Friarswood Post Office

‘Ah!  Sir,’ said Mrs. King,’ I’m afraid that master was a bad man.  I only wonder the poor lad learnt no more harm from him!’

‘One trembles to think of the danger,’ said Mr. Cope; ‘but you see there’s often a guard over those who don’t seek the temptation, and perhaps this poor fellow’s utter ignorance of anything beyond the Union walls helped him to let the mischief pass by his understanding, better than if he had had any experience of the world.’

‘I doubt if he’ll ever have that, Sir,’ said Mrs. King, her sensible face lighting up rather drolly; ‘there’s Harold always laughing at him for being so innocent, and yet so clever at his book.’

‘So much the better for him,’ said Mr. Cope.  ‘The Son of Sirach never said a wiser word than that “the knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom.”  Why, Mrs. King, what have I said? you look as if you had a great mind to laugh at me.’

‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ said Mrs. King, much disconcerted at what seemed to her as if it might have been disrespect, though that was only Mr. Cope’s droll way of putting it, ‘I never meant—’

‘Well, but what were you thinking of?’

‘Why, Sir, I beg your pardon, but I was thinking it wouldn’t have been amiss if he had had sense enough to keep himself clean and tidy.’

‘I agree with you,’ said Mr. Cope, laughing, and seeing she used ‘innocent’ in a slightly different sense from what he did; ‘but perhaps Union cleanliness was not inviting, and he’d not had you to bring him up to fresh cheeks like Harold’s.  Besides, I believe it was half depression and want of heart to exert himself, when there was no one to care for him; and he certainly had not been taught either self-respect, or to think cleanliness next to godliness.’

‘Poor lad—no,’ said Mrs. King; ‘nor I don’t think he’d do it again, and I trust he’ll never be so lost again.’

‘Lost, and found,’ said Mr. Cope gravely.  ‘Another thing I was going to say was, that this irreverent economy of the Guardians, in allowing no lesson-books but the Bible, seems to have, after all, been blest to him in his knowledge of it, like an antidote to the evil the master poured in.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said Mrs. King, ‘just so; only he says, that though he liked it, because, poor lad, there was nothing else that seemed to him to speak kind or soft, he never knew how much it was meant for him, nor it didn’t seem to touch him home till he came to you, Sir.’

Mr. Cope half turned away.  His bright eyes had something very like a tear in them, for hardly anything could have been said to make the young clergyman so happy, as to tell him that any work of his should be blessed; but he went on talking quickly, to say that the chaplain gave a still worse account of Alcock than Paul’s had been, saying that some gentlemen who had newly become Guardians at the time of the inspector’s visit, had taken up the matter, and had been perfectly shocked at the discoveries they had made about the man to whom the poor children had been entrusted.

On his dismissal, some of the old set, who were all for cheapness, had talked of letting young Blackthorn act as school-master; but as he was so very young, and had been brought up by this wretched man, the gentlemen would not hear of it; and as they could not afford to accept the inspector’s offer of recommending him to a government school, he had been sent out in quest of employment, as being old enough to provide for himself.  Things had since, the chaplain said, been put on a much better footing, and he himself had much more time to attend to the inmates.  As to Paul, he was glad to hear that he was in good hands; he said he had always perceived him to be a very clever boy, and knew no harm of him but that he was a favourite with Alcock, which he owned had made him very glad to get him out of the House, lest he should carry on the mischief.

Mr. Cope and Mrs. King were both of one mind, that this was hard measure.  So it was.  Man’s measure always is either over hard or over soft, because he cannot see all sides at once.  Now they saw Paul’s side, his simplicity, and his suffering; the chaplain had only seen the chances of his conveying the seeds of ungodly teaching to the workhouse children; he could not tell that the pitch which Paul had not touched by his own will, had not stuck by him—probably owing to that very simplicity which had made him so helpless in common life.

Having learnt all this, Mr. Cope proposed to Paul to use the time of his recovery in learning as much as he could, so as to be ready in case any opportunity should offer for gaining his livelihood by his head rather than by his hands.

