by T. F. Powys
He knew that Joseph Bridle’s field was very deceptive. It looked smaller than it was. It had a bad reputation. No one had ever been lucky enough to mow that field without striking his scythe against a hidden stone, and once, in cutting round the edge of the pond, a certain Jack Foy had fallen in and been drowned dead.
Some people said that the field was the Devil’s because it had three corners; others affirmed that it was God’s—for the same reason. But anyhow, from the strange undulations in the field and its three-cornered appearance, it was a difficult matter to estimate its right size in acres, roods, and perches.
Mr. Mere always set to work to overreach a man by the same method. He knew that a drunken fellow often agrees to a deal that is very much to his own disadvantage.
When Mr. Mere wished to impose upon a workman, he invited him to Mr. Titball’s Inn and made him drunk.
At a proper rate of wage Joseph Bridle’s field was worth four pounds to cut. Mr. Mere had decided to give only two. In order to make any man drunk enough to agree to anything, Mr. Mere was usually compelled to spend five shillings, but even after that was taken away, he could still defraud Death of a good sum.
As he walked to the Inn Mr. Mere had felt in a merry mood. His wedding day approached, and he was sure that he would then have Susie Dawe utterly in his power to treat as he chose. He was conscious, too, as he walked, of being unusually thirsty. The day had been sultry; strange and ominous clouds had hung over Dodder, and seen through them, the sun looked like blood. And even when the mist that partly hid the sun had drifted away, a black and sombre cloud remained stationary upon Madder Hill.
At the Inn Mr. Mere had found Huddy, Dillar, and Mr. Dady. The men were unusually gloomy. It was a day for drunkenness, and they knew it. The heavy cloud that had pressed upon Madder Hill lay heavy upon them too. The only escape from that cloud was in drunkenness. Unless that great revival of spirits—which comes by deep draughts—came to them, they would be betrayed.
But the money that each possessed was hardly enough to make them even merry, and only wholesale drunkenness would suit their case.
But though they had not the means to drink to excess, a former neighbour of theirs—John Card—was more fortunate. The knowledge of his good luck caused them to be more gloomy than ever. It was said that, since John had let his cottage at Dodder to Death, he had been able every night to get tipsy under the proper guardianship of Mr. Toole, the innkeeper of Tadnol.
Death had paid his rent in certain old valuables. From what he gave to Card, it seemed probable that he had discovered a vast treasure. He paid his rent in bangles, necklets, earrings, and rings of old gold. And the more he gave, the higher rent did Card demand.
When Card was drunk, he boasted of his good fortune, and every one wondered where the hidden treasure was found. Whoever came upon a lonely stone in a field would lift it up to see what was underneath. Mrs. Moggs leaned down so far into the well to try to see what was at the bottom that she nearly overbalanced, and had not Joseph Bridle come by at the time and caught hold of her skirts, she would certainly have fallen in and been drowned. More than one had gone at twilight—when they supposed no one to be about—to search in the churchyard, but nothing had ever been found.
Only one man made a mock of their folly—James Dawe; but he now-a-days was often to be seen beside Bridle’s field gate, as if to watch who went in there.
Although this evening some of his customers were a little low in tone, yet Mr. Titball himself was extremely elated. He had received a visit during the morning from Lord Bullman. Mr. Titball was entirely overcome by such an honour. Lord Bullman had even sat down upon a parlour chair. After saying a word or two about the utter shamelessness of a certain red fox who had run off with a peahen from the grand gardens, and then observing that the weather was warm, Lord Bullman softly drew Mr. Titball aside. After seeing that the door was shut, Lord Bullman asked Mr. Titball, in a low tone, about a treasure that had of late, he believed, been discovered at Dodder.
“Folk do say,” replied the landlord, in a loud whisper, “that ’tis all found in the churchyard.”
Lord Bullman had called for a lemonade.…
Mr. Titball took the glass from the mantelpiece and showed it to the company.
