Time had done his work so cunningly that few of these folk were aware of what he was at, or paused to consider his ravages upon their persons. They felt themselves to be much the same as ever: that is, neither young nor old in any intimate sense. Such terms were applicable to other people, but hardly to oneself; and one did not notice how the point from which age is measured had insensibly shifted with every passing year, so that, whereas to Seth Shellett a man of thirty was middle-aged and a man of forty almost an old man, to Richard Mykelborne the state of being seventy seemed the only natural and normal state, and all other ages in man a matter for some surprise. Mykelborne was only just beginning to observe changes in himself. ‘Every year,’ said he, ‘do tell the tale, Tahm Shellett. Every year past senty. Three score and ten, as Postle Paul do put un. I can’t make a coffin the way I could. Nor dig a grave nuther.’
‘And what call have you to goo diggen, Mus Mykelborne, when Eddie Green be sexton?’
‘I’ll tell thee, Tahm Shellett. The way of it be this way. Sexton Green’ll dig you a pretty grave, so’s you’d not wish a better, when he’s a mind to. But he ha’nt gotten his heart in his work. And whatsumdever thy hand findeth to do, do it willen and hearty, says Postle Paul. Gird up thy loins and run to ut, and Devil take the hindermost, says he. Up betimes, Tahm Shellett, is up betimes. And lyen abed be no sech thing. Tis uncivil, says I, in man or boy, to keep a carpse waken, the same as Sexton Green ud do, did I leave he to his sinful marnen slumbers. For a dunnamany times I’ve taken the spade from his hands, in a figure of speaken, and fashioned so snug and sleek a grave as you’d be blithe and proud to lay in, and many a better man wud be.’
‘And if Parson were late for the burial,’ put in old Mr Bailey, ‘I wager you’d preach as good a service as any, Dick, let alone make the coffin and dig the grave.’
‘You may say so, Mus Bailey,’ agreed Mykelborne. ‘You may say so in sperrit and in truth. For didn’t it fall out so t’other day, as near as no matter? Ten or fifteen year agoo, when they small pox carried young Nat Broome away, and Parson come sidling up the High Street along of us, yawnen and rubben the sleep out of’s eyes, and who’ve you got in there, says Parson, with a nudge. Where, says I. In the hearse, says he. Who should us have there but the carpse, says I. Plague take ye, says Parson, what be carpse’s name, says he. Well, Reverence, he’ve done wi’ names, says I, nuther marriage nor giving in marriage, I says, but Nat Broome was his name afore a died, and Nat Broome he’ll be buried by. Nat Broome, says Parson; why, I dint knaw a was dead. Dead or not, says I, we be agwain to putt he in. And it’s a dunnamany times crossed my mind to wonder, Mus Bailey, what poor Nat thought of ut up in heaven, and whether he took and had a good laugh with the Lord about ut. And if you ask me what do us poor miserable sinners know of heaven, I’ll tell ye I’ve been there, and I’ve been there twice.’ His eyes opened wide with wonder and self-importance and he paused weightily, that his words might take full effect on the audience.