STORY OF BESSIE COSTRELL




SCENE I

It was an August evening, still and cloudy after a day unusually chilly
for the time of year. Now, about sunset, the temperature was warmer than
it had been in the morning, and the departing sun was forcing its way
through the clouds, breaking up their level masses into delicate
latticework of golds and greys. The last radiant light was on the
wheat-fields under the hill, and on the long chalk hill itself. Against
that glowing background lay the village, already engulfed by the
advancing shadow. All the nearer trees, which the daylight had mingled
in one green monotony, stood out sharp and distinct, each in its own
plane, against the hill. Each natural object seemed to gain a new
accent, a more individual beauty, from the vanishing and yet lingering
sunlight.

An elderly labourer was walking along the road which led to the village.
To his right lay the allotment gardens just beginning to be alive with
figures, and the voices of men and children. Beyond them, far ahead,
rose the square tower of the church; to his left was the hill, and
straight in front of him the village, with its veils of smoke lightly
brushed over the trees, and its lines of cottages climbing the chalk
steeps behind it.

His eye as he walked took in a number of such facts as life had trained
it to notice. Once he stopped to bend over a fence, to pluck a stalk or