Books: Herb of Grace

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"She is the very personification of an old-fashioned English
gentlewoman," he said once to Cedric; "but she is hardly modern
enough in her ideas. She takes things too seriously, and that bores
people."

It must be confessed that to her young acquaintances Mrs. Herrick
was rather awe-inspiring. Mere pleasure-seekers--drones in the human
hive and all such ne'er-do-weels--were careful to give her a wide
berth. Her quiet little speeches sometimes had a sting in them. "She
takes the starch out of a fellow, don't you know," observed one of
these fashionable loafers, a young officer in the Hussars--"makes
him think he's a worm and no man, and that sort of thing; but she
doesn't understand us Johnnies." Perhaps Mrs. Herrick would
willingly have recalled her crushing speech when, years after, she
read the account of Charlie Gordon's death. "He would have had the
Victoria Cross if he had lived," exclaimed his weeping mother to
Mrs. Herrick. "They say he was the bravest and the finest officer
that they had ever known. You can read the account for yourself. All
those lives saved by his gallantry." But here the poor woman could
say no more. How could any woman bear to think of her boy standing
at bay in that dreadful defile, to gain a few precious moments until
help came?

"I wish I had not been so hard on him," thought Mrs. Herrick with a
remorseful recollection of the young officer's hurt look. "What
right had I to climb up into the judgment seat and rebuke one of
these little ones?" and for a long time after that she was more
gentle in her speeches.

"You look well, Malcolm," continued his mother with a satisfied air,
"in spite of the heat and thunder. Anna has been complaining of a
headache all day; but it was impossible for her to rest. However,
Dawson tells me she is better."

"Oh yes, I thought she looked much as usual. She is always rather
pale, you know. I need not ask how you are, mother--you look as fit
as ever."

"Yes, I am very well, thank God! I sometimes think I have more than
my fair share of good health. Malcolm, as you are here, I want to
show you what I have chosen for Anna to-morrow," and she handed him
a small case. It contained one of those minute toy watches, set very
prettily with brilliants.

Malcolm lifted his eyelids in some surprise. "It is a perfect
beauty," he observed; "but you must have paid a goodish bit for it."

"It was certainly rather extravagant of me," returned Mrs. Herrick
apologetically; "but you know how girls love pretty things. Anna did
so long for one of these little watches, and you know it is her one-
and-twentieth birthday. By the bye, Malcolm, what have you two
arranged for to-morrow?" But when her son briefly sketched out
Anna's modest programme, Mrs. Herrick's pleasant face clouded a
little.

"What a singular choice the child has made!" she observed. "Malcolm,
I am not particularly anxious for her to be introduced to your
Bohemian friends. Oh, I don't mean to say anything against the
Kestons," warned by a certain stiffness of manner on Malcolm's part-
-"I have never even seen them; but Anna and Mrs. Keston move in such
different worlds."

"Yes, of course," he returned rather impatiently; "but a mere
introduction need not lead to intimacy. Verity is a good little
creature, and her Bohemianism will not hurt Anna for one afternoon."

Mrs. Herrick's firm lips were pressed together rather closely as
Malcolm spoke, and her manner became still graver.

"Will you forgive my speaking plainly, Malcolm?" she said quietly,
"but I do think it such a grievous mistake for you to call Mrs.
Keston by her Christian name. You know I have mentioned this
before." Then Malcolm reddened; but though he laughed, he was
inwardly annoyed.

"I spoke without thinking," he returned, trying to control his
impatience, "but I suppose habit was too strong for me. There is
really no harm in it, mother. You know Keston is my most intimate
friend--he is one of the best fellows in the world--and it stands to
reason that his wife should be my good friend too."

"Yes, but there are limits, Malcolm."

"Of course there are limits," rather irritably; "but if I were to
talk for ever I should never make you understand, mother. In the
first place, you have never seen Verity--I mean Mrs. Keston. She is
the product of a modern age. From babyhood she has lived among
artists. She has imbibed their Bohemianism and learnt to talk their
jargon. A studio has been her nursery, playroom, and schoolroom, and
as soon as she grew up she married an artist."

"But all this does not prove that she is not to be treated with the
respect due to a married woman, Malcolm."

"My dear mother, there is no question of respect. There is not a man
who knows Mrs. Keston who does not esteem, and hold her in honour.
She is an original little person certainly, but a more loyal wife
and devoted mother never lived. He would be a bold man who ventured
to take a liberty with her, or to overstep the limits laid down by
her. He would soon feel the measure of Goliath's foot--in plain
words, he would find himself kicked downstairs by Amias Keston."

