I used to take a good deal of notice of that boy's master as I sat at
the window, and it always seemed to me that he went up and down his
garden because he was so fond of it.
Later on I knew that it was because he was a market-gardener, and was
making his plans as to what was to be cut or picked, or what wanted
doing in the place.
He was a pleasant-looking man, with white hair and whiskers, and a red
face that always used to make me think of apples, and he was always
dressed the same--in black, with a clean white shirt front, and a white
cravat without any starch. Perhaps it was so that they might not get in
the mud, but at any rate his black trousers were very tight, and his
tail-coat was cut very broad and loose, with cross pockets like a
shooting-jacket, and these pockets used to bulge.
Sometimes they bulged because he had bast matting for tying up plants,
and a knife in one, and a lot of shreds and nails and a hammer in the
other; sometimes it was because he had been picking up fruit, or
vegetable marrows, or new potatoes, whatever was in season. They always
made me think of the clown's breeches, because he used to put everything
in, and very often a good deal would be sticking out.
I remember once seeing him go down the garden with a good-sized kitten
in each pocket, for there were their heads looking over the sides, and
they seemed to be quite contented, blinking away at the other cats which
were running and skipping about.
For that boy's master, who was called Brownsmith, was a great man for
cats; and whenever he went down his garden there were always six or
eight blacks, and black and whites, and tabbies, and tortoise-shells
running on before or behind him. When he stopped, first one and then
another would have a rub against his leg, beginning with the point of
its nose, and running itself along right to the end of its tail,
crossing over and having a rub on the other side against the other leg.
So sure as one cat had a rub all the others that could get a chance had
a rub as well. Then perhaps their master would stoop down with his
knife in his teeth, and take a piece of bast from his pocket, to tie up
a flower or a lettuce, when one of the cats was sure to jump on his
back, and stop there till he rose, when sometimes it would go on and sit
upon his shoulder, more often jump off.
It used to interest me a good deal to watch old Brownsmith and his cats,
for I had never known that a cat would run after any one out of doors
like a dog. Then, too, they were so full of fun, chasing each other
through the bushes, crouching down with their tails writhing from side
to side, ready to spring out at their master, or dash off again up the
side of a big tree, and look down at him from high upon some branch.
I say all this used to interest me, for I had no companions, and went to
no school, but spent my time with my poor mother, who was very ill; and
I know now how greatly she must have suffered often and often, when,
broken down in health and spirit, suffering from a great sorrow, she
used to devote all her time to teaching me.
Our apartments, as you see, overlooked old Brownsmith's market-garden,
and very often, as I sat there watching it, I used to wish that I could
be as other boys were, running about free in the fields, playing cricket
and football, and learning to swim, instead of being shut up there with
my mother.
Perhaps I was a selfish boy, perhaps I was no worse than others of my
age. I know I was very fond of my mother, for she was always so sweet,
and gentle, and tender with me, making the most tedious lessons pleasant
by the way she explained them, and helping me when I was worried over
some arithmetical question about how many men would do so much work in
such and such a number of days if so many men would do the same work in
another number of days.
These sums always puzzled me, and do now; perhaps it is because I have
an awkwardly shaped brain.
Sometimes, as we sat over the lessons, I used to see a curious pained
look spread over my mother's face, and the tears would come in her eyes,
but when I kissed her she would smile directly and call my attention to
the beauty of the rime frost on the fruit-trees in Brownsmith's garden;
or, if it was summer, to the sweet scent of the flowers; or to the
ripening fruit in autumn.
Ah, if I had known then, I say to myself, how different I might have
been; how much more patient and helpful to her! But I did not know, for
I was a very thoughtless boy.
Now it came to pass one day that an idea entered my head as I saw my
mother seated with her pale cheek resting upon her hand, looking out
over old Brownsmith's garden, which was just then at its best. It was
summer time, and wherever you looked there were flowers--not neat
flower-beds, but great clumps and patches of roses, and sweet-williams
and pinks, and carnations, that made the air thick with their sweet
odours. Her eyes were half closed, and every now and then I saw her
draw in a long breath, as if she were enjoying the sweet scent.
As I said, I had an idea, and the idea was that I would slip out quietly
and go and spend that sixpence.
Which sixpence?
