Books: Herb of Grace

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"How do you mean, my dear lad?"

"I gave them my sacred promise not to play for money. I don't know
why Dinah was always so afraid of that. They never thought of the
other thing," and Cedric hung his head in shame--"they would not
believe it was possible; it was always debt and not paying one's
bills that Dinah feared."

"Your sister was right, Templeton," returned Malcolm somewhat
sternly. "Wait a moment, I must think over things and see what is to
be done;" and then he rose from the bench and paced slowly up and
down. "A hundred and twenty pounds lost in a single night to a
professional card-sharper," he thought. "The rogues ought to be
shown up, only this would involve the end of the lad's university
career." Malcolm knew the Proctor well--not even a first offence
would receive a merciful verdict.

If only the boy would throw himself upon his sisters' compassion--
women were so soft-hearted and forgave so easily. But Cedric had
refused this; he had even used strong language when his adviser
pressed it.

"Obstinate young beggar," he growled; "it would serve him right to
let him get out of the mess by himself;" and then he relented from
his severity, and rapidly added up some sums in his head. The result
of his calculation was satisfactory. He had just that amount lying
idle at his banker's. His mother made him a liberal allowance, and
he was beginning to turn an honest penny by literary work. At that
time he was still an occupant of his mother's house, so his expenses
were not great.

"Yes, I will risk it," he thought, with one of those sudden impulses
that took other people as well as himself by surprise, and then he
walked quickly up to Cedric.

"Look here, Templeton," he exclaimed, "I have made up my mind to go
bail for the whole amount. It is too late now to do anything, but
to-morrow I will see those fellows and give them a bit of my mind.
Your friend the card-sharper will have to make tracks. Anyhow, I
will pay up."

"Good heavens, Mr. Herrick, you don't mean--you don't mean;" but
here Cedric could not utter a word more, for his voice was choked
with sobs. Malcolm could just gather a few incoherent expressions--
"benefactor"--"God bless him"--"eternal gratitude," or some such
phrases.

"Tut, nonsense," returned Malcolm testily; but his eyes were not
quite clear, and he laid a kindly hand on the boy's shoulder. "I
want no thanks, only you must promise me, on your word as an English
gentleman, never to play for money as long as you are here."

"I promise--I will vow if you like--there is nothing--nothing that I
would not promise you. Mr. Herrick, you have saved me from disgrace,
and Dinah from a broken heart."

"Hush, hush!"

"No, please let me say one thing more. It is a loan--of course I
understand that; it may be years before I pay it back, but if I live
it shall be paid back, every penny."

"Oh, we can talk about that in the future," returned Malcolm
quickly. He had little hope that Cedric would ever be able to repay
him.

"It shall be paid," replied the lad firmly. "My sisters are very
good to me--and I have more than I need;" and Malcolm's good sense
and knowledge of human nature made him hold his tongue.

It would be a pity to damp the lad's good resolution, and probably
the small sacrifices and petty self-denials necessary to the
settlement of the debt would be valuable training, and help to make
a man of him; so he said nothing further on the subject, and a few
minutes later they parted.

Malcolm kept his promise, and before the next day was over he had
paid Cedric's debt of honour, with a stern word of caution to his
tempters that turned them chill with dismay.

From this day Cedric attached himself to his benefactor with a dog-
like fidelity and devotion that secretly touched Malcolm. During the
latter's brief visits to Oxford they were seldom apart; and in spite
of the disparity between their ages, and the marked difference in
their tastes, a warm mutual attachment sprang up between the two.
Malcolm was soon put in possession of Cedric's history and manner of
life from his boyhood; he listened to copious anecdotes of his home
and school-days.

He was soon made aware of Cedric's crowning ambition to take part in
the Oxford and Cambridge race, and that this honour was the dream
and purpose of his life.

His other purpose, to compete for the Civil Service Examination at
the close of his university life, seemed relegated to the background
and scarcely entered into his thoughts at all; and though Malcolm
dropped a warning word from time to time, he dared not put too much
pressure on the lad, for he recognised intuitively how body and mind
were developing under an athlete's training. Cedric's fame as an
oarsman soon reached the ears of authority, and at the time of his
visit to Lincoln's Inn it was already a foregone conclusion that his
name would be entered for the next race.

They talked of this for some time; and then, as the storm still
raged, Malcolm handed his visitor his own copy of the Times, and sat
down to answer one or two pressing letters. As soon as these were
finished and Malachi had received his instructions for the next day,
he tilted his chair back from the table and disposed himself
comfortably for further talk.

