Books: Herb of Grace

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"Father, how could you guess that?" returned David in a deprecating
voice. "If you knew how I hate myself for being so cowardly and
ungrateful. Promise me--promise me, dad, that you will never let
Elizabeth know how badly I feel about it; it would make her so
unhappy."

"So it would, poor girl--so it would," rejoined Mr. Carlyon, for in
his eyes Elizabeth was still a girl, and the very dearest of
daughters to him.

"She and Dinah have planned it all for me," continued David. "I know
what a sacrifice it is to Dinah, for she does so dislike leaving
home; but she is doing it for Elizabeth's sake."

"You are doing it for Elizabeth's sake too, are you not, David?"
asked his father quietly. Then the harassed face brightened at once.

"Let me tell you all about it, dad," he returned eagerly--"it will
be such a comfort; you have often been my father-confessor before.
If you knew how my heart sank when Elizabeth begged me to go to
Ventnor, and yet how was I to refuse her when she said, with tears
in her eyes, that my consenting to the plan would probably give her
a few more weeks of happiness. You know how she meant it?"

"Oh yes, I know, David," in the same quiet tone.

"Of course, I could not refuse. I dared not be guilty of such
selfishness, for--after all, what does a little more pain matter?"
and here David drew a heavy sigh of intense weariness. "But I was so
tired, and then I knew that the battle would have to be fought all
over again."

"I am not sure that I understand you, dear lad."

"No, because I am not making things clear; but I will try to do so,
and then you must help me. I have been a coward, father--that's the
truth--and have rebelled against my hard fate--God's will was not my
will, and I wanted to live and marry Elizabeth."

"Ay, David boy, I know."

"Yes, you know," with a sad, yearning look at the gray head bent now
upon the trembling hands. "You know that was how my mother felt when
she went so far away from us to die--she only consented to go
because she wanted to live."

"And it broke her heart to leave us," returned his father huskily.
"Dear heart, how she prayed that we might be spared that parting;
but the Divine Will ordered otherwise."

"I have prayed too," murmured David, "and then, thank God! the
strength and help I needed so sorely came. I have felt so peaceful
lately, and now the struggle will begin again."

"Oh no, surely not, David."

"Yes, father, it must. I shall get better for a time, and I shall
have the sunshine, and Elizabeth's dear love, and life will grow too
precious to me again, and I shall dishonour my Master, and put Him
to shame, by wanting to lay down my cross."

"No, David, I am not afraid of that," returned his father gravely.
"My own boy, this is only one of the dark hours, when the evil one
tempts you in your weakness; need I remind you of what you have so
often preached to others, that as thy day thy strength will be, and
that help never comes beforehand?"

"True, but I seem to forget everything." Then a warm, comforting
hand was laid tenderly upon David's forehead.

"I shall remind you. We shall not be parted yet, my son, and God
will help me to say the right words to you. Ah, David," in a
reverent tone, "many lives have their Gethsemanes, but only one ever
drank the bitter cup of sorrow to the dregs without a murmur, and
only one had an angel to comfort Him. He will not be hard on us
because our human will shrinks from some hard cross of pain, for 'He
knoweth our frame,' and in our weakness and extremity He will be our
staff and our stay." And in trembling tones he blessed his boy, and
sat beside him in voiceless prayer and the deep, inward supplication
of exceeding love, nor did he leave him until David had sunk into an
exhausted sleep.

David was very feverish and unwell the next day, and Mr. Carlyon
could not leave him; but after a few hours he grew better again, and
as the days went on he seemed to recover his old cheerfulness.

One afternoon, as Elizabeth was sitting with him as usual--for she
always spent her afternoons at the White Cottage--he surprised her
by asking if Malcolm Herrick never came to the Wood House now.

"How strange that you should ask that question," returned Elizabeth,
colouring slightly at the mention of Malcolm's name, "for he is
coming down this very evening, and Cedric is driving to Earlsfield
to meet him. Dinah asked him to come," she went on; "she wanted to
talk to him about Cedric."

"Herrick is Dinah's right-hand man of business--she quite swears by
him," replied David, smoothing tenderly a ruffled lock of brown hair
that the wind had disordered. "I suppose he will remain the night?"

"Oh yes, of course. Dinah has got a room ready for him; she told him
that she should not allow him to go to the 'King's Arms.'"

"It was right for her to put her foot down," returned David
approvingly. "Why on earth need he scruple to accept your
hospitality! Somehow I always liked Herrick, though I am not so sure
that he returned the compliment; perhaps under the circumstances one
could hardly expect it."

