December, 1915 



THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



155 



color! What a setting for a rose garden in an 

 estate of distinction — the richness of it!" 



"Yes, yes," said the Major, "to be sure! Field- 

 ing wrote me something about them — says he has 

 thousands — wants to make them a bit useful. 

 Think Roberta knows enough to look at them with 

 a hard, practical eye? She might kill two birds 

 with one stone — have an eye on Adelaide and on 

 the camellias, too." 



"Excellent idea!" said the old gentleman warmly. 

 "I'll speak to Trommel about it." 



But Trommel was non-committal. "I think 

 nothing until I haf tried them," he answered suc- 

 cinctly to Mr. Worthington's question. 



"You would be willing to try them?" 



"Assuredly. What would I not try once or 

 twice? But pot-grown iss always better if the 

 plant iss to be pot-grown. To be born in civiliza- 

 tion iss better for a child if he iss to grow up in 

 civilization. How easy those camellias would adapt 

 themselfes, I do not know. Perhaps a year to grow 

 into stocks, and then the grafting. Und grafting 

 camellias iss uncertain." 



"Do you think Miss Davenant could tell a 

 stock?" 



"She could tell one that was straight from one 

 that wass not straight," he admitted, "that iss 

 something. How they would serve as stocks, no 

 one could tell until after they had been grown per- 

 haps three years, und then compared with plants 

 grown on other stock. It is important that they 

 are properly packed und dug. She could direct 

 that." 



So it happened that on a clear December day, a 

 little launch puffed up the river, heading first toward 

 one side, then toward the other, for although the 

 river was wide, the channel was narrow, and turned 

 and twisted like a water snake. And with a zigzag 

 motion, the little craft, like an industrious water 

 beetle, steered now close to the bank, close enough 

 to be shadowed by the great oaks that stood at the 

 edge and bent over stretching out their branches 

 over its surface; now out where the marshes pushed 

 their way, creeping after the current lest it escape. 



Occasionally, with a harsh scream, a heron rose 

 angry at being disturbed. The river was of much 

 the same aspect as in the days when the Indians' 

 canoes slipped silently down it, the paddles making 

 hardly more stir than the dip of a gull's wing. For 

 in the colonial days both the Cooper and the Ashley 

 (since road-travel was by no means easy) presented 

 a livelier aspect, being the recognized thoroughfares, 

 than now. In those days up and down, between 

 the city and the great country places, went boats 

 laden with supplies and manned by gaily-clad 

 negroes, whose oars kept time to their melodies. 



The young fellow at the wheel, intent on the 

 varying channel, his cap off and his hair blown 

 back, was young Mr. Fielding. His father, Major 

 Carleton Fielding, was happy, boyishly happy, 

 as he always was when his face was turned 

 toward the old place. He had taken off his hat 

 and the wind ruffled his white hair. He was 

 talking to Miss Roberta and telling her of the places 

 they passed, as they caught glimpses of them 

 through the trees. This was Sunnymede that they 

 were passing; that was Carleton Hall — the red 

 brick — one could see the window through which 

 Francis Marion jumped to escape capture by the 

 British. 



The sun was setting when the launch reached 

 Paradise Park. A turn of the river brought it 

 suddenly into view and squarely one faced elaborate 

 terraces that, like a broad stairway descended to the 

 water, made the river at that point a direct avenue 

 of approach. The house was of brown plaster, and 

 many gabled. Two great live-oaks shadowed it 

 from the river-side. They and the house had stood 

 together for two hundred years and more. There 

 was a sombreness about the house, but the setting 

 sun touched its roof and turned to gold the tops of 

 the tall oaks that flanked it. 



A half-dozen Negroes, big and little, came down to 

 greet the arrival; they varied in size from Calliope, 

 who would have tipped the beam at two hundred, 

 to her small, spindery-legged grandson. Calliope 

 took voluble command of the hand luggage the 

 boat had brought, parcelling it out among the 

 others according to strength and intelligence. 



There is an undeniable nervousness about a new 

 country house. It is not sure of itself; its furnish- 



ings must be exact or the house is plainly uncom- 

 fortable. But here a pile of saddles was in' the hall. 

