One day she heard the following cheering sentiment:
“Oh, of course you know the jury will never give a verdict for such a fellow as Raeburn.”
“I suppose they can't help being rather prejudiced against him because of his views; but, upon my word, it seems a confounded shame.” “Oh, I don't see that,” replied the first speaker. “If he holds such views, he must expect to suffer for them.”
Day after day passed and still the case dragged on. Erica became so accustomed to spending the day in court that at last it seemed to her that she had never done anything else all her life. Every day she hoped that she might be called, longing to get the hateful piece of work over. But days and weeks passed, and still Mr. Cringer and his learned friends examined other witnesses, but kept her in reserve. Mr. Bircham had been exceedingly kind to her, and in the “Daily Review” office, where Erica was treated as a sort of queen, great indignation had been caused by Mr. Pogson's malice. “Our little lady” (her sobriquet there) received the hearty support and sympathy of every man in the place from the editor himself to the printer's devil. Every morning the office boy brought her in court the allotted work for the day, which she wrote as well as she could during the proceedings or at luncheon time, with the happy consciousness that all her short comings would be set right by the little Irish sub-editor who worshipped the ground she trod on and was always ready with courteous and unofficious help.
There were many little pieces of kindness which served to heighten that dreary summer for Mr. Pogson's ill-advised zeal had stimulated all lovers of justice into a protest against a most glaring instance of bigotry and unfair treatment. Many clergymen spoke out bravely and denounced the defendant's intolerance; many non-conformist ministers risked giving dire offense to their congregations by saying a good word for the plaintiff. Each protest did its modicum of good, but still the weary case dragged on, and every day the bitterness on either side seemed to increase.
Mr. Pogson had, by fair means or foul, induced an enormous number of witnesses to come forward and prove the truth of his statement, and day after day there were the most wearisome references to old diaries, to reports of meetings held in obscure places, perhaps more than a dozen years ago, or to some hashed and mangled report of a debate which, incredible though such meanness seems, had been specially constructed by some unscrupulous opponent in such a way as to alter the entire meaning of Raeburn's words—a process which may very easily be effected by a judicious omission of contexts. Raeburn was cheered and encouraged, however, in spite of all the thousand cares and annoyances of that time by the rapidly increasing number of his followers, and by many tokens of most touching devotion from the people for whom, however mistakenly, he had labored with unwearying patience and zeal. Erica saw only too plainly that Mr. Pogson was, in truth, fighting against Christianity, and every day brought fresh proofs of the injury done to Christ's cause by this modern instance of injustice and religious intolerance.
It was a terribly trying position, and any one a degree less brave and sincere would probably have lost all faith; but the one visible good effected by that miserable struggle was the strange influence it exerted in developing her character. She was one of those who seem to grow exactly in proportion to the trouble they have had to bear. And so it came to pass that, while evil was wrought in many quarters, in this one good resulted good not in the least understood by Raeburn, or Aunt Jean, or Tom, who merely knew that Erica was less hot and hasty than in former times, and found it more of a relief than ever to come home to her loving sympathy.
“After all,” they used to say, “the miserable delusion hasn't been able to spoil her.”
One day, just after the court had reassembled in the afternoon, Erica was putting the finishing touches to a very sprightly criticism on a certain political speech, when suddenly she heard the name, for which she had waited so long, called in the clerk's most sonorous tones “Erica Raeburn!”
She was conscious of a sudden white flash as every face in the crowded court turned towards her, but more conscious of a strong Presence which seemed to wrap her in a calm so perfect that the disagreeable surroundings became a matter of very slight import. Here were hostile eyes, indeed; but she was strong enough to face all the powers of evil at once. A sort of murmur ran through the court as she entered the witness box, but she did not heed it any more than she would have heeded the murmur of the summer wind without. She just stood there, strong in her truth and purity, able, if need be, to set a whole world at defiance.