But first there was a little dumb-show on Cedric's part; for he drew
from his breast-pocket a Russian leather cigarette-case and held it
out with a significant smile. But Malcolm waved it away.

"Avaunt, Satanus," he said with dignity. "Are you aware, my dear
fellow, that you are in a place of business--a venerable institution
sacred to the Muses--and that I have to live up to my reputation?"

"Oh, I thought you were boss of the whole concern," returned Cedric
in a discomfited tone. "You are pretty safe from visitors on such an
afternoon."

"Even if there are no clients, we have a minor prophet always on
hand," replied Malcolm.

Then Cedric laughed.

"Mealy Murphy! Oh my prophetic soul, I forgot the youthful Malachi.
I say, Herrick, I was just thinking, as you were writing just now,
how odd it seems that I have known you just two years, and you have
never been near the Wood House yet."

"It has not been for want of invitations," returned his friend with
a smile. "Don't you remember that when you first kindly asked me I
had arranged to take my mother abroad, and the next time I was going
to Scotland with a friend?"

"Oh yes, and the third time you were moving into your new diggings
in Cheyne Walk." Cedric spoke with a touch of impatience.

"But we have often met at Oxford," observed Malcolm smilingly. And
then he coloured slightly and continued in an embarrassed voice, "I
am afraid, my dear fellow, that you have rather wondered that you
have not been invited to No. 27 Queen's Gate; but, as I once
explained to you, the house belongs to my mother."

"Just as the Wood House belongs to Dinah and Elizabeth," returned
Cedric.

"Ah, just so; but there is a difference. My mother is not quite like
other ladies. Her life, and I may say the greater part of her
fortune, are devoted to charitable objects. If I had invited you to
stay with us you would have been simply bored to death. Amusement,
social obligations, the duties we owe to society, do not belong to
my mother's creed at all. If I might borrow a word from a renowned
novelist, I would call her 'a charitable grinder,' for she grinds
from morning till night at a never-ceasing wheel of committees,
meetings, and Heaven knows what besides."

"She reminds me of the immortal Mrs. Jellyby," observed Cedric
airily; but Malcolm shook his head.

"No, there is no resemblance. My mother is a clear-headed, practical
woman. She manages her house herself, and the domestic machinery
goes like clockwork. The servants know their duty and do their work
well; and I have heard our old nurse say that one could eat off the
floor; but in spite of all this the word 'comfort' does not enter my
mother's vocabulary."

"Good gracious! Herrick."

"She has splendid health," continued Malcolm gravely, "and work is a
perfect passion with her. She is energy incarnate, and among her
fellow-workers she is much respected. Unfortunately she expects her
belongings to live up to her standard." Here Malcolm paused.

"You mean Miss Sheldon has to work too?" observed Cedric.

"Yes, I mean that," returned Malcolm slowly. "She is very fond of my
mother--they are much attached to each other--but there is no doubt
that Anna works too hard. You can see now," he went on hurriedly,
"why I thought it better to take rooms for myself. I was not in
sympathy with my mother's pursuits; and when I left Oxford I soon
began to realise that life was impossible under my mother's roof.
The separation was painful to us both, and it nearly broke Anna's
heart, but at the present moment I do not think that any of us
repents of my action."

"You are all right now, Herrick?"

"Yes, I am all right, as you will see for yourself on Friday. My
crib just suits me. I have excellent companionship when I want it,
or solitude if I prefer it, and though life at Cheyne Walk is a
trifle Bohemian after Queen's Gate, I would not exchange it for a
palace."

"I am so glad to hear you say that. But, Herrick, I begin to be
afraid, don't you know, that you will find the Wood House slow. Of
course I think no end of my sisters; but you see they are not
young."

"So I imagine," returned Malcolm, who was secretly disposed to agree
with Cedric. Two maiden ladies of uncertain age might be endeared to
their brother; but Malcolm, who was rather fastidious on the subject
of female beauty, was not over-anxious to cultivate their
acquaintance.

"Dinah is much older than Elizabeth," continued Cedric
confidentially. "There were two or three brothers and sisters
between them, only they died. She is over forty, you know, and
Elizabeth is nearly thirty. There is a good bit of difference--only
she never makes herself out young. You will be sure to like them,"
went on the lad eagerly; "they are good women, and just your sort."

"Oh, I daresay we shall get on first-rate," returned Malcolm
mendaciously, for he was anything but certain of it. "Hallo, old
fellow," interrupting himself, "the storm is over and we can make
tracks now." And then they went out together.

