by T. F. Powys
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John Reads a Notice
The day was now as fair as ever it had promised to be earlier in the morning. There was not a sign anywhere to be seen of the dark cloud that had so lately overshadowed the lane.
Mr. Hayhoe, pleased with his company, walked along gaily. Already, during the short time that they had been together, he had grown very fond of his companion, whose every remark seemed fresh and interesting to him.
Nothing that they passed in their walk escaped John’s observant eye. He was delighted with a flock of rooks that fed in a field upon Joseph Bridle’s new-sown barley, and gazed with pleasure upon their sleek black coats, clapping his hands together to see them fly. Near to Madder Hill, Death stopped to listen, and asked of Mr. Hayhoe what was the low and distant rumble that he heard, and was answered that he heard the waves of the sea.
Going down a little hill in a shady part of the lane, they came upon a hedgehog who, seeing strangers so near to him, and not being sure of their behaviour, wisely curled up into a ball—to John’s vast amusement. He had often, he said, seen people straighten out when he came to them, but never before had he seen a creature turn into a ball.
As they went along, the countryside blushed like a young girl, for the spring—being a mere child—had not yet got used to the eyes of men who regarded her so warmly.
A blackthorn was fully out—a purity of bloom as white as snow—and, below the hedges, the large leaves of the lords and ladies curled amorously. In places, too, there was green in the hedges, the green of elder and honeysuckle, and everywhere there were pleasant meadows and cornlands newly tilled.
“How was it?” inquired Mr. Hayhoe, after a short pause in the conversation, “how was it, John, that you came to lose what is of so great value?”
“Because,” replied John, “instead of heeding the good advice of John Bunyan in the Pilgrim’s Progress, I must needs step into a field on my way to Dodder and rest a while. I even walked a little in this very lane; and it was while waiting in a Dodder meadow to admire the flowers that I discovered my loss.—I am one, I fear, who has always liked to wander a little in out-of-the-way places.”
“Perhaps you lost your paper in the field where you lingered,” suggested Mr. Hayhoe. “That, I should say, from the flowers that you mention, must have been Joseph Bridle’s. It is one of the pleasantest meadows in Dodder. Whoever goes in there to rest will wish to stay the whole day. I myself have spent hours in that field, looking into the waters of the pond, that are very deep. Resting there, it is likely that the most busy man would forget how time goes, and, instead of continuing his labours, should lie down and dream of God. I do not wonder that you dropped your paper there.”
“Though I am a busy man,” answered Death, “time is nothing to me, for I work at all hours and know no calendar. But I do not think that I lost my order in the field which pleased my fancy, and must be the one you speak of, near to the edge of the pond.”
“Where Miss Sarah Bridle keeps her ducks,” observed Mr. Hayhoe.
“There was a girl’s name, written with smooth pebbles, laid upon the grass. I read the name—‘Susie Dawe.’”
“That must have been Joe’s doing,” said Mr. Hayhoe.
“Doubtless it was,” observed Death, “but as I looked upon that name, a curious sensation came into my head for the first time—it is called ‘pity’—and I hoped that my visit to Dodder had nothing to do with the young girl whose name was written with pebbles upon the grass. It was then that I felt in my pocket for the parchment, wishing to read the names upon it, and found that it was gone. At first I thought little of my loss, merely supposing that, in climbing the stile into the field, I had dropped the paper from my pocket, and I expected to find it at once. Finding nothing under the stile, I began to search elsewhere, and even leaned down over the pond to look, and though at the bottom I could clearly see the bones of an infant and other human remains too, yet my parchment was nowhere to be seen.”
“A man may easily lose a piece of paper,” said Mr. Hayhoe, plucking a primrose from the bank, “and—unless the parchment that you have lost bears upon it the signature of the chief cashier of the Bank of England—there is no need to attach so much importance to it. And, even if the order that you have lost is of great importance, yet surely upon a glad day of sunshine such as this, a business mistake should be forgotten.”
