THE OLD GARDENER:

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18500, 22 February 1930, Page 9 (Supplement)

THE OLD GARDENER:

BY RHYS RAWORTH.

Old Pickering walked round the grounds of Birchdon Manor, taking a last look at the place he had tended since boyhood. Generations of his family had been head gardeners there; and when his father died, Pickering, who knew every inch of the estate, took his father's place. That was nearly forty years ago. His first memories were of the days when a serious little boy, he trotted at his father’s heels, carrying a little basket of his own in which he put the weeds he gathered. He had always been everv earnest about his task, and often he sprawled on the ground for some time gazing critically at a plant, uncertain if it were a weed*. He never pulled it up until he was sure. If unable to solve the problem by himself, he asked the advice of his father or one of the other gardeners.

To-day he was thinking of all the years that had passed since those early days, and his mind ached dully as he trudged s.long. He had known it would be hard to leave when he made his decision, but it was harder than he had anticipated. He was part of the place. His life' had been absorbed in it. He had willingly let this happen. He had never wanted to seek excitement and adventure out in the world. Enough excitement for him to

tend some rare plant through a bitter spring, till its roots gripped the soil, and it grew in strength and beauty; enough adventure to see a storm raging, a tree blasted by the lightning, or a border of flowers in full bloom beaten down by the heavy rain, their delieate petals crushed and strained by the weat earth. What repairing to be done after such a storm! What a fight with the elements! What emotions of despair, joy, and triumph he had known! His work at Birchdon Manor was all that he needed; and the emotions it aroused in him filled his life. The great world outside had never tempted him.

He had been tramping round all the afternoon, looking at everything with feelings of pride and sadness. It was difficult saying good-bye to it all, though he could be proud of the work he was leaving, and happy in the knowledge that he was leaving it in good handp. If he came back to have a look round in a year or two, he knew he would be pleased with what he would find. The new head gardener had been trained by him, and was a man after his own heart.

Now and again he stopped to give advice to the other gardeners, of whom several had worked under him for many years. Habit was strong. He gave them orders for the' next, forgetful at times that he was leaving early in the morning. The younger men

listened respectfully, and did not remind him that they had already received their orders from his successor. He now came to the terrace planted with boxwood trees cut into fantastic shapes. Without glancing at the others, he went straight to one cut to look like a large A. He stood staring at it with the look of patient sadness that, often comes into the eyes of the old when they turn their thoughts to the past. He was thinking of the day he had planted the tree, and the years he had guarded its growth, cutting It Into the shape of the letter A, the first letter of Arthur, the name of the old master, as Pickering, though the elder by seven years, affectionately called him as soon as his son was grown up. Pickering had planted the boxwood tree under the watchful eye of his father on the day Arthur Ethringdon was born. How strange it was, he thought now, that years later he had not done the same at the birth of the young master. It almost seemed as if he knew what would happen. He had been standing there for several minutes, so lost in thought that he did not hear Mr. Gower, the new owner of the estate come across the grass towards him. Mr. Gower knew the meaning of the boxwood letter, and, realising that the old Hardener's thoughts were wandering along the paths of memory, he halted a few yards from him, and looked at him with an expression that was admiring if a little uneasy. The past seemed to be embodied in the sadness and dignity of the old man with the heavy, stooping shoulders, the white hair, and the bronzed and weather-beaten skin. He was standing as motionless as a carven figure, and Mr, Gower could not prevent what was almost a feeling of awe from overcoming him. He left he had no right there; that Pickering had the greater claim on Birchdon Manor. He was just walking away when the old man turned and saw him. Mr. Gower stopped, and then walked back. “Having a last look round, Pickering?" he asked. “Yes, sir. It’s difficult going.” “Why not change your mind? You know I want you to stay. Not that I expect you to work; you’ve earned rest at your age. But you'd always be head gardener, and could instruct the others when you wanted to. This has always been your home, and It should remain so till the end. Why not stay on?” “No, thank you, sir. I mu&t leave now. Not that I’m not grateful, and it does me good that you want me to stay on. There’s few would take the interest. But I must go now.” There was' silence for several moments, during which it was obvious that Mr. Gower had something on his mind, and that he was uncertain whether to speak or not. At last he said, “Now listen, Pickering; I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me as man to man. I know this has been a big break in your life, and It’s only natural it should unsettle you. But is that why you are going? I want to know the real reason. Is it because you object to ®e?—because you feel I don’t suit this place—don’t properly fit in?” Pickering looked with his clear, honest eyes straight at Mr. Gower. “No, sir,” he said,- simply, and without embarrassment, “it’s not that. I

know a gentleman when I see one.” From another man the answer would have sounded impertinent, but not from Pickering. Unconsciously, Mr. Gower gave a sigh of satisfaction. At the same time he realised how extraordinary it was that he should value so highly the opinion of an old gardener whom he had not seen until a few months before. He had never had an experience remotely like this, and he was compelled to admit that the old man had a strange and subtle power. Mr. Gower’s career had been very successful and all was due to his own endeavours. He knew he could be proud of what he had accomplished. He knew also that he had kept his head; that he had never had an exaggerated idea of his own importance, and that material success had not made him neglect the things of the mind and spirit. It was not mere pride of possession that had caused him to buy this place, but a responsiveness in himself to its mellow and dignified atmosphere. He had received much applause in his life. Many, he knew, flattered him and tried to come under his notice because ne was wealthy. There were, however, others, real friends, worthy of the name, who valued his friendship, admired his character, and whose good opinion was worth having. But at that moment the approval even of these tried friends seemed of less importance than that of

