It was the
bell of the old church. One! it tolled. Each man looked at his
neighbor. Had death entered the village, and they unaware? Two! three!
it went solemnly on, the mellow cadence scarcely dying before another
stroke renewed it. The sexton was Simeon Pease, a little red-headed
man, a hunchback, abnormally strong. Suddenly he rose in amazement. His
face looked ashen.
"Suthin's tollin' the bell!" he gasped. "The bell's a-tollin' an' _I
ain't there_!"
A new element of mystery and terror sprang to life.
"The sax'on 's here!" whispered one and another. But nobody stirred,
for nobody would lose count. Twenty-three! the dead was young.
Twenty-four! and so it marched and marched, to thirty and thirty-five.
They looked about them, taking a swift inventory of familiar faces, and
more than one man felt a tightening about his heart, at thought of the
womenfolk at home. The record climbed to middle-age, and tolled
majestically beyond it, like a life ripening to victorious close.
Sixty! seventy! eighty-one!
"It ain't Pa'son True!" whispered an awestruck voice.
Then on it beat, to the completed century.
The women of Tiverton, in afterwards weighing the immobility of their
public representatives under this mysterious clangor, dwelt upon the
fact with scorn.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297