We Two: A Novel

CHAPTER XXVI. A Friend

     Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us;
     but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and
     unjust, will say, and what the truth will say.  And
     therefore you begin in error when you suggest that we should
     regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good
     and evil, honorable and dishonorable.—Plato.

In the drawing room Erica found the ostracism even more complete and more embarrassing. Lady Caroline who was evidently much annoyed, took not the slightest notice of her, but was careful to monopolize the one friendly looking person in the room, a young married lady in pale-blue silk. The other ladies separated into groups of two and threes, and ignored her existence. Lady Caroline's little girl, a child of twelve, was well bred enough to come toward her with some shy remark, but her mother called her to the other side of the room quite sharply, and made some excuse to keep her there, as if contact with Luke Raeburn's daughter would have polluted her.

A weary half hour passed. Then the door opened, and the gentlemen filed in. Erica, half angry, half tired, and wholly miserable, was revolving in her brain some stinging sentences for her article when the beautiful face again checked her. Her “Roman,” as she called him, had come in, and was looking round the room, apparently searching for some one. At last their eyes met, and, with a look which said as plainly as words: “Oh, there you are! It was you I wanted,” he came straight towards her.

“You must forgive me, Miss Raeburn, for dispensing with an introduction,” he said; “but I hardly think we shall need any except the name of our mutual fried, Charles Osmond.”

Erica's heart gave a bound. The familiar name, the consciousness that her wretched loneliness was at an end, and above all, the instantaneous perception of the speaker's nobility and breadth of mind, scattered for the time all her resentful thoughts made her again her best self.

“Then you must be Donovan!” she exclaimed, with the quaint and winsome frankness which was one of her greatest charms. “I knew I was sure you were not like other people.”

He took her hand in his, and no longer wondered at Brian's seven years' hopeless waiting. But Erica began to realize that her exclamation had been appallingly unconventional, and the beautiful color deepened in her cheeks.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, remembering with horror that he was not only a stranger but an M.P., “I I don't know what made me say that, but they have always spoken of you by your Christian name, and you have so long been 'Donovan' in my mind that somehow it slipped out you didn't feel like a stranger.”

“I am glad of that,” he said, his dark and strangely powerful eyes looking right into hers. Something in that look made her feel positively akin to him. Like a stranger! Of course he had not felt like one. Never could be like anything but a friend. “You see,” he continued, “we have known of each other for years, and we know that we have one great bond of union which others have not. Don't retract the 'Donovan' I like it. Let it be the outward sign of the real and unusual likeness in the fight we have fought.”

She still half hesitated. He was a man of five-and-thirty, and she could not get over the feeling that her impulsive exclamation had been presumptuous. He saw her uncertainty, and perhaps liked her the better for it, though the delicious naturalness, the child-like recognition of a real though scarcely known friend, had delighted him.

“We are a little more brother and sister than the rest of the world,” he said, with the chivalrous manner which seemed to belong naturally to his peculiarly noble face. “And if I were to confess that I had not always thought of you as 'Miss Raeburn'—”

He paused, and Erica laughed. It was absurd to stand on ceremony with this kindred spirit.

“Have you seen the conservatory?” he asked. “Shall we come in there? I want to hear all about the Osmonds.”

The relief of speaking with one who knew and loved Charles Osmond, and did not, for want of real knowledge, brand him with the names of half a dozen heresies, was very great. It was not for some time that Erica even glanced at the lovely surroundings, though she had inherited Raeburn's great love of flowers. At last, however, an exquisite white flower attracted her notice, and she broke off in the middle of a sentence.

“Oh, how lovely! I never saw anything like that before. What is it?”

“It is the EUCHARIS AMAZONICA,” replied her companion “About the most exquisite flower in the world, I should think the 'dove flower,' as my little ones call it. Ir you look at it from a distance the stamens really look like doves bending down to drink.”

“It is perfect! How I wish my father could see it!”

“We have a fairly good one at Oakdene, though not equal to this. We must persuade you and Mr. Raeburn to come and stay with us some day.”

The tears came into Erica's eyes, so great was the contrast between his friendliness and the chilling discourtesy she had met with from others that evening.

“You are very good,” she said. “If you only knew how hard it is to be treated as if one were a sort of semi-criminal!”

“I do know,” he said. “It was this very society which goaded me into a sort of wild rebellion years ago. I deserved its bad opinion in a measure, and you do not, but it was unfair enough to make one pretty desperate.”

