Herb of Grace by Rosa Nouchette Carey (page 6)

he wondered at the non-arrival of the telegram. It was half-past four before Malachi brought in the yellow envelope. Malcolm frowned as he read it.

“Know all–have forgiven all–engagement holds good–sorry cannot take advice.–TEMPLETON.”

“Unhappy boy,” he groaned, “the fowler has him in his net again.” Then he scrunched the thin paper in his hand, and set his teeth hard like a man who sees the dentist coming towards him with the forceps.

“I must go down to them; there is nothing else for me to do. I dare not take the responsibility of keeping this to myself an hour longer. It is all in the day’s work, as the lion-tamer said when the lion prepared to bite off his head.” And after this grim jest Malcolm summoned Malachi and confided the Gladstone bag to his care, and they sallied forth together. At Waterloo he sent off a telegram to Verity; a few minutes later he was in the train and on his way to Earlsfield.

CHAPTER XXIX

“SHE IS A WICKED WOMAN”

Am I cold–
Ungrateful–that for these most manifold High gifts, I render nothing back at all? Not so! not cold, but very poor instead. –E. BARRETT BROWNING.

To love, is to be made up of faith and service. –SHAKESPEARE.

It was half-past six when Malcolm reached the well-known station, and taking a fly bade the man drive him to the “King’s Arms,” an old-fashioned inn of good repute about half a mile distant from the Wood House. Here he secured a room for the night; ordered supper, of which he partook without appetite; then sallied forth to pay his call. It was late in October, and the darkness of the country roads surprised him, accustomed as he was to the well-lighted London streets; he could scarcely find out his bearings until a welcome light streamed out from the windows of the Crow’s Nest. Malcolm lingered a moment at the little gate. “It was there I dwelt in my fool’s paradise,” he muttered, “and tried to eat of the forbidden fruit. Now I know good and evil, and am a sadder and wiser man.” And then he went on doggedly; but he stopped again before he reached the gate of the Wood House, for he knew intuitively that he had stumbled into the little path leading to the woodlands. He strained his eyes through the darkness, but could see nothing-only the chill, damp October wind played round him, and the smell of moist earth and decaying vegetation filled his nostrils. “Change and decay in all around I see,” he thought heavily; but as he turned away and crossed the road a sudden remembrance came to him and made him giddy.

It was morning or early afternoon, he forgot which, and the sunshine was filtering through the firs, and steeping his senses with the warm, resinous perfume–“spices of Araby,” he had called it to himself, for he loved the scent above all things. He had clambered up the bank to pick some honeysuckle, and then the little gate had clanged on its hinges, and he had peeped through the brambles to see who was coming.

And of course he knew who it was–that tall, robust young woman in the white sun-bonnet who came down the path swinging her arms slightly, but with the free proud step of an empress. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth!” he had whispered even then, and all the manhood within him seemed to welcome her gracious presence. Poor fool–poor blind fool that he was!

Perhaps it was as well that Malcolm stumbled over the root of a tree at that moment; the rude shock roused him.

“It is a blessing I have not sprained my ankle,” he said to himself; but he had struck his foot rather severely and limped on with difficulty. The pain sobered him, and he thought how Elizabeth had told him that they always used lanterns in the grounds; and he made up his mind to borrow one for his return journey.

“I wonder if Carlyon will be there,” he muttered, as he went up to the front door. He had never seen it closed before, for in summer it was always open from morning to night. Somehow the sight chilled him: he was outside in the darkness and the cold, and for him no household fires would burn warm and bright, and a bitter sigh came to his lips.

He had raised his hand to the bell, when the door opened suddenly, and the rosy-cheeked housemaid he remembered peered out into the darkness. She was evidently very much startled when she saw Malcolm.

“Did you ring, sir?” she asked in some confusion, “for no one heard a bell. The ladies are still in the dining-room, but I will tell Mullins.”

“Please do not bring them, I can well wait. I know my way to the drawing-room.” And Malcolm put down his hat and crossed the hall, which looked warm and cheery with its bright fire.

The lamps had been lighted in the drawing-room, and the fireplace was heaped with pine logs that spluttered and blazed merrily, and diffused a sort of aromatic fragrance. There were pleasant tokens of feminine occupation on the round table: an open book and a knitting basket that he knew belonged to Dinah, and a piece of embroidery of an ecclesiastical pattern, over which he had often seen Elizabeth bending. There were the very gold scissors and thimble that she had once left down by the Pool, which cost him and Cedric an hour’s search before they could find them. How pleased she had been when he had brought them back to her! Malcolm felt an irresistible desire to hold them in his hand a moment–then he turned quickly away.

There was a little side window in the drawing-room that formed a sort of alcove; it was fitted up very prettily with palms and flowering plants, and amongst the foliage stood a beautiful marble figure of a Roman peasant with her pitcher on her shoulder.

Malcolm had often admired it. It was the work of a young German sculptor, whom the sisters found in somewhat distressing circumstances in Rome, with a sick wife and hampered with debt. Arnim Freiligrath always regarded the dear ladies, as he called them, as his benefactresses, for, strange to say, from that time orders flowed in upon him, and he was soon looked upon as a rising and successful sculptor.

Dinah had once told Malcolm that the woman’s features reminded her of Elizabeth, and Malcolm had agreed with her.

“I think it is the figure that most resembles your sister,” he had said; “but you were wise to buy it, it is very beautiful, and Arnim Freiligrath is becoming quite the fashion.”

Malcolm stepped up to the alcove; he would look at his favourite water-carrier again. He put aside the heavy plush curtains that half-veiled the recess, but the next moment he recoiled–for Elizabeth herself was standing there, almost as motionless as the marble woman beside her.

She was lost in thought, and had evidently not heard his footfall on the soft carpet, and she was gazing out into the darkness. Something in her expression arrested Malcolm’s attention: he had never seen her look like that before, her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes were full of sadness. One hand was resting lightly on the statue, and Malcolm could see the gleam of the opal ring on her finger.

He feared to startle her, and yet it was impossible for him to stand there any longer. He pronounced her name almost timidly; and as Elizabeth started violently and turned round, he could see the tears glistening in the large gray eyes. “Mr. Herrick,” in an astonished tone, as she gave him her hand–it was very cold, and trembled a little in his grasp–“what makes you steal upon us like a ghost in the darkness? Why did you not tell us you were coming?”

“I thought it would be better not,” he returned quietly. “I wanted to speak to you and your sister about something that seemed to me important.” Then Elizabeth gave him one of her quick, searching glances.

“It is about Cedric,” she said abruptly–“that boy has got into trouble again?” Then Malcolm bowed his head. They were standing on the rug before the fire now, and at Malcolm’s mute answer Elizabeth shivered slightly and held out her hands to the blaze as though she were physically cold. Malcolm leant for support against the mantel- piece, and watched her for a moment under his shading hand–if she had only seen that hungry, eloquent look! But Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on the fire. Poor Malcolm! never had she looked more beautiful to him: the black velvet gown suited her to perfection, and the antique Roman necklace she wore just fitted the full white throat. This was not the rustic owner of the white sun-bonnet, but a grand, imperial-looking Elizabeth. Malcolm felt as though he were fast losing self-control: his forehead grew clammy, and though he tried to speak–to break the embarrassing silence–no words would come; but Elizabeth, lost in her own sad thoughts, was oblivious of his emotion.

“Dinah will be here directly,” she observed presently; “she is engaged just now with a woman from the village, but she will not be long, I hope. I trust”–and here she looked at him anxiously–“that you have no bad news for us.”

“I am afraid it is not good,” he replied evasively.

“It has something to do with those odious Jacobis?” Again Malcolm bowed his head.

“Cedric seems infatuated about them,” she returned, with something of her old impetuosity, the words tripping each other up in the usual Elizabethan way. “We thought the man detestable–even Dinah could not tolerate him. Oh,” interrupting herself, “what am I thinking about? you have come all this distance on our account, and I have never thought of your comfort–you have not dined, of course;” and Elizabeth’s hand was on the bell, but he stopped her.

“I have just had supper at the ‘King’s Arms,’ where I have taken a bed; I want nothing, I assure you.”

“At the King’s Arms’!” exclaimed Elizabeth. Then she suddenly flushed and bit her lip. She had forgotten–how could she suppose that anything would induce him to sleep under their roof again! Malcolm’s manner, his painful air of consciousness, the deep melancholy in his eyes, told her plainly that his trouble was as fresh as ever.

Elizabeth began to feel nervous; it was a relief to both of them when Mullins entered the room with the coffee. “At least, you will have a cup of coffee,” she said with a little effort. “Mullins, will you put the tray down, and tell my sister that Mr. Herrick has come down to speak to us on business, and ask her not to keep him waiting.”

Malcolm did not refuse the coffee. As he took the cup in his hand he said in a low voice, “I hope Mr. Carlyon is well.”

“Thank you, he is far from well,” she returned gravely. “Mr. Charrington has been away for the last six weeks, and he has had far too much to do; he has taken a bad cold, and his cough is troublesome. I have been speaking to Dr. Randolph to-day, and he thinks the vicar ought to come back.” Then she stopped as Dinah came hurriedly into the room. Malcolm’s unexpected visit had evidently alarmed her.

“Oh, Mr. Herrick, what is it?” she said in such a troubled voice that Malcolm felt almost afraid to tell his news. Evidently Elizabeth read his thoughts.

“You must tell us everything,” she said rather abruptly; “it will be wrong to keep anything back.” And thus admonished, Malcolm began his long story–his summons to the Manor House, and Hugh Rossiter’s revelation concerning the Jacobi family. The sisters listened in breathless silence, only when Malcolm mentioned the words billiard- marker and valet Elizabeth uttered a quick exclamation, and threw up her head with a proud gesture, while poor Dinah grew white when she heard that her boy was actually engaged. “It is impossible–there must be some mistake,” she whispered, as though to herself–“our dear boy would never keep such a thing from his sisters. Cedric is so frank and open, he would never have secrets from us.”

“Cedric is under a bad influence,” replied Malcolm; “these people have got hold of him and will not let him go.” And then he went on to tell of his interview with Cedric, and his total want of success. “I could do nothing,” he went on despondently; “I seem to have lost my influence with him. I did my best, Miss Templeton,” with an appealing look at Dinah’s sad, sweet face; but it was Elizabeth who answered him.

