by T. F. Powys
Before he came to the Dodder tavern, Mr. Titball had been, for many years, in service with Lord Bullman as butler, and from his nearness to so great a man he had come to regard my lord as an equal to—or even greater than—God Almighty.
Mr. Titball had served Lord Bullman so long and so faithfully that, as a reward for his service, when he left the Hall, Lord Bullman presented him with a second-hand picture-book, together with the second housemaid.
Mr. Titball married the one, and admired the other.
At the Bullman Arms, he always kept his wife in the kitchen and the picture-book in the parlour. He was ashamed of his wife, and for this reason. It had been Mary’s privilege to make my lord and my lady’s bed, but once the housekeeper discovered that she had not turned the mattress in my lord’s room—and so, in Mr. Titball’s opinion, she was shamed for ever.
Mr. Titball considered his wife to be a common slut, a mere drudge, a betrayer of her former master.
The picture-book was different. It contained all the houses of the great, beginning with Arundel Castle, and ending with the king’s residence in Norfolk. Exactly in the middle, where a large marker taken from a family Bible had been placed, was a fine picture of West Dodder Hall.
As soon as Mr. Solly was settled in his place, Mr. Titball, treading noiselessly, took the book in his hands, carried it to Solly—as if it were an infant—and placed it gently upon his knees.
Mr. Solly, who did not know the ways of the place, and felt the book a weighty burden, rose quietly and returned it to the table from whence it had been taken. Mr. Titball who, even with his back turned, noticed everything, saw what Solly had done.
The landlord was a stout little man, with a mottled complexion and a fiery eye; he could forgive everything in the world except an insult to his former master. He had thought his wife a slut, and now he believed that Solly was an atheist, and so he brought him the worst gin—for he considered that only those who opened and enjoyed his fine book deserved the best.
Though Mr. Titball’s book did not interest Solly, he liked the smell of Mr. Titball’s parlour. Smells change according to the seasons indoors as well as out-of-doors. Each visitor who enters an inn brings with him an odour from outside. About Mr. Huddy there was always the scent of damp clay, together with the smell that comes out of the ground when the furrow is newly turned. Dillar stank of the stable and Mr. Dady of cow dung, and by such mixtures did the Dodder Inn parlour get its summer scent.
Mr. Solly sipped his gin and decided that he preferred cows to horses. No one heeded his presence. He had chosen a corner to sit in that was rarely occupied by any one, unless it were Tinker Jar, who used sometimes to enter the inn to drink a pint of sixes.
Mr. Solly might as well have been Jar for all the notice that was taken of him.
Presently the tavern door opened and Mr. Mere appeared, and took the chief seat upon a stool that was only left for the gentry.
Mr. Mere spoke to Dady. He asked whether a cow that was being fattened was ready for the butcher. He needed money, he said, for a new purchase.
“I have bought Joe Bridle’s grass,” he said, “to cut and to carry. The grass is growing thick and green, and ’twill make a fine stack.”
“Master be the woon for a bargain,” cried out Dillar.
“The field is a strange one,” observed Mr. Mere thoughtfully. “Besides the pond and the elm tree, there are mounds here and there, and deep hidden places that prevent a haycutter from being used. When the grass grows a little more, I must hire a mower for it.”
“’Tis said that Bridle is a bankrupt,” observed the landlord, who filled Mr. Mere’s glass. “I trust that he does not owe anything to my lord, who has not bought a pipe of port wine since I lived at the Hall. And who deserves more wine than he?”
“If ’twere beer,” said Mr. Dillar, with a wink, “’tis I who deserve it.”
Mr. Titball frowned; the joke was ill-timed.
“Folk do say,” remarked Mr. Dillar, thinking it best to change the subject, “that Joe Bridle be the one to want money, and maybe ’e have a mind to a furry doe-rabbit to keep company wi’ wold camel in ’s house.”
“’Tis a rabbit that others do want as well as he,” said Mr. Dady, looking at Mere.
