THE SIX SELF-CONSCIOUS GARDENERS.
Although Lady Sage, owing to temporary indisposition and the fact
that Wednesday at Ascot is comparatively an "off day," did not honour
the Wednesday races with her venerable presence, it was apparent
both to Mrs. Verulam and to the now appalled owner of Mitching Dean
that her tongue had been very busy on the preceding afternoon, and
that she had doubtless proclaimed the intentions which she had not
yet been able to carry out. For Mrs. Verulam was cold-shouldered by
various good people, both in the Enclosure, in the paddock, and on
the lawn. The Lady Jane Clinch, famous for her luncheons, snorted
at her twice in a manner to attract attention and evoke imitation.
Baroness Clayfield-Moor, kindliest of women, shuffled her feet as Mrs.
Verulam drew near, and assumed an expression of rapt abstraction, such
as may be seen upon the faces of seraphs in an oleograph. And Mrs.
Brainton Gumm, the Banana Queen, upon whom Mrs. Verulam had never left
cards—disliking bananas, which she considered tasted medicinal—Mrs.
Gumm bridled violently at Mrs. Verulam, and tossed her head in most
West Indian fashion, murmuring something mysterious about "the manner
in which that sort of thing would have been treated in the old days
at Spanish Town." Mr. Rodney heard this last remark, and was all of
a tremble. He resolved, directly he found himself again at Mitching
Dean, to consult his library, and look up ancient Spanish Town customs.
Visions of Mrs. Verulam thrown to the tigers and alligators, which
he vaguely considered to swarm in all distant settlements, haunted
him perpetually, and his distress was greatly complicated by the
extraordinary letter of Lord Bernard. During the afternoon Mrs. Verulam
and he found themselves for a moment in a quiet corner at the back of
the Royal Enclosure, and Mr. Rodney seized the opportunity to utter a
few fragments of his confusion and suspicion.
"Let me speak, Mrs. Verulam," he began with unwonted agitation, and a
manner as if she had been holding a pillow over his mouth for the last
few days—"let me—oh, do let me speak!"
Mrs. Verulam put up a pale-blue parasol.
"Certainly," she said, idly watching Lady Cynthia Green, who was making
puns to Sir Brigham Lockbury in the middle distance—"certainly."
"Mrs. Verulam," he continued, without much subtlety of exposition, "you
are marching to your doom—you are indeed! And all for what?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, all for which—whom?" he cried in an under voice, seeking
grammar. "Do you know? Are you not being deceived?"
"My dear friend, that lunch in the Guards' Enclosure has not suited
you. You ought to be more careful."
"It is not lunch. It is you—it is him—it is Lord Bernard's letter,"
said Mr. Rodney, stating facts with extraordinary rapidity and looking
distracted.
"Lord Bernard's letter?" said Mrs. Verulam, who had not succeeded in
being alone with Chloe since breakfast.
"I heard from him this morning," said Mr. Rodney. And he proceeded to
condense his lordship's information. Mrs. Verulam listened in silence.
"What does this mean?" concluded Mr. Rodney, passionately flicking a
speck of dust from his left coat-sleeve. "Is Lord Bernard mad? Is he
misinformed?"
"Both, very probably," murmured Mrs. Verulam, wondering what the
conversation of a misinformed madman would be like.
"Or," proceeded Mr. Rodney in a voice that quivered with suspicion,
"can it be that—that——"
"Yes?"
"I can hardly force myself to say it—that an adventurer has crept over
your threshold? That a monster in mortal guise has dared to take the
name of——"
"Huskinson! Now, Mr. Rodney, you are a man of the world. I ask you, can
you bring yourself to believe that any human being not christened so
would for any purpose whatever assume such a name as Huskinson?"
This was a poser.
"It does not seem very likely," truth compelled him to reply.
"I knew your intellect would not desert you," she said kindly. "Now
take me back to the Enclosure."
"But—but Lady Jane Clinch, Mrs. Brainton Gumm—they—they are——"
"They are endeavouring to be offensive," said Mrs. Verulam, with a
slightly rising colour, but endeavouring to support herself with
thoughts of her desire for the true life and Mr. James Bush. "But if
they only knew how I long to be allowed to escape from this cage, they
would try to shut the door which they are opening."