“Do you think we do not know that,” she returned impulsively–“that Dinah and I are not grateful to you! You have taken all this trouble for us–you have been to Cookham and Oxford, and now you have come here, and you are quite tired and worn out with the worry of it all, and we can do nothing for you in return!” and Elizabeth quivered with emotion. But Malcolm, suppressing his own agitation, tried to turn off her speech with a laugh. She was grateful to him–good heavens! she might as well have offered a cupful of earth to a man dying of thirst!

“Let him finish, Betty dear,” observed Dinah faintly; “he has more to tell us.” And then Malcolm produced the telegram and laid it before them. The sisters glanced at each other with dismay, and Dinah’s forehead was furrowed like an old woman’s.

“What is to be done, Mr. Herrick, to save my poor boy from this iniquitous marriage?” she inquired in a tremulous tone, and Elizabeth’s eyes were asking him the same question.

“That is just the difficulty, my dear lady,” he replied slowly. “If I can only see my way clear–Mr. Rossiter advised me to speak to Miss Jacobi; he seems to think she is more amenable to reason than her brother, and probably he is right.” But to Malcolm’s surprise Dinah’s mild eyes began to flush angrily.

“I have a worse opinion of her than I have of her brother,” she said hurriedly; “she is a wicked woman–she let men make love to her when she knew her husband was alive! If she marries Cedric, I will never see her or him either;” and here Dinah trembled from head to foot.

Elizabeth, startled by the excitement of one generally so gentle, knelt down by her sister and put her arms round her. “Dear Die,” she implored, “don’t make it worse for us all. Mr. Herrick is trying to help us, and we must not make things more difficult for him. What do you advise?” she continued, turning to Malcolm. “You have seen this Leah–would it be better to bribe or frighten her?”

“That is impossible for me to say,” returned Malcolm, averting his eyes quickly from the earnest, troubled face. “I have only exchanged a few words with Miss Jacobi, and know little about her.”

“You mean the Contessa Ferrari,” interrupted Dinah almost harshly; “for heaven’s sake let the woman be called by her right name!”

“It is a name she refuses to own,” he returned quietly. “Will you let me say what I really think?–you know I have only seen her twice. I think she is a wronged and unhappy woman, and that her troubles have hardened her nature and made her reckless. Her brother tyrannises over her, and she has never been free to lead her own life or follow her own better impulses, and her beauty and wonderful fascination have only been used to further Saul Jacobi’s ambitious aims. In my opinion Cedric was right when he declared to me that she was more sinned against than sinning.”

“Then in that case you will be able to influence her,” returned Dinah quickly. “Tell her from me, Mr. Herrick, that if she persists in marrying my poor boy, she will be marrying a pauper; that on the day the marriage takes place I shall alter my will, and that my sister Elizabeth will be my heir. Tell her this, and I will write to Cedric and let him know what he has to expect.”

“Do you really mean this?” asked Malcolm, much impressed by this unexpected resolution on the part of one usually so yielding and gentle.

“I mean every word,” returned Dinah firmly. “Yes, Betty dear,” as she saw her sister’s astonished face, “I am perfectly serious. You know what Cedric is to me”–and here her sweet voice quavered for a moment–“if it would do him good, I would give him half my fortune at this moment, and would never grudge it; but no money of mine shall be used for his undoing. Let him give up this woman and come back to me, and there is nothing I will not do for him. Am I right, Elizabeth? Do you agree with me?”

“I agree with you, and you are always right, darling. Mr. Herrick, will you do as she says, and make this Leah understand that she has nothing to expect from us. Oh, what trouble we are giving you, and we have no right!” and here Elizabeth turned her head away in pained confusion. She had said the wrong thing. Why did not Dinah come to her assistance and say some word of grateful acknowledgment?

“You have every right to use me as you will,” returned Malcolm in a low voice, “for I have done nothing to forfeit your friendship.” And with a dreary attempt at a smile–“A friend is born for adversity.” Then Elizabeth rose from her kneeling position, but she did not answer–perhaps she could not, for Malcolm’s worn face and sad, kind eyes seemed to bring a sudden lump to her throat. How good he was– how generous and forgiving and unselfish! She longed to take his hand and bid God bless him; but she could not trust herself or him. “It has gone too deep,” she said with inward wonder, for Elizabeth was truly humble in her estimation of herself. Dinah was too much wrapped up in her own troubled thoughts to notice Elizabeth’s emotion.

“Will you tell me what you mean to do?” she asked anxiously, for Malcolm had risen too as though he intended to take his leave. He explained briefly that he intended to act on Hugh Rossiter’s suggestion. He would waylay Leah Jacobi in Kensington Gardens and do his best to induce her to give Cedric up.

“I shall tell her you have written to him and advise her to talk things over with her brother. When he knows Cedric Templeton is not his sister’s heir, he will be the first to insist that your projected marriage should be broken off–I shall say some such words to her.”

“And you will come down again, and let us know the result of your interview?” and Dinah looked at him imploringly. “Your room shall be ready for you at any time.”

“You are very kind,” he returned hesitating. “My room at the ‘King’s Arms’ seems very comfortable.” Then Dinah understood and changed colour slightly.

“It will be giving you trouble,” she observed regretfully.

“No–no, it is not that,” he returned hurriedly; “but it is impossible to say how things may be–what circumstances, or what complications may arise to keep me in town. I will write–you shall not be kept in suspense an hour longer than I can help; and you may depend on me that I will do my utmost to break off this wretched engagement.”

“I trust you implicitly,” returned Dinah gravely. “You will forgive me if I cannot thank you properly to-night.”

“You need not move, Die; I will light Mr. Herrick’s lantern for him”–Elizabeth spoke in her old natural way. Malcolm stood beside her silently as she performed her hospitable task. Then she placed it in his hand. “I wonder how you groped your way through the plantation,” she said smiling; “but this little glimmer will guide you safely. Good-night, Mr. Herrick; we shall look eagerly for your promised letter. Poor Dinah will have one of her bad sick headaches to-morrow–worry always brings them on.”

“She looks far from well,” replied Malcolm; “I fear this has been a great shock to her, and to you too;” and then he shook hands and went out into the darkness. When he was half-way down the drive he turned round–the door was still open, and the cheerful light streamed out into the blackness. Elizabeth was standing on the threshold looking after him. When she saw him stop she waved her hand with a friendly ‘good-night;’ then the door closed, and there was only the October darkness, and an eerie, wandering wind moaning through the woodlands.

CHAPTER XXX

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

If you would fall into any extreme, let it be on the side of gentleness. The human mind is so constructed that it resists vigour and yields to softness.
–ST. FRANCIS DE SALES.

Malcolm went up by an early train the next morning. He had a long day’s work before him–a mass of correspondence to sift, several business interviews, and some proofs to revise. It was later than usual when he went back to Cheyne Walk, but Verity had put aside his dinner for him, and sat beside him while he ate it. She even brought him coffee with her own hands. Perhaps these little womanly attentions soothed him insensibly–though he was so used to them by this time that he was almost tempted to take them as a matter of course–for his face lost its strained, weary look.

“There is a beautiful fire in your room, Mr. Herrick,” she observed cheerfully before she left him. “I shall tell Amias that you are tired, and that he must not expect you in the studio to-night.”

Malcolm smiled gratefully. “What a good little soul you are, Verity- -you always say just the right thing! Tell Goliath, with my love, that I am busy, so there must be no pipe and no palaver to-night. I shall have to be up betimes too;” and then he took counsel with Verity as to the hour when his breakfast should be served.

It was quite true that he had business waiting to be done; nevertheless, as he lay back in his easy-chair by the fire, he could not bring himself to take up his pen. At this very hour on the previous evening he had been with Elizabeth; the dear face–dearer, alas! than ever–had been before him; the changing, characteristic voice, so musical yet so uneven, had been in his ears! He recalled her look as she stood so wrapt in thought in the alcove before she perceived his presence. Its deep sadness had surprised him. What could be troubling her? In a few months she would marry the man she loved. Truly God’s best gifts were hers–health, wealth, and love– and yet the shadowed brow and the eyes misty with unshed tears seemed to speak of some hidden sorrow. What could it be? That was his last waking thought that night, and the question still troubled him when he walked the next morning in the direction of Kensington Gardens to keep his self-made tryst with Leah Jacobi.

He knew the gate that was nearest to Gresham Gardens; but it was long before the hour that Hugh Rossiter had mentioned when he reached it, and began pacing up and down like a sentinel on duty.

Fortunately the morning was fine, and a faint gleam of sunshine tried to penetrate the thin haze brooding over the Gardens. Although it was the last day of October, the air was mild; but, contrary to his usual custom, Malcolm failed to notice the effect of the clinging mist round the leafless trees, the nebulous distances, and the faint golden streaks of sunshine; his mind was full of the approaching interview and the difficult work that lay before him.

It was so early that the place seemed quite deserted; but presently he heard dogs barking, and the next moment two little fox-terriers, curiously alike, rushed past him intent on their play. He recognised them at once from Cedric’s description–they were Tim and Tartar, belonging to Saul Jacobi; and he knew their mistress was at hand.

He looked at her intently as she came slowly towards him. She wore a dark red dress and jacket, that set off her graceful figure, and her close velvet hat was a darker shade of the same colour.

On any one else the effect might have been too striking, but it exactly suited her; and as Malcolm noticed the exquisite colour of her face and the. wonderful coils of black hair, he was obliged to acknowledge that Cedric’s temptation had been strong, and that many an older man might have lost his heart to so beautiful a creature.

Leah’s eyes had been fixed on the ground, and she did not see Malcolm until she was quite close to him; but, though she was evidently surprised to meet him, she only bowed gravely, and would have passed on. But Malcolm placed himself at her side.

“You are an early riser, Miss Jacobi,” he observed in a friendly tone. “Are you always so energetic?”

“I like an early morning walk,” she replied quietly; but there was an uneasy flush on her face, as though she found Malcolm’s society embarrassing. “I generally have the Gardens to myself at this hour. My brother is a late riser, and this is my leisure time. I have never met you here before, Mr. Herrick;” and here Leah gave him a quick, furtive glance from under her long lashes.

