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Herb of Grace

by Rosa Nouchette Carey · English · Gutenberg #4005 · 766,063 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Herb of Grace

Author: Rosa Nouchette Carey


        
Release date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4005]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4005

Credits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERB OF GRACE ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.










Herb of Grace


By

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY


Author of "Mollie's Prince," "No Friend Like a Sister," "Rue With a
Difference," etc.



A. L. HURT COMPANY

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK



COPYRIGHT, 1901

BY

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY




CONTENTS

       I   INTRODUCES A LOVER OF THE PICTURESQUE
      II   FALLEN AMONG THIEVES
     III   A PAGE OF ANCIENT HISTORY
      IV   ANNA
       V   MRS. HERRICK OBJECTS TO BOHEMIA
      VI   YEA-VERILY AND BABS
     VII   MORE ANCIENT HISTORY WITH VERITY
    VIII   THE RECORD OF AN IMPOTENT GENIUS
      IX   THE WOOD HOUSE
       X   WHAT THE FERN-OWL HEARD
      XI   "A LITTLE EGOTISTICAL, PERHAPS"
     XII   MR. CARLYON'S TEA-PARTY
    XIII   THE CROW'S NEST
     XIV   "YOU DO SAY SUCH ODD THINGS"
      XV   "BETTY IS A TRUMP!"
     XVI   "IT REALLY IS A GOOD IDEA, DIE"
    XVII   "ADIEU--Au REVOIR"
   XVIII   "YES, SHE GAVE HIM UP"
     XIX   "A TOUCH OF THE TARTAR"
      XX   A WHITE SUN-BONNET
     XXI   "IF I WERE ONLY LIKE YOU"
    XXII   "TWO MAIDEN LADIES OF UNCERTAIN AGE"
   XXIII   SAINT ELIZABETH!
    XXIV   DOWN BY THE POOL
     XXV   "IT HAS GONE VERY DEEP"
    XXVI   "I SEE LIGHT NOW"
   XXVII   HUGH ROSSITER SPINS HIS YARN
  XXVIII   "THE LADY CALLING HERSELF MISS JACOBI"
    XXIX   "SHE IS A WICKED WOMAN"
     XXX   IN KENSINGTON GARDENS
    XXXI   PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT
   XXXII   STORM AND STRESS
  XXXIII   "HE WILL COME RIGHT"
   XXXIV   TRAVELLING THROUGH SAHARA
    XXXV   VIA DOLOROSA
   XXXVI   "I HAVE BEEN A COWARD"
  XXXVII   THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
 XXXVIII   TANGLED THREADS
   XXXIX   THE NEW CURATE-IN-CHARGE
      XL   "HE IS MY RIVAL STILL"
     XLI   "YOU CAN BE DINAH'S FRIEND"
    XLII   THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME
   XLIII   A MAY AFTERNOON
    XLIV   "MY DEAREST REST"




HERB OF GRACE




CHAPTER I

INTRODUCES A LOVER OF THE PICTURESQUE

     Our adventures hover round us like bees round the hive when
     preparing to swarm.--MAETERLINCK.


From boyhood Malcolm Herrick had been a lover of the picturesque. In
secret he prided himself on possessing the artistic faculty, and yet,
except in the nursery, he had never drawn a line, or later on spoilt
canvas and daubed himself in oils under the idea that he was an embryo
Millais or Turner. But nevertheless he had the seeing eye, and could
find beauty where more prosaic people could only see barrenness: a
stubble field newly turned up by the plough moved him to admiration,
while a Surrey lane, with a gate swinging back on its hinges, and a
bowed old man carrying faggots, in the smoky light of an October
evening, gave him a feeling akin to ecstasy. More than one of his
school-fellows remembered how, even in the cricket field, he would
stand as though transfixed, looking at the storm clouds, with their
steely edges, coming up behind the copse, but the palms of his hands
were outstretched and he never failed to catch the ball.

"Nature intended me for an artist or a poet," Malcolm would say, for he
was given at times to a hard, merciless introspection, when he took
himself and his motives to pieces, "but circumstances have called me to
the bar. To be sure I have never held a brief, and my tastes are purely
literary, but all the same I am a member of the legal profession."

Malcolm Herrick used his Englishman's right of grumbling to a large
extent; with a sort of bitter and acrid humility, he would accuse
himself of having missed his vocation and his rightful heritage, of
being neither "fish, flesh, nor good red herring;" nevertheless his
post for the last two years had pleased him well: he was connected with
a certain large literary society which gave his legal wits plenty of
scope. In his leisure hours he wrote moderately well-expressed papers
on all sorts of social subjects with a pithy raciness and command of
language that excited a good deal of comment.

Herrick was a clever fellow, people said; "he would make his mark when
he was older, and had got rid of his cranks;" but all the same he was
not understood by the youth of his generation. "The Fossil," as they
called him at Lincoln, was hardly modern enough for their taste; he was
a survival of the mediaeval age--he took life too gravely, and gave
himself the airs of a patriarch.

In person he was a thin spare man, somewhat sallow, and with dark
melancholy eyes that were full of intelligence. When he smiled, which
he did more rarely than most people, he looked at least ten years
younger.

In reality he was nearly thirty, but he never measured his age by
years. "I have not had my innings yet," he would say; "I am going to
renew my youth presently; I mean to have my harvest of good things like
other fellows, and eat, drink, and be merry;" but from all appearance
the time had not come yet.

Malcolm Herrick's chambers were in Lincoln's Inn. Thither he was
turning his footsteps one sultry July afternoon, when as usual he
paused at a certain point, while a smile of pleasure stole to his lips.

Familiarity had not yet dulled the edge of his enjoyment; now, as ever,
it soothed and tranquillised him to turn from the noisy crowded streets
into this quiet spot with its gray old buildings, its patch of grass,
and the broad wide steps up and down which men, hurrying silently,
passed and repassed intent on the day's work.

As usual at this hour, the flagged court was crowded by pigeons,
strutting fearlessly between the feet of the passers-by, and filling
the air with their soft cooing voices.

"Ah, my friend the cobbler," he said to himself, and he moved a little
nearer to watch the pretty sight. A child's perambulator--a very
shabby, rickety concern--had been pushed against the fence, and its
occupant, a girl, evidently a cripple, was throwing corn to the eager
winged creatures. Two or three, more fearless than the others, had
flown on to the perambulator and were pecking out of the child's hands.
Presently she caught one and hugged it to her thin little bosom. "Oh
dad, look here--oh daddy, see, its dear little head is all green and
purple. I want to kiss it--I do--I love it so."

"Better put it down, Kit--the poor thing is scared," returned the man,
and the child reluctantly let it fly. It made straight for the distant
roofs behind them, but the rest of the pigeons still strutted and
pecked round the perambulator with tiny mincing steps, like court
ladies practising the minuet. Malcolm looked on with unabated
relish--the homely idyll always charmed him.

He had never spoken to the crippled child or her father, although they
had often crossed his path at this hour; nevertheless he regarded them
as old friends.

More than once he had made up his mind to accost them, but he was
reserved by nature and it cost him an effort to take the initiative. In
his case silence was always golden; in his own cynical language, he
refused to tout for a cheap popularity by saying pleasant things to
strangers.

They were not an attractive pair. The cobbler was a thin meagre little
man, with a round back, bow-legs, a sharp pinched face, and pale blue
eyes that seemed to look dejectedly at life.

The child was the image of her father, only in her case the defects
were more accentuated: her face was still more pinched, and absolutely
colourless, and the large blue-gray eyes were out of proportion to the
other features. A fringe of red hair, curled very stiffly, and set
round the small face like a large frill, gave her a curiously weird
look. Some woman's hand must have curled it and tied the wide limp bows
of her sunbonnet under the sharp little chin.

Neither of them seemed to notice Malcolm Herrick's scrutiny, they were
so absorbed by the pigeons; but the scanty supply of corn had soon been
scattered, and the guests were flying off by twos and threes.

"Oh see, dad!" exclaimed the child in her shrill little voice. "Oh, my!
ain't it heavenly to cut capers like that in the air; it is like the
merry-go-rounds at the fair," and then Kit clapped her hands as another
pretty creature rose softly and fluttered away in the distance.

The air had been growing more sultry and oppressive every moment; a
heavy storm was evidently gathering--already a few heat-drops had
fallen. Malcolm was a man who noticed details; he perceived at once
that the ragged cover of the perambulator offered a flimsy and
insufficient protection. Then he glanced at the umbrella in his hand;
it was a dandified article, with a handsomely carved handle.

The two voices that usually wrangled within his breast for the mastery
made themselves heard.

"It is perfectly impossible for you to offer the umbrella that Anna
gave you to that brat," murmured common-sense; "very likely her father
would pawn it for gin."

"But the child looks ill," remonstrated impulse. "Anna would be sure to
think of the poor mite first." But it was doubtful which voice would
have prevailed but for a chance word.

"Oh, dad, there is a big drop--it quite splashed my face. Ma'am said
the rain would drown us." Then the man, whose wits had been
wool-gathering, looked up in alarm, and began fumbling with Kit's shawl.

"Dear sakes," he muttered, "who would have thought it! But it is just
my luck. You will be drenched before I get you in, Kit, and Ma'am will
scold us for the rest of the day."

"Will you take this umbrella for the child, my good man?" observed
Malcolm pleasantly. "I am close to my chambers. You can let me have it
back to-morrow morning." Then, as the man regarded him in dazed
astonishment, he gave him his address. "Perhaps you may as well let me
know your name," he continued.

"Caleb Martin, sir," replied the cobbler; "and we live in Todmorden's
Lane, leading out of Beauchamp Street. It is Mr. Bennet's the
bootmaker, and I works for him and lives in the basement, 'long of wife
and Kit."

"Beauchamp Street--oh yes, I know. Then you had better get the child
home." He nodded and smiled at Kit as he moved away.

Caleb gazed after him with open mouth and pale eyes full of speechless
gratitude; but Kit had unfurled the umbrella proudly, and sat like a
queen in a silken tent.

"Ain't he a gentleman!" she exclaimed with a joyous chuckle; "seems to
me the angels must be his sort. Wasn't he just splendid, dad!" But
Caleb, who was trundling the perambulator down a side street, only
shook his head in silence.

Malcolm felt a warm glow of exhilaration, which secretly moved him to
astonishment, as he ran lightly up the long bare flights of stairs to
his chambers. "A mere trifle like that," he said to himself
contemptuously, as he entered the outer room, where a small and
exceedingly sharp office boy, rejoicing in the euphonious name of
Malachi Murphy, beguiled the tedium of the waiting hours by cutting the
initials of his family on the legs of the table.

When Malcolm wanted to amuse a friendly visitor, he would question
Malachi blandly and innocently on his brothers' and sisters' names.

"You are all minor prophets," he would say carelessly. "I think Mr.
So-and-So would be interested to hear how you came by these names." And
thus encouraged, Malachi would twist his face knowingly, until it
resembled a gargoyle rather than a human face, and start away as though
he had been wound up afresh.

"Well, it was like this, sir. Father was just reading Hosea on Sunday
evening, when mother took bad, and so they made up their minds that
they would call my eldest brother Hosea; the next one was Joel, because
father liked the name; and by-and-by mother put in her word for Amos.
Obadiah only lived five weeks; and the next was a girl, and they called
her Micah. Father wouldn't have none of us christened Jonah, because he
said he was real mean; but we had Nahum, and Habakkuk Zephaniah and
Haggai Zechariah; and when my time came there was nothing left but
Malachi, and father said we had better finish the job: and so Malachi I
was. It is a blessing," continued Malachi frankly, "that Habakkuk
Zephaniah and Haggai Zechariah died when they were babies; for none of
us would have known what to call them; as it is, I am mostly called
Mealy Murphy down my way."

