Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, came to
meet her, With the life within departed that had given them
each a soul; And her sick heart even slighted gentle words
that came to greet her, For grief spread its shadowy pinions
like a blight upon the whole. A. A. Proctor
The winter sunshine which glanced in a side-long, half-and-half way
into Persecution Alley, and struggled in at the closed blinds of Erica's
little attic, streamed unchecked into a far more cheerful room in
Guilford Square, and illumined a breakfast table, at which was seated
one occupant only, apparently making a late and rather hasty meal. He
was a man of about eight-and-twenty, and though he was not absolutely
good-looking, his face was one which people turned to look at again, not
so much because it was in any way striking as far as features went, but
because of an unusual luminousness which pervaded it. The eyes, which
were dark gray, were peculiarly expressive, and their softness, which
might to some have seemed a trifle unmasculine, was counterbalanced
by the straight, dark, noticeable eyebrows, as well as by a thoroughly
manly bearing and a general impression of unfailing energy which
characterized the whole man. His hair, short beard, and mustache were of
a deep nut-brown. He was of medium height and very muscular looking.
On the whole it was as pleasant a face as you would often meet with, and
it was not to be wondered at that his old grandmother looked up pretty
frequently from her arm chair by the fire, and watched him with that
beautiful loving pride which in the aged never seems exaggerated and
very rarely misplaced.
“You were out very late, were you not, Brian?” she observed, letting
her knitting needles rest for a minute, and scrutinizing the rather
weary-looking man.
“Till half-past five this morning,” he replied, in a somewhat
preoccupied voice.
There was a sad look in his eyes, too, which his grandmother partly
understood. She knitted another round of her sock and then said:
“Have you seen Tom Craigie yet?”
“Yes, last night I came across him,” replied Brian. “He told me she had
come home. They traveled by night and got in early yesterday morning.”
“Poor little thing!” sighed old Mrs. Osmond. “What a home-coming it must
have been?”
“Grannie,” said Brian, pushing back his chair and drawing nearer to the
fire “I want you to tell me what I ought to do. I have a message to her
from her mother, there was no one else to take it, you know, except the
landlady, and I suppose she did not like that. I want to know when I
might see her; one has no right to keep it back, and yet how am I to
know whether she is fit to bear it? I can't write it down, it won't
somehow go on to paper, yet I can hardly ask to see her.”
“We cannot tell that the message might not comfort her,” said Mrs.
Osmond. Then, after a few minutes' thought she added: “I think, Brian,
if I were you, I would write her a little note, tell her why you want to
see her, and let her fix her own time. You will leave it entirely in her
own hands in that way.”
He mused for a minute, seemed satisfied with the suggestion, and
moving across to the writing table, began his first letter to his love.
Apparently it was hard to write, for he wasted several sheets and much
time that he could ill afford. When it was at length finished, it ran as
follows:
“Dear Miss Raeburn,--I hardly like to ask to see you yet for fear you
should think me intrusive, but a message was entrusted to me on Tuesday
night which I dare not of myself keep back from you. Will you see me?
If you are able to, and will name the time which will suit you best, I
shall be very grateful. Forgive me for troubling you, and believe me,
Yours faithfully, Brian Osmond.”
He sent it off a little doubtfully, by no means satisfied that he had
done a wise thing. But when he returned from his rounds later in the day
the reply set his fears at rest.
It was written lengthways across a sheet of paper; the small delicate
writing was full of character, but betrayed great physical exhaustion.
“It is good of you to think of us. Please come this afternoon if you are
able. Erica.”
That very afternoon! Now that his wish was granted, now that he was
indeed to see her, Brian would have given worlds to have postponed the
meeting. He was well accustomed to visiting sorrow-stricken people, but
from meeting such sorrow as that in the Raeburns' house he shrunk back
feeling his insufficiency. Besides, what words were delicate enough to
convey all that had passed in that death scene? How could he dare to
attempt in speech all that the dying mother would fain have had conveyed
to her child? And then his own love! Would not that be the greatest
difficulty of all? Feeling her grief as he did, could he yet modify his
manner to suit that of a mere outsider--almost a stranger? He was very
diffident; though longing to see Erica, he would yet have given anything
to be able to transfer his work to his father. This, however, was of
course impossible.
Strange though it might seem, he--the most unsuitable of all men in his
own eyes--was the man singled out to bear this message, to go to the
death-visited household. He went about his afternoon work in a sort of
steady, mechanical manner, the outward veil of his inward agitation.
About four o'clock he was free to go to Guilford Terrace.
