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 If Daisy’s new fancy spread, and all allurements that drew together those who wished to embrace were withdrawn, there might at the last—for all energy runs downhill—be nothing left for him to do.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 message, 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.
He knew that Joseph Bridle’s field was very deceptive. It looked smaller than it was. It had a bad reputation. No one had ever been lucky enough to mow that field without striking his scythe against a hidden stone, and once, in cutting round the edge of the pond, a certain Jack Foy had fallen in and been drowned dead.
Some people said that the field was the Devil’s because it had three corners; others affirmed that it was God’s—for the same reason. But anyhow, from the strange undulations in the field and its three-cornered appearance, it was a difficult matter to estimate its right size in acres, roods, and perches.
Mr. Mere always set to work to overreach a man by the same method. He knew that a drunken fellow often agrees to a deal that is very much to his own disadvantage.
When Mr. Mere wished to impose upon a workman, he invited him to Mr. Titball’s Inn and made him drunk.
At a proper rate of wage Joseph Bridle’s field was worth four pounds to cut. Mr. Mere had decided to give only two. In order to make any man drunk enough to agree to anything, Mr. Mere was usually compelled to spend five shillings, but even after that was taken away, he could still defraud Death of a good sum.
As he walked to the Inn Mr. Mere had felt in a merry mood. His wedding day approached, and he was sure that he would then have Susie Dawe utterly in his power to treat as he chose. He was conscious, too, as he walked, of being unusually thirsty. The day had been sultry; strange and ominous clouds had hung over Dodder, and seen through them, the sun looked like blood. And even when the mist that partly hid the sun had drifted away, a black and sombre cloud remained stationary upon Madder Hill.
At the Inn Mr. Mere had found Huddy, Dillar, and Mr. Dady. The men were unusually gloomy. It was a day for drunkenness, and they knew it. The heavy cloud that had pressed upon Madder Hill lay heavy upon them too. The only escape from that cloud was in drunkenness. Unless that great revival of spirits—which comes by deep draughts—came to them, they would be betrayed.
But the money that each possessed was hardly enough to make them even merry, and only wholesale drunkenness would suit their case.
But though they had not the means to drink to excess, a former neighbour of theirs—John Card—was more fortunate. The knowledge of his good luck caused them to be more gloomy than ever. It was said that, since John had let his cottage at Dodder to Death, he had been able every night to get tipsy under the proper guardianship of Mr. Toole, the innkeeper of Tadnol.
Death had paid his rent in certain old valuables. From what he gave to Card, it seemed probable that he had discovered a vast treasure. He paid his rent in bangles, necklets, earrings, and rings of old gold. And the more he gave, the higher rent did Card demand.
When Card was drunk, he boasted of his good fortune, and every one wondered where the hidden treasure was found. Whoever came upon a lonely stone in a field would lift it up to see what was underneath. Mrs. Moggs leaned down so far into the well to try to see what was at the bottom that she nearly overbalanced, and had not Joseph Bridle come by at the time and caught hold of her skirts, she would certainly have fallen in and been drowned. More than one had gone at twilight—when they supposed no one to be about—to search in the churchyard, but nothing had ever been found.
Only one man made a mock of their folly—James Dawe; but he now-a-days was often to be seen beside Bridle’s field gate, as if to watch who went in there.
Although this evening some of his customers were a little low in tone, yet Mr. Titball himself was extremely elated. He had received a visit during the morning from Lord Bullman. Mr. Titball was entirely overcome by such an honour. Lord Bullman had even sat down upon a parlour chair. After saying a word or two about the utter shamelessness of a certain red fox who had run off with a peahen from the grand gardens, and then observing that the weather was warm, Lord Bullman softly drew Mr. Titball aside. After seeing that the door was shut, Lord Bullman asked Mr. Titball, in a low tone, about a treasure that had of late, he believed, been discovered at Dodder.
“Folk do say,” replied the landlord, in a loud whisper, “that ’tis all found in the churchyard.”
Lord Bullman had called for a lemonade.…
Mr. Titball took the glass from the mantelpiece and showed it to the company.
“My lord then inquired,” said Mr. Titball, speaking proudly, “whether the clergyman here, Mr. Francis Hayhoe, was orthodox.”
