AT MRS. CHIGWIN'S COTTAGE.
Birchmead in the summer and autumn is a very different place from the Birchmead which Alan Walcott saw when he came down to visit his aunt in the early days of February. Then the year had not begun to move; at most there was a crocus or a snowdrop in the sheltered corners of Mrs. Chigwin's garden; and, if it had not been for a wealth of holly round the borders of the village green, the whole place would have been destitute of color.
But, in the summer, all is color and brightness. The blue sky, the emerald lawns, the dull red earth, the many-hued masses of foliage, from the dark copper beech to the light greys of the limes and poplars, mingle their broad effects upon their outspread canvas of Nature, and in the foreground a thousand flowers glow warmly from the well-kept gardens or the fertile meadow-side. Nowhere do the old-fashioned flowers of the field and garden seem to flourish more luxuriantly than at Birchmead, or come to fuller bloom, or linger for a longer season. Here, as elsewhere in the south of England, June and July are the richest months for profusion and color; but the two months that follow July may be made, with very little trouble, as gay and varied in their garden-show, if not so fragrant and exquisite. The glory of the roses and lilies has departed, but in their place is much to compensate all simple and unsophisticated lovers of their mother-earth.
In the second week of October, Mrs. Chigwin was at work in her garden, with her dress tucked up, a basket in her left hand, and a large pair of scissors in her right. Every flower that had begun to fade, every withered leaf and overgrown shoot fell before those fatal shears, and was caught in the all-devouring basket; and from time to time she bore a fresh load of snippets to their last resting-place. Her heart was in her work, and she would not rest until she had completed her round. From the clematis on the cottage wall and the jessamine over the porch she passed to a clump of variegated hollyhocks, and from them to the hedge of sweet peas, to the fuchsias almost as high as the peas, the purple and white phlox, the yellow evening primrose, and the many-colored asters. Stooping here and there, she carefully trimmed the rank-growing geraniums and the clusters of chrysanthemums, cut off the straggling branches of the mignonette and removed every passing bloom of harebell, heartsease, and heliotrope.
The euthanasia of the fading blossoms filled her shallow skep half-a-dozen times over, and, to anyone ignorant (to his shame) of the art which our first ancestor surely learned from his mother, and loved, it might have seemed that Mrs. Chigwin used her scissors with a too unsparing hand. But the happy old soul knew what she was about. The evening was closing in, and she had cut both the flowers whose beauty had passed away and those which would have been wrinkled and flabby before the morning, knowing full well that only so can you reckon on the perfection of beauty from day to day.
"There, now," she said, when her last basketful was disposed of, "I have done. And if old Squire Jermyn, who first laid out this garden, was to come to life again to-morrow, there would be nothing in Martha Chigwin's little plot to make his hair stand on end."
She threw her eyes comprehensively round the ring of cottages which encircled the village green, with a sniff of defiant challenge, as though she would dare any of her neighbors to make the same boast; and then she came and sat down on the garden-seat, and said to her old friend and companion,
"What do you think about it, Elizabeth?"
"You are right, Martha; right as you always are," said Mrs. Bundlecombe, in a feeble voice. "And I was thinking as you went round, cutting off the flowers that have had their day, that if you had come to me and cut me off with the rest of them, there would have been one less poor old withered thing in the world. Here have I been a wretched cripple on your hands all the summer, and surely if the Lord had had any need for me He would not have broken my stalk and left me to shrivel up in the sunshine."
"Now, Bessy," said Mrs. Chigwin, severely, "do you want to put out the light of peace that we have been enjoying for days past? Fie, for shame! and in a garden, too. Where's your gratitude—or, leastways, where's your patience?"
"There, there, Martha, you know I did not mean it. But I sit here thinking and thinking, till I could write whole volumes on the vanity of human wishes. Cut me off, indeed, just at this moment, when I am waiting to see my dear boy once more before I die!"
Mrs. Bundlecombe was silent again, and the other did not disturb her, knowing by experience what the effort to speak would be likely to end in.
