CHAPTER XIII
Cruikshankhas looked up over the hedge of his garden and, for one moment, found the bitterness of the world. I have no doubt there is this hedge in every philosophy, over which it is dangerous to peep—a curtain which it is unwise to pull aside. Then it becomes a question, not of philosophy, but of courage; a question not of mind, but of spirit.
Such moments as these are bound to come; and, as it has been said of love and of hunger, so well may it be said of this—when Fear comes in at the door, then out of the window flies philosophy.
Notwithstanding all his quiet and retiring habits as a gardener, I should ever have declared that Cruikshank was a man of spirit. But I did not know he had so brave a heart within him as by misadventure he has shown to me now.
The other afternoon between lunch and tea, I lay asleep on a little square of grass shut in by fuchsia hedges and surrounded by dwarf rose trees. In the middle of the grass there stands a sundial. I have found this spot for myself, for though it is in his garden, Cruikshank would never have shown it to me. When I told him about my discovery he said:
"Yes—I know—it's quite nice, but it has a feeling of sadness about it for us."
"Sadness!" I exclaimed. "Why, it's almost the sunniest spot in the garden."
He nodded his head. "Yes—yes," said he, "I know all that, but a little dog we had is buried there—a small little chap that belonged to Bellwattle. He was nothing of a prize dog—in fact, I don't think he had any breeding at all. He was just one of Nature's dogs—Nature's gentlemen. I think that could be said of him. I found him being beaten by a tinker in the village and I brought him home. He took to Bellwattle like a duck to the water. You can imagine how she took to him. Of course, as I say, he was not a prize dog, but his manners were of the best. Though he followed Bellwattle everywhere, he would never forget to thank me every day of his life for that little business with the tinker. His method of gratitude was quite original. He put his two paws up, scratching at me till he got my two hands to hold them, then he'd look straight into my eyes for nearly two minutes. I don't imagine I should have been surprised if one day he had actually said—'Much obliged.' I am a firm believer in the story of Balaam's ass."
"When did he die?" I asked.
"Only a few months ago. He was quite young. A motor-car killed him in the village. He was afraid of motor-cars. I fancy that when the tinkers had him they used to set him on to rush at cars in the hope that one day he might be killed and they could get compensation. They're not fond of animals in Catholic countries. Anyhow he seemed to be paralyzed with fright in the middle of the street just where it turns out of the village on the road to Youghal. The car came round the corner, and had I not held her, Bellwattle would have been under the wheels of it. I just got my arm round her waist in time. She struggled like the very devil with me. But there was no saving him. I could see that. It was all over in a minute. The car stopped further on—the people got out. My heavens! You should have heard Bellwattle's language! Instead of becoming incoherent, she poured out the vials of her wrath, never waiting for a word, using them all wrong, no matter how they came, but letting those wretches know just what she thought of them. Imagine Mrs. Malaprop gone mad with rage. It was something like that."
Indeed I could easily picture it. I know what she must have suffered too.
"And I suppose he's buried under the sundial? I can understand you don't care to go there. I'd often wondered, with her affection for Dandy, why she hadn't a dog of her own. I'm glad I never asked her."
The next time I got an opportunity, unobserved, I went back to this little corner of the garden. On the base of the sundial, where I had not noticed it before, there had been engraved the name of this little gentleman of Nature—Tinker they had called him—and there the sun above him beats out its hours upon the little dial of brass—the shadow of the gnome turns round, travelling upon the eternal circle of its journey. A sundial is a noble gravestone. I think I have seldom come across more truly consecrated ground than that in which Tinker is buried.
And it was there, stretched out upon that little strip of grass, that I lay and slept the other afternoon. Bellwattle's voice it was that wakened me.
She was talking to Cruikshank on the other side of the fuchsia hedge. A garden seat is there under the nut trees, where once or twice in the warm days we have had our tea.
"There is something the matter," she was saying—"what is it? Is your indigestion all wrong?"
My eyes half opened. My lips half smiled.
"My indigestion is never right," said Cruikshank. "Even my digestion is not what I could wish it at times."
"Well—you know what I mean," said she. "Is it bad?"
"No."
"Then what's the matter? You're depressed?"
