“Glory to God to God!” he saith,
“Knowledge by suffering entereth,
And life is perfected by death.” E. B. Browning
“Mr. Raeburn is curiously like the celebrated dog of nursery lore, who
appertained to the ancient and far-famed Mother Hubbard. All the
doctors gave him up, all the secularists prepared mourning garments,
the printers were meditating black borders for the 'Idol-Breaker,' the
relative merits of burial and cremation were already in discussion, when
the dog we beg pardon the leader of atheism, came to life again.
“'She went to the joiners to buy him a coffin,
But when she came back the dog was laughing.'
“History,” as a great man was fond of remarking, “'repeats itself.'”
Raeburn laughed heartily over the accounts of his recovery in the comic
papers. No one better appreciated the very clever representation of
himself as a huge bull-dog starting up into life while Britannia in
widow's weeds brought in a parish coffin. Erica would hardly look at the
thing; she had suffered too much to be able to endure any jokes on
the subject, and she felt hurt and angry that what had given her such
anguish should be turned into a foolish jest.
At length, after many weeks of weary anxiety, she was able to breathe
freely once more, for her father steadily regained his strength. The
devotion of her whole time and strength and thought to another had done
wonders for her, her character had strangely deepened and mellowed. But
no sooner was she free to begin her ordinary life than new perplexities
beset her on every side.
During her own long illness she had of course been debarred from
attending any lectures or meetings whatever. In the years following,
before she had quite regained her strength, she had generally gone to
hear her father, but had never become again a regular attendant at the
lecture hall. Now that she was quite well, however, there was nothing
to prevent her attending as many lectures as she pleased, and naturally,
her position as Luke Raeburn's daughter made her presence desirable.
So it came to pass one Sunday evening in July that she happened to be
present at a lecture given by a Mr. Masterman.
He was a man whom they knew intimately. Erica liked him sufficiently
well in private life, and he had been remarkably kind and helpful at the
time of her father's illness. It was some years, however, since she had
heard him lecture, and this evening, by the virulence of his attack
on the character of Christ, he revealed to her how much her ground had
shifted since she had last heard him. It was not that he was an opponent
of existing Christianity her father was that, she herself was that, and
felt bound to be as long as she considered it a lie but Mr. Masterman's
attack seemed to her grossly unfair, almost willfully inaccurate, and,
in addition, his sarcasm and pleasantries seemed to her odiously vulgar.
He was answered by a most miserable representative of Christianity, who
made a foolish, weak, blustering speech, and tried to pay the atheist
back in his own coin. Erica felt wretched. She longed to get up and
speak herself, longing flatly to contradict the champion of her own
cause; then grew frightened at the strength of her feelings. Could this
be mere love of fair play and justice? Was her feeling merely that of a
barrister who would argue as well on one side as the other? And yet her
displeasure in itself proved little or nothing. Would not Charles Osmond
be displeased and indignant if he heard her father unjustly spoken of?
Yes, but then Luke Raeburn was a living man, and Christ was she even
sure that he had ever lived? Well, yes, sure of that, but of how much
more?
When the assembly broke up, her mind was in a miserable chaos of doubt.
It was one of those delicious summer evenings when even in East London
the skies are mellow and the air sweet and cool.
“Oh, Tom, let us walk home!” she exclaimed, longing for change of scene
and exercise.
“All right,” he replied, “I'll take you a short cut, if you don't mind a
few back slums to begin with.”
Now Erica was familiar enough with the sight of poverty and squalor;
she had not lived at the West End, where you may entirely forget
the existence of the poor. The knowledge of evil had come to her of
necessity much earlier than to most girls, and tonight, as Tom took her
through a succession of narrow streets and dirty courts, misery, and
vice, and hopeless degradation met her on every side. Swarms of filthy
little children wrangled and fought in the gutters, drunken women
shouted foul language at one another everywhere was wickedness
everywhere want. Her heart felt as if it would break. What was to reach
these poor, miserable fellow creatures of hers? Who was to raise them
out of their horrible plight? The coarse distortion and the narrow
contraction of Christ's teaching which she had just heard, offered no
remedy for this evil. Nor could she think that secularism would reach
these. To understand secularism you meed a fair share of intellect what
intellect would these poor creatures have? Why, you might talk forever
of the “good of humanity,” and “the duty of promoting the general good,”
and they would not so much as grasp the idea of what “good” was they
would sink back to their animal-like state. Instinctively her thoughts
turned to the Radical Reformer who, eighteen hundred years ago, had
lived among people just as wicked, just as wretched. How had He worked?
