Unclay

by T. F. Powys

  Susie gazed into the glass as she dressed.

  “Surely,” she thought, looking at herself, “John must find me a sweeter morsel than ever Daisy Huddy has been to him. Every one knows that one has only to touch Daisy and she begins to cry. When Mr. Mere goes to her she can be heard crying from the road.” She would not be fearful like Daisy, and she longed to receive any pain that John could give to her.

  Susie came downstairs and prepared the breakfast for herself and her father. Her father ate in silence, and then he went out to measure Joseph’s field. Did he but find a square yard of earth less than what Mr. Mere said that the field contained, he would cancel his bargain.

  The day passed slowly with Susie; she tried to work, but nothing went right. She laid things in their wrong places, she slipped and broke the handle of the teapot, she allowed the kettle to boil over into the grate.

  In all her movements in the house, she only had one thought—to meet John Death and to yield herself to him. In her wish there was no pleasure, only intense longing. When the evening came, Susie could bear to wait no longer; she laid her father’s tea, and went out.

  She stood in the lane and her heart beat fast. She looked down at her feet; they were certainly a girl’s shoes that she wore. John must be near to her, he could never have travelled off again, to leave her desolate.

  She listened. Of course she could find out where John was. She would only have to wait a little time in the lane to know that. Some one would be sure to laugh presently in the village, and the laugh would tell her where John was, for every one used to laugh at the funny things that he said to them.

  Susie pouted and stamped her feet. Perhaps John might have gone that evening to visit Daisy. How could she get to know if he were there? She could not pull Daisy out of her own bed and place herself there instead. But, anyhow, she meant to walk along the street and listen beside Mr. Huddy’s door. If her love shamed her, she could not help it. She did not wish to spy and yet she was compelled to follow Death. She must find out where he was.

  He might, she thought more happily, be all alone in his cottage preparing his supper. If that were so, he would accept her help. His cottage would be sure to need dusting, and perhaps his bed might need making. Susie listened for a laugh. She only heard the sound of a haycutter, far away in one of Mr. Mere’s fields. Where was Death? Could no one tell her?

  Susie began to walk down the lane towards the Dodder green. The evening air was scented with sweet clover. Two swifts flashed past her, a cuckoo called—its note was changed, summer was come.

  Near to the green, Susie met Winnie Huddy. Winnie had a scarlet thread in her hand that she was rolling into a ball.

  “You mustn’t quiz me about it,” she said slyly to Susie, “and I don’t envy you your Mr. Rushworth.”

  “What are you talking of?” asked Susie. “I don’t know any Mr. Rushworth, and I only stopped you to inquire where John Death might be.”

  “Oh,” cried Winnie, carelessly, “I don’t pay no attention to him, ’e do only talk to girls who no one else don’t want.”

  Winnie laughed and ran off.

  Susie turned down a narrow lane. Why she took that way she hardly knew. Perhaps she thought that Winnie might call after her again, and so she got out of her sight as quickly as she could.

  The tiny lane that she had chosen to go down was near to the Dodder Vicarage. It was but a place to toss odd rubbish into. People who had any refuse to get rid of would carry it into this lane and leave it there. From such manure as old tins and rags, nettles, docks, and burrs grew finely.

  The lane began deceitfully. It looked pleasant enough at first, the beginning was grassy. One went along for a little, admiring the may-blossoms, and then all at once fell into nettles, old boots, dock leaves, and broken bottles. If one struggled on, nothing better would come of it. There was no pleasure in going on there. The lane soon narrowed; it became only brambles, long trailing brambles with sharp thorns.

  To struggle through these brought one into no fairyland, for, at the end of the lane was but a slough made of cow-dung.

  About half-way down this lane there was a gate, through which Mr. Mere would often go when he went to the Inn. From this hidden gate everything that went on in the village—cries, laughter, jeers, and the wagging of the old women’s tongues could be easily heard.

