The Dead Sexton
Toby Crooke, the sexton, was lying dead in the old coach-house in theinn yard. The body had been discovered, only half an hour before thisstory begins, under strange circumstances, and in a place where itmight have lain the better part of a week undisturbed; and a dreadfulsuspicion astounded the village of Golden Friars.A wintry sunset was glaring through a gorge of the western mountains,turning into fire the twigs of the leafless elms, and all the tinyblades of grass on the green by which the quaint little town issurrounded. It is built of light, grey stone, with steep gables andslender chimneys rising with airy lightness from the level sward bythe margin of the beautiful lake, and backed by the grand amphitheatreof the fells at the other side, whose snowy peaks show faintly againstthe sky, tinged with the vaporous red of the western light. As youdescend towards the margin of the lake, and see Golden Friars, itstaper chimneys and slender gables, its curious old inn and gorgeoussign, and over all the graceful tower and spire of the ancient church,at this hour or by moonlight, in the solemn grandeur and stillness ofthe natural scenery that surrounds it, it stands before you like afairy town.Toby Crooke, the lank sexton, now fifty or upwards, had passed an houror two with some village cronies, over a solemn pot of purl, in thekitchen of that cosy hostelry, the night before. He generally turnedin there at about seven o'clock, and heard the news. This contentedhim: for he talked little, and looked always surly.Many things are now raked up and talked over about him.In early youth, he had been a bit of a scamp. He broke his indentures,and ran away from his master, the tanner of Bryemere; he had got intofifty bad scrapes and out again; and, just as the little world ofGolden Friars had come to the conclusion that it would be well for allparties--except, perhaps, himself--and a happy riddance for hisafflicted mother, if he were sunk, with a gross of quart pots abouthis neck, in the bottom of the lake in which the grey gables, theelms, and the towering fells of Golden Friars are mirrored, hesuddenly returned, a reformed man at the ripe age of forty.For twelve years he had disappeared, and no one knew what had becomeof him. Then, suddenly, as I say, he reappeared at Golden Friars--avery black and silent man, sedate and orderly. His mother was dead andburied; but the "prodigal son" was received good-naturedly. The goodvicar, Doctor Jenner, reported to his wife:"His hard heart has been softened, dear Dolly. I saw him dry his eyes,poor fellow, at the sermon yesterday.""I don't wonder, Hugh darling. I know the part--'There is joy inHeaven.' I am sure it was--wasn't it? It was quite beautiful. I almostcried myself."The Vicar laughed gently, and stooped over her chair and kissed her,and patted her cheek fondly."You think too well of your old man's sermons," he said. "I preach,you see, Dolly, very much to the poor. If they understand me, I ampretty sure everyone else must; and I think that my simple style goesmore home to both feelings and conscience--""You ought to have told me of his crying before. You are soeloquent," exclaimed Dolly Jenner. "No one preaches like my man. Ihave never heard such sermons."Not many, we may be sure; for the good lady had not heard more thansix from any other divine for the last twenty years.The personages of Golden Friars talked Toby Crooke over on his return.Doctor Lincote said:"He must have led a hard life; he had dried in so, and got a gooddeal of hard muscle; and he rather fancied he had been soldiering--hestood like a soldier; and the mark over his right eye looked like agunshot."People might wonder how he could have survived a gunshot over the eye;but was not Lincote a doctor--and an army doctor to boot--when he wasyoung; and who, in Golden Friars, could dispute with him on points ofsurgery? And I believe the truth is, that this mark had been reallymade by a pistol bullet.Mr. Jarlcot, the attorney, would "go bail" he had picked up some sensein his travels; and honest Turnbull, the host of the George andDragon, said heartily:"We must look out something for him to put his hand to. Now's thetime to make a man of him."The end of it was that he became, among other things, the sexton ofGolden Friars.He was a punctual sexton. He meddled with no other person's business;but he was a silent man, and by no means popular. He was reserved incompany; and he used to walk alone by the shore of the lake, whileother fellows played at fives or skittles; and when he visited thekitchen of the George, he had his liquor to himself, and in the midstof the general talk was a saturnine listener. There was somethingsinister in this man's face; and when things went wrong with him, hecould look dangerous enough.There