Ah! To how many faith has been
No evidence of things unseen,
But a dim shadow that recasts the creed of the Phantasiasts.
* * * *
For others a diviner creed
Is living in the life they lead.
The passing of their beautiful feet
Blesses the pavement of the street,
And all their looks and words repeat
Old Fuller's saying wise and sweet,
Not as a vulture, but a dove,
The Holy Ghost came from above.
Tales of a Wayside Inn. Longfellow
During the interview Erica had braced herself up to endure, but when
it was over her strength all at once evaporated. She dragged herself
upstairs somehow, and had just reached her room, when Mrs. Fane-Smith
met her. She was preoccupied with her own anxieties, or Erica's
exhaustion could not have escaped her notice.
“I am really quite unhappy about Rose!” she exclaimed. “We must send
for Doctor L----. Her cough seems so much worse, I fear it will turn to
bronchitis. Are you learned in such things?”
“I helped to nurse Tom through a bad attack once,” said Erica.
“Oh! Then come and see her,” said Mrs. Fane-Smith.
Erica went without a word. She would not have liked Mrs. Fane-Smith's
fussing, but yet the sight of her care for Rose made her feel more
achingly conscious of the blank in her own life that blank which nothing
could ever fill. She wanted her own mother so terribly, and just now
Mrs. Fane-Smith had touched the old wound roughly.
Rose seemed remarkably cheerful, and not nearly so much invalided as her
mother thought.
“Mamma always thinks I am going to die if I'm at all out of sorts,” she
remarked, when Mrs. Fane-Smith had left the room to write to the doctor.
“I believe you want doctoring much more than I do. What is the matter?
You are as white as a sheet!”
“I am tired and rather worried, and my back is troublesome,” said Erica.
“Then you'll just lie down on my sofa,” said Rose, peremptorily. “If you
don't, I shall get out of bed and make you.”
Erica did not require much compulsion for every inch of her seemed to
have a separate ache, and she was still all quivering and tingling with
the indignant anger stirred up by her interview with Mr. Fane-Smith. She
let Rose chatter away and tried hard to school herself into calmness.
By and by her efforts were rewarded; she not only grew calm, but fell
asleep, and slept like any baby till the gong sounded for luncheon.
Luncheon proved a very silent meal; it was, if possible, more trying
that breakfast had been. Mrs. Fane-Smith had heard all about the
interview from her husband, and they were both perplexed and disturbed.
Erica felt uncertain of her footing with them, and could only wait for
them to make the first move. But the grim silence tickled her fancy.
“Really,” she thought to herself, “we might be so many horses munching
away at mangers, for all we have said to each other.”
But in spite of it she did not feel inclined to make conversation.
Later on she went for a drive with her aunt; the air revived her,
and she began to feel more like herself again. They went out into the
country, but on the way home Mrs. Fane-Smith stopped at one of the shops
in High Street, leaving Erica in the carriage. She was leaning back
restfully, watching a beautiful chestnut horse which was being held by a
ragged boy at the door of the bank just opposite, when her attention was
suddenly aroused by an ominous howling and barking. The chestnut horse
began to kick, and the boy had as much as he could to hold him. Starting
forward, Erica saw that a fox terrier had been set upon by another and
larger dog, and that the two were having a desperate fight. The fox
terrier was evidently fighting against fearful odds, for he was an old
dog, and not nearly so strong as his antagonist; the howls and barks
grew worse and worse; some of the passengers ran off in a fright, others
watched from a safe distance, but not one interfered.
Now Erica was a great lover of animals, and a passionate lover of
justice. Furious to see men and boys looking on without attempting to
stop the mischief, she sprang out of the carriage, and, rushing up to
the combatants, belabored the big dog with her parasol. It had a strong
stick, but she hit so vehemently that it splintered all to bits, and
still the dog would not leave its victim. Then, in her desperation, she
hit on the right remedy; with great difficulty she managed to grasp him
by the throat, and, using all her force, so nearly suffocated him that
he was obliged to loosen his hold. At that moment, too, a strong man
rushed forward and dealt him such a blow that he bounded off with a
yell of pain, and ran howling down the street. Erica bent over the fox
terrier then; the big dog had mangled it frightfully, it was covered
with blood, and moaned piteously.
