by T. F. Powys
No Dodder man notices a girl when another man is with her. Death approached Bridle, without looking at Susie.
Men meet to talk, and a woman who remains near to them—unless another of her sex is there too—is regarded as a listener to affairs that are not hers to hear. Joseph Bridle stepped a little out of the path, and John went with him, while Susie without saying a word—though walking more slowly than before—continued her way alone to Dodder.
When he met Bridle, John Death was surprised at his own feelings towards him. He wondered why he felt so strangely. Until he had taken his holiday, Death had never known the pains of jealousy. No one before had ever disputed his right to a victim. Even One father who might have done so, had not stood between Death and an Only son. Death had never had, in all his long life, any cause until now to be jealous. He had always thought this particular vice—as he saw it among the children of Adam—hard to understand.
In order to be jealous, he was aware that one first must love. But as men loved so rarely, their petty jealousies seemed as nothing to John.
Death had never before met a living rival. A new experience is not always a pleasant one, and though John had not spoken to Susie, nor yet hardly noticed her, he fancied by her appearance that Joe had plucked a fruit that he himself had wished to gather. He had husbanded many a girl in the way of his trade, but never had he longed for one as he now longed for Susie, nor had he ever before been thwarted in his desire by a plain man.
Jealousy breeds suspicion, and suspicion—rage. Death was angry with Joe; he also mistrusted him. If Joseph Bridle had plucked Susie away from him, why, then, he might have stolen something else of his, too.
John had not, so far—no, not for one moment—thought that Joseph Bridle had found his parchment and kept it from him, but now, having seen him with Susie, he saw him as a thief too. If a fight came of it, John Death knew that he must win. One who has always been a conqueror can never believe it possible that he should be defeated.
Such an unlikely chance never even entered his mind. With every living thing at his mercy—a small flea and the hugest star—Death was not likely to think that a mortal man could do much against him. Though he could not kill even the meanest without a command, yet the most lofty ones he could cut low. One thought of him—even the thought of his near presence—had often made the most mighty to quail. A hand, writing upon a palace wall, could make a great king tremble. And who was this Joseph Bridle to stand in his way?
Though Joe spoke to John in the ordinary manner that one countryman addresses to another, yet he evidently paid hardly any heed to him, only following with his eyes the departing figure of Susie, growing smaller in the distance until it quite vanished.
Joseph Bridle and John Death were now quite alone.
Up to this moment, Death’s occupation had been a humane one—if such a word may be used in this connexion—and his nature had always been kindly. He had never wished to pain, and, indeed, in his final embrace, as many suppose, he gives none, only performing what has to be done. And, as a faithful servant would, he fulfils the commands of his Lord, as quickly as the material worked upon allows.
But now an odd and almost human rage seized John. He longed to kill Bridle. He had not expected to see a fellow of his kind step across his path, and no doubt, he thought, had he been a little earlier, he would have seen a pretty pastime enacted. He ought to have hurried faster and have brought his scythe with him, and then he could have killed the two together, as Dady would have killed two clinging flies.
Ah! but the human holiday had made him think foolishly. For even Mr. Dady could not kill a fly with his thumb, unless some one, who walked now and again upon Madder Hill, knew of it. Neither could John Death kill his rival without a command.
Death looked grim. In the history of humankind, he knew that many a battle had occurred over a woman. Achilles cast a stone at Hector, and why should he not throw another at Joe Bridle?
Near to where the pair stood, there was a circle of grey rock. John Death seized one of these stones and cast it at Bridle. The stone struck him in the chest and threw him backwards, and Death followed up the blow with a fierce onslaught.
But, though the first blow took him a little aback, Joe Bridle was not altogether unprepared. A countryman is always ready to fight for the woman he loves, and Bridle had never expected to win so fine a prize as Susie without a battle or two. In one way he was rather glad to be attacked, for the suddenness and fierceness of the onslaught proved that John had not been so successful as he wished with his courting. They closed together in a strong embrace, and Death, though the older and smaller man of the two, gave Bridle a heavy fall.
Upon Madder Hill a man stood. This man watched the fight. The distance between Madder Hill and the lower down was not great, and from Madder Hill the two who were striving for mastery could easily be seen. The man upon Madder Hill was Mr. Jar, the tinker. Though no constant resident in those parts, he would often walk in that place because he liked the sweet air of the hill.
Mr. Jar spoke to Madder Hill—the hill groaned and thunder was heard. A cloud rose from the hill and moved towards the down.
Though Joe had been thrown, he soon rose and grappled his enemy again. They now appeared to be more equal in strength, and Bridle bent Death under him so that his ribs cracked. He would have laid him along in the grass—cast heavily—had not a singular thing occurred. While he was yet in Joseph’s grasp, Death fell asleep. But Joe supposed that he had killed him.
He laid him tenderly down. He had not intended to injure him. When Death was getting the better of him, Joe bethought him of the parchment in his bosom, and putting in his hand, he touched the signature. It was then that a groan came out of Madder Hill, and a cloud rose from it.
