The Shepherd of Bethlehem King of Israel
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THE SHEPHERD OF BETHLEHEM KING OF ISRAEL (First in Series of Mr. Eardley) Written in 1870 By Charlotte Maria Tucker (A.L.O.E.) Chapter 1 The Slide “It was a cold, wintry day, about the time of the New Year. The wind blew in sharp gusts and drove the sleet into the faces of the few passengers who hurried along the High Street of the little town of Axe, anxious to reach the shelter of their homes. A curious-looking old street it was, narrow and very irregular, with all kinds of houses in it—some high, some low, some with shops, some without them, some retreating behind a little court, some pushing out their pointed gable-ends right into the pathway, some with roofs of slate, and some with roofs of tile, and one or two even thatched with straw, green and mossy with age. It is into one curious old house, with red-tiled roof and gable-end, and pointed windows with diamond-shaped panes, on which the frost has traced pretty patterns of seaweed and trees, that I will now take my reader. And first we enter a little shop in which Mrs. Block, the owner, sells paper and pens and string and prints to all who wish to buy. The window is gay with many a colored picture and a toy or a string of beads here and there make little children stand to gaze. But Mrs. Block does not earn her living only by selling in the shop. She also takes lodgers into the house as it is larger than she needs for herself. Leaving to the right, her small back-parlor, papered with green, if we ascend a dark, steep staircase, we shall soon find ourselves on the first floor, which projects a little above the shop. Here two young gentlemen at present are living—Richard and Julius Maxwell—the sons of a retired officer. They have been sent from their father’s home, because both their little sisters are lying there ill with the scarlet fever, and their parents think it safer for their boys to keep away from infection. But there is another floor in this old house—the one just under the roof. There are in it, besides a small lumber-room, two little white-washed chambers, one for sleeping in and one for sitting in, both with sloping ceilings, of which the highest part is so low that a tall man might almost touch it with his hand. In the front one, which looks into the street, Mrs. Block, the landlady, is bustling about, getting it ready for the new lodgers, whom she expects this day from London. Her little maid-of-all-work, Matty, is on her knees before the black grate trying to coax up a blaze, for the cold makes a fire very needful, but the wood is damp and will not burn well, and the wind comes rushing down the chimney and carries the smoke back into the room. Mrs. Block is angry with the wood and with the wind, and most of all with poor Matty, whom she scolds with a loud harsh voice, looking almost ready to strike her. “There, that’s the fourth match you’ve wasted, you have! If ever I knew a stupid, handless girl! You ain’t worth the bread you eat! Get up, will you, and I’ll show you how the thing is to be done!” So Matty rose from her knees and wiped her cold, blackened hands on her apron, and stood watching, while Mrs. Block spoiled as many matches and made the wood burn as ill as she had done. “What will the new minister say when he comes and finds the room full of smoke and not a spark to warm himself at!” muttered the impatient Mrs. Block. At last the wood became fairly lighted and burned and cracked cheerily, casting a pleasant glow on the white-washed walls and the little pointed window. Mrs. Block then went on with her preparations—“putting the room to rights,” as she said—helping Matty to dust the chairs and table, keeping her tongue busy all the time, chatting sometimes about her new lodgers and sometimes scolding the girl. “Our new minister, this Mr. Eardley, he’ll have enough to do in this town with the Head Pastor so sickly, and such a set of people to look after. He does not look over strong either, and if Mr. Santon goes abroad as they say he will, all the work will fall on the minister. Three services on Sundays, two on week-days—mind what you’re after, Matty, you’ve left the mark of your black fingers all along the clean wall! I suppose Mr. Eardley isn’t well off, as he and his brother are content to put up with the attic, not but that these are good rooms—very good rooms—very”—even Mrs. Block could not add “lofty,” for at the moment, she struck her head against the sloping ceiling. Having hurt herself by her awkwardness, the landlady instantly turned her wrath against Matty. “Mind what you’re about, simpleton! Don’t stand staring at me! You’ll break that glass with your clumsy fingers, and if you do!”—Poor Matty’s frightened face showed that her mistress’s threats did not end always in nothing but words. It was time for the lodgers to arrive. Mrs. Block leaned her red hands on the sill of the window and looked down into the road. “Don’t see any carriage coming,” she said. “Of course, a gentleman will drive from the station. Dear me!” she continued, “there’s that Tom Barnes making a slide just in front of my door, as if the path was not slippery enough without that! Tom’s at the bottom of every piece of mischief done in this town. He’s come of a precious bad lot—his father was a thief and died in a jail, and his son takes after him, and I’ll be bound, will end as he ended!” The short wintry day was now closing. Lights appeared in the different shops. The butcher’s gas-burners flared, a red glow marked the chemist’s window, while here and there from a lamp-post a bright gleam fell on the narrow pavement. Tom Barnes, a black-eyed, sharp-looking boy, with rough hair and ragged attire, feet that looked through his shoes and elbows that had forced their way through his jacket, was still amusing himself with his slide, careless of cold or frost. “My good boy,” said an old gentleman who was passing by, muffled up in a great coat and with a red comforter wrapped over his chin, “do you not know that it is dangerous to make slides in the public street? What would you say if this were to cause someone to slip and fall?” The lad’s only reply was a loud, rude laugh, and a muttered, “It would be a rare lark! I should like to be by to see it!” Again Mrs. Block looked forth from her window, though the evening was growing too dark for her to distinguish anything clearly. “There are two figures coming up the street,” she said. “The tall one is just about the height of Mr. Eardley, but it can’t be he, for he’s carrying a box and the young one beside him has a carpet-bag and something else in his hand. Sure, there’s no real gentleman would be carrying his own luggage, when a porter could be had for a shilling! It is the minister, though,” she added, as the light of a lamp which he passed fell on black coat and white necktie, “and he’s carrying his box and no mistake. I don’t like a lodger that looks so sharply after his shillings.” Mrs. Block knew not how light was the young minister’s purse and how needful it was for him to take good care of his money, if he wished to be either generous or just. Upon an income which was scarcely sufficient to maintain himself in comfort, Mr. Eardley was supporting his orphan brother and giving a little pension to his faithful old nurse, and a poor blind widow whom he knew. This could only be done by great self-denial—by giving up every little indulgence and by bearing to be even thought lowly by those who were ignorant of his circumstances. Thus it was that on that bitter cold winter’s night, the young minister carried his own box two miles from the station, after travelling third class from London and glad was the weary man when he at length reached the street of Axe and saw a light gleaming from the window of the little lodging in which he was to live with his brother. “What a strange old-fashioned place this is, as well as we can see through the darkness,” said Edwin, a boy about nine years of age, looking curiously around him as he toiled on, carpet-bag in hand. “How nice it will be to get to a good warm fire, a snug room, and a hot supper, for I am both hungry and cold. I am afraid, dear Henry, that you are sadly tired. I wish that you would let me help you to carry that box. “I think, Edwin, that you are quite enough burdened already with your carpet-bag and your parcel,” replied Mr.