THE REDEMPTIONER AT MEETING.
While James was thus giving new proofs of capacity for usefulness, Mrs.
Whitman had woven a web of cloth, sent it to the mill where it was
colored and pressed, and had made James a suit of clothes for meeting,
and a thick winter overcoat, and Mr. Whitman had bought him a hat.
Sunday morning came, Mrs. Whitman gave the clothes to James and told him
to go up stairs and put them on, that she might see how they fitted.
While the children, enjoying his dazed looks, were bursting with
repressed glee, Bertie capered around the room at such a rate that Peter
said he acted like a fool.
“Isn’t he stuck up?” said Peter.
“I mean to peek and see how he acts when he gets by himself,” said
Bertie with his foot on the lower stair.
“Don’t do that, Bertie; mother, don’t let him,” said Peter.
His mother called him back, and he reluctantly sat down to await the
conclusion.
At last they heard James, with a slow, hesitating step, descending the
stairs. He paused long in the entry, and at length opening the door as
cautiously as would a thief, crossed the room, and with a scared,
troubled look, went and stood by the window with his back to all the
inmates of the room, looking directly into the main road.
Mrs. Whitman found it somewhat difficult to compose her features as she
said,—
“Come here, James, and let me see how they set; they may need some
little alteration.”
When he turned, Mr. Whitman was looking straight at the crane, Peter was
buried in the catechism which he held up to his face, while Bertie and
Maria ran out to the barn and there vented their long suppressed
feelings in peals of laughter, till they had obtained sufficient command
of themselves to return to the house.
What unalloyed satisfaction, resulting from contributing to the
happiness of others, predominated in the breasts of that household, as
Mrs. Whitman turned James round and round, and invited the criticism of
her husband as to the set of the garments. The grave features of
Jonathan betokened a strong disposition to smile as he said,—
“I think they set well, and don’t see how you can alter them for the
better.”
“They are a trifle long, husband, and a little large, but I can turn up
a seam and it will do to let out again, for he’s growing.”
“Not one mite too large, wife, he’s at least forty pounds heavier than
he was when he came here.”
The children now came around him with the charitable desire of relieving
his embarrassment, and began to talk to him.
“What nice pockets!” said Bertie, thrusting his hands alternately into
those of the waistcoat, and into the breast-pockets of the coat. Maria
took hold of his hand and stood looking at the buttons of the coat, and
Peter, passing his hands over the shoulders of James, admired the fit of
the coat.
Mrs. Whitman now brought out the overcoat and put it on him, the
children assisting, and thrusting his arms through the sleeves.
James knew that Mrs. Whitman was making him a suit of clothes, because
she had taken his measure. But he did not know that she was making him
an overcoat, and that at the same time she measured him for the coat and
pants and waistcoat, had also measured him for that garment; neither did
she intend he should. The surprise therefore was as great as she could
have wished.
During all this time James stood like a statue, staring into vacancy,
while the children made their comments and handled his limp form as they
pleased. Mrs. Whitman, in the meantime, buttoned up the garment, pulled
it down behind and before, manipulated it in various ways, finally
pronouncing it as good a fit as could be made, concluding with the
declaration that James had a good form to fit clothes to.
“Ain’t they handsome? Don’t you like ‘em?” said Bertie, putting his arms
around the passive recipient of all these favors.
Instead of replying, this apparently insensible being burst into tears.
Peter and Maria drew back amazed. Bertie’s eyes moistened with
sympathetic feeling, and the situation was becoming sufficiently
embarrassing to all, when Mr. Whitman said,—
“James, put Frank and Dick into the wagon; it’s getting towards meeting
time, but go upstairs first, and take off your clothes.”
Thankful for the interruption, James quickly left the room.
“What made him cry, father?” said Peter. “Didn’t he like the clothes?”
“Yes, tickled to death with them.”
“Then what made him cry?”
“He cried for joy.”
“I didn’t know anybody ever cried because they were glad.”
“Some folks do; your mother burst out a crying when she stood up to be
married to me, and there never was a gladder woman.”
“I guess somebody who didn’t cry was just as glad,” retorted Mrs.
Whitman.
“That’s a fact, Alice; and has been glad ever since. Boys, run out and
help James water, clean, and harness the horses, because he has got to
shift his clothes again. Tell him he is going to meeting with us, and
that I want him to drive.”
The great bulk of the people, in that day, rode on horseback, the women
on pillions behind their husbands. They had the heavy Conestoga wagons,
for six, four, or two horses, to haul wheat to market, and for farm
work, but Whitman and a few of his neighbors had covered riding wagons.
As they neared the meeting-house Mr. Whitman told James to rein up, and
pointed out to him the horse block. This was a large stick of timber
placed near the main entrance of the church, one end of which rested
upon the ground, while the other was raised so as to be on a level with
the stirrup of the tallest horse. This arrangement accommodated
everybody; the elderly people rode to the upper end, where they could
dismount on a level, and where was a little platform, and a pair of
steps with a railing, by which they could descend from the timber, while
the others dismounted lower down. Many of the young gallants, however,
disdained to make use of the horse-block at all.
