Oh, God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces!
Oh, God of freedom and of joyous hearts!
When Thy face looketh forth from all men's faces
There will be room enough in crowded marts.
Brood Thou around me, and the noise is o'er;
Thy universe my closet with shut door.
Heart, heart, awake! The love that loveth all
Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave.
God in thee, can His children's folly gall?
Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?
Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm;
Thou art my solitude, my mountain calm. George MacDonald
When a particularly unpleasant event has long been hanging over one's head, sure to come at some time, though the precise date is unknown, people of a certain disposition find it quite possible to live on pretty comfortably through the waiting time. But when at length the date is fixed, when you know that that which you dread will happen upon such and such a day, then the waiting begins all at once to seem intolerable. The vague date had been awaited calmly, but the certain date is awaited with a wearing anxiety which tells fearfully on physical strength. When Erica knew that the action for libel would begin in a fortnight's time, the comparative calmness of the nine months which had passed since the outset of the matter gave place to an agony of apprehension. Night after night she had fearful dreams of being cross-examined by Mr. Cringer, Q.C., who always forced her to say exactly what she did not mean. Night after night coldly curious eyes stared down at her from all parts of a crowded court; while her misery was completed by being perfectly conscious of what she ought to have said directly it was too late.
By day she was too wise to allow herself to dwell on the future; she worked doubly hard, laid in a stock of particularly interesting books, and threw herself as much as possible into the lives of others. Happily, the Farrants were in town, and she was able to see a great deal of them; while on the very day before the trial came a substantial little bit of happiness.
She was sitting in the study doing some copying for her father when a brougham stopped at the door. Erica, who never failed to recognize a horse if she had once seen it before, who even had favorites among the dozens of omnibus horses which she met daily in Oxford Street, at once knew that either Donovan or Gladys had come to see her.
She ran out into the hall to meet them, but had no sooner opened the study door than the tiniest of dogs trotted into the room and began sniffing cautiously at her father's clothes.
“Tottie has made a very unceremonious entrance,” said a clear, mellow voice in the passage. “May we come in, or are you too busy today?”
“Oh, please come in. Father is home, and I do so want you to meet,” said Erica. “You have brought Dolly, too! That is delightful. We are dreadfully in want of something young and happy to cheer us up.”
The two men shook hands with the momentary keen glance into each other's eyes which those give who have heard much of one another but have never been personally acquainted.
“As to Dolly,” said Donovan, “she requires no introduction to Mr. Raeburn.”
“No,” said Erica, laughing, “she cried all over his coat two years ago.”
Dolly did not often wait for introductions unless she disliked people. And no child could have found it in its heart to dislike anything so big and kind and fatherly as Luke Raeburn.
“We blought a little dog for Elica,” she said, in her silvery treble.
And the next moment she was established on Raeburn's knee, encouraged to thrust a little, dimpled hand into his pocket for certain Edinburgh dainties.
“Dolly does not beat about the bush,” said Donovan, smiling. “Would you at all care to have this small animal? I knew you were fond of dogs, and Gladys and I saw this little toy Esquimanx the other day and fell in love with him. I find though that another dog rather hurts Waif's feelings, so you will be doing a kindness to him as well if you will accept 'Tottie.'”
“Oh, how delightful of you! It was kind of you to think of it,” said Erica. “I have always so longed to have a dog of my own. And this is such a little beauty! Is it not a very rare breed?”
“I believe it is, and I think he's a loving little beggar, too,” replied Donovan. “He is making himself quite at home here, is he not?”
And in truth the small dog seemed deeply interested in his new residence. He was the tiniest of his kind, and was covered with long black hair which stood straight up on end; his pointed nose, bright brown eyes, and cunning little ears, set in the frame work of bushy hair, gave him a most sagacious appearance. And just now he was brimful of curiosity, pattering all over the room, poking his nose into a great pile of “Idol-Breakers,” sniffing at theological and anti-theological books with perfect impartiality, rubbing himself against Raeburn's foot in the most ingratiating way, and finally springing up on Erica's lap with the oddest mixture of defiance and devotion in his eyes which said as plainly as if he had spoken: “People may say what they like about you, but I'm your faithful dog from this day forward!”