“Waif! My poor waif!” exclaimed a voice which she seemed to know. “Has
that brute killed you?”
She looked up and saw Donovan Farrant; he recognized her, but they
were both too much absorbed in the poor dog's condition to think of any
ordinary greeting.
“Where will you take him?” asked Erica.
Donovan stooped down to examine poor Waif's injuries.
“I fear there is little to be done,” he said. “But we might take him
across to the chemist's opposite. Will you hold my whip for me?”
She took it, and with infinite skill and tenderness Donovan lifted the
fox terrier, while Erica hurried on in front to tell the chemist. They
took Waif into a little back room, and did all they could for him; but
the chemist shrugged his shoulders.
“Better kill the poor brute at once, Mr. Farrant,” he said, blandly.
Donovan looked up with a strange gleam in his eyes.
“Not for the world!” he exclaimed, with a touch of indignation in his
tone.
And after that he only spoke to Erica, who, seeing that the chemist
had annoyed him undertook all the fetching and carrying, never once
shrinking though the sight was a horrible one. At length the footman
brought word that Mrs. Fane-Smith was waiting, and she was obliged to
go, reluctantly enough.
“You'll let me know how he gets on?” she said.
“Yes, indeed,” he replied, not thanking her directly for her help, but
somehow sending her away with the consciousness that they had passed the
bounds of mere acquaintanceship, and were friends for life.
She found that her aunt had been waylaid by Mr. Cuthbert.
“If I were the owner of the dog, I should have up our honorable member
for assault. I believe Miss Raeburn broke her umbrella over the poor
thing.”
Erica was just in time to hear this.
“Were you watching it?” she exclaimed. “And you did nothing to help the
fox terrier?”
“I do not feel bound to champion every fighting cur who is getting
the worst of it,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “What has become of Mr. Farrant's
favorite? I suppose he is fussing over it instead of studying the
affairs of the nation.”
“I am afraid the dog is dying,” said Erica.
A curious change passed over Mr. Cuthbert's face; he looked a little
shocked, and turned away somewhat hastily.
“Come,” thought Erica to herself, “I am glad to have discovered a grain
of good in you.”
The next day was Sunday; it passed by very quietly. But on the Monday,
when Erica opened the “Daily Review,” there was her “Society” article
staring her in the face. It was clever and eminently readable, but it
was bitterly sarcastic; she could not endure it. It seemed to her that
she had written what was positively bad, calculated to mislead and to
awaken bitterness, not in the least likely to mend matters. The fact was
she had written it in a moment of passion and against her conscience,
and she regretted it now with far more compunction than she felt for
anything she had written in former times in the “Idol-Breaker.” Then,
though indirectly and sometimes directly attacking Christianity, she had
written conscientiously, now for the first time she felt that she had
dishonored her pen. She went down into the very deepest depths.
The midday post brought her a letter from her stiff old editor, who
understood her better, and thought more of her than she dreamed. It
informed her that another member of the staff had returned from his
holiday, and if she pleased she could be exempted from writing for a
fortnight. As usual Mr. Bircham “begged to remain hers faithfully.”
She hardly knew whether to regard this as a relief or as a punishment.
With a sigh she opened a second letter; it was from Charles Osmond,
in reply to a despairing note which she had sent off just before her
Saturday interview with Mr. Fane-Smith.
It was one of his short, characteristic letters.
“Dear Erica, 'It all comes in the day's work,' as the man said when the
lion ate him! You should have a letter, but I'm up to the eyes in
parish maters. All I can say is pray for that charity which covers the
multitude of sins, and then I think you'll find the Greyshot folk become
more bearable. So you have met Donovan at last. I am right glad! Your
father and I had a long walk together yesterday; he seems very well.
Yours ever, C. O.”
This made her smile, and she opened a third letter which ran as follows:
“My dear Miss Raeburn, I should have called on you last Saturday, but
was not well enough to come in to Greyshot. My husband told me all about
your help and your kindness to our Waif. I know you will be glad to hear
that he is going on well; he is much more to us all than an ordinary
favorite, some day you shall hear his story. I am writing now to ask,
sans ceremonie, if you will come and spend a few days with us. It will
be a great pleasure to us if you will say yes. My husband will be in
Greyshot on Monday afternoon, and will call for your answer; please come
if you can. Yours very sincerely, Gladys Farrant.”
