A man who strives earnestly and perseveringly to convince
others, at least convinces us that he is convinced himself.
Guesses at Truth.
The rainy afternoon had given place to a fine and starlit
night. Erica, apparently in high spirits, walked between her
father and Charles Osmond.
“Mother won't be anxious about us,” she said. “She has not heard a word
about Mr. Randolph's plans. I was so afraid some one would speak
about it at tea time, and then she would have been in a fright all the
evening, and would not have liked my going.”
“Mr. Randolph is both energetic and unscrupulous,” said Raeburn. “But
I doubt if even he would set his roughs upon you, little one, unless
he has become as blood thirsty as a certain old Scotch psalm we used to
sing.”
“What was that?” questioned Erica.
“I forget the beginning, but the last verse always had a sort of
horrible fascination for us--
“'How happy should that trooper be Who, riding on a naggie, Should take
thy little children up, And dash them 'gin the craggie!'”
Charles Osmond and Erica laughed heartily.
“They will only dash you against metaphorical rocks in the nineteenth
century,” continued Raeburn. “I remember wondering why the old clerk in
my father's church always sung that verse lustily; but you see we have
exactly the same spirit now, only in a more civilized form, barbarity
changed to polite cruelty, as for instance the way you were treated this
afternoon.”
“Oh, don't talk about that,” said Erica, quickly, “I am going to enjoy
my Longfellow and forget the rest.”
In truth, Charles Osmond was struck with this both in the father and
daughter; each had a way of putting back their bitter thoughts, of
dwelling whenever it was possible on the brighter side of life. He knew
that Raeburn was involved in most harassing litigation, was burdened
with debt, was confronted everywhere with bitter and often violent
opposition, yet he seemed to live above it all, for there was a
wonderful repose about him, an extraordinary serenity in his aspect,
which would have seemed better fitted to a hermit than to one who has
spent his life in fighting against desperate odds. One thing was quite
clear, the man was absolutely convinced that he was suffering for
the truth, and was ready to endure anything in what he considered the
service of his fellow men. He did not seem particularly anxious as to
the evening's proceedings. On the whole, they were rather a merry party
as they walked along Gower Street to the station.
But when they got out again at their destination, and walked through the
busy streets to the hall where the lecture was to be given, a sort of
seriousness fell upon all three. They were each going to work in their
different ways for what they considered the good of humanity, and
instinctively a silence grew and deepened.
Erica was the first to break it as they came in sight of the hall.
“What a crowd there is!” she exclaimed. “Are these Mr. Randolph's
roughs?”
“We can put up with them outside,” said Raeburn; but Charles Osmond
noticed that as he spoke he drew the child nearer to him, with a
momentary look of trouble in his face, as though he shrunk from taking
her through the rabble. Erica, on the other hand, looked interested
and perfectly fearless. With great difficulty they forced their way
on, hooted and yelled at by the mob, who, however, made no attempt at
violence. At length, reaching the shelter of the entrance lobby, Raeburn
left them for a moment, pausing to give directions to the door keepers.
Just then, to his great surprise, Charles Osmond caught sight of his
son standing only a few paces from them. His exclamation of astonishment
made Erica look up. Brian came forward eagerly to meet them.
“You here!” exclaimed his father, with a latent suspicion confirmed into
a certainty. “This is my son, Miss Raeburn.”
Brian had not dreamed of meeting her, he had waited about curious to
see how Raeburn would get on with the mob; it was with a strange pang
of rapture and dismay that he had seen his fair little ideal. That she
should be in the midst of that hooting mob made his heart throb with
indignation, yet there was something so sweet in her grave, steadfast
face that he was, nevertheless, glad to have witnessed the scene. Her
color was rather heightened, her eyes bright but very quiet, yet as
Charles Osmond spoke, and she looked at Brian, her face all at once
lighted up, and with an irresistible smile she exclaimed, in the most
childlike of voices:
“Why, it's my umbrella man!” The informality of the exclamation seemed
to make them at once something more than ordinary acquaintances. They
told Charles Osmond of their encounter in the afternoon, and in a very
few minutes Brian, hardly knowing whether he was not in some strange
dream, found himself sitting with his father and Erica in a crowded
lecture hall, realizing with an intensity of joy and an intensity of
pain how near he was to the queen of his heart and yet how far from her.
