Books: Herb of Grace

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"And what did my mother say to that, Dawson?"

"Well, dearie, she had a deal to say, for I am free to confess that
my mistress is never at a loss for words. She argued with me for
pretty nigh half an hour--until she made things look so different
that I did not know whether I was on my head or my heels."

"She would have it that every one ought to work, old or young, rich
or poor; that she loved Miss Anna all the better for so readily
offering herself for the work. 'I should have left her free,' she
said that, Mr. Malcolm--'no one in my house should be compelled or
urged to put their hand to the plough; but when she came to me of
her own accord I could have wept with joy.'"

"Did my mother really say that, Dawson?"

"Ay, Mr. Malcolm, she did; and begging your pardon, dearie, you do
not half understand my mistress. She is quiet-spoken, and does not
show her feelings; but she has a warm heart. I know as well as you
do that our poor child is put upon and overworked, but she is the
sunshine of my mistress's life; that's what makes things so
difficult, for Miss Anna is bent on helping her, and will not listen
to a word."

Malcolm soon found he must hold his peace, and very soon his mind
was too much absorbed by his own concerns. After a time he got used
to Anna's pale cheeks; she had refused to listen to his advice, and
must dree her weird.

He had his own battles to fight, and victory was not easily
achieved; nevertheless his masculine will prevailed.

It was no hastily considered resolution that determined Malcolm to
leave his mother's roof and set up in chambers of his own, neither
did he effect his purpose without a good deal of pain; but, as he
told Cedric, life at 27 Queen's Gate was becoming impossible to him.

But it was one of the worst moments of his life when he announced
his intention to his mother. She listened to his embarrassed
explanation silently, and without offering any interruption; but her
pleasant, strong-featured face grew set and stern, and when he had
finished she looked at him almost solemnly.

"He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow," she said
slowly and sadly, and no word of reproach could have stung him more
deeply. It made him angry.

"Mother, you have no right to say that, and to speak as though I
were failing in my duty towards you," he returned indignantly; "it
is not fair--all my life I have tried to please you, and to carry
out your wishes."

"I am not complaining of you, Malcolm," she replied quietly; "your
own conscience is accusing you, not your mother. Would you have me
suppress the truth or tell you a lie? Do you think any mother could
listen unmoved to what you have told me just now--that you intend to
leave my roof, that my only son finds his home so uncongenial, and
his life here so irksome, that he is forced to quit it?"

"Mother, you are making things worse and worse," returned Malcolm
passionately; "you are putting matters in a wrong light. Will you
listen to me a moment?"

"Have I ever refused to listen to you, my son?" and a softer and
more motherly expression came into the gray eyes.

"No, you have always been kind," he replied; but there was a slight
quiver in his voice. "Mother, it is not my fault--at least I hope
not--that we think so differently on most subjects. I am nearly
eight-and-twenty, and at that age a man is bound to do the best for
himself."

"I hoped you would have married before this, Malcolm."

"There is no question of marrying at present," he returned in a
constrained voice. "I have not yet seen the woman whom I wish to
make my wife."

Then a singular expression crossed Mrs. Herrick's face.

"I am sorry to hear that, Malcolm; I would have willingly given you
up to a wife, but life in chambers seems to me so Bohemian."

"It is only an idea," he returned impatiently. "Mother dear, try to
believe that I am doing it for the best--for both our sakes. I am
not leaving you alone--you have Anna; and in spite of all your
kindness to me, I am well aware that I have never been any real help
or comfort; if I thought you needed me--that you relied on me for
assistance or protection--I would never have carved out this
independent life."

"It is the spirit of the age," she returned a little bitterly; "it
is the children who make terms, and the parents who have to yield
and submit."

"That is an old argument, mother," replied Malcolm wearily; "how
often we have gone over that ground, you and I. When our wills have
clashed it seems to me the concessions have all been on my side. How
many men of my age do you suppose would have yielded to you in the
matter of a latch-key? Poor old Anderson has been the chief
sufferer, and the victim of your strictness; do you think it has not
troubled me to keep him up night after night?"

"Anderson is my servant, and has to do his duty," replied Mrs.
Herrick rather stiffly.

"And he has done it," was Malcolm's answer; "he has been perfectly
conscientious; if he grumbled a bit now and then, no one could
wonder, at his age. Mother, it is no good talking--it is not only
the question of the latch-key, I want to have a place where I can be
free to lead my own life and see my own friends; there is no room
for them here--your busy life is too much crowded up with work to
have leisure for society."

