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.