"There's a gentleman waiting to see you, sir," observed Malachi,
dropping his clasp knife dexterously into the waste-paper basket.
"Wouldn't give his name. Seems in a mighty hurry by the way he has been
walking all over the shop," he continued, sotto voce, as he dipped his
pen into the ink again. "I wonder what the governor would say if he had
heard him whistling like a penny steamer and playing old Sallie with
the pen-wipers and sealing-wax. A lively sort of bloke as ever I see."

Malcolm walked rapidly to the door and opened it; as he did so, a look
of surprise and pleasure crossed his face at the sight of a handsome,
fair-haired youth, lying back on his easy-chair, with his feet resting
on a pile of ledgers.

"Hallo, Cedric!" he exclaimed in a cordial tone. "What on earth has
brought you up to town on the hottest day of the year? No, stay where
you are," as his visitor attempted to rise, and Malcolm put his hands
lightly on the boy's shoulders, pressing him gently back against the
cushions. "I never sit there myself unless I am lazy."

"All right, old chap," returned the other easily. "I didn't want to
move; only manners maketh man--I always was the pink of courtesy and
politeness, don't you know. Ask old Dinah, and she will tell you."

"Oh yes, we all know that," returned Malcolm drily. "Now, will you
answer my question--what brings you up to Lincoln's Inn in this
unexpected manner?"

"Keep cool, old fellow, and take a seat, and I will tell you," returned
the lad in a patronising tone. "You see I am staying at Teddington.
Fred Courtenay was spliced yesterday, and I had promised to be at the
show."

"Oh, I forgot Courtenay was to be married yesterday," muttered Malcolm.

"It went off all right," continued Cedric. "No one forbade the banns,
and the happy couple drove away with half-a-dozen satin slippers
reposing on the roof of the carriage. But now the business is over, it
is a trifle dull. Fred's sisters are all in the schoolroom, you know,
so I told Mrs. Courtenay that I had a pressing engagement in town."

"Oh, I begin to see light."

"I did some shopping in the Strand, and then I thought I would look you
up in your grimy old diggings. My word, we are going to have a storm,
Herrick," as a flash of lightning lit up the dark room.

"Yes, but it will soon be over, and you are in no hurry to catch your
train."

"No, you are right there. The house is all in a muddle from the
wedding, and we are to have a sort of nondescript meal at eight.
Herrick, old fellow, I want you to put me up for a couple of nights.
You are coming down to Staplegrove on Tuesday, so I told Dinah that we
might as well travel together."

"Does your sister really expect me?" asked Malcolm dubiously. "My dear
boy," as Cedric grew rather red and pulled his budding moustache in an
affronted manner, "I know you were good enough to invite me, but I
understood from you that your sisters were the owners of the Wood
House, and as I have not yet made their acquaintance--"

"Hang it all, Herrick, I suppose a fellow can see his friends
sometimes, even if he is dependent on his sisters," and Cedric's tone
was decidedly sulky. "Besides, Dinah sent you a message--she and
Elizabeth will be delighted to see you, and all that sort of thing, and
they hoped you would stay as long as possible."

"I am glad you told me that," returned Malcolm, with a relieved air. In
reality he had been secretly much embarrassed by Cedric's invitation.
"You know, my dear fellow, how pleased I am to be introduced to your
people, and it is most kind of Miss Templeton to send me that message."

"Oh, Dinah is a good old sort," returned the lad carelessly. The cloud
had vanished from his face. "Well, Herrick, what do you say about
putting me up? There are two or three things I want to do in town, and
it is a bore staying on at the Briars now old Fred has gone."

"When do you want to come to me?" asked Malcolm. "I am to sleep at
Queen's Gate the next two nights, and I have promised to take Miss
Sheldon out to-morrow. She is my mother's adopted daughter, you
know--Anna Sheldon. I have often mentioned her to you."

Then Cedric nodded.

"I shall be back at Chelsea on Friday, if you like to come to me then;
but the guest-chamber is remarkably small--at present it holds all my
lumber and little else." But as Cedric professed himself indifferent on
the subject of his own comfort--an assertion that drew a covert smile
from his friend's lips--the matter was soon settled.

An animated conversation ensued, consisting mainly of a disjointed
monologue on Cedric's part; for Malcolm Herrick only contributed a
laconic remark or question at intervals, but there was a kindly gleam
in his eyes as he listened, as though the fair, closely-cropped head
lying back on the shabby cushion, with the eager bright young face, was
a goodly spectacle.

At first sight the friendship between these two men seemed singularly
ill-assorted; for what possible affinity could there be between a
thoughtful, intellectual man like Malcolm Herrick, with his habitual
reserve, his nature refined, critical, and yet imaginative, with its
strong bias to pessimism, and its intolerance of all shams, and Cedric,
with his facile, pleasure-loving temperament, at once indolent and
mercurial--a creature of moods and tenses, as fiery as a Welshman, but
full of lovable and generous impulses?

The disparity between their ages also seemed to forbid anything like
equality of sympathy. Malcolm was at least eight or nine years older,
and at times he seemed middle-aged in Cedric's eyes. "He is such a
regular old fossil," he would say--"such a cut and dried specimen of
humanity, that it is impossible to keep in touch with him; it stands to
reason that we must clash a bit; but there, in spite of his cranks,
Herrick is a good fellow." But, notwithstanding this faint praise, the
inhabitants of the Wood House knew well that there was no one whom
Cedric valued more than his friend Malcolm Herrick.




CHAPTER II

FALLEN AMONG THIEVES


Why insist on rash personal relations with your friend? Why go to his
house, or know his mother and brother and sisters? Why be visited by
him at your own? Are these things material to our covenant? Leave this
touching and clawing. Let him be to me a spirit.--EMERSON.


Malcolm Herrick was a devout disciple of Emerson. He always spoke of
him as one of the master minds that dominated humanity. "He is the
chosen Gamaliel at whose feet I could sit for ever," he would say; "on
every subject he speaks well and wisely;" and once, when he was
strolling through Kensington Gardens with his sister-friend, Anna
Sheldon, he had electrified her by quoting a favourite passage from his
essay on friendship.

"Friendship requires that rare mean betwixt likeness and unlikeness
that piques each with the presence of power and of consent in the other
party. Let me be alone to the end of the world, rather than that my
friend should overstep, by a word or look, his real sympathy. I am
equally baulked by antagonism and by compliance. Let him not cease an
instant to be himself.... Better be a nettle in the side of your friend
than his echo."

Malcolm had uttered the last sentence in rather a tragic tone, but he
was somewhat offended when the girl laughed. "What an odd idea!" she
observed innocently. "I should strongly object to anything so stinging
as a nettle; perhaps it is because I am a woman that I should prefer
the echo;" but Malcolm, who had received a douche of cold water from
this feminine criticism, declined to be drawn into a discussion on the
subject.

"Women are so illogical," he muttered angrily, and Anna's heaven of
content was suddenly clouded. Malcolm's approval was vitally necessary
to her happiness--a chilling word from him had power to spoil the
fairest landscape and blot out the sunshine; nevertheless she took her
rebuff meekly and without retort.

A mere chance, an accident in the destinies of both men, had brought
about this acquaintance between Malcolm Herrick and Cedric Templeton.
The vice-president of Magdalene was an old friend of the Herrick
family, and was indeed distantly related to Mrs. Herrick; and after
Malcolm had taken his degree and left Lincoln, he often spent a week or
two with Dr. Medcalf. He was an old bachelor, and one of the most
sociable of men, and his rooms were the envy of his friends. Malcolm
was a great favourite with him, and was always welcome when he could
spare time to run down for a brief visit.

About two years before, he was spending a few days with his friend,
when one evening as he was strolling down Addison's Walk in the
gloaming, his attention was attracted by a young undergraduate. He was
seated on a bench with his head in his hands; but at the sound of
passing footsteps he moved slightly, and Malcolm caught sight of a
white boyish face and haggard eyes that looked at him a little wildly;
then he covered his face again. Malcolm walked on a few steps; his kind
heart was shocked at the lad's evident misery, but to his reserved
nature it was never easy to make the first advance; indeed, he often
remarked that he had rather a fellow-feeling with the Levite who passed
by on the other side.

"I daresay he was sorry for the poor traveller in his heart," he
observed, "but it takes a deal of moral courage to be a Good Samaritan;
it is not easy for a shy man, for example, to render first aid to a
poor chap with a fractured limb in the middle of a crowd of
sympathising bystanders--one's self-consciousness and British hatred of
a scene seem to choke one off."

So, true to his diffident nature, Malcolm walked to the other end of
Addison's Walk; then something seemed to drag at him, and he retraced
his steps slowly and reluctantly; finally, as though constrained by
some unseen power that overmastered his reserve, he sat down on the
bench and touched the youth lightly on the arm.

"You are in trouble, I fear; is there anything I can do to help you?"

The words were simple almost to bluntness, but they were none the worse
for that, for they rang true from a good heart.

Malcolm's voice was pleasant; when he chose, it could be both winning
and persuasive; to the lad sitting there in the Egyptian darkness of a
terrifying despair, it sounded honey-sweet. He put out a hot hand to
his new friend, and then broke into a fit of tears and sobs. "Oh, can
you help me?" he gasped out. "I wanted to drown or hang myself, sooner
than disgrace them; only I thought of Dinah and I couldn't do it;" and
then as he grew calmer a little judicious questioning and a few more
kind words brought out the whole story.

He had fallen into bad hands; two or three men older and richer than
himself had got hold of him for their own purposes, and had led him
into mischief. The culminating misfortune had happened the previous
evening, when they had induced him to play at cards; the stakes were
high, though the boy was too much fuddled by champagne to guess that.

"They made me drunk, sir," groaned Cedric; "and there was a
professional sharper there--Wright has just told me so--and he will not
let me off. If they found out things at headquarters I should be
rusticated, and I am only in my first term. The Proctor has vowed to
make an example of the next fellow caught gambling, and they say he
always keeps his word."

"How much do you owe?" asked Malcolm; and when Cedric in a low voice
mentioned the sum, Malcolm gave a whistle of dismay. No wonder he was
in despair.

"If I had not drunk too much, I should have stopped playing when I saw
I was losing," went on Cedric in a contrite tone; "but they plied me
with liquor, and I got reckless, and then I knew no more till I found
myself in bed with my clothes on."

Cedric was not shirking the truth certainly. The young prodigal already
realised the nature of the husks given to him; he was so low and abject
in his abasement that a word of rebuke would have seemed cruel. One
thing was certain, that matters were serious--gambling and drunkenness
were no light offences.

Malcolm had already been put into possession of the youth's domestic
history. His name was Cedric Templeton; his parents were dead, and he
was dependent on his half-sisters; his father had had heavy losses, and
Cedric's inheritance had been small. The first Mrs. Templeton had
brought her husband great wealth, but the money had been settled on the
daughters. Mr. Templeton's second wife was a penniless girl. She had
died two or three years after Cedric's birth, and Dinah, the elder
sister, had mothered him.

"You must put a good face on it and write to your sister," continued
Malcolm. "If you take my advice, Templeton, you will keep nothing
back--' the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth'--and
hang the consequences." Malcolm finished his sentence with a touch of
impatience, for the boy's scared face almost frightened him.

"No, no, no!" returned Cedric vehemently. "I would sooner drown myself
a hundred times over. Look here," plucking at Malcolm's coat-sleeve
with his feverish, restless hand, "you don't understand--you don't know
Dinah; she would break her heart, and Elizabeth too. They are such good
women, they don't allow for a fellow's temptation; and--and I have
broken my word."

