"It is tea-time," said Tommy.
"Poor Miss Gerald," murmured Madge.
"She"s all right," replied Tommy, cheerfully. "I expect she"s jolly well enjoying herself."
As I pa.s.sed the poet"s gate I saw him pacing the lawn, and hailed him.
"Have you enjoyed the morning?" I asked.
He looked at me a little suspiciously.
"You haven"t seen the vicar?" he queried.
I shook my head.
"Yes," he observed. "Thomas and I have been bathed, I may say, in nature."
He waved his hand.
"I saw Tommy bathing," said I.
Again the poet looked at me sharply.
"Did you--did you have any converse with the boy?" he asked.
"Only a little. He seemed to be thoroughly happy."
The poet smiled.
"Ah! the message of Spring is hope, and happiness, and life," he said, "and Tommy is even now in Spring."
I bowed.
"I saw a dead rat floating down stream," I remarked, casually.
The poet gave me a dark glance, but my expression was innocent and frank.
"_In media vitae, sumus in morte_," he observed, sententiously, and walked back to the lawn.
As I turned away, I met the doctor hurrying home.
He greeted me pleasantly, but there was curiosity in his eyes.
"What"s the matter?" I asked, genially, for I felt I had scored one against the poet.
"Whatever has happened to your hair? It looks very clammy and streaky--and it"s hanging over your ears."
I crammed my hat on a little tighter.
"Nothing at all," I said, hurriedly. "It"s--it"s rather warm work, you know, walking in this weather."
But I could see he didn"t believe me.
"Seen Tommy?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Been fooling up the stream, I suppose?"
I coloured.
"No, of course not--er, that is, yes----Tommy has."
The doctor smiled.
"Good day, Mathews," he said.
And we parted.
Miss Gerald sat reading, on the bank.
V
IN WHICH APRIL IS MISTRESS
I have heard the song that the Spring-time sings In my journey over the hills, The wild _reveille_ of life, that rings To the broad sky over the hills: For the banners of Spring to the winds are spread, Her hosts on the plain overrun, And the front is led, where the earth gleams red, And the furze-bush flares to the sun.
I have seen the challenge of Spring-time flung To the wide world over the hills; I have marched its resolute ranks among, In my journey over the hills.
The strong young gra.s.s has carried the crest, And taken the vale by surprise, As it leapt from rest on the Winter"s breast To its conquest under the skies.
I have heard the secret of Spring-time told In a whisper over the hills, That life and love shall arise and hold Dominion over the hills Till the Summer, at length, shall awake from sleep, Warm-cheeked, on the wings of the day, Where the still streams creep, and the lanes lie deep, And the green boughs shadow the way.
"Four o"clock!" sang the church bells down the valley, as the poet stooped to cull an early blue-bell.
"Daring little blossom--why, your comrades are still sleeping," he said.
The blue-bell was silent, but all the tiny green leaves laughed, blowing cheekily in the sun.
"Poor, silly poet," they seemed to say, "why not wake up, like the blue-bell, from your land of dreams, and drink the real nectar--live for a day or two in a real, wild, glorious Spring?"
But the poet dreamed on, stringing his conceits heavily together, and with a knitted brow; for, somehow, the feet of the muse lagged tardily this April afternoon.