it was seen a trifle more plainly; and then, as the old man gazed, the draped head grew for a moment more distinct, and then seemed to melt into thin air.
Chapter Twelve.
The Sexton’s Fetch
“Why, Moredock, you are not going to tell me that you believe in ghosts?”
“No, doctor, for I don’t; and I’ve been in that church and the vaults sometimes all night.”
“All night, eh? What for, eh?”
“That’s my business, doctor. P’r’aps I was on the look out for body-snatchers; but I’ve been there all night, and no ghosts never troubled me.”
“And yet here you are, all shivering and nervous – too ill to attend service this morning; and you tell me you saw something in the church last night.”
“Ay, and so I did, doctor. I s’pose I swownded away, I was took so bad; and must have laid there for hours before I got up and crawled home; and Parson Salis must be in a fine taking this morning, for there’s nothing done in the church.”
“Oh! never mind that, Moredock; Mr Salis is sorry you are ill. He’s a good fellow, and he sent me on this morning. You’re a bit nervous and shaken at what you fancied you saw. Come, Moredock, old man, I’m a doctor, and you’re a sexton, and we’re too much men of the world – we’ve seen and known too much – to be afraid of ghosts, eh?”
“Ghosts! Sperits! I’m afraid of no ghosts, doctor; but I see that thing o’ Saturday night.”
“Thought you saw it, old chap!”
“Nay, doctor, I saw it; and that’s what scares me.”
“Pooh! You scared at something you saw – a hollow turnip and a sheet! A trick played by some scamp in the village.”
“Trick played? Nay, doctor; there isn’t a lad in the village dare do it. I know ’em. I aren’t scared at the thing I saw. It’s at what it means.”
“What it means! Then, what does it mean?”
“Notice to quit this here earthly habitation, as parson calls it, doctor. That’s what it means.”
“Rubbish!”
“Ah! you say that to hide your bad work, doctor, and because you know you arn’t done your duty by me.”
“Why, you ungrateful old humbug! I’ve done no end for you. Haven’t I gone on oiling your confounded old hinges for years past, to keep you from dropping off, rusted out?”
“Ah! I don’t say anything again that, doctor; but you’ve always thought me a poor man, and you’ve treated me like a poor man – exactly like. If you’d thought me well off, and you could send me in a big bill, you’d have had me in such condition that I shouldn’t have seen my fetch last night.”
“Seen your grandmother, man.”
“Ay, you may laugh, doctor; but what have you told me over and over again? ‘Moredock,’ says you, ‘a healthy man’s no business to die till he’s quite worn out.’ And ‘What age will that be, doctor?’ says I. ‘Oh! at any age,’ says you; and here am I, a hale, hearty man, only a little more’n ninety, and last night I see my fetch.”
“But you’re not a hale, hearty man, Moredock.”
“Tchah! Whatcher talking about? Why, I’d ’bout made up my mind to be married again.”
“You? Married? Why, even I don’t think of such a thing.”
“You? No,” said the old man, contemptuously. “You’re not half the man I’ve been. My son’s gal – Dally Watlock’s ’fended me, and if she don’t mind she’ll lose my bit o’ money.”
“You take my advice, Moredock, and don’t marry.”
“Shan’t leave you nothing, if I don’t marry, doctor,” said the old man, with a cunning leer; “and you needn’t send in no bills because you’ve found out I’ve got a bit saved up.”
“Why, you wicked old ruffian, I suppose you’ve scraped together a few pounds by trafficking in old bones, and of what you’ve robbed the church.”
“Never you mind, doctor, how I got it, or how much it is.”
“I don’t; but just you be wise, sir. You’re not going to marry again, and you’re going to leave your money to your grandchild.”
“Eh? What – what? Do you want to marry her?”
“No, I don’t, Moredock; but if you don’t behave yourself, hang me if I come and doctor you any more. You may send over to King’s Hampton for Dr Wellby, or die if you like: I won’t try and save you.”
“No, no, no; don’t talk like that, doctor – don’t talk like that,” whimpered the old man; “just now, too, when I’m so shook.”
“Then don’t you talk about disinheriting your poor grandchild. Come, hold up, Moredock! I didn’t mean it. There’s nothing much the matter.”
“Ah! but there is, doctor. I saw my fetch last night.”
“No, you did not. You were not strong enough to go up to the church, and you fancied you saw something.”
“I see it.”
“Well, suppose you did. Some one had gone into the church to fetch a hymn-book, or put in a new cushion.”
“Nobody couldn’t, but me and parson, and squire and you. I see it, and it was my fetch.”
“No, no, old fellow; you’re mistaken. You were in the dark, and your head weak.”
“I see it, and it was my fetch, doctor.”
“Very well, then, Moredock, it was your fetch; but we won’t let it fetch you for some years to come. What do you say to that?”
“Ah! now you’re talking sensible, doctor,” cried the old man, brightening up. “Look here, doctor, you do what’s right by me, and let me have the best o’ stuff – good physic, you know – and there isn’t anything I won’t do for you. A skull, or a bone of any kind, or a whole set, or – ”
“There, that will do, Moredock. I’ll do my duty by you, and I don’t want any reward.”
“No, you don’t. You’re a good fellow, doctor; and you do understand my complaint, don’t you?”
“Yes, thoroughly. There, sit back in your chair, and keep quiet. Mr Salis is coming in to see you by-and-by.”
“Nay, nay, nay! I don’t want he. It makes a man feel as if he’s very bad when parson comes to see him.”
“Why, I’m sure he’s a thoroughly good friend to you, old fellow.”
“Oh! yes, he’s right enough; but as soon as ever he comes in this here room, he’ll begin talking to me about what a sinner I’ve been.”
“Well, quite
