The Parson O' Dumford

The place was now the beau ideal of a well-to-do bachelor’s home. The low-roofed entrance-hall was bright with oak furniture, quaint china, trophies of old arms, and savage weapons, with flowers, for the most part sent by Mrs Glaire, placed wherever there was light and sunshine for them to break up into long sheaves on the clean stone floor. Through an open door could be seen the dining-room, whose oaken sideboard was half covered with massive plate, college cups, and trophies won by muscular arms and legs guided by a clear-thinking and solid brain; but the study itself took John Maine’s attention, with its cases full of books, great bronze clock, and vases on the mantelpiece, with statuettes on brackets.

There were traces of the owner’s polished taste in every direction, but at the same time samples of his love of out-door sports. For instance, in one corner there stood a polished canoe-paddle with a fascine of fishing-rods; in another corner a gun-case and a couple of cricket-bats; lying on a side-table, its handle carefully bound with string, was about the biggest croquet mallet that ever drove ball over a velvet lawn. A half-written sermon lay on the writing-table, and by it a cigar-box; while on the chimney-piece and in brackets were pipes, from the humble clay, through briars, to the tinted brown meerschaum with its amber tube. The greatest incongruity in the place, however, seeing that it was the snuggery of a man of peace, was a trophy of single-sticks, foils, masks and gloves, crossed by a couple of bows, in front of which were a sheaf of arrows and two pairs of boxing-gloves.

“Looking at the gloves, Maine?” said the vicar, smiling. “Ah, I used to be a bit of a don with those at one time. You and I will put them on together some day. Just touch that bell.”

John Maine obeyed, while the young vicar found his keys, and opened a cabinet which was in two compartments, the one displaying a regular array of medicines, the other spirits, wine, and glasses.

“Bring in some water, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar.

“And a sponge and a rag and the ragjack oil?” said Mrs Slee, eagerly.

“No, Mrs Slee. It’s medicine, not surgery to-day;” and the woman backed out, looking a little less angular and sad than a few weeks before.

“I’m a regular quack, Maine, you see,” said the vicar, smiling, as he poured into a great soda-water glass a certain quantity of tincture, added to it a couple of table-spoonfuls of brandy, and so much granulated magnesia, to which, when Mrs Slee returned, he poured about half a pint of pure cold well water. “There’s a dose for you, my man,” he said, as he passed it to John Maine, “that will set you right in an hour. Now, Mrs Slee, any one been?”

“Yes, Bulger’s girl’s been here with a bottle for some wine,” said Mrs Slee shortly, for “sir” and a respectful tone were still strangers to her tongue.

“Bring the bottle in. Any one else?”

“Maidens’s boy says you promised his mother some tea.”

“So I did,” said the vicar, opening a large canister, from which he took a packet which scented the room with its fragrance. “There it is. Now then, who else?”

“Old Mumby’s wife has come for some more wine.”

“Then she’ll go back without it, Mrs Slee. Do you see that,” he continued, giving her a strange look; “that’s the peculiar sign that used to be in vogue amongst the ancients. That’s the gnostic wink, Mrs Slee, and means too much. I won’t send a spoonful. That wicked old woman drank every drop of the last herself, Mrs Slee, I’ll make affidavit. She wouldn’t stir across the room to wait on her poor old husband, and yet she’ll come nearly a mile to fetch that wine. I’ll take it myself, and give it the poor old boy, and see him drink it before I come away. Tell her I’ll bring it down, Mrs Slee; but don’t say I called her a wicked old woman.”

“Oh, I’m not going to chatter. Do you think I should be such a ghipes?” said Mrs Slee, rudely.

“Not knowing what a ghipes is, I cannot say, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar; “but you are not perfect, Mrs Slee – not perfect. Soup. You have that last soup on your conscience!”

“Well, I’m sure I should ha’ been glad on a few not long back, and it was quite good enew to gie away to people.”

“And I’m sure it was not, Mrs Slee: the poor people are hungry, and want food. This strike’s a terrible thing.”

“Then they shouldn’t strike,” growled Mrs Slee.

“I quite agree with you, Mrs Slee, so I don’t give soup to the men who did strike; but the women and children did not strike, and if you knew what it was to be hungry – I beg your pardon, Mrs Slee,” he added hastily, as he saw his housekeeper flush up. “There, I did not think. But this soup. We had a capital French cook at my college, and he gave me lessons. I’m a capital judge of soup, and I’ll taste the fresh. Bring me in a basin, and send these people away.”