Mr. Rodney stared upon her with a white face.
"You think I am mad and misinformed, as well as Lord Bernard?" she
said, smiling. "Come, take me back."
Mr. Rodney took her, endeavouring to prevent his agony from appearing
in colours that would be perceptible to his world. He could not have
been entirely successful in this endeavour, for several Countesses
remarked towards the end of the day that "really Mr. Rodney began to
look very old."
Meanwhile Chloe was becoming reckless, as people do when they know that
the Cinderella clock of time will shortly strike, and a transformation
of rags and a pumpkin take the place of silken attire and gilt coach
and horses. If the _World_ paragraph were true, if Huskinson were
really in England, her game was nearly up; her hour was at hand.
This Ascot was the closing revel, and even this Ascot might be
interrupted—might be cut off short for her. Good-bye then to ducal
circles and the pomp of English society, bristling with ancient names.
In fancy, she heard the tick-tick of the Cinderella clock; she heard
the warning buzz that precedes its announcement of the dreary midnight.
She saw the tall hat, the frock-coat and trousers vanish in a mist of
tears, and with it how much ecstasy! And a devil-may-care mood took
possession of her soul. She would squeeze the inmost essence out of
these last flying golden moments; she would drink her little wine-cup
to the lees. And so, when Mrs. Verulam and Mr. Rodney returned to the
Enclosure, they found her the centre of a group of smart women, and
watched with glittering eyes by the Lady Pearl, talking with amazing
vivacity, laughing in a gaiety that was almost fierce, and making
herself slightly more conspicuous than was altogether _comme il faut_.
Mr. Rodney, governed by his feelings and so endowed with a distorted
vision, considered that Van Adam was behaving outrageously—if he
was Van Adam at all. And even Mrs. Verulam was a little surprised at
Chloe's intense vivacity, and at the stream of audacious conversation
that flowed so incessantly from her lips. When Chloe joined them, Mr.
Rodney felt as if the eyes of the universe were directed upon the group
they formed, and that even his proved and universally-accepted social
standing and pre-eminent respectability could not save Mrs. Verulam
from instant and eternal condemnation. He saw the small and attentive
green eyes of Lady Jane Clinch observing them persistently beneath
the shadow of her huge black parasol. He noted the plantation-song
pantomime of the Banana Queen, who, attired in flame-coloured brocade,
was being wooed by the impecunious members of the British aristocracy.
And, worse than all, he perceived the indignant colour flood the large
face of the Duchess of Southborough as she marked Chloe bend familiarly
to Mrs. Verulam and pour into her really shell-like ear the tale of
a dozen reckless and immoderate wagers. For Chloe had been betting
wildly, and had lost a good deal of money. He was thankful indeed when
the races were over, and the party drove home in the dust to Ribton
Marches. On arriving, and strolling forth into the garden to rest and
be thankful, they found various men dotted here and there—to the
number of perhaps half a dozen—busily engaged among the Bun Emperor's
plants and shrubs, or rolling and watering the lawns.
"Dear me, what an influx of gardeners!" said the Duchess. "It gives the
grounds quite a crowded appearance. This must be a terribly expensive
place to keep up."
Mr. Bush, who had cut off his roundabout for one day, turned his large
eyes upon the busy labourers.
"If they keep on as they're a-keepin' now," he said, "there won't be a
bloomin' flower within fifty mile this time to-morrow."
And he rolled towards the tea-tables. Miss Bindler put up her eye-glass
and surveyed the scene. One man was apparently trying to pluck up a
fine rose-tree by the roots; another was behaving with almost inhuman
levity among some sunflowers; a third seemed to be having a stand-up
fight with a laurustinus; a fourth was watering nothing at all with
an enormous hose directed at a small cloud which was coming up from
Sunningdale; and the remaining two were furiously trying to roll a
tiny gravel walk with a roller, which managed them to such an extent
that it seemed certain they would soon present the thin appearance of
a film of flour fresh from the pressure of the rolling-pin. Away in
the far distance the Bun Emperor's head-gardener stood weeping and
wringing his horny hands beneath a copper beech, while Mr. Harrison was
addressing to him what might be either oaths or words of comfort. It
was impossible to discover which without the aid of a telescope. Miss
Bindler dropped her eye-glass. It struck one of the huge buttons that
sat about on the corduroy coat she wore and tinkled in a manly manner.
