If Harold had known all the consequences of his neglect, perhaps he would
have been more sorry for it than as yet he had chosen to be.
The long walk and the warm beer and fire sent Paul to his hay-nest so
heavy with sleep, that he never stirred till next morning he was wakened
by Tom Boldre, the shuffler, kicking him severely, and swearing at him
for a lazy fellow, who stayed out at night and left him to do his work.
Paul stumbled to his feet, quite confused by the pain, and feeling for
his shoes in the dark loft. The shuffler scarcely gave him an instant to
put them on, but hunted him down-stairs, telling him the farmer was
there, and he would catch it.
It would do nobody any good to hear the violent way in which Mr. Shepherd
abused the boy. He was a passionate man, and no good labourers liked to
work with him because of his tongue. With such grown men as he had, he
was obliged to keep himself under some restraint, but this only incited
him to make up for it towards the poor friendless boy.
It was really nearly eight o'clock, and Paul's work had been neglected,
which was enough to cause displeasure; and besides, Boldre had heard Paul
coming home past eleven, and the farmer insisted on knowing what he had
been doing.
Under all his rags, Paul was a very proud boy, and thus asked, he would
not tell, but stood with his legs twisted, looking very sulky.
'No use asking him,' cried Mrs. Shepherd's shrill voice at the back door;
'why, don't ye hear that Mrs. Barker's hen-roost has been robbed by Dick
Royston and two or three more on 'em?'
'I never robbed!' cried Paul indignantly.
'None of your jaw,' said the farmer angrily. 'If you don't tell me this
moment where you've been, off you go this instant. Drinking at the
Tankard, I'll warrant.'
'No such thing, Sir,' said Paul. 'I went to Elbury after some medicine
for a sick person.'
Somehow he had a feeling about the house opposite, which would not let
him come out with the name in such a scene.
'That's all stuff,' broke in Mrs. Shepherd, 'I don't believe one word of
it! Send him off; take my advice, Farmer, let him go where he comes
from; Ellen King told me he was out of prison.'
Paul flushed crimson at this, and shook all over. He had all but turned
to go, caring for nothing more at Friarswood; but just then, John Farden,
one of the labourers, who was carrying out some manure, called out, 'No,
no, Ma'am. Sure enough he did go to Elbury to Dr. Blunt's. I was on the
road myself, and I hears him. "Good-night," says I. "Good-night," says
he. "Where be'est going?" says I. "To doctor's," says he, "arter some
stuff for Alfred King."
'Yes,' said Paul, speaking more to Farden than to his master, 'and then
Mrs. King gave me some supper, and that was what made me so late.'
'She ought to be ashamed of herself, then,' said Mrs. Shepherd
spitefully, 'having a vagabond scamp like that drinking beer at her house
at that time of night. How one is deceived in folks!'
'Well, what are you doing here?' cried the farmer, turning on Paul
angrily; 'd'ye mean to waste any more of the day?'
So Paul was not turned off, and had to go straight to his work. It was
well he had had so good a supper, for he had not a moment to snatch a bit
of breakfast. It so happened that his work was to go with John Farden,
who was carrying out the manure in the cart. Paul had to hold the horse,
while John forked it out into little heaps in the field. John was a
great big powerful man, with a foolish face, not a good workman, nor a
good character, or he would not have been at that farm. He had either
never been taught anything, or had forgotten it all; he never went near
church; he had married a disreputable wife, and had two or three unruly
children, who were likely to be the plagues of their parents and the
parish, but not a whit did John heed; he did not seem to have much more
sense than to work just enough to get food, lodging, beer, and tobacco,
to sleep all night, and doze all Sunday. There was not any malice nor
dishonesty in him; but it was terrible that a man with an immortal soul
should live so nearly the life of the brute beasts that have no
understanding, and should never wake to the sense of God or of eternity.
He was not a man of many words, and nothing passed for a long time but
shouts of hoy, and whoa, and the like, to the horse. Paul went heavily
on, scarce knowing what he was about; there was a stunned jaded feel
about him, as if he were hunted and driven about, a mere outcast,
despised by every one, even by the Kings, whose kindness had been his
only ray of brightness. Not that his senses or spirits were alive enough
even to be conscious of pain or vexation; it was only a dull dreary
heedlessness what became of him next; and, quick clever boy as he had
been in the Union, he did not seem to have a bit more sense, thought, or
feeling, than John Farden.
