WE TWO A NOVEL 3.///, ^ ^' il^ BY EDNA LYALL AUTHOB OF " DONOVAN." "Men are so made as to resent nothing more impatiently than to be treated as jJminal for opinions which they deem true." — Spinoza. " We two are a multitude." — Ovid. NEW YORK: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 1, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET. 1887. PRO CON. 1871—1884. ♦Knowledge by suffering entereth.* CONTENTS. Chap. I. BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE . . « II. FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE III. LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW IV. ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' V. erica's resolve .... VI. PARIS VII. "NVHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT . VIII. ' WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? ' , IX. ROSE X. HARD AT WORK . . . • XI. THE WHEELS RUN DOWN . • XII. raeburn's home-coming . XIII. LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER XIV. CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND XV. AN INTERVAL .... XVI. HYDE PARK .... XVII. AT death's DOOR . . . XVIII. ANSWERED OR UNANSWERED ? , XIX. AT THE MUSEUM .... XX. STORM XXI. WHAT IT INVOLVED • • • XXII. AN EDITOR .... * XXIII. ERICA TO THE RESCUE . , • Page 1 11 IS 28 30 54 59 G9 76 82 93 100 105 113 122 127 131 143 152 159 173 183 188 Till CONTENTS. Chap. XXIV. THK NEW RKLATIONS XXV. L.VDY Caroline's dinner XXVI. A FRIEND .... XXVII. AT OAKDENE MANOR . XXVIII. TUE lIArriKST OF WEEKS. XXIX. GREVSIIOT AGAIN XXX. SLANDER LEAVES A SLCR . XXXI. BRIAN AS AVENGER . XXXII. FIESOLE .... XXXIII. ' RIGHT ONWARD ' XXXIV. THE MOST UNKINDEST CTT OF ALL XXXV. RAEBURN I'. POGSON . XXXVI. rose's adventure . XXXVII. DREEING OUT THE INCn . XXXVIII. HALCYON DAYS . XXXIX. ASHBOROUGH . XL. MORS JANUA VIT^ XL!. RF.SULTS CLOSELY FOLLOWING Xl.Il A NEW year's dawn . Fagb 200 211 224 238 2o2 2G1 2GG 270 280 800 317 325 338 357 370 370 384 395 401 ^W^E T"V7"0. CHAPTER I. BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. Still humanity grows clearer, Being learned the more. Jean Ingelow. There are three things in this world which deserve no quarter- Hypocrisy, Pharisaism, and Tyranny, p -p People who have been brought up in the country, or in small places where every neighbour 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 com- munities. In a somewhat bewildered way, they gaze at the shifting crowd of strange faces, and wonder whether it would be possible to feel completely at home where all the sur- roundings of life seem ever changing and unfamih'ar. But those who have lived long in one quarter of London, or of any other large town, know that there are in reality almost as many links between the actors of the town life-drama as between those of the country life-drama. Silent recognitions pass between passengers who meet day after day in the same morning or evening train, on the way to or from work ; the faces of omnibus conductors grow familiar ; we learn to know perfectly well on what day of the week and at what hour the well-known organ-grinder will make his appearance, and in what street we shall meet the city clerk or the care-worn little daily governess on their way to office or school. It so happened that Brian Osmond, a young doctor who had not been very long settled in the Bloomsbury regions, had an engagement which took him every afternoon down Gower Street, and here many faces had grown familiar to him. He ^ BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE, invariably met the same sallow-faced postman, the same nasal- voiced milkman, the same pompous-looking man with the bushy whiskers and the shiny black bag, on his way home from the city. But the only passenger in whom he took any in- terest was a certain bright-faced little girl whom he generally met just before the Montague Tlace crossing. He always called her his ' little girl,' though she was by no means little in the ordinary acceptation of the word, being at least sixteen, end rather tall for her years. But there was a sort of fresh- ness 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 di*ess, and the same quaint little fur hat. In other details, however, he could never tell in the least how he should find her. She seemed to have a mood for every day. Sometimes she would be in a great hurry and would almost run past him ; sometimes she would saunter along in the most unconventional way, glancing from time to time at a book or a paper ; sometimes her eager fiice would look alisolutely be- witching in its brightness ; sometimes scarcely less bewitching in a consuming anxiety which seemed unnatural in one so young. One rainy afternoon in November, lirian was as usual making his way down Gower Street, his umbrella held low to shelter him from the driving rain which seemed to come in all directions. The milkman's shrill voice was still far in the distance, the man of letters was still at work upon knockers some way off, it was not yet time for his little girl to make her appearance, and he was not even thinking of her, when sud- denly his umV)rella 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 Uiiknown friend. He had never been quite so close to her before. Her quaint face had always fascinated him, but on nearer view he thought it the loveliest face he had ever seen — it took his heart by storm. It was fi-amed in soft, silky masses of duslcy auburn hair which hung over the broad, white forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer than a boy's. The features, though not regular, were delicate and piquant ; the usual faint rose-flush on the cheeks deepened now to carnation, perhaps because of BniAN FALLS IN LOVE. 3 the slight contretemps, perhaps becaiise 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 wasn't thinking or looking, it was very careless of me,' Brian of course took all the blame to himself, and apolo- gised profusely; but though he 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 bi-own-bearded uan with the pleasant gray eyes who had apolo- gised for what was quite her fault. Something had gone wrong that day, as Brian had surmised ; the eyes gi-ew brighter, the carnation flush deepened as she hurried along, the delicate lips closed with a curiously hard expression, the hands were clasped with unnecessary tightness round the umbrella 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 Avas far less imposing. At the corner of the square there is a narrow opening which leads into a sort of blind alley paved with grim flag-stones. Here, facing a high blank wall, are four or five very dreary houses. She entered one of these, put down her wet umbrella in the shabby little hall, and opened the door of a barely- furnished ' room, the walls of which were, however, lined with books. Beside the fire was the one really comfortable piece of furniture in the room, an Ilkley couch, and upon it lay a very wan-looking invalid, who, as the door opened, glanced up with a Bmilc of welcome. i BRIAN FALLS IS LOVE. * Why, Erica, you are home early to-day. How is that ? ' ' Oh, I don't know,' said Erica, tossing down her books in a way which showed her mother that she was troubled about something. ' I suppose I tore along at a good rate, and there wa.s no temptation to stay at the High School.' ' Come and tell me about it,' said the mother, gently ; * what has gone wrong, little one 1 ' ' Everything ! ' exclaimed Erica, vehemently. ' Everything always docs 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 Gertrude. 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 with her.' ' Who said so ? And why ? ' ' Why 1 Because I'm myself,' said Erica, with a bitter little laugh. * How I can help it, nobody seems to thinlc.