sir,” said Morrison, after a few moments’ pause, during which the library, with its rows of books, looked dim and misty, while the clergyman before him stood as if of marble – “but, sir, I know I deserve it – and I suppose I have neglected my duty; but the poor innocent little one – don’t say as it’s true that you won’t bury it in the churchyard.”
The Rector sighed and coughed vaguely. Then, in a low, sad voice, he said —
“Morrison, I am grieved – deeply grieved and mine is a most painful duty to perform; but I stand here the spiritual head of this parish, a lowly servant of Christ’s Church, and I must obey her laws.”
“But, sir,” said Tom, “that tiny child, so innocent and young – you couldn’t be doing wrong. I beg your pardon, sir, I’m an ignorant man, but don’t – pray, don’t say you won’t bury it.”
“Mr Morrison, you are not an ignorant man,” said the Rector, sternly. “You know the laws of the Church; you know your duty to that unfortunate child – that you have wilfully excluded it from the fold of Christ’s flock. I cannot, will not, disobey those laws in departing from my duty as a clergyman.”
The Curate moved his fingers about an inch apart, and then rejoined them, in time to a deep sigh, but he did not raise his head; while Tom Morrison stood, with brow contracted, evidently stricken by some powerful emotion which he was struggling to master; and at last he did, speaking calmly and with deep pathos in his appealing voice.
“Sir, I am a man, and rough, and able to fight hard and bear trouble; but I have a wife who loved, almost worshipped – ”
“Set not your affections upon things on earth,” said the Rector, in a low, stern voice, as if in warning to himself.
Tom paused a few moments, till the speaker had finished, and then he went on —
“She almost worshipped that child – I ask you humbly, sir, for her sake, don’t say no. At a time like this she is low, and weak, and ill. Parson, if you say no, it will go nigh to break her heart.”
“Morrison,” said the Rector, slowly, with his eyes still half closed – “as a man and a fellow-Christian, I sympathise with you deeply. I am more grieved than I can express. By your neglect you have thrown upon me a painful duty. The fold was open – always open – from the day of its birth for the reception of your poor lamb, but in your worldliness you turned your back upon it till it was too late. I say it with bitter sorrow – too late. Let this be a lesson to you both for life. It is a hard lesson, but you must bear it. I cannot do what you ask.”
The wheelwright stood with the veins in his forehead swelling, and his clenched fists trembled with the struggle that was going on within his breast; but the face of his sorrowing wife seemed to rise before him, and he gained the mastery once more, and turned to the silent Curate.
“Mr Paulby, sir, you married Mary and me, and, we seem to know you here, sir, as our parson – ”
The Rev. Eli winced as he heard the emphasis on the you.
“Please help me, sir,” continued Morrison, appealingly; “you’ve known me many years, and I hope you don’t think I’d be the man to wilfully refuse to do my duty. Will you say a word for me, sir? You understand these things more than me.”
The Curate raised his head sharply, and as his eyes met those of the suffering man, they were so full of sympathy, that the look was like balm to the poor fellow, and he took heart of grace.
“I will, Morrison – I will,” said he, huskily; and he turned to his brother clergyman.
“Mr Mallow,” he said, gently – and there was as much appeal in his voice as in that of the suppliant before them – “forgive me for interfering between you and one of your parishioners, but I do it in no meddling spirit, only as a servant of our Great Master, when I ask you whether in such a case as this the Church would wish us to adhere so strictly to those laws made for our guidance so many years ago. I think you might – nay, as a Christian clergyman, I think you should – accede to our suffering brothers prayer.”
“God bless you, sir, for this!” ejaculated Morrison, in a broken voice.
The Rector turned slowly round, and his eyes opened widely now as they fixed themselves upon the countenance of his curate.
For a few moments he did not speak, but panted as if his feelings were too much for him. Then, in a voice faltering from emotion, he exclaimed —
“Mr Paulby, you astound me. You, whom I received here with testimonials that were unimpeachable, or I should not have trusted you as I have, – you, a priest of the Church of England, to counsel me to go in direct opposition to her laws!”
“I ask you, sir,” said the Curate, gently, “to perform, at a suffering father’s prayer, the last duties to the dead, over the body of an innocent babe, freshly come from its Maker’s hands, freshly there returned.”
“Sir,” exclaimed the Rector, and there was indignation now in his words, “well may the enemies of the Church triumph and point to its decadence, when there are those within the fold who openly, and in the presence of back sliders, counsel their brother priests to disobey the sacred canons of her laws. I feel sure, however, that you have been led away by your feelings, or you would not have spoken so.”
“Yes,” said the Curate, sadly. “I was led away by my feelings.”
“I knew you were, sir,” said the Rector, sternly. “Sir, it was time that a party should arise in the Church, ready and strong, to repair the broken gaps in the hedges, and to protect the sheep. I grieve to find that I have been away too long. I thought, sir, you would have been ready to stand fast in the faith, when assaulted by the worldly-minded who would lead men astray; ready to – ”
“Forget the dictates of humanity, for the hard and fast laws made by men who lived in the days of persecution, and before the benignant, civilising spread of education had made men to know more fully the meaning of brotherly love.”
“Sir – ”
“I beg your pardon, Mr Mallow,” said the Curate, whose face was now flushed. “You seem to forget that we do not live now in the days of the faggot and the stake. But, there,” he said, gently, “I think you will accede to the wishes of my poor friend.”
“Sir,” said the Rector, “I can only repeat that I am grieved beyond measure at this expression of opinion. What you ask of me is impossible.”
The wheelwright had listened with growing indignation to these words on either side, and now, flushed and excited, he spoke out.
“You will not do this, then, sir?” he said, hoarsely.
“You have had my answer, Mr Morrison,” was the cold reply, and he walked towards the bell.
“Stop, sir – a minute,” exclaimed Morrison, panting. “You called me an educated man time back?”
The Rector bowed coldly.
“You’re not right about that, sir; but I have read a little, and so as to behave as a decent man, as I thought, next Sunday, I read through the christening service, and what it says about children who have been baptised dying before they sin being certain to be saved.”
“That is quite right,” said the Rector, gravely; and he now seemed to ignore the Curate’s
