But the rector had lots to say--though deliberately and gravely, still
the voice was genial and inspiring--and exorcised the shadows that had
been gathering stealthily around the lesser Church functionaries. Mrs.
Irons's tooth, he learned, was still bad; but she was no longer troubled
with 'that sour humour in her stomach.' There were sour humours, alas!
still remaining--enough, and to spare, as the clerk knew to his cost.
Bob Martin thanked his reverence; the cold rheumatism in his hip was
better.' Irons, the clerk, replied, 'he had brought two prayer-books.'
Bob averred 'he could not be mistaken; the old lady was buried in the
near-vault; though it was forty years before, he remembered it like last
night. They changed her into her lead coffin in the vault--he and the
undertaker together--her own servants would not put a hand to her. She
was buried in white satin, and with her rings on her fingers. It was her
fancy, and so ordered in her will. They said she was mad. He'd know her
face again if he saw her. She had a long hooked nose; and her eyes were
open. For, as he was told, she died in her sleep, and was quite cold and
stiff when they found her in the morning.
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