Susie had gone to Joe Bridle’s field, as a girl likes to go—in company with a man who pleased her. She had gone there in the evening sunlight that was then warm and pleasant, but now that she was returning, all was dimness.
She shivered uneasily. What had happened to her in the field she hardly knew, though she remembered, with pleasure, that Death had been with her. She believed that, in some way or other—she really could not tell how it was—this man had made her completely happy. But now she knew that she lacked something. Perhaps Bridle had taken her happiness from her, coming into his field when he was least required there. It was like Joe to disturb a girl’s pleasure. The love that he had for her was so persistent—as dark and heavy as the night.
While she had been with John, Susie had not even thought of the evil treatment that she had received from Mr. Mere. And had she thought of it, she would only have found excuses for the farmer. But, now that she walked home with Joe, the wound in her shoulder began to pain her, and she wondered what Mere had meant in setting his dog at her. He had certainly acted very wickedly. And why, when she had seen him in the parlour, had the dog’s eyes a look so full of pity for her? She had noticed that look before in an animal, a look that expressed a profound pity. Perhaps the dog knew that Mr. Mere was a bad man, who really wished to hurt her.
“But with all his money,” thought Susie, “Mr. Mere must be good.” And if she did not marry Mr. Mere now, all Dodder would laugh at her. Of course she might take Joseph. But he could do nothing for her; he had not enough to keep her alive. He had always been an unlucky man with that field of his.
Susie had run out excitedly from her gate; she now returned dolefully, and felt as though she could cry. Her father was not there to see her, and so she could cry by herself, and her tears did her good.
Feeling better, she lit the lamp. The light gave the parlour a more cheerful look, and Susie was happier. Some one walked past the cottage singing a country song. A child laughed—Winnie Huddy! Why was she out so late?
Susie began to tidy the room.
She was happy doing so. She put the sofa straight, arranged the chairs, and laid the mats flat. Soon all was as she liked it to be. Her shoulder did not pain her now. The room was tidied, and what difference had the odd behaviour of one man made to her or to the room?
The plates and cups that she now set out upon the table for supper were the same as heretofore. If such things as these ran wild, clattered together, raped one another and broke of themselves, a girl might indeed have cause to trouble. But whenever did a pan or a clout—when kept clean and tidy—refuse to do its duty, or rebel against its lady? When did ever table turn sulky and refuse to be loaded with good fare at Christmas, or a mat say that it must not be shaken, or a kettle scowl instead of boil?
With such things remaining faithful, those humble watchers at man’s parlour games and pretty feats—though a lamp may, as Lucian tells, be called as a witness—a woman’s heart is sure to be eased. For these sticks, pots, and china cups are rightfully a woman’s true gods. A steady and steadfast purpose pervades them. A bed has a friendly and benign look: it wishes to be kind.
Cunningly to devise mischief, to bite the life out of her heart, to drive a poor creature into madness, to cast down a girl and to pour upon her the issue of many a foul desire, that’s the way of a common man. To plume himself, to strut like a barncock, to tease and torment his prey, that’s the way of a fine gentleman.
A sad lot indeed must a woman have with only a man in the house and no furniture. All movables are her allies, her faithful friends in the long battle. Let her but begin to dust the bookcase, and the man will go. Perhaps he will go off for ever, walking past her when she is watering the flowers. There would be no harm in that, as long as the furniture remains. Even if all men departed from Dodder, no girl need trouble, provided that the window-plants remained.…
Susie ate a little and, as her father did not come home, she left some bread and cheese upon the table, and went to her bedroom. She was well pleased with herself—at least three men desired her. She looked in the cracked glass. Seeing her own loveliness, she felt a little sorry for Joseph Bridle. He was too good a man for her; she wished him well, and decided to speak more kindly to him when next they met.
Susie began to undress. She took off her stockings and her frock, and stood before the glass to examine her wound,
She heard some one enter the house. She supposed her father had come home. The steps came upstairs, passed her door, and entered her father’s room. Perhaps it was not her father.
Susie lay down upon the bed, without getting into it. Her body trembled exceedingly; she tingled everywhere. She ached with longing. Her heart beat so loudly that whoever was in the next room could almost have heard it. She moved eagerly upon the bed, as though she clasped a lover in her arms. She wished that Death watched her. What merry things he would have to say about a girl’s lively body?
Presently she heard the cottage door close. Some one had either gone out, or else some one had come in. She listened. She heard her father eating his supper below-stairs; he made the usual ugly sounds.
Her father came slowly upstairs. Outside her door she heard him sniff. He coughed too; evidently there was an odour in the air that he did not like.
He began to mutter to himself. Then he went into his room. Soon all was silent. Susie slipped into bed, and fell asleep.