The Devil's Garden by W. B. Maxwell

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The residue of the estate, the larger half of all the dead man's
possessions, was to be employed in the establishment of a Home for
parentless, unprotected, or destitute female children. The trustees of
this institution were to find a suitable site somewhere within five
miles of the Abbey House, and if possible on the Barradine property,
being guided in their selection of the exact spot by expert advice as
to the character of the soil, the qualities of the air, and the
facilities for obtaining a supply of pure water. When they had found
the site they were immediately to build thereon, and provide
accommodation at the earliest date for fifty small inmates, each of
whom was to be reared, educated, and finally launched in life with a
small dowry. The funds available would be more than sufficient for the
number of children named; and Mr. Barradine expressed the wish that
the number should not be increased if, as he hoped, the income of the
Trust grew bigger with the passage of time. He desired that extension
of revenue should be devoted to improving the comfort and amenities of
the fifty occupants, to increasing their dowries, and to assisting
them after they had gone out into the world.

Not only the _Rodhaven District Courier_, but great London journals
also, experienced difficulty in marshaling enough adjectives to convey
their sense of admiration for such a perfect scheme. Ever since his
death the local praise of Mr. Barradine's amiable qualities had been
taking richer colors, and now the will seemed so to sanctify his
memory that one felt he must be henceforth classed with the
traditional philanthropic heroes of England--those whose names grow
brighter through the centuries.

When on Sunday Mr. Norton took for his text those beautiful words,
"Suffer little children to come unto Me," all instantaneously guessed
what he was getting at, and by the time he finished there was scarcely
a dry eye that had not been wet at some point or other of an unusually
long sermon. "We have had," he said in conclusion, "a striking
instance of that noblest of all the feelings of the human breast,
tenderness and care for the weak and helpless; and without abrogating
the practise of our church which forbids us to pray for the souls of
those who have been summoned away from us, I will ask you all before
dispersing to-day to join with me in a few moments' silent meditation
on the lesson to be derived from a kindness that has proved undying--a
pity that has the attribute of things eternal, and, speaking to us
from the other side of the grave, may in all reverence be described as
Angelic."

The talk about the vast sums to be expended in charity produced a
curious effect on Mavis Dale. It seemed that her own two thousand
pounds was a steadily diminishing quantity; she was still greatly
excited whenever she thought about it, but she could not feel again
the respectful rapture caused by her first thought of its lavishly
generous extent. Perhaps just at first, doing what the solicitor
advised her not to do, she had not altogether discriminated between
capital and interest. Dazzled by the abstract notion of wealth, she
had over-estimated concrete potentialities.

Of course William would allow her to accept the legacy. In the early
days after their visit to Old Manninglea she had tormented herself
with fears that he would attempt to force a renunciation of benefits
from that quarter, and she had determined never to yield to so
preposterous an exercise of authority; but now she felt certain that
he would not thus drive her to open revolt. He was still somber and
silent, but, however long he remained in this gloomy state, he would
not interfere with her freedom in regard to the money.

Nevertheless, she felt relieved when he explicitly stated that there
would be no further opposition on his part.

"Oh, Will, I can't tell you how glad I am to hear you talk so sensibly
about it."

"It is not willingly that I say 'Yes.' Don't you go and think that."

"No. But you do see we couldn't act otherwise?"

"You must accept it--for this reason, and not for any other reason.
Our hands are tied. If you refuse it, people would wonder."

"Yes--yes. But, Will, you keep saying _you_, when it's really us. It
will be _ours_, not just only mine, you must remember."

"Ah, but I doubt if I could ever take you at your word, there."

After this she sang at her household work. She took as a good sign the
fact that he had spoken doubtfully, instead of formally repudiating
her suggestion that they were to share alike in all the good things
which the money might bring them. She thought it must mean that he was
very near to forgiving her. Death had now almost wiped out
_everything_. He was feeling more and more every day what she had felt
from the beginning, that it was palpably absurd to go on harboring
resentment.

Free now from exaggerated estimates, with ideas readjusted to the
measure of reality, and her natural common sense at work again, she
thought of what the little fortune might truly do for them. It ought
to yield a hundred pounds, twice fifty pounds a year--roughly two
pounds a week coming in unearned. Why, it _was wealth_. On top of
William's annual emoluments such an income would make them feel as if
they were rolling in money.