What had He done? All through His words and actions had sounded the one
key-note, “Your Father.” Always He had led them to look up to a perfect
Being who loved them, who was present with them.
Was it possible that if Christians had indeed followed their Leader and
not obscured His teaching with hideous secretions of doctrine which He
had assuredly never taught was it possible that the Christ-gospel in its
original simplicity would indeed be the remedy for all evil?
They were coming into broader thoroughfares now. A wailing child's voice
fell on her ear. A small crowd of disreputable idlers was hanging round
the closed doors of a public-house, waiting eagerly for the opening
which would take place at the close of service-time. The wailing child's
voice grew more and more piteous. Erica saw that it came from a poor
little half-clad creature of three years old who was clinging to the
skirts of a miserable-looking woman with a shawl thrown over her head.
Just as she drew near, the woman, with a fearful oath, tried to shake
herself free of the child; then, with uplifted arms, was about to deal
it a heavy blow when Erica caught her hand as it descended, and held it
fast in both her hands.
“Don't hurt him,” she said, “please don't hurt him.”
She looked into the prematurely wrinkled face, into the half-dim eyes,
she held the hand fast with a pressure not of force but of entreaty.
Then they passed on, the by-standers shouting out the derisive chorus
of “Come to Jesus!” with which London roughs delight in mocking any
passenger whom they suspect of religious tendencies. In all her sadness,
Erica could not help smiling to herself. That she, an atheist, Luke
Raeburn's daughter, should be hooted at as a follower of Jesus!
In the meantime the woman she had spoken to stood still staring after
her. If an angel had suddenly appeared to her, she could not have been
more startled. A human hand had given her coarse, guilty, trembling hand
such a living pressure as it had never before received; a pure, loving
face had looked at her; a voice, which was trembling with earnestness
and full of the pathos of restrained tears, had pleaded with her for her
own child. The woman's dormant motherhood sprung into life. Yes, he was
her own child after all. She did not really want to hurt him, but a sort
of demon was inside her, the demon of drink and sometimes it made her
almost mad. She looked down now with love-cleared eyes at the little
crying child who still clung to her ragged skirt. She stooped and picked
him up, and wrapped a bit of her shawl round him. Presently after a
fearful struggle, she turned away from the public-house and carried the
child home to bed.
The jeering chorus was soon checked, for the shutters were taken down,
and the doors thrown wide, and light, and cheerfulness, and shelter, and
the drink they were all craving for, were temptingly displayed to draw
in the waiting idlers.
But the woman had gone home, and one rather surly looking man still
leaned against the wall looking up the street where Tom and Erica had
disappeared.
“Blowed if that ain't a bit of pluck!” he said to himself, and therewith
fell into a reverie.
Tom talked of temperance work, about which he was very eager, all the
way to Guilford Terrace. Erica, on reaching home, went at once to her
father's room. She found him propped up with pillows in his arm
chair; he was still only well enough to attempt the lightest of light
literature, and was looking at some old volumes of “Punch” which the
Osmonds had sent across.
“You look tired, Eric!” he exclaimed. “Was there a good attendance?”
“Very,” she replied, but so much less brightly than usual that Raeburn
at once divined that something had annoyed her.
“Was Mr. Masterman dull?”
“Not dull,” she replied, hesitatingly. Then, with more than her usual
vehemence, “Father, I can't endure him! I wish we didn't have such men
on our side! He is so flippant, so vulgar!”
“Of course he never was a model of refinement,” said Raeburn, “but he
is effective very effective. It is impossible that you should like
his style; he is, compared with you, what a theatrical poster is to a
delicate tete-de-greuze. How did he specially offend you tonight?”
“It was all hateful from the very beginning,” said Erica. “And sprinkled
all through with doubtful jests, which of course pleased the people. One
despicable one about the Entry into Jerusalem, which I believe he must
have got from Strauss. I'm sure Strauss quotes it.”
“You see what displeases an educated mind, wins a rough, uncultured one.
We may not altogether like it, but we must put up with it. We need our
Moodys and Sankeys as well as the Christians.”
“But, father, he seems to me so unfair.”
Raeburn looked grave.
“My dear,” he said, after a minute's thought, “you are not in the least
bound to go to hear Mr. Masterman again unless you like. But remember
this, Eric, we are only a struggling minority, and let me quote to you
one of our Scottish proverbs: 'Hawks shouldna pick out hawks' een.' You
are still a hawk, are you not?”
“Of course,” she said, earnestly.
“Well, then be leal to your brother hawks.”
A cloud of perplexed thought stole over Erica's face. Raeburn noted it
and did his best to divert her attention.
