He was the first man who ever showed me, by words and example combined, that life is only n.o.ble 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 a.s.sembly 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 ident.i.ty 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 b.u.t.terscotch, 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 b.u.t.terscotch 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 n.o.blest she had ever seen.
CHAPTER XIX. At The Museum
Methought I heard one calling: "Child,"
And I replied: "My Lord!""
George Herbert
A favorite pastime with country children is to watch the gradual growth of the acorn into the oak tree. They will suspend the acorn in a gla.s.s of water and watch the slow progress during long months. First one tiny white thread is put forth, then another, until at length the gla.s.s is almost filled with a tangle of white fibers, a st.u.r.dy little stem raises itself up, and the baby tree, if it is to live, must be at once transplanted into good soil. The process may be botanically interesting, but there is something a little sickly about it, too there is a feeling that, after all, the acorn would have done better in its natural ground hidden away in darkness.
And, if we have this feeling with regard to vegetable growth, how much more with regard to spiritual growth! To attempt to set up the gradually awakening spirit in an apparatus where it might be the observed of all observers would be at once repulsive and presumptuous. Happily, it is impossible. We may trace influences and suggestions, just as we may note the rain or drought, the heat or cold that affect vegetable growth, but the actual birth is ever hidden.
To attempt even to shadow forth Erica"s growth during the next year would be worse than presumptuous. As to her outward life it was not greatly changed, only intensified. October always began their busiest six months. There was the night school at which she was able to work again indefatigably. There were lectures to be attended. Above all there was an ever-increasing amount of work to be done for her father. In all the positive and constructive side of secularism, in all the efforts made by it to better humanity, she took an enthusiastic share. Naturally she did not see so much of Charles Osmond now that she was strong again.
In the press of business, in the hard, every-day life there was little time for discussion. They met frequently, but never for one of their long tete-a-tetes. Perhaps Erica purposely avoided them. She was strangely different now from the little impetuous girl who had come to his study years ago, trembling with anger at the lady superintendent"s insult. Insults had since then, alas, become so familiar to her, that she had acquired a sort of patient dignity of endurance, infinitely sad to watch in such a young girl.
One morning in early June, just a year after the memorable Hyde Park meeting, Charles Osmond happened to be returning from the death bed of one of his parishioners when, at the corner of Guilford Square, he met Erica. It might have been in part the contrast with the sad and painful scene he had just quitted, but he thought she had never before looked so beautiful. Her face seemed to have taken to itself the freshness and the glow of the summer morning.
"You are early abroad," he said, feeling older and grayer and more tired than ever as he paused to speak to her.
"I am off to the museum to read," she said, "I like to get there by nine, then you don"t have to wait such an age for your books; I can"t bear waiting."
"What are you at work upon now?"
"Oh, today for the last time I am going to hunt up particulars about Livingstone. Hazeldine was very anxious that a series of papers on his life should be written for our people. What a grand fellow he was!"
"I heard a characteristic anecdote of him the other day," said Charles Osmond. "He was walking beside one of the African lakes which he had discovered, when suddenly there dawned on him a new meaning to long familiar words: "The blood of Christ," he exclaimed. "That must be Charity! The blood of Christ that must be Charity!" A beautiful thought, too seldom practically taught."
Erica looked grave.
"Characteristic, certainly, of his broad-heartedness, but I don"t think that anecdote will do for the readers of the "Idol-Breaker."" Then, looking up at Charles Osmond, she added in a rather lower tone: "Do you know, I had no idea when I began what a difficult task I had got. I thought in such an active life as that there would be little difficulty in keeping the religious part away from the secular, but it is wonderful how Livingstone contrives to mix them up."
"You see, if Christianity be true, it must, as you say, "mix up" with everything. There should be no rigid distinction between secular and religious," said Charles Osmond.
"If it is true," said Erica, suddenly, and with seeming irrelevance, "then sooner or later we must learn it to be so. Truth MUST win in the end. But it is worse to wait for perfect certainty than for books at the museum," she added, laughing. "It is five minutes to nine I shall be late."
Charles Osmond walked home thoughtfully; the meeting had somehow cheered him.
"Absolute conviction that truth must out that truth must make itself perceptible. I"ve not often come across a more beautiful faith than that. Yes, little Undine, right you are. "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." Here or there, here or there
"All things come round to him who will but wait."
There"s one for yourself, Charles Osmond. None of your hurrying and meddling now, old man; you"ve just got to leave it to your betters."
Soliloquizing after this fashion he reached home, and was not sorry to find his breakfast awaiting him, for he had been up the greater part of the night.
The great domed library of the British Museum had become very home-like to Erica, it was her ideal of comfort; she went there whenever she wanted quiet, for in the small and crowded lodgings she could never be secure from interruptions, and interruptions resulted in bad work. There was something, too, in the atmosphere of the museum which seemed to help her. She liked the perfect stillness, she liked the presence of all the books. Above all, too, she liked the consciousness of possession. There was no narrow exclusiveness about this place, no one could look askance at her here. The place belonged to the people, and therefore belonged to her; she heretic and atheist as she was had as much share in the ownership as the highest in the land. She had her own peculiar nook over by the encyclopedias, and, being always an early comer, seldom failed to secure her own particular chair and desk.
On this morning she took her place, as she had done hundreds of times before, and was soon hard at work. She was finishing her last paper on Livingstone when a book she had ordered was deposited on her desk by one of the noiseless attendants. She wanted it to verify one or two dates, and she half thought she would try to hunt up Charles Osmond"s anecdote.
In order to write her series of papers, she had been obliged to study the character of the great explorer pretty thoroughly. She had always been able to see the n.o.bility even of those differing most widely from herself in point of creed, and the great beauty of Livingstone"s character had impressed her very much. Today she happened to open on an entry in his journal which seemed particularly characteristic of the man. He was in great danger from the hostile tribes at the union of the Zambesi and Loangwa, and there was something about his spontaneous utterance which appealed very strongly to Erica.
"Felt much turmoil of spirit in view of having all my plans for the welfare of this great region and teeming population knocked on the head by savages tomorrow. But I read that Jesus came and said: "All power is given unto me in Heaven and in earth. Go ye therefore and teach all nations, and lo! I am with you always, even unto the end of the world."