Читать книгу The Trail of the Ragged Robin - Flora Klickmann - Страница 4

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Spring was on the way, and we knew it, though according to all respectable poets it is only those leading the simple life and dwelling close to the heart of Nature who are able to detect her approach. But Londoners can tell the times and seasons by a dozen signs and tokens, more especially the arrival of the spring.

For instance: that industrious elderly gentleman living at Balham, writes his annual letter to the Press to record the arrival on February 29 of a pair of cuckoos who are building in the waterspout; while on March 1 an equally patriotic person at Pinner, having shot a wood pigeon (which probably did not belong to him), makes the shocking discovery that its crop contains 134 grains of corn, half a pound of strawberries, the only vegetable marrow that was showing on his allotment, and an advertisement for some one’s memory course. And ought not something to be done?

Then there is the sweep. No matter how deferentially you approach him, he is as detached and as already full-up with important engagements as an M.P., after a general election.

Ditto the carpet-beating fraternity, and the house decorators, and the charwoman.

Moreover, at the approach of spring, one’s cushions and general upholstery take on a jaundiced, morbid hue—pure jealousy of course, but none the less upsetting. Every house-mistress knows the tint, and hies her straightway to the West End—another seasonal sign!

Those of us who live on the edge of London, gazing at its chimneys, but doing our best to avoid being engulfed in its conglomeration of smuts, watch the buds, like tiny pearls, appearing on the hawthorns, while the brown, bare branches of winter turn to purple, and then are lost in a mist of green. And somehow, the sight fills one with a strange longing that is almost pain.

May that year was an ideal month—the type of weather one always has in mind when buying summer frocks, but which so seldom materializes when one actually wears the frocks.

It really started in April, when a sudden blaze of sunshine sent barometer and thermometer nearly off their heads. We hastily got out the tent; the Head of Affairs repainted the garden seats with some green fluid he found in a tin; we demobilized the pieces of glass from the home-made garden frame (supposed to raise a purely mythical war-emergency ridge cucumber), and reunited them with the various pictures from whom they had been parted during the war; and we wondered how many new water-spouts the garden-hose had developed during hibernation. If only the garden-hose would kindly look upon its winter sojourn in the out-house as a rest-cure, what pages of the dictionary would be saved later on!

Of course, we knew such weather wouldn’t last, and, of course, we all assured each other that we should suffer for it later on. That is where our British temperament is so foresighted, well-balanced, and prepared for any emergency; we never forget that—be the day cheery or be the day long—a tax collector, in one guise or another, is always waiting in the offing.

But, despite all our prognostications and earnest advice to fellow-women not to be led astray by the lure of flowered voiles, the sun persisted in shining with increasing vigour; and we basked on the garden seats as though it were August—i.e. until we discovered that the green fluid was distemper of a most flighty character.

On the 30th of April one of the extra ladies who had been called in to assist the regular ones in spring-cleaning our offices, suddenly noticing the date on my tear-off calendar, exclaimed—

“You don’t mean that this is the last day of April; or is there thirty-one days this month?”

“This is the last day,” I replied. “Isn’t it lovely to feel that the winter is gone?” (anxious to voice a beautiful and original thought that was within me.)

“The last day of April? The last day? Gracious me! And I haven’t changed me winter vest yet! I must run home and do it now, for I simply can’t go on a-stewing like this till June.” And she set down clankingly a pail of water just where it would be kicked over by the next person who entered the room, and dropped wet wash-leather and rags on my office table, preparatory to running.

“But why not change it to-morrow morning?” I asked, as I removed the soggy mass from somebody’s valuable MS. (though it was pleasant to think I might be relieved of her society for a little while). “You will only tire yourself out if you go home now in this heat.”

“To-morrow won’t do,” she said firmly. “To-morrow’s May! And it’s ten to one you ketch yer death o’ cold if you thin down in May. Me mother was most pertickler about it—told us a nice bit o’ po’try to make us remember. It goes something like this—

“ ‘Till May is out

Don’t cast off nothin’ you’ve got on.’

“And I never don’t. Why, I wouldn’t change me vest in May, no, not was it ever so! April’s all right, and ’tsall right in June; but May’s awful dangerous. And I don’t want to be took ill till I’ve moved neither; because where I’m living now I’m in St. John’s borough, and at the St. John’s Infirmary no one ever gets better. That’s why I’m waiting for the chance of a house acrost the road; that ’d be in St. Peter’s borough, and at the St. Peter’s Workhouse they don’t let you go off too sudden-like; and I’ve even known one or two people who’ve come out again alive. So I must change to-day, you see. I’ll be back in half-an-hour.”

