Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More,
To him must needs be given,
Who heareth heresy, and leaves
The heretic to Heaven. Whittier.
The clock in a neighboring church tower was just striking five on a warm
afternoon in June. The pillar box stood at the corner of Guilford Square
nearest the church, and on this particular afternoon there chanced to be
several people running at the last moment to post their letters. Among
others were Brian and Erica. Brian, with a great bundle of parish
notices, had just reached the box when running down the other side of
the square at full speed he saw his Undine carrying a bagful of letters.
He had not met her for some weeks, for it happened to have been a busy
time with him, and though she had been very good in coming to read to
old Mrs. Osmond, he had always just missed her.
“This is a funny meeting place,” she exclaimed, rather breathlessly. “It
never struck me before what a truly national institution the post office
is--a place where people of all creeds and opinions can meet together,
and are actually treated alike!”
Brian smiled.
“You have been very busy,” he said, glancing at the innumerable
envelopes, which she was dropping as fast as might be into the narrow
receptacle. He could see that they were directed in her small, clear,
delicate handwriting.
“And you, too,” she said, looking at his diminished bundle. “Mine are
secularist circulars, and yours, I suppose, are the other kind of thing,
but you see the same pillar eats them up quite contentedly. The post
office is beautifully national, it sets a good example.”
She spoke lightly, but there was a peculiar tone in her voice which
betrayed great weariness. It made Brian look at her more attentively
than he had yet done--less from a lover's point of view, more from a
doctor's. She was very pale. Though the running had brought a faint
color to her cheeks, her lips were white, her forehead almost deathly.
He knew that she had never really been well since her mother's death,
but the change wrought within the last three weeks dismayed him; she was
the mere shadow of her former self.
“This hot weather is trying you,” he said.
“Something is,” she replied. “Work, or weather, or worry, or the three
combined.”
“Come in and see my father,” said Brian, “and be idle for a little time;
you will be writing more circulars if you go home.”
“No, they are all done, and my examination is over, and there is nothing
special going on just now; I think that is why I feel so like breaking
down.”
After a little more persuasion, she consented to go in and see Mr.
Osmond. The house always had a peculiarly restful feeling, and the mere
thought of rest was a relief to her; she would have liked the wheels of
life to stop for a little while, and there was rest in the mere change
of atmosphere. On the doorstep Brian encountered a patient, much to his
vexation; so he could only take Erica into the study, and go in search
of his father. He lingered however, just to tell him of his fears.
“She looks perfectly worn out; you must find out what is wrong, father,
and make her promise to see some one.”
His tone betrayed such anxiety that his father would not smile although
he was secretly amused at the task deputed to him. However, clergyman as
he was, he had a good deal of the doctor about him, and he had seen so
much of sickness and disease during his long years of hard work among
the poor that he was after all about as ready an observer and as good a
judge as Brian could have selected.
Erica, leaning back in the great easy chair, which had been moved into
summer quarters beside the window, heard the slow soft step she had
learned to know so well, and before she had time to get up, found her
hand in Charles Osmond's strong clasp.
“How comfortable your chair is,” she said, smiling; “I believe I was
nearly asleep.”
He looked at her attentively, but without appearing to study her face in
any way. She was very pale and there was an indefinable look of pain in
her eyes.
“Any news of the examination?” he asked, sitting down opposite her.
“No, it is too soon yet,” she replied. “I thought I should have felt
so anxious about it, but do you know, now that it is over, I can't make
myself care a bit. If I have failed altogether, I don't believe I shall
mind very much.”
“Too tired to care for anything?”
“Yes, I seem to have come to the end. I wish I were a watch, and could
run down and rest for a few days and be wound up again.”
He smiled. “What have you been doing with yourself to get so tired?”
“Oh, nothing particular; it has been rather a long day. Let me see! In
the morning there were two delegates from Rilchester who had to be
kept in a good temper till my father was ready for them; then there was
father's bag to be packed, and a rush to get him off in time for
the morning express to Longstaff. Then I went to a lecture at South
Kensington, and then by train to Aldersgate Street to see Hazeldine's
wife, who is unconscionable enough to live at the top of one of the
model lodging houses. Then she told me of another of our people whose
child is ill, and they lived in another row of Compton buildings up
a hundred more steps, which left my back nearly broken. And the poor
little child was fearfully ill, and it is so dreadful to see pain you
can do nothing for; it has made me feel wretched ever since. Then--let
me think--oh, I got home and found Aunt Jean with a heap of circulars to
get off, and there was a great rush to get them ready by post time.”
She paused; Charles Osmond withdrew his eyes from the careful scrutiny
of her face, and noticed the position she had taken up in his chair.
