CHAPTER IX.

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.