CHAPTER ELEVEN
關燈
小
中
大
rswasstoopingdowntopickupapebble.Sometimespeopledofindthings,Mrs.Jarvisthought,andyetinthishazymoonlightitwasimpossibletoseeanything,exceptbones,andlittlepiecesofchalk.
"Jacobboughtitwithhisownmoney,andthenIbroughtMr.Parkeruptoseetheview,anditmusthavedropped—"Mrs.Flandersmurmured.
Didthebonesstir,ortherustyswords?WasMrs.Flanders'stwopenny-halfpennybroochforeverpartoftherichaccumulation?andifalltheghostsflockedthickandrubbedshoulderswithMrs.Flandersinthecircle,wouldshenothaveseemedperfectlyinherplace,aliveEnglishmatron,growingstout?
Theclockstruckthequarter.
Thefrailwavesofsoundbrokeamongthestiffgorseandthehawthorntwigsasthechurchclockdividedtimeintoquarters.
Motionlessandbroad-backedthemoorsreceivedthestatement"Itisfifteenminutespastthehour,"butmadenoanswer,unlessabramblestirred.
Yeteveninthislightthelegendsonthetombstonescouldberead,briefvoicessaying,"IamBerthaRuck,""IamTomGage."Andtheysaywhichdayoftheyeartheydied,andtheNewTestamentsayssomethingforthem,veryproud,veryemphatic,orconsoling.
Themoorsacceptallthattoo.
Themoonlightfallslikeapalepageuponthechurchwall,andilluminesthekneelingfamilyintheniche,andthetabletsetupin1780totheSquireoftheparishwhorelievedthepoor,andbelievedinGod—sothemeasuredvoicegoesondownthemarblescroll,asthoughitcouldimposeitselfupontimeandtheopenair.
Nowafoxstealsoutfrombehindthegorsebushes.
Often,evenatnight,thechurchseemsfullofpeople.Thepewsarewornandgreasy,andthecassocksinplace,andthehymn-booksontheledges.Itisashipwithallitscrewaboard.Thetimbersstraintoholdthedeadandtheliving,theploughmen,thecarpenters,thefox-huntinggentlemenandthefarmerssmellingofmudandbrandy.Theirtonguesjointogetherinsyllablingthesharp-cutwords,whichforeversliceasundertimeandthebroad-backedmoors.Plaintandbeliefandelegy,despairandtriumph,butforthemostpartgoodsenseandjollyindifference,gotramplingoutofthewindowsanytimethesefivehundredyears.
Still,asMrs.Jarvissaid,steppingoutontothemoors,"Howquietitis!"Quietatmidday,exceptwhenthehuntscattersacrossitquietintheafternoon,saveforthedriftingsheepatnightthemoorisperfectlyquiet.
Agarnetbroochhasdroppedintoitsgrass.Afoxpadsstealthily.Aleafturnsonitsedge.Mrs.Jarvis,whoisfiftyyearsofage,reposesinthecampinthehazymoonlight.
"…and,"saidMrs.Flanders,straighteningherback,"InevercaredforMr.Parker."
"NeitherdidI,"saidMrs.Jarvis.Theybegantowalkhome.
Buttheirvoicesfloatedforalittleabovethecamp.Themoonlightdestroyednothing.Themooracceptedeverything.TomGagecriesaloudsolongashistombstoneendures.TheRomanskeletonsareinsafekeeping.BettyFlanders'sdarningneedlesaresafetooandhergarnetbrooch.Andsometimesatmidday,inthesunshine,themoorseemstohoardtheselittletreasures,likeanurse.Butatmidnightwhennoonespeaksorgallops,andthethorntreeisperfectlystill,itwouldbefoolishtovexthemoorwithquestions—what?andwhy?
Thechurchclock,however,strikestwelve.
