There was space enough to ramble about in the gardens. Paths and beds
were alike overgrown with weeds, but some strong, early-blooming things
were fighting for life, refusing to be strangled. Against the beautiful
old red walls, over which age had stolen with a wonderful grey bloom,
venerable fruit trees were spread and nailed, and here and there showed
bloom, clumps of low-growing things sturdily advanced their yellowness
or whiteness, as if defying neglect. In one place a wall slanted and
threatened to fall, bearing its nectarine trees with it; in another
there was a gap so evidently not of to-day that the heap of its masonry
upon the border bed was already covered with greenery, and the roots of
the fruit tree it had supported had sent up strong, insistent shoots.
She passed down broad paths and narrow ones, sometimes walking under
trees, sometimes pushing her way between encroaching shrubs; she
descended delightful mossy and broken steps and came upon dilapidated
urns, in which weeds grew instead of flowers, and over which rampant but
lovely, savage little creepers clambered and clung.
In one of the walled kitchen gardens she came upon an elderly gardener
at work. At the sound of her approaching steps he glanced round and then
stood up, touching his forelock in respectful but startled salute.
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