were whispered stories in Golden Friars about Toby Crooke.Nobody could say how they got there. Nothing is more mysterious thanthe spread of rumour. It is like a vial poured on the air. It travels,like an epidemic, on the sightless currents of the atmosphere, or bythe laws of a telluric influence equally intangible. These storiestreated, though darkly, of the long period of his absence from hisnative village; but they took no well-defined shape, and no one couldrefer them to any authentic source.The Vicar's charity was of the kind that thinketh no evil; and in suchcases he always insisted on proof. Crooke was, of course, undisturbedin his office.On the evening before the tragedy came to light--trifles are alwaysremembered after the catastrophe--a boy, returning along the margin ofthe mere, passed him by seated on a prostrate trunk of a tree, underthe "bield" of a rock, counting silver money. His lean body and limbswere bent together, his knees were up to his chin, and his longfingers were telling the coins over hurriedly in the hollow of hisother hand. He glanced at the boy, as the old English saying is, like"the devil looking over Lincoln." But a black and sour look from Mr.Crooke, who never had a smile for a child nor a greeting for awayfarer, was nothing strange.Toby Crooke lived in the grey stone house, cold and narrow, thatstands near the church porch, with the window of its staircase lookingout into the churchyard, where so much of his labour, for many a day,had been expended. The greater part of this house was untenanted.The old woman who was in charge of it slept in a settle-bed, amongbroken stools, old sacks, rotten chests and other rattle-traps, in thesmall room at the rear of the house, floored with tiles.At what time of the night she could not tell, she awoke, and saw aman, with his hat on, in her room. He had a candle in his hand, whichhe shaded with his coat from her eye; his back was towards her, and hewas rummaging in the drawer in which she usually kept her money.Having got her quarter's pension of two pounds that day, however, shehad placed it, folded in a rag, in the corner of her tea caddy, andlocked it up in the "eat-malison" or cupboard.She was frightened when she saw the figure in her room, and she couldnot tell whether her visitor might not have made his entrance from thecontiguous churchyard. So, sitting bolt upright in her bed, her greyhair almost lifting her kerchief off her head, and all over in "a fito' t' creepins," as she expressed it, she demanded:"In God's name, what want ye thar?""Whar's the peppermint ye used to hev by ye, woman? I'm bad wi' aninward pain.""It's all gane a month sin'," she answered; and offered to make him a"het" drink if he'd get to his room.But he said:"Never mind, I'll try a mouthful o' gin."And, turning on his heel, he left her.In the morning the sexton was gone. Not only in his lodging was thereno account of him, but, when inquiry began to be extended, nowhere inthe village of Golden Friars could he be found.Still he might have gone off, on business of his own, to some distantvillage, before the town was stirring; and the sexton had no nearkindred to trouble their heads about him. People, therefore, werewilling to wait, and take his return ultimately for granted.At three o'clock the good Vicar, standing at his hall door, lookingacross the lake towards the noble fells that rise, steep and furrowed,from that beautiful mere, saw two men approaching across the green, ina straight line, from a boat that was moored at the water's edge. Theywere carrying between them something which, though not very large,seemed ponderous."Ye'll ken this, sir," said one of the boatmen as they set down,almost at his feet, a small church bell, such as in old-fashionedchimes yields the treble notes."This won't be less nor five stean. I ween it's fra' the churchsteeple yon.""What! one of our church bells?" ejaculated the Vicar--for a momentlost in horrible amazement. "Oh, no!--no, that can't possibly be!Where did you find it?"He had found the boat, in the morning, moored about fifty yards fromher moorings where he had left it the night before, and could notthink how that came to pass; and now, as he and his partner were aboutto take their oars, they discovered this bell in the bottom of theboat, under a bit of canvas, also the sexton's pick andspade--"tom-spey'ad," they termed that peculiar, broad-bladedimplement."Very extraordinary! We must try whether there is a bell missing fromthe tower," said the Vicar, getting into a fuss. "Has Crooke come backyet? Does anyone know where he is?"The sexton had not yet turned up."That's odd--that's provoking," said the Vicar. "However, my key willlet us in. Place the bell in the hall while I get it; and then we cansee what all this means."To the