"I have never refused to entertain your friends, Malcolm;" and a
dull red flush crossed the mother's face, as though this reproach
had gone home.

"Possibly not," rather coldly, "I do not think I have ever asked
you; but, mother, let us make an end of this. The first break will
be painful to all of us, but we shall soon shake down, and then you
and Anna will own that it was for the best. When you want me I shall
always be at your service. I shall see you every few days--Cheyne
Walk and Queen's Gate are not very far apart. As soon as I am
settled, you and Anna must come and have tea with me, and I must
introduce you to the Kestons. Now, mother dear, say something
comforting to a fellow;" and then Mrs. Herrick smiled faintly. She
loved her son far too well to hurt him by her reproaches; in her
secret heart she strongly disapproved of the step he was taking, but
she was a sensible woman, and knew that it was no good crying over
spilt milk.

At eight-and-twenty a man may refuse with some show of reason to be
attached to his mother's leading-strings, and may also be permitted
to strike out new paths for himself. Nevertheless, for many a long
day Mrs. Herrick carried a heavy heart, and only her adopted
daughter guessed how sorely Malcolm was missed by his mother.

CHAPTER IV

ANNA

Better to feel a love within
Than be lovely to the sight!
Better a homely tenderness
Than beauty's wild delight!
MACDONALD.

Malcolm often spent a night at Queen's Gate; he made a point of
never refusing his mother's invitations, and would even put off an
engagement if she needed him. On this occasion he had promised to
remain two nights.

A meeting on behalf of a college in Japan, for training; native
candidates for holy orders, was to be held at 27 Queen's Gate that
evening, and some excellent speakers--women as well as men--had been
announced for that occasion. Mrs. Herrick thought the whole subject
would appeal to Malcolm, and in this she was not wrong. Hitherto he
had fought shy of zenana meetings, barmaid associations, working
girls' clubs, open-air spaces, and people's parks, and even cabmen's
shelters and drinking fountains.

"They were all good and worthy objects," he had observed to Anna,
and he could have tackled them singly, but not when they were piled
on ad nauseum. But the Japanese college had been largely discussed
in his special circle, and also in the paper of which he was the
editor--the Times had even devoted one of its columns to the
subject; and Mrs. Herrick had been secretly much gratified by
Malcolm's readiness to be present.

"The Bishop will be with us," she said, with an inflexion of pride
in her tone; "he is over here just now on account of his wife's
health, and has promised to take the chair." Then Malcolm signified
his perfect willingness to make his Lordship's acquaintance, and to
listen to any amount of speeches; and Mrs. Herrick had gone to her
bed that night a happy woman.

Why could not Malcolm be always like that? she thought, and then she
sighed gently as she took her Bible in her hand.

It opened of its own accord at Samuel's childhood and Hannah's
solemn dedication of her first-born; no passages in the well-read
book had been more frequently perused.

Of all the characters of holy writ, this Jewish mother appealed most
forcibly to her imagination: the little coat brought year by year to
the Temple child, the precious sacrifice and oblation made in
gratitude for an answered prayer, the pride and joy of the mother's
heart, as she stood in the court of the women and saw her boy
ministering in his fair linen ephod, seemed to touch her
irresistibly, and in her secret soul she had envied Hannah.

The evening was to be devoted to this important meeting, but the
next day Malcolm had promised to take Anna for an outing--it would
be her birthday--and already they had made and rejected many plans.
Kew, Richmond, Hampton Court, and Henley had all been proposed; but
Anna had been indifferent to each. She had been to the Royal Academy
more than once, and all the best concerts were over; the weather was
too hot for sight-seeing, and in her present state of languor she
dreaded fatigue and crowds. "What did the place matter after all,"
she said to herself, "as long as Malcolm was with her? Her rest and
enjoyment were in his society--to sit beside him and listen to his
dear voice, and tell him all her little joys and troubles."

The programme was still a blank when Malcolm knocked at his mother's
door. Anderson received him with a beaming face. The old man had
grown a trifle stiff and rheumatic of late years, but he still kept
a sharp eye on his coadjutor--the weak-minded and erring Charles.

"They are not expecting you just yet, Mr. Malcolm," observed
Anderson respectfully; "the mistress has a committee in the library,
and Miss Anna is in the drawing-room along with Charles and the
carpenter, arranging the seats."

"What time do they dine, Anderson?" Malcolm put the question with
some indifference--he knew quite well what the answer would be.

