The Sexton’s Wife

They say it’s unlucky to marry for love,” said the old woman, peering across the rag hearthrug to where I sat in the shadow. “But I don’t know. I often wonder how it would have been.”

“If you hadn’t married for love?” I said.

Old Mrs. Hartlebury shook her head and the firelight played over the wrinkles on her brown face.

“No,” she said. “If I had.”

We were sitting in the downstairs room of her cottage, which stands midway between the church and the turning which leads through the Street to the Hard and the sea.

It was pouring, and I had dropped in to see her as I went back to the house after an expedition to the landing stage to get some fresh fish off the boats.

We had sat talking for some time while the room grew gradually darker. Now it was so dark that I could only catch a glimpse of the gold-spotted spaniels on the mantelshelf high above my head when an extra big flame spurted from the wood fire and lit up the small warm room for a second.

But it was still raining and I did not want to move. There was plenty of time to get back when it stopped, and I was drowsy and comfortable sitting there in the warm.

Mrs. Hartlebury did not mind. She went on talking and sighing, hardly noticing me as I sat on the far side of the hearth, on a hassock borrowed from the church and with my back against the log heap which filled that corner of the room.

There was a long pause after her last remark. I did not speak. If she wanted to talk I was ready to listen; if she did not want to her business was not of any account to me. Like herself I had been bred on the Essex coast and we understood one another.

After a while I heard her stirring in her chair and I saw her eyes for a moment as they reflected the glow of the fire when she turned her head.

“Have you heard about Hartlebury, the way he died, or anything?” she asked suddenly.

“No,” I said not very truthfully.

I had heard something, of course, but then you hear something about the way everyone dies and I did not know if the gossip were true.

“He died the way he deserved to die,” she remarked, and although I could not see her face I knew it was unforgiving.

I made some non-committal sound and drowsed again.

“When I was a girl I was wonderful pretty,” she went on after a bit.

I could believe that, for she is a very fine looking old woman now and she is eighty-two years old.

“I had black hair,” she said proudly, “and a skin you’ll never see these days when girls get as many victuals as their fathers and brothers. That time there weren’t much food about and men can’t go fishin’ hungry, so the women weren’t overfed and I count that done “un good. I had a sweetheart long before I was sixteen,” she added, and she spoke comfortably as though she was glad to think of it even after all this time.

“A fine boy he was,” she went on quickly. “Seventeen or eighteen, with yellow hair and a soft sort of smile when he saw me coming down to the Hard to meet “um.”

She paused and I saw her as she bent down to lift a stick on to the fire. For a moment she startled me. The shadows had crept into the hollows of her face and filled them, so that I suppose I saw her as she must have been when she stood on the Hard waiting for her sweetheart all that time ago.

When the flame died down she went on talking.

“We went about together, Will and me. Did I tell you his name? Will Lintle. His father, Joe, had a smack, and they two went out together almost every day. We couldn’t get married. Neither on us had enough to live on. So we went on sweet-hearting, years it was, until I was turned nineteen.

“He was true to me,” she said. “All that time he was true. I wasn’t very old and I crossed him time and again, and I’d say things to hurt, the way girls do. Yet he’d never walk out with another girl, but would look at me puzzled and sort of wondering why I’d hurt him, so that I’d be ready to tear my tongue out rather than speak so again.”

She paused and I suppose I sighed, for she laughed and I could feel her grinning at me in the darkness.

“Ah, you’re young,” she said. “I’m old, and, though I ain’t forgot, I’m different.”

I did not say anything and presently she went on in a sing-song which was addressed more to herself than to me:

“I reckon I loved Will just as he loved me, and when it’s like that you can’t be much less than happy. We counted we should get married some day and we were content.”

She paused a moment and when she spoke again her voice was sharper.

“But when I was nineteen Hartlebury stepped across to see my father one day and told him and my mother that he was after me.”

She broke off and mumbled rather irritatingly, as very old people do, and I was sorry that I could not see her clearly as she sat huddled up in her chair.

Presently, when I had almost forgotten what she had been talking about, she went on with the story again.

