Friarswood Post Office

The service seemed to rest him, and to be like being brought near a friend; and he had been told that church might always be his home.  He took a pleasure in going thither—the more, perhaps, that he rather liked to shew how little he cared for remarks upon his appearance.  There was a great deal of independence about him; and, having escaped from the unloving maintenance of the parish, while he had as yet been untaught what affection or gratitude meant, he would not be beholden to any one.

Scanty as were his wages, he would accept nothing from anybody; he daily bought his portion of bread from Mrs. King, but it was of no use for her to add a bit of cheese or bacon to it; he never would see the relish, and left it behind; and so he never would accept Mr. Cope’s kind offers of giving him a bit of supper in his kitchen, perhaps because he was afraid of being said to go to the Rectory for the sake of what he could get.

He did not object to the farmer’s beer, which was sometimes given him when any unusual extra work had been put on him.  That was his right, for in truth the farmer did not pay him the value of his labour, and perhaps disliked him the more, because of knowing in his conscience that this was shameful extortion.

However, just at harvest time, when Paul’s shoes had become very like what may be sometimes picked up by the roadside, Mr. Shepherd did actually bestow on him a pair that did not fit himself!  Harold came home quite proud of them.

However, on the third day they were gone, and the farmer’s voice was heard on the bridge, rating Paul violently for having changed them away for drink.

Mrs. King felt sorrowful; but, as Ellen said, ‘What could you expect of him?’  In spite of the affront, there was a sort of acquaintance now over the counter between Mrs. King and young Blackthorn; and when he came for his bread, she could not help saying, ‘I’m sorry to see you in those again.’

‘Why, the others hurt me so, I could hardly get about,’ said Paul.

‘Ah! poor lad, I suppose your feet has got spread with wearing those old ones; but you should try to use yourself to decent ones, or you’ll soon be barefoot; and I do think it was a pity to drink them up.’

‘That’s all the farmer, Ma’am.  He thinks one can’t do anything but drink.’

‘Well, what is become of them?’

‘Why, you see, Ma’am, they just suited Dick Royston, and he wanted a pair of shoes, and I wanted a Bible and Prayer-book, so we changed ’em.’

When Ellen heard this, she could not help owning that Paul was a good boy after all, though it was in an odd sort of way.  But, alas! when next he was to go to Mr. Cope, there was a hue-and-cry all over the hay-loft for the Prayer-book.  There was no place to put it safely, or if there had been, Poor Paul was too great a sloven to think of any such thing; and as it was in a somewhat rubbishy state to begin with, it was most likely that one of the cows had eaten it with her hay; and all that could be said was, that it would have been worse if it had been the Bible.

As to Dick Royston, to find that he would change away his Bible for a pair of shoes, made Mrs. King doubly concerned that he should be a good deal thrown in Harold’s way.  There are many people who neglect their Bibles, and do not read them; but this may be from thoughtlessness or press of care, and is not like the wilful breaking with good, that it is to part with the Holy Scripture, save under the most dire necessity; and Dick was far from being in real want, nor was he ignorant, like Mr. Cope’s poor Jem, for he had been to school, and could read well; but he was one of those many lads, who, alas! are everywhere to be found, who break loose from all restraint as soon as they can maintain themselves.  They do their work pretty well, and are tolerably honest; but for the rest—alas! they seem to live without God.  Prayers and Church they have left behind, as belonging to school-days; and in all their strength and health, their days of toil, their evenings of rude diversion, their Sundays of morning sleep, noonday basking in the sun, evening cricket, they have little more notion of anything concerning their souls than the horses they drive.  If ever a fear comes over them, it seems a long long way off, a whole life-time before them; they are awkward, and in dread of one another’s jeers and remarks; and if they ever wish to be better, they cast it from them by fancying that time must steady them when they have had their bit of fun, or that something will come from somewhere to change them all at once, and make it easy to them to be good—as if they were not making it harder each moment.

This sort of lad had been utterly let alone till Mr. Cope came; and Lady Jane and the school-master felt it was dreary work to train up nice lads in the school, only to see them run riot, and forget all good as soon as they thought themselves their own masters.

Mr. Cope was anxious to do the best he could for them, and the Confirmation made a good opportunity; but the boys did not like to be interfered with—it made them shy to be spoken to; and they liked lounging about much better than having to poke into that mind of theirs, which they carried somewhere about them, but did not like to stir up.  They had no notion of going to school again—which no one wanted them to do—nor to church, because it was like little boys; and they wouldn’t be obliged.

