“Is it not strange,” observed Mr. Hayhoe, “that our dissolution, which is approved and predestined by God—Who must know what is good for us—is so rarely agreed to by mortal man?”
“It is most curious,” observed Death.
“Though it is hard,” said Mr. Hayhoe, “to find a modern poet who is not in love with destruction.”
“Their verses certainly should be,” answered Death dryly, “for I only know one of them who writes prettily, and that’s a woman.”
Mr. Hayhoe was about to reply, when a horse galloped down the lane, followed by another, and both stopped at the cottage door. Voices were heard outside, a command was given by one man to another to take care of his beast. Then there came a great knocking at the door. Daisy Huddy peeped timidly out of the window to see who was there. She turned fearfully to Mr. Hayhoe.
“It’s Lord Bullman,” she cried out, “and he’s pulling at the scarlet thread.”
“He only thinks it’s the bell-rope,” said Death.
“Ah, what ever can I do?” sobbed Daisy. “He looks so angry.”
“Why,” said Mr. Hayhoe, “I should open the door to him, or else he will break it down, for evidently he does not wish to be noticed standing in the street.”
“Every one is looking at him,” observed John, who stood near to the window,
“He won’t want to go upstairs, will he?” sighed Daisy, “if I let him in?” Then, drying her eyes, she said: “Is a lord like the others?”
“Exactly,” replied John, “only a little more serious in a bedroom.”
Daisy, who was reassured, opened the door. Lord Bullman strode in; he had the appearance of a very fine gamecock, if one may imagine such a fowl dressed in suitable clothes for riding, and ready to cry “Halloo!” instead of to crow, and ready enough, too, to swagger and lord it upon a fair dunghill—and so we have the man.
Lord Bullman looked at Daisy, and she regarded him in return a little wonderingly. Her visitor appeared to be almost as surprised at her simple and childlike appearance as Mr. Hayhoe had been, for she looked too young a thing to be as hardened in sin as Mr. Pix had affirmed.
But Lord Bullman was only shamed for a very little while by Daisy’s looks; he was no hedge-priest, as Mr. Hayhoe was, to be abashed by a mere girl, who seemed so innocent. He had seen that kind of thing before; he was a magistrate, whose duties made him stern.
He coughed, and began to chide her. He accused her of naughtiness, of all idle wickedness. He said that, as the lord of the manor and lay rector, it was his bounden duty to clear the village of such drabs as she, who pollute the body politic.
“And why don’t you have,” he shouted, “a bell that rings?”
“The men in the story knew what it meant,” sobbed Daisy.
He told her to pack, and go. But having once said that, he began to observe her more kindly.
“Do tell me,” he inquired in a milder tone, “the meaning of the scarlet thread that you hang out of the window? I pulled it, but nothing happened.”
“Don’t you read the Bible?” asked Daisy in astonishment, having gained a little confidence now that Lord Bullman seemed kinder.
Lord Bullman looked down.
“Only when I can’t find a fox,” he said. “Then I read a verse or two and hope to have better luck next day—but what is the thread tied to, my dear?”
“To my bed,” replied Daisy.
Lord Bullman stepped towards the stairway door.
The evening was dull, and the cottage parlour was duller still. Lord Bullman had not so far seen either John Death or Mr. Hayhoe, who sat silent upon the sofa in a dark corner. But no sooner did Lord Bullman go to the stairway door than Death laughed. Mr. Hayhoe rose hurriedly.
“My lord,” he said, “I assure you that this young woman is upon the highroad to repentance. She has already begun to make amends for her sins by her willingness to darn my socks. And when I suggested reading to her aloud, her only stipulation was that the book I read should be a novel, and contain more than one wedding. And surely that desire alone shows a fine wish to lead a new life.”
Lord Bullman stared from Death to Mr. Hayhoe.
“I am sorry to see you here, sir,” he said, addressing the clergyman, “you, to whom I thought of giving the living of Dodder, I find in the house of a prostitute.”
“I only came to read to her,” answered Mr. Hayhoe simply.
“Out of a common book, I fear,” said my lord, with a wink.
Mr. Hayhoe bowed to the company, wished Daisy good night, opened the street door, and withdrew.
Lord Bullman glared fiercely at Death.
“Why don’t you go too?” he asked him angrily.
“Because,” answered Death, “I prefer to stay here.”
Daisy fled upstairs; she did not like to see men quarrel. Lord Bullman laid hold of Death by the shoulder, intending to force him into the street. But he had hardly touched him before he loosed him again. Lord Bullman shuddered.
A curious scent filled the room—a scent not altogether unknown to humankind—the smell of corruption. The odour had risen slowly, as the mist used to rise from Joe Bridle’s pond.
At first it was but a faint, sweet smell, that is often dreamed of, and resembled slightly the scent of dead flowers that have remained long in water that has not been changed. At first the scent might have been but the mere stuffiness of a cottage room in summer, where the windows are shut and the thatch rests heavily upon the roof. But soon the smell became more noticeable. The atmosphere of the parlour became horrible; a stench rose up.
Lord Bullman moved away from Death.
“Who is dead here?” he asked angrily. “Why did you not tell me there is a corpse upstairs? Is old Huddy dead?”
“Step up and see for yourself,” replied Death.
The dread smell increased.
Lord Bullman opened the street door and hurried out. He mounted the horse his servant held, and galloped away.
“It’s only a dead rat,” Death called after him.