“James Hartlebury was the carrier at that time, and he was sexton too, so he lived right over against the church where the Reading Room is now. Pretty little house he had, with a long path up to the door which had rosemary bushes all down the sides of it. I can’t bear the smell of rosemary even now,” she put in suddenly, “though many’s the time I’ve washed my hair with it when I was a girl. It’s a wonderful fine thing for black hair, is rosemary.”

She stopped talking and I kicked the fire to make it blaze.

Outside the rain was lashing against the house and I was glad to be indoors.

There was another long silence and I thought that perhaps she had gone to sleep, so I did not move lest I should wake her. But she was just thinking, for suddenly she went on again as though there had been no lull.

“No one knew much about James,” she said. “There were one or two who called him Jim, but not many. I never did, not even after I married him. It wouldn’t have been right somehow.

“He was a queer man. No one knew much about him. He kept himself alone among them all, yet he wasn’t surly or proud. He’d take his drink at The Starlings with anyone. He went to church twice a Sunday, and people said he was rich. Yet he wasn’t liked. He might almost have been one of the gentry, the way that no one spoke or stopped him when he came down the Street.

“My father was pleased right through when he came to our house that day. He didn’t like him much, but he thought like everyone else did what a fine thing it was for me to get a husband who was carrier and sexton too.”

Once again she stopped, and then talked on much more briskly, as though she were coming to a part of the story which she did not enjoy remembering.

‘Well, I married “um,” she said. “I don’t know why, save that I counted it was time that I got married and I couldn’t see that Will would ever be able to keep us both. And besides—” she hesitated, “—besides, I was taken by James at that time.”

She hurried on; she felt no doubt she ought to excuse herself.

“He hadn’t never been after a girl before. There was a kind of mystery about him. It wasn’t his money—for all anybody said, it wasn’t his money. It was the honour of it. I was the only girl he ever went for. He was nearing forty, too, mind you. He wasn’t a lad, and that pleased me.

“Besides,” she added, half laughing, as though she were remembering something after a long time, “he had a sad, quiet way with him, as though he had some secret. I was sorry for him, all alone in the little house.”

It was eerie sitting there in the dark, listening to her droning voice talking of things that had happened so long ago. I made myself more comfortable against the logs.

“Life seems as though it’s going on for ever when you’re young, and almost any change looks good,” she remarked. “I had a fine wedding. James being the sexton and to do with the church knew how a wedding should be.

“I had a fine wedding.” She repeated it softly. “There were as many people outside the church as if it had been a gentry wedding. You see, everyone knew James and nobody liked him; and, too, they guessed the boy’d be there and they came to watch us.”

I nodded. People did not seem to have changed very much.

“James was always kind to me,” she remarked suddenly. “That day in the church and before I couldn’t have wished him better. But I was scared of him.

“No,” she corrected herself abruptly, “I wasn’t scared of him then. That came later. At the wedding I was shy of him, shy and a bit proud.”

“You would be,” I said feeling that it was about time I made some remark.

She sniffed. “Ah,” she agreed. “It was natural. Will did come to the church,” she continued, “and at first I was afraid to look at him. But when we came out, and everyone was shouting and laughing and cheering us, I heard him louder than the others and I looked round and saw him staring straight at me and waving and shouting with the rest. I knew he meant to be laughing at me, so I looked at his eyes and he laughed louder and cheered louder. But I’d seen, and he knew I’d seen.”

She paused.

“I reckon I loved him,” she said and sighed, but she laughed afterwards and I remembered how terribly old she was.

“James took me down between the rosemary bushes to his house,” she went on, “and I lived there after that. I didn’t see Will, for I was never a bad girl, but I thought on him. I had plenty o” time for thinking,” she added dryly. “James wouldn’t let me out of the house, and I didn’t see my mother more than five or six times all that winter.”

Her voice died away, and when she spoke again there was something about her tone which gave me my first feeling of uneasiness. She was certainly not trying to frighten me, but some of her remembered terror crept into her voice and I could hardly help but recognise it.