Erica showed this letter to her aunt, and of course there was nothing to
prevent her going; indeed, Mrs. Fane-Smith was really rather relieved,
for she thought a few days' absence might make things more comfortable
for Erica, and, besides, Rose's illness made the days dull for her.
It was about four o'clock when Donovan Farrant arrived. Erica felt as
though she were meeting an old friend when she went into the drawing
room, and found him standing on the hearth rug.
“You have had my wife's note?” he asked, taking her hand.
“Yes,” she replied.
“And you will come?”
“If you will have me.”
“That's right; we had set our hearts on it. You are looking very tired.
I hope Saturday did not upset you?”
“No,” said Erica. “But there have been a good many worries, and I have
not yet learned the art of taking life quietly.”
“You are overdone, you want a rest,” said Donovan, whose keen and
practiced observation had at once noticed her delicate physique and
peculiar temperament. “You are a poet, you see, and as a wise man once
remarked: 'The poetic temperament is one of singular irritability of
nerve.'”
Erica laughed.
“I am no poet!”
“Not a writer of verses, but a poet in the sense of a maker, an artist.
As a reader of the 'Daily Review,' you must allow me to judge. Brian
once showed me one of your articles, and I always recognize them now by
the style.”
“I don't deserve the name of artist one bit,” said Erica, coloring. “I
would give all I have to destroy my article of today. You have not seen
that, or you would not have given me such a name.
“Yes, I have seen it; I read it this morning at breakfast, and made
up my mind that you wrote it on Friday evening, after Lady Caroline's
dinner. I can understand that you hate the thing now. One gets a sharp
lesson every now and then, and it lasts one a life time.”
Erica signed.. He resumed.
“Well! Are you coming to Oakdene with me?”
“Did you mean now at once today?”
“If you will.”
“Oh, I should so like to!” she cried. “But will Mrs. Farrant be
expecting me?”
“She will be hoping for you, and that is better.”
Erica was noted for the speed with which she could pack a portmanteau,
and it could not have been more than ten minutes before she was ready.
Mrs. Fane-Smith wished her goodbye with a sort of affectionate relief;
then Donovan helped her into the pony carriage, and drove briskly off
through the Greyshot streets.
“That is the place where I first heard your father,” he said, indicating
with his whip the town Hall. “It must be sixteen years ago; I was quite
a young fellow.”
“Sixteen years! Did you hear him so long ago as that?” said Erica,
thoughtfully. “Why, that must have been about the time of the great
Stockborough trial.”
“It was; I remember reference being made to it, and how it stirred me
up to think of Mr. Raeburn's gallant defense of freedom, and all that it
was costing him. How well I remember, too, riding home that night along
this very road, with the thoughts of the good of the race, the love of
humanity, touched into life for the first time. When a selfish cynic
first catches a glimpse of an honest man toiling for what he believes
the good of humanity, it is a wonderful moment for him! Mr. Raeburn was
about the only man living that I believed in. You can understand that I
owe him an immense debt of gratitude.”
“That is what you referred to in the House last year!” said Erica. “How
curiously lives are linked together! Words spoken by my father years ago
set thoughts working in you you make a speech and refer to them. I read
a report of your speech in a time of chaotic wretchedness, and it comes
like an answer to a prayer!”
“Another bond between us,” said Donovan.
After that they were silent; they had left the high road and were
driving along winding country lanes, catching glimpses every now and
then of golden corn fields still unreaped, or of fields just beginning
to be dotted with sheaves, where the men were at work. It was a late
harvest that year, but a good one. Presently they passed the tiny little
village church which nestled under the brow of the hill, and then came a
steep ascent, which made Donovan spring out of the pony chaise. Erica's
words had awakened a long train of thought, had carried him back to the
far past, and had brought him fresh proof of that wonderful unity of
Nature which, though often little dreamed of, binds man to man. He gave
the ponies a rest half way up the hill, and, stretching up into the high
hedge, gathered a beautiful spray of red-berried briony for Erica.
