Part 43 (1/2)
”We have just religion enough,” it is said somewhere in the Spectator, ”to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.” Our good landlord, peace be with his ashes! had never halted at this limit. The country innkeeper might have furnished Goldsmith with a counterpart to his country curate; his house was equally hospitable to the poor--his heart equally tender, in a nature wiser than experience, to error, and equally open, in its warm simplicity, to distress. Peace be with thee--Our grandsire was thy patron--yet a patron thou didst not want.
Merit in thy capacity is seldom bare of reward. The public want no indicators to a house like thine. And who requires a third person to tell him how to appreciate the value of good nature and good cheer?
As Walter stood, and contemplated the old man bending over the sweet fresh earth, (and then, glancing round, saw the quiet garden stretching away on either side with its boundaries lost among the thick evergreen,) something of that grateful and moralizing stillness with which some country scene (the rura et silentium) generally inspires us, when we awake to its consciousness from the troubled dream of dark and unquiet thought, stole over his mind: and certain old lines which his uncle, who loved the soft and rustic morality that pervades the ancient race of English minstrels, had taught him, when a boy, came pleasantly into his recollection,
”With all, as in some rare-limn'd book, we see Here painted lectures of G.o.d's sacred will.
The daisy teacheth lowliness of mind; The camomile, we should be patient still; The rue, our hate of Vice's poison ill; The woodbine, that we should our friends.h.i.+p hold; Our hope the savory in the bitterest cold.”
--[Henry Peacham.]
The old man stopped from his work, as the musing figure of his guest darkened the prospect before him, and said:
”A pleasant time, Sir, for the gardener!”
”Ay, is it so... you must miss the fruits and flowers of summer.”
”Well, Sir,--but we are now paying back the garden, for the good things it has given us.--It is like taking care of a friend in old age, who has been kind to us when he was young.”
Walter smiled at the quaint amiability of the idea.
”'Tis a winning thing, Sir, a garden!--It brings us an object every day; and that's what I think a man ought to have if he wishes to lead a happy life.”
”It is true,” said Walter; and mine host was encouraged to continue by the attention and affable countenance of the stranger, for he was a physiognomist in his way.
”And then, Sir, we have no disappointment in these objects:--the soil is not ungrateful, as, they say, men are--though I have not often found them so, by the by. What we sow we reap. I have an old book, Sir, lying in my little parlour, all about fis.h.i.+ng, and full of so many pretty sayings about a country life, and meditation, and so forth, that it does one as much good as a sermon to look into it. But to my mind, all those sayings are more applicable to a gardener's life than a fisherman's.”
”It is a less cruel life, certainly,” said Walter.
”Yes, Sir; and then the scenes one makes oneself, the flowers one plants with one's own hand, one enjoys more than all the beauties which don't owe us any thing; at least, so it seems to me. I have always been thankful to the accident that made me take to gardening.”
”And what was that?”
”Why, Sir, you must know there was a great scholar, though he was but a youth then, living in this town some years ago, and he was very curious in plants and flowers and such like. I have heard the parson say, he knew more of those innocent matters than any man in this county. At that time I was not in so flouris.h.i.+ng a way of business as I am at present. I kept a little inn in the outskirts of the town; and having formerly been a gamekeeper of my Lord--'s, I was in the habit of eking out my little profits by accompanying gentlemen in fis.h.i.+ng or snipe-shooting. So, one day, Sir, I went out fis.h.i.+ng with a strange gentleman from London, and, in a very quiet retired spot some miles off, he stopped and plucked some herbs that seemed to me common enough, but which he declared were most curious and rare things, and he carried them carefully away. I heard afterwards he was a great herbalist, I think they call it, but he was a very poor fisher. Well, Sir, I thought the next morning of Mr. Aram, our great scholar and botanist, and thought it would please him to know of these bits of gra.s.s: so I went and called upon him, and begged leave to go and show the spot to him. So we walked there, and certainly, Sir, of all the men that ever I saw, I never met one that wound round your heart like this same Eugene Aram. He was then exceedingly poor, but he never complained; and was much too proud for any one to dare to offer him relief. He lived quite alone, and usually avoided every one in his walks: but, Sir, there was something so engaging and patient in his manner, and his voice, and his pale, mild countenance, which, young as he was then, for he was not a year or two above twenty, was marked with sadness and melancholy, that it quite went to your heart when you met him or spoke to him.--Well, Sir, we walked to the place, and very much delighted he seemed with the green things I shewed him, and as I was always of a communicative temper, rather a gossip, Sir, my neighbours say, I made him smile now and then by my remarks. He seemed pleased with me, and talked to me going home about flowers, and gardening, and such like; and after that, when we came across one another, he would not shun me as he did others, but let me stop and talk to him; and then I asked his advice about a wee farm I thought of taking, and he told me many curious things which, sure enough, I found quite true, and brought me in afterwards a deal of money But we talked much about gardening, for I loved to hear him talk on those matters; and so, Sir, I was struck by all he said, and could not rest till I took to gardening myself, and ever since I have gone on, more pleased with it every day of my life.
Indeed, Sir, I think these harmless pursuits make a man's heart better and kinder to his fellow-creatures; and I always take more pleasure in reading the Bible, specially the New Testament, after having spent the day in the garden. Ah! well, I should like to know, what has become of that poor gentleman.”
”I can relieve your honest heart about him. Mr. Aram is living in--, well off in the world, and universally liked; though he still keeps to his old habits of reserve.”
”Ay, indeed, Sir! I have not heard any thing that pleased me more this many a day.”
”Pray,” said Walter, after a moment's pause, ”do you remember the circ.u.mstance of a Mr. Clarke appearing in this town, and leaving it in a very abrupt and mysterious manner?”
”Do I mind it, Sir? Yes, indeed. It made a great noise in Knaresbro'--there were many suspicions of foul play about it. For my part, I too had my thoughts, but that's neither here nor there;” and the old man recommenced weeding with great diligence.
”My friend,” said Walter, mastering his emotion; ”you would serve me more deeply than I can express, if you would give me any information, any conjecture, respecting this--this Mr. Clarke. I have come hither, solely to make inquiry after his fate: in a word, he is--or was--a near relative of mine!”
The old man looked wistfully in Walter's face. ”Indeed,” said he, slowly, ”you are welcome, Sir, to all I know; but that is very little, or nothing rather. But will you turn up this walk, Sir? it's more retired. Did you ever hear of one Richard Houseman?”
”Houseman! yes. He knew my poor--, I mean he knew Clarke; he said Clarke was in his debt when he left the town so suddenly.”
The old man shook his head mysteriously, and looked round. ”I will tell you,” said he, laying his hand on Walter's arm, and speaking in his ear--”I would not accuse any one wrongfully, but I have my doubts that Houseman murdered him.”
”Great G.o.d!” murmured Walter, clinging to a post for support. ”Go on--heed me not--heed me not--for mercy's sake go on.”