Things had not gone well at Birchmead in the last six months. The news of Alan's arrest on the charge of wife-murder—that was the exaggerated shape in which it first reached the village—was a terrible blow to poor Aunt Bessy. She was struck down by paralysis, and had to keep to her bed for many weeks, and even now she had only the partial use of her limbs. Mrs. Chigwin, buckling to her new task with heroic cheerfulness, had nursed and comforted her and lightened the burden of her life so far as that was possible. As soon as the cripple could be dressed and moved about, she had bought for her a light basket-chair, into which she used to lift her bodily. Whenever the weather was fine enough she would wheel her into the garden; and she won the first apology for a laugh from Mrs. Bundlecombe when, having drawn her on the grass and settled her comfortably, she said,
"Now, Bessy, I have repotted you and put you in the sun on the same day as my balsams, and I shall expect you to be ready for planting out as soon as they are."
But that was too sanguine a hope, for Mrs. Bundlecombe was still in her chair, and there was not much chance of her ever being able to walk again. As it had been impossible for her to go and see her nephew, either before his trial or since, Mrs. Chigwin had written a letter for her, entreating Alan to come to Birchmead as soon as he was free; and the writer assured him on her own account that there was not a better place in England for quiet rest and consolation. They heard from the prison authorities that the letter had been received, and that it would be given to the prisoner; and now Aunt Bessy was counting the days until his time had expired.
There had been other changes at Birchmead in the course of the year. Mrs. Harrington no longer occupied the adjoining cottage, but lay at peace in the churchyard at Thorley. Her grand-daughter had written once to the old ladies from London, according to her promise; after which they had heard of her no more, although they sent her word of her grandmother's death, to the address which she had given them.
The sun was sinking low in the sky, and it was time for Mrs. Bundlecombe to be taken indoors. So Martha Chigwin wheeled her into the house, rapidly undressed her, and lifted her into bed. Then there was a chapter to be read aloud, and joint prayers to be repeated, and supper to be prepared; and Mrs. Chigwin had just made the two cups of gruel which represented the last duty of her busy day's routine, when she heard a noise of wheels on the gravel outside.
It was not a cart but a cab, and it stopped at the door. Cabs were not very familiar in Birchmead, and the appearance of this one at Mrs. Chigwin's cottage brought curious eyes to almost every window looking out upon the green. There was not much to reward curiosity—only a lady, dressed in a long fur-lined cloak, with a quiet little bonnet, and a traveling-bag in her hand, who knocked at Mrs. Chigwin's door, and, after a short confabulation, dismissed the cabman and went in. At any rate it was something for Birchmead to know that it had a visitor who had come in a Dorminster cab. That was an incident which for these good souls distinguished the day from the one which went before and the one which came after it.
It was Lettice Campion who thus stirred the languid pulse of Birchmead. She had found her way like a ministering angel to the bedside of Alan's aunt, within three or four days of her arrival in England.
Mrs. Chigwin felt the utmost confidence in her visitor, both from what she had heard of her before and from what she saw of her as soon as she entered the cottage. Lettice could not have been kinder to her mother than she was to the poor crippled woman who had no claim upon her service. She told Mrs. Chigwin that so long as she was at Birchmead she should be Mrs. Bundlecombe's nurse, and she evidently meant to keep her word. Aunt Bessy was comforted beyond measure by her appearance, and still more by the few words which Lettice whispered to her, in response to the forlorn appeal of the old woman's eyes—so unutterably eloquent of the thoughts that were throbbing in the hearts of both—
"I shall wait for him when he comes out!"
"God bless you!" said Aunt Bessy.
"The world has been cruel to him. He has only us two; we must try to comfort him," whispered Lettice.
"I am past it, dearie. He has no one but you. You are enough for him."
And she went on in the slow and painful way which had become habitual to her.
"I have been tortured in my heart, thinking of his coming out upon the weary world, all alone, broken down may be, with none to take him by the hand, and me lying here upon my back, unable to help him. Oh, it is hard! And sometimes in a dream I see his mother, Lucy, my own little sister that died so many years ago, floating over the walls of his prison, and signing to me to fetch him out. But now she will rest in her grave, and I myself could die to-night and be happy, because you will not forsake him. My dear, he loves you like his own soul!"
Lettice did not reply, but she kissed the cheek of Alan's aunt, and bade her try to sleep.
It was growing dark. Through the window she could trace the outlines of the garden below. She was tempted by the balmy night, and went out.
"He loves you like his own soul!" Was not that how she loved him, and was she not here in England to tell him so?
The question startled her, as though some one else had put it to her, and was waiting for an answer. That, surely, was not her object; and yet, if not, what was? From the hour when she read Sydney's letter at Florence she seemed to have had a new motive power within her. She had acted hitherto from instinct, or from mere feeling; she could scarcely recall a single argument which she had held with herself during the past ten days. She might have been walking in a dream, so little did she seem to have used her reason or her will. Yet much had happened since she left Italy.