church, accordingly, they went, the Vicar leading the way, withhis own key in his hand. He turned it in the lock, and stood in theshadow of the ground porch, and shut the door.A sack, half full, lay on the ground, with open mouth, a piece of cordlying beside it. Something clanked within it as one of the men shovedit aside with his clumsy shoe.The Vicar opened the church door and peeped in. The dusky glow fromthe western sky, entering through a narrow window, illuminated theshafts and arches, the old oak carvings, and the discolouredmonuments, with the melancholy glare of a dying fire.The Vicar withdrew his head and closed the door. The gloom of theporch was deeper than ever as, stooping, he entered the narrow doorthat opened at the foot of the winding stair that leads to the firstloft; from which a rude ladder-stair of wood, some five and twentyfeet in height, mounts through a trap to the ringers' loft.Up the narrow stairs the Vicar climbed, followed by his attendants, tothe first loft. It was very dark: a narrow bow-slit in the thick walladmitted the only light they had to guide them. The ivy leaves, seenfrom the deep shadow, flashed and flickered redly, and the sparrowstwittered among them."Will one of you be so good as to go up and count the bells, and seeif they are all right?" said the Vicar. "There should be--""Agoy! what's that?" exclaimed one of the men, recoiling from the footof the ladder."By Jen!" ejaculated the other, in equal surprise."Good gracious!" gasped the Vicar, who, seeing indistinctly a darkmass lying on the floor, had stooped to examine it, and placed hishand upon a cold, dead face.The men drew the body into the streak of light that traversed thefloor.It was the corpse of Toby Crooke! There was a frightful scar acrosshis forehead.The alarm was given. Doctor Lincote, and Mr. Jarlcot, and Turnbull, ofthe George and Dragon, were on the spot immediately; and many curiousand horrified spectators of minor importance.The first thing ascertained was that the man must have been many hoursdead. The next was that his skull was fractured, across the forehead,by an awful blow. The next was that his neck was broken.His hat was found on the floor, where he had probably laid it, withhis handkerchief in it.The mystery now began to clear a little; for a bell--one of the chimehung in the tower--was found where it had rolled to, against the wall,with blood and hair on the rim of it, which corresponded with thegrizzly fracture across the front of his head.The sack that lay in the vestibule was examined, and found to containall the church plate; a silver salver that had disappeared, about amonth before, from Dr. Lincote's store of valuables; the Vicar's goldpencil-case, which he thought he had forgot in the vestry book; silverspoons, and various other contributions, levied from time to time offa dozen different households, the mysterious disappearance of whichspoils had, of late years, begun to make the honest little communityuncomfortable. Two bells had been taken down from the chime; and nowthe shrewd part of the assemblage, putting things together, began tocomprehend the nefarious plans of the sexton, who lay mangled and deadon the floor of the tower, where only two days ago he had tolled theholy bell to call the good Christians of Golden Friars to worship.The body was carried into the yard of the George and Dragon and laidin the old coach-house; and the townsfolk came grouping in to have apeep at the corpse, and stood round, looking darkly, and talking aslow as if they were in a church.The Vicar, in gaiters and slightly shovel hat, stood erect, as one ina little circle of notables--the doctor, the attorney, Sir GeoffreyMardykes, who happened to be in the town, and Turnbull, the host--inthe centre of the paved yard, they having made an inspection of thebody, at which troops of the village stragglers, to-ing and fro-ing,were gaping and frowning as they whispered their horrible conjectures."What d'ye think o' that?" said Tom Scales, the old hostler of theGeorge, looking pale, with a stern, faint smile on his lips, as he andDick Linklin sauntered out of the coach-house together."The deaul will hev his ain noo," answered Dick, in his friend's ear."T' sexton's got a craigthraw like he gav' the lass over the clints ofScarsdale; ye mind what the ald soger telt us when he hid his face inthe kitchen of the George here? By Jen! I'll ne'er forget that story.""I ween 'twas all true enough," replied the hostler; "and the sizzuphe gav' the sleepin' man wi' t' poker across the forehead. See wharthe edge o' t' bell took him, and smashed his ain, the self-same lids.By ma sang, I wonder the deaul did na carry awa' his corpse i' thenight, as he did wi' Tam Lunder's at Mooltern Mill.""Hout, man, who ever sid t' deaul inside o' a church?""The