“But yet he has been a farm laborer many years—has a practical knowledge of agriculture, and is, besides, a man of more intelligence than is usually to be found in his class.”
“Yes—he is,” said the lady, thoughtfully.
“He is also a man of excellent moral character, and faultless habits—qualities not too frequently met with among those of his grade.”
“True—most true—but yet he is young, and has had no experience in overseeing.”
“And never will have, dear madam, unless some one gives him the opportunity of making the trial. And as for his youth, mother—why his youth is positively an advantage—for with his practical knowledge, intelligence and honesty, he will be free from the conceit and crotchets of an old manager, and will the more readily fall into your system.”
“There is something in that,” said the lady. “And now, Archer, you will remain and dine with me to-day. And remember, that when this week is out, the next week belongs to me. You must bring your friend with you when you come. Where did you leave him?”
“Playing battledore with Zuleime. But, dear mother, about this Carl Kavanagh—I hope you will consider the plan favorably, and try him.”
“I will think of it, Archer, because you propose it, if for no other reason. And now the horn is blowing for the hands to go to dinner, and my task for the day is relieved. Let us return to the house.”
They turned their animals’ heads, and rode up the ascent, and entered the shady yard. Then the lady alighted from her mule, gathered up her riding skirt, and leaning on the arm of her son, entered the house. A plain but substantial dinner was soon served. Archer Clifton enjoyed his mother’s plain meals more than the most luxurious dinners—not but that he had a taste for luxury—what man has not?—but that there was a home comfort about his mother’s table, that gave him appetite and spirit. And then, after dinner, he could go and stretch himself upon the best lounge in that large, shady, breezy parlor, with a book, and read or doze until she had attended to the putting away of her things, and had locked up her pantries. Then she would come and sit in the rocking-chair by his side, while he could stretch himself at ease, in any ungainly attitude he pleased, and feel what a refreshing thing it was to throw off his dignity in the presence of the only one with whom he could do so—his own familiar mother. Not but that he honored—nay, revered her—but that he enjoyed only in her house, that deep, full sense of home freedom, which not only her son—but to a certain degree all others felt, who possessed the privilege of the lady’s friendship.
This afternoon, then, he was lying at his ease on the cool lounge between the two front windows, which were drawing strong drafts of air, and flapping the festooned curtains lazily. He had thrown himself out at full length upon the lounge, in the most delightfully degagè attitude, albeit it was somewhat angular and awkward—his head being thrown back over the end of the lounge, his hands clasped above his forehead, and his elbows very prominent, one foot, minus a slipper, hoisted upon the window-sill, and the other slippered foot dangling on the carpet. But the picturesque beauty of his dark, handsome face, atoned for all the rest. His mother sat in an easy-chair near him, with her feet upon a footstool, and a work-stand by her side. She was engaged in stitching wristbands—for that vigorous woman never required a lounge in the day-time—but though she never took one, yet she never blamed the indulgence of that habit in others for which she herself felt no inclination. She was the most liberal and benevolent of all human beings, in every act of her daily life. She was happy in seeing others comfortable around her. She was ever pleased to see them enjoying those relaxations which her own strong nature did not need. Indeed, courage without asperity, fortitude without indurancy, strength without hardness, self-denial without sternness, power without arrogance, formed the peculiar excellence of her character. No wonder that her son revered her. No wonder it had been said of him, that he never could love a woman with all the power of his nature, unless in mental and moral endowments—she resembled his mother. As they talked together this afternoon, the hours slipped away till late in the evening, before the image of the beautiful Carolyn had power to draw him from the tête à tête. During the afternoon he had prevailed with his mother to receive Carl Kavanagh as her overseer—and to have the comfortable log cabin which had been occupied by the first proprietor of the soil, prepared for the reception of the family.