CHAPTER X.

THE GARDEN--THE LITTLE AND THE GRAND FLORA.

As Harriet had been taught always to speak kindly to servants, she was quite a favorite with them, and her petition to the coachman that he would drive fast, made him put the horses into such rapid motion that the mile and a half was soon passed, and we were landed at Flowerhill before Mary had half arranged her plans of amusement for the day. Notwithstanding our speed, however, William called out, as we drove up, "What made you wait so long? I have been watching for you this great while."

Mr. Dickinson spoke to the children very pleasantly, and asked very kindly after Jessie's grandmother. As he caught my eye, however, on turning away from her, he shook his head with a look which seemed to say, "Remember, I promise nothing."

William was so impatient to show Jessie the flower and to exhibit his own accomplishments as a florist, that he carried the children off at once to the garden. Mr. Dickinson looked rather anxiously after them as they went tripping gayly along the walks, and very soon proposed that we should follow them. I acknowledge that, confident as I had expressed myself to be, and as I really was, of Jessie's good behavior, my great anxiety that she should be particularly cautious, made me a little nervous, a little fearful that she might at least let the skirt of her dress brush off a leaf, and thus give Mr. Dickinson an excuse for adhering to his determination. I was, therefore, quite ready to join the children, who would, I thought, be more quiet when we were near. The first sight of them, however, set my fears at rest, and I glanced at Mr. Dickinson with something of triumph. There they stood ranged around the tub in which was the strange and beautiful flower they were admiring, yet not a finger was raised even to point at it; on the contrary, they were holding each other's hands as if they feared their own forgetfulness. They moved away as we came up, though not far, and William Temple continued to repeat to Jessie all which he had learned from his uncle of the nature and habits of the plant. After I had observed all the beauties of this pride of the garden, and exhibited as much admiration for them as even Mr. Dickinson could desire, he invited me to walk with him to a distant part of the garden, where he had some other plants scarce less beautiful or less rare than this. Little Flora Temple, who, as I have before told you, was only about two years old, had held her mother's finger and run along by her side from the house, prattling all the way of the "pitty fower" which she was going to see. She now refused to go any farther, saying, "Fola tired--stay, Willy."

Mrs. Temple looked at Mr. Dickinson doubtfully, but as if to show the confidence which the good conduct of the children had given him, he made no objection, saying, indeed, "William will take good care of her,"--so she was left.

With a lightened heart, beginning to feel as Harriet did, _almost_ sure that Mr. Graham would have the place, I went. What happened after we had left the children, I must tell you as I learned it from themselves. It seems, that finding her brother too much engaged with Jessie and his new office of teacher to attend much to her, Flora became weary and teased him to take her into the house. "Poor thing," said William, "she is tired standing up. If brother Willy finds a pretty place for her, will she sit down quite still till he runs to the house for Nursey to come and take her up?"

The child assented. Now, unfortunately, just by the Cactus stood a flower-stand, not intended for a parlor, but large and high, making a pretty ornament in a garden when covered with small plants, which were better sunned in this way than if placed on the earth. This flower-stand was in the shape of a half moon; the shelves looked like steps, and were quite strong enough to bear Flora's weight, or indeed William's. They were dry and clean, and seemed to him to offer a very nice and safe seat for Flora, especially as she would be within sight of the house all the time. William was only six years old, and perhaps does not deserve to be blamed very much for forgetting, in this arrangement, that as his back would be towards Flora in going to the house, and as the other children were standing behind the flower-stand, neither he nor they would be able to see her or provide for her safety. They had paid little attention to her, and supposed, when they missed her, that William had taken her to the house with him, while he had in reality placed her on the third shelf, or step, as he called it, of the flower-stand. Giving her a few common flowers to amuse her, he ran on without thought of harm. Jessie was still occupied with the strange stalk and leaves of this wonderful plant, which she was every minute wishing her father could see--Harriet, equally intent on guarding Mr. Dickinson's treasures from the touch even of Jessie's dress, and Mary in looking for a weed, of which William Temple had declared there was not one in his uncle's garden, when they were all startled by a scream. It was William's voice--then followed a few eager words, "Jessie, look up--Jessie--Harriet--catch her!"

