Part 17 (1/2)
Ambrose bent his head, silently.
”When wur't?”
”Last simmar-time, i' th' aftermath.”
”It were a ston' as killed him?”
”Ay,” said Ambrose, softly shading his eyes with his hand from the sun that streamed through the aisles of pine.
”How wur't?”
”They was a blastin'. He'd allus thoct as he'd dee that way, you know.
They pit mair pooder i' quarry than common; and the ston' it split, and roared, and crackit, wi' a noise like tha crack o' doom. And one bit on 't, big as ox, were shot i' th' air, an' fell, unlookit for like, and dang him tew the groun', and crus.h.i.+t him,--a-lyin' richt athwart his brist.”
”An' they couldna stir it?”
”They couldna. I heerd tha other min screech richt tew here, an' I knew what it wur, tha shrill screech comin' jist i' top o' tha blastin' roar; an' I ran, an' ran--na gaze-hound fleeter. An' we couldna raise it--me an' Tam, an' Job, an' Gideon o' the Mere, an' Moses Legh o' Wissen Edge, a' strong min and i' our prime. We couldna stir it, till Moses o' Wissen Edge he thoct o' pittin' fir-poles underneath--poles as was sharp an'
slim i' thur ends, an' stout an' hard further down. Whin tha poles was weel thrust under we heaved, an' heaved, an' heaved, and got it slanted o' one side, and drawed him out; an' thin it were too late, too late! A'
tha brist was crus.h.i.+t in--frushed flesh and bone together. He jist muttered i' his throat, 'Tha little la.s.s, tha little la.s.s!' and then he turned him on his side, and hid his face upo' the sod. When we raised him he wur dead.”
The voice of Ambrose sank very low; and where he leaned over his smithy door the tears fell slowly down his sun-bronzed cheeks.
”Alack a day!” sighed Daffe, softly. ”Sure a better un niver drew breath i' the varsal world!”
”An' that's trew,” Ambrose made answer, his voice hushed and very tender.
”He was varra changed like,” murmured Daffe, his hand wandering amongst the golden blossoms of the stonecrop. ”He niver were the same crittur arter the la.s.s went awa'. He niver were the same--niver. Ta seemed tew mak an auld man o' him a' at once.”
”It did,” said Ambrose, brokenly. ”He couldna bear tew look na tew spik to nane o' us. He were bent i' body, an' gray o' head, that awfu' night when he kem back fra' the waking. It were fearfu' tew see; and we couldna dew naught. Th' ony thing as he'd take tew were Trust.”
”Be dog alive?”
”Na. Trust he'd never quit o' Ben's grave. He wouldna take bit na drop.
He wouldna be touchit; not whin he was clem would he be tempted awa'.
And he died--jist tha fifth day arter his master.”
”An' the wench? Hev' 'ee e'er heerd on her?”
”Niver--niver. Mappen she's dead and gone tew. She broke Ben's heart for sure; long ere tha ston' crus.h.i.+t life out o't.”
”And wheer may he lie?”
Ambrose clenched his brawny hand, his eyes darkened, his swarthy face flushed duskily.
”Wheer? What think 'ee, Daffe? When we took o' him up for the burial, ta tha church ower theer beyant tha wood, the pa.s.son he stoppit us, a' tha gate of tha buryin' field. The pa.s.son he med long words, and sed as how a unb'liever sud niver rest i' blessed groun', sin he willna iver enter into the sight o' tha Lord. He sed as how Ben were black o' heart and wicked o' mind, an' niver set fute i' church-door, and niver ate o' tha sacrament bread, and niver not thocht o' G.o.d nor o' Devil; an' he wouldna say tha rites o'er him an' 'twere iver so, an' he wouldna let him lie i' tha holy earth, nor i' tha pale o' tha graveyard. Well, we couldna gae agin him--we poor min, an' he a squire and pa.s.son tew. Sae we took him back, five weary mile; and we brocht him here, and we dug his grave under them pines, and we pit a cross o' tha bark to mark the place, and we laid old Trust, when he died, by his side. I were mad with grief like, thin; it were awfu' ta ha' him forbad Christian burial.”
”Dew it matter?” asked the gentle Daffe, wistfully. He had never been within church-doors himself.