And she and the water from the pail hurried out of the door together.

Thus it came about, as I said before, that May was an ideal month. There was no frost to speak of, no heavy rains, no cold, grey days that always spell blight on the rose trees. Everything in the garden had the chance of a lifetime, and was making the best of it.

Whereupon Virginia, Ursula, and I began to talk of my far-away Flower-Patch in tones of home-sick longing. Only those who know what it is to ache, both mentally and spiritually, with the unending weariness and monotony of great cities, can understand the nostalgia that overtakes the London-bound Nature-lover when the first south winds of spring blow over the miles of sordidness that stretch between the hills of Sydenham and the Hampstead Heights.

Virginia and Ursula, my most intimate friends, were only just recovering strength after an influenza duet. I myself was feeling very tired—tired of the endless worry caused by labour troubles; and one only left those connected with one’s business to be met by another crop of problems affecting one’s household. Coal was short, gas was dear and dreadful, and the ton of logs I had been beguiled into buying—at a fabulous price—were so young and so juicy that I wrote to the dealer pointing out to him that I had ordered wood and not rhubarb! It made me long to be within hatchet distance of our own hillside acres, where at least I could get something with enough “burn” in it to boil a kettle!

Then my home neighbourhood had been even more active than usual, and that is saying a good deal. It is strange how deceptive appearances can be! If you passed along the road in which I live, you would probably exclaim, “How peaceful! How rural! What a sleepy hollow!” (only it’s on a hill-top!) “Fancy bracken, and hawthorn hedges, and grass for a curb in a London street! How restful!”

But it is not nearly so restful as it looks, simply because in this particular district we specialize on philanthropy. I am inclined to think that every other person walking along the road is bent on alleviating some ill—real or imaginary.

Don’t think I am belittling such work; certainly not! It is indeed a blessing that there are so many whole-hearted workers in the cause of charity, for charity needs them. Only—I do wish I could afford to keep two footmen, and thus have one always ready to answer the front door when his colleague collapses and is taken away to rest and recuperate. Whereas I do not keep even one; and Abigail, the housemaid, had been declaring that the visitors’ bell was undermining her nerves.

I asked her: What about mine?

That particular week had started with a morning call from Mrs. Blank, of Ivy Grange, to announce that she would be giving a garden fête in aid of a new church spire, and of course I would take tickets?

She was followed, after lunch, by Mrs. Dash from Geranium Towers, who asked me to subscribe to the “Guild for providing Footwarmers for the Navy,” which she was organizing, and even offered me a place on the Committee.

Another ring at the bell—this time it was an At Home card dropped into the letter-box by Mrs. Stroke of the Moorlands, announcing a Thé dansant in aid of the Boy Scouts.

Mrs. Griggles, from round the corner, happened along about teatime, with details of the sad needs of an out-of-work young woman in whom she was interested—an absolute genius who had only an unwholesome garret and the unemployment dole between her and starvation, because she could not get anything to do; and when she had employment, she had to work sixteen hours a day, and seven days a week, to keep the skin over her bones; meat she seldom saw, and as for soles, she hadn’t a vestige to her boots!

I immediately offered this sad case a beautiful and wholesome bedroom, meat twice a day, whatever wages she wanted, and a forty-four hour week, if she would only come and assist in answering my door bell.

But Mrs. Griggles looked at me reprovingly, explaining, “She couldn’t possibly waste her talent in such a way. She is an elocutionist of great promise. You surely wouldn’t doom her to domestic work!”

And of course I didn’t! I could only leave her in the meatless garret, as we were fully equipped with elocutionists, judging by the sounds that came from the servants’ hall.

Next day Miss Breezy called from No. 92 to beg some books for her stall at the sale of work.

As Miss Breezy departed out of one gate, Miss Quirker entered by the other—likewise bent on doing her kind act for the day. She explained that she had been turning out boxes and drawers (prior to the usual after-war removal, that was the order of the day), and destroying those things that were quite worthless. But coming on a photo of myself, she had decided not to destroy it without first asking if I would like to have it back?

I was thinking this over when Mrs. New Gilt was announced. She has recently bought The Pinnacles, and seemed much surprised when I said I had only a ten-shilling note left, and couldn’t possibly make it more for the Pound Day she was patronizing for the hospital. After looking me over, she said, “Well, at least you could give me something for the Jumble Sale.”

