There was no helping it! People must have their letters whether Paul
Blackthorn were lost or not, and Harold was a servant of the public, and
must do his duty, so after some exhortations from his mother, he ruefully
rose up, hoping that he should not have to go to Ragglesford.
'Yes, you will,' said his mother, 'and maybe to wait. Here's a
registered letter, and I think there are two more with money in them.'
'To think,' sighed Harold, as he mounted his pony, 'of them little chaps
getting more money for nothing, than Paul did in a month by working the
skin off his bones!'
'Don't be discontented, Harold, on that score. Them little chaps will
work hard enough by-and-by: and the money they have now is to train them
in making a fit use of it then.'
Harold looked anxiously up and down the road for Paul, and asked Mr.
Cope's housekeeper whether he had been there to take leave. No; and
indeed Harold would have been a little vexed if he had wished good-bye
anywhere if not at home.
There was a fine white frost, and the rime hung thickly on every spray of
the heavy branches of the dark firs and larches that overhung the long
solitary lane between the Grange and Ragglesford, and fringed the park
palings with crystals. Harold thought how cold poor Paul must be going
on his way in his ragged clothes. The ice crackled under the pony's feet
as she trotted down Ragglesford Lane, and the water of the ford looked so
cold, that Peggy, a very wise animal, turned her head towards the foot-
bridge, a narrow and not very sound affair, over which Harold had
sometimes taken her when the stream was high, and threatened to be over
his feet.
Harold made no objection; but no sooner were all the pony's four hoofs
well upon the bridge, than at the other end appeared Dick Royston.
'Hollo, Har'ld!' was his greeting, 'I've got somewhat to say to ye.'
'D'ye know where Paul Blackthorn is?' asked Harold.
'Not I--I'm a traveller myself, you must know.'
'You, going to cut?' cried Harold.
'Ay,' said Dick, laying hold of the pony's rein. 'The police have been
down at Rolt's--stupid fellow left old gander's feet about--Mrs. Barker
swore to 'em 'cause he'd had so many kicks and bites on common--Jesse's
took up and peached--I've been hiding about all night--precious cold it
was, and just waiting, you see, to wish you good-bye.'
Harold, very much shocked, could have dispensed with his farewells, nor
did he like the look of his eyes.
'Thank you, Dick; I'm sorry--I didn't think--but I'm after time--I wish
you'd let go of Peggy.'
'So that's all you have to say to an old comrade!' said Dick; 'but, I
say, Har'ld, I'm not going so. I must have some tin to take me to
Portsmouth. I want to know what you've got in that there bag!'
'You won't have that; it's the post. Let go, Dick;' and he pushed the
pony forward, but Dick had got her fast by the head. Harold looked round
for help, but Ragglesford Lane was one of the loneliest places in the
country. There was not a house for half a mile, and Lady Jane's
plantations shut in the road on either side.
'I mean to have it,' said Dick, looking coolly up into his face; 'I mean
to see if there's any of the letters with a half-sovereign in 'em, that
you tell us about.'
'Dick, Dick, it would be robbing! For shame, Dick! What would become of
Mother and me?'
'That's your look-out,' said Dick; and he stretched out his hand for the
bag. He was four years older than Harold, and much stouter.
Harold, with a ready move, chucked the bag round to his back, and shouted
lustily in hopes that there might be a keeper in the woods, 'Help!
Thieves! He's robbing the post!'
Dick's hoarse laugh was all the answer. 'That'll do, my dear,' he said;
'now you'd best be quiet; I'd be loath to hurt you.'
For all answer, Harold, shouting all the time, dealt him a stroke right
over the eyes and nose with his riding-switch, and made a great effort to
force the pony on in hopes the blow might have made him slacken his hold.
But though one moment Dick's arm was thrown over his watering eyes, the
other hand held the bridle as firmly as ever, and the next instant his
fist dealt Harold such a blow, as nearly knocked out all his breath.
Setting his teeth, and swearing an oath, Dick was pouncing on the boy's
arm, when from the road before them came bursting a meagre thing darting
like a wild cat, which fell upon him, hallooing as loud as Harold.
Dick turned in fury, and let go the bridle. The pony backed in alarm.
The new-comer was grappling with the thief, and trying to drag him aside.