John Farden was the first to break the silence: 'I wouldn't bide,' said
he.
Paul looked up, and muttered, 'I have nowhere to go.'
'Farmer uses thee shameful,' repeated John. 'Why don't thee cut?'
Paul saw the smoke of Mrs. King's chimney. That had always seemed like a
friend to him, but it came across him that they too thought him a runaway
from prison, and he felt as if his only bond of fellowship was gone. But
there was something else, too; and he made answer, 'I'll bide for the
Confirmation.'
'Eh?' said John, 'what good'll that do ye?'
'Help me to be a good lad,' said Paul, who knew John Farden would not
enter into any other explanation.
'Why, what'll they do to ye?'
'The Bishop will put his hand on me and bless me,' said Paul; and as he
said the words there was hope and refreshment coming back. He was a
child of God, if no other owned him.
'Whoy,' said Farden, much as he might have spoken to his horse, 'rum sort
of a head thou'st got! Thee'll never go up to Bishop such a guy!'
'Can't help it,' said Paul rather sullenly; 'it ain't the clothes that
God looks at.'
John scanned him all over, with his face looking more foolish than ever
in the puzzle he felt.
'Well,' he said, 'and what wilt get by it?'
'God's grace to do right, I hope,' said Paul; then he added, out of his
sad heart, 'It's bad enough here, to be sure. It would be a bad look-out
if one hoped for nothing afterwards.'
Somehow John's mind didn't take in the notion of afterwards, and he did
not go on talking to Paul. Perhaps there was a dread in his poor dull
mind of getting frightened out of the deadly stupefied sleep it was bound
in.
But that bit of talk had done Paul great good, by rousing him to the
thought of what he had to hope for. There was the Confirmation nigh at
hand, and then on beyond there was rest; and the words came into his
mind, 'There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at
rest.'
Poor, poor boy! He was very young to have such yearnings towards the
grave, and well-nigh to wish he lay as near to it as Alfred King, so he
might have those loving tender hands near him, those kind voices round
him. Paul had gone through a great deal in these few months; and, used
to good shelter and regular meals, he was less inured to bodily hardship
than many a cottage boy. His utter neglect of his person was telling on
him; he was less healthy and strong than he had been, and though high
spirits, merriment, and the pleasure of freedom and independence, had
made all light to him in the summer, yet now the cold weather, with his
insufficient food and scanty clothing, was dulling him and deadening him,
and hard work and unkind usage seemed to be grinding his very senses
down. To be sure, when twelve o'clock came, he went up into the loft,
ate his bit of dry bread, and said his prayers, as he had not been able
to do in the morning, and that made him feel less forlorn and downcast
for a little while; but then as he sat, he grew cold, and numb, and
sleepy, and seemed to have no life in him, but to be moving like a horse
in a mill, when Boldre called him down, and told him not to be idling
there.
The theft in Mrs. Barker's poultry-yard was never traced home to any one,
but the world did not the less believe Dick Royston and Jesse Rolt to
have been concerned in it. Indeed, they had been drinking up some of
their gains when Harold met them at the shooting-gallery: and Mrs.
Shepherd would not put it out of her head that Paul Blackthorn was in the
secret, and that if he did really go for the medicine as he said, it was
only as an excuse for carrying the chickens to some receiver of stolen
goods. She had no notion of any person doing anything out of pure love
and pity. Moreover, it is much easier to put a suspicion into people's
heads than out again; and if Paul's whole history and each day's doings
had been proved to her in a court of justice, she would still have
chiefly remembered that she had always thought ill of him, and that Ellen
King had said he was a runaway convict, and so she would have believed
him to the end.
Ellen had long ago forgotten that she had said anything of the kind; and
though she still held her nose rather high when Paul was near, she would
have answered for his honesty as readily as for that of her own brothers.
But hers had not been the charity that thinketh no evil, and her idle
words had been like thistle-down, lightly sent forth, but when they had
lighted, bearing thorns and prickles.