 Beautiful old furniture associated cheerfully with 

 new, makeshift pieces, for the house was sure enough 

 of its charm — the charm of proportion, of beautiful 

 staircases and doorways — to be unconcerned about 

 trifles. It had not the slightest touch of self con- 

 sciousness. The pine knots blazed happily in the 

 great fireplace; in fact, the old house seemed glad 

 to have its people back and was doing its best to 

 welcome them. 



From the distant kitchen came the sound of 

 Calliope scolding vociferously some of her assistants. 

 Miss Adelaide found herself talking with Major 

 Fielding and his sister as if she had always known 

 them. She was a bit surprised, but she liked it. 

 She liked the supper, served by a half dozen Negroes 

 in procession, the tiny little grandson bringing up 

 the rear, bearing a plate of Sally Lunn. 



At heart the Northerner is much the same, but 

 the luckless New Englander has a self-consciousness 

 like an ill-fitting moral corset clasped about his 

 spirits, which prevents his courtesy from ever being 

 spontaneous and graceful and indicating the warmth 

 of the heart beneath. And so while Miss Adelaide, 

 ■with much content, played cribbage and back- 

 gammon with Major Fielding, Paul took Roberta 

 over the plantation, also well content with his 

 occupation. 



Paradise Park stretched back, acres and acres 

 from the Cooper River. It had belonged to the 

 Fieldings since the original grant, more than two 

 hundred years back, from the Lords of the Province. 

 In Revolutionary days it was a notable place, with 

 splendid gardens, magnificently laid out. Of these 

 there was little left; but the stately avenue of 

 giant live-oaks, heavy with moss, was more beauti- 

 ful than ever, and the curve of the river was subtle 

 and lovely at Paradise Park — as if river and gardens 

 had long loved each other, were completely in sym- 

 pathy and lived together in perfect accord. Now 

 the beautiful old place was a heavy burden, its 

 acres almost helplessly mortgaged; its resources, 

 which would have been ample, were maddeningly 

 unavailable for lack of capital. The years of debt- 

 burdened anxiety had turned Major Fielding's hair, 

 once a shock as yellow as Paul's, perfectly white at 

 forty. Paul, in fact, could not remember his 

 father otherwise than with white hair. 



"Sell the place," practical relatives and friends 

 would say repeatedly. But Carlton Fielding 

 loved it. 



Those of us who live in cities and shift cheer- 

 fully and easily from apartment to apartment, from 

 hotel to hotel, have no conception of how a man may 

 love his home acres, the trees and bushes, even the 

 doorstep. Affections cannot easily hang on brick 

 and mortar, still less on hired brick and mortar; 

 they need something more responsive. And the 

 great oaks, the wide lawn spaces where the waving 

 shadows of the moss-draped trees lay heavily, the 

 tangles of Cherokee roses which made the edge of 

 the swamp as full of mystery as an enchanted land 

 had been inwrought into the older Fielding's life 

 from his earliest childhood. He would almost as 

 soon have thought of selling his son. 



To keep the place had been a long fight. Even 

 now, a Northern millionaire was anxious to buy it, 

 outright and entire. Some of the pine woodland 

 had gone — that was the year Paul was born. And 

 year after year, as the trees were removed, damag- 

 ing the rest of the forest sorely, Major Fielding felt 

 as if he had betrayed his friends. There was 

 phosphate, too, but to mine that would have in- 

 volved the loss of the great oak trees. 



So Fielding had chosen foolishly, as practical 

 people thought; had kept the inheritance prac- 

 tically intact, sold off only the less intrinsic part 

 and worked steadily and persistently at restoring 

 the rice plantation, rebuilding the dykes, which kept 

 out the slightly salt river-water, and with exceeding 

 difficulty and with scant equipment, growing rice 

 of steadily increasing quality. 



The gardens he had, of necessity, left more or less 

 to their fate, which was far kinder to them than if 

 they had been remodelled. The magnificent lines 

 of the lordly old gardens remained unchanged. 

 Four huge camellias marked the corners of the one- 

 time rose garden. The walks and boundaries and 

 the box hedges were the same as in his grandfather's 

 time; and now and again, at exactly the right 

 points, was planted the Virginia cedar, where, in 



Italy, a red cedar would have been set. There were 

 walks hedged by magnolias that made a wall of green 

 as close and dark as an ilex hedge, and then leaned 

 together far overhead and arched it. But where 

 had been parterre and flowery border, were grassed 

 spaces and from them tons of hay were cut. Over 

 the elaborate terraces that descended to the river, 

 cows were grazing, kept from the gardens by a 

 beautiful wrought iron gate. 