“Master be a knowing one,” cried old Huddy. “’E do like to take all; ’e be the one to fancy folk’s fields and houses, and where a pretty maid be, there will Mr. Mere be also.” Mr. Huddy was the church clerk.
Dillar grinned. All wished to please Mere and to minister to his wants. Mr. Dady sat near to the inn window; he liked that place best because he could enjoy himself there, killing flies.
Thus he enjoyed life; for by killing he always obtained pleasure, sometimes profit. Whenever he killed a pig—though it was Mr. Mere’s—he was always able to get something for himself. Besides meat in an animal, there is blood, and Mr. Dady liked a blood pudding.
Mr. Dady believed in art—the art of killing. He liked to kill slowly. He would approach a fly, with his thumb going nearer and yet nearer, and the fly supposed that all was well. Then Mr. Dady would squeeze the insect against the pane.
When he had killed all the flies that were there, Mr. Dady happened to notice James Dawe, leaning against the bank, near to the inn. Dawe appeared to be there for no purpose other than to look at the inn signboard that was in front of him.
Though he seemed to rest so innocently amongst the daisies, all Dodder knew why he was there. He was a merchant who waited. When Mr. Dawe waited like that, all knew that he had something to sell.
That was his gait, his manner, when he had goods to part with. Even when his wife was alive, he offered to sell her in the same way. He would wait until a man spoke to him, and then, after speaking of the weather, he would talk of women.
“In these lean times, a poor farmer do want a bit of fun,” he would observe. “And there be something at home to please ’ee.”
Mr. Dawe was a cunning one; he never spoke first, but he liked to hear what was being said. Village tales that had no meaning to others had a meaning to him.
Mr. Dawe was a man who looked underneath appearances.
XVIII
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A Tale Told to Mr. Dawe
Even the most unfriendly people are fond of something. Mr. Mere of the Dodder Manor Farm was fond of his dog. His dog’s name was Tom. He was a great shaggy brute, half lurcher and half wolf-hound.
Tom was extremely fierce. There were many stories told about Mr. Mere’s dog, and one of them particularly interested James Dawe. This story was about something that happened in the fields. The shepherd had told of it.
While the lambs were being tailed and castrated, one of them—a ewe—whose tail had not yet been cut off, escaped from the fold and galloped away. Mr. Mere, leaving the shepherd to go on with his work, followed the lamb with his dog.
Sport is kingly; a great many people of quality enjoy it, besides numbers of the lower orders. A fine gentleman, who has all that he can need for this world and the next, will walk out in peculiar clothes, to kill a little fluffy rabbit. Why should not Mr. Mere enjoy a little fun, too? He liked young meat.
He drove the lamb into a corner and set his dog to worry it.
Once having learned to be amused, a man may be amused at everything. There are people who shake with laughter when they see a coffin. Others will laugh at the most horrible cruelty. They point out the fun. To hunt is a pretty pastime. Set fire to the bushes, see the burnt rabbits run, set the dogs at them.
The lamb Mr. Mere was after was soon caught. Tom was in a merry mood, Mere was delighted. When the dog began to bite and torment the lamb, he was yet more pleased. The shepherd, even, left his work, came nearer and watched. A man can do what he likes with his own.
The story reached James Dawe. It was the sort of tale that he liked to hear; i
t gave him food for reflection. Here was rich Mr. Mere—a man who never missed the chance to gain a penny—willing to see, and even aiding in the destruction of one of his own lambs—a ewe. Dawe became thoughtful. Perhaps what his dog did, Mr. Mere might wish to do, too. And even the meanest of men will sometimes like to pay for their pleasures. There were other tales, too, to hear.
When the farmer went to the down upon a Sunday, he would sometimes set his dog at the children. Mr. Mere saw a difference between the Dodder brats; some were boys, some girls. And ’twas the girls that he sent Tom after. Even when she played upon the green, Winnie Huddy often had to run for her life, and sometimes left a piece of her frock in Tom’s mouth.
Mr. Dawe liked such stories.
