ANGLEWOOD OLD CHURCH
Leaving the office of the Angleton _Advertiser_, and turning up the
village street, they repassed the blacksmith’s, the general dealer’s,
the doctor’s surgery, the lawyer’s office, the post office, the news
agency, and finally the Angleton Arms—an ancient hostelry, built of
stone, with strong walls, peaked roof, high chimney and low, broad,
latticed windows—which stood as on guard at the entrance of the hamlet.
Leaving the place at this point, they entered the road leading to
Anglewood Manor.
No pleasant, shady, grass-bordered country road was this, with vistas of
woods and waters, fields and farms. It was a white and arid highway,
running between gray stone walls, whose dread monotony was varied only
by the occasional branch of a tree over their tops, or of an iron gate,
or oaken door, in the sides.
“Whose property is this on the right and left of us?” inquired Mr. Force
of the driver.
“Thet on t’ roight, maister, be Middlemoor, t’ seat o’ t’ Arl o’
Middlemoor. Thet on t’ left be Fell Hall, t’ seat o’ Squoire Ogden,”
replied the man.
“What hateful roads!” exclaimed Wynnette. “I feel exactly as if we were
driving on between a madhouse and a jail!”
They were slowly going uphill now, and presently came to a lane on the
left, into which the carriage turned. Still on the left of the new way
was the low stone wall, but behind and above it was a green hedge of
Osage orange bushes, while opposite, on the right, was a lovely green
hedge of all the variety of bushes and brambles that grow outdoors in
that part of England.
“This is better,” said Wynnette, as they drove slowly on between the
green hedges.
“We be noo at back o’ Fell Hall. And yon’s t’ steeple o’ t’ church,” the
coachman volunteered to explain, as he pointed to the spire which rose
above a clump of trees on their left.
They soon reached the entrance of the churchyard and passed in.
The church stood on an eminence, which they had been gradually climbing
all the way from Angleton.
It was a very picturesque building of ancient English type—moss-grown
and ivy-covered from base to pinnacle, until not a bit of its walls or
roof could be seen. Many ancient gravestones, gray with age, sunk in
long grass and covered with moss, clustered around it.
“Is the church open to visitors?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver, as
they drew up to the closed and formidable-looking, iron-bound oaken
doors.
“Oy, maister! It be t’ show o’ t’ place, be Anglewood Old Church.”
They all alighted from the rough carriage and stood on the flagstones of
the church porch, and looked around them. The sun was in the west now,
and shining on the grass-grown yard and the moss-covered gravestones.
“Are any of the Anglesea family buried out here?” inquired Mr. Force.
“Oot here? Laird, no, maister! They be all in t’ vault. And none ha’
been put into t’ groond here, even of t’ common folk, in my toime! They
be took to t’ simitry.”
“To the cemetery?”
“Oy, maister, on t’ hill, over by yonder.”
“Ah! well! how are we to get into this building?”
“I’ll rin and get the key fra’ m’ oncle, Silas Kirby, t’ sexton.”
“And don’t you know, papa, we have got that letter and parcel from John
Kirby to his father?” said Wynnette.
“Yes, yes, my dear, I know.”
“Well, then, may we not go to the sexton ourselves?”
“I will see. How far is your uncle’s home from here?” inquired Mr. Force
of the driver.
“Whoy, joost by t’other gate o’ the churchyard,” replied the man.
“Then we will leave the carriage here and go across to his house, to
take something we have brought for your grandfather,” said Mr. Force.
“Oy, oy! t’ letter Oi heerd t’ mawther talk aboot. Coom along wi’ Oi,
maister. This be the way.”
Leaving the old carriage standing before the church door, the driver led
the way through the long grass, and in and out among the tombstones,
taking care not to step upon the graves, and so reached another gate
opening upon a sequestered lane and flanked by two buildings, one of
which was the sexton’s cottage, built of stone, with a steep roof, tall
chimneys and latticed windows, and, like the church, so moss-grown and
ivy-covered that only its doors and windows escaped the veil.
A tall, venerable, white-haired man, with a long white beard, sat in the
door, smoking, and apparently meditating.
“Grandfeyther,” said Jonah Kirby, addressing this patriarch, “here be a
gentleman from foreign pairts a bringing of a letter and news from Uncle
John.”
