London's Heart: A Novel. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

him as he looked at the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell's stony face.

      "The mother of these children is waiting in the churchyard to be buried."

      "You received my message, I have no doubt."

      "Some words were spoken to me as coming from you."

      "Were not they sufficient?"

      "I could not believe, sir, that the words which were delivered to me came from the lips of a minister of God."

      A flash of something very like anger lighted up the small eyes of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell.

      "And so you come here to revile His minister?"

      "I come here in all humility, sir," replied the old man.

      "Do you wish me to repeat the message?"

      "I wish to know, sir, that I have been mistaken. I cannot believe that what I have been told is true."

      "It is the evil of the ungodly that they cannot answer straight. Do you wish me to repeat the message?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "It is very simple. My intimation was to the effect that I cannot perform any service over the deceased woman."

      "The prayers for the dead – " exclaimed the old man imploringly.

      "Are not for her!" said the minister, finishing the sentence sternly.

      At these dreadful words Felix started forward to Lily's side; the young girl was trembling, and he feared she was about to fall. Indeed she would have fallen, but for his helping hand. Inward fire possessed the soul of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell at the action of his son and his wrath was expressed in his face. Felix saw it, but did not heed it; his lips were firmly set as he yielded Lily to her grandfather's arms, who, as he bent over her, murmured,

      "I would have spared you the pain, my darling! But I thought that your helplessness and your innocent face would have pleaded for us."

      Then he turned to the minister. "Why do you refuse to perform the last rites over the body of my daughter?"

      "I am mistaken if you have not been informed. Her parents were members of the Wesleyan Methodist body, and the woman was not baptized in the Church of England. Therefore I cannot say prayers over her."

      "Is that God's law?"

      "It is mine!" replied the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, with inconsiderate haste. If, when he heard the rejoinder, he could have caused the old man to fall into dust at his feet, he would have done so.

      "You say truly, sir," said the old man, in a tone of bitter calmness. "It is not God's law; it is yours."

      The Reverend Emanuel Creamwell shaded his face with his hand; he did not choose that the feeling there expressed should be seen. He knew, by his son's sympathetic movement towards Lily, that Felix had gone over to the enemy, and a consciousness possessed him that Felix was not displeased at his discomfiture. Still it was his duty to assert himself, and he did so accordingly in severe measured terms, and in tones utterly devoid of feeling.

      "I have already told you that you came here to revile-to revile God through His minister. It is such as you who set men's minds afire, and drive them into the pit."

      But the old man interrupted him with,

      "Nay, sir, do not let us argue; I at least have no time. A dead woman is waiting for me. I must go and seek a minister who will say prayers over the poor clay. Come, my children."

      "To seek a minister!" echoed the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell. "What minister?"

      "A Methodist minister, as that is your will."

      "Presumptuous!" exclaimed the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, in wrath so pious that a colour came to his usually pale face. "No Methodist minister can be allowed to pray in my churchyard!" – with a protecting look and motion of his fingers towards the ground where the dead lay-a look which said, "Fear not! My lips have blessed you; my prayers have sanctified you. Ye shall not be defiled!"

      "How, then, is my daughter to be buried?" asked the old man, with his hand to his heart.

      "The woman must be buried in silence," replied the minister.

      As if in sympathy with the words, a dark cloud passed across the face of the sun, and the sunbeam, with its myriad wonders, vanished on the instant, while the truant flashes of light that were playing in the corners of the room darted gladly away to places where light was.

      The old man bowed his head, and the words came slowly from his trembling lips.

      "Cruel! Unjust! Wicked!" he said. "Bitterly, bitterly wicked! Do we not all worship the same God? What has this innocent clay done, that holy words may not fall upon the earth that covers her? What have we done, that the last consolation of prayer shall be denied to us?" Then looking the minister steadily in the face, he said in a firm voice, "According to your deserts may you be judged! According to your deserts may you, who set your law above God's, and call yourself His priest, be dealt with when your time comes!"

      Turning, he was about to go, when the voice of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell stopped him.

      "Now that you have done your reviling, attend to me for a few moments. You lived in this parish once?"

      "Twenty years ago," replied the old man. "All my life up to that time-I and my poor daughter. There will be some here who will remember me."

      "I remember you myself. You had a son?"

      "No; I had but one child, she who lies yonder."

      "Psha! it is the same-you had a son-in-law – "

      The old man looked up with apprehensive eagerness, and Alfred, who had hitherto been perfectly passive-having indeed for most of the time been engrossed in torturing himself about Christopher Sly and the Northumberland Plate-made a sudden movement forward. The old man laid his hand upon his grandson's arm, cautioning him to silence.

      "The father of these young persons," continued the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell. "Where is he?"

      "Alfred," exclaimed the old man, "take Lily away. It is too close for her here. I will join you presently outside."

      Indeed, Lily was almost fainting. The long weary ride, the abstention from food for so many hours, and the sufferings she had experienced during the dialogue between her grandfather and the minister, had been too much for her strength. Seeing her weak state, Felix stepped forward to assist Alfred, and presently they were in the porch.

      "Stay one moment, I pray," exclaimed Felix hurriedly; "only a moment."

      He darted into the house, and brought out a chair.

      "There!" he said. "Let her sit here for a minute or two. It will do her good. The sun is the other side of us."

      It is a fact that Felix, with quick instinct, had selected this place as being likely to revive the girl. They were out of the glare of the sun.

      "Now, if you will oblige me and not let her move," he said in the same hurried eager tone, "you will lay me under an obligation that I shall never be able to pay."

      The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he was upstairs, in his own room, tearing open his valise; he scattered the things wildly about, and came flying down again, with a fine white handkerchief and a bottle of Cologne water in his hand. He poured the liquid upon the handkerchief, and, with a delicate consideration, handed it to Alfred.

      "Bathe her forehead with it; place it on her forehead, so. Now blow gently-gently. Let me!"

      He blew upon the handkerchief, and the deliciously cool breeze revived the fainting girl. She looked gratefully into his face, which turned crimson beneath her gaze. But his task was not yet completed, it seemed. He took from his pocket a flask, which he had also found in his valise. There was a little silver cup attached to the flask, and he poured a golden liquid into it.

      "Taste this; it will do you good. Nay, put your lips to it; there's no harm in it. Your brother will drink first to show you how reviving it is."

      His voice was like a fountain; there was something so hearty, and frank, and good in it, that it refreshed her. Alfred emptied