GARDEN FANCIES
Miss Vesta was trimming her lamp. That meant, in this early summer
season, that it was after seven o'clock. The little lady stood at the
window in the upper hall. It was a broad window, with a low round arch,
looking out on the garden and the sea beyond it. A bracket was fastened
to the sill, and on this bracket stood the lamp that Miss Vesta was
trimming. (It was against all fitness, as Miss Phoebe said, that a lamp
should be trimmed at this hour. Every other lamp in the house was in
perfect order by nine o'clock in the morning; but it was Miss Vesta's
fancy to trim this lamp in the evening, and Miss Phoebe made a point of
indulging her sister's fancies when she conscientiously could.)
It was a brass lamp of quaint pattern, and the brass shone so that
several Miss Vestas, with faces curiously distorted, looked out at the
real one, as she daintily brushed off the burnt wicking, and, after
filling and lighting the lamp, replaced the brilliantly polished
chimney. She watched the flame as it crept along the wick; then, when
it burned steady and clear, she folded her hands with a little
contented gesture, and looked out of the window.
The sun had set. The sea on which Miss Vesta looked was a water of
gold, shimmering here and there into opal; only where it broke on the
shingle at the garden foot, the water was its usual colour of a
chrysophrase, with a rim of ivory where it touched the shore. The
window was open, and a light breeze blew from the water; blew across
the garden, and brought with it scents of lilac, syringa, and June
roses. It was a pleasant hour, and Miss Vesta was well content. She
liked even better the later evening, when the glow would fade from the
west, and her lamp would shed its own path of gold across the water;
but this was pleasant enough.
"It is a very sightly evening!" said Miss Vesta, in the soft half-voice
in which she often talked to herself. "Good Lord, I beseech thee,
protect all souls at sea this night; for Jesus Christ's sake; amen!"
This was the prayer that Miss Vesta had offered every evening for
thirty years. As often as she repeated it, the sea before her eyes
changed, and she saw a stretch of black tossing water, with foam-crests
that the lightning turned to pale fire; a sail drove across her window,
dipped, and disappeared. Miss Vesta closed her eyes.
But as the old doctor said, people do not mourn for thirty years; when
she opened her eyes, they were grave, but serene. "It is a very sightly
evening!" she repeated. She leaned out of the window, and drew in long
breaths of sweetness. Presently the sweetness was crossed by a whiff of
a different fragrance, pungent, aromatic,--the fragrance of tobacco.
Doctor Strong was smoking his evening cigar in the garden. He would not
have thought of smoking in the house, even if Miss Phoebe would have
allowed it; he smoked as he rode on his morning round, and he took his
evening cigar, as now, in the garden. Miss Vesta saw him now, in the
growing dusk, striding up and down; not hastily, but with energy and
determination in every stride. Her eyes dwelt upon him affectionately;
she had grown very fond of him. It was delightful to her to have this
young, vigorous creature in the house, fairly electric with life and
joy and strength; she felt younger every time she saw him. He was good
to look at, too, though no one would have called him a beauty. Tall and
well-made, his head properly set on shoulders that were perhaps the
least bit too square; his fair hair cropped close, in hope of
destroying the curl that would still creep into it in spite of him; his
hazel eyes as bright as eyes could be, his skin healthy red and
brown,--yes, the young doctor was good to look at. So Miss Vesta
thought. There was a little look, too--it could hardly be called a
resemblance--yet he reminded her somehow--Miss Vesta's face changed
from a white to a pink rose, and she said, softly, "If I had had a son,
he might have looked like this. The Lord be with him and give him
grace!"
As Miss Vesta watched him, Geoffrey Strong stopped to examine something
in one of the borders; stooped, hands on knees, and scrutinised a
certain plant; then, glancing upward as he straightened himself, saw
Miss Vesta at the window looking down at him.
"Hurrah!" he cried. "Come down, Miss Vesta, won't you, please? you are
the very person I want. I want to show you something."
"Surely!" said Miss Vesta. "I will be with you in a moment, Doctor
Strong; only let me get a head-covering from my room."
When she had left the window, Geoffrey was almost sorry he had called
her; she made such a pretty picture standing there, framed in the broad
window, the evening light falling softly on her soft face and silver
hair. It was so nice of her to wear white in the evening! Why didn't
old ladies always wear white? when they were pretty, he added,
reflecting that Miss Phoebe in white would be an alarming vision. His
mind still on Miss Vesta, he quoted half aloud:
"A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face,
And slightly nonchalant,
Which seems to hold a middle place
Between one's love and aunt."
"I wish you were my aunt!" he exclaimed, abruptly, when Miss Vesta
appeared a few minutes later, with a screen of delicate white wool over
her head and shoulders.
"Is that what you wished to say to me?" asked Miss Vesta, somewhat
bewildered.
"No! oh, no! I was only thinking what a perfect aunt you would make.
No, I wanted to show you something; a line out of Browning, illustrated
in life; one of my favourite lines. See here, Miss Vesta!"
Miss Vesta looked.
"I see nothing," she began. "Oh, yes, a miller! Is that it, Doctor
Strong? Quite a curious miller. The study of insect life is no doubt--"
"A moth! don't you see?" cried the young doctor. "On the phlox, the
white phlox."
"'And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.'"
"Don't you remember, in the 'Garden Fancies?'"