#L But Gertrude's fatlier has come back from Africa, and was horrified to learn that we were friends, made her promise never to speak to me again, and made her write this note about it. Look ! ' and she took a crumpled envelope from her pocket. The mother read the note in silence, and an expression of pain came over her face. Erica, who was very impetuous, snatched it away from her when she saw that look of sadness. ' Don't read the horrid thing ! ' she exclaimed, crushing it up in her hand. ' There, we will bum it ! ' and she threw it into the fire with a vehemence Avhich 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 tliat it is impossible to keep anything from him ? He will find out directly tliat some- thing 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 1 Why do they treat us like lepers ? It isn't all because of losing Gertrude ; I could bear that if there were some real reason, — if she went away or died. But there's no reason ! It's all prejudice and bigotry and injustice ; it's that which makes it sting so.' BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. U Erica was not at all given to tears, but tliere Avas now a sort of choking in her throat, and a sort of dimness in her eyes, which made her rather hurriedly settle down on the floor in her own particular nook beside her mother's couch, where her face could not be seen. There was a silence. Presently the mother spoke, stroking back the wavy, auburn hair with her thin white hand. 'For a long time I have dreaded this for you. Erica. I was afraid you didn't 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, moi-e and more, you must realise that you are cut off from much that other girls may enjoy.' 'Why?' questioned Erica. 'Why can't they be friendly]' W^hy must they cut us off from everything "? ' ' It does seem unjust ; but you must remember that we belong to an unpopular minority.' ' But if I belonged to the larger party, I would at least be just to the smaller,' said Erica. ' How can they expect us to think their system beautiful when the very first thing they show us is hatred and meanness. Oh ! if I belonged to the ether side I would show them how diff"erent it might be.' ' I believe you would,' said the mother, smiling a little at the idea, and at the vehemence of the speaker. ' But, as it is. Erica, I am afraid you must school yourself to endure. After all, I fancy you will be glad to share so soon in your father's vexations.' ' Yes,' said Erica, pushing back the hair from her forehead, and giving herself a kind of mental shaking, ' I am glad of that. After all, they can't spoil the best part of our lives ! I shall go into the garden to get rid of my bad temper ; it doesn't rain now.' She struggled to her feet, picked up the little fur hat which had fallen off, kissed her mother, and went out of the room. The ' garden ' was Erica's favourite resort, her own par- ticular property. It was about fifteen feet squai-e, and no one but a Londoner would have bestowed on it so dignified a name. But Erica, who was of an inventive turn, had contrived to make the most of the little patch of ground, had induced ivy to grow on the ugly brick walls, and with infinite care and satisfaction had nursed a few flowers and shrubs into tolerably healthy though smutty life. In one of the corners Tom 6 BHIAX FALLS IX LOVE. Craigie, her favourite cousin, had put up a rough wooden bench for her, and here she read and dreamed as contentedly as if her * garden ground ' had been fairyland. Here, too, she in- variably came when anything had gone wrong, when the end- less troubles about money which had weighed upon her all her life became a little less bearable than usual, or when some act of discourtesy or harshness to her father had roused in her a tingling, burning sense of indignation. Erica was not one of those people who take life easily : things went very deeply with her. In spite of her brightness and vivacity, in spite of her readiness to see the ludicrous in everything, and her singularly quick perceptions, she was also very keenly alive to other and graver impressions. Her anger had passed, but still, as she paced round and round her small domain, her heart was very heavy. Life seemed perplexing to her ; but her mother had somehow struck the right key-note when she had spoken of the vexations which might be shared. There was something inspiriting in that thought, certainly, for Erica worshipped her father. By de- grees the trouble and indignation died away, and a very sweet look stole over the grave little face. A smutty sparrow came and peered do^^•n at her from the ivy-covered wall, and chirped and twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps recognising the scatterer of its daily bread. 'After all, tliouglit Erica, 'with ourselves and the animals, we might let the rest of the world treat us as they please. I am glad they can't turn the animals and birds against us ! That would be worse than anything.' Then, suddenly turning from the abstract to the practical, she took out of her pocket a shabby little sealskin purse. 'Still sixpence of my prize-money over,' she remarked to herself. ' I'll go and buy some scones for tea. Father likes them.' Erica's fi\ther was a Scotchman, and, though so-called scones were to be had at most shops, there was only one place where she could buy scones which she considered worthy the name, and that was at the Scotch baker's in Southampton Row. SI;e hurried along the wet pavements, glad that the rain was over, for as soon as her purchase was completed she made up her mind to indulge for a few minutes in what had lately become a very frequent treat, namely, a pause before a certain tempting store of second-hand liooks. She had never had money enough to buy anything except the necessary Rf'hool books, and, being a great lover of poetry, she alvvaya BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 7 seized with avidity on anything that was to be found outside the book-shop. Sometimes she -would carry away a verse of Swinburne, which would ring in her eyes for days and days; sometimes she would read as much as two or thice pages of Shelley. No one had ever interrupted her, and a certain sense of impropriety and daring was rather stimulating than other- wise. 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 gray-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly eyes, and his son, the same Brian Osmond whom Erica had charged with her umbrella in Gower Street. ' An outside customer for you,' remarked Charles Osmond, the clergyman, glancing at the shopkeeper. Then to his son, ' What a picture she makes ! ' Brian looked up hastily from some medical books which he had been turning over. ' Why, that's my little Gower Street friend?' he exclaimed, the words being somehow surprised out of him, though he would fain have recalled them the next minute. ' I don't interrupt her,' said the shop owner. ' Her father has done a great deal of business with me, and the little lady has a fancy for poetry, and don't get much of it in her life, I'll be boii:id.' * Why, who is she % ' asked Charles Osmond, who was on very fi'iendly 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 enovigh life.' Brian turned away from the speakers, a sickening sense of dismay at his heart. His ideal was the daughter of Luke Raeburn ! And Luke Raeburn was an atheist leader ! For a few minutes he lost consciousness of time and place, 8 BRIAK FALLS IX LOVE. though always seeing in a sort of dark mist Erica's lovely fi\ce bending over her book. The shopkeeper's casual remark had been a fearful blow to him ; yet, as he came to himself again, his heart went out more and more to the beautiful girl who had been brought up in what seemed to him so barren a creed. His dream of love, which had been bright enough only an hour before, was suddenly shadowed by an unthought- of pain, but presently began to shine with a new and