“It was then,” she said, “that I began to notice James. He was so quiet. He’d sit whole evenings puzzling over figures and writing letters and never saying a word. And sometimes he’d get up in the night and go out, leaving me asleep. Just the same as he was to everyone in the village, so he was to me his wife; quiet and telling nothing. I was young,” she said, nodding at me, “and I was used to being with people, but he wouldn’t let me out of his sight a minute if he could help it. And when on Tuesdays and Saturday he went off in his cart, carrying, he’d give me so much to do that I couldn’t leave the house. And when he came back he’d make me go through everything I’d done. If I’d seen anyone I had to tell him everything they’d said to me and everything I’d said back to them.

“And when I’d told him he’d put his hands on my shoulders and look at me with those dull eyes of his and say ‘Is that true?” And I’d say ‘Of course. Why should I lie to you?”

“Then he’d kiss me again and again, but he’d never tell me anything.”

A great squall of wind rattled the shutters and one or two raindrops fell down the chimney and the fire hissed.

“I soon found out I didn’t love him,” she went on, glancing at me. “But I made up my mind to that. I wasn’t no fool. But, by and by, as the winter went on and I worked about the house, not seeing anyone but him from Sunday to Sunday, I began to watch him, and the more I watched him the more frightened I grew.

“He was queer,” she said, “especially just after there’d been a burying. It was terrible cold that winter and there wasn’t much food for them. There was several died.”

She lowered her voice and I, who am not very imaginative, began to feel uncomfortable.

“While James was at work on a grave he’d be more talkative and not so sad,” she went on, “and then, after it was all done, he’d take to his going out at nights again. I’d lie awake wondering what had taken him out, and guessing and guessing aright, and yet not believing it.”

I moved closer to the old woman and I felt her small hard brown hand on my shoulder.

“At those times he wouldn’t let me load the cart for him, as I usually did,” she whispered, “but would keep me indoors while he did it himself. I grew more and more frightened, for I wasn’t very old.”

I shivered. There was something gruesome in her suggestion and I was glad of the roaring fire.

“Soon after that,” she said, “my mother came round to see me, and all the time she was with me he never left us alone. She was a cheerful body and she talked and told me what they were saying in the village: how the Playles—a wild lot, they were, who lived down by the Hard—had begun their smuggling tricks again, though one of’em had got shot for it less than two years before.

‘Then she told me that an old woman called Mrs. Finch, who lived round the back of the church, was putting it about that she’d seen a ghost-light in the graveyard the night after young Nell Wooton was buried.

“I knew James had been out that night and as my mother was speaking I looked across at him, and I’ll never forget his face.”

Mrs. Hartlebury stopped and I realised suddenly that she was looking behind her. I stirred up the fire and moved closer to it, and she went on.

“When my mother had gone James sat indoors doing nothing, looking out of the window, and for a month after that he never went out at night.

‘Then I began to think of Will again. I knew it wasn’t right, but as the spring came round again and I could get out into the garden I used to find myself standing at the gate looking down the road and hoping maybe that I’d see him.

“I didn’t want to talk to him. I only wanted just to see him again. I reckon James knew that, for he used to call me into the house and keep me busy there. Sometimes he used to make love to me, in his own way, and he’d bring me presents from the town. But I knew how he got his money, though I wouldn’t think of it. I knew what he was and I was frightened out of my life.”

I had guessed what he was too, and I mentioned the ugly word to the old woman.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s what he was. Resurrection men they called them then. An awful thing for a young wife to find. He’d sell the bodies in the town to men who’d sell them to the doctors. But mind you, I didn’t know that then as clear as I do now. If I had, I’d have run home and let the village say what it would. As it was, I was frightened enough although I’d only half guessed what he was. But I stayed with “un.” She nodded her head. “Yes, I stayed with “un.”

“And then one day,” she said in an entirely new voice, “when I was cutting rosemary to put with the little linen I had, I heard someone going by in the road. I looked up and saw Will, as I had always known I should see him, swinging past with an eel fork and splashers on his shoulder. He didn’t look at me and I couldn’t help it, I called to him, and he turned and smiled at me and said ‘What cheer, Sis?”—they called me that then.

“I went down to the gate and we stood there talking. He stared in my face and of course I didn’t look what I had been. How could I after a whole winter shut up in a little house?

