The Devil's Garden by W. B. Maxwell

W >> W. B. Maxwell >> The Devil\'s Garden

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27

All through the little meadow and again in the wider fields the air
had a soft fragrance; the sky was high and quite clear, with a few
stars; the whole earth, for as much as he could see of it, seemed to
be sleeping in a deep delightful peace. Beyond his fences there were
the neighbors' farms, and then there were the heath, the hills; and
beyond these, other counties, other countries, the rest of the turning
globe, the universe it turned in--and once again he had that feeling
of infinite smallness, the insect unfairly matched against a solar
system, the speck of dust whirled as the biggest stars are whirled,
inexorably.

At the confines of his land he leaned upon a gate, groaning and
praying.

"O Christ Jesus, Redeemer of mankind, why hast Thou deserted me? O God
the Father, Lord and Judge, why dost Thou torment me so?"

XXIX

Very early in the morning he told Mavis that he felt sure they ought
to send Norah away on a holiday for the good of her health.

"This hot weather has been a severe test for all of us," he said; "and
of course what I should consider equally advisable would be to send
you and the children along with her, but I suppose--"

"What, me go away just when you're going to cut the grass!"

"Very well," he said, "I won't urge it. But as to Norah, that's a
decision I've come to; so please don't question it. She's been working
too hard--"

"Did she complain to you yesterday, when you lectured her?"

"No. Not a word. An' she'll prob'ly resist the idea. But she must be
overruled, because my mind is made up. So now the only question that
remains is--where are you to send her? What about that place for
servants resting--at Bournemouth, the place Mrs. Norton collects
subscriptions for?"

"Yes, I might ask Mrs. Norton if she could spare us a ticket."

"No, send the girl as a paying guest. I don't grudge any reasonable
expense. Or again there's Mrs. Creech's daughter-in-law, over at
S'thaampton Water."

"Oh, there's half a dozen people I could think of--"

"All right," he said; "but I want it done now, straight away. And
look here, Mav. Take this thing off my shoulders, and don't let me be
bothered. I shouldn't have decided it, if I didn't know it was right.
I've a long and difficult day before me. You just hop into the gig,
and Tom'll drive you round--to see Mrs. Norton or anybody else. Only
let me hear by dinner-time that the arrangement is made."

"You shall," said Mavis cheerfully.

"Thank you, Mav. You're always a trump. You never fail one."

What had seemed an insuperable difficulty was thus in a moment
accomplished. His quietly authoritative tone had made Mavis accept the
thing not only easily but without a doubt or question, and he thought
remorsefully that, except for his sneaking, cowardly delay, all this
might have occurred a month ago. He felt a distinct lightening of the
trouble as he went back into his own room, and then the weight of it
fell upon him again. He had succeeded so far as Mavis was concerned;
but how about Norah?

He stood meditating in front of the looking-glass before he began to
shave. When he picked up the shaving-brush, he noticed that his hand
was trembling--not much, yet quite visibly. It never used to do that,
and he looked at it with disgust. It seemed to him like an old man's
hand.

Then he began to study his face in the glass. No one would have
guessed that this was a man who had been praying all night. The whole
face showed those signs of fatigue that come after base pleasures,
after riotous waste of energy, after long hours of debauch. It seemed
to him that his gray hair was finer of texture than it ought to be,
hanging straight and thin, with no strength in it; that his eyes were
too dim, that the flesh underneath them had puffed out loosely, and
that his lower lip was drooping slackly--and he shuddered in disgust.
It seemed to him that his face changed and grew uglier as he looked at
it. It was becoming like an old man's face he had seen years ago.

In spite of the slight shakiness of his hand he managed to shave
himself without a cut, and he was just about to wash the soap away
when he heard a sound of lamentation on the lower floor. It was Norah
loudly bewailing herself. Mavis had gone down-stairs and published his
sentence of banishment.

Suppose that the girl betrayed their secret. Suppose that she was even
now telling his wife what had happened in the wood. Well, he must go
down to them and flatly deny whatever Norah said. But he tingled and
grew hot with a most miserable shame; his heart quailed at the mere
notion of the sickening, disgraceful character of such a scene--he,
the highly respected Mr. Dale, the good upright religious man, being
accused by a little servant girl and having to rebut her accusations
in the presence of his wife.

