'The axe is laid to the root of the tree,' was said by the Great
Messenger, when the new and better Covenant was coming to pierce, try,
and search into, the hearts of men.
Something like this always happens, in some measure, whenever closer,
clearer, and more stringent views of faith and of practice are brought
home to Christians. They do not always take well the finding that more
is required of them than they have hitherto fancied needful; and there
are many who wince and murmur at the sharp piercing of the weapon which
tries their very hearts; they try to escape from it, and to forget the
disease that it has touched, and at first, often grow worse rather than
better. Well is it for them if they return while yet there is time,
before blindness have come over their eyes, and hardness over their
heart.
Perhaps this was the true history of much that grieved poor Mrs. King,
and distressed Ellen, during the remainder of the summer. Anxious as
Mrs. King had been to bring her sons up in the right way, there was
something in Mr. Cope's manner of talking to them that brought things
closer home to them, partly from their being put in a new light, and
partly from his being a man, and speaking with a different kind of
authority.
Alfred did not like his last conversation--it was little more than his
mother and Miss Selby had said--but then he had managed to throw it off,
and he wanted to do so again. It was pleasanter to him to think himself
hardly treated, than to look right in the face at all his faults; he knew
it was of no use to say he had none, so he lumped them all up by calling
himself a sinful creature, like every one else; and thus never felt the
weight of them at all, because he never thought what they were.
And yet, because Mr. Cope's words had made him uneasy, he could not rest
in this state; he was out of temper whenever the Curate's name was
spoken, and accused Ellen of bothering about him as much as Harold did
about Paul Blackthorn; and if he came to see him, he made himself sullen,
and would not talk, sometimes seeming oppressed and tired, and unable to
bear any one's presence, sometimes leaving Ellen to do all the answering,
dreading nothing so much as being left alone with the clergyman. Mr.
Cope had offered to read prayers with him, and he could not refuse; but
he was more apt to be thinking that it was tiresome, than trying to enter
into what, poor foolish boy, would have been his best comfort.
To say he was cross when Mr. Cope was there, would be saying much too
little; there was scarcely any time when he was not cross; he was hardly
civil even to Miss Jane, so that she began to think it was unpleasant to
him to have her there; and if she were a week without calling, he
grumbled hard thoughts about fine people; he was fretful and impatient
with the doctor; and as to those of whom he had no fears, he would have
been quite intolerable, had they loved him less, or had less pity on his
suffering.
He never was pleased with anything; teased his mother half the night, and
drove Ellen about all day. She, good girl, never said one word of
impatience, but bore it all with the sweetest good humour; but her mother
now and then spoke severely for Alfred's own good, and then he made
himself more miserable than ever, and thought she was unkind and harsh,
and that he was very much to be pitied for having a mother who could not
bear with her poor sick boy. He was treating his mother as he was
treating his Father in Heaven.
How Harold fared with him may easily be guessed--how the poor boy could
hardly speak or step without being moaned at, till he was almost turned
out of his own house; and his mother did not know what to do, for Alfred
was really very ill, and fretting made him worse, and nothing could be so
bad for his brother as being driven out from home, to spend the long
summer evenings as he could.
Ellen would have been thankful now, had Paul Blackthorn been the worst
company into which Harold fell. Not that Paul was a bit cleaner; on the
contrary, each day could not fail to make him worse, till, as Ellen had
once said, you might almost grow a crop of radishes upon his shoulders.
Mrs. King's kind offer of washing his shirt had come to nothing. She
asked Harold about it, and had for answer, 'Do you think he would, after
the way you served him?'
Either he was affronted, or he was ashamed of her seeing his rags, or,
what was not quite impossible, there was no shirt at all in the case; and
he had a sturdy sort of independence about him, that made him always turn
surly at any notion of anything being done for him for charity.