So Mr. Cope made little way with them; a few who had better parents came regularly to him, but others went off when they found it too much trouble, and behaved worse than ever by way of shewing they did not care.  This folly had in some degree taken possession of Harold; and though he could not be as bad as were some of the others, he was fast growing impatient of restraint, and worried and angry, as if any word of good advice affronted him.  Driven from home by the fear of disturbing Alfred, he was left the more to the company of boys who made him ashamed of being ordered by his mother; and there was a jaunty careless style about all his ways of talking and moving, that shewed there was something wrong about him—he scorned Ellen, and was as saucy as he dared even to his mother; and though Mr. Cope found him better instructed than most of his scholars, he saw him quite as idle, as restless at church, and as ready to whisper and grin at improper times, as many who had never been trained like him.

One August Sunday afternoon, Mrs. King was with Alfred while Ellen was at church.  He was lying on his couch, very uncomfortable and fretful, when to the surprise of both, a knock was heard at the door.  Mrs. King looked out of the window, and a smart, hard-looking, pigeon’s-neck silk bonnet at once nodded to her, and a voice said, ‘I’ve come over to see you, Cousin King, if you’ll come down and let me in.  I knew I should find you at home.’

‘Betsey Hardman!’ exclaimed Alfred, in dismay; ‘you won’t let her come up here, Mother?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ said Mrs. King, sighing.  If there were a thing she disliked above all others, it was Sunday visiting.

‘You must help it, Mother,’ said Alfred, in his most pettish tones.  ‘I won’t have her here, worrying with her voice like a hen cackling.  Say you won’t let her come her!’

‘Very well,’ said Mrs. King, in doubt of her own powers, and in haste to be decently civil.

‘Say you won’t,’ repeated Alfred.  ‘Gadding about of a Sunday, and leaving her old sick mother—more shame for her!  Promise, Mother!’

He had nearly begun to cry at his mother’s unkindness in running down-stairs without making the promise, for, in fact, Mrs. King had too much conscience to gain present quiet for any one by promises she might be forced to break; and Betsey Hardman was only too well known.

Her mother was an aunt of Alfred’s father, an old decrepit widow, nearly bed-ridden, but pretty well to do, by being maintained chiefly by her daughter, who made a good thing of taking in washing in the suburbs of Elbury, and always had a girl or two under her.  She had neither had the education, nor the good training in service, that had fallen to Mrs. King’s lot; and her way of life did not lead to softening her tongue or temper.  Ellen called her vulgar, and though that is not a nice word to use, she was coarse in her ways of talking and thinking, loud-voiced, and unmannerly, although meaning to be very good-natured.

Alfred lay in fear of her step, ten times harder than Harold’s in his most boisterous mood, coming clamp clamp! up the stairs; and her shrill voice—the same tone in which she bawled to her deaf mother, and hallooed to her girls when they were hanging out the clothes in the high wind—coming pitying him—ay, and perhaps her whole weight lumbering down on the couch beside him, shaking every joint in his body!  His mother’s ways, learnt in the Selby nursery, had made him more tender, and more easily fretted by such things, than most cottage lads, who would have been used to them, and never have thought of not liking to have every neighbour who chose running up into the room, and talking without regard to subject or tone.

He listened in a fright to the latch of the door, and the coming in.  Betsey’s voice came up, through every chink of the boards, whatever she did herself; and he could hear every word of her greeting, as she said how it was such a fine day, she said to Mother she would take a holiday, and come and see Cousin King and the poor lad: it must be mighty dull for him, moped up there.

Stump! stump!  Was she coming?  His mother was answering something too soft for him to hear.

‘What, is he asleep?’

‘O Mother, must you speak the truth?’

‘Bless me!  I should have thought a little cheerful company was good for him.  Do you leave him quite alone?  Well—’ and there was a frightful noise of the foot of the heaviest chair on the floor.  ‘I’ll sit down and wait a bit!  Is he so very fractious, then?’

