Chapter XXXII: 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."