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Devil's Garden

<h2>VII</h2> They took a cab to drive back in, and he almost carried her up to their bedroom. It was on the same floor as the other room, with the same marvelous bird's-eye view of the starlit sky and the lamplit town. He had got her to himself at last—here, high above the world, half-way to heaven. There seemed to him something poetical, almost sublime in their situation: they two alone, isolated, millions of people surrounding them and no living creature able to interfere with them. As he knew, they were the only lodgers on this top floor; and so one need not even trouble to avoid making a noise. He gave full voice to his exultation. "There, old lady." He had opened the window as wide as it would go, and he told her to look out. "The air—what there is of it—will do you good." "Oh, I couldn't," and she recoiled. "Giddy?" "Giddy isn't the word. Oh, Will, why did you let me drink that stuff—after drinking the wine?" "I thought you'd got a better head-piece. Look at me. I could 'a' stood two or three more goes at it, and bin none the worse." And he chaffed her merrily. "Here's a tale—if it ever leaks out Rodchurch way. Have you heard how Mrs. Dale behaved up in London? Went to the theater, and drunk more'n was good for her. Came out fair squiffy—so's poor Mr. Dale, he felt quite disgraced." She was not intoxicated in an ugly way; her speech, her movements were unaffected, and yet the alcohol was troubling her brain. She looked like a child who has been overexercised at a children's party, and who comes home with eyebrows raised, eyes glowing and yet dull, and cheeks very pale. "Oh, dear, I am tired," and she sat down on a chair by the chest of drawers, and slowly took off her hat. But she got up again and pushed Dale away, when he offered to help her in undressing. "No, certainly not. What are you thinking of?" and she began to hum one of the pretty airs they had heard at the theater. "But, my word, Will," and she stopped humming, and laughed foolishly, "I shan't be sorry to get out of my things. It is hot. This is the hottest night we've had." "Ah, you feel it. I've got acclim'tized." He undressed rapidly, and lighting the briar pipe which he had not cared to smoke in the genteel society at the theater, he lay on the outside of the bed. "Better now, old girl?" "Yes. I'm all right, Will. Dear old boy—I'm all right." Lying on the bed and immensely enjoying his delayed pipe, he watched her. She wandered about the room, moved one of the two candles from the mantel-shelf to the chest of drawers, put her blouse on the seat of a chair and her skirt across the back of it. Then with slow graceful movements she began to uncoil her hair, and as her smooth white arms went up and down, the candlelight sent gigantic wavering shadows across the wall-paper to the ceiling. Beneath one of her elbows he could see right out through the open window into a dark void. From his position on the bed nothing was visible out there, but he could fill it if he cared to do so—the scattered dust of street lamps below and the scattered dust of solar systems above. Soon he puffed lazily, drowsily; then he nodded, and then the pipe fell from his mouth. "Hullo!" And muttering, he roused himself. "I must 'a' dropped off. Might 'a' set the bed on fire." Mavis, in her chemise and stockings now, with her hair down, was still at the dressing-table. She did not turn when he spoke to her. While he dozed she had fetched the other candle, and in the double light she was staring intently at the reflection of her face in the looking-glass. Dale slipped softly off the bed, moved across to the dressing-table, and with explosive vigor clasped her in his arms. "Oh, how you frightened me!" She had given a little squeal, and she tried to release herself. "Let me go—please." "Rot!" And he lifted her from the ground, and carried her across to the bed. "Will—let me go. I—I'm tired;" and she began to cry. "Be kind to me, Will." The words came in feeble entreaty, between weak sobs. "Be kind to me—my husband—not only now—but always." She sobbed and shivered; and he, holding her in his arms, soothed her with gentle murmurs. "My pretty Mav! My poor little bird. Go to sleepy-by, then. Tuck her up, and send her to sleep, a dear little Mav." At the touch of her coldly trembling limbs, at the sight of her tears, all the sensual desire lessened its throb, and the purer side of his love began to subjugate him. That was the greatest of her powers—to tame the beast in him, to lift him from the depths to the heights, to make him feel as though he was her father instead of her lover, because she herself was pure and good as a child. "There—there, don't cry, my pretty Mav." And she, melting beneath the gentleness and