it with my eyes shut, but I didn’t. Mr. Timson’s heart was set on it as well as his head. An’ mine got to be. But I wasn’t even second or third under him—I was only one of a lot. He would have thought me fine an’ impident if I’d told him I’d got to know a good deal of what he knew—and had some bits of ideas of my own.”
“If you had men enough under you, and could order all you want,” Miss Vanderpoel said tentatively, “you know what the place should be, no doubt.”
“That I do, miss,” answered Kedgers, turning red with feeling. “Why, if the soil was well treated, anything would grow here. There’s situations for everything. There’s shade for things that wants it, and south aspects for things that won’t grow without the warmth of ‘em. Well, I’ve gone about many a day when I was low down in my mind and worked myself up to being cheerful by just planning where I could put things and what they’d look like. Liliums, now, I could grow them in masses from June to October.” He was becoming excited, like a war horse scenting battle from afar, and forgot himself. “The Lilium Giganteum—I don’t know whether you’ve ever seen one, miss—but if you did, it’d almost take your breath away. A Lilium that grows twelve feet high and more, and has a flower like a great snow-white trumpet, and the scent pouring out of it so that it floats for yards. There’s a place where I could grow them so that you’d come on them sudden, and you’d think they couldn’t be true.”
“Grow them, Kedgers, begin to grow them,” said Miss Vanderpoel. “I have never seen them—I must see them.”
Kedgers’ low, deprecatory chuckle made itself heard again,
“Perhaps I’m going too fast,” he said. “It would take a good bit of expense to do it, miss. A good bit.”
Then Miss Vanderpoel made—and she made it in the simplest matter-of-fact manner, too—the startling remark which, three hours later, all Stornham village had heard of. The most astounding part of the remark was that it was uttered as if there was nothing in it which was not the absolutely natural outcome of the circumstances of the case.
“Expense which is proper and necessary need not be considered,” she said. “Regular accounts will be kept and supervised, but you can have all that is required.”
Then it appeared that Kedgers almost became pale. Being a foreigner, perhaps she did not know how much she was implying when she said such a thing to a man who had never held a place like Timson’s.
“Miss,” he hesitated, even shamefacedly, because to suggest to such a fine-mannered, calm young lady that she might be ignorant, seemed perilously near impertinence. “Miss, did you mean you wanted only the Lilium Giganteum, or—or other things, as well.”
“I should like to see,” she answered him, “all that you see. I should like to hear more of it all, when we have time to talk it over. I understand we should need time to discuss plans.”
The quiet way she went on! Seeming to believe in him, almost as if he was Mr. Timson. The old feeling, born and fostered by the great head gardener’s rule, reasserted itself.
“It means more to work—and someone over them, miss,” he said. “If—if you had a man like Mr. Timson–-“
“You have not forgotten what you learned. With men enough under you it can be put into practice.”
“You mean you’d trust me, miss—same as if I was Mr. Timson?”
“Yes. If you ever feel the need of a man like Timson, no doubt we can find one. But you will not. You love the work too much.”
Then still standing in the sunshine, on the weed-grown path, she continued to talk to him. It revealed itself that she understood a good deal. As he was to assume heavier responsibilities, he was to receive higher wages. It was his experience which was to be considered, not his years. This was a new point of view. The mere propeller of wheelbarrows and digger of the soil—particularly after having been attacked by rheumatism—depreciates in value after youth is past. Kedgers knew that a Mr. Timson, with a regiment of under gardeners, and daily increasing knowledge of his profession, could continue to direct, though years rolled by. But to such fortune he had not dared to aspire.
One of the lodges might be put in order for him to live in. He might have the hothouses to put in order, too; he might have implements, plants, shrubs, even some of the newer books to consult. Kedgers’ brain reeled.
“You—think I am to be trusted, miss?” he said more than once. “You think it would be all right? I wasn’t even second or third under Mr. Timson—but—if I say it as shouldn’t—I never lost a chance of learning things. I was just mad about it. T’aint only Liliums—Lord, I know ‘em all, as if they were my own children born an’ bred—shrubs, coniferas, herbaceous borders that bloom in succession. My word! what you can do with just delphiniums an’ campanula an’ acquilegia an’ poppies, everyday things like them, that’ll grow in any cottage garden, an’ bulbs an’ annuals! Roses, miss—why, Mr. Timson had them in thickets—an’ carpets— an’ clambering over trees and tumbling over walls in sheets an’ torrents—just know their ways an’ what they want, an’ they’ll grow in a riot. But they want feeding—feeding. A rose is a gross feeder. Feed a Glory deejon, and watch over him, an’ he’ll cover a housetop an’ give you two bloomings.”
“I have never lived in an English garden. I should like to see this one at its best.”
Leaving her with salutes of abject gratitude, Kedgers moved away bewildered. What man could believe it true? At three or four yards’ distance he stopped and, turning, came back to touch his cap again.
“You understand, miss,” he said. “I wasn’t even second or third under Mr. Timson. I’m not deceiving you, am I, miss?”
“You are to be trusted,” said Miss Vanderpoel, “first because you love the things—and next because of Timson.”
CHAPTER XXII
ONE OF MR. VANDERPOEL’S LETTERS
Mr. Germen, the secretary of the great Mr. Vanderpoel, in arranging the neat stacks of letters preparatory to his chief’s entrance to his private room each morning, knowing where each should be placed, understood that such as were addressed in Miss Vanderpoel’s hand would be read before anything else. This had been the case even when she had just been placed in a French school, a tall, slim little girl, with immense demanding eyes, and a thick black plait of hair swinging between her straight, rather thin, shoulders. Between other financial potentates and their little girls, Mr. Germen knew that the oddly confidential relation which existed between these two was unusual. Her schoolgirl letters, it had been understood, should be given the first place on the stacks of envelopes each incoming ocean steamer brought in its mail bags. Since the beginning of her visit to her sister, Lady
