"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 Ihave 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.
