Books: Herb of Grace

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"Yes, and I worried you; it was very tactless and foolish on my
part," and again the ready tears started to Anna's eyes. But Malcolm
would not allow this--his dear little Anna was always kind and
thoughtful, and he had no right to be so savage with her.

"My mother is always hinting at my changed looks, but indeed I try
to be as usual. If I behave so badly, I must keep away." But this
threat so alarmed Anna that he took back his words.

"He is very unhappy--I think he gets more so," Anna thought, as she
stood by her window that night; "and of course it is Elizabeth who
makes him so." And that night Anna again wept and prayed for
Malcolm--her dearest brother, as she called him--for deep down in
her girlish heart there was buried the pure virginal love that she
had unconsciously given him--a love that no touch or breath would
ever wake into life now.

Malcolm was very repentant for days over his unkind speech, and on
Christmas Eve, when he paid his next visit, he brought Anna a peace-
offering in the shape of a valuable proof engraving of a picture she
had long coveted. Malcolm had had it beautifully framed. Anna was
enchanted with the gift, but Mrs. Herrick privately called her son
to account for his extravagance.

"There was no need to make Anna such an expensive present," she said
seriously. "You must have paid twenty guineas for that engraving.
You are too lavish in your generosity. She would be quite satisfied
with some pretty trifle."

"I am quite sure of that," he returned; "but it is such a pleasure
to give her things. Indeed, mother," as Mrs. Herrick still looked
grave, "I can well afford it. I have more money than I know how to
spend, and as I am not likely to marry, I see no good in hoarding."

Malcolm was right in saying that his income was too large for a
bachelor, for in addition to the salary he drew from his literary
post, his mother insisted on making him a handsome allowance, and
every quarter day a large sum was placed to his account at his
banker's, which Malcolm rarely touched.

"You are my only son, and there will be plenty for you when I die,"
she had said to him; "and Anna shall have her share too. Your father
was a rich man, Malcolm, and there is no need for you to work unless
you wish to do so;" but Malcolm soon convinced her that an idle life
was not to his taste.

Just after the new year Malcolm received rather a reproachful letter
from Mrs. Godfrey, accusing him of forgetting their existence.

"Of course you will say you are busy," she wrote, "but I do not mean
to accept that excuse. You can spend a quiet Sunday with us as well
as at Oxford, and I beg to remind you that I am an older friend than
Dinah Templeton." Then Malcolm somewhat reluctantly made up his mind
to accept the invitation for the following Saturday, although he was
hardly in the mood for his old friend's lively talk.

To his surprise his genial hostess received him rather gravely, and
it struck him at once that her cheerfulness was a little forced, and
with the familiarity of their intimate friendship he at once taxed
her with it. "Colonel Godfrey is well, and you are quite well," he
said pointedly, "and yet something seems troubling you?"

"You are quite right," she returned with a sigh. "You know I am
rather a sympathetic person, Mr. Herrick, and I have been very much
upset this morning by a letter from Elizabeth Templeton. Mr. Carlyon
has been up to town to consult Dr. Broderick. His father took him;
and from what she says there is nothing to be done--the poor fellow
is in a rapid decline," and as she said this Mrs. Godfrey's eyes
were full of tears.

CHAPTER XXXV

VIA DOLOROSA

Bleed on beneath the rod,
Weep on until thou see;
Turn fear and hope to love of God,
Who loveth thee.

Turn all to love, poor soul;
Be love thy starting-point, thy goal,
Be love thy watch and ward;
And thy reward.
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

It was the Feast of the Epiphany, and morning service was just over
in Rotherwood church, when Elizabeth Templeton came out of the porch
and walked slowly towards the gate, as though she expected some one
to overtake her.

At the sound of short, hurrying footsteps behind her she turned
round and welcomed the new-comer with a faint smile, and they went
on together. The Rev. Rupert Carlyon had been taking the service at
his son's request, and now, as he walked beside Elizabeth and tried
vainly to adapt his brisk, rapid step to hers, he looked more than
ever like a gray-haired, shabby David Carlyon. The resemblance
between father and son had always been striking, and even the
mannerisms and tricks of speech were absurdly similar. "A dry,
chippy little man," Cedric had once called him, and now, in his worn
Inverness cape and slouched clerical hat, he seemed smaller and more
shrunken than ever.

