Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, came to meet her, With the life within departed that had given them each a soul;And her sick heart even slighted gentle words that came to greet her, For grief spread its shadowy pinions like a blight upon the whole.
A.A.Proctor The winter sunshine which glanced in a side-long, half-and-half way into Persecution Alley, and struggled in at the closed blinds of Erica's little attic, streamed unchecked into a far more cheerful room in Guilford Square, and illumined a breakfast table, at which was seated one occupant only, apparently making a late and rather hasty meal.He was a man of about eight-and-twenty, and though he was not absolutely good-looking, his face was one which people turned to look at again, not so much because it was in any way striking as far as features went, but because of an unusual luminousness which pervaded it.The eyes, which were dark gray, were peculiarly expressive, and their softness, which might to some have seemed a trifle unmasculine, was counterbalanced by the straight, dark, noticeable eyebrows, as well as by a thoroughly manly bearing and a general impression of unfailing energy which characterized the whole man.His hair, short beard, and mustache were of a deep nut-brown.He was of medium height and very muscular looking.
On the whole it was as pleasant a face as you would often meet with, and it was not to be wondered at that his old grandmother looked up pretty frequently from her arm chair by the fire, and watched him with that beautiful loving pride which in the aged never seems exaggerated and very rarely misplaced.
"You were out very late, were you not, Brian?" she observed, letting her knitting needles rest for a minute, and scrutinizing the rather weary-looking man.
"Till half-past five this morning," he replied, in a somewhat preoccupied voice.
There was a sad look in his eyes, too, which his grandmother partly understood.She knitted another round of her sock and then said:
"Have you seen Tom Craigie yet?"
"Yes, last night I came across him," replied Brian."He told me she had come home.They traveled by night and got in early yesterday morning.""Poor little thing!" sighed old Mrs.Osmond."What a home-coming it must have been?""Grannie," said Brian, pushing back his chair and drawing nearer to the fire "I want you to tell me what I ought to do.I have a message to her from her mother, there was no one else to take it, you know, except the landlady, and I suppose she did not like that.
I want to know when I might see her; one has no right to keep it back, and yet how am I to know whether she is fit to bear it? Ican't write it down, it won't somehow go on to paper, yet I can hardly ask to see her.""We cannot tell that the message might not comfort her," said Mrs.
Osmond.Then, after a few minutes' thought she added: "I think, Brian, if I were you, I would write her a little note, tell her why you want to see her, and let her fix her own time.You will leave it entirely in her own hands in that way."He mused for a minute, seemed satisfied with the suggestion, and moving across to the writing table, began his first letter to his love.Apparently it was hard to write, for he wasted several sheets and much time that he could ill afford.When it was at length finished, it ran as follows:
"Dear Miss Raeburn,--I hardly like to ask to see you yet for fear you should think me intrusive, but a message was entrusted to me on Tuesday night which I dare not of myself keep back from you.Will you see me? If you are able to, and will name the time which will suit you best, I shall be very grateful.Forgive me for troubling you, and believe me, Yours faithfully, Brian Osmond."He sent it off a little doubtfully, by no means satisfied that he had done a wise thing.But when he returned from his rounds later in the day the reply set his fears at rest.
It was written lengthways across a sheet of paper; the small delicate writing was full of character, but betrayed great physical exhaustion.
"It is good of you to think of us.Please come this afternoon if you are able.Erica."That very afternoon! Now that his wish was granted, now that he was indeed to see her, Brian would have given worlds to have postponed the meeting.He was well accustomed to visiting sorrow-stricken people, but from meeting such sorrow as that in the Raeburns' house he shrunk back feeling his insufficiency.Besides, what words were delicate enough to convey all that had passed in that death scene? How could he dare to attempt in speech all that the dying mother would fain have had conveyed to her child? And then his own love! Would not that be the greatest difficulty of all? Feeling her grief as he did, could he yet modify his manner to suit that of a mere outsider--almost a stranger? He was very diffident; though longing to see Erica, he would yet have given anything to be able to transfer his work to his father.This, however, was of course impossible.
Strange though it might seem, he--the most unsuitable of all men in his own eyes--was the man singled out to bear this message, to go to the death-visited household.He went about his afternoon work in a sort of steady, mechanical manner, the outward veil of his inward agitation.About four o'clock he was free to go to Guilford Terrace.
He was shown into the little sitting room; it was the room in which Mrs.Raeburn had died, and the mere sight of the outer surroundings, the well-worn furniture, the book-lined walls made the whole scene vividly present to him.The room was empty, there was a blazing fire but no other light, for the blinds were down, and even the winter twilight shut out.Brian sat down and waited.
