He moved away with his good-humored, shaggy-looking face, leaving Erica to old Mr. Harmston.
“I am much grieved to hear this of you, Erica,” he said, lowering his voice, and bringing his gray head near to hers “as grieved as if you were my own child. You will be a sore loss to us all.”
Erica felt this keenly, for she was very fond of the old man.
“Do you think it does not hurt me to grieve you all?” she said, piteously. “But one must be honest.”
“Quite right, my dear,” said the old man, “but that does not make our loss the less heavy. We had hoped great things of you, Erica. It is grievous to me that you should have fallen back to the miserable superstitions against which your father has fought so bravely.”
“Come, Mr. Harmston,” said the professor; “we are late, I fancy.”
And before Erica could make any reply Mrs. Craigie and the two visitors had adjourned to the committee room, leaving her alone with Tom.
Now, for two or three days Erica had been enduring Tom's coldness and Mrs. Craigie's unceasing remonstrances; all the afternoon she had been having a long and painful discussion with her friend, Mrs. MacNaughton; this evening she had seen plainly enough what her position would be for the future among all her old acquaintances, and an aching sense of isolation filled her heart. She was just going to run upstairs and yield to her longing for darkness and quiet, when Tom called her back. She could not refuse to hear, for the coldness of her old playmate had made her very sad, but she turned back rather reluctantly, for her eyes were brimming with tears.
“Don't go,” said Tom, quite in his natural voice. “Have you any coffee for me, or did the old fogies finish it?”
Erica went back to the table and poured him out a cup of coffee, but her hand trembled, and, before she could prevent it, down splashed a great tear into the saucer.