the squire’s garden
efore i went to bed, i peeped out of my window, and saw the full moon shining over the broad gravel walks and fishponds; and i thought how much i should like to go round the garden before breakfast. however, when i woke in the morning, i feared i had been oversleeping myself, so dressed in a great hurry, and went down stairs. there i found two maids flooding the great hall with pails of water, and they told me we were to breakfast in the green parlour, but not 258for an hour yet. so i strayed out into the garden, where were still a good many flowers, though the season was so late, backed by evergreen hedges, and rows of tall trees that were turning yellow and scarlet; and it seemed to me just like the garden of eden.
so i went on and on, thinking it mighty pleasant, and wondering what might be the names of some of the flowers; and at length i came to a bowling-green, of wonderful fine turf, between high horn-beam hedges; and having a sun-dial at one end, and a little brick summer-house faced with stone at the other. into the summer-house i went; and there, with all his books and papers about him, sat master blower writing.
a bowling-green of wonderful fine turf.
“ah, cherry!” says he, holding out his hand, “so you’ve found out my snuggery! 259have they sent you to summon me to breakfast?”
“no, sir,” said i, “i did not know you were here.” and turned away.
“stop a minute,” says he, hastily putting up his papers, “and we will take a turn together round this wonderful garden. the garden of your dream, cherry.”
i said how very odd it was i should have dreamed about it,—the garden of my dream being so exactly like the reality.
“why, you simple girl,” says he, laughing; “because i must have described it to you before, though you and i had forgotten it!”
i felt quite sure in my own mind that he had not.
“well,” says he, setting out with me along the bowling-green, “what’s the 260news, cherry? the plague, you say, is abating, but not gone. have you seen or heard anything of my poor people?”
i said yes. mistress peach had come to me on my sending for her the evening before i left; and had told me how things were going on.
“and how are they going on?” said he.
“well, sir, it would be a poor compliment to you, if they were going on as well in your absence, as in your presence.”
“that’s true,” says he, looking grave; “but, for particulars.”
“many persons in trouble of one kind or another, knock at your door; and when they find they cannot see you, go away in tears.”
“poor souls!” said he, much moved, 261“i will return to them shortly. i think i am almost well enough now, cherry. they think i am neglecting them?”
“no, sir, they are very sorry you need recruiting; but they are sorry for themselves too.”
“it’s a very nice point,” says he musingly, “when we ought to lie by. i believe, had i not left town when i did, i might have been dead now—and yet, perhaps i was like a soldier deserting his post.”
i said, “no, sir, you were liker to a soldier carried off the battlefield to the hospital.”
“thank you, cherry,” says he, taking my hand and drawing it under his arm. we had now reached the end of the bowling-green; but instead of turning into the garden, we continued walking up and down.
262“and what else?” says he. “come, let me hear all.”
“well, sir,” said i, “there’s not much more to tell——”
“something, though, i can see!” said he. “come! out with it, cherry!”
“sir,” said i, “it’s of no use for us to trouble and vex ourselves about what wicked people will say of us in mere wantonness.”
“sometimes, though, we may hear the truth from an enemy,” says he. “and what do wicked, wanton people say of me?”
“why, sir,—some very evil-minded, malapert person hath writ on your church-door, ‘a pulpit to let!’”
the squire’s garden
“the rascal!” said he hastily, and colouring very red. “why now, did i not keep on, sabbaths and week-days, till the plague-swellings were actually 263in my throat, though my congregation often consisted of only two or three old women? is not this enough to provoke a man, cherry?”
i said, “yes, sir,—only there’s no use in being provoked.”
“none, none,” says he, much perturbed,—“god forgive me for it!—i can hardly have patience, though, with them.”
i said, “dear sir, you must have nothing but patience with them.”
“you are right, you are right,” says he, cooling, but still much moved. “ill or well, i must go back to them forthwith.... the fact is, there is a matter i would gladly have settled here, a little at my leisure.—but, duty before all! so, i’ll go back, cherry, to mine.”
i smiled a little as i said, “somebody has been doing duty for you, the last week or ten days, sir.”
264“who?” cried he.
i said, “an independent minister.”
a complex kind of expression crossed his face; for a moment he looked pained and provoked, and then burst out a-laughing.
“god bless the worthy fellow!” cries he, “i’ll do him a good turn if i can, the first time he’ll let me! ‘the good lord accept every one that prepareth his heart to seek god, the lord god of his fathers, even though he be not cleansed according to the purification of the sanctuary!’—well, cherry, i must go! and that forthwith,—i would fain have tarried here while your visit lasted.”
i looked quite blank at the idea of being left behind; and said, “must i, then, stay?”