Visions immediately arose of all sorts of things that would now be
within the scope of their means--choicer meals for William, aprons and
caps for Mary, new curtains and much else new and delightful to
beautify the home. Little excursions too--a regular seaside holiday
during leave-time!

Messrs. Cleaver had intimated that the London solicitors were ready to
hand over the money, and Mavis was talking to her husband about its
investment.

"I trust your judgment, Will--and I'd like it put in both our names."

"Oh, no, I couldn't quite consent to that."

"I do wish you would. If it's invested well, I make out it ought to
bring us a hundred a year."

"Mavis," he said, thoughtfully, "it might be invested to bring more
than that, if you were prepared to take a certain amount of risk."

"Oh, I don't want any risk."

"An' p'raps the risk, after all, would be covered by the security I'd
offer you. That'd be for your lawyers to decide; it's not for me to
urge the safety."

"Will, what is it?"

"I hesitate for this purpose. I want to lead you up to it, so that you
shouldn't turn against the proposal without yourself or your
representatives giving it consideration."

"Will, I wish you'd tell me--I can't bear suspense."

"Then here's the first question. If satisfied of the security, would
you lend out the money on mortgage with a person who has the chance of
setting up himself in an old-established business?"

"What business?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. Take the person first. You haven't asked
about _him_. In a sense, his character--honesty and straight ways--is
a part of the security. He is somebody you've known for a many years."

"Who is it?"

"Myself."

"Will? What on earth do you mean?"

"Mavis, it's like this--There, bide a bit."

They had been sitting in the dusk after their high tea; and now Mary
brought a lighted lamp into the room, and put it on the table between
them.

"All right, my girl. Never mind clearing away till I call for you."

He waited until Mary had gone out of the room, and then went on
talking. His face with the lamp-light full upon it looked very firm
and serious, and his manner while he explained all these new ideas was
strangely unemotional. He spoke not in the style of a husband to a
wife, but of a business man proposing a partnership to another man.

"It seems to me, viewing it all round, a wonderful good chance. An
opening that isn't likely to come in one's way twice. Mr. Bates' son
has bin and got himself into such a mess over a horse-racing
transaction that he's had to make a bolt of it. I can't tell you the
facts, because I don't rightly know them; but it's bad--something to
do with checks that'll put him to hidin' for a long day, if he doesn't
want to answer for it in a court o' law. Well, then, the old gentleman
being worn out with private care, wishful to retire, and seeing a
common cheat and waster in the one who ought by nature to succeed
him, has offered me to take over the farm, the trade, an' the whole
bag of tricks."

"But, surely to goodness, Will, you don't think of giving up the post
office?"

"Yes, I do. I think of that, in any case."

"But you love the work."

"Used to, Mavis."

"Don't you now?"

"No. Mavis, it's like this." He had raised a hand to shade his eyes,
as if the lamplight hurt them, and she could no longer see the
expression of his face. But she observed a sudden change in his
manner. He spoke now much in the same confidential tone that he had
always employed in the old time when telling her of his most intimate
affairs--in the happy time when he brought all his little troubles to
her, and flattered her by saying that she never failed to make them
easy to bear. "So far's the P.O. is concerned, all the heart has gone
out of me. The events through which I've passed have altered my view
of the entire affair. Where all seemed leading me on and on, and up
and up, I see nothing before me now."

"Promotion!"

"I don't b'lieve I'd ever get it. The best I could hope for'd be that
they'd leave me here to th' end o' my service life. And besides, if
promotion comes tomorrow, I don't want it."

"Will, let me say it at once. Take the money. I consent. Whatever you
feel's best for you, that's what I want."

He altogether ignored her interruption, and went on in the same tone.
"I used to think it grand, and now it all seems nothing. I do assure
you when I was down there handing out a halfpenny stamp or signing a
two-shilling order, I used to feel large enough to burst with
satisfaction. I felt 'I'm the king o' the castle.'--That was thrown in
my teeth as how I appeared to others. Well, now, I feel like a brock
in a barrel--or not so big as him. Just something small that's got
into the wrong box by accident, and had the lid clapped to on it. I
want room for my elbows, an' scope for my int'lect. I must get the sky
over my head again, and the open roads under my feet. If I stopped
down there much longer, I should go mad."

"Then, my dear, you mustn't stop."