A shepherd in the Dodder Lane thought that the cloud had a strange aspect. It appeared to be more a presence than a cloud, and moved with arms outstretched. When the cloud covered the down, Death fell asleep.
John’s face was as pale now as Susie’s had been, and yet, though he lay so still, he merely slept. He was so happy in his sleep that he smiled like a babe, or as one would who, for the first time in his life, enjoys a surprising and delightful sensation. Within a few moments, however, he sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked at Bridle.
“You are not hurt, I hope?” asked Joe, “for I had no wish to use you too roughly.”
John Death smiled.
“Certainly,” he replied, “you gave me a very curious feeling when you were about to throw me down that last time, a feeling that I had never experienced before, and for a moment I thought that I was lying with my sister, whose name you must have heard of.”
“You fell asleep,” said Bridle.
“I thought that I did,” answered John, “but I never expected that a foolish wish for a mere girl would have led to such a consummation, and perhaps, had we continued the bout, I might have learned to sleep for ever. So complete a silence and so restful a contentment utterly overcame me. In those few moments a thousand years—all equally pleasing—might have passed over my head. All that I have ever been, all that I have ever done, became as nothing to me—I forgot my own name.”
“You slept very soundly,” said Bridle, “for when I took you up to see if I had hurt you, you breathed as gently as any little child who, falling asleep in its mother’s arms, is laid in the cradle.”
“You saw no one come near?” asked Death. “No cloud moving in a gentle silence came over us?”
“I thought there was a cloud,” replied Bridle, “that came from Madder Hill.”
Death sighed, and, rising from the grass, he began to walk with Joe Bridle towards Dodder.
“I think you must have seen,” inquired John Death, who was now quite at his ease with Joe, “the notice in Mrs. Moggs’s window, that she has put there to tell the people about my lost property? You have not found anything of mine, have you, in you
r field?”
“The field is mine no more,” answered Joseph, gloomily, “though I may for a few days more call it mine, yet it belongs now to Mr. Mere.”
“But perhaps you know,” asked Death, “where my parchment is?”
“And if I did,” replied Joseph, “I am no blabber of news, to tell another’s secret.”
“I believe I can compel you to tell me all that you know,” said Death in a low tone. “You will understand me better when I tell you that Susie Dawe loves me. Her love may be but a maid’s whim of a moment, but love me she does. She has already begged me to lie with her, and I am not the one to refuse a girl a wished-for embrace. But, even when I tell you this, you may yet think yourself sure of her, considering the wayward thoughts and the excitement of love. You may think, too, that it’s merely village tattle which says that she is soon to marry Mr. Mere, but I know better. She will marry him. And, even if you do prevent that, I have only to lift my little finger and she will come to me. And I can promise you, Joseph,” cried Death, laughing, “that I will not stay as near to her as you were this afternoon without an antic or two. But, ha! ha! I will send her off with a whisk, I will but slap her fine buttocks and order her to lie down to you instead of to me, if you do but tell me where my lost parchment is.”
“I trust my love,” answered Joe Bridle, calmly, “and though I know that Susie will laugh and talk with any one—and why should not a merry word be uttered by a girl?—I know her as mine own. She has but the happy manners of a young maid who feels the power of her beauty—she likes to tease too—but she will only yield herself to me because she knows I love her.”
“That’s a fine reason indeed for thinking a girl honest,” laughed Death, “and as to Miss Susie, she has certainly taken a strange fancy to my person and will also, before many days are gone, wed Mr. Mere and be bedded by him.”
“Never,” cried Joe Bridle, “that shall never happen.”
“And who are you, then?” asked Death with a sneer, “who can turn aside the hand of fate? Only One can do that.”
“I know it,” replied Bridle.…
Mr. Solly was collecting sticks upon Madder Hill. Winnie Huddy had informed him that she wasn’t going to do all the work of the house while he remained idle. “They idle ways bain’t proper for a man who be taking a wife,” she observed, “so thee best fetch in they sticks.”
Going round a large gorse-bush in search of dry dead wood, Mr. Solly came upon Tinker Jar. Solly, who had thought himself all alone, was surprised to see this man there. Mr. Jar sat upon the ground, his cloak was over his head, and he wept. Solly, who had always been a friend to sorrow and a companion to those who are acquainted with grief, inquired of Mr. Jar what was the matter.
“I fear, alas!” said Mr. Solly, compassionately, “that Love has found you out, as well as me.”
Mr. Jar nodded.
“Though Winnie is engaged, there is Daisy Huddy,” said Solly, innocently.
“I have done too much harm already,” answered Mr. Jar.
“He is thinking of his kettles,” thought Solly, and finding a few sticks, he hurried back to his house to tell Winnie whom he had seen.
XL
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Winnie Insulted
Very early, and long before any one stirred in Dodder, the sound of the swish of a scythe might have been heard—had there been any one abroad to listen—the morning after John Death and Joseph Bridle had wrestled together upon the down.
Before the first cock crowed, and before the hedgehog, who lived under some old faggots in the Vicarage garden, considered the time to be proper to run out and steal an egg for its breakfast, the field was mown.