Jessie looked up, and there stood Flora Temple on the topmost height of the narrow flower-stand. Attracted probably by the voices, she had climbed up, intending, no doubt, to get down to them on the other side. William, who first saw her, was too far away to help her, and when Jessie looked at her, she had already become frightened and was leaning forwards with her arms outstretched. Harriet ran around the stand to go up to her--Jessie saw it was too late for this--in one instant she was standing on the tub--the Cactus tub--the next, Flora was in her arms, the child was safe, and the flower, the splendid flower, the pride of Mr. Dickinson's garden, and admiration of his guests, lay on the ground. Falling from such a height, Flora's weight had been too much for Jessie. She had bent under it, and pressing against the stake supporting the flower, it had broken, and before Jessie could raise herself, the flower was at her feet. For a time it was unseen, for all were occupied with Flora, who screamed as if she had really met the fall she had so narrowly escaped. Her nurse took her from Jessie, and moved towards the house with her, followed by all the children, without any one of them having even glanced at the Cactus. After going a short distance, however, the girls, finding they could do nothing to pacify her, returned to look for Mary's gloves and handkerchief, which she had laid down and quite forgotten in her fright about Flora. As they came near the flower, Harriet was the first to perceive the mischief done, and to exclaim, "Oh, Jessie, see what you have done! What will Mr. Dickinson say?"

Jessie was a timid child, and Mr. Dickinson seemed to her the most awful person in the world. Distressed and frightened, she stood for a minute with her hands clasped, looking down at the prostrate flower without speaking a word, then suddenly looking up, said, "Harriet, I am very sorry, but I could not help it, and I must just go to Mr. Dickinson and tell him I did it."

"Ah, Jessie! you do not know all," said Harriet, "or it would not seem so easy to tell him that."

"It does not seem easy, Harriet," Jessie began--but Mary interrupted her, exclaiming warmly, "Why, Harriet! I do believe you think Jessie ought to have let Flora fall rather than have broken that one single flower."

"No, Mary, I do not think so, but I wish anybody else had done it rather than Jessie."

"Why, Harriet?" said Jessie, "why would you rather anybody else had done it?"

"Because, Jessie, I would rather Mr. Dickinson should be angry to-day with anybody than with you."

"But why?" persisted Jessie.

Harriet hesitated--then said, "I may as well tell you, Jessie; for the only reason Aunt Kitty did not wish me to, was that you would be too sure, and there's no danger of that now."

"Too sure of what?"

"Why, that he would have your father for his gardener,"--and then Harriet told of all her hopes and fears, and of my efforts, and of the beautiful house and garden, and six hundred dollars a-year which Mr. Dickinson gave his gardener,--"And then you know, Jessie, you would not be too far to come every day to school to Miss Bennett; and see, Jessie, there's the church," pointing to the steeple, "so near, and you know your grandmother wants to live near the church, and this was what made me want you to come so very much that Mr. Dickinson might see how careful you were, and then I was almost sure he would let your father have the place; but now--" and she looked down sorrowfully at the prostrate flower.

Jessie, who had listened with wondering and eager ears, looked down too and said nothing.

After a short pause, Mary Mackay exclaimed, "They are coming,--I hear Mr. Dickinson--but do not look so pale and so frightened, Jessie. I will tell you what I will do--I am not afraid of Mr. Dickinson--he cannot do any thing to hurt me. Now, Jessie, do not begin to say no--I am not going to tell a story--I am just going to _let him think_ it was I who broke the flower."

"No, no, Mary," said Jessie--but before she had finished speaking, Mary had picked up the broken branch, and stood in the path before the astonished Mr. Dickinson and myself. Mrs. Temple had excused herself and returned to the house by another way some time before. There stood Mary with the branch in her hand--the branch, with its flower broken and soiled.

"Mr. Dickinson," her voice faltered, and she evidently began to grow frightened, but she continued, "I am very sorry, sir, your flower has got broke."

Mr. Dickinson turned first red and then pale. He said not a word to Mary, but turned to me with a look which I well understood--it said as plainly as words could have done, "You see how right I was about children." This passed in an instant, for you know looks do not take long, and before I could say a word to him--before I could even ask Mary how it happened, Jessie stood beside her. She was very pale. Laying her hand on the branch which Mary held, she said very distinctly, though her voice was low, "She did not break it, sir--it was I."

We were all silent for a moment, and then Mr. Dickinson spoke, "It was you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, my dear," he continued, speaking very slowly, "I am very much obliged to you, for you have saved me probably from a great many such trials. Had you been as careful and well-behaved as this lady thought you, I should have been hardly able to refuse her request that I would take your father as my gardener, at least on trial for one year, and at the end of that time, I should, it seems, have had little of a garden to keep."