'On, on; go on, Har'ld!' he shouted, but his strength was far from equal
to Dick's, who threw him aside on the hand-rail. Old rotten rail that it
was, it crashed under the weight, and fell with both the boys into the
water. Peggy dashed forward to the other side, where Harold pulled her
up with much difficulty, and turned round to look at the robber and the
champion. The fall was not far, nor the water deep, and they had both
risen, and were ready to seize one another again in their rage. And now
Harold saw that he who had come to his help was no other than Paul
Blackthorn, who shouted loudly, 'On, go on! I'll keep him.'
'He'll kill you!' screamed Harold, in despair, ready to push in between
them with his horse; but at that moment cart-wheels were heard in the
road, and Dick, shaking his fist, and swearing at them both, shook off
Paul as if he had been a feather, and splashing out of the ford on the
other side, leapt over the hedge, and was off through the plantations.
Paul more slowly crept up towards Harold, dripping from head to foot.
'Paul! Paul! I'm glad I've found you!' cried Harold. 'You've saved the
letters, man, and one was registered! Come along with me, up to the
school.'
'Nay, I'll not do that,' said Paul.
'Then you'll stay till I come back,' said Harold earnestly; 'I've got so
much to tell you! My Lady sent for you. Our Ellen told her all about
you, and you're to go to her. Ellen was in such a way when she found you
were off.'
'Then she didn't think I'd taken the eggs?' said Paul.
'She'd as soon think that I had,' said Harold. 'Why, don't we all know
that you're one of the parson's own sort? But what made you go off
without a word to nobody?'
'I don't know. Every one was against me,' said Paul; 'and I thought I'd
just go out of the way, and you'd forget all about me. But I never
touched those eggs, and you may tell Mr. Cope so, and thank him for all
his kindness to me.'
'You'll tell him yourself. You're going home along with me,' cried
Harold. 'There! I'll not stir a step till you've promised! Why, if you
make off now, 'twill be the way to make them think you have something to
run away for, like that rascal.'
'Very well,' said Paul, rather dreamily.
'Then you won't?' said Harold. 'Upon your word and honour?'
Paul said the words after him, not much as if he knew what he was about;
and Harold, rather alarmed at the sound of the Grange clock striking,
gave a cut to the pony, and bounded on, only looking back to see that
Paul was seating himself by the side of the lane. Harold said to himself
that his mother would not have liked to see him do so after such a
ducking, but he knew that he was more tenderly treated than other lads,
and with reason for precaution too; and he promised himself soon to be
bringing Paul home to be dried and warmed.
But he was less speedy than he intended. When he arrived at the school,
he had first to account to the servants for his being so late, and then
he was obliged to wait while the owner of the registered letter was to
sign the green paper, acknowledging its safe delivery.
Instead of having the receipt brought back to him, there came a message
that he was to go up to tell the master and the young gentlemen all about
the robbery.
So the servant led the way, and Harold followed a little shy, but more
curious. The boys were in school, a great bare white-washed room,
looking very cold, with a large arched window at one end, and forms
ranged in squares round the hacked and hewed deal tables. Harold thought
he should tell Alfred that the young gentlemen had not much the advantage
of themselves in their schoolroom.
The boys were mostly smaller than he was, only those of the uppermost
form being of the same size. There might be about forty of them, looking
rather red and purple with the chilly morning, and all their eighty eyes,
black or brown, blue or grey, fixed at once upon the young postman as he
walked into the room, straight and upright, in his high stout gaiters
over his cord trousers, his thick rough blue coat and red comforter, with
his cap in his hand, his fair hair uncovered, and his blue eyes and rosy
cheeks all the more bright for that strange morning's work. He was a
well-mannered boy, and made his bow very properly to Mr. Carter, the
master, who sat at his high desk.
'So, my little man,' said the master, 'I hear you've had a fight for our
property this morning. You've saved this young gentleman's birthday
present of a watch, and he wants to thank you.'
'Thank you, Sir,' said Harold; 'but he'd have been too much for me if
Paul hadn't come to help. He's a deal bigger than me.'
The boys all made a thumping and scuffling with their feet, as if to
applaud Harold; and their master said, 'Tell us how it was.'