Raeburn was obliged to go out almost directly as he had an appointment in the city, but Erica knew that he had seen enough of Donovan to realize what he was and was satisfied.
“I am so glad you have just met,” she said when he had left the room. “And, as to Dolly, she's been a real god-send. I haven't seen my father smile before for a week.”
“Strange, is it not, how almost always children instinctively take to those whom the world treats as outcasts. I have a great belief that God lets the pure and innocent make up in part by their love for the uncharitableness of the rest of us.”
“That's a nice thought,” said Erica. “I have never had much to do with children, except with this one.” And as she spoke she lifted Dolly on her lap beside Tottie.
“I have good reason to believe in both this kind and that,” said Donovan, touching the dusky head of the dog and the sunny hair of the child. As he spoke there was a look in his eyes which made Erica feel inclined almost to cry. She knew that he was thinking of the past though there was no regret in his expression, only a shade of additional gravity about his lips and an unusual light about his brow and eyes. It was the face of a man who had known both the evil and the good, and had now reached far into the Unseen.
By and by they talked of Switzerland and of Brian, Donovan telling her just what she wanted to know about him though he never let her feel that he knew all about the day at Fiesole. And from that they passed to the coming trial of which he spoke in exactly the most helpful way, not trying to assure her, as some well-meaning people had done, that there was really nothing to be grieved or anxious about; but fully sympathizing with the pain while he somehow led her on to the thought of the unseen good which would in the long run result from it.
“I do believe that now, with all my heart.” she said.
“I knew you did,” he replied, smiling a little. “You have learned it since you were at Greyshot last year. And once learned it is learned forever.”
“Yes,” she said musingly. “But, oh! How slowly one learns in such little bits. It's a great mistake to think that we grasp the whole when the light first comes to us, and yet it feels then like the whole.”
“Because it was the whole you were then capable of,” said Donovan. “But, you see, you grow.”
“Want to grow, at any rate,” said Erica. “Grow conscious that there is an Infinite to grow to.”
Then, as in a few minutes he rose to go:
“Well, you have done me good, you and Dolly, and this blessed little dog. Thank you very much for coming.”
She went out with them to the door and stood on the steps with Tottie in her arms, smiling a goodbye to little Dolly.
“That's the bravest woman I know,” thought Donovan to himself, “and the sweetest save one. Poor Brian! Though, after all, it's a grand thing to love such as Erica even without hope.”
And all the afternoon there rang in his ears the line
“A woman's soul, most soft, yet strong.”
The next day troubles began in good earnest. They were all very silent at breakfast. Raeburn looked anxious and preoccupied, and Erica, not feeling sure that conversation would not worry him, did not try to talk. Once Aunt Jean looked up for a moment from her paper with a question.
“By the bye, what are you going to wear, Erica?”
“Sackcloth, I think,” said Erica; “it would be appropriate.”
Raeburn smiled a little at this.
“Something cool, I should advise,” he said. “The place will be like a furnace today.”
He pushed back his chair as he spoke and went away to his study. Tom had to hurry away, too, being due at his office by nine o'clock; and Erica began to rack her brains to devise the nicest of dinners for them that evening. She dressed in good time, and was waiting for her father in the green room when just before ten o'clock the front door opened, quick steps came up the stairs, and, to her amazement, Tom entered.
“Back again!” she exclaimed. “Have you got a holiday?”
“I've got my conge',” he said in a hoarse voice, throwing himself down in a chair by the window.
“Tom! What do you mean?” she cried, dismayed by the trouble in his face.
“Got the sack,” he said shortly.
“What! Lost your situation? But how? Why?”
“I was called this morning into Mr. Ashgrove's private room; he informed me that he had just learned with great annoyance that I was the nephew of that (you can supply his string of abusive adjectives) Luke Raeburn. Was it true? I told him I had that honor. Was I, then, an atheist? Certainly. A Raeburnite? Naturally. After which came a long oration, at the end of which I found myself the wrong side of the office door with orders never to darken it again, and next month's salary in my hand. That's the matter in brief, CUGINA.”
His face settled into a sort of blank despair so unlike its usual expression that Erica's wrath flamed up at the sight.
