There was a garden indeed, but a garden whose ragged, ugly, degraded desolation looked as if the devil had taken to gardening in it. Rather than a grief, it was a pain and disgust to see. Fruit-trees there were on the wall, but run wild with endless shoots, which stuck like a hog’s mane over the top of it, and out in every direction from the face of it with a look of impertinent daring. All the fastenings were broken away, and only the old branches, from habit, kept their places against it. Everything all about seemed striving back to a dear disorder and salvage liberty. The walks were covered with weeds, and almost impassable with unpruned branches, while here lay a heap of rubbish, there a smashed flower-pot, here a crushed water-pot, there a broken dinner-plate. Following a path that led away from the wall, he came upon a fountain without any water, in a cracked basin dry as a lizard-haunted wall, a sundial without a gnomon, leaning wearily away from the sun, a marble statue without a nose, and streaked about with green: like an army of desolation in single file, they revealed to Cosmo the age-long neglect of the place. Next appeared a wing built out from the back of the inner court of the castle—in a dilapidated, almost dangerous condition. Then he came to a great hedge of yew, very lofty, but very thin, like a fence of old wire that had caught cart-loads of withered rubbish in its meshes. Here he heard the sound of a spade, and by the accompanying sounds judged the implement was handled by an old man. He peeped through the hedge, and caught sight of him. Old he was—bent with years, but tough, wiry, and sound, and it seemed to Cosmo that the sighs and groans, or rather grunts, which he uttered, were more of impatience and discontent than oppression or weakness. As he stood regarding him for a moment, anxious to discover with what sort of man he had to deal, he began to mutter. Presently he ceased digging, drew himself up as straight as he could, and, leaning on his spade, went on, as if addressing his congregation of cabbages over the book-board of a pulpit. And now his muttering took, to the ears of Cosmo, an indistinct shape like this:
“Wha cares for an auld man like me? I kenna what for there sud be auld men made! The banes o’ me micht melt i’ the inside o’ me, an’ never a sowl alive du mair for me nor berry me to get rid o’ the stink! No ’at I’m that dooms auld i’ mysel’ them ’at wad hae my place wad hae me!”
Here was a chance for him, Cosmo thought; for at least here was a fellow-countryman. He went along the hedge therefore until he found a place where he could get through, and approached the man, who had by this time resumed his work, though after a listless fashion, turning over spadeful after spadeful, as if neither he nor the cabbages cared much, and all would be in good time if done by the end of the world. As he came nearer, Cosmo read peevishness and ill-temper in every line of his countryman’s countenance, yet he approached him with confidence, for Scotchmen out of their own country are of good report for hospitality to each other.
“Hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?” he cried, sending his mother-tongue as a pursuivant in advance.
“Wha’s speirin? an’ what richt hae ye to speir?” returned the old man in an angry voice, and lifting himself quickly, though with an aching sigh, looked at him with hard blue eyes.
“A countryman o’ yer ain,” answered Cosmo.
“Mony ane’s that ’at’s naething the better nor the walcomer. Gie an accoont o’ yersel’, or the doags’ll be lowsed upo’ ye here in a jiffey. Haith, this is no the place for lan’loupers!”
“Hae ye been lang aboot the place?” asked Cosmo.
“Langer nor ye’re like to be, I’m thinkin’, gien ye keep na the ceeviler tongue i’ yer heid, my man—Whaur come ye frae?”
The old man had dropt his spade; Cosmo took it up, and began to dig.