corpse is ill-faur'd enew to scare Satan himsel', for thatmatter; though it's true what you say. Ay, ye're reet tul a trippet,thar; for Beelzebub dar'n't show his snout inside the church, not thelength o' the black o' my nail."While this discussion was going on, the gentlefolk who were talkingthe matter over in the centre of the yard had dispatched a message forthe coroner all the way to the town of Hextan.The last tint of sunset was fading from the sky by this time; so, ofcourse, there was no thought of an inquest earlier than next day.In the meantime it was horribly clear that the sexton had intended torob the church of its plate, and had lost his life in the attempt tocarry the second bell, as we have seen, down the worn ladder of thetower. He had tumbled backwards and broken his neck upon the floor ofthe loft; and the heavy bell, in its fall, descended with its edgeacross his forehead.Never was a man more completely killed by a double catastrophe, in amoment.The bells and the contents of the sack, it was surmised, he meant tohave conveyed across the lake that night, and with the help of hisspade and pick to have buried them in Clousted Forest, and returned,after an absence of but a few hours--as he easily might--beforemorning, unmissed and unobserved. He would no doubt, having securedhis booty, have made such arrangements as would have made it appearthat the church had been broken into. He would, of course, have takenall measures to divert suspicion from himself, and have watched asuitable opportunity to repossess himself of the buried treasure anddispose of it in safety.And now came out, into sharp relief, all the stories that had, one wayor other, stolen after him into the town. Old Mrs. Pullen fainted whenshe saw him, and told Doctor Lincote, after, that she thought he wasthe highwayman who fired the shot that killed the coachman the nightthey were robbed on Hounslow Heath. There were the stories also toldby the wayfaring old soldier with the wooden leg, and fifty others, upto this more than half disregarded, but which now seized on thepopular belief with a startling grasp.The fleeting light soon expired, and twilight was succeeded by theearly night.The inn yard gradually became quiet; and the dead sexton lay alone, inthe dark, on his back, locked up in the old coach-house, the key ofwhich was safe in the pocket of Tom Scales, the trusty old hostler ofthe George.It was about eight o'clock, and the hostler, standing alone on theroad in the front of the open door of the George and Dragon, had justsmoked his pipe out. A bright moon hung in the frosty sky. The fellsrose from the opposite edge of the lake like phantom mountains. Theair was stirless. Through the boughs and sprays of the leafless elmsno sigh or motion, however hushed, was audible. Not a ripple glimmeredon the lake, which at one point only reflected the brilliant moon fromits dark blue expanse like burnished steel. The road that runs by theinn door, along the margin of the lake, shone dazzlingly white.White as ghosts, among the dark holly and juniper, stood the tallpiers of the Vicar's gate, and their great stone balls, like heads,overlooking the same road, a few hundred yards up the lake, to theleft. The early little town of Golden Friars was quiet by this time.Except for the townsfolk who were now collected in the kitchen of theinn itself, no inhabitant was now outside his own threshold.Tom Scales was thinking of turning in. He was beginning to fell alittle queer. He was thinking of the sexton, and could not get thefixed features of the dead man out of his head, when he heard thesharp though distant ring of a horse's hoof upon the frozen road.Tom's instinct apprized him of the approach of a guest to the Georgeand Dragon. His experienced ear told him that the horseman wasapproaching by the Dardale road, which, after crossing that wide anddismal moss, passes the southern fells by Dunner Cleugh and finallyenters the town of Golden Friars by joining the Mardykes road, at theedge of the lake, close to the gate of the Vicar's house.A clump of tall trees stood at this point; but the moon shone fullupon the road and cast their shadow backward.The hoofs were plainly coming at a gallop, with a hollow rattle. Thehorseman was a long time in appearing. Tom wondered how he had heardthe sound--so sharply frosty as the air was--so very far away.He was right in his guess. The visitor was coming over the mountainousroad from Dardale Moss; and he now saw a horseman, who must haveturned the corner of the Vicar's house at the moment when his eye waswearied; for when he saw him for the first time he was advancing, inthe hazy moonlight, like the shadow of a cavalier, at a gallop, uponthe level strip of road that skirts the margin of the mere, betweenthe George and the Vicar's