"But William will think it was me, Mr Monnick; and he is _so_ particular; and--There, I'll confess it, was me."

"Thankye," said the old man, with a grim smile; "but my eyes are not had enough to make a mistake."

"But you won't tell William?"

"It aren't pleasant for you, my dear; but you'll thank me for it some day."

"But it would make such trouble. William would come over and see Mr Prayle; and you know how violent my brother can be. There's plenty of trouble in the house without that."

"I don't know as William Cressy would be violent, my dear. He's a very fine young fellow, and as good a judge o' gardening as he be of his farm. He be very proud of his sister: and he said to me one day--"

"William said--to you?"

"Yes, my dear, to me, over a quiet pipe, as he had along o' me one evening in my tool-house. 'John Monnick,' he says, 'our f.a.n.n.y's as pretty a little la.s.s as ever stepped, and some day she'll be having a chap.'"

"Having a chip!" said f.a.n.n.y, with her lip curling in disgust.

"'And that's all right and proper, if he's a good sort; but I'm not going to have her take up with anybody, and I'm not going to have her fooled.'"

"I wish William would mind his own business," cried f.a.n.n.y, stamping her foot. "He's got a deal to talk about; coming and staring at a stupid housemaid."

"Martha Betts aren't stupid, my dear, and a housemaid's is a very honourable situation. The first woman as ever lived in a house must have been a housemaid, just the same as the first man was a gardener.

Don't you sneer at lowly occupations. Everything as is honest is good."

"Oh, yes, of course. But you won't tell William?"

"I feel, my dear, as if I must," said the old man, taking the girl's hand, and patting it softly. "You're a very pretty little la.s.s, and it's quite right that you should have a sweetheart."

"Sweetheart, indeed!" cried f.a.n.n.y in disgust,

"But that there Mr Arthur aren't the right sort."

"How do you know?" cried the girl defiantly.

"'Cause I'm an old man as has seen a deal of the world, my dear, and I've got a granddaughter just like you. I shouldn't have thought it of Mr Arthur, and I don't know as I shan't speak to him about it myself."

"Oh no, no!" cried the girl excitedly. "Pray, don't do that."

The old man loosed her hand to sit gazing thoughtfully before him, while the girl once more grasped his arm.

"There's on'y one thing as would make me say I wouldn't speak to William Cressy and Mr Arthur."

"And what's that?" cried the girl.

"You a-giving of me your solemn promise as you won't let Mr Arthur talk to you again."

"I'll promise," cried the girl. "Yes," said the old man; "it's easy enough to promise; but will you keep it?"

"Yes, yes, that I will."

"You see he's a gentleman, and you're only a farmer's daughter, my dear; and he wouldn't think no more of you, after once he'd gone away from here; and then you'd be frettin' your pretty little heart out."

"Then you won't tell Brother William?"

"Well, I won't."

"Nor yet speak to Mr Arthur?"

"Not this time, my dear; but if I see any more of it, I shall go straight over to William Cressy, and then he'll do what seems best in his own eyes."

"I think it would be far more creditable of you, gardener, if you were attending to your vines, instead of wasting your time gossiping with the maids," said a stern sharp voice. "And as for you, f.a.n.n.y, I think you have enough to do indoors."

"If you please, ma'am, you are not my mistress," said the girl pertly.

"No, f.a.n.n.y, and never shall be; but your mistress is too much taken up with her cares to note your negligence, therefore I speak. Now go!"

A sharp answer was upon f.a.n.n.y's lips; but she checked it, and flounced out of the vinery, leaving Aunt Sophia with the gardener.

"I am surprised at you, John Monnick," continued the old lady. "Your master is helpless now, and you take advantage of it."

"No, ma'am, no," said the old fellow, who would not bring the question of f.a.n.n.y's delinquency into his defence. "I'm working as steadily as I can."

"Humph!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Aunt Sophia. "I never saw these vines so wild before."

