The lawns of Upworthy Manor sloped from the house to the topiary garden. This topiary garden was famous for its size and construction. In pre-war days, some ten men were kept constantly at work from March to October trimming the yews and mowing and rolling the grass alleys. Lady Selina regarded it with reverence. Cicely hated it, but dared not say so. The trimness and primness of it all affected her oddly. Apart from the waste of labour which the care of such an absurdity involved, it symbolised what she had learned at school to dislike and distrust—artificial clipping of Nature. A yew, left to its own devices, was a glorious tree, intimately associated with the history and expansion of England, furnishing the long bows of Agincourt even as later the great oaks were transformed miraculously into the wooden walls that kept our shore inviolate. To turn a yew into a peacock seemed to Cicely a monstrous perversion. And, as a child, looking out of her nursery window by moonlight, she envisaged the dark beasts and birds coming to life, and preying mercilessly upon beloved creatures such as lambs and puppies and kittens. There was a legend, too, in the family, babbled by nursemaids, that the Chandos who had laid out the topiary garden had designed it as a sort of prison for a young and beautiful wife of whom he was morbidly jealous. She had never been suffered to stray far from the walled-in alleys and tunnels. The story had a tincture of truth in it, no more, quite enough to fire the fancy of an imaginative child.

Upon fÊte days the villagers were graciously permitted to wander at will through the topiary garden.

By the time that Cicely reached the lawn most of Lady Selina’s people had assembled about the tea-tables. Cicely joined Brian. Her mother was standing near the parson, who, with uplifted hand and voice, addressed the company:

“My dear friends, once more we meet in this charming garden, where we have enjoyed so often the gracious hospitality of the Lady of the Manor.” (Cheers.) “Lady Selina desires me to thank you for this kind reception, and I am quite sure that you wish me to thank her on your behalf for her continued bounty and the good creature comforts which we are about to enjoy. The gifts soon to be bestowed on the aged and infirm are very precious oblations——”

At this point the speaker was shrilly interrupted by a small boy, not ill-looking, but presenting a vacuous countenance to all beholders, and regarded by them as the village softy.

“What do Pa’son say?”

Everybody smiled compassionately. Nick Farleigh, a cousin of Lady Selina’s typist, was regarded as quite harmless and on occasion a source of innocent amusement. Mr. Goodrich answered him:

“Oblations, my young friend, mean offerings, symbols of the love and affection which Lady Selina has shown to all of us, gentle and simple, ever since she came to Upworthy to reign over us with unremitting generosity and kindliness. In her name I bid you welcome.”

More cheers.

Brian whispered to his sister:

“Old Goody lays it on a bit thick, but Mother has played the game, bless her.”

The company sat down to tea. Cicely and Brian helped to wait, flitting here and there, talking to everybody. Nick said in a loud voice: “I be going to have a rare gorger.”

“I like to see ’em tuck in,” said Brian to Cicely.

“I don’t know. It looks, doesn’t it, as if they didn’t have quite enough at home?”

After tea came the solemn bestowal of red cloaks, pounds of tea, and the gills of gin furtively bestowed upon the old women. Cicely found herself near Dr. Pawley.

“Timothy Farleigh isn’t here,” she said. “Is he ill?”

“I don’t think so.”

Cicely noticed an accent of restraint. She continued quickly: “I can’t remember his ever coming to our bun-feasts, can you?” Pawley remained silent. Cicely decided that something was eluding her.

“Is there any reason why he shouldn’t come?”

Her persistence amused and distressed an old friend. Obviously, she was on the hunt for accurate information. If he put her off a hot scent, she would return to it. And yet he shrank from telling the truth, although well aware that it would come more gently from his lips than from any others. Suddenly, so it seemed to him, a jolly girl had bloomed into a woman. He answered reluctantly:

“Yes.”

“Do tell me the reason, please.”

Dr. Pawley lowered his voice.

“You see, his two little girls died of diphtheria long ago.”

“But what on earth has that got to do with his coming here? Surely he can’t blame my mother?”

“I can’t go into that with you, Cicely. Speaking personally, I blame John Gridley. He knew well enough that Farleigh’s cottage was hardly fit for habitation.”

Cicely stared at him.

“Why, it’s the prettiest cottage in Upworthy.”

As she spoke Lady Selina bore down upon them, in full sail before a brisk breeze of popularity. The Olympians had finished their tea; games were started by the children; the sun shone in cloudless skies.

“My congratulations,” murmured Pawley, as Lady Selina paused in front of him.

“Yes; the dear things do appreciate what one does for them. I was just thinking to myself that this is England at her best. Will you come back to my room, doctor? I want a word with you.”