Mrs. Herrick shrugged her shoulders. The conversation bored her, and
as usual she found Malcolm a little impossible; he seemed so
determined to maintain his point.

"From the first Mrs. Keston wished me to call her by her Christian
name," he went on, "and Amias wished it too. We were on such
brotherly terms," he said, "that Verity--you see habit is too much
for me, mother--wished me to regard her as a younger sister."

"I thought you looked upon Anna as your sister, Malcolm;" but Mrs.
Herrick's keen gray eyes had a curious look in them--an acute
observer might almost have thought that she was hoping that her son
would contradict this statement.

"Oh, Anna," and then he laughed. "My dear mother, one cannot draw
comparisons between them--they are utterly dissimilar."

"So I imagine," was the dry response; and then Mrs. Herrick made an
effort to recover her wonted placidity. "Malcolm," she said, putting
her hand through his arm, "we must go downstairs now or the Bishop
will be arriving. I expect Anna is wondering what has become of us."
Which proved to be the case.

Malcolm soon regained his good-humour. His mother had rubbed him up
the wrong way, as usual, but his good sense told him that it was no
use resenting her plain-spoken remarks.

She had her own fixed opinions on every subject, and nothing could
move her out of her groove. She was a good woman and a kind-hearted
one, but the sense of humour was lacking in her. She disliked all
that she did not understand, and under the comprehensive term
Bohemianism, she embodied all that was irregular and contrary to her
creed.

"Herrick mere is a Philistine of the purest type," Amias Keston once
said to his wife. "No, I have never seen her, but I can draw my own
conclusions. Yea-Verily, my child, far be the day when that British
matron crosses our humble threshold."

Malcolm had determined not to disappoint his mother that evening, so
he banished all thoughts of his friends from his mind, and a few
minutes later he was showing people to their seats and chatting
pleasantly with his acquaintances.

Now and then, in the midst of her duties as a hostess, Mrs.
Herrick's eyes rested on her son's dark face with motherly pride and
tenderness.

He was doing his part so well--in his quiet, unobtrusive manner he
was making himself so agreeable. Oh, if he would only have stayed
with her, and been indeed the son of her right hand, and given
himself to the work; and then for a moment there was a filmy look in
the mother's eyes, and she listened a little absently to her
favourite speaker.

Malcolm did his part like a man. He applauded the speakers at
exactly the right moment, and when the meeting was over he actually
made a neat, telling little speech, conveying the vote of thanks to
the chairman; and both the manner and matter were so good that more
than one of Mrs. Herrick's friends observed to her that her son
would make his mark in the House.

Malcolm felt rewarded for his exertions when his mother wished him
good-night.

"You have been my right hand this evening, Malcolm," she said,
looking at him with unusual tenderness. "Thank you so much, my son;"
and these few words gave Malcolm quite a thrill of pleasure.

The heavy storm had tempered the extreme heat and the night had been
comparatively cool, and the little group gathered round the
breakfast table the next morning looked as bright as the day itself.

Anna had been charmed with her watch; but when she opened Malcolm's
case and saw the tiny diamond-studded quiver, she was almost
speechless with surprise and delight. "Oh, Malcolm, how could you--
how could you be so kind to me!" was all she could say. But Malcolm
only laughed and fastened the brooch in her white dress. Then he
took some half-open pink rosebuds from a vase on the table and bade
her wear them. "You are too pale, and these will give you colour,"
he said in a cool, critical tone.

Anna took them from his hand rather shyly. She had put on her
daintiest white frock in his honour, but the rosebuds savoured of
vanity to her. She never disputed Malcolm's opinion on any subject,
but as she adjusted the flowers she gave Mrs. Herrick a deprecating
glance, which the latter met with an indulgent smile.

"No, dear, you look very nice," she observed, as though in reply to
this mute question; "you are not at all too smart. Now I must go and
read my letters. Have a good time, children; and, Malcolm, remember
Anna must not be overtired," and then Mrs. Herrick nodded cheerfully
and withdrew to the library. Anna ran off to put on her hat, while
Malcolm read his paper.

They went first to Lincoln's Inn, and Anna stood on the wide steps
looking at the pigeons fluttering over the old buildings, quite
unaware, in her innocent excitement--though Malcolm was not--that
many an admiring glance rested on her.

In spite of her lack of beauty, Anna's pretty girlish figure and
youthful grace often attracted people--her expression was so
guileless and sweet, and the fair fluffy hair so softly tinted; and
as she stood there in the morning sunshine, in her white gown and
shady hat, Malcolm felt secretly proud of his young companion, and
his manner became still more affectionate.

