The Sexton has a Glass
The Candlish mausoleum had been built by an architect who had an excellent idea of the beauties of the Jacobean style, and he had got over the many-windowed difficulty by making those windows blank. The stone mullions, with their tracery, were handsome, and the way in which the arms of the Candlish family had been introduced where there was room reflected great credit upon him. In places where the arms would not stand there was always room for a crest or a shield, so that the chapel-like structure was an improvement to the old church.
But after the exterior had been named, with its grand roof, massive door, and finely forged gate and rails, the less said about design the better. Mausoleums were evidently not the architect’s strong point; and when he came to the interior he was at his worst.
This was to be a partly underground structure, and the architect’s ideas of underground structures were divided between coal-cellars and cellars to hold wine.
Now the former, he felt, would be antiseptic, and a great improvement upon the unhealthy contrivance designed by the sculptors of a past generation to do honour to the first baronet at the expense of his fellow-creatures who have malefited to a horrible extent by the proceedings of our forefathers in regard to the disposal of their mortal remains; but this architect wisely decided that the coal-cellar idea would be repugnant to the builder; so he fell back upon the other.
Consequently for generations the Candlishes had been regularly stowed away in so many stone bins, with labels at the ends of the coffins, to tell who and what they were.
But the great family did not resemble wine, for they did not improve by keeping; and when Moredock struck a match, and lit his lanthorn to hold it above his head, there were traces on all sides of the touch of time.
The wine-cellar idea was there, for the floor was deeply covered with turpentiny sawdust; cobwebs hung in folds; here and there loathsome-looking, slimy fungi had sprung up; mouldering destruction everywhere nearly; and Moredock watched the doctor eagerly as he gazed round, seeing much, but not that which the sexton wished concealed, for if the light of careful inspection had been brought to bear here, sad recollections respecting costly handles and plates would have been brought to light, while, had the inspection been carried further by the modern representatives of the family, the number of uncles and aunts and grandparents who were wholly or partially missing, as well as their leaden homes, would have been startling, and about all of whom Jonadab Moredock could have told a tale.
But the doctor’s was only a cursory glance round at the niches containing the dead, for he turned at once to the coffin lying upon a stone table in the very centre of the vault, which place it would occupy till the doors yawned for another of the Candlishes, when the late Sir Luke would be stowed somewhere on one side.
It was a weird scene as the doctor set down a small leather bag upon the stone table beside the coffin, and produced a lamp with chimney and shade. This lamp when lit cast a yellow glare all over the place, and reflections were cast by tarnished plates and gilded nail-heads from the more obscure portions of the vault.
The sexton looked on curiously after setting his lanthorn, with open door, just inside one of the vacant niches, and his yellow features gave him the aspect of some ghastly old demon come hither for the performance of hideous rites.
“I’ve brought some tools, doctor,” he whispered, as he took a large screw-driver from his pocket.
“I too have come provided,” said the doctor, taking sundry implements from his black bag. “Now, Moredock, I want everything to remain here night after night, just as I leave it, ready for me when I come again.”
“Come again?” growled the sexton.
“What, shan’t you finish to-night?”
“Perhaps not this month,” was the stern answer.
Moredock stared. “Why, you – ”
“Hush!” said the doctor sternly. “Now, what are you going to do – stay and assist me, or go? If you have the slightest nervous dread, pray leave me at once.”
“Nay, I’m not skeared, doctor,” said the old man grimly. “I’ve seen too much o’ this sort o’ thing. I was a bit frightened when I saw that head going along through the church without the body, but I’m not feared of this.”
“Stop, then, and help,” said the doctor. “I’ll pay you well. Can you use a screw-driver?”
Moredock chuckled and took off his coat, which he hung upon one of the ornamental handles of an old coffin foot. Then rolling up his shirt-sleeves over his thin, sinewy arms, he took up a screw-driver – one that he had brought – and as deftly as a carpenter began removing the screws from the handsome coffin-lid.
As Moredock attacked the head, the doctor busied himself at the foot, with the result that in a few minutes the screws were all laid together upon the stone ledge at the side of the vault, and the coffin-lid, with its engraved breast-plate, setting forth the name, age, and date, was lifted up, and stood on end out of the way.
“What will be the best way of opening this?” said the doctor, as he held the lamp over the gleaming lead inner coffin, with its diamond pattern and silvery-looking solder marks along the sides. “Had we better melt the solder?”
