Still humanity grows dearer,
Being learned the more. Jean Ingelow.
There are three things in this world which deserve no
quarter--Hypocrisy, Pharisaism, and Tyranny. F. Robertson
People who have been brought up in the country, or in small places where
every neighbor is known by sight, are apt to think that life in a large
town must lack many of the interests which they have learned to find in
their more limited communities. In a somewhat bewildered way, they gaze
at the shifting crowd of strange faces, and wonder whether it would be
possible to feel completely at home where all the surroundings of life
seem ever changing and unfamiliar.
But those who have lived long in one quarter of London, or of any other
large town, know that there are in reality almost as many links between
the actors of the town life-drama as between those of the country
life-drama.
Silent recognitions pass between passengers who meet day after day in
the same morning or evening train, on the way to or from work; the faces
of omnibus conductors grow familiar; we learn to know perfectly well on
what day of the week and at what hour the well-known organ-grinder will
make his appearance, and in what street we shall meet the city clerk or
the care-worn little daily governess on their way to office or school.
It so happened that Brian Osmond, a young doctor who had not been very
long settled in the Bloomsbury regions, had an engagement which took
him every afternoon down Gower Street, and here many faces had grown
familiar to him. He invariably met the same sallow-faced postman, the
same nasal-voiced milkman, the same pompous-looking man with the bushy
whiskers and the shiny black bag, on his way home from the city. But the
only passenger in whom he took any interest was a certain bright-faced
little girl whom he generally met just before the Montague Place
crossing. He always called her his “little girl,” though she was by no
means little in the ordinary acceptation of the word, being at least
sixteen, and rather tall for her years. But there was a sort of
freshness and naivete and youthfulness about her which made him use
that adjective. She usually carried a pile of books in a strap, so he
conjectured that she must be coming from school, and, ever since he had
first seen her, she had worn the same rough blue serge dress, and the
same quaint little fur hat. In other details, however, he could never
tell in the least how he should find her. She seemed to have a mood for
every day. Sometimes she would be in a great hurry and would almost run
past him; sometimes she would saunter along in the most unconventional
way, glancing from time to time at a book or a paper; sometimes her
eager face would look absolutely bewitching in its brightness; sometimes
scarcely less bewitching in a consuming anxiety which seemed unnatural
in one so young.
One rainy afternoon in November, Brian was as usual making his way down
Gower Street, his umbrella held low to shelter him from the driving rain
which seemed to come in all directions. The milkman's shrill voice was
still far in the distance, the man of letters was still at work upon
knockers some way off, it was not yet time for his little girl to make
her appearance, and he was not even thinking of her, when suddenly his
umbrella was nearly knocked out of his hand by coming violently into
collision with another umbrella. Brought thus to a sudden stand, he
looked to see who it was who had charged him with such violence, and
found himself face to face with his unknown friend. He had never been
quite so close to her before. Her quaint face had always fascinated him,
but on nearer view he thought it the loveliest face he had ever seen--it
took his heart by storm.
It was framed in soft, silky masses of dusky auburn hair which hung over
the broad, white forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer than a
boy's. The features, though not regular, were delicate and piquant; the
usual faint rose-flush on the cheeks deepened now to carnation, perhaps
because of the slight contretemps, perhaps because of some deeper
emotion--Brian fancied the latter, for the clear, golden-brown eyes that
were lifted to his seemed bright either with indignation or with unshed
tears. Today it was clear that the mood was not a happy one.
“I am very sorry,” she said, looking up at him, and speaking in a low,
musical voice, but with the unembarrassed frankness of a child. “I
really wasn't thinking or looking; it was very careless of me.”
Brian of course took all the blame to himself, and apologized profusely;
but though he would have given much to detain her, if only a moment, she
gave him no opportunity, but with a slight inclination passed rapidly
on. He stood quite still, watching her till she was out of sight, aware
of a sudden change in his life. He was a busy hard-working man, not at
all given to dreams, and it was no dream that he was in now. He knew
perfectly well that he had met his ideal, had spoken to her and she to
him; that somehow in a single moment a new world had opened out to him.
