The Spanish Gardener

  I need not tell you how bitter was this blow. Yet I did not take it without protest. I dwelt, with some heat, upon my past services, upon the excellence of my record. I pointed out that my promotion was overdue. I asked him flatly to reconsider.

  For a moment, Halevy, he did not answer. Then he said: ‘You have quite an opinion of yourself.’

  This impertinence was too much for me. I drew myself up. I declared formally that I had my own work at San Jorge, that I had there, in my invalid son, a family tie of the most exacting nature and that, if I were not to have Tenney’s post, I must ask him to excuse me from remaining in Madrid.

  When I concluded, there was a silence. I had expected an angry outburst, but to my surprise Bailey began to smile as though, unaccountably, his perverted sense of humour had got the better of him. Then he said:

  ‘You’re a queer bird, Brande. I’ve often heard about you. You’re a byword in the service. But you have to be seen to be believed. I ought to report you, of course. But I won’t. Go back to San Jorge. And for God’s sake try to be a human being. Lose some of your smugness, your colossal egoism. Bring yourself a little up to date. It may not get you promotion. But at least it might get you a bit more out of life.’

  What could one reply to such a tirade? I bowed coldly, turned and left the room. Without hesitation or delay, I departed by the eleven o’clock train. And now, here I am, my good friend, in such a turmoil of bitterness, desolation and just resentment, I must throw myself upon your bounty, your skill as a healer of minds.

  At this point Brande broke off, with a sudden engorgement of the veins upon his forehead. Could he continue? For his own sake, whatever the pain to himself, he must. How often, in the past, relaxed upon the Professor’s couch, in the narrow consulting-room off the Rue des Capucines, the sound of traffic muted by the thick, drawn curtains, he had found benefit in complete, uninhibited self-revelation and in submitting, with closed eyes, to the murmured injunctions of the skilled psychiatrist, seated in the obscurity behind him. Now, even at this distance, he felt the urgent need of some such solace. Setting his teeth, he resumed:

  What I must tell you is this, Halevy, although I do so at the risk of losing my self-respect. When Bailey spoke these outrageous words to me a dizziness overcame me, and I had the strange, the horrible illusion that it was my wife who uttered them. In the mist which swam before me, I seemed to see her, in the rain, as she emerged that night, alone, from her lodging on Thirty-ninth Street in New York. I had followed her there, had waited outside, for at least two hours, convinced that she had been receiving the visit of a lover. When I stepped out of the shadow and confronted her, the lamplight shone full upon her pale face, upon her incredulous eyes, and she said … but, my God, there is no need for me to torture myself … you must remember that incident, for I revealed it to you in full—as though tearing it from my heart—the first time I submitted myself to you for analysis.

  You see, my friend, how deeply this has upset me. No doubt there is scant importance in Bailey’s insulting words; they are too absurd to be credible. But what of my reaction to them? Will these still bleeding wounds which you alone know of, and have probed so gently, never heal? Will my desire to be loved, to be loved tenderly, passionately, exclusively, never be fulfilled? Am I one of these figures, destined always to be misunderstood, misjudged, mistreated by lesser spirits? Will due recognition of mind and heart never be mine?

  And what, dear friend, of the future?

  I cannot deny that I value in some degree the status which attaches to the rank of Consul. Moreover, I consider that I am naturally fitted to carry out the official duties and functions thereby involved. Nevertheless, there is a point beyond which one cannot force the most willing heart, when one must draw up and in a solemn tone cry, ‘Halt!’

  You know that my work on Malbranche is now practically complete and will, I expect, be issued to the world within the next three months. Without presumption, one cannot but believe that this monumental creation, now almost a part of myself, will cause a stir in the intellectual and philosophical circles of both continents. If so, should I not resign from the service and devote myself exclusively to literature? I have some means of my own which would relieve me from a vulgar dependence upon the public. And above all I have to consider the welfare and best interests of my dear son.

