Chapter II: Part 2

“They young pheasants,” went on Lizzie, talking rapidly to herself, “they be terr’ble nesh. If a heavy starm of rain was to come on they mid all be dead in the marnin’. Where be the lantern?”

She rose hurriedly, looking round her with a startled air. John rose too, thoroughly frightened.

“Missis!” he shouted, “Phoebe! come down this minute! Here be the old lady a-wantin’ to go out!”

Phoebe hurried down with all speed, finding her husband planted with his back against the door for safety’s sake, while Lizzie, also standing, was staring at him piteously.

“Sweetapple!” she gasped, “Richard—what be gone wi’ Richard? I can’t think where I can be! What’s this strange place—and who’s this man?”

“Why ’tis John, mother. Don’t ye know John? You be here in our house. You’ve a-come to bide along o’ we. Don’t ye mind—Squire settled it.”

“Squire?” echoed Lizzie. “Ees, I mind it now. I mind it.”

She came back to her chair without another word, and said no more until her daughter presently took her up to bed.

“I don’t know as we’ve done so very well to toll mother here,” remarked Phoebe, when she came down again. “She do seem to be frettin’ quite sensible by times, an’ at others she’ll carry on wi’ nonsense same as ye heard.”

“I don’t think ’tis such a very good notion, to go playin’ games wi’ her,” responded John. “I’ll not do it no more. I couldn’t think what was comin’ next.”

Lizzie seemed comparatively tranquil on the morrow, however, though she had slept but ill and was very low in spirits. She looked at the children with the same bewildered air as on the previous day, and started at the noises in the street, but she made no complaint, except once when her daughter asked her to repeat some phrase which she had murmured to herself.

“I only said there don’t seem to be no birds here,” said Mrs Sweetapple, half apologetically. “It do feel lwonesome wi’out no birds.”

“Ye don’t look for birds in a town, do ye?” retorted Phoebe, sharply.

“Of course not,” agreed her mother. “I’m not used to towns.”

Towards evening she became restless again, and Mrs Caines despatched her family to bed earlier than usual in order that she might keep guard herself; her lord and master found it more convenient to keep out of the way.

“Father’s chair” was duly set forth, and Mrs Sweetapple sat and watched it, making an occasional remark; whenever these disjointed phrases were of a dangerous tendency Phoebe took care to recall her mother to the sense of her actual situation.

No catastrophe occurred that evening therefore, and as the days passed Mrs Sweetapple seemed gradually to accustom herself to her surroundings; towards the end of the week, indeed, she became as silent during the evening hours as since her arrival at Branston she had proved herself throughout the day.

When Sunday came, however, all was different. She went to church in the morning, and behaved as well as even her daughter could wish; she seemed pleased and interested, and as much excited as a child. She had not been to church for many years, and all was new to her.

The unwonted exertion tired her, and she was even more quiet than usual all that afternoon, dozing in her chair for the most part. Towards evening, however, she woke up with a start.

“What’s gone wi’ the settle?” she cried. “Wherever be the settle? Bartlett ’ull be here in a minute an’ he’ll not ha’ nowheres to sit.”

The children began to giggle, and even John could not repress a smile. Before the perplexed Phoebe had time to formulate any soothing rejoinder, Lizzie started from her chair.

“I’m fair dathered among ye,” she cried out. “Where be the settle, I say? The settle what my father did make wi’ his own hands and what poor Bartlett did always sit on. I’ll not be robbed on’t.”

“Robbed! Dear, to be sure, sich a notion! Who’d ever go for to steal such a thing. We did leave it in the wood, don’t ye mind? ’Tisn’t worth shiftin’—there, I’d ha’ thought ye’d ha’ forgot about it by now.”

“Nay, I’ve not forgot—an’ Bartlett, he’ve not forgot, I’ll go warrant. He’ll be that vexed when he do come. There, Phoebe, I never thought you’d go for to play I sich a trick. You did promise I sure as anything, I should have it by the week-end, and here be Sunday, an’ Bartlett ’ull be comin’, an’ he’ll not find it ready.”

“Well, ye shall have it to-morrow, we’ll send for it sartin sure to-morrow. Ha’ done, childern (in a fierce aside to the youngsters), I’ll not ha’ ye makin’ a mock o’ your grammer. Stop that, or I’ll gie ye summat as ’ull make ye laugh wrong way round. There, mother, ye’d best come upstairs and get to bed. ’Twill make to-morrow come all the sooner. An’ I’ll see en fetch the settle by then.”

“But Bartlett ’ull be comin’,” murmured poor Lizzie, who was shaken with the pitiful dry sobs of the old. “He’ll come an’ he’ll not find I here, an’ he’ll not find settle here.”

“Nay now, mother, nay now. He’ll not come—he could never find his way to our place. These houses warn’t built in Bartlett’s time. Why so like as not,” she continued soothingly, struck by a sudden inspiration, “as like as not he’s waitin’ for ye down in the wood—at the wold place, ye know. Don’t ye think so, John?”

“Ees,” said John, controlling his features, “’Tis better nor likely he’m waitin’ there.”

“Bidin’ there all alone,” sighed Lizzie. “The house be empty now, and everything be changed. But the settle’s there.”

“Ees, the settle’s there,” responded Mrs Caines briskly. “An’ he’ll set on’t jest so comfortable as can be. Now you come along o’ me, mother, an’ get to bed. Don’t you bother yourself no more about Bartlett—he’s all right.”

Mrs Sweetapple made no further objection, but went upstairs quietly enough, suffering her daughter to undress her, and getting into bed in obedience to her command.

When Alice, the eldest grandchild, who shared her room, came up, she thought the old woman was asleep. But Lizzie was not asleep. She lay there very wide-awake on the contrary, forcing herself to keep quiet with difficulty, until the family should have retired to rest.