“Presently he said ‘Are you all right, Sis?”

“I don’t know what I said. Maybe I didn’t speak. But anyway, he leaned over the gate.and said, ‘Why, girl, I don’t blame ye, I don’t blame ye,” kindly, just like that.

“When he had gone, and he didn’t stay long, I turned round and saw James watching me through the window, and when I went in he stared at me angrily. He didn’t say anything, but from that day he never left me alone if he could possibly help it, and Will didn’t come again.”

The rain had stopped outside and the fire was dying, so I made it up. I moved quietly, though, and I did not disturb her thoughts and presently she went on with the story.

“Then for a long time no one died, so there were no buryings, and James used to come home from the town sullen, and drunk too sometimes. Then he began to talk in his sleep, saying terrible things, and I used to lie there trembling, staring up at the thatch, trying not to listen and wondering what I would do.

“Then one night—’ her voice sank so low that I had to strain to hear her “—he came in quite different. He kissed me and started talking about the town and the folk he had seen, and making me laugh until I could hardly breathe.

“And the next morning this new way of his was still there. He seemed pleased about something, for I saw him smiling to himself when he thought I wasn’t near.

“I thought perhaps I had been mistaken about him, but a week after that I woke in the night and I heard horses galloping past the house down the road to the Hard.

“I called to James, but he was awake already.

“‘What would that be?” I said.

“‘Nothing,” said he. ‘You go to sleep, girl.” But I lay still, thinking for a while, and then I knew what it was.

“‘God Almighty, the Excise Men!” I said. ‘Was there anything doing tonight at the Hard?”

“James didn’t speak at first and then he said ‘How would I know?”, but I heard him laughing to himself in the dark and I lay shivering beside him, wondering what he knew. I was more frightened of him than ever after that.”

Her voice died away again and I resettled myself against the log pile, after edging my way across the hearth.

“I heard all about it the next morning,” she said. “My sister came up and told me soon after daylight. A fine morning it was, I remember; clear and hard, the sea a dull green and not very rough. Everywhere smelt fresh and clean. I’ll never forget the rosemary. The whole house was sick and faint with it. It was quiet, too, like a Sunday.

“Cuddy came up the path as I was giving James his breakfast. She sat down with us, but she never ate, so busy was she telling us.

“I knew before she told us just how it had been: the Excise Men coming on the Playles and holding them up, and they—a wild lot they were—telling them to shoot and be damned to them, and the riders not shooting at first, but, when the boys took to their horses in the dark, letting loose and chasing after them all along the Winstree Road.

“Cuddy told it well and James listened to her every word, for she was talking more to him than to me. Women liked James for his very quietness and the way he never cared for them.

“Long before she had told all he said so carelessly that I knew he was play-acting, ‘Was there anyone killed?”

“‘One,” she said, and I caught her looking at me as though she was watching for something.

“‘Did the others get away?” said James.

“‘They did,” she said. ‘But they think they’ve been seen, and they’ve gone out fishing for a bit till we see if anything more happens.”

“‘Did the Excise Men get the contraband?” said James.

‘“Yes,” she said.

“‘Then you’ll not hear any more of them,” said he, and he laughed.

“She smiled at him and then she said ‘It’ll teach they Playles a lesson, but it’s bad for “un who’s killed.” And she peeked at me again.

“‘Who’s he?” said James, and he looked at me and not at her as an ordinary man would have been sure to do.

“‘Haven’t I told you?” said Cuddy, though she knew as well as anyone that she hadn’t spoken his name. ‘It was Will Lintle. He was out with the Playles and they got him first shot.”

“She didn’t say any more and they two just sat and peeked at me under their eyelashes, making believe they weren’t looking. But I knew they were watching and so I didn’t say anything, or look anything, for I was getting used to play-acting by that time, having lived with James so long.

“By and by Cuddy got up and said she was going bade home, and I thought she looked at me angrily, as though I’d cheated her of something. I had cheated her, I expect.

“When she had gone I peeked at James the same as they two had peeked at me, and I saw he was laughing to himself.”