The meeting was quite orderly. Though Raeburn was addressing many
who disagreed with him, he had evidently got the whole and undivided
attention of his audience; and indeed his gifts both as rhetorician and
orator were so great that they must have been either willfully deaf or
obtuse who, when under the spell of his extraordinary earnestness and
eloquence, could resist listening. Not a word was lost on Brian; every
sentence which emphasized the great difference of belief between himself
and his love seemed to engrave itself on his heart; no minutest detail
of that evening escaped him.
He saw the tall, commanding figure of the orator, the vast sea of
upturned faces below, the eager attention imprinted on all, sometimes a
wave of sympathy and approval sweeping over them, resulting in a storm
of applause, at times a more divided disapproval, or a shout of “No,
no,” which invariably roused the speaker to a more vigorous, clear, and
emphatic repetition of the questioned statement. And, through all, he
was ever conscious of the young girl at his side, who, with her head
bent over her notebook, was absorbed in her work. While the most vital
questions of life were being discussed, he was yet always aware of that
hand traveling rapidly to and fro, of the pages hurriedly turned, of the
quick yet weary-looking change of posture.
Though not without a strong vein of sarcasm, Raeburn's speech was,
on the whole, temperate; it certainly should have been met with
consideration. But, unfortunately, Mr. Randolph was incapable of seeing
any good in his opponent; his combative instincts were far stronger than
his Christianity, and Brian, who had winced many times while listening
to the champion of atheism, was even more keenly wounded by the champion
of his own cause. Abusive epithets abounded in his retort; at last
he left the subject under discussion altogether, and launched into
personalities of the most objectionable kind. Raeburn sat with folded
arms, listening with a sort of cold dignity. He looked very different
now from the genial-mannered, quiet man whom Charles Osmond had seen in
his own home but an hour or two ago. There was a peculiar look in his
tawny eyes hardly to be described in words, a look which was hard, and
cold, and steady. It told of an originally sensitive nature inured to
ill treatment; of a strong will which had long ago steeled itself to
endure; of a character which, though absolutely refusing to yield to
opposition, had grown slightly bitter, even slightly vindictive in the
process.
Brian could only watch in silent pain the little figure beside him. Once
at some violent term of abuse she looked up, and glanced for a moment
at the speaker; he just caught a swift, indignant flash from her bright
eyes, then her head was bent lower than before over her notebook, and
the carnation deepened in her cheek, while her pencil sped over the
paper fast and furiously. Presently came a sharp retort from Raeburn,
ending with the perfectly warrantable accusation that Mr. Randolph was
wandering from the subject of the evening merely to indulge his personal
spite. The audience was beginning to be roused by the unfairness, and a
storm might have ensued had not Mr. Randolph unintentionally turned the
whole proceedings from tragedy to farce.
Indignant at Raeburn's accusation, he sprung to his feet and began a
vigorous protest.
“Mr. Chairman, I denounce my opponent as a liar. His accusation is
utterly false. I deny the allegation, and I scorn the alligator--”
He was interrupted by a shout of laughter, the whole assembly was
convulsed, even Erica's anger changed to mirth.
“Fit for 'Punch,'” she whispered to Brian, her face all beaming with
merriment.
Raeburn, whose grave face had also relaxed into a smile, suddenly stood
up, and, with a sort of dry Scotch humor, remarked:
“My enemies have compared me to many obnoxious things, but never till
tonight have I been called a crocodile. Possibly Mr. Randolph has been
reading of the crocodiles recently dissected at Paris. It has been
discovered that they are almost brainless, and, being without reason,
are probably animated by a violent instinct of destruction. I believe,
however, that the power of their 'jaw' is unsurpassed.”
Then, amid shouts of laughter and applause, he sat down again, leaving
the field to the much discomfited Mr. Randolph.
Much harm had been done that evening to the cause of Christianity. The
sympathies of the audience could not be with the weak and unmannerly Mr.
Randolph; they were Englishmen, and were, of course, inclined to side
with the man who had been unjustly dealt with, who, moreover, had really
spoken to them--had touched their very hearts.
The field was practically lost when, to the surprise of all, another
speaker came forward. Erica, who knew that their side had had the best
of it, felt a thrill of admiration when she saw Charles Osmond move
slowly to the front of the platform. She was very tired, but out of a
sort of gratitude for his friendliness, a readiness to do him honor,
she strained her energies to take down his speech verbatim. It was not
a long one, it was hardly, perhaps, to be called a speech at all, it was
rather as if the man had thrown his very self into the breach made by
the unhappy wrangle of the evening.