“Melt the sawder?” said Moredock, with a chuckle. “I’ll show you a trick worth two of that.”
He went to where his coat hung, and took out of one of the pockets a short, curved, chisel-looking tool with a keen point and a stout handle.
“There, doctor, that’s the jockey for this job. Want it right open?”
“Yes; I want the lid right off. Can you manage it?”
“Can I manage it!” chuckled the old man derisively. “Look!”
Strange thoughts invaded the doctor’s breast as to what at different times had been the pursuits of the old sexton, as he saw him take the singular-looking tool, place its point at the extreme right-hand corner of the leaden coffin, place his shoulder against the butt of the handle, and press down, when the point penetrated the thin lead at once, right over the top of the curved blade. The rest was simple, for the old man only worked the handle up and down close to the side where, acting as a lever, the curved steel cut through the metal with the greatest ease, an inch slit at a time, so that in a very few minutes the top corner was reached. Then the head was cut across, and the old man paused to go back to the foot and cut across there.
“Why didn’t you continue cutting round?” said the doctor, speaking in a low, subdued tone.
“You let me be, doctor,” said Moredock, with an unpleasant laugh. “If it was a leg, I shouldn’t say naught, but let you do it. This is more in my way. Look here.”
He finished cutting the lead as he spoke, and then with a grim laugh inserted his fingers in the slit, raised it a little, and then going to the uncut side, hooked his fingers in again, placed his knee against the coffin, and after the exercise of some little force, drew the long leaf of lead over towards him, the uncut side acting like the hinges of a lid, and laying bare the contents of the ghastly case.
“There,” said the old sexton; “that means less trouble when we come to shut him up again.”
“You seem to know,” said the doctor quickly.
“Man in my line picks up a few things, doctor,” replied the sexton. “But there you are. What next?”
The doctor took the lamp once more, and held it over the head of the coffin, to scan with the deepest interest the head and face revealed.
“Sheared!” said Moredock grimly; “what is there to be skeared on? Only seems to be asleep.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, gazing down and thoughtfully repeating the sexton’s words; “seems to be asleep. Suppose he is?”
The old man stared with his jaw dropping, and his features full of wonder.
“Asleep? Nay, you said he’d broke his neck. No sleep that, poor chap.”
“Hush!” said the doctor.
Moredock looked at him curiously, as he bent lower over the occupant of the coffin.
“Rum game for us if he were only asleep,” muttered the sexton uneasily. “Dally wouldn’t like that, and I shouldn’t like it. That wouldn’t do.”
“Hale, strong – life arrested by that sudden accident,” said the doctor, as he laid his hand upon the cold forehead. “It must be possible. I am satisfied now, and I will.”
“Did you speak, doctor?” said Moredock.
“No. Yes,” said North, setting down the lamp quickly. “Here, help me.”
Moredock approached, wondering what was to be done next, and with a vague idea in his brain that the doctor was about to test whether the body before them contained any remains of life before making some examination for increasing his anatomical knowledge.
“Now, quick. Lift.”
“We two can’t lift that, doctor. It takes four men. Why, there was eight to bring it down.”
“Can we shift it to the edge of this slab?”
“Ay, we might do that.” And lifting first at the head, and then at the foot, they moved the coffin to the extreme edge of the stone table, leaving a good space on one side.
“Now, then, lift again. I will take the head; you the feet.”
“What! lift him out, doctor?”
“Yes, man, yes. Don’t waste time.”
Moredock hesitated for a moment, and drew a long breath. Then, obeying the orders he had received, he helped to lift the body out upon the table, where it lay white and strange-looking in the yellow light.
“Now we can easily lift the coffin,” said North. “Over yonder – out of the way.”
The sexton uttered a low whistle, as he once more obeyed, taking the bottom handle of the massive casket, and it was placed on one side close to where a generation or two of the passed-away Candlishes lay in their bin-like niches.
This done, the old man passed his arm across his damp forehead.
“Mind me having a pipe, doctor?” he said uneasily. “This is a bit extry like. I didn’t know – ”
“No, no; you must not smoke here,” said the doctor hastily. “One moment – into the middle of the table here.”
Moredock obeyed again, and the recumbent figure of the dead squire was placed exactly where the coffin had stood.
“That will do,” said North. “Now, Moredock, what do you say to a glass?”
