We Two Part 14

"Oh, you do want something said?"

"Of course!" she replied, a little indignantly. "If not, how could I write."

"I quite agree with you," said Charles Osmond, "and you mean to take this up as your vocation?"

"If I am thought worthy," said Erica, coloring a little.

"I see you have high ideas of the art," said Charles Osmond; "and what is your reason for taking it up?"

"First of all, though it sounds rather illogical," said Erica, "I write because I MUST; there is something in me which will have its way. Then, too, it is part of our creed that every one should do all in his power to help on the cause, and of course, if only for my father's sake, it would be my greatest pleasure. Then, last of all, I write because I must earn my living."

"Good reasons all," said Charles Osmond. "But I don't feel sure that you won't regret having written when you look back several years hence."

"Oh! I dare say it will all seem crude and ridiculous then, but one must make a beginning," said Erica.

"And are you sure you have thought out these great questions so thoroughly and fairly that you are capable of teaching others about them?"

"Ah! Now I see what you mean!" exclaimed Erica; "you think I write in defense of atheism, or as an attacker of Christianity. I do nothing of the kind; father would not allow me to, he would not think me old enough. Oh! No, I am only to write the lighter articles which are needed every now and then. Today I had a delightful subject--'Heroes--what are they?'"

"Well, and what is your definition of a hero, I wonder; what are the qualities you think absolutely necessary to make one?"

"I think I have only two absolutely necessary ones," said Erica; "but my heroes must have these two, they must have brains and goodness."

"A tolerably sweeping definition," said Charles Osmond, laughing, "almost equal to a friend of mine who wanted a wife, and said there were only two things he would stipulate for--1,500 a year, and an angel. But it brings us to another definition, you see. We shall agree as to the brains, but how about goodness! What is your definition of that very wide, not to say vague, term?"

"I don't think I can define it," she said; "but one knows it when one sees it."

"Do you mean by it unselfishness, courage, truthfulness, or any other virtue?"

"Oh, it isn't any one virtue, or even a parcel of virtues, it will not go into words."

"It is then the nearest approach to some perfect ideal which is in your mind?"

"I suppose it is," she said, slowly.

"How did that ideal come into your mind?"

"I don't know; I suppose I got it by inheritance."

"From the original moneron?"

"You are laughing at me. I don't know how of course, but I have it, which, as far as I can see, is all that matters."

"I am not sure of that," said Charles Osmond. "The explanation of that ideal of goodness which more or less clearly exists in all our minds, seems to me to rest only in the conviction that all are children of one perfect Father. And I can give you our definition of goodness without hesitation, it is summed up for us in one word--'Christlikeness.'"

"I cannot see it; it seems to me all exaggerated," said Erica.

"I believe it is only because people are educated to believe and predisposed to think it all good and perfect that there are so many Christians. You may say it is we who are prejudiced. If we are, I'm sure you Christians have done enough to make us so! How could I, for instance, be anything but an atheist? Shall I tell you the very first thing I can remember?"

Her eyes were flas.h.i.+ng with indignant light.

"I was a little tiny child--only four years old--but there are some scenes one never forgets. I can see it all as plainly as possible, the room in a hotel, the very doll I was playing with. There was a great noise in the street, trampling, hissing, hooting. I ran to the window, an immense crowd was coming nearer and nearer, the street was black with the throng, they were all shouting and yelling--'Down with the infidel!'

'Kill the atheist!' Then I saw my father, he was there strong and fearless, one man against a thousand! I tell you I saw him, I can see him now, fighting his way on single-handed, not one creature brave enough to stand up for him. I saw him pushed, struck, spit upon, stoned.

At last a great brick struck him on the head. I think I must have been too sick or too angry to see any more after that. The next thing I remember is lying on the floor sobbing, and hearing father come into the room and say: 'Why, little son Eric, did you think they'd killed me?'

And he picked me up and let me sit on his knee, but there was blood on his face, and as he kissed me it dropped upon my forehead. I tell you, you Christians baptized me into atheism in my own father's blood. They were Christians who stoned him, champions of religion, and they were egged on by the clergy. Did I not hear it all then in my babyhood?

And it is true; it is all fact; ask anybody you like; I have not exaggerated."