  Susie waited beside this gate. She waited, knowing that Death would come. So sure was she that he must soon come to her, that she even persuaded herself that he had told her to meet him there. She waited expectantly, yielding herself to pleasing thoughts of love.

  The evening was very fair; no sound disturbed the summer peace—unless the rooks did so. For these dark birds seemed unduly excited for such an evening. During such lovely weather the birds ought to have been teaching their young to fly, or else seeking for worms in the water-meadows. And yet they whirled wildly in the sky.

  Susie wished so much for Death that she knew he must come to her; he could not deny her fierce longing. Happiness, a long life, sweet children, a loving husband, might never come, but he would come. Of course Winnie knew where he was, and she would be sure—if only to tease her sister—to tell John who had asked for him.

  Time moves sullenly while a girl wishes and waits. Each moment that might be so precious to her—were he but come—mocks her and passes by. Duration—that many-headed beast—gives her no comfort. She hears a step. That moment smiles, the others pass on, unthinkingly.

  But no moments, to a waiting girl, are silent moments. They come by like an army, and they pass with the tramp of many feet, treading down hope and trampling the wished-for joy into the mud. They all pass by, and all the girl knows of them is that they are gone.

  Presently Susie heard voices in the lane. She climbed the gate and, creeping a little way into Mr. Mere’s field, she crouched down under a gorse-bush, whence she could see into the lane without being seen herself.

  The speakers came near to her; she knew them. They stopped beside the gate. Susie was astonished; she had not expected John Death and Priscilla Hayhoe to come there together.

  There was no one in Dodder who did not know the goodness of Priscilla—the Queen of Heaven Herself could not be more pious. And only the worst, only the really abandoned women, ever went down that lane. Only the naughty ones who, though they might themselves be well-favoured, were said to meet very ill-favoured ones there.

  If any girl allowed herself to be taken by a man where those docks and nettles grew so finely amongst broken crocks, her modesty and her happiness would run from her in a hurry, and no doings in that lane ever led to a joyful wedding.

  Susie listened breathlessly; she could hardly believe her own ears. John was talking to Priscilla exactly as he had talked to her. His jests were the same, his inquiries were as strange. He asked Priscilla, in his most happy manner, the oddest questions: In what manner did her husband sport and play? and was it after saying his prayers, or before, that he was the most merry with her? Susie expected, when she heard this, that Priscilla would fly from such idle words, but she did not appear to be in the least offended by what he said.

  Susie knew that Priscilla remained very near to Death. He seemed to fascinate her in an extraordinary manner. She listened to all he said, and never rebuked him once for the merry freedoms he took with her. She let him say what he liked, and nothing that he said could prevent her from wishing to know more about him.

  “How comes it”—Priscilla spoke in a low tone—“that you are able to please and content all the people in Dodder—all the poor people, I mean, and the children? Every cottager praises you, and you make us all forget our troubles when you are near. Even my husband forgets Lord Bullman when he talks to you.”

  “I daresay,” replied John gaily, “that Lord Bullman would be very glad if I forgot him too.”

  Priscilla gave a little scream of delight. What had John done?
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  “You have a strange power,” said Priscilla. “What are you?”

  “Your lover,” answered Death.

  “You never knew my little boy, did you?” asked Priscilla, in a very low voice that Susie could only just hear.

  John Death did not reply. He only guided Priscilla through the nettles to a mossy bank under the hedge. Susie crept nearer. She wished to see what was happening. She was so eager for John Death that she would even share him with any woman. She crept as cunningly as any vixen chased by Lord Bullman; she kept close under the hedge without heeding the thorns.

  Presently she came to a place in the hedge where she could peep through. She heard a sigh. What were they doing? Susie looked. Priscilla was alone; John Death was nowhere to be seen.

  XXXIII

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  Love Defeats Mr. Solly

  No one heeds a child. Winnie Huddy, who was only nine years old, could run off anywhere, even at night, without being missed.

  Her father, Mr. Huddy, though not really an old man, looked like one. He was wizened, his beard was hoary, and he stooped. He rose early, worked all day in the fields for Mr. Mere; the evenings he spent at the Inn, and the nights in sleep.

