"No, Moredock, I am not going to find more fault, and I am not going to
complain to the rector. If you had been a young man, with chances of
getting work elsewhere, I should have had you discharged at once."
"Ay, discharged at once," said the old man, trying to bite his livid lip
with one very yellow old tooth, as he stood in the vestry doorway,
looking down at the curate.
"But as you are a venerable old man--"
"Gently, Parson Salis; a bit old, but not venerable," grumbled the
sexton.
"I shall look over it, and not disturb you for the short time you have
to live upon this earth. But--"
"Now, don't go on like that, sir, and don't get talking about little
time on earth. I may live a many years."
"I hope you will, Moredock," said the curate, taking out the cigar-case
he had started at North's recommendation, and carefully selecting a
cigar before replacing it; "and I hope you will bitterly repent. If you
had come to me and asked me I would have given you a bottle of wine, but
for a trusted servant of the church to take advantage of his position
and steal--"
"On'y borri'd it, sir."
"I say steal, Moredock. It was a wicked theft," said Salis sternly.
"The wine kept here for sacramental purposes--"
"But it was only in the cupboard."
"It was a wicked theft, sir."
"And it's poor sweet stuff; no more like the drop o' port Squire
Candlish give me than treacle and water's like gin."
"You're a scoundrelly old reprobate, Moredock."
"No, I arn't, parson. I'm a good old sarvant o' the church. Here have
I been ill, as doctor 'll tell you, and I was took bad in the church o'
Saturday, and you'd ha' done the same, and took a drop o' the wine."
"And you've been taken bad Saturday after Saturday for months past, eh,
sir?" said the curate sternly.
"Been out of order for a long bit, sir," grumbled Moredock, shuffling
from foot to foot like a scolded schoolboy.
"You old scoundrel!" said the curate, half rising from his seat in the
dim vestry, where the surplices and gowns, hung against the old oak
panels, seemed like a jury listening to the sexton's impeachment. "You
old scoundrel!" he said again, shaking the cigar at him, as if it were a
little staff. "It's quite a year since I began missing the wine, and I
would not--I could not--suspect you. Why, I should as soon have thought
that you would rob the alms box."
The old man started, as if his guilty conscience needed no accuser, for
he had more than once helped himself to a silver coin from the box
within the south door, telling himself that the alms were for the poor,
and that he was one of that extremely large fringe of rags upon
civilisation.
"Well," continued the curate, "I shall to some extent condone this very
serious offence, Moredock, for I cannot find it in my heart to prosecute
an old man of over ninety; so now go, and I sincerely hope that you will
repent."
"Ay, I'll repent, parson; but it wouldn't ha' been much loss to ha' been
turned out o' being saxton. Nobody dies now, and no one gets married.
How's Miss Leo?"
"Getting quite strong again."
"That's a blessing, sir," grumbled the old man, who in spirit abused the
young girl for defrauding him of certain fees. "Health's a blessing,
sir."
"Yes, Moredock, it is," said the curate, rising.
"And I thankye kindly, sir, for looking over the wine, I do. You
needn't lock it up. I won't touch it again."
"I shall not lock it up, Moredock. My forgiveness is full. I shall
trust you as if this had never occurred."
"Thankye, parson. That's han'some."
"But let me have no more complaints. You must do your duty, as I try to
do mine."
"Ay, parson, and I will," said the old sexton, following his superior to
the door leading out to the churchyard, where Salis stopped and took a
box of vestas from his pocket, as he stood just outside the old stone
doorway, where a stone corbel with a demoniacal expression of
countenance seemed to be leering by his shoulder as if in enjoyment of
what had taken place.
It was a sheltered corner for lighting a cigar, and the curate, without
pausing to think, struck a match, and began to puff out the smoke.
"Well, I've no right to speak, as between parson and sax'on, sir; but
twix' old man and young man, I do say--what would you ha' said to me if
you'd ketched me having a pipe in the churchyard?"
"Why, you old rascal, I've often seen you smoking when you've been
digging a grave."
"Not often, parson; because one never hardly gets a grave to dig. I
have had a pipe sometimes when my chesty has felt a bit weak."
"I deserve your reproof, Moredock," said the curate, putting out his
cigar. "I have taken to smoking so much that I find myself lighting
cigars at all times and seasons, and I am greatly to blame here."
"Nay, nay, I shan't say no more," said the old man, calmly taking the
place of reprover instead of being reproved; "but try a pipe, parson.
Worth a dozen cigars. Stop a moment, sir, I wants another word with
you."
"Yes. What about?"
"My gran'child, Dally, parson. I arn't saddersfied there."
"Why, Moredock?"
"Because I don't think you looks arter her morals as you should. `Send
her to me, Moredock,' you says, `and me and the young ladies will take
every care on her.'"
"I did, Moredock; and we have."
"Nay, you haven't, sir; or else she wouldn't go on as she do."
"What do you mean, man?"
"Along o' young Tom Candlish, squire's brother, sir."
"Is this true?"
"True, sir? Course it is. Don't I say so? I've ketched 'em together
over and over again."
"Tut--tut--tut! this must be stopped," cried Salis angrily. "Did you
speak to him?"
"Ay, I spoke to him."
"What did he say?"
"Called I an old fool."
"But your grandchild. Did you speak to her?"
"Ay, course I did; but you might as well talk to yon cobble. She just
laughed, and give her pretty head a toss. She is a pretty gal, parson."
"Far too pretty, Moredock."
"Oh! I don't know 'bout that, sir. Think young Tom wants to marry her?
I'll put down a hundred pound the day she's wed."
"You will, Moredock? Why, I thought you were very poor."
"So I am, parson, so I am; but I've saved up for the gal. But you keep
her in more; it'll make him more hungry arter her, and I'd like to see
her mistress up at the Hall."
"Moredock!" cried the curate, in horrible perplexity.
"Well, I should," said the old man, grinning. "Squire's drinking
hisself to death as fast as he can, and he won't marry; so young Tom's
sure to get the place. But you keep her in."
"I will, Moredock," said the curate sternly, and, in grave perplexity at
the loose ideas of morality existing in Duke's Hampton, he went straight
home, to find the doctor seated by Mary's couch.