Now I come to think it over, was that young man as dense-headed as we
thought? or was he - no, impossible! there was such a simple, child-like
expression about him!
Harris wanted to get out at Hampton Church, to go and see Mrs. Thomas's
tomb.
"Who is Mrs. Thomas?" I asked.
"How should I know?" replied Harris. "She's a lady that's got a funny
tomb, and I want to see it."
I objected. I don't know whether it is that I am built wrong, but I
never did seem to hanker after tombstones myself. I know that the proper
thing to do, when you get to a village or town, is to rush off to the
churchyard, and enjoy the graves; but it is a recreation that I always
deny myself. I take no interest in creeping round dim and chilly
churches behind wheezy old men, and reading epitaphs. Not even the sight
of a bit of cracked brass let into a stone affords me what I call real
happiness.
I shock respectable sextons by the imperturbability I am able to assume
before exciting inscriptions, and by my lack of enthusiasm for the local
family history, while my ill-concealed anxiety to get outside wounds
their feelings.
One golden morning of a sunny day, I leant against the low stone wall
that guarded a little village church, and I smoked, and drank in deep,
calm gladness from the sweet, restful scene - the grey old church with
its clustering ivy and its quaint carved wooden porch, the white lane
winding down the hill between tall rows of elms, the thatched-roof
cottages peeping above their trim-kept hedges, the silver river in the
hollow, the wooded hills beyond!
It was a lovely landscape. It was idyllic, poetical, and it inspired me.
I felt good and noble. I felt I didn't want to be sinful and wicked any
more. I would come and live here, and never do any more wrong, and lead
a blameless, beautiful life, and have silver hair when I got old, and all
that sort of thing.
In that moment I forgave all my friends and relations for their
wickedness and cussedness, and I blessed them. They did not know that I
blessed them. They went their abandoned way all unconscious of what I,
far away in that peaceful village, was doing for them; but I did it, and
I wished that I could let them know that I had done it, because I wanted
to make them happy. I was going on thinking away all these grand, tender
thoughts, when my reverie was broken in upon by a shrill piping voice
crying out:
"All right, sur, I'm a-coming, I'm a-coming. It's all right, sur; don't
you be in a hurry."
I looked up, and saw an old bald-headed man hobbling across the
churchyard towards me, carrying a huge bunch of keys in his hand that
shook and jingled at every step.
I motioned him away with silent dignity, but he still advanced,
screeching out the while:
"I'm a-coming, sur, I'm a-coming. I'm a little lame. I ain't as spry as
I used to be. This way, sur."
"Go away, you miserable old man," I said.
"I've come as soon as I could, sur," he replied. "My missis never see
you till just this minute. You follow me, sur."
"Go away," I repeated; "leave me before I get over the wall, and slay
you."
He seemed surprised.
"Don't you want to see the tombs?" he said.
"No," I answered, "I don't. I want to stop here, leaning up against this
gritty old wall. Go away, and don't disturb me. I am chock full of
beautiful and noble thoughts, and I want to stop like it, because it
feels nice and good. Don't you come fooling about, making me mad,
chivying away all my better feelings with this silly tombstone nonsense
of yours. Go away, and get somebody to bury you cheap, and I'll pay half
the expense."
He was bewildered for a moment. He rubbed his eyes, and looked hard at
me. I seemed human enough on the outside: he couldn't make it out.
He said:
"Yuise a stranger in these parts? You don't live here?"
"No," I said, "I don't. YOU wouldn't if I did."
"Well then," he said, "you want to see the tombs - graves - folks been
buried, you know - coffins!"
"You are an untruther," I replied, getting roused; "I do not want to see
tombs - not your tombs. Why should I? We have graves of our own, our
family has. Why my uncle Podger has a tomb in Kensal Green Cemetery,
that is the pride of all that country-side; and my grandfather's vault at
Bow is capable of accommodating eight visitors, while my great-aunt Susan
has a brick grave in Finchley Churchyard, with a headstone with a coffee-
pot sort of thing in bas-relief upon it, and a six-inch best white stone
coping all the way round, that cost pounds. When I want graves, it is to
those places that I go and revel. I do not want other folk's. When you
yourself are buried, I will come and see yours. That is all I can do for
you."
He burst into tears. He said that one of the tombs had a bit of stone
upon the top of it that had been said by some to be probably part of the
remains of the figure of a man, and that another had some words, carved
upon it, that nobody had ever been able to decipher.
I still remained obdurate, and, in broken-hearted tones, he said:
"Well, won't you come and see the memorial window?"
I would not even see that, so he fired his last shot. He drew near, and
whispered hoarsely:
