Friarswood Post Office

Paul’s sallow face began growing red, and he polished the counter, on which he was leaning; then, as Mr. Cope repeated, ‘Eh, Paul?’ he said slowly, and in his almost rude way, ‘They wouldn’t have me if they knew how I’d been brought up.’

‘Perhaps they would if they knew what you’ve come to in spite of bringing up.  And,’ added Mr. Cope, ‘they are not so much pressed for time but that they can wait till you’ve quite forgotten your tumble into the Ragglesford.  We must fatten you—get rid of those spider-fingers, and you and I must do a few more lessons together—and I think Mrs. King has something towards your outfit; and by Whitsuntide, I told Mr. Shaw that I thought I might send him what I call a very fair sample of a good steady lad.’

Paul did not half seem to take it in—perhaps he was too unhappy, or it sounded like sending him away again; or, maybe, such a great step in life was more than he could comprehend, after the outcast condition to which he had been used: but Mr. Cope could not go on talking to him, for the Grange carriage was stopping at the gate, and Matilda and Ellen were both coming down-stairs to receive Miss Jane.  Poor little thing, she looked very pale and nervous; and as she shook hands with the Curate, as he met her in the garden-path, she said with a startled manner, ‘Oh!  Mr. Cope—were you there?  Am I interrupting—?’

‘Not at all,’ he said.  ‘I had only called in as I came home, and had just come down again.’

‘Is it—is it very dreadful?’ murmured Jane, with a sort of gasp.  She was so entirely unused to scenes of sadness or pain, that it was very strange and alarming to her, and it was more difficult than ever to believe her no younger than Ellen.

‘Very far from dreadful or distressing,’ said Mr. Cope kindly, for he knew it was not her fault that she had been prevented from overcoming such feelings, and that this was a great effort of kindness.  ‘It is a very peaceful, soothing sight—he is very happy, and not in a suffering state.’

‘Oh, will you tell Grandmamma?’ said Jane, with her pretty look of earnestness; ‘she is so much afraid of its much for me, and she was so kind in letting me come.’

So Miss Selby went on to the two sisters, and Mr. Cope proceeded to the carriage, where Lady Jane had put out her head, glad to be able to ask him about the state of affairs.  Having nothing but this little grand-daughter left to her, the old lady watched over her with almost over-tender care, and was in much alarm both lest the air of the sick-room should be unwholesome, or the sight too sorrowful for her; and though she was too kind to refuse the wish of the dying boy, she had come herself, in order that ‘the child,’ as she called her, might not stay longer than was good for her; and she was much relieved to hear Mr. Cope’s account of Alfred’s calm state, and of the freshness of the clean room, in testimony of which he pointed to the open window.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I hope Mary King was wise enough; but I hardly knew how it might be with such a number about the house—that boy and all.  He is not gone, is he?’

‘No, he is not nearly well enough yet, though he does what he can to be useful to her.  When he is recovered, I have a scheme for him.’

So Mr. Cope mentioned Mr. Shaw’s proposal, by which my Lady set more store than did Paul as yet.  Very kind-hearted she was, though she did not fancy adopting chance-comers into her parish; and as long as he was not saddled upon Mary King, as she said, she was very glad of any good for him; so she told Mr. Cope to come to her for what he might want to fit him out properly for the situation; and turning her keen eyes on him as he stood near the cottage door, pronounced that, after all, he was a nice, decent-looking lad enough, which certainly her Ladyship would not have said before his illness.

Miss Jane did not stay long.  Indeed, Alfred could not talk to her, and she did not know what to say to him; she could only stand by his bed, with the tears upon her cheeks, making little murmuring sounds in answer to Mrs. King, who said for her son what she thought he wished to have said.  Meanwhile, Jane was earnestly looking at him, remarking with awe, that, changed as he was since she had last seen him—so much more wasted away—the whole look of his face was altered by the gentleness and peace that it had gained, so as to be like the white figure of a saint.

She could not bear it when Mrs. King told her Alfred wanted to thank her for all her kindness in coming to see him.  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘I was not kind at all;’ and her tears would not be hindered.  ‘Only, you know, I could not help it.’