He spoke of the universal brotherhood and of the wrong done to it
by bitterness and strife; he stood there as the very incarnation of
brotherliness, and the people, whether they agreed with him or not,
loved him. In the place where the religion of Christ had been reviled
as well by the Christians as by the atheist, he spoke of the revealer
of the Father, and a hush fell on the listening men; he spoke of the
Founder of the great brotherhood, and by the very reality, by the fervor
of his convictions, touched a new chord in many a heart. It was no time
for argument, the meeting was almost over; he scarcely attempted to
answer to many of the difficulties and objections raised by Raeburn
earlier in the evening. But there was in his ten minutes' speech the
whole essence of Christianity, the spirit of loving sacrifice to
self, the strength of an absolute certainty which no argument, however
logical, can shake, the extraordinary power which breathes in the
assertion: “I KNOW Him whom I have believed.”
To more than one of Raeburn's followers there came just the slightest
agitation of doubt, the questioning whether these things might not be.
For the first time in her life the question began to stir in Erica's
heart. She had heard many advocates of Christianity, and had regarded
them much as we might regard Buddhist missionaries speaking of a
religion that had had its day and was now only fit to be discarded, or
perhaps studied as an interesting relic of the past, about which in its
later years many corruptions had gathered.
Raeburn, being above all things a just man, had been determined to give
her mind no bias in favor of his own views, and as a child he had left
her perfectly free. But there was a certain Scotch proverb which he did
not call to mind, that “As the auld cock crows the young cock learns.”
When the time came at which he considered her old enough really to study
the Bible for herself, she had already learned from bitter experience
that Christianity--at any rate, what called itself Christianity--was the
religion whose votaries were constantly slandering and ill-treating
her father, and that all the privations and troubles of their life were
directly or indirectly due to it. She, of course, identified the conduct
of the most unfriendly and persecuting with the religion itself; it
could hardly be otherwise.
But tonight as she toiled away, bravely acting up to her lights,
taking down the opponent's speech to the best of her abilities, though
predisposed to think it all a meaningless rhapsody, the faintest attempt
at a question began to take shape in her mind. It did not form
itself exactly into words, but just lurked there like a
cloud-shadow--“supposing Christianity were true?”
All doubt is pain. Even this faint beginning of doubt in her creed made
Erica dreadfully uncomfortable. Yet she could not regret that Charles
Osmond had spoken, even though she imagined him to be greatly mistaken,
and feared that that uncomfortable question might have been suggested
to others among the audience. She could not wish that the speech had
not been made, for it had revealed the nobility of the man, his
broad-hearted love, and she instinctively reverenced all the really
great and good, however widely different their creeds.
Brian tried in vain to read her thoughts, but as soon as the meeting was
over her temporary seriousness vanished, and she was once more almost a
child again, ready to be amused by anything. She stood for a few minutes
talking to the two Osmonds; then, catching sight of an acquaintance
a little way off, she bade them a hasty good night, much to Brian's
chagrin, and hurried forward with a warmth of greeting which he could
only hope was appreciated by the thickset, honest-looking mechanic who
was the happy recipient. When they left the hall she was still deep in
conversation with him.
The fates were kind, however, to Brian that day; they were just too late
for a train, and before the next one arrived, Raeburn and Erica were
seen slowly coming down the steps, and in another minute had joined
them on the platform. Charles Osmond and Raeburn fell into an amicable
discussion, and Brian, to his great satisfaction, was left to an
uninterrupted tete-a-tete with Erica. There had been no further
demonstration by the crowd, and Erica, now that the anxiety was over,
was ready to make fun of Mr. Randolph and his band, checking herself
every now and then for fear of hurting her companion, but breaking
forth again and again into irresistible merriment as she recalled the
“alligator” incident and other grotesque utterances. All too soon they
reached their destination. There was still, however, a ten minutes' walk
before them, a walk which Brian never forgot. The wind was high, and it
seemed to excite Erica; he could always remember exactly how she looked,
her eyes bright and shining, her short, auburn hair, all blown about by
the wind, one stray wave lying across the quaint little sealskin hat. He
remembered, too, how, in the middle of his argument, Raeburn had stepped
forward and had wrapped a white woolen scarf more closely round the
child, securing the fluttering ends. Brian would have liked to do it
himself had he dared, and yet it pleased him, too, to see the father's
thoughtfulness; perhaps in that “touch of nature,” he, for the first
time, fully recognized his kinship with the atheist.