He dipped his head in the basin, and even when under the cold water
the tips of his ears seemed as if they were on fire. He must go
down-stairs the moment he had cooled his face; but he would go as some
wretched schoolboy goes to the headmaster's room when he guesses that
his unforgivable beastliness has been discovered, and that first a
thrashing and then expulsion are awaiting him.

Some of the lying words that he must utter suggested themselves. "Oh,
Norah, this is a poor return you are making for all my kindness.
Aren't you ashamed to stand there and tell such ungrateful
false-hoods. Ma lass, your cheek surprises me. I wonder you can look
me in the face."

But it would be Mavis, and not Norah, who would look him in the
face--and she would read the truth there. She would see it staring at
her in his shifting eyes, his slack lip, and his weak frown. Her first
glance at him would be loyal and frank, just an eager flash of love
and confidence, seeming to say, "Be quick, Will, and put your foot on
this viper that we've both of us warmed, and that is trying to bite
me;" then she would turn pale, avert her head, and drop upon a chair.
And for why? Because she had seen the nauseating truth, and her heart
was almost broken.

Then he suddenly understood that there was no real danger of all this.
It was only his own sense of guilt that unnerved him. Nothing had
happened in the wood. If he behaved quietly and sensibly, he would be
altogether safe, and Mavis would never guess. Truly all that he had to
conceal was that he had been stopped on the very brink of his sin,
that but for a startling interference, an almost miraculous
interference, the wicked thoughts would infallibly have found their
outlet in wicked deeds.

If Norah said he took her on his knees and kissed her, Mavis would
think nothing of it--would not even think it undignified; would merely
take as one more evidence of his kindly nature the fact that, instead
of upbraiding the silly child, he had embraced her. If the girl howled
and said she did not want to go because she was fond of him, Mavis
would think nothing of that either. Mavis knew it already, and had
never thought anything of it.

Therefore if he did not betray himself, the girl could not betray him.
All that was required of him was just to maintain an ordinary air of
ingenuousness. He had done enough acting in his life to be at home
when dissimulating. He must do a little more successful acting now.

After a minute or so he went down-stairs, and was outwardly staid and
calm, looking as he had looked on hundreds of mornings: the good kind
father of a household, whose only care is the happiness and welfare of
those who are dependent on him.

Directly he entered the breakfast-room Norah ran sobbing to him and
clung to his hand.

"She is sending me away. Oh, don't let her do it. You promised you
wouldn't. Oh, why do you let her do it?"

"This is _my_ plan, Norah," he said gently; "not Mrs. Dale's. I wish
it--and I ask you not to make a fuss."

"I've told her," said Mavis, "that it's only for her own good; and
that she'll be back here in a fortnight or three weeks. But she seems
to think we want to be rid of her forever."

"No, no," said Dale. "Nothing of the sort. It's merely for the good of
your health--and not in any way as a punishment for your having been
rather disobedient."

"Why, I'm sure," said Mavis cheerfully, "most girls would jump for joy
at the chance. You'll enjoy yourself, and have all a happy time."

"No, I shan't," Norah cried. "I shall be miserable;" and she looked
up at Dale despairingly. "Do you promise I'm really and truly to come
back?"

"Of course I do. And it's all on the cards that Mrs. Dale and Rachel
and Bill may follow you before your holiday is over."

"Oh, I doubt that," said Mavis.

"No," cried Norah, "when I'm gone you'll turn against me, and forget
me. I shall never see you again, and I shall die. I can't bear it."
And she began to sob wildly.

Then Dale, standing big and firm, although each sob tore at his
entrails, pacified and reassured the girl. He said that she must not
be "fullish," she must be "good and sensible," she must fall in with
the views of those "older and wiser" than herself; finally, after his
arguments and admonitions, he laid his hand on her bowed head as if
silently giving a patriarchal blessing; and Mavis watched and admired,
and loved him for his noble generosity in taking so much trouble about
the poor little waif that had no real claim on him.

"There," she said, "dry your eyes, Norah. Mr. Dale has told you he
wishes it, and that ought to be enough for you."

And then Norah said she would do what Mr. Dale wished, even if she
died in doing it.

"Oh, stuff, stuff," said Mavis, laughing cheerily. "I never heard such
talk. Now come along with me, and get the breakfast things;" and she
took Norah down the steps into the kitchen.

