A Pretty Village Tale.
by Margaret E. Masefield.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #9 (Dec 1905).
How a woman's faith in human nature was restored.
Miss Tabitha Nutley's cottage stood by the village green. It was a real old-fashioned village, and the cottage was old-fashioned too, a tiny, red-roofed building, smothered with ivy and Virginia creeper. Miss Tabitha herself was to all outward appearance a prim, old fashioned maiden lady, who, as her neighbours said, "kept herself to herself," and it was whispered that she had seen better days.
She lived all alone, and was seldom seen outside her own garden except on Sundays, when she went regularly to church both morning and evening, clad in a gown of stiff black silk, of a fashion in vogue some forty years ago.
Miss Tabitha's garden was the pride and delight of her heart. She spent most of her time working in it, and it well repaid her patient care. Almost all the year round it presented a lovely sight, and passers-by would pause to gaze enviously at its beauties.
No one had ever been asked to enter that garden; alone Miss Tabitha planted and sowed, and alone she walked among her flowers and inhaled their fragrance, for all her old friends were either dead or far away, and she did not care to make new ones.
It was twenty years now since she had come to live at Thornbridge, and all that time she had lived a solitary life, lavishing her whole affection on her flowers. Her one dissipation had been the annual village flower show, when her best flowers invariably carried off several prizes.
Roses were her especial pride. Surely no other cottage garden ever produced such magnificent specimens. The prize for the "Best Collection of Six Cut Roses" had fallen to Miss Tabitha's share now for nine successive years, and it was the general opinion that no garden in the county could boast of such roses as hers. Although as a rule she took no notice whatever of the village children, looking upon them only as tiresome pullers of cherished blossoms and tramplers of flower-beds and turf, yet the day when Tony Inglis first went to school made a great change in her life.
Tony was a tiny boy of five, the youngest of a large family of big, rough children, and he seemed to be cast in a different mould from his brothers and sisters. He was the apple of his mother's eye, a delicate little creature, with big, wondering blue eyes. His brothers and sisters frightened him with their rough play, and, instead of joining in their noisy games, he would sit contentedly for hours playing with a handful of butter cups, or arranging a few prettily-coloured pebbles in intricate patterns on the doorstep. Tony's next sister, a chubby child of seven, who rejoiced in the name of Christabella, took him under her protection on the eventful day when he was to make his first entry into the world. The anxious mother stood at her cottage door, and watched them off to school, shading her eyes with her hand until they were fairly round the corner.
They were just outside Miss Nutley's garden gate on the way home when some friends tempted Christabella into a game on the green, and, during the play, Tony disappeared.
When the little boy found himself alone, his eye was immediately caught by the glowing colours of Miss Tabitha's flowers. With a cry of delight he pushed open the gate, and entered what seemed an earthly Paradise, and so it happened that Miss Tabitha, coming out of her porch, saw an astonishing sight.
Standing on tip-toe, gazing into the very heart of a huge red poppy, a good deal taller than himself, was a small and very ill-clad boy. His hands were clasped, and he was murmuring over and over to himself: "Pretty flower, pretty flower."
At this sight Miss Tabitha felt a great wave of sympathy break over her heart. Forgetting the rags and dirt which formed the outer shell of this kindred spirit, she stepped forward impulsively, and, breaking off the tall red poppy, she placed it in Tony's hand.
The child looked up into the worn and wrinkled old face. For once its hardness was softened into a gentle smile, and it seemed to Tony the kindest and most beautiful countenance he had ever seen.
Once more he uttered an admiring exclamation, but this time it was "Pretty lady! Pretty lady!" Miss Tabitha stooped down and kissed the happy but dirty little face.
It was certainly love at first sight on both sides, and as the two set off, hand in hand, to wander round the garden, they seemed to thoroughly understand each other.
Days grew into weeks, and weeks into months, and every day Tony presented himself at Miss Nutley's cottage directly after morning school. Every day he received the warmest of welcomes from the lonely old lady, and before he left her each morning she allowed him to choose a flower out of her garden to take home with him.
Sometimes she supplemented his scanty meals with a cake or an apple, nor did she stop there. It seemed, now that she had found something to care for, as if she could never do enough to prove her affection, and before long her love for Tony began to become quite a dangerous rival to her love for her garden. In the long summer evenings she stole several hours from the time she usually gave to working in it, and spent them in knitting Tony a little pair of warm red socks.
Day by day she listened in the porch for that patter of little feet up the garden path. This was fast becoming the sweetest music in the world to her, and every day she felt she loved more and more dearly the curly-headed child who looked up so lovingly in her face, and talked to her so confidingly.
As autumn drew on, and the days grew shorter and colder, Miss Tabitha's heart was saddened by the sound of a cough which Tony seemed unable to shake off, and she noticed how little protection his tattered clothes were against the bitter wind.
