Part 15

In the particular region of Dorsetshire where Loki’s Great Aunt dwells there is quite a pretty house and grounds nearly always tenantless by reason of the pig-farm at the back. The farmer who kept the farm was amazed and indignant when one of the passenger tenants remonstrated with him and threatened him with the Sanitary Inspector. What if his pigs were noticeable? “Pigs ain’t pizen,” he said. I dare say, to him, by reason of associations with his bank account, they were sweeter than violets.

Personally we should never keep pigs for choice, no matter how interested we might be in farming. However we might insist on the spotless condition of their dwelling-place, however affectionately we might invite them to the frequent bath and rejoice at the clean pink of their skins, the horror of the moment of inevitable parting would always be before us.

A near relation of ours was the centre of a certain horrid little anecdote, likewise connected with pigs, that is nevertheless humorous enough. It happened in Dorset, in a picturesque manor-house, the walled gardens of which abut on a comely, prosperous farm. One April morning the air was rent with the agonizing clamours of protesting pigs; and she, whose tender heart suffered with the pain of every animal, was rent too with compassion.

“Oh, what,” she cried to her hostess, who was also her daughter, “what can Mr. Boyt be doing to the poor, poor pigs? Oh! Polly, I’m afraid he’s killing them!”

Polly was not at all sure in her own mind that this was not the case, but she was stout in asseverations to the contrary.

“Oh, dear no, darling; nobody ever kills pigs this time of year. They’re just cleaning out the sties, that’s all. You know what pigs are, darling.”

In spite of a fresh and most dismal explosion, her mendacity rose equal to the occasion; and her final statement, that she knew for a fact that pigs weren’t half fattened yet, produced the intended effect, and the dear visitor was convinced.

Later in the day when all was stilled once more, and the lovely April afternoon as full of country peace as it should be, the two went out and down the lane; the guest in a donkey-chair and her daughter by her side. To the latter’s discomfiture on their return they met the portly form of Mrs. Boyt, emerging from the walled garden with an empty egg-basket. Mrs. Polly was very anxious to skirmish the donkey-chair past with an ingratiating and nervous giggle; but neither the donkey nor the lady in the chair would fall in with her strategy. The lady in the chair had a liking for Mrs. Boyt, and was amused at the thought of a little chat with her; and the donkey, like all self-respecting donkeys, was bound in honour to stop dead when it was most wanted to advance. Perhaps, too, Mrs. Polly’s artfulness had aroused lingering suspicions, for the lady in the chair was very firm:

“Good evening, Mrs. Boyt. ‹No, Polly, it’s not cold at all. No, I’m not going in yet.› How is Mr. Boyt?”

“Mr. Boyt he be fairly, thanking you kindly, ’m. Of course he be a bit tired this evening.”

Mrs. Polly, with a wild eye, intervened.

“I’m afraid it’s tea-time, darling. H’m—H’m—A beautiful evening—Mrs. Boyt, my Mother was admiring the little calves—Come on, Bathsheba!”

In vain she clucked, in vain she pulled the reins; Bathsheba merely twitched an ear. The clear voice from the bath-chair put all efforts to turn the conversation on one side with a decision which swept her into silence.

“Tired? Did you say your husband was tired, Mrs. Boyt?”

“Yes’m. Pigs be very tiring.”

“Pigs, Mrs. Boyt?—Oh! what was he doing with the poor pigs this morning? He wasn’t—he wasn’t killing them?”

“Oh, ’ess ’m.” And, blind to the horror and disgust on her listener’s face, Mrs. Boyt proceeded with unction:

“Beautiful pigs they was, six of them.”

“Oh, but he didn’t do it himself?”

“Oh, ’ess ’m.” Mrs. Boyt was much shocked. “We allus do it ourselves, I do hold en, and Boyt he do stick en—very tiring it do be for us both!”

It was only Mrs. Polly who saw the humour of the situation in after days. The beloved lady in the bath-chair remained overwhelmed with the tragedy. It was not a subject that could be referred to again in her presence.

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XVII

How delightful it is to come back to our moors after London! Loki’s Grandmother’s heart always sinks when the bricks and mortar begin to spring up about the road, and the houses close in around her. Sometimes she thinks that what weighs upon it is the sense of all those miles of squalor; of all those hives of human misery; of all the sin and suffering. Perhaps, however, she is influenced by mere distaste of the crowd; displeasure in living one of a herd in a jostle of houses; the ignominy of being a number in a row with undesired neighbours on either side! Who would prefer to look on pavements, area railings and lamp-posts; to listen to the roar and turmoil of a life one has no ambition to share—a life vexing the peace of night and day, rather than feast the eyes on cool green loveliness, on rolling moorland; the ear on vast delicious silence or the choiring of windswept woods? How, in fact, can anyone who has the choice live in town, instead of in the fair, quiet, spacious country? One cannot feel one’s soul one’s own in London: bits of it are perpetually escaping to join the giddy midge dance. The individuality evaporates. But then—there are concerts, and Wagner’s operas; and one’s own select friends and the interest of the great intellectual movements! The splendid activities of life seem to pass one by in the country. Well, we suppose, like everything else in existence, one must take the see-saw as it comes, and accept the bumps for the sake of the soaring. But we are always glad to come back to Villino Loki.

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The discoveries one makes in the garden after ten days’ absence are thrilling. The three rows of Thomas More Tulips under the dining-room window are colouring to a glorious orange, and the Forget-me-nots planted between them are showing little sparks of blue. The tawny Wallflowers at the back are not all we could wish; but, even pinched as they are, the effect of their many velvet hues is satisfactory. There is a single row of double Tulips ‹Prince of Orange› at the edge of the bed, between the Forget-me-nots. In a week or so, looking up the terrace, there will be five lines of flame running gloriously out of the blue; a sight to delight the eye, against the curious bronze purple the moor wears just now.

The Scillas, which we thought were going to fail us, have been a tremendous success, and still form pools of glowing blue round the almond trees. Next year we intend to make a feature of Scillas. They are such tiny bulbs that they can scarcely interfere with anything; and we shall slip them in among the perennials in every corner, besides putting more in the grass terraces. We are also going to run riot with “Steeple-Jacks,” especially the light turquoise kind. They last an immense time and are of a delicious tint. The long border of Campanelle Jonquils that we have planted in what we call the “Bowling Green” are drawn up as for a review, stiff and straight like little soldiers in bright gold helmets. Next year we shall invest in three or four thousand Daffodils for the rough places under the trees, and we mean to star the banks with Primroses and Wild Violets.

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