Pickering. For Pickering was wise, not educated or learned, but wise. “The young lady, too,” went on the old man. “It’s a rare sight to see her about the place, sitting by the pond or walking oji the lawn—a real picture she is. All sorts of questions she’s asked me. It’s great the interest she takes. Not like the young masr.er.” Pickering shook his head sadly. “Ah! If he’d only been different. If he'd only taken to the place as he should have done, being born to it and his family afore him. Now, if he’d come back to settle here where he belonged, and brought such a young lady with him.” The old man sighed, and a wistful look came into his eyes when his mind dwelt on this delectable dream. “Young Mr. Ethringdon didn't spend much time here, I understand. From what he told me, he preferred to live in London.” ‘that’s right, sir. What with his night clubs, and his gambling and dancing, and this and that, he’d little enough time to come here. Just as a duty he came now and then. It used to upset the old master, I could tell, though he said little; and the mistress, too, afore she was took, which is five years past now. After that, with his son so rarely here, the old master was very lonely, and he used to spend more and more time walking round with me. Never once did he say. ‘What will happen to it all when I'm taken?’ But I

could tell what he was thinking. Aye, I knew what was on his mind." “Poor man! Did he never hope that his son would settle down?” “Oh, yes; at first. ‘The boy must have his fling,’ he would say; ‘he'll be all the more content to live in this fine old place. He must love it, really. No son of mine could fail to love it.’ That’s how he'd talk. But the years went by. and he said it less and less; and then he never mentioned him. I know he lost hope. How could he help it? When the young master got over thirty and din’t mend his ways, there wasn’t much to hope for. It’s a pity, for a more good-natured young man there never was. But not serious. The rare times he was here, he'd sometimes watch me working for a while. He'd talk the whole time so that my head buzzed; and a lot of silliness it was. Go it. Pickering.' he’d say; ‘don't forget you’re a prop of one of the stately homes of England, and what would England be without its stately homes?’ That’s the way he went on. All the time I knew he was laughing at me; he thought me old-fashioned. I used to try and make him see how grand it was to inherit a place like this; but he just laughed. Always laughing and hearty he was—but never serious.” Pickering leant forward and touched the boxwood tree, and his touch was like a caress. “But him,” he said, “a grand gentleman he was; from first to last, a grand gentleman." “And so that’s why you’re leaving—because you’re disappointed in young Mr. Ethringdon, and you don’t feel like staying on now that the place has been abandoned by the last member of the family.” “That’s it in a way, sir. It's just taken the heart out of me. He‘ was mighty quick to sell it when the old master died; without a thought or a care he did it; and I just felt it was the end for me. You see, there’s none of my own to take on after me. My ; own lads left. Not that two haven’t stuck to the land; they're in Canada, , and doing very well. I’m proud of . them. But I always wished one had . stayed here. The third lad went to , the town; clerking, he is. He’s a nice . little home, and he's always took an i interest in his garden. That’s where • I’m going to live—with him, and I’ll see to the garden.” “It will seem a small affair to you after this.” “It will, sir; but I don’t get younger. It’s perhaps as much as I’d soon be able to tackle. I’ll he happy enough there; he’s a good son; and a rare, fine wife he’s got who won’t think an old man a nuisance. And he’s a boy and girl; well set up children they are. Perhaps I’ll spend my last days making another gardener in the family, or perhaps two; for it seems that girls are doing mighty well at gardening these days, though that seems strange to me, women not having .much patience; leastways, so I’ve always found.” “We all get surprises nowadays. Well, good luck with your two young gardeners. I’m glad to' know you have i children who will make you .welcome I in their home. I may not see you again before you go. James will take you to the station, and will help you in any way he can. Now, don’t forget that you are always to look on this as your home, and you are to come here whenever you want to. I hope that will be often.”

Mr. Gower waited anxiously for the nswer. If the old man refused to ome back, he would feel as if he had driven him out —driven out someone who had more right there than he had. He told himself it was stupid to feel like that. He had done nothing that was not fair and honourable. The place had been for sale and he had bought it. If he had not, someone else v*’ould have done; most likely someone woli would have used it with vulgar ostentation, insulting its ancient dignity. He would never be tempted to do that. He had the capacity to realise the true worth of the place, with its grandeur of centuries and its \Chispers of the past; to realise it a great deal better than the man whose family had owned it for generations. To the heir it was no sacred trust from the past to be cherished with pride and handed ;on to those who came after him; it 1 was an awkward responsibility to be got rid of as soon as possible. In spite of these arguments Mr. Gower waited anxiously, unable td| suppress the feeling that what old Pickering thought of him, and the way he responded to the invitation to return, mattered very much. He was relieved when the old man turned to him • gratefully. “That’s very kind, sir, very kind. I’ll be glad to come back and have a look

round. Quite soon, maybe, I’ll come, and I hope ” He had turned towards the boxwood tree, his hand raised again to touch it; his expression was animated and his eyes bright. Suddenly he broke off awkwardly, lowered his eyes, and ended rather lamely. “I hope—l sha’n’t be troubling you,” was what he said. Mr. Gower had noticed the emotion that possessed him when he turned towards the tree, and knew that he had been about to say that he hoped it would still be there when he came back. Pickering had a nature that was finely sensitive. He had checked the remark, not wishing to hurt Mr. Gower’s feelings by referring too often to the former owner. Mr. Gower smiled at him kindly. “That’s good.” he said; “I hope you’ll come soon. Whenever you do, you won’t find much change. They shall just carry on your work; it couldn’t be better. And be sure I’ll see that they look after your favourite tree. Now, I'll leave you to finish looking round on your own.” It was getting dusk when they parted. Mr. Gower turned and looked back as he was nearing the edge of the lawn. The old gardener was still standing before the bozwood tree, dim in the shadow of the gigantic letter that the setting sun was lengthening across the grass.