They interviewed Malachi, and to Anna's delight Malcolm put him
through his paces. Then they went into the inner room, and Anna sat
down on the chair Cedric had occupied, and looked round her with
undisguised amazement: the shabbiness and ugliness of the
surroundings almost shocked her.

"Oh, Malcolm, it is not a bit nice and comfortable," she said with
an anxious frown: "fancy your spending your days in this dreary
room."

Then Malcolm gave an amused laugh.

"Poor little girl, so you are disappointed in my literary den. I
suppose you thought I should have carved oak and Russia leather
bindings; but we don't go in for aesthetic furniture in Lincoln's
Inn."

"But it is so ugly and so dingy, Malcolm."

"Is it?" he returned, quite surprised at this severe criticism. "I
think it quite snug myself. I have done some good work here, Anna,
so I suppose the ugliness and dinginess are somewhat inspiring." And
Malcolm glanced at his littered writing-table rather proudly.

As Anna felt no temptation to linger, they started off briskly in
search of Todmorden's Lane.

They found it with little difficulty. It was a small side street, of
somewhat unprepossessing appearance, leading out of Beauchamp
Street. Bennet, boot-maker and umbrella-maker, had a dark, dingy
little shop just at the corner. It had evidently been an ordinary
dwelling-house in old times, but a bow window had been added to
transform it into a shop. A flight of broken steps led to the
basement, where the cobbler and his household lived; but as they
carefully descended, Malcolm suddenly paused.

"What on earth is that noise?" he asked in a puzzled tone. And Anna,
drawing her dainty white skirts closely round her, stood still to
listen.

It was certainly an extraordinary combination of sounds. It seemed
at first as though two people were singing a duet in different tunes
and without any regard to time; there was persistent melody and yet
there was utter discord, and it seemed accompanied by the clanging
of fire-irons.

Presently Anna began to laugh. "Do let us go in and see what it
means," she whispered. "Somebody--a man, I think--is singing 'Rule
Britannia' and 'Hark, hark, my soul' by turns, and there is a woman
talking or scolding at the same time."

"I believe you are right," was Malcolm's answer. "Take care of that
last step, child, it is quite worn away." And then, as they stood
side by side in the dismal little area, he looked vainly for a bell.
Finally, he rapped so smartly at the door with Anna's sunshade that
they distinctly heard an irate voice say, "Drat their imperence,"
and a tall, bony-looking woman, in a flowered gingham dress and a
very red face, bounced out on them.

She was so tall and so excessively bony, and so altogether
aggressive-looking, that Anna felt inclined to hide herself behind
Malcolm. Indeed, he remarked afterwards himself, that he had never
seen a finer specimen of a muscular Christian, barring the
Christianity, in his life.

"What's your pleasure?" observed the Amazon, folding her arms in a
defiant manner, while through the open door they could now hear
distinctly the cobbler's subdued and singularly toneless voice
meandering on--"O'er earth's green fields, and ocean's wave-beat
shore."

"Deuce take the man!" continued the woman wrathfully. "Will you hold
your old doddering tongue, Caleb, and let the gentlefolk speak!" But
there was no cessation of the dreary, dirge-like sounds. They found
out afterwards that Caleb always worked with cotton-wool in his
ears, so his wife's remonstrance failed to reach him.

"You see, it is like this, sir," he observed to Malcolm afterwards,
when they became better acquainted with each other: "Ma'am's tongue
is like a leaking water-butt. It is bound to drip, drip from week's
end to week's end, and there's no stopping it. It is a way she has,
and Kit and me are bound to put up with it. She means no harm,
doesn't Kezia; she is a hard-working crittur, and does her duty,
though she is a bit noisy over it; she is good to us both in her
way, and I am not quarrelsome by nature, so, as I like to work in
peace, I just stop my ears and hum to myself, and if she scolds I
mind it no more than I do the buzzing of the blue-bottles on the
glass."

"But the child Kit?" questioned Malcolm a little anxiously. Then a
queer little twisted smile came to Caleb's face.

"She is used to it, is Kit, and she don't take it to heart much. I
have heard her cheek Ma'am sometimes. Ma'am wouldn't hurt a hair of
her head, for all her bouncings and flinging of pots and kettles
when she is in a temper. It is the basement tries her, poor soul.
She says she has never been used to it. Her first husband was in the
tin trade, and they had a tidy little shop in the Borough."

"Oh, Mrs. Martin has been married before," observed Malcolm. He was
rather surprised at this piece of intelligence.

"Lord love you, yes, sir; and when she became Josh Leggett's widow
she just took up with me because she said she felt lonesome. She did
it with her eyes open as I often tell her, but she has never got
over the basement. It does not agree with her constitution, and it
never will."

