CHAPTER XII.
AMONG THE WOODPECKERS.
Twenty years ago, in one of the busiest streets in bustling Boston,up three flights of stairs, sufficiently distant from the tumult oftrade to escape its confusion, and near enough to the sun to receivethe full benefit of its light, “John Woodfern, Designer and Engraver,”plied his artistic trade, in the enjoyment of a large share of publicpatronage. He was a man who held the foremost place in his profession,renowned for his skill in fastening the fine points and delicate shadesof a drawing upon wooden blocks, whence are produced those pictorialillustrations which often adorn, and sometimes disfigure, books,periodicals, and papers. He was also a man of good business habits,and his establishment was neatly arranged, and conducted in the mostorderly manner.
An Englishman by birth, he brought to this country, besides a clearhead and skilful hands, a love for the roast-beef and ale of OldEngland, a warm heart, and a jovial temper, the latter somewhatobscured by the characteristic fogs of gruffness and blunt speech,without which no Briton would be content to leave his native land. Hewas a large, handsome man of fifty, with light, curly hair, surroundinga polished pate, in whose centre flourished a single tuft of hair; blueeyes, and a long, flowing beard.
His establishment was divided into two sections--his own office at thehead of the stairs, and his work-room, from which he was only separatedby a partition, and which he could overlook, through the door, from hisseat.
The office contained a handsome book-case, a desk, and his ownwork-table, where he did the finest work. Its walls were adorned withfine pictures and specimens of his work. Over the desk was displayed,on brackets, a polished champion cricket bat, ornamented with a silverplate, on which glistened his name and the match in which it was won.On his table were the usual implements of his craft--a small stand witha padded leather cushion, a frame in which was fitted an eye-glass, afine assortment of “gravers,” and blocks of wood in various stages ofcompletion.
The work-room contained three tables, at which were seated three youngmen, with their eyes screwed down to eye-glasses, diligently peckingat drawings on wooden blocks. These young men, “woodpeckers” by trade,were Woodferns by name, being sons of the proprietor, and, like theirfather, all good fellows and skilful workmen. This room was plainlyfurnished with three tables and a transfer press, and above them a longshelf, on which were ranged a row of glass globes, filled with water,used to concentrate the light in night work.
Mr. Woodfern sat at his table, busily at work putting the finishingtouches to a block, when unattended and unannounced, Miss Becky Sleepermarched into his presence.
Mr. Woodfern lifted his eye from the glass, and politely turned in hischair, with a nod to the visitor. The young Woodferns unscrewed theireyes from the wooden sockets in which they were imbedded, and veryimpolitely stared at the intruder.
“Good morning, sir,” said Becky, in her sweetest tones. “Will you bekind enough to look at these drawings?”
Mr. Woodfern scowled. He had been pestered by an army of aspiringdraughts_men_, of both sexes; and the London fog was on him. Heanswered shortly,--
“No, I don’t want any drawings. Good morning,” turned in his chair andapplied his eye to its artificial socket.
A wave of confusion rolled over Becky’s confident spirit. The gruffvoice and the abrupt dismissal had not entered into her calculations.But she was not disposed to quit the field without a struggle, after solong a journey; so, gulping down her chagrin, she said,--
“But you don’t understand. I’ve come a long way to get work. My friendstell me I am competent, and I have specimens of drawing. You’ll surelylook at them.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Woodfern, gruffly, notdeigning to raise his eye. “I have all the draughtsmen I want; and Inever employ girls.”
“Why, you give Miss Alice Parks work--don’t you?”
Caught. Mr. John Woodfern, how will you answer that question?
“I have given her work; and a precious sight of trouble she has mademe.”
BECKY MAKES A HIT. Page 203.]
There was some comfort in that to Miss Becky’s jealous heart. MissAlice was not quite a paragon, after all.
“Once for all, I don’t want your drawings. I’ve no time to look atthem. Good morning.”
The tone was so chilling that a returning “good morning” trembledon Becky’s lips. The tears sprang to her eyes. It seemed to her fora moment that all was lost. But, remembering the friends she mustmeet with the story of her defeat, remembering the captain patientlywaiting in the street for her return, she yet lingered, hoping that alittle reflection might produce a change in the temper of this gruffproprietor, and gain her a hearing. Profound silence; eyes glued totheir sockets; not even the tools of the workmen broke the stillness,for these woodpeckers tapped no hollow oak tree, but pecked at solidboxwood, which emits no sound. Her eyes roved about the room until theyfastened on the cricket-bat above the desk. They glistened at the sight.
