style="font-size:15px;"> “I am not disposed to enter into a controversy with you. My duty is to obey the canons of the Church. ‘He that believeth and is baptised shall be saved: he that believeth not shall be damned,’” he added, only to himself, but heard by the others.
“How could that tender child believe?” said Morrison, fiercely.
There was no reply.
“Mr Mallow, sir,” exclaimed Morrison, difference of grade forgotten in his excitement, “you refuse my child Christian burial, and you speak those dreadful words. I say, sir, do you wish me to believe that my poor, tender infant, fresh given to us by God, has gone to everlasting punishment for what it could not help – my neglect, as you call it?”
“I have told you that I cannot enter into a controversy with you; these are matters such as you cannot understand.”
“Then I swear – ” roared Morrison.
“Stop!” exclaimed the Curate. “Thomas Morrison, my good friend, you are angry and excited now, and will be saying words that, when cooler, you may repent.”
“This is little better than an outrage,” said the Rector, in whose cheeks two angry spots now glowed.
“Allow me to speak, sir,” said the Curate, firmly. “I speak on behalf of that fold whose fences you accused me of neglecting.”
The Rector turned upon him wonderingly, while the wrath of the wheelwright was quelled by the calm, stern words of the little man who now stood before them.
“Morrison,” he continued, “I have been a clergyman many years, and, God helping me, it has been my earnest work to try and convince my people of the love and tenderness of the Father of all for His children. Whenever a dogma of the Church has been likely to seem harsh to our present day ideas, I have let it rest, knowing how much there is of that which is just and good in our grand old religion. Mr Mallow, as your subordinate, sir, I may seem presumptuous. You are an older man than I, and perhaps a wiser, but I ask you, sir, with no irreverent feeling, whether, if it were possible that He who said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not,’ were holding your position here – the God as man and teacher of the people of this parish – He would act as you are acting? Would He not deal with such a canon as He did with the teachings of the Pharisees? Why, sir, He took little children into His arms, and blessed them, and said, ‘Of such is the kingdom of heaven.’”
He paused for a moment, while the Rector stood calm, stern, and cold, with his eyes once more half closed, covered in his cold church armour, and a pitying smile of contempt upon his lip; while Morrison stayed, angry still, but with quivering lip, and his hand upon the door.
A dead silence fell upon the little group when Mr Paulby had done speaking, and both the Curate and Tom Morrison watched the Rector, expecting him to make some reply, but none came.
At last the silence was broken by the wheelwright, out of whose voice every tinge of anger had now gone, and he spoke in tones which sounded deep, and trembled exceedingly at first, but gained strength as he went on: —
“Mr Paulby, sir,” he said, “I thank you. I can’t say all I feel, sir, but my poor wife and I thank you with all our hearts for what you’ve just said for us. I’m only a poor ignorant man, sir, but if I couldn’t feel that what you’ve said is just and true, I should be ready to do what so many here have done – go to the chapel. That wouldn’t be like the Morrisons though, sir. We’ve been church-folk, sir, for a couple of hundred years, and if you go round the churchyard, sir, you will see stone after stone marked with the name of Morrison, sir; some just worn out with age, and others growing plainer, till you come to that new one out by the big tower, where my poor old father was laid five years ago. There’s generations and generations of my people, sir, lying sleeping there – the whole family of the Morrisons, sir, save them as left their bones in foreign lands, or were sunk in the deep seas, sir, fighting for their country. And now my little one is to be kept out. Oh, parson, it’s too bad, and you’ll repent all this. Mr Paulby, sir, God bless you for your words. Good-bye!”
He strode out of the room, and the two clergymen stood listening to his heavy feet as he crossed the hall and passed out of the house. For a few minutes neither spoke.
At length the Curate broke the silence. The fire had gone out of his voice, and the light from his eye, as he said in a low voice —
“Mr Mallow, I am very, very sorry that this should have occurred.”
“And at a time when I am fighting so hard to win these erring people to a better way, Mr Paulby,” said the Rector, sternly.
“And I have tried so hard too, Mr Mallow,” said the Curate, plaintively. “When they all seem bent on going to one or the other of the chapels here.”
“I do not wonder, sir,” said the Rector, “but I do wonder that my own curate should turn against me.”
“No, do; not turn against you, sir. I wished to help.”
“Mr Paulby, I regret it much, but I shall be obliged to ask you to resign.”
“No, no, sir; I beg you will not,” cried the Curate, excitedly. “I have grown to love the people here, and – ”
“Mr Paulby,” said the Rector, “our opinions upon the duties of a priest are opposite. You will excuse me – I wish to be alone.”
The Curate stood for a moment or two with his hand extended, then he let it fall to his side.
“As you will, sir,” he said, sadly. “But there, you will think about this. Let me come over to-morrow, and see you. Will you be at home? Let us talk the matter over.”
No response.
“I spoke hotly, perhaps, sir. I ought not to have done so, but I was moved. Forgive me if I was wrong – let us part friends.”
Still no reply.
“I will leave you now, as you wish it, sir. Drop me a line, and send it by one of the school-children, and I will come over and see you.”
The Rector might have been made of stone as he stood there motionless, till, with a heavy sigh, his visitor slowly left the room, and trudged across the fields to his gloomy little room in the old, half-buried rectory.
Part 1, Chapter X.
Another Trouble for Discussion
That night, just at dark, Joe Biggins walked on tiptoe along the little gravel walk, bearing something beneath his arm; and, as he tapped at the door, the wheelwright rose and led his sobbing wife to an inner room, where he held her tenderly, with her head resting upon his breast, as they stood listening to the opening door, the creaking stairs, and the smothered, heavy step in the bedroom overhead. Then, after a few minutes, there was the sound of descending footsteps, the creaking of the cottage stairs, a whisper or two in the little entry, the closing door, the step upon the gravel, and all was still.
The sad hours glided by in the little darkened house, till Saturday arrived. There had been gossip enough in the place, and endless messages, fraught with good feeling, had come to the stricken couple from far and near; but there had been no sign from the rectory, and it was the general belief that the wheelwright would take the infant to the graveyard at the Wesleyan Chapel at Gatton. For somehow the whole affair had been well spread, and, as Humphrey Bone, the schoolmaster, said with a hearty chuckle of delight, it
