The Devil's Garden by W. B. Maxwell

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It happened that about the time when Dale was preparing to pay off
the last instalment of his debt, Mr. Bates unexpectedly applied for
the money. He had never before shown the least anxiety for repayment;
it had always been "Take your time, William. I know I'm in safe
hands," and so forth; but now he said, "If you can make it convenient
to you, William, it would be convenient to me."

"Oh, certainly, Mr. Bates. You shall have it before the end of the
week--and I hope you're going to act on the advice I ventured to offer
last time; that is, put it in one of these Canadian Government
guaranteed stocks."

"I'm sure it was good advice, William--even if I didn't act on it."

"Of course my orig'nal advice was what you ought to have acted on, Mr.
Bates. That is to say, bought an annuity with your entire capital."

"Ah, William, I really couldn't do that;" and Mr. Bates turned away
his eyes, as if unable to support Dale's friendly regard. "Apart from
these annuities for old folk being rather a dog-in-the-manger trick,
I--well, one has one's private difficulties, William. One is not
always a free agent."

The demand for repayment, and with something of evasiveness or
reticence in the old fellow's manner, greatly troubled Dale. Not at
all from selfish motives; but because it confirmed a suspicion that he
had long entertained. Although invisible locally, disgraced and hiding
somewhere at a distance, that blackguardly son was probably still
draining the good old man's resources.

So many things pointed to the correctness of this supposition. On the
interest of the money that Mavis and Dale had together paid him for
the business, he should have been able to live very comfortably;
whereas, in fact, his way of life was mean and sorry. His cottage was
quite a decent dwelling, separated from the road by a nice long strip
of garden, and with a miniature apple orchard behind it; but it showed
all those signs of neglect that had been evident at Vine-Pits when the
Dales first came there. He had no proper servant, but just pigged it
anyhow with the occasional assistance of a woman and her husband. His
clothes, though neatly brushed, were too shabby and overworn for a
person of his position. And he was not a miser; he was a proud
self-respecting man, who naturally would desire to maintain
conventionally adequate state, were he able to do so.

These thoughts worried Dale. He really loved Mr. Bates, thoroughly
appreciated the great dignity and sweetness of his nature, and felt it
to be a monstrous and intolerable thing that the dear old chap at the
age of seventy-three, instead of being allowed to end his days in a
happy, seemly style, should be as if were bled to death by a
conscienceless reprobate. But what could one do? It was like the
cruelties of the woods that one regrets, but can not prevent--the
rabbits chased by the weasels, the pheasants killed by the foxes, the
thrushes destroyed by the hawks.

Any doubt that remained in the mind of Dale was soon dissipated. He
told Mavis how he had seen Bates junior--a seedy, wicked-looking
wretch now--lurking at dusk in the cottage porch, and how next morning
he had ridden over to talk to Mr. Bates about this ill-omened visitor.
Mr. Bates said it was true that his son had been there for two or
three days, but he was now gone; and he declined to discuss the
matter any further. "I can't speak of it, William. I thank you for
meaning kindness, but it's a thing I can't speak of."

Dale also told Mrs. Goudie that Richard Bates had shown himself in the
neighborhood, and asked her if the fact was generally known. He was
aware that Mrs. Goudie had almost as much regard for the old man as he
had himself.

"No, sir," said Mrs. Goudie, "I hadn't 'a' heard of it."

"Then that proves how close he kept. No doubt he came and went as
surreptitiously as he could. Let it be between ourselves, Mrs. Goudie.
Don't spread the tale an inch beyond us three."

"I will not, sir. But, oh, well-a-day, it's a bad bit o' news, sir. I
did hope Mr. Bates was cured o' that runnin' sore."

She had been summoned from the kitchen just before leaving for the
night; and with her shawl over her head, her wrinkled face working,
and her bony hands clasped she stood near the table and waited for Mr.
Dale to give the signal for her to withdraw.

"If you should see him, at any time, let me know, Mrs. Goudie."

"I will, sir."

"I might perhaps do good, if I could get hold of him on the quiet and
address a few words to him."

"I wish you'd break his neck for him, yes, I do, indeed I do. I could
tell you things as 'd make any one say hanging was too good for him."

And, encouraged to talk freely, Mrs. Goudie told Mavis and Dale, what
indeed she had often told them before, of the shocking badness of
Richard Bates and the ugly scenes that had taken place in this very
house; of how he bullied his father to give him money, storming and
raving like a lunatic when resisted; and of how the old fellow alone
by himself had groaned and wept and prayed. Mrs. Goudie had heard him,
after a most dreadful quarrel, praying out loud in his room up-stairs.