At last the house was absolutely still: a duet of snores from the neighbouring room announced that Mr and Mrs Caines were sunk in slumber; but Lizzie lay motionless for an hour or so longer; until, in fact, she had heard the church clock strike twelve, and had noted the extinguishing of the street lamp opposite her window.

Even then she lay still for a while longer, until the lamplighter’s steps had died away, and the little town itself, which had ever seemed to her so noisy, was wrapped in unbroken silence.

Then, stealing noiselessly from the bed, she began to put on her clothes with as much haste as the necessity for caution would admit of. The moonlight streamed in through the uncurtained window, and she could find her way with ease about the little room. The bandbox containing her bonnet was here, on top of the chest of drawers, her cloak hung on one of the pegs beside it; here were her boots, but she would not put them on until she found herself safely in the street.

Out of the room she crept, and down the narrow stairs; John and Phoebe snoring unbrokenly on. Here was the door—the back door—oh, what a noise the bolt made in shooting back! She paused breathless, but no sound ensued, either of a hurried foot upon the stair, or of an alarmed cry. With a gasp of relief Lizzie crept out into the night. Sitting down upon the doorstep she donned her boots, the clock striking one just as the operation was completed.

One! How late it was! Would Bartlett be tired of waiting? Would he have gone before she reached home?

Down the hill she went, as fast as she could, and then across the market place. How quiet all the houses looked as they stood thus with shuttered windows and roofs shining in the moonlight. Now over the bridge and under the chestnut trees, the cool breath from the river catching her heated face, the delicious fragrance of the half-opened leaf buds filling her nostrils.

Here was the turn now, and here the long, long hill. Bartlett and she had trodden it once together when they had come back from that famous outing to Shroton Fair. They had got out of the waggon which had given them a friendly lift, just at the bridge, and had walked home together in the moonlight. She had hung on to Bartlett’s arm, and he had talked courting-talk all the way, just as when they were lovers.

The old woman smiled to herself as she tottered onwards. It had been moonlight then and it was moonlight now, and she was going to meet Bartlett. “He’ll wait, Bartlett ’ull wait,” she said to herself. “He’ll not disapp’int I.”

But, dear to be sure, that was a very long hill, and Lizzie was quite exhausted when she reached the top. She paused, gasping, while she surveyed the prospect before her. There were the woods before her on her right, the fir-trees sending out spicy scents which might have refreshed her had she been less anxious to get on; on her left the fields sloped away behind the hedge. They were asleep, too, fields and hedge, like the houses in the town; nobody was awake but Lizzie and poor Bartlett, waiting yonder, in the empty house.

But that dreary white road, how long it was? First a dip down and then a climb up—a long tedious climb, and the corner round which she must turn so far away that it was out of sight; and even when gained there was still more road, long and straight and weary, before she could reach the short cut which led across the fields to her own wood. While she considered the greatness of the distance and the lateness of the hour Lizzie became quite frightened, and wishing to make the most of the downward incline, she set off at a kind of hobbling run. Then, all of a sudden, she never quite knew how, something hit her in the face; her whole frame jarred through and through; stretching out her hand she groped about her blindly for she could not see, and felt grass and a tuft of weeds: it must have been the ground which had risen up to buffet her. But even while turning over this new idea in her mind she lost consciousness.

* * *

“Hullo, Mrs Sweetapple!”

Lizzie opened her eyes and smiled vaguely; somebody had raised her head and was dusting her face with a cotton handkerchief: Lizzie sat upright, feeling still dizzy, but happy and hopeful. She had had dreams—curiously pleasant dreams—and was at first astonished at not finding herself in her bed; but presently remembered. Then a spasm of anguish crossed her face. The moon was set, the gray light of dawn shone on her companion’s face and showed forth the ghostly world about her. Would Bartlett still be there?

“I couldn’t think whatever it was,” continued the man. “Me an’ Jinny was a-joggin’ along so quiet as anything, wi’ our load, when I see’d summat a-lyin’ aside o’ the road. First I thought ’twas a bundle, then I see’d ’twas a ’ooman, an’ then I turned ye over an’ says I: ‘’Tis Mrs Sweetapple.’ You’ve a-had a bit of a tumble, haven’t ye? Ye did seem stunned-like when I did pick ye up.”

Lizzie, looking at him vaguely, supposed she must have catched her foot in something.

“Whatever be you a-doin’ out-o’-door at this time o’ marnin’?”

Lizzie collected her scattered thoughts, and resolved to make the most of this unexpected opportunity. This was Jim Frizzle, the corn-merchant’s man, who had so often driven past her house, with corn for the pheasantry and forage for the keeper’s pony, and who had even now and then halted at her own door, to deposit a bundle or two of straw for her private use.

“Be you—be you goin’ up—along our way?”

“’Ees, I be a-takin’ a truss or two o’ hay to Keeper Foster’s, an’ a sack o’ Injun carn. There’s lots o’ room in my cart; would ye like a lift?”

“Thank ye kindly, Mr Frizzle, I would indeed. It be a good thought; I be jist about tired.”

“Well, you’m afoot early. What brings ye out at this time o’ marnin’?”

Lizzie considered.

“Well, ’tis nice an’ cool,” she said falteringly. She was learning to be cunning. People looked so strange and spoke so sharp when she told her secrets that she was now resolved to keep them to herself. If she were to let on to Jim Frizzle about Bartlett he might, as like as not, go and send Phoebe after her.

Jim let down the tail-board of the cart, and lifted her in.

“Now you’m all right,” he said, as she sank down between the trusses of hay. “You’ll be so snug as anything there. You’m a wonderful active body for your years, I’ll say that. I heerd ye’d shifted,” he continued, after a pause, “but I s’pose that bain’t true.”

Lizzie considered again.