Great was the wonderment when James drove up to the block in such a
manner that the old grandfather could step out on the platform; and then
drove to the hitching-place under a great locust tree, in the branches
of which was hung the sweep of a well that furnished the people and
animals with water, as there was no house in the vicinity, and most of
the congregation came long distances to meeting.
From one to another the whispered inquiries and comments went around.
“Who is that driving the Whitmans?” said Joe Dinsmore to Daniel
Brackett.
“That’s Whitman’s redemptioner.”
“Pshaw! what are you talking about, most likely it’s some relation of
theirs from Lancaster. A mighty good-looking fellow he is, too; and has
seen a horse afore to-day.”
“I tell you it’s his redemptioner.”
“And I tell you I know better. Why, man alive, do you think a
redemptioner who’s a half fool, as everybody knows his redemptioner is,
and was took out of a workhouse, would look, and act, and handle horses
as that chap does?”
“Well, there’s Sam Dorset, the drover, knows him, and has spoken to him;
I’ll leave it to him.”
Beckoning to Dorset, who was sitting on the horse-block, to come near;
Brackett asked, —
“Who is that young fellow who drove Whitman’s folks up to the block just
now?”
“Jim Renfew, his redemptioner.”
“You are such a joker that it’s hard to tell how to take you. Be you
joking, or not? The story round our way is, and came pretty straight
too, for it came from the tavern-keeper with whom Wilson always puts up,
that Wilson took him out of a workhouse and that he’s underwitted.”
“I don’t know what he was took out of, but I know this much, that I was
by Whitman’s, saw him holding plough and Whitman driving. I was there
again, and came across him chopping in the woods and making the chips
fly right smart, and last week I went there after lambs, and saw him
ploughing by himself with the horses; and I venture to say there’s not a
man of all who run him down can draw so straight a furrow as that fellow
drew. I reckon Whitman has just got a treasure in that redemptioner, and
I, for one, am glad of it. Jonathan Whitman is a man who is willing that
others should live as well as himself, and uses everybody and everything
well, from the cattle in his pastures to the hired hands in his field.
And his wife is just like him, and so are the whole breed of ‘em; strong
enough to tear anybody to pieces and not half try, and wouldn’t hurt a
fly except they are provoked out of all reason, _then_ stand from
under.”
When the morning service was ended, Mrs. Whitman produced a basket of
eatables of which they all partook, after which Mr. Whitman went into
the porch.
It was not long before John and Will Edibean came into the pew and were
introduced to James. John was about the age, and a great friend, of
Peter, and Will of Bertie.
“Come,” said Bert, “let’s go sit in the carriage and talk till meeting
begins.”
The boys turned the front seat round, so that they faced each other, and
conversed, James putting in a word at times when drawn out by some
question from Peter, and while they were thus engaged Sam Dorset
sauntered along and shook hands with James.
In the porch Mr. Whitman encountered his neighbor Wood, who after
greeting said,—
“Jonathan, you was dead set against having a redemptioner, allers said
all you could agin the whole thing; now you’ve got one, how do you like
him?”
“I despise the whole thing as much as ever, but I like the redemptioner
well enough thus far; the old saying is ‘you must summer and winter a
man to find him out,’ and I have not done either yet.”
“If you haven’t changed your mind and still despise the whole thing,
what made you take this redemptioner?”
“I got kind of inveigled into it. Had he been grown man, such as most
any one would have been glad to have, I would have had nothing to do
with it, but when I came to look at the poor lad, lame, with scarcely a
rag to his back, without friends or money, and in a strange land, when I
found that he came out of a workhouse, and naturally thought he could do
no farm work, and noticed how kind of pitiful he looked, you don’t know
how it made me feel. I knew in reason that boy would be like to suffer,
because well-to-do people would not have him, and he would be almost
certain to fall into the hands of those who would abuse him.”
“I see it worked on your feelings.”
“More than that, it worked upon my conscience. I knew I was able to
protect that boy; something seemed to say to me, ‘Jonathan Whitman, you
won’t sell an old horse that has served you well, lest he should fall
into bad hands; are you going to turn your back upon a friendless boy,
made in the image of God who has blessed you in your basket and your
store?’ Still I could hardly bring myself to take a boy who had been
born, as it were, brought up, at least, in a workhouse, and thought to
give him a ten-dollar bill and get off in that way.”
“You didn’t want to take him into the family with your own children?”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head. As I said at first, I got inveigled
into it and took him; but if it was to be done over again I would do it.
Now that you have wormed all this out of me, I am going to measure you
in your own bushel. For these six years past you’ve been aching to take
a redemptioner, and importuning me to take one, now that you’ve got one,
how do you like him?”