Elizabeth's face grew hot--the subject was a painful one to her.
"Never mind about Mr. Herrick, dear," she said hurriedly; "Dinah and
he are great friends."

"You need not tell me that," in rather a meaning tone; "Dinah has
excellent taste. Dearest," his voice changing to seriousness, "I
want you to give Herrick a message from me. Tell him I should like
to shake hands with him when he goes to the vicarage."

"Do you really want me to say this to him?" and there was little
doubt from Elizabeth's face that she was reluctant to give the
message. But David meant to have his way.

"Yes, tell him," he repeated. "He and Cedric are sure to walk over
in the morning--the vicar and Herrick are such cronies; and why
should he pass my door?" And this seemed so plausible that Elizabeth
said no more; but as she walked home she wondered more than once
over this strange fancy on David's part. There had been so little
intercourse between the two young men--a secret sense of antagonism
on Malcolm Herrick's part had been an obstacle to David's proffered
friendliness. It was true that Mr. Herrick must pass the White
Cottage on his way to the vicarage, and even without the message his
good feeling would probably have induced him to stop and inquire
after the invalid, but she felt David's request would surprise him.
Nevertheless, she must do his will and give the message.

Elizabeth was later than usual that evening, and she found that
Malcolm had just arrived, and was talking to Dinah in the drawing-
room. He was standing before the fire warming himself after his cold
drive, and as Elizabeth entered he broke off in the middle of a
sentence and silently shook hands with her. Elizabeth felt at once
conscious that his manner was even more constrained and guarded than
usual, and this made her nervous, and for the moment she could find
nothing to say. It was a relief to them both when Dinah observed in
her quiet, matter-of-fact way--

"Mr. Herrick is so kind and obliging, Betty; he has promised not to
leave us until quite late to-morrow afternoon--that will give us
plenty of time for a nice talk. You see, Cedric will be with us this
evening, and we may find it difficult to get rid of him, and there
is so much that I want to say."

"I think I can take him off your hands," replied Elizabeth; and then
she turned to Malcolm, though he noticed that she avoided looking at
him, and there was a curious abruptness in her manner that almost
amounted to awkwardness.

"Mr. Carlyon has sent you a message, Mr. Herrick. He thinks you will
be sure to call at the vicarage, and he would like you to look in at
the White Cottage as you pass. He says that he would be pleased to
shake hands with you."

There was no doubt that Malcolm was surprised. He unconsciously
stiffened.

"He is very kind," he said rather formally; "but of course I meant
to call, or at least leave my card--I had just told your sister so."

"Perhaps you had better call at the vicarage first," returned
Elizabeth hurriedly. "Mr. Carlyon is rarely out of his room before
mid-day, and all hours are alike to Mr. Charrington." And when
Malcolm had gravely agreed to do this, Elizabeth went upstairs to
prepare for dinner, and did not appear again until the gong sounded.

She did not forget her promise, however, of taking Cedric off
Dinah's hands, and as soon as they had finished their coffee she
challenged him to a game of chess in the inner drawing-room, where
on cold nights a second fire generally burned.

The rooms were so large that unless Dinah and Malcolm raised their
voices it was impossible to hear their conversation, and as Cedric
had his back to them he had no idea that they were talking more
confidentially than usual; but from Malcolm's position Elizabeth's
face stood out in full relief, and in spite of all his efforts his
attention often wandered.

Even in those few short weeks since they had last met he could see a
change in her. She had grown thinner and paler, and there was a
deepened sadness in her eyes; and yet in his opinion she had never
looked more lovely, though it was more the inward than outward
loveliness that he meant.

He noticed how mechanically she played, and how the game failed to
interest her. When Cedric checkmated her twice, she only rose with
an air of relief, as though she had finished a wearisome task, and
came towards them.

"I am cold," she said simply, as Dinah made room for her; "we nearly
let the fire out between us." But as she sat in her snug corner
warming her hands, she did not attempt to join in the conversation.
Indeed, her manner was so absent that Malcolm felt convinced that
she heard little of what they said, and he was not surprised that
Dinah noticed it at last.

"You are tired, Betty dear," she said kindly; "I am quite sure that
Mr. Herrick will excuse you;" and Elizabeth availed herself at once
of this permission to withdraw.

