Kitabı oku: «The Man with a Shadow», sayfa 11
Volume Two – Chapter Three.
For a Special Reason
Jonadab Moredock sat smoking his pipe on the night of the funeral, after Luke Candlish had been laid to his rest. The old man sat in the dark for economical reasons, and whenever he drew hard at his pipe, the glow in the bowl faintly lit up his weird old face.
He was communing with himself, for apparently his conscience was pricking him with reminders of the past.
“Well,” he muttered, “it was only lead, and bits o’ zinc did just as well. Sold one of the bells if I could? Well, so I would, if they hadn’t been so heavy. Much mine as anybody else’s. I’m ’bout the oldest man in Hampton!”
He smoked on furiously, and shifted about in his chair.
“What was a man to do? Go to workhouse when he got old? No, I wouldn’t do that. Only a few bones as the doctors wanted, and as would ha’ rotted in the ground if they’d been left. Do good, too. Them as they b’longed to’s glad they’re able to do good with them, I know.
“Wish I’d a drop o’ that physic, now. Seems to stir a man up like, and give him strength. Nasty job, but I’m not skeared! It was fancy that night. If I’d had a drop o’ doctor’s stuff I shouldn’t ha’ seen that head going along above the pews. No, I’m not skeared; but will he see – will he see?”
The old man fidgeted about uneasily in his chair, and had to refill and relight his pipe.
“Tchah! What would he know about ’em? How could he tell? Nobody but me’s ever been down there, ’cept at funerals, and them as lives don’t want ’em; they b’long to the dead. Dead don’t want ’em, so they b’long to me. Ah!”
“Why, Moredock, did I frighten you?”
“Frighten me! No. Nothing frightens me; but you shouldn’t come so sudden like upon a man.”
“You shouted as if you had been hurt. What makes you sit in the dark?”
“’Cause I arn’t afraid o’ the dark,” grumbled the old man. “Candles is candles, and costs money; don’t they? Nobody gives me candles.”
“Well, are you ready?”
“Ready? What for?”
“No nonsense, man. I’m not to be trifled with.”
“Humph!” growled Moredock. “Brought that physic?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Give’s a drop, now. I’m about beat out. Hard work to-day.”
North took a bottle from his pocket and set it on the table.
“Get a light, and you shall take a dose,” he said.
“Nay; I want no light. I can see to do all I want without a light.”
Moredock rose, went to a shelf, and took down a cup; the squeaking of the cork was followed by the gurgle of some fluid, and then there was a sound represented by the word “glug,” and the sexton drew a long breath.
“Hah! that puts life in a man,” he said. “Be careful not to take too much.”
“Ay! don’t be skeared, doctor; I know,” said the old man. “One thumb deep. I’ve measured it times enough. I didn’t leave a light. Might take attention. Young Joe Chegg gets hanging about. Thinks he wants my Polly, but he won’t get her. Comes peeping in at this window sometimes to see if she’s here. Now I’m ready.”
“Got everything you want?” said North. “Keys – lanthorn?”
“Ay! Got everything I want; but have you got everything you want?”
“Yes, man, yes.”
“And look here, doctor; mind this: it’s your job, and you’re making me do it.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean as I arn’t going to stand the racket if it’s found out. Spose Parson Salis comes down upon me about it?”
“I understand you now,” said the doctor sternly; “and I promise to hold you free.”
“But it is for money, isn’t it, doctor?” said Moredock insinuatingly.
“Money!” cried the doctor scornfully. “Do you think I would do this for money?”
The old man made a curious sound in his throat, which might have been laughing, but it was impossible to say, and then led the way out of the cottage, merely closing the door after them, and going on towards the church.
It was a singularly dark night, with not a breath of wind. Away to their left lay the principal part of the village; but not a light was visible; and, save for the uneasy barking of a dog at a distance, there was not a sound.
“Not like this i’ the morning, doctor,” whispered Moredock. “Place was like a fair.”
“Don’t talk,” said the doctor sternly; and after emitting a grunt, the old sexton trudged steadily on to the lych-gate, which he opened, the key clicking a little, and the lock giving a sharp snap.
“Shall I lock it, or leave it?”
“Leave it. No one will come here.”
“Nay, I’ll make sure,” said the old man; and passing his hand through the open woodwork, he locked the gate and withdrew the key.
The two men ascended the steep pathway to the front of the church porch, and continued their journey round by the end of the chancel to the north, where the great mausoleum and the vestry stood side by side.
As they reached the end of the path where it stopped by the vestry door, Moredock paused to listen intently for a few moments.
“All right,” he said; “not so much as a cat about;” and stooping down, he unlocked the iron gates at the head of the steps and they swung softly back. “Iled ’em well,” whispered the sexton, “and the door below, too.”
“Now look here, my man,” whispered North, “you can let me into the tomb, and then keep watch for me; or I will open the place myself, and bring you back the keys.”
“Nay, doctor, I’m not skeared. I don’t like the job, but now you’ve got me to start on it, I’ll go on right to the end.”
“That’s right, Moredock; and you shall not regret it, man. As I’ve told you, it is for a special scientific reason.”
“I don’t know nothing ’bout scientific reason, doctor,” whispered the old man; “but you said it was some’at to do wi’ making men live longer.”
“Yes, and it is.”
“And that you’d stick to me, doctor, and make me live as long as Mephooslum if you could.”
