The Parson O' Dumford

“Who’s got over?” said the landlord. “Not I indeed.”

“Well,” said Sim, “did he say anything more?”

“Say? yes, he’s full o’ say, and it’s good sorter say. I ast him if he’d like to see the farm, and he said he would, and I took him out wheer the missus was busy wi’ her pancheons, making bread and syling the milk, and he stopped and talked to her.”

“But yow didn’t take him out into your moocky owd crewyard, did yo’?”

“Moocky crewyard indeed! but I just did, and I tell you what, Sim Slee, he’s as good a judge of a beast as iver I see.”

“And then yow showed him the new mare,” said Sim, with a grin.

“I did,” said the landlord. “‘Horncastle?’ he says, going up to her and opening her mouth. ‘Raight,’ I says. ‘Six year owd,’ he says; and then he felt her legs and said he should like to see her paces, and I had Jemmy to give her a run in the field. ‘She’s Irish,’ he says. ‘How do you know?’ I says – trying him like to trap him. ‘By that turn-up nose,’ he says, ‘and that wild saucy look about the eye and head.’ ‘You’re raight, parson,’ I says. And then he says, ‘she was worth sixty pun, every pun of it;’ and I told him as I got her for nine and thirty, and ten shillings back. I tell you what, Sim Slee, – Parson’s a man, every inch on him. As for the missus, she’s that pleased, she sent him ower a pun o’ boother this morning from our best Alderney.”

“O’ course,” sneered Sim. “That’s the way. That’s your cunning priest coming into your house to lead silly women captive, and sew pillows to their armholes.”

“Go on wi’ yer blather,” cried the landlord.

“Go on, indeed,” continued Sim. “That’s their way. He’s a regular Jesooit, he is, and your home wean’t soon be your own. He’s gettin’ ivery woman in the place under his thumb. He begins wi’ Miss Eve theer at the house, and Daisy Banks. Then he’s gotten howd o’ my missus. Here’s Mrs Glaire allus coming and fetching him out wi’ her in the pony shay, and now he’s gotten howd o’ your owd woman, and she’s sendin’ him pounds o’ boother. It was allus the way wi’ them cunning priests: they allus get over the women, and then they do what they like wi’ the men. No matter how strong they are, down they come just like Samson did wi’ Delilah. It was allus so, and as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be world without end.”

“Amen,” said Jacky Budd, coming in at the back door. “Gie’s a gill o’ ale, Robinson. I’m ’bout bunt up wi’ thirst. Hallo, Slee, what! are yow preaching agen?”

“Never mind,” said Sim, sulkily. “I should ha’ thowt parson would ha’ fun you in ale, now.”

“Not he,” said Jacky. “Drinks it all his sen. He’s got a little barrel o’ Robinson’s best i’ the house, too.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Sim, holding his sides and stooping. “I say, Jacky, put some new basses in one o’ the pews for Mester Robinson, Esquire, as is going to come reg’lar to church now. That’s the way they do it: ‘Send me in a small barrel o’ your best ale, Mr Robinson,’ he says, ‘and I shall be happy to see you at church.’”

“If yow use up all yer wind, Sim Slee,” said the landlord, sturdily, “yow wean’t hev none left to lay down the law wi’ at the meeting to-night.”

Volume One – Chapter Seventeen.

Mrs Glaire Makes Plans

Poor Mrs Glaire was in trouble about her fowls, who seemed possessed of a great deal of nature strongly resembling the human. She had a fine collection of noble-looking young Brahma cockerels, great massive fellows, youthful, innocent, sheepish, and stupid. They were intended for exhibition, and their mistress expected a prize for the birds, which had dwelt together in unity, increasing in bulk and brilliancy of plumage, and had never looked a hen in the face since the day they forsook their mamma in the coop.

And now, by mishap, a wanton young pullet had flown up on to the wall that divided them from the poultry yard, and just cried, “Took – took – took!” before flying down. That was sufficient: a battle royal began amongst the brothers directly, and when Mrs Glaire went down to feed them she found two birds nearly dead, the rest all ragged as to their feathers, bleeding as to their combs and wattles, and still fighting in a heavy lumbering way, but so weary that they could only take hold of one another with their beaks and give feeble pecks at their dripping feathers.

