The Devil's Garden by W. B. Maxwell

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"Good evening, Miss Veale," he said courteously as he entered the
office.

"Oh, you mustn't call her _Miss_ Veale. She's Norah--one of us, you
know." And as he spoke, Dale laid his hand on the back of Norah's neck
to prevent her from rising. "She's our _multum in parvo_--making
herself so useful to the wife and me that we can't think what we
should ever do without her. Bide where you are a moment, Norah."

Dale established his visitor on a chair that faced the rapidly waning
light, and addressed him again with increased deference.

"If you can spare a few minutes, there's a thing I'd like to speak to
you about, Mr. Bates."

"I can spare all the minutes between now and morning," said Mr. Bates
cordially, "if I can be of the least service to you, William."

As much now as in the beginning of the enterprise Bates held himself
at the younger man's disposal, indeed liked nothing better than to
give information and counsel whenever his prosperous successor was of
a mind to accept either.

"I won't keep you as long as that," said Dale, smiling; "but will you
give us the pleasure of your company at supper?"

"You're very kind, William, but I don't think I can."

"Do, Mr. Bates. The wife will be as pleased as me--as I."

The old fellow looked up at Dale hesitatingly; and Dale, looking down
at his clean-shaven cheeks, bushy white eyebrows, and the long wisps
of white hair brushed across his bald head, felt a great reverence. He
would not look at the threadbare shabbiness of the gray cloth suit, or
at the queer tints given by time and weather to the black felt hat
that was being balanced on two shrunken knees.

"I, ah, don't think I'll present myself before Mrs. Dale--ah, without
more preparation than this. Besides, would it not put her out?"

"No, indeed. Quite unceremonious--taking us exactly as you find
us--pot-luck."

"Then be it so. You are very good. Thank you, William."

"Thank you, Mr. Bates." Dale seized upon the visitor's hat and stick.
"Now you may cut along, Norah, and tell Mrs. Dale that Mr. Bates is
kind enough to stay supper--without ceremony."

Norah glided across the office to the inner door, and, going out,
asked if she should bring a lamp.

"Yes, bring the lamp in ten minutes--not before. There's light enough
for two such old friends to chat together;" and Dale waited until she
had shut the door. "Now, sir, this is kind and friendly. Give me your
hand, Mr. Bates. I'd like to hold it in mine, while I say these few
prelim'nary words."

"Yes, William?" The old man had immediately offered his hand, and he
looked up with a puzzled and anxious expression.

"I merely wish to assure you, Mr. Bates, very sincerely, that if you
at this moment could see right into my heart, you'd plainly see my
respect, and what is more, my true affection for you, sir."

"I believe it, William."

"And it has always been a source of comfort to me to think that you,
sir, have entertained a most kindly feeling to me, sir."

Mr. Bates had averted his eyes, and he moved his feet restlessly, his
demeanor seeming to indicate that he regretted having accepted the
supper invitation and was perhaps desirous of withdrawing his
acceptance.

"I hope," Dale went on, "I haven't been presumptuous in my estimate of
your feeling, sir."

"No." And the old man looked up again. His eyes, his whole face had
grown soft, and the tone of his voice was firm, yet rather low and
very sweet. "No, William, my feeling for you began in taking note of
your sharpness combined with your steady ways, and it has ended in
love."

"That's a large word, Mr. Bates."

"It's no larger than the truth."

"Then I say 'Thank you, sir, for the honor you have done me.'" Dale
pressed the old chap's hand, dropped it, and returned to the high
stool. "And now, after what has passed between us two, man to man,
you'll credit me with no disrespectfulness if I make bold to let fall
certain remarks."

Bates nodded his white head and stared at the floor.

"There's a thing, sir, that I particularly want to say. It is about
yourself, sir--"

"Go on, William," said Mr. Bates, "and get it over. I know what you're
after, of course--something about Richard. Well, I'll take it from
you. I wouldn't take it from any one else."

"D'you remember all you used to advise me about the danger of rats,
telling me to fight 'em as if it was the devil himself, horns and
tail, and not just so many stinking little avaricious rodents? You
said, one rat was sufficient to mess me up."

Mr. Bates nodded.

"And you knew what you were talking about--no one better. And for why?
Because it was your own story you were telling me, in the form of a
parable."

"You're wrong there, William."

"Not a bit. You'd had one rat--but, by Jupiter, he was a whooping big
'un, and he'd eaten your grain, and messed you up--he'd ruined your
business, and well-nigh broken your heart, and practically done for
you."