“I daresay not,” he returned coolly, “this is hardly my beat. To tell you the truth. Miss Jacobi, my errand is to you this morning.” A quick, undefinable expression almost resembling fear came over her face; but she answered him quietly.

“You have come here to talk to me?” with an air of well-simulated surprise. “How could you know my habits? I think,” a little stiffly, “we have only met twice.”

“You are quite right, Miss Jacobi. I spoke to you first in the porch at Cookham church, and the second time at the Etheridges–as far as that goes we are little acquainted with each other; but we have a mutual friend, you and I.” Then he saw her eyes suddenly droop.

“Forgive me if I am abrupt,” he went on, “but the matter concerns me intimately. I am informed that you are engaged to my friend Cedric Templeton.”

It was evident that she was prepared for this–the bolt out of the blue had not startled her. She stood still and looked at him with an air of proud displeasure.

“May I ask the name of your informant, Mr. Herrick?” she asked coldly; but he saw that she knew.

“Why should I not have heard it from Cedric himself–we are close friends?” but he watched her narrowly as he said this.

“Because he would be the last person to tell you.” Then she checked herself, as she saw the snare he had laid for her. “What if I am engaged to him?” as though determined to brave it out; “it can surely be no business of yours, Mr. Herrick.” There was rising temper in Leah’s voice.

“You must forgive me if I say that I differ from you there–my friend’s interests are my own. Miss Jacobi, how can you reconcile it to your conscience to injure that poor boy’s prospects by entering into a clandestine engagement with him?”

He could see her eyes flash with anger, but she made no reply.

“You know his position. He is utterly dependent on his sisters–his father left him nothing; he has no profession; he has not even finished his university training; he is far too young to think of marrying.”

She opened her lips to speak, and then closed them resolutely again.

“Pardon me if I am obliged to speak plainly, but I have no option. This engagement cannot go on–you must set him free.”

“Who says so–you, or Hugh Rossiter?” stopping and regarding him with a frown that made her look for the moment like a beautiful Medusa. Then she walked on again. “Excuse me, Mr. Herrick,” very haughtily, “if I say that I regard your interference with my private concerns as unjustifiable impertinence. I refuse to discuss the matter with you; I am going home. Tartar–Tim!” raising her voice. And she turned and walked back so swiftly that he had some trouble in overtaking her.

“Miss Jacobi,” in an urgent voice, “I must speak to you. I am an accredited ambassador from Miss Templeton and her sister–they have asked me to speak to you.”

“They must choose another ambassador then,” and Leah walked on faster.

Malcolm was at his wits’ end. How could he compel this haughty and obstinate young woman to listen to him? Then an idea came to him.

“If Miss Jacobi is so unapproachable,” he said quietly, “perhaps the Countess Ferrari will not refuse to listen to me?” Leah stopped suddenly as though she had been shot, and her face grew white.

“What do you mean? How dare you call me that–do you want to kill me!” But the expression in her eyes was not pleasant to see. For a moment she seemed almost distraught.

“Hush–hush!” he said soothingly; “I would not have called you that if I could have helped it; but you would not hear me. Let us go down that little path; there is a seat there, and we will talk this out quietly;” and taking her arm, he gently guided her to the bench. “Sit down and recover yourself,” he continued kindly; for she was drawing deep breaths as though she were on the verge of an hysterical attack. Malcolm felt secretly frightened at the result of his experiment. It was clear to him that the mere utterance of her married name almost maddened her–that for some occult reason it was not safe to use it. Up to this moment she had played her cards well: she had guessed his errand and had evaded and kept him at bay–first by pretended ignorance, and next by refusing to discuss the engagement with him. That he was Miss Templeton’s mouthpiece and messenger mattered little or nothing to her. No wonder Malcolm found himself nonplussed. A moment later he heard his name called. Leah’s manner had changed; she was still very pale, but she had regained outward calmness. “I will hear you now,” she said in a low voice; “but you must be more careful–if you mention that name again I must leave you. What is the message you have for me from Miss Templeton?”

“You shall know directly; but there is one thing I must say first. Miss Templeton and her sister are fully acquainted with your past life–your parentage, your brother’s occupations, and above all, the fact that you have only recently become a widow–hardly more than six or seven weeks ago.”

He was standing before her as he spoke, and she tried to look at him; but some sudden sense of womanly shame made her cover her face with her hands.

“It was not my fault,” she almost whispered; “I am not good, but I am not so bad as that. Saul said it did not matter; and after that, when I began to get uncomfortable, he told me a lie.”

“You mean that he told you that your husband was dead?”

Leah shivered, and bowed her head in assent. Then as she saw Malcolm’s kind and pitying look, she continued in a low, constrained voice, as though something compelled her to speak–“It was not all Saul’s fault. I ought not to have believed him, for he does not always tell the truth. After a time I found out that it was a lie, and then it was too late–Cedric knew I cared for him.”

“You really care for him?” Malcolm was not aware how gently he spoke, but his tone thrilled through Leah; her manner softened still more, and her dark, unfathomable eyes were full of womanly tenderness.

“Is that such a strange thing?” she asked in a dreary tone. “Could not any woman love him?–so young, so fresh, so true–so different from any one I have ever met in my unhappy life! What does it matter that I am older–what has age to do with it, when two people care for each other!”

“Ah, I will grant you that,” returned Malcolm slowly.

“I shall make him a good wife,” she went on, “and in the years to come the old wounds will be healed, and I shall forget the terrible past. Oh,” recalling herself with difficulty,” why am I talking to you like this, and I have never even heard Miss Templeton’s message.” Then Malcolm sat down beside her and gently repeated Dinah’s words.

“‘Tell her from me that if she persists in marrying my poor boy, she will be marrying a pauper; that on the day the marriage takes place I shall alter my will, and that my sister Elizabeth will be my heir. Tell her this, and I will write to Cedric.'”

There was no answer to this; but he could feel the tremor that passed through her. “She has written,” he went on, “and by this time Cedric has her letter. Miss Jacobi, if you love this poor lad, how can you have the heart to ruin him? Be generous, be merciful, and set him free!” Then she turned upon him almost fiercely.

“Generous! merciful!–and who has ever shown me mercy! When my own flesh and blood have traded on my beauty–my hateful beauty–and sold me without pity or remorse. And now,” still more passionately, “you and his people want to come between me and happiness. You wish me to give him up, but I cannot–I will not. I am not marrying him for Miss Templeton’s money,” she continued indignantly, “but for himself, and because we love each other. It is Saul who thinks of the money; but he will not believe that message–he knows she will not do it. Her sister Elizabeth is rich–rich, and we should be so poor.”

“You are wrong, Miss Jacobi, she will do it. Miss Templeton is gentle and loving, but she is very firm. It is possible–nay, probable–that she would continue Cedric’s allowance, but in the event of this marriage he will have nothing more from her.”

“Do you mean that she would let him starve?”

“I mean that he would have to work for his bread as other men have to work, and that his whole life, and yours too, will probably be a failure. Miss Jacobi, I entreat you to listen to me for a few moments–I am speaking for your good as well as his. May I tell you what I think?” She made a movement of assent. Malcolm never could recollect afterwards what he said to her; but his words, strong, eloquent, convincing, seemed to overwhelm her like a torrent, and yet his manner was perfectly quiet and calm.

He told her, without attempting to soften or palliate the fact, that nothing would reconcile Miss Templeton and her sister to such a marriage; that her brother’s character was regarded by them with abhorrence; that their cherished brother should marry the sister of a billiard-marker–a mere adventurer and gambler–was utterly impossible; and Leah’s head was bowed low as she listened. He touched delicately on her own past; but his few words were terribly convincing. “You have spoken to me of Cedric’s youth and freshness,” he observed–“do you think that your past life with its sad experiences make you a fit mate for him? You may tell me you are only a few years older; but in knowledge of life he is a mere child compared to you. It is in the name of his youth–his fresh, unsullied youth–that I implore you to be generous and set him free.”

Malcolm said more than this–for his own love for Elizabeth made him eloquent. He must do her this one service: he must deliver her young brother out of the contaminating hands of these Philistines; and so he reasoned and pleaded with Leah as he had never pleaded in his life before.

Soon she was weeping; he could see the tears dropping into her lap. Then suddenly, as a clock struck, she started up. “It is late–I must go now or Saul will question me. Indeed–indeed I must go.”

“But you will think over all I have said, and let me see you again?” asked Malcolm anxiously.

“Yes, I will think over it; and if possible I will be here to- morrow. But I cannot answer you now. You have made me very unhappy, Mr. Herrick. What is it that the Bible says?–‘There is no peace for the wicked.’ I must be wicked, for there is no peace for me.”

“No–no, you must not say that,” he returned kindly; “let me give you my card, that you may know where to find me. Miss Jacobi, if you will only bring yourself to do this thing, you will be a brave woman, and I shall be your friend for life.” But she only smiled faintly as she took the card and asked him as a special favour not to come any farther with her.

“Have I done any good?” thought Malcolm sorrowfully, as he walked away. “Poor soul, how she loves him! Cedric was right, as I told Miss Templeton: Leah Jacobi is more sinned against than sinning. Nature intended her for a noble woman, but Saul Jacobi and Count Antonio Ferrari have marred her handiwork.” And all the rest of the day Malcolm thought of Leah with strange kindness and pity.

CHAPTER XXXI

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT

Many a one, by being thought better than he was, has become better.
–JOWETT.

Not as little as we dare, but as much as we can. –BISHOP OF WESTCOTT.

Malcolm wrote to Dinah that afternoon, giving her a full account of his interview with Leah Jacobi; then he spent the rest of the day making up arrears of work. The last post brought him a reproachful little note from Anna.

“Mother thinks you have forgotten us. Why are you staying away in this unmannerly fashion, you naughty boy?” she wrote. “It is ten whole days since you were here, and we both feel lone and lorn without you”–and so on. But under the playful words he could detect a shade of earnestness.

Tired as he was, and needing rest sorely, he answered the letter and posted it before he slept.

Anna read it aloud to Mrs. Herrick the next morning, and they both agreed that it was a charming letter. The dear home people must forgive his seeming neglect, it said, for it was not possible for him to put in an appearance just yet. He was arranging a troublesome affair for a friend that gave him a great deal of anxiety and worry. He had been to Oxford, and might have to go down again, and he could not spare an hour for social duties.

