Produced by Al Haines
1912
It was an August evening, still and cloudy after a day unusually chillyfor the time of year. Now, about sunset, the temperature was warmerthan it had been in the morning, and the departing sun was forcing itsway through the clouds, breaking up their level masses into delicatelattice-work of golds and greys. The last radiant light was on thewheat-fields under the hill, and on the long chalk hill itself.Against that glowing background lay the village, already engulfed bythe advancing shadow. All the nearer trees, which the daylight hadmingled in one green monotony, stood out sharp and distinct, each inits own plane, against the hill. Each natural object seemed to gain anew accent, a more individual beauty, from the vanishing and yetlingering sunlight.
An elderly labourer was walking along the road which led to thevillage. To his right lay the allotment gardens just beginning to bealive with figures, and the voices of men and children. Beyond them,far ahead, rose the square tower of the church; to his left was thehill, and straight in front of him the village, with its veils of smokelightly brushed over the trees, and its lines of cottages climbing thechalk steeps behind it. His eye as he walked took in a number of suchfacts as life had trained it to notice. Once he stopped to bend over afence, to pluck a stalk or two of oats. He examined them carefully;then he threw back his head and sniffed the air, looking all round thesky meanwhile. Yes, the season had been late and harsh, but the fineweather was coming at last. Two or three days' warmth now would ripeneven the oats, let alone the wheat.
Well, he was glad. He wanted the harvest over. It would, perhaps, behis last harvest at Clinton Magna, where he had worked, man and boy,for fifty-six years come Michaelmas. His last harvest! A curiouspleasure stirred the man's veins as he thought of it, a pleasure inexpected change, which seemed to bring back the pulse of youth, toloosen a little the yoke at those iron years that had perforce aged andbent him; though, for sixty-two, he was still hale and strong.
Things had all come together. Here was "Muster" Hill, the farmer hehad worked for these seventeen years, dying of a sudden, with acarbuncle on the neck, and the farm to be given up at Michaelmas.He—John Bolderfield—had been working on for the widow; but, in hisopinion, she was "nobbut a caselty sort of body," and the sooner sheand her children were taken off to Barnet, where they were to live withher mother, the less she'd cost them as had the looking after her. Asfor the crops, they wouldn't pay the debts; not they. And there was noone after the farm—"nary one"—and didn't seem like to be. That wouldmake another farm on Muster Forrest's hands. Well, and a good job.Landlords must be "took down"; and there was plenty of work going onthe railway just now for those that were turned off.
He was too old for the railway, though, and he might have found it hardto get fresh work if he had been staying at Clinton. But he was notstaying. Poor Eliza wouldn't last more than a few days; a week or twoat most, and he was not going to keep on the cottage after he'd buriedher.
Aye, poor Eliza! She was his