IN THE FLOWER GARDEN.
IT is high time we returned to Tincroft House, and our friends there,
whom we left puzzling themselves how best to fulfil the new duties laid
upon them. After many consultations, and weighing all sorts of pros and
cons, it was finally decided—with the young lady's consent—that Helen's
education should be carried on and completed at a boarding school.
There were several reasons that led to this conclusion.
Among others, it was wisely propounded by John that, being an heiress,
some accomplishments, in which Helen was acknowledged to be deficient,
were necessary for her future establishment in life, whenever that
event might occur. Internally, John also reflected that neither from
Sarah nor himself were these accomplishments likely to be obtained.
Moreover (and here he spoke out again), the best they could do for
Helen by way of dissipating the grief of her recent bereavement, was to
provide her with a change of scene and companionship, which, as far as
he could see, could be done only by the plan proposed.
In this emergency, John's friend Grigson came to his help. His daughter
Catherine was at a highly respectable boarding school in a certain
town on the coast, not far from Trotbury. Tom spoke very highly of
this school (which had the additional virtue of not being called an
"establishment for young ladies"). And accordingly, after a brief
interval devoted to due preparations, Helen Wilson was placed under the
care of Miss G—.
How pleasantly the time passed there; how the young Australian very
soon became a favourite with all the girls (some sixty or more) in
the school; how, especially, she and Catherine Grigson became bosom
friends; and how she made rapid progress towards those accomplishments
in which she had been held to be deficient—there is no need to tell.
Time passed quickly, and after an interval of some three years, we
find Helen Wilson once more at Tincroft House, very dearly loved and
cherished by the motherly Sarah and dear old shy awkward John, both of
whom manifested their love in a variety of ways pleasant to behold.
For instance, Helen's bower was replenished with a bounteous store
of treasures of art, literature, and science, "calculated," as the
advertisements have it, "to please the eye and improve the taste." A
new maid was hired for Helen's especial behoof; but as she turned out a
failure, and the young lady declared herself quite capable of waiting
on herself, this adjunct was afterwards dispensed with.
To bring themselves and their old-fashioned ways more into accord with
the usages of modern society, moreover, John and Sarah altered their
dinner-hour from two to six, greatly, it must be said, to the disgust
of Mrs. Jane (now exalted to the rank of housekeeper), who was to be
appeased only by the gift of a new dress and cap, which outshone those
of her contented mistress.
But the most admirable of all the wonders wrought by affection when
thus enlisted on the side of darling Helen, was when dear old John
set about witching the world with his noble horsemanship. In our
former account of Helen, we noted that among the accomplishments she
had learned in her home in the bush was that of being an expert and
fearless rider. And if one ungratified wish, on her return to Tincroft
House, existed in her heart, it was for a wild gallop across the
country.
By accident this wish became known to John; and before the world was
a week older, the hitherto unused stables of Tincroft House, and the
chamber above, were duly prepared for the reception of a horse fit for
a lady's use, a grey pony for John's own bestriding, and a groom to
keep them in proper condition. To what extent Tincroft was compelled
to draw his purse-strings, and how far he was cheated in the bargain
he made, no one probably knew at the time—the honest horse-dealer only
excepted.
But dear John, who had never in his life bestridden even a
rocking-horse! Well, well, he would have mounted a hippogriff to please
Walter Wilson's child, and his Sarah's pet; and it was a sight worth
seeing when, by Helen's side, who gracefully reined in her steed to
accommodate herself to his more sober pace, John bumped up and down on
his saddle till the knobby chairs at High Beech Farm would have been as
downy pillows in comparison with it.
And so time wore on.
It has already been intimated that a strong attachment sprung up
between Helen Wilson and her school-fellow Catherine Grigson. And
this was continued after both young ladies had left school. Their
intercourse was kept up, however, principally by writing; for, though
Helen was often invited to visit her friend on the banks of the Thames,
some unforeseen difficulty always started up to set the invitation
aside. I think our friend Tincroft could have given a rational
explanation of these unexpected hindrances if he had been disposed to
do so, which he was not.