“I cannot let the matter go so easily,” replied Death, “even if I might wish to—and would you be so good as to tell me what sort of a man Joseph Bridle may be?”
“Only a poor man,” answered Mr. Hayhoe, “though honest. He owns but one good field and a few acres of downland that yield him next to nothing, for what the rooks leave the wireworm eat. Joe is one of the most harmless of men. He neither hurts nor destroys.”
“Every one to his taste,” replied John, with a laugh. “But, from what you tell me of Joseph, I do not think that he has my paper.”
“Neither do I,” said Mr. Hayhoe, “and for a good reason too—Joe Bridle is in love!”
“I do not understand you,” observed Death.
“He loves a girl,” explained Mr. Hayhoe.
“You mean,” said Death, “that he wishes to reproduce his kind, with the help of a woman; but such doings must be extremely common here upon earth, as my occupation proves, for in some parts of the world there are as many children as flies.”
“A clerk to a registrar,” murmured Mr. Hayhoe, leaning over the bank to pluck another primrose.
“I am willing to allow,” he said, smiling upon Death, “that love is common to mankind, but some are stricken more deeply with his darts than others. Joe Bridle’s feelings in this matter are of no ordinary kind, and the only cure for him is the coming together—with the sanction and blessing of the Church of Christ—in Holy Matrimony.
“It is said in Dodder that, although Joe is forty years old, he has hardly ever looked upon a maid before, and has certainly never walked out with one. Joseph is a sober man. He has never been one to seek here and there for his pleasures, to pluck at all and to gather none. One has only to look at him to know that his passion for a girl—if once permitted—would be for all time, and that he would be faithful to the one that he loved unto death.”
“And why not afterwards?” asked John lightly.
“A proper rebuke,” rejoined Mr. Hayhoe, “for our religion teaches us that those who love truly, with the Church’s blessing, will never be separated.”
“And who is it, then,” inquired Death, “that so strong a lover as Mr. Bridle has taken a fancy to?”
“Methinks,” answered Mr. Hayhoe, “that you would answer that question well enough yourself, if you saw the young lady. Joseph loves faithfully, and wishes to marry, Susie Dawe.”
“Why,” answered Death, carelessly, “ever since I saw Susie’s name written in pebbles beside the pond, I have intended to lie with her myself.”
Mr. Hayhoe looked troubled.
“Though your words are scriptural,” he said, “and far more to my liking than the vulgar expressions that are common now-a-days, yet I trust you will choose for a bride some other Dodder maid than she whom Mr. Bridle wishes to marry.”
“Perhaps,” replied Death, stooping to pick up a flint that showed signs of having been worked, “Joseph Bridle may one day give her to me of his own free will. Has not this poor man any one who can tell him of the dangers of loving too faithfully, for even the very gods have discovered that true love is often a very doubtful happiness. Surely some one should tell Joe of the sorrows of loving.”
“He has Mr. Solly,” replied the clergyman, “a gentleman older than himself, who lives at Madder, and is his closest friend. Mr. Solly regards women as a kind of wurzel.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Death, “then he must consider that they are best buried.”
“That is exactly what he does think,” replied Mr. Hayhoe,
“but I, for one, very much disapprove of his views.”
“A mere matter of taste,” said John. “But how, I pray, does Mr. Solly express himself about women?”
“He says,” observed Mr. Hayhoe, a little hesitatingly, “that when they are not required for cooking or cleaning, they ought to be kept in a grave, covered first with straw and then with earth.”
“This worthy Solly,” replied John Death, “must be a true friend to Bridle, who, if only he gave heed to him, would live always happily. And I—like Solly—think poorly of love. But, tell me, has Joseph no relation living with him, who might have picked up my paper?”
“There is only his aunt,” answered Mr. Hayhoe, “Sarah Bridle, who, when she was a child, had a fright that left her with a strange delusion. She is now a middle-aged woman, a hard worker, very gentle and willing, but she has a fancy that those who do not know her may consider a little curious; she thinks she is a camel.”