“Come,” he said, “let us have a chapter of Mark Twain to enliven us.”
But even Mark Twain was inadequate to check the thought-struggle which
had begun in Erica's brain. Desperate earnestness would not be conquered
even by the most delightful of all humorous fiction.
During the next few days this thought-struggle raged. So great was
Erica's fear of having biased either one way or the other that she
would not even hint at her perplexity either to her father or to Charles
Osmond. And now the actual thoroughness of her character seemed a
hindrance.
She had imagination, quick perception of the true and beautiful, and an
immense amount of steady common sense. At the same time she was almost
as keen and quite as slow of conviction as her father. Honestly dreading
to allow her poetic faculty due play, she kept her imagination rigidly
within the narrowest bounds. She was thus honestly handicapped in the
race; the honesty was, however, a little mistaken and one-sided, for
not the most vivid imagination could be considered as a set-off to the
great, the incalculable counter-influence of her whole education and
surroundings. How she got through that black struggle was sometimes
a mystery to her. At last, one evening, when the load had grown
intolerable, she shut herself into her own room, and, forgetful of all
her logical arguments, spoke to the unknown God. Her hopelessness,
her desperation, drove her as a last resource to cry to the possibly
Existent.
She stood by the open window of her little room, with her arms on the
window sill, looking out into the summer night, just as years before
she had stood when making up her mind to exile and sacrifice. Then the
wintery heavens had been blacker and the stars brighter, now both sky
and stars were dimmer because more light. Over the roofs of the Guilford
Square houses she could see Charles' Wain and the Pole-star, but only
faintly.
“God!” she cried, “I have no reason to think that Thou art except that
there is such fearful need of Thee. I can see no single proof in the
world that Thou art here. But if what Christ said was true, then Thou
must care that I should know Thee, for I must be Thy child. Oh, God, if
Thou art oh, Father, if Thou art help us to know Thee! Show us what is
true!”
She waited and waited, hoping for some sort of answer, some thought,
some conviction. But she found, as many have found before her, that “the
heavens were as brass.”
“Of course it was no use!” she exclaimed, impatiently, yet with a
blankness of disappointment which in itself proved the reality of her
expectations.
Just then she heard Tom's voice at the foot of the stairs calling; it
seemed like the seal to her impatient “of course.” There was no Unseen,
no Eternal of course not! But there was a busy every-day life to be
lived.
“All right,” she returned impatiently, to Tom's repeated calls; “don't
make such a noise or else you'll disturb father.”
“He is wide awake,” said Tom, “and talking to the professor. Just look
here, I couldn't help fetching you down did you ever see such a speech
in your life? A regular brick he must be!”
He held an evening paper in his hand. Erica remembered that the
debate was to be on a question affecting all free-thinkers. During the
discussion of this, some one had introduced a reference to the Hyde
Park meeting and to Mr. Raeburn, and had been careful not to lose the
opportunity of making a spiteful and misleading remark about the apostle
of atheism. Tom hurried her through this, however, to the speech that
followed it.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Who is Mr. Farrant? I never heard of him
before.”
“Member for Greyshot, elected last spring, don't you remember? One of
the by-elections. Licked the Tories all to fits. This is his maiden
speech, and that makes it all the more plucky of him to take up the
cudgels in our defense. Here! Let me read it to you.”
With the force of one who is fired with a new and hearty admiration, he
read the report. The speech was undoubtedly a fine one; it was a grand
protest against intolerance, a plea for justice. The speaker had
not hesitated for an instant to raise his voice in behalf of a very
unpopular cause, and his generous words, even when read through the
medium of an indifferent newspaper report, awoke a strange thrill in
Erica's heart. The utter disregard of self, the nobility of the whole
speech struck her immensely. The man who had dared to stand up for the
first time in Parliament and speak thus, must be one in a thousand.
Presently came the most daring and disinterested touch of all.
“The honorable member for Rilchester made what I can not but regard as
a most misleading and unnecessary remark with reference to the recent
occurrence in Hyde Park, and to Mr. Raeburn. I listened to it with pain,
for, if there can be degrees in the absolute evil of injustice and lack
of charity, it seems to me that the highest degree is reached in that
uncharitableness which tries to blacken the character of an opponent.
Since the subject has been introduced, the House will, I hope, bear
with me if for the sake of justice I for a moment allude to a personal
matter. Some years ago I myself was an atheist, and I can only say that,
speaking now from the directly opposite standpoint, I can still look
back and thank Mr. Raeburn most heartily for the good service he did me.