How or why he stayed on with the farmer was hard to guess, for he had
very scanty pay, and rough usage; the farmer did not like him; the
farmer's wife scolded him constantly, and laid on his shoulders all the
mischief that was done about the place; and the shuffler gave him half
his own work to do, and hunted him about from dawn till past sunset. He
was always going at the end of every week, but never gone; perhaps he had
undergone too much in his wanderings, to be ready to begin them again; or
perhaps either Caesar or Harold, one or both, kept him at Friarswood. And
there might be another reason, too, for no one had ever spoken to him
like Mr. Cope. Very few had ever thrown him a kindly word, or seemed to
treat him like a thing with feelings, and those few had been rough and
unmannerly; but Mr. Cope's good-natured smile and pleasant manner had
been a very different thing; and perhaps Paul promised to come to the
Confirmation class, chiefly because of the friendly tone in which he was
invited.
When there, he really liked it. He had always liked what he was taught,
apart from the manner of teaching; and now both manner and lessons were
delightful to him. His answers were admirable, and it was not all head
knowledge, for very little more than a really kind way of putting it was
needed, to make him turn in his loneliness to rest in the thought of the
ever-present Father. Hard as the discipline of his workhouse home had
been, it had kept him from much outward harm; the little he had seen in
his wanderings had shocked him, and he was more untaught in evil than
many lads who thought themselves more respectable, so there was no habit
of wickedness to harden and blunt him; and the application of all he had
learnt before, found his heart ready.
He had not gone to church since he left the workhouse: he did not think
it belonged to vagabonds like him; besides, he always felt walls like a
prison; and he had not profited much by the workhouse prayers, which were
read on week-days by the master, and on Sundays by a chaplain, who always
had more to do than he could manage, and only went to the paupers when
they were very ill. But when Mr. Cope talked to him of the duty of going
to church, he said, 'I will, Sir;' and he sat in the gallery with the
young lads, who were not quite as delicate as Alfred.
The service seemed to rest him, and to be like being brought near a
friend; and he had been told that church might always be his home. He
took a pleasure in going thither--the more, perhaps, that he rather liked
to shew how little he cared for remarks upon his appearance. There was a
great deal of independence about him; and, having escaped from the
unloving maintenance of the parish, while he had as yet been untaught
what affection or gratitude meant, he _would_ not be beholden to any one.
Scanty as were his wages, he would accept nothing from anybody; he daily
bought his portion of bread from Mrs. King, but it was of no use for her
to add a bit of cheese or bacon to it; he never would see the relish, and
left it behind; and so he never would accept Mr. Cope's kind offers of
giving him a bit of supper in his kitchen, perhaps because he was afraid
of being said to go to the Rectory for the sake of what he could get.
He did not object to the farmer's beer, which was sometimes given him
when any unusual extra work had been put on him. That was his right, for
in truth the farmer did not pay him the value of his labour, and perhaps
disliked him the more, because of knowing in his conscience that this was
shameful extortion.
However, just at harvest time, when Paul's shoes had become very like
what may be sometimes picked up by the roadside, Mr. Shepherd did
actually bestow on him a pair that did not fit himself! Harold came home
quite proud of them.
However, on the third day they were gone, and the farmer's voice was
heard on the bridge, rating Paul violently for having changed them away
for drink.
Mrs. King felt sorrowful; but, as Ellen said, 'What could you expect of
him?' In spite of the affront, there was a sort of acquaintance now over
the counter between Mrs. King and young Blackthorn; and when he came for
his bread, she could not help saying, 'I'm sorry to see you in those
again.'
'Why, the others hurt me so, I could hardly get about,' said Paul.
'Ah! poor lad, I suppose your feet has got spread with wearing those old
ones; but you should try to use yourself to decent ones, or you'll soon
be barefoot; and I do think it was a pity to drink them up.'
'That's all the farmer, Ma'am. He thinks one can't do anything but
drink.'
'Well, what is become of them?'
'Why, you see, Ma'am, they just suited Dick Royston, and he wanted a pair
of shoes, and I wanted a Bible and Prayer-book, so we changed 'em.'
When Ellen heard this, she could not help owning that Paul was a good boy
after all, though it was in an odd sort of way. But, alas! when next he
was to go to Mr. Cope, there was a hue-and-cry all over the hay-loft for
the Prayer-book. There was no place to put it safely, or if there had
been, Poor Paul was too great a sloven to think of any such thing; and as
it was in a somewhat rubbishy state to begin with, it was most likely
that one of the cows had eaten it with her hay; and all that could be
said was, that it would have been worse if it had been the Bible.
