LXII
Bythe advice of Miss Babraham they planted a myrtle in the jar of Knossos. Some days later the Hoodoo was haled into a convenient corner of the Italian garden. Here, by the marge of a tiny rock-strewn lake, the momentous rite was performed with a high solemnity. Much displacement of mould and a considerable wheelbarrowing of the same was necessary and Mr. Chrystal, the head gardener, had to advise in the use of the trowel, an art in which neither June nor William was quite so adept as they might have been. But at last, after some honest digging and shovelling on the part of William who was not afraid to take off his coat to the job, and timely help from Mr. Chrystal’s George who was uncannily wise, although to be sure he had the experience of a lifetime and a fairly long one to bring to bear on such matters, the thing was done.
June and William then retired to the fragrant shade of a budding lime, feeling rather hot, yet not dissatisfied with their labours. It was a perfect morning. Larks were hovering in the bright air. Blackbirds and thrushes were trying out their grace-notes, and once June thought she heard a nightingale.
For a little they reclined in poetic comfort in two wicker chairs. Fauns in marble, and Cupid, complete with bow and arrows lurked hard by. At last June broke a delicious silence.
“You must put your coat on,” she said suddenly.
“But——” said William who really had delved and shovelled to some purpose.
June was not to be Butted—not this golden day.
“If you don’t you might get a bad chill,” she said severely.
William rose and did her bidding. And in the midst of that simple act, a certain piece of confidential information, which Sir Arthur and Miss Laura had been kind enough to supply at frequent intervals during the last few days, recurred forcibly to his mind. It was to the effect that “Miss Gedge was so practical she would make an ideal wife for an artist.”
As far as the major premise was concerned it was less irrelevant than at first it might seem, for William had recently decided that an artist was what he was going to be. In the very act of putting on his coat he now recalled the high and sacred mystery to which his life was vowed. And further he recalled that before entering the garden he had taken the precaution of slipping a neat little sketching book and pencil into his coat pocket. Thus, upon sitting down, in solemn silence he took them forth and proceeded to draw.
June it was who broke the silence, after some little while.
“If you are drawing that myrtle,” she said, “it looks a bit potty to me stuck up there. There’s nothing to it.”
She was more her true self this happy morning than for many a tragic month.
“It’ll grow,” said the artist.
“Won’t seem much if it doesn’t in that great jar. It was Miss Babraham’s idea to stick it there, so it’sall right of course. She said it was an emblem of what was it?”
“Of marriage,” said the artist with an air of innocent abstraction.
“Then she ought to have planted it herself—if sheisgoing to be married.”
“On the first of July. They’ve fixed the day.”
“Oh,” said June. “Have you seen her young man?”
“He came to lunch yesterday.”
“Who is he?”
“The Honourable Barrington, a gentleman in the Blues.”
June frowned portentously. “I hope he’ll be good enough for her.” But she didn’t sound very hopeful.
“He’s a very nice gentleman.”
“Ought to be if he’s going to marryher. But what I should like to know is, why was she so set on you and me planting that myrtle when she ought to have planted it herself.”
“Don’t know, I’m sure, Miss June,” said the artist, not so much as glancing up from his work.
Once a Sawney always a Sawney. Perennially, it seemed, was she up against the relentless workings of that natural law. Marriage, money, commonsense, the really big things of life, meant so little to him compared with windmills and myrtles, and things of that kind. Like her beloved Miss Babraham, this dear and charming fellow was almost too good to be true, but day by day the conviction was growing upon her that he really did need somebody practical to look after him. And she was not alone in thinking so. Miss Babraham, who knew so much about everything, had already expressed that opinion to her quite strongly.
Here he was, in the middle of a perfect morning, with all sorts of really beautiful things about him, and larks and blackbirds quiring, and the sun on the water and the Surrey hills, wasting his time seemingly, by drawing that rather paltry looking little plant stuck up there on the top of the Hoodoo. Even if it was the emblem of marriage she could not help a subtle feeling of annoyance that he should not use his precious time a bit better.
However, the cream of the joke was to follow.
The artist it was who quaintly burst this fresh bubble of silence. “Talk as much as you like, Miss June,” he said with something a little odd, a little unexpected in his manner, “but I hope you’ll keep your hands in your lap just as they are now, and if you don’t mind will you please bring your chin round a bit—on to a level with my finger.”
“Please get on with that myrtle.” Before, however, the fiat was really pronounced, she abruptly stopped. Could such a thing be? Was it possible that he was not drawing the myrtle at all?
It was more than possible.
And that was the cream of the whole matter!