Part 32 (1/2)
”I'm sorry for ye,” she said, lifting herself from the coffin to which she clung, and turning upon the widow of the drowned man, ”and ye can be just as sorry for me! He loved us both, and why should we quarrel! A man is ever like that--just chancy and changeful--but he tried his honest hardest not to love me--yes, he tried hard!--it was my fault!
for I never tried!--I loved him!--and I'll love him, till I go where he is gone! And we'll see who G.o.d'll give his soul to!”
This was too much for the curate.
”Woman!” he thundered, ”Be silent! How dare you boast of your sin at such a time, and in such a place! Take her away from that coffin, some of you!”
So he commanded, but still not a man moved. The curate began to lose temper in earnest.
”Take her away, I tell you,” and he advanced a step or two, ”I cannot permit such a scandalous interruption of this service!”
”Patience, patience, measter,” said one of the men standing by, ”When a woman's heart's broke in two ways it ain't no use worrying her. She'll come right of herself in a minute.”
But the curate, never famous for forbearance at any time, was not to be tampered with. Turning to his verger he said,
”I refuse to go on! The woman is drunk!”
But now the widow of the dead man suddenly took up the argument in a shrill voice which almost tore the air to shreds.
”She's no more drunk than you are!” she cried pa.s.sionately, ”Leave her alone! You're a nice sort of G.o.d's serving man to comfort we, when we're all nigh on losing our wits over this mornin' o' misery, shame on ye! Mary Bell, come here! If so be as my husband was your sweetheart, G.o.d forgive him, ye shall come home wi' me!--and we'll never have a word agin the man who is lying dead there. Come wi' me, Mary!”
With a wild cry of anguish, the girl rushed into her arms, and the two women clung together like sisters united in the same pa.s.sionate grief.
The curate turned a livid white.
”I cannot countenance such immorality,” he said, addressing the verger, though his words were heard by all present, ”Enough of the service has been said! Lower the coffins into the earth!” and turning on his heel he prepared to walk away. But Aubrey Leigh stopped him.
”You will not finish the service, sir?” he asked civilly, but with something of a warning in the flash of his eyes.
”No! The princ.i.p.al part of it is over. I cannot go on. These women are drunk!”
”They are not drunk, save with their own tears!” said Aubrey, his rich voice trembling with indignation. ”They are not mad, except with grief!
Is it not your place to be patient with them?”
”My place! My place!” echoed the curate indignantly, ”Man, do you know to whom you are talking?”
”I think I do,” answered Aubrey steadily, ”I am talking to a professed servant of Christ,--Christ who had patience and pardon for all men! I am talking to one whose calling and vocation it is to love, to forgive, and to forbear--whose absolute protestation has been made at the altar of G.o.d that he will faithfully obey his Master. Even if these unhappy women were drunk, which they are not, their fault in conduct would not release you from the performance of your duty,--or the reverence you are bound to show towards the dead!”
Trembling with rage, the curate eyed him up and down scornfully.
”How dare you speak to me about my duty! You common lout! Mind your own business!”
”I will,” said Aubrey, fixing his eyes full upon him, ”And it shall be my business to see that you mind yours! Both your rector and bishop shall hear of this!”
He strode off, leaving the curate speechless with fury; and joining the little crowd of mourners who had been startled and interrupted by this unexpected scene, drew a prayer book from his pocket, and without asking anyone's permission read with exquisite gravity and pathos the concluding words of the funeral service,--and then with his own hands a.s.sisted the grave-diggers to lay the coffined dead tenderly to rest.
Awestruck, and deeply impressed by his manner the fisher-folk mechanically obeyed his instructions, and followed his movements till all the sad business was over, and then they lingered about the churchyard wistfully watching him, while he in turn, standing erect and bare-headed near the open graves, looked at them with a strange pity, love and yearning.
”It'll be all right when our owld pa.s.son comes back,” said one of the men addressing him, ”It's just this half eddicated wastrel of a chap as doesn't know, and doesn't care for the troubles of common folk like we.”
Aubrey was silent for a s.p.a.ce. ”Common folk like we!” The words were full of pathetic humility, and the man who spoke them was a hero of no mean type, who had often buffeted the winds and waves to save a human life at the risk of his own. ”Common folk like we!” Aubrey laid his hand gently on his ”mate's” shoulder.
”Ben, old boy, there are no common folk in G.o.d's sight,” he said, ”Look there!” and he pointed to the graves that were just beginning to be filled in, ”Every creature lying there had as much of G.o.d in him as many a king, and perhaps more. In this majestic universe there is nothing common!”