How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells,
And pretty maids all of a row.
NURSERY RHYME.
IT is a bright May day, and the home-garden at Ayr is as bright as the
season. Upon the fresh soft breeze the falling petals of the apple
blossoms sweep down, fluttering like snowflakes to the ground; and the
great pear tree trained against the wall is flushed to the extremity of
every bough, and has its leaves smothered in its wealth of bloom. By
the door here, in the sunshine, is the chair in which Alexander Muir
presides over his little flock of workers, and a book held open by his
spectacles still rests upon it; but the old man himself is not here.
Neither are the girls here, you would say at the first glance; but look
closer into the shady corners, and listen only five minutes--it is all
you need to discover your mistake. There are pleasant sounds in the
air; softened young voices and light-hearted laughter; and at the foot
of Uncle Sandy’s chair lies a heap of muslin, ballasted with stones,
to keep it safe and preserve it from being blown away; for Beatie and
her sisterhood are idle, extremely idle, and idle even, it must be
confessed, is Rose, the viceroy, to whom Uncle Sandy has delegated his
charge. They are whispering together, little groups of bright heads,
which here and there, the sunshine, stretching over the boughs of the
great plane tree, finds out and seizes on, tracing a single curl or
braid of hair with delicate gold, and throwing wavy shadows over brow
and face. They are dispersed in all the corners of the garden; but
here, leaning against the trunk of the plane tree, flushed with natural
gratification, confidential and yet dignified, stands Rose Muir, the
centre of the most important group.
Once these girls were little Rosie’s playmates; now, though Rose is not
proud, she feels no less than they do, that there is a difference, and
quite acquiesces when they call her Miss Rose, and are respectful as
well as friendly. She is standing, with a little of a patroness air,
listening while Mary Burness tells of Maggie Crawford’s “lad,” and
Maggie retaliates by a rumour that Mary is to be “cried” in the kirk
the very next Sabbath day. Rose laughs a little, blushes a little,
and looks so happy and light-hearted, that you perceive at once she
could not tell you why--but that there is some unconscious reason of
still greater might than the family good fortune which brings back the
natural joy so freshly to her heart.
By this open window you hear the sound of voices graver and less
youthful. Within, with her hand wandering among the old man’s
books, sits Martha Muir. Her other hand holds a piece of her
accustomed work, but it lies on her knee listlessly; and with the
unconsciousness of pre-occupation she turns over and over the books
upon the window-shelf--old familiar books, friends which nurtured and
strengthened her own youth--but her hand wanders over them as though
they were strangers, and she could not tell you what she looks at with
those fixed eyes.
“I hope it is all over, uncle,” said Martha, slowly; “I trust it
is--I trust it is. He has had hard lessons, many of them, and a great
and sudden deliverance. The news of it came to me like an angel from
heaven--for I felt that it might save Harry; and so, I hope, I trust it
will.”
“You hope, you trust? we all do that, Martha, my woman,” said the old
man, anxiously. “I never kent an evil-doing stranger yet that I would
not have given all the strength of my good wishes to; but, Martha, God
has given you a clearer judgment than many. What _think_ ye? what does
your ain mind decide as the most likely end?”
“God knows!” said Martha, solemnly. “I _think_ nothing, uncle; I only
trust and hope. I see no sin in him now--poor Harry! poor Harry! and
God send the evil may pass away like the fearful dream, I sometimes
believe it is. Do you mind him, uncle--do you mind the pure, grand
boy he was? Oh, my Harry! my poor Harry!--but I speak as if I was
despairing, when, indeed, I am full of hope,” said Martha, looking up
with a faint smile, through the unusual tears which only moistened her
dried eyelids, but did not fall.
The old man looked at her doubtfully, with serious and earnest anxiety.
She did not lift her eyes, neither did she seem inclined to say more;
but her hand went wandering, wandering, over the books she knew so
well, opening and closing them with such unconscious fingers, and mind
so intently preoccupied, that he shook his head as he turned away, with
a prayer, and a pang in his heart. For experience, alas! spoke to him
as it spoke to her--sadly, hopelessly; and with Martha he turned from
the subject, and would not _think_--would only trust and hope.
“And the other bairns,” said the old man, half questioning her, half
consoling himself, “the other bairns; they at least bring us nothing
but comfort.”
