Amaranth's Garden

by Margaret S. Haycraft

  "I will look for the manuscript another time," says Amaranth coldly, not disposed to accept a favour from Mr. Bigham. She admits it is quite reasonable of him to object to anything beyond friendship between herself and Ardyn, but her woman's heart has not yet quite forgiven him for such objections.

  "Yes, do," he says cordially, "and we will see what can be done. It would be famous news for your poor mother that the book had made any sort of success."

  Next morning, while painting in her studio, Amaranth hears gleeful voices in the garden below, and sees Ardyn Home putting little Tim through some of his bygone tricks, greatly to the delight of Tim's master.

  "Hello, Sis," calls Eddie up to her open window, "here's Ardyn. Come down and give him some bread and jam."

  "I must apologize for this intrusion, Miss Glyn," says Ardyn quietly, as he lifts his hat, when after a hesitant pause she joins the two below, "but I was rowing past in the river just now, and Eddie and Dick were on the bank. Eddie wished to show me his specimens, and would take no refusal. How warm it is. This garden is always so pleasant and shady. Thanks, Eddie, old man, but I won't trouble you for the bread and jam. I must row back now."

  "Oh, but you must see my slugs and my beetles in the study," cries Eddie; and Amaranth adds, trying to speak unconcernedly, "Perhaps you will kindly take charge of my father's book for the rector. I have now found the manuscript, but I fear the writing is almost illegible."

  "Oh, I can re-copy some. I am used to Mr. Glyn's writing, and I always believed in his book. It is bound to succeed some day," says Ardyn, who has never ceased to look out in all directions for me chance of pushing A Scientist's Dream and has perseveringly reminded his uncle of his promise of help.

  He speaks cordially enough, but his manner is changed. Amaranth Glyn, the great artist, growing rich and famous, can look far beyond a country rate, he argues to himself, and he would be loath to stand in the way of her prospects by any persistent sentimentality. He leaves her, rather perturbed in mind. Of course, she never expected him to greet her lovingly as in former days, but he might have been just a little warmer in his inner! But, doubtless, he is now engaged to be married. How foolish of her to imagine that old memories would stand in the way of an eligible union! She wishes she had congratulated him -- no doubt it is best for him to form a happy engagement, and forget all about their past boy-and-girl ideas.

  As time goes on, she brings herself to call one afternoon on Mrs. Bigham, and loving memories seem to soften and bless her as she rests anew by the couch, and looks on the bright, fragrant flowers all about the room.

  "Oh, Amaranth," says the rector's wife, "how good God is -- how sure, how strong is our Father's hand to comfort and help and gladden us! A while ago, things seemed so dark for you and yours. Now you are at home again, and able to help your dear ones and to bless the world by your marvellous gift, and doubtless ere long your dear parents will be back with you in quiet happiness again. My husband often says he wishes he had Mr. Glyn at the church once more. You must not judge Mr. Bigham, dear. His sense of justice is very acute, but he is feeling very much all the same for your poor father, and for all you have gone through, and I have been just wearying for you, my little maid, and praying for you all the time."

  Amaranth returns her kiss with dewy eyes, and presently is rapturously greeted by the old servants, who have known her for long years, and who tell her they have talked of "this happy moment" many times. And the old white cat comes and rubs up against her in recognition, and not a cold word or look disturbs her. But she gets no glimpse of Ardyn, and she has not summoned courage to ascertain if his betrothed exists, and what may be her name.

  Chapter 13

  Among the Lilies

  Amaranth walks back slowly from the Rectory, her heart warmed by Mrs. Bigham's tenderness, cheered by the welcome of the old Rectory servants. Even her artistic successes have not made her as glad as their words of love and remembrance. All this time she has imagined herself looked upon as a sort of social outlaw, and she begins to see that in some cases at least she has made a mistake.

  And if she has erred as to human feelings, if the tender heart of the rector's wife has never ceased to yearn for her, if the good women and the old gardener there have made her the subject of affectionate converse, and if the rector himself is so much less bitter and stern towards her poor father than she has imagined, may she not likewise have made a vaster, deeper mistake as to the thoughts of the Lord of all concerning her life?

