Men are tattooed with their special beliefs like so many
South Sea Islanders; but a real human heart, with Divine
love in it, beats with the same glow under all the patterns
of all earth's thousand tribes. O. Wendell Holmes.
For the next fortnight Brian and Erica continued to pass each other
every afternoon in Gower Street, as they had done for so long, the only
difference was that now they greeted each other, that occasionally Brian
would be rendered happy for the rest of the day by some brief passing
remark from his Undine, or by one of her peculiarly bright smiles. One
day, however, she actually stopped; her face was radiant.
“I must just tell you our good news,” she said. “My father has won his
case, and has got heavy damages.”
“I am very glad,” said Brian. “It must be a great relief to you all to
have it over.”
“Immense! Father looks as if a ton's weight had been taken off his mind.
Now I hope we shall have a little peace.”
With a hasty good bye she hurried on, an unusual elasticity in her
light footsteps. In Guilford Square she met a political friend of her
father's, and was brought once more to a standstill. This time it was a
little unwillingly, for M. Noirol teased her unmercifully, and at their
last meeting had almost made her angry by talking of a friend of his
at Paris who offered untold advantages to any clever and well-educated
English girl who wished to learn the language, and who would in return
teach her own. Erica had been made miserable by the mere suggestion that
such a situation would suit her; the slightest hint that it might be
well for her to go abroad had roused in her a sort of terror lest her
father might ever seriously think of the scheme. She had not quite
forgiven M. Noirol for having spoken, although the proposal had not
been gravely made, and probably only persevered in out of the spirit of
teasing. But today M. Noirol looked very grave.
“You have heard our good news?” said Erica. “Now don't begin again about
Madame Lemercier's school; I don't want to be made cross today of all
days, when I am so happy.”
“I will tease you no more, dear mademoiselle,” said the Frenchman; but
he offered no congratulations, and there was something in his manner
which made Erica uneasy.
“Is anything wrong? Has anything happened?” she asked quickly.
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows! It is an evil world, Mademoiselle Erica, as you will realize
when you have lived in it as long as I have. But I detain you. Good bye.
AU REVOIR!”
He took off his hat with a flourish, and passed on.
Erica, feeling baffled and a little cross, hurried home. M. Noirol had
not teased her today, but he had been inscrutable and tiresome, and he
had made her feel uneasy. She opened the front door, and went at once to
her father's study, pausing for a moment at the sound of voices within.
She recognized, however, that it was her cousin, Tom Craigie, who was
speaking, and without more delay she entered. Then in a moment she
understood why M. Noirol had been so mysterious. Tom was speaking
quickly and strongly, and there was a glow of anger on his face. Her
father was standing with his back to the mantlepiece, and there was a
sort of cold light in his eyes, which filled Erica with dismay. Never
in the most anxious days had she seen him look at once so angry, yet as
weighed down with care.
“What is the matter?” she questioned, breathlessly, instinctively
turning to Tom, whose hot anger was more approachable.
“The scamp of a Christian has gone bankrupt,” he said, referring to
the defendant in the late action, but too furious to speak very
intelligibly.
“Mr. Cheale, you mean?” asked Erica.
“The scoundrel! Yes! So not a farthing of costs and damages shall we
see! It is the most fiendish thing ever heard of!”
“Will the costs be very heavy?”
“Heavy! I should think they would indeed!” He named the probable sum; it
seemed a fearful addition to the already existing burden of debts.
A look of such pain and perplexity came over Erica's face that Raeburn
for the first time realizing what was passing in the room, drew her
toward him, his face softening, and the cold, angry light in his eyes
changing to sadness.
“Never mind, my child,” he said, with a sigh. “'Tis a hard blow, but we
must bear up. Injustice won't triumph in the end.”
There was something in his voice and look which made Erica feel
dreadfully inclined to cry; but that would have disgraced her forever in
the eyes of stoical Tom, so she only squeezed his hand hard and tried
to think of that far-distant future of which she had spoken to Charles
Osmond, when there would be no tiresome Christians and bigots and
lawsuits.
