The blank of amaze of your haughty gaze,
The cold surprise of patrician eyes. Lewis Morris
But the paucity of Christians is astonishing, considering
the number of them. Leigh Hunt.
The irritation, or, at any rate, the novelty of the luxury in the
Fane-Smith's household wore off after Erica had spent a few days at
Greyshot. She became accustomed to the great rooms, and being artistic
by nature and the reverse by education, she began very much to enjoy the
pictures, the charming variety of foreign treasures, and particularly
all the lovely things of Indian workmanship with which the drawing room
was crowded. The long, formal meals she learned to endure. The absurdly
large retinue of servants ceased to oppress her; she used to amuse
herself by speculating as to the political views of the men-servants!
while the luxury of a daily drive with her aunt she very much
appreciated.
But, though the mere externals were soon familiar enough, she found that
every day increased the difficulty she felt in becoming accustomed to
the atmosphere of this family. She had lived all her life with people
who were overwhelmed with work, and in a home where recreation was only
the rare concession to actual health. Here recreation seemed to be the
business of life, while work for the public was merely tacked on as a
sort of ornamental fringe.
Mr. Fane-Smith had, indeed, a few committee meetings to attend; Mrs.
Fane-Smith visited her district once a fortnight, and distributed
tracts, and kind words, and soup tickets, and blanket tickets, besides
the most lavish gifts from her own purse. Rose, to please her mother,
taught a class of little girls on Sunday afternoon that is to say, she
did NOT teach them, but she sat in a chair and heard them say collects,
and enforced orderly behavior upon them, and read them a good little
story book. But these were merely rather tiresome duties which came in
very often as provoking interruptions to the great business of life,
namely eating, drinking, dining out, giving dinners, or attending
the endless succession of at-homes, dances, musical evenings, amateur
theatricals, by which Greyshot people tried to kill time.
As to taking any intelligent interest in the political world, no one
seemed to dream of such a thing, except Mr. Fane-Smith, who read the
paper at breakfast, and hurled anathemas at all the statesmen whom Erica
had learned to love and revere. It taxed her patience to the utmost to
sit through the daily diatribe against Sir Michael Cunningham, her hero
of heroes. But even the violent opposition seemed preferable to the want
of interest shown by the others. Mrs. Fane-Smith had time to fritter
away at least half an hour after breakfast in the most desultory
conversation, the most fruitless discussions with Rose as to some detail
of dress; but she always made the excuse that she “had no time” to
read the papers, and amused Erica not a little by asking her husband
if “anything particular had been happening lately,” when they were just
starting for a dinner party. Out of his little rechauffe of the week's
news she probably extracted enough information to enable her to display
that well-bred interest, that vague and superficial acquaintance with
the subject which will pass muster in society, and which probably
explains alike the very vapid talk and the wildly false accusations
which form the staple of ordinary conversation.
Rose was even more perplexing. She was not only ignorant, but she
boasted of her ignorance. Again and again Erica heard her deprecate the
introduction of any public question.
“Oh, don't begin to talk of that!” she would exclaim. “I know nothing
about it, and never mean to know anything.”
Or there would be an imploring appeal.
“Why do you waste your time in talking politics when you have never told
me a word about so-and-so's wedding?”
She occasionally read the “Court Circular,” and was rather fond of
one or two of the “society” papers from which she used to glean choice
little paragraphs of personal gossip.
Once one of these papers gave Erica an uncomfortable experience. The
elders of the party being out for the evening, Rose and Erica had the
drawing room to themselves, and Erica was really enjoying the rare
novelty of talking with a girl of her own age. Rose, although the most
arrant little flirt, was fond, too, of her girl friends, and she
really liked Erica, and enjoyed the fun of initiating her into all the
mysteries and delights of society.
“How did you get your name?” she asked, suddenly. “It is so pretty and
so uncommon.”
“Oh,” said Erica, without thinking, “I was called after my father's
friend, Eric Haeberlein.”