Once he had overheard Mere call Susie “a little bitch,” which, though a compliment from a man of Mere’s merit, might be misunderstood by the vulgar.
James Dawe knew that the way to get what one wants in this world, is always to sift, as it comes in, the chaff from the true corn. All goodness that he heard of, he quickly forgot; in such things he saw no profit for himself. Only by famine, pestilence, and war do people grow rich.
Evil doings are a rich field for gain; out of pitifulness and loving-kindness nothing can be got.
Mr. Dawe thought the matter out. He opined that Mr. Mere set his dog at a prey that he wished to bite himself. Even though his dog’s teeth had gnawed the lamb, Mere had what remained of it roasted for his dinner.
Mr. Mere had old-fashioned table manners. When the woman who cooked for him was out of the way, he would growl savagely like a brute beast, and then begin to tear the meat apart with his nails, as well as his teeth. But what of that? Children, who follow the hounds to the death, have to be blooded, and why should not Mr. Mere enjoy blood as well as little Jessica Bullman?…
As soon as Mr. Mere heard that James Dawe was outside, he sent Mr. Titball out to call him in. He wished to talk with him, he said, and to give him something to drink.
James Dawe crept lowlily into the inn. His scent came with him. He entered crouchingly, as though the door were very low. But his eyes looked craftily as he entered, and the first thing that he saw was a halfpenny under the table.
He stooped a little lower and picked up the coin. Then he looked up and showed his face that was covered with soft, dirty hair. His little blinking eyes—full of cunning—looked at the company. His wish was to put the money that he had found into his pocket—without being noticed.
He cursed Solly, who alone saw what he did. Dawe did not like Solly any better than he liked Bridle; he hated the pair of them. For a man to go about calling a kind of saleable goods merely parsnips might lower prices.
To lower the price of anything—except what he wished to buy himself—was, according to Mr. Dawe, a sin against the Holy Ghost. Why then was not Solly sent to Hell, together with his nut-trees? Dawe wished him burnt.
After putting the coin he had found into his pocket, James Dawe moved towards Mr. Mere.
So a jackal might have gone to a hyena, willing to become friends—until a carcass is found.
Mere called for some drink, and Dawe watched what was put into his glass. Mr. Titball began to talk—Mere had treated the landlord, too—and at once began to drink to all the sons and daughters of Lord Bullman, as though they were the children of the king. He drank to each and every one of them. “Percy!” he called out, “Mona, Rupert, Jessica, Dorothea, Edward, Monica!
“I know them all, even the baby,” cried Mr. Titball. He drank to each three times. “An’ ’tis a strange coincident,” he said, with a low bow, “that at the Hall, every child’s birthday comes in August.”
“I do know why that be,” said Mr. Dady who, having a large family, was interested in birthdays. “’Tis they Christmas doings that be all the mischief. ’Tis the time of year that be to blame.”
Mr. Dady quickly killed another fly.
“In they merry times,” he observed, looking admiringly at the fly, “married folk be forgetful, and the nights be long. ’Tain’t always the beer neither—a cold night do need warm work. And many a poor toad be born in consequence of a snowstorm.”
Solly wished to hear all that was said. Mr. Mere and James Dawe were beginning to talk together in low tones. Solly appeared to be interested in Dawe’s boots; he moved nearer to them.
Greed and Malice, together with unholy Lust, make a pretty trinity. One the Son, one the Father, and one the Spirit. To count by three is in the fashion.
Solly looked at Dawe’s boots. They were hobnailed, and the upper leather was dry and warped. They looked as though they had been picked up out of some ditch, thrown off, perhaps, by a drunken fellow who thought he was an angel in heaven and had no need of them.
Mere opened his mouth to speak, and showed two ugly teeth.
Those who hunt heed only one thing. Summer days and winter days are alike to them. Mountains and valleys are the same. All cities and all country places provide a like sport. In darkness or in light they seek the same—the prey to devour.
In every gesture of Mr. Mere’s, there was the certainty that he could never be overreached. Each word of James Dawe’s was as subtle as a serpent’s glide. Greed drew near to Cunning, and Mischief winked.
