The farmer’s face clouded for a moment. “We could have spared him—ay. But what of it? Because a fool chooses to come home again, are we to go pulling fiddle-faces on a blithesome day like this? Hark ye, David, I’ll not bide a minute longer; there’s cheese and ale all waiting in the hedge-bottom yonder, and you’re going to share it with us.”
So David laid his trouble aside for the moment, and the four of them sat on the sunny hedge-bank, and said little until for the second or third time they took more cheese to help the butter out, or more bread to help the cheese out, or another pull of ale “to settle the lot trimly into place.”
“Wonderful March weather,” said the farmer, draining a last draught. “Near to April, and not a lamb-storm yet. ’Twill be twelve year since I remember such a spring.”
“Found a primrose fair in bloom this morn,” said one of the farm-men. “Wonderful weather, I’ll own, farmer—but what’s to come with April? Mistrust these easiful, quiet March-times myself.”
“Ah, get ye along!” cried Hirst. “Believe the best o’ the weather, I, and always did. They laugh at me in Shepston market—say I’m no true farmer, because I’ll not speak o’ the weather as if she were a jade for any man to mock at.”
There was a silence, while the men lay tranquilly against the bank and watched the blue sky trail her draperies of cool, white fleece across the west wind’s track.
“Reuben Gaunt is back, I’ve heard,” said one of the farm-hands presently. “Came last night, all unbeknownst-like, same fashion as he left, five years since.”
“There’ll be brisk times for the lasses, then,” put in his fellow drily.
Again the farmer’s face darkened for a moment. “’Tis work-time, lads, not gossip-time, and many a yard of hedge to fettle up before we get our suppers.”
“I’ll be getting to my own work, too,” said David, nodding his farewells and moving down the field.