“why,” cried he, “what is to prevent 265you? your visit is not to me, cherry!”
i said, “oh, sir, but ...” and stopped, for i did not know whether it were right to say i should feel so lonely without him. but the tears came into my eyes.
“i hope,” says he, in his kindest way, “you will stay and have a very pleasant visit.”
i said, “it won’t,—it can’t be pleasant now.”
“cherry,” he said, yet more affectionately, “we shall soon meet again.... you shake your head.—well, our lives are not in our own keeping, certainly, and may be called in the next minute, here as well as in london. and i should not like to die away from my post. but, cherry, since you are inexpressibly dear to me, and i think i am, in a less degree, 266dear to you, why, when we meet next, should we ever part again?—nay, hear me, cherry! for i have long meant to say this, though not quite so soon.... i thought it would seem so abrupt; i wanted to bring you to it by degrees, lest i should get an answer i did not like. for, indeed, cherry, i know how much too old i am for you, how thoroughly unworthy of you.”
i could not stand this, and cried, “oh, how can you say such things, sir! unworthy of me, indeed! when any woman——”
might be proud to have you, was my thought, but i did not say it.
“cherry,” says he, “there was never——” and just at that moment a man shouted, “high!” at the top of his voice, and then, “breakfast!”
267“we’re keeping them waiting,” said i, slipping my hand from his arm, “and you’ve left your papers all blowing about in the summer-house.” and so, ran off to the house.
fain would i not have gone straight to breakfast, but there was no help for it; and the squire kept loading my plate, and yet saying i ate nothing. he and his lady were wondrous sorry to hear master blower say he must return to town the next day; and looked rather askance at me for having brought down any tidings that should summon him thither. after breakfast, however, he took his brother aside to explain to him how needful was his return to his parish; and mistress blower, bringing forth an immense quantity of patchwork of very intricate contrivance, said, “now, you and i will do a good morning’s work:”—and 268told me it was a fancy of hers to furnish a little bed-chamber with patchery, lined with pink, and fringed with white. however, master blower put a check to all this, as far as my help went, by coming in and saying that as this was to be his last day in the country, he wanted to take a long walk with me, and shew me the finest view in the county. mistress blower made one or two objections, which he summarily over-ruled; so, in a very few minutes, off we were walking together. and first, without any reference to what had been said before breakfast, he took me round the village green, and into the church and churchyard; and made me look over the parsonage gate. i said, “dear me, if i were you, sir, how much sooner i would be parson here than in whitechapel!”
269“would you?” cries he. “oh, but this is a very poor living!”
i said, “i did not know you cared much for money.”
“well,” he said, “not to spend on myself, but as a means of usefulness. and, oh cherry! there is so much wretchedness in london, that one cannot, after all, relieve!—i’ll tell you what i do,” continues he, turning down a green lane with me, “as a general rule i give away half. that was zaccheus’ measure, you know. but, as a single man, i have found the other half a great deal too much for me, so i give away all i can of it in casualties ... just to please myself, as it were. but i don’t consider this sub-division imperative; therefore, when you and i commence housekeeping together, which i hope will be in a very little 270while, we will spend the full half. will that suffice you?”
“no indeed, sir,” said i, “i shall be very sorry indeed if i add to your expenses so much as that. i would rather give the poor another mouthful than deprive them of one; and as i shall only cost you just what i eat and wear, i hope it won’t make much difference.”
“you’re a comical girl,” says he. “but, cherry, i’m sorry to say, that rambling old house of mine is now so completely out of repair, as to be unfit for a lady’s occupation. we must paint it and point it, and mend the roof.”
“well, but,” said i, “my father has left me six hundred pounds, which will do all that very well.”
“six hundred pounds!” says he, opening 271his eyes very wide, and then laughing. “why, you’ve a fortune, cherry! how could the dear, good man have saved it? i thought his business seemed quite dwindled away.”
“he had some money with my mother, sir,” said i. “and an uncle left him a legacy. besides this money, which master benskin and master braidfoot pay interest for, the house is mine for a long term; and mark means to buy the business; so that i hope i shall not be very expensive to you.”
