FARMER JOYCE walked meditatively up the steep, deeply-rutted lane which
led to the field wherein his sheep were penned. He was a tall, bluff,
burly old man, carrying himself erect in spite of his seventy years, and
capable still of performing a hard day’s work with the best of his
juniors.
On one of his broad shoulders rested a pitchfork supporting a goodly
truss of hay; in the other hand he carried a shepherd’s crook. A quaint,
picturesque, pastoral figure was this, clad in the antiquated smock
frock, now so seldom to be seen, but which Farmer Joyce wore summer and
winter alike; his nether limbs were encased in corduroys and stout
leather leggings, and his great nailed boots left impressions, gigantic
and far apart, on the muddy soil. The cutting wind frolicked with his
iron-grey beard and hair, and intensified the ruddy hue of his broad
honest face. The years which had passed over that kindly face had left
wonderfully few traces, except for the dust with which they had powdered
the once coal-black hair and beard. There were no furrows in the brow,
no pinched lines about the mouth; the eyes looked forth from under their
whitened lashes with the large contemplative gaze of the man accustomed
to pass his life between earth and sky, to sweep wide horizons, to take
note, with one comprehensive glance, of the changes of the weather, of
the coming of the seasons as indicated by sun and clouds, by bloom or
decay advancing over vast tracts of country.
Farmer Joyce had a mind above petty cares; the small home worries and
anxieties he left, as he frequently announced, his missus to see to; for
himself he kept his soul untroubled, taking good and evil fortune alike
philosophically. Yet to-day his face wore a puzzled, not to say
perturbed, expression, and, as he neared the top of the hill, he
imperceptibly slackened his long, swinging strides.
At the turn of the road, through the black irregular line of wintry
hedgerow, came glimpses of yellow, standing out vividly against the
sombre background of dull green and grey; these were the hurdles
carefully padded with straw which penned in the lambing ewes. From the
spot where Farmer Joyce stood, pausing a moment hesitatingly before
continuing the ascent, a small tarred shepherd’s hut reared itself
between him and the sky, and presently the figure of a man appeared
slowly moving round it.
“There he be,” murmured the farmer to himself, and went on more rapidly.
The figure advanced to meet him, and was standing by the small wicket
gate leading to the field by the time the other reached it.
An old man, much older, apparently, than his master, the outlines of his
bent shoulders sharply defined under the soiled linen jacket; his ragged
hair and whiskers white, his very face grey and rugged, ploughed into
deep furrows by time and hardship; the eyes looking straight before them
with a dull non-expectant gaze; the horny old hand, which rested on the
gate, gnarled and knotted, and extraordinarily thin.
“Good-day to you, shepherd. How’s the rheumatics?”
“Good-day, farmer; good-day. Rheumatics is bad, thank ye.”
“Ah,” said Joyce, “I fear ye’re falterin’, shepherd, I do, truly.”
Shepherd Robbins made no response; he stood aside to let his master pass
into the enclosure. Then the two paced together from pen to pen, the
farmer’s usually dreamy eye alert enough now, and quick to take note of
anything amiss. Once or twice he found fault, and once or twice he gave
directions; Robbins receiving commands and admonitions alike in stolid
silence. With stiff and feeble movements he helped the farmer to set
before the ewes the provender which he had brought, and stood watching
them with him while they precipitated themselves upon it.
“What a din they do make—a body can scarce hear his own voice,” cried
Joyce, turning away at last.
“’Tis their natur’ like, master,” replied the shepherd, hobbling after
him. “There’s little need of a-hearin’ one’s own voice with ewes and
lambs about. It do take a man all his time to see to ’em.”
“Ah,” agreed the farmer, stopping short suddenly and looking at him, “it
do, shepherd; it do. ’Tis more nor many a man can do. ’Tis more nor you
can do at your time of life, shepherd, I d’ ’low.”
“I do do it,” returned Robbins stolidly.
“Ah,” pursued the farmer, following out his own train of thought, as
though he had not heard him, “we be near lambin’ time now, and ’tis
puzzlin’ to know how ye’re agoin’ to manage it. It do puzzle me, I know.
