Friarswood Post Office

‘Yes, my Lady; he was so poorly that I couldn’t but let him lie down.’

‘And you have not sent him to the workhouse yet?’

‘Why, no, not yet, my Lady; I thought I would wait to see how he is to-morrow.’

‘You had better take care, Mary,’ said Lady Jane.  ‘You’ll have him too ill to be moved; and then what will you do? a great lad of that age, and with illness enough in the house already!’  She sighed, and it was not said unkindly; but Mrs. King answered with something about his being so good a lad, and so friendless.  And Miss Jane exclaimed, ‘O Grandmamma, it does seem so hard to send him to the workhouse!’

‘Do not talk like a silly child, my dear,’ said Lady Jane.  ‘Mary is much too sensible to think of saddling herself with such a charge—not fit for her, nor the children either—even if the parish made it worth her while, which it never will.  The Union is intended to provide for such cases of destitution; and depend on it, the youth looks to nothing else.’

‘No, my Lady,’ said Mrs. King; ‘he is so patient and meek about it, that it goes to one’s very heart.’

‘Ay, ay,’ said the old lady; ‘but don’t be soft-hearted and weak, Mary.  It is not what I expect of you, as a sensible woman, to be harbouring a mere vagrant whom you know nothing about, and injuring your own children.’

‘Indeed, my Lady,’ began Mrs. King, ‘I’ve known the poor boy these four months, and so has Mr. Cope; and he is as steady and serious a boy as ever lived.’

‘Very likely,’ said Lady Jane; ‘and I am sure I would do anything for him—give him work when he is out again, or send him with a paper to the county hospital.  Eh?’

But the county hospital was thirty miles off; and the receiving day was not till Saturday.  That would not do.

‘Well,’ added Lady Jane, ‘I’ll drive home directly, and send Price with the spring covered cart to take him in to Elbury.  That will be better for him than jolting in the open cart they would send for him.’

‘Why, thank you, my Lady, but I—I had passed my word that he should not go to-day.’

Lady Jane made a gesture as if Mary King were a hopelessly weak good-natured woman; and shaking her head at her with a sort of lady-like vexation, ordered the coachman to drive on.

My Lady was put out.  No wonder.  She was a very sensible, managing woman herself, and justly and up-rightly kind to all her dependants; and she expected every one else to be sternly and wisely kind in the same pattern.  Mrs. King was one whom she highly esteemed for her sense and good judgment, and she was the more provoked with her for any failure in these respects.  If she had known Paul as the Kings did, it is probable she might have felt like them.  Not knowing him, nor knowing the secrets of Elbury Union, she thought it Mrs. King’s clear duty to sacrifice him for her children’s sake.  Moreover, Lady Jane had strict laws against lodgers—the greatest kindness she could do her tenants, though often against their will.  So to have her model woman receiving a strange boy into her house, even under the circumstances, was beyond bearing.

So Mrs. King stood on her threshold, knowing that to keep Paul Blackthorn would be an offence to her best friend and patroness.  Moreover, Mr. Cope was gone, without having left her a word of advice to decide her one way or the other.

CHAPTER X—CHRISTMAS DAY

Things are rather apt to settle themselves; and so did Paul Blackthorn’s stay at the post-office, for the poor boy was in such an agony of pain all night, and the fever ran so high, that it was impossible to think of moving him, even if the waiting upon him in such suffering had not made Mrs. King feel that she could not dismiss him to careless hands.  His patience, gratitude, and surprise at every trouble she took for him were very endearing, as were the efforts he made to stifle and suppress moans and cries that the terrible aches would wring from him, so as not to disturb Alfred.  When towards morning the fever ran to his head, and he did not know what he said, it was more moving still to see that the instinct of keeping quiet for some one’s sake still suppressed his voice.  Then, too, his wanderings shewed under what dread and harshness his life had been spent, and what his horror was of a return to the workhouse.  In his senses, he would never have thought of asking to remain at Friarswood; but in his half-conscious state, he implored again and again not to be sent away, and talked about not going back, but only being left in a corner to die; and Mrs. King, without knowing what she was about, soothed him by telling him to lie still, for he was not going to that place again.  At day-break she sent Harold, on his way to the post, for an order from the relieving officer for medical attendance; and, after some long and weary hours, the Union doctor came.  He said, like Mr. Blunt, that it was a rheumatic fever, the effect of hardship and exposure; for which perhaps poor Paul—after his regular meals, warm clothing, and full shelter, in the workhouse—was less prepared than many a country lad, whose days had been much happier, but who had been rendered more hardy by often going without some of those necessaries which were provided for the paupers.