“O, what a splendid cricket-bat!” she cried.
“Is that yours, sir? Did you win it?”
Mr. Woodfern raised his head, with a faint show of interest.
“Yes, I won it. What do you know about cricket?”
“I know it’s just the most splendid game I ever played,” replied Becky,with enthusiasm.
“You play cricket!” said Mr. Woodfern, in surprise.
“Yes, indeed; but it was long ago. I was a famous hand at it, too,though I do say it. Please, sir, let me take it down. I won’t hurt it.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Woodfern, rising from his chair. “Handle it asmuch as you like.”
He took it from its place, put it in Becky’s hands, and resumed hisseat, watching the girl with a lively interest, for cricket was apassion with him age could not smother. Becky took the bat and handledit like a true cricketer, placing herself in graceful positions, todisplay her knowledge of its use.
“Now, if we only had a ball!”
“If we had! We have,” said Mr. Woodfern, opening a drawer in his table,and producing a cricket ball. “Now, what next?”
“Bowl me a ball, and you shall see,” replied Becky, placing herselfbefore an imaginary wicket.
The sight of a cricketer in position was enough to excite theenthusiastic sportsman; and when Becky shouted, “Play!” without amoment’s thought he bowled a swift ball. Becky struck quick and hard;it flew across the room, into the work-shop, and struck a glass globe.There was a crash, and the imprisoned water poured on to the head ofthe youngest woodpecker in a miniature deluge. He sprang up, shouting,“Help, help!”
“Gracious! what have I done?” faltered the terrified Becky.
Mr. Woodfern colored to the tuft of the oasis in the bald desert onhis head, but quietly rose, shut the door between the two rooms, andresumed his seat.
“It’s of no consequence. Let me see your drawings.”
So out of the old life a second time had come her deliverance in timeof trouble. Not altogether wasted, after all.
Mr. John Woodfern took the proffered portfolio and placed it in hislap. As he did so his eyes met Becky’s, and the comical situation inwhich he had been placed overpowered him. He threw himself back in hischair, and burst into a prolonged, loud and hearty peal of laughter.Having thus effectually dissipated the fog he opened the portfolio, andexamined its contents.
“So, so; this is your work--is it? Very good, fine, excellent! You hada good teacher, that’s evident; but you have talent, that’s still moreevident. Who is your teacher?”
“Harry Thompson, sir,” replied Becky.
“Harry Thompson of Harvard?” queried Mr. Woodfern.
“He was at Harvard, sir. He’s now at Cleverly--Cleverly, Maine; that’swhere I live,” said Becky.
“Indeed! It’s my old friend. He’s your teacher at cricket, too, I’ll bebound. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“If you’ll be kind enough to remember, sir, you were very busy when Icame i
n. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you anything,” said Becky,taking a mischievous pleasure in reminding the engraver of his brusquebehavior.
“Hem, hem; that’s so. I was busy, very busy, Miss--Miss--what’s yourname?”
“Rebecca Sleeper, sir. Harry calls me Becky.”
“Well, Miss Becky, I like your drawings; but the fact is you’ve had noexperience in drawing on wood.”
“But I could learn, sir,” said Becky, quickly. “If you only knew howmuch need I have of money, you would give me a chance--I know youwould.”
At this moment the door opened, and a young lady made her appearance.She was taller than Becky, but young and graceful, with a bright,handsome face, lustrous black eyes, and a profusion of dark ringlets.
“Good morning, Miss Parks,” said Mr. Woodfern, courteously.
Becky started, and stared at the visitor--Harry’s paragon. It must be;it could be no other.
“Good morning, Mr. Woodfern,” said Miss Parks, gayly. “It’s the dayafter the fair, I know; but you will forgive me. I couldn’t finish themin time.”
The young lady unfastened her reticule, and produced three blocks,which she laid before the engraver.
“Forgive you?” said Mr. Woodfern. “I don’t know about that. Fiveminutes more, and you would have been superceded by this young artist;”and he pointed to Becky.
Miss Parks looked at Becky, and Becky looked at Miss Parks.
“Miss Parks,” said Mr. Woodfern, “this is Miss Rebecca Sleeper, ofCleverly.”
