Friarswood Post Office

‘What is it?  Has the doctor been?’

‘No, Sir; I went in at six o’clock this morning to ask him to come out, and he said he’d come—and sent him a blister—but Alf was worse by the time I got back, Sir,—he can’t breathe—and don’t seem to notice.’

And without another word, nor waiting for comfort, Harold dug his heels into Peggy, passed his elbow over his eyes, and cantered on with the tears drying on his face in the brisk March wind.

There was no finishing breakfast for the Curate; he thrust his letters into his pocket, caught up his hat, and walked off with long strides for the post-office.

It shewed how different things were from usual, that Paul, who had hardly yet been four times down-stairs, his thin pointed face all in a flush, was the only person in the shop, trying with a very shaky hand to cut out some cheese for a great stout farm maid-servant, who evidently did not understand what was the matter, and stared doubly when the clergyman put his strong hand so as to steady Paul’s trembling one, and gave his help to fold up the parcel.

‘How is he, Paul?’

Paul was very near crying as he answered, ‘Much worse, Sir.  Mother has been up all night with him.  O Sir! he did so want to live till you came home.’

‘May I go up?’ asked Mr. Cope.

Paul was sure that he might, and crept up after him.  It was bad enough, but not quite so bad as Harold, in his fright, had made Mr. Cope believe.  Poor boy! it had all come upon him now; and seeing his brother unable to speak and much oppressed, he fancied he did not know him, whereas Alfred was fully sensible, though too ill to do more than lift his eyes, and put out his weak fingers as Mr. Cope came into the room, where he was lying raised on his pillows, with his mother and sister doing all they could for him.

A terrible pain in the side had come on in the night, making every breath painful, every cough agonizing, and his whole face and brow were crimson with the effort of gasping.

Paul looked a moment but could not bear it, and went, and sat down on the top of the stairs; while Mr. Cope kindly held Alfred’s hot hand, and Mrs. King, in her low patient tone, told how the attack had begun.

She was in the midst, when Mr. Blunt’s gig was seen at the gate.  His having thus hastened his coming was more than they had dared to hope; and while Mrs. King felt grateful for the kindness, Ellen feared that it shewed that he thought very badly of the case.

Mr. Cope was much hurried, but he could not bear to go till he had heard Mr. Blunt’s opinion; so he went down to the kitchen, tried to console Paul by talking kindly to him, wrote a note, and read his letters.

They were much comforted to hear that Mr. Blunt thought that there was hope of subduing the present inflammatory pain; and though there was much immediate danger, it was not hastening so very fast to the end as they had at first supposed.  Yet, in such a state as Alfred’s, a few hours might finish all.  There was no saying.

Already, when Mr. Cope went up again, the remedies had given some relief; and though the breaths came short and hard, like so many stabs, Alfred had put his head into an easier position, and his eyes and lips looked more free to look a greeting.  There was so much wistful earnestness in his face, and it deeply grieved Mr. Cope to be forced to leave him, and in too much haste even to be able to pray with him.

‘Well, Alfred, dear fellow,’ he said, his voice trembling, ‘I am come to wish you good-bye.  I am comforted to find that Mr. Blunt thinks there is good hope that you will be here—that we shall be together when I come back.  Yes, I know that is what is on your mind, and I do reckon most earnestly on it; but if it should not be His Will—here, Ellen, will you take care of this note?  If he should be worse, will you send this to Mr. Carter, at Ragglesford? and I know he will come at once.’

The dew stood on Alfred’s eye-lashes, and his lips worked.  He looked up sadly to Mr. Cope, as if this did not answer his longings.