altogether difl'ercnt lustre. He began to hear again what was passing between his father and the shopkeeper, ' There's a sight more good in him than folks think. How- ever wrong his views, he believes them right, and is ready to suffer for 'em, too. Bless me, that's odd, to be sure ! There is Mr, Uaeburn, on the other side of the Row ! Fine looking man, isn't he !' Brian, looking up eagerly,, fancied he must be mistaken, for the only passenger in sight was a very tall man of remarkably benign aspect, middle-aged, yet venerable — or perhaps better described by the word * devotional-looking,' pervaded too by a certain majesty of calmness which seemed scarcely suited to his character of public agitator. The clean-shaven and somewhat rugged face was unmistakably that of a Scotchman, the thick waves of tawny hair overshadoAving 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 Avas reading, and with laughter in his eyes, said, in a peremptory voice, ' Five shillings to pay, if you please, miss ! ' Erica, who had been absorbed in the poem, looked up in dismay ; then seeing who had spoken she began to laugh. ' What a horrible fright you gave me, father ! But do look at this it's the loveliest thing in the world, Fve just got to the ' very strong man Kwasind.' I think he's a little like you ! ' IlaebiuTi, though no very great lover of poetiy, took the book and read a few lines, ' Lonp; they lived in peace together, Spake with naked hearts together, Pondering much and much contriving How the tribes of men might prosper,' BRIAN FALT 3 IN LOVE. 9 '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-eixpence ! 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 misei'able-looking beggar child, Brian standing now outside the shop, saw and heard all that passed. Raeburn was evidently investigating the case, Erica a little impatient of the interruption was remonstrating. * I thought you never gave to beggars, and I am sure that harrowing story is made up.' ' Very likely,' replied her father, ' but the hunger is real, and I know well enough what hunger is. What have you heveV he added, indicating the paper bag which Erica held. * Scones,' she said, unwillingly. * That will do,' he said, taking them from her and giving them to the child. ' He is too young to be anything but the victim of another's laziness. There ! sit down and eat them while you can.' The child sat down on the doorstep with the bag of scones clasped in both hands, but he continued to gaze after his benefactor till he had passed out of sight, and there was a strange look of surprise and gratification in his eyes. That was a man who knew ! Many people had, after hard begging, thrown him pence, many had warned him off harshly, but this man had looked straight into his eyes, and had at once stopped and questioned him, had singled out the one true statement from a mass of lies, and had given him — not a stale loaf with the top cut off, a suspicious sort of charity which always angered the waif — but his own food, bought for his own consumption. Most wonderful of all, too, this man knew what it was to be hungry, and had even the insight and shrewdness to be aware that the waif's best chance of eating the scones at all was to eat them then and there. For the first time a feeling of reverence and admiration was kindled in the child's heart; he would have done a great deal for his unknown friend. Raeburn and Erica had meanwhile walked on in the direction of Guilford Square. ' I had bought them for you,' said Erica, reproachfully. * And I ruthlessly gave them away,' said Raeburn, smiling. 'That was hard lines; I thought they were only household 10 BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. stock. But after all it comes to the same thing in the end, or better. You have given them to me by giving them to the child. Never mind, " Little son Eric ! " ' This was his pet name for her, and it meant a great deal to them. She was his only child, and it had at first been a great disappointment to every one that she was not a boy. But Raeburn had long ago ceased to regret this, and the nick- name referred more to Erica's capability of being both son and daughter to him, able to help him in his work and at the same time to brighten his home. Erica was very proud of her name, for she had been called after her father's greatest friend Eric Haebcrlein, a celebrated republican, who once during a long exile had taken refuge in London. His views were in some respects more extreme than Raeburn's, but in private life he was the gentlest and most fascinating of men, and had quite won the heart of his little namesake. As Mrs. Ilaeburn had surmised, Erica's father had at once seen that something had gone wrong that day. The all- observing eyes, which had noticed the hungry look in the beggar child's face, noticed at once that his own child had been troubled. ' Something has vexed you,' he said. ' What is the matter, Erica?' ' I had rather not tell you, father, it isn't anything much,' said Erica, casting down her eyes as if all at once the paving- stones had become absorbingly interesting. ' I fancy I know already,' said Eaeburn. ' It is about your friend at the High School, is it not 1 I thought so. This afternoon I had a letter from her father.' ' What does he say ? May I see it?' asked Erica. * I tore it up,' said Raeburn ; * I thought you would ask to see it, and the thing was really so abominably insolent that I didn't want you to. How did you hear about it ? ' ' Gertrude wrote me a note,' said Erica. * At her father's dictation, no doubt,' said Raeburn ; * I should know his stylo directly, let me see it.' * I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I burnt it,' said Erica. Tlien, imable 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 Racbuni. Life only, as Pope Innocent IIL benevolently remarked, "is to be left to the FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 11 children of misbelievers, and that only as an act of mercy." You must make up your mind to bear the social stigma, child. Do you see the moral of this 1 ' 'No,' said Erica, v/ith something between a smile and a sigh. The moral of it is that you must be content with your own people,' said Eaeburu. ' There is this one good point about persecution — it does draw us all nearer together, really strengthens us in a hundred ways. So, little one, you must forswear school fi'iends, 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 1 ' 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 11. PROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. Only the acrid spirit of the times, Corroded this true steel. Longfellow. Not Thine the bigot's partial plea, Not Tliine the zealot's ban ; Thou well canst spare a love of Thee Which ends in hate of man. "Whittieb. Ltjkb Raeburn was the son of a Scotch clergyman of the Episcopal Church. His history, though familar to his own followers and to them more poweifully convincing than many arguments against modern Christianity, was not generally known. The orthodox were apt to content themselves with 'shuddering at the mention of his name ; very few troubled themselves to think or inquire how this man had been driven 1 2 FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. into atheism. Had they done so they might, perhaps, have treated him more considerately, at any rate they must have learnt that the miich-disliked prophet of atheism was the most disinterested of men, one who had the courage of his opinions, a man of fearless honesty, Raeburn had lost his mother very early ; his father, a well-to-do man, had held for many years a small living in the west of Scotland. He was rather a clever man, biit one-side i 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 shi-ewd 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. But for his