Alfred gave her a bright look.  Any one could see what a pleasure it was to him to be looking at her again, though he did not repent of his share in the sacrifice for Paul’s sake.  No, if Paul had been given up that Miss Jane might come to him, Alfred would not have had the training that made all so sweet and calm with him now.  He turned his head to the little picture, and said, ‘Thank you, Ma’am, for that.  That’s been my friend.’

‘Yes, indeed it has, Miss Jane,’ said his mother.  ‘There’s nothing you ever did for him that gave him the comfort that has been.’

‘And please, Ma’am,’ said Alfred, ‘will you tell my Lady—I give her my duty—and ask her pardon for having behaved so bad—and Mrs. Crabbe—and the rest?’

‘I will, Alfred; but every one has forgiven that nonsense long ago.’

‘It was very bad of me,’ said Alfred, pausing for breath; ‘and so it was not to mind you—Miss Jane—when you said I was ill for a warning.’

‘Did I?’ said Jane.

‘Yes—in hay-time—I mind it—I didn’t mind for long—but ’twas true.  He had patience with me.’

The cough came on, and Jane knew she must go; her grandmother had bidden her not to stay if it were so, and she just ventured to squeeze Alfred’s hand, and then went down-stairs, checking her tears, to wish Matilda and Ellen good-bye; and as she passed by Paul, told him not to uncover his still very short-haired head, and kindly hoped he was better.

Paul, in his dreary feelings, hardly thought of Mr. Cope’s plan, till, as he was getting the letters ready for Harold, he turned up one in Mr. Cope’s writing, addressed to the ‘Rev. A. Shaw, Berryton, Elbury.’

‘That’s to settle for me, then,’ he said; and Harold who was at tea, asking, ‘What’s that?’ he explained.

‘Well,’ said Harold, ‘every one to his taste!  I wouldn’t go to school again, not for a hundred pounds; and as to keeping school!’  (Such a face as he made really caused Paul to smile.)  ‘Nor you don’t half like it, neither,’ continued Harold.  ‘Come, you’d better stay and get work here!  I’d sooner be at the plough-tail all day, than poke out my eyes over stuff like that,’ pointing to Paul’s slate, covered with figures.  ‘Here, Nelly,’ as she moved about, tidying the room, ‘do you hear?  Mr. Cope’s got an offer of a place for Paul—five pounds a year, and board and lodging, to be school-master’s whipper-in, or what d’ye call it?’

‘What do you say, Harold?’ cried Ellen, putting her hands on the back of a chair, quite interested.  ‘You going away, Paul?’

‘Mr. Cope says so—and I must get my living, you know,’ said Paul.

‘But not yet; you are not well enough yet,’ said the kind girl.  ‘And where did you say—?’

‘To Berryton.’

‘Berryton—oh! that’s just four miles out on the other side of Elbury, where Susan Congleton went to live that was housemaid at the Grange.  She says it’s such a nice place, and such beautiful organ and singing at church!  And what did you say you were to be, Paul?’

‘I’m to help the school-master.’

‘Gracious me!’ cried Ellen.  ‘Why, such a scholar as you are, you’ll be quite a gentleman yet, Paul.  Why, they school-masters get fifty or sixty pounds salaries sometimes.  I protest it’s the best thing I’ve heard this long time!  Was it Mr. Cope’s doing, or my Lady’s?’

‘Mr. Cope’s,’ said Paul, beginning to think he had been rather less grateful than he ought.

‘Ah! it is like him,’ said Ellen, ‘after all the pains he has taken with you.  And you’ll not be so far off, Paul: you’ll come to see us in the holidays, you know.’

‘To be sure he will,’ said Harold; ‘or if he don’t, I shall go and fetch him.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Ellen, with her hand on Paul’s chair, and speaking low and affectionately to console him, as she saw him so downcast; ‘don’t you know how poor Alfy says he’s come to be instead of a son to Mother, and a brother to us?  I must go up and tell Alf and mother.  They’ll be so pleased.’

Paul felt very differently about the plan now.  All the house congratulated him upon it, and Matilda evidently thought more of him now that she found he was to have something to do.  But such things as these were out of sight beside that which was going on in the room above.

Alfred slept better that night, and woke so much revived, that they thought him better: and Harold, greatly comforted about him, stood tolerably quietly by his side, listening to one or two things that Alfred had longed for months past to say to him.

