Jenny Mykelborne, a stone’s throw away, was asking the same question; for death ran in her mind tonight, a message having come from Maiden Holt that her father was to attend in the morning to measure Paul Dewdney for a coffin. She was reflecting on the chance of there being something already in stock that would do. For the wheelwright’s workshop generally contained at least one coffin of a likely size, Mykelborne’s first concern being, when one funeral was over, to begin making ready for another. ‘Tis martal folly to be took unawares,’ he said. ‘There be no manner of sense in that, my dearies.’ And while at work on the new coffin he would busy his mind with wondering who was most likely to occupy it: whether Gaffer This or Gammer That, or poor Sally Byfoot as had been these ten years abed poor soul, or yon fellow that fell sick a-Saturday. Without levity, and in his own sober and godly fashion, he would make bets on this matter, as it were with Death himself; and when his candidate was chosen he would greet the event with a suitable mingling of melancholy and triumph. ‘Deary me now, so he’s gone at last, poor soul. Now mark my words and whaddid I tella. All flesh is grass, I telled a, and tis old Roger as’ll stretch his length in you, I said, giving coffin a tap with my hammer. All flesh is grass, to be sure, as Postle Paul well knowed.’ But Death was more than his match and full of surprises, and as often as not outwitted him by passing over the gaffers and gammers, and never coming near the Sally Byfoots; for the green springing corn is as much to his fancy as the ripe grain or the rotten. To Jenny a coffin was a homely and familiar thing: as a child she had put her dolls to bed in it, and played at dinner-parties on the lid. Coffins meant nothing, and death meant very little. At nineteen she was immortal. Nor was she unwilling to share the sweet taste of her immortality with such of the village men as took her fancy. She was big and fair and sentimental, with the bold shy staring eyes of a child, a plump maturity of figure, and lips that were a perpetual invitation. Nothing so much surprised her as to be kissed, and her capacity for enjoying such surprises was inexhaustible. So her thoughts, though tonight they began with Paul Dewdney’s death and the coffin that her father must provide, did not long rest there, but went following the stranger and his horses down the Dyking road.
It was a slightly different sound that Noke heard, five or six minutes later; for the horses now trod on soft grass. It was so unusual for him to hear a passer-by at this time of night that he sat up in bed and listened. The traveller was very near: Noke judged him to be within five yards of the cot itself. He was apparently having trouble with his horses, for suddenly a volley of ferocious oaths broke the quiet of the night with an ugliness like that of murder. The fellow, whoever he was, seemed to be devil-possessed. Pricked by curiosity, and with his blood stirred to an answering tumult by the tumult outside, Noke scrambled off his bed and dressed quickly. He fancied he might be too late (he did not ask for what), but it was against his instinct to go in quest of adventure unbreeched. Anger raged round his house, now near, now less near: the brief thunder of hooves, the vile shouting of a man. What gutter-scum is there, thought Noke; for in the course of a life not over-gentle, even by the standard of the times, he had never heard a voice so cruel as this stranger’s. And now, having pulled on his boots, he was ready to go and see what was amiss. He opened the door and looked out upon a moonlit scene. At the moment the disturbers of his peace were not in sight, but he could hear them at his back, and the next moment they appeared: two prancing horses, with a man clinging to the back of one of them. The man was a masterful rider and was in no personal danger; but something had terrified the horses, perhaps he himself, and of the second, which he held by the bridle, he had lost command. Nor did his anger avail him, for at that very moment the animal broke away from him, and the one he bestrode began rearing and plunging anew. In the same instant a dog ran barking towards them. ‘Back, Roger! Here, Roger!’ shouted Noke, but the voice of the stranger drowned his. The fellow was now grinning with rage. Controlling his horse he stared down at the barking dog with a kind of glee. The next instant there was a pistol in his hand. He took careless aim and fired. The dog barked no more. The horse became frenzied. Noke knelt in the grass at Roger’s side. But not for many seconds: the dog was already quite dead. His master jumped up, uttered an inarticulate noise that was half sob half curse, and rushed towards the stranger. The horseman yelled at him to keep back. ‘Out the way, blast ye! Or I’ll serve you same as him.’ He struck out with the butt end of his pistol, but Noke, with a wolfish noise, dodged the blow, ran in, and seized him by the leg. The leg kicked him in the face and was free, but he seized it again, and gave a twist and a jerk and a heave, and the horse bolted, leaving its master lying limp in the grass. Noke, snorting and quivering, stood for a moment blinded by his own blood. It sealed his eyes, and he could feel the warm salt of it on his tongue. But presently he was able to look down at his work. The stranger had fallen on his head. The neck was broken, and in his dying convulsion he had flung himself backwards and now lay staring at the moon. His hat and wig had fallen off; his head was bald, his face vilely distorted, the face of a man who had died by violence and in anger. Noke thought him a mighty ugly customer, but he tried to suppress the thought. He had hated this fellow a moment ago: now that he was dead he feared him. Looking down on him he gulped a kind of prayer; glanced guiltily round; and then found himself afraid to confront that face again. Averting his gaze, fixing it not on the face but on the boots of the dead man, he tried a kind of argument. A nasty business, but you did kill my dog after all. No good looking at me like that: I’m not afeared of you, alive or dead. Still I’m sorry it happened. Mistakes on both sides, but you did kill my dog. Thur wornt no call to do that. Now wor thur? So his thoughts ended, on a note almost of appeal. He invited his enemy to take a reasonable view of the matter. He was in dread of being haunted.