son he was ambitious. Ever since his sixteenth year — when, at a public meeting, the boy had, to the astonishment of every one, suddenly spmng to his feet and contradicted a false statement made by a great landowner as to the condition of the cottages on his estate — the father had foreseen future triumphs fur his son. For the speech, though unpremeditated, was marvellously clever, and there was a power in it not to be accounted for by a certain ring of indignation ; it was the speech of a future orator. Then, too, Luke had by this time shown signs of religious zeal, a zeal which his father, though far from attempting to copy, could not but admire. His Sunday services over, he relapsed into the comfortable, easy-going life of a country gentleman, for the rest of the week ; but his son was inde- fatigable, and, though little more than a boy himself, gathered round him the roughest lads of the village, and by his eloquence, and a certain peculiar personal fascination which he retained all his life, absolutely forced them to listen to liim. The father augured great things for him, and invariably pro^diesied 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 Kaebuni was oidy too happy to carry out liis father's plans. In his very first term at Cambridge, however, he began to feel doubts, and, becoming convinced that he could never again accept the doctrines in which he had been educated, lie told his father that he must give up all thought of taking Orders. PROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 13 NoW; unfortuuately, Mr. Raebiirn 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 confession, which his son had made in pain and diffidence, with a most deplorable want of tact. In answer to the perplexing questions which were put to him, he merely replied testily that Luke had been overworking himself, and that he had no business to trouble his head with matters which were beyond him, and would fain have dismissed the whole affair at once. ' But,' urged the son, ' how is it possible for me to turn my back upon these matter's when I am preparing to teach them V ' Nonsense,' replied the father, angi-ily. ' Have not I taught all my life, preached twice a Sunday these thirty years without perplexing myself with your questionings ! Be off to your shooting and your golf, and let me have no more of this morbid fuss.' No more was said ; but Luke Raeburn, with his doubts and questions shut thus into himself, drifted rapidly from 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 fatherhood which he possessed, was deeply wounded, and his dreams of honourable distinction were laid low. His wrath was great. Luke found the home made almost unbearable to him. His college career was of course at an end, for his father would not hear of providing him with the necessary funds now that he had actually confessed his atheism. He was hardly allowed to speak to his sisters, every request for money to start him in some profession met with a sharp refusal, and matters were becoming so desperate that he would probably have left the place of his own accoixl before long, had not Mr. Raeburn himself put an end to a state of things which had gi'own insufferable. With some lurking hope, perhaps, of convincing his son, he resolved upon trying a course of argument. To do him justice he really tried to pi'epare 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 1 1 FnOM EFFECT TO CAUSE. little love, in his mistaken endeavours; but he did not rccogniso that, -while he himself was unforgiving, luiloving, harah, and self-indulgent, all his arguments for Christianity were of neces- sity null and void. He arg^icd for the existence of a perfectly- loving, good God, all the -while treating his son -with injustice and tyranny. Of course there could be only one residt from a debate between the two. Luke llaeburn with his honesty, his gi-eat 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. Raebm-n 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 Lis son's college debts without a murmur, would have overlooked any- thing connected with Avhat he considered the necessary process of 'sowing his wild oats.' But that the fellow should presume to think out the greatest problems in the world, should set up his judgment against Paley's, and worst of all should actually and palpably beat him in argument — this was an un- pardonable offence. A stormy scene ensued. The fiither in ungovernable fury heaped upon the son every abusive epithet he could think of. Luke Racbui-n 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 Avas wrung by his Other's bitterness. Standing there on that summer day, in the study of the Scotch parsonage, the man's future -was sealed. He suffei'cd there the loss of all things, but at the very time there sprang up in him an enthusiasm for the cause of frcc-thouglit, a passionate, burning zeal for the opinions for which he suffered, which never left him, but served as the great moving impulse of his wliole subsequent life. ' I tell you, you are not fit to be in a gentleman's house,' thundered the father. 'A rank atheist, a lying infidel ! It is against nature that you should call a parsonage your home.' ' It is not particularly home-like,' said the son, bitterly. *I can leave it when you please.' 'Can!' exclaimed his father, in a fury, ' you tt-zYZ leave it, sir, and this very day too ! I disown you from this time. I'll have no atheist for my sou ! Change your views or leave the house at ouc^\ PROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 15 Perhaps he expected his son to make some compromise ; if so he showed what a very shght knowledge he had of his character. Luke Raeburn had certainly not been prepared for such extreme harshness, but with the pain and grief and indig- nation 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 world as few men would have gone through with. Cut off from all friends and relations by his avowal of atheism, and baffled again and again in seeking to earn his living, he had more than once been on the very brink of starvation. By sheer force of will he had won his way, had risen above adverse circumstances, had fought down obstacles, and conquered opposing powers. Before long he had made fresh friends and gained many followers, for there was an extraordinary magnetism about the man which almost compelled those who were brought into contact with him to reverence him. It was a curious history. First there had been that time of grievous doubt ; then he had been thrown upon the world friendless and penniless, wdth the beliefs and hopes hitherto most sacred to him dead, and in their place an aching blank. He had suffered much. Treated on all sides with harshness and injustice, it was indeed wonderful that he had not de- veloped into a mere hater, a passionate downpuller. But there was in his character a nobility which would not allow him to rest at this low level. The bitter hostility and injustice which he encountered did indeed warp his mind, and every year of controversy made it more impossible for him to take an un- prejudiced view of Christ's teaching ; but nevertheless he could not remain a mere destroyer. In that time of blankness, when he had lost all faith in God, when he had been robbed of friendship and family love, he had seized desperately on the one thing left him, — the love of humanity. To him atheism meant not only the assertion — ' The word God is a word without meaning, it conveys nothing to my understanding.' He added to this barren confession of an intellectual state, a singularly high code of duty. Such a code as could only have emanated from one about whom there lingered what Carlyle has termed, a great 'Aftershine of Christianity.' He held that the only happiness worth having was that which came to a man while engaged in promoting the general