I was privileged to be shown over the grounds on my last visit to Creek Cottage.
"Here," said Mrs. Atherley, "we are having a plantation. It will keep the wind off; and we shall often sit here in the early days of summer. That's a weeping ash in the middle. There's another one over there. They'll be lovely, you know."
"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a bit of black stick on the left; which, even more than the other trees, gave the impression of having been left there by the gardener while he went for his lunch.
"That's a weeping willow."
"This is rather a tearful corner of the grounds," apologised Miss Atherley. "We'll show you something brighter directly. Look there—that's the oak in which King Charles lay hid. At least, it will be when it's grown a bit."
"Let's go on to the shrubbery," said Mrs. Atherley. "We are having a new grass path from here to the shrubbery. It's going to be called Henry's Walk."
Miss Atherley has a small brother called Henry. Also there were eight Kings of England called Henry. Many a time and oft one of those nine Henrys has paced up and down this grassy walk, his head bent, his hands clasped behind his back; while behind his furrowed brow, who shall say what world-schemes were hatching? Is it the thought of Wolsey which makes him frown—or is he wondering where he left his catapult? Ah! who can tell us? Let us leave a veil of mystery over it ... for the sake of the next visitor.
"The shrubbery," said Mrs. Atherley proudly, waving her hand at a couple of laurel bushes, and a—I've forgotten its name now, but it is one of the few shrubs I really know.
"And if you're a gentleman," said Miss Atherley, "and want to get asked here again, you'll always call it the shrubbery."
"Really, I don't see what else you could call it," I said, wishing to be asked down again.