"Now, once for all," said Asher Skurge, "if I don't get my bit o' rent
by to-morrow at four o'clock, out you goes, bag and baggage,
Christmas-eve or no Christmas-eve. If you can't afford to pay rent,
you'd best go in the house, and let them pay as will." And Asher girded
up his loins, and left Widow Bond and her children in their bare
cottage, to moan over their bitter fate.
And then came Christmas-eve and four o'clock, and no money; and, what
was better, no Asher Skurge to turn out Widow Bond, "bag and baggage,"
not a very difficult task, for there was not much of it. The cottage
was well-furnished before Frank Bond's ship was lost at sea, and the
widow had to live by needlework, which, in her case, meant starving,
although she found two or three friends in the village who were very
sorry for her, or at all events said they were, which answered the same
purpose.
However, four o'clock grew near--came--passed--and no Asher. It was not
very dark, for there was snow--bright, glittering snow upon the ground;
but it gradually grew darker and darker, and with the deepening gloom.
Mrs Bond's spirits rose, for she felt that, leaving heart out of the
question, old Skurge, the parish clerk, dare not turn her out that night
on account of his own character. Five o'clock came, and then six, and
still no Asher; and Widow Bond reasonably thought that something must be
keeping him.
Mrs Bond was right--something was keeping the clerk, and that something
was the prettiest, yellow-haired, violet-eyed maiden that ever turned
out not to be a dreadful heroine given to breaking up, and then
pounding, the whole of the ten commandments in a way that would have
staggered Moses himself. No; Amy Frith, the rector's daughter, was not
a wicked heroine, and now that she was busy giving the finishing touches
to the altar-screen, and pricking her little fingers with holly till
they bled, she would not let the old man go because young Harry
Thornton, her father's pupil, was there. And Amy knew that so sure as
old Skurge took himself off, the young man would begin making love,
which, though it may be crowned in a church, ought not to be made in the
same place.
The young man fumed and fretted; and the old man coughed and groaned and
told of his rheumatics; but it was of no use; the maiden pitied them
both, and would have set them at liberty on her own terms, but remained
inexorable in other respects till the clock chimed half-past six, when
the candles were extinguished, the dim old church left to its repose,
and the late occupants took their departure to the rectory, and the long
low cottage fifty yards from the church gates.
"No; it couldn't be done at any price--turn the woman out on such a
night; the whole place would be up in arms; but he would go and see if
there was any money for him;" and so Asher Skurge partook of his frugal
tea by his very frugal fire, a fire which seemed to make him colder, for
it was so small that the wintry winds, which came pelting in at keyhole
and cranny, all hooted, and teased, and laughed at it, and rushed, and
danced, and flitted round, so that they made a terrible commotion all
about Asher's chair, and gave him far more cause to complain of
rheumatics than he had before.
So Asher buttoned himself up, body and soul too; he buttoned his soul up
so tight that there was not space for the smallest, tiniest shade of a
glance or a ray of good feeling to peep out; and then he sallied forth
out into the night-wind, with his nose as sharp and blue as if it had
been made of steel; and, as he hurried along, it split the frosty wind
right up, like the prow of a boat does water, and the sharp wind was
thus split into two sharper winds, which went screeching behind him, to
cut up the last remains of anything left growing.
He was a keen man was Asher; as keen a man as ever said "Amen" after a
prayer and didn't mean it. Ill-natured folks said he only seemed in his
element on Commination-day, when, after all the Curseds, he rolled out
the Amens with the greatest of gusto, and as if he really did mean it,
while the rector would quite shiver--but then the wind generally is
easterly at commination time, in the cold spring. He used to boast that
he had neither chick nor child, did Asher; and here again people would
say it was a blessing, for one Skurge was enough in a village; and that
it was a further blessing that his was a slow race. He was a
cold-blooded old rascal; but for all that he was warm, inasmuch as he
had well feathered his nest, and might by this time have been
churchwarden; but he preferred being clerk, to the very great disgust of
Parson Frith, who would gladly have been rid of him long enough before.
It did seem too bad to go worrying a poor widow for rent on a
Christmas-eve; but nothing was too bad for Asher, who soon made the poor
woman's heart leap, and then sink with despair.
