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Herb of Grace

<h3> CHAPTER XI </h3> <h3> "A LITTLE EGOTISTICAL, PERHAPS" </h3> We always like those who admire us, but do not always like those whom we admire. —LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle. —MICHAEL ANGELO. The bedrooms at the Wood House opened on a wide corridor which extended the whole length of the house. It was known by the name of the Red Gallery, probably from the great stained-glass window through which the sunset glow filtered on summer evenings, and reflected purple and crimson stains on the tessellated pavement of the hall below. By some odd coincidence, a figure of the Thuringian queen St. Elizabeth was the subject of the window. Something in the figure and the pose of the crowned head of the saint reminded Malcolm of Elizabeth Templeton; but the meek beauty of the upturned face resembled Dinah. The gallery was carpeted, and comfortably furnished with easy-chairs and one or two oak settles; the walls were covered with pictures. On winter afternoons, when a great beech log burnt cheerily in the fireplace, it must have been a pleasant place for a twilight gossip before dressing for dinner. As the family was small, several of the bedrooms had never been used; they were twelve in number, and an artist friend of the sisters had suggested that each chamber should bear the name of a month of the year. By a happy conceit which had greatly delighted them, he had with his own hand not only illuminated the name, but had with exquisite taste painted a spray of flowers that were typical of each month. For example, over Elizabeth's door—June—hung a lovely cluster of crimson and white roses; while Dinah, who had appropriated September, had a cluster of blackberries and traveller's joy. When Malcolm had taken possession of the guest-room—April—he had gazed admiringly at a festoon of pink apple-blossoms over his door, but when he had praised the novel adornment with his wonted enthusiasm, the sisters modestly disclaimed all credit. "It was not our idea," observed Elizabeth regretfully; "neither Dinah nor I had the genius to evolve it. It was our friend, Mr. Leon Power. You will know his name; his 'Andromache' was so much talked about last year.'" "Of course, every one knows Leon Power," returned Malcolm quickly. "A friend of mine, Mr. Keston, quite swears by him." "We know Mr. Keston's pictures well," observed Dinah in her placid way. "I hear he is to have Mr. Logan's house for the summer, and then we shall have the pleasure of making his acquaintance. I assure you, Mr. Herrick, that it was all Mr. Power's idea. He used to come down for a few days and paint a door at a time. We loved to sit in the gallery and watch him. You have no idea how it interested us." When Elizabeth, still carrying her antique lamp, passed swiftly down the gallery, she paused as usual at her sister's door. Dinah was sitting in a carved oak chair by the open window with a reading-lamp beside her. Her evening dress was replaced by a white muslin wrapper, which made her look younger than ever. The red edges of the St. Thomas a Kempis that she had been reading was the only spot of colour about her. "You are later than usual, dear," she said gently. "Did you go all the way to Rotherwood?" "In this garb! My dear child, supposing I had met the vicar! Oh no, we only walked to the usual trysting-place. Well, Dinah"—seating herself in a comfortable easy-chair beside her—"what do you think of our new friend?" "I was going to ask you that question," returned her sister in a disappointed voice. "I did so want to know your opinion; but you are so dreadfully quick, Betty. Of course I like him; he is very gentlemanly and agreeable, and I think clever." "Oh, I should say there was no doubt of his cleverness." Then Dinah brightened up as though she had received a personal compliment. "I am so glad you think so. The society of a clever, cultured man like Mr. Herrick must be so good for Cedric; and then he is so pleasant, and has so much to say on every subject, and he has such original ideas. Really, poor dear Mr. Carlyon was quite cast into the shade this evening." "Oh, there I differ from you. Mr. Carlyon is original too, and can hold his own with any one;" and Elizabeth spoke with some warmth, almost with asperity, and her sister looked at her rather anxiously. "Dear Betty, I meant no disparagement of Mr. Carlyon. He is such a favourite with all of us that we are not likely to undervalue him. It struck me once or twice that he was not quite in his usual spirits." "He is a little worried about his father," returned Elizabeth. "He thinks Theo does not look after him properly. But we were talking about Mr. Herrick, were we not?" Elizabeth was not quite herself. Something in Dinah's speech had ruffled her. She was a little quick-tempered and impulsive; but she soon recovered herself. "Does it strike you, Die, that Mr. Herrick is quite aware of his own cleverness, and that he rather prides himself on being original and out of the common. Oh, I mean nothing unkind," as Dinah looked rather grave at this. "I like him exceedingly. I should be an ungrateful wretch if I did not," she added to herself. "He is a good man, I am sure of that; and," with a merry laugh, "I am also sure that to know him will be a liberal education." Though Dinah joined in the laugh, she was evidently discomposed by her sister's observation. "I am afraid you think him conceited," she said regretfully. "Oh dear, no; a little egotistical, perhaps—I might even say a little opinionative; but then we all have our faults, and I fancy he will improve greatly on acquaintance. When I know him better, Die, I shall delight in arguing with him. There is no use arguing with Mr. Carlyon, he always gives in to me at once; but Mr. Herrick would fight it out to the bitter end." Dinah shook her head at this