want something saidf 
 
 ' Of course !' she replied, a little indignantly. 
 ■* If not, how could I write.' 
 
 ' I quite agree with you,' said Charles Os- 
 ino?id, ' and you mean to take this up as your 
 vocation V 
 
 ' If I am thought worthy,' said Erica, colour- 
 ing a little. 
 
 ' I see you have high ideas of the art,' said
 
 198 WE TWO. 
 
 Charles Osmond; 'and wbat is your reason for 
 taking it up V 
 
 ' First of all, though it sounds rather illogi- 
 cal/ said Erica, 'I write because I must, there is 
 something in me which will have its say. Then, 
 too, it is part of our creed that everyone 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 daresay it will all seem crude and 
 ridiculous then, but one must make a begin- 
 ning,' 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 
 themr 
 
 ' Ah ! now I see what you mean !' exclaimed 
 Erica, 'you think I write in defence of atheism, 
 or as an attacker of Christianity. I do nothing
 
 HARD AT WORK. , 199 
 
 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. To-day I had a 
 delightful subject — " Heroes — what are they 1" ' 
 
 ' Well, and what is your definition of a hero^ 
 I wonder, what are the qualities you think ab- 
 solutely necessary to make one V 
 
 * I think I have only tv/o absolutely necessary 
 ones,' said Erica, ' but my heroes must have 
 these two, they must have brains and good- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' 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 — £1500 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 V What is your definition of that 
 very wide, not to say vague, term V 
 
 Erica looked puzzled. 
 
 ' I don't think I can define it,' she said, ' but 
 one knows it when one sees it.'
 
 200 WE TWO. 
 
 ' Do 3'ou 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 V 
 
 ' I don't know, T suppose I got it b}^ inherit- 
 ance.' 
 
 * From the original moneron V 
 
 ' 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 onl}^ in the convic- 
 tion 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 exagger- 
 ated,' said Erica, ' 1 believe it is only because
 
 HARD AT WORK. 201 
 
 people are educated to believe and predisposed 
 to think it all good and perfect that there are 
 so many Christians. Yon may say it is we who 
 are prejudiced. If we are, I'm sure you Chris- 
 tians have done enough to make us so! How 
 could I, for instance, be anything but an athe- 
 ist ? 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 play- 
 ing with. There was a great noise in the 
 street, trampling, hissing, hooting. I ran to 
 the window^ an immense crowed 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
 
 202 WE TWO. 
 
 enough to stand up for him ! I saw him push' 
 ed, 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 sou 
 Eric, did you think they'd killed me f 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 
 Avere egged on by the clergy ! Did I not hear 
 it all then in my babyhood V 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 con- 
 tinued. ' I think I felt and feel as indignant
 
 HARD AT WORK. 203 
 
 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 persecu- 
 tors.' 
 
 ' 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 
 — 3^ou somehow stand alone, you are unlike 
 anyone I ever met; you and Thekla Sonnen- 
 thal 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^
 
 204 WE TWO. 
 
 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, and ' 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 w^eakened her far more than any- 
 one knew, but, mentally, it had been a won- 
 derful 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 im- 
 portant thing seemed not so much to be happy, 
 as to know. To learn herself, and to help
 
 HARD AT WORK. 205 
 
 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 convic- 
 tions. She read hard^ attended lectures, and 
 twice a week taught in the night school attach- 
 ed to the Institute. 
 
 Charles Osmond could not help smiling as 
 she described her days to him. She still re- 
 tained something of the childishness of an Un- 
 dine, and as they talked she had taken up her 
 old position on the hearthrug, and Friskarina 
 had crept on to her knee. Here, undoubtedly, 
 was one whom ignorant people would stigmatise 
 as ' blue ' or as a ^femme savante ;' they would 
 of course be quite wrong and inexpressibly 
 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 
 humour. 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
 
 206 WE TWO. 
 
 some timej ' I have never told you that I came 
 on a begging errand, and I half fear that you 
 "svill 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 I' 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 in 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.
 
 HARD AT WORK. 207 
 
 *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 }'ou.' 
 
 He said good-bye, and left Erica still on the 
 hearth-rng, 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 Avorld does he make himself 
 believe in his creed ! Goodness, Christlikeness. 
 He looked so grand, too, as he said that. It is 
 ■wonderful w^hat a personal sort of devotion 
 those three have for their ideal.'' 
 
 She wandered away to recollections of Thekia 
 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 round 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
 
 208 WE TWO. 
 
 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, look- 
 ing up, saw her cousin Tom. 
 
 ' Talk about absorption, and brown studies !' 
 he cried, ' why, you beat everything I ever saw. 
 I've been looking at you for at least three 
 minutes.' 
 
 Tom was now about nineteen ; he had inher- 
 ited the auburn colouring of the Raeburns, but 
 otherwise he was said to be much more like 
 the Craigies. He was nice-looking, but some- 
 what 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, aud 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.
 
 HARD AT WORK. 20^ 
 
 ' I never beard 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 
 bookworm ! But look here ! I've got a parody 
 on the chieftain that'll make you cry with 
 laughing. You remember the smashed win- 
 dows at the meeting at Rilchester last week V 
 
 Erica remembered well enough, she had 
 felt sore and angry about it, and the com- 
 ments in the newspapers had not been conso- 
 latory. She had learnt to dread even th& 
 comic papers, but there was nothing spiteful in 
 the one which Tom produced that evening. It 
 w^as headed : 
 
 Scotch Song. 
 Tune — ^^Twas witliin a mile of Edinhoro' 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." ' 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 WE TWO. 
 