It was a lovely winter's day, and the hoar-frost on the hedges
glittered in the sunshine; the air was crisp and buoyant in spite of
the cold; but Elizabeth, who so revelled in the beauty of Nature,
and thought every season good and perfect, now only glanced round
her with the indifferent air of one whose thoughts were elsewhere.

"You are going to the vicarage?" she remarked at last; "I must not
take you out of your way."

"Oh, I will walk as far as the White Cottage with you," returned Mr.
Carlyon briskly. "You have promised to spend my last day with my boy
and me, so I shall be sure to turn up at tea. Charrington will give
me some luncheon, and then I have two or three visits to pay for
David; he is worrying himself dreadfully about that cobbler's
child."

"Ah, poor little Kit," observed Elizabeth sadly; "how sorry Mr.
Herrick will be--Kit is his special protegee. But Dr. Randolph says
that she could never have lived to grow up. Her stepmother is
nursing her devotedly; but it is so sad to see Caleb Martin: he is
quite bound up in the child, and it seems no use to try and comfort
him. 'Ay, it is the Lord's will,' he said to me yesterday, 'and
maybe Kit will have a fine time when the angels make much of her;
but what will Ma'am and I do without her--that is what I want to
know?'"

"To be sure--to be sure," returned Mr. Carlyon hurriedly, "that is
what we all want to know. Well, Elizabeth, you will do your best to
make my boy hear reason? Theo and I have failed, and this is our
last chance."

"I will do what I can," replied Elizabeth dejectedly; "but David is
a difficult patient, and I very much fear that even I shall have
little influence with him. It is so strange," she continued
sorrowfully, "that with all his unselfishness he should think so
little of our feelings in this."

"Oh, you must make allowances for the morbidness of disease,"
returned Mr. Carlyon, shaking his head. "Sick people have their
fancies. You must not lose heart, my dear,--remember you are my
chief comfort as well as David's." Then again she tried to smile.
The next minute they came in sight of the White Cottage, and Mr.
Carlyon left her to fulfil his self-imposed duties.

Elizabeth was right when she confessed that David Carlyon was a
difficult patient, for his high spirit and energy had prevented him
for a long time from owning he was ill.

Even in the early days of their engagement there had been symptoms
that ought not to have been neglected; but he had fought his languor
and fever manfully, and even Elizabeth knew nothing of an alarming
attack of faintness that had followed an unusually hard day's work.

Afterwards he had taken cold, and his illness had been so sharp that
Elizabeth in desperation had summoned his sister; but even then
David had absolutely refused any further medical advice, and had
also resisted all his friends' entreaties that he would be moved to
the vicarage or the Wood House to be properly nursed. "His old
diggings were good enough for the likes of him," he would say, "and
though Mother Pratt had her failings, she was not a bad sort;" and
when Elizabeth pressed him more closely he had seemed quite worried.

"Do give me my way in this," he said to her coaxingly. "If you knew
how I love this dear old cottage! It was in this room I first saw
you, dearest. You were standing by that window, in the sunshine,
when the vicar brought me to see the place, and you turned round
with such a beaming smile on your face. I think I loved you then. I
could not be so happy anywhere else." And Elizabeth had reluctantly
yielded her opinion.

But the humble cottage rooms had been beautified and transformed by
hers and Dinah's thoughtful care for the invalid, and one comfort
after another had found their way from the Wood House. The very
couch that Dinah had used in her illness, with its soft silk
cushions and eider-down foot-quilt, the gold and black screen from
the inner drawing-room, and a favourite easy-chair that David had
often praised, were all at the White Cottage, Nor was Mr.
Charrington behindhand in his attentions. His housekeeper, Mrs.
Finch, always prepared the invalid's dainty little dinners: the
excellent beef-tea and soups, the jellies, rusks, and delicate
puddings, were all Mrs. Finch's handiwork. Mrs. Pratt's cookery was
not to be depended on, and though she pretended to grumble at other
folks' interference, she was only too glad to be saved trouble.

It may be doubted whether David Carlyon really realized his own
serious condition until the physician's opinion had been made known
to him. "Advanced phthisis," he muttered thoughtfully. But when Dr.
Broderick proceeded to recommend Mentone or some southern health
resort for the winter, he had turned upon him almost abruptly.

"I suppose Davos Platz would not cure me?" he asked. Then, as the
doctor hesitated with the natural dislike to give pain, David
continued bluntly--

"It would be the truest kindness on your part, Dr. Broderick, to
tell me the truth. If I take your advice and go to one of these
places, may I expect to get well in time?"

