Paul Prescott's Charge

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Mudge, rather unwillingly, but not venturing to refuse.

“It takes me to come it over the old lady,” said Ben, when they were out of hearing.

“Now, we’ll go a fishing.”

V

A CRISIS

Before sunrise the next morning Paul was awakened by a rude shake from Mr. Mudge, with an intimation that he had better get up, as there was plenty of work before him.

By the light of the lantern, for as yet it was too dark to dispense with it, Paul dressed himself. Awakened from a sound sleep, he hardly had time to collect his thoughts, and it was with a look of bewilderment that he surveyed the scene about him. As Mrs. Mudge had said, they were pretty full already, and accordingly a rude pallet had been spread for him in the attic, of which, with the exception of nocturnal marauders, he was the only occupant. Paul had not, to be sure, been used to very superior accommodations, and if the bed had not been quite so hard, he would have got along very well. As it was he was separated from slats only by a thin straw bed which did not improve matters much. It was therefore with a sense of weariness which slumber had not dissipated, that Paul arose at the summons of Mr. Mudge.

When he reached the kitchen, he found that gentleman waiting for him.

“Do you know how to milk?” was his first salutation.

“I never learned,” said Paul.

“Then you’ll have to, in double-quick time,” was the reply, “for I don’t relish getting up so early, and you can take it off my hands.”

The two proceeded to the barn, where Paul received his first lesson in this important branch of education.

Mr. Mudge kept five cows. One might have thought he could have afforded a moderate supply of milk to his boarders, but all, with the exception of a single quart, was sold to the milkman who passed the door every morning.

After breakfast, which was on the same economical plan with the dinner of the day previous, Paul was set to work planting potatoes, at which he was kept steadily employed till the dinner-hour.

Poor Paul! his back ached dreadfully, for he had never before done any harder work than trifling services for his father. But the inexorable Mr. Mudge was in sight, and however much he wished, he did not dare to lay aside his hoe even for a moment.

Twelve o’clock found him standing beside the dinner-table. He ate more heartily than before, for his forenoon’s labor made even poorhouse fare palatable.

Mrs. Mudge observed the change, and remarked in a satisfied tone. “Well, my fine gentleman, I see you are coming to your appetite. I thought you wouldn’t hold out long.”

Paul, who had worn off something of his diffidence, could not help feeling indignant at this speech; unaccustomed to be addressed in this way, the taunt jarred upon his feelings, but he only bit his lip and preserved silence.

Aunt Lucy, too, who had come to feel a strong interest in Paul, despite her natural mildness, could not resist the temptation of saying with some warmth, “what’s the use of persecuting the child? He has sorrows enough of his own without your adding to them.”

Mrs. Mudge was not a little incensed at this remonstrance.

“I should like to know, ma’am, who requested you to put in your oar!” she said with arms akimbo. “Anybody wouldn’t think from your lofty airs that you lived in the poorhouse; I’ll thank you to mind your own business in the future, and not meddle with what don’t concern you.”

Aunt Lucy was wise enough to abstain from provoking further the wrath of her amiable landlady, and continued to eat her soup in silence. But Mrs. Mudge neer forgot this interference, nor the cause of it, and henceforth with the malignity of a narrow-minded and spiteful woman, did what she could to make Paul uncomfortable. Her fertile ingenuity always found some new taunt, or some new reproach, to assail him with. But Paul, though at first he felt indignant, learned at last to treat them as they deserved, with silent disdain. Assured of the sympathy of those around him, he did not allow his appetite to be spoiled by any remark which Mrs. Mudge might offer.

This, of course, only provoked her the more, and she strove to have his daily tasks increased, in the amiable hope that his “proud spirit” might be tamed thereby.

Mr. Mudge, who was somewhat under petticoat government, readily acceded to his wife’s wishes, and henceforth Paul’s strength was taxed to its utmost limit. He was required to be up with the first gray tint of dawn and attend to the cattle. From this time until night, except the brief time devoted to his meals, he was incessantly occupied. Aunt Lucy’s society, his chief comfort, was thus taken from him; since, in order to rise early, he was obliged to go to bed as soon as possible after day’s work was finished.

