by T. F. Powys
“Never mind, my dear,” said Mrs. Hayhoe, looking at her husband with the greatest affection, “God knows your mistake and also, that in reading His word to Daisy, you hoped to do good. Before long I am sure that she will learn where true happiness is to be found.”
“Be so good, madam,” inquired John Death, who had listened with interest to the lady, “as to tell me where true happiness is to be found?”
“In plain sewing,” replied Priscilla.
VIII
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An Old Woman’s Eye
Every village, whose buildings were first made of mud, has the soul of an old woman. Her spirit is everywhere. She is never seen, and yet she guides all the doings that go on. If one stands upon Madder Hill and looks down upon Dodder her lineaments may be discovered.
Her forehead is the green and her nose is the church tower: she is neither Miss Pettifer nor Mrs. Fancy, and yet she is a person. When she laughs, a horse runs away with a wagon, crashes through a gate, and frightens every one—and when she smiles, a man is lowered into a grave.
The old woman’s soul has but one eye, which is Joe Bridle’s pond. When she winks there is a flash of lightning, and when she sleeps the waterweeds close over the pond. It has been said that all the worlds are tiny cells in the brain of God, and so why should not all Dodder dwell in one old woman?
No one can escape her tittle-tattle. When the church bell rings, calling the people to their prayers, all know that ’tis to the old woman’s gossip that they are going to listen. Even the fox-hunting squire—Lord Bullman—cannot escape her, and is interested in the doings of Daisy Huddy, reported to him very soberly by Mr. Pix, who said that he once found Daisy lying in the rushes over Madder Hill.
“Alone?” asked Lord Bullman excitedly.
“Why, no,” Mr. Pix replied, “for I believe that Tinker Jar was with her.…”
No one who ever comes to Dodder escapes the old spider, whose invisible web binds him tightly, a web not altogether unholy, which holds a man to the earth, that at the last—and let us gather no more sorrow than we can bear—unravels the web and delivers man to Death.
At the first house in Dodder Mr. Hayhoe met his wife, and together they showed John Death the village. This was easy to do, for the Vicarage was near to the green, and the cottages by the side of the lane.
Going a little farther along the street, they waited beside a gate that led into a little garden close by the village green.
Here a removal was taking place. A man, named John Card, was leaving Dodder to return to Tadnol whence he had come, and was leaving his cottage empty. This man had been useful to the late vicar, Mr. Dibben, in many little ways, and when Canon Dibben left for Stonebridge, Card wished to move too. He obtained a place at Tadnol, where, besides his usual occupation of chimney-sweeping, he might also trap rabbits for Farmer Spenke.
Mr. Card was leaving Dodder sooner than he intended. When he came there, Canon Dibben had promised to pay his rent for a twelvemonth, and so Card had hired a cottage for that period. But now Dibben was gone and would pay nothing, and John Card was left with a house in one place and a house in another, which would mean two rents.
John Card decided to leave Dodder—though in an ill-temper. He would have to pay two landlords each week, and Mr. Mere was not the kind of man to forgive a debtor. “Houses,” Card considered, “were not like wives.” During his life he had married two wives—one in one place, and one in another—and each had presented him with money before he buried her. Two giving wives were one thing, two houses were another.
When Mr. Card was cross, he always complained to the clergy. Seeing Mr. Hayhoe beside his garden gate, he told him his trouble, and John Death was left with Priscilla.
Priscilla asked John where it was that he met her husband. John answered her gladly. He told her that they had met in the lane, and that Mr. Hayhoe had been very kind to him and had never for one moment wished him away as most people did.
Priscilla looked towards her husband, and then at the churchyard.
While they waited, the village children came—as children will—to gaze upon the stranger, the foremost amongst them being Winnie Huddy, who was returned from the hunt, where nothing interesting had happened.
No sooner did Miss Winnie see John, and know him to be the same man that she had met in the lane, than she began to mock him—though at a safe distance—calling out “Moppet John,” and pulling at her own little chin as if she wore a goat’s beard like his.
Unnoticed by Priscilla, John turned to Winnie and made certain country gestures with his fingers—that the Devil uses when he meets a witch—and set all the girls a-laughing. The noise troubled Mrs. Hayhoe, who chid the children for being so rude and sent them away.
When they were gone, John Death started suddenly and looked extremely dismayed.
“Of all the fools,” he cried out, “I believe I am the greatest.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Priscilla, a little frightened.
“It’s my scythe,” exclaimed John. “I left my precious scythe in Merly Wood. This countryside must be bewitched! I dropped my parchment, which has been stolen, and now I discover that I have left my scythe in the wood. Though my memory is so bad, I have never yet forgotten to carry my scythe with me when I go upon a journey. What a fool was I to loiter so long in the wood!”
“If you were in Merly Wood,” said Priscilla, moving a step backwards, “perhaps you may have seen the thief who stole the poor suicide’s clothes?”
“I trust that my scythe was not stolen too,” replied Death anxiously, “for I believe I hung it upon the very tree where the man swung.”
“How came you,” Priscilla asked, in an altered tone, “to leave your scythe there, and so near to where a poor man was hanged?”