"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.'"

"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.

"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.

As Anna must have her way on her birthday, Malcolm said no more, and
the next moment they arrived at their destination--a gray,
dingy-looking old house, somewhat high and narrow, overlooking the
river.

The first floor windows opened on a balcony, which had an awning over
it. Two or three deck-chairs had been placed there, and on summer
evenings Malcolm loved to sit there, either alone or with a congenial
spirit, enjoying the refreshing breezes from the river.

The house belonged to his friend Amias Keston, and some years before he
had built himself a studio in the back garden. As his income was
remarkably small, and his work at that time far from remunerative, he
was obliged to let the upper floor. The situation charmed Malcolm, and
the society of his old friend was a strong inducement, so they soon
came to terms. Malcolm was an ideal lodger; he gave little trouble,
beyond having his bath filled and his boots well polished. He
breakfasted in his own apartment, but he always dined with the Kestons.
A solitary chop eaten in solitude was not to his taste, and he much
preferred sharing his friends' homely meals. "Plain living and high
thinking suit me down to the ground," he would say--"a laugh helps
digestion;" but in spite of his philosophic theories, many secret
dainties found their way into the Keston larder, and were regarded
doubtfully and with awe by an anxious young housekeeper.

Anna felt a little quickening of excitement as they walked up the
flagged path--she could not look indifferently at the house where
Malcolm lived. It seemed an age to both of them before the door was
opened. Malcolm had knocked twice, and was meditating a third assault,
when they heard footsteps, and the next moment a little brown girl
appeared on the threshold with a child in her arms.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Herrick, but Hepsy has just gone for the milk," she
whispered to Malcolm, who did not seem a bit surprised by the
intelligence.

He had grown used to these domestic episodes. The milkman was generally
late, and Hepsy, otherwise Hephzibah, was for ever on his track with a
yellow jug in her hand; they called it the "Hunting of the Snark," for
they were wont to treat the minor accidents of life in a playful
fashion.

"Anna, this is Mrs. Keston," observed Malcolm--"my friend Verity, and
Babs." Then Anna, in some confusion and much astonishment, shook hands
with this very singular young person.

Verity! could this be the Verity that Malcolm had eulogised with such
enthusiasm--this little brown girl who was regarding her so gravely and
fixedly?

Anna was obliged to own afterwards that her appearance had given her a
shock. She was so small and sallow and insignificant, and her short
curly hair was parted on one side like a boy, and cropped quite closely
behind. The baby was small and brown too, a tiny edition of herself,
and they both had dark eyes that looked preternaturally solemn; Babs,
indeed, wore an injured expression, and a puckered look of anguish
spoke of the pangs of hunger and the delinquencies of milkmen.

"Babs wants her tea," observed Verity cheerfully; "I am going to give
her a crust to amuse her. Will you bring Miss Sheldon into the studio,
Mr. Herrick? Amias will be so pleased to see her, though he is very
busy. I know your name," she continued smilingly to Anna--she had a
fresh clear voice that sounded pleasantly on Anna's ear; "I have heard
so much about you, that of course I recognised you directly, though Mr.
Herrick did not introduce you properly."

Verity spoke with so much ease and frankness that Anna began to feel
interested in her; she seemed so utterly oblivious of her shabby cotton
dress and ridiculous bib-apron. Babs presented a far more imposing
appearance in a white frock and pink ribbons, underneath which the bare
little brown feet were peeping. Anna would willingly have made friends
with her, but Verity advised her to wait. "Babs will not be sociable
until she has had her tea," she remarked; "we had better take no notice
of her for the present," and indeed that much-enduring and
long-suffering infant was at that moment so reduced by famine as to
attempt swallowing her own dimpled fist.

"What a capital boy she would make!" thought Anna as she followed Mrs.
Keston into the dining-room; for the dark, closely-cropped head and a
certain boyish freedom of step and bearing gave her this idea.

The dining-room was rather a gloomy apartment; the front windows were
high and narrow, and the overhanging balcony rather obscured the light;
the folding-doors had been taken away, but though this added to the
size of the room, there was no additional cheerfulness gained, as the
glass door in the inner room, which once had opened into a pleasant
garden, now merely led into a covered way to the studio.

This sombre apartment was furnished in a curious manner, which made
people open their eyes with astonishment until they found out that
Amias Keston had acquired his household goods at second-hand sales.

The table of good Spanish mahogany had been a bargain, but it hardly
harmonised with a Sheraton cabinet and a light oak sideboard, though
both were good of their kind. Then the chairs had been picked up
singly, and were of all sizes and patterns. Amias always sat in a
grandfather chair of carved dark oak at the bottom of the table, and
Verity in a high-backed chair in light oak and red morocco, while
others were rosewood, mahogany, or Sheraton. Nothing matched, nothing
harmonized; it was merely a curiosity shop in which they stored their
purchases. So there were plush curtains and Japanese screens, a bronze
Mazeppa, and an alabaster boy and butterfly, while blue dragon china
and some lovely bits of Chelsea were in a corner cupboard. Anna, who
knew there was no other living room, looked vainly round for some
feminine occupation, and Verily, who was as sharp as a needle, seemed
to guess her thought.

"Oh, I never sit here," she said confidentially, "it is too dark; Babs
and I prefer the studio," and Anna did not wonder at the preference.
The studio was a delightful room, high and well-proportioned, and with
plenty of light. The part used by Amias Keston as his workshop was
quite bare with the exception of the sitter's throne and an easel or
two; this could at any time be curtained off to secure privacy.

The rest of the studio was fitted up as a sitting-room, with rugs,
easy-chairs, and a couch, and a table with work and writing-materials.
Here, in a retired nook behind an old screen, stood "Babs's"
bassinette, where she took her mid-day naps.

"This is Verity's and Bab's playroom," explained Malcolm with a
patronising air; "here the Martha of the establishment takes her
well-earned rest." Then Verity flashed a sudden look at him which
expressed unmitigated indignation.

"Hit one of your own size, Malcolm, my boy," observed a voice genially
from the distance; and then, as Verity drew back a curtain, Anna saw a
big, burly-looking man, with shaggy hair and a fair moustache, painting
at an easel.

He was so big, so colossal in fact, that he seemed to shake the floor
as he walked; everything was big about him, his hands and feet, his
voice and his laugh, and when he whispered his words were audible at
the other end of the room. This giant among men wore an old brown
velvet coat, very frayed about the elbows, and though he was by no
means handsome, there was such a pleasant, kindly expression on his
face that Anna felt drawn to him at once.

"How do you do, Miss Sheldon?" he said, as Malcolm introduced them; "my
wife and I have long wished to make your acquaintance," and here his
big hand seemed to swallow Anna's up.

"Go on with your painting, Goliath," interrupted Malcolm. "He is
working against time, Anna, and every daylight hour is of consequence
to him; it was Verity who drew that curtain that he might not be
disturbed;" and then Amias Keston stretched his huge arms and gave
himself a shake.

"The Philistines are upon thee, Samson! Yea-Verily, my child, if the
Snark is back, you had better tell her to bring us some tea." But here
Malcolm again interposed. Goliath was far too busy, they would have tea
upstairs, and then sit on the balcony afterwards; and Verity understood
him at once. "Hepsy is back," she said composedly; "please take Miss
Sheldon upstairs, and then Amias will go on with his work, and I will
send up tea as soon as possible;" but before they were out of the
studio Goliath was back at his easel and painting away for dear life.




CHAPTER VII

MORE ANCIENT HISTORY WITH VERITY


     Heart, are you great enough
     For a love that never tires?
     Oh heart, are you great enough for love?
     I have heard of thorns and briers?
                                   --TENNYSON.


As the studio door closed behind them, Anna said regretfully, "I wish
we could have stayed longer, Malcolm, I wanted to see more of that nice
Mr. Keston; and I did so long to peep at his picture."

"Did you?" observed Malcolm in a surprised tone, but he was evidently
gratified at this expression of interest. "Well, we will go back there
presently, when he has finished that bit of drapery that is bothering
him. Goliath is as nervous as a cat when he is working against time. He
and Verity have arranged a regular code of signals," he went on: "when
the curtain is drawn right across the arch, it means no admittance
except on business, and all loafers and trespassers will be prosecuted.
On these occasions Verity is a perfect dragon, and he would be an
audacious man who would try to force his way in."

Anna nodded as though this explanation satisfied her, and then she
followed Malcolm up the steep, narrow staircase into a pleasant,
well-furnished room, with two windows opening on to the balcony.

Everything was in good taste and thoroughly well chosen. The dark oak
bureau and writing-table, the book-shelves filled with well-bound
volumes, the proof engravings on the walls, and a handsome bronze group
on the mantelpiece; while the deep easy-chairs and couch gave it an air
of comfort.

Anna had been there before, but she always reiterated her first remark
on seeing it, "that it was the most comfortable room she had ever
entered. You have such good taste, Malcolm," she would say; "even your
paperweight and the coal-scuttle are artistic."

"I am a lover of the picturesque," he would return solemnly, "and
anything ugly or unsuitable would jar on me. I like subdued tints and
mellow rich tones; that is why I bind my books in buff-coloured Russian
calf. They harmonise so splendidly with the dark oak and the faded
russet and brown and blue of the rug. Take my advice, Anna, cultivate
your eye, and you will add much to the pleasures of life."

When Anna had inspected the latest engraving and tested the
Chesterfield couch--a recent purchase--they went out on the balcony
until tea was ready. A red-haired, buxom-looking maid brought it in.

It was evident that the mistress of the establishment was not without
resources, for quite a pretty, tempting little meal was spread on the
oval table. There was sponge-cake and shortbread, a dish of fruit, and
delicious bread-and-butter. The beautiful teacups were Malcolm's own
property, and had been picked up by him at a fabulous price in Wardour
Street, and the little melon-shaped teapot had been a present from his
mother. Verity always washed up these teacups herself. She said it was
just for the pleasure of handling such lovely things, but in reality
she knew Hepsy's clumsy fingers were not to be trusted.

Anna had only taken her place at the tea-tray, and was manipulating the
curiously-shaped sugar-tongs rather carefully, when Malcolm looked at
her a little searchingly. "Hurry up," he said severely; "how long do
you suppose I am going to wait for your opinion of the Keston family?"

Then Anna, who had been vaguely alarmed by his judicial tone, filled up
the teacups with a reassured air and in a leisurely manner. "You can
hardly expect me to judge of any human being in five minutes," she
answered with some show of reason.

"That sounds very plausible, my dear, but I can read you like print,"
and here Malcolm looked at her squarely. "You may as well confess,
Anna, you are far more struck with Goliath than with poor little
Verity."

Anna looked rather guilty; as usual, Malcolm's penetration had not
deceived him. She had been most favourably impressed with the
good-humoured giant, with his honest face and kindly blue eyes; but
Verity, a brown slip of a girl with big solemn eyes, how was she to
perjure herself by pretending that she was attracted by such a unique
little piece of eccentricity.

"I wish she did not look so like a boy," she observed in a deprecating
voice. But Malcolm took this remark in good part.

"Oh, you mean her hair," he replied coolly. "Oh, poor girl, that is the
result of brain fever. She had the most wonderful hair you ever saw.
When she let it down it quite swept the floor, and though it was so
dark it had such splendid shades in it. Have you ever seen Keston's
'Leah and Rachel at the Well'?" Then, as Anna shook her head, "Well,
Verity was his model for Leah. Leah is filling her pitcher and looking
down into the well, so the eyes are hidden, but it is Verity's small
brown face to the life. I always say that was his best picture. His
Rachel was marvellous, but I liked Leah best; she was more human
somehow, and those dark plaits of hair escaping from her turban were so
beautiful. Poor little Leah! a month later they robbed her of her chief
beauty by cutting off her hair. Old Goliath nearly sobbed as he told
me."