As to Dick Royston, to find that he would change away his Bible for a
pair of shoes, made Mrs. King doubly concerned that he should be a good
deal thrown in Harold's way. There are many people who neglect their
Bibles, and do not read them; but this may be from thoughtlessness or
press of care, and is not like the wilful breaking with good, that it is
to part with the Holy Scripture, save under the most dire necessity; and
Dick was far from being in real want, nor was he ignorant, like Mr.
Cope's poor Jem, for he had been to school, and could read well; but he
was one of those many lads, who, alas! are everywhere to be found, who
break loose from all restraint as soon as they can maintain themselves.
They do their work pretty well, and are tolerably honest; but for the
rest--alas! they seem to live without God. Prayers and Church they have
left behind, as belonging to school-days; and in all their strength and
health, their days of toil, their evenings of rude diversion, their
Sundays of morning sleep, noonday basking in the sun, evening cricket,
they have little more notion of anything concerning their souls than the
horses they drive. If ever a fear comes over them, it seems a long long
way off, a whole life-time before them; they are awkward, and in dread of
one another's jeers and remarks; and if they ever wish to be better, they
cast it from them by fancying that time must steady them when they have
had their bit of fun, or that something will come from somewhere to
change them all at once, and make it easy to them to be good--as if they
were not making it harder each moment.
This sort of lad had been utterly let alone till Mr. Cope came; and Lady
Jane and the school-master felt it was dreary work to train up nice lads
in the school, only to see them run riot, and forget all good as soon as
they thought themselves their own masters.
Mr. Cope was anxious to do the best he could for them, and the
Confirmation made a good opportunity; but the boys did not like to be
interfered with--it made them shy to be spoken to; and they liked
lounging about much better than having to poke into that mind of theirs,
which they carried somewhere about them, but did not like to stir up.
They had no notion of going to school again--which no one wanted them to
do--nor to church, because it was like little boys; and they wouldn't be
obliged.
So Mr. Cope made little way with them; a few who had better parents came
regularly to him, but others went off when they found it too much
trouble, and behaved worse than ever by way of shewing they did not care.
This folly had in some degree taken possession of Harold; and though he
could not be as bad as were some of the others, he was fast growing
impatient of restraint, and worried and angry, as if any word of good
advice affronted him. Driven from home by the fear of disturbing Alfred,
he was left the more to the company of boys who made him ashamed of being
ordered by his mother; and there was a jaunty careless style about all
his ways of talking and moving, that shewed there was something wrong
about him--he scorned Ellen, and was as saucy as he dared even to his
mother; and though Mr. Cope found him better instructed than most of his
scholars, he saw him quite as idle, as restless at church, and as ready
to whisper and grin at improper times, as many who had never been trained
like him.
One August Sunday afternoon, Mrs. King was with Alfred while Ellen was at
church. He was lying on his couch, very uncomfortable and fretful, when
to the surprise of both, a knock was heard at the door. Mrs. King looked
out of the window, and a smart, hard-looking, pigeon's-neck silk bonnet
at once nodded to her, and a voice said, 'I've come over to see you,
Cousin King, if you'll come down and let me in. I knew I should find you
at home.'
'Betsey Hardman!' exclaimed Alfred, in dismay; 'you won't let her come up
here, Mother?'
'Not if I can help it,' said Mrs. King, sighing. If there were a thing
she disliked above all others, it was Sunday visiting.
'You must help it, Mother,' said Alfred, in his most pettish tones. 'I
won't have her here, worrying with her voice like a hen cackling. Say
you won't let her come her!'
'Very well,' said Mrs. King, in doubt of her own powers, and in haste to
be decently civil.
'Say you won't,' repeated Alfred. 'Gadding about of a Sunday, and
leaving her old sick mother--more shame for her! Promise, Mother!'
He had nearly begun to cry at his mother's unkindness in running down-
stairs without making the promise, for, in fact, Mrs. King had too much
conscience to gain present quiet for any one by promises she might be
forced to break; and Betsey Hardman was only too well known.
Her mother was an aunt of Alfred's father, an old decrepit widow, nearly
bed-ridden, but pretty well to do, by being maintained chiefly by her
daughter, who made a good thing of taking in washing in the suburbs of
Elbury, and always had a girl or two under her. She had neither had the
education, nor the good training in service, that had fallen to Mrs.
