We Two Part 67

"I own to needing it," said Raeburn. "Pogson's last bit of malice will, I hope, be quashed in a few days and, after that, rest may be possible.

He is of opinion that 'there are mony ways of killing a dog though ye dinna hang him,' and, upon my word, he's not far wrong."

He was besieged here by two or three people who wanted to ask his advice, and Donovan turned to Erica.

"He has been feeling all this talk about Herr Haeberlein; people say the most atrocious things about him just because he gave him shelter at the last," she said. "Really sometimes the accusations are so absurd that we ourselves can't help laughing at them. But though I don't believe in being 'done to death by slanderous tongues,' there is no doubt that the constant friction of these small annoyances does tell on my father very perceptibly. After all, you know the very worst form of torture is merely the perpetual falling of a drop of water on the victim's head."

"I suppose since last summer this sort of thing has been on the increase?"

"Indeed it has," she replied. "It is worse, I think, than you have any idea of. You read your daily paper and your weekly review, but every malicious, irritating word put forth by every local paper in England, Scotland, or Ireland comes to us, not to speak of all that we get from private sources."

On their way home they did all in their power to persuade Raeburn to take an immediate holiday, but he only shook his head.

"'Dree out the inch when ye have thol'd the span,'" he said, leaning back wearily in the cab but taking care to give the conversation an abrupt turn before relapsing into silence.

At supper, as ill luck would have it, Aunt Jean relieved her fatigue and anxiety by entering upon one of her old remonstrances with Erica.

Raeburn was not sitting at the table; he was in an easy chair at the other side of the room, and possibly she forgot his presence. But he heard every word that pa.s.sed, and at last started up with angry impatience.

"For goodness' sake, Jean, leave the child alone!" he said. "Is it not enough for me to be troubled with bitterness and dissension outside without having my home turned into an arguing shop?"

"Erica should have thought of that before she deserted her own party," said Aunt Jean; "before, to quote Strauss, she had recourse to 'religious crutches.' It is she who has introduced the new element into the house."

Erica's color rose, but she said nothing. Aunt Jean seemed rather baffled by her silence. Tom watched the little scene with a sort of philosophic interest. Raeburn, conscious of having spoken sharply to his sister and fearing to lose his temper again, paced the room silently.

Finally he went off to his study, leaving them to the unpleasant consciousness that he had been driven out of his own dining room. But when he had gone, the quarrel was forgotten altogether; they forgot differences of creed in a great mutual anxiety. Raeburn's manner had been so unnatural, he had been so unlike himself, that in their trouble about it they entirely pa.s.sed over the original cause of his anger. Aunt Jean was as much relieved as any one when before long he opened his door and called for Erica.

"I have lost my address book," he said; "have you seen it about?"

She began to search for it, fully aware that he had given her something to do for him just out of loving consideration, and with the hope that it would take the sting from her aunt's hard words. When she brought him the book, he took her face between both his hands, looked at her steadily for a minute, and then kissed her.

"All right, little son Eric," he said, with a sigh. "We understand each other."

But she went upstairs feeling miserable about him, and an hour or two later, when all the house was silent, her feeling of coming trouble grew so much that at length she yielded to one of those strange, blind impulses which come to some people and crept noiselessly out on to the dark landing. At first all seemed to her perfectly still and perfectly dark; but, looking down the narrow well of the staircase, she could see far below her a streak of light falling across the tiles in the pa.s.sage.

She knew that it must come from beneath the door of the study, and it meant that her father was still at work. He had owned to having a bad headache, and had promised not to be late. It was perplexing. She stole down the next flight of stairs and listened at Tom's door; then, finding that he was still about, knocked softly. Tom, with his feet on the mantel piece, was solacing himself with a pipe and a novel; he started up, however, as she came in.

"What's the matter?" he asked, "is any one ill?"

"I don't know," said Erica, s.h.i.+vering a little. "I came to know whether father had much to do tonight; did he tell you?"

"He was going to write to Jackson about a situation for the eldest son of that fellow who died the other day, you know; the widow, poor creature, is nearly worried out of her life; she was here this afternoon. The chieftain promised to see about it at once; he wouldn't let me write, and of course a letter from himself will be more likely to help the boy."

"But it's after one o'clock," said Erica, s.h.i.+vering again; "he can't have been all this time over it."

"Well, perhaps he is working at something else," said Tom. "He's not been sleeping well lately, I know. Last night he got through thirty-three letters, and the night before he wrote a long pamphlet."

Erica did not look satisfied.

"Lend me your stove for a minute," she said; "I shall make him a cup of tea."

They talked a little about the curious failure of memory noticed for the first time that evening. Tom was more like himself than he had been for several days; he came downstairs with her to carry a light, but she went alone into the study. He had not gone up the first flight of stairs, however, when he heard a cry, then his own name called twice in tones that made him thrill all over with a nameless fear. He rushed down and pushed open the study door. There stood Erica with blanched face; Raeburn sat in his customary place at the writing table, but his head had fallen forward and, though the face was partly hidden by the desk, they could see that it was rigid and deathly pale.

