"What truth would it show?" she cried."I don't believe there is such a thing as truth among all these wretched shams! I will never change my name to escape from prejudice and bigotry, or to win a share in my grandfather's property! What! Give up my father's name to gain the money which might have kept him from pain and ruin and semi-starvation? Take the money that might have brought comfort to my mother that might have kept me with her to the end.
I couldn't take it.I would rather die than touch one penny of it.
It is too late now.If you thought I would consent if that is the reason you asked me here, I can go at once.I would not willingly have brought shame upon you, but neither will I dishonor myself nor insult my father by changing my name.Why, to do so would be to proclaim that I judged him as those Pharisees did tonight.The hypocrites! Which of them can show one grain of love for the race, to set against my father's life of absolute devotion? They sit over their champagne and slander atheists, and then have the face to call themselves Christians.""My dear!" said Mrs.Fane-Smith, nervously."Our only wish is to do what is best for you; but you are too tired and excited to discuss this now.I will wish you good night.""I never wish to discuss it again, thank you," said Erica, submitting to a particularly warm embrace.
Mrs.Fane-Smith was right in one way.Erica was intensely excited.
When people have been riding rough-shod over one's heart, one is apt to be excited, and Luke Raeburn's daughter had inherited that burning sense of indignation which was so strongly marked a characteristic in Raeburn himself.Violins can be more sweet and delicate in tone than any other instrument, but they can also wail with greater pathos, and produce a more fearful storm of passion.
Declining any assistance from Gemma, Erica locked her door, caught up some sheets of foolscap, snatched up her pen, and began to write rapidly.She knew well enough that she ought not to have written.
But when the heart is hot with indignation, when the brain produces scathing sentences, when the subject seems to have taken possession of the whole being, to deny its utterance is quite the hardest thing in the world.
Erica struggled to resist, but at length yielded, and out rushed sarcasms, denunciations, return blows innumerable! The relief was great.However, her enjoyment was but short for by the time her article was rolled up for the post, stamped and directed, her physical powers gave way; such blank exhaustion ensuing that all she could do was to drag herself across the room, throw herself, half dressed, on the bed, draw the rezai over her, and yield to the heavy, overpowering slumber of great weariness.
It seemed to her that she slept about five minutes, and was then roused by a knocking at her door.She started up, and found that it was morning.Then she recollected bolting her door, and sprung out of bed to undo it, but was reminded at once that she had a spine.She had quite recovered from the effects of her illness, but over-fatigue always brought back the old pain, and warned her that she must be more careful in the future.The house maid seemed a little surprised not to find her up and dressed as usual, for Erica generally got through an hour's writing before the nine o'clock breakfast.
"Are you ill, miss?" she asked, glancing at the face which seemed almost as colorless as the pillow.
"Only very tired, thank you," said Erica, glad enough today of the cup of tea and the thin bread and butter which before had seemed to her such an absurd luxury.
"Letters for the early post, miss, I suppose?" said the house maid, taking up the fiery effusion.
"Please," replied Erica, not turning her head, and far too weary to give a thought to her last night's work.All she could think of just then was the usual waking reflection of a sufferer "How in the world shall I get through the day?"The recollection, however, of her parting conversation with her aunt made her determined to be down to breakfast.Her absence might be misconstrued.And though feeling ill-prepared for remonstrance or argument, she was in her place when the gong sounded for prayers, looking white and weary indeed, but with a curve of resoluteness about her mouth.Nobody found out how tired she was.Mr.Fane-Smith was as blind as a bat, and Mrs.Fane-Smith was too low-spirited and too much absorbed with her own cares to notice.The events of last night looked more and more disagreeable, and she was burdened with thoughts of what people would say; moreover, Rose's cold was much worse, and as her mother was miserable if even her little finger ached, she was greatly disturbed, and persuaded herself that her child was really in a most dangerous state.
Breakfast proved a very silent meal that morning, quite oppressively silent; Erica felt like a child in disgrace.Every now and then the grimness of it appealed to her sense of the ludicrous, and she felt inclined to scream or do something desperate just to see what would happen.At length the dreary repast came to an end, and she had just taken up a newspaper, with a sort of gasp of relief at the thought of escaping for a moment into a larger world, when she was recalled to the narrow circle of Greyshot by a word from Mr.Fane-Smith.
"I wish to have a talk with you, my dear; will you come to the library at ten o'clock?"An interview by appointment! That sounded formidable! When the time came, Erica went rather apprehensively to the library, fearing that she was in for an argument, and wishing that Mr.
Fane-Smith had chosen a day on which she felt a little more up to things.
