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We Two

By Edna Lyall




CHAPTER I. Brian Falls in Love

Still humanity grows dearer,
Being learned the more. Jean Ingelow.

There are three things in this world which deserve no quarter--
Hypocrisy, Pharisaism, and Tyranny. F. Robertson

People who have been brought up in the country, or in small places
where every neighbor is known by sight, are apt to think that life
in a large town must lack many of the interests which they have
learned to find in their more limited communities. In a somewhat
bewildered way, they gaze at the shifting crowd of strange faces,
and wonder whether it would be possible to feel completely at home
where all the surroundings of life seem ever changing and
unfamiliar.

But those who have lived long in one quarter of London, or of any
other large town, know that there are in reality almost as many
links between the actors of the town life-drama as between those of
the country life-drama.

Silent recognitions pass between passengers who meet day after day
in the same morning or evening train, on the way to or from work;
the faces of omnibus conductors grow familiar; we learn to know
perfectly well on what day of the week and at what hour the
well-known organ-grinder will make his appearance, and in what
street we shall meet the city clerk or the care-worn little daily
governess on their way to office or school. It so happened that
Brian Osmond, a young doctor who had not been very long settled in
the Bloomsbury regions, had an engagement which took him every
afternoon down Gower Street, and here many faces had grown familiar
to him. He invariably met the same sallow-faced postman, the same
nasal-voiced milkman, the same pompous-looking man with the bushy
whiskers and the shiny black bag, on his way home from the city.
But the only passenger in whom he took any interest was a certain
bright-faced little girl whom he generally met just before the
Montague Place crossing. He always called her his "little girl,"
though she was by no means little in the ordinary acceptation of
the word, being at least sixteen, and rather tall for her years.
But there was a sort of freshness and naivete and youthfulness
about her which made him use that adjective. She usually carried
a pile of books in a strap, so he conjectured that she must be
coming from school, and, ever since he had first seen her, she had
worn the same rough blue serge dress, and the same quaint little
fur hat. In other details, however, he could never tell in the
least how he should find her. She seemed to have a mood for every
day. Sometimes she would be in a great hurry and would almost run
past him; sometimes she would saunter along in the most
unconventional way, glancing from time to time at a book or a
paper; sometimes her eager face would look absolutely bewitching in
its brightness; sometimes scarcely less bewitching in a consuming
anxiety which seemed unnatural in one so young.

One rainy afternoon in November, Brian was as usual making his way
down Gower Street, his umbrella held low to shelter him from the
driving rain which seemed to come in all directions. The milkman's
shrill voice was still far in the distance, the man of letters was
still at work upon knockers some way off, it was not yet time for
his little girl to make her appearance, and he was not even
thinking of her, when suddenly his umbrella was nearly knocked out
of his hand by coming violently into collision with another
umbrella. Brought thus to a sudden stand, he looked to see who it
was who had charged him with such violence, and found himself face
to face with his unknown friend. He had never been quite so close
to her before. Her quaint face had always fascinated him, but on
nearer view he thought it the loveliest face he had ever seen--it
took his heart by storm.

It was framed in soft, silky masses of dusky auburn hair which hung
over the broad, white forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer
than a boy's. The features, though not regular, were delicate and
piquant; the usual faint rose-flush on the cheeks deepened now to
carnation, perhaps because of the slight contretemps, perhaps
because of some deeper emotion--Brian fancied the latter, for the
clear, golden-brown eyes that were lifted to his seemed bright
either with indignation or with unshed tears. Today it was clear
that the mood was not a happy one.

"I am very sorry," she said, looking up at him, and speaking in a
low, musical voice, but with the unembarrassed frankness of a
child. "I really wasn't thinking or looking; it was very careless
of me."

Brian of course took all the blame to himself, and apologized
profusely; but though he would have given much to detain her, if
only a moment, she gave him no opportunity, but with a slight
inclination passed rapidly on. He stood quite still, watching her
till she was out of sight, aware of a sudden change in his life.
He was a busy hard-working man, not at all given to dreams, and it
was no dream that he was in now. He knew perfectly well that he
had met his ideal, had spoken to her and she to him; that somehow
in a single moment a new world had opened out to him. He had
fallen in love.

