"But come back, Griggs, for some watering must be done."
"I can't come no more to-night, oi 'ave to see to things a bit up at 'ome."
"Griggs "—and my voice held dignified rebuke—"you are gardener here, and these flowers are your first duty."
"There ain't no gettin' round with all them little plants wot you've started. I did give 'em a watering two days ago!"
"Two days ago! Don't you want your tea every day?"
"Maybe it'll rain soon, and that'll pull 'em round. They ain't human critturs. Don't you fuss over them, miss. Oi knows their ways. Bless you, I've been a gardener these forty years."
At this I rose.
And what had been the result? Would he care to have his gardening capacity judged by the dearth that reigned at the Rectory? Did the heavy weed crops speak well for his industry? Did the underground interlacement of that pernicious ground-elder do him credit? Did the roses, the jasmine, etc., etc. My pent-up indignation overflowed and Griggs had the full benefit.
The only impression I conveyed was that "Miss Mary was takin' on in a terrible unchristian spirit." Clerk Griggs never had a doubt of his own uttermost fulfilment of the law. In his opinion, "young ladies should play the pianny and leave gardening to them as knows." Griggs meant to go home. I felt this was a decisive moment.
"You will come back and do the necessary watering," I said, "and I shall be here to see it is done; you quite understand?"