Yours gratefully, J.H.E.

TO MRS. JELF,

October 19, 1883.

DEAREST MARNY,

* * * * *

One bit more of egotism before I stop!

You know how I love my bit of garden!—­An admirer—­specially of “Laetus”—­whom I had never seen—­an Irishman—­and a Dorsetshire Parson. (But who had worked for over twenty years in the slums of London—­which it is supposed only the Salvation Army venture to touch!)—­

—­arrived here last Saturday with nineteen magnificent climbing roses, and has covered two sides of my house and the south wall of my garden!—­but one sunny corner has been kept sacred to Aunty’s Passion-flower, which is doing well—­and one for a rose Mrs. Walkinshaw has promised me.  He is a very silent Irishman—­a little alarming—­possibly from the rather brief, authoritative ways which men who have worked big parishes in big towns often get.  When Rex said to him, at luncheon—­“How did you who are a Rose Fancier and such a flower maniac—­LIVE all those years in such a part of London?” in rather a muttered sort of way he explained,

“Well, I had a friend a little out of town who had a garden, and his wife wanted flowers, and they knew nothing about it:  so I made a compact.  I provided the roses—­I made the soil—­I planted them—­and I used to go and prune them and look after them.  They were magnificent”.

“Oh, then you had flowers?”

“Well, I made a compact.  They never picked a rose on Saturday.  On Saturday night I used to go and clear the place.  I had roses over my church on Sundays—­and all Festivals.  The rest of the year his wife had them.”

It struck me as a most touching story—­for the man is Rose Maniac.  What a sight those roses must have been to the eyes of such a congregation!  The Church should have been dedicated to S. Dorothea!  He is of the most modest order of Paddies—­and as I say a little alarming.  I was appalled when I saw the hedge of the “finest-named” roses he brought, and it was very difficult to “give thanks” adequately!—­I said once—­“I really simply cannot tell you the pleasure you have given me.”  He said rather grumpily—­“You’ve given me pleasure enough—­and to lots of others.”  Then he suddenly chirped up and said—­“Laetus cost me 2s. 6d. though.  My wife bet me 2s. 6d. I couldn’t read it aloud without crying.  I thought I could.  But after a page or two—­I put my hand in my pocket—­I said—­There! take your half-crown, and let me cry comfortably when I want to!!!”

My dear, what a screed I have written to you!!

But your letter this morning was a pleasure.  There is something so nice in your getting the very hut where—­as I think—­“Old Father” first began to recover after Cyprus-fever.  I wish you had had F. to stride about the old lines also—­and knock his head against your door-tops!—­Best love to R., F., and the Queers—­