That was an artful jack though, for it must have understood Cyril Mallow and his wiles, obstinately refusing to be caught.
Julia used to look very serious when she saw him there again and again, but she felt afraid to speak, for the confidence that had existed between her and her old maid seemed to have passed away, and when their eyes met at times there was a curious shrinking look on either side; and so the time went on.
One day Tom Morrison was busily at work at a piece of well-seasoned ash with his spoke-shave. The day was bright and keen and cold, but he was stripped to shirt and trousers, the neck unfastened, sleeves rolled up, and a look of calm satisfaction in his face as his muscles tightened and he drew off the thin spiral shavings from the piece of wood.
In old days the workshop used to resound with snatches of song, or his rather melodious whistling; but of late, since the loss of his little one, he had grown cold and grave, working in a quiet, subdued manner; and those who knew him said that he was nursing up his revenge against the parson.
Fullerton gave him several jobs that should by rights have gone to Biggins the carpenter, and he once went so far as to say—
“They tell me you never go to church now, Tom Morrison.”
“Would you like it painted stone-colour or white, Mr Fullerton?” said Tom Morrison, quietly.
“Oh—er—white,” replied Fullerton, and he said no more upon that occasion.
It was about a month later, over another job, that Fullerton ventured another advance, and this time he said, as he was leaving the workshop, and holding out his hand—
“Good-bye, Morrison. Oh, by the way, we’ve got Samuel Mumbey, D.D., at the chapel on Sunday. Preaches twice. We’ll find you good seats if you and Mrs Morrison will come. Ours is a nice woshup, Morrison, a very nice woshup, as you would say if you was to try.”