He had fallen in love.
The trifling occurrence had made no great impression on the “little
girl” herself. She was rather vexed with herself for the carelessness,
but a much deeper trouble was filling her heart. She soon forgot the
passing interruption and the brown-bearded man with the pleasant gray
eyes who had apologized for what was quite her fault. Something had
gone wrong that day, as Brian had surmised; the eyes grew brighter, the
carnation flush deepened as she hurried along, the delicate lips
closed with a curiously hard expression, the hands were clasped with
unnecessary tightness round the umbrella.
She passed up Guilford Square, but did not turn into any of the old
decayed houses; her home was far less imposing. At the corner of the
square there is a narrow opening which leads into a sort of blind alley
paved with grim flagstones. Here, facing a high blank wall, are four
or five very dreary houses. She entered one of these, put down her wet
umbrella in the shabby little hall, and opened the door of a barely
furnished room, the walls of which were, however, lined with books.
Beside the fire was the one really comfortable piece of furniture in the
room, an Ikeley couch, and upon it lay a very wan-looking invalid, who
glanced up with a smile of welcome. “Why, Erica, you are home early
today. How is that?”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Erica, tossing down her books in a way which
showed her mother that she was troubled about something. “I suppose I
tore along at a good rate, and there was no temptation to stay at the
High School.”
“Come and tell me about it,” said the mother, gently, “what has gone
wrong, little one?”
“Everything!” exclaimed Erica, vehemently. “Everything always does go
wrong with us and always will, I suppose. I wish you had never sent me
to school, mother; I wish I need never see the place again!”
“But till today you enjoyed it so much.”
“Yes, the classes and the being with Gertrude. But that will never be
the same again. It's just this, mother, I'm never to speak to Gertrude
again--to have noting more to do with her.”
“Who said so? And Why?”
“Why? Because I'm myself,” said Erica, with a bitter little laugh. “How
I can help it, nobody seems to think. But Gertrude's father has come
back from Africa, and was horrified to learn that we were friends, made
her promise never to speak to me again, and made her write this note
about it. Look!” and she took a crumpled envelope from her pocket.
The mother read the note in silence, and an expression of pain came over
her face. Erica, who was very impetuous, snatched it away from her when
she saw that look of sadness.
“Don't read the horrid thing!” she exclaimed, crushing it up in her
hand. “There, we will burn it!” and she threw it into the fire with a
vehemence which somehow relieved her.
“You shouldn't have done that,” said her mother. “Your father will be
sure to want to see it.”
“No, no, no,” cried Erica, passionately. “He must not know; you must not
tell him, mother.”
“Dear child, have you not learned that it is impossible to keep anything
from him? He will find out directly that something is wrong.”
“It will grieve him so; he must not hear it,” said Erica. “He cares so
much for what hurts us. Oh! Why are people so hard and cruel? Why do
they treat us like lepers? It isn't all because of losing Gertrude;
I could bear that if there were some real reason--if she went away
or died. But there's no reason! It's all prejudice and bigotry and
injustice; it's that which makes it sting so.”
Erica was not at all given to tears, but there was now a sort of choking
in her throat, and a sort of dimness in her eyes which made her rather
hurriedly settle down on the floor in her own particular nook beside her
mother's couch, where her face could not be seen. There was a silence.
Presently the mother spoke, stroking back the wavy, auburn hair with her
thin white hand.
“For a long time I have dreaded this for you, Erica. I was afraid you
didn't realize the sort of position the world will give you. Till lately
you have seen scarcely any but our own people, but it can hardly be,
darling, that you can go on much longer without coming into contact with
others; and then, more and more, you must realize that you are cut off
from much that other girls may enjoy.”
“Why?” questioned Erica. “Why can't they be friendly? Why must they cut
us off from everything?”
