第68章 At The Museum (3)

That which often appears sudden and unaccountable is, if we did but know it, a slow, beautiful evolution.It was now very nearly seven years since the autumn afternoon when the man "too nice to be a clergyman," and "not a bit like a Christian," had come to Erica's home, had shown her that at least one of them practiced the universal brotherliness which almost all preached.It was nearly seven years since words of absolute conviction, words of love and power, had first sounded forth from Christian lips in her father's lecture hall, and had awakened in her mind that miserably uncomfortable question "supposing Christianity should be true?"All the most beautiful influences are quiet; only the destructive agencies, the stormy wind, the heavy rain and hail, are noisy.

Love of the deepest sort is wordless, the sunshine steals down silently, the dew falls noiselessly, and the communion of spirit with spirit is calmer and quieter than anything else in the world quiet as the spontaneous turning of the sunflower to the sun when the heavy clouds have passed away, and the light and warmth reveal themselves.The subdued rustle of leaves, the hushed footsteps sounded as usual in the great library, but Erica was beyond the perception of either place or time.

Presently she was recalled by the arrival of another student, who took the chair next to hers a little deformed man, with a face which looked prematurely old, and sad, restless eyes.A few hours before she would have regarded him with a sort of shuddering compassion; now with the compassion there came to her the thought of compensation which even here and now might make the poor fellow happy.Was he not immortal? Might he not here and now learn what she had just learned, gain that unspeakable joy? And might not the knowledge go on growing and increasing forever? She took up her pen once more, verified the dates, rolled up her manuscript, and with one look at Livingstones's journal, returned it to the clerk and left the library.

It was like coming into a new world; even dingy Bloomsbury seemed beautiful.Her face was so bright, so like the face of a happy child, that more than one passer-by was startled by it, lifted for a moment from sordid cares into a purer atmosphere.She felt a longing to speak to some one who would understand her new happiness.She had reached Guilford Square, and looked doubtfully across to the Osmonds' house.They would understand.But no she must tell her father first.And then, with a fearful pang, she realized what her new conviction meant.It meant bringing the sword into her father's house; it meant grieving him with a life-long grief; it meant leaving the persecuted minority and going over to the triumphant majority; it meant unmitigated pain to all those she loved best.

Erica had had her full share of pain, but never had she known anything so agonizing as that moment's sharp revulsion.

Mechanically she walked on until she reached home; nobody was in.

She looked into the little sitting room but, only Friskarina sat purring on the rug.The table was strewn with the Saturday papers;the midday post had just come.She turned over the letters and found one for herself in her father's handwriting.It was the one thing needed to complete the realization of her pain.She snatched it up with a stifled sob, ran upstairs to her room, and threw herself down on the bed in silent agony.

A new joy had come to her which her father could not share; a joy which he would call a delusion, which he spent a great part of his life in combating.To tell him that she was convinced of the truth of Christianity why, it would almost break his heart.

And yet she must inflict this terrible pain.Her nature was far too noble to have dreamed for a single instant of temporizing, of keeping her thoughts to herself.A Raeburn was not likely to fail either in courage or in honesty; but with her courage and honesty, Erica had the violin-like sensitiveness of nature which Eric Haeberlein had noticed even in her childhood.She saw in the future all the pain she must bring to her father, intensified by her own sensitiveness.She knew so well what her feelings would have been but a short time ago, if any one she greatly loved had "fallen back" into Christianity.How could she tell him? How COULD she!

Yet it was a thing which must be done.Should she write to him?

No, the letter might reach him when he was tired and worried yet, to speak would be more painful.

She got up and went to the window, and let the summer wind blow on her heated forehead.The world had seemed to her just before one glorious presence-chamber full of sunshine and rejoicing.But already the shadow of a life-long pain had fallen on her heart.

A revealed Christ meant also a revealed cross, and a right heavy one.

It was only by degrees that she grew strong again, and Livingstone's text came back to her once more, "I am with you always."By and by she opened her father's letter.It ran as follows:

"I have just remembered that Monday will be your birthday.Let us spend it together, little son Erica.A few days at Codrington would do us both good, and I have a tolerably leisure week.If you can come down on Saturday afternoon, so much the better.I will meet you there, if you will telegraph reply as soon as you get this.I have three lectures at Helmstone on Sunday, but you will probably prefer a quiet day by the sea.Bring me Westcott's new book, and you might put in the chisel and hammer.We will do a little geologizing for the professor, if we have time.Meeting here last night a great success.Your loving father, Luke Raeburn.""He is only thinking how he can give me pleasure," sighed Erica.

"And I have nothing to give him but pain."She went at once, however, for the "Bradshaw," and looked out the afternoon trains to Codrington.