“Do you remember that grand thought which Shakespeare puts into the
mouth of Henry V.”
“'There is some soul of goodness in things evil.'
'Tis wonderful to look back in life and trace it out.”
He spoke rather abruptly, but Erica's thoughts had been following much
the same bent, and she understood him.
“Trust is easy on such a day as this and in such a place,” she said,
looking down to the beautiful valley and up to the green, encircling
hills.
Donovan smiled, and touched up the ponies.
It seemed to Erica that they had turned their backs on bigotry, and
annoyance, and care of every description, and were driving right into
a land of rest. Presently they turned in at some iron gates, and drove
down a long approach, bordered with fir trees. At the end of this stood
the manor, a solid, comfortable, well-built country house, its rather
plain exterior veiled with ivy and creepers. Donovan led her into the
hall, where stately old high-backed chairs and a suit or two of
old armor were intermixed with modern appliances, fishing tackle, a
lawn-tennis box, and a sprinkling of toys, which indicated that there
were children in the house.
This fact was speedily indicated in another way, for there came a rush
and a scamper overhead, and a boy of five or six years old ran down the
broad oak staircase.
“Oh, father! May I ride round to the stables on Speedwell?” he cried,
in a desperate hurry to attract his father's attention away from the
servant and the portmanteau; then, catching sight of Erica, he checked
himself, and held out his hand with a sort of shy courtesy. He was
exactly what Donovan must have been as a child, as far as looks went.
“To the stables, Ralph?” replied his father, looking round. “Yes, if you
like. Put on your hat though. Where's your mother?”
“In the garden with Mr. Cunningham; he came a few minutes ago; and he's
got such a horse, father! A real beauty just like cocoa.”
“A roan,” said Donovan, laughing; then, as Ralph disappeared through the
open door, he turned to the servant.
“Is it Mr. Cunningham of Blachingbury?”
“No, sir; Mr. Leslie Cunningham.”
Erica listened, not without interest, for she knew that Leslie
Cunningham was the recently elected member for East Mountshire, the
eldest son of Sir Michael Cunningham.
“We must come and find them,” said Donovan; and together they went out
into the garden.
Here, on one of the broad, grassy terraces, under the shade of a
copper-beech, was afternoon tea on a wicker table. Gladys was talking to
Mr. Cunningham, but catching sight of her husband and Erica at the other
end of the terrace, she hurried forward to greet them.
“This is delightful!” she exclaimed. “I hoped that Donovan might
unceremoniously carry you off today, but hardly dared to expect it. You
are just in time for tea.”
“Your arrival has caused quite a sensation in the nursery,” said Donovan
to Leslie Cunningham. “My small boy is in raptures over your horse 'just
like cocoa!'”
Leslie gave rather an absent laugh. He was watching Erica, who was still
at a little distance talking to Gladys.
“May I be introduced to your guest?” he said.
“Certainly,” said Donovan. “She is the daughter of Mr. Raeburn.”
Leslie started.
“Indeed! I have heard about her from old Bircham, the editor. He can't
say enough of her.”
Apparently Leslie Cunningham could not look enough at her.
Donovan, thinking of Brian, was perhaps a little vexed at the meeting.
However, putting himself into his guest's position, he felt that the
admiration was but natural, and as to Brian if he chose to lose his
heart to such a lovely girl, he must expect to have many rivals.
Erica's first thought, as she glanced at Leslie Cunningham, was one
of disappointment. He was not the least like his father. However, by
degrees she began to like him--for his own sake. He could not have
been more than five-and-twenty, and looked even younger; for he was
fair-complexioned and clean-shaven. His thick, flaxen hair, and rather
pallid face were decidedly wanting in color, but were relieved by very
dark gray eyes. His features were well cut and regular, and the face was
altogether a clever as well as an attractive one.