"I suppose Kit is Mrs. Martin's child?" asked Malcolm, as he
digested this information.

Then Caleb gave a dry little laugh.

"Bless you, no, sir. Kezia never had any family. That was always a
sore point with her. She said that was why she was so lonesome, and
I believe she married me mostly on Kit's account. Oh, she has a good
heart, has Ma'am," continued Caleb in his slow, ruminative way,
"though she would talk a dozen men stupid, one after another, and be
as fresh as paint herself." And with this graphic description of the
second Mrs. Martin, Caleb touched his old hat and slouched away.

CHAPTER VI

YEA-VERILY AND BABS

We will have a swashing and a martial outside.
--As You Like It.

The direct influence of good women is the greatest of
all forces under Divine Grace for making good men.
--KNOX LITTLE.

Never had that much-loved hymn "The Pilgrims of the Night" sounded
so flatly and discordantly in Anna's ears as when she listened to
Caleb's monotonous croak; but her sense of irritation changed to
alarm when Mrs. Martin suddenly shook her fist at the open door and
vanished. Malcolm, who promptly followed her, was just in time to
see her shaking the cobbler by his coat-collar, much after the
fashion of a terrier shaking a rat.

"Are you a born natural?" she screamed. "Pilgrims of the night,
indeed! I'll pilgrim you, you chuckle-headed idiot. Here are your
betters trying to make themselves heard." Then Caleb slowly
unstopped his ears, and rose rather stiffly to his feet.

"You have got no call to be so violent, Kezia," he returned meekly.
"Oh, it is the gentleman who lent us the umbrella. Kit and I were
going to bring it back this afternoon, sir, but I had to finish a
job I had in hand."

"There is no hurry," returned Malcolm. "We were in this direction,
so I thought I would save you the trouble." Malcolm looked curiously
round the room as he spoke.

He was not surprised when he learnt afterwards that the second Mrs.
Martin objected to the basement. It was certainly a gloomy little
place, though scrupulously clean and neat. The sunshine of a July
day filtered reluctantly through the small, opaque-looking window.
Caleb's bench and tools were placed just underneath it, and above
his head a linnet hopped and twittered in a green cage. Kit's
perambulator occupied one corner, while Kit herself, seated at the
table in a high chair, was busily engaged in ironing out some ragged
doll-garments with a tiny bent flat-iron. Anna regarded her
pitifully--the small shrunken figure and sunken chest, and the thin
white face with its halo of red curls. But Kit was almost too
absorbed with her endeavour to get the creases out of a doll's
petticoat to heed her scrutiny. She only paused to nod at Malcolm in
a friendly way.

"I wasn't wet one little bit, though Ma'am scolded dad so," she
exclaimed in her high shrill voice. "I was like a queen in a big
tent, wasn't I, dad? I was awful comfortable."

"She might have been drowned dead for all the care he took,"
returned Mrs. Martin with a contemptuous sniff, as she planted her
arms akimbo in her favourite attitude. Her elbows were so sharp and
bony that Anna thought of the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland. "If
it weren't for me that blessed lamb would be a corpse every day of
her life--though I beg and pray him on my bended knees not to run
her into danger."

She was only a coarse-tongued virago, but even Anna, who had shrunk
from her, felt a little mollified and touched as she saw how
tenderly the rough hand rested on the child's curls. But Kit pushed
it pettishly away. "Don't, Ma'am, you've been and gone and spoiled
Jemima's ball dress, and she is going to wear it to-night," and Kit
held up a modicum of blue gauze which certainly did not bear the
slightest resemblance to a garment, and regarded it anxiously.
Jemima herself, a mere battered hulk of a doll, lay in a grimy
chemise staring with lack-lustre eyes at the ceiling.

"I suppose Kit is not able to walk?" asked Anna, looking rather
timidly at the formidable Mrs. Martin; but to her surprise the
rugged, forbidding features softened and grew womanly in a moment.

"Law bless you, miss, the poor lamb has never stood on her feet in
her life, and never will as long as she lives. The doctors at the
hospital yonder say that when she gets older and stronger she will
be able to use crutches; but she is as weakly as a baby now, for all
she has turned eight."

"Kit's a slight stronger than she was last year," interposed Caleb,
laying down the boots he was cobbling; but Ma'am was down on him in
a moment.

"You may as well shut your mouth, Caleb, if you have got nothing
better to say than that, and if you have not eyes to see the dear
lamb is dwindling more and more every day in this cellar of a place.
'Plenty of fresh air and light,' says the doctor, 'and as much
nourishment as you can get her to swallow,' and all the winter we
have to burn gas or sit in darkness through the livelong day, and
the fog choking the breath out of one."