On Thursday she had arrived in London with Mrs. Hartley.
On Saturday she went out by herself, and managed to see the governor of the gaol where Alan was lodged. From him she learned, to her dismay, that "Number 79" had had a severe and almost fatal illness. He was still very weak, though out of danger, and it was thought that with the careful attention which he was receiving in the infirmary he would probably be able to leave on the 29th of October.
Captain Haynes told her that his prisoner appeared to have no relatives "except the wife, who was not likely to give herself much trouble about him, and an aunt in the country who was paralyzed." So, Lettice arranged to bring a carriage to the prison gates on the morning of the 29th, and to fetch him away.
Having learned Mrs. Bundlecombe's address, thanks to the letter which had been written to the governor by Mrs. Chigwin, she came to Birchmead on Monday—lingering an hour or two at Angleford in order that she might see her native place again, and recall the image of the father whom she had loved and lost.
Now, at length, her heart was in a measure contented and at rest. Now she could think, and reason with herself if need be. What did she mean to do? What had she done already? How had she committed herself? She was only too painfully aware that she had taken a step which there was no retracing. Had she not virtually broken with Mrs. Hartley, with the Daltons, with Sydney and his wife? They would doubtless think so, whether she did or not. She had no illusions in the matter. Not one of them would forgive her—not even Mrs. Hartley—for her treatment of Brooke Dalton, for her independent action since she left Italy, and for her association with Alan Walcott.
As for that—it was true that she had not yet gone too far. She had not coupled her name with Alan's in any public manner, or in any way at all, except that she had used her own name when calling on Captain Haynes. He would not talk, and, therefore, it was not too late to act with greater secrecy and caution. She need not let anyone know that she had taken an interest in him, that she had been to his prison, and had promised to bring him away when he was released. Beyond that point of bringing him away she had not yet advanced, even in her own mind. What was to prevent her from sending a carriage, as though it had been provided by Aunt Bessy, and letting him find his way to Birchmead, or wherever he wished to go, like any other discharged prisoner. Then she would not shock her friends—she would not outrage the feelings of poor Sydney, who thought so much of the world's opinion and of the name they held in common.
That was a strong argument with her, for, to some extent, she sympathized with her brother's ambitions, although she did not greatly esteem them. She would do all that she could to avoid hurting him. How much could she do? Was it possible for her now, when she was calm and collected, to form a strong resolution and draw a clear line beyond which she would not let her pity for Alan Walcott carry her? What she thought right, that she would do—no more, but certainly no less. Then what was right?
There was the difficulty. Within the limits of a good conscience, she had been guided almost entirely by her feelings, and they had led her so straight that she had never been prompted to ask herself such questions as What is right? or What is the proper thing to do? She had done good by intuition and nature; and now it was out of her power to realize any other or stronger obligation than that of acting as nature bade her. One thing only was plain to her at the moment—that she must be kind to this man who had been persecuted, betrayed, and unjustly punished, and who, but for her, would be absolutely alone in the world. Could she be kind without going to meet him at the prison gates?
She was trying to persuade herself that she could; and so deeply was she absorbed by the struggle which was going on in her mind that she did not notice the feeble wailing sound which ever and anon came towards her on the silent night air. But, at last, a louder cry than before disturbed her quiet reverie, and startled her into attention.
It seemed to be close at hand—a cry like that of a little child; and she stood up and peered into the shadow behind her. She could see nothing, but the wailing came again, and Lettice groped her way across the flower border, and stood by the low garden wall.
There was just enough light to enable her to distinguish the form of a woman, crouching on the rank grass in what used to be Mrs. Harrington's garden, and vainly attempting to soothe the baby which she held in her arms.
It was too dark to see the woman's features, or to judge if she were in much distress, but Lettice could not be satisfied to leave her where she was.
"Who are you?" she asked; and, at the sound of her voice the little child was hushed, as though it knew that a friend was near. But the mother did not answer.
"What do you want? Why are you sitting there? Have you no home?"
A very weak "No" reached her straining ears.
"Can you walk? Come here, if you can."
The figure did not move.
"Then I must get over the wall and come to you."
She was beginning to do as she had said, when the other slowly rose to her feet, and drew unwillingly a step nearer.
