“It’s not lavender,” said the grandmother slowly, “and it’s not rosemary. There is a something of tansy in it (and a very fine tonic flavor too, my dears, though it’s not in fashion now). Depend upon it, it’s a potpourri, and from an excellent receipt, sir”—and the old lady bowed courteously towards the tutor. “My mother made the best potpourri in the county, and it was very much like this. Not quite, perhaps, but much the same, much the same.”
The grandmother was a fine old gentlewoman “of the old school,” as the phrase is. She was very stately and gracious in her manners, daintily neat in her person, and much attached to the old parson of the parish, who now sat near her chair. All her life she had been very proud of her fine stock of fair linen, both household and personal; and for many years past had kept her own grave-clothes ready in a drawer. They were bleached as white as snow, and lay amongst bags of dry lavender and potpourri. Many times had it seemed likely that they would be needed, for the old lady had had severe illnesses of late, when the good parson sat by her bedside, and read to her of the coming of the Bridegroom, and of that “fine linen, clean and white,” which is “the righteousness of the saints.” It was of that drawer, with its lavender and potpourri bags, that the scented smoke had reminded her.
“It has rather an overpowering odor,” said the old parson, “it is suggestive of incense. I am sure I once smelt something like it in the Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem. It is very delicious.”
The parson’s long residence in his parish had been marked by one great holiday. With the savings of many years he had performed a pilgrimage to the Holy Land; and it was rather a joke against him that he illustrated a large variety of subjects by the reference to his favorite topic, the holiday of his life.
“It smells of gunpowder,” said Jim, decidedly, “and something else. I can’t tell what.”
“Something one smells in a seaport town,” said Tom.
“Can’t be very delicious then,” Jim retorted.
“It’s not quite the same,” piped the widow; “but it reminds me very much of an old bottle of attar of roses that was given to me when I was at school, with a copy of verses, by a young gentleman who was brother to one of the pupils. I remember Mr. Jones was quite annoyed when he found it in an old box, where I am sure I had not touched it for ten years or more; and I never spoke to him but once, on Examination Day (the young gentleman, I mean). And it’s like—yes, it’s certainly like a hair-wash Mr. Jones used to use. I’ve forgotten what it was called, but I know it cost fifteen shillings a bottle; and Macready threw one over a few weeks before his dear papa’s death, and annoyed him extremely.”
Whilst the company were thus engaged, Master MacGreedy took advantage of the general abstraction to secure half a dozen crackers to his own share; he retired to a corner with them, where he meant to pick them quietly to pieces by himself. He wanted the gay paper, and the motto, and the sweetmeats; but he did not like the report of the cracker. And then what he did want, he wanted all to himself.
“Give us a cracker,” said Master Jim, dreamily.