piers.The hostler had not long to wonder why the rider pushed his beast atso furious a pace, and how he came to have heard him, as he nowcalculated, at least three miles away. A very few moments sufficed tobring horse and rider to the inn door.It was a powerful black horse, something like the great Irish hunterthat figured a hundred years ago, and would carry sixteen stone withease across country. It would have made a grand charger. Not a hairturned. It snorted, it pawed, it arched its neck; then threw back itsears and down its head, and looked ready to lash, and then to rear;and seemed impatient to be off again, and incapable of standing quietfor a moment.The rider got downAs light as shadow falls.But he was a tall, sinewy figure. He wore a cape or short mantle, acocked hat, and a pair of jack-boots, such as held their ground insome primitive corners of England almost to the close of the lastcentury."Take him, lad," said he to old Scales. "You need not walk or wisphim--he never sweats or tires. Give him his oats, and let him take hisown time to eat them. House!" cried the stranger--in the old-fashionedform of summons which still lingered, at that time, in out-of-the-wayplaces--in a deep and piercing voice.As Tom Scales led the horse away to the stables it turned its headtowards its master with a short, shill neigh."About your business, old gentleman--we must not go too fast," thestranger cried back again to his horse, with a laugh as harsh andpiercing; and he strode into the house.The hostler led this horse into the inn yard. In passing, it sidled upto the coach-house gate, within which lay the dead sexton--snorted,pawed and lowered its head suddenly, with ear close to the plank, asif listening for a sound from within; then uttered again the sameshort, piercing neigh.The hostler was chilled at this mysterious coquetry with the dead. Heliked the brute less and less every minute.In the meantime, its master had proceeded."I'll go to the inn kitchen," he said, in his startling bass, to thedrawer who met him in the passage.And on he went, as if he had known the place all his days: not seemingto hurry himself--stepping leisurely, the servant thought--but glidingon at such a rate, nevertheless, that he had passed his guide and wasin the kitchen of the George before the drawer had got much more thanhalf-way to it.A roaring fire of dry wood, peat and coal lighted up this snug butspacious apartment--flashing on pots and pans, and dressers high-piledwith pewter plates and dishes; and making the uncertain shadows of thelong "hanks" of onions and many a flitch and ham, depending from theceiling, dance on its glowing surface.The doctor and the attorney, even Sir Geoffrey Mardykes, did notdisdain on this occasion to take chairs and smoke their pipes by thekitchen fire, where they were in the thick of the gossip anddiscussion excited by the terrible event.The tall stranger entered uninvited.He looked like a gaunt, athletic Spaniard of forty, burned half blackin the sun, with a bony, flattened nose. A pair of fierce black eyeswere just visible under the edge of his hat; and his mouth seemeddivided, beneath the moustache, by the deep scar of a hare-lip.Sir Geoffrey Mardykes and the host of the George, aided by the doctorand the attorney, were discussing and arranging, for the third orfourth time, their theories about the death and the probable plans ofToby Crooke, when the stranger entered.The new-comer lifted his hat, with a sort of smile, for a moment fromhis black head."What do you call this place, gentlemen?" asked the stranger."The town of Golden Friars, sir," answered the doctor politely."The George and Dragon, sir: Anthony Turnbull, at your service,"answered mine host, with a solemn bow, at the same moment--so that thetwo voices went together, as if the doctor and the innkeeper weresinging a catch."The George and the Dragon," repeated the horseman, expanding his longhands over the fire which he had approached. "Saint George, KingGeorge, the Dragon, the Devil: it is a very grand idol, that outsideyour door, sir. You catch all sorts of worshippers--courtiers,fanatics, scamps: all's fish, eh? Everybody welcome, provided hedrinks like one. Suppose you brew a bowl or two of punch. I'll standit. How many are we? Here--count, and let us have enough. Gentlemen,I mean to spend the night here, and my horse is in the stable. Whatholiday, fun, or fair has got so many pleasant faces together? When Ilast called here--for, now I bethink me, I have seen the placebefore--you all looked sad. It was on a Sunday, that dismalest ofholidays; and it would have been positively melancholy only that yoursexton--that saint upon earth--Mr. Crooke, was here." He was lookinground, over his shoulder, and added: "Ha! don't I see him there?"Frightened a good