Herb of Grace by Rosa Nouchette Carey (page 4)

that the passing thought occurred to Elizabeth that Mr. Herrick was not sorry that his visit had ended.

“We are not clever enough for him,” she said to herself regretfully; but Malcolm’s next speech dispelled this idea.

Dinah had just expressed her regret at losing him.

“I have no wish to go, I assure you,” was his reply; “I have never spent a happier week in my life. But you know in another two or three weeks I hope to be settled at the Crow’s Nest. We shall be near neighbours then.” He looked at Elizabeth as he spoke. It struck him that she was a little embarrassed. Her colour rose, and there was a slight pucker in her brow, as though something perplexed her; but the next minute it was gone.

“In that case we must fix the date for the Templeton Bean-feast,” she remarked briskly. “Mr. Herrick,” her voice changing to earnestness, “will it be quite impossible for Miss Sheldon to come to our garden-party. We could put her up easily–and it is really rather a pretty sight. We had two hundred people last year, and the Hungarian band.”

“It was rattling good sport,” chimed in Cedric. “There were fifteen of our fellows sleeping at ‘The Plough,’ because we had a dance in the evening; not only our house, but Hazel Beach, the Ross’s house, and Brentwood Place, where Colonel Brent lives, were crammed with guests. People talked about it for a month afterwards.”

“It cost a great deal of money,” observed Dinah, in rather an alarmed voice. “We could not do that sort of thing again. You see, Mr. Herrick, it was really to make up to Cedric because he had no party when he came of age. I was ill just then, and we had to go away.”

“No, no, you are quite right, Die, we must keep our Bean-feast within limits,” returned Elizabeth soothingly. “We thought of fixing the twentieth of August,” she continued, addressing Malcolm. “That is nearly a month later than last year, I expect most of our inner circle friends will be away, but we shall have a good house-party; and with some of Cedric’s Oxford friends we shall be able to infuse sufficient new life into our country clique. Well, Mr. Herrick, is that likely to suit Miss Sheldon?”

“I am afraid not,” he returned regretfully, for he was really quite touched at this thoughtfulness on her part. And how Anna would have loved it! “They will be at Whitby by that time. But I will tell her of your kind thought for her.” And then, as it was getting late, for they had lingered pleasantly over the meal, he went off to make his preparations, and half an hour afterwards the dog-cart was brought to the door.

“Good-bye, we shall miss you so much,” observed Dinah almost affectionately; “but we shall see plenty of you when you are at the Crow’s Nest.”

“I hope so. Thank you, dear Miss Templeton, for all your kind hospitality,” and then it was Elizabeth’s turn.

“Adieu–au revoir, Mr. Herrick,” but she pressed his hand very kindly as she spoke, and her eyes had a friendly beam in them.

“Au revoir, and thanks to you too,” returned Malcolm; but the smile on his face was a little forced.

As the dog-cart turned the corner he looked back. The sisters were still standing side by side. Elizabeth waved her hand. She was no longer the stately-looking woman in the Paris gown and picture hat, who had moved with such a queenly step among her guests. This was a far homelier Elizabeth, in the old striped blouse and battered garden hat, only this morning Malcolm found no fault with it. He was very silent for some time, but as he leant back in the dog-cart with folded arms and closely compressed lips, there was a glow in his dark eyes that somewhat contradicted his outward calmness.

“And you are going down to the Manor House on Thursday,” observed Cedric, as they came in sight of the station. “What a pity my Henley visit is put off till the following week, or we might have had a good old time together.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” rather absently; “you will be too much taken up with your new friends to want an old stager like me.”

“You are wrong there,” returned the lad eagerly. “I should be glad to have your opinion of”–he hesitated, and then finished lamely, “of the Jacobis, I mean. You are such a judge of character, and all that sort of thing.”

“Am I?” with a smile; but they had no time to say more, as the London train was signalled.

An hour and a half later Malcolm was in his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, opening his letters and dashing off replies, to be posted in due time by the obsequious Malachi. Malcolm found so much to occupy him that he decided not to go to Queen’s Gate until the following evening, and sent Anna a line to that effect. He felt a quiet evening at Cheyne Walk would be more in harmony with his feelings.

As he crossed the broad space at the foot of the steps in Lincoln’s Inn, he overtook Caleb Martin wheeling the perambulator. Kit had her new doll hugged in her thin little arms.

“Oh, dad, do stop,” she exclaimed eagerly; “it is the gentleman what gave me my baby;” and then Malcolm stepped up to the perambulator.

“Kit has been looking out for you the last week, sir,” observed Caleb in his humble, flurried way. “She won’t even take notice of the pigeons; her heart is so set on thanking you for the doll. It is my belief that she thinks it is alive the way she goes on with it.”

“My baby’s asleep–should you like to see her open her eyes?” asked Kit with maternal pride. “She has blue eyes, she has, like dad’s and mine–only prettier. She is just the beautifullest thing I ever saw, ain’t she, dad? and Ma’am says she must have cost a lot.”

Malcolm smiled, but there was a pitiful look in his eyes. Even in these few days Kit’s face had grown thinner and more pinched, and the shrill voice was weaker. There was no longer a stiff halo of curls under the sun-bonnet; they hung in limp wisps about her face.

“Has the child been ill?” he asked, and then Caleb looked at him in a dazed, nervous fashion.

“Not to call ill, sir, but just a bit piny and dwiny from the heat. Our place is like the Black Hole of Calcutta for stuffiness. She is that languid and fretty that we can’t get her to eat, so my wife made me take her out for an airing.”

Malcolm pondered for a moment. Then a sudden inspiration came to him. There was a fruiterer in the Strand, and he was just thinking of carrying a basket of fruit to Verity. He bade Caleb follow him slowly, and a few minutes later a great bunch of roses and a paper bag of white-heart cherries and another of greengages were packed into the perambulator; some sponge-cakes and a crisp little brown loaf were also purchased for Kit’s tea, and then they went rejoicing on their way. As Malcolm walked on he made up his mind that his first act when he arrived at the Crow’s Nest would be to take counsel with Elizabeth. “The child will die if something is not done for her,” he said to himself; “perhaps she will be able to suggest something;” but it never occurred to him to confide in his mother. “Individual cases do not appeal to her,” he had once said to Anna. “She prefers to work on a more extended scale,” and though Anna contradicted this with unusual warmth, Malcolm had some grounds for his sweeping assertion.

Malcolm spent the evening very pleasantly discussing future arrangements with his friends. To his satisfaction the room he coveted was at once allotted to him, with the title of “The Prophet’s Chamber;” and, as he professed himself quite content with the bedroom in the garden-house, matters were soon settled, and both Verity and Amias looked pleased when Malcolm announced his intention of spending most of his summer vacation at the Crow’s Nest. They talked a good deal about the Wood House. Malcolm gave graphic descriptions of the house and the garden and the Pool, and he also drew rather a charming picture of the elder Miss Templeton.

“She is lovely in my opinion,” he said in his enthusiastic way. “I quite long for you to see her, Verity. She is just a gray-haired girl. She has the secret of perpetual youth. She is as guileless and simple as a child–any one could deceive her, and yet she is wise too.”

“And her sister?” asked Verity, as Malcolm paused.

“Oh, Miss Elizabeth Templeton is quite different,” returned Malcolm hurriedly, as he filled his pipe; “it is not easy to describe her– you must judge of her yourself.”

“Then she is not as nice as this wonderful Dinah?” observed Verity in a disappointed tone.

“Oh, yes, she is quite as nice,” he returned briefly; “but the sisters are utterly dissimilar.” And not another word could Verity, with all her teasing, extract from Malcolm.

“I should like you to be perfectly unbiassed in your opinion,” he remarked sententiously. Verity made a naughty little face in the darkness.

“I wonder if it is the Crow’s Nest, our society, or Miss Elizabeth Templeton that is the attraction,” she thought. But, being a loyal little soul, she never hinted at a certain suspicion that had taken possession of her mind, even to her husband.

Malcolm received a warm welcome from his mother and Anna the next evening. He found them sitting by one of the open windows in the large drawing-room. Mrs. Herrick was working, and Anna was reading to her. The sun-blinds had just been raised, and the fresh evening air blew refreshingly through the wide room. The tall green palms behind them made a pleasant background to Anna’s white dress. It struck Malcolm that she looked paler and more tired, and her eyes had a heavy, languid look. To his surprise Mrs. Herrick spoke of it at once.

“Anna is not looking her best this evening, Malcolm,” she said as he sat down between them; “this great heat tries her. Dr. Armstrong thinks we ought to leave town as soon as possible, so we are going to Whitby a week earlier.”

“Mother has cancelled a lot of her engagements,” observed Anna, looking at her affectionately. “I am so sorry to give her all this trouble.” But Mrs. Herrick would not allow her to finish.

“Mothers are only too glad to take trouble for their children,” she said kindly. “Anna has been behaving badly, Malcolm; she fainted at church on Sunday, and had one of her worst sick headaches afterwards.”

There was unmistakable anxiety in Malcolm’s eyes when he heard this, but Anna only laughed it off. The church was hot, she said, any one might have fainted. But the sea-breezes would soon set her up; they had beautiful rooms quite close to the sea, with a wide balcony where they could spend their evenings.

“I hope you will come down to us for a week or two,” observed his mother presently. Malcolm felt rather a twinge of conscience as he replied that he feared this was impossible; he had some literary work on hand, which he intended to do at Staplegrove. Mrs. Keston was able to spare him a nice room, which he could use as a study; and so he had made his arrangements. And then he added rather regretfully that, as he was going to the Manor House the following afternoon, he feared that he should not see them again. Mrs. Herrick said no more, she was not a woman to waste words unnecessarily; but she was undoubtedly much disappointed, and even a little hurt, and for the moment Anna looked grave. At dinnertime she made an effort to recover her spirits, and questioned Malcolm about his new acquaintances at the Wood House; and on this occasion he was less reticent.

But it was not until his mother had left them alone together that he told Anna of Elizabeth’s kind invitation.

A surprised flush came to the girl’s face.

“Do you think you could possibly manage it, dear?” he asked with brotherly solicitude. But he was sorry to see how her lips trembled.

