“The cottage is to come down, and make room for a building site, so Mr. Nutley told us,” the man continued.
“We’d papered and whitewashed it ourselves,” said the woman.
“I laid them tiles, sir, me and my eldest boy,” said the man, pointing with the stem of his pipe down at the path; “a rare job it was. There wasn’t no garden, not when I came here.”
“Twenty-five years ago,” said the woman.
They both stared mournfully at Chase.
“I’m under notice to quit, too, you know,” said Chase, rather embarrassed, as though they had brought a gentle reproof against him, trying to excuse himself by this joke.
“I know that, sir; we’re sorry,” the man had said instantly.
(Sorry. They had never seen him before, yet they were sorry.)
“Miss Chase, your aunt, sir, liked my garden properly,” said the man. “She’d stop here always, in her pony-chaise, and have a look at my flowers. She’d say to me, chaffing-like, ‘You’ve a better show than me, Jakes.’ But she didn’t like peonies. I had a fine clump of peonies and she made me dig it up. Lord, she was a tartar—saving your presence, sir. But a good heart, so nobody took no notice. But peonies—no, she wouldn’t have peonies at any price.”
“There’s few folks in this village ever thought to see Blackboys in other hands than Chase’s,” said the woman. “’Tis the peacocks will be grieved—dear! dear!”