Already, when Mr. Cope went up again, the remedies had given some relief; and though the breaths came short and hard, like so many stabs, Alfred had put his head into an easier position, and his eyes and lips looked more free to look a greeting. There was so much wistful earnestness in his face, and it deeply grieved Mr. Cope to be forced to leave him, and in too much haste even to be able to pray with him.

"Well, Alfred, dear fellow," he said, his voice trembling, "I am come to wish you good-bye. I am comforted to find that Mr. Blunt thinks there is good hope that you will be here--that we shall be together when I come back. Yes, I know that is what is on your mind, and I do reckon most earnestly on it; but if it should not be His Will--here, Ellen, will you take care of this note? If he should be worse, will you send this to Mr.

Carter, at Ragglesford? and I know he will come at once."

The dew stood on Alfred"s eye-lashes, and his lips worked. He looked up sadly to Mr. Cope, as if this did not answer his longings.

Mr. Cope replied to the look--"Yes, dear boy, but if it cannot be, still remember it is Communion. He can put us together. We all drink into one Spirit. I shall be engaged in a like manner--I would not--I could not go, Alfred, for pleasure--no, nor business--only for this. You must think that I am gone to bring you home the Gift--the greatest, best Gift--the one our Lord left with His disciples, to bear them through their sorrows and pains--through the light affliction that is but for a moment, but worketh an exceeding weight of glory. And if I should not be in time," he added, nearly sobbing as he spoke, "then--then, Alfred, the Gift, the blessing is yours all the same. It is the Great High Priest to Whom you must look--perhaps you may do so the more really if it should not be through--your friend. If we are disappointed, we will make a sacrifice of our disappointment. Good-bye, my boy; G.o.d bless you!"

Bending close down to his face, he whispered, "Think of me. Pray for me--now--always." Then, rising hastily, he shook the hands of the mother and sister, ran down-stairs, and was gone.

CHAPTER XII--REST AT LAST

The east wind had been swept aside by gales from the warm south, and the spring was bursting out everywhere; the sky looked softly blue, instead of hard and chill; the sun made everything glisten: the hedges were full of catkins; white buds were on the purple twigs of the blackthorns; primroses were looking out on the sunny side of the road; the larks were mounting up, singing as if they were wild with delight; and the sunbeams were full of dancing gnats, as the Curate of Friarswood walked, with quick eager steps, towards the bridge.

His eyes were anxiously bent on the house, watching the white smoke rising from the chimney; then he hastened on to gain the first sight at the upper windows, feeling almost as he could have done had it been a brother who lay there; so much was his heart set on the first whom he had striven to help through the valley of the shadow of death. The window was open, but the blind was not drawn; and almost at the same moment the gate opened, some one looked out, and seeing him, waved his hand and arm in joyful signal towards some one within, and this gesture set Mr. Cope"s heart at rest.

Was it Harold? No, it was Paul Blackthorn, who stood leaning on the wicket, as he held it open for the clergyman, at whom he looked up as if expecting some change, and a little surprised to find the same voice and manner.

"Well, Paul, then he is not worse?"

"No, Sir, thank you, he is better. The pain has left him, and he can speak again," said Paul, but not very cheerfully.

"That is a great comfort! But who"s that?" as a head, not Ellen"s, appeared for a moment at the window.

"That"s Miss King, Sir--Miss Matilda!"

"Oh! Well, and how are the bones, Paul? Better, I hope, since I see you are come out with the bees," said Mr. Cope, laying his hand kindly on his shoulder (a thing fit to touch now, since it was in a fustian coat of poor Alfred"s), and accommodating his swift strong steps to the feeble halt with which Paul still moved.

"Thank you, Sir, yes; I"ve been down here twice when the sun was out," he said, as if it were a grand undertaking; but then, with a sudden smile, "and poor Caesar knew me, Sir; he came right across the road, and wagged his tail, and licked my hand."

"Good old Caesar! You were his best friend, Paul.--Well, Mrs. King, this is a blessing!"

