For Jabez was the leader of the choir. “Nash!” cried a stern voice, and the clerk jumped and tore his hat off at the sound. “Catch those boys!”
It was Squire Thorpe, whose magisterial eye had at once detected the youthful gamblers behind the buttress. Nash rushed towards them; but they had scented the Squire’s arrival, and dodged him round the big tombstones. Thorpe turned to the two farmers, who lifted their hats.
“Grass coming on nicely, Hedges,” said he. “Ought to be a good hay year.”
The Squire was as fond of gossip as any man in the parish; but he was rather late that morning; for he had hardly taken his stand by the wall when the “dill-dill” of the bell came to a sudden stop. The two gentlemen who had gone out into the field returned at a run.
“Ah, here you are!” said the Squire; and the three walked rapidly to the chancel door.
Ruck and Hedges, however, showed no signs of moving. A low hum arose from the hand-organ within; still they leant on the wall, deferring action to the last moment.
The sound of voices—the speakers clearly almost out of breath, but none the less talking—approached the wicket-gate, and three bonnets appeared above the wall there.
“It be the Greene Ferne folk,” said Hedges. “Measter Newton and t’other chap was too much in a hurry.”
Three ladies—two young and one middle-aged—entered the churchyard. The taller of the two girls left the path, and ran to a tomb inclosed with low iron railings. She carried a whole armful of spring flowers, gathered in the meadows and copses en route, bluebells and cowslips chiefly, and threw them broadcast on the grave.
“Miss Margaret don’t forget her feyther,” said Hedges.