The Parson O' Dumford

John Maine took a tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and held it out to the speaker, who refilled his dirty pipe, looked the pouch all over, and then transferred it to his pocket.

“Look here, Ike,” said the fellow then, “we won’t keep Johnny any longer. He’s off out courting – going to see his lass. Don’t you see the bood in his button-hole. He’ll see us again when he comes to look us up, for we shall pitch down in one of the pooblics.”

“Raight you are, lad; he’ll find us out. Do anything now, Johnny? Ought to be a few hares and fezzans about here. Good-bye, Johnny, lad; give my love to her.”

The two men went off laughing and talking, leaving John Maine gazing after them, till they disappeared round a bend of the lane on the way to Dumford, when brushing the perspiration from his face with one hand, he staggered away, kicking up the dust at every step till he reached a stile, upon which he sank down as if the elasticity had been taken out of his muscles. His head went down upon his hands, his elbows upon his knees, and there he remained motionless, with the dog sitting down and watching him intently, after trying by pawing and whining to gain his master’s attention.

Neither John Maine nor his ill-looking companions had gone far, before a head and shoulders were raised slowly up over the hedge, so that their owner could peer over and look up and down the lane. The countenance revealed was that of Thomas Brough, the keeper, who had evidently been sitting on the other side, partaking of his rural lunch, or dinner; for as he parted the green growth, to get a better view, it was with a big clasp knife, while his other hand held a lump of bread, ornamented with bacon.

He spoke the next moment with his mouth full, but his words were quite audible as he said —

“I thowt that thar dog would ha’ smelt the rat, but a didn’t. So I hadn’t got you now, Jack Maine, hadn’t I? I’m a rogue, am I, Jack? I sold the Squire’s rabbuds, did I? and pocketted t’ money, did I? Wires, eh? Fezzans and hares, eh? Now, what’ll old Bultitude and Miss Jess say to this? I’ll just find out what’s your little game.”

He strode hastily off, parting the hazels, and making a short cut across the copse, while John Maine sat on the stile thinking.

What was he to do – what was he to do? Were all his struggles to be an honest man to be in vain? Yes, he had joined parties in poaching, down about Nottingham, but he had left it all in disgust, and for years he had been trying to be, and had been, an honest man. He had lived here at Dumford four years – had saved money – was respected and trusted – he was old Bultitude’s head man; and now these two scoundrels – men who knew of his old life – had found him out, they would expose him, and he should have to go off right away to begin the world afresh.

“I’ve tried enew; I’ve tried very hard,” he groaned. “I left all that as soon as I saw to what it tended, and knew better; and now, after all this struggle, here is the end.”

What was the use? he asked himself; why had he tried? What were honesty and respectability, and respect to such as he, that he should have fought for them so hard, knowing that, sooner or later, it must come to this?

What should he do? The words kept repeating themselves in his brain, and he asked himself again, What?

Suppose he told them all at the farm – laid bare the whole of his early life, how he had found himself as a boy thrown amongst poachers. It had been no fault of his, for he had hated it – loathed it all. Suppose he told Mr Bultitude – what then?

Yes, what then? Old Bultitude would say – “We’re all very sorry for you here, but if it got about that I’d kept a regular poacher on my farm, what would the squire say? And what about my lease?” And Tom Brough! Good heavens, if Tom Brough should learn it all!

It was of no use; that man would blast his character gladly, and the end of it all was that he must go!

Yes, but where? Where should he go? Somewhere to work for awhile, and get on, and then live a life of wretchedness, expecting to see some old associate turn up and blast his prospects. No; there was no hope for such as he! All he could do was to join some regiment at Lincoln or Sheffield, enlist – get on foreign service, and be a soldier. A man did not want a character to become a good soldier.

And about Jessie?

His head went lower, and he groaned aloud as this thought flashed across his mind, for his load seemed more than he could bear.

“Anything the matter, John Maine?”

The young man leaped up to find himself face to face with Mr Selwood, whose steps had been inaudible in the dusty road, and John Maine’s thoughts had been too much taken up for him to notice the whine of recognition by the dog, who had leaped up and ran forward to welcome the vicar.