“Oh no–no, you must not tempt me,” very hurriedly; “it is quite– quite impossible. I must not think of it for a moment, Malcolm,” trying to speak calmly. “I am so grateful to you for not speaking of this before mother; it would trouble her so, and quite spoil her pleasure; mother is so sharp, she always finds out things, and she would know at once that I should like to go to the Wood House.”

“Then I was right when I told Miss Elizabeth so,” returned Malcolm. “It is just the place you would like, Anna; I know you would be happy with those kind women.”

“I do not doubt it for a moment,” and Anna’s voice was rather melancholy. “I should so love to know your friends, Malcolm; it all sounds so lovely, and you would be near, and–and it was so dear of Miss Elizabeth to think of it. Will you thank her for me, Malcolm, and tell her that mother needs me so much, and that she has no one else.”

“Did you mean that for a hit at me, Anna dear?” and Malcolm’s voice was rather reproachful.

“For you,” looking at him tenderly, “oh no–no, Malcolm;” and then to his dismay she suddenly burst into tears.

“Don’t mind me, I am silly to-night,” she said, struggling to regain her composure. “Mother is right, and I am not quite well, and–and things will go crooked in this world.” But though Malcolm petted her, and called her a foolish child, and his dear little sister, Anna did not regain her former cheerfulness. And when Mrs. Herrick joined them she said her head had begun aching again, and that she would go to bed.

Malcolm wished her good-night at the foot of the staircase, and watched her until she was out of sight. His mother looked at him a little keenly when he rejoined her.

“What have you and Anna been talking about?” she asked rather abruptly; “the child does not look quite happy.”

“We were only talking about the ladies of the Wood House,” he returned quietly. “Anna thinks she would like to make their acquaintance some day.” But Mrs. Herrick made no reply to this; she was regarding her son thoughtfully, and her strong, sensible face wore an expression almost of sadness. But she gave him no clue to her feelings, and when the time came for him to take his leave her manner was more affectionate than usual.

She was still on the balcony as he passed out, and a cheery “Good- night, my son,” floated down to him. But as she stood listening to his departing footsteps she said to herself, “He is changed somehow, he is not quite himself, and Anna has noticed it. I wonder”–and here she sighed rather heavily–“I wonder what sort of woman this Miss Elizabeth Templeton can be.”

CHAPTER XVIII

“YES, SHE GAVE HIM UP”

Thou art so good,
So calm!–If thou shouldst wear a brow less light For some wild thought which, but for me, were kept From out thy soul as from a sacred star! BROWNING.

To every living soul that same He saith, “Be faithful;” whatsoever else we be,
Let us be faithful, challenging His faith. CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

The Manor House where the Godfreys lived was a fine old red-brick Elizabethan house, standing about a quarter of a mile from the river.

A delightful garden surrounded it, but the chief point of attraction to visitors was a terrace walk, shaded by old chestnut trees, which formed its extreme boundary, and which, on the hottest summer’s day, offered a cool and shady retreat.

The terrace was broad, and at one end was a sort of loggia or alcove built of grayish-white stone, with a wide stone bench running round it. From this point there was a charming view of the river between the trees, and it was here that Malcolm found his hostess on his arrival at the Manor House.

Mrs. Godfrey was reading in the loggia, with her husband’s magnificent deer-hounds lying at her feet. She laid aside her book and welcomed her visitor with a warmth and cordiality that were evidently sincere. Strangers who saw Mrs. Godfrey for the first time were generally apt to remark that she was one of the plainest women they had ever seen; and they would add in a parenthesis, “It is such a pity, for the Colonel is so handsome.” But even the most critical agreed that no woman could be more charming. She had spent a great deal of her life abroad, and her easy, well-bred manner, her savoir- faire and broad, sagacious views on every subject, had been gained in the world’s academy. In spite of her goodness of heart and real unselfishness, she was essentially a woman of the world. Little as Malcolm guessed it at that time, she was Elizabeth Templeton’s greatest friend; indeed, both the sisters were devoted to her, and some of Elizabeth’s happiest and gayest hours had been spent in the Manor House.

“I certainly never hoped to find you alone,” were Malcolm’s first words. Mrs. Godfrey smiled.

“It is almost an unprecedented fact in the Manor House annals,” she returned gaily; “but we shall be absolutely alone until Tuesday, and then every room will be filled. If you had consented to stay for a week, I could have promised you a big affair on a steam-launch, a picnic, and a tennis tournament; but now our solitary function will be a garden-party on Monday.”

“Please do not speak in such an apologetic tone,” replied Malcolm. “If you knew how my soul abhors picnics and water-parties! It is really too delightful to know that I may enjoy your society in peace for three whole days. By the bye, where is the Colonel?”

“Oh, Alick has gone to Henley to see an old chum of his, but he will be back in good time for dinner. Is it not lovely down here, Mr. Herrick? I thought it would be such a pity to go indoors that I told Deacon that we would have tea here.” Then, as Malcolm signified his approval of this arrangement, they sauntered slowly down the terrace, that Malcolm might take in all points of the extensive view. When they retraced their steps to the loggia, the butler and footman were setting out a rustic tea-table.

“And so you have been staying at the Wood House?” began Mrs. Godfrey as she handed Malcolm his tea. “Elizabeth Templeton’s letter this morning almost took my breath away. What a small world it is after all, Mr. Herrick!”

“Life treads on life,” murmured Malcolm, “and heart on heart;”

“We press too close in church or mart To keep a dream or grave apart.”

“How true!” was the quiet rejoinder. “Mrs. Browning said that. Well, do you know, I was quite childishly surprised when I heard you had been a guest at the Wood House. ‘Mr. Herrick has only just left us,’ were Elizabeth’s words; ‘Cedric is driving him to the station; we have greatly enjoyed his visit,’ etcetera, etcetera.”

Then a slight flush came to Malcolm’s dark face.

“I had a very pleasant time,” he returned; “they were most kind and hospitable. Miss Templeton is one of the most charming women I have ever met.”

“Dear Dinah–yes, she is very sweet. I do not think I have ever seen her ruffled. She is just lovely. But it is Elizabeth who is my friend.”

“Indeed!”

“Our friendship is a very real one,” continued Mrs. Godfrey thoughtfully; “and next to my husband there is no one whom I could trust as I could Elizabeth Templeton. She is very strong.”

“Oh yes, she is very strong,” in a ruminative manner.

“Have you found that out already?” in a surprised tone. “But I remember you are a student of human nature, Mr. Herrick, and rather a keen observer. Most people would not be able to diagnose Elizabeth Templeton’s character correctly at the end of one short week. When I was first introduced to her, thirteen or fourteen years ago, I told Alick that I should never get on with any one who was so reserved and so stand-offish, but I soon changed my opinion. I found out that a great deal of her reserve was in reality shyness, and that her frankness and openness of disposition were her chief charms.”

“And then you became friends?”

“Yes; but not for a long time. We are neither of us at all gushing, and I was an old married woman, you know. But there came a time when she needed my help–when she was in anxiety–and a woman’s counsel and woman’s sympathy were a comfort to her.” Here Mrs. Godfrey paused as she became aware of the concentrated keenness in Malcolm’s eyes, and added hastily, “The trouble was not her own; but it is Elizabeth’s nature to take the burdens of others on her own shoulders. I never knew any one capable of such intense sympathy. It is a rare gift, Mr. Herrick, but it brings its possessor great suffering.”

“You are right,” in a low tone.

“I knew then that she was a woman in a thousand, and we have been close and dear friends ever since. Not that we often meet. She is a busy woman and so am I, but we generally stay at the Wood House once a year, and Elizabeth comes to me for a few days’ rest and refreshment whenever she can spare the time. Alick teases me sometimes about my lady-love, but I assure you that he is very fond of her, and is always delighted to hear she is coming to the Manor House.”

Malcolm listened to this with deep interest. It seemed to him that every one who spoke to him of Elizabeth Templeton praised her without stint or limit; she was evidently much beloved, and the very fact that a person like Mrs. Godfrey should choose her for her most trusted friend was no mean title of honour; never was there a woman more fastidious and discriminating in her ideas of female friendship.

Malcolm would willingly have heard more, but a curious sort of embarrassment and a fear of betraying too deep an interest made him speak of her sister.

“Miss Templeton seems to have a happy nature,” he said a little abruptly. “I never saw any one so perfectly peaceful and serene; it makes one better only to look at her. Her hair is gray, and yet when she smiles one is reminded of an innocent child, it is such a perfectly radiant expression.”

“Yes, I know. Dear Dinah, she has the secret of perpetual youth. She is one of ‘the little ones’–you know what I mean. When I talk to her, as I tell Elizabeth sometimes, I feel such a worldly, frivolous creature. Her sister perfectly realises this, for she has the prettiest names for her. ‘That angel-woman,’ I have heard her say that; very often she calls her ‘das Engelkind;’ and without exaggeration she has a rare and beautiful nature.”

Malcolm assented to this, then he said slowly, “Has it ever struck you that there are no lines on Miss Templeton’s face? I should think her life-story must be a happy one. I mean, that she has not known any very great trouble.” Then rather a peculiar expression crossed Mrs. Godfrey’s face. “Ah, I see I have made a mistake,” observed Malcolm quickly.

“Yes, you have made a mistake,” she replied a little sadly. “Did you really think that even Dinah Templeton could have her forty years in the wilderness without her share of pain and difficulty? Well, it is ancient history, and there is no harm in telling you what every one knows, that in the bloom of her fresh young womanhood she had a sore trial and a great sorrow.”

“You say every one knows about it?” returned Malcolm eagerly.

“Yes, every one in Staplegrove and Earlsfield. Oh, I can read your face; you would like to hear about it. Well, there is no harm in my telling you. When Dinah Templeton was about three-or four-and-twenty she was engaged to Douglas Fraser, a doctor just beginning practice in Earlsfield.”

“Mr. Templeton was living at that time, and approved of the engagement. Dr. Eraser was devoted to his profession. He was a rising man, and people predicted that before many years were over he would make his mark.”

“Douglas Fraser, the great authority on neurotic diseases in Harley Street!” exclaimed Malcolm in a tone of intense surprise. Mrs. Godfrey nodded.

“As a young man I have been told that he was perfectly irresistible. Even now he is a grand-looking man of commanding presence, with a fine intellectual head and face. And as for Dinah, she must have been one of the sweetest-looking creatures on God’s earth.”

