style="font-size:15px;"> Both Julia and Cynthia had called and sympathised very warmly with their old maid, to have the door opened to them by Tom Morrison himself, who frowned when he saw who were the visitors; but as Julia laid her hand upon his arm, and he saw Cynthia with her eyes overflowing, he drew back, and somehow the wheelwright’s heart was softened, and grew softer still as he saw his young wife sobbing in Julia Mallow’s arms.
Both Julia and her sister tried to mediate, but were sternly forbidden to interfere, and though they tried again through the interposition of Mrs Mallow, she shook her head.
“No, my dears,” said the patient invalid, looking at her daughters with her great wistful eyes, “it is of no use; papa will never give way upon a matter of the Church. He says – ”
Mrs Mallow paused, for she felt that she ought not to repeat her husband’s words, which were to the effect that he had been neglectful for years, and that now nothing should turn him from the path of duty.
Towards evening Joe Biggins went softly along the lane, and on seeing him at the gate, Tom Morrison went to meet him, and returned his friendly grip, the visitor standing afterwards, as before, perfectly silent and looking down at the walk.
“You’ve come to say something to me,” said Tom at last, in a quiet, resigned way.
“Amen to that, Tom; I have,” said the other, in a low voice. “I thought I should see you here. About to-morrow aft’noon.”
“Yes,” said the wheelwright, quietly.
“I don’t like troubling you about it, lad,” said Biggins, “only I must. I wanted to tell you, you know. You see, I must be up at church, and if you hear from parson, why, I shall meet you all right; if you don’t hear from him, there’ll be the little mourning coach all ready waiting to take you all to Gatton. I’ve seen to everything. That’s all.”
He was going off on tiptoe, but Morrison stopped him, to press his hand with a strong man’s hearty grip; and he walked with him to the gate.
“Call in when you go up to the church in the morning,” he said, quietly; and then they parted.
It was quite dark before the wheelwright had finished his work in the garden, and went in to the evening meal, to be met by his wife’s searching look.
He shook his head sadly, as he bent down and kissed her.
“No, my lass,” he said, “Joe brought no message.”
Polly began to weep, the tears flowing fast, till she saw Budge’s face working, ready for a tremendous howl, when, mastering her emotion, she sat down with her husband to the table where their evening meal was spread.
An hour later, husband and wife, hand in hand, ascended to the death chamber, where, with the moonlight full upon it, lay the tiny coffin, bathed in a silvery flood of light.
Biggins had obeyed his friend’s instructions, even as if it had been for one of his own, and the simple silver ornamentation shone upon the coarse white cloth.
The tear-blinded pair lingered for a few moments without approaching their sacred dead; but at last they stood beside it, and the young mother removed the lid that lightly pressed the flowers which covered the tiny breast.
Their loving lips kissed, for the last time, the cold, waxen forehead; and a groan escaped from Polly’s heart as the lid was replaced closely, this time by the father’s hands.
“Hush, Polly,” he whispered, “you said you would be strong.”
“I will, I will,” she sighed. And they stood for a few moments, hand clasped in hand, with the silence only broken by a smothered sob from below.
At last, reverently taking the little coffin in his arms, Tom Morrison bore it slowly down the stairs, followed by his weeping wife, who held something white in her hands, and this she laid over the coffin like a little pall.
Poor Budge was there, trying hard to keep down her grief, but a wail would burst forth; and covering her mouth tightly with her hands, she darted away into the back kitchen.
It was the little christening robe, that was to have been worn next day; and drip after drip, to form dark spots in the moonlight, the hot, burning tears of anguish fell from the mother’s eyes as they slowly bore the little burden out into the garden, down the neat path, and away to the corner where the willow laved its long green branches in the brook – a veritable stream of silver now, dancing and sparkling in the beams of the broad-faced moon.
Where Tom Morrison stopped at last, beneath the willow, was his evening’s work – a small, dark trench, lying amidst the mellow, sweet-scented, newly-turned earth; and here, upon his own land, he was about to lay the dead – to be sown in corruption, to be raised in incorruption – in soil unconsecrated, and without the rites of the Church.
Unconsecrated? No, it was consecrated by the loving tears that bedewed the earth, and fell upon the little white coffin as it was tenderly lowered to its resting-place; and, failing rites, the stricken pair kneeled on either side in the soft mould, and, joining hands, prayed that they might meet again.
Tom’s words were few; but simple and earnest was his prayer as ever fell from the lips of man; while, kneeling at the foot of the grave was poor Budge, who only burst forth with a sob when all was over. For the mother stayed while the earth was reverently drawn over the cold bed, till a little hillock of black soil lay silvered by the dropping moonbeams falling through the willow boughs.
It was poor Budge who laid her offering – a bunch of daisies – upon the little grave, while Tom led his trembling wife back to their desolate home.
Joe Biggins, true to his word, called at the wheelwright’s next morning on his way to church, and on coming within sight of the house he took off his hat to indulge in a good scratch, for he was puzzled on seeing that the blinds were all drawn up.
Replacing his hat very carefully, he softly entered upon tip-toes, and walked up the little path, where he was met by Tom Morrison, looking pale and worn, but with a restful look in his face that had not been there for days.
They shook hands warmly, for Joe Biggins had resolved never to think about that coffin Tom Morrison had made again, and just then fresh steps were heard, and they saw old Mr Vinnicombe coming up.
“I thought I’d call, Morrison,” he said, “and ask you to let me be the bearer of a message to the rectory. Let’s make a last appeal to the bigot.”
“Hush, sir! – don’t call him names,” said Tom. “He thought he was right, no doubt.”
“Then you’ve heard from him.”
“No, sir, no,” said Tom, sadly; “but I forgive him all the same, though I could never bear to go and hear him more.”
The doctor and Biggins looked at each other, and the latter shook his head till his white cravat crackled, for he was got up ready for his verger’s gown.
“Will you walk down the garden, doctor?” said the wheelwright, quietly.
They both followed him, wonderingly, till, nearing the willow, they heard a low, wailing sob; and, drawing nearer, found poor Budge crouching in a heap upon the ground, her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her desolate young heart would break.
They approached her unheard; and, at the scene
