“Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks!”
“That was a very fine tea, Mrs Champernowne. Now, Pickle, my boy, I think it would be very nice to go and sit for half-an-hour in the arbour under the roses, while I kill the green fly—the aphides, Mrs Champernowne—which increase and multiply at a rate which is absolutely marvellous. Pickle, my boy, I hope you will never grow up as weak and self-indulgent as your uncle. Fill me my long clay pipe.”
Chapter Four.
Oh, Summer Night!
Mrs Champernowne’s arbour was a very homely affair, consisting of four fir poles to form as many corners, and a few more nailed and pegged together to form gables. Nature built all the rest with roses and honeysuckle and some vigorous ivy at the back, the roses spiring up, the honeysuckle creeping in and out among the long strands and holding them together, while the ivy ran rapidly up the back till it could grow no higher, and then began to droop down till it had formed itself into a thick curtain which kept out the wind.
There was a very rustic table in the middle, formed by nailing two pieces of plank on to a tree stump, and a couple of seats, one on each side, pierced with holes that had once upon a time been made by ship carpenters’ augers, when the wood was built up over the ribs of some stout ship which long years after was bumped to pieces by the waves upon the rocks and then cast up upon the southern shore, to be bought up and carted all through the county.
Yes, it was a very rustic place, but it suited its surroundings, and Uncle Paul looked supremely happy as he sat there slowly smoking his pipe and gazing dreamily before him at the beautiful landscape stretching far, and the garden of the one cottage within reach only a short distance away from the plot of ground where by the help of the neighbour sufficient potatoes were grown for the widow’s use. “What a silent, peaceful evening, Pickle,” said Uncle Paul. “Look yonder in the east; the moon will be up soon, and then it will be night, and we have done no work. How do you feel, my boy?”
“Tired and stupid, uncle. My legs ache right down to the ankles.”