Those thorns were galling poor Paul. Nobody could guess what his
glimpses of that happy, peaceful, loving family were to him. They seemed
to him like a softer, better kind of world, and he looked at their fair
faces and fresh, well-ordered garments with a sort of reverence; a kind
look or greeting from Mrs. King, a mere civil answer from Ellen, those
two sights of the white spirit-looking Alfred, were like the rays of
light that shone into his dark hay-loft. Sometimes he heard them singing
their hymns and psalms on a Sunday evening, and then the tears would come
into his eyes as he leant over the gate to listen. And, as if it was
because Ellen kept at the greatest distance from him, he set more store
by her words and looks than those of any one else, was always glad when
she served him in the shop, and used to watch her on Sunday, looking as
fresh as a flower in her neat plain dress.
And now to hear that she not only thought meanly of him, which he knew
well enough, but thought him a thief, a runaway, and an impostor coming
about with false tales, was like a weight upon his sunken spirits, and
seemed to take away all the little heart hard usage had left him, made
him feel as if suspicious eyes were on him whenever he went for his bit
of bread, and took away all his peace in looking at the cottage.
He did once take courage to say to Harold, 'Did your sister really say I
had run away from gaol?'
'Oh, nobody minds what our Ellen says,' was the answer.
'But did she say so?'
'I don't know, I dare say she did. She's so fine, that she thinks no one
that comes up-stairs in dirty shoes worth speaking to. I'm sure she's
the plague of my life--always at me.'
That was not much comfort for Paul. He had other friends, to be sure.
All the boys in the place liked him, and were very angry with the way the
farmer treated him, and greatly to their credit, they admired his
superior learning instead of being jealous of it. Mrs. Hayward, the
sexton's wife, the same who had bound up his hand when he cut it at
harvest, even asked him to come in and help her boys in the evenings with
what they had to prepare for Mr. Cope. He was not sorry to do so
sometimes. The cottage was a slatternly sort of place, where he did not
feel ashamed of himself, and the Haywards were mild good sort of folks,
from whom he was sure never to hear either a bad or an unkind word;
though he did not care for them, nor feel refreshed and helped by being
with them as he did with the Kings.
John Farden, too, was good-natured to him, and once or twice hindered
Boldre from striking or abusing him; he offered him a pipe once, but Paul
could not smoke, and another time brought him out a pint of beer into the
field. Mrs. Shepherd spied him drinking it from her upper window, and
believed all the more that he got money somehow, and spent it in drink.
So the time wore on till the Confirmation, all seeming like one dull
heavy dream of bondage; and as the weather became colder, the poor boy
seemed to have no power of thinking of anything, but of so getting
through his work as to avoid violence, to keep himself from perishing
with cold, and not to hurt his chilblains more than he could help.
All his quick intellect and good instruction seemed to have perished
away, and the last time he went to Mr. Cope's, he sat as if he were
stupid or asleep, and when a question came to him, sat with his mouth
open like silly Bill Pridden.
Mr. Cope knew him too well not to feel, as he wrote the ticket, that
there were very few of whom he could so entirely from his heart say
'Examined and APPROVED,' as the poor lonely outcast foundling, Paul
Blackthorn, who could not even tell whether he were fifteen, sixteen, or
seventeen, but could just make sure that he had once been caned by old
Mr. Haynes, who went away from the Union twelve years ago.
'Do you think you can keep the ticket safe if I give it you now, Paul?'
asked Mr. Cope, recollecting that the cows might sup upon it like his
Prayer-book.
Paul put his hands down to the bottom of his pockets. They were all one
hole, and that sad lost foolish look came over his wan face again, and
startled Mr. Cope.
The boys grinned, but Charles Hayward stepped forward. 'Please, Sir, let
me take care of it for him.'
Mr. Cope and Paul both agreed, and Mr. Cope kept Charles for a moment to
say, as he gave him a shilling, 'Look here, Charles, do you think you can
manage to get that poor fellow a tolerable breakfast on Saturday before
he goes? And if you could make him look a little more decent?'