Old Skurge was soon back in his own room, and the wind at last blew so
very cold that he indulged in the extravagance of an extra shovel of
coals, and a small chump of wood, and then he drew his pipe from the
corner and began to smoke, filling the bowl out of a small white
gallipot containing a mixture, half tobacco, half herbs, which he found
most economical; for it did not merely spin out the tobacco, but no
dropper-in ever cared about having a pipe of "Skurge's particular," as
it was named in the village.
Then, after smoking a bit, Asher seemed moved to proceed to further
extravagance, in consequence of its being Christmas-eve; so he laid down
his pipe, rubbed his ear, and then plunged his hand into his pocket and
brought out a small key. The small key opened a small cupboard, wherein
hung upon nails some half-dozen larger keys, one of which was taken down
and used to open a larger cupboard, from which Asher Skurge brought
forth a well-corked and tied-down bottle.
A cunning, inhospitable old rascal, bringing out his hidden treasures to
bib on a winter's night alone. What was it in the old black bottle?
Curacoa, maraschino, cherry brandy, genuine hollands, potent rum,
cognac? Hush! was it smuggled-up remains, or an odd bottle of
sacramental wine? No, it was none of these; but it poured forth clear,
bright, and amber-hued, with a creaming foam on the top; and--"blob;"
what was that? a swollen raisin, and the grains that slipped to the
bottom were rice.
Then what could the liquid be? The old man sipped it and tried to look
gratified, and sipped again, and took a long breath, and said "ha!" as
he set down the glass, and proceeded to fish out the raisin and bits of
rice, which he threw on the fire, and disgusted it to that extent that
it spat and sputtered; after which he let the glass stand again for a
long time before he attempted another taste, for the liquid was very
small, very sour beer, six months in bottle. Another year, perhaps,
might have improved its quality; but one thing was certain, and that
was, that it could be no worse.
But Asher Skurge was not going to show that he did not appreciate the
sour beverage, for he considered himself quite bacchanalian; and, after
one loud gust of wind, he poked his fire so recklessly that the poor
thing turned faint, and nearly became extinct, but was at length tickled
and coaxed into burning.
"Nine of 'em," said Asher, as the old Dutch clock in the corner gave
warning of its intention to strike shortly; a chirping, jarring sound,
as much as to say "stand clear or you'll be hit;" and just then the
clerk stopped short, put down his pipe again, and rubbed the side of his
nose uneasily; got up and looked closer at the clock; went to the window
and moved the blind to get a peep out, and then came back to the fire
and sat rubbing his hands.
"Never knew such a thing before in my life," said Asher. "Never once
forgot it before. And just at a time, too, when I'm comfortable. All
that confounded woman's fault for not paying her rent. Running after
her when I'd my own business to attend to." In fact, the old clerk had
been so put out of his regular course that night, what with church
decorations and hunting up Widow Bond, that he had quite forgotten to
wind up the clock, the old church time-keeper that he had never let run
down once for twenty years.
It was a rough job though upon such a night, just as he was so
comfortable, and enjoying his beer and tobacco in so jovial a manner.
He looked in his almanac to make sure this was the right evening, and
that he had not worked his ideas into a knot; but, no; his ideas were
all straight and in good order, and this was the night for winding up.
Couldn't he leave it till the morning?
Couldn't he forget all about it?
Couldn't he wait half an hour?
Couldn't he--couldn't he?--No; he couldn't; for habits that have been
grown into, can't be cast off in a moment. They may be shabby, and they
may be bad habits; they may hang in rags about the wearer, but for all
that it takes some time to get rid of them; and if Asher Skurge had not
wound up the clock upon this particular night, he would have been unable
to sleep in his bed, he would have had the weights upon his chest, the
lines hanging round his neck, and the pendulum vibrating within an inch
of his nose, while the hands pointed at him, and called attention to his
neglect.