good. That the whole duty of man was to 16 FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. devote himself to the service of others. And he lived hia 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 strength- ened year by year. He was the untiring advocate of what he considered the truth. Neither illness, nor small results, nor loss, could quench his ardour, while opposition invariably stimulated him to fi-esh efforts. After long years of toil, he had at length attained an influential position in the country, and though crippled by debts incurred in the struggle for freedom of speech, and living in absolute penury, he was one of the most powerful men of the day. The old bookseller had very truly observed that there was more good in him than people thought, he was in fact a noble character twisted the ^^Tong way by clumsy and mistaken handling. Brian Osmond was by no means bigoted ; he had, moreover, known those who were intimate with Raeburn, and con- sequently 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 aftci'uoon he watched Kacburn and his daughter down Southampton Row, he Avas conscious that for the first time he fully regarded the atheist as a fellow-man. The fact was, that Piacburn 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 baffle and ruin him ; while the quieter spirits contented themselves with rarely mentioning his obnoxious name, and endeavouring as far as possible to ignore his exist- ence. Brian felt that till now he had followed with the multi- tude to do evil. He had, as fiir as possible, ignored his exist- ence ; had even been rather annoyed when his father had once publicly urged that Raeburn should bo treated with as much justice and courtesy and consideration as if he had been a Christian. Ho had been vexed that his father should suffer oa FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 17 behalf of such a man, had been half-inclined to put down the scorn and contempt and anger of the narrow-minded to the atheist's account. The feeling had perhaps been natural, but all was changed now ; he only revered his father all the more for having sufFei'ed in an unpopular cause. With some eager- ness, he went back into the shop to see if he could gather any- more particulars from the old bookseller. Charles Osmond had, however, finished his purchases and his conversation, and was ready to go. 'The second house in Guilford Terrace, you say.' he observed, turning at the door. * Thank you, I shall be sure to find it. Good-day.' Then, turning to his son, he added, ' I had no idea we were such near 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 inimoured that some unscrupulous person, who is going to answer Mr. Raebuni this evening, has hired a band of roughs to make a disturbance at the meeting. Fancy how indignant Donovan would be ! I only wish he were here to take word to Mr. Raeburn.' ' Will he not most likely have heard from some other source ] ' said Brian. ' Possibly ; but I shall go round and see. Such abomi- nations 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 in- deed, he would probably have wished to take the message him- self had not his mind been set upon getting the best edition of Longfellow to be found in all London for his ideal. So, at the turning into Guilford Square, the father and son parted. The bookseller's information had roused in Charles Osmond a keen sense of indignation; he walked on rapidly as soon as he had left his son, and in a very few minutes had reached the gloomy entrance to Guilford Terrace. It was currently re- ported 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 en- dured 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 IS LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. lodging-house. He rang, and was admitted into the narrow passage, then shown into the private study of the great man. The floor was uncarpeted, the window uncurtained, the room was almost dark ; but a red glow of firelight served to show a large writing-table strewn with papers, and walls literally lined with books ; also on the hearthrug a little figui-e curled up in the most unconventionally comfortable attitude, dividing her attention between making toast and fondling a loud-piu-ring i;at. CHAPTER III. LIFE FROM ANOTnER POINT OF VIEW. Toleration an attack on Christianity? Wliat, then, are we to come to this pass, to suppose that nothing can support Christianity, but the principles of persecution? ... I am persuaded that toleration, so far from being an attack on Christianity, becomes the best and surest support that can possibly be given to it. . . . Toleration is good for all, or it 18 good for none. . . . God forbid . I may be mistaken, but I take toleration to be a part of religion. Bubke. 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 childlike manner fascinated him almost as much as it had fascinated Brian. * My father will be home in a few minutes,' she said, ' I almost wonder you didn't meet him in the square ; he has only just gone to send oflF a telegram. Can you Wait ] Or will you leave a message?' ' I will wait, if I may,' said Charles Osmond. ' Oh, don't trouble about a light, I like this dimness very well, and, please, don't let me interrupt you.' Erica relinquished a vain search for candle-lighters, and took up her former position on the hearthrug with her toasting- fork. ' I like the gloaming, too,' she said. ' It's almost the only nice tiling which is economical ! Everything else that one likes 8j)ecially 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.' LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 19 * I suppose it is. But I think I could enjoy ever so many things for years and years without growing blase,' said Erica. ' Sometimes I like just to fancy what life might be if there were no tiresome Chi'istians, and bigots, and law-suits.' Charles Osmond laughed to himself in the dim light ! the remark was made with such perfect sincerity, and it evidently had not da^vned on the speaker that she could be addressing any but one of her father's followers. Yet the words saddened him too. He jvist 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 V he obseiwed 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 re- member the time when we were quite free. It must feel very funny to have no woiries of that kind. I think, if there wasn't alvsays this great load of debt tied round our necks like a mill- stone, 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 eaaj^-going life. Did you see a dreadful para- graph last week in the CJmrch Chronicle V ' Yes, I did,' said Charles Osmond, sadly. * It always has been the same,' said Erica. ' Father has a delightful story about an old gentleman who at one of his lectures accused him of being rich and self-indulgent — it was a great many years ago, when I was a baby, and father was nearly killing himself with overwork — and he just got up and gave the people the whole history of his day, and it turned out that he had had nothing to eat. Mustn't the old gentleman have felt delightfully done 1 I always wonder how he looked when he heard about it, and whether after that he believed that atheists are not necessarily everything that's bad.' * I hope such days as those are over for ]\Ir. 