They walked down the neatly-kept garden, till they stood under the willow tree, where, after a few minutes' silence, Tom Morrison said huskily--

"They've made you saxon now, haven't they, Joe?"

"Yes, and ought to be clerk as well, but it don't seem like being saxon in these newfangled days, when the ground's cut from under a man, and there's no chance of putting in a simple, honest amen anywhere. Ah, I don't know what poor, dear old parson would have said to see the change.

He'd think we'd all gone over to Popery."

Tom waited till his friend, now suddenly grown voluble, had ceased.

"Joe Biggins," he said, "didst ever know old parson--G.o.d bless him!--to refuse to bury any one out of the place because--because they wasn't baptised?"

"Never," said Biggins--"never," energetically.

"He never had such a case, p'raps," said Tom.

"Oh, but he did," said Biggins--"even in my time. Why, there was poor Lizzy Baker's child. You knew Sam Baker?"

Tom nodded.

"Well, when their little one died it hadn't been christened, I know. I remember father talking about it while he made the coffin, and I recollect it so well because it was the first coffin I ever put the nails in all by myself. Let's see, that's a good fifteen year ago now, Tom, that it be."

"And he buried it?"

"To be sure he did. Why, I remember as well as if it had been yesterday. He says to my father, he says, 'I never like to be too partic'lar about these baptismal matters. It's not 'cording to church law, but I couldn't put such a sorrow on the poor father and mother as to refuse the service, and I hope I'm right.'"

"He said so?" whispered the wheelwright, half turning away his face.

"I can't as a man, Tom, sweer to the zact words," said the carpenter, earnestly; "but I'll sweer as they meant all that, long ago as it is."

"G.o.d bless him!" muttered Tom, with his lower lip working.

"Old parson wasn't particular about those sort o' things. Don't you remember about poor old d.i.c.k Granger? To be sure--yes--we were boys then, and went to Humphrey Bone. Ay, and what a rage he do wax in again parson now, toe be sewer. I recklect father talking about it. You remember, sewer_ly_, old Granger went off his head, and drowned himself in Cook's mill dam, and the jury said it was _felo de se_; and Johnson up at the Red Cow was foreman, and wanted him to be buried at the cross roads, with a stake druv through his heart. Why, it's all come back now. I recklect it all; how old parson went to the poor old widow, and talked to her; and there was a big funeral. Everybody went to see poor old Granger buried in the churchyard; and he was buried all regular, and parson preached the next Sunday about brotherly love and Christian charity. Why, Tom, you and I was about seventeen then. How time do go!"

"Yes--I remember," said the wheelwright, bowing his head.

"Ah," said Biggins, "those were the days, Tom; even if one did get to know some of poor old parson's sarmons. We sang the old psalms and hymns then, and Miss Jane used to practise twice a week with us boys at the little organ that old Davy, Franklin's gardener, used to turn the handle on. 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--

"d.a.m.n 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 peac.o.c.k, and his boys arn't what they should be. You needn't tell him what I say, for I don't want to offend n.o.body, 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, pa.s.sing 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 ONE, CHAPTER NINE.

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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 ba.s.s, 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 princ.i.p.al'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! G.o.d bless me!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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.