"She is not at her ease," Malcolm thought bitterly. "She seems
afraid of me somehow; she will not meet my eyes, and she has
scarcely spoken a dozen words to me." And he sighed, for it seemed
the saddest thing to him that she should suffer, and that he should
be powerless to help her; and in his fanciful way he said to
himself, "We are like two travellers walking along stony paths with
a high wall between us, so that no helping hand can be stretched
out, and no voices of comfort can be heard." And then he added, "I
dare not even tell her that I am sorry for her, and for him too."

Malcolm was alone when he paid his visit to the White Cottage. There
was no doubt that the change in David Carlyon shocked him greatly,
though he strove to hide this from the invalid.

David welcomed him with his old cordiality; but Malcolm, who was
exceedingly nervous, could only stammer out a few commonplaces.

The bright, eager young face that Elizabeth so loved was shrunken
and wasted, the lips seemed drawn from the teeth, and yet at times
the old cheery smile played round them; but the voice was weak and
toneless, and every now and then the hard, dry cough seemed to rack
him cruelly.

"If you knew how sorry I am to see you like this," observed Malcolm
kindly.

"Well, I am rather a poor specimen just now," returned David with a
feeble laugh; "but what can't be cured must be endured--eh, Herrick?
I told Elizabeth" (here a shade came over Malcolm's face) "that I
should like to shake hands with you. When a fellow is going a long
journey"--and here David's hollow eyes grew a little sad and
wistful--"it seems natural to bid one's friends good-bye. We did not
know each other much, Herrick, but I always wanted to see more of
you."

"You are very good to say so"--but if his life had depended on it
Malcolm could not have brought himself to say more at that moment.
He wished himself a hundred miles away.

A quaint, sweet smile flitted across David's face; he could read
Malcolm's thoughts.

"You have been such a good fellow, Herrick, and have done so much
for them all. That was a bad business with Cedric, but at his age he
will get over it--you and I know that."

"We do indeed," returned Malcolm gravely.

"Dinah comes and talks to me sometimes," went on David. "She says
that if you had been their own brother you could not have done more;
she is so grateful to you, Herrick." Perhaps he would have said
more, but Malcolm checked him.

"Never mind that, Carlyon; it was a great pleasure to me to do it.
Now let us talk of something more interesting." And then for a short
time they talked of Oxford and the boat-race; and then of Ventnor,
which Malcolm knew well--he had even spent an evening at Red Brae
when the Godfreys were staying there. "The house is charming," he
said quite enthusiastically; "I know the rooms you will have,
Carlyon, and they are delightful."

David did not respond, and he was evidently getting tired, so
Malcolm rose to take his leave.

"I wish--I wish I could do something for you too," he said with such
sincerity that David was quite touched.

"I have had my good things," he returned in a low voice, "and now I
must dree my weird. Don't worry, Herrick--things generally come
right in the long run, but we must not try to act Providence too
much. Good-bye--God bless you." The thin hand wrung Malcolm's with
surprising force; but Malcolm's eyes were a little misty as he went
out of the room, for he knew--he knew too well--that in this life he
should never see David Carlyon's face again!

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

Shall I forget on this side of the grave?
I promise nothing: you must wait and see,
Patient and brave.
(O my soul, watch with him and he with me!)

Shall I forget in peace of Paradise?
I promise nothing: follow, friend, and see,
Faithful and wise.
(O my soul, lead the way he walks with me!)
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

A few days after the invalid had safely reached Ventnor, Dinah wrote
one of her pleasant, chatty letters to Malcolm. She told him that
David had borne the long journey fairly well, and that he and Mr.
Carlyon were charmed with Red Brae. "I wish Cedric could have stayed
longer," she finished. "He has been such a dear good boy; but I am
afraid he is still very unhappy. Elizabeth heard from Mrs. Godfrey
yesterday. Leah has been ill with influenza, but Mrs. Richardson has
nursed her like a mother. Leah seems devoted to her already. The
poor girl told Mrs. Godfrey that she had never had such a kind
friend in her life."

As the weeks went on, Dinah wrote still more cheerily. "The
improvement in David is quite surprising," she said in one of her
letters. "Even Dr. Hewlitt seems astonished. He is able to be out in
his bath-chair every day, and on sunny afternoons he spends hours on
the balcony. Mr. Carlyon is always with him. It is beautiful to see
their devotion to each other. They seem to think alike on every
subject. He and Elizabeth read aloud by turns, and I like to take my
work there and listen to them."