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 1 shouldn't wonder if these rooms in what father calls " Persecution Alley ;' grew too ex- pensive for us. But, after all, it is this sort of thing which makes our own people love him so much, don't you think 1' * I have no doubt it is,' said Charles Osmond, thoughtfully. And then for a minute or two there was silence. Erica, 20 LIFE FROM ANOTHER FOIXT OF VIEW. having finished lier toasting, stirred the fire into a blaze, and Charles Osmond sat watching the fair, childish face which looked lovelier than ever in the soft glow of the firelight. "What would her future be, he wondered. She seemed too delicate and sensitive for the stormy atmosphere in which she lived. Would the hard life embitter her, or would she sink under it 1 But there was^ a certain curve of resoluteness about her well-formed chin Avhich 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 loyalty to her father. Erica in the meantime sat stroking her cat Friskarina, and wondering a little who her visitor could be. She liked him very much, and could not help responding to the bright kindly eyes which seemed to plead for confidence ; though he was such an entire stranger, she found herself quite naturally opening out her heart to him. ' I am to take notes at my father's meeting to-night,' she said, breaking the silence, ' and perhaps Avrite the account of it afterwards too ; and there's such a delightfully funny man coming 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 aboiit this evening,' said Charles Osmond. ' Do you know if he has heard of a rumour that this Mr. Randolph has hired a band of roughs to interrupt the meeting 1' Erica made an indignant exclamation. ' Perhaps that was what the telegram was about,' she con- tinued, after a moment's thought. ' We found it here when we came in. Father said nothing, but went out very quickly to answer it. Oh ! now we shall have a dreadful time of it, I sui)pose, 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 liad said anything, and hastened 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. LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 2i Partly wishing to change the subject, partly from real in- terest, he made some remark about a lovely little picture, the only one in the room ; its frame was lighted up by the flickering blaze, and even in the imperfect light he could see that the subject was treated in no ordinary way. It was a little bit of the Thames far away from London, with a bank of many- tinted trees on one side, and out beyond a range of low hills, purple in the evening light. In the sky was a rosy sunset glow, melting above into saffron colour, and this was reflected in the water, gilding and mellowing the foreground of sedge and water-lilies. But what made the picture specially charm- ing was that the artist had really cavight the peculiar solemn stillness of evening ; merely to look at that quiet, peaceful river brought a feeling of hush and calmness. It seemed a strange picture to find as the sole ornament in the study of a man who had all his life been fighting the world. Erica brightened up again, and seemed to forget her anxiety when he questioned her as to the artist. ' There is such a nice story about that picture,' she said, ' I always like to look at it. It was about two years ago, one very cold winter's day, and a woman came with some oil-paintings which she was trying to sell for her husband, who was ill ; he was rather a good artist, but had been in bad health for a long time, till at last she had really come to hawking about his pictures in this way, because they were in such dreadfid dis- tress. Father was ver}'- much AvoiTied just then, there was a hoiTid libel case going on, and that morning he was very busy, and he sent the woman away rather sharply, and said he had no time to listen to her. Then presently he was vexed Avith him- self because she really had looked in great trouble, and he thought he had been harsh, and, though he Avas dreadfully pressed for time, he would go out into the square to see if he couldn't find her again. I went with him, and we had walked all round and had almost given her up, when we caught sight of her coming out of a house on the opposite side. And then it was so nice, father spoke so kindly to her, and found out more about her history, and said that he was too poor to buy her pictures ; but she looked dreadfully tired and cold, so he asked her to come in and rest, and she came and sat by the fire, and stayed to dinner with us, and we looked at her pictures, be- cause she seemed so proud of them and liked us to. One of them was that little river-scene, which father took a great fancy to, and praised a great deal. She left us her address, 22 LIFE PROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 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. Ill light the gas, and then you'll see it better.' She twisted a piece of paper into a spill, and put an end 1 o the gloaming. Charles Osmond stood up to get a nearer view of the painting, and Erica, too, drew nearer, and looked at it for a minute in silence. ' Father took mc up the Thames once,' she said, by-and-by. ' It was so lovely. Some day, when all these persecutions are over, we are going to have a beautiful tour, and see all sorts of places. But I don't know when they will be over ! As soon as one bigot ^' she broke off suddenly, with a stifled exclamation of dismay. Charles Osmond, in the dim light, with his long gray beard, had not betrayed his clerical dress ; but, glancing round at him now, she saw at once that the stranger to whom she had spoken so um-eservcdly 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 noti' ' I beg your pardon, I never thought — you seemed bo much too ' 'Too what?' urged Charles Osmond. Then, as she still hesitated, ' Now, you must really let me hear the end of that sentence, or I shall imagine everything dreadful !' ' Too nice,' murmured Erica, wishing that she could sink through the floor. But the confession so tickled Charles Osmond that he laughed aloud, and his laughter was so infectious that Erica, in spite of her confusion, could not help joining in it. She had a very keen sense of the ludicrous, and the position was, undoubt- edly, a laughable one ; still there were certain appalling recol- lections of the past conversation which soon made her serious again. She had talked of pei-secutions to one nho was at any rate, on the side of persecutors ; had alluded to bigot?, and, worst of all had sjwken in no measured terms of 'tiresome Christians.' She turned, rather shyly, and yet with a touch of dignity, to her visitor, and said, LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 23 * It was veiy careless of me not to notice more ; but it was dark, and I am not used to seeing any but our own people here. I am afraid I said things which must have hurt you ; I wish you had stopped me.' The beautiful colour had spread and deepened in her cheeks, and there was something indescribably sweet and con- siderate 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 delightful to me in this artificial world to meet any one who talks quite naturally, and the interest of hearing your view of the question kept me silent. You must forgive me, and as you know I am too nice to be a clergyman ' * Oh, I beg your pardon ! How rude I have been,' cried Erica, blushing anew ; ' but you did make me say it.' ' Of course ; and I take it as a high compliment from you,' said Charles Osmond, laughing again at the recollection. ' Come, may we not seal our friendship 1 We have been suf- ficiently 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 clergyman ! ' she thought to herself. Then, as a fresh idea crossed her mind, she suddenly exclaimed, ' But you came to tell us about Mr. Randolph's roughs, did you not ? How came you to care that we should know beforehand f ' Why, naturally, I hoped that a disturbance might be stopped.' ' Is it natural?' questioned Erica. ' I should have thought it more natural for you to think with your own party.' 