"It is our misfortune, sir, as Kezia knows," began Caleb feebly; but
his pale blue eyes grew watery as he spoke; "it is not much of an
'ome when one has seen better days, but to my thinking Solomon was
in the right when he talked of that dinner of herbs. If Kezia had a
contented mind we should maybe all of us get on better."

"A contented fiddlestick!" exclaimed Mrs. Martin, so angrily that
Malcolm thought it wise to make a diversion, especially as a warm
fishy odour in the adjoining kitchen heralded the near arrival of
the noontide repast. When he saw more of the Martins he invariably
noticed the smell of fish; it seemed to be their principal diet--
fish broiled or fried or boiled, or even at tea-time shrimps or
periwinkles. He saw that Anna found the atmosphere oppressive, and
determined to beat a hasty retreat.

"Well, we must be going," he observed. "Good-day, Kit. Now I wonder,
if I were to give you a doll, what sort you would like?" Then Kit,
who had been frowning fiercely over the ball dress, looked up at him
with astonished blue eyes.

"A real new dollie for me," she said breathlessly. "Oh my, Ma'am, do
you hear that? Oh please may I have a baby that shuts its eyes, and
that I can love?"

"Oh yes, I think we can manage that very well, Kit. You may look for
your new baby in a few days." And then Anna kissed the sharp little
face, and Mrs. Martin smiled at her quite affably.

"She'll talk of nothing else from morning to night. Thank you
kindly, sir--and you too, young lady."

"Who is she?" whispered Kit, so loudly that both Malcolm and Anna
overheard her. "Who is that nice lady, dad, in the white dress? Is
she the gentleman's wife?"

Malcolm laughed in amused fashion as he assisted Anna up the crazy
steps, but for once the girl did not respond. "It was so hot in that
room," she said rather impatiently, putting up her hands to her
burning cheeks. "Oh, Malcolm, what a dreadful woman and what a
miserable place!"

"Oh I don't know," he returned. "Mrs. Martin's bark's worse than her
bite, and one can see she is fond of the child. We may as well buy
that doll, Anna, and then we will have some luncheon. There is a
place I know where they do cutlets remarkably well, and their ices
are capital," and then they set out in search of a toy-shop.

The shop where Malcolm proposed they should eat their luncheon had
an upper window overhanging Piccadilly. Here they secured a small
table to themselves.

At first Anna seemed a little thoughtful and abstracted. Kit's
innocent suggestion had startled her out of her maidenly
unconsciousness. It was such a strange thing to say. It was so
terrible that people could think such things, and that Malcolm
should only laugh as though he were amused. Somehow that laugh
seemed to hurt her more than anything.

Malcolm was quite aware of the girl's discomposure; his gentlemanly
instincts were never at fault. He knew that many of his mother's
friends often hinted that his position with regard to her adopted
daughter must be somewhat difficult. At such times he was given to
affirm that no tie of blood could be stronger. "She is my sister in
everything but name," he would say.

His influence over her was so great that he charmed her out of her
quiet mood, and they were soon laughing and chatting in their old
way.

They got into a hansom presently and drove to Cheyne Walk. As they
passed Cheyne Row, and looked up at the grim old figure of the Sage
of Chelsea, looking so gray and weather-beaten, Malcolm proposed
that they should make a pilgrimage to No. 5, but Anna refused.

"We have been there three times," she objected, "and I do so dislike
that dismal, dreary old house. I don't wonder that bright, clever
Mrs. Carlyle was moped to death there."

"Hush, you little heretic," returned Malcolm good-humouredly. "To me
No. 5 Cheyne Row is a shrine of suffering, struggling genius. When I
stand in that bare, sound-proof room and think of the work done
there by that tormented, dyspeptic man with such infinite labour,
with sweat of brow and anguish of heart, I feel as though I must
bare my head even to his majestic memory." Malcolm had mounted his
favourite hobby-horse, but Anna listened to him rebelliously. They
had been over this ground before, and she had always taken Mrs.
Carlyle's part. "Think of a handsome, brilliant little creature like
Jane Welsh," she would say indignantly, "thrown away on a learned,
heavy peasant, as rugged and ungainly as that 'Hill of the Hawk,'
that Craigen-puttoch, where he buried her alive. Oh, no wonder she
became a neurotic invalid, shut up from week's end to week's end
with a dyspeptic, irritable scholar in an old dressing-gown."
Indeed, it must be owned, in spite of all Malcolm's eloquence, Anna
was singularly perverse on this subject, and absolutely refused to
burn incense to his hero.

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