We Two Part 55

"Oh, what a little fool I've been!" she thought to herself with the strange pang of joy which comes when we make some discovery which sweetens the whole of life, and which seems so self-evident that we can but wonder and wonder at our dense stupidity in not seeing it sooner.

"I've been grudging Brian what G.o.d sees he most wants! I've been groaning over the libels and injustices which seem to bring so much pain and evil when, after all, they will be, in the long run, the very things to show people the need of tolerance, and to establish freedom of speech."

Even this pain of renunciation seemed to gain a new meaning for her though she could not in the least fathom it; even the unspeakable grief of feeling that her father was devoting much of his life to the propagation of error, lost its bitterness though it retained its depth.

For with the true realization of Fatherhood and Sonship impatience and bitterness die, and in their place rises the peace which "pa.s.seth understanding."

"We will have a day of unmitigated pleasure," her father had said to her, and the words had at the time been like a sharp stab. But, after all, might not this pain, this unseen and dimly understood work for humanity, be in very truth the truest pleasure? What artist is there who would not gratefully receive from the Master an order to attempt the loftiest of subjects? What poet is there whose heart would not bound when he knew he was called to write on the n.o.blest of themes? All the struggles, all the weary days of failure, all the misery of conscious incompleteness, all the agony of soul these were but means to the end, and so inseparably bound up with the end that they were no more evil, but good, their darkness over flooded with the light of the work achieved.

Raeburn, coming into the room, saw what she was looking at, and turned away. Little as he could understand her thoughts, he was not the sort of man to wound unnecessarily one who differed from him. His words in public were sharp and uncompromising; in debate he did not much care how he hit as long as he hit hard. But, apart from the excitement of such sword play, he was, when convinced that his hearers were honest Christians, genuinely sorry to give them pain.

Erica found him looking at a Sevres china vase in which he could not by any possibility have been interested.

"I feel Mr. Ruskin's wrathful eye upon me," she said, laughing. "Now after spending all that time before a Carlo Dolci, we must really go to the Uffizzi and look at Botticelli's 'Fort.i.tude'. Brian and I nearly quarreled over it the last time we were there."

So they wandered away together through the long galleries, Erica pointing out her favorite pictures and hearing his opinion about them.

And indeed Raeburn was as good a companion as could be wished for in a picture gallery. The intense development of the critical faculty, which had really been the bane of his existence, came here to his aid for he had a quick eye for all that was beautiful both in art and nature, and wonderfully keen powers of observation. The refreshment, too, of leaving for a moment his life of excessive toil was great; Erica hoped that he really did find the day, for once, "unmitigated pleasure."

They went to Santa Croce, they walked through the crowded market, they had a merry dispute about ascending the campanile.

"Just this one you really must let me try," said Erica, "they say it is very easy."

"To people without spines perhaps it may be," said Raeburn.

"But think of the view from the top," said Erica, "and it really won't hurt me. Now, padre mio, I'm sure it's for the greatest happiness of the greatest number that I should go up!"

"It's the old story," said Raeburn, smiling,

'Vain is the hope, by any force or skill, To stem the current of a woman's will; For if she will, she will, you may depend on't, And if she won't, she won't, and there's an end on't.'

However, since this is probably the last time in our lives that we shall have the chance, perhaps, I'll not do the tyrannical father."

They had soon climbed the steep staircase and were quite rewarded by the magnificent view from the top, a grand panorama of city and river and green Apennines. Erica looked northward to Fiesole with a fast-throbbing heart. Yet it seemed as if half a life time lay between the pa.s.sion-tossed yesterday and the sad yet peaceful present. Nor was the feeling a mere delusion; she had indeed in those brief hours lived years of the spirit life.

She did not stay long at that northern parapet; thoughts of her own life or even of Brian's would not do just then. She had to think of her father, to devote herself to him. And somehow, though her heart was sad, yet her happiness was real as they tried together to make out the various buildings; and her talk was unrestrained, and even her laughter natural, not forced; for it is possible to those who really love to throw themselves altogether into the life of another, and to lay aside all thought of self.

Once or twice that day she half feared that her father must guess all that had happened. He was so very careful of her, so considerate; and for Raeburn to be more considerate meant a great deal for in private he was always the most gentle man imaginable. His opponents, who often regarded him as a sort of "fiend in human shape," were strangely mistaken in their estimate of his character. When treated with discourtesy or unfairness in public, it was true that he hit back again, and hit hard; and, since even in the nineteenth century we are so foolish as to use these weapons against the expression of opinions we deem mischievous, Raeburn had had a great deal of practice in this retaliation. He was a very proud and a very sensitive man, not blessed with overmuch patience. But he held his opinions honestly and had suffered much for them; he had a real love for humanity and an almost pa.s.sionate desire to better his generation. To such a man it was no light thing to be deemed everything that is vile; like poor Sh.e.l.ley, he found it exceedingly bitter to let "murderers and traitors take precedence of him in public opinion." People in general took into account all his harsh utterances (and some of them were very harsh), but they rarely thought anything about the provocation received, the excessively hard life that this man had lived, the gross personal insults which he had had to put up with, the galling injustice he had had to fight against. Upon this side of the question they just turned their backs, pooh-poohed it, or, when it was forced upon their notice, said (unanswerable argument!): "It wouldn't be so!"