“Bit of a headache, sir, bad headache – this heat, sir,” stammered the young man.

“Liver out of order – liver – not a doubt about it,” said the vicar. “What a strange thing it is nature couldn’t make a man without a liver and save him all his sufferings from bile. Come along with me to the Vicarage. I’m getting in order there now, and I’ll doctor you, and go and tell Mr Purley myself that I’ve been poaching on his preserves. Why, what’s the matter, man?”

John Maine had started as if stung at certain of his latter words.

“Bit giddy, sir; strange and bad now it’s come on,” he stammered.

“That’s right; you’re better now. Sitting with your head down. I’ll doctor you – no secrets: tincture of rhubarb, citrate of magnesia, and a little brandy. I’ll soon set you right. You mustn’t be ill. This is cricket night, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir; but they haven’t played since the strike.”

“Perhaps they will to-night, and I shall come to the field. Well, come along.”

“But really, sir – I – that is – ”

“Now look here, John Maine, I’m the spiritual head of the parish, and you must obey me. I can’t help being a man of only your own age – I shall get the better of that. Now if I had been some silver-headed old gentleman, you would have come without a word; so come along. I’ll go back. You are decidedly ill – there’s no mistake about it.”

To John Maine’s great surprise, the vicar took his arm, and half led him back towards Dumford, chattering pleasantly the while.

“I met Mr Simeon Slee as I came along, and he cut me dead. He’s a very nice man in his way, but I’m afraid he works so hard with his tongue, it takes all the strength out of his arms.”

“He’s strange and fond o’ talking, sir,” said John Maine.

“Yes; but words are only words after all, and if they are light and chaffy, they don’t grow like good grain. Bad thing this strike in the town, Maine. Lasted a month now.”

“Very bad, sir.”

“Ah, yes. You agricultural gentlemen don’t indulge in those luxuries, and I’m glad to see that the farm people are very sober.”

“Yes, sir, ’cept at the stattice and the fair.”

“Stattice?” said the vicar, inquiringly.

“Yes, sir, status – statute-hiring, you know, when the servants leave. They call it ‘pag-rag’ day here.”

“Ha, do they?” said the vicar; “well, I suppose I shall learn all in time. What may ‘pag-rag’ mean?”

“They call it so here, sir,” said the young man, smiling. “They say a man pags a sack on his back, and I suppose it means they carry off their clothes then.”

“I see,” said the vicar; “and you have some strange characters about at such times? By the way, I saw a nice respectable couple turn in at the Bull and Cucumber, as I came by. They’d got poacher stamped on their faces plainly. – Head bad?”

“Sudden stab, sir, that’s all,” said John Maine, holding his hands to his head and shuddering.

“Ah, you must go back and lie down as soon as I have done with you, or else I must find you a sofa for an hour. We’ll see how you are. Perhaps we’ll walk home together.”

“No, no, sir, I shall be all right directly. Don’t do that, sir. Mr Bultitude – ”

“Mr Bultitude has too much respect for you, John Maine, to let you go about in a state of suffering; so just hold your tongue, sir, for you’re my patient.”

A few minutes after he laid his hand on the gate, with the effect of making Jacky Budd start up from his seat on the bottom of a large flower-pot, and begin vigorously hoeing at some vegetables in the now trim garden.

The vicar saw him and laughed to himself, as he led the way up to the door, glancing up the street as he did so, and seeing, with a feeling of uneasiness, that there were knots of men standing about in conversation, as if discussing some important subject.

The door stood wide open, as if inviting entrance, and flowers were now blooming in profusion on every side, for what with the rough work of Tom Podmore and Big Harry, supplemented by the efforts of Jacky Budd and the parson himself, the garden was what the sexton called a “pictur.”

“Come in here, Maine,” said the vicar, opening the door of his study; and the young man followed, peering round as he did so, for this was his first visit to the vicar’s dwelling, and the result of a month’s residence was shown in the change that had come over the place.

But at the end of the first fortnight, one of Mr Bultitude’s waggons had been run down to the station three times to fetch “parson’s traps,” and “parson’s traps” were visible on all sides, the Reverend Murray Selwood being, to use his own words, “rather cursed with wealth.”