For toleration had its griefs,
And charity its trial. Whittier
“Well, Osmond, you got into hot water a few years ago for defending
Raeburn in public, and by this time you will find it not merely hot, but
up to boiling point. The fellow is more notorious than ever.”
The speaker was one of Charles Osmond's college friends, a certain Mr.
Roberts, who had been abroad for a good many years, but, having returned
on account of his health, had for a few months been acting as curate to
his friend.
“A man who works as indefatigably as Mr. Raeburn has done can hardly
avoid being noticed,” replied Charles Osmond.
“You speak as if you admired the fellow!”
“There is a good deal to admire in Mr. Raeburn. However greatly mistaken
he is, there is no doubt that he is a brave man, and an honest man.”
“You can speak in such a way of a man who makes his living by speaking
and writing against God.”
“I hope I can speak the truth of every man, whether his creed agrees
with mine or not.”
“A man who grows rich on blasphemy! Who sows poison among the people and
reaps the harvest!” exclaimed Mr. Roberts.
“That he teaches fearful error, I quite allow,” said Charles Osmond,
“but it is the grossest injustice to say that he does it for gain. His
atheism brought him to the very brink of starvation some years ago. Even
now he is so crippled by the endless litigation he has had that he lives
in absolute penury.”
“But that letter you sent to the 'Church Chronicle' was so uncalled for,
you put the comparison so broadly.”
“I put it in plain 'English',” said Charles Osmond, “I merely said, as
I think, that he puts many of us to shame by his great devotion. The
letter was a reply to a very unfair article about the Rilchester riot;
it was absolutely necessary that some one should speak. I tell you,
Roberts, if you knew the man, you could not speak so bitterly of him.
It is not true that he leads a selfish, easy-going life; he has spent
thousands and thousands of pounds in the defense of his cause. I don't
believe there is a man in England who has led a more self-denying life.
It may be very uncomfortable news for us, but we've no right to shut our
ears to it. I wish that man could stir up an honest sense of shame in
every sleepy Christian in the country. I believe that, indeed, to be his
rightful mission. Raeburn is a grand text for a sermon which the
nation sorely needs. Here is a man who spends his whole strength in
propagating his so-called gospel of atheism. Do you spend your whole
strength in spreading the gospel of Christ? Here is a man, willing
to leave his home, willing to live without one single luxury, denying
himself all that is not necessary to actual health. Have you ever denied
yourself anything? Here is a man who spends his whole living all that he
has on what he believes to be the truth. What meager tithe do you bestow
upon the religion of which you speak so much? Here is a man who dares
to stand up alone in defense of what he holds true, a man who never
flinches. How far are you brave in the defense of your faith? Do you
never keep a prudent silence? Do you never 'howl with the wolves?'”
“Thank Heaven you are not in the pulpit!” ejaculated Mr. Roberts.
“I wish those words could be sent through the length and breadth of the
land,” said Charles Osmond.
“No doubt Mr. Raeburn would thank you,” said his friend, with a
sharp-edged smile. “It would be a nice little advertisement for him.
Why, from a Church of England parson it would make his fortune! My dear
Osmond, you are the best fellow in the world, but don't you see that you
are playing into the enemy's hands.”
“I am trying to speak the words that God has given me to speak,” said
Charles Osmond. “The result I can well trust to Him. An uncomfortable
truth will never be popular. The words of our Lord Himself were not
popular; but they sunk into men's hearts and bore fruit, though He was
put to death as a blasphemer and a revolutionary.”
“Well, at least then, if you must take up the cudgels in his defense, do
not dishonor the clerical profession by personal acquaintance with the
man. I hear that he has been seen actually in your house, that you are
even intimate with his family.”
“Roberts, I didn't think our beliefs were so very different. In fact,
I used to think we were nearer to each other on these points than most
men. Surely we both own the universal Fatherhood of God?”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Roberts, quickly.
“And owning that, we cannot help owning the universal brotherhood
of men. Why should you then cut yourself off from your brother, Luke
Raeburn?”
