The Man with a Shadow

“No. I want another word with Moredock, and then I’m going home.”

“Ah, he’s a queer old fellow,” said the curate, glancing towards the sexton as he went round the chancel with a crowbar over his shoulder, the old man turning to give both a cunning, magpie-like look, as he went out of sight.

The two friends parted, and then North followed the sexton.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Salis would be horrified; he would never forgive me; and yet to win the sister’s, I am risking the brother’s love. Oh, but it is more than that,” he said excitedly; “far more than that. It is in the service of science and of humanity at large. I can’t help it. I must – I will!”

There was tremendous emphasis on that “I will!” and, as if now fully resolved, he went to where the old sexton was scraping and chopping about the entrance of the mausoleum, and sometimes stooping to drag out a luxuriant weed.

“Ah, doctor,” he said; “back again? Parson’s a bit hard on me. I hope he hasn’t been running me down.”

“Nonsense! No. Look here, Moredock, you have always expressed a desire to serve me?”

“Yes, doctor; of course.”

“Then, look here,” said North, bending down towards the old man. “I want you to – ”

He finished his speech in a low voice by the old man’s ear.

“You want what?” was the reply.

The doctor whispered to him again more earnestly than before.

The old man let the crowbar fall to his side, his jaw dropped, and he stood in a stooping position, staring.

“You want me to do that, doctor?” he whispered, with a tremble in his voice.

“Yes, I want your help in this.”

“No, no, doctor; I couldn’t indeed!”

“You could, Moredock; and you will!”

The old man shivered.

“I’ve done a deal,” he whispered; “and I’ve seen a deal; but oh, doctor! don’t ask me to do this.”

“I don’t ask you,” said the doctor sternly. “I only say you must – you shall!”

Volume Two – Chapter Two.

“A Fine Berrin’.”

Boom!

The big tenor bell made the louvres rattle in the tower windows, as it sent forth its sonorous note to announce far and wide that the Candlish mausoleum was open and ready to receive the remains of the last owner of the title conferred by King James.

Boom! again: so heavy and deep a sound that it seemed to strike the cottage windows and rebound like a wave, to go quivering off upon the wind and collect the people from far and near.

It was early yet, but one little trim-looking body was astir, in the person of Dally Watlock, who stole out of the back door at the Rectory, made her way into the meadows, hurried down to the river, and along behind the Manor House, and so reached the churchyard at the back, where the vestry door in the north-east corner was easily accessible.

Dally walked and ran, looking sharply from side to side to see if she were noticed, gave a quick glance at the steps leading down to the mausoleum, and longed to peep in, but refrained, and darted in at the vestry door.

She knew the vestry would be empty, for she had left the curate at home, and she had heard that the Reverend Maurice May would not be over for nearly an hour, so there was an excellent chance for her to obtain the seat she wished, and see the funeral, and to that end she had come.

“How tiresome!” she cried, giving the oaken door in the corner of the vestry an angry thump. “Locked!”

Boom! went the big bell.

“And gran’fa’s got the key,” she cried. “I’ll make him give it to me.”

Dally looked a good deal like a big black rabbit turned by a fairy into a girl, as she darted out of the vestry, and dodged in and out among the tombstones and old vaults on her way round to the big west door in the tower, from which came another loud boom to fly quivering away upon the air.

The big door was ajar, and yielded readily to her touch as she thrust, and the next minute she had entered, and pushed it to, to stand facing old Moredock, as he dragged away at the rope and brought forth from the big tenor another heavy boom.

The old man was in his shirt-sleeves, and his coat hung up behind the door, with his cap above it, so that it bore a strong resemblance to the old sexton, who had apparently been bringing his existence to an end by means of a piece of rope belonging to a bell.

“Hallo, Dally!” said the old man, giving her one of his ghoulish grins, as if proud of the yellow tooth still left; “what have you come for?”

“I want to see squire’s funeral, gran’fa. To get a good place.”

“Ah, I know’d you’d come,” said the old man. “I say, Dally; Sir Tom Candlish, eh? Have you tried how it sounds?”

“What nonsense, gran’fa! and do a-done. You’ll have some one hear you.”

“He – he – he! Let ’em,” chuckled the old man; “let ’em. Sir Thomas Candlish, eh?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the girl, giving her head a vain toss.

Boom! went the bell, after the rope had rattled; and the old man groaned with the effort.

“He – he – he! No, no, you don’t know,” he chuckled, moving sidewise, and giving the girl a sharp nudge with his elbow. “But, my word, Dally, you do look pretty this morning.”

“Don’t, gran’fa. What stuff!”

“Oh, but you do,” said the old man, looking at her critically; “and fine and smart too for coming to a funeral.”

“Why, you wouldn’t have had me wear black, gran’fa, would you?”

They were quite alone in the belfry, and as the old man talked, he from time to time gave a steady pull at the rope, and a heavy, jarring boom was the result.

“Ah, and I might have said wear black, if I’d ha’ thought of it,” said the old man, examining the girl from top to toe.

“Then I hadn’t got any black, and if I had I would not have worn it, because it makes one look so ugly,” said the girl, giving her head another toss. “Now do tell me where to go. I want to see well. Can’t you put me up in that loft place over the vestry?”

“What! where you could see down into squire’s pew?” said the old man, giving another tug at the rope.

“Yes, gran’fa; it’s a nice snug place, where no one could see me.”