"Why, you see, Mr. Malcolm, it is past six now," returned Anderson
apologetically, "and the meeting's for eight, and the mistress said
there would be no time for dinner as the committee would not break
up until seven, so she will have a cup of tea and a sandwich."

"Oh, indeed," returned Malcolm drily. "I suppose Miss Anna and I are
to be regaled on the same fare."

"No, sir, I think not. I believe Miss Anna and Dawson have contrived
some sort of meal for you in the schoolroom. They have done their
best, Mr. Malcolm; but what with committees and deputations and
Heaven knows what, my mistress has been driven almost out of her
senses. The maids are in the dining-room now, for there's to be tea
and light refreshment; and they've been behindhand too with the
plants from Covent Garden, drat them," muttered the old man
irritably. He was a faithful servant, and true to his mistress's
interests; but he was growing old, and there were times when he
longed to sit quietly under his own fig tree, in the Surrey village
where he was born, where meetings and committees were unknown.

"Never mind, Anderson," returned Malcolm pleasantly, "we cannot
entertain a Bishop without some degree of fuss and discomfort. I
will go up and find Miss Anna; I daresay she has nearly finished."
But as he ascended the handsome staircase, he was not so certain in
his own mind that this was a foregone conclusion; and again he
blessed the day when he had pitched his tent in the quiet pasturage
of Chelsea, where bishops and committees and drawing-room meetings
never interrupted his lawful meals, or impaired his digestion; for
Malcolm, like many other men, abhorred that nondescript meal so dear
to the feminine mind, a meat tea. The wide, softly-carpeted
staircase led to a spacious landing-place, fitted up with couches
and easy-chairs, and ending in a small but pretty conservatory.

The drawing-room was a large, well-proportioned room, with a
curtained archway opening into a smaller one, which went by the name
of the music room. Here there was a grand piano and a fine
harmonium; the latter was Mrs. Herrick's special instrument. The
drawing-room wore its usual aspect on these occasions; rows of
chairs and cushioned benches occupied the entire floor space, and
overflowed into the inner apartment.

A crimson covered dais or platform, decorated with plants in full
bloom, and tall spreading palms, with a semicircle of comfortable
easy-chairs, was the chief feature in the arrangements; and here,
with the evening sunshine streaming on her, stood a tall slim girl
in a white dress, with a loose cluster of Shirley poppies in her
hand.

It made such a pretty picture that Malcolm stood quite spell-bound:
the crimson dais was such a rich background to the soft creamy white
of the girl's dress, while the poppies held so carelessly added to
the effect; even the sunshine filtering through the partially drawn
curtains gilded the fair hair until it shone like gold. Malcolm was
almost sorry when Anna caught sight of him, and ran down the steps
towards him with a bright smile of welcome, and two hands
outstretched.

"Oh, Malcolm, I never thought you would be here yet," she said, and
her voice was very soft and clear; "but I am so glad to see you, and
I have quite finished."

Anna Sheldon was not a pretty girl, but people always said she was
so interesting. Her figure was well formed and graceful, and her
expression and smile were remarkably sweet; but her features were by
no means faultless, and her want of colour was certainly a defect.
She had beautiful hair, which was fine and fluffy as a baby's; its
tint was rather too colourless, but she wore it in a style that
exactly suited her. At this moment, when her eyes were bright with
pleasure and there was a flush on her face, Anna certainly looked
pretty, but such moments were transient with her.

Malcolm pressed her hands affectionately; then he looked her over
with brotherly freedom.

"You look very nice, dear. I see you are dressed for the evening;
are those poppies part of the toilette?"

Then Anna laughed and fingered her pearl necklace as though she were
embarrassed by his scrutiny. "No, of course not--what an absurd
question. Fancy flowers at a drawing-room meeting. I am going to put
them in a vase directly. Now, as mother is engaged just now, I am
going to take you to the schoolroom, and nurse will give us
something to eat."

"Feminine nectar and ambrosia, I imagine," muttered Malcolm to
himself, for he had partaken frequently of these schoolroom feasts.
But he was determined to make the best of things during his short
visit, so he linked his arm in Anna's and said cheerfully, "Lead on,
Hebe, and don't scatter poppies as you go," which was exactly what
she was doing. The schoolroom was still Anna's special room,
although it had changed its character of late years. It was a large,
cheerful front room, two floors above the drawing-room, and Anna had
made it very pretty and comfortable. Here she kept her books and all
her treasures, and here her canaries twittered and sang in the
sunshine. Malcolm, who loaded her with presents, had himself
selected the handsomely framed prints that adorned the walls; his
favourite "Huguenot," and "The Black Brunswicker," and Luke Fildes's
"Doctor," and some of Leader's landscapes, had their places there.
In this room Anna spent her leisure hours, few and far between as
they were; here she read and thought and wrote her letters to
Malcolm--sweet, maidenly letters, which he read lightly and tossed
aside with a smile, not unkindly, but with the preoccupied
carelessness of a busy man.

