by T. F. Powys
“’Tis thik camel who be coming.”
Mr. Balliboy wondered.
“Be she going to ride in car?” he asked anxiously.
“Certainly,” answered Winnie, “for though ’tis a camel, she be grown up like a woman.”
Winnie was in high glee, and no sooner had John Death climbed into the car and sat himself in front of her, than she told all the company how John had attempted to carry her into the churchyard.
“Sister Daisy do say,” cried Winnie, noticing that Death hung his head a little, for no one likes all that he does to be told, “that a man be like a new broom that do want to sweep in all the corners. But a churchyard be only good for the dead to lie in.”
“And what are you?” asked John Death, looking at Winnie angrily.
“One of the living,” answered Winnie boldly.
Once Winnie had started talking it was hard to stop her.
“’Tis Johnnie who be paying for I to go today,” she remarked, “but when I am married to Mr. Solly, I shall be forced to take him wherever I go, for ’tain’t safe to leave a husband alone with the cats.”
Solly blushed. He had walked over from Madder on purpose to go to the gardens with the Bridles.
“But we must not leave our nut-garden, Winnie,” he said.
“Not when the nuts be ripe,” answered Winnie.
Miss Bridle smiled at Mr. Balliboy, who, because the car was not started, regarded her with much curiosity. Miss Bridle liked him to look at her and smiled the more coyly.
Mr. Mere had not come, for a man of his situation in life never travels in such a mean manner, and, besides, he had many preparations to make for his wedding upon the next day.
And now all was ready, and yet Mr. Balliboy did not start his van. No one knew why, but presently the mystery was explained. Mr. Balliboy shook his head, nodded, shrugged his shoulders, and turned suddenly to face Sarah Bridle.
“Thee be a camel, bain’t ’ee?” he asked her.
Miss Bridle blushed and observed that she had always supposed so, though since she had known Mr. Death she had not been quite so sure of herself. Mr. Balliboy looked at her with large admiration.
“Thee be a camel,” he cried, “a camel who be going to be married.”
“To whom?” asked Mrs. Moggs excitedly.
“To me ownself,” replied Mr. Balliboy, and started the car in a hurry.
Now that the car was started, Death became more at his ease, and he ventured to explain to Mrs. Moggs that he had never known any one before who had dared to mock him as Winnie Huddy had done.
“In my habitation, to which I take the young girls that I fancy,” observed Death, “none ever dare to prick me with sharp pins.”
“You wait till I visit you!” cried Winnie, who had heard what he said.
Death changed the subject, and, realizing that Winnie had the best of him, he began to boast, like another Mr. Card.
“There is no corner of the world,” he cried, “no, nor of the firmament either, where I am not feared and honoured. The first principle in every religion is the fear of me. Kings, princes, and popes all bow before me. A mouse is afraid of me, and so is Lord Bullman. I possess a fine weapon with which, as every generation comes, I conquer the world.”
“’Tis only thik wold scythe ’e do boast of,” whispered Winnie, in a tone of supreme contempt, to Mrs. Moggs.
They were now beside the great gates, and Mr. Hayhoe, with a pleasing formality, gave Priscilla into the care of Mr. Solly, who promised to show the lady all that there was to be seen, and to conduct her safely back to the Dodder Vicarage, in case Mr. Hayhoe returned home by another road.
Mr. Hayhoe was the first to hurry away. The remainder of Mr. Balliboy’s load alighted more slowly. For a while no one was brave enough to approach the gatekeeper, who, dressed for the occasion, showed by her grand manner that she was the head-gardener’s wife, to whom the shilling fee was to be given, and from whom permission must be asked to enter the garden.
Mr. Balliboy, still seated in his car, regarded the waiting group with compassion, and in all kindliness informed them of the time when he would return to Dodder. But they still lingered by the car—their ark of safety—wishing perhaps to return home at once rather than to advance into those spacious lawns where noble feet were wont to tread.
But Mr. Balliboy was obdurate; he turned his car, and the company were compelled to separate. Then seeing that Miss Bridle still lingered, he told her, with many winks that showed his happiness, that he meant to marry her in a month.
“And mind thee be still a camel,” he shouted.
Sarah bowed.
Seeing the car depart, the visitors to the gardens were forced to be more bold. Mr. Huddy and his daughter Daisy were the first to enter, Daisy paying the fee for admission with two shillings that Mr. Titball had just given to her as a proper payment for washing six pairs of sheets. The Bridles came next, followed by Susie Dawe and her father. And, after them, the rest—with the exception of John Death and Winnie—all came to the gate at once, and received a proper rebuke for their crowding from the lady-keeper, who bid them one and all learn better manners when they visited society.
John Death and Winnie Huddy came last of all, and John gave a coin to the woman that she looked at suspiciously, though she allowed them to pass.
John Death frowned. He walked silently for a few moments, and then, turning more gaily to Winnie, he promised to show her, before the day was out, a tame bear, that he assured her he would make dance a little to amuse them both.
“And now,” he said, “I mean to walk for a while in the gardens—alone.”
“Don’t ’ee go getting off wi’ no young woman,” said Winnie, “for ’tis I thee be come with.”
