The Devil's Garden. W. B. Maxwell

gratitude.

      "My interest," said Mr. Barradine, "is simply public spirit; although it is quite true that I know Mr. Dale personally. Indeed, he and his wife have been friends with me and my family for more years than I care to count."

      Dale caught his breath and coughed. He was almost overwhelmed by the noble turn of that last phrase. Friends! Nothing more, and nothing less. Not patron and dependents, but friends.

      "And, of course," Mr. Barradine was saying, "I want my friend to come out of it all right—as I honestly believe he deserves to come out of it."

      Dale felt himself on the verge of breaking down and sobbing. His strength had gone long ago, and now all his courage went too. With his gratitude there mingled a cowardly joy that he had not been left to fight things out alone and be beaten, that succor had come at the supreme moment. Ardently admiring as well as fervently thanking, he watched the friend in need, the splendid ally, the only agent of Providence that could have saved him.

      Who would not admire such a prince?

      He was old and big, and though rather frail, yet so magnificently grand. His costume was of the plainest character—black satin neck-scarf tied negligently, with a pearl pin stuck through it anyhow, a queer sort of black pea-jacket with braid on its edges, square-toed patent-leather boots with white spats—and, nevertheless, he seemed to be dressed as sumptuously as if he had been wearing all the gold and glitter of his Privy Councilor's uniform. His face seemed to Dale like the mask of a Roman emperor—a high-bridged delicate nose, thin gray hair combed back from a low forehead, a ridge like a straight bar above the tired eyes and a puffiness of flesh below them, a moustache that showed the lose curves of the mouth, and a small pointed beard that perhaps concealed an unbeautiful protrusion of the chin. His voice, so calm, so evenly modulated, had been trained in the senate and the palace. His attitude, his manner, his freedom from gesture and emphasis, all indicated a born ruler as well as a born aristocrat. Was it likely that when he spoke he would fail?

      Already he had swung the balance. Dale could see that he would not be resisted. And as the great man sat talking—chatting, one might almost term it—he seemed to be taking out of the atmosphere every element of discomfort, all the passionate excitement, the hot throbs of indignation, the cold tremors of fear. Dale felt his muscles recovering tone, his legs stiffening themselves, his blood circulating richly and freely.

      "You have here," said Mr. Barradine, "a man of unblemished reputation, who, acting obviously from conscientious motives, has in the exercise of his judgment done so and so. Now, admitting for the sake of argument, that he has done wrong, are you to punish him for an error of judgment? We do not, however, admit that it was an error." …

      Dale looked dogged and stern. He had been on the point of saying, "I never will admit it;" but the words would not come out. He must not interrupt. This was Heaven-sent advocacy.

      Mr. Barradine went on quietly and grandly. In truth what he said now was almost what had been said by the authorities at Rodhaven—good intentions, over-zeal, a mistake, if you care to call it so;—but from these lips it fell on Dale's ear as soothing music. Mr. Barradine might say whatever he pleased: and the man he was defending would not object.

      "And now if I show the edge of the little private ax that I myself have to grind!" Mr. Barradine laughed. They all laughed. "Our member—we agree in politics; but, well, you know, he and I do not altogether hit it off. We are both of us getting older than we were—and perhaps we both suffer from swollen head. It's the prevailing malady of the period."

      Sir John laughed gaily. "I don't think you show any marked symptoms of it. But I can't answer for what's-his-name."

      "Well;" and Mr. Barradine made his first gesture—just a wave of the right hand. "One can't have two kings at Brentford. And honestly I shall feel that you have given me a smack in the face, if—"

      "Oh, my dear sir!"

      Then they sent Dale out of the room. Really it seemed that they had forgotten his presence, or they might have banished him before. It was the Colonel who suddenly appeared to remember that he was still standing over there by the window.

      He waited in a large empty room, and the time passed slowly. It was the luncheon hour, and far and near he heard the footsteps of clerks going to and coming from the midday meal. Bigwigs no doubt would take their luncheon privately, in small groups, here and there, all over the building. He too was getting very hungry.

      An hour passed, an hour and a half, two hours; and then he was again summoned to the other room. There was no one in it except the secretary—looking hot and red after a copious repast, speaking jovially and familiarly, and seeming altogether more common and less important than when under the restraining influence of bigwigs.

      "Ah, here you are." And he chuckled amicably, and gave Dale a roguish nod. "You've had your wires pulled A1 for you. It's decided to stretch a point in your favor. Not to make a secret, they don't wish to run counter to Mr. B.'s wishes. You have been lucky, Mr. Dale, in having him behind you."

      Dale gulped, but did not say anything.

      "Very well. I am to inform you that you will be reinstated; but—in order to allow the talk to blow over—you will not resume your duties for a fortnight. You will take a fortnight's holiday—from now—on full pay."

      Dale said nothing. He could have said so much. At this moment he felt that his victory had been intrinsically a defeat. But the strength had gone from him; and in its place there was only joy—weak but immense joy in the knowledge that all had ended happily. And the world would say that he had won.

V

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      Outside in the streets his joy increased. Nothing had mattered. Beneath all surface sensations there was the deep fundamental rapture: as of a wild animal that has been caught, and is now loose and free—a squirrel that has escaped from the trap, and, whisking and bounding through sunlight and shadow, understands that its four paws are still under it, and that only a little of its fur is left in those iron teeth. Security after peril—articulate man or dumb brute, can one taste a fuller bliss?

      But he must share and impart it. Mavis! He might not go dashing back to Hampshire—the fortnight's exile prevented him from joining her there. A broad grin spread across his face. What was that learned saying that his old schoolmaster, Mr. Fenley, used to be so fond of repeating? "If Mahomet can not go to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mahomet."

      The memory of this classical quotation tickled him, and he went chuckling into the Cannon Street post office and wrote out a telegraph-form.

      "Reinstatement. Come at once. Shall expect you this evening without fail."

      Having sent off the telegram, he presently ordered his dinner in the grill-room of a Ludgate Hill restaurant.

      "Yes, let's see your notion of a well-cooked rumpsteak. And I'll try some of the famous lager beer. … Oh, bottle or draught's all one to me;" and he snapped his fingers and laughed. "Now, sharp's the word, Mister waiter. I'm fairly famished."

      The lager beer, served in a glass vase, was delicious—sunbeams distilled to make a frothing and unheady nectar. The grilled steak and the fried potatoes could not have been better done at the Buckingham Palace kitchens. Never for three weeks had food tasted like this. All had been dust and ashes in his mouth since the row began.

      Then with appetite satisfied and digestion beginning, he smoked.

      "If you've anything in the shape of a really good threepenny cigar, I can do with it. But don't fob me off with any poor trash. For I've my pipe in my pocket."

      The waiter said he had a truly splendid threepenny; and Dale, enjoying it, talked to the waiter. He could not help talking; he could not help laughing. After so much silence it was a treat to hear the sound of his own loud, jolly voice, and he gave himself the treat freely.

      "You're