Erica felt as if she had got into a very delicious new word. The novelty
of a meal AL FRESCO, the lovely view, the beautifully laid out grounds
were charming externals; and then there were the deeper enjoyments
the lovability of her host and hostess; the delightful atmosphere of
broad-hearted sympathy in which they seemed to live and move, and, above
all, the restfulness, the freedom of not living in momentary expectation
of being rubbed the wrong way by a vexing conversation on religious,
or political, or personal topics. It was like a beautiful dream quite
unlike any part of real, waking existence that she had ever before
known. The conversation was bright and lively. They talked because they
had something to say, and wished to say it, and the artificial element
so prevalent in society talk was entirely absent.
Presently Ralph came out of the house, leading a fairy-like little girl
of four years old.
“Here come the children,” said Gladys. “The hour before dinner is their
special time. You have not seen Dolly, have you?”
“Dolly!” The name awoke some recollection of the past in Erica, and, as
she kissed the little girl, she looked at her closely. Yes, it was the
same fascinating little baby face, with its soft, pink cheeks and little
pointed chin, its innocent, blue-gray eyes, its tiny, sweet-tempered
mouth. The sunny brown hair was longer and Dolly was an inch or two
taller, but she was undoubtedly the same.
“Now I know why I always felt that I knew your face!” exclaimed Erica,
turning to Donovan. “Was not Dolly lost at Codrington last year?”
“On the beach,” replied Donovan. “Yes! Why, could it have been you who
brought her back? Of course it was! Now it all comes back to me. I had
exactly the same feeling about knowing your face the other evening at
Lady Caroline's, but put it down to your likeness to Mr. Raeburn. There
is another bond between us.”
They both laughed. Donovan took Dolly upon his knee.
“Do you remember, Dolly, when you were lost on the beach once?”
“Yes,” said Dolly, promptly, “I clied.”
“Who found you?”
“Farver,” said Dolly.
“Who brought you to father?”
Dolly searched her memory.
“An old gentleman gave Dolly sweets!”
“My father,” said Erica, smiling.
“And who helped you up the beach?” asked Gladys.
“A plitty lady did,” said Dolly.
“Was it this lady, do you think?” said Donovan, indicating Erica.
Dolly trotted round with her dear little laughing face to make the
scrutiny.
“I fink vis one is plittier,” she announced. Whereupon every one began
to laugh.
“The most charming compliment I ever heard!” said Leslie Cunningham.
“Dolly ought to be patted on the back.”
Erica smiled and colored; but as she looked again at Donovan and little
Dolly, her thoughts wandered away to that June day in the museum when
they had been the parable which shadowed forth to her such a wonderful
reality. Truly, there were links innumerable between her and Donovan.
Leslie Cunningham seemed as if he intended to stay forever; however,
every one was quite content to sit out on the lawn talking and watching
the children at their play. It was one of those still, soft September
evenings when one is glad of any excuse to keep out of doors.
At last the dressing bell rang, and Leslie took out his watch with an
air of surprise.
“The afternoon has flown!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so late.
I wanted to ask you, by the bye, whether I could see the coffee tavern
at Greyshot. We are going to start one down at our place, and I want to
see one or two well-managed ones first. Whereabouts is it? I think I'll
ride on now, and have a look at it.”
“Dine with us first,” said Donovan, “and I'll ride over with you between
eight and nine, that is the best time for seeing it in full swing.”
So Leslie Cunningham stayed to dinner, and talked a great deal about
temperance work, but did not succeed in blinding his host, who knew well
enough that Erica had been the real cause of his desire to go over to
Greyshot.
Temperance, however, proved a fortunate subject, for it was, of course,
one in which she was deeply interested, all the more so now that it
formed one of the strongest bonds remaining between herself and her
father's followers. A large number of the Raeburnites were either
teetotalers or very strong temperance advocates, and Erica, who was
constantly out and about in the poorer parts of London, had realized
forcibly the terrible national evil, and was an enthusiastic temperance
worker.
Donovan, perhaps out of malice prepense, administered a good many dry
details about the management of coffee taverns, personal supervision,
Etzenberger's machines, the necessity of a good site and attractive
building, etc., etc. Erica only wished that Tom could have been
there, he would have been so thoroughly in his element. By and by the
conversation drifted away to other matters. And as Leslie Cunningham was
a good and very amusing talker, and Gladys the perfection of a hostess,
the dinner proved very lively, an extraordinary contrast to the dreary,
vapid table talk to which Erica had lately been accustomed. After the
ladies had left the room, Donovan, rather to his amusement, found
the talk veering round to Luke Raeburn. Presently, Leslie Cunningham
hazarded a direct question about Erica in a would-be indifferent tone.