  What if He has been seeking her all along, seeking to draw her into a fuller, calmer trust, while she has drawn back from Him in doubt, in fretting, in faithless fear? What if the Lord's thoughts towards her have been infinite mercy, unbounded compassion, instead of the purposeless judgments which in her folly she has attributed to God?

  Her heart is alive with such thoughts as these as she nears The Bower, and sees Eddie resting in the porch, with a quiet, far-away, peaceful look in his bright blue eyes. For a moment he does not see her. He looks so thin, so white, so insubstantial almost, that she hurries towards him half-frightened, and lifts him up to carry him in.

  "Sis," says he wistfully, "isn't it time for Mother to come home? I dreamt last night she was here again. Sis, I've kept on praying for Mother to come home. Don't you think she'll come before...."

  "She might come any day now, my pet," says Amaranth, hastily. She leaves him for a moment to bid Dickey fetch the doctor, for to her ears his speech seem somehow slower, more laboured, and his breathing heavy and irregular. "Eddie, dearest," she says, "I think you must have caught a fresh cold. I think you had better have a poultice."

  "Why, sister, I'm quite well. I'm not in any pain now at all. I've had a jolly time, getting my museum tidy. I've printed a lot of cards to explain to Father what my specimens mean. Dickey told me how to spell the words; but I wish you'd come and look, because he has not had much education. He's a very poor scholar, so I wish you would look over the cards."

  Amaranth carries him to Mr. Glyn's study, which her brother has filled with specimens of stones, bark, wild flowers, insects, butterflies, slugs, leaves, and other items of nature. She has given him a cabinet, which he is always tidying and re-arranging, leaving countless messages and directions concerning the specimens for Father. It never seems to occur to Eddie that he will see Mr. Glyn himself, but his patient face grows thinner day by day looking out for Mother.

  "Mr. Bigham's been here, Sis," he says, tenderly handling his pet toad, "and I told him I'd been praying Jesus to let Mother come, and Mr. Bigham was ever so kind. He took me on his lap and said I needn't be afraid, for there's none kinder than the Lord Jesus Christ, and He listens when children pray. Mr. Bigham is sure Mother will come; but oh, Sis, she's long -- very long."

  "But she'll come at last, my Eddie," says Amaranth, turning her head to hide her tears. "Be sure she will come at last. She loves you too well not to come."

  Eddie seems in no pain, but he is restless and excited. When he goes to bed, he lies with his blue eyes wide open, and complains that he cannot sleep. The doctor sends him medicine, and speaks of a want of vitality, and a little heart weakness, but is hopeful and encouraging, and makes Eddie laugh by strange tales about his parrot, and the awe with which its conversational power is regarded by his cats and dogs.

  Susan and Amaranth are with Eddie about ten, hearing every now and then the cry in his restless dreams of "Mother," when they hear downstairs a stifled exclamation from Dickey, and the next moment another watcher is kneeling beside the little bed.

  "Mother, Mother!" says Eddie, nestling up to her restfully, half-dreaming still, with a happy smile, "Sis said you'd come. You love me so much, she said, you couldn't stay away!"

  Mrs. Glyn's tears are falling fast, but she struggles to repress them. Holding one of the boy's thin hands she clasps Amaranth in the embrace for which the girl has yearned in vain so long.

  "Oh, my darling mother!" cries Amaranth, clinging to her as if she fears this is only a vision
. "How changed you look, how weary, how tired, how thin! And your hair is turning grey, my precious mother. But never mind, I can earn money for you now. And I have such a wonderful little studio here, Mother, and I can earn money for us all. You shall never know worry and anxiety again. What a selfish daughter I was in the past to you, Mother; but now it is my turn to work, and you shall rest. Everything will be right now that you have come. Eddie will get quite strong now you are here, Mother -- won't he, Susan?"

  But Susan has already disappeared in search of food for the traveller. Mrs. Glyn sits down beside Eddie's bed, and blesses and praises Amaranth for her ministerings to the child, and all her hard, loving work. The mother's eyes read in Amaranth's face a depth, a nobility of which the days of yore knew nothing. Whatever else may have been wrought by the troubles, it is plain enough that the idolatry of self is past and ended for ever.