'But peace and justice and freedom of speech must all stand before party questions.' ' Yet you think that we are wrong, and that Christianity is right f 'Yes; but to my mind perfect justice is part of Christianity.' ' Oh,' said Erica, in a tone which meant unutterable things. ' You think that Christians do not show perfect justice to youl' said Charles Osmond, reading her thouglits. ' I can't say I think they do,' she replied. Then, suddenly 24 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POIXT OF VIEW. firing \ip at the recollection of her aftcraoon's expeiiences, she said, 'They are not just to us, though they preach justice; they are not loving, tliough they talk about love ! If they \vant us to think their religion true, I wonder they don't practise it a little more and preach it less. What is the use uf talking of "brotherly kindness and charity," Avhen they hardly treat us like human beings ; -when they make up wicked lies about us, and will hardly let us sit in the same room with them !' * Come, now, we really are sitting in the same room,' said Charles Osmond, smiling. ' Oh, dear, what am I to do ! ' exclaimed Erica. * I can't remember that you are one of them ! you are so veiy 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 nile ; but, not wishing to be caught tripping again, she resolved to say no more upon the subject. ' Let us talk of something else,' she said. 'Something nicer T said Charles Osmond, with a little mischievous twinkle in his eyes. ' Safer,' said Ei'ica, 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 Kaeburn's brief responses ; then, in a few mo- ments, the two entered the room, a picturesque-looking couple, the clergyman thought : the tall, stately man, with his broad forehead and overshadowing masses of aubvu'n hair ; the little, eager-faced, impetuous girl, so Avinsome in her unconventional frankness. The conversation became a trifle more ceremonious, though with Erica perched on the arm of her father's chair, ready to squeeze his hand at every word which pleased her, it could hardly become stiff. Kacburn had just heard the report of Mr. Itandolpli's scheme, and liad already taken })recautionaiy measures ; but he was surprised and gratified that Charles Osmond should liave troubled to bring him word about it. The two men talked on with tlie most perfect friendliness ; and by-and-by, to Erica's great delight, Charles Osmond expressed a uisli to be present at the meeting that uight, and made inquiries ua to the time and place. LIFE FROM ANOTHER POIXT OF VIEW. 25 ' Oh, couldn't you stay to tea and go with us 1 ' she ex- daimed, forgetting for the third time that he was a clergyman, and oifering the ready hospitality she would have oflbred to any one else. ' I should be delighted,' he said, smiling, ' if you can really put up with one of the cloth.' Raebum, amused at his daughter's spontaneous hospitality, iuid 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 clergy- man ! I didn't find out for ever so long what he was, and said all sorts of dreadful things ; but he didn't mind, and was not the least offended.' ' When will you leani to be cautious, I wonder,' 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 coxild not help wondering how it would be as she grew older, and mixed with a greater variety of people. In fact, in every way she was anxious about the child's future, for Erica's was a somewhat perplexing character, and seemed very ill-fitted for her position. Eric Haeberlein had once compared her to a violin, and there was a good deal of truth in his idea. She was very sen- sitive, responding at once to the merest touch, and easily moved to admiration and devoted love, or to strong indig- nation. Naturally high-spirited, she was subject, too, to fits of depression, and was always either in the heights or the depths. Yet with all these characteristics was blended her father's indomitable courage and tenacity. Though feeling the thorns of life far more keenly than most people, she was one of those who will never yield ; though pricked and wounded by outward events, she wovild never be conquei'ed by circumstance. At present her capabilities for adoration, which were very great, were lavished in two directions ; in the abstract she wor- shipped intellect, in the concrete she woi'shippcd her father. From the grief and indignation of the afternoon, she had passed with extraordinary rapidity to a state of meiTiment, which would have been incomprehensible to one who did not 26 LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OP VIEW. understand her peculiarly complex character. Mrs. Raebum listened with a good deal of amusement to her racy description of Charles Osmond. ' Strange that this should have happened so soon after our talk this afternoon,' she said, musingly. * Perhaps it is as -well that you should have a glimpse of the other side, against which you -were inveighing, or you might be growing narrow.' ' He is much too good to belong to them ! ' said Erica, enthusiastically. As she spoke, Raebum entered, bringing the visitor witli him, and they all sat down to their meal, Erica pouring out tea and attending to every one's wants, fondling her cat, and listening to the conversation, with all the time a curious per- ception that to sit down to table with one of her father's op- ponents Avas a very novel experience. She could not help specu- lating as to the thoughts and impressions of her companions. Her mother was, she tliought, pleased and interested, for about her worn face there was the look of contentment which in- variably 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 Avhat sub- jects he was best calculated to ^peak, and wherein they could gain most from him. Charles Osmond's thoughts she could only speculate about ; but that he was ready to take them all as friends, and did not regard them as a different order of being, was plain. The conversation had drifted into regions of abstruse science, when Erica, who had been listening attentively, was altogether diverted by the entrance of the servant, who brought her a brown-paper parcel. Eagerly opening it, she was almost bewildered by the delightful surprise of finding a complete edition of Longfellow's poems, bound in dark-blue morocco. Inside was written, 'From another admirer of "Hiawatha."' She started \ip with a rapturous exclamation, and the two men paused in their talk, each unable to help watching the beautiful little face all aglow with happiness. Erica almost danced romid the room Avith her new treasure. ' What heavenly person can have sent me this 1 ' she cried. ' Look, father ! Did you ever see such a beauty ? ' LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 27 Science went to the winds, and Raebvirn gave all his sjm- patliy to Erica and Longfellow. ' The very thing you were wishing for ! Who could have sent itr * I can't think ! It can't be Tom, because I know he's spent all his money, and Auntie would never call herself an admirer of " Hiawatha," nor Herr Haeberlein, nor Monsieur Noirol, nor any one I can think of.' ' Dealings with the fairies,' said Raeburn, smiling. ' Your beggar-child with the scones suddenly transformed into a beneficent rewarder.' ' Not from you, father ? ' Raeburn laughed. ' A pretty substantial fairy for yoTi ! No, no, I had no hand in it. I can't give you presents while I am in debt, my bairn.' ' Oh, isn't it jolly to get what one wants ! ' said Erica, with a 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 cf a speech.' She obeyed, carrying away the book with her, and enli- vening them with extracts from it ; once delightedly dis- covering 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 delightful bit where Hiawatha was angry,' she said ; ' it has been running in my head all day — "For his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was." That's what I shall feel like 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 get her into trouble, I am afraid.' ' It is too fresh and delightful to be checked though,' said Charles Osmond ; * I assure you she has taught me many a lesson to-night.' 