For all men live and judge amiss
Whose talents jump not just with his. Hudibras
Comfortable moles, whom what they do
Teaches the limit of the just and true.
(And for such doing they require not eyes). Matthew Arnold
One bright afternoon about a week after this, Erica found herself
actually in the train, and on her way to Greyshot. At first she had
disliked the idea, but her father had evidently wished her to accept
the invitation, and a hope of uniting again the two families would have
stimulated her to a much more formidable undertaking than a visit of a
few weeks to perfect strangers. She knew nothing of the proposal made to
her father; her own letter had been most kind, and after all, though she
did not like the actual leaving home, she could not but look forward to
a rest and change after the long summer months in town. Moreover, Aunt
Jean had just returned, after a brief holiday, and the home atmosphere
for the last two or three days had been very trying; she felt as if
a change would make her better able to bear the small daily frets and
annoyances, and not unnaturally looked forward to the delicious rest of
unity. A Christian home ought to be delightful; she had never stayed in
one, and had a high ideal.
It was about six o'clock by the time she reached her journey's end, and,
waiting for her on the platform, she had no difficulty in recognizing
her aunt, a taller and fairer edition of Mrs. Craigie, who received her
with a kind, nervous diffident greeting, and seemed very anxious indeed
about her luggage, which was speedily brought to light by the
footman, and safely conveyed to the carriage. Erica, used to complete
independence, felt as if she were being transformed into a sort of
grown-up baby, as she was relieved of her bag and umbrella and guided
down the steps, and assisted into the open landau, and carefully tucked
in with a carriage rug.
“I hope you are not overtired with the journey?” inquired her aunt with
an air of the kindest and most anxious solicitude.
Accustomed to a really hard life in London, Erica almost laughed at the
idea of being overtired by such a short journey.
“Oh, I have enjoyed it, thank you,” she replied. “What a lovely line it
is!”
“Is it?” said her aunt, a little surprised. “I didn't know it was
considered specially pretty, and I myself am never able to look much at
the scenery in traveling; it always gives me a headache.”
“What a pity!” said Erica. “It is such a treat, I think. In fact, it
is the only way in which I have seen what people call scenery. I never
stayed in the country in my life.”
“My dear, is it possible,” exclaimed Mrs. Fane-Smith, in a horrified
voice. “Yet you do not look pale. Do you mean that you have spent your
whole life in town?”
“I was at Paris for two years,” said Erica; “and twice I have spent a
little time at the sea-side; and, years and years ago, father was once
taken ill at Southampton, and we went to him there that was almost like
the country I mean, one could get country walks. It was delightful;
there was a splendid avenue, you know, and oh, such a common! It was
in the spring time. I shall never forget the yellow gorse and the
hawthorns, and such beautiful velvety grass.”
Her enthusiasm pleased her aunt; moreover, it was a great relief to find
the unknown niece well-bred and companionable, and not overburdened
with shyness. Already Mrs. Fane-Smith loved her, and felt that the
invitation, which she had given really from a strong sense of duty, was
likely to give her pleasure instead of discomfort. All the way home,
while Erica admired the Greyshot streets, and asked questions about the
various buildings, Mrs. Fane-Smith was rejoicing that so fair a “brand,”
as she mentally expressed it, had been “plucked from the burning,”
and resolving that she would adopt her as a second daughter, and,
if possible, induce her to take their name and drop the notorious
“Raeburn.” The relief was great, for on the way to the station, Mrs.
Fane-Smith had been revolving the unpleasant thought in her mind that
“really there was no knowing, Erica might be 'anything' since her mother
was a 'nobody.'”
At last they drew up before a large house in the most fashionable of
the Greyshot squares, the windows and balconies of which were gay with
flowers.
“We shall find Rose at home, I expect,” said Mrs. Fane-Smith, leading
Erica across a marble-paved hall, and even as she spoke a merry voice
came from the staircase, and down ran a fair-haired girl, with a
charmingly eager and naive manner.
Erica had guessed what she must be from the quaint and kindly meant
letter which she had sent her years before, and though five years in
society had somewhat artificialized Rose, she still retained much of
her childishness and impetuous honesty. She slipped her arm into her
cousin's, and took her off to her room at once.
