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."