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WALTER HARLAND
Or, Memories of the Past
by
H. S. CASWELL
Author of Clara Boscom; Earnest Harwood, etc.
1874
CHAPTER I.
Left entirely alone on a quiet afternoon, the unbroken stillness which
surrounded me, as well as the soft haze which floats upon the
atmosphere, in that most delightful of all seasons, the glorious "Indian
Summer" of Eastern Canada, caused my thoughts to wander far away into
the dreamy regions of the past, and many scenes long past, and almost
forgotten, passed in review before my mind's eye on that quiet
afternoon. While thus musing the idea occurred to me that there are few
individuals, however humble or obscure, whose life-history (if noted
down) would prove wholly without interest to others, in the form of a
book; and this thought caused me to form the idea of noting down some
passages from my own life--as they were on that day recalled to my mind.
Like the boy who dreamed a most remarkable dream and, when asked to
relate it, "didn't know where to begin," so was I puzzled as to how I
should make a beginning for my story. But the incidents of one
particular day when I was about thirteen years old were so vividly
brought back to my mind, that I have decided upon that day as a
starting-point; and now to my story.
"Where alive has that lazy, good-for-nothing boy taken, himself off to
now, I wonder, and the weeds I left him to pull in the garden not half
done yet; but it's just like him, as soon's my back's turned to skulk
off in this way. I'll put a stop to this work one of these days, see if
I don't. Its likely he's hiding in some out-of-the-way corner with a
book in his hand as usual." These and many other angry words came
harshly to my ears, on that June afternoon now so long ago. I was seated
in the small room over the kitchen which was appropriated to my use in
the dwelling of Farmer Judson, where I was employed as "chore boy," or,
in other words, the boy of all work.
"Walter, Walter Harland, come down here this minute, I say."
I started up, trembling with fear, for the angry tones of the farmer
made me aware that he had come home in one of his worst tempers, and his
best were usually bad enough; and, more than this, I knew myself to be
slightly in the fault. Before leaving home that morning Mr. Judson had
ordered me to clear the weeds from a certain number of beds in the
garden before his return. I worked steadily during the forenoon, and for
a portion of the afternoon, when, feeling tired and heated, I stole up
to my room, thinking to rest for a short time and then again resume my
labors. I was very fond of study, and, as my Algebra lay before me upon
the table, I could not resist the temptation to open it, and I soon
became so deeply absorbed in the solution of a difficult problem that I
heeded not the lapse of time till the harsh voice of my employer fell
upon my ear. I had learned by past experience to fear the angry moods
of Mr. Judson. In my hurry and confusion I forgot to lay aside my book,
and went downstairs with it in my hand. I stood silent before the angry
man, and listened to the storm of abuse which he continued to pour upon
me, until sheer exhaustion compelled him to stop.
"And now," said he (by way of conclusion) "be off to your work, and
don't be seen in the house again till the last weed is pulled from them
air beds." This was even better than I had dared to hope, for, on more
than one former occasion, I had borne blows from Mr. Judson when his
anger was excited. As I turned to leave the room the quick eye of the
farmer fell upon the book which before had escaped his notice. Stepping
hastily toward me he said:
"I see how it is, your head is so filled with the crankums you get out
o' them books, that you are good for nothing else, but I'll stop this
work once for all;" and, ere I was aware of his intention, he
snatched the book from my hand, and threw it upon the wood-fire which
burned in the kitchen fire-place. I sprang forward to rescue my book
from the flames, but, before I could reach it, it was burned to ashes.
As I have before stated I was then about thirteen years old, tall and
strong for my age. I was usually quiet and respectful, but for all this
I possessed a high spirit. I could easily be controlled by kindness and
mild persuasion, but never by harsh and unkind treatment, and this act
of Mr. Judson's enraged me beyond all control, and in a moment all the
smouldering anger occasioned by his past harshness shot up as it were in
a sudden blaze. I have often heard it said, and I believe with truth,
that there is something almost appalling in the roused anger of one of
those usually quiet and submissive natures. I have often since thought
that passion rendered me partially insane for the time being; trembling
with anger, I confronted my employer fearlessly, as I said "How _dare_
you burn my book? you bad, wicked man, you are just as mean as you can
be."
This sudden outbreak from me, who hitherto had borne his abuse in
silence, took Mr. Judson quite by surprise. For a moment he looked at
me in silence, then, with a voice hoarse from passion, he addressed me,
saying, "such talk to _me_! you surely have lost any little sense you
ever may have had." Then seizing me roughly by the shoulder he
continued: "I'll teach you better manners than all this comes to, my
fine fellow, for I'll give you such a flogging as you won't forget in
a hurry, I'll be bound."
Instantly my resolution was taken; he should never flog me again.
Shaking off the rough grasp of his hand, I stepped backward, and drawing
myself up to my full height (even then I was not very tall) I looked him
unflinchingly in the face as I said,--"touch _me_ if you _dare_, I have
borne blows enough from you, and for little cause, but you shall _never_
strike me again. If you lay a hand upon me it will be worse for you."
Wild with anger I knew not what I said. The strength of a lad of my age
would, of course, have been as nothing against that of the sturdy
farmer; but, had he attempted to flog me, I certainly should have
resisted to the utmost of my ability. I know not how it was, but after
regarding me for a few moments with angry astonishment, he turned away
without any further attempt to fulfil his threat of flogging me. I
turned and was leaving the house when he called after me, in a voice,
which upon any previous occasion, would have frightened me into
submission.
"Come back, I say, this instant." I had now lost all fear and replied,
in a voice which I hardly recognized as my own, "go back, _never_.
Should I be compelled to beg my bread from door to door, I will never
stay another day under your roof." With these words I ran from the
house, and soon reached the little brown cottage in the village three
miles distant where lived my mother and sister Flora.