The sound of their voices brought Dawson to the door. She was a
little pincushiony woman, with bunched-up gray curls, which she wore
in defiance of all prevailing fashions, and of which she was
secretly very proud;. her complexion was still as clear and pink as
a girl's; and her somewhat wide mouth was garnished by the whitest
of teeth. It was Dawson's boast that she had never sat in a
dentist's chair in her life.

"I am sixty-five if I am a day," she would say, with a quick little
birdlike nod that always emphasised her statements; "but there,
mother was eighty-three when the palsy took her, and she hadn't a
gap in her mouth, dear soul."

Malcolm always kissed his old nurse, for there was a warm attachment
between them; and indeed he never forgot that he had owed all his
childish comfort to her.

"Blessed is he who expecteth nothing," observes the wise man, and
Malcolm, who had indulged in moderate expectations in which the
teapot loomed largely, was somewhat surprised by the agreeable sight
of quite a tasteful little dinner-table laid for two, with a half-
filled vase in the centre for which the poppies were evidently
intended. Anna smiled delightedly when she saw his face, and at once
proceeded to arrange her flowers, while Dawson bustled about and
rang the bell, and chattered like an amiable magpie. In a very short
time the weak-minded Charles, now a reformed and steady character
and engaged to the head housemaid, brought in the tray, and a modest
and appetising little meal was served. Cutlets with sauce piquant
and pigeon pie, salad such as Malcolm loved, and a delicate pudding
which seemed nothing but froth and sweets, while an excellent bottle
of hock, sent up by Anderson, completed the repast.

"I wish mother could have joined us," observed Anna regretfully; "I
did my best to persuade her, but she said there was no time. The
people have not gone yet, and she has to dress, you see, so she said
she would have some tea in her dressing-room and talk to you later."

"I must just see about getting the mistress's things ready,"
interrupted Dawson, but she spoke in a grumbling tone. "Don't you
fash yourself, Mr. Malcolm,--I told Charles to unpack your Gladstone
and put out your clothes ready for the evening. My mistress won't be
dressed, you may take my word for it, for a good three-quarters of
an hour. There is nothing like a committee for dawdling along, and
keeping one standing on one leg as it were, like a pelican in the
wilderness, or a stuffed goose, or anything you like to call it.
Don't you let Mr. Malcolm hurry his dinner, Miss Anna, for there is
nothing so bad for the digestion; a good digestion comes next to a
good conscience in my opinion," and Dawson hurried away, all ready
primed with a scolding for her mistress--sandwiches being like the
proverbial red rag to a bull to this excellent woman.

"Such a pack of nonsense," she ejaculated, as she took down the
black satin dress from its place in the wardrobe and shook out its
lustrous folds, "a lady of her age, just passed fifty, and acting as
though she were in her teens;" for Dawson, who was a privileged
person, always spoke her mind to her mistress; indeed, it was
rumoured in the household that Mrs. Herrick stood somewhat in awe of
her faithful retainer, and it was certainly the fact that if any of
the servants had incurred their mistress's displeasure, Dawson was
always the mediator, and brought the apology or conciliatory
message. Mrs. Herrick had a great respect for the straightforward,
honest little woman, who was never afraid to speak the truth on any
occasion, and she was sufficiently magnanimous to forgive her sharp
speeches.

"Dawson is worth her weight in gold," she would say sometimes. "When
the children were young I was never afraid to leave them in her
charge, I knew I could trust her;" and once she said with a sigh, "I
cannot forget her devotion to my dear Florence. She watched beside
her night and day, and yet there were other nurses. I shall never
forget her saying to me, 'Dear Miss Flo mustn't wake up and find
herself amongst strangers, or she will be scared, poor lamb. She
will like to see her old nurse's face, bless her,' and it seemed to
us all as though she lived without sleep. She was right too," went
on Mrs. Herrick softly, "for when Florence caught sight of her she
put out her arms with such a smile. 'It is my own dear nurse,' they
heard her say--those were my darling's last words."

