Friarswood Post Office

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> Friarswood Post Office

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So Paul and Alfred were left together, and held their tongues for
full five minutes, because both felt so odd. Then Alfred said
something about reading the Service, and Paul offered to read it to
him.

Paul had not only been very well taught, but had a certain gift, such
as not many people have, for reading aloud well. Alfred listened to
those Psalms and Lessons as if they had quite a new meaning in them,
for the right sound and stress on the right words made them sound
quite like another thing; and so Alfred said when he left off.

'I'm sure they do to me,' said Paul. 'I didn't know much about
"good-will to men" last Christmas.'

'You've not had overmuch good-will from them, neither,' said Alfred,
'since you came out.'

'What! not since I've been at Friarswood?' exclaimed Paul. 'Why, I
used to think all THAT was only something in a book.'

'All what?' asked Alfred.

'All about--why, loving one's neighbour--and the Good Samaritan, and
so on. I never saw any one do it, you know, but it was comfortable
like to read about it; and when I watched to your mother and all of
you, I saw how it was about one's neighbour; and then, what with that
and Mr. Cope's teaching, I got to feel how it was--about God!' and
Paul's face looked very grave and peaceful.

'Well,' said Alfred, 'I don't know as I ever cared about it much--not
since I was a little boy. It was the fun last Christmas.'

And Paul looking curious, Alfred told all about the going out for
holly, and the dining at the Grange, and the snap-dragon over the
pudding, till he grew so eager and animated that he lost breath, and
his painful cough came on, so that he could just whisper, 'What did
you do?'

'Oh! I don't know. We had prayers, and there was roast beef for
dinner, but they gave it to me where it was raw, and I couldn't eat
it. Those that had friends went out; but 'twasn't much unlike other
days.'

'Poor Paul!' sighed Alfred.

'It won't be like that again, though,' said Paul, 'even if I was in a
Union. I know--what I know now.'

'And, Paul,' said Alfred, after a pause, 'there's one thing I should
like if I was you. You know our Blessed Saviour had no house over
Him, but was left out of the inn, and nobody cared for Him.'

Paul did not make any answer; and Alfred blushed all over.

Presently Alfred said, 'Harold will run in soon. I say, Paul, would
you mind reading me what they will say after the Holy Sacrament--what
the Angels sang is the beginning.'

Paul found it, and felt as if he must stand to read such praise.

'Thank you,' said Alfred. 'I'm glad Mother and Ellen are there.
They'll remember us, you know. Did you hear what Mr. Cope promised
me?'

Paul had not heard; and Alfred told him, adding, 'It will be the
Ember-week in Lent. You'll be one with me then, Paul?'

'I'd like to promise,' said Paul fervently; 'but you see, when I'm
well--'

'Oh, you won't go away for good. My Lady, or Mr. Cope, will get you
work; and I want you to be Mother's good son instead of me; and a
brother to Harold and Ellen.'

'I'd never go if I could help it,' said Paul; 'I sometimes wish I'd
never got better! I wish I could change with you, Alfred; nobody
would care if 'twas me; nor I'm sure I shouldn't.'

'I should like to get well!' said Alfred slowly, and sighing. 'But
then you've been a much better lad than I was.'

'I don't know why you should say that,' said Paul, with his hand
under his chin, rather moodily. 'But if I thought I could be good
and go on well, I would not mind so much. I say, Alfred, when people
round go on being--like Tom Boldre, you know--do you think one can
always feel that about God being one's Father, and church home, and
all the rest?'

'I can't say--I never tried,' said Alfred. 'But you know you can
always go to church--and then the Psalms and Lessons tell you those
things. Well, and you can go to the Holy Sacrament--I say, Paul, if
you take it the first time with me, you'll always remember me again
every time after.'

'I must be very odd ever to forget you!' said Paul, not far from
crying. 'Ha!' he exclaimed, 'they are coming out of church!'