  At a time like this, Halevy, when the human soul is sunk in deep despondency, one cannot but thank God for the blessing of Nicholas. From what I have revealed to you, under the seal of professional secrecy, you must realise how much the tragedy of my marriage has been compensated for by the sweet, pure, and overflowing love which my son bears for me. Were I a free agent—for one may ply one’s pen in any latitude—might this not be reflected favourably upon my child’s delicate health? We could visit those spas most likely to improve his nervous diathesis. (Indeed, my own highly-strung system would probably benefit thereby also.) I should be able to devote myself exclusively to him, to safeguard him from all adverse and evil influences in the difficult years of puberty … ah, yes, to watch over and protect the blooming of my tender flower.

  You alone, my dear doctor, can advise me upon such a decision. Therefore I entreat you to advance your promised visit to the Casa Breza. You had arranged to visit us in June. Instead, come now, or at least within the next two weeks. You will be made royally welcome. It is not as though you were dependent upon the exigencies of ordinary practice. And one of your colleagues can take over at the clinic. Do not fail me.

  It is nearly midnight. I must get some sleep … even if it means taking four of these tablets which you gave me and which now, alas! seem to be losing their effect. Surely I have written enough to convince you of my need. I repeat, do not fail me. I look forward within the next few days to your reply. Meantime, I shall take things quietly with Nicholas, lick my wounds, as it were, and renew myself in the sunshine of his smile.

  Your devoted and suffering friend, Harrington Brande.

  With his head supported by spread-out fingers, the Consul sat motionless except for the imperceptible twitching of his facial nerve. A surging self-pity, that familiar, swelling sense of martyrdom, still suffused his breast. Yet he felt better for having written the letter, purged of something of his distress. It was, in a minor degree, the same ‘cleansed’ feeling which came to him after these cathartic séances in the Professor’s consulting-room. He sighed, and gradually his chin elevated itself in a gesture of renewed fortitude. Without haste, he rose, went out of the room and, at the lift shaft, posted the letter. An hour later, aided by the drug, he was sunk in the oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For once the coastal train was punctual. At fifteen minutes to eight next morning, Harrington Brande arrived in San Jorge, and on the platform found Garcia awaiting him.

  “You received my telegram,” he remarked, surrendering his valise and stepping towards the car.

  “Yes, señor. But why did you not permit me to fetch you from Barcelona? To suit your convenience, I could have journeyed through the night.”

  Despite the bleakness of his mood, the Consul experienced a faint glow at the man’s solicitude—this Garcia was indeed an exceptional fellow. Not often did he unbend to his servants, but as the butler tucked the rug round his knees he answered:

  “You serve me well, Garcia … for that reason it pleases me to show you some consideration in return.”

  They drove off. The streets, damp with the morning dew, were quite deserted, and in five minutes they drew up at the front door of the villa. With a sense of homecoming, of tender expectancy, relieving the heavy oppression in his breast, Brande descended from the automobile. He had half hoped that Nicholas might be on the patio to greet him, but that, after all, would have been an infringement of the rules he had himself laid down for the boy. Gravely, yet hastening a little, he passed into the hall and went upstairs with Garcia behind him, carrying the bag. First he went to his own room, removed his travelling coat and washed his h
ands, then, with a deepening of his anticipation, passed through the communicating door to his son’s apartment. But no sooner had he crossed the threshold than he drew up, his smile fading, his eyes puzzled and perplexed. Where was Nicholas? Could the boy be hiding, playing a childish trick upon him? No. The bed had not been slept in. The room was completely empty.

  With an altered face the Consul swung round.

  “Garcia! Garcia! Where is my son?”

  The man put down the valise with a careful touch and, straightening himself, gazed with impassive features at a spot two inches above his master’s head.

  “Your son, señor? I regret to tell you that … he is not here.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, señor.” The butler spoke softly, as though caressing the words which slid between his lips. “ Yesterday afternoon … before Magdalena and I could intervene … he went away.”

