And seems she mid deep silence to a strain To listen, which the soul alone can know, Saying: "Fear naught, for Jesus came on earth, Jesus of endless joys the wide, deep sea, To ease each heavy load of mortal birth.
His waters ever clearest, sweetest be To him who in a lonely bark drifts forth On His great deeps of goodness trustfully.From Vittoria Colonna Codrington was one of the very few sea-side places within fairly easy reach of London which had not been vulgarized into an ordinary watering place.It was a primitive little place with one good, old-established hotel, and a limited number of villas and lodging houses, which only served as a sort of ornamental fringe to the picturesque little fishing town.
The fact was that it was just midway between two large and deservedly popular resorts, and so it had been overlooked, and to the regret of the thrifty inhabitants and the satisfaction of the visitors who came there for quiet, its peaceful streets and its stony beach were never invaded by excursionists.No cockneys came down for the Sunday to eat shrimps; the shrimps were sent away by train to the more favored watering places, and the Codrington shop keepers shook their heads and gave up expecting to make a fortune in such a conservative little place.Erica said it reminded her of the dormouse in "Alice In Wonderland," tyrannized over by the hatter on one side and the March hare on the other, and eventually put head foremost into the teapot.Certainly Helmstone on the east and Westport on the west had managed to eclipse it altogether, and its peaceful sleepiness made the dormouse comparison by no means inapt.
It all looked wonderfully unchanged as she walked from the station that summer afternoon with her father.The square, gray tower of St.Oswald's Church, the little, winding, irregular streets, the very shop windows seemed quite unaltered, while at every turn familiar faces came into sight.The shrewd old sailor with the telescope, the prim old lady at the bookseller's, who had pronounced the "Imitation of Christ" to be quite out of fashion, the sturdy milkman, with white smock-frock, and bright pails fastened to a wooden yoke, and the coast-guardsman, who was always whistling "Tom Bowling."The sea was as calm as a mill pond; Raeburn suggested an hour or two on the water and Erica, who was fond of boating, gladly assented.She had made up her ind not to speak to her father that evening; he had a very hard day's work before him on the Sunday;they must have these few hours in peace.She did not in the least dread any subject coming up which might put her into difficulty, for, on the rare days when her father allowed himself any recreation, he entirely banished all controversial topics from his mind.He asked no single question relating to the work or to business of any kind, but gave himself up to the enjoyment of a much-needed rest and relaxation.He seemed in excellent spirits, and Erica herself would have been rapturously happy if she had not been haunted by the thought of the pain that awaited him.She knew that this was the last evening she and her father should ever spend together in the old perfect confidence; division the most painful of all divisions lay before them.
The next day she was left to herself.She would not go to the old gray-towered church, though as an atheist she had gone to one or two churches to look and listen, she felt that she could not honorably go as a worshiper till she had spoken to her father.So she wandered about on the shore, and in the restful quiet learned more and grew stronger, and conquered the dread of the morrow.She did not see her father again that day for he could not get back from Helmstone till a late train, and she had promised not to sit up for him.
The morning of her twenty-third birthday was bright and sunshiny;she had slept well, but awoke with the oppressive consciousness that a terrible hard duty lay before her.When she came down there was a serious look in her eyes which did not escape Raeburn's keen observation.He was down before her, and had been out already, for he had managed somehow to procure a lovely handful of red and white roses and mignonette.
"All good wishes for your birthday, and 'sweets to the sweet' as some one remarked on a more funereal occasion," he said, stooping to kiss her."Dear little son Eric, it is very jolly to have you to myself for once.No disrespect to Aunt Jean and old Tom, but two is company." "What lovely flowers!" exclaimed Erica.! "How good of you! Where did they come from?""I made love to old Nicolls, the florist, to let me gather these myself; he was very anxious to make a gorgeous arrangement done up in white paper with a lace edge, and thought me a fearful Goth for preferring this disorderly bunch."They sat down to breakfast; afterward the morning papers came in, and Raeburn disappeared behind the "Daily Review," while the servant cleared the table.Erica stood by the open French window;she knew that in a few minutes she must speak, and how to get what she had to say into words she did not know.Her heart beat so fast that she felt almost choked.In a sort of dream of pain she watched the passers-by happy looking girls going down to bathe, children with spades and pails.Everything seemed so tranquil, so ordinary while before her lay a duty which must change her whole world.
"Not much news," said Raeburn, coming toward her as the servant left the room."For dullness commend me to a Monday paper! Well, Eric, how are we to spend your twenty-third birthday? To think that I have actually a child of twenty-three! Why, I ought to feel an old patriarch, and, in spite of white hair and life-long badgering, I don't, you know.Come, what shall we do.Where would you like to go?""Father," said Erica, "I want first to have a talk with you.I--Ihave something to tell you."
There was no longer any mistaking that the seriousness meant some kind of trouble.Raeburn put his arm round her.
