The Enchanted Garden

Dominion, Volume 25, Issue 69, 15 December 1931, Page 10 (Supplement)

The Enchanted Garden

A Dream that Came True

HOW TWO GIRLS FOUND HAPPINESS.

(By

Dulce Carman.)

This original story, by another New Zealand writer, has a charm all its own. In parts it is a pathetic tale, but the unexpectedly happy ending will appeal to every reader.

THE clock struck the hour as Agnes Holt hurried along the broken footpath of the remote suburb where she lived, and she elicked her tongue Impatiently at the sound. Eight o’clock —and she should have already arrived at Mrs. Marsden’s by this time and been doffing the shabby black hat with its wilted pink rose, and tying the spotless apron about her waist. Never before had she been late —and Mrs. Marsden was so kind—the easiest and nicest woman she had ever worked for. Oh, well, she would stay a little longer to make upiron the plain things, perhaps—they would dry easily in this wind. Mrs. Marsden would understand—would even, perhaps, be sympathetic if ghe told her of the curious, nagging, toothachy pains in her arms which had effectually banished sleep until it was almost time to get up. She thought unhappily of the hard times that had come upon the country. It was so difficult to make a living now that nearly half her clients had suffered wage-cuts and trade reverses that had rendered it impossible for them to employ help any longer—even such a super-charwoman as Agnes Holt undoubtedly was.

One by one they had reluctantly said good-bye to her until happier, more prosperous days should return, and with each farewell a certain dream had receded further and further into the background of Agnes Holt’s brain until at last It faded altogether.

Jnst at first, when the strange pains had begun to come in her arms, she had dreamed of leaving washing alone and taking a little inexpensive cottage somewhere in the country ..where she could grow vegetables and flowers for the city market. It was her dream, and her strong frame was well adapted for such a life, and she would be able to consider her own health and so order her days as to avoid the searching winds and bitter frosts which, beating for so many seasons pitilessly upon the bare arms that were warm and damp from the soapsuds had finally given birth to the darting pains that were becoming unbearable. But then had come the tragedy of Tim, her sister’s eldest boy—poor mis-

guided Tim who had stolen from a wealthy employer to supply delicacies ordered by the doctor for his ailing girl-wife and their baby. And who ahould Tim’s mother, widowed and poor, turn to In her trouble but to the unmarried sister who had a heart of gold beneath her rather forbidding exterior.

It had taken almost all Agnes Holt’s pitiful little amount of savings — the savings that had been painfully accumulated a few pence at a time—to fix that matter up satisfactorily, and when she courageously faced the future again, still determined that, some day, she would have the cottage she coveted, the slump hit New Zealand fair and square, and all hope died out of the future. Curiously enough, she was thinking of the dream-cottage now, as she hurried along to catch the tram. If only It had become a reality and she had been able to settle there, with Dennie to help her—Dennie, whose thin white Cheeks would soon become rosy and plump under such new conditions of living. If only—“Oooee!” came a clear, breathless .voice behind her. ‘‘Oooee, Aggie dear The woman turned abruptly. “What is it, Dennie? I’m late tills

; morning—only just got time to catch ■ my tram.” > The newcomer was a thin, undernourished girl of thirteen with a vivid little face that was oddly attractive In spite of its pinched outlines, and would have been bewitchingly pretty had the owner’s lines fallen in pleasanter places. “I know you’re late,” she panted; ‘‘l couldn’t have caught you up if you hadn’t been —and I simply had to say ‘Good-bye.’ You’ll make your tram all right if I go along with you.” “Good-bye!” echoed the woman curiously. “Why, where are you going, then?” "I’ve got to go back with Mrs. Green’s sister to the country near Auckland. You know —the woman with the dreadful kiddies. Life is going to be harder than ever, because the kiddies hate me, and their mother’s terribly hard. Look!” She lifted the faded skirt of her outgrown print frock and disclosed a clumsy undergarment of coarse white material that bore a flaming red-and-blue brand advertising somebody’s “Snowglow” flour across its entire front breadth. “She has taken away the pretty crepe petticoats you give me, already. Her twins are wearing them. She says I’ll only have flour-bag clothes

to go to school in—and she doesn’t even boil the brands out and dye them like Mrs. Green does.” Agnes Holt’s mouth set in a firm line. “I wonder —would she let me have you?” she suggested hopefully. There came no answering gleam in the child’s fine dark blue eyes.

