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Fine old Leisure！ Do not be severe upon him； and judge him by
our modern standard。 He never went to Exeter Hall； or heard a
popular preacher； or read Tracts for the Times or Sartor Resartus。
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Chapter LIII
The Harvest Supper
s Adam was going homeward； on Wednesday evening； in
Athe six o’clock sunlight； he saw in the distance the last
load of barley winding its way towards the yard…gate of the
Hall Farm； and heard the chant of “Harvest Home！” rising and
sinking like a wave。 Fainter and fainter； and more musical through
the growing distance； the falling dying sound still reached him； as
he neared the Willow Brook。 The low westering sun shone right on
the shoulders of the old Binton Hills； turning the unconscious
sheep into bright spots of light； shone on the windows of the
cottage too； and made them a…flame with a glory beyond that of
amber or amethyst。 It was enough to make Adam feel that he was
in a great temple； and that the distant chant was a sacred song。
“It’s wonderful；” he thought； “how that sound goes to one’s
heart almost like a funeral bell； for all it tells one o’ the joyfullest
time o’ the year； and the time when men are mostly the
thankfullest。 I suppose it’s a bit hard to us to think anything’s over
and gone in our lives； and there’s a parting at the root of all our
joys。 It’s like what I feel about Dinah。 I should never ha’ come to
know that her love ’ud be the greatest o’ blessings to me； if what I
counted a blessing hadn’t been wrenched and torn away from me；
and left me with a greater need； so as I could crave and hunger for
a greater and a better comfort。”
He expected to see Dinah again this evening； and get leave to
accompany her as far as Oakbourne； and then he would ask her to
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fix some time when he might go to Snowfield； and learn whether
the last best hope that had been born to him must be resigned like
the rest。 The work he had to do at home； besides putting on his
best clothes； made it seven before he was on his way again to the
Hall Farm； and it was questionable whether； with his longest and
quickest strides； he should be there in time even for the roast beef；
which came after the plum pudding； for Mrs。 Poyser’s supper
would be punctual。
Great was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin cans
when Adam entered the house； but there was no hum of voices to
this accompaniment： the eating of excellent roast beef； provided
free of expense； was too serious a business to those good farm…
labourers to be performed with a divided attention； even if they
had had anything to say to each other—which they had not。 And
Mr。 Poyser； at the head of the table； was too busy with his carving
to listen to Bartle Massey’s or Mr。 Craig’s ready talk。
“Here； Adam；” said Mrs。 Poyser； who was standing and looking
on to see that Molly and Nancy did their duty as waiters； “here’s a
place kept for you between Mr。 Massey and the boys。 It’s a poor
tale you couldn’t come to see the pudding when it was whole。”
Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman’s figure； but
Dinah was not there。 He was almost afraid of asking about her；
besides； his attention was claimed by greetings； and there
remained the hope that Dinah was in the house； though perhaps
disinclined to festivities on the eve of her departure。
It was a goodly sight—that table； with Martin Poyser’s round
good…humoured face and large person at the head of it helping his
servants to the fragrant roast beef and pleased when the empty
plates came again。 Martin； though usually blest with a good
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appetite； really forgot to finish his own beef to…night—it was so
pleasant to him to look on in the intervals of carving and see how
the others enjoyed their supper； for were they not men who； on all
the days of the year except Christmas Day and Sundays； ate their
cold dinner； in a makeshift manner； under the hedgerows； and
drank their beer out of wooden bottles—with relish certainly； but
with their mouths towards the zenith； after a fashion more
endurable to ducks than to human bipeds。 Martin Poyser had
some faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot
roast beef and fresh…drawn ale。 He held his head on one side and
screwed up his mouth； as he nudged Bartle Massey； and watched
half…witted Tom Tholer； otherwise known as “Tom Saft；” receiving
his second plateful of beef。 A grin of delight broke over Tom’s face
as the plate was set down before him； between his knife and fork；
which he held erect； as if they had been sacred tapers。 But the
delight was too strong to continue smouldering in a grin—it burst
out the next instant in a long…drawn “haw； haw！” followed by a
sudden collapse into utter gravity； as the knife and fork darted
down on the prey。 Martin Poyser’s large person shook with his
silent unctuous laugh。 He turned towards Mrs。 Poyser to see if she
too had been observant of Tom； and the eyes of husband and wife
met in a glance of good…natured amusement。
“Tom Saft” was a great favourite on the farm； where he played
the part of the old jester； and made up for his practical deficiencies
by his success in repartee。 His hits； I imagine； were those of the
flail； which falls quite at random； but nevertheless smashes an
insect now and then。 They were much quoted at sheep…shearing
and haymaking times； but I refrain from recording them here； lest
Tom’s wit should prove to be like that of many other bygone
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jesters eminent in their day—rather of a temporary nature； not
dealing with the deeper and more lasting relations of things。
Tom excepted； Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants
and labourers； thinking with satisfaction that they were the best
worth their pay of any set on the estate。 There was Kester Bale； for
example （Beale； probably； if the truth were known； but he was
called Bale； and was not conscious of any claim to a fifth letter）；
the old man with the close leather cap and the network of wrinkles
on his sun…browned face。 Was there any man in Loamshire who
knew better the “natur” of all farming work？ He was one of those
invaluable labourers who can not only turn their hand to
everything； but excel in everything they turn their hand to。 It is
true Kester’s knees were much bent outward by this time； and he
walked with a perpetual curtsy； as if he were among the； most
reverent of men。 And so he was； but I am obliged to admit that the
object of his reverence was his own skill； towards which he
performed some rather affecting acts of worship。 He always
thatched the ricks—for if anything were his forte more than
another； it was thatching—and when the last touch had been put
to the last beehive rick； Kester； whose home lay at some distance
from the farm； would take a walk to the rick…yard in his best
clothes on a Sunday morning and stand in the lane； at a due
distance； to contemplate his own thatching walking about to get
each rick from