Autumn Glory; Or, The Toilers of the Field

wn! Don't you know fo

his duty, sat down at the extreme edge of the line of cabbages which the farmer was trimming. Along the same path a man was approaching, clad in gaiters and a suit of well-worn corduroys. His pace was the even steady gait of a man accustomed to tramp the country. Th

e eyelids gave a furtive quiver, though

ay, Lum

od

ay to you. M. le Ma

. In order to show his independence, he bent down and resumed his labours for a moment without reply. He felt himself upon the ground that he looked upon as his own, which his race had cultivated by virtue of a contract indefinitely renewed. Around him, his cabbages formed an immense square, a billowy mass of superb growth, firm and heavy, their colour comprising every

ciently marked the superiority of a tenant farmer over

here's no one here

the man

did not pay your rent at Midsummer. It

year; that the wheat is poor; and that one mu

is customary in the Marais, his tw

it is not reasons he wants from y

shrugged hi

and mine were before us. I could show him what changes time has brought about with me. He would understand. But now one only has to do with paid age

er, "but it is not my place to d

l you pay, but it's anothe

, I am to

ust be. I will pay at Michaelm

stoop to resume his wo

. I found some snares the other day in the preserves of

ten his name

y round. You beware! The Marquis has written to me that you were to

ul of cabbage leaves, and ex

s me. And it's not to a fellow of your sort that he would give any such instruc

his written

epeated t

hat Jean Nesmy will pay you a bad turn one of these days; without taking into account, that for a p

on, and his discontented face was seen outlined against the hedge as he rapidly receded. He had a certain dread of the colossal farmer whose strength was still formidable despite his years, and, moreover, an uneasy sens

sed along the fence in the opposite corner to the gate, scaled it, and disappeared to the left of the far

aloud. "No, the Marquis d

y absorbed in the threat of being turned out. Slowly, with a harder look in them than was their wont, he suffered his eyes to wan

verse the descending chills of night. The farmer worked on as quickly and unremittingly as any younger man; his outstretched hand snapped off the crisp leaves close down to the stem of the cabbages with a noise as of breaking glass, where they lay in heaps along the furrows beneath the over-arching rows of plants. Hidden

mentioned past glories, neither the nobles nor the peasants were ignorant that his ancestor, a giant, surnamed Brin d'Amour, in the war of La Vendée, had taken the generals of the insurrection across the marshes in his own punt, had fought brilliantly, and had received a sword of honour, which now hung, eaten with rust, behind one of the farm presses. The family was one of the most widely connected in the country side. He claimed cousinship with thirty farmers, spread over that district which formed t

f his predecessors, had said to Toussaint Lumineau, "My Toussaint, I am going to live in Paris. My wife cannot accustom herself to this place; it is too dull and too cold for her. But do not worry; I shall come back." He had neve

cs ready-money in the walnut wood chest beside his bed; but his children were rich, having inherited over two thousand francs apiece from their mother, La Luminette, dead now these three years past. So he would ask Fran?ois, his second son, to lend him

ight like that of a happy old age, he raised his firm, square-cut face. His complexion, unlike the cadaverous hue of peasants accustomed to scant living, was clear and healthy; the full cheeks with their narrow line of black whisker, straight nose, broad at the base, square jaw, in fact the whole face and clear grey eyes-eyes that always looked a man full in the face, betokened health,

rance, making it easy to understand the distinction of la Seigneurie commonly given him in the neighbourhood. He was calle

ple, only to see others work, never to share it himself; Eléonore, who took the place of her dead mother; Fran?ois, weak of nature, in whom could be seen but the incomplete, uncertain future master of the farm; Rousille, the youngest girl, just twenty.... Had the keeper lied again when speaking of the farm-servant's love-making? Not unlikely. How could a servant, the son of a poor widow in the Bocage, that heavy, unproductive land, how could he dare to pay court to the daughter of a farmer of the Marais? He might feel friendship and respect for the pretty girl, whose smiling face attracted many a remark on the way back from Mass on Sundays at Sallertaine; but anything more?... Well, one must watch.... It was but for a moment that Toussaint Lumine

ct looking in the gathering darkness like some unfamiliar ground. The trees themselves had become but vague outlines bordering the fields. The large expanse of clear sky overhead, still bright with gol

Rous

he sound of his master's voice, flew like an arrow from the far en

her, I am

ad buried in the soft burden, followed the furrow, turned, and proceeded down the trodden path. As he reached the corner of the field a girl's slender form rose up before a

vening,

hinking of what the keeper

among the furrows she gathered together the remainder of the fallen leaves, knotted them with the cord she had brought, and, as

d the fence, when suddenly from the top of the slope, the foot of which she was skirting, came a whistle like that of a plover. She was not frightened.

at a heavy load y

ough. Have you

t come. Has he said

me, Jean, he mistrusts us. You ought not to stay out to-

grumble over my work? Rousille, I was told at La Seulière, and the miller of Moque-Souris told me too, that plovers ha

ed, "you ought not

oustache, slightly curled at the corners of the mouth. The complexion alone served to show that he was not a native of the Marais, where the mists soften and tint the skin, but of a district where the soil is poor and chalky, and where small ho

nd of nocturnal marauding so dear to the heart of primitive man, he had made up his mind to go shooting that night o

ht lips, which one never knew were they about to part in a smile or to droop for tears, gave her the appearance of a virgin in some sacred procession wearing a broad band acr

horse and cattle breeder's son, tried to attract her gaze. But she paid no attention to them; had she not betrothed herself to Jean Nesmy, the taciturn stranger, poor and friendless, who had no place, no authority, no friendship save in her young heart? Already she obeyed him.

opping to consider Rousille's cau

brought ev

er insistence

a smile that irradiated her whole face, despite the darkness. "Here, my Jean," she said, "it was not easy; Lionore is always

you be back

ll come by the

ation bag, brought back from his military service, and which h

t Rousille was bending forward listening to a sound from the farm. When he had f

, "if father asks for you presently? He

te as milk, Jean Nesmy, touching his hat, unadorn

am going to be out all night, and hope to bri

ghbouring field, and the next second the barrel of his g

grassy path, which, coming from the high lands, makes a bend ere, a little further on, it reaches the edge of the Marais. Crossing it, she pushed open the side entrance of a large gate, followed a half-fallen wall covered with creepers, and passing through a ruined archway, whose gaping interstices had once formed the imposing centre of the ancient walls, she entered a courtyard, surrounded with farm buildings. The barn wherein was piled the green forage stood to the left beside the stables. The girl