lukewarm praise. Elizabeth's opinion was of the utmost moment to her. She relied on it with a simple faith that astonished strangers. Malcolm was right in suspecting that the younger sister was the moving spirit of the house. Elizabeth's vigorous mind, her clear insight, and strong common-sense, made her quick to judge and discriminate. As Dinah knew, she very seldom made a mistake in her opinion of a person. Dinah's charitable nature was rather prone to overestimate her friends and acquaintances—"all her geese were swans." As Elizabeth often said, when she cared for any one she simply could not see their faults. "If we were all as blind as Dinah," her sister would say, "the world would be a happier place;" but all the same she loved and reverenced the simple goodness and sweetness that by a divine alchemy transmuted base metal into gold. Elizabeth was quite aware why Dinah shook her head so disapprovingly. Cedric's hero had found favour in her eyes, and she wished her other self—for so she tenderly termed Elizabeth—to do homage to him likewise; but Elizabeth's gratitude and her wholesome liking were not disposed to hero-worship. "Mr. Herrick was very nice, and a great acquisition, and she was quite sure they would soon be good friends;" and as Elizabeth always meant what she said, Dinah felt tolerably satisfied with this verdict. "And now let me hear about Mr. Carlyon, Betty," she observed cheerfully. "I do hope his holiday was not spoiled by Theo's shiftless ways." "Oh, as to that," returned Elizabeth impatiently, "Theo will be Theo to the end of her days. It is a mystery to me how good people can be so aggravating. Her brother always declares that she is really a good woman." "I should certainly think he was right, dear." "Her goodness is rather microscopic then," returned Elizabeth drily. "Mr. Carlyon—our Mr. Carlyon, you know—told me that it fretted him sadly to see how his father's little comforts were neglected. Theo puts her parochial work before her home duties. He said the meals were badly served and badly cooked; that Theo often came in late for dinner and took a hasty meal in her bonnet; that in the evening there was no sociality—his father wrote his sermons or buried himself in his books, and Theo worked at her accounts or dropped asleep from sheer fatigue on the couch." "Poor Mr. Carlyon, he deserves a better daughter; but Theo has always been a restless, bustling sort of mortal. I suppose David—we really must call him David between ourselves, Betty, to distinguish him—I suppose he will have his father as usual in August?" "Oh dear, yes; and Mrs. Pratt will lead them both a life. She always does; I never saw such, a woman. I mean to give her a bit of my mind one of these days." "She is almost as trying as Theo," returned Dinah with a smile. "I think David gives in to her too much for the sake of peace." "So I often tell him." "I wish Mr. Charrington would invite Mr. Carlyon to the vicarage. Mrs. Finch is such a comfortable soul; she thinks nothing a trouble. But I suppose such an idea would never enter the vicar's head." "Oh dear, no. But after all it does not matter, Die; nothing would induce Mr. Carlyon to leave his son's roof. I do not believe that any amount of creature comforts or learned conversations would tempt him away from his boy. I think their affection for each other is one of the most touching things I know." "Indeed it is, Betty," and Dinah looked at her sister rather wistfully; but Elizabeth was too much engrossed with her subject to notice her. "David's attachment to his father is quite beautiful," she went on; "but I cannot help wondering over it sometimes. He seems as proud of that shabby, mild-spoken little man as though he were a bishop in lawn sleeves, and not a broken-down, hard-working curate-in-charge, who preaches dull, dry little sermons." "But his life is his best sermon, Betty!" "Ah, you are right there," and Elizabeth's beaming look was good to see. "David sometimes tells me that his father's patience with Theo is almost angelic. 'I don't know how he bears it,' he said once. 'I am not particular about food myself, and would dine cheerfully on bread and cheese any day; but I hate a smoky chimney and dust; and really that Bridget of theirs is a terrible female, and one of the worst specimens of a maid-of-all-work that I ever knew. I took to dusting the place myself, but Theo never noticed it.' Well, well, it's a queer world, Die. Now it is late and I am keeping you up," and then the sisters kissed each other affectionately, and Elizabeth withdrew to her own room. Dinah sat still in her chair, and there was a thoughtful, almost a perplexed look on her face. "I wish I could understand it," she said to herself; "but in some things Betty is so reserved. People who only know her a little would never find it out. They persist that she is frankness itself, but there are limits that no one can overstep—even I dare not." Here Dinah paused. "But she knows very well that I should never ask her the question." "All the same," a moment later, "I am sorely puzzled. Is it only a friendship between those two, or is it something else on David Carlyon's part? Once or twice I have seen him looking at her as a man only looks at one woman." "If I could venture to give her a hint, to beg her to be careful! Elizabeth is so careless. She has no idea of her own attractions, and how irresistible she can be. It is all very well for her to say she is older than David, and that she takes a sisterly interest in him because Theo is so unsatisfactory; but there is no need to give him so much of her company. Oh, no need at all, and it will only make people talk." And here the careful elder sister sighed as though she were oppressed with her responsibilities. "Elizabeth is only thirty," she went on. "Why, that is quite young nowadays, and after all David is not more than three or four years