"These last weeks--fairly determined to chuck it--I bin thinking o'
the Colonies as affording advantages to any man who's got capacities
in him; but now this chance comes nearer home, and it lies with you to
say if you'll give me the help required for me to take it."

"Yes," said Mavis, earnestly, "and more glad than words can say to
think I'm able to do so."

Indeed she was delighted. She had been deeply moved by all he told her
about his distaste for the work he used to love, and she recognized
that he had been magnanimous in refraining from reproaches, but rather
implying a purely personal change of ideas as to the cause of
disillusionment and depression. So that, jumping at the opportunity to
prove that she counted his inclinations as higher than mere money, she
would have accepted any scheme, however unpromising; but in fact the
enterprise appeared to her judgment as quite gloriously hopeful. Every
moment increased the charms that it presented; above all, its complete
novelty fascinated, and with surprising quickness she found herself
thinking almost exactly what her husband had thought in regard to
their present existence. It seemed to her too that she was pining for
a larger, freer environment, that this narrow home had become a
permanent prison-house, and that she could never really be contented
until she got away from it; then she thought of Vine-Pits Farm, the
peaceful fields, the lovely woodland, the space, the air, the sunlight
that one would enjoy out there; and then in another moment came the
fear lest all this should prove too good to be true.

"But, Will, however can Mr. Bates be willing to part with such a
splendid business as his for no more than two thousand pounds?"

"Ah, there you show your sense, Mavis." As he said this Dale took his
hand from his forehead, and resumed his entirely matter-of-fact tone.
"You must understand things aren't always what they seem. The business
is not what it was."

"But Mr. Bates is very rich, isn't he?"

"He _ought_ to be, but he isn't. That son of his has bin eating him
up, slow an' fast, for th' last ten years. The turnover of his trade
is big enough, but the whole management of it has gone end-ways. From
a man working with capital he's come down to a man financing things
from hand to mouth. What's left to him now is strictly speaking his
stock, his wagons, his horses, his lease, his household
belongings--and whatever should be put down for the good-will."

Then, continuing his purely businesslike exposition, he explained that
he would have to make two engagements, one to his wife and one to Mr.
Bates. All material property would be charged with Mavis' loan, and
the value of the good-will would be repaid how and when he could repay
it. Mr. Bates was content to risk that part of the bargain on his
faith in Dale's personal integrity.

"Don't say any more," cried Mavis. "I'm not understanding it, but I
know it's all right. Do let's get it settled before Mr. Bates alters
his mind."

"It must be done formally, Mavis, through your lawyers. Mr. Cleaver is
capable and trustworthy. It's to be a regular mortgage, properly tied
up; and he must approve--"

"I don't care whether he approves or doesn't. I approve."

"Then I thank you," said Dale, gravely, "for the way you've met me,
and I assure you I appreciate it. As to the trade itself, I b'lieve I
shan't go wrong. It's not so new to me as people might suppose. I'm
well aware of its principles; and, moreover, one trade's precious like
another--and a man's faculties are bound to tell, no matter how you
apply them."

Mavis was overjoyed. When she sang to herself now while dressing of a
morning the notes poured out loud and full, even when there was scarce
a puff of breath behind them. She felt so proud and happy to think
that fate had given her the power to help William, and that he had
consented to avail himself of the power. Once more he had begun to
lean on her. As in the past, so in the future, he would derive support
from his poor little misunderstood, but always well-meaning Mavis.

XII

By the end of September everything was arranged. Dale had ceased to be
postmaster of Rodchurch; the purchase of the business had been
completed; and Mr. Bates had moved out of Vine-Pits to a cottage near
Otterford Mill, leaving behind him the bulk of his furniture as the
property of the incomers. Thus the Dales would have no difficulty in
furnishing the comparatively large house that henceforth was to be
their home.

For the last two days they had been living chaotically in rooms
stripped to a woeful bareness; this morning Mary had gone along the
Hadleigh Road with a wagon full of bedsteads, bedding, and household
utensils; and now, late in the afternoon, the wagon stood at the post
office door again, packed this time with a final load consisting of
those treasures which had been held back for transit under their
owners' charge.