But Miss Vesta did not remember.
Didn't she know Browning?
She confessed that she did not. She had fancied that he was not
quite--she hardly thought that ladies did read his works to any extent.
"Cowper was my favourite poet in my youth," she said, "and I was very
fond of Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Barbauld. Their poetry is at once elegant
and elevated in tone and spirit. I hope you agree with me, Doctor
Strong?"
"I don't know!" said Geoffrey, "I never read 'em. But Shelley, Miss
Vesta! you love Shelley, I'm sure? He would have loved you so, you
know."
Miss Vesta's quiet face showed a little trouble. "Mr. Shelley's
poetry," she said, hesitatingly, "is very beautiful. He was--some one I
once knew was devoted to Mr. Shelley's poetry. He--used to read it to
me. But Sister Phoebe thought Mr. Shelley's religious views
were--a--not what one would wish, and she objected to my following the
study."
"He wrote about moths, too," said Geoffrey, abstractedly. "The desire
of the moth for the star, you know. Those things make you feel queer
when they come to you out here, with all these lights and dusks and
smells. Now I wonder why!"
Miss Vesta looked at him kindly. "Perhaps there is some tender
association," she said, gently, "such as is natural at your age, my
dear young friend."
"Not an association!" said Geoffrey, stoutly. "Never had one in my
life. It's only in a general way. These things stir one up, somehow;
it's a form of mental intoxication. Do you think a man could get drunk
on sunset and phlox, Miss Vesta?"
"Oh, I trust not, I trust not!" said Miss Vesta, hurriedly, and she
made haste to change the subject. She as well as her sister found the
young doctor's expressions overstrong at times, yet she loved the lad.
"The roses are at their sweetest now," she said, leading the
conversation gently away from the too passionate white phlox, on which
the moth was still waving its wings drowsily. "This black damask is
considered very fine, but I love the old-fashioned June roses best."
"'She loves you, noble roses, I know!'" said Geoffrey, who certainly
was not himself to-night. "This one is exactly like you, Miss Vesta.
Look at it; just the colour of ivory with a little sunset mixed in. Now
you know what you look like."
"Oh, hush, my dear young friend!" said Miss Vesta. "You must
not--really, you know--talk in this way. But--it is curious that you
should have noticed that particular rose; it--it is the kind I used to
wear when I was young."
She looked up at the lamp in the window. Geoffrey's eyes followed hers.
Involuntarily he laid his hand on hers. "Dear Miss Vesta!" he said, and
his strong, hearty voice could be very gentle. "Miss Blyth told me.
Does it still hurt, dear lady?"
Miss Vesta's breath fluttered for a moment, but it was only a moment.
Her soft white fingers, cool as rose-leaves, returned the pressure of
his affectionately. "No, my--my dear," she said. "It does not
hurt--now. There is no pain now, only memory; blessed, blessed memory.
He--there is something--you remind me of him a little, Doctor Geoffrey."
They stood silent, the young man and the old woman, hand in hand in the
soft evening. The splendour in the west died out, and soft clouds of
gray and purple brooded like wings over the sea. The water deepened
from gold to glimmering gray, from gray to deep brown and blue. In one
spot a faint glimmer trembled on the waves; the light from Miss Vesta's
lamp. The little lady gazed at it long, then looked up into the strong
young face above her.
"He was--your age!" she said, hurrying the words out in a low murmur,
hardly louder than the night breeze in the tall lilac-trees. "He was
bright and strong and gay like you; his sun went down while it was yet
day. The Lord took him into his holy keeping. I wish--I wish you all
the joy I should have tried to give him, Doctor Geoffrey. I wish your
life fortunate and brave, and your love happy; more than all, your love
happy."
She pressed his hand, and went quietly away; came back for a moment to
pat his arm and say she trusted she had not distressed him, and beg him
not to stay out too long in the night air; then went into the house,
closing the door softly after her.
Left alone, Geoffrey Strong fell to his pacing again, up and down the
neat gravel paths with their tall box hedges. His face was very tender;
looking at it, one might know he had been a loving son to his mother.
But presently he frowned over his cigar, and then laughed, and went and
shook the unoffending moth (it was a rare one, if he had been thinking
of that kind of thing) off the phlox.
"All the more reason, Stupid!" he said to the moth, as it flew away. "A
man goes and gets a girl to care for him, and then he goes and plays
some fool trick--like as not this chap had his sheet tied--and leaves
her alone the rest of her life. Just look at this sweet old angel, will
you? it's a shame. No, sir, no woman in mine, thank you!"
He paced again. The moth fluttered off in the gloom; fluttered back,
hovered, then settled once more on the milk-white phlox, which
glimmered like a fragrant ghost in the half-light. The perfume rose
from the flowers and mingled with the delicate scent of the roses and
the heavier breath of lilac and syringa.
"'Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee.
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish"--
"Oh, I must be drunk!" said Doctor Geoffrey. He tried another path. A
new fragrance met him, the keen, clean, cruelly sweet smell of
honeysuckle. Browning was gone with the phlox and the roses; and what
was this coming unbidden into his head, crisp and clean and possessing,
like the honeysuckle?
"'Where e're she be,
That not impossible She
Who shall command my life and me"--
"I _am_ drunk!" said Geoffrey Strong. And he threw away his cigar and
went to bed.