The Parson O' Dumford

“Well?”

“Didn’t I tell thee as thou needn’t come here?” said Mrs Slee. “I thowt you wouldn’t darken parson’s door again.”

“What’s that as smells?” said Sim, giving a sniff.

“Soup for them as you and your strike folk have left to pine to dead,” snapped Mrs Slee.

“Is that some on it in they pancheons?” said Sim.

“Yes, it is,” said his wife, sulkily.

“I heered tell on it,” said Sim. “He’ve been a scrattin about at all the butchers’, and buying up weighs of cag mag as they couldn’t sell. I saw a basket o’ stinking bones come up to the gate, and I heerd at the Bull as he’s gotten four beasts’ heads promised. Yah! it’s a shame as such as him should hev a place like this, and five hundred a year.”

“Thou fulsome!” exclaimed Mrs Slee, angrily. “I wean’t stand by and hear parson talked about like that.”

“All raight,” said Sim, sneering; “he’s won you ower then. But what hev you gotten to eat?”

“Nowt,” said Mrs Slee, shortly.

“Here, just take thee scithers, and coot the dwiny ends off my collar,” said Sim, holding up the ragged but scrupulously clean collar of the shirt he wore; and this duty was diligently performed by his wife.

“Some one telled me as the soup meat was covered wi’ maddick bees,” said Sim, as soon as the task was done.

“Then some one telled thee a lie,” said Mrs Slee, sharply.

“Power up a few of it in a basin,” said Sim, after examining the broad earthen pans in which the thick soup steamed. “Let’s see what sorter stuff the downtrodden serf is to be compelled to eat.”

“It isn’t good enough for such as thou,” said Mrs Slee, sharply.

Sim took up the spoon, and with an air of disgust raised some of the soup and let it drop back, exhaling as it did so a most tantalising odour for a hungry man.

“I just come by Riggall’s, the bone-setter’s,” said Sim; “and he says as he won’t hev parson meddling wi’ his trade, if doctor does. Why, he tied up Binney Mawtrop’s hand as he got in the wheel.”

“Yes, and I held a basin and a sponge for him,” said Mrs Slee, eyeing her husband. “He owt to hev let him bleed to dead, of course.”

“Say, owd lass,” said Sim, “is this stuff fit to yeat?”

“Fit to yeat, thou unconditioned fulsome! it ain’t fit for thee. Bread and watter’s what such shacks as thou ought to hev, and nowt besides.”

“Thy tongue’s gotten a strange and rough edge to it this morning, moother,” said Sim, grinning, and longing to convey the spoon to his mouth, but feeling that it would not be consistent.

“There, sit thee down,” said Mrs Slee. “I know what you mean. There, sit down, and don’t get theeing and thouing me about. A deal you care for me.”

This was in answer to a rough caress, as she bustled about, and got a basinful of the soup for her lord, with a great hunk of bread; and without more ado Sim took his seat.

“Oh, I’m not going to yeat this,” he said. “I’m just going to taste what sorter moock he gives the pore out of his bounty.”

“Howd thee tongue and eat,” said Mrs Slee, contemptuously.

Sim played with the spoon, and splashed the soup about, ending by tasting it and retasting, and then taking some bread and going heartily to work.

“Say, moother,” he exclaimed, “it won’t do; that’s the broth you’ve been makking for the parson hissen. It ain’t to give away.”

“That’s made o’ the meat as the parson went and scratted up from the butcher’s, and the baskets o’ bones and beasts’ heads, and all the rubbish he could get together,” said Mrs Slee sourly.

“I’ll say it’s good soup,” said Sim, finishing his basin. “Say, moother, give’s another soop.”

“He said I was to give some to anybody who wanted,” said Mrs Slee; and then, with a grim smile, she refilled his basin, while Sim drew out his handkerchief, spread it on his knees, and polished off the second basin in a very few minutes.

“You can’t get me to believe as that soup’s going to be gin away,” he said as he rose. “That’ll be wattered till it’s thin as thin. Theer, I’m off again. I’ve a deal to see to;” and without another word he hurried away.

“Yes, he’s gotten his fill,” said Mrs Slee, directing a look of contempt after her husband; but as she crossed the kitchen she saw something white under the chair Sim had occupied, and stooping down picked up a note in a very small envelope, whose address she spelled out: “Miss Banks, By hand.”

“What’s he gotten to do wi’ takkin letters to Daisy Banks?” she exclaimed, as a hot feeling of jealousy came upon her for the moment. Then, with a half-laugh she said, “No, no, it ain’t that: he’s too old and unheppen, and she’s ower young and pretty. He’s takkin it for some one. Whose writing will it be? He’s coming back.”

She stopped short, hearing a step, and darted out of the kitchen just as Sim came softly up, peered in and looked eagerly about the floor and under the table.

“Mebbe I’ve dropped it somewheers else,” he muttered, starting off again, while Mrs Slee had another good look at the letter, and ended by depositing it in her bosom.

“I’ll give it to parson,” she said at last, and then resumed her work.

Meanwhile, Murray Selwood was retracing his steps on the way to Bultitude’s farm, but before he reached the place he came upon John Maine once more, looking eagerly across the fields.

“Well, Maine, how’s the head?” said the vicar, making the young man start, for the grass had deadened his tread. “What can you see – game?”

“I’m afraid it is, sir,” said the young man, bluntly – “the sportsman and the hare.”

“H’m!” ejaculated the vicar, as he caught sight of two figures on the hill-side, far distant; but the day was so beautifully clear that he could make out Richard Glaire and a companion. “Mr Glaire and his cousin?” he said hastily.

“No, sir,” said the young man, quietly, “that’s what it ought to be. It’s Mr Richard Glaire and one of the town girls. I think it’s Daisy Banks. Do you know him well, sir?”

“Yes, pretty well,” said the vicar, eyeing the young man’s saddened face intently.

“Well, sir, it’s no business of mine,” said the young fellow; “but if I was a friend of Mr Richard Glaire, I should tell him to keep at home, and not do that; for the men are getting hot again him, and he may fall into trouble.”

“John Maine, if any violence is intended against Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, “I wish you to tell me at once.”

“I don’t know of any, sir,” said Maine, “only Tom Podmore’s dreadfully put out about Daisy Banks, and the strike people are growing more bitter every day. If I do hear of anything, sir, I’ll tell you.”

They came directly upon old Bultitude, looking bluff and ruddy in his velveteens and gaiters.

“Ah, parson, fine day! how are you? What’s the matter?”

“Well, Maine here isn’t well,” said the vicar.

“What’s wrong, lad? Why, thou said’st nowt when you came in a bit ago.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, sir, nothing,” said John Maine, hastily.