‘I see a green sunlit space, with the shadow of an old hawthorn upon it. And in the shadow I see two men kneeling, bareheaded, their faces turned up to the sky. And with all my heart I wish there were a third with them; but there is not another fit for such company, to my certain knowledge, within ten thousand miles.’
He seemed to weigh his reply before he uttered it. But:—
‘You’re a good fool,’ said he, ‘and I love you. And there were three there, nay! a Fourth,—all the time.’
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—’