My house, though in the eyes of the rate-collector fully occupied, has
now for several weeks stood with an unmistakably vacant stare. My cook
alone, with a young lady friend for company, dwells there. What our
great ballad-writers call the patter of tiny feet is stilled. The
seaside has demanded its toll, and I have for a time accompanied the
evacuating host.
The other day, for a brief space, I returned home--a home which at the
first glance seemed to be as I had left it. But as I approached I was
confronted with a change. The gate, which in normal times used to swing
shakily on its hinges and keep on chattering against its post (in the
vain effort to shut) whenever the wind was in its teeth, now leaned
against an adjacent bush in listless inaction. One of its hinges had
been broken. I learned the details of the tragedy from the gardener.
It was one of them I-talians, I gathered. Seeing, with the
nice instinct of their race, that my house must be the abode of
music-lovers--detecting this from various subtle signs invisible to
me--they had drored their horgan through the gateway and up the grand
carriage sweep which, leading to the handsome portico entrance, is one
of the outstanding features of all that well-situated and desirable
double-fronted brick and carved stone residential property which
recently I was wise enough to acquire for a mere song. Well, these
I-talians had drored their instrument up the drive and played to the
front door for ton minutes. The cook and her friend, I learned
afterwards, heard them and, being satisfied to enjoy the entertainment
without payment, had remained out of sight. For ten minutes they played,
the man turning the handle, his wife smiling and bowing to the windows.
Then, in the fine frenzy known to all great artists who are
unrecognised, they drored it down again to the gate. The fine frenzy was
proved by the fury with which the woman flung wide the portal that the
horgan might be drored out. She flung it back too far, and the hinge, a
soulless thing of cast-iron, snapped.
The gardener--no musician--who had happened to see them arrive, and,
anticipating trouble, had been watching unperceived, hurried to the
scene of the catastrophe.
"I knowed they was a-goin' to do it," he said, "the 'inge bein' in a bad
way already. It's lucky there was a policeman 'andy. I said you'd 'ave
the law of 'em."
"But I don't want the law of them," I protested.
"Well, they're going to pay for a new 'inge any'ow."
"Rather hard luck on them, isn't it? I can't make them do that."
"Don't you worry your 'ead, Sir," said the gardener. "It don't come out
of their pocket. All these I-talians is run by one man. Millionaire, so
they tells me. Any'ow, it's settled now."
"Well, perhaps it'll teach them to be more careful."
"I 'ope not, Sir," said the gardener. "'Ave another one or two of 'em in
'ere, and we'll get the gate so as it won't bang."
* * * * *