Piers knew that vault. He had often glanced at it with silent dread when he passed on into the church with his mother. Sometimes when he had bad dreams he thought of his ancestors lying in the vault, and he wondered what sort of a place there was inside. As he came now into the sunlight the entrance stone had just been moved away, and he caught a glimpse of the black interior. He did not like it—it made his heart beat painfully. No one was looking at him, however. There was painful work on hand, and the attention of all this queer company was attracted towards it.
Piers moved softly aside in the direction of the old yew tree. He did not want any of these strangers to notice him.
At the other side of the yew tree stood Gaffer Crayshaw. Gaffer Crayshaw knew he ought not to be there. If he were discovered he would be ordered to go quickly about his business, but he trusted no one would see him. With his old body pressed against the yew tree, he was peering out through the branches, his eyes fixed upon the scene which was taking place around the vault. He did not notice Piers, but Piers recognized him at a glance.
“Old Crayshaw,” thought the child. “He used to give me barley sugar. He’ll tell me what it all means.”
The little fellow stepped cautiously around, making no noise as he did so. He stood at last just behind Gaffer. Presently Piers’s small hand was laid on the old man’s arm.
“What are they doing over there?” asked the child. “What are they doing in the vault? Are they burying anybody?”
“’Tain’t that. Hush! Don’t speak!” said the old man. He half glanced round and saw a little figure in the ordinary blouse of a village boy standing beside him.
“Get away, you little beggar,” he continued. “Get out of this. Hush! Get you gone.”
“But what are they doing?” pleaded Piers. His voice became a little more shrill.
In despair Crayshaw thought it best to answer him.
“They ain’t a-burying nobody, but they’re a-taking somebody out of his coffin. Yes, there they come and the coffin with them. That’s the coffin that holds little Sir Piers Pelham—bless him! Poor little chap! They’re taking it out, and they’re going to open it.”
His voice rang out very high and clear. It startled old Crayshaw, who turned round and looked at him for the first time attentively. The old man’s face turned white, he clapped his two hands to his ears, uttered a loud and terrified shriek, and fled from the spot as if he were pursued by a thousand demons.