he was a fair-haired lad of eleven, and when he had profited so well by Adam’s lessons in carpentering and turning as to embarrass every female in the house with gifts of superfluous thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite a pride in the little squire in those early days, and the feeling had only become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had grown into the whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was very susceptible to the influence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra amount of respect to every one who had more advantages than himself, not being a philosopher or a proletaire with democratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clever carpenter with a large fund of reverence in his nature, which inclined him to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear grounds for questioning them. He had no theories about setting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of damage done by building with ill-seasoned timber—by ignorant men in fine clothes making plans for outhouses and workshops and the like without knowing the bearings of things—by slovenly joiners’ work, and by hasty contracts that could never be fulfilled without ruining somebody; and he resolved, for his part, to set his face against such doings. On these points he would have maintained his opinion against the largest landed proprietor in Loamshire or Stonyshire either; but he felt that beyond these it would be better for him to defer to people who were more knowing than himself. He saw as plainly as possible how ill the woods on the estate were managed, and the shameful state of the farm-buildings; and if old Squire Donnithorne had asked him the effect of this mismanagement, he would have spoken his opinion without flinching, but the impulse to a respectful demeanour towards a “gentleman” would have been strong within him all the while. The word “gentleman” had a spell for Adam, and, as he often said, he “couldn’t abide a fellow who thought he made himself fine by being coxy to’s betters.” I must remind you again that Adam had the blood of the peasant in his veins, and that since he was in his prime half a century ago, you must expect some of his characteristics to be obsolete.
Towards the young squire this instinctive reverence of Adam’s was assisted by boyish memories and personal regard so you may imagine that he thought far more of Arthur’s good qualities, and attached far more value to very slight actions of his, than if they had been the qualities and actions of a common workman like himself. He felt sure it would be a fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young squire came into the estate—such a generous open-hearted disposition as he had, and an “uncommon” notion about improvements and repairs, considering he was only just coming of age. Thus there was both respect and affection in the smile with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne rode up.
“Well, Adam, how are you?” said Arthur, holding out his hand. He never shook hands with any of the farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. “I could swear to your back a long way off. It’s just the same back, only broader, as when you used to carry me on it. Do you remember?”
“Aye, sir, I remember. It ’ud be a poor look-out if folks didn’t remember what they did and said when they were lads. We should think no more about old friends than we do about new uns, then.”
“You’re going to Broxton, I suppose?” said Arthur, putting his horse on at a slow pace while Adam walked by his side. “Are you going to the rectory?”
“No, sir, I’m going to see about Bradwell’s barn. They’re afraid of the roof pushing the walls out, and I’m going to see what can be done with it before we send the stuff and the workmen.”
“Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, doesn’t he? I should think he will make you his partner soon. He will, if he’s wise.”
“Nay, sir, I don’t see as he’d be much the better off for that. A foreman, if he’s got a conscience and delights in his work, will do his business as well as if he was a partner. I wouldn’t give a penny for a man as ’ud drive a nail in slack because he didn’t get extra pay for it.”
“I know that, Adam; I know you work for him as well as if you were working for yourself. But you would have more power than you have now, and could turn the business to better account perhaps. The old man must give up his business sometime, and he has no son; I suppose he’ll want a son-in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasping fingers of his own, I fancy. I daresay he wants a man who can put some money into the business. If I were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest some money in that way, for the sake of having you settled on the estate. I’m sure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off in a year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I’m of age; and when I’ve paid off a debt or two, I shall be able to look about me.”
“You’re very good to say so, sir, and I’m not unthankful. But”—Adam continued, in a decided tone—“I shouldn’t like to make any offers to Mr. Burge, or t’ have any made for me. I see no clear road to a partnership. If he should ever want to dispose of the business, that ’ud be a different matter. I should be glad of some money at a fair interest then, for I feel sure I could pay it off in time.”
“Very well, Adam,” said Arthur, remembering what Mr. Irwine had said about a probable hitch in the love-making between Adam and Mary Burge, “we’ll say no more about it at present. When is your father to be buried?”
“On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine’s coming earlier on purpose. I shall be glad when it’s over, for I think my mother ’ull perhaps get easier then. It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they’ve no way o’ working it off, and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered tree.”
“Ah, you’ve had a good deal of trouble and vexation in your life, Adam. I don’t think you’ve ever been hare-brained and light-hearted, like other youngsters. You’ve always had some care on your mind.”
“Why, yes, sir; but that’s nothing to make a fuss about. If we’re men and have men’s feelings, I reckon we must have men’s troubles. We can’t be like the birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they’ve got their wings, and never know their kin when they see ’em, and get a fresh lot every year. I’ve had enough to be thankful for: I’ve allays had health and strength and brains to give me a delight in my work; and I count it a great thing as I’ve had Bartle Massey’s night-school to go to. He’s helped me to knowledge I could never ha’ got by myself.”
“What a rare fellow you are, Adam!” said Arthur, after a pause, in which he had looked musingly at the big fellow walking by his side. “I could hit out better than most men at Oxford, and yet I believe you would knock me into next week if I were to have a battle with you.”
“God forbid I should ever do that, sir,” said Adam, looking round at Arthur and smiling. “I used to fight for fun, but I’ve never done that since I was the cause o’ poor Gil Tranter being laid up for a fortnight. I’ll never fight any man again, only when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of a chap that’s got no shame nor conscience to stop him, you must try what you can do by bunging his eyes up.”
Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some thought that made him say presently, “I should think now, Adam, you never have any struggles within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you had made up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow who was quarrelsome with you. I mean, you are never shilly-shally, first making up your mind that you won’t do a thing, and then doing it after all?”
“Well,” said Adam, slowly, after a moment’s hesitation, “no. I don’t remember ever being see-saw in that way, when I’d made my mind up, as you say, that a thing was wrong. It takes the taste out o’ my mouth for things, when I know I should have a heavy conscience after ’em. I’ve seen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never do what’s wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can ever see. It’s like a bit o’ bad workmanship—you never see th’ end o’ the mischief it’ll do. And it’s a poor
