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Devil's Garden

<h2>X</h2> Mr. Barradine had not died intestate. This fact was made known at the post office in a sudden and perturbing manner by a letter to Mavis from Messrs. Cleaver, the Old Manninglea solicitors. Messrs. Cleaver informed her that the London firm who were acting in the matter of Mr. Barradine's will had instructed them to communicate with her, because certain documents—such as attested copies of her birth certificate, marriage certificate, and so on—would presently be required; and it would be convenient to Messrs. Cleaver, if she could pay them a call within the next two or three days. Mavis gave the letter to Dale when they met at breakfast, and he read it slowly and thoughtfully. "What do you suppose it means, Will?" "I suppose it means that you're one of the leg'tees." "Yes." Mavis drew in her breath. "It came into my mind that it might be that." "I don't see what else it can be." His face had become dull and expressionless, and he spoke in a heavy tone. "I may go over and see Mr. Cleaver, mayn't I?" "Yes," he said. "But I must go with you." "When can you get away? I don't think we ought to put it off." "No. There mustn't be an hour's avoidable delay. I'll take you over this afternoon." Then, without another word, he finished his breakfast and went down-stairs. Mavis was vibrating with excitement, her eyes large and bright, a spot of poppy color on each cheek; she longed to burst out into all sorts of conjectures, to discuss every possibility, but she did not dare speak to him again just then. Though the market town of Old Manninglea was only eight miles distant, the roundabout journey thither by rail offered such difficulties that Dale hired a dog-cart from the Roebuck and drove his wife across by road. Their route for the first four miles was the one they would have followed if they had been going to the Abbey, and as they bowled along behind a strong and active little horse Mavis felt again, but in an intensified degree, those sensations of well-being, of comfort, and hopefulness, that she had experienced when passing through the same scenery on the day of the funeral. All the country looked so warm and rich in its fulness of summer tints—corn ready to cut, fruit waiting to be picked, cows asking to be milked; everywhere plenty and peace; nature giving so freely, and still promising to give more. It seemed to her that as surely as there is a law under which the seasons change, sunshine follows storm, and trees after losing their leaf soon begin to bud again, so surely is it intended that states of mind should succeed one another, that after sorrow should come gladness, and that no one has the right to say "I will keep my heart like a shuttered room, and because it was dark yesterday the light shall not enter it to-day." About a mile out from Rodchurch they passed the Baptist chapel—a supremely ugly little building that stood isolated and forlorn in a narrow banked enclosure among flat pasture fields—and Mavis, making conversation, called Dale's attention to the tablet that largely advertised its date. "Eighteen thirty-seven, Will! That's a long time ago." "Yes," he said, "a many years back—that takes one. Year the Queen came to the throne." "I wonder why they built it out here—such a way from everybody—such a tramp for the worshipers." "In those days all non-conformists were a deal more down-trodden than they are now. It was before people began to understan' the meanin' o' liberty o' conscience; and, like enough, that's a bit of evidence." "How so, Will?" "Quite likely there wasn't a landlord lib'ral enough to give 'em a patch o' ground within reach o' th' village. Shoved 'em off as far as they could, to please Mr. Parson, and not contam'nate his church with the sight of an honest dissenter." He said all this sententiously and didactically, as one who enjoys speaking on historical or sociological subjects; but then a cloud seemed to descend upon him, and he relapsed into gloomy silence. After another mile they came to Vine-Pits Farm, the home of Mr. Bates the corn-merchant. It was one of the few stone houses of the district, a compact snug-looking nucleus from which an irregular wing, rather higher than the main building, advanced to the very edge of the roadway. A much smaller wing, merely an excrescence, on the other side, seemed as if it had gone as far as it could in the direction of making a quadrangle and had then given over the task to a broad low wall. The square piece of garden, though untidy and neglected, derived a great air of dignity from its stone surrounding, and importance was added to the house by the solid range of outbuildings, barns, and stables. A rick yard with haystacks so big that they showed above the tops of fruit trees and yews, three or four wagons and carts, half a dozen busy men, made the whole Bates establishment seem quite like a thriving little town all to itself. "It's a funny name, Vine-Pits," said Mavis, still making conversation. "I wonder why ever they called it that." "There was formerly a quantity of old pits 'longside the rick-bargan—same as you see forcing-pits at a market-gardener's—and the tale goes that they were orig'nally placed there for the purpose of growing grapes on the same principle as cucumbers or melons." "What a funny idea!" "'Twas a failure. Sort of a gentleman farmer had the notion he knew better than others, and tried it on year after year till he made a laughing-stock of himself. Anyhow, that's the tale. Mr. Bates has shown me the basis of the pits—built over now by the buildings you were looking at. Ah, here is the old fellow." Mr. Bates driving toward them in his gig pulled up, and invited Dale to do so also. "How are you, William?" And he took off his hat to