“Eric Haeberlein?” exclaimed Rose. “Why, I was reading something about
him this afternoon. Here it is look!” And after searching the columns of
her favorite “society” paper, she pointed to the following paragraph:
“It is now known as a positive fact that the notorious Eric Haeberlein
was actually in London last week in connection with the disgraceful
Kellner business. ON DIT that he escaped detection through the
instrumentality of one of the fair sex, whose audacity outweighed her
modesty.”
Erica could hardly have restrained her indignation had not two real
dangers drawn off her attention from her own wounded feelings. Her
father was there any hateful hint that he was mixed up with Herr
Kellner? She glanced anxiously down the page. No, at least that
falsehood had not been promulgated. She breathed more freely, but there
was danger still, for Rose was watching her, and feminine curiosity is
hard to baffle.
“Did you know about it?” she asked.
Erica did not reply for a moment, but read on, to gain time; then she
threw down the paper with an exclamation of disgust.
“How can you read such stuff?”
“Yes, but is that the Eric Haeberlein you were named after? Did he
really come to London and escape?”
“There is only one Eric Haeberlein in the world that I know of,” said
Erica. “But I think, Rose, I was wrong and foolish to mention him. I
can't tell you anything about him, and, even if I could, there is my
promise to Aunt Isabel. If I am not to talk to you about my father, I
certainly ought not to talk about his friends.”
Rose acquiesced, and never suspected any mystery. She chatted on happily
for the rest of the evening, brought down a great collection of old
ball-cards, and with a sort of loving recollection described each very
minutely, just as some old nurses have a way of doing with the funeral
cards of their deceased friends. This paved the way for a spontaneous
confession that she really preferred Mr. Torn, the curate of St.
Matthew's, to Captain Golightly, though people were so stupid, and
would say she was in love with him just because they flirted a little
sometimes. Rose had already imagined herself in love with at least
a dozen people, and was quite ready to discuss every one of her
flirtations, but she was disappointed to find that her cousin was either
very reserved on the subject, or else had nothing to say.
Erica sat listening with a sort of wonder, not unmixed with disgust.
Perhaps she might have shown her disapprobation had she not been
thankful to have the conversation diverted from the dangerous topic;
besides, the cruel words were still rankling in her heart, and woven in
with Rose's chatter she heard continually, “whose audacity outweighed
her modesty.” For the first time she fully understood why her father
had so reluctantly consented to her scheme; she began to feel the sting
which lay beneath the words, the veiled “hints,” the implied evil, more
wounding, more damaging than an outspoke lie. Now that she understood
the ways of society better, she saw, too, that what had seemed to her
an unquestionable duty would be regarded as a grave breach of custom
and etiquette. She began to question herself. Had she been right? It
mattered very little what the writer of a “society” paper said of her,
if she had done the really right thing. What had she done? To save
her father's friend from danger, to save her father from unmerited
suspicion, she had gone out late in the evening with a man considerably
over fifty, whom she had known from her babyhood. He had, it is true,
been in the disguise of a young man. She had talked to him on the
platform much as she would have talked to Tom, and to save his almost
certain detection, had sprung into the carriage, thrown her arms round
his neck, and kissed him. HAD audacity outweighed her modesty? Why, all
the time she had been thanking God for having allowed her to undertake
the difficult task for her father on that particular evening. She had
done it in the sight of God, and should she now make herself miserable
because the world was wanting in that charity which “thinketh no evil?”
No, she had been right of that she was certain. Nevertheless, she
understood well enough that society would condemn her action, and would
with a smile condone Rose's most outrageous flirtation.
The first week in a new place always seems long, and Erica felt as if
she had been away from home for months by the time it was over. Every
one had been very kind to her so far, but except when she was playing
lawn-tennis she was somehow far from happy., Her happiest moments were
really those which she spent in her own room before breakfast, writing;
and the “Daily Review” owed some very lively articles to the Greyshot
visit. Beyond a sort of clan feeling for her aunt, and a real liking for
Rose who, in spite of her follies, was good-humored and very lovable
she had not yet found one point of union with her new relations. Even
possible topics of conversation were hard to find. They cared nothing
for politics, they cared nothing for science, they were none of them
book lovers, and it was against their sense of etiquette to speak of
anything but the externals of religion. Worst of all, any allusion to
home matters, any mention of her father had to be avoided. Little was
left but the mere gossip of the neighborhood, which, except as a social
study, could not interest Erica.
