“These are my simples, Sir Mark,” said the dame, pointing to the various old-fashioned herbs growing beneath the shelter of a sunny wall; lavender, rosemary, rue, and balm; peppermint, spearmint, and lemon-thyme; pennyroyal, basil, and marigold; wall-hyssop; and sweet marjoram, borage, and dill, with a score more,—which she hastened to point out to hide her confusion.
“That is agrimony, Sir Mark, for fevers, and that is the new long snake-rooted glycorice from Spain, a fine thing for colds and burning throats. These are the echeverias for making up when there are scalds and burns, and applying cool to the place.”
“And what is that great long-leaved plant, madame?” said Sir Mark, showing an interest in what he saw.
“The Indian weed—tobacco, sir, and this is a strange new gourd from the same land; and this is a root that grows into curious floury lumps or balls, when underground. But maybe you have heard of them before we simple people in the country. It is the batata.”
“Yes; I have heard of that, and tasted it too,” said Sir Mark.
“Would you like to see my vines, Sir Mark?” said the lady, eagerly. “They are in the shelter of the old walls here, and I ripen my grapes, and make my wine, that you shall taste when we go in.”
“I thank you, madam, and shall be right glad.”
“Here, too, is my woodsage, or germander,” cried Dame Beckley, eagerly. “It is a fine bitter, with which we make our ale. I have tried to get Cobbe at the Pool to use it when he brews, but he is obstinate and headstrong, and will take the strange-smelling hop-nettle, which twines and runs up the stakes. Maybe Sir Mark has seen the plantation there.”
“Ay, that I have,” said Sir Mark, smiling at Anne, while her mother prattled on.
“The founder has a goodly garden, but not like mine,” said the little lady, proudly. “He never grows such apples as these, nor yet such berries or such plums. I have told him much and given him many seeds, but he is a headstrong and a hard man to teach.”