“It's a shame!” she cried “a wicked shame! Oh, Tom dear, I am so sorry for you. I wish this had come upon me instead.”
“I wouldn't care so much,” said poor Tom huskily, “if he hadn't chosen just this time for it; but it will worry the chieftain now.”
Erica was on the verge of tears.
“Oh, what shall we do what can we do?” she cried almost in despair. “I had not thought of that. Father will feel it dreadfully.”
But to conceal the matter was now hopeless for, as she spoke, Raeburn came into the room.
“What shall I feel dreadfully?” he said, smiling a little. “If any man ought to be case-hardened, I ought to be.”
But as he drew nearer and saw the faces of the two, his own face grew stern and anxious.
“You at home, Tom! What's the matter?”
Tom briefly told his tale, trying to make as light of it as possible, even trying to force a little humor into his account, but with poor success. There was absolute silence in the green room when he paused. Raeburn said not a word, but he grew very pale, evidently in this matter being by no means case-hardened. A similar instance, further removed from his immediate circle, might have called forth a strong, angry denunciation; but he felt too deeply anything affecting his own family or friends to be able in the first keenness of his grief and anger to speak.
“My boy,” he said at last, in a low, musical voice whose perfect modulations taxed Tom's powers of endurance to the utmost, “I am very sorry for this. I can't say more now; we will talk it over tonight. Will you come to Westminster with us?”
And presently as they drove along the crowded streets, he said with a bitter smile:
“There's one Biblical woe which by no possibility can ever befall us.”
“What's that?” said Tom.
“'Woe unto you when all men speak well of you,'” said Raeburn.
A few minutes later, and the memorable trial of Raeburn v. Pogson had at length begun. Raeburn's friends had done their best to dissuade him from conducting his own case, but he always replied to them with one of his Scotch proverbs “A man's a lion in his ain cause.” His opening speech was such an exceedingly powerful one that all felt on the first day that he had been right though inevitably it added not a little to the disagreeableness of the case.
As soon as the court had risen, Erica went home with her aunt and Tom, thankful to feel that at least one day was well over; but her father was closeted for some hours with his solicitor and did not rejoin them till late that evening. He came in then, looking fearfully tired, and scarcely spoke all through dinner; but afterward, just as Tom was leaving the room, he called him back.
“I've been thinking things over,” he said. “What was your salary with Mr. Ashgrove?”
“One hundred pounds a year,” replied Tom, wondering at what possible hour the chieftain had found a spare moment to bestow upon his affairs.
“Well, then, will you be my secretary for the same?”
For many years Tom had given all his spare time to helping Raeburn with his correspondence, and for some time he had been the practical, though unrecognized, sub-editor of the “Idol-Breaker,” but all his work had been done out of pure devotion to the “cause.” Nothing could have pleased him more than to give his whole time to the work while his great love and admiration for Raeburn eminently qualified him for the service of a somewhat autocratic master.
Raeburn, with all his readiness to help those in any difficulty, with all his geniality and thoroughness of character, was by no means the easiest person to work with. For, in common with other strong and self-reliant characters, he liked in all things to have his own way, and being in truth a first-rate organizer, he had scant patience with other people's schemes. Erica was very glad that he had made the proposal to Tom for, though regretting that he should give his life to the furtherance of work, much of which she strongly disapproved, she could not but be relieved at anything which would save her father in some degree from the immense strain of work and anxiety, which were now altogether beyond the endurance of a single man, and bid fair to overtax even Raeburn's giant strength.
Both Charles Osmond and Brian appeared as voluntary witnesses on behalf of the plaintiff, and naturally the first few days of the trial were endurable enough. But on the Friday the defense began, and it became evident that the most bitter spirit would pervade the rest of the proceedings. Mr. Pogson had spared neither trouble nor expense; he had brought witnesses from all the ends of the earth to swear that, in some cases twenty years ago, they had heard the plaintiff speak such and such words, or seen him do such and such deeds. The array of witnesses appeared endless; there seemed no reason why the trial ever should come to an end. It bid fair to be a CAUSE CELEBRE, while inevitably Raeburn's notoriety made the public take a great interest in the proceedings. It became the topic of the day. Erica rarely went in any public conveyance without hearing it discussed.
