Friarswood Post Office
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> Friarswood Post Office
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'Mr. Cope's,' said Paul, beginning to think he had been rather less
grateful than he ought.
'Ah! it is like him,' said Ellen, 'after all the pains he has taken
with you. And you'll not be so far off, Paul: you'll come to see us
in the holidays, you know.'
'To be sure he will,' said Harold; 'or if he don't, I shall go and
fetch him.'
'Of course he will,' said Ellen, with her hand on Paul's chair, and
speaking low and affectionately to console him, as she saw him so
downcast; 'don't you know how poor Alfy says he's come to be instead
of a son to Mother, and a brother to us? I must go up and tell Alf
and mother. They'll be so pleased.'
Paul felt very differently about the plan now. All the house
congratulated him upon it, and Matilda evidently thought more of him
now that she found he was to have something to do. But such things
as these were out of sight beside that which was going on in the room
above.
Alfred slept better that night, and woke so much revived, that they
thought him better: and Harold, greatly comforted about him, stood
tolerably quietly by his side, listening to one or two things that
Alfred had longed for months past to say to him.
'Promise me, Harold dear, that you'll be a good son to Mother:
you'll be the only one now.'
Harold made a bend of his head like a promise.
'O Harold, be good to her!' went on Alfred earnestly; 'she's had so
much trouble! I do hope God will leave you to her--if you are steady
and good. Do, Harold! She's not like some, as don't care what their
lads get to. And don't take after me, and be idle! Be right-down
good, Harold, as Paul is; and when you come to be ill--oh! it won't
be so bad for you as it was for me!'
'I do want to be good,' sighed Harold. 'If I'd only been confirmed;
but 'twas all along of them merries last summer!'
'And I was such a plague to you--I drove you out,' said Alfred.
'No, no, I was a brute to you! Oh! Alfy, Alfy, if I could only get
back the time!'
He was getting to the sobs that hurt his brother; and his sister was
going to interfere; but Alfred said:
'Never mind, Harold dear, we've been very happy together, and we'll
always love each other. You'll not forget Alf, and you'll be
Mother's good son to take care of her! Won't you?'
So Harold gave that promise, and went away with his tears. Poor
fellow, now was his punishment for having slighted the Confirmation.
Like Esau, an exceeding bitter cry could not bring back what he had
lightly thrown away. Well was it for him that this great sorrow came
in time, and that it was not altogether his birthright that he had
parted with. He found he could not go out to his potato-planting and
forget all about it, as he would have liked to have done--something
would not let him; and there he was sitting crouched up and sorrowful
on the steps of the stairs, when Mr. Cope and all the rest were
gathered in Alfred's room, a church for the time. Matilda and Ellen
had set out the low table with the fair white cloth, and Mr. Cope
brought the small cups and paten, which were doubly precious to him
for having belonged to his father, and because the last time he had
seen them used had been for his father's last Communion.
Now was the time to feel that a change had really passed over the
young pastor in the time of his absence. Before, he could only lead
Alfred in his prayers, and give him counsel, tell him to hope in his
repentance, and on what that hope was founded. Now that he had bent
beneath the hand of the Bishop, he had received, straight down from
the Twelve, the Power from on High. It was not Mr. Cope, but the
Lord Who had purchased that Pardon by His own most Precious Blood,
Who by him now declared to Alfred that the sins and errors of which
he had so long repented, were pardoned and taken away. The Voice of
Authority now assured him of what he had been only told to hope and
trust before. And to make the promise all the more close and
certain, here was the means of becoming a partaker of the Sacrifice--
here was that Bread and that Cup which shew forth the Lord's Death
till He come. It was very great rest and peace, the hush that was
over the quiet room, with only Alfred's hurried breath to be heard
beside Mr. Cope's voice as he spoke the blessed words, and the low
responses of the little congregation. Paul was close beside Alfred--
he would have him there between his mother and the wall--and the two
whose first Communion it was, were the last to whom Mr. Cope came.
To one it was to be the Food for the passage into the unseen world;
to the other might it be the first partaking of the Manna to support
him through the wilderness of this life.
'From the highways and hedges,' here was one brought into the
foretaste of the Marriage Supper. Ah! there was one outside, who had
loved idle pleasure when the summons had been sent to him. Perhaps
the misery he was feeling now might be the means of sparing him from
missing other calls, and being shut out at last.
