“Good. That’s excellent,” said Andy, much relieved at not being obliged to start with a dismissal. “Now for the house.”
“Peas here,” said the man, passing a plot of ground, “and beans there. I bought the seed and sowed them on my own responsibility. ‘Whoever’s coming,’ says I to myself, ‘old or young, he’ll want peas and beans.’ ”
The words flowed in that delightful easy way which is of all human sounds the most comfortable, running into the heart like a cordial.
“Most thoughtful of you,” said Andy warmly.
And his fellow-curates in London had talked of the apathy of village people! He would tell them about this when he saw them. What working-man of their flock would buy peas and beans and sow them for love of the Church?
“I put a row of potatoes in too,” continued the man. “Says I to my wife, ‘Married or single, he’ll want potatoes.’ ”
“You’re married, then?” said Andy, as they reached the house door, wishful to show interest in the domestic concerns of this ardent churchman.
“Yes,” replied the man. “My wife can’t get about much, I’m sorry to say. Legs given way. But”—he gave a queer side look at Andy—“it isn’t that she’s lost power, so to speak: the power’s only moved from her legs into her tongue.”
Andy smiled back—and when two men enjoy together the immemorial joke about a woman’s tongue it is as good as a sign of freemasonry—then he said solemnly, “Very sad for you both, I am sure.”
“Yes,” said the man, immediately solemn too. “I’m sure I don’t know what we would do if it wasn’t for William.”