CLARE ON THE FARM.
When Mr. Goodenough appeared at the house-door with the boy, his
wife’s face expressed what her tongue dared not utter without some
heating of the furnace behind it. But Clare never saw that he was
unwelcome. He had not begun to note outward and visible signs in
regard to his own species; his observation was confined to the
animals, to whose every motion and look he gave heed. But he was
hardly aware of watching even them: his love made it so natural to
watch, and so easy to understand them! He was not drawn to study
Mrs. Goodenough, or to read her indications; he was content to hear
what she said.
True to her nature, Mrs. Goodenough, seeing she could not at once get
rid of the boy, did her endeavour to make him pay for his
keep. Nominally he continued to attend the village school, where the
old master was doing his best for him; but, oftener than not, she
interposed to prevent his going, and turned him to use about the
house, the dairy, and the poultry-yard.
His new mode of life occasioned him no sense of hardship. I do not
mean because of his patient acceptance of everything that came; but
because he had been so long accustomed to the ways of a farm, to all
the phases of life and work in yard and field, that nothing there came
strange to him--except having to stick to what he was put to, and
having next to no time to read. Many boys who have found much
amusement in doing this or that, find it irksome the moment it is
required of them: Clare was not of that mean sort; he was a
gentleman. Happily he was put to no work beyond his strength.
At first, and for some time, he had to do only with the creatures more
immediately under the care of “the mistress,” whence his acquaintance
with the poultry and the pigs, the pigeons and the calves--and
specially with such as were delicate or had been hurt--with their ways
of thinking and their carriage and conduct, rapidly increased.
By and by, however, having already almost ceased to attend school, the
farmer, requiring some passing help a boy could give, took him from
his wife--not without complaint on her part, neither without sense of
relief, and would not part with him again. He was so quick in doing
what was required, so intelligent to catch the meaning not always
thoroughly expressed, so cheerful, and so willing, that he was a
pleasure to Mr. Goodenough--and no less a pleasure to the farmer that
dwelt in Mr. Goodenough, and seemed to most men all there was of him;
for, instead of an expense, he found him a saving.
It was much more pleasant for Clare to be with his master than with
his mistress, but he fared the worse for it in the house. The woman’s
dislike of the boy must find outlet; and as, instead of flowing all
day long, it was now pent up the greater part of it, the stronger it
issued when he came home to his meals. I will not defile my page with
a record of the modes in which she vented her spite. It sought at
times such minuteness of indulgence, that it was next to impossible
for any one to perceive its embodiments except the boy himself.
He now came more into contact with the larger animals about the place;
and the comfort he derived from them was greater than most people
would readily or perhaps willingly believe. He had kept up his
relations with Nimrod, the bull, and there was never a breach of the
friendship between them. The people about the farm not unfrequently
sought his influence with the animal, for at times they dared hardly
approach him. Clare even made him useful--got a little work out of him
now and then. But his main interest lay in the horses. He had up to
this time known rather less of them than of the other creatures on the
place; now he had to give his chief attention to them, laying in love
the foundation of that knowledge which afterward stood him in such
stead when he came to dwell for a time among certain eastern tribes
whose horses are their chief gladness and care. He used, when alone
with them, to talk to this one or that about the friends he had
lost--his father and mother and Maly and Sarah--and did not mind if
they all listened. He would even tell them sometimes about his own
father and mother--how the whole sky full of angels fell down upon
them and took them away. But he said most about his sister. For her he
mourned more than for any of the rest. Her screams as the black aunt
carried her away, would sometimes come back to him with such
verisimilitude of nearness, that, forgetting everything about him, he
would start to run to her. He felt somehow that it was well with the
others, but Maly had always needed _him_, and more than ever in the
last days of their companionship. He wept for nobody but Maly. In the
night he would wake up suddenly, thinking he heard her crying out for
him. Then he would get out of bed, creep to the stable, go to
Jonathan, and to him pour out his low-voiced complaint. Jonathan was
the biggest and oldest horse on the farm.
How much he thought they understood of what he told them, I cannot
say. He was never silly; and where we cannot be sure, we may yet have
reason to hope. He believed they knew when he was in trouble, and
sympathized with him, and would gladly have relieved him of his
pain. I suspect most animals know something of the significance of
tears. More animals shed tears themselves than people think.
For dogs, bless them, they are everywhere, and the boy had known them
from time immemorial.
In the village, some of Clare’s old admirers began to remark that he
no longer “looked the little gentleman.” This was caused chiefly by
the state of his clothes. They were not fit for the work to which he
was put, and within a few weeks were very shabby. Besides, he was
growing rapidly, so that he and his garments were in too evident
process of parting company. Accustomed to a mother’s attentions, he
had never thought of his clothes except to take care of them for her
sake; now he tried to mend them, but soon found his labour of little
use. He had no wages to buy anything with. His clothes or his health
or his education were nothing to Mrs. Goodenough. It was no concern of
hers whether he looked decent or not. What right had such as he to
look decent? It was more than enough that she fed him! The shabbiness
of the beggarly creature was a consolation to her.
But Clare’s toil in the open air, and his constant and willing
association with the animals, had begun to give him a bucolic
appearance. He grew a trifle browner, and showed here and there a
freckle. His health was splendid. Nothing seemed to hurt him. Hardship
was wholesome to him. To the eyes that hated him, and grudged the hire
of the mere food by which he grew, he seemed every day to enlarge
visibly. Already he gave promise of becoming a man of more than
ordinary strength and vigour. Possibly the animals gave him something.
What may have been his outlook and hope all this time, who shall tell!
He never grumbled, never showed sign of pain or unwillingness, gave
his mistress no reason for fault-finding. She found it hard even to
discover a pretext. She seemed always ready to strike him, but was
probably afraid to do so without provocation her husband would count
sufficient. Clare never showed discomfort, never even sighed except he
were alone. Chequered as his life had been, if ever he looked forward
to a fresh change, it was but as a far possibility in the slow current
of events. But he was constantly possessed with a large dim sense of
something that lay beyond, waiting for him; something toward which the
tide of things was with certainty drifting him, but with which he had
nothing more to do than wait. He did not see that to do the things
given him to do was the only preparation for whatever, in the dim
under-world of the future, might be preparing for him; but he did feel
that he must do his work. He did not then think much about duty. He
was actively inclined, had a strong feeling for doing a thing as it
ought to be done; and was thoroughly loyal to any one that seemed to
have a right over him. In this blind, enduring, vaguely hopeful way,
he went on--sustained, and none the less certainly that he did not
know it, from the fountain of his life. When the winter came, his
sufferings, cared for as he had been, and accustomed to warmth and
softness, must at times have been considerable. In the day his work
was a protection, but at night the house was cold. He had, however,
plenty to eat, had no ailment, and was not to be greatly pitied.