"Have you finished?" asked Mr. Bates, with dignity.

"Yes, sir--almost;" and Dale in the most earnest manner besought his
old friend to resist any further attacks from that wicked son. "I do
implore you, sir, not to be weak and fullish. Don't take him to your
boosum. He's a rat still--an' he'll gnaw and devour the little that's
left to you, so sure as I sit here."

But it was all no use, as he could easily see. Mr. Bates raised his
eyes, moved his feet, and then spoke gently but proudly.

"I thank you, William, for your well-meant intentions. I have listened
to what you wished to say. Now shall we talk of something else?"

"Yes--but with just this one proviso added. Will you remember that I
am your banker, for the full half of what the banker's worth? If the
pinch comes, draw on me."

"I thank you again, William. But I shan't need help."

"I think you will."

"Then to speak quite truly, I couldn't take help, William, I really
couldn't."

"Why not? Think of all you've done for me. Don't deny me the pleasure
of doing something for you."

"I'll consider, William. Please let it rest there."

Dale could say no more and they both sat silent for a little while.
Then old Bates spoke again.

"William," he said, "if you'll excuse me, I really won't stay. You
have--to tell the truth--agitated me."

"Indeed I'm sorry, sir. But don't punish me by going."

"I am not quite up to merry-making."

Just then Norah arrived, carrying the lamp, and Dale turned to her for
aid.

"Norah, speak for me. Mr. Bates says he won't stay. Tell him how
disappointed we shall be."

"Oh, do stay, Mr. Bates," said Norah. "It'll be such a disappointment
to Mr. Dale."

"Some other evening, Miss--ah, Norah. But you must excuse me this
time."

And, having picked up his hat and stick, Mr. Bates bade them good
night.

Dale and Norah went out into the road and watched him as he walked
away.

"There, Norah;" and Dale, slipping his arm within hers, drew her
closer to his side. "Look with all your eyes. You'll never see a
better man than that."

They watched him till he disappeared in the gathering darkness; and he
seemed just like a pilgrim with his staff, slowly approaching the end
of a cruelly long journey.

XXV

It was perhaps a month after this when Dale heard news which plainly
indicated that the wicked son had completed his horrible task. He had
eaten up all that there was to eat.

Mr. Osborn said that old Bates had given his landlord notice, and he
was leaving his cottage almost immediately. The matter had been
brought to the pastor's knowledge because one of the Baptist
congregation thought of taking the cottage, and had asked Mr. Osborn's
advice.

Other people, who professed to know more than Mr. Osborn, said it was
true that Bates had given notice, but it was also true that he owed
two quarters' rent and that the landlord was determined to have his
money. To this end everything the cottage contained would be seized
and sold. And what would happen to Mr. Bates when not only his house
was gone, but all his sticks of furniture too?

"It do seem a pity he ben't a young orphan female instead of a
wore-out old man, for then he cud move on into Barradine Home and be
fed on the best for naught."

The cottage and other cottages about Otterford Mill, although close to
the Abbey estate, did not belong to it. They were the property of
various small owners, and Bates' landlord, as Dale knew, was a
tradesman at Old Manninglea.

Dale, having heard the news on a Sunday evening, put his check-book in
his pocket very early next morning and rode over the heath to the
market town. There he saw Bates' landlord, readily obtained leave to
withdraw the notice, cleared off the arrears, and paid rent for a year
in advance. Then he rode straight to Otterford Mill.

"Good morning, William. Pray come in. But will your horse stand quiet
there?"

"Oh, yes, sir. He'll stand quiet enough. Only too glad of the chance
to stand. I keep him moving, you know."

"Don't he ever get jerking at the rein, and break his bridle?"

"If he did he wouldn't run away. He'd be too ashamed of himself for
what he'd done."

"Then step inside, William," said Mr. Bates once more.

He ushered Dale into a bare, sad-looking room; and the whole cottage
smelled of nakedness, famine, misery.

"Now, my dear old friend," said Dale cheerily, "what's all this
whispering that reaches my ears _in re_ you thinking of changing your
quarters and leaving us?"

"It's the truth, William. I can't afford these premises any longer."

"Oh, come, we can't have that. We haven't so many friends that we can
put up with losing the one we value most of all."

Then he told Mr. Bates what he had done at Manninglea.

The old man frowned, flushed, and began to tremble.

