“Ay, so his heart is sore,” muttered Tom Croftly, after a glance round to see that he had not been heard. “If I thought that ill-wishing that London spark would keep him away from here, I’d give Mother Goodhugh my biggest couple o’ ducks—that girt young ’un and his brother.”
Tom Croftly stopped and sighed for a long time over his bread and bacon before returning to the enjoyment of his holiday the founder did not join him, however, for a good half-hour longer, when Mace was by his side.
That was a golden day to both—a holiday indeed. No allusion was made to the departure of their visitor, neither was Gil’s name mentioned; but, as if some burden had been removed from both their hearts, they seemed to have made up their minds to have one day such as they had been accustomed to in what seemed like the olden times.
With a straw hat to shade her bright face, Mace was now looking on, while the raspberry canes that had broken loose were retied to their stakes, and then she held the knife as she had a score of times in childhood while the founder went down upon his knees to take the bindings off from some freshly-grafted trees, commenting upon his work, and boasting of its superiority over the grafting done at Dame Beckley’s.
Then there were the cuttings of those curious plants to see to that Gil had brought back from his last voyage, and they seemed to be progressing well, all but one that was being eaten by a grub.
Mace listened eagerly, thinking that her father would mention Gil’s name now, but he went on weeding out a few interlopers before he seemed to recall whence the cuttings came, and then he frowned and turned off to another part of the garden.
The cloud passed away directly, and they were chatting merrily again or listening to Tom Croftly, who possessed a very long tongue, and had plenty to say.
“Lor’, Miss Mace, look at my apple-trees, how they be a-hinging down a’ready!” cried Tom Croftly. “Look at the girt big uns lumpeting all down the boughs. I’ll have to put a strod under yon branch, or a wilt be breaking down.”
“They look lovely, Tom. No scarcity this year.”
“Not there, mistress. It all comes o’ well wassailing the trees. If there’s anything I like, its a good apple-howling in due season.”