There was, however, one person in the house who was invariably the
recipient of all the troubled confidences of others. In a very few
minutes Erica had left the study and was curled up beside her
mother's couch, talking out unreservedly all her grief, and anger, and
perplexity.
Mrs. Raeburn, delicate and invalided as she was, had nevertheless a
great deal of influence, though perhaps neither Raeburn, nor Erica, nor
warm-hearted Tom Craigie understood how much she did for them all. She
was so unassuming, so little given to unnecessary speech, so reticent,
that her life made very little show, while it had become so entirely a
matter of course that every one should bring his private troubles to
her that it would have seemed extraordinary not to meet with exactly
the sympathy and counsel needed. Today, however, even Mrs. Raeburn was
almost too despondent to cheer the others. It comforted Erica to talk
to her, but she could not help feeling very miserable as she saw the
anxiety and sadness in her mother's face.
“What more can we do, mother?” she questioned. “I can't think of a
single thing we can give up.”
“I really don't know, dear,” said her mother with a sigh. “We have
nothing but the absolute necessaries of life now, except indeed your
education at the High School, and that is a very trifling expense, and
one which cannot be interfered with.”
Erica was easily depressed, like most high-spirited persons; but she was
not used to seeing either her father or her mother despondent, and the
mere strangeness kept her from going down to the very deepest depths.
She had the feeling that at least one of them must try to keep up. Yet,
do what she would, that evening was one of the saddest and dreariest she
had ever spent. All the excitement of contest was over, and a sort of
dead weight of gloom seemed to oppress them. Raeburn was absolutely
silent. From the first Erica had never heard him complain, but his
anger, and afterward his intense depression, spoke volumes. Even Tom,
her friend and play fellow, seemed changed this evening, grown somehow
from a boy to a man; for there was a sternness about him which she had
never seen before, and which made the days of their childhood seem far
away. And yet it was not so very long ago that she and Tom had been the
most light-hearted and careless beings in the world, and had imagined
the chief interest of life to consist in tending dormice, and tame rats,
and silk worms! She wondered whether they could ever feel free again,
whether they could ever enjoy their long Saturday afternoon rambles, or
whether this weight of care would always be upon them.
With a very heavy heart she prepared her lessons for the next day,
finding it hard to take much interest in Magna Charta and legal
enactments in the time of King John, when the legal enactments of today
were so much more mind-engrossing. Tom was sitting opposite to her,
writing letters for Raeburn. Once, notwithstanding his grave looks, she
hazarded a question. “Tom,” she said, shutting up her 'History of the
English People,' “Tom, what do you think will happen?”
Tom looked across at her with angry yet sorrowful eyes.
“I think,” he said, sternly, “that the chieftain will try to do the work
of ten men at once, and will pay off these debts or die in the attempt.”
The “chieftain” was a favorite name among the Raeburnites for their
leader, and there was a great deal of the clan feeling among them. The
majority of them were earnest, hard-working, thoughtful men, and their
society was both powerful and well-organized, while their personal
devotion to Raeburn lent a vigor and vitality to the whole body which
might otherwise have been lacking. Perhaps comparatively few would
have been enthusiastic for the cause of atheism had not that cause been
represented by a high-souled, self-denying man whom they loved with all
their hearts.
The dreary evening ended at length, Erica helped her mother to bed, and
then with slow steps climbed up to her little attic room. It was cold
and comfortless enough, bare of all luxuries, but even here the walls
were lined with books, and Erica's little iron bedstead looked somewhat
incongruous surrounded as it was with dingy-looking volumes, dusky
old legal books, works of reference, books atheistical, theological,
metaphysical, or scientific. On one shelf, amid this strangely
heterogeneous collection, she kept her own particular treasures--Brian's
Longfellow, one or two of Dickens's books which Tom had given her, and
the beloved old Grimm and Hans Andersen, which had been the friends
of her childhood and which for “old sakes' sake” she had never had the
heart to sell. The only other trace of her in the strange little bedroom
was in a wonderful array of china animals on the mantlepiece. She was a
great animal lover, and, being a favorite with every one, she received
many votive offerings. Her shrine was an amusing one to look at. A green
china frog played a tuneless guitar; a pensive monkey gazed with clasped
hands and dreadfully human eyes into futurity; there were sagacious
looking elephants, placid rhinoceroses, rampant hares, two pug dogs
clasped in an irrevocable embrace, an enormous lobster, a diminutive
polar bear, and in the center of all a most evil-looking jackdaw about
half an inch high.