deal were some of the company. All gaped in thedirection in which, with a nod, he turned his eyes."He's not thar--he can't be thar--we see he's not thar," saidTurnbull, as dogmatically as old Joe Willet might have deliveredhimself--for he did not care that the George should earn thereputation of a haunted house. "He's met an accident, sir: he'sdead--he's elsewhere--and therefore can't be here."Upon this the company entertained the stranger with thenarrative--which they made easy by a division of labour, two or threegenerally speaking at a time, and no one being permitted to finish asecond sentence without finding himself corrected and supplanted."The man's in Heaven, so sure as you're not," said the traveller sosoon as the story was ended. "What! he was fiddling with the churchbell, was he, and d----d for that--eh? Landlord, get us some drink. Asexton d----d for pulling down a church bell he has been pulling atfor ten years!""You came, sir, by the Dardale-road, I believe?" said the doctor(village folk are curious). "A dismal moss is Dardale Moss, sir; and ableak clim' up the fells on t' other side.""I say 'Yes' to all--from Dardale Moss, as black as pitch and asrotten as the grave, up that zigzag wall you call a road, that lookslike chalk in the moonlight, through Dunner Cleugh, as dark as acoal-pit, and down here to the George and the Dragon, where you have aroaring fire, wise men, good punch--here it is--and a corpse in yourcoach-house. Where the carcase is, there will the eagles be gatheredtogether. Come, landlord, ladle out the nectar. Drink, gentlemen--drink,all. Brew another bowl at the bar. How divinely it stinks of alcohol!I hope you like it, gentlemen: it smells all over of spices, like amummy. Drink, friends. Ladle, landlord. Drink, all. Serve it out."The guest fumbled in his pocket, and produced three guineas, which heslipped into Turnbull's fat palm."Let punch flow till that's out. I'm an old friend of the house. Icall here, back and forward. I know you well, Turnbull, though youdon't recognize me.""You have the advantage of me, sir," said Mr. Turnbull, looking hardon that dark and sinister countenance--which, or the like of which, hecould have sworn he had never seen before in his life. But he likedthe weight and colour of his guineas, as he dropped them into hispocket. "I hope you will find yourself comfortable while you stay.""You have given me a bedroom?""Yes, sir--the cedar chamber.""I know it--the very thing. No--no punch for me. By and by, perhaps."The talk went on, but the stranger had grown silent. He had seatedhimself on an oak bench by the fire, towards which he extended hisfeet and hands with seeming enjoyment; his cocked hat being, however,a little over his face.Gradually the company began to thin. Sir Geoffrey Mardykes was thefirst to go; then some of the humbler townsfolk. The last bowl ofpunch was on its last legs. The stranger walked into the passage andsaid to the drawer:"Fetch me a lantern. I must see my nag. Light it--hey! That will do.No--you need not come."The gaunt traveller took it from the man's hand and strode along thepassage to the door of the stableyard, which he opened and passed out.Tom Scales, standing on the pavement, was looking through the stablewindow at the horses when the stranger plucked his shirtsleeve. Withan inward shock the hostler found himself alone in presence of thevery person he had been thinking of."I say--they tell me you have something to look at in there"--hepointed with his thumb at the old coach-house door. "Let us have apeep."Tom Scales happened to be at that moment in a state of mind highlyfavourable to anyone in search of a submissive instrument. He was ingreat perplexity, and even perturbation. He suffered the stranger tolead him to the coach-house gate."You must come in and hold the lantern," said he. "I'll pay youhandsomely."The old hostler applied his key and removed the padlock."What are you afraid of? Step in and throw the light on his face,"said the stranger grimly. "Throw open the lantern: stand there.Stoop over him a little--he won't bite you. Steady, or you may passthe night with him!"