“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?”