 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 re- 
 lieved. 
 
 ' 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 small- 
 est possible cost. They were already begin- 
 ning to be rather weary ^^ porridge, pea-soup, 
 and lentils. This evening ' jsa-soup was in the 
 ascendant, and Erica, tired with a long after- 
 noon'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 anyone 
 looking-in fancy we were poor Romanists with- 
 out an indulgence V
 
 HARD AT WORK. 211 
 
 ' 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^ii trop mange." ' 
 
 Tom dearly loved that story, he was exceed- 
 ingly fond of getting choice little anecdotes 
 from various religious newspapers, especially 
 those which dealt in much abuse of the Church 
 of Rome, and ' itailed them con amove. 
 
 Erica listened to 'cral to-night 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, 
 
 p2
 
 212 WE TWO. 
 
 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, sweep- 
 ingly, 'but they haven't; and as they're always 
 playing battledore 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 rnen like Mr. 
 Osmond, who see all round, and yet can't stop 
 what they must think the mischief. Mr. Os- 
 mond 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 par- 
 son 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 expect he feels as much 
 obliged to speak and teach as father does.' 
 
 ' Pity he's not on our side,' said Tom, ' they
 
 HARD AT ^YORK. 213 
 
 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 debided, 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 honour. 
 
 ' 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
 
 214 WE TWO. 
 
 made a splendid defence, 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 be- 
 cause I say they must be just a little touched, 
 but they accuse us of something far worse than 
 madness_, they accuse us of absolute wicked- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' Not all of them,'' said Erica. 
 
 ' The greater part, ' said Tom. ^ How often 
 do you think the chieftain meets with really 
 fair treatment from his antagonists V 
 
 Erica had nothing to say to this. The harsh- 
 ness and intolerance which her father had con- 
 stantly to encounter was the great grief of her 
 life, the perpetual source of indignation, her 
 strongest argument against Christianity. 
 
 ' Have you much to do to-night V she asked,.
 
 HARD AT WORK. 215 
 
 not anxious to stir up afresh the revolt against 
 the world's injustice which the merest touch 
 w^ould 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 f 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 country- 
 man. 
 
 ' Give me a good gas-burner with pipes and a 
 meter that a honest man can understand ! Now 
 this 'ere elective hght I say it's not canny;
 
 216 WE TWO. 
 
 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 sugges- 
 tion, 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
 
 HARD AT WORK. 217 
 
 struck him. Disreputable vulgarity, wickedness, 
 and vice stared him in the face, then involun- 
 tarily he turned to Erica and looked down at 
 her scrutinizingly as he had never looked before. 
 She was evidently rapt 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
 
 218 WE TWO. 
 
 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 im- 
 partiality ? Had she not always been strongly 
 biassed in favour 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 dreamt 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? 
 AVhat 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
 
 HARD AT WORK. 219 
 
 reached Professor Gosse's study, or as he him- 
 self called it, his workshop, and Erica turned 
 with relief to the verifiable results of scientific 
 inquiry.
 
 220 
 
 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 Deighbouring 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 particu- 
 lar 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
 
 THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 221 
 
 saw his Undine carrying a bag full of letters. 
 He had not met her for some weeks, for it hap- 
 pened 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 exclaim- 
 ed, 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 w^ere direct- 
 ed in her small, clear, delicate hand-writing. 
 
 ' And you, too,^ she said, looking at his dimin- 
 ished 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 beauti- 
 fully national, it sets a good example.''
 
 222 WE TWO. 
 
 She spoke lightly, but there was a peculiar 
 tone in her voice which betrayed great weari- 
 ness. It made Brian look at her more atten- 
 tively 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 colour 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 ill 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
 
 THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 223 
 
 to go ill 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 w^as 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 
 w^ould not smile, although he w^as secretly 
 amused o,t 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
 
 224 WE TWO. 
 
 beside the window, heard the slow soft step she 
 had learned to know so wellj 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 T he asked, 
 sitting dov^^n 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 alto- 
 gether, I don't believe I shall mind very much.' 
 
 ^ Too tired to care for anything V 
 
 ' Yes, I seem to have come to the end. T 
 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
 
 THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 225 
 
 long day. Let me see ! In the morning there 
 were two delegates from Rilchester w^ho had to be 
 kept in a good temper till my father was ready 
 for them ; then there was father's bag to be pack- 
 ed, 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, but with her arms rest- 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 WE TWO. 
 
 iDg on the arms of the chair ; not merely stretch- 
 eel 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 feeHng 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 writ- 
 ing for the Idol-Breaher' 
 
 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 V 
 
 ' 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
 
 THE WHEELS EUX DOWX. 227 
 
 to] prophesy that you will have to let yonr 
 wheels run down for a little while.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that you think T shall die V 
 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 ray brother to see you : Brian is only 
 junior partner, you know.' 
 
 ' What, another Mr Osmond I 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." ' 
 
 Q ^
 
 228 WE TWO. 
 
 Erica laughed. 
 