“Well, they were engaged, and if ever a young pair of human lovers walked in the Garden of Eden, Dinah and Douglas Fraser were that couple–until the cloud came that was to eclipse their happiness in this world. There is no need for me to enter into the matter very fully, though I know everything. One unhappy day Dinah discovered that Dr. Fraser was an agnostic–that for some time he had had grave doubts on the subject of revealed religion, which he had kept to himself for fear of distressing her; but now a sense of honour compelled him to tell her the truth. He had lost his faith, and he no longer believed in anything but science.”

“Good heavens, what a shock!” ejaculated Malcolm.

“You may well say so,” returned Mrs. Godfrey sadly. “It was no light cross that Dinah had to bear. Even in her youth she was intensely religious. Religion was not a portion of her life, it was her life itself. To such a nature the idea of marrying an agnostic was practically impossible. ‘If I marry Douglas I shall be committing a great sin,’ she said to her sister; ‘I shall be denying my Lord and Master;’ and in the semi-delirium in the illness that ensued, Elizabeth could hear her say over and over again, ‘Whoso loveth father and mother more than Me is not worthy of Me.'”

“And she actually gave him up.”

“Yes, she gave him up, though it broke her heart and his to do so. I believe that he suffered terribly, and that he used every argument in his power to shake her resolution, but in vain.”

“She had a long illness after that. Elizabeth took her abroad. It was at Rome that I met them, and after a time we became intimate. Poor Dinah had a relapse, and I assisted Elizabeth in nursing her. Well, Mr. Herrick, I can read a question in your eyes.”

“Yes, there is one thing I want to know–has not Dr. Fraser married?”

“To be sure he has; but he did not marry for some years. He left Earlsfield and took a London practice, and his career has been a brilliant one.”

“I believe Mrs. Fraser is a lovely woman, and they have three beautiful children. But the strangest part of my story is still to be told–Douglas Fraser is no longer an agnostic.”

Malcolm looked at her silently; but Mrs. Godfrey said no more, and not for worlds would he have asked another question. He could see that she was deeply moved, for her lip quivered a little. He rose from the bench and paced up and down the terrace, listening to the faint soughing of the dark chestnut leaves and looking at the cool, silvery gleam of the river between the tree-boles.

Malcolm was a man of intensely imaginative and sympathetic nature. His mother had once told him that he had something of the woman in him. And certainly no one was more capable of filling up the outlines of the story he had just heard and giving it life and colouring.

“I admired her before,” he said to himself, “but I shall look upon her as a saint now. She has had her martyrdom, if ever woman had, and has fought her fight nobly;” and then, with that clear insight that seemed natural to him, he added, “She knows that he has come right, and this is the secret of her serenity,” which was indeed the truth, though not the whole truth; for Dinah Templeton had indeed realised her Master’s words, that through much tribulation we must enter into the kingdom of heaven.

When Mrs. Godfrey rejoined Malcolm her husband was with her. Malcolm always declared that Colonel Godfrey was his typical and ideal Englishman. He was a well-built, soldierly-looking man of unusually fine presence. As he was over fifty, his golden-brown moustache was slightly grizzled, and the hair had worn off his forehead; but he was still strikingly handsome. He and his wife were alone. Both their sons were in the Indian army, and their only daughter was married and lived in Yorkshire.

“We are just an old Darby and Joan,” Mrs. Godfrey would say; but though she was only a year or two younger than her husband, she wore remarkably well, and still looked a comparatively young woman.

Colonel Godfrey and Malcolm were excellent friends, and in a few minutes they were strolling through the fields towards the river- bank, talking on various topics of social and political interest, while Mrs. Godfrey returned to the house to write letters and dress for dinner.

It was not until the following afternoon that Malcolm found an opportunity of sounding Mrs. Godfrey on the subject of the Jacobis.

They were sitting in the loggia again, and the row of dark chestnut trees looked almost black against the intense blue of the sky.

A faint breeze was just stirring the leaves, and every now and then a sort of ripple of sunlight seemed to streak the sombre foliage with gold. On the terrace there was a wealth of sunshine, and the stones felt hot to the feet. Only under the chestnuts tiny flickering shadows seemed to dance in and out among the tree-boles.

Colonel Godfrey had just been summoned to a business interview, and for the first time that day Malcolm found himself alone with his hostess. “Oh, by the bye,” he observed rather abruptly, “there is something I want to ask you. There are some people of the name of Jacobi who have taken a house at Henley. I wonder if you have come across them.”

“To be sure I have,” in rather a surprised tone. “Miss Jacobi called here on Tuesday. Mrs. Sinclair drove her over.”

“Well, I want you to tell me what you think of them,” asked Malcolm. An amused look came into Mrs. Godfrey’s eyes, and she held up her finger in chiding fashion.

“Oh, fie, for shame, Mr. Herrick! You are deep–deep. So the handsome siren has attracted you too.”

“Handsome siren,” repeated Malcolm with unnecessary energy. “Why, what nonsense you are talking, my dear lady. I never saw Miss Jacobi in my life. It is Miss Templeton who desires information, and I promised her that I would sound you on the subject.” Then the mischievous spark died out of Mrs. Godfrey’s eyes.

“Miss Templeton! Do you mean Dinah? What on earth can be the connection between her and the Jacobis. They were certainly not on hers or Elizabeth’s visiting-list when I was last at the Wood House.”

“No, they are complete strangers to them,” was Malcolm’s reply; “but Cedric has come across them and seems rather thick with them. He is going to stay at Beechcroft–is that not the name of the place they have taken for the season?”

“Yes, I believe so,” returned Mrs. Godfrey in rather a perturbed tone. “Cedric, that boy, going to stay with the Jacobis!” And then she broke off and said abruptly, “I am sorry to hear it. I should not care for one of my boys to be thrown much into the society of Saul Jacobi and his sister.”

CHAPTER XIX

“A TOUCH OF THE TARTAR”

Here comes the lady: O, so light a foot Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint. Romeo and Juliet.

When you doubt, abstain.
–Zoroaster

Malcolm gave a slight start of dismay. Mrs. Godfrey’s manner conveyed more than her words; in spite of his secret prejudice, he was not prepared for so strong an expression of disapproval. She was a woman of sound judgment, and very charitable in her estimate of people, and he knew that he could rely on her opinion. Her intuitions were seldom at fault. Whether she blamed or praised it was always with rare discrimination and perfect justice, and she was never impulsive or rash in her verdicts.

There was a moment’s silence. A blackbird, evidently attracted by Mrs. Godfrey’s clear, resonant voice, had perched on the stone parapet beside them and watched them in bright-eyed curiosity. Then, as Malcolm moved his arm, it flew off, with clucking notes of warning, to rejoin its mate.

“I am rather troubled to hear you say this,” began Malcolm. “Will you tell me all you know about these people?”

“That is just the difficulty,” returned Mrs. Godfrey slowly. “No one seems to know much about them. Even Mrs. Sinclair, who has taken them up so lately, knows scarcely anything of their antecedents. As far as I remember, Mrs. Sinclair asked me one day if I were not going to call on the Jacobis. ‘They are perfectly charming,’ were her words. ‘They are a brother and a sister who have taken Beechcroft for the season. They seem wealthy people and live in good style, and Miss Jacobi is one of the handsomest women I have ever seen.'”

“And this was all?” as Mrs. Godfrey paused.

“It was all I could gather. Mr. Sinclair certainly told Alick that he understood that Mr. Jacobi had made his money in business– something connected with a mining company, he believed. But no one seemed to know exactly, and the Jacobis are rather reticent about their own concerns. They seem to have a large visiting-list, and to know some big people.”

“And Miss Jacobi called here?”

“Yes, Mrs. Sinclair brought her; but I confess I was somewhat embarrassed by the visit–it has placed me in an awkward predicament. I have no wish to make their acquaintance, but I cannot well be unneighbourly; one meets them everywhere, so Alick tells me that I must get rid of my insular prejudices and leave our cards at Beechcroft.”

“It must be an awful nuisance,” replied Malcolm sympathetically.

“Oh, I don’t know; Miss Jacobi is very civil and pleasant. She is rather a reserved sort of woman, but remarkably good-looking, and she dresses beautifully. I am afraid,” with a laugh, “all you gentlemen will lose your hearts to her. Even Alick raves about her. He declares they must be Italian Jews, although they have lived in England and America all their lives. Miss Jacobi has certainly rather a Jewish type of face, and she has the clear olive complexion of the Italian. Well, you will see them for yourself on Sunday, for they are regular church-goers, though Mr. Jacobi’s behaviour during service is not always edifying. They have seats near us, and it irritates me dreadfully to see him lounging and yawning while other people are saying their prayers.”

“Does Miss Jacobi lounge too?” in an amused tone.

“No, she behaves far better than her brother. I must confess to you, Mr. Herrick, that I am rather prejudiced against Mr. Jacobi. I do not like either his face or his manners; his eyes are too close together, and this, in my opinion, gives him rather a crafty look; and in manner he is self-assertive and ostentatious.”

“I know what you mean,” returned Malcolm with a laugh; “he spells me and mine with a capital M.” Mrs. Godfrey nodded.

“Mrs. Sinclair tells me that the brother and sister are devoted to each other, but that Miss Jacobi seems to defer to her brother’s opinion in everything. But there, I have told you all I know, and you must find out the rest for yourself.”

“I shall keep my eyes open, I assure you,” was Malcolm’s reply. And then he continued in a perplexed tone, “How on earth did Cedric get hold of them?” But as Mrs. Godfrey could not answer this, Malcolm allowed the subject to drop. In his case forewarned was forearmed, and but for his promise to Dinah and his very real concern for Cedric, he would have given the Jacobis a wide berth.

It was only natural, however, that his curiosity should be strongly excited by this conversation, and when on the following morning they took their seats in church, his attention wandered at the sound of every footstep in the aisle.

The service had commenced before the vacant seats near them were occupied. Malcolm had a momentary glimpse of a tall, graceful- looking figure, in soft, diaphanous raiment, that seemed to pass them very swiftly; he even caught a strange, subtle fragrance that seemed to linger in the air; and then they all knelt down and Miss Jacobi buried her face in her hands, and her brother removed his lavender kid gloves with elaborate care as though Saul Jacobi had nothing in common with the rest of the miserable sinners. During the rest of the service Malcolm had plenty of opportunity for studying his physiognomy, for he turned round more than once and encountered Malcolm’s eyes.

