The Devil's GardenMaxwell, W. B. (William Babington)
General
The Devil's Garden
Maxwell, W. B. (William Babington)
Fiction
And again he thought of the finger of God. This clumsy hurried
execution had been refused by God. He was being pushed away, so that
the last glimpse of his eyes should not see the pleasant picture of
home.
He must do it privately, secretly, in a lonely spot; and he must spare
no pains, must plot and scheme till he contrived all the convincing
details of a likely accident. That was how he had killed Everard
Barradine; and he must arrange matters similarly for himself.
XXXIV
Two or three days passed. The busy yet peaceful life of home and
fields was going on; the hay had been carried; the rick was made, and
the rick-sheet covered a handsome pile.
Dale worked hard, quite in his old untiring way, and seemed just his
natural self; but truly he was mentally detached from the surrounding
scene. For the second time in his life, and to a greater extent than
the first time, he was subjugated and controlled by one dominant idea.
Throughout each day all things around him were dreamlike and
unsubstantial, and he performed many actions as automatically as if he
had been a somnambulist. He walked and talked or rode on the shaft of
a wagon without in the least troubling to think what he was doing, and
every time his thought became active it seemed to spring into vigor
again merely to obey the prompting of the inner voice that now
governed him.
Thus while sitting on the wagon shaft he thought: "If I pitched myself
off and let the wheels go over me, that would be _likely_, just the
accident that fools are always making, but it wouldn't fulfil the
other conditions that have been laid on me. Also it might fail. I
might only mess myself up, and not quite kill myself."
Half an hour afterward, as he walked beside the empty wagon back to
his hay fields, he was still hammering away at the dominant idea.
A gun and a hedge--no accident can be more common than that. Say you
want to shoot some rats that have been showing their ugly whiskers in
the field ditches; take your gun, well charged, and blow your brains
out among the brambles of an untrimmed hedge.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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