Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family. Fenn George Manville
There was no choral sarvice then, and white gowns for the children. Ah, a clerk’s place was worth having then. It wasn’t many on ’em as could roll out Amen like poor old Sammy Warmoth.”
“Joe Biggins,” said the wheelwright, checking the flood of recollections – “doctor says Rev. Mallow won’t – won’t – ”
“Won’t bury the little one?” Tom’s voice failed him, and he nodded shortly.
“Phew!”
Biggins gave a low, sibilant whistle. Then, flushing up, he exclaimed —
“Damn him! No – I don’t mean that. Lord forgive me for speaking so of a parson. But, I say, Tom – oh, no, he can’t mean it, lad. Tell you what, he’s a queer one, and as proud as a peacock, and his boys arn’t what they should be. You needn’t tell him what I say, for I don’t want to offend nobody, that’s my motter through life; but parson’s a parson, and he’s bound to practise what he preaches. You go and see him.”
“I mean to.”
“Shall I go with thee, lad?”
“No. I’ll go alone.”
“P’raps you’d better, lad. If he makes any bones about it, ask him as a favour – don’t be hot with him, Tom, but a bit humble. I know thee don’t like to ask favours of any man; but do’t for her sake, Tom – indoors.”
Biggins pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and the wheelwright nodded.
“When is the best time to see him?” said Tom, after a few moments’ silence.
“Well, it’s no good to go till ’bout two o’clock, after his lunch. He won’t see me, even on parish matters, in the morning.”
The wheelwright nodded, and, without another word, Biggins went away, passing the cottage, with its drawn-down blinds, on tiptoe, and shaking his fist at a boy who was whistling as he went along the road.
Part 1, Chapter IX.
Orthodox to a Degree
The Rev. Lawrence Paulby looked rather aghast at the changes Mr Mallow was effecting in the church, and sighed as he thought of the heart-burnings that were ever on the increase; but he said nothing, only went on with his daily routine of work, and did his best, to use his own words, “for everybody’s sake.”
Joe Biggins, as we have learned, had succeeded old Sammy Warmoth as far as a successor was wanted, and he now, in a most sheepish manner, looking appealingly at the Curate, wandered about the church as a verger, in a long black gown, and carrying a white wand, to his very great disgust and the amusement of the schoolboys, several of whom had tested its quality. The little old organ had been brought down from the loft where the singers used to sit, and placed in the chancel, where there was no room for it, so a kind of arched cupboard had been built expressly to contain it; and where the Rector’s and churchwardens’ families used to sit, close up by the communion rails, was now occupied by the surpliced choir, who weekly attempted a very bad imitation of a cathedral service. They chanted all the psalms to the Gregorian tones, item, the responses and the amens; and beginning always very flat, they gradually grew worse and worse, till, towards the close of the service, they would be singing a long way on towards a semitone beneath the organ, which always gave a toot to pitch the key for the Rector or Curate to start in intoning his part.
The very first Sunday that this was tried, Mr Lawrence Paulby broke out into a vexatious perspiration that made his head shine; for in spite of all his practice at the schoolroom, no matter how he tried to draw their attention to the coming task, dwelling as he did upon such words at the end of a prayer as “Be with us all – ever – m – o – r – e,” the chanted “Amen,” delivered out of tune by the inattentive young surpliced choir, aided and abetted by the schoolmaster Bone’s bass, was something so shocking that, if it had been anything but a sacred service, it might have been called a burlesque.
It did not matter whether he was himself intoning, or listening to Mr Mallow’s rich deep voice, the Curate always sat in agony lest any one should laugh, a horror that he could not contemplate without a shudder, and he wished in his heart that the Rector would take it into his head to go again.
Parish business took the Curate over to the rectory on the morning succeeding the death of Tom Morrison’s little one. He had been up to town, and returned only late the past night, the result being that he had not heard of the wheelwright’s trouble, or he would at once have called.
He was a very nervous man, and the probabilities were that had he known what was about to happen, he would have stayed away. He had expected to be asked to stay lunch, and he had stayed. Then conversation had ensued on the forthcoming visitation of the bishop of the diocese. Cyril Mallow had made two or three remarks evidently intended to “chaff the Curate,” as he would have termed it, and to provoke a laugh from his sisters; but in neither case was he successful, and as soon as lunch was over, the Rector rose and led the way to his study, where he waved his hand towards a chair.
The Curate had hardly taken his seat, feeling rather oppressed at his principal’s grand surroundings as contrasted with his own modest apartments at the old rectory, when the butler entered softly to announce that the wheelwright wished to see him.
The Curate rose to leave.
“No, no, sit still,” said the Rector. “That will do, Edwards; I will ring,” and the butler retired.
“I am glad you are here, Paulby; I was going to speak upon this business. You have heard of it, I suppose?”
“Heard? Of what?” said the Curate.
“Morrison’s child is dead,” said the Rector.
“The baby! God bless me!” ejaculated the Curate. “I beg your pardon, Mr Mallow,” he continued, blushing like a girl. “It was so shocking. I was so surprised.”
The Rector bowed gravely, and went and stood with his back to the fireplace, and rang.
“You can show Mr Morrison in, Edwards,” said the Rector, and poor Tom Morrison was ushered in a few moments later, to stand bowing as the door was closed; but in no servile way, for the sturdy British yeoman was stamped in his careworn face, and he was one of the old stock of which England has always felt so proud.
The Rector bowed coldly, and pointed to a seat – standing, however, himself behind his writing-table.
“Ah, Morrison,” exclaimed the Curate, after an apologetic glance at the Rector, “I cannot tell you how I am shocked at this news. I did not know of it this morning, or I would have come down.”
He held out his hand to the visitor as he spoke, an act Mr Mallow forgot, and it was gratefully pressed.
Then feeling that he was not at home, Mr Paulby coughed, and resumed his seat.
“I’ve come, sir,” said the wheelwright, “about a little business.”
He hesitated, and glanced at Mr Paulby as if he did not wish to speak before him.
“I think, sir,” said the Curate, respectfully, “Mr Morrison wishes to speak to you in private.”
“I believe it is on a church question,” said the Rector, sternly. “Mr Morrison, you need not be afraid to speak before him.”
“I’m not, sir, on my account,” said the wheelwright, bluntly. “I was thinking of you, sir.”
“What you have to say can be said before Mr Paulby. It would be affectation on my part not to own that I know the object of your visit.”
“Well, sir, then, to be plain,” said Tom, clearing his throat, but speaking very humbly, “I thought I should like to know, sir, whether what I heard from doctor was true.”
“First let me say, Mr Morrison, that I heard with deep sorrow of the affliction that has befallen you. I am very, very sorry – ”
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Tom, with his under lip working.
“I say I am sorry that the chastening hand of the Lord has