The head continued so much affected, that the doctor said the hair must be taken off; which was done by old Master Warren, who singed the horses in the autumn, killed the pigs in the winter, and shaved the men on Saturday night.  It was a very good thing for all parties; and he would take no pay for his trouble, but sent down a pitcher with what he called ‘all manner of yarbs’ steeping in it, with which, as he said, to ‘ferment the boy’s limbs.’  Foment was what he meant; and Mrs. King thought, as it was kindly intended, and could do no harm, she would try if it would do any good; but she could not find that it made much difference whether she used that or common warm water.  However, the good will made Paul smile, and helped to change his notion about its being very few that had any compassion for a stranger.  So, too, did good Mrs. Hayward, who, when he was at the worst, twice came to sit up all night with him after her day’s work; and though she was not as tender a nurse as Mrs. King, treated him like her own son, and moreover carried off to her own tub all the clothes she could find ready to be washed, and would not take so much as a mouthful of meat or drink in return, struggling, toil-worn body as she was.

The parish, as might have been foreseen, would afford nothing but the doctor to a chance-comer such as Paul.  If he needed more, he might come into the House, and be passed home to Upperscote.

But by the time this reply came, Mrs. King not only felt that it would be almost murder to send a person in such a state four miles on a November day, but she was caring so much for her patient, that it sounded almost as impossible as to send Alfred away.

Besides, she had remembered the cup of cold water, she had thought of the widow’s cruse of oil and barrel of meal, and she had called to mind, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me;’ and thereupon she took heart, and made up her mind that it was right to tend the sick lad; and that even if she should bring trouble and want on herself and her children, it would be a Heaven-sent trial that would be good for them.

So she made up her resolution to a winter of toil, anxiety, and trouble, and to Lady Jane’s withdrawal of favour; and thinking her ungrateful, which, to say the truth, grieved her more than anything else, excepting of course her forebodings for Alfred.

Ellen was in great distress about my Lady’s displeasure.  Not that she dreamt of her mother’s giving up Paul on that account; but she was very fond of her little foster-sister, and of many of the maid-servants, and her visits to the Grange were the chief change and amusement she ever had.  So while Mrs. King was busy between the shop, her work, and Paul, Ellen sat by her brother, making the housekeeper’s winter dress, and imagining all sorts of dreadful things that might come of my Lady being angry with them, till Alfred grew quite out of patience.  ‘Well, suppose and suppose,’ he said, ‘suppose it was not to happen at all!  Why, Mother’s doing right would be any good for nothing if she only did it to please my Lady.’

Certainly this was the very touchstone to shew whether the fear of man were the guide.  And Ellen was still more terrified that day, for when she went across to the farm for the evening’s supply of milk and butter, Mrs. Shepherd launched out into such a torrent of abuse against her and her mother, that she came home trembling from head to foot; and Mrs. King declared she should never go thither again.  They would send to Mrs. Price’s for the little bit of fresh butter that was real nourishment to Alfred: the healthy ones would save by going without any.

One word more as to the Shepherds, and then we have done with him.  On the Sunday, Mr. Cope had an elder brother staying with them, who preached on the lesson for the day, the second chapter of the Prophet Habakkuk; and when he came to the text, ‘Woe to him that coveteth an evil covetousness to his house,’ he brought in some of the like passages, the threats to those that ‘grind the faces of the poor,’ that ‘oppress the hireling in his wages,’ and that terrible saying of St. James, ‘Behold, the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept by fraud, crieth; and the cries of them which have reaped are entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabbath.’

Three days after, the Curate was very much amazed to hear that Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd did not choose to be preached at in their own church, and never meant to come thither again.  Now it so happened that he could testify that the sermon had been written five years ago, and that his brother had preached it without knowing that the Shepherds were in existence, for he had only come late the night before, and there was so much to say about their home, that the younger brother had not said a word about his parish before church, though the Kings and their guests were very near his heart.