"He has fainted," said Tom, not allowing the worse fear to overmaster him. "Run quick, and get some water, Erica."

She obeyed mechanically. When she returned, Tom had managed to get Raeburn on to the floor and had loosened his cravat; he had also noticed that only one letter lay upon the desk, abruptly terminating at "I am, yours sincerely." Whether the "Luke Raeburn" would ever be added, seemed to Tom at that moment very doubtful. Leaving Erica with her father, he rushed across the square to summon Brian, returning in a very few minutes with the comforting news that he was at home and would be with them immediately. Erica gave a sigh of relief when the quick, firm steps were heard on the pavement outside. Brian was so closely a.s.sociated with all the wearing times of illness and anxiety which had come to them in the last six years that, in her trouble, she almost forgot the day at Fiesole regarding him not as her lover, but as the man who had once before saved her father's life. His very presence inspired her with confidence, the quiet authority of his manner, the calm, business-like way in which he directed things. Her anxiety faded away in the consciousness that he knew all about it, and would do everything as it should be done. Before very long Raeburn showed signs of returning consciousness, sighed uneasily; then, opening his eyes, regained his faculties as suddenly as he had lost them.

"Halloo!" he exclaimed, starting up. "What's all this coil about? What are you doing to me?"

They explained things to him.

"Oh! Fainted, did I!" he said musingly. "I have felt a little faint once or twice lately. What day is it? What time is it?" Tom mentioned the meeting of the previous evening, and Raeburn seemed to recollect himself. He looked at his watch, then at the letter on his desk. "Well, it's my way to do things thoroughly," he said with a smile; "I must have been off for a couple of hours. I am very sorry to have disturbed your slumbers in this way."

As he spoke, he sat down composedly at his desk, picked up the pen and signed his name to the letter. They stood and watched him while he folded the sheet and directed the envelope; his writing bore a little more markedly than usual the tokens of strong self-restraint.

"Perhaps you'll just drop that in the pillar on your way home," he said to Brian. "I want Jackson to get it by the first post. If you will look in later on, I should be glad to have a talk with you. At present I'm too tired to be overhauled."

Then, as Brian left the room, he turned to Erica.

"I am sorry to have given you a fright, my child; but don't worry about me, I am only a little overdone."

Again that fatal admission, which from Raeburn's lips was more alarming than a long catalogue of dangerous symptoms from other men!

There followed a disturbed night and a long day in a crowded law court, then one of the most terrible hours they had ever had to endure while waiting for the verdict which would either consign Raeburn to prison or leave him to peace and freedom. So horrible was the suspense that to draw each breath was to Erica a painful effort. Even Raeburn's composure was a little shaken as those eternal minutes dragged on.

The foreman returned. The court seemed to throb with excitement. Raeburn lifted a calm, stern face to hear his fate. He knew what no one else in the court knew, that this was to him a matter of life and death.

"Are you agreed, gentlemen?"

"Yes."

People listened breathlessly.

"Do you find the defendant guilty, or not?"

"Not guilty."

The reaction was so sharp as to be almost overpowering. But poor Erica's joy was but short-lived. She looked at her father's face and knew that, although one anxiety was ended, another was already begun.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII. Halcyon Days

There is a sweetness in autumnal days, Which many a lip doth praise; When the earth, tired a little, and grown mute Of song, and having borne its fruit, Rests for a little ere the winter come.

It is not sad to turn the face toward home, Even though it show the journey nearly done; It is not sad to mark the westering sun, Even though we know the night doth come, Silence there is, indeed, for song, Twilight for noon, But for the steadfast soul and strong Life's autumn is as June. From the "Ode of Life"

"Anything in the papers this evening?" asked a young clergyman, who was in one of the carriages of the Metropolitan Railway late in the afternoon of an August day.

"Nothing of much interest," replied his wife, handing him the newspaper she had been glancing through. "I see that wretched Raeburn is ill. I wish he'd die."

"Oh! Broken down at last, has he?" said the other. "Where is it? Oh, yes, I see. Ordered to take immediate and entire rest. Will be paralyzed in a week if he doesn't. Pleasant alternative that! Result of excessive overwork. Fancy calling this blasphemous teaching work! I could hang that man with my own hands!"

Erica had had a long and hara.s.sing day. She was returning from the city where she had gone to obtain leave of absence from Mr. Bircham; for her father was to go into the quietest country place that could be found, and she of course was to accompany him. At the "Daily Review" office she had met with the greatest kindness, and she might have gone home cheered and comforted had it not been her lot to overhear this conversation. Tom was with her. She saw him hastily transcribing the uncharitable remarks, and knew that the incident would figure in next week's "Idol-Breaker."