Unclay

by T. F. Powys

  Half-way up Madder Hill, Mr. Solly stopped to listen. He thought he heard some one running beside the hedge that was below the hill. He felt nervous, every sound alarmed him, and he hid himself behind a bush. Resting there, he wondered what he had better do.

  What if that dreadful dragon really occupied his dwelling? He was not St. George, nor was he Death, whose way with Love—that old serpent—every one knows of. Was it safe to go in? Or would it not be wiser to remain all that night upon Madder Hill, and then to venture home the next morning to see who was there?

  Mr. Solly began to tremble; had he lost the key? He turned out all his pockets; the key was nowhere to be found. He believed that he had left the key in the lock. He was not surprised. When a nervous man sees a horrible dragon near to his gate, he is likely to hurry away and forget the key. And, besides, he had always expected that one day he would forget to take the key from the lock.

  Mr. Solly, sitting under the bush, looked down at his house. He could see the roof and the chimneys. What did they hide? How would Love behave? There was the basin of bread and milk that he had prepared for his supper before he went out. Love would know from that basin that some one lived there. Had Love only found a book of verses, he might have run away—but bread and milk would be sure to tempt the god to stay.

  Mr. Solly shivered. A sea-mist crept up and surrounded him. Upon a spider’s web near to him some little pearls of water were collected. He rose, shook himself, and decided to go home.

  No lonely man ever enters the door of his house—if the hour be late—without expecting to see either the Devil, or God, hiding behind the parlour door.

  The gate of his garden he found to be wide open, and neither did he trouble to shut or to lock it, for he knew that the enemy was in his fortress. He opened the front door, expecting the worst. The house was quite dark, and Mr. Solly lit a candle. He then sat down at the table, intending to eat the bread and milk that he had prepared beforehand.

  The basin was empty.

  Mr. Solly looked sadly at the empty basin, and listened. He heard the regular breathing of a child who was fast asleep. He did not turn at once to look where the sound came from. He put his elbows upon the table, rested his chin in his hands, and regarded sadly the empty dish. The god had come—or else had sent one of his servants—to destroy a good man. There was evidently a girl-child asleep upon the sofa.

  Mr. Solly gave himself up for lost. But, being a brave man—though in the power of the foe—he did not despair. To submit when one is fairly conquered is the behaviour of a hero. Only a foolish bird will struggle in the net—a wise man knows when he is beaten.

  Looking at the couch from which the breathing came, Mr. Solly saw Winnie Huddy fast asleep. One of her bare legs hung down, with her foot just touching the floor—the other leg was upon the sofa. Her yellow hair she had stolen from Love. She smiled in her sleep.

  What could Mr. Solly do?

  After looking at her for a few moments in deep thought, Mr. Solly went out from the room and quickly returned with a warm rug. Gently raising Winnie, he wrapped her in the rug, so that she might lie more comfortably. Winnie only sighed contentedly; she did not awake.

  Mr. Solly knelt beside her and raised her hand to his lips. He worshipped Love. Then he went to bed.

  XXXIV

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  A Trade for John

  For a whole month Mr. Solly kept himself shut up in his nut-garden. No one knew why. The Madder people believed that he was bewitched. He might have been so. He was exactly the kind of man that a witch would pick out to cast a spell upon. He was one of those who see the gravest danger where most only see a merry pastime. He believed that everything that a man does is of terrible importance. Though all things usually were so quiet in Madder, Mr. Solly believed that raging devils were about.

  The simplest sights only did not make him shudder; he could admire the lambstails upon his nut-bushes, and the ferns under his bank, but wondered even that he could enjoy these without fear.

  Though Mr. Solly remained at home, Winnie Huddy went out each evening. She would climb Madder Hill and visit Mr. Solly. Once there, she employed herself industriously, sweeping and cleaning for Mr. Solly and doing his errands. She would remain for a while and then returned home, in a very gay mood, over Madder Hill. No one noticed Winnie’s doings except Mrs. Moggs, and she called her into the shop one day and asked her where she went each evening.

