IX
Where the Road Led Over the Hills
Next morning I was a wreck. Virginia and her sister were the same.
For a week past I had realised that I was in the last stage of mental and physical disrepair. The midnight committee was the final straw.
As a rule, I stick at work in town till nerves and brain refuse to hold out another day; then, flinging my tools down, and leaving both my office desk and my study table in a hopeless and bewildering state of piled-up letters, MSS. and proofs, I just fly—a goodly bale of arrears following me by next post.
I had had practically no holiday owing to the war, and had reached that forlorn and useless frame of mind when I declared I was far too busy to take one—a very mistaken notion for anyone to have, by the way; it is surprising how well most of us can be done without when we do at last take a little time off duty!
However, I had just one faint glimmer of common sense left me, and that told me to take the first train going west next morning, which I did, leaving Paddington (in company with Virginia and Ursula, who had a holiday due to her from the hospital) in a warm close fog that might imply a thunderstorm, or an early autumn, or merely the ordinary airless carbonic-acid gloom that is a distinguishing feature of London. Some eminent authority has said that the air in London hasn’t been changed for over a hundred years, and I can quite believe it!
We found the cottage bathed in the glow of the soft sunshine that is still summer, but that brings with it the first touch of regret for the good-bye that is near at hand. There had been some soaking rains after a dry spell, and everything in the garden was holding up bright, refreshed leaves, and glowing flowers, one and all assuring me that though they had a gasping time a few weeks before, and had wondered from day to day if they could manage to hold on till the evening, things had now taken a glorious turn for the better; and they were glad they hadn’t given up, since I was so pleased to see them.
Several apologised for ragged washed-out blossoms lower down their stem, but explained that it was due to the rain, and that they were sending up new ones to take the place of the shabby ones as quickly as ever they could.
The dear things seemed to look at me with such understanding sympathy; the pansies held up their bright little faces just like a bevy of inquiring children; the hollyhocks, I am sure, turned round to look in my direction; the last of the sweet peas threw out tender little fingers to touch my arm as I passed beside their hedge; the golden rod stretched its neck and tiptoed lest I should miss it at the back of the border.