Erica was on the verge of tears.
“Oh, what shall we do what can we do?” she cried almost in despair. “I had not thought of that. Father will feel it dreadfully.”
But to conceal the matter was now hopeless for, as she spoke, Raeburn came into the room.
“What shall I feel dreadfully?” he said, smiling a little. “If any man ought to be case-hardened, I ought to be.”
But as he drew nearer and saw the faces of the two, his own face grew stern and anxious.
“You at home, Tom! What's the matter?”
Tom briefly told his tale, trying to make as light of it as possible, even trying to force a little humor into his account, but with poor success. There was absolute silence in the green room when he paused. Raeburn said not a word, but he grew very pale, evidently in this matter being by no means case-hardened. A similar instance, further removed from his immediate circle, might have called forth a strong, angry denunciation; but he felt too deeply anything affecting his own family or friends to be able in the first keenness of his grief and anger to speak.
“My boy,” he said at last, in a low, musical voice whose perfect modulations taxed Tom's powers of endurance to the utmost, “I am very sorry for this. I can't say more now; we will talk it over tonight. Will you come to Westminster with us?”
And presently as they drove along the crowded streets, he said with a bitter smile:
“There's one Biblical woe which by no possibility can ever befall us.”