Mrs. Dale. "Your servant, madam. Turn head about, William, and come into my place and take a bit of refreshment." "No, thank you, Mr. Bates. Not to-day. Some other time." "No time like the present. A cup of tea, Mrs. Dale. I don't care to see those I count as friends pass my place without stopping." "I know you mean what you say," said Dale cordially; "but we're for Old Manninglea—business appointment." "Then I mustn't hinder you. But look in on your way back. Your servant, madam." Mavis liked the fresh clean complexion and the silvery white hair of Mr. Bates, and there was something very pleasing in his old-fashioned mode of address, his courteous way of saluting her, and his gentle friendly smile as he spoke to her husband. "Will," she said, as they drove on, "I believe Mr. Bates is really fond of you." Dale gave a snort; and then after a long pause spoke with strong emphasis. "I'll tell you, Mavis, what Mr. Bates is. He's a good man, every bit and crumb of him. There's no one between the downs and the sea that I feel the same respect for that I do for that old gentleman." "Yes, Will, I know you've always praised him." "And since you make the remark, I'll admit its truth. I do verily believe that Mr. Bates is fond of me." Then he laughed bitterly. "I'm not aware of any one else I could say it of." "Oh, Will—there's lots are fond of you." "No—none. That was one small part of my lesson last month in London. I got that tip, straight, at the G.P.O." "Will!" They were driving now through the woods, and Mavis, glancing from time to time at her husband's face, saw that it had become fearfully somber. She guessed that this indicated an unfortunate turn of thought, and she talked incessantly in the hope of rendering such thought difficult, if not impossible. After crossing the bridge over the stream that runs serpentining through the Upper Hadleigh Wood on its way to join the Rod River, they were soon at the Abbey Cross Roads. Here, as they turned into the highroad by the Barradine Arms and the cluster of adjacent cottages, they had a splendid panoramic view of the Abbey estate rolling downward on their left in wide, sylvan beauty as far as the eye could see. From this higher ground, the park showed like an irregular pattern of lighter color on a dark green carpet, and a few of the main rides were visible here and there as truncated straight lines that began and ended capriciously; but all the houses and buildings lay hidden by the undulating woodland. Mavis turned her eyes toward the point where North Ride Cottage shyly concealed itself, and then she glanced back at Dale. He was staring straight in front, not looking to left or right, as if focusing the roadway between the horse's ears. "It's uphill now, Will, all the way, isn't it? Oh, that's a new cottage. How red the bricks are!" They had left all the trees behind them now, and, going up the slope through the last strip of fields, they soon emerged on the open heath. For a mile or two the landscape was wildly sad in aspect, just a waste of sand and heather, with naked ridges and boggy hollows, one or two wind-swept hillocks that bore a ragged crest of blackened firs, and in the farthest distance massive contours of grassy down rising as a barrier to guard the fertile valleys of another county. It was here that the riderless horse had galloped about and been hunted by the people from the cross road cottages. "You have driven well. I think it's wonderful, considering what a little practise you get.... Look, I believe that's a hawk. Must be! Nothing but a hawk could stand so still in the air. He can see something down under him, I suppose. Rabbits, perhaps. Though I don't suppose he'd strike at anything as big as a rabbit, would he?" Mavis chattered vigorously, to prevent her husband from brooding on painful things; but, even while talking, she did not obliterate her own real thoughts. Inside her there seemed to be a running chorus of unuttered words, and she listened to the inner voice even when at her busiest with the outward sounding voice. "Has he truly left me money? If so, how much?" These mute questions were perpetually repeated. "A hundred pounds? Perhaps more than that. He gave me two hundred when I married. Suppose he has left me quite a lot of money." It was not market-day, and the town therefore was not at its best and brightest. Nevertheless, the appearance of shops, pavements, and nicely dressed young ladies, had a most exhilarating effect on Mavis when, after putting up the horse and cart, Dale solemnly conducted her through the High Street to the solicitor's office in Church Place. The interview with Mr. Cleaver did not take long, although such weighty concerns were spoken of. Dale sat on a chair near the wall, his hat held between his knees, his eyes lowered; while Mavis sat on a chair close to the solicitor, talking, flushing, throbbing, gradually ascending a scale of excitement so feverishly strong that it seemed as if it must eventually consume her just as fire consumes. Mr. Barradine had left her two thousand pounds, and this sum was to be paid to her free of all duties. The will had not yet been proved, but everything was in order and probate would be granted any day now; minor legacies would then immediately be cleared off; and, since Mavis would have no difficulty in satisfying the executors as to her identity, she might really consider the money as safe in her pocket. Mr. Cleaver, having made this stimulating communication and described the formalities that she must fulfil, asked a few questions about certain of her relatives. "Ruby Millicent Petherick. That is a cousin of yours? Yes." And he jotted down a note of any facts that Mavis could supply. "Still a spinster. About your own age, and living abroad. Thank you. That is all you can tell me? There