tenderness of his caresses, wept in pity of herself. "Yes, I'm tired—dead-tired." And the tears flowed unchecked, blotting out emotion, reason, instinct, swamping her in floods of self-pity. "Let me sleep—and let me forget. Oh, let me forget what I've gone through these last two days." "Anyways, it's over now." "Yes, it's over. Oh, thank God in Heaven, it's over and done with." "Just so." And there was a change in the tone of his voice that she might have noticed, but did not. "Just so—but you're talking rather strange, come to think of it." His arms slowly relaxed, and he let her slide out of his embrace. She sank down wearily upon the pillow, closed her eyes, and for a little while went on talking drowsily and inconsecutively. "Shut up," he said suddenly. "Hold your tongue. I'm thinking." Then almost immediately he turned, and, with his hands upon her shoulders, looked down into her face. "Why didn't you go to church yesterday?" "What did you say, Will?" "I said, why didn't you go to church yesterday?" "Oh—I really didn't care to go." "That wasn't like you—you so fond of the Abbey Church. Did your Aunt go?" "Yes." "You said this afternoon she didn't go." "She did go. I remember now." "Ah! Another thing! That actor-feller—what d'yer call 'im—him that you counted on and didn't find—Chugwun!" "Yes." "You see the name in the paper?" "Yes." "You didn't aarpen t'see it on the boards outside the theater?" "No." She was wide awake and quite sober now. But her limbs were trembling again, and her eyes seemed preposterously large as they stared up at him from the white face. "Will!" And she spoke fast and piteously; "don't look at me like this. What's come to you? Why do you ask me such a pack of questions?" And she tried to laugh. "At such a time of night!" "Bide a bit, my lass. I'm just thinking." Where had the thoughts come from?—out of blank space?—from nowhere? Yet here they were, filling his head, multiplying, expanding, making his blood rattle like boiling water in a tube as it rushed up to nourish their monstrous growth. "Will, let go my shoulders. You hurt. Get into the bed—and be sensible. I'll answer all questions in the morning." "No, I think I'll have the answers now." He went on questioning her, and his hands growing heavier crushed her shoulders so that she thought he would break the bones and joints. "What train did you come up by this morning?" "The nine o'clock." "What! D'you mean you went right across from North Ride to Rodchurch Road?" "Oh, no. I caught it at Manninglea Cross." "Did you, then? An' s'pose I was to tell you the nine o'clock don't stop at Manninglea Cross!" "Will! Loosen your hands. It does stop—it did stop there this morning." "Yes, it did stop—and so it does all mornings. But a fat lot you know about it. And for why? You weren't in it." "I was—I really was. Will—don't go on so cruel." "Oh, but I am going on." He had lowered his face close to hers, and his hot breath beat upon her cold cheeks. "Now, give me the explanation of what you let slip about going through so much these last two days. What was the precise sense o' that?" "I only meant I've been so anxious." "Yes, but yer bin anxious best part o' four weeks. What was the mighty difference in yesterday or day before?" "I didn't mean any difference. I scarce knew what I was saying—or what I'm saying now." "Oh! Just a remark let fall without a scrap o' sense in it!" Staring up at him, it was as if she saw the face of a stranger. His eyes were half closed and glittering fiercely; his lips protruded as if grotesquely pouting to express scorn, and on each side of the distended nostrils a deep vertical wrinkle showed like the blackened gash of a knife wound. "Will, dear, I meant nothing at all." "You're lying." Abruptly he took his hands from her shoulders, got off the bed, and went to the chest of drawers. Her handbag was on the drawers; and when she saw him pick it up she sprang after him, clutching at his hands and imploring. "You'll find nothing there. Nothing that I can't explain;" and she made a desperate gurgling laugh. "Why, Will, old man, it is you that's drunk, yourself, after chaffing me? No, you shan't. No, Will, you shan't." He gave her a back-hander that sent her reeling. It was the first time he had struck her, and he delivered the blow quite automatically, the thought that she was preventing him from opening the bag and the action that got rid of her interference being all one process. His hand had remained open, but he swung it with unhesitating force; and now, as he plunged it into the bag, he saw that there was blood on it. Before he had extracted all the contents of the bag she was back again, once more clinging, clutching, and impeding. He did not strike her again—merely shook her off so violently that she fell to