I put the whole household on a milk-pudding diet, rather than waste the
numerous samples of milk left, by rival and mutually abusive dairymen,
in a row of cans at the side door.
And when a sumptuously apparelled resident called to say that the
previous occupant had always contributed liberally to the local
working men’s brass band, I tried to look gratified to hear of such
generosity—though I had the presence of mind to say I should not be at
home on Saturday evening when they proposed to serenade me in the front
garden.
Yes, it was a pleasant and peaceful couple of days, and I dare say I
should have been all the better for the complete rest, had not the
telephone men and the gas stove men called simultaneously with the
electrical engineers (who had been summoned to see why the electric
light sulked), and, with a unanimity of purpose that was truly
beautiful in a world so full of variance, they all set to work to take
up floor-boards, in rooms and halls where the carpets and lino had been
laid—the twenty-seven standing around and assisting with reminiscence
and anecdote.
Then it was that the Head of Affairs put down a firm foot and insisted
on the Flower-Patch.
At first Abigail was reluctant to leave such bright scenes in the
kitchen as she hadn’t known for several years; but, remembering that
a halo of distinction surrounds the bearer of exclusive information,
no matter how unimportant, she set off cheerfully next morning, and we
followed a day later.
She prided herself on the tactful way she broke her news to the village.
“Hasn’t Miss Klickmann come down ’long with ’ee?” inquired Mrs. Widow
and the handy man in unison.
“You’ll never see Miss Klickmann again,” Abigail replied in funereal
tones.
“Oh! You don’t tell me so! Poor _dear_ thing! though I knowed she
wasn’t long for this world,” and kind-hearted Mrs. Widow started to mop
her eyes with her apron. “Was it very suddint at the last?”
“Very!” said the handmaiden. “Couldn’t make up her mind till the very
day before the wedding.”
When they had grasped the true state of affairs, and imbibed enough
particulars to have filled three newspaper columns, Mrs. Widow hurried
off home, and then on to the village, likewise conscious of the halo of
distinction. But the handy man paused—
“I wish I’d er knowed a bit sooner,” he said, “then I’d er made an arch
with ‘Welcome’ on it as large as you please. Yes, I’d er like to have
had an arch. But thur,”—after a moment’s thought—“perhaps I’d better do
a bit o’ weedin’ and cut the grass.”
Thus it happened that I was once again going along the road, over which
they had carried me only seven months before. It was cold and cheerless
then; now it was all flowers and sunshine.
The kindly, motherly soul who lives in the end house was at her gate
now, watching for our coming.
“Well there! Well there!” as the wagonette stopped for me to speak to
her. “I thought I should never see you again”—and she grasped my hand
in her own, having first polished it on her apron, which is always
fresh and spotless. “And now here you are. My dear, I’m _that_ glad to
see you back, and I do hope you’ll be happy.”
The stalwart fisherman, standing on the river bank, raised his cap—I
hadn’t forgotten the good work he had done for me. Miss Jarvis at the
village shop came to the door and waved her hand—I remembered the box
of violets and moss and little ferns she had posted to the hospital.
In the cottage itself kind hands had been hard at work; it was simply
a bower of wild flowers. The walls inside were nearly smothered with
trophies of moon daisies, grasses and ferns, and the same scheme of
flowers was carried all up the stairs. On the window ledge on the
landing were bowls of Sweet Betsy and cow parsley—and such a pretty
mixture the crimson and the white flowers made. Upstairs the rooms
were gay with bowls of forget-me-nots and buttercups. Downstairs
it was wild roses and honeysuckle, with mugs of red clover on the
mantelpieces. Being summer, the fire-grates were at liberty, and these
were filled with branches of bracken, ivy, silvery honesty seeds, and
foxglove. Everything had such a delightfully “misty” effect, by reason
of the seeding grasses that had been added lavishly to the flowers.
The only garden flowers in the house were some roses, in the centre
of the dinner-table, sent by Miss Jarvis (with some pale green young
lettuces) from her garden.
Outside the swallows were twittering, and, like all the other birds,
were fussing about their small families. The distant hills were glowing
crimson by the acre where the timber had been cut, I knew it was
myriads and myriads of foxgloves. Near at hand the Flower-Patch was
a mass of nodding blossoms, coupled, with a choice variety of weeds.
I wondered where I had better begin, and how I should cope with the
bindweed, flaunting itself everywhere that it had no business to be.
Had I better start the handy man on it at once, or would it be better
to set him to cut the hedges?
But even as I was planning out a good week’s work for him, I saw him
coming up the path, a picturesque figure in a blue jersey, a large,
shady, rush hat, and carrying, as signs of office, a pitch-fork, a
scythe, and a rake; and I heard his voice in the garden speaking to the
Head of Affairs: “Good-day to ’ee, sir. I’m main glad to see ’ee, for I
calkerlate as how in future I takes my orders from the master.”
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET, LONDON, S.E.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation was retained as
printed.
Page 32, “it” changed to “in” and word “on” added to text (put in; she
merely told him to pack them up very securely, as she was going on a
long railway)