"If those men were my gardeners," she remarked, "I should have them up
before the nearest magistrate for damaging my property. No tea, thanks.
A whisky-and-seltzer, a biscuit, and a lump of ice."
"How self-conscious they look!" said the Lady Pearl, with a languishing
air.
"Gardeners always do," said Lady Drake; "they think themselves the only
artistic people among the wage-earning classes. Silly!"
She accepted a crumpet, despite the great heat.
"A gardener can be very attractive, though—eh, Lady Drake?" said the
Duke, glancing from her withered face to Mr. Bush in an ostentatious
manner.
Lady Drake suddenly remembered Mr. Bush's amiable profession, and was
unable to give the crumpet its due and swallow it.
"I think that gardening is a high-minded and beautiful occupation. Oh!"
cried Mrs. Verulam.
This last exclamation was occasioned by the behaviour of the gentleman
with the hose, who, suddenly turning his attention from the Sunningdale
cloud to the house-party, sprayed the tea-table nearest to him, at
which were peacefully seated Mrs. Verulam, Mr. Ingerstall, and Mr.
Rodney. The two former were only slightly watered, but the latter
received about a ton and a half of cold liquid upon his head and down
his delicate back. He uttered a cry like that which rises to heaven
from a sinking ship with a large load of emigrants aboard.
"Wet?" said Miss Bindler. "Much better take your liquids internally."
"Wet? I am saturated! I am drenched!" cried the owner of Mitching Dean;
while the gentleman with the hose ran off in the direction of London as
fast as his legs would carry him. "I must go in and—these liberties
are really unpardonable. The gardeners at Mitching Dean would never
dare to treat a visitor with such gross familiarity!"
He hastened away, presenting the distressed back of a man whose every
movement floods his spinal cord with sudden showers of displaced cold
water.
"Mr. Rodney's wrong," Miss Bindler said, with her usual short decision.
"Wrong?" said the Duchess. "To sit at tea under a hose without knowing
it? Anyone might do the same with such gardeners. Mr. Lite ought not to
engage them."
"Don't abuse the man," said Miss Bindler; "he didn't do it on purpose."
"Then why did he run away?" asked Lady Drake.
"Because he's a coward and a quick sprinter," said Miss Bindler. "He
was watching us and forgot his hose. All the gardeners are watching us."
The house-party started slightly, and, looking about them with opened
eyes, were soon aware that Miss Bindler had followed her usual habit
of speaking the truth. The self-conscious artists of the wage-earning
world were, indeed, very intent upon those assembled about the
tea-tables. The man who was disturbing the rose-tree in its home of
years had his head set round like a deformity in a frantic effort to
keep his eye on Lady Drake. The person who had been acting with levity
among the sunflowers was now pretending to clip a diminutive box-hedge,
and was in reality snapping the air while he gazed steadily at Mr.
Bush. The individual who was fighting with the laurustinus had one eye
fastened in a most expressive manner on Mr. Ingerstall, while the other
seemed anxious to do sentry duty over Mrs. Verulam. And the gentlemen
with the roller were staring at the whole party with a pertinacity and
resolution which prevented them from observing that their enormous
instrument was now doing its fell work upon an elaborately-conceived
pattern of red, pink, and white geraniums.
"How very strange!" said the Duchess. "Are they a party of mesmerists,
do you think? Really, it can scarcely be mere idle curiosity."
"The chap who's carving the atmosphere looks to me like a third-rate
detective," observed Miss Bindler, munching a captain's biscuit.
"They all look like third-rate detectives," said the Duke, who was well
acquainted with that class of society, having been shadowed off and
on for years by agents acting for anxious husbands suspicious of his
clown's manner with their wives.
These words, at which most of the company were good enough to laugh,
sent a cold shiver down Chloe's back. Detectives! She glanced at the
gardeners, and in an instant sprang to the conclusion that they were
the emissaries of Huskinson, who had bribed the Bun Emperor's servants
to let them in, disguised, to the domain of Ribton Marches. Were not
their ten eyes fastened upon her? Her legs trembled in their trousers.
