by T. F. Powys
“I have lost my scythe, Winnie,” said Death. “Do you know who has taken it?”
“Of course I do,” answered Winnie, carelessly. “Tommy Moggs, who be always peeping, did see Mr. Mere carry ’en off, but ’tain’t for a poor servant like thee to call me Winnie—’tis ‘Miss Winnie’ thee must say now.”
“What has made you so proud?” asked Death. “You haven’t married Mr. Solly already?”
“Don’t ’ee talk so foolish,” replied Winnie. “You know a married woman bain’t no Miss.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Death, with a low bow, “but tell me what has happened.”
“I have been talking to an angel,” observed Winnie haughtily.
“The devil you have!” exclaimed Death.
“Yes, and I be the one to be trusted with a message,” she said, holding her head even higher.
“I thought they’d soon miss me,” said Death, grimly. “But how came you to talk with an angel?”
“When I told Susie,” replied Winnie, “that she might have Mr. Solly—who always does what I tell him—and she would not, I couldn’t stay to see the wedding, but ran off to the top of Madder Hill to cry—but the men don’t know what crying be.”
“Since I have lived at Dodder I have learned to weep,” said Death, sadly.
“And there bain’t no place,” observed Winnie, “like Madder Hill for crying, and some do say that it do a woman good to shed tears.”
“They say truly,” replied Death.
“As soon as I felt better,” said Winnie, “and was wiping my eyes with my frock, a coloured cloud came over me, and an angel fell out of it.”
“What did he say to you?” inquired Death, eagerly.
“That I were a pretty little girl,” replied Winnie, “and then ’e did ask I for a flower.”
“And you gave him one, I suppose,” said Death, a little jealously.
“Oh, no,” cried Winnie, “I don’t give nothing to strange angels.”
“And what did he do then?” asked Death.
“Picked a few for himself,” replied Winnie, “and after picking they flowers, he said to me, with his eyes all bright and shining, ‘Do you know of a man whose name be Death, who do lodge in these parts?’ But I bain’t one to like questions from foreigners.”
“And how did you answer?” inquired Death.
“I asked what his name was,” said Winnie.
“And what did he say?” asked Death.
“That I were a true daughter of Eve, and ’is name were Gabriel.”
“I wonder you stayed with him,” said Death, smiling.
“Oh, I wasn’t frightened,” said Winnie.
Death nodded. “And what happened then?” he asked.
“I have a message for you,” replied Winnie. “’Twas like this, the angel said it.” Winnie paused. “‘I have a message to Death, but this time the order is not written, for as he has lost one parchment, he is not to be trusted with another. But can I trust you?’ he asked rudely. I bain’t one to be spoken to like that, so I began to walk away. But he called me back, and asked me again whether I could be relied upon.”
“And what did you say?” inquired Death.
“That Mr. Solly do trust I to clean his silver teapot,” answered Winnie, “and then I said that I didn’t carry no angel’s message for nothing, and Gabriel offered me eternal life as a wage.”
“And what did you say to that?” asked Death.
“That I would sooner have a packet of Mrs. Moggs’s sweets,” replied Winnie. “’Twas then that the angel’s look frightened me and I hid my eyes. ‘Go to Death,’ he said, ‘and speak this word to him—Unclay. Say that word after me, Winnie, so that you do not forget it.’ I said what I were told.
“‘But that is not all you must remember,’ said the angel—and his voice sounded like thunder—‘for this is what you must tell Death to do—Unclay George Mere.’
“‘What be the meaning of thik word?’ I said, opening my eyes wide, though I partly guessed, from the angel’s manner, that nothing was to be given to Farmer but that something was to be taken from him.
“‘You may say also,’ said the angel in a terrible voice, ‘that this night his soul is required.’
“‘And ’tis time it were,’ I replied.”
Death smiled.
“They travelling angels do take liberties,” Winnie observed. “First he did ruffle me hair the wrong way, then ’e did kiss me cheek, and told I to call at Mrs. Moggs’s for they sweets ’e had paid for.