Erica talked to him in the meantime with a delicious, childlike
frankness, gave him an enthusiastic account of her friend, Hazeldine,
the working man whom he had seen her speaking to, and unconsciously
reveled in her free conversation a great deal of the life she led, a
busy, earnest, self-denying life Brian could see. When they reached the
place of their afternoon's encounter, she alluded merrily to what she
called the “charge of umbrellas.”
“Who would have thought, now, that in a few hours' time we should have
learned to know each other!” she exclaimed. “It has been altogether the
very oddest day, a sort of sandwich of good and bad, two bits of the
dry bread of persecution, put in between, you and Mr. Osmond and my
beautiful new Longfellow.”
Brian could not help laughing at the simile, and was not a little
pleased to hear the reference to his book; but his amusement was soon
dispelled by a grim little incident. Just at that minute they happened
to pass an undertaker's cart which was standing at the door of one of
the houses; a coffin was born across the pavement in front of them.
Erica, with a quick exclamation, put her hand on his arm and shrank back
to make room for the bearers to pass. Looking down at her, he saw that
she was quite pale. The coffin was carried into the house and they
passed on.
“How I do hate seeing anything like that!” she exclaimed. Then looking
back and up to the windows of the house: “Poor people! I wonder whether
they are very sad. It seems to make all the world dark when one comes
across such things. Father thinks it is good to be reminded of the
end, that it makes one more eager to work, but he doesn't even wish for
anything after death, nor do any of the best people I know. It is
silly of me, but I never can bear to think of quite coming to an end, I
suppose because I am not so unselfish as the others.”
“Or may it not be a natural instinct, which is implanted in all, which
perhaps you have not yet crushed by argument.”
Erica shook her head.
“More likely to be a little bit of one of my covenanting ancestors
coming out in me. Still, I own that the hope of the hereafter is the one
point in which you have the better of it. Life must seem very easy if
you believe that all will be made up to you and all wrong set right
after you are dead. You see we have rather hard measure here, and don't
expect anything at all by and by. But all the same, I am always rather
ashamed of this instinct, or selfishness, or Scottish inheritance,
whichever it is!”
“Ashamed! Why should you be?”
“It is a sort of weakness, I think, which strong characters like my
father are without. You see he cares so much for every one, and thinks
so much of making the world a little less miserable in this generation,
but most of my love is for him and for my mother; and so when I think of
death--of their death--” she broke off abruptly.
“Yet do not call it selfishness,” said Brian, with a slightly choked
feeling, for there had been a depth of pain in Erica's tone. “My father,
who has just that love of humanity of which you speak, has still the
most absolute belief in--yes, and longing for--immortality. It is no
selfishness in him.”
“I am sure it is not,” said Erica, warmly, “I shouldn't think he could
be selfish in any way. I am glad he spoke tonight; it does one good to
hear a speech like that, even if one doesn't agree with it. I wish
there were a few more clergymen like him, then perhaps the tolerance and
brotherliness he spoke of might become possible. But it must be a long
way off, or it would not seem such an unheard-of thing that I should
be talking like this to you. Why, it is the first time in my whole
life that I have spoken to a Christian except on the most every-day
subjects.”
“Then I hope you won't let it be the last,” said Brian.
“I should like to know Mr. Osmond better,” said Erica, “for you know it
seems very extraordinary to me that a clever scientific man can speak
as he spoke tonight. I should like to know how you reconcile all the
contradictions, how you can believe what seems to me so unlikely, how
even if you do believe in a God you can think Him good while the world
is what it is. If there is a good God why doesn't He make us all know
Him, and end all the evil and cruelty?”
Brian did not reply for a moment. The familiar gas-lit street, the usual
number of passengers, the usual care-worn or vice-worn faces passing by,
damp pavements, muddy roads, fresh winter wind, all seemed so natural,
but to talk of the deepest things in heaven and earth was so unnatural.
He was a very reserved man, but looking down at the eager, questioning
face beside him his reserve all at once melted. He spoke very quietly,
but in a voice which showed Erica that he was, at least, as she
expressed it “honestly deluded.” Evidently he did from his very heart
believe what he said.
“But how are we to judge what is best?” he replied. “My belief is that
God is slowly and gradually educating the world, not forcing it on
unnaturally, but drawing it on step by step, making it work out its own
lessons as the best teachers do with their pupils. To me the idea of a
steady progression, in which man himself may be a co-worker with God, is
far more beautiful than the conception of a Being who does not work by
natural laws at all, but arbitrarily causes this and that to be or not
to be.”