As they parted at the Temple station, Cedric pushed a little sealed
packet into his friend's hand.

"It is the first instalment," he whispered, growing very red; "don't
open it till you get back." But Malcolm's curiosity would not allow
him to wait; and when Cedric had disappeared into the station he
broke the seal. To his surprise there were fifty pounds in notes and
gold, the saving and scrapings of two years.

"Good lad," he murmured approvingly, as he stowed it carefully away
in a breast-pocket, and a thrill of pride and pleasure shot through
him. Yes, he must keep it, he thought; he could not affront his
young manliness and independence by returning it. "It is what I
should have done in his case," he said to himself. And then he
thought that he would lay out part in buying a keepsake for Anna.
There was a little brooch she had much admired, a mere toy of a
thing, a tiny quiver full of arrows, studded with small diamonds and
tipped with a pearl. The shop where they had noticed it was close
by, and he would buy it at once. But as Malcolm hurried off on this
kindly errand he little realised what the joy of that possession
would be to Anna Sheldon.

CHAPTER III

A PAGE OF ANCIENT HISTORY

Before we can bring happiness to others, we must first
be happy ourselves; nor will happiness abide within us
unless we confer it on others.--MAETERLINCK.

During the preceding hour or two Malcolm's face had worn its
brightest and most youthful aspect--the society of Cedric had roused
him and taken him out of himself; but as he approached the handsome
and imposing-looking house where his mother lived, his countenance
resumed its normal gravity.

To him it had been a house of bondage, and he had never regarded it
as a home; his environment from boyhood had not suited him, and
though he loved his mother, and gave her, at least outwardly, the
obedience and honour that were due to her, there had not been that
sympathy between them that one would have expected from an only son
to a widowed mother.

Malcolm's father had died when he was about six years old, but his
infant recollections of him were wonderfully vivid. He remembered
waking up one night from some childish dream that had frightened
him, to see a kind face bending over him, and to feel warm, strong
arms lifting him up.

"Never mind, Sonny, father's with you," he heard a cheery voice say.

"Daddy's wid baby," he repeated drowsily, as he nestled down in his
father's arms. "Nice, nice daddy," and two hot little hands patted
his face.

Then a voice in the distance said, "You are spoiling him, Rupert.
Malcolm ought to be a brave boy and not cry on account of a silly
dream." Of course it was his mother who spoke; even from his infancy
her method of education had been bracing. "Baby isn't a boy,
movver," he had once said in extenuation of some childish fault;
"movver must not punish Baby."

The memories of early childhood are always vague and hazy; but in
the distance, among shifting forms and changing prospects, there was
always a big, big figure, with kind eyes and strong arms, looming
largely in his recollection.

"If my father had lived, I know we should have been such friends,"
Malcolm would sigh to himself in his growing youth; and though his
mother never suspected it, he often looked at his father's portrait
that hung in her dressing-room, until his eyes were full of tears.
"If father had lived, I shouldn't have been so lonely and out of it
all," he would say as he turned away with a quivering lip.

Mrs. Herrick tried to do her duty by the boy; but she was a busy
woman, and had no leisure to devote to his amusement. The long
holidays were more pleasant in anticipation to both mother and son
than they proved in reality.

In the working hive at 27 Queen's Gate there seemed no place for the
restless, growing lad. His mother was always shut up in the library,
where she wrote her endless letters and reports and added up her
accounts, and Anna was with her governess.

Malcolm would be put in Anderson's charge, the steady, reliable
butler and factotum, and introduced to all the sights of London--
Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, the Tower, and the British Museum,
the Zoological Gardens, and Madame Tussaud's. Sometimes they went to
Kew, or Richmond Park, or took the steamer to Hampton Court. The
nearest approach to dissipation was an afternoon spent with the
Christy Minstrels. Mrs. Herrick would not hear of the theatre; but
once, sad to relate, when Anderson was indisposed, and the footman,
a rather feeble-minded young man, had been sent with Malcolm to see
a panorama that was considered interesting and instructing, Malcolm,
by sundry bribes and many blandishments, had seduced his guardian
into accompanying him to Drury Lane, where they sat in the pit, side
by side, and watched with breathless interest the never-to-be-
forgotten pantomime of "Jack and the Bean Stalk."

