The girl looked at their visitor, and for the first time there was a measure of curiosity in her earnest gaze. Tavernake was, in his way, good enough to look upon. He was well-built, his shoulders and physique all spoke of strength. His features were firmly cut, although his general expression was gloomy. But for a certain moroseness, an uncouthness which he seemed to cultivate, he might even have been deemed good-looking.
“Mr. Tavernake would make a great mistake,” she said, hesitatingly. “It is not well for those who have brains to work with their hands. It is not a place for those to live who have been out in the world. At most seasons of the year it is but a wilderness. Sometimes there is little enough to do, even for father.”
“I am not ambitious for over-much work or for over-much money, Miss Nicholls,” Tavernake replied. “I will be frank with you both. Things out in the world there went ill with me; it was not my fault, but they went ill with me. What ambitions I had are finished—for the present, at any rate. I want to rest, I want to work with my hands, to grow my muscles again, to feel my strength, to believe that there is something effective in the world I can do. I have had a shock, a disappointment,—call it what you like.”
The old man Nicholls nodded deliberately.
“Well,” he pronounced, “it's a big change to make. I never thought of help in the yard before. When there's been more than I could do, I've just let it go. Come for a week on trial, Leonard Tavernake. If we are of any use to one another, we shall soon know of it.”
The girl, who had been looking out into the night, came back.
“You are making a mistake, Mr. Tavernake,” she said. “You are too young and strong to have finished your battle.”
He looked at her steadily and sighed. It was only too obvious that hers had been fought and lost.
“Perhaps,” he replied softly, “you are right. Perhaps it is only the rest I want. We shall see.”