17. Forgiveness and Charity

The next few months passed agreeably for the residents of Bag End. The excitement of Yule died down soon enough, and Frodo settled into a comfortable routine. He resumed his lessons with Bilbo each morning, and fell to amusing himself each afternoon while Bilbo worked on his book. Sometimes they went out walking together, but more often Frodo took an apple and a good book and passed a few hours reading in the peaceful solitude of a nearby meadow or glade.

Frodo often played with the neighbourhood children, especially Folco Boffin and Fredegar (Fatty) Bolger, a cheerful pair of lads close to Frodo in age. Frodo missed the Gamgee boys, but Hamson and Halfred had gone to work for Farmer Cotton up the road as soon as the frosts ended, and in late March, Samwise began helping his father in Bag End’s garden.  Sam was twelve years old now and ready to learn a trade, according to the Gaffer. Frodo found it disquieting that Sam was right there in the garden, but not permitted to play with Frodo since the carefree winter days were over and there was work to be done. However, Frodo was well brought up and knew better than to hinder the Gamgees at work; he stayed discreetly out of their way as much as he could.

On this particular afternoon, which happened to be April 12, 1392, Sam was kneeling in the soft earth of Bag End’s front garden and staring in consternation at the little sprout in front of him. He was fairly certain it was a weed, but what if he was mistaken? This was only Sam’s third week apprenticed to the Gaffer, and he had never worked in the flower garden unsupervised before.

Sam had just finished pruning the rhododendron bush that grew under the parlour window, and his next task, which he was so reluctant to begin, was to weed the long flowerbed along the path. The Gaffer was out back working in the vegetable garden, but Sam did not want his father to find out what a ninny he had for a youngest son. He was old enough to make up his own mind; he shouldn’t be so hesitant. It looked like a weed, after all. The Gaffer had said this was a flowerbed, and the little green sprouts that grew along one side had no flowers on them, unlike the other plants in the bed. Sam sighed and began pulling up the little green sprouts.

Half an hour later, a small, grubby hobbitling sat in the grass beside a respectable pile of pulled-up plants. Sam looked at the pile in grim satisfaction. He had pulled up every one of the little weeds; he’d hated to do it, they were so small and delicate, but the Gaffer had insisted that weeds left to grow would crowd out the flowers and make them sickly.

Sam leaned over to study the pulled-up weeds. They each had a little round bottom that had been buried beneath the earth, but Sam had unearthed every one with some effort, taking care not to damage the delicate roots or slender leaves. He didn’t know why he had taken so much trouble for weeds, which would be disposed of, after all, but he liked the feeling of the green, living skin in his hands, and he was instinctively gentle.

Sam lay back in the grass to rest for a moment. The sky was overcast, and the air was cool and damp on his hot face. Gardening was hard work, he had discovered, but he loved the feel of the rich soil on his fingers and the smell of growing things all around him. He liked taking care of all the plants, but especially the flowers. Beautiful but fragile they were, flowers. They had to be well cared for and treated properly; neglected flowers would never show their lovely faces, never bring their richness and pleasure to the hobbits around them.

The front garden of Bag End was lovely. Sam surveyed with satisfaction the results of his father’s years of loving toil. The sandy-haired child had wanted to work in this garden almost as long as he could remember, and he was ecstatic to be allowed to help keep Bag End the envy of Hobbiton for his father’s master, who was now Sam’s master as well.

Hamfast Gamgee came around the side of the Hill then, and Sam stood to greet him.

“All finished then, are ye, Sam-lad?” the Gaffer asked.

“Yessir,” Samwise replied, stepping back so his father could inspect the flowerbed. The Gaffer’s brows drew together suddenly, and Sam came forward again to stand at his father’s side, watching anxiously as the frown deepened.

“Why, Samwise Gamgee!” Hamfast said in grim astonishment as he bent down for a closer look. “You’ve gone an’ pulled up all o’ Master Bilbo’s good begonia bulbs, you have!”

Sam gasped in dismay, feeling sick with horror at the sight of the neat pile he had made of uprooted plants. “I – I thought they were all weeds, Dad!” the wretched lad stuttered.

“Now then, child, there’s no call for cryin’,” Hamfast said gruffly as Sam’s wide hazel eyes filled with tears. “T’was an honest mistake. I’ll show ye the weeds again on the morrow.”

Sam nodded miserably.

“We’re about finished for the day, I think,” the Gaffer sighed. “I’ll have to replant all these bulbs afore we go, at any rate. Why don’t ye head round back an’ start pickin’ up the trash while I get to it, Sam-lad?”

Sam nodded again and trudged up the path to the vegetable garden on the back of the Hill. He began grabbing his father’s clippings off the ground and pushing them fiercely into the canvas bag they kept at hand for that purpose. Sam was normally the most good-natured of children, but at the moment he was in a shockingly foul mood.

The Gaffer found him a few minutes later and crouched down beside him. “Master Bilbo has asked that ye attend Mr. Frodo up to the mill to buy flour, Sam-lad,” Hamfast said quietly.

Sam looked up in surprise. “All right, Dad,” he said, and dusted off his grubby hands hastily.