the floor, where she lay for a moment. In the inner pockets of the bag there were three five-pound notes, together with a tooth-brush and several small articles wrapped up in paper. These he laid on one side, while he carefully examined all the odds and ends that had been packed loose in the bag. Three or four pocket-handkerchiefs, a new piece of scented soap, a pair of nail-scissors—as he looked at each innocent article, he gave a snort. She had come back, but she had not risen from the ground; while he slowly pursued his investigations she kept quite still, crouching close to his legs, silently waiting. She could not see what he was doing, but presently she knew that he had begun to unfold the paper from the things she had hidden in the pocket. "Ah," and he snorted. One of the bits of paper held hairpins; another a side-comb; and another, a bit of trebly folded paper, proved to be an envelope—the envelope of one of the letters that he had sent to her at North Ride Cottage. He looked at the postmark. The postmark told him that the envelope belonged to a letter he had written four days ago. Then he found what she had put in the envelope before she folded it. It was the return half of a railway ticket, from London to Rodchurch Road—he turned it in his fingers and examined the date on the back of it. "Last Friday, my lady. Not to-day by any means—and not Manninglea Cross. Issued at Rodchurch Road o' Friday last—the day you come up to London." "Yes, Will, I won't pretend any more." She had put her arms round his legs and lifted herself to a kneeling position. "I did come Friday. But don't be angry with me. Don't fly out at me, and I—I'll explain everything." "May I make so bold 's t'a' ask why you come, without my permission begged for nor given?" His voice was terrible to hear, so deep and yet so harsh, and vibrating with such implacable wrath. "Will, I did it for your sake. I thought if I asked permission, you'd say no. So I dared to do it myself—feeling certain as life that you were done for if no help came—and I thought it was my duty to bring you the help if I could." "Go on. I'm listening, an' I'm thinking all the time." "I thought—Auntie thought so too—she advised it—that Mr. Barradine knowing me so long, ever since I was a girl, if I went direct to him—" "Ah!" And he made a loud guttural noise, as if on the point of choking. "Ah—so's I supposed. Then I got a bull's-eye with my first thought to-night. So you went to him. Where?" "At his house." "Yes, right into his house. By yourself?" "Yes." "You didn't think to bring your aunt with you. Two was to be comp'ny at Mr. Barradine's. So in you go—alone—without my leave—behind my back." "Will—remember yourself, my dear one. You won't blame, you can't blame me. But for him, you were done for. All could see it, except you. I asked for his help, and I got it." "But your next move! We're talking about Friday, aren't we? Well, after you'd bin to Mr. Barradine, what next?" "Then I hoped he'd help us." "Yes, but Friday, Saturday, Sunday? Had yer forgotten my address—or didn' 'aarpen to remember that I was in London, too?" "I was afraid of your being angry. I thought I'd better wait." "Where?" She looked up at him, but did not answer. "You've played me false. You've sold yourself to that fornicating old devil. You—" And with a roar he burst into imprecations, blasphemies and obscenities. It was the string of foul words that, under a sufficient impetus, infallibly comes rolling from the peasant's tongue—an explosion as natural as when a thunderbolt scatters a muck-heap at the roadside. Then, snarling and growling like an animal, he stooped and cuffed her. "Will!" "Will!" She repeated his name between the blows. She did not utter a word of complaint, or make an effort to escape. Brave and unflinching, though almost stunned, she raised her white blood-stained face for him to strike again each time that he buffed it from him. "Will!" "Will!" But her courage and submissiveness were driving him mad, had changed suspicion to certainty. Only guilt could make her take her punishment this way. Nevertheless she must confess the guilt herself. Even in his fury, he remembered to hold his hand open and not clench it—like a cruelly strong animal, tormenting its prey before killing, careful to keep it alive. "Answer me. Go on with your tale." "Then stop beating me, and I'll tell you." He stayed his hand, poised it, and she seized it and clung to it. "Will—as God sees me—I did it for your sake—only to help you. I couldn't get the help unless I sacrificed myself to save you." Wrenching his hand away he knocked her to the ground, and she lay face downward. But this blow was nothing, purely automatic, like his first blow, not bringing with it that faint sense of something refreshing, the