“Why it almost seems, sir,” I said one day, “as if Nature had made the trees so badly that man was obliged to improve them.”
“Ah, I’m glad to hear you say that, my lad,” he said; “but you are not right. I’m only a gardener, but I’ve noticed these things a great deal. Nature is not a bungler. She gives us apple and plum trees, and they grow and bear fruit in a natural and sufficient way. It is because man wants them to bear more and bigger fruit, and for more to grow on a small piece of ground than Nature would plant, that man has to cut and prune.”
“But suppose Nature planted a lot of trees on a small piece of ground,” I said, “what then?”
“What then, Grant? Why, for a time they’d grow up thin and poor and spindly, till one of them made a start and overtopped the others. Then it would go on growing, and the others would dwindle and die away.”
The time glided on, and I kept learning the many little things about the place pretty fast. As the months went on I became of some use to my employer over his accounts, and by degrees pretty well knew his position.
It seemed that he had been a widower for many years, and Mrs Dodley, the housekeeper and general servant all in one, confided to me one day that “Missus’s” bonnets and shawls and gowns were all hanging up in their places just as they had been left by Mrs Brownsmith.
“Which it’s a dead waste, Master Grant,” she used to finish by saying, “as there’s several as I know would be glad to have ’em; but as to that—Lor’ bless yer!”
It was not often that Mrs Dodley spoke, but when she did it was to inveigh against some oppression or trouble.
Candles were a great burden to the scrupulously clean woman.
“Tens I says,” she confided to me one day, “but he will have eights, and what’s the consequence? If I want to do a bit of extry needle-work I might light up two tens, but I should never have the heart to burn two eights at once, for extravagance I can’t abear. Ah! he’s a hard master, and I’m sorry for you, my dear.”