There was nothing, however, to prevent Miss Grigson paying a
long-promised visit to Tincroft House one summer; and when there, there
was everything to invite its prolongation. Dear Helen was so glad of
her friend's company, while Mr. and Mrs. Tincroft were so kind and
so hospitably inclined, that it would have been positive cruelty—so
Catherine wrote home—to deprive them of the pleasure they coveted.
"And why don't you run down for a day or two?" she wrote to her brother
Tom. "'Tis years and years since you were here, you know; and you
haven't been out for a holiday all the summer."
"No more have I," said Tom to himself, when he read the note, and the
next morning he had deposited himself on the box seat of the Trotbury
coach.
"Just come to see how you are getting on in this part of the world,"
was his first salutation to John, as he landed himself unexpectedly at
the gate of Tincroft House, on the afternoon of the same day.
John was very pleased to see the son of his old friend, and he told him
so. And as to the inconvenience of accommodating an unexpected guest,
quoth Mrs. Tincroft, when young Tom apologised for the abruptness of
his invasion, as he called it, she hoped Tincroft House was big enough
to accommodate a dozen such as Tom, if need were. And so he might set
his mind at rest on that subject.
And Tom did set his mind at rest. In fact, he found his quarters so
much to his liking, that he lengthened his visit from day to day, under
a variety of pretences, until he had been more than a fortnight an
inmate of the pleasant mansion.
"You must stay with us over next week now," said Sarah, one evening
when Tom was seriously propounding the propriety of returning to
business. "It is Trotbury cricket week, and we shall want a gentleman
to take us on to the ground two or three of the days at least; and John
doesn't like cricket at all—do you, John?"
John didn't like cricket, and he said so. He had had enough of cricket
in his younger days, and what pleasure there could be in standing up
before three sticks stuck into the ground to knock away a ball, with
the chance of being maimed for life, he couldn't for a moment conceive.
But for all that, if his dear Sarah had any pleasure in seeing what was
called "the noble game" played, or if he could be of any use to the
young ladies in procuring them good positions for viewing "the noble
game," he was very much at their service.
So, if Tom must really return, or felt called upon by the imperative
claims of business to return to London, he himself would not interpose
an obstacle in the shape of Trotbury cricket week. Indeed, he wasn't
quite sure that it wouldn't be as well for Tom to remember that there
were claims upon him elsewhere. What, for instance, would the young
lady at Camberwell think when she heard, if she should hear, of Tom's
being seen on Trotbury cricket ground with another young lady? John
asked, gravely.
Whereupon, Tom declared that the young lady at Camberwell might think
as she pleased. He hoped he wasn't tied to any young lady's apron
strings; there would be time enough for that when another knot was
tied. Tom shifted rather uneasily in his chair as he said this, and,
though he did feign to laugh, he looked a little redder than usual,
especially when he saw that his host's gravity was not at, all moved by
his gaiety.
Perhaps it was to prove how much at liberty he felt himself, that,
later in the day, Tom left his host and hostess and his sister in
the drawing-room, and strolled into the pretty flower garden already
described, where Helen was employing herself—as he very well knew—in
tending her plants. By the way, there is no feminine occupation more
adapted to innocent flirtation (if such a composite term, or rather,
contradiction in terms, may be used) than in this kind of gardening.
The sweet, enthralling tyranny displayed by the head-gardeneress in
ordering her enchanted slave, who for the nonce is made to be a hewer
of wood (with his pocket-knife in preparing flower-sticks) and a drawer
of water (in filling the watering-pot any number of times from the
nearest pump, well, or pond), is something quite instructive to witness
(for it points back to Eden, evidently), and delightful to endure.
Tom at least thought so, as he found himself (his offered services
accepted), making himself of some use, as she said, to the fair Helen.
