We Two Part 59

Oh, G.o.d of mountains, stars, and boundless s.p.a.ces!

Oh, G.o.d of freedom and of joyous hearts!

When Thy face looketh forth from all men's faces There will be room enough in crowded marts.

Brood Thou around me, and the noise is o'er; Thy universe my closet with shut door.

Heart, heart, awake! The love that loveth all Maketh a deeper calm than h.o.r.eb's cave.

G.o.d in thee, can His children's folly gall?

Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?

Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm; Thou art my solitude, my mountain calm. George MacDonald

When a particularly unpleasant event has long been hanging over one's head, sure to come at some time, though the precise date is unknown, people of a certain disposition find it quite possible to live on pretty comfortably through the waiting time. But when at length the date is fixed, when you know that that which you dread will happen upon such and such a day, then the waiting begins all at once to seem intolerable. The vague date had been awaited calmly, but the certain date is awaited with a wearing anxiety which tells fearfully on physical strength. When Erica knew that the action for libel would begin in a fortnight's time, the comparative calmness of the nine months which had pa.s.sed since the outset of the matter gave place to an agony of apprehension. Night after night she had fearful dreams of being cross-examined by Mr. Cringer, Q.C., who always forced her to say exactly what she did not mean. Night after night coldly curious eyes stared down at her from all parts of a crowded court; while her misery was completed by being perfectly conscious of what she ought to have said directly it was too late.

By day she was too wise to allow herself to dwell on the future; she worked doubly hard, laid in a stock of particularly interesting books, and threw herself as much as possible into the lives of others. Happily, the Farrants were in town, and she was able to see a great deal of them; while on the very day before the trial came a substantial little bit of happiness.

She was sitting in the study doing some copying for her father when a brougham stopped at the door. Erica, who never failed to recognize a horse if she had once seen it before, who even had favorites among the dozens of omnibus horses which she met daily in Oxford Street, at once knew that either Donovan or Gladys had come to see her.

She ran out into the hall to meet them, but had no sooner opened the study door than the tiniest of dogs trotted into the room and began sniffing cautiously at her father's clothes.

"Tottie has made a very unceremonious entrance," said a clear, mellow voice in the pa.s.sage. "May we come in, or are you too busy today?"

"Oh, please come in. Father is home, and I do so want you to meet,"

said Erica. "You have brought Dolly, too! That is delightful. We are dreadfully in want of something young and happy to cheer us up."

The two men shook hands with the momentary keen glance into each other's eyes which those give who have heard much of one another but have never been personally acquainted.

"As to Dolly," said Donovan, "she requires no introduction to Mr.

Raeburn."

"No," said Erica, laughing, "she cried all over his coat two years ago."

Dolly did not often wait for introductions unless she disliked people.

And no child could have found it in its heart to dislike anything so big and kind and fatherly as Luke Raeburn.

"We blought a little dog for Elica," she said, in her silvery treble.

And the next moment she was established on Raeburn's knee, encouraged to thrust a little, dimpled hand into his pocket for certain Edinburgh dainties.

"Dolly does not beat about the bush," said Donovan, smiling. "Would you at all care to have this small animal? I knew you were fond of dogs, and Gladys and I saw this little toy Esquimanx the other day and fell in love with him. I find though that another dog rather hurts Waif's feelings, so you will be doing a kindness to him as well if you will accept 'Tottie.'"

"Oh, how delightful of you! It was kind of you to think of it," said Erica. "I have always so longed to have a dog of my own. And this is such a little beauty! Is it not a very rare breed?"

"I believe it is, and I think he's a loving little beggar, too," replied Donovan. "He is making himself quite at home here, is he not?"

And in truth the small dog seemed deeply interested in his new residence. He was the tiniest of his kind, and was covered with long black hair which stood straight up on end; his pointed nose, bright brown eyes, and cunning little ears, set in the frame work of bushy hair, gave him a most sagacious appearance. And just now he was brimful of curiosity, pattering all over the room, poking his nose into a great pile of "Idol-Breakers," sniffing at theological and anti-theological books with perfect impartiality, rubbing himself against Raeburn's foot in the most ingratiating way, and finally springing up on Erica's lap with the oddest mixture of defiance and devotion in his eyes which said as plainly as if he had spoken: "People may say what they like about you, but I'm your faithful dog from this day forward!"

Raeburn was obliged to go out almost directly as he had an appointment in the city, but Erica knew that he had seen enough of Donovan to realize what he was and was satisfied.

"I am so glad you have just met," she said when he had left the room.

"And, as to Dolly, she's been a real G.o.d-send. I haven't seen my father smile before for a week."

"Strange, is it not, how almost always children instinctively take to those whom the world treats as outcasts. I have a great belief that G.o.d lets the pure and innocent make up in part by their love for the uncharitableness of the rest of us."

"That's a nice thought," said Erica. "I have never had much to do with children, except with this one." And as she spoke she lifted Dolly on her lap beside Tottie.

"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 pa.s.sed to the coming trial of which he spoke in exactly the most helpful way, not trying to a.s.sure 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 hoa.r.s.e voice, throwing himself down in a chair by the window.

"Tom! What do you mean?" she cried, dismayed by the trouble in his face.