Tummas: Aw, wooll ee?
Rause: Eez, ee wooll.
Tummas: Bist a-goin to haymaking to year?
Rause: Eez, in the Voremeads to-morrer.
Tummas: Zum on um means to gie out and axe for a crownd more. Gwain to strike, doan’t ee zee?
Rause: A passel o’ fools.
Tummas: Arl on um ull join. They be going to begin at Mrs. Estcourt’s vust down to Greene Ferne. Her be sure to gie in to um, cos her’s a ’ooman.
Rause: Odd drot um!
Tummas: I zay, Rause.
Rause: Eez, you.
Tummas: When be we a-goin to do it?
Rause: What dost mean?
Tummas: Up to church.
Rause: Thee axe Bob vust—he’ll mash thee.
Tummas: I’ll warm his jacket ef he puts a vinger on ee. Let’s go up to paason.
Rause: Get on with thee.
Geoffrey heard a sound of struggling and two or three resonant kisses.
Tummas: Wooll ee come?
Rause: Go on whoam with thee.
Tummas: Danged ef I’ll stand it! I wunt axe thee no more! Look ee here!
Rause: What’s want?
Tummas: Woot, or wootn’t?
Off went Rause at a run, and Tummas clattering after. Thought the listener, “Was ever the important question put in straighter terms? Woot, or wootn’t? Will you, or won’t you?”
Tu-whit—tu-what! Steadily the scythe was swung, and the swathe fell in rows behind it.
III
The Nether Millstone
The huge waterwheel in the mill by Warren House went slowly round and round, grinding the corn. The ancient walls of the mill trembled under the ponderous motion, trembled but stood firm, as they had for centuries; so well did the monks see that their workmen mixed their mortar and dressed their stone in the days of the old world. A dull rumbling sound came from the chinks in the boarding that sheltered the wheel from the weather; a sound that could only be caused by an enormous mass in movement. Looking through into the semidarkness, a heaving monster, black and direful, rolled continually past, threatening, as it seemed, to crush the life out of those who ventured within reach, as the stones within crushed form and shape out of the yellow wheat—the individual grain ground into the general powder. Yet the helpless corn by degrees wore away the solid adamant of its oppressor. Under the bowed apple-tree, clothed with moss, hard by, stood a millstone, grey and discoloured by the weather, thus rendered useless by the very corn it had so relentlessly annihilated.
Old Andrew Fisher sat at the mullioned western window of the house that stood higher up above the millpond, listening drowsily to the distant clack of the hopper. The mill, the manor-house, and many hundred fair acres of meadow and ploughed land and sheepwalk on the Down behind were his, and had been his forefathers’ down from the days of the last Harry. More than one fair fortune had the mill ground out for them in the generations past; money—accumulated coin by coin, like the grains that together fill the bushel—accumulated by one and dissipated by the next. If report spoke truly, still another fortune had slowly piled itself up in Andrew’s withered hand—weak in its grasp on his staff, but firm in its grasp on gold. Rich as he was known to be, he lived in the rude old way, spoke in the old rude tongue, and seemingly thought the old rude thought. His beehive chair was drawn up close to the open window, so that the light air of the hot summer afternoon might wander in and refresh him.
High up in the cloudless azure, the swift, extending his wings like a black crescent, slid to and fro; the swallows, mere white specks in the dizzy blue, wheeled in ceaseless circles.
For ninety seasons, as man and boy—for three generations of thirty years each—had Andrew looked from that window. There he played in his childhood; there he rested from his labours in the time of manhood; there he sat in his old age. The deep gashes he had made with his first boy’s clasp-knife still showed in the edge of the oaken window-seat. They were cut when the First Napoleon was winning his earlier victories. There on the seat he had drummed with his knuckles—one heavy knock with the left hand, then two with the right in quick succession, and an inch apart on the board to change the sound, imitating the noise of the mill. Thence he had noted the changing seasons and the cycle of the years.
Ninety times the snowdrop had hung her white flower under the sheltering wall. For ninety springs the corncrake’s monotonous cry had resounded in the mowing-grass. The cuckoo came and went; the swallows sailed for the golden sands of the south; the leaves, brown and orange and crimson, dropped and died; the plover whistled over the uplands; the rain beat with pitiless fury against the pane, and swept before the howling blast along the fallow, ninety times.
Hard as his own nether millstone was the heart of Andrew Fisher. The green buds of spring, the flowers of summer, the fruits of autumn, the dead leaves of winter—all the beauty and the glory of nigh on a century touched him not. Unchanged at heart still, like the everlasting hills around him. But even they bear flowers—ling, loved by the bees, and thyme.
As flower and bird and leaf came and went, so the strong men with whom he had battled in his rude youth flitted away one by one to the meads of asphodel, but did not return in the spring. The carter whom he had partly blinded by a blow from his whip-handle, which injured an eyeball; the ploughboy he rode over and lamed; the fogger whose leg he broke with a kick in the old, old days, when brute force ruled irresponsibly on the wild hills—they slept peacefully under the greensward and the daisy. No more their weary bones would ache in the rain and snow; no more their teeth would grind the hard crust of toil. So, too, the old boon companions dropped away. Squire Thorpe—not the present, but the