“I’m afraid not,” was the hopeless answer. “She gave Mrs. Green ten pounds for me. You haven’t got ten pounds left since you gave poor Tim all your money, have you?” “No, Dennie—l haven’t. Try and stick it, kiddy. Do your best. It may not be so bad as you think, and I will save like one-thing and get you out of It at the first possible moment.” “I’ll come as far as- the enchanted garden with you,” said the child, with a little gulp, squeezing her companion’s arm lovingly. “If evgr you see inside the gate, you’ll write and tell me, won’t you? And p’raps you might be home before I leave. We are going by the slow train.”

“I don’t think I could get home,” the woman said doubtfully; “but—tell you, Dennie! I’ll come to the station Instead and say good-bye to you there.” A few moments later she swung aboard her tram, just as it started to move, and the child retraced her steps past the high brick wall which completely surrounded the spacious garden and orchard of a large bungalow. Only tantalising glimpses of roof and chim-

neys, an occasional nodding rose swinging from aloft in the tree-branches, and the incessant hum of the questing bees told the outside world what a paradise lay within those encircling walls. To Agnes and Dennie it had long been a fairyland —an enchanted garden — though never had their eyes seen be- : yond the green door in the wall—the door that never seemed to be unlocked. • The people living in the beautiful 1 place never employed a washerwoman, ■ so Dennie and Agnes passed by their ] enchanted ground three times a day on most days of the week, and neither of ‘ them ever dreamed how completely the hidden fairyland was to alter the'livos of both of them. t Agnes Holt was late, but even so I there was an air of excitement and n topsy-turvy unrest about Mrs. Mars- n

den’s pretty home which whetted the woman’s curiosity as she clicked shut the little white gate and hurried up the path. The curtains were down from the windows —yet it wasn’t a good day for washing curtains—what could have happened ? Mrs. Marsden met her in the doorway, flushed, excited, hurried. “Oh, Agnes, I am so glad you have come. I want you to help me with some packing. No! Thefe will be no washing to-day—l’m afraid you won’t do any more washing for me at all. Mr. Marsden has been unexpectedly transferred to Auckland at once. My brother was lucky enough to get us just the very house we wanted, and we are off the first minute we can get the

packing dqpp.” The words fell like ice upon Agnes Holt’s brain. Lost —her best place! Just when she needed-it most of all, if she was to release Dennie from slavery before the iron entered too deeply into the child’s souk Perhaps Mrs. Marsden saw the stricken look in the woman’s eyes, for she hurried on — “I only want you to help me with the packing until eleven o’clock, because I’ve made an appointment for you. A friend of mine has bought The Bungalow—the beautiful place in the Avenue —you know the one I mean—with the high brick wall and the green door, like an English place. Have you ever

been inside?” “No, Mrs. Marsden.” “Well —this friend of mine has had a very sad life. He was horribly disfigured in the war and would not come home until he had undergone some marvel of plastic surgery. Even now he is only a wreck of one of the handsomest men I ever knew. The saddest part of it all was that he did not let his young wife know he was alive until he saw whether the doctors could make him fit to look at again. She had a horror of ugliness and deformity of all kinds, and he was afraid to trust her love. The doctors certainly did wonders, and he came home triumphantly —only to find that his wife had died of pneumonia during his absence. Since then he has wandered about the country with one man-servant who is devoted to him, until he fell in love with The Bungalow and bought it at the owner’s own price. He moved in last week, and his man broke his leg yesterday, so now there is nobody to do the work. My friend hates all women, since he came back to find his girl-wife dead, and I had to fight for some time before he would hear of employing a woman to look after the house while Hanson is laid up. I thought of you at once—” “Me?” echoed Agnes Holt, a little faintly.

“Yes. You are such a wonder at housework and so reliable—l think I must have painted you a paragon. You see, both men are very anxious that Hanson ’should not have to go to hospital, but be nursed at home, and I told them I was sure you could manage and oversee everything. You could have a girl to help you; and —Agnes—they say it Is only for the period of Hanson’s

Illness, but if you can’t make yourself indispensable to two defenceless men in six weeks—you are not the capable woman I take you to be. I don’t know how much you make a week, of course, but my friend is willing to pay thirtyfive shillings, and you would have a most comfortable home—and a girl to help you. And if you were not mutually suited at the end of the six weeks, I know all your clients would jump at the chance of having you back again. I really don’t know what I shall do in Auckland without you.” A dull red flush crept painfully over Agnes Holt’s weatherbeaten cheeks. “A—girl—to help me!” she said slowly.

