Unclay

by T. F. Powys

  The sound of the sharpening of the scythe became a laugh to her—the laughter of a hyena. The beast drew near to her, its laughter that at first was far away, came closer. Her gangrened limb began to rot. She knew the stench. She struggled to rise, but fell again upon the hard sand. More than one beast approached; she saw dark forms creep near. Each of them smelt corruption.

  Sarah screamed in terror.…

  At the Inn, the sound of the sharpening—that at first had merely interested—now began to excite anger.

  Mr. Mere was angry that a man should work so long without yielding some profit to his employer. So much energy was being wasted, and all that the man was doing did not put one penny into the pocket of his master.

  Would the sound never stop? Had the scythe that needed so much whetting been in use, more than half of Bridle’s field had been mown. And then, at the last, “after all the sharpening,” thought Mere, “should a wrong stroke come, the edge must be dulled, and all the labour wasted.”

  Dillar and Tom Huddy were angry too. Who paid this man? Some master—who perhaps was richer than Farmer Mere? Did Squire Lord employ him, whose workmen every one envied, and who, in harvest-time, used to put seven reapers into one field? Mr. Lord might have bid John come to him on the morrow, and he was getting ready his gear.

  “Some folks be luckier than I,” said Mr. Dillar. A simple fly flew into the room and settled upon the bar-table. Dady went softly to the fly, and killed it with his thumb.

  Mr. Solly shuddered. A sound that went on so long was not likely to mean much good to him. Was all this whetting only the proper preparation for cutting down his nut-trees? Perhaps it was a good axe that was being sharpened, and no scythe. Some one might come in the night and destroy all his grove. Love has many servants. Who is not willing to obey his commands? But perhaps it was the god, himself, whom he heard. The naughty mischief-maker might, as likely as not, be sharpening his own arrows.

  Mr. Solly, who was fond of stories, recollected the battle of Hastings. Because Love could not come to him nor shoot through his thick grove, would he aim his bow upwards into the sky? Solly had always heard that Love was a good shot. He might easily send up an arrow that would descend the chimney and transfix a poor man, even in bed. Solly thought he had better move his bed a little further from the fireplace.

  Then the sound stopped.

  Mr. Titball moved slowly to the side-table. The time had come to close the Inn. When the Inn was shut, it was not proper that the grand homes of the English gentry should be left open. Mr. Titball nursed the book lovingly. Again he placed it upon the table and covered it with a clean duster. Then he took down from a shelf a bottle of strong cordial waters, and filled a small glass. He held the glass respectfully above the great book, and drank to the homes of England and to their honoured possessors.

  The proper ritual had been used; the Inn was closed.

  Old Huddy and Mr. Dady were the first to leave. Dady looked about him in the lane; he wished to kill something. He expressed this desire to Tom Huddy, saying that, were he a bluebottle, he would know what to do. Tom Huddy moved a little to one side.

  Dillar started to go to his cottage, then he changed his mind and walked in another direction. He had a wish to see an old woman named Bessy Hockey, who lived a little way out of Dodder upon the Shelton road. She had promised him a cabbage, he said.

  Solly was startled when he heard that; he walked hurriedly in the opposite direction, to Madder. When he reached his nut-bushes, he believed he espied a little hole between two trees, through which a turnip might have scrambled. Mr. Solly unlocked his garden gate, went into his house in a hurry, and put a chair against the door.

  Upon the chair he placed a Bible—to keep Love out.

  XXII

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  The Old Fox Trapped

  When James Dawe set his hand to a plough, if he looked behind, ’twas to help himself forward. He was never one to allow an uncertain bargain to be made. If he caught a prey, he always bound it so that it could not escape.

  He was not yet sure of Mr. Mere. Even with the evening already passed and the summer’s night—a rather sombre one—closing in, Dawe had yet more to do. He must work, he must gain, for the time was short.

  To him the sound of the sharpening of the scythe had said that there was no time to lose. The sound told him that he who gathered gold, and he who cast away gold, would soon be the same. There was one place to which all, the spendthrift and the hoarder, the cruel and the kind, were being hurried—the grave.

  James Dawe’s hearing was remarkably quick. He could hear a bat fly, he could hear a dog breathe, he could hear a hare scamper. He knew what every sound meant. Though life is a trackless forest, Dawes believed there was one sure path—the path of gain. The ants told him so, and the moles. The sound of the sharpening had said something more—that all gains have an end.

  The end is sure: now is the time to trap and to take—now. The sharpener is at work, the stroke is being prepared. Before going to the bank near to the Inn, James Dawe had baited the trap—the bait was Susie.

  If the treasures that he believed to be buried in Joe Bridle’s field were to get safely into his hands, he must make haste to secure the field as his own. He had done much at the Inn, but not all. Mere’s lusts were raised—Dawe had helped in that—but the sound of the sharpening had done more than he. The merry happenings of his youth were brought back to Mere’s mind, but in a day or two he might grow cold again.

  Once out in the lane, where the soft evening air moved slow—as though it prayed to the night to heal all sorrow—James Dawe touched Mere’s shoulder. Mere turned to him.