I decided, there and then, that if charity was going to claim my few remaining garments as well as all my cash, it was high time I went away for a little change!

I admit that May is not usually considered a wise time for the person in the City to jaunt off on a holiday; but several circumstances combined to make it expedient that month. In the first place, there was no war on just then—not in England, at any rate.

Secondly, I had heard from Mrs. Farmer that Clover (who often lives in my fields) would be embarking on maternal duties in April, which would ensure a good supply of milk.

Thirdly, the railway was not striking that particular week—important to me for several reasons! Not only did this mean that there would be some chance of getting out of town, but it also indicated that work would proceed as per normal while I was away. A railway strike being one of the most sociable events known to the City of London, and provocative of the maximum of pleasant, friendly intercourse, naturally means also a minimum output. You see, those who do eventually arrive in town during such spells of national festivity, have to spend what little of the day there remains in running round and explaining to everyone else exactly how they managed it. Obviously it makes life very bright and sunny, even if it doesn’t produce much work.

As a nation we may take our pleasures sadly, but at any rate we get a deal of enjoyment out of our misfortunes, and count a host of mercies, one by one, where less enlightened peoples might fancy they saw drawbacks. And if by chance we can’t find a solitary mercy, only a variety of grievances, we still manage to enjoy them. Different people may have different ideas as to the rôle in which they are most calculated to shine, but every one of us positively revels in playing the part of the blessed martyr.

I broached the subject of a holiday to Virginia, and asked her if she would mind hunting up the trains. But Virginia dismissed trains with a wave of her hand. She had returned to her pre-war scientific interests, and was intent on devising a scheme for wireless travelling, that would non-plus the railway strikers for ever and anon. And she pointed out what a great save of this, that, and the other it would be if one could go through the air minus the necessity for even the airship—and wouldn’t I like it if we could travel that way?

Being a cautious person, and anxious not to commit myself to anything that could be used as an advertisement or a testimonial in years to come, I said I thought I would rather send my luggage in advance first, and find out what its nerves were like when it got there, before I was “wirelessed” myself.

But she protested that would not be a fair test, since all luggage in advance (even from well-brought-up families like our own) was bound to go astray en route, and arrive at the farther end in an intoxicated condition. Had I ever known it otherwise?

Though I still felt I must decline her kind offer, I promised her that, when she herself made the first experimental journey, she should have the loveliest funeral at the other end, and a sweet monument quite as tasteful as a war memorial—if not worse.

Ursula, however, accepted the suggestion of a glimpse of the Flower-Patch with alacrity. She was intending to pay a round of visits that had been owing since 1914; should she come to me first, or a little later on?

I begged her to come to me first, as by that arrangement I should be the fortunate hostess to secure her sugar ration, or whatever other item of food our paternal Government might be handing out to us in spoonfuls. Whereas, if she started with a visit elsewhere, the other hostess would secure these priceless treasures when she unpacked.

Virginia agreed to come for the week-end—absolutely could not spare longer from her scientific investigations.

On the journey down we heard much from one of our fellow-travellers on the iniquities of the Government, particularly as regards the pattern of their whisky; while another gorgeous passenger, his wife I imagine, gushed over the countryside all the way along, and patronized the flowers; and only regretted that her life was too full of important affairs to allow of her bestowing some of her society on the dear souls buried in such outlandish places.

“What I adore in the country is the child-like simplicity of the people, and the calm majesty of the unbroken nights,” she was declaiming, when, mercifully, the express slowed down to drop us at Severn Tunnel Junction; and we managed to get Virginia out, speechless with suppressed emotion.

But when she felt the first dash of clean, cold wind from off the water, as we motored from Severn Tunnel to Tintern, she, too, started inquiries as to why we permitted our souls to be dwarfed by the octopus-like tentacles of town life, and saturated with the City’s noxious odours and political intrigues, when——

The tyre suddenly burst; it evidently couldn’t stand any more of it.

One characteristic of the Flower-Patch is its inability to adhere to rules and regulations, or any set plan.

I had decided the previous year that it should be roses, roses everywhere, the year following; and I schemed accordingly. I sent down dozens of new roses, and I also transplanted and trained and pruned and took cuttings of those already there. Then I went away, leaving much to Nature, and the rest to what little time the man in charge could spare from the vegetable garden, the fields, and the woods—which in these days must be allowed the prior claim on his time.