“It does seem unjust; but you must remember that we belong to an
unpopular minority.”
“But if I belonged to the larger party, I would at least be just to
the smaller,” said Erica. “How can they expect us to think their system
beautiful when the very first thing they show us is hatred and meanness.
Oh! If I belonged to the other side I would show them how different it
might be.”
“I believe you would,” said the mother, smiling a little at the idea,
and at the vehemence of the speaker. “But, as it is, Erica, I am afraid
you must school yourself to endure. After all, I fancy you will be glad
to share so soon in your father's vexations.”
“Yes,” said Erica, pushing back the hair from her forehead, and giving
herself a kind of mental shaking. “I am glad of that. After all, they
can't spoil the best part of our lives! I shall go into the garden to
get rid of my bad temper; it doesn't rain now.”
She struggled to her feet, picked up the little fur hat which had fallen
off, kissed her mother, and went out of the room.
The “garden” was Erica's favorite resort, her own particular property.
It was about fifteen feet square, and no one but a Londoner would have
bestowed on it so dignified a name. But Erica, who was of an inventive
turn, had contrived to make the most of the little patch of ground, had
induced ivy to grow on the ugly brick walls, and with infinite care and
satisfaction had nursed a few flowers and shrubs into tolerably healthy
though smutty life. In one of the corners, Tom Craigie, her favorite
cousin, had put up a rough wooden bench for her, and here she read and
dreamed as contentedly as if her “garden ground” had been fairy-land.
Here, too, she invariably came when anything had gone wrong, when the
endless troubles about money which had weighed upon her all her
life became a little less bearable than usual, or when some act of
discourtesy or harshness to her father had roused in her a tingling,
burning sense of indignation.
Erica was not one of those people who take life easily; things went very
deeply with her. In spite of her brightness and vivacity, in spite of
her readiness to see the ludicrous in everything, and her singularly
quick perceptions, she was also very keenly alive to other and graver
impressions.
Her anger had passed, but still, as she paced round and round her small
domain, her heart was very heavy. Life seemed perplexing to her; but her
mother had somehow struck the right key-note when she had spoken of the
vexations which might be shared. There was something inspiriting in
that thought, certainly, for Erica worshipped her father. By degrees the
trouble and indignation died away, and a very sweet look stole over the
grave little face.
A smutty sparrow came and peered down at her from the ivy-colored wall,
and chirped and twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps recognizing
the scatter of its daily bread.
“After all,” though Erica, “with ourselves and the animals, we might let
the rest of the world treat us as they please. I am glad they can't turn
the animals and birds against us! That would be worse than anything.”
Then, suddenly turning from the abstract to the practical, she took out
of her pocket a shabby little sealskin purse.
“Still sixpence of my prize money over,” she remarked to herself; “I'll
go and buy some scones for tea. Father likes them.”
Erica's father was a Scotchman, and, though so-called scones were to be
had at most shops, there was only one place where she could buy scones
which she considered worthy the name, and that was at the Scotch baker's
in Southampton Row. She hurried along the wet pavements, glad that the
rain was over, for as soon as her purchase was completed she made up
her mind to indulge for a few minutes in what had lately become a
very frequent treat, namely a pause before a certain tempting store of
second-hand books. She had never had money enough to buy anything except
the necessary school books, and, being a great lover of poetry, she
always seized with avidity on anything that was to be found outside the
book shop. Sometimes she would carry away a verse of Swinburne, which
would ring in her ears for days and days; sometimes she would read as
much as two or three pages of Shelley. No one had every interrupted her,
and a certain sense of impropriety and daring was rather stimulating
than otherwise. It always brought to her mind a saying in the proverbs
of Solomon, “Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is
pleasant.”
For three successive days she had found to her great delight
Longfellow's “Hiawatha.” The strange meter, the musical Indian names,
the delightfully described animals, all served to make the poem
wonderfully fascinating to her. She thought a page or two of “Hiawatha”
would greatly sweeten her somewhat bitter world this afternoon, and
with her bag of scones in one hand and the book in the other she read
on happily, quite unconscious that three pair of eyes were watching her
from within the shop.