"Come," said Lettice, kindly, but firmly. She felt that this was a woman over whom it would not be hard to exercise authority.
Gradually the mother approached, with her baby in her arms, until she was within half-a-dozen yards of the wall. Then she leaned against the trunk of an old apple-tree, and would not come any further.
"Are you ill?" said Lettice, gently.
Again the half-heard "No," but this time accompanied by a sob.
"Then why are you out at this time, and with your poor little baby, too? Have you walked far to-day?"
"From Thorley."
"Do you live at Thorley?"
"Not now."
"Where do you come from?"
"London."
"Let me see your baby. Is it hungry, or cold? Why do you keep so far away from me? and why are you crying? Oh, Milly, Milly! Is it you? Dear child, come to me!"
Then the girl came from amongst the branches of the tree, and tottered to the wall, and laid her child in the arms stretched out to receive it.
"Why did you not come to the door, Milly, instead of waiting out here? You might have been sure of a welcome!"
She laid her hand on the head which was bowed down upon the wall, and which shook with the poor girl's sobs. Her bonnet had fallen off, and hung on her back; and Lettice noticed that the long hair of which the girl used to be so proud was gone.
"I did not come to the village till it was dark," Milly said, as soon as she could speak. "Then I should have knocked, but I saw you looking out at the window—and I was ashamed!"
"Ashamed?" said Lettice, in a low voice. There was one thing she thought, of which Milly could be ashamed. She looked from the weeping mother to the baby's face, and back again to Milly. "My poor girl," she said, with a sudden rush of tender feeling for the woman who had perhaps been tempted beyond her strength—so Lettice thought—"my poor child, you don't think I should be unkind to you!"
"No, no! you were always so kind to me, miss. And I—I—was so wicked—so ungrateful—so deceitful——"
And with that she broke down utterly. Lettice's arms were round her neck, and the young mother, feeling herself in the presence of a comforter at last, let loose her pent-up misery and sobbed aloud.
"Where is—he? your husband?" said Lettice, remembering that she had heard of Milly's marriage from Mrs. Bundlecombe some time ago, and conjecturing that something had gone wrong, but not yet guessing the whole truth.
Milly sobbed on for a minute or two without replying. Then she said, somewhat indistinctly,
"He's gone away. Left me."
"Left you? But—for a time, you mean? To look for work, perhaps?"
"No, no; he has left me altogether. I shall never see him again—never!" said the girl, with sudden passion. "Oh, don't ask me any more, Miss Lettice, I can't bear it!"
"No, no," said Lettice, pitifully, "I will ask you no questions, Milly. You shall tell me all about it or nothing, just as you like. We must not keep the baby out in the night air any longer. Come round to the door, and Mrs. Chigwin will let you in. I will tell her that you want a night's lodging, and then we will arrange what you are to do to-morrow."
Milly did not move, however, from her position by the wall. She had ceased to sob, and was twisting her handkerchief nervously between her fingers.
"Do you think Mrs. Chigwin would let me in," she said at last, in a very low voice, "if she knew?"
Lettice waited; she saw there was more to come.
"Oh, Miss Lettice," said the girl, with a subdued agony in her tone which went to Lettice's heart; "it wasn't all my fault ... I believed in him so ... I thought he would never deceive me nor behave unkindly to me. But I was deceived: I never, was his wife, though I thought—I thought I was!"
"My dear," said Lettice, gently, "then you were not to blame. Mrs. Chigwin would only be sorry for you if she knew. But we will not tell her everything at once; you must just come in, if only for baby's sake, and get some food and rest. Come with me now."
And Milly yielded, feeling a certain comfort and relief in having so far told the truth to her former mistress.
Mrs. Chigwin's surprise, when she saw Lettice coming back with the baby in her arms, may well be imagined. But she behaved very kindly: she at once consented to take in Milly for the night and make her comfortable; and, after one keen look at the girl's changed and downcast face, she asked no questions.
For Milly was wonderfully changed—there was no doubt of that. Her pretty fair hair was cropped close to her head; her eyes were sunken, and the lids were red with tears; the bloom had faded from her cheeks, and the roundness of youth had passed from face and form alike. Ill-health and sorrow had gone far to rob her of her fresh young beauty; and the privations which she confessed to having experienced during the last few days had hollowed her eyes, sharpened her features, and bowed her slender form. Her dress was travel-stained and shabby; her boots were down at heel and her thin hands were glove-less. Lettice noticed that she still wore a wedding-ring. But the neat trim look that had once been so characteristic was entirely lost. She was bedraggled and broken down; and Lettice thought with a thrill of horror of what might have happened if Mrs. Chigwin had left Birchmead, or refused to take the wayfarer in. For a woman in Milly's state there would probably have remained only two ways open—the river or the streets.