Mr. Cope replied to the look—‘Yes, dear boy, but if it cannot be, still remember it is Communion.  He can put us together.  We all drink into one Spirit.  I shall be engaged in a like manner—I would not—I could not go, Alfred, for pleasure—no, nor business—only for this.  You must think that I am gone to bring you home the Gift—the greatest, best Gift—the one our Lord left with His disciples, to bear them through their sorrows and pains—through the light affliction that is but for a moment, but worketh an exceeding weight of glory.  And if I should not be in time,’ he added, nearly sobbing as he spoke, ‘then—then, Alfred, the Gift, the blessing is yours all the same.  It is the Great High Priest to Whom you must look—perhaps you may do so the more really if it should not be through—your friend.  If we are disappointed, we will make a sacrifice of our disappointment.  Good-bye, my boy; God bless you!’  Bending close down to his face, he whispered, ‘Think of me.  Pray for me—now—always.’  Then, rising hastily, he shook the hands of the mother and sister, ran down-stairs, and was gone.

CHAPTER XII—REST AT LAST

The east wind had been swept aside by gales from the warm south, and the spring was bursting out everywhere; the sky looked softly blue, instead of hard and chill; the sun made everything glisten: the hedges were full of catkins; white buds were on the purple twigs of the blackthorns; primroses were looking out on the sunny side of the road; the larks were mounting up, singing as if they were wild with delight; and the sunbeams were full of dancing gnats, as the Curate of Friarswood walked, with quick eager steps, towards the bridge.

His eyes were anxiously bent on the house, watching the white smoke rising from the chimney; then he hastened on to gain the first sight at the upper windows, feeling almost as he could have done had it been a brother who lay there; so much was his heart set on the first whom he had striven to help through the valley of the shadow of death.  The window was open, but the blind was not drawn; and almost at the same moment the gate opened, some one looked out, and seeing him, waved his hand and arm in joyful signal towards some one within, and this gesture set Mr. Cope’s heart at rest.

Was it Harold?  No, it was Paul Blackthorn, who stood leaning on the wicket, as he held it open for the clergyman, at whom he looked up as if expecting some change, and a little surprised to find the same voice and manner.

‘Well, Paul, then he is not worse?’

‘No, Sir, thank you, he is better.  The pain has left him, and he can speak again,’ said Paul, but not very cheerfully.

‘That is a great comfort!  But who’s that?’ as a head, not Ellen’s, appeared for a moment at the window.

‘That’s Miss King, Sir—Miss Matilda!’

‘Oh!  Well, and how are the bones, Paul?  Better, I hope, since I see you are come out with the bees,’ said Mr. Cope, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder (a thing fit to touch now, since it was in a fustian coat of poor Alfred’s), and accommodating his swift strong steps to the feeble halt with which Paul still moved.

‘Thank you, Sir, yes; I’ve been down here twice when the sun was out,’ he said, as if it were a grand undertaking; but then, with a sudden smile, ‘and poor Cæsar knew me, Sir; he came right across the road, and wagged his tail, and licked my hand.’

‘Good old Cæsar!  You were his best friend, Paul.—Well, Mrs. King, this is a blessing!’

Mrs. King looked sadly worn out with nursing, and her eyes were full of tears.

‘Yes, Sir,’ she said, ‘indeed it is.  My poor darling has been so much afraid he was too much set on your coming home, and yet so patient and quiet about it.’

‘Then you ventured to wait?’

And Mr. Cope heard that the attack of inflammation had given way to remedies, but that Alfred was so much weakened, that they could not raise him again.  He was sustained by as much nourishment as they could give him: but the disease had made great progress, and Mr. Blunt did not think that he could last many days.  His eldest sister had come for a fortnight from her place, and was a great comfort to them all.  ‘And so is Paul,’ said Mrs. King, looking for him kindly; ‘I don’t know what we should do without his help up-stairs and down.  And, Sir, yesterday,’ she added, colouring a good deal—‘I beg your pardon, but I thought, maybe, you’d like to hear it—Alfred would have nobody else up with him in morning church-time—and made him read the most—of that Service, Sir.’

Mr. Cope’s eyes glistened, and he said something huskily of being glad that Alfred could think of it.

It further appeared that Alfred had wished very much to see Miss Selby again, and that Mrs. King had sent the two sisters to the Grange to talk it over with Mrs. Crabbe, and word had been sent by Harold that morning that the young lady would come in the course of the afternoon.