 .' Noj I shall call you my " prophet," though 
 it is true you have begun by being a prophet of 
 evil ! By-the-by, you cannot say again that I 
 am Dot impartial. What do you think Tom and 
 I did last week V 
 
 'Read the New Testament backwards V 
 
 ' No, we went to a Holy Scripture Society 
 meeting at Exeter Hall.' 
 
 * Hope you were edified,' said Charles Os- 
 mond, 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 ^'j:)o?'i^/o^i5," and there was anoth- 
 er 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
 
 THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 229 
 
 shone on the slightest provocation, and who 
 remarked, in broad Lincolnshire, that they had 
 been '* Aboondantly blessed/'' After his speech 
 a little shortj sleek, oily man got np, 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 daresay they were all in ear- 
 nest. Still, you know, Tom and I felt rather 
 like fish out of water, and especially when they 
 began to sing, '^ Oh, Bible, blessed Bible V 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 V 
 
 ' 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 AVestminster Abbey ! It
 
 230 WE TWO. 
 
 seems to belong a little to us, too, because it is 
 so national. And then it so beautiful, and I 
 liked hearing the music. I wonder though that 
 yoQ are not a little afraid of having it so much 
 in your worship ; I remember hearing a beauti- 
 ful 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 fervour.' 
 
 ' I think perhaps there is a danger in any 
 undue introduction of externals, but anyone 
 whose spirit has ever been awakened will never 
 mistake the mere thrill of sensuous rapture for 
 the quickening of his 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 be- 
 cause of that appeal to the senses. I shall 
 never forget going one afternoon into Notre 
 Dame with Madame Lemercier. A flood of 
 crimson and purple light was shining in 
 through the south transept windows. You could 
 see tlie white-robed priests and choristers — 
 there was one boy with the most perfect voice
 
 THE ^YHEELS RUN DOWN. 231 
 
 you can conceive. I don^t know what they Avere 
 singing, something very sweet and mournful, 
 and, as that one voice rang up into the vaulted 
 roof, I saw Madame 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 dis- 
 tant. It was a wonderful effect; no doubt the 
 congregation thought they felt devout, but, if 
 so, then 1 too felt devout, — quite as religious as 
 they. Tour spiritual fervour 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 im- 
 possible ! how impossible you will one day 
 realise.' 
 
 ' One evil prophecy is enough for to-day !' 
 said Erica, laughing. ' If I stay any longer, you 
 will be prophesying my acceptance of Christi-
 
 232 WE TWO. 
 
 anity? No, no, ray 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 situ- 
 ated ! 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 mistak- 
 en cause, must sooner or later lead to .the 
 Originator of all self-sacrifice. Surely some of 
 those who seem only to thwart God, honestly
 
 THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 233 
 
 deeming Christianity a mischievous delusion, 
 are really acting more in His spirit, uncon- 
 sciously 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 were both so loveable, 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, infinitesi- 
 mally 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 preception of its beauty and truth. 
 It was true also that Erica's transparent sincer- 
 ity, her quick perception of the beautiful, might 
 help very greatly to overcome her deeply- in- 
 grained prejudices. But even then what an agony 
 — what a fearful struggle would lie before her. 
 * I think it would break his heart !' Charles
 
 234 WE TWO. 
 
 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 father- 
 hood was the truest, deepest, tenderest part of 
 his character. No, human strength could not 
 do it, but — 
 
 ' I am ; uyle ye drede !' 
 
 His eye fell on a little illuminated scroll 
 above his mantel-piece, WycliPs rendering of 
 Christ's reassuring word 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 1 
 The strength of the ' I am,' bade it for ever 
 cease. In that strength the weakest could 
 conquer. 
 
 But he had wandered on into a dim future^ 
 had pictured a struggle which in all probability 
 would not take place. Even were that the
 
 THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 235 
 
 case, however, he needed these words of assur- 
 ance all the more himself. They wove them- 
 selves into his reverie as he paced to and fro : 
 the}- 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 strtiight to the ' God and Father 
 of all, who is above all, and through all, and 
 in all.' 
 
 The next morning, as he was prepariog 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. 
 ' 8hght 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 V 
 
 ' Yes, I told her a year in a recumbent pos-
 
 236 WE TWO. 
 
 ture ; 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 V 
 
 * 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, said she should expect at least three 
 inches to reward her.' 
 
 *A Raeburn could hardly be deficient in 
 courage. Luke Haeburn 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.
 
 237 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 He is a man both loving and severe, 
 A tender heart, a will inflexible. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 Luke Raebuen bad 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 calcu- 
 lated to mislead very greatly. 
 
 Other matters, too, were harassing him just
 
 238 WE T^YO. 
 
 then, and he was, moreover, paying the penalty 
 of his two years' campaign, in which his almost 
 superhnman exertions and the privations he had 
 voluntarily endured had told severely upon his 
 health. Possessed of a singularly well-regulat- 
 ed mind, and having in an unusual degree the 
 inestimable gift of common-sense, he neverthe- 
 less 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 inex- 
 haustible. The months of trouble had turned 
 his hair quite white, he was now a more notice- 
 able-looking man than ever. 
 