“Oxford–I wonder if the business concerns his friend Cedric Templeton,” observed Anna thoughtfully. But Mrs. Herrick only looked grave and said she did not know, and that evidently Malcolm did not wish to enlighten them. She spoke dispassionately and not in the least as though his reserve troubled her; but Anna was rather absent and distrait the rest of the day. She had watched Malcolm narrowly and had come to the conclusion that he had something on his mind. All his attempts at gaiety, his little jokes, his badinage, did not deceive her for a moment. Trouble had come to him. In some ways he was a changed man: he looked older, graver, and in repose his features had a care-worn expression, as of one who has worked hard in turmoil of soul. And this trouble–could it be connected in any way with this mysterious Elizabeth, of whom he never spoke? Ah, that was the question over which Anna pondered so heavily as her fair head bent over her typewriter.

Malcolm had ordered an early breakfast again in his own room, but as be sat down to it Hepsy brought him a note. A slip of a lad had delivered it, she said, and was waiting for an answer.

Malcolm had never seen the handwriting before, but he at once guessed it was from Leah–and he was right. It was written in pencil, and was without any conventional beginning or end.

“I am not going out this morning–will you come straight to 12 Gresham Gardens? If you come early you will find me alone. Saul went to Oxford last night, and will be back by mid-day. Send answer by bearer.”

Malcolm wrote a few words–“Many thanks. Will be with you as early as possible;” then he made a hasty meal, for he felt there was no time to be lost; and as he walked to Sloane Square station his thoughts were full of perplexity. Why had Saul Jacobi gone down to Oxford–on what new mischief was he bent? Malcolm felt he had good reason for his fears. Cedric’s weak, impressionable nature would be like wax in the hands of this unscrupulous adventurer; he would simply mould him to his will; the poor lad’s passionate love for his sister would be turned to account and made to further his own wily purposes. Malcolm groaned inwardly, as he realised that their sole chance lay with Leah herself. Her message had given him a shade of hope, but he would not allow himself to be sanguine; he knew too well that women of Leah’s calibre were not always to be depended on; in such cases one must reckon with moods and impulses. Her brother dominated her; he was the evil genius of her life. How could any one hope to influence her, when she, poor soul, lived under a reign of terror? One might as well ask some wretched prisoner to break off the fetters that bound him, as to expect Leah Jacobi to walk out of that house of bondage a free woman.

Malcolm found it impossible to rid himself of these gloomy forebodings; nevertheless he made such good speed that it was barely half-past nine when he stood in the stone porch of 12 Gresham Gardens. It was evident that he was expected, for though the maid who admitted him regarded him somewhat curiously, she did not ask his name, but conducted him at once upstairs to a handsome drawing- room where a fire was burning.

The little fox-terriers, Tim and Tartar, began barking furiously at the sight of a stranger; but before Malcolm could quiet them the plush curtains that veiled the archway were thrown back and Leah entered from an inner room.

Malcolm was quite shocked when he saw her face. She looked as though she had spent a night of weeping, that had dimmed her beauty; the hand she gave him was icy cold. Perhaps she read the silent pity in Malcolm’s eyes, for her lips quivered.

“I am not ill–not really ill,” she said quickly; “only I have not slept, and the night was so terrible. You were right to come early, Mr. Herrick; sometimes Saul takes an earlier train than he says. He has done that two or three times; he declares he never really trusts me. He made me promise not to go in the Gardens this morning, so I was obliged to stay at home.”

“Will you tell me why your brother has gone to Oxford?” asked Malcolm, with a keen, steady glance, under which she grew still paler.

“Yes, I will tell you: he has gone to see Cedric. He was waiting for me when I got back yesterday, and he saw at once by my face that something had happened. Oh, you don’t know Saul–when he means to find a thing out he is like a gimlet, one has no chance at all. He held my wrists until I told him everything–you can see how bruised they are,” and she showed him the purple marks. “Oh, how angry he was! I never saw him in such a rage before, but it only made him more determined to hurry on the marriage.”

“He has no objection then to your marrying a pauper?” asked Malcolm coolly, but inwardly he was boiling with impotent wrath.

“Oh, he will not believe that Cedric is poor,” she returned sadly; “he only laughs at the idea of Miss Templeton disinheriting him. ‘She wants to frighten him, and to choke us off, but I know a trick worth two of that,’ was all he said; and then he cooled down, and called me a little fool, and bade me bring him the time-table, and ten minutes later he told me he was going to Oxford to arrange things with Cedric.”

“You mean about your marriage?”

“Yes; it was fixed for next week, but last evening I received this telegram,” and Leah put it in his hand. She had said all this in a weary, mechanical voice, as though she were reciting a lesson she had learnt by heart.

“Make preparations at once–Cedric returns with me–function day after to-morrow, nine sharp–all arranged–hang results.” Malcolm’s lip curled with disgust as he gave it back to her.

“Do you understand it?” she asked, as though distrustful of his quiet bearing. “Saul has hurried things on because he is afraid. He does not trust Cedric: he thinks he is weak and easily influenced, and fears that you may get hold of him again; his one idea is to have the marriage ceremony performed before Miss Templeton knows of it.”

“Ah, just so;” but Malcolm muttered “the villain!” between his teeth.

“That is why I sent for you,” continued Leah in the same dull, inward voice; “because he and Cedric have fixed it for to-morrow, and there is no time to lose. If he comes, and I were to see him again,” and here her voice broke and her eyes grew piteous, “I should not have the strength to do it–to do what you want.”

“What I want?” And then he added breathlessly, “Do you mean that you will give him up?”

“Yes, I mean that,” in a choked voice. “I must give him up–the only creature I ever loved, and who was good to me. All night long I was thinking of it, fighting and struggling for my poor little bit of happiness; but you were right, Mr. Herrick, I love him too well to drag him down to poverty and ruin, for Saul would ruin him, I know that too well.”

“I know it too. God bless you for this noble resolve,” returned Malcolm quickly; but she stopped him.

“Hush! not a word of praise; you do not know–I have been to blame as well as Saul. But now what am I to do? they must not find me here.”

“No, of course not. Is there any friend to whom I could take you?” But Leah shook her head.

“We have no friends, only a few acquaintances at Henley; but I could not go to them. I might take a lodging somewhere, only”–here her poor face grew crimson–“Saul never gives me any money, except a few shillings at a time; he pays my bills or leaves them unpaid, but it always makes him angry when I ask him for money.”

“That need be no difficulty,” returned Malcolm kindly. “Will you allow me to settle things for you?” Then she looked at him inquiringly, yet with an air of trust that moved him profoundly.

“Will you put on your walking things at once, while I make my plans?” he went on. “Be as quick as possible; we must not lose time.” And she went off with the ready obedience of a child.

Malcolm hastily reviewed the situation. It was full of difficulties. Where could he take her? He thought of his mother; then he remembered that she was a woman of strong prejudices–she had her own opinions and would decline to see with other people’s eyes. Leah would be to her merely an extremely dangerous and objectionable young woman, and she would dislike the idea of Anna being brought into contact with her.

The Kestons would help him, he knew that, and Verity would be a trusty and faithful little counsellor; but Cheyne Walk was hardly the place for her, and he would not be safe from Cedric.

For a moment he thought of the Wood House–they would never look for her there; but he dismissed this idea the next moment. No; the Manor House was their only resource. He would put her in Mrs. Godfrey’s care, and ask her to keep her safe until they had made their plans. Mrs. Godfrey was a woman of the world; she would make allowances for any human creature so broken and buffeted in the battle of life, whose womanhood had been so tempted and crushed. His mother was kind-hearted, but her sympathies were less broad, and she often failed in tact. Leah would be to her a puzzling enigma. He felt with shrewd intuition that it would be impossible for them to understand each other.

“No, it must be my dear Mrs. Godfrey,” he said to himself. “She is more human; it is not her way to use a sledge-hammer when a lighter weapon will serve her purpose; and then she never forces confidence, she is the most tactful woman I know.” Malcolm broke off abruptly here as Leah entered the room. She wore the same dark red dress she had worn the previous day, and had a travelling wrap over her arm. She carried a small Gladstone bag, of which Malcolm at once relieved her.

“I packed this last night,” she said in a low voice, “and I wrote this letter. Will you give it to him?” Then Malcolm glanced at the address; it was to Cedric, and he put it carefully in his breast- pocket.

“He shall have it,” was his answer. “Now, if you are ready, we may as well go.”

“If we are quiet no one will hear us,” she observed in the same subdued voice. “The servants are in the back kitchen; I heard them laughing and talking as I came downstairs.”

Then she led the way, and Malcolm followed her closely. Leah’s remark about an earlier train had made him supremely uncomfortable. What if they should come face to face with Saul Jacobi and Cedric as they turned out of Gresham Gardens! The idea was unpleasant. Fortunately, at that moment he saw an empty cab crawling towards them, after the manner of growlers when a fare is wanted, and he at once hailed it. Leah looked somewhat surprised when she heard him direct the man to a pastry-cook’s shop in the near vicinity of Paddington station. She gave him a questioning glance.

“We cannot go straight to our destination until I am sure the coast is clear,” he explained. “There is an upstairs room at Falconer’s, and I am going to order you some luncheon, and you must do your best to eat it. I shall have to leave you for a quarter of an hour or so, until the Oxford train is in.”

“You mean to go to the station?” she asked nervously.

“Oh, Mr. Herrick, is that wise? Saul is so sharp-sighted, if he sees you he will guess that you have been to Gresham Gardens.”

“He will not see me,” returned Malcolm confidently; “there is a corner where I can secrete myself and watch the passengers go by. When we are really off I will tell you our destination, but at present I must ask you to have faith that I am doing my best for you.”

She smiled faintly and said no more. Five minutes later the cab stopped, and Malcolm took her upstairs and found a quiet corner for her. “You must take a few spoonfuls of soup,” he pleaded, “for the sake of appearances. Falconer is rather famed for mock-turtle.” Then he put down the bag beside her and went on his quest. It was more than twenty minutes before he returned.

“It is all right,” he observed. “They passed me quite close. We shall be in the train before they reach Gresham Gardens. I think I heard your brother say that they had better do their business first.” Leah shivered; she knew too well what that business was. A quarter of an hour later they were on their way to Cookham.