King's lot; and her way of life did not lead to softening her tongue or
temper. Ellen called her vulgar, and though that is not a nice word to
use, she was coarse in her ways of talking and thinking, loud-voiced, and
unmannerly, although meaning to be very good-natured.
Alfred lay in fear of her step, ten times harder than Harold's in his
most boisterous mood, coming clamp clamp! up the stairs; and her shrill
voice--the same tone in which she bawled to her deaf mother, and hallooed
to her girls when they were hanging out the clothes in the high
wind--coming pitying him--ay, and perhaps her whole weight lumbering down
on the couch beside him, shaking every joint in his body! His mother's
ways, learnt in the Selby nursery, had made him more tender, and more
easily fretted by such things, than most cottage lads, who would have
been used to them, and never have thought of not liking to have every
neighbour who chose running up into the room, and talking without regard
to subject or tone.
He listened in a fright to the latch of the door, and the coming in.
Betsey's voice came up, through every chink of the boards, whatever she
did herself; and he could hear every word of her greeting, as she said
how it was such a fine day, she said to Mother she would take a holiday,
and come and see Cousin King and the poor lad: it must be mighty dull for
him, moped up there.
Stump! stump! Was she coming? His mother was answering something too
soft for him to hear.
'What, is he asleep?'
'O Mother, must you speak the truth?'
'Bless me! I should have thought a little cheerful company was good for
him. Do you leave him quite alone? Well--' and there was a frightful
noise of the foot of the heaviest chair on the floor. 'I'll sit down and
wait a bit! Is he so very fractious, then?'
What was his mother saying? Alfred clenched his fist, and grinned anger
at Betsey with closed teeth. There was the tiresome old word, 'Low--ay,
so's my mother; but you should rise his spirits with company, you see;
that's why I came over; as soon as ever I heard that there wasn't no hope
of him, says I to Mother--'
What? What was that she had heard? There was his mother, probably
trying to restrain her voice, for it came up now just loud enough to make
it most distressing to try to catch the words, which sounded like
something pitying. 'Ay, ay--just like his poor father; when they be
decliny, it will come out one ways or another; and says I to Mother, I'll
go over and cheer poor Cousin King up a bit, for you see, after all, if
he'd lived, he'd be nothing but a burden, crippled up like that; and a
lingering job is always bad for poor folks.'
Alfred leant upon his elbow, his eyes full stretched, but feeling as if
all his senses had gone into his ears, in his agony to hear more; and he
even seemed to catch his mother's voice, but there was no hope in that;
it was of her knowing it would be all for the best; and the sadness of it
told him that she believed the same as Betsey. Then came, 'Yes; I
declare it gave me such a turn, you might have knocked me down with a
feather. I asked Mr. Blunt to come in and see what's good for Mother,
she feels so weak at times, and has such a noise in her head, just like
the regiment playing drums, she says, till she can't hardly bear herself;
and so what do you think he says? Don't wrap up her head so warm, says
he--a pretty thing for a doctor to say, as if a poor old creature like
that, past seventy years old, could go without a bit of flannel to her
head, and her three night-caps, and a shawl over them when there's a
draught. I say, Cousin, I ha'n't got much opinion of Mr. Blunt. Why
don't you get some of them boxes of pills, that does cures wonderful?
Ever so many lords and ladies cured of a perplexity fit, by only just
taking an imposing draught or two.'
Another time Alfred would have laughed at the very imposing draught, that
was said to cure lords and ladies of this jumble between apoplexy and
paralysis; but this was no moment for laughing, and he was in despair at
fancying his mother wanted to lead her off on the quack medicine; but she
went on.
'Well, only read the papers that come with them. I make my girl Sally
read 'em all to me, being that she's a better scholar; and the long words
is quite heavenly--I declare there ain't one of them shorter than
peregrination. I'd have brought one of them over to shew you if I hadn't
come away in a hurry, because Evans's cart was going out to the merry
orchard, and says I to Mother, Well, I'll get a lift now there's such a
chance to Friarswood: it'll do them all a bit of good to see a bit of
cheerful company, seeing, as Mr. Blunt says, that poor lad is going after
his father as fast as can be. Dear me, says I, you don't say so, such a
fine healthy-looking chap as he was. Yes, he says, but it's in the
constitution; it's getting to the lungs, and he'll never last out the
winter.'
