"How are you, Paul?"
"Pretty well, Ben."
"How precious lonesome you must be, mewed up in the house all the time."
"Yes, it is lonesome, but I wouldn't mind that if I thought father would ever get any better."
"How is he this morning?"
"Pretty low; I expect he is asleep. He said he was tired just before I went out."
"I brought over something for you," said Ben, tugging away at his pocket.
Opening a paper he displayed a couple of apple turnovers fried brown.
"I found 'em in the closet," he said.
"Won't Hannah make a precious row when she finds 'em gone?"
"Then I don't know as I ought to take them," said Paul, though, to tell the truth, they looked tempting to him.
"O, nonsense," said Ben; "they don't belong to Hannah. She only likes to scold a little; it does her good."
The two boys sat on the doorstep and talked while Paul ate the turnovers. Ben watched the process with much satisfaction.
"Ain't they prime?" he said.
"First rate," said Paul; `won't you have one?"
"No," said Ben; "you see I thought while I was about it I might as well take four, so I ate two coming along."
In about fifteen minutes Paul went into the house to look at his father. He was lying very quietly upon the bed. Paul drew near and looked at him more closely. There was something in the expression of his father's face which terrified him.
Ben heard his sudden cry of dismay, and hurriedly entered.
Paul pointed to the bed, and said briefly, "Father's dead!"
Ben, who in spite of his mischievous propensities was gifted with a warm heart, sat down beside Paul, and passing his arm round his neck, gave him that silent sympathy which is always so grateful to the grief-stricken heart.
III.
PAUL'S BRILLIANT PROSPECTS.
Two days later, the funeral of Mr. Prescott took place.
Poor Paul! It seemed to him a dream of inexpressible sorrow. His father and mother both gone, he felt that he was indeed left alone in the world. No thought of the future had yet entered his mind. He was wholly occupied with his present sorrow. Desolate at heart he slipped away from the graveyard after the funeral ceremony was over, and took his way back again to the lonely dwelling which he had called home.
As he was sitting in the corner, plunged in sorrowful thought, there was a scraping heard at the door, and a loud hem!
Looking up, Paul saw entering the cottage the stiff form of Squire Benjamin Newcome, who, as has already been stated, was the owner.
"Paul," said the Squire, with measured deliberation.
"Do you mean me, sir?" asked Paul, vaguely conscious that his name had been called.
"Did I not address you by your baptismal appellation?" demanded the Squire, who thought the boy's question superfluous.
"Paul," pursued Squire Newcome, "have you thought of your future destination?"
"No, sir," said Paul, "I suppose I shall live here."
"That arrangement would not be consistent with propriety. I suppose you are aware that your deceased parent left little or no worldly goods."
"I know he was poor."
"Therefore it has been thought best that you should be placed in charge of a worthy man, who I see is now approaching the house. You will therefore accompany him without resistance. If you obey him and read the Bible regularly, you will--ahem!--you will some time or other see the advantage of it."
With this consolatory remark Squire Newcome wheeled about and strode out of the house.
Immediately afterwards there entered a rough-looking man arrayed in a farmer's blue frock.
"You're to come with me, youngster," said Mr. Nicholas Mudge, for that was his name.
"With you?" said Paul, recoiling instinctively.
In fact there was nothing attractive in the appearance or manners of Mr. Mudge. He had a coarse hard face, while his head was surmounted by a shock of red hair, which to all appearance had suffered little interference from the comb for a time which the observer would scarcely venture to compute. There was such an utter absence of refinement about the man, that Paul, who had been accustomed to the gentle manners of his father, was repelled by the contrast which this man exhibited.
"To be sure you're to go with me," said Mr. Mudge. "You did not calc'late you was a goin' to stay here by yourself, did you? We've got a better place for you than that. But the wagon's waitin' outside, so just be lively and bundle in, and I'll carry you to where you're a goin' to live."
"Where's that?"
"Wal, some folks call it the Poor House, but it ain't any the worse for that, I expect. Anyhow, them as has no money may feel themselves lucky to get so good a home. So jest be a movin', for I can't be a waitin' here all day."
