A universal gloom pervaded the precincts of the Wonder Club since the
departure of the happy pair, which none felt more than Mr. Oldstone. Not
but that he was delighted at the union of his protégé with the
landlord's pretty daughter, whom he begrudged to anyone short of a
gentleman. That his dear Helen, whom he loved as his own child, should
have had the good fortune to marry, not only a gentleman, but the very
one that he himself would have singled out for her, was the realization
of his happiest dreams. He knew they were happy, and revelled in the
thought of their happiness. Still, they had gone out of his life and
formed one of their own, apart. Her sunny smile would no more light up
the dingy walls of the old hostel. He would hear no more the ring of her
merry laugh, could no longer peer into her deep blue eyes, nor delight
in her exquisitely white teeth, her rosy cheeks or coral lips; and added
to this, his health that had for some time past been failing him, now
thoroughly broke down, and he knew his end was not far off. So he penned
a letter to his friend Rustcoin, who was still living in Rome, to come
over to see him before he died, as he had much to say to him. Besides the breaking down of our antiquary's health, the club itself, as
if by one accord, began to break up. Mr. Blackdeed went to London and
became manager of a large theatre. Dr. Bleedem also retired to a
fashionable quarter of the metropolis, where he soon had an extensive
practice. Mr. Parnassus became editor of a paper at Bath, and published
a volume of poems. Professor Cyanite and Mr. Crucible likewise
disappeared. The former travelled about the country giving lectures on
geology. The latter bought a house near town, where he pursued his
studies in chemistry. Thus our antiquary was now left quite alone; _i.e._, with the exception
of Mr. Hardcase. He managed to pass the time by writing voluminously, as
if he intended to finish some important work before he died. In his
intervals of rest from his labours, he would frequently take solitary
rambles in the woods adjacent to the inn, or along one of the cross
roads. On one of these excursions his footsteps led him to the old
churchyard of Littleboro' with its old yews and cypress. As he entered
the gate, the sexton was at work digging a grave. The man ceased his
labour at his approach; and, seating himself on the edge, began to fill
his pipe, which he next lighted and began puffing at, apparently
oblivious of anybody's presence. It must be stated that the sexton was looked upon as a character in the
village. Certainly he was a strange looking object. He was very old and
decrepit, exceedingly bow-legged, had a bald, mis-shapen head. Was
toothless, hollow-eyed, with features that suggested a skull. He was
stone deaf, and had, moreover, acquired a habit of uttering his thoughts
aloud, whoever might be present, perfectly unconscious that he could be
overheard. If addressed, he never gave himself any trouble to catch the
meaning of his interlocutor, but always fluked an answer such as he
deemed ought to fit the question. Thus, when our antiquary approached with a "Good morning, Delves. Hard
at work, I see. Whose grave may you be working at, now?" he received for
answer, "Thank you, sir; I'm very well. Yes, as you say, it _be_
remarkable fine weather for this time o' the year, sure_ly_." "But I didn't make any remark about the weather, Delves," persisted
Oldstone. "You didn't understand me." The sexton made no reply, nor looked the antiquary in the face, but
muttered very audibly to himself, "That be one o' them old fools of the
Wonder Club--_Wonder Club_, indeed; ha! ha!" Here he gave vent to a
mocking laugh. Then, "He should see some o' my wonders." Our antiquary was accustomed to the eccentricities of this worthy, who
was generally looked upon as a harmless idiot; but when he heard the
Wonder Club sneered at, he took deep offence, and was about to utter
some rebuke, when the grave-digger began muttering again to himself, and
Oldstone, whose curiosity was being roused, forbore to speak, and
thought he would listen instead. "A little knows I seed un's corpse candle last night, he, he! Ay, he'll
be the next. They can't, none o' them, fool me. Whenever they've got to
die, old Delves allers sees their corpse candles fust. Wasn't I right
before Lord Scampford and his bully met with their death, eh? Didn't I
say that only one on' o' 'em ud be buried in this here churchyard, and
wasn't one on 'em buried in that there corner just as I prognosticated,
and didn't I see the corpse candle of 'is lordship go along the road
towards London? They allers lets me know beforehand, my customers. Now,
there's this here gent, the _h_antiquary, as they calls him--if I didn't
see 'uns corpse candle last night a leavin' the _h_inn o' the ''Eadless
Lady,' and settle down on this wery spot where 'e's a standin', I'll be
shot, that's all. If a's not doo to-morrer, or next day, 'e's doo within
this week. I never knowed one live more nor a week after I'd seen 'uns
corpse candle." Our antiquary, now intensely interested, determined to interrogate him
anew, so he bawled out as loud as he could in his ear, making a trumpet
of his hands, "Whose grave did you say that was?" "Yourn, zur," replied the sexton, with a grin. "Mine!" exclaimed the antiquary, starting back: "but I'm not dead yet." "Not dead yet--ain't ye; he, he! Well, you soon will be; ho, ho! I'll
give ye three days. I don't think ye'll last longer nor that; but
there's where you've got to lie, willy-nilly," said the sexton, pointing
to the grave. "You are making very sure of me," remarked the antiquary, with a grim
smile. "Ay, by ----, I am," rejoined the grave-digger, "for when I've once seen
a man's corpse candle----"

There is no knowing how much longer the conversation might have lasted,
if at this moment two villagers had not entered the churchyard, so
Oldstone, not wishing to be overheard, nodded to the sexton, and added,
"Till we meet again." He then bent his steps towards the inn, and,
arriving there, was greeted by his friend Rustcoin, who had just
arrived. It was years since these two friends had met, and doubtless
each found the other vastly changed. "Why, surely, old friend, you are not so bad as you try to make out,"
observed Rustcoin. "You look hale and hearty still. You are up, and
walking about." "Well, do you know how much longer they give me to live?" asked
Oldstone. "No. Who?" inquired Rustcoin. "The doctor?" "Well, not exactly. A prophet." "A prophet, eh? That's interesting; and who may this prophet be, if I
might ask?" "The grave-digger." "The grave-digger! What does he know about it?" "Says he saw my corpse candle last night, and he is at this moment
digging my grave on the strength of it." "My dear fellow, you're joking. Pray, don't give these sort of people
any encouragement in their antiquated superstitions. You were always
given a little that way yourself, I remember."