“And you shall have them, Martha,” said the doctor, rising, bowing, and opening the door for the cook to pass out, which she did, looking wondering and abashed at her master, as if not understanding what he meant.
“Dear me!” continued the doctor, rubbing one ear, and apostrophising his nephew, “what a strange world this is. Now, by and by, Vane, that woman will leave here to marry and exist upon some working man’s income, and never trouble herself for a moment about whether it’s her place to go down the garden ‘to cut a cabbage to make an apple-pie,’ as the poet said—or somebody else; but be only too glad to feel that there is a cabbage in the garden to cut, and a potato to dig. Vane, my boy, will you come and hold the basket?”
“No, uncle; I’ll soon dig a few, and cut the cauliflower,” said Vane, hastily; and he hurried toward the door.
“I’ll go with you, my boy,” said the doctor; and he went out with his nephew, who was in a state of wondering doubt, respecting the gardener’s illness. For suppose that chanterelles were, after all, not good to eat, and he had poisoned the man!
“Come along, Vane. We can find a basket and fork in the tool-house.”
The doctor took down his straw hat, and led the way down the garden, looking very happy and contented, but extremely unlike the Savile Row physician, whom patients were eager to consult only a few years before.
Then the tool-house was reached, and he shouldered a four-pronged fork, and Vane took the basket; the row of red kidney potatoes was selected, and the doctor began to dig and turn up a root of fine, well-ripened tubers.
“Work that is the most ancient under the sun, Vane, my boy,” said the old gentleman, smiling. “Pick them up.”
But Vane did not stir. He stood, basket in hand, thinking; and the more he thought the more uneasy he grew.
“Ready? Pick them up!” cried the doctor. “What are you thinking about, eh?”