* * * * *In the meantime the company at the George had dispersed; and, shortlyafter, Anthony Turnbull--who, like a good landlord, was always last inbed, and first up, in his house--was taking, alone, his last lookround the kitchen before making his final visit to the stable-yard,when Tom Scales tottered into the kitchen, looking like death, hishair standing upright; and he sat down on an oak chair, all in atremble, wiped his forehead with his hand, and, instead of speaking,heaved a great sigh or two.It was not till after he had swallowed a dram of brandy that he foundhis voice, and said:"We've the deaul himsel' in t' house! By Jen! ye'd best send fo t'sir" (the clergyman). "Happen he'll tak him in hand wi' holy writ, andsend him elsewhidder deftly. Lord atween us and harm! I'm a sinfu'man. I tell ye, Mr. Turnbull, I dar' n't stop in t' George to-nightunder the same roof wi' him.""Ye mean the ra-beyoned, black-feyaced lad, wi' the brocken neb? Why,that's a gentleman wi' a pocket ful o' guineas, man, and a horse worthfifty pounds!""That horse is no better nor his rider. The nags that were in thestable wi' him, they all tuk the creepins, and sweated like rain downa thack. I tuk them all out o' that, away from him, into thehack-stable, and I thocht I cud never get them past him. But that'snot all. When I was keekin inta t' winda at the nags, he comes behintme and claps his claw on ma shouther, and he gars me gang wi' him, andopen the aad coach-house door, and haad the cannle for him, till hepearked into the deed man't feyace; and, as God's my judge, I sid thecorpse open its eyes and wark its mouth, like a man smoorin' andstrivin' to talk. I cudna move or say a word, though I felt my hairrising on my heed; but at lang-last I gev a yelloch, and say I, 'La!what is that?' And he himsel' looked round on me, like the devil heis; and, wi' a skirl o' a laugh, he strikes the lantern out o' myhand. When I cum to myself we were outside the coach-house door. Themoon was shinin' in, ad I cud see the corpse stretched on the tablewhar we left it; and he kicked the door to wi' a purr o' his foot.'Lock it,' says he; and so I did. And here's the key for ye--tak ityoursel', sir. He offer'd me money: he said he'd mak me a rich man ifI'd sell him the corpse, and help him awa' wi' it.""Hout, man! What cud he want o' t' corpse? He's not doctor, to do a'that lids. He was takin' a rise out o' ye, lad," said Turnbull."Na, na--he wants the corpse. There's summat you a' me can't tell hewants to do wi' 't; and he'd liefer get it wi' sin and thievin', andthe damage of my soul. He's one of them freytens a boo or a dobbiesoff Dardale Moss, that's always astir wi' the like after nightfall;unless--Lord save us!--he be the deaul himsel.'""Whar is he noo?" asked the landlord, who was growing uncomfortable."He spang'd up the back stair to his room. I wonder you didn't hearhim trampin' like a wild horse; and he clapt his door that the houseshook again--but Lord knows whar he is noo. Let us gang awa's up tothe Vicar's, and gan him come down, and talk wi' him.""Hoity toity, man--you're too easy scared," said the landlord, paleenough by this time. "'Twould be a fine thing, truly, to send abroadthat the house was haunted by the deaul himsel'! Why, 'twould be theruin o' the George. You're sure ye locked the door on the corpse?""Aye, sir--sartain.""Come wi' me, Tom--we'll gi' a last look round the yard."So, side by side, with many a jealous look right and left, and overtheir shoulders, they went in silence. On entering the old-fashionedquadrangle, surrounded by stables and other offices--built in theantique cagework fashion--they stopped for a while under the shadow ofthe inn gable, and looked round the yard, and listened. All wassilent--nothing stirring.The stable lantern was lighted; and with it in his hand Tony Turnbull,holding Tom Scales by the shoulder, advanced. He hauled Tom after himfor a step or two; then stood still and shoved him before him for astep or two more; and thus cautiously--as a pair of skirmishers underfire--they approached the coach-house door."There, ye see--all safe," whispered Tom, pointing to the lock, whichhung--distinct in the moonlight--in its place. "Cum back, I say!""Cum on, say I!" retorted the landlord valorously. "It would never doto allow any tricks to be played with the chap in there"--he pointedto the coachhouse door."The coroner here in the morning, and never a corpse to sit on!" Heunlocked the padlock with these words, having handed the lantern toTom. "Here, keck in, Tom," he continued; "ye hev the lantern--and seeif all's as ye left it.""Not me--na, not for the George and a' that's in it!" said Tom, with ashudder, sternly, as he took a step backward."What the--what are ye afraid on? Gi' me the lantern--it is all one:I will."And cautiously, little by little, he opened the door; and, holding thelantern over his head in the narrow slit, he peeped in--frowning andpale--with one eye, as if he expected something to fly in his face. Heclosed the door without speaking, and locked it again."As safe as a thief in a mill," he whispered with a nod to hiscompanion. And at that moment a harsh laugh overhead broke the silencestartlingly, and set all the poultry in the yard gabbling."Thar he be!" said Tom, clutching the landlord's arm--"in thewinda--see!"The window of the cedar-room, up two pair of stairs, was open; and inthe shadow a darker outline was visible of a man, with his elbows onthe