“Glass? Ay, doctor. Want it badly,” cried the old man eagerly, as the doctor produced a silver flask, drew the cup from the bottom, and gave it to the sexton.
Before doing so, however, North gave the flask a sharp shake, and the old man’s eyes sparkled as his countenance assumed a suspicious look at this movement, so suggestive of medicine.
“I say, what is it?” he said.
“What is it? Cordial.”
“Brandy?”
“No.”
“Look here, doctor,” said the old sexton hoarsely; “no games.”
North paused.
“Shall I tell you what you are thinking, Moredock?” he said.
“Nay, you can’t do that, clever as you are,” cried the old man with a chuckle.
“I can. You are thinking that I have poison here, ready to give you a dose, so that you may die out of the way, and never be able to expose me by betraying what you have seen.”
The old man’s jaw dropped again, and his face grew more wrinkled and puckered up, if possible, as he scratched his head with one yellow claw.
“Well, it were some’at o’ that kind,” he said, with a grim chuckle.
“You old fool!” exclaimed the doctor; “don’t I know that you could not expose me without exposing yourself? Do you think me blind?”
“Nay, doctor, nay; you’re a sharp one. You can see too much.”
“Have I not seen how dexterous you are at work of this kind? Do you think I cannot read what it all means? Moredock, I’ll be bound to say that one way or another you have made yourself a rich man.”
“No, no, doctor; no, no!” cried the sexton. “A few pounds gathered together to keep me out of the workus some day when I grow old.”
“You think that I want to poison you, then, and to hide your body here?”
“Nay, nay, doctor, I don’t. You haven’t got no need, have you? Give us a drop of the stuff.”
“Yes, we are wasting time,” said North, pouring out a portion of the contents of his flask, and handing it to the old man, who took it, and, in spite of all said, smelt it suspiciously.
“’Tarn’t poison, is it, doctor?” he said piteously.
“Yes, if you took enough of it. But that drop will not hurt you. There, don’t be afraid. Toss it off. It is a liqueur.”
The old man hesitated for a moment, gazing wildly at the doctor, and then tossed it off at a draught.
“There! Do you feel as if you are going to fall down dead, old man, and do you wonder which of these old niches I shall put you in?”
“Tchah! don’t talk stuff, doctor,” said the old fellow, putting his hand to his throat; “you wouldn’t do such a thing. That’s good! That’s prime stuff. I never tasted nothing like that afore. It warms you like, and makes you feel ready to do anything. Skeared! Who’s skeared? Tchah! What is there to mind? I’m ready, doctor. I’ll help you. What shall I do next?”
“Sit down on that ledge for a bit till I want you.”
“Ay, to be sure,” chuckled the old sexton, as he seated himself on a low projection at the far end of the vault. “That’s prime stuff. I could drink another drop of that, doctor. But you go on. Nobody can’t see from outside, for I’ve put lights in here before now, and shut the doors of a night, and tried it. There isn’t a crack to show; so you go on.”
The doctor watched the weird-looking old man, as he settled himself comfortably, with his back in the corner, and went on muttering and chuckling.
“Brandy’s nothing to it,” he went on – “tasted many a good drop in my time. Eh? What say, doctor?”
“You shall have some more another time.”
“Can’t see outside. Sheared? Tchah! It wouldn’t frighten a child.”
The doctor approached him, but the old man took no notice, and went on muttering:
“He! he! he! I could tell you something. I will some day. Frighten a child. Old man? Tchah! Mean to live – long – Ah!”
The last ejaculation was drawn out into a long sigh, followed by a heavy, regular breathing.
North placed his fingers in the sexton’s neckcloth to make sure that there was no danger of strangulation, and then turned away.
“Good for four or five hours, Master Moredock,” he said; and then, with his face lighting up strangely – “in the service of science – ambition – yes, and for the sake of love. Shall I succeed?”
He paused for a few minutes, bending over the body on the table.
“It seems very horrible, but it is only the dread of a man about to venture into the unknown. The first doctor who performed a serious operation must have felt as I do now, and – What’s that?”
He started upright, throwing his head back, and shaking it quickly, as if he had suffered from a sudden vertigo.
“Pooh! nothing; a little excitement. Now for my great discovery, for I must – I will succeed.”
He stooped down quickly, and took a bottle and a case of instruments from his black bag, when once more the curious sensation came over him, and he shook his head again.