Harold gave the account in a very good simple manner, only he did not say
who the robber was--he did not like to do so--indeed, he would not quite
believe it could be his old friend Dick. The boys clapped and thumped
doubly when he came to the switching, and still more at the tumble into
the water.
'Do you know who the fellow was?' asked Mr. Carter.
'Yes, I knowed him,' said Harold, and stopped there.
'But you had rather not tell. Is that it?'
'Please, Sir, he's gone, and I wouldn't get him into trouble.'
At this the school-boys perfectly stamped, and made signs of cheering.
'And who is the boy that came to help you?'
'Paul Blackthorn, Sir; he's a boy from the Union who worked at Farmer
Shepherd's. He's a right good boy, Sir; but he's got no friends, nor
no--nothing,' said Harold, pausing ere he finished.
'Why didn't you bring him up with you?' asked the master.
'Please, Sir, he wouldn't come.'
'Well,' said Mr. Carter, 'you've behaved like a brave fellow, and so has
your friend; and here's something in token of gratitude for the rescue of
our property.'
It was a crown piece.
'And here,' said the boy whose watch had been saved, 'here's
half-a-crown. Shake hands, you're a jolly fellow; and I'll tell my uncle
about you.'
Harold was a true Englishman, and of course his only answer could be,
'Thank you, Sir, I only did my duty;' and as the other boys, whose money
had been rescued, brought forward more silver pledges of gratitude, he
added, 'I'll take it to Paul--thank you, Sir--thank you, Sir.'
'That's right; you must share, my lad,' said the school-master. 'It is a
reward for both of you.'
'Thank you, Sir, it was _my_ duty,' repeated Harold, making his bow.
'Sir, Sir, pray let us give him three cheers,' burst out the head boy in
an imploring voice.
Mr. Carter smiled and nodded; and there was such a hearty roaring and
stamping, such 'hip, hip, hurrah!' bursting out again and again, that the
windows clattered, and the room seemed fuller of noise than it could
possibly hold. It is not quite certain that Mr. Carter did not halloo as
loud as any of the boys.
Harold turned very red, and did not know which way to look while it was
going on, nor what to do when it was over, except to say a very odd sort
of 'Thank you, Sir;' but his heart leapt up with a kind of warm grateful
feeling of liking towards those boys for going along with him so
heartily; and the cheers gave a pleasure and glow that the coins never
would have done, even had he thought them his own by right.
He was not particularly good in this; he had never felt the pinch of
want, and was too young to care; and he did not happen to wish to buy
anything in particular just then. A selfish or a covetous boy would not
have felt as he did; but these were not his temptations. Knowing, as he
did, that the assault had been the consequence of his foolish boasts
about the money-letters, and that he, being in charge, ought to defend
them to the last gasp, he was sure he deserved the very contrary from a
reward, and never thought of the money belonging to any one but Paul, who
had by his own free will come to the rescue, and saved the bag from
robbery, himself from injury and disgrace.
How happy he was in thinking what a windfall it was for his friend, and
how far it would go in fitting him up respectably!
Peggy was ready to trot nearly as fast as he wished her down the lane to
the place where he had left Paul; and no sooner did Harold come in sight
of the olive-coloured rags, than he bawled out a loud 'Hurrah! Come on,
Paul; you don't know what I've got for you! 'Twas a young gentleman's
watch as you saved; and they've come down right handsome! and here's
twelve-and-sixpence for you--enough to rig you out like a regular swell!
Why, what's the matter?' he added in quite another voice, as he had now
come up to Paul, and found him sitting nearly doubled up, with his head
bent over his knees.
He raised his face up as Harold came, and it was so ghastly pale, that
the boy, quite startled, jumped off his pony.
'Why, old chap, what is it? Have you got knit up with cold, sitting
here?'
'Yes, I suppose so,' said Paul; but his very voice shivered, his teeth
chattered, and his knees knocked together with the chill. 'The pains run
about me,' he added; but he spoke as if he hardly knew what he was doing
or saying.
'You must come home with me, and Mother will give you something hot,'
said Harold. 'Come, you'll catch your death if you don't. You shall
ride home.'
