‘Now let’s be off, neighbours,’ the clerk interrupted.

The candle was inverted in the socket, and the whole party stepped out into the churchyard.  The moon was shining within a day or two of full, and just overlooked the three or four vast yews that stood on the south-east side of the church, and rose in unvaried and flat darkness against the illuminated atmosphere behind them.

‘Good-night,’ the clerk said to his comrades, when the door was locked.  ‘My nearest way is through the park.’

‘I suppose mine is too?’ said the stranger.  ’I am going to the railway-station.’

‘Of course—­come on.’

The two men went over a stile to the west, the remainder of the party going into the road on the opposite side.

‘And so the romance has ended well,’ the clerk’s companion remarked, as they brushed along through the grass.  ’But what is the truth of the story about the property?’

‘Now look here, neighbour,’ said Clerk Crickett, ’if so be you’ll tell me what your line o’ life is, and your purpose in comen here to-day, I’ll tell you the truth about the wedden particulars.’

‘Very well—­I will when you have done,’ said the other man.

‘’Tis a bargain; and this is the right o’ the story.  When Miss Aldclyffe’s will was opened, it was found to have been drawn up on the very day that Manston (her love-child) married Miss Cytherea Graye.  And this is what that deep woman did.  Deep? she was as deep as the North Star.  She bequeathed all her property, real and personal, to “THE WIFE OF AENEAS MANSTON” (with one exception):  failen her life to her husband:  failen his life to the heirs of his head—­body I would say:  failen them to her absolutely and her heirs for ever:  failen these to Pa’son Raunham, and so on to the end o’ the human race.  Now do you see the depth of her scheme?  Why, although upon the surface it appeared her whole property was for Miss Cytherea, by the word “wife” being used, and not Cytherea’s name, whoever was the wife o’ Manston would come in for’t.  Wasn’t that rale depth?  It was done, of course, that her son AEneas, under any circumstances, should be master o’ the property, without folk knowen it was her son or suspecting anything, as they would if it had been left to en straightway.’

‘A clever arrangement!  And what was the exception?’

‘The payment of a legacy to her relative, Pa’son Raunham.’

’And Miss Cytherea was now Manston’s widow and only relative, and inherited all absolutely.’

’True, she did.  “Well,” says she, “I shan’t have it” (she didn’t like the notion o’ getten anything through Manston, naturally enough, pretty dear).  She waived her right in favour o’ Mr. Raunham.  Now, if there’s a man in the world that d’care nothen about land—­I don’t say there is, but if there is—­’tis our pa’son.  He’s like a snail.  He’s a-growed so to the shape o’ that there rectory that ‘a wouldn’ think o’ leaven it