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.
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