Part 3, Chapter II.
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 was a glorious chance for the Rector’s enemies to blaspheme, and there and then, in the presence of several witnesses, he took advantage of the glorious opportunity.
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.
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