Charles pulled his forelock and looked knowing. In fact, there was a
little plot among these good-natured boys, and Harold King was in it too,
though he was not of the Confirmation party, and said and thought he was
very glad of it. He did not want to bind himself to be so very good.
Silly boy; as if Baptism had not bound him already!
Mrs. Hayward put her head out as Paul passed her cottage, and called out,
'I say, you Paul, you come in to-morrow evening with our Charlie and Jim,
and I'll wash you when I washes them.'
Good Mrs. Hayward made a mistake that the more delicate-minded Mrs. King
would never have made. Perhaps if a pail of warm water and some soap had
been set before Paul, he might actually have washed himself; but he was
much too big and too shamefaced a lad to fancy sharing a family scrubbing
by a woman, whatever she might do to her own sons. But considering the
size of the Hayward cottage, and the way in which the family lived, this
sort of notion was not likely to come into the head of the good-natured
mother.
So she and her boys were much vexed when Paul did not make his
appearance, and she made a face of great disgust when Charles said,
'Never mind, Mother, my white frock will hide no end of dirt.'
'I shall have to wash it over again before you can wear it, I know,' said
Mrs. Hayward. 'Not as I grudges the trouble; he's a poor lost orphant,
that it's a shame to see so treated.'
Mrs. Hayward did not know that she was bestowing the cup of cold water,
as well as being literally ready to wash the feet of the poor disciple.
A clean body is a type and token of a pure mind; and though the lads of
Friarswood did not quite perceive this, there was a feeling about them of
there being something unnatural and improper, and a disgrace to
Friarswood, in any one going up to the Bishop in such a condition as
Paul. Especially, as Charles Hayward said, when he was the pick of the
whole lot. Perhaps Charles was right, for surely Paul was single-hearted
in his hope of walking straight to his one home, Heaven, and he had been
doing no other than bearing his cross, when he so patiently took the
being 'buffeted' when he did well, and faithfully served his froward
master.
But Paul was not to escape the outward cleansing, and from one of the
very last people from whom it would have been expected. He had just
pulled his bed of hay down over him, and was trying to curl himself up so
as to stop his teeth from chattering, with Caesar on his feet, when the
dog growled, and a great voice lowered to a gruff whisper, said, 'Come
along, young un!'
'I'm coming,' cried Paul.
Though it was not Boldre's voice, it had startled him terribly; he was so
much used to ill-treatment, that he expected a savage blow every moment.
But the great hand that closed on him, though rough, was not unkind.
'Poor lad, how he quakes!' said John Farden's voice. 'Don't ye be
afeard, it's only me.'
'Nobody got at the horses?' cried Paul.
'No, no; only I ain't going to have you going up to yon big parson all
one muck-heap! Come on, and make no noise about it.'
Paul did not very well know what was going to befall him, but he did not
feel unsafe with John Farden, and besides, his lank frame was in the
grasp of that big hand like a mouse in the power of a mastiff. So he let
himself be hauled down the ladder, into an empty stall, where, behold,
there was a dark lantern (which had been at bad work in its time), a
pail, a brush, a bit of soap, and a ragged towel.
John laid hold of him much as Alfred in his page days used to do of Lady
Jane's little dog when it had to be washed, but Puck had the advantage in
keeping on his shaggy coat all the time, and in being more gently
handled, whereas Farden scrubbed with such hearty good-will, that Paul
thought his very skin would come off. But he had undergone the like in
the workhouse, and he knew how to accommodate himself to it; and when his
rough bath was over, though he was very sore, and stiff, and chilly, he
really felt relieved, and more respectable than he had done for many
months, only rather sorry he must put on his filthy old rags again; and
he gave honest John more thanks than might have been expected.
The Confirmation was to be at eleven o'clock, at Elbury, and John had
undertaken his morning's work, so that Mr. Shepherd grudgingly consented
to spare him, knowing that all the other farmers of course did the same,
and that there would be a cry of shame if he did not.
Paul had just found his way down the ladder in the morning, with thoughts
going through his mind that to him this would be the coming of the
Comforter, and he was sure he wanted comfort; and that for some hours of
this day at least, he should be at peace from rude words and blows, when
he heard a great confusion of merry voices and suppressed laughing, and
saw the heads of some of the lads bobbing about near Mrs. King's garden.
