"You are a philosopher as well as a gardener."
"I?" The man stood up, and Burton saw that he was young, and that his face, in spite of its somberness, was intelligent and not unattractive. "Oh, I am a human being, like the rest of the impertinent race. I try to forget what I am, but I have no right to. You do well to remind me."
"Why do you wish to forget?" asked Burton curiously.
"Who that is human would not wish to forget? Who that is human would not wish at times that he were a tulip, blooming in perfect beauty, and so doing all that could be asked of him? Or an oak, like that one, fulfilling its nature without blame and without harm?"
"Are you Ben Bussey?" Burton asked on a sudden impulse, remembering the name of the young man whom the hotel clerk had mentioned as being the subject of popular stories. This young man was certainly queer enough to give rise to legends.
He was not prepared for the effect of his question. The young man drew back as though he had been struck, while a look where fear and distaste and reproach were mingled darkened his face.
"Who are you?" he asked harshly. "What do you know about Ben Bussey?"
"I have heard the name mentioned, that's all, as that of a young man living with Dr. Underwood. I assure you I meant nothing offensive." Unconsciously he had adopted the tone of one speaking to an equal. This was no common gardener.
"No, I am not Ben Bussey," the young man said, after a pause in which he obviously struggled to regain his self-control. "I have often wished I were, however. I am Henry Underwood." He looked up with a sharp defiance in his eyes as he spoke the name. It was as though he expected to see some sign of repulsion.
"I am very glad to meet you, then. My name is Burton. Mrs. Overman, of Putney, asked me to bring a message to your sister."