The trifling occurrence had made no great impression on the "little
girl" herself. She was rather vexed with herself for the
carelessness, but a much deeper trouble was filling her heart. She
soon forgot the passing interruption and the brown-bearded man with
the pleasant gray eyes who had apologized for what was quite her
fault. Something had gone wrong that day, as Brian had surmised;
the eyes grew brighter, the carnation flush deepened as she hurried
along, the delicate lips closed with a curiously hard expression,
the hands were clasped with unnecessary tightness round the
umbrella.

She passed up Guilford Square, but did not turn into any of the old
decayed houses; her home was far less imposing. At the corner of
the square there is a narrow opening which leads into a sort of
blind alley paved with grim flagstones. Here, facing a high blank
wall, are four or five very dreary houses. She entered one of
these, put down her wet umbrella in the shabby little hall, and
opened the door of a barely furnished room, the walls of which
were, however, lined with books. Beside the fire was the one
really comfortable piece of furniture in the room, an Ikeley couch,
and upon it lay a very wan-looking invalid, who glanced up with a
smile of welcome. "Why, Erica, you are home early today. How is
that?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Erica, tossing down her books in a way
which showed her mother that she was troubled about something. "I
suppose I tore along at a good rate, and there was no temptation to
stay at the High School."

"Come and tell me about it," said the mother, gently, "what has
gone wrong, little one?"

"Everything!" exclaimed Erica, vehemently. "Everything always does
go wrong with us and always will, I suppose. I wish you had never
sent me to school, mother; I wish I need never see the place
again!"

"But till today you enjoyed it so much."

"Yes, the classes and the being with Gertrude. But that will never
be the same again. It's just this, mother, I'm never to speak to
Gertrude again--to have noting more to do with her."

"Who said so? And Why?"

"Why? Because I'm myself," said Erica, with a bitter little laugh.
"How I can help it, nobody seems to think. But Gertrude's father
has come back from Africa, and was horrified to learn that we were
friends, made her promise never to speak to me again, and made her
write this note about it. Look!" and she took a crumpled envelope
from her pocket.

The mother read the note in silence, and an expression of pain came
over her face. Erica, who was very impetuous, snatched it away
from her when she saw that look of sadness.

"Don't read the horrid thing!" she exclaimed, crushing it up in her
hand. "There, we will burn it!" and she threw it into the fire
with a vehemence which somehow relieved her.

"You shouldn't have done that," said her mother. "Your father will
be sure to want to see it."

"No, no, no," cried Erica, passionately. "He must not know; you
must not tell him, mother."

"Dear child, have you not learned that it is impossible to keep
anything from him? He will find out directly that something is
wrong."

"It will grieve him so; he must not hear it," said Erica. "He
cares so much for what hurts us. Oh! Why are people so hard and
cruel? Why do they treat us like lepers? It isn't all because of
losing Gertrude; I could bear that if there were some real reason
--if she went away or died. But there's no reason! It's all
prejudice and bigotry and injustice; it's that which makes it sting
so.

Erica was not at all given to tears, but there was now a sort of
choking in her throat, and a sort of dimness in her eyes which made
her rather hurriedly settle down on the floor in her own particular
nook beside her mother's couch, where her face could not be seen.
There was a silence. Presently the mother spoke, stroking back the
wavy, auburn hair with her thin white hand.

"For a long time I have dreaded this for you, Erica. I was afraid
you didn't realize the sort of position the world will give you.
Till lately you have seen scarcely any but our own people, but it
can hardly be, darling, that you can go on much longer without
coming into contact with others; and then, more and more, you must
realize that you are cut off from much that other girls may
enjoy."

"Why?" questioned Erica. "Why can't they be friendly? Why must
they cut us off from everything?"

"It does seem unjust; but you must remember that we belong to an
unpopular minority."

"But if I belonged to the larger party, I would at least be just to
the smaller," said Erica. "How can they expect us to think their
system beautiful when the very first thing they show us is hatred
and meanness. Oh! If I belonged to the other side I would show
them how different it might be."

"I believe you would," said the mother, smiling a little at the
idea, and at the vehemence of the speaker. "But, as it is, Erica,
I am afraid you must school yourself to endure. After all, I fancy
you will be glad to share so soon in your father's
vexations."