"They'll run you in for this, Master Malcolm," Charles had observed
ruefully, as they hurried through the dark streets. "If I lose my
place it will be all along of you, and it is a good place too,
though Mr. Anderson is a bit down on one." But, strange to say, they
escaped scot-free. Mrs. Herrick had not returned from a monster
meeting at St. James's Hall, and Anderson had retired to bed to
nurse his cold. Malcolm confided the whole story of his escapade to
Anna, and she had wept with grief and dismay. "Oh, Mally, how wicked
of Charles to take you!" she sobbed. "I never did think he looked
quite good. Mother would be so angry and unhappy if she knew; she
says theatres are not good for young people."

"It is just a crank on mother's part," returned Malcolm loudly; his
eyes were bright with excitement. "It was the loveliest thing you
ever saw, Anna. The princess was a beauty, and no mistake; even
Charles thought so, and he has seen princesses by the score. I am
glad I went; the boys won't think me such a duffer when I tell them.
Don't shake your head, Anna; you are a girl, and you don't
understand how much one has to put up with from the fellows. They
call me the Puritan, and ask if I wear pinafores at home. But I
stopped that," and here Malcolm doubled up his fists in a singularly
suggestive manner.

Malcolm's only sister, a pretty, fair-haired girl, had died of fever
when she was eight years old, and for years Mrs. Herrick had felt
her loss too deeply to mention her name. "If Florence had lived,"
she once said rather bitterly to her son, "she would have been my
close companion, and we should have thought alike on all points;"
but it may be doubted if this maternal dream would ever have been
realised.

A mere accident had led to the adoption of Anna Sheldon shortly
after Florence's death. She was the orphan child of a young artist
in whom Mrs. Herrick had interested herself, and when the broken-
hearted wife had followed her husband, Mrs. Herrick had taken the
lonely child home.

The kind action had brought its own reward. Anna's gentleness and
sweetness of disposition soon won the affection of her adopted
mother. She was submissive by nature, and yielded readily to the
opinions and wishes of those she loved. Mrs. Herrick's ideas on the
subject of education might be bracing and invigorating, but there
was nothing oppressive in her rule. Perhaps she understood girls
better than boys, for Anna thrived under her system. The old nurse
Mrs. Dawson, who still officiated as Mrs. Herrick's personal
attendant, taught her needle-work: an excellent governess, who was
both judicious and reasonable, presided over the schoolroom and
accompanied her in her walks; nor was she entirely without
companions, for she attended dancing and deportment classes with the
young daughters of their vicar, a much-esteemed guide, philosopher,
and friend to the Herrick family.

Until the governess, Miss Greenwood, left them to be married, and
Anna grew up to woman's estate, her life was as happy as most
girls'. The chief events in it were Malcolm's holidays. Anna looked
forward to them for months beforehand, and she always cried herself
to sleep the day he left.

She and her adopted mother were the best of friends. Anna regarded
Mrs. Herrick as one of the noblest of women, and her dutiful
submission and anxiety to please her benefactress secretly surprised
Malcolm.

Mrs. Herrick was not a demonstrative woman, but in her own way she
was very good to Anna; she encouraged her to call her mother, bought
her pretty dresses and ornaments such as girls loved, but there
Anna's list of privileges was at an end. It never struck Mrs.
Herrick that she had simply no life of her own--that at seventeen or
eighteen a girl craves for congenial companionship, pleasant
occupation, and a fair amount of amusement.

When Anna was liberated from the schoolroom, she would have liked to
go to picture-galleries, attend concerts, and mix with interesting
people; in spite of her shyness and gentleness, she had plenty of
mind and character, and Malcolm had already cultivated her artistic
tastes. One summer, indeed, they had gone abroad, and Malcolm had
been with them, and for two months Anna felt they had been in the
anteroom of Paradise.

"The summer we spent in Switzerland and in the Austrian Tyrol," were
words perpetually on Anna's lips. Poor child, she little guessed, as
she built up wonderful castles in the air, that it would be long
before she had such a holiday again.

It was an evil moment for Anna when she volunteered to learn
typewriting, that she might help her adopted mother; from that day
she became the willing slave bound at the chariot wheels of a good-
natured despot. No amount of work tired Mrs. Herrick; she had the
strength and vitality of ten women. It never entered her head that a
growing girl in her teens was liable to flag and grow weary, and so
the pretty pink roses that had bloomed among Alpine snows faded out
of Anna's cheeks, and the soft brown eyes grew heavy.

Anna never complained; if her back ached and her head was hot and
throbbing, Mrs. Herrick never knew it, and she was quite indignant
when Malcolm spoke to her of Anna's changed looks.