"You shouldn't 'a' done that, William. It was a liberty. I must write
and say my notice holds good."

Then there was a brief but most painful conversation, Dale nearly
shedding tears while he pleaded to be allowed on this one occasion to
act as banker, and Bates resolutely refusing help, refusing even to
admit how much help was needed.

"William," he said obdurately, "I recognize your kind intention--but
you've made a mistake. You shouldn't have done it, without a word to
me. I can only repeat, it was a liberty."

Dale of course apologized, but went on pleading. It was all no use.
Obviously Mr. Bates' pride had been wounded to the quick. He was
white, shaky, so old, so feeble, and yet firm as a rock. Never till
now had he spoken to Dale in such tones of stiff reproof.

"William, we'll say no more. I have paid my way all my days, and at my
present age it's a bit too late to start differently."

His last words were: "I shall write next post to confirm the notice."

And he did so.

Then the tale ran round that Mr. Bates was going to the workhouse.
People declared that he had ceded all his furniture to the landlord,
who could now sell it quietly and advantageously, in a manner which
would yield more than enough to wipe out the debt. Perhaps there might
even be a trifling balance in the debtor's favor eventually; but
meanwhile the homeless and stickless old gentleman would fall as
another burden on the rates to which he had so long subscribed.

It was curious, perhaps, but the humble folk spoke of him as the old
gentleman, and not as the old man, all at once giving him the title
which they only now began to think he had fairly earned as a master
and employer, an important personage who used to drive about in gigs,
wear a black coat at church, and always have a kind word for you when
you touched your cap to him.

"'Tis all a pity but so 'tis, and can't be gainsaid. Th' old gentleman
hev come down so low, that 'tis the Union and nought else."

"Is that for sure?"

"Oh, yes, for certain sure. He is a-goin' into workhouse to-morrow
maarning."

But he did not go there.

In the morning some one came running into Dale's yard, and shouted
what had happened since dark last night.

"Th' old gentleman hev a done fer hisself."

He had been found hanging from the biggest of the apple trees behind
his cottage. He had set a ladder against the tree, gone up it, fixed
the rope firmly, put the noose round his neck, and stepped off into
the air. That was the way they did for themselves in this part of
Hampshire.

XXVI

The suicide of Mr. Bates had a great effect on Dale. The sadness and
regret that he felt at the time continued to tinge his thoughts for a
long while afterward. He could not shake off the horror of that
midnight scene, as he imagined it--the God-fearing man breaking the
divine laws, the man full of years who was so near the grave and yet
could not wait till it received him naturally, the poor feeble old
creature taxing all his remnant of strength to knock out the small
spark of life that already had begun to gleam so dimly. How long did
he take to drag and raise the ladder, pausing to recover breath,
holding his side and coughing, then again toiling?

Another thing that depressed Dale's spirits was the departure of Mr.
Osborn, who had gone to the Midlands to take up the ministry of a
large church in a large town. And never had Dale more felt the want of
priestly support than at this period. The new pastor was a young man
who preached eloquently, but Dale would not be able to talk to him as
he had talked to Osborn.

Mavis observed again what she had not seen for ages, the gloom on her
husband's face when he sat alone, or thought that he was alone. The
dull brooding look that spoiled his aspect at such times was like the
shadow of a dark cloud on a field; but as in the past the shadow went
rapidly, and she fancied she could chase it away as surely as if she
had been the sunshine. She would have been startled and pained if she
could have seen his face now, as he rode from Manninglea after
luncheon at the club.

It was a wet spring day, with dark clouds hanging low over the heath,
a cold wind cheeping, soughing, sighing; and Dale's face was darker
and sadder than the day. Before mounting his horse in the hotel yard
at Manninglea he had gone to the station and bought _The Times_
newspaper; now he drew the paper out of his pocket, and sheltering it
with his rain cloak, read an advertisement on the front page.

The advertisement told him that a London hospital gratefully
acknowledged the receipt of one hundred pounds, being the twenty-first
donation from the same hand, and making two thousand and twenty pounds
as the total received to date. In accordance with the request of their
anonymous benefactor, they inserted this notice, and they offered at
the same time their heartfelt thanks.

Dale tore out the advertisement and threw away the rest of the paper.

