A GENERATION or two ago there lived in our land a Duke who was known to be a sincere Christian, of whom the following helpful and touching tale is told.
It appears that the Duke’s head gardener was a man of like faith as his master, and it was noticed that in his walks through the park and gardens which surrounded his castle, the Duke would often pause for a chat with his gardener, when doubtless those spiritual subjects in which they were both interested would be touched upon.
Now it happened that the gardener had an only daughter who was the joy of his heart, and the light of his home. Great was his grief, therefore, when it pleased God to take her, leaving her father well-nigh broken-hearted. Apparently also he felt a grievance against God, for the Duke noticed that whenever he appeared on the scene his servant disappeared into the shrubbery, and their talks became a thing of the past.
So the Duke set a little trap in order to bring this stricken soul back to the One whose dealings with His Own are ever fraught with blessing.
It happened that an entertainment was to be given at the Castle, and as the gardens would be visited by the guests, the head gardener, in order to make his flower-beds look their very best, went round and marked those flowers which were on no account to be picked beforehand, especially singling out a large white rose, the pride of the garden, which grew close against the Castle itself.
However, on making his final inspection on the morning of the show he found to his vexation that someone had picked this special bloom. On looking round he saw a housemaid cleaning one of the windows, and angrily asked her who had plucked the white rose. “I don’t know,” she replied, “but I think that the master took it.”
Just then the Duke, who was evidently lying in wait, looked out of his study window. “What is the matter?” he inquired. “Someone has picked the white rose, sir, which I’d specially marked as not to be touched,” was the irate answer.
“Oh, is that all?” said the Duke. “Why, I picked the rose. I suppose I’d the right to pick it, seeing that, as I’m master here, it belonged to me. I’m enjoying the fragrance and beauty of that rose in my study now.” The gardener was silenced, he had nothing more to say, the reasoning was unanswerable.
Then the Duke utilized the opportunity he had thus made to bring this wounded one back to that Friend who ever waits to bless. “My friend,” said he very gently, “you had a white rose also, but it has pleased the Master to take your rose. He had the right to, hadn’t He? She was His, and He’s enjoying the fragrance of His rose in Heaven now. He’d the right to take her, hadn’t He?”
The poor gardener was silent, the sunshine of the Divine love was shining through the dark clouds of sorrow which had hitherto blotted it out, his wound was healed.
And today, it is said, you will find in a quiet corner of the Castle grounds a small tombstone on which are engraved these words: “To the Memory of the White Rose which the Master took.”
With acknowledgments to Living Links.