Read Ebook: Essays on the Stage Preface to the Campaigners (1689) and Preface to the Translation of Bossuet's Maxims and Reflections on Plays (1699) by D Urfey Thomas Krutch Joseph Wood Commentator

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CHAPTER

"John, what are you talking of, all by yourself?"

The picnic in the hayfield.

The farmer advised him to walk quietly.

They had sometimes to go on their hands and knees.

THE HERMIT'S CAVE.

THEODORE HEARS OF HIS STEPBROTHER.

IT was a mild day towards the end of February; and though so early in the year, spring flowers were in full bloom in the sheltered gardens which surrounded Afton Hall.

Bright yellow crocuses, like regiments of plucky little soldiers in amber uniform, with here and there clumps of mauve or white, bordered the flower-beds; whilst daffodils reared their stately golden heads in the gentle breeze, and snowdrops peeped modestly from amongst their gorgeously-apparelled neighbours.

The patch of ground in front of the side of the house that faced the west was particularly productive, being sheltered from the east wind; and as old John Bawdon, the gardener, carefully turned over the brown earth with his spade on this promising spring morning, he made a mental picture of the garden as he hoped to see it in the summer.

"'Tis beautiful soil," he muttered; "just the right sort for them young carnation plants. They'll make a fine show by-and-by!"

"John!" cried a young, imperious voice. "John! what are you talking about, all to yourself?"

The gardener turned his brown, weather-beaten countenance towards the speaker, a boy of about seven years old, whose handsome face was ruddy and glowing with perfect health.

"I was saying how fine the carnations will look in the summer, please God."

"Why do you say 'please God'?" asked the child, laughing. "You know, John, you always do say it, and it does sound so funny."

"Well, Master Theodore," was the reply, in rather injured tones, "I suppose it is as God pleases, anyway. I may dig, and plant, and prune, and tend the garden with all my strength, but it's all no good if God doesn't help. That's my experience, sir, and I've lived nigh upon seventy years, and more than fifty of those years I've been working in these here gardens. You don't find many of my sort now-a-days," he added with conscious pride. "More than half a century I've served your family, Master Theodore, as I've told you many times. I mind when your grandfather, who's dead and gone, was a lad; we were boys together. I mind when your father was born, and I mind the night you came into the world. Yes, I recollect some changes."

The old man struck his spade into the ground, and leaning on the handle of it, looked very tenderly at the boy. The child was clad in a loose, sailor's suit, and he stood in a negligent, care-for-nothing attitude, his hands in his trousers pockets.

"I know you're awfully old, John,--" he was beginning, when the old man interrupted him.

"Not so old but that there's a deal of work left in me yet. I'm strong and hearty still. But living in one family so many years, naturally one sees changes--great changes. You know, Master Theodore, how this bit of ground was your mother's favourite spot; she used to call it her winter garden, because there were mostly flowers here in dead winter. See that yellow jessamine against the wall, and that clump o' anemones! They were here in your mother's time. And the blue violets! How your mother did love violets, to be sure! I made a beautiful wreath of them to put on her coffin, and it was buried with her. It seemed fitting like that she should be covered in flowers, she who was so bright and beautiful, when they threw the cruel earth in upon her."

The old man drew his sleeve hastily across his eyes, then caught up his spade, and set to work again with renewed vigour. Presently a smile crossed his face, and he continued:--

"I called the earth cruel, but it ain't--it's kind! Don't it give us the flowers? Don't it take the ugly little brown bulb, and keep it warm, and nurse it, till the beautiful blossom is ready to come? Why, Master Theodore, the earth won't be able to keep your mother on the resurrection day, no more than it can keep the flowers from blooming when the spring's here. No one knows better than a gardener what the resurrection means, as I told the vicar."

John Bawdon stopped abruptly, seeing the child was perplexed. There was a troubled look on the handsome little face; a rebellious gleam in the clear, grey eyes; and the old man watched him furtively for a few minutes.

"John," Theodore said presently, "do you know I am going to have a new mother?"

