The garden of resurrection

by E. Temple Thurston

"Well, then," said I, with an effort, "what's to be done? There are a thousand difficulties. First of all, she is never alone, except in that little cage of hers with its drab white muslin curtains. If we meet her on the cliffs at night, there are the Miss Fennells guarding her with their escort. There is no possibility of seeing her in the house. But last of all—" and here I bent down, looking Dandy squarely in the eyes—"what right have we to interfere when the God of a Thousand Circumstances makes up His mind to break a woman's heart?"

Now Dandy knows nothing of the God of a Thousand Circumstances. The only God he honors is that of Chance, wherefore and on that score he answered my question as best he could. There was a sudden rustling in the long grass under the nut trees, whereat he pricked his ears and all his body stiffened to the sound. The next instant a large rat crept out of the bushes, and Dandy was after him. I made no objection. He never catches them. For a few minutes he rushes wildly in many directions, digs up innumerable things that have nothing whatever to do with it, and behaves generally as though life were a whirlwind, of which he is the centre and all-important force. After that, he comes back quietly once more to me, and sitting down says—

"I might have caught him. I got very near. I don't often miss them like that. I was really too clever for him; that's how he got away."

Then a scarlet tongue comes out and he licks his lips. It proves conclusively to me how near he did get. He always does; that is why I raise no objections. It puts him in excellent mood, and, I imagine, has a way of teaching the rat that fitness is a quality never to be despised in this world.

I waited on this occasion till it was quite over. Then Dandy came back and told me all about it, right through, without any variation, even to the licking of the lips.

"So that's your answer," said I. "Have no truck with the God of Circumstance. Follow the God of Chance."

It was the best advice he could have given me. Adventure makes a man of one. I had set forth upon mine and there was no sense in turning back because I had come to a passage at arms with difficulty in the very first stage of the journey. Here was this child, friendless, at the mercy of two gaolers in whose possession were all the bolts of prejudice wherewith to keep her locked away. There was no appealing to the kindlier nature of the two Miss Fennells. There was no telling them the truth of that nephew on whom all their hopes were centred. Then how to prove to this little prisoner that she had a friend waiting outside the walls of her fortress, ready to help her, if she would but accept help, ready to save her from herself and all the relentless consequences of the step she was about to take. How to prove to her that she had need of a friend at all? Would she believe it? Would she ever take the word of an utter stranger against the promises of the man she loved? Not if I had any knowledge of women at all.

"But plain knowledge never won or lost an adventure yet," said I, and Dandy looked up with a vast amount of appreciation into my face. He entirely agreed with me there. "We must write to her," I went on. "Contrive to meet her one of these nights on the cliffs—give her the letter, make some effort to see her alone and tell her—tell her everything—tell her to go back to her blue skies and her sunshine where she can bury those black grave clothes, the garments of a civilized community, and take out her gown of canary-colored satin once more."

Having made up our minds to this, we went into the house and began the inditing of a letter to Clarissa. It was at this point that Dandy lost interest. He will give me the full of his attention so long as I talk to him; but it is more than he can stand when I take up a pen and, except for the scratching of it on the paper, sit in silence at my table. The sound of scratching, to begin with, annoys him; then, again, although he has tried, he cannot understand one word of what I write. On these occasions he wanders aimlessly round the room, coming back at intervals to my chair to try and catch my eye. Failing many times in this, he at last throws himself in despair upon the hearthrug where, lying with his nose between his two fore-paws, he day-dreams—dreams of past adventures in which he figures as the hero, and I, if indeed I appear in them at all, am just a super on an over-crowded stage. He behaved no differently this morning, except that as I sat down and dipped my pen in the ink, he yawned. He had never done that before. I took no notice. I wrote my letter. Here is what I said:

"Clarissa,—I know your eyes are not bad. I know all about it. I have seen him in London and I want to tell you something. Can you manage to meet me one evening round the cliffs? Try and think how you can arrange it. I must see you alone."