He was certainly handsome in his way. His features were good, though of the pronounced Jewish type; but his dark, brilliant eyes had a shifty look in them–probably, as Mrs. Godfrey suggested, from their being set a little closely together. In age he appeared to be between thirty and forty.

He could see little of Miss Jacobi except the dark, glossy coil of hair under her hat; for during the entire service she was as motionless as a statue, and never once turned her face in Malcolm’s direction–even when her brother spoke to her she answered without looking at him. Whether Miss Jacobi was a devout worshipper or a mere automaton was not for him to judge; she might have her own reasons for not joining in the singing.

Colonel Godfrey was always a little fussy about his hat in church, and so it was that Malcolm and Mrs. Godfrey were still in their places when the Jacobis passed their pew. Malcolm seized his opportunity and looked well at Miss Jacobi, but she did not appear to notice him.

She was certainly a most striking-looking woman. Indeed, Malcolm’s trained eye was obliged to confess that she was really beautiful. The features were perfect, and the clear olive complexion, just flushed with heat, was wonderfully effective, while the large, melancholy eyes were full of a strange, flashing light.

“What a superb creature!” was Malcolm’s first unuttered thought. His second showed his keen insight–“But it is not a happy face, and with all its beauty, there is no restfulness of expression.”

Colonel Godfrey was still brushing his hat in the anxious manner peculiar to the well-dressed Englishman when they reached the porch. To Malcolm’s surprise he saw Miss Jacobi and her brother in animated conversation with a little group of ladies, made up of Etheridges and Sinclairs. Malcolm, who knew them all, was at once greeted as an old acquaintance, and, to Mrs. Godfrey’s secret amusement, the Jacobis were introduced to him. Miss Jacobi bowed to him in rather a grave, reserved manner, but her brother shook hands with real or assumed cordiality.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Herrick,” he observed volubly. “We have a mutual friend, I believe. What a capital fellow Templeton is–charming–charming! We are going to put him up at our diggings for a few days;” and then before Malcolm could answer, some one tapped Mr. Jacobi on the shoulder and asked him a question, and Malcolm found himself beside Miss Jacobi.

“Mr. Templeton is an intimate friend of yours, is he not?” she asked carelessly. Her voice was very full and rich, but she spoke slowly, as though she were accustomed to weigh each word. It struck Malcolm that she listened with some intentness to his answer.

“Oh yes, we are very good friends,” he returned with studied indifference.

“Mr. Templeton is more demonstrative,” she said with a curiously grave smile that seemed habitual to her. “He sings your praises, Mr. Herrick; you would be amused to hear him. It is so refreshing to find any one natural and unconventional in this world; but he is so nice and frank–a nice boy,” with a low laugh that showed her white teeth. Mr. Jacobi turned round at the sound.

“Come, Leah,” he said impatiently; “the horses are tired of standing, and I want my luncheon.” Miss Jacobi bowed in rather a hurried fashion and at once rejoined her brother. Malcolm looked after the mail phaeton as it dashed down the road, but he made no response as Mr. Jacobi waved his whip to him in an airy fashion.

“Well, Mr. Herrick,” said Mrs. Godfrey quietly, “I suppose I may ask your opinion now?”

“I do not think I am anxious for a further acquaintance,” returned Malcolm grimly. “The big M’s are too much in evidence for my taste. I suppose I am a bit of a misanthrope, but I hate to be hail-fellow- well-met with every one. Why, that fellow Jacobi actually patronised me, patted me on the back, don’t you know. He might have known me for six months.”

“I call that sort of thing bad form,” observed Colonel Godfrey. “Jacobi is too smooth and plausible. My wife will have it that he is not a gentleman.”

“Oh, Alick, you ought not to have repeated that.”

“Why not, my dear lady?” observed Malcolm. “You are perfectly safe with me. I expect we think alike there. Somehow Jacobi has not the right cut.”

“But his sister is very ladylike,” murmured Mrs. Godfrey, her kindly heart accusing her of censoriousness and want of charity. Both the gentlemen agreed to this. Then Malcolm, true to his character as a lover of the picturesque, launched into unrestrained praise of Miss Jacobi’s beauty.

“If my friend Keston were to see her,” he remarked, “he would be wild to paint her as Rebekah at the well–or Ruth in the harvest- fields. One does not often see a face like Miss Jacobi’s.” And then after a little more talk they reached the Manor House.

The following morning Malcolm spent on the river, and late in the afternoon they drove to Glebelands–where the Etheridges lived.

The beautiful grounds sloping to the river presented a most animated scene. A band was playing, and a gaily-dressed crowd streamed from the house on to the lawn. Canoes, punts, and a tiny steam-launch were ready for any guests who wished to enjoy the river; and the croquet, archery, and tennis grounds were well filled.

Tea and refreshments were served in a huge marquee just below the house. Malcolm, who met several people whom he knew, soon began to enjoy himself, and he was deep in conversation with a young artist when Miss Jacobi and her brother passed them; she bowed to Malcolm with rather a pleased smile of recognition.

“What, do you know la belle Jacobi?” observed his friend enviously. “What a lucky fellow you are! Look here, couldn’t you do a good turn for a chap and introduce me?”

“My dear Rodney, I have not spoken a dozen words to Miss Jacobi myself. Get one of the Etheridge girls to do the job for you. You had better look sharp,” he continued, “for there is quite a small crowd of men round her now;” and as Mr. Rodney speedily acted on this hint, Malcolm joined some more of his friends.

Later in the afternoon, as he was listening to the band, he saw Miss Jacobi opposite to him; she had still a little court round her, and seemed talking with great animation. She looked far handsomer than on the previous day, and her dress became her perfectly. She wore a cream-coloured transparent stuff over yellow silk, her Gainsborough hat was cream-colour and yellow too, and she carried a loosely- dropping posy of tea-roses, and two or three rosebuds of the same warm hue were nestled at her throat. The contrast of her dark eyes and hair and warm olive complexion was simply superb, and Malcolm secretly clapped his hands and murmured “bravo” under his breath. “She has the soul of the coquette and the artist too,” he said to himself. “Oh, woman, woman, surely Solomon had you in his thoughts when he declared ‘All is vanity;'” and then he remembered Elizabeth Templeton and felt ashamed of his cynicism. The next moment he noticed the coast was clear, and obeying an involuntary impulse he crossed the lawn.

Miss Jacobi welcomed him with a soft, flickering smile, but did not speak.

“Your court has deserted you, Miss Jacobi?”

“Not entirely,” she returned. “Captain Fawcett has gone to fetch me an ice–it is so hot in the tent–and Mr. Dysart is looking for my fan; they will be back presently.” She spoke in rather a weary tone.

“Why do you stand here?” he remonstrated. “There is a vacant seat under that acacia, and you will hear the music quite well. There, let me take you to it; the afternoon is unusually warm, in spite of the river breeze.” Rather to his surprise, she bent her head in assent, in her queenly way, and he guided her to the cool retreat.

“Will you not sit down too?” she asked in rather a hesitating manner, but there was no coquetry in her glance. Malcolm shook his head.

“I must look out for Dysart and the other man,” he observed, “or they will think I have spirited you away. I am not the least tired. What a pretty scene it is, Miss Jacobi! Look at those children dancing under the elm trees.”

“They seem very happy,” was her reply; but there was a sad expression in her eyes. “Certainly childhood is the happiest time in one’s life. If it could only last for ever!”

“Are you sure you mean what you say?” replied Malcolm in a grave, argumentative tone. “Remember it is the age of ignorance as well as innocence; with knowledge comes responsibility and the pains and penalties of life, nevertheless few of us desire to remain children.”

“I am one of the few,” she returned curtly.

“I cannot believe that,” and Malcolm smiled; “but I grant you that the best and highest natures have some-thing of the child in them. As Mencius says, ‘The great man is he who does not lose his child’s heart.'”

Miss Jacobi looked impressed.

“That is well said,” she replied softly. “Mr. Herrick, I think your friend Mr. Templeton is rather like that: he is so young and fresh, it is delightful to listen to him. He is two-and-twenty, is he not? and he is such a boy.” She laughed an odd, constrained little laugh as she said this, and added in a curious undertone, “And I am only nine-and-twenty, and I feel as though I were seventy. See what responsibilities and the pains and penalties of life do for a woman!”

It was a strange speech, and a strange flash of the eye accompanied it; then her tone and manner suddenly changed, as a footstep in their vicinity reached her ear.

“Saul, were you looking for me?” she said, starting from her seat. “I was tired, so Mr. Herrick found me this nice shady place. I suppose it is time for us to go.”

“Well, we have a dinner-party on to-night,” returned her brother blandly, “and it will hardly do for the hostess to be late. Wait a moment, Leah,” as she was about to take leave of Malcolm, “I found Dysart hunting for your fan, so I told him I had it. It cost ten guineas, you remember,” in a meaning tone. Then Miss Jacobi flushed a little as she took it from his hand.

“I must have dropped it in the tent-there was such a crush,” she murmured. “Good-bye, Mr. Herrick, I am much rested now.”

“Good-bye, Herrick,” observed Mr. Jacobi in a familiar tone that grated on Malcolm; “we shall be very glad to see you at Beechcroft when young Templeton is with us. It is Telemachus and Mentor over again, is it not?” and here he broke into a little cackling laugh. “Well, ta-ta. Come along, Leah;” and taking his sister by the arm, Mr. Jacobi quickly crossed the lawn with her.

“He is a cad if ever a man was,” mused Malcolm as he followed them slowly; “and if I do not mistake there is a touch of the Tartar about him. She may be a devoted sister, as Mrs. Sinclair observes, but she is afraid of him all the same.”

“What a strange girl she seems,” he continued–“woman rather, I should say; for there is little of the girl about her. Somehow she interests me, and she puzzles me too. She is so beautiful–why is she still Miss Jacobi?” He stood still for a minute to ponder over this mystery; then he walked on very thoughtfully. “I am a bit bothered about it all–I wish Cedric had never made their acquaintance;” and Malcolm looked so grave when he rejoined his friends that Mrs. Godfrey thought he was bored and hastened her adieux.