  "Mother," says Amaranth, removing her cloak and caressing the gentle hands, "you will stay here now. The Bower is our own, mother, and Eddie is sure to get well under your nursing. Oh, we shall be so happy together, if only you will stay with us. Let father come too -- poor father," she adds softly. "He will be so happy here in the woods and in the study. No one will worry him, or remind him of the trouble. Why has not Father come too?"

  "He is coming, Amaranth," says Mrs. Glyn. "I could not have left him otherwise. He is very feeble, and the doctors there would not let him start with me. But to see Eddie again, he resolved, as soon as your warning letter came, to bear the pain of a return to old scenes in England. Directly he is fit to travel he will start for home. He sold his book on the Trapichero to an American firm, and they paid him well, so our travelling expenses have been thus provided. Yes, Father will be here in a few weeks, I hope, and we must all try to protect him from painful memories and unfriendly insinuations."

  "Oh, Mother dear, people are far kinder than I expected. I think time is wearing away their indignation, and they are remembering Father's gentleness now, and his good-natured ways to all. Poor Father, I wish I had written to him sometimes, if only I had known your address. He was always so good to me."

  "The tortoise came to life, Mother," says Eddie, from the bed.

  They go to him with a laugh, and he seems in such joyous spirits, sitting up in his flannel jacket to share Mrs. Glyn's supper, that Susan confides to Amaranth she has a presentiment he will grow strong and bonny yet. And Amaranth goes to her rest happier than she has felt for many a long month, with her mother's fond kiss warm upon her lips.

  Next day Eddie eats a good breakfast in bed, and gets up later on to assist at the wonders of Mrs. Glyn's unpacking, for she has brought him all sorts of marvels from across the seas. Tim pokes his little nose forward to examine one thing after another, while Eddie, in the midst of transports of delight, puts down pressed flower or leaf or wondrous thing, and gazes into his mother's face as if in finding her, his little heart is satisfied.

  In the afternoon the doctor drives Eddie out to see his parrot, and what with the fresh air and the excitement and the restlessness of the previous night, Eddie seems tired and sleepy on his return, and curls up on the warm grass in the garden, his thin hands full of white lilies from the doctor's flowerbeds.

  He has brought them home for "Mother," and soon she will come to him, but Amaranth explains Mr. Bigham is with her now, telling her that the first instalment of Mr. Glyn's book is published, and that the press is waxing quite excited about it. Some of Mr. Glyn's theories are new and startling, and all are interesting and worthy of note. The public, far from avoiding the subject as dry, which has been feared in the past, has warmly welcomed A Scientist's Dream and Mr. Bigham seems inclined to think it will be the making of his friend's Magazine.

  "I fear that Mr. Glyn's cramped, almost illegible handwriting," says the rector, "has been against him. It wanted courage and energy to attempt to master his pages. Ardyn copied many of them himself before we sent the manuscript off, and now the popular verdict is most encouraging. Amaranth does not any longer stand alone in your family as wearing the laurels. Let us hope, dear madam, a brighter, fairer future will succeed the mental sufferings you tell me Mr. Glyn has undergone abroad."

  Much of this good news Amaranth imparts to Eddie, and also the fact that the publishers have sent Mrs. Glyn a handsome cheque on account. The little boy listens and smiles, and drops the clustering lilies, and holds Tim tightly in his arms, but he makes no answer to his sister. As he lies there on the grass, looking up to the sky, his thoughts seem far away.

  Presently Amaranth, at work in the summerhouse, hears his voice softly floating to her across the flowers, in one of the simple hymns he learnt in his class at Sunday school:

  "I think, when I read that sweet story of old,

  When Jesus was here among men,

  How He called little children like lambs to His fold,

  I should like to have been with Him then.

  I wish that His hands had been placed on my head,

  That His arms had been thrown around me;

  And that I might have seen His kind look when He said,

  'Let the little ones come unto Me!'"

  Eddie's voice dies away, and a great longing, such as she has never known before, comes to his sister's heart to pray. Her life seems so full, what with her professional work, her joy in the family reunion, her longing for Ardyn, her anxiety for Eddie, that as the little voice sings of Him who to the helpless held out arms of rest, she drops her sewing, and the tears which are as the breaking of the rock cry out to Him in a silent prayer. She has no power for words, but in those tears she stretches out her helpless hands to the all-forgiving, all-strong, all-loving Judge and Father of us all.