Leah seemed very much startled and even alarmed when she learnt their destination, and at first Malcolm found it difficult to reassure her. “Mrs. Godfrey!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I scarcely know her. Somehow she frightens me; her eyes seem to read one through and through. And then the Etheridges will be so near.”

“I believe they are abroad,” replied Malcolm, “and not expected home until the middle of December, so you need not trouble your head about them. But indeed you are wrong about Mrs. Godfrey; she is a dear woman, and the greatest friend I have. She is so warm-hearted and true that she would go through fire and water for any one she loved.”

“Oh yes, no doubt.”

“And not only for her friends,” he went on, “for her sympathies are world-wide. Trust her, my dear Miss Jacobi, and you will see how good she is to you. She is not hard and censorious in her judgments, she is far too well-balanced for that; if you can only secure Mrs. Godfrey for a friend, you will need no other.” But it was plain to him that Leah was only half convinced; under her veil he could see she was vainly trying to repress her tears, and his heart ached for her.

During their short walk to the Manor House he kept silence; he was wondering what he should say to Mrs. Godfrey, and how he could best explain matters. But just as they turned into the drive he saw her coming round from the garden with a basket of late blowing flowers in her hand; she stood still as though petrified with astonishment when she saw Malcolm’s companion.

“What is it–what does it mean?” she asked in her clear voice. “Has anything happened?”

“Much has happened, my dear lady,” he returned quietly. “I am going to confide Miss Jacobi to your care for a few days;” and then very briefly but distinctly he gave her an account of Saul Jacobi’s scheme–the intended marriage and Cedric’s arrival at Gresham Gardens. “But for Miss Jacobi’s noble behaviour,” he continued, “this disgraceful plot would have been carried out. She has generously given him up, and I for one am deeply indebted to her.”

“Will you hide me for a few days, until I know what to do?” asked Leah, fixing her great troubled eyes on the other woman’s face. Mrs. Godfrey’s manner changed.

“Hide you from your brother do you mean, or Cedric, or both? My dear, you will be perfectly safe with us. No one will molest you at the Manor House, and we will both do all we can for you.” She took the girl’s hand kindly and kissed her cheek. “We will have such a talk presently–you and I; but just now you are worn out, and must lie down. Your head aches, does it not?” Then Leah owned that she was right.

“Alick is about the grounds somewhere,” Mrs. Godfrey continued; “when I have made Miss Jacobi comfortable I will join you both.” But when she rejoined them half an hour later, Malcolm was quite sure she had been shedding tears. “Poor thing,” she said to him in an undertone, “how she must have suffered; she is terribly exhausted, she has had no sleep, and has eaten nothing for four-and-twenty hours. I made her swallow some warm brandy and milk, and have covered her up snugly. Now I mean to send the servant away at luncheon, and we will wait on ourselves, and then you can tell us everything.”

“You must promise not to interrupt me then,” was Malcolm’s answer, “for I shall have to be off in an hour or so. I mean to go down to Staplegrove by a late afternoon train, and tell Miss Templeton all we have done.”

Malcolm certainly had the art of narration. Not only Mrs. Godfrey but the Colonel hung on his words with the deepest attention. Neither did they interrupt him by comment or question until he had finished. Then Mrs. Godfrey said softly–“You have done a good work there, Mr. Herrick.”

“Who, I?–pooh–nonsense,” but Malcolm flushed a little at her appreciative look. “I have done nothing–it is all Miss Jacobi’s generosity.”

“I think we should hear a different version from her,” returned Mrs. Godfrey with a smile, “and I can see Alick agrees with me,” nodding to her husband. “Must you really go to Staplegrove to-night? Suppose Cedric goes to Cheyne Walk?”

“That is quite possible,” returned Malcolm; “nay, more, it is extremely probable; and I pencilled a line to Verity in the train. She is to tell him where I have gone; but my only fear is that he will not follow me–Saul Jacobi will keep too tight a hold of him. By the bye, Colonel, I wonder what infernal lies that fellow has induced him to tell the authorities. If he has taken French leave of absence, they will rusticate him.”

“I think he had better leave the university,” returned Colonel Godfrey grimly, “for he is only bent on mischief, and will never pass his examination. Let him go abroad a bit with some reliable person and get over his folly, and then see if he will not settle down better. Dinah could afford to give him a year’s travelling, and I know she would never begrudge the money.”

“No, indeed, she is only too generous by nature,” returned his wife; and then after a little more conversation Malcolm took leave of Mrs. Godfrey, and he and the Colonel walked down to the station.

CHAPTER XXXII

STORM AND STRESS

And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace– To live on still in love, and yet in vain; To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

“C’est le premier pas qui coute,” and Malcolm proved the truth of the old French proverb, as he dismissed his fly and walked up the dark drive towards the Wood House.

He no longer felt the hot and cold fits that had shaken him as though with inward ague on his previous visit. He had seen Elizabeth again, had at least retained his outward calmness, and now he felt more sure of himself.

“The pains and penalties of life,” Leah had said to him once, and he had thought the expression a strange one on the lips of so beautiful a woman; but he knew better now, and how such pains and penalties fall to the share of many men. “It is all in the day’s work,” he muttered as he rang the bell, for it was Malcolm’s nature to philosophise even in trouble.

It was only six o’clock, and the two sisters were sitting together in the fire-lit twilight. Dinah was lying back in her easy-chair with her eyes closed, but Elizabeth had drawn her chair opposite the fire, and sat with her chin supported by her hands, gazing fixedly at the blazing logs with an absorbed gravity that again surprised Malcolm.

When they heard the visitor announced they both started to their feet and came towards him, but it was Elizabeth who spoke first. “Mr. Herrick, this is too good of you. I hope–I trust,” in an anxious tone, “that your news is also good.”

“You may rest assured of that,” he returned, with an unconscious pressure of her hand. Dinah heaved a deep sigh of relief, and pointed silently to the chair that stood between them. She did not speak, perhaps because she could not: her face looked as though she had passed through an illness. Elizabeth, with her wonted quickness, answered Malcolm’s unspoken question.

“Dinah has had one of her bad sick headaches, and has only just come downstairs. All this sad business has upset her greatly, but you will be her best physician,” with the old beaming smile which Malcolm dared not meet. “Now,” with a housewifely air, “shall I give you some tea? You will dine with us, of course?” But Malcolm declined the offered refreshment.

“I will dine with you if you wish it,” he said rather formally, “and if you and Miss Templeton will excuse the absence of war-paint; but I am going back to town to-night.”

“Oh no, not to-night!” she exclaimed in quite a shocked voice; “you will be so tired.” But Malcolm assured her with absolute truth that he had never been less tired in his life. The storm and stress and excitement of the day had acted on him like a tonic as well as an anodyne; in thinking and planning for others he had found relief from the intolerable ache of ever-present pain that had made ms life so purgatorial of late, and the unhealed wound throbbed less cruelly.

“I have so much to tell you that I think I had better begin at once,” he observed in a business-like tone, and then both the sisters composed themselves to listen. But this time they heard him less calmly. The shock of learning Saul Jacobi’s disgraceful plot, and Cedric’s infatuation and weakness, was too much for Dinah, and she sobbed audibly.

“Oh, Betty!” she exclaimed piteously, “to think that our dear boy should be deceiving us like this! But that woman has deluded him.”

“The woman beguiled me and I did eat,” murmured Malcolm. Then Elizabeth looked at him rather sharply, as though she suspected a double meaning. But as he proceeded with his story, and she heard of Leah’s noble act of self-sacrifice, her mood changed and her eyes filled with tears. Malcolm fancied that he heard her say softly under her breath, “She loved much, because much has been forgiven her.”

But the climax of their wonder seemed reached when Malcolm told them that Leah was at the Manor House. Dinah seemed as though she could not believe her ears, and again Elizabeth looked at him curiously.

“Our dear Mrs. Godfrey!” she ejaculated. “I wonder what made you go to her. I thought,” with a little laugh, “only a woman would have done that.”

“Do you consider men so dense?” was his answer. “Mrs. Godfrey is the best friend I have in the world, and she has never disappointed me once. She is not only wise and almost masculine in her breadth of view, but she is also the most womanly of women.”

“How well you have grasped her!” returned Elizabeth in an approving voice. “Yes, you are right, she will be a true friend to that poor Miss Jacobi. It was magnificent strategy. I do not believe any one else would have thought of it.” But Malcolm only flushed at this eulogium.

“I promised you that I would do my best,” he said in a constrained voice; but Elizabeth was too elated and excited by the good news to measure her words.

“Oh, but your best is so much better than other people’s best,” she said gaily. “Die, dear, why do you not make some pretty speeches to Mr. Herrick when he has achieved all this?” Then Dinah smiled and held out her hand.

“What should we have done without you!” was all she said, but Malcolm felt amply rewarded for his trouble.

They talked a little more about Leah Jacobi, and then Elizabeth said suddenly–

“I have an idea. I will go to the Manor House and talk to Mrs. Godfrey–it is our affair, and we must not shunt our responsibilities on other people’s shoulders–and then I can judge of this poor Leah.” And though Dinah was evidently startled by this bold suggestion, she did not attempt to gainsay it.

“Shall you go to-morrow?” she asked. “Perhaps I could go too.” But Elizabeth promptly negatived this.

“You will do nothing of the kind,” she returned decidedly; “I shall have you falling ill on my hands. Besides, you must be at the Wood House, in case Cedric comes;” and as Dinah perceived the force of this argument, she said no more about accompanying her sister.

Malcolm, however, was not so easily satisfied. “Are you sure that you had better do this?” he said rather gravely. “Would it not be wiser to leave Mrs. Godfrey to deal with Miss Jacobi?” But Elizabeth seemed quite indignant.

“Mr. Herrick, I did not expect this from you,” she said severely. “I thought we were to do good to our enemies–and this poor soul is not our enemy after all. We have a debt to pay to her, have we not, Die? for she has set our boy free. We must do all we can to help her, and to free her from her terrible brother; for as long as she is with him there can be no peace for her.”

“No, you are right,” replied Malcolm slowly; “Saul Jacobi is her curse. He is a cold-hearted, selfish schemer. Well, I will not try to hinder your good work, for I see you are bent on doing it. You will go to-morrow, then?”

“Yes, I think so,” but Elizabeth hesitated and looked at her sister. “David is expecting his father to-morrow, and he will not want me until the next day–” but she broke off here as dinner was announced.