It seemed to fulfil all that Alfred had wished. He lay still between
waking and sleeping for a long time afterwards, and then begged for
Paul to read to him the last chapters of the Book of Revelation.
Matilda wished to read them for him; but he said, 'Paul, please.'
Paul's voice was fuller and softer when it was low; his accent helped
the sense, and Alfred was more used to them than to his visitor
sister. Perhaps there was still another reason, for when Paul came
to the end, and was turning the leaves for one of Alfred's favourite
bits, he saw Alfred's eyes on him, as if he wanted to speak. It was
to say, 'Brothers quite now, Paul! Thank you. I think God must have
sent you to help me.'
Alfred seemed better all the evening, and they went to bed in good
spirits; but at midnight, Mr. Cope, who was very deeply studying and
praying, the better to fit himself for his new office in the
ministry, was just going to shut his book, and go up to bed, when he
heard a tremulous ring at the bell.
It was Harold, his face looking very white in the light from Mr.
Cope's candle.
'Oh! please, Sir,' he said, 'Alfred is worse; and Mother said, if
your light wasn't out, you'd like to know.'
'I am very grateful to her,' said Mr. Cope; and taking up his plaid,
he wrapped one end round the boy, and put his arm round him, as he
felt him quaking as Paul had done before, but not crying--too much
awe-struck for that. He said that his mother thought something had
broken in the lungs, and that he would be choked. Mr. Cope made the
more haste, that he might judge if the doctor would be of any use.
Paul was sitting up in his bed--they had not let him get up--but his
eyes were wide open with distress, as he plainly heard the loud sob
that each breath had become. Mrs. King was holding Alfred up in her
arms; Matilda was trying to chafe his feet; Ellen was kneeling with
her face hidden.
The light of sense and meaning was not gone from Alfred's eyes,
though the last struggle had come. He gave a look as though he were
glad to see Mr. Cope, and then gazed on his brother. Mrs. King
signed to Harold to come nearer, and whispered, 'Kiss him.' His
sisters had done so, and he had missed Harold. Then Mr. Cope prayed,
and Alfred's eyes at first owned the sounds; but soon they were
closed, and the long struggling breaths were all that shewed that the
spirit was still there.
'He shall swallow up death in victory, and the Lord God shall wipe
away tears from all eyes.'
One moment, and the blue eyes they knew so well were opened and
smiling on his mother, and then -
It was over; and through affliction and pain, the young spirit had
gone to rest!
The funeral day was a very sore one to Paul Blackthorn. He would
have given the world to be there, and have heard the beautiful words
of hope which received his friend to his resting-place, but he could
not get so far. He had tried to carry a message to a house not half
so far off as the church, but his knees seemed to give way under him,
and his legs ached so much that he could hardly get home. Somehow, a
black suit, just such as Harold's, had come home for him at the same
time; but this could not hinder him from feeling that he was but a
stranger, and one who had no real place in the home where he lived.
There was the house full of people, who would only make their remarks
on him--Miss Hardman (who was very critical of the coffin-plate), the
school-master, and some of the upper-servants of the house--and poor
Mrs. King and Matilda, who could not help being gratified at the
attention to their darling, were obliged to go down and be civil to
them; while Ellen, less used to restraint, was shut into her own room
crying; and Harold was standing on the stairs, very red, but a good
deal engaged with his long hat-band. Poor Paul! he had not even his
usual refuge--his own bed to lie upon and hide his face--for that had
been taken away to make room for the coffin to be carried down.
There, they were going at last, when it had seemed as if the bustle
and confusion would never cease. There was Alfred leaving the door
where he had so often played, carried upon the shoulders of six lads
in white frocks, his old school-fellows and Paul's Confirmation
friends. How Paul envied them for doing him that last service!
There was his mother, always patient and composed, holding Harold's
arm--Harold, who must be her stay and help, but looking so slight, so
boyish, and so young, then the two girls, Ellen so overpowered with
crying that her sister had to lead her; Mrs. Crabbe with Betsey
Hardman, who held up a great white handkerchief, for other people's
visible grief always upset her, as she said; and besides, she felt it
a duty to cry at such a time; and the rest two and two, quite a
train, in their black suits: how unlike the dreary pauper funerals
Paul had watched away at Upperscote! That respectable look seemed to
make him further off and more desolate, like one cut off, whom no one
would follow, no one would weep for. Alfred, who had called him a
brother, was gone, and here he was alone!