  He listened to all the talk that came near to him, just as he listened to the winds blowing in the fields, and always ate what was given to him by his daughter Daisy without a murmur. All that he required of his home was food and shelter. What otherwise went on there was no concern of his. A girl spoke, ’twas but a noise; another sobbed or laughed, ’twas only sounds. Women moved here and there in the house: he believed each woman had her use. He knew what it was. At the Inn a gale would often blow: women caused it. The talk was about them. Their ways must be mentioned there—their likes and dislikes, their considerate doings—so that the cheapest beer might taste like the best.

  Though all sounds seemed alike to Mr. Huddy, yet he was aware of one slight difference. Certain words were the March squalls, others were like summer showers.

  If no carnal fancies made a breeze at the Inn, Mr. Huddy might have fancied himself in church and have cried out “Amen.” Sounds, at least, ought to tell you what place you are in. Some kind of difference ought to be made between the grave and a bed.

  The money that Mr. Huddy received from Farmer Mere he gave to Daisy, and she, in return, presented him with a shilling each evening to spend at the tavern.

  Mr. Huddy supposed that John Death was only the sound of a September storm at a funeral. Others were different—variable breezes. The people of Dodder knew that John Death was a merry wag. At times his merriment took an odd turn; he would frighten some of them.

  Once he gave Mrs. Moggs a shock. A mouse ran out of a bag of oatmeal, and she asked Death to kill it. What happened then Mrs. Moggs would never tell.

  Only Winnie Huddy knew all about John. She was not in the least afraid of him; she had proved her own strength in the race with him over Madder Hill, and even if Tinker Jar had not been there, she was sure that she could have reached home safely.

  When any sudden impulse came to Winnie, she would obey it at once. She would never wait to think. To think made her miserable; she preferred action. For some while after her attempt to visit Mr. Solly, Winnie forgot all about him. Mr. Solly had gone out of her little head as easily as he had got into it.

  But one evening, without any warning and without any thought, she sat up in bed, shook her hair out of her eyes, and cried out: “I am going to marry Mr. Solly.”

  Then she laughed. She laughed because she meant to get the better of her sister Daisy, and be married before her. This meant a complete change in Miss Winnie’s ideas for her future welfare. Earlier in the evening she had decided upon a different course of conduct. She had left the scarlet thread, that her sister had given her to play with, in Mr. Bridle’s field, but she had a pair of red woollen socks that would do as well. She had hung these socks out of her window—that looked into the back-garden—but only a cat had noticed them. She had expected that at least Tinker Jar would come to her when she put them out.

  Winnie had said rude things to her sister and so had been sent to bed early, but she had only taken off her frock. Now she put it on again, ran into Daisy’s bedroom, looked out of the window, and made faces at those who passed by below.

  She was quite alone in the house. Daisy had gone to the Vicarage to mend the drawing-room carpet, while Mr. Hayhoe read to her, and Mr. Huddy—as was his wont—was at the Inn.

  Seeing Mr. Mere pass by, Winnie threw an old boot at him, and retired to her room. There was a tiny looking-glass in her room, and she looked into it. She smiled at herself, winked naughtily, and made this observation: “I shall certainly marry Mr. Solly and live in his nut-garden.”

  “I have never yet,” cried Winnie, speaking to her doll, after giving it a good shake and putting its clothes to rights, “I have never yet been able to eat as many nuts as I want. And, besides that, the time has come for me to show Mr. Solly that he is not always right in his opinions about people. Mr. Solly believes that all women and girls are roots and cabbages, and I am the one to show him that he is mistaken.”

  Winnie became serious. Evidently Mr. Solly, through no fault of his own, had misunderstood Nature. She, herself, had mistaken one thing for another and had later discovered her error. Miss Bridle had once given her a kitten that Winnie had supposed to be a Tom, until it bore her a family in the drawer where she kept her dolls’ clothes.