Ye’re falterin’, man, I tell ’ee.”
Robbins gazed vacantly at his master, rubbing his gnarled hands together
slowly.
“My missus was a-sayin’ it to me only last night,” pursued the other.
“She do think—”
But here some gleam of intelligence seemed to filter into Robbins’ mind.
“Missus do think I’m past work,” he said. “That’s what she do do.
Missus never could abear me.”
“Now then, come,” cried the farmer, with a kind of mild roar of
exasperation. “The missus is a good missus to ’ee, Robbins. She be but
anxious for to help ’ee.”
“She’s onreasonable,” grumbled the shepherd; “onreasonable, that’s what
she be. She do look for too much, and expect too much. When Daisy
calved she was vexed at its bein’ a bull calf. ‘Well, missus,’ I says,
‘I can’t help it if it be a bull. Things falls out so,’ I says, ‘as we
can’t always have our own way. There must be he’s as well as she’s in
this world.’ An’ she did rate me for the sayin’, an’ she do keep a
grudge agin me ever since.”
“Nay, now,” said Farmer Joyce, sinking his voice, but still speaking with
the air of mild expostulation which had characterised his former remarks.
“She don’t bear ’ee no grudge, man, not she. She be all for doin’ ’ee a
good turn, I tell ’ee. Says she to me last night, ‘We must gi’ shepherd
help,’ she says, ‘else he’ll ne’er get through wi’ the lambin’ this year.
He desarves consideration,’ she says. ‘He’s worked for ’ee faithful all
his life. We mus’n’t let un drop in ’arness,’ says she. Them be her
very words, shepherd.”
Robbins continued to rub his hands, but without any appearance of
gratification. Mr. Joyce coughed, stuck his pitchfork in the ground, but
almost immediately took it out again. He seemed to find some difficulty
in proceeding.
“Them was her very words,” he resumed, however, presently. “‘He mus’n’t
be allowed to drop in ’arness. We shall be four shillin’ a week out o’
pocket, but Shepherd Robbins do desarve it,’ she says.”
The farmer paused again. It takes some little time for a new idea to
penetrate into the inner consciousness of a Dorset rustic, but after a
few moments Robbins seemed to grasp this one, and a gleam came into his
faded eyes.
“Four shillin’ a week,” he repeated. “What kind o’ chap be you a-goin’
to get for that money, master? Why, the lads ’nd scarce frighten the
crows for that.”
The farmer coughed again and gently prodded the ground with his
pitchfork, watching the operation with apparently intent interest for a
moment or two. Then he slowly raised his eyes.
“He’ll be a-gettin’ eight shillin’ a week, shepherd. Ye see, ’tis this
way. We be a-payin’ you twelve shillin’ now, we be.”
Robbins nodded. He had ceased to rub his hands, but stood with the palms
still tightly pressed together.
“Well, ye see, we didn’t a-grudge it ye. Ye was wuth it to us,
shepherd—while ye was strong an’ hearty ye was wuth it to us,” he
repeated handsomely. “But now, ye bain’t fit for much, and that’s the
trewth; ’tis no fault o’ yourn, but ye bain’t. We lost a terrible lot o’
lambs last year. Ye be too stiff in your joints to get about quick, an’
ye can’t get through your work. It comes hard on we, ye see, to be
payin’ out good money an’ not gettin’ the money value—an’ it comes hard
on you too, now ye be a-gettin’ into years, shepherd, to be strivin’ an’
contrivin’ like, an’ bibberin’ in the frostiss an’ snow stuff, an
standin’ out o’ nights when the rheumatics is bad. ’Tis cruel hard for
ye, shepherd.”
“Ay, sure,” agreed Robbins more readily than usual. He did not in the
least see the drift of the farmer’s argument, but felt that the last
proposition was indubitably true.
“So ye see ’tis this way: I lose four shillin’ a week by hirin’ a chap to
help ’ee, and you lose four shillin’ a week. I’ll pay him eight
shillin’, an’ I’ll pay you eight shillin’, an’ ye’ll divide the work
between ye. That’s it, do ye see?” said Farmer Joyce confidentially.