The Cinderella clock seemed striking. She felt that she was pale, and
the laughter of those around her sounded hollow and mirthless. Did
these men, skulking in their disguise of gardeners, recognise her
for what she was—a woman? The idea made her hot. She fancied she
saw the laurustinus man smile. He knew. The rose-tree man passed his
hand across his face—to hide a laugh, no doubt. The roller couple
bent down, and sent their machine over a quantity of blowing pinks.
Chloe felt certain that their attitude was one of ridicule making for
concealment. Had she been underneath the copper beech, her mind would
have been relieved, for she would have heard the voice of Mr. Harrison
saying to the Emperor's head-gardener:
"Them is Mr. Lite's orders, and must be carried out—oh, indeed!"
"I cawn't abear it—I cawn't abear it!" sobbed the head-gardener. "Only
look at 'um a rolling of the jerryaneeums and a rooting up of the
roses! I cawn't abear it!"
"You must abear it, Gummill," rejoined Mr. Harrison, with stern
resolution. "Mr. Lite says to me: 'Mr. Harrison, get down
detectives—oh, most decidedly—by all means, get 'em down! Plant them
here and there about the garden, place them to and fro about the house,
and don't let them be knowst. If them Londoners,' he says, 'get up to
their tricks, I'll have the law on 'em, I will, and on you I depend,
Mr. Harrison, to get proper witnesses as will convict judge and jury.'
Them men"—he pointed to the gardeners—"will convict any judge and
jury; so abear it you must, Gummill—oh, most certainly, indeed, on
every account whatever."
And with this exhortation he turned from the sobbing under-strapper and
walked towards the palace, turning out his feet as he proceeded, and
assuming, as he threaded his way among the detectives, a solemn dignity
that was undoubtedly Jove-like.
The Duke of Southborough, when he had closely observed the Duchess's
party of mesmerists, felt quite certain as to their calling, but, being
a vain man, he mistook the reason of their presence; and while Chloe
supposed them to be at Ribton Marches on her account, he had no doubt
that they were watching him. He had a notion now that he had seen them
at the races hovering about his steps. Honest men! He enjoyed such
little attentions, and could not resist tipping Mr. James Bush the wink
as the party rose from tea, and Mr. Bush lumbered at his side smoking a
huge cigar presented to him by one of the men-servants; therefore the
Duke nudged the paragon slyly in the ribs with his elbow, and said:
"See those men?"
"Eh?" said Mr. Bush.
"See those men who watered Rodney?"
Mr. Bush broke into a large laugh.
"Rodney'll be sproutin'," he said—"Rodney'll be sproutin'!"
"They are detectives," said the Duke—"Scotland Yard fellows."
Mr. Bush stared at the gardeners as if they were wild animals.
"What are they a-doin' of?" he asked. "What are they here for?"
"I'll let you into the secret," said the Duke, whispering with great
elaboration, and leaning to Mr. Bush's ear in a dramatic manner:
"they're here for me."
Mr. Bush made no reply, but turned his heavy eyes slowly from the
Duke to the gardeners, and back again. The Duke again prodded him in
the ribs, at the same time throwing up his left leg to a considerable
height.
"You're a bit of a dog, you know, yourself," he whispered; "you want
watching, too. What? The husband that would trust you would soon find
himself in Queer Street—eh, eh?"
And he went off sniggering to the billiard-room, leaving Mr. Bush in
some perplexity. The paragon, unaware of his Grace's insomnia on the
previous night, did not comprehend these delicately masked allusions
to the Lady Drake episode. He sat down heavily to consider them on a
garden-seat, and before he fell into the doze which always eventually
followed his assumption of a sitting posture, he had put two and two
together with this result: Detective police were swarming about the
garden. They were there for the Duke. The Duke considered that he,
James Bush, was a bit of a dog and wanted watching, and held the
opinion that the husband who would trust him, James Bush, would soon
find himself in Queer Street. Ergo the Duke had engaged gardeners to
spy on him and her Grace of Southborough. It took the paragon exactly
half an hour to reason all this out, having done which he fell asleep,
murmuring gently, "Here's a rum go! Here's a bit of fun!" and proceeded
to dream that gardeners were always detectives.
And the six self-conscious gardeners, now reduced to five, went on
rooting up respectable plants and rolling innocent flowers till
the twilight glided into night, and the Londoners went indoors and
presently sat down to dinner.