"Yes," said Erica, pushing back the hair from her forehead, and
giving herself a kind of mental shaking. "I am glad of that.
After all, they can't spoil the best part of our lives! I shall go
into the garden to get rid of my bad temper; it doesn't rain now."

She struggled to her feet, picked up the little fur hat which had
fallen off, kissed her mother, and went out of the room.

The "garden" was Erica's favorite resort, her own particular
property. It was about fifteen feet square, and no one but a
Londoner would have bestowed on it so dignified a name. But Erica,
who was of an inventive turn, had contrived to make the most of the
little patch of ground, had induced ivy to grow on the ugly brick
walls, and with infinite care and satisfaction had nursed a few
flowers and shrubs into tolerably healthy though smutty life. In
one of the corners, Tom Craigie, her favorite cousin, had put up a
rough wooden bench for her, and here she read and dreamed as
contentedly as if her "garden ground" had been fairy-land. Here,
too, she invariably came when anything had gone wrong, when the
endless troubles about money which had weighed upon her all her
life became a little less bearable than usual, or when some act of
discourtesy or harshness to her father had roused in her a
tingling, burning sense of indignation.

Erica was not one of those people who take life easily; things went
very deeply with her. In spite of her brightness and vivacity, in
spite of her readiness to see the ludicrous in everything, and her
singularly quick perceptions, she was also very keenly alive to
other and graver impressions.

Her anger had passed, but still, as she paced round and round her
small domain, her heart was very heavy. Life seemed perplexing to
her; but her mother had somehow struck the right key-note when she
had spoken of the vexations which might be shared. There was
something inspiriting in that thought, certainly, for Erica
worshipped her father. By degrees the trouble and indignation died
away, and a very sweet look stole over the grave little face.

A smutty sparrow came and peered down at her from the ivy-colored
wall, and chirped and twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps
recognizing the scatter of its daily bread.

"After all," though Erica, "with ourselves and the animals, we
might let the rest of the world treat us as they please. I am glad
they can't turn the animals and birds against us! That would be
worse than anything."

Then, suddenly turning from the abstract to the practical, she took
out of her pocket a shabby little sealskin purse.

"Still sixpence of my prize money over," she remarked to herself;
"I'll go and buy some scones for tea. Father likes them."

Erica's father was a Scotchman, and, though so-called scones were
to be had at most shops, there was only one place where she could
buy scones which she considered worthy the name, and that was at
the Scotch baker's in Southampton Row. She hurried along the wet
pavements, glad that the rain was over, for as soon as her purchase
was completed she made up her mind to indulge for a few minutes in
what had lately become a very frequent treat, namely a pause before
a certain tempting store of second-hand books. She had never had
money enough to buy anything except the necessary school books,
and, being a great lover of poetry, she always seized with avidity
on anything that was to be found outside the book shop. Sometimes
she would carry away a verse of Swinburne, which would ring in her
ears for days and days; sometimes she would read as much as two or
three pages of Shelley. No one had every interrupted her, and a
certain sense of impropriety and daring was rather stimulating than
otherwise. It always brought to her mind a saying in the proverbs
of Solomon, "Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is
pleasant."

For three successive days she had found to her great delight
Longfellow's "Hiawatha." The strange meter, the musical Indian
names, the delightfully described animals, all served to make the
poem wonderfully fascinating to her. She thought a page or two of
"Hiawatha" would greatly sweeten her somewhat bitter world this
afternoon, and with her bag of scones in one hand and the book in
the other she read on happily, quite unconscious that three pair of
eyes were watching her from within the shop.

The wrinkled old man who was the presiding genius of the place had
two customers, a tall, gray-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly
eyes, and his son, the same Brian Osmond whom Erica had charged
with her umbrella in Gower Street.

"An outside customer for you," remarked Charles Osmond, the
clergyman, glancing at the shop keeper. Then to his son, "What a
picture she makes!"

Brian looked up hastily from some medical books which he had been
turning over.

"Why that's my little Gower Street friend," he exclaimed, the words
being somehow surprised out of him, though he would fain have
recalled them the next minute.

"I don't interrupt her," said the shop owner. "Her father has done
a great deal of business with me, and the little lady has a fancy
for poetry, and don't get much of it in her life, I'll be bound."

"Why, who is she?" asked Charles Osmond, who was on very friendly
terms with the old book collector.

