When lust is shut up in a small narrow room, it begins to breed. Such a room is the body of a man; lust breeds in him quicker than fleas in a country tavern.
In a room, from which all pure air is kept out, little lewd devils may spawn and multiply. Sometimes they make mistakes and enter a room where they are not at their ease. When they get into the wrong man, they escape at his ears.
Mr. Solly thought they were bugs. He scratched his neck and gave his head a shake to get rid of the trouble. He looked suspiciously at Mr. Dillar, who had come nearer to him. Perhaps he was lousy?
Lewd thoughts, Mr. Solly knew, if they have any encouragement given to them, become lice in the head. He had often seen gentlemen and ladies scratch, and knew what was the matter. The life-history of a louse is an ordinary affair—a simple transformation.
The parlour became noisy again; mugs clattered, all the company shouted. Solly alone did not shout, but, wishing for some more gin, he was forced to raise his voice a little in order to obtain it.
After drinking that glass, he fancied that a large louse fell from Mr. Dillar’s head upon the table, and became a female demon called Peg, a succuba. Solly grew frightened; the demon reminded him of Winnie Huddy; she was eating his nuts. Mr. Solly called for more gin.
Even Mr. Titball was tormented by the frolics of the imp, but, being a faithful servant, it was not for himself that he wanted the fun, but for his master. He, a loyal man, desired all that was best in the world for his lord’s comfort. The imp danced, more appeared, and Mr. Titball wished to provide dancing girls for my lord.
Besides such a proper desire, Mr. Titball, having been much impressed by all that had been said of Susie, felt that no farmer should take possession of so much beauty, but that my lord’s great curtained bed should have its lawful share.
He knew that the great of the land deserved sometimes a little relaxation from their more arduous duties. To ride after a fox appeared to Mr. Titball to be the hardest of labours. In all kindness and secrecy he had more than once opened a side door for a young lady, who said that she brought a private message to my lord from his cousin, the Bishop of Portstown.
Mr. Titball had never asked her to give her name.
Mr. Titball had a generous mind. He would give all to a lord, and would only wish to keep for himself his picture-book of the homes of England.
Mr. Dady pursued with his thumb the last fly upon the window; he had killed all the rest. This particular fly did not wish to be killed. It wished to live and multiply. But Dady meant to have him. He followed it with his thumb, up and down the pane. The fly was driven into a corner, and Mr. Dady killed it slowly. Then, hoping that more flies would come in, he opened the window.
This was an unusual action; no one had ever done so before. Whether winter or summer, the parlour window at the Bullman Arms had always been kept tight shut.
But now that the window was opened a change came upon the room.
Those who drank so noisily a few moments before, now became as silent as the grave. The only sound that could be heard was the drip, drip, of a little puddle of spilt beer, falling from the table to the floor.
Mr. Mere sat in silence, and, instead of thinking what he would do with Susie when he got her for his wife, he began to listen.
When a sudden silence comes, a man’s ears are opened. He waits for something, for a sound to come to him. He wonders what the sound will be.
The puddle of beer had run away; the dripping had ceased. Mr. Dady leaned nearer to the window and listened too. The little lewd imps hearkened; something had quieted their obscene frolics. Was it the sweet wind that came from the sea?
In the common lives of people, one power is always waiting ready to drive out another, in order to rule in its place. There is always a stronger one coming. Each guardian of the temple is slain in his turn, then the victor becomes priest in his stead. Power that conquers power is the order of all our lives, but who is it that dare name the last power to kill? What will He do, when the fatal blow is struck, and He becomes lord of the temple, with no rival to challenge His victory?
With no power above Him, with no power higher than Himself, what can He do? Will He—in order to complete the conquest—slay Himself? Will He listen too, like our poor drunkards—for in all that temple there will be silence? Shall He hear again the many trampling feet of a new generation of men, or will the last enemy destroy Him too? Will God die?…
Dillar and old Huddy moved nearer to the open window and listened, but it was not the sound of the aspen leaves, softly stirred, that they heard.
The usual, the ordinary village sounds, were quieted. The new summer that was come to Dodder brooded silently, thinking of her own loveliness. The fruitful sun had warmed the green earth. There was no hedge, no wayside place, that had not drunk a cup of the new life. The winds moved softly over the downs; the daytime flowers slept without dreams.
Mr. Hayhoe stood, with his wife Priscilla, at the Vicarage door, taking together a loving farewell of the summer day before they retired to rest. A holy love moved in the garden and they—being simple, childlike people—felt its presence. Love moved for a while in the Vicarage garden, and then passed into the churchyard and lingered beside the grave of Priscilla’s child.
Mr. Hayhoe kissed his wife’s hand. A feeling, he knew not what, brought tears into his eyes. They both looked towards the grave.
His Will be done.…
All thought in Dodder was quieted. Still waters covered all motion, and no mental webs were being spun there that bring false hope to man. To grow like the field flowers, what else could man do? To bloom in the summer, to eat of the season’s joy and then drink the dark wine of the sadness of the earth during the fall. To breathe deep again, perhaps, when the winter’s sleep is ended. To awake like a leaf to the new season. To exist as a creature of the earth for a moment, what more should be needed?
The evening gnats quivered and danced in the warm air, unmindful of danger. The swallows caught them and they heeded not the act. The tiny pigslouse that lived in the grass upon Madder Hill ate its prey. Then it rolled up into a ball to sleep near an anthill, and was eaten itself. A frog, seeking amusement, hopped out of Joe Bridle’s pond, only to find a grave in the cold body of a snake.
Life and death do not quarrel in the fields. They are always changing places in the slow dance. Alive here and dead there. So the evening is devoured by the night, and the dawn by the day.
Mr. Hayhoe’s thoughts were hopeful; he looked forward to the morrow, but he was content that the evening should stay longer. By harvest time, at least, if not before, he intended to convert his friend, John. That thought gave him pleasure, and Daisy Huddy was no more a sinner, which pleased him too.
But Priscilla was sad; she looked longingly towards the churchyard, and prayed that one day she might meet Death there, and compel him to give her back her child.