What a pleasant wilderness that old garden was, even in its neglected
beauty! Whoever planted it loved open spaces, turf, and trees of foreign
race; for there were some rare cedars, full-grown, straight, and
stately, with feathered branches sweeping the grass, and strange shrubs
that were masses of blossom and fountains of sweet odors. The
flower-borders had run to waste; only a few impoverished roses tossed
their blushing fragrance into the air, and a few low-growing,
old-fashioned things made shift to live amongst the weeds. But the
prettiest bit of all was the verdant natural slope, below which ran the
brook that gave the village and the manor their names. The Forest is not
a land of merry running waters, but little tranquil streams meander
hither and thither, making cool its shades. Three superb beeches laved
their silken leaves in the shallow flood, and amongst their roots were
rustic seats all sheltered from sun and wind. Here had Harry Musgrave
and Bessie Fairfax sat many a summer afternoon, their heads over one
poetry-book, reading, whispering, drawing--lovers in a way, though they
never talked of love.
"Shall we two ever walk together in this garden again, Harry?" said
Bessie, breaking a sentimental silence with a sigh as she gazed at the
sun-dimmed horizon.
"Many a time, I hope. I'll tell you my ambition." Young Musgrave spoke
with vivacity; his eyes sparkled. "Listen, Bessie, and don't be
astonished.
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