Norah came back to lay the cloth presently, and would have rushed into
Dale's arms, if he had not motioned to her to keep away, and laid a
finger on his lips warningly. But he could not prevent her from
whispering to him across the table.

"Will you come and see me, wherever it is?"

"Perhaps."

"Come and see me without _her_. Come all for me, by yourself."

Dale did more work in that one morning than he had done for months.
The wet season had naturally postponed the hay-making, but negligence
was postponing it still further; now at last he gave all necessary
orders. But it was only his own grass that he had to deal with.
Letting everything drift, he had not made any of the usual
arrangements with his neighbors; this year he would not have to ride
grandly round and watch dozens of men and women laboring for him; and
there would be no farmers' banquet or speeches or cigar-smoking.

When he came in to dinner he found Mavis all hot and red, but pleased
with herself after her bustling activities. The whole business was
settled. Norah was to go as a paying guest to that place at
Bournemouth, and Mavis would drive her over to Rodchurch Road and put
her into the four-fifteen train. At the station they would meet a girl
called Nellie Evans, whom by a happy chance Mrs. Norton was
despatching to-day; and so the two girls could travel together, and
prevent each other from being a fool when they changed trains at the
junction; and altogether nothing could have turned out better or
nicer.

Mavis, babbling contentedly all through dinner, harped on the niceness
both of people and things. Mrs. Norton, and indeed everybody else, had
been so nice about it. All Rodchurch had seemed anxious to assist Mr.
and Mrs. Dale in contriving their little maid's holiday. "And it is
nice," said Mavis simply, "to be treated like that." Mrs. Norton had
taken her all round the vicarage garden, and she had never seen it
looking nicer. "Although the flowers aren't anything to boast of, any
more than ours are."

"And what _do_ you think? Here's a bit of news you'll be sorry to
hear, though it mayn't surprise you." Then Mavis related how it had
been necessary to procure some sort of trunk to hold Norah's things,
because there wasn't a single presentable bit of luggage in the house,
and she had discovered exactly what she wanted--something that was not
immoderate, appearing solid, yet not heavy--at the new shop that had
recently been opened at the bottom of the village near the Gauntlet
Inn. First, however, she had gone to their old friend the saddler's,
wanting to see if she could buy the box there. But Mr. Allen's shop
was empty, woe-begone, dirty with cobwebs, dead flies, and mud on the
window; and Mr. Allen himself was ill in bed, being nursed hand and
foot, and fed like a baby, by poor Mrs. Allen. He had been stricken
down by some dreadful form of rheumatism, and three doctors had said
the same thing--that he had brought this calamity upon himself by his
ridiculous, ceaseless tramping after the hounds.

Dale nodded and smiled, or made his face appropriately grave, while
Mavis prattled to him; but truly his mind was occupied only by Norah.
She came in and out of the room, looking pale and limp and resigned;
she knew all about the trunk, and that it was up-stairs and that
already the mistress and Ethel had begun to pack it; she was
submitting to destiny, but out of her soft blue eyes there shot a
glance now and then that made him quiver with pain.

He went out of the house the moment dinner was finished, and kept
moving about, now in the office, now in the yard, never still. Then,
when he was pottering round and round the office for the fiftieth time
in two hours, he heard a footstep, and Norah came--to whisper and
cling to him, to make him kiss her again; to penetrate him with her
ineffable sweetness; to plant the seeds of inextinguishable desire in
the last few cells and fibers of his brain that as yet she had not
reached.

"I don't ast you to stand in th' road when we drive away. I'd rather
not. Say good-by to me now, when there's nobody watchin'."

Then he had to take her in his arms once more; and they stood close to
the door, far from the window, pressed heart to heart, mute,
throbbing.

"I'm kissing you," she whispered presently, "but you're not kissing
me. Kiss me."

And he obeyed her.

"No," she whispered. "Different from that. Kiss me like you did
yesterday."

"Very well," he said hoarsely. "This is the good-by kiss. This is
good-by." And once again he felt the swift lambent ecstasy of a love
that he had never till now guessed at; a joy beyond words, beyond
dreams, beyond belief. "Now, you must go;" and he slowly released
himself, and held her at arm's length. "That was our good-by. Good-by,
my Norah--my darling--good-by." Then he went to the table in front of
the window, and sat down.

She came a little way from the door, and spoke to him before going out
and along the passage.