Mrs Slee muttered and went out, looking rather ungracious, and the vicar turned to his guest, who was fidgetting about and seemed rather uneasy.

“I’m rather proud of our soup here at the vicarage – broth, the people call it,” said the vicar.

“I’ve heerd tell of it, sir,” said John Maine, who wanted to go.

“But I have hard work to keep the water out. I always tell Mrs Slee that the people can add as much of that as they like. But, I say, Maine, there’s something wrong with you!”

“Oh, no, sir; nothing at all, sir; but it’s time I was going, sir, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Well, well, good-bye, Maine. I hope,” he added significantly, “your head will be better. Mind this, though, I’m not one of the confessional parsons, and insist upon no man’s confidence; but bear this in mind, I look upon myself as the trusted, confidential friend of every man in the parish. I shall be over your way soon.”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” said Maine. “I know you do,” and, backing out, the next moment he was gone.

“Strange young man that – strange people altogether,” said the vicar. “Oh, here’s the soup.”

For just then Mrs Slee bustled in with a napkin-covered tray, bearing a basin and spoon, the former emitting clouds of steam.

The vicar took the basin, sat down, stirred it, smelt it, tasted it, and replaced the spoon, while Mrs Slee watched his face eagerly.

“Wants another pinch of salt, and another dash of pepper. Fetch them, Mrs Slee, and some bread.”

Mrs Slee, looking as ungracious as ever, but with an eagerness which she could not conceal, hurried out to return with the required articles, when more salt was added and a dash of pepper. Then a slice of bread was cut from the home-made loaf, and the vicar tasted – tasted again, and then, in the calmest and most unperturbed manner possible, went on partaking of the soup, every mouthful being watched with intense eagerness by the woman waiting for his judgment.

“Capital soup this, Mrs Slee; capital brew!”

Mrs Slee did not smile, as the vicar diligently hunted the last grains of rice in the bottom of the basin with his spoon, but she gave a sigh of satisfaction.

“This will go off like a shot. How much have you got of it? Almost equal to our soup at Boanerges.”

“There’s about sixty quarts of it, sir.”

“Sixty? Not half enough. You’ll have to start the copper again directly, Mrs Slee. Ah, by the way, Bailey will bring two hundred loaves this evening, and we’ll give them away with the soup in the morning.”

“Two hundred loaves!” exclaimed Mrs Slee. “Bless the man, where am I to put them?”

“Oh, we’ll stack them in the hall if we can’t put them anywhere else, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, laughing. “And let that soup cool. It’ll be like jelly in the morning. I’m going to walk over to Bultitude’s, and I’ll call at the butcher’s about the beef.”

“But that broth would bear as much watter to it, and that would make twice as much.”

“Now, Mrs Slee, I won’t have a good thing spoiled,” said the vicar. “I don’t believe you mind the trouble of making it.”

“That I’m sure I don’t,” said Mrs Slee, sharply; “only you’re giving away cartloads of bread and meat, and pailsful of soup to folks as wean’t say thank you for it, and laugh at you for your pains.”

“They won’t laugh at me while they’re eating that beautiful soup, Mrs Slee, which does you credit. If they like to laugh afterwards, – well, let them.”

“Oh, I don’t want no praise for the broth,” said Mrs Slee, ungraciously. “You telled me how to mak’ it. But I don’t like to see you robbing yourself for them as is sure to be ungrateful.”

“We won’t mind that, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, smiling; “and now I’m going off to Bultitude’s, and I’ll see if I can’t get there this time. By the way, Mrs Slee, I should like a little tureen of that soup for my dinner; it’s splendid. And look here, Mrs Slee, if any one comes while I’m out, who needs a little, you can lend a jug, and give some of the soup before it’s cold. I’ll leave that to you.”

Volume Two – Chapter Five.

The Vicar’s Soup

“He’s a strange good man,” said Mrs Slee, grimly, as she watched the vicar down the path; “and he must hev a vast o’ money, giving away as he is raight and left. Well, I won’t hev him cheated if I can help it, for the more he gives the more he may. Who’s yon at the back?”

The last remark was jerked out as a soft tap was heard at the kitchen door, and on going to answer it, there stood Sim Slee.

“Well?”