“He's no brother of mine!” said Mr. Roberts, in a tone of disgust.
Charles Osmond smiled.
“We do not choose our brothers, we have no voice in the growth of the
family. There they are.”
“But the man says there is no God.”
“Excuse me, he has never said that. What he says is, that the word God
conveys no meaning to him. If you think that the best way to show your
belief in the All-Father and your love to all His children lies in
refusing so much as to touch those who don't know Him, you are of course
justified in shunning every atheist or agnostic in the world. But I do
not think that the best way. It was not Christ's way. Therefore, I hail
every possible opportunity of meeting Mr. Raeburn or his colleagues, try
to find all the points we have in common, try as far as possible to meet
them on their own ground.”
“And the result will be that people will call you an atheist yourself!”
broke in Mr. Roberts.
“That would not greatly matter,” said Charles Osmond. “It would be a
mere sting for the moment. It is not what men call us that we have to
consider, but how we are fulfilling the work God has given us to do.”
“'Pon my life, it makes me feel sick to hear you talk like this about
that miserable Raeburn!” exclaimed Mr. Roberts, hotly. “I tell you,
Osmond, that you are ruining your reputation, losing all chance of
preferment, just because of this mistaken zeal. It makes me furious
to think that such a man as you should suffer for such a creature as
Raeburn.”
“Have you forgotten that such creatures as you and I and Luke Raeburn
had such a Saviour as Jesus Christ? Come, Roberts, in your heart you
know you agree with me. If one is indeed our Father, then indeed we are
all brethren.”
“I do not hold with you!” retorted Mr. Roberts, the more angrily because
he had really hoped to convince his friend. “I wouldn't sit in the same
room with the fellow if you offered me the richest living in England. I
wouldn't shake hands with him to be made an archbishop. I wouldn't touch
him with a pair of tongs.”
“Even less charitable than St. Dunstan to the devil,” said Charles
Osmond, smiling a little, but sadly. “Except in that old legend,
however, I don't think Christianity ever mentions tongs. If you can't
love your enemies, and pray for them, and hold out a brotherly hand to
them, perhaps it were indeed better to hold aloof and keep as quiet as
you can.”
“It is clearly impossible for us to work together any longer, Osmond,”
said Mr. Roberts, rising. “I am sorry that such a cause should separate
us, but if you will persist in visiting an outcast of society, a
professed atheist, the most bitter enemy of our church, I cannot allow
my name to be associated with yours it is impossible that I should hold
office under you.”
So the two friends parted.
Charles Osmond was human, and almost inevitably a sort of reaction
began in his mind the instant he was alone. He had lost one of his best
friends, he knew as well as possible that they could never be on
the same footing as before. He had, moreover, lost in him a valuable
co-worker. Then, too, it was true enough that his defense of Raeburn was
bringing him into great disfavor with the religious world, and he was a
sensitive and naturally a proud man, who found blame, and reproach,
and contemptuous disapproval very hard to bear. Years of hard fighting,
years of patient imitation of Christ had wonderfully ennobled him, but
he had not yet attained to the sublime humility which, being free from
all thought of self, cares nothing, scarcely even pauses to think of
the world's judgment, too absorbed in the work of the Highest to have
leisure for thought of the lowest, too full of love for the race to have
love to spare for self. To this ideal he was struggling, but he had not
yet reached it, and the thought of his own reputation, his own feelings
would creep in. He was not a selfishly ambitious man, but every one who
is conscious of ability, every one who feels within him energies lying
fallow for want of opportunity, must be ambitious for a larger sphere of
work. Just as he was beginning to dare to allow himself the hope of some
change in his work, some wider field, just as he was growing sure enough
of himself to dare to accept any greater work which might have been
offered to him, he must, by bringing himself into evil repute, lose
every chance of preferment. And for what? For attempting to obtain a
just judgment for the enemy of his faith; for holding out a brotherly
hand to a man who might very probably not care to take it; for
consorting with those who would at best regard him as an amiable
fanatic. Was this worth all it would cost? Could the exceedingly
problematical gain make up for the absolutely certain loss?