One day she heard the following cheering sentiment:
“Oh, of course you know the jury will never give a verdict for such a fellow as Raeburn.”
“I suppose they can't help being rather prejudiced against him because of his views; but, upon my word, it seems a confounded shame.” “Oh, I don't see that,” replied the first speaker. “If he holds such views, he must expect to suffer for them.”
Day after day passed and still the case dragged on. Erica became so accustomed to spending the day in court that at last it seemed to her that she had never done anything else all her life. Every day she hoped that she might be called, longing to get the hateful piece of work over. But days and weeks passed, and still Mr. Cringer and his learned friends examined other witnesses, but kept her in reserve. Mr. Bircham had been exceedingly kind to her, and in the “Daily Review” office, where Erica was treated as a sort of queen, great indignation had been caused by Mr. Pogson's malice. “Our little lady” (her sobriquet there) received the hearty support and sympathy of every man in the place from the editor himself to the printer's devil. Every morning the office boy brought her in court the allotted work for the day, which she wrote as well as she could during the proceedings or at luncheon time, with the happy consciousness that all her short comings would be set right by the little Irish sub-editor who worshipped the ground she trod on and was always ready with courteous and unofficious help.
There were many little pieces of kindness which served to heighten that dreary summer for Mr. Pogson's ill-advised zeal had stimulated all lovers of justice into a protest against a most glaring instance of bigotry and unfair treatment. Many clergymen spoke out bravely and denounced the defendant's intolerance; many non-conformist ministers risked giving dire offense to their congregations by saying a good word for the plaintiff. Each protest did its modicum of good, but still the weary case dragged on, and every day the bitterness on either side seemed to increase.
Mr. Pogson had, by fair means or foul, induced an enormous number of witnesses to come forward and prove the truth of his statement, and day after day there were the most wearisome references to old diaries, to reports of meetings held in obscure places, perhaps more than a dozen years ago, or to some hashed and mangled report of a debate which, incredible though such meanness seems, had been specially constructed by some unscrupulous opponent in such a way as to alter the entire meaning of Raeburn's words—a process which may very easily be effected by a judicious omission of contexts. Raeburn was cheered and encouraged, however, in spite of all the thousand cares and annoyances of that time by the rapidly increasing number of his followers, and by many tokens of most touching devotion from the people for whom, however mistakenly, he had labored with unwearying patience and zeal. Erica saw only too plainly that Mr. Pogson was, in truth, fighting against Christianity, and every day brought fresh proofs of the injury done to Christ's cause by this modern instance of injustice and religious intolerance.
It was a terribly trying position, and any one a degree less brave and sincere would probably have lost all faith; but the one visible good effected by that miserable struggle was the strange influence it exerted in developing her character. She was one of those who seem to grow exactly in proportion to the trouble they have had to bear. And so it came to pass that, while evil was wrought in many quarters, in this one good resulted good not in the least understood by Raeburn, or Aunt Jean, or Tom, who merely knew that Erica was less hot and hasty than in former times, and found it more of a relief than ever to come home to her loving sympathy.
“After all,” they used to say, “the miserable delusion hasn't been able to spoil her.”
One day, just after the court had reassembled in the afternoon, Erica was putting the finishing touches to a very sprightly criticism on a certain political speech, when suddenly she heard the name, for which she had waited so long, called in the clerk's most sonorous tones “Erica Raeburn!”
She was conscious of a sudden white flash as every face in the crowded court turned towards her, but more conscious of a strong Presence which seemed to wrap her in a calm so perfect that the disagreeable surroundings became a matter of very slight import. Here were hostile eyes, indeed; but she was strong enough to face all the powers of evil at once. A sort of murmur ran through the court as she entered the witness box, but she did not heed it any more than she would have heeded the murmur of the summer wind without. She just stood there, strong in her truth and purity, able, if need be, to set a whole world at defiance.
“Pogson's made a mistake in calling her,” said a briefless barrister to one of his companions in adversity; they both spent their lives in hanging about the courts, thankful when they could get a bit of “deviling.”