“Divide the work an’ divide the wage.”
Robbins stared at him, vacantly at first, then with a growing sense of
indignation as he began dimly to understand the nature of the proposal.
“I don’t agree, master,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “Nay, that I
don’t. I never axed no help, an’ I’m not a-goin’ to divide no wage.
Twelve shillin’ a week is what I did agree for, an’ I’ve a-had it for
twenty year an’ more. I can’t do with no less now nor I did then.”
“Well, but,” argued the farmer, “’tis this way, ye see, I can’t afford to
be at a loss. I’ve a-stood it as long as I could, shepherd, but I can’t
noways let things go wrong this season same as last; I can’t truly. Ye
mustn’t be onreasonable. Why, look ’ee—d’ye know any man o’ your years
in these parts as gets twelve shillin’ a week? It’s the natur’ o’ things
as when they can’t do the full day’s work they can’t have the full day’s
pay. Look at Adam Blanchard and Eddard Boyt yon. When they began to
falter they made up their minds to it and went back to eight shillin’ a
week same as their grandsons do get.”
“Ay,” agreed Robbins bitterly, “little chaps leavin’ school gets eight
shillin’ a week—it’s bwoy’s wage, bwoy’s wage.”
“An’ very good wage too,” retorted the farmer, now as much nettled as was
possible for one of his placid nature. “You ought to take it an’ be
thankful, Abel Robbins. Many a man ’ud be proud an’ glad to earn as much
an’ have it paid reg’lar. Many a able-bodied man wi’ a family,” he added
impressively. “’Tis enough an’ more than enough for you, a lone man wi’
no one dependin’ on ye, so to speak.”
“Ay, I am a lone man, I am that,” agreed the shepherd warmly. “An’ why
am I a lone man? When I worked for ye first, after your father died,
says you, ‘We must have a single man,’ says you. ‘I must have ye on the
spot,’ says you, ‘with all them dumb things about the place to see to.’
So I give up walkin’ wi’ the maid I was coortin’ an’ give up the notion
o’ gettin’ wed. An’ when you got married yourself your missus sent me to
lodge in the village.”
“Well, an’ why didn’t ye get tied up then?” returned Joyce, with no less
heat. “Why, that’s nigh forty year ago. You have had time, sure, to
pick a wife between this an’ then?”
Abel stared at him reflectively. “I’d got used to bein’ without one,” he
said, dropping his voice. “I was goin’ on thirty, then. Ay, it was too
late. I’d given up the thought o’ womankind, an’ ’twouldn’t have seemed
nait’ral like. But I could wish now that I did ha’ married an’ had
childern to keep me.”
“Ye mid ha’ been without ’em,” replied Joyce, once more placid and
thoughtful. “Ay, shepherd, ’tis very like you would. There’s nothin’ in
my opinion more disappointin’ an’ onsartin than wedlock. There was my
mother, a poor ailing thing, an’ Lard, what a family she did have to be
sure! The babbies used to be like rabbits—’pon me word they was. But
they died most of ’em, an’ only a matter o’ half a-dozen o’ us grew up.
Well now, look at my missus—she be a fine, strong, healthy woman, bain’t
she? Never had chick nor child, as the sayin’ goes. An’ my first wife,
ye mind her, Abel? She was a straight woman an’ a stout un, an’ the only
child she had was a poor nesh little thing, that withered away, ye may
say, as soon as it was born. Ye mightn’t ha’ had no children, shepherd,
an’ if so be ye had wed ye’d have had the wife to keep.”
“That’s true,” assented Abel.
“An’ there’s another thing,” pursued the farmer, following up his
advantage, “if you’d ha’ married when ye was a young un, your sons would
be gettin’ into years pretty well by now themselves. They’d have wives
an’ families o’ their own. Lard bless you! that they would, an’ where
’ud you be among ’em all?”
This flight of imagination was too much for Robbins, who did not attempt
to follow it. He came back instead to the point at issue.
