Friarswood Post Office
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Charlotte M. Yonge >> Friarswood Post Office
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'It is just like Job and his friends,' thought Alfred. 'I don't want
her to come and see me any more!'
Poor Alfred! There was a little twinge here. His conscience could
not give quite such an account as did that of Job! But he did not
like recollecting his own errors better than any of us do, and liked
much more to feel himself very hardly used, and greatly to be pitied.
Thereupon he opened his lips to call to his mother, but that old
thought about patience returned on him; he had mercy on her regular
breathing, though it made him quite envious to hear it, and he said
to himself that he would let her alone, at least till the next time
the clock struck. It would be three o'clock next time. Oh dear,
would the night never be over? How often such a round of weary
thoughts came again and again can hardly be counted; but, at any
rate, poor Alfred was exercising one act of forbearance, and that was
so much gain. At last he found, by the increasing light shewing him
the shapes of all the pictures, that he must have had a short sleep
which had made him miss the clock, and he felt a good deal injured
thereby.
However, Mrs. King was too good a nurse not to be awakened by his
first movement, and she came to him, gave him some cold tea, and
settled his pillow so as to make him more comfortable; and when he
begged her to let in a little more air, she went to open the window
wider, and relieve the closeness of the little room. She had learnt
while living with Lady Jane that night air is not so dangerous as
some people fancy; and it was an infinite relief to Alfred when the
lattice was thrown back, and the cool breeze came softly in, with the
freshness of the dew, and the delicious scent of the hay-field.
Mrs. King stood a moment to look out at the beautiful stillness of
early dawn, the trees and meads so gravely calmly quiet, and the
silver dew lying white over everything; the tanned hay-cocks rising
up all over the field, the morning star and waning moon glowing pale
as light of morning spread over the sky. Then a cock crew somewhere
at a distance, and Mrs. Shepherd's cock answered him more shrilly
close by, and the swallows began to twitter under the eaves.
'It WILL be a fine day, to be sure!' she said. 'The farmer will get
in his hay!' and then she stood looking as if something had caught
her attention.
'What do you see, Mother?' asked Alfred.
'I was looking what that was under yon hay-cock,' said Mrs. King;
'and I do believe it is some one sleeping there.'
'Ha!' cried Alfred. 'I dare say it is the boy that would not have
Miss Jane's sixpence.'
'I'm sure I hope he's after no harm,' said Mrs. King; 'I don't like
to have tramps about so near. I hope he means no mischief by the
farmer's poultry.'
'He can't be one of that sort, or he wouldn't have refused the
money,' said Alfred. 'How nice and cool it must be sleeping in the
hay! I'll warrant he doesn't lie awake. I wish I was there!'
'You'll know what to be thankful for one of these days, my poor lad,'
said his mother, sighing; then yawning, she said, 'I must go back to
bed. Mind you call out, Alfred, if you hear anything like a noise in
the farmyard.'
This notion rather interested Alfred; he began to build up a fine
scheme of shouting out and sending Harold to the rescue of the cocks
and hens, and how well he would have done it himself a year ago, and
pinned the thief, and fastened the door on him. Not that he thought
this individual lad at all likely to be a thief, nor did he care much
for Farmer Shepherd, who was a hard man and no favourite; but to
catch a thief would be a grand feat. And while settling his clever
plan, and making some compliments for the magistrate to pay him,
Alfred, fanned by the cool breeze, fell into a sound sleep, and did
not wake till the sun was high, and all the rest of the house were up
and dressed.
That good sleep made him much more able to bear the burden of the
day. First, his mother came with the towel and basin, and washed his
face and hands; and then he had his little book, and said his
prayers; and somehow to-day he felt so much less fractious than
usual, that he asked to be taught patience, and not ONLY to be made
well, as he had hitherto done.
That over, he lay smiling as he waited for his breakfast, and when
Ellen brought it to him, he had not one complaint to make, but ate it
almost with a relish. 'Is that boy gone?' he asked Ellen, as she
tidied the room while he was eating.
'What, the dirty boy? No, there he is, speaking to the farmer. Will
he beg of him?'
'Asking for work, more likely.'
'I'd sooner give work to a pig at once,' said Ellen; 'but I do
believe he's getting it. I fancy they are short of hands for the
hay. Yes, he's pointing into the field. Ay, and he's sending him
into the yard.'
'I hope he'll give him some breakfast,' said Alfred. 'Do you know he
slept all night on a hay-cock?'
'Yes, so Mother said, just like a dog; and he got up like a dog this
morning,--never so much as washed himself at the river. Why, he's
coming here! Whatever does he want?'