Was it time already to set off, he wondered, looking up to the sun; but
then those boys seemed to be in an uproarious state such as did not suit
his present mood, nor did he think Mr. Cope would consider it befitting.
He would have let them go by, feeling himself such a scare-crow as they
might think a blot upon them; but he remembered that Charles Hayward had
his ticket, and as he looked at himself, he doubted whether he should be
let into a strange church.
'Paul! Paul Blackthorn!' called Harold, with a voice all aglee.
'Well!' said Paul, 'what do you want of me?'
'Come on, and you'll see.'
'I don't want a row. Is Charlie Hayward there? Just ask him for my
card, and don't make a work.'
'He'll give it you if you'll come for it,' said Harold; and seeing there
was no other chance, Paul slowly came. Harold led him to the stable,
where just within the door stood a knot of stout hearty boys, snorting
with fun, hiding their heads on each other's shoulders, and bending their
buskined knees with merriment.
'Now then!' cried Charles Hayward, and he had got hold of the only button
that held Paul's coat together.
Paul was bursting out with something, but George Grant's arms were round
his waist, and his hands were fumbling at his fastenings. They were each
one much stronger than he was now, and they drowned his voice with shouts
of laughter, while as fast as one garment was pulled off, another was put
on.
'Mind, you needn't make such a work, it bain't presents,' said George
Grant, 'only we won't have them asking up at Elbury if we've saved the
guy to bring in.'
'It is a present, though, old Betty Bushel's shirt,' said Charles
Hayward. 'She said she'd throw it at his head if he brought it back
again; but the frock's mine.'
'And the corduroys is mine,' said George Grant. 'My! they be a sight too
big in the band! Run in, Harold, and see if your mother can lend us a
pin.'
'And the waistcoat is my summer one,' said Fred Bunting. 'He's too big
too; why, Paul, you're no better than a natomy!'
'Never mind, my white frock will hide it all,' said Charles, 'and here's
Ned's cap for you. Oh! and it's poor Alfred's boots.'
Paul could not make up his mind to walk all the way in the boots, but to
satisfy the boys he engaged to put them on as soon as they were getting
to Elbury.
'My! he looks quite respectable,' cried Charles, running back a little
way to look at him.
'I wonder if Mr. Cope will know him?' exclaimed Harold, jumping leap-frog
fashion on George Grant's back.
'The maids will take him for some strange gentleman,' exclaimed Jem
Hayward; 'and why, bless me, he's washed, I do declare!' as a streak of
light from the door fell on Paul's visage.
'No, you don't mean it,' broke out Charles. 'Let's look! yes, I protest,
why, the old grime between his eyes is gone after all. How did you
manage that, Paul?'
Paul rather uneasily mumbled something about John Farden, and the boys
clapped their hands, and shouted, so that Alfred, who well knew what was
going on, raised himself on his pillow and laughed. It was rather blunt
treatment for feelings if they were tender, but these were rough warm-
hearted village boys, and it was all their good-nature.
'And where's the grub?' asked Charles importantly, looking about.
'Oh, not far off,' said Harold; and in another moment, he and Charles had
brought in a black coffee-pot, a large mug, some brown sugar, a hunch of
bread, some butter, and a great big smoking sausage.
Paul looked at it, as if he were not quite sure what to do with it. One
boy proceeded to turn in an inordinate quantity of sugar, another to pour
in the brown coffee that sent out a refreshing steam enough to make any
one hungry. George Grant spread the butter, cut the sausage in half, put
it on the bread, and thrust it towards Paul.
'Eat it--s--s,' said Charles, patting Paul on the back. 'Mr. Cope said
you was to, and you must obey your minister.'
'Not all for me?' said Paul, not able to help a pull at the coffee, the
mug warming his fingers the while.
'Oh yes, we've all had our breakfastisses,' said George Grant; 'we are
only come to make you eat yours like a good boy, as Mr. Cope said you
should.'
