We Two [187]
take a different view of it," said Raeburn. "But then you had the advantage of some years of secularism."
"Not by me!" cried Erica. "How can it seem anything but very faulty when you judge it only by faulty people? Why not judge it by the life and character of Christ?"
Raeburn turned away with a gesture of impatience.
"A myth! A poetic creation long ago distorted out of its true proportions! There, child, I see we must stop. I only pain you and torture myself by arguing the question."
"One more thing," said Erica, "before we go back to the old silence. Father, if you would only write a life of Christ I mean, a really complete life; the one you wrote years ago was scarcely more than a pamphlet."
He smiled, knowing that she thought the deep study necessary for such an undertaking would lead to a change in his views.
"My dear," he said, "perhaps I would; but just see how I am overdone. I couldn't write an elaborate thing now. Besides, there is the book on the Pentateuch not half finished though it was promised months ago. Perhaps a year or two hence when Pogson gives me time to draw a long breath, I'll attempt it; but I have an idea that one or other of us will have to be 'kilt intirely' before that happy time arrives. Perhaps we shall mutually do for each other, and reenact the historical song." And, with laughter in his eyes, he repeated:
"There once were two cats of Kilkenny, Each thought there was one cat too many, So they quarreled and spit, and they scratched and they bit, Till, excepting their nails and the tips of their tails, Instead of two cats, there weren't any."
Erica smiled faintly, but sighed the next minute.
"Well, there! It's too grave a matter to jest about," said Raeburn. "Oh, bairn! If I could but save you from that brute's malice, I should care very little for the rest."
"Since you only care about it for my sake, and I only for yours, I think we may as well give up caring at all," said Erica, looking up at him with a brave smile. "And, after all, Mr. Cringer, Q. C. can only keep me in purgatory for a few hours at the outside. Don't you think, too, that such a cruel thing will damage Mr. Pogson in the eyes of the jury?"
"Unfortunately, dear, juries are seldom inclined to show any delicate considerateness to an atheist," said Raeburn.
And Erica knew that he spoke truly enough.
No more was said just then. Raeburn began rapidly to run through his remaining correspondence a truly miscellaneous collection. Legal letters, political letters, business letters requests for his autograph, for his help, for his advice a challenge from a Presbyterian minister in the north of Scotland to meet him in debate; the like from a Unitarian in Norfolk; a coffin and some insulting verses in a match box, and lastly an abrasive letter from a clergyman, holding him responsible for some articles by Mr. Masterman, which he had nothing whatever to do with, and of which he in fact disapproved.
"What would they think, Eric, if I insisted on holding the Bishop of London responsible for every utterance of every Christian in the diocese?" said Raeburn.
"They would think you were a fool," said Erica, cutting the coffin into little bits as she spoke.
Raeburn smiled and penciled a word or two on the letter the pith of a stinging reply.
CHAPTER XXXV. Raeburn v. Pogson
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
"Not by me!" cried Erica. "How can it seem anything but very faulty when you judge it only by faulty people? Why not judge it by the life and character of Christ?"
Raeburn turned away with a gesture of impatience.
"A myth! A poetic creation long ago distorted out of its true proportions! There, child, I see we must stop. I only pain you and torture myself by arguing the question."
"One more thing," said Erica, "before we go back to the old silence. Father, if you would only write a life of Christ I mean, a really complete life; the one you wrote years ago was scarcely more than a pamphlet."
He smiled, knowing that she thought the deep study necessary for such an undertaking would lead to a change in his views.
"My dear," he said, "perhaps I would; but just see how I am overdone. I couldn't write an elaborate thing now. Besides, there is the book on the Pentateuch not half finished though it was promised months ago. Perhaps a year or two hence when Pogson gives me time to draw a long breath, I'll attempt it; but I have an idea that one or other of us will have to be 'kilt intirely' before that happy time arrives. Perhaps we shall mutually do for each other, and reenact the historical song." And, with laughter in his eyes, he repeated:
"There once were two cats of Kilkenny, Each thought there was one cat too many, So they quarreled and spit, and they scratched and they bit, Till, excepting their nails and the tips of their tails, Instead of two cats, there weren't any."
Erica smiled faintly, but sighed the next minute.
"Well, there! It's too grave a matter to jest about," said Raeburn. "Oh, bairn! If I could but save you from that brute's malice, I should care very little for the rest."
"Since you only care about it for my sake, and I only for yours, I think we may as well give up caring at all," said Erica, looking up at him with a brave smile. "And, after all, Mr. Cringer, Q. C. can only keep me in purgatory for a few hours at the outside. Don't you think, too, that such a cruel thing will damage Mr. Pogson in the eyes of the jury?"
"Unfortunately, dear, juries are seldom inclined to show any delicate considerateness to an atheist," said Raeburn.
And Erica knew that he spoke truly enough.
No more was said just then. Raeburn began rapidly to run through his remaining correspondence a truly miscellaneous collection. Legal letters, political letters, business letters requests for his autograph, for his help, for his advice a challenge from a Presbyterian minister in the north of Scotland to meet him in debate; the like from a Unitarian in Norfolk; a coffin and some insulting verses in a match box, and lastly an abrasive letter from a clergyman, holding him responsible for some articles by Mr. Masterman, which he had nothing whatever to do with, and of which he in fact disapproved.
"What would they think, Eric, if I insisted on holding the Bishop of London responsible for every utterance of every Christian in the diocese?" said Raeburn.
"They would think you were a fool," said Erica, cutting the coffin into little bits as she spoke.
Raeburn smiled and penciled a word or two on the letter the pith of a stinging reply.
CHAPTER XXXV. Raeburn v. Pogson
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