A few weeks later John Musgrave set out across the fields in search of
the vicar. The vicar on that particular morning was engaged in a search
of quite another description, a search which necessitated the company of
his sexton, armed with the iron rod with which he prodded in the
moundless graveyard where the poor of the parish lay sleeping, to
discover where he might, without disturbing an older resident, dig a
grave for a fresh interment.
The nature of the soil in the Moresby churchyard was such that it was
quite safe, after the lapse of a certain number of years, to bury the
present generation in the resting-places of their predecessors. There
were no headstones to suggest ownership in this little acre of the dead;
and, owing to a whim of the old squire, who during his lifetime had
ruled the parish with the despotism of an autocrat, the graves had been
dug level with the rest of the ground. Since the advent of the present
vicar mounds were insisted upon, and headstones encouraged; so that a
man might feel assured when he was laid to rest that his resting-place
would remain undisturbed. The old order was changing, even in the
matter of interments.
For a while Robert prodded unsuccessfully; wherever he drove his rod in,
after a few feet of solid earth it sank suddenly into the unresisting
depths of an uncollapsed grave.
"Time most o' these 'ad a failed in," he grumbled. "It grows more
difficult to find a spot wi' each fresh buryin'."
"Try here," suggested the vicar.
Robert drove his rod in once again. To the depth of about six feet it
pierced firm, resisting soil.
"Reckon that's got it, sir," he said, as he drew the rod out from the
ground. "I'll carry this back along, an' fetch my spade."
At this moment the vicar looked up and beheld John Musgrave bearing
towards him. He stepped off the grass, where the quiet dead lay
unmarked beneath his feet, and went to meet him.
"Are you busy?" Mr Musgrave asked, turning, and falling into step with
him as he walked along the broad gravelled path beneath the scanty shade
of the thinning trees.
"Not particularly. I have time to spare you, if you want me. We've a
funeral this afternoon."
"Yes. Blackmoor, of course; Martha informed me he was to be buried
to-day. Mrs Blackmoor assists Martha in the kitchen when she requires
help. A very respectable woman." Walter Errol smiled.
"She is," he agreed. She had not always been so, as he and John both
knew; but a call to grace in later life atoned for the indiscretions of
youth. "Blackmoor had his failings," he added, "but he was a
good-hearted man; and that goes a long way towards the redeeming
virtues. What was it you wished to see me about, John?"
Mr Musgrave looked worried--more than worried; he appeared annoyed. He
did not answer immediately. He passed through the little wicket gate
into the lane, which led past the schoolhouse to the vicarage, in a
preoccupied silence, upon which the unmusical singing of the
school-children broke inharmoniously. Presently he said:
"I have received a very inconsiderate letter from Belle this morning.
She writes to say she is coming to me next week--"
"But that's great," interposed Walter Errol. "You'll enjoy that."
"I should enjoy having Belle," Mr Musgrave answered quietly. "But she
proposes bringing Mrs Chadwick with her. I was not agreeably
prepossessed with this lady, and I do not anticipate pleasure from the
visit. The Hall is to be got ready for their immediate occupation, and
she wishes to superintend matters, I understand. I do not see the
necessity for her superintending the redecoration of the Hall from my
house. She could have stayed in Rushleigh."
"It won't be a long visit, I suppose?" the vicar suggested
encouragingly. "And Mrs Sommers will relieve you of the principal
share of the entertaining."
"I maintain," John Musgrave pursued, "that it is inconsiderate of Belle.
She must be aware that it will put me out. My establishment is not
equal to the entertainment of guests. It incommodes the servants."
"My dear John," the vicar returned sensibly, "you don't run a house for
the convenience of your servants. A little extra work will not injure
the health of the respectable Eliza, and Martha likes company. Whether
you like it or not, it is good for you. When do the ladies arrive?"
"On Tuesday," answered John Musgrave shortly. "Belle desires that I
will send the motor into Rushleigh to meet the train."
"Naturally you would do so," said the vicar.
"I shall do so, of course. But it is inconvenient. It is King's day
off. He was not pleased when I told him he would be required to meet
the afternoon train."
"Oh, Coelebs," said the vicar, laughing, "your servants are more
arbitrary than a dozen wives. Why should they be unwilling to study
your convenience occasionally?"
"My servants are accustomed to system," Mr Musgrave replied with
dignity. "I am systematic myself."
"No one can dispute that, John. But system, like everything else when
carried to excess, becomes wearisome. We will go in and tell Mary your
news. She will be most interested."
"I want you to dine with me on Tuesday evening," Mr Musgrave said, as
they turned in at the vicarage gate, "if Mrs Errol will be so kind. It
will help me immensely."
"She'll be delighted," the vicar assured him. "And so shall I. Don't
you worry, Coelebs, we'll see you through."
In the interest of John Musgrave's surprising news the vicar forgot for
the time his more important duties. He remained to discuss with his
wife and John this unexpected house-party to which the host alone looked
forward with manifest misgivings.
Mrs Errol was pleased at the prospect of anything that offered a change
from the dead level of monotony to which the social life of Moresby had
sunk; and as soon as John Musgrave departed in the company of her
husband she ran upstairs to her bedroom to hunt in her wardrobe for some
garment which represented an evening gown, and might, with a slight
alteration, be adapted to the present mode. In Moresby it was not
necessary to be attired in the latest fashion; one simple evening dress
did duty for local entertainments for years. But this occasion was
different. Mrs Errol was aware that the ladies she would meet on
Tuesday would not be garbed in the fashion of a bygone season. They,
however, would not be, she felt, unkindly in their criticism; and the
knowledge that her dress was shabby did not concern her unduly. The
Moresby living did not yield a handsome stipend.