"I am afraid not, Mr. Carlyon," returned the physician reluctantly.
"It would be wrong of me to let you go away with this idea. You have
consulted me too late--the disease is too far advanced. But it is my
duty to tell you that life would certainly be prolonged in a warmer
climate."

"There, David," and the Rev Rupert Carlyon looked pleadingly at his
son.

"Wait a moment, father," returned David firmly; "I have not quite
finished my questions. Let us understand each other, doctor. If I go
away, you tell me my life will be prolonged--do you mean for years?"
Dr. Broderick shook his head.

"Oh, I see"--but David tried not to look at his father's pinched,
white face--"you mean months probably?"

"Yes--yes," returned the doctor hurriedly; "with care, and under
favourable circumstances, there might be no further breakdown for
another year; but"--with a keen look at his patient--"I will not
undertake to promise this."

"I quite understand," returned David quietly. "Dr. Broderick, I am
sorry, but I cannot take your prescription. They sent my mother to
Davos Platz--there seemed hope for her--and she died away from us
all; and one of my sisters died at Mentone too. But I do not intend
to follow their example;" and then he had risen from his chair and
put an end to the interview.

Nothing would induce him to go abroad. Even when Elizabeth promised
that she and Dinah would go too, his resolution to remain in England
had been unshaken.

"Why should I let them sacrifice themselves for me?" he said to his
father. "Am I not bringing trouble enough on Elizabeth? Why did I
ever speak to her? I was mad to let her engage herself to me--I
might have known how it would be!" And that day David's despondency
was very great.

But at other times he made heroic efforts to hide his deep inward
sadness from Elizabeth. He was so young, and the love of life was so
strong within him, and the thought of disease and death so terrible.
Sometimes in the dark hours of the winter's night, when his racking
cough would not let him sleep, he wrestled with his despair as
Christian wrestled with Apollyon.

"A soldier who refuses wounds and death," he would say to himself--
"a minister of Christ who fears to tread in his Master's footsteps,
what is he but a coward and deserter--and I am both!"

And then the torrent of his human passion would sweep over his soul-
-his love for Elizabeth, the knowledge that but for this hereditary
malady he would have had the blessed certainty of calling her wife!

What a noble life they two would have lived! What plans of
unselfishness they had formed! How the treasures of their happiness
would have overflowed and fertilised other and more barren lives!
And now not life but death claimed him!

Ah, no wonder if his human weakness blenched at the prospect, if his
heart at times quailed and grew sick within him; for when one is
young and happy it is not easy to die, and fuller life, not rest, is
the thing desired.

But there were times when his fears seemed lulled and tranquillised,
and when, with the strange hopefulness that was a feature of his
disease, he would even delude himself with the idea that the doctors
were wrong, and that he would surely get better.

These intervals of comparative brightness would come to him when the
sun shone, or his nights had been less suffering, or when Elizabeth
was with him. Her presence so rested and stimulated him that it was
impossible for him always to realise the truth. "I can think of
nothing but you," he would say to her--"I can think of nothing but
you."

The sitting-room at the White Cottage looked snug and cosy that
morning; the fire burned cheerily, and David Carlyon lay on his
luxurious couch in the sunshine in a perfect nest of pillows,
carefully screened from draughts, and with a small table beside him,
with flowers and fruit and books--all carefully and tastefully
arranged by Elizabeth's own hands, on her way to church, while the
invalid was still in his bedroom.

It was a good day with David, and the old cheery smile was on his
lips as Elizabeth entered; but as she knelt beside him to give him
her usual greeting, the ravages of the fatal disease were fearfully
perceptible in the strong light.

The hollowed temples and sharply-defined features, the tightened
skin, the hectic flush, the emaciation and shortness of breathing,
and the constant cough, all told their sad tale of rapid decline and
decay. Too late--she knew it well--for any human skill to arrest
those symptoms; no earthly care and love could preserve that
cherished life much longer!

"You are late, dearest," he said, holding her hand; "I saw the
church-goers pass a quarter of an hour ago. I expect you and my
father were gossiping as usual. But all the same I know my good
Fairy has been at work," with a glance at his flowers. "You must not
spoil me like this, my darling," and he raised her hand to his lips.

"You know I love to do it," returned Elizabeth gently. And then she
brought a low chair to his side, and placed herself where he could
see her. He would lie for hours contentedly watching her as she
worked or read to him. Sometimes the thin hand would touch a fold of
her dress caressingly, as though even that were sacred to him, and
not a change of the speaking face or an intonation of her voice
would be lost on him.