Mr. Dickinson walked on without another word or even look at the little culprits. And I walked on too. You will think me very cruel, and so I thought myself but a minute after, as I heard Jessie's low, half-smothered sobs, and the efforts of Harriet and Mary to console her; but I was really vexed with Jessie, for you must remember I did not know how she had been so unfortunate as to break the plant,--the children had been too much frightened even to think of telling us that. Besides, I was on my way to see a new dairy of Mr. Dickinson's, and as I had asked to see it, he would have thought my leaving him unpardonably impolite. I fear, as it was, I must have seemed very inattentive, for I often forgot to answer him while listening to poor Jessie's sobs, or looking back to the garden walk where she still stood with her head resting on Harriet's shoulder, while Mary held one of her hands and talked with even more than her usual earnestness. What they said I must repeat to you as I heard it from themselves, since it is necessary you should know it in order to understand what afterwards happened.

"I would not cry, Jessie," said Mary, "I would be glad my father was not to live with such a cross, bad man."

"Oh, Mary! you do not know how badly father feels about going away. He thinks it will kill grandmother only to hear about it--and he might have come here if it had not been for me--I am so sorry I came. What shall I do, Harriet?--What shall I do?"

"Let us all go and beg Mr. Dickinson," said Mary; "I am sure if we told him that Jessie had done it all to keep little Flora Temple from hurting herself, he could not be so cross."

"Well," said Harriet, "let us try--we can do no harm--for he cannot be more angry than he is."

Poor Jessie was willing to try any thing, though she had little hope. When she came near us, however, her heart failed her and she drew back. Mary, who was always ready to be speaker, proposed that Jessie and Harriet should stay where they were, while she went forward and told the story. This was agreed to, and we had scarcely entered the dairy when Mary followed us in. Breathing very hard and quick, and looking quite flushed and agitated, she began, "Mr. Dickinson--Aunt Kitty--Aunt Kitty, I am come to tell Mr. Dickinson how Jessie broke the flower."

"There is no occasion, my dear," said Mr. Dickinson, looking quite fretted and angry; "I do not care to know how she broke it, it is quite enough for me to know that it is broken."

"But I want to tell you, sir," persisted Mary, "because I am sure if you knew, you would not be angry with her."

"Angry with her!--I am not at all angry with her. I do not doubt that she is a very good girl, and that I should like her very much, but not in my garden, Miss Mary--not in my garden."

I saw that Mr. Dickinson felt worried, and that Jessie's cause was not gaining any thing from Mary's application, so taking her hand, I said, "Do not tease Mr. Dickinson, my dear,--tell Jessie Mr. Dickinson says he is not angry with her, and that Aunt Kitty loves her better than ever for having told the truth so readily and firmly."

Mary looked very much dissatisfied, but as Mr. Dickinson turned his back to her and talked to me as if she had not been there, it was of no use to stay, and she soon left us.

"Jessie," said Mary, when she got back to her, "Mr. Dickinson is a cross bad man, and I would not mind him at all. He said he was not angry with you, but he was just as angry as he could be, for he would not hear a word I had to say about you--but Aunt Kitty says you must not cry, and that she loves you better than ever for telling the truth."

Pleased as Jessie was with my praise, it could not comfort her for her father's loss, or give her courage to meet the dreaded Mr. Dickinson.

"Harriet," said she, "I do want to go home."

"Well, Jessie, you shall go--I will ask Aunt Kitty to send you there in the carriage, and then let it come back for us."

"No, no, Harriet--then they will all talk to me and want me to stay. It's only a little way, and I walk every week to the church--why cannot I just slip through that garden gate and get home without anybody's knowing it? I shall feel so much better when I have told father and grandmother all about it."

"I dare say you will," said Harriet, "for when any thing troubles me I want to tell Aunt Kitty directly, and your grandmother is just the same to you. I would tell her all, Jessie, for I am sure she would a great deal rather go away anywhere than to have had you tell a story."

"That I am sure of too," said Jessie.

"Well," said Mary, coloring up, "I did not mean to tell a story, but I do not see what harm it would have been to let Mr. Dickinson think it was I that broke his plant, just from seeing the branch in my hand."

"Oh, Mary!" said Jessie, "I know you would not tell a story, and it was very kind in you to want to take the blame from me,--but indeed, Mary, it would not have been right, I'm sure it would not; and badly as I do feel now, I should have felt a great deal worse if I had not told Mr. Dickinson all the truth,--but good-by, girls," for they had walked on while talking, and both Harriet and Mary had gone with her beyond the gate, "I'll go and tell father, and beg him to let me tell grandmother all about it. He said last night he wished she knew, only he could not bear to tell her."

Jessie's tears had ceased as soon as she determined to go home and tell her troubles there, and Harriet and Mary parted from her with smiles, promising to beg me to go back early, and to let them go directly to her house.