“Yes,” nodded Mrs. Marsden. “He said he would be quite willing. You will have to go and see him personally, of course, but I think I can say that the place is virtually yours now—and surely you know some nice young girl who would be willing to help you?” ( “I do I” assented the woman curtly; “I know the very one —but if I am to get her, Mrs. Ma_rsden, I shall have to go straight down to The Bungalow now, because she leaves on the slow train, and I ain’t sure that if she once goes I could ever get her back again. Will you let me go? I’ll eome straight back afterwards and do all your packin’ for nothin’.” “Oh, no, you won't!” laughed Mrs. Marsden, “I always feel that I am • underpaying you as it is. Of course you may go at once. Come back and let me know how things go.” “I will," promised Agnes Holt sincerely, reaching for her hat. “And you can come at once?” said the tall man who stood beside the long French windows of The Bungalow. “I mean—would It 'be possible for you to move In to-day? Of course, I know

that it is terribly short notice, but, then, you see how I am placed.” Agnes Holt pityingly eyed the face that was still handsome, though rather statue-like and lacking the ready play of expression that she could imagine had been one of this man’s chief charms previous to his great misfortune. “I can come at once,” she said briefly; “Mrs. Marsden said you were willing I should have a girl to help me.” “Oh, yes! Of course 1 I forgot about that. This place is far too big for one, and I suppose Hanson will want quite a lot of attention for a time. Do you think you could find a suitable girl yourself?”

“If you will let mp go at once, sir— I can get the one. girl in the world for the place. She is being sold into slavery, and I’ll have to have ten pounds to buy her off. I don’t own more than four pounds ten in the world, but if only you would be good enough to trust me with the rest, we would work our fingers to the bone to pay you back —Dennie and me.” The man did not hesitate. He had taken a strange liking to this plain woman with her direct gaze and blunt ' speech. “Yes, I will let you have it. Mrs. Marsden said that you were to be trusted in every way. What name did you say? Dennie? Rather an uncommon name for a girl, isn’t it?” “It’s Denzel, sir — D-E-N-Z-E-L — after her father who’s dead, and she

is as uncommon as her name is. She’s been a little slave all her days, but if I she had the good food and clothes that • other girls have, Denzel Alleyne would > be a beauty, and she’s the truest little ■ soul in the world. You’ll never regret it, sir. Dennie is a lady born.” The man standing by the window made a quick stride forward and seized the woman’s arm with crushing force. “What name did you say?” he demanded between set teeth. “Denzil Alleyne is my name — Denzil spelt with an ‘l.’ Are you making a fool of me, woman? — tell me at once what name you said.” Agnes Holt gazed back Into his blue eyes with her mouth slightly open. “lor, no, sir!” she said with a gasp. "Mrs. Marsden never mentioned to me what your name was, and I have known Dennie Alleyne ever since she was a baby, and her poor ma died of pneu—” She stopped suddenly, remembering what Mrs. Marsden had told her about this man’s wife. “But I went to see the woman where my wife had been staying, and she said nothing about a child —only told me that Clarice was dead — I never knew—” “Mrs. Green —if ’twas her, sjr—she ' always made a slave of Dennie. That’s why—and now she has sold her for ten ‘

pound notes —ten dirty, grea_sy bits of paper—to her sister, who is a bigger shrew still. They are going away by the slow train. If you really will let me have the money—” “I will come with you myself. I —” Greatly daring, Agnes Holt placed her work-scarred hand on rhe man’s coat-sleeve. “Please, sir,” she said coaxingly, “all her life I’ve been Dennie’s only friend, and after this she won’t want me mueh. She is looking for me to do something

to help her. Let me do it—with you behind me. I won’t let them get away with her, but do you stay here, and I’U bring her to you. Why—this very place is her fairyland. She calls it ‘the enchanted garden.’ It’s the only chance of my life to play ‘Fairy Godmother’— don’t spoil it, sir.” The man crossed to a desk, unlocked a drawer, and drew forth a roll of banknotes. Stripping several off, he thrust them into the woman’s hand. _ “Here are twenty pounds. Get my little girl!” he said brokenly. “Miss Holt, you have a lifelong home with us if you will fetch me the little daughter I never knew I possessed.”