“If they were actual saints one might endure it,” cried Erica. “But to have such a man as my father condemned just as hearsay by people who are living lazy, wasteful lives is really too much. I came to Greyshot expecting at least unity, at least, peace in a Christian atmosphere, and THIS is what I get.”

Donovan listened in silence, a great sadness in his eyes. There was a pause; then Erica continued: “You think I speak hotly. I cannot help it. I think I do not much mind what they do to me, but it is the injustice of the thing that makes one wild, and worst of all, the knowing that this is what drives people into atheism this is what dishonors the name of Christ.”

“You are right,” he replied, with a sigh; “that IS the worst of it. I have come to the conclusion that to be tolerant to the intolerant is the most difficult thing in life.”

“You must have plenty of practice in this dreadful place,” said Erica.

He smiled a little.

“Why, to be seen talking to ME will make people say all sorts of evil of you,” she added. “I wish I had thought of that before.”

“You wouldn't have spoken to me?” asked Donovan, laughing. “Then I am very glad it didn't occur to you. But about that you may be quite easy; nothing could make them think much worse of me than they do already. I began life as the black sheep of the neighborhood, and it is easier for the Ethiopian to change his skin than for a man to live down the past in public opinion. I shall be, at any rate, the dusky gray sheep of the place to the end of my life.”

There was no bitterness, no shade of complaint in his tone; he merely stated a fact. Erica was amazed; she knew that he was about the only man who attempted to grapple with the evil and degradation and poverty of Greyshot.

“You see,” he continued, with a bright look which seemed to raise Erica into purer atmosphere, “it is not the public estimation which makes a man's character. There is one question, which I think we ought never to ask ourselves, and that is 'What will people think of me?' It should be instead: 'How can I serve?'”

“But if they take away your power, how can you serve?”

“They can't take it away; they may check and hinder for a time, that is all. I believe one may serve always and everywhere.”

“You don't mean that I can serve that roomful of enemies in there?”

“That is exactly what I do mean,” he answered, smiling a little.

In the meantime, Lady Caroline was apologizing to Mr. Cuthbert.

“I don't know when I have been so vexed!” she exclaimed. “It is really too bad of Mrs. Fane-Smith. I had no idea that the Burne-Jones angel I promised you was the daughter of that disgraceful man. What a horrible satire, is it not?”

“Pray, don't apologize,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “It was really rather amusing than otherwise, and I fancy the young lady will be in no great hurry to force her way into society again.”

He laughed a soft, malicious, chuckling laugh.

“I should hope not, indeed,” said Lady Caroline, indignantly. “Where has she disappeared to?”

“Need you ask?” said Mr. Cuthbert, smiling. “Our revered member secured her at once, and has been talking to her in the conservatory for at least half an hour, hatching radical plots, I dare say, and vowing vengeance on all aristocrats.”

“Really it is too shocking!” said Lady Caroline. “Mr. Farrant has no sense of what is fitting; it is a trait which I have always noticed in Radicals. He ought, at least to have some respect for his position.”

“Birds of a feather flock together,” suggested Mr. Cuthbert, with his malicious smile.

“Well, I don't often defend Mr. Farrant,” said Lady Caroline. “But he comes of a good old family, and, though a Radical, he is at least respectable.”

Lady Caroline knew absolutely nothing about Erica, but uttered the last sentence, with its vague, far-reaching, and most damaging hint, without even a pricking of conscience.

“You will try to rescue the M.P.?” asked Mr. Cuthbert.

“For the sake of his position, yes,” said Lady Caroline, entering the conservatory.

“Oh! Mr. Farrant,” she said, with her most gracious smile, “I came to see whether you couldn't induce your wife to sing to us. Now, is it true that she has given up her music? I assure you she and I have been battling the point ever since you came up. Can't you persuade her to give us just one song? I am really in despair for some music.”

“I am afraid my wife is quite out of voice,” said Donovan. “Are there no other musical people?”

“Not one. It is really most astonishing. I was counting on Miss Fane-Smith, but she has disappointed me, and there is not another creature who will play or sing a note. Greyshot is a terrible unmusical place.”

“You do not belong to Greyshot, so perhaps you may be able to come to the rescue,” said Donovan to Erica. “Scotch people can, at any rate, always play or sing their own national airs as no one else can.”

Lady Caroline did not really in the least care whether there were music or not, but she had expressed herself very strongly, and that tiresome Mr. Farrant had taken her at her word, and was trying to beat up recruits recruits that she did not want. He had now, whether intentionally or not, put her in such a position that, unless she were positively rude, she must ask Erica to play or sing.

