mistressmaryquitecontrary

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*There is a stubborn weed, in the vicinity of a cluster of lilies o' the valley, that simply won't come up.

Mary scowls at it as she waits for Dickon to get there; she wants to root it up, but the roots are in so deep she's rather worried she'll pull out one of the lilies o' the valley along with it.*

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The sound of Dickon's whistling is familiar to Mary, by this point, and her frustrated scowl changes to a smile.

She keeps studying the weed, though; the arrival of friends is no reason to neglect a garden.

Dickon wouldn't expect her to get up from her work--whatever it is, she seems intent on it.

"Good mornin', Miss Mary." He comes around to where she's working, and hunkers down next to her.

"What's that tha's tendin' to?"

"It's a weed," Mary says, and turns her head to look at him. "I don't know why I did not notice it before, but the roots go in terribly deep."

Dickon nods, moving in closer to take a look.

"Weeds is like that, some o' the time. Hard t'find, an' then hard t'pull up without hurtin' the rest o' th' flowers."

"That is the trouble."

Mary frowns down at it.

"Would it hurt them so very much if it was left there? It is better than if it were pulled up, and the others came with it, isn't it?"

Dickon considers this, with a small, thoughtful frown of his own.

"Leavin' weeds among th' flowers is a bad practice t' start, Miss Mary, even if it's only one."

"I suppose," Mary agrees, with a sigh, and gives the weed another, half-hearted tug.

"And if I let it grow, it will only be harder to get out - but I wish it were just another few inches away from the flowers."

Dickon nods solemnly.

"Aye, 'tisn't nice t' think o' the flowers bein' hurt by pullin' it up--but there'll be harm if it stays there, too. 'Twill only be harder t' see at first."

"They all look well on top," Mary protests. "They are even blooming, look -"

She extends a hand, gently, to the blossoming bud on top of one of the lilies o' the valley.

Dickon shakes his head again.

"They looks well enow' for now, but if th' roots o' the weed get down far enow', they could wrap 'round the roots o' the flowers an' choke 'em."

Mary's eyes go round; she shoots the weed another, darker glance, and redoubles her efforts at tugging it out.

Dickon leaves her to it, watching calmly--he's not really consciously thinking of this as a lesson, but in a way, it is.

And all lessons worth learning come at a price--a fact that becomes apparant here when the weed comes up, but takes two lilies with it.

Mary stares at her lost lilies, for a long minute.

Finally, she says, stiff and quiet, "I shall not let a weed get that deep again."

Dickon lays a hand over hers, gently.

"Tha can't always avoid harmin' things, Miss Mary, even in gardenin'. Any gardener who's ever 'ad to cut a blighted limb off a tree could tell thee that."

"No," Mary says, and picks up her lilies, gently.

"But one can do better when one does things wrong. I did things wrong. I did not pay enough attention."

Dickon doesn't deny this. Mary's still learning about gardens, after all.

"But tha'll know, for next time. An' th' rest of th' lilies is well."

For now, at least. Eventually, there are always more weeds.

"For next time," Mary agrees, and begins toush at the dirt where the weed was, patiently filling the hole back in.

It's a few moments before she speaks again.

"There is a lady I met in the bar who wants to meet you."

Dickon looks up from where he's been feeding Shell a bit of nut from his trouser pocket.

"Aye?"

"She is nice," Mary says, earnestly; she would be smiling, were it not for the tragedy of a few minutes ago.

"Her name is Mrs. Rowlands. She gave me a shawl - and when I said that you and Martha were the only people from home who came to Milliways, she asked to meet you."

Dickon smiles.

"Tha'll have t' introduce me to 'er, then."

Mary gives a firm nod.

"The next time I see you both I shall."

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