Anna's face was full of sympathy. "Mr. Keston must be very fond of
her," she returned in such a surprised and dubious tone that Malcolm
laughed outright.

"You are not very flattering to poor little Verity," he observed, "but
I can assure you that Goliath worships the ground she walks on. They
are the happiest couple in the world. Amias is a good fellow and a fine
artist, who will make his mark some day when he has got rid of his
cranks, but he has not an ounce of his wife's brains; she is the
cleverest and brightest little woman I ever met, and she has a heart
big enough to hold the whole world."

Anna pondered over this splendid eulogium with some surprise; then she
said quickly--

"You must allow me a little time before I can fairly judge of your
friends, Malcolm. I know so little about Mrs. Keston. I remember you
once promised to tell me about her early life, but somehow there has
been no opportunity."

"Let us go out on the balcony and have our talk there, while I enjoy a
cigarette," was Malcolm's answer to this. "We must not go back to the
studio for another hour;" and then Anna took possession of one
deck-chair while Malcolm occupied the other.

There was a short silence while Malcolm lighted his cigarette. Anna
looked down on the broad gray river and a passing steamer with eyes
shining with happiness. To her the hour was simply perfect. Malcolm was
beside her, and in his kindest and most brotherly mood. What did it
matter on what subject they talked? Verity or Cedric or Lincoln's
Inn--anything that interested him would interest her. When Malcolm held
forth on his favourite theories, Anna would listen with unflagging
attention, and never once hint at her lack of comprehension, although
the effort to understand him had made her head ache. The very sound of
his voice was music in her ears, and this unconscious flattery was very
soothing to his masculine intellect.

Malcolm, who had masterful ways of his own, was bent on convincing Anna
that she was wrong in her estimate of Verity Keston, and he was very
willing at this moment to tell her all he knew of her.

"I have heard all about things from Goliath," he began, "and Verity
often talks about her old life to me. Neither of them make any secret
about it. She was only seven or eight when he first saw her; she had
just lost her mother. Her father's name was Westbrook; he was a
scene-painter, a thriftless ne'er-do-weel, whose intemperate habits had
brought them to poverty and broken his wife's heart; but in his sober
moments he was good to the child, and she certainly seemed devoted to
him."

"Oh dear, how sad it sounds, Malcolm!"

"My dear, it was far sadder in reality. Think of that lonely little
creature, with no one to guide and befriend her except the woman of the
house."

"In her rough way Mrs. Parker kept watch over the child, but she had
children of her own and a sick husband, and had to drudge and slave for
her family and lodgers from morning until night. Oh, I must tell you
her answer to a well-meaning district visitor one day, Anna. The lady
had just said very sweetly, 'It is so good for us to count our
blessings, Mrs. Parker; we are so apt to forget our thanksgivings.'"

"'Humph,' returned Mrs. Parker, 'I don't reckon that I shall take long
in counting mine--unless backaches and singing in your ears are amongst
them. But then we have got something to look forward to in t'other
world--there'll be no wash-tubs and no district visitors there, with
their texts and high-falutin' nonsense.'"

Anna laughed merrily. In her quiet way she had a strong sense of humour.

"I think I like Mrs. Parker, Malcolm."

"Verity liked her too; she always says that she owes a great deal to
her motherly care. 'I got a few cuffs sometimes,' she once said to me,
'but I daresay I deserved them, and, poor woman, she had troubles of
her own to bear. But on cold nights I can't forget how she would come
upstairs to tuck me up, and see if I were warm enough; and once, when I
could not sleep for shivering, she brought me up some hot drink, and
covered me up in an old shawl of her own;' and as long as Mrs. Parker
lived Verity never forgot her.'"

"I am beginning to feel interested in her, Malcolm."

"My dear child, if you could only hear Goliath talk on this subject
your heart would ache for many a day. Think of that poor child growing
up to womanhood in such surroundings; spending her days in a dirty,
bare studio, with only rough, dissipated men for her companions--though
to do them justice they treated her with respect and kindness. Somehow
she picked up a desultory education among them. One broken-down old
scene-painter taught her to read and write, and another, a French
artist, taught her the rudiments of French, and also to play on the
violin. 'They all treated me as a plaything,' she once said to me, 'and
poor as they were, they would bring me toys and sweets. I think, nay, I
am sure, that they were careful of their talk before me, but it was a
strange life for a child. Very often I could not see their faces for
the cloud of tobacco smoke, and sometimes the atmosphere was so
stifling that I preferred to sit outside on the cold dark landing.'"

"Poor mite, what a life!"

"Amias told me once that he should never forget the first time he saw
her. He was a mere lad himself of sixteen or seventeen, and a student
in a life academy."

"Some errand had brought him to Westbrook's lodgings. It was a dull,
cold January afternoon, and though it was only three o'clock, he said
the light was so dim that he nearly stumbled over the child. She was
sitting huddled up in the doorway of the studio, with an old red shawl
over her head to protect her against the draughts, and a tiny black
kitten was mewing piteously in her arms."

"'Kitty's crying for her mother pussy,' she said, looking at him
without the least shyness, 'but I want her to keep me company out here.
It is not kind of her to cry.'"

"'But it is too cold for you and Kitty too,' observed Amias; 'you had
better come in with me.' But the child shook her head."

"'No, I durst not,' she whispered; 'daddy's drunk, and he is flinging
things about so hard that Kitty and me might get hurt; so I am making
believe we are the Prince and Princess in the enchanted forest. Will
you stop and play with me?' and actually Amias--he was always a good
fellow--squatted on the ground beside her and entered into the game.
From that day they were the best of friends, and he was Verity's
favourite playmate. On Sunday afternoons he took her out to feed the
ducks in St. James's Park, or to watch the boys sail their boats on the
pond in Kensington Gardens. He was only a poor art student, but he
would forego a meal cheerfully to provide some little treat for his
protegee. As the days grew darker with trouble, and Westbrook grew more
hopeless and degraded in his habits, the neglected child turned to
Amias for help and sympathy. There were terrible scenes towards the
last, but I will spare you the fearful details; it was a miracle how
any girl of fifteen could endure what Verity had to bear. For some
months Westbrook's friends were fully aware that he was hardly
accountable for his actions, and there was an attempt made to shut him
up in an asylum. It was certain that the man was insane, and that his
daughter was not safe from his violence. Amias concurred in this
opinion, and the necessary steps were taken. Unfortunately, either the
thing was bungled or Westbrook was too cunning for them, but before
they could secure him he had hidden himself in Verity's room, and when
the poor child entered he thought she was his keeper and felled her
brutally to the ground. They were only just in time to save her. Don't
look so pale, Anna, I am not going to harrow up your feelings. It is
not a nice story. Westbrook was raving in a strait waistcoat before
night, but he did not live many months afterwards;" and then Malcolm
related the rest of the story.

It was after that terrible experience that Verity had brain fever and
lost her beautiful hair. She had only just left the hospital when the
news of her father's death reached her. It was Amias who told her.

The good fellow had visited her constantly, and as soon as she was
strong enough to be moved, he took lodgings for her in a farmhouse in
Kent where he had often stayed. The woman of the house was a simple,
kindly creature who had grown-up daughters of her own, and Amias knew
he could safely trust Verity to her care.

No environment could have been better for the girl: the beautiful air,
the fresh country sights and sounds, soothed and strengthened her worn
nerves. When Verity woke in the morning, instead of the rumbling of
carts and wagons, she heard the fluting of blackbirds and thrushes in
the orchard below, and the lowing of cows for their pastures.
Everything was new and fresh to her; every flower in the hedgerow,
every bird singing in the copse, was a miracle and revelation; the old
miserable life had slipped away from her like a disused and faded
garment, and her soul seemed new-born and steeped in beauty. "Oh, the
peace and the loveliness of it all!" she would say to Amias when he
came down for his Sunday visit. "Am I really Verity--Verity Westbrook,
who used to live in that dreadful Montagu Street?" And then she would
look wistfully at him--for she had grown strangely timid and
self-distrustful. But he would only laugh at her in his kindly way.
"Yea-Verily, my child, it is certainly you yourself," he would answer;
"when Nature made you she broke her mould, there could not be two
editions of Verity." Sometimes, when she was low and weak, and memories
of the past horrors were too vivid, and even his big laugh and little
jokes failed to drive them away, she would cling to his arm and entreat
him not to send her back. "If I see that place again I shall die," she
once said, and the look in her eyes, and the way her small hand went to
her throat, as though the very thought impeded her breathing, told him
that she spoke the truth.

What was he to do with her? That was the question that occupied him for
many a day. The summer had passed, and autumn was well advanced before
he found the right answer.

One October afternoon he had taken her out for a walk as usual, and
they had sat down to rest on a bench under a wide-spreading chestnut
tree overlooking a village green. An aged donkey and some geese were
feeding near them, but there was no one in sight. The old gammers and
gaffers of the village were sitting by their firesides, for, in spite
of the sunshine, the air was cold, and more than once Verity shivered
as she sat.

"This wind is too cold for you, my child," he said presently; "let us
walk on." But she shook her head.

"No, please let us stay a little longer. I do so love this village. If
I were an artist I would paint it. Amias," interrupting herself, "there
is something I want to say to you. I have been at dear Colbrook seven
months--seven happy, beautiful months--but I am well now, and quite
strong, and it is time for me to work and get my own living."

Verity spoke with great determination, but he noticed that her lips
were white and drawn, and that there was a strained look in her eyes,
and a sort of pitiful feeling came over him, such as a mother would
feel for a suffering child. In spite of her brave words, he knew how
she dreaded to face the world, though her womanly pride and spirit
would prevent her from telling him so. More than once she had hinted to
him that she felt herself a burden on his generosity; but at the first
word he had checked her.

"How old are you, dear?" he asked by way of answer to her remark. The
question seemed to surprise her.

"Oh, Amias, don't you remember I was seventeen on the first of May, and
Mrs. Craven gave us a syllabub in honour of the occasion?" and Verity's
dark eyes were a little reproachful. It seemed so strange to her that
he could have forgotten that day. But Amias only tugged at his
moustache and pondered deeply.

"I have it," he said briskly. "Verity, you shall be married on your
eighteenth birthday, and you shall marry me." Then, as the girl shrank
from him, and her thin face was covered with a burning blush at these
unexpected words, his manner changed and grew very gentle. "Darling,
you need not be afraid of me. Every hair of your head is sacred to me,
for I love you dearly. I will take such care of you, my little Verity,
You will be my child as well as my wife. You can trust your old friend
Amias, can you not?" and though such an idea had never entered her
head, Verity's confidence in him was so great that she actually put her
hand in his and promised to marry him.

Never for one moment did she repent her resolution, and before the
wedding day arrived she had learned to love him dearly. Amias had not
long lost his mother, and the old house at Chelsea was empty when he
took Verity there after their brief honeymoon. She was almost
frightened at its magnificence until her husband explained to her that
they would be too poor to keep it all for themselves, and that a friend
of his had taken the drawing-room floor and would live with them.

Such were the outlines of the story related by Malcolm, but in reality
much of it was only learnt later on from Verity's lips; but even the
slight sketch as Malcolm told it affected Anna almost to tears.

"Oh, how she must have loved him!" were her first words when he had
finished. "Malcolm, I know you will laugh at my enthusiasm, but I think
Mr. Keston is one of the grandest and noblest of men. What a friend he
has been to her all her life--she owes her life and peace and happiness
to him! What would have become of her when she left the hospital if he
had not cared for her and placed her with those kind people at the
farm?"

