"Well, I'll be bidding thee good-day, Jonas," said the Sexton, turning down to the shed. "I mun put th' broom away, for I doan't like to see more tools about a kirkyard nor need be; an' then I'll turn up a two-three worms for th' robin. He allus looks on at a burying, does redbreast, an' I like to think he'll be well lined i' th' innards—it makes a burying more pleasurable, like."
Jonas, after nodding a farewell to the Sexton, sauntered down to his tavern, his hands in his pockets, as if there were ample time for everything in this world; and, though he would bestir the maids presently with a rough hand and a rougher tongue, he saw no cause to hurry.
"Hast been to hev a look at th' vault, Jonas?" said a farmer from over Wildwater way, who was just going in for a mug of ale as the landlord entered.
"Ay. All's ship-shape, an' as neat as a basket of eggs. We shall see a big stir, I reckon."
"A bigger stir nor ye think for, mebbe," said the other. "What dost mean, lad?"
"Nay, I can't rightly say—only that when I war crossing th' moor ower by Wildwater a while back, I see'd a band o' Ryecollar Ratcliffes come riding up to th' Lean Man's door. Their sword-belts were noan empty, awther, an' they war laughing."
"Laughing, war they? There's a saying that when a Ratcliffe laughs, there'll be wark for th' Sexton. How mony strong wod they be, like?"
"Six or seven, so far as I could reckon 'em up."
"Ay, it looks bad—it looks bad, an' I'm noan for denying it. Owd Witherlee war cracking o' summat o' th' sort, too, not mony minutes sin'. Well, there's none i' th' moorside but what wishes well to th' Waynes, if it come to a tussle—though I wodn't hev th' Lean Man hear me say 't."
The folk were gathering meanwhile in the graveyard. Some came in by the gate at the village end, others by the wicket that opened on the moor. All wore the air of sober merriment which a burying never fails to bring to the faces of the moor-folk; all clustered about the vault, and chattered like so many magpies, and turned to ask Sexton Witherlee, when he came from feeding his robin, a hundred silly questions as to the disposal of the coffins. These were holiday times for the moorside, and their real sorrow for the sturdy, upright master of Marsh House served only to add a more subtle edge to their enjoyment.