“Eight shillin’ a week,” he repeated. “’Tis what your father give me
when I first worked for en. Ay, I worked for en for that an’ kept
myself. You mind the time, master; you were a young un too
yourself—there is but a two year atween us, but you’ve wore well, fanner;
a deal better nor I. ’Tis the good food, I daresay—ay, ay, it makes a
lot of difference. Good keep makes fat sheep, as the sayin’ goes. A man
laisses twice as long if his victuals is nourishin’.”
“Come, come, I do ’low you’re tough though,” laughed his master
good-naturedly. “Ye’ll see me down, maybe. You come of a long-lived
race, shepherd.”
“Ay, eight shillin’ a week yer father give me,” repeated Robbins,
reverting to his original statement, and once more rubbing his hands and
blinking his dim eyes as though in the effort to gaze back on that
distant past. “I mind ’twas thought wonderful high pay i’ them days;
folks was gettin’ six shillin’ an’ five, but yer father said I was wuth
it to en; an’ when he died an’ I went to live yonder with you ye give me
eight shillin’ a week an’ my keep—ay, that was summat, I was hearty
enough then. Ye give me that for ten year, an’ then ye got married an’ I
must shift to the village, an’ then ye give me ten shillin’ a week. And
when I were fifty year of age I up an’ I says to you, ‘Master,’ says I,
‘I’ve a-sarved ye twenty-five year now an’ ye must raise me,’ says I,
d’ye mind? So ye rose me two shillin’, didn’t ye? Well, an’ I’ve had
twelve shillin’ a week ever since,” he summed up, and his eyes, which had
been travelling slowly back over the years, reverted altogether to the
present and fixed themselves reproachfully on his master’s face. “An’
now I be to have bwoy’s pay again, be I?” he queried with an almost
childish quiver and droop of the under lip.
“Well, Abel, ’tis onfortunate—terrible onfortunate, ’tis truely. I’m
fair puzzled, I am,” returned the farmer, much moved himself. “Look at
it whichever way you will it don’t seem fair, but there’s a deal o’
difference between the look o’ things an’ the real natur’ of em’,
shepherd. Look at figures now, an’ prices. Lard, when ye count by pence
ye seem to have such a lot you’re fair puzzled wi’ addin’ ’em up—a body
’ud need to have twenty fingers instead of a cluster o’ five. But put
’em into shillin’s an’ where are ye? An’ put ’em into pounds, ah—” here
the farmer drew in his breath with a sucking sound that implied volumes.
“An’ yet it be all the same money, Abel.”
The shepherd, looking at him still reproachfully, shook his head.
“I know nothin’ about figures, master; all I know is ’tis cruel hard that
when I’ve a-worked all my days for ’ee, Farmer Joyce, you turn on me i’
my ancient years. It be hard, an’ I can’t say no different.”
For the third time that day Mr. Joyce’s usually equable temper was
disturbed. He now spoke angrily, partly to end the dispute, for the
sight of Abel Robbins’ haggard, reproachful face was almost more than he
could bear, partly because he was vexed at the pertinacity with which the
old fellow adhered to his own point of view, partly because his kind
heart smote him for the course of action he was about to pursue, though
his judgment held it to be just.
“Well, ’tis this way, Robbins,” he cried roughly, “take it or leave it,
an’ please yourself. I’ve made ye a fair offer, an’ more than a fair
offer. I can get another man to do all the work for ten shillin’ a
week—men be plenty an’ work be scarce—’tis clear loss of six shillin’ a
week out o’ my own pocket, an’ if I’m willin’ to put up with it you
should be content; I’ll stick to my bargain.”
“Well, I bain’t content, master,” cried Robbins, a dull fire coming into
his eyes. “I’d sooner leave—I’d sooner give notice—ay, that I would.”
[Picture: I be mazed; I be fair mazed]
Farmer Joyce raised hands and eyes to Heaven.