No; once a week had Asher Skurge wound up that clock; and, "will he,
nill he," it seemed he must go this night and perform his old duty. But
he did wait more than half an hour, and then how he did snap, and snarl,
and worry the air--the cold air of the room. He might have been taken
for a wiry terrier showing his teeth with impotent rage while worried by
the attacks of a flea legion; but there was nothing for it, and he got
up and tied his comforter three times round his neck; brought the horn
lanthorn out of the cupboard, and then tried to illumine the scrap of
candle at the bottom. But there was no illumination in that candle. To
begin with, it was only a fag-end--one where the cotton did not reach
the end of the grease, and to make matters worse, it had been
extinguished in that popular manner--snuffing out with wet fingers.
Consequently the candle end spit, spat, and sputtered; sent off little
fatty scintillations, and then went out. Lit again, it went through the
same process, and upon repeating this twice, Asher grew wroth, seized
the offending morsel, and dashed it into the fire, where it flared up
and seemed to rejoice in the warmth, whilst its indignant owner wiped
his fingers in his scant hair, and then lit a fresh piece, closed the
lanthorn, and opened the door for a start.
Talk about Will-o'-the-Wisps and hobgoblins, why Asher looked quite the
equal of any ugly monstrosity of the imagination, as he went crunching
and grumbling along the snowy path on his way to the belfry-door. The
wind was colder than ever, while in spite of the howling din, it was
bright and clear overhead, and the stars seemed not merely to twinkle,
but quiver and dance.
Asher's journey was but a short one, and mostly along the narrow side
path which led amongst the tombstones and wooden tablets; but he cared
no more for tombstones, and night walks in churchyards, than he did for
walks in the meadows; so on he went, "crunch, crunch," on the frozen
snow, never pausing to admire the beautiful old church in its Christmas
mantle, but growling and grumbling, and if it had been any other man we
might have said swearing, till he reached the door in the tower and
fumbled in the big key.
"Scraun-n-n-n-tch" went the old wards as the rusty key turned in the
rusty lock; and "Crea-ee-ee-ak" went the great door upon its old hinges;
and then setting down his lanthorn, Asher tried to shut the door again
to keep out the bitter wind. But the door would not shut, but seemed as
if something was pushing it back against him; and it was not until after
two or three vigorous thrusts, that the old man stopped to scratch his
head, and took up his lanthorn and examined the hinges; when, sure
enough, there was something which prevented the door closing, for there
was a great bone stuck in the crack, and it was so squeezed and jammed
in that it took a great deal of getting out. But when it was got out,
Asher threw it savagely away, for he minded not a bone or two when there
was quite a heap in the corner behind him; so he threw it savagely away,
and gave the door a bang which made the old tower jar, and the light in
his lanthorn quiver, while just then there was a rattling noise, and
something round came rolling up to him and stopped up against his feet
so that the old man gave quite a start.
"Bah!" exclaimed Asher directly after, for he made no more account of a
skull than the grave-digger in Hamlet. "Bah?" he exclaimed; and he gave
the skull a fierce kick to send it back to the heap from whence it had
rolled. But just then Asher gave a leap--a most nimble one, too, for so
old a man; for the skull seemed to have seized him by the foot, and
stuck tightly to his heavy boot, which he had driven through the thin
bone, and half buried in the internal cavity.
"Why, what the--?" What Asher would have said remains unknown, for he
stopped short just as a mighty rush of wind smote the door, howled
through the bottom of the tower, and nearly extinguished the
horn-protected candle. The old man did not say any more, but kicked and
kicked at the skull till it was loosened, when it flew off, and up
against the stone wall with a sharp crack, and then down upon the floor;
while Asher seized his lanthorn, and, troubled with an unusual feeling
of trepidation, began to ascend the ricketty old oak ladder which led up
to the floor where the bell-ringers had been that night pulling a few
changes out of the five bells.
Asher Skurge crossed the floor, threading his way amongst the ropes, and
then began to mount the next ladder; for there was no spiral staircase
here. Up the ricketty, loose rounds, and then rising like a stage ghost
through a trap-door, the clerk stood at length in the second floor
amongst the ropes, which passed through to the bells above; and here,
shut up in a gigantic cupboard, was the great clock whose announcements
of the flight of time floated over vale and lea.
