Friarswood Post Office

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

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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 Caesar knew me, Sir; he came right across the
road, and wagged his tail, and licked my hand.'

'Good old Caesar! 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.

So Mr. Cope's kind manner came all the more pleasantly to him; and
after some talk on what they both most cared about, Mr. Cope said,
'Paul, Mr. Shaw of Berryton tells me he has a capital school-master,
but in rather weak health, and he wants to find a good intelligent
youth to teach under him, and have opportunities of improving
himself. Five pounds a year, and board and lodgings. What do you
think of it, Paul?'

Paul's sallow face began growing red, and he polished the counter, on
which he was leaning; then, as Mr. Cope repeated, 'Eh, Paul?' he said
slowly, and in his almost rude way, 'They wouldn't have me if they
knew how I'd been brought up.'

'Perhaps they would if they knew what you've come to in spite of
bringing up. And,' added Mr. Cope, 'they are not so much pressed for
time but that they can wait till you've quite forgotten your tumble
into the Ragglesford. We must fatten you--get rid of those spider-
fingers, and you and I must do a few more lessons together--and I
think Mrs. King has something towards your outfit; and by
Whitsuntide, I told Mr. Shaw that I thought I might send him what I
call a very fair sample of a good steady lad.'

Paul did not half seem to take it in--perhaps he was too unhappy, or
it sounded like sending him away again; or, maybe, such a great step
in life was more than he could comprehend, after the outcast
condition to which he had been used: but Mr. Cope could not go on
talking to him, for the Grange carriage was stopping at the gate, and
Matilda and Ellen were both coming down-stairs to receive Miss Jane.
Poor little thing, she looked very pale and nervous; and as she shook
hands with the Curate, as he met her in the garden-path, she said
with a startled manner, 'Oh! Mr. Cope--were you there? Am I
interrupting--?'

'Not at all,' he said. 'I had only called in as I came home, and had
just come down again.'

'Is it--is it very dreadful?' murmured Jane, with a sort of gasp.
She was so entirely unused to scenes of sadness or pain, that it was
very strange and alarming to her, and it was more difficult than ever
to believe her no younger than Ellen.

'Very far from dreadful or distressing,' said Mr. Cope kindly, for he
knew it was not her fault that she had been prevented from overcoming
such feelings, and that this was a great effort of kindness. 'It is
a very peaceful, soothing sight--he is very happy, and not in a
suffering state.'

'Oh, will you tell Grandmamma?' said Jane, with her pretty look of
earnestness; 'she is so much afraid of its much for me, and she was
so kind in letting me come.'

So Miss Selby went on to the two sisters, and Mr. Cope proceeded to
the carriage, where Lady Jane had put out her head, glad to be able
to ask him about the state of affairs. Having nothing but this
little grand-daughter left to her, the old lady watched over her with
almost over-tender care, and was in much alarm both lest the air of
the sick-room should be unwholesome, or the sight too sorrowful for
her; and though she was too kind to refuse the wish of the dying boy,
she had come herself, in order that 'the child,' as she called her,
might not stay longer than was good for her; and she was much
relieved to hear Mr. Cope's account of Alfred's calm state, and of
the freshness of the clean room, in testimony of which he pointed to
the open window.

'Yes,' she said, 'I hope Mary King was wise enough; but I hardly knew
how it might be with such a number about the house--that boy and all.
He is not gone, is he?'

'No, he is not nearly well enough yet, though he does what he can to
be useful to her. When he is recovered, I have a scheme for him.'

So Mr. Cope mentioned Mr. Shaw's proposal, by which my Lady set more
store than did Paul as yet. Very kind-hearted she was, though she
did not fancy adopting chance-comers into her parish; and as long as
he was not saddled upon Mary King, as she said, she was very glad of
any good for him; so she told Mr. Cope to come to her for what he
might want to fit him out properly for the situation; and turning her
keen eyes on him as he stood near the cottage door, pronounced that,
after all, he was a nice, decent-looking lad enough, which certainly
her Ladyship would not have said before his illness.