“Have you brought any music, Miss Raeburn?” she asked, turning to Erica with a chilling look, as though she had just become aware of her presence.

“I have none to bring,” said Erica. “I do not profess to sing; I only sing our own Scotch airs.”

“Exactly what I said!” exclaimed Donovan. “And Scotch singing of Scotch airs is like nothing else in the world.”

Whether he mesmerized them both, or whether his stronger will and higher purpose prevailed, it would be hard to say. Certainly Erica was quite as unwilling to sing as Lady Caroline was to favor her with a request. Both had to yield, however, and Erica, whether she would or not, had to serve her roomful of enemies and a great deal of good it did her.

Out of the quiet conservatory they came into the heat and glare and babel of voices; Lady Caroline feeling as if she had been caught in her own trap, Erica wavering between resentful defiance and the desire to substitute Donovan's “How can I serve?” for “What do they think?”

She sat down to the piano, which was in a far-away corner, and soon she had forgotten her audience altogether. Although she had had little time or opportunity for a thorough musical education, she had great taste, and was musical by nature; she sang her national airs, as very few could have sung them, and so wild and pathetic was the air she had chosen, “The Flowers of the Forest,” that the roar of conversation at once ceased. She knew nothing whatever about the listeners; the air had taken her back to her father's recovery at Codrington the year before. She was singing to him once more.

The old gentleman who had sat on her right hand at dinner came up now with his first remark.

“Thank you, that was a real treat, and a very rare treat. I wonder whether you would sing an old favorite of mine 'Oh, why did ye gang, lassie?'”

Erica at once complied, and there was such pathos in her low, clear voice, that tears stood in the eyes of more than one listener. She had never dared to sing that song at home since one evening some weeks before, when her father had just walked out of the room, unable to bear the mournful refrain “I never, never thought ye wad leave me!” The song was closely associated with the story of that summer, and she sang it to perfection.

Donovan Farrant came toward her again at the close.

“I want to introduce my wife to you,” he said.

And Erica found that the young married lady in the pale-blue silk, whom she had singled out as the one approachable lady in the room, was Mrs. Farrant. She was very bright, and sunshiny, and talkative. Erica liked her, and would have liked her still better had not the last week shown her so much of the unreality and insincerity of society that she half doubted whether any one she met in Greyshot could be quite true. Mrs. Farrant's manner was charming, but charming manners had often turned out to be exceedingly artificial, and Erica, who was in rather a hard mood, would not let herself be won over, but held her judgment in suspension, responding brightly enough to her companion's talk, but keeping the best part of herself in reserve.

At length the evening ended, and the guests gradually dispersed. Mr. Cuthbert walked across the road to his vicarage, still chuckling to himself as he thought of the general discomfiture caused by his question. The musical old gentleman returned to his home revolving a startling new idea; after all, might not the Raeburns and such people be very much like the rest of the world? Were they not probably as susceptible to pain and pleasure, to comfort and discomfort, to rudeness and civility? He regretted very much that he had not broken the miserably uncomfortable silence at dinner.

Donovan Farrant and his wife were already far from Greyshot, driving along the quiet country road to Oakdene Manor.

“A lovely girl,” Mrs. Farrant was saying. “I should like to know her better. Tonight I had the feeling somehow that she was purposely keeping on the surface of things, one came every now and then to a sort of wall, a kind of hard reserve.”

“Who can wonder!” exclaimed Donovan. “I am afraid, Gladys, the old proverb will have a very fair chance of being fulfilled. That child has come out seeking wool, and as likely as not she'll go home shorn.”

“Society can be very cruel!” signed Gladys. “I did so long to get to her after dinner; but Lady Caroline kept me, I do believe, purposely.”

“Lady Caroline and Mr. Cuthbert will little dream of the harm they have done,” said Donovan. “I think I understand as I never understood before the burning indignation of that rebuke to the Pharisees 'Full well ye reject the commandment of god that ye may keep your own traditions.'”

In the meantime there was dead silence in the Fane-Smiths' carriage, an ominous silence. There was an unmistakable cloud on Mr. Fane-Smith's face; he had been exceedingly annoyed at what had taken place, and with native perversity, attributed it all to Erica. His wife was miserable. She felt that her intended kindness had proved a complete failure; she was afraid of her husband's clouded brow, still more afraid of her niece's firmly closed mouth, most afraid of all at the thought of Lady Caroline's displeasure. Nervous and overwrought, anxious to conciliate all parties, and afraid of making matters worse, she timidly went into Erica's room, and after beating about the bush for a minute or two, plunged rashly into the sore subject.