“I never heard such talk from a reasonable man. If you do leave me, how
be you a-goin’ to live? Who’s a-going to take you on as a new hand if
you leave me? It’ll be the House, man. There, don’t talk so foolish
like. Think it over an’ give me your answer on Saturday. I’ll not hear
a word on’t till then. It’s never my way to be hasty. Take time,
shepherd; take time. When you’ve a-thought it over you’ll find it’s not
such a bad bargain.”
He turned away and strode down the hill, crook and pitchfork on shoulder.
Robbins made no effort to detain him, but stood watching the receding
figure in a dazed way till it disappeared at the angle of the lane. Then
he walked back slowly to the enclosure where the sheep were still feeding
and stood for a moment or two looking at them according to his custom,
but without noticing them.
“I be mazed,” he said to himself; “I be fair mazed.”
Gradually he woke to the consciousness that his limbs were trembling
under him, and his head dizzy, and leaving the sheep pen he entered the
hut and sat down on the solitary chair which it contained. In one
corner, curled up on an old coat that Robbins sometimes put on when the
nights were exceptionally cold, lay his dog, which, on his master’s
entrance, opened its eyes without raising its head and wagged its tail in
welcome. The keen yellow eyes remained fixed on Robbins’ face, and after
a time the tail ceased wagging, and the dog stiffly rose, shook itself,
and pattered across the floor to the shepherd’s feet. Finding still no
return, it laid its head upon Abel’s knee, looking up into his face with
such a world of dumb questioning anguish that it at length elicited a
response. Robbins stretched out his hand, which still shook oddly, and
patted the tawny head,
“Ay, Bob, I see thee,” he said; “there, down, down!” as the dog,
springing up, began to lick his face. “We can’t help it, boy; we’re to
be chucked out, thee and I. You be getting old, too, an’ ’tis a sin to
be old i’ these times. Nobody wants us, Bob. If some folks had their
will you an’ me ’ud be knocked on the head, Bob; an’ I do ’low it ’ud be
the best way. I could a’most wish as somebody ’ud come up without my
knowing it an’ jest—settle me. Livin’s poor work when folk be wishin’ to
be rid on ye.”
Bob slid on to the floor again and laid his old white muzzle on the worn
corduroy knee; and Abel continued to stroke his head, but without
speaking, until at last the sympathetic eyes closed, and the dog dozed,
still pressing close to him. Then Abel suffered his hand to drop and sat
as before, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.
Saturday came, one of those mild, south country days when winter seems to
give place to spring; the sky was blue, thrushes were singing; the air
was soft and fragrant, almost as with the spicy smell of mounting sap and
growing herbage. Farmer Joyce toiled up the hill again with his smock
frock thrown open, and his hat on the back of his head. His face, too,
was full of a mild radiance as he paused within the gate of the
enclosure.
“Well shepherd?” he said interrogatively.
Robbins had been turning over the litter within the pens, and continued
his occupation for a moment or two, the sun gleaming on his white hair
and the golden straw. Then he drove the pitchfork slowly into the ground
and turned round, holding himself erect; his old dog came shambling
forward and stood by his side.
“Well, farmer,” said Abel grimly, “I be goin’.”
His master stood gazing at him, shading his eyes with his hand. “When be
ye goin’, shepherd?” he asked still mildly.
“This day week,” returned the shepherd briefly.
“How be goin’ to live, Abel?”
Robbins made no reply. Farmer Joyce thumped the gate with his massive
brown fist.
“Ye’ll starve, Abel, that’s what ye’ll do.”
“Well, then,” cried Abel, thumping the gate too with his lean old hand,
“I will starve, farmer. I don’t care so much if I do starve; livin’s
weary work—the sooner I be done with it the better.”
“Shepherd, shepherd,” expostulated Farmer Joyce in real distress and
perplexity, “this be fool’s talk—this be nothin’ but stubbornness. I’ll
not take such an answer.”
“Ye may take it,” retorted Robbins, thumping the gate again, “for ye’ll
not get no other.”
“Well, I be sorry, Abel; I be very sorry—I—I be terrible sorry. You’ve
sarved me faithful, Abel.”
“Ay, master, I do ’low I’ve sarved ’ee too faithful,” returned Robbins.