"One can easily answer that question," returned Malcolm; "she would not
have been alive now. Her nerves were fearfully shattered, Anna, and she
was as weak as a baby when she arrived at the Hill Farm. Amias told me
himself that he carried her into house like an infant. There, dry your
eyes, lady fair, all's well that ends well. Now, as our hour is up, I
think we may safely venture into the studio again."




CHAPTER VIII

THE RECORD OF AN IMPOTENT GENIUS


     And whether you climb up the mountain or go down the hill
     to the valley, whether you journey to the end of the world or
     merely walk round your house, none but yourself shall you meet
     on the highway of fate.--MAETERLINCK.


The door of the studio was slightly ajar, and the sound of a singularly
sweet voice crooning out a lullaby was plainly audible. Malcolm, who
was about to knock, changed his mind and peeped in through the
aperture; then he beckoned to Anna to do likewise.

It was certainly a pretty picture before them. Verity was sitting in
her low nursery chair, in the shadow of the heavy, ruby-coloured
curtains, hushing her child to sleep, while her husband, at a little
distance, stood before his easel; but she was so utterly transformed
that Anna would not have known her.

She wore the dress of a Roman peasant; heavy gilt beads were clasped
round her throat and fell over her white pleated chemisette, a
gay-coloured scarf was arranged picturesquely on her head and gave
warmth and colour to the small brown face. On her lap lay Babs,
open-eyed and rebellious, kicking up her bare little feet and humming
baby fashion in pleased accompaniment.

"Oh, Amias," exclaimed Verity at last in a laughing voice, "what am I
to do with this naughty girlie, who refuses to go to sleep and only
laughs in her mother's face? Oh, you darling, you darling!" and here
Verity smothered the little one with kisses.

"Behold the stern parent!" observed Malcolm mockingly at this point.
"Verity, that rogue of a Babs is a match for you already. Why don't you
put her in her cot and order her to go to sleep, instead of crooning
absurd ditties over her? Oh, I thought so," severely, as Babs grasped
her toes with her dimpled hands in the practised style of an acrobat,
and gurgled defiantly in his face; "she is just exulting over her own
victory as an emancipated daughter."

"Babs takes after her great-grandmother," observed Amias cheerfully
from the background; "it is the law of heredity, you see. Her name was
also Barbara--Barbara Allen, and she was remarkable for her brown skin,
her gipsy beauty, and her incorrigible self-will. She had lovers by the
score, and flouted them all except my great-grandfather, whom I have
reason to believe wished himself dead before he had been married a
week. She was the mother of fifteen, and lived to a good old age, and
was a pride and terror to the neighbourhood, and the mantle of her
self-will has fallen upon Barbara Maud Keston. Yea-Verily, my child,
the oracle has spoken," and Amias went on with his work, while Babs
gurgled at him in delighted appreciation of these paternal sentiments.

"Would Miss Sheldon care to see my picture, Malcolm?" he asked the next
minute in his usual voice; "it is nearly finished, and I shall be glad
of an opinion;" and then he drew back from the canvas, and Malcolm and
Anna took his place.

It was one of those little studies from life that appeal so strongly to
the popular taste, and in spite of its simplicity and absence of
breadth, it was exquisitely painted. It was only a couple of
organ-grinders resting during the noontide heat. The man was sitting on
the curb with a short pipe in his mouth--a handsome rascal of a fellow,
evidently an Italian, with gold rings in his ears. The woman, in
peasant costume, looked heated and weary, and had a baby in her arms.
Both mother and child were painted from life.

"How beautiful!" whispered Anna, looking reverently at the giant beside
her.

"It is one of your best pictures, Goliath," observed Malcolm, "but I
suppose you do not intend to exhibit it next year?"

"Oh no," he returned, "it is already bespoken by a rich Australian.
Rainsford brought him here to see if he would give me an order, and he
fell in love with my organ-grinders at once. I had a sort of idea that
I would keep it myself, for the sake of Verity and the kid; but with a
family"--here Amias smoothed his yellow moustache proudly--"one is
bound to keep the pot boiling."

"I did not want it to go," sighed Verity, who had just then sidled up
to her husband--she looked a mere child beside him--"it is such a
perfect likeness of Babs." And then she withdrew with the rebel, while
the others made a turn round the studio; and Amias showed them
sketches, and also a more important picture that was to be exhibited at
the Royal Academy the following year. Verity was the model again--this
time as a sick gipsy girl lying on a heap of straw in a barn, while the
caravan and encampment were painted most realistically, even to the old
horse and shaggy donkey hobbled to the trunk of a tree, with a thin
yellow cur near them. When completed it would be a striking picture:
the smoky sunset tints of a November afternoon were faithfully
depicted; and a woodman's hut, just falling into decay, with golden
lichen on the rotting roof, was marvellously painted. Malcolm stood
before it in a rapt mood of ecstasy, then he struck himself
dramatically on the breast.

"Goliath," he said sorrowfully, "I am the most miserable of men, a
'mute inglorious Milton' is nothing to me. Nature has created me a
lover of the picturesque. In heart and soul I am an artist, I dabble in
colours, I dream of lights and shades and glorious effects; but the
power of working out my ideas is denied me. If I try to paint a tree my
friends gibe at me. I am a poor literary hack; but I give you my word,
my dear old Philistine, that I would willingly change places with you."
Anna smiled, she was accustomed to this sort of talk; but to her
surprise Verity, who had just rejoined them, looked grave.

"I am always so sorry for Mr. Herrick when he says this sort of thing,"
she observed in a low voice aside to Anna. "He means us to laugh, but
he is quite serious. Amias and I just know how he feels. It must be so
sad to love the beautiful with all one's heart and not have the power
to create--to be just a thought and word painter and nothing else."

"Perhaps if Malcolm took lessons he might be able to paint in time,"
suggested Anna. She felt rather culpable, as though all these years she
had not sympathised enough with him; but then it was so difficult for
any one to know when he was serious.

It was evident that Verity understood him.

"Oh no, it is too late now," she remarked; "besides, the gift has been
denied him. But he helps Amias so much by his clever suggestions. He
would not tell you, of course, but this caravan scene is all his idea.
He came upon a gipsy encampment in a Kentish lane one afternoon, and he
made Amias go down the next day and see it. There was the woodman's
hut, and the barn, and the hobbled horse and donkey. Amias was down
there at the inn three days, making sketches for the picture, and
getting some of the gipsies to sit to him. There was one woman ill in
the tent, but Amias declared she looked more like a sick ape, she was
so ugly--so I had to be the model."

"Isn't it rather tiring work, Mrs. Keston?"

"Oh dear, no," returned Verity smiling; "it never tires me to do things
for Amias; and then he lets me talk to him all the time. I like to feel
I am useful to him, and can help him a little with his work."

"Oh yes, I can understand that," returned Anna softly. She thought
Verity looked quite beautiful as she spoke; perhaps the costume of a
Roman peasant suited her, but Anna, who was standing quite close to
her, noticed the wonderful softness of the brown eyes and the length of
the curling lashes. Babs had grown drowsy at last, and Verity had
placed her in the cot. Then they all sat down for a brief chat before
it was time for Malcolm to take Anna home.

They had been talking about Amias Keston's unfinished picture, and, as
usual, Malcolm had been holding forth in his role of art critic, when
one of those sudden pauses which seem to drop softly between intimate
friends followed his concluding speech. Verity held up her finger with
the hackneyed allusion to a passing angel, at which Malcolm laughed
scornfully.

"You are too poetical, my dear Verity," he observed; "it was no
white-robed celestial vision brushing past us in the twilight and
fanning us with plumed and balmy wings; the gliding shadow that moved
between us was merely the guardian genius who presides over my destiny.
But as he passed I touched his mantle"--and here Malcolm regarded his
audience with infinite meaning.

No one hazarded an observation. Amias, who had been filling his pipe
with tobacco, looked at it longingly and returned it to his pocket.
This process he repeated at intervals from sheer force of habit. With
his pipe alight he was an ideal listener; without it his attention
wandered and grew drowsy. But Malcolm, wrapt up in his own visionary
conceits, did not see the pathos of the action.

He was on his favourite hobby-horse--life, and its limitations, its
enforced denials and futile sacrifices, was opening before his eyes.

"I am going to write a book," he announced abruptly. "I mean to take
the world by storm--to say my say--for once. It will not be a novel.
The public is inundated by the flood of fiction that threatens to
engulf it. We have biographies by the ton, in two, three, or four
volumes; in every public place in England we set up our golden image,
and we bid men, women, and children fall down and do it homage.
Hero-worship is our favourite cult; woe to that man who refuses to burn
incense before it!"

"I suppose you intend to bring out a volume of essays?" queried Amias
lazily.

"No, my dear fellow," returned Malcolm rather mendaciously, for he was
planning a series of essays at that very time. "No trifles and
syllabubs for me--froth above and sweetness and jam beneath. Every one
writes essays nowadays, and tries to stir with his little Gulliver pen
the yeasty foam raised by a Carlyle or an Emerson. One might as well
watch the effort of a small hairy caterpillar to follow in the wake of
a sea-serpent. Oh ye gods and little fishes, could anything be more
grotesque!"

"But the book?" growled Amias, with a surreptitious glance at his pipe.

"Oh, the book," returned Malcolm loftily, "it is a sudden inspiration,
but I feel the grip of my Frankenstein already; I have not yet let go
the mantle of my guardian genius. It will be autobiographical,
expansive, and deep as human nature itself, and I shall call it 'The
Record of an Impotent Genius.'"

"Good lack!" observed Amias in a disgusted tone, "what a drivelling
title! Why impotent, in the name of all that is rational?"

"My dear old Philistine," returned his friend in a measured voice, "I
use the word impotent in the meaning attached to it in Holy Writ, and
as my beloved and well-thumbed Thesaurus uses it: impotent, powerless,
unarmed, weaponless, paralytic, crippled, inoperative, ineffectual,
inadequate. Think of the strong man bound for a lifetime, Goliath--of a
dumb and palsied genius gazing out of a prison-house. Could even a
blinded Samson equal the pathos of such a picture?"

Amias shook his head mutely, and felt a third time for his pipe, and
plugged the tobacco tenderly with his finger. In some moods he never
argued with Malcolm.

"I shall write the autobiography of this poor tormented soul," went on
Malcolm--"this dumb poet, this crippled artist, to whom the birthright
of failure has descended, who has to look on for a lifetime at other
men's labours, and to whom the power of expression and creation is
denied, who has been gifted with the seeing eye in vain."

"Oh that seeing eye!" groaned Amias, who had heard this observation at
least a hundred times. Then Verity began to laugh, and, to Anna's
surprise, Malcolm followed suit. Then he clapped Amias heavily on the
shoulder.

"Where's your pipe, Goliath? Poor old Philistine, he is a gone coon
without his baccy. Fetch him a match somebody." And as Amias feebly
protested against this, he went on--"Anna is quite a Bohemian, and
rather likes the smell of tobacco. I will have a cigarette to keep you
company," and in another minute Amias's broad countenance wore its
usual expression of placid enjoyment.

The conversation turned on Cedric Templeton, and Malcolm asked Verity
if she could transform the lumber-room into a bedroom for two or three
nights for the use of his friend. This she at once cheerfully undertook
to do, and promised to have it ready by the following evening, and then
he informed them of his intended visit to Staplegrove.

Verity's eyes at once challenged her husband. "Staplegrove," she said
in a surprised voice, "do you mean Staplegrove in Surrey? Why, that is
the very place where the Logans live."

"Are you speaking of Matt Logan?" asked Malcolm.

"Of course he lives down there; but I heard the other day that he had
come in for some money, and had gone abroad for his wife's health."

