“Tom!” she panted, as his words seemed to stab her, and she ran out of the room.
“Why, Polly, Polly,” he cried, following her and holding her to his breast, “what a touchy little thing thou art since baby came! Why, as if I didn’t know that ever since you were so high you were my little sweetheart, and liked great rough me better than the finest gentleman as ever walked. There, there, there! I was a great lout to talk like that to thee. Come, wipe thy eyes.”
“I can’t bear it, Tom, if you talk like that,” she sobbed, smiling at him through her tears. “There, it’s all over now.”
There was a little cold shiver at Polly Morrison’s breast, though, all the same, and it kept returning as she sat there over her work that evening, rocking the cradle with one foot, and wondering whether she could gain strength enough to tell her husband all about Cyril Mallow, and the old days at Dinan.
But no, she could not, and they discussed, as Tom smoked his pipe, the state of affairs at the rectory; how Mrs Mallow remained as great an invalid as ever, and how they seemed to spare no expense, although people had said they went abroad because they had grown so poor.
“Folk seem strange and sore against parson,” said Tom at last.
“Then it’s very cruel of them, for master is a real good man,” cried Polly.
“They don’t like it about owd Sammy Warmoth. They say he killed him,” said Tom, between the puffs of his pipe.
“Such nonsense!” cried Polly; “and him ninety-three.”
“Then they are taking sides against him for wanting to get rid of Humphrey Bone.”