“I am so glad you have come!” she exclaimed. “I have been longing to
see you for years and years. Mamma has been talking so much about your
cleverness and my stupidity that just at the last I felt quite in a
fright lest you should be too dreadfully 'blue.' I looked out of the
drawing room window for you, and if you had been very forbidding I
should have received you in state in the drawing room, but you were so
charmingly pretty that I was obliged to rush down headlong to meet you.”
Erica laughed and blushed, not being used to such broad compliments. In
the meantime, they had traversed several flights of stairs, and Rose,
opening a door, showed her into a spacious bedroom, most luxuriously
fitted up.
“This great big room for me!” exclaimed Erica.
“It isn't at all ghostly,” said Rose, reassuringly. “Will you be afraid
if you have a night light?”
Erica laughed at the idea of being afraid; she was merely amused to
think of herself established in such a palatial bedroom, such a contrast
to the little book-lined room at home. There was a dainty little book
case here, however, with some beautifully bound books, and in another
minute she was delightedly scanning their titles, and, with a joyous
exclamation, had caught up Browning's “Christmas-eve and Easter-day,”
when a sound of dismay from her cousin made her laughingly put it down
again.
“Oh, dear me!” said Rose, in a despairing voice, “I am afraid, after
all, you are dreadfully blue. Fancy snatching up a Browning like that!”
Erica began to unlock her trunk.
“Do you want your things out?” said Rose. “I'll ring for Gemma; she'll
unpack for you.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Erica, “I would much rather do it myself.”
“But it is nearly dinner time, we are dining early this evening, and you
will want Gemma to help you to dress.”
“Oh, no,” said Erica, laughing, “I never had a maid in my life.”
“How funny,” said Rose, “I shouldn't know what to do without one. Gemma
does everything for me, at least everything that Elspeth will let her.”
“Is she Italian?” asked Erica.
“Oh, no, her name is really Jemima; but that was quite too dreadfully
ugly, you know, and she is such a pretty girl.”
She chattered on while Erica unpacked and put on her white serge, then
they went down to the drawing room where Erica was introduced to her
host, a small elderly man, who looked as if the Indian sun had partially
frizzled him. He received her kindly, but with a sort of ceremonious
stiffness which made her feel less perfectly at her east than before,
and after the usual remarks about the length of the journey, and the
beauty of the weather, he relapsed into silence, surveying every one
from his arm chair as though he were passing mental judgments on every
foolish or trifling remark uttered. In reality, he was taking in every
particular about Erica. He looked at her broad forehead, overshadowed by
the thick smooth waves of short auburn hair, observed her golden-brown
eyes which were just now as clear as amber; noted the creamy whiteness
and delicate coloring of her complexion, which indeed defied criticism
even the criticism of such a critical man as Mr. Fane-Smith. The nose
was perhaps a trifle too long, the chin too prominent, for ideal beauty,
but greater regularity of feature could but have rendered less quaint,
less powerful, and less attractive the strangely winsome face. It was
only the mouth which he did not feel satisfied with it added character
to the face, but he somehow felt that it betokened a nature not easily
led, not so gentle and pliable as he could have wished. It shut so very
firmly and the under lip was a little thinner and straighter than the
other and receded a little from it, giving the impression that Erica had
borne much suffering, and had exercised great self-restraint.
Mrs. Fane-Smith saw in her a sort of miniature and feminine edition of
the Luke Raeburn whom she remembered eight-and-twenty years before in
their Scottish home. When Rose had gone into the back drawing room to
fetch her crewels, she drew Erica toward her, and kissing her again,
said in a low, almost frightened voice:
“You are very like what your father was.”
But just at that moment Mr. Fane-Smith asked some sudden question, and
his wife, starting and coloring, as though she had been detected in
wrong-doing, hurriedly and nervously devoted herself to what seemed
to Erica a distractingly round-about answer. By the time it was fairly
ended, dinner was announced, and the strangeness of the atmosphere of
this new home struck more and more upon Erica and chilled her a little.
The massive grandeur of the old oak furniture, the huge oil paintings,
which she wanted really to study, the great silver candelabra, even the
two footmen and the solemn old butler seemed to oppress her. The luxury
was almost burdensome. It was a treat indeed to see and use beautiful
glass and china, and pleasant to have beautiful fruit and flowers to
look at, but Erica was a bohemian and hated stiff ceremony Her heart
failed her when she thought of sitting down night after night to such an
interminable meal. Worse still, she had taken a dislike to her host. Her
likes and dislikes were always characterized by Highland intensity, and
something in her aunt's husband seemed to rub her the wrong way. Mr.