“She might have eaten my paper,” said John, “though I fear the signature thereon would be a little hard to digest. But tell me, Mr. Hayhoe, is there no harlot in Dodder? for he that keepeth company with harlots spendeth his substance, and I know well enough that my parchment may be sold for a good price.”
“Alas!” answered Mr. Hayhoe, with a sigh, “there is Daisy Huddy.”
Death laughed loudly.
Mr. Hayhoe looked very sad.
“I assure you, John,” he said, “that Daisy is no thief, she keeps nothing—that is even her own. She sells herself so cheaply to Farmer Mere that what he gives her hardly pays for old Huddy’s tobacco.”
“I will go in to her,” said Death, readily.
“You mean that you will visit her,” observed Mr. Hayhoe, “to advise her to lock her door to Mr. Mere. But you had better be careful, John. Farmer Mere is a very rich man, and all-powerful in Dodder.”
“I will remember his name,” said Death, quietly. “And is there no one else,” he asked, “who might find and keep something that is a little out of the common?”
“There are Dillar, old Huddy, and Mr. Dady, who go to the Inn,” replied Mr. Hayhoe. “There is also Mr. Titball—the tavern landlord—who has the highest respect for the great of the land, and can never praise Lord Bullman enough. There is also the rich landowner and farmer—Mr. Mere—whose wife is dead.”
John nodded.
“But I have forgotten James Dawe,” said Mr. Hayhoe.
“Who is he?” inquired John Death.
“An old man,” replied Mr. Hayhoe, “who is said to be a great miser. But he not only hoards all he can, he also likes to sell what has cost him nothing—he will sell the skin from a dead dog even. He is the father of Susie, and is a widower.”
Death smiled.
“You mention pretty Susie,” he observed, “as though you like her too, and perhaps you have given her a Bible?”
“I gave her Sense and Sensibility,” answered Mr. Hayhoe, blushing deeply.
“You love her,” said Death.
“I respect her very much,” replied Mr. Hayhoe, “and I also admire her. No young creature of seventeen could possibly be more charming. Susie sits next to me in the choir at church and often, when I stand up to pronounce the absolution, I look down at her as she kneels beside me.”
“You had much better keep your eyes upon your book,” said John, “or perhaps you do not know the danger of looking at a maid?”
“You must not think ill of me,” replied Mr. Hayhoe, “but surely, a thing of beauty ought to be admired! All the poets say so, and Susie must delight all who see her. She has the sweetest voice that ever man heard, and no father could wish for a better child. I have heard it said by Mrs. Moggs—who lives at the Dodder shop, and sells ink sometimes—that Susie’s mother was exactly like her, and evil rumour says that James Dawe only married his wife in order to sell her for money. He was an old man when he married. But she was not allowed to sin, for God prevented it.”
“You mean she died?” said John.
“Death is often kind,” observed Mr. Hayhoe, in a low tone.
“I am glad you think so,” said John, “though, of course, good—as well as evil—is prevented by him.”
“Goodness is never destroyed, only evil ends,” remarked Mr. Hayhoe. “But I have now, I think, mentioned every one into whose hands your property might have fallen.”
“My paper might have been pawned for beer,” suggested John, “by one of those who, you say, go to the Inn?”
“Had that happened,” replied Mr. Hayhoe, “Mr. Titball—noticing the signature that must be, from what you tell me of your master, a determined one—would have at once carried the paper to West Dodder Hall, and given it into the hands of Lord Bullman, who is, as all know, the chairman of the Maidenbridge bench.
“Mr. Titball would be the last man in the world to keep anything that he thought ought to be given to a great man. He honours Lord Bullman above all, and I have had the utmost difficulty in explaining to him that the creator of the world is as important. I remember remarking—in order to show where true worship should be rendered—that God has the larger family. But to that argument Mr. Titball replied that Lord Bullman—were his wishes and rights properly allowed—would have the greater number, and after all, the world is only one village, and Dodder another.”
“An honest gentleman!” said John gaily.