A flush of surprise overspread the features of Miss Parks.
“Miss Rebecca Sleeper of Cleverly! Why, it must be Harry’s Becky. Youdear little thing! how glad I am to meet you!” and she advanced withoutstretched hands to Becky.
Becky met her advances with cordiality, though the appellation of “dearlittle thing” from a stranger somewhat surprised her.
“Harry has told me all about you. His letters are full of praisesof you; and I know all about the adventure in the mill-dam, and theburning of the mill. We must be good friends.”
So Harry wrote to her. She must be a very, very dear friend, then; toodear for her peace of mind. The old jealous feeling crept into Becky’sheart, so heavy that she could scarcely hold back her tears; but shedid, and answered nervously,--
“Yes; and I’ve heard a great deal about Miss Alice Parks. I’m glad Imet you. It will please Harry to know that I met his dear friend.”
Becky didn’t mean to emphasize the “dear” so strongly; but she noticedit brought a flush to the face of Alice Parks. It was rather confusing,and the two young ladies stood looking at each other in silence.
“Miss Sleeper wants work. She has brought me these sketches. Take alook at them,” said Mr. Woodfern, handing the portfolio to Miss Parks.
The young lady took it, and, seating herself at the desk, immediatelybecame interested in the drawings. Just then the door of the work-roomopened, and Mr. George Woodfern entered the office. He was a tall,handsome fellow, the image of his father. On his entrance, Miss AliceParks raised her head quickly.
“Good morning, George,” she said, “come and look at these drawings, andconfess I’ve found a rival at last.”
George Woodfern crossed the office, with a quick step and a blushingface, and joined Miss Alice. The two put their heads together over thedrawings, with such evident pleasure in each other’s society, that hadAlice not been such a _dear_ friend of Harry’s, Becky would have madea match on the spot. Their conference was long and earnest; and fromtheir conversation Becky was convinced that they were pleased withher drawings. In the meantime Mr. Woodfern made himself agreeable toBecky, showed her how drawings were reversed on wood, and gave hermany hints regarding “shading,” “filling in,” and the nice points ofwood engravings. The young couple at the desk at last finished theirexamination.
“Well, Miss Alice, what is the verdict?” asked Mr. Woodfern.
“Employ the young lady, by all means; though I fear ‘Othello’soccupation’s gone,’ as far as I am concerned. She can draw ever so muchbetter than poor I.”
Becky blushed with pleasure. So Harry’s friend was her friend too. Mr.Woodfern took from his drawer the manuscript of two short stories and apoem. He then selected three blocks of boxwood from a row on his table,and placed the whole in Becky’s hands.
“Miss Sleeper,” he said, “on the recommendation of this talented younglady, I shall give you a trial. There are two stories for children, anda short ‘baby’ poem. The points to be illustrated are all marked. Takethem, consult your friend Harry Thompson, and if you send me threesatisfactory drawings within a fortnight, I will send you my check forfifteen dollars. If not satisfactory, I pay nothing.”
Becky’s heart thrilled. How kind, how good of Mr. Woodfern! Shethanked him warmly enough, but the words seemed a long way off fromthe thanksgiving that glowed in her heart. Mr. Woodfern turned awayabruptly, and entered the work room.
“Now come over here and let me give you a few hints from an experiencedhand. We shan’t want you any more, George.”
George Woodfern laughed, and in turn departed to the privacy ofthe work-room; and the two young ladies were left to their owndeliberations.
All this time Captain Thompson was patiently sitting in a carriage atthe entrance, awaiting the return of his charge. On the arrival of thetrain in Boston at one o’clock, he had taken a carriage and driven tothe engraver’s. He had been anxious to participate in the interview;but Becky, fearing his quick temper might cause trouble, had prevailedupon him to allow her to be the sole carver of her fortunes with thewood carver. Thus far the peppery captain had enjoyed this, to him,new sensation hugely. The bright, cheerful, happy demeanor of thegirl, her intelligent and witty conversation, her delight in the freshexperience of the day, had made him really happy; and his warm heartbubbled up through its rough exterior with desires to still furthergratify her wishes.
And so he waited patiently a long hour for her return. She camebounding down the stairs, and leaped into the carriage, her face rosy,her eyes bright with triumph.
“It’s a success, captain. I’ve conquered, and I’m carrying home lots ofwork.”