Fane-Smith was a retired Indian judge, a man much respected in the
religious world, and in his way a really good man; but undoubtedly his
sympathies were narrow and his creed hard. Closely intwined with much
true and active Christianity, he had allowed to spring up a choking
overgrowth of hard criticism, of intolerance, of domineering dogmatism.
He was one of those men who go about the world, trying, not to find
points of union with all men, but ferreting out the most trifling points
of divergence. He did this with the best intentions, no doubt, but as
Erica's whole view of life, and of Christian life in particular, was the
direct opposite of his, their natures inevitably jarred.
She knew that it was foolish to expect every Christian household to be
equal to the Osmonds', but nevertheless a bitter sense of disappointment
stole over her that evening. Where was the sense of restful unity which
she had looked forward to? The new atmosphere felt strange, the new
order of life this luxurious easy life was hard to comprehend.
To add to her dislike Mr. Fane-Smith was something of an epicure and had
a most fastidious palate. Now, Erica's father thought scarcely anything
about what he ate it was indeed upon record that he had once in a fit
of absence dined upon a plate of scraps intended for Friskarina,
while engaged in some scientific discussion with the professor. Mr.
Fane-Smith, on the other hand, though convinced that the motto of all
atheists was “Let us eat and drink for tomorrow we die,” criticized his
food almost as severely as he criticized human beings. The mulligatawny
was not to his taste. The curry was too not. He was sure the jelly
was made with that detestable stuff gelatine; he wished his wife would
forbid the cook to use it if she had seen old horses being led into a
gelatine manufactory as he had seen, she would be more particular.
Interspersed between these compliments was conversation which irritated
Erica even more. It was chiefly about the sayings and doings of people
whom she did not know, and the doings of some clergyman in a neighboring
town seemed to receive severe censure, for Mr. Fane-Smith stigmatized
him as “A most dangerous man, a Pelagian in disguise.” However, he
seemed to be fond of labeling people with the names of old heresies,
for, presently, when Rose said something about Mr. Farrant, her father
replied contemptuously:
Every one knows, my dear, that Mr. Farrant holds unorthodox views. Why,
a few years ago he was an atheist, and now he's a mere Photinian.
As no one but Mr. Fane-Smith had the faintest idea what a “Photinian”
meant, the accusation could neither be understood nor refuted. Mrs.
Fane-Smith looked very uncomfortable, fearing that her niece might feel
hurt at the tone in which “He was an atheist,” had been spoken; and
indeed Erica's color did rise.
“Is that Mr. Farrant the member?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied her aunt, apprehensively. “Do you know him?”
“Not personally, but I shall always honor him for the splendid speech he
made last year on religious toleration,” said Erica.
Mr. Fane-Smith raised his eyebrows for the same speech had made him most
indignant. However, he began to realize that, before Erica could become
a patient recipient of his opinions, like his wife and daughter, he must
root out the false ideas which evidently still clung to her.
“Mr. Farrant is no doubt a reformed character now,” he admitted. “But he
is far from orthodox; far from orthodox! At one time I am told that
he was one of the wildest young fellows in the neighborhood, no decent
person would speak to him, and though no doubt he means well, yet I
could never have confidence in such a man.”
“I have heard a good deal about him from my friends the Osmonds,” said
Erica, stimulated as usual to side with the abused. “Mr. Osmond thinks
him the finest character he ever knew.”
“Is that the clergyman you told me of?” interposed Mrs. Fane-Smith,
anxious to turn the conversation.
But her husband threw in a question, too.
“What, Charles Osmond, do you mean the author of 'Essays on Modern
Christianity?”
“Yes,” replied Erica.
“I don't know that he is much more orthodox than Mr. Farrant,” said Mr.
Fane-Smith; “I consider that he has Noetian tendencies.”
Erica's color rose and her eyes flashed.
“I do not know whether he is what is called orthodox or not,” she said;
“but I do know that he is the most Christ-like man I ever met.”
Mr. Fane-Smith looked uncomfortable. He would name any number of
heresies and heretics, but, except at grace, it was against his sense
of etiquette to speak the name of Christ at table.. Even Rose looked
surprised, and Mrs. Fane-Smith colored, and at once made the move to go.