“I’ve been a-biding wi’ my darter for a while,” she returned presently, “jist for a while—I’m goin’ back now.”

Jim jerked the reins, and lit his pipe, and they proceeded on their way in silence, Lizzie dozing now and then, and waking with a start. Their journey took a considerable time, for Frizzle could not avail himself of the short cut across the field and was obliged to proceed by road, approaching the wood at length by a narrow green lane.

Lizzie opened her eyes wide when they turned into this lane, and raised herself a little, gazing eagerly towards the longed-for goal.

The sun was up now, and all the fresh and dewy April world rejoicing. The grey-green fringes of the larches swung in the breeze, busy birds fluttered from bough to bough, sending forth ecstatic little notes; a rabbit scudded across the path just as the cart entered the wood; Lizzie clapped her hands and laughed. Jim turned round on his seat, and gazed at her in surprise.

“What be that for?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Lizzie, abashed; “’twas seein’ the rabbit, I think. Did ye notice the rabbit, how he did kick up his little feet and whisk his little tail?”

“Most rabbits does that,” commented Jim.

On they went, and now the cottage came in sight, the desolate cottage with its smokeless chimney and shuttered windows.

“Why it be all shut up,” exclaimed Frizzle, as he stopped before the closed door. “There b’ain’t nobody about, nor yet nothin’ stirrin’.”

He gazed towards the empty kennels and the piled up heaps of pens which the keeper had not yet found time to remove. But Lizzie did not heed him; she had risen to her feet and was endeavouring to descend from the cart.

“Here, bide a bit, ’ooman, bide a bit. Ye can’t get down by yourself. Wait till I help ye.”

He let down the tail-board and assisted her to alight, and Lizzie, staggering towards the door, beat upon it with her open palm.

“Oh, I must get in—I must get in,” she cried. “I forgot about door bein’ locked! Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! He’ll be gone!”

“There, there, that’s a job that’s easy managed,” responded Jim, and, applying his vigorous shoulder to the door, he sent it swinging inwards on its hinge.

Peering curiously in he saw a dismantled little room, dark, save for the shafts of light which pierced their way through the chinks of the shutters and down the chimney to the fireless grate, and dismantled, save for a clumsy old oak settle which stood near the hearth. But to his surprise Lizzie uttered a cry of rapture, and tottered forward into the room.

“I knowed I’d find ye waitin’!” she exclaimed.

* * *

“I think I’d best look in again on my way back,” said Jim, as he clambered into his cart again after depositing his load at the keeper’s. “I’d no notion the old body was so childish as that. I never thought someway she’d rid house altogether—”

“Oh, she’ve shifted for good,” interrupted Keeper Foster. “Her darter came and carried her off, and none too soon either. There’d ha’ been some mischance so sure as anything.”

“Well, I thought it a bit queer to find her out on the road so early. She’d had a tumble too, mind ye, one side of her face was all bruised. But ’twasn’t till I heerd her call out, ‘I knowed I’d find ye waitin’,’ in the empty room, that I knowed for certain she’d gone silly.”

“You must take her home—along wi’ ye,” said the keeper. “It’s not safe to leave her, and Mrs Caines ’ll be in an awful state. Here, I’ll come with ye, and we’ll persuade her between us.”

He got into the cart too, and they drove together to Lizzie’s cottage. The door stood open as before, and the room was very still. Lizzie was crouching in a corner of the settle, with her hands outstretched, and a smile upon her face. In the green wood without the boughs were waving, and the birds were singing. “Lwonesome Lizzie” was lonesome no more: she had found Friend Death waiting for her in the deserted house, in the guise of the husband of her youth.

JESS DOMENY ON STRIKE

THE hay in Farmer Old’s biggest field had been duly mown and tossed, and his whole staff were now employed in carrying it. But the day was intensely hot, with a brooding sultriness which seemed to betoken a coming storm. Dust lay thick upon the hedges, and the ground was iron hard; rain was badly needed, no doubt, but Farmer Old devoutly hoped it would hold off just a little longer until the crop was saved. He was a wonderfully energetic man, was Farmer Old, and spared himself as little as those who worked under him. All the long, glowing hours of that languorous day he had toiled as manfully as any of his labourers; but now, at length, he had left them to their own devices for a short time, and the men breathed more freely in consequence. The rattle of the hay-rake ceased as the driver, having reached the corner of the field, paused to wipe his brow before turning the horses. A little knot of men, deputed by the farmer to ensure against any possible waste by following in its wake with the humble wooden implements in vogue before its invention, insensibly drew nearer together. One of their number expressed the natural longing for a drop of beer, and another incautiously provoked envious feelings by announcing that at Farmer Inkpen’s the men had as much beer allowed them as they could drink at busy times.

“He do send it out to ’em reg’lar,” said Martin Fry. “Ees, my brother James, what works for Farmer Inkpen, do say that they do be carr’in’ the jugs back’ards and forrards fro’ the house to the field so reg’lar as if ’twas but the family theirselves what was working. There, it do make I dry wi’ naught but thinkin’ on it.”

Jess Domeny looked up from the long roller of hay which he had just raked together, and surveyed his comrade vengefully.

“An’ it mid well make ye feel dry, Martin!” he cried emphatically. “It mid well make ye feel dry. Sich a day as this be, an’ us a-workin’ so many hours at a stretch.”

Jim Stuckey, perched aloft on the seat of the hay-rake, drew the back of his hand across his lips, and remarked that it was the drouthiest weather he’d a-knowed since he was a lad, an’ he’d see’d a good few hot summers too.

“I wish,” resumed Martin, voicing the sentiments of the party, “our measter was so thoughtful for his fellow-creeturs as Farmer Inkpen do be, accordin’ to my brother James, but I truly believe a man’s tongue mid drop out of’s head wi’ drith afore he’d take a bit o’ notice.”

