The Parson O' Dumford

“As you will, master Dick,” said the vicar to himself; “but I mean to try hard yet to get the whip hand of you, my boy.” Then, aloud, “What a delightful morning.”

“Look here, Mr Selwood,” said Richard, roughly, “are you playing the spy upon my actions?”

“Not I,” said the vicar, laughing, “I am going over to Bultitude’s farm; I cannot help your being in the way. Good morning.”

“He was watching me,” muttered Dick, biting his nails. “I wonder whether he saw that note.”

As he stood looking after the vicar, Sim Slee came softly back to wink in a mysterious way, and point with his thumb over his shoulder.

“They’re all alike,” he said – “all alike, parsons and all.”

“What do you mean?” said Dick, roughly. “I thought you’d gone with that note.”

“Thowt I wouldn’t go yet,” said Sim, with another confidential jerk of the thumb over his shoulder. “Joe Banks is sure to be at home now.”

“I tell you he’s down at the foundry, and will stay there all day,” cried Dick, angrily.

“All raight: I’ll go then,” said Sim; “but I say, sir, they’re all alike.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why that parson – that dreadfully good man.”

“Well, what about him?”

“Don’t you know where he’s gone?”

“Yes, he said: old Bultitude’s.”

“Did he say what for?” said Sim, grinning. “No, of course not.”

“Ho – ho – ho! Ho – ho – ho!” laughed Sim, stamping on the ground with delight. “Don’t you see his game?”

“Curse you, speak out,” cried Dick, furiously. “What do you mean?”

“Only that he’s getting all the women under his thumb. He’ll be having crosses and candles in the chutch direckly, like the Ranby man.”

“Curse you for a fool, Slee,” cried Richard, impatiently; and he was turning away when Sim exclaimed —

“Don’t you know as Miss Eve walked over there half-an-hour ago?”

“What?” roared Dick.

“Oh! she’s only gone over to see Miss Jessie, of course; but if you’ll light a cigar, sir, and sit down on yon gate, you’ll see if he don’t walk home with her. Now I’m off.”

“Stop a moment, Sim,” cried Dick in a husky voice. “Have – have you ever seen anything?”

“Who? I? Oh, no! Nowt,” said Sim; “leastwise I only saw ’em come out of Ranby wood with a basket of flowers yesterday, that’s all.”

He went off then, chuckling to himself and rubbing his hands, leaving the poison to work, as, with his face distorted with rage, Dick started off at a sharp walk for Bultitude’s farm; but, altering his mind, he leaped a stile, lit a cigar, and stood leaning against a tree smoking, unseen by any one who should pass along the lane, but able to command the path on both sides for some distance, up and down.

Meanwhile the vicar, enjoying the pleasant walk, had been telling himself that he could always leave the grimy town and its work behind in a few minutes to enjoy the sweets of the country, which were here in all their beauty; and after thinking of Eve Pelly for about five minutes, he made a vigorous effort, uttered the word taboo, and began humming a tune.

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the tune he inadvertently began to hum was one of those which Eve sang the other night, so he left off with a hasty “Pish!” and stooping down, began to botanise, picking a flower here and there, and then climbing up the rough side of the lane to cull a pretty little fern, whose graceful fronds drooped from a shadowy niche.

He threw the fern impatiently down, as he reached the path once more, and his brow furrowed, for memory told him directly that it was the pretty little asplenium, the peculiarities of whose growth he had explained to Eve when he met her with Mrs Glaire the day before, and had passed with them through Ranby wood, the latter lady probably being too insignificant to be taken in by Mr Sim Slee’s comprehensive vision.

Walking rapidly on, to calm his thoughts, he came across the object of his search, busily dragging a sheep out of a little narrow grip or drain that had been cut in the field, and into which the unfortunate animal had rolled feet uppermost, its heavy wet fleece, and the size of the drain, making it impossible for the timid beast to extricate itself.

“Fahrweltered, parson,” said the bluff-looking farmer, as he came up.

“I beg your pardon,” said the vicar.

“Fahrweltered – fahrweltered,” said the farmer, laughing; “we say in these parts a sheep’s fahrweltered when he gets on his back like that. I expect,” he continued, with a roguish twinkle of his eye, “you’ve found some of your flock fahrweltered by this time.”

“Indeed, I have,” said the vicar, laughing; “and so far the shepherd has not been able to drag them out.”

“No, I s’pose not,” said the farmer, carefully wiping his hands upon a big yellow silk handkerchief before offering one to be shaken. “You’ve got your work coot out, my lad, and no mistake. But come on up to the house, and have a bit of something. I come over to you about the meeting, and the books, and the rest of it.”

The vicar followed him up to the farm-house, where the heavy stack-yard, abundant display of cattle, and noises of the yard told of prosperity; and then leading the way through the red-brick passage into the long, low, plainly-furnished sitting-room, the first words Murray Selwood heard were —

“Jess, Miss Pelly, I’ve brought you a visitor.”

The vicar’s cheek burned, as he could not help a start, but he recovered himself directly as he saw Eve Pelly’s sweet face, with its calm unruffled look, and replied to the frank pressure of her hand, as she said she was delighted to see him.

“This is my niece, Jessie,” said the farmer in his bluff way. “She says, parson – ”

“Oh, uncle!” cried the pleasant, bright-faced girl.

“Howd your tongue, lass; I shall tell him. She says, parson, she’s glad our old fogy has gone, for it’s some pleasure to come and hear you.”

“Oh, Mr Selwood, please,” said the girl, blushing, “I didn’t quite say that. Uncle does – ”

“’Zaggerate,” said the old man, laughing. “Well, perhaps he does. But come, girl, get in a bit of lunch. There, what now, Miss Pelly; are we frightening you away?”

“Oh, no,” said Eve, smiling, “only I must go now.”

“Sit thee down, lass, sit thee down. Parson’s going back directly, and he’ll walk wi’ thee and see thee safe home.”

And so it came about that innocently enough an hour afterwards the vicar and Eve Pelly were walking back together with, as they came in sight of Richard Glaire, Eve eagerly speaking to her companion, and becoming so earnest in her pleading words for her cousin, that she laid one little hand on the vicar’s arm.

“You will like him when you come to know him, Mr Selwood,” she was saying, in her earnest endeavour that Richard should be well thought of by everybody. “Poor boy, he has been so annoyed and worried over the strike, that he is not like the same. It is enough to make him cross and low-spirited, is it not?”

“Indeed it is,” said the vicar, quietly; “and you may be quite at rest with respect to your cousin, for he will, for he will always find a friend in me.”

He had been about to say, “for your sake,” but a glance at the sweet, candid face arrested his words, and he told himself that anything that would in the slightest degree tend to disturb her pure faith and belief in the man who was to be her husband would be cruelty, for there was the hope that her gentle winning ways and innocent heart would be the means of influencing Richard Glaire, and making him a better man.

“Hallo, you two!” made them start, as Richard leaped over the stile, and seemed surprised to find that neither of them looked startled or troubled at his sudden apparition. “Here, Eve, take my arm. I’m going home.”