"I shan't mind now--however miserable I am--because I know it's all
right. An' I promise to be good, an' do all I'm told, an' always be
your own Norah."

Then she left him--the gray-haired respected Mr. Dale of Vine-Pits
Farm, sitting in his office window for all the world to see; looking
livid, shaky, old; and feeling like a Christian missionary in some
far-off heathen land, who, having preached to the gang of pirates into
whose hands he had fallen, lies now at the roadside with all his
inside torn away, and waits for birds with beaks or beasts with claws
to come and finish him.

Before the horse was put into the wagonette and the trunk brought
down-stairs, Dale had left the house and gone some distance along the
road in the direction of the Barradine Arms. Even if Norah had not
said that he need not be there at the moment of departure, he would
have been unable to remain. He could not stand by and see her piteous
face, her slender figure, her forlorn gestures, while they carried her
off--the poor little weak thing sent away from hearth and home, cast
out among strangers because any spot on the earth, however bare or
hard, had become a better shelter for her than the place that should
have been sacredly secure.

He walked heavily, with a leaden heart and leaden feet; his eyes
downcast, not glancing at the dark trees on one side or the bright
fields on, the other. But after passing the first of the woodland
paths and before coming to the second, he looked up. He had heard the
sound of many footsteps and the murmur of many voices. All those
blue-cloaked orphans, two and two, an endless procession, were
advancing toward him.

Never had the sight and the sound of them been so horribly distasteful
to him. They were still a long way off, and he thought he could dodge
them, at any rate avoid meeting them face to face, if he hurried on to
the second footpath and dived into the wood there. But then it seemed
as if he had stupidly miscalculated the distance, or that his legs
were failing him, or that the girls came sweeping down the road at an
impossibly rapid pace; so that they were right upon him just as he
reached the stile. He drew aside, and, feeling that it was too late
now to turn his back, watched them as they passed.

The mistresses must have issued a sudden order of silence, for they
all went by without so much as a whisper. There were fifty of them,
but they seemed to be thousands. Dressed in their light blue summer
cloaks, golden-haired, brown-haired, a very few black-haired, they
passed two by two, with the little ones first, and bigger and bigger
girls behind--an ascending scale of size, so that he had the illusion
of seeing a girl grow up under his eyes, change in a minute instead of
in years from the small sexless imp that is like an amusing toy, to
the full-breasted creature that is so nearly a woman as to be
dangerous to herself and to everybody else.

Not one of them spoke, but all of them, little and big, looked at
him--very shyly, and yet with intense interest. He stood staring after
them, and presently their tuneful young voices sounded again, filled
the air with virginal music. He swung his leg over the stile, and
went along the path through the trees where he had followed Norah
yesterday.

He had not intended to leave the highroad, but it was as if that dead
man's girls had driven him into the wood to get away from their shyly
questioning eyes. He might meet them again if he stayed out there. In
here he could be alone with his thoughts.

To-day there was plenty of sunlight, and instead of turning off the
path he went straight on to the main ride. This too was bright with
sunshine, a splendid broad avenue that was shut close on either side
by the thickly planted firs; the mossy track seeming soft as a bed,
and the sky like an immensely high canopy of delicate blue gauze. A
heron crossed quickly but easily, making only three flaps of its
powerful wings before it disappeared; there was an unceasing hum of
insects; and two wood-cutters came by and wished Dale good afternoon
and touched their weather-stained hats.

"Good afternoon," he said, in a friendly tone. "A bit cooler and
pleasanter to-day, isn't it?"

"You're right, sir. 'Bout time too."

Then he walked on, alone with his thoughts again, along the wide
sunlit ride toward Kibworth Rocks; and a phrase kept echoing in his
ears, sounding as if he said it aloud. "It is the finger of God. It is
the finger of God." He was quoting himself really, because he had once
used that phrase in a pompously effective manner. Could one repeat it
as effectively in regard to what happened near here yesterday? Could
one dare to say that the finger of God interposed, touching his blood
with ice, making his muscles relax, forcing him to loosen his hold on
the delicious morsel that like a beast of prey he was about to devour
and enjoy.

He walked with hunched shoulders and lowered head, but there was great
resolution, even an odd sort of swaggering defiance in his gait. He
stopped short, raised his head, and looked about him at a certain
point of the ride. Here he was very near to the open glade where he
met Norah; but he was nearer still to the strewn boulders, jagged
ridges, and hollow clefts of Kibworth Rocks. If he left the ride, he
would see them, brown and gray, glittering in the sunshine.

