Chapter XVI Threnody
“In all my life, and long it has been, I never met a particular good man, nor yet a particular bad one. Maybe each sort’s rare as t’other, for black and white mixed is the common dirt-colour of human nature. Yet—him—him we’ve laid to his rest—I do think he was good. He was better than sight to me—that I know.”
The men in Bear Down kitchen were clad in black, for that noon they had buried their master, not without tears. He lay in Little Silver churchyard beside his wife’s father; but Honor had not attended the funeral.
“Ess, a very gude, upright man, I think. A man as stood to work in season, and never bid none do a job what he couldn’t have done better hisself,” said Churdles Ash mournfully.
“A man of far-seeing purposes, as allus carried through whatever he ordained; an’ could tell when rain was comin’ to a day,” added Samuel Pinsent. He knew of no higher praise than that.
“An’ so soft-hearted wi’ the beasts what perish that he comed by his death for a silly auld sheep. Who but him would have thrawed away life on such a fool’s errand?” asked Cramphorn bitterly.
“No other man for sartain, sir,” answered the boy Bates.
“Very fine to bring it in death by misadventure,” continued Jonah, “an’ I’m not saying ’twas anything but seemly so to do; but all the same, if the maister had lived an’ come off wi’ a mere brawken leg or arm, I’d have been the fust to tell un as he was riskin’ his life in a fule’s trick, even if he’d been a lighter built an’ spryer man.”
“A plaace as looks much easier than ’tis,” said Tommy Bates. “I climbed it next day an’ done it easy gwaine down, but ’twas all I could do, hangin’ on by my claws like a cat, to get up ’pon top again.”
‘“Twas playin’ wi’ his life, I say, an’ though he’m dead, worse luck, theer’s blame still falls against un. What do ’e say, maister?”
Mark Endicott’s face wore a curious expression as the question reached him. The blind man had preserved an unusual silence before this tragedy, and while the real explanation of Stapledon’s death was accepted by all, from Honor to those amongst whom the farmer was no more than a name, yet Endicott had at no time discussed the matter, though he exhibited before it an amount of personal emotion very rare from him. The sudden end of Myles had aged Mark obviously, shaken him, and set deep currents surging under the surface of him. Even his niece in her own stricken heart could find room for wonder at her uncle’s bitter expressions of sorrow and self-pity before his personal loss. After the first ebullition of grief, when tears were seen to flow from his eyes for the first time in man’s recollection, he relapsed into a condition of taciturnity and accepted the verdict brought at the inquest with a relief not understood by those who observed it. He kept much alone and spoke but seldom with Honor, who rarely left her room through the days that passed between her husband’s death and burial. Out of the darkness of his own loss Mark seemed powerless to comfort another, even though she might be supposed to suffer in a degree far keener than his own; and the men of Bear Down, noting his attitude, whispered that old Endicott was beginning to break up. Yet this was but partly the case, for private convictions and an erroneous conclusion before mentioned were in the main responsible for the blind man’s great concern; and the impossibility of sharing his burden with any other at this moment weighed heavily upon him. Spartan he still stood under the blow and that worse thing behind the blow; but the night of his affliction was darker than a whole lifetime of blindness, and the signs of it could not be hidden. The man began to grow aged, and his vigour and self-control were alike abating a little under steady pressure of time.
Now each of the toilers assembled there uttered some lament; each found a word of praise for his dead master.
“The auld sayin’ stood gude of un,” declared Churdles Ash. “‘The dust from the farmer’s shoes be the best manure for his land.’ Ess fay, everywheer he was; an’ no such quick judge of a crop ever I seed afore.”
“Never begrudged a chap a holiday, I’m sure,” declared Pinsent.
“Would to God it had been t’other,” growled Mr. Cramphorn. It was a vain desire that he had openly expressed on every possible occasion, and once to Christopher Yeoland’s face.
“Don’t wish him back, lads,” answered Mark Endicott. “His life’s work was done nearly perfect—by the light of a poor candle, too; an’ that’s to say there was a deal of pain hidden away deep in it. For pain is the mother of all perfect work. He’s out of it. We that have lost the man are to be pitied. We cannot pity him if we’re good Christians.”
“A cruel beast of a world ’tis most times,” declared Cramphorn, as he lighted his pipe. “Takin’ wan thing with another, ’tis a question if a man wouldn’t be happier born a rabbit, or some such unthinking item.”
“World’s all right,” answered Ash. “You’m acid along o’ your darters. ’Tis the people in the world makes the ferment. ’Twas a very gude plaace when fust turned out o’ hand, if Scripture’s to count; for God A’mighty seed it spread out like a map, wi’ its flam-new seas an’ mountains an’ rivers; an’ butivul tilth—all ripe for sowin’, no doubt; an’ He up an’ said ’twas vitty.”
“Ah! Awnly wan man an’ wan woman in it then—wi’out any fam’ly,” commented Jonah. “The Lard soon chaanged His tune when they beginned to increase an’ multiply. Disappointing creations all round, them Israelites. God’s awn image spoiled—as they be to this day for that matter.”
“Pegs! an’ us little better’n them judged in the lump. Take I—as’ll be next to go onderground by the laws of nature. What have I to shaw for all my years?” asked Ash sadly.
“You’ve done a sight o’ small, useful jobs in your time—things as had to be done by somebody; an’ you’ve worked no ill to my knowledge. ’Tis somethin’ to have bided on the airth eighty year an’ never woke no hate in a human breast,” said Jonah. “Very differ’nt to the chap that mourned in his Lunnon clothes at the graave-side, an’ cried his crocodile tears into a cambric ’ankersher for all to see,” he added.
“They was real, wet tears, for I catched the light of the sun on ’em,” said Tommy Bates. “An’ he shook grevous at ‘dust to dust,’ as if the dirt was falling ’pon him ’stead of the coffin.”
“He’m gone since—drove off to Okington, they tell me; an’ Brimblecombe says he be off to furrin paarts again to roam the world,” murmured Samuel Pinsent.
“Like the Dowl in Job, no doubt,” declared Jonah; “though ’tis question whether he’ll see worse wickedness than he knaws a’ready—even among they Turks.
“The man stopped in the yard till the graave was all suent, an’ smooth, an’ covered to the last turf, however,” answered Collins; “for I bided tu, an’ I watched un out the tail o’ my eye; an’ he was cut deep an’ couldn’t hide it even from me.”
“No gude for you to spit your spite ’gainst him, Jonah,” summed up Churdles Ash. “It caan’t be no use, an’ ’tis last thing as dead maister would have suffered from ’e.”
There was a silence; then Collins spoke in musing accents, to himself rather than for any listener.
“Really gone—dust—that gert, strong frame—an’ us shan’t see the swinging gait of un, or the steady eye of un, nor hear the slow voice of un calling out upon the land no more.”
“Gone for ever an’ ever, amen, Henery,” answered Ash. “Gone afore; an’ I like to be the fust to shaake his hand, in my humble way, t’other side the river.”
“An’ his things a mouldering a’ready,” whispered Tommy Bates with awe. “I found the leggings what he died in behind easy-chair in the parlour, wheer he wus took fust; an’ they’m vinnied all o’er.”
Jonah Cramphorn nodded.
“’Tis a terrible coorious fact,” he said, “as dead folks’ things do mildew ’mazin’ soon arter they’m took off of ’em.”
The talk fell and rose, flickering like a fire; then silence crowded upon all, and presently every man, save only Mark Endicott, departed; while he was left with a horror of his own imagining, to mourn the last companion spirit his age would know.