He followed her obediently, but Cicely thought that his courteous smile was slightly derisive. Her mother, of course, wanted to talk to him about the Extons. The old fellow would plead for them. Lady Selina, in high good humour, would be merciful.

And, quite easily, this came to pass. No promises were made, but Lady Selina nodded when Pawley discreetly hinted that it might be inexpedient to make martyrs of the Extons. Then, perceiving that enough had been said, he changed the talk.

“I am thinking of taking a partner,” he began. “And I am happy to say that the right man is likely to come here to help me. You have heard of him, Henry Grimshaw.”

Lady Selina shook her head.

“Grimmer,” added Pawley.

“Grimmer? Dear me! Are you speaking of Brian’s friend at Winchester? The wonderful Grimmer.” She laughed. “At one time Brian gave us too much of—Grimmer. At school he was certainly a star of the first magnitude. What has he done since?”

Pawley could only furnish a few details. Grimshaw had distinguished himself as a student of medicine, taking several degrees. For some years he had overworked himself in Poplar. Comparative rest and good country air had been prescribed for him by a Harley Street specialist. Pawley added quietly:

“When he answered my advertisement, he mentioned his friendship for Brian at school.”

“I shall welcome Brian’s old friend cordially. I am glad that your partner is a public-school man.”

“He isn’t my partner yet, Lady Selina, but he has promised to run down to me and talk things over. It will be much for him and all of us if he has your good-will. There is no doubt whatever of his capacity. I am lucky to secure so up-to-date a colleague.”

“Up-to-date?” She barely winced. “I take it that you are speaking of him professionally. Surgery, I am told, has made immense strides, but medicine remains, doesn’t it, very much where it was?”

“Grimshaw is a surgeon, Lady Selina. And up-to-date in that. For the rest I know nothing about him except this. In his two letters to me he expressed himself modestly. I should imagine that he will give undivided energies to his profession.”

“He will have very little to do, it seems to me.”

“Um. As to that I am not so sure.”

“My people are wonderfully healthy.”

“Some of them.”

Lady Selina’s eyes wandered to the lawn; through the open windows floated much laughter. Euphrosyne is surely the sister of Hygeia. And at that moment a patriarch was approaching, Nicodemus Burble, past eighty-one, and able to do a day’s work in the fields. The lady of the manor said triumphantly:

“Ah, there’s a fine specimen.”

Nicodemus halted at the open window and touched his cap.

“Well, Nicodemus, how are you?”

“I bain’t so wonnerful grand, my lady.”

“Dear me! If your boots are clean, come you in, and tell me what you want.”

Nicodemus removed his cap and entered cautiously. Lady Selina indicated a chair upon which the old man sat gingerly, staring about him. Lady Selina, after eyeing him keenly, said with unction:

“If I look half as well as you do when I’m past eighty I shall be heartily thankful. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I be fair twisted into knots wi’ they dratted rheumatics, my lady.”

“Didn’t you take the medicine which I asked Dr. Pawley to send you?”

“Be—utiful stuff, to be sure.”

But he rubbed his knees as he spoke. Lady Selina examined him more critically. “Your medicine doesn’t seem to have done him much good,” she observed.

Pawley, who knew his man, said confidentially:

“Own up, Nicodemus, you poured my medicine down the sink.”

Nicodemus gasped.

“Lard preserve our dear lives. How did ’ee know that, doctor?”

“So much of it has gone the same road,” replied Pawley.

Nicodemus was never without a plausible excuse.

“It give me such a rampagin’ in my innards as never was.”

Lady Selina could not accept this as adequate.

“Now, Nicodemus, if you threw the medicine down the sink you didn’t take it.”

“’Twas the same sart seemin’ly, my lady—all in same blue bottle. ’Tisn’t physic I wants. ’Tis my roof that leaks so tarrible, and allers has done, allers—allers.”

His voice droned away. Lady Selina said cheerfully:

“Your roof shall be mended.”

“’Tis a new roof as be needed, my lady.”

“Well, we’ll see about that presently. You got the port wine I sent you?”

“Yes, my lady. I owes my long life to ’ee, my lady.” He rose with difficulty. “Now I’ll march homealong.” He moved very stiffly to the window. Pawley rose also, intercepting him.

“You’re going a bit short, granfer.”

“’Tis my near leg, doctor.”

“My car is outside. I’ll run you down to your cottage. Take my arm.”

Lady Selina smiled pleasantly as her two guests left her presence. In a well-ordered village gentle and simple moved together in just such harmonious relations. A pleasurable glow pervaded the tissues of mind and body. Her people were properly cared for. And they responded—to use a phrase of Dr. Pawley’s—to humane treatment. The cheers of that fine summer’s afternoon still echoed in her ears.

She sat down at her desk to tackle, with appetite, a small pile of unanswered letters.