 Not unfrequently he made friends with the 
 men with whom he travelled ; he was always 
 studying life from the working-man'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 humour for it ; instead, he 
 thought over the abusive article and the man- 
 gled report in the Longstaff Mercui'ij^ and de- 
 bated within himself whether it were worth an
 
 239 
 
 action for libel. His love of fightiDg said yes, 
 his common-sense said no, and in the end com- 
 mon-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 travellers, was yet 
 strong enough to sweep over the tall grasses 
 in long undulating waves that made them shim- 
 mer 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 country- 
 men, and of those who had fallen on the
 
 240 WE TWO. 
 
 euemy's side. It was an unrightous war, and 
 his heart burnt within him at the thought of 
 the inhuman havoc thus caused by a false am- 
 bition. iVgain^ 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 indig- 
 nation. 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 accompHshed ! 
 
 ' 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
 
 EAEBUKN'S HOME-COMINa. 241 
 
 repeat the maxim — ' Let us eat and drink, for 
 to-morrow we die !' it spurred him on 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 w^rite 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 neces- 
 sary 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 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 ^E TWO. 
 
 was, be nevertheless felt a certain pleasurable 
 sensation as he left St. Pancras, driving home- 
 ward 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 compan- 
 ion to him since her very babyhood, but now 
 he was able to enjoy her companionship even 
 more than in the olden times. Her keen intel- 
 lect, 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 him- 
 self and his child. Then, too, in his hard, argu- 
 mentative, 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
 
 raeburn's home-coming. 243 
 
 pure childlike devotion that he invariably turn- 
 ed for comfort. 
 
 Dismissing the cab at the corner of Guilford 
 Square, he walked down the dreary little pas- 
 sage, looking up at the window to see if she 
 were watching for him as usual. But to-day 
 there Avas no expectant face ; he recollected, 
 however_, that it was Thursday, always a busy 
 day wath 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 quick footsteps, the open- 
 ing of a door, some sign of welcome, but all 
 was as silent as death. Half angry with him- 
 self for having grown so expectant of that 
 loving watch as to be seriously apprehen- 
 sive 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 ' seri^ement 
 de cceur^ seized him when he saw that Erica 
 "was indeed at home, but that she was lying on 
 
 r2
 
 244 WE TWO. 
 
 the couch. She did not even spring up to 
 greet him. 
 
 ' Is anything the matter, dear ? Are you ill V 
 he asked, hurriedly crossing the little room. 
 
 ' Oh, have yon 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 Os- 
 mond says I shall get quite well again if I'm 
 careful ; but' — she added, lightly, yet with the
 
 raeburn's home-coming. 245 
 
 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,' SEiid 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 use- 
 less. 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. Be- 
 sides, 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 law-suits!' 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
 
 24 G WE TWO. 
 
 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 dis- 
 tressed 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 colour 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 w^ant-
 
 raeburn's home-coming. 247 
 
 ed to help father most I 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 I 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 Eaeburn'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 grum- 
 ble'^ Rather Pharisaical — outside of the cup and 
 platter ; but it is all 1 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 in- 
 tellects 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
 
 248 WE TWO. 
 
 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 certainly 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, dis- 
 cipline, 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 en- 
 forced 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.
 
 249 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 
 
 For toleration had its griefs, 
 And charity its trial. 
 
 AYhittier. 
 
 * WelLj Osmond, you got into hot water a few 
 years ago fpr defending Raeburn in public, and 
 by this tinae you will find it not merely hot, but 
 up to boiling point. The fellow is more notori- 
 ous 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 no- 
 ticed,' replied Charles Osmond.
 
 250 WE TWO. 
 
 ' You speak as if you admired the fellow !' 
 
 ' There is a great deal to admire in Mr. 
 Raeburu. However greatly mistaken he is, 
 there is no doubt that he is a brave man, and 
 an honest.' 
 
 ' 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 I* exclaimed Mr. Roberts. 
 
 ' That he teaches fearful error, I quite allow,' 
 said Charles Osmond, ' but it is the grossest in- 
 justice to say that he does it for gain. His 
 atheism brought him to the very brink of star- 
 vation 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 w^as so uncalled for, you put the com- 
 parison so broadly.' 
 
 ' I put it in plain English,' said Charles
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 251 
 
 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 Eilchester riot; it was absolutely neces- 
 sary 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 
 defence 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 uncomfort- 
 able news for us, but we've no right to 
 shut onr 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 misson. Rae- 
 burn 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,
 
 252 TVE TWO. 
 
 denying hinaself 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 be- 
 lieves to be the truth. What meagre tithe do 
 you bestow upon the religion of which you 
 speak so much ? Here is a man who dares to 
 stand up alone in defence of what he holds true, 
 a man who never flinches. How far are you 
 brave in the defence of your faith? Do you 
 never keep a prudent silence ? Do you never 
 hoAvlwith 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 
 w^ould 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.'
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 253 
 
 'I am trying to speak the words that God 
 has given nie to speak,' said Charles Osmond. 
 'The result I can well trust to Him. An un- 
 comfortable truth will never be popular. The 
 words of our Lord Himself were not popular ; 
 but they sank 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 defence, do not dishonour the 
 clerical profession by personal acquaintance 
 with the man. I hear that he has been seen 
 actually in your house_, that you are even inti- 
 mate 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 Father- 
 hood 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 V
 
