As long as there was anything to be done, Erica struggled on although the days were terribly hard and were rendered infinitely harder by the sort of publicity which attended them.There was the necessity of appearing at the inquest; there was the necessity of reading every word that was written about her father.She could not help reading the papers, could not keep her hands off them, though even now most cruel things were said.There was the necessity of attending the great public funeral in London, of seeing the thousands of grief-stricken people, of listening to the professor's words so broken with sobs that they could hardly be heard.A week later there was the necessity of going down to the Ashborough assizes to appear as a witness in the trial of Drosser.
"What do you feel toward this man?" some one asked her once.
"A great pity," she replied."It is not nearly so hard for me to forgive this poor fanatic as to forgive those who have taught him his dark creed, or to forgive those who, while calling themselves Christians, have hated my father with the hatred that is quite as bad as murder."But when the trial was over and there was no longer any necessity to do anything, Erica suddenly broke down.She had never till now yielded though not a night had passed in which she had not been haunted by the frightful recollections of that Sunday evening and the days following.But the evening she returned from Ashborough she could hold out no longer.
Very quietly she bore that sad return to the empty house, going into all the familiar rooms and showing no sign of grief, because those she loved were with her, watching her with the anxious solicitude which people cannot help showing at such a time though it is usually more of a trial than a comfort.Erica longed inexpressibly to be alone, and when at length, deceived by her unnatural calm, they were persuaded to leave her, she crept down to the study and shut herself in, and no longer tried to resist the inevitable, the mere surroundings were quite sufficient to open the flood gates of her grief; the books which her father had loved, the table, the empty chair, the curious cactus which they had brought back from Italy, and in the growth of which they had taken such an interest! the desk at which her father had toiled for so many long years.She hid her face from the light and broke into a passionate fit of weeping.Then exhausted, nerveless, powerless, she could no longer cope with that anguish of remembrance which was her nightly torment.Once more there rose before her that horrible scene in the Ashborough market place; once more she could see the glare of light, the huge crowd, the sudden treacherous movement, the fall;once more she heard the crash, the hushed murmur; once more felt the wild struggle to get through that pushing, jostling throng that she might somehow reach him.That nightmare recollection only gave place to a yet more painful one, to the memory of days of such agony that to recall them was almost to risk her reason.She had struggled bravely not to dwell upon these things, but this night her strength was gone, she could do nothing, and Brian, coming at last to seek her, found that the climax he had long foreseen had come.
"Oh," she sobbed, "if you love me, Brian, be willing to let me go!
Don't pray for me to live! Promise that you will not!"A shade came over Brian's face.Was the dead father still to absorb all her love? Must he even now resign all to him? Lose Erica at last after these long years of waiting! There was a look of agony in his eyes, but he answered quietly and firmly:
"I will pray only that God's will may be done, darling."A sort of relief was apparent in Erica's flushed, tear-stained face as though he had given her leave to be ill.
After that, for long, weary weeks, she lay at the very gate of death, and those who watched by her had not the heart to wish her back to life again.
