“You can show Mr Morrison in, Edwards,” said the Rector, and poor Tom Morrison was ushered in a few moments later, to stand bowing as the door was closed; but in no servile way, for the sturdy British yeoman was stamped in his careworn face, and he was one of the old stock of which England has always felt so proud.
The Rector bowed coldly, and pointed to a seat—standing, however, himself behind his writing-table.
“Ah, Morrison,” exclaimed the Curate, after an apologetic glance at the Rector, “I cannot tell you how I am shocked at this news. I did not know of it this morning, or I would have come down.”
He held out his hand to the visitor as he spoke, an act Mr Mallow forgot, and it was gratefully pressed.
Then feeling that he was not at home, Mr Paulby coughed, and resumed his seat.
“I’ve come, sir,” said the wheelwright, “about a little business.”
He hesitated, and glanced at Mr Paulby as if he did not wish to speak before him.
“I think, sir,” said the Curate, respectfully, “Mr Morrison wishes to speak to you in private.”
“I believe it is on a church question,” said the Rector, sternly. “Mr Morrison, you need not be afraid to speak before him.”
“I’m not, sir, on my account,” said the wheelwright, bluntly. “I was thinking of you, sir.”