morning hour, yet only Deuteronomy Plummer, Clarissa, and I were present to hear. Mr. Deuteronomy sat front and center in the first row, and we two but a few rows behind him. The vicar said a proper funeral mass, at the end of which he ascended to the pulpit and preached a brief sermon.
Sermon, did I say? It was hardly that. There was little could be said as eloquently as was stated by the mere presence of that sad, small coffin before the altar. Yet it was, I suppose, a sermon right enough, for the vicar quoted St. Matthew, chapter 18, verse 6.
“But who so shall offend one of these little ones which believe,” said he in a voice that rang forth strongly and filled the great church, “it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.”
Then, pausing but a moment to look each of us in the eye, he continued, signaling by some lightening of his tone that he no longer quoted scripture but spoke now as himself: “It should be understood that this is the most frightening passage of any in the gospels. I know of no harsher words to come from the lips of our Lord than these. Why then did he save them for those who commit crimes against children? The answer should be plain to us all. Because such as they are quite unable to defend themselves. They must depend upon the generosity of others for their defense. I am told that this child, Margaret Mary Plummer, had no chance at all—that she was sold into a life no better than a form of slavery, which quickly ended her, and . . .”
The vicar, a man of sixty or more, went on in this vein for a bit longer, but my notice was just then diverted to Mr. Deuteronomy. ’Twas Clarissa who called my attention to him. She gave me a sharp nudge with her elbow in my side. Having thus signaled, she pointed across the rows that separated us and showed me how the vicar’s words had affected our friend. His head was bowed, and the line of his shoulders was irregularly visible only just above the pew, for those little shoulders of his heaved up and down quite uncontrollably. He was weeping forlorn and bitter tears.
Even the vicar seemed to notice. He hurried his remarks through to the end and called for the pallbearers. Two men—no more—appeared from some spot secluded from our sight. Placing themselves one on each side the small coffin, they lifted it, and, to some stirring anthem sung by the choir, followed the vicar to the side door of the church, which, as I knew, led out to the churchyard. Mr. Deuteronomy fell in behind the coffin, and we behind him.
One of the pallbearers looked remarkably familiar. Though I could not immediately place him, I was inescapably certain that I had not only seen but also talked with him most recent. Now, who was he? Then, soon as I had put the question to myself, I had the answer. ’Twas Walter Hogg, the fellow I had talked with before the race in Shepherd’s Bush. He it was had also removed his hat to the jockey the day before the race when we met by chance in Covent Garden. I’d no idea why he served as pallbearer. How strange that he should have popped up again this way. Had he volunteered for such duty? I resolved to speak with him at the earliest opportunity and find out.
The grave, newly dug beneath an oak tree, was easily detected as soon as we made our way through the entrance into the churchyard. It was a choice location. Deuteronomy Plummer must have paid a pretty penny for it, I reflected, for there’s naught that comes cheap in such a funeral as this one. And of course Mr. Deuteronomy would spare little or nothing in providing his niece with the finest for her final resting place. By and by we came to the spot. The pallbearers rested the coffin upon the cross bars above the grave and stepped aside. Then did the vicar begin his prayers at the graveside as Deuteronomy wept on ceaselessly. At the prayer (“Man, thou art dust”) the vicar indicated that Mr. Deuteronomy
Sermon, did I say? It was hardly that. There was little could be said as eloquently as was stated by the mere presence of that sad, small coffin before the altar. Yet it was, I suppose, a sermon right enough, for the vicar quoted St. Matthew, chapter 18, verse 6.
“But who so shall offend one of these little ones which believe,” said he in a voice that rang forth strongly and filled the great church, “it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.”
Then, pausing but a moment to look each of us in the eye, he continued, signaling by some lightening of his tone that he no longer quoted scripture but spoke now as himself: “It should be understood that this is the most frightening passage of any in the gospels. I know of no harsher words to come from the lips of our Lord than these. Why then did he save them for those who commit crimes against children? The answer should be plain to us all. Because such as they are quite unable to defend themselves. They must depend upon the generosity of others for their defense. I am told that this child, Margaret Mary Plummer, had no chance at all—that she was sold into a life no better than a form of slavery, which quickly ended her, and . . .”
The vicar, a man of sixty or more, went on in this vein for a bit longer, but my notice was just then diverted to Mr. Deuteronomy. ’Twas Clarissa who called my attention to him. She gave me a sharp nudge with her elbow in my side. Having thus signaled, she pointed across the rows that separated us and showed me how the vicar’s words had affected our friend. His head was bowed, and the line of his shoulders was irregularly visible only just above the pew, for those little shoulders of his heaved up and down quite uncontrollably. He was weeping forlorn and bitter tears.
Even the vicar seemed to notice. He hurried his remarks through to the end and called for the pallbearers. Two men—no more—appeared from some spot secluded from our sight. Placing themselves one on each side the small coffin, they lifted it, and, to some stirring anthem sung by the choir, followed the vicar to the side door of the church, which, as I knew, led out to the churchyard. Mr. Deuteronomy fell in behind the coffin, and we behind him.
One of the pallbearers looked remarkably familiar. Though I could not immediately place him, I was inescapably certain that I had not only seen but also talked with him most recent. Now, who was he? Then, soon as I had put the question to myself, I had the answer. ’Twas Walter Hogg, the fellow I had talked with before the race in Shepherd’s Bush. He it was had also removed his hat to the jockey the day before the race when we met by chance in Covent Garden. I’d no idea why he served as pallbearer. How strange that he should have popped up again this way. Had he volunteered for such duty? I resolved to speak with him at the earliest opportunity and find out.
The grave, newly dug beneath an oak tree, was easily detected as soon as we made our way through the entrance into the churchyard. It was a choice location. Deuteronomy Plummer must have paid a pretty penny for it, I reflected, for there’s naught that comes cheap in such a funeral as this one. And of course Mr. Deuteronomy would spare little or nothing in providing his niece with the finest for her final resting place. By and by we came to the spot. The pallbearers rested the coffin upon the cross bars above the grave and stepped aside. Then did the vicar begin his prayers at the graveside as Deuteronomy wept on ceaselessly. At the prayer (“Man, thou art dust”) the vicar indicated that Mr. Deuteronomy
Similar Books
