Days passed, classes began, and with time, interest in Erica quieted down. She rarely spoke either at dinner or at tea and then only when directly spoken to. The others took her to be quite serious sometimes, and at other times found her aloof and snobbish. Who did she think she was, just because she had spent a year in postwar Europe, to look down her nose at the others? Even Robert Miller with his dark references to a world wide workers revolution rarely brought any response from Erica, although I noticed she sometimes watched Robert and the responders rather more closely than she might ordinarily have done, taking her focus momentarily off the fire to look slowly from one face to the next around the room.
One evening in late September, Erica was even quieter and more somber than usual at tea. She seemed quite morose, in fact, and responded in monosyllables to every social overture. This dampened the conversation and the others became quite irritated with her, finally giving up trying to talk to her at all. She left the gathering without a word to anyone and went up to her room. Everyone seemed relieved.
I seldom join in my guests's discussions directly. I prefer to listen and take pleasure in making sure that everyone has tea and biscuits and is comfortable. I clear as necessary, poke the fire, and overhear quite a bit without being obvious about it. I too wondered what new depressing bit of philosophy was troubling the frail and introverted Erica.
Once the others left the parlor for their evening's activities, I went quietly up to Erica's room and tapped on the door. I said my name and was invited in. Erica was sitting on the straight chair staring at a textbook opened on the small desk in front of her. She offered me the only other chair.
She seemed in no better mood than earlier, but also seemed, strangely, not to want me to leave. She clumsily offered tea, saying that she was just going to make some for herself and a second cup would be no trouble at all.
I think of myself as a moderately perceptive woman, and it seemed to me that this was not the time for vague polite conversation. I got straight to the point.
"Erica, what's wrong? I don't want to pry, but if I can help at all, even by just listening, I want to do that."
There was a very long silence, during which the women looked at each other with quiet expressions. Then, as though she had thought it over carefully, and decided that she would, indeed, speak, she said, "I can't tell you. At least, I can't tell you here. It's a long story, and I do mean a long story, and I'm afraid the walls have ears here."
"Can it wait until this weekend?" I asked, "My father owns a small get-away cabin not terribly far from here. It is my occasional duty to see about the place, and I must go there this week-end to make sure it is safe and secure for the winter. It is a rather cozy place, deep in the woods and far from the nearest neighbor. We can surely talk there. Would you like to come with me? We can stay overnight in the cabin and we will have all the time in the world to talk."
She looked at me for several seconds, then "That would be wonderful of you. Yes, it can wait until the weekend," Erica said, and seemed somewhat brightened by the prospect. We would leave Saturday morning, spend the night in the cabin, and return on Sunday evening. There really wasn't much to do at the cabin, and Erica wouldn't get behind at all in her studies. It seemed a good arrangement, and both of us would surely benefit from it. Meals were less formal at Begley House on the weekends and the cook could manage the boarding house while I was away.