“Ay, poor theng,” said Jane, “thuck ould varmint ground the life out of her. A’wuver the picter be zet in gould; we med as well have un.”
“A’ wish us could take zum on these yer veather beds,” said the other. “Couldn’t you and I car um zumhow?”
“Us could shove one in a box,” said Jane, “and tell the miller to zend un in his cart. He wouldn’t knaw, doan’t ee zee?” They actually carried this idea into execution, and sent the miller’s cart off with the feather bed. Probably, in all their days, the two old hags had never so thoroughly enjoyed themselves as when thus turning everything upside-down, and rioting at their will. It was a curious fact that not for one moment did they reflect that detection must of necessity quickly follow. They had lived all their lives in the narrow boundary of the lonely hill-parish, and the force of habit made all beyond seem so distant that, if they could but once escape out of the hamlet, they did not doubt they would be safe. At last, seeing nothing else they could lay hands on, they came down into the great parlour just before sunset, and heard the tramp of the wearyful women approaching.
“We’d better go now,” said the nurse. “What had us better do with he?” jerking her thumb towards the senseless clay in the beehive chair.
“Aw, thur bean’t no call to move un,” said Jane; “let un bide. Nobody won’t knaw as a’ be dead vor a day or two. Come on, you,”—making for the back-door.
The wearyful women as they passed the window had curtseyed to the dead. The luminous sunset, filling the chamber with its magical glamour, had lit up the cold, drawn features with a rosy glow. But the dimmed eyeball had not seen the flames of that conflagration sweeping up from the west:—
Dies irae, dies illa.
The wrath, long withheld, must come at last.
“I fear there has been robbery here,” said Felix, as, with the shepherd, he re-entered the gloomy house.
“It do seem zo; the things be drowed about mainly. A’wuver it sarves un right.”