“And what did thee say to that, landlord?” asked Mr. Dady, looking gloomily around for a fly to kill.
“I did say,” answered Mr. Titball, “that Mr. Hayhoe visits Daisy Huddy.”
“And what did his Lordship reply?” asked Mr. Dillar.
“He must certainly have been pleased to hear it,” observed Mr. Dady, who had found a fly, “for ’tis they orthodox ways that fine gentlemen, who do live in great houses, do fancy the most. ’Tain’t no playday with them to visit a woman, for where food be plentiful, ’tis real work that be done.”
“I fear that you have not understood my lord,” said Mr. Titball, who did not altogether approve of the matter in Mr. Dady’s observation. “He merely wished to know whether Mr. Hayhoe revered and respected the constitution of his native country.”
“And what did you say to him?” asked John Death, who now joined the conversation.
“I replied that Mr. Hayhoe was married,” answered the landlord.
“And Lord Bullman spoke further, did he not?” inquired John.
“He did,” replied the landlord, “for he said, or rather swore”—Mr. Titball blushed—“that Mr. Hayhoe could have the living if he assisted him in bringing back again an ancient and kindly law, that had fallen out of use in these degenerate days.”
“’Tain’t no hanging law I do hope,” asked Mr. Huddy, anxiously.
“No, only a bedding one,” answered Mr. Titball, softly. “My lord did say,” he continued, “that as the hunting season was over, and he had nothing better to do, he had occupied some of his valuable time in reading English history—that was of course chiefly concerned with the doings of his own ancestors. ‘In those far-off feudal times’—these are my lord’s own words—‘there were many sound and just laws that have never yet been repealed, and one of them—the “droit de seigneur”—should certainly be revived.’”
“And what mid thik be?” inquired Mr. Dillar.
“The right of the lord of the manor,” exclaimed Mr. Titball, “to bed each betrothed virgin the night before she is married. And the Church, my lord said, was benefited by fees as well as propagated in perpetuity by such nice doings. And, as soon as my lord obtains the blessing of the Bishop and the assistance of Mr. Hayhoe, he intends to make a beginning when a lawful occasion comes.”
“With whom?” enquired Mr. Dady, who wished, for the first time in his life, that he were a lord.
“With the next bride,” answered Mr. Titball.
Dillar and Huddy laughed loudly.
“There bain’t nothing told,” inquired Mr. Dady eagerly, when the laughter that had become general was subsided, “about the rights of a poor dairyman, in that written law? For, though a young bride be the proper cream and butter for a nobleman’s bed, yet surely, a clause in the law must direct that no poor working-man should be left out? All women bain’t going to be married, but bain’t there nothing said about Widow Hockey who do live at Shelton?”
“Nothing at all,” answered Mr. Titball, sternly.
“But,” asked Mr. Mere, “is there no mention in this law about a proper payment due to the husband, when my lord has been the first to consummate?”
“He is awarded a kingly decoration,” answered John Death.
Mr. Mere looked sharply at John, who appeared to know more than he thought he did. The farmer began to fear that he might have to spend more than five shillings in making him tipsy. He began to ply John with rum, and drank himself, too, to keep him company.
Many a man had entered the Inn in Mr. Mere’s company, intending not to be robbed of his rights, but as time went on, the cunning farmer would get the better of this intention, and the man would withdraw from the Inn, having agreed to the lowest terms for the work.
But now things were not quite the same. The money in Mr. Mere’s purse began to diminish, but Death appeared to be just as sober as when he first entered the tavern. To every two of John’s glasses, Farmer Mere had only drunk one, and yet he knew that he had spent near upon fifteen shillings. Had Mr. Mere, then, caught a dragon in the net that he had set for a tomtit?
Mr. Mere moved his chair closer to Death.
“For how much will you mow Joseph Bridle’s field?” he asked of him, “for I have bought the grass to carry off to my own barton?”
“For five pounds,” answered Death readily. “For that price I will cut the grass as close as a cropped grave.”
“Do you think me a fool,” cried Mere, in a rage, “to pay a strolling vagabond such a price as that for the cutting of a little field?”
Death touched Mr. Mere with his hand. Mere rose unsteadily, as if he wished to flee, but he soon sat down again and stared at John.
“You agree to my price?” asked John.
Mere nodded.