"An' believe me, sir, he was a praying for his son all the
time--imploring of the Lord to soften his heart like, and save him
from the hell-fire that his conduct asked for. You know, sir, he's a
very God-fearing man, Mr. Bates."

XVII

The action of the Dales in regard to Norah Veale did not pass
unnoticed. "They do tell me," said humble folk quite far afield, "that
Mr. Dale up to Vine-Pits hev adapted little Norrer Veale same as if
'twas his own darter; and I sin her myself ridin' to her schoolin' in
Mr. Dale's wagon. I allus held that Abe Veale was born a lucky one,
fer nobody ever comes adapting my childer; an' how hey he kep' out o'
jail all his days, if 'tisn't the luck?"

Nearer home, so striking an instance of kindness encouraged the
cottagers to do more freely what already they were doing with
considerable freedom: that is, to regard Vine-Pits Farm, and
especially the parts of it presided over by Mrs. Dale, as the proper
place to go in all moments of embarrassment or tribulation. Thus the
flagged path by the walnut tree, the wooden bench beneath the window,
and the open kitchen door, tended to become a sort of court where
Mavis had to listen to an ever-increasing number of applicants.

It used to be: "Muvver hey sent me to tell you at once, Mum, she isn't
no better but a good deal worse, and the doctor hev ordered her some
strong soup for to nourish her stren'th;" or "Mr. Scull's compliments,
and might he hev the loan of some butter agin;" or "Mrs. Craddock
wishes you, Mum, to read this letter which she hey written out of her
sickbed, and every word of it is no more than the truth, as I can
vouch for. Mr. Craddock in his cups last night punished her pore face
somethin' frightful. She can't go to her work, and there's not so much
as a bite of bread or a sip of milk in the house."

Mrs. Goudie declared that Mavis was often imposed upon; and, although
Mavis herself wished to give wisely rather than blindly, endeavoring
to govern warm impulse with cold reason, certainly very few people
went away from the Vine-Pits back door empty-handed.

The gentry, in their turn, learned the commonly accepted fact that Mr.
and Mrs. Dale were charitably-minded as well as prosperous, and
thought all the better of them, asked for subscriptions, and invited
cooperation in various good works. So that their fame was always
shining with a steadier brightness, and one might say that nowadays
there appeared to be only a single objection occasionally hinted
against this fortunate couple. Certain very old-fashioned people
refrained from patronizing Dale's business or praising his private
life, because of the regrettable and notorious circumstance that he
never went to church.

It could not be denied. During a good many years he had been to one
funeral and two christenings; and, except for these rare occasions,
had entirely abstained from attending any religious ceremonies. And
Mavis too had gradually become slack in the performance of her
spiritual duties. On Sunday mornings there was the dinner to think
about. She still liked to cook the great weekly feast herself.
Moreover, after six days of genuine labor, Sunday's fundamental
purport as a day of rest is apt to overshadow its symbolic aspects as
a day set apart for communion with things impalpable. The Abbey Church
was too far off, even if it had not been out of the question for other
reasons. It required a walk of two fat miles to get to Rodchurch, and
one had to start early if one did not want to arrive there hot and
flustered; again there was the risk of rain overtaking one in one's
best dress. Every fine Sunday she used to talk at breakfast of
intending to go to the morning service; and at dinner of intending to
go to the evening service.

If she carried either the first or the second intention into effect,
it was Dale's custom to go along the road and meet her returning. And
this he now prepared to do, on a warm dry April morning, when
obviously there could be no fear of rain and she had set out in her
best directly after breakfast.

Dale loved the quiet and the freedom from interruption of these Sunday
mornings; he enjoyed the luxury of being able to smoke in the office
while he made up his books, and reveled in the lolling ease of the old
porter's chair as he read Saturday's _Courier_ and the last number of
_Answers_. To-day he was peculiarly conscious of the soothing Sunday
hush that had fallen widely on the land. All the doors and windows
stood open, so that the soft air flowed like water through and through
the house, making it an undivided part of the one great generous
flooding atmosphere, and giving sensations of vast space and free
activities as well as those produced by guarded comfort and motionless
repose. The only sounds that reached him were the droning of bees in a
border of spring flowers, the pawing of a horse in the stables, the
pipe of young voices in the orchard; and all three sounds were
pleasant to his ear. How could they be otherwise; since they spoke of
three such pleasant things as awakening life, rewarded toil, and
contented fatherhood?

