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“God Almighty first planted a garden; and indeed it is the purest of human pleasures.”

Bacon’s Essays.

As Anthony emerged from the little path under the fir-trees, he saw that Winifred and Marion were in the garden, and that Winifred was gardening, her gown drawn up, gauntleted gloves on her hands, and a trowel held with which she was at work.

“We shall be ready in a minute,” she called out, nodding to him. “I am so glad you are come, for I thought you might have forgotten our walk.”

“It was too hot before,” said Anthony, strolling towards them, and stretching himself lazily upon the grass.

“And I have done no end of work. You see those bare places in the beds, over which you were so unmerciful, are quite filled. Luckily Thomas had a great many surplus plants this year.”

As she stood up, a great clump of flowering shrubs—guelder roses, pink thorn, azaleas—made a pretty and variegated background. She had drawn off her big gloves, and was beating the earth from them as she spoke, and smiling down upon him with bright pleasantness. Anthony looked at her, and a satisfied expression deepened in his eyes. He had hold of one of the ribbons of her dress, and was fingering it.

“Why don’t you always wear lilac?” was his somewhat irrelevant answer.

“You don’t attend to what I am saying,” said Winifred, a little impatiently. “I want to know what you think of the flowers, and not of my dress.”

“Why should I not talk about that as well? You have at least as much to do with the one as the other.”

“It is not what I have to do with it, but how it looks when it is done. Marion, can’t you prevent Anthony from being frivolous?”

“Don’t ask Marion,” said Anthony, biting a bit of grass. “She has been falling foul of me all the way here, though neither of us can exactly say what it has been about. My ruffled feathers want smoothing down, if you please, Winifred.”

“You don’t look ruffled a bit.”

“That is my extraordinary amiability.”

“Marion did very well to scold you, I am sure.”

“And that is the way women jump at conclusions.”

“I shall jump at the conclusion presently that you mean to go to sleep on the grass, and leave us to walk to the Red House alone.”

“I? I am ready to start this moment, and the time you have supposed to be wasted I have spent in making up my mind that a mass of amaranthus ought to replace the verbenas in that bed.”

“Amaranthus! O Anthony, they would be so gloomy.”

“Just the effect you want, when everything is too flaming.”

“No, no,” said Winifred, resolutely holding her ground. “You must find your relief at the back, for the flowers themselves can’t be too bright.”

“Now, Winifred, there are certain principles,” began Anthony, sitting upright and speaking energetically, “principles of contrast, by means of which you get a great deal more out of your brilliancy than when you run one colour into the other. I wish you would let me explain them to you.”

“Understanding the principles would never make me doubt my eyes. No, indeed, I am very sorry, but I could not sacrifice those splendid verbenas after watering them for so many evenings.”

“You should not water at all.”

Winifred looked at him, laughed, and shook her head.

“I don’t mean to give way to these horrible new theories. To begin with, they would break Thomas’s heart.”

“O, very well,” said Anthony, getting up, affronted. “Did you say you were ready to start? Marion! We are waiting.”

He marched before them in evident displeasure; Winifred, who knew that his discontent would not last long, looking at him with a little amusement. They skirted the field where the haymakers had been at work all day, and the sweet dry grass lay tossed about in fragrant swathes as the forks had dropped it. Across, between the elm-trees, the sun shone upon the canal and the Underham houses, while, beyond again, lay meadows and wooded hills, and the soft western moorland. On the other side of the nearest field was a figure on an old bay cob, with a dog standing by his side, and a man pointing. This was the Squire, too deep in consultation over some boundary annoyances to notice the little party scrambling over their stiles, and waving every now and then to attract his attention.

“Which of you are going to dine at the Bennetts’ to-morrow?”

“Papa, Anthony, and I.”

“And is Marmaduke to be there?”

“I suppose so. It depends on the trains.”

“And Mr. Mannering, of course. Marion, did you ever hear that there is a romantic story about those brothers?”

“What’s that?” said Anthony, stopping and looking round.

“It was Miss Philippa who told me,” Winifred explained, “and she was not at all clear about it; but it seems that one of them was engaged to a lady, when his brother fell into a bad state of health, requiring great care for a long while, and the other gave up everything, devoted himself, nursed, prevented people from finding out how incapable he had become, and was really the means of saving his life, or his reason, or whatever was in danger. But then comes the sad part. The lady grew tired of waiting, and married some one else.”