“Uncle,” said Martha, looking up with quick curiosity, “what brings
this Mr. Charteris to Ayr? what is his business here? We meet him
wherever we go; what does he want in your house or with us?”
“What is it ye say, Martha?”
Alexander Muir looked up with an awakened face, and glanced out through
the framework of leaves and blossoms round the window to where his
niece Rose stood under the great plane tree.
“Hush! look at them!” said Martha, grasping her uncle’s arm with her
hand, and bending forward eagerly, as if the gesture made her hear as
well as see.
There is a stranger in the garden, lingering beside the vacant chair
on the threshold, looking wistfully into the shaded corner, with its
waving boughs and pursuing sunshine. Just now they are talking rather
loud yonder, and laughing with unrestrained glee; and still it is
stories of courtship and mirthful wooing which are told to Rose, and
still she stands listening, well pleased, with smiles on her face,
and in her heart. Rose could not tell you what it is that makes her
step so light, her heart so free. It is something which touches duller
pleasures into life, and kindles them all with a touch of its passing
wing. But it has passed in the night this angel, when she only felt its
plumes, and heard its sweet unrecognised voice; and as yet she has not
seen the face of this new affection, nor blushes as she lifts her own,
frankly to all kindly eyes; yet with the greater zest she listens to
these girlish romances, and smiles, and asks questions--questions which
the blushing subject of the story does not always refuse to answer;
but just now the narrator has become rather loud, and there is a burst
of laughter which good Uncle Sandy would reprove from his window, if he
were not more seriously engaged.
Suddenly there falls a complete silence on the little group, broken
only after the first moment by an indistinct tittering of confusion and
bashfulness, as one by one they steal away, leaving Rose alone under
the plane tree--and the stranger advances at a singular pace, which
seems to be composed of two eager steps and one slow one, towards her,
as she stands, half-reluctant, with her head drooped and the light
stealing warmly over her cheek, waiting to receive him.
As he advances the colour rises on his forehead. It may be because
he is aware of some close scrutiny, but however that is, Cuthbert
Charteris, who can pass with the utmost coolness through every corner
of the Parliament House, and make his appearance before the Lords who
rule her Majesty’s Court of Session without a vestige of shyness, grows
very red and lets his glove fall, as he advances to this audience. And
the sympathetic Rose blushes too, and hangs down her head, and gives
her hand reluctantly, and wishes she were anywhere but here, seeing any
other person than Mr. Charteris. Why? For after all, there is nothing
formidable about the Edinburgh advocate, and he has been her brother’s
friend.
Martha’s hand again tightened on the old man’s arm; then it was slowly
withdrawn, and she sat still, looking at them earnestly--looking at
them in their fair youth, and with their fresh hopes round them, like a
saint’s encircling glory--so great a contrast to herself.
“Well, Martha, well,” said the old man, in a lighter tone, “well, my
woman--no doubt neither you nor me have anything to do with the like
of this; but it is good, like every ordinance of God. If Rosie, poor
thing, gets a good man, she’ll do well; and we need not be vexed for
that, Martha.”
“He is a gentleman, uncle, and not a rich one. They’ll want him to have
a rich wife,” said Martha.
“Be content--be content; one fear is over much to foster. We’ll have no
grief with Rosie,” said Uncle Sandy, cheerfully. “If he turns out well,
she’ll do well, Martha; but if he turns out ill, we must leave her now
to God’s good care and her ain judgment. And what could we have better
for her? But we need not leave them their lane, either. I will go and
see after the other bairns myself.”
So saying, the old man rose, and Martha lifted her work--but in a few
minutes it again dropped on her knee, and opening the window she bent
out, and suffered the pleasant air to bathe her forehead, and smoothe
out the wrinkles which care had engraven on it. “Take care of them,
take care of them!” said Martha, under her breath. “God help me! I
trust more in my own care than in His.”
“Ye’re aye idle--aye idle. Do they never come back to you in your
dreams the lees ye tell me, and the broken promises?” said Uncle Sandy.
“And Beatie, I had your faithful word that all that flower was to be
done before the morn.”
“Eh, but it was the gentleman,” said Beatie, with conscious guilt,
labouring at her muslin with great demonstration of industry.
“The gentleman! He came in himsel. He gave you no trouble,” said the
old man, shaking his head. “And you’ve been doing naething either,
Jessie Laing.”