  "Hush, do not wake him, Mother dear," she says, softly, as Mrs. Glyn comes down the garden to look for her boy. "He was so restless last night, this sleep will do him good."

  Together they watch the quiet, sunny head, the boyish arms flung round the dog, the tame toad peeping snugly out from the clusters of silvery lilies. Then the mother goes suddenly nearer with a hasty step, and bends down and touches his brow.

  "Eddie, Eddie, my sweet, my child!"

  Amaranth hears the cry, and sees the little dog lifted away by Mrs. Glyn, struggling to lick the boy's hands with a bewildered moan. "Let me carry him, Mother," says Amaranth, taking up the little form, so frail, so light. "Is he ill? Is he worse?"

  But the child makes no movement, no tremble of this mortal, feeble life. Amaranth carries him to his bed, and the doctor is soon brought by the weeping Dickey. Then they lay the lilies on the quiet breast, and kiss the little brow, and know that through all eternity the Saviour's arms are round their little Eddie.

  How can they sorrow for him, the weak made strong, the frail made whole, the Christ-like taken to be with his Lord? It does not seem like death, this calm, beautiful, smiling rest. Kneeling beside her little brother, the bands of ice seem broken from Amaranth's heart. Though she seems as yet unable to fashion a prayer with the freedom of old, she falters to the Christ who has called the little child unto Him, and says, "My Lord and my God!"

  Chapter 14

  Miss Grimwood's Peril

  Three months have passed since mother and daughter followed their beloved one to the churchyard, since the rector spoke the words of hope, "I am the Resurrection and the Life." Quiet months these have been at The Bower, filled for Amaranth, not only with arduous work, but with humble learning of Him who to all of us, however circumstanced, must be the beginning and the end of our aspirations unto good.

  The rector's sermons help her as well as Ardyn's. In the former, the justice of God is set forth perhaps pre-eminently; in the latter, His boundless, deathless love; and to such a God, Saviour as well as Judge, Amaranth learns to leave her body, mind, and soul, now and in the vast To Be. Often, with Eddie's little New Testament in her pocket, she steals to his quiet resting-place, where the grasses are beginning to creep up gently around. There she reads and studies the teachings of Christ, and
finds Him sufficient for all her needs, her cares, her difficulties. At last she is able from her heart to say, notwithstanding all her doubts, the darkness, the conflicts of the past, "Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth."

  After Eddie's death, Mrs. Glyn suffers much from weakness. Susan and Amaranth nurse her devotedly, feeling as if they could not do enough for the faithful one who has crossed the sea, from her husband's side, to hold her boy in such a sweet, though such a brief embrace.

  "I shall see my child again," says the bereaved mother often, with a brightening face. "God would not take His gifts away. My boy awaits me, healed and glorified, in the Father's House."

  Mrs. Glyn begins to show visible improvement when she knows for a certainty that her husband is well enough to start for England. He has been ill of fever, and has been nursed by the adventurous Allaga, but now he is able to start on his homeward voyage, and his wife begins to count the days till she sees him.

  One day Miss Jane Grimwood, while resting in the forest, lays her ungloved hand on what she imagines to be a fallen branch, and shrieks to find the supposed bough move, and to understand that she has been holding a snake. Miss Grimwood becomes rigid with fear, and sinks on the ground in a condition which greatly alarms her companion, Mrs. Matthew Gummer. There is no water nearer than the river, and she wonders how she can leave her aunt in a fit.

  "Rebecca, Rebecca!" says Miss Grimwood, in expiring tones, "I have been bitten by a snake. Mr. Fleming has my will. I leave all to little Grimwood. Teach him his catechism."

  "Oh, aunt," sobs Rebecca, "do not speak thus. Surely the poison can be extracted. Let me fetch somebody. Oh, dearest aunt, bear up, I implore you.'"

  Miss Grimwood has gone into violent hysterics. Rebecca sees the snake slithering near her again, and is in despair, for she is almost as frightened, and knows not what to do. Just then with unspeakable relief she sees an old man approaching, with a younger one dressed in somewhat un-English style. Rebecca thinks he is Spanish, and the sight of anyone is welcome in such extremity.