The Man Whom the Trees Loved | Page 2

way in which the transaction emphasized this breach
between their common interests--the only one they had, but deep.
Sanderson, the artist, earned little enough money by his strange talent;
such checks were few and far between. The owners of fine or
interesting trees who cared to have them painted singly were rare
indeed, and the "studies" that he made for his own delight he also kept
for his own delight. Even were there buyers, he would not sell them.
Only a few, and these peculiarly intimate friends, might even see them,
for he disliked to hear the undiscerning criticisms of those who did not
understand. Not that he minded laughter at his craftsmanship--he
admitted it with scorn--but that remarks about the personality of the
tree itself could easily wound or anger him. He resented slighting
observations concerning them, as though insults offered to personal
friends who could not answer for themselves. He was instantly up in
arms.
"It really is extraordinary," said a Woman who Understood, "that you
can make that cypress seem an individual, when in reality all cypresses
are so exactly alike."
And though the bit of calculated flattery had come so near to saying the
right, true, thing, Sanderson flushed as though she had slighted a friend

beneath his very nose. Abruptly he passed in front of her and turned the
picture to the wall.
"Almost as queer," he answered rudely, copying her silly emphasis, "as
that you should have imagined individuality in your husband, Madame,
when in reality all men are so exactly alike!"
Since the only thing that differentiated her husband from the mob was
the money for which she had married him, Sanderson's relations with
that particular family terminated on the spot, chance of prospective
orders with it. His sensitiveness, perhaps, was morbid. At any rate the
way to reach his heart lay through his trees. He might be said to love
trees. He certainly drew a splendid inspiration from them, and the
source of a man's inspiration, be it music, religion, or a woman, is
never a safe thing to criticize.
"I do think, perhaps, it was just a little extravagant, dear," said Mrs.
Bittacy, referring to the cedar check, "when we want a lawnmower so
badly too. But, as it gives you such pleasure--"
"It reminds me of a certain day, Sophia," replied the old gentleman,
looking first proudly at herself, then fondly at the picture, "now long
gone by. It reminds me of another tree--that Kentish lawn in the spring,
birds singing in the lilacs, and some one in a muslin frock waiting
patiently beneath a certain cedar--not the one in the picture, I know,
but--"
"I was not waiting," she said indignantly, "I was picking fir-cones for
the schoolroom fire--"
"Fir-cones, my dear, do not grow on cedars, and schoolroom fires were
not made in June in my young days."
"And anyhow it isn't the same cedar."
"It has made me fond of all cedars for its sake," he answered, "and it
reminds me that you are the same young girl still--"
She crossed the room to his side, and together they looked out of the
window where, upon the lawn of their Hampshire cottage, a ragged
Lebanon stood in a solitary state.
"You're as full of dreams as ever," she said gently, "and I don't regret
the check a bit--really. Only it would have been more real if it had been
the original tree, wouldn't it?"
"That was blown down years ago. I passed the place last year, and
there's not a sign of it left," he replied tenderly. And presently, when he

released her from his side, she went up to the wall and carefully dusted
the picture Sanderson had made of the cedar on their present lawn. She
went all round the frame with her tiny handkerchief, standing on tiptoe
to reach the top rim.
"What I like about it," said the old fellow to himself when his wife had
left the room, "is the way he has made it live. All trees have it, of
course, but a cedar taught it to me first--the 'something' trees possess
that make them know I'm there when I stand close and watch. I suppose
I felt it then because I was in love, and love reveals life everywhere."
He glanced a moment at the Lebanon looming gaunt and somber
through the gathering dusk. A curious wistful expression danced a
moment through his eyes. "Yes, Sanderson has seen it as it is," he
murmured, "solemnly dreaming there its dim hidden life against the
Forest edge, and as different from that other tree in Kent as I am
from--from the vicar, say. It's quite a stranger, too. I don't know
anything about it really. That other cedar I loved; this old fellow I