“Yes, Moredock, I did.”
“And you’ll stick to that bargain?”
“I will, on my honour as a man.”
“Shak’ han’s on it once again, doctor. That’s enough for me. I like a bit o’ money, and I want it bad; but no money shouldn’t ha’ made me do this. I’m doing of it because it’s to make men live longer.”
“Yes, my man, it is.”
“Then in we goes. Stop!”
“What now?”
“You won’t bring him – Squire Luke – back to life again, will you? Because that won’t answer my book.”
“Silence, man, and keep to your bargain, as I will keep to mine.”
Moredock drew a long breath, inserted the key, opened the heavy door of the great vault, and it, too, swung easily upon its well-oiled hinges, carefully prepared by the sexton for the funeral.
“You won’t mind the dark for a minute, doctor?” whispered the old man.
“No,” said the doctor, stepping in, followed by the sexton, who carefully closed the grim portal, and they stood together in the utter darkness in presence of generations of the dead.
Volume Two – Chapter Four.
Mary’s Bell
It had been a gloomy evening at the Rectory. Leo had been unusually silent, and Salis greatly disturbed by a letter he had received from the rector.
That gentleman had only spoken to him just so far as the sad business upon which they had been engaged demanded, and had gone back to King’s Hampton on his way to town, probably to treat his curate there in the same way, and had left a voluminous letter, like a sermon, written upon the text “Neglect,” for Salis to peruse.
He had read the letter and re-read it to his sisters, with the result that Leo had sighed, looked sympathetic, and then gone on with her book; while Mary had sat back in her easy-chair and listened and advised.
“I don’t know what more I could do,” said Salis, wrinkling his brow. “I suppose I do neglect the parish entrusted to me by my rector, but it is from ignorance. I want to do what’s right.”
He looked down in a perplexed way at his sister, who dropped her work upon her knee, and extended her hand with a tender smile.
“Come here,” she said. “Kneel down.”
Salis obeyed, and glanced at Leo, whose face was hidden by her book, before stooping down lower to accept the proffered kiss.
“My dear old brother,” whispered Mary, gliding her soft, white arm about his neck, “don’t talk like that. Neglect! My memory is too well stored with your deeds to accept that word. Why, your life here has been one long career of self-denial.”
“Oh, nonsense!”
“Of deeds of charity, of nights spent by sick-beds, facing death and the most infectious diseases. How much of your stipend do you ever spend upon yourself or us?”
“Well, not much, Mary,” he said, with his perplexed look deepening. “You see, there are so many poor.”
“Who would rise up in revolt if you were to leave.”
“Yes, I suppose so, dear; but I have been very remiss lately and extravagant.”
“Hartley!” – reproachfully.
“Well, I have, dear. I’ve smoked a great deal – and fished.”
“At your medical man’s desire; to give you strength; to refresh you for your work.”
“But these things grow upon one,” said Salis dismally.
“Nonsense, dear; you must have some relaxation. See what a slave you are to the parish – and to me.”
“Why, that’s my relaxation,” he said tenderly. “But really, dear, it almost seems as if he wants to drive me to resign.”
“Well, Hartley,” said Mary sadly, “if it must be so we will go. Surely there are hundreds of parishes where my brother would be welcome.”
“But how could I leave my people here? My dear Mary, I have grown so used to Duke’s Hampton that I believe it would break my heart to go.”
“And mine,” said Mary to herself, “if it be not already broken.”
“I must answer the letter, I suppose,” said Salis dolefully, “and promise to amend my ways.”
“Is it not bed-time, Hartley?” said Leo, with a yawn.
“Bless my soul, yes,” cried the curate, glancing at his watch. “Time does go so when one is talking.”
“I’m very tired,” said Leo. “It has been an anxious day.”
“I shall be obliged to sit down for an hour and set down the heads of my letter, I suppose,” said Salis.
“To-night, Hartley?” cried Leo, suddenly displaying great interest in her brother’s welfare. “No, no; don’t do that. You seem so fagged.”
“Yes, you seem tired out, dear,” said Mary.
“Go and have a good night’s rest,” said Leo, smiling, and rising to kiss him. “Good night, dear. Good night, Mary. But you will go to bed, Hartley?”
“Well,” he said, “if you two order it I suppose I must.”
“And we do order it,” said Leo playfully; “eh, Mary?”
“Yes, get up early and have a good morning’s walk,” said Mary, with the result that the lamp was extinguished after candles had been lit. Leo went to her room, and Hartley Salis performed his regular task of carrying his sister to her door; after which, by the help of a couple of crutch-handled sticks, she could manage to get about.
An hour later all was hushed at the Rectory, and another hour passed when Hartley Salis had been dreaming uneasily of listening to a lecture from the rector about his neglect of the parish, the rector striking hard on the principle of the rough who blunders against a person and exclaims —
“Where are yer shoving to?” The lecture had reached an imaginary point at which the rector had exclaimed, with his hand on the bell:
“And now we understand one another, Mr Salis. Good morning.”
The bell rang just over the curate’s head, and he jumped out of bed and hurried on his dressing-gown, for that bell communicated with Mary’s room, and had been there ever since her illness had assumed so serious a form.
“What is it, Mary; are you ill?”
“No, no, dear,” came back through the slightly opened door; “but there is something wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Yes. I certainly heard a door open and close downstairs.”
Volume Two – Chapter Five.
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.