“Measter b’ain’t mich of a drinker hisself,” hazarded a lover of fair play, “or else I d’ ’low he’d have a bit more feelin’ for sich as we together.”

“He did ought to ha’ feelin’,” cried Jess, vehemently. “A man same as Measter what be makin’ sich a sight o’ money, takin’ prizes for carn an’ layin’ by the dibs so fast he can scarce count ’em, did ought to have a bit o’ mercy on them what do have to earn their bread by the sweat o’ their brow.”

“Measter do sweat too,” put in an impartial bystander mildly. “He do sweat like anything, Jess. I’ve a-see’d the big draps a-standin’ on’s face.”

“What I d’ say is,” continued Jess, after pausing to glare at the last speaker, “a man i’ Measter’s place what be set up over his feller-men by the hand o’ Providence, did ought to act providential-like. When the weather be that mortial hot a man gets thirsty sittin’ in a chair, them what’s set over him did ought to see as he had a drap or two to m’isten his tongue wi’.”

There was a murmur of approval, and then the men prepared to continue their labours. But Jess stayed them by an admonitory gesture.

“If ye wasn’t all sich a poor-spirited lot we wouldn’t be put upon the way we be now,” he remarked. “There’s no way o’ bringin’ measters to reason if men won’t stick up for theirselves.”

“Stick up for theirselves,” echoed Jim, with a startled look.

Jeffs transferred his wooden rake from his right hand to his left, and, fumbling in the pocket of his corduroys, produced a small greasy slab of newspaper.

“Did ye chance to notice what the cab-drivers in London done when they wanted their wages rose” he asked. “They went on strike—there, ye can read it for yourselves.”

Martin Fry stretched out his hand for the paper, and slowly spelt out the paragraph designated by Jess’s horny finger; then he returned the grimy sheet to its owner, with a shake of the head and a pursed lip.

“I was readin’ a while back,” continued Jess, without heeding these signs of disapproval, “how some colliery chaps what was wantin’ shorter hours got their way—they did go on strike too. The measters had to give in. Well, why shouldn’t us go on strike for a drop o’ beer at haymakin’ time?”

The others looked at each other and then at Jess, who, with his battered chip hat pushed back upon his stubbly grizzled head, returned their gaze defiantly.

“I’d start it soon enough,” he observed, “if I could get the rest o’ ye to back me up; but ye haven’t got no more spirit nor a pack o’ mice.”

At this moment the farmer’s stentorian voice hailed them from the gate.

“Now then, now then, what be doin’ over there?”

The gate creaked violently on its hinges, and swung to with a re-echoing bang behind the master, whose long legs carried him towards the idlers at a prodigious pace, while, as he strode along, he kept up a flow of sarcastic admonitions.

“I d’ ’low you folks do seem to think ’tis safe to let the grass grow under your feet these times, but I tell ye I do want to save this crop afore thinkin’ about another. . . . Jim Stuckey, I hope ye be restin’ yerself so well as the harses. Well, Jess, ye be awaitin’ for the rain to fall, I d’ ’low.”

He had reached the group by this time; Jim was already almost out of earshot, the rattle of his machine drowning the last words. But Jess heard them. His comrades had already resumed their labours, but he remained standing still, leaning upon his rake, and surveying his master with a lowering gaze.

“Don’t hurry yourself, Jess,” observed Farmer Old, with a sneer.

He was a tall man, but spare of figure, with long wiry limbs, and a face burnt mahogany-colour and fringed by a grey beard; his small black eyes were as expressionless as sloes, but there were certain humourous lines about his mouth.

“Talkin’ o’ rain,” observed Jess sternly, “a man mid very well wish for it these times; a drap or two mid m’isten his tongue.”

Mr Old was so staggered by this remark, which, under the actual conditions, appeared to him almost blasphemous, that he found himself for the moment unable to reply.

“Some folks,” resumed Jess, “as we was a-sayin’ just now—”

“Speak for yerself,” growled Martin, uneasy under the gaze of his master’s sloe-black eyes.

“Well, an’ I will sp’ake for myself, an’ I’ll sp’ake out,” cried Jess with spirit. “I say, Measter, a man wi’ a heart in his body ’ud take a bit o’ thought for his men, an’ ’ud not let ’em go wantin’ a drap o’ beer on such a day as this.”

“A drap o’ beer!” ejaculated Old with a relieved laugh. “That’s what be the matter, be it. I d’ ’low, Jess, ye’ve a-had a drap too much a’ready.”

“I’ll take my oath I haven’t!” exclaimed Jess, much incensed at this undeserved accusation; indeed the mere suggestion appeared to intensify the longing which he was supposed to have partially gratified. “I haven’t a-had a glass to-day, Measter, nor likely to, seein’ it’s Friday, and my wold woman she do never allow I a penny at the back-end o’ the week.”

“’Tis because you do get through your ’lowance at the beginning,” returned the farmer, preparing to move on.

“Nay, now, bide a bit, sir—I’m dalled if I don’t sp’ake out as I said I would. There’s Measter Inkpen, what haven’t a-got so big a farm as you’ve a-got, an’ what b’ain’t a-layin’ by so mich money—well, when his men be a-workin’ so hard as what we be a-doin’ to-day, he do send ’em out some beer to the field. Martin Fry was a-tellin’ us about it—wasn’t ye, Martin?”

“Well,” said Martin uneasily, “I did hear some sich talk fro’ my brother James what works up to Inkpen’s, and I mid ha’ mentioned it, but I don’t want no argyment about it.”

“No need to have no argyments,” returned the farmer blandly. “Measter Inkpen have a-got his notions, an’ I’ve a-got mine. An’ I’ll tell ye straight out, my bwoys, I’ve got no notion o’ sendin’ out beer to folks what be a-earnin’ good wage an’ can buy for theirselves so much as is good for ’em. A man’s better wi’out it to my mind.”