Paul’s face glowed.  He liked nothing better than to be at a book, and with Mr. Cope to help him by bright encouragements and good-natured explanations instead of tweaks of the ears and raps on the knuckles, what could be pleasanter?  So Mr. Cope lent him books, set him questions, and gave him pen, ink, and copy-book, and he toiled away with them till his senses grew dazed, and his back ached beyond bearing; so that ‘Mother,’ as he called her now, caught him up, and made him lie on his bed to rest, threatening to tell Mr. Cope not to set him anything so hard; while Ellen watched in wonder at any one being so clever, and was proud of whatever Mr. Cope said he did well; and Harold looked on him as a more extraordinary creature than the pie-bald horse in the show, who wore a hat and stood on his hind legs, since he really was vexed when book and slate were taken out of his hands.

He would have over-tasked himself in his weakness much more, if it had not been for his lovingness to Alfred.  To please Alfred was always his first thought; and even if a difficult sum were just on the point of proving itself, he would leave off at the first moment of seeing Alfred look as if he wanted to be read to, and would miss all his calculations, to answer some question—who was going down the village, or what that noise could be.

Alfred tried to be considerate, and was sorry when he saw by a furrow on Paul’s brow that he was trying to win up again all that some trifling saying had made him lose.  But Alfred was not scholar enough to perceive the teasing of such interruptions, and even had he been aware of it, he was not in a state when he could lie quite still long together without disturbing any one; he could amuse himself much less than formerly, and often had most distressing restless fits, when one or other of them had to give him their whole attention; and it was all his most earnest efforts could do to keep from the old habit of fretfulness and murmuring.  And he grieved so much over the least want of temper, and begged pardon so earnestly for the least impatient word—even if there had been real provocation for it—that it was a change indeed since the time when he thought grumbling and complaint his privilege and relief.  Nothing helped him more than Paul’s reading Psalms to him—the 121st was his favourite—or saying over hymns to him in that very sweet voice so full of meaning.  Sometimes Ellen and Paul would sing together, as she sat at her work, and it almost always soothed him to hear the Psalm tunes, that were like an echo from the church, about which he had cared so little when he had been able to go there in health and strength, but for which he now had such a longing!  He came to be so used to depend on their singing the Evening Hymn to him, that one of the times when it was most hard for him to be patient, was one cold evening, when Ellen was so hoarse that she could not speak, and an unlucky draught in from the shop door had so knit Paul up again, that he was lying in his bed, much nearer screaming than singing.

Most of all, however, was Alfred helped by Mr. Cope’s visits, and the looking forward to the promised Feast, with more earnestness as the time drew on, and he felt his own weakness more longing for the support and blessing of uniting his suffering with that of his Lord.  ‘In all our afflictions He was afflicted,’ was a sound that came most cheeringly to him, and seemed to give him greater strength and good-will to bear his load of weakness.

There was a book which young Mrs. Selby had given his mother, which was often lying on his bed, and had marks in it at all the favourite places.  Some he liked to look at himself, some for Paul to read to him.  They were such sentences as these:

‘My son, I descended from Heaven for thy salvation; I took upon Me thy miseries; not necessity, but charity, drawing Me thereto, that thou thyself mightest learn patience, and bear temporal miseries without grudging.’

‘For from the hour of My Birth, even until My Death on the Cross, I was not without suffering and grief.’

And then again:

‘Offer up thyself unto Me, and give thyself wholly for God, and thy offering shall be acceptable.’

‘Behold, I offered up Myself wholly unto My Father for thee, and gave My whole Body and Blood for thy food, that I might be wholly thine, and that thou mightest continue Mine unto the end.’

So he might think of all that he went through as capable of being made a free offering, which God would accept for the sake of the One Great Offering, ‘consuming and burning away’ (as the book said) ‘all his sins with the fire of Christ’s love, and cleansing his conscience from all offences.’  It was what he now felt in the words, ‘Thy Will be done,’ which he tried to say in full earnest; but he thought he should be very happy when he should go along with the offering ourselves, our souls, and bodies, to be a ‘reasonable, holy, and lively sacrifice.’

Each of Mr. Cope’s readings brought out or confirmed these refreshing hopes; and Paul likewise dwelt on such thoughts.  Hardship had been a training to him, like sickness for Alfred; he knew what it was to be weary and heavy laden, and to want rest, and was ready to draw closer to the only Home and Father that he could claim.  His gentle unresisting spirit was one that so readily forgot ill-will, that positively Harold cherished more dislike to the Shepherds than he did; and there was no struggle to forgive, no lack of charity for all men, so that hope and trust were free.