Mavis had already climbed up, and was settling herself on a high
valley of rolled carpets between two mountain ranges formed by the
piano and the parlor bookcases. With anxious eyes she looked at minor
chains of packing-cases that contained the best china, the mantel
ornaments, the hand-painted pictures. Inside a basket on her knees
their cat was mewing disconsolately, despite well-buttered paws. The
two big horses, one in front of the other, continuously tinkled the
metal disks on their forehead bands; Mr. Allen and other neighbors
came out of their shops; Miss Yorke and the clerks from the office
filled the pavement; children gathered about the wagon staring
silently, and Miss Waddy on the opposite pavement waved her
handkerchief and said "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Good luck!"

"Thank you, thank you kindly." Dale moved about briskly, shaking hands
with every one. Already he had abandoned all trace of his ancient
official costume. In cord breeches and leather gaiters, his straw hat
on the back of his head, he looked thoroughly farmer-like, and he
seemed to have assumed the jovial independent manner as well as the
clothes appropriate to the man who has no other master but the winds
and the weather.

"So long, Mr. Allen. Put in a good word for me at the Kennels."

"I will so, Mr. Dale."

"Good-by, Mr. Silcox. Hope you'll honor us with a call whenever you're
passing. And if you can, give me a lift in the _Courier_. I may say
it's my intention to patronize their advertisement columns regular,
soon's ever I begin to feel my feet under me."

"See _Rodchurch Gossip_ next issue," said Mr. Silcox significantly.

"Thanks. You're a trump."

"Good-by, Miss Yorke." And he laughed. "'Pon my soul, I'm surprised
it's still _Miss_ Yorke; but it'll be _Mrs._ before long, I warrant."

"Oh, Mr. Dale!"

"There, so long," and he shook Miss Yorke's hand warmly. "And take my
excuse if I bin a bit of a slave-driver now and then. I didn't mean
it."

"We've no complaints," said one of the clerks. "Good luck, sir!"

Then Dale told his carter to make a start of it, and the wagon
creaked, jolted, slowly lumbered away.

Though they moved at a foot pace, it was not easy traveling in the
wagon; the china boxes bumped and rattled, the piano swayed so much
that all its strings vibrated, and the cat leaped frantically in the
basket; but Mavis felt no inconvenience. She was full of hope. For
more than a mile Dale walked beside the shaft horse, echoing the "Coom
in then" and "Oot thar" of the man with the leader, and the sound of
the voices, the plod of the iron shoes, and the bell-like tinkle of
the harness were all pleasant to hear. The whole thing seemed to her
picturesque and interesting, like a small episode in the Old
Testament, and imaginary words offered themselves as suitable to
describe it. "Therefore that day her husband gathered all that was
theirs, and set her behind his horses and they journeyed into another
place."

She smiled at her cleverness in inventing such good Bible language,
and then the thought came to her mind that they were going into the
promised land. Once she turned her head to get a last glimpse of the
church tower, and perhaps be able to pick out the roof of the post
office among the other roofs, but the high mass of furniture shut out
all the view. Only the sky was visible, with the sun quite low, and so
bright that it was almost blinding. And she thought that this chance
of the hour being late and the sun being nearly down was a lucky omen.
Straight ahead of them the road was sunlit, and the long slanting
sunbeams appeared to hurry on before them as if to light up and
glorify the land of promise. "If," she said to herself, "we get there
before it has dipped and I catch the sunshine on the ricks, I shall
know we are going to be happy."

Then all at once she saw Dale's straw hat and face rise above the fore
boards of the wagon. He had swung himself on the shaft to see how she
was getting on.

"All right, old lady?"

"Yes--lovely."

The tone of his voice had made her heart bound. It was the dear old
voice, speaking to her just as he used to speak before their bad time
began.

"We'll be there sooner than you know where you are. I think I'll rest
my bones a bit."

Then he got into the wagon, and carefully clambering over impediments
came toward her. For a moment as he stood over her the sunlight was on
his face, and she, looking up at him, thought that he was not only a
fine but quite a beautiful man. The light seemed to soften and yet
ennoble his features, and his eyes, unblinking in the glare, were blue
and clear as water. When he sat down close to her little nest she
pushed the basket away from her, and raising her hand laid it on his
knees. To her delight he put his hand on hers, and left it there. He
was in shadow now, showing a dark profile, and again she admired
him--her strong, big, handsome man, her man that she was pining for.

"Will," she said tremulously, "don't move, but just look behind you,
and tell me all you see."