Virginia and Ursula had also contributed some roses to the garden, a few bushes of the dear little white Scotch briar, several ramblers to cover a rough wall, and some moss roses, white, pink, and crimson, as most of mine had died. Consequently we all arrived bubbling over with expectation as regards roses, hoping to find the place a mass of rosebuds ready to burst into colour. We could not wait even for tea, before making a tour of inspection round the garden.

What we actually found, however, was a swaying sea of columbines; literally thousands and thousands of blossoms on tall stems—violet, pink, pale blue, rose, mauve, deep wine red, white, wedgwood blue, purple-brown, yellow, dark blue, and numerous shades between; some single, some closely-packed double, but all swinging on the garden slope with every breath of wind.

Of course there were plenty of other flowers besides these, but the columbines were everywhere, not only in the beds, but also in the paths, in the corners of the stone steps, in the crevices of the walls, and even waving from the roof of the disused pig sty. At first the eye was carried away by the beautiful colour effect of the masses of intermingling blues and pinks and purples, and saw little else.

By degrees one realized that many other flowers were contributing to the wonderful expanse of colour. There were plenty of wallflowers—streaky yellow and brown, and gleaming gold. There were tall tulips—scarlet mingling with orange, white splashed with pink, cream edged with carmine, pale yellow feathered with purple—a haphazard mixture of colour that never clashes, never seems crude when seen in the mass, and is infinitely more cheerful and exhilarating than a formal bed of self-coloured tulips, where each is the replica of its neighbours.

Tufts of violas were holding up appealing little faces near the edges of the beds, some primrose colour with a heliotrope flush on the upper petals, some yellow with chestnut-brown, and sundry others. White and purple arabis hung over stone walls and clambered about the irregular stone bordering. Clumps of irises gave a more solid dignity to the garden, some with handsome heads of blue flowers, others white with a pencilled tracery of mauve. Bluebells in plenty had escaped from the near-by wood. Cowslips and polyanthus clustered about the edges of the borders, and, equally at home, spread over into the path.

Weeds—or wild flowers, whichever you will—were there, it is true, but many of these helped to give a groundwork of colour to the whole. The blue speedwell was particularly welcome, and with the blue forget-me-nots carpeted any available bit of bare earth.

Where the garden snuggled up to the orchard rails at the top, and joined the field where the colt plays, taller wild flowers banked themselves with cheerful certainty that no one would bother about them; it was trouble enough to keep them from monopolizing the rest of the place!

Thus the garden was “finished off” with a sturdy edge of uncurling bracken, soft grasses ready to flower, bluebells in plenty, tall, blue heads of the common bugle, the bright, rosy vetch climbing among it, a spike of early purple orchis here and there, and innumerable stars of the pretty white stitchwort; while in the foreground, creeping stealthily farther and farther over the garden beds, were plenty of late violets, the equally beautiful blue ground ivy, and the ever-enterprising tiny yellow clover. Mere words can never describe how lovely was the mass, pushing and edging its way through the dividing rails, every flower craning its neck and determined to be seen at all costs.

Above and beyond, in the higher parts of this garden (that is largely built in terraces, the hillside is so steep) the flowering trees added joy to life, particularly the laburnums with their swinging yellow chains, and the guelder rose tossing its lovely snowballs in the wind; somehow, I never think of guelder roses without seeing them being flung about in a warm, spring wind or wet with a soft spring shower—perhaps because the spring winds upon our hills are always playing about among the trees and tossing anything that can be tossed, and the guelder balls are most inviting. Their local name, “Tisty-Tosty Balls,” is very appropriate.

Presumably, the rose bushes were there—they must have been, as they came into blossom later on; but we forgot all about them in our surprise at seeing the army of columbines, which had all sprung from seedlings that had been left undisturbed.

And we had no complaint to make—Nature had outdone all our plans, as she usually does, if given a fair chance.

The fruit and vegetables were also attractive. The warmth had brought on everything a fortnight ahead of its usual performance. Lines of low, feathery foliage showed where the young carrots were coming on, Already the lettuces made pretty rosettes of pale, delicate green.

Fine, straight spears gave promise of a good onion crop. Onions are always more or less of a gamble with us. An old man once explained the matter to me thus: “It’s like this ’ere with hunjuns: sometimes they be and sometimes they b’aint; but thur, you’ve just got to maken the best of it, anyhows.” I am inclined to think that an experienced vegetable grower would not be content with this fatalistic acquiescence in the uncertainty of life, but would have a word or two with the seed or the soil. Unfortunately, I have neither the time, nor the requisite knowledge, to bring the onion family to book; I have to leave them each season to “be or b’aint,” as they please. Only when they do chance to come up, we are all mightily pleased with ourselves.