momentary appeasement of his agony. For in truth the torture that he himself suffered was almost unendurable. Yet up to now his pain, though so tremendous, was unlocalized; it came from a fusion of all his thoughts, and perhaps each separate thought, when it became clear, would bring more pain than all the thoughts together. The world had tumbled about his ears; his glorious life had shriveled to nothing; his pride was gone, his love was gone, his trust in man and his belief in man's creator; and for a few moments one thought grew a little clearer than the rest. The end of all this must be death—nothing less. He was really dead already, and he would not pretend to go on living. He would finish her, and then finish himself. Turning his head, he looked at the window; and the open space out there seemed to whisper to him, to beg to him, and to command him. Yes, that way would be as good as another—strangle her, pitch her out, and jump out after her. "Will!" She had once more scrambled to her knees. "I've loved you faithfully. I've never loved any one but you." He did not hit her. Grasping the arm that she was stretching toward him, he dragged her upward, seized her round the body, and carried her to the bed. "Now we'll go to work, you and I." He had thrown her down on her back, and he held her with both his hands about her throat. "Now"—and the sudden pressure of his hands made her gasp and cough—"we'll begin at the beginning." "Do you mean to murder me?" "Prob'ly. But not till I've 'ad the truth—and I'll 'aarve it to the last word, if I tear it out o' yer boosum." "You'll kill me if I tell you." "See that winder! That's yer road—head first—if you try to lie to me." Then she told him the whole sickening story of her relations with Mr. Barradine. He had debauched her innocence when she was quite a young girl; she had continued to be one of his many mistresses for several years; then he grew tired of her, and, his attentions gradually ceasing, he had left her quite free to do what she pleased. She had never liked him, had always feared him. The long intermittent thraldom to his power had been an abomination to her, and it was martyrdom to return to him. "Only to save you, Will. And he wouldn't help unless I done it. It was as much a sacrifice for you as if I'd been hung, drawn, and quartered for your sake." "And why did you sacrifice yourself in the beginning, before ever you'd seen my face?" "Auntie made me. It was Auntie's fault, not mine. I told her I was afraid of him." "Your aunt had been that gait with him herself, in her time?" "Oh, I don't know." "Yes, I twigged that—and then the mealy-mouthed, filthy hag came over me. I on'y guessed, but you knew. Answer me;" and his grip tightened on her throat, and he shook her. "Answer." "Oh, I suppose so." "And that cousin—the one he paid for in foreign parts?" "I suppose so." "Those rooms at the Cottage. They were furnished and set out for you and him to take your pleasure." "He used them for other women—once or twice." "What other women?" "Girls from London." As he questioned her and listened to her answers his passion took a rhythm, upward and downward, from blind wrath to black sorrow; and it seemed that the points reached by the rising curves were becoming less high, while the descending curves went lower and lower, through sorrow into shame, and still down, to fathomless depths of despair. He had heard all that it was necessary to hear. His life that he had thought marvelous and splendid was ridiculous and pitiful; what he had fancied to be success was failure; all that he had been proud of as being gained by his own merit had been brought to him by his wife's disgrace. What more could he learn? Yet he went on questioning her. She swore that she had loved him, that she had quite done with the other when she married him, had been true to him in thought and deed ever since their marriage. But she had been tempted two or three times, through her aunt. Mr. Barradine had desired that she should understand with what affection he always regarded her, and he invited her to meet him; and it was the knowledge that he had come to covet her again that made her sure she could get him to do anything for her. At the same time the knowledge terrified her; and when Dale's trouble began, and things with him seemed to be going from bad to worse, she felt as if a sort of waking nightmare was drawing nearer and nearer. She wrote to Mr. Barradine, simply asking him to exert this influence on behalf of her husband; and the reply—the letter that she tore up—was in these words: "I will do what I can; but why don't you come and ask me yourself?" Of course she knew what that meant. It was at the railway station, when bidding Dale good-by, that she made up her mind to save him at all costs. When