We Two Part 32

CHAPTER XXIII. Erica to the Rescue

Isabel: I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.

Duke: Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.

Measure for Measure

It was the first of September. Watering places were crowded with visitors, destruction had begun among the partridges, and a certain portion of the hard-working community were taking their annual holiday.

Raeburn, whose holidays were few and far between, had been toiling away all through the summer months in town. This evening, as he sat in his stifling little study, he had fallen into a blank fit of depression. He could neither work nor read. Strong as his nature was, it was not always proof against this grim demon, which avenged itself on him for overtasking his brain, shortening his hours of sleep, and in other ways sacrificing himself to his work. Tonight, however, there was reason for his depression; for while he sat fighting his demon at home, Erica had gone to Charles Osmond's church it was the evening of her baptism.

Of course it was the necessary sequence of the confession she had made a few months before, and Raeburn had long known that it was inevitable; but none the less did he this evening suffer more acutely than he had yet suffered, realizing more fully his child's defection The private confession had startled, shocked, grieved him inexpressibly; but the public profession, with its sense of irrevocableness, filled his heart with a grief for which he could find no single ray of comfort.

Erica's brave endurance of all the trials and discomforts involved in her change of faith had impressed him not a little, and even when most hurt and annoyed by her new views, he had always tried to s.h.i.+eld her; but it had been a hard summer, and the loss of the home unity had tried him sorely.

Moreover, the comparative quiet of the last year was now ended. A new foe had arisen in the person of a certain retired cheesemonger, who had sworn war to the knife against the apostle of atheism. Unfortunately, Mr. Pogson's war was not undertaken in a Christ-like spirit; his zeal was fast changing into personal animosity, and he had avowed the he would crush Raeburn, though it should cost him the whole of his fortune.

This very day he had brought into action the mischievous and unfair blasphemy laws, and to everybody's amazement, had commenced a prosecution against Raeburn for a so-called "blasphemous libel" in one of his recent pamphlets. An attack on the liberty of the press was to Raeburn what the sound of the trumpet is to the war horse. Yet, now that the first excitement was over, he had somehow sunk into a fit of black depression. How was it? Was his strength failing? Was he growing old unfit for his work?

He was roused at length by a knock at his door. The servant entered with a number of letters. He turned them over mechanically until some handwriting which reminded him of his mother's made him pause. The letter bore the Greyshot postmark; it must be from his sister Isabel. He opened it with some eagerness; there had been no communication between them since the time of his wife's death, and though he had hoped that the correspondence once begun might have been continued, nothing more had come of it. The letter proved short, and not altogether palatable.

It began with rejoicings over Erica's change of views, the report of which had reached Mrs. Fane-Smith. It went on to regret that he did not share in the change. Raeburn's lip curled as he read. Then came a request that Erica might be allowed to visit her relations, and the letter ended with a kindly-meant but mistaken offer.

"My husband and I both feel that there are many objections to Erica's remaining in her present home. We should be much pleased if she would live with us at any rate, until she has met with some situation which would provide her with a suitable and permanent residence."

The offer was not intended to be insulting, but undoubtedly, to such a father as Raeburn, it was a gross insult. His eyes flashed fire, and involuntarily he crushed the letter in his hand; then, a little ashamed of the pa.s.sionate act, he forced himself deliberately to smooth it out again, and, folding it accurately, put it in his pocket. A note for Erica remained in the envelope; he placed it on the mantel piece, then fell back in his chair again and thought.

After all, might not the visit to Greyshot be a very good thing for her?

Of course she would never dream of living with her aunt, would indeed be as angry at the proposal as he had been. But might not a visit of two or three weeks open her eyes to her new position, and prove to her that among Christians such people as the Osmonds were only in the minority!

He knew enough of society to be able to estimate the position it would accord to Erica. He knew that her sensitiveness would be wounded again and again, that, that her honesty would be shocked, her belief in the so-called Christian world shaken. Might not all this be salutary? And yet he did not like the thought; he could not bear sending her out alone to fight her own battles, could not endure the consciousness that she was bearing his reproach. Oh, why had this miserable, desolating change ever occurred? At this very moment she was making public profession of a faith which could only place her in the most trying of positions; at this very moment she was pledging herself to a life of bondage and trouble; while he, standing aside, could see all the dangers and difficulties of her future, and could do absolutely nothing!

It reminded him of one of the most horrible moments of his life. Walking up Regent Street one afternoon, years ago, Erica, walking with Mrs.

Craigie on the opposite side, had caught sight of him, and regardless of the fourfold chain of carriages, had rushed across to him with the fearless daring of a six-year-old child, to whom the danger of horses'

hoofs was a mere nothing when compared with the desire to get a walk with her father. His heart beat quicker even now as he thought of the paralyzing dread of long ago, nor had Miss Erica ever been scolded for her loving rashness; in his relief he had been unable to do anything but clasp the little hand in his as though nothing should ever part them again.