There, in Bridle’s field, lay the grass and flowers, in sweet undulating swaths, yielding up a delicious scent into the air. Cool and pleasant to the touch, and still wet with the morning dew, reposed the mown grass of the field.
The task being completed, John Death lay down to rest himself where the grass was thickest, and could not but envy the lot of a simple countryman, to whom the early lark sings joyfully, and who labours ever where true beauty lives. Death considered how happily such a life can be spent; toilsome, yet free from many troubles that possess other vocations, for he that in the winter carries the dung into the fields does also in the summer-time rest a while from his labours amongst the lilies that grow in the valley.
Leaving the field before any one had seen him, John Death returned to his cottage and lay down upon his bed, enjoying the holy sweets of rest that come after honest toil.
Soon the sun rose hot, and each day that followed was as fine, so that within a week Mr. Mere carried the hay, and built of it a large stack in his own barton. When the hay was taken up every one noticed how closely Joseph’s field had been cut. So that no more fodder was likely to grow there during the time that Joe had yet the field in his possession.
This was certainly a disappointment to Bridle, who had hoped that, even when the grass was cut and carried, there might have been some food left for his beasts, so that they could have grown a little fatter before they too, like the field, had to be sold.
But the interest that was taken in Bridle’s hay being carried off by Mr. Mere was not the only matter that week that was spoken of. There was also the fine news to listen to and to communicate to others, that the gardens at West Dodder Hall would be thrown open to the public the next Sunday afternoon, being the day before Susie’s wedding with Mr. Mere.
To enable all to go to the Hall who wished—and even the little boy, Tommy Moggs, who blew the Dodder church organ—Mr. Hayhoe had agreed to hold only the morning service on that happy day, and other village duties—perhaps as important as evensong—were put off too.
Every one in Dodder looked forward to this fine treat. Nothing so splendid, and nothing that seemed to promise so happy an afternoon, had happened in recent years. Every one in Dodder knew the outside look of the grand gates of the Hall, upon either post of which a strange beast was carved. To enter these would indeed be perfect bliss, and to scent one’s handkerchief for such an occasion would be happiness to every young girl.
Mrs. Moggs had already begun to caution Winnie Huddy about her behaviour in the grounds.
“You mustn’t laugh there, you know,” said Mrs. Moggs.
“’Tain’t no church,” replied Winnie.
“Mr. Titball says it’s far holier,” replied Mrs. Moggs, impressively, “and a little girl may learn to follow good ways all her life if she does but copy the sparrows who live in those beautiful gardens.”
“They birds bain’t always good,” laughed Winnie, and ran out to play.
Death, who since he had mown Bridle’s field had found little to amuse him, heard the news that West Dodder Hall was to be open to the public, with very real pleasure.
Though he had been appointed sexton of Dodder, no one had died. That was one cause of disappointment. Another was that Winnie Huddy would not let him play with her as he used to do. When he asked her now to run races, or to jump the flowering thistles, she would reply in a matron-like manner that such frivolities did not become a young lady who was engaged to be married to Mr. Solly, and possess—for herself alone—all his nut-bushes.
Death, who was become somewhat self-conscious since his stay in Dodder, and not a little proud too, whereas before this visit he had always been very humble, was not at all pleased to be thus flouted by a child whom he had come to regard as his proper playmate. He had always supposed that to live as a human being was as easy as to die as one. Work and play was all he thought human life to be. His own doings in the past, having been strictly limited to his occupation, had led him to think that man was indeed a blessed being when compared with himself, and that when he and his mystery were invoked by a mortal, it was merely to close a scene that had been acted long enough.
Though humble, as
we may say, in his vocation, and taking no credit to himself for what he did, yet he had always had a little necessary pride in his personal attractions, and fancied that people often called him to them because they could not but admire his customary and courtly manner.
John Death came forth from his cottage, and Winnie Huddy skipped up to him. Winnie showed him, with the greatest pride, a sixpenny ring that she wore on her engagement finger. Mr. Solly had given it to her.
“Oh, Johnnie,” she cried, “you would never believe what fine things Mr. Solly has in his house, and they will all be mine when we are married. There’s a cabinet filled with silver and gold, and a drawer full of shells, and a real pearl necklace that he hangs round my neck sometimes, to see how pretty I look when I wear it.”
Death did not reply; he caught Winnie up in his arms and carried her along the street and into the churchyard. When she saw where he was taking her to, she asked to be put down. This simple request she expected him—for she thought he had only taken her up as a joke—to obey at once. She had but anticipated a little play. Between play and danger there is no gulf fixed, but even a little child, as simple as Mr. Wordsworth’s Lucy, knows well enough when matters grow queer.
Winnie gave a sudden kick. But Death held her firm, and pressing his hand over her mouth so that she should not scream, bore her further into the churchyard.
Though he had covered her mouth he had left her hands free, and as he carried her under the green branches of the great yew, he felt a sharp stab in his leg, like a wasp’s sting, and let her drop. Winnie, who had not liked her situation, had detached a pin from her clothes and pricked him dexterously.
No sooner had Death dropped Winnie than she danced rather than ran to a tombstone nearby, and mocked him. Death looked at her gloomily.