“I will fetch her!” said Agnes Holt grimly; “I meant to do that very same all along, only I didn’t quite see how I should be able to manage it. I owe Mrs. Green several scores on Dennie’s account as it is, but I never dreamed of ever haying such a wonderful chance of paying them all off as this will be.” _ “Gome away from that winder, Dennie! Don’t you see Tommy wants to sit there himself? And keep Maggie ’ from smearin’ herself all over with that banana.” Dennie sighed and moved away from the carriage window reluctantly. It would soon be time for the train to start now—in a few moments her fate would be irrevocably sealed, and she would be far out of reach of Agnes Holt’s sympathy and any possibility of

help. She glanced from blowsy Mrs. Green upon the platform to her still more vulgar virago of a sister who sat in the carriage, heavily perfumed with cheap scent and powder, gaudily dressed, and surrounded by numerous bags and baskets. All over the carriage swarmed the dreadful children who were henceforth to make Dennie’s life a burden to her. Even now one of the twins drew up her frock to display the pink crepe petticoat that had been Agnes Holt’s gift to the little waif. Catching the late owner’s eye, she made a face at her and stuck out a very crumby tongue as far as it would go. “You’ll have your job cut out with Dennie,” said Mrs. Green, as though enjoying the poor child’s helplessness. “She’s just like her ma was—far too good to mix with common people like us. I’ve spent the best part of thirteen years making Dennie nay for her ma’i haughty airs, and I haven’t finished with her yet. But you can have her for a spell, Margaret. If anyone can make her wish she’d never been born, you can. Then, when she’s properly broke in, I’ll have her back again.". “Oh, will you?” said a voice very grimly, and Mrs. Green found herself ruthlessly shouldered away from the carriage window; “I think it’s my deal this time, Mrs. Green —you aren’t*going to make a hell of this child’s life any

longer—none of you !” “How dare you interfere, Agnes ’Olt?” demanded Mrs. Green truculently, dropping her carefully-acquired aspirates as always in moments of stress. “How dare I? You make me tired. You won’t have anything more to do with Dennie Alleyne, ever — and you know it! You never said there was a Dennie, did you, when people came round asking questions? But the fact has been found out, and if you keep

outside the police station you will be a jolly sight luckier than you deserve.” "I bought ’er!" shrilled the woman in the carriage furiously. "Then you bought what Mrs. Green never had any right to sell!” answered Agnes Holt fiercely. “Dennie has earned enough to pay Mrs. Green back over and over for all she ever did for her, and now I step in and take a hand. There’s a policeman just over there—if you want to complain, just call out—he’ll hear you. And here’s the ten pounds you paid for her, Mrs. Smithson —I doubt you’d ever see it again from your sister. Come, Dennie—hop out Never mind your duds—leave them for ■ the blood-suckers —you’ll never need the like of them again." The bewildered child obeyed and stood in a dazed silence at her rescuer's side as the train pulled out of the station, and Mrs. Green discreetly melted out of sight into the crowd. Then she stooped and kissed the woman’s roughened hand. “Aggie, you’re an angel!” she sobbed. “How in the world did you manage it? Did Mrs. Marsden lend you the money?”

“Nope,” said Agnes Holt who was thoroughly enjoying the situation. “It wasn’t Mrs. Marsden’s money—and It wasn’t mine, either, but you needn’t worry about it Dennie. Come to think of it Mrs. Marsden did save you, in a sort of way. She got me a job as housekeeper to two men —live in and thirty-five bob a week. I was to have a girl to help me—” “Me?” came the tremulous whisper. “Oh, Aggie! It couldn’t be true.” “Nope! That isn’t exactly true either!” The woman was walking so fast that the girl had almost to run to keep up with her. They turned into the Avenue. “I thought of you, and the gentleman what I'm going to work for up and gave me thq money for Mrs. Smithson—'but I don’t think he will want you to help me, because—” “Oh, Aggie! Why? Not if you and I both begged? , I would work so hard, and not break anything at all—and—” “That isn’t why! But I don’t think he would like his daughter to help In the kitchen of her home. I shall have—” “His daughter? Me? Aggie—” “Yes, Dennie! It’s your very own father come home. Mrs. Green always told you he was killed at the war, didn’t she? And your poor ma died believing it, poor soul! He is Denzil, too, Dennie, only spelled a little different, and he’s a real gentleman. Dennie, your life is going to be all happiness from now on.” “And you are going to share it with me!” cried the child excitedly. "Have we much further to go, x Aggie? Where is my very own home?” “Here,” said the woman very tenderly, drawing the child towards the green door set in the high brick wall—“here—that you always thought the loveliest place on earth —in the enchanted garden!”