  Dawe, with a humble gesture, as if to acknowledge the hoped-for honour, invited Mere to sup at his cottage.

  Before he had left to go out, he had told Susie what she must do. Susie prepared herself; she expected the company. She wore a summer frock, decorated with red poppies. Her father had commanded her to put all the food that there was in the house upon the table.

  James Dawe brought Mr. Mere in. As soon as they were seated, the miser unlocked a cupboard and brought out a bottle of spirits. Mere looked at the bottle: he also looked at Susie. Both pleased him; he had a wish to taste each in turn. The old fox saw the bait, and it was good.

  When supper was finished and the plates cleared away, Susie asked her father whether she might go to bed. James Dawe said “No.” He wished to inflame Mr. Mere, and then he intended him to see the girl undress. Old men have their fancies. If Susie went upstairs too soon, Mere might not be ready for the treat.

  Dawe filled the farmer’s glass.

  He wished Mr. Mere to think of only one thing. Beauty, he knew, can weaken a man. Beauty can be terrible as well as pleasing, for who does not know that the most lovely flowers cling ever to the edge of the deepest pool? If Mere saw Susie in that way, he might love her and be kind to her. Dawe meant to prevent the danger of that.

  He smiled to himself, seeing in what manner Mere looked at Susie. Beauty, he knew, fades in your arms, it vanishes like a coloured cloud; it leaves nothing behind, it goes down alive into the pit.

  Dawe had other matters than beauty to show his guest—the body of a woman. He wished to be sure of his prey. He had not expected the success that he had so easily obtained at the Inn. It had always been one of the marvels of the world to him that any man could give any kind of property—either money or land—for the purchase of a woman. His own mind—earthy and subtle—had ever thought of that kind of payment as an almost impossible matter to understand. Who, indeed, would give money to perform a mere carnal act that brought no gain—or give gold for a slave that could be had for nothing! Though astonished, he had seen in the world that which compelled him to believe that much money was bestowed in this way. Once let a wise man become a fool, he knew, and a certain kind of goods could be cried up to any pri
ce. Though the actual value of the thing enjoyed might be little, yet much could be added to the price by other considerations.

  His own wife had refused; he had cursed and beat her. She had been a heavy weight to him—a mere consumer, no gain. He had never understood why she had ever objected to being sold. Such pastimes, he had been told, pleased the women. That she should hold back from such an advantageous proceeding made James Dawe doubt his wife’s sanity. Who could refuse such a simple way of bringing money into the home? The men he brought to her laughed about her. She made a fine fuss about nothing, and so he used his strap to her, and she died in childbed.…

  James Dawe was not the one to forget a lesson. Seeing how his daughter grew, he intended to make sure work with her. This time there would be no mistake. To make one’s wife a whore is a pretty wish—’tis a change to the dullness of one’s home. Though he had failed to do that, he had done something else—he had killed her. A woman who will not do what she is told must be punished. He would not kill Susie himself; he would marry her and leave the killing to her husband. James Dawe liked revenge.

  He once again filled Mr. Mere’s glass. Where the farmer’s eyes went to he could see plainly. Susie moved uneasily; she went here and there in the room like a mouse upon whom a snake has fastened its small eyes.

  She began to tidy the room, hoping that when he saw her thus busy, Mr. Mere would go. Mere only drank and looked.

  After sitting beside the table for a while, Susie asked her father again whether she might go to bed. James Dawe nodded. He told her that he was going upstairs too, because he had the title-deeds of a certain farm in his bedroom that he wished to show Mr. Mere. Susie knew that her father never left a guest alone in the parlour. He had taken others to his bedroom. Susie hurried away; she was glad to escape the rich farmer’s eyes.

  James Dawe bid Mr. Mere empty his glass. Then both the men rose, mounted the seven stairs, and entered the miser’s room. Although Susie had lit a candle for them, they did not take it.

  Once in the bedroom, Dawe showed the spyhole to his companion.

  Mr. Mere was interested in this procedure. James Dawe evidently intended to deal fairly. Mere always liked to see what it was he was buying. When the farmer bought a cow in the market, he took pleasure in viewing her, until he was sure what the beast’s value was. This girl that he intended to purchase had a higher value than a cow. A good beast but added to his profit. Susie had another attraction. He recalled his old pranks to mind. He had been young in cruelty; he was now old in guile. He might reverse the process. He put his eye to the hole in the wall.…

  Susie, glad to escape, had begun to undress herself in a leisurely fashion. She had only that very afternoon finished making for herself a new linen nightgown. The front of this garment she had embroidered with forget-me-nots.

  When she was partly undressed, she took up the nightgown and examined it. She hoped it would fit. She had made it by guesswork, without a pattern. She completely unclothed herself. Then she held up the gown to put it on.

  But she did not do so at once. She had finished her sewing in a hurry, and had forgotten to take out the tacking. She began diligently to take out the threads; this took longer than she expected. Presently the last thread was out: Susie slipped on the gown, sighed happily, and crept into bed, blowing out her candle.

  While the light had burned, Mr. Mere had not kept his eyes off her; he now wished to have to do with her at once. He had no mind to wait till the wedding. James Dawe had expected this, and as soon as Mere withdrew his eye from the wall, he caught hold of him.