October came, and with it the time for buying bulbs to make her garden sweet and beautiful with early flowers in the spring.
Miss Tabitha sat one evening puckering her brows thoughtfully over a seedsman's catalogue. But to-night she was not wondering, as had been the case in former years, how many bulbs she could manage to buy with her small savings, but how many she could do without, so that she could spend the rest of the money on a pair of strong boots for Tony, and wool to make him some warm garments for the coming winter. Last year's list lay on the table before her. Miss Tabitha took it up, made a few alterations in it after consulting the catalogue, and then, gripping her pen resolutely, wrote an order to the seedsman in which she requested exactly half the number of bulbs that she had ordered the previous autumn.
A few weeks later she had the joy of placing in Tony's hands a big parcel of warm clothing, and her heart would have been still further gladdened if she could have heard poor Mrs. Inglis rejoicing over her gift that evening, and calling down blessings on the head of Tony's benefactress.
Once more it was summer—the time of roses, and all other flowers had to fade into the background. Miss Tabitha was already thinking anxiously of her prize for the six cut roses. She must win it for this tenth summer, and she hoped to win it with an even better collection than usual.
This spring she had bought a new rose tree, a plant of the delicate "William Allen Richardson," which she had never grown before, and she did not believe she had ever seen one of its blossoms at the local flower show.
But the question was, would it bloom in time? Would Miss Tabitha have one of its creamy-orange flowers to be the loveliest among her six lovely roses?
One June evening, to her great delight, she discovered a bud among the dark green leaves. After that there was scarcely an hour in which she did not visit the rose-tree to watch its progress. First thing in the morning and last thing at night her uppermost thought was the precious bud. Never was the coming of a flower more closely watched.
At last the lovely colour of the petals showed itself—and in two more days the flower show was to be held. Two more days of June sunshine! There was just time for the rose to come to its full perfection. What admiration it would receive at the show! That night Miss Tabitha slept the sweet sleep of the perfectly happy.
Next morning she rose early, for she had much to do. After running out for one peep at the rose—yes, it was quite half-open this morning—she had her breakfast, and set the house in order, for she was going to the market town for a day's shopping. This, like the flower show, was an annual institution. To-day a new bonnet was to be purchased for the great occasion.
On leaving the house, she locked the door, and was just putting the key in her pocket when she suddenly remembered Tony! Her conscience reproached her for having forgotten him in her selfish excitement over the rose and her new bonnet.
She returned to the house, and, getting some cake from the cupboard, put it in the porch, where she knew Tony would look for it. Then she set off on her journey.
At five minutes past twelve Tony trotted up the garden path as usual. Like most children, he was in the habit of taking things as he found them, and not worrying much if anything unusual happened, so he sat down in the porch and ate his cake very happily, without appearing to notice Miss Tabitha's absence. Then he slipped off the seat, and started on a voyage of discovery round the garden.
First he went to look at the precious "William Allen Richardson." Tony knew all about that rose. He and Miss Tabitha had held long conversations about it, and his dear "lady" had explained to him how she hoped when it was fully out it would win the prize at the flower show, and Tony's anxiety about the rose was quite as great as Miss Tabitha's own. Miss Tabitha, too, had promised to take him to the show. There hung the rose, just a little above his head. Tony gazed at it with great delight. Suddenly he was seized with an irresistible desire to smell it.
He pulled it slowly down towards him. Then–Tony never quite knew how it happened—all of a sudden the branch leapt up into the air and straightened itself with a jerk, while the rose, Miss Tabitha's own precious rose, remained in Tony's trembling fingers.
For a moment Tony felt as if the world had come to an end. He did not cry, but he turned quite white, and could not even think. After a few minutes, however, his senses returned to him, and he racked his poor little brains, wondering what was to be done.
At last he decided that the best plan was to take the poor half-open flower home with him, and put it in a glass of water, hoping it would come out there, and then he would tell Miss Tabitha all about it on his way to school to-morrow morning.
And he would tell her, too, how sorry he was, and that he had never meant to do such a dreadful thing. But, of course, Miss Tabitha would never think he had meant to, for she knew he loved the rose just as much as she did herself. Feeling almost happy again, he trotted home, holding his precious burden carefully in both hands.
Miss Tabitha returned about six o'clock, satisfied with her day's shopping and thinking of the success she meant to attain at the show.
Before she unlocked the door she put down her parcels in the porch and went to the sheltered corner where the "William Allen Richardson" grew. A happy smile of anticipation broke over the worn old face as she trod the little path. How much more beauty the day's warm sunshine would have brought out in her lovely rose!
Her eye fell on the cherished plant, and for a moment she stood as if turned to stone. She could not believe the evidence of her own eyes. Then a cold shiver ran through her, and she felt hard and miserable. All the light and colour seemed to have suddenly vanished from around her.