“If that be your notion, Measter, I’m sorry for ye,” shouted Jess, whom the last remark had incensed beyond bounds of caution. “There, ’tis treatin’ your human fellow-creeturs worse nor the beasts of the field. Look at them cows yonder—ye’d never think o’ lettin’ them go dry. Wasn’t we standin’ up to our knees in muck last spring a-cleanin’ the pond for ’em. There’s one a-standin’ in it now a-drinkin’, an’ a-coolin’ his legs. I d’ ’low ’tis enough to make a body envy the dumb brutes.”

Farmer Old fixed him with his expressionless gaze.

“Well, Jess,” he returned, with a provoking mildness which added fuel to Jess’s wrath. “I b’ain’t a onreasonable man, I hope. I have no objection at all to your goin’ an’ standin’ in the pond to cool your legs and refresh yourself. ’Ees, I’ll allow ye five minutes.”

The men’s laughter rang out loudly at this sally; the distant rattle of the hay-rake ceased for a moment as Stuckey drew rein, and turned in his seat in the hope of ascertaining the nature of the joke. But Jess threw his rake from him, and turned upon his master with anger tempered by dignity.

“Then I’ll tell ye what it is, sir,” he cried. “Flesh and blood can’t bear it no longer. I be a-goin’ on strike.”

Mr Old surveyed him for a moment; then he glanced at Jess’s fellow-workers, just the fraction of a gleam being perceptible in his inscrutable eyes. But Martin and his companions raked away as if their lives depended on the speed with which they accomplished their task.

“Oh, ye be goin’ on strike, be ye?” he observed. “Goin’ to strike all by yourself seemingly.”

Again he glanced at the gang of rakers, whose efforts became if possible more strenuous than before, and who appeared quite unconscious of what was going on; then he set his legs a little more wide apart and whistled.

“Ye want a rise of wages, I suppose?” he continued calmly.

Jess considered, and then threw out his hand impressively. There was a certain appearance of tension about the bent backs of the workers. It would be a queer thing if, after all, the master were going to give in to Jess.

“No, Measter,” said the latter with a virtuous air. “Ye rose me last year an’ I b’ain’t the man to ax for more now; but a drap o’ beer’s another thing. I be goin’ on strike, Measter Old, till you agree for to send us out a drap o’ refreshment at such times as these.”

“I’m glad ye didn’t ax for more wage, Jess,” returned Old, still mildly, “because ye wouldn’t ha’ got it. As for sendin’ out refreshment, as I did tell ye jist now, I’ve got no notion o’ doin’ no sich thing.”

“Well, Measter,” responded Jess, “I’m sorry for to disapp’int ye but I’ll ha’ to knock off work till ye give in.”

“Jist oblige me by handin’ me that there rake,” said the farmer. “There’s a couple o’ teeth gone—I’ll have to fine ye three-pence for that. Ye shouldn’t throw my property about that way. I can pay ye the rest o’ your wage now if ye like. To-morrow comes off, of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Jess, staring a little blankly however. He did not expect that Mr Old would accept his resignation with so much promptness and such evident placidity.

The farmer now produced a greasy leather purse and counted out the sum of twelve shillings and nine pence.

He doled out the last-named fraction in pennies, and as each chinked upon his palm Jess’s countenance fell more and more.

“I don’t know but what I’ve let ye have a bit over,” observed Mr Old, with a dubious look. “’Tis a bit ar’kard to make a calculation all in a minute like this. But there, you’ve worked for me nigh upon ten year now; I’ll not be too close wi’ ye.”

Jess pocketed the coins and shambled away without speaking. After twenty paces or so, however, he turned. Nobody was looking after him; his late master was now plying his own discarded rake; his former comrades were working with the same fury of zeal which had seized them from the instant of Mr Old’s appearance. At the sight, Jess’s long-gathering fury broke forth.

“So that’s how you treat I!” he exclaimed. “Me, what’s worked for ’ee ten year. You do pack me off wi’out a word. Ees, n’arn o’ ’ee has so much as a word to throw at I, what’s done my best an’ worked along o’ ye these years and years.”

Martin Fry glanced up with a stricken look, but apparently found nothing to say; somebody did murmur inarticulately that he was sure he wished Jess well, an’ couldn’t say no more nor that, but none of the others could be said to respond to his appeal. Farmer Old gazed at him with apparent amazement.

“Ye be a-plaisin’ of yerself, b’ain’t ye?” he enquired. “Ye be a-goin’ on strike to plaise yerself?” Jess rallied his pride.

“In course I be, but I be a-goin’ on strike along o’ bein’ treated so bad.”

“Well, ye’ll not ha’ no more bad treatment to complain on now,” returned Old. “Ye be a-plaisin’ o’ yerself, as I do say. I do like folks to plaise theirselves.”

Jess walked away.

Considering the strain of the recent struggle, the uncommon heat of the day, the abnormal thirst from which he was suffering, and the fact that he would shortly be called upon to face his wold ’ooman, it is not surprising that he should have turned into the “Three Choughs” before proceeding on his homeward way. At the last-named hostelry he recovered some portion of the valour which had possessed him in the field, and which had been damped by the attitude of the farmer and his men, and indeed felt himself to be a hero. Ten minutes’ conversation with the missus, however, sufficed to disabuse him of this idea, and he went to bed in a puzzled and chastened frame of mind. Mrs Domeny had impounded the remainder of his already curtailed wage. She had also asked certain questions which Jess found it difficult to answer, such as who did he suppose would give him work now? what would become of her and the children? how were they to meet the rent if he were to be long out of work? each query being coupled with the persistent refrain, wasn’t he ashamed of himself?

With the dawn, however, fresh courage came. He had done what was only right in the interests of himself and of his colleagues, and must surely triumph in the end.