  Harrington Brande stared at the other, his first stupefaction mounting rapidly to alarm.

  “Where did he go? And with whom?”

  “I do not know precisely where he went, señor … to the town, I think.” Garcia paused, his eyes flickering with little tongues of darkness as, in a tone that was almost inaudible, he added: “ He went with José.”

  “José!” From between clenched teeth the Consul echoed that hateful name.

  “None other, señor. They went laughing and talking … arm in arm.” Garcia paused, assumed a note of false reassurance. “ Oh, have no fear, señor. They will return this morning. Assuredly. It was only last night they spent together.”

  The Consul felt his legs give way. Deathly pale, he sat down upon the edge of the bed. José with his son … in spite of his express command … and when he had believed their association ended. The phrases ‘laughing and talking … arm in arm … they spent last night together …’ seared like hot irons upon his brain. He clenched his hands as a hell-fire of rage, hatred, and frustrated love blazed up within his breast. God in Heaven, that this should happen to him, in his deepest hour of trial, when he had returned overflowing with paternal tenderness, with a greater need of filial affection than ever before! At the thought, a swift revulsion of feeling seized him. No, no, it was incredible … he could not … he would not believe it.

  “Garcia,” he exclaimed feverishly. “What you tell me is impossible.… My son must have gone to visit Mr. Burton. There is some mistake.”

  The butler, watching him intently with those darkly burning eyes, in a secret ecstasy of mockery, shrugged his shoulders slightly.

  “It is not my place to contradict you, señor. Always it could be said of me that I know my place. And that place has often been a high one. Of course, if you suggest that I am departing from the truth …”

  “No, Garcia.” Brande’s gaze sought out the other in a strange, dependent manner. “That is the last thing … you are above suspicion. But still …” He broke off, pressing both hands against his brow.

  “It is very hard, no doubt, for the señor to believe.” Free of the Consul’s scrutiny, Garcia, beneath his impassive stillness, seemed to quiver with dÊmonic mirth. “ I have the utmost respect for the señor and his son. I hesitate to inflict pain upon the señor. Yet if it should come to a question of proof …”

  As, with infinite effort, Harrington Brande raised his head, Garcia held out to him a creased sheet of paper.

  “I found it, señor, crushed up, in the garden. There are others. But perhaps this is enough.”

  Mechanically, the Consul accepted the paper, but so blurred was his vision he could make nothing of the pencilled scrawl which covered it except perhaps the word ‘love.’ To gain time, he fumbled for his glasses, then, with a heart like lead, he put them on.

  ‘Oh, dearest José, how I love to be with you, every minute of my time.…’

  He read the sheet through, in that strange automatic manner, read all the tender messages which had passed so playfully between José and his son. At first, a faint flush stained his temples, but it faded swiftly, leaving the drawn face paler, more frozen than before.

  He felt blank and dazed, with a hollow sickness in his stomach, but out of the vacancy there surged a stark and suffocating anger.

  A low exclamation from Garcia penetrated through the rust-coloured haze which swirled about Harrington Brande.

  “They have returned, señor.” The butler pointed through the window. “ Look, there … in the garden.”

  There was a pause. Without moving the Consul answered:

  “Thank you, Garcia. That will be all for the present. I shall see my son at once.”

  He remained seated for some minutes after the man had gone, then, stiffly, he got to his feet, filled his stifling lungs with a convulsive breath. Inexplicably, he could not bring himself to look through the window into the garden. He turned and went slowly downstairs. Then, as he reached the hall, the front door swung open and in a burst of sunshine Nicholas ran into the house.

  He saw his father immediately, started perceptibly and, with a stifled cry, drew up short. All the brightness went out of his eyes. It made no difference that he came forward quickly with a smile of welcome, the Consul had observed upon his son’s face that first flicker of fear, and again that surging vortex choked his heart.

  “Good morning, Nicholas,” he said in a dead voice.

  “Good morning, Father,” the boy faltered.

