Books: Herb of Grace

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"There is something I want to say to you--that for weeks I have been
trying to say--will you let me speak now?" Did he really say those
words, or did he whisper them inwardly? But no, he could see the
sudden startled look in Elizabeth's eyes when she saw his face.

"May I speak?"

"No--no," in a frightened tone. "Mr. Herrick, for my sake--for both
our sakes--I implore you to be silent; I cannot--I will not listen"-
-her agitation increasing with every word. But she might as well
have tried to control the wind.

"You cannot mean that," he returned gently but firmly; "forgive me
if I do not obey you--if it is not possible for me to keep silence
any longer. Elizabeth, surely all these weeks you must have known
that you were the one woman in the world for me?"

"No--no," she returned, covering her face with her hands, "I never
knew it; how could I--how could I?" But he mistook the cause of her
emotion.

"I think no woman was ever loved so well! All these weeks that I
have been dumb, I have been living for you--only for you." Then she
put up her trembling hand to stop him, but he caught it in his own.

"Elizabeth, will you try to love me a little?"

"Hush--hush," endeavouring to free herself. "Indeed--indeed you must
not say such things, Mr. Herrick; you are deceiving yourself. We are
friends, and I like you, and I am very, very grateful to you for all
your goodness to Cedric, but I never meant it to come to this."

"How do you mean?" he asked, and his face was white with emotion.
"Surely you must have seen how things were with me;" and Malcolm's
voice was a little hard.

"I think I tried not to see," she answered truthfully. "Once or
twice I was afraid, and then I told myself I was mistaken. Mr.
Herrick, I do not want to hurt you, I would not add to your trouble
for the world, but at least you will do me the justice of owning
that I never gave you any encouragement."

"No," he returned, in a tone of forced composure, "you never
encouraged me in my presumption. I loved you because I could not
help myself--because you were Elizabeth Templeton and I was Malcolm
Herrick." Then her eyes grew very sad.

"Dear friend, it was no presumption--any woman would have felt
honoured by such devotion; but," and here a burning flush came to
her face, "it is too late--I am not free."

Malcolm stared at her. Surely he was in some hideous nightmare, but
he would wake directly. What an awful stillness seemed round them!--
as though a storm were impending: the water-lilies on the Pool
looked like dead things, and even the dragon-fly hung motionless in
mid-air; only the dogs panted and snored round them. Elizabeth
pressed her hands together as though something pained her.

"I am not free," she repeated in a low voice; but she did not look
at Malcolm as she spoke. "Last evening Mr. Carlyon spoke to me, and-
-and we are engaged."

"Good God!" but Malcolm did not say the words aloud, for his tongue
felt suddenly dry and palsied,--it was only the cry of his soul to
his Maker in the hour of his agony. But Elizabeth dared not look at
him, or her heart would have been wrung with pity at the sight of
his drawn, haggard face.

"We have cared for each other for a long time," she whispered, "but
he was poor and did not like to speak. Only Dinah knows. I had just
told her when you came in last evening. We did not want any one else
to know just yet."

"But I forced your hand." Malcolm had pulled himself together now.
"Thank you for telling me the truth; but you were always a brave
woman," and he tried to smile.

"Oh no, I have not been brave;" and then her eyes suddenly filled
with tears. "Mr. Herrick, I am so unhappy; this--this--has spoiled
everything."

"No--no, you must not say that. If I have been a blind fool, it is
no fault of yours, and I have no one to thank but myself for the
misery that has come upon me. Elizabeth"--oh, how sad his voice was!
it thrilled her to hear it--"before I leave you, let me wish you
every happiness--you and Mr. Carlyon too;" and then he rose to his
feet.

"Must you go?" she pleaded.

"Yes, I must go," he returned hurriedly; "will you excuse me to your
sister?" Then Elizabeth stretched out her hand to him in silence,
and he saw that she could not trust herself to speak.

"You must not be too sorry for me," he said rather brokenly; "I am
not the only man who has been denied his heart's desire;" and he
turned away and plunged into the little fir wood. Elizabeth sat
listening to his retreating footsteps. The tears were running down
her cheeks. She was still weeping when Dinah rejoined her.

"Have I been long?" she observed cheerfully. "That tiresome Mrs.
Carrick called about the mothers' meetings. Where is Mr. Herrick?"
Then, as she caught sight of Elizabeth's face, "Oh, my dear Betty,
what is it?--what has gone wrong?--and on your birthday too!"--
Elizabeth wept afresh.