  That mistake showed her ignorance, and she supposed Mr. Solly to be ignorant too. It was most probable that he really thought all women were roots. And it was clearly her duty to show him where he was wrong. To put him right in so important a matter would deserve a large reward. In the fullness of time, when she grew bigger, Mr. Solly would marry her.

  Winnie undressed her doll and placed it in her bed, and beside the doll she laid her hairbrush.

  “Now listen to me, Gertie,” she cried. “Mr. Solly has planted those nut-trees to keep out Love, but I shall creep in and eat the nuts.”

  Winnie’s mind had not to be made up; she never wasted her time over such a slow process; when she wished to do anything, she did it. She put on her shoes and ran out into the lane.

  The Dodder street was empty: Winnie escaped in a hurry. But she did not go the quickest way to Madder; she circled the hill, running along under the green hedges.…

  In any change that comes to a man in middle life, there is danger.

  When Mr. Solly was a young man he had been a great reader of history, but as he grew older he began to read poetry. He had not read very many verses before he conceived the idea in his heart that love was a dragon. Once he believed that, the one object of his life was to keep love out, and so he grew a plantation of nuts and locked the garden gate.

  But however much a poor man may be upon his guard to keep out an enemy, a day will surely come when—through a chance forgetfulness—the foe is admitted. Troy fell, and Jericho. Love’s chance came when Mr. Solly left the key in the garden gate.

  About the time when Winnie Huddy told her doll that she intended to marry, Mr. Solly went out for an evening walk. He let himself out of his nut-garden, and was about to lock the gate again and to put the key in his pocket, when a large snake—that had been hid in the grass nearby—raised its head, shot out a forked tongue, and hissed at him. Solly was alarmed; he hurried off without waiting to take the key from the lock.

  Either the snake was, he thought, a very large viper, or else—and this was the more likely—the reptile was the very dragon that he feared so much. He began to run without turning to see which way the snake went.

  Whenever he was at all troubled or disquieted, Solly always went in one direction—towards Madder Hill. Madder Hill was the safest place that he could go to when the bull was tied up. He had never met a spring cabbage there, and the ground was too hard for spinac
h. Only in the autumn, there were blackberries, but he did not fear them.

  Mr. Solly hurried to the hill, but he did not leave his fears behind; he carried them with him. What was it that had raised its head so angrily and hissed at him beside the gate? Something worse than a snake. He looked anxiously at a gorse-bush, wondering whether a Jerusalem artichoke might not be hidden behind it.

  He continued his way sadly. Suppose the dragon had flown through his bedroom window, what should he do? If Love had entered into his house by the casement, his peace would go out by the door. What havoc would then be made of his life, what turmoil! Instead of being a sober unity of gentle manners, he might have to become two people—or even three or four—and some of the family would be sure to quarrel and to make a noise.

  Up till that day he had felt safe. As long as he had been able to keep Love out, he had seen women only as field crops. But if the dragon had got into his house his virtue would leave him—when he next saw a cucumber, he might be lost. It would be a girl. Nothing could save him then.

  He recollected once having asked Mr. Tucker, the clergyman of Madder, what he thought of his nut-garden, and whether it was really thick enough to keep out Love. Mr. Tucker had shaken his head over the nut-trees; he feared that they might hide an idol.

  “I am not sure, either,” he observed, “whether or no—Love being a pagan god—he might not like nuts. Your only chance, poor Solly,” he said, with a deep sigh, “is to seek sanctuary. Love is always careful never to enter a church, and if you desire to be really secure you have my permission to sleep in the Squire’s pew—no love ever enters there.”

  Mr. Solly bowed, and withdrew.

  “Alas!” murmured Mr. Tucker, when Solly left him, “I trust that this unhappy man has not changed his religion. Before he began to plant those heathen nut-trees, he used often to come to church. I cannot believe that he gave up the practice because it seemed to him, from the company gathered there, that every Sunday service was a harvest thanksgiving—though I know that the lesson from Deuteronomy was not to his taste. I fear, alas that too many nuts have driven him mad.…”