These two boys were a great deal to the young deacon.  Perhaps he reckoned on his first ministration as a priest by Alfred’s bedside, as much or even more than did the lad, for to him the whole household were as near and like-minded friends, though neither he nor they ever departed from the fitting manners of their respective stations.  He was one who liked to share with others what was near his heart, and he had shewn Alfred the Service for the Ordination of Priests, and the Prayers for Grace that would be offered, and the holy vows that he would take upon him, and the words with which those great Powers would be conferred—those Powers that our Chief Shepherd left in trust for the pastors who feed His flock.

And once he had bent down and whispered to Alfred to pray that help might be given to him to use those powers faithfully.

So wore on the early spring; and the morning had come when he was to set out for the cathedral town, when Harold rode up to the parsonage door, and something in his looks as he passed the window made Mr. Cope hasten to the door to meet him.

‘O Sir!’ said Harold, bursting out crying as he began to speak, ‘poor Alfred is took so bad; and Mother told me to tell you, Sir—if he’s not better—he’ll never live out the day!’

Poor Harold, who had never seemed to heed his brother’s illness, was quite overwhelmed now.  It had come upon him all at once.

‘What is it?  Has the doctor been?’

‘No, Sir; I went in at six o’clock this morning to ask him to come out, and he said he’d come—and sent him a blister—but Alf was worse by the time I got back, Sir,—he can’t breathe—and don’t seem to notice.’

And without another word, nor waiting for comfort, Harold dug his heels into Peggy, passed his elbow over his eyes, and cantered on with the tears drying on his face in the brisk March wind.

There was no finishing breakfast for the Curate; he thrust his letters into his pocket, caught up his hat, and walked off with long strides for the post-office.

It shewed how different things were from usual, that Paul, who had hardly yet been four times down-stairs, his thin pointed face all in a flush, was the only person in the shop, trying with a very shaky hand to cut out some cheese for a great stout farm maid-servant, who evidently did not understand what was the matter, and stared doubly when the clergyman put his strong hand so as to steady Paul’s trembling one, and gave his help to fold up the parcel.

‘How is he, Paul?’

Paul was very near crying as he answered, ‘Much worse, Sir.  Mother has been up all night with him.  O Sir! he did so want to live till you came home.’

‘May I go up?’ asked Mr. Cope.

Paul was sure that he might, and crept up after him.  It was bad enough, but not quite so bad as Harold, in his fright, had made Mr. Cope believe.  Poor boy! it had all come upon him now; and seeing his brother unable to speak and much oppressed, he fancied he did not know him, whereas Alfred was fully sensible, though too ill to do more than lift his eyes, and put out his weak fingers as Mr. Cope came into the room, where he was lying raised on his pillows, with his mother and sister doing all they could for him.

A terrible pain in the side had come on in the night, making every breath painful, every cough agonizing, and his whole face and brow were crimson with the effort of gasping.

Paul looked a moment but could not bear it, and went, and sat down on the top of the stairs; while Mr. Cope kindly held Alfred’s hot hand, and Mrs. King, in her low patient tone, told how the attack had begun.

She was in the midst, when Mr. Blunt’s gig was seen at the gate.  His having thus hastened his coming was more than they had dared to hope; and while Mrs. King felt grateful for the kindness, Ellen feared that it shewed that he thought very badly of the case.

Mr. Cope was much hurried, but he could not bear to go till he had heard Mr. Blunt’s opinion; so he went down to the kitchen, tried to console Paul by talking kindly to him, wrote a note, and read his letters.

They were much comforted to hear that Mr. Blunt thought that there was hope of subduing the present inflammatory pain; and though there was much immediate danger, it was not hastening so very fast to the end as they had at first supposed.  Yet, in such a state as Alfred’s, a few hours might finish all.  There was no saying.

Already, when Mr. Cope went up again, the remedies had given some relief; and though the breaths came short and hard, like so many stabs, Alfred had put his head into an easier position, and his eyes and lips looked more free to look a greeting.  There was so much wistful earnestness in his face, and it deeply grieved Mr. Cope to be forced to leave him, and in too much haste even to be able to pray with him.