But tonight the childish side of Erica was in abeyance; the cares of
womanhood seemed gathering upon her. She put out her candle and sat down
in the dark, racking her brain for some plan by which to relieve her
father and mother. Their life was growing harder and harder. It
seemed to her that poverty in itself was bearable enough, but that the
ever-increasing load of debt was not bearable. As long as she could
remember, it had always been like a mill-stone tied about their necks,
and the ceaseless petty economies and privations seemed of little avail;
she felt very much as if she were one of the Danaids, doomed forever to
pour water into a vessel with a hole in it.
Yet in one sense she was better off than many, for these debts were not
selfish debts--no one had ever known Raeburn to spend an unnecessary
sixpence on himself; all this load had been incurred in the defense of
what he considered the truth--by his unceasing struggles for liberty.
She was proud of the debts, proud to suffer in what she regarded as
the sacred cause; but in spite of that she was almost in despair this
evening, the future looked so hopelessly black.
Tom's words rang in her head--“The chieftain will try to do the work of
ten men!” What if he overworked himself as he had done once a few years
ago? What if he died in the attempt? She wished Tom had not spoken so
strongly. In the friendly darkness she did not try to check the tears
which would come into her eyes at the thought. Something must be done!
She must in some way help him! And then, all at once, there flashed into
her mind M. Noirol's teasing suggestion that she should go to Paris.
Here was a way in which, free of all expense, she might finish her
education, might practically earn her living! In this way she might
indeed help to lighten the load, but it would be at the cost of absolute
self-sacrifice. She must leave home, and father and mother, and country!
Erica was not exactly selfish, but she was very young. The thought of
the voluntary sacrifice seemed quite unbearable, she could not make up
her mind to it.
“Why should I give up all this? Why should prejudice and bigotry spoil
my whole life?” she thought, beginning to pace up and down the room with
quick, agitated steps. “Why should we suffer because that wretch has
gone bankrupt? It is unfair, unjust, it can't be right.”
She leaned her arms on the window sill and looked out into the silent
night. The stars were shining peacefully enough, looking down on this
world of strife and struggle; Erica grew a little calmer as she looked;
Nature, with its majesty of calmness, seemed to quiet her troubled heart
and “sweep gradual-gospels in.”
From some recess of memory there came to her some half-enigmatical
words; they had been quoted by Charles Osmond in his speech, but she did
not remember where she had heard them, only they began to ring in her
ears now:
“There is no gain except by loss, There is no life except by death, Nor
glory but by bearing shame, Nor justice but by taking blame.”
She did not altogether understand the verse, but there was a truth in
it which could hardly fail to come home to one who knew what persecution
meant. What if the very blame and injustice of the present brought
in the future reign of justice! She seemed to hear her father's voice
saying again, “We must bear up, child; injustice won't triumph in the
end.”
“There is no gain except by loss!”
What if her loss of home and friends brought gain to the world! That was
a thought which brought a glow of happiness to her even in the midst of
her pain. There was, after all, much of the highest Christianity about
her, though she would have been very much vexed if any one had told
her so, because Christianity meant to her narrow-mindedness instead of
brotherly love. However it might be, there was no denying that the child
of the great teacher of atheism had grasped the true meaning of life,
had grasped it, and was prepared to act on it too. She had always lived
with those who were ready to spend all in the promotion of the general
good; and all that was true, all that was noble in her creed, all that
had filled her with admiration in the lives of those she loved, came to
her aid now.
She went softly down the dark staircase to Raeburn's study; it was late,
and, anxious not to disturb the rest of the house, she opened the door
noiselessly and crept in. Her father was sitting at his desk writing;
he looked very stern, but there was a sort of grandeur about his rugged
face. He was absorbed in his work and did not hear her, and for a minute
she stood quite still watching him, realizing with pain and yet with
a happy pride how greatly she loved him. Her heart beat fast at the
thought of helping him, lightening his load even a little.
