"I am afraid," she said, "it is too bad not to be true."It struck Charles Osmond that that was about the saddest little sentence he had ever heard.
Partly wishing to change the subject, party from real interest, he made some remark about a lovely little picture, the only one in the room; its frame was lighted up by the flickering blaze, and even in the imperfect light he could see that the subject was treated in no ordinary way.It was a little bit of the Thames far away from London, with a bank of many-tinted trees on one side, and out beyond a range of low hills, purple in the evening light.In the sky was a rosy sunset glow, melted above into saffron color, and this was reflected in the water, gilding and mellowing the foreground of sedge and water lilies.But what made the picture specially charming was that the artist had really caught the peculiar solemn stillness of evening; merely to look at that quiet, peaceful river brought a feeling of hush and calmness.It seemed a strange picture to find as the sole ornament in the study of a man who had all his life been fighting the world.
Erica brightened up again, and seemed to forget her anxiety when he questioned her as to the artist.
"There is such a nice story about that picture," she said, "Ialways like to look at it.It was about two years ago, one very cold winter's day, and a woman came with some oil paintings which she was trying to sell for her husband, who was ill; he was rather a good artist, but had been in bad health for a long time, till at last she had really come to hawking about his pictures in this way, because they were in such dreadful distress.Father was very much worried just then, there was a horrid libel case going on, and that morning he was very busy, and he sent the woman away rather sharply, and said he had no time to listen to her.Then presently he was vexed with himself because she really had looked in great trouble, and he thought he had been harsh, and, though he was dreadfully pressed for time, he would go out into the square to see if he couldn't find her again.I went with him, and we had walked all round and had almost given her up, when we caught sight of her coming out of a house on the opposite side.And then it was so nice, father spoke so kindly to her, and found out more about her history, and said that he was too poor to buy her pictures; but she looked dreadfully tired and cold, so he asked her to come in and rest, and she came and sat by the fire, and stayed to dinner with us, and we looked at her pictures, because she seemed so proud of them and liked us to.One of them was that little river scene, which father took a great fancy to, and praised a great deal.She left us her address, and later on, when the libel case was ended, and father had got damages, and so had a little spare money, he sent some to this poor artist, and they were so grateful; though, do you know, I think the dinner pleased them more than the money, and they would insist on sending this picture to father.I'll light the gas, and then you'll see it better."She twisted a piece of paper into a spill, and put an end to the gloaming.Charles Osmond stood up to get a nearer view of the painting, and Erica, too, drew nearer, and looked at it for a minute in silence.
"Father took me up the Thames once," she said, by and by."It was so lovely.Some day, when all these persecutions are over, we are going to have a beautiful tour, and see all sorts of places.But I don't know when they will be over.As soon as one bigot--" she broke off suddenly, with a stifled exclamation of dismay.
Charles Osmond, in the dim light, with his long gray beard, had not betrayed his clerical dress; but, glancing round at him now, she saw at once that the stranger to whom she had spoken so unreservedly was by no means one of her father's followers.
"Well!" he said, smiling, half understanding her confusion.
"You are a clergyman!" she almost gasped.
"Yes, why not?"
"I beg your pardon, I never thought--you seemed so much too--""Too what?"urged Charles Osmond.Then, as she still hesitated, "Now, you must really let me hear the end of that sentence, or Ishall imagine everything dreadful."
"Too nice," murmured Erica, wishing that she could sink through the floor.
But the confession so tickled Charles Osmond that he laughed aloud, and his laughter was so infectious that Erica, in spite of her confusion, could not help joining in it.She had a very keen sense of the ludicrous, and the position was undoubtedly a laughable one;still there were certain appalling recollections of the past conversation which soon made her serious again.She had talked of persecutions to one who was, at any rate, on the side of persecutors; had alluded to bigots, and, worst of all, had spoken in no measured terms of "tiresome Christians."She turned, rather shyly, and yet with a touch of dignity, to her visitor, and said:
"It was very careless of me not to notice more, but it was dark, and I am not used to seeing any but our own people here.I am afraid I said things which must have hurt you; I wish you had stopped me."The beautiful color had spread and deepened in her cheeks, and there was something indescribably sweet and considerate in her tone of apology.Charles Osmond was touched by it.