Perhaps no two men were more dissimilar than David Carlyon and
Malcolm Herrick, and yet they were alike in this, that they each
loved Elizabeth with a profound and noble love.

"You are looking serious, dear," he said presently, as Elizabeth
made a pretence of sorting the silks of her embroidery. That little
piece of embroidery with its gay silken flowers became one of
Elizabeth's dearest relics. It was David who helped her choose the
shades, who insisted on a spray of his favourite lilies of the
valley being inserted. How he had praised her skill and made his
little jokes over her industry! But the screen would never be used
by him now, and the stitches were put in perfunctorily and with a
heavy heart.

Elizabeth had made no answer to David's remark about her gravity.
She was trying to collect her thoughts for the business she had in
view; but the next minute a hand was laid upon her work.

"Tell me all about it," he said persuasively. "Of course I know you
and my father have been brewing mischief. I think I can read your
very thoughts," as Elizabeth looked up at him; "you need not try to
hide things from me."

"I could not if I tried," she returned in a low voice. "David, I
want you to do something for my sake. Your father and I--yes, and
Dinah too--have been making such a nice little plan. We have heard
of a delightful house at Ventnor; it belongs to a friend of Mrs.
Godfrey, and it is so comfortable and so beautifully furnished, and
with such a pleasant view. You are so fond of the sea, David, and
your father loves it too; and we thought"--hesitating a moment, as
she felt the grip of David's fingers round her wrist--"Dinah and I
both thought it would be a capital arrangement to take Red Brae for
three or four months. There would be plenty of room for you, and
your father and Theo too," she continued as he remained silent; "and
it would be so nice for us to be together, and our old nurse Mrs.
Gibbon--you know Mrs. Gibbon, dear--would help us to take care of
you."

David drew a deep breath. "Yes, I see," he returned slowly, "and all
the expense and trouble would be for me. Don't I know your
generosity, Elizabeth," in a choked voice. "But it is too much--I
cannot do it. Don't you know, darling--don't we both know--that
nothing really matters? Ventnor will do me no good. Let me bide
where I am," and David's voice was pathetic in its pleading--"let me
die in this dear old cottage."

"No, no," returned Elizabeth, bursting into tears. "David, how can
you be so cruel! Surely you wish to stay longer with me! Why need we
be parted yet! Think of it, dear--that it is for my sake, and your
father's and Theo's. If it is a sacrifice, it is a sacrifice for
those you love. Oh, David, my David, it is such a little thing I
ask--just for us to be a few months longer together. I know how you
hated going abroad, and I would not have pressed it for worlds; but
Ventnor--oh, David, you cannot have the heart to refuse me!" And
Elizabeth broke down utterly and hid her face in her hands.

Perhaps it was as well that she did not see David's expression that
moment; as he lay back upon his pillows his face was deathly. Why
did they ask this of him? He was just growing more resigned and
peaceful. Those agonised prayers of his for aid and succour had been
answered, and the deep blessedness of an accepted cross seemed to
fill his soul with a strange calm. He must die, and he knew it; but
his Heavenly Father had been merciful to him, and death had lost its
terrors; and now his longing was to die in the village he had chosen
as his home, and under the shadow of the church where he had
ministered as God's priest.

He knew where they would lay him: he and Elizabeth had chosen his
last resting-place, and she had listened dry-eyed to his simple
directions and wishes. He had talked out his heart to her, and her
unselfish sympathy had been his greatest comfort. But now she was
asking this sacrifice of him, and how was he to refuse her? And yet,
if Elizabeth had guessed how the thought of that exile filled him
with dismay and desolation, she would surely have denied her own
craving for a few more weeks of life. But David knew better than to
tell her.

Presently the hot hand was laid on her head.

"Elizabeth, let me see your dear face. You and my father shall have
your way, darling; I will go to Ventnor." David's breathing was so
laboured that he was obliged to stop here; but Elizabeth, with a cry
of joy, threw her arms round him.

"Oh, David dear, thank you--thank you! You have made me so happy!"
and the smile he loved so well beamed through her tears. But David's
answering smile was rather forced.

"There is little cause for thankfulness," he replied wearily--"a
poor helpless invalid who will only give you trouble! But there is
one thing you must promise, dearest." And, as she looked at him
expectantly, he whispered, "You must promise to bring me back here."
Then Elizabeth bowed her head in silence, for she knew too well what
he meant.

