III
In winter-time, ‘when nights are dark and ways be foul,’ I can conceive of no pleasanter aspect of village life at any season than the indoor, fireside one; but when the long radiant August evenings are here, there is equally no other time for me. More and more, with every year that glides by, life in Windlecombe at this season seems to focus itself round the Seven Sisters’ trees upon the green. All the summer day through, the old folk gather there; and always a low murmur of voices comes drifting up to my window from their garrulous company. But it is after the day’s work is done, and all, able or disable, are free for recreation, that the true life of the place begins.
There is something about the ease-taking of men physically tired after a long day’s work in fresh air and sunshine, that fascinates one who is only mind-weary, and that alone from much chaffering with pen and ink. Though you have but cramped limbs to stretch out over the green sward, and, by comparison, but a torpid, attenuated flow in your veins, somewhat of your neighbour’s healthful, dog-tired humour over-brims upon you; and after a pipe or two, and an hour’s slow desultory chat, you can almost forget the tang of the study, the reek of old leather burdening imprisoned air, and congratulate yourself on a man’s work manfully done, albeit vicariously—the day-long tussle with the good earth, mammoth ‘nunches’ and ‘eleveners’ devoured under hedgerows, a shirt a score of times soused with honest sweat, and as many dried by the thirsty harvest sun.
All the old Windlecombe faces were there to-night under the drooping pine boughs, and most of the middle-aged ones. The younger men and boys were down on the Mead at cricket practice, and there they would stay as long as a glimmer of daylight remained in the sky. But the sun had still a fathom to go before it would lie, red and lusty, caught in the toils of the far-off Stavisham hills. I evaded with what grace I could the cake of ship’s tobacco held out to me by Captain Stallwood, accepting as fair compromise a charge from the tin box of old Tom Clemmer, his dearest friend. Gradually the talk got back to the point where my coming had intersected it.
‘’Tis trew,’ said the Captain now, ‘trew as I sets here on a plank o’ th’ ould King, as ye cut an’ shaped yersel’, Dan’l.’
I followed his glance round the circle of benches. There was not a head among the company but was wagging dubiously. Old Daniel Dray’s face was an incredulous, a horrified blank.
‘What!’ said he, ‘a human critter swaller seventeen live—’
‘I seed it,’ interrupted the Captain, pointing his pipe-stem solemnly at us for emphasis, ‘I seed it wi’ my own pair o’ eyes. Little lirrupy green chaps, they was, all hoppin’ an’ somersettin’ i’ th’ baasket. An’ th’ blackamoor, ’a putts ’a’s mouth to th’ lip o’ it, an’ “hap! hap!” sez he, an’ every time ’a sez it, wan o’ ’em jumps in. An’ when they was all down, ’a gies a sort o’ gruggle, an’ skews ’a’s head ower th’ baasket, an’ “hap! hap!” sez he agen, an’ every time ’a sez it, out pops— But there! ’tis no sense tellin’ ye! Folks sees naun o’ th’ wureld i’ little small village places, an’ an’t got no believes.’
He was silent a while, then brought out a tobacco-box like a brass halfpenny bun, and held it up to the common view. It was old and battered, and had certain initials scratched on the lid. The Captain fingered it in mournful reminiscence.
‘Lookee now,’ he said, ‘I doan’t rightly know as I ever telled ye. “G.B.” That bean’t Tom Stall’ard, be ut? Ah! No, sez all on ye, ready enow. ’Twur George’s, ould George Budgen as— Dan’l, what year war’t as I went aff to sea?’
Daniel Dray’s lips moved in silent calculation.
‘Seventy-three belike, or maybe seventy-four, ’cause ye’d been gone, Joe, a year afore Harker’s coo slipped the five-legged heifer, an’ that wur—’
‘Ay! trew, Dan’l. An’ George Budgen, ’a wur shipmate along o’ me purty soon arter I gooed away. Well: an’ this here baccy-box—th’ least time as I seed ut i’ George’s haand, ’a took a fill out av ut, jest afore ’a went on watch. An’ ut come on to blaw that night—Gorm! how ’t did blaw! An’ rain, not aarf! An’ i’ th’ marnin’ never a sign o’ pore George Budgen to be seen! Well now, full a fortnit arter that, what ’ud we do but ketch a gurt thresher on a trail-line, an’ inside o’ th’ crittur what ’ud we find but a halibut, big as a tay-tray, all alive an’ lippin’, ’a wur. Sez th’ cappen—I wur ship’s-boy then—“Joe,” sez he, “git an’ clane un, an’ I’ll ha’ un fer me supper,” ’a sez. Now then, Dan’l, ye’ll never believe ut, but trew as ye sets there, clink goes my knife agen summut inside o’ th’ halibut, an’—’
‘Goo on, Stallard!’
‘He, he! We all knaws what be acomin’, cap’n!’
‘An’ there wur—ah! but ye’ll ne’er believe ut, not if ye was Jonah hisself—there, inside o’ th’ halibut wur a gurt rusty hook as— What-say, Dan’l?’
‘Doan’t ’ee say ut agen, Dan’l! You a reg’lar prayers-gooer, too!’
The Captain filled his pipe from the box, tragically ruminating in the silence that followed.
‘Ah! pore George Budgen! ’A little knowed as ’twould be th’ laast time as ’a ’d pass his tobaccer-box to a friend!’
The sun had long set, and the dusk was creeping up apace. Here and there in the shadowy length of the street, lights were beginning to break out.
Where we sat under the dense canopy of pine-boughs, night had already asserted itself, and to one another we were little more than an arc of glowing pipe-bowls. Old Stallwood chuckled richly from his corner. A sort of inspiration of mendacity seemed to have come over him to-night.
‘But Lor’ bless ye!’ he went on, ‘that bean’t nauthin’!—not when ye’ve been five-an’-thirty year at sea. I knowed a man wanst as worked in a steam sawmill way over in Amurricky somewheres; an’ what did ’a do wan fine marnin’ but get hisself sawed i’ two pieces; an’ wan piece died—th’ doctor cud do nought to save ut. But t’other piece kep’ alive for ten year arterwards—ah! an’ did a man’s work every day!’
Old Daniel bounced to his feet. He breathed hard for a full half-minute.
‘Joe Stall’ard!’ he said at last, severely, ‘shame on ye fer a reg’lar, hout-an’-hout, ould leear! A man cut in two? An’ lived ten year arter—leastways th’ wan part o’ him? Fer shame, Joe! ’Tis traipsin’ about i’ all they heathen countries, I reckons, as has spiled ye! Ah, well, well-a-day! There they be, lightin’ up at th’ Thatchers! Coom along, Tom Clemmer!’
Three squares of red shone out amidst the twinkling dust of the street, denoting the curtained windows of the inn. It was the signal for which all had been waiting, and a general stir took place in the assembly. At length none remained about me but the old seaman. He had said nothing while the dismemberment of the group was in progress, but had sat shaking in silent merriment. Now he, too, got slowly to his feet.
‘’Tis wunnerful,’ he observed, moving away, ‘real onaccountable, th’ little simple things as some folks wunt b’lieve. There be a thing now, as—’
But this story of partitioned, yet still living humanity, even though it came from America, was too much also for me; and I told him so. He stopped in his easy saunter towards the inn.
‘’Tis trew!’ he averred as stoutly as ever. His rich, oily chuckle came over to me through the darkness. ‘Mind ye! I didn’t say as th’ man wur sawed into two ekal parts: ’twur but th’ thumb av him as wur taken off. Belike I’ll jest step acrost to th’ Thatchers now, an’ tell that to Dan’l.’