He was shown into the little sitting room; it was the room in which
Mrs. Raeburn had died, and the mere sight of the outer surroundings, the
well-worn furniture, the book-lined walls made the whole scene vividly
present to him. The room was empty, there was a blazing fire but no
other light, for the blinds were down, and even the winter twilight shut
out. Brian sat down and waited. Presently the door opened, he looked up
and saw Erica approaching him. She was taller than she had been when he
last saw her, and now grief had given her a peculiar dignity which made
her much more like her father. Every shade of color had left her
face, her eyes wee full of a limitless pain, the eyelids were slightly
reddened, but apparently rather from sleeplessness than from tears, the
whole face was so altered that a mere casual acquaintance would hardly
have recognized it, except by the unchanged waves of short auburn hair
which still formed the setting as it were to a picture lovely even now.
Only one thing was unchanged, and that was the frank, unconventional
manner. Even in her grief she could not be quite like other people.
“It is very good of you to let me see you,” said Brian, “you are sure
you are doing right; it will not be too much for you today.”
“There is no great difference in says, I think,” said Erica, sitting
down on a low chair beside the fire. “I do not very much believe in
degrees in this kind of grief. I do not see why it should be ever more
or ever less. Perhaps I am wrong, it is all new to me.”
She spoke in a slow, steady, low-toned voice. There was an absolute
hopelessness about her whole aspect which was terrible to see. A
moment's pause followed, then, looking up at Brian, she fancied that she
read in his face, something of hesitation, of a consciousness that he
could ill express what he wished to say, and her innate courtesy made
her even now hasten to relieve him.
“Don't be afraid of speaking,” she said, a softer light coming into her
eyes. “I don't know why people shrink from meeting trouble. Even Tom
is half afraid of me. I am not changed, I am still Erica; can't you
understand how much I want every one now?
“People differ so much,” said Brian, a little huskily, “and then when
one feels strongly words do not come easily.”
“Do you think I would not rather have your sympathy than an oration
from any one else! You who were here to the end! You who did everything
for--for her. My father has told me very little, he was not able to, but
he told me of you, how helpful you were, how good, not like an outsider
at all!”
Evidently she clung to the comforting recollection that at least one
trustable, sympathetic person had been with her mother at the last.
Brian could only say how little he had done, how much more he would fain
have done had it been possible.
“I think you do comfort me by talking,” said Erica. “And now I want you,
if you don't mind, to tell me all from the very first. I can't torture
my father by asking him, and I couldn't hear it from the landlady. But
you were here, you can tell me all. Don't be afraid of hurting me; can't
you understand, if the past were the only thing left to you, you would
want to know every tiniest detail!”
He looked searchingly into her eyes, he thought she was right. There
were no degrees to pain like hers! Besides, it was quite possible that
the lesser details of her mother's death might bring tears which would
relieve her. Very quietly, very reverently, he told her all that had
passed--she already knew that her mother had died from aneurism of the
heart--he told her how in the evening he had been summoned to her, and
from the first had known that it was hopeless, had been obliged to
tell her that the time for speech even was but short. He had ordered a
telegram to be sent to her father at Birmingham, but Mrs. Craigie and
Tom were out for the evening, and no one knew where they were to be
found. He and the landlady had been alone.
“She spoke constantly of you,” he continued. “The very last words she
said were these, 'Tell Erica that only love can keep from bitterness,
that love is stronger than the world's unkindness.' Then, after a
minute's pause, she added, 'Be good to my little girl, promise to be
good to her.' After that, speech became impossible, but I do not think
she suffered. Once she motioned to me to give her the frame off the
mantlepiece with your photograph; she looked at it and kept it near
her--she died with it in her hand.”
Erica hid her face; that one trifling little incident was too much for
her, the tears rained down between her fingers. That it should have come
to that! No one whom she loved there at the last--but she had looked
at the photograph, had held it to the very end, the voiceless, useless
picture had been there, the real Erica had been laughing and talking
at Paris! Brian talked on slowly, soothingly. Presently he paused; then
Erica suddenly looked up, and dashing away her tears, said, in a voice
which was terrible in its mingled pain and indignation.
“I might have been here! I might have been with her! It is the fault of
that wretched man who went bankrupt; the fault of the bigots who will
not treat us fairly--who ruin us!”
She sobbed with passionate pain, a vivid streak of crimson dyed her
cheek, contrasting strangely with the deathly whiteness of her brow.
“Forgive me if I pain you,” said Brian; “but have you forgotten the
message I gave you? 'It is only love that can keep from bitterness!'”
“Love!” cried Erica; she could have screamed it, if she had not been so
physically exhausted. “Do you mean I am to love our enemies?”
“It is only the love of all humanity that can keep from bitterness,”
said Brian.
Erica began to think over his reply, and in thinking grew calm once
more. By and by she lifted up her face; it was pale again now, and
still, and perfectly hopeless.
“I suppose you think that only Christians can love all humanity,” she
said, a little coldly.
