a vexatious perspiration that made his head shine; for in spite of all his practice at the schoolroom, no matter how he tried to draw their attention to the coming task, dwelling as he did upon such words at the end of a prayer as “Be with us all – ever – m – o – r – e,” the chanted “Amen,” delivered out of tune by the inattentive young surpliced choir, aided and abetted by the schoolmaster Bone’s bass, was something so shocking that, if it had been anything but a sacred service, it might have been called a burlesque.
It did not matter whether he was himself intoning, or listening to Mr Mallow’s rich deep voice, the Curate always sat in agony lest any one should laugh, a horror that he could not contemplate without a shudder, and he wished in his heart that the Rector would take it into his head to go again.
Parish business took the Curate over to the rectory on the morning succeeding the death of Tom Morrison’s little one. He had been up to town, and returned only late the past night, the result being that he had not heard of the wheelwright’s trouble, or he would at once have called.
He was a very nervous man, and the probabilities were that had he known what was about to happen, he would have stayed away. He had expected to be asked to stay lunch, and he had stayed. Then conversation had ensued on the forthcoming visitation of the bishop of the diocese. Cyril Mallow had made two or three remarks evidently intended to “chaff the Curate,” as he would have termed it, and to provoke a laugh from his sisters; but in neither case was he successful, and as soon as lunch was over, the Rector rose and led the way to his study, where he waved his hand towards a chair.
The Curate had hardly taken his seat, feeling rather oppressed at his principal’s grand surroundings as contrasted with his own modest apartments at the old rectory, when the butler entered softly to announce that the wheelwright wished to see him.
The Curate rose to leave.
“No, no, sit still,” said the Rector. “That will do, Edwards; I will ring,” and the butler retired.
“I am glad you are here, Paulby; I was going to speak upon this business. You have heard of it, I suppose?”
“Heard? Of what?” said the Curate.
“Morrison’s child is dead,” said the Rector.
“The baby! God bless me!” ejaculated the Curate. “I beg your pardon, Mr Mallow,” he continued, blushing like a girl. “It was so shocking. I was so surprised.”
The Rector bowed gravely, and went and stood with his back to the fireplace, and rang.
“You can show Mr Morrison in, Edwards,” said the Rector, and poor Tom Morrison was ushered in a few moments later, to stand bowing as the door was closed; but in no servile way, for the sturdy British yeoman was stamped in his careworn face, and he was one of the old stock of which England has always felt so proud.
The Rector bowed coldly, and pointed to a seat – standing, however, himself behind his writing-table.
“Ah, Morrison,” exclaimed the Curate, after an apologetic glance at the Rector, “I cannot tell you how I am shocked at this news. I did not know of it this morning, or I would have come down.”
He held out his hand to the visitor as he spoke, an act Mr Mallow forgot, and it was gratefully pressed.
Then feeling that he was not at home, Mr Paulby coughed, and resumed his seat.
“I’ve come, sir,” said the wheelwright, “about a little business.”
He hesitated, and glanced at Mr Paulby as if he did not wish to speak before him.
“I think, sir,” said the Curate, respectfully, “Mr Morrison wishes to speak to you in private.”
“I believe it is on a church question,” said the Rector, sternly. “Mr Morrison, you need not be afraid to speak before him.”
“I’m not, sir, on my account,” said the wheelwright, bluntly. “I was thinking of you, sir.”
“What you have to say can be said before Mr Paulby. It would be affectation on my part not to own that I know the object of your visit.”
“Well, sir, then, to be plain,” said Tom, clearing his throat, but speaking very humbly, “I thought I should like to know, sir, whether what I heard from doctor was true.”
“First let me say, Mr Morrison, that I heard with deep sorrow of the affliction that has befallen you. I am very, very sorry – ”
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Tom, with his under lip working.
“I say I am sorry that the chastening hand of the Lord has been laid upon you so heavily. But you must remember that it is not for us to question these chastisements. Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth. I hope your wife seeks for consolation in prayer.”
“Yes, sir, I know all that – thank you, sir – yes, sir – poor lass! – yes,” he said, or rather murmured, with his lower lip quivering at the allusion to his wife.
The Curate fidgeted in his chair, and kept changing the crossing of his knees, his fingers moving uneasily, as if they longed to go and lay themselves on the poor fellow’s shoulder while their owner said a few kindly words.
“I intend to call upon your wife this afternoon,” continued the Rector.
“No, sir – thank you, sir – please, don’t – at least not yet,” said Tom. “The poor girl is so broken down, she could not bear it.”
“The more need for me to come, Mr Morrison,” said the Rector, with a sad smile. Then, seizing the opportunity to deliver the first thrust after all his fencing, he continued, reproachfully, “I am sorry I did not know, Morrison, how ill your infant was. You should have sent to me; it was your duty.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose it was,” said the wheelwright, humbly. “But, gentlemen,” he continued, looking from one to the other, “I was in such trouble – my poor wife – we thought of nothing but saving the poor child’s life.”
“There is a life beyond the grave, Thomas Morrison,” said the Rector, whose voice grew firmer as he found that his visitor seemed awed at what he said. “The duty of man is to think of that before the world. I am sorry that you and your wife – such respectable, well-educated people – should have put off your duty to your offspring so long, neglecting it even at the very last, when I was but a few hundred yards from your door. I am grieved, deeply grieved. It has been to me a terrible shock, while you and your wife have incurred an awful responsibility by wilfully excluding your first-born from the pale of Christ’s Church.”
The stricken man looked from one to the other – the tall, portly, calm clergyman, standing behind his table, with one hand resting upon a large open book, the other upon his heart, his eyes half closed, his face stern and composed, and his words falling, when he spoke, in measured cadence, as if they had been studied for the time.
The Curate uncrossed his legs, and set his knees very wide apart, resting his elbows upon them, and joining his fingers very accurately, as he bent down his head, till Tom Morrison could see nothing but his broad, bald, shining crown.
“Not wilfully, sir – not wilfully,” said the wheelwright, appealingly, and his voice grew very husky. “The poor girl, sir, had set her mind – on the christening – Mr Paulby was to do it, sir, as he married us – next Sunday; and now – ”
The