They stood round, looking rather as they would have done had Paul been an
elephant taking his meal in a show; but not one would hear of helping him
off with a crumb out of Mr. Cope's shilling. George Grant was a big
hungry lad, and his breakfast among nine at home had not been much to
speak of; but savoury as was the sausage, and perfumy as was the coffee,
he would have scorned to take a fragment from that stranger, beg him to
do so as Paul might; and what could not be eaten at that time, with a
good pint of the coffee, was put aside in a safe nook in the stable to be
warmed up for supper.
That morning's work was not a bad preparation for Confirmation after all.
Harold had stayed so long, that he had to jump on the pony and ride his
fastest to be in time at the post. He was very little ashamed of not
being among those lads, and felt as if he had the more time to enjoy
himself; but there were those who felt very sad for him--Alfred, who
would have given so much to receive the blessing; and Ellen, whose
confirmation was very lonely and melancholy without either of her
brothers; besides his mother, to whom his sad carelessness was such
constant grief and heart-ache.
Ellen was called for by the carriage from the Grange, and sat up behind
with the kitchen-maid, who was likewise to be confirmed. Little Miss
Jane sat inside in her white dress and veil, looking like a snowdrop,
Alfred thought, as his mother lifted him up to the window to see her, as
the carriage stood still while Ellen climbed to her seat.
In the course of the morning, Mrs. King made time to read over the
Confirmation Service with Alfred, to think of the blessing she was
receiving, and to pray that it might rest upon her through life. And
they entreated, too, that Harold might learn to care for it, and be
brought to a better mind.
'O Mother,' said Alfred, after lying thinking for sometime, 'if I thought
Harold would take up for good and be a better boy to you than I have
been, I should not mind anything so much.'
And there was Harold all the time wondering whether he should be able to
get out in the evening to have a lark with Dick and Jesse.
Ellen was set down by-and-by. Her colour was very deep, but she looked
gentle and happy, and the first thing she did was to bend over Alfred,
kiss him, and say how she wished he had been there.
Then, when she had been into her own room, she came back and told them
about the beautiful large Elbury Church, and the great numbers of young
girls and boys on the two sides of the aisle, and of the Bishop seated in
the chair by the altar, and the chanted service, with the organ sounding
so beautiful.
And then how her heart had beat, and she hardly dared to speak her vow,
and how she trembled when her turn came to go up to the rail, but she
said it was so comfortable to see Mr. Cope in his surplice, looking so
young among the other clergymen, and coming a little forward, as if to
count out and encourage his own flock. She was less frightened when she
had met his kind eye, and was able to kneel down with a more quiet mind
to receive the gift which had come down on the Day of Pentecost.
Alfred wanted to know whether she had seen Paul, but Ellen had been
kneeling down and not thinking of other people, when the Friarswood boys
went up. Only she had passed him on the way home, and seen that though
he was lagging the last of the boys, he did not look dull and worn, as he
had been doing lately.
Ellen had been asked to go to the Grange after church to-morrow evening,
and drink tea there, in celebration of the Confirmation which the two
young foster-sisters had shared.
Harold went to fetch her home at night, and they both came into the house
fresh and glowing with the brisk frosty air, and also with what they had
to tell.
'O mother, what do you think? Paul Blackthorn is to go to the Grange to-
morrow. My Lady wants to see him, and perhaps she will make Mr. Pound
find some work for him about the farm.'
Harold jumped up and snapped his fingers towards the farm. 'There's for
old Skinflint!' said he; 'not a chap in the place but will halloo for
joy!'
'Well, I am glad!' said Mrs. King; 'I didn't think that poor lad would
have held out much longer, winter weather and all. But how did my Lady
come to hear of it?'
'Oh, it seems she noticed him going to church in all his rags, and Mr.
Cope told her who he was; so Miss Jane came and asked me all about him,
and I told her what a fine scholar he is, and how shamefully the farmer
and Boldre treat him, and how good he was to Alfred about the ointment,
and how steady he is. And I told her about the boys dressing him up
yesterday, and how he wouldn't take a gift. She listened just as if it
was a story, and she ran away to her grandmamma, and presently came back
to say that the boy was to come up to-morrow after his work, for Lady
Jane to speak to him.'
'Well, at least, he has been washed once,' said Mrs. King; 'but he's so
queer; I hope he will have no fancies, and will behave himself.'