When presently he went up-stairs to change his coat, he stood by a
window and looked down at the peaceful little realm that fate had
given to him. The sunlight was glittering on the red tiles of the
clustered roofs, the brown thatch of the ricks, and the white
cobblestones of a corner of the yard; and the blossom of pears and
apples was pink and white, as if a light shower of colored snow had
just fallen on the still leafless trees. Beneath the orchard branches
he could see his children and Norah playing among the daffodils that
grew wild in the grass; the light all about them was faintly blue and
unceasingly tremulous and he stood watching, listening, smiling,
thinking.

He observed the gracefulness and slimness of his daughter's stockinged
legs, and thought what a real little man his son seemed already, so
sturdy on his pins. In his blue overalls he looked like a miniature
ploughman in a smock-frock. Dale laughed when Billy scampered away
resolutely, and Norah had to run to catch him.

"Le' me go," roared Bill.

"Na, na," said Norah, "you mustn't go brevetin' about so far. Bide wi'
sister and me, an' chain the daffies."

And Dale noticed the musical note in Norah's voice, almost like a wild
bird singing. It was a pleasure to him to see the little maid making
herself so useful; and it corroborated what Mavis had told him about
her being splendid in taking care of the chicks, as well as keeping
them happy and amused.

He put on his black coat, fetched out a pair of brown dogskin gloves,
and then, failing to find the silk hat, came to the top of the
staircase and shouted for Mary.

"My hat, Mary. Where in the name of reason is my hat?"

His shouts broke the Sunday silence, filled the house with noise, went
rolling through the open windows in swift vibrations. Norah Veale
under the blossoming apple tree caught up the cry as though she had
been an echo, and ran with the children after her.

"Mary, the master's hat. Mary, Mary! Master wants his hat."

Then she appeared at the foot of the stairs, with an anxious excited
face and speaking breathlessly.

"Mary can't leave th' Yorkshire pudden, sir; but she says she saw Mrs.
Dale with th' hat in her hand after you wore it on Wednesday to
Manninglea."

"Yes, but where is it _now_, Norah?"

"I do think Mrs. Dale must have put it in the cupboard under the
stairs to get it safe out of Billy's way."

And sure enough there the hat was. Both children pressed beside Norah
to peep in with her when she opened the cupboard door. This hall
cupboard was the most sacred and awe-inspiring receptacle in the whole
house, because here were kept Dale's fireman's outfit always ready and
handy to be snatched out at a moment's notice. Rachel gazed
delightedly at the blue coat hanging extended, with the webbed steel
on the shoulder-straps, at the helmet above, the great boots beneath,
and the shining ax that dangled near an empty sleeve; but the sight
was almost too tremendous for Billy. His lively young imagination
could too readily inflate this shell of apparel with ogreish flesh and
bone waiting to pounce on small intruders, and he clung rather
timorously to Norah's skirt.

"Daddy," said Rachel, "I wis' you'd wear your helmet to-day."

"Oh, no, lassie, that wouldn't be seemly. This is more the thing for
Sunday. Thank you, Norah." And having taken the silk hat, he laid his
hand lightly on Norah's wavy black hair, and spoke to her very kindly.
"Nothing like thought, Norah. I believe you've got a good little
thinking-box under all this pretty hair, and you can't use it too
much, my dear--specially so long as you're thinking about others."

Norah, with her blue eyes fixed on the venerated master's face, seemed
to tremble joyously under the caress and the compliment. She and the
children came out into the front garden and stood at the gate to watch
Dale march away down the white road. He looked grandly stiff, black
and large, in his ceremonious costume--a daddy and a master to be
proud of.

He went only half-way to Rodchurch, and then sitting on a gate
opposite the Baptist chapel indulged himself with another pipe. He
made his halt here because several times when he had gone farther he
had found Mavis accompanied by old Rodchurch acquaintances who had
volunteered to escort her for a portion of the homeward journey, and
he felt no inclination for this sort of chance society.