He betook himself to his pitchfork again, and all his master’s
remonstrances failed to extract another word.
Sorely perturbed in mind Joyce withdrew at last, and made his way
homewards. Throwing down his hat on the kitchen table he informed his
wife of the result of the interview.
“I could a’most wish as we hadn’t ha’ said nothin’ about it to the old
chap. He won’t last long—an’ I might ha’ made shift to help him a bit.”
“That be real nonsense,” returned his better half. “’Twould be a pretty
notion for the master to be a-workin’ for the man. Let him go if he’s
set on’t—he’ll repent it.”
She set a dish on the table with somewhat unnecessary energy, and her
husband held his peace for a moment or two. By-and-bye, however, he put
into words that which was in the minds of both.
“We’ll be like to repent it, too. Abel be wonderful handy about the
place. ’Tis but his j’ints as is straggled. He be no Sammy, shepherd
bain’t; his head’s wise enough yet if his body be tewly.”
“I do ’low ye didn’t take him the right way,” said Mrs. Joyce, looking at
her husband with severe disapproval. “Men-folk be all alike, they’ve no
notion o’ things. I’ll lay a shillin’ ye took en rough like—told en he
weren’t good for nothin’, an’ vexed en so that he were fair dathered.
Leave en to me, I’ll talk to en a bit, an’ see what I can make of en.”
Then she banged another plate upon the table and added somewhat
inconsequently, “I’ve no patience with en—nor you neither”.
Later in the day she was standing, knitting in hand, watching a brood of
very young chickens which had made their appearance at an astonishingly
early date. Despite this fact they were hardy, healthy little things,
and Mrs. Joyce smiled as she watched them running in and out from under
their mother, picking up the meal she threw them with great alertness and
enjoyment.
Mrs. Joyce was a tall, large woman with sandy hair, from which the sun
now brought out pretty lights. She had the temper which usually
accompanies such hair, easily roused and as easily appeased. The mere
sight of these yellow, fluffy chickens, the consciousness of the
sunshine, and the fragrance, and suggestiveness, had filled her with a
kind of hazy content. The wall-flowers yonder under the kitchen windows
were already ablow, she observed. The pigs, too, were coming on nicely;
the calf, which was bleating not unmusically in one of the outhouses, had
had the good sense to be a heifer. Altogether Mrs. Joyce felt that the
world was not a bad place and that life was worth living.
She was in this frame of mind when, chancing to raise her eyes, she saw
the figure of Shepherd Robbins shambling slowly down the steep “pinch” of
road that led to the farm gate. Perhaps it was the sudden contrast
between that gaunt form, that haggard, melancholy face, and the
surrounding brightness and prosperity that moved her, perhaps because,
being a good-hearted woman in the main, she shared her husband’s regret
at the course events were taking; in any case at sight of him her anger
melted away, and a flood of genuine pity swept over her heart.
She went to meet Robbins at the gate and laid her hand kindly on his arm.
“Why, shepherd,” she said, and her pleasant voice assumed an inflection
that was almost tender, “’tis never true what my husband tells me? You
bain’t a-thinkin’ of leaving we? We couldn’t get on without ’ee.”
Sometimes an unexpected kind word from a person whom we have distrusted,
and perhaps disliked, carries more weight than a similar one from a
friend. Poor Robbins had been dogged and surly enough with the master
whom he loved, but when the missus, with whom he had hitherto lived, as
it were, on the defensive, spoke so gently and looked so kind, he gazed
back at her astonished, softened, confounded.
And when she said again: “Why, shepherd, you bain’t goin’ to desert we?”
he suddenly burst into tears.
“No ma’am,” he said brokenly. “I—I—what be I to do?” The tears were
running down his face. “I d’ ’low I’d be loth to leave master.”
“Well, you mustn’t think on it,” returned Mrs. Joyce decidedly. “We
couldn’t do without you. See—’tis all a bit o’ temper, bain’t it? You
never truly meant to give notice?”
“I did, missus; I did,” sobbed the old man. “It bain’t temper neither,
it—it be the notion, I think.”