She was leaning back with her arms resting on the arms of the chair;
not merely stretched out upon them, but rather as if she used them
for support. His eyes wandered back again to her face. After a short
silence, he spoke.
“You have been feeling very tired lately; you have had unaccountable
pains flying about all over you, but specially your back has felt, as
you just said, somewhat 'broken.' You have generally noticed this
when you have been walking, or bending over your desk writing for the
'Idol-Breaker.'”
She laughed.
“Now please don't turn into a clairvoyant; I shall begin to think you
uncanny; and, besides, it would be an argument for Tom when we quarrel
about you.”
“Then my surmises are true?”
“Substitute first person singular for second plural, and it might have
come from my own lips,” said Erica, smiling. “But please stop; I'm
afraid you will try to turn prophet next, and I'm sure you will prophesy
something horrid.”
“It would need no very clear-sighted prophet to prophesy that you will
have to let your wheels run down for a little while.”
“Do you mean that you think I shall die?” asked Erica, languidly. “It
wouldn't be at all convenient just now; father couldn't spare me. Do you
know,” and her face brightened, “he is really beginning to use me a good
deal?”
“I didn't mean that I thought your wheels would run down in that way,”
said Charles Osmond, touched by the pathos of her words. “I may even be
wrong, but I think you will want a long rest, and I am quite sure you
mustn't lose a day before seeing a doctor. I should like my brother to
see you; Brian is only junior partner, you know.”
“What, another Mr. Osmond! How muddled we shall get between you all!”
said Erica, laughing.
“I should think that Brian might be Brian by this time,” said Charles
Osmond; “that will dispose of one; and perhaps you would like to follow
the example of one of my servants, who, I hear, invariably speaks of me
as the 'dear rev.'”
Erica laughed.
“No, I shall call you my 'prophet,' though it is true you have begun by
being a prophet of evil! By the bye, you can not say again that I am not
impartial. What do you think Tom and I did last week?”
“Read the New Testament backward?”
“No, we went to a Holy Scripture Society meeting at Exeter Hall.”
“Hope you were edified,” said Charles Osmond, with a little twinkle in
his eye; but he sighed, nevertheless.
“Well,” said Erica, “it was rather curious to hear everything reversed,
and there was a good deal of fun altogether. They talked a great deal
about the numbers of bibles, testaments, and portions which had been
sent out. There was one man who spoke very broadly, and kept on speaking
of the 'PORTIONS,' and there was another whom we called the 'Great
Door,' because eight times in his speech he said that a great door had
been opened for them in Italy and other places. Altogether, I thought
them rather smug and self-satisfied, especially one man whose face shone
on the slightest provocation, and who remarked, in broad Lincolnshire,
that they had been 'aboondantly blessed.' After his speech a little
short, sleek oily man got up, and talked about Providence. Apparently
it had been very kind to him, and he thought the other sort of thing
did best for those who got it. But there were one or two really good
speakers, and I dare say they were all in earnest. Still, you know, Tom
and I felt rather like fish out of water, and especially when they began
to sing, 'Oh, Bible, blessed Bible!' and a lady would make me share her
hymn book. Then, too, there was a collection, and the man made quite
a pause in front of us, and of course we couldn't give anything.
Altogether, I felt rather horrid and hypocritical for being there at
all.”
“Is that your only experience of one of our meetings?”
“Oh, no, father took me with him two or three times to Westminster Abbey
a good many years ago. We heard the dean; father admired him very
much. I like Westminster Abbey. It seems to belong a little to us, too,
because it is so national. And then it is so beautiful, and I liked
hearing the music. I wonder, though, that you are not little afraid of
having it so much in your worship. I remember hearing a beautiful anthem
there once, which just thrilled one all through. I wonder that you
don't fear that people should mistake that for what you call spiritual
fervor.”
“I think, perhaps, there is a danger in any undue introduction of
externals, but any one whose spirit has ever been awakened will never
mistake the mere thrill of sensuous rapture for the quickening of the
spirit by the Unseen.”
“You are talking riddles to me now!” said Erica; “but I feel sure that
some of the people who go to church regularly only like it because of
that appeal to the senses. I shall never forget going one afternoon into
Notre Dame with Mme. Lemercier. A flood of crimson and purple light
was shining in through the south transept windows. You could see the
white-robed priests and choristers--there was one boy with the most
perfect voice you can conceive. I don't know what they were singing,
something very sweet and mournful, and, as that one voice rang up into
the vaulted roof, I saw Mme. Lemercier fall down on her knees and pray
in a sort of rapture. Even I myself felt the tears come to my eyes, just
because of the loveliness, and because the blood in one's veins seemed
to bound. And then, still singing, the procession passed into the nave,
and the lovely voice grew more and more distant. It was a wonderful
effect; no doubt, the congregation thought they felt devout, but, if
so, then I too felt devout--quite as religious as they. Your spiritual
fervor seems to me to resolve itself into artistic effect produced by an
appeal to the senses and emotions.”