“Right you are!” replied the other, putting up his eyeglass to look at Erica, and letting it drop after a brief survey. “I'd bet twenty to one that girl loses him his case. And I'm hanged if he doesn't deserve to.”
“Well, it is rather a brutal thing to make a man's own child give evidence against him. Halloo! Just look at Raeburn! That man's either a consummate actor, or else a living impersonation of righteous anger.”
“No acting there,” replied the other, putting up his eyeglass again. “It's lucky dueling is a thing of the past or I expect Pogson would have a bullet in his heart before the day was over. I don't wonder he's furious, poor fellow! Now, then here's old Cringer working himself up into his very worst temper!”
The whispered dialogue was interrupted for a few minutes but was continued at intervals.
“By Jove, what a voice she's got! The jury will be flints if they are not influenced by it. Ah, you great brute! I wouldn't have asked her that question for a thousand pounds! How lovely she looks when she blushes! He'll confuse her, though, as sure as fate. No, not a bit of it! That was dignified, wasn't it? How the words rang, 'Of course not!' I say, Jack, this will be as good as a lesson in elocution for us!”
“Raeburn looks up at that for the first time. Well, poor devil! However much baited, he can, at any rate, feel proud of his daughter.”
Then came a long pause. For the fire of questions was so sharp that the two would not break the thread by speaking. Once or twice some particularly irritating question was ruled by the judge to be inadmissible, upon which Mr. Cringer looked, in a hesitatingly courteous manner, toward him, and obeyed orders with a smiling deference; then, facing round upon Erica, with a little additional venom, he visited his annoyance upon her by exerting all his unrivaled skill in endeavoring to make her contradict herself.
“You'll make nothing of this one, Cringer,” one of his friends had said to him at the beginning of Erica's evidence. And he had smiled confidently by way of reply. All the more was he now determined not to be worsted by a young girl whom he ought to be able to put out of countenance in ten minutes.
The result of this was that, in the words of the newspaper reports, “the witness's evidence was not concluded when the court rose.” This was perhaps the greatest part of the trial to Erica. She had hoped, not only for her own, but for her father's sake, that her evidence might all be taken in one day, and Mr. Cringer, while really harming his own cause by prolonging her evidence, inflicted no slight punishment on the most troublesome witness he had ever had to deal with.
The next morning it all came over again with increased disagreeableness.
“Erica always was the plucky one,” said Tom to his mother as they watched her enter the witness box. “She always did the confessing when we got into scrapes. I only hope that brute of a Cringer won't put her out of countenance.”
He need not have feared, though in truth Erica was tried to the utmost. To begin with, it was one of the very hottest of the dog-days, and the court was crowded to suffocation. This was what the public considered the most interesting day of the trial for it was the most personal one, and the English have as great a taste for personalities as the Americans though it is not so constantly gratified. Apparently Mr. Cringer, being a shrewd man, had managed in the night watches to calculate Erica's one vulnerable point. She was fatally clear-headed; most aggravatingly and palpably truthful; most unfortunately fascinating; and, though naturally quick-tempered, most annoyingly self-controlled. But she was evidently delicate. If he could sufficiently harass and tire her, he might make her say pretty much what he pleased.
This, at least, was the conclusion at which he had arrived. And if it was indeed his duty to the defendant to exhaust both fair means and foul in the endeavor to win him his case, then he certainly fulfilled his duty. For six long hours, with only a brief interval for luncheon, Erica was baited, badgered, tormented with questions which in themselves were insults, assured that she had said what she had not said, tempted to say what she did not mean, involved in fruitless discussions about places and dates and, in fact, so thoroughly tortured, that most girls would long before have succumbed. She did not succumb, but she grew whiter and whiter save when some vile insinuation brought a momentary wave of crimson across her face.
Tom listened breathlessly to the examination which went on in a constant crescendo of bitterness.
“The plaintiff was in the habit of doing this?”
“Yes.”
“Your suspicion was naturally excited, then?”
“Certainly not.”
“Not excited?” incredulously.
“Not in the least.”
“You are an inmate of the plaintiff's house, I believe?”
“I am.”
“But this has not always been the case?”
“All my life with the exception of two years.”
“Your reason for the two years' absence had a connection with the plaintiff's mode of life, had it not?”
