The Devils Garden | Page 7

Its gardens
surpassed belief; royal persons came hundreds of miles to look at them.
And the wild historic woodland of Manninglea Chase was famous, it
was said, all over Europe. Talking thus, she seemed as gay and careless
as a child of ten.
Mr. Ridgett, puffing his pipe luxuriously, contemplated her animated
face with undisguised admiration; and presently Dale felt irritated by
the admiring scrutiny.
That was what always happened. At first he felt pleased that people
should admire his wife; but if they seemed to admire her the least little
shade too much, he became angry. In the lanes, in church, anywhere, he
froze too attentive glances of admiring males with a most portentous
scowl. It was not that he entertained the faintest doubt of her loyalty
and devotion, or of her power to protect herself from improper
assiduities; but he loved her so passionately that his blood began to boil
at the mere thought of anybody's having the audacity to court her favor.
Instinctively, on such occasions, words formed themselves in his mind
and clamored for utterance on his lips. "You take care, my fine fellow;"
"Hands off, please;" "Let me catch you trying it"--and so on: only
thought-counters secretly used by himself, and never issued in the
currency of spoken words.
Now the internal warmth was just sufficient to make him push back his
chair and break up the party. "Mavis," he said, rather grimly, "we
mustn't detain Mr. Ridgett from his duties." Then he forced a laugh.
"I'm nobody; and so it doesn't matter how long I sit over my supper.
But we've to remember that Mr. Ridgett is the postmaster of

Rodchurch."

II
He went to bed early; but he knew that he would not sleep until the
mail-cart had gone.
His wife was sleeping peacefully. He could feel the warmth of her body
close against him; her breath, drawn so lightly and regularly, just
touched his face; and he edged away cautiously, seeking space in which
to turn without disturbing her. At immeasurably long periods the
church clock chimed the quarters. That last chime must have been the
quarter after eleven.
Every now and then there came a sound that told him of the things that
were happening on the ground floor; and in the intervals of silence he
began to suffer from an oppressive sense of unreality. This disruption
of the routine of life was so strange as to seem incredible. They were
making up the two big bags for the up mail and the down mail; and he
was lying here like a state prisoner, of no account for the time being,
while below him his realm remained actively working.
As midnight approached, an increasing anxiety possessed him. The
horse and cart had been standing under the window for what appeared
to be hours, and yet they would not bring out the bags. What in the
name of reason were they waiting for now? Then at last he detected the
movement of shuffling footsteps; he heard voices--Ridgett's voice
among the others; a wheel grated against the curbstone, and the cart
rolled away. The sounds of the church clock chiming twelve mingled
with the reverberations made by the horse's hoofs as the cart passed
between the garden walls. Thank goodness, anyhow, they had got it off
to its time.
With a sigh, he turned on his back and stared at the darkness that hid
the ceiling. Ah! A profuse perspiration had broken out on his neck and
chest. To give himself more air he pulled down the too generous supply
of bed clothes, and in imagination he followed the cart.
It was progressing slowly and steadily along the five miles of road to
the railway junction. Would Perkins, the driver, break the regulations
to-night and pick up somebody for a ride with the sacred bags? Such a
gross breach of duty would render Perkins, or his employer, liable to a
heavy penalty; and again and again Dale had reminded him of the risks

attending misbehavior. But unwatched men grow bold. This would be a
night to bring temptation in the way of Perkins. Some
villager--workman, field-laborer, wood-cutter--tramping the road
would perhaps ask for a lift. "What cheer, mate! I'm for the night-mail.
Give us a lift's far as junction, and I'll stan' the price of a pint to you."
A glance up and down the empty road--and then "Jump in. Wunnerful
weather we're having, aren't us?" So much for the wise regulation!
Most wise regulation, if one understand it properly. For when once you
begin tampering with the inviolable nature of a mail-cart, where are
you to stop? Suppose your chance passenger proves to be not an honest
subject, but a malefactor--one of a gang. "Take that, ye swab." A clump
on the side