he refused to act on Ridgett's advice, when he showed himself so firm, so unyielding, she knew that he was a man going to his doom, unless she could avert the doom. "And, Will—believe it or not—no woman ever loved a husband truer than I loved you at that moment. To see you there so brave and strong and good—and yet certain sure to ruin yourself! Well, I couldn't bear it. And if it was to do again, I'd do it." Slowly he withdrew his hands from her throat, and clasped them together with all his strength. Turning for a moment, he glanced at the open window. The space seemed to have contracted and darkened, so that it looked black and small as a square grave cut out for a child. But if not by the window, what other end to it all would he find? He could not go on like this—with a to-morrow and a day after, and weeks and months to follow. He turned, and in speaking to her, unconsciously used her name. "Could you think, Mavis, I cared for my job better'n my honor?" "I thought you'd never know. And I loved you, Will—only you—no one else." He scarcely seemed to listen to the answer. He turned from her again; and went on talking, as if to himself or the far-off stars, or the invisible powers that mold men's destinies. "'Aardn't I my fingers and brains—to work for you? Would I care—so's you could be what I thought you were—whether I broke my back or burst my heart in working for you? Besides, t'wouldn't 'a' bin that. What was it but the loss of the office—a step back that I'd soon 'a' recovered." He groaned; then suddenly he unclasped his hands and brandished them. The rhythmic beat of his rage came strong and high, and with savage energy he seized her again. "It's half lies still. The money? How does that match? He gave it to you. Deny it if you dare." "Yes, I tried not to take it. He forced it on me." "Lies! It was the bit for yourself when you drove your bargain—nothing to do with me—you—you. The price of your two or three nights of love." "No, I swear. He forced the money as a present. The price he paid was his help to you. As God hears me, that's the truth." Then, answering more and more questions, she resumed her story. After Dale's departure she went over to North Ride, thinking that Mr. Barradine was at the Abbey, and that he would come to her at the Cottage. She sent a letter inviting him to do so. There was no answer for four days. Then Mr. Barradine wrote to her from London; and she went up on Friday afternoon, and saw him at Grosvenor Place. "He said he'd engaged rooms for me at an hotel, and I was to go there; and I went there." "What hotel?" "The Sunderland Hotel—Alderney Street." "Go on." "I waited in the rooms." "Rooms! You mean one room, you slut!" "No, there were four rooms—a grand suite." "Go on." "He said he would come to me next day, or Sunday at latest. And he didn't come on Saturday—I stopped indoors all day, afraid to go out for fear of meeting you—and he didn't come till Sunday, after lunch." "Ah! How long did he stay?" "Till early this morning. Will, let me be—I'm done. You're throttling me." "Go on. I'll 'aarve it all out of you. Begin at the beginning. It's Sunday afternoon we're talking of—ever since lunch time. There's a many hours to amuse yourselves." "After dinner he made me dress up." "What d'you mean?" "He had brought things in his luggage—fancy dress." "What dresses?" "Oh, boy's things—things he'd bought in Turkey, on his travels. He made me act that I was his page—and bring the coffee, and sit cross-legged on the ground." "Go on." "No—what's the use?" She was crying now. "Oh, God have mercy, what's the use?" "Go on." "No. Kill me, if you want to, and be done with it. I don't care—I'm tired out. What I've gone through was worse than death. I'm not afraid of dying." She would tell him no more; she defied him; and yet he did not kill her. She lay weeping, moaning, at intervals, repeating that desolate phrase, "What's the use? Oh, what's the use?" Irremediable loss—it sounded in her voice, it crept coldly in his burning veins, it came spreading, flooding, filling the whole earth in the first faint glimmer of dawn. He sat on the edge of the bed, let his hands fall heavy and inert between his knees, and for a long time did not change his attitude. Just now, looking down at her, he had felt a sickness of loathing. He hated her for the musical note of her voice, the tragic eloquence of her eyes, and above all he hated her for her nakedness. The almost nude sprawling form seemed to symbolize the unspeakable shame of his sex. This was the disgusting female, round and smooth, white and weak, with tumbling hair and lying lips, the lewd parasite that can drag the noble male down into hell-fire. Now he looked at her with comparative indifference, and felt even pity for the broken and soiled thing that