“What happened next?” asked Death.
“I began to go away, but he called me back again.
“‘I forgot half my errand,’ he said. ‘There’s another name to be mentioned.’
“‘’Tain’t Winnie, I hope,’ I said.
“‘No,’ he replied, with a gay laugh, ’tis only James Dawe.’
“‘They two won’t be missed,’ I told ’e, and throwing a kiss to Gabriel with me fingers, I ran off.—Will you take a sweet?”
Death took three.
“Was there no one else in the shop when you went in for these?” asked Death.
“Oh, yes,” replied Winnie. “Jimmy, the Shelton policeman, was there, and ’e were telling a fine tale about you—and all found out by Lord Bullman because you killed they flowers. ’Tis said you be wanted by Lord Bullman for being a thief.”
“Oh, he wants me, does he?” laughed Death.
“He wants to lock you up in prison,” cried Winnie.
“He is not the first lord,” replied Death, “who has wished to do that, nor will he be the last.”
“Don’t ’ee be afraid,” said Winnie, “for I bain’t going to let any one who I’ve been friendly wi’ be taken up by thik Shelton policeman. And who be Lord Bullman to make so much of himself? ’E bain’t nothing to Squire Knightley, though ’twouldn’t have taken me so long to call ’e George as it did Miss Emma. Thik Shelton policeman do like drink and women.”
“Most men do,” observed Death, dryly.
“I did tell Jimmy,” whispered Winnie, “that sister Daisy will meet him a mile beyond Madder, where the road makes a sudden turn and is deeply shaded by elms on each side and becomes, for a considerable stretch, very retired.”
“You little liar!” cried Death.
“I were only repeating words out of a book,” said Winnie.
“And what did the policeman do when you told him that?” asked Death.
“He went to Mr. Titball’s,” replied Winnie. “But Whether ’twas beer or Daisy, I bain’t the one to know.”
“Winnie,” observed Death, with a deep sigh, “we must part for a while.”
“You promised me a penny when you went away,” said Winnie.
“And I will give you two pennies, when we meet again,” replied Death, grimly.
* * * * * * * *
When, that same night, George Mere was left alone with his wife, he told her that he kept a kind of oddity in his bedroom that could give a bride some pretty pains. It was now hidden, but when she was naked in bed, he promised to show her the shining edge.
Susie gave no heed to him; she only looked at something that was set up against the wall—Death’s scythe.
Mere cast her down upon the bed and went to take up the weapon. But Susie was before him. She seized the scythe first. Mere uttered a howl of rage, clutched at her, and fell upon the floor. Death was in the room.
Susie swung the sharp scythe. She was a mower in a fair meadow, who had come upon an ugly thing in the grass—a man. Susie mowed the swath.
“A good stroke,” Death said to her. “Dress yourself, go to the pond in Bridle’s field, and I will come to you there.…”
Joseph Bridle waited beside the pond. He waited there gladly.
The sun that, during a summer’s night, o
nly moves a little way below the rim of the world, gave light to the fields of Dodder. Madder Hill, overweighted by love, looked into the pond. The Shelton church clock struck twelve.
Joseph Bridle had not to wait long for Susie to come to him. A slight figure left the Manor farm, and came into the lane.
A few moments of joy may complete the full circle. The longest life may fade and perish, but one moment can live and become immortal.
Joseph Bridle, holding Susie in his arms, listened. He heard the sharpening of a scythe. He looked towards James Dawe’s cottage. A rush of hot wind stirred the waters of the pond. Death opened the cottage door. There was no sound.
Priscilla Hayhoe had awaked and knew the footsteps. She roused her husband, and they knelt to pray.
Leaving Dawe’s cottage, Death entered Joe Bridle’s field. Susie and Joseph were standing at the farther side of the pond. With gladness they saw Death come, and holding each other by the hand, they stept in.
The dark waters closed over their heads.
Death vanished.