"I don't see anything, Mav, unless I heft meself up again."

"No, sit as you are. It just bears out what you said. We're never more
to look back. We're only to look forward. Will?"

He had taken his hand away, and turned the back of his head toward
her.

"Will," she repeated; but he did not answer. "Will, my dear one, this
_is_ going to be a fresh start, isn't it? Like a new beginning for
us."

"Yes," he said, very seriously, "that's what I build on its being.
Take it so. You and I are beginning life again in our new home."

"Bless you for saying it. The one thing I wished to hear."

"Yes, we must help each other. I'll do--I mean to do. But, maybe,
it'll be more 'v o' fight than I'm reckoning, and there's a many ways
that you can make the fight easier--beyond the one great thing you've
done a'ready."

"I will, dear. I will."

Then they were silent. The carter cracked his whip, shouted to his
team, and whistled; and the horses, neither frightened by the whip nor
excited by the whistling, drew the big wagon at exactly the same
steady pace.

And Mavis felt as if her throat had suddenly enlarged itself and
become too big for her collar, while her whole breast was swelling and
hardening until it seemed so rigidly immense that it would burst all
her garments; it was as if her whole being, together with all the
thoughts or memories that it contained felt the expansion of some
force that had been long gathering and now swiftly was released. In
all her life she had experienced no such sensations hitherto. She who
had been passive under the desires of others now felt desire active in
herself. It was not only that she wanted pardon, kindness,
companionship, the things that she had been so systematically deprived
of; she wanted the man himself, the partner, and the mate to whom
nature had given her a right.

Abruptly she changed her position, scrambling forward close against
him, and put up both her hands to his shoulders.

"Will, stoop your head. I want to whisper something."

Then, as soon as he bent toward her, she clasped her hands behind his
neck and tried to drag him down in a kiss.

"What yer doin'? Let me be."

"No, I won't. I won't." She was holding him with all her strength,
pulling herself up since she could not pull him down. "Be nice to me."
And as he recoiled she thrust forward her upturned face, the cheeks
hard and white, the eyes burning, the mouth not quite closing even
while she spoke. "I won't let you go, till you've kissed me and made
it up for good an' all."

She was acting now as instinctively as any wild animal of the woods.
What had started in the zone of voluntary impulse had now passed into
the ruling power of reflexes; every nerve of her body seemed to be
thinking for itself, guiding her, and compelling her to struggle for
the desired end. All this nonsense of high-falutin' morality must be
swept aside; if he loved her still, he must admit that he loved her;
it must be love or hate, but no more sham and pretense, no more of
these half measures that made her a wife when people were looking, and
an enemy, a culprit in disgrace, or a sexless business associate, when
they two were alone behind drawn blinds.

"Mav, you're shaming me. 'A' done. 'Aarve you tekken leave o' yer
senses?"

She felt him shiver as he resisted her; then in another moment he
gripped her round the waist as brutally and violently as if he
intended to pitch her out of the wagon, held her to him so fiercely
that he crushed all the breath from her lungs, and gave her a long
passionate mouth-to-mouth kiss. And it seemed to her that the strength
and brutality of the embrace formed the one supreme gratification that
she had been burning to obtain; she wanted to give herself to him as
she had never done before, and if he crushed her and broke her and
killed her in their joint rapture, she would drink death greedily as
something inevitable to all those who empty the deep goblet of love.

"There!" He took his lips away, and she sank back gasping. "You've 'ad
yer way wi' me;" and he heaved a sigh that was as loud as a groan.
"Oh, Mav, my girl, gi' me yer kisses--kiss me all night and all
day--if on'y you make me forget."

Her hat had tumbled off in the struggle, a mesh of brown hair was
dangling over her shoulder, and she was still too much out of breath
to speak. The wagon rolled heavily forward along the flat road, and
the carter cracked his whip continuously to tell the horses they were
nearly home. Presently Mavis got up, perched herself beside her
husband, and whispered to him jerkily.

"You've nothing to forget, dear. No looking back. But, oh, my darling,
I'm going to be more than I ever was to you. I feel it. I _know_
it--an' we'll be happy, happy, happy, so long as we live."

She pressed her face against the sleeve of his jacket, and stroked his
knee with as much luxurious pleasure as if the rough cord breeches had
been made of the softest satin velvet.

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