"Don't Let Me Interfere With Your Usual Arrangements.
I am not
hungry - for food; I shall do very well until I get back to the
hotel."
I. "Indeed you will not, sir! Billy shall pull some tomatoes and
lettuce, Tommy shall milk the cow, and Mrs. Bobby shall make you a
savory omelet that Delmonico might envy. Hark! Is that our fowl
cackling? It is, - at half-past six! She heard me mention omelet
and she must be calling, 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'"
. . . .
But all that is many days ago, and there are no more experiences to
relate at present. We are making history very fast, Willie
Beresford and I, but much of it is sacred history, and so I cannot
chronicle it for any one's amusement.
Mrs. Beresford is here, or at least she is in Great Belvern, a few
miles distant. I am not painting, these latter days. I have turned
the artist side of my nature to the wall just for a bit, and the
woman side is having full play. I do not know what the world will
think about it, if it stops to think at all, but I feel as if I were
'right side out' for the first time in my life; and when I take up
my brushes again, I shall have a new world within from which to
paint, - yes, and a new world without.
Good-bye, dear Belvern! Autumn and winter may come into my life,
but whenever I think of you it will be summer-time in my heart. I
shall hear the tinkle of the belled sheep on the hillsides; inhale
the fragrance of the flowering vine that climbed in at my cottage
window; relive in memory the days when Love and I first walked
together, hand in hand. Dear days of happy idleness; of dreaming
dreams and seeing visions; of morning walks over the hills; of
'bread-and-cheese and kisses' at noon, with kind Mrs. Bobby hovering
like a plump guardian angel over the simple feast; afternoon tea
under the friendly shades of the yew-tree, and parting at the
wicket-gate. I can see him pass the clock-tower, the little
greengrocer shop, the old stocks, the green pump; then he is at the
turn of the road where the stone wall and the hawthorn hedge will
presently hide him from my view. I fly up to my window, push back
the vines, catch his last wave of the hand. I would call him back,
if I dared; but it would be no easier to let him go the second time,
and there is always to-morrow. Thank God for to-morrow! And if
there should be no to-morrow? Then thank God for to-day! And so
good-bye again, dear Belvern! It was in the lap of your lovely
hills that Penelope first knew das irdische Gluck; that she first
loved, first lived; forgot how to be artist, in remembering how to
be woman.
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