I began to feel the sleep clearing from my eyes. I had remembered that sudden glimpse of Cruikshank between the curtains only a few nights before. Another moment, I should have been sitting up and calling out to them that I was within hearing; but sleep was there still in every muscle of my body.
"P'r'aps I am depressed," said Cruikshank.
"What about?"
"You, my dear."
There was such a caress in his voice that I am sure he must have taken her hand or laid his own upon her shoulder as he said it.
"Me? I'm all right," said Bellwattle. "Why should you be depressed about me?"
"Because I imagine you're not happy. Of course I may be all wrong. I may be making a consummate fool of myself, but it's been growing in my mind every day that—that—"
"That what—?" said Bellwattle, and I was just preparing to sneeze or do something in the conventional order of things that they might hear me.
"That you're getting fond of Bellairs," replied Cruikshank.
There followed a space of silence. I do not know how long it could have been. It seemed unbearably drawn out to me, and then, Bellwattle laughed a low, soft, crooning sort of laugh—such as a mother gives to its baby.
"You dear, silly old fool," said she.
"Ah, but don't turn it off like that," he replied. "I haven't thought so for nothing. You go out a lot together alone and I know how romantic those cliffs are. He's a good fellow too—a sterling fellow. Don't imagine I think he has been making love to you. Of course I know he hasn't. I'm not suggesting so rotten a thing as a flirtation. Probably you neither of you have dreamed of it yet. But I have. You see I'm an outsider. And if there's anything in it, I wish you'd tell me. I wouldn't stand in your way. I don't think I could blame you. I must be a dull dog to live with. He sees more of life than I do—he's got more to talk about. All I jaw about is the country. I can't talk of anything else. I suppose I should understand it—but I'd like to know."
I dared not move by this. If I could have crawled away without being heard, I would have done so; but there was a gravel path to walk down. They would have heard my footsteps on that. So I turned over and shut my eyes—tried to go to sleep again; but that was out of the question. I heard every word when Bellwattle replied.
"You'd let me go?" she said.
"If it made you happy," he replied.
And in that answer, in the very tone of his voice, I heard the signs of the struggle through which he had won to arrive at this generous spirit of renunciation.
"But do you think it would?" said she.
"I don't know."
Something happened then. I did not find it difficult to guess what it was. Her arms were round his neck in an impetuous rush; her face was close against his. That at least is how I interpreted the sounds which reached my ears.
"You dear old thing—why you're more than everything to me. I don't want you to talk of anything but the country. I love that better than any other subject in the world, and when you talk of it, it makes me feel that every little weed is beautiful." Then she laughed. "And you think I'm in love with that dear, nice, ugly creature! Why, I shouldn't imagine any woman has ever been in love with him in his life. That's why I feel so sorry for him. A woman would have to get to know him so well, to forget how ugly he was. And no woman would ever take the trouble. But just because we go out every evening, you think I'm getting fond of him. Do you know why we go out?"
Probably Cruikshank shook his head, for there was no reply.
"You know that invalid who's staying at the Fennells'—the little girl from the West Indies? He's in love with her. He hasn't told me a word about it. I should think he's too sensitive about his ugliness to even say that he was in love. But he's been trying to meet her out on the cliffs, when the Miss Fennells take her for a walk. They met the other night. I suppose they've met before. I don't know how. But he's in love; I can see that. And she's engaged to be married to some one else. Now do you understand? Oh—my dear—my dear. Come along—don't think anything like that again. Come and count the buds on our rose trees."
I heard them move away. I heard the sound of their lips as they kissed each other, then I turned over on my face and looked down into the forest of grass stems where I found a little ant hurrying impetuously along about his engrossing business. For half an hour I lay there watching him till he was out of sight. I think a divine Providence must have sent that ant. It occupied my mind to see him surmount all his difficulties. And then, just as I watched him disappear into a crevice of the sundial, I heard a scraping of feet and felt a rough tongue licking on my cheek.
It was Dandy. I took him by both shoulders. I set him upon his hind legs, balanced awkwardly in front of me.
"Look at me," said I. "Right into my face." His brown eyes gazed steadily into mine, so steadily indeed as his attitude would permit. "How long did it take you to know me so well that you forgot how ugly I was?"
He shook his head, and he laughed; then I stood up, taking him in my arms like a baby—just as I had done on his release from quarantine in Odessa.
"You're a good fella," said I. "You're a damn good fella."