The others were taking their dear one once more to the church where
they had so often prayed that he might have a happy issue out of all
his afflictions.
They were met by Mr. Cope, ending his loving intercourse with Alfred
by reading out the blessed promise of Resurrection--the assurance
that the body they were sowing in weakness would be raised in power;
so that the noble boy, whom they had seen fade away like a drooping
flower, would rise again blossoming forth in glory, after the Image
of the Incorruptible--that Image, thought Mr. Cope, as he read on,
which he faithfully strove to copy even through the sufferings due to
the corruptible. His voice often shook and faltered. He had never
before read that Service; and perhaps, except for those of his own
kin, it could never be a greater effort to him, going along with
Alfred as he had done, holding up the rod and staff that bore him
through the dark valley. And each trembling of his tone seemed to
answer something that the mother was feeling in her peaceful,
hopeful, thankful grief--yes, thankful that she could lay her once
high-spirited and thoughtless boy in his grave, with the same sure
and certain hope of a joyful Resurrection, as that ripe and earnest-
minded Christian his father, or his little innocent brother. It was
peace--awful peace, indeed, but soothing even to Ellen and Harold,
new as they were to grief.
But to poor Paul at home, out of hearing of the words of hope, only
listening to the melancholy toll of the knell, and quite alone in the
disarranged forlorn house, there seemed nothing to take off the edge
of misery. He was not wanted to keep Alfred company now, nor to read
to him--no one needed him, no one cared for him. He wandered up to
where Alfred had lain so long, as if to look for the pale quiet face
that used to smile to him. There was nothing but the bed-frame and
mattress! He threw himself down on it and cried. He did not well
know why--perhaps the chief feeling was that Alfred was gone away to
rest and bliss, and he was left alone to be weary and without a
friend.
At last the crying began to spend itself, and he turned and looked
up. There was Alfred's little picture of the Crucified still on the
wall, and the words under it, 'For us!' Paul's eye fell on it; and
somehow it brought to mind what Alfred had said to him on Christmas
Day. There was One Who had no home on earth; there was One Who had
made Himself an outcast and a wanderer, and Who had not where to lay
His Head. Was not He touched with a fellow-feeling for the lonely
boy? Would He not help him to bear his friendless lot as a share of
His own Cross? Nay, had He not raised him up friends already in his
utmost need? 'There is a Friend Who sticketh closer than a brother.'
He was the Friend that Paul need never lose, and in Whom he could
still meet his dear Alfred. These thoughts, not quite formed, but
something like them, came gently as balm to the poor boy, and though
they brought tears even thicker than the first burst of lonely
sorrow, they were as peaceful as those shed beside the grave. Though
Paul was absent in the body, this was a very different shutting out
from Harold's on last Tuesday.
Paul must have cried himself to sleep, for he did not hear the
funeral-party return, and was first roused by Mrs. King coming up-
stairs. He had been so much used to think of this as Alfred's room,
that he had never recollected that it was hers; and now that she was
come up for a moment's breathing-time, he started up ashamed and
shocked at being so caught.
But good motherly Mrs. King saw it all, and how he had been weeping
where her child had so long rested. Indeed, his face was swelled
with crying, and his voice all unsteady.
'Poor lad! poor lad!' she said kindly, 'you were as fond of him as
any of them; and if we wanted anything else to make you one of us,
that would do it.'
'O Mother,' said Paul, as she kindly put her hand on him, 'I could
not bear it--I was so lost--till I looked at THAT,' pointing to the
little print.
'Ay,' said Mrs. King, as she wiped her quiet tears, 'that Cross was
Alfred's great comfort, and so it is to us all, my boy, whatever way
we have to carry it, till we come to where he is gone. No cross, no
crown, they say.'
Perhaps it was not bad for any one that this forlorn day had given
Paul a fresh chill, which kept him in bed for nearly a week, so as
gently to break the change from her life of nursing to Mrs. King, and
make him very happy and peaceful in her care.
And when at last on a warm sunny Sunday, Paul Blackthorn returned
thanks in church for his recovery--ay, and for a great deal besides--
he had no reason to think that he was a stranger cared for by no one.