"A happy family party," thought Malcolm a little bitterly, as he put
down the letter. Even now he could have found it in his heart to
envy his rival; but the next moment he dismissed the unworthy
thought.

But it was only a temporary rally. Dr. Hewlitt told Dinah privately
one day that there was no real improvement in the patient's
condition, and that at any time there might be a sudden change for
the worse; when they least expected it, haemorrhage or collapse
might set in. And the doctor's fears were verified.

One day, late in March, David seemed unusually well. A gale had
blown all night, but towards morning the wind had lulled and a heavy
rain had set in, and David had expressed some disappointment at
having to remain indoors; but Mr. Carlyon, who considered himself
weather-wise, assured him that the weather would improve later.

The gale had disturbed Elizabeth, and she had found it impossible to
sleep for hours, and when she rose the next morning she felt
unusually weary and depressed. A strange foreboding--a sense of
separation and loss--seemed to oppress her, and no efforts on her
part could enable her to maintain her wonted cheerfulness. Her
dejection was so evident that David noticed it at last, and when Mr.
Carlyon had put on his old mackintosh and gone out for a blow on the
parade, he gently rallied her on her depression.

"What is it, dearest?" he asked rather anxiously. "You are not your
bright self this morning. You are so good and unselfish, darling,
that you never let me see when you are unhappy, but to-day you
cannot hide it from me." Then he took her hands and held them so
that he could see her face.

"I do not know what has come over me," returned Elizabeth in a
mournful voice, "but all night long and this morning my heart has
felt as heavy as lead." Great tears welled in her eyes, and she
suddenly laid her head down on his shoulder. "Oh, David--David, if I
could only go too; life will be so long and difficult without you."
He stroked her hair for a few minutes without speaking. She was
thinking of the parting that must surely come, and he must find some
word to comfort her. "If I could only feel that you were near me,"
she whispered, "even though I could not see you or hear your voice--
that you were still loving me and watching over my poor life!"

"Dearest," he returned tenderly, "I have often had these thoughts.
More than once my father and I have spoken of it. It is his idea
that nothing can divide us from those we love. Continuity of life--
continuity of love, that is his creed."

"Is it yours too, David?"

"Dear Elizabeth," returned the young man simply, "the future is so
veiled in mystery and silence that one hardly knows what one
believes, except that all will be well with us. It seems to me that
even in paradise we must still love our dear ones and pray for them,
so tossed and buffeted by the waves of this troublesome world: but
more than that I dare not say. I think I must always love you--there
as well as here." Then she smiled at him through her tears.

"Dear love," he went on a moment later, "there is something I have
often wanted to say, and yet the words were difficult to utter.
Elizabeth, life is long as you say, and your great loving heart must
not remain unsatisfied. Do not mourn for me too long--do not refuse
comfort that may be offered to you, if you can be happy, dear."

But here Elizabeth's hand was laid over his lips.

"No--no, you shall not say it--I will not hear it;" and Elizabeth's
eyes were wide with trouble. "David--David--" and then she could say
no more for her wild weeping.

"Hush--hush, my darling--I cannot bear this," and David's lips grew
so white that Elizabeth in alarm controlled herself. But as she gave
him a restorative, he held out his feeble hand to her. "Forgive me
if I said too much," he pleaded; "I thought perhaps it might be a
comfort afterwards. Dear Elizabeth, be true to yourself as you have
been true to me, and may God bless and reward you for all your
goodness to me and mine!" David spoke with strange solemnity, for,
though neither of them guessed it then, this was their last farewell
before the parting of the ways.

The evening passed tranquilly. Elizabeth seemed less dejected, but
her head ached, and she sat silently beside David, while Mr. Carlyon
went on with the book they were reading. Once, when there was a
pause, she looked up and saw David's rapt gaze fixed on the sunset,
while a look of almost unearthly beauty seemed to transform his
emaciated features. She would have spoken to him; but he made a
gesture as though for silence, and again that awful sense of
separation seemed to pass between them. Mr. Carlyon put down his
book, and looked too at the wondrous pageant of the sea and sky.
"The bridegroom has run his race," murmured David in a strange
voice. "What regal robes of gold and crimson! Father, this is the
best sunset we have seen yet."

"Ay, that it is, David," returned Mr. Carlyon; "but you are looking
weary, my boy, and I must be getting you to bed. Will you ring for
Nurse Gibbon, Elizabeth?" But as she did so she noticed how feebly
David walked, and how heavily he leant on his father's arm.

