It was a June day, and beyond the fir woods that broke the bluster¹ of the south-west winds, a few white clouds floated in a deep blue sky. As for the rosery at Fernhill, no Persian poet could have found a more delectable² spot in which to dream through the hours of a scented³ day, with a jar of purple wine beside him. An old yew⁴ hedge, clipped square, closed it in like a wall, with an opening cut at each corner where paths paved with rough stones disappeared into the world without. These four broad, grey paths, the crevices⁵ between the stones planted with purple aubretia and star-flowered rock plants, met in the centre of the rosery, where a sundial stood on a Gothic pillar. Next the yew hedge were rambling⁶ roses trained upon the trunks of dead fir trees. Numberless little grey paths branched off from the main ones, dividing up the great square court into some two score rose beds. And this June day this secret, yew-walled garden flamed with a thousand tongues of fire. Crimson⁷, old rose, coral pink, blush white, damask, saffron, blood red, snow, cerise, salmon⁸, white, orange, copper⁹, gold, all the colours seemed alive with light, the rich green of the young foliage¹⁰ giving a setting of softness to the splendour of the flowers.

 

James Canterton was the big, placid¹¹,

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