CHAPTER XIII--SIX YEARS LATER
It is a beautiful morning in Easter week. The sun is shining on the
gilded weathercock, which flashes every time it veers from south to
west; the snowdrops are getting quite out of date, and the buttercups
and primroses have it all their own way; the grass is making a start,
and getting quite long upon the graves in Friarswood churchyard.
'Really, I should have sent in the Saxon monarch to tidy us up!' says
to himself the tall young Rector, as he stepped over the stile with
one long stride; 'but I suppose he is better engaged.'
That tall young Rector is the Reverend Marcus Cope, six years older,
but young still. The poor old Rector, Mr. John Selby, died four
years ago abroad; and Lady Jane and Miss Selby's other guardians gave
the living to Mr. Cope, to the great joy of all the parish, except
the Shepherds, who have never forgiven him for their own usage of
their farming boy, nor for the sermon he neither wrote nor preached.
The Saxon monarch means one Harold King, who looks after the Rectory
garden and horse, as well as the post-office and other small matters.
The clerk is unlocking the church, and shaking out the surplice, and
Mr. Cope goes into the vestry, takes out two big books covered with
green parchment, and sees to the pen. It is a very good one, judging
by the writing of the last names in that book. They are Francis
Mowbray and Jane Arabella Selby.
'Captain and Mrs. Mowbray will be a great blessing to the place, if
they go on as they have begun,' thinks Mr. Cope. 'How happy they are
making old Lady Jane, and how much more Mrs. Mowbray goes among the
cottages now that she does more as she pleases.'
Then Mr. Cope goes to the porch and looks out. He sees two men
getting over the stile. One is a small slight person, in very good
black clothes, not at all as if they were meant to ape a gentleman,
and therefore thoroughly respectable. He has a thin face, rather
pointed as to the chin and nose, and the eyes dark and keen, so that
it would be over-sharp but that the mouth looks so gentle and
subdued, and the whole countenance is grave and thoughtful. You
could not feel half so sure that he is a certificated school-master,
as you can that his very brisk-looking companion is so.
'Good morning, Mr. Brown.--Good morning, Paul,' said Mr. Cope. 'I
did not expect to see you arrive in this way.'
The grave face glitters up in a merry look of amusement, while, with
a little colouring, he answers:
'Why, Sir, Matilda said it was the proper thing, and so we supposed
she knew best.'
There are not so many people who DO talk of Paul now. Most people
know him as Mr. Blackthorn, late school-master at Berryton, where the
boys liked him for his bright and gentle yet very firm ways; the
parents, for getting their children on, and helping them to be
steady; and the clergyman, for being so perfectly to be trusted, so
anxious to do right, and, while efficient and well informed,
perfectly humble and free from conceit. Now he has just got an
appointment to Hazleford school, in another diocese, with a salary of
fifty pounds a year; but, as Charles Hayward would tell you, 'he
hasn't got one bit of pride, no more than when he lived up in the
hay-loft.'
There is not long to wait. There is another party getting over the
stile. There is a very fine tall youth first. As Betsey Hardman
tells her mother, 'she never saw such a one for being fine-growed and
stately to look at, since poor Charles King when he wore his best
wig.' A very nice open honest face, and as merry a pair of blue eyes
as any in the parish, does Harold wear, nearly enough to tell you
that, if in these six years it would be too much to say he has never
done ANYTHING to vex his mother, yet in the main his heart is in the
right place--he is a very good son, very tender to her, and steady
and right-minded.
Whom is he helping over the stile? Oh, that is Mrs. Mowbray's pretty
little maid! a very good young thing, whom she has read with and
taught; and here, lady-like and delicate-looking as ever, is Matilda.
Bridemaids before the bride! that's quite wrong; but the bride has a
shy fit, and would not get over first, and Matilda and Harold are,
the one encouraging her, the other laughing at her; and Mr.
Blackthorn turns very red, and goes down the path to meet her, and
she takes his arm, and Harold takes Lucy, and Mr. Brown Miss King.
Very nice that bride looks, with her hair so glossy under her straw
bonnet trimmed with white, her pretty white shawl, and quiet purple
silk dress, her face rather flushed, but quiet-looking, as if she
were growing more like her mother, with something of her sense and
calmness.