“Eh! eh! then, what be ye talking aboot, lad?” inquired the old man,
rising with difficulty, balancing himself, and bowing to the strangers.
Jonah Kirby repeated his introduction.
“Eh! My service to you, gentlefolks. A letter fra m’ lad in ’Merica! Eh!
Laird bless us!—a letter fra m’ lad, quotha?”
“Yes, Mr. Kirby, my little girl here has brought you a letter from your
son, John Kirby, who is a baggage master on a prosperous railroad in the
United States. She made his acquaintance on the train. Here, Wynnette,
my dear, give the old man his letter and parcel.”
The young girl handed both.
“Thanky, me leddy! Thanky koindly!” said the patriarch, sinking back in
his armchair; for between age, weakness and emotion he was no longer
able to stand.
“And ’ee saw me lad? And ’ee brought me this letter fra him? God bless
’ee, me leddy! God bless ’ee!” said the old man, in an earnest voice
which trembled with agitation, as he took the girl’s hand, made as if he
would have kissed it, but pressed it to his forehead and to his wet eyes
instead—“God bless ’ee, me leddy!”
“It was all through the dog,” said Wynnette. “He took care of my dear
dog for me, and fed him on the journey, and kept him from jumping off
the train and out of all danger.”
“Oy! oy! John was ever good to animals, and varry fond of dogs, was
John. And t’ lad’s doing well, ye say, me leddy?”
“Oh, yes. Read his letter,” said Wynnette.
“Oy, oy, to be sure. Here, Silas—Silas, lad—here be a letter fra furrin
pairts, fra your brawther John. Come hither, Silas—and bring chairs for
t’ gentlefolks. Ah! bad manners of me to be sitting while t’ gentlefolks
stand!” said the patriarch, striving to get upon his feet, but failing,
and sinking back.
“Pray do not disturb yourself,” said Mr. Force. “We do not wish to sit
down. We would like to see the inside of the old church, if your son,
the sexton, can show it to us.”
“Of coorse he can, and thet just noo. Silas, Silas, where be ye, and t’
gentlefolks waiting on ye?”
A tall, robust, tawny-headed and bearded man came out.
“Here’s a letter fra your brawther as t’ gentlefolks ha’ brought fra
furrin pairts. But ’ee can read it when ’ee coom back. Gae, noo, and
show t’ gentlefolks to Old Church. Coom here, Katie, me lass, and read
this letter to thy auld grandad.”
This last speech was addressed to a fair-haired girl of about sixteen,
who appeared at the door and courtesied to the strangers.
Silas Kirby, the sexton, bowed to the visitors, and in a few muffled
words intimated his readiness to oblige them, and walked on before,
swinging a large key in his hand.
When he reached the church door he put the key in the ponderous lock,
turned it with a great twist, and unlocked it with a loud noise.
The travelers entered an obscurity of rich light and shade from stained
glass windows, half-hidden in ivy, and glowing down upon dark oaken pews
and tessellated floor.
When their eyes became accustomed to the semidarkness, the travelers
went up toward the chancel, and saw the recumbent effigy of the founder
of the family of Anglesea, and memorial tablets of many of their
descendants.
Some little time was spent in reading the inscriptions upon these
monuments, and examining the paintings on the walls between the windows;
and then Mr. Force inquired:
“Is the monument of the late Lady Mary Anglesea in this church?”
“Noa, maister; not in the church.”
“Are her remains in the vault?”
“Loikely they be, maister. I ha’ not had occasion to go into t’ vault
since I coom to t’ parish.”
“Then you were no here when Lady Mary Anglesea died, then?”
“Noa, maister, I were not. That were in Goodman Prout’s time. But her
leddyship will be loikely i’ t’ vault.”
Saying this, the sexton took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door
on the right-hand side of the chancel, revealing a narrow flight of
stone steps leading into the crypt below.
All the party approached the opening.
“Wynnette, my dear, you had better not venture down. The air must be
very bad,” said Mr. Force.
“Nay, maister, none so bad as you think. There be many a gentleman’s
cellar far worse. There be windys—open windys—wi’ airn bars on each side
of the wall, and on each end of the wall even wi’ the ground, and though
they be some of ’em well choked up, yet for all that there be enough o’
them open to keep the air fresh i’ the vault. There be na fear,
maister,” said the sexton.
