“What you have to say can be said before Mr Paulby. It would be affectation on my part not to own that I know the object of your visit.”
“Well, sir, then, to be plain,” said Tom, clearing his throat, but speaking very humbly, “I thought I should like to know, sir, whether what I heard from doctor was true.”
“First let me say, Mr Morrison, that I heard with deep sorrow of the affliction that has befallen you. I am very, very sorry—”
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Tom, with his under lip working.
“I say I am sorry that the chastening hand of the Lord has been laid upon you so heavily. But you must remember that it is not for us to question these chastisements. Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth. I hope your wife seeks for consolation in prayer.”
“Yes, sir, I know all that—thank you, sir—yes, sir—poor lass!—yes,” he said, or rather murmured, with his lower lip quivering at the allusion to his wife.
The Curate fidgeted in his chair, and kept changing the crossing of his knees, his fingers moving uneasily, as if they longed to go and lay themselves on the poor fellow’s shoulder while their owner said a few kindly words.
“I intend to call upon your wife this afternoon,” continued the Rector.
“No, sir—thank you, sir—please, don’t—at least not yet,” said Tom. “The poor girl is so broken down, she could not bear it.”
“The more need for me to come, Mr Morrison,” said the Rector, with a sad smile. Then, seizing the opportunity to deliver the first thrust after all his fencing, he continued, reproachfully, “I am sorry I did not know, Morrison, how ill your infant was. You should have sent to me; it was your duty.”