“It is rather a complicated story. And which is the hero?”

“Mr. Mannering,” Marion said, promptly.

“I believe it to have been Mr. Robert,” said Anthony, in a tone of decision.

“So do I,” said Winifred, looking brightly at him, happy in fulfilling a longing against which she not infrequently fought more steadily, from thinking that it was not well for him to carry matters altogether as he liked.

Anthony smiled, and fell back a little with his good-humour restored. After all, it was a pleasant thing to be walking through the Thorpe fields with Winifred, who had a certain charm about her, harmonising with what surrounded them. In a crowded room she might have passed with little notice; but here, in the open air, with an evening breeze sweeping up from the sea, six miles distant, and fresh cool scents just touching it, the buoyancy of her step, the clearness of her voice, and the frank honesty of her eyes, were all in agreement with the country life in which she had grown to womanhood, and the outer influences of which work in proportion as we admit them. That day, also, had been full of light-hearted happiness. Anthony had returned from an absence of some months, which he had spent in travelling. He and she were in excellent accord in spite of their little passage at arms, and they were just in an easy social position towards each other, which made it seem scarcely possible that they should not always go on as smoothly. It was when they were together in what is called society that little storms arose, that Winifred’s eyes would suddenly flash, and some quick speech descend upon Anthony, in abrupt contrast to the sugared politeness which had been flowing in pleasant streams. It was natural that he should resent it. With an older experience she might have treated him differently; but her very eager longing that he should rise above what she herself despised made her impatient that he did not rise at once. It is no untrue assertion that too close knowledge is an obstacle to love. When a boy and girl grow up together, the light beats too strongly for those delicate and shadowy enchantments, those delicious surprises, those tender awakenings, by which others are led on all unconsciously. It may, now and then, lose no particle of strength because of this, but such cases are at least rare. Winifred had a hundred misgivings for Anthony, who had none for himself. It seemed to him as if nothing were out of his reach, as if neither time, nor opportunity, nor success could fail. Was he not twenty-four, with a lifetime before him? Had he not gained the Chancellor’s gold medal? He had, moreover, that sense of fellowship, which more than any other gift heartens a man for work among his kind; he was full of enthusiasm for doing good, for upholding right, for beating down wrong—he would be an author, a reformer, a politician—he would raise Thorpe by penny readings—he would improve the Hardlands property by inducing the Squire to sweep away his hedges—the church singing should be converted into harmony, ignorance into intelligence, wrong into right—are there any limits or misgivings which trouble these young champions who leap into the arena, and believe a hundred eyes are upon them? It was Winifred who looked at him and trembled.

Mr. Robert Mannering met them inside the gates.

“I saw you coming,” he said. “Well, Anthony, and so you are back from your travels, and your father says you have not yet made up your mind what new worlds you shall conquer. I congratulate you. Only, my dear boy, don’t make Stokes your prime minister. Leave pottering about amongst leaf-mould and bell-glasses to superannuated old fellows like me. Miss Winifred, I am proud to hear that you are come to see my Farleyense.”

“Anthony says it is such a fine plant.”

“It is a fine plant. It might be almost anything,” said Anthony. “I told Stokes that if I were he I should treat it differently. I wish he would let me have a turn at it for a fortnight.” Mr. Mannering gave a quick gasp, and stood still to look at the speaker.

“I shall keep the key in my pocket until he is out of the place. Miss Winifred, Miss Marion—we are old friends—detain him at the Vicarage, at Hardlands, find some innocent occupation for him which shall not harrow old gentlemen’s pet hobbies. Set him to cure Miss Philippa’s rheumatism—I don’t wish to be uncharitable, but by her own account it can’t be worse than it is, whereas my Farleyense—Good Heavens, I shall not sleep for a week for thinking of the peril it is in.”

“Of course, there must be a certain amount of risk,” said Anthony coolly; “but, after all, the experience gained for others is worth more than the thing itself. That always seems to me the only object in gardening. However, if you don’t care about it, sir—that’s enough. I’m going to hunt up the tortoise.”

“Do, do, by all means. The fellow’s shell is thick enough to protect him. This way, Miss Winifred. I hope you don’t mind a few steps. You are judicious in your time, for I always think this soft late light is more becoming than any other to the plants. There—a picture, isn’t it? I almost wish Anthony had come down after all.”