CHAPTER XXXVI

"I HAVE BEEN A COWARD"

Father! we need Thy winter as Thy spring;
We need Thy earthquakes as Thy summer showers;
But through them all Thy strong arms carry us,
Thy strong heart bearing large share in our grief.
Because Thou lovest goodness more than joy
In them Thou lovest, Thou dost let them grieve.
--George MacDonald.

And so it was settled--Elizabeth had her way; and after a little
they talked quietly of their future plans. The flitting was to be
accomplished as soon as possible. The house would be ready for them
in another week. Dinah would go down first to make arrangements, and
Cedric would accompany her, and stay at Ventnor until it was time
for him to return to Oxford. The change of scene would be good for
him, and in many ways he would be useful to Dinah. Elizabeth also
told David that his father had promised to travel down with them;
that he intended to find a locum tenens for Stokeley, and that he
would probably remain with them for a month or six weeks; and this
last item of information seemed to afford David much satisfaction.
But the next moment he observed, in rather a worried tone, that it
would be a great expense, and that he was afraid Theo would object.

"Theo will have to mind her own business," returned Elizabeth
severely. "Your father means to tell her that you are his first
duty, and of course he is right." But Elizabeth carefully forbore to
tell David that she had already undertaken to pay the expenses of
the locum tenens for three months, and by dint of sheer obstinacy
and feminine persuasions she had at last induced Mr. Carlyon to
accept her bounty.

"My poverty and not my will consents," he observed sadly. But
Elizabeth would not listen to this.

"Dear Mr. Carlyon," she had said earnestly, "if you only knew the
pleasure this will give me. Can you not understand that I only cared
for my money because it would be his, and now what good will it be
to me? Let me use it for him as long as I can. Let me do all in my
power for him and you too--as though--as though I were already your
daughter." And then, as she wiped away a few quiet tears, Mr.
Carlyon had yielded.

David strove with his wonted unselfishness to interest himself in
Elizabeth's plans for his comfort. He heard how the inner drawing-
room at Red Brae was to be converted into a bedroom, that he might
be able, without fatigue, to take possession of the drawing-room
couch by the pleasant window, with its view of the sea; and how a
smaller room on the same floor was to be prepared for his father.
But by and bye, in spite of his efforts, his attention flagged, and
he looked so exhausted that Elizabeth refused to say another word.

"I shall give you your luncheon, and then read you to sleep," she
said, in what David called "her Mother Gamp tone;" but he was too
worn out to resist, and though forgetfulness was not to be obtained,
it was certainly a comfort to lie with closed eyes and listen to
Elizabeth's dear voice, till the twilight compelled her to close the
book, and then she sat by him in silence until he asked her to light
the lamp.

Tea was ready before Mr. Carlyon returned. As he opened the door he
gave a quick, anxious glance at Elizabeth.

"Come in, dad, it is all right," observed David in a weak voice, but
he spoke with his old cheeriness. "Wilful man, and wilful woman too,
must have their way, and I have given in like a good boy."

"That's a dear lad," returned his father, rubbing his cold hands
gleefully together. "I knew you would make him hear reason,
Elizabeth. She is worth the rest of us put together, is she not,
Davie?"

"Mr. Carlyon," interrupted Elizabeth, "David is tired and must not
talk any more, and some one else is tired too." And then she drew up
an easy-chair by the fire and gave Mr. Carlyon his tea, and talked
to him softly about Mr. Charrington and Kit, until it was time for
her to go; but even then she refused to bid him good-bye. "I shall
be at the station," she whispered, as he kissed her forehead; "we
can say things to each other then," and he understood her and
nodded.

But later on, as Mr. Carlyon sat beside his son's bed-side, with the
worn little book of devotions out of which he had been reading to
him still open in his hands, he was struck with the strained,
troubled look in David's eyes.

"What is it, my dear?" he said wistfully, for the curate-in-charge
of Stokeley had homely little ways and tricks of speech that
endeared him still more to those who loved him, and Elizabeth would
often praise the simplicity and unobtrusive goodness that reminded
her of David.

"There is something on your mind," he continued tenderly; "make a
clean breast of it, my boy. You and I understand each other--don't
we, Davie?" and Mr. Carlyon gently patted his son's hand, as though
he were still a little child. "Out with it, lad--you are not quite
happy about Ventnor?"

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