How Mr. Blackthorn ever came to ask her that question, nobody can
guess, and Harold believes he does not know himself. However, it got
an answer two years ago, and Mrs. King gave her consent with all her
heart, though she knew Betsey Hardman would talk of picking a husband
up out of the gutter, and that my Lady would look severe, and say
something of silly girls. Yes--and though the rich widower bailiff
had said sundry civil things of Miss Ellen being well brought up and
notable--'For,' as Mrs. King wrote to Matilda, 'I had rather see
Ellen married to a good religious man than to any one, and I do not
know one I can be so sure of as Paul, nor one that is so like a son
to me; and if he has no friends belonging to him, that is better than
bad friends.' And Ellen herself, from looking on him as a mere boy,
as she had done at their first acquaintance, had come to thinking no
one ever had been so wise or so clever, far less so good, certainly
not so fond of her--so her answer was no great wonder. Then they
were to be prudent, and wait for some dependence; and so they did
till Mr. Shaw recommended Paul Blackthorn for Hazleford school, where
there is a beautiful new house for the master, so that he will have
no longer to live in lodgings, and be 'done for,' as the saying is.
Harold tells Ellen that he is afraid that without her he won't wash
above once in four months; but however that may be, she is convinced
that the new school-house will be lost on him, and that in spite of
all his fine arithmetic, his fifty pounds will never go so far for
one as for two; and so she did not turn a deaf ear to his entreaties
that she would not send him alone to Hazleford.
They wanted very much to get 'Mother' to come and live with them,
give up the post-office, and let Harold live in Mr. Cope's house; but
Mother has a certain notion that Harold's stately looks and perfect
health might not last, if she were not always on the watch to put him
into dry clothes if he comes in damp, and such like 'little fidgets,'
as he calls them, which he would not attend to from any one but
Mother. So she will keep on the shop and the post-office, and try to
break in that uncouth girl of John Farden's to be a tidy little maid;
and Mr. and Mrs. Blackthorn will spend their holidays with her and
Harold. She may come to them yet in time, if, as Paul predicts,
Master Harold takes up with Lucy at the Grange--but there's time
enough to think of that; and even if he should, it would take many
years to make Lucy into such a Mrs. King as she who is now very busy
over the dinner at home, but thinking about a good deal besides the
dinner.
There! Paul and Ellen have stood and knelt in an earnest reverent
spirit, making their vows to one another and before God, and His
blessing has been spoken upon them to keep them all their lives
through.
It is with a good heart of hope that Mr. Cope speaks that blessing,
knowing that, as far as human eye can judge, here stands a man who
truly feareth the Lord, and beside him a woman with the ornament of a
meek and quiet spirit.
They are leaving the church now, the bridegroom and his bride, arm in
arm, but they turn from the path to the wicket, and Harold will not
let even Matilda follow them. Just by the south wall of the church
there are three graves, one a very long one, one quite short, one of
middle length. The large one has a head-stone, with the names of
Charles King, aged forty years, and Charles King, aged seven years.
The middle-sized one has a stone cross, and below it 'Alfred King,
aged sixteen years,' and the words, 'In all their afflictions He was
afflicted.'
It was Matilda who paid the cost of that stone, Miss Selby who drew
the pattern of it, and 'Mother' who chose the words, as what Alfred
himself loved best. At the bottom of Ellen's best work-box is a copy
of verses about that very cross. She thinks they ought to have been
carved out upon it, but Paul knows a great deal better, so all she
could do was to write them out on a sheet of note-paper with a wide
lace border, and keep them as her greatest treasure. Perhaps she
prizes them even more than the handsome watch that Mr. Shaw gave
Paul, though less, of course, than the great Bible and Prayer-book,
in which Mr. Cope has waited till this morning to write the names of
Paul and Ellen Blackthorn.
So they stand beside the cross, and read the words, and they neither
of them can say anything, though the white sweet face is before the
eyes of their mind at the same time, and Ellen thinks she loves Paul
twice as much for having been one of his great comforts.
'Good-bye, Alfred dear,' she whispers at last.
'No, not good-bye,' says Paul. 'He is as much with us as ever,
wherever we are. Remember how we were together, Ellen. I have
always thought of him at every Holy Communion since, and have felt
that if till now, no one living--at least one at rest, were mine by
right.'
Ellen pressed his arm.
'Yes,' said Paul; 'the months I spent with Alfred were the great help
and blessing of my life. I don't believe any recollection has so
assisted to guard me in all the frets and temptations there are in a
life like mine.'
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