Mrs. King looked sadly worn out with nursing, and her eyes were full of tears.

"Yes, Sir," she said, "indeed it is. My poor darling has been so much afraid he was too much set on your coming home, and yet so patient and quiet about it."

"Then you ventured to wait?"

And Mr. Cope heard that the attack of inflammation had given way to remedies, but that Alfred was so much weakened, that they could not raise him again. He was sustained by as much nourishment as they could give him: but the disease had made great progress, and Mr. Blunt did not think that he could last many days. His eldest sister had come for a fortnight from her place, and was a great comfort to them all. "And so is Paul,"

said Mrs. King, looking for him kindly; "I don"t know what we should do without his help up-stairs and down. And, Sir, yesterday," she added, colouring a good deal--"I beg your pardon, but I thought, maybe, you"d like to hear it--Alfred would have n.o.body else up with him in morning church-time--and made him read the most--of that Service, Sir."

Mr. Cope"s eyes glistened, and he said something huskily of being glad that Alfred could think of it.

It further appeared that Alfred had wished very much to see Miss Selby again, and that Mrs. King had sent the two sisters to the Grange to talk it over with Mrs. Crabbe, and word had been sent by Harold that morning that the young lady would come in the course of the afternoon.

Mr. Cope followed Mrs. King up-stairs; Alfred"s face lighted up as his sister Matilda made way for the clergyman. He was very white, and his breath was oppressed; but his look had changed very much--it had a strange, still sort of brightness and peace about it. He spoke in very low tones, just above a whisper, and smiled as Mr. Cope took his hand, and spoke to him.

"Thank you, Sir. It is very nice," he said.

"I thank G.o.d that He has let you wait for me," said Mr. Cope.

"I am glad," said Alfred. "I did want to pray for it; but I thought, perhaps, if it was not His Will, I would not--and then what you said. And now He is making it all happy."

"And you do not grieve over your year of illness?"

"I would not have been without it--no," said Alfred, very quietly, but with much meaning.

""It is good for me that I have been in trouble," is what you mean," said Mr. Cope.

"It has made our Saviour seem--I mean--He is so good to me," said Alfred fervently.

But talking made him cough, and that brought a line in the fair forehead so full of peace. Mr. Cope would not say more to him, and asked his mother whether the Feast, for which he had so much longed, should be on the following day. She thought it best that it should be so; and Alfred again said, "Thank you, Sir," with the serene expression on his face. Mr.

Cope read a Psalm and a prayer to him, and thinking him equal to no more, went away, pausing, however, for a little talk with Paul in the shop.

Paul did not say so, but, poor fellow, he had been rather at a loss since Matilda had come. In herself, she was a very good, humble, sensible girl; but she wore a dark silk dress, and looked, moved, and spoke much more like a lady than Ellen: Paul stood in great awe of her, and her presence seemed all at once to set him aloof from the others.

He had been like one of themselves for the last three months, now he felt that he was like a beggar among them; he did not like to call Mrs. King mother, lest it should seem presuming; Ellen seemed to be raised up the same step as her sister, and even Alfred was almost out of his reach; Matilda read to him, and Paul"s own good feeling shewed him that he would be only in the way if he spent all his time in Alfred"s room as formerly; so he kept down-stairs in the morning, and went to bed very early. n.o.body was in the least unkind to him: but he had just begun to grieve at being a burden so long, and to wonder how much longer he should be in getting his health again. And then it might be only to be cast about the world, and to lose his one glimpse of home kindness. Poor boy! he still cried at the thought of how happy Alfred was.

He did all he could to be useful, but he could scarcely manage to stoop down, could carry nothing heavy, and moved very slowly; and he now and then made a dreadful muddle in the shop, when a customer was not like Mrs. Hayward, who told him where everything was, and the price of all she wanted, as well as Mrs. King could do herself. He could sort the letters and see to the post-office very well; and for all his blunders, he did so much by his good-will, that when Mrs. King wanted to cheer him up, she declared that he saved her all the expense of having in a woman from the village to help, and that he did more about the house than Harold.