‘Promise me, Harold dear, that you’ll be a good son to Mother: you’ll be the only one now.’

Harold made a bend of his head like a promise.

‘O Harold, be good to her!’ went on Alfred earnestly; ‘she’s had so much trouble!  I do hope God will leave you to her—if you are steady and good.  Do, Harold!  She’s not like some, as don’t care what their lads get to.  And don’t take after me, and be idle!  Be right-down good, Harold, as Paul is; and when you come to be ill—oh! it won’t be so bad for you as it was for me!’

‘I do want to be good,’ sighed Harold.  ‘If I’d only been confirmed; but ’twas all along of them merries last summer!’

‘And I was such a plague to you—I drove you out,’ said Alfred.

‘No, no, I was a brute to you!  Oh! Alfy, Alfy, if I could only get back the time!’

He was getting to the sobs that hurt his brother; and his sister was going to interfere; but Alfred said:

‘Never mind, Harold dear, we’ve been very happy together, and we’ll always love each other.  You’ll not forget Alf, and you’ll be Mother’s good son to take care of her!  Won’t you?’

So Harold gave that promise, and went away with his tears.  Poor fellow, now was his punishment for having slighted the Confirmation.  Like Esau, an exceeding bitter cry could not bring back what he had lightly thrown away.  Well was it for him that this great sorrow came in time, and that it was not altogether his birthright that he had parted with.  He found he could not go out to his potato-planting and forget all about it, as he would have liked to have done—something would not let him; and there he was sitting crouched up and sorrowful on the steps of the stairs, when Mr. Cope and all the rest were gathered in Alfred’s room, a church for the time.  Matilda and Ellen had set out the low table with the fair white cloth, and Mr. Cope brought the small cups and paten, which were doubly precious to him for having belonged to his father, and because the last time he had seen them used had been for his father’s last Communion.

Now was the time to feel that a change had really passed over the young pastor in the time of his absence.  Before, he could only lead Alfred in his prayers, and give him counsel, tell him to hope in his repentance, and on what that hope was founded.  Now that he had bent beneath the hand of the Bishop, he had received, straight down from the Twelve, the Power from on High.  It was not Mr. Cope, but the Lord Who had purchased that Pardon by His own most Precious Blood, Who by him now declared to Alfred that the sins and errors of which he had so long repented, were pardoned and taken away.  The Voice of Authority now assured him of what he had been only told to hope and trust before.  And to make the promise all the more close and certain, here was the means of becoming a partaker of the Sacrifice—here was that Bread and that Cup which shew forth the Lord’s Death till He come.  It was very great rest and peace, the hush that was over the quiet room, with only Alfred’s hurried breath to be heard beside Mr. Cope’s voice as he spoke the blessed words, and the low responses of the little congregation.  Paul was close beside Alfred—he would have him there between his mother and the wall—and the two whose first Communion it was, were the last to whom Mr. Cope came.  To one it was to be the Food for the passage into the unseen world; to the other might it be the first partaking of the Manna to support him through the wilderness of this life.

‘From the highways and hedges,’ here was one brought into the foretaste of the Marriage Supper.  Ah! there was one outside, who had loved idle pleasure when the summons had been sent to him.  Perhaps the misery he was feeling now might be the means of sparing him from missing other calls, and being shut out at last.

It seemed to fulfil all that Alfred had wished.  He lay still between waking and sleeping for a long time afterwards, and then begged for Paul to read to him the last chapters of the Book of Revelation.  Matilda wished to read them for him; but he said, ‘Paul, please.’  Paul’s voice was fuller and softer when it was low; his accent helped the sense, and Alfred was more used to them than to his visitor sister.  Perhaps there was still another reason, for when Paul came to the end, and was turning the leaves for one of Alfred’s favourite bits, he saw Alfred’s eyes on him, as if he wanted to speak.  It was to say, ‘Brothers quite now, Paul!  Thank you.  I think God must have sent you to help me.’

Alfred seemed better all the evening, and they went to bed in good spirits; but at midnight, Mr. Cope, who was very deeply studying and praying, the better to fit himself for his new office in the ministry, was just going to shut his book, and go up to bed, when he heard a tremulous ring at the bell.