cried the Lady Beltravers. "My son, the Last of the Beltraverses, the Beltraverses who came over with Julius Wernher (I should say Csar), marry a milkmaid?"
"No, mother. He is marrying what any man would be proud to marry--a simple English girl."
There was a cheer, instantly suppressed, from a Socialist in the band.
For just a moment words failed the Lady Beltravers. Then she sank into a chair, and waved her guests away.
"The ball is over," she said slowly. "Leave me. My son and I must be alone."
One by one, with murmured thanks for a delightful evening, the guests trooped out. Soon mother and son were alone. Lord Beltravers, gazing out of the window, saw the 'cellist laboriously dragging his 'cello across the park.
CHAPTER V
WEDDED
[And now, dear readers, I am in a difficulty. How shall the story go on? The editor of _The Seaside Library_ asks quite frankly for a murder. His idea was that the Lady Beltravers should be found dead in the park next morning and that Gwendolen should be arrested. This seems to me both crude and vulgar. Besides I want a murder for No. XCIX of the series--The Severed Thumb.
No, I think I know a better way out.]
* * * * *
Old John French sat beneath a spreading pear-tree and waited. Early that morning a mysterious note had been brought to him, asking for an interview on a matter of the utmost importance. This was the trysting-place.
"I have come," said a voice behind him, "to ask you to beg your daughter----"
"_I have come_" cried the Lady Beltravers, "_to ask you_----"
"I HAVE COME," shouted her ladyship, "TO----"
John French wheeled round in amazement. With a cry the Lady Beltravers shrank back.
"Eustace," she gasped--"Eustace, Earl of Turbot!"
"Eliza!"
"What are you doing here? I came to see John French."
"What?" he asked, with his hand to his ear.
She repeated her remark loudly several times.
"I am John French," he said at last. "When you refused me and married Beltravers I suddenly felt tired of Society; and I changed my name and settled down here as a simple farmer. My daughter helps me on the farm."
"Then your daughter is----"
"Lady Gwendolen Hake."
* * * * *
A beautiful double wedding was solemnised at Beltravers in October, the Earl of Turbot leading Eliza, Lady Beltravers, to the altar, while Lord Beltravers was joined in matrimony to the beautiful Lady Gwendolen Hake. There were many presents on both sides, which partook equally of the beautiful and the costly.
Lady Gwendolen Beltravers is now the most popular hostess in the county; but to her husband she always seems the simple English milkmaid that he first thought her. Ah!
OUT-OF-DOORS
XXII. THE FIRST OF SPRING
There may be gardeners who can appear to be busy all the year round--doing even in the winter, their little bit under glass. But for myself I wait reverently until the 22nd of March is here. Then, Spring having officially arrived, I step out on to the lawn and summon my head-gardener.
"James," I say, "the winter is over at last. What have we got in that big brown-looking bed in the middle there?"
"Well, Sir," he says, "we don't seem to have anything do we, like?"
"Perhaps there's something down below that hasn't pushed through yet?"
"Maybe there is."
"I wish you knew more about it," I say angrily; "I want to bed out the macaroni there. Have we got a spare bed, with nothing going on underneath?"
"I don't know, Sir. Shall I dig 'em up and have a look?"
"Yes, perhaps you'd better," I say.
Between ourselves, James is a man of no initiative. He has to be told everything.
However mention of him brings me to my first rule for young gardeners--
"_Never sow Spring Onions and New Potatoes in the same bed._"
I did this by accident last year. The fact is, when the onions were given to me, I quite thought they were young daffodils; a mistake any one might make. Of course I don't generally keep daffodils and potatoes together; but James swore that the hard round things were tulip bulbs. It is perfectly useless to pay your head-gardener half-a-crown a week if he doesn't know the difference between potatoes and tulip bulbs. Well, anyhow, there they were, in the Herbaceous Border together, and they grew up side by side; the onions getting stronger every day, and the potatoes more sensitive. At last, just when they were ripe for picking, I found that the young onions had actually brought tears to the eyes of the potatoes--to such an extent that the latter were too damp for baking or roasting, and had to be mashed. Now, as everybody knows, mashed potatoes are beastly.
THE RHUBARB BORDER
gives me more trouble than all the rest of the garden. I started it a year ago with the idea of keeping the sun off the young carnations. It acted excellently, and the complexion of the flowers improved tenfold. Then one day I discovered James busily engaged in pulling up the rhubarb.
"What are you doing?" I cried. "Do you want the young carnations to go all brown?"
"I was going to send some in to the cook," he grumbled.
"To the cook! What do you mean? Rhubarb isn't a vegetable."
"No, it's a fruit."
I looked at James anxiously. He had a large hat on, and the sun couldn't have got to the back of his neck.
"My dear James," I said, "I don't pay you half-a-crown a week for being funny. Perhaps we had better make it two shillings in future."
However, he persisted in his theory that in the spring people stewed rhubarb in tarts, and ate it!
Well, I have discovered since that this is actually so. People really do grow it in their gardens, not with the idea of keeping the sun off the young carnations, but under the impression that it is a fruit. Consequently I have found it necessary to adopt a firm line with my friends' rhubarb. On arriving at any house for a visit, the first thing I say to my host is, "May I see your rhubarb bed? I have heard such a lot about it."
"By all means," he says, feeling rather flattered, and leads the way into the garden.
"What a glorious sunset," I say, pointing to the west.
"Isn't it?" he says, turning round; and then I surreptitiously drop a pint of weed-killer on the bed.
Next morning I get up early and paint the roots of the survivors with iodine.
Once my host, who for some reason had got up early too, discovered me.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Just painting the roots with