Why, that sixpence--that red-hot one that tried so hard to burn a hole
through my pocket.
I had had it for two days, and it was still at the bottom along with my
knife, a ball of string, and that piece of india-rubber I had chewed for
hours to make a pop patch. I had nearly spent it twice--the first time
on one of these large white neatly-sewn balls, with "Best Tennis"
printed upon them in blue; the second time in a pewter squirt.
I had wanted a squirt for a long time, for those things had a great
fascination for me, and I had actually entered the shop door to make my
purchase when something seemed to stop me, and I ran home.
And now I thought I would go and spend that coin.
I slipped quietly to the other window, and had a good look round, but I
could not see that boy, for if I had seen him I don't think I should
have had the heart to go, feeling sure, as I did, that he had a spite
against me. As I said, though, he was nowhere visible, so I slipped
downstairs, ran along the lane to the big gate, and walked boldly in.
There were several people about, but they took no notice of me--stout
hard-looking women, with coarse aprons tied tightly about their waists
and legs; there were men too, but all were busy in the great sheds,
where they seemed to be packing baskets, quite a mountain of which stood
close at hand.
There were high oblong baskets big enough to hold me, but besides these
there were piles upon piles of round flat baskets of two sizes, and
hanging to the side of one of the sheds great bunches of white wood
strawberry pottles, looking at a distance like some kind of giant
flower, all in elongated buds.
Close by was a cart with its shafts sticking up in the air. Farther on
a wagon with "Brownsmith" in yellow letters on a great red band; and
this I passed to go up to the house. But the door was closed, and it
was evident that every one was busy in the garden preparing the night's
load for market.
I stood still for a minute, thinking that I could not be very wrong if I
went down the garden, to see if I could find Mr Brownsmith, and my
heart began to beat fast at the idea of penetrating what was to me a
land of mystery, of which, just then, I held the silver pass-key in the
shape of that sixpence.
"I'll go," I said. "He can't be very cross;" and, plucking up courage,
but with the feeling upon me that I was trespassing, I went past the
cart, and had gone half-way by the wagon, when there was a creaking,
rattling noise of baskets, and something made a bound.
I started back, feeling sure that some huge dog was coming at me; but
there in the wagon, and kneeling on the edge to gaze down at me with a
fierce grin, was that boy.
I was dreadfully alarmed, and felt as if the next minute he and I would
be having a big fight; but I wouldn't show my fear, and I stared up at
him defiantly with my fists clenching, ready for his first attack.
He did not speak--I did not speak; but we stared at each other for some
moments, before he took a small round turnip out of his pocket and began
to munch it.
"Shock!" cried somebody just then; and the boy turned himself over the
edge of the wagon, dropped on to the ground, and ran towards one of the
sheds, while, greatly relieved, I looked about me, and could see Mr
Brownsmith some distance off, down between two rows of trees that formed
quite an avenue.
It seemed so beautiful after being shut up so much in our sitting-room,
to walk down between clusters of white roses and moss roses, with Anne
Boleyne pinks scenting the air, and far back in the shade bright orange
double wallflowers blowing a little after their time.
I had not gone far when a blackbird flew out of a pear-tree, and I knew
that there must be a nest somewhere close by. Sure enough I could see
it in a fork, with a curious chirping noise coming from it, as another
blackbird flew out, saw me, and darted back.
I would have given that sixpence for the right to climb that pear-tree,
and I gave vent to a sigh as I saw the figure of old Brownsmith coming
towards me, looking much more stern and sharp than he did at a distance,
and with his side pockets bulging enormously.
"Hallo, young shaver! what's your business?" he said, in a quick
authoritative way, as we drew near to each other.
I turned a little red, for it sounded insulting for a market gardener to
speak to me like that, for I never forgot that my father had been a
captain in an Indian regiment, and was killed fighting in the Sikh war.
I did not answer, but drew myself up a little, before saying rather
consequentially:
"Sixpenn'orth of flowers and strawberries--good ones."
"Oh, get out!" he said gruffly, and he half turned away. "We've no time
for picking sixpenn'orths, boy. Run up into the road to the
greengrocer's shop."
My face grew scarlet, and the beautiful garden seemed as if it was under
a cloud instead of the full blaze of sunshine, while I turned upon my
heel and was walking straight back.
"Here!"