On the plea of fetching some work, Erica escaped to her own room, and
there tried to cool her cheeks and her temper; but the idea of such a
man as Mr. Fane-Smith sitting in judgment on such men as Mr. Farrant and
Charles Osmond had thoroughly roused her, and she went down still in a
dangerous state a touch would make her anger blaze up.
“Are you fond of knitting?” asked her aunt, making room for her on the
sofa, and much relieved to find that her niece was not of the unfeminine
“blue” order.
“I don't really like any work,” said Erica, “but, of course, a certain
amount must be done, and I like to knit my father's socks.”
Mr. Fane-Smith, who had just joined them, took note of this answer, and
it seemed to surprise and displease him, though he made no remark.
“Did he think that atheists didn't wear socks? Or that their daughters
couldn't knit?” thought Erica to herself, with a little resentful inward
laugh.
The fact was that Mr. Fane-Smith saw more and more plainly that the
niece whom his wife was so anxious to adopt was by no means his ideal
of a convert. Of course he was really and honestly thankful that she had
adopted Christianity, but it chafed him sorely that she had not exactly
adopted his own views. He was a man absolutely convinced that there is
but one form of truth, and an exceedingly narrow form he made it, for
all mankind. He Mr. Fane-Smith had exactly grasped the whole truth,
and whoever swerved to the right or to the left, if only by a hair's
breadth, was, he considered, in a dangerous and lamentable condition.
Ah! He thought to himself, if only he had had from the beginning the
opportunity of influencing Erica, instead of that dangerously broad
Charles Osmond. It did not strike him that he HAD had the opportunity
ever since his return to England, but had entirely declined to admit an
atheist to his house. Other men had labored, and he had entered into the
fruit of their labors, and not finding it quite to his taste, fancied
that he could have managed much better.
There are few sadder things in the world than to see really good and
well-intentioned men fighting for what they consider the religious cause
with the devil's weapons. Mr. Fane-Smith would have been dismayed if
any one could have shown him that all his life he had been struggling
to suppress unbelief by what was infinitely worse than sincere unbelief
denunciation often untrue, always unjust, invariably uncharitable. He
would have been almost broken-hearted could he ever have known that
his hard intolerance, his narrowness, his domineering injustice had not
deterred one soul from adopting the views he abhorred, but had, on
the contrary, done a great deal to drive into atheism those who were
wavering. And this evening, even while lamenting that he had not been
able to train up his niece exactly in the opinions he himself held, he
was all the time trying her faith more severely than a whole regiment of
atheists could have tried it.
The time passed heavily enough. When two people in the room are unhappy
and uncomfortable, a sense of unrest generally falls upon the other
occupants. Rose yawned, talked fitfully about the gayeties of the coming
week, worked half a leaf on an antimacassar, and sang three or four
silly little coquettish songs which somehow jarred on every one.
Mrs. Fane-Smith, feeling anxious and harassed, afraid alike of vexing
her husband and offending her niece, talked kindly and laboriously.
Erica turned the heel of her sock and responded as well as she could,
her sensitiveness recoiling almost as much from the labored and
therefore oppressive kindness, as from the irritating and narrow censure
which Mr. Fane-Smith dealt out to the world.
Family prayers followed. It was the first time she had ever been
present at such a household gathering, and the idea seemed to her a very
beautiful one. But the function proved so formal and lifeless that it
chilled her more than anything. Yet her relations were so very kind to
her personally that she blamed herself for feeling disappointed, and
struggled hard to pierce through the outer shell, which she knew only
concealed their real goodness. She knew, too, that she had herself to
blame in part; her oversensitiveness, her quick temper, her want of
deep insight had all had their share in making that evening such a blank
failure.
Mrs. Fane-Smith went with her into her bedroom to see that she had all
she wanted. Though the September evening was mild, a fire blazed in the
grate, much to Erica's astonishment. Not on the most freezing of winter
nights had she ever enjoyed such a luxury. Her aunt explained that the
room looked north, and, besides, she thought a fire was cheerful and
home-like.
“You are very kind,” said Erica, warmly; “but you know I mustn't let you
spoil me, or I shall not be fit to go back to the home life, and I want
to go home much more fit for it.”