For by this time a kind of understanding seemed to have been tacitly
entered into that Master Tom, being already on the high road to
matrimony, and within sight, so to speak, of the goal, was to consider
Miss Wilson as a sort of twin-sister to his own sister Catherine, and
to be treated with frank unreserve accordingly, for:
"What was Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?"
I am afraid, too, that dear old John Tincroft had by this time, if the
truth were known, rather spoiled darling Helen, by making her see and
believe how happy it made him to be her humble servant; and perhaps she
might have thought that every gentleman she fell in with was like John.
But this by the way.
"There, that will do for all the watering we want to-night," said the
lady, looking round with admiration on her revived flowers. "And now
please help me tie up this straggler, Tom."
In another moment TOM was on one knee, for the convenience of the
operation, and the young lady's slender fingers were deftly fastening
the string which was to confine the flower-stalks to their supporting
stick, when a hand, not Helen's, was laid on Tom's shoulder.
"Very pleasantly employed, Tom," said Tincroft, quietly; for he was the
intruder.
Tom started to his feet.
"Don't hurry," said John; "but when Miss Wilson has quite done with
your services, I want a word or two."
The young lady graciously gave Tom permission to retire; and the two
gentlemen walked slowly down the path together without speaking until
they had reached the farther end. Then John wheeled round (as also did
Tom), and stood looking from the distance towards the fair gardeneress,
who was now, as it seemed, occupied in gathering a nosegay.
"Tom, don't you think it would be better for you to return home
to-morrow?" said Tincroft, after a rather awkward pause.
Master Tom looked his elderly friend in the face, with some surprise,
as well he might, perhaps, for John Tincroft was not usually anxious to
get rid of his guests.
"Do you think so, sir?" the young fellow asked.
"I'll tell you presently what I think," said John, "and also why I
think it, if I do think it. You may be sure of one thing, at any rate—I
shall be very sorry to lose your good company."
"Thank you, Mr. Tincroft. You are very kind," said young Tom.
"You would like to stay over next week, it being the grand cricket
week?" continued John.
"Yes, I should," replied Tom, bluntly.
"No doubt, end not only because of its being the cricket week?"
Tom again looked up into his friend's face, with a quick gesture, not
altogether of surprise; and then he turned rather red in the face, I
think, and looked down upon the path. There was a broken twig upon it,
which engrossed his attention, perhaps; for he took great pains to
turn it over with his foot, so as to pass it under a kind of general
examination. He didn't speak.
Until now the two gentlemen had remained, as it seemed, rooted to
the spot, and the fair Helen was still employed in filling her
little flower basket. This completed, she turned from the border and
disappeared. Apparently this broke the spell, for Tincroft now slipped
his arm within that of his young friend, and the two paced up and down
the long path as they communed together.
"My dear lad," said John, when they were thus in motion, "your father
and I were dear friends when we were about your age. We were almost
always together when we were at Oxford. We never had a serious
disagreement in our lives; I received many a kindness from him;
and though we have not seen so much of each other of late years as
formerly, we are as much friends as ever. Don't you believe this?"
Tom did believe this. His father always spoke in the warmest terms of
affection of his old friend Tincroft, he said.
"And if I should say anything to you that seems to go a little against
the grain, Tom, you won't be more offended than you can help, will you?
Because you may be sure I don't mean anything really unkind to the son
of so old and dear a friend as your father is."
No, Tom wouldn't be offended.
"I know," continued John, "that some persons do sometimes make great
mistakes, which lead them into great impertinences and create a great
deal of confusion and mischief as well. I remember a case in point,
where a man who in the early part of his life had gone very far astray
in vicious pursuits, became in his later years, when broken down in
health, the moat uncharitable censor of the supposed failings of his
friends and acquaintances that I ever had the unhappiness of knowing.
And on one occasion, he fell foul of the character of a friend who, in
those old times, had rescued him from disgrace and ruin; and quarrelled
with this benefactor by charging with folly which had not the slightest
foundation in fact. I hope, Tom, you won't think that I am one of that
sort?"
No, Tom was sure that his father's old friend was not.
