Friarswood Post Office

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 Cæsar 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!