Not a human being, not even the smallest sign of a man's habitation,
was in sight; not a movement of bird or beast could be perceived in
the stretching expanse of flat fields, across which huge cloud shadows
passed slowly; the broad white road on either hand seemed to lead from
nowhere to nowhere, and Dale, meditatively puffing out his tobacco
smoke and watching it rise and vanish, had that sense of deep and
almost solemn restfulness which comes whenever we realize that for any
reason we are cut off from the possibility of communication with our
kind. For a few moments he felt as a man feels all alone at the summit
of a mountain, in the depths of an untrodden forest, on the limitless
surface of a calm ocean. Yet, as he knew, there were men quite near to
him. Across the road, not fifty yards away, the brick walls of the
Baptist Chapel were hiding many men and women. Perhaps it was the
complete isolation of this ugly building, the house of prayer pushed
away into the desert far from all houses of laughter and talk, that
had induced the idea of isolation in himself.

If he listened, he could hear sounds made by men. Through the chapel
windows there came a continuous murmur, like the buzzing of a monster
bee under the dome of a glass hive--the voice of the pastor preaching
his sermon. Then all at once came loud music, shuffling of seats,
scraping of chairs; and a voluminous song poured out and upward in the
silent air. Dale idly thought of this chorus as resembling the smoke
from the pipe--something that went up a little way and faded long
before it reached the sky.

The music ceased. The congregation were leaving the chapel. Dale got
off the gate, put his pipe in his pocket, and watched the humble
worshipers as they came toward him. He knew them nearly all, and
gravely returned their grave salutations as they passed by. They were
maid-servants and men-servants from Rodchurch, old people and quite
young people, a few laborers and cottage-women; and they all walked
slowly, not at first talking to one another, but smiling with
introspective vagueness. Dale observed their decent costume, their
sober deportment, and leisurely gait, observed also a striking
similarity in the expression of all the faces. They were like people
who unwillingly awake and struggle to recall every detail of the dream
they are being forced to relinquish. Observing them thus, one could
not fail to understand that, at this moment at least, they all firmly
believed that their just-finished song had been heard a very, very
long way up.

The road was empty again when the pastor came out and locked the
chapel door behind him. He spoke to Dale with a gentle cheerfulness.

"Good day, friend Dale."

Dale, not too well pleased with this easy and familiar mode of
address, replied stiffly.

"I wish you good day, Mr. Osborn."

"Good day. God's day. That's what it meant in the beginning, Mr.
Dale."

And Dale, resuming his seat on the gate, watched Mr. Osborn go
plodding away toward Vine-Pits and the Cross Roads. This pastor, who
had succeeded old Melling a few years ago, was a short, bearded man of
sixty, and he lived in lodgings on the outskirts of Rodchurch.
Evidently he was not going home to dinner. Perhaps he had some sick
person to visit, and he might get a snack at the Barradine Arms or
one of the cottages. It was said that his father had been a rich
linen-draper in some North of England town; and that he himself would
have inherited this flourishing business and its accumulated wealth,
if he had not insisted on joining the ministry. But he threw up all to
preach the Gospel. Dale thought of the nature of the faith that would
make a man go and do a thing like that. It must be unquestioning,
undoubting; a conviction that amounted to certainty.

He did not see Mavis approaching. She called to him from a distance,
and he sprang off the gate and hurried to meet her. Instinctively, as
he drew near, he looked into her face, searching for the expression
that he had noticed just now in those other faces. It was not there.
She was hot and red after her walk; her eyes were full of life and
gaiety; she seemed a fine, broad-blown, well-dressed dame who might
have been returning from market instead of from church, and her first
words spoke of practical affairs.

"Holly Lodge is let again, Will, and Mr. Allen says the new gentleman
keeps horses--because he's having the stables painted. You ought to
send a circular at once, and make a call without delay."

Dale took his pipe out of his pocket, and spoke in an absent tone.

"I've been thinking what a rum world it is, Mav."

"Yes, but a very nice world, Will;" and she slipped her arm in his, as
they walked on together. "No, not another pipe. Don't take the edge
off your appetite with any more smoking. There's good roast beef and
Yorkshire pudding waiting for you. That is, if Mary hasn't made a mess
of everything."

XVIII

On the evening of the next Sunday Dale was quietly going out of the
house when Mavis offered to accompany him.

"Off for a stroll, Will? If you can wait ten minutes, I'll come with
you."

But he excused himself from waiting, and further confessed that he
preferred to be alone. He said he was in a thoughtful rather than a
talkative mood to-night.

"You understand, old girl?"

"Yes, dear, I understand. You want to put on your considering cap
about something."

"That's just it, Mav. The considering cap. Ta-ta."