"Oh, that's right enough," returned Amias. "Verity and I saw them off
two days ago. They have gone to the Black Forest. I meant to have told
you before, but something put it out of my head--that he has lent us
his cottage."

"What a piece of good luck! Upon my word, I am inclined to envy you,
Goliath."

"There is no need for you to do that," returned Amias cordially. "There
will be a 'prophet's chamber' ready for you when you feel inclined to
run down. It is a nice little place enough. 'The Crow's Nest' they call
it, though I am not sure there are any crows about. Verity and I ran
down to have a look at it. The house is a mere cottage, only just room
to swing two cats and a kitten--not a corner for any impotent genius to
woo the drowsy god in," and here Amias gave a great laugh; "but there
is a queer sort of garden room Logan has built which he calls his
workshop, and part of it is partitioned off as a bedroom. It is a bit
airy in the winter, he says, but simply perfect in the summer. You can
sleep with your window wide open, and great tea-roses nodding in at
you, and now and then a night-jar or a black-winged bat flitting
between you and the moon."

"It is a little bare certainly," observed Verity, "but so pleasant, and
I think I could make it comfortable for you, Mr. Herrick. The side
window looks out on a flower-border. There are great yellow clumps of
evening primroses and milky white nicotiana, and the roses are simply
everywhere."

"How long shall you stay?" asked Malcolm in an interested voice.

"Well, the Logans have offered it to us until the end of October,"
returned Verity; "and as it is so hot in town, Amias proposed this
morning that we should try and get off in another ten days. I think we
shall stay there until the end of summer."

"And what am I to do without you both--a lonely bachelor?" exclaimed
Malcolm. "For selfishness and want of feeling commend me to married
people. With regard to their less fortunate fellows they have simply no
conscience."

"My dear fellow, you will be as right as a trivet," returned Amias.
"You will have the Snark to attend to your comforts, and the maternal
Snark--a sad-faced but most respectable woman--to attend to her
daughter's. We have the Logan's servant, and a slip of a girl besides,
a sort of Marchioness, who answers to the name of Miranda. Verity will
find her a comfort with Babs."

"And I am to run down to the Crow's Nest when I like?" Then Amias
nodded a cheerful assent.

"We shall expect you from Saturday till Monday, and as many more days
as you like to give us. You are part of the household, my dear fellow.
I wish we could offer a room to Miss Sheldon; but we shall have to turn
the spare room into a nursery. By the bye, Malcolm, I strolled down the
road with Logan and passed the Wood House. It looks a charming place,
and it is only a stone's throw from the Crow's Nest."

Malcolm felt vaguely interested. What a small world it was after all!
He was going to make acquaintance with Cedric's people in this remote
corner of Surrey, and lo and behold, Goliath and his belongings were
following him.

Well, he was sick of the heat and turmoil of town, and it would not be
a bad plan to take possession of the garden room, and make Verity find
a quiet nook where he could write undisturbed. He really had a
brilliant scheme in his head--some essays which should interlace and
overlap each other like a linked chain of curious workmanship. He had
already accumulated his material, and he only wanted leisure to write.
He knew his trade well, and his strong, vigorous style, his admirable
choice of words, his pure English, and above all, his complete
knowledge of his subject, were already bringing him into notice with
the critics.

Yes, his summer holiday should be spent at the Crow's Nest, and he
would work and play at his own sweet will. It was a pity Anna could not
join them for a week or two. She and Verity would have become such
friends; and then he remembered his mother's prejudices. Besides, she
was thinking of going to Whitby, and if so she would expect Anna to
accompany her.

It was time for them to go now; but, as they drove home in a hansom,
Malcolm suddenly laid his hand on Anna's. "You are very quiet, dear,"
he said gently. "Have I tired you, or has your day disappointed you?"
But he was amazed when the girl turned her face to him, for he saw her
eyes were full of unshed tears.

"Oh no, it has been perfect--you and your friends have been so good to
me, Malcolm. It will be like a beautiful picture--the river and the
studio and the sunset. But why must pleasant things come to an end?"
And then she sighed, and said half to herself, "There will be no Wood
House or Crow's Nest for me;" and Anna's voice was so sad as she said
this that Malcolm felt quite a pang of pity cross him. Why was Anna's
life so dull, and his so full of interest?




CHAPTER IX

THE WOOD HOUSE


  Without love there is no interior pleasantness of life.
                                      --SWEDENBORG.


It was a lovely July afternoon when Malcolm Herrick and his friend
arrived at Earlsfield. A smart dog-cart, Cedric's own especial
property, was waiting for them at the station. As they mounted to their
places, and Cedric took the reins from the groom, he pointed out the
good points of the mare with an air of complacency and satisfaction
that somewhat amused Malcolm; but the next moment he said in a boyish
manner, "You see, Herrick, I have not got quite used to my new toy. My
sisters gave me the trap on my last birthday. I have had Brown Becky
for two years. She is good for either driving or riding; but I dropped
a hint once, in Dinah's hearing, that I longed for a dog-cart, and
though she said nothing at the time, she and Elizabeth put their heads
together, and they got Mr. Brodrick, a neighbour of ours, to choose it."

"Your sisters are very good to you," observed Malcolm in rather a
patronising manner. He even smiled to himself furtively at the thought
of the two gentle spinsters. "A good-looking boy like Cedric is always
spoilt by his womankind," he said to himself. "If I ever get on
intimate terms with them, which is very unlikely, I shall tell them
that all this petting and spoiling is not good for the lad, and will
only unfit him for his work in life. Women have no sense of
proportion," he continued rather irritably; "they either do too much or
too little, and the Misses Templeton seem to be no exceptions to the
rule."

They had left Earlsfield behind them, and were now climbing the long,
winding ascent that led to Staplegrove. As the road grew steeper, Brown
Becky slackened her pace.

The heavy storms had tempered the great heat, and though the sky was
cloudless and the sunshine brilliant, the trees meeting overhead gave
them a pleasant shade, and a soft, refreshing breeze blew in their
faces. Malcolm drew a long breath of delight.

"There is nothing like the country after all," he observed. "When I
have made my pile, I shall pitch my tent or build myself a hut far from
the madding crowd, and bid good-bye to Lincoln's Inn, and Piccadilly,
and club-land, and all the delights of modern civilisation."

"Not you, old fellow," returned Cedric sagaciously. "Why, you would be
bored to death in no time." But Malcolm shook his head.

"Am I not a lover of the picturesque, my dear boy? Nature intended me
for a country gentleman." Malcolm so dearly loved argument for its own
sake that he did not always consider it necessary to weigh the accurate
truth of his words. He liked to take different views of the same
subject. On more than one occasion in Cedric's hearing he had compared
himself with Charles Lamb.

Custom had made the presence of society, streets and crowds, the
theatre and the picture-gallery, an absolute necessity. Why, in some
moods he would take this as his text, and discourse most eloquently on
what he called the spectacle of the streets. "There are few days when
there are not groups of Hogarth-like figures," he would say--"sketches
from the life, abounding in humour or infinite pathos. There is a blind
beggar and his dog over in a corner by the Temple station," he
continued, "that I never can pass without putting a penny in the box.
The dog's face is perfectly human in its expression. The eyes speak. I
gave him a bone once--a meaty bone it was, too"--and here Malcolm
looked a little ashamed of himself--"in fact, it was a mutton chop, and
I stole it off the luncheon table. I kept the beggar in conversation
while he ate it. Sir," for he was addressing Amias Keston at that
moment, "that dog positively grovelled at my feet with affection and
gratitude."

"How many mutton chops has he had since?" asked his friend.

"He never had another," responded Malcolm sadly. "The carriage of a
greasy paper full of meat is too much even for my philanthropy; but I
take him dry biscuits--sometimes Spratt's meat biscuits--and tobacco
for the beggar. He is an old soldier and wears his medal; and the
dog--Boxer is his name--is like Nathan's ewe lamb to him. He has got a
crippled son--a natural he calls him--who fetches him home in the
evening. I saw him once," went on Malcolm, puffing slowly at his
cigarette, "an uncouth sort of chap on crutches; and when Boxer saw him
he nearly knocked him down, jumping on him for joy; and they all went
home together, quite a cheerful family party."

"You would not be happy away from town, Herrick," persisted Cedric;
"that's such a jolly crib of yours at Cheyne Walk;" for he had been
greatly struck by the Keston menage, and had quite fallen in love with
his quaint little hostess; while Verity, on her side, had taken very
kindly to the handsome lad, and made much of him for Malcolm's sake.

"Oh, I am comfortable enough," returned Malcolm. "Chelsea is sacred
ground to me. Did not Carlyle live and die there! Besides, there is the
river and the bridges, and Battersea Park in the distance, and the
house where Gabriel Dante Rossetti lived, and an old historical church,
and the grand old Hospital, and all sorts of gray secluded old nooks
and corners over which I can gloat when I take my walks abroad."

"What a queer chap you are, Herrick," Cedric returned in a puzzled
tone. He felt rather like the bewildered Satyr when the traveller blew
hot and cold. But Malcolm was perfectly sincere. No man loved the
country more truly and sincerely. Nevertheless, the town was equally
necessary to him; and if he had been compelled to choose between them,
his casting vote would have been for town.

"We are at the top of the hill now," observed Cedric presently, with a
jerk of the reins to remind Brown Becky that she must not go to sleep,
and then they bowled swiftly down a wide-open road. They had just
passed a cross-road, which, as Cedric informed Malcolm, led to
Rotherwood, where the nearest church and shops were, when Malcolm's
attention was attracted by a house they were passing. It was a small
gray house, standing rather back from the road, with a garden at the
side full of gay flower-borders.

"Oh, that's the Crow's Nest," observed Cedric, "where the Logans live;
that is where your friends the Kestons are coming. Oh, there is no need
of looking at it now," as Malcolm craned his neck in his effort to see
more of it;, "we can go over it any day we like. Here we are at the
Wood House," and Cedric drove in at an open gate.

Malcolm looked round in pleased surprise. At that moment the house was
not visible. They seemed driving through a little wood--only the
carriage road winding between the fir trees was beautifully kept. Now
and then there was an open glade, but the greater part was thickly
fringed with heather, bracken, and whortleberry bushes.

The next moment Cedric turned a corner sharply, and a low gray house
and a well-kept tennis lawn were before them.

"What a charming place!" exclaimed Malcolm. "It certainly merits its
name--it is indeed a Wood House."

"Dinah is going to build a lodge next year," returned Cedric. "Lots of
people refuse to believe there is a house in the wood, and lose
themselves a dozen times before they find it. Ah, there's Dinah on the
look-out for us. Jump down, Herrick; I will follow you directly. I want
to speak to Forbes about the mare."

Malcolm did as he was told, and entered the long, softly-lighted hall.
Perhaps the sunshine had dazzled his eyes a little, but at that instant
he thought it was a young girl who was advancing to meet him. The
figure was so rounded and graceful, and there was such alertness and
youthfulness in the bearing; but as she came closer to him he saw that
her hair was quite gray.

"I am very pleased indeed to see you, Mr. Herrick," she observed in a
pleasant voice. "We have heard so much of you from Cedric that you seem
quite an old friend. I am afraid you will find us very quiet, homely
people; but I daresay Cedric will have prepared you for that. He
grumbles dreadfully, poor boy, at our old-fashioned, humdrum ways."

"I can assure you, Miss Templeton, that the quiet will be very restful
after the turmoil of town," returned Malcolm seriously; "and, as far as
I can judge at present, Staplegrove seems a perfect paradise;" and then
Miss Templeton smiled and led the way into a pleasant, cosy-looking
drawing-room, with three windows opening on to a terrace, below which
lay a charming garden. On this side of the house the wood ended
abruptly; but in the distance, beyond a rose arch, Malcolm caught sight
of a little rustic bridge which seemed to span a sort of green ravine.

