The House by the Church-Yard | Page 7

o' their
wits--they wor--ha, ha, ha! an' I can tell you all about it--a mighty black
and bloody business it was--'

'I--I beg your pardon, Sir: but I think--yes--the funeral has arrived; and
for the present, I must bid you good-morning.'
And so my uncle hurried to the church, where he assumed his gown,
and the solemn rite proceeded.
When all was over, my uncle, after his wont, waited until he had seen
the disturbed remains re-deposited decently in their place; and then,
having disrobed, I saw him look with some interest about the
church-yard, and I knew 'twas in quest of the old soldier.
'I saw him go away during the funeral,' I said.
'Ay, the old pensioner,' said my uncle, peering about in quest of him.
And we walked through the town, and over the bridge, and we saw
nothing of his cocked hat and red single-breasted frock, and returned
rather disappointed to tea.
I ran into the back room which commanded the church-yard in the hope
of seeing the old fellow once more, with his cane shouldered, grinning
among the tombstones in the evening sun. But there was no sign of him,
or indeed of anyone else there. So I returned, just as my uncle, having
made the tea, shut down the lid of his silver tea-pot with a little smack;
and with a kind but absent smile upon me, he took his book, sat down
and crossed one of his thin legs over the other, and waited pleasantly
until the delightful infusion should be ready for our lips, reading his old
volume, and with his disengaged hand gently stroking his long
shin-bone.
In the meantime, I, who thirsted more for that tale of terror which the
old soldier had all but begun, of which in that strangely battered skull I
had only an hour ago seen face to face so grizzly a memento, and of
which in all human probability I never was to hear more, looked out
dejectedly from the window, when, whom should I behold marching up
the street, at slow time, towards the Salmon House, but the identical old
soldier, cocked-hat, copper nose, great red single-breasted coat with its
prodigious wide button-holes, leggings, cane, and all, just under the

village tree.
'Here he is, oh! Uncle Charles, here he comes,' I cried.
'Eh, the soldier, is he?' said my uncle, tripping in the carpet in his
eagerness, and all but breaking the window.
'So it is, indeed; run down, my boy, and beg him to come up.'
But by the time I had reached the street, which you may be sure was
not very long, I found my uncle had got the window up and was
himself inviting the old boy, who having brought his left shoulder
forward, thanked the curate, saluting soldier-fashion, with his hand to
his hat, palm foremost. I've observed, indeed, than those grim old
campaigners who have seen the world, make it a principle to accept
anything in the shape of a treat. If it's bad, why, it costs them nothing;
and if good, so much the better.
So up he marched, and into the room with soldierly self-possession,
and being offered tea, preferred punch, and the ingredients were soon
on the little round table by the fire, which, the evening being sharp, was
pleasant; and the old fellow being seated, he brewed his nectar, to his
heart's content; and as we sipped our tea in pleased attention, he, after
his own fashion, commenced the story, to which I listened with an
interest which I confess has never subsided.
Many years after, as will sometimes happen, a flood of light was
unexpectedly poured over the details of his narrative; on my coming
into possession of the diary, curiously minute, and the voluminous
correspondence of Rebecca, sister to General Chattesworth, with whose
family I had the honour to be connected. And this journal, to me, with
my queer cat-like affection for this old village, a perfect treasure--and
the interminable bundles of letters, sorted and arranged so neatly, with
little abstracts of their contents in red ink, in her own firm thin hand
upon the covers, from all and to all manner of persons--for the
industrious lady made fair copies of all the letters she wrote--formed
for many years my occasional, and always pleasant winter night's
reading.

I wish I could infuse their spirit into what I am going to tell, and above
all that I could inspire my readers with ever so little of the peculiar
interest with which the old town has always been tinted and saddened
to my eye. My boyish imagination, perhaps, kindled all the more at the
story, by reason of it being a good deal connected with the identical old
house in which we three--my dear uncle, my