he had believed to be clean and sound. The fusion of his thoughts was over. One thought had split away from all the rest, and every moment was becoming more definite, more logical, more full of excruciating pain. He thought now only of his enemy, of the human fiend who had destroyed Mavis and himself. At least she had been innocent once. She was clean and good—really and truly the candid child that she had never ceased to seem to be—when that sliming, crawling reptile first got his coils about her. As he thought of the maddening reality, his imagination made pictures that printed themselves, deep and indelible, on the soft recording surfaces of his brain. Henceforth, so long as blood pumped, nerves worked, and cells and fibers held to their shape, he would see these pictures—must see them each time that chance stirred his memory of the facts for which they stood as emblems. And with his rage against the man came more and more detestation of the crime itself. At the very beginning it had no possible excuse in honest love. There was nothing belonging to it of nature's grand instinct. It had not the inexorable brutality of primitive passion. Here was an old, or an elderly man, not driven by the force of normal, full-blooded desire, but craftily plotting, treacherously abusing his power, because he was rotten with impure whims—befouling youth and innocence just to obtain a few faint voluptuous thrills. Then the brain-pictures flashed out with torturing clearness, and Dale saw the criminal renewing the outrage after long years. He was quite old, shaky, infirm, and yet strong enough to consummate the final act of his infinite wickedness. And Dale saw those yellow-white hands, with their nauseating blotches, their glistening blue knobs, and their jeweled rings, as they took possession again of the victim to whom they had once given freedom. Daylight was coming fast; the flame of the candles had turned so pale that one could scarcely see it. Dale got off the bed heavily and clumsily, blew out one of the candles and carried the other to the fireplace. There he lighted the corners of the three bank-notes and watched them burning in the empty grate till nothing was left of them but black and gray powder. Then he put on his hat and moved to the door. "What are you going to do?" "I don't know." Blindly raging, he passed through the silent, deserted streets, and presently blundered into Regent's Park. It was all exquisitely pretty in the pure morning light, with dew-wet grass, feathery branches of trees, and the water of a river or lake flashing and sparkling; and as he stared stupidly about him, he thought for a moment that he was experiencing an illusion of the senses. Or was he a boy again safe in his forest? This sort of thing belonged to the happy past, and could have no proper place in the abominable present. He crossed a low rail, walked on a little way toward the water, and then threw himself face downward on the grass. He knew where he was now—in the present time, in a public pleasure-ground. London stretched about the park, and beyond that there was the vast round globe; beyond that again there was the universe; and it seemed to him that, big as it all was, it was not big enough to hold one other man and himself. When, four or five hours later, he came back to the lodging-house he found his wife dressed and sitting by the bedroom table. She had contrived to wash away nearly all the marks of violence: one noticed only the swollen aspect of the whole face, an inflamed eyebrow, and a cut lip. She looked up meekly and fondly as a thrashed dog. "Will, have you decided what you will do?" "No." Then, while getting together his things and beginning to pack, he told her that he would take his fortnight's leave, as arranged, and carefully consider matters. "And then, at the end of the fortnight, if I'm above ground by that time, I'll let you know what I've decided." But, on hearing this, she flopped from the chair to her knees, and clung round him just as she had clung when he was first questioning her. "Will, don't be mad and wicked, and go and take your life." "Why not? D'you think there's vaarlue in it to me now?" He spoke quite quietly, but he looked gray, haggard, terrible, his clothes all stained and dirty from his open-air bed. "Will, for mercy's sake—" He shook her off, and began to count his money. "I must keep this," he said. "I'll pay it back later to the right quarter—along with the equivalent of what I burnt." When he had finished packing he told her that he would settle with the lodging-house keeper, and he gave her a few shillings. "That's enough to get you home with." Then he picked up his bag and went out. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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