Greyshot was an idle place; the church seemed asleep, a drowsy
indifference hung about the richer inhabitants, while the honest
workers not unnaturally banded themself together against the sleepily
respectable church-goers, and secularism and one or two other “isms”
made rapid advances. Then sleepy orthodoxy lifted its drowsy head for a
minute, noted the evil, and abused Mr. Raeburn and his fellow workers,
lamenting in many-syllable words the depravity of the working classes
and the rapid spread of infidelity. But nothing came of the lament; it
never seemed to strike them that they must act as well as talk, that
they must renounce their useless, wasteful, un-Christian lives before
they had even a right to lift up their voices against secularism, which
certainly did in some measure meet the needs of the people. It never
seemed to strike them that THEY were the real promoters of infidelity
that they not only dishonored the name of Christ, but by their
inconsistent lives disgusted people with Christianity, and then refused
to have anything more to do with them. Luke Raeburn, if he pulled down
with the one hand, at any rate, tried hard to build up with the other;
but the people of Greyshot caused in a great degree the ruin and down
fall, and then exclaimed, “How shocking!” and turned their backs,
thinking to shift their blame on to the secularist leaders.
As far as society goes, they succeeded in thus shifting the blame; the
world laid it all on Luke Raeburn, he was a most convenient scapegoat,
and so widely does conventional Christianity differ from the religion
founded by Christ it soon became among a certain set almost equivalent
to a religious act to promulgate bits of personal scandal about
him, flavored, of course, with wordy lamentations as to the views he
entertained. Thus, under the name of defenders of religion, conventional
Christians managed to appear very proper and orthodox, and at the same
time to dispose comfortably of all their sense of responsibility. There
was a meanness about their way of doing it which might have made the
very angels weep! Happily the judgments of society are not the judgments
of God.
One of the leaders of society was a certain Lady Caroline Kiteley; she
was a good-natured, hospitable creature, very anxious that every one
should enjoy life, and a great favorite with all the young people,
because she made much of them and gave delightful dances. The elders,
too, liked her, and were not oblivious to the fact that she was the
daughter of an earl, and the widow of a distinguished general. Erica had
seen her more than once during her visit, and had been introduced to her
by Mrs. Fane-Smith, as “my niece.”
Now it happened that Mr. And Mrs. Fane-Smith and Rose were to dine with
Lady Caroline the week after Erica's arrival. On the very day of the
dinner party, however, Rose was laid up with a bad cold, and her mother
was obliged to write and make her excuses. Late in the afternoon there
came in reply one of Lady Caroline's impulsive notes.
“Dear Mrs. Fane-Smith, Scold that silly daughter of yours for catching
cold; give her my love, and tell her that I was counting on her very
much. Please bring your pretty niece instead. Yours sincerely, Caroline
Kiteley.”
Mrs. Fane-Smith was glad and sorry at the same time, and very much
perplexed. Such a peremptory but open-hearted invitation could not be
declined, yet there were dangers in the acceptance. If Erica's name
should transpire, it might be very awkward, but she had not broached
the suggested change of name to her, and every day her courage dwindled
every day that resolute mouth frightened her more. She was quite aware
that Erica's steady, courageous honesty would unsparingly condemn all
her small weaknesses and little expedients.
Erica, when told of the invitation, was not particularly anxious to go,
for she and Rose had been planning a cozy evening at home over a new
novel upon which their tastes really agreed. However, Rose assured her
that Lady Caroline's parties were always delightful, and hunted her off
to dress at least an hour before there was any necessity. Rose was a
great authority on dress and, when her cousin returned, began to study
her attire critically.
