Greene Ferne Farm

“Fine growing marning, you.”

“Ay, casualty weather, though.”

Ding⁠—ding⁠—dill! Dill⁠—ding⁠—dill! This last was the cracked bell of the village church ringing “to service.” The speakers were two farmers, who, after exchanging greeting, leant against the churchyard wall, and looked over, as they had done every fine-weather Sunday this thirty years. So regular was this pressure, that the moss which covered the coping-stones elsewhere was absent from the spot where they placed their arms. On the other side of the wall, and on somewhat lower ground, was a pigsty, beyond that a cow-yard, then a barn and some ricks. “Casualty,” used in connection with weather, means uncertain. Mr. Hedges, the taller of the two men, stooped a good deal; he wore a suit of black, topped, however, by a billycock. Mr. Ruck, very big and burly, was shaped something like one of his own mangolds turned upside-down: that is to say, as the glance ran over his figure, beginning at the head, it had to take in a swelling outline as it proceeded lower. He was clad in a snowy-white smock-frock, breeches and gaiters, and glossy beaver hat.

This costume had a hieroglyphic meaning. The showy smock-frock intimated that he had risen from lowly estate, and was proud of the fact. The breeches and gaiters gave him an air of respectable antiquity in itself equivalent to a certain standing.

After awhile oak and elm gave place to black and gloomy firs that hung over and darkened the water. Large flecks of grey lichen clung to them, and from above a red squirrel peered down. Here the thick branches forced his steps aside from the stream, and out among the ashpoles where the wood-pigeons built their nests, and in the strength of their love looked down upon him fearlessly from their feeble platforms of twigs. Under an ash-stole he saw a rare plant growing, and stooped and went on his knees to reach it, and so pushed aside the thick boughs, and, as it were, looked through a screen, and his heart gave a great bound.

There was a narrow space clear of wood, where a green footpath little used went by, and a large, gnarled, crooked-grown ash-stole opposite, forming a natural armchair, well lined with soft dry moss, and canopied overhead with leafy branches, drooping woodbine, and climbing briar, whose roses would soon bloom. The brake fern, young yet and tender, rose up and gave itself for her footstool⁠—for Margaret sat there, leaning back luxuriously in her woodland throne. He thought she must have heard the rustling of the boughs he had parted, and kept still as an Indian hunter, holding his breath for fear lest she should see him thus spying. A minute passed, and there was no motion; then he saw that her right arm hung down listlessly⁠—that the head leaned a little to one

“Let un bide.”

Felix St. Bees came into the room. He had ridden up to ask for the hand of May, his darling. It was not a reception to encourage a lover.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Felix.

“Arternoon to ee.” To Jane, “Who be it?”

“Dunno.”

“What’s your wull wi’ I?”

“I want a little private conversation with you, sir.”

“Get out, you!” to the ancient hag, who reluctantly walked from the room, but left the door ajar.

“Wull ee shut the door?”

Felix went and closed it. “This is a fine old house,” he began, trying to get en rapport before opening his mission.

“Aw, eez.”

“And a beautiful view.”

“Mebbe.”

“You have had great experience of life, sir.”

“Likely zo.”

Andrew had had a good education in his youth, but lapsed two generations ago into broad provincialism. Now it had got about (as such things will) that Andrew was backing Val Browne’s dark horse heavily, and May was anxious about her grandfather’s intercourse with the trainer, who, except in his employer’s eyes, was far from perfect. She dreaded lest he should be cheated and lose the money⁠—not so much for the sake of the amount, but because at his age and with his terrible temper it was impossible to say what effect it might have upon his health. So Felix, as a clergyman, wished to warn the aged man; but a little nervous (as might be pardoned under the circumstances) he did not, perhaps, go about it the right way.

“And you have seen, sir, how uncertain everything is⁠—even the crops.”

“Wheat be vine to year.”

“Well, even your mill-wheel stops sometimes from accidents, I suppose.”

“Aw, a’ reckon ull last my time. Wull ee drenk?”

Suddenly the hare rose, elevated his ears⁠—Geoffrey could see the nostrils working⁠—and then, with one thrust as it were of his lean flanks, flung himself into the wood. The grey ceased feeding, raised his head, and listened. In a few moments came the slow thud of hoofs walking. From behind the bushes Geoffrey watched the bend of the track. Then the sweet voice he knew so well floated towards him. Margaret was singing, little thinking anyone was near:

“And as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and dry, She sat her down upon a green bank, And her true love came riding by.”

Her chestnut whinnied, seeing the other horse on turning the corner.

“Margaret!”

“Sir!” blushing, and resentful that he should have surprised her. She had been thinking of him. She felt as though he had caught her and discovered her secret. She instantly took refuge in hauteur.

“I came to meet you.”

“Thank you,” extremely coldly; she was passing on.

“You do not mind?” he took hold of her bridle.

“Mr. Newton!” angrily. Her countenance became suffused with a burning red. He felt he had blundered.

“At least you will let me ride back with you,” he said humbly, dropping the bridle.

She immediately struck the chestnut⁠—the mare sprang forward and cantered down the lane. Quite beside himself, half with annoyance with her, half with himself, he ran to the grey, mounted, and tried to follow. But the horse was lame. He did his best, limped, stumbled, recovered himself, and shambled after painfully. When Geoffrey reached the edge of the wood, Margaret, a long distance ahead, was riding out upon the Downs⁠—horse and horsewoman a dark figure, indistinct in the gloaming.

“I am sure I saw something far off moving,” she whispered.

“Nothing but a hawthorn bush,” said Geoffrey; yet he had himself discerned a shadowy something. Margaret had heard of the shepherds’ stories of the weird shapes that haunted the desolate places on the Downs. Kitty, obeying her impulse, pushed on more rapidly; when they looked back again there was nothing. But almost suddenly the darkness increased; it seemed to thicken and fall on them. In a few moments it was so intensely black that they could barely see each other. With it came a strange sense of oppression⁠—a difficulty of breathing. Her hand on his shoulder trembled; even the man felt a sense of something unusual, bent his brow, and steeled himself to meet it. With her other hand she covered her face. In that pitch-black darkness, that almost sulphurous air, it seemed as if a thunderbolt must fall. The mare stood still.

In a minute there came a rushing sound⁠—a rumbling of the ground; it swept by on their left at a short distance. A faint “baa” told what it was. “A flock of sheep,” said Geoffrey. “They have leapt the hurdles.”

“They always do when the clouds come down,” said Margaret, recollecting what the shepherds said. “It will thunder.”

But it did not. The noise of the frightened flock grew less as they raced headlong away. Shortly afterwards the extreme blackness lifted a little. Presently something like a copse came indistinctly into view ahead.