Those who play with loaded dice know who will win. Good is easy to destroy, but evil has as many lives as a cat. Trample it down upon one side, and it will grow up upon the other. It was said by one man that it is best to let evil grow together with good and wait until the harvest time comes, until both are reaped together and gathered into the barn. Then a sifting will begin.
In every sack of seed that comes from the great storehouse, there is a mixture of good corn and bad. Only a white dove can tell the difference, and that dove is always being caught and killed by an old cat—God.
In the Bullman Arms James Dawe talked close. He was explaining what he had to sell, in natural words; he was telling in detail exactly what his girl was like. He appeared to know all about her. He described the roundness of her form, her young breasts, the pleasing look of her naked body, her hair—all. James Dawe was a good salesman; he left nothing out, and the words that he used were common and ordinary.
A good seller need be no poet, in order to dispose of what he has in stock. James Dawe was no polite talker; he did not trouble himself to say that “beauty is a joy for ever,” nor did he say, “there is a garden in her face, where roses and white lilies blow.” He said other things than that.
“She be an idle lambkin,” he told Mr. Mere, “an innocent chit, a foolish maid, who could give a man some pretty sport.”
Then he began to whisper. Solly drew words from their lips.
They shook hands. They must have come to some kind of agreement. Mr. Mere called for more drink.
XIX
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Mr. Dawe Names His Price
To drink one opens one’s mouth. When the drink is swallowed, the tongue is loosened. After taking more liquor, James Dawe and Mr. Mere unthinkingly raised their voices.
Though they seemed to have come to terms, there was much yet to arrange and, having once agreed together—kite and crow—they did not care so much who heard what they said.
So far, Mr. Solly had been the only one to hear, but now the others listened. No one likes to be left outside some merry parlour talk. From a word or two spoken by Mere, Mr. Dady caught the drift of their conversation.
This was not hard to follow when once the key was given. A laugh, or a look even, will disclose the secret. There is a kind of smile that a man uses sometimes, that tells what he is thinking of. There are also a man’s eyes that betray him.
Mr. Titball had just drunk the health of the Dowager Lady Bullman and her cat, Tib, when Dady and Tom Huddy cried out together, “’Tis Susie they be telling of! ’Tis a small furred coney; they do say she be to fondle and t
o kiss. And she bain’t got no mother to tell she what to do wi’ they men!”
All laughed, and Farmer Mere laughed the loudest.
After this was said, there was no need to whisper. Whatever woman is named at an inn is the common property of all. Mere was not the one to be ashamed. He knew the law—money. He had a right to his bargain. Most of those in the room were his servants, and now Shepherd Brine—a silent man—came in too. If Dawe asked too much for his goods, Mere was sure that the company would side with him in beating the miser down.
“And the price?” shouted Mr. Mere. “What price be she to do with as I choose?”
James Dawe blinked and shook his head. All at once he seemed to become a different being. Only a few moments before, he was saying, with glee, how Susie might hold back a little from the marriage encounter, and how merry Mere could be with her then. Now James Dawe became a cautious parent.
“’Tis me poor young maid,” he observed, turning to Dady, “that ’e do want to marry, but she be but a tender chick to give to an old man. He bain’t always kind neither, bain’t farmer; ’is breath do stink, and maiden be faint-hearted at night-time. She do hide out of the way when a bull do bellow. No father do like ’is small girl to be hurt, and wedded ways bain’t all orange-blossom. ’Tis a weak young child to be put to bed to an old man, neighbours.”
“Tell me the price,” shouted Mere angrily, whose lusts had been more than ever inflamed by Mr. Dawe’s quiet talk.
“Name a price for the girl!”
“Oh, don’t ’ee talk so fierce,” replied Mr. Dawe, “for I be feared thee mid do harm to the poor maid. ’Tain’t much that I do ask in exchange for all they beauties that me child do have.”
Mere raised his fist as though to strike.
“’Tis only Bridle’s field that I do ask in exchange for she,” said Dawe plaintively.