'The lad?'
'No, the farmer.'
Mr. Shepherd's heavy tread was heard below, and, as Alfred said,
Ellen had only to hold her tongue for them be able to hear his loud
tones telling Mrs. King that the glass was falling, and his hay in
capital order, and his hands short, and asking whether her boy Harold
would come and help in the hay-field between the post times. Mrs.
King gave a ready answer that the boy would be well pleased, and the
farmer promised him his victuals and sixpence for the day. 'Your
lass wouldn't like to come too, I suppose, eh?'
Ellen flushed with indignation. She go a hay-making! Her mother was
civilly making answer that her daughter was engaged with her sick
brother, and besides--had her work for Mrs. Price, which must be
finished off. The farmer, saying he had not much expected her, but
thought she might like a change from moping over her needle, went
off.
Ellen did not feel ready to forgive him for wanting to set her to
field-work. There is some difference between being fine and being
refined, and in Ellen's station of life it is very difficult to hit
the right point. To be refined is to be free from all that is rough,
coarse, or ungentle; to be fine, is to affect to be above such
things. Now Ellen was really refined in her quietness and maidenly
modesty, and there was no need for her to undertake any of those
kinds of tasks which, by removing young girls from home shelter, do
sometimes help to make them rude and indecorous; but she was FINE,
when she gave herself a little mincing air of contempt, as if she
despised the work and those who did it. Lydia Grant, who worked so
steadily and kept to herself so modestly, that no one ventured a bold
word to her as she tossed her hay, was just as refined as Ellen King
behind her white blinds, ay, or as Jane Selby herself in her terraced
garden. Refinement is in the mind that loves whatsoever is pure,
lovely, and of good report; finery is in disdaining what is homely or
humble.
Boys of all degrees are usually, when they are good for anything, the
greatest enemies of the finery tending to affectation; and Alfred at
once began to make a little fun of his sister, and tell her it would
be a famous thing for her, he believed she had quite forgotten how to
run, and did not know a rake from a fork when she saw it. He knew
she was longing for a ride in the waggon, if she would but own it.
Ellen used to be teased by this kind of joking; but she was too glad
to see Alfred well enough so to entertain himself, to think of
anything but pleasing him, so she answered good-humouredly that
Harold must make hay for them all three to-day, no doubt but he would
be pleased enough.
He was heard trotting home at this moment, and whistling as he
hitched up the pony at the gate, and ran in with the letter-bag, to
snap up his breakfast while the letters were sorted.
'Here, let me have them,' called Alfred, and they were glad he should
do it, for he was the quickest of the family at reading handwriting;
but he was often too ill to attend to it, and more often the weary
fretfulness and languor of his state made him dislike to exert
himself, so it was apt to depend on his will or caprice.
'Look sharp, Alf!' hallooed out Harold, rushing up-stairs with the
bags in one hand, and his bread-and-butter in the other. 'If you
find a letter for that there Ragglesford, I don't know what I shall
do to you! I must be back in no time for the hay!'
And he had bounced down-stairs again before Ellen had time to scold
him for making riot enough to shake Alfred to pieces. He was a fine
tall stout boy, with the same large fully open blue eyes, high
colour, white teeth, and light curly hair, as his brother and sister,
but he was much more sunburnt. If you saw him with his coat off, he
looked as if he had red gloves and a red mask on, so much whiter was
his skin where it was covered; and he was very strong for his age,
and never had known what illness was. The brothers were very fond of
each other, but since Alfred had been laid up, they had often been a
great trial to each other--the one seemed as little able to live
without making a noise, as the other to endure the noise he made; and
the sight of Harold's activity and the sound of his feet and voice,
vexed the poor helpless sufferer more than they ought to have done,
or than they would had the healthy brother been less thoughtless in
the joy of his strength.
To-day, however, all was smooth. Alfred did not feel every tread of
those bounding limbs like a shock to his poor diseased frame; and he
only laughed as he unlocked the leathern bag, and dealt out the
letters, putting all those for the Lady Jane Selby, Miss Selby, and
the servants, into their own neat little leathern case with the
padlock, and sorting out the rest, with some hope there might be one
from Matilda, who was a very good one to write home. There was none
from her, but then there was none for Ragglesford, and that was
unexpected good luck. If the old housekeeper left in charge had been
wicked enough to get her newspaper that day, Alfred felt that in
Harold's place he should be sorely tempted to chuck it over the
hedge. Ellen looked as if he had talked of murdering her, and truly
such a breach of trust would have been a very grievous fault.