Mr. Cope followed Mrs. King up-stairs; Alfred’s face lighted up as his sister Matilda made way for the clergyman.  He was very white, and his breath was oppressed; but his look had changed very much—it had a strange, still sort of brightness and peace about it.  He spoke in very low tones, just above a whisper, and smiled as Mr. Cope took his hand, and spoke to him.

‘Thank you, Sir.  It is very nice,’ he said.

‘I thank God that He has let you wait for me,’ said Mr. Cope.

‘I am glad,’ said Alfred.  ‘I did want to pray for it; but I thought, perhaps, if it was not His Will, I would not—and then what you said.  And now He is making it all happy.’

‘And you do not grieve over your year of illness?’

‘I would not have been without it—no,’ said Alfred, very quietly, but with much meaning.

‘“It is good for me that I have been in trouble,” is what you mean,’ said Mr. Cope.

‘It has made our Saviour seem—I mean—He is so good to me,’ said Alfred fervently.

But talking made him cough, and that brought a line in the fair forehead so full of peace.  Mr. Cope would not say more to him, and asked his mother whether the Feast, for which he had so much longed, should be on the following day.  She thought it best that it should be so; and Alfred again said, ‘Thank you, Sir,’ with the serene expression on his face.  Mr. Cope read a Psalm and a prayer to him, and thinking him equal to no more, went away, pausing, however, for a little talk with Paul in the shop.

Paul did not say so, but, poor fellow, he had been rather at a loss since Matilda had come.  In herself, she was a very good, humble, sensible girl; but she wore a dark silk dress, and looked, moved, and spoke much more like a lady than Ellen: Paul stood in great awe of her, and her presence seemed all at once to set him aloof from the others.

He had been like one of themselves for the last three months, now he felt that he was like a beggar among them; he did not like to call Mrs. King mother, lest it should seem presuming; Ellen seemed to be raised up the same step as her sister, and even Alfred was almost out of his reach; Matilda read to him, and Paul’s own good feeling shewed him that he would be only in the way if he spent all his time in Alfred’s room as formerly; so he kept down-stairs in the morning, and went to bed very early.  Nobody was in the least unkind to him: but he had just begun to grieve at being a burden so long, and to wonder how much longer he should be in getting his health again.  And then it might be only to be cast about the world, and to lose his one glimpse of home kindness.  Poor boy! he still cried at the thought of how happy Alfred was.

He did all he could to be useful, but he could scarcely manage to stoop down, could carry nothing heavy, and moved very slowly; and he now and then made a dreadful muddle in the shop, when a customer was not like Mrs. Hayward, who told him where everything was, and the price of all she wanted, as well as Mrs. King could do herself.  He could sort the letters and see to the post-office very well; and for all his blunders, he did so much by his good-will, that when Mrs. King wanted to cheer him up, she declared that he saved her all the expense of having in a woman from the village to help, and that he did more about the house than Harold.

This was true: for Harold did not like doing anything but manly things, as he called them; whereas Paul did not care what it was, so that it saved trouble to her or Ellen.

Talking and listening to Harold was one use of Paul.  Now that it had come upon him, and he saw Alfred worse from day to day, the poor boy was quite broken-hearted.  Possibly, when at his work, or riding, he managed to shake off the remembrance; but at home it always came back, and he cried so much at the sight of Alfred, and at any attempt of his brother to talk to him, that they could scarcely let him stay ten minutes in the room.  Then, when Paul had gone to bed on the landing at seven o’clock, he would come and sit on his bed, and talk, and cry, and sob about his brother, and his own carelessness of him, often till his mother came out and ordered him down-stairs to his own bed in the kitchen; and Paul turned his face into the pillow to weep himself to sleep, loving Alfred very little less than did his brother, but making less noise about it, and feeling very lonely when he saw how all the family cared for each other.

So Mr. Cope’s kind manner came all the more pleasantly to him; and after some talk on what they both most cared about, Mr. Cope said, ‘Paul, Mr. Shaw of Berryton tells me he has a capital school-master, but in rather weak health, and he wants to find a good intelligent youth to teach under him, and have opportunities of improving himself.  Five pounds a year, and board and lodgings.  What do you think of it, Paul?’