The gooseberries were remarkably forward and the bushes were loaded. Town dwellers seldom know what things of beauty gooseberries and currants are when growing in clean air, in situations that suit them. The translucent gold of a ripening yellow gooseberry, with its seeds showing in the centre, is a very far cry from the green, unripe article, dull with knocking about in baskets, that is usually the shopper’s only portion.

Currants, again, ought to be seen on the bushes, in the sunshine, when the intense polish on the red variety makes the fruit like gleaming jewels; while the “bloom” seen on the ripe black currant when growing is lost once the fruit has been handled.

I have a large red currant tree, growing against an old, disused out-house. Whether it was planted there originally, or merely seeded itself, I do not know. But to-day it smothers the grey, stone wall, stretching out long arms that barricade the door, and dripping with fruit every July to such an extent that often there are more berries than leaves.

White currants, too, are very beautiful, their long sprays of cream-coloured fruit, semi-opaque, showing up against the dark stems and green leaves—a fruit, by the way, that needs a skilled artist to paint, so subtle and complex are the tones and colours reflected on its glossy skin, and revealed in the half-light below the surface.

And how one’s small, feathered pensioners love the berry bushes! Thrushes and blackbirds will dodge round and round and up and down the currant alley to avoid the fruit picker, rather than fly away and lose the chance of a feed. I netted my raspberries one war-year, as everyone pointed out to me my patriotic duty in this respect, despite the fact that I myself never eat fruit and no one in the community had any sugar to jam it! Of course, most of it was wasted, as I couldn’t afford to pay the Food Controller to come and fetch it away.

Nevertheless, at least one intelligent thrush managed to circumvent the authorities. Bringing her two, fat, fluffy youngsters, she placed them in a safe, secluded spot outside the netting, where they could fly away to cover should trouble threaten. Then she squirmed herself into the enclosure, somehow, and gathered the ripe raspberries, running to and fro and carrying them one by one, to her babies, and feeding them through an opening in the mesh. It was a very pretty sight—and pathetic, too! What won’t a little mother risk of danger for the sake of giving her children the best her earth can produce?

This year I was anticipating a plentiful supply of preserving sugar, and meant to make jam for all my relations and friends. I was thinking of this, and how very popular I should be, as I was examining a row of gooseberry bushes near the garden hedge, when I was startled by a sudden rising at my very feet, and a whirr of wings carried off a much-agitated hen-pheasant into the wood.

Do pheasants eat gooseberries? was the first question that rose in my mind. But quickly another idea occurred to me, and I looked about among the tall, waving grass that grew all over the bed among the gooseberry bushes, and there, at the very edge of the path, in a little hollow of the ground that was all there was in the way of a nest, I found six, olive-green eggs, the size of small hens’ eggs, with nothing to screen them but the grasses and a clump of horseradish that overshadowed them. I was interested; many little folk chose my garden for their home, but I had never known a pheasant to nest in one of the garden paths before. I looked towards the wood where she had disappeared, when, as if in answer to my thoughts, a voice close to me said—

“Her won’t never come back!”

I turned, in surprise, to see, peering over the hedge, Mrs. Jane Price—a widow I do not particularly love, her record being anything but a creditable one, and her ingenuity in annexing other people’s goods (including my own) having exasperated me on several occasions. Indeed, the remarkable way she always manages to keep a well-stocked larder on no visible income, has caused Virginia to wonder whether the late Mr. Price’s ancestresses, on his wife’s side, ever resided in Zarephath. But I did not want to show ill-will, as the rector had given me very hopeful news of her lately. She had evidently turned over a new leaf, he said. It seemed as though the war had chastened her, as it had chastened so many others. She had even expressed to him her deep regret for her past iniquities, said she owed it to her children to set a good example and had been attending the Mother’s Meeting regularly. I had agreed with the rector that it was sad such drastic measures were often necessary to human reconstruction; and we had meditated for a moment on those past periods in Church history that seemed to corroborate our views.

Altogether, I was glad to think that Jane Price was trying to make good, especially in these days, when there seems little to encourage the ordinary person to stick to her duty; and she and I had a little chat, over the hedge, on the ways of pheasants. She was packed with information—which was not altogether surprising since her late husband had devoted his life to research in connection with the subject. Indeed, when he met with his death, in 1912, by slipping over a rocky ledge as he was trying to dodge the gamekeepers, he had two plump specimens in his pockets.