‘Well, Alfred, dear fellow,’ he said, his voice trembling, ‘I am come to wish you good-bye.  I am comforted to find that Mr. Blunt thinks there is good hope that you will be here—that we shall be together when I come back.  Yes, I know that is what is on your mind, and I do reckon most earnestly on it; but if it should not be His Will—here, Ellen, will you take care of this note?  If he should be worse, will you send this to Mr. Carter, at Ragglesford? and I know he will come at once.’

The dew stood on Alfred’s eye-lashes, and his lips worked.  He looked up sadly to Mr. Cope, as if this did not answer his longings.

Mr. Cope replied to the look—‘Yes, dear boy, but if it cannot be, still remember it is Communion.  He can put us together.  We all drink into one Spirit.  I shall be engaged in a like manner—I would not—I could not go, Alfred, for pleasure—no, nor business—only for this.  You must think that I am gone to bring you home the Gift—the greatest, best Gift—the one our Lord left with His disciples, to bear them through their sorrows and pains—through the light affliction that is but for a moment, but worketh an exceeding weight of glory.  And if I should not be in time,’ he added, nearly sobbing as he spoke, ‘then—then, Alfred, the Gift, the blessing is yours all the same.  It is the Great High Priest to Whom you must look—perhaps you may do so the more really if it should not be through—your friend.  If we are disappointed, we will make a sacrifice of our disappointment.  Good-bye, my boy; God bless you!’  Bending close down to his face, he whispered, ‘Think of me.  Pray for me—now—always.’  Then, rising hastily, he shook the hands of the mother and sister, ran down-stairs, and was gone.

CHAPTER XII—REST AT LAST

The east wind had been swept aside by gales from the warm south, and the spring was bursting out everywhere; the sky looked softly blue, instead of hard and chill; the sun made everything glisten: the hedges were full of catkins; white buds were on the purple twigs of the blackthorns; primroses were looking out on the sunny side of the road; the larks were mounting up, singing as if they were wild with delight; and the sunbeams were full of dancing gnats, as the Curate of Friarswood walked, with quick eager steps, towards the bridge.

His eyes were anxiously bent on the house, watching the white smoke rising from the chimney; then he hastened on to gain the first sight at the upper windows, feeling almost as he could have done had it been a brother who lay there; so much was his heart set on the first whom he had striven to help through the valley of the shadow of death.  The window was open, but the blind was not drawn; and almost at the same moment the gate opened, some one looked out, and seeing him, waved his hand and arm in joyful signal towards some one within, and this gesture set Mr. Cope’s heart at rest.

Was it Harold?  No, it was Paul Blackthorn, who stood leaning on the wicket, as he held it open for the clergyman, at whom he looked up as if expecting some change, and a little surprised to find the same voice and manner.

‘Well, Paul, then he is not worse?’

‘No, Sir, thank you, he is better.  The pain has left him, and he can speak again,’ said Paul, but not very cheerfully.

‘That is a great comfort!  But who’s that?’ as a head, not Ellen’s, appeared for a moment at the window.

‘That’s Miss King, Sir—Miss Matilda!’

‘Oh!  Well, and how are the bones, Paul?  Better, I hope, since I see you are come out with the bees,’ said Mr. Cope, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder (a thing fit to touch now, since it was in a fustian coat of poor Alfred’s), and accommodating his swift strong steps to the feeble halt with which Paul still moved.

‘Thank you, Sir, yes; I’ve been down here twice when the sun was out,’ he said, as if it were a grand undertaking; but then, with a sudden smile, ‘and poor Cæsar knew me, Sir; he came right across the road, and wagged his tail, and licked my hand.’

‘Good old Cæsar!  You were his best friend, Paul.—Well, Mrs. King, this is a blessing!’

Mrs. King looked sadly worn out with nursing, and her eyes were full of tears.

‘Yes, Sir,’ she said, ‘indeed it is.  My poor darling has been so much afraid he was too much set on your coming home, and yet so patient and quiet about it.’

‘Then you ventured to wait?’

And Mr. Cope heard that the attack of inflammation had given way to remedies, but that Alfred was so much weakened, that they could not raise him again.  He was sustained by as much nourishment as they could give him: but the disease had made great progress, and Mr. Blunt did not think that he could last many days.  His eldest sister had come for a fortnight from her place, and was a great comfort to them all.  ‘And so is Paul,’ said Mrs. King, looking for him kindly; ‘I don’t know what we should do without his help up-stairs and down.  And, Sir, yesterday,’ she added, colouring a good deal—‘I beg your pardon, but I thought, maybe, you’d like to hear it—Alfred would have nobody else up with him in morning church-time—and made him read the most—of that Service, Sir.’