Paul quietly submitted himself to the guidance of Mr. Mudge. He was so occupied with the thought of his sad loss that he did not realize the change that was about to take place in his circumstances.
About half a mile from the village in the bleakest and most desolate part of the town, stood the Poor House. It was a crazy old building of extreme antiquity, which, being no longer considered fit for an ordinary dwelling- house, had been selected as a suitable residence for the town's poor. It was bleak and comfortless to be sure, but on that very account had been purchased at a trifling expense, and that was, of course, a primary consideration. Connected with the house were some dozen acres of rough-looking land, plentifully over- spread with stones, which might have filled with despair the most enterprising agriculturist. However, it had this recommendation at least, that it was quite in character with the buildings upon it, which in addition to the house already described, consisted of a barn of equal antiquity and a pig pen.
This magnificent domain was under the superintendence of Mr. Nicholas Mudge, who in consideration of taking charge of the town paupers had the use of the farm and buildings, rent free, together with a stipulated weekly sum for each of the inmates.
"Well, Paul," said Mr. Mudge, as they approached the house, in a tone which was meant to be encouraging, "this is goin' to be your home. How do you like it?"
Thus addressed, Paul ventured a glance around him.
`I don't know," said he, doubtfully; "it don't look very pleasant."
"Don't look very pleasant!" repeated Mr. Mudge in a tone of mingled amazement and indignation. "Well, there's gratitude for you. After the town has been at the expense of providin' a nice, comfortable home for you, because you haven't got any of your own, you must turn up your nose at it."
"I didn't mean to complain," said Paul, feeling very little interest in the matter.
"Perhaps you expected to live in a marble palace," pursued Mr. Mudge, in an injured tone. "We don't have any marble palaces in this neighborhood, we don't."
Paul disclaimed any such anticipation.
Mr. Mudge deigned to accept Paul's apology, and as they had now reached the door, unceremoniously threw it open, and led the way into a room with floor unpainted, which, to judge from its appearance, was used as a kitchen.
IV.
LIFE IN A NEW PHASE.
EVERYTHING was "at sixes and sevens," as the saying is, in the room Mr. Mudge and Paul had just entered. In the midst of the scene was a large stout woman, in a faded calico dress, and sleeves rolled up, working as if her life or the world's destiny depended upon it.
It was evident from the first words of Mr. Mudge that this lady was his helpmeet.
"Well, wife," he said, "I've brought you another boarder. You must try to make him as happy and contented as the rest of 'em are."
From the tone of the speaker, the last words might be understood to be jocular.
Mrs. Mudge, whose style of beauty was not improved by a decided squint, fixed a scrutinizing gaze upon Paul, and he quite naturally returned it.
"Haven't you ever seen anybody before, boy? I guess you'll know me next time."
"Shouldn't wonder if he did," chuckled Mr. Mudg
e.
"I don't know where on earth we shall put him," remarked the lady. "We're full now."
"Oh, put him anywhere. I suppose you won't be very particular about your accommodations?" said Mr. Mudge turning to Paul.
Paul very innocently answered in the negative, thereby affording Mr. Mudge not a little amusement.
"Well, that's lucky," he said, "because our best front chamber's occupied just now. We'd have got it ready for you if you'd only wrote a week ago to tell us you were coming. You can just stay round here," he said in a different tone as he was about leaving the room, "Mrs. Mudge will maybe want you to do something for her. You can sit down till she calls on you."
It was washing day with Mrs. Mudge, and of course she was extremely busy. The water was to be brought from a well in the yard, and to this office Paul was at once delegated. It was no easy task, the full pails tugging most unmercifully at his arms. However, this was soon over, and Mrs. Mudge graciously gave him permission to go into the adjoining room, and make acquaintance with his fellow-boarders.
There were nine of them in all, Paul, the new-comer making the tenth. They were all advanced in years, except one young woman, who was prevented by mental aberration from supporting herself outside the walls of the Institution.
Of all present, Paul's attention was most strongly attracted towards one who appeared more neatly and scrupulously attired than any of the rest.