  “You go to see your friends, I suppose?” said Mrs. Moggs, with a wink.

  “I visit my new home,” replied Winnie, “that I have to keep tidy at Madder.”

  “I did not know, Winnie, that you had a relation there,” inquired Mrs. Moggs.

  “I have Mr. Solly,” replied Winnie, “whom I am going to marry, because of his nuts.”

  “Why,” cried Mrs. Moggs, “I thought he planted those bushes on purpose to keep young women away. He would have been much wiser had he filled his garden with thorny brambles.”

  “I am fond of blackberries, as well as of nuts,” answered Winnie, “and so I would have gone just the same.”

  “And when will the wedding take place?” inquired Mrs. Moggs.

  “Punctually at twelve o’clock upon my eighteenth birthday,” answered Winnie.…

  It is curious to contemplate how labour, when it becomes a use and habit, dominates a man.

  John Death had hoped—when he found it convenient to his affairs to take a little holiday—that his time would be so well filled with frolic and naughtiness—that however long it might suit him to remain in Dodder, he would all the time be happy there. But alas! he was sadly deceived.

  It was not in his power to remain idle. Almost as soon as he settled into his cottage, he discovered that he could not leave his scythe alone and must needs be for ever whetting it, and longed, as he made music with stone upon steel, to be again at his proper employment. And although no one would have thought so—seeing him at play with the children—he was, when alone, fretful and depressed.

  Even the summer sun that rose so early in the morning troubled his fancy, for the sun shone so busily and was so importunate that even at night time, his mighty glow could be seen—and John preferred darkness to light.

  And besides, he was growing tired of looking for the parchment that he had lost. For though he liked the earth well enough, it was not always pleasant to have to keep his eyes upon the ground. He had looked everywhere, and, as the paper was nowhere to be found, he was more sure than ever that some one had stolen it.

  He first thought of one person and then of another who might have taken it, and at length he decided that his paper might have been discovered and kept by Priscilla Hayhoe.

  Her behaviour was certainly a little curious. Did she guess who he was? She had permitted John to take her into the hidden lane, and to talk to her in the happy manner that he used with women. Indeed, when he led her through the nettles to the mossy bank, he had wished to be as playful with her as he had been with Miss Bridle and with Daisy Huddy, only, after laying her down upon the soft bank, he happened—though he knew not why—to look up at Madder Hill.

  Upon the summit of the hill there stood a man who beckoned to him, as though he bid him let the woman alone. This man, John thought, was Tinker Jar.

  Curiously enough, John, who certainly appeared to be no respecter of persons—and cared no more for Lord Bullman or Squire Mere than for labourer Dillar, obeyed this man and withdrew so silently that he seemed to vanish.

  But even his deserting her so hastily in the lane did not make any difference to Priscilla’s view of him. She would often meet him in the village, and would ask him the strangest questions about his past life, and about the master that he served. She inquired of him once whether his master had ever come to Dodder, and, if so, what clothes was he dressed in.

  “His only garment is a thunder
-cloud,” John replied—“but he sometimes mends kettles.…”

  So far, since he had resided at Dodder, John Death had only once entered the churchyard, but he had often seen Priscilla praying there—kneeling near to the grave of her little son—when he went by. Once she had noticed him in the lane and, rising from her knees, she had beckoned him to come to her, even begging him with a look to rest beside her upon the grass.

  Death had always admired Priscilla; she was a kind lady and a comely. She could behave coyly, too, it seemed, though John was not sure whether it was something that she wished to find out in respect to himself that made her behave so. But he desired her the more for that, and certainly, when the sun shone upon her, she looked extremely lovely. A sad flower perhaps, but one that could be culled joyously.