He was the first man who ever showed me, by words and example combined,
that life is only noble when lived for the race. The statement made by
the honorable member for Rilchester seems to me as incorrect as it was
uncalled for. Surely this assembly will best prove its high character
not by loud religious protestations, not by supporting a narrow,
Pharisaical measure, but by impartiality, by perfect justice, by the
manifestation in deed and word of that broad-hearted charity, that
universal brotherliness, which alone deserves the name of Christianity.”
The manifestation of the speaker's generosity and universal
brotherliness came like a light to Erica's darkness. It did not end her
struggle, but it did end her despair. A faint, indefinable hope rose in
her heart.
Mr. Farrant's maiden speech made a considerable stir; it met with some
praise and much blame. Erica learned from one of the papers that he
was Mr. Donovan Farrant, and at once felt convinced that he was the
“Donovan” whom both Charles Osmond and Brian had mentioned to her. She
seemed to know a good deal about him. Probably they had never told
her his surname because they knew that some day he would be a public
character. With instinctive delicacy she refrained from making any
reference to his speech, or any inquiry as to his identity with the
“Donovan” of whose inner life she had heard. Very soon after that, too,
she went down to the sea side with her father, and when they came back
to town the Osmonds had gone abroad, so it was not until the autumn that
they again met.
Her stay at Codrington wonderfully refreshed her; it was the first time
in her life that she had taken a thorough holiday, with change of scene
and restful idleness to complete it. The time was outwardly uneventful
enough, but her father grew strong in body and she grew strong in mind.
One absurd little incident she often laughed over afterward. It happened
that in the “On-looker” there was a quotation from some unnamed medieval
writer; she and her father had a discussion as to whom it could be,
Raeburn maintaining that it was Thomas a Kempis. Wishing to verify it,
Erica went to a bookseller's and asked for the “Imitation of Christ.” A
rather prim-looking dame presided behind the counter.
“We haven't that book, miss,” she said, “it's quite out of fashion now.”
“I agree with you,” said Erica, greatly amused. “It must be quite out
of fashion, for I scarcely know half a dozen people who practice it.”
However, a second shop appeared to think differently, for it had Thomas
a Kempis in every conceivable size, shape, and binding. Erica bought
a little sixpenny copy and went back to the beach, where she made her
father laugh over her story.
They verified the quotation, and by and by Erica began to read the
book. On the very first page she came to words which made her pause and
relapse into a deep reverie.
“But he who would fully and feelingly understand the words of Christ,
must study to make his whole life conformable to that of Christ.”
The thought linked itself in her mind with some words of John Stuart
Mill's which she had heard quoted till she was almost weary of them.
“Nor even now would it be easy, even for an unbeliever, to find a better
translation for the rule of virtue from the abstract into the concrete,
than to endeavor so to live that Christ would approve our life.”
While she was still musing, a sound of piteous crying attracted her
notice. Looking up she saw a tiny child wandering along the beach,
trailing a wooden spade after her, and sobbing as if her heart would
break. In a moment Erica was beside her coaxing and consoling, but at
last, finding it impossible to draw forth an intelligible word from the
sobs and tears, she took the little thing in her arms and carried her to
her father. Raeburn was a great child lover, and had a habit of carrying
goodies in his pocket, much to the satisfaction of all the children with
whom he was brought in contact. He produced a bit of butterscotch, which
restored the small maiden's serenity for a minute.
“She must have lost her way,” he said, glancing from the lovely little
tear-stained face to the thinly shod feet and ungloved hands of
the little one. The butterscotch had won her heart. Presently she
volunteered a remark.
“Dolly putted on her own hat. Dolly wanted to dig all alone. Dolly ran
away.”
“Where is your home?” asked Erica.
“Me don't know! Me don't know!” cried Dolly, bursting into tears again,
and hiding her face on Raeburn's coat. “Father! Father, Dolly wants
father.”
“We will come and look for him,” said Erica, “but you must stop crying,
and you know your father will be sure to come and look for you.”
At this the little one checked her tears, and looked up as if expecting
to see him close by.
“He isn't there,” she said, piteously.
“Come and let us look for him,” said Erica.
Dolly jumped up, thrust her little hand into Erica's, and toiled up the
steep beach. They had reached the road, and Erica paused for a moment,
wondering which direction they had better take, when a voice behind her
made her start.
“Why Dorothy little one we've been hunting for you everywhere!”
Dolly let go Erica's hand, and with a glad cry rushed into the arms of
a tall, dark, rather foreign-looking man, who caught her up and held her
closely.
He turned to Erica and thanked her very warmly for her help. Erica
thought his face the noblest she had ever seen.