Very early, and long before any one stirred in Dodder, the sound of the swish of a scythe might have been heard—had there been any one abroad to listen—the morning after John Death and Joseph Bridle had wrestled together upon the down.
Before the first cock crowed, and before the hedgehog, who lived under some old faggots in the Vicarage garden, considered the time to be proper to run out and steal an egg for its breakfast, the field was mown.
There, in Bridle’s field, lay the grass and flowers, in sweet undulating swaths, yielding up a delicious scent into the air. Cool and pleasant to the touch, and still wet with the morning dew, reposed the mown grass of the field.
The task being completed, John Death lay down to rest himself where the grass was thickest, and could not but envy the lot of a simple countryman, to whom the early lark sings joyfully, and who labours ever where true beauty lives. Death considered how happily such a life can be spent; toilsome, yet free from many troubles that possess other vocations, for he that in the winter carries the dung into the fields does also in the summer-time rest a while from his labours amongst the lilies that grow in the valley.
Leaving the field before any one had seen him, John Death returned to his cottage and lay down upon his bed, enjoying the holy sweets of rest that come after honest toil.
Soon the sun rose hot, and each day that followed was as fine, so that within a week Mr. Mere carried the hay, and built of it a large stack in his own barton. When the hay was taken up every one noticed how closely Joseph’s field had been cut. So that no more fodder was likely to grow there during the time that Joe had yet the field in his possession.
This was certainly a disappointment to Bridle, who had hoped that, even when the grass was cut and carried, there might have been some food left for his beasts, so that they could have grown a little fatter before they too, like the field, had to be sold.
But the interest that was taken in Bridle’s hay being carried off by Mr. Mere was not the only matter that week that was spoken of. There was also the fine news to listen to and to communicate to others, that the gardens at West Dodder Hall would be thrown open to the public the next Sunday afternoon, being the day before Susie’s wedding with Mr. Mere.
To enable all to go to the Hall who wished—and even the little boy, Tommy Moggs, who blew the Dodder church organ—Mr. Hayhoe had agreed to hold only the morning service on that happy day, and other village duties—perhaps as important as evensong—were put off too.
Every one in Dodder looked forward to this fine treat. Nothing so splendid, and nothing that seemed to promise so happy an afternoon, had happened in recent years. Every one in Dodder knew the outside look of the grand gates of the Hall, upon either post of which a strange beast was carved. To enter these would indeed be perfect bliss, and to scent one’s handkerchief for such an occasion would be happiness to every young girl.
Mrs. Moggs had already begun to caution Winnie Huddy about her behaviour in the grounds.
“You mustn’t laugh there, you know,” said Mrs. Moggs.
“’Tain’t no church,” replied Winnie.
“Mr. Titball says it’s far holier,” replied Mrs. Moggs, impressively, “and a little girl may learn to follow good ways all her life if she does but copy the sparrows who live in those beautiful gardens.”
“They birds bain’t always good,” laughed Winnie, and ran out to play.
Death, who since he had mown Bridle’s field had found little to amuse him, heard the news that West Dodder Hall was to be open to the public, with very real pleasure.
Though he had been appointed sexton of Dodder, no one had died. That was one cause of disappointment. Another was that Winnie Huddy would not let him play with her as he used to do. When he asked her now to run races, or to jump the flowering thistles, she would reply in a matron-like manner that such frivolities did not become a young lady who was engaged to be married to Mr. Solly, and possess—for herself alone—all his nut-bushes.
Death, who was become somewhat self-conscious since his stay in Dodder, and not a little proud too, whereas before this visit he had always been very humble, was not at all pleased to be thus flouted by a child whom he had come to regard as his proper playmate. He had always supposed that to live as a human being was as easy as to die as one. Work and play was all he thought human life to be. His own doings in the past, having been strictly limited to his occupation, had led him to think that man was indeed a blessed being when compared with himself, and that when he and his mystery were invoked by a mortal, it was merely to close a scene that had been acted long enough.
Though humble, as we may say, in his vocation, and taking no credit to himself for what he did, yet he had always had a little necessary pride in his personal attractions, and fancied that people often called him to them because they could not but admire his customary and courtly manner.
John Death came forth from his cottage, and Winnie Huddy skipped up to him. Winnie showed him, with the greatest pride, a sixpenny ring that she wore on her engagement finger. Mr. Solly had given it to her.
“Oh, Johnnie,” she cried, “you would never believe what fine things Mr. Solly has in his house, and they will all be mine when we are married. There’s a cabinet filled with silver and gold, and a drawer full of shells, and a real pearl necklace that he hangs round my neck sometimes, to see how pretty I look when I wear it.”
Death did not reply; he caught Winnie up in his arms and carried her along the street and into the churchyard. When she saw where he was taking her to, she asked to be put down. This simple request she expected him—for she thought he had only taken her up as a joke—to obey at once. She had but anticipated a little play. Between play and danger there is no gulf fixed, but even a little child, as simple as Mr. Wordsworth’s Lucy, knows well enough when matters grow queer.
Winnie gave a sudden kick. But Death held her firm, and pressing his hand over her mouth so that she should not scream, bore her further into the churchyard.
Though he had covered her mouth he had left her hands free, and as he carried her under the green branches of the great yew, he felt a sharp stab in his leg, like a wasp’s sting, and let her drop. Winnie, who had not liked her situation, had detached a pin from her clothes and pricked him dexterously.
No sooner had Death dropped Winnie than she danced rather than ran to a tombstone nearby, and mocked him. Death looked at her gloomily.
“What is it that you did to me?” he asked, “because, for the first time in my life, I felt a sudden impediment to happiness.”
“An’ ’twon’t be the last time neither,” replied Winnie, who was flushed and angry, “if thee do try to take I under they dark trees.”
“But many children,” answered Death, “even younger than you, Winnie—both boys and girls—have come here with me, and I have used them as my custom is.”
“’Tothers bain’t I,” replied Winnie, “and ’tain’t to no churchyard that I do want to be brought, but only to West Dodder gardens; but for all that, I don’t believe they be so fine wi’ flowers as Hartfield that Mr. Hayhoe do read of.”
John Death, looking happier, replied gallantly that he hoped to take her there.
Winnie plucked a pink from a grave and ran home.