The threatened thunderstorm had blown over, but nevertheless it was a busy and critical time for farmers. Mr Old would no doubt be glad enough to come to terms now, that he, too, had had a night to sleep on the matter. They would be cutting the Twenty Acre to-day—the grass was almost over ripe and there was Sunday coming—Mr Old might possibly invite Jess to come back, and might even render the reconciliation more enduring by making the required concession.

“What’s a drap o’ beer to sich as he?” murmured Jess, as he hastily donned his garments; he himself knew how much it meant to him. If Farmer Old did not come round there would be no beer for Jess for a considerable time.

He arrived at the Twenty Acre a little before the usual time of starting work, but found to his surprise that the two mowing-machines had already begun operations. Farmer Old himself was driving the one which usually fell to Jess’s share. Jess stood leaning across the gate with a pleasant smile on his face until the last-named machine drew near him.

“Marnin’, sir,” he remarked, hailing the farmer in a genial tone. “You do seem to be early at work.”

“We be a bit shart-handed, ye see,” responded Mr Old, with a grin which displayed his remaining teeth.

This was the opportunity Jess had hoped for; he grinned back expectantly.

“It do seem a shame to see ye sittin’ up there, Farmer. It must be a good few year since you drove a mower.”

“Ees,” agreed Mr Old. “’Tis a good few year now. ’Tis a nice change.”

He flicked at the off horse’s ear as he spoke, and the machine went rattling up the field again.

Jess waited till it turned, and then marched round the gate with a determined air, taking off his coat as he advanced, and setting his hat firmly on his head.

“Come, sir,” he cried, laying his hand on the reins. “This here job be altogether too much for ye. You get down, an’ let me pop up in your place. I can’t bide to see ye a-makin’ a slave o’ yoursel’ same as that.”

“Thank ’ee, Jess, thank ’ee,” responded the farmer, clambering down with great alacrity. “Ees, I’ll not deny I’m gettin’ a bit stiff for this here work. I reckon it ’ud ha’ tried me a bit.”

“I can’t forget as I did work for ye for ten year,” observed Jess, eyeing him sharply; he felt it would be the proper thing now for the other to own he was in fault on the previous day. But Mr Old appeared to have no such intention. He handed over the reins with a beaming face, and watched Jess take his vacated seat with evident satisfaction.

“I do call it real handsome of ye to lend a hand same as ye be a-doin’,” he said, “Real handsome, but no one do know better nor you that these be busy times.”

Jess’s countenance assumed a dubious, not to say depressed, expression, as he set the mowing-machine in motion; what did the master mean? Surely he could not think Jess such a fool as to lend a hand out of mere neighbourliness? His doubts increased when at dinner-time the farmer renewed his expressions of gratitude; something very like a twinkle appearing the while in his habitually expressionless eyes.

“I’ll not expect ye to come back this afternoon,” he observed. “Ye’ll have lots o’ little jobs to do at home. Nay now, a favour’s a favour, an’ I’d never be one for to ax too much.”

Jess stared hard, scratching his jaw, and the other resumed.

“I’ve a-heerd o’ folks going on strike before, but I will say I did never hear of a man what acted so goodnatured. There, most strikers do look on the masters as they’ve a-left, as regular enemies. ’Tisn’t many as ’ud offer to do a good turn on a busy day same as you be a-doin’. Your missus did ought to allow ye a glass o’ beer to-day,” continued the farmer handsomely. “I’m sure ye do deserve it.”

“Well, I’m dalled,” growled Jess, under his breath, however, for he had sufficient self-respect to accept the situation. He walked away with as jaunty an air as he could assume, and the farmer stood watching him for a moment or two, shaking with silent laughter.

Jess passed a very dismal Sunday. His friends looked at him askance, for his conduct had occasioned much talk, and he was regarded in that little community in the light of a dangerous firebrand. His missus lost no opportunity of impressing upon him her views of his recent action; Farmer Old passed him with a smile which he could not but think savoured of malicious triumph, and Martin Fry, whom he chanced to encounter on his way from church, delivered it as his opinion that he had made a sammy of himself.

The very indignation provoked by this remark, which, as he thought, came ill from the man whose incautious speech had first evoked in his hearers a sense of personal ill-usage, suggested to Jess a new plan of action. Why not offer his services to Mr Inkpen, who would know so well how to reward them? He could not but feel gratified at the thought that it was in vaunting his generosity, and in endeavouring to force Old to follow his example, that Jess had lost his place.

He strolled round to Inkpen’s premises at a convenient hour of the evening, when he would be likely to find the master disengaged. Fortune seemed to favour him: Mr Inkpen, very much at ease in snowy Sabbath shirt sleeves, was leaning across his gate, smoking a ruminative pipe.

“Fine evenin’, sir,” began Jess.

The farmer nodded a trifle sourly.

“Ye haven’t a-got all your hay in yet, I see,” proceeded Domeny.

Mr Inkpen removed his pipe from his mouth.

“I’d like to know what business it be o’ yours whether I’ve a-got it in, or whether I haven’t?” he returned, with what seemed to Jess uncalled-for asperity.

“No offence, sir, no offence,” faltered the latter.

“You do seem to meddle a deal too much in my affairs,” continued the farmer. “It don’t matter to you, as I can see, whether I do give my men beer or whether I don’t. You haven’t got to drink it.”

“No, sir, that’s true. I only wish I had the chance,” said Jess with a sinking heart; it did not seem a promising opening of negotiations.

“Well, then, why must ye go bringing up my name to Mr Old, an’ a-tryin’ for to make trouble wi’ his folks? Mr Old an’ me be good neighbours, an’ don’t wish to be nothin’ else. I don’t meddle wi’ his business, and he don’t meddle wi’ mine. ’Tis a pretty bit o’ impidence for the likes o’ you to go a-puttin’ your word in.”

