"He"s exceedingly deaf," muttered the s.e.xton to himself. "I think he"s getting foolish."
The child rather wondered what had led him to this belief, as, to say the truth, the old man seemed quite as sharp as he, and was infinitely more robust. As the s.e.xton said nothing more just then, however, she forgot it for the time, and spoke again.
"You were telling me," she said, "about your gardening. Do you ever plant things here?"
"In the churchyard?" returned the s.e.xton, "Not I."
"I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about," the child rejoined; "there are some over there, you see. I thought they were of your rearing, though indeed they grow but poorly."
"They grow as Heaven wills," said the old man; "and it kindly ordains that they shall never flourish here."
"I do not understand you."
"Why, this it is," said the s.e.xton. "They mark the graves of those who had very tender, loving friends."
"I was sure they did!" the child exclaimed. "I am very glad to know they do!"
"Aye," returned the old man, "but stay. Look at them. See how they hang their heads, and droop, and wither. Do you guess the reason?"
"No," the child replied.
"Because the memory of those who lie below, pa.s.ses away so soon. At first they tend them, morning, noon, and night; they soon begin to come less frequently; from once a day, to once a week; from once a week to once a month; then, at long and uncertain intervals; then, not at all.
Such tokens seldom flourish long. I have known the briefest summer flowers outlive them."
"I grieve to hear it," said the child.
"Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to look about them,"
returned the old man, shaking his head, "but I say otherwise. "It"s a pretty custom you have in this part of the country," they say to me sometimes, "to plant the graves, but it"s melancholy to see these things all withering or dead." I crave their pardon and tell them that, as I take it, "tis a good sign for the happiness of the living. And so it is. It"s nature."
"Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the stars by night, and to think that the dead are there, and not in graves," said the child in an earnest voice.
"Perhaps so," replied the old man doubtfully. "It may be."
"Whether it be as I believe it is, or no," thought the child within herself, "I"ll make this place my garden. It will be no harm at least to work here day by day, and pleasant thoughts will come of it, I am sure."
Her glowing cheek and moistened eye pa.s.sed unnoticed by the s.e.xton, who turned towards old David, and called him by his name. It was plain that Becky Morgan"s age still troubled him; though why, the child could scarcely understand.
The second or third repet.i.tion of his name attracted the old man"s attention. Pausing from his work, he leant on his spade, and put his hand to his dull ear.
"Did you call?" he said.
"I have been thinking, Davy," replied the s.e.xton, "that she," he pointed to the grave, "must have been a deal older than you or me."
"Seventy-nine," answered the old man with a shake of the head, "I tell you that I saw it."
"Saw it?" replied the s.e.xton; "aye, but, Davy, women don"t always tell the truth about their age."
"That"s true indeed," said the other old man, with a sudden sparkle in his eye. "She might have been older."
"I"m sure she must have been. Why, only think how old she looked. You and I seemed but boys to her."
"She did look old," rejoined David. "You"re right. She did look old."
"Call to mind how old she looked for many a long, long year, and say if she could be but seventy-nine at last--only our age," said the s.e.xton.
"Five year older at the very least!" cried the other.
"Five!" retorted the s.e.xton. "Ten. Good eighty-nine. I call to mind the time her daughter died. She was eighty-nine if she was a day, and tries to pa.s.s upon us now, for ten year younger. Oh! human vanity!"
The other old man was not behindhand with some moral reflections on this fruitful theme, and both adduced a ma.s.s of evidence, of such weight as to render it doubtful--not whether the deceased was of the age suggested, but whether she had not almost reached the patriarchal term of a hundred. When they had settled this question to their mutual satisfaction, the s.e.xton, with his friend"s a.s.sistance, rose to go.
"It"s chilly, sitting here, and I must be careful--till the summer," he said, as he prepared to limp away.
"What?" asked old David.
"He"s very deaf, poor fellow!" cried the s.e.xton. "Good-bye!" "Ah!"
said old David, looking after him. "He"s failing very fast. He ages every day."
And so they parted; each persuaded that the other had less life in him than himself; and both greatly consoled and comforted by the little fiction they had agreed upon, respecting Becky Morgan, whose decease was no longer a precedent of uncomfortable application, and would be no business of theirs for half a score of years to come.
The child remained, for some minutes, watching the deaf old man as he threw out the earth with his shovel, and, often stopping to cough and fetch his breath, still muttered to himself, with a kind of sober chuckle, that the s.e.xton was wearing fast. At length she turned away, and walking thoughtfully through the churchyard, came unexpectedly upon the schoolmaster, who was sitting on a green grave in the sun, reading.
"Nell here?" he said cheerfully, as he closed his book. "It does me good to see you in the air and light. I feared you were again in the church, where you so often are."
"Feared!" replied the child, sitting down beside him. "Is it not a good place?"
"Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster. "But you must be gay sometimes--nay, don"t shake your head and smile so sadly."
"Not sadly, if you knew my heart. Do not look at me as if you thought me sorrowful. There is not a happier creature on earth, than I am now."
Full of grateful tenderness, the child took his hand, and folded it between her own. "It"s G.o.d"s will!" she said, when they had been silent for some time.
"What?"
"All this," she rejoined; "all this about us. But which of us is sad now? You see that I am smiling."
"And so am I," said the schoolmaster; "smiling to think how often we shall laugh in this same place. Were you not talking yonder?"
"Yes,"the child rejoined.
"Of something that has made you sorrowful?"
There was a long pause.
"What was it?" said the schoolmaster, tenderly. "Come. Tell me what it was."
"I rather grieve--I do rather grieve to think," said the child, bursting into tears, "that those who die about us, are so soon forgotten."