But it was of no use to say so.  It was the truth that wounded the farmer and his wife, and no one could make that otherwise.  They did not choose to hear their sin rebuked, so they made an excuse by pretending to take offence, and except when they now and then went to the next parish to a meeting-house, cut themselves off from all that might disturb them in the sole pursuit of gain.  It is awful to think of such hardening of the heart, first towards man, then towards the warnings of God.

And mind, whoever chooses profit rather than mercy, is in the path of Farmer Shepherd.

Some certainty as to Lady Jane Selby’s feelings came on the second evening of Paul’s illness.  Mrs. Crabbe, the housekeeper, was seen with infinite trouble and disgust getting her large person over the stiles across the path fields.  A call from her was almost a greater event than one from my Lady herself.  Why!  Mother had been her still-room maid, and always spoke to her as ‘Ma’am,’ and she called her ‘Mary,’ and she had chosen Matilda’s name for her, and had given her a silver watch!

So when Mrs. Crabbe had found her way in, and had been set down to rest in the arm-chair, she proceeded to give ‘Mary’ a good round scolding against being weak and soft-hearted, saying at last that my Lady was quite in a way about it.  She was sure that Harold would catch his death of cold, putting him to sleep in the kitchen, upon the stones—and so—my Lady had sent off the cart with the little chair-bed, that would take down and put up again—mattress, bed-clothes, and all.

That was a comfortable finish to the scolding!  Not that it was a finish though, for the thanks made Mrs. Crabbe afraid the family thought themselves forgiven, so she went on to declare they all would be pinched, and get into debt, and she should advise her god-daughter, Matilda, not to help them with a farthing of her wages, and as to going without their full meals, that was what none of them were fit to do.  With which it appeared that the cart was bringing a can of broth, a couple of rabbits, some calves’-feet jelly, and a bottle of port wine for Alfred, who lived on that and cod-liver oil more than on any other nourishment.

At that rate, Lady Jane’s displeasure did not seem likely to do much harm; but there was pain in it too, for when Mrs. Crabbe had managed to get up-stairs, past the patch-work quilt that was hung up to shelter Paul from the draught, and had seen Alfred, and been shocked to find how much wasted he was since she last had seen him, she said, ‘One thing you know—my Lady says she can’t have Miss Selby coming down here to see Alfred while this great lad is always about.  And I’m sure it is not proper for her at any time, such a young lady as she is, over all those inconvenient stiles.  I declare I shall speak to Mr. Price about them.’

Losing Miss Jane’s visits was to Alfred like losing a sunbeam, and his spirit felt very dreary after he had heard this sentence.  Ellen knew her well enough to suspect that she was very sorry, but that she could not help herself; and Mrs. King caught the brother and sister making such grumbling speeches to each other about the old lady’s crossness, that her faithful, grateful spirit was quite grieved, and she spoke strongly up for the just, right-minded lady to whom she had loyally looked up for many and many a year, though, with the right sort of independence, she would not give up to any one’s opinion what she knew to be her duty.

‘We all knew it must cost us something,’ she said, ‘and we’ll try to be ready with it, though it does go to one’s heart that the first should be what vexes you, my Alfy; but it won’t be for long.’

‘No, Mother; but if it ain’t here long?  Oh!  I don’t seem to have nothing to look to if Miss Jane ain’t coming here no more, with her pretty ways!’

And there were large tears on his cheeks.  Mrs. King had tears in her eyes too, but she bent down over the boy, and turning his eyes to the little picture on the wall, she said in a whisper in his ear, ‘Didn’t He bear His Cross for the sake of other people?’  Alfred did not answer; he turned his face in towards the pillow, and though Ellen thought he was crying, it did not seem to her to be so sadly.

Cost them something their kindness did.  To be sure, there came a party of boys with the master from Ragglesford, when there had been time for them to write the history of the robbery to their homes; and as it came just before the monthly letter which they all had to write by way of practice, to be shewn up to the master, it was a real treasure to them to have such a story to tell.  Some of their friends, especially the uncle who gave the watch, had sent small sums of money for the lad who had behaved so well, and these altogether came to a fair amount, which the boys were highly pleased to give over into Mrs. King’s hands.  She, like Harold, never made the smallest question that it was all for Paul’s benefit, and though, when she mentioned it to him, he gave a cheery smile, and said it would lessen the cost of his illness to her, yet she put it all aside with the first twelve-and-sixpence.  She told Ellen that it went against her to touch the orphan’s money, and that unless it came to very bad times indeed, it should be kept to set him up decently when he should recover.