To his mind, this money was the payment of a very old debt. The amount
of his first charitable donation sent nearly fifteen years ago, had
been twenty pounds. That, the most urgent part of the debt,
represented the four bank-notes given to the wife by Mr. Barradine in
London. The other twenty instalments made up the amount of the legacy
that came to her at his death. Mavis had lent the money to her
husband, had in due course received a similar sum of money from him,
and she held it now safely invested; but, as Dale told himself, she
did not in truth hold one penny of the dead man's gifts. All that she
had now was the gift of him, Dale; and the money that soiled her hands
in touching it, the money that had burned his brain, the filthy gold
that had made him half-mad to think of, had gone to strangers whom
neither of them had ever seen. He had been slow about it; but, thank
God, he had done at last what he wanted to do at the very beginning.

He folded the scrap of paper that was his receipt or quittance, put it
in his breast pocket, and rode on at a foot-pace. He was absolutely
alone, not a soul in sight wherever he turned his eyes, not a beast,
not a bird moving, the desolate brown heath and the sad gray sky alike
empty of life; straight ahead, about a mile distant, lay the Cross
Roads, the tavern, and the small hamlet of cottages, but as yet they
were hidden by a rise of the intervening ground; only the fringe of
cultivated land at the point where it met the barren waste indicated
the work or proximity of mankind. His face grew still darker as he
approached these fields and saw the cluster of houses on their edge.
He looked at the deep ditch that surrounded the outermost field; then
turning his head looked again at the heath, its bleak contours
mounting gradually till they showed an ugly ridge beyond which the
downs swelled up soft and vague against the hanging curtain of clouds.
And he thought of what lay on the far side of this long grass rampart
of down country--the fat-soiled valley, the other railway line, the
trains from the West of England, full of queer people, running by
night as well as by day.

As he passed the Barradine Arms, he saw three louts leaning against a
dry bit of wall under the eaves of an outhouse. They stared at him
stupidly, not speaking or touching their caps, just loutishly
staring; and he stared at them with black severity. He thought how he
himself had been like one of those oafs, living in a cottage not so
many miles from this spot. No one now seemed to remember his humble
birth, his unhappy youth, his sordid home. Other people forgot
everything; while he could forget nothing.

At the Cross Roads he drew rein for a moment, as if undecided as to
which way to turn. Before going home he had to pay a business call,
and his destination was straight ahead of him, about four miles off as
the crow flies. The quickest way to get there, the line nearest to the
crow's line, would be to leave the road here and ride through Hadleigh
Wood, under the bare beeches, among the somber pines, along the gloomy
rides; and the alternative route would be to turn to the right, hold
to the open road, and follow its deflected course past the Abbey gates
and park, and all round the wild forest. That way would be three miles
longer than the other way. He turned his horse's head to the right;
and as he went on by the road, he was thinking of the terrible chapter
in his life that closed with the death of Mr. Barradine.

Nearly fifteen years ago; yet in all that time, although dwelling so
near to the tragic fateful wood, he had been into it only once--and
then he had gone there with the hounds and jolly loud-voiced riders,
cub-hunting, on a bright September morning. The wood symbolized
everything that he wished to forget. And he thought that if he were
really a rich man--not a poor little well-to-do trader, but a fabulous
millionaire--he'd buy all this woodland, cut down every tree, chase
away every shadow, and grow corn in the sunlight. He would buy
woodland and parkland too--he would burn Aunt Petherick's hidden
cottage, the Abbey with its inner, outer and middle courtyards, yes,
and its church also; he would burn and fell, and grub and plough, and
then plant the seeds of corn that symbolize the resurrection of life;
and the sun should shine on a wide yellow sea, with waves of hope
rippling across it as the ripened ears bowed and rose; and there
should be no trace or stain to mark the submerged slime that had held
corruption and death. Then, if he could do that, he would have nothing
to remind him of all he had gone through in the past.

Nothing to remind him?

It made no difference whether the Abbey towers and the North Ride
chimneys were visible or invisible; no screen of trees, whether
leafless as now or carrying the full weight of foliage, could really
screen them from him; they were inside him, together with all that
they had once signified, a part of himself. If he did not look at them
with introspective eyes, if he ignored their existence, if he
succeeded in not thinking of them, there was always something else,
inside him or outside him, to carry his thoughts back into the black
bad time.

