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A quiet, sunny nook
in the hollow it is, this square old garden with its gravelled walks and
high stone walls; a sheltered retreat left peaceful here, under the
overhanging woods, when the stream of the world’s traffic turned off into
another channel. The grey stone house, separated from the garden by a
thick privet hedge and moss-grown court, is the last dwelling at this end
of the quiet market-town, and, with its slate roof and substantial double
story, is of a class greatly superior to its neighbours, whose warm red
tiles are just visible over the walls. It stands where the old road to
Edinburgh dipped to cross a little stream, and, in the bygone driving
days, the stage-coach, after rattling out of the town and down the steep
road here, between the white, tile-roofed houses, when it crossed the
bridge opposite the door, began to ascend through deep, embowering woods.
But a more direct highway to the capital was opened many a year ago: just
beyond the bridge, a wall was built across the road; and the grey house
with its garden was left secluded in the sunny hollow. The rapid crescendo
of the coach-guard’s horn no longer wakens the echoes of the place, and
the striking of the clock every hour in the town steeple is the only sound
that reaches the spot from the outside world.
The hot sun beats on the
garden here all day, from the hour in the morning when it gets above the
grand old beeches of the wood till it sets away beyond the steeple of the
town. But in the hottest hours it is always refreshing to look, over the
weather-stained tiles of the long low toolhouse, at the mossy green of the
hill that rises there, cool and shaded, under the trees. Now and then a
bull, of the herd that feeds in the glades of the wood, comes down that
shaded bank, whisking his tawny sides with an angry tail to keep off the
pestering flies, and his deep bellow reverberates in the hollow. In the
early morning, too, before the dewy freshness has left the air, the sweet
mellow pipe of the mavis and the fuller notes of the blackbird float
across from these green depths, and ever and again throughout the day the
clear whistle of some chaffinch comes from behind the leaves.
Standing among the deep box
edgings and gravelled paths, it is not difficult to recall the place’s
glory of forty years ago—the glory upon which these ancient plum-trees,
blossoming yet against the sunny walls, looked down. To the eye of Thought
time and space obstruct no clouds, and in the atmosphere of Memory the
gardens of the Past bloom for us always.
Forty years ago! It is the
day of the fashion for Dutch bulbs, when fabulous prices were paid for an
unusually "fancy" specimen, and in this garden some of the finest of them
are grown. The tulips are in flower, and the long narrow beds which, with
scant space between, fill the entire middle of the garden are ablaze with
the glory of their bloom. Queenly flowers they are and tall, each one with
a gentle pedigree—for nothing common or unknown has entrance here—and
crimson, white, and yellow, the velvet petals of some almost black,
striped with rare and exquisite markings, they raise to the sun their
large chaste chalices. The perfection of shape is theirs as they rise from
the midst of their green, lance-like leaves; no amorous breeze ever
invades the spot to dishevel their array or filch their treasures; and the
precious golden dust lies in the deep heart of each, untouched as yet save
by the sunshine and the bee. When the noonday heat becomes too strong,
awnings will be spread above the beds; for with the fierce glare, the
petals would open out and the pollen fall before the delicate task of
crossing had been done.
But see! through the gate
in the privet hedge there enters as fair a sight. Ladies in creamy
flowered muslins and soft Indian silks, shading their eyes from the sun
with tiny parasols, pink and white and green—grand dames of the county,
and grander from a distance; gentlemen in blue swallow-tailed coats and
white pantaloons—gallants escorting their ladies, and connoisseurs to
examine the flowers—all, conducted by the owner, list-book in hand,
advance into the garden and move along the beds. To that owner—an old man
with white hair, clear grey eyes, and the memory of their youthful red
remaining in his cheeks—this is the gala time of the year. Next month the
beds of ranunculus will bloom, and pinks and carnations will follow; but
the tulips are his most famous flowers, and, for the few days while they
are in perfection, he leads about, with his old-world courtesy, replying
to a question here, giving a name or a pedigree there, a constant
succession of visitors. These are his hours of triumph. For eleven months
he has gone about his beloved pursuit, mixing loams and leaf-moulds and
earths, sorting, drying, and planting the bulbs, and tending their growth
with his own hand—for to whose, else, could he trust the work?—and now his
toil has blossomed, and its worth is acknowledged. Plants envied by peers,
plants not to be bought, are there, and he looks into the heart of each
tenderly, for he knows it a child of his own.
Presently he leads his
visitors back into the house, across the mossy stones of the court where,
under glass frames, thousands of auricula have just passed their bloom,
and up the outside stair to the sunny door in the house-side. He leads
them into the shady dining-room, with its furniture of dark old bees-waxed
mahogany, where there is a slight refreshment of wine and cake—rare old
Madeira, and cake, rich with eggs and Indian spice, made by his daughter’s
own hand. Jars and glasses are filled with sweet-smelling flowers, and the
breath of the new-blown summer comes in through the open doors.
The warm sunlight through
the brown linen blind finds its way across the room and falls with subdued
radiance on the middle picture on the opposite wall. The dark eyes, bright
cheeks, and cherry mouth were those of the old man’s wife—the wife of his
youth. She died while the smile was yet on her lip and the tear of
sympathy in her eye; for she was the friend of all, and remains yet a
tender memory among the neighbouring poor. The old man is never seen to
look upon that picture; but on Sundays for hours he sits in reverie by his
open Bible here in the room alone. In a velvet case in the corner press
lies a silver medal. It was pinned to his breast by the Third George on a
great day at Windsor long ago. For the old man, peacefully ending his
years here among the flowers, in his youth served the king and fought, as
a naval officer, through the French and Spanish wars. As he goes quietly
about, alone, among his garden beds, perchance he hears again sometimes
the hoarse word of command, the quick tread of the men, and the deep roar
of the heavy guns, as his ship goes into action. The smoke of these
battles rolled leeward long ago, and their glory and their wounds are
alike forgotten. In that press, too, lies the wonderful ebony flute, with
its marvellous confusion of silver keys, upon which he used to take
pleasure in recalling the stirring airs of the fleet. It has played its
last tune; the keys are untouched now, and it is laid past, warped by age,
to be fingered by its old master no more.
But his guests rise to
leave, and, receiving with antique grace their courtly acknowledgments, he
attends the ladies across the stone-paved hall to their carriages.
Forty years ago! The old
man since then has himself been carried across that hall to his long home,
and no more do grand dames visit the high-walled garden. But the trees
whisper yet above it; the warmth of summer beats on the gravelled walks;
and the flowers, lovely as of old in their immortal youth, still open
their stainless petals to the sun. |
