Friarswood Post Office

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

'No, Sir,' said Alfred; 'their being so good to me makes it all the
worse.'

'I quite believe so; and you are very much disappointed in yourself.'

'Oh yes, Sir, just when I wanted to be getting patient, and more
like--' and his eyes turned to the little picture, and filled with
tears.

Mr. Cope said somewhat of what his mother had said that he was but a
scholar in patience, and that he must take courage, though he had
slipped, and pray for new strengthening and refreshing to go on in
the path of pain his Lord had hallowed for him.

Perhaps the words reminded Alfred of the part of the Catechism where
they occur, for he said, 'Oh, I wish I was confirmed! If I could but
take the Holy Sacrament, to make me stronger, and sure of being
forgiven--'

'You shall--before--' said Mr. Cope, speaking eagerly, but becoming
choked as he went on. 'You are one whom the Church would own as
ready and desirous to come, though you cannot be confirmed. You
should at once--but you see I am not yet a priest; I have not the
power to administer the Holy Communion; but I trust I shall be one in
the spring, and then, Alfred--Or if you should be worse, I promise
you that I would bring some one here. You shall not go without the
Bread of Life.'

Alfred felt what he said to the depths of his heart, but he could not
say anything but 'Thank you, Sir.'

Mr. Cope, still much moved, laid his hand upon that of the boy. 'So,
Alfred, we prepare together. As I hope and long to prepare myself to
have that great charge committed to me, which our Saviour Christ gave
to His Apostles; so you prepare for the receiving of that Bread and
that Cup which will more fully unite you to Him, and join your
suffering to what He bore for you.'

'How shall I, Sir?' murmured Alfred.

'I will do my best to shew you,' said Mr. Cope; 'but your Catechism
tells you best. Think over that last answer.'

Alfred's face lighted sweetly as he went over it. 'Why, that's what
I can't help doing, Sir; I can't forget my faults, I'm so afraid of
them; and I'm sure I do want to lead a new life, if I didn't keep on
being so bad; and thinking about His dying is the best comfort I
have. Nor I'm sure I don't bear ill-will to nobody, only I suppose
it is not charity to run out at poor Mother and Ellen when one's put
out.'

'Perhaps that is what you want to learn,' said Mr. Cope, 'and to get
all these feelings deepened, and more earnest and steadfast. If the
long waiting does that for you, it will be good, and keep you from
coming lightly to the Holy Feast.'

'Oh, I could not do that!' exclaimed Alfred. 'And may I think that
all my faults will be taken away and forgiven?'

'All you repent of, and bring in faith--'

'That is what they say at church in the Absolution,' said Alfred
thoughtfully.

'Rather it is what the priest says to them,' said Mr. Cope; 'it is
the applying the promise of forgiveness that our Saviour bought. I
may not yet say those words with authority, Alfred, but I should like
to hope that some day I may speak them to you, and bring rest from
the weight at your heart.'

'Oh! I hope I may live to that!' said Alfred.

'You shall hear them, whether from me or from another,' said Mr.
Cope, 'that is, if God will grant us warning. But you need not fear,
Alfred, if you thoroughly repent, and put your full faith in the
great Sacrifice that has been offered for your sins and the sins of
all the world. God will take care of His child, and you already have
His promise that He will give you all that is needful for your
salvation.'

CHAPTER VIII--CONFIRMATION

If Harold had known all the consequences of his neglect, perhaps he
would have been more sorry for it than as yet he had chosen to be.

The long walk and the warm beer and fire sent Paul to his hay-nest so
heavy with sleep, that he never stirred till next morning he was
wakened by Tom Boldre, the shuffler, kicking him severely, and
swearing at him for a lazy fellow, who stayed out at night and left
him to do his work.

Paul stumbled to his feet, quite confused by the pain, and feeling
for his shoes in the dark loft. The shuffler scarcely gave him an
instant to put them on, but hunted him down-stairs, telling him the
farmer was there, and he would catch it.

It would do nobody any good to hear the violent way in which Mr.
Shepherd abused the boy. He was a passionate man, and no good
labourers liked to work with him because of his tongue. With such
grown men as he had, he was obliged to keep himself under some
restraint, but this only incited him to make up for it towards the
poor friendless boy.

It was really nearly eight o'clock, and Paul's work had been
neglected, which was enough to cause displeasure; and besides, Boldre
had heard Paul coming home past eleven, and the farmer insisted on
knowing what he had been doing.

Under all his rags, Paul was a very proud boy, and thus asked, he
would not tell, but stood with his legs twisted, looking very sulky.