When, as they were making the descent, Erica found the strong hand stretched out for hers the moment the way grew dark, when she was warned of the slightest difficulty by, "Take care, little one, a narrow step,"

or, "'Tis rather broken here," she almost trembled to think that, in spite of all her efforts, he might have learned how matters really were.

But by and by his serenity rea.s.sured her; had he thought that she was in trouble his face would not have been so cloudless.

And in truth Raeburn, spite of his keen observation, never thought for a moment of the true state of the case. He was a very literal unimaginative man, and having once learned to regard Brian as an old family friend and as his doctor, he never dreamed of regarding him in the light of his daughter's lover. Also, as is not unfrequently the case when a man has only one child, he never could take in the fact that she was quite grown up. Even when he read her articles in the "Daily Review," or discussed the most weighty topics with her, she was always "little son Eric," or his "little one." And Erica's unquenchable high spirits served to keep up the delusion. She would as often as not end a conversation on Darwinism by a romp with Friskarina, or write a very thoughtful article on "Scrutin de Liste," and then spring up from her desk and play like any child with an India-rubber ball nominally kept for children visitors.

She managed to tide over those days bravely and even cheerfully for her father's sake. It was easier when they had left Florence with its overbright and oversad memories. Peaceful old Verona was more in accordance with her state of mind; and from thence they went to Trento, and over the Brenner, pa.s.sing Botzen and Brixen in their lovely valley, gaining a brief glimpse of the spire-like Dolomito, and gradually ascending the pa.s.s, leaving the river and its yellow reeds, and pa.s.sing through the rich pasture land where the fields were bright with b.u.t.tercups and daisies gold and silver of the people's property as Raeburn called them. Then on once more between crimson and purple porphyry mountains, nearer and nearer to the snowy mountain peaks; and at last, as the day drew to an end, they descended again, and saw down below them in the loveliest of valleys a little town, its white houses suffused by a crimson sunset glow.

"Innsbruck, madame, Innsbruck!" said a fat old Tyrolean man who had been showing them all the beauties of his beloved country throughout the journey.

And, though nothing could ever again have for Erica the sweet glamour of an Italian city, yet she was glad now to have seen the last of that sunny land, and welcomed the homely little place with its matter-of-fact houses and prosperous comfort. She felt somehow that it would be easier to endure now that she was fairly out of Italy.

The day after their arrival at Innsbruck was Sunday. There was no English service as yet for the season had not begun, but Erica went to the little Lutheran church, and Raeburn, who had never been to a Lutheran service, went with her for the sake of studying the congregation, the preacher, and the doctrine. Also, perhaps, because he did not want her to feel lonely in a foreign place.

All her life long Erica remembered that Sunday. The peaceful little church with its high pews, where they sat to sing and stood to pray, the homely German pastor with his plain yet forcible sermon on "Das Gebet,": the restful feeling of unity which so infinitely outweighed all the trifling differences, and the comfort of the sweet old German chorales.

The words of one of them lingered always in her memory.

"Fuhlt Seel und Leib ein Wohl ergehen So treib es mich zum Dank dafur; Last du mich deine Werke sehen, So sey mein Ruhmen stets von dir; Und find ich in der Welt nicht Ruh, So steig mein Schmen Hinmel zu."

After the service was ended, they wandered out into the public gardens where birds were singing round the statue of Walter von der Vogelveice, and a sparrow, to Erica's great delight, perched on his very shoulder.

Then they left the town altogether and roamed out into the open country, crossing the river by a long and curiously constructed plank bridge, and sauntering along the valley beneath the snowy mountains, the river flowing smoothly onward, the birds singing, and a paradise of flowers on every side. It was quite the hottest day they had had, and they were not sorry to rest in the first shady place they came to.

"This is the right way to take pleasure," said Raeburn, enjoying as only an ardent lover of Nature can enjoy a mountain view. "Brief s.n.a.t.c.hes in between hard work. More than that is hardly admissible in such times as ours." His words seemed to them prophetic later on for their pleasure was destined to be even briefer than they had antic.i.p.ated. The hotel at which they were staying was being painted, Erica had a room on the second floor, but Raeburn had been put at the top of the house. They had just returned from a long drive and were quietly sitting in Erica's room writing letters, thinking every moment that the gong would sound for the six-o'clock TABLE D'HOTE, when a sound of many voices outside made Raeburn look up. He went to the window.