She leant forward as she spoke and I saw that even now the was angry with him for that.

“I could have killed “um,” she said. “I could have killed “um, hut I didn’t say a word. I cleared away the breakfast and I washed the dishes, while he sat there laughing quietly to himself in the doorway. He just sat there mending a bit of harness and laughing to himself.

“For a time I thought about Will and I couldn’t believe him dead. Several times I wondered if I would run down home to find out if it were true, but every time I turned to the door, there was James in the way, still laughing to himself.

“And then I went upstairs to make the bed and I began to think clearly for the first time in my life.”

Old Mrs. Hartlebury’s voice grew harder and her chair creaked as she leant forward.

“I knew he’d informed,” she said. “I stood by the window thinking, and all in one minute it came to me that Will was dead and that James was downstairs laughing. I hated him, but I daren’t do anything.

“By and by I saw Joe Lintle coming up the path, and I heard him speaking to James through the window. I didn’t listen, but I knew what he was asking, and I knew then that it was true. That was a long time ago and I was only a girl,” she said slowly. “So when I came from the window I lay on my face on the bed and I cried as if Will had still been my sweetheart and I had not been married to James.”

She paused and I wondered if she really remembered how she felt, or if it was like a ghost of an emotion after all that time.

“He came up and found me, James did,” she said suddenly. “I didn’t move. I lay there on the old bed sobbing and crying like a child would. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there in the doorway looking at me, and laughed, and I hated him. By and by he grew tired of standing and staring, so he went off, stamping downstairs and out of the house, still laughing to himself. I heard him all the way.

“I didn’t go to the burying,” she went on. “I sat upstairs by the window. Hidden behind the curtain, I watched the people go by. They all looked up at the house and nudged each other as they passed. I knew they were wondering would I go to the church or not.”

She laughed.

“I hated them. I could have leant from the window and shouted to them that I loved Will and that I didn’t care who knew it, but I didn’t do anything. I only stood there watching the church gate.

“I could see it from the window, just the gate and no more. I waited till they brought the coffin up the Street and took it into the church, four of them carrying it and the others following.

“I remember it seemed an awful thing to me at that time that he should be dead.”

She sank lower in her chair and the firelight shone on her twisted, capable hands where they lay crossed and quiet in her lap.

“I don’t want to die, even now,” she said. “But the thought of it doesn’t make me sick, as it did then. It’s horrible when you’re young.

“When I saw that they’d all gone into the church and the Street was empty I came away from the window and went down the stairs to get some victuals ready for James, for he was always wonderful hungry after a burying. And as I set the table and drew the ale for him, I hated him worse than ever, I did.

“By and by he came in, and that was the second and last time I saw him really happy and content with himself. He sat down at the table and I waited on him. He was smiling all the time he ate, and when he had done he pushed his chair back and pulled me down on to his knee, and he held me there whilst he told me every bit about the burying. And he watched me all the time he told me.

“I couldn’t bear to listen to him,” she said, “but I was too frightened to break away. So there he held me, laughing in my face and searching for something in it that would show the way I felt.

“I didn’t show anything for a while, but he went on so long. It was a deep grave, he said, and a well-dug one. There were plenty worms in it.

“I felt right faint as I thought about it and I nearly fell off his lap. He saw I was beginning to give way and he held me tight to him.

“‘He’ll rot soon,” he said, ‘and good riddance. He was a thief and he died like a thief”.”

Old Mrs. Hartlebury stirred.

“Then I could stand no more,” she said. “I was sick and wild with his tale of the burying. ‘You’re an evil devil,” I said, ‘and as a devil, so you’ll die.” I don’t know why I said it, but I knew it was true as soon as I heard my own words. James wouldn’t die in any usual way.

“I pulled away from him and began to clear away the dirty crocks. All the time I daren’t look at him. I knew he was staring at me, but I was frightened to look behind.

“Then suddenly he banged his shut hand down upon the table, so that the ale jug toppled over and spilt. I stood where I was, holding a plate just off the table, looking down at it, too frightened to move.

