Like other people, he had his faults, but he was always ready to spend and he spent for what he considered the good of others, while every act of injustice called forth his unsparing rebuke, and every oppressed person or cause was sure to meet with his support at whatever cost to himself.His zeal for what he regarded as the "gospel" of atheism grew and strengthened year by year.He was the untiring advocate of what he considered the truth.Neither illness nor small results, nor loss, could quench his ardor, while opposition invariably stimulated him to fresh efforts.After long years of toil, he had at length attained an influential position in the country, and though crippled by debts incurred in the struggle for freedom of speech, and living in absolute penury, he was one of the most powerful men of the day.
The old bookseller had very truly observed that there was more good in him than people thought, he was in fact a noble character twisted the wrong way by clumsy and mistaken handling.
Brian Osmond was by no means bigoted; he had moreover, known those who were intimate with Raeburn, and consequently had heard enough of the truth about him to disbelieve the gross libels which were constantly being circulated by the unscrupulous among his opponents.Still, as on that November afternoon he watched Raeburn and his daughter down Southampton Row, he was conscious that for the first time he fully regarded the atheist as a fellow-man.The fact was that Raeburn had for long years been the champion of a hated cause; he had braved the full flood of opposition; and like an isolated rock had been the mark for so much of the rage and fury of the elements that people who knew him only by name had really learned to regard him more as a target than as a man.It was he who could hit hardest, who could most effectually baffle and ruin him; while the quieter spirits contented themselves with rarely mentioning his obnoxious name, and endeavoring as far as possible, to ignore his existence.Brian felt that till now he had followed with the multitude to do evil.He had, as far as possible, ignored his existence; had even been rather annoyed when his father had once publicly urged that Raeburn should be treated with as much justice and courtesy and consideration as if he had been a Christian.He had been vexed that his father should suffer on behalf of such a man, had been half inclined to put down the scorn and contempt and anger of the narrow-minded to the atheist's account.The feeling had perhaps been natural, but all was changed now; he only revered his father all the more for having suffered in an unpopular cause.With some eagerness, he went back into the shop to see if he could gather any more particulars from the old bookseller.Charles Osmond had, however, finished his purchases and his conversation, and was ready to go.
"The second house in Guilford Terrace, you say?" he observed, turning at the door."Thank you.I shall be sure to find it.
Good day." Then turning to his son, he added, "I had no idea we were such near neighbors! Did you hear what he told me? Mr.
Raeburn lives in Guilford Terrace."
"What, that miserable blind alley, do you mean at the other side of the square?""Yes, and I am just going round there now, for our friend the 'book-worm' tells me he has heard it rumored that some unscrupulous person who is going to answer Mr.Raeburn this evening, has hired a band of roughs to make a disturbance at the meeting.Fancy how indignant Donovan would be! I only wish he were here to take a word to Mr.Raeburn.""Will he not most likely have heard from some other source?" said Brian.
"Possibly, but I shall go round and see.Such abominations ought to be put down, and if by our own side all the better."Brian was only too glad that his father should go, and indeed he would probably have wished to take the message himself had not his mind been set upon getting the best edition of Longfellow to be found in all London for his ideal.So at the turning into Guilford Square, the father and son parted.
The bookseller's information had roused in Charles Osmond a keen sense of indignation; he walked on rapidly as soon as he had left his son, and in a very few minutes had reached the gloomy entrance to Guilford Terrace.It was currently reported that Raeburn made fabulous sums by his work, and lived in great luxury; but the real fact was that, whatever his income, few men led so self-denying a life, or voluntarily endured such privations.Charles Osmond could not help wishing that he could bring some of the intolerant with him down that gloomy little alley, to the door of that comfortless lodging house.He rang, and was admitted into the narrow passage, then shown into the private study of the great man.The floor was uncarpeted, the window uncurtained, the room was almost dark; but a red-glow of fire light served to show a large writing table strewn with papers, and walls literally lined with books; also on the hearth-rug a little figure curled up in the most unconventionally comfortable attitude, dividing her attention between making toast and fondling a loud-purring cat.