"Hush, don't ask me--not now. David will be here directly, and he
must not see me like this. You were right, Die, you saw how it was,
and I would not believe you--I did not want to believe you. Now let
me go away and recover myself." But Dinah held her fast.

"You shall go in a moment, dear; but just tell me one thing--did Mr.
Herrick ask you to be his wife?"

"Not exactly--I would not let him go as far as that; but, Die, he
loves me so, and he is so unhappy." Then Dinah sighed, and her hand
dropped from her sister's arm.

"You had better go," she returned. "I see Mullins crossing the
bridge. If David comes I will make an excuse for your absence;" and
Elizabeth nodded and turned away. Dinah's heart was very heavy as
she stood looking down upon the Pool. It is the looker-on who sees
most of the game, and weeks ago she had vainly tried to open
Elizabeth's eyes to a sense of her danger.

"He has never said a word to me that the whole world might not hear-
-I don't believe he ever will," Elizabeth had replied obstinately;
but Dinah knew that she was wilfully deceiving herself--that her
intuition was truer than her words, and that in Malcolm Herrick's
presence she was always on guard, as if she feared an invasion of
her woman's kingdom.

Dinah could have wept too in her grievous disappointment and
passionate pity, for Elizabeth's choice seemed to her a great
mistake. David Carlyon was a dear fellow, and as good as gold, but
he was not equal to Malcolm.

"If only they had met a year ago," she thought, "before David's
influence grew so strong, she would surely have discovered then that
they were made for each other. Mr. Herrick is just the sort of man
she would have admired. There is something striking and original
about him, and then in spite of his cleverness he is so simple and
good. Oh, Betty, my darling," she went on, "why could you not have
given me such a brother! I should have been so proud of him!" And
then Dinah checked herself in very shame, for she remembered how she
had promised Elizabeth the previous evening that she would take
David Carlyon to her sisterly heart."

It was not a very cheerful birthday tea, though each one of the trio
tried to do his or her best to promote innocent hilarity. Elizabeth
talked a great deal, but her face was still flushed, and she rather
avoided her lover's eyes, and as for David he talked principally to
Dinah. He told funny little parish stories which made her laugh, and
to which Elizabeth listened with a manifest effort, and he took no
notice when she chimed in with some irrelevant remark. Dinah
wondered to herself more than once if he really had not noticed that
Elizabeth's eyelids were still reddened, in spite of cold water and
eau de Cologne. David was certainly a little dense in his happiness,
she thought, and then she sighed involuntarily as she thought of the
lonely man who had left them.

"He will take it hardly," she said to herself. "His nature is
intense, and he will suffer more than most men;" and as this thought
passed through her mind, she looked up and found David's keen,
bright eyes fixed on her, and coloured a little as though he had
read her thoughts.

When tea was over, Dinah made some transparent little excuse to go
back to the house, for in these sweet, early days of their happiness
she knew well that the lovers would have much to say to each other.
And she was not wrong: before she was out of sight David had flung
himself down at Elizabeth's feet, and had taken her hands.

"What is it, dearest?" he said tenderly. "You have been shedding
tears--do you think I did not know that?" Then Elizabeth blushed as
though she were a child discovered in a fault. "Tell me all about
it, darling," he whispered; but she shook her head.

"I cannot, David--indeed I cannot; you must not ask me to tell you
this." Elizabeth's voice quivered a little, but she was very much in
earnest.

"Must I not?" he returned with a smile. "Don't look so frightened,
sweetheart; perhaps there is no need to ask, perhaps I know all you
are trying to keep from me." And then in a low voice full of
meaning, "So Herrick has spoken at last."

"At last!" It was evident those two words had startled Elizabeth.
David with some difficulty suppressed an irresistible smile.

"Do you mean," he asked incredulously, "that you never noticed, what
every one else saw so plainly, that that poor fellow fairly
worshipped the ground you trod on?" Then again a painful flush came
to Elizabeth's face.

"I was not sure," she stammered, for her conscience did not wholly
acquit her--"I would not let myself see or notice things; besides, I
was thinking of you." Then David kissed the hands he held; but there
was a troubled look in his eyes.

"Poor beggar!" he muttered to himself. Then aloud, "Do you know, my
darling, what people will say when they hear you have thrown over a
man like Herrick for me--for a mere curate, with empty pockets and
not too many brains."

"Do you suppose I care what they say!" throwing her head back in
rather a regal fashion.

