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 pa.s.s 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 dest.i.tution; 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 Sat.u.r.day. 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, 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.

CHAPTER X--CHRISTMAS DAY

Things are rather apt to settle themselves; and so did Paul Blackthorn"s stay at the post-office, for the poor boy was in such an agony of pain all night, and the fever ran so high, that it was impossible to think of moving him, even if the waiting upon him in such suffering had not made Mrs. King feel that she could not dismiss him to careless hands. His patience, grat.i.tude, and surprise at every trouble she took for him were very endearing, as were the efforts he made to stifle and suppress moans and cries that the terrible aches would wring from him, so as not to disturb Alfred. When towards morning the fever ran to his head, and he did not know what he said, it was more moving still to see that the instinct of keeping quiet for some one"s sake still suppressed his voice.

Then, too, his wanderings shewed under what dread and harshness his life had been spent, and what his horror was of a return to the workhouse. In his senses, he would never have thought of asking to remain at Friarswood; but in his half-conscious state, he implored again and again not to be sent away, and talked about not going back, but only being left in a corner to die; and Mrs. King, without knowing what she was about, soothed him by telling him to lie still, for he was not going to that place again. At day-break she sent Harold, on his way to the post, for an order from the relieving officer for medical attendance; and, after some long and weary hours, the Union doctor came. He said, like Mr.

Blunt, that it was a rheumatic fever, the effect of hardship and exposure; for which perhaps poor Paul--after his regular meals, warm clothing, and full shelter, in the workhouse--was less prepared than many a country lad, whose days had been much happier, but who had been rendered more hardy by often going without some of those necessaries which were provided for the paupers.

The head continued so much affected, that the doctor said the hair must be taken off; which was done by old Master Warren, who singed the horses in the autumn, killed the pigs in the winter, and shaved the men on Sat.u.r.day night. It was a very good thing for all parties; and he would take no pay for his trouble, but sent down a pitcher with what he called "all manner of yarbs" steeping in it, with which, as he said, to "ferment the boy"s limbs." Foment was what he meant; and Mrs. King thought, as it was kindly intended, and could do no harm, she would try if it would do any good; but she could not find that it made much difference whether she used that or common warm water. However, the good will made Paul smile, and helped to change his notion about its being very few that had any compa.s.sion for a stranger. So, too, did good Mrs. Hayward, who, when he was at the worst, twice came to sit up all night with him after her day"s work; and though she was not as tender a nurse as Mrs. King, treated him like her own son, and moreover carried off to her own tub all the clothes she could find ready to be washed, and would not take so much as a mouthful of meat or drink in return, struggling, toil-worn body as she was.

The parish, as might have been foreseen, would afford nothing but the doctor to a chance-comer such as Paul. If he needed more, he might come into the House, and be pa.s.sed home to Upperscote.

But by the time this reply came, Mrs. King not only felt that it would be almost murder to send a person in such a state four miles on a November day, but she was caring so much for her patient, that it sounded almost as impossible as to send Alfred away.

Besides, she had remembered the cup of cold water, she had thought of the widow"s cruse of oil and barrel of meal, and she had called to mind, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me;" and thereupon she took heart, and made up her mind that it was right to tend the sick lad; and that even if she should bring trouble and want on herself and her children, it would be a Heaven- sent trial that would be good for them.

So she made up her resolution to a winter of toil, anxiety, and trouble, and to Lady Jane"s withdrawal of favour; and thinking her ungrateful, which, to say the truth, grieved her more than anything else, excepting of course her forebodings for Alfred.

Ellen was in great distress about my Lady"s displeasure. Not that she dreamt of her mother"s giving up Paul on that account; but she was very fond of her little foster-sister, and of many of the maid-servants, and her visits to the Grange were the chief change and amus.e.m.e.nt she ever had. So while Mrs. King was busy between the shop, her work, and Paul, Ellen sat by her brother, making the housekeeper"s winter dress, and imagining all sorts of dreadful things that might come of my Lady being angry with them, till Alfred grew quite out of patience. "Well, suppose and suppose," he said, "suppose it was not to happen at all! Why, Mother"s doing right would be any good for nothing if she only did it to please my Lady."

Certainly this was the very touchstone to shew whether the fear of man were the guide. And Ellen was still more terrified that day, for when she went across to the farm for the evening"s supply of milk and b.u.t.ter, Mrs. Shepherd launched out into such a torrent of abuse against her and her mother, that she came home trembling from head to foot; and Mrs. King declared she should never go thither again. They would send to Mrs.

Price"s for the little bit of fresh b.u.t.ter that was real nourishment to Alfred: the healthy ones would save by going without any.

One word more as to the Shepherds, and then we have done with him. On the Sunday, Mr. Cope had an elder brother staying with them, who preached on the lesson for the day, the second chapter of the Prophet Habakkuk; and when he came to the text, "Woe to him that coveteth an evil covetousness to his house," he brought in some of the like pa.s.sages, the threats to those that "grind the faces of the poor," that "oppress the hireling in his wages," and that terrible saying of St. James, "Behold, the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept by fraud, crieth; and the cries of them which have reaped are entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabbath."

Three days after, the Curate was very much amazed to hear that Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd did not choose to be preached at in their own church, and never meant to come thither again. Now it so happened that he could testify that the sermon had been written five years ago, and that his brother had preached it without knowing that the Shepherds were in existence, for he had only come late the night before, and there was so much to say about their home, that the younger brother had not said a word about his parish before church, though the Kings and their guests were very near his heart.

But it was of no use to say so. It was the _truth_ that wounded the farmer and his wife, and no one could make that otherwise. They did not choose to hear their sin rebuked, so they made an excuse by pretending to take offence, and except when they now and then went to the next parish to a meeting-house, cut themselves off from all that might disturb them in the sole pursuit of gain. It is awful to think of such hardening of the heart, first towards man, then towards the warnings of G.o.d.

And mind, whoever chooses profit rather than mercy, is in the path of Farmer Shepherd.

Some certainty as to Lady Jane Selby"s feelings came on the second evening of Paul"s illness. Mrs. Crabbe, the housekeeper, was seen with infinite trouble and disgust getting her large person over the stiles across the path fields. A call from her was almost a greater event than one from my Lady herself. Why! Mother had been her still-room maid, and always spoke to her as "Ma"am," and she called her "Mary," and she had chosen Matilda"s name for her, and had given her a silver watch!