“My lord then inquired,” said Mr. Titball, speaking proudly, “whether the clergyman here, Mr. Francis Hayhoe, was orthodox.”
“And what did thee say to that, landlord?” asked Mr. Dady, looking gloomily around for a fly to kill.
“I did say,” answered Mr. Titball, “that Mr. Hayhoe visits Daisy Huddy.”
“And what did his Lordship reply?” asked Mr. Dillar.
“He must certainly have been pleased to hear it,” observed Mr. Dady, who had found a fly, “for ’tis they orthodox ways that fine gentlemen, who do live in great houses, do fancy the most. ’Tain’t no playday with them to visit a woman, for where food be plentiful, ’tis real work that be done.”
“I fear that you have not understood my lord,” said Mr. Titball, who did not altogether approve of the matter in Mr. Dady’s observation. “He merely wished to know whether Mr. Hayhoe revered and respected the constitution of his native country.”
“And what did you say to him?” asked John Death, who now joined the conversation.
“I replied that Mr. Hayhoe was married,” answered the landlord.
“And Lord Bullman spoke further, did he not?” inquired John.
“He did,” replied the landlord, “for he said, or rather swore”—Mr. Titball blushed—“that Mr. Hayhoe could have the living if he assisted him in bringing back again an ancient and kindly law, that had fallen out of use in these degenerate days.”
“’Tain’t no hanging law I do hope,” asked Mr. Huddy, anxiously.
“No, only a bedding one,” answered Mr. Titball, softly. “My lord did say,” he continued, “that as the hunting season was over, and he had nothing better to do, he had occupied some of his valuable time in reading English history—that was of course chiefly concerned with the doings of his own ancestors. ‘In those far-off feudal times’—these are my lord’s own words—‘there were many sound and just laws that have never yet been repealed, and one of them—the “droit de seigneur”—should certainly be revived.’”
“And what mid thik be?” inquired Mr. Dillar.
“The right of the lord of the manor,” exclaimed Mr. Titball, “to bed each betrothed virgin the night before she is married. And the Church, my lord said, was benefited by fees as well as propagated in perpetuity by such nice doings. And, as soon as my lord obtains the blessing of the Bishop and the assistance of Mr. Hayhoe, he intends to make a beginning when a lawful occasion comes.”
“With whom?” enquired Mr. Dady, who wished, for the first time in his life, that he were a lord.
“With the next bride,” answered Mr. Titball.
Dillar and Huddy laughed loudly.
“There bain’t nothing told,” inquired Mr. Dady eagerly, when the laughter that had become general was subsided, “about the rights of a poor dairyman, in that written law? For, though a young bride be the proper cream and butter for a nobleman’s bed, yet surely, a clause in the law must direct that no poor working-man should be left out? All women bain’t going to be married, but bain’t there nothing said about Widow Hockey who do live at Shelton?”
“Nothing at all,” answered Mr. Titball, sternly.
“But,” asked Mr. Mere, “is there no mention in this law about a proper payment due to the husband, when my lord has been the first to consummate?”
“He is awarded a kingly decoration,” answered John Death.
Mr. Mere looked sharply at John, who appeared to know more than he thought he did. The farmer began to fear that he might have to spend more than five shillings in making him tipsy. He began to ply John with rum, and drank himself, too, to keep him company.
Many a man had entered the Inn in Mr. Mere’s company, intending not to be robbed of his rights, but as time went on, the cunning farmer would get the better of this intention, and the man would withdraw from the Inn, having agreed to the lowest terms for the work.
But now things were not quite the same. The money in Mr. Mere’s purse began to diminish, but Death appeared to be just as sober as when he first entered the tavern. To every two of John’s glasses, Farmer Mere had only drunk one, and yet he knew that he had spent near upon fifteen shillings. Had Mr. Mere, then, caught a dragon in the net that he had set for a tomtit?
Mr. Mere moved his chair closer to Death.
“For how much will you mow Joseph Bridle’s field?” he asked of him, “for I have bought the grass to carry off to my own barton?”
