To drink one opens one’s mouth. When the drink is swallowed, the tongue is loosened. After taking more liquor, James Dawe and Mr. Mere unthinkingly raised their voices.
Though they seemed to have come to terms, there was much yet to arrange and, having once agreed together—kite and crow—they did not care so much who heard what they said.
So far, Mr. Solly had been the only one to hear, but now the others listened. No one likes to be left outside some merry parlour talk. From a word or two spoken by Mere, Mr. Dady caught the drift of their conversation.
This was not hard to follow when once the key was given. A laugh, or a look even, will disclose the secret. There is a kind of smile that a man uses sometimes, that tells what he is thinking of. There are also a man’s eyes that betray him.
Mr. Titball had just drunk the health of the Dowager Lady Bullman and her cat, Tib, when Dady and Tom Huddy cried out together, “’Tis Susie they be telling of! ’Tis a small furred coney; they do say she be to fondle and to kiss. And she bain’t got no mother to tell she what to do wi’ they men!”
All laughed, and Farmer Mere laughed the loudest.
After this was said, there was no need to whisper. Whatever woman is named at an inn is the common property of all. Mere was not the one to be ashamed. He knew the law—money. He had a right to his bargain. Most of those in the room were his servants, and now Shepherd Brine—a silent man—came in too. If Dawe asked too much for his goods, Mere was sure that the company would side with him in beating the miser down.
“And the price?” shouted Mr. Mere. “What price be she to do with as I choose?”
James Dawe blinked and shook his head. All at once he seemed to become a different being. Only a few moments before, he was saying, with glee, how Susie might hold back a little from the marriage encounter, and how merry Mere could be with her then. Now James Dawe became a cautious parent.
“’Tis me poor young maid,” he observed, turning to Dady, “that ’e do want to marry, but she be but a tender chick to give to an old man. He bain’t always kind neither, bain’t farmer; ’is breath do stink, and maiden be faint-hearted at night-time. She do hide out of the way when a bull do bellow. No father do like ’is small girl to be hurt, and wedded ways bain’t all orange-blossom. ’Tis a weak young child to be put to bed to an old man, neighbours.”
“Tell me the price,” shouted Mere angrily, whose lusts had been more than ever inflamed by Mr. Dawe’s quiet talk.
“Name a price for the girl!”
“Oh, don’t ’ee talk so fierce,” replied Mr. Dawe, “for I be feared thee mid do harm to the poor maid. ’Tain’t much that I do ask in exchange for all they beauties that me child do have.”
Mere raised his fist as though to strike.
“’Tis only Bridle’s field that I do ask in exchange for she,” said Dawe plaintively.
Mere looked at him sharply. Besides the purchase of the growing grass, unknown to any one—so he supposed—Mere had arranged with Bridle to buy the field too. The property to become his in two months’ time, Bridle’s field going then into his possession, and to his heirs for ever.
“How did you know,” asked Mr. Mere sternly of Dawe, “that Joe’s field, as well as the growing grass, will soon be mine own?”
“Because I was nearby, hidden under the churchyard wall, when you made the deal,” answered Dawe, “and I heard Joe Bridle say that he wanted the money to pay off his debts, before he was married.”
Mere became thoughtful. In his lecher’s heart he had decided to give even more for Susie than the price of Bridle’s field. Why had not the miser asked more? Presently he thought he understood.
“Ha!” he cried out, “I believe I know now why you wish for that field. You have read the notice in the shop-window that a treasure has been lost, and you think that you know where the treasure is.”
“No, no,” answered Dawe, in a conciliatory tone and with a sly wink at the company, “’tain’t for no treasure-seeking that I do want the field, but only that I mid bury me child in thik deep pond when thee ’ve done she to death.”
Dady laughed loudly.
“Farmer will be a rare one at ’s work,” he called out, “and will thrash finely with his flail, but most like ’twill be only ’is old joints that are shaken when wedding night do come.”
Every man now clamoured to speak and all spoke at once. Only Solly remained silent. Each man knew Susie. Each saw her now. All that was foul in man was cast upon her. Her breasts were spat upon, and loathsome slime poured out upon her. Each man saw her as his, to ravish brutally. Even Solly saw her as a young lettuce that he was cutting for his dinner, and shook his head nervously.
Could thoughts and words harm, Susie’s state would indeed have been desperate. Out of the Dodder mud much can be said. All that a beast can do can be done there. Once the game is begun, who can stop its continuance? Only the dead can escape notice.
Mr. Solly became more and more astonished and surprised at what he heard. He had no idea that a mere bunch of endive, even surrounded by the most luxuriant hog’s dung, could make so much talk. Evidently his friend, Joseph Bridle, had got himself into a difficult position. Joseph had much better have loved a hollow tree than a yellow beet, about whom so many words could be used—so many odd expressions.
When quiet came again, all began to wonder how it was that Mere should have offered so high a price as a whole field for a girl. He had always—until John Death came into the village—been able to do all he wished with Daisy, for a mere nothing. What had happened to the careful farmer? Why was Susie so much thought of? She was only a girl. Why was all this fuss being made about her?
Mr. Solly was astonished, too. He had advised his friend to be cautious, but as Susie didn’t look maggot-eaten, he thought she would make a good, wholesome wife. He only expected a simple country wedding to come of it. A few cheap cakes, a barrel of beer, and Daisy Huddy to entertain those guests who might wish to be initiated into wedded doings. All the talk made about a poor root—that must one day rot in the earth—he thought very unseemly.
In a field of swedes, considered Mr. Solly, all are nearly equal. All grow together and, in the spring, throw up green sprouts. Why should one be regarded as sweeter than the rest, when all look the same? Mr. Solly sighed dismally.
“A poor man,” he decided, “should never look too long at a spring cabbage.”