“’Twas a mistake,” stammered Jess. “Measter Old he did take I up a bit too shart. I did but chance to mention to en how kind and good-natured you’d showed yourself. I did tell en he did ought to follow your example and send out a drap o’ beer to the men at busy times, same as you do do—”

“Who’s been makin’ a fool o’ ye wi’ such tales?” shouted Inkpen, thumping the gate with his fist. “I d’ ’low he was as big a fool as yourself, whoever he mid be. I did gi’ the men a drink once when they was workin’ arter time—but as for makin’ a reg’lar practice of it, I b’ain’t no more of a sammy nor my neighbours. Well, I hear Old has gived ye marchin’ arders, an’ a good job too. It do sarve ye right.”

“Plaise ye, sir, Measter Old didn’t notice me. I be on strike.”

Inkpen glowered at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“On strike, be ye? Well I hope ye’ll like it. All I can say is any master ’ud be well shut on ye. I wouldn’t have such a mischievous chap as you among my folk for a hundred pound.”

“If that’s what you think, sir, I wish ye good evening,” said Domeny, endeavouring to summon up some semblance of dignity.

“’Tis what I think,” retorted the other. “I think you be a fool—a mischievous fool, an’ I’m sorry for your wife an’ family.”

Jess betook himself home again in a very low-spirited condition indeed. Would all the masters think the same—would everyone look on him as a mischievous fool, and if so, what would become of the wold ’ooman and the children?

His presentiments were but too well justified. Nobody was anxious to employ a revolutionary who might at any moment foster discontent and promote disorder among his peaceful fellow-workers, or harass his employer with unreasonable demands.

Two or three days passed by, and Jess began to feel seriously uneasy; the long hours of enforced idleness wearied him and weighed upon his spirits. It seemed so strange to feel that there was no need to get up early, and no work waiting for him to do: His missus, indeed, provided him with a good many odd jobs which occupied him at first, but on one particular morning he found himself absolutely at a loss.

Mrs Domeny was elbow-deep in suds; the children had all gone to school; he had finished weeding the garden, and cleaning the hen-house, and chopping the sticks; positively nothing remained for him to do. There was no use proceeding towards the “Three Choughs,” for his pockets were empty, and the landlord had long ago refused to allow him credit. He sauntered down the little flagged path and leaned over his own paintless garden-gate. Old Bright, who was crippled with rheumatism, was leaning over his, a little lower down the row; Mrs Stuckey’s two youngest children were making dust pies near their own gateway. Domeny’s eyes wandered from one to the other; no one was at home at this busiest time of the busy day, except the women at their washtubs, the old folks, and the babies; and here was he, Jess Domeny, standing idle.

The air was full of the scent of newly-cut hay, there was a ceaseless rumble of distant waggons bumping in and out of the fields; he could even hear the clanking of harness and the distant voices of the men. Every hand was wanted on such a day as this, but Jess’s hands hung limply over the gate.

By and by he passed through, and sauntered in an apparently purposeless manner up to Old’s farm, It was a comfortable house, conspicuous at present for the bright yellow of its new thatch and the glowing masses of crimson phlox now in full flower. On his way thither he passed the field where hay-making was still in full swing; Mr Old himself was plying a rake. He looked up as Jess paused uncertainly on the other side of the hedge.

“Ye be hard at it still, I see, sir,” hazarded Jess.

“Ees, hard at it,” responded the farmer, cheerfully.

“’Tis to be ’oped as you wont upset yourself,” said Jess hesitatingly; he was anxious to ingratiate himself, but had no desire to bestow a further mead of service gratis.

“I d’ ’low it do do I good,” returned Old. “There, a man do never know how much he can do till he tries. I’stead o’ findin’ myself a man shart, I’m reg’lar vexed to think how long I’ve a-kept a man too many.”

Jess echoed his laugh in a half-hearted way, and then, finding Mr Old’s jocular humour a trifle trying, strolled on towards the farmhouse proper. Here all was cheerful bustle. Jenny Old was hanging out a basketful of linen on the clothes-line which reached from the corner of the house to the gnarled apple-tree; Polly, who was not so strong as her sister, was sitting in the sunshine with a pile of garments in need of mending; young Bill Hopkins was staggering across the yard carrying a huge bucket of pig-wash. At the sight Jess’s interest quickened, and at the same time he was conscious of a spasm of active jealousy. It had been his office to attend to the pigs, and he had ever taken pride and pleasure in every detail connected with his charges, from the moment when they first ran squeaking about the yard till they became bacon.

“Be the new litter come yet?” he enquired in as casual a tone as he could assume.

“Lard, yes! Never see’d a finer lot—eleven they be wi’out countin’ the littlest what did die last night. But ’twarn’t worth rearing anyway.”

“I’d ha’ reared it though,” said Jess. “What be bringin’ the sow?”

“Oh, he be gettin’ on nicely. He’ll do all right on the usual stuff.”

“He did ought to have a meal drink,” said Jess firmly.

“Haw, haw! You be terr’ble free wi’ your drinks!” said Bill, slyly.

Polly Old tittered at the sally, and Jenny, catching the sound of mirth, uplifted her shrill voice to enquire the cause. Bill repeated the joke with a guffaw so loud that it brought out Mrs Old from the house, with soapy hands and an enquiring face. She too laughed on hearing of Bill’s jest.

“Ah, ye may all laugh,” cried Jess passionately. “But it b’ain’t no laughin’ matter to I. Ye think ye may cheek me now, Bill Hopkins, because I be down in the world, but I tell ’ee, Mrs Old, if I did sp’ake a word about the sow ’tis because I—I—well there! I don’t like to see the poor beast punished for want o’ proper care.”

Mrs Old stopped laughing.

“Ye was always a careful man, an’ very knowledgeable about pigs,” she observed, thoughtfully.

