‘Nature often enshrines gallant and noble hearts in weak bosoms—oftenest, God bless her! in female breasts.’
Quite close to the gardens Susan meets one of the under-gardeners at Crosby Park.
‘I suppose Master Jacky and I can go in and see the gardens, Brown?’
‘Oh yes, miss, o’ course. But I’m afraid there’s no one there. As it happens, no one’s working there to-day. ’Tis a holiday, you know, miss. An’ the gates are locked.’
It happens, indeed, to be a saint’s day, or holiday—one of the innumerable saints’ days that are held sacred in Ireland, and on which no man will work, if he is a Roman Catholic labourer, though the loss of the day’s hire is a severe strain upon his slender resources. And the funny part of this arrangement is that, though they are too religious to support their families by working on these days, they never know what saint’s day it is, or anything in the world about him—or her.
‘Oh!’ says Susan; she had forgotten about its being a holiday, though both the maids had gone to chapel in the morning, leaving her and Betty to make up the many beds. Her tone is so disappointed that Brown drags out a key from his trousers pocket.
‘If ye’ll take this, miss, ye can let yoself in, an’ ye can lave it at the lodge wid Mrs. Donovan whin ye’re goin’ back.’
‘Oh, thank you, Brown!’ says Susan joyfully; and diving into her pocket, she produces twopence (it is quite a sum for Susan, whose pennies are very scarce), and gives it to him, an instinct born with her—a sort of pride—compelling her to reward the underling. And yet she had refused to give Tommy—the baby, the youngest of all, and the dearest to her of the children after Bonnie—a halfpenny out of that twopence only this morning.
‘Thank you, miss,’ says Brown, with considerably more gratitude than he would have shown another if she had given him half a crown, and Susan, who had paid for the key quite as much for her own sake as for Jacky’s, goes on her way rejoicing.
Yes, the gate is locked. Susan, having unlocked it, carefully removes the key, locks it on the other side, and goes down the broad, beautiful, scented path with Jacky beside her. Some of the houses are near, but not so worthy of notice as those that come after, and through these they hurry to the great glass ones beyond—where the roses are all a-growing, all a-blowing, in magnificent profusion—that are always kept up in a very perfect state, though the master of them be in the Soudan or North America, or among the highest peaks of the Andes.