To what purpose do you profess to believe in the unity of
the human race, which is the necessary consequence of the
unity of God, if you do not strive to verify it by
destroying the arbitrary divisions and enmities that still
separate the different tribes of humanity? Why do we talk
of fraternity while we allow any of our brethren to be
trampled on, degraded or despised? The earth is our
workshop. We may not curse it, we are bound to sanctify it.
... We must strive to make of humanity one single family.
Mazzini
Erica's appearance at Lady Caroline's dinner party had caused a sort
of storm in a tea cup; the small world of Greyshot was in a state
of ferment, and poor Mrs. Fane-Smith suffered a good deal from the
consciousness that she and her family were the subject of all the gossip
of the place. Her little expedients had failed, and she began to reflect
ruefully that perfect sincerity, plain honesty, would have been the best
policy, after all. By the time that a week had passed, however, censure
and harsh comments began to give place to curiosity, and the result
of this was that on Monday, which was Mrs. Fane-Smith's “at home” day,
Greyshot found it convenient to call in large numbers.
Erica, returning from Oakdene in the afternoon, found her work awaiting
her. Her heart beat rather quickly when, on entering the drawing room
she found it full of visitors; she half smiled to herself to find such
an opportunity of beginning Donovan's work. And very bravely she set
about it. Those who had come from curiosity not unmixed with malice were
won in spite of themselves; even Mr. Cuthbert, who bore down upon her
with the full intention of making her uncomfortable, found himself
checkmated as effectually as at Lady Caroline's dinner table, though in
a very different way.
“I think I saw you in church yesterday morning!” he remarked, by way of
introducing a discordant subject.
“Yes,” replied Erica, “I have been staying at Oakdene Manor, and had a
most delicious time.”
“Sharing Mr. Farrant's philanthropic labors?” asked Mr. Cuthbert, with
his unpleasant smile.
She laughed.
“No; I have been thoroughly lazy, and September is their holiday month,
too. You would have been amused to see us the other evening all hard at
work making paper frogs like so many children.”
“Paper frogs!” said Mr. Cuthbert, with an intonation that suggested
sarcasm.
“Yes; have you ever seen them?” asked Erica. “I don't think many people
know how to make them. Feltrino taught me when I was a little girl I'll
show you, if you like.”
“Did you ever meet Feltrino?” asked Lady Caroline.
She knew very little of the Italian patriot. In his life time he
had been despised and rejected, but he was now dead; his biography a
well-written one was in all the circulating libraries, and even those
who were far from agreeing with his political views, had learned
something of the nobility of his character. So there was both surprise
and envy in Lady Caroline's tone; she had a weakness for celebrities.
“I saw him once when I was seven years old,” said Erica. “He knew
my father, and one day we were overtaken by a tremendous shower, and
happened to meet Feltrino, who made us come into his rooms and wait till
it was over. And while they talked Italian politics I sat and watched
him. He had the most wonderful eyes I ever saw, and presently, looking
up and seeing me, he laughed and took me on his knee, saying that
politics must not spoil my holiday, and that he would show me how
to make Japanese frogs. Once, when he was imprisoned, and was hardly
allowed to have any books, the making of those frogs kept him from going
mad, he said.”
While she spoke she had been deftly folding a sheet of paper, and
several people were watching curiously. “Before very long, the frog
was completed, and the imitation proved so clever that there was an
unanimous chorus of approval and admiration. Every one wanted to learn
how to make them; the Feltrino frogs became the topic of the afternoon,
and Erica fairly conquered the malicious tongues. She was superintending
Lady Caroline's first attempt at a frog, when a familiar name made her
look up.
“Mr. Cunningham Mr. Leslie Cunningham.”
“I thought you were in Switzerland!” she exclaimed, as he crossed the
room and shook hands with her.
“I never got further than Paris,” he said, smiling. “My brother has
gone instead, and I am going to follow your example and study the
beauties of English scenery.”
Perhaps Greyshot opinion was more conciliated by the long talk with Mr.
Leslie Cunningham, M.P., than even by the Feltrino frogs. To have
Luke Raeburn's daughter suddenly thrust into the midst of their select
society at Lady Caroline's dinner was one thing they had one and
all shunned her. But when she proved to be, after all, clever and
fascinating, and original, when they knew that she had sat on Feltrino's
knee as a little child, above all, when they saw that Leslie Cunningham
was talking to her with mingled friendliness and deference, they veered
round. Politically, they hated Sir Michael Cunningham, but in society
they were pleased enough to meet him, and in Greyshot, naturally enough,
his son was a “lion.” Greyshot made much of him during his stay at
Blachingbury, and he found it very convenient just then to be made much
of.
Hardly a day of that week passed in which he did not in some way meet
Erica. He met her in the park with her aunt; he sat next to her at an
evening concert; he went to the theater and watched her all through
“Hamlet,” and came to the Fane-Smith's box between the acts. Yet,
desperately as he was in love, he could not delude himself with the
belief that she cared for him. She was always bright, talkative, frank,
even friendly, but that was all. Yet her unlikeness to the monotonously
same girls, whom he was in the habit of meeting, fascinated him more and
more each day. She was to go back to town on the Monday; on Friday it so
happened that she met Leslie Cunningham at a great flower show, and with
perfect unconsciousness piqued him almost beyond endurance. Now at last
he hoped to make her understand his admiration. They discussed “Hamlet,”
and he had just brought the conversation adroitly round to the love
scene in the third act, when Erica suddenly dashed his hopes to the
ground.
“Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed, pausing before a beautiful exotic.
“Surely that must be an orchid?”
And the reluctant Leslie found the conversation drifting round to
botany, about which he knew little and cared less. Once more his
hopes were raised only to be frustrated. He was sitting besides Mrs.
Fane-Smith and Erica, and had managed to stem the tide of the botany.
The band was playing. Erica, half listening to the music and half
attending to his talk, looked dreamily peaceful; surely now was the
time! But all at once the clear eyes looked up with their perfectly
wide-awake interest, and she exclaimed:
“I do wish the Farrants would come! They certainly meant to be here. I
can't make it out.”
Leslie patiently talked about the member for Greyshot; but, just when
he hoped he was quit of the subject, Erica gave an exclamation of such
unfeigned delight that a consuming envy took possession of him.
“Oh, there he is! And Ralph and Dolly, too!”
And in a moment the Oakdene party had joined them, and Leslie saw that
his chances for that day were over. Before long he had made his escape,
leaving the grounds not moodily, but with the light of a new and eager
determination in his eye.
Erica, returning from the flower show late in the afternoon, found a
note awaiting her, and opened it unconcernedly enough on her way up to
her room. But the first glance at it brought a glow of color to her face
and a nameless fear to her heart. She ran on quickly, locked her door,
and by the ruddy firelight read in a sort of dumb dismay her first offer
of marriage. This then was the meaning of it all. This was the cause of
his hurried return to England; this had brought her the long talks which
had been so pleasant, yes, strangely, unaccountably pleasant. Yet, for
all that, she knew well enough that she had nothing to give in return
for the love revealed in every word of the letter. She liked him, liked
to talk to him, thought him clever and interesting, but that was all.
His wife! Oh, no! Impossible! That could never be! And then, as usual,
even in the midst of her strange sense of discomfort and perplexity,
there came a flash of humor which made her laugh noiselessly in the dim
light. “Tom would call me Mrs. Sly Bacon!”
But a second reading of the letter made her look grave. She was very
much puzzled to know how to answer it; how, in refusing, to give him
least pain. There was nothing else to hesitate about, of her own mind
she was quite sure. There was only an hour till post time. She must
write at once, and she must write in a way which could not be mistaken.
There was not a grain of coquetry about Erica. After some thought she
wrote the following lines:
“Dear Mr. Cunningham, Your letter surprised me very much and pained me,
too, because in replying I fear I must give you pain. I thank you for
the honor you have done me, but I can never be your wife. Even if I
could return your love, which I can not, it could never be right. People
are so prejudiced that the connection of our names might greatly injure
your public work, and, besides, you could not live in the circle in
which I live, and nothing could ever make it right for me to leave my
own people. I can not write as I should like to I can not say what I
would, or thank you as I would but please understand me, and believe me
yours very sincerely, Erica Raeburn.”
Strange enough the writing of that letter, the realization of the
impossibility of accepting Leslie Cunningham's offer, opened out to
Erica a new region, started her upon a new stage of her life progress.
In spite of her trouble at the thought of the pain she must give, there
was an indefinable sense that life and love meant much more than she had
hitherto dreamed of; and, though for the next few days she was a little
grave and silent, there rang in her ears the refrain:
“Oh, life, oh, beyond, Thou art strange, thou art sweet.”
She was not sorry that her visit was drawing to a close, although the
last week had gone much more smoothly. Her vigorous nature began to long
to return to the working day world, and though she could very honestly
thank Mr. Fane-Smith for his kindness, she turned her back on his house
with unmixed satisfaction.
“And you cannot change your ind as to my suggestion?” he asked sending
off one parting arrow.
“I can not,” said Erica, firmly, “he is my father.”
“You must of course make your own choice,” he said with a sigh. “But you
are sadly wrong, sadly wrong! In my opinion your father is--”
“Forgive me for interrupting you,” said Erica, “but by your own showing
you have no right to have any opinion whatever about my father. Until
you have either learned to know him personally, heard him speak, or
fairly and carefully studied his writings, you have no grounds to form
an opinion upon.”
“But the current opinion is--”
“The current opinion is no more an opinion than yours! It is the view
of most bitter opponents. And, candidly, WOULD you accept the current
opinion held of any prominent statesman by his adversaries? Why, the
best men living are represented as fiends in human shape by their
enemies! And if this is so in political matters, how much more in such a
case as my father's!”
Mr. Fane-Smith, who was a well-meaning though narrow man, sighed again;
it was always very painful to him to listen to views which did not
coincide with his own.
“Well,” he said at length, “there is, after all, the hope that you may
convert him.”
“I hope you do not want me to turn into one of those hateful little
prigs, who go about lamenting over their unregenerate parents,” said
Erica, naughtily. Then, softening down, she added, “I think I know what
you mean perhaps I was wrong to speak like that, only somehow, knowing
what my father is, it does grate so to put it in that way. But don't
think I would not give my life for him to come to the light here and now
for I would! I would!”
She clasped her hands tightly together, and turned quickly away.
Mr. Fane-Smith was touched.
“Well, my dear,” he said. “You may be right, after all, and I may be
wrong. All my anxiety is only for your ultimate good.”
The train was on the point of starting, he gave her a warm hand shake,
and in spite of all that jarred in their respective natures, Erica ended
by liking him the best of her new relations.