 254 WE TWO. 
 
 '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 3^ou 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 yvety. 
 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 I' broke in Mr. 
 Roberts.
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 255 
 
 ' 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 Rae- 
 burn !' exclaimed Mr. Roberts hotly. ^ I tell 
 you, Osmond, that you are ruining your repu- 
 tation, 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 Eaeburn had such a Sav- 
 iour 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. Rob^ 
 erts, 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
 
 25(5 WE TWO. 
 
 shake hands with him to be made an arch- 
 bishop ! 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, how- 
 ever, 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
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 257 
 
 that they could never be on the same footing as 
 before. He had, moreover, lost in him a valu- 
 able co-worker. Then_, too, it was true enough 
 that his defence of Raeburn was bringing him 
 into great disfavour with the religious world, 
 and he was a sensitive and naturally a proud 
 man, who found blame_, and reproach^ and con- 
 temptuous 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 Avho is conscious of ability, everyone who 
 feels within him energies lying fallow for want 
 of opportunity, must be ambitious for a larger 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 WE TWO. 
 
 sphere of work. Jnst 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 ac- 
 cept any greater work which might have been 
 offered 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 hold- 
 ing out a brotherly hand to a man who might 
 very probably not care to take it ; for consort- 
 ing w^ith those who would at best regard him 
 as an amiable fanatic. Was this worth all 
 it would cost? Could the exceedingly prob- 
 lematical gain make up for the absolutely cer- 
 tain 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 dis- 
 pleased Raeburn that morning, struck Charles 
 Osmond in a most unfavourable light. This 
 bitter opponent of Christianity, this unsparing
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 259 
 
 denouncer of all that be held most sacred, this 
 was the man for whom he was sacrificing friend- 
 ship, reputation, advancement. A feeling of 
 absolute disgust rose within him. For a mo- 
 ment 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 any- 
 thing to say to those who disagreed with Him ? 
 Did He not live and die for those who were yet 
 enemies to God? Was not the work of recon- 
 ciliation the work He came for? Did He calcu- 
 
 s2
 
 260 WE TWO. 
 
 late 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, per- 
 fect love to all, perfect justice through that love, 
 or else they are not like the Father who ' mak- 
 eth 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 ray coldness with Thy burning char- 
 ity, and if it be possible make me fit to be Luke 
 Raeburn's friend.' 
 
 While he still stood by the window a visi- 
 tor was announced. He had been too much 
 absorbed to catch the name, but it seemed the
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 261 
 
 most natural thing that on turning round 
 he should find himself face to face with the pro- 
 phet af atheism. 
 
 There he stood, a splendid specimen of hu- 
 manity ; 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 indi- 
 cated exactly his steely endurance of ill-treat- 
 ment, were now softened and deepened b}^ sad- 
 ness. His heart went out to him. Already he 
 loved the man, only hitherto the world's opin- 
 ion had crept into his heart between each meet- 
 ing, and had paralysed 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
 
 262 WE TWO. 
 
 always liked Charles Osmond, but he had gen- 
 erally met him either in public, or when he was 
 harassed and pre-occupied. 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 sprang up between the 
 two men. 
 
 ' I came really to see your son,' said Raeburn, 
 ' but they tell me he is out. I want to know 
 the whole truth about Erica.' 
 
 It was not his way to speak ver}^ much where 
 he felt deeply, but Charles Osmond could detect 
 all tlie 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 
 w^as 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
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHEK. 263 
 
 home that a grisly fear bad 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. AVill 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, other- 
 wise such a long rest would be intolerable, I 
 should fancy.' 
 
 ' You do not object to my coming to see her V 
 said Charles Osmond, looking full into his com- 
 panion's eyes. ' You know that we discuss 
 religious questions pretty freely.' 
 
 'Religious questions always are freely dis- 
 cussed 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 ad- 
 versaries' case even more closely than our 
 own, and, if she has a chance of doing it per-
 
 264 - WE TWO. 
 
 sonally 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, it 
 you can suppose anything so unlikely, she 
 should ever in future years come to believe in 
 Christianity V 
 
 Raeburn smiled, not quite pleasantly. 
 ' It is as you say such a very remote contin- 
 gency !' He paused, grew grave, then contin- 
 ued wath all his native nobility : ' Yet I like 
 you the better for having brought forward such 
 an idea, improbable as I hope it may be consid- 
 ered. I feel very sure of Erica. She has 
 thought a great deal, she has had every possi- 
 ble 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
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 265 
 
 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 
 njy nature to enjoy nothing better than a little 
 opposition.' 
 
 ' I know you are a born fighter/ said Charles 
 Osmond. ' We sympathise 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 climbings ? It is no despicable 
 craving for distinction, it is the innate love of 
 fighting, struggling, and conquering.'
 
 2QQ WE TWO. 
 
 ' 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 to-night?' he 
 added, after a pause. 
 
 ^ Yes, I had thought of it. • Let us go to- 
 gether. Shall you speak?' 
 