Miss Jane did not stay long. Indeed, Alfred could not talk to her,
and she did not know what to say to him; she could only stand by his
bed, with the tears upon her cheeks, making little murmuring sounds
in answer to Mrs. King, who said for her son what she thought he
wished to have said. Meanwhile, Jane was earnestly looking at him,
remarking with awe, that, changed as he was since she had last seen
him--so much more wasted away--the whole look of his face was altered
by the gentleness and peace that it had gained, so as to be like the
white figure of a saint.

She could not bear it when Mrs. King told her Alfred wanted to thank
her for all her kindness in coming to see him. 'Oh, no,' she said,
'I was not kind at all;' and her tears would not be hindered. 'Only,
you know, I could not help it.'

Alfred gave her a bright look. Any one could see what a pleasure it
was to him to be looking at her again, though he did not repent of
his share in the sacrifice for Paul's sake. No, if Paul had been
given up that Miss Jane might come to him, Alfred would not have had
the training that made all so sweet and calm with him now. He turned
his head to the little picture, and said, 'Thank you, Ma'am, for
that. That's been my friend.'

'Yes, indeed it has, Miss Jane,' said his mother. 'There's nothing
you ever did for him that gave him the comfort that has been.'

'And please, Ma'am,' said Alfred, 'will you tell my Lady--I give her
my duty--and ask her pardon for having behaved so bad--and Mrs.
Crabbe--and the rest?'

'I will, Alfred; but every one has forgiven that nonsense long ago.'

'It was very bad of me,' said Alfred, pausing for breath; 'and so it
was not to mind you--Miss Jane--when you said I was ill for a
warning.'

'Did I?' said Jane.

'Yes--in hay-time--I mind it--I didn't mind for long--but 'twas true.
He had patience with me.'

The cough came on, and Jane knew she must go; her grandmother had
bidden her not to stay if it were so, and she just ventured to
squeeze Alfred's hand, and then went down-stairs, checking her tears,
to wish Matilda and Ellen good-bye; and as she passed by Paul, told
him not to uncover his still very short-haired head, and kindly hoped
he was better.

Paul, in his dreary feelings, hardly thought of Mr. Cope's plan,
till, as he was getting the letters ready for Harold, he turned up
one in Mr. Cope's writing, addressed to the 'Rev. A. Shaw, Berryton,
Elbury.'

'That's to settle for me, then,' he said; and Harold who was at tea,
asking, 'What's that?' he explained.

'Well,' said Harold, 'every one to his taste! I wouldn't go to
school again, not for a hundred pounds; and as to KEEPING school!'
(Such a face as he made really caused Paul to smile.) 'Nor you don't
half like it, neither,' continued Harold. 'Come, you'd better stay
and get work here! I'd sooner be at the plough-tail all day, than
poke out my eyes over stuff like that,' pointing to Paul's slate,
covered with figures. 'Here, Nelly,' as she moved about, tidying the
room, 'do you hear? Mr. Cope's got an offer of a place for Paul--
five pounds a year, and board and lodging, to be school-master's
whipper-in, or what d'ye call it?'

'What do you say, Harold?' cried Ellen, putting her hands on the back
of a chair, quite interested. 'You going away, Paul?'

'Mr. Cope says so--and I must get my living, you know,' said Paul.

'But not yet; you are not well enough yet,' said the kind girl. 'And
where did you say--?'

'To Berryton.'

'Berryton--oh! that's just four miles out on the other side of
Elbury, where Susan Congleton went to live that was housemaid at the
Grange. She says it's such a nice place, and such beautiful organ
and singing at church! And what did you say you were to be, Paul?'

'I'm to help the school-master.'

'Gracious me!' cried Ellen. 'Why, such a scholar as you are, you'll
be quite a gentleman yet, Paul. Why, they school-masters get fifty
or sixty pounds salaries sometimes. I protest it's the best thing
I've heard this long time! Was it Mr. Cope's doing, or my Lady's?'

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