“I prefer going round,” said the curate gravely; and he went on round by the chancel, followed by the grim old sexton, who watched him furtively, and went up quite close, with his big yellow ears twitching, as Salis paused by the little path leading to the steps of the Candlish vault.
“What’s that?” he said. “Eh? What, sir?” said Moredock, hastily stepping before him to snatch up a pocket-handkerchief and crumple it in his hands. “Only a bit of white rag, sir. Blowed there from somebody’s washing hung out to dry.”
“Nonsense!” said the curate sternly. “Give it to me.”
“Doctor’s,” said Moredock to himself. “The fool!”
He handed the piece of linen unwillingly, and the curate took it, held it out, and turned to the corners, while the sexton’s countenance lightened up.
“Humph! ‘T. Candlish, 24,’” said Salis, reading aloud. “The new baronet is going to favour the church, then, with his presence, I suppose,” he added sarcastically, as Moredock drew a breath full of relief, but shivered again as he saw the curate glance at the mausoleum.
“Noo squire’s, is it, sir?”
“Yes, and I beg his pardon,” said the curate gravely, as he thought of how lately the young man’s brother had been laid there to rest. “Moredock, ask Mrs Page to carefully wash and iron the handkerchief, and then you can send one of the school children over with it to the Hall.”
“Yes, sir,” said the sexton, with a feeling of relief.
“Now come into the vestry. I want to talk to you.”