"Well, they are behind, ma'am; but you see this is all extry. Sir James always done the vines himself, besides nearly all the other gla.s.s-work; and the things do run away from me a bit."

"Yes, if you encourage the maid-servants to come and talk."

"Yes, ma'am; shan't occur again," said the old fellow grimly; and he went on busily snapping out the shoots, while Aunt Sophia stalked out into the garden to meet Arthur Prayle, who was walking thoughtfully up and down one of the green walks, with his hands behind him, one holding a memorandum book, the other a pencil, with which he made a note from time to time.

Volume 2, Chapter IX.

THE CONSEQUENCE OF KILLING SLUGS.

Poor James Scarlett's garden was in fair condition, but far from being at its best. It was well attended to, but the guiding spirit was to some extent absent; and as Jack Scales walked down it one soft moist morning, feeling in anything but good spirits at the ill success that had attended his efforts, he began to think a good deal about quaint, acid-voiced Aunt Sophia, with her sharp manner, disposition to snub, and general harshness to those around.

"Poor old girl!" he said. "She has settled herself down here, where I believe she does not want to stay; and I know it is to play propriety, and for the benefit of her nephew. It was too bad to speak to her as I did, but I was out of temper with her fidgeting about me. Let me see; what did I call her? a vexatious, meddling old maid. Poor old girl!

How it does seem to sting a woman of that kind. Old maid. Too bad. I suppose the woman never existed yet who did not in her early days wish to wed. They all swear they never did, and that if the opportunity had come, they would have refused it with scorn; but human nature's human nature, especially female human nature; and it's woman's vocation in life to marry, be a mother, and bring up her young to replenish the earth. If it is not, I've never studied humanity in sickness and in health. Oh, it's plain enough," he went on; "there are all the natural yearnings in her youth for one to love; and the tender affection, patience, and intense pa.s.sion for her young, for whom she will work and starve and die, are all in her, like so many seeds waiting to shoot and bring forth flowers--beautiful flowers. But, as it too often happens, those flowers never blossom, for the seeds have no chance to grow; and the consequence of this unnatural life is that, a woman grows up soured--disappointed--withered as it were. Often enough she is ignorant of the unnatural state of her life, but it is unnatural all the same.

Then we have the acid ways, the sharp disappointed looks, the effects, in short, of the withering up of all their beautiful G.o.d-given yearnings for that most sublime of nature's gifts--motherhood; and we thoughtless fools sneer at unmarried women, and call them old maids. Hah!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed; "it's too bad. I'll beg the old lady's pardon the first time we meet."

Jack Scales's meeting with Aunt Sophia came sooner than he expected, for, turning down one of the walks, he heard a rustling noise before him, and directly after a grim smile crossed his face as he saw, a short distance in front, the figure of Aunt Sophia, while at her feet were a pair of gardening gloves, and a basket filled with the weeds and dead leaves that she had been gathering.

"Why, what the d.i.c.kens is she about?" said the doctor. "Why--ha-ha-ha!

But it isn't a bad dodge after all." For as he watched, he could see that Aunt Sophia was busy at work with an implement evidently of her own invention. She had a handkerchief tied over her head and beneath her chin, to keep her cap from blowing off or falling forward when she stooped, and in her hands a pair of the light lancewood wands used in playing the game of "Les Graces;" but they were firmly bound to a large pair of old scissors, turning them as it were into very long-handled shears. With these she poked and rustled about among the plants till she routed out some good fat slug, which she instantly scissored in three pieces, and then closing the shears, used their point to rake a little hole in the ground near the foot of the plant and bury the slug therein.

"That's not a bad plan, Miss Raleigh," said the doctor as the lady looked up sharply. "The slug has fattened himself upon the tender leaves of the plant and grown to his present size; now you offer him up as a sacrifice, and bury him where he will fertilise the plant in return."

"Of course," said Aunt Sophia shortly. "You would not leave the nasty slimy thing on the top, would you?"