'No use asking him,' cried Mrs. Shepherd's shrill voice at the back
door; 'why, don't ye hear that Mrs. Barker's hen-roost has been
robbed by Dick Royston and two or three more on 'em?'

'I never robbed!' cried Paul indignantly.

'None of your jaw,' said the farmer angrily. 'If you don't tell me
this moment where you've been, off you go this instant. Drinking at
the Tankard, I'll warrant.'

'No such thing, Sir,' said Paul. 'I went to Elbury after some
medicine for a sick person.'

Somehow he had a feeling about the house opposite, which would not
let him come out with the name in such a scene.

'That's all stuff,' broke in Mrs. Shepherd, 'I don't believe one word
of it! Send him off; take my advice, Farmer, let him go where he
comes from; Ellen King told me he was out of prison.'

Paul flushed crimson at this, and shook all over. He had all but
turned to go, caring for nothing more at Friarswood; but just then,
John Farden, one of the labourers, who was carrying out some manure,
called out, 'No, no, Ma'am. Sure enough he did go to Elbury to Dr.
Blunt's. I was on the road myself, and I hears him. "Goodnight,"
says I. "Good-night," says he. "Where be'est going?" says I. "To
doctor's," says he, "arter some stuff for Alfred King."

'Yes,' said Paul, speaking more to Farden than to his master, 'and
then Mrs. King gave me some supper, and that was what made me so
late.'

'She ought to be ashamed of herself, then,' said Mrs. Shepherd
spitefully, 'having a vagabond scamp like that drinking beer at her
house at that time of night. How one is deceived in folks!'

'Well, what are you doing here?' cried the farmer, turning on Paul
angrily; 'd'ye mean to waste any more of the day?'

So Paul was not turned off, and had to go straight to his work. It
was well he had had so good a supper, for he had not a moment to
snatch a bit of breakfast. It so happened that his work was to go
with John Farden, who was carrying out the manure in the cart. Paul
had to hold the horse, while John forked it out into little heaps in
the field. John was a great big powerful man, with a foolish face,
not a good workman, nor a good character, or he would not have been
at that farm. He had either never been taught anything, or had
forgotten it all; he never went near church; he had married a
disreputable wife, and had two or three unruly children, who were
likely to be the plagues of their parents and the parish, but not a
whit did John heed; he did not seem to have much more sense than to
work just enough to get food, lodging, beer, and tobacco, to sleep
all night, and doze all Sunday. There was not any malice nor
dishonesty in him; but it was terrible that a man with an immortal
soul should live so nearly the life of the brute beasts that have no
understanding, and should never wake to the sense of God or of
eternity.

He was not a man of many words, and nothing passed for a long time
but shouts of hoy, and whoa, and the like, to the horse. Paul went
heavily on, scarce knowing what he was about; there was a stunned
jaded feel about him, as if he were hunted and driven about, a mere
outcast, despised by every one, even by the Kings, whose kindness had
been his only ray of brightness. Not that his senses or spirits were
alive enough even to be conscious of pain or vexation; it was only a
dull dreary heedlessness what became of him next; and, quick clever
boy as he had been in the Union, he did not seem to have a bit more
sense, thought, or feeling, than John Farden.

John Farden was the first to break the silence: 'I wouldn't bide,'
said he.

Paul looked up, and muttered, 'I have nowhere to go.'

'Farmer uses thee shameful,' repeated John. 'Why don't thee cut?'

Paul saw the smoke of Mrs. King's chimney. That had always seemed
like a friend to him, but it came across him that they too thought
him a runaway from prison, and he felt as if his only bond of
fellowship was gone. But there was something else, too; and he made
answer, 'I'll bide for the Confirmation.'

'Eh?' said John, 'what good'll that do ye?'

'Help me to be a good lad,' said Paul, who knew John Farden would not
enter into any other explanation.

'Why, what'll they do to ye?'

'The Bishop will put his hand on me and bless me,' said Paul; and as
he said the words there was hope and refreshment coming back. He was
a child of God, if no other owned him.

'Whoy,' said Farden, much as he might have spoken to his horse, 'rum
sort of a head thou'st got! Thee'll never go up to Bishop such a
guy!'

'Can't help it,' said Paul rather sullenly; 'it ain't the clothes
that God looks at.'

John scanned him all over, with his face looking more foolish than
ever in the puzzle he felt.

'Well,' he said, 'and what wilt get by it?'