Mr. Cope’s eyes glistened, and he said something huskily of being glad that Alfred could think of it.

It further appeared that Alfred had wished very much to see Miss Selby again, and that Mrs. King had sent the two sisters to the Grange to talk it over with Mrs. Crabbe, and word had been sent by Harold that morning that the young lady would come in the course of the afternoon.

Mr. Cope followed Mrs. King up-stairs; Alfred’s face lighted up as his sister Matilda made way for the clergyman.  He was very white, and his breath was oppressed; but his look had changed very much—it had a strange, still sort of brightness and peace about it.  He spoke in very low tones, just above a whisper, and smiled as Mr. Cope took his hand, and spoke to him.

‘Thank you, Sir.  It is very nice,’ he said.

‘I thank God that He has let you wait for me,’ said Mr. Cope.

‘I am glad,’ said Alfred.  ‘I did want to pray for it; but I thought, perhaps, if it was not His Will, I would not—and then what you said.  And now He is making it all happy.’

‘And you do not grieve over your year of illness?’

‘I would not have been without it—no,’ said Alfred, very quietly, but with much meaning.

‘“It is good for me that I have been in trouble,” is what you mean,’ said Mr. Cope.

‘It has made our Saviour seem—I mean—He is so good to me,’ said Alfred fervently.

But talking made him cough, and that brought a line in the fair forehead so full of peace.  Mr. Cope would not say more to him, and asked his mother whether the Feast, for which he had so much longed, should be on the following day.  She thought it best that it should be so; and Alfred again said, ‘Thank you, Sir,’ with the serene expression on his face.  Mr. Cope read a Psalm and a prayer to him, and thinking him equal to no more, went away, pausing, however, for a little talk with Paul in the shop.

Paul did not say so, but, poor fellow, he had been rather at a loss since Matilda had come.  In herself, she was a very good, humble, sensible girl; but she wore a dark silk dress, and looked, moved, and spoke much more like a lady than Ellen: Paul stood in great awe of her, and her presence seemed all at once to set him aloof from the others.

He had been like one of themselves for the last three months, now he felt that he was like a beggar among them; he did not like to call Mrs. King mother, lest it should seem presuming; Ellen seemed to be raised up the same step as her sister, and even Alfred was almost out of his reach; Matilda read to him, and Paul’s own good feeling shewed him that he would be only in the way if he spent all his time in Alfred’s room as formerly; so he kept down-stairs in the morning, and went to bed very early.  Nobody was in the least unkind to him: but he had just begun to grieve at being a burden so long, and to wonder how much longer he should be in getting his health again.  And then it might be only to be cast about the world, and to lose his one glimpse of home kindness.  Poor boy! he still cried at the thought of how happy Alfred was.

He did all he could to be useful, but he could scarcely manage to stoop down, could carry nothing heavy, and moved very slowly; and he now and then made a dreadful muddle in the shop, when a customer was not like Mrs. Hayward, who told him where everything was, and the price of all she wanted, as well as Mrs. King could do herself.  He could sort the letters and see to the post-office very well; and for all his blunders, he did so much by his good-will, that when Mrs. King wanted to cheer him up, she declared that he saved her all the expense of having in a woman from the village to help, and that he did more about the house than Harold.

This was true: for Harold did not like doing anything but manly things, as he called them; whereas Paul did not care what it was, so that it saved trouble to her or Ellen.

Talking and listening to Harold was one use of Paul.  Now that it had come upon him, and he saw Alfred worse from day to day, the poor boy was quite broken-hearted.  Possibly, when at his work, or riding, he managed to shake off the remembrance; but at home it always came back, and he cried so much at the sight of Alfred, and at any attempt of his brother to talk to him, that they could scarcely let him stay ten minutes in the room.  Then, when Paul had gone to bed on the landing at seven o’clock, he would come and sit on his bed, and talk, and cry, and sob about his brother, and his own carelessness of him, often till his mother came out and ordered him down-stairs to his own bed in the kitchen; and Paul turned his face into the pillow to weep himself to sleep, loving Alfred very little less than did his brother, but making less noise about it, and feeling very lonely when he saw how all the family cared for each other.