“I should call all true lovers of humanity Christians,” replied Brian,
“whether they are consciously followers of Christ or not.”
She thought a little; then with a curiously hard look in her face, she
suddenly flashed round upon him with a question, much as her father
was in the habit of doing when an adversary had made some broad-hearted
statement which had baffled him.
“Some of you give us a little more charity than others; but what do you
mean by Christianity? You ask us to believe what is incredible. WHY do
you believe in the resurrection: What reason have you for thinking it
true?”
She expected him to go into the evidence question, to quote the number
of Christ's appearances, to speak of the five hundred witnesses of whom
she was weary of hearing. Her mind was proof against all this; what
could be more probable than that a number of devoted followers should be
the victims of some optical delusion, especially when their minds were
disturbed by grief. Here was a miracle supported on one side by the
testimony of five hundred and odd spectators all longing to see their
late Master, and contradicted on the other side by common sense and the
experience of the remainder of the human race during thousands of years!
She looked full at Brian, a hard yet almost exultant expression in her
eyes, which spoke more plainly than words her perfect conviction:
“You can't set your evidences against my counter-evidences! You can't
logically maintain that a few uneducated men are to have more weight
than all the united experience of mankind.”
Never would she so gladly have believed in the doctrine of immortality
as now, yet with characteristic honesty and resoluteness she set herself
into an attitude of rigid defense, lest through strong desire or mere
bodily weariness she should drift into the acceptance of what might be,
what indeed she considered to be error. But to her surprise, half to her
disappointment, Brian did not even mention the evidences. She had braced
herself up to withstand arguments drawn from the five hundred brothers,
but the preparation was useless.
“I believe in the resurrection,” said Brian, “because I cannot doubt
Jesus Christ. He is the most perfectly lovable and trustable being
I know, or can conceive of knowing. He said He should rise again, I
believe that He did rise. He was perfectly truthful, therefore He could
not mislead; He KNEW, therefore He could not be misled.”
“We do not consider Him to be all that you assert,” said Erica. “Nor do
His followers make one inclined to think that either He or His teaching
were so perfect as you try to make out. You are not so hard-hearted as
some of them--”
She broke off, seeing a look of pain on her companion's face. “Oh, what
am I saying!” she cried in a very different tone, “you who have done so
much--you who were always good to us--I did not indeed mean to hurt you,
it is your creed that I can't help hating, not you. You are our friend,
you said so long ago.”
“Always,” said Brian; “never doubt that.”
“Then you must forgive me for having wounded you,” said Erica, her whole
face softening. “You must remember how hard it all is, and that I am so
very, very miserable.”
He would have given his life to bring her comfort, but he was not a very
great believer in words, and besides, he thought she had talked quite as
long as she ought.
“I think,” he said, “that, honestly acted out, the message intrusted to
me ought to comfort your misery.”
“I can't act it out,” she said.
“You will begin to try,” was Brian's answer; and then, with a very full
heart, he said goodbye and left his Undine sitting by the fire, with her
head resting on her hands, and the words of her mother's message echoing
in her ears. “It is only love that can keep from bitterness; love is
stronger than the world's unkindness.”
Presently, not daring to dwell too much on that last scene which Brian
had described, she turned to his strange, unexpected reason for his
belief in the resurrection, and mused over the characteristics of his
ideal. Then she thought she would like to see again what her ideal man
had to say about his, and she got up and searched for a small book in
a limp red cover, labeled “Life of Jesus of Nazareth--Luke Raeburn.” It
was more than two years since she had seen it; she read it through once
more. The style was vigorous, the veiled sarcasms were not unpleasant
to her, she detected no unfairness in the mode of treatment, the book
satisfied her, the conclusion arrived at seemed to her inevitable--Brian
Osmond's ideal was not perfect.
With a sigh of utter weariness she shut the book and leaned back in her
chair with a still, white, hopeless face. Presently Friskarina sprung up
on her knee with a little sympathetic mew; she had been too miserable
as yet to notice even her favorite cat very much, now a scarcely
perceptible shade of relief came to her sadness, she stroked the soft
gray head. But scarcely had she spoken to her favorite, when the cat
suddenly turned away, sprung from her knee and trotted out of the room.
It seemed like actual desertion, and Erica could ill bear it just then.
“What, you too, Friskie,” she said to herself, “are even you glad to
keep away from me?”
She hid her face in her hands; desolate and miserable as she had been
before, she now felt more completely alone.
In a few minutes something warm touching her feet made her look up, and
with one bound Friskarina sprung into her lap, carrying in her mouth
a young kitten. She purred contentedly, looking first at her child and
then at her mistress, saying as plainly as if she had spoken:
“Will this comfort you?”
Erica stroked and kissed both cat and kitten, and for the first time
since her trouble a feeling of warmth came to her frozen heart.