Seven o'clock in the morning, and _chee-op--chee-op--chee-op--chirrup--
pee-yew_--a splendid thrush waking the echoes with his loud notes; the
blackbirds down in the copse whistling a soft love-song to their silent
mates, waiting in their cup-like nests for the first chip of the
blotched eggs; Coelebs, the chaffinch, pouring down tinkling strains
from the pink-blossomed apple-trees; while the larks high above the
young corn and clover, twittered their joyous hymn in rivalling accord
to the May-morning sun. The dew lay heavy and cold upon the tawny,
sweet-scented wallflowers, and the freshness of feeling in the shade
whispered that the silvery whiteness of their hues was not far removed
from frost.
So thought the Reverend Arthur Rosebury, as he stood contemplating the
flower-beds in front of the quaint old Rectory, whose windows were
framed in the opening blossoms of a huge snaky-stemmed wistaria, one of
which windows--his own--was wide open, and had been for an hour, while
its fellow over the little drawing-room was delicately draped in snowy
dimity.
Geraniums formed the subject of the Reverend Arthur's contemplation as
he stood upon the closely-shaven, dewy lawn; and he had just come to the
conclusion that he had better wait another week before filling his beds
with the scarlet trusses, when there was the sharp sound of brass rings
upon a rod. The dimity curtains were drawn aside, the casement window
was opened and carefully hooked back, and the kit-cat living portrait of
a pleasant plump little woman of about forty appeared in the frame.
"Arthur, I'm sure you are getting your feet wet," she chirped.
The tall, very thin curate of Little Magnus looked dreamily up at the
window, and then down at his feet, stooping a good deal to obtain a
nearer view. Slowly rising, he looked up at the window again, took off
his soft felt hat, smoothed his thin grey hair, and said slowly:
"No, my dear, I think not."
"But I'm sure you must be, Arthur; it's a very heavy dew?" cried the
little lady, emphatically.
"Yes, my dear Mary," he replied, in a slow, deprecating way, "it is a
very heavy dew, but I have got on my goloshes."
"Ho!" exclaimed the little lady, and she disappeared.
The Reverend Arthur Rosebury began to make a peculiar humming noise,
somewhat suggestive of a large bumble-bee trying to practise a chant,
which was his idea of singing, and was walking slowly off towards a
laurel-shaded walk when the little lady once more appeared at the
window.
"Arthur!"
"Yes, my dear Mary?"
"Don't you go far away; breakfast won't be long."
"No, my dear Mary."
"Where shall you be?"
"Down by the bees."
"You'll come when I whistle?"
"Yes, my dear Mary."
The lady disappeared once more, and the curate of Little Magnus went
slowly and deliberately down the garden of the Rectory, where he had
been for many years resident; the wealthy rector, who was a canon of
Dunchester, finding a sermon or two a year nearly all he could give to
the little parish.
The bees were visited, both those dwelling in the round-topped,
old-fashioned straw hives and the occupants of the modern square boxes,
cunningly contrived to enable the proprietor to commit honied burglaries
without adding bee-murder to the offence.
The bees were as busy as those immortalised by Dr Watts, and coming and
going in the bright sunshine, making a glorious hum in a snowy
cherry-tree close at hand, and suggesting to the curate's mind ample
supplies of the cloying sweet, about five hundredweights of which he
hoped to sell at a shilling a pound.
The Reverend Arthur went slowly away, smiling in his heart--he rarely
smiled visibly--happy and thankful for his lot; opened the white gate in
the tall green hedge, and after closing it carefully, began to walk
across the drenched grass, a couple of soft-eyed, mousy-skinned Alderney
cows slowly raising their heads to stare at him, munching the grass the
while, and then coming to meet him, lowing softly.
"Ah, Dewnose! Ah, Bessy," he said, pulling the great flapping ears of
each in turn, and inhaling the puffs of warm, sweet-scented breath as he
passed, the cows watching him for a few moments, and then, evidently
thinking fresh dewy grass preferable to the best of curates, they
resumed their quiet "crop crop" of the verdant meal.
The meadow crossed, another gate led back into the garden, where a long
glass-house stood with open door inviting the Reverend Arthur to enter
and breathe the warm, deliciously-scented air. The sun was shining
brightly and came in a shower of rays upon the red-bricked floor, broken
up as it were by the silvery shoots of the vines whose leaves were
fringed with drops of pearly dew.
A glance at the leafy roof displayed so much attention needed that the
Reverend Arthur, after a little contemplation and a few moral
comparisons between the wild growth of the vine and that of the young
and old of the parish, slowly took off his coat, lifted a heavy plank
and placed it across two of the iron rafter-ties of the building; and
after satisfying himself of its safety, mounting a pair of steps,
climbing on to the plank, and seating himself in a very unclerical
attitude, he began to snap off the redundant branches of the vine.