Mrs Glaire sighed and made comparisons between Daisy Banks and the wicked little pullet who had caused all this strife, telling herself that she was to be congratulated on having but one son, and wishing that he were married, settled, and happy.

She had decided that she would have the vicar up to dinner that night, and intended to make him her confidant and ally; and accordingly in the evening, while the conversation narrated in the last chapter was going on, the object of it was making his way to the house, getting a friendly nod here and there, and stopping for a minute’s chat with the people whose acquaintance he had made.

As a rule they were moody faces he met with amongst the women, for they were more than usually soured at the present time on account of the strike, and the sight of the black coat and white tie was not a pleasant one to them, and the replies to his salute were generally sulky and constrained.

He fared better with the men, in spite of Mr Simeon Slee’s utterances, for the report had gone round and round again that Parson could fight, and the church militant, from this point of view, was one that seemed to them worthy of respect.

So he went slowly along the main street, past Mr Purley, the doctor’s, as that gentleman, just returned from a round, was unwedging himself from his gig.

“How do, parson, how do?” he said. “Like a ride with me to-morrow?”

“Well, yes, if you’ll get out your four-wheeler,” said the vicar, laughing.

“Going up to the house to dinner, parson?”

“Yes.”

“Tell Mrs Glaire I’ll be on in ten minutes,” said the doctor. “But I say, parson, don’t sit on the rubber of whist.”

“Doctor,” said the vicar, patting him on the shoulder, “I shall not; but bring an extra sovereign or two with you, for I want to win a little money to-night for some of my poor.”

“He’s a rum one,” muttered the doctor, as he went in. “He’s a rum one, that he is; but I don’t think he’s bad at bottom.”

Meanwhile the vicar went on, past Ramson and Tomson’s the grocers and drapers, where silks and sugars, taffetas and tea were displayed in close proximity; and although Ramson and Tomson were deacons at the Independent Chapel, and the old vicar had passed them always without a look, a friendly nod was exchanged now, to the great disgust of Miss Primgeon, the lawyer’s maiden sister, a lady who passed her time at her window, and who, not being asked to the little dinner she knew was to be held at the house, was in anything but the best of tempers that evening.

Richard Glaire was not aware of his mother’s arrangement, and his face wore anything but a pleasant expression as he confronted the vicar in the hall, having himself only just come in.

“How do, Mr Selwood, how do?” he said haughtily, as he took out his watch and paid no heed to the extended hand. “Just going to dinner; would you mind calling again?”

“Not in the least,” said the vicar, smiling, “often. Look here, Richard Glaire,” he continued, laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, “you don’t understand me.”

“Will you – er – have the goodness – ”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said the vicar, “I’ll explain all in good time; but look here, my good young friend, I’m here in a particular position, and I mean to be a sort of shadow or fate to you.”

“I really am at a loss to understand,” began Richard, whose anger was vainly struggling against the strong will opposed to him.

“I see,” said the vicar, “you’ve been out and didn’t know I was coming to dinner. Don’t apologise. Ah, Miss Pelly!”

This to Eve, who had heard the voices; and Richard’s face grew white with passion as he saw the girl’s bright animated countenance and glad reception of their visitor. She tripped down the stairs, and placed both her hands in his, exclaiming —

“I’m so glad, Mr Selwood. Aunt didn’t tell me you were coming to dinner till just now.”

“And so am I glad,” he said, with a smile touched with sadness overspreading his face, as he saw the eager pleasant look that greeted him, one that he was well enough read in the human countenance to see had nothing in it but the hearty friendly welcome of an ingenuous maiden, who knew and liked him for his depth and conversation. “We shall have a long chat to-night, I hope, and some music.”

They were entering the drawing-room together as he spoke.

“Oh yes, yes,” cried she, eagerly. “I can never get Dick to sing now. Do you sing, Mr Selwood?”

“Well, yes, a little,” he said, smiling down at her.

“And play?”

“Yes, a little.”

“What? Not the piano?”

“Just a little,” he said. “I am better on the organ.”

“Oh, I am so glad,” cried Eve. “Aunt will be here directly; I’m so glad you’ve come to Dumford. The old vicar was so stiff, and would sit here when he did come, and play backgammon all the evening without speaking.”