She wore a very simply made dress of moss-green velveteen, high to the
throat, and relieved by a deep falling collar of old point. Elspeth had
brought her a spray of white banksia roses, but otherwise she wore no
ornament. Her style was very different from her cousin's; but Rose could
not help approving of it, its severity suited Erica.
“You look lovely!” she exclaimed. “Lady Caroline will quite lose her
heart to you! I think you should have that dress cut low in front,
though. It is a shame not to show such a pretty neck as you must have.”
“Oh, no!” said Erica, quickly; “father can't endure low dresses.”
“One can't always dress to please one's father,” said Rose. “For the
matter of that, I believe papa doesn't like them; but I always
wear them. You see it is more economical, one must dress much more
expensively if one goes in for high dresses. A little display of neck
and arms, and any old rag will look dressy and fashionable, and though I
don't care about economy, mamma does.”
“You don't have an allowance, then?”
“No; papa declared I ought to dress on eighty pounds a year, but I never
could make both ends meet, and I got a tiresome long bill at Langdon's,
and that vexed him, so now I get what I like and mamma pays.”
Erica made no comment, but was not a little amazed. Presently Mrs.
Fane-Smith came in, and seemed well pleased with her niece's appearance.
“You have the old point!” she exclaimed.
“Aunt Jean gave it to me,” said Erica. “She never would part with it
because it was grandmamma's at least, she did sell it once, when father
was ill years ago, and we were at our wit's end for money, but she got
it back again before the end of the year.”
Mrs. Fane-Smith colored deeply, partly at the idea of her mother's
lace being taken to a pawnbroker's, partly to hear that her brother and
sister had ever been reduced to such straits. She made an excuse to take
Erica away to her room, and there questioned her more than she had yet
done about her home.
“I thought your father was so strong,” she said. “Yet you speak as if he
had had several illnesses.”
“He has,” replied Erica. “Twice I can remember the time when they
thought him dying, besides after the riot last year. Yes, he is strong,
but, you see, he has such a hard life. It is bad enough now, and I doubt
if any one knows how fearfully he overworked himself during the year in
America. The other day I had to look something up in his diary for him,
and not till then did I find out how terribly he must have taxed his
strength. On an average he got one night's rest in the week, on
the others he slept as well as he could in the long cars, which are
wretchedly uncomfortable; the sleeping cars being expensive, he wouldn't
go in them.”
Mrs. Fane-Smith sighed. Her brother was becoming more of a living
reality to her; she thought of him less as a type of wickedness. The
recollection, too, that she had been all her life enjoying the money
which he and her sister Jean had forfeited by their opinions, made her
grieve the more over the little details of poverty and privation. Old
Mr. Raeburn had left all his money to her, bequeathing to his other
daughter and his reprobate son the sum of one shilling, with the hope
that Heaven would bring them to a better mind. It was some comfort to
learn from Erica that at last the terrible load of debt had been cleared
off, and that they were comparatively free from trouble just at present.
With these thoughts in her mind, Mrs. Fane-Smith found herself on her
way to Lady Caroline's; but her developing breadth of view was destined
to receive a severe shock. They were the last guests to arrive, and at
the very moment of their entrance Lady Caroline was talking in her most
vivacious way to Mr. Cuthbert, a young clergyman, the vicar of one of
the Greyshot churches.
“I am going to give you a treat, Mr. Cuthbert,” she said laughingly. “I
know you are artistic, and so I intend you to take down that charming
niece of Mrs. Fane-Smith's. I assure you she is like a Burne-Jones
angel!”
Mr. Cuthbert smiled a quietly superior smile, and coolly surveyed Erica
as she came in. Dinner was announced almost immediately, and it was not
until Mrs. Fane-Smith had been taken down that Lady Caroline brought Mr.
Cuthbert to Erica's side to introduce him. “Why, your aunt has never told
me your name,” she said, smiling.
“My name is Erica Raeburn,” said Erica, quite unconscious that this was
a revelation to every one, and that her aunt had purposely spoken of her
everywhere as “my niece.”