window-stone, looking down upon them."Look at his eyes--like two live coals!" gasped Tom.The landlord could not see all this so sharply, being confused, andnot so long-sighted as Tom."Time, sir," called Tony Turnbull, turning cold as he thought he saw apair of eyes shining down redly at him--"time for honest folk to be intheir beds, and asleep!""As sound as your sexton!" said the jeering voice from above."Come out of this," whispered the landlord fiercely to his hostler,plucking him hard by the sleeve.They got into the house, and shut the door."I wish we were shot of him," said the landlord, with something like agroan, as he leaned against the wall of the passage. "I'll sit up,anyhow--and, Tom, you'll sit wi' me. Cum into the gun-room. No oneshall steal the dead man out of my yard while I can draw a trigger."The gun-room in the George is about twelve feet square. It projectsinto the stable-yard and commands a full view of the old coach-house;and, through a narrow side window, a flanking view of the back door ofthe inn, through which the yard is reached.Tony Turnbull took down the blunderbuss--which was the great ordnanceof the house--and loaded it with a stiff charge of pistol bullets.He put on a great-coat which hung there, and was his covering when hewent out at night, to shoot wild ducks. Tom made himself comfortablelikewise. They then sat down at the window, which was open, lookinginto the yard, the opposite side of which was white in the brilliantmoonlight.The landlord laid the blunderbuss across his knees, and stared intothe yard. His comrade stared also. The door of the gun-room waslocked; so they felt tolerably secure.An hour passed; nothing had occurred. Another. The clock struck one.The shadows had shifted a little; but still the moon shone full on theold coach-house, and the stable where the guest's horse stood.Turnbull thought he heard a step on the back-stair. Tom was watchingthe back-door through the side window, with eyes glazing with theintensity of his stare. Anthony Turnbull, holding his breath, listenedat the room door. It was a false alarm.When he came back to the window looking into the yard:"Hish! Look thar!" said he in a vehement whisper.From the shadow at the left they saw the figure of the gaunt horseman,in short cloak and jack-boots, emerge. He pushed open the stable door,and led out his powerful black horse. He walked it across the front ofthe building till he reached the old coach-house door; and there, withits bridle on its neck, he left it standing, while he stalked to theyard gate; and, dealing it a kick with his heel, it sprang back withthe rebound, shaking from top to bottom, and stood open. The strangerreturned to the side of his horse; and the door which secured thecorpse of the dead sexton seemed to swing slowly open of itself as heentered, and returned with the corpse in his arms, and swung it acrossthe shoulders of the horse, and instantly sprang into the saddle."Fire!" shouted Tom, and bang went the blunderbuss with a stunningcrack. A thousand sparrows' wings winnowed through the air from thethick ivy. The watch-dog yelled a furious bark. There was a strangering and whistle in the air. The blunderbuss had burst to shiversright down to the very breech. The recoil rolled the inn-keeper uponhis back on the floor, and Tom Scales was flung against the side ofthe recess of the window, which had saved him from a tumble asviolent. In this position they heard the searing laugh of thedeparting horseman, and saw him ride out of the gate with his ghastlyburden.* * * * *Perhaps some of my readers, like myself, have heard this story told byRoger Turnbull, now host of the George and Dragon, the grandson of thevery Tony who then swayed the spigot and keys of that inn, in theidentical kitchen of which the fiend treated so many of the neighboursto punch.* * * * *What infernal object was subserved by the possession of the deadvillain's body, I have not learned. But a very curious story, in whicha vampire resuscitation of Crooke the sexton figures, may throw alight upon this part of the tale.The result of Turnbull's shot at the disappearing fiend certainlyjustifies old Andrew Moreton's dictum, which is thus expressed in hiscurious "History of Apparitions": "I warn rash brands who, pretendingnot to fear the devil, are for using the ordinary violences with him,which affect one man from another--or with an apparition, in whichthey may be sure to receive some mischief. I knew one fired a gun atan apparition and the gun burst in a hundred pieces in his hand;another struck at an apparition with a sword, and broke his sword inpieces and wounded his hand grievously; and 'tis next to madness foranyone to go that way to work with any spirit, be it angel or be itdevil."
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