younger. It is not the age that matters, or David's poverty, for Betty has plenty of money of her own. But he is not good enough for her. She is such a grand creature—when she marries she ought to have a husband worthy of her—one whom she could honour and obey as well as love—a man of intellect and power." Had a name suddenly occurred to Dinah, for as she rose hastily a girlish blush came to her cheek? "I am quite ashamed of myself," she whispered. "If there is one thing or person I detest it is a match-maker. How could such an idea come into my head!" But whatever idea it was, Dinah soon banished it, and before long both the sisters were sleeping sweetly on their lavender-scented pillows. Malcolm saw little of his hostesses the next day. Elizabeth spent the greater part of the day at Rotherwood, and Dinah was busy with her household duties. He and Cedric played tennis the most of the morning. Then they lounged about the garden and woodlands in their flannels, and chatted and smoked endless cigarettes, and after luncheon Cedric ordered out the dog-cart and showed his friend some of the beauties of the surrounding neighbourhood. They drove back through Rotherwood, and as they turned the corner by the church they came upon Mr. Carlyon. Malcolm did not recognise him at first in his straw hat, until he hailed them in a cheery voice. "Hallo, Cedric, are you going to cut me? Look here, my dear fellow, you and Mr. Herrick must have some tea at my digging. It is a few steps farther. The mare looks hot. Why don't you put her up at 'The Plough' and let her have a feed and a rub down?" And as Cedric approved of this arrangement, Malcolm was obliged to acquiesce, though he was inwardly bored by the delay. They had been out for hours, and he was rather weary of the lad's chatter. Some new acquaintances of the name of Jacobi had been the subject of Cedric's talk—a brother and sister living in Gresham Gardens. It was in vain that Malcolm had repeated more than once that he knew nothing of them. Cedric would not take the hint, and he held forth on the brother's cleverness and the sister's beauty. To listen to the boy one might have thought the Jacobis were much above the average of human beings—that there must be something idyllic, angelic, and altogether seraphic in their persons and dispositions; but Malcolm, who knew his man, discounted largely from this, and kept his amusement and incredulity to himself. But the name of Jacobi palled on him at last, and he was counting the milestones between him and the Wood House rather anxiously, when they saw Mr. Carlyon standing on the curb with his straw hat very much tilted over his eyes. No maiden lady of uncertain age loved her tea better than Malcolm. Nevertheless, the curate's invitation did not please him. As he got down from the dog-cart he thought regretfully of the cool, shady drawing-room at the Wood House, and the pretty tea-table with its silver urn and old-fashioned china. Cedric was so thoughtless. Of course his sisters would be expecting them. Carlyon seemed a pleasant fellow, but he was not sure that he desired a closer acquaintance with him. Malcolm was inclined to be a little distant, but neither of his companions seemed to notice it. A low white cottage, standing back in a shady little garden, was their destination. As Mr. Carlyon unlatched the gate, Cedric said in an audible aside— "It is not washing-day, is it, David? I hope Mother Pratt has her kettle boiling, for Herrick and I are as thirsty as fish." "My dear fellow, I have no idea," and Mr. Carlyon looked a little alarmed. "Just look after Mr. Herrick for a few minutes while I tackle the good lady." "I don't believe Mrs. Pratt will bring the tea-things for another half-hour," observed Cedric cheerfully. "Poor old Davie, it is awful hard lines for him to have such a landlady. She imposes on him shamefully." "Why does he put up with it?" returned Malcolm drily. He was not in the humour to discuss Mr. Carlyon's household arrangements. The room into which Cedric had ushered him was a very pleasant one. It was rather low, but a side window with a cushioned recess looked out on a small lawn, with beautifully-kept flower-beds and long borders filled with old-fashioned herbaceous flowers, where brown bees were humming in the sunshine. "Mrs. Pratt evidently keeps a good gardener," he said, as he took note of the neatly-shaven and carefully—swept paths. "David is the gardener," returned Cedric laughing. "The garden is his hobby. He is at work sometimes at six o'clock in the morning. It is rather a good garden, as you see; but when David first came to the White Cottage it was a perfect wilderness. A lone widder woman cannot be expected to attend to house and garden too," he continued in a lackadaisical voice. "Hallo, Davy, what cheer, my lad? Are the fates propitious?" "Not exactly," in a depressed tone. "I am afraid it is washing-day, and that Mrs. Pratt will keep us waiting. I filled the kettle for her myself, but it has got to boil; but if you don't mind waiting—" in a still more embarrassed manner. "What's the matter, good friends?" observed a cheery voice. "Can I be of any use and assistance? I am not afraid of a dozen Mrs. Pratts. May I join your tea-party, Mr. Carlyon? I was just going to ask Mrs. Finch for a cup, but as I passed I saw Cedric at the window," and before any could answer Elizabeth had advanced into the room with a smile that seemed to evoke responsive smiles on every face. "Thank goodness! Bet," exclaimed her brother devoutly; "we shall get along now." "Oh yes, we shall get along," and Elizabeth took off her hat and hastily smoothed her hair. "Now for the Pratt woman and tea. Au revoir, gentlemen." And then she vanished, and after a moment's hesitation Mr. Carlyon followed her. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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