Lady Caroline gave a scarcely perceptible start of surprise, and
there was a curious touch of doubt and constraint in her voice as
she pronounced the “Mr. Cuthbert, Miss Raeburn.” Undoubtedly that name
sounded rather strangely in her drawing room, and awoke uncomfortable
suggestions.
“Raeburn! Erica Raeburn!” thought Mr. Cuthbert to himself. “Uncommon
name in England. Connection, I wonder! Aunt hadn't given her name! That
looks odd. I'll see if she has a Scotch accent.”
“Are you staying in Greyshot?” he asked as they went down the broad
staircase, with its double border of flowering plants.
“Yes,” said Erica; “I came last week. What lovely country it is about
here!”
“Country,” with its thrilled “r,” betrayed her nationality, though her
accent was of the slightest. Mr. Cuthbert chuckled to himself, for he
thought he had caught Mrs. Fane-Smith tripping, and he was a man
who derived an immense amount of pleasure from making other people
uncomfortable. As a child, he had been a tease; as a big boy, he had
been a bully; as a man, he had become a malicious gossip monger. Tonight
he thought he saw a chance of good sport, and directly he had said
grace, in the momentary pause which usually follows, he turned to Erica
with an abrupt, though outwardly courteous question, carried off with a
little laugh.
“I hope you are no relation to that despicable infidel who bears your
name, Miss Raeburn?”
Erica's color deepened; she almost annihilated him with a flash from her
bright indignant eyes.
“I am Luke Raeburn's daughter,” she said, in her clearest voice, and
with a dignity which, for the time, spoiled Mr. Cuthbert's enjoyment.
Many people had heard the vicar's question during the pause, and not
a few listened curiously for the answer which, though quietly spoken,
reached many ears, for nothing gives so much penetrating power to words
as concentrated will and keen indignation. Before long every one in the
room knew that Mrs. Fane-Smith's pretty niece was actually the daughter
of “that evil and notorious Raeburn.”
Mr. Cuthbert had certainly got his malicious wish; he had succeeded
in making Mrs. Fane-Smith miserable, in making his hostess furious, in
putting his little neighbor into the most uncomfortable of positions. Of
course he was not going to demean himself by talking to “that atheist's
daughter.” He enjoyed the general discomfiture to his heart's content,
and then devoted himself to the lady on his other side.
As for Erica her blood was up. Forced to sit still, forced even to eat
at a table where she was an unwelcome guest, her anger got the mastery
of her for the time. She was indignant at the insult to her father,
indignant, too, that her aunt had ever allowed her to get into such a
false position. The very constraint she was forced to put upon herself
made her wrath all the deeper. She was no angel yet, though Mr.
Burne-Jones might have taken her for a model. She was a quick-tempered
little piece of humanity; her passions burned with Highland intensity,
her sense of indignation was strong and keen, and the atmosphere of
her home, the hard struggle against intolerable bigotry and malicious
persecution had from her very babyhood tended to increase this. She had
inherited all her father's passion for justice and much of his excessive
pride, while her delicate physical frame made her far more sensitive.
Moreover, though since that June morning in the museum she had gained a
peace and happiness of which in the old days she had never dreamed, yet
the entire change had in many ways increased the difficulties of her
life. Such a wrench, such an upheaval as it had involved, could not but
tell upon her immensely. And, besides, she had in every way for the last
three months been living at high pressure.
The grief, the disapproval, the contemptuous pity of her secularist
friends had taxed her strength to the utmost, but she had stood firm,
and had indeed been living on the heights.
Now the months of Charles Osmond's careful preparation were over, her
baptism was over, and a little weary and overdone with all that she had
lived through that summer, she had come down to Greyshot expecting rest,
and behold, fresh vexations had awaited her!
A nice Christian world! A nice type of a clergyman! she thought to
herself, as bitterly as in the old days, and with a touch of sorrow
added. The old lines from “Hiawatha,” which had been so often on her
lips, now rang in her head:
“For his heart was hot within him, Like a living coal his heart was.”