“For five pounds,” answered Death readily. “For that price I will cut the grass as close as a cropped grave.”
“Do you think me a fool,” cried Mere, in a rage, “to pay a strolling vagabond such a price as that for the cutting of a little field?”
Death touched Mr. Mere with his hand. Mere rose unsteadily, as if he wished to flee, but he soon sat down again and stared at John.
“You agree to my price?” asked John.
Mere nodded.
XXXVI
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The Best Liquor
The gloomy feeling that earlier in the evening had invaded the Bullman Arms now passed away. Those who had little or no money to spend bethought them that once or twice before a rich giver had entered the tavern, who was named Weston, and there was not one man who returned sober after his visit. And now, though they knew not why, Mr. Titball’s customers were aware that soon drink would come to them easily, and without payment.
A curious attraction drew the men closer to John Death, as though he were the one from whom a supreme good might at any moment come. John sat on a small stool and a circle was formed around him, for each peasant was aware that from him the peace of eternal intoxication could be had.
Having agreed with Mr. Mere to mow Joseph Bridle’s field for a price that old Huddy had whispered to him was a proper one, John Death—as a man will, who knows that he can earn good money—wished to be merry.
Although he was a fine leveller in his own trade—regarding all men in the same manner—yet John had always, as time went on, been able to separate good literature from indifferent work. And it was not only the writings, but the sayings of great men, that he liked to hear of. One of his favourites, who had spoken many shrewd words—and a man that Death had always liked, though the Doctor had not always liked him—was Samuel Johnson. Death now recollected one of the great lexicographer’s sayings, “A man is only happy when he is drunk.”
The time was now come, considered John, to prove the truth of this observation, and to initiate those present into the holy mystery. John, too, felt in himself the necessity for amusement, so that he might endeavour to forget his love for Susie Dawe, a love that—contrary to the accepted opinion of the Apostle Paul—instead of casting out fear, begot that very feeling in John’s heart.
John had never known fear before. But now it began to trouble him, for he feared that something or other might step in between him and Susie, so that he might never enjoy her.
He feared love.
A jest or two with Winnie had been but an innocent merriment, and he had shown Daisy that even lust can solace and be kind. He had cured Miss Bridle. But no joy had he found with Susie, he feared her power over him and wished to forget her. She had led him too far already into a land that he did not know—a land of milk and honey, where the night-sounds were soft, where doves cooed in the darkness, and where Sorrow wandered, weeping.
John Death called loudly for drink, and the order that he gave was so generous that Mr. Titball went to him with the question, that of all questions is the most important: “Who is to pay?”
Death took out of his pocket a handful of Roman money that bore on the one side the head of the goddess Roma, with her winged helmet, and on the other the two Dioscuri on horseback. They consisted of denarii and sestertii.
Mr. Titball took the money in his hand; he did not think it the right colour. Death smiled. He put his hand again into his pocket and filled it with gold coins, aurei, upon which was the head of Marcus Aurelius.
Mr. Titball seized the gold greedily. He knew that he held now the value in money that far exceeded all the drink that he had in the house.
While he looked at the coins the thick black cloud that had rested upon Madder Hill covered the Bullman Arms.
Each man drank heavily; they drank to Death. They had drunk healths before, but never such as this. They knew that they drank to a great king. The only king to whom a proper loyalty and worship should ever be rendered. All must bow low to him. All other lordship is as nothing to his. He alone is the supreme power, and what is the dust of a hundred generations to him? A little heap of ashes, a few bones—that is all.
Within the strange darkness of the black cloud that now filled the tavern parlour, a phosphorescent light emanated from the drinkers, that guided Landlord Titball to them to fill their cups. Every one laughed and drank. And strong liquor was needed to keep up the merriment, for each to each other looked curiously. They saw one another as cadavers.