What was his mother saying?  Alfred clenched his fist, and grinned anger at Betsey with closed teeth.  There was the tiresome old word, ‘Low—ay, so’s my mother; but you should rise his spirits with company, you see; that’s why I came over; as soon as ever I heard that there wasn’t no hope of him, says I to Mother—’

What?  What was that she had heard?  There was his mother, probably trying to restrain her voice, for it came up now just loud enough to make it most distressing to try to catch the words, which sounded like something pitying.  ‘Ay, ay—just like his poor father; when they be decliny, it will come out one ways or another; and says I to Mother, I’ll go over and cheer poor Cousin King up a bit, for you see, after all, if he’d lived, he’d be nothing but a burden, crippled up like that; and a lingering job is always bad for poor folks.’

Alfred leant upon his elbow, his eyes full stretched, but feeling as if all his senses had gone into his ears, in his agony to hear more; and he even seemed to catch his mother’s voice, but there was no hope in that; it was of her knowing it would be all for the best; and the sadness of it told him that she believed the same as Betsey.  Then came, ‘Yes; I declare it gave me such a turn, you might have knocked me down with a feather.  I asked Mr. Blunt to come in and see what’s good for Mother, she feels so weak at times, and has such a noise in her head, just like the regiment playing drums, she says, till she can’t hardly bear herself; and so what do you think he says?  Don’t wrap up her head so warm, says he—a pretty thing for a doctor to say, as if a poor old creature like that, past seventy years old, could go without a bit of flannel to her head, and her three night-caps, and a shawl over them when there’s a draught.  I say, Cousin, I ha’n’t got much opinion of Mr. Blunt.  Why don’t you get some of them boxes of pills, that does cures wonderful?  Ever so many lords and ladies cured of a perplexity fit, by only just taking an imposing draught or two.’

Another time Alfred would have laughed at the very imposing draught, that was said to cure lords and ladies of this jumble between apoplexy and paralysis; but this was no moment for laughing, and he was in despair at fancying his mother wanted to lead her off on the quack medicine; but she went on.

‘Well, only read the papers that come with them.  I make my girl Sally read ’em all to me, being that she’s a better scholar; and the long words is quite heavenly—I declare there ain’t one of them shorter than peregrination.  I’d have brought one of them over to shew you if I hadn’t come away in a hurry, because Evans’s cart was going out to the merry orchard, and says I to Mother, Well, I’ll get a lift now there’s such a chance to Friarswood: it’ll do them all a bit of good to see a bit of cheerful company, seeing, as Mr. Blunt says, that poor lad is going after his father as fast as can be.  Dear me, says I, you don’t say so, such a fine healthy-looking chap as he was.  Yes, he says, but it’s in the constitution; it’s getting to the lungs, and he’ll never last out the winter.’

Alfred listened for the tone of his mother’s voice; he knew he should judge by that, even without catching the words—low, subdued, sad—he almost thought she began with ‘Yes.’

All the rest that he heard passed by him merely as a sound, noted no more than the lowing of the cattle, or the drone of the thrashing machine.  He lay half lifted up on his pillows, drawing his breath short with apprehension; his days were numbered, and death was coming fast, fast, straight upon him.  He felt it within himself—he knew now the meaning of the pain and sinking, the shortness of breath and choking of throat that had been growing on him through the long summer days; he was being ‘cut off with pining sickness,’ and his sentence had gone forth.  He would have screamed for his mother in the sore terror and agony that had come over him, in hopes she might drive the notion from him; but the dread of seeing her followed by that woman kept his lips shut, except for his long gasps of breath.

And she could not keep him—Mr. Blunt could not keep him; no one could stay the hand that had touched him!  Prayer!  They had prayed for his father, for Charlie, but it had not been God’s Will.  He had himself many times prayed to recover, and it had not been granted—he was worse and worse.

Moreover, whither did that path of suffering lead?  Up rose before Alfred the thought of living after the unknown passage, and of answering for all he had done; and now the faults he had refused to call to mind when he was told of chastisement, came and stood up of themselves.  Bred up to know the good, he had not loved it; he had cared for his own pleasure, not for God; he had not heeded the comfort of his widowed mother; he had been careless of the honour of God’s House, said and heard prayers without minding them; he had been disrespectful and ill-behaved at my Lady’s—he had been bad in every way; and when illness came, how rebellious and murmuring he had been, how unkind he had been to his patient mother, sister, and brother; and when Mr. Cope had told him it was meant to lead him to repent, he would not hear; and now it was too late, the door would be shut.  He had always heard that there was a time when sorrow was no use, when the offer of being saved had been thrown away.