Hamfast got to his feet. “I’m about finished out front, so when ye get back, come straight home for tea.”

Sam nodded and went around to the front door to wait for Frodo, who appeared promptly, still putting on his coat. Frodo gave Sam a sympathetic smile, which caused the latter to deduce that his master’s heir (and presumably his master) probably knew about Sam’s dreadful mistake and near-murder of the begonia bulbs.

“I’m glad your Gaffer let you come with me,” Frodo said as they walked down the path to the main road. The mill was perhaps a twenty minute walk away, in the opposite direction from town.

Sam only shrugged, still wallowing in his foul thoughts. He glanced up at the sky, noting with dissatisfaction that it looked like rain. It had rained a great deal the last few weeks, and the roads were muddy and aggravating.

“You’re glowering like a Cave Troll, Master Samwise,” Frodo said lightly.

Sam looked at the older lad in surprise, then returned his gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry, sir,” the child finally mumbled. “I just can’t stop thinkin’ about all them healthy begonias o’ Master Bagginses that I dug up, an’ all. I’m gonna be the worst gardener in Hobbiton, an’ that’s a fact.” Sam plunged his brown hands into his well-patched pockets, scowl deepening unconsciously.

“Well, best not to think on it. Your Gaffer said he could replant them, so there was no harm done.” Frodo answered, looking at the younger boy with concern. “Everyone has setbacks, Sam, but I’m sure you’ll be a splendid gardener one day, truly!”

“Thankee, Mr. Frodo,” Sam muttered politely, but he was far from convinced.

Frodo sighed, not seeming to know what to say, and the two lads lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. They arrived at the mill and turned back toward home after Frodo bought his flour. Sam carried the small bag without being asked, and Frodo said nothing. Indeed, the older lad didn’t dare protest; Sam’s round face bore an uncharacteristically fierce expression, although the younger boy was not aware of it.

They were nearly at the turnoff for the Hill when they spotted a figure some distance ahead, standing in the ditch at the side of the road.

Sam felt Frodo tense beside him. It was none other than Ted Sandyman, the miller’s son, with a small hand-drawn cart. Ted was likely returning home from making a delivery in town. His cart was clearly stuck fast in the mud at the side of the road, and Ted himself was muddy up to his trouser legs. As Frodo and Sam hesitated at the sight, Ted sneezed and wiped his nose hastily. Sam stared angrily. If he hadn’t known how Ted had helped Lotho Sackville-Baggins give Mr. Frodo a thrashing not four months ago, he might have felt almost sorry for Ted. Almost.

“Hey, there!” Ted called, looking at them hesitantly. “Could ye give me a hand with this old thing?”

Sam looked at Frodo, and was shocked to see the older lad’s frown slowly soften. Frodo started forward as if to help, but paused when Sam grabbed his sleeve.

“How can ye forgive him, Mr. Frodo?” said Sam indignantly. “After what he and Mr. Lotho did to ye an’ all!”

“Holding a grudge doesn’t do anybody any good, Sam,” Frodo said seriously. “And I don’t expect Lotho gave him much choice, anyhow.”

Sam glared furiously at the ground, refusing to meet Frodo’s steady gaze.

“Uncle Bilbo always tells me not to let things fester, Sam, and he’s right,” Frodo said finally. “He says that when you feel angry and bitter, you have a ferocious dragon tied to your foot, and you have to let it go or it’ll eat you right up. You’ll feel better if you forgive Ted, too. So come on and give us a hand, eh?”

Some part of Sam certainly knew that Frodo was giving advice that he would be wise to heed, but his foul mood overcame him for the moment and he stamped in frustration, glaring up at Frodo. “I won’t!” the incensed child exclaimed. “And ye oughtn’t to, either! Only a—a dim-witted Bucklander would do such a thing!”

Sam had thoughtlessly used the first taunt that came to mind, a fairly common one in Hobbiton, and it was only when the words had already flown out of his mouth that he recalled Frodo had come from Buckland. Sam flinched when he saw the surprise and hurt flash briefly through those expressive sapphire eyes, and wanted to say he hadn’t meant it, but his tongue seemed to have suddenly turned to dust, just a few moments too late.

Frodo didn’t speak for a moment, his expression pained, but then he sighed. “All right, Sam. Give me the flour and go on home to your tea. I’ll help Ted by myself.” Frodo plucked the sack of flour from Sam’s nerveless grasp and continued down the road toward Ted, who had been watching them apprehensively, unable to hear their conversation. Frodo didn’t look back, and was soon engaged in tugging at the stuck cart with a very relieved Ted. Sam had clearly been dismissed.

Not knowing what else to do, Sam turned aside onto the path up to the Hill and his hole in Bagshot Row. He felt numb and dreadful, and he was trembling. Sam shook his curly head, trying to hold back the tears that had sprung up suddenly. Surely it was a stranger who had just said those frightful things to Mr. Frodo? Shock and horror had replaced Sam’s foul mood by this time, and the tears spilled over when he thought of how hurt Frodo had looked when he sent Sam away. The wretched lad cried silently as he walked, until he came to an old stump that he liked to climb at the edge of the path, just out of sight of the Hill. Sam wiped his eyes with a grubby hand and clambered up to his favourite seat, wanting to calm down and think quietly for a few minutes.