 ' Not to-night,' said Raeburn, a smile flickering 
 about his usually stern lips. ' The Right Rev- 
 erend Father, &c., &c., 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 pre- 
 judiced are people that the mere connection of 
 my name with the question would probably do 
 more harm than good. 1 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
 
 LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 267 
 
 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 wig-maker. Bat here 
 am I wasting your time and my own, and for- 
 getting the poor little maid at home. Good- 
 bye. 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
 
 268 WE TWO. 
 
 Raebin-D. In his very \valk the character ot 
 the man was indicated : — firm, steady, imper- 
 turbable, straight-forward.
 
 269 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 
 
 Fiat justitia ruat coelum. 
 
 Proverb, 
 
 Justice, — the miracle worker amongst 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 re- 
 plied, sitting down near her couch, 'but I have 
 been overwhelmed with work the last few days. 
 How are you getting on "? I am 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*
 
 270 WE TWO. 
 
 bard to make the best of things. ^ I was rather 
 rash though to say that I should Hke my wheels 
 to ruu 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 prom- 
 ised to come and teach me whenever he can. 
 He is so devoted to father, you know, I think 
 be would do anything for me just because I am 
 bis child. It is a comfort that father has so 
 many real good friends. What I do so tho- 
 roughly bate 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
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 271 
 
 down the knives and forks and tossing down 
 the plates^ makes me actually cross ! And then 
 they let the room get so untidy ; jnst 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 every- 
 thing ! And, of course, it happens that another 
 controversy is beginning about that Longstaff 
 report. I have been reading half-a-dozen of to- 
 day's newspapers, and each one is worse than 
 the last. Look here ! Just read that, and try to 
 imagine it's your father they are slandering ! 
 Oh, if I could but get up for one minute and 
 stamp I' 
 
 '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
 
 272 WE TWO. 
 
 have quite disregarded the context. If 3'ou 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 re- 
 ferred to. and saw that Erica had not complahi- 
 ed without reason. 
 
 ' Yes, that is very imfair — shamefully unfair,' 
 he said. Then, after a pause, he added abrupt- 
 ly, ^ Erica, are you good at languages V 
 
 ' 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 con- 
 verts 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
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 278 
 
 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 dis- 
 believe in Him, yet you have never really studied 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 WE TWO. 
 
 His life. You have read the New Testament 
 through a veil of prejudice. Mind, I am not 
 saying one word in defence of those so-called 
 Christians who treat you unfairly or uncharit- 
 ably ; 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 com- 
 bat, while our bigots can verify every fact or 
 quotation with regard to Mr. Raeburn with per- 
 fect 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
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 275 
 
 take the trouble to study the hfe of Christ.' 
 Few people like to be told of their faults. 
 Erica could just endure it from her father, but 
 froiQ no one else. She was, besides, too young- 
 yet to have learnt even the meaning of the 
 word humiHty. Had Charles Osmond been a 
 few years younger, she would not even have 
 listened to him. As it was, he was a grey- 
 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. 
 
 t2
 
 276 WE TWO. 
 
 AVhen 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 I 
 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 condemn- 
 ed to a long imprisonment. It was simply 
 brutal of him ! If anyone had told her that he 
 would do such a things she would not have be- 
 lieved 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, priestl}^ 
 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 !
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 277 
 
 She spent the rest of the afternoon in alter- 
 nate wrath and grief. In the evening Aunt 
 Jean read her a somewhat dry book which re- 
 quired 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 liked a little opposition,' was 
 his reply. 
 
 * I don't know about opposition, but I didn't 
 like him, he showed liis 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 spoilt 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 oppo- 
 sition, and he had doled out to her a rebuke 
 which was absolutely unanswerable ! But why
 
 278 WE TWO. 
 
 ■anaoswerable ? 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, respect- 
 ful, of course^ but very frigid. She would 
 clearly demonstrate to him that she was per- 
 fectly 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.
 
 CHARLES OSMOXD SPEAKS HIS :\IIND. 279 
 
 At this poiut 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 un- 
 comfortable 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 connect- 
 ed with Christ's religion. She had read many 
 books both for and against Him. She had read 
 the New Testament. But could she quite hon- 
 estl^^ 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 Free- 
 thinker? 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
 
 280 WE TWO. 
 
 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 un- 
 j)leasant and hitherto unknown facts about 
 herself. 
 
 'After all, I do believe that Mr. Osmond was 
 light,' she confessed at length. ' 1 am glad to 
 get back my belief in him ; but I've come to a 
 horrid bit of lath and plaster in m^'self where I 
 thought it was all good stone.' 
 
 She fell asleep and dreamt 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 ran as follows : — 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Osmond, 
 
 ' You made me very ang).'y yesterday, 
 and sad, too, for of course it was a case of "Et tu.
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 281 
 
 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 favour. Will you teach me Greek? 
 Your parable of the Heathen Chinee has set mo 
 thinking. 
 
 ' Y'ours very sincerely, 
 
 ' Erica Baeburn.' 
 
 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 bookshelves, 
 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 anima- 
 tion in her look than he had seen for some weeks. 
 
 ' I did think you perfectly horrid yesterday !'
 
 282 WE TWO. 
 
 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, other- 
 wise God would be either not perfectly good or 
 not omnipotent. His all-wisdom enables Him 
 to over-rule 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 im- 
 possible for us to go wrong V 
 
 * It would have saved much trouble, un-
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND, 28^ 
 
 doubteclly ; but do you thick 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_y 
 one of the finest 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 were 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 can- 
 not both cause a thing to be and not to be at 
 the same time. H' 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 
 
 rODViv/: Ts^x-^J- 
 
 I
 
 284 WE TWO. 
 
 Erica. ' It seems like talking of thia air !' 
 
