For all that, she did leave the fair alone. But, as she trudged home in the dark, a man overtook her, and made acquaintance with her. He was a pleasant fellow, and told her his name was William Easton. Of course she could not see his face very well, but he had a wonderfully sweet voice. After that night, he used to court her, and sing to her, but always in the dark. He never would face a candle, though he was challenged to more than once. One night there was a terrible noise heard--it is described as if a number of men were threshing out corn upon the roof--and Molly Slater was found wedged in between the bed and the wall, in a place where there was scarcely room to put your hand. Several strong men tried to extricate her by force; but both the bed and the woman's body resisted so strangely that, at last, they thought it best to send for the parson. He was a great scholar, and himself under some suspicion of knowing more than it would be good for any less pious person to know. Well, the parson came, and took a candle that was burning, and held it to the place where poor Molly was imprisoned, and moaning; and they say he turned pale, and shivered, for all his learning. I forget what he said or did next; but by-and-by there was a colloquy in a whisper between him and some person unseen, and they say that this unseen whisper was very sweet, and something like the chords of a harp, only low and very articulate. The parson whispered, 'God gives a sinner time.' The sweet voice answered, 'He can afford to; he is the stronger.' Then the parson adjured the unseen one to wait a year and a day. But he refused, still in the gentlest voice. Then the parson said these words: 'By all we love and fear, by all you fear and hate, I adjure you to loose her, or wait till next Christmas Eve.'
"I suppose the Evil Spirit saw some trap in that proposal, for he is said to have laughed most musically. He answered, 'By all I fear and hate, I'll loose her never; but, but I'll wait for her--till the candle's burnt out;' and he chuckled most musically again.
"'Then wait to all eternity,' the parson roared; and blew the candle out directly, and held it, with his hands crossed over it."
Grace Carden's eyes sparkled in the firelight. "Go on," she cried, excitedly.
"The girl was loosed easily enough after that; but she was found to be in a swoon; and not the least bruised, though ten villagers had been pulling at her one after another."
"And what became of her afterward?"
"She lived to be ninety-six, and died in my time. I think she had money left her. But she never married; and when she was old she wandered about the lanes, muttering, and frightening little boys, myself among the number. But now my little story follows another actor of the tale."
"Oh, I'm so glad it is not over."
"No. The parson took the candle away, and it was never seen again.
But, somehow, it got wind that he had built it into the wall of the church; perhaps he didn't say so, but was only understood to say so.
However, people used to look round the church for the place. And now comes the most remarkable thing of all; three years ago the present rector repaired the floor of the chancel, intending to put down encaustic tiles. Much to his surprise, the workmen found plenty of old encaustic tiles; they had been interred as rubbish at some period, when antiquity and beauty were less respected than they are now, I suppose."
Mr. Raby broke in, "The Puritans. Barbarians! beasts! It was just like them. Well, sir--?"
"When the rector found that, he excavated more than was absolutely necessary for his purpose, and the deeper he went the more encaustic tiles. In one place they got down to the foundation, and they found an oak chest fast in the rock--a sort of channel had been cut in the rock for this chest, or rather box (for it was only about eighteen inches long), to lie in. The master mason was there luckily, and would not move it till the rector had seen it. He was sent for, but half the parish was there before him; and he tells me there were three theories firmly established and proved, before he could finish his breakfast and get to the spot. Theory of Wilder, the village grocer: 'It is treasure hidden by them there sly old monks.' Mr. Wilder is a miser, and is known to lay up money. He is, I believe, the only man left in the North Country who can show you a hundred spade guineas."
Mr. Raby replied, energetically, "I respect him. Wilder forever!
What was the next theory?"
"The skeleton of a child. I forget who propounded this; but I believe it carried the majority. But the old sexton gave it a blow.
'Nay, nay,' said he; 'them's the notions of strangers. I was born here, and my father afore me. It will be Molly Slater's candle, and naught else.' Then poor Molly's whole story came up again over the suspected box. But I am very tedious."
"Tedious! You are delightful, and thrilling, and pray go on. The rector had the box opened?"
"On the spot."
"Well!"
"The box went to pieces, in spite of all their care. But there was no doubt as to its contents."
Grace exclaimed, enthusiastically, "A candle. Oh, do say a candle!"
Mr. Coventry responded, "It's awfully tempting; but I suspect the traditional part of my story is SLIGHTLY EMBELLISHED, so the historical part must be accurate. What the box did really contain, to my knowledge, was a rush-wick, much thicker than they are made nowadays: and this rush-wick was impregnated with grease, and even lightly coated with a sort of brown wafer-like paste. The rector thinks it was a combination of fine dust from the box with the original grease. He shall show it you, if you are curious to see it."
"Of course we are curious. Oh, Mr. Raby, what a strange story. And how well he told it."
"Admirably. We must drink his health."
"I'll wish it him instead, because I require all my reason just now to understand his story. And I don't understand it, after all.
There: you found the candle, and so it is all true. But what does the rector think?"
"Well, he says there is no connection whatever between the rush-wick and--"