The wrinkled old man who was the presiding genius of the place had two
customers, a tall, gray-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly eyes, and
his son, the same Brian Osmond whom Erica had charged with her umbrella
in Gower Street.
“An outside customer for you,” remarked Charles Osmond, the clergyman,
glancing at the shop keeper. Then to his son, “What a picture she
makes!”
Brian looked up hastily from some medical books which he had been
turning over.
“Why that's my little Gower Street friend,” he exclaimed, the words
being somehow surprised out of him, though he would fain have recalled
them the next minute.
“I don't interrupt her,” said the shop owner. “Her father has done a
great deal of business with me, and the little lady has a fancy for
poetry, and don't get much of it in her life, I'll be bound.”
“Why, who is she?” asked Charles Osmond, who was on very friendly terms
with the old book collector.
“She's the daughter of Luke Raeburn,” was the reply, “and whatever folks
may say, I know that Mr. Raeburn leads a hard enough life.”
Brian turned away from the speakers, a sickening sense of dismay at his
heart. His ideal was the daughter of Luke Raeburn! And Luke Raeburn was
an atheist leader!
For a few minutes he lost consciousness of time and place, though always
seeing in a sort of dark mist Erica's lovely face bending over her book.
The shop keeper's casual remark had been a fearful blow to him; yet,
as he came to himself again, his heart went out more and more to the
beautiful girl who had been brought up in what seemed to him so barren
a creed. His dream of love, which had been bright enough only an hour
before, was suddenly shadowed by an unthought of pain, but presently
began to shine with a new and altogether different luster. He began to
hear again what was passing between his father and the shop keeper.
“There's a sight more good in him than folks think. However wrong his
views, he believes them right, and is ready to suffer for 'em, too.
Bless me, that's odd, to be sure! There is Mr. Raeburn, on the other
side of the Row! Fine-looking man, isn't he?”
Brian, looking up eagerly, fancied he must be mistaken for the only
passenger in sight was a very tall man of remarkably benign aspect,
middle-aged, yet venerable--or perhaps better described by the word
“devotional-looking,” pervaded too by a certain majesty of calmness
which seemed scarcely suited to his character of public agitator.
The clean-shaven and somewhat rugged face was unmistakably that of a
Scotchman, the thick waves of tawny hair overshadowing the wide brow,
and the clear golden-brown eyes showed Brian at once that this could be
no other than the father of his ideal.
In the meantime, Raeburn, having caught sight of his daughter, slowly
crossed the road, and coming noiselessly up to her, suddenly took hold
of the book she was reading, and with laughter in his eyes, said, in a
peremptory voice:
“Five shillings to pay, if you please, miss!”
Erica, who had been absorbed in the poem, looked up in dismay; then
seeing who had spoken, she began to laugh.
“What a horrible fright you gave me, father! But do look at this, it's
the loveliest thing in the world. I've just got to the 'very strong man
Kwasind.' I think he's a little like you!”
Raeburn, though no very great lover of poetry, took the book and read a
few lines.
“Long they lived in peace together, Spake with naked hearts together,
Pondering much and much contriving How the tribes of men might prosper.”
“Good! That will do very well for you and me, little one. I'm ready to
be your Kwasind. What's the price of the thing? Four and sixpence! Too
much for a luxury. It must wait till our ship comes in.”
He put down the book, and they moved on together, but had not gone many
paces before they were stopped by a most miserable-looking beggar child.
Brian standing now outside the shop, saw and heard all that passed.
Raeburn was evidently investigating the case, Erica, a little impatient
of the interruption, was remonstrating.
“I thought you never gave to beggars, and I am sure that harrowing story
is made up.”
“Very likely,” replied the father, “but the hunger is real, and I know
well enough what hunger is. What have you here?” he added, indicating
the paper bag which Erica held.