seems to be doubt as to her whereabouts. Your aunt—Mrs. John Edward Petherick—does not know her address. But she will no doubt present herself in due course." Then Mr. Cleaver indicated that he need not further detain them, and Dale, rising slowly and still looking at the crown of his hat, spoke for the first time and in a very ponderous way. "This has come as a complete surprise to my wife." "Yes," and the solicitor smiled, "but not by any means as an unpleasant surprise, Mr. Dale!" "No, sir, naturally not. My wife having been connected with the family since childhood would be naturally one to be thought of by the head of the family if wishful to benefit all old friends after he was called away." "Quite so," said Mr. Cleaver. "Will," said Mavis, "we mustn't waste Mr. Cleaver's time by telling him our history;" and she gave a nervous fluttered laugh. "Mr. Cleaver," said Dale glumly, "will pardon me for desiring to learn how others stand, as well as yourself." "Oh, well," said Mr. Cleaver, "I think it might be premature to go into matters that do not directly concern Mrs. Dale." "Yes," said Mavis, nervously, "we mustn't ask for secrets." "It's just this," said Dale, with stolid insistence. "I do hope he has done something equally handsome for those relations of my wife whose names you mentioned—especially for her aunt, Mrs. J.E. Petherick, who is now past her youth, and to whom it would be a comfort. Also my wife's cousin Ruby, who is earning her livelihood on the continent by following the profession of a musician. Such a windfall would come as a blessing to her." "Mr. Dale," said the solicitor, "I may safely say as much as this. No one who had the smallest grounds for expecting anything will find himself left out in the cold." "Thank you, sir." Dale had raised his eyes, and, while speaking now, in the same sententious manner, he seemed to be observing Mr. Cleaver's face very closely. "The fact is, my wife and I had no grounds whatever for expecting to be singled out for special rewards. On the contrary, it was never in my wife's power to render the long and faithful service rendered by the others; so that if a bequest had fallen to us while others of the Petherick clan—if I may employ that expression—had bin passed over, it might have bin difficult for us to benefit to the detriment of the rest of 'em—at least, without causing fam'ly squabbles." "Then I'll freely reassure you. Such a contingency will not arise. No," and Mr. Cleaver's tone became heartily enthusiastic. "It is a beautiful will. You'll see all the particulars in the newspapers before a week is over, and you'll say that no critic—however hard to please—could find fault. It is a will that is bound to attract the attention of the press." "Then thank you again, sir. And good afternoon—with renewed thanks for the courteous way you wrote to my wife, and received the two of us to-day." "Good afternoon." Mr. Cleaver smiled and shook hands good-humoredly. "My congratulations, Mrs. Dale; and one word of advice, free gratis. Invest your legacy wisely, and don't confound capital with income. You're going to have two thousand pounds all told, not two thousand a year, you know." "Oh, no, sir—I wouldn't be so foolish as to think so." They had tea at a pastry-cook's in complete silence, and they were half-way home again before Mavis ventured to rouse her husband from his ominous gloom. "Will," she said, with an assumption of calmness and confidence, "I didn't at once catch the drift of what you were saying to Mr. Cleaver, and when I tried to stop you it was because I was all on edge from hearing such a tremendous piece of news. Such a lot more than ever I could have dreamed of." He did not answer. Steadily watching the horse's ears, and holding the reins in both hands with the conscientious care of an unpractised coachman, he drove down the slope to the Cross Roads and round the corner into the woods. "No, but I soon saw what was passing through your mind, Will. You wanted to make quite sure that there would be nothing to cause talk. I don't myself believe people would have really noticed if I had been the only one. But, of course, as I am one of several, it stands to reason nobody can say anything nasty." Still he did not answer. "Will, you'll let me take the money, won't you?" "I don't know. I must think." "Yes, dear, but you'll think sensibly, won't you? Think of the use—to both of us. If it's mine in name, I count it all as yours every bit as much as mine." "That's enough now. Don't go on talking about it." "All right. Are you going to stop at Mr. Bates'?" "No." "He was very pressing." "I've no spirit to tell him—or any one else—what we've heard over there." "Will," and she drew close to him, nestling against him as much as she could venture to do without causing him difficulty in driving, "you said we were to look forward, not back. Don't get thinking of the past. What's done is done—and it must be right to be happy if we can." "Ah," and he gave a snort, "that's what the heathens used to say. I thought you were a Christian." "So I am, Will. Christ preached mercy—yes, and happiness too." "Thought He preached remorse for sins before you reach pardon and peace. But never mind religion—don't let's drag that in. And leave me alone. Don't talk. I tell you I want to think." "Very well, dear. Only this one thing. Keep this before you. Now that he's dead—" "I've asked you to hold your tongue." "And I will. But let me finish. However lofty you choose to look at it, it can't be wrong to take the money now he's gone." "I wish his money had gone with him. Look at it lofty or low—take it or leave it—this cursed legacy reminds me of all I was trying to forget." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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