“Not in the sense you wish to imply. It had a connection with our extreme poverty.”
“Though an inmate of you father's house, you are often away from home?”
“No, very rarely.”
“Oblige me by giving a straightforward answer. What do you mean by rarely?”
“Very seldom.”
“This is mere equivocation; will you give me a straightforward reply?”
“I can't make it more so,” said Erica, keeping her temper perfectly and replying to the nagging interrogatories. “Do you mean once a year, twice a year?” etc., etc., with a steady patience which foiled Mr. Cringer effectually. He opened a fresh subject.
“Do you remember the 1st of September last year?”
“I do.”
“Do you remember what happened then?”
“Partridge shooting began.”
There was much laughter at this reply; she made it partly because even now the comic side of everything struck her, partly because she wanted to gain time. What in the world was Mr. Cringer driving at?
“Did not something occur that night in Guilford Terrace which you were anxious to conceal?”
For a moment Erica was dumfounded. It flashed upon her that he knew of the Haeberlein adventure and meant to serve his purpose by distorting it into something very different. Luckily she was almost as rapid a thinker as her father; she saw that there was before her a choice of two evils. She must either allow Mr. Cringer to put an atrocious construction on her unqualified “yes” or she must boldly avow Haeberlein's visit.
“With regard to my father there was nothing to conceal,” she replied.
“Will you swear that there was NOTHING to conceal?”
“With regard to my father there was nothing to conceal,” she replied.
“Don't bandy words with me. Will you repeat my formula 'Nothing to conceal?'”
“No, I will not repeat that.”
“You admit that there WAS something to conceal?”
“If you call Eric Haeberlein 'something' yes.”
There was a great sensation in the court at these words. But Mr. Cringer was nonplused. The mysterious “something,” out of which he had intended to make such capital, was turned into a boldly avowed reality a reality which would avail him nothing. Moreover, most people would now see through his very unworthy maneuvers. Furiously he hurled question upon question at Erica. He surpassed himself in sheer bullying. By this time, too, she was very weary. The long hours of standing, the insufferable atmosphere, the incessant stabs at her father's character made the examination almost intolerable. And the difficulty of answering the fire of questions was great. She struggled on, however, until the time came when Raeburn stood up to ask whether a certain question was allowable. She looked at him then for the first time, saw how terribly he was feeling her interminable examination, and for a moment lost heart. The rows of people grew hazy and indistinct. Mr. Cringer's face got all mixed up with his wig, she had to hold tightly to the railing. How much longer could she endure?
“Yet you doubtless thought this probable?” continued her tormentor.
“Oh, no! On the contrary, quite the reverse,” said Erica with a momentary touch of humor.
“Are you acquainted with the popular saying: 'None are so blind as those who will not see?'”
The tone was so insulting that indignation restored Erica to her full strength; she was stung into giving a sharp retort.
“Yes,” she said very quietly. “It has often occurred to me during this action as strangely applicable to the defendant.”
Mr. Cringer looked as if he could have eaten her. There was a burst of applause which was speedily suppressed.
“Yet you do not, of course, mean to deny the whole allegation?”
“Emphatically!”
“Are you aware that people will think you either a deluded innocent or an infamous deceiver?”
“I am not here to consider what people may think of me, but to speak the truth.”
And as she spoke she involuntarily glanced toward those twelve fellow-countrymen of hers upon whose verdict so much depended. Probably even the oldest, even the coldest of the jurymen felt his heart beat a little faster as those beautiful, sad honest eyes scanned the jury box. As for the counsel for the defense, he prudently accepted his defeat and, as Raeburn would not ask a single question of his daughter in cross-examination, another witness was called.
Long after, it was a favorite story among the young barristers of how Mr. Cringer was checkmated by Raeburn's daughter.
The case dragged on its weary length till August. At last, when two months of the public time had been consumed, when something like 20,000 pounds had been spent, when most bitter resentment had been stirred up among the secularists, Mr. Pogson's defense came to an end. Raeburn's reply was short, but effective; and the jury returned a verdict in his favor, fixing the damages, however, at the very lowest sum, not because they doubted that Raeburn had been most grossly libeled, but because the plaintiff had the misfortune to be an atheist.
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