She did not dare to let her sobs rise for it was one of the trials of that time that they were not in their own home but in a busy hotel where the partitions were thin and every sound could be heard in the adjoining rooms.Moreover, Aunt Jean was sleeping with her and must not be disturbed.But as she lay on the floor, trying to stifle the restrained sobs which shook her from head to foot trying to check the bitter tears which would come, her thoughts were somehow lifted quite away from the present; strange little memories of her childish days returned to her, days when her father had been to her the living incarnation of all that was noble and good.Often it is not the great events of a child's life which are so vividly remembered; memory seems to be strangely capricious and will single out some special word or deed, some trifling sign of love which has stamped itself indelibly upon the grain to bear its golden harvest of responding love through a life time.Vividly there came back to her now the eager happiness with which she had awaited a long promised treat, as a little thing of seven years old.Her father was to take her on some special excursion, she had long ago forgotten what the particular occasion was, only it was something that could come but once, the day lost, the treat would be lost.But the evening before, when she was on the very tiptoe of expectation, a celebrated action for libel had come to an end much sooner than was expected, and when her father returned in the evening he had to tell her that his case was to come on the next day, and that he could not possibly take her.Even now she could recall the bitterness of the disappointment, but not so vividly as the look in her father's face as he lifted her off the floor where she had thrown herself in the abandonment of her grief.He had not said a word then about the enormity of crying, he had just held her closely in his arms, feeling the disappointment a thousand times more than she felt it herself, and fully realizing that the loss of such a long-looked-for happiness was to a child what the loss of thousands of pounds would be to a man.He had been patient with her though she had entirely failed to see why he could not put off the case just for that day.
"You'll understand one day, little one," he had said, "and be glad that you have had your share of pain in a day that will advance the cause of liberty."She remembered protesting that that was impossible, that she should always be miserable; at which he had only smiled.
Then it came to Erica that the life upon earth was, after all, as compared with the eternal life, what the day is in the life of a child.It seemed everything at the time, but was in truth such a fragment.And as she lay there in the immeasurably greater agony of later life, once more sobbing: "I had hoped, I had planned, this is more than I can bear!" a Comforter infinitely grater, a Father whose love was infinitely stronger, drew her so near that the word "near" was but a mockery, and told her, as the earthly father had told her with such perfect truth: "One day you will understand, child; one day you will be glad to have shared the pain!"In the next room there was for some time quiet.Poor Tom, heavy with grief and weariness, fell asleep beside the fire; Raeburn was for the most part very still as if wrapped in thought.At length a heavy sigh made Brian ask if he were in pain.
"Pain of mind," he said, "not of body.Don't misunderstand me," he said after a pause, with the natural fear least Brian should fancy his secularism failed him at the near approach of death."For myself I am content; I have had a very full life, and I have tried always yes, I think I may say always--to work entirely for the good of Humanity.But I am wretched about Erica.I do not see how the home can be a very happy one for her when I am gone."For a minute Brian hesitated; but it seemed to him when he thought out the matter, that a father so loving as Raeburn would find no jealousy at the thought that the love he had deemed exclusively his own might, after all, have been given to another.
"I do not know whether I am right to tell you," he said."Would it make you happier to know that I love Erica that I have loved her for nearly nine years?"Raeburn gave an ejaculation of astonishment.There was a long silence; for the idea, once suggested to him, he began to see what a likely thing it was and to wonder that he had not thought of it before.
"I think you are well suited to each other," he said at last."Now I understand your visit to Florence.What took you away again so suddenly?"Brian told him all about the day at Fiesole.He seemed greatly touched; all the little proofs and coincidences which had never struck him at the time were so plain now.They were still discussing it when, at about five o'clock, Erica returned.She was pale and sad, but the worn, harassed, miserable look had quite gone.It was a strange time and place for a betrothal.
"Brian has been telling me about the day at Fiesole," said Raeburn, letting his weak, nerveless hands play about in her hair as she knelt beside the bed."You have been a leal bairn to me, Eric; Idon't think I could have spared you then even though Brian so well deserved you.But now it makes me very happy to leave you to him;it takes away my only care."
Erica had colored faintly, but there was an absence of responsiveness in her manner which troubled Raeburn.
"You do still feel as you did at Fiesole?" he asked."You are sure of your own mind? You think you will be happy?""I love Brian," she said in a low voice."But, oh, I can't think now about being happy!" She broke off suddenly and hid her face in the bed clothes.
There was silence in the room.In a minute she raised herself and turned to Brian who stood beside her.
"You will understand," she said, looking right into his eyes.
"There is only one thing that I can feel just now.You do understand, I know."With a sudden impulse she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.
