The House by the Church-Yard | Page 9

(a little rivulet, by-the-bye, was
spouting down from the corner of the sign; and indeed the night was
such as might well have caused that suicidal fowl to abandon all
thoughts of self-incremation, and submit to an unprecedented death by
drowning), there was no idle officer, or lounging waiter upon the
threshold. Military and civilians were all snug in their quarters that
night; and the inn, except for the 'Aldermen' in the back parlour, was
doing no business. The door was nearly closed, and only let out a tall,
narrow slice of candle-light upon the lake of mud, over every inch of
which the rain was drumming.
The doctor's lantern glided by--and then across the street--and so
leisurely along the foot-way, by the range of lightless hall doors
towards the Salmon House, also dark; and so, sharp round the corner,
and up to the church-yard gate, which stood a little open, as also the
church door beyond, as was evidenced by the feeble glow of a lantern
from within.
I dare say old Bob Martin, the sexton, and grave Mr. Irons, the clerk,
were reassured when they heard the cheery voice of the rector hailing
them by name. There were now three candles in church; but the edifice
looked unpleasantly dim, and went off at the far end into total darkness.

Zekiel Irons was a lean, reserved fellow, with a black wig and blue chin,
and something shy and sinister in his phiz. I don't think he had
entertained honest Bob with much conversation from those thin lips of
his during their grizzly tête-à-tête among the black windows and the
mural tablets that overhung the aisle.
But the rector had lots to say--though deliberately and gravely, still the
voice was genial and inspiring--and exorcised the shadows that had
been gathering stealthily around the lesser Church functionaries. Mrs.
Irons's tooth, he learned, was still bad; but she was no longer troubled
with 'that sour humour in her stomach.' There were sour humours, alas!
still remaining--enough, and to spare, as the clerk knew to his cost. Bob
Martin thanked his reverence; the cold rheumatism in his hip was
better.' Irons, the clerk, replied, 'he had brought two prayer-books.' Bob
averred 'he could not be mistaken; the old lady was buried in the
near-vault; though it was forty years before, he remembered it like last
night. They changed her into her lead coffin in the vault--he and the
undertaker together--her own servants would not put a hand to her. She
was buried in white satin, and with her rings on her fingers. It was her
fancy, and so ordered in her will. They said she was mad. He'd know
her face again if he saw her. She had a long hooked nose; and her eyes
were open. For, as he was told, she died in her sleep, and was quite cold
and stiff when they found her in the morning. He went down and saw
the coffin to-day, half an hour after meeting his reverence.'
The rector consulted his great warming-pan of a watch. It was drawing
near eleven. He fell into a reverie, and rambled slowly up and down the
aisle, with his hands behind his back, and his dripping hat in them,
swinging nearly to the flags,--now lost in the darkness--now emerging
again, dim, nebulous, in the foggy light of the lanterns. When this
clerical portrait came near, he was looking down, with gathered brows,
upon the flags, moving his lips and nodding, as if counting them, as
was his way. The doctor was thinking all the time upon the one
text:--Why should this livid memorial of two great crimes be now
disturbed, after an obscurity of twenty-one years, as if to jog the
memory of scandal, and set the great throat of the monster baying once
more at the old midnight horror?

And as for that old house at Ballyfermot, why any one could have
looked after it as well as he. 'Still he must live somewhere, and
certainly this little town is quieter than the city, and the people, on the
whole, very kindly, and by no means curious.' This latter was a mistake
of the doctor's, who, like other simple persons, was fond of regarding
others as harmless repetitions of himself. 'And his sojourn will be,' he
says, 'but a matter of weeks; and the doctors mind wandered back again
to the dead, and forward to the remoter consequences of his guilt, so he
heaved a heavy, honest sigh, and lifted up his head and slackened his
pace for a little prayer, and with that there came the rumble of wheels
to the church door.
CHAPTER II.
THE NAMELESS COFFIN.
Three vehicles with flambleaux, and the clang and snorting of horses
came close to the church porch, and there appeared