slikeapalepageuponthechurchwall,andilluminesthekneelingfamilyintheniche,andthetabletsetupin1780totheSquireoftheparishwhorelievedthepoor,andbelievedinGod—sothemeasuredvoicegoesondownthemarblescroll,asthoughitcouldimposeitselfupontimeandtheopenair.
Nowafoxstealsoutfrombehindthegorsebushes.
Often,evenatnight,thechurchseemsfullofpeople.Thepewsarewornandgreasy,andthecassocksinplace,andthehymn-booksontheledges.Itisashipwithallitscrewaboard.Thetimbersstraintoholdthedeadandtheliving,theploughmen,thecarpenters,thefox-huntinggentlemenandthefarmerssmellingofmudandbrandy.Theirtonguesjointogetherinsyllablingthesharp-cutwords,whichforeversliceasundertimeandthebroad-backedmoors.Plaintandbeliefandelegy,despairandtriumph,butforthemostpartgoodsenseandjollyindifference,gotramplingoutofthewindowsanytimethesefivehundredyears.
Still,asMrs.Jarvissaid,steppingoutontothemoors,"Howquietitis!"Quietatmidday,exceptwhenthehuntscattersacrossitquietintheafternoon,saveforthedriftingsheepatnightthemoorisperfectlyquiet.
Agarnetbroochhasdroppedintoitsgrass.Afoxpadsstealthily.Aleafturnsonitsedge.Mrs.Jarvis,whoisfiftyyearsofage,reposesinthecampinthehazymoonlight.
"…and,"saidMrs.Flanders,straighteningherback,"InevercaredforMr.Parker."
"NeitherdidI,"saidMrs.Jarvis.Theybegantowalkhome.
Buttheirvoicesfloatedforalittleabovethecamp.Themoonlightdestroyednothing.Themooracceptedeverything.TomGagecriesaloudsolongashistombstoneendures.TheRomanskeletonsareinsafekeeping.BettyFlanders'sdarningneedlesaresafetooandhergarnetbrooch.Andsometimesatmidday,inthesunshine,themoorseemstohoardtheselittletreasures,likeanurse.Butatmidnightwhennoonespeaksorgallops,andthethorntreeisperfectlystill,itwouldbefoolishtovexthemoorwithquestions—what?andwhy?
Thechurchclock,however,strikestwelve.