Chapter V: 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.