Instead of going home at once to Madder, after stepping out of Mr. Balliboy’s car, Mr. Solly returned with the Bridles to tea, and even after that meal was over he was disinclined to leave Dodder. Something dreadful he knew was about to happen, though what that something was he knew not.
Mr. Solly, as is the way with a peaceful and harmless man, was very prone to notice omens. On his way to Dodder that morning he had seen three swans pass over, with necks outstretched, as though they intended a long journey. Mr. Solly, who admired swans more at a distance than near by, watched their flight, and soon, to his surprise, though he heard the bird utter no song, one—the most beautiful of them—fell at his feet, dead.…
Was it a mere chance that a yellow leaf, driven before the wind, lifted up and was blown here and there along the lanes, until at last a wilder gust, or a swirl of eddies, carried the leaf into my room and placed it upon the paper beside my pen?
Has the leaf a known purpose? Does it come to ease me of my care, or has it come to say that it loves me? What is it that takes a man, as well as a leaf, out of his path, and bids him follow a road that he has not intended to travel?
A day passes and the evening comes, and we think to return, as Mr. Solly thought, to our garden of nuts—but, instead, we go elsewhere. To where an everlasting battle is fought between Love and Death. Can no shadow come between these two, or a fountain of water, or lonely silence?
Will God never be still?…
“I would like to step up to the Dodder churchyard before returning to Madder,” Solly said to Joseph, when tea was over, “for an odd fancy has come to me that Love is not only content to eat my nuts, but wishes also to catch a butterfly in Dodder.”
Joe Bridle said that he would go too, but, before starting off, he loitered for a few moments in the cottage garden. Of late Joe had not troubled to attend to it. Bindweed, nettle and thistle had grown in abundance.
Joseph Bridle looked away from the garden and towards the downs. It was there that he had laboured, though with but small success. Had he kept his hopes there, desiring but the little increase of his fields—the sure content of toil—instead of settling all his thoughts in the curious body of a girl, what happiness might he not have yet had?
Mr. Solly sadly answered his thought.
“Even the thickest grove of nut-bushes,” he observed, “cannot keep away Love. All things must go the way of nature. The oldest gods, that moved first in the still waters, must ever rule. Until the seas again become the void, until the hills are emptied into the bowl of eternal darkness, the pains of love must continue. But to us, Madder Hill is the same yesterday, today, and for ever. When the scene of our short vision ends, hardly a stone shall be moved, hardly a root gone. All the turmoil and trouble that love makes for a man, during the few years of his vanity, is of less consequence in the universe than the moving of one small worm from one burrow to another. Trouble Heaven as we will, make all the outcry we may, complain of our care to the wind and to the stars of the sky, nothing—no tittle—shall be left out of the law of our ways. We run our race blindfold, and when all is done, we have but moved one place, one step lower in degree, down Madder Hill.”
Mr. Solly and his friend left the garden; they walked in silence through the village and came to the church gates. All seemed silent there, and going in they took a path that led them around the church.
Dodder village was unusually quiet for a Sunday evening, but so many had visited Lord Bullman’s gardens, and all who had been there had so much to talk of, that most of the people were indoors.
Mr. Solly walked the first in the path. Behind the church and very much to his surprise, he saw a new-dug grave, and near beside it a heap of earth. Upon this heap of soil were laid out a girl’s clothes, neatly folded. Nearby, and lying naked upon the grass, was Susie Dawe, with her head resting upon a grave-mound, and thrown backwards a little, with her neck ready for the stroke.
Before the body of Susie stood Death, with his arms stretched back and his sharp scythe ready to strike.
The two had crept together unnoticed into the churchyard, where Death had dug a grave and hidden his scythe in readiness for the final act. After showing Susie the grave, he had bid her unclothe, and as she took off her garments, Death folded them—as a loving mother does a baby’s at night-time—and then bid Susie to lie down and to receive the blow.
Joe Bridle stood between them. Death laid his scythe softly upon the ground.
“Love is as strong as death,” he said, sadly, “and it is not given to me now to dispute a man’s right to a mortal girl. My time will come. He, under Whom I have my dominion and my power, is a dark star. Who can escape Him? I thought to have enjoyed Susie and to have forsaken for ever the hard task that has been laid upon me, and I almost attained to that freedom.”
Susie rose bewildered, but, knowing that she was naked, she dressed herself again, looking like one in a dream.
As soon as she was dressed, Mr. Solly led her to her home. Death and Joseph Bridle faced one another.
Joe stood silently, but Death was by no means abashed. He raised his scythe and looked with pleasure at its sharp edge.
“It is curious to observe,” he said to Joseph, “that one is often more pleased than sorry when interrupted in one’s pleasures. Although my experience in such affairs must be—for my holiday has been short—somewhat limited, yet I am now sure that, for the sake of one’s own happiness, it is better to renounce love. I have often disputed upon this subject with Mr. Hayhoe, who would always affirm that a peaceful hour, spent in reading the Watsons, can give a greater happiness than a whole night with a Helen or Laïs, and now I am inclined to agree with him. I remember well that in our conversation we both regretted an act of providence that compelled that book to be so nearly the last of them.
“Alas! Joseph,” said Death, sitting down contentedly upon a grave-mound, “some one, whom I will not name, has His own ideas about literature. But, if only my Master had been educated at Benet College in Cambridge instead of in Palestine, perhaps He might have thought a little differently about prose-writers. But, as it is, He always preferred a short story to a novel, viewing a parable and a short story as the same thing. And, though His taste is sometimes sound, yet it is a well-known fact that He often prefers any fool or charlatan to a good writer.
“This is unfortunate, for as He is able to do what He likes with His own, He permits one to write on, when, for the sake of posterity, their lives, as well as their works, had much better have been shortened.”
Death chuckled.
“Or else,” he said, with a knowing wink, “there may be another reason why so many of the best authors die young. You must be aware, Joseph, that sometimes a valuable manuscript is lost. God is a collector. An author had better look to his wares. There may come a robber, who will open the most hidden drawer, and I can promise you that the Shelton policeman will not catch Him.
“A fire may come, or else a whirlwind may pass through the house upon a sudden and carry off something. If a writer misses anything, he had best beware. Who does not know that Keats was inclined to be careless and to leave things about? Others have done the same, and we know what high price can be made of a few lines of manuscript. This collector, I fear, is a greedy fellow.”
Death laughed.
Joe Bridle looked into the grave.
“Give me my parchment,” cried Death, “for either you have it, or else you know where it is,”
“And suppose I do know,” answered Bridle. “You cannot compel me to give it up.”
“There is to be a wedding tomorrow in Dodder church,” said Death carelessly.
Joe Bridle walked off, leaving Death in the churchyard. Soon the company at the Inn heard a well-known sound—the whetting of a scythe.