Another moment passed—and then it flashed upon her brain who it was that had done her this cruel wrong. Passionate anger took possession of her. Was there no gratitude, then, in all the world! She had loved and trusted this child, had heaped kindnesses upon him, and this was the way in which he had repaid her! Never, never would she trust anyone again!
Miss Tabitha's wrath spent itself at last. Bending down, she noted grimly the newly made marks of little feet in the earth around the roots of the rose-tree. White and shaking she crept into the house, and betook herself miserably to bed.
The next morning Tony arrived at the green gate earlier than usual. The little boy was quite happy again, for the rose had taken no harm whatever, and was coming out beautifully in a glass of water in the back kitchen at home.
He pushed at the little gate as usual, but it would not open. There was a heavy padlock on the inside, and the cottage door was shut. No sign of Miss Tabitha was to be seen.
Tony did not know what to do. Two big tears came into his eyes, and rolled slowly down his cheeks, and then the school bell rang, and he had to pick up his satchel and run off.
After school he flew to the gate again. Surely it would be open now, at his own time for visiting Miss Tabitha? But, alas, the gate was still locked. In the distance, at the far side of the garden, he could see Miss Tabitha, bending over a flower-bed which she was weeding. Eagerly Tony raised himself on tip-toe, peeped over the top of the gate, and cried out: "Lady! Lady!"
Miss Tabitha did not look round. She had made up her mind not to see the child again. She would listen to no excuses from him. She would try to forget that he existed.
So poor little Tony heard these awful words—
"Antony Inglis, you are a wicked, ungrateful little boy. Go away from my gate, and never come near my garden again. It is no use your speaking to me any more. I never wish to see you again."
And Miss Tabitha gathered up her garden tools, walked into the cottage, and shut the door before Tony could utter a sound.
Now, Tony's cup of misery was full to overflowing. Never to enter the dear, lovely garden again—it was a terrible blow, but yet it was nothing to him compared with his present distress for his dear lady. How was he to let her know that her rose, her dear, beautiful, lovely rose, was still perfectly fresh, more beautiful than ever, and quite ready for to-morrow's show! He went home feeling very crestfallen.
Thornbridge Flower Show was always a popular function, and this year it was even better attended than usual. Among the exhibits were some which elicited great admiration from all the visitors, and this was especially the case in the section for cut roses. These were not to be judged until late in the afternoon, for an expert was coming to judge them who could not arrive earlier.
In the middle of the afternoon, Miss Tabitha stalked grimly into the rose tent. It was almost empty, for nearly everyone had gone to the refreshment tent for tea. She went up to one of the stands. Several of the sets of "Six Cut Roses" were very lovely, and Miss Tabitha found her own among them, for she had sent in her collection, though robbed of its chief glory.
Five of her roses were really splendid specimens, but the sixth, the make-shift, had had to be of quite a common kind, and Miss Tabitha realised with a fresh pang that her collection would have no chance of the prize, although, if its lost glory had been there, the matter would have been very different. Miss Tabitha sighed, and, crossing the tent, sat down on a bench in a retired corner to rest.
She had sat quietly there for a few minutes when she heard a strange rustling sound, and a moment later two small figures emerged from beneath the stand of cut roses. Miss Tabitha did not move. Utterly astonished, she recognised in them Tony and his sister Christabella.
Christabella crept along the front of the stand, spelling out the names of the exhibitors on the labels, but Tony did not need any such help. He recognised Miss Tabitha's roses, the five beauties which he had helped to choose for the show, and he went straight to them.
Miss Tabitha rose from her seat and watched him intently. He drew the sixth rose from its place, and then from a little box he was carrying he took another rose. Miss Tabitha came up behind on tip-toe—yes, it was her cherished lost one. Tony slipped it into the green tin beside its five destined companions, and then both children clapped their hands softly.
"Bella," said Tony solemnly, "my lady will get the prize. There isn't another rose like this in all the tent!"
"Tony," came in trembling tones from behind them, making both children start, "Tony, my dear little boy."
And, to Tony's utter astonishment, he suddenly found Miss Tabitha's arms around him, while the old lady knelt on the grass, and great tears ran down her withered cheeks.
There came a noise at the door. The judge was entering, and Miss Tabitha slipped out, drawing the two children with her. They had a quiet little time for explanations, and half-an-hour later Miss Tabitha learnt that the prize for cut roses had been awarded to her. Happy though Miss Tabitha was over her prize, her heart was rejoicing far more over having regained her dear little friend, and with him her faith in human love.
No happier trio could have been found in the country that afternoon than Miss Tabitha, Tony, and Christabella, as they sampled all the delights of the flower-show, and when they parted at last at Miss Tabitha's gate, the children's arms were full of toys, sweets, and other good things.
Miss Tabitha watched them as they trotted down the lane, hand in hand, and then she turned and went into her cottage. That night, between the pages of her Bible she pressed the "William Allen Richardson" rose.