“Of course you’ve conquered. I knew you would; and we’ve done itwithout _their_--her--help, too,” said the captain, chuckling withtriumph. “Now let’s see--we’ve got two hours for dinner and a drive;and then back to Cleverly.”
They drove to a hotel, had an excellent dinner, took the carriageagain, and Becky was shown the Boston sights, all of which were newrevelations to the country girl, whose delight made the old captain’sheart glow and glow again.
In due time they took the train for Foxtown, and then Becky related heradventure, in the course of which Miss Alice Parks appeared upon thescene.
“She’s a dear friend of Harry’s--your Harry, captain. I shouldn’twonder if one of these days she should become his wife.”
Becky said this bravely. The captain could not know what a throb ofpain darted through Becky’s bosom at the thought.
“Become his wife! Nonsense! What are you thinking of, Becky?”
The captain looked fierce and angry, and Becky saw it.
“Well, all I know, he calls her his dear friend, and she calls him herdear friend, and they write to each other; and that’s the way loversdo--don’t they?”
The captain stared out of the window, moving uneasily in his seat,snapping his teeth together very often, all of which Becky saw and tookadvantage of. A wild scheme had crept into the girl’s head. Harry andHarry’s mother had done much for her; it was time she should repay it.The captain had a wilder scheme in his head, and was in exactly theright mood to combat the proposed alliance.
“He marry this girl! I’d like to see him attempt it! I’d like to seehim attempt it!”
This came involuntarily from the captain’s mouth after a very longsilence.
“Why, captain,” said Becky, “she’s a splendid girl, and so smart withher pencil! And if they love each other,”-
-here she gave a gulp,--“I’msure it’s only right that they should marry. And then Harry’s so good!O, it would be wicked to prevent his happiness. You won’t--will you,captain?”
The captain said nothing, but grew more and more uneasy; said nothing,but thought, thought hard. What could he do? He had cast the boy off;he was his own master. He had no power to accomplish the wish that wasin his mind.
“O, if you only knew how good and kind Harry has been to me, you wouldnever desire to break his heart.”
Here Becky broke down, and commenced sobbing. The captain started, puthis arm about Becky, and drew her head to his breast, still looking outof the window, and saying nothing.
Becky’s weeping was of short duration; there was too much at stake;and so, still lying on the captain’s breast, with his arm about her,softly and gently she spoke of Harry; of his kindness to her; ofhis brave deeds; of the love he had gained from all who knew him;of his devotion to his mother; rehearsed incidents in his collegelife; brought out of his boyhood history little scraps of goodness socarefully treasured in her grateful heart. If she had been pleadingfor Harry’s life, she could not have been more earnest and determinedin the recital of his virtues. And the captain sat there, listening,saying nothing; and the little pleader babbled on, unaware that at thecaptain’s heart the old obstinate roots were being plucked from theirbed; that the warmth of his new love was flowing in thawing out thelong-frozen channel of paternal affection.
The cars reached Foxtown, and still the captain said nothing. Thecarriage was in waiting, and an hour’s ride took them to Cleverly. Thecaptain was silent all the way. Phil drove straight on to the Sleeperhouse. It was twelve o’clock. There was a light in the sitting-room. Atthe sound of wheels, Mrs. Thompson came to the door. The curtain wasdrawn aside, and Becky saw Harry peering out into the darkness. Shejumped from the carriage.
“Won’t you come in, captain?” said Becky.
The captain shook his head.
“I shall come up to see you to-morrow, to thank you for being so kindto-day. O, I’ve had a splendid time. Good night.”
She approached the carriage, and held out her hand. The captain graspedit.
“I shall come up to-morrow, captain. Shall I come alone?”
Becky’s voice trembled. She had been trying hard for a triumph. Shefeared she had failed.
“No, Becky, no. God bless you, child! Bring him with you; bring Harryhome!”
Phil Hague drove off down the hill at a lively rate, Uncle Ned beingstarted into a gallop, by an Irish howl, which might have been heard amile off.
“Bring Harry home!” Becky heard it; Mrs. Thompson heard it; Harry heardit. She had triumphed, after all--this little girl, whom Mrs. Thompsonfolded to her bosom, whom Harry clasped by the hand. Mother and sonmight well be happy. Reconciliation at last. But for Becky, happinesssupreme. She had accomplished this, and hers was the hand commissionedto bring Harry home.
Running to Waste: The Story of a Tomboy Page 12
