Out of the quiet conservatory they came into the heat and glare and babel of voices; Lady Caroline feeling as if she had been caught in her own trap, Erica wavering between resentful defiance and the desire to substitute Donovan's "How can I serve?" for "What do they think?"She sat down to the piano, which was in a far-away corner, and soon she had forgotten her audience altogether.Although she had had little time or opportunity for a thorough musical education, she had great taste, and was musical by nature; she sang her national airs, as very few could have sung them, and so wild and pathetic was the air she had chosen, "The Flowers of the Forest," that the roar of conversation at once ceased.She knew nothing whatever about the listeners; the air had taken her back to her father's recovery at Codrington the year before.She was singing to him once more.
The old gentleman who had sat on her right hand at dinner came up now with his first remark.
"Thank you, that was a real treat, and a very rare treat.I wonder whether you would sing an old favorite of mine 'Oh, why did ye gang, lassie?'"Erica at once complied, and there was such pathos in her low, clear voice, that tears stood in the eyes of more than one listener.She had never dared to sing that song at home since one evening some weeks before, when her father had just walked out of the room, unable to bear the mournful refrain "I never, never thought ye wad leave me!" The song was closely associated with the story of that summer, and she sang it to perfection.
Donovan Farrant came toward her again at the close.
"I want to introduce my wife to you," he said.
And Erica found that the young married lady in the pale-blue silk, whom she had singled out as the one approachable lady in the room, was Mrs.Farrant.She was very bright, and sunshiny, and talkative.Erica liked her, and would have liked her still better had not the last week shown her so much of the unreality and insincerity of society that she half doubted whether any one she met in Greyshot could be quite true.Mrs.Farrant's manner was charming, but charming manners had often turned out to be exceedingly artificial, and Erica, who was in rather a hard mood, would not let herself be won over, but held her judgment in suspension, responding brightly enough to her companion's talk, but keeping the best part of herself in reserve.
At length the evening ended, and the guests gradually dispersed.
Mr.Cuthbert walked across the road to his vicarage, still chuckling to himself as he thought of the general discomfiture caused by his question.The musical old gentleman returned to his home revolving a startling new idea; after all, might not the Raeburns and such people be very much like the rest of the world?
Were they not probably as susceptible to pain and pleasure, to comfort and discomfort, to rudeness and civility? He regretted very much that he had not broken the miserably uncomfortable silence at dinner.
Donovan Farrant and his wife were already far from Greyshot, driving along the quiet country road to Oakdene Manor.
"A lovely girl," Mrs.Farrant was saying."I should like to know her better.Tonight I had the feeling somehow that she was purposely keeping on the surface of things, one came every now and then to a sort of wall, a kind of hard reserve.""Who can wonder!" exclaimed Donovan."I am afraid, Gladys, the old proverb will have a very fair chance of being fulfilled.That child has come out seeking wool, and as likely as not she'll go home shorn.""Society can be very cruel!" signed Gladys."I did so long to get to her after dinner; but Lady Caroline kept me, I do believe, purposely.""Lady Caroline and Mr.Cuthbert will little dream of the harm they have done," said Donovan."I think I understand as I never understood before the burning indignation of that rebuke to the Pharisees 'Full well ye reject the commandment of god that ye may keep your own traditions.'"In the meantime there was dead silence in the Fane-Smiths'
carriage, an ominous silence.There was an unmistakable cloud on Mr.Fane-Smith's face; he had been exceedingly annoyed at what had taken place, and with native perversity, attributed it all to Erica.His wife was miserable.She felt that her intended kindness had proved a complete failure; she was afraid of her husband's clouded brow, still more afraid of her niece's firmly closed mouth, most afraid of all at the thought of Lady Caroline's displeasure.Nervous and overwrought, anxious to conciliate all parties, and afraid of ****** matters worse, she timidly went into Erica's room, and after beating about the bush for a minute or two, plunged rashly into the sore subject.
"I am so sorry, dear, about tonight," she said.I wish it could have been prevented."Erica, standing up straight and tall in her velveteen dress, with a white shawl half thrown back from her shoulders, looked to her aunt terribly dignified and uncompromising.
"I can't say that I thought them courteous," she replied.
"It was altogether unfortunate," said Mrs.Fane-Smith, hurriedly.
"I hoped your name would not transpire; I ought to have suggested the change to you before, but--""What change?" asked Erica, her forehead contracting a little.
"We thought we hoped that perhaps, if you adopted our name, it might prevent unpleasantness.Such things are done, you know, and then, too, we might make some arrangement about your grandfather's money, a part of which I feel is now yours by right.Even now the change would show people the truth, would save many disagreeables."During this speech Erica's face had been a study; an angry glow of color rushed to her cheeks, her eyes flashed dangerously.She was a young girl, but there was a good deal of the lion about her at that minute, and her aunt trembled listening perforce to the indignant outburst.