"They will say you are mad; and upon my word," and here David knit
his brows in a puzzled manner, "I am not sure that they will be
wrong. Look at the difference between us. Herrick is my superior in
every way. I used to shake in my shoes to hear him talk to the
vicar. Elizabeth, my heart aches for that poor fellow, but even you
do not know what I have suffered on his account all these weeks.
There were times when I was tempted to throw up the sponge."

"Oh, David, when you knew--when you must have known my feelings!"

"Yes, I knew; but there were days when my courage failed me, and I
felt I had no right to stand in your light. Dearest," and here he
was kneeling beside her with all a man's worship in his honest eyes,
"you are too good for me--do you think I do not know that it is your
goodness and generosity that make you stoop to me!" But Elizabeth
laid her hand upon his lips.

"Hush, you shall not talk so. It is I who am not worthy of you. I
love you, David--I love you, oh so dearly; that is enough for you--
and me too," and Elizabeth looked at him with an adorable smile.
Then for a little while Malcolm Herrick was forgotten.

CHAPTER XXV

"IT HAS GONE VERY DEEP"

When you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness
takes his leave.
--SHAKESPEARE.

Fulfil the perfection of long-suffering--be thou
patient.
--Teaching of Buddha.

All his life long Malcolm never spoke of the hours that followed
that fateful interview down by the Pool, when he was as one who had
just received his baptism of fire--when he was scorched through and
through with that new and terrible agony.

"He will take it hardly," Dinah had said to herself. "His nature is
intense, and he will suffer more than most men;" and she was right.
Malcolm did suffer cruelly.

He had spoken his parting words to Elizabeth with outward calmness,
though his lips were blanched and his features drawn with pain; for
he was a gentleman, and noblesse oblige, and why should he make her
suffer when she had done him no wrong? "I am not the only man who
has been denied his heart's desire," he had said to her in a dull,
lifeless voice, and in this he was certainly right. All are not
winners in the race; many fail to attain their goal, and retire
baffled and disheartened from the contest; but few suffer as Malcolm
Herrick did, and though he did not curse the day he was born, as Job
did, the whole plan and purpose of his life seemed frustrated and
the future a hopeless blank.

And the fault was his own! Even in his most despairing moments he
never ceased to tell himself that she had never encouraged him--
never held out her woman's sceptre for him to touch; and even when
she had been most sweet and winsome, she had not abridged the
distance between them, nor, in her noble sincerity and friendship,
attempted to draw him closer.

No, it was he who had been a blind fool, and he must pay the penalty
of his madness. The gates of his earthly paradise had closed behind
him for ever. He could hear them clanging in the distance; and the
golden bells of his city of dreams were chiming "Nevermore--oh,
nevermore!"

"His City of dreams--what a good name!" thought he; and through the
long summer days he had dwelt there like a king. And now the gates
had closed, and the golden pinnacles were no longer visible, and the
breath of the roses and the fragrance of the spices of Araby the
blessed would no longer steep his senses in sweetness. Nevermore--
oh, nevermore would those blissful dreams be his!

Malcolm never quite recollected what he did with himself that
evening. The idea of going back to the Crow's Nest in his present
state of mind was simply intolerable. How could he have joined in
the simple meal and listened to Goliath's talk!

No, it would be better to have a good long walk and look things in
the face, and if he tired himself so much the better. But Malcolm
never retained any clear recollection of that walk. He had a vague
idea that he passed Earlsfield station, and presently he found
himself on the open moor, where he had driven with Elizabeth the day
when she had so naively confessed her ignorance to him. "I am rather
a desultory sort of person," she had said to him, and he had offered
to make out a list of books for her to read.

He had done so, and she had thanked him very sweetly, and had sent
for some of the books, but he had never seen her read them. Perhaps
Carlyon--and at this thought he ground his teeth hard--perhaps
Carlyon had discouraged her. Horticulture seemed his chief hobby,
and he was always talking to her about a new fern-house they were
making at the Wood House, and Malcolm's poor books were neglected.

He flung himself down on the heather. He would battle it out with
himself, he thought, and when he was in a quieter frame of mind he
would go home. Home, pooh! he would never have a home now!

It was a glorious evening. A fresh, soft breeze had risen and blew
refreshingly in his face, but he never heeded it, for in some moods
we take the gifts and graces of Nature as a matter of course, and
yield her no thanks or acknowledgment for her gentle benison. Even
the glowing crimson tints of the sunset clouds could not move him to
admiration. A line of Browning came involuntarily to his mind:

I will not soil thy purple with my dust;

but he was thinking of Elizabeth and not of the sunset.

