The Rosery Folk. Fenn George Manville
He laughed, and after listening for a minute, went on softly and stood in the doorway, looking up. The large house with its span roof was covered with the sweetly scented leaves of the young vine growth, and everywhere hung pendent bunches in their immature state, with grapes no larger than so many peas. It was not upon these that the visitor’s eyes were fixed, but upon a stout plank stretching from one iron tie of the grape-house to another; for, perched upon this plank, to whose height approach was gained by a pair of steps, sat the owners of the place, with heads thrown back, holding each a bunch of grapes with one hand, a pair of pointed scissors with the other, which clicked as they snipped away, thinning out the superabundant berries, which kept on falling, and making a noise like the avant-garde of a gentle hailstorm on a summer’s day. As they snipped, the grape-thinners sang verse after verse, throwing plenty of soul into the harmony which was formed by a pleasant soprano and a deep tenor voice.
The visitor stood for fully five minutes, watching and laughing silently, before he said aloud: “What a place this is for birds!”
Lady Scarlett started; her scissors fell tinkling upon the tiled floor, and her face followed suit with her name.
“Why, Jack!” shouted Scarlett, leaping off the board, and then holding it tightly as his wife uttered a cry of alarm. – “All right, dear; you shan’t fall. There, let me help you down.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Scarlett,” said the visitor apologetically. “It was very thoughtless of me. I am sorry.”
“O Jack, old fellow, Kitty don’t mind. It was only meant for a bit of fun. But how did you get down?”
“Train, and walked over, of course.”
“I am glad to see you,” said Scarlett. “Why didn’t you say you were coming, and meet me at the station?”
“Didn’t know I was coming till the last moment. – Will you give me a bit of dinner, Lady Scarlett?”
“Will we give you a bit of dinner?” cried Sir James. “Just hark at him! There come along; never mind the grapes. I say, how’s the practice – improving?”
“Pooh! No. I shall never get on. I can’t stick to their old humdrum ways. I want to go forward and take advantage of the increased light science gives us, and consequently they say I’m unorthodox, and the fellows about my place won’t meet me in consultation.”
“Well, you always were a bit of a quack, old boy,” said Scarlett laughing.
“Always, always. I accept the soft impeachment. But is a man to run the chariot of his life down in the deeply worn ruts made by his ancestors? I say, let us keep to the rut when it is true and good; but let us try and make new, hard, sensible tracks where we can improve upon the old. It is my honest conviction that in the noble practice of medicine a man may – ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Just look at your husband’s face, Lady Scarlett,” cried their visitor, bursting into a hearty, uncontrollable fit of honest, contagious laughter.
“My face!” said Sir James. “Why, of course I hurry back home for country enjoyment, and you begin a confounded lecture on medical science. I’m quite well, thank you, doctor, and won’t put out my tongue.”
“Well? Yes, you always are well,” said the other. – “I never saw such a man as your husband, Lady Scarlett; he is disgustingly robust and hearty. Such men ought to be forced to take some complaint. Why, if there were many of them, my profession would become bankrupt.”
“You must be faint after your walk, Doctor Scales,” said Lady Scarlett. “Come in and have a cup of tea and a biscuit; it is some time yet to dinner.”
“Thanks. But may I choose for myself?”
“Of course.”
“Then I have a lively recollection of a lady with whom I fell in love last time I was here.”
“A lady – fell in love?”
“Yes. Let me see,” said the visitor. “She is pretty well photographed upon my brain.”
“I say, Jack, old boy, what do you mean?” cried Scarlett.
“By your leave, sir,” said the doctor, waving one strong brown hand. “Let me see; she had large, full, lustrous, beaming eyes, which dwelt upon me kindly; her breath was odorous of the balmy meads – ”
“Why, the fellow’s going to do a sonnet,” cried Scarlett. But the doctor paid no heed, and went on.
“Her lips were dewy, her mousy skin was glossy, her black horns curved, and as she ruminating stood – ”
“Why, he means Dolly,” cried Lady Scarlett clapping her hands – “Jersey Dolly. – A glass of new milk, Doctor Scales?”
“The very culmination of my wishes, madam,” said the doctor, nodding.
“Then why couldn’t you say so in plain English?” cried Scarlett, clapping him on the shoulder. “What a fellow you are, Jack! I say, if you get talking in such a metaphorical manner about salts and senna and indigestion I don’t wonder at the profession being dead against you.”
“Would you like to come round to the dairy, Doctor Scales?” said Lady Scarlett.
“I’d rather go there than into the grandest palace in the world.”
“Then come alone,” cried Scarlett thrusting his arm through that of his old schoolfellow; and the little party went down a walk, through an opening in a laurel hedge, and entered a thickly thatched, shady, red-brick building, with ruddy-tiled floor, and there, in front of them was a row of shallow glistening tins, brimming with rich milk, whose top was thick with yellow cream.
“Hah! how deliciously cool and fresh!” cried the doctor, as his eye ranged over the white chum and marble slabs. “Some men are wonderfully proud of their wine-cellars, but at a time like this I feel as if I would rather own a dairy and keep cows.”
“Now then, Kitty, give him his draught,” said Scarlett.
“Yes, just one glass,” cried the doctor; “and here we are,” he said, pausing before a great shallow tin, beyond which was freshly chalked the word “Dolly.” “This is the well in the pleasant oasis from which I’d drink.”
“Give him some quickly, Kitty,” cried Scarlett; “his metaphors will make me ill.”
“Then my visit will not have been in vain,” cried the doctor merrily. Then he ejaculated, “Hah!” very softly, and closed his eyes as he partook of the sweet rich draught, set down the glass, and after wiping his lips, exclaimed:
“‘Serenely calm, the epicure may say’ – ”
“O yes; I know,” said Sir James, catching him up. “‘Fate cannot harm me – I have dined to-day.’ But you have not dined yet, old fellow; and you shall have such a salad! My own growing; Kitty’s making. Come along now, and let’s look round. Prayle’s here.”
“Is he?” said the doctor, raising his eye-brows slightly, and his tone seemed to say: “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, poor fellow; he’s working too hard, and I brought him down to stay a bit. Now you’ve come, and we’ll have – ”
“No, no; I must get back. None of your unmanly temptations. I’m going to catch the last up-train to-night.”
“One of your patients in a dangerous state, I suppose?” said Scarlett, with a humorous glance at his wife.
“No: worse luck! I’ve no patients waiting for me. I say, old fellow, you haven’t a rich old countess about here – baroness would do – one who suffers from chronic spleen, as the French call it? Get me called in there, you know, and make me her confidential attendant.”
“Why, there’s Lady Martlett,” said Scarlett, with another glance at his wife which plainly said: “Hold your tongue, dear.”
“Widow lady. Just the body. I dare say she’ll be here before long.”
“Oh, but I’m off back to-night.”
“Are