CHAPTER XXXI
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT
Many a one, by being thought better than he was, has become better.
—JOWETT.
Not as little as we dare, but as much as we can.
—BISHOP OF WESTCOTT.
Malcolm wrote to Dinah that afternoon, giving her a full account of his interview with Leah Jacobi; then he spent the rest of the day making up arrears of work. The last post brought him a reproachful little note from Anna.
"Mother thinks you have forgotten us. Why are you staying away in this unmannerly fashion, you naughty boy?" she wrote. "It is ten whole days since you were here, and we both feel lone and lorn without you"—and so on. But under the playful words he could detect a shade of earnestness.
Tired as he was, and needing rest sorely, he answered the letter and posted it before he slept.
Anna read it aloud to Mrs. Herrick the next morning, and they both agreed that it was a charming letter. The dear home people must forgive his seeming neglect, it said, for it was not possible for him to put in an appearance just yet. He was arranging a troublesome affair for a friend that gave him a great deal of anxiety and worry. He had been to Oxford, and might have to go down again, and he could not spare an hour for social duties.
"Oxford—I wonder if the business concerns his friend Cedric Templeton," observed Anna thoughtfully. But Mrs. Herrick only looked grave and said she did not know, and that evidently Malcolm did not wish to enlighten them. She spoke dispassionately and not in the least as though his reserve troubled her; but Anna was rather absent and distrait the rest of the day. She had watched Malcolm narrowly and had come to the conclusion that he had something on his mind. All his attempts at gaiety, his little jokes, his badinage, did not deceive her for a moment. Trouble had come to him. In some ways he was a changed man: he looked older, graver, and in repose his features had a care-worn expression, as of one who has worked hard in turmoil of soul. And this trouble—could it be connected in any way with this mysterious Elizabeth, of whom he never spoke? Ah, that was the question over which Anna pondered so heavily as her fair head bent over her typewriter.
Malcolm had ordered an early breakfast again in his own room, but as be sat down to it Hepsy brought him a note. A slip of a lad had delivered it, she said, and was waiting for an answer.