"I've never had five in my cottage before," said Mrs. Chigwin, cheerfully; "but where there's room for two there's room for half-a-dozen; at least, when they're women and children."
"You must have wondered what had become of me all this time," said Lettice.
"Nay, ma'am; you were in the garden, and that was enough for me. I knew you couldn't be in a better place, whether you were sorrowing or rejoicing. Nought but good comes to one in a garden."
They set food before Milly, and let her rest and recover herself. The child won their hearts at once. It was clean, and healthy, and good to look at; and if Lettice had known that it was her own little niece she could not have taken to it more kindly. Perhaps, indeed, she would not have taken to it at all.
Lettice's visit had greatly excited Mrs. Bundlecombe, who had for some time past been in that precarious state in which any excitement, however slight, is dangerous. She was completely happy, because she had jumped to the conclusion that Lettice would henceforth do for Alan all that she herself would have done if she had been able, but which it was now impossible for her to do. And then it was as though the feeble vitality which remained to her had begun to ebb away from the moment when her need for keeping it had disappeared.
In the early morning, Lettice was roused from her sleep by the restlessness of her companion, and she sat up and looked at her.
"Dearie," said the old woman, in a whisper, "my time is come."
"No, no!" said Lettice, standing by her side. "Let me raise you a little on the pillow; you will feel better presently."
"Yes—better—in heaven! You will take care of my Alan?"
"Oh yes, dear!"
"And love him?"
"And love him."
"Thank God for that. It will be the saving of him. Call Martha, my dear!"
Lettice went and roused Mrs. Chigwin, who came and kissed her friend. Then, with a last effort, Aunt Bessy raised her head, and whispered,
"'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!'"
The watchers scarcely heard the words; but when she sank back upon her pillow, and smiled as though she had found the peace which passes understandings they knew that she had gone.
Lettice stayed on at Birchmead until she had seen Alan's aunt carried to the churchyard, and laid under the shadow of the great yew trees.
Aunt Bessy's death changed her plans. It was no longer necessary for Alan to undertake so long a journey, and in his weak condition it might be better that he should not attempt it. But what was to be done? She had promised Aunt Bessy to "take care of him." Haw could she do it? How do it, at least, without outraging the feelings of her brother and her friends? She loved Sydney, although she had long ago ceased to be greatly in sympathy with him, and she had looked forward to the day when she could make friends with his wife and—by and by—interest herself in their children. She knew that Sydney would be against her in this. Ought she to consider him? Should his opinion weigh with her or not?
She was still pondering this question on the day after the funeral, when something happened which went far towards removing her hesitation. She was sitting in Mrs. Chigwin's garden, which was warm and dry in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Chigwin was indoors, vigorously "straightening" the house. Milly was sewing a frock for her child, and the child itself was tumbling about on a soft rug at her feet.
During the past few days, little had been said respecting Milly's future. Mrs. Bundlecombe's death had thrown her history into the background, and she had not seemed eager to obtrude it on any of her friends. Lettice's assurance that she might safely stay where she was at present seemed to satisfy her. She had lost her briskness—her occasional pertness—of manner; she was quiet and subdued, attaching herself with dog-like fidelity to Lettice's steps, and showing that no satisfaction was so great as that of being allowed to wait on her. But her submissiveness had something in it which pained Lettice, while it touched the deepest fibres of pity in her heart.
She was vaguely wondering what it was that pained her—why there should be that touch of something almost like subserviency in Milly's manner, as if to make up for some past injury—when her eyes were arrested by a locket, which, tied by a black ribbon round Milly's neck, had escaped from the bosom of her dress, and now hung exposed to view.
It contained a portrait of Sydney's face, evidently cut from a photograph by the girl herself.
