Eleventh Scene: Outside the House
The evening was chilly, but not cold for the time of year. There was no moon.
The stars were out, and the wind was quiet. Upon the whole, the inhabitants of
the little Somersetshire village of Baxdale agreed that it was as fine a Christmas-
eve as they could remember for some years past.
Toward eight in the evening the one small street of the village was empty, except
at that part of it which was occupied by the public-house. For the most part,
people gathered round their firesides, with an eye to their suppers, and watched
the process of cooking comfortably indoors. The old bare, gray church, situated
at some little distance from the village, looked a lonelier object than usual in the
dim starlight. The vicarage, nestling close under the shadow of the church-tower,
threw no illumination of fire-light or candle-light on the dreary scene. The
clergyman's shutters fitted well, and the clergyman's curtains were closely drawn.
The one ray of light that cheered the wintry darkness streamed from the
unguarded window of a lonely house, separated from the vicarage by the whole
length of the church-yard. A man stood at the window, holding back the shutter,
and looking out attentively over the dim void of the burial-ground. The man was
Richard Turlington. The room in which he was watching was a room in his own
A momentary spark of light flashed up, as from a kindled match, in the burial-
ground. Turlington instantly left the empty room in which he had been watching.
Passing down the back garden of the house, and crossing a narrow lane at the
bottom of it, he opened a gate in a low stone wall beyond, and entered the
church- yard. The shadowy figure of a man of great stature, lurking among the
graves, advanced to meet him. Midway in the dark and lonely place the two
stopped and consulted together in whispers. Turlington spoke first.
"Have you taken up your quarters at the public-house in the village?"