But of course this was not mentioned; her only reference to her husband was when she told me (forgetting that I was neither a tourist nor a new-comer) how he had been shot by a German sniper when trying to rescue a comrade; and what a beautiful letter his officer had written to her about him; and how she was hoping to save up enough to visit his grave at Ypres, but times were hard, and do what she would she couldn’t save so much as a sixpence, etc.

For the rest, we compared notes on the precocity of our gooseberries.

“That be a fine show o’ yourn; better’n mine,” she said politely. “Us’ll be seein’ of you taking a barrer load to market one o’ these days, I’ll warrant.”

While I—anxious to be equally generous—protested that they were not so fine as those I had seen in her garden when we passed—which was certainly true; she had a splendid crop. And we parted with amicable wishes on both sides when Virginia clanged the tea-bell.

After a third cup of tea we usually begin to grow bright. The drive from the station has blown away every vestige of town cobwebs, and given us a most un-town-like appetite; the sight of the flowers has soothed our jaded spirits; while the tea-table, spread with bacon and eggs, young lettuce, home-made cake, and our own blackberry jelly, has proved an invigoration beyond description.

The war has taught us how very little we really need—and how very much that little really is.

I was feeling universally grateful, as I pressed Virginia to take “just half a cup; there’s still plenty in the pot, and it seems a pity to waste it.” “Well, if you’re quite sure you have it to spare, I think I will; travelling does make one so thirsty.” And I expressed my thankfulness that at least Nature and Clover had not gone on strike.

“That reminds me,” said Ursula; “there isn’t any more butter. While you were up the garden, Mrs. Farmer sent word that she’s sorry, but she’s hurt her hand and can’t do any churning for another week or so. You can have as much milk as you like; but this half-pound is all the butter she can spare you at present. Butter’s scarce everywhere; still, she thinks you might be able to get some from Mrs. Cransome, who has bought Muskbrook Farm—you know, that pretty little place over the other side of Offa’s Dyke, where we found the yellow mimulus growing by the brook. Mrs. Cransome is a newcomer; did landswoman-work on a dairy farm during the war, and is now experimenting on her own. I’ll go over there the first thing after breakfast, as Mrs. Farmer says she’ll be butter-making early to-morrow morning.”

“Isn’t that just what I’ve been arguing for years?” broke in Virginia. “What’s the use of a cow having two stomachs—or is it four? I always get mixed with cows and camels. But, however many it is, why should she have more than one interior apartment devoted exclusively to her own meals—dining-room as well as kitchen—in these days of house shortage? Why can’t she make one do for her food, and be taught to run round and round and churn her own milk into butter, using her spare apartment for storage? Think of the saving in labour, especially if she were harnessed to some machine, so as to provide the power to work that as well as the churning. Think what a beautiful advertisement-picture for someone’s washing-machine it would make in your magazine—a flowery mead in the foreground; a lovely Jersey cow trotting round and round, and supplying not only butter and skimmed milk and cream and even condensed milk, perhaps, by special arrangement with the sugar authorities, but also generating the power to turn the handle of the washing-machine, with the first boiling of snow-white {}clothes already fluttering on lines against a blue sky in the background.”

“I’m sorry to appear damping—especially about clothes,” I said, “only I don’t see how I could supply a Jersey cow trotting round and round the magazine, in addition to the many other expensive attractions of our advertisement pages. But, in any case, I think we’ll trot ourselves round and round the said Mrs. Cransome to-morrow morning, until we’ve heard what the cow’s trade union has to say about her taking on two jobs at once.”

“I don’t expect gratitude,” Virginia replied resignedly. “I long ago realized how much smarter than a toothless child it is to have a thankless servant. Nevertheless, I shall endeavour to do my duty——”

I left her endeavouring, while I answered a knock at the door, Abigail being upstairs. A small boy from the butcher handed me a joint—real English mutton, too!—and said:

“Please, ma’am, the gov’ner’s borrowed this ’ere leg for you, as the sheep what you was to have had the shoulder off of ain’t being hung yet.”

Even when she goes to “invite her soul” in undiluted Nature, the housewife is never able to move out of sight of the larder these days!

There were many oddments needing attention before bedtime that night. It does not sound much when reduced to a catalogue, yet every house-mistress knows what a deal of energy can be absorbed in unpacking; getting out towels and table-linen; listening to Abigail’s list of the things we ought to have, but haven’t, for next morning’s breakfast, and such-like occupations. Abigail had her hands more than full getting her kitchen into working trim, and unpacking the box of provisions from the stores.