“Eh! _me!_ I’ve weeded a’ the strawberry beds, though there’s naething
on them yet but the blossom,” said the accused, in discontent; “and
Mary, and Maggie, and the rest of them, telling Miss Rose about their
lads a’ the time--and naebody blamed but me!”
“Miss Rose has gotten a lad o’ her ain--eh! look at the gentleman!”
said another of the sisterhood, in an audible whisper.
For Rose had been playing with a sprig of fragrant lilac, which just
now, as she started at sight of her uncle, fell upon the path at
her foot; and, with a deferential bend, which every girl who saw it
took as a personal reverence to herself, and valued accordingly, Mr.
Charteris stooped to pick up the fallen blossom, and by and bye quite
unobtrusively placed it in his breast.
Uncle Sandy lifted his book, and seated himself, casting a glance
of good pleasure towards the plane tree, from which Rose was now
approaching the door. Not a girl of all those workers who did not
observe intently, and with an interest hardly less than her own “lad”
received from her, every look and motion of “the gentleman.” Not one
of them who would not have intrigued in his behalf with native skill
and perseverance, had any of the stock obstacles of romance stood in
Cuthbert’s way. It was pleasant to see the shy, smiling, blushing
interest with which they regarded the stranger and his Lady Rose;
something resembling the instinctive, half-pathetic tenderness with
which women comfort a bride; but with more glee in it than that.
By and bye, when these young labourers were gone, and the shadows were
falling over the garden, where little Lettie and Uncle Sandy’s maid
scattered pleasant sounds and laughter through the dim walks, as they
watered Uncle Sandy’s dearest flowers, Cuthbert Charteris unwillingly
rose from the dim seat by the window, whence he could just see Violet
at her self-chosen task, and said irresolutely that he must be gone.
The window was open. They had been sitting for some time silent, and
the wind, which blew in playfully, making a little riot now and then as
it lighted unexpectedly upon the fluttering pages of an open book, was
sweet with the breath of many glimmering hawthorns, and of that great
old lilac bush--a garden and inheritance in itself--which filled the
eastern corner, and hid the neighbouring house with its delicate leaves
and blossoms. Opposite to him, Cuthbert still saw the white hair of the
old man, and something of Martha’s figure withdrawn by his side; but
out of a pleasant darkness which his imagination filled very sweetly,
had come once or twice the voice of Rose. He could not see her, it had
grown so dark, nor could he do more than feel a little soft hand glide
into his, when he bade her good-night.
It had a singular charm, this darkness, and Cuthbert grasped the hand
firmly and closely before it drew itself away. Then he went out into
the soft summer night, with its sweet dews and sounds. A smile was on
his face, his very heart was wrapped in this same soft fragrant gloom,
and he went on unconsciously till he reached the river, and stood
there, looking down upon the gentle water, flowing graciously, with a
sweet ripple, under the pensive stars.
His hand upon his breast touched the lilac blossom. He drew it out to
look at it, and held it idly in his fingers, for his first thought
was to drop the fading flower into those pure cold waters, and let it
float away towards that sea which is the great symbol of all depths.
But Cuthbert’s second thought, more usual, if not more true, was to
restore the drooping blossom, and keep it, though it faded; and then,
making an effort to shake off the pleasant mystic darkness which hid
him from himself, Cuthbert Charteris roused his dreaming heart, and
asked what he did there.
What brought him here? The same question which Martha had put to her
uncle. No one saw Cuthbert blush; no one was witness to the conscious
smile which rose in spite of himself upon his lip. What brought him
here? In fact, the slightest possible piece of business, which, at any
other time, a letter might have managed; but, in truth--what was it,
Cuthbert?
And straightway the thoughts of Cuthbert Charteris plunged into a long,
discursive journey, calculating probabilities, prospects, necessities;
but through all wavered this conscious smile, and he felt the warm
flush on his face, and looked, as Rose had never looked upon her
passing angel, into the very eyes of the fairy guide who had led him
thither. The stars were dreaming in the sky, wrapped in soft radiant
mist, when he left the river-side. Like them, the young man’s-heart was
charmed. Not fervent enough for passion yet, nor manstrong as it would
be--charmed, fascinated, dreaming--a spell of magic over him, was this
new power--the earliest spring of a life which should weave itself yet
into the very strength of his.