"Haloo! A fire engine!" he exclaimed.

Erica hastily joined him; a crowd was gathering beneath the window, shouting, waving, gesticulating.

"Why, they are pointing up here!" cried Erica. "The fire must be here!"

She rushed across the room and opened the door; the whole place was in an uproar, people rushing to and fro, cries of "FEUER! FEUER!" a waiter with scared face hurrying from room to room with the announcement in broken English, "The hotel is on fire!" or, sometimes in his haste and confusion, "The fire is on hotel!" For a moment Erica's heart stood still; the very vagueness of the terror, the uncertainty as to the extent of the danger or the possibility of escape, was paralyzing. Then with the natural instinct of a book lover she hastily picked up two or three volumes from the table and begged her father to come. He made her put on her hat and cloak, and shouldering her portmanteau, led the way through the corridors and down the staircase, steadily forcing a pa.s.sage through the confused and terrified people, and never pausing for an instant, not even asking the whereabouts of the fire, till he had got Erica safely out into the little platz and had set down her portmanteau under one of the trees.

They looked up then and saw that the whole of the roof and the attics of the hotel were blazing. Raeburn's room was immediately below and was in great danger. A sudden thought seemed to occur to him, a look of dismay crossed his face, he felt hurriedly in his pocket.

"Where did I change my coat, Erica?" he asked.

"You went up to your room to change it just before the drive," she replied.

"Then, by all that's unlucky, I've left in it those papers for Hasenbalg! Wait here; I'll be back in a minute."

He hurried off, looking more anxious than Erica had ever seen him look before. The papers which he had been asked to deliver to Herr Hasenbalg in no way concerned him, but they had been intrusted to his care and were, therefore, of course more to be considered than the most valuable private property. Much hindered by the crowd and by the fire engine itself which had been moved into the entrance hall, he at length succeeded in fighting his way past an unceasing procession of furniture which was being rescued from the flames, and pushing his way up the stairs, had almost gained his room when a pitiful cry reached his ears.

It was impossible to a man of Raeburn's nature not to turn aside; the political dispatches might be very important, but a deserted child in a burning house outweighed all other considerations. He threw open the door of the room whence the cry had come; the scaffolding outside had caught fire, and the flames were darting in at the window. Sitting up in a little wooden cot was a child of two or three years old, his baby face wild with fright.

"Poor bairn!" exclaimed Raeburn, taking him in his strong arms. "Have they forgotten you?"

The child was German and did not understand a word, but it knew in a moment that this man, so like a fairy-tale giant, was a rescuer.

"Guter Riese!" it sobbed, appealingly.

The "good giant" s.n.a.t.c.hed a blanket from the cot, rolled it round the shivering little bit of humanity, and carried him down into the platz.

"Keep this bairnie till his belongings claim him," he said, putting his charge into Erica's arms. And then he hurried back again, once more ran the gantlet of the descending wardrobes and bedsteads, and at last reached his room. It was bare of all furniture; the lighter things his coat among them had been thrown out of the window, the more solid things had been carried down stairs. He stood there baffled and for once in his life bewildered.

Half-choked with the smoke, he crossed the room and looked out of the window, the hot breath of the flames from the scaffolding scorching his face. But looking through that frame of fire, he saw that a cordon had been drawn round the indiscriminate piles of rescued property, that the military had been called out, and that the most perfect order prevailed.

There was still a chance that he might recover the lost papers! Then, as there was no knowing that the roof would not fall in and crush him, he made the best of his way down again among the still flowing stream of furniture.

An immense crowd had gathered in the square outside; the awe-struck murmurs and exclamations sounded like the roar of distant thunder, and the shouts of "Wa.s.sER! Wa.s.sER!" alternated with the winding of bugles as the soldiers moved now in one direction, now in another, their bright uniforms and the shining helmets of the fire brigade men flashing hither and thither among the dark ma.s.s of spectators. Overhead the flames raged while the wind blew down bits of burning tinder upon the crowd. Erica, wedged in among the friendly Tyrolese people, watched anxiously for her father, not quite able to believe his a.s.surance that there was no danger. When at length she saw the tall commanding figure emerge from the burning hotel, the white head towering over the crowd, her heart gave a great bound of relief. But she saw in a moment that he had been unsuccessful.

"It must have been thrown out of the window," he said, elbowing his way up to her. "The room was quite bare, carpet and all gone, nothing to be found but these valuables," and with a smile, he held up the last number of the "Idol-Breaker," and a tooth brush.

"They are taking great care of the things," said Erica. "Perhaps we shall find it by and by."