Malcolm did not undeceive her, neither did he speak of the Jacobis again to her; but he made himself very pleasant all that evening, and the next day he left the Manor House.

CHAPTER XX

A WHITE SUN-BONNET

My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery: A love eternal in a moment’s space conceived. Aroers

One lovely morning in August, about a fortnight after the garden- party at Glebelands, Malcolm Herrick sauntered slowly down the woodland path which the Templetons always called “the lady’s mile.” His face was set towards Rotherwood, and in spite of his loitering pace there was an intent and watchful look in his eyes; but what his purpose or design might be was best known to himself; for wonderful and devious are the ways of man, and who can fathom them? Presently a tempting tangle of honeysuckle attracted him, and he clambered up the bank in search of it. The bank was dry and slippery, and the honeysuckle was difficult to reach, but Malcolm was not to be conquered. He had just caught hold of the branch, when the far-off click of a gate attracted his attention, and still holding the branch he peeped cautiously through the brambles.

The next minute a tall, massive young woman in a white sun-bonnet came into view-actually a white sun-bonnet, such as a milkmaid or farming wench might have worn; but this was no rustic lass who walked so briskly through the woodlands–none but Elizabeth Templeton moved with that free, graceful step, or carried her head in that queenly fashion.

In his hiding-place Malcolm had a good view of her face. Her eyes were bright, and she had a soft smile on her lips, as though some thought pleased her–some dream’s dream that seemed fair to her inward vision.

“Miss Templeton–” then Elizabeth gave a great start, and stood still and looked up at him. “Wait a moment, please,” he continued hurriedly; “this branch is so tough and my knife is small. There, I have secured it;” and then, waving the festoon of honeysuckle triumphantly, he scrambled down the bank and stood beside her.

Elizabeth shook hands with him rather gravely.

“So you have taken up your quarters at the Crow’s Nest,” she observed as they walked on together.

“Yes, I came down last evening, and settled in with all my goods and chattels. I thought I was in the Garden of Eden when I woke this morning and saw all those pink and white roses nid-nodding their beautiful heads at me.”

“Oh, I remember how the roses clambered into the room,” returned Elizabeth in an interested tone.

“Yes, and the birds seemed as though they wanted to get up a sort of Handel Festival, only the prima donnas and the big guns were missing. But there was plenty of twittering and bird chatter–I think they were settling the solos.”

Elizabeth laughed–she was always amused at Mr. Herrick’s nonsense.

“I have begun by enjoying myself immensely,” he went on. “I have eaten a record breakfast and smoked two pipes, and now I have picked all this honeysuckle and met you”–a slight emphasis on the last word. “To tell you the truth, Miss Templeton”–and here he looked at her with a pleasant smile–“the meeting was not purely accidental, I knew it was your morning for the schools.”

“And you came to meet me?” Elizabeth’s manner stiffened; if Malcolm had been thin-skinned he might have suspected that she was not quite pleased at this avowal.

“Yes, I was anxious to meet you.” Malcolm spoke with quiet assurance. “There is something I wanted to tell you–if I had waited to call at the Wood House this afternoon your sister would have been with you.”

“And it is something you do not wish her to hear?” and Elizabeth’s slight frown vanished.

“Well, I thought it would be better to talk it over with you first. I have seen the Jacobis, Miss Templeton, and I must confess that I am not favourably impressed by them.”

“Cedric is with them now,” exclaimed Elizabeth in rather a distressed voice. “Dinah heard from him this morning; he is very happy, having a good old time, as he expresses it. He saw the Godfreys before they left for Scotland.”

“They have gone then–what a pity!” observed Malcolm. Then Elizabeth looked at him inquiringly.

“You mean on Cedric’s account. Yes, I am sorry too. Will you tell me all you can about the Jacobis?” And then Malcolm, with masculine brevity and great distinctness, retailed his impressions of the brother and sister. Elizabeth’s face grew grave as she listened.

“Oh, I am sorry!” she exclaimed. “What will poor Dinah say when I tell her; she is so anxious for Cedric to choose his friends well, and by your account Mr. Jacobi is certainly not a gentleman.”

“I thought perhaps you would keep this to yourself;” but Elizabeth shook her head.

“I dare not; Cedric is her own boy, and I must hide nothing from her. There was only one thing I kept to myself, but then Cedric told it me in the strictest confidence. Mr. Herrick, it is an absurd question, for Cedric is such a boy–but is not Miss Jacobi likely to be the attraction? You say she is so handsome.”

“I might go farther and say she is a beautiful woman,” returned Malcolm. “But tastes differ, you know; I admire Miss Jacobi as I should a picture or a statue, but I could not imagine falling in love with her.”

“Indeed! I am rather surprised to hear you say that; I thought you were a lover of the picturesque.” Elizabeth’s tone was a little teasing.

“I do not deny the soft impeachment,” replied Malcolm somewhat seriously; “but moral beauty and the loveliness of a well-balanced character outweigh, in my estimation, mere outward beauty. Miss Jacobi is a stranger to me certainly, but in my opinion there is something complex and mysterious in her personality; there are hard lines in her face, and her expression is at once cynical and unhappy. One could pity such a woman,” continued Malcolm to himself, “but one would never, never yearn to take her to one’s heart.”

Elizabeth looked at him curiously, as though she understood this unspoken speech; and when she spoke again it was with a new and added friendliness.

“You are a good judge of character, Mr. Herrick, and I feel I can rely on your opinion. If only the Godfreys were at the Manor House!”

“You forget that Beechcroft is at Henley,” he observed with a smile. “Oh no, I have not forgotten, but I was thinking that I might have gone down to spy out the land for myself. Of course it would have vexed Cedric, but I should have done it all the same. Well, there is nothing for it but patience. By the bye, Mr. Herrick, we have fixed the date of the Templeton Bean-feast; Cedric will have to come back for that.”

“Do you think he would care to bring his friends?” he asked in rather a meaning tone. Then at this daring suggestion Elizabeth’s eyes opened widely. “Do you think that would be wise, that it might not complicate matters and increase the intimacy?” Elizabeth put this question with manifest anxiety. “We have no desire to have the Jacobis on our visiting-list.”

“Of course not,” was Malcolm’s answer, “you know I never meant that; but it would give you and Miss Templeton an opportunity of studying them, and it could be managed without difficulty.”

“I wish you would tell me how. I suppose we should have to send Miss Jacobi a card of invitation?”

“No, I think not–at least not at first. Tell Cedric that he may have carte blanche for his friends, and leave him to follow up the hint. He will answer by return, and tell you that he has asked the Jacobis, and then the card can be sent.”

“Yes, I see; it is a good idea. I will talk to Dinah, but thank you all the same for your suggestion. I am quite ashamed of bothering you about our concerns; I fear we trespass on your good-nature.”

“Not at all,” returned Malcolm easily. “I was going to ask your advice about a little protegee of my own;” and then Elizabeth lent a willing ear while Malcolm, in his best style, told the story of little Kit.

They had turned in at the gate of the Wood House by this time, and the dark firs stretched on either side. Elizabeth had taken off her sun-bonnet, and it dangled from her arm; her eyes were soft with womanly sympathy; never had the charm of her personality appealed so strongly to Malcolm, he scarcely dared to look at her for fear she should discover the truth. “It is too soon, she would not believe it,” he said to himself. But as he talked his voice was strangely vibrant and full of feeling; and when the sun-bonnet brushed lightly against him he was conscious that his arm trembled.

But Elizabeth was too much occupied with little Kit to notice Malcolm’s slight discomposure.

“Oh, I am so glad you told me,” she said in her eager way. “I really think I shall be able to help you. There is the dearest old woman in the village, Mrs. Sullivan. She lives in a pretty cottage quite close to ‘The Plough,’ and she was only telling me the other day that she wished that she had another child to mother. Sometimes my sister and I have a little East-end waif and stray down for a few weeks in the summer,” continued Elizabeth modestly–“some sick child, or occasionally some over-burdened worker, and we always lodge them at Mrs. Sullivan’s. It is not much of a place, but we call it ‘The Providence House;’ the cottage is really our own property, and Mrs. Sullivan has it rent-free.”

“Do you think that she would take care of Kit?”

“I am sure of it. But, Mr. Herrick, Kit must be our guest, please remember that. Hush,” peremptorily, “I will not hear a word to the contrary. And there is something else I want to say. Would not Caleb Martin like to come too? Kit would be strange without him, and there is plenty of room for them both. Think what a month of this sweet country air would mean to him after Todmorden’s Lane. You must write to him at once, and tell him to hurry Kit down.”

“I think it would be better to go up and speak to him myself to- morrow morning,” returned Malcolm. He spoke rather reluctantly, but the beaming look of approval that followed this speech rewarded him for the little sacrifice.

“Now I call that kind,” returned Elizabeth warmly. “Very few people would take so much trouble for a shabby little cobbler and an ailing child,” she thought. “How pleased Dinah will be when she hears about it.”

“The kindness is on your part, Miss Templeton,” returned Malcolm. But he was much gratified by her manner. “If Kit and her father are to be your guests there is little enough for me to do; when I spoke to you just now I had quite decided to take lodgings for them at Rotherwood.”

“Kit is my guest,” replied Elizabeth obstinately. “Now, will you come in, Mr. Herrick, and have luncheon with us?” But Malcolm declined this; he would look in later in the day and pay his respects to Miss Templeton; and then he lifted his hat and turned away. Elizabeth stood in the porch and watched him. “He is a good man,” she said softly, “and I like him–I like him very much;” but she sighed a little heavily as she turned away.

Meanwhile Malcolm was saying to himself in his whimsical way, “It is my destiny–is it not written in the book of fate? The Parcae Sisters three have willed it so. Good heavens, what an enigma life is! Some winged insect whirling in a cyclone would have as much chance of escaping its doom as a human being under such circumstances.” Then he stopped, and looked with blank, unseeing eyes down the slanting fir avenue. “It is a mystery,” he went on– “the very mystery of mysteries; the Sphinx is nothing to it. A month ago we were strangers–I neither knew nor cared that such a person as Elizabeth Templeton existed; and a week–a little cycle of seven or eight nights and days–has wrought this wondrous change. Am I the same man? Is this the solid earth on which I am walking?” And then he gave an odd sort of laugh, which seemed to hurt him. “My God,” he muttered, “how I love this woman!” and his head was bowed as he walked on.

