Erica lost count of time altogether.The past seemed blotted out;the weight of the present was so great that she would not admit any thought of the future, though conscious always of a blank dread which she dared not pause to analyze, sufficient indeed for her day was the evil thereof.She struggled on somehow with a sort of despairing strength; only once or twice did she even recollect the outside world.
It happened that on the first Wednesday after the Hyde Park meeting some one mentioned the day of the week in her hearing.She was in the sick-room at the time, but at once remembered that her week's work was untouched, that she had not written a line for the "Idol-Breaker." Every idea seemed to have gone out of her head;for a minute she felt that to save her life she could not write a line.But still she conscientiously struggled to remember what subject had been allotted her, and in the temporary stillness of the first night-watch drew writing materials toward her, and leaned her head on her hands until, almost by an effort of will, she at length recalled the theme for her article.
Of course! It was to be that disgraceful disturbance in the church at Z______.She remembered the whole affair now, it all rose up before her graphically not a bad subject at all! Their party might make a good deal by it.Her article must be bright, descriptive, sarcastic.Yet how was she to write such an article when her heart felt like lead? An involuntary "I can't " rose to her lips, and she glanced at her father's motionless form, her eyes filling with tears.Then one of his sayings came to her mind: "No such word as 'Can't' in the dictionary," and began to write rapidly almost defiantly.No sooner had she begun than her very exhaustion, the lateness of the hour, and the stress of circumstance came to her aid she had never before written so brilliantly.
The humor of the scene struck her; little flashes of mirth at the expense of both priest and people, delicate sarcasms, the more searching from their very refinement, awoke in her brain and were swiftly transcribed.In the middle of one of the most daring sentences Raeburn stirred.Erica's pen was thrown down at once;she was at his side absorbed once more in attending to his wants, forgetful quite of religious controversy, of the"Idol-Breaker," of anything in fact in the whole world but her father.Not till an hour had passed was she free to finish her writing, but by the time her aunt came to relieve guard at two o'clock the article was finished and Erica stole noiselessly into the next room to put it up.
To her surprise she found that Tom had not gone to bed.He was still toiling away at his desk with a towel round his head; she could almost have smiled at the ludicrous mixture of grief and sleepiness on his face, had not her own heart been so loaded with care and sadness.The post brought in what Tom described as "bushels" of letters every day, and he was working away at them now with sleepy heroism.
"How tired you look," said Erica."See! I have brought in this for the 'Idol.'""You've been writing it now! That is good of you.I was afraid we should have to make up with some wretched padding of Blank's."He took the sheets from her and began to read.Laughter is often only one remove from grief, and Tom, though he was sad-hearted enough, could not keep his countenance through Erica's article.
First his shoulders began to shake, then he burst into such a paroxy** of noiseless laughter that Erica, fearing that he could not restrain himself, and would be heard in the sick-room, pulled the towel from his forehead over his mouth; then, conquered herself by the absurdity of his appearance, she was obliged to bury her own face in her hands, laughing more and more whenever the incongruousness of the laughter occurred to her.When they had exhausted themselves the profound depression which had been the real cause of the violent reaction returned with double force.Tom sighed heavily and finished reading the article with the gravest of faces.He was astonished that Erica could have written at such a time an article positively scintillating with mirth.
"How did you manage anything so witty tonight of all nights?" he asked.
"Don't you remember Hans Andersen's clown Punchinello," said Erica.
"He never laughed and joked so gayly as the night when his love died and his own heart was broken."There was a look in her eyes which made Tom reply, quickly: "Don't write any more just now; the professor has promised us something for next week.Don't write any more till till the chieftain is well."After that she wished him good night rather hastily, crept upstairs to her attic, and threw herself down on her bed.Why had he spoken of the future? Why had his voice hesitated? No, she would not think, she would not.
So the article appeared in that week's "Idol-Breaker, and thousands and thousands of people laughed over it.It even excited displeased comment from "the other side," and in many ways did a great deal of what in Guilford Terrace was considered "good work."For Erica herself, it was long before she had time to give it another thought; it was to her only a desperately hard duty which she had succeeded in doing.Nobody every guessed how much it had cost her.
The weary time dragged on, days and weeks passed by; Raeburn was growing weaker, but clung to life with extraordinary tenacity.And now very bitterly they felt the evils of this voluntarily embraced poverty, for the summer heat was for a few days almost tropical, and the tiny little rooms in the lodging-house were stifling.
