The gipsies came no more. The fogs came no more. The fever came no more;
at least, in such a form as to threaten the general safety. Where it
still lingered, it was about those only who deserved it,—in any small
farm-house, where the dung-yard was too near the house; and in some
cottage where the slatternly inmates did not mind a green puddle or
choked ditch within reach of their noses. More dwellings arose, as the
fertility of the land increased, and invited a higher kind of tillage;
and among the prettiest of them was one which stood in the corner,—the
most sunny corner,—of Woodruffe’s paddock. Harry Hardiman and his wife
and child lived there, and the cottage was Woodruffe’s property.
Yet Woodruffe’s rent had been raised; and pretty rapidly. He was now
paying eight pounds per acre for his garden-ground, and half that for
what was out of the limits of the garden. He did not complain of it; for
he was making money fast. His skill and industry deserved this; but
skill and industry could not have availed without opportunity. His
ground once allowed to show what it was worth, he treated it well; and
it answered well to the treatment. By the railway, he obtained what
manure he wanted from the town; and he sent it back by the railway to
town in the form of crisp celery and salads, wholesome potatoes and
greens, luscious strawberries, and sweet and early peas. He knew that a
Surrey gardener had made his ground yield a profit of two hundred and
twenty pounds per acre. He thought that, with his inferior market, he
should do well to make his yield one hundred and fifty pounds per acre;
and this, by close perseverance, he attained. He could have done it more
easily if he had enjoyed good health; but he never enjoyed good health
again. His rheumatism had fixed itself too firmly to be entirely
removed; and, for many days in the year, he was compelled to remain
within doors, or to saunter about in the sun, seeing his boys and Harry
at work, but unable to help them.
From the time that Allan’s work became worth wages, in addition to his
subsistence, his father let him rent half a rood of the garden-ground
for three years, saying—
“I limit it to three years, my boy, because that term is long enough for
you to show what you can do. After three years, I shall not be able to
spare the ground, at any rent. If you fail, you have no business to rent
ground. If you succeed, you will have money in your pocket wherewith to
hire land elsewhere. Now you have to show us what you can do.”
“Yes, father,” was Allan’s short but sufficient reply.
It was observed by the family that, from this time forward, Allan’s eye
was on every plot of ground in the neighbourhood which could, by
possibility, ever be offered for hire: yet did his attention never
wander from that which was already under his hand. And that which was so
great an object to him became a sort of pursuit to the whole family.
Moss guarded Allan’s frames, and made more and more prodigious
scarecrows. Their father gave his very best advice. Becky, who was no
longer allowed, as a regular thing, to work in the garden, found many a
spare half-hour for hoeing and weeding, and trimming and tying up, in
Allan’s beds; and Abby found, as she sat in her little school, that she
could make nets for his fruit trees. It was thus no wonder that, when a
certain July day in the second year arrived, the whole household was in
a state of excitement, because it was a sort of crisis in Allan’s
affairs.
Though breakfast was early that morning, Becky and Allan and Moss were
spruce in their best clothes. A hamper stood at the door, and Allan was
packing in another, which had no lid, two or three flower-pots, which
presented a glorious show of blossom. Abby was putting a new ribbon on
her sister’s straw bonnet; and Harry was in waiting to carry up the
hampers to the station. It was the day of the Horticultural Show at the
town. Woodruffe had been too unwell to think of going till this morning;
but now the sight of the preparations, and the prospect of a warm day,
inspired him, and he thought he would go. At last he went, and they were
gone. Abby never went up to the station: nobody ever asked her to go
there; not even her own child, who perhaps had not thought of the
possibility of it. But when the train was starting, she stood at the
upper window with her child, and held him so that he might lean out, and
see the last carriage disappear, as it swept round the curve. After that
the day seemed long, though Harry came up at his dinner-hour to say what
he thought of the great gooseberry in particular, and of everything else
that Allan had carried with him. It was holiday time, and there was no
school to fill up the day. Before the evening, the child became
restless, and Abby fell into low spirits, as she was apt to do when left
long alone; so that Harry stopped suddenly at the door when he was
rushing in to announce that the train was within sight.
“Shall I take the child, Miss?” said Harry. (He always called her
“Miss.”) “I will carry him——But, sure, here they come! Here comes
Moss,—ready to roll down the steps! My opinion is that there’s a prize.”
Moss was called back by a voice which everybody obeyed. Allan should
himself tell his sister the fortune of the day, their father said.
There were two prizes, one of which was for the wonderful plate of
gooseberries; and at this news Harry nodded, and declared himself
anything but surprised. If that gooseberry had not carried the day,
there would have been partiality in the judges, that was all; and nobody
could suppose such a thing as that. Yet Harry could have told, if put
upon his honour, that he was rather disappointed that everything that
Allan carried had not gained a prize. When he mentioned one or two, his
master told him he was unreasonable; and he supposed he was.
Allan laid down on the table, for his sister’s full assurance, his
sovereign, and his half-sovereign, and his tickets. She turned away
rather abruptly, and seemed to be looking whether the kettle was near
boiling for tea. Her father went up to her; and on his first whispered
words, the sob broke forth which made all look round.
“I was thinking of one, too, my dear, that I wish was here at this
moment. I can feel for you, my dear.”
“But you don’t know—you don’t know—you never knew——.” She could not go
on.
“What don’t I know, my dear?”
“That he constantly blamed himself for saying anything to bring you
here. He said you had never prospered from the hour you came, and now——”
And now Woodruffe could not speak, as the past came fresh upon him. In a
few moments, however, he rallied, saying,
“But we must consider Allan. He must not think that his success makes us
sad.”
Allan declared that it was not about gaining the prizes that he was
chiefly glad. It was because it was now proved what a fair field he had
before him. There was nothing that might not be done with such a soil as
they had to deal with now.
Harry was quite of this opinion. There were more and more people set to
work upon the soil all about them; and the more it was worked the more
it yielded. He never saw a place of so much promise. And if it had a bad
name in regard to healthiness, he was sure that was unfair,—or no longer
fair. He and his were full of health and happiness, as they hoped to see
everybody else in time; and, for his part, if he had all England before
him, or the whole world, to choose a place to live in, he would choose
the very place he was in, and the very cottage; and the very ground to
work on that had produced such a gooseberry and such strawberries as he
had seen that day.