The following afternoon, when Malcolm returned from his charitable errand to Todmorden’s Lane, he saw the Keston family grouped on the shady patch of lawn in the front garden. Verity, who had Babs in her arms, flew to meet him; but Amias merely waved his pipe and grunted in an amicable fashion.

“Oh, how tired and dusty you look!” exclaimed Verity, in the pretty, maternal way that always sat so quaintly on her. “Look at him, Amias; I do believe he has walked all those miles from Earlsfield.”

“Yea-Verily, you are right, child,” returned the giant placidly; and then Verity put down Babs on the grass to sprawl among the daisies.

“Sit down,” she said, pushing Malcolm with her tiny hands into a big hammock chair; “I am going to make you some fresh tea–iced lemonade is out of the question;” and then she flitted into the house on her usual errand of “hunting the Snark.”

Malcolm was certainly tired; he had been unable to get a fly at Earlsfield, and the long climb in the heat had rather taken it out of him, so he was well content to lie back in his lounge and let Verity wait on him.

“We have had visitors,” she observed presently; then Malcolm looked up quickly.

“The ladies from the Wood House,” she continued. “They were here for quite an hour. You are right, Mr. Herrick, the eldest Miss Templeton is a perfect darling. Amias was just saying as you turned the corner that he would like to paint her as a Puritan lady; the dress would exactly suit her.”

“She has a very sweet face,” endorsed Amias, “and her manners are remarkably pleasing. Yea-Verily fell in love with her because she admired Babs. ‘Love me, love my Babs,’ don’t you know!”

“Don’t be a goose, Amias! He was as much pleased as I was, Mr. Herrick, when Miss Templeton kissed Baby and made much of her; she said the sweetest things to her, and Babs was so charmed that she actually put up her face and kissed her of her own accord.”

“The other Miss Templeton is a striking-looking woman of rather uncommon type,” observed Amias, blowing away a cloud of smoke rather lazily. “She made herself very pleasant too, and said all sorts of civil things.”

“I thought her rather formidable at first,” annotated Verity, “but I soon discovered that she was interesting; she is very bright and original, and we soon got on very nicely together.”

“By the bye, Mr. Herrick, they want us all to dine at the Wood House to-morrow; it is to be a comfortable, informal sort of meal. I told Miss Templeton that I had no company manners, as I had lived all my life in Bohemia; and then Miss Elizabeth laughed, and said she was rather unconventional herself, and that she thought I should exactly suit them.”

“I told you so,” responded Malcolm in a low voice. “I suppose there will be no other guests?”

“Only the Carlyons,” returned Verity. “Mr. Carlyon is the curate at Rotherwood, Miss Templeton told us, and just now his father is staying with him.”

“Oh, Carlyon junior seems always on the premises,” replied Malcolm carelessly; “he is a sort of tame cat. Well, I am off to the Garden of Eden now.” But as he stood by his window the nodding roses turned their pink cheeks to him in vain, and wasted their sweetness on the desert air.

“He is always there,” he muttered; “one is never free from him. Perhaps it is her goodness of heart, she is so kind to every one, and he is her clergyman. Of course it must be that.” He frowned and sighed impatiently; but as he turned away he saw the sprays of honeysuckle that he had gathered the previous day lay on the window- sill forgotten and neglected, with all the beautiful creamv blossoms withered and dead.

CHAPTER XXI

“IF I WERE ONLY LIKE YOU!”

Who, seeking for himself alone, ever entered heaven? In blessing we are blest.
–C. SEYMOUR.

There is no separation–no Past; Eternity, the Now is continuous…. The continuity of Now is for ever. –RICHARD JEFFERIES.

The party from the Crow’s Nest were somewhat late in arriving the following evening. Verity made her excuses very prettily.

“It was all darling Babs’s fault,” she said to Miss Templeton; “she would play instead of going to sleep. Mr. Herrick lost patience at last, and declared he would go on alone.”

“I must take my god-daughter in hand, or she will be ruined body and soul,” observed Malcolm severely. “Babs is already a domestic tyrant, and screams the house down if any of her fads and fancies are resisted. I am thinking of writing a series of essays on degenerate and irresponsible parents, and the cruelty of modern education in the nursery, which out-Herods Herod.” Of course they all laughed at this idea, and then David Carlyon crossed the room to shake hands with Malcolm and to introduce his father.

The two men were curiously alike. The Rev. Rupert Carlyon was an older, shabbier, and more careworn David; but there was the same broad, intellectual brow, the same bright intelligence of expression, and their voices were so strangely similar that if Malcolm had closed his eyes he could not have distinguished between them; they both spoke with the same quickness, and in the same clipping fashion.

Malcolm noticed before the evening was over that David Carlyon looked unusually pale and tired, though he seemed in excellent spirits. Dinah made the same remark to his father.

“Oh, I have been giving that boy of mine a lecture,” he said quickly; “he is a perfect spendthrift and prodigal with regard to the midnight oil, and burns both ends of his candle in the most reckless fashion.”

“I should not have thought a sleepy little place like Rotherwood would have overtaxed his energies,” observed Malcolm in rather a surprised tone.

The elder man shook his head.

“There is always work enough if one looks for it. My son is a sort of medical missionary in his way, and concerns himself with the bodies as well as the souls of his people. The last two nights he has been up until nearly dawn with a stranger–a sort of commercial traveller who has been taken ill at ‘The Plough.’ It is a sad case: he is quite a young man, and our doctor fears that he will not pull through.” But Mr. Carlyon forbore to state the fact that each night he had relieved his son, rising from his bed in the gray pearly dawn, before the first bird-twitter was heard, to take his watch beside the fever-stricken stranger. The Carlyons were men whose left hand did not know what their right hand did, and the Rev. Rupert Carlyon’s ministry had been a record of humble, unobtrusive acts of good-will and kindness to man, woman, and child; nay, the very dumb animals knew their friend, and would come to him for protection.

The Carlyons took their leave soon after this. Elizabeth walked down to the gate with them. Malcolm thought she looked rather grave when she returned, as though something troubled her, but she would not hear of the party breaking up, and promised Malcolm that she would sing all his favourite songs to his friends, and she kept her word. Malcolm sat in a trance of beatitude while the beautiful voice floated out into the darkness, startling some night-bird in the copse; and Verity’s eyes were wet, and she stole closer to her husband, for it seemed to her as though the shadows from the old life were creeping round her; and unseen by any one but Dinah, she leant her cheek against Amias’s hand.

“Oh, how can you sing like that!” exclaimed Verity in her naive way, when Elizabeth joined them on the terrace. “You sing right down into people’s hearts. Oh, I felt so sad, and then so happy, and the world did not seem wide enough to contain me.”

“You must not flatter me,” returned Elizabeth, but she was evidently gratified. Then she turned her head to Malcolm, who was behind her, and said in an undertone, “You were quite right, the Jacobis are coming to our party. I have sent them a card this afternoon.”

“I hope Miss Templeton approved of my suggestion?”

“Yes, she thought with you that it would be an excellent opportunity of taking stock of the enemy. And Cedric was so pleased. Mr. Herrick,” she continued, as they walked down the terrace, “I must tell you that we are charmed with Mrs. Keston. She is a dear little thing, and so fascinating and original, and she looks really pretty to-night.”

“No, she is not pretty,” returned Malcolm, “but her dress becomes her. We call it Keston’s chef d’oeuvre. He always designs her gowns. He is very aesthetic in his tastes, and he knows exactly what suits her. If Verity were left to her own devices, she would be very crude and unfinished.”

“He is very proud of her,” observed Elizabeth. “It is good to see two such happy people. We like them immensely, and shall hope to see a great deal of them;” and Malcolm was so elated by these encomiums on his friends, and by Elizabeth’s gracious friendliness, that he actually suggested that she should walk down the drive with them; but to his secret chagrin she made some excuse.

Half an hour later she entered her sister’s room. Dinah was reading as usual, with her little green lamp beside her; but she closed her book and looked up at her inquiringly.

“What is it, Betty?” she said gently. “Something has been troubling you to-night.” Then Elizabeth turned aside her face for a moment, but she was not regarding herself in the great mirror. “It concerns David,” continued Dinah calmly. Then Elizabeth gave vent to a heavy sigh.

“Yes, it concerns David,” she returned. “I have been talking to him, oh so seriously, and to his father too; but it is no use. They will let me do nothing to help them. I wanted to send in a night nurse, but they will have it that it is not necessary. Old Mrs. Roper takes care of the patient by day, and it is only the night.”

“But, Betty dear, surely David Carlyon is not going there again to- night?”

“Indeed he is,” very sadly. “I heard them arranging it this afternoon. Mr. Carlyon is to relieve him at three. He was so tired that he could scarcely eat his dinner, and he told me that he dared not stay for the music, as I should certainly sing him to sleep. Die,” in rather a choked voice, “it is not right. He will kill himself if he goes on like this.”

It was evident that Elizabeth was in a depressed mood; perhaps she was tired too. Dinah, who knew her well, quite understood her.

“Don’t worry, Betty,” she said kindly. “David Carlyon is young enough and strong enough to bear the loss of a few nights’ rest, and the fever is not infectious. By all accounts the poor fellow cannot last many days. Tomorrow I will go over to the White Cottage and talk to them both. I shall tell David that he has no right to let his father work so hard during his holiday.”

“Tell him we know such a nice woman, Die,” and Dinah promised that she would do her very best. But Elizabeth had not wholly eased her mind; she stood looking at her sister rather doubtfully, and then she said abruptly–

“Die, there is something I want to ask you. You heard from Douglas Fraser this morning, did you not?” Then a faint colour came to Dinah’s pale cheeks.

“Were you afraid to ask me that before, my dear?” she said with a smile. “But it was my fault; I ought to have told you–this sort of question is not easy even for a sister to ask. Yes, Douglas wrote and Agnes too. Dear little Lettice is so much better. He thinks she will pull through now, thank God! but they nearly lost her.”

“Was it so bad as that, Die?” in an awed tone.

“Yes, it has been a terrible illness. They have nurses, of course, but poor Agnes is almost worn out. She is their only girl, and Douglas does so doat on her. He has suffered so–one can read it in every word,” and Dinah’s voice shook a little.