This was true: for Harold did not like doing anything but manly things, as he called them; whereas Paul did not care what it was, so that it saved trouble to her or Ellen.

Talking and listening to Harold was one use of Paul. Now that it had come upon him, and he saw Alfred worse from day to day, the poor boy was quite broken-hearted. Possibly, when at his work, or riding, he managed to shake off the remembrance; but at home it always came back, and he cried so much at the sight of Alfred, and at any attempt of his brother to talk to him, that they could scarcely let him stay ten minutes in the room. Then, when Paul had gone to bed on the landing at seven o"clock, he would come and sit on his bed, and talk, and cry, and sob about his brother, and his own carelessness of him, often till his mother came out and ordered him down-stairs to his own bed in the kitchen; and Paul turned his face into the pillow to weep himself to sleep, loving Alfred very little less than did his brother, but making less noise about it, and feeling very lonely when he saw how all the family cared for each other.

So Mr. Cope"s kind manner came all the more pleasantly to him; and after some talk on what they both most cared about, Mr. Cope said, "Paul, Mr.

Shaw of Berryton tells me he has a capital school-master, but in rather weak health, and he wants to find a good intelligent youth to teach under him, and have opportunities of improving himself. Five pounds a year, and board and lodgings. What do you think of it, Paul?"

Paul"s sallow face began growing red, and he polished the counter, on which he was leaning; then, as Mr. Cope repeated, "Eh, Paul?" he said slowly, and in his almost rude way, "They wouldn"t have me if they knew how I"d been brought up."

"Perhaps they would if they knew what you"ve come to in spite of bringing up. And," added Mr. Cope, "they are not so much pressed for time but that they can wait till you"ve quite forgotten your tumble into the Ragglesford. We must fatten you--get rid of those spider-fingers, and you and I must do a few more lessons together--and I think Mrs. King has something towards your outfit; and by Whitsuntide, I told Mr. Shaw that I thought I might send him what I call a very fair sample of a good steady lad."

Paul did not half seem to take it in--perhaps he was too unhappy, or it sounded like sending him away again; or, maybe, such a great step in life was more than he could comprehend, after the outcast condition to which he had been used: but Mr. Cope could not go on talking to him, for the Grange carriage was stopping at the gate, and Matilda and Ellen were both coming down-stairs to receive Miss Jane. Poor little thing, she looked very pale and nervous; and as she shook hands with the Curate, as he met her in the garden-path, she said with a startled manner, "Oh! Mr.

Cope--were you there? Am I interrupting--?"

"Not at all," he said. "I had only called in as I came home, and had just come down again."

"Is it--is it very dreadful?" murmured Jane, with a sort of gasp. She was so entirely unused to scenes of sadness or pain, that it was very strange and alarming to her, and it was more difficult than ever to believe her no younger than Ellen.

"Very far from dreadful or distressing," said Mr. Cope kindly, for he knew it was not her fault that she had been prevented from overcoming such feelings, and that this was a great effort of kindness. "It is a very peaceful, soothing sight--he is very happy, and not in a suffering state."

"Oh, will you tell Grandmamma?" said Jane, with her pretty look of earnestness; "she is so much afraid of its much for me, and she was so kind in letting me come."

So Miss Selby went on to the two sisters, and Mr. Cope proceeded to the carriage, where Lady Jane had put out her head, glad to be able to ask him about the state of affairs. Having nothing but this little grand- daughter left to her, the old lady watched over her with almost over-tender care, and was in much alarm both lest the air of the sick- room should be unwholesome, or the sight too sorrowful for her; and though she was too kind to refuse the wish of the dying boy, she had come herself, in order that "the child," as she called her, might not stay longer than was good for her; and she was much relieved to hear Mr.

Cope"s account of Alfred"s calm state, and of the freshness of the clean room, in testimony of which he pointed to the open window.

"Yes," she said, "I hope Mary King was wise enough; but I hardly knew how it might be with such a number about the house--that boy and all. He is not gone, is he?"