“Father,” she said, softly.
Raeburn was the sort of a man who could not be startled, but he looked
up quickly, apparently returning from some speculative region with a
slight effort. He was the most practical of men, and yet for a minute he
felt as if he were living in a dream, for Erica stood beside him, pale
and beautiful, with a sort of heroic light about her whole face which
transformed her from a merry child to a high-souled woman. Instinctively
he rose to speak to her.
“I will not disturb you for more than a minute, father,” she said, “it
is only that I have thought of a way in which I think I could help you
if you would let me.”
“Well, dear, what is it?” said Raeburn, still watching half dreamily the
exceeding beauty of the face before him. Yet an undefined sense of dread
chilled his heart. Was anything too hard or high for her to propose? He
listened without a word to her account of M. Noirol's Parisian scheme,
to her voluntary suggestion that she should go into exile for two years.
At the end he merely put a brief question. “Are you ready to bear two
years of loneliness?”
“I am ready to help you,” she said, with a little quiver in her voice
and a cloud of pain in her eyes.
Raeburn turned away from her and began to pace up and down the little
room, his eyes not altogether free from tears, for, pachydermatous as he
was accounted by his enemies, this man was very tender over his child,
he could hardly endure to see her pain. Yet after all, though she had
given him a sharp pang, she had brought him happiness which any father
might envy. He came back to her, his stern face inexpressibly softened.
“And I am ready to be helped, my child; it shall be as you say.”
There was something in his voice and in the gentle acceptance of help
from one so strong and self-reliant which touched Erica more than any
praise or demonstrative thanks could have done. They were going to work
together, he had promised that she should fight side by side with him.
“Lawsuits may ruin us,” said Raeburn, “but, after all, the evil has a
way of helping out the good.” He put his arm round her and kissed her.
“You have taught me, little one, how powerless and weak are these petty
persecutions. They can only prick and sting us! Nothing can really hurt
us while we love the truth and love each other.”
That was the happiest moment Erica had ever known, already her loss had
brought a rapturous gain.
“I shall never go to sleep tonight,” she said. “Let me help you with
your letters.”
Raeburn demurred a little, but yielded to her entreaties, and for the
next two hours the father and daughter worked in silence. The bitterness
which had lurked in the earlier part of the pamphlet that Raeburn had in
hand was quite lacking in its close; the writer had somehow been lifted
into a higher, purer atmosphere, and if his pen flew less rapidly over
the paper, it at any rate wrote words which would long outlive the mere
overflow of an angry heart.
Coming back to the world of realities at last somewhere in the small
hours, he found his fire out, a goodly pile of letters ready for
his signature, and his little amanuensis fast asleep in her chair.
Reproaching himself for having allowed her to sit up, he took her in his
strong arms as though she had been a mere baby, and carried her up
to her room so gently that she never woke. The next morning she found
herself so swathed in plaids and rugs and blankets that she could hardly
move, and, in spite of a bad headache, could not help beginning the day
with a hearty laugh.
Raeburn was not a man who ever let the grass grow under his feet, his
decisions were made with thought, but with very rapid thought, and his
action was always prompt. His case excited a good deal of attention; but
long before the newspapers had ceased to wage war either for or against
him, long before the weekly journals had ceased to teem with letters
relating to the lawsuit, he had formed his plans for the future. His
home was to be completely broken up, Erica was to go to Paris, his wife
was to live with his sister, Mrs. Craigie, and her son, Tom, who had
agreed to keep on the lodgings in Guilford Terrace, while for himself
he had mapped out such a programme of work as could only have been
undertaken by a man of “Titanic energy” and “Herculean strength,”
epithets which even the hostile press invariably bestowed on him. How
great the sacrifice was to him few people knew. As we have said before,
the world regarded him as a target, and would hardly have believed that
he was in reality a man of the gentlest tastes, as fond of his home as
any man in England, a faithful friend and a devoted father, and perhaps
all the more dependent on the sympathies of his own circle because of
the bitter hostility he encountered from other quarters. But he made his
plans resolutely, and said very little about them either one way or the
other, sometimes even checking Erica when she grumbled for him, or gave
vent to her indignation with regard to the defendant.
