These stories
treated, though darkly, of the long period of his absence from his
native village; but they took no well-defined shape, and no one could
refer them to any authentic source.
The Vicar's charity was of the kind that thinketh no evil; and in such
cases he always insisted on proof. Crooke was, of course, undisturbed
in his office.
On the evening before the tragedy came to light--trifles are always
remembered after the catastrophe--a boy, returning along the margin of
the mere, passed him by seated on a prostrate trunk of a tree, under
the "bield" of a rock, counting silver money. His lean body and limbs
were bent together, his knees were up to his chin, and his long
fingers were telling the coins over hurriedly in the hollow of his
other hand. He glanced at the boy, as the old English saying is, like
"the devil looking over Lincoln." But a black and sour look from Mr.
Crooke, who never had a smile for a child nor a greeting for a
wayfarer, was nothing strange.
Toby Crooke lived in the grey stone house, cold and narrow, that
stands near the church porch, with the window of its staircase looking
out into the churchyard, where so much of his labour, for many a day,
had been expended. The greater part of this house was untenanted.
The old woman who was in charge of it slept in a settle-bed, among
broken stools, old sacks, rotten chests and other rattle-traps, in the
small room at the rear of the house, floored with tiles.
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