  She had not, of course, the power over him that Susie Dawe possessed, but being so gentle and pleasing a woman, he considered that she was only made and created for him to enjoy. Whenever he thought of Priscilla Hayhoe or her husband, John smiled.

  In order to meet Priscilla more often—for she spent a great deal of her time in the churchyard—John Death decided upon a plan. Why should he not become the sexton? Mr. Huddy had given up digging the graves since his wife died, being afraid, so he said, that he might hear her talking, did he break any ground there.

  John Death decided to apply for the post. Evidently he was not the sort of gentleman that a too long holiday agreed with. To have nothing to do but to be merry did not appear to accord with a nature that was—as long as any living thing existed in the universe—created to be extremely busy.

  And here we must note, I think, a curious trait in John’s character. He had no ambition. He had no wish to order and command, other than in his ordinary everyday doings. He desired neither riches nor glory, and he considered that if he became a gravedigger, he would have ample opportunity to repeat to himself—as he rested near to the yew-tree, with his spade upon his knees—that wistful Elegy, written by Mr. Gray in a country churchyard.

  With a little work, a grave or two to dig now and again—and perhaps an occasional field of grass to mow, so that his scythe might not lose its sharpness nor his hand its cunning—John believed that he might yet be contented in Dodder. He hoped, by these means, to keep up the old agility and sprightliness of which he had always been so proud. For, during all his life, he had never felt so tired and weary of himself as he had at Dodder.

  He considered, too, that the Dodder churchyard would be an excellent place—a fine battleground, where a fight would disturb no one—for him to come to grips with a certain old enemy. He had often—being fond of prose as well as poetry—been reminded, as he walked in Dodder, of the Valley of Humiliation, in which Apollyon and Christian fought their fight. And why should not he—a champion too—meet Love and destroy him in the charnel garden?

  He had mocked at love in Love’s own parvis. He had pleased Daisy Huddy so well that she would have nothing to do with any other man, but only liked to sew and to knit and to listen to Mr. Hayhoe reading stories. He had played bob-cherry with Winnie in the church porch before matins commenced. He had even—for so wanton is a certain oddity, a sworn adversary to all decency and decorum—been free with Miss Bridle. He hoped for Priscilla, and there was one other one—Susie Dawe—that he meant to compass too.

  Whenever he thought of Susie a curious feeling came to him that he did not understand. He was utterly ignorant—as so many hard workers are—about the behaviour of his own heart. He did not even know what had made him look so long at the name written in pebbles in Mr. Bridle’s field.

  To enjoy a girl or two had been easy to him—that was a pastime to which he felt himself naturally drawn. It appeared to have a religious meaning that the grand powers of the Church had never failed to recognize. Martin Luther married a nun.

  But what was there, Death wondered, what new feeling moving in his heart, that made him think so curiously of Susie Dawe?

  XXXV

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  Death and the Farmer

  The last day of June was come. John Death stood sadly beside his cottage door. The warm evening pleased him, and the sweet summer breeze brought with it the scent of flowers.

  As he had decided to become the Dodder gravedigger, he proposed to himself a little walk that evening, wishing to discover Mr. Hayhoe and to ask for the appointment.

  Leaving his own door, he proceeded along the street, and passing Daisy Huddy’s cottage, he noticed that the scarlet thread had been taken away. Though he did not know why he should be troubled, the sight of the window with no line hanging from it depressed John.

  He was aware that a certain carnal act that commenced, he knew, a very long time ago, had provided him with many years of constant labour. If Daisy’s new fancy spread, and all allurements that drew together those who wished to embrace were withdrawn, there might at the last—for all energy runs downhill—be nothing left for him to do. Now that this scarlet thread was gone—that used to hang so temptingly when the sun shone upon it, and could even be noticed during the night—other mischances might follow. Women might learn to think of other things, and then what would come to an honest workman in an allied trade?