Perhaps it needed only that to bring Elizabeth’s emotion to a culminating point, for to Dinah’s surprise she suddenly knelt down and put her arms round her and the tears were running down her face.

“Oh, Die, stop! I cannot bear to hear you–it pains me so–it pains me all over!”

“My darling Bet! Oh, you foolish, foolish Betty!” But Elizabeth was not to be soothed so easily.

“That is why I never mention his name. I try to pretend sometimes that I do not see his handwriting. Oh, Die,” caressing her, “how can any woman be such an angel! It is not natural. In your place, under your circumstances, I would never have seen him again.”

“Dear Elizabeth,” returned Dinah quietly, but her face had grown very white, “you must surely remember that we never met–never thought of meeting–until dear Agnes herself brought us together. Don’t you recollect how sweetly she wrote and begged me to be their friend. She said that it would make him happier, and herself too– that she never wished him to forget me; that it was through my influence that he had been brought right and that they were no longer divided in faith. Oh, Betty, I was a happy woman the day I got that letter, and I have been a happy woman since. ‘Through pain to peace,'” she went on softly, “I should like those words to be inscribed on my tombstone. To think of the terror and the struggle, the buffeting of all those cruel waves and billows, and then to see land at last! Dearest, how you cry! You will make me cry too, and I have been singing a Te Deum in my heart all day for dear Lettice’s sake.” Then Elizabeth tried to control her sobs.

“Die, I am quite ashamed of myself. I cannot think what has come to me. Think of a woman of thirty blubbering like a little school-girl! It is not like me, is it, dear? but my heart feels as heavy as lead to-night. Things are going wrong somehow, or is it my fancy?” And then she said a little wildly, “Oh, my darling, if I were only like you!”

“Like me! Oh no, Elizabeth,” for Dinah’s humility could ill brook this speech.

“But it is no use–I could never reach you. I am so human–a passionate, self-willed woman, who wants her own way in everything; and you, oh, Die, you are miles above me. That is why I love you so- -I love you so!”

“Not more than I love you,” returned her sister tenderly. “Dear Elizabeth, it is only your generosity that makes you say this, but it is not true. I wish I knew what has upset you so to-night.” But Elizabeth made no reply to this; the friendship between the sisters was so perfect that speech did not always seem necessary. When Elizabeth remained silent, Dinah did not repeat her question.

Elizabeth had seated herself on the cushioned window-seat close to Dinah’s chair. The little green lamp had been extinguished, and the room was bathed in moon-light. Down below were the dark woodlands. “Let me stay for a little while,” Elizabeth had whispered, and then they had both remained silent.

Dinah felt perplexed and troubled by her sister’s unusual emotion. Elizabeth’s strong, healthy nature was never morbid; her temperament was even and sunshiny, and a depressed mood was a rare thing with her.

Dinah’s sweet serenity was vaguely disturbed, and the quiet tears gathered in her eyes. Silence was good for both of them, she thought. When one has lived through a great pain, and by God’s grace has conquered, it is better to bury the dead past. Elizabeth’s passionate incredulity, the difficulty she felt in understanding her sister’s motives, her exaggerated praise, made Dinah wince in positive pain. How could human love misjudge her so! Did not even her nearest and dearest–her own sister-friend–know how often she had striven and failed and fainted under that hard cross that had been laid upon her?

And in truth few women had suffered as Dinah had in the sweet blossom of her early womanhood, and more than once she had been very near the gates of the dark valley whose shadow is the shadow of death.

How she had gloried in her lover–her “Douglas–Douglas, tender and true,” as she had called him to herself–in his great intellect and his strong man’s heart, in the plan and purpose of his life, with its scientific research and its passionate love of truth!

And then that awful struggle between her affection and her sense of right, the doubts and terrors, the wakeful nights and joyless days, the vast blank of life that stretched before her poor eyes, half- blind with their woman’s weeping.

“O Galilaean, Thou hast conquered,” were the words that came to her when the crucial test had been passed, and she had parted with her beloved.

Those were sad days at the Wood House, and there were sadder days still at Rome; but she lived through them, and Elizabeth helped her; and so by and bye the light of a new dawn–a little gray and misty perhaps, but still dawn–opened before Dinah’s tired eyes.

“I loved much and I prayed much, and God answered my prayers,” she said long afterwards.

But the wound was wide and deep and healed slowly, and it was not until Douglas Fraser had married a noble-hearted and beautiful woman, whom he called his Lady of Consolation, that Dinah recovered a measure of her former cheerfulness. But the day she heard that he was no longer an agnostic was always kept by her as a festival. Then indeed the cup of her pure joy seemed full to the very brim.

He had come right, and now all was well with him and with her too. Pain and loss had been his teachers, and great indeed was her reward.

“It was your renunciation and sacrifice that first opened my eyes,” he wrote. “I know now how rightly you acted. If I had married you then–if my entreaties had prevailed–I should never have made you happy. My dear Agnes has taught me this.” And this cherished letter was Dinah’s treasure.

She and Dr. Fraser seldom met–not more than once a year–but from time to time he wrote to her, and his wife and children were very dear to her.

“I cannot understand it,” Elizabeth had more than once said. But Dinah could furnish no explanation: she only knew that it was so– that her life was a happy one, and that she asked for nothing more.

Douglas and his wife were her dearest friends, and Lettice, her sweet god-daughter, ranked next to Cedric in her heart.

With so many to love, how could life fail to satisfy her! “And it so short–so short,” she would say to herself. “One sees so little of one’s friends here; but one will have plenty of time to enjoy them in Paradise.”

Continuity of life–continuity of love, this was Dinah’s simple creed, but it kept her young and happy.

“Dinah has the secret of perpetual youth,” Elizabeth would say to her friend Mrs. Godfrey; but she generally ended with a sigh, “If only I were like her!”

CHAPTER XXII

“TWO MAIDEN LADIES OF UNCERTAIN AGE”

How poor a thing is man! Alas, ’tis true; I’d half forget it when I chanced on you! –SCHILLER.

Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast. –BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

The day of the Templeton’s garden fete was as bright and cloudless as the heart of man or woman could desire. Verity, who had dressed herself at an unconscionably early hour, sat at an upper window with Babs in her arms, watching brakes and carriages drive past, filled with gaily attired people. Malcolm had issued his sovereign mandate that they must not be amongst the earliest arrivals, and Verity panted with impatience long before she could induce her household tyrants to lay aside pipe and cigarette.

Malcolm was not in a festive mood. He had spent his morning restlessly, pacing up and down the woodlands, with an unread book under his arm. He was secretly chafed and even a little hurt that neither of the sisters had needed his help. He had dropped more than one hint on the previous day, when some errand took him to the Wood House, and he found Elizabeth looking heated and tired, superintending the removal of some furniture.

“You might make use of an idle man,” he had said half-jestingly. “I assure you that I am a complete Jack-of-all-trades, and I don’t mind ‘a scrow,’ as old Nurse Dawson calls it.” But though Elizabeth smiled, she did not avail herself of this friendly offer; but it was Dinah who gave him the real explanation.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Herrick,” she had returned gratefully; “we should have been so glad of your help, only David Carlyon and his father are doing all we want. Mr. Carlyon is so useful, and David spends all his spare time with us.”

“David”–in a pondering voice. And Dinah blushed as if she had been guilty of an indiscretion.

“Oh, we only call him that in order to distinguish him from his father–the two Carlyons are so puzzling; but he is an old and a very dear friend, and at my age it does not matter,” finished Dinah with her charming smile.

Malcolm had to content himself with this explanation. They were old friends. Yes, of course, and he was a comparatively new one. He expected too much; his demands were unreasonable. Nevertheless Malcolm felt a pang of envy when he saw David Carlyon tearing breathlessly through the woodlands with his arms full of greenery from the vicarage garden, and whistling like a schoolboy.

When at last Malcolm and his friends turned in at the gates of the Wood House that afternoon, they could hear the band playing in the distance. A group of village children were gathered in the road; empty carriages passed them; a smart dog-cart, with four young men, rattled down the drive; and through the openings in the trees the gleam of white dresses looked silvery in the sunlight.

Miss Templeton was standing in the porch to receive her guests. Elizabeth had only just left her, she said, to arrange the tennis tournament. And then, as more guests were arriving, Malcolm left her. The next moment he came upon Cedric; he was looking rather bored and disconsolate. He lighted up, however, at the sight of his friend.

“Here you are at last,” he grumbled. “I have been looking all over the place for you. I came down with a lot of our fellows, but Betty has paired them all off for tennis. There are the Kestons, I must go and speak to them.” But Malcolm had him by the arm.

“Wait a moment; ‘”no hurry!” said the Carpenter.’ I suppose you brought the Jacobis with you.” Then Cedric’s face clouded again.

“Oh, Jacobi came right enough–there he is, talking to David–but Miss Jacobi had a bad sick headache, and he would not let her come.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” returned Malcolm; and he was sorry, for his cleverly-devised plan had been frustrated.

“She was sorry too, poor girl,” went on Cedric in a vexed voice. “She had been so looking forward to the Bean-feast ever since Betty’s invitation arrived. It is my belief that Jacobi is to blame for the whole thing, for he was rowing her in her room like anything last night. I could hear them through the ceiling going it like hammer and tongs.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Miss Jacobi and her brother quarrel?” asked Malcolm in a disgusted voice. Then Cedric looked as if he had said more than he intended.

“No, not quarrel,” rather hesitatingly. “It takes two to do that, you know, and Leah–Miss Jacobi, I mean,” biting his lip–“is much too fond of her brother to quarrel with him; but Jacobi has a temper, you see.”

“Oh, he has a temper, has he?”

“Well, lots of people have, if you come to that,” returned Cedric, who evidently repented his frankness. “Jacobi is a decent fellow, but he is hot and peppery, and when things go crooked he lashes out a bit. Something must have vexed him last night, for he came into the drawing-room looking very much put out. Miss Jacobi had just gone upstairs, and he went after her at once.”

“And then they quarrelled?”

“Well, not quarrelled exactly; but there was a good deal of talking, don’t you know. He kept her up late, and bothered her, and then she got a headache. “But Cedric forbore to tell his friend that he had been so perturbed by the sound of Saul Jacobi’s angry voice that he had stolen down the stairs to the passage below. How long he stood there transfixed with fear and pity it was impossible to say. No words reached him–only the harsh, vibrant tones of Saul Jacobi’s voice and Leah’s low, piteous sobbing.