Aunt Lucy Lee, or plain Aunt Lucy, for in her present abode she had small use for her last name, was a benevolent-looking old lady, who both in dress and manners was distinguished from her companions. She rose from her knitting, and kindly took Paul by the hand. Children are instinctive readers of character, and Paul, after one glance at her benevolent face, seated himself contentedly beside her.
"I suppose," said the old lady, socially, "you've come to live with us. We must do all we can to make you comfortable. Your name is Paul Prescott, I think Mrs. Mudge said."
"Yes, ma'am" answered Paul, watching the rapid movement of the old lady's fingers.
"Mine is Aunt Lucy," she continued, "that is what everybody calls me. So now we know each other, and shall soon be good friends, I hope. I suppose you have hardly been here long enough to tell how you shall like it."
Paul confessed that thus far he did not find it very pleasant.
"No, I dare say not," said Aunt Lucy, "I can't say I think it looks very attractive myself. However, it isn't wholly the fault of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge. They can't afford to do much better, for the town allows them very little."
Aunt Lucy's remarks were here interrupted by the apparition of the worthy landlady at the door.
"Dinner's ready, folks," said that lady, with little ceremony, "and you must come out quick if you want any, for I'm drove with work, and can't be hindered long."
The summons was obeyed with alacrity, and the company made all haste to the dining-room, or rather the kitchen, for it was here that the meals were eaten.
In the center of the room was set a table without a cloth, a table-cloth being considered a luxury quite superfluous. Upon this were placed several bowls of thin, watery liquid, intended for soup, but which, like city milk, was diluted so as hardly to be distinguishable. Beside each bowl was a slice of bread.
Such was the bill of fare.
"Now, folks, the sooner you fall to the better," exclaimed the energetic Mrs. Mudge, who was one of those driving characters, who consider any time spent at the table beyond ten minutes as so much time wasted.
The present company appeared to need no second invitation. Their scanty diet had the positive advantage of giving them a good appetite; otherwise the quality of their food might have daunted them.
Paul took his place beside Aunt Lucy. Mechanically he did as the rest, carrying to his mouth a spoonful of the liquid. But his appetite was not sufficiently accustomed to Poor House regime to enable him to relish its standing dish, and he laid down his spoon with a disappointed look.
He next attacked the crust of bread, but found it too dry to be palatable.
"Please, ma'am," said he to Mrs. Mudge, "I should like some butter."
Paul's companions dropped their spoons in astonishment at his daring, and Mrs. Mudge let fall a kettle she was removing from the fire, in sheer amazement.
"What did you ask for?" she inquired, as if to make sure that her ears did not deceive her.
"A little butter," repeated Paul, unconscious of the great presumption of which he had been guilty.
"You want butter, do you?" repeated Mr. Mudge. "Perhaps you'd like a slice of beef- steak and a piece of plum-pudding too, wouldn't you?"
"I should very much," said Paul, resolved to tell the truth, although he now began to perceive the sarcasm in his landlady's tone.
"There isn't anything more you would like, is there?" inquired the lady, with mock politeness.
"No, ma'am," returned Paul after a pause, "I believe not, to-day."
"Very moderate, upon my word," exclaimed Mrs. Mudge, giving vent at length to her pent- up indignation. "You'll be contented with butter and roast beef and plum-pudding! A mighty fine gentleman, to be sure. But you won't get them here, I'll be bound."
"So will I," thought Aunt Lucy.
"If you ain't satisfied with what I give you," pursued Mrs. Mudge, "you'd better go somewhere else. You can put up at some of the great hotels. Butter, forsooth!"
Having thus given expression to her feelings, she left the room, and Paul was left to finish his dinner with the best appetite he could command. He was conscious that he had offended Mrs. Mudge, but the thoughts of his recent great sorrow swallowed up all minor annoyances, so that the words of his estimable landlady were forgotten almost as soon as they were uttered. He felt that he must henceforth look for far different treatment from that to which he had been accustomed during his father's lifetime.