In reply, Donovan told him briefly and without comment what he knew of
her history, keeping on the surface of things and speaking always with a
sort of careful restraint. He was never very fond of discussing people,
and perhaps in this case the realization of the thousand objections
to any serious outcome of Leslie's sudden admiration strengthened his
reserve. However, fate was apparently kinder though perhaps really
more cruel than the host, for Donovan was summoned into the library to
interview an aggrieved constituent, and Leslie finding his way to the
drawing room, was only too delighted to meet Gladys going upstairs to
see her children.
The lamps were lighted in the drawing room, but the curtains were not
drawn, and beside the open window he saw a slim, white-robed figure.
Erica was looking out into the gathering darkness. He crossed the room,
and stood beside her, his heart beating quickly, all the more
because she did not move or take any notice of his presence. It was
unconventional, but perhaps because he was so weary of the ordinary
young ladies who invariably smiled and fluttered the moment he
approached them, and were so perfectly ready to make much of him, this
unconventionality attracted him. He watched her for a minute in silence.
She was very happy, and was looking her loveliest. Presently she turned.
“I think it is the stillness which is so wonderful!” she exclaimed.
It was spoken with the frankness of a child, with the spontaneous
confidence of the pure child-nature, which instinctively recognizes all
the lovable and trustable. The clear, golden eyes looked right into his
for a moment. A strange reverence awoke within him. He had seen more
beautiful eyes before, but none so entirely wanting in that unreality of
expression arising from a wish to produce an effect, none so beautifully
sincere.
“The country stillness, you mean?” he replied.
“Yes; it is rest in itself. I have never stayed in the country before.”
“Is it possible!” he exclaimed.
He had often languidly discussed the comparative advantages of Murren
and Zermatt with girls who took a yearly tour abroad as naturally as
their dinner, but to talk to one who had spent her whole life in towns,
who could enjoy a country evening so absolutely and unaffectedly, was a
strange and delightful novelty.
“You are one of those who can really enjoy,” he said. “You are not
blasee you are one of the happy mortals who keep the faculty of
enjoyment as strongly all through life as in childhood.”
“Yes, I think I can enjoy,” said Erica. “But I suppose we pay for our
extra faculty of enjoyment.
“You mean by being more sensitive to pain?”
“Yes, though that sounds rather like Dickens's Mrs. Gummidge, when she
thought she felt smoky chimneys more than other people.”
He laughed.
“How I wish you could turn over your work to me, and go to Switzerland
tomorrow in my place! Only I should wish to be there, too, for the sake
of seeing you enjoy it.”
“Do you go tomorrow?”
“Yes, with my father.”
“Ah! How delightful! I confess I do envy you a little. I do long to see
snow mountains. Always living in London makes me--”
He interrupted her with a sort of exclamation of horror.
“Oh! Don't abuse London!” she said, laughing. “If one must live all the
year round in one place, I would rather be there than anywhere. When I
hear people abusing it, I always think they don't know how to use
their eyes. What can be more lovely, for instance, than the view from
Greenwich Park by the observatory? Don't you know that beautiful clump
of Scotch firs in the foreground, and then the glimpse of the river
through the trees? And then there is that lovely part by Queen
Elizabeth's oak. The view in Hyde Park, too, over the Serpentine, how
exquisite that is on a summer afternoon, with the Westminster towers
standing up in a golden haze. Or Kensington Gardens in the autumn, when
the leaves are turning, and there is blue mist in the background against
the dark tree trunks. I think I love every inch of London!”
Leslie Cunningham would have listened to the praises of the Black
Country, if only for the sake of hearing her voice.
“Well, as far as England goes, you are in the right place for scenery
now; I know a few lovelier parts than this.”
“What are those lights on the lower terrace?” asked Erica, suddenly.
“Glow worms. Have you never seen them? Come and look at them nearer.”
“Oh, I should like to!” she said, with the charming enthusiasm and
eagerness which delighted him so much.
