"I have good reason to believe in both this kind and that," said Donovan, touching the dusky head of the dog and the sunny hair of the child.As he spoke there was a look in his eyes which made Erica feel inclined almost to cry.She knew that he was thinking of the past though there was no regret in his expression, only a shade of additional gravity about his lips and an unusual light about his brow and eyes.It was the face of a man who had known both the evil and the good, and had now reached far into the Unseen.
By and by they talked of Switzerland and of Brian, Donovan telling her just what she wanted to know about him though he never let her feel that he knew all about the day at Fiesole.And from that they passed to the coming trial of which he spoke in exactly the most helpful way, not trying to assure her, as some well-meaning people had done, that there was really nothing to be grieved or anxious about; but fully sympathizing with the pain while he somehow led her on to the thought of the unseen good which would in the long run result from it.
"I do believe that now, with all my heart." she said.
"I knew you did," he replied, smiling a little."You have learned it since you were at Greyshot last year.And once learned it is learned forever.""Yes," she said musingly."But, oh! How slowly one learns in such little bits.It's a great mistake to think that we grasp the whole when the light first comes to us, and yet it feels then like the whole.""Because it was the whole you were then capable of," said Donovan.
"But, you see, you grow."
"Want to grow, at any rate," said Erica."Grow conscious that there is an Infinite to grow to."Then, as in a few minutes he rose to go:
"Well, you have done me good, you and Dolly, and this blessed little dog.Thank you very much for coming."She went out with them to the door and stood on the steps with Tottie in her arms, smiling a goodbye to little Dolly.
"That's the bravest woman I know," thought Donovan to himself, "and the sweetest save one.Poor Brian! Though, after all, it's a grand thing to love such as Erica even without hope."And all the afternoon there rang in his ears the line "A woman's soul, most soft, yet strong."The next day troubles began in good earnest.They were all very silent at breakfast.Raeburn looked anxious and preoccupied, and Erica, not feeling sure that conversation would not worry him, did not try to talk.Once Aunt Jean looked up for a moment from her paper with a question.
"By the bye, what are you going to wear, Erica?""Sackcloth, I think," said Erica; "it would be appropriate."Raeburn smiled a little at this.
"Something cool, I should advise," he said."The place will be like a furnace today."He pushed back his chair as he spoke and went away to his study.
Tom had to hurry away, too, being due at his office by nine o'clock; and Erica began to rack her brains to devise the nicest of dinners for them that evening.She dressed in good time, and was waiting for her father in the green room when just before ten o'clock the front door opened, quick steps came up the stairs, and, to her amazement, Tom entered.
"Back again!" she exclaimed."Have you got a holiday?""I've got my conge'," he said in a hoarse voice, throwing himself down in a chair by the window.
"Tom! What do you mean?" she cried, dismayed by the trouble in his face.
"Got the sack," he said shortly.
"What! Lost your situation? But how? Why?""I was called this morning into Mr.Ashgrove's private room; he informed me that he had just learned with great annoyance that Iwas the nephew of that (you can supply his string of abusive adjectives) Luke Raeburn.Was it true? I told him I had that honor.Was I, then, an atheist? Certainly.A Raeburnite?
Naturally.After which came a long jobation, at the end of which I found myself the wrong side of the office door with orders never to darken it again, and next month's salary in my hand.That's the matter in brief, CUGINA."His face settled into a sort of blank despair so unlike its usual expression that Erica's wrath flamed up at the sight.
"It's a shame!" she cried "a wicked shame! Oh, Tom dear, I am so sorry for you.I wish this had come upon me instead.""I wouldn't care so much," said poor Tom huskily, "if he hadn't chosen just this time for it; but it will worry the chieftain now."Erica was on the verge of tears.
"Oh, what shall we do what can we do?" she cried almost in despair.
"I had not thought of that.Father will feel it dreadfully."But to conceal the matter was now hopeless for, as she spoke, Raeburn came into the room.
"What shall I feel dreadfully?" he said, smiling a little."If any man ought to be case-hardened, I ought to be."But as he drew nearer and saw the faces of the two, his own face grew stern and anxious.
"You at home, Tom! What's the matter?"
Tom briefly told his tale, trying to make as light of it as possible, even trying to force a little humor into his account, but with poor success.There was absolute silence in the green room when he paused.Raeburn said not a word, but he grew very pale, evidently in this matter being by no means case-hardened.Asimilar instance, further removed from his immediate circle, might have called forth a strong, angry denunciation; but he felt too deeply anything affecting his own family or friends to be able in the first keenness of his grief and anger to speak.
"My boy," he said at last, in a low, musical voice whose perfect modulations taxed Tom's powers of endurance to the utmost, "I am very sorry for this.I can't say more now; we will talk it over tonight.Will you come to Westminster with us?"And presently as they drove along the crowded streets, he said with a bitter smile:
"There's one Biblical woe which by no possibility can ever befall us.""What's that?" said Tom.
"'Woe unto you when all men speak well of you,'" said Raeburn.
