Longing is God's fresh heavenward will With our poor earthward striving;We quench it that we may be still Content with merely living;But, would we learn that heart's full scope Which we are hourly wronging, Our lives must climb from hope to hope And realize our longing.J.R.Lowell Perhaps it was only natural that there should be that winter a good deal of communication between the secularist's house in Guilford Terrace and the clergyman's house in Guilford Square.
From the first Raeburn had taken a great fancy to Charles Osmond, and now that Brian had become so closely connected with the memory of their sudden bereavement, and had made himself almost one of them by his silent, unobtrusive sympathy, and by his numberless acts of delicate considerateness, a tie was necessarily formed which promised to deepen into one of those close friendships that sometimes exist between two entire families.
It was a bleak, chilly afternoon in March, when Charles Osmond, returning from a long round of parish work, thought he would look in for a few minutes at the Raeburns'; he had a proposal to make to Erica, some fresh work which he thought might interest her.He rang the bell at the now familiar door and was admitted; it carried him back to the day when he had first called there and had been shown into the fire-lit room, with the book-lined walls, and the pretty little girl curled up on the rug, with her cat and her toasting fork.Time had brought many changes since then.This evening he was again shown into the study, but this time the gas was lighted, and there was no little girl upon the hearth rug.
Erica was sitting at her desk hard at work.Her face lighted up at the sight of her visitor.
"Every one is out except me," she said, more brightly than he had heard her speak since her return."Did you really come to see me.
How good of you."
"But you are busy?" said Charles Osmond, glancing at the papers on the desk."Press work?""Yes, my first article," said Erica, "it is just finished; but if you'll excuse me for one minute, I ought to correct it; the office boy will call for it directly.""Don't hurry; I will wait and get warm in the meantime," said Charles Osmond, establishing himself by the fire.
There was a silence broken only by the sound of Erica's pen as she crossed out a word or a line.Charles Osmond watched her and mused.This beautiful girl, whose development he could trace now for more than two years back, what would she grow into? Already she was writing in the "Idol Breaker." He regretted it.Yet it was obviously the most natural employment for her.He looked at her ever-changing face.She was absorbed in her work, her expression varying with the sentences she read; now there was a look of triumphant happiness as she came to something which made her heart beat quickly; again, a shade of dissatisfaction at the consciousness of her inability to express what was in her mind.He could not help thinking that it was one of the noblest faces he had ever seen, and now that the eyes were downcast it was not so terribly sad; there was, moreover, for the first time since her mother's death, a faint tinge of color in her cheeks.Before five minutes could have passed, the bell rang again.
"That is my boy," she exclaimed, and hastily blotting her sheets, she rolled them up, gave them to the servant, closed her desk, and crossing the room, knelt down in front of the fire to warm her hands, which were stiff and chilly.
"How rude I have been to you," she said, smiling a little; "Ialways have been rude to you since the very first time we met.""We were always frank with each other," said Charles Osmond; "Iremember you gave me your opinion as to bigots and Christians in the most delightfully open way.So you have been writing your first article?""Yes," and she stretched herself as though she were rather tired and cramped."I have had a delicious afternoon.Yesterday I was in despair about it, but today it just came--I wrote it straight off.""And you are satisfied with it?"
"Satisfied? Oh, no! Is anybody ever satisfied? By the time it is in print I shall want to alter every sixth line.Still, I dare say it will say a little of what I want said?""Oh, you do want something said?"
"Of course!" she replied, a little indignantly."If not, how could I write.""I quite agree with you," said Charles Osmond, "and you mean to take this up as your vocation?""If I am thought worthy," said Erica, coloring a little.
"I see you have high ideas of the art," said Charles Osmond; "and what is your reason for taking it up?""First of all, though it sounds rather illogical," said Erica, "I write because I MUST; there is something in me which will have its way.Then, too, it is part of our creed that every one should do all in his power to help on the cause, and of course, if only for my father's sake, it would be my greatest pleasure.Then, last of all, I write because I must earn my living.""Good reasons all," said Charles Osmond."But I don't feel sure that you won't regret having written when you look back several years hence.""Oh! I dare say it will all seem crude and ridiculous then, but one must make a beginning," said Erica.