Something in the spontaneous warmth and confidence of this speech
cheered Mrs. Fane-Smith. She wished above all things to win her niece's
love and confidence, and she wisely reserved her proposal as to the
matter of a home for another time. It was necessary, however, that
she should give Erica a hint as to the topics likely to irritate Mr.
Fane-Smith.
“I think, dear,” she began, “it would be as well if, when my husband and
Rose are present, you are careful not to speak of your father. You won't
mind my saying this; but I know it displeases my husband, and I think
you will understand that there are objections, society, you know, and
public opinion; we must consult it a little.”
Mrs. Fane-Smith grew nervous and incoherent, threw her arms round her
niece's neck, kissed her most affectionately, and wished her good night.
When she left the room, Erica's repressed indignation blazed up. We fear
it must be recorded that she fairly stamped with anger.
Wounded in her tenderest part, indignant at the insult to her father,
ashamed of her own want of control, miserably perplexed by her new
surroundings, it was long before she could compose herself. She paced
up and down the richly furnished room, struggling hard to conquer her
anger. At length, by a happy impulse, she caught up her prayer book,
checked her longing to walk rapidly to and fro, sat down on the Indian
rug before the fire, and read the evening psalm. It happened to be the
thirty-seventh. Nothing could have calmed her so effectually as its
tender exhortation, its wonderful sympathy with human nature. “Fret not
thyself, else shalt thou be moved to do evil. Put thou thy trust in the
Lord, and be doing good. Put thy trust in Him, and He will bring it to
pass.”
She closed the book, and sat musing, her anger quite passed away.
All at once she recollected old Elspeth, the nurse. Her father had
charged her with many messages to the faithful old servant, and so had
her aunt. She felt ashamed to think that she had been several hours in
the house without delivering them. Rose's room was close to hers. She
went out, and knocked softly at the door.
“I just came to see whether Elspeth was here,” she said, rather dismayed
to find the candles out, and the room only lighted up by the red glow
from the fire.
Rose who had had no temper to conquer, was already in bed. “Still in your
dress!” she exclaimed. “I believe you've been at that Browning again.
But did no one come to help you? I sent Gemma.”
“I didn't want help, thank you,” said Erica. “I only wanted to see
Elspeth because I have a message for her.”
“How conscientious you are!” said Rose, laughing. “I always make a point
of forgetting messages when I go from home. Well, you will find Elspeth
in the little room on the next half landing, the work room. She was here
not two minutes ago. Good night! Breakfast is at nine, you know; and
they'll bring you a cup of tea when they call you.”
A little shyly, Erica made her way to the work room where Elspeth was
tacking frilling into one of Rose's dresses. The old woman started up
with a quick exclamation when she appeared in the doorway.
“May I come in?” said Erica, with all the charm of manner which she had
inherited from her father. “'Tis very late, but I didn't like to go to
bed without seeing you.”
“I hope missie has everything she wants?” asked Elspeth, anxiously.
“Yes, indeed!” said Erica. “All I want is to see you, and to give you my
father's love, to ask how you are. He and Aunt Jean have often told me
about you. You have not forgotten them?”
“Forgotten! No, indeed!” cried old Elspeth. “When I saw you at 'Takin'
the book,' and saw you so like your poor father, I could have cried. You
are Mr. Luke's bairn, and no mistake, my bonny lassie! Ah, I mind the
day well when he came to my room the auld nursery in the parsonage,
where I had reared him and told me that master had ordered him out of
the house. I pray God I may never again see a face look as his looked
then!”
Tears started to her eyes at the recollection. Erica threw her arms
round her neck, and kissed her.
“You love him still. I see you love him!” she exclaimed, all her feeling
of isolation melting in the assurance of the old servant's sympathy.
So, after all, Erica had a maid in attendance, for Elspeth insisted on
seeing her to bed, and, since they talked all the time about the old
Scotch days, she was well content to renounce her independence for a
little while.
But, whether because of the flickering fire light, or because of the
strangeness of the great brass bedstead, with its silken hangings and
many-colored Indian rezai, Erica slept very little that night. Perhaps
the long talk about her father's early days had taken too great a hold
of her. At any rate, she tossed about very restlessly in her luxurious
quarters, and when, for brief intervals, she slept, it was only to dream
of her father taking leave of his Scottish home, and always he bore that
flint-like face, that look of strong endurance and repressed passion
which Elspeth had described, and which, in times of trouble and
injustice, Erica had learned to know so well.