"She's the daughter of Luke Raeburn," was the reply, "and whatever
folks may say, I know that Mr. Raeburn leads a hard enough life."

Brian turned away from the speakers, a sickening sense of dismay at
his heart. His ideal was the daughter of Luke Raeburn! And Luke
Raeburn was an atheist leader!

For a few minutes he lost consciousness of time and place, though
always seeing in a sort of dark mist Erica's lovely face bending
over her book. The shop keeper's casual remark had been a fearful
blow to him; yet, as he came to himself again, his heart went out
more and more to the beautiful girl who had been brought up in what
seemed to him so barren a creed. His dream of love, which had been
bright enough only an hour before, was suddenly shadowed by an
unthought of pain, but presently began to shine with a new and
altogether different luster. He began to hear again what was
passing between his father and the shop keeper.

"There's a sight more good in him than folks think. However wrong
his views, he believes them right, and is ready to suffer for 'em,
too. Bless me, that's odd, to be sure! There is Mr. Raeburn, on
the other side of the Row! Fine-looking man, isn't he?"

Brian, looking up eagerly, fancied he must be mistaken for the
only passenger in sight was a very tall man of remarkably benign
aspect, middle-aged, yet venerable--or perhaps better described
by the word "devotional-looking," pervaded too by a certain majesty
of calmness which seemed scarcely suited to his character of public
agitator. The clean-shaven and somewhat rugged face was
unmistakably that of a Scotchman, the thick waves of tawny hair
overshadowing the wide brow, and the clear golden-brown eyes showed
Brian at once that this could be no other than the father of his
ideal.

In the meantime, Raeburn, having caught sight of his daughter,
slowly crossed the road, and coming noiselessly up to her, suddenly
took hold of the book she was reading, and with laughter in his
eyes, said, in a peremptory voice:

"Five shillings to pay, if you please, miss!"

Erica, who had been absorbed in the poem, looked up in dismay; then
seeing who had spoken, she began to laugh.

"What a horrible fright you gave me, father! But do look at this,
it's the loveliest thing in the world. I've just got to the 'very
strong man Kwasind.' I think he's a little like you!"

Raeburn, though no very great lover of poetry, took the book and
read a few lines.

"Long they lived in peace together,
Spake with naked hearts together,
Pondering much and much contriving
How the tribes of men might prosper."

"Good! That will do very well for you and me, little one. I'm
ready to be your Kwasind. What's the price of the thing? Four and
sixpence! Too much for a luxury. It must wait till our ship comes
in."

He put down the book, and they moved on together, but had not gone
many paces before they were stopped by a most miserable-looking
beggar child. Brian standing now outside the shop, saw and heard
all that passed.

Raeburn was evidently investigating the case, Erica, a little
impatient of the interruption, was remonstrating.

"I thought you never gave to beggars, and I am sure that harrowing
story is made up."

"Very likely," replied the father, "but the hunger is real, and I
know well enough what hunger is. What have you here?" he added,
indicating the paper bag which Erica held.

"Scones," she said, unwillingly.

"That will do," he said, taking them from her and giving them to
the child. "He is too young to be anything but the victim of
another's laziness. There! Sit down and eat them while you can."

The child sat down on the doorstep with the bag of scones clasped
in both hands, but he continued to gaze after his benefactor till
he had passed out of sight, and there was a strange look of
surprise and gratification in his eyes. That was a man who knew!
Many people had, after hard begging, thrown him pence, many had
warned him off harshly, but this man had looked straight into his
eyes, and had at once stopped and questioned him, had singled out
the one true statement from a mass of lies, and had given him--
not a stale loaf with the top cut off, a suspicious sort of charity
which always angered the waif--but his own food, bought for his
own consumption. Most wonderful of all, too, this man knew what it
was to be hungry, and had even the insight and shrewdness to be
aware that the waif's best chance of eating the scones at all was
to eat them then and there. For the first time a feeling of
reverence and admiration was kindled in the child's heart; he would
have done a great deal for his unknown friend.

Raeburn and Erica had meanwhile walked on in the direction of
Guilford Square.

"I had bought them for you," said Erica, reproachfully.

"And I ruthlessly gave them away," said Raeburn, smiling. "That
was hard lines; I though they were only household stock. But after
all it comes to the same thing in the end, or better. You have
given them to me by giving them to the child. Never mind, 'Little
son Eric!'"