“Scones,” she said, unwillingly.
“That will do,” he said, taking them from her and giving them to the
child. “He is too young to be anything but the victim of another's
laziness. There! Sit down and eat them while you can.”
The child sat down on the doorstep with the bag of scones clasped in
both hands, but he continued to gaze after his benefactor till he
had passed out of sight, and there was a strange look of surprise and
gratification in his eyes. That was a man who knew! Many people had,
after hard begging, thrown him pence, many had warned him off harshly,
but this man had looked straight into his eyes, and had at once stopped
and questioned him, had singled out the one true statement from a mass
of lies, and had given him--not a stale loaf with the top cut off, a
suspicious sort of charity which always angered the waif--but his own
food, bought for his own consumption. Most wonderful of all, too,
this man knew what it was to be hungry, and had even the insight and
shrewdness to be aware that the waif's best chance of eating the scones
at all was to eat them then and there. For the first time a feeling of
reverence and admiration was kindled in the child's heart; he would have
done a great deal for his unknown friend.
Raeburn and Erica had meanwhile walked on in the direction of Guilford
Square.
“I had bought them for you,” said Erica, reproachfully.
“And I ruthlessly gave them away,” said Raeburn, smiling. “That was hard
lines; I though they were only household stock. But after all it comes
to the same thing in the end, or better. You have given them to me by
giving them to the child. Never mind, 'Little son Eric!'”
This was his pet name for her, and it meant a great deal to them. She
was his only child, and it had at first been a great disappointment to
every one that she was not a boy. But Raeburn had long ago ceased to
regret this, and the nickname referred more to Erica's capability of
being both son and daughter to him, able to help him in his work and at
the same time to brighten his home. Erica was very proud of her name,
for she had been called after her father's greatest friend, Eric
Haeberlein, a celebrated republican, who once during a long exile had
taken refuge in London. His views were in some respects more extreme
than Raeburn's, but in private life he was the gentlest and most
fascinating of men, and had quite won the heart of his little namesake.
As Mrs. Raeburn had surmised, Erica's father had at once seen that
something had gone wrong that day. The all-observing eyes, which had
noticed the hungry look in the beggar child's face, noticed at once that
his own child had been troubled.
“Something has vexed you,” he said. “What is the matter, Erica?”
“I had rather not tell you, father, it isn't anything much,” said Erica,
casting down her eyes as if all at once the paving stones had become
absorbingly interesting.
“I fancy I know already,” said Raeburn. “It is about your friend at the
High School, is it not. I thought so. This afternoon I had a letter from
her father.”
“What does he say? May I see it?” asked Erica.
“I tore it up,” said Raeburn, “I thought you would ask to see it, and
the thing was really so abominably insolent that I didn't want you to.
How did you hear about it?”
“Gertrude wrote me a note,” said Erica.
“At her father's dictation, no doubt,” said Raeburn; “I should know his
style directly, let me see it.”
“I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I burned it,” said Erica.
Then, unable to help being amused at their efforts to save each other,
they both laughed, though the subject was rather a sore one.
“It is the old story,” said Raeburn. “Life only, as Pope Innocent III
benevolently remarked, 'is to be left to the children of misbelievers,
and that only as an act of mercy.' You must make up your mind to bear
the social stigma, child. Do you see the moral of this?”
“No,” said Erica, with something between a smile and a sigh.
“The moral of it is that you must be content with your own people,” said
Raeburn. “There is this one good point about persecution--it does draw
us all nearer together, really strengthens us in a hundred ways. So,
little one, you must forswear school friends, and be content with your
'very strong man Kwasind,' and we will
“'Live in peace together Speak with naked hearts together.'
By the bye, it is rather doubtful if Tom will be able to come to the
lecture tonight; do you think you can take notes for me instead?”
This was in reality the most delicate piece of tact and consideration,
for it was, of course, Erica's delight and pride to help her father.