"She is not strong, and she is doing far too much. Dawson and I both
think so." Perhaps he spoke with some degree of bluntness, for Mrs.
Herrick responded with unusual irritability.

"I am very much obliged to you and Dawson," she returned rather
sarcastically, "for your solicitude on Anna's account, but I believe
I am still quite equal to the charge of looking after her."

"Oh, if you take it in that way," retorted Malcolm in an offended
voice; and then Mrs. Herrick resumed her smooth manner. She was a
good-tempered woman, and seldom indulged in sarcasm; but things had
gone wrong that morning, and her young secretary had made several
mistakes. Anna had at last been obliged in her own self-defence to
own that she had a severe headache.

Mrs. Herrick had just sent her to her own room to lie down, and had
rung for Dawson to attend her. She was sadly inconvenienced by this
untoward accident, and it was at this inauspicious moment that
Malcolm lodged his complaint.

"If these headaches continue I shall ask Dr. Armstrong to look in,"
she continued tranquilly. "Anna's services are most valuable to me.
I almost feel lost without her. It was a good day for me when she
threw herself into the work; it makes me regret my dear child less,
to feel that Anna sympathises with me so entirely;" and, in spite of
himself, Malcolm felt a little touched by these words.

A few weeks later he spoke to Anna; the girl had not recovered her
looks, and Nurse Dawson told him privately that she was losing her
appetite and getting thin; but Anna's eyes filled with tears at the
first words.

"Oh hush, dear Malcolm, please," she said, encircling his wrist with
her soft hand; it was a favourite caress with her, and Malcolm used
playfully to term it "Anna's handcuff," or the "Sheldon shackles."
In spite of their close intimacy as brother and sister, he had never
kissed her, but there was entire confidence between them.

"Please, please, Malcolm, do not say any more; it was very wrong of
nurse to put these ideas in your head. You know mother spoke to Dr.
Armstrong, and he is giving me a tonic; he says I must go out more,
so mother is trying to spare me all she can."

"And the headaches are better?" Malcolm looked at her quite sternly
as he put the question.

"Yes, I think so--I hope so," rather hesitatingly, for Anna was
absolutely truthful. "I still feel rather stupid of an evening; but
mother is so good, she lets me go to bed early."

She sighed rather heavily. "I wish I were stronger, Malcolm. Nurse
says I have never been robust. I do so love to help mother. I always
feel as though I can never do enough to show my gratitude to her.
What would have become of me when my parents died if she had not
brought me here. We were so dreadfully poor, and had so few friends.
Oh Malcolm, think of it," and then she whispered in his ear, "they
would have taken me to the workhouse--there was nothing else."

"Nonsense--rubbish," began Malcolm wrathfully; but Anna put her hand
upon his lips.

"No, dear, not nonsense. I am telling you the sober truth--mother
would endorse it. Do you think I do not owe her a life's service and
love for all her dear care of me!"

"If I am tired, I glory in my fatigue, for it is for my adopted
mother and her poor that I am working;" and Anna's eyes were very
soft and bright. "Malcolm, you have no idea how much happier she is
now I share her work. I know she never complained of her loneliness-
-it is not her way to complain--but she has missed Florence so
terribly. We talk of her sometimes, mother and I," continued the
girl thoughtfully, "and she tells me what a sweet daughter she would
have been, and how we should have been sisters. It is so dear of her
never to exclude me, even when she is thinking and talking of
Florence. 'If my little girl had lived,' she said once, 'I should
have had two daughters.'"

Malcolm had to hold his tongue at last, but he grumbled freely to
Nurse Dawson. In her he had a staunch ally; the old woman was
devoted to Anna, and by no means sided with her mistress.

"You see it is just this way, Mr. Malcolm, my dear," she said to him
once; "the mistress, bless her heart, thinks of nothing but them
charitable societies, from morning till night; they are more to her
than meat or drink or rest. She is as strong as a horse, and so she
is never tired like other folks. Why, my dear, I have known her
spend a whole day going from one meeting to another, speechifying
and reading reports, and yet when I have gone up to dress her in the
evening she has been as fresh as paint. She is made of cast-iron,
that's my belief," continued Dawson, who secretly adored her
mistress; "but cast-iron is one thing and a fragile blossom like
Miss Anna is another, as I made bold to tell my mistress the other
day; 'for it stands to reason, ma'am,' I said to her, 'that a young
creature like Miss Anna is not seasoned and toughened like a lady of
your age, and I never did think much of her constitution.'"

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