“Hang the fellow, Kitty!” cried Scarlett one day; “he bullies poor old Monnick, and snubs me, and I feel as if I were nobody but the paymaster. It won’t do. What’s the good of living in the country with such a garden as this, if one can’t have abundance of fruit and flowers for one’s friends?”
“It does seem too bad, certainly, dear,” she replied. “I don’t get half the flowers I should like.”
The result was that the professed gardener left, saying that he wanted to be where the master was a gentleman, and not one who meddled in the garden like a jobbing hand. Furthermore, he prophesied that the Rosery would go to ruin now; and when it did not go to ruin, but under its master’s own management put forth such flowers and fruit as the place had never seen before, the dethroned monarch declared that it was scandalous for one who called himself a gentleman to suck a poor fellow’s brains and then turn him out like a dog.
Unfigged, Sir James Scarlett hurried out into the garden with his young partner, and for a good hour was busy seeing how much certain plants had grown since the previous evening. Then there was an adjournment to the grape-house, where the great black Hambros grew so well and in such abundance, without artificial heat; and here, about half an hour later, a very keen-looking, plainly-dressed man heard the sound of singing as he walked down the path from the house. He paused and listened, with a pleasant smile coming upon his earnest lace, and as he stood attent, a judge of humankind who had gazed upon his broad shoulders and lithe strong limbs, and the sharp intelligent look in his face, would have said that Nature had meant him for a handsome man, but had altered her mind to make him look like one of the clever ones of earth. He laughed, and after listening for a minute, went on softly and stood in the doorway, looking up. The large house with its span roof was covered with the sweetly scented leaves of the young vine growth, and everywhere hung pendent bunches in their immature state, with grapes no larger than so many peas. It was not upon these that the visitor’s eyes were fixed, but upon a stout plank stretching from one iron tie of the grape-house to another; for, perched upon this plank, to whose height approach was gained by a pair of steps, sat the owners of the place, with heads thrown back, holding each a bunch of grapes with one hand, a pair of pointed scissors with the other, which clicked as they snipped away, thinning out the superabundant berries, which kept on falling, and making a noise like the avant-garde of a gentle hailstorm on a summer’s day. As they snipped, the grape-thinners sang verse after verse, throwing plenty of soul into the harmony which was formed by a pleasant soprano and a deep tenor voice.
The visitor stood for fully five minutes, watching and laughing silently, before he said aloud: “What a place this is for birds!”
Lady Scarlett started; her scissors fell tinkling upon the tiled floor, and her face followed suit with her name.
“Why, Jack!” shouted Scarlett, leaping off the board, and then holding it tightly as his wife uttered a cry of alarm.—“All right, dear; you shan’t fall. There, let me help you down.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Scarlett,” said the visitor apologetically. “It was very thoughtless of me. I am sorry.”
“O Jack, old fellow, Kitty don’t mind. It was only meant for a bit of fun. But how did you get down?”
“Train, and walked over, of course.”