Miss Templeton had taken her place at the tea-table; but Malcolm did
not at once follow her. "After all, town has its drawbacks," he said
half to himself; but Miss Templeton understood him.

"You mean one has to do without gardens there," she returned. "That
would never suit either my sister or myself; our garden is very dear to
us. You have not seen all its beauties yet, Mr. Herrick," she continued
brightly; "it is full of surprises. When I have given you some tea we
will go in search of my sister. She is sure to be down at the Pool--we
call it Ophelia's Pool, because it reminds us so of a picture we have
seen in the Royal Academy. It is our favourite haunt on a hot summer's
afternoon."

Malcolm made an appropriate reply, and for the next few minutes they
talked pleasantly of Staplegrove, and the short cut that led to
Rotherwood church and village; and then Cedric joined them, and began
chatting volubly to his sister; and Malcolm drank his tea and watched
them both. He owned to Anna afterwards that Dinah Templeton was a
revelation to him, and that all his preconceived notions of her fell as
flat as a pack of cards.

The demure and somewhat stately spinster he was expecting to see was
certainly not en evidence in this gray-haired, radiant-looking woman;
the soft, girlish bloom and the silvery hair were wonderfully
attractive; and yet what struck him most, with a sort of indefinable
surprise, was the mingled gentleness and brightness of expression;
there was such a wonderful clearness in the eyes--it somehow reminded
him of the innocent look of a happy child.

And it was to this sweet woman that Cedric was talking in that cavalier
fashion--with much affection certainly, but little reverence, after the
manner of the nineteenth-century youth. More than once Malcolm muttered
"Jackanapes" under his breath, and once he interposed.

"Our young friend is too modern in his notions, Miss Templeton," he
observed. "Young Oxford is so cock-sure of everything under the sun--it
is a fault of the age."

"Oh, do you think so?" and Miss Templeton looked relieved; for the
moment her serenity had seemed slightly clouded with what her sister
always called her "hen and duckling look."

"Oh, you may laugh, Cedric," looking at him fondly, "but I intend to
believe Mr. Herrick, he is older and more experienced. Oh, we have such
arguments sometimes," turning to Malcolm. "Cedric will have it that we
are not sufficiently up-to-date. We are mediaeval or in the Dark Ages,
according to him, but how is one to alter one's nature or to talk
unknown languages? My sister and I are very conservative, and we cling
to the beliefs and loves of the past."

"I don't believe Cedric wants to change you in the least, Miss
Templeton; he is only posing a bit for your edification, and trying to
make you think that he is as clever as he looks."

"Come now, draw it mild," growled Cedric. And then he looked
discontentedly round the room. "Where's Dick and the rest of the
fellows? I bet you anything you like, Die, that they are down with
Elizabeth at the Pool."

Dinah smiled as she rose from the table. "You are right, dear," she
returned composedly, "I saw the whole train following her as usual.
Dick wanted to go with the dog-cart,--he knew his master was expected,
but Forbes said it was too hot for the run. If you are ready, Cedric,
we might go down to the Pool now." And as Cedric graciously intimated
his readiness, Dinah led the way through the flower-garden, only
pausing on the rustic bridge to let Malcolm lean over and admire the
hanging gardens below, the sides of the little ravine being clothed
from the top to the bottom with wild-flowers and plants of every
description. The traveller's joy had even gained a footing on the
bridge itself. To add to the beauty, a tiny rivulet, which seemed to
take its rise from some invisible source, flowed through the flowery
ravine like a silver thread.

"What a charming spot!" observed Malcolm in a tone of such sincere
admiration that Miss Templeton looked quite gratified.

"It was my sister's idea," she said softly; "she originates most of our
improvements. Now, as you see, we have come to the end of our garden
and are going down that little woodland path. We are both passionately
fond of flowers, and like to see them from the house, but in our hearts
I believe we love our wild garden best."

"And you are right--one could never be tired of this," and Malcolm
glanced at the slender sterns of the firs and the soft green light
between the tree-boles. Just here the ground was bare except for the
carpet of brown needles, but the next moment the path became more
tangled and sloped rather steeply. They could distinctly hear a dog
bark. "Take him to the peep-hole," whispered Cedric in his sister's
ear, and Miss Templeton nodded and stepped off the path; then she
beckoned Malcolm to look through some interlacing branches which formed
a natural arch.

It was a charming little sylvan scene that met his eyes. The spot had
been fitly called Ophelia's Pool. The small pond was shut in with
rowans and thickets of alder and blackberry bushes, and on the pond
itself some water-lilies and other aquatic plants were growing. Two or
three rough boulders, cushioned with moss, made comfortable seats, and
were at the present moment occupied by two people--one of them
evidently the second Miss Templeton, and the other a young man in a
rough serge suit, whom at first sight Malcolm certainly did not take
for a clergyman; and round them, in various attitudes of waiting and
expectancy, dogs of all sorts and conditions--from a handsome brown
retriever to Cedric's little fox-terrier, Dick.

"My word, there's Carlyon," observed Cedric in rather an aggrieved
tone; "why, the fellow lives here;" and then he put his hands to his
mouth and gave a view-hallo so lustily that all the dogs began barking
like mad. Only Dick--who was a knowing fellow and up to tricks--rushed
up the path and began dancing excitedly round his master.

"What barbarians boys are!" observed the other Miss Templeton somewhat
coolly to her companion, and then she rose from the boulder and walked
rather majestically towards her sister and their guest.

Her manner was friendly, and she greeted Malcolm kindly enough, but it
was less soft and winning than her sister's, and did not impress him so
favourably. Then she introduced Mr. Carlyon, and the two young men
shook hands; and afterwards the dogs passed in review, and Elizabeth
gravely named each one, ending up with her sister's little dachshund
Mike.

Malcolm, who was a dog-lover, although he had none of his own, was soon
making friends with all the animals; but as he praised and caressed
them, he was telling himself over and over again that the second Miss
Templeton could not hold a candle to her sister.

Malcolm was terribly critical with regard to women; Anna had often
blamed him for his severity.

"It is a mistake to expect perfection," she would say; "it is so easy
to find fault and pick holes in people;" but though Malcolm agreed with
her, he still remained fastidious and hard to please. So he at once
decided that Miss Elizabeth Templeton was not to his taste. In the
first place, he did not admire big women--and she was tall, and
decidedly massive. Her dress, too, was singularly unbecoming--a big
woman in a cotton blouse and a battered old hat was a spectacle to make
him shudder. Miss Templeton's blue muslin and dainty ruffles were a
pleasing contrast.

"It is a woman's duty to set herself off as much as possible," he would
say to the long-suffering Anna, and then he transposed a certain
saying, "If you can't be handsome, be as handsome as you can;" and he
would hold forth on the immorality of slovenliness.

"I daresay Miss Elizabeth Templeton would not be bad-looking if she
only took a little pains with herself," he thought, as they all grouped
themselves comfortably on the boulders. After a moment's hesitation,
Elizabeth placed herself beside him and begun to talk to him. Somehow
her voice pleased him. It was not so sweet as her sister's, and there
was a sort of burr in it, and when he knew her better he discovered
that when she was eager or excited about anything there was a slight
hesitation, as though her words tripped each other up; but with all its
defects it was a voice to linger in the memory. She was so close to him
now that he could judge of her better. She was certainly not handsome,
her features were irregular and her mouth decidedly too wide for
beauty; but the gleam of faultlessly white teeth and a certain
brightness in the dark Irish-gray eyes redeemed her face from
plainness; her skin, too, was clear and naturally fair, but was
evidently embrowned by air and sunshine.

Nature had formed her in a generous mould, for even her hands and feet
were large; and then Malcolm thought of Anna's pretty little hands, and
again he said to himself that in his opinion Elizabeth Templeton was
not an attractive woman.




CHAPTER X

WHAT THE FERN-OWL HEARD


  There is but one thing that can never turn into
  suffering, and that is the good we have done.
                                                --MAETERLINCK.

  It takes two to speak truth--one to speak and another
  to hear.
                                                --THOREAU.


While Malcolm was trying to make himself agreeable to the second Miss
Templeton, and not succeeding as well as he could wish, he more than
once broke off the conversation to listen with some amusement to the
bantering by-play going on between Cedric and the young clergyman, Mr.
Carlyon.

They were evidently on intimate terms, for Cedric addressed him as
David or Davie in the most unceremonious manner. Mr. Carlyon appeared
to be quite young, certainly not more than six-or seven-and-twenty, and
had an odd, characteristic, but most pleasant face, that somehow took
Malcolm's fancy at once. It was rather thin and pale, and the mouth a
little receding, but the broad forehead and kindly, frank-looking eyes
somewhat redeemed this defect. There was so much life and animation in
his expression; and a boyish eagerness in his manner, a curious
abruptness in his speech, a certain quick clipping of words and
sentences, only added to his marked individuality, and was by no means
disagreeable when one had become accustomed to it.

Malcolm soon found out that he was the curate belonging to Rotherwood,
the church attended by the Templeton family; and it was soon evident to
him that the sisters, Miss Elizabeth especially, took a great interest
in parochial matters.

"How is old Dr. Dryasdust?" asked Cedric presently, but he spoke in a
jeering tone. Then Elizabeth laughed, but Dinah looked shocked, and Mr.
Carlyon threw a dry clod at him.

"It really is not such a bad name," observed Elizabeth softly, as
though to herself, and then her eyes encountered Mr. Carlyon's--it was
evident that he agreed with her.

"The vicar is not a lively person, certainly," he rejoined, "but all
the same I have a great respect for him. He is a trifle too mediaeval
for these days, and his environment does not suit him a bit."

"He ought to be a fellow of his college--spending his days in
disinterring dusty old folios in the Bodleian," pursued Cedric,
"instead of being vicar of Rotherwood."

"I think very highly of Mr. Charrington," and Dinah spoke rather
gravely. "He is not only a very learned man, but he is such a thorough
gentleman. Poor man, it is a blessing that he has you near him, Mr.
Carlyon, for his life is very lonely."

"Why does he not get married then?" growled Cedric. "I bet you he is
not much over fifty." Then again Elizabeth and Mr. Carlyon exchanged
glances.

"I don't think the vicar ever intends to enter the holy estate of
matrimony," returned Mr. Carlyon. "He is an old bachelor by choice, and
in my humble opinion is likely to remain so; and then his worthy
housekeeper, Mrs. Finch, makes him so thoroughly comfortable."

"I heard something once from one of our fellows," observed Cedric, with
a mischievous glance at Dinah--he knew well her objection to gossip.
"He was not always a woman-hater. Palgrave of Lincoln told me that he
had been engaged to a lady, and that just before the wedding-day the
engagement was broken off; no one seemed to know the rights of it, but
ever since he has been a little shy of petticoats."

"Cedric, I am sure it is time for us to dress for dinner, the gong must
have sounded long ago. Will you show Mr. Herrick his room?" Dinah spoke
with gentle decision, and as she evidently expected Malcolm to join
her, he rose from his seat. As he did so he heard Elizabeth say in a
low voice to Mr. Carlyon, "I wonder if Cedric's story is a true one."
"Very possibly--why not?" was the answer; "he looks like a man with a
past," and then they dropped behind and he heard no more.