She longed to get up and go, but that would have put her aunt in a yet
more painful position, and might have annoyed Lady Caroline even more
than her presence. She would have given anything to have fainted after
the convenient fashion of the heroines of romance, but never had she
felt so completely strung up, so conscious of intense vitality. There
was nothing for it but endurance. And for two mortal hours she had to
sit and endure! Mr. Cuthbert never spoke to her; her neighbor on the
other side glanced at her furtively from time to time, but preserved a
stony silence; there was an uncomfortable cloud on her hostess's brow;
while her aunt, whom she could see at some distance on the other side of
the table, looked very white and wretched.
It is wonderful how rude people can be, even in good society, and the
looks of “blank amaze,” “cold surprise,” and “cool curiosity” which
Erica received would hardly be credited. A greater purgatory to a
sensitive girl, whose pride was by no means conquered, can hardly be
conceived.
She choked down a little food, unable to reject everything, but her
throat almost refused to swallow it. The glare of the lights, the
oppressive atmosphere, the babel of tongues seemed to beat upon her
brain, and a sick longing for home almost overmastered her. Oh, to get
away from these so-called Christians, with their cruel judgments, their
luxuries, their gayeties these hard, rich bigots, who yet belonged to
the body she had just joined, with who, in the eyes of her old friends,
she should be identified! Oh, for the dear old book-lined study at home!
For one moment with her father! One word from a being who loved and
trusted her! Tears started to her eyes, but the recollection that even
home was no longer a place of refuge checked them. There would be Aunt
Jean's wearing remonstrances and sarcastic remarks; there would be Mr.
Masterman's patronizing contempt, and Tom's studious avoidance of
the matters she had most at heart. Was it worse to be treated as a
well-meaning idiot, or as an outcast and semi-heretic? Never till now
had she so thoroughly realized her isolation, and she felt so bruised
and buffeted and weary that the realization at that particular time was
doubly trying.
Isolation is perhaps the greatest of all trials to a sensitive and
warm-hearted nature, and nothing but the truest and deepest love for
the whole race can possibly keep an isolated person from growing bitter.
Erica knew this, had known it ever since Brian had brought her
the message from her mother; “It is only love that can keep from
bitterness.” All through these years she had been struggling hard, and
though there had been constant temptations, though the harshness of the
bigoted, the insults offered to her father in the name of religion,
the countless slights and slanders had tried her to the utmost, she had
still struggled upward, and in spite of all had grown in love. But
now, for the first time, she found herself completely isolated. The
injustice, the hardness of it proved too much for her. She forgot that
those who would be peace-makers reconcilers, must be content to receive
the treatment which the Prince of Peace received; she forgot that these
rich, contemptuous people were her brothers and sisters, and that their
hard judgment did not and could not alter their relationship; she forgot
all in a burning indignation, in an angry revolt against the injustice
of the world.
She would study these people, she would note all their little weaknesses
and foibles. Mr. Bircham had given her carte blanche for these three
weeks; she would write him a deliciously sarcastic article on modern
society. The idea fixed her imagination, she laughed to herself at the
thought; for, however sad the fact, it is nevertheless true that to
ordinary mortals “revenge is sweet.” Had she given herself time to think
out matters calmly, she would have seen that boh Christianity and the
rules of art were opposed to her idea. It is true that Michael Angelo
and other painters used to revenge themselves on the cardinals or
enemies they most hated by painting them in the guise of devils, but
both they and their art suffered by such a concession to an animal
passion. And Erica fell grievously that evening. This is one of the
evils of social ostracism. It is unjust, unnatural, and selfish. To
preserve what it considers the dignity of society, it drives human
beings into an unnatural position; it fosters the very evils which it
denounces. And society is grossly unfair. A word, a breath, a false
libel in a newspaper is quite sufficient. It will never trouble itself
to inquire minutely into the truth, but will pronounce its hasty
judgment, and then ostracize.