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Ah! You are more fortunate than I. Perhaps, if you have nothing better to do, you will bear with me while I have mine.”

  He led the way into the dining-room, followed by Nicholas, and took his place at the table, on which Garcia presently placed the familiar tray of coffee, fruit and rolls. The Consul poured himself a cup of coffee with a hand which, incredibly, was steady. He had not asked his son to sit down, and the boy stood facing him like a prisoner at the bar. Having seen that everything was in order, Garcia noiselessly withdrew.

  “When I arrived this morning,” the Consul began, “I had hoped, possibly presumptuously, that you would be on hand to greet me.”

  “But, Father … I didn’t know you were coming back so early.”

  “Obviously not.” Brande’s lips were twisted by a bitter spasm. “But that apart … where have you been?”

  “With José.”

  “You spent last night at his house?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  The Consul broke a roll.

  “I understand that you had given me your word not to speak to him.”

  “I didn’t, at the beginning, Father. Then I only spoke a little.” Moisture was starting in the boy’s eyes. “But in the end I had to. I felt so lonely … and so frightened.”

  “Indeed. Frightened of whom, might I ask?”

  From beneath his long lashes, Nicholas stole a timid glance towards the pantry door. In an extremely low voice he answered.

  “Of Garcia, Father.”

  “What?” The Consul sat up abruptly, with an air of outrage. “How can you tell me such a lie?”

  “I’m not lying, Father. He did frighten me, only Magdalena asked me not to tell you why. That’s the true reason I went home with José, Father. Oh, please believe me, please.”

  “I do not believe you,” Brande answered sternly. “ You are deliberately making up this absurd story for the sole purpose of deceiving me.”

  “No, no, Father. I beg you to believe me.” Tears, welling from behind his smarting eyeballs, trickled down Nicholas’ nose and cheek. “If I must tell you … Garcia was frightful. He had the knife. He chopped the head off my little fish. The blood ran all over the table. I thought he was going to kill me too. Oh, can’t you see it, Father? He’s not what he pretends to be … he makes a mock of us all the time. He’s bad and wicked, indeed he is, he’s not a good man like you and José.”

  “How dare you couple me with him?” shouted the Consul, the blood rushing to his brow.

  Nicholas stiffened, drew back f
rom the livid face before him, then burst into a paroxysm of sobs.

  “Are you out of your wits?” Brande went on hoarsely. “Drivelling about knives and blood and chopping heads off. Someone has put you up to this … to slander Garcia. I won’t have it. Garcia is above reproach, a thoroughly reliable person, utterly superior to this … this gutter-lout of yours.”

  “No, no, Father.” Nicholas wept. “José is nice.”

  The Consul ground his teeth in an access of fury so violent it swept through his head like the fumes of ether. He had to grip the arms of the chair to hold himself in check—clinging desperately, as it were, to his one point of vantage—the chill throne of the inquisitor.

  “So your friend is nice.” He seemed to gasp for breath. “You like him?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You may even love him?”

  The little boy nodded through his tears.

  “Aren’t we supposed to love everyone?”

  The Consul drew back as though a viper had stung him.

  “Don’t prevaricate with me, sir. Tell me at once. Where did he take you last night?”

  “To his home.”

  “Where is that?”

  “In the Calle Corriente.”

  “I see. The worst slum in San Jorge.”

  “Oh, it isn’t really, Father,” Nicholas gulped. “ It’s terribly clean. It has a view of the mountains, and butterflies and humming-birds on the walls. José collected them … mounted them too … and made the cases all by himself. And we had olla podrida, the best stew I ever tasted. Paquita cooked it.… Maria couldn’t, because she works so hard at the wash-house … and old Pedro doesn’t do anything but knit.…”

  He faltered and broke off, stifled by the look upon his father’s face. He did not understand that in his childish effort to explain, to propitiate, he had fanned the flames within the Consul’s breast to an even whiter heat. He began to cry again, worse than ever.