He took up the day's newspaper. His eye was at once attracted to a
paragraph headed: “Mr. Raeburn at Longstaff.” The report, sent from
the same source as the report in the “Longstaff Mercury,” which had so
greatly displeased Raeburn that morning, struck Charles Osmond in a most
unfavorable light. This bitter opponent of Christianity, this unsparing
denouncer of all that he held most sacred, THIS was the man for whom
he was sacrificing friendship, reputation, advancement. A feeling of
absolute disgust rose within him. For a moment the thought came: “I
can't have any more to do with the man.”
But he was too honest not to detect almost at once his own Pharisaical,
un-Christlike spirit.
“Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things
of others. Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus.”
He had been selfishly consulting his own happiness, his own ease. Worse
still, he, of all men in the world, had dared to set himself up as too
virtuous forsooth to have anything to do with an atheist. Was that
the mind which was in Christ? Was He a strait-laced, self-righteous
Pharisee, too good, too religious to have anything to say to those
who disagreed with Him? Did He not live and die for those who are yet
enemies to God? Was not the work of reconciliation the work he came for?
Did He calculate the loss to Himself, the risk of failure? Ah, no, those
who would imitate God must first give as a free gift, without thought
of self, perfect love to all, perfect justice through that love, or else
they are not like the Father who “maketh His sun to shine on the evil
and the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.”
Charles Osmond paced to and fro, the look of trouble gradually passing
from his face. Presently he paused beside the open window; it looked
upon the little back garden, a tiny strip of ground, indeed, but just
now bright with sunshine and fresh with the beauty of early summer. The
sunshine seemed to steal into his heart as he prayed.
“All-Father, drive out my selfish cowardice, my self-righteous conceit.
Give me Thy spirit of perfect love to all, give me Thy pure hatred of
sin. Melt my coldness with Thy burning charity, and if it be possible
make me fit to be Luke Raeburn's friend.”
While he still stood by the window a visitor was announced. He had been
too much absorbed to catch the name, but it seemed the most natural
thing that on turning round he should find himself face to face with the
prophet of atheism.
There he stood, a splendid specimen of humanity; every line in his
rugged Scottish face bespoke a character of extraordinary force, but the
eyes which in public Charles Osmond had seen flashing with the fire
of the man's enthusiasm, or gleaming with a cold metallic light which
indicated exactly his steely endurance of ill treatment, were now
softened and deepened by sadness. His heart went out to him. Already
he loved the man, only hitherto the world's opinions had crept into his
heart between each meeting, and had paralyzed the free God-like love.
But it was to do so no longer. That afternoon he had dealt it a final
blow, there was no more any room for it to rear its fair-speaking
form, no longer should its veiled selfishness, its so-called virtuous
indignation turn him into a Pharisaical judge.
He received him with a hand shake which conveyed to Raeburn much of the
warmth, the reality, the friendliness of the man. He had always liked
Charles Osmond, but he had generally met him either in public, or when
he was harassed and preoccupied. Now, when he was at leisure, when, too,
he was in great trouble, he instinctively perceived that Osmond had in a
rare degree the broad-hearted sympathy which he was just now in need of.
From that minute a life-long friendship sprung up between the two men.
“I came really to see your son,” said Raeburn, “but they tell me he is
out. I wish to know the whole truth about Erica.” It was not his way to
speak very much where he felt deeply, and Charles Osmond could detect
all the deep anxiety, the half-indulged hope which lay hidden behind the
strong reserved exterior. He had heard enough of the case to be able to
satisfy him, to assure him that there was no danger, that all must
be left to time and patience and careful observance of the doctor's
regulations. Raeburn sighed with relief at the repeated assurance that
there was no danger, that recovery was only a question of time. Death
had so recently visited his home that a grisly fear had taken possession
of his heart. Once free of that, he could speak almost cheerfully of the
lesser evil.
“It will be a great trial to her, such absolute imprisonment; she
is never happy unless she is hard at work. But she is brave and
strong-willed. Will you look in and see her when you can?”