  Dismissing these thoughts as unprofitable, Death continued his way and, within a few paces of the Vicarage, he met Mr. Hayhoe. They welcomed each other as old friends. Although Death’s conduct in Dodder—told to him by Mrs. Moggs—had not altogether pleased Mr. Hayhoe, yet this worthy man had come to think of John as of one who, although he sometimes appears to act a little curiously, yet is sure to be a true friend at the last. Mr. Hayhoe had never ceased, in his heart, to thank John for having so boldly driven Mr. Mere from the Huddys’ door, and also he nursed a rather odd hope—that John would one day get the better of Lord Bullman.

  Mr. Hayhoe held up in his hand a torn coat.

  “I rent this,” cried Mr. Hayhoe, laughing, “in leaping a hedge to escape Mr. Mere, who was after me with a great stick.”

  “What did you say to the farmer to make him so angry?” inquired John.

  “I told him that it was not right to take Susie away from honest Joe,” answered Mr. Hayhoe.

  “You should have left Mr. Mere to me,” said Death, in a low tone. “But you cannot wear such a coat as that again.”

  “I am going to ask Daisy to put a patch into it, while I read to her,” said Mr. Hayhoe, smiling. “I am reading Emma now, and Daisy is already extremely fond of Mr. Elton.”

  “Lord Bullman will soon hear how often you go to the Huddys, and he will deprive you of the living,” remarked John.

  Mr. Hayhoe snapped his fingers.

  “Although Mr. Titball believes that Lord Bullman is greater than God, I am by no means the one to share such an opinion,” he said. “Since my lord commanded me to turn the Huddys into the road, I have been unable to give to him that proper honour which St. Peter tells us to render to those in authority above us. But perhaps Lord Bullman may not be aware that God loves Daisy.”

  John stepped from one foot to another, and changed colour.

  “Do you think so?” he asked anxiously. “And does He love Susie Dawe too?”

  “He loves them both,” replied Mr. Hayhoe with conviction. “He loves all women.”

  “I am surprised to hear you say so,” answered Death meditatively.

  Mr. Hayhoe looked at John wonderingly.

  “I wish to ask you,” inquired Death, “whether I may be the Dodder sexton.”

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Hayhoe readily, “and I am certainly glad that you wish for this employment, for it must surely bring you nearer to the Church.”

  Mr. Hayhoe bid farewell to his friend and continued his way.

  Death watched him go, and remained for a while uncertain which path to take. Looking by chance in the direction of the Inn he recollected that Farmer Mere had sent him a m
essage, earlier in the day, by Mr. Huddy, asking whether he would mow, and for what price, Joseph Bridle’s field. Winnie Huddy, who brought the message that Mr. Mere had given to her father while he worked in the fields, informed John Death that the Squire bestowed upon him a great honour by this offer of employment, and she hoped, she observed, that as she had brought the good news to him, Master John would reward her with a halfpenny.

  “Mr. Mere,” she said, in order to enlarge upon his high condition, “do speak to Lord Bullman, and ’e be, too, a kind of relation to our Daisy.”

  “What kind of relation is he?” asked Death, with a smile.

  “A sort of April husband,” replied Winnie, “but thee be only a plain John.”

  John Death, who, after he had made up his mind to be the sexton, had grown a little happier, now walked along with his usual steady step to the Inn.

  He found the farmer already there, waiting for him, and eager enough to drive a keen bargain.

  To get the better of any poor man had always been the farmer’s pleasure. He could, of course, have sent his own workmen into Joseph’s field, but ever since he had set eyes upon Death, he had wished to cheat him. The very first time that he had seen Death in Dodder he had hated his looks, and wished from that day to set him a hard task from which the poor man might only take a small pittance. Death was a stranger, and a stranger was in Mr. Mere’s eyes always a proper victim. Besides that, Mere bore a deep grudge against John, because he knew well enough now that it was he who had persuaded Daisy Huddy to lock her door against him. He now hoped to cheat John finely.