At this moment it was the Orphanage, with its wet red roofs and
dripping white verandas. His road took him close in front of it--a
lengthy stretch of building composed of a central block that contained
the hall and schoolrooms, and two lesser and lower blocks connected by
cloisters. He glanced at these blocks--long and low, only a ground
floor and an upper story--and noticed the veranda and broad balconies.
The girls slept here, as Mavis had told him; the younger in one block
and the older in the other block. The whole institution had an air of
old-established order and unceasing care; all the paint was new and
clean; the gardens and terraces, with hedges and shrubs that had grown
high and thick, were beautifully kept; not a weed showed in borders or
paths; the copper bell in the belfry turret was so well polished that
it seemed to shine, even though no glint of sunlight touched it. As he
rode by he heard the sound of children's voices, and, raising himself
in his stirrups, looked over the clipped yew hedge that guarded the
lower garden from the roadway. A dozen or fifteen small blue-cloaks
were romping joyously under one of the verandas, and perhaps twenty of
the bigger blue-cloaks were soberly parading two by two in a cloister.

Nothing carried him back so promptly and surely as the sight of these
blue-cloaked girls, and scarcely a day ever passed without his seeing
them. Two by two they were incessantly tramping the roads for miles
round. He could not walk, ride, or drive without meeting them. When he
heard their footsteps and knew that they were coming marching by
Vine-Pits, he turned his back to the office window, or went into the
depths of granary or stable. He had hated that day when Mavis brought
them off the road and into the heart of his home.

With the sound of their shrill cries and merry laughter lingering in
his ears he rode on.

What a hideous and damnable mockery! This was the monument of that
good kind man, the late Mr. Barradine. Every red tile, every dab of
white paint, every square inch of clean gravel, gave substance and
solidity to the lasting fame of that dear sweet gentleman. Visitors
to the neighborhood always stopped their carriages or motor cars
outside the Orphanage gates, questioned and gaped, sent in their
cards, begged for permission to go all over it. Inside, no doubt they
admired the rows of clean white beds, some of them quite little cots,
others big enough for almost full-grown bouncing lasses; they stood
with hushed breath before his portrait in the refectory hall or his
bust on the stairs; and perhaps they patted the cheeks of some pretty
inmate and asked if, when saying her prayers, she always included the
name of the patron saint. On high occasions clergymen and bishops
came, there to hiccough and weep over his blessed memory. Great lords
and ladies praised him, newspaper writers praised him, ignorant fools
in cottages praised him; and to high and low the crowning grace of his
glorious charity was the selection of the softer, gentler, and too
often downtrodden sex as the object of such tender care. That was what
set the sentimental rivers flowing. It proved the innate gentleness
and sweetness of him who was now an angel in Heaven. When it came to
choosing the guests for the lovely home he had built in his mind, he
had said: "I will not fill it with a lot of hulking boys. Boys are
naturally rough and coarse animals, and can generally fight their way
out on top, no matter how stiff the struggle. Give me so many graceful
delicate girls; pretty helpless things, dainty little innocent
fascinating creatures; not necessarily fatherless girls, but
unprotected girls--girls that grievously need protection."

And Dale thought how the man, when he was alive, dealt with any
innocent unprotected girl who chanced to fall into his power. In
imagination he saw him taking care of Mavis, when she was young and
tender, and scarcely knew right from wrong. In imagination he saw it
all again--the pattings and pawings, the scheming and devising, the
luring and ensnaring--Barradine and Mavis--the man of many years and
the girl of few years, the serpent and the dove, the destroyer and the
destroyed. Those torturing mental pictures glowed and took form, and
were as vivid now as when, in the hour of his grief and despair, he
first made them and saw them.

This departed saint, whose memory had become as a fragrance of myrrh,
whose name sounded like the clinking of an incense-pot swung by devout
hands, whose monument stood firm as a temple built upon the rock, was
simply a dirty old beast for whom no excuse could be possible. What
worse crime can there be than that of befouling youth? Who is a worse
enemy to the commonweal than he who snatches and steals for his
transient gratification treasures that are accumulating to make some
honest man's life-long joy? Such wanton abuse of society's law and
nature's plan is the unpardonable sin; it is sin as monstrous as the
enormities that brought down fire upon the dwellers in the cities of
the plain.

To Dale the idea of an offense so gross that its perpetrator deserved
neither pity nor mercy was if anything stronger now than when it had
first entered and filled his mind.

Yet it seemed to him that now, after all the years that had gone by,
he could for the first time perfectly understand the dark and shameful
tangle of emotions through which the sinner moved onward to his sin.
It seemed that with luminous clearness he could look right into the
corrupt heart of the dead man. He could understand all, though he
could forgive nothing. He could measure the force of every thought and
sensation that had pushed the dead man on and on.

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