It is never well to form an opinion too soon; before the next half-hour
had passed Malcolm had been compelled to readjust his ideas on the
subject of Miss Elizabeth Templeton. When he saw her again he would
hardly have recognised her. Her massive but well-proportioned figure
looked to its best advantage in the black evening dress; the
transparent material only set off the round white throat and
finely-moulded arms to perfection. The coils of brown hair were
effectively arranged, and the shape of the head was beautiful. Before
the evening was over Malcolm, in sheer honesty, was obliged to confess
to himself that Miss Elizabeth Templeton was a very attractive woman,
and would cast many prettier and younger faces into the shade. "I
wonder where her charm lies," he soliloquised when he had retired to
his bedroom that evening; "her sister is really almost beautiful, but,
with the exception of a pair of very bright and expressive eyes, Miss
Elizabeth has not a single good feature, and yet one is compelled to
admire her. She is a little dignified and reserved with a stranger, and
yet she is not shy; even while she talked to Mr. Carlyon, who certainly
seems a sort of tame cat at the Wood House, I could see her looking at
me as though she regarded me with interest, but we have broken the ice
now with a vengeance."

"One thing I have discovered," he went on, as he looked dreamily down
into the scented darkness of the garden, "she is a woman of large
sympathies, with an excellent sense of humour, which her good heart and
kindly nature keeps in good control; and if I do not mistake, she is
the leading spirit of the house. The sisters seem to be devoted to each
other; and the way they spoil that boy--" and here Malcolm shook his
head in strong disapproval, without being in the least aware that he
was not free from that fault himself. He had just sent the lad away
proud and happy by his delicately implied praise of the Wood House and
its inmates.

"I am quite sure that I shall get on with your sisters, Cedric," he had
said with good-natured condescension; "they seem to me such thoroughly
good, kind-hearted women, and very superior to the generality of folk.
How beautifully your sister Elizabeth sings! I have seldom heard a
voice that pleased me better."

"They both like you," returned Cedric shyly. "Dinah told me so at once;
and though Elizabeth did not actually say so, I could see by her manner
how she enjoyed talking to you;" and indeed Malcolm had never been in
better form.

It had been a very pleasant evening; the small oval dinner-table, with
its flowers exquisitely arranged, the open windows, with the dogs lying
out on the terrace, were all to Malcolm's taste. Everything was so
well-appointed and so well-managed. The servants were evidently old
retainers, and took a warm interest in their mistress's guests.

After dinner they had their coffee on the terrace, and watched the sun
setting behind the fir woods, and when the last yellow gleam had faded
away from the sky, at Dinah's suggestion Elizabeth went into the
drawing-room, where two pink-shaded lamps were already lighted, and
seated herself at the piano.

"There is no occasion for us to go in," observed Dinah, who had noticed
Malcolm's evident enjoyment of his cigarette; "we shall hear her
perfectly out here, and Mr. Carlyon will turn over for her."

Such is human nature, for one instant Malcolm felt strongly impelled to
throw away his cigarette and oust Mr. Carlyon from his snug corner, if
only to teach him his place; but indolence prevailed: his cigarette was
too delicious, the air was so refreshing and balmy, and the pale globes
of the evening primroses and the milky whiteness of the nicotianas
gleamed so entrancingly in the soft dusk, that he felt himself
unwilling to move. Even the curious notes of the night-jar seeking its
prey in the dim light had a strange fascination for him, and he spoke
of it more than once to Dinah. "It is like the humming of a
spinning-wheel," he remarked; "it is very weird and uncanny."

"So people always say," she returned. "It is the goat-sucker, you know;
they are very fond of feeding on that sort of beetle called the
gnat-chafer; in fact, it is their favourite food. It has another name,
the fern-owl."

"So I have heard;" and then, as a rich strong voice broke suddenly on
his startled ears, he leant back in his hammock chair and composed
himself to listen.

It was a wonderful voice, so sweet and true and full of expression;
there was such tenderness and depth in it, that it seemed in some
mysterious way to touch the very recesses of the heart, and to play on
the whole gamut of human feeling. Malcolm found himself thinking of his
lonely childhood, and of his father, then he recalled his youthful
aspirations and his old ideals. "The thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts," he said to himself, "and the wind's will is a boy's will;"
and then, as the last lingering notes died away, he flung his cigarette
aside and rose abruptly from his seat.

"You have given us a great treat," he said in a low voice as Elizabeth
stepped through the window. Mr. Carlyon was laying aside the pile of
songs in the music cabinet as neatly as though it were an accustomed
duty. Malcolm gave him an impatient glance. "One would think he
belonged to the house," he said to himself rather crossly.

"Please do not thank me," returned Elizabeth smiling; her eyes were
very bright, and there was a warm flush on her face, which made her
look young and handsome. "It is my greatest pleasure to sing; I believe
if I had nothing else to do I should waste hours at the piano."

"The hours would not be wasted," replied Malcolm. "It is a great gift,
and like all other great gifts it should be utilised as much as
possible. I could find it in my heart to envy you, Miss Templeton."

"Oh, how often I have said that!" chimed in Dinah. "I think I enjoy my
sister's voice as much as she does herself; in the evening she always
sings to me."

"Mr. Herrick and Dinah are trying to make me vainer than I am by
nature," observed Elizabeth with her happy, childlike laugh, as Mr.
Carlyon came to her side. "Cedric, it is such a lovely evening that we
might have our usual stroll. Would you care to come with us?" to
Malcolm.

"You may as well go my way," remarked Mr. Carlyon, and Elizabeth
nodded; and then Dinah fetched her a light gossamer scarf, which she
tied over her head.

"Dinah does not care for moonlight rambles, she thinks them frivolous,"
she observed, as they walked slowly through the dark woodlands, "but
Cedric and I love them. I like the silence and emptiness; the villages
are asleep, and the whole world seems given up to fern-owls and bats
and night-moths. Take care of the branch, Mr. Herrick, or you will
knock your head. It will be lighter on the road outside. I am so used
to this path that I think I could find my way blindfold."

The two young men were before them, but Elizabeth, to Malcolm's relief,
showed no inclination to join them; even at this early stage of their
acquaintance he experienced an odd desire to monopolise her society. He
never felt more content with his surroundings. The tranquillity of the
hour, the soft half-lights, the mystery of the long wide road, with two
dark specks moving before them-all appealed to Malcolm's artistic and
romantic sense.

"It is a study in black and white," he half murmured to himself; but at
that moment he was not thinking of the tall, black-robed woman beside
him, with the shimmering white veil over her head. Nevertheless, when
Elizabeth laughed, he understood her and laughed too.

"Mr. Herrick," she said suddenly, and her voice became grave, "I am so
glad to have this opportunity of speaking to you alone--without my
sister, I mean. For months--for nearly two years--I have longed to see
you and thank you for what you have done for Cedric. No--do not
stop"--for in his surprise Malcolm had paused in the act of crossing
the road; "they are looking back, and I do not want them just now," and
here she waved her hand a little impatiently. "We must follow them
through that gate into the woodland path that leads to Rotherwood. It
is so pretty in daylight. The moon will soon be rising, and then you
will see it better."

Malcolm followed her meekly. When he stumbled over a concealed root,
Elizabeth quietly put her hand on his arm to guide him. The firm, soft
touch, the spontaneous kindness of the action, and her utter
unconsciousness, gave him a positive thrill of pleasure.

"When one's heart is full of gratitude to a person," went on Elizabeth
in the same grave, low tone, "it is so difficult to find words. Mr.
Herrick, I know all you did for our dear boy--I know everything."
Malcolm started. "Cedric told me; but of course we kept it from my
sister."

"My dear Miss Templeton," began Malcolm in an embarrassed voice, for he
was not prepared for this. But Elizabeth would not let him speak.

"You must let me have my innings," she said, with a delicious laugh. "I
have pent up my feelings for nearly two years, and they must find vent.
Mr. Herrick, you have been our benefactor--Dinah's and mine as well as
Cedric's. When you held out your generous hand to a stranger--when you
saved our poor boy from disgrace and a ruined career, you did far more
than you thought--"

"Miss Templeton, for pity's sake--"

"Please, please, let me finish," a pressure of his arm emphasised her
words; "it is so difficult for a woman to hold her tongue. Dinah knows
nothing of all this; we dare not tell her--it would break her heart. My
sister is too good for this world; you know what I mean Mr.
Herrick--she believes too much in other people's goodness, and then
when they disappoint her she is quite crushed."

"I should have thought Miss Templeton's nature an exceptionally happy
one," returned Malcolm.

"You are right," and Elizabeth spoke with evident feeling; "but these
bright, sunshiny natures have their hours of eclipse. Cedric is her
special darling, the object of her tenderest care; if she only knew--"
but here she paused, as though her emotions were too strong.

"My dear Miss Templeton"--Malcolm was determined to be heard now, he
should not be suppressed and silenced any more--"you are making far too
much of the trifling service I was able to render to your brother. What
was a small loan?"

"What was it?" here Elizabeth struck in again; "it was, humanly
speaking, life and salvation to a poor weak boy who was on the brink of
despair; who was so desperate, with trouble and misery, that he might
have fallen deeper and deeper if a Good Samaritan had not passed that
way. He has told me since that the thought of Dinah's unhappiness
almost drove him crazy, and that he could not have answered for
himself. Cedric is a dear lad, but he is not strong."

"He has had his lesson. We all enter our kingdom of manhood through
some tribulation, Miss Templeton."

"Ah, true, but we would gladly spare our belongings such a painful
experience. Mr. Herrick, they are waiting for us at the little gate,
and I have only time to say one thing more. I offered to help Cedric
repay his debt, but he refused. I am glad to say he absolutely refused;
he wishes to do it all himself."

"I think all the more of him," was Malcolm's answer; "a little
self-denial will be good for Cedric. He has already paid the first
instalment. Miss Templeton, in return for your confidence, I will be
quite frank with you: I do not need the money, as far as that goes he
is welcome to every penny, but for Cedric's sake I thought it best to
take it. I hope you will understand this."

"I understand you perfectly, and I thank you from my heart for dealing
so wisely with him; but not another word--voices travel far in this
clear silence--and they are just by." Indeed, the next moment a voice
hailed them.

"Hallo, you people," shouted Cedric, "have you been looking for
glowworms or hunting moths? David is quite tired of waiting."

"I am afraid we have dawdled," observed Elizabeth briskly. "Mr. Herrick
and I were deep in conversation. I think we will not come any farther;
I have done my lady's mile, or thereabouts. Good-night, Mr. Carlyon, I
shall be over at the school to-morrow morning--" but here Elizabeth
dropped her voice, and Malcolm heard no more.

She was rather silent when she joined them, and left the conversation
to Cedric. More than once Malcolm wondered what made her so thoughtful;
but when they reached the house, and she bade him good-night in the
hall, there was no coldness or abstraction in her beaming smile.

"If you sleep as well as you deserve--" she said; but he chose to
misunderstand her.

"I should be hag-ridden and tormented, I fear."

"Oh no, you would have rosy visions of celestial bowers," returned
Elizabeth merrily. "Now; Mike," to the little dachshund, "let us make
tracks for the upper regions. Good-night, Cedric."

As Elizabeth paused at the foot of the staircase, Malcolm thought what
a splendid subject she would make for a picture. The soft draperies
gave her a queenly, aspect, and the white scarf that she still wore
over her head lent her a mystic look; in her hand she carried a curious
brass lamp of some antique design, and at her bosom were fastened,
negligently, a great spray of crimson roses. "She looks like a St.
Elizabeth in this dim lamplight," he thought. "Those red roses look
like a dark stain on her breast. The figure, the turn of the head, is
superb. If only Goliath could see her. Ah, now she has moved, and the
illusion has gone--faded into thin air," and then Malcolm smiled at his
own conceit and fancy as he took up his chamber candlestick.




CHAPTER XI

"A LITTLE EGOTISTICAL, PERHAPS"


  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.

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