“I am so sorry, dear, about tonight,” she said. “I wish it could have been prevented.”

Erica, standing up straight and tall in her velveteen dress, with a white shawl half thrown back from her shoulders, looked to her aunt terribly dignified and uncompromising.

“I can't say that I thought them courteous,” she replied.

“It was altogether unfortunate,” said Mrs. Fane-Smith, hurriedly. “I hoped your name would not transpire; I ought to have suggested the change to you before, but—”

“What change?” asked Erica, her forehead contracting a little.

“We thought we hoped that perhaps, if you adopted our name, it might prevent unpleasantness. Such things are done, you know, and then, too, we might make some arrangement about your grandfather's money, a part of which I feel is now yours by right. Even now the change would show people the truth, would save many disagreeables.”

During this speech Erica's face had been a study; an angry glow of color rushed to her cheeks, her eyes flashed dangerously. She was a young girl, but there was a good deal of the lion about her at that minute, and her aunt trembled listening perforce to the indignant outburst.

“What truth would it show?” she cried. “I don't believe there is such a thing as truth among all these wretched shams! I will never change my name to escape from prejudice and bigotry, or to win a share in my grandfather's property! What! Give up my father's name to gain the money which might have kept him from pain and ruin and semi-starvation? Take the money that might have brought comfort to my mother that might have kept me with her to the end. I couldn't take it. I would rather die than touch one penny of it. It is too late now. If you thought I would consent if that is the reason you asked me here, I can go at once. I would not willingly have brought shame upon you, but neither will I dishonor myself nor insult my father by changing my name. Why, to do so would be to proclaim that I judged him as those Pharisees did tonight. The hypocrites! Which of them can show one grain of love for the race, to set against my father's life of absolute devotion? They sit over their champagne and slander atheists, and then have the face to call themselves Christians.”

“My dear!” said Mrs. Fane-Smith, nervously. “Our only wish is to do what is best for you; but you are too tired and excited to discuss this now. I will wish you good night.”

“I never wish to discuss it again, thank you,” said Erica, submitting to a particularly warm embrace.

Mrs. Fane-Smith was right in one way. Erica was intensely excited. When people have been riding rough-shod over one's heart, one is apt to be excited, and Luke Raeburn's daughter had inherited that burning sense of indignation which was so strongly marked a characteristic in Raeburn himself. Violins can be more sweet and delicate in tone than any other instrument, but they can also wail with greater pathos, and produce a more fearful storm of passion.

Declining any assistance from Gemma, Erica locked her door, caught up some sheets of foolscap, snatched up her pen, and began to write rapidly. She knew well enough that she ought not to have written. But when the heart is hot with indignation, when the brain produces scathing sentences, when the subject seems to have taken possession of the whole being, to deny its utterance is quite the hardest thing in the world.

Erica struggled to resist, but at length yielded, and out rushed sarcasms, denunciations, return blows innumerable! The relief was great. However, her enjoyment was but short for by the time her article was rolled up for the post, stamped and directed, her physical powers gave way; such blank exhaustion ensuing that all she could do was to drag herself across the room, throw herself, half dressed, on the bed, draw the rezai over her, and yield to the heavy, overpowering slumber of great weariness.

It seemed to her that she slept about five minutes, and was then roused by a knocking at her door. She started up, and found that it was morning. Then she recollected bolting her door, and sprung out of bed to undo it, but was reminded at once that she had a spine. She had quite recovered from the effects of her illness, but over-fatigue always brought back the old pain, and warned her that she must be more careful in the future. The house maid seemed a little surprised not to find her up and dressed as usual, for Erica generally got through an hour's writing before the nine o'clock breakfast.

“Are you ill, miss?” she asked, glancing at the face which seemed almost as colorless as the pillow.

“Only very tired, thank you,” said Erica, glad enough today of the cup of tea and the thin bread and butter which before had seemed to her such an absurd luxury.

“Letters for the early post, miss, I suppose?” said the house maid, taking up the fiery effusion.

“Please,” replied Erica, not turning her head, and far too weary to give a thought to her last night's work. All she could think of just then was the usual waking reflection of a sufferer “How in the world shall I get through the day?”