"Chirrup!" went a shrill whistle as the first branch was snapped, but
the Reverend Arthur heard it not, and in a rapt, dreamy manner went on
snapping off at their joints branch after branch just beyond where the
young bunches of grapes were beginning to show.
"Chirrup!" went the whistle again, but still unheard, for the Reverend
Arthur had just placed one of the succulent branches he had broken off
between his lips, and, as if imitating the ways of Dewnose and Bessy, he
was sedately munching away at the pleasant acid growth.
"Chirrup!" again, but this time in another direction, and, perfectly
unconscious of the summons, the Reverend Arthur went on with his
pruning, breakfasting the while off the tender acid shoots.
Chirrup after chirrup mingled with the songs of the birds, and at last
the bustling little figure of the lady lately seen at the Rectory window
appeared at the door.
"Why, here you are Arthur!" she exclaimed. "What a shame it is! You
said you'd be down by the bees."
"I'm--I'm very sorry, my dear Mary," said the guilty truant, with a look
of appeal in his face.
"That's what you always say, sir, and here is the ham getting cold, the
eggs will be quite hard, and I've got my feet soaking wet running all
over the place."
"I really am very sorry, my dear Mary," said the Reverend Arthur, slowly
descending from his perch.
"I never did see such a man," cried the little lady, with her pleasant
face a droll mixture of vexation and good-humour.
As she spoke she took up the curate's long coat, and held it ready for
him to put on, tip-toeing to enable him to thrust his long thin arms
into the sleeves, and then tip-toeing a little more to reach up and give
him a hearty kiss.
"There, I won't be very cross," she cried, "only there never was such a
thoughtless, tiresome man before. Just look at your hands!"
"It's only vine-juice, my dear Mary," he said, looking at his long thin
fingers in turn.
"Well, come along. You will have time to go and wash them while I
change my shoes and stockings. Just look there."
Miss Mary Rosebury made no hesitation about drawing her grey cloth dress
aside to display a very prettily-shaped pair of feet and ankles, soaked
with dew and muddied by the garden paths, before taking her brother, as
it were, into custody and leading him up to the house.
Five minutes later they were in the prettily-furnished dining-room,
before a most temptingly spread breakfast-table, where everything was
clean and neat as the home of an old bachelor, tended by a maiden
sister, might be expected to be. There were flowers and hand-painted
screens; the linen was snowy white, and the eggs, and butter, and cream
were as delicious as the coffee.
The morning prayers were read in presence of Cook and Jane; then the
coffee was poured out in a dark amber stream, and for the first time the
Reverend Arthur smiled.
"Really, my dear Mary," he said, "I don't think any two people could be
happier than we are."
"Than we should be if you would not do such foolish things, Arthur,"
said the little lady, sharply.
"Foolish things, my dear?" he replied, rather blankly.
"Yes, foolish things. I don't mind your being so fond of your garden
and natural history, but it doesn't look becoming for you to come back
as you did yesterday, with a bunch of weeds in one hand, a bundle of
mosses in the other, and your hat pinned all over with butterflies. The
people think you half mad."
"But I had no pill-boxes, my dear Mary, and Thompson, of the
Entomological, asked me to get him some of the large sulphurs."
"Then I wish Thompson, of the Entomological, would come down and catch
his butterflies himself. Give me a bit more fat."
"For my part I should never wish to change."
"Well, I don't know," said the elderly lady, slowly, as she made a very
hearty breakfast. "Little Magnus is very nice and the garden very
pretty, but there seems to be a something wanting. Tilt the dish and
give me a little more of that gravy, Arthur. Why don't you pass your
cup?"
"And yet we have an abundance of the good things of this life, Mary,
that we could not enjoy in a town."
"Ye-es," said the little lady, dubiously; "but still there seems to be a
something wanting."
"I think we shall have plenty of honey this year, my dear Mary."
"So we did last year, Arthur."
"The mushrooms are coming on very fast in the pit. By the way, what did
you do with those Saint George's agarics I brought home yesterday?"
"Threw them away."
"My dear Mary!"
"And the best thing too, Arthur. Now, once for all, mushrooms are
mushrooms; but I'm not going to have you poison yourself nor me neither
with all kinds of toadstools, to gratify your love of experiment."
The curate sighed, and there came a pause, broken by Miss Mary Rosebury
saying:
"Yes, I suppose we ought to be perfectly contented, and I think I am;
but sometimes it seems a pity that we should always go on like this
without any change. Oh, here's Brown."