“I have only to speak a word or two to Susie Dawe,” replied Death, “so run after Daisy; we shall soon meet again.”
All who came now began to behold the wonders of these enchanted grounds, gazing silently, holily, as if they moved in the nave of a great cathedral, under the very eyes of the Dean. To see the great house so nearly, and even to take a peep through the drawing-room window, where the grand lady might be sitting, with her hands—that could hardly be seen because of her gold and jewelled rings—lying still in her lap. A sight to make any village-dweller gape with awe and wonder.
“’Twas hardly possible, indeed,” considered Mr. Titball, who looked upon his old home with the greatest reverence, “that any mortal man could possess such a palace, or keep so many dogs and fine servants. Who indeed—save a God—could be sheltered by so many box-hedges when he walks in his grounds, and possess so many great trees to shade him, and so many peacocks for his family to admire?” Mr. Titball almost knelt down to worship his lord.
Mrs. Moggs, too, held up her hands in wonder at all she saw there, and even gazed with awe at a crow who happened, being in no immediate hurry to go anywhere else, to rest a while upon a telephone post. Mrs. Moggs supposed Jim Crow to be a Phoenix.
The others, too, wandered here and there with wide-open eyes, and tongues prepared at any moment to cry “miracle!” The glasshouses amazed every one, except Winnie Huddy, who was chid by Mrs. Dady for unseemly chatter.
“You ought not to talk here,” said Mrs. Dady. “These wonderful plants, that be only plucked by lords and ladies, do not like to hear you.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Winnie, “they flowers bain’t nothing to what Mr. Hayhoe do tell of that be at Pemberton Manor. And there,” observed Winnie, with a toss of her head, “a pretty young maiden mid go in free.”
And, laughing louder than ever, Winnie snipped off, when no one was looking, a bloom of hydrangea.
XLIV
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The Assignation
John Death had not far to go to find Susie Dawe. He had begun to be heartily ashamed of
himself. For, in order to be thought anything of, he had been forced to boast of his greatness in Mr. Balliboy’s car, and had, in response, only been nodded to by Mrs. Moggs, and mocked by a girl-child—surely the deepest degradation! To have fallen so low was indeed gall and wormwood to his soul. The state of his mind can be imagined, when, as the most mighty potentate in the whole world, he had cried up his own wares, only to be laughed at for his pains.
But he now meant to do more than boast. Under a tree he found James Dawe and Joseph Bridle, who were talking earnestly together. Joe was begging Dawe to delay, for only a few days, his daughter’s wedding. He had a reason for this request, he said, but James Dawe only replied coldly that the matter was settled: that he had promised his girl to Farmer Mere, and to Mere she must go.
Death left them together and continued his way. In a secluded walk nearby he found Susie. She was expecting him, and he came just in time. Had he not come to her, she would have sought a lonely pond—she knew that there was one in those grounds—and slipped in under the water-lilies. But now she met Death with a cry of joy. She was very pale, but her eyes shone with desire, and she greeted Death lovingly.
They were alone in the path. Death led her to a mossy bank that was nearby, and they lay down.
Susie then began to use all the wanton toying ways of a girl who has abandoned herself wholly to love. She showed herself sighingly, and begged for his embrace.
Death leaned over her, but instead of doing what she wished him to do, he whispered words to her. Susie trembled with terror, and her body grew very cold. She tried to scream, but she could not. She struggled for a moment, trying to rise, and then she lay very still, with her eyes shut.
Death watched her, burning with the fierce passion of love. He let her lie. His love was not the whim of a moment, to be satisfied and eased by a merely fleshly mating. He must have more than that. The consummation that he longed for must be a lasting one. He and Susie must share together one grave for all eternity. No matter whether his dread work were continued or not, no matter for that, so long as he and Susie lay together. But now that she knew the truth about her kingly lover, would she wish to listen to his vows?
Susie opened her eyes and looked at him, but with no fear.
“I assure you,” said Death, looking upon her very lovingly, “that though a certain book called Wisdom states that I am not created by God but am only here because of man’s sin, yet I may tell you, Susie, that no untruth ever written has been so untrue as that lie. I am born of the sorrows of God; I am the second child, made, as all things are made, of His spirit, of His love. Look upon me. Am I not the most true consolation; am I not the most blessed angel of abiding love? You will find no mortal husband as faithful as me. Even Joe Bridle, whom you love, and who certainly loves you too, will, if you wed him, let you go down into the pit alone, leave you there, and return to his own house. Come to me, and I will be with you for ever.”
Susie drew Death to her and kissed him lovingly upon the mouth.
Death whispered to her.
“Yes,” she said, in answer to him, “I will come to you in the Dodder churchyard tonight when the first star—the holy evening star—is in the sky. You will be sure to dig the grave—our bed, in which we shall sleep together—and you will give me your love?”
Death looked anxiously around.
