The Parson O' Dumford

“Not so much as you think for, my little woman. So come, promise me. I know you won’t break your word if you do promise.”

“No, Dick, never,” she said, earnestly; and if there had been any true love in the young fellow’s breast he would have been touched by the trusting, earnest reliance upon him that shone from her eyes as she looked up affectionately in his face.

“Then promise me, Daisy, dear,” he whispered; “it is for the good of both of us, and – Hang it all, there’s Slee.”

Daisy was sent off as we know, and the tears fell fast as she hastened home, feeling that love was very sweet, but that its roses had thorns that rankled and stung.

“Oh, Dick, Dick,” she sobbed as she went on, “I wish sometimes that I’d never seen you, for it is so hard not to do whatever you wish.”

She dried her eyes hastily as she neared home, and drew her breath a little more hardly as about a hundred yards from the gate she saw Tom Podmore, who looked at her firmly and steadily as they passed, and hardly responded to her nod.

“He knows where I’ve been. He knows where I’ve been,” whispered Daisy to herself as she hurried on; and she was quite right, for her conscious cheeks hoisted a couple of signal flags of the ruddiest hue – signals that poor Tom could read as well as if they had been written down in a code, and he ground his teeth as he turned and watched her.

“She’s such a good girl that any one might troost her,” he muttered, as he saw her go in at the gate, “or else I’d go and tell Joe all as I knows. But no, I couldn’t do that, for it would hurt her, just as it would if I was to half kill Dick Glaire. She’ll find him out some day perhaps – not as it matters to me though, for it’s all over now.”

He walked back, looking over the green fence as he passed, and Mrs Banks waved her hand to him from the window; but his eyes were too much occupied by the sight of Daisy leaning over her father, and he walked on so hurriedly that he nearly blundered up against a great stalwart figure coming the other way.

Volume One – Chapter Sixteen.

The Vicar’s Friends

“What cheer, owd Tommy?” cried the stalwart figure, pulling a short black pipe out of his mouth.

“Hallo, Harry,” said Tom, quietly, at least as quietly as he could, for the words were jerked out of his mouth by the tremendous clap on the shoulder administered by the big hammerman.

“What’s going to be done, Tommy?” growled the great fellow. “I’m ’bout tired o’ this. I wants to hit something.”

He stretched out his great sinewy arm, and then drawing it back, let it fly again with such force that a man would have gone down before it like a cork.

“Come along,” said Tom, who wished to get away from the neighbourhood of Banks’s cottage for fear Mrs Banks should call to him.

Harry was a man whose brain detested originality. He was a machine who liked to be set in motion, so he followed Tom like a huge dog, and without a word.

As they came abreast of the vicarage they saw the vicar at work gardening, and Jacky Budd making believe to dig very hard in the wilderness still unreclaimed.

Even at their distance, Jacky’s pasty face and red ripe nose, suggestive of inward tillage, were plainly to be seen, and just then a thought seemed to strike Tom, who turned to his companion, staring with open mouth over the hedge.

“Like a job, Harry?”

“Hey, lad, I should.”

“Come in here then,” said Tom, laying his hand on the gate.

“That I will, lad,” said Harry. “I want to scrarp some un, and I should ’mazin like a fall wi’ that theer parson.”

Tom smiled grimly, and entered, followed by Harry.

They were seen directly by the vicar, who came up and shook hands with Tom.

“Ah, Podmore, glad to see you. Well, Harry, my man,” he continued, holding out his hand to the other, “is the lump on your forehead gone?”

Harry took the vicar’s hand and held it in a mighty grip, while with his left he removed his cap and looked in the lining, as if to see if the bruise was there.

“Never thowt no more ’bout it, parson.” Then gazing down at the soft hand he held, he muttered, “It’s amaazin’!”

“What’s amazing?” said the vicar, smiling.

“Why that you could hit a man such a crack wi’ a hand like this ’ere.”

“Don’t mind him, sir; it’s his way,” said Tom, apologetically. “Fact is, parson, we’re tired o’ doing nowt.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, Podmore,” said the vicar, earnestly. “I wish from my heart this unhappy strife were at an end. I’m trying my best.”

“Of course you are, sir,” said Tom; “but I thowt mebbe you’d give Harry here and me a bit o’ work.”

“Work! what work?” said the vicar, wonderingly.

“Well, you said I’d best get to work, and I’ve got nowt to do. That Jacky Budd there’s picking about as if he was scarred o’ hurting the ground: let me and Harry dig it up.”

The vicar looked from one to the other for a moment, and as his eyes rested on Harry, that giant gave Tom a clap on the shoulder hard enough to make a bruise, as he exclaimed —

“Hark at that now, for a good’n, parson. Here, gie’s hold of a shovel.”

The vicar led the way to the tool-house, furnished his visitors with tools, and then stood close at hand to supply the science, while the way in which the two men began to dig had such an effect on Jacky Budd that he stood still and perspired.

A dozen great shovelfuls of earth were turned over by Harry, who then stopped short, threw off his coat and vest, tightened the belt round his waist, and loosening the collar of his shirt, proceeded to roll up the sleeves before moistening his hands and seizing the spade once more, laughing heartily as he turned over the soft earth like a steam plough.

“Slip int’ it, Tommy. Well, this is a game. It’s straange and fine though, after doin’ nowt for a week.”

Tom was digging steadily and well, for he was a bit of a gardener in his way, having often helped Joe Banks to dig his piece in the early days of his love.

“Better borry some more garden, parson; we shall ha’ done this ’ere in ’bout an hour and a half,” said Harry, grinning; and then – crack!

“Look at that for a tool!” he cried, holding up the broken shovel, snapped in two at the handle.

“Try this one, Harry,” said Jacky Budd, handing his own spade eagerly; “I’ve got some hoeing to do.”

Harry took the tool and worked away a little more steadily, with the result that poor Jacky Budd was deprived of a good deal of the work that would have fallen to his lot; a deprivation, however, that he suffered without a sigh.

“Now, I ain’t agoing to beg, parson,” said Harry, after a couple of hours’ work, “but my forge wants coal, and a bite o’ bread and a bit o’ slip-coat cheese would be to raights.”

“Slip-coat cheese?” said the vicar.

“He means cream cheese,” said Tom, who had been working away without a word, keeping Jacky busy clearing away the weeds.

“No, I don’t,” growled Harry. “I mean slip-coat, and a moog o’ ale.”

“Shall I go and fetch some, sir?” said Jacky Budd, eagerly.