He pulled Paul from his seat with some difficulty, and was further
alarmed when he found that the poor fellow reeled and could hardly stand;
but he was somewhat roused, and knew better what he was about. Harold
tried to put him on the pony, but this could not be managed: he could not
help himself enough, Peggy always swerved aside, nor was Harold strong
enough to lift him up.
The only thing to be done was for Harold to mount, and Paul to lean
against the saddle, while the pony walked. When they had to separate at
the ford, poor Paul's walk across the bridge was so feeble and
staggering, that Harold feared every moment that he would fall where the
rail was broken away, but was right glad to put his arm on his shoulder
again to help to hold him up. The moving brought a little more life back
to the poor boy's limbs, and he walked a little better, and managed to
tell Harold how he had felt too miserable to speak to any one after the
rating the farmer had given him, and how he had set out on the tramp for
more work, though with hope so nearly dead in his heart, that he only
wished he could sit down and die. He had walked out of the village
before people were about, so as not to be noticed, and then had found
himself so weak and weary that he could not get on without food, and had
sat down by the hedge to eat the bit of bread he had with him. Then he
had taken the first lonely-looking way he saw, without knowing that it
was one of Harold's daily rides, and was slowly dragging himself up the
hill from the ford when the well-known voice, shouting for help, had
suddenly called him back, and filled him with spirit and speed that were
far enough off now, poor fellow!
That was a terrible mile and a half--Harold sometimes thought it would
never be over, or that Paul would drop down, and he would have to gallop
off for help; but Paul was not one to give in, and somehow they got back
at last, and Harold, with his arm round his friend, dragged him through
the garden, and across the shop, and pushed him into the arm-chair by the
fire, Mrs. King following, and Ellen rushing down from up-stairs.
'There!' cried Harold, all in a breath, 'there he is! That rascal tried
to rob me on Ragglesford Bridge, and was nigh too much for me; but _he_
there came and pulled him off me, and got spilt into the river, and he's
got a chill, and if you don't give him something jolly hot, Mother, he'll
catch his death!'
Mrs. King thought so too: Paul's state looked to her more alarming than
it did even to Harold. He did not seem able to think or speak, but kept
rocking himself towards the fire, and that terrible shivering shaking him
all over.
'Poor lad!' she said kindly. 'I'll tell you what, Harold, all you can do
is put him into your bed at once.--Here, Ellen, you run up first, and
bring me a shirt to warm for him. Then we'll get his own clothes dried.'
'No, no,' cried Harold, with a caper, 'we'll make a scare-crow of 'em.
You don't know what I know, Mother. I've got twelve shillings and
sixpence here all his own; and you'll see what I won't do with it at old
Levi's, the second-hand clothes man, to-night.'
Harold grew less noisy as he saw how little good the fire was doing to
his patient, and how ill his mother seemed to think him. He quietly
obeyed her, by getting him up-stairs, and putting him into his own bed,
the first in which Paul had lain down for more than four months. Then
Mrs. King sent Harold out for some gin; she thought hot spirits and water
the only chance of bringing back any life after such a dreadful chill;
and she and Ellen kept on warming flannels and shawls to restore some
heat, and to stop the trembling that shook the bed, so that Alfred felt
it, even in the next room, where he lay with the door open, longing to be
able to help, and wishing to understand what could have happened.
At last, the cordial and the warm applications effected some good. Paul
was able to say, 'I don't know why you are so good to me,' and seemed
ready to burst into a great fit of crying; but Mrs. King managed to stop
him by saying something about one good turn deserving another, and that
she hoped he was coming round now.
Harold was now at leisure to tell the story in his brother's room. Alfred
did not grieve now at his brother's being able to do spirited things; he
laughed out loud, and said, 'Well done, Harold!' at the switching, and
rubbed his hands, and lighted up with glee, as he heard of the
Ragglesford boys and their cheers; and then, Harold went eagerly on with
his scheme for fitting up Paul at the second-hand shop, both Mrs. King
and Alfred taking great interest in his plans, till Mrs. King hearing
something like a moan, went back to Paul.
She found his cheeks and hands as burning hot as they had been cold; they
were like live coals; and what was worse, such severe pains were running
all over his limbs, that he was squeezing the clothes into his mouth that
he might not scream aloud.
Happily it was Mr. Blunt's day for calling; and before the morning was
over he came, and after a few words of explanation, he stood at Paul's
bedside.