“Not over and above, and I don’t mean to do much in the way of clothing
him, or keeping him, till I find him out. When I come to see how much
less he does than a man I could hire; and feel that I must keep and
board him all winter when he won’t earn his board; must run the chance
of his being taken sick or getting hurt, I find that it is not, after
all, such cheap labor as I at first imagined,—let alone the risk of his
running away after he finds out what wages he can get elsewhere. I am
going to find out what’s in him before I throw away any more money on
him. By the way, don’t you think you’re beginning rather strong with
your redemptioner? You take a boy right out of the workhouse, who, by
all accounts, has been hardly used and kept down, bring him into your
family, dress him up and treat him just like one of your own children;
don’t you think he’ll be like to get above himself and you too, and give
you trouble?”
“I don’t calculate to make him my heir, or indulge him to his injury;
but I mean that he shall have the privilege of going to meeting and to
school as my children do.”
“To _school_! What, send a redemptioner to _school_?”
“Yes, I am after the same thing that you are; you are trying to find out
what is in your redemptioner, and I in mine.”
“That’s a queer way to find out.”
“It is somewhat different from yours, but suppose you had a colt and
wanted to bring out his real disposition, which would be the surest way,
to keep him short, work him hard, give him a cold stable, never bed or
curry him, or to give him plenty of provender, a warm blanket, a good
bed, and dress him down every day?”
“I suppose if there was any spirit or any ugliness in him, the good
keeping would bring it out.”
“I think so, and if my man is of that nature that he can’t bear nor
respond to good treatment I don’t want him.”
“But you are taking a very costly way to get information; and if, after
all your expense of sending him to school, clothing, and buying books
for him, he gives you the slip, you have failed of your object, which
was to get cheap labor, and lost much money. While I, if my man proves
worthless, have only lost a portion of the passage money.”
“I shall not have failed of my object, since it was not my intention in
taking this lad to obtain cheap labor, or to make money out of him.”
“I should like to know what you did take him for? You’re a sharper man
than I am, can make two dollars where I make one, and calculate to get
labor as cheap as any body.”
“I took him because I thought it my duty to befriend a friendless boy.
His being a redemptioner had nothing to do with it; but his youth, his
misery, and his liability to be abused had. I don’t believe in cheap
labor, which means dear labor in the end. I don’t believe in losing
fifty bushels of wheat for the sake of saving two shillings on a man’s
wages in harvest. Thus I shall not fail of my object if the boy does not
turn out well, because I shall have discharged my duty. It seems to me,
neighbor, that upon your principle of not risking anything, not trusting
anybody, nor letting the laboring man have a fair chance, lest he should
take advantage of it, that business could not go on, or if it could,
that the relish would be all taken out of life.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the hour for
afternoon meeting.
Sam Dorset invited James to sit with him, he was about to decline but
Bertie gave him a punch in the ribs, and volunteered to go with them,
John and Willie Edibean taking their places in his father’s pew. It was
the design of Bertie to secure a friend for James who had some influence
among people in general, for the drover was a frank, good-natured
fellow, whom few could talk down and very few indeed dared to provoke,
and whose occupation gave him a large acquaintance.
We shall watch with interest the different methods pursued by these very
different farmers with their redemptioners.
In the course of the evening, Mrs. Whitman asked James how he liked the
minister.
“I liked to hear him talk; I knew who he meant by that man he talked
about in the afternoon, it was Mr. Holmes.”
“No, James, that was the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“I know he called him so, but that was who he meant, for he said he was
just as good as he could be, and went about doing good, and that’s just
what Mr. Holmes was, and just the way he did. I suppose he was afraid
Mr. Holmes wouldn’t like it if he knew he called him by name.”
“But, dear child, Mr. Holmes was nothing but a man, and the Lord Jesus
Christ is God.”
“The minister said he was a man and had feelings just like anybody. He
said he was born at a place called Bethlehem (if he was born he must be
a man) and told how he grew up, and said when a friend of his, a Mr.
Lazarus, died, he felt so bad he wept, and after that he died himself;
and now you say he was God, but one Sunday a good while ago when I said
God was a man, you said he wasn’t, he was a spirit.”
“You had better drop the subject there, wife. And you will understand it
better by and by, James, when you have heard more,” said Mr. Whitman,
“and when you can read the scriptures for yourself.”
This incident, however trifling in itself, gave token that new ideas had
begun to stir in that hitherto vacant mind, and to shape themselves into
processes of connected thought. It, at the same time, served to confirm
in the minds of his friends the belief already cherished, that he
possessed a most retentive memory; as they found that as far as he could
understand what he had listened to, he could repeat the most of both
sermons, and had committed the questions and answers in the catechism by
hearing Mr. Whitman ask them and the boys reply. The result of which was
that when they came to go through the catechism again, he could get
along as well without the book as the others could by its aid, and could
repeat what he was unable to read.