When Dawson had left the room Malcolm looked at Anna with a smile.

"Well," he said tentatively, "have you made up your mind about to-
morrow; is it to be Kew, or Cookham and Henley?" But to his surprise
the question seemed to embarrass the girl.

"We have been so often to Kew," she returned in a hesitating voice;
"and though the Quarry woods are delightful, it will be so hot on
the river. There is something I should like so much better, but I am
afraid you will laugh at me." But as Malcolm continued to look at
her with an indulgent smile, she went on with renewed courage--

"I hope you will not think me absurd, but I should so love to see
your chambers in Lincoln's Inn, and Malachi, and the pigeons, and
little Kit with the curly red fringe, and the old cobbler; and
afterwards," and here Anna caught her breath with excitement, "we
could go to Cheyne Walk and have tea and look at the river and
talk."

"My dear child," in quite a startled voice, "what a programme for a
birthday!"

"It will be just lovely," returned Anna with sparkling eyes. "I do
so long to see Goliath and Yea-Verily and Babs. You know, Malcolm, I
have only been twice to your rooms in Cheyne Walk--once with mother,
and once when we had been to the Albert Hall--and each time the
Kestons were away."

"And you want to see little Verity. I am not sure that she is quite
up to your mark, Anna; she and Goliath are rather Bohemian."

"Oh, but you like her, and she makes you so happy and comfortable. I
want to know your friends, Malcolm; it seems to bring you nearer,"
and Anna's eyes grew wistful.

"Are you sure my mother will approve of your programme?"

Then Anna smiled and nodded assent.

"She will call me a silly, fanciful child," she replied laughing.
"Mother does not understand sentimentality; but I am a privileged
person on my birthday. Now, Malcolm, please do not throw cold water
on my little scheme."

"Certainly not; we will go to the Seven Dials if you like. Only I
wish I had known beforehand. Verity is occasionally like the
renowned Mother Hubbard, her cupboard is bare. You will have to put
up with plain bread and butter, I expect."

"What does that matter!" returned Anna scornfully. "Thank you,
Malcolm dear. Then we will have a real good time."

"I think we shall be able to carry out your modest programme,"
replied Malcolm. "Wait a moment, I have an idea. Suppose 'we beard
the lion in his den;' in other words, look up Caleb Martin and my
umbrella in Todmorden's Lane?" And then he gave Anna a graphic
account of the little adventure, and, as he expected, received her
warm approval.

"Oh yes, you shall take me there too," she observed. "I must see
that poor little Kit; it was so like you to think of her comfort;"
and here Anna laid a soft little hand on his coat-sleeve. "Malcolm,
I am afraid I ought not to let you talk any longer. I heard mother
go into her dressing-room ten minutes ago, and she is never long
over her toilet."

"That means I must get into my war paint too, or Dawson will be
coming in search of me;" and then he went off to his old room,
leaving Anna looking thoughtfully out of the window.

"To-morrow I shall be one-and-twenty," she said to herself; "it
seems a great age, but Malcolm is nearly nine years older." And then
she added to herself in a whisper, "And from morning to night we
shall be together, just he and I, our own two selves," and there was
a soft look of contentment on Anna's face.

CHAPTER V

MRS. HERRICK OBJECTS TO BOHEMIA

We fear originality as a coat which is too new, and do
our utmost to be like the rest of the world.--CARMEN
SYLVA.

Life is work.... Life without work is unworthy of being
lived.--BISHOP EDWARD BICKERSTETH.

Twenty minutes later Malcolm knocked at the door of his mother's
dressing-room. A deep, sonorous voice bade him enter. As he did so
Mrs. Herrick laid down the book she was reading on the toilet-table,
and turned to greet him. "My dearest boy, how glad I am to see you!"
she exclaimed with a warm, motherly kiss. Then she put her hands on
his shoulders and regarded him with an affectionate smile that quite
lighted up her homely face. Even in her youth Mrs. Herrick had never
been handsome. Indeed, her old friends maintained that she was far
better-looking in her middle age, in spite of all her hard work and
that burning of the candle at both ends which is so abhorrent to the
well-regulated mind. Her features were strongly marked, and somewhat
weather-beaten, and the lower part of the face was too heavily
moulded, but the clear, thoughtful gray eyes had a pleasant light in
them. Malcolm was secretly very proud of his mother. He liked to
watch her moving among her guests in the dignified, gracious way
that was habitual to her.

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