It could not be said that Malcolm enjoyed his meal. The presence of the servants prevented any freedom in the conversation, and as Dinah was still oppressed and weak from the effects of her headache, the brunt of the talk fell on Malcolm and Elizabeth, and neither of them seemed quite at their ease. The mention of his rival had affected Malcolm painfully, and Elizabeth was aware of this and was at once on her guard. She avoided all local subjects and plied him with questions about his mother and Anna and the Kestons; all of which Malcolm answered punctiliously. When a pause in the conversation seemed inevitable, he plunged into the breach with a description of Amias Keston’s latest picture, and an anecdote or two about that infant prodigy Babs; he spoke of a book he had been reading, from which he gave them copious extracts; and then, dessert being placed on the table, he drew a sigh of relief. By that time he was sensible of fatigue.

He left them soon after this. When he bade Dinah good-bye, she took both his hands and looked wistfully in his face. “I cannot say anything to-night,” she whispered–“I am too giddy and confused; but I will write, and–and God bless you!”

To his surprise Elizabeth followed him into the hall. As she opened the door for him, the rush of raw, damp air came full in their faces.

“It is a regular November evening,” she observed, with a little shiver. “It is the month I like least–the month of decay and–” then she checked herself abruptly. “Mr. Herrick, there is a question I wanted to ask, and that I did not wish Dinah to hear. You are going back to town this evening, are you not, because you expect that Cedric will come to Cheyne Walk?”

“I think he will be here,” he returned reluctantly, for he had not wished to hint at this; in his own mind he was prepared for a stormy interview.

“I feel sure of it,” she continued. “He is very unbalanced and passionate–he will say things that he does not mean, and that he will repent afterwards. You will bear with him–you will be patient, will you not?”

“Do you think you need ask me that?” Malcolm’s voice was so full of reproach and meaning that a sudden flush crossed Elizabeth’s face. “Have you forgotten already?” his expression seemed to say–“is he not your brother, and am I not your devoted and humble servant?” Then his manner changed.

“I will deal with him as gently as possible, you may be sure of that,” he said kindly. But Elizabeth gave him her hand rather timidly and without looking at him.

This time there was no backward glance as Malcolm and his lantern disappeared into the dark woodlands; but Elizabeth stood so long in the porch that the dead leaves swirled round her feet and even blew across the hall.

“I wish I had not said that,” she thought; “I might have trusted him. He will be firm, but he will be gentle too.” And then she went back to Dinah, and they talked together of all that should be done on the morrow.

It was not long past eleven when Malcolm let himself into the house in Cheyne Walk with his latch-key, but Verity was evidently on the watch for him.

“Mr. Templeton is here,” she said, and he detected a trace of anxiety in her manner. “He has been here quite two hours. Amias wanted him to come into the studio, but he preferred going to your room. I am afraid he is not well, or something is troubling him; he does nothing but walk about.”

“I will go up to him,” rejoined Malcolm. “I suppose there is a fire?” Verity nodded, and wished him goodnight.

The fire was burning cheerily; nevertheless, as Malcolm opened the door, the room felt as cold as a vault. The window opening on to the balcony had been flung up,, and the damp air from the river pervaded the whole place. The sudden draught made the lamp smoke, and he moved it hastily. As he did so a dark figure came between him. and the light, and seized him almost roughly by the arm.

“So it is you, Herrick, at last!” in a hoarse voice that was scarcely recognisable. “Now tell me, please, what have you done with Leah?”

The grip on Malcolm’s arm was so painful that he winced. “Let me shut that window first, there’s a good fellow,” he returned coolly, “or we shall be blown into the street;” and as Cedric sullenly let him go, he fastened it and drew down the blind and turned up the lamp.

Cedric watched him savagely.

Verity might well have suspected that something was seriously amiss. Cedric’s face was pale and his whole aspect disordered, and the strained, fierce look in his blue eyes almost dismayed Malcolm. There was something aggressive too in his manner that affected him unpleasantly.

“Well, are you going to speak?” in a defiant voice, “or do you wish to drive me crazy? What have you done with the girl who is to be my wife to-morrow?”

“Why do you imagine that I have done anything with her?” returned Malcolm steadily, for he wanted to find out what Cedric really knew. “I have just come from the Wood House. Your sisters are in great trouble about this.”

“You have not taken her there,” retorted Cedric, with a sneer, “and I am not in a mood to discuss my sisters. Herrick, I call this an infernal shame! What right have you to come between a man and his affianced wife? I will not bear it–you shall make me amends!”– stammering with passion. “Saul says you are at the bottom of this.”

“Mr. Jacobi will have to prove it then,” returned Malcolm quietly.

“Prove it! Do you think we have not sufficient proof?” exclaimed Cedric angrily. “I suppose you do not deny that you were at Gresham Gardens this morning.”

“I was there certainly; Miss Jacobi sent for me. I had seen her in Kensington Gardens the previous day.”

“I know all about that,” interrupted Cedric rudely. “Saul told me you were bent on making mischief between me and Leah. You left the house with her this morning. One of the servants saw you go. You were carrying a Gladstone bag and a travelling wrap, evidently a lady’s.”

Malcolm bit his lip. They had been seen then.

“Before we go on with this cross-examination, will you allow me to explain matters,” he observed. “It is no use your taking this tone with me, Cedric; I have done nothing of which I am ashamed. As far as I can, and up to a certain point, I will tell you the exact truth, and it may be well for you to hear me.”

Malcolm’s quiet tone was not without influence, and Cedric flung himself on a chair; but his attitude was still defiant.

“I own that I have done all in my power to induce Leah Jacobi to break off this disastrous engagement,” continued Malcolm. “I did this not only for your sake, and because you were the tool of a designing and unscrupulous man, but also for your sisters’ sake. When I left her yesterday it was impossible to know how far I had succeeded in my purpose.” Cedric looked up when Malcolm said this.

“This morning Miss Jacobi sent me a note, and I went to her at once. She was in deep distress, and showed me her brother’s telegram. To my astonishment, she told me that she fully intended to break off her engagement, and entrusted this letter to my care;” and here he stopped and handed it to Cedric, and withdrew to another part of the room while he read it.

A long time afterwards Malcolm read that letter.

“My darling, I cannot marry you,” Leah wrote. “I am going to set you free. I pray God that I may never see your dear face again, for this is the hardest piece of work I have ever done in my life. Mr. Herrick has been talking to me; he has made me see things in a different light. I know now that I am no fit wife for you, my life has been too soiled and degraded. In experience I am twenty or thirty years older than you, and though I am only nine-and-twenty, my heart is gray. Dear–dearest, you are so young–perhaps that is why I love you–your youth is so gracious and lovely in my eyes. But Mr. Herrick is right. You must not be angry with him, Cedric. He has been so kind and gentle, and he is so true a friend to you. I have sent for him–when he comes I shall ask him to hide me in some safe place where you and Saul cannot find me. I am so afraid of Saul–he is so strong, he makes me do things against my conscience.”

“Darling, let me say just this one thing more. It is because of Saul that I am so determined not to marry you. If you became my husband, he would be a drag on you all your life. He has absolutely no conscience; he would ruin you. No–no, you shall be free. I will not hurt a hair of your head. Farewell.–Your loving and unhappy Leah”

Malcolm had turned his back, and stood looking down into the fire, until a choked sob reached his ears. Cedric’s head was sunk on his arms, and his whole frame was convulsed with suppressed emotion; but when Malcolm put his hand on his shoulder, he started up as though beside himself.

“This is your doing,” he said furiously. “I will never forgive you, Herrick–never! Oh!”–as midnight chimed from a church near–“this is our wedding-day–: Leah’s and mine, and you have hidden my bride away! But you shall give her up,” with an oath, and for the moment Malcolm thought the lad would have struck him in his insane passion. Cedric was no mean athlete, and Malcolm was hardly a match for him, but he caught his uplifted hand and held it firmly.

“Don’t be a fool, Cedric,” he said quietly. “Do you suppose this violence will serve your purpose? Miss Jacobi has placed herself under my protection, and I shall certainly not betray her. Sit down and behave like a gentleman, and let us talk this out. Good heavens!” with a sudden change of voice, “do you suppose you are the only man in the world who cannot marry the woman he loves,” and Malcolm’s tone and manner seemed to check Cedric’s passion. “Let us talk it out like men,” he repeated, and Cedric sank back on his chair, still sullen but half subdued.

CHAPTER XXXIII

“HE WILL COME RIGHT”

If your eyes look for nothing but evil, you will always see evil triumphant; but if you have learned to let your glance rest on sincerity, simpleness, truth, you will ever discover deep down in all things the silent overpowering victory of that you love.
–MAETERLINCK

Long afterwards Malcolm compared that night’s work to a severe wrestling-match, and owned that it had taxed his mental and bodily strength to the utmost. The illustration was singularly apt. The whole force of his manhood and will were set to rescue this poor lad from the effects of his own infatuation and folly, but at first he made little progress.

Saul Jacobi’s pernicious influence had done its work, and Malcolm, to his dismay and disgust, was forced to realise that his baleful and hated arguments had already poisoned Cedric’s mind. More than once he was revolted by ideas which he knew had been inculcated by Saul Jacobi. “He has poisoned the wells,” Malcolm said to himself indignantly–“Cedric’s fresh young mind has been contaminated by his odious philosophy,” and his heart grew sad as he remembered Dinah’s faith in her boy.

More than once he was so sickened by Cedric’s want of restraint and childish abandon of grief that he was tempted to give up the struggle. Only Elizabeth’s pleading voice was in his ears-“You will bear with him–you will be patient with him, will you not?” and then again he would nerve himself to fresh effort.

All at once a thought came to him as an inspiration. Cedric had been giving way to a perfect paroxysm of despair, and Malcolm had with some sternness remonstrated with him on his want of manliness and self-control. “You are making things worse,” he said; “why don’t you take your trouble like a man?” But the rebuke only exasperated Cedric.

“Oh, it is all very well for you to talk,” he returned angrily, “but if you were in my place you would not bear it any better. You are so immaculate, Herrick, you can’t make allowance for a poor miserable devil like me. I don’t believe you have ever cared for a woman in your life. Good heavens!” as he caught sight of Malcolm’s face, “do you mean that you have ever been in love?”

