The Seaboard Parish, Complete

“Yes, and a great deal better.”

“At any rate, that’s a long way off; and mean time, who’s to take care of the odd man like Joe there, that don’t look after hisself?”

“Why, God, of course.”

“Well, there’s just where I’m out. I don’t know nothing about that branch, sir.”

I saw a grateful light mount up in Joe’s gloomy eyes as I spoke thus upon his side of the question. He said nothing, however; and his cousin volunteering no further information, I did not push any advantage I might have gained.

At noon I made them leave their work, and come home with me to have their dinner; they hoped to finish the job before dusk. Harry Cobb and I dropped behind, and Joe Harper walked on in front, apparently sunk in meditation.

Scarcely were we out of the churchyard, and on the road leading to the rectory, when I saw the sexton’s daughter meeting us. She had almost come up to Joe before he saw her, for his gaze was bent on the ground, and he started. They shook hands in what seemed to me an odd, constrained, yet familiar fashion, and then stood as if they wanted to talk, but without speaking. Harry and I passed, both with a nod of recognition to the young woman, but neither of us had the ill-manners to look behind. I glanced at Harry, and he answered me with a queer look. When we reached the turning that would hide them from our view, I looked back almost involuntarily, and there they were still standing. But before we reached the door of the rectory, Joe got up with us.

There was something remarkable in the appearance of Agnes Coombes, the sexton’s daughter. She was about six-and-twenty, I should imagine, the youngest of the family, with a sallow, rather sickly complexion, somewhat sorrowful eyes, a smile rare and sweet, a fine figure, tall and slender, and a graceful gait. I now saw, I thought, a good hair’s-breadth further into the smith’s affairs. Beyond the hair’s-breadth, however, all was dark. But I saw likewise that the well of truth, whence I might draw the whole business, must be the girl’s mother.

After the men had had their dinner and rested a while, they went back to the church, and I went to the sexton’s cottage. I found the old man seated at the window, with his pot of beer on the sill, and an empty plate beside it.

“Come in, sir,” he said, rising, as I put my head in at the door. “The mis’ess ben’t in, but she’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“O, it’s of no consequence,” I said. “Are they all well?”

“All comfortable, sir. It be fine dry weather for them, this, sir. It be in winter it be worst for them.”

“But it’s a snug enough shelter you’ve got here. It seems such, anyhow; though, to be sure, it is the blasts of winter that find out the weak places both in house and body.”

“It ben’t the wind touch them” he said; “they be safe enough from the wind. It be the wet, sir. There ben’t much snow in these parts; but when it du come, that be very bad for them, poor things!”

Could it be that he was harping on the old theme again?

“But at least this cottage keeps out the wet,” I said. “If not, we must have it seen to.”

“This cottage du well enough, sir. It’ll last my time, anyhow.”

“Then why are you pitying your family for having to live in it?”

“Bless your heart, sir! It’s not them. They du well enough. It’s my people out yonder. You’ve got the souls to look after, and I’ve got the bodies. That’s what it be, sir. To be sure!”

The last exclamation was uttered in a tone of impatient surprise at my stupidity in giving all my thoughts and sympathies to the living, and none to the dead. I pursued the subject no further, but as I lay in bed that night, it began to dawn upon me as a lovable kind of hallucination in which the man indulged. He too had an office in the Church of God, and he would magnify that office. He could not bear that there should be no further outcome of his labour; that the burying of the dead out of sight should be “the be-all and the end-all.” He was God’s vicar, the gardener in God’s Acre, as the Germans call the churchyard. When all others had forsaken the dead, he remained their friend, caring for what little comfort yet remained possible to them. Hence in all changes of air and sky above, he attributed to them some knowledge of the same, and some share in their consequences even down in the darkness of the tomb. It was his way of keeping up the relation between the living and the dead. Finding I made him no reply, he took up the word again.

“You’ve got your part, sir, and I’ve got mine. You up into the pulpit, and I down into the grave. But it’ll be all the same by and by.”

“I hope it will,” I answered. “But when you do go down into your own grave, you’ll know a good deal less about it than you do now. You’ll find you’ve got other things to think about. But here comes your wife. She’ll talk about the living rather than the dead.”

“That’s natural, sir. She brought ‘em to life, and I buried ‘em—at least, best part of ‘em. If only I had the other two safe down with the rest!”

I remembered what the old woman had told me—that she had two boys in the sea; and I knew therefore what he meant. He regarded his drowned boys as still tossed about in the weary wet cold ocean, and would have gladly laid them to rest in the warm dry churchyard.

He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, and saying, “Well, I must be off to my gardening,” left me with his wife. I saw then that, humorist as the old man might be, his humour, like that of all true humorists, lay close about the wells of weeping.

“The old man seems a little out of sorts,” I said to his wife.

“Well, sir,” she answered, with her usual gentleness, a gentleness which obedient suffering had perfected, “this be the day he buried our Nancy, this day two years; and to-day Agnes be come home from her work poorly; and the two things together they’ve upset him a bit.”

“I met Agnes coming this way. Where is she?”

“I believe she be in the churchyard, sir. I’ve been to the doctor about her.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“I hope not, sir; but you see—four on ‘em, sir!”

“Well, she’s in God’s hands, you know.”

“That she be, sir.”

“I want to ask you about something, Mrs. Coombes.”

“What be that, sir? If I can tell, I will, you may be sure, sir.”

“I want to know what’s the matter with Joe Harper, the blacksmith.”

“They du say it be a consumption, sir.”

“But what has he got on his mind?”

“He’s got nothing on his mind, sir. He be as good a by as ever stepped, I assure you, sir.”

“But I am sure there is something or other on his mind. He’s not so happy as he should be. He’s not the man, it seems to me, to be unhappy because he’s ill. A man like him would not be miserable because he was going to die. It might make him look sad sometimes, but not gloomy as he looks.”

“Well, sir, I believe you be right, and perhaps I know summat. But it’s part guessing.—I believe my Agnes and Joe Harper are as fond upon one another as any two in the county.”

“Are they not going to be married then?”

“There be the pint, sir. I don’t believe Joe ever said a word o’ the sort to Aggy. She never could ha’ kep it from me, sir.”

“Why doesn’t he then?”

“That’s the pint again, sir. All as knows him says it’s because he be in such bad health, and he thinks he oughtn’t to go marrying with one foot in the grave. He never said so to me; but I think very likely that be it.”

“For that matter, Mrs. Coombes, we’ve all got one foot in the grave, I think.”

“That be very true, sir.”

“And what does your daughter think?”

“I believe she thinks the same. And so they go on talking to each other, quiet-like, like old married folks, not like lovers at all, sir. But I can’t help fancying it have something to do with my Aggy’s pale face.”

“And something to do with Joe’s pale face too, Mrs. Coombes,” I said. “Thank you. You’ve told me more than I expected. It explains everything. I must have it out with Joe now.”