 'I expect it does/ said Charles Osmond, 
 trying to realise to himself her position. 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 ' How did this man of whom you speak 
 come to desert our side T asked Erica. ' I sup- 
 pose, 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 unlikel}', unreal things true T 
 
 '- 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 realised that in Christ we see 
 the Father.' 
 
 ' I am sorry we lost him if he was such a 
 Dice man,' was Erica's sole comment. Then 
 turning her beautiful eyes on Charles Os- 
 mond she said, * I hope my note did not con- 
 vey to you more than 1 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, I only 
 do it because I see I have not been fair.'
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 285 
 
 ' You do it for the sake of being a true 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 peo- 
 ple must come in a state of need and expecting 
 to be satisfied. 1 don't expect anything. I am 
 only doing it for the sake of honesty and thor- 
 oughness. 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 a perfectly honest mind to 
 the search ? Erica_, if I hadnH known that you 
 were absolutely sincere, I should not have dared 
 to give you the pain I gave you yesterday. Tt 
 was my trust in your perfect sincerity which 
 brought you that strong accusation. Even 
 then it Avas a sore piece of work.' 
 
 ' Did you mind it a little V 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
 
 286 \YE TWO. 
 
 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 exceed- 
 ingly to give me pain yesterday !' 
 
 His character puzzled her. The loving 
 breadth, 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 labouring 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 
 Lard 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
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. ^87 
 
 defence 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 w^ould 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 Avill 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 everyone 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 tran-
 
 288 WE TWO. 
 
 slations 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 Christ- 
 ianity. I have heard Avrangling over the 
 Bible till I am tired to death of it, and dis- 
 cussions about the Atonement, and the Incar- 
 nation, 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 realise, though, that in the stormy at- 
 mosphere 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.'
 
 CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND, 289 
 
 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 hi& 
 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 the 
 sentence, ' For the love of Christ constraineth 
 us.' 
 
 Was that what had made him come ? Why, 
 that was the alleged reason for half the persecu- 
 tions 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 
 possible insult ? Was it possible that the love 
 of Christ constrained Mr. Osmond to endure 
 contempt and censure on their behalf, and con- 
 strained 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 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 WE TWO. 
 
 there must be something more in Christianity 
 than we thought. Well, if only to please him, 
 1 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 
 perfectly honest. I would much rather be 
 working at that new book of Tyndall's !'
 
 291 
 
 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 realise bis true position towards 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 ac- 
 quaintance; he was to her Tom's friend, or her 
 
 u2
 
 292 WE TWO. 
 
 doctor, or perhaps Mr. Osmond's son. In this 
 way she liked him, was even fond of him, but 
 as a lover he wonld have been a perplexing em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 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 know- 
 ing that it w^as 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, de- 
 voted 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 expect- 
 ed to fall hopelessly in love at first sight, nor 
 would anyone 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
 
 AN INTERVAL. 293 
 
 was, perhaps for tliat 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 win- 
 ning 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 realise 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 wonder- 
 ful 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
 
 294 WE TWO. 
 
 willingness to serve everyone, 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 com- 
 mon-sense and obedience to rules made her a 
 great favourite 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 en- 
 forced quiet, too, she found plenty of time for 
 study. Charles Osmond had never had a 
 better pupil. They learnt 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
 
 AN INTERVAL. 295 
 
 forward with the triumphant conviction that 
 they were unanswerable. They were real, 
 honest questions, desiring and seeking every- 
 where 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 Secular- 
 ist. She found to her surprise that there was 
 much in His teaching that entirely harmonised 
 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 dis- 
 honest 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, perplexiog and 
 almost irritating catalogue of miracles, and had 
 begun to perceive the streogth and indomitable 
 courage_, the grand self-devotion, the all-em- 
 bracing love of the Man. Very superJScial had
 
 296 WE TWO. 
 
 been her former view. He had been to her a 
 shadowy, unreal bein^, soft and gentle, even a 
 little effeminate, speaking sometimes what seem- 
 ed 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 teach- 
 ing. 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 realised how hard was the 
 practice of that love, she realised 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 cannot, 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
 
 AN INTERVAL. 297 
 
 was cl eluded. You may admire Joau 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 charac- 
 ter of Gotama without considering Buddhism 
 the true religion ; and so with Christ, I may 
 reverence and admire His character while believ- 
 ing Him to have been mistaken.' 
 
 Charles Osborn 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
 
 298 WE TWO. 
 
 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 mouth, however much pressed by 
 his parish work, however harassed by private 
 troubles, he came to her with the genial sym- 
 pathy, the broad-hearted readiness to hear 
 calmly all sides of the question, which had 
 struck Erica 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 intimatel}' as Erica. Aunt Jean, who had at 
 first been a little prejudiced against him, ended 
 by singing his praises more loudly than anyone, 
 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
 
 AN INTERVAL. 299 
 
 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 concen- 
 trated 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 embittered 
 her nature. She had not the vein of humour 
 which had stood Raeburn in such good stead. 
 Severely matter-of-fact, and almost despising 
 those who had any poetry in their nature, she 
 did not always agree very w^ell with Erica. 
 The two loved each other sincerely, and 
 were far too loyal both to clan and creed to 
 allow their difierences 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
 
 300 WE TWO. 
 
 nnich 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 house- 
 hold. 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 w^hat 
 ^vas wrong. 
 
