A summer’s night is soon passed and gone. Susie’s wedding-day was come, but no country mind ever accepts anything that has not happened as sure to happen.
Joseph Bridle believed that something unforeseen would prevent the wedding. And why not? Joseph Bridle had not carried that dread parchment in his bosom for so long without feeling sure that the two names written there could never be separated. Though not in life, they must, he knew, be one in death—and perhaps in life too. If Death could not defeat him, how then could Mr. Mere?
Many a girl has changed her mind upon the wedding morn, and until the marriage lines were writ there was hope for him.
After saving Susie from Death, Joe had called his cows from the down and let them into his field. He watched them for a little. They had not browsed there for many moments, in the cool of the evening, before a change came over them. They had before been but meagre creatures—only lean kine, but even after the first few mouthfuls of that green grass they grew fat. And soon the best beasts in Mr. Mere’s herd could not match them.
At first Joe feared that they might merely be blown. But no, for within an hour of eating that sweet grass they lay down contentedly to chew the cud.
Joe Bridle slept happily that night, and rose in the morning with hope in his heart. The day was come that must decide his fate. Yet he felt no anxiety. As he dressed himself, he looked through the window at Madder Hill.
Hope came from that hill. Whatever happened to him, whatever happened to Susie, Madder Hill would still look down upon Dodder, and the peace of that hill nothing can destroy.
Never had his cows yielded more milk than they did that morning, and if Susie came to him even at this last moment, all might yet be well. His love was no new creation; it was like the sun. It went back into the far past and reached into the everlasting future. Could such a high matter be set aside and its consummation delayed?
As soon as he had finished milking, and had eaten his breakfast, Joseph Bridle went to Susie’s cottage.
She was in the garden tending some late chickens that she had reared from eggs her father had found, for hardly did any hen stray in Dodder that escaped the eye of Mr. Dawe. Susie did not look like a bride; she wore black.
Joe Bridle begged her to come to him. He leaned against the gate, the merry birds sang and chirped in the garden, the bees were busy with the flowers, and the warm summer sun kissed the green earth, but upon Madder Hill the shadow of a cloud rested.
Susie began to tease Joe, as she had often done during their courtship. She told him what Lord Bullman had said, and how friendly that gentleman had been to her. “All know,” she said, “of his lordship’s wish to revive an old law.” Susie counted upon her fingers the possible brides of that year that might be wedded in the neighbourhood, and observed that Lord Bullman would have as busy a time of it as Mr. Hayhoe. Susie laughed and turned up her sleeve. She showed the marks of teeth.
“I know now that it was Mr. Mere who bit me,” she said; and suddenly, without his expecting her, she threw herself into Joe’s arms, clung to him, and kissed his lips.
“Oh,” she whispered, “if only you had so fine a house, a real drive, and big gates, I would have had you instead of Mr. Mere—but only think how glad Daisy Huddy would be to see me poor!”
She broke away from him, and ran into the house.
Joseph Bridle, hardly knowing how he reached there, found himself beside the pond in the field. A word came into his mind—“Unclay.” He was not the only one who had stood there and heard that command spoken. Others had heard the same word. To obey the command was now a simple matter.
The word was not set upon him alone, but upon all flesh. It was writ on the forehead of the unborn babe, it was carved upon the highest mountains, and written in the hidden slime of the lowest valleys. Everywhere was the same word, telling man, telling all matter, of the same awful fate. Unclay!
The word became a monster in Bridle’s mind. It grew larger. The terrible letters of it encircled the earth. It was God’s writing; no star in the vast firmament could escape it, and no mortal man. Whatsoever be wrapped and clothed in garments of clay shall hear that word spoken.
Bridle uttered a great cry.
He saw in the water of the pond the death-pale face of a girl. He fled in terror. And now he began to wish that he had never found the parchment. Had that paper remained in the right hands, two graves would already have been dug. So why had he not stept into the water when that signature floated there?
The morning passed. Joseph Bridle attended to his work. He cleaned out the cow-stalls, and busied himself for a little in the neglected garden, clearing it of weeds.
The wedding was to be at two o’clock.
Bridle ate his dinner, in silence, at one. Sarah watched him. She wondered that he could eat so well when his young girl was to be taken away from him. But she supposed that, having been a camel for so long, she was not yet human enough to understand the ways of a man. Perhaps Mr. Balliboy would explain.
It has been said that Tinker Jar can give sight to the blind. He now gave sight to Madder Hill. Though Madder Hill had existed for so long, it had never loved before. But, now it was able to see, the Hill loved Bridle’s pond. The pond was deep enough for a Hill to look into.
Madder Hill gazed into Joseph’s pond and loved it. The Hill looked for God. It had learned from the worms that God dwells in deep places. Madder Hill saw God in the pond.
While the Hill looked into the pond, Farmer Mere was preparing for his wedding. All the night he had dreamed of cruel doings. He wished he could transform himself into the giant, cut in the chalk down near Enmore village. Were he as potent as that giant appeared to be, he could certainly terrify a young bride, but, being an old man, he had not much hope of that.
Of course he could bite Susie, but he wished to frighten her to death, as well as to torture her. A man may do as he likes with his own.
He might, just for the jest, of course, take a loaded gun into the bedroom, and press the cold muzzle between her breasts. Or else carry her in her nightgown into the yard, where the surly bull was kept, and throw her down and goad him at her. But perhaps the bull would pity her distress as his dog had done. Only a man’s manners would do for her.
Mr. Mere considered what he could do. His eyes gleamed cruelly, and he laughed aloud.
He had thought of something, he had remembered Death’s scythe. Surely no better scourge could be found to terrify a poor, frightened girl. Every man in Dodder had admired the sharpness of its edge, for honest John had always liked to show off the weapon that he was so proud of. Even Mr. Titball had admired the scythe and had observed that he believed the edge to be nearly as keen as Lord Bullman’s best razor.
Mere thought that the scythe would be easy to steal. It was said that Death had begun again to search in the fields for his lost property, and also, in talking to his landlord, Card, Death had said that he was growing tired of Dodder and was already beginning to look out for another habitation.
From the garden of the Manor farm, Mr. Mere could look into the churchyard. A few people were already loitering there, waiting for him to come and be married. One old woman—Mrs. Moggs—had a paper bag in her hand—rice! Amongst these waiting people, Mr. Mere noticed John Death.
The farmer walked unconcernedly out of his gate. He went to Death’s cottage. The scythe was hung upon a nail in the kitchen.
Mere stole the scythe.
He believed that no one saw him, and entered the Manor house by the back way.