"That is the place where I first heard your father," he said, indicating with his whip the town Hall."It must be sixteen years ago; I was quite a young fellow.""Sixteen years! Did you hear him so long ago as that?" said Erica, thoughtfully."Why, that must have been about the time of the great Stockborough trial.""It was; I remember reference being made to it, and how it stirred me up to think of Mr.Raeburn's gallant defense of freedom, and all that it was costing him.How well I remember, too, riding home that night along this very road, with the thoughts of the good of the race, the love of humanity, touched into life for the first time.When a selfish cynic first catches a glimpse of an honest man toiling for what he believes the good of humanity, it is a wonderful moment for him! Mr.Raeburn was about the only man living that I believed in.You can understand that I owe him an immense debt of gratitude.""That is what you referred to in the House last year!" said Erica.
"How curiously lives are linked together! Words spoken by my father years ago set thoughts working in you you make a speech and refer to them.I read a report of your speech in a time of chaotic wretchedness, and it comes like an answer to a prayer!"Another bond between us," said Donovan.
After that they were silent; they had left the high road and were driving along winding country lanes, catching glimpses every now and then of golden corn fields still unreaped, or of fields just beginning to be dotted with sheaves, where the men were at work.
It was a late harvest that year, but a good one.Presently they passed the tiny little village church which nestled under the brow of the hill, and then came a steep ascent, which made Donovan spring out of the pony chaise.Erica's words had awakened a long train of thought, had carried him back to the far past, and had brought him fresh proof of that wonderful unity of Nature which, though often little dreamed of, binds man to man.He gave the ponies a rest half way up the hill, and, stretching up into the high hedge, gathered a beautiful spray of red-berried briony for Erica.
"Do you remember that grand thought which Shakespeare puts into the mouth of Henry V.""'There is some soul of goodness in things evil.'
'Tis wonderful to look back in life and trace it out."He spoke rather abruptly, but Erica's thoughts had been following much the same bent, and she understood him.
"Trust is easy on such a day as this and in such a place," she said, looking down to the beautiful valley and up to the green, encircling hills.
Donovan smiled, and touched up the ponies.
It seemed to Erica that they had turned their backs on bigotry, and annoyance, and care of every description, and were driving right into a land of rest.Presently they turned in at some iron gates, and drove down a long approach, bordered with fir trees.At the end of this stood the manor, a solid, comfortable, well-built country house, its rather plain exterior veiled with ivy and creepers.Donovan led her into the hall, where stately old high-backed chairs and a suit or two of old armor were intermixed with modern appliances, fishing tackle, a lawn-tennis box, and a sprinkling of toys, which indicated that there were children in the house.
This fact was speedily indicated in another way, for there came a rush and a scamper overhead, and a boy of five or six years old ran down the broad oak staircase.
"Oh, father! May I ride round to the stables on Speedwell?" he cried, in a desperate hurry to attract his father's attention away from the servant and the portmanteau; then, catching sight of Erica, he checked himself, and held out his hand with a sort of shy courtesy.He was exactly what Donovan must have been as a child, as far as looks went.
"To the stables, Ralph?" replied his father, looking round."Yes, if you like.Put on your hat though.Where's your mother?""In the garden with Mr.Cunningham; he came a few minutes ago; and he's got such a horse, father! A real beauty just like cocoa.""A roan," said Donovan, laughing; then, as Ralph disappeared through the open door, he turned to the servant.
"Is it Mr.Cunningham of Blachingbury?"
"No, sir; Mr.Leslie Cunningham."
Erica listened, not without interest, for she knew that Leslie Cunningham was the recently elected member for East Mountshire, the eldest son of Sir Michael Cunningham.
"We must come and find them," said Donovan; and together they went out into the garden.
Here, on one of the broad, grassy terraces, under the shade of a copper-beech, was afternoon tea on a wicker table.Gladys was talking to Mr.Cunningham, but catching sight of her husband and Erica at the other end of the terrace, she hurried forward to greet them.
"This is delightful!" she exclaimed."I hoped that Donovan might unceremoniously carry you off today, but hardly dared to expect it.
You are just in time for tea."
"Your arrival has caused quite a sensation in the nursery," said Donovan to Leslie Cunningham."My small boy is in raptures over your horse 'just like cocoa!'"Leslie gave rather an absent laugh.He was watching Erica, who was still at a little distance talking to Gladys.
"May I be introduced to your guest?" he said.
"Certainly," said Donovan."She is the daughter of Mr.Raeburn."Leslie started.
"Indeed! I have heard about her from old Bircham, the editor.He can't say enough of her."Apparently Leslie Cunningham could not look enough at her.
Donovan, thinking of Brian, was perhaps a little vexed at the meeting.However, putting himself into his guest's position, he felt that the admiration was but natural, and as to Brian if he chose to lose his heart to such a lovely girl, he must expect to have many rivals.