Alfred listened for the tone of his mother's voice; he knew he should
judge by that, even without catching the words--low, subdued, sad--he
almost thought she began with 'Yes.'
All the rest that he heard passed by him merely as a sound, noted no more
than the lowing of the cattle, or the drone of the thrashing machine. He
lay half lifted up on his pillows, drawing his breath short with
apprehension; his days were numbered, and death was coming fast, fast,
straight upon him. He felt it within himself--he knew now the meaning of
the pain and sinking, the shortness of breath and choking of throat that
had been growing on him through the long summer days; he was being 'cut
off with pining sickness,' and his sentence had gone forth. He would
have screamed for his mother in the sore terror and agony that had come
over him, in hopes she might drive the notion from him; but the dread of
seeing her followed by that woman kept his lips shut, except for his long
gasps of breath.
And she could not keep him--Mr. Blunt could not keep him; no one could
stay the hand that had touched him! Prayer! They had prayed for his
father, for Charlie, but it had not been God's Will. He had himself many
times prayed to recover, and it had not been granted--he was worse and
worse.
Moreover, whither did that path of suffering lead? Up rose before Alfred
the thought of living after the unknown passage, and of answering for all
he had done; and now the faults he had refused to call to mind when he
was told of chastisement, came and stood up of themselves. Bred up to
know the good, he had not loved it; he had cared for his own pleasure,
not for God; he had not heeded the comfort of his widowed mother; he had
been careless of the honour of God's House, said and heard prayers
without minding them; he had been disrespectful and ill-behaved at my
Lady's--he had been bad in every way; and when illness came, how
rebellious and murmuring he had been, how unkind he had been to his
patient mother, sister, and brother; and when Mr. Cope had told him it
was meant to lead him to repent, he would not hear; and now it was too
late, the door would be shut. He had always heard that there was a time
when sorrow was no use, when the offer of being saved had been thrown
away.
When Ellen came in, and after a short greeting to Betsey Hardman, went up-
stairs, she found Alfred lying back on his pillow, deadly white, the
beads of dew standing on his brow, and his breath in gasps. She would
have shrieked for her mother, but he held out his hand, and said, in a
low hoarse whisper, 'Ellen, is it true?'
'What, Alfy dear? What is the matter?'
'What _she_ says.'
'Who? Betsey Hardman? Dear dear Alf, is it anything dreadful?'
'That I shall die,' said Alfred, his eyes growing round with terror
again. 'That Mr. Blunt said I couldn't last out the winter.'
'Dear Alfy, don't!' cried Ellen, throwing her arms round him, and kissing
him with all her might; 'don't fancy it! She's always gossiping and
gadding about, and don't know what she says, and she'd got no business to
tell stories to frighten my darling!' she exclaimed, sobbing with
agitation. 'I'm sure Mr. Blunt never said no such thing!'
'But Mother thinks it, Ellen.'
'She doesn't, she can't!' cried Ellen vehemently; 'I know she doesn't, or
she could never go about as she does. I'll call her up and ask her, to
satisfy you.'
'No, no, not while that woman is there!' cried Alfred, holding her by the
dress; 'I'll not have _her_ coming up.'
Even while he spoke, however, Mrs. King was coming. Betsey had spied an
old acquaintance on the way from church, and had popped out to speak to
her, and Mrs. King caught that moment for coming up. She understood all,
for she had been sitting in great distress, lest Alfred should be
listening to every word which she was unable to silence, and about which
Betsey was quite thoughtless. So many people of her degree would talk to
the patient about himself and his danger, and go on constantly before him
with all their fears, and the doctor's opinions, that Betsey had never
thought of there being more consideration and tenderness shewn in this
house, nor that Mrs. King would have hidden any pressing danger from the
sick person; but such plain words had not yet passed between her and Mr.
Blunt; and though she had long felt what Alfred's illness would come to,
the perception had rather grown on her than come at any particular
moment.