“Certainly,” said Charles Osmond. “We must do our best to keep up her
spirits.”
“Yes, luckily she is a great reader, otherwise such a long rest would be
intolerable, I should fancy.”
“You do not object to my coming to see her?” said Charles Osmond,
looking full into his companion's eyes. “You know that we discuss
religious questions pretty freely.”
“Religious questions always are freely discussed in my house,” said
Raeburn. “It will be the greatest advantage to her to have to turn
things well over in her mind. Besides, we always make a point of
studying our adversaries' case even more closely than our own, and, if
she has a chance of doing it personally as well as through books, all
the better.”
“But supposing that such an unlikely thing were to happen as that she
should see reason to change her present views? Supposing, if you can
suppose anything so unlikely, she should ever in future years come to
believe in Christianity?”
Raeburn smiled, not quite pleasantly.
“It is as you say such a very remote contingency!” He paused, grew
grave, then continued with all his native nobility: “Yet I like you the
better for having brought forward such an idea, improbable as I hope it
may be considered. I feel very sure of Erica. She has thought a great
deal, she has had every possible advantage. We never teach on authority;
she has been left perfectly free and has learned to weigh evidences and
probabilities, not to be led astray by any emotional fancies, but to be
guided by reason. She has always heard both sides of the case; she has
lived as it were in an atmosphere of debate, and has been, and of course
always will be, quite free to form her own opinion on every subject. It
is not for nothing that we call ourselves Freethinkers. Absolute freedom
of thought and speech is part of our creed. So far from objecting to
your holding free discussions with my daughter, I shall be positively
grateful to you, and particularly just now. I fancy Erica has inherited
enough of my nature to enjoy nothing better than a little opposition.”
“I know you are a born fighter,” said Charles Osmond. “We sympathize
with each other in that. And next to the bliss of a hard-won victory, I
place the satisfaction of being well conquered.”
Raeburn laughed.
“I am glad we think alike there. People are very fond of describing me
as a big bull dog, but if they would think a little, they would see that
the love of overcoming obstacles is deeply rooted in the heart of every
true man. What is the meaning of our English love of field sports? What
the explanation of the mania for Alpine climbing? It is no despicable
craving for distinction, it is the innate love of fighting, struggling,
and conquering.”
“Well, there are many obstacles which we can struggle to remove, side by
side,” said Charles Osmond. “We should be like one man, I fancy on the
question of the opium trade, for instance.”
In a few vigorous words Raeburn denounced this monstrous national sin.
“Are you going to the meeting tonight?” he added, after a pause.
“Yes, I had thought of it. Let us go together. Shall you speak?”
“Not tonight,” said Raeburn, a smile flickering about his usually stern
lips. “The Right Reverend Father, etc., etc., who is to occupy the
chair, might object to announcing that 'Mr. Raeburn would now address
the meeting.' No, this is not the time or place for me. So prejudiced
are people that the mere connection of my name with the question would
probably do more harm than good. I should like, I confess, to get up
without introduction, to speak not from the platform but from among
the audience incognito. But that is impossible for a man who has the
misfortune to be five inches above the average height, and whose white
hair has become a proverb, since some one made the unfortunate remark,
repeated in a hundred newspapers, that the 'hoary head was only a crown
of glory when found in the way of righteousness.'”
Charles Osmond could not help laughing.
“The worst of these newspaper days is that one never can make an end of
anything. That remark has been made to me since at several meetings.
At the last, I told the speaker that I was so tired of comments on my
personal appearance that I should soon have to resort either to the
dyer or the wigmaker. But here am I wasting your time and my own, and
forgetting the poor little maid at home. Goodbye. I'll call in passing,
then, at a quarter to eight. Tom Craigie will probably be with me, he is
very rabid on the subject.”
“Craigie and I are quite old friends,” said Charles Osmond.
And then, as on the preceding night he had stood at the door while Erica
crossed the square, so now involuntarily his eyes followed Raeburn.
In his very walk the character of the man was indicated firm, steady,
imperturbable, straightforward.