And he thought again of those fifty orphans or waifs. Why weren't they
here to bow and do honor to him who had been the friend of girls in
life and who was the guardian angel of girls in death? This was the
hallowed spot, the benefactor's resting-place till devout hands raised
him and priests sang over him, the rocky shrine of their patron saint.

Dale grunted, shook himself, and went off the ride in the opposite
direction--to tread the moss that had been crushed by Norah's
footsteps, to push against the branches that had touched her
shoulders, to see the dead flowers that had dropped from her hands. He
found a shriveled sprig or two of her woodland posy, and carried them
to the fallen beech tree.

She was gone now--already a long way from him--at the railway station,
with ticket bought, and box labeled, waiting for the train to take her
still farther from him. Only a heron could fly fast enough to get to
her now before the train possessed her. And he quoted himself again,
really saying the words aloud this time. "Good-by--my darling--good-by,
good-by."

That was what he meant when he gave her the last kiss. He had said so.
He had called it the last kiss. But she--poor lamb--thought it was the
last kiss till next time; that it was good-by for three weeks, not
good-by forever. He must never see her again. There could be no two
ways about _that_ decision. He mustn't palter, or trifle, or
shilly-shally about that iron certainty. But how without Heaven's
unceasing aid would he have strength to keep such a vow?

And sitting on the tree, and thinking for a little while about himself
rather than about her, he endeavored to survey his situation in the
logical clear-sighted way that had once been customary with him. To
what a blank no-thoroughfare he had brought himself. What a damnable
mess he had made of his peaceful, happy home.

Of course he had known for a long time what was the matter with him.
His disgust with himself at the revelation of his own weakness dated
from a long time ago; but the progress of his passing from perfectly
pure and normal thoughts about the girl to cravings that he struggled
with as morbid impurities was so subtle that it defied analysis. At
first when he put his hand on her head, or patted her shoulder, every
thought behind the fatherly gesture was itself fatherly; and then,
without anything to startle one by a recognition of change, the time
had come when he felt a slight thrill in touching her, when he was
always seeking occasions or excuses for doing it, when the wider the
contact the more massive was his satisfaction. Her white neck, her
round fore-arms, her thin wrists, irresistibly attracted a caress. He
could not keep his hands off her--and it distressed and worried him
whenever he saw anybody else doing quite innocently what he did with
an unavowable purpose. Perhaps this was the real cause of his dislike
for the new pastor. After Mr. Furnival's initial appearance at the
chapel, they all three walked a little way together, and the
good-looking young man paid Norah compliments about her singing, and
held her hand and patted it. Nothing could have been more innoxious,
more completely ministerial; and yet Dale had felt that he would like
to take the clerical gentleman by the collar of his black coat and the
seat of his gray trousers, and send him sprawling over a quick-set
hedge into a ploughed field.

He knew then the nature of the poison that had crept insidiously into
his blood and was beginning to spread and rage with deadly power. He
fought against it bravely, he fought against it despairingly. He hoped
that chance would cure him, he prayed that heaven would cleanse him.

He would not believe that his ruin was irretrievable. That would be
too monstrous and absurd. Because, except for this expanding trouble,
everything inside him, all the main component parts that made up the
vast and still solid thinking organism which had been labeled for
external observers by the name of William Dale, remained quite
unchanged. His religious faith stood absolutely firm, was strengthened
rather than shaken; he regarded his wife with exactly the same
affection; he loved his children as much as, more than ever; only this
astounding dreadful new thing was added to him: he worshiped Norah.

In his struggles to free himself from the new mental growth, he had
turned to his children. Instinct seemed to say that from them and
through them should come an influence sufficiently potent to resist
temptation, however tremendous. He felt so proud of the boy. Billy was
never afraid of him, looked at him so firmly even when threatened,
holding up the pink and white face, with its soft unformed features
and yet a determined set to the chin and mouth already--a real little
man. Dale took his son's hand in his, took Billy with him into the
granary, the hay loft, or across the fields, cut bits of willow and
showed how to make a whistle, took a hedge sparrow's nest and blew the
eggs; and the boy was proud and happy in such noble society, but he
could not exorcise the evil spell for his grand companion.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27