The Bee

Mackintyre's Garden
A Study in Servitude.

By R. E. Vernede.

Mackintyre was drunk. Otherwise he would hardly have said to me (at least, I suppose he wouldn't, though I am not sure about it):

"Ye daft amateur, what are ye doing in my garden?"

In vino veritas, as the Romans had it. Celia and I had known dimly for a long time that the garden was no longer ours. The freehold belonged to me, because I had bought it. We lived in the house attached. Before Mackintyre came we had often walked in the garden, and Celia had picked the flowers. She had also planted most of them. But those were in the days of freedom. For months past Celia had been forbidden to pick anything, and in some parts of the garden we were not even allowed to stroll. The wild garden, for example. Celia had planted that, too, before Mackintyre came. She had been very proud of it. But Mackintyre was so much prouder that trespassing was now forbidden there. At one point of it we were allowed to look through, if Mackintyre stood by. For a minute or two. We felt at such moments like Adam and Eve when the fiery angel was in a genial mood and let them have a look through the gate. Not that Mackintyre was ever genial. Still, we thought at times that he must be trying to be.

To get back to my point. Mackintyre was exceedingly drunk, and I saw that it behooved me to be careful how I answered him. He had a spud in his hand and regarded me as one might regard some peculiarly malignant weed previous to destroying it. To humor him seemed best.

"In what sense, Mackintyre," I said, "do you mean that I am in your garden? I was under the impression that it was my garden."

"Your-r garden!" He withered me with rolling r's. "What ha' ye done that it should be your-r garden?"

"I bought it," I said, modestly.

"Bought it!" Mackintyre laughed loudly. "And did ye put a mulch of gold round this delphinium? Were yon hybrid teas pruned by you with a silver secateur? Is this spud wi' the which I ha' weeded night and day shod with your ill-gotten copper?" He swung it round so violently as he spoke that I instinctively recoiled, and nearly fell into a bed of carnations.

The movement I made to recover myself gave him a wrong impression.

"Move a step," he said, "to cull one o' they picotees, and I'll brain ye on the spot."

"I don't want to pick one," I said, hurriedly.

"Do ye not?"

"Certainly not," I repeated. "At the same time, Mackintyre," I continued, with an assumption of authority, "I must tell you that-"

"The woman wants to?" he interrupted. "Was that what ye meant?"

"No," I replied. I knew he meant Celia by the woman.

" 'Tis well for her! And ye may tell her from me that if I find her prowling in my garden-whether with scissors in her hand or no-I will-I will-" He broke off, but his eyes looked death and destruction. This menace to Celia moved me to a burst of firmness that nothing else would have occasioned. "Look here, Mackintyre," I said, speaking quickly, "your behavior is, to put it mildly, outrageous, and I do not intend to put up with it. I have stood a good deal from you already since you came to us a year ago from Col. Macpherson's place. I do not blame Col. Macpherson. Nor do I deny that you are industrious, and have some knowledge of vines and herbaceous plants. But that is not enough-it is very far from being enough-to compensate for the very offensive way in which you treat your employers—"

"Think ye so?" said Mackintyre, somberly.

"Yes," I replied. "For a garden, in my eyes, is a place where I can wander at my ease."

"Never!" he interpolated.

"And where," I continued firmly, "my wife, my friends, and myself can please ourselves in the matter of picking flowers and fruits."

"Ah, ye're wanting the asparagus," he cried, jeeringly.

"I am wanting freedom," I said, hotly. "Liberty, Mackintyre, which men die for. And I mean to have it. I give you a month's notice, Mackintyre."

"And I give ye five seconds," he yelled. "After the which I will plant a Siberian crab on your measly remains. With a judicious addition of artificial. I ha' na doot it will eventually grow."

"What do you mean?"

"Die, mon!" he screamed.

By a superhuman effort I dodged him, as he rushed at me with the spud, only to stumble and wake.

"Whatever is the matter, John?" said Celia, beside me. "Are you having a nightmare?"

I groaned aloud in my wretchedness.

"I thought I had just sacked Mackintyre," I said, "and that if I escaped with my life, we should have the garden to ourselves again. I suppose I haven't, though."

"No, and you won't," said Celia. "You know you won't."

Celia was right, except in calling it a nightmare.

It was only a beautiful dream. Awake I have no such courage.

That is why I have called it Mackintyre's garden.