Then it was that the thought came to Malcolm–Cedric should know that he was a fellow-sufferer.

“I do mean it,” he returned steadily, “and I also mean to say that your love is as water unto wine compared to mine; that is, if we can call such mad infatuation by so sacred a name.” And there was a tone of contempt in Malcolm’s voice that made Cedric wince.

“Don’t be so hard on a fellow,” he muttered.

“My dear boy, I would not be hard on you for worlds; if I speak of myself at such a moment, it is only that you may see that I am fully competent to sympathise with you.”

“Won’t you tell me more, Herrick?”

“No, dear lad, I think not, except that my case is even more hopeless than yours, for the only woman I have loved or can love will soon marry another man,” and here Malcolm’s face looked gray and worn. “I need not add,” he continued hastily, “that all this is between us both.”

“Of course–of course,” was the eager answer. “I am awfully sorry–I am indeed. I wish I had not bullied you so.”

Malcolm smiled a little sadly.

“Never mind that now. I only want to say this, we must take our punishment like men, and not whine like fractious children who want the moon–the moon is no nearer for all that.” He sighed a little bitterly, for he was tired and depressed; and after that Cedric was more reasonable, and Malcolm regained some of his lost influence.

It was nearly morning before Malcolm could induce him to lie down on the couch; he had flatly refused to take possession of Malcolm’s bed.

“I could not rest quietly in bed,” he said piteously; “let me lie here while you write your letter;” for it had been arranged between them that Malcolm should send a note to Dinah by the early post; but long before the letter was written the worn-out lad was sleeping heavily. Malcolm covered him up with rugs before he slipped out to the post. Malcolm did not write a very long letter.

“I found Cedric here on my return home,” he wrote. “He was very excited and unhappy, and I had great difficulty in bringing him to a reasonable frame of mind; but he is calmer now, and is at present asleep on my couch. I am going with him to Oxford to-morrow, and shall probably remain with him for a day or two. It will never do to leave him alone, or that fellow Jacobi will get hold of him again. I find he has already lent him money. I have been questioning Cedric, and I find that Saul Jacobi trumped up a false excuse for him to make to the Dean. Cedric was a little incoherent on the subject, but I understood him to say that he had begged for a three days’ excuse on account of a sister’s illness.”

“As far as I can make out, Jacobi merely intended to have the marriage ceremony performed, and to allow Cedric to return to Oxford the next day. He had pacified him by promising to bring down his sister later, and to take lodgings for a week or two; but it is impossible to guess what the fellow really meant. As far as I can judge, there will be no further trouble with the authorities, but Cedric must not be left to himself.”

“I know some excellent lodgings not a stone’s throw from St. John’s. Do you not think it would be a good thing if you and your sister were to take possession of them for a week or two? Cedric is not fit to be alone, and you will be a comfort to him. It seems to me that there is nothing else to be done. I cannot possibly remain beyond a night or two. If you wire I will engage the rooms, and they shall be in readiness for you.” And when this letter was safely in the post, Malcolm sought the rest he needed so urgently, and was soon sleeping the heavy sleep of exhaustion.

Elizabeth was at the Manor House when Dinah received her letter, but she answered it and sent off her telegram without an hour’s delay.

“I told him to take the rooms, Betty,” she said, as she handed the letter to her sister the next day. “I have packed my things and shall go to-morrow. Of course, you will do as you like about coming too.” Elizabeth considered the matter.

“If one could only have breathing-time,” she murmured; “but to- morrow gives me so little time. Could you wait until the afternoon, Die?” she continued, “and then I could go across to Rotherwood and have a talk with David and his father. You see, dear, I am anxious to be with Cedric, and to settle you in comfortably, and I should also like to tell Mr. Herrick the result of my visit to the Manor House.” Then Dinah rather reluctantly consented to put off her journey until the afternoon. Elizabeth, preoccupied and anxious, hardly realised what the sacrifice of those few hours was to Dinah, who could literally hardly sleep or eat for her longing to comfort her darling.

Perhaps Elizabeth’s thoughts were engrossed by the recollection of her conversation with Leah, for she spoke of little else that night; but just before they separated she asked to read Malcolm’s letter again, and when she laid it down there was the old puzzled look in her eyes.

“Why does he always think of the right thing?” she said slowly. “What makes him so thoughtful and understanding? He leaves no margin for other people. This Oxford plan is just splendid. You will be such a comfort to the poor boy, Die. You will be there waiting and watching for him, and ready to fuss over him like a mother hen, and the sly old fox will not be able to get at him;” and she laughed, and bade her sister good-night. But when she was in her own room the thoughtful look returned. “He is always so wise and right,” she said to herself. “He has only made one mistake–only one,” and her face was very grave; for no one, not even her chosen lover, knew how the thought of Malcolm Herrick’s patient sorrow oppressed Elizabeth’s tender heart.

Dinah had good reason to regret their postponed journey, for they arrived at Oxford too late to see Cedric that night; but Malcolm was at the station to receive them, and accompanied them to their lodgings.

“I am glad you made up your mind to come,” he said, as they drove from the station, “for I shall be obliged to go up to town to- morrow, and I feel happier to leave you in possession. I think Cedric likes the idea of having you. He is not looking well, but one must expect that; he has had rather a rough time of it. Oh, I forgot to say that he cannot possibly be with you until nearly twelve o’clock.” Dinah tried not to give her sister a reproachful look when Malcolm said this. Malcolm only waited to hear how they liked the rooms he had taken before he went back to his hotel; but at their earnest request he promised to have breakfast with them the following morning, and also to take a later train, that they might have time for a good talk.

He kept his appointment punctually, and the conversation of course turned first on Cedric, but Malcolm was somewhat reticent on the subject of that stormy interview in Cheyne Walk.

“One must make allowances under such circumstances, and he was hardly himself that night,” was all he said, but they fully understood him.

“Do you think he will get over it?” asked Dinah anxiously.

“Oh yes, he will get over it–he is so young;” but Malcolm avoided Elizabeth’s eyes as he spoke; “youth has immense advantages. But you must give him time. If you will take my advice, dear Miss Templeton, you will not watch him too closely, or trouble if you find him a little altered, and not quite the old Cedric. He will come right by- and-by.”

“Oh, if I could believe that,” wistfully.

“You must make yourself believe it. Of course he will give you plenty of trouble at first. He will have his bad days, and try to make you as miserable as he is himself, but you must prepare yourself for that. Think what a boon it will be to him to turn in here and find some one ready to listen to his jeremiad.” Then Dinah smiled faintly.

“I hope you intend to remain with your sister,” he continued, turning rather abruptly to Elizabeth. She coloured and hesitated.

“I am afraid I can only remain a week, but I shall come down again later on. You need not fear that Dinah will be dull, Mr. Herrick; if she can only be sure of seeing her boy for an hour in the day, she will be perfectly happy. I always tell her that she is cut out for a hermit, she loves her own company so much. I am far more gregarious in my tastes–the society of my fellow-creatures is absolutely necessary to me.”

Malcolm was quite aware of this, but he listened gravely. “I hope you mean to let me know your opinion of Leah Jacobi before I go,” he observed presently. To his surprise she gave an embarrassed laugh.

“I have been dreading that question all breakfast time; I am so afraid I shall shock you. It is wicked of me, of course, but indeed I am only too ready to sympathise with poor old Cedric, for I have fallen in love with her myself.”

“Do you know, I am not at all surprised to hear you say that,” observed Malcolm.

“You were aware of my impulsive disposition,” returned Elizabeth with another laugh. “But she is simply the most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life. All the time I was listening to her I thought of all those fair women the old patriarchs loved–Sarah and Rebekah and Rachel; but I think she is most like Rebekah.”

“I daresay you are right there,” replied Malcolm coolly–“I can imagine myself that Leah Jacobi would be equally clever at deception.”

“For shame, Mr. Herrick!” in an indignant tone; “you know I did not mean that. I was thinking of the young Rebekah at the well at Damascus.”

“It was too bad of me,” he returned apologetically; “but of course I understood what you meant. There is a strange fascination about Miss Jacobi. It is not only her beauty, though that is undeniable.”

“No, indeed,” exclaimed Elizabeth eagerly; “but one can hardly say where the charm lies; but the moment I saw her deep-set, melancholy eyes, and heard her low, vibrating voice, I seemed to lose my heart to her. Poor dear Cedric, how could he help loving her?–how could any man resist her?” But Elizabeth checked herself as she became aware of Malcolm’s keen, penetrating glance.

“You surely do not wish him to marry her?” he asked in a low voice. Then Elizabeth looked quite shocked.

“Mr. Herrick-our brother-Cedric; no, a thousand times no; neither would she marry him now. But oh, how my heart aches for her!”

“You need not tell me that.”

“We were up half the night talking,” she went on, “and she told me everything–everything,” and here Elizabeth positively shuddered. “Oh, why are such things allowed? What a mystery life is! Mrs. Godfrey was with us at first, and then the Colonel carried her off; but I heard the clock strike three before I left Leah’s room, and then I could not sleep a wink for thinking over some of the horrible scenes she had described.”

“I wish she had not told you,” murmured Malcolm. Elizabeth smiled a little sadly.

“It will not hurt me, and I shall be able to help her better. Mr. Herrick, Dinah agrees with me that we must never lose sight of her. I told Mrs. Godfrey so. Oh, that was a masterly stroke of policy, taking the poor thing to the Manor House. Mrs. Godfrey is so clever- -she has an idea already. Did you ever see Mrs. Richardson, who lives in the red house on the road to Combe–Sandy Hollow, I think they call it?”

“Do you mean that very eccentric old lady whom Mrs. Godfrey always calls Mother Quixote, who is so rich, and always travels with a white Persian cat? Of course I have seen her at church. She is stout, rather addicted to gorgeous raiment, and wears a gold pince- nez.”

“That is the very person!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “Oh yes, she is excessively rich, has not a relative in the world, gives half her income away, and, as dear Mrs. Godfrey expresses it, spends a good deal of her time in trying to wash her black sheep white, and weeping over her failures.”

“And I am afraid does more harm than good in the long run,” observed Malcolm; but Elizabeth would not allow this.