“But then if your God is educating the world, He is educating many of
us in ignorance of Himself, in atheism. How can that be good or right?
Surely you, for instance, must be rather puzzled when you come across
atheists, if you believe in a perfect God, and think atheism the most
fearful mistake possible?”
“If I could not believe that God can, and does, educate some of us
through atheism, I should indeed be miserable,” said Brian, with a
thrill of pain in his voice which startled Erica. “But I do believe that
even atheism, even blank ignorance of Him, may be a stage through which
alone some of us can be brought onward. The noblest man I ever knew
passed through that state, and I can't think he would have been half the
man he is if he had not passed through it.”
“I have only known two or three people who from atheists became theists,
and they were horrid,” said Erica, emphatically. “People always are
spiteful to the side they have left.”
“You could not say that of my friend,” said Brian, musingly, “I wish you
could meet him.”
They had reached the entrance to Guilford Terrace, Raeburn and Charles
Osmond overtook them, and the conversation ended abruptly. Perhaps
because Erica had made no answer to the last remark, and was conscious
of a touch of malice in her former speech, she put a little additional
warmth into her farewell. At any rate, there was that which touched
Brian's very heart in the frank innocence of her hand clasp, in the
sweet yet questioning eyes that were raised to his.
He turned away, happier and yet sadder than he had ever been in his
life. Not a word passed between him and his father as they crossed the
square, but when they reached home they instinctively drew together over
the study fire. There was a long silence even then, broken at last by
Charles Osmond.
“Well, my son?” he said.
“I cannot see how I can be of the least use to her,” said Brian,
abruptly, as if his father had been following the whole of his train of
thought, which, indeed, to a certain extent, he had.
“Was this afternoon your first meeting?”
“Our first speaking. I have seen her many times, but only today realized
what she is.”
“Well, your little Undine is very bewitching, and much more than
bewitching, true to the core and loyal and loving. If only the hardness
of her life does not embitter her, I think she will make a grand woman.”
“Tell me what you did this afternoon,” said Brian; “you must have been
some time with them.”
Charles Osmond told him all that had passed; then continued:
“She is, as I said, a fascinating, bright little Undine, inclined to be
willful, I should fancy, and with a sort of warmth and quickness about
her whole character, in many ways still a child, and yet in others
strangely old for her years; on the whole I should say as fair a
specimen of the purely natural being as you would often meet with. The
spiritual part of her is, I fancy, asleep.”
“No, I fancy tonight has made it stir for the first time,” said Brian,
and he told his father a little of what had passed between himself and
Erica.
“And the Longfellow was, I suppose, from you,” said Charles Osmond. “I
wish you could have seen her delight over it. Words absolutely failed
her. I don't think any one else noticed it, but, her own vocabulary
coming to an end, she turned to ours, it was 'What HEAVENLY person can
have sent me this?'”
Brian smiled, but sighed too.
“One talks of the spiritual side remaining untouched,” he said, “yet how
is it ever to be otherwise than chained and fettered, while such men
as that Randolph are recognized as the champions of our cause, while
injustice and unkindness meet her at every turn, while it is something
rare and extraordinary for a Christian to speak a kind word to her. If
today she has first realized that Christians need not necessarily behave
as brutes, I have realized a little what life is from her point of
view.”
“Then, realizing that perhaps you may help her, perhaps another chapter
of the old legend may come true, and you may be the means of waking the
spirit in your Undine.”
“I? Oh, no! How can you think of it! You or Donovan, perhaps, but even
that idea seems to me wildly improbable.”
There was something in his humility and sadness which touched his father
inexpressibly.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, “if you are really prepared for all the
suffering this love must bring you, if you mean to take it, and cherish
it, and live for it, even though it brings you no gain, but apparent
pain and loss, then I think it can only raise both you and your Undine.”
Brian knew that not one man in a thousand would have spoken in such a
way; his father's unworldliness was borne in upon him as it had never
been before. Greatly as he had always reverenced and loved him, tonight
his love and reverence deepened unspeakably--the two were drawn nearer
to each other than ever.
It was not the habit in this house to make the most sacred ties of life
the butt for ill-timed and ill-judged joking. No knight of old thought
or spoke more reverently or with greater reserve of his lady love than
did Brian of Erica. He regarded himself now as one bound to do her
service, consecrated from that day forward as her loyal knight.