'I want to say one thing more, while I've got it in my head,' said
Alfred. 'Mr. Cope said all this sickness was a cross to me, and I'd
got to take it up for our Saviour's sake. Well, and then mayn't
yours be being plagued and bullied, without any friends? I'm sure
something like it happened to our Lord; and He never said one word
against them. Isn't that the way you may be to follow Him?'

Illness and thought had made such things fully plain to Alfred, and
his words sank deep into Paul's mind; but there was not time for any
answer, for Harold was heard unlocking the door, and striding up
three steps at a time, sending his voice before him. 'Well, old
chaps, have you quarrelled yet? Have you been jolly together? I
say, Mrs. Crabbe told Ellen that the pudding was put into the boiler
at eight o'clock last night; and my Lady and Miss Jane went in to
give it a stir! I'm to bring you home a slice, you know; and Paul
will know what a real pudding is like.'

The two boys spent a happy quiet afternoon with Mrs. King; and
Charles Hayward brought all the singing boys down, that they might
hear the carols outside the window. Paul, much tired, was in his bed
by that time; but his last thought was that 'Good-will to Men' had
come home to him at last.

CHAPTER XI--BETTER DAYS FOR PAUL

Paul's reading was a great prize to Alfred, for he soon grew tired
himself; his sister could not spare time to read to him, and if she
did, she went mumbling on like a bee in a bottle. Her mother did
much the same, and Harold used to stumble and gabble, so that it was
horrible to hear him. Such reading as Paul's was a new light to them
all, and was a treat to Ellen as she worked as much as to Alfred; and
Paul, with hands as clean as Alfred's, was only too happy to get hold
of a book, and infinitely enjoyed the constant supply kept up by Miss
Selby, to make up for her not coming herself.

Then came the making out the accounts, a matter dreaded by all the
family. Ellen and Alfred both used to do the sums; but as they never
made them the same, Mrs. King always went by some reckoning of her
own by pencil dots on her thumb-nail, which took an enormous time,
but never went wrong. So the slate and the books came up after tea,
one night, and Ellen set to work with her mother to pick out every
one's bill. There might be about eight customers who had Christmas
bills; but many an accountant in a London shop would think eight
hundred a less tough business than did the King family these eight;
especially as there was a debtor and creditor account with four, and
coals, butcher's meat, and shoes for man and horse, had to be set
against bread, tea, candles, and the like.

One pound of tea, 3s. 6d., that was all very well; but an ounce and a
half of the same made Ellen groan, and look wildly at the corner over
Alfred's bed, as if in hopes she should there see how to set it down,
so as to work it.

'Fourpence, all but--' said a voice from the arm-chair by the fire.

Ellen did not take any particular heed, but announced the fact that
three shillings were thirty-six pence, and six was forty-two. Also
that sixteen ounces were one pound, and sixteen drams one ounce; but
there she got stuck, and began making figures and rubbing them out,
as if in hopes that would clear up her mind. Mrs. King pecked on for
ten minutes on her nail.

'Well,' she said, 'Paul's right; it is fourpence.'

'However did you do it?' asked Ellen.

'As 16 to 1.5, so 42,' quoth Paul quickly. 'Three halves into 42; 21
and 42 is 63; 63 by 16, gives 3 and fifteen-sixteenths. You can't
deduct a sixteenth of a penny, so call it fourpence.'

Ellen and Alfred were as wise as to the working as they were before.

Next question--Paul's answer came like the next line in the book--
Mrs. King proved him right, and so on till she was quite tired of the
proofs, and began to trust him. Alfred asked how he could possibly
do such things, which seemed to him a perfect riddle.

'I should have had my ears pretty nigh pulled off if I took five
minutes to work THAT in my head,' said Paul. 'But I've forgotten
things now; I could do it faster once.'

'I'm sure you hadn't need,' said Mrs. King; 'it's enough to distract
one's senses to count so fast. All in your poor head too!'

'And I've got to write them all out to-morrow,' said Ellen dismally;
'I must wait till dark, or I shan't set a stitch of work. I wish
people would pay ready money, and then one wouldn't have to set down
their bills. Here's Mr. Cope, bread--bread--bread, as long as my
arm!'