"I have heard talk of something of the kind," was the cautious reply.

"You know," the child went on, lowering his voice, as though the subject was one not to be discussed openly, "my father is married again, and to-morrow they are coming home. Jane says he has forgotten my mother, and she says he will care less than ever for me now."

"Jane is a meddling, tattling woman, and ought to know better than to think such things, much less say 'em!" cried John Bawdon angrily. "She don't know anything about it, Master Theodore; you mustn't take notice of what she says."

"This strange woman cannot be my mother, can she, John?"

"No, sir, she cannot, that's certain. But if she's a kind, good lady, she may make things all the happier for you. Your own dear mother's body lies in the churchyard waiting for the resurrection day, and her pure spirit is with her Lord. Oh, my mistress!"

A tear fell from the old man's eyes into the brown earth, and the boy sighed.

"I'm a fool," John Bawdon muttered to himself; "but I can't bear to think of a stranger in her place, though it was seven years ago she died."

"Don't you let anyone put you against your father's wife," he continued aloud. "I daresay she'll be a nice lady; and anyway, I don't suppose she'll make much difference to you, Master Theodore."

"No," the child promptly agreed; "but I shan't call her 'mother,'" and his lips took a firmer curve, and his eyes flashed.

John Bawdon made no reply, but every now and again he turned from his work to look at the slim little figure wandering in and out among the flower-beds. Theodore Barton, in spite of possessing every comfort and luxury that money could procure, was a sadly neglected child. His mother had died at his birth, and his father, filled with grief at the loss he had sustained, had always been apparently indifferent to his son. So far, seven years Theodore had lived at Afton Hall, cared for by his nurse, Jane, subject only to the occasional interference of two maiden aunts of his father, who lived at a pretty villa not far distant. Now Mr. Barton had married again; to-morrow he was to bring home his bride. It was to be a very quiet home-coming: no rejoicings in the village; no grand doings at the Hall.

"John! John!" cried Theodore presently, "look at this clump of anemones!"

"Aye, aye, sir; all in bloom, ain't they?"

"Yes. They are lovely. I shall have some for the nursery," and he proceeded to gather a great bunch. "How quickly they have come up after the snow!"

"The snow protects the flowers, Master Theodore."

"Does it? How strange!"

"People talk of snow being cold, but it ain't; it's warm--warm as a blanket. God sends it to protect the tender, delicate plants. The Lord's a rare good gardener, He is--on a grand scale."

"Only think, what a funny idea!" said Theodore, with a merry laugh.

"All the world's the Lord's garden. He tends and cares for the trees, and the grass, and everything. You mind the lilies o' the field, Master Theodore, how He said they were finer than King Solomon in all his glory. You look at them crocuses now. Ain't they glorious? Bright as gold, and as smooth as satin. There's colour for you!"

But the child was not listening. He had darted off to meet his nurse, who was coming to seek him. She was a tall, plain woman of forty, neatly dressed in black. Jane Mugford was devoted to her little master, having been with him ever since his birth; and before that time she had been maid to the late Mrs. Barton.

Old John Bawdon nodded to her in friendly fashion; and she returned his greeting in cordial tones.

"Good afternoon, John. How well the garden looks, to be sure. I suppose you're tidying up a bit against the home-coming to-morrow?"

"Aye, aye, Jane. That's it."

"What changes time brings, doesn't it? It seems not so long ago--"

The woman paused abruptly with a glance at the child, but apparently, not interested in the conversation, he was watching a worm that was crawling across the pathway.

"Have you told him?" asked John, nodding his head towards the boy.

"Told him what?"

"That the new mistress has a little son of her own?"

"Not I, indeed. His father hasn't thought it worth while to mention the subject to him, and why should I? They are coming home to-morrow, as you know, and intend bringing her child with them. He has been staying with his mother's friends. Oh! we shall have fine changes at Afton Hall! But I'll see that Master Theodore's nose isn't put out of joint! The precious lamb!"

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