“The air is close and stifling,” he said, as he recovered himself. “I could have fancied that something brushed by my face.”
Then, bending over the prostrate figure he rapidly laid bare again, four hours quickly passed away in the gloomy vault, where the yellowish rays of the shaded lamp shone directly down upon his busy fingers, and the stony face of him who lay motionless in his deep sleep.
Four hours, and then he laid his hand upon the old sexton, who started up wildly, and extended his claw-like hands, as if about to seize him by the throat.
Volume Two – Chapter Six.
The Doctor is Nervous
“It’s all very well, Master North, for you to come here bullying me about my health, and ordering me to go fishing, and half ruin myself with cigars,” said the curate; “but I feel disposed to retort, ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ Why, you’re as white as so much dough.”
“Nonsense!” cried the doctor hastily.
“Prisoner denies the impeachment,” said Salis. “First witness – Mary Salis – what do you say?”
Mary smiled at North, as she said quietly:
“I think Doctor North looks worn and pale.”
“There, you hear,” cried Salis triumphantly.
“I’m not convinced,” said North. “I shall call a witness on my side. Leo, will you speak for me?”
“Certainly I will,” said Leo quietly, as she looked up from her inevitable book. “Do I look pale and worn out?” Leo shook her head.
“No,” she said quietly. “I think you look very well. Only, perhaps, a little more earnest than of old.”
“Thank you – thank you,” cried the doctor eagerly.
“Why, he looks bad,” said Salis; “and it’s a horrible piece of imposture for him to come here bullying me and wanting to give me abominable decoctions, besides leading me into idleness and debauchery, when all the time he cannot keep himself right.”
“Nonsense!” cried the doctor pettishly. “I never was better: never more busy.”
“The fellow’s a humbug,” said Salis, bringing his hand down on the table with a rap. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter.”
North turned upon him a look so full of mingled entreaty and annoyance that he checked himself.
“No,” he said, laughing, “I am as bad as Horace North. I can’t tell you what’s the matter unless it is that he is working too hard over his craze.”
North looked at him keenly, and his pallor increased.
“Well, I must be off up to the church. I want to see my friend, Moredock.”
“To see Moredock?” said the doctor, with a quick, uneasy look at the speaker.
“Yes. I’m not satisfied with the old man’s proceedings.”
“What has he been doing?” said the doctor, who fidgeted in his seat, and seemed anything but himself.
“Oh, I’m going to make no special charges against him,” said the curate. “Coming my way?”
“N-no, yes,” said North, rising, and going to Mary’s couch to shake hands, her eyes looking up into his with a calm, patient smile full of resignation and desire for his happiness, which he could not read.
He turned then to Leo, who was reading, and evidently deeply engrossed in her book.
“Going?” she said, letting it fall, and looking up with a placid smile. “What lovely weather, is it not?”
North said it was delightful, as he bent impressively over the extended hand, and gazed with something of a lover’s rapture in the beautiful eyes that looked up into his; but there was no returning pressure of the hand; the look was merely pleasant and friendly, and, worn out with anxiety, sleeplessness, and watching, he could not help feeling a thirst for something more, if it were merely sympathy, instead of those calmly bland smiles and gently tolerant reception of his advances.
“Why, Horace, old man, I did not hurt you with my banter?” said Salis, as they walked up towards the church.
“Hurt me? No. I’m a little upset; that’s all. Salis, old fellow, I’m not quite happy.”
“No?” said the curate inquiringly, as he looked sidewise at his friend’s wrinkled face.
“I seem to make no progress with Leo.”
“Is that so, or is it your fancy?” said the curate guardedly.
“It is so. She seems to tolerate me. You notice it.”
“I notice that she is very quiet and thoughtful with you, but really that is a good sign.”
“You would like to see her my wife, Salis?”
“If it were for your happiness and hers, I would gladly see you man and wife,” said the curate warmly; “but don’t be hasty, my dear fellow. It is for life, remember.”
“Remember? Oh, yes, I know all that,” said North hastily.
Salis extended his hand, which the other took.
“Don’t be offended with me, Horace, old friend. I wish to see you both happy.”
“I know it, I know it,” said the doctor; and then catching; sight of Moredock in the churchyard, he hesitated, half nervous as to what Salis might have to say to the old man, but, convinced the next moment that his fears were without base, he hurriedly said a few words and went away.