But her loving disregard of all danger and difficulty was no longer inspired by love of him, but by love of what Raeburn considered a myth and a delusion.

In that lay the real sting. He courage, her suffering, all seemed to him wasted, altogether on the wrong side. Once more black gloom fell upon him. The room grew dusk then dark, but still he remained motionless.

Again he was interrupted by a knock at his door.

"Signor Civita wished to speak to him."

He braced himself up for an interview with some stranger, and in walked a foreigner wrapped in a long cloak, and looking exceedingly like a stage brigand.

He bowed, the brigand bowed too, and said something rapid and unintelligible in Italian. Then glanced at the door to see that it was safely closed, he made a bound to the open window and shut it noiselessly. Raeburn quietly reached down a loaded revolver which hung about the mantel piece, and c.o.c.ked it, whereupon the brigand fell into a paroxysm of laughter, and exclaimed in German:

"Why, my good friend! Do you not know me?"

"Haeberlein!" exclaimed Raeburn, in utter amazement, submitting to a German embrace.

"Eric himself and no other!" returned the brigand. "Draw your curtains and lock your door and you shall see me in the flesh. I am half stifled in this lordly wig."

"Wait," said Raeburn. "Be cautious."

He left him for a minute, and Haeberlein heard him giving orders that no one else was to be admitted that evening. Then he came back, quietly bolted the door, closed the shutters, and lighted the gas. In the meantime his friend threw off his cloak, removed the wig of long, dark hair, and the drooping mustache and s.h.a.ggy eyebrows, revealing his natural face and form. Raeburn grasped his hand once more.

"Now I feel that I've got you, Eric!" he exclaimed. "What lucky chance has brought you so unexpectedly?"

"No lucky one!" said Haeberlein, with an expressive motion of the shoulders. "But of that anon; let me look at you, old fellow why you're as white as a miller! Call yourself six-and-forty! You might pa.s.s for my grandfather!"

Raeburn, who had a large reserve fund of humor, caught up his friend's black wig from the table and put it on above his own thick, white hair, showing plainly enough that in face and spirits he was as young as ever. It was seven years since they had met, and they fell to talk of reminiscences, and in the happiness of their meeting put off the more serious matters which must be discussed before long. It was a good half hour before Haeberlein alluded to the occasion of his present visit.

"Bring actually in London, I couldn't resist looking in upon you," he said, a cloud of care coming over his face. "I only hope it won't get you into a sc.r.a.pe. I came over to try to avert this deplorable business about poor Kellner too late, I fear. And the worst of it is, I must have blundered somehow for my coming leaked out, and they are on the watch for me. If I get safe across to France tonight, I shall be lucky."

"Incautious as ever," sighed Raeburn. "And that Kellner richly deserves his fate. Why should you meddle?"

"I was bound to," said Haeberlein. "He did me many a good turn during my exile, and though he has made a grave mistake, yet--"

"Yet you must run your chivalrous head into a halter for his sake!"

exclaimed Raeburn. "You were ever Quixote. I shall live to see you hanged yet."

Haeberlein laughed.

"No, I don't think you will," he said, cheerfully. "I've had some bad falls, but I've always fallen on my feet. With a good cause, a man has little to fear."

"If this WERE a good cause," said Raeburn, with significant emphasis.

"It was the least I could do," said Haeberlein, with the chivalrous disregard of self which was his chief characteristic. "I only fear that my coming here may involve you in it which Heaven forfend! I should never forgive myself if I injured your reputation."

Raeburn smiled rather bitterly.

"You need not fear that. My reputation has long been at the mercy of all the lying braggarts in the country. Men label me socialist one day, individualist the next. I become communist or egotist, as is most convenient to the speaker and most damaging to myself. But there," he exclaimed, regaining the tranquil serenity which characterized him, "why should I rail at the world when I might be talking to you? How is my old friend Hans?"

The sound of a key in the latch startled them.

"It is only Erica," said Raeburn. "I had forgotten she was out."

"My pretty little namesake! I should like to see her. Is she still a zealous little atheist?"

"No, she has become a Christian," said Raeburn, speaking with some effort.

"So!" exclaimed Haeberlein, without further comment. He himself was of no particular creed; he was just indifferent, and the zeal of his friend often surprised him.

Raeburn went out into the pa.s.sage, drew Erica into the front sitting room, and closed the door.

"There is an old friend of yours in my study," he said. "He wishes to see you, but you must promise secrecy, for he is in danger."

"Is it Herr Haeberlein?" asked Erica.

"Yes, on one of his rash, kindly errands, but one of which I don't approve. However, his work is over, and we must try to get him safely off to France. Come in with me if you will, but I wanted to tell you about it first, so that you should not be mixed up with this against your will, which would be unfair!"