'The Reverend--what's his name? the Reverend Marcus Cope, Friarswood,
near Elbury,' read Alfred; 'one, two, three letters, and a newspaper.
Yes, and this long printed-looking thing. Who is he, Ellen?'
'What did you say?' said Ellen, who was busy shaking her mother's
bed, and had not heard at the first moment, but now turned eagerly;
'what did you say his name was?'
'The Reverend Marcus Cope,' repeated Alfred. 'Is that another new
parson?'
'Why, did not we tell you what a real beautiful sermon the new
clergyman preached on Sunday? Mr. Cope, so that's his name. I
wonder if he is come to stay.--Mother,' she ran to the head of the
stairs, 'the new clergyman's name is the Reverend Mr. Marcus Cope.'
'He don't live at Ragglesford, I hope!' cried Harold, who regarded
any one at the end of that long lane as his natural enemy.
'No, it only says Friarswood,' said Ellen. 'You'll have to find out
where he lives, Harold.'
'Pish! it will take me an hour going asking about!' said Harold
impatiently. 'He must have his letters left here till he chooses to
come for them, if he doesn't know where he lives.'
'No, no, Harold, that won't do,' said Mrs. King. 'You must take the
gentleman his letters, and they'll be sure to know at the Park, or at
the Rectory, or at the Tankard, where he lodges. Well, it will be a
real comfort if he is come to stop.'
So Harold went off with the letters and the pony, and Ellen and her
mother exchanged a few words about the gentleman and his last
Sunday's sermon, and then Ellen went to dust the shop, and put out
the bread, while her mother attended to Alfred's wound, the most
painful part of the day to both of them.
It was over, however, and Alfred was resting afterwards when Harold
cantered home as hard as the pony could or would go, and came racing
up to say, 'I've seen him! He's famous! He stood out in the road
and met me, and asked for his letters, and he's to be at the
Parsonage, and he asked my name, and then he laughed and said, "Oh!
I perceive it is the royal mail!" I didn't know what he was at, but
he looked as good-humoured as anything. Halloo! give me my old hat,
Nell--that's it! Hurrah! for the hay-waggon! I saw the horses
coming out!'
And off he went again full drive; and Alfred did nothing worse than
give a little groan.
Ellen had enough to do in wondering about Mr. Cope. News seemed to
belong of right to the post-office, and it was odd that he should
have preached on Sunday, and now it should be Tuesday, without
anything having been heard of him, not even from Miss Jane; but then
the young lady had been fluttered by the strange boy, and Alfred had
been so fretful, that it might have put everything out of her head.
Friarswood was used to uncertainty about the clergyman. The Rector
had fallen into such bad health, that he had long been unable to do
anything, and always hoping to get better, he had sent different
gentlemen to take the services, first one and then another, or had
asked the masters at Ragglesford to help him; but it was all very
irregular, and no one had settled down long enough to know the people
or do much good in visiting them. My Lady, as they all called Lady
Jane, was as sorry as any one could be, and she tried what she could
do by paying a very good school-master and mistress, and giving
plenty of rewards; but nothing could be like the constant care of a
real good clergyman, and the people were all the worse for the want.
They had the church to go to, but it was not brought home to them.
The Rector had been obliged at last to go abroad, one of the
Ragglesford gentlemen had performed the service for the ensuing
Sundays, until now there seemed to be a chance that this new
clergyman was coming to stay.
This interested Alfred less than his sister. His curiosity was
chiefly about the strange lad; and when he was moved to his place by
the window he turned his eyes anxiously to make him out in the line
of hay-makers, two fields off, as they shook out the grass to give it
the day's sunshine. He knew them all, the ten women, with their old
straw bonnets poked down over their faces, and deep curtains sewn on
behind to guard their necks; the farm men come in from their other
work to lend a hand, three or four boys, among whom he could see
Harold's white shirt sleeves, and sometimes hear his merry laugh, and
he was working next to the figure in brown faded-looking tattered
array, which Alfred suspected to belong to the strange boy. So did
Ellen. 'Ah!' she said, 'Harold ye scraped acquaintance with that
vagabond-looking boy; I wish I had warned him against it, but I
suppose he would only have done it all the more.'
'You want to make friends with him yourself, Ellen! We shall have
you nodding to him next! You are as curious about him as can be!'
said Alfred slyly.
'Me! I never was curious about nothing so insignificant,' said
Ellen. 'All I wish is, that that boy may not be running into bad
company.'
The hay-fields were like an entertainment on purpose for Alfred all
day; he watched the shaking of the brown grass all over the meadows
in the morning, and the farmer walking over it, and smelling it, and
spying up to guess what would come of the great rolling towers of
grey clouds edged with pearly white, soft but dazzling, which varied
the intense blue of the sky.
