It was some time before his slow intellect could grasp the idea.
“Dead! be he dead? Missis (to his wife within), missis! The Ould Un have got measter at last.”
“Hush!” said Felix angrily. “Have you no respect?”
By the light of the candle his wife brought to the door, the man saw it was a clergyman, and asked pardon.
“But nobody won’t miss he,” he added, nevertheless; and thought Felix, as they walked back to the house, feeling the little piece of brass in his pocket, “ ‘Let us rejoice’—they are actually glad that he is gone. But how comes it that no one knew of this?”
Fisher had, indeed, been dead many hours. He had been ailing, as aged persons often are, in the fall of the year; but May had not suspected any danger, nor would there have been, in all probability, under ordinary circumstances. Jane, the snuff-taking old hag, whom May so detested, with low cunning kept the event secret from the household, excepting a crony who acted as nurse, and was glad enough to assist in plunder. Jenny, the dairymaid, was despatched to visit her friends at Millbourne, and a kitchen-maid had a similar permission. They were easily prevented from entering the great parlour by Jane’s report that “Measter be in a passion, and nobody best go a-nigh un!” This was readily believed, as they knew his illness had made him exceptionally snappish. Something very much like this has been practised at the death of greater men than Andrew Fisher—monarchs, if history tell truth, have been robbed before the breath had hardly left their nostrils. So the two old crones ransacked the house undisturbed. They took the heavy seal-ring from his finger—it was of solid gold, weighing three times as much as modern work. From his fob—for to the last he wore breeches and gaiters—they removed his chain and watch, which last, being of ancient make, would have been worth a considerable sum.
“Thur be a chest under uz bed,” said Jane; “a’ be vull of parchmint stuff—I’ll warn thur be zum guineas in un. This be the key on him.” The chest was of black oak, rudely carved, and strongly protected by bands of iron. It was completely filled with yellow deeds, leases, etc, going back as far as Elizabeth, but mainly of the eighteenth century. These they scattered over the floor, and, as Jane had anticipated, at the bottom, in one corner, was a large bag of guineas. Then they added the great silver ladle, four heavy silver candlesticks, and a number of teaspoons to their guilty bundle, and chopped the gold handle off a cane with the billhook. With this tool they hacked open an inlaid cabinet, of which they could not find the key; but there was nothing within, except old letters faded from age, and a miniature on enamel—a portrait of May’s grandmother.
“Ay, poor theng,” said Jane, “thuck ould varmint ground the life out of her. A’wuver the picter be zet in gould; we med as well have un.”
“A’ wish us could take zum on these yer veather beds,” said the other. “Couldn’t you and I car um zumhow?”
“Us could shove one in a box,” said Jane, “and tell the miller to zend un in his cart. He wouldn’t knaw, doan’t ee zee?” They actually carried this idea into execution, and sent the miller’s cart off with the feather bed. Probably, in all their days, the two old hags had never so thoroughly enjoyed themselves as when thus turning everything upside-down, and rioting at their will. It was a curious fact that not for one moment did they reflect that detection must of necessity quickly follow. They had lived all their lives in the narrow boundary of the lonely hill-parish, and the force of habit made all beyond seem so distant that, if they could but once escape out of the hamlet, they did not doubt they would be safe. At last, seeing nothing else they could lay hands on, they came down into the great parlour just before sunset, and heard the tramp of the wearyful women approaching.
“We’d better go now,” said the nurse. “What had us better do with he?” jerking her thumb towards the senseless clay in the beehive chair.
“Aw, thur bean’t no call to move un,” said Jane; “let un bide. Nobody won’t knaw as a’ be dead vor a day or two. Come on, you,”—making for the backdoor.
The wearyful women as they passed the window had curtseyed to the dead. The luminous sunset, filling the chamber with its magical glamour, had lit up the cold, drawn features with a rosy glow. But the dimmed eyeball had not seen the flames of that conflagration sweeping up from the west:—
Dies iræ, dies illa.
The wrath, long withheld, must come at last.
“I fear there has been robbery here,” said Felix, as, with the shepherd, he re-entered the gloomy house.
“It do seem zo; the things be drowed about mainly. A’wuver it sarves un right.”
“Hush!” said Felix, and thought to himself, “How terrible it is to be hated even when dead! We will go over the house,” he added aloud, “and see if anything has been taken.”
In the bedchamber they found ample evidence of looting. Felix, even in his indignation, could not resist his antiquarian tastes. He took up an ancient deed, and while he glanced over it, the shepherd pretended to tie his shoelace, and pocketed a spade-guinea which the crones had dropped on the floor.
“Who is there that could take charge of the place?” asked Felix presently.
“Thur be the bailie.”
“Go and bring him.”
The shepherd went; and Felix, to pass the time, took a book from an old black chest of