The recollection, however, of her parting conversation with her aunt made her determined to be down to breakfast. Her absence might be misconstrued. And though feeling ill-prepared for remonstrance or argument, she was in her place when the gong sounded for prayers, looking white and weary indeed, but with a curve of resoluteness about her mouth. Nobody found out how tired she was. Mr. Fane-Smith was as blind as a bat, and Mrs. Fane-Smith was too low-spirited and too much absorbed with her own cares to notice. The events of last night looked more and more disagreeable, and she was burdened with thoughts of what people would say; moreover, Rose's cold was much worse, and as her mother was miserable if even her little finger ached, she was greatly disturbed, and persuaded herself that her child was really in a most dangerous state.

Breakfast proved a very silent meal that morning, quite oppressively silent; Erica felt like a child in disgrace. Every now and then the grimness of it appealed to her sense of the ludicrous, and she felt inclined to scream or do something desperate just to see what would happen. At length the dreary repast came to an end, and she had just taken up a newspaper, with a sort of gasp of relief at the thought of escaping for a moment into a larger world, when she was recalled to the narrow circle of Greyshot by a word from Mr. Fane-Smith.

“I wish to have a talk with you, my dear; will you come to the library at ten o'clock?”

An interview by appointment! That sounded formidable! When the time came, Erica went rather apprehensively to the library, fearing that she was in for an argument, and wishing that Mr. Fane-Smith had chosen a day on which she felt a little more up to things.

He received her very kindly, and drew an easy chair up to the fire for her, no doubt doing as he would be done by, for he was a chilly Indian mortal. Erica had never been into the library before. It was a delightful room, furnished with old carved oak and carpeted with soft Indian rugs. Though dignified by the name of library, it was not nearly so crowded with books as the little study at home; all the volumes were beautifully bound in much-begilt calf or morocco, but they had not the used, loved look of her father's books. On the mantel piece there were some models of Indian idols exquisitely carved in soft, greenish-gray soapstone, and behind these, as if in protest, lurked the only unornamental thing in the room, a very ordinary missionary box, covered with orange-colored paper and impressively black negroes.

“I am sure, my dear,” said Mr. Fane-Smith, “that after what occurred last night you will see the desirability of thinking seriously about your plans for the future. I have been intending to speak to you, but waited until we had learned to know each other a little. However, I regret now that I delayed. It is naturally far from desirable that you should remain an inmate of your father's house, and my wife and I should be very glad if you would make your home with us. Of course when it was fully understood in Greyshot that you had utterly renounced your father and your former friends, such unpleasantness as you encountered last night would not again occur; indeed, I fancy you would become exceedingly popular. It would perhaps have been wiser if you would have taken our name, but your aunt tells me you object to that.”

“Yes,” said Erica, who was writhing with anger, and relieved herself by the slight sarcasm, “I do object to be Miss Feign-Fane-Smith.”

“Well, that must be as you please,” he resumed; “but I really think if you will accept our offer it will be for your ultimate good.”

He proceeded to enumerate all the benefits which would accrue to her; then paused.

Erica was silent for a minute. When she spoke it was in the low voice of one who is struggling to restrain passion.

“I am sure you mean this very kindly,” she said. “I have tried to listen to your offer patiently, though, of course, the moment you began, I knew that I must entirely emphatically, decline it. I will NEVER leave my father!”

The last words were spoken with a sort of half-restrained outburst, as if the pent-up passion must find some outlet.

Mr. Fane-Smith was startled. He so seldom thought of Luke Raeburn as a fellow-being at all that perhaps it had never occurred to him that the love of parent to child, and child to parent, is quite independent of creed.

“But, my dear,” he said, “you have been baptized.”

“I have.”

“You promised to renounce the devil and all his works.”

“I did.”

“Then how can you hesitate to renounce everything connected with your former life?”

“Do you mean to imply that my father is the devil or one of his works?”

Mr. Fane-Smith was silent. Erica continued:

“God's Fatherhood does not depend on our knowledge of it, or acceptance of it, it is a fact a truth! How then can any one dare to say that such a man as my farther is a work of the devil? I thought the sin of sins was to attribute to the devil what belongs to God!”

“You are in a very peculiar position,” said Mr. Fane-Smith, uneasily. “And I have no doubt it is difficult for you to see things as they really are. But I, who can look at the matter dispassionately, can see that your remaining in your old home would be most dangerous, and not only that, but most painful! To live in a house where you hear all that you most reverence evil spoken of; why, the pain would be unspeakable!”