"I must battle it out with myself," he repeated. But hours passed,
and the moon had risen, and he still lay there, plucking up the
heather and flinging it aside in a stupefaction of misery. It was
only when the September darkness stole over the moor that he
recollected himself and stumbled to his feet.

He was almost worn out when he unlatched the little gate at the
Crow's Nest. Amias was smoking as usual in the porch, and Verity was
with him. The lamplight from within fell full on Malcolm's face as
he approached them. Verity gave a start.

"Oh, how tired you look!" she said in quite a shocked voice. Malcolm
gave her a weary smile.

"I have had a long walk," he returned. "It was such a lovely
evening, so I resolved to miss supper for once." He tried to speak
in a jaunty fashion, but it was a ghastly failure, and he knew it.
He was so sick and faint with inanition that he felt as though he
could not utter another word. "I am tired, I think I will go to bed.
Good-night you two;" and he groped his way to the garden-house.

Amias took his pipe from his mouth and looked at his wife
inquiringly.

"What's come to Herrick?" he said in a concerned tone; "he looks
dead beat. We thought he was dining at the Wood House; at least you
said so, Yea-Verily, my child, and I believed you."

"Yes, I know, dear; but we were both wrong, and he has eaten
nothing, that is evident." And then she got up quickly. "The kitchen
fire is still alight, and the kettle will soon boil; I told Martha
to leave it. I will make him some coffee, and you shall take it to
him. And, Amias, you dear old thing, don't talk to him; he is not
fit for it to-night."

And so it was that a quarter of an hour later Amias knocked at
Malcolm's door, and was reluctantly bidden to enter.

Malcolm was sitting still fully dressed by the open window, and the
moonlight made him look still more ghastly. Amias, without a word,
lighted the lamp and placed the tray beside him. "Verity sends her
love, and says you must eat your supper," was all he ventured to
say, but his large hand rested kindly on Malcolm's shoulder for a
moment. Malcolm tried to thank him, but the words would not come.
But when his friend had left the room he suddenly covered his face
with his hands and cried like a child. "Elizabeth--Elizabeth!" but
there was no response; only a sleepy bird stirred in the shrubbery.
In spite of his great intimacy with the Kestons and his very real
friendship, Malcolm did not confide in either of them. He was
undemonstrative and self-reliant by nature, and, as he said himself
afterwards, "There are some things that a man ought to keep to
himself." But neither Amias nor Verity expected any such confidence.

If Amias seemed puzzled by the change in Malcolm, Verity needed no
explanation. She had seen how things were from the first. She had
once caught sight of Malcolm's face when Elizabeth Templeton had
passed him so closely that her dress brushed against him. She had
seen that look in Amias's eyes in the dear auld lang syne.

Verity was a loyal little soul, and she never even hinted her
suspicions to her husband. Neither did she attempt to find out what
was amiss. When, the next evening, Malcolm told them hurriedly that
he would be obliged to return to town earlier than he thought, she
interrupted Amias's clumsy exclamations of regret. "Mr. Herrick has
been very good to give us so much of his company," she said
cheerfully. "Of course we shall miss him, and so will Babs;" and
then in her pretty, housewifely way she set about making
arrangements for his comfort, and Malcolm felt inwardly grateful for
this unspoken sympathy.

He went over to the vicarage to bid Mr. Charrington good-bye. On the
way back he met David Carlyon. The young curate looked rather
nervous and discomposed, but Malcolm was quite calm.

"As I am leaving Staplegrove to-morrow," he said quietly, "I am glad
to have this opportunity of offering my congratulations and bidding
you good-bye." The lie came glibly to his lips. Glad, when he would
have gone a dozen miles to avoid his rival--his successful rival!
Nevertheless--such hypocrites are the best of men--the words flowed
smoothly from his lips.

"Thanks awfully," replied David, prodding the dust with his stick.
"Are you going up to the Wood House now? I think--that is, I am sure
the ladies are out;" which was certainly the fact, as he had just
seen them driving in the direction of Earlsfield.

"No, not this afternoon, I think," replied Malcolm.

"Well, good-bye, I am a bit pressed for time;" and then the young
men shook hands, and David's grip was almost painful.

"Poor beggar!" he muttered to himself as he turned away; but Malcolm
could not give expression, if he tried, to those bitter thoughts of
his.