“One cannot remember everything when one is busy,” replied Death, “and I have lately had a great deal of young grass to cut near Maidenbridge, and did not I know that, when the grass is grown, it would be sure to be trodden down by heavy beasts, I might have felt sorry to mow it so young. But I cannot work without my scythe, and I ought to go back at once to the wood and see if it is still there—the scythe might be a danger to any who touched it.”
“Your scythe is very sharp, then?” inquired Priscilla, in a low tone.
“Not so sharp as it ought to be,” replied Death, “and I fear if it hangs long idle it may grow rusty. It’s really surprising how easily a scythe can be blunted, and I hate to bungle a good cut.”
Mr. Hayhoe stepped near.
“I think,” he said, smiling at his friend John and speaking to his wife, “that if Mr. Death means to stay for a while in Dodder, he may, if he wishes, hire this cottage from Mr. Card, who is most anxious to obtain a little rent for it. Mr. Card tells me that he is willing to leave in the house a small bed and a few other necessary things for the use of the new tenant. A week’s notice to be given by either of the parties, and the rent to be paid in advance.”
“Nothing could have fallen out better,” exclaimed John, “for, whenever I have entered a cottage, I have been treated with reverence, and so I am sure I shall live in one happily. A lowly place, perhaps, but far better than a mansion!”
Death stepped briskly to the little gate and looked into the garden, where his new landlord was pulling up by its roots a small plant. John Death watched him admiringly.
“You did that as well as I could have done it,” he cried, watching Card place the shrub in his cart. “But you must know, friend, that every flower is not a Rose of Jericho.”
“Neither be every woman a whore,” replied John Card angrily, for though Mr. Hayhoe had recommended Death to him as an honest man, Card did not like his looks.
Death smiled.
“I wish to have your cottage,” he said winningly.
“Cottage be to let,�
�� replied John Card slyly, “to any who mid pay a good rent.”
John Death felt in his pockets; he found nothing. Card laughed. Evidently the man had no money.
Death looked glum. But presently his face brightened, and he hurried into the churchyard and disappeared amongst the tombs.
“He be looking for money,” cried John Card.
Almost as he was speaking, Death returned.
“I have not, at the moment, any current coin to pay you with,” he said, “but if this gold ring will content you, so that I may have the cottage, you are welcome to whatever you can make of it.”
Death rubbed the ring on his coat, and handed it to Mr. Card.
“Thee didn’t steal ’en, I hope?” asked Card suspiciously, taking the ring into his hand—it looked a valuable one—and holding it tightly.
“Oh no,” answered Death carelessly, “it’s mine if it’s any one’s, though once I think it belonged to a Lady Bullman; but you must know that I have often to act as a residuary legatee.”
“What be ’en worth?” asked John Card, looking greedily at the ring.
“Enough to buy more than you can drink in a month, though you open your mouth never so widely,” replied Death.
Mr. Card edged himself away. He was afraid that his tenant might ask for the ring again, and he wished to get off quietly. He walked softly to the horse, that began to move, and without saying good-bye to the company he started his journey, leaving the cottage open for Death.
The arrival of John Death and the departure of Card had been watched with interest by the neighbours. Every one had noticed the discomfiture of the stranger when he felt in his pockets and found nothing, and wondered why it was he had run in such a hurry into the churchyard, returned again so quickly, and received the cottage key in exchange for something that he handed to his landlord.
Even Mrs. Moggs, who sold notepaper and clothes-pegs as well as ink at the little shop, moved a window-flower so that she could have a better view of what was happening. She noticed that Mr. Card never looked back once when he left the village.
As soon as Card was gone, John Death entered into possession. He locked the cottage door and put the key into his pocket. He then bid good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Hayhoe, and started off at a brisk pace toward Merly Wood.
Mr. Hayhoe looked at his wife a little wonderingly.
“He is a strange man,” he said. “He went off in a hurry.”
“He is a mower,” replied Mrs. Hayhoe, “and has left his scythe behind him in a wood, where I suppose he spent the night. Perhaps he comes from Ireland?”
“He will be the more welcome in Heaven,” replied Mr. Hayhoe, smiling. “But come, my dear, we will go to the Vicarage, and choose a bedroom from which we can see Tommy’s grave.”
IX
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Joseph Bridle
Mr. Joseph Bridle was often in difficulties. He could not help himself; the fates were against him.
If a cow slipped its calf or broke a leg, it was Joe’s. If the wireworm were hungry and wished for a dinner, they ate the green shoots off Mr. Bridle’s young corn. If a milk-dealer or a corn-merchant went bankrupt, it was always the one who owed Joe Bridle money. His uncle had robbed him. He was Farmer Bridle of Shelton—a very ill-tempered man—who kept for himself certain monies that had been left to his nephew, Joe. When asked for them, Mr. Bridle replied that his man, Tapper, had stolen them. This, Joe could hardly believe. When he left the house, after asking for his money, he had heard his uncle wish him to Hell.
But, for all his disappointment, Joe returned happily enough to his cottage and forgot about the money. And after tea he took out his knife, found a piece of wood, and cut out a large toad for a Noah’s Ark, with a head like his uncle’s.
