The latter purpose he did not effect; Harold heard every sound, and consoled himself by thinking what an intolerable work Alfred was making on purpose. If he had tried to bear it as well as possible, his brother would have been much more likely to be sorry.
Alfred was thinking too much about his misfortunes and discomforts to attend to the evening reading, but it soothed him a little, and the pain was somewhat less, so he did fall asleep, so uneasily though, that Mrs. King put off going to bed as late as she could.
It was nearly eleven, and Ellen had been in bed a long time, when Alfred started, and Mrs. King turned her head, at the click of the wicket gate, and a step plashing on the walk. She opened the little window, and the gust of wet wind puffed the curtains, whistled round the room, and almost blew out the candle.
‘Who’s there?
‘It’s me, Mrs. King! I’ve got the stuff,’ called a hoarse tired voice.
‘Well, if ever! It’s Paul Blackthorn!’ exclaimed Mrs. King. ‘Thank ye kindly. I’ll come and let you in.’
‘Paul Blackthorn!’ cried Alfred. ‘Been all the way to Elbury for me! O Mother, bring him up, and let me thank him! But how ever did he know?’ The tears came running down Alfred’s cheeks at such kindness from a stranger. Mrs. King had hurried down-stairs, and at the threshold stood a watery figure, holding out the gallipot.
‘Oh! thank you, thank you; but come in! Yes, come in! you must have something hot, and get dried.’
Paul shambled in very foot-sore. He looked as if he were made of moist mud, and might be squeezed into any shape, and streams of rain were dropping from each of his many rags.
‘Well, I don’t know how to thank you—such a night! But he’ll sleep easy now. How did you come to think of it?’