28 ' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE ! ' The mother talked on almost unreservcdlj about the sub- ject that was evidently nearest her heart — the difficulties of Erica's education, the harshucss they so often met vith, the harm it so evidently did the child — till the subject of the con- versation came down again, much too excited and happy to care just then for any unkind treatment. Had she not got a Long- fellow of her very own, and did not that unexpected pleasure make up for a thousand privations and discomforts 1 Yet, with all her childishness and impetuosity, Erica was womanly too, as Charles Osmond saw by the way she waited on her mother, thinking of everything which the invalid could possibly want while they were gone, brightening the Avhole place with her sunshiny presence. Whatever else was lacking, there was no lack of love in this house. The tender consider- atcness which softened Erica's impetuosity in her mother's presence, the loving comprehension between parent and child, was very beautiful to see. CHAPTER IV. * SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE ! ' A man who striveg earnestly and persevcringly to convince others, at least convinces us that he is convinced himself. Guesses at Truth. The rainy afternoon had given place to a fine and starlight night. Erica, apparently in high spirits, walked between her father and Charles Osmond. ' Mother won't be anxious about us,' she said. ' She has not heard a word about Mr. llandolph's plans. I was so afraid some one would speak about it at tea-time, and then she would liavc been iu a fright all the evLiiing, and would not have liked my gfter a timeless silence, perhaps of minutes, perhaps of hom-s, 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 somethmg intelligible. Surely in words it would not be so awful — so limitless. And he said it, speaking in a low, repressed voice, yet very tenderly, as if she had been a little child. She made a great effort to listen, but the sentences only came to her disjointedly, and as if from a great distance. It had been very sudden — a two hours' illness, no very great suffering. He had been lecturing at Birmingham — had been telegraphed for — had been too late. Erica made a desperate effort to realise it all ; at last she brought down the measureless agony to actual words, repeating them over and over to herself — ' Mother is dead.' At length she had grasped the idea ! Her heart seemed to die within her, a strange blue shade passed over her face, her limbs stiffened. She felt her father carry her to the window, was perfectly conscious of everything, watched as in a dream 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 church bells, was vaguely conscious of relief aa 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 prostra- tion. But she was not alone, and gi-adaally she realised it. 62 WIIAT THE NEW YEAR BliOUGHT. Very slowly the re-beginning of life set in ; the consciousness of her fixther's presence awakened her, as it Avere, from her droam of unmitigated pain. She sat \ip, put her arms round his neck, and kissed liim; then for a minute let her aching head rest on his shoulder. Presently, in a low but steady voice, she said, ' What would you like me to do, father]' * To come home ■with me now if you are able,' he said ; * to- morrow morning, though, if you would rather wait, dear.' But the idea of Avaiting seemed intolerable to her. The very sound of the word was hateful. Had slie 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, moi'e 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 grati- tude to them or the slightest comfort from their sympathy. She lay motionless on her little white bed, her eyes fixed on the wooden cross on the opposite wall, or from time to time glancing at Fraulein Sonncnthal, 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 I ' After a time her eyes fell on her elaborately-drawn paper of days. Every evening since her first arrival she had gone through the almost religious ceremony of marking-off the day ; it had often been a great consolation to her. The paper was much worn ; the weeks and days yet to be marked were few in number. She looked at it now, and if there can be a ' more ' to absolute grief, an additional pang to unmitigated sorrow, it came to her at the sight of that visible record of her long exile. She snatched down the paper and tore it to pieces ; then sank back again, pale and breatliless. Fraulein Sonncnthal saw and understood. She came to her, and kissed her. ' Herzbliittchen,' she said, almost in a whisper, and, after a moment's pause, ' Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott.' Erica made an impatient gesture, and turned away her *head. ' Why does she choose this time of all others to tell me 80,' she thought to herself. ' Now, when I can't argue or even WHAT TUB NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 63 think ! A sure towei* ! Could a delusion make one feel that anything is sure but death at such a time as this ! Everything is gone — or going. Mother is dead ! — mother is dead ! Yet she meant to be kind, poor Thckla, she didn't know it "would hurt.' Madame Lemercier came into the room with a eup of coffee and a hrioche. 'You have a long journey before you, my little one,' she said ; * you must take this before you start.' Yes, thei-e was the journey ! that was a comfort. There was something to be done, something hard and tiring — surely it would blunt her perceptions ! She started up with a strange sort of energy, put on her hat and cloak, swallowed the food with an effort, helped to lock her tnmk, moved rapidly about the room, looking for any chance possession which might have been left out. There was such terrible anguish in her tearless eyes that little Ninette 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 time she was beyond the reach of human comfort. Before long the farewells were over. Erica was once more alone with her father, her cheeks wet with the tears of others, her own eyes still hot and dry. They were to catch the four o'clock train ; the afternoon was dark, and already the streets and shops were lighted ; Paris, ever bright and gay, seemed 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 1 Presently she found herself in a second-class carriage, wedged- in between her father and a heavy-featured priest, who diligently read a little dogs'-eared breviary. Opposite was a meek, weasel- faced bourgeois, with a managing wife, who ordered him about ; then came a bushy-whiskered Englishman and a newly-married couple, while in the further corner, nearly hidden from view by the burly priest, lurked a gentle-looking Sister of Mercy, and a mischievous and fidgety schoolboy. She watched them all as in a dream of pain. Presently the priest left-off muttering and began to snore, and sleep fell, too, upon the occupants of the ojjposite seat. The little weasel-faced man looked most \\n- 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 64 WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. up every few minutes and vainly trying to shake oS" 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 braiu reeled at the thought of the ' rest of lifi.' The blank of bereavement, terrible to aU, was absolute and eternal to her, and this was her first gi-eat sorrow. She had known pain, and privatiou, 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 ou as a garment as time wore on, and to become a natural part of her life ; but always to be the same, a blank often felt, always ])resent, till at length her end came and she too passed away into the gi'eat Silence. Despair — the deprivation of all hope — is sometimes wild, but oftener calm with a deathly calmness. Erica was abso- lutely still, — she scarcely moved or spoke during the long weary journey to Calais. Twice only did she feel the sli;