Those who in life were ugly were worse now. Out of the rotting eye of Mr. Mere, a worm crawled, and yet the farmer drank each cup with renewed relish. Old Huddy raised his mug to his lips that were but blackened gums, and drank to Death, who eases every labourer’s task, laying him down in a bed from whence no farm cock can hurry him at dawn. Landlord Titball, moving in a ghastly manner, had the appearance of a ten years’ burial, that filled the cups dexterously with mouldy hands. Mr. Dady looked even more horrible. The flies that he had liked so much to kill had become alive again—as all flies will in Hell—and had bred maggots in his body. Mr. Dady was a loathsome corpse, and yet he drank freely to Death. Dillar would have laughed, as, holding back his head, he poured the last drop of Mr. Titball’s brandy down his throat, but he could not laugh, for his jaw was fallen and stiff.
John Death drank carelessly. In such company as was about him, Susie might easily be forgotten. What was a mortal girl to him? Her fair body, her woman’s breasts, all her sweet presence, did they come now, would get another semblance. The cold look of her, wasting apace in a grave, was indeed likely to cure every one of love—except Death.
Death raised his cup and drank to Susie.…
He finished the last cup of liquor in Mr. Titball’s cellar. But, raising his hand, by his almighty power the tavern parlour was changed. It became the vault of the Bullman family, that was under the Dodder church. The parlour table was a leaden coffin, and now, instead of Mr. Titball drawing the drink, Death was the tapster. The cups were empty skulls.
One member of the Bullman family had, in very olden times, made excellent verses. It was to his coffin that John Death applied a gimlet. The rich red wine ran free. The cups were filled so fast that John hardly needed a little bone that he had found to check the flow. Death had gone to work knowingly; he had tapped the right corpse. Beauty is eternal; he drew wine that flows for ever.
Death had opened an immortal flagon—a spring of true poesy.…
As suddenly as the darkness had come, so the light came again.
And when they awoke out of their drunken sleep, the Dodder peasants found themselves sprawling in odd attitudes upon the parlour floor. They awoke gloomily, for although at the first when they had begun their drinking all had been well with them, the last cups had been sad. While they had drunk from Mr. Titball’s cellar, a fine vision had opened to them. They saw what they liked. Women, easy to come at; winter faggots, piled up high; enormous gammons; hogsheads of ale. But the last wine had made them sad and sent them to sleep, for they had followed the flight of a golden bird, whose so
ng they could not understand.
Landlord Titball was the first to rouse himself. He went to the Inn door, and looked out. It was still evening.
Mr. Titball looked in the direction of the churchyard, that was easy to be seen from the Inn. What he saw there sobered him a little, and in order to stand quite steadily, he recited all the children’s names of the Bullman family and, in addition to these, a score or two more that he hoped would come.
Finding that with this exercise he could walk without toppling, Mr. Titball called to the other revellers, who staggered to the Inn door to see what was doing. All Dodder looked still and happy. The swallows were safe in their nests, that were most of them under the eaves of Joseph Bridle’s cottage, and the soft light from the sun that was already set, covered the fields. Peace was there. Only in one place, where the greatest quiet should have reigned, there was noise and clamour.
Lord Bullman, his chief whip, his huntsmen and hounds were in the churchyard. The dogs were snuffing in every corner, scenting amongst the graves, and pushing aside the flowers to see what was there, while Lord Bullman encouraged them in the proper huntsman’s manner. He appeared to be in excellent spirits, and as the grave-mounds were not five-barred gates, he jumped some of them,
One grave-mound he leaped out of pure good-nature. This was the grave of William Jones—a former huntsman at the Hall—and my lord jumped it to please the poor man below.
A simple story had brought my lord there. His mother, the aged Dowager, had told him that a good foxhound can smell out treasure as well as scent vermin. No sooner did he hear this than he brought all his pack into the Dodder churchyard.
As the manor of Dodder was his, he had a right to what was buried. He galloped to a corner of the churchyard where the hounds were busy. They nosed excitedly amongst the dock-leaves, and at last unearthed an infant skull. This skull Mr. Pix examined, and informed the company that, from a mark he saw in its forehead, the skull had once belonged to an unbaptized bastard. The dogs crunched it up.