They were now near to Dodder, and approached an old shed that, when every gale came, expected to be blown over, yet remained standing. Going up to this shed, Death stopped to read a police notice, that the Shelton officer had just pinned upon it.
The notice, that was written in a large hand, asked for any information about a man—a description of him was not given—who had robbed of his clothes the corpse of a poor suicide. The notice explained that a man who had hanged himself in his best clothes in Merly Wood had been found by his wife, stark naked. The colour and the size of the clothes were given, and a small reward offered for the apprehension of the thief.
John Death read this notice, with the greatest care, two or three times, and, smiling for a moment or two at his trousers, he brushed them carefully, and then returned to Mr. Hayhoe who was admiring a coloured butterfly that had settled upon a flower in the hedge.
The pair walked on in silence. Mr. Hayhoe was considering how he might bring his new friend into the loving arms of the Church, knowing him as one who would be likely to give close attention to a good sermon.
Walking thus, they soon reached Dodder village, and were noticed by a lady who, leaving the churchyard where she had been waiting, came to meet her husband.
VII
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Priscilla Answers a Question
Mr. Hayhoe stepped gladly to his wife. Evidently he had only to be away from her for a very little while in order to return to her joyously.
“This is Mr. John Death,” he said, presenting his new-made friend, “a gentleman that I was fortunate to meet soon after seeing Lord Bullman. But I must not let you wait longer for the news—the living of Dodder is ours.”
Priscilla was looking at Death.
“John has had the misfortune,” explained Mr. Hayhoe, “to lose something hereabouts that he very much values, and he wishes to live a while in this village until he finds what he has lost.”
Priscilla regarded her husband with anxiety; something, evidently, had troubled her. Though she had looked at her husband’s companion, she had not noticed his name, and even the news that Lord Bullman had offered the living did not appear to please her as much as Mr. Hayhoe expected.
Her husband wondered why she was not more glad. All the way, in coming along the lane, he had looked forward to the pleasure of telling her that now they might leave the dingy lodgings at Shelton, where everything reminded them of the death of their child. Something unpleasing to his wife, he fea
red, must have happened while he was away.
Priscilla had not welcomed John very kindly. This was strange, for, usually, she welcomed any friend of his—however poor—with the greatest friendliness. Only a week before, he remembered how gladly she had received a travelling tinker, Mr. Jar, at their lodgings, giving him all there was in the cupboard to eat—but now she seemed disinclined to speak to Death.
“I hope that Mr. Mere’s fierce dog has not sprung out at you,” Mr. Hayhoe asked of his wife, looking at her with concern. “That dog ought never to be allowed so much liberty; one day it will do some one a hurt.”
“No dog has frightened me,” answered Priscilla, “and if you did not find me as pleased as you expected at the good news, it is only that I fear sometimes that what we do here is not always for the good of the people, for, in passing along the street on my way to the church, I saw something that made me wonder.”
“You saw nothing that I have lost?” inquired Death, eagerly.
“No, sir,” replied Priscilla. “I am quite sure that what I saw—and blushed to see—had nothing to do with you. It was merely a scarlet thread hanging out of Daisy Huddy’s bedroom window.”
Mr. Hayhoe coloured deeply.
“Alas!” he said, “I am altogether to blame, for before reading the Bible to Daisy, I ought to have explained to her that all scriptural doings are not meant for us to copy. I called a few days ago upon the young woman and, knowing nothing then of her way of living, I read all the way through the book of Joshua. I shall never trust myself again; I put the Bible into my pocket instead of Persuasion! Never was a poor clergyman more unlucky than I! Only the other day I advised Mr. Solly, who despises love, to read the Song of Songs. I am always showing people the way to go wrong, and when I tell them to do right they hate me. I advised Mr. Mere to give all that he had to the poor, in order to save his soul, and he set his dog upon me. Even Mr. Jar, the tinker, looked at me with surprise, when I told him he was the chief of sinners. And now I have caused poor Daisy to own publicly to all the world that she is a harlot.”