Not much given to tenderness towards the feelings of patients of his
degree, Mr. Blunt's advice was soon given. 'Yes, he is in for rheumatic
fever--won't be about again for a long time to come. I say, Mistress,
all you've got to do is to send in your boy to the Union at Elbury, tell
'em to send out a cart for him, and take him in as a casual pauper. Then
they may pass him on to his parish.'
Therewith Mr. Blunt went on to attend to Alfred.
'Then you think this poor lad will be ill a long time, Sir?' said Mrs.
King, when Mr. Blunt was preparing to depart.
'Of course he will; I never saw a clearer case! You'd better send him
off as fast as you can, while he can be moved. He'll have a pretty bout
of it, I dare say.
'It is nothing infectious, of course, Sir?' said the mother, a little
startled by this hastiness.
'Infectious--nonsense! why, you know better than that, Mrs. King; I only
meant that you'd better get rid of him as quick as you can, unless you
wish to set up a hospital at once--and a capital nurse you'd be! I would
leave word with the relieving officer for you, but that I've got to go on
to Stoke, and shan't be at home till too late.'
Mrs. King's heart ached for the poor forlorn orphan, when she remembered
what she had heard of the nursing in Elbury Union. She did not know how
to turn him from her door the day he had saved her son from danger such
as she could not think of without shuddering; and yet, what could she do?
Her rent and the winter before her, a heavy doctor's bill, and the loss
of Alfred's work!
Slowly she went up the stairs again to the narrow landing that held the
bed where Paul Blackthorn lay. He was quite still, but there were large
tears coursing one after the other from his eyes, his hollow cheeks quite
glazed with them.
'Is the pain so very bad?' she said in her soft voice, putting her hand
over his hot forehead, in the way that Alfred liked.
'I don't--know,' he answered; and his black eyes, after looking up once
in her face with the piteous earnest glance that some loving dogs have,
shut themselves as if on purpose to keep in the tears, but she saw the
dew squeezing out through the eye-lashes.
'My poor boy, I'm sure it's very bad for you,' she said again.
'Please, don't speak so kind,' said Paul; and this time he could not
prevent a-sob. 'Nobody ever did so before, and--' he paused, and went
on, 'I suppose they do it up in Heaven, so I hope I shall die.'
'You are vexing about the Union,' said Mrs. King, without answering this
last speech, or she knew that she should begin to cry herself.
'I _did_ think I'd done with them,' said Paul, with another sob. 'I said
I'd never set foot in those four walls again! I was proud, maybe; but
please don't stop with me! If you wouldn't look and speak like that, the
place wouldn't seem so hard, seeing I'm bred to it, as they say;' and he
made an odd sort of attempt to laugh, which ended in his choking himself
with worse tears.
'Harold is not gone yet,' said Mrs. King soothingly; 'we'll wait till he
comes in from his work, and see how you are, when you've had a little
sleep. Don't cry; you aren't going just yet.'
That same earnest questioning glance, but with more hope in it, was
turned on her again; but she did not dare to bind herself, much as she
longed to take the wanderer to her home. She went on to her son's room.
'Mother, Mother,' Alfred cried in a whisper, so eager that it made him
cough, 'you can't never send him to the workhouse?'
'I can't bear the thought, Alfy,' she said, the tears in her eyes; 'but I
don't know what to do. It's not the trouble. That I'd take with all my
heart, but it is hard enough to live, and--'
'I'm sure,' said Ellen, coming close, that her undertone might be heard,
'Harold and I would never mind how much we were pinched.'
'And I could go without--some things,' began Alfred.
'And then,' went on the mother, 'you see, if we got straitened, and
Matilda found it out, she'd want to help, and I can't have her savings
touched; and yet I can't bear to let that poor lad be sent off, so ill as
he is, and after all he's done for Harold--such a good boy, too, and one
that's so thankful for a common kind word.'
'O Mother, keep him!' said Alfred; 'don't you know how the Psalm says,
"God careth for the stranger, and provideth for the fatherless and the
widow"?'
Mrs. King almost smiled. 'Yes, Alf, I think it would be trusting God's
word; but then there's my duty to you.'
'You've not sent Harold off for the cart?' said Alfred.
