Mr. Dix gardened in a sort of fury of enthusiasm; by Saturday it was possible to knock the balls about. Mr. Rochester investigated the fountain, attended to the gas-burners and the taps, and then very humbly asked whether he might try to get the paint oft the library. This kept him busy and kept him near: but he was careful not to be too near or too often. It was quite pleasant. By Monday Mr. Dix had an under-gardener of surly demeanour and flaming testimonials, and a boy who only opened his mouth once in the presence of Jane and Lucilla, and then he asked when the apples would be ripe. No candidate for the position of shop assistant had, however, presented herself. Nor had the cook advertisement brought a single answer.
The original beer-seeking charwoman, Mrs. Veale, having been found by Mr. Rochester and reinstated, Lucilla and Jane had to take it in turns to keep shop and to superintend her labours. Trade was brisk, for the time of roses was beginning, and the roses, though not of the finest shape and quite ineligible as show blooms, were yet plentiful, fresh, sweet, and eminently saleable. And the syringa was out, with its cheap, sweet mockery of bridal garlands. And there were lettuces to sell—and spring onions, but they were kept outside. And cabbage and celery and broccoli plants. And parsley for people who had cold beef. And mint for people who had lamb.
The house was gradually being cleaned and in the close inspection that the superintendence of such cleaning involved more charms were daily discovered. Jane and Lucilla, heroically reserving the best bedrooms for the paying guests, had chosen for their own two smaller rooms communicating by a door. The windows were not fifteen feet from a high, flat wall of clipped yew—at least, it ought to have been clipped, and would be next year: this year it was too late to do anything but admire the soft, vivid blue-green of its new shoots.
An animated discussion as to whether these chosen rooms must, or need not, this year at least, be re-papered led to the
