We Two Part 39

"You wouldn't have spoken to me?" asked Donovan, laughing. "Then I am very glad it didn't occur to you. But about that you may be quite easy; nothing could make them think much worse of me than they do already. I began life as the black sheep of the neighborhood, and it is easier for the Ethiopian to change his skin than for a man to live down the past in public opinion. I shall be, at any rate, the dusky gray sheep of the place to the end of my life."

There was no bitterness, no shade of complaint in his tone; he merely stated a fact. Erica was amazed; she knew that he was about the only man who attempted to grapple with the evil and degradation and poverty of Greyshot.

"You see," he continued, with a bright look which seemed to raise Erica into purer atmosphere, "it is not the public estimation which makes a man's character. There is one question, which I think we ought never to ask ourselves, and that is 'What will people think of me?' It should be instead: 'How can I serve?'"

"But if they take away your power, how can you serve?"

"They can't take it away; they may check and hinder for a time, that is all. I believe one may serve always and everywhere."

"You don't mean that I can serve that roomful of enemies in there?"

"That is exactly what I do mean," he answered, smiling a little.

In the meantime, Lady Caroline was apologizing to Mr. Cuthbert.

"I don't know when I have been so vexed!" she exclaimed. "It is really too bad of Mrs. Fane-Smith. I had no idea that the Burne-Jones angel I promised you was the daughter of that disgraceful man. What a horrible satire, is it not?"

"Pray, don't apologize," said Mr. Cuthbert. "It was really rather amusing than otherwise, and I fancy the young lady will be in no great hurry to force her way into society again."

He laughed a soft, malicious, chuckling laugh.

"I should hope not, indeed," said Lady Caroline, indignantly. "Where has she disappeared to?"

"Need you ask?" said Mr. Cuthbert, smiling. "Our revered member secured her at once, and has been talking to her in the conservatory for at least half an hour, hatching radical plots, I dare say, and vowing vengeance on all aristocrats."

"Really it is too shocking!" said Lady Caroline. "Mr. Farrant has no sense of what is fitting; it is a trait which I have always noticed in Radicals. He ought, at least to have some respect for his position."

"Birds of a feather flock together," suggested Mr. Cuthbert, with his malicious smile.

"Well, I don't often defend Mr. Farrant," said Lady Caroline. "But he comes of a good old family, and, though a Radical, he is at least respectable."

Lady Caroline knew absolutely nothing about Erica, but uttered the last sentence, with its vague, far-reaching, and most damaging hint, without even a p.r.i.c.king of conscience.

"You will try to rescue the M.P.?" asked Mr. Cuthbert.

"For the sake of his position, yes," said Lady Caroline, entering the conservatory.

"Oh! Mr. Farrant," she said, with her most gracious smile, "I came to see whether you couldn't induce your wife to sing to us. Now, is it true that she has given up her music? I a.s.sure you she and I have been battling the point ever since you came up. Can't you persuade her to give us just one song? I am really in despair for some music."

"I am afraid my wife is quite out of voice," said Donovan. "Are there no other musical people?"

"Not one. It is really most astonis.h.i.+ng. I was counting on Miss Fane-Smith, but she has disappointed me, and there is not another creature who will play or sing a note. Greyshot is a terrible unmusical place."

"You do not belong to Greyshot, so perhaps you may be able to come to the rescue," said Donovan to Erica. "Scotch people can, at any rate, always play or sing their own national airs as no one else can."

Lady Caroline did not really in the least care whether there were music or not, but she had expressed herself very strongly, and that tiresome Mr. Farrant had taken her at her word, and was trying to beat up recruits recruits that she did not want. He had now, whether intentionally or not, put her in such a position that, unless she were positively rude, she must ask Erica to play or sing.

"Have you brought any music, Miss Raeburn?" she asked, turning to Erica with a chilling look, as though she had just become aware of her presence.

"I have none to bring," said Erica. "I do not profess to sing; I only sing our own Scotch airs."

"Exactly what I said!" exclaimed Donovan. "And Scotch singing of Scotch airs is like nothing else in the world."

Whether he mesmerized them both, or whether his stronger will and higher purpose prevailed, it would be hard to say. Certainly Erica was quite as unwilling to sing as Lady Caroline was to favor her with a request. Both had to yield, however, and Erica, whether she would or not, had to serve her roomful of enemies and a great deal of good it did her.

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 subst.i.tute 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, la.s.sie?'"

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 a.s.sociated 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 suns.h.i.+ny, 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 G.o.d 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 making 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.