“He is too full of projects to be a safe visitor just at present,” said Winifred, shaking her head, but secretly proud in her heart.

“I’ll defy him to find a finer Farleyense anywhere, at any rate,” said Mr. Mannering valiantly. He was looking at Winifred as he spoke, and thinking that Thorpe had other pretty things to show Anthony. There was a soft gloom in the house, out of which seemed to spring the delicate green feathery ferns full of still strange life, and Winifred, standing among them, had a sweet light in her eyes and a half-smile on her lips. It was not very often that people agreed she was pretty, and then they were probably thinking of the fresh colouring, the bright hair, and that indescribable fairness of youth which, even without other claim to beauty, carries with it so great a charm; but the true attraction in her face consisted in a certain nobility of expression, of which the delight would but deepen as the more fleeting fairness departed.

“Here is an exquisite little Cystopteris, Miss Marion,” said Mr. Robert, beginning to bustle about, “and that is the finest hare’s-foot in the county. I want to have a look at your oak fern, but I must go into Underham to-morrow. Miss Philippa has a quarterly paper which requires signing at least five times every year.”

“Marmaduke comes to-morrow,” said Marion, who had been silent. “Can’t he sign his aunt’s papers?”

“No, I am sorry to tell you that the law makes a distinction between a man and a magistrate. So Marmaduke comes to-morrow? And he and Anthony, I have no doubt, will chalk out a fresh career for every day in the week when they get together.”

“There is not much room for what you call a career in poor Marmaduke’s case,” said Marion, drawing her gloves tightly through her hands, and keeping her head turned away, so that only a sharply cut profile could be seen. “A clerk in a merchant’s office does not look forward to anything very brilliant.”

“Unless he wins the heart of the daughter of the principal partner, and you have been so hardhearted as to cut that chance of promotion from under his feet. Well, these are the contrarieties of life, but they tumble into shape somehow at the end, so keep a good heart, my dear.”

He said it with an odd quaver in the cheery voice, although neither of the two noticed it. They were thinking of themselves with the unconscious egotism of youth. There were all sorts of tender visions flitting about among the soft shadowy ferns, and some not less tender than the rest that they were dim with age and years. Marion went on after a momentary pause:—

“I suppose his best chance lies with Mr. Tregennas.”

“Yes and no, and no more than yes, I take it. If Marmaduke will stick to his business and not allow imaginary prospects to unsettle him, they may do him no harm. But it’s ill waiting for dead men’s shoes, especially if you do not step into them at the last. There is nothing so likely to sour a man’s life.”

“There cannot be doubt when he has promised,” Marion said, turning towards him with a movement which was abrupt enough to betray a little anxiety in the words.

“He has, has he?”

“Yes, indeed. Marmaduke has often told me how much Mr. Tregennas said, and no one, no one could be so cruel as not to keep to his word in such a matter!”

“Not intentionally—at least, not many men. But, my dear Miss Marion, you never will be an old lawyer, and so I don’t promise that you will ever find out how much of what we hear depends upon what we think, or how much of what we say depends upon what we believe we ought to have said. Now, you have not gone into such ecstasies as I expected over my Farleyense, but by to-morrow my imagination will have supplied all your deficiencies, and yours will make you ready to swear that you were as prettily enthusiastic as the occasion demanded.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Marion, smiling.

“Don’t do that. Have I not just explained to you the recipe for harmonising the minor discords of one’s life? There is some happy stuff in our composition—vanity, if you will—which fills up what is wanting.”

“Are you there? Shall I come down?” said Anthony’s voice from the top of the steps.

“No, no, wait a moment; we are coming, we are coming this instant,” said Mr. Mannering, hurriedly. “Take care of the wet, Miss Winifred—here we are; thank you, yes, I prefer to lock the house for the night. And how did you find the tortoise, and what did you do to him, Anthony?”

“Do to him? I did nothing—at least, I only moved him to the sunny side of the wall, where he will be a good deal better off.”

They were strolling towards the road, Mr. Mannering with his hands locked behind his back, and a twinkle of amusement about eyes and mouth.

“Thank you, my dear boy, thank you,” he said, gravely. “But I should be a good fourteen stone to carry, and, to tell the truth, I would rather stay where I am.”

“What do you mean?” said Anthony, puzzled. “Was I talking to myself? I beg your pardon—it was the oddest idea—do you know, just for a moment I had a feeling at the back of my neck as if I were the tortoise.”