Joe had a friendly disposition; he disliked fighting. If a champion in a grand cause had to be chosen, no one would have thought of choosing Joe Bridle. He preferred to enjoy himself in other ways. In drink or riot he saw no pleasure; he preferred to watch the tadpoles in his pond. He was the kind of man who could be merry for nothing; he could also be serious. His looks were reliable, he wore a moustache, had the kindest of eyes, and could cut anything out of a block of wood—except Dodder church.
Often the greatest misfortune that a poor man can have is to look rich. This was another trouble for Joseph. If a man looks well-to-do, yet has nothing, he is the more tormented.
If anything was needed at Dodder—if a subscription was required—Mr. Bridle was always the first to be asked to give. He was always at home, always easy to find, and never tried to hide out of the way. No tramp passed by his gate without going in, and though no beggar would call at rich Mr. Mere’s or Miser Dawe’s, yet all in want visited Bridle.
Joe liked conversation, and so every one would speak to him and hinder his work, so that at times—when he met many on his way to the down—he would never get there at all. Joseph enjoyed a glass—though he rarely took one, because his pockets were nearly always empty—he could sing a song and tell a merry story as well as another.
If any stranger saw him leaning over the little bridge that led to his field and watching the water that flowed under, he regarded him as a friendly man from whom he might inquire the nearest way to Maidenbridge. And be told no lie.
He would do any one a good turn, though without thinking the better of himself for doing it. He dug Mrs. Moggs’s garden for nothing, only because she claimed him as a distant relation—through Adam. He admired Madder Hill, and lived to be happy. That was Joseph.
But perhaps Bridle was too simple. There was nothing unpleasant about him, and so he did not get on. He had no real eye to his own advantage; he merely worked. He might have done better—so the people said in Dodder—if he kept more pigs, sold milk instead of butter, and harnessed his aunt to the plough, instead of a horse.
But, even with these omissions, Joseph Bridle succeeded well enough in being merry, until one day. That one day comes to all; before then the river of life flows smoothly, and all is well.
Then the change comes. The first change—the forerunner of Death—is Love. When the sun of Love rises, and a man walks in its glory, he may be sure that a shadow approaches him—Death.
Love creates and separates; Death destroys and heals. A dead thistle-stalk, a fallen ash-leaf are the same thing. Man, alone, is separate and different from nature. Love has bewitched, bewildered him. Love comes up in the dark, and, before a man knows what has happened, he is pricked by an arrow. That stab is a sign. The man will soon sleep again in an unknowing consciousness: he will die. He will be like the thistle-stalk and the dead leaf. Let the young years be long, there is no trouble in them, let them last: “Be thou as little children.”
But to be so is not easy. The day comes, the mine explodes, the man is blinded, Joe Bridle loves.
At first the fierce explosion took him off his feet and cast him into the sun. Then he fell headlong. Where there had been quiet and content, all was become unrest, longing, and a burning fire. An altar had been set up, and Bridle was the victim. Love held the knife to his throat.
He believed, his feelings were true, he was confident in his power.
No sooner did he love Susie than he felt her presence always near to him. She was his spouse, his fair one, and from her he knew he could never be parted. His love for her could not be defeated, nor turned into any other channel.
The breath of longing that burned so hot in him must draw her with the power of that longing to him. She was a young creature—lively—a being of flesh that wished and desired, and her flesh covered the heart of a woman, glad and faithful. God had planned her out, He had made her a wanting thing, an eager wish, a soft hope. She was something that wished to receive, in order that she might give again in full measure.
When Joseph was cast up into the sun, he caught a-fire. That fire became h
is heart, and burned with furious joy. His heart—that was well alight—set fire to all that he did.
At first he was riotous, a spendthrift of his days. His joy leaped and danced with him; he hardly trod upon the earth; he walked the hills with disdain. His Aunt Sarah looked at him with terror; the light in his eyes frightened her, and she began to fear him.
She was but a tame beast: he looked wild. Was he changed? Would he devour her? Was he hungry? And she was more careful than ever to cook plenty of food for him.
Where things had been ordinary, Joe saw now only wonders. A heart that lives in the fields remains very youthful. No day now was too long for him. The hours passed curiously; they were coloured hours, and made music; they seemed to kiss with a woman’s lips as they went by. Where there had only been a mild pale light—enough to show a man the way to do his common tasks—there now burnt a fierce radiance. Joe Bridle breathed deep. He was like a runner in a race, where every movement spurs him to stronger exertion. He must win—no idea of defeat could enter his head.
And so Bridle lived for the first days of his new being, but gradually more sober thoughts conquered his early outbreak of the fever of love. He settled down again to work; everything that needed doing upon his small farm, that he did. He rose early and performed all his tasks with vigour; he worked late and nothing seemed too hard for him to do.
He had fine hopes about his one good meadow; perhaps this meadow would provide him with the means to marry Susie. There was nothing he had that he would not part with for the sake of her. He might even sell the first cut of the field grass, and later the field itself. For, when he married Susie, his own hands and her loving care would see that they did not want.