“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.