This was his pet name for her, and it meant a great deal to them.
She was his only child, and it had at first been a great
disappointment to every one that she was not a boy. But Raeburn
had long ago ceased to regret this, and the nickname referred more
to Erica's capability of being both son and daughter to him, able
to help him in his work and at the same time to brighten his home.
Erica was very proud of her name, for she had been called after her
father's greatest friend, Eric Haeberlein, a celebrated republican,
who once during a long exile had taken refuge in London. His views
were in some respects more extreme than Raeburn's, but in private
life he was the gentlest and most fascinating of men, and had quite
won the heart of his little namesake.

As Mrs. Raeburn had surmised, Erica's father had at once seen that
something had gone wrong that day. The all-observing eyes, which
had noticed the hungry look in the beggar child's face, noticed at
once that his own child had been troubled.

"Something has vexed you," he said. "What is the matter, Erica?"

"I had rather not tell you, father, it isn't anything much," said
Erica, casting down her eyes as if all at once the paving stones
had become absorbingly interesting.

"I fancy I know already," said Raeburn. "It is about your friend
at the High School, is it not. I thought so. This afternoon I had
a letter from her father."

"What does he say? May I see it?" asked Erica.

"I tore it up," said Raeburn, "I thought you would ask to see it,
and the thing was really so abominably insolent that I didn't want
you to. How did you hear about it?"

"Gertrude wrote me a note," said Erica.

"At her father's dictation, no doubt," said Raeburn; "I should know
his style directly, let me see it."

"I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I burned it," said Erica.

Then, unable to help being amused at their efforts to save each
other, they both laughed, though the subject was rather a sore one.

"It is the old story," said Raeburn. "Life only, as Pope Innocent
III benevolently remarked, 'is to be left to the children of
misbelievers, and that only as an act of mercy.' You must make up
your mind to bear the social stigma, child. Do you see the moral
of this?"

"No," said Erica, with something between a smile and a sigh.

"The moral of it is that you must be content with your own people,"
said Raeburn. "There is this one good point about persecution--
it does draw us all nearer together, really strengthens us in a
hundred ways. So, little one, you must forswear school friends,
and be content with your 'very strong man Kwasind,' and we will

"'Live in peace together Speak with naked hearts together.'

By the bye, it is rather doubtful if Tom will be able to come to
the lecture tonight; do you think you can take notes for me
instead?"

This was in reality the most delicate piece of tact and
consideration, for it was, of course, Erica's delight and pride to
help her father.


CHAPTER II. From Effect to Cause

Only the acrid spirit of the times, Corroded this true steel.
Longfellow.

Not Thine the bigot's partial plea,
Not Thine the zealot's ban;
Thou well canst spare a love of Thee
Which ends in hate of man.
Whittier.

Luke Raeburn was the son of a Scotch clergyman of the Episcopal
Church. His history, though familiar to his own followers and to
them more powerfully convincing than many arguments against modern
Christianity, was not generally known. The orthodox were apt to
content themselves with shuddering at the mention of his name; very
few troubled themselves to think or inquire how this man had been
driven into atheism. Had they done so they might, perhaps, have
treated him more considerately, at any rate they must have learned
that the much-disliked prophet of atheism was the most
disinterested of men, one who had the courage of his opinions, a
man of fearless honesty.

Raeburn had lost his mother very early; his father, a well-to-do
man, had held for many years a small living in the west of
Scotland. He was rather a clever man, but one-sided and bigoted;
cold-hearted, too, and caring very little for his children. Of
Luke, however, he was, in his peculiar fashion, very proud, for at
an early age the boy showed signs of genius. The father was no
great worker; though shrewd and clever, he had no ambition, and was
quietly content to live out his life in the retired little
parsonage where, with no parish to trouble him, and a small and
unexacting congregation on Sundays, he could do pretty much as he
pleased. But for his son he was ambitious. Ever since his
sixteenth year--when, at a public meeting the boy had, to the
astonishment of every one, suddenly sprung to his feet and
contradicted a false statement made by a great landowner as to the
condition of the cottages on his estate--the father had foreseen
future triumphs for his son. For the speech, though
unpremeditated, was marvelously clever, and there was a power in it
not to be accounted for by a certain ring of indignation; it was
the speech of a future orator.

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