"David Carlyon her husband--the husband of Elizabeth Templeton--why,
the very birds knew how to mate more fitly!" he thought. "He is good
and true, but he is not worthy of her;" and David in his sad
humility was saying the same thing of himself.

That evening Dinah received a note; Amias Keston left it.

"My dear Miss Templeton," wrote Malcolm, "to-morrow I am leaving
Staplegrove, and I know you will understand the reason why I do not
call to bid you good-bye, and that you will not think me ungrateful
after all the kindness and hospitality I have received from you.
Your sister has often told me that you have no secrets from each
other; so you will know why it is better for me to return to town. I
have been to the vicarage this afternoon, and have seen Carlyon.
With kindest regards to you and your sister, yours very sincerely
and gratefully,"

"MALCOLM HERRICK."

Elizabeth grew a little pale and bit her lip when Dinah showed her
the note.

"It has gone very deep," she said to herself. "David said so, and he
was right--it has gone very deep."

So Malcolm shook off the dust of Staplegrove, and the gates of his
City of dreams clanged behind him.

"He must dree his weird," he said to himself, as he sat down to his
work in the gloomy room in Lincoln's Inn, and in spite of heart-
sickness he worked on stolidly and well. The evenings were his worst
time, when he went back to the empty house at Cheyne Walk and sat on
the balcony brooding over his troubles, until the light faded and an
eerie darkness crept over the river.

"I suppose many men have to go through this sort of thing," he would
say to himself, trying to philosophise in his old way, but if any
one had seen his face! "What does our glorious Will say?--'Men have
died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.'
Ah, but he also says, 'How bitter a thing it is to look into
happiness through another man's eyes!'" And sometimes, when the
silence and solitude oppressed him terribly, he would picture to
himself the dreary future. "I shall never marry," he would say.
"There is only one woman in the whole world that I want, and she
will have nothing to do with me and my love, and no other woman
shall ever be my wife." And then he would wonder sadly what life
would be like when he was an old bachelor; would he be living on
here with Amias and Verity, or would he go back to his mother and do
his duty to her in her old age? But with all his bitter ruminations
he never let himself go again, but battled manfully with his pain,
though as the days went on he grew paler and thinner, and looked
wretchedly ill.

Malcolm knew that his mother and Anna were back at Queen's Gate, but
it was quite ten days before he saw them. He dreaded the ordeal of
his mother's searching glances; but at last one evening he plucked
up his courage and went.

Anna, who saw him coming, flew down the staircase to meet him. She
looked younger than ever, and quite pretty, with the soft pink
colour in her cheeks and her fair hair; but her smile faded when she
saw Malcolm's face.

"Oh, Malcolm, have you been ill?" she asked in an alarmed voice.

"No, dear, not ill--only a trifle seedy and out of sorts. Come, let
me look at you, lady fair?" and he pinioned her lightly. "Good
child," he continued approvingly, "I shall tell the mater you do her
credit."

"Yes, I am quite well, and quite rested; and oh, Malcolm, I am so
glad to see you again!" Then he smiled at her kindly, and they went
upstairs hand in hand. Mrs. Herrick, hearing their voices, came out
on the landing to greet her son. Her manner was more than usually
affectionate.

"My dear boy," she said, "what an age it is since we saw you! It is
more than a fortnight since you even wrote. When did you come back
to town?"

Malcolm had dreaded this question, but he was compelled to answer it
truthfully.

"About ten days ago," he returned coolly; he knew his mother never
tolerated excuses.

"Ten days, and you have never been near us!" Then her tone changed.
"Have you been ill, Malcolm?" and she regarded him with undisguised
anxiety.

"Anna asked me the same question," he replied, impatiently. "I have
only been out of sorts, as I tell her--rather off my feed and that
kind of thing." Then Mrs. Herrick said no more on that subject, but
as they sat at dinner the keen gray eyes were often fixed on his
face. Malcolm did his part manfully: he talked and questioned Anna
about her doings; he would not brook an instant's silence. Anna must
tell him this and that about her water-party and the picnic, and
those wonderful people who tried to force an acquaintance on them;
he would not let her off, though more than once the girl looked
wistfully at him. Why did he not tell them about Staplegrove? He had
not once mentioned the Wood House and the Templetons. Was anything
wrong with him? He did not look himself; and she had never before
noticed those lines on his forehead. He looked different somehow in
these two months. When he went on to the balcony to smoke his
cigarette she followed, and stood silently beside him, until he
turned and saw her anxious face.

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