“’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.