Jess, encouraged by these words of commendation, proceeded to lay down certain rules of diet appropriate to lady pigs, and Mrs Old listened in silence, nodding now and then.

At the conclusion of his harangue she ordered Bill sharply to go back for the barley-meal, and desired her daughters to give over gigglin’ and glenin’ and get on wi’ their work; then, meditatively wiping her hands on her apron, she strolled towards Domeny.

“’Tis a pity, Jess, ye don’t have so much sense for yourself as ye do have for the dumb beasts. B’ain’t ye tired o’ bein’ on strike?”

Jess looked round him cautiously, and then back at her shrewd, kindly face.

“Well, mum,” he said, with the faintest dawning of a sheepish grin upon his face, “I won’t say but what—well, I don’t know.”

“I’ve been a-talkin’ for your missus,” continued Mrs Old.

“Oh, and have ye, ma’am?” said Jess doubtfully.

“Ees,” said Mrs Collins. “I d’ ’low _she’s_ tired of it poor soul, if you b’ain’t.”

“Well, ma’am,” said Jess, “it do seem as if I’d ha’ done better to ha’ left measter alone.”

“It do look like it,” agreed Mrs Old, with twinkling eyes.

She paused, polishing the top of the gate with a fore-finger crinkled from its recent immersion in the suds. “Maybe if ye was to say summat o’ the kind to he, he mid overlook it.”

For a moment Jess’s pride struggled with his secret longing; then the pride broke down.

“I wonder would ye sp’ake to en for me, mum?” he hinted.

“No, no. Best say whatever ye do have to say yourself,” returned Mrs Old hastily. “So like as not he’d tell me to mind my own business. He b’ain’t one as likes a ’ooman’s interference.”

“Well,” faltered Jess, after another interval of inward struggle, “I’ll foller your advice, mum.”

“Mind,” cried Mrs Old, as he was turning away, “I don’t say for certain as he’ll take ye back. He was a-sayin’ t’other day as he’d done the right thing to make a example of ye.”

Jess stared at her blankly and then went slowly back to the field, more deeply depressed than he had yet been, since the fatal day when he had asserted himself. Mrs Old’s words were ominous indeed: Jess had desired to be a leader among his fellows, to be imitated and admired; not to be set up as it were in a kind of moral pillory. He stood long looking over the hedge at the labours of the farmer and his men. At last Mr Old, attracted by his gaze, came towards him.

“Want to take a hand again, Jess?”

“Nay, sir—leastways—I can’t afford to take a hand for nothin’. ’Tisn’t in rayson. But—”

He broke off, quailing beneath the farmer’s gaze, now mildly enquiring.

“The missus—my wold ’ooman, be terr’ble upset,” he went on, “and there’s rent-day to think on, and—’tis a bad job for I to be out o’ work jist now, measter.”

“’Tis a pity ye didn’t think o’ that afore,” said Mr Old. “I d’ ’low ye’ll be a bit wiser in your next place.”

“I don’t know when I’ll have another place, sir,” said Jess, babyish tears springing to his eyes. “There, I can’t get nobody to take I on—’tis a terr’ble bad look-out for I.”

“’Tis, ’tis indeed,” agreed the other heartily.

“I were thinkin’, Measter Old, maybe ye’d overlook the past, an’ take I back. Ye wouldn’t ha’ no fault to find wi’ I again. I’d serve ye so faithful as ever I did, an’ I’d—I’d never say nothin’, nor ax for nothin’.”

He stopped with a kind of gasp. Old turned his rake upside down and thoughtfully investigated a splintered tooth.

“Well, ’tis this way, ye see,” he said, after a moment’s meditation. “I did say I were a-goin’ to make an example o’ you. I did say it to myself an’ I did say it to the men; an’ I b’ain’t a man what likes to go back on his word.”

Jess looked at him piteously, his round ruddy face almost convulsed with anxiety. Farmer Old, who was a good-natured man, could not withstand its pathetic appeal.

“Well, I’ll tell ye what I’ll do,” he cried; “there’s one way I mid take ye back wi’out breakin’ my word. I said I’d make an example of ’ee, an’ dalled if I don’t do it. There, I’ll take ye back at same wage as before if ye’ll turn teetotal.”

If Jess’s expression had been pathetic before, it was downright tragic now; he stood silent, with goggling eyes and a dropping jaw.

“Ye see,” resumed the farmer confidentially, “’twas the beer—or the wish for it what did bring all this trouble upon ye. If ye pledge yourself to drink no beer ye can’t wish for it.”

Jess however was dubious on this point.

“’Twill be sich a disgrace,” he stammered presently.

“Disgrace!” repeated the farmer. “Nothin’ o’ the kind! Ye’ll be an example to the men, I tell ’ee—they’ll be all a-lookin’ up to ’ee, an’ a-praisin’ ’ee.”

Jess’s countenance cleared in some slight measure; he took the rake which his master proffered him, in silence, and forthwith fell to work with great vigour and goodwill.

Jim Stuckey, jingling past with the hay-rake, halted beside him.

“Be come to help again?” he asked, with a grin. Domeny looked back at him solemnly.

“I b’ain’t on strike no more,” he observed. “I’ve a-come to my senses again, an’ I’ve a-come back to work. I be come,” he added, straightening his back, and raising his voice for the benefit of the others; “I be come to set ye all an example. I be a-goin’, Jim, for to give up drink altogether. I be a-goin’ for to turn teetotal.”

“Well, to be sure,” cried Jim, much impressed.

“Ees,” resumed Jess, after a moment’s pause, during which he had searched his memory for an appropriate text, which he now produced in a somewhat jumbled condition. “I have found out my sin an’ I be a-goin’ for to forsake it. I be a-goin’ for to turn teetotal out an’ out.”

* * *