As the clerk drew near, all at once there began a whizzing, whirring
noise, which drowned the "tic-tac; tic-tac" of the pendulum; and then
loud and clear--too loud and too clear--sounded the great bell-hammer
within, announcing that it was eleven o'clock.
"Ah!" growled Asher, as soon as the clock had struck; "nice time for my
job!" and then he pulled out another key, and prepared to open the great
clock cupboard.
"Hallo?" said Asher, "what now?" and he started back a step, for there
was a tiny head and shoulders poked out of the keyhole, and two bright,
glittering little eyes seemed to gaze at the clerk for a moment, and
then popped in again.
Asher Skurge felt himself to be too old a bird to be caught with that
sort of chaff--he only believed in four spirits, did Asher; and, after
gin, rum, brandy, and whisky had been named, the speaker would have got
to the end of Asher's spiritual tether. So he put down his lanthorn and
the key beside it; rubbed his eyes, lifted his hat, and scratched his
head; and then began to warm himself by beating his hands against his
breast.
"Gammon!" muttered Asher, taking up lanthorn and key, and going towards
the cupboard again. "Gammon!" he exclaimed aloud, and was about to put
the key in the hole, when out popped the tiny head again, and remained
looking at the astonished clerk, who stopped short and opened his mouth
widely.
"It's the strong ale," said Asher; and he made a poke at the keyhole
with the key, when "bang, crash;" the door flew open and struck him in
the face, knocked him down and his lanthorn out; and of course, you'll
say, "there he lay in the dark!"
Not a bit of it. There lay Asher Skurge, certainly; but not in the
dark; for shining out from the middle of the clock was a bright, glowing
light, which filled the place, and made the bell-ropes shine as if made
of gold. There was the great clock with all its works; but high and
low, everywhere, it was covered with tiny figures similar to the one
which gazed out of the keyhole, and all busily at work: there were
dozens clinging to the pendulum and swinging backwards and forwards upon
the great bob, while a score at each side gave it a push every time it
swung within reach; dozens more were sliding down the long shaft to
reach those upon the bob; while the weights seemed quite alive with the
busy little fellows toiling and straining to push them down. Astride of
the spindles; climbing up the cogs as though they were steps; clinging
in, out, and about every wheel; and all, as it were, bent upon the same
object--forcing on the clock--hurry and bustle--bustle and hurry--up and
down--down and up--climbing, crawling, and leaping in the golden light
were the tiny figures pushing on the wheels.
Asher Skurge sat up with his hair lifting on his head, but a staunch and
obstinate man was he, and he wouldn't believe it a bit, and told himself
in learned language it was a delusion; but for all that, he was very
uncomfortable, and felt about for the old horn spectacles he had left in
the room at home.
"I don't care; it's all gammon!" exclaimed the clerk; "and if I was to
say, `crafts and assaults of the devil, Good Lord, deliver us,' they'd
all vanish."
"No, they wouldn't, Asher!" said a small voice close at his ear.
"Eh?" said Asher, starting.
"No, they wouldn't, Asher," said the voice again; "not till they've kept
the clock going till your time's up. You wanted it to run down, but we
didn't."
Asher stared about him, and then saw that the tiny figure which first
gazed at him from the keyhole was now squatted, nursing its knees, upon
his lanthorn, and gazing fixedly at him.
"They wouldn't vanish, Asher," said the tiny figure; "and here they
come."
As it finished speaking, the little spirits came trooping towards Asher,
and dragged out of his pocket a small key, which opened a padlock, and
loosened a chain, and set at liberty the key of the great timepiece; for
Asher was determined that no other hands should touch _his_ clock, as he
called it; but now he saw a couple of score of little figures seize the
key, fit it in the hole, and then toil at it till they turned it round
and round, and wound up first one and then the other weight.
"How much longer?" cried the little spirit upon the lanthorn.
"One hour," cried all the other spirits in chorus; and the two words
seemed to ring in Asher's ears, and then go buzzing round the place, and
even up and amongst the bells, so that there was a sort of dumb pealing
echo of the words.
"`One hour,'" cried Asher, at length; "what's `one hour'?"
