John Death had not far to go to find Susie Dawe. He had begun to be heartily ashamed of himself. For, in order to be thought anything of, he had been forced to boast of his greatness in Mr. Balliboy’s car, and had, in response, only been nodded to by Mrs. Moggs, and mocked by a girl-child—surely the deepest degradation! To have fallen so low was indeed gall and wormwood to his soul. The state of his mind can be imagined, when, as the most mighty potentate in the whole world, he had cried up his own wares, only to be laughed at for his pains.
But he now meant to do more than boast. Under a tree he found James Dawe and Joseph Bridle, who were talking earnestly together. Joe was begging Dawe to delay, for only a few days, his daughter’s wedding. He had a reason for this request, he said, but James Dawe only replied coldly that the matter was settled: that he had promised his girl to Farmer Mere, and to Mere she must go.
Death left them together and continued his way. In a secluded walk nearby he found Susie. She was expecting him, and he came just in time. Had he not come to her, she would have sought a lonely pond—she knew that there was one in those grounds—and slipped in under the water-lilies. But now she met Death with a cry of joy. She was very pale, but her eyes shone with desire, and she greeted Death lovingly.
They were alone in the path. Death led her to a mossy bank that was nearby, and they lay down.
Susie then began to use all the wanton toying ways of a girl who has abandoned herself wholly to love. She showed herself sighingly, and begged for his embrace.
Death leaned over her, but instead of doing what she wished him to do, he whispered words to her. Susie trembled with terror, and her body grew very cold. She tried to scream, but she could not. She struggled for a moment, trying to rise, and then she lay very still, with her eyes shut.
Death watched her, burning with the fierce passion of love. He let her lie. His love was not the whim of a moment, to be satisfied and eased by a merely fleshly mating. He must have more than that. The consummation that he longed for must be a lasting one. He and Susie must share together one grave for all eternity. No matter whether his dread work were continued or not, no matter for that, so long as he and Susie lay together. But now that she knew the truth about her kingly lover, would she wish to listen to his vows?
Susie opened her eyes and looked at him, but with no fear.
“I assure you,” said Death, looking upon her very lovingly, “that though a certain book called Wisdom states that I am not created by God but am only here because of man’s sin, yet I may tell you, Susie, that no untruth ever written has been so untrue as that lie. I am born of the sorrows of God; I am the second child, made, as all things are made, of His spirit, of His love. Look upon me. Am I not the most true consolation; am I not the most blessed angel of abiding love? You will find no mortal husband as faithful as me. Even Joe Bridle, whom you love, and who certainly loves you too, will, if you wed him, let you go down into the pit alone, leave you there, and return to his own house. Come to me, and I will be with you for ever.”
Susie drew Death to her and kissed him lovingly upon the mouth.
Death whispered to her.
“Yes,” she said, in answer to him, “I will come to you in the Dodder churchyard tonight when the first star—the holy evening star—is in the sky. You will be sure to dig the grave—our bed, in which we shall sleep together—and you will give me your love?”
Death looked anxiously around.
“You must tell no one,” he whispered, “or we may be yet defeated, for if you say a word to a living soul, our nuptial pleasure will be taken from us.—Perhaps already some one has overheard us!” Death looked in the direction of Madder Hill. “Though what will come of this love of ours I do not know. It is possible that, when our marriage is consummated, the whole earth may pass away and be no more, for I have a wish to strike myself with my own weapon when you are dead. And if that is done, a great cry of sorrow will rise up from all flesh, and the cry will reach the stars that Death is dead, and all things will mourn, for the sleep of God will be taken away. If my law is broken—and I care not if it is, so long as you are mine for ever—the whole firmament will mourn, because the horror, worse than extinction, has come upon it—the horror of everlasting life. The great weeping seas of sadness will sweep over the coasts of light, and men will blind themselves with their own hands and grope in darkness, because of their eternal misery.”
“I will come to you,” cried Susie, clinging to Death. “I will tell no one. Do but dig the grave deep, only”—and she trembled—“it won’t have to be a cut, will it? Can’t you press me to death with your body? You won’t have to cut me, will you, darling?”
Death looked troubled.
“It must be so,” he said; “but my scythe is very sharp. There will only be one gush of warm blood, and then your sweet body will be mine.”
Susie held up her face to him so that he might kiss her, but he turned away.
“Tell me first,” said Death, “do you know where my lost parchment is—the command to Unclay?”
“Truly,” answered Susie, “I do not know where it is.”
Death looked at her uncertainly.
“Oh, do not think, I pray, that I could deceive you,” she cried. “I could not lie to you whom I love more than my life. I have no idea where your paper can be. Though every one has talked of it, I have heard none give more than a guess as to where it might be hid.”
“I believe you,” said Death, holding her in his arms and kissing her, “but I only asked you this question for your own sake, as well as for mine. For if the paper is given into my hand, as soon as I have—in a reasonable time—obeyed the order, I must give back the clothes that I have but borrowed, and I will never appear bodily to men again, but only as a presence.”
“A very loving one,” sighed Susie.
“To the good and to the humble in heart, that know me,” replied Death, “I will be always kind.”
Susie held him closer to her.
“Must I wait till this evening comes?” she murmured. “I burn in a fierce fire, and long to be cooled. Dig the grave soon, so that no one may find us.”
Death laughed lightly, and began to be merry with her.
“Ah, ha!” he cried, “’tis a fine happy end to my holiday, that a young woman should wish so much that night-time should come, and even longs for a deep grave to be her sweet bridal bed. But come,” he said, leaping from the grass, “for your father needs the help of your beautiful eyes to search for a penny that he heard Winnie Huddy say that she had lost in the grass.”
Death kissed Susie, and walked away. He had only gone a few steps when he turned and said:
“You will come to me, Susie?”
“Yes,” she replied faintly, “I will come.”