IN THE GARDEN.
Of the garden which had been the pride of many owners of the place, only
a small portion remained. It was strangely antique, haunted with a
beauty both old and wild, the sort of garden for the children of heaven
to play in when men sleep.
In a little arbor constructed by an old man who had seen the garden grow
less and less through successive generations, a tent of honeysuckle in a
cloak of sweet pease, sat George and Alexa, two highly respectable young
people, Scots of Scotland, like Jews of Judaea, well satisfied of their
own worthiness. How they found their talk interesting, I can scarce
think. I should have expected them to be driven by very dullness to
love-making; but the one was too prudent to initiate it, the other too
staid to entice it. Yet, people on the borders of love being on the
borders of poetry, they had got talking about a certain new poem,
concerning which George, having read several notices of it, had an
opinion to give.
“You should tell my father about it, George,” said Alexa; “he is the
best judge I know.”
She did not understand that it was a little more than the grammar of
poetry the school-master had ever given himself to understand. His best
criticism was to show phrase calling to phrase across gulfs of speech.
The little iron gate, whose hinges were almost gone with rust, creaked
and gnarred as it slowly opened to admit the approach of a young
countryman. He advanced with the long, slow, heavy step suggestive of
nailed shoes; but his hazel eye had an outlook like that of an eagle
from its eyrie, and seemed to dominate his being, originating rather
than directing its motions. He had a russet-colored face, much freckled;
hair so dark red as to be almost brown; a large, well-shaped nose; a
strong chin; and a mouth of sweetness whose smile was peculiarly its
own, having in it at once the mystery and the revelation of Andrew
Ingram. He took off his bonnet as he drew near, and held it as low as
his knee, while with something of the air of an old-fashioned courtier,
he stood waiting. His clothes, all but his coat, which was of some blue
stuff, and his Sunday one, were of a large-ribbed corduroy. For a moment
no one spoke. He colored a little, but kept silent, his eyes on the
lady.
“Good-morning, Andrew!” she said at length. “There was something, I
forget what, you were to call about! Remind me--will you?”
“I did not come before, ma'am, because I knew you were occupied. And
even now it does not greatly matter.”
“Oh, I remember!--the poem! I am very sorry, but I had so much to think
of that it went quite out of my mind.”
An expression half amused, half shy, without trace of mortification, for
an instant shadowed the young man's face.
“I wish you would let me have the lines again, ma'am! Indeed I should be
obliged to you!” he said.
“Well, I confess they might first be improved! I read them one evening
to my father, and he agreed with me that two or three of them were not
quite rhythmical. But he said it was a fair attempt, and for a
working-man very creditable.”
What Andrew was thinking, it would have been hard to gather from his
smile; but I believe it was that, if he had himself read the verses
aloud, the laird would have found no fault with their rhythm. His
carriage seemed more that of a patient, respectful amusement than
anything else.
Alexa rose, but resumed her seat, saying:
“As the poem is a religious one, there can be no harm in handing it you
on Sunday after church!--that is,” she added, meaningly, “if you will be
there!”
“Give it to Dawtie, if you please, ma'am,” replied Andrew.
“Ah!” rebuked Miss Fordyce, in a tone almost of rebuke.
“I seldom go to church, ma'am,” said Andrew, reddening a little, but
losing no sweetness from his smile.
“I understand as much! It is very wrong! _Why_ don't you?”
Andrew was silent.
“I wish you to tell me,” persisted Alexa, with a peremptoriness which
came of the school-master. She had known him too as a pupil of her
father's!
“If you will have it, ma'am, I not only learn nothing from Mr. Smith,
but I think much that he says is not true.”
“Still you ought to go for the sake of example.”
“Do wrong to make other people follow my example? Can that be to do
right?”
“_Wrong_ to go to church! What _do_ you mean? Wrong to pray with your
fellow-men?”
“Perhaps the hour may come, ma'am, when I shall be able to pray with my
fellow-men, even though the words they use seem addressed to a tyrant,
not to the Father of Jesus Christ. But at present I can not. I might
endure to hear Mr. Smith say evil things concerning God, but the evil
things he says to God make me quite unable to pray, and I feel like a
hypocrite!”
“Whatever you may think of Mr. Smith's doctrines, it is presumptuous to
set yourself up as too good to go to church.”
“I most bear the reproach, ma'am. I can not consent to be a hypocrite in
order to avoid being called one!”
Either Miss Fordyce had no answer to this, or did not choose to give
any. She was not troubled that Andrew would not go to church, but
offended at the unhesitating decision with which he set her counsel
aside. Andrew made her a respectful bow, turned away, put on his bonnet,
which he had held in his hand all the time, and passed through the
garden gate.
“Who is the fellow?” asked George, partaking sympathetically of his
companion's annoyance.
“He is Andrew Ingram, the son of a small farmer, one of my father's
tenants. He and his brother work with their father on the farm. They are
quite respectable people. Andrew is conceited, but has his good points.
He imagines himself a poet, and indeed his work has merit. The worst of
him is that he sets up for being better than other people.”
“Not an unusual fault with the self-educated!”
“He does go on educating himself, I believe, but he had a good start to
begin with. My father took much pains with him at school. He helped to
carry you here after the accident--and would have taken you to his
father's if I would have let him.”
George cast on her a look of gratitude.
“Thank you for keeping me,” he said. “But I wish I had taken some notice
of his kindness!”