The effects of such incessant labor without a sufficient supply of nourishing food, may easily be imagined. The dry bread and meagre soup which constituted the chief articles of diet in Mrs. Mudge’s economical household, had but one recommendation,—they were effectual preventives of gluttony. It was reported that on one occasion a beggar, apparently famishing with hunger, not knowing the character of the house, made application at the door for food. In an unusual fit of generosity, Mrs. Mudge furnished him with a slice of bread and a bowl of soup, which, however, proved so far from tempting that the beggar, hungry as he was, left them almost untouched.

One day, as Paul was working in the field at a little distance from Mr. Mudge, he became conscious of a peculiar feeling of giddiness which compelled him to cling to the hoe for support,—otherwise he must have fallen.

“No laziness there,” exclaimed Mr. Mudge, observing Paul’s cessation from labor, “We can’t support you in idleness.”

But the boy paid no regard to this admonition, and Mr. Mudge, somewhat surprised, advanced toward him to enforce the command.

Even he was startled at the unusual paleness of Paul’s face, and inquired in a less peremptory tone, “what’s the matter?”

“I feel sick,” gasped Paul.

Without another word, Mr. Mudge took Paul up in his arms and carried him into the house.

“What’s the matter, now?” asked his wife, meeting him at the door.

“The boy feels a little sick, but I guess he’ll get over it by-and by. Haven’t you got a little soup that you can give him? I reckon he’s faint, and that’ll brighten him up.”

Paul evidently did not think so, for he motioned away a bowl of the delightful mixture, though it was proffered him by the fair hands of Mrs. Mudge. The lady was somewhat surprised, and said, roughly, “I shouldn’t wonder if he was only trying to shirk.”

This was too much even for Mr. Mudge; “The boy’s sick,” said he, “that’s plain enough; if he don’t get better soon, I must send for the doctor, for work drives, and I can’t spare him.”

“There’s no more danger of his being sick than mine,” said Mrs. Mudge, emphatically; “however, if you’re fool enough to go for a doctor, that’s none of my business. I’ve heard of feigning sickness before now, to get rid of work. As to his being pale, I’ve been as pale as that myself sometimes without your troubling yourself very much about me.”

“‘Twon’t be any expense to us,” alleged Mr. Mudge, in a tone of justification, for he felt in some awe of his wife’s temper, which was none of the mildest when a little roused, “‘Twon’t be any expense to us; the town has got to pay for it, and as long as it will get him ready for work sooner, we might as well take advantage of it.”

This consideration somewhat reconciled Mrs. Mudge to the step proposed, and as Paul, instead of getting better, grew rapidly worse, Mr. Mudge thought it expedient to go immediately for the village physician. Luckily Dr. Townsend was at home, and an hour afterwards found him standing beside the sick boy.

“I don’t know but you’ll think it rather foolish, our sending for you, doctor,” said Mrs. Mudge, “but Mudge would have it that the boy was sick and so he went for you.”

“And he did quite right,” said Dr. Townsend, noticing the ghastly pallor of Paul’s face. “He is a very sick boy, and if I had not been called I would not have answered for the consequences. How do you feel, my boy?” he inquired of Paul.

“I feel very weak, and my head swims,” was the reply.

“How and when did this attack come on?” asked the doctor, turning to Mr. Mudge.

“He was taken while hoeing in the field,” was the reply.

“Have you kept him at work much there lately?”

“Well, yes, I’ve been drove by work, and he has worked there all day latterly.”

“At what time has he gone to work in the morning?”

“He has got up to milk the cows about five o’clock. I used to do it, but since he has learned, I have indulged myself a little.”

“It would have been well for him if he had enjoyed the same privilege. It is my duty to speak plainly. The sickness of this boy lies at your door. He has never been accustomed to hard labor, and yet you have obliged him to rise earlier and work later than most men. No wonder he feels weak. Has he a good appetite?”

“Well, rather middlin’,” said Mrs. Mudge, “but it’s mainly because he’s too dainty to eat what’s set before him. Why, only the first day he was here he turned up his nose at the bread and soup we had for dinner.”

“Is this a specimen of the soup?” asked Dr. Townsend, taking from the table the bowl which had been proffered to Paul and declined by him.