His thoughts were interrupted in a manner somewhat ludicrous, by the crazy girl who sat next to him coolly appropriating to herself his bowl of soup, having already disposed of her own.
"Look," said Aunt Lucy, quickly, calling Paul's attention, "you are losing your dinner."
"Never mind," said Paul, amused in spite of his sadness, "she is quite welcome to it if she likes it; I can't eat it."
So the dinner began and ended. It was very brief and simple, occupying less than ten minutes, and comprising only one course-- unless the soup was considered the first course, and the bread the second. Paul left the table as hungry as he came to it. Aunt Lucy's appetite had become accustomed to the Mudge diet, and she wisely ate what was set before her, knowing that there was no hope of anything better.
About an hour after dinner Ben Newcome came to the door of the Poor House and inquired for Paul.
Mrs. Mudge was in one of her crusty moods.
"You can't see him," said she.
"And why not?" said Ben, resolutely.
"Because he's busy."
"You'd better let me see him," said Ben, sturdily.
"I should like to know what's going to happen if I don't," said Mrs. Mudge, with wrathful eyes, and arms akimbo.
"I shall go home and report to my father," said Ben, coolly.
"Who is your father?" asked Mrs. Mudge, for she did not recognize her visitor.
"My father's name is Newcome--Squire Newcome, some call him."
Now it so happened that Squire Newcome was Chairman of the Overseers of the Poor, and in that capacity might remove Mr. Mudge from office if he pleased. Accordingly Mrs. Mudge softened down at once, on learning that Ben was his son.
"Oh," said she, "I didn't know who it was. I thought it might be some idle boy from the village who would only take Paul from his work, but if you have a message from your father----"
This she said to ascertain whether he really had any message or not, but Ben, who had in fact come without his father's knowledge, only bowed, and said, in a patronizing manner, "I accept your apology, Mrs. Mudge. Will you have the goodness to send Paul out?"
"Won't
you step in?" asked Mrs. Mudge with unusual politeness.
"No, I believe not."
Paul was accordingly sent out.
He was very glad to meet his schoolmate and playfellow, Ben, who by his gayety, spiced though it was with roguery, had made himself a general favorite in school.
"I say, Paul," said Ben, "I'm sorry to find you in such a place."
"It isn't very pleasant," said Paul, rather soberly.
"And that woman--Mrs. Mudge--she looks as if she might be a regular spitfire, isn't she?"
"Rather so."
"I only wish the old gentleman--meaning of course, the Squire--would take you to live with me. I want a fellow to play with. But I say, Paul, go and get your hat, and we'll go out for a walk."
"I don't know what Mrs. Mudge will say," said Paul, who had just come from turning the handle of a churn.
"Just call Mrs. Mudge, and I'll manage it."
Mrs. Mudge being summoned, made her appearance at the door.
"I presume, ma'am," said Ben, confidently, "you will have no objection to Paul's taking a walk with me while I deliver the message I am entrusted with."
"Certainly," said Mrs. Mudge, rather unwillingly, but not venturing to refuse.
"It takes me to come it over the old lady," said Ben, when they were out of hearing.
"Now, we'll go a fishing."
V.
A CRISIS.
BEFORE sunrise the next morning Paul was awakened by a rude shake from Mr. Mudge, with an intimation that he had better get up, as there was plenty of work before him.
By the light of the lantern, for as yet it was too dark to dispense with it, Paul dressed himself. Awakened from a sound sleep, he hardly had time to collect his thoughts, and it was with a look of bewilderment that he surveyed the scene about him. As Mrs. Mudge had said, they were pretty full already, and accordingly a rude pallet had been spread for him in the attic, of which, with the exception of nocturnal marauders, he was the only occupant. Paul had not, to be sure, been used to very superior accommodations, and if the bed had not been quite so hard, he would have got along very well. As it was he was separated from slats only by a thin straw bed which did not improve matters much. It was therefore with a sense of weariness which slumber had not dissipated, that Paul arose at the summons of Mr. Mudge.
Paul Prescott's Charge : a story for boys Page 2