"My dear child, I know you have not," said Charles Osmond, putting his strong hand upon hers. He could feel that she was all trembling with indignation. Was it to be wondered at? "I remember those riots perfectly well," he continued. "I think I felt and feel as indignant about them as yourself. A fearful mistake was made--Mr. Raeburn was shamefully treated. But, Erica"--it was the first time he had called her by her name--"you who pride yourself upon fairness, you who make justice your watchword must be careful not to let the wrong doing of a few Christians prejudice you against Christianity. You say that we are all predisposed to accept Christ; but candidly you must allow, I think, that you are trebly prejudiced against the very name of Christian. A Christian almost inevitably means to you only one of your father's mistaken persecutors."

"Yes, you are so much of an exception that I always forget you are one," said Erica, smiling a little. "Yet you are not like one of us--quite--you somehow stand alone, you are unlike any one I ever met; you and Thekla Sonnenthal and your son make to me a sort of new variety."

Charles Osmond laughed, and changed the subject. "You are busy with your examination work, I suppose?" And the question led to a long talk about books and lectures.

In truth, Erica had plunged into work of all kinds, not merely from love of it, but because she felt the absolute need of fresh interests, the great danger of dwelling unduly on her sorrow. Then, too, she had just grasped a new idea, an idea at once n.o.ble and inspiriting. Hitherto she had thought of a happy future for herself, of a home free from troubles and hara.s.sing cares. That was all over now, her golden dream had come to an end, "Hope dead lives nevermore." The life she had pictured to herself could never be, but her nature was too strong to be crushed by the sorrow; physically the shock had weakened her far more than any one knew, but, mentally, it had been a wonderful stimulant. She rose above herself, above her trouble, and life began to mean something broader and deeper than before.

Hitherto her great desire had been to be free from care, and to be happy; now the one important thing seemed not so much to be happy, as to know. To learn herself, and to help others to learn, became her chief object, and, with all the devotion of an earnest, high-souled nature, she set herself to act out these convictions. She read hard, attended lectures, and twice a week taught in the night school attached to the Inst.i.tute.

Charles Osmond could not help smiling as she described her days to him.

She still retained something of the childishness of an Undine, and as they talked she had taken up her old position on the hearth rug, and Friskarina had crept on to her knee. Here, undoubtedly, was one whom ignorant people would stigmatize as "blue" or as a "femme savante;" they would of course be quite wrong and inexpressively foolish to use such terms, and yet there was, perhaps, something a little incongruous in the two sides, as it were, of Erica's nature, the keen intellect and the child-like devotion, the great love of learning and the intense love of fun and humor. Charles Osmond had only once in all his long years of experience met with a character which interested him so much.

"After all," he said, when they had talked for some time, "I have never told you that I came on a begging errand, and I half fear that you will be too busy to undertake any more work."

Erica's face brightened at the word; was not work what she lived for?

"Oh! I am not too busy for anything!" she exclaimed. "I shall quote Marcus Aurelius to you if you say I haven't time! What sort of work?"

"Only, when you can, to come to us in the afternoon and read a little to my mother. Do you think you could? Her eyes are failing, and Brian and I are hard at work all day; I am afraid she is very dull."

"I should like to come very much," said Erica, really pleased at the suggestion. "What sort of books would Mrs. Osmond like?"

"Oh, anything! History, travels, science, or even novels, if you are not above reading them!"

"I? Of course not," said Erica, laughing. "Don't you think we enjoy them as much as other people? When there is time to read them, at least, which isn't often."

Charles Osmond laughed.

"Very well then, you have a wide field. From Carlyle to Miss Bird, and from Ernst Haeckel to Charles Reade. I should make them into a big sandwich if I were you."

He said goodbye, and left Erica still on the hearth rug, her face brighter than it had been for months.

"I like that man," she said to herself. "He's honest and thorough, and good all through. Yet how in the world does he make himself believe in his creed? Goodness, Christlikeness. He looked so grand, too, as he said that. It is wonderful what a personal sort of devotion those three have for their ideal."

She wandered away to recollections of Thekla Sonnenthal, and that carried her back to the time of their last parting, and the recollection of her sorrow. All at once the loneliness of the present was borne in upon her overwhelmingly; she looked around the little room, the Ilkley couch was pushed away into a corner, there was a pile of newspapers upon it. A great sob escaped her. For a minute she pressed her hands tightly together over her eyes, then she hurriedly opened a book on "Electricity," and began to read as if for her life.

She was roused in about an hour's time by a laughing exclamation. She started, and looking up, saw her cousin Tom.

"Talk about absorption, and brown studies!" he cried, "why, you eat everything I ever saw. I've been looking at you for at least three minutes."

Tom was now about nineteen; he had inherited the auburn coloring of the Raeburns, but otherwise he was said to be much more like the Craigies.