“We work for freedom, little one,” he used to say; “and it is an honor
to suffer in the cause of liberty.”
“But every one says you will kill yourself with overwork,” said Erica,
“and especially when you are in America.”
'“They don't know what stuff I'm made of,” said Raeburn; “and, even if
it should use me up, what then? It's better to wear out than to rust
out, as a wise man once remarked.”
“Yes,” said Erica, rather faintly.
“But I've no intention of wearing out just yet,” said Raeburn,
cheerfully. “You need not be afraid, little son Eric; and, if at the end
of those two years you do come back to find me gray and wrinkled, what
will that matter so long as we are free once more. There's a good time
coming; we'll have the coziest little home in London yet.”
“With a garden for you to work in,” said Erica, brightening up like a
child at the castle in the air. “And we'll keep lots of animals, and
never bother again about money all our lives.”
Raeburn smiled at her ides of felicity--no cares, and plenty of dogs
and cats! He did not anticipate any haven of rest at the end of the two
years for himself. He knew that his life must be a series of conflicts
to the very end. Still he hoped for relief from the load of debt, and
looked forward to the reestablishment of his home.
Brian Osmond heard of the plans before long, but he scarcely saw Erica;
the Christmas holidays began, and he no longer met her each afternoon
in Gower Street, while the time drew nearer and nearer for her departure
for Paris. At length, on the very last day, it chanced that they were
once more thrown together.
Raeburn was a great lover of flowers, and he very often received
floral offerings from his followers. It so happened that some beautiful
hot-house flowers had been sent to him from a nursery garden one day in
January, and, unwilling to keep them all, he had suggested that Erica
should take some to the neighboring hospitals. Now there were two
hospitals in Guilford Square; Erica felt much more interested in the
children's hospital than in the one for grown-up people; but, wishing to
be impartial she arranged a basketful for each, and well pleased to have
anything to give, hastened on her errand. Much to her delight, her first
basket of flowers was not only accepted very gratefully, but the lady
superintendent took her over the hospital, and let her distribute the
flowers among the children. She was very fond of children, and was as
happy as she could be passing up and down among the little beds, while
her bright manner attracted the little ones, and made them unusually
affectionate and responsive.
Happy at having been able to give them pleasure, and full of tender,
womanly thoughts, she crossed the square to another small hospital; she
was absorbed in pitiful, loving humanity, had forgotten altogether
that the world counted her as a heretic, and wholly unprepared for what
awaited her, she was shown into the visitors' room and asked to give her
name. Not only was Raeburn too notorious a name to pass muster, but the
head of the hospital knew Erica by sight, and had often met her out of
doors with her father. She was a stiff, narrow-minded, uncompromising
sort of person, and, in her own words was “determined to have no
fellowship with the works of darkness.” How she could consider
bright-faced Erica, with her loving thought for others and her free
gift, a “work of darkness,” it is hard to understand. She was not at all
disposed, however, to be under any sort of obligation to an atheist, and
the result of it was that after a three minutes' interview, Erica found
herself once more in the square, with her flowers still in her hand,
“declined WITHOUT thanks.”
No one ever quite knew what the superintendent had said to her, but
apparently the rebuff had been very hard to bear. Not content with
declining any fellowship with the poor little “work of darkness,” she
had gone on in accordance with the letter of the text to reprove her;
and Erica left the house with burning cheeks, and with a tumult of angry
feeling stirred up in her heart. She was far too angry to know or
care what she was doing; she walked down the quiet square in the very
opposite direction to “Persecution Alley,” and might have walked on for
an indefinite time had not some one stopped her.
“I was hoping to see you before you left,” said a pleasant quiet voice
close by her. She looked up and saw Charles Osmond.
Thus suddenly brought to a standstill, she became aware that she was
trembling from head to foot. A little delicate, sensitive thing, the
unsparing censure and the rude reception she had just met with had quite
upset her.