When Ellen came in, and after a short greeting to Betsey Hardman, went up-stairs, she found Alfred lying back on his pillow, deadly white, the beads of dew standing on his brow, and his breath in gasps.  She would have shrieked for her mother, but he held out his hand, and said, in a low hoarse whisper, ‘Ellen, is it true?’

‘What, Alfy dear?  What is the matter?’

‘What she says.’

‘Who?  Betsey Hardman?  Dear dear Alf, is it anything dreadful?’

‘That I shall die,’ said Alfred, his eyes growing round with terror again.  ‘That Mr. Blunt said I couldn’t last out the winter.’

‘Dear Alfy, don’t!’ cried Ellen, throwing her arms round him, and kissing him with all her might; ‘don’t fancy it!  She’s always gossiping and gadding about, and don’t know what she says, and she’d got no business to tell stories to frighten my darling!’ she exclaimed, sobbing with agitation.  ‘I’m sure Mr. Blunt never said no such thing!’

‘But Mother thinks it, Ellen.’

‘She doesn’t, she can’t!’ cried Ellen vehemently; ‘I know she doesn’t, or she could never go about as she does.  I’ll call her up and ask her, to satisfy you.’

‘No, no, not while that woman is there!’ cried Alfred, holding her by the dress; ‘I’ll not have her coming up.’

Even while he spoke, however, Mrs. King was coming.  Betsey had spied an old acquaintance on the way from church, and had popped out to speak to her, and Mrs. King caught that moment for coming up.  She understood all, for she had been sitting in great distress, lest Alfred should be listening to every word which she was unable to silence, and about which Betsey was quite thoughtless.  So many people of her degree would talk to the patient about himself and his danger, and go on constantly before him with all their fears, and the doctor’s opinions, that Betsey had never thought of there being more consideration and tenderness shewn in this house, nor that Mrs. King would have hidden any pressing danger from the sick person; but such plain words had not yet passed between her and Mr. Blunt; and though she had long felt what Alfred’s illness would come to, the perception had rather grown on her than come at any particular moment.

Now when Ellen, with tears and agitation, asked what that Betsey had been saying to frighten Alfred so, and when she saw her poor boy’s look at her, and heard his sob, ‘Oh, Mother!’ it was almost too much for her, and she went up and kissed him, and laid him down less uneasily, but he felt a great tear fall on his face.

‘It’s not true, Mother, I’m sure it is not true,’ cried Ellen; ‘she ought—’

Mrs. King looked at her daughter with a sad sweet face, that stopped her short, and brought the sense over her too.  ‘Did he say so, Mother?’ said Alfred.

‘Not to me, dear,’ she answered; ‘but, Ellen, she’s coming back!  She’ll be up here if you don’t go down.’

Poor Ellen! what would she not have given for power to listen to her mother, and cry at her ease?  But she was forced to hurry, or Betsey would have been half-way up-stairs in another instant.  She was a hopeful girl, however, and after that ‘not to me,’ resolved to believe nothing of the matter.  Mrs. King knelt down by her son, and looked at him tenderly; and then, as his eyes went on begging for an answer, she said, ‘Dr. Blunt never told me there was no hope, my dear, and everything lies in God’s power.’

‘But you don’t think I shall get well, Mother?’

‘I don’t feel as if you would, my boy,’ she said, very low, and fondling him all the time.  ‘You’ve got to cough like Father and Charlie, and—though He might raise my boy up—yet anyhow, Alfy boy, if God sees it good for us, it will be good for us, and we shall be helped through with it.’

‘But I’m not good, Mother!  What will become of me?’

‘Perhaps the hearing this is all out of God’s mercy, to give you time to get ready, my dear.  You are no worse now than you were this morning; you are not like to go yet awhile.  No, indeed, my child; so if you don’t put off any longer—’

‘Mother!’ called up Ellen.  She was in despair.  Betsey was not to be kept by her from satisfying herself upon Alfred’s looks, and Mrs. King was only in time to meet her on the stairs, and tell her that he was so weak and low, that he could not be seen now, she could not tell how it would be when he had had his tea.