“well,” says he, “it will be for after-consideration whether we repair the parsonage at once or not. all shall be as you wish it, cherry.” and then we went on talking of this and that till we came to a seat under a tree; and there we sat and talked all the rest of 272the morning; for he did not care much for going on to see the prospect.
after dinner, it became master blower’s object to persuade me to name a very early day indeed—even that day week; and, though i could hardly endure to think of so sudden a change, and thought it would seem so strange and so unwomanly to everybody, yet the main thing that wrought upon me was what i kept to myself; namely, the danger he was going to incur in returning to his duties before the infection was over. and i thought how i should reproach myself if he fell ill, and died for want of my nursing. but then, again, it would seem so outrageous to the squire and his lady.... not at all, he said, they knew all about his wanting to marry me before ever they sent for me, and the squire’s lady had at first been 273very cool about it; but before we parted at night, i had quite won her over; and she said to him when the door closed upon me, “well, nat, you may marry that girl as soon as you like.”
i could hardly help laughing.—what was i to do? i said, oh, very well, i supposed they must all have their own way,—i would try to be not very miserable about it. so, when we went in to supper, master blower made no secret of what we had been talking about; and mistress blower kissed me, and so did the squire, and we had a wonderful pleasant supper. when master blower was taking leave of me, he asked me if i had any message to send home. it then struck me i must send word to mark and dolly how soon my condition was going to be changed,—but, what could i say?—i had scarce written a letter in my life; least of all 274to mark; and could not for the life of me think of any way of telling him the news, sufficiently round-about to prevent its seeming abrupt after all. so, thought i, least said, soonest mended: and, sitting down to pen, ink, and paper, i wrote in my smallest, neatest hand,—
“dear mark,
“i’m going to be mistress blower.”
and sealed it up and directed it. master blower said, “short, if not sweet!” and promised it should be faithfully delivered.
when he was gone, the patchwork was put away, and the wedding-dresses sent for. dear mistress blower was as kind as a mother to me, though her husband was only five years older than mine. indeed she and the squire looked upon me quite as a girl, though i told 275them over and over again i was not. though they called each other father and mother, they had never had but one child, which died at three years old; but i suppose it was always in their thoughts.
what a happy week that was!—though master blower was away. on the whole, his absence was a good thing: it gave me time to steady a little, and feel that it was not a dream that i was going to live always within the sound of his dear voice. and, as there was much sewing to do, i had plenty of time to think of it. mistress blower gave me my wedding-clothes,—we had post-horses to the old coach, and went to buy them at the county town. the gown was white silk; the hat trimmed with a wreath of very little pink roses round the crown; and i 276had a cherry-colour habit for travelling. master blower said he did not deserve such a pretty bride,—but that was his kind way of speaking. i only wish i were better worth his having!
—we went away from the church-door,—as happy a bridegroom and bride as ever rode a pillion. when we had got out of everybody’s sight, my husband said, “how are you getting on, mistress blower?” i said, “i am smiling so that i am quite glad there’s nobody to see me.” “may the rest of your life be all smiles and no tears, cherry,” says he,—“with god’s blessing, it shall be so if i can make it so!” “ah!” said i, “i’m content to take the rough and the smooth together, since i shall henceforth share them with you, sir.” “dearest cherry,” says he, “you really must leave off calling me sir!”
277“i don’t know that i can, sir,” said i, “but i’ll try.”
though the journey was delightsome, yet towards the latter end of it, every mile of the road became less and less pleasant, till at length we got into the tide of people, on horse and on foot, setting in towards london. then, how strange it seemed to me that i was not going back to the bridge! where i had lived all the days of my life till within the last week! i began to tremble a little; and the idea of the great old roomy, gloomy house in whitechapel, with no bright, sparkling water to look out upon, became rather oppressive to me, till i thought how master blower’s continual presence would light it up. the streets now becoming thronged, he pressed my arm tighter to him and bade me hold on close; and i felt he was all 278the world to me, be the house what it would. but when we reached it, what a difference! the whole front had a fresh coat of paint, which made it wondrous lightsome and cheerful; the door-step was fresh whitened, the door fresh varnished, the knocker fresh polished, and mistress peach standing on the step with a new cap plaited close round her sweet, pleasant face, and dressed in a new grass-green gown. i could not help kissing her as i ran in; she said, “god bless you, mistress!” with hearty cordiality, and followed me from room to room. everything had been cleaned up, and she told me, laughing, that though she had had plenty of helps, it had been the hardest week’s work she had ever had in her life. the old green bed-furniture had given place to new white dimity; there was 279a lady’s pincushion on the toilette, with “may you be happy!” in minikin pins; and a beau-pot of flowers on the window-seat. “all that is mistress violet’s doing,” said dorcas; “she has not left the house half an hour, i assure you, and her needle went in and out as fast as could be when she was finishing the last muslin blind. oh, she has been very busy, has mistress violet! ’twas she set out the supper table with the flowers, and sweet-meats, and pound-cake.”