A flood of light entered Lettice's mind; but she took her discovery with outward calmness. No thought of accusing or upbraiding Milly ever occurred to her. Why should it? she would have said. It was not Milly who had been to blame, if the girl's own story were true. It was Sydney who had been guilty of the blackest treachery, the basest of all crimes. She thought for a moment of his wife, with pity; she looked with a new interest and tenderness at the innocent child. She had no certainty—that was true; but she had very little doubt as to the facts of the case. And, at any rate, she allowed her suspicion to decide her own course of action. Why need she care any longer what Sydney desired for her? His standard was not hers. She was not bound to think of his verdict—now. He had put himself out of court. She was not sure that she should even love him again, for the whole of her pure and generous nature rose-up in passionate repudiation of the man who could basely purchase his own pleasure at the expense of a woman's soul, and she knew that he had thenceforth lost all power over her. No opinion of his on any matter of moral bearing could ever sway her again. The supreme scorn of his conduct which she felt impelled her to choose her own line of action, to make—or mar—for herself her own career.
It was one of those moments in which the action of others has an unexpectedly vivifying result. We mortals may die, but our deed lives after us, and is immortal, and bears fruit to all time, sometimes evil and sometimes good. If the deed has been evil in the beginning, the fruit is often such as we who did it would give our lives, if we had the power, to destroy.
Thus Sydney's action had far-off issues which he could not foresee. It ruled the whole course of his sister's afterlife.
There was a light shawl on Milly's thin shoulders. Lettice took one end of it and drew it gently over the telltale locket. Then, unmindful of Milly's start, and the feverish eagerness with which her trembling hand thrust the likeness out of sight, she spoke in a very gentle tone: "You will take cold if you are not more careful of yourself. Have you thought, Milly, what you are to do now? You want to earn a living for yourself and the child, do you not?"
Milly looked at her with frightened, hopeless eyes. Had Miss Lettice seen the locket, and did she mean to cast her off for ever? She stammered out some unintelligible words, but the fear that was uppermost in her mind made her incapable of a more definite reply.
"You must do something for yourself. You do not expect to hear from your child's father again, I suppose?" said Lettice.
"He said—he said—he would send me money—if I wanted it," said Milly, putting up one hand to shade her burning face; "but I would rather not!"
"No, you are quite right. You had better take nothing more from him—unless it is for the child. But I am thinking of yourself. I am going back to London the day after to-morrow, and perhaps I may take a small house again, as I did before. Will you come with me, Milly?"
This offer was too much for the girl's equanimity. She burst into tears and sobbed vehemently, with her head upon her hands, for two or three minutes.
"I couldn't," she said at last. "Oh, you're very good, Miss Lettice—and it isn't that I wouldn't work my fingers to the bone for you—but I couldn't come."
"Why not?"
"I deceived you before. I—I—should be deceiving you again. If you knew—all, you would not ask me."
"I think I should, Milly. Perhaps I know more of your story than you have told me. But—at present, at any rate—I do not want to know more. I am not going to question you about the past. Because you cannot undo what is past, dear, however much you try, but you can live as if it had never happened; or, better still, you can live a nobler life than you had strength to live before. Sorrow makes us stronger, Milly, if we take it in the right way. You have your little one to live for; and you must be brave, and strong, and good, for her sake. Will you not try? Will it not be easier now to look forward than to look back? I used to teach you out of an old Book that speaks of 'forgetting the things that are behind.' You must forget the things that lie behind you, Milly, and press forward to the better life that lies before you now."
The girl listened with an awed look, upon her face.
"I am afraid," she murmured.
"Forget your fear, dear, with the other things that you have to forget, and gather up your strength to make your little girl's life a good and happy one. In that way, good will come out of evil—as it so often does. Will you try?"
"Yes," said Milly, "I'll try—if you will help me—and—forgive me."
"You will come with me, then," Lettice rejoined, in a more cheerful tone. "You can bring your child with you, and you shall have money enough to clothe her and yourself; but you know, Milly, you must be ready to work and not to be idle. Then I shall be able to help you."
Milly was glad enough to be persuaded. She had learned a sad and bitter lesson, but she was the wiser for it.
"I shall be able to work better for you than I did at Maple Cottage," she said, with touching humility. "You see I know more than I did, and I shall have more heart in my work. And—" with sudden vehemence—"I would work for you, Miss Lettice, to my life's end."
So it was arranged that they were to go up to London together. Mrs. Chigwin moaned a little about her prospect of loneliness. "But there," she said, "I am not going to make the worst of it. And nobody that has a garden is ever really lonely, unless she has lost her self-respect, or taken to loving herself better than her fellow-creatures. By which," she added, "I do not mean snails and sparrows, but honest and sensible flowers."