“I know that,” said Erica, in a low voice, “I have found that I admit that it is and always will be harder to bear than any one can conceive who has not tried. But to shirk pain is not to follow Christ. As to danger, if you will forgive my saying so, I should find a luxurious life in a place like Greyshot infinitely more trying.”

“Then could you not take up nursing? Or go into some sisterhood? Nothing extreme, you know, but just a working sisterhood.”

Erica smiled, and shook her head.

“Why should I try to make another vocation when God has already given me one?”

“But, my dear, consider the benefit to your own soul.”

“A very secondary consideration!” exclaimed Erica, impetuously.

“I should have thought,” continued Mr. Fane-Smith, “that under such strange circumstances you would have seen how necessary it was to forsake all. Think of St. Matthew, for instance; he rose up at once, forsook all, and followed Him.”

“Yes,” said Erica. “And what was the very first thing he was impelled to do by way of 'following?' Why, to make a great feast and have in all his old friends, all the despised publicans.”

“My dear Erica,” said Mr. Fane-Smith, feeling his theological arguments worsted, “we must discuss this matter on practical grounds. In plain words, your father is a very bad man, and you ought to have nothing more to do with him.”

Erica's lips turned white with anger; but she answered, calmly:

“That is a very great accusation. How do you know it is true?”

“I know it well enough,” said Mr. Fane-Smith. “Why, every one in England knows it.”

“If you accept mere hearsay evidence, you may believe anything of any one. Have you ever read any of my father's books?”

“No.”

“Or heard him lecture?”

“No, indeed; I would not hear him on any account.”

“Have you ever spoken with any of his intimate friends?”

“Mr. Raeburn's acquaintances are not likely to mix with any one I should know.”

“Then,” cried Erica, “how can you know anything whatever about him? And how how DARE you say to me, his child, that he is a wicked man?”

“It is a matter of common notoriety.”

“No,” said Erica, “there you are wrong. It is notorious that my father teaches conscientiously teaches much that we regard as error, but people who openly accuse him of evil living find to their cost in the law courts that they have foully libeled him.”

She flushed even now at the thought of some of the hateful and wicked accusations of the past. Then, after a moment's pause, she continued more warmly:

“It is you people in society who get hold of some misquoted story, some ridiculous libel long ago crushed at the cost of the libeler it is you who do untold mischief! Only last summer I remember seeing in a paper the truest sentence that was ever written of my father, and it was this, 'Probably no one man has ever had to endure such gross personal insults, such widespread hostility, such perpetual calumny.' Why are you to judge him? Even if you had a special call to it, how could you justly judge him when you will not hear him, or know him, or fairly study his writings, or question his friends? How can you know anything whatever about him? Why, if he judged you and your party as you judge him, you would be furious!”

“My dear, you speak with so much warmth; if you would only discuss things calmly!” said Mr. Fane-Smith. “Remember what George Herbert says: 'Calmness is a great advantage.' You bring too much feeling to the discussion.”

“How can I help feeling when you are slandering my father?” exclaimed Erica. “I have tried to be calm, but there are limits to endurance! Would you like Rose to sit silently while my father told her without any ground that you were a wicked man?”

When matters were reversed in this crude way, Mr. Fane-Smith winced a little.

“The cases are different,” he suggested.

“Do you think atheists don't love their children as much as Christians?” cried Erica, half choked with indignant anger. A vision of the past, of her dead mother, of her father's never-failing tenderness brought a cloud of tears to her eyes. She brushed them away. “The cases are different, as you say; but does a man care less for his home, when outside it he is badgered and insulted, or does he care infinitely more? Does a man care less for his child because, to get her food, he has had to go short himself, or does he care more? I think the man who has had to toil with all his might for his family loves it better than the rich man can. You say I speak with too much warmth, too much feeling. My complaint is the other way I can't find words strong enough to give you any idea of what my father has always been to me. To leave him would be to wrong my conscience, and to forsake my duty; and to distrust God. I will NEVER leave him!”

With that she got up and left the room, and Mr. Fane-Smith leaned back in his chair with a sigh, his eyes fixed absently upon a portrait of Napoleon above his mantel piece, his mind more completely shaken out of its ordinary grooves than it had been for years. He was a narrow-minded man, but he was honest. He saw that he had judged Raeburn very unfairly. But perhaps what occupied his thoughts the most was the question “Would Rose have been able to say of him all that Erica had said of her father?” He sighed many times, but after awhile slid back into the old habits of thought.

“Erica is a brave, noble, little thing,” he said to himself, “but far from orthodox far from orthodox! Socinian tendencies.”