'I'll tackle him,' declared Harold decidedly. 'I've a great mind to go
out this moment and tell him.'
Mrs. King prevented this; she persuaded Harold that Mrs. Shepherd would
fly out at them if she heard any noise in the yard, and that it would be
better for every one to let Paul alone till the morning.
Morning came, and as soon as Harold was dressed, he rushed to the farm-
yard, but he could not find Paul anywhere, and concluded that he had been
sent out with the cows, and would be back by breakfast-time.
As soon as he had brought home the post-bag, he dashed across the road
again, but came back in a few moments, looking beside himself.
'He's gone!' he said, and threw himself back in a chair.
'Gone!' cried Mrs. King and Ellen with one voice, quite aghast.
'Gone!' repeated Harold. 'The farmer hunted him off this morning! Missus
will have it that he's been stealing her eggs, and that there was a
lantern in the stable on Friday night; so they told him to be off with
him, and he's gone!'
'Poor, poor boy! just when my Lady would have been the making of him!'
cried Ellen.
'But where--which way is he gone?' asked Mrs. King.
'I might ride after him, and overtake him,' cried Harold, starting up,
'but I never thought to ask! And Mrs. Shepherd was ready to pitch into
me, so I got away as soon as I could. Do you run over and ask, Ellen;
you always were a favourite.'
They were in such an eager state, that Ellen at once sprang up, and
hastily throwing on her bonnet, ran across the road, and tapped at Mrs.
Shepherd's open door, exclaiming breathlessly, 'O Ma'am, I beg your
pardon, but will you tell me where Paul Blackthorn is gone?'
'Paul Blackthorn! how should I know?' said Mrs. Shepherd crossly. 'I'm
not to be looking after thieves and vagabonds. He's a come-by-chance,
and he's a go-by-chance, and a good riddance too!'
'Oh but, Ma'am, my Lady wanted to speak to him.'
This only made Mrs. Shepherd the more set against the poor boy.
'Ay, ay, I know--coming over the gentry; and a good thing he's gone!'
said she. 'The place isn't to be harbouring thieves and vagrants, or
who's to pay the rates? My eggs are gone, I tell you, and who should
take 'em but that lad, I'd like to know?'
'Them was two rotten nest-eggs as I throwed away when I was cleaning the
stable.'
'Who told you to put in your word, John Farden?' screamed Mrs. Shepherd,
turning on him. 'Ye'd best mind what ye're about, or ye'll be after him
soon.'
'No loss neither,' muttered John, stopping to pick up his shovel.
'And you didn't see which way he was gone?' asked Ellen, looking from the
labourer to the farmer's wife.
'Farmer sent un off or ever I come,' replied John, 'or I'd ha' gied un a
breakfast.'
'I'm sure I can't tell,' said Mrs. Shepherd, with a toss of her head.
'And as to you, Ellen King, I'm surprised at you, running after a scamp
like that, that you told me yourself was out of a prison.'
'Oh but, Mrs. Shepherd--'
'You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' interrupted Mrs. Shepherd; 'and I
wonder your mother allows it. But there's nothing like girls
now-a-days.'
Ellen thought John Farden grinned; and feeling as if nothing so shocking
could ever happen to her again, she flew back, she hardly knew how, to
her home, clapped the door after, and dropping into a chair as Harold had
done, burst into such a fit of crying, that she could not speak, and only
shook her head in answer to Harold's questions as to how Paul was gone.
'Oh, no one knew!' she choked out among her sobs; 'and Mrs. Shepherd--such
things!'
Harold stamped his foot, and Mrs. King tried to soothe her. In the
midst, she recollected that she could not bear her brothers to guess at
the worst part of the 'such things;' and recovering herself a moment, she
said, 'No, no, they've driven him off! He's gone, and--and, oh! Mother,
Mrs. Shepherd will have it he's a thief, and--and she says I said so.'
That was bad enough, and Ellen wept bitterly again; while her mother and
Harold both cried out with surprise.
'Yes--but--I did say I dare said he was out of a reformatory--and that
she should remember it! Now I've taken away his character, and he's a
poor lost boy!'
Oh, idle words! idle words!