“And I must repeat my riddle,” said Charles Osmond, quietly. “No
awakened spirit could ever mistake the one for the other. It is
impossible! How impossible you will one day realize.”
“One evil prophesy is enough for today!” said Erica laughing. “If I stay
any longer, you will be prophesying my acceptance of Christianity. No,
no, my father will be grieved enough if your first prediction comes
true, but, if I were to turn Christian, I think it would break his
heart!”
She rose to go, and Charles Osmond went with her to the door, extracting
a promise that she would discuss things with her aunt, and if she
approved send for Mr. Osmond at once. He watched her across the square,
then turning back into his study paced to and fro in deep thought.
Erica's words rang in his ears. “If I were to turn Christian, I think
it would break his heart.” How strangely this child was situated! How
almost impossible it seemed that she could ever in this world come to
the light! And yet the difficulty might perhaps be no hindrance to one
so beautifully sincere, so ready to endure anything and everything for
the sake of what she now considered truth. She had all her father's zeal
and self-devotion; surely the offering up of self, even in a
mistaken cause, must sooner or later lead to the Originator of all
self-sacrifice. Surely some of those who seem only to thwart God,
honestly deeming Christianity a mischievous delusion, are really acting
more in His spirit, unconsciously better doing His will than many who
openly declare themselves on His side! Yet, as Charles Osmond mused
over the past lives of Luke Raeburn and his daughter, and pictured
their probable future, a great grief filled his heart. They wee both so
lovable, so noble! That they should miss in a great measure the best of
life seemed such a grievous pity! The chances that either of them would
renounce atheism were, he could not but feel, infinitesimally small.
Much smaller for the father than for the child.
It was true, indeed, that she had never fairly grasped any real idea of
the character of Christ. He had once grasped it to a certain extent, and
had lost the perception of its beauty and truth. It was true also that
Erica's transparent sincerity, her quick perception of the beautiful
might help very greatly to overcome her deeply ingrained prejudices. But
even then what an agony--what a fearful struggle would lie before her;
“I think it would break his heart!” Charles Osmond felt his breath
come fast and hard at the mere thought of such a difference between the
father and daughter! Could human strength possibly be equal to such
a terrible trial? For these two were everything to each other. Erica
worshipped her father, and Raeburn's fatherhood was the truest, deepest,
tenderest part of his character. No, human strength could not do it,
but--
“I am; nyle ye drede!”
His eye fell on a little illuminated scroll above his mantelpiece,
Wycliff's rendering of Christ's reassuring words to the fearful
disciples. Yes, with the revelation of Himself, He would give the
strength, make it possible to dread nothing, not even the infliction
of grief to one's nearest and dearest. Much pain, much sacrifice there
would be in his service, but dread--never. The strength of the “I am,”
bade it forever cease. In that strength the weakest could conquer.
But he had wondered on into a dim future, had pictured a struggle
which in all probability would not take place. Even were that the case,
however, he needed these words of assurance all the more himself. They
wove themselves into his reverie as he paced to an fro; they led him
further and further away from perplexed surmises as to the future of
Raeburn and Erica, but closer to their souls, because they took him
straight to the “God and father of all, who is above all, and through
all, and in all.”
The next morning as he was preparing a sermon for the following Sunday,
there came a knock at his study door. His brother came in. He was a fine
looking man of two or three-and-fifty.
“I can't stay,” he said, “I've a long round, but I just looked in to
tell you about your little heretic.”
Charles Osmond looked up anxiously.
“It is as you thought,” continued his brother. “Slight curvature of the
spine. She's a brave little thing; I don't wonder you are interested in
her.”
“It means a long rest, I suppose?”
“Yes, I told her a year in a recumbent posture; for I fancy she is
one of those restless beings who will do nothing at all unless you are
pretty plain with them. It is possible that six or eight months may be
sufficient.”
“How did she take it?”
“Oh, in the pluckiest way you can conceive! Tried to laugh at the
prospect, wanted me to measure her to see how much she grew in the time,
and said she should expect at least three inches to reward her.”
“A Raeburn could hardly be deficient in courage. Luke Raeburn is without
exception the bravest man I ever met.”
“And I'd back his daughter against any woman I know,” said the doctor.
He left the room, but the news he had brought caused a long pause in his
brother's sermon.