But we wake in the young morning when the light is breaking
forth; And look out on its misty gleams, as if the moon were
full; And the Infinite around, seems but a larger kind of
earth Ensphering this, and measured by the self-same handy
rule. Hilda among the Broken Gods.
Not unfrequently the most important years of a life, the years which
tell most on the character, are unmarked by any notable events. A
steady, orderly routine, a gradual progression, perseverance in hard
work, often do more to educate and form than a varied and eventful life.
Erica's two years of exile were as monotonous and quiet as the life
of the secularist's daughter could possibly be. There came to her, of
course, from the distance the echoes of her father's strife; but she was
far removed from it all, and there was little to disturb her mind in the
quiet Parisian school. There is no need to dwell on her uneventful life,
and a very brief description of her surroundings will be sufficient to
show the sort of atmosphere in which she lived.
The school was a large one, and consisted principally of French
provincial girls, sent to Paris to finish their education. Some of them
Erica liked exceedingly; every one of them was to her a curious and
interesting study. She liked to hear them talk about their home life,
and, above all things, to hear their simple, naive remarks about
religion. Of course she was on her honor not to enter into discussions
with them, and they regarded all English as heretics, and did not
trouble themselves to distinguish between the different grades. But
there was nothing to prevent her from observing and listening, and
with some wonder she used to hear discussions about the dresses for the
“Premiere Communion,” remarks about the various services, or laments
over the confession papers. The girls went to confession once a month,
and there was always a day in which they had to prepare and write out
their misdemeanors. One day, a little, thin, delicate child from the
south of France came up to Erica with her confession in her hand.
“Dear, good Erica,” she said, wearily, “have the kindness to read this
and to correct my mistakes.”
Erica took the little thing on her knee, and began to read the paper. It
was curiously spelled. Before very long she came to the sentence, “J'ai
trop mange.”
“Why, Ninette,” exclaimed Erica, “you hardly eat enough to feed a
sparrow; it is nonsense to put that.”
“Ah, but it was a fast day,” signed Ninette. “And I felt hungry, and did
really eat more than I need have.”
Erica felt half angry and contemptuous, half amused, and could only hope
that the priest would see the pale, thin face of the little penitent,
and realize the ludicrousness of the confession.
Another time all the girls had been to some special service; on their
return, she asked what it had been about.
“Oh,” remarked a bright-faced girl, “it was about the seven joys--or the
seven sorrows--of Mary.”
“Do you mean to say you don't know whether it was very solemn or very
joyful?” asked Erica, astonished and amused.
“I am really not sure,” said the girl, with the most placid
good-tempered indifference.
On the whole, it was scarcely to be wondered at that Erica was not
favorably impressed with Roman Catholicism.
She was a great favorite with all the girls; but, though she was very
patient and persevering, she did not succeed in making any of them
fluent English speakers, and learned their language far better than they
learned hers. Her three special friends were not among the pupils, but
among the teachers. Dear old Mme. Lemercier, with her good-humored black
eyes, her kind, demonstrative ways, and her delightful stories about
the time of the war and the siege, was a friend worth having. So was her
husband, M. Lemercier the journalist. He was a little dried-up man, with
a fierce black mustache; he was sarcastic and witty, and he would
talk politics by the hour together to any one who would listen to him,
especially if they would now and then ask a pertinent and intelligent
question which gave him scope for an oration.
Erica made a delightful listener, for she was always anxious to learn
and to understand, and before long she was quite AU FAIT, and understood
a great deal about that exceedingly complicated thing, the French
political system. M. Lemercier was a fiery, earnest little man, with
very strong convictions; he had been exiled as a communist but had now
returned, and was a very vigorous and impassioned writer in one of the
advanced Republican journals. He and his wife became very fond of Erica,
Mme. Lemercier loving her for her brightness and readiness to help,
and monsieur for her beauty and her quickness of perception. It was
surprising and gratifying to meet with a girl who, without being a femme
savante, was yet capable of understanding the difference between the
Extreme Left and the Left Center, and who took a real interest in what
was passing in the world.
But Erica's greatest friend was a certain Fraulein Sonnenthal, the
German governess. She was a kind-eyed Hanoverian, homely and by no means
brilliantly clever, but there was something in her unselfishness and in
her unassuming humility that won Erica's heart. She never would hear a
word against the fraulein.
“Why do you care so much for Fraulein Sonnenthal?” she was often asked.
“She seems uninteresting and dull to us.”
“I love her because she is so good,” was Erica's invariable reply.