Now when Ellen, with tears and agitation, asked what that Betsey had been
saying to frighten Alfred so, and when she saw her poor boy's look at
her, and heard his sob, 'Oh, Mother!' it was almost too much for her, and
she went up and kissed him, and laid him down less uneasily, but he felt
a great tear fall on his face.
'It's not true, Mother, I'm sure it is not true,' cried Ellen; 'she
ought--'
Mrs. King looked at her daughter with a sad sweet face, that stopped her
short, and brought the sense over her too. 'Did he say so, Mother?' said
Alfred.
'Not to me, dear,' she answered; 'but, Ellen, she's coming back! She'll
be up here if you don't go down.'
Poor Ellen! what would she not have given for power to listen to her
mother, and cry at her ease? But she was forced to hurry, or Betsey
would have been half-way up-stairs in another instant. She was a hopeful
girl, however, and after that 'not to me,' resolved to believe nothing of
the matter. Mrs. King knelt down by her son, and looked at him tenderly;
and then, as his eyes went on begging for an answer, she said, 'Dr. Blunt
never told me there was no hope, my dear, and everything lies in God's
power.'
'But you don't think I shall get well, Mother?'
'I don't feel as if you would, my boy,' she said, very low, and fondling
him all the time. 'You've got to cough like Father and Charlie,
and--though He might raise my boy up--yet anyhow, Alfy boy, if God sees
it good for us, it _will_ be good for us, and we shall be helped through
with it.'
'But I'm not good, Mother! What will become of me?'
'Perhaps the hearing this is all out of God's mercy, to give you time to
get ready, my dear. You are no worse now than you were this morning; you
are not like to go yet awhile. No, indeed, my child; so if you don't put
off any longer--'
'Mother!' called up Ellen. She was in despair. Betsey was not to be
kept by her from satisfying herself upon Alfred's looks, and Mrs. King
was only in time to meet her on the stairs, and tell her that he was so
weak and low, that he could not be seen now, she could not tell how it
would be when he had had his tea.
Ellen thought she had never had so distressing a tea-drinking in her
life, as the being obliged to sit listening civilly to Betsey's long
story about the trouble she had about a stocking of Mrs. Martin's that
was lost in the wash, and that had gone to Miss Rosa Marlowe, because
Mrs. Martin had her things marked with a badly-done K. E. M., and all
that Mrs. Martin's Maria and all Miss Marlowe's Jane had said about it,
and all Betsey's 'Says I to Mother,'--when she was so longing to be
watching poor Alfred, and how her mother could sit so quietly making tea,
and answering so civilly, she could not guess; but Mrs. King had that
sense of propriety and desire to do as she would be done by, which is the
very substance of Christian courtesy, the very want of which made Betsey,
with all her wish to be kind, a real oppression and burthen to the whole
party.
And where was Harold? Ellen had not seen him coming out of church, but
meal-times were pretty certain to bring him home.
'Oh,' said Betsey, 'I'll warrant he is off to the merry orchard.'
'I hope not,' said Mrs. King gravely.
'He never would,' said Ellen, in anger.
'Ah, well, I always said I didn't see no harm in a lad getting a bit of
pleasure.'
'No, indeed,' said Mrs. King. 'Harold knows I would not stint him in the
fruit nor in the pleasure, but I should be much vexed if he could go out
on a Sunday, buying and selling, among such a lot as meet at that
orchard.'
'Well, I'm sure I don't know when poor folks is to have a holiday if not
on a Sunday, and the poor boy must be terrible moped with his brother so
ill.'
'Not doing thine own pleasure on My holy day,' thought Ellen, but she did
not say it, for her mother could not bear for texts to be quoted at
people. But her heart was very heavy; and when she went up with some tea
to Alfred, she looked from the window to see whether, as she hoped,
Harold might be in Paul's hay-loft, preferring going without his tea to
being teased by Betsey. Paul sat in his loft, with his Bible on his
knee, and his head on Caesar's neck.
'Alfred,' said Ellen, 'do you know where Harold is? Sure he is not gone
to the merry orchard?'
'Is not he come home?' said Alfred. 'Oh, then he is! He is gone to the
merry orchard, breaking Sunday with Dick Royston! And by-and-by he'll be
ill, and die, and be as miserable as I am!' And Alfred cried as Ellen
had never seen him cry.