But the old man shook his head peevishly. “Farm hand,” he managed to bring out. “Dig … dig.”
And then he lapsed into doggerel:
“Dig and delve, delve and dig,
Harness the mare to the farmer’s gig.”
Finally Master Nathaniel gave up trying to get any sense out of him and untethered his horse. But when he tried to mount, the old man seized the stirrup and looking up at him imploringly, repeated, “Dig … dig … dig.” And Master Nathaniel was obliged to shake him off with some roughness. And even after he had left him out of sight he could hear his voice in the distance, shouting, “Dig … dig.”
“I wonder what the old fellow was trying to tell me,” said Master Nathaniel to himself.
On the morning of the following day he arrived at the village of Swan-on-the-Dapple.
Here the drama of autumn had only just reached its gorgeous climax, and the yellow and scarlet trees were flaming out their silent stationary action against the changeless chorus of pines, dark green against the distant hills.
“By the Golden Apples of the West!” muttered Master Nathaniel, “I’d no idea those accursed hills were so near. I’m glad Ranulph’s safe away.”
Having inquired his way to the Gibbertys’ farm, he struck off the high road into the valley—and very lovely it was looking in its autumn colouring. The vintage was over, and the vines were now golden and red. Some of the narrow oblong leaves of the wild cherry had kept their bottle-green, while others, growing on the same twig, had turned to salmon-pink, and the mulberries alternated between canary-yellow and grass-green. The mountain ash had turned a fiery rose (more lovely, even, than had been its scarlet berries) and often an olive grew beside it, as if ready, lovingly, to quench its fire in its own tender grey. The birches twinkled and quivered, as if each branch were a golden divining rod trembling to secret water; and the path was strewn with olives, looking like black oblong dung. It was one of those mysterious autumn days that are intensely bright though the sun is hidden; and when one looked at these lambent trees one could almost fancy them the source of the light flooding the valley.
From time to time a tiny yellow butterfly would flit past, like a little yellow leaf shed by one of the birches; and now and then one of the bleeding, tortured looking liege-oaks would drop an acorn, with a little flop—just to remind you, as it were, that it was leading its own serene, vegetable life, oblivious to the agony ascribed to it by the fevered fancy of man.
Not a soul did Master Nathaniel pass after he had left the village, though from time to time he saw in the distance labourers following the plough through the vineyards, and their smocks provided the touch of blue that turns a picture into a story; there was blue smoke, too, to tell of human habitations; and an occasional cock strutting up and down in front of one of the red vines, like a salesman before his wares, flaunting, by way of advertisement, a crest of the same material as the vine leaves, but of a more brilliant hue; and in the distance were rushes, stuck up in sheaves to dry, and glimmering with the faint, whitish, pinky-grey of faraway fruit trees in blossom.
While, as if the eye had not enough to feed on in her own domain, the sounds, even, of the valley were pictorial—a tinkling of distant bells, conjuring up herds of goats; the ominous, melancholy roar which tells that somewhere a wagoner is goading on his oxen; and the distant bark of dogs that paints a picture of homesteads and sunny porches.
As Master Nathaniel jogged leisurely along, his thoughts turned to the farmer Gibberty, who many a time must have jogged along this path, in just such a way, and seen and heard the very same things that he was seeing and hearing now.
Yes, the farmer Gibberty had once been a real living man, like himself. And so had millions of others, whose names he had never heard. And one day he himself would be a prisoner, confined between the walls of other people’s memory. And then he would cease even to be that, and become nothing but a few words cut in stone. What would these words be, he wondered.
A sudden longing seized him to hold Ranulph again in his arms. How pleasant would have been the thought that he was waiting to receive him at the farm!
But he must be nearing his journey’s end, for in the distance he could discern the figure of a woman, leisurely scrubbing her washing on one of the sides of a stone trough.
“I wonder if that’s the widow,” thought Master Nathaniel. And a slight shiver went down his spine.
But as he came nearer the washerwoman proved to be quite a young girl.
He decided she must be the granddaughter, Hazel; and so she was.
He drew up his horse beside her and asked if this were the widow Gibberty’s farm.
“Yes, sir,” she answered shortly, with that half-frightened, half-defiant look that was so characteristic of her.
“Why, then, I’ve not been misdirected. But though they told me I’d find a thriving farm and a fine herd of cows, the fools forgot to mention that the farmer was a rose in petticoats,” and he winked jovially.
Now this was not Master Nathaniel’s ordinary manner with young ladies, which, as a matter of fact, was remarkably free from flirtatious facetiousness. But he had invented a role to play at the farm, and was already beginning to identify himself with it.
As it turned out, this opening compliment was a stroke of luck. For Hazel bitterly resented that she was not recognized as the lawful owner of the farm, and Master Nathaniel’s greeting of her as the farmer thawed her coldness into dimples.
“If you’ve come to see over the farm, I’m sure we’ll be very pleased to show you everything,” she said graciously.
“Thank’ee, thank’ee
