“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 poor fellow’s voice shook, and his face grew convulsed for a moment; but he clenched his fists, set his teeth, and fought hard to control his grief. The Curate drew a long breath and bent down lower.
“But, 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.”