“You must tell no one,” he whispered, “or we may be yet defeated, for if you say a word to a living soul, our nuptial pleasure will be taken from us.—Perhaps already some one has overheard us!” Death looked in the direction of Madder Hill. “Though what will come of this love of ours I do not know. It is possible that, when our marriage is consummated, the whole earth may pass away and be no more, for I have a wish to strike myself with my own weapon when you are dead. And if that is done, a great cry of sorrow will rise up from all flesh, and the cry will reach the stars that Death is dead, and all things will mourn, for the sleep of God will be taken away. If my law is broken—and I care not if it is, so long as you are mine for ever—the whole firmament will mourn, because the horror, worse than extinction, has come upon it—the horror of everlasting life. The great weeping seas of sadness will sweep over the coasts of light, and men will blind themselves with their own hands and grope in darkness, because of their eternal misery.”
“I will come to you,” cried Susie, clinging to Death. “I will tell no one. Do but dig the grave deep, only”—and she trembled—“it won’t have to be a cut, will it? Can’t you press me to death with your body? You won’t have to cut me, will you, darling?”
Death looked troubled.
“It must be so,” he said; “but my scythe is very sharp. There will only be one gush of warm blood, and then your sweet body will be mine.”
Susie held up her face to him so that he might kiss her, but he turned away.
“Tell me first,” said Death, “do you know where my lost parchment is—the command to Unclay?”
“Truly,” answered Susie, “I do not know where it is.”
Death looked at her uncertainly.
“Oh, do not think, I pray, that I could deceive you,” she cried. “I could not lie to you whom I love more than my life. I have no idea where your paper can be. Though every one has talked of it, I have heard none give more than a guess as to where it might be hid.”
“I believe you,” said Death, holding her in his arms and kissing her, “but I only asked you this question for your own sake, as well as for mine. For if the paper is given into my hand, as soon as I have—in a reasonable time—obeyed the order, I must give back the clothes that I have but borrowed, and I will never appear bodily to men again, but only as a presence.”
“A very loving one,” sighed Susie.
“To the good and to the humble in heart, that know me,” replied Death, “I will be always kind.”
Susie held him closer to her.
“Must I wait till this evening comes?” she murmured. “I burn in a fierce fire, and long to be cooled. Dig the grave soon, so that no one may find us.”
Death laughed lightly, and began to be merry with her.
“Ah, ha!” he cried, “’tis a fine happy end to my holiday, that a young woman should wish so much that night-time should come, and even longs for a deep grave to be her sweet bridal bed. But come,” he said, leaping from the grass, “for your father needs the help of your beautiful eyes to search for a penny that he heard Winnie Huddy say that she had lost in the grass.”
Death kissed Susie, and walked away. He had only gone a few steps when he turned and said:
“You will come to me, Susie?”
“Yes,” she replied faintly, “I will come.”
XLV
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Mr. Hayhoe Shakes His Head
After leaving Mr. Balliboy’s car and paying his shilling to the guardian of the gate, Mr. Hayhoe stept hurriedly through the lordly grounds and reached the mansion.
He would have preferred to have gone, as Parson Adams would have gone, in another century, to the back door, but as the cloth is supposed to be held in greater honour now than then, Mr. Hayhoe went to the front entrance.
He could not help feeling a little ashamed—for he knew that he was not much to look at—when he pulled the bell-rope, and he was aware that the great door looked contemptuously at him. This door had evidently taken into its oaken heart the spirit of pride, and was become like its owner. Looking at the outer world, as a proud door would look, it seemed to dare with its oaken frown any tramp or poor man—other than my lord’s proper servants—to approach within a hundred paces of its power and might. The appearance of this door proclaimed it to be only the splendid portal that led to grander things within.
“Behind my strength and majesty,” it said, pompously, “the highest gentility in the land have ever lived, secure and safe. The great lord is even now rest
ing upon a golden chair in the throne room, and quaffing wine from a huge goblet. And, if my lord be absent, my lady will still be there, in her best attire.”
The door, having spoken thus, was in no hurry to open. Mr. Hayhoe had already pulled the bell twice, and there had been no response to his ringing.
“To venture at all,” he thought, “into so huge a fastness was bad enough, but to have to pull a great iron bell until your hand hurt, in order to get there, was worse.”
Mr. Hayhoe pulled the bell again.
After waiting for a few more moments, the great door was cautiously opened by inches, for the footman supposed that one of the unwelcome visitors into the gardens had wandered by chance that way to ask for a glass of water.
Perceiving a clergyman, he permitted him, in a manner that suggested a very special favour, to follow where he led, and so guided Mr. Hayhoe to a little room in which Lord Bullman received his tenants or gave orders to his steward. Leaving Mr. Hayhoe there, and without inviting him to sit down—a common politeness that one servant should yield to another—the man withdrew, whistling.
To walk upon thick carpets, which he had been forced to do in order to reach that little room, had always alarmed Mr. Hayhoe. Because his feet made no noise, he might well doubt whether his own presence were there at all, and fear that he might be dreaming. But the little room pleased him better when he reached it than the lordly carpeted chambers through which he had passed. To his humble senses this apartment was more real than the greater and more spacious halls.
“It is evidently,” thought Mr. Hayhoe, “out of consideration to my feelings that my lord has bid his servant to lead me here. He would have been kinder still had he directed all poor clergy to the kitchen.”