Moredock was better by the next Saturday, and he got up with the
intention of having a good long day at the church.
"Must keep friends with the doctor," he muttered. "Can't afford to die
yet. So much to do first."
He looked up at his clock, and the clock's sallow round face looked down
at him, pointing out how time was getting on, and kept on its monotonous
_chick chack_, as the old pendulum swung from side to side.
"Mornin', old Moredock," cried a cheery rustic voice, and a rough, fair,
curly head was thrust in at the doorway, the owner of the body keeping
it carefully outside, as he held in at arm's length an old patched boot,
which had evidently been soaked in water to allow for a series of great
stitches to be put into the upper leather.
For the moment it seemed as if Moredock was some grim old idol, carved
in yellowish-brown wood, as he sat in his chair in the middle of his
sanctuary, and the new comer was an idolater, bringing him a peace
offering; but the idea died away as the old man snarled out:
"Mornin', young Chegg. So you've brought it at last."
"At last! Well, I haven't had it so very long. Sixpence."
"Sixpence! What, for sewing up that crack?"
"Yes, and cheap, too. Why, I'd ha' charged parson a shilling. How are
you?"
"How am I? Ah! that's it, is it? That's what you've come for. Not
dead yet, Joe Chegg, and they don't want another clerk and saxton for
the old church."
"Nay--"
"Hold your tongue when I'm speaking. Think I don't know you. Want to
step in my shoes, do you? Want to marry my grandchild Dally, do you?
Well, you're not going to while I'm alive, and I'm going to live another
ten year."
"That's all right," said the young man, rubbing his face with a hard
hand, much tanned, and coated with wax. "I don't want you to die."
"Yes, you do," cried the old man fiercely. "I see you looking me up and
down, and taking my measure. Think you're going to dig my grave, do
you? Well, you're not going to these ten years to come; and p'r'aps I
shall dig yours first, Joe Chegg; p'r'aps I shall dig yours."
It was a cool morning, in the hunting season, but the young man
perspired, and shifted uneasily from foot to foot.
"Oh! I don't know, Mr Moredock, sir," he muttered awkwardly.
"Then I do," cried the old sexton, dragging his hand out of his
trousers' pocket. "There's a fourpenny piece. Quite enough for your
job, and I tell you now as I mean to tell you ten year hence, you ain't
going to be saxton o' Dook's Hampton while Jonadab Moredock's alive, so
be off."
"I don't want nothing but what's friendly like, Mr Moredock, sir. I
thought as when you was out o' sorts I might be a kind o' depitty like,
to ring the bells for you, and dig a grave for you."
"Ah!" shouted the old man, "that's it--that's what Parson Salis calls
showing the cloven hoof. You said it, and you can't take it back.
You'd like to dig a grave for me."
"I meant to put some one else in," said the young man, staring.
"No, you didn't; you meant to put me in; but I'll live to spite you.
I'll ring my own bells, and say my own amens and 'sponses, and dig my
own graves; and if you marry Dally Watlock, not a penny does she have o'
my money, and I'll burn the cottage down."
The young man wiped his forehead and backed slowly towards the door,
just inside which he had been standing during the latter part of the
interview, and as soon as he was outside he hurried away.
"Not going to die yet," muttered the old man. "I can't and won't die
yet. I'll let 'em see. Doctor said a man's no business to die till
he's quite wore out, and I'm not wore out yet--nothing like. I'll show
'em. Only wish somebody would die, and I'd show 'em. Give up, indeed!"
A sharp fit of coughing interrupted the old man, and left him so
exhausted that he took his seat and leaned back, staring at the fire,
and only moving at times to put on a lump of coal, till towards evening,
when he rose and made himself some tea. Then, putting a piece of candle
loose in his pocket, with happy indifference to the fact that it was not
wax, he took a box of matches from the mantelpiece and thrust them in
with the candle, as he believed, felt in another pocket for his key, and
trudged off to the church to put things in order for the next day's
service.
Moredock reached the old lych gate in the dark autumnal evening, passed
through, and ascended the path, which looked like a cutting in the
churchyard, six hundred years of interments having raised the ground
till it formed a bank, while the church itself seemed to have become
sunken.
Half-way up he struck off along a narrower path which curved round to
the old iron-studded door in the tower, a door whose hinges resembled
Norse runes, so twisted and twined was the iron-work.
The heavy old key was inserted, turned, and taken out, and as the door
yielded to pressure the key was inserted on the other side. The next
minute the door was closed and locked, and Moredock stood in the old
tower, fumbling in the darkness for the horn lantern which stood in a
stone niche.
The lantern was found, opened, and the piece of candle inserted in the
socket. The next thing was a search for the matches, which, however,
were not found, for they were reposing on the rug in the sexton's
cottage.
And there he stood fumbling and muttering for some minutes in the total
darkness, till, believing that the matches must have been left behind,
he uttered a loud grunt, and prepared to do without.
It was no great difficulty; for, as he stood in the basement of the old
square tower, with the five bells high above his head, and the ropes
hanging therefrom, he knew that to his right ran the rickety old flight
of stairs leading to the different floors and the leads of the tower; on
his left his tools leaning against the stone wall, and the great
cupboard in which, in company with planks and ropes, were sundry
grisly-looking relics, dug up from time to time, but never seen by any
one but himself; behind him was the door by which he had entered, and
facing him the lancet-shaped little opening through the tower wall,
leading into the west end of the church.
It was dark enough where he next stood, for he was beneath the loft
where the school children and the singers sat on Sundays; but in front
of him, dimly seen by the great east window being beyond it, and looking
like an uncouth, dwarf, one-legged monster, was the massive stone font,
round which he passed slowly, and then walked straight along the centre
aisle towards the tomb-encumbered chancel, cut off by its antique oaken
screen.
His steps were hushed by the matting, and the darkness, in spite of the
windows on either side, was intense behind, though above the old deal
unpainted pews there seemed to float a dim haze, as if from the great
east window, as he made his way towards the door on the north side of
the chancel.
Moredock could have walked swiftly along the church in the dark, and he
had often done so when he was younger. He could recall the time, too,
when he had whistled softly as he went about dusting cushions and
rearranging hassocks and matting. But now he had no breath left for
whistling, and he walked--almost shuffled--along slowly towards the
vestry, where he had nothing to do but give the gown and surplice a
shake and hang them up again, and refill the large water-bottle from
Gumley's pump, which drew water from a well in remarkably close
proximity to the churchyard.
The big pews shut him in right and left, so that had he been visible to
any one at a distance, it would have seemed as if a head and shoulders
were gliding along the church; but there was no one to see him. All the
same, though, Moredock could see, and as well as was possible he saw
something which made him stop short just half-way between the font and
the eagle lectern, to shade his eyes and gaze towards the chancel.
He did not believe in ghosts. He had been night and day in that old
church too many hundred times to be scared at anything--at least so he
thought. But perhaps owing to the fact that he had been ill, he was
ready to be weak and nervous, and hence it was that he stood as if
sealed to the spot, gazing at a dimly seen head, draped in long folds
like that of the lady on the old mural slab on the south wall by the
door. It was grey and dim as that always seemed in its recess, and as
it glided along the south aisle it disappeared behind a pillar, all so
dimly seen as to be next to invisible, and then reappeared in front of
the pulpit, passed through the screen into the chancel, where it was
seen a trifle more plainly; and then, as the old man gazed, the draped
head grew for a moment more distinct, and then seemed to melt into thin
air.