"And yet, as we grow older," John went on, "we sometimes see, or fancy
(it may be altogether an error on our part, but we fancy) we see things
more clearly than at an earlier period of our lives. And especially the
blunders we ourselves have at some former time committed, make us think
that we are wiser than others—wiser perhaps than we really are, and
more competent to set another right when we think him to be in danger."
They went on slowly pacing the path from one end to the other before
another word was spoken. Then John resumed his talk.
"The person of whom I was speaking a few moments ago, having been
guilty of bad actions as well as of criminal thoughts and desires,
was too ready to attribute bad motives to another, who was utterly
astounded when he heard of the charge brought against him. And perhaps,
dear Tom, you will be astounded too when you hear further what I wish
to say. When I was a young fellow like you (your father knows all about
it), I was guilty of folly; I thank God not of deliberate sin, nor
perhaps of any sin at all, only as far as there is a degree of sin in
most folly. Well, I was foolish. Without intending it, I did that which
was the means of completely changing the entire course of many lives
and histories. In the merciful arrangements of Divine Providence, those
changes were, as I hope, overruled for good. But I would never forget
that, whether for good or evil, the folly was the same; nor that,
overruled as they may have been, they produced at the time, and for a
long time afterwards, much unhappiness to all within their influence.
Now, my dear lad, without intending it, you—"
"I know what you are going to say—at least, I think I do, sir," said
Tom, in a sorrowful tone, "and it is all quite true. Please don't go on
if it is about—about Helen—I mean, Miss Wilson."
John Tincroft smiled, but rather sadly.
"Poor Tom!" he sighed rather than uttered, and then there was silence
during the next slow-paced journey down the path.
It was for young Tom now to begin again, and he was not sorry,
perhaps, that the shades of evening were gathering around, so that his
countenance was at least obscured.
"I have been very foolish this last week or two, but I haven't
meant any harm," Tom humbly confessed. "I ought to have remembered
that I am not free, and never have been," said the young fellow,
gulping down with a strong effort, as it seemed, something that half
choked him. "Now, do you think it, quite fair, Mr. Tincroft, to have
everything—everything cut and dried for a young fellow when he first
sets his foot, in the world?"
"That's a wide question, Tom."
"Well, you know what I mean. There was my going into business instead
of going to Oxford, you know."
"That has turned out very well, Tom. You yourself have said you are
glad you didn't have your way in that. And—I don't know—but I fancy
fathers (wise fathers, of course) are better judges of what to make of
their sons than the sons can be, as to what to make of themselves."
"Yes, yes; that's all right, but about who they are to marry when they
grow up? Not but what I might have chosen Blanche for myself, if I had
been left to make a choice; but I wasn't, you see."
"But you are engaged to your cousin, you know, Tom, and with your own
consent. Isn't it so?"
"Yes; but then I hadn't seen anybody else I ever thought I should care
about, or think about," groaned young Tom.
"And this leads us back to where we started from, my dear Tom," said
John, kindly. "I think it will be better for you not to stay here
over the cricket week, but to return to your home and your Blanche
to-morrow. For she is your Blanche, you know."
"I suppose it will be best," sighed Tom, lugubriously.
"And be sure of this, Tom, that what is the right thing to do is the
happiest to be done—when it is done. I have fancied how it may have
been with you the last few days; and, to tell the truth, I have had a
fancy of what might be any time within the last year or two. And so I
have striven to keep you and Helen apart; not because I don't love you,
Tom, nor because I should not, under other circumstances, have liked
you to be Helen's lover, but because you could not be that without
dishonour to yourself. But that was only my folly, perhaps; and,
anyhow, you are not deeply wounded yet, and there's no harm done yet,
either with or without intending it. In a fortnight's time you will
have forgotten, or learnt to smile at a few little passages like that
of this evening, which I have had my eye and thoughts upon since you
have been here. And when the time comes, if you are honest and loyal
to yourself, as I feel sure you will be, you will be thankful to me, I
think, for having given you a momentary pain, perhaps. And now let us
go in to the ladies."
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