BY the advice of Miss Babraham they planted a myrtle in the
jar of Knossos. Some days later the Hoodoo was haled into a convenient
corner of the Italian garden. Here, by the marge of a tiny rock-strewn
lake, the momentous rite was performed with a high solemnity. Much
displacement of mould and a considerable wheelbarrowing of the same was
necessary and Mr. Chrystal, the head gardener, had to advise in the use
of the trowel, an art in which neither June nor William was quite so
adept as they might have been. But at last, after some honest digging
and shovelling on the part of William who was not afraid to take off
his coat to the job, and timely help from Mr. Chrystal’s George who was
uncannily wise, although to be sure he had the experience of a lifetime
and a fairly long one to bring to bear on such matters, the thing was
done.
June and William then retired to the fragrant shade of a budding lime,
feeling rather hot, yet not dissatisfied with their labours. It was a
perfect morning. Larks were hovering in the bright air. Blackbirds and
thrushes were trying out their grace-notes, and once June thought she
heard a nightingale.
For a little they reclined in poetic comfort in two wicker chairs.
Fauns in marble, and Cupid, complete with bow and arrows lurked hard
by. At last June broke a delicious silence.
“You must put your coat on,” she said suddenly.
“But----” said William who really had delved and shovelled to some
purpose.
June was not to be Butted--not this golden day.
“If you don’t you might get a bad chill,” she said severely.
William rose and did her bidding. And in the midst of that simple act,
a certain piece of confidential information, which Sir Arthur and Miss
Laura had been kind enough to supply at frequent intervals during the
last few days, recurred forcibly to his mind. It was to the effect
that “Miss Gedge was so practical she would make an ideal wife for an
artist.”
As far as the major premise was concerned it was less irrelevant than
at first it might seem, for William had recently decided that an artist
was what he was going to be. In the very act of putting on his coat he
now recalled the high and sacred mystery to which his life was vowed.
And further he recalled that before entering the garden he had taken
the precaution of slipping a neat little sketching book and pencil into
his coat pocket. Thus, upon sitting down, in solemn silence he took
them forth and proceeded to draw.
June it was who broke the silence, after some little while.
“If you are drawing that myrtle,” she said, “it looks a bit potty to me
stuck up there. There’s nothing to it.”
She was more her true self this happy morning than for many a tragic
month.
“It’ll grow,” said the artist.
“Won’t seem much if it doesn’t in that great jar. It was Miss
Babraham’s idea to stick it there, so it’s all right of course. She
said it was an emblem of what was it?”
“Of marriage,” said the artist with an air of innocent abstraction.
“Then she ought to have planted it herself--if she _is_ going to
be married.”
“On the first of July. They’ve fixed the day.”
“Oh,” said June. “Have you seen her young man?”
“He came to lunch yesterday.”
“Who is he?”
“The Honourable Barrington, a gentleman in the Blues.”
June frowned portentously. “I hope he’ll be good enough for her.” But
she didn’t sound very hopeful.
“He’s a very nice gentleman.”
“Ought to be if he’s going to marry _her_. But what I should like
to know is, why was she so set on you and me planting that myrtle when
she ought to have planted it herself.”
“Don’t know, I’m sure, Miss June,” said the artist, not so much as
glancing up from his work.
Once a Sawney always a Sawney. Perennially, it seemed, was she up
against the relentless workings of that natural law. Marriage, money,
commonsense, the really big things of life, meant so little to him
compared with windmills and myrtles, and things of that kind. Like her
beloved Miss Babraham, this dear and charming fellow was almost too
good to be true, but day by day the conviction was growing upon her
that he really did need somebody practical to look after him. And she
was not alone in thinking so. Miss Babraham, who knew so much about
everything, had already expressed that opinion to her quite strongly.
Here he was, in the middle of a perfect morning, with all sorts of
really beautiful things about him, and larks and blackbirds quiring,
and the sun on the water and the Surrey hills, wasting his time
seemingly, by drawing that rather paltry looking little plant stuck up
there on the top of the Hoodoo. Even if it was the emblem of marriage
she could not help a subtle feeling of annoyance that he should not use
his precious time a bit better.
However, the cream of the joke was to follow.
The artist it was who quaintly burst this fresh bubble of silence.
“Talk as much as you like, Miss June,” he said with something a little
odd, a little unexpected in his manner, “but I hope you’ll keep your
hands in your lap just as they are now, and if you don’t mind will you
please bring your chin round a bit--on to a level with my finger.”
“Please get on with that myrtle.” Before, however, the fiat was really
pronounced, she abruptly stopped. Could such a thing be? Was it
possible that he was not drawing the myrtle at all?
It was more than possible.
And that was the cream of the whole matter!