'No; I thought somehow, we have enough for to-day; and it goes against me
to send him away at once. I thought we'd wait to see how it is
to-morrow; and Harold won't mind having a bed made up in the kitchen.'
Tap, tap, on the counter. Some one had come in while they were talking.
It was Mr. Cope, very anxious to hear the truth of the strange stories
that were going about the place. Ellen and Alfred thought it very
tiresome that he was so long in coming up-stairs; but the fact was, that
their mother was very glad to talk the matter over without them. She
knew indeed that Mr. Cope was a very young man, and not likely to be so
well able as herself, with all her experience, to decide what she could
afford, or whether she ought to follow her feelings at the risk of debt
or of privations for her delicate children; but she also knew that though
he had not experience, education had given him a wider and clearer range
of thought; and that, as her pastor, he ought to be consulted; so though
she did not exactly mean to make it a matter for his decision (unless,
indeed, he should have some view which had not occurred to her), she knew
that he was by far the best person to help her to see her way, and form
her own judgment.
Mr. Cope heard all the story with as much eagerness as the Ragglesford
boys themselves, and laughed quite out loud at Harold's spirited defence.
'That's a good lad!' said he. 'Well, Mrs. King, I don't think you need
be very uneasy about your boy. When a fellow can stand up like that in
defence of his duty, there must be the right stuff in him to be got at in
time! And now, as to his ally--this other poor fellow--very kind of you
to have taken him in.'
'I couldn't do no other, Sir,' said Mrs. King; 'he came in so drenched,
and so terribly bad, I could do nothing but let him lie down on Harold's
bed; and now Dr. Blunt thinks he's going to have a rheumatic fever, and
wanted me to send in to the relieving officer, to have him removed, but I
don't know how to do that; the poor lad doesn't say one word against it,
but I can see it cuts him to the heart; and they do tell such stories of
the nurses at the Union, that it does seem hard to send him there, such
an innocent boy, too, and one that doesn't seem to know how to believe it
if one says a kind word to him.' The tears were in Mrs. King's eyes as
she went on: 'I do wish to let him stay here and do what I can for him,
with all my heart, and so does all the children, but I don't hardly know
what's right by them, poor things. If the parish would but allow him
just one shilling and sixpence a week out of the house, I think I could
do it.'
'What, with your own boy in such a state, you could undertake to nurse a
stranger through a rheumatic fever!'
'It wouldn't make much difference, Sir,' said Mrs. King. 'You see I am
up a good deal most nights with Alfred, and we have fire and candle
almost always alight. I should only be glad to do it for a poor
motherless lad like that, except for the cost; and I thought perhaps if
you could speak to the Guardians, they might allow him ever so little,
because there will be expenses.'
Mr. Cope had not much hope from the parish, so he said, 'Mr. Shepherd
ought to do something for him after he has worked for him so long. He
has been looking wretchedly ill for some time past; and I dare say half
this illness is brought on by such lodging and living as he got there.
But what did you say about some eggs?'
Mrs. King told him; and he stood a moment thoughtful, then said, 'Well,
I'll go and see about it,' and strode across to the farm.
When Mr. Cope came back, Ellen was serving a customer. He stood looking
redder than they had ever seen him, and tapping the toe of his boot
impatiently with his stick; and the moment the buyer had turned away, he
said, 'Ellen, ask your mother to be kind enough to come down.'
Mrs. King came, and found the young Curate in such a state of
indignation, as he could not keep to himself. He had learnt more than he
had ever known, or she had ever known, of the oppression that the farmer
and his wife and Tom Boldre had practised on the friendless stranger, and
he was burning with all the keen generous displeasure of one new to such
base ways. At the gate he had met, going home to dinner, John Farden
with Mrs. Hayward, who had been charing at the farm. Both had spoken
out, and he had learned how far below the value of his labour the boy had
been paid, how he had been struck, abused, and hunted about, as would
never have been done to one who had a father to take his part. And he
had further heard Farden's statement of having himself thrown away the
eggs, and Mrs. Hayward's declaration that she verily believed that the
farmer only made the accusation an excuse for hurrying the lad off
because he thought him faltering for a fever, and wouldn't have him sick
there.