Much as he loved Paradise Park, Carlton Fielding 

 had been unwilling that Paul should take the burden 

 of it on his shoulders — in any case, not until he had 

 had a look at other things. So he sent him North 

 to college — not to Harvard, which Paradise Park 

 could not afford, but to one of the smaller colleges, 

 tucked securely in the New England hills. But 

 when Paul made up his mind to come back to the 

 old place, Carlton Fielding was radiantly happy. 



"Yo' sho' look ten years younger, Marse Carl," 

 said old Calliope the morning after Paul was back. 

 For it was a new Paul that had come back — a Paul 

 that was no longer listless, but eager and interested 

 in- every detail of his father's work, alive to every 

 point in the rice-growing; a Paul who, at seven in 

 the morning, was afield with the men; a Paul, on 

 whose bookshelves, beside De Maupassant and 

 Stevenson and Balzac, stood books of agriculture 

 and pile upon pile of Government bulletins. 



"When there's a new zest for work, or new interest 

 in apparel," said Major Fielding to himself as he 

 surveyed Paul's room, "it's cherchez la femme, as 

 sure as in a crime! " 



Young Mr. Fielding had, as his father noticed, 

 been exceptionally busy the past three months. 

 He had gone over his heritage with a new eye as 

 if he were a homesteader and it were just opened 

 government land. He had the soil tested. He 

 studied to find what untried crops might possibly 

 thrive in that soil and climate. " For," said he to 

 himself, "if you find crops peculiarly adapted to 

 your soil and climate you save competition and 

 labor." He thought of raising Japanese plums, of 

 trying tea, of growing indigo like little Eliza Pinck- 

 ney of two hundred years ago, of planting mulberry 

 trees and raising silkworms. He took an acre and 

 turned it into experiment plots, since the only way 

 to assure one's self conclusively that a crop will or 

 will not grow is to try it. 



Paul took Roberta all over his new territory. He 

 explained to her all he meant to do and the di- 

 versified crops he was planning. Together they 

 potted up hundreds of the infant camellias and, with 

 the optimistic arithmetic of youth, they reckoned up 

 the proceeds of hypothetical sales which, according 

 to the cheerful reckoning,' would in a few years com- 

 pletely clear the old place of its entanglements. They 

 made thousands of box cuttings from the old hedges 

 and thousands of camellia cuttings. That was on 

 rainy days. And then because Paul was but 

 twenty-six and Roberta Davenant barely twenty, 

 they forgot industry and went horseback riding 

 through mile after mile of the level, fragrant pine 

 wood, following the merest tracts through the thick 

 young underbrush, so tall that it brushed Roberta's 

 skirt and caught at her stirrups. They went past 

 the ruined "quarters" that were beside the old race 

 course, now barely a path. 



Sometimes they explored the spacious old gar- 

 dens: the four square rose garden, where the huge 

 and ancient camellias guarded each corner; from 

 that opened a sunken . octagonal garden, and the 

 herb garden; the flower garden, where the old 

 fashioned posies had once held carnival. There 

 was the "river walk" which curved and bent, now 

 this way, now that, following the river course, over- 

 looking its wide sunlit surface but shaded by the 

 giant live-oaks that bent their huge boughs over it. 

 Far more formal was the magnolia walk that marked 

 the boundary of the gardens and ended at the Long 

 Pond. Here magnolias, once close-clipped, grew 

 straight and tall on each side, forming a walk of 

 gleaming green like a yew walk in an English gar- 

 den. The Long Pool was rectangular, shaded by 

 tall oaks that stood back, from it, ranged in a row 

 at a decorous distance; and, because it lay east 

 and west, it was radiant in the morning sunlight 

 and a bit sombre toward evening, when the long 

 shadows lay heavily on its quiet surface. At the 

 other end of the magnolia walk was the river path 

 which, when the two met, bowed to a semi-circle; 

 here were carved seats and in the centre of the 

 space a sundial. 