He might have stood there until morning, but the door suddenly unlatched, and he had only just time to steal away; but before he could enter his room a few words did reach him.

“Oh, Saul, please do not leave me like this. Don’t I always do as you wish; only–only I thought you approved; that–that–” but here sobs choked her voice.

“What is the use of turning on the waterworks like this?” muttered her brother angrily. “What fools you women are! A boy like that too!”

“But, Saul, Saul–“

“Yes, I know,” sulkily. “I have not changed my mind, but I mean to have my way about to-morrow all the same. If you had been sensible I would have told you my reasons; but you chose to aggravate me, and I said a precious lot more than I meant. There, go to sleep and forget it”–evidently a rough attempt to be conciliatory; but Leah’s sad and weary face told its own tale the next morning.

Malcolm did not ask any more questions, and after a few more casual remarks Cedric went off in search of the Kestons, and Malcolm sauntered across the lawn, looking at the various groups in the hope of seeing Elizabeth’s tall figure.

Presently he came upon Mr. Jacobi. He was standing by the sun-dial, looking smart and well-groomed in his frock-coat, and a rare orchid in his button-hole. He was contemplating the house with fixed attention. A sudden impulse made Malcolm join him. Mr. Jacobi greeted him with his usual affability, and then, as though by mutual consent, they strolled together in the direction of the rustic bridge.

“Nice sleepy old place this,” observed Mr. Jacobi condescendingly. “Seems as though it had been in existence for a hundred years at least. Do you know how long it has belonged to the Templetons?”

“No, I have no idea,” returned Malcolm stiffly, for he resented the question. “What a perfect day it is! I am sorry to hear from Templeton that your sister is indisposed.”

Mr. Jacobi’s eyes narrowed a little; he looked rather sharply at Malcolm.

“Oh, Templeton told you that. Nice fellow–as good a specimen of a young Briton as ever I wish to see; sensible too, and a good companion. Yes, my sister is a bit seedy–a bad sick headache, nothing more. It is in our family; my mother had them, and Leah takes after her. It is hard lines, poor old girl,” continued Mr. Jacobi in a feeling tone, “for she was longing to make the Misses Templeton’s acquaintance.”

Malcolm returned a civil answer, and Mr. Jacobi continued–

“Templeton is a lucky fellow, between you and me and the post,” in a jocular tone. “It must be a good thing for him that his sisters have set their faces against matrimony. Nice-looking women, both of them, but in my humble opinion Miss Elizabeth is the most attractive. Templeton let out to Leah the other day that she could have married a dozen times over if she had wished to do so, only she vowed she was cut out for an old maid.”

“I don’t suppose he knows anything about it,” returned Malcolm, feeling this speech was in the worst possible form. It revolted him to hear this man even mention Elizabeth’s name–he would give him no encouragement; but Saul Jacobi, who could be dense when he chose, did not drop the subject.

“It is rather a big place for two maiden ladies of uncertain age,” he remarked blandly; but this speech irritated Malcolm beyond endurance.

“There is nothing uncertain about the second Miss Templeton’s age,” he said impatiently; “she is still a young woman.” Then it struck him that Mr. Jacobi looked a trifle crestfallen.

“Young, do you call her? Oh no, very mature and sedate, like a middle-aged woman. Gyp Campion told me as a fact–do you know Gyp? he is in the Hussars, and a tiptop swell in the bargain–well, Gyp let out that his brother Owen had proposed to Miss Elizabeth Templeton years ago at Alassio.”

“Oh, I daresay,” indifferently. “I think I must go back to the house now;” it cost Malcolm an effort to be civil.

“I will walk back with you. What was I saying? Oh, she refused the poor chap, and told him that the holy estate of matrimony had no attraction for her, or some such rubbish. That is why I call Templeton a lucky fellow. There is not a creature belonging to them, except a distant cousin or two in New Zealand, so of course he will come in for everything;” a pause here, and a furtive glance of inquiry; but Malcolm remained mute, and his face might have been a blank wall as far as expression was concerned.

“They have got a pretty penny saved too,” went on Mr. Jacobi, not in the least silenced by Malcolm’s lack of interest. “Gyp told me a thing or two about that. It seems they had a farm in Cornwall”–here he sniffed at his scentless orchid with an air of enjoyment, a habit of his when his subject interested him. “It was a rotten concern– farm buildings out of repair, and a few scrubby fields with more stones than grass. Miss Templeton was just going to sell it for a mere song when some one discovered tin. My word, those few acres rose in value! Gyp declared they realised quite a small fortune on it. That was only three or four years ago.”

“Indeed,” returned Malcolm drily; “if you will pardon my speaking plainly, Mr. Jacobi, I do not think the Misses Templeton’s business affairs are any concern of ours, and I would prefer to talk on any other subject.”

This was too manifest a hint to be disregarded even by the irrepressible Jacobi; but the next minute Malcolm added, “Will you excuse my leaving you, I see some old friends of mine on their way to the Pool, and they will expect me to join them;” but if Malcolm intended to do so, he chose a most circuitous route.

“Rum chap that,” observed Saul Jacobi, turning on his heel–“not easy to get any information out of him; looks as though he had swallowed the poker first, and then the tongs as a sort of relish afterwards, and neither of them agreed with him. I wonder what young Templeton saw in him. He lays it on pretty thick too: it is Herrick this and Herrick that, as though he were Solomon in all his glory. Confound his airs and impudence! Let me tell you, my young gentleman,” with a sly smile, “that the Misses Templeton’s private business is a matter that concerns Saul Jacobi pretty closely.”

Meanwhile Malcolm was in a white heat of righteous indignation.

“That wretched little cad, how dare he meddle and pry into the Misses Templeton’s family affairs! There is something I mistrust in the man; he is smooth and plausible, but he is crafty too; he is deep–deep–and if I do not mistake, he is clever too.”

Then he added, “I must get hold of Cedric; I am not comfortable at his associating with this man. Cedric is as weak as water; he is so easily led, he would be the dupe of any designing person; but the Jacobis will have to reckon with me;” and here Malcolm, who had uttered the last words aloud, stopped and looked rather foolish, as a merry laugh greeted his ear, and Elizabeth, in all the glory of her Paris gown and picture hat, barred the way, and regarded him with her beaming smile.

“Mr. Herrick, you are quite dramatic; Hamlet or the melancholy Jacques could not have been more lost in gloomy meditation. If I may presume to ask the question, why will the Jacobis have to reckon with you?”

“Did I say so?” returned Malcolm, with an uneasy laugh. “I suppose I was thinking aloud. That fellow Jacobi has been rubbing me up the wrong way; he stuck to me like a burr, and I could not get rid of him.”

“I had some trouble in shaking him off myself,” she owned. “You were quite right, Mr. Herrick, he is not a gentleman, and I dislike his manner excessively; it is too subservient, and he is too soft- tongued. Poor dear Die, I wish you could have seen her face when he paid her a compliment; she looked quite bewildered.”

Elizabeth’s eyes were dancing with amusement at the recollection, but Malcolm did not respond to her merriment; he felt things were too serious.

“I am not at all easy in my mind,” he said, and then Elizabeth looked at him inquiringly. “Jacobi seems to have got a hold on Cedric. He goes back with him to-night, does he not? Ah, I thought so,” as Elizabeth nodded. “I must have some talk with him; I shall tell him that I disapprove of the Jacobis, and shall beg him to break off the acquaintance.”

“Oh, thank you–thank you!” returned Elizabeth earnestly, and there was a beautiful colour in her face; she even held out her hand impulsively to him, as though her gratitude carried her away. “How good you are to us–a real friend to two lone, lorn women!” and here something twinkled in Elizabeth’s eyes; but perhaps she was a little taken aback when Malcolm very quietly and reverently raised the hand to his lips, as though he were vowing knightly service to his liege lady.

“I should ask nothing better than to be your friend,” he said in a low voice; but perhaps something in her manner checked him, for he added hastily, “and your sister’s too.”

It was rather a lame conclusion, but Elizabeth accepted it graciously. “I shall rely on you to help us,” she said very seriously; “get him to break with the Jacobis, and Dinah and I will owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Hush! please do not mention names,” whispered Malcolm; “some one might overhear us;” but he was too late, Elizabeth’s incautious speech had reached an unseen auditor.

Malcolm felt a little ashamed of himself when he remembered his impulsive action. “She will think it so strange,” he thought; “she will not understand that it was only the outward and visible sign of my inward reverence.” But he was wrong, Elizabeth did understand, and she did not misjudge him.

“He is a high-minded gentleman,” she said to herself; and then she sighed and her face grew troubled, “but I wish–I wish he had not done that.”

Malcolm found his work cut out for him; for the remainder of the afternoon he was hunting his quarry. But Cedric was never alone. He was either surrounded by a bevy of girls or else Jacobi was beside him. Even Cedric seemed surprised at the tenacity with which his friend and host stuck to him.

“Herrick wants me,” he said once; “I will come back to you right enough, old fellow;” but Jacobi still pinioned him.

“We will go together, my dear boy,” he said pleasantly. “I have taken a fancy to your Mentor. He seems a clever chap. He is a barrister, isn’t he, and literary, and all that sort of thing?”

“I have told you about him often enough,” returned Cedric, in rather a surly tone, as though the iron hand under the velvet glove made itself evident. Cedric felt he was being managed and coerced, and he waxed indignant; but Saul Jacobi was more than a match for him, and in spite of all Malcolm’s efforts, Cedric went back to Henley without a word of warning.

Malcolm was quite troubled and crestfallen over his failure.

“I did my best,” he said to Elizabeth; “I followed him about the whole afternoon, but that fellow stuck to him like a leech.”

“So I saw,” she returned rather sadly; “it was no fault of yours, Mr. Herrick, I am quite sure of that. Well, we must find some other opportunity.” And then Elizabeth smiled at him very kindly, and Malcolm went back to the Crow’s Nest feeling somewhat comforted.

CHAPTER XXIII

SAINT ELIZABETH!

Love lies deeper than all words;
And not the spoken but the speechless love Waits answer, ere I rise and go my way. –BROWNING.