Then he watched all the company sit or lie down on the shady side of
the hedge, under the pollard-willows, and Tom Boldre the shuffler and
one or two more go into the farm-house, and come out with great
yellow-ware with pies in them, and the little sturdy-looking kegs of
beer, and two mugs to go round among them all. There was Harold
lying down, quite at his ease, close to the strange boy; Alfred knew
how much better that dinner would taste to him than the best with the
table-cloth neatly spread in his mother's kitchen; and well did
Alfred remember how much more enjoyment there was in such a meal as
that, than in any one of the dainties that my Lady sent down to tempt
his sickly appetite. And what must pies and beer be to the wanderer
who had eaten the crust so greedily the day before! Then, after the
hour's rest, the hay-makers rose up to rake the hay into beds ready
for the waggons. Harold and the stranger were raking opposite to
each other, and Alfred could see them talking; and when they came
into the nearer hay-field, he saw Harold put up his hand, and point
to the open window, as if he were telling the other lad about the
sick boy who was lying there.
He was so much absorbed in thus watching, that he did not pay much
heed to what interested his mother and sister--the reports which came
by every customer about the new clergyman, who, it appeared, had been
staying in the next parish till yesterday, when he had moved into the
Rectory; and Mrs. Bonham, the butcher's wife, reported that the
Rectory servants said he was come to stay till their master came
back. All this and much more Mrs. King heard and rehearsed to Ellen,
while Alfred lay, sometimes reading the 'Swiss Robinson,' sometimes
watching the loading of the wains, as they creaked slowly through the
fields, the horses seeming to enjoy the work, among their fragrant
provender, as much as the human kind. When five o'clock struck,
Harold gave no signs of quitting the scene of action; and Mrs. King,
in much anxiety lest the letters should be late, sent Helen to get
the pony ready, while she herself went into the field to call the
boy.
Very unwilling he was to come--he shook his shoulders, and growled
and grumbled, and said he should be in plenty of time, and he wished
the post was at the bottom of the sea. Nothing but his mother's
orders and the necessity of the case could have made him go at all.
At last he walked off, as if he had lead in his feet, muttering that
he wished he had not some one to be always after him. Mrs. King
looked at the grimy face of his disreputable-looking companion, and
wondered whether he had put such things into his head.
Very cross was Harold as he twitched the bridle out of Ellen's hand,
threw the strap of the letter-bag round his neck, and gave such a re-
echoing switch to the poor pony, that Alfred heard it upstairs, and
started up to call out, 'For shame, Harold!'
Harold was ashamed: he settled himself in the saddle and rode off,
but Alfred had not the comfort of knowing that his ill-humour was not
being vented upon the poor beast all the way to Elbury. Alfred had
given a great deal of his heart to that pony, and it made him feel
helpless and indignant to think that it was ill-used. Those tears of
which he was ashamed came welling up into his eyes as he lay back on
his pillow; but they were better tears than yesterday's--they were
not selfish.
'Never mind, Alfy,' said Ellen, 'Harold's not a cruel lad; he'll not
go on, if he was cross for a bit. It is all that he's mad after that
boy there! I wish mother had never let him go into the hay-field to
meet bad company! Depend upon it, that boy has run away out of a
Reformatory! Sleeping out at night! I can't think how Farmer
Shepherd could encourage him among honest folk!'
'Well, now I think of it, I should not wonder if he had,' said Mrs.
King. 'He is the dirtiest boy that ever I did see! Most likely; I
wish he may do no mischief to-night!'
Harold came home in better humour, but a fresh vexation awaited him.
Mrs. King would not let him go to the hay-home supper in the barn.
The men were apt to drink too much and grow riotous; and with her
suspicions about his new friend, she thought it better to keep him
apart. She was a spirited woman, who would be minded, and Harold
knew he must submit, and that he had behaved very ill. Ellen told
him too how much Alfred had been distressed about the pony, and
though he would not shew her that he cared, it made him go straight
up-stairs, and with a somewhat sheepish face, say, 'I say, Alf, the
pony's all right. I only gave him one cut to get him off. He'd
never go at all if he didn't know his master.'
'He'd go fast enough for my voice,' said Alfred.
'You know I'd never go for to beat him,' continued Harold; 'but it
was enough to vex a chap--wasn't it?--to have Mother coming and
lugging one off from the carrying, and away from the supper and all.
Women always grudge one a bit of fun!'
