Most of these stories were written in a cottage in Suffolk.
For aught I know to the contrary there may be other habitable dwellings
in that beloved country of grey skies and tidal rivers, and cool sea
breezes. There certainly are other houses in our own village, some
larger, some smaller than mine, where pleasant neighbours manage to eat
and sleep, and to eke out their existence. But, of course, though they
try to hide it, they must all be consumed with envy of me, for a cottage
to equal mine I have never yet come across, nor do I believe in its
existence.
Everyone has a so-called cottage nowadays. But fourteen years ago when I
fell desperately in love with mine they were not yet the rage. The
fashion was only beginning.
Now we all know that it is a parlous affair to fall in love in middle
age. Christina Rossetti goes out of her way to warn us against these
dangerous grey haired attachments.
She says:
"Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring."
I had often read those beautiful lines and thought how true they were,
but I paid no more attention to their prudent advice the moment my
emotions were stirred than a tourist does to the word "Private" on a
gate.
It amazes me to recall that the bewitching object of my affections had
actually stood, forlorn, dishevelled, and untenanted, for more than a
year before I set my heart upon it, and the owner good naturedly gave me
a long lease of it.
Millionaires would tumble over each other to secure it now. This paper
is written partly in order to make millionaires uneasy, for I have a
theory, no, more than a theory, a conviction that they seldom obtain the
pick of the things that make life delightful.
Do you remember how the ex-Kaiser, even in his palmy days, never could
get hot buttered toast unless his daughter's English governess made it
for him, and later on chronicled the fact for the British public.
There are indications that a few millionaires and crowned heads have
dimly felt for some time past the need of cottages, but Royalty has not
yet got any nearer to one than that distressful eyesore at Kew with tall
windows, which I believe Queen Caroline built, and which Queen Victoria
bequeathed to the nation as "a thing of beauty."
* * * * *
One of the many advantages of a cottage is that the front door always
stands open unless it is wet, and as the Home Ruler and I sit at
breakfast in the tiny raftered hall we see the children running to
school, and the cows coming up the lane, and Mrs. _A's_ washing wending
its way towards her in a wheelbarrow, and Mrs. _M's_ pony and cart _en
route_ for Woodbridge. That admirable pony brings us up from the
station, and returns there for our heavy luggage, it fetches groceries,
it snatches "prime joints" from haughty butchers. It is, as someone has
truly said, "our only link with the outer world."
The village life flows like a little stream in front of us as we sip our
coffee at our small round mahogany table with a mug of flaming Siberian
wallflower on it, the exact shade of the orange curtains. Of course if
you have orange curtains you are bound to grow flowers of the same
colour.
The passers by also see us, but that is a sight to which they are as
well accustomed as to the village pump, the stocks at the Church gate,
or any other samples of "still life." They take no more heed of us than
the five young robins, who fly down from the nest in the honeysuckle
over the porch, and bicker on the foot scraper.
* * * * *
The black beam that stretches low over our heads across the little room
has a carved angel at each end, brought by the Home Ruler in pre-war
days from Belgium; and, in the middle of the beam, is a hook from which
at night a lantern is suspended, found in a curiosity shop in Kent. My
nephew, aged seven, watched me as I cautiously bought it, and whispered
to his mother:
"Why does Aunt Mary buy the lantern when, for thirty shillings, she
could get a model engine?"
"Well, you see she does not want a model engine, and she does want a
lantern, and it is not wrong of her to buy it as she has earned the
money."
Shrill amazement of nephew.
"_What!_ Aunt Mary earned thirty shillings! How she must have _sweated_
to make as much as that!"
* * * * *
I must tell you that our cottage was once two cottages. That is why it
looks so long and pretty from the lane, pushing back the roses from its
eyes as it peers at you over its wooden fence. Consequently we have two
green front doors exactly alike, and each approached by a short brick
path edged with clipped box. Each path has its own little green wooden
gate. One of these doors has had a panel taken out by the Home Ruler,
and a wire grating stretched over the opening, as she has converted the
passage within into a larder.
Now, would you believe it? Chauffeurs, after drawing up magnificent
motors in front of the house, actually go and beat upon the _larder_
door, when, if they would only look through the iron grating, they
would see a leg of mutton hanging up within an inch of their noses--that
is in pre-war days: of course now only sixpenny worth of bones, and a
morsel of liver.
And all the time we are waiting to admit our guests at the _other_ door,
the _open_ door, the _hall_ door, the _front_ door, with an old brass
knocker on it, and an electric bell, and a glimpse within of a table
laid for luncheon, with an orange table cloth--to match the curtains!