The Holiday Round Part 64

"Well, it all makes me appreciate the country properly. I wish I knew more about gardens. Tell me all about yours. When are the raspberries ripe?"

"Not till the end of June."

"I was afraid you'd say that. May I come down and see your garden at the end of June--one day when I'm not at Earl's Court? You can give all the gardeners a holiday that day. I hate to be watched when I'm looking at flowers and things."

"Are you as fond of raspberries as all that? Why didn't I know?"

"I'm not a bit mad about them, really, but they're a symbol of Summer. On a sloshy day in November, as I grope my way through the fog, I say to myself, 'Courage, the raspberries will soon be ripe.'"

"But that means that summer is half over. The cuckoo is what I'm listening for all through November. I heard it in April this year."

I looked round to see that n.o.body was within earshot.

"I haven't heard it yet," I confessed. "It wasn't really so much to see the lobretias as to hear the cuckoo that I came to have tea with you. I feel just the same about it; it's the beginning of everything. And I said to myself, 'Miss Middleton may not have a first-rate show of lobretias, because possibly it is an unfavourable soil for them, or they may not fit in with the colour scheme; but she does know what is essential to a proper garden, and she'll have a cuckoo.'"

"Yes, we do ourselves very well," said Miss Middleton confidently.

"Well, I didn't like to say anything about it before, because I thought it might make you nervous, and so I've been talking of other things. But now that the secret is out, I may say that I am quite ready." I stopped and listened intently with my head on one side.

There was an appalling silence.

"I don't seem to hear it," I said at last.

"But _I_ haven't heard it here yet," Miss Middleton protested. "It was in Hampshire. The cuckoos here are always a bit late. You see, our garden takes a little finding. It isn't so well known in--in Africa, or wherever they come from--as Hampshire."

"Yes, but when I've come down specially to hear it--"

"CUCK-OO," said Miss Middleton suddenly, and looked very innocent.

"There, that was the nightingale, but it's the cuckoo I really want to hear."

"I AM sorry about it. If you like, I'll listen to you while you tell me who you think ought to play for England. I can't make it more summery for you than that. Unless roses are any good?"

"No, don't bother," I said in some disappointment; "you've done your best. We can't all have cuckoos any more than we can all have lobretias. I must come again in August, when one of the pioneers may have struggled here. Of course in Hampshire--"

"CUCK-OO," said somebody from the apple tree.

"There!" cried Miss Middleton.

"That's much better," I said. "Now make it come from the laburnum, Lieutenant."

"I'm not doing it, really!" she said. "At least only the first time."

"CUCK-OO," said somebody from the apple tree again.

There was no doubt about it. I let my deck-chair down a rung and prepared to welcome the summer.

"Now," I said, "we're off."

EPILOGUE

You may believe this or not as you like. Personally I don't know what to think. It happened on the first day of spring (do you remember it? A wonderful day), and on the first of spring all sorts of enchantments may happen.

I was writing my weekly story: one of those things with a He and a She in it. He was Reginald, a fine figure of a man. She was Dorothy, rather a dear. I was beginning in a roundabout sort of way with the weather, and the scenery, and the birds, and how Reginald was thinking of the spring, and how his young fancy was lightly turning to thoughts of love, when suddenly--

At that moment I was called out of the room to speak to the housekeeper about something. In three minutes I was back again; and I had just dipped my pen in the ink, when there came a cough from the direction of the sofa--and there, as cool as you please, were sitting two persons entirely unknown to me....

"I beg your pardon," I said. "The housekeeper never told me. Whom have I the--what did you--"

"Thanks," said the man. "I'm Reginald."

"Are you really?" I cried. "Jove, I AM glad to see you. I was just--just thinking of you. How are you?"

"I'm sick of it," said Reginald.

"Sick of what?"

"Of being accepted by Dorothy."

I turned to the girl.

"You don't mean to say--"

"Yes; I'm Dorothy. I'm sick of it too."

"Dorothy!" I cried. "By the way, let me introduce you. Reginald, this is Dorothy. She's sick of it too."

"Thanks," said Reginald coldly. "We have met before."

"Surely not. Just let me look a moment.... No, I thought not. You don't meet till the next paragraph. If you wouldn't mind taking a seat, I shan't be a moment."

Reginald stood up.

"Look here," he said. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're just Reginald," I said; "and there's no need to stand about looking so dignified, because I only thought of you ten minutes ago, and if you're not careful I shall change your name to Harold. You're Reginald, and you're going to meet Dorothy in the next paragraph, and you'll flirt with her mildly for about two columns. And at the end, I expect--no, I am almost sure, that you will propose and be accepted."

"Never," said Reginald angrily.