Charles Osmond retained her hand in his strong clasp, and looked
questioningly into her bright, indignant eyes.
“What is the matter, my child?” he asked.
“I am only angry,” said Erica, rather breathlessly; “hurt and angry
because one of your bigots has been rude to me.”
“Come in and tell me all about it,” said Charles Osmond; and there
was something so irresistible in his manner that Erica at once allowed
herself to be led into one of the tall, old-fashioned houses, and taken
into a comfortable and roomy study, the nicest room she had ever been
in. It was not luxurious; indeed the Turkey carpet was shabby and
the furniture well worn, but it was home-like, and warm and cheerful,
evidently a room which was dear to its owner. Charles Osmond made her
sit down in a capacious arm chair close to the fire.
“Well, now, who was the bigot?” he said, in a voice that would have won
the confidence of a flint.
Erica told as much of the story as she could bring herself to repeat,
quite enough to show Charles Osmond the terrible harm which may be
wrought by tactless modern Christianity. He looked down very sorrowfully
at the eager, expressive face of the speaker; it was at once very white
and very pink, for the child was sorely wounded as well as indignant.
She was evidently, however, a little vexed with herself for feeling the
insult so keenly.
“It is very stupid of me,” she said laughing a little; “it is time I was
used to it; but I never can help shaking in this silly way when any one
is rude to us. Tom laughs at me, and says I am made on wire springs like
a twelfth-cake butterfly! But it is rather hard, isn't it, to be shut
out from everything, even from giving?”
“I think it is both hard and wrong,” said Charles Osmond. “But we do not
all shut you out.”
“No,” said Erica. “You have always been kind, you are not a bit like
a Christian. Would you”--she hesitated a little--“would you take the
flowers instead?”
It was said with a shy grace inexpressibly winning. Charles Osmond was
touched and gratified.
“They will be a great treat to us,” he said. “My mother is very fond of
flowers. Will you come upstairs and see her? We shall find afternoon tea
going on, I expect.”
So the rejected flowers found a resting place in the clergyman's house;
and Brian, coming in from his rounds, was greeted by a sight which
made his heart beat at double time. In the drawing room beside his
grandmother sat Erica, her little fur hat pushed back, her gloves off,
busily arranging Christmas roses and red camellias. Her anger had died
away, she was talking quite merrily. It seemed to Brian more like a
beautiful dream than a bit of every-day life, to have her sitting there
so naturally in his home; but the note of pain was struck before long.
“I must go home,” she said. “This is my last day, you know. I am going
to Paris tomorrow.”
A sort of sadness seemed to fall on them at the words; only gentle Mrs.
Osmond said, cheerfully:
“You will come to see us again when you come back, will you not?”
And then, with the privilege of the aged, she drew down the young, fresh
face to hers and kissed it.
“You will let me see you home,” said Brian. “It is getting dark.”
Erica laughingly protested that she was well used to taking care of
herself, but it ended in Brian's triumphing. So together they crossed
the quiet square. Erica chattered away merrily enough, but as they
reached the narrow entrance to Guilford Terrace a shadow stole over her
face.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “this is the last time I shall come home for two
whole years.”
“You go for so long,” said Brian, stifling a sigh. “You won't forget
your English friends?”
“Do you mean that you count yourself our friend?” asked Erica, smiling.
“If you will let me.”
“That is a funny word to use,” she replied, laughing. “You see we are
treated as outlaws generally. I don't think any one ever said 'will you
let' to me before. This is our house; thank you for seeing me home.”
Then with a roguish look in her eyes, she added demurely, but with a
slight emphasis on the last word, “Good bye, my friend.”
Brian turned away sadly enough; but he had not gone far when he heard
flying footsteps, and looking back saw Erica once more.
“Oh, I just came to know whether by any chance you want a kitten,” she
said; “I have a real beauty which I want to find a nice home for.”
Of course Brian wanted a kitten at once; one would have imagined by the
eagerness of his manner that he was devoted to the whole feline tribe.
“Well, then, will you come in and see it?” said Erica. “He really is
a very nice kitten, and I shall go away much happier if I can see him
settled in life first.”