“She is the drollest old dear in the world,” she went on, “and is quite a Mrs. Malaprop in some of her sayings, but she has the best and kindest heart in the world. Mrs. Godfrey means to enlist her sympathies on Leah’s behalf, and we have no fear of the result.”

“And you think this good lady will be able to help Miss Jacobi?”

“We are quite sure of it. Mrs. Richardson has a weak chest, and she always winters abroad, and she has been in the habit of engaging some young lady to accompany her as a travelling companion. Her maid is rather a crotchety old person, and very uneducated; besides, the cat gives her sufficient employment. I forgot to say he is blind, and rejoices in the name of Sir Charles Grandison. Mrs. Richardson is a descendant of the novelist, and always carries Clarissa Harlowe and Sir Charles Grandison about with her. She is full of amusing fads and fancies.”

“And you mean Miss Jacobi to be her travelling companion?”

“Mrs. Godfrey means it–it is her idea. Anyhow, she promised to go round to Sandy Hollow the next day and give the old lady a full description of Leah, and if possible to arrange a meeting.”

“I think it a very good idea,” chimed in Dinah, her soft voice breaking the silence for the first time–she was always willing to leave the conversation in Elizabeth’s hands. “Miss Jacobi seems very willing to do anything, poor thing, that will make her independent of her brother.”

“Yes, indeed, she is terribly afraid of him,” returned Elizabeth. “She has reason to dread his violence, I can see that. Once or twice he has treated her with absolute cruelty, but then she owned he had been drinking. You see,” appealing to Malcolm, “it would be such a relief to us all to know she was abroad, and in such kind hands; and then, as Mrs. Godfrey says, she is so exactly fitted for the post. She is very accomplished, speaks French, German, and Italian fluently, and is a good reader. Oh, must you go?” as Malcolm looked at his watch with some significance.

“I am afraid I must not lose this train,” he replied hastily, “but I shall hope to run down again in a week or two. You will let me know how things go on,” addressing Dinah, “and if there be anything I can do for you?” and then he shook hands with Elizabeth rather hurriedly and went off to secure his luggage.

“I hope we did not keep him too long,” observed Elizabeth anxiously, “for he is running as though he were late.” But Dinah did not hear her; she had already taken up her position by the window, and was looking out for Cedric.

CHAPTER XXXIV

TRAVELLING THROUGH SAHARA

The hope I dreamed of was a dream–
Was but a dream; and now I wake
Exceeding comfortless, and worn and sad For a dream’s sake.
–CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

For the next few weeks Malcolm was much occupied with business, but he contrived to pay a flying visit to Oxford, and to spend a few hours with Dinah and Cedric. He had corresponded with Dinah regularly, and her letters told him all he most wished to know. At first they had been very sad. Cedric had broken down utterly on seeing his sisters, and both she and Elizabeth had been very much upset. The change in him was so great that they could hardly recognise their bright-faced boy, and Dinah owned that they had been shocked by the hard, reckless manner in which he had spoken. “I think Mr. Jacobi’s influence has done great harm,” she wrote; “Cedric says such extraordinary things sometimes, that I feel quite frightened to hear him. He never used to talk so–surely Oxford cannot have done this.” Malcolm ground his teeth rather savagely when he read this. “He has poisoned the wells,” he said to himself a second time. “There is no punishment too severe for one who tries to contaminate the innocence of youth!”

Dinah’s letters became more cheerful after a time. Cedric liked having her near him, and she saw him for an hour or two every day. Elizabeth had not come down again. David Carlyon was not well. He had caught a fresh cold, and Elizabeth seemed worried about him, all the more that his sister was with him, and Theo did not understand nursing. “Theo Carlyon is rather an unsatisfactory person,” wrote Dinah.

By-and-by she gave him news of Leah Jacobi. Mrs. Godfrey’s brilliant idea was certainly likely to be verified. Mrs. Richardson had been several times to the Manor House, she wrote, and had evidently taken a fancy to Leah. A few days later there was still more satisfactory news.

“It is all arranged,” she wrote triumphantly. “Mrs. Richardson has engaged Miss Jacobi as a travelling companion, and will pay her a handsome salary. They are to leave England in about ten days’ time. Mrs. Godfrey says that she and the Colonel will be quite sorry to lose their guest–Miss Jacobi is so gentle and affectionate that they have both grown fond of her; and Mrs. Godfrey predicts that Mrs. Richardson will never part with her.”

Malcolm paid his second visit to Oxford soon after the receipt of this letter. Dinah was delighted to see him, and to hear that he intended to spend a quiet Sunday with them.

“I was just going to write to you,” she said, when the first greetings had passed between them. “Cedric was so upset last night. He had a letter from that odious man Jacobi. Such a letter! written on a dirty scrap of paper in pencil. But I will show it to you; Cedric left it here;” and Dinah unlocked her writing-case.

Malcolm frowned as he read it.

“I am up Queer Street, my boy,” wrote Jacobi; “12 Gresham Gardens is in the hands of the bailiffs, and every stick of furniture is to be sold; and as England is rather too hot for me just now, I am going to make tracks for New York. If I could see that sister of mine, I would give her a piece of my mind. What a cursed fool the girl has been! But it is all that fellow Herrick’s fault. He is a deep one, and he has a game of his own on hand; I am as sure of that as that my name is Saul Jacobi. Well, ta-ta, old fellow, I will let you know my diggings later on. Hang that fellow! if it had not been for him we should have pulled the job through, and you would have had the handsomest wife in Europe. Well, that game’s played out, and I was never the one to cry over spilt milk. ‘A short life and a merry one,’ that’s my creed.–Yours up to date,”

“SAUL MELCHIOR JACOBI.”

“So we are rid of the brute for the present,” observed Malcolm. The expression seemed to alarm Dinah.

“For the present?” she repeated anxiously.

“My dear lady,” he returned gravely, “do you suppose that we have seen the last of Saul Jacobi?”

“Indeed–indeed, I hope so,” very earnestly.

“Then ‘hope told a flattering tale,’ and you must not believe her,” replied Malcolm smiling. “The Jacobis of this life are not so easily shaken off. Like the horse-leech’s daughters, they cry ‘Give, give.’ I should not be the least surprised if a series of begging letters with the New York postmark reached Cedric at due intervals.”

“Oh, Mr. Herrick, what shall we do?”

“Do–why, put them in the fire unread. That will be my advice to Cedric. I know exactly the sort of letters that fellow will write. The first one will be jocular and friendly, and the business part will be in the postscript; the second will be pathetic and somewhat reproachful, and the demands more urgent; finally, if money is not forthcoming, he will bluster and threaten and make himself exceedingly unpleasant. Cedric must simply have no dealings with him; and above all things, he must take no notice of his letters.”

“I hope you will tell Cedric this.” And Malcolm promised that he would speak to him very plainly.

But Cedric was not the docile pupil of old. The lad’s sweet disposition and milk of human kindness had soured under the sudden shock of his trouble; the loss of his sweetheart and the consciousness of his own misconduct filled him with bitterness, and made him at times very irritable. Dinah’s gentleness suited him better than Malcolm’s bracing counsels, and her exceeding patience with him in his fits of despondency sometimes roused him to penitence.

By Malcolm’s advice she had told him in guarded terms that Leah was well, and with friends who intended to take her abroad; but no entreaties on Cedric’s part could induce her to reveal the names of Leah’s protectors, or how she had received the information. Cedric complained bitterly to Malcolm that they were all treating him like a child.

“Not at all, my dear fellow,” was Malcolm’s answer; “it is by Miss Jacobi’s wish that we keep silence. The lady who has engaged her as a companion is a stranger to all of us, but I believe she is a very kind-hearted woman, and that Miss Jacobi will be very comfortable with her.”

“Comfortable–a companion–my beautiful Leah!”

But the pain was too great, and Cedric burst into tears. After all, he was little more than a boy, and Malcolm remembered this and was patient.

On Sunday afternoon, as they were coming out of chapel, Dinah said suddenly, “I quite forgot to tell you that Mr. Rossiter has been at the Manor House again, and has seen Leah, and quite approves of the arrangement with Mrs. Richardson. He is going back to America, and has promised to keep an eye on Saul Jacobi. He was quite confidential with Leah.”

“He is rather intimate with them,” returned Malcolm; “indeed, I believe he is in love with the fair Rebekah himself”–for he had never forgotten Elizabeth’s name for her. “Hugh Rossiter is a fine fellow, and would suit her a hundred times better than poor old Cedric. Oh well, he is too cunning a hunter to make a false shot, but I have a notion that he will try again some day;” and then Cedric came out and joined them, and they walked back to the lodgings.

Malcolm was going back to town that evening, and when Cedric had left them Dinah talked a little about her future plans.

“Cedric is so much better,” she said, “that I think I can go home next week. He will follow me in another fortnight, and I do not like leaving Elizabeth so long alone.”

“I think you told me that she was worried about Mr. Carlyon?” returned Malcolm with manifest effort.

“Yes, indeed, and she may well be,” replied Dinah with a sigh. “Young men are so reckless and imprudent–at least David is. Just think of his madness, Mr. Herrick. He is not strong, and he takes cold more easily than other people. He got very wet taking a funeral for a clergyman at Dinglefield, and when he reached home, instead of changing his clothes, he went a mile farther to baptize a dying child. He was soaking by the time he got back, and a bad feverish cold set in. Elizabeth insisted that Dr. Randolph should see him; and she wrote to Theo herself, but I fancy from her letters that she rather repented of sending for her; but poultices were needed, and Mrs. Pratt, his landlady, is simply an impossible woman. However, things have worked so badly between them that Theo has gone back to Stokeley, and Elizabeth declares that even her brother is thankful to be rid of her. But he is better now.”

“He is up and about again, but he doesn’t lose his cough, and I can see Elizabeth is anxious. You look surprised, but I assure you my sister has some reason for her fears. David’s mother was consumptive, and two of his sisters died young of the same complaint. Theo is the only robust one, and David knows well that he ought to take care. Mr. Carlyon is always worrying about him.”

Malcolm tried to express his sympathy properly, but he felt he acquitted himself badly. Was this the reason, he wondered, why Elizabeth had looked so grave? but he thought it wiser not to dwell on the subject.

Malcolm was having a bad time just then. The excitement of the Jacobi episode had roused him for a while, but now natural reaction had set in, and the deadness and dulness of his daily routine