'God's grace to do right, I hope,' said Paul; then he added, out of
his sad heart, 'It's bad enough here, to be sure. It would be a bad
look-out if one hoped for nothing afterwards.'

Somehow John's mind didn't take in the notion of afterwards, and he
did not go on talking to Paul. Perhaps there was a dread in his poor
dull mind of getting frightened out of the deadly stupefied sleep it
was bound in.

But that bit of talk had done Paul great good, by rousing him to the
thought of what he had to hope for. There was the Confirmation nigh
at hand, and then on beyond there was rest; and the words came into
his mind, 'There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary
are at rest.'

Poor, poor boy! He was very young to have such yearnings towards the
grave, and well-nigh to wish he lay as near to it as Alfred King, so
he might have those loving tender hands near him, those kind voices
round him. Paul had gone through a great deal in these few months;
and, used to good shelter and regular meals, he was less inured to
bodily hardship than many a cottage boy. His utter neglect of his
person was telling on him; he was less healthy and strong than he had
been, and though high spirits, merriment, and the pleasure of freedom
and independence, had made all light to him in the summer, yet now
the cold weather, with his insufficient food and scanty clothing, was
dulling him and deadening him, and hard work and unkind usage seemed
to be grinding his very senses down. To be sure, when twelve o'clock
came, he went up into the loft, ate his bit of dry bread, and said
his prayers, as he had not been able to do in the morning, and that
made him feel less forlorn and downcast for a little while; but then
as he sat, he grew cold, and numb, and sleepy, and seemed to have no
life in him, but to be moving like a horse in a mill, when Boldre
called him down, and told him not to be idling there.

The theft in Mrs. Barker's poultry-yard was never traced home to any
one, but the world did not the less believe Dick Royston and Jesse
Rolt to have been concerned in it. Indeed, they had been drinking up
some of their gains when Harold met them at the shooting-gallery:
and Mrs. Shepherd would not put it out of her head that Paul
Blackthorn was in the secret, and that if he did really go for the
medicine as he said, it was only as an excuse for carrying the
chickens to some receiver of stolen goods. She had no notion of any
person doing anything out of pure love and pity. Moreover, it is
much easier to put a suspicion into people's heads than out again;
and if Paul's whole history and each day's doings had been proved to
her in a court of justice, she would still have chiefly remembered
that she had always thought ill of him, and that Ellen King had said
he was a runaway convict, and so she would have believed him to the
end.

Ellen had long ago forgotten that she had said anything of the kind;
and though she still held her nose rather high when Paul was near,
she would have answered for his honesty as readily as for that of her
own brothers. But hers had not been the charity that thinketh no
evil, and her idle words had been like thistle-down, lightly sent
forth, but when they had lighted, bearing thorns and prickles.

Those thorns were galling poor Paul. Nobody could guess what his
glimpses of that happy, peaceful, loving family were to him. They
seemed to him like a softer, better kind of world, and he looked at
their fair faces and fresh, well-ordered garments with a sort of
reverence; a kind look or greeting from Mrs. King, a mere civil
answer from Ellen, those two sights of the white spirit-looking
Alfred, were like the rays of light that shone into his dark hay-
loft. Sometimes he heard them singing their hymns and psalms on a
Sunday evening, and then the tears would come into his eyes as he
leant over the gate to listen. And, as if it was because Ellen kept
at the greatest distance from him, he set more store by her words and
looks than those of any one else, was always glad when she served him
in the shop, and used to watch her on Sunday, looking as fresh as a
flower in her neat plain dress.

And now to hear that she not only thought meanly of him, which he
knew well enough, but thought him a thief, a runaway, and an impostor
coming about with false tales, was like a weight upon his sunken
spirits, and seemed to take away all the little heart hard usage had
left him, made him feel as if suspicious eyes were on him whenever he
went for his bit of bread, and took away all his peace in looking at
the cottage.

He did once take courage to say to Harold, 'Did your sister really
say I had run away from gaol?'

'Oh, nobody minds what our Ellen says,' was the answer.

'But did she say so?'

'I don't know, I dare say she did. She's so fine, that she thinks no
one that comes up-stairs in dirty shoes worth speaking to. I'm sure
she's the plague of my life--always at me.'

That was not much comfort for Paul. He had other friends, to be
sure. All the boys in the place liked him, and were very angry with
the way the farmer treated him, and greatly to their credit, they
admired his superior learning instead of being jealous of it. Mrs.
Hayward, the sexton's wife, the same who had bound up his hand when
he cut it at harvest, even asked him to come in and help her boys in
the evenings with what they had to prepare for Mr. Cope. He was not
sorry to do so sometimes. The cottage was a slatternly sort of
place, where he did not feel ashamed of himself, and the Haywards
were mild good sort of folks, from whom he was sure never to hear
either a bad or an unkind word; though he did not care for them, nor
feel refreshed and helped by being with them as he did with the
Kings.

