Part 6 (2/2)

A few seconds more, and there was a great trampling of feet, and then in walked Harold, exclaiming, 'Here he is!' And there he stood, shy and sheepish, with rusty black s.h.a.g by way of hair, keen dark beads of eyes, and very white teeth; but all the rest, face, hands, jacket, trousers, shoes, and all, of darker or lighter shades of olive-brown; and as to the rents, one would be sorry to have to count them; mending them would have been a thing impossible. What a difference from the pure whiteness of everything around Alfred! the soft pink of the flush of surprise on his delicate cheek, and the wavy s.h.i.+ne on his light hair. A few months ago, Alfred would have been as ready as his brother to take that st.u.r.dy hand, marbled as it was with dirt, and would have heeded all drawbacks quite as little; but sickness had changed him much, and Paul was hardly beside his couch before the colour fleeted away from his cheek, and his eye turned to his mother in such distress, that she was obliged to make a sign to Harold in such haste that it looked like anger, and to mutter something about his being taken worse. And while she was holding the smelling salts to him, and sprinkling vinegar over his couch, they heard the two boys' voices loud under the window, Paul saying he should never come there again, and Harold something about people being squeamish and fine.

It hurt Alfred, and he burst out, almost crying, 'Mother! Mother, now isn't that too bad!'

'It is very thoughtless,' said Mrs. King sorrowfully; 'but you know everybody has their feelings, Alfred, and I am sorry it happened so.'

'I'm sure I couldn't help it,' said Alfred, as if his mother were turning against him. 'Harold had better have brought up the farmer's whole stable at once!'

'When you were well, you did not think of such things any more than he does.'

Alfred grunted. He could not believe that; and he did not feel gently when his brother shewed any want of consideration; but his mother thought he would only grow crosser by dwelling on the unlucky subject, so she advised him to lie still and rest before his being moved to bed, and went down herself to finish some ironing.

Presently Alfred saw the Curate coming over the bridge with quick long steps, and this brought to his mind that he had been wis.h.i.+ng to hear more of the poor crippled boy. He watched eagerly, and was pleased to see Mr.

Cope turn in at the wicket, and presently the tread upon the stairs was heard, and the high head was lowered at the door.

'Good evening, Alfred; your mother told me it would not disturb you if I came up alone;' and he began to inquire into his amus.e.m.e.nts and occupations, till Alfred became quite at home with him, and at ease, and ventured to ask, 'If you please, Sir, do you ever hear about Jem now?'

and as Mr. Cope looked puzzled, 'the boy you told me of, Sir, that fell off the scaffold.'

'Oh, the boy at Liverpool! No, I only saw him once when I was staying with my cousin; but I will ask after him if you wish to hear.'

'Thank you, Sir. I wanted to know if he had been a bad boy.'

'That I cannot tell. Why do you wish to know? Was it because he had such an affliction?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'I don't think that is quite the way to look at troubles,' said Mr. Cope.

'I should think his accident had been a great blessing to him, if it took him out of temptation, and led him to think more of G.o.d.'

'But isn't it punishment?' said Alfred, not able to get any farther; but Mr. Cope felt that he was thinking of himself more than of Jem.

'All our sufferings in this life come as punishment of sin,' he said. 'If there had been no sin, there would have been no pain; and whatever we have to bear in this life is no more than is our due, whatever it may be.'

'Every one is sinful,' said Alfred slowly; 'but why have some more to bear than others that may be much worse?'

'Did you never think it hard to be kept strictly, and punished by your good mother?'

Alfred answered rather fretfully, 'But if it is good to be punished, why ain't all alike?'

'G.o.d in His infinite wisdom sees the treatment that each particular nature needs. Some can be better trained by joy, and some by grief; some may be more likely to come right by being left in active health; others, by being laid low, and having their faults brought to mind.'

Alfred did not quite choose to take this in, and his answer was half sulky:

'Bad boys are quite well!'

'And a reckoning will be asked of them. Do not think of other boys.

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