She took him in, introduced him to her mother, and ran off in search of
the cat, returning in a few minutes with a very playful-looking tabby.
“There he is,” she said, putting the kitten on the table with an air of
pride. “I don't believe he has an equal in all London.
“What do you call him?” asked Brian.
“His name is St. Anthony,” said Erica. “Oh, I hope, by the bye, you
won't object to that; it was no disrespect to St. Anthony at all, but
only that he always will go and preach to my gold fish. We'll make him
do it now to show you. Come along Tony, and give them a sermon, there's
a good little kit!”
She put him on a side table, and he at once rested his front paws on a
large glass bowl and peered down at the gold fish with great curiosity.
“I believe he would have drowned himself sooner or later, like Gray's
cat, so I dare say it is a good thing for him to leave. You will be kind
to him, won't you?”
Brian promised that he should be well attended to, and, indeed there
was little doubt that St. Anthony would from that day forth be lapped
in luxury. He went away with his new master very contentedly, Erica
following them to the door with farewell injunctions.
“And you'll be sure to butter his feet well or else he won't stay with
you. Good bye, dear Tony. Be a good little cat!”
Brian was pleased to have this token from his Undine, but at the same
time he could not help seeing that she cared much more about parting
with the kitten than about saying good bye to him. Well, it was
something to have that lucky St. Anthony, who had been fondled and
kissed. And after all it was Erica's very childishness and simplicity
which made her so dear to him.
As soon as they were out of sight, Erica, with the thought of the
separation beginning to weigh upon her, went back to her mother. They
knew that this was the last quiet time they would have together for many
long months. But last days are not good days for talking. They spoke
very little. Every now and then Mrs. Raeburn would make some inquiry
about the packing or the journey, or would try to cheer the child by
speaking of the house they would have at the end of the two years. But
Erica was not to be comforted; a dull pain was gnawing at her heart,
and the present was not to be displaced by any visions of a golden
future. “If it were not for leaving you alone, mother, I shouldn't mind
so much,” she said, in a choked voice. “But it seems to me that you have
the hardest part of all.”
“Aunt Jean will be here, and Tom,” said Mrs. Raeburn.
“Aunt Jean is very kind,” said Erica, doubtfully. “But she doesn't know
how to nurse people. Tom is the one hope, and he has promised always
to tell me the whole truth about you; so if you get worse, I shall come
home directly.”
“You mustn't grudge me my share of the work,” said Mrs. Raeburn. “It
would make me very miserable if I did hinder you or your father.”
Erica sighed. “You and father are so dreadfully public-spirited! And yet,
oh, mother! What does the whole world matter to me if I think you are
uncomfortable, and wretched, and alone?”
“You will learn to think differently, dear, by and by,” said her mother,
kissing the eager, troubled face. “And, when you fancy me lonely, you
can picture me instead as proud and happy in thinking of my brave little
daughter who has gone into exile of her own accord to help the cause of
truth and liberty.”
They were inspiriting words, and they brought a glow to Erica's face;
she choked down her own personal pain. No religious martyr went through
the time of trial more bravely than Luke Raeburn's daughter lived
through the next four and twenty hours. She never forgot even the most
trivial incident of that day, it seemed burned in upon her brain. The
dreary waking on the dark winter morning, the hurried farewells to her
aunt and Tom, the last long embrace from her mother, the drive to the
station, her father's recognition on the platform, the rude staring and
ruder comments to which they were subjected, then the one supreme wrench
of parting, the look of pain in her father's face, the trembling of
his voice, the last long look as the train moved off, and the utter
loneliness of all that followed. Then came dimmer recollections, not
less real, but more confused; of a merry set of fellow passengers who
were going to enjoy themselves in the south of France; of a certain
little packet which her father had placed in her hand, and which proved
to be “Mill on Liberty;” of her eager perusal of the first two or three
chapters; of the many instances of the “tyranny of the majority” which
she had been able to produce, not without a certain satisfaction. And
afterward more vividly she could recall the last look at England, the
dreary arrival at Boulogne, the long weary railway journey, and the
friendly reception at Mme Lemercier's school. No one could deny that her
new life had been bravely begun.