But at last it seemed possible to go to bed—indeed, I felt ready to fall asleep where I stood. I had put hot-water bottles in the bed as a final precaution, though the weather had been warm and they seemed well aired; and I had even put away Virginia’s fur coat and her velour motoring hat while she and her sister were out skirmishing for potatoes, as I had none. Then I decided that everything else that needed attention could wait till to-morrow. I was too tired to do another stroke.

I seemed to have been asleep for hours, though it could only have been minutes, when I was awakened by a shriek from Virginia in the adjoining room. Of course everyone flew to the rescue, and besought her to be calm, collected, and coherent while we looked under the bed. She said the fox wasn’t under the bed; he had got into the bed, and he had a duck or a pheasant in his mouth. She was sorry she had disturbed us all, but for the moment, when she put her foot down the bed and the fox got hold of it, and it got mixed up with the duck’s feathers, she forgot what was the correct thing to say.... Oh, yes, it was still there; she couldn’t turn it out.

Naturally, I told her it was all nonsense. I had put the hot-water bottle in the bed myself only an hour or so before, and there was neither a fox nor a goose in the room then. And I turned back the bedclothes cautiously—I didn’t want it to spring on me unawares.

She didn’t seem a bit grateful when her velour hat came to view, with its jaunty wings damaged beyond repair. I had no recollection of having placed the hot-water bottle, cosily wrapped in tissue paper, in her hat-box; but I did remember that when I pushed what I thought was the bottle down the bed, it did not go with quite the easy glide one expects.

But though I refilled her hot-water bottle, with abject apologies, there was a slight coolness in the air. She said she thought that, at my age, I might have something better to do than the playing of silly jokes like that upon reasonable and intelligent people.

Having no inclination for sleep at the moment, I leant out of the window hoping to hear the nightingales who nest in the adjoining woods. But the night was perhaps too cool for them, or their concert hadn’t started. Beyond one experimental cadenza of “Tweet, tweet, twe-e-t,” followed by a characteristic trill, they were silent. An owl flew past the window, so close that it almost brushed my face, with a straight but heavy motion, unmistakably its own. It alighted in the fir tree that towers high inside the orchard gate; not that a fir tree is supposed to be part of the orthodox furnishing of an orchard, but our orchards have always flouted the conventions, and done as it best pleased them. And in spite of all that intelligent fruit-growers say when they see that tree with blue-green sheen on the surface of its branches, it still stands, and the owl is much addicted to it. I conclude it is the same owl who perches there with the utmost regularity, since many birds appropriate unto themselves a particular pitch, and warn off all interlopers as zealously as a London crossing-sweeper.

I waited; and though I could not see my little friend in the deep shadows of the thick branches, I knew he would soon call out, not to me, alas!—he has never learnt to give me a personal greeting as the robin does—but unto some of his kind, enemy, rival, lady-love, or a mere relation. One seldom knows who it is that is answering him, but the answer invariably comes from near-by coppice, or distant woods across the river.

There is something so far removed from all our petty struggles and worryings in the call of these birds. They seem so utterly indifferent to the rest of creation, waking or sleeping; the world, for the time being, belongs entirely to them. An owl has but to speak a word, and behold! it travels for miles in the all-pervading stillness, that is broken only by the song of the streams; it seems as though the whole earth were listening for what it chooses to say next. And miles away, it may be, the question asked is answered, or the challenge is accepted; and, farther still, another takes up the subject. And so the talk goes on, often covering distances that would do credit to the conversation of giants. The owl has constituted himself Nature’s night-watchman; and he alone of all the night-wanderers of our woods speaks from hill to hill, at all times and seasons, no one venturing to interrupt him.

I can quite understand that his hoot seems a tame affair to those who are used to the mysteries of tropical nights in pathless forests; but I do not covet the lion’s roar, despite its grandeur. My fluffy brown bird speaks of peace and safety, as well as a certain soul-satisfying solitude; I doubt if the lion mentions either.

Once more I turned in, and fell asleep as quickly as before.

And also—— Once again I was awakened by an alien sound; but not a shriek this time. I could not say what it was, but I was sure something had disturbed me, because it wasn’t an easy, natural, graceful wake-up on my part; it was a start. Yet I could hear nothing more.