'Mother never grudged us cricket, nor nothing in reason,' said
Alfred. 'Lucky you that could make hay at all! And what made you so
taken up with that new boy that Ellen runs on against, and will have
it he's a convict?'
'A convict! if Ellen says that again!' cried Harold; 'no more a
convict than she is.'
'What is he, then? Where does he come from?'
'His name is Paul Blackthorn,' said Harold; 'and he's the queerest
chap I ever came across. Why, he knew no more what to do with a
prong than the farmer's old sow till I shewed him.'
'But where did he come from?' repeated Alfred.
'He walked all the way from Piggot's turnpike yesterday,' said
Harold. 'He's looking for work.'
'And before that?'
'He'd been in the Union out--oh! somewhere, I forgot where, but it's
a name in the Postal Guide.'
'Well, but you've not said who he is,' said Ellen.
'Who? why, I tell you, he's Paul Blackthorn.'
'But I suppose he had a father and mother,' said Ellen.
'No,' said Harold.
'No!' Ellen and Alfred cried out together.
'Not as ever he heard tell of,' said Harold composedly, as if this
were quite natural and common.
'And you could go and be raking with him like born brothers there!'
said Ellen, in horror.
'D'ye think I'd care for stuff like that?' said Harold. 'Why, he
sings--he sings better than Jack Lyte! He's learnt to sing, you
know. And he's such a comical fellow! he said Mr. Shepherd was like
a big pig on his hind legs; and when Mrs. Shepherd came out to count
the scraps after we had done, what does he do but whisper to me to
know how long our withered cyder apples had come to life!'
Such talents for amusing others evidently far out-weighed in Harold's
consideration such trifling points as fathers, mothers, and
respectability. Alfred laughed; but Ellen thought it no laughing
matter, and reproved Harold for being wicked enough to hear his
betters made game of.
'My betters!' said Harold--'an old skin-flint like Farmer Shepherd's
old woman?'
'Hush, Harold! I'll tell Mother of you, that I will!' cried Ellen.
'Do then,' said Harold, who knew his sister would do no such thing.
She had made the threat too often, and then not kept her word.
She contented herself with saying, 'Well, all I know is, that I'm
sure now he has run away out of prison, and is no better than a
thief; and if our place isn't broken into before to-morrow morning,
and Mother's silver sugar-tongs gone, it will be a mercy. I'm sure I
shan't sleep a wink all night.'
Both boys laughed, and Alfred asked why he had not done it last
night.
'How should I know?' said Ellen. 'Most likely he wanted to see the
way about the place, before he calls the rest of the gang.'
'Take care, Harold! it's a gang coming now,' said Alfred, laughing
again. 'All coming on purpose to steal the sugar-tongs!'
'No, I'll tell you what they are come to steal,' said Harold
mischievously; 'it's all for Ellen's fine green ivy-leaf brooch that
Matilda sent her!'
'I dare say Harold has been and told him everything valuable in the
house!' said Ellen.
'I think,' said Alfred gravely, 'it would be a very odd sort of thief
to come here, when the farmer's ploughing cup is just by.'
'Yes,' said Harold, 'I'd better have told him of that when I was
about it; don't you think so, Nelly?'
'If you go on at this rate,' said Ellen, teased into anger, 'you'll
be robbing the post-office yourself some day.'
'Ay! and I'll get Paul Blackthorn to help me,' said the boy. 'Come,
Ellen, don't be so foolish; I tell you he's every bit as honest as I
am, I'd go bail for him.'
'And I KNOW he'll lead you to ruin!' cried Ellen, half crying: 'a
boy that comes from nowhere and nobody knows, and sleeps on a hay-
cock all night, no better than a mere tramp!'
'What, quarrelling here? 'said Mrs. King, coming upstairs. 'The lad,
I wish him no ill, I'm sure, but he'll be gone by to-morrow, so you
may hold your tongues about him, and we'll read our chapter and go to
bed.'
Harold's confidence and Ellen's distrust were not much wiser the one
than the other. Which was nearest being right?
CHAPTER III--A NEW FRIEND
The post-office was not robbed that night, neither did the silver
sugar-tongs disappear, though Paul Blackthorn was no farther off than
the hay-loft at Farmer Shepherd's, where he had obtained leave to
sleep.
But he did not go away with morning, though the hay-making was over.
Ellen saw him sitting perched on the empty waggon, munching his
breakfast, and to her great vexation, exchanging nods and grins when
Harold rode by for the morning's letters; and afterwards, there was a
talk between him and the farmer, which ended in his having a hoe put
into his hand, and being next seen in the turnip-field behind the
farm.
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