Half an hour later, as Elizabeth was standing on the balcony
enjoying the cool spring air, she heard Mr. Carlyon call her loudly.
Then a bell rang, and she and Dinah rushed into David's room. One
look at the changed, livid face told them the truth. Dinah sent off
for the doctor, and she and Elizabeth tried all possible remedies,
but in vain. Sudden collapse had set in. David could not speak; but
for one moment his dying eyes rested on Elizabeth's face, and his
last act of consciousness was to try to put her hand in his
father's.

"I understand, David," Elizabeth stooped and whispered into his dull
ear. "Yes, we will take care of each other, and comfort each other;"
and then a faint, flickering smile seemed to cross his face, but the
next moment unconsciousness set in. For hours Elizabeth knelt beside
him with her arm supporting the pillow under his head, while on the
other side the stricken father offered up supplications for his
dying son. When his voice quavered and broke with human weakness,
and Dinah begged him to spare himself, he shook his gray head.
"Maybe he hears me--I will go as far as I can with him down the
valley of the shadow of death," And then he folded his trembling
hands together. "Oh, David--David, would God I had died for thee, my
son--my son!"

"It was very sudden," wrote Dinah to Malcolm the next morning. "Dear
David had seemed so much better that day; but Dr. Hewlitt had warned
us of probable collapse and heart-failure."

"He had only left us half an hour, and Mr. Carlyon was reading the
Evening Psalms to him, when he saw a change in him and called to
us."

"I am sure David knew us when we went in, but he could not speak,
and then unconsciousness came on. The end was so quiet that we
hardly knew when he left us. We have telegraphed to Theo; there is
much to be done. Dear Elizabeth is very good and calm. She and Mr.
Carlyon are never apart; he can do nothing without her."

"He looks quite aged and broken, and no wonder: he has known so much
trouble, and David was his only son."

Dinah secretly marvelled at Elizabeth's wonderful self-control and
calmness. During those trying days no one saw her shed tears: it
seemed as though her grief was too deep and sacred for outward
manifestation. But when Dinah gently hinted at her surprise,
Elizabeth looked at her almost reproachfully.

"I thought you would have understood, Die," she returned in a low
voice. "David, my David, is a saint in paradise, and one must be
still and reverent in one's grief. When one has to mourn all one's
life, there need be no excitement." And then she murmured, "I shall
go to him, but he shall not return to me;" and then, as Dinah took
her sister's hand and kissed it almost passionately in her love and
sympathy, one of the old beautiful smiles lighted up Elizabeth's
face.

"I was as one who dreamed," she said later on; and indeed it was a
strange dual life that she lived. There were the quiet hours when
she knelt beside the coffin--when her thoughts seemed winged, and
carried her to the still land where her beloved walked in green
pastures and beside still waters; when in fancy she seemed to hear
far-off echoes of melodious voices; when for David's sake she would
feel comforted and at rest.

"He did not want to die," she would say to herself--"life was sweet
to him--but God gave him grace to offer up his will, and then peace
came. Darling--darling," laying her cheek against the coffin, "you
will never suffer again--no more pain or weariness--no more conflict
and temptation--only fuller life and more faithful service--for His
servants shall serve Him, and they shall see His face." Elizabeth
marked those words with a red cross on the margin of her Bible on
the day David died.

But there was another reason for Elizabeth's self-control and
unselfishness. She was anxious on Mr. Carlyon's account. Dinah was
right when she told Malcolm that he was much aged and broken. "I
have lost my Benjamin, the son of my right hand," he had said to
her--"God's hand is heavy upon me;" and though he strove to bear his
sorrow with resignation, his feebleness alarmed them all. Theo, as
usual, was undisciplined in her grief. "He will die too," she
lamented. "Elizabeth, David has gone, and now poor father will
follow him. I have never seen him look so ill. David and he were
everything to each other."

"Hush, Theo," returned Elizabeth quietly, "we must give him time. It
has been a great shock. We must not let him know that we are
anxious." And, forgetful of her own trouble, Elizabeth ministered to
him with filial devotion. No one else could induce him to take food.
She would bring the cup of soup, or the glass of wine, and sit
beside him as he took it; or lure him gently to talk to her of
David--of his childhood or boyhood. "No one does him so much good as
Miss Templeton," Dr. Hewlitt observed one day to Dinah. "I confess I
was a bit anxious about him for two days--he has a weak heart, and I
did not quite like his look; but your sister has brought him round."

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