She and the fraulein shared a bedroom, and many were the arguments they
had together. The effect of being separated from her own people was,
very naturally, to make Erica a more devoted secularist. She was
exceedingly enthusiastic for what she considered the truth and not
unfrequently grieved and shocked the Lutheran fraulein by the vehemence
of her statements. Very often they would argue far on into the night;
they never quarreled, however hot the dispute, but the fraulein often
had a sore time of it, for, naturally, Luke Raeburn's daughter was well
up in all the debatable points, and she had, moreover, a good deal of
her father's rapidity of thought and gift of speech. She was always
generous, however, and the fraulein had in some respects the advantage
of her, for they spoke in German.
One scene in that little bedroom Erica never forgot. They had gone
to bed one Easter-eve, and had somehow fallen into a long and stormy
argument about the resurrection and the doctrine of immortality. Erica,
perhaps because she was conscious of the “weakness” she had confessed
to Brian Osmond, argued very warmly on the other side; the poor little
fraulein was grieved beyond measure, and defended her faith gallantly,
though, as she feared, very ineffectually. Her arguments seemed
altogether extinguished by Erica's remorseless logic; she was not nearly
so clever, and her very earnestness seemed to trip her up and make all
her sentences broken and incomplete. They discussed the subject till
Erica was hoarse, and at last from very weariness she fell asleep while
the Lutheran was giving her a long quotation from St. Paul.
She slept for two or three hours; when she woke, the room was flooded
with silvery moonlight, the wooden cross which hung over the German's
bed stood out black and distinct, but the bed was empty. Erica looked
round the room uneasily, and saw a sight which she never forgot. The
fraulein was kneeling beside the window, and even the cold moonlight
could not chill or hide the wonderful brightness of her face. She was a
plain, ordinary little woman, but her face was absolutely transformed;
there was something so beautiful and yet so unusual in her expression
that Erica could not speak or move, but lay watching her almost
breathlessly. The spiritual world about which they had been speaking
must be very real indeed to Thekla Sonnenthal! Was it possible that
this was the work of delusion? While she mused, her friend rose, came
straight to her bedside, and bent over her with a look of such love and
tenderness that Erica, though not generally demonstrative, could not
resist throwing her arms round her neck.
“Dear Sunnyvale! You look just like your name!” she exclaimed, “all
brightness and humility! What have you been doing to grow so like
Murillo's Madonna?”
“I thought you were asleep,” said the fraulein. “Good night,
Herzolattchen, or rather good morning, for the Easter day has begun.”
Perhaps Erica liked her all the better for saying nothing more definite,
but in the ordinary sense of the word she did not have a good night,
for long after Thekla Sonnenthal was asleep, and dreaming of her German
home, Luke Raeburn's daughter lay awake, thinking of the faith which
to some was such an intense reality. Had there been anything excited or
unreal about her companion's manner, she would not have thought
twice about it; but her tranquillity and sweetness seemed to her very
remarkable. Moreover, Fraulein Sonnenthal was strangely devoid of
imagination; she was a matter-of-fact little person, not at all a likely
subject for visions and delusions. Erica was perplexed. Once more there
came to her that uncomfortable question: “Supposing Christianity were
true?”
The moonlight paled and the Easter morn broke, and still she tossed to
and fro, haunted by doubts which would not let her sleep. But by and by
she returned to the one thing which was absolutely certain, namely, that
her German friend was lovable and to be loved, whatever her creed.
And, since Erica's love was of the practical order, it prompted her
to get up early, dress noiselessly, and steal out of the room without
waking her companion; then, with all the church bells ringing and the
devout citizens hurrying to mass, she ran to the nearest flower stall,
spent one of her very few half-francs on the loveliest white rose to be
had, and carried it back as an Easter offering to the fraulein.
It was fortunate in every way that Erica had the little German lady for
her friend, for she would often have fared badly without some one to
nurse and befriend her.
She was very delicate, and worked far too hard; for, besides all her
work in the school, she was preparing for an English examination which
she had set her heart on trying as soon as she went home. Had it not
been for Fraulein Sonnenthal, she would more than once have thoroughly
overworked herself; and indeed as it was, the strain of that two years
told severely on her strength.
But the time wore on rapidly, as very fully occupied time always does,
and Erica's list of days grew shorter and shorter, and the letters from
her mother were more and more full of plans for the life they would lead
when she came home. The two years would actually end in January; Erica
was, however, to stay in Paris till the following Easter, partly to
oblige Mme. Lemercier, partly because by that time her father hoped to
be in a great measure free from his embarrassments, able once more to
make a home for her.