  “Wait,” he whispered, “till thee be married. ’Tis then thee mid bite and maul she’s little toes. If thee attempt her now, ’twill all come to nothing; she’ll jump out of window—Susie Dawe bain’t no Daisy.”

  But Mere persisted; he must go to her. He pushed Dawe aside. The miser still clung to him; he showed a strength that surprised Mere. His arms were like iron bands. They struggled together in the darkness.

  Soon Mere would have got the better of his adversary, thrown him aside, and rushed into Susie’s room to cast himself upon her. Only outside in the lane some one laughed.

  Mere went to the window. Being a rich man, he had always been a careful one too. He did not like to be made fun of. Whoever had laughed, had laughed at him. But who in Dodder would have dared to do that? The laugh in the lane had an odd quality about it; it was the laughter of one who in an argument knew that he would have the last word. There was no respect shown to Mr. Mere in that laugh.

  For one moment Mr. Mere was afraid. Then he began to reason with himself, and decided that Susie could wait. If he persisted in this deed, perhaps Mr. Pix might hear the story, and Mr. Mere liked to be thought well of by the stewards of the Great.

  But who was it that laughed? Mere believed himself to be the man to silence any impertinent watcher.

  He opened the window and looked out into the lane. Some one was walking up and down in the still beauty of the summer’s night. This man walked a little way, turned, and came back again. He stood and nodded at Mere. He was John Death.

  XXIII

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  Winnie Huddy Runs a Race

  What we expect does not always happen. Sometimes a holiday, instead of pleasing a man, makes him restless.

  The pleasure-seeker hopes to be happy, amusing himself, but finds that he cannot sleep at night. This, or something else, will happen to him to make him discontented. In a little while he will wish himself back at his work. If he be a writer, he will stare gloomily into a bookshop, and curse all authorship. If he is an engineer, he will peep into the dingy gates of a foundry and envy the doorkeeper—a large black spider. If he is a Member of Parliament, he will read Gladstone’s speeches.

  John Death was a mower, and so—feeling a little out of sorts—he had spent the evening whetting his scythe. When he had finished doing that he did not wish to go to bed. The thought of Susie Dawe kept him from sleeping. Though the hour was late, he went to her cottage and overheard what was going on there. That others, as well as himself, should wish for Susie amused John, and so he laughed.

  When Mere left James Dawe’s cottage, Death saw him go, but even then John did not return home, for he thought he would like to walk over Madder Hill.

  A man upon a holiday is a pryer. When he goes to any part of the country that is new to him, he will pry about and see all he can. He will even peep sometimes where he has no business to look. John had now given his parchment up for lost, and he had already begun to look for other matters of interest. Love was one of them, but he wondered why he thought so much of Susie.

  In the way of his trade, he had seen a large number of young women, though—being taken up with other doings than lovemaking—he had not regarded them. Now, having nothing to do, he felt differently. Idleness breeds love. John had to make the best of it, and the best to be made was Susie. Ever since he had seen her name written in Bridle’s field he had loved her. At first—for a mere jest, perhaps—he had set the image of her in his heart, but now he longed wholly to possess her.

  He laughed at himself for being so serious, and Love laughed at him too.

  “Perhaps,” he thought, “if I went for a night-walk, I should not feel so foolish.” He might forget Susie if he looked at the stars.

  John Death slowly climbed Madder Hill, from the summit of which he looked down upon Madder village. The village was utterly quiet and deserted, and upon the low meadows near there lay a white mist.

  Death descended the hill and entered Madder. He went to the green and stood upon a stone that was there. And there he felt himself to be a lonely thing. Who had cared for him? Who had ever loved him? Many had called him, many had made a sudden use of his terrible power, but who had loved him?

  Could he ever be really loved? He stood there alone. All Madder was silent. No one likes to be sad
, and John Death least of all. The weight of his loneliness troubled him; he must rid himself of the burden. He must amuse himself somehow. He must walk off and seek some entertainment.

  A summer’s night is never really dark, and John was able to look about him quite easily. Near to the village church there was a little cottage surrounded by a thick grove of nut-bushes. This grove attracted John’s attention. What did it hide?

  With many another prying gentleman, Death was extremely inquisitive. If he came upon any mystery, he wished to probe it to see what it contained. He liked to see to the bottom. From the look of the grove he concluded that the nut-trees had been planted to keep some one out. Death smiled to himself, and looked around him for some place in which to hide.

  Near to the cottage there was a low wall, made of the rough, local stone, and easy to climb. Death, who does not always wish to be seen, hid behind the wall, peeped through a crevice, and examined the grove of nut-bushes. Such a protection, he assured himself, must have been grown there for some important purpose. Evidently the grove was planted to keep the owner safe. Safe from whom? Death was vain. Like many another important person, he considered that he was the one that everybody ought to think about. And when he saw how thick the nut-bushes were, he believed that they had been planted on purpose to keep him away. He believed that he, alone, was the one who should be feared by all mortal men, and why not, then, by Mr. Solly?

  But Death soon saw that he was wrong. The night wind brought the sound of the Shelton church clock. The clock struck twelve.