“Let’s say there’ll be good grazing by and by, and that’s something to be thankful for, before the winter drives the beasts indoors.”
Gaunt was shy of his fellow men, remembering past coldness; but with Cilla’s father he was himself. The yeoman’s big, hearty outlook on the world inspired confidence in all who met him; his friendship, not to be bought at a price, was counted a privilege; moreover, he was master of the house that sheltered Cilla.
They rode into Shepston together, and stabled at the same inn; and Hirst, before he went about his business, turned to Reuben.
“We might as well jog home in company, we,” he said. “What time d’ye start out for Garth?”
“Four o’ the clock, or thereabouts.”
“Well, we can meet here, then. I shall have done by that time and a lonely ride does no man good, they say.”
They rode home together through the enchanted land. Old tradition told of witchcraft here in Strathgarth Dale. Witchcraft there was, of a kindly sort, and it came from the hills that raked the sky, the hollows that caught the farewell music of the day, and softened it, and went unwillingly to bed, to dream of fairies’ songs. The farmers who lived in amongst this glamour said little about it; they were scarcely conscious that they saw it, for they seldom asked themselves any question that intruded into the day’s work; but the beauty at their hills and hollows, the music of their gloaming, were as real an influence in their lives as the breath o’ God that stirred their acres into life.
“A grand evening,” was all that Yeoman Hirst found to say.
“Ay, grand,” Reuben answered.
They came to the door of Good Intent. “Ye’ll step in, and drink a cup o’ tea?” said Hirst.