“I heard him get up slowly and come round towards me. I knew he was angry, but still I didn’t stir. He put his hand on me and it was shaking and so strong that it bruised my shoulder.

“Then he jerked me round before him and I had to look up at his face. He was terrible. His great dull eyes were dead, like a fish’s. His lip was drawn up and I saw his gums, red above his yellow teeth. Then he shook me and called me terrible things, and spoke of Will in a way that made me sure of all I thought.”

Mrs. Hartlebury laughed a little bitterly and I felt uncomfortable. She was a strange old woman.

“I did nothing,” she said. “I was so frightened of him I couldn’t even speak. Presently he beat me. I’d not been thrashed before, so I wasn’t used to it. He half killed me.

“When he had done he went out and left me on the floor. I couldn’t move for a while. I just lay there crying and I called out to Will like a mad woman. But that wasn’t much good with him lying dead in the churchyard.

“At last it grew dark and cold, and the smell of rosemary hung about the place, making me sick with it. I got up and cooked the supper as well as I could. Then I set it, and sat down shivering, waiting for James to come in. I hated him as I sat there, but when he came in I did what he told me and served him his food.

“He saw I was frightened and that pleased him, but he was still angry and we said nothing all that evening.

“After supper I cleared off the things and sat down sewing, and he sat in his chair looking up at the clock.

“When it was ten o’clock he spoke to me for the first time since he came in.

“‘Go up to bed and sleep sound, Sis,” he said.

“I stared at him, for it was that he always said before he went out at night, and I knew what that meant. I opened my mouth to speak to him, but I saw that dull look in his face and I daren’t say anything, so I went upstairs without speaking a word and got into bed, but I did not sleep.

“Outside the window I could see everything, quiet and cold in the moonlight, and over by the churchyard the trees were black like lace against the sky. I thought of Will lying in there and I could have screamed with terror. I was young, and half mad with pain from James’ beating, you see,” she put in apologetically, as though I might not understand.

“And when I thought of that man below stairs, creeping out at night to steal the boy’s body and take it up out of its shroud to sell to a lot of doctors to cut about all sense went from me, and I lay panting and crying on the bed, praying to God one minute and screaming silently into my pillow the liext.

“It was all so dark and so quiet, and even then the smell of rosemary seemed to be choking the breath out of me.

“After a while I grew quieter and I listened, holding my breath as I lay up there all alone under the thatch. There was no sound downstairs and I began to hope that James wasn’t going out after all. I was always trying to fool myself that he wasn’t what he was, you see.

“It grew later and later, and by and by the moon came full up over the garden and shone in upon my bed. It was quiet and I was tired and full of pain. James had beaten me well.

“I lay quite still and shut my eyes, hardly thinking at all. And then,” she said suddenly, leaning forward towards me, “I heard the latch go. It sounded so loud that I thought it would have wakened half the village. I was sitting up in a moment, straining to hear everything.

“I heard him go out of the door, take his pick and shovel from the corner in the porch where they were always kept, and go out down the path.

“I crept out of bed and hid behind the window curtain to peek out. I’d never dared do that before, but tonight, as it was Will he was going for, it was different somehow.

“I saw him going softly down the road and I stood there by the window, praying and hoping he wasn’t going for that. I could just see the church gate, as I told you, and I saw him getting nearer and nearer to it. I knew that he was going in.”

Mrs. Hartlebury shuddered as though she still saw him.

“He went in,” she said quiedy. “He went in, and I watched him from the window. Then everything was lonely again. I wondered what I should do. One moment I was half a mind to rush out and wake the village and let them find him at his work, but we were some way from another house and to get to the Street I should have to go by the church gate, and I daren’t do that.

“I was so frightened,” she whispered. “Oh, I was so frightened. Presently I went downstairs and found the old horse-pistol James took against footpads. It hung on a nail by the chimney and I took it down and charged it, and then I went upstairs and got into bed again, and I lay there waiting with one arm out on the quilt and the pistol in that hand.

“I didn’t think. I was past thinking. I knew when he came in I should kill him and I lay there waiting for him to come.”

The old voice died away and there was no sound in the little room. It seemed to have grown colder, but I did not move. I was trying to make out her face in the darkness.