John Farden, too, was good-natured to him, and once or twice hindered
Boldre from striking or abusing him; he offered him a pipe once, but
Paul could not smoke, and another time brought him out a pint of beer
into the field. Mrs. Shepherd spied him drinking it from her upper
window, and believed all the more that he got money somehow, and
spent it in drink.

So the time wore on till the Confirmation, all seeming like one dull
heavy dream of bondage; and as the weather became colder, the poor
boy seemed to have no power of thinking of anything, but of so
getting through his work as to avoid violence, to keep himself from
perishing with cold, and not to hurt his chilblains more than he
could help.

All his quick intellect and good instruction seemed to have perished
away, and the last time he went to Mr. Cope's, he sat as if he were
stupid or asleep, and when a question came to him, sat with his mouth
open like silly Bill Pridden.

Mr. Cope knew him too well not to feel, as he wrote the ticket, that
there were very few of whom he could so entirely from his heart say
'Examined and APPROVED,' as the poor lonely outcast foundling, Paul
Blackthorn, who could not even tell whether he were fifteen, sixteen,
or seventeen, but could just make sure that he had once been caned by
old Mr. Haynes, who went away from the Union twelve years ago.

'Do you think you can keep the ticket safe if I give it you now,
Paul?' asked Mr. Cope, recollecting that the cows might sup upon it
like his Prayer-book.

Paul put his hands down to the bottom of his pockets. They were all
one hole, and that sad lost foolish look came over his wan face
again, and startled Mr. Cope.

The boys grinned, but Charles Hayward stepped forward. 'Please, Sir,
let me take care of it for him.'

Mr. Cope and Paul both agreed, and Mr. Cope kept Charles for a moment
to say, as he gave him a shilling, 'Look here, Charles, do you think
you can manage to get that poor fellow a tolerable breakfast on
Saturday before he goes? And if you could make him look a little
more decent?'

Charles pulled his forelock and looked knowing. In fact, there was a
little plot among these good-natured boys, and Harold King was in it
too, though he was not of the Confirmation party, and said and
thought he was very glad of it. He did not want to bind himself to
be so very good. Silly boy; as if Baptism had not bound him already!

Mrs. Hayward put her head out as Paul passed her cottage, and called
out, 'I say, you Paul, you come in to-morrow evening with our Charlie
and Jim, and I'll wash you when I washes them.'

Good Mrs. Hayward made a mistake that the more delicate-minded Mrs.
King would never have made. Perhaps if a pail of warm water and some
soap had been set before Paul, he might actually have washed himself;
but he was much too big and too shamefaced a lad to fancy sharing a
family scrubbing by a woman, whatever she might do to her own sons.
But considering the size of the Hayward cottage, and the way in which
the family lived, this sort of notion was not likely to come into the
head of the good-natured mother.

So she and her boys were much vexed when Paul did not make his
appearance, and she made a face of great disgust when Charles said,
'Never mind, Mother, my white frock will hide no end of dirt.'

'I shall have to wash it over again before you can wear it, I know,'
said Mrs. Hayward. 'Not as I grudges the trouble; he's a poor lost
orphant, that it's a shame to see so treated.'

Mrs. Hayward did not know that she was bestowing the cup of cold
water, as well as being literally ready to wash the feet of the poor
disciple.

A clean body is a type and token of a pure mind; and though the lads
of Friarswood did not quite perceive this, there was a feeling about
them of there being something unnatural and improper, and a disgrace
to Friarswood, in any one going up to the Bishop in such a condition
as Paul. Especially, as Charles Hayward said, when he was the pick
of the whole lot. Perhaps Charles was right, for surely Paul was
single-hearted in his hope of walking straight to his one home,
Heaven, and he had been doing no other than bearing his cross, when
he so patiently took the being 'buffeted' when he did well, and
faithfully served his froward master.

But Paul was not to escape the outward cleansing, and from one of the
very last people from whom it would have been expected. He had just
pulled his bed of hay down over him, and was trying to curl himself
up so as to stop his teeth from chattering, with Caesar on his feet,
when the dog growled, and a great voice lowered to a gruff whisper,
said, 'Come along, young un!'

'I'm coming,' cried Paul.

