THE NEW MANAGER TAKES ADAM UNAWARES.
IT was Saturday afternoon and Adam Livesey had taken charge of all his
children except the eldest, who was staying at home to fetch and carry
and to be made generally useful during the weekly "cleaning up" for
Sunday. The one left behind cast longing glances after the little troop
who, under father's convoy, were being taken out of mother's way. It
was rather hard lines for the solitary little damsel, who would have so
enjoyed a run in the park with the rest, but who, being ten years old
and the eldest of six, mostly boys, paid the penalty of being a sort of
household drudge.
The mother could hardly be blamed for this, since, as she truly
said, her own work was never done, and in the pinched face and often
peevish tones of Mrs. Livesey there was not much to remind any one of
rosy-checked Maggie Allison. But she might have made her willing little
helper much happier, if she had only led the child instead of driving
her, and given kind words in place of perpetual fault-finding.
As to Adam, he silently rejoiced in being able to take so many of the
youngsters into the somewhat grimy enclosure called the "People's
Park." There was plenty of space for play, the air was as fresh as any
in the neighbourhood, and there were swings, trees and flowers, though
to pluck a leaf or blossom with clean gloves on would have destroyed
their purity for ever.
However, the park was not so much for the clean-gloved people, so that
mattered little; and it was a vast source of enjoyment to many whose
hands were innocent of covering, and alas! their feet too, in many
cases.
Before lifting the baby in his strong arms, Adam whispered a promise
in the ears of Maggie junior, which brought a flush of gladness to her
rueful face, and would do much to cheer her during her hours of toil.
Then he went off to the park with his youthful following.
The day was pleasant, the breeze just fresh enough to make walking
delightful; and the spirits of the children infected their father.
Mrs. Livesey often said that Adam gave them more words during one walk
than anybody else got out of him in a week; but then she should have
remembered that she talked more than enough for them both. Even patient
Adam had been driven to say that there was no edging in a word beside
her. Anyway, he always answered the little folks pleasantly and kindly,
and the walk to the park seemed short to them all. Once there, the four
went off to the swings, and baby being asleep, Adam sat down on a bench
well sheltered by a background of shrubs, lest his smallest charge
should suffer by exposure to the breeze, and began to think things over.
When with the children, the man's mind was often sorely perplexed. He
loved them dearly, and, in spite of the change in his wife's looks, he
had never varied in his affection for her. True, she was not just the
Maggie she used to be. But was he not to blame? If he had not married
her, somebody brighter and better off might have made her his wife. Was
it not wrong of a man who was so little in himself, and who had nothing
else, to marry at all? And would the children have no better prospect
to look forward to? He could see nothing tempting before any of them.
He was only forty years of age now, and his wife thirty-four, but how
much older both of them looked than their actual ages!
Just at this moment Adam heard voices behind the shrubs. One was that
of a girl, and as she passed on, she gaily hummed a tune. It was one
that his wife used to sing in her clear fresh voice, which he had so
loved to hear, during their brief courtship and early married days. The
sound actually brought moisture, of which he felt thoroughly ashamed,
to Adam's eyes, and he was gently disengaging one hand so as to wipe it
away, when a different voice addressed him by name. He recognised it in
a moment. It was that of Mr. Drummond, and he was by no means glad to
hear it, though the words were friendly and the tone pleasant.
"I am glad to see you here, Livesey," said the manager. "You are a wise
man to use your half-holiday in this way. One would think that most
workers who spend so much time in places like the cotton mill or smithy
would be glad to get the smoke and steam blown out of them, now and
then, by such a sweet breeze as this."
Adam gave a sort of indistinct murmur of assent, said something about
bringing the children out, and "cleaning day," and made as if he would
have risen.
He did not want the manager's company, but the man's instincts were
ever on the side of courtesy, and he never failed in civility to those
whom he had been used to call his "betters."
Mr. Drummond saw the movement, and laying his hand on Adam's arm, said,
"Do not get up, please. You might rouse that little sleeper. What a
pretty creature!" And he looked admiringly at the child, whose forehead
was shaded with dark rings of silky hair, and her long lashes rested on
the flushed cheeks.
"By your leave," added the manager, "I will sit down beside you."
What could Adam say? Certainly he could not refuse, for the seat was as
free to Mr. Drummond as to him, and there was room for five occupants.
Then, too, the feeling of antagonism which he had cherished towards
Mr. Drummond was beginning to give way already. That gentleman's frank
admiration of his youngest born touched Adam in his tenderest point,
and his politeness had gained him a further advantage.
"To think he should say 'By your leave' to me. Why, one of the men
wouldn't have troubled himself to do that, but would have flung himself
down, and maybe stuck his feet up with his shoe soles against my
clothes, and whether I wanted his company or no."
Adam's cogitation was perfectly correct, and by the time he came to
the end of it, he could say with truth, "Sit down, sir, by all means.
There's lots of room. Besides," he added, "nobody has any call to ask
leave."
"Maybe not, in one sense, and so far as occupying a seat goes. But when
a person you know is sitting quietly and alone, it is perhaps as well
to find out whether your company will annoy him or not."
"I suppose that would be so if it were a gentleman," returned Adam,
slowly.
"Do you mean a gentleman sitting?"
"Yes. I reckon very few folks would trouble about manners to a man o'
no account like me."
"Then it would be their own loss. It always does harm to those who miss
a chance of showing civility. I had a very good mother, Adam. Not a
fine lady, according to the world's notion, but a hard-working woman,
and she taught me this lesson, that one-sided politeness is not worth
much. It should go everywhere, and be practised all round."
"You learned that lesson right off, and you've remembered it, sir,"
said Adam, on whose face an expression of interest was already manifest.