“Yes, that’s all it be, sure,” said Mrs. Joyce, not in the least knowing
what he meant, but speaking in soothing tones and patting his arm kindly;
“’tis but a notion, Abel. Eight shillin’ bain’t so bad, you know—come.
You’ll never want so long as you ’arn eight shillin’ a week—eight
shillin’ a week ’ll keep you, wunt it?”
“Ay, it’ll keep me, missus—it bain’t that. But I do ’low it’ll be main
hard to go up on pay-day wi’ ’em all, an’ take laiss nor any of ’em—me
that has always took the most. They’ll all be castin’ eyes at me an’
talkin’ small o’ me. They’ll be sayin’, ‘Shepherd be takin’ bwoy’s wage.
He bain’t worth his salt now, shepherd bain’t.’ It’s the notion o’ that,
missus, as I can’t stand—nohow.”
“Oh, that’s what it be,” returned his mistress thoughtfully.
The excitement which rendered Robbins so unusually garrulous had flushed
his cheeks and given light to his eyes. The woman’s heart was touched as
she looked at him.
“Ay, ma’am, an’ another thing—the lad as I be to have help me, he’ll be a
cheeky un very like—the ruck o’ lads be. He’ll think himself as good as
me—better mayhap. He’ll be gettin’ same money as me, ye know. What’ll
he think o’ me at my time o’ life? Adam Blanchard and Eddard Boyt they
be gettin’ same as their grandsons I d’ ’low, but there! the boys be
their grandsons, an’ if they don’t treat ’em respectful-like they can
give ’em the stick.”
Mrs. Joyce was silent for a moment, her brows were knit and her lips
compressed; she seemed to be turning over a problem in her mind.
Suddenly her face lit up.
“Abel,” she said, “I’m o’ your mind arter all. I think instead o’ your
master cuttin’ off your wages he ought to raise you. You ought to have
some reward for your long years of faithful service. In my opinion your
master ought to raise you to sixteen shillin’.”
Shepherd Robbins looked as though he scarcely heard aright.
“Why, missus!” he exclaimed, and paused overcome.
“Yes; if master raises you, nobody couldn’t vex you, an’ yet nobody
couldn’t find aught amiss. The master ’ud tell ’em all ’twas but nat’ral
after ye bein’ wi’ us so long an’ so punished wi’ rheumatics. It’s time
he should do something more for ’ee. An’ so, he’d say, he’s goin’ to
raise you an’ you be goin’ to keep a lad.”
Robbins still stared, astonishment and delight vying with each other in
his face. “That ’ud be a different story!” he ejaculated.
“An’, you see, you could pick your own bwoy easy then—he’d be your bwoy;
you could choose en for yourself, an’ send en away if he didn’t behave
hisself. Would that do ye?” she asked with modest triumph.
“Do me!—ah, that it would! I did never expect so much. But master won’t
hear on it, sure!”
“He will, though—I’ll see to that. ’Tis but your due, shepherd. I d’
’low you deserve some reward; we bain’t onreasonable!”
She turned quickly, and went into the house, leaving Robbins radiant but
still half incredulous.
He was forced to believe in his own good fortune, however, when at pay
time Farmer Joyce announced the intended promotion of Shepherd Robbins,
who, in view of his long service and failing health, was now to receive
an increase of wages amounting to four shillings a week.
The shepherd bore himself with becoming modesty under the congratulations
of his comrades. One or two of them were disposed to be envious, but for
the most part they received the intelligence in an ungrudging spirit.
“They do say that you be goin’ to keep a bwoy, shepherd,” remarked the
ploughman a little later, gazing at him with respectful admiration.
“Very like I be,” returned Abel loftily. He was not proud, but
thoroughly aware of his own importance.
One of the other men, the father of a family, humbly mentioned that he
had a fine well-grown lad at home that would, maybe, suit Mr. Robbins as
well as another, and Abel graciously promised to think of it.
He went home thoroughly convinced that a piece of most unexpected good
luck had befallen him, an opinion which was shared by all his neighbours.
As for Mr. and Mrs. Joyce they kept their own counsel.