'If you didn't mind, maybe I could save you the trouble, Miss Ellen,'
said Paul.

'Did you ever make out a bill?' asked Mrs. King.

'Never a real one; but every Thursday I used to do sham ones. Once I
did a jeweller's bill for twelve thousand pounds and odd! It is so
long since I touched a pen, that may be I can't write; but I should
like to try.'

Ellen brought a pen, and the cover of a letter; and hobbling up to
the table, he took the pen, cleared it of a hair that was sticking in
it, made a scratch or two weakly and ineffectually, then wrote in a
neat clear hand, without running up or down, 'Friarswood, Christmas.'

'A pretty hand as ever I saw!' said Mrs. King. 'Well, if you can
write like that, and can be trusted to make no mistakes, you might
write out our bills; and we'd be obliged to you most kindly.'

And so Paul did, so neatly, that when the next evening Mr. Cope
walked in with the money, he said, looking at Harold, 'Ah! my ancient
Saxon, I must make my compliments to you: I did not think you could
write letters as well as you can carry them.'

''Twas Paul did it, Sir,' said Harold.

'Yes, Sir; 'twas Paul,' said Mrs. King. 'The lad is a wonderful
scholar: he told off all the sums as if they was in print; and to
hear him read--'tis like nothing I ever heard since poor Mrs. Selby,
Miss Jane's mother.'

'I saw he had been very well instructed--in acquaintance with the
Bible, and the like.'

'And, Sir, before I got to know him for a boy that would not give a
false account of himself, I used to wonder whether he could have run
away from some school, and have friends above the common. If you
observe, Sir, he speaks so remarkably well.'

Mr. Cope had observed it. Paul spoke much better English than did
even the Kings; though Ellen was by way of being very particular, and
sometimes a little mincing.

'You are quite sure it is not so?' he said, a little startled at Mrs.
King's surmise.

'Quite sure now, Sir. I don't believe he would tell a falsehood on
no account; and besides, poor lad!' and she smiled as the tears came
into her eyes, 'he's so taken to me, he wouldn't keep nothing back
from me, no more than my own boys.'

'I'm sure he ought not, Mrs. King,' said the Curate, 'such a mother
to him as you have been. I should like to examine him a little.
With so much education, he might do something better for himself than
field-labour.'

'A very good thing it would be, Sir,' said Mrs. King, looking much
cheered; 'for I misdoubt me sometimes if he'll ever be strong enough
to gain his bread that way--at least, not to be a good workman.
There! he's not nigh so tall as Harold; and so slight and skinny as
he is, going about all bent and slouching, even before his illness!
Why, he says what made him stay so long in the Union was that he
looked so small and young, that none of the farmers at Upperscote
would take him from it; and so at last he had to go on the tramp.'

Mr. Cope went up-stairs, and found Ellen, as usual, at her needle,
and Paul in the arm-chair close by Alfred, both busied in choosing
and cutting out pictures from Matilda's 'Illustrated News,' with
which Harold ornamented the wall of the stair-case and landing. Mr.
Cope sat down, and made them laugh with something droll about the
figures that were lying spread on Alfred.

'So, Paul,' he said, 'I find Mrs. King has engaged you for her
accountant.'

'I wish I could do anything to be of any use,' said Paul.

'I've half a mind to ask you some questions in arithmetic,' said Mr.
Cope, with his merry eyes upon the boy, and his mouth looking grave;
'only I'm afraid you might puzzle me.'

'I can't do as I used, Sir,' said Paul, rather nervously; 'I've
forgotten ever so much; and my head swims.'

The slate was lying near; Mr. Cope pushed it towards him, and said,
'Well, will you mind letting me see how you can write from
dictation?'

And taking up one of the papers, he read slowly several sentences
from a description of a great fire, with some tolerably long-winded
newspaper words in them. When he paused, and asked for the slate,
there it all stood, perfectly spelt, well written, and with all the
stops and capitals in the right places.

'Famously done, Paul! Well, and do you know where this place was?'
naming the town.