Outside in the roadway Mr. Creech, a farmer, hindered him for a few
minutes. Between him and Mr. Creech there were certain business
arrangements now under negotiation, and it was impossible to avoid
speaking of them. Dale, however, cut their chat as short as possible,
and directly he had shaken off Mr. Creech he walked away briskly
toward Rodchurch.

He had intended to arrive at the Baptist Chapel before the evening
service began, but now he was late. The congregation were all on their
knees, and the pastor, standing in his desk or pulpit above a raised
platform, had begun to pray aloud. Dale paused just inside the door,
looking at his strange surroundings, and feeling the awkwardness of a
person who enters a place that he has never seen before, and finds
himself among a lot of people who have their own customs and usages,
all of which are unknown to him. Then he noticed that a man was
smiling at him and beckoning, and he bowed gravely and followed the
hand. He was led up the little building to some empty chairs on a
level with the platform, at right angles to the rows of benches, and
close to a harmonium. Mr. Osborn, the pastor, had stopped praying, and
he did not go on again until Dale was seated. No one else had looked
up or seemed to be aware of the interruption caused by his entrance.

He assumed a duly reverent attitude, not kneeling, but bending his
body forward, and observed everything with great interest. There were
many differences between the arrangements of this chapel and those of
an ordinary church. The absence of an altar struck him as very
remarkable. The large platform, with its balustrade and central perch,
seemed to be altar, pulpit, and lectern all rolled into one--and choir
too, since it was occupied by several men and a dozen girls and young
women, who were all now on their knees while Mr. Osborn, looking very
odd in purely civilian clothes, prayed loudly over their heads.

He glanced at the high bare walls and narrow windows, and observed
that, except for some stenciled texts, there was not the slightest
attempt at decoration. Outside, the light was rapidly waning, and
inside the building the general tone had a grayness and dimness that
obliterated all the bright colors of the girls' dresses and hats. The
circumstance that not a single face was visible produced a curious
impression on one's mind. It made Dale feel for a moment as though he
were improperly prying, behind people's backs, at matters that did not
in the least concern him; and next moment he thought that all the gray
stooping forms were exactly like those of ghosts. Then, in another
moment, noticing with what rigid immobility they held themselves, he
thought of them as being dead and waiting for some tremendous signal
that should bring them to life again.

"Now," said Mr. Osborn, "let us praise God by singing the hundred and
twenty-sixth hymn."

Then all the faces showed. It was like a flash of pallid light running
to and fro along the benches as everybody changed the kneeling to the
sitting posture; and Dale immediately felt that he had been placed in
an uncomfortably conspicuous position. Far from being situated so that
he could pry on the private affairs of others, he was where everybody
could study him. He was alone, opposite to the entire crowd, instead
of being comfortably absorbed in its mass.

"Oh, thank you. Much obliged."

Mr. Osborn, speaking from the pulpit, had said something to one of his
young women, and she was leaning over the balustrade, smilingly
offering Dale an open hymn-book.

"I am afraid," she said, "that it's very small print; but I dare say
you have good eyes."

She spoke in the most friendly natural manner, exactly as one speaks
to a visitor when one is anxious to make him feel welcome and at home.
Dale, startled by this style of address in such a place, made a
dignified bow.

"Give him this," said Mr. Osborn, handing a book out of the pulpit.
"It's a larger character--'long primer,' as I believe the printers
call it. We'll have the lamps directly; but we are all of us rather
partial to blind man's holiday--not to mention that oil is oil, and
that Brother Spiers doesn't give it away. We know he couldn't afford
to do that. But there it is--Take care of the pence."

To Dale's astonishment, he heard a distinct chuckle here and there
among the congregation. Then the same young woman, having found the
correct page, handed him the large-type book. Then the man at the
harmonium struck up, and the whole congregation burst into song.

They sang with a fervent strength that he had never heard equaled. For
a moment the powerful chorus seemed to shake the walls, to fill every
cubic foot of air that the building contained, and then to go straight
up, splitting the ugly roof, and out into the sky. Otherwise this hymn
would have left one no space to breathe in. Dale felt a sudden rush of
blood to the head, as if the pressure of vocal sound were about to
produce suffocation; and at the same time he had the fantastic but
almost irresistible idea that the whole congregation were singing
solely at him, that they and their pastor had together planned to set
him alone in this high place where he must bear the full brunt of the
hymn while they all watched its effect upon him, and that the hymn
itself had been specially and artfully chosen with a view to him and
to nobody else.

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