When Hamfast had first brought Sam to work in the garden of Bag End, Sam had promised his Gaffer he would mind his manners perfectly around the masters, and bring his father no embarrassment. Sam had just been inexcusably rude to a hobbit who happened to be his dearest friend, not to mention his master’s heir. And Frodo’s forgiving nature, which Sam had just disparaged so unkindly, was the only thing that would avert the sort of trouble a less charitable gentlehobbit wouldn’t hesitate to stir up.

Frodo had been correct; an awfully big dragon was tied to Sam’s foot, and it had made him say and do dreadful things, when he wouldn’t let it go. He’d had no business questioning Frodo’s decision; Frodo was the one who had been wronged by Ted. If Frodo could forgive the other boy, then Sam certainly had no business holding a grudge.

Sam climbed soberly down from the stump. He would have to relate the entire shameful tale to his Gaffer, of course. Sam knew that his father would not change his mind about Sam’s helping in the garden merely because Sam had made a mistake in his weeding; but he wasn’t at all certain how the Gaffer would react when he heard about the childish fit of temper that had followed.

Sam paused at the edge of Bagshot Row and looked up toward Bag End. He would have to apologize to Frodo, certainly, but the prospect terrified him. What if Frodo wanted nothing more to do with him?

Deciding to act before his nerve deserted him, or worse, before Frodo returned home, Sam quickly darted past the path to Bagshot Row and continued up to the top of the Hill. He didn’t dare take any of the fine flowers in the garden, but wildflowers grew all over the Hill’s upper slopes, and Sam was able to gather a small bouquet of plain but sweet-smelling blooms in just a few minutes.

Sam hurried back to the front gate of Bag End and let himself in quietly. He crept around the side of the smial to Frodo’s window, and was relieved to see it was open a crack. Biting his lip, Sam grasped the flowers in one hand and slid them carefully onto the curved windowsill inside Frodo’s room. Once they were safely positioned, Sam exhaled deeply and ran back to Number 3, Bagshot Row. He had no doubt that Frodo would know they were from him; Sam always picked wildflowers when he was out walking with Frodo. But he hoped that Frodo would understand the flowers were his apology, because he did not know his letters and could not leave a note. He would not have known what to say in any case.

As it happened, the Gaffer did indeed allow Sam to continue in the fine garden of Bag End, although Hamfast’s disappointment at Sam’s behaviour was very difficult to bear. And so, early the next morning, Sam found himself once again in front of the long flowerbed by the path. He looked down at the neatly replanted begonia bulbs, and felt relieved that his mistake hadn’t done any lasting harm. The Gaffer suddenly recalled he had left his favourite spade down at Bagshot Row, and hurried off to retrieve it.

Left alone, Sam made his way back to Frodo’s window and peered cautiously inside. He could see that Frodo was still asleep; a dark, curly head was just visible resting on a pillow in the bed which sat below the round window. Sam began to look anxiously for any sign of his wildflowers.

Flowers were a common gift among hobbits, and thus there were standard responses to such a gift. The polite thing to do was at least to put the cut flowers in water. If the hobbit wished to preserve the gift, he would hang them up to dry. If he held the giver in very high esteem, he would hang the flowers from a high point in the room, such as a mantel or wall; the higher up the display site, the greater the importance of the giver. If the hobbit was offended by the gift, he would throw the blooms out into the garden, where they would die and return to the earth.

Looking quickly in the grass around his feet, Sam saw no sign of any hastily discarded wildflowers. Hardly daring to hope, he peered again into Frodo’s room, feeling very impolite. But he had to know. Even if Frodo wanted nothing more to do with Sam, he might possibly accept the apology and put the flowers in water. Was that a cup of water on the bureau? Yes, but no flowers in it. Hanging up to dry somewhere? That would suggest that Frodo still wanted to be friends, but Sam looked anyway. No flowers were drying on the desk, nor the nightstand... Sam lifted his eyes a little higher, feeling presumptuous. Nothing was hanging on the walls that he could see, except a few portraits.

Sam sighed. Perhaps he would never know what Frodo had done with the flowers. Certainly he would never find out unless Frodo told him. Sam started to turn away from the window, but then an odd shadow caught his eye. Sam craned his neck to peer at the ceiling, and nearly gasped out loud. There, hanging to dry from the centre of Frodo’s ceiling, and the highest point in the room, were Sam’s wildflowers.

The wide-eyed lad stared at that miraculous sight for many long moments. He felt light enough to float away. He had no idea why Frodo thought so highly of him, but the evidence was right there, undeniably pinned to the ceiling in the place of highest honour. Sam finally closed his mouth with a snap and went back to the front garden to wait for his father.

Sam spent the rest of the morning dutifully following the Gaffer around as he worked. The lad listened very attentively as his father named and presented the different weeds to his small son; Sam was determined to learn the bad from the good so that he would never again harm the dear flowers that he loved to care for.