Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family. Fenn George Manville
you, sir – yes, sir – poor lass! – yes,” he said, or rather murmured, with his lower lip quivering at the allusion to his wife.
The Curate fidgeted in his chair, and kept changing the crossing of his knees, his fingers moving uneasily, as if they longed to go and lay themselves on the poor fellow’s shoulder while their owner said a few kindly words.
“I intend to call upon your wife this afternoon,” continued the Rector.
“No, sir – thank you, sir – please, don’t – at least not yet,” said Tom. “The poor girl is so broken down, she could not bear it.”
“The more need for me to come, Mr Morrison,” said the Rector, with a sad smile. Then, seizing the opportunity to deliver the first thrust after all his fencing, he continued, reproachfully, “I am sorry I did not know, Morrison, how ill your infant was. You should have sent to me; it was your duty.”
“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.”
“Mr Morrison, you are not an ignorant man,” said the Rector, sternly. “You know the laws of the Church; you know your duty to that unfortunate child – that you have wilfully excluded it from the fold of Christ’s flock. I cannot, will not, disobey those laws in departing from my duty as a clergyman.”
The Curate moved his fingers about an inch apart, and then rejoined them, in time to a deep sigh, but he did not raise his head; while Tom Morrison stood, with brow contracted, evidently stricken by some powerful emotion which he was struggling to master; and at last he did, speaking calmly and with deep pathos in his appealing voice.
“Sir, I am a man, and rough, and able to fight hard and bear trouble; but I have a wife who loved, almost worshipped – ”
“Set not your affections upon things on earth,” said the Rector, in a low, stern voice, as if in warning to himself.
Tom paused a few moments, till the speaker had finished, and then he went on —
“She almost worshipped that child – I ask you humbly, sir, for her sake, don’t say no. At a time like this she is low, and weak, and ill. Parson, if you say no, it will go nigh to break her heart.”
“Morrison,” said the Rector, slowly, with his eyes still half closed – “as a man and a fellow-Christian, I sympathise with you deeply. I am more grieved than I can express. By your neglect you have thrown upon me a painful duty. The fold was open – always open – from the day of its birth for the reception of your poor lamb, but in your worldliness you turned your back upon it till it was too late. I say it with bitter sorrow – too late. Let this be a lesson to you both for life. It is a hard lesson, but you must bear it. I cannot do what you ask.”
The wheelwright stood with the veins in his forehead swelling, and his clenched fists trembled with the struggle that was going on within his breast; but the face of his sorrowing wife seemed to rise before him, and he gained the mastery once more, and turned to the silent Curate.
“Mr Paulby, sir, you married Mary and me, and, we seem to know you here, sir, as our parson – ”
The Rev. Eli winced as he heard the emphasis on the you.
“Please help me, sir,” continued Morrison, appealingly; “you’ve known me many years, and I hope you don’t think I’d be the man to wilfully refuse to do my duty. Will you say a word for me, sir? You understand these things more than me.”
The Curate raised his head sharply, and as his eyes met those of the suffering man, they were so full of sympathy, that the look was like balm to the poor fellow, and he took heart of grace.
“I will, Morrison – I will,” said he, huskily; and he turned to his brother clergyman.
“Mr Mallow,” he said, gently – and there was as much appeal in his voice as in that of the suppliant before them – “forgive me for interfering between you and one of your parishioners, but I do it in no meddling spirit, only as a servant of our Great Master, when I ask you whether in such a case as this the Church would wish us to adhere so strictly to those laws made for our guidance so many years ago. I think you might – nay, as a Christian clergyman, I think you should – accede to our suffering brothers prayer.”
“God bless you, sir, for this!” ejaculated Morrison, in a broken voice.
The Rector turned slowly round, and his eyes opened widely now as they fixed themselves upon the countenance of his curate.
For a few moments he did not speak, but panted as if his feelings were too much for him. Then, in a voice faltering from emotion, he exclaimed —
“Mr Paulby, you astound me. You, whom I received here with testimonials that were unimpeachable, or I should not have trusted you as I have, – you, a priest of the Church of England, to counsel me to go in direct opposition to her laws!”
“I ask you, sir,” said the Curate, gently, “to perform, at a suffering father’s prayer, the last duties to the dead, over the body of an innocent babe, freshly come from its Maker’s hands, freshly there returned.”
“Sir,” exclaimed the Rector, and there was indignation now in his words, “well may the enemies of the Church triumph and point to its decadence, when there are those within the fold who openly, and in the presence of back sliders, counsel their brother priests to disobey the sacred canons of her laws. I feel sure, however, that you have been led away by your feelings, or you would not have spoken so.”
“Yes,” said the Curate, sadly.