Paul turned his eyes about for a moment, and then gave the name of a
county.

'That'll do, Paul. Which part of England?'

'Midland.'

And so on, Mr. Cope got him out of his depth by asking about the
rivers, and made him frown and look teased by a question about a
battle fought in that county. If he had ever known, he had
forgotten, and he was weak and easily confused; but Mr. Cope saw that
he had read some history and learnt some geography, and was not like
some of the village boys, who used to think Harold had been called
after Herod--a nice namesake, truly!

'Who taught you all this, Paul?' he said. 'You must have had a
cleverer master than is common in Unions. Who was he?'

'He was a Mr. Alcock, Sir. He was a clever man. They said in the
House that he had been a bit of a gentleman, a lawyer, or a clerk, or
something, but that he could never keep from the bottle.'

'What! and so they keep him for a school-master?'

'He was brought in, Sir; he'd got that mad fit that comes of drink,
Sir, and was fresh out of gaol for debt. And when he came to, he
said he'd keep the school for less than our master that was gone. He
couldn't do anything else, you see.'

'And how did he teach you?'

'He knocked us about,' said Paul, drawing his shoulders together with
an unpleasant recollection; 'he wasn't so bad to me, because I liked
getting my tasks, and when he was in a good humour, he'd say I was a
credit to him, and order me in to read to him in the evening.'

'And when he was not?'

'That was when he'd been out. They said he'd been at the gin-shop;
but he used to be downright savage,' said Paul. 'At last he never
thought it worth while to teach any lessons but mine, and I used to
hear the other classes; but the inspector came all on a sudden, and
found it out one day when he'd hit a little lad so that his nose was
bleeding, and so he was sent off.'

'How long ago was this?'

'Going on for a year,' said Paul.

'Didn't the inspector want you to go to a training-school?' said
Alfred.

'Yes; but the Guardians wouldn't hear of it.'

'Did you wish it?' asked Mr. Cope.

'I liked my liberty, Sir,' was the answer; and Paul looked down.

'Well, and what you do think now you've tried your liberty?'

Paul didn't make any answer, but finding that good-humoured face
still waiting, he said slowly, 'Why, Sir, it was well-nigh the worst
of all to find I was getting as stupid as the cows.'

Mr. Cope laughed, but not so as to vex him; and added, 'So that was
the way you learnt to be a reader, Paul. Can you tell me what books
you used to read to this master?'

Paul paused; and Alfred said, '"Uncle Tom's Cabin," Sir; he told us
the story of that.'

'Yes,' said Paul; 'but that wasn't all: there was a book about
Paris, and all the people in the back lanes there; and a German
prince who came, and was kind.'

'You must not tell them stories out of that book, Paul,' said Mr.
Cope quickly, for he knew it was a very bad one.

'No, Sir,' said Paul; 'but most times it was books he called
philosophy, that I couldn't make anything of--no story, and all dull;
but he was very savage if I got to sleep over them, till I hated the
sight of them.'

'I'm glad you did, my poor boy,' said Mr. Cope. 'But one thing more.
Tell me how, with such a man as this, you could have learnt about the
Bible and Catechism, as you have done.'

'Oh,' said Paul, 'we had only the Bible and Testament to read in the
school, because they were the cheapest; and the chaplain asked us
about the Catechism every Sunday.'

'What was the chaplain's name?'

Paul was able, with some recollection, to answer; but he knew little
about the clergyman, who was much overworked, and seldom able to give
any time to the paupers.

Three days after, Mr. Cope again came into the post-office.

'Well, Mrs. King, I suppose you don't need to be told that our friend
Paul has spoken nothing but truth. The chaplain sends me his
baptismal registry, for which I asked. Just seventeen he must be--a
foundling, picked up at about three weeks old, January 25th, 1836.
They fancy he was left by some tramping musicians, but never were
able to trace them--at least, so the chaplain hears from some of the
people who remember it. Being so stunted, and looking younger than
he is, no farmer would take him from the House, and the school-master
made him useful, so he was kept on till the grand exposure that he
told us of.'

'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.

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