Mr. Force, standing at the head of the steps leading down into the
vault, felt for himself that there was no fear of foul air; the
atmosphere was as fresh, though a little damper, than that of the church
above.
The sexton unhooked a lantern that hung on a nail within the door, took
a match from his pocket, lighted the little lamp and walked before the
visitors down the steps.
The vault occupied all the space under the church, and it was provided
with stone tables ranged around the four walls.
The place was dimly visible by the daylight which struggled through the
ivy that half choked up the barred windows. This was strongest from the
west, from which the declining sun shot rays of golden light through
bars and ivy leaves, whose shadows flickered dimly on the stone tables
and on the leaden caskets they supported.
But it needed the additional light of the lantern by which to read the
inscription on the latter.
Mr. Force began at the casket nearest the foot of the stairs and read
the name—Alexander d’Anglesay, 1250; Malcolm d’Anglesay, A. D.—the rest
worn out; Dame Margery d’An—the rest illegible—see, 1090—the rest gone.
“On this side must be the oldest caskets; let us try the other,” said
Mr. Force, crossing over to the opposite row, followed by the sexton
carrying the lantern, and beginning to read the inscriptions:
“Ah! Richard Anglesea, born July 1, 1801, died January 31, 1850; aged 49
years. Ah! that was the father of an unworthy son! Fell gallantly at the
head of his regiment in the battle of——What is that you say, Le?” Mr.
Force broke off from his remarks to attend to the words of his young
companion.
“I have looked at every casket, uncle! That of Lady Mary Anglesea is not
in the vault,” said the young man, with a sigh of disappointment.
“Not, Le! Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, uncle.”
“It is not here, papa! I have looked at every one with Le, and it is not
among them,” added Wynnette.
Yet Mr. Force would not be satisfied, but went round to every casket,
attended by the sexton carrying the lantern, by the light of which they
read every inscription, or what was left of the inscription; but found
no trace of Lady Mary Anglesea.
“We had as well give up the search here,” said Mr. Force.
“And where else should we look?” inquired Le, with a face of despair.
“The only other possible place will be the churchyard.”
“Oh, her leddyship will not be there, maister! Nabody has been interred
there this many a year. T’ parish officers will na’ allow it! They all
go to t’ simitry on t’ hill. Let alone one o’ t’ great family as never
was buried in t’ open churchyard! Oh! But noo I moind me, maister!”
exclaimed the man, with a sudden lightening of his face.
“What?” demanded Abel Force.
“And what a gey coote I was to forget it!”
“What?” again inquired Mr. Force.
“But it was all along of my thinking as you wanted to see t’ auld
church, and not the leddy’s munniment, as put me off the track,”
continued the man.
Mr. Force said no more, but waited for the sexton to explain himself in
his own way.
“Her leddyship’s body must be in t’ grand new musselman as the squire
had built to her memory. Eh, maister, I were not i’ the parish when t’
bootiful leddy deed; but the folk do say he took on a soight! Shet
himself up in t’ hoose after t’ funeral and wouldn’t see a soul! Had the
foine musselman built in the park and her laid in it! And then he betook
hisself to furrin pairts and never come home for years! Bother my wooden
head for not telling you first off; but you see, maister, I thought it
was t’ auld church you wanted and not the leddy’s munnimint.”
“Where is”—Abel Force could scarcely bring himself to utter the detested
name—“where is Col. Anglesea now?”
“Traveling, maister, in furrin lands. He coom home aboot a year ago, and
he was ’pointed leevetinint o’ t’ county. But he couldn’t abide the
manor since her leddyship deed, and so he resigned and went away again.
Eh, but he loved the ground she walked on, and couldn’t abear it after
she deed.”
Mr. Force, Wynnette and Leonidas listened to this with surprise and
incredulity. This was, indeed, a new view of Angus Anglesea’s character.
“Can the mausoleum in the park be seen?” inquired Abel Force.
“Varry loikely, maister. T’ whole place can be seen, for t’ matter of
that. T’ squoire let open t’ whole manor, hall and a’, to a’ that loike
to look at it. A free-hairted and free-handed gentleman be our squoire.”
Here was another revelation.
“Will you be our guide to the new mausoleum?” inquired Abel Force.
“Ay, maister. I’ll walk over and speak to the keeper, Proby, and meet
you at t’ musselman. Jonah will drive you over, maister. He knows t’ way
as well as I do myself.”