Still she did not speak.

“But I thought…” I began at last.

“Ah,” she said quickly, “there’s been many tales, but this is the truth. That night I waited close on two hours with the pistol in my hand.

“And then at last,” she said, her voice dropping, “at last, after hours and hours it seemed, I heard footsteps coming down the path. An awful fear of him came over me. I held the pistol as though it was the only hope I had.

“I heard him put the pick and shovel back in its place in the porch and I lay waiting for the latch to click.

“But I didn’t hear it. Everything was still, quite still, like an empty church.

“Then I heard the steps going off again down the path. I jumped from the bed and ran to the window and pushed up the sash. I didn’t care if he saw me or not that time. The moon was very bright and I could see almost as clear as if it was day.

“There was someone going down the path and when I leant out I saw it was not James. He had his back to me, but I saw it wasn’t James. It was too tall and he wore a jersey like a fisherman and had no hat.

“I stood staring. I knew who it was. The pistol fell on to the floor, but I didn’t notice it. I only thought about him who was going down the path. I thought I must be mad. He went slowly, as though he was loth to go, and when he reached the gate, which was swinging open, he turned and looked right up at me. I saw his face quite clearly in the moonlight. Then I was sure.

“It was Will.”

On the last words Mrs. Hartlebury’s tone had sunk to a whisper. Now it died completely. Outside the rain had stopped and the moon was coming up over the trees. I stirred up the fire and made it blaze, so I could see about me.

The old woman was sitting hunched up in her chair, her chin on her breast, her hands still folded in her lap. The thick chenille hairnet she wore looked like bands of iron on her white hair, and her thin wrinkled face glowed like old yellow ivory.

“Then?” I said.

She looked down at me.

“He stood there a long time and if I could have found breath to speak to him he might have answered me. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak.

“I don’t remember any more of that night. I reckon I must have fainted.

“In the morning they brought James in dead, with an awful story of how they had found him lying by Will’s grave with the lad’s body half out on top of him and the lad’s arms round his neck.”

Once again she paused.

“That’s all,” she said.

“But,” I said, “wasn’t there some sort of inquiry? I mean, even in those days…”

Mrs. Hartlebury interrupted me. She was smiling contemptuously, her wide toothless mouth twisted at the corners.

“Ah, they had an inquest,” she said. “I was there. But I didn’t say any more than I was asked to. After a lot of talk they said James had been set on by Resurrection Men and had died defending the lad’s grave. They proved it wasn’t James himself who was body-snatching because his pick and shovel were back at home and never in the churchyard at all.”

“You didn’t say anything?” I asked in surprise.

Old Mrs. Hartlebury looked at me queerly.

“No,” she said. “Who would have believed me?”

That was true and I had no answer.

“Still, I think I should have said something,” I said, rising to my feet.

The old woman shook her head.

“Say nothing or say all,” she said. “Besides, what sort of a life should I have led afterwards, as a body-snatcher’s wife? No, that was Will’s way. He wanted it all left quiet. That’s why he brought the pick and shovel back, I reckon.”

I looked at her sitting there by the fireside, quiet and smiling a little.

“Is… is it true?” I said, suddenly.

Mrs. Hartlebury shrugged.

“You needn’t believe it if you don’t want to,” she said in her placid Essex way. “I know I saw him, and I know that’s how James died. Anyone’ll tell you James died by an open grave while his pick and shovel were at home, and they’ll tell you too that he died of suffocation.”

I nodded. I knew that.

“But they’ll not tell you one thing that I will,” she said. “And that is that the pick and shovel were clogged with earth in the morning, that were clean and bright the night before.”

There was silence for a while. Then I said good-night and I thanked her for the story.

“Good-night,” she said. “Don’t believe it if you don’t want to. But there’s an old hurricane lamp in the corner if you like. You’re going past the churchyard, aren’t you?”

I hesitated.

“Good-night,” she said again. “A good walk home to you.”

There was silence, save for the crackling of the fire. Then she looked round.

“What are you after now?” she demanded.

“I shan’t be a minute,” said I. “I’m just lighting the hurricane.”