It was daylight now—a quarter-to-five my clock said. I lay and listened intently, and then I heard subdued sounds in the garden—merely a slight crackle occasionally, as though something had trodden upon a twig or a dry leaf.

“That wretched fox again!” I murmured, and resolved to take no notice.

But soon, through the open window, I fancied I heard the sibilant sound of a human voice, speaking in low whispers. Instantly I was out of bed and studying the landscape.

And there, standing in the garden, was Jane the Converted, with one of her daughters, and, each with a large basket, was gathering my precious gooseberries as fast as possible.

“Mrs. Price! What business have you here?” I called out indignantly. “And what right have you to be picking my fruit?”

For one moment, and only one, the woman seemed taken to, at being caught. But I fancy Jane Price is one of those flowers that are born to blush unseen, for she never by any chance blushes in public. Looking at me with the air of an injured but long-suffering saint, she picked up her basket, and said in aggrieved tones—

“Well! An’ I did think as how if I come up here I should have a Christian to deal with! But seems I haven’t. So us had better go.”

And go they did—my gooseberries going with them. Obviously, I couldn’t chase after them at the moment.

Ursula, who had put her head out of another window, merely remarked to me, over the intervening rambler rose, “What I adore in the country is the child-like simplicity of the people and the calm majesty of the unbroken nights.”

It took us a long while next morning to talk over what we might have said to Mrs. Price had we but thought of it at the time (only, unfortunately, we didn’t!); also to examine the devastated bushes, and to outline to one another our exact estimate of the Reformed Character; and it was past eleven before we remembered Mrs. Cransome.

Abigail had already gone into Chepstow to outfit us with sundry necessities. Muskbrook Farm was a mile and a half in the opposite direction. Virginia surprised us by offering to cook the dinner while Ursula and I went butter-hunting. I said the borrowed leg could well wait until Abigail returned, and be cooked for our evening meal, and perhaps by then I should know whether, being only borrowed, it would have to be returned. Virginia said if there was the slightest uncertainty on that point she should cook it at once, and we had better get it eaten before it could be re-claimed. And if anyone asked after it while we were out, she should merely send cards returning thanks for kind inquiries.

We found Mrs. Cransome, in business-like apparel, planting scarlet-runners. One great boon the Landswoman Movement conferred upon the agricultural world was the introduction of suitable wear for women engaged in outdoor work; and though Mrs. Cransome had modified the uniform to some extent, her trim appearance was quite refreshing after the draggled skirts and slovenly blouses that are all too often the garb of the country woman when working on the land.

She said she could let us have some butter. Would we kindly come up to the house and sit down a minute? What lovely weather we were having for the time of year, weren’t we? Still, the country wanted rain, and if it didn’t come soon, it would be a bad look-out for the crops. The farm was doing pretty well considering how it had been neglected; but the stoats! and the rabbits! Yes, the onions were very forward this year.

And with more conversation on these local lines, we walked up the steep garden to the front door.

The place was much improved since last I had seen it, and bore evidence to the fact that it was now occupied by an intelligent, educated woman who brought method, as well as knowledge, to bear on her work.

She showed us into the sitting-room, thinking it was unoccupied. But some one was looking over the bookshelves, apparently in search of an interesting volume—a woman over thirty, very casual as to hairdressing, and wearing a Japanese pink silk gown, embroidered with wistaria, which, in its first youth, must have been lovely. Now, however, it was a truly pathetic object—shabby and derelict; and it seemed oddly out of keeping with the pretty chintzy sitting-room and the well-equipped landswoman beside us.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were down, Susannah!” said Mrs. Cransome, with a slight touch of annoyance, I thought. “These ladies are wanting some butter.” She didn’t know our names. Then to us she said briefly, “My cousin.”

I couldn’t see the cousin’s features very clearly, as she had her back to the window, whereas the light fell full on us. But I was about to give the pink gown a bow befitting its former glories when, to our amazement, the wearer stepped forward with outstretched arms and exclaimed—

“Of all the wonderful things in this dull old world, if it isn’t you!”

It certainly was, and I could not deny it!

But I didn’t recognize the speaker, though she fell upon me and embraced me heartily, while I wondered which of us was the lunatic. I evidently looked a blank, for she continued—

“You surely must remember me? You can’t have forgotten Bella?”

That settled it in my mind—as to which of us was out of poise, I mean; for I remembered that Mrs. Cransome had called her Susannah.

I determined to do my best to make polite and soothing conversation till I got hold of the butter (I wanted the butter badly), and then we would effect our escape.