It was very curious, but during the brief moments that the two men had
spent together, the manager succeeded in touching the most sensitive
chords in the striker's nature. His love for his children, his own low
self-estimate, and his memory of the mother who "gave up."
Mr. Drummond went back to the first. Bending over the lovely
unconscious baby-sleeper, he touched its soft cheek with his lips, too
gently to rouse it, however, and then looking into Adam's face with a
smile he asked, "How old is she?"
"Fifteen months. She can toddle about a bit, but not walk far; so I
have to carry her, you see."
"I have one the same age. We lost the next oldest."
"And so did Maggie and me. Maggie's my wife, sir."
"How many have you altogether?"
"Six, and the eldest is just turned ten, poor little lass!"
Mr. Drummond put two and two together, and guessed the meaning of these
last words. "I suppose she is at home helping her mother, and would
have liked to be here."
"That's just it, sir. The rest are here. They will come to me when
they're tired."
Adam would have liked to ask how many children Mr. Drummond possessed,
but his shyness overcame him, and he remained silent. The manager
wanted to draw him out a little, and thinking the best way was by being
communicative, said, "You are twice as rich as I am, Livesey."
"Then you have three children. I was just wondering. But you are a
many times as rich as I am in other ways—learning and place, money and
manners. I have very little of anything except children. Seems queer
now, doesn't it?"
"It does. People often puzzle over that subject, and wonder that the
meat and the mouths get sent in different directions. But you must not
fancy that I am a rich man, or that my way has been made smooth for me."
Adam never could tell how it was that he managed to get out the
question, but he next found himself inquiring about Mr. Drummond's
mother, to whom he had alluded as "a hard-working woman."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but was your mother one that 'gave
up'?"
The manager hardly understood Adam's meaning. He hesitated, then said,
"Gave up what?"
Livesey's features worked in a most peculiar manner, as if he might be
engaged in the manufacture of words by which to make his meaning clear.
After a struggle, he answered, "I'm not sure whether I can tell you,
sir. But mother was left a widow with three of us, and nobody to help,
and she was like somebody that has too much weight on them. She bent
under her troubles, and had a grave face and a down-trodden look and
way with her. Things were very dull at our house, and I am sure it was
because, as mother said, she 'just gave up.'"
By dint of thinking and questioning, Mr. Drummond at length realised
Adam's meaning. "I see," he said. "Now I can answer you. My mother
would have been one of the last to give up. She worked bravely and
steadily. She set us an example of cheerfulness, and cheered us when we
were inclined to break down. With a mother leading her children in the
right way, and always looking up with her bright face heavenward, we
children could hardly help following, could we?"
"But what did she look up for, sir?"
A glance at the questioner showed Mr. Drummond that Adam made the
inquiry in perfect good faith.
"I do not mean that her eyes were always looking up. She had to keep
those on her work, in a general way. I meant that her thoughts were
turned heavenwards. She remembered God's many promises to the weary,
the troubled, the widow and the fatherless, and believing that they
were meant for her, and that He was faithful that had promised, the
faith cheered her, and she looked for their fulfilment, and taught us
to do the same; only I, for one, was a careless scholar."
Adam answered something, but the words meant little.
The slight allusion made to God's dealings with His children had
carried the striker out of his depth already.
Mr. Drummond perceived this, and began to question Adam in turn. He was
interested in him, and showed it.
"It's a queer thing for anybody to want to know about me. I told you
about mother. She wasn't like yours. I might ha' been something better
than a striker if I'd had a chance. I had it in me to learn, and I was
never afraid of hard work. Maybe, if I hadn't got married after mother
died, I should have saved money and gone in for a bit of learning; but
I'd been slaving on for years, making no friends, because she couldn't
abide neighbours. A big town's an awful lonely place if you've nobody
belonging to you. I couldn't stand the loneliness. Then it's hard work
starting again at school after you're grown up; so I thought, 'There
are lots more in the same fix as I am. I may as well settle down to it
like the rest,' and I did.
"I had used to work for mother, you see, and when she was gone, it
seemed so queer to have all my wages for myself, and be slaving away
for just Adam Livesey. There was a girl next door—"
Here Adam's face began working again, as the image of Maggie as she
then was came into his mind.
"Never mind," he continued, almost fiercely. "She has been my wife for
a dozen years, and sometimes I wish she hadn't. Nothing the matter
with her, mister. Don't you go thinking that. Only marrying me turned
as pretty a lass as you would wish to see into a mother of seven—one
dead, you know—and a thin, weary woman, with too many children, too
much work, and far too little money to make things comfortable. Maggie
couldn't go out to work and help. How could she, with seven of 'em born
in ten years? And one pair of hands! I say, sir, it's wonderful she has
managed as well as she has done. Don't you think now I did wrong by
that pretty young woman by marrying her? If she hadn't had a place to
lay her head in, it would ha' been different. But she had a nice home
with her mother, and used to sing like a lark up and down their house,
and for a good while after she was married to me. She never sings now.
There's a man at Rutherford's that has a bird. It used to be in a large
place, where it could fly about and hardly know it was in prison.
Something happened to the man who owned the place, and the birds were
sold. This man bought the one I spoke about. It was the grandest
singer, he said. He put it in a little cage; but though he gave it the
primest spot in the cottage, it never sang any more.
"When he told me, I said I was sorry to hear it, but I thought to
myself, 'That's just like my poor Maggie.'
"Well, I've had my share of slaving too, but it came natural. And
plenty of them to slave for, as you may see, sir."
Adam gave a grim wintry smile as he alluded to the number of his olive
branches, but at the same time he pressed the sleeping child a little
more closely, as if to say, "I should not like to part with one, for
all that," and relapsed into silence.