Short Fiction by M. R. James (inspirational books for women TXT) 📕

in the greenhouse, and they were on their way to the site of the projected rose garden. I do not know much about the conditions most suitable to these nurseries, but I am inclined to believe that Mrs. Anstruther, though in the habit of describing herself as “a great gardener,” had not been well advised in the selection of a spot for the purpose. It was a small, dank clearing, bounded on one side by a path, and on the other by thick box-bushes, laurels, and other evergreens. The ground was almost bare of grass and dark of aspect. Remains of rustic seats and an old and corrugated oak post somewhere near the middle of the clearing had given rise to Mr. Anstruther’s conjecture that a summerhouse had once stood there.

Clearly Collins had not been put in possession of his mistress’s intentions with regard to this plot of ground: and when he learnt them from Mr. Anstruther he displayed no enthusiasm.

“Of course I could clear them seats away soon enough,” he said. “They aren’t no ornament to the place, Mr. Anstruther, and rotten too. Look ’ere, sir”⁠—and he broke off a large piece⁠—“rotten right through. Yes, clear them away, to be sure we can do that.”

“And the post,” said Mr. Anstruther, “that’s got to go too.”

Collins advanced, and shook the post with both hands: then he rubbed his chin.

“That’s firm in the ground, that post is,” he said. “That’s been there a number of years, Mr. Anstruther. I doubt I shan’t get that up not quite so soon as what I can do with them seats.”

“But your mistress specially wishes it to be got out of the way in an hour’s time,” said Mr. Anstruther.

Collins smiled and shook his head slowly. “You’ll excuse me, sir, but you feel of it for yourself. No, sir, no one can’t do what’s impossible to ’em, can they, sir? I could git that post up by after teatime, sir, but that’ll want a lot of digging. What you require, you see, sir, if you’ll excuse me naming of it, you want the soil loosening round this post ’ere, and me and the boy we shall take a little time doing of that. But now, these ’ere seats,” said Collins, appearing to appropriate this portion of the scheme as due to his own resourcefulness, “why, I can get the barrer round and ’ave them cleared away in, why less than an hour’s time from now, if you’ll permit of it. Only⁠—”

“Only what, Collins?”

“Well now, it ain’t for me to go against orders no more than what it is for you yourself⁠—or anyone else” (this was added somewhat hurriedly), “but if you’ll pardon me, sir, this ain’t the place I should have picked out for no rose garden myself. Why look at them box and laurestinus, ’ow they reg’lar preclude the light from⁠—”

“Ah yes, but we’ve got to get rid of some of them, of course.”

“Oh, indeed, get rid of them! Yes, to be sure, but⁠—I beg your pardon, Mr. Anstruther⁠—”

“I’m sorry, Collins, but I must be getting on now. I hear the car at the door. Your mistress will explain exactly what she wishes. I’ll tell her, then, that you can see your way to clearing away the seats at once, and the post this afternoon. Good morning.”

Collins was left rubbing his chin. Mrs. Anstruther received the report with some discontent, but did not insist upon any change of plan.

By four o’clock that afternoon she had dismissed her husband to his golf, had dealt faithfully with Collins and with the other duties of the day, and, having sent a campstool and umbrella to the proper spot, had just settled down to her sketch of the church as seen from the shrubbery, when a maid came hurrying down the path to report that Miss Wilkins had called.

Miss Wilkins was one of the few remaining members of the family from whom the Anstruthers had bought the Westfield estate some few years back. She had been staying in the neighbourhood, and this was probably a farewell visit. “Perhaps you could ask Miss Wilkins to join me here,” said Mrs. Anstruther, and soon Miss Wilkins, a person of mature years, approached.

“Yes, I’m leaving the Ashes tomorrow, and I shall be able to tell my brother how tremendously you have improved the place. Of course he can’t help regretting the old house just a little⁠—as I do myself⁠—but the garden is really delightful now.”

“I am so glad you can say so. But you mustn’t think we’ve finished our improvements. Let me show you where I mean to put a rose garden. It’s close by here.”

The details of the project were laid before Miss Wilkins at some length; but her thoughts were evidently elsewhere.

“Yes, delightful,” she said at last rather absently. “But do you know, Mrs. Anstruther, I’m afraid I was thinking of old times. I’m very glad to have seen just this spot again before you altered it. Frank and I had quite a romance about this place.”

“Yes?” said Mrs. Anstruther smilingly; “do tell me what it was. Something quaint and charming, I’m sure.”

“Not so very charming, but it has always seemed to me curious. Neither of us would ever be here alone when we were children, and I’m not sure that I should care about it now in certain moods. It is one of those things that can hardly be put into words⁠—by me at least⁠—and that sound rather foolish if they are not properly expressed. I can tell you after a fashion what it was that gave us⁠—well, almost a horror of the place when we were alone. It was towards the evening of one very hot autumn day, when Frank had disappeared mysteriously about the grounds, and I was looking for him to fetch him to tea, and going down this path I suddenly saw him, not hiding in the bushes, as I rather expected, but sitting on the bench in the old summerhouse⁠—there was a wooden summerhouse here, you know⁠—up in the corner, asleep, but with such a