Though it was not Boldre's voice, it had startled him terribly; he
was so much used to ill-treatment, that he expected a savage blow
every moment.

But the great hand that closed on him, though rough, was not unkind.

'Poor lad, how he quakes!' said John Farden's voice. 'Don't ye be
afeard, it's only me.'

'Nobody got at the horses?' cried Paul.

'No, no; only I ain't going to have you going up to yon big parson
all one muck-heap! Come on, and make no noise about it.'

Paul did not very well know what was going to befall him, but he did
not feel unsafe with John Farden, and besides, his lank frame was in
the grasp of that big hand like a mouse in the power of a mastiff.
So he let himself be hauled down the ladder, into an empty stall,
where, behold, there was a dark lantern (which had been at bad work
in its time), a pail, a brush, a bit of soap, and a ragged towel.

John laid hold of him much as Alfred in his page days used to do of
Lady Jane's little dog when it had to be washed, but Puck had the
advantage in keeping on his shaggy coat all the time, and in being
more gently handled, whereas Farden scrubbed with such hearty good-
will, that Paul thought his very skin would come off. But he had
undergone the like in the workhouse, and he knew how to accommodate
himself to it; and when his rough bath was over, though he was very
sore, and stiff, and chilly, he really felt relieved, and more
respectable than he had done for many months, only rather sorry he
must put on his filthy old rags again; and he gave honest John more
thanks than might have been expected.

The Confirmation was to be at eleven o'clock, at Elbury, and John had
undertaken his morning's work, so that Mr. Shepherd grudgingly
consented to spare him, knowing that all the other farmers of course
did the same, and that there would be a cry of shame if he did not.

Paul had just found his way down the ladder in the morning, with
thoughts going through his mind that to him this would be the coming
of the Comforter, and he was sure he wanted comfort; and that for
some hours of this day at least, he should be at peace from rude
words and blows, when he heard a great confusion of merry voices and
suppressed laughing, and saw the heads of some of the lads bobbing
about near Mrs. King's garden.

Was it time already to set off, he wondered, looking up to the sun;
but then those boys seemed to be in an uproarious state such as did
not suit his present mood, nor did he think Mr. Cope would consider
it befitting. He would have let them go by, feeling himself such a
scare-crow as they might think a blot upon them; but he remembered
that Charles Hayward had his ticket, and as he looked at himself, he
doubted whether he should be let into a strange church.

'Paul! Paul Blackthorn!' called Harold, with a voice all aglee.

'Well!' said Paul, 'what do you want of me?'

'Come on, and you'll see.'

'I don't want a row. Is Charlie Hayward there? Just ask him for my
card, and don't make a work.'

'He'll give it you if you'll come for it,' said Harold; and seeing
there was no other chance, Paul slowly came. Harold led him to the
stable, where just within the door stood a knot of stout hearty boys,
snorting with fun, hiding their heads on each other's shoulders, and
bending their buskined knees with merriment.

'Now then!' cried Charles Hayward, and he had got hold of the only
button that held Paul's coat together.

Paul was bursting out with something, but George Grant's arms were
round his waist, and his hands were fumbling at his fastenings. They
were each one much stronger than he was now, and they drowned his
voice with shouts of laughter, while as fast as one garment was
pulled off, another was put on.

'Mind, you needn't make such a work, it bain't presents,' said George
Grant, 'only we won't have them asking up at Elbury if we've saved
the guy to bring in.'

'It is a present, though, old Betty Bushel's shirt,' said Charles
Hayward. 'She said she'd throw it at his head if he brought it back
again; but the frock's mine.'

'And the corduroys is mine,' said George Grant. 'My! they be a sight
too big in the band! Run in, Harold, and see if your mother can lend
us a pin.'

'And the waistcoat is my summer one,' said Fred Bunting. 'He's too
big too; why, Paul, you're no better than a natomy!'

'Never mind, my white frock will hide it all,' said Charles, 'and
here's Ned's cap for you. Oh! and it's poor Alfred's boots.'

Paul could not make up his mind to walk all the way in the boots, but
to satisfy the boys he engaged to put them on as soon as they were
getting to Elbury.

'My! he looks quite respectable,' cried Charles, running back a
little way to look at him.

'I wonder if Mr. Cope will know him?' exclaimed Harold, jumping leap-
frog fashion on George Grant's back.

'The maids will take him for some strange gentleman,' exclaimed Jem
Hayward; 'and why, bless me, he's washed, I do declare!' as a streak
of light from the door fell on Paul's visage.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14