To guide her down the steps in the dusky garden, to feel her hand on his
arm, to hear her fresh, naive remarks, and then to recall what Donovan
Farrant had just told him about her strange, sad story, all seemed to
draw him on irresistibly. He had had three or four tolerably serious
flirtations, but now he knew that he had never before really loved.
Erica was delighted with the glow worms, and delighted with the dewy
fragrance of the garden, and delighted with the soft, balmy stillness
of the night. She was one of those who revel in Nature, and all that
she said was evidently the overflow of a rapturous happiness, curiously
contrasting with the ordinary set remarks of admiration, or falsely
sentimental outbursts too much in vogue. But Leslie Cunningham found
that the child-likeness was not only in manner, but that Erica had no
idea of flirting; she was bright, and merry, and talkative, but she had
no thought, no desire of attracting his attention. She had actually
and literally come out into the garden to see the glow worms, not to
monopolize the much-run-after young M.P, and as soon as she had seen
them she said she felt cold, and suggested going back again.
He was disappointed, but the words were so perfectly sincere, so free
from suspicion of mere conventionality, that there was nothing for it
but to return. Half amused, half piqued, but wholly in love, he speedily
forgot himself in real anxiety.
“I hope you haven't taken cold,” he said, with great solicitude.
“Oh, no,” said Erica; “but I want to be careful for the night-school
work will be beginning soon, and I must go home fresh for that.”
Something in her words broke the spell of perfect happiness which had
hitherto held him. Was it the mention of her every-day life, with its
surroundings unknown to him? Or was it some faint perception that in
the world of duty to which she referred their paths could not rightly
converge? A cold chill crept over him.
“You were quite right,” he said with an involuntary shiver. “It is
decidedly cold out here; the mist rises from the river, I expect,
or else your reference to the working-day world has recalled me from
fairy-land. You should not speak of work in such a place as this it is
incongruous.”
She smiled.
“Ernst ist das leben,” she replied quietly. “One can't forget that even
at such a time as this, and in such a place.”
“How is it that some never forget that for a moment, while others never
remember it at all?” he said musingly.
“Some of us have no excuse for ever forgetting,” she answered “hardly a
chance either.”
And though the words were vague, they shadowed out to him much of her
life a life never free from sorrow, burdened with constant care and
anxiety, and ever confronted by some of the most perplexing world
problems. A longing to shield, and protect, and comfort her rose in his
heart, yet all the time he instinctively knew that hers was the stronger
nature.
It seemed that the seriousness of life was to be borne in upon them
specially that evening, for, returning to the drawing room, they found
Donovan released from his interview, and relating with some indignation
the pitiable story he had just heard. It only reached Leslie Cunningham
in fragments, however over crowding, children sleeping six in a bed,
two of them with scarlet fever, no fever hospital, no accommodation for
them, an inspector, medical officer, the board how drearily dry all the
details seemed to him. He could do nothing but watch Erica's eager face
with its ever-varying play of expression. He hardly knew whether to be
angry with Donovan Farrant for alluding to matters which brought a look
of sadness to her eyes, or to thank him for the story which made her
face light up with indignation and look, if possible, more beautiful
than before.
“Don't offer to put up a fever shanty on the lawn,” said Gladys when her
husband paused.
“I wish we had an empty cottage where we could put them” said Donovan;
“but I am afraid all I can do is to bring pressure to bear upon the
authorities. We'll ride over together, Cunningham, and Jack Trevethan,
our manager, shall show you the tavern while I rout out this medical
officer.”
They had had tea; there was no longer any excuse for delaying. Leslie,
with an outward smile and an inward sigh, turned to take leave of Erica.
She was bending over a basket in which was curled up the invalid fox
terrier. For a moment she left off stroking the white and tan head, and
held out her hand.
“Goodbye,” she said frankly.
That was all. And yet it made Leslie's heart bound. Was he indeed to go
to Switzerland tomorrow? He MUST manage to get out of it somehow.
And all the way to Greyshot he listened to schemes for the work to be
done next session from the ardent sanitary reformer, though just then
the devastation of all England would scarcely have roused him so long as
he was assured of the safety of Luke Raeburn's daughter.