Next morning brought a messenger with a note from Mr. Somers, and a quantity of lovely flowers. Of course, I read this note, which was written in a bold, black, determined sort of hand; it said— “Dear Mrs. Hayes, Dear Mrs. Hayes “I hope you are none the worse for yesterday’s excursion. I send you a few flowers. I remember how fond you were of them and your wonderful garden at Jam-Jam-More. I have ventured to tell my florist to supply you constantly. I am [61]very busy getting under weigh. I start the first thing to-morrow. Kind regards to Miss Hayes and yourself. [61] “Yours sincerely, “E. Somers. E. Somers “P.S.—I find I have some of the books you mentioned that you would like to read, and am sending them round to you.” The books (a huge parcel of the newest publications) duly arrived; most of them had never been cut! I’m afraid Mr. Somers stretched a point when he said he had them. Choice flowers recalled him to our minds three times a week, and it did not need the fragrant roses, carnations, and lilies to remind Emma of one Indian guest who had not forgotten her. The autumn went by without any incident, save that Emma’s strength and [62]spirits flagged. The memory of that day on the river had visited her for weeks; but what is one happy day out of three hundred and sixty-five—one swallow in a summer? [62] We were now at Stonebrook on her account. Her doctor had forbidden her to spend the winter season in town, and ordered her to Sussex; and although (as I have hinted) our locality and abode were not particularly exhilarating, still, I was by no means sorry to get away from London. [63] [63]
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