No one else could afford aid in money, not Mr. Cope, for he had little more than a maintenance for himself; indeed, Mrs. King was not in a station where it would seem becoming to offer alms to her.  Lady Jane gave help in nourishing food, but the days when this would come were uncertain, and she had made a resolution against undertaking any share of the expense, lest she should seem to encourage Mary King, as she said, in such weak good nature—cramming up her house with a strange boy like that, when she had quite enough to do with her own son.  So they had to fight on as they could; and the first week, when Paul’s illness was at the height, Ellen had so much more to do for Alfred and about the house, and was so continually called off her work, that she could not finish Mrs. Crabbe’s gown as soon as was expected; and the ladies’ maid, who was kept waiting, took huff, and sent her new purple silk to Elbury to be madeup.

It is not quite certain that Ellen did not shed a few tears.

Harold had to go without his butter, and once took it much to heart that his mother would buy no shrimps for tea, but after some one had whispered to him that if there were a trouble about rent, or about Mr. Blunt’s bill, Peggy would be sold, he bore it all pretty well; and after all, Alfred and Paul were so apt to give him tastes of their dainties, that he had not much loss!

Rent was the care.  The pig was killed and cut up to great advantage; Mrs. King sold a side of it at once, which went a good way towards it, but not the whole; and there was a bad debt of John Farden’s for bread, contracted last winter, and which he had never paid off in the summer.  That would just have made it up, but what hopes were there of that?

Just then, however, came a parcel from Matilda.  It was her way of helping her family to send them the clothes which her mistresses allowed her to have when they left them off, when Mrs. King either made them up for herself or Ellen, or disposed of them at Elbury.

What a treat those parcels were!  How curious were all the party at the unpacking, looking at the many odd things that were sure to come out, on the happy doubtful certainty that each one would be remembered by the good sister.

So there were the little directed parcels—a neat knitted grey and black handkerchief for Mother to wear in the shop; a whole roll of fashion-books for Ellen, and a nice little pocket-book besides; and a bundle of ‘Illustrated News’ to amuse the boys; a precious little square book of ‘Hymns for the Sick’ for Alfred; and a famous pair of riding-gloves, like bears’ paws, for Harold.  And what rolls besides!  Worn flimsy dresses, once pretty, but now only fit for the old-clothes man, yet whose trimmings Ellen pulled out and studied; bonnets that looked as if they had been sat upon; rolls of soft ragged cambric handkerchiefs, on which Mrs. King seized as the most valuable part of the cargo, so useful would they be to poor Alfred; some few real good things, in especial, a beautiful thick silk dress which had been stained, but which dyeing would render very useful; and a particularly nice grey cloth mantle, which Matilda had mentioned in her letter as likely to be useful to Ellen—it was not at all the worse for wear, except as to the lining of the hood, and she should just fancy Ellen in it.

Ellen could just fancy herself in it.  She had a black silk one, which had come in the same way, and looked very well, but it was just turning off, and it was not warm enough for winter without a shawl under it.  That grey looked as if it was made for her, it suited her shoulders and her shape so well!  She put it on and twisted about in it, and then she saw her good mother not saying one word, and knew she was thinking of the sum that was wanting to the rent.

‘Well, Mother,’ said Ellen, ‘I’ll go in and take the things to Betsey on the next market-day, and if we can get thirty shillings on them without the mantle—’

‘Yes, if you can, my dear,’ said her mother; ‘I’m sure I should be very glad for you to have it, but you see—’

And Mrs. King sighed.

Ellen passed by Paul on the landing, and saw him with his face flushed with pain and fever, trying to smile at her.  She remembered how her unkind words had brought trouble on him, and how her mother had begun by telling her that they must give up their own wishes if they were to nurse him.

Ellen went to Elbury on the market-day, and by the help of Betsey Hardman, she got great credit for her bargaining.  She brought home thirty shillings, and ten shillings’ worth of soap for the shop, where that article was running low; but she did not bring home the cloak, though Betsey had told her a silk cloak over a shawl looked so mean! and she feared all the servants at the Grange would think the same!