“I can’t see it,” said Salis bitterly. “They seem so thoroughly unsuited the one for the other. I wish it could have been so, for Leo’s sake. Ah, well,” he added, as he walked through the old gate, “time settles these things better than we can. Good morning, Moredock.”
“Mornin’, sir – mornin’.”
“Is the vestry open?”
“Yes, sir; door’s open, sir. You can go through the church or round at the back. Through the church is best.”
“I prefer going round,” said the curate gravely; and he went on round by the chancel, followed by the grim old sexton, who watched him furtively, and went up quite close, with his big yellow ears twitching, as Salis paused by the little path leading to the steps of the Candlish vault.
“What’s that?” he said. “Eh? What, sir?” said Moredock, hastily stepping before him to snatch up a pocket-handkerchief and crumple it in his hands. “Only a bit of white rag, sir. Blowed there from somebody’s washing hung out to dry.”
“Nonsense!” said the curate sternly. “Give it to me.”
“Doctor’s,” said Moredock to himself. “The fool!”
He handed the piece of linen unwillingly, and the curate took it, held it out, and turned to the corners, while the sexton’s countenance lightened up.
“Humph! ‘T. Candlish, 24,’” said Salis, reading aloud. “The new baronet is going to favour the church, then, with his presence, I suppose,” he added sarcastically, as Moredock drew a breath full of relief, but shivered again as he saw the curate glance at the mausoleum.
“Noo squire’s, is it, sir?”
“Yes, and I beg his pardon,” said the curate gravely, as he thought of how lately the young man’s brother had been laid there to rest. “Moredock, ask Mrs Page to carefully wash and iron the handkerchief, and then you can send one of the school children over with it to the Hall.”
“Yes, sir,” said the sexton, with a feeling of relief.
“Now come into the vestry. I want to talk to you.”
“Grumbling again – grumbling again,” muttered the old man, as he followed his superior, to stand before him, humbly waiting for the lecture he expected to receive, but with his conscience quite at rest respecting the vault.
“Now, Moredock,” said Salis, “I have received a letter from Mr May, in which he speaks very severely of the state of the churchyard.”
“Why, he never said nothing when he were here.”
“No; it seems as if he preferred to write, and in addition to complaining of the state of the grass, he thinks that the walks are in very bad condition.”
“Why didn’t he say so, then?”
“I tell you he preferred to write.”
“How can I help the place looking bad when they sheep as Churchwarden Candlish put in was always galloping over the graves!”
“Yes; the sheep do make the place untidy,” said the curate, with a sigh.
“And now it’ll be just as bad as ever, for Squire Tom sent a fresh lot in ’smorning by one of his men.”
“But the walks, Moredock – the weeds in the walks. You know I’ve complained before.”
“Well, look how bad my back’s been. How could I weed walks with a back as wouldn’t bend; and seems to me, parson, as a man as has seen a deal, as it ’d be better if you mended your own ways about church ’fore you finds fault wi’ an old servant like me.”
“What do you mean?” said the curate sternly.
“Why, I mean that,” said the old man, pointing to the floor with an extremely grubby finger. “I’ve got it to keep clean, and I do it; but you grumbled at me for smoking a pipe one day when I was digging a nasty grave. You said it wer’n’t decent to smoke in the churchyard.”
“I did, Moredock, and I repeat it.”
“And I say as ’tarn’t decent to smoke in vestry, and chuck the bits o’ cigars about. You’re always a-smoking now.”
Salis turned crimson as he followed the direction of the pointing finger, and saw several traces of white ash and the stump of a cigar.
“Why, Moredock, I – I – ”
“There, don’t go and deny it, parson. You’ve took to smoking bad as any one now; and I’ve allus done my best about church, and it comes hard to be found fault on, and if it’s coming to this, sooner I goes the better, and sooner Mr May finds fault with you the better, too.”
The old man walked defiantly out of the vestry, and went toward his cottage, while Salis picked up the cigar stump and thrust it into his pocket.
“How provoking!” he said. “Must be growing fearfully absent, and dropped it. I’m sure I did not smoke here when I came yesterday – no, it was the day before – to find out about that old baptismal entry. I must have walked in smoking, and thrown the end of the cigar down. Good gracious! If May had seen me – or anybody else. It is outrageous. I’m growing quite a slave to the habit, and forgetful of everything I do. Tut – tut – tut! How provoking! The old man is quite right. How can I reproach him again!”
