thenlifted his bearded face to Walter Errol's, watching him from above.
"I 'eaved up a corpse," he said.
And the vicar became abruptly aware of some bones lying partiallycovered with mould at the side of the grave.
"If it 'ad 'a' been my first," Robert proceeded, "it would 'a' turned meup; but I've done it afore. It'll be all right, though. I'll get theyold bones out o' the way afore any o' the mourners come along."
"Treat them reverently, Robert," the vicar said gravely.
"Oh, ay. I buried 'em first go off. I'll fix they up all right."
Robert spat on his hands again, and prepared to resume his labours.
"Old George been buried this thirty years too... Should 'a' thought alltrace of 'e 'ad gone," he added in the tone of a man who feels justifiedin complaining at this want of consideration on the part of old George.
The vicar left him to finish his work, and repaired to the vicarage forthe midday meal. This desecration of a grave troubled him more than ittroubled Robert. It was not exactly Robert's fault; he recognised that;though, had Robert been directly responsible, it was doubtful whetherthe vicar would have found it possible to rebuke the man seriously.Between his sexton and himself existed a mutual bond of affection whichhad begun from the hour when, as a young man taking over his firstliving, he had read himself in at Moresby during the lifetime of the oldsquire, in whose gift the living lay. Robert had constituted himselfthen director and guide of the new vicar. He had stood, or believedthat he stood, as a safeguard between the vicar and the easily arouseddispleasure of the irascible old squire.
Following the reading-in, he had drawn Walter Errol's attention to theomission of rearranging the stand when he left the pulpit, the positionof which the vicar had altered for his own convenience.
"Squire can't abear to see en left askew. You'd get into a row overthat," he said. "Every vicar that 'as come 'as got into a row overthicky stand. I wouldn't like you to get into a row wi' squire first gooff like, 'cause squire never forgets."
Walter Errol, who possessed the saving grace of humour, had taken thisadvice in the spirit in which it was offered, and had thereby gained thesexton's unswerving devotion.
"Have you been in a row with the squire, Robert?" he had asked.
"Yes, sir, never out o' one," Robert had answered, and had seemed toexperience a peculiar satisfaction in making the avowal; as though to bein a row with squire conveyed a certain distinction on a man of humbleorigin. For the vicar to be in a row was, however, another thing.
The vicar, to Robert's amazement, had kept on friendly terms with thesquire to the day of the old man's death, which to those who knew WalterErrol did not appear so surprising a matter as it did to Robert,familiar with the squire's irascible temper, and accustomed to hearinghimself spoken of as a very ignorant man. The vicar never called Robertignorant; he showed, indeed, a very proper appreciation of his value;and, because to be appreciated is agreeable to every one, Robertreturned in kind with loyal service and devotion. No man, whatever hisstatus, can give more.
The vicar, as he sat at dinner with his wife, filled the sympatheticrole of listener while she gave, with a certain quiet humour of her own,a graphic account of the meagre resources of her wardrobe. His ownclothes also, she stated, were somewhat shabby.
"We shall look the typical country vicar and vicaress," she said, with amost unclerical dimple coming into play when she smiled. "I hatedowdiness, Walter."
"Can't you get something made in the time?" he asked.
"No. I wouldn't if I could. For one dinner! Imagine it! Whyshouldn't I look a country vicaress? That's what I am."
"You always look pretty," he said, "and so do your clothes."
"I believe," she observed, with a fair imitation of John Musgrave's toneand manner, "that I compare very favourably with other clergymen'swives."
He laughed.
"John considers you smart."
"Oh, John?" She waved a small hand, as though she waved aside John'sopinion as of no account. "Was that man ever young, Walter?" she asked."Somehow, I can never picture him as a boy."
"No," he said. "I can't, either. When I knew him first he was anelderly young man with a predilection for botany. But I believe atheart he is one of the kindest and best of fellows, incapable of a meanaction or thought. I admire John."
She looked across at him, smiling.
"He suggests veal to me," she said--"which possesses no nature,according to the butcher. When John matures I shall perhaps appreciatehim better. He is new wine in an old bottle--the outside crusted, andthe inside thin and bloodless."
"New wine is apt to break old bottles," he reminded her.
"I know," she said. "I am waiting for John to break through his crust."
CHAPTER FOUR.
The kitchen of John Musgrave's establishment presented on Tuesdayevening a scene of unusual activity. Martha, whose love for "Miss"Belle was even deeper than her affection for her master, was bent ondoing her best for the honour of the house. It was an importantoccasion.
To Martha, as to all the old residents of Moresby, the Hall stood as thesymbol of greatness, rather as Buckingham Palace might stand in theregard of the nation. Indeed, in local opinion it is possible that theHall ranked above Buckingham Palace in importance, as tangible greatnesssurpasses legendary splendour. Moresby was accustomed to look with aweupon the Hall, which, since the reign of the old squire, had remainedfor the greater part of the time unoccupied, the present squire forprivate reasons preferring to live elsewhere.
The Hall still retained its importance in Moresby opinion; but hadceased to be the centre of magnificent bounty, such as it had been inthe past. Now that it was let to wealthy people, local interest wasstirred to a pitch of tremendous curiosity, and still greaterexpectation. The poor of Moresby--and save for John Musgrave, and MissSimpson, who lived alone as Mr Musgrave did in isolated comfort,Moresby inhabitants were mainly poor--looked forward to a Christmas ofthe good old order, when feasting at the Hall was a yearly institutionand, in local phraseology, things had not been backward in the way ofgood cheer.
Since to John Musgrave had fallen the unique honour of entertaining thenew mistress of the Hall, Martha felt that some of the glory of thegreat house had descended upon Mr Musgrave's roof, and spread itselfwith benign condescension over each individual member of the household.A generous share of it enveloped Martha. Eliza, not being a native,could not be expected to participate in this reverence for localgrandeur; she was, indeed, sufficiently lacking in appreciation tocomplain unceasingly of the extra labour imposed upon herself by thearrival of visitors in Mr Musgrave's house, notwithstanding that MrMusgrave had engaged a younger girl to assist her in the heavier part ofher duties.
"I didn't know there was company kept," she observed to Martha. "I'vealways set my face against company every place I've been to. It makessuch a lot of extra work. Does Mr Musgrave keep much company?"
"I don't count Miss Belle as company," Martha replied. "She comessometimes, and her husband, and the children. Three of them," sheadded, with the amiable intention of firing Eliza's resentment--"boys,and that full o' mischief, you never!"
"I can't put up with children," returned Eliza decidedly, "and dogs areworse. I couldn't stay in a house where there were animals kept, unlessit was a cat--a clean cat. I can't abear dogs."
Neither could John Musgrave; and Mrs Chadwick had brought a pekinesewith her.
Martha smiled drily.
"I wonder you don't give notice," she said.
"Notice!" sniffed Eliza. "And go to a new place with a two months'reference! I had a nine-months' character when I came here."
Martha, whose service numbered twenty-two years, looked her contempt.
"You might just as well have said nine weeks," she retorted. "Girlsdon't seem able to keep their places nowadays. I don't think much of areference that doesn't run over the year."
Eliza returned to the dining-room, where her assistant wa
s engaged inlaying the table, and aired her grievances anew in Ellen's moresympathetic ears. Ellen, being in a subordinate position, was forcedinto the awkward predicament of being obliged to hunt with the houndsand run with the hare. She stood in awe of Eliza, and did her utmost topropitiate her; therefore, upon Eliza's reiterated complaint that herlegs were giving under her, she redoubled her own energies, and did morethan her share of the work. But not being a qualified parlourmaid,which Eliza, with a disregard for exactness,