Ellen thought she had never had so distressing a tea-drinking in her life, as the being obliged to sit listening civilly to Betsey’s long story about the trouble she had about a stocking of Mrs. Martin’s that was lost in the wash, and that had gone to Miss Rosa Marlowe, because Mrs. Martin had her things marked with a badly-done K. E. M., and all that Mrs. Martin’s Maria and all Miss Marlowe’s Jane had said about it, and all Betsey’s ‘Says I to Mother,’—when she was so longing to be watching poor Alfred, and how her mother could sit so quietly making tea, and answering so civilly, she could not guess; but Mrs. King had that sense of propriety and desire to do as she would be done by, which is the very substance of Christian courtesy, the very want of which made Betsey, with all her wish to be kind, a real oppression and burthen to the whole party.

And where was Harold?  Ellen had not seen him coming out of church, but meal-times were pretty certain to bring him home.

‘Oh,’ said Betsey, ‘I’ll warrant he is off to the merry orchard.’

‘I hope not,’ said Mrs. King gravely.

‘He never would,’ said Ellen, in anger.

‘Ah, well, I always said I didn’t see no harm in a lad getting a bit of pleasure.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Mrs. King.  ‘Harold knows I would not stint him in the fruit nor in the pleasure, but I should be much vexed if he could go out on a Sunday, buying and selling, among such a lot as meet at that orchard.’

‘Well, I’m sure I don’t know when poor folks is to have a holiday if not on a Sunday, and the poor boy must be terrible moped with his brother so ill.’

‘Not doing thine own pleasure on My holy day,’ thought Ellen, but she did not say it, for her mother could not bear for texts to be quoted at people.  But her heart was very heavy; and when she went up with some tea to Alfred, she looked from the window to see whether, as she hoped, Harold might be in Paul’s hay-loft, preferring going without his tea to being teased by Betsey.  Paul sat in his loft, with his Bible on his knee, and his head on Cæsar’s neck.

‘Alfred,’ said Ellen, ‘do you know where Harold is?  Sure he is not gone to the merry orchard?’

‘Is not he come home?’ said Alfred.  ‘Oh, then he is!  He is gone to the merry orchard, breaking Sunday with Dick Royston!  And by-and-by he’ll be ill, and die, and be as miserable as I am!’  And Alfred cried as Ellen had never seen him cry.

CHAPTER VI—THE MERRY ORCHARD

Where was Harold?

Still the evening went on, and he did not come.  Alfred had worn himself out with his fit of crying, and lay quite still, either asleep, or looking so like it, that when Betsey had finished her tea, and again began asking to see him, Ellen could honestly declare that he was asleep.

Betsey had bidden them good-bye, more than half affronted at not being able to report to her mother all about his looks, though she carried with her a basket of gooseberries and French beans, and Mrs. King walked all the way down the lane with her, and tried to shew an interest in all she said, to make up for the disappointment.

Maybe likewise Mrs. King felt it a relief to her uneasiness to look up and down the road, and along the river, and into the farm-yard, in the hope that Harold might be in sight; but nothing was to be seen on the road, but Master Norland, his wife, and baby, soberly taking their Sunday walk; nor by the river, except the ducks, who seemed to be enjoying their evening bath, and almost asleep on the water; nor in the yard, except Paul Blackthorn, who had come down from his perch to drive the horses in from the home-field, and shut the stable up for the night.

She could not help stopping a moment at the gate, and calling out to Paul to ask whether he had seen anything of Harold.  He seemed to have a great mind not to hear, and turned very slowly with his shoulder towards her, making a sound like ‘Eh?’ as if to ask what she said.

‘Have you seen my boy Harold?’

‘I saw him in the morning.’

‘Have you not seen him since?  Didn’t he go to church with you?’

‘No; I don’t go to Sunday school.’

‘Was he there?’

She did not receive any answer.

‘Do you know if many of the boys are gone to the merry orchard?’

‘Ay.’

‘Well, you are a good lad not to be one of them.’

‘Hadn’t got any money,’ said Paul gruffly; but Mrs. King thought he said so chiefly from dislike to be praised, and that there had been some principle as well as poverty to keep him away.

‘It might be better if no one had it on a Sunday,’ she could not help sighing out as she looked anxiously along the lane ere turning in, and then said, ‘My good lad, I don’t want to get you to be telling tales, but it would set my heart at rest, and his poor brother’s up there, if you could tell me he is not gone to Briar Alley.’

Paul turned up his face from the gate upon which he was leaning his elbows, and gazed for a moment at her sad, meek, anxious face, then exclaimed, ‘I can’t think how he could!’