The garden at Hunters' Brae was a charming place. Like the house, it had been the care and pleasure of generations of the Hunters. Its lawns were soft and velvety. The impertinent daisy and the pushing dandelion had never been allowed their way amongst the tender grass, and it was smooth and springy to walk on. It was Peter's pride that no such lawns could be shown anywhere in or around Heathermuir. There was nothing stiff or formal in this garden, no chessboard patterns or stripes of colour round the borders, but there were lovely masses of luxuriant blooms, radiant colourings, delicious scents, and all in such harmony that the result was a charm which no more regular arrangement could have produced.
One of Marjory's favourite walks was a narrow grass path bordered on each side by stately hollyhocks. When she was a little girl she used to wonder how long it would be before she grew as tall as they were. This walk led to the rose garden, which had always had a great attraction for the lonely child. A real rose garden it was, with low stone walls, gold and green with the mossy growth of many years. There was a sundial in the centre of it, which had seen many a sunny day since it had been set up to mark the passing of time for the visitors to the rose garden. Here were roses of many sorts and colours, some rare, some common, but all sweet, as only roses can be. Peter knew their secrets—knew just how to treat these lovely queens among flowers—knew, too, that, above all, they like to have undisputed possession of the ground, for they are exclusive these royal ladies, and do not care to share with all and sundry; and they rewarded the old man's care and consideration by blooming early and late and in the most wonderful profusion.
It would take many pages to tell of all the delights of the Hunters' Brae garden, with its unexpected turns and nooks and corners, its rustic seats in shady places for hot days, in sunny places for cold ones, and even in many pages it would be impossible to convey the old-world charm pervading it, its stately dignity and the aspect of long-established well-being over all. Peter seemed to know every inch of it, every plant in it was as a child to him, and not the tiniest seedling was overlooked, for—
"The gardener, in his old brown hands,
Turns over the brown earth
As if he loves and understands
The flowers before their birth;
The fragile, childish little strands
He buries in the earth."
Dr. Hunter was often quite astonished at the amount of work the old man would get through. Certainly he had two or three assistants, but they were young and raw and had to be watched and told what to do; but Peter always said he preferred them young, because "They didna hae quite sic a gude conceit o' theirsels," and any young man who could get his training under Peter thought himself very fortunate. Everything with him was done in due season and for love of his work; there was no rushing or hurrying—it was indeed a garden of peace.
Marjory loved the garden. It was here that the happiest hours of her life had been spent; here that she had watched the ways of birds and flowers and insects; here that she had listened to Peter's tales of olden times; and here that she had dreamed dreams of her father, and built many a castle in the air. She was glad when she saw that this beloved garden was casting its charm upon her friend. It was looking very lovely in the afternoon sunshine. Butterflies were flitting amongst the flowers, and the hum of bees and many insects made the air musical with sound of happy life. A gorgeous dragon-fly sailed past them, wheeling round as if to show its wonderful glittering colours to the best advantage in the sunshine. Blanche had never seen such a thing in her life, and after it had gone she lingered many minutes hoping that it might pass back again. But it did not come, and the time was slipping away. Marjory spied the bent back of Peter in the distance, and the two girls went towards him, Marjory calling to him to come and take them to the farm.
Peter was not to be hurried; he was tying up a carnation plant, and he continued his job with only a nod at the girls. He finished the last knot just as they reached him, and straightening himself and raising his hat, he said, "I'm ready noo."
Marjory said to Blanche, "This is Peter;" and then turning to Peter, "This is Miss Forester. Aren't you pleased to see her?"
"I am that," replied the old man, looking at Blanche for the first time; and then, as if satisfied with what he saw, he repeated much more enthusiastically, "'Deed an' I am that," with a nod and a smile at Blanche.
Marjory felt great satisfaction in the assurance that her friend had found favour in the eyes of the two very important personages in the Brae household—Lisbeth and Peter.