Essential Novelists - Dinah Craik. August Nemo
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by twig, till I forced my way through, and got out safe at the other side.”
“Well done, lad! — but if it’s all the same to thee, I would rather thee did not try that experiment upon MY hedge at present.”
My father had come behind, and overheard us, unobserved. We were both somewhat confounded, though a grim kindliness of aspect showed that he was not displeased — nay, even amused.
“Is that thy usual fashion of getting over a difficulty, friend — what’s thy name?”
I supplied the answer. The minute Abel Fletcher appeared, John seemed to lose all his boyish fun, and go back to that premature gravity and hardness of demeanour which I supposed his harsh experience of the world and of men had necessarily taught him; but which was very sad to see in a lad so young.
My father sat down beside me on the bench — pushed aside an intrusive branch of clematis — finally, because it would come back and tickle his bald pate, broke it off, and threw it into the river: then, leaning on his stick with both hands, eyed John Halifax sharply, all over, from top to toe.
“Didn’t thee say thee wanted work? It looks rather like it.”
His glance upon the shabby clothes made the boy colour violently.
“Oh, thee need’st not be ashamed; better men than thee have been in rags. Hast thee any money?”
“The groat you gave, that is, paid me; I never take what I don’t earn,” said the lad, sticking a hand in either poor empty pocket.
“Don’t be afraid — I was not going to give thee anything — except, maybe — Would thee like some work?”
“O sir!”
“O father!”
I hardly know which was the most grateful cry.
Abel Fletcher looked surprised, but on the whole not ill-pleased. Putting on and pulling down his broad-brimmed hat, he sat meditatively for a minute or so; making circles in the gravel walk with the end of his stick. People said — nay, Jael herself, once, in a passion, had thrown the fact at me — that the wealthy Friend himself had come to Norton Bury without a shilling in his pocket.
“Well, what work canst thee do, lad?”
“Anything,” was the eager answer.
“Anything generally means nothing,” sharply said my father; “what hast thee been at all this year? — The truth, mind!”
John’s eyes flashed, but a look from mine seemed to set him right again. He said quietly and respectfully, “Let me think a minute, and I’ll tell you. All spring I was at a farmer’s, riding the plough-horses, hoeing turnips; then I went up the hills with some sheep: in June I tried hay-making, and caught a fever — you needn’t start, sir, I’ve been well these six weeks, or I wouldn’t have come near your son — then —”
“That will do, lad — I’m satisfied.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thee need not say ‘sir’— it is folly. I am Abel Fletcher.” For my father retained scrupulously the Friend’s mode of speech, though he was practically but a lax member of the Society, and had married out of its pale. In this announcement of his plain name appeared, I fancy, more pride than humility.
“Very well, I will remember,” answered the boy fearlessly, though with an amused twist of his mouth, speedily restrained. “And now, Abel Fletcher, I shall be willing and thankful for any work you can give me.”
“We’ll see about it.”
I looked gratefully and hopefully at my father — but his next words rather modified my pleasure.
“Phineas, one of my men at the tan-yard has gone and ‘listed this day — left an honest livelihood to be a paid cut-throat. Now, if I could get a lad — one too young to be caught hold of at every pot-house by that man of blood, the recruiting sergeant — Dost thee think this lad is fit to take the place?”
“Whose place, father?”
“Bill Watkins’.”
I was dumb-foundered! I had occasionally seen the said Bill Watkins, whose business it was to collect the skins which my father had bought from the farmers round about. A distinct vision presented itself to me of Bill and his cart, from which dangled the sanguinary exuviae of defunct animals, while in front the said Bill sat enthroned, dirty-clad, and dirty-handed, with his pipe in his mouth. The idea of John Halifax in such a position was not agreeable.
“But, father —”
He read deprecation in my looks — alas! he knew too well how I disliked the tan-yard and all belonging to it. “Thee’rt a fool, and the lad’s another. He may go about his business for me.”
“But, father, isn’t there anything else?”
“I have nothing else, or if I had I wouldn’t give it. He that will not work neither shall he eat.”
“I will work,” said John, sturdily — he had listened, scarcely comprehending, to my father and me. “I don’t care what it is, if only it’s honest work.”
Abel Fletcher was mollified. He turned his back on me — but that I little minded — and addressed himself solely to John Halifax.
“Canst thee drive?”
“That I can!” and his eyes brightened with boyish delight.
“Tut! it’s only a cart — the cart with the skins. Dost thee know anything of tanning?”
“No, but I can learn.”
“Hey, not so fast! still, better be fast than slow. In the meantime, thee can drive the cart.”
“Thank you, sir — Abel Fletcher, I mean — I’ll do it well. That is, as well as I can.”
“And mind! no stopping on the road. No drinking, to find the king’s cursed shilling at the bottom of the glass, like poor Bill, for thy mother to come crying and pestering. Thee hasn’t got one, eh? So much the better, all women are born fools, especially mothers.”
“Sir!” The lad’s face was all crimson and quivering; his voice choked; it was with difficulty he smothered down a burst of tears. Perhaps this self-control was more moving than if he had wept — at least, it answered better with my father.
After a few minutes more, during which his stick had made a little grave in the middle of the walk, and buried something there — I think something besides the pebble — Abel Fletcher said, not unkindly:
“Well, I’ll take thee; though it isn’t often I take a lad without a character of some sort — I suppose thee hast none.”
“None,” was the answer, while the straightforward, steady gaze which accompanied it unconsciously contradicted the statement; his own honest face was the lad’s best witness — at all events I thought so.
“’Tis done then,” said my father, concluding the business more quickly than I had ever before known his cautious temper settle even such a seemingly trifling matter. I say SEEMINGLY. How blindly we talk when we talk of “trifles.”
Carelessly rising, he, from some kindly impulse, or else to mark the closing of the bargain, shook the boy’s hand, and left in it a shilling.
“What is this for?”
“To show I have hired thee as my servant.”
“Servant!” John repeated hastily, and rather proudly. “Oh yes, I understand — well, I will try and serve you well.”
My father did not notice that manly, self-dependent smile. He was too busy calculating how many more of those said shillings would be a fair equivalent for such labour as a lad, ever so much