"One hour more for you," said the little spirit, staring unwinkingly,
with its little diamond eyes fixed upon Asher, while its mite of a chin
rested upon its little bare knees.
"What do you mean," said Asher, fiercely, "with your one more hour?" and
then he tried to get up, but could not, for he found that a number of
the little figures had busily tied him with the bell-ropes; and there he
was fast, hand and foot.
"What do I mean?" said the little figure; "lie still, and I'll tell you,
Asher. I mean that your time's nearly up, and that you have now only
fifty-six minutes left."
"It must be the strong ale," muttered Asher, turning hot all over, after
vainly trying to loosen his bands. "It must be the strong ale; but I
think, perhaps, I'll let Mrs Bond stay another week."
"Ha! ha! ha! she's all right. You see you didn't make a will, Asher."
"How do you know?" cried the old man, now growing quite alarmed. "Who
says I didn't make a will?"
"I do," said the little figure. "But don't waste time, man. Only fifty
minutes; and time's precious."
"But who are you?" cried Asher, excitedly.
"Me?" said the little thing. "Oh, I'm only a second, like those
climbing about the clock; and I'm the last one in your hour. There's
one beat off by the pendulum every moment. Don't you see fresh ones
keep going down?"
"No!" growled Asher, savagely, "I don't." But he did though, for all
that, though he would not own to it. There they were, clinging to the
great round ball of the pendulum, and one dropping off at every beat,
while fresh ones kept gliding down the long shaft into their places.
What became of the others he could not tell, for, as they fell off, they
seemed to dissolve in the glow which lit up the old clock's works.
It was of no use to struggle, for the efforts only made the ropes cut
into his wrists and legs; and if it had not been that the rope which
went round his neck was the part covered with worsted to save the
ringers' hands, it seemed to him that he would have been strangled. He
was horribly frightened, but he would not own to it, and, in spite of
the fierce cold, he felt wet with perspiration.
"How slow the time goes," said the little figure. "I want to be off.
You're about ready, I suppose."
"No I'm not," cried Asher furiously, "I've no end to do."
"Turn out Widow Bond for one thing," said the figure with a mocking
leer. "Never mind about that. Only forty-five more minutes now."
"What a horrible dream," cried Asher in agony.
"'Tisn't a dream," said the little figure. "You pinch your leg and try
now, or stop, I will," and in a moment the tiny fellow leaped down and
nipped the clerk's leg so vigorously that he shrieked with pain.
"Don't feel like a dream, does it?" said the spirit.
"Don't think it does," said Asher, "at least I never dreamed so loud
before that I know of."
"No, I shouldn't think you did, but you won't dream any more," said the
little spirit.
"You don't mean that?" said Asher in a pitiful voice.
"I shouldn't have said it if I had not," said the spirit. "Do you
suppose we speak falsely?"
"Oh, I don't know," groaned Asher. "But, I say, let me go this time."
"Thirty-five minutes," said the little spirit; "only thirty-five minutes
more, and then my work's done, and yours too."
Asher groaned again, and then gave a furious struggle, which only
tightened the ropes and made one of the bells above give a sonorous
clang, which sounded like a knell to the groaning clerk.
"How are you going to do it?" he cried at last.
"Going to do what?" said the spirit.
"Going to--to--to--make an end of me?" said Asher.
"Oh!" said the spirit, "I shan't have anything to do with it. Some of
those to come will do that; I shall be gone. I suppose they'll only put
your head under the big hammer which strikes the hour, and it will do
all that, so that people will say it was an accident. Only twenty-five
minutes now."
Asher turned as white as the parson's surplice, and his teeth chattered
as he groaned out:--
"Oh! what for? what for?"
"Why, you see, you are no good," said the spirit, "and only in the way,
so some one else may just as well be in your place. What do you know of
love, or friendship, or affection, or anything genial? Why you're cold
enough to chill the whole parish. Only a quarter of an hour now."
Ten minutes after the little spirit told the trembling man that he had
but five minutes more, and four of these were wasted in unavailing
struggles and prayers for release, when all at once Asher felt himself
seized by hundreds of tiny hands. The cords were tightened till their
pressure was agonising; and then he seemed to be floated up into the
great open floor where the bells hung in the massive oaken framework,
and though he could not see it, he knew well enough where the tenor bell
was, and also how the great iron clock hammer was fixed, which would
crush his skull like an egg-shell.