This was shocking enough; Mr. Cope had thought it merely the kind-hearted
woman's angry construction, but it was still worse when he came to the
farmer and his wife.
So used were they to think it their business to wring the utmost they
could out of whatever came in their way, that they had not the slightest
shame about it. They thought they had done a thing to be proud of in
making such a good bargain of the lad, and getting so much work out of
him for so little pay; in fact, that they had been rather weakly kind in
granting him the freedom of the hay-loft; the notion of his dishonesty
was firmly fixed in their heads, though there was not a charge to bring
against him. This was chiefly because they had begun by setting him down
as a convict, and because they could not imagine any one living honestly
on what they gave him. And lastly, the farmer thought the cleverest
stroke of all, was the having got rid of him just as winter was coming on
and work was scarce, and when there seemed to be a chance of his being
laid up to encumber the rates. Mr. Cope was quite breathless after the
answer he had made to them. He had never spoken so strongly in his life
before, and he could hardly believe his own ears, that people could be
found, not only to do such things, but to be proud of having done them.
It is to be hoped there are not many such thoroughgoing tyrants; but
selfishness is always ready to make any one into a tyrant, and Mammon is
a false god, who manages to make his servants satisfied that they are
doing their duty.
It was plain enough that no help was to be expected from the farm, and
neither Mrs. King nor the clergyman thought there was much hope in the
Guardians; however, they were to be applied to, and this would be at
least a reprieve for Paul. Mr. Cope went up to see him, and found Harold
sitting on the top step of the stairs.
'Well, boys,' he said, in his hearty voice, 'so you've had a battle, I
hear. I'm glad it turned out better than your namesake's at Hastings.'
Paul was not too ill to smile at this; and Harold modestly said, 'It was
all along of he, Sir.'
'And he seems to be the chief sufferer.--Are you in much pain, Paul?'
'Sometimes, Sir, when I try to move,' said Paul; 'but it is better when
I'm still.'
'You've had a harder time of it than I supposed, my boy,' said Mr. Cope.
'Why did you never let me know how you were treated?'
Paul's face shewed more wonder than anything else. 'Thank you, Sir,' he
said, 'I didn't think it was any one's business.'
'No one's business!' exclaimed the young clergyman. 'It is every one's
business to see justice done, and it should never have gone on so if you
had spoken. Why didn't you?'
'I didn't think it would be any use,' again said Paul. 'There was old
Joe Joiner, he always said 'twas a hard world to live in, and that there
was nothing for it but to grin and bear it.'
'There's something better to be done than to grin,' said Mr. Cope.
'Yes, I know, Sir,' said Paul, with a brighter gleam on his face; 'and I
seem to understand that better since I came here. I was thinking,' he
added, 'if they pass me back to Upperscote, I'll tell old Joe that folks
are much kinder than he told me, by far.'
'Kinder--I should not have thought that your experience!' exclaimed Mr.
Cope, his head still running on the Shepherds.
But Paul did not seem to think of them at all, or else to take their
treatment as a matter-of-course, as he did his Union hardships. There
was a glistening in his eyes; and he moved his head so as to sign down-
stairs, as he said, 'I didn't think there was ne'er a one in the world
like _her_.'
'What, Mrs. King? I don't think there are many,' said Mr. Cope warmly.
'And yet I hope there are.'
'Ay, Sir,' said Paul fervently. 'And there's Harold, and John Farden,
and all the chaps. Please, Sir, when I'm gone away, will you tell them
all that I'll never forget 'em? and I'll be happier as long as I live for
knowing that there are such good-hearted folks.'
Mr. Cope felt trebly moved towards one who thought harshness so much more
natural than kindness, and who received the one so submissively, the
other so gratefully; but the conversation was interrupted by Harold's
exclaiming that my Lady in her carriage was stopping at the gate, and
Mother was running out to her.
Rumours of the post-office robbery, as little Miss Selby called it, had
travelled up to the Grange, and she was wild to know what had happened to
Harold; but her grandmamma, not knowing what highway robbers might be
roaming about Friarswood, would not hear of her walking to the
post-office, and drove thither with her herself, in full state, close
carriage, coachman and footman; and there was Mrs. King, with her head in
at the carriage window, telling all the story.
'So you have this youth here?' said Lady Jane.
'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.