 It would be tediouSj however, to follow the 
 course of Erica's life for the next three years, 
 for^ though the time was that of her chief men- 
 tal growth, her days were of the quietest. Not 
 till she was two and twenty did she fully re-
 
 AN INTERVAL. 301 
 
 cover 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.
 
 302 
 
 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 rendezvous 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.
 
 HYDE PARK. 303 
 
 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. 
 
 Everyone 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 moment- 
 ous, and which for the time had divided Eng- 
 land into two bitterly opposed factions. 
 
 These years which Erica had passed so quiet- 
 ly had been eventful years for the country, 
 years of strife and bloodshed, years of reckless 
 expenditure, years which deluded some and en- 
 raged 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 remain-
 
 304 WE TWO. 
 
 ed at home ; Rotten Row was deserted ; the car- 
 riage road almost empty ; while from the gate- 
 way 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 to-day/ re- 
 marked Raeburn to Brian, as they forced their 
 way on. ' If Tm 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 intre- 
 pidity not one whit shaken by the knowledge 
 that, by what he was about to saj, he should 
 draw dowai on his ow^n head all the wrath of the 
 roughest portion of the crowd.
 
 HYDE PARK. 305 
 
 * 'Twill be against fearful odds !' said Tom, 
 elbowing vigorously to keep up with his com- 
 panion. 
 
 ' We fear nae foe !' said Raebnrn, quoting his 
 favourite motto. ' And_, after all, it w^ere no 
 bad end to die protesting against wicked rapa- 
 city, needless bloodshed.' 
 
 His eye kindled as he thought of the protest 
 he hoped to make ; his heart beat high as ho 
 looked round upon the throng so largely com- 
 posed of those hostile to himself. Was there 
 not a demand for his superabundant energy? 
 a demand for the tremendous powers of endur- 
 ance, of influence, of devotion which w^ere stor- 
 ed up within him? As an athlete joys in trying 
 a difficult feat, as an artist jo^^s 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, w^atching him presently from a little 
 distance, could not wonder at the immense influ- 
 ence he had gained in the country. The mere 
 physique of the man was wonderfully impressive 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 WE TWO. 
 
 — 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 simply marvellous. It was not likely, 
 however, that his protest of to-day 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
 
 HYDE PARK. 307 
 
 the steady gaze of one who in thinkiDg of the 
 progress of the race has 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 in pieces, his heart was never- 
 theless all aglow with the righteousness of his 
 causOj with the burning desire to make an avail- 
 ing protest against an evil which was desolat- 
 ing thousands of homes. 
 
 The majesty of his calmness began to influ- 
 ence 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 
 
 x2
 
 308 WE TWO. 
 
 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 to-day ! You who call your- 
 selves freeman, I come to tell you that you are 
 acting like slaves.' 
 
 Then with rare tact he alluded to the strong- 
 est 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 the time the most 
 abject of his hearers, inspired them with his own 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 Presently when he felt secure enough to ven- 
 ture it, when the crowd was absolutely hanging 
 on his words with breathless attention, he ap- 
 pealed no longer directly to the people, but drew, 
 in graphic language, the picture of the desola- 
 tions brought by war. The simplicity of his 
 phrases, his entire absence of showiness or bom- 
 bast, made his influence indescribably deep and
 
 HYDE PARK. 309 
 
 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-ham- 
 mer Saxon,' that marvellously graphic picture 
 of misery and bereavement, hard-headed, and 
 hitherto hard-hearted men were crying like chil- 
 dren. Then came the rugged, unvarnished state- 
 ment 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 V
 
 310 ^YE TWO. 
 
 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 denunci- 
 ation he had ever uttered. 
 
 The string had been gradually w^orked up to 
 its highest possible teusion ; at length when the 
 strain was the greatest it suddenly snapped. 
 Eaeburn'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 bitter- 
 ness and truth of his accusations proved keen- 
 er than his restraining influence. 
 
 He had foreseen that the spell would break, 
 he knew the instant it was broken. A mo- 
 ment before, and he had been able to sway 
 that huge crowd as he pleased ; now he was
 
 HYDE PARK. 311 
 
 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 ia 
 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. Desper- 
 ation, 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 utter- 
 most. 
 
 He fought like a lion, forcing his way 
 through the furious crowd, attacked in the 
 most brutal way on every side, yet ever strug- 
 gling on if only by inches. Never once did
 
 312 WE TWO. 
 
 his steadfastness waver, never for a single in- 
 stant 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, w^iile 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 favourite mottos, — ' Make good thy stand- 
 ing-place and move the world.' 
 
 ilnd even then he half-smiled to himself at 
 the forlornness of the hope that he should ever 
 need a standing-place again. 
 
 With renewed vigour 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 hope-
 
 HYDE PARK. 313 
 
 lesslj maimed him. With a vaia 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. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLF.NHKTM HOUSE.
 
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