We Two | Page 5

with her."
"Who said so? And Why?"
"Why? Because I'm myself," said Erica, with a bitter little laugh. "How
I can help it, nobody seems to think. But Gertrude's father has come
back from Africa, and was horrified to learn that we were friends, made
her promise never to speak to me again, and made her write this note
about it. Look!" and she took a crumpled envelope from her pocket.
The mother read the note in silence, and an expression of pain came
over her face. Erica, who was very impetuous, snatched it away from
her when she saw that look of sadness.
"Don't read the horrid thing!" she exclaimed, crushing it up in her hand.
"There, we will burn it!" and she threw it into the fire with a
vehemence which somehow relieved her.
"You shouldn't have done that," said her mother. "Your father will be
sure to want to see it."
"No, no, no," cried Erica, passionately. "He must not know; you must
not tell him, mother."
"Dear child, have you not learned that it is impossible to keep anything
from him? He will find out directly that something is wrong."
"It will grieve him so; he must not hear it," said Erica. "He cares so
much for what hurts us. Oh! Why are people so hard and cruel? Why
do they treat us like lepers? It isn't all because of losing Gertrude; I
could bear that if there were some real reason --if she went away or
died. But there's no reason! It's all prejudice and bigotry and injustice;
it's that which makes it sting so.
Erica was not at all given to tears, but there was now a sort of choking
in her throat, and a sort of dimness in her eyes which made her rather
hurriedly settle down on the floor in her own particular nook beside her
mother's couch, where her face could not be seen. There was a silence.
Presently the mother spoke, stroking back the wavy, auburn hair with
her thin white hand.
"For a long time I have dreaded this for you, Erica. I was afraid you

didn't realize the sort of position the world will give you. Till lately you
have seen scarcely any but our own people, but it can hardly be, darling,
that you can go on much longer without coming into contact with
others; and then, more and more, you must realize that you are cut off
from much that other girls may enjoy."
"Why?" questioned Erica. "Why can't they be friendly? Why must they
cut us off from everything?"
"It does seem unjust; but you must remember that we belong to an
unpopular minority."
"But if I belonged to the larger party, I would at least be just to the
smaller," said Erica. "How can they expect us to think their system
beautiful when the very first thing they show us is hatred and meanness.
Oh! If I belonged to the other side I would show them how different it
might be."
"I believe you would," said the mother, smiling a little at the idea, and
at the vehemence of the speaker. "But, as it is, Erica, I am afraid you
must school yourself to endure. After all, I fancy you will be glad to
share so soon in your father's vexations."
"Yes," said Erica, pushing back the hair from her forehead, and giving
herself a kind of mental shaking. "I am glad of that. After all, they can't
spoil the best part of our lives! I shall go into the garden to get rid of
my bad temper; it doesn't rain now."
She struggled to her feet, picked up the little fur hat which had fallen
off, kissed her mother, and went out of the room.
The "garden" was Erica's favorite resort, her own particular property. It
was about fifteen feet square, and no one but a Londoner would have
bestowed on it so dignified a name. But Erica, who was of an inventive
turn, had contrived to make the most of the little patch of ground, had
induced ivy to grow on the ugly brick walls, and with infinite care and
satisfaction had nursed a few flowers and shrubs into tolerably healthy
though smutty life. In one of the corners, Tom Craigie, her favorite
cousin, had put up a rough wooden bench for her, and here she read and
dreamed as contentedly as if her "garden ground" had been fairy-land.
Here, too, she invariably came when anything had gone wrong, when
the endless troubles about money which had weighed upon her all her
life became a little less bearable than usual, or when some act of
discourtesy or harshness to her father had roused in her a tingling,

burning sense of indignation.
Erica was not