The vicar, on parting from John Musgrave, returned by way of the
churchyard, and was reminded as he walked along the elm-lined path of
the funeral which worldly matters had banished completely from his
thoughts. Robert was busy digging the new grave. The vicar's glance,
travelling in that direction, was arrested at the sight of Robert's
spade, which appeared out of the ground, it seemed, automatically and
independently, ejected the freshly turned soil, and disappeared, to
reappear with conscientious regularity in the performance of its
appointed task. Robert himself was invisible; he was also, which was
unusual, inaudible; the only sounds to be heard were those made by the
spade and the falling earth.
The vicar stepped upon the grass and approached the open grave, looking
about him with the perplexed air of a man whose locality is at fault.
Finally he looked into the grave. Robert, perspiring freely, his
flannel shirt open at the throat, looked up, and paused in his labours
and rested upon his spade.
"You are a good twenty yards from the spot we marked," said the vicar.
Robert wiped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief, and nodded
briefly. The vicar did not appear surprised. Unless he attended at the
cutting of the sods, Robert, possessing no bump of locality, frequently
overran his distances.
"I ought to 'a' waited for you," he said, and mopped his brow again.
"Thought this was the place we fixed on. But I mind now it was nearer
the old yew tree. I ought to 'a' waited for you, sir," he repeated, and
looked, the vicar observed, perturbed. "I got wrong somehow."
"Well, I suppose," the vicar said, "this spot will serve as well as
another."
Robert spat upon his hands and grasped his spade, but he did not
immediately use it. He gazed down into the grave resentfully, and then
lifted his bearded face to Walter Errol's, watching him from above.
"I 'eaved up a corpse," he said.
And the vicar became abruptly aware of some bones lying partially
covered with mould at the side of the grave.
"If it 'ad 'a' been my first," Robert proceeded, "it would 'a' turned me
up; but I've done it afore. It'll be all right, though. I'll get they
old bones out o' the way afore any o' the mourners come along."
"Treat them reverently, Robert," the vicar said gravely.
"Oh, ay. I buried 'em first go off. I'll fix they up all right."
Robert spat on his hands again, and prepared to resume his labours.
"Old George been buried this thirty years too... Should 'a' thought all
trace of 'e 'ad gone," he added in the tone of a man who feels justified
in complaining at this want of consideration on the part of old George.
The vicar left him to finish his work, and repaired to the vicarage for
the midday meal. This desecration of a grave troubled him more than it
troubled Robert. It was not exactly Robert's fault; he recognised that;
though, had Robert been directly responsible, it was doubtful whether
the vicar would have found it possible to rebuke the man seriously.
Between his sexton and himself existed a mutual bond of affection which
had begun from the hour when, as a young man taking over his first
living, he had read himself in at Moresby during the lifetime of the old
squire, in whose gift the living lay. Robert had constituted himself
then director and guide of the new vicar. He had stood, or believed
that he stood, as a safeguard between the vicar and the easily aroused
displeasure of the irascible old squire.
Following the reading-in, he had drawn Walter Errol's attention to the
omission of rearranging the stand when he left the pulpit, the position
of which the vicar had altered for his own convenience.
"Squire can't abear to see en left askew. You'd get into a row over
that," he said. "Every vicar that 'as come 'as got into a row over
thicky stand. I wouldn't like you to get into a row wi' squire first go
off like, 'cause squire never forgets."
Walter Errol, who possessed the saving grace of humour, had taken this
advice in the spirit in which it was offered, and had thereby gained the
sexton's unswerving devotion.
"Have you been in a row with the squire, Robert?" he had asked.
"Yes, sir, never out o' one," Robert had answered, and had seemed to
experience a peculiar satisfaction in making the avowal; as though to be
in a row with squire conveyed a certain distinction on a man of humble
origin. For the vicar to be in a row was, however, another thing.
The vicar, to Robert's amazement, had kept on friendly terms with the
squire to the day of the old man's death, which to those who knew Walter
Errol did not appear so surprising a matter as it did to Robert,
familiar with the squire's irascible temper, and accustomed to hearing
himself spoken of as a very ignorant man. The vicar never called Robert
ignorant; he showed, indeed, a very proper appreciation of his value;
and, because to be appreciated is agreeable to every one, Robert
returned in kind with loyal service and devotion. No man, whatever his
status, can give more.
The vicar, as he sat at dinner with his wife, filled the sympathetic
role of listener while she gave, with a certain quiet humour of her own,
a graphic account of the meagre resources of her wardrobe. His own
clothes also, she stated, were somewhat shabby.
"We shall look the typical country vicar and vicaress," she said, with a
most unclerical dimple coming into play when she smiled. "I hate
dowdiness, Walter."
"Can't you get something made in the time?" he asked.
"No. I wouldn't if I could. For one dinner! Imagine it! Why
shouldn't I look a country vicaress? That's what I am."
"You always look pretty," he said, "and so do your clothes."
"I believe," she observed, with a fair imitation of John Musgrave's tone
and manner, "that I compare very favourably with other clergymen's
wives."
He laughed.
"John considers you smart."
"Oh, John?" She waved a small hand, as though she waved aside John's
opinion as of no account. "Was that man ever young, Walter?" she asked.
"Somehow, I can never picture him as a boy."
"No," he said. "I can't, either. When I knew him first he was an
elderly young man with a predilection for botany. But I believe at
heart he is one of the kindest and best of fellows, incapable of a mean
action or thought. I admire John."
She looked across at him, smiling.
"He suggests veal to me," she said--"which possesses no nature,
according to the butcher. When John matures I shall perhaps appreciate
him better. He is new wine in an old bottle--the outside crusted, and
the inside thin and bloodless."
"New wine is apt to break old bottles," he reminded her.
"I know," she said. "I am waiting for John to break through his crust."