The wind blew in droning gusts, swishing in the corn, and fiddling in the boughs of Forges Wood. Dead leaves began to fly out of the wood, the threat of autumn. The men’s shirts blew against their skins, and the women’s skirts flew out; the colours of the field grew dim—the corn was white, the wood and the hedges were grey—only the clothes of the harvesters stood out in smudges of pink and blue. Then suddenly rain began to squirt down out of a black smeary sky like charcoal—the wind screamed, almost flattening the few last rods. No one spoke, for no voice could be heard above the howling of the wind. Rabbits began to pop out of the corn, but there were no hunting dogs, no shouting groups from the cottages come out to see the fun. When the last sickleful had been cut, and the reaper stood still, with old Juglery asleep on the seat, the harvesters picked up their coats and pulled down their sleeves without a word.
They were wet through—the muscles of the men’s bodies showed through their clinging shirts and the women were wringing their gowns. But the Sunk Field was reaped and Harry’s harvest saved. He had won his battle against his own ignorance, his father’s indifference, and the earth’s treacheries. He had vindicated his daring, and he would never know how small was the thing he had done—a few scrubby acres sown and reaped, a few mean quarters of indifferent grain gathered in—he would never hear Sergeant Staples say to Sergeant Speed of the North-West Provinces that he had spent a slack afternoon cutting mustard and cress with a pocket-knife.
Food was waiting up at the farm, with Thyrza Beatup, who, for obvious reasons now, had been unable to help with the harvest, but had done her best by contributing her entire stock of tinned salmon to the harvest-supper. The party began to move off, Mr. Poullett-Smith wrapping his coat over Nell’s shoulders with hands that perhaps strayed a little to touch her neck. Only Mr. Sumption was left, standing upright and stockish on the rise of the field, a huge black shape against the sky.
“Come along, Mus’ Sumption,” called Ivy, “and git a nice tea-supper. Thur’s tinned salmon and a caake.”
Mr. Sumption’s voice came to them on the scream of the wind—
“Shall I go without thanking the Lord of the Harvest for His mercies in allowing us to gather in the fruits of the earth on the Sabbath Day?”
“He’s praying,” said Nell, with a shiver of disgust in her voice.
The curate bit his lip.
“He’s perfectly right,” he said, and going up to the minister, he knelt down in the stubble. The others huddled in a sheepish group by the gate. Mr. Sumption’s prayer was blown over their heads, washed into the woods on the rain, but they could hear the groan of his big voice in the wind, and here and there a word of his familiar prayer-vocabulary.... “Lord ... day ... oven ... wicked ... righteous ... Satan ... save ... forgive.... Amen.”