They left talking of him by and by, as the ale began to warm them and frolic pressed for outlet. Little by little the Master lost his own cares in watching their rustic comedy played out; from time to time he smiled; and once, when Martha encouraged shepherd Jose too patently at the expense of Hiram, he laughed outright. Heretofore Wayne had been friendly with his servants in his own proud way; but to-night it was borne in upon him how like their betters, after all, were these rough-speeched folk. The same jealousies were theirs, the same under-fret of passion, veiled by banter or rude coquetry; and they, too, reared a score of stumbling-blocks, feigned or real, about the path of wedlock.
The night was wearing late meanwhile, and the farm-folk got to their feet at length and shuffled out by twos and threes—some to return to outlying farms or shepherds' huts far up the moor, others to less distant farms. Martha came to the gate to give them a God-speed, with Hiram Hey beside her, and it was long before the last shout of farewell died echoing up the moor.
Perhaps it was the ale he had drunk; perhaps it was Martha's flouting of him throughout the evening in favour of shepherd Jose; but for one cause or the other Hiram showed less than his wonted hesitation as he drew nearer to her in the moonlit yard. Their faces were turned sideways to the Master, and neither noted his quiet figure leaning against the wall.
"Martha, 'tis a drear house, this, I'm thinking," said Hiram.
"Ay, but it's all the roof I've getten."
"'Tis as full o' dead men's ghosts as it can hod, an' nobbut to-neet there war one more ligged quiet beside th' gate, as if th' owd place fare went hungering for bloodshed an' sudden death."
"Well, Hiram?"
He pointed down the fields to where, in a snug-sheltered hollow, the gable-end of his own farm climbed up into the moon-mists.
"Yond's a likelier spot, an' quieter, for a wench," he said.
"Sakes, Hiram! Tha'rt noan so backard-like i' coming forrard, when all's said."