Erica began to listen attentively to the conversation, and it must be
owned that it was not very edifying. Then she studied the faces and
manners of her companions, and, being almost in the middle of the table,
she had a pretty good view. Every creature she studied maliciously,
keenly, sarcastically, until she came to the end of the table, and there
a most beautiful face brought her back to herself for a minute with a
sort of shock. Where had she seen it before? A strong, manly face of the
Roman type, clean-shaven, save for a very slight mustache, which did
not conceal the firm yet sensitive mouth; dark eyes, which even as she
wondered met hers fully for an instant, and gave her a strange feeling
of protection. She knew that at least one person in the room did not
shudder at the idea of sitting at table with Luke Raeburn's daughter.
Better thoughts returned to her, she grew a little ashamed of her
malice, and began to wonder who that ideal man could be. Apparently he
was one of the distinguished guests, for he had taken down Lady Caroline
herself. Erica was just too far off to hear what he said, and in another
moment she was suddenly recalled to Mr. Cuthbert. He was talking to the
old gentleman on her left hand, who had been silently surveying her at
intervals as though he fancied she could not be quite human.
“Have you been following this Kellner trial?” asked Mr. Cuthbert.
“Disgraceful affair, isn't it?”
Then followed references to Eric Haeberlein, and veiled hints about his
London friends and associates more dangerous to the country than say
foreigners, “traitors, heady, high-minded,” etc., etc. Such evil-doers
always managed to keep within the letter of the law; but, for his part,
he thought they deserved to be shut up, more than most of those who get
penal servitude for life.
Erica's wrath blazed up again. Of course the veiled hints were intended
to refer to her father, and the cruelty and insolence of the speaker
who knew that she understood his allusions scattered all her better
thoughts. It required a strong effort of will to keep her anger and
distress from becoming plainly visible. Her unwillingness to give
Mr. Cuthbert such a gratification could not have strengthened her
sufficiently, but love and loyalty to her father and Eric Haeberlein had
carried her through worse ordeals than this.
She showed no trace of embarrassment, but moved a very little further
back in her chair, implying by a sort of quiet dignity of manner, that
she thought Mr. Cuthbert exceedingly ill-mannered to talk across her.
Feeling that his malicious endeavor had entirely failed, and stung
by her dignified disapproval, Mr. Cuthbert struck out vindictively.
Breaking the silence he had maintained toward her, he suddenly flashed
round upon her with a question.
“I suppose you are intimately acquainted with Eric Haeberlein?”
He tried to make his tone casual and seemingly courteous, but failed.
“What makes you suppose that?” asked Erica, in a cool, quiet voice.
Her perfect self-control, and her exceedingly embarrassing
counter-question, quite took him aback. At that very minute, too,
there was the pause, and the slight movement, and the glance from Lady
Caroline which reminded him that he was the only clergyman present, and
had to return thanks. He bent forward, and went through the usual form
of “For what we have received,” though all the time he was thinking
of the “counter-check quarrelsome” he had received from his next-door
neighbor. When he raised his head again he found her awaiting his
answer, her clear, steady eyes quietly fixed on his face with a look
which was at once sad, indignant, and questioning.
His question had been an insulting one. He had meant it to prick and
sting, but it is one thing to be indirectly rude, and another to give
the “lie direct.” Her quiet return question, her dignity, made it
impossible for him to insult her openly. He was at her mercy. He colored
a little, stammered something incoherent about “thinking it possible.”
“You are perfectly right,” replied Erica, still speaking in her quietly
dignified voice. “I have known Herr Haeberlein since I was a baby, so
you will understand that it is quite impossible for me to speak with you
about him after hearing the opinions you expressed just now.”
For once in his life Mr. Cuthbert felt ashamed of himself. He did not
feel comfortable all through dessert, and gave a sigh of relief when the
ladies left the room.
As for Erica's other neighbor, he could not help reflecting that Luke
Raeburn's daughter had had the best of it in the encounter. And he
wondered a little that a man, whom he had known to do many a kindly
action, should so completely have forgotten the rules of ordinary
courtesy.