Asher struggled and tried to scream, but he felt himself impelled
towards the bell, and directly after his cheek was resting upon the cold
metal on one side, while the great hammer barely touched his temple on
the other, and he knew when it was raised that it would come down with a
fierce crash, and he shuddered as he thought of the splashed bell, and
the blood, and brains, and hair clinging to the hammer.
"And they'll say it was an accident," muttered Asher to himself, quoting
the spirit's remark. "They'll never give me credit for doing it myself.
I'm the wrong sort." And then the thoughts of a life seemed crowded
into that last minute, and he shuddered to see what a little good he had
done. Always money and self, and now what was it worth? He had pinched
and punished all around him for the sake of heaping up riches, and now
above all would come in those words--
"Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee."
Thoughts crowded through the wretched man's brain thick and fast. He
seemed living his life through in these few remaining seconds, while
above all there was the reproaching face of the poor widow whom he would
have cast out that night homeless and friendless upon the bitter world.
He could not explain it to himself, but it seemed that this face kept
him down where he was more than anything else. There was no anger upon
it, nothing but bitter sorrowful reproach, and though he would have
closed his eyes he could not hide from his gaze that sad countenance.
But now came the horror of death, for he seemed to see the little
spirits glide down the pendulum far beneath him, rest for a moment upon
the bob, and then as one was beaten off, up rose the hammer, and he felt
its cold touch leave his temple. Up--up--higher--higher--and now it was
about to come down and would dash out his brains. It was coming, and
all was over, and for that second the agony he suffered was intense.
Then down it came, after seeming to be poised in the air for an awful
space of time, and at last came the fearful stroke.
"Clang," and his brain rocked and reeled as the blow fell upon the
sonorous metal close by his forehead. The piercing tones rang through
him, but before he could collect his thoughts--"Clang" went the hammer
again again, and yet his heart did not revive, for he felt that it would
be the _last_ stroke which would crush him.
"Clang--clang--clang--clang" came the solemn tones of the great bell;
solemn, although they seemed to split his head with the noise, and now
he had counted eleven, and the last blow was about to fall. The hammer
was rising--slowly rising--and in less than a moment he felt that the
blow would come. He could not struggle, though he was being impelled
nearer and nearer. He could not cry. He could not move; and at last,
after an agonising suspense, during which the widow's imploring,
reproachful face was pressing closer and closer, down came the great
hammer for the twelfth stroke--
"Crash!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The clock stopped; and the bells won't ring," said a cheery voice; "and
on a Christmas-morning, too. Let me try."
Asher Skurge heard the voice, and directly after he shrieked out with
pain, for he felt something cutting into his leg, and this caused him to
open his eyes, and to see that his lanthorn lay close beside him; that
he was regularly wrapped, tied, and tangled with the bell-ropes, while
the clock cupboard lay open before him--the clock at a standstill--
probably from the cold; while, as for himself, he was quite at a
lie-still, and there had been some one dragging at one of the ropes so
as almost to cut his leg in two.
Directly after the head of young Harry Thornton appeared above the
trap-door, and then at his call came the sexton; but more help was
needed before Asher Skurge could be got down the ladders and across the
churchyard to his cottage, where, what with rheumatics and lumbago, the
old man is not so fond of winter night walks as of old.
But though Asher would as soon of thought of turning himself out as
Widow Bond, he did not have her long for a tenant, for her husband's
ship was not lost; and after three years' absence, Frank Bond came back
safe and sound, but so weatherbeaten as hardly to be recognised.
But Asher Skurge was ever after an altered man, for it seemed to him
that he had taken out a new lease of his life, and in spite of
neighbourly sneers, he set heartily to work to repair his soul's
tenement. You can see where it has been patched; and even now it is far
from perfect, but there are much worse men in the world than Asher
Skurge, even if he does believe in spirits, and you might have a worse
man for a landlord than the obstinate old clerk, who so highly offended
the new vicar because he would not go and wind up the clock after dark.