The Parson O' Dumford

A look from his mother brought him a little more to his senses, and he went to and kissed Eve, to find her lips like fire, while her hands were as ice, and at last he sat there peevish and impatient.

“I want it over,” he said, angrily, to Mrs Glaire. “I hate being made such an exhibition of. Will the carriages never come?”

An end was put to his impatience by the arrival of the first, in which he took his departure with his best man, his appearance being the signal for a volley of cheers.

Mrs Glaire went last, in the same carriage with Mr Purley, the doctor, and Eve, the stout old fellow trying to keep up the bride’s spirits by jokes of his ordinary calibre, the principal one being that he hoped the carriage would not break down under his weight, a witticism at which he laughed heartily, as he responded with bows and hand-wavings to the cheers of the people who lined the High Street of the little town.

Everything looked bright and gay, for the sun shone brilliantly; ropes laden with streamers were stretched across the street, while flags hung here and there, where satisfactory places could be found; and in front of the Bull, a party of the workmen had arranged a little battery of roughly-cast guns, sufficiently strong and large to give a good report when loaded with powder, the landlord having arranged to have a red-hot poker ready for discharging the pieces as soon as the wedding was over.

Volume Three – Chapter Eighteen.

“Wilt Thou – ?”

The old troubles of the strike were over and forgotten, and the town’s intent on this day was to give itself up to feasting, with its ordinary accompaniment of more drink than was good for those who partook.

Down by the churchyard the crowd had long secured to itself the best positions, the favourite places for viewing the coming and departing of the bridal party being the churchyard wall and the two railed tombs; but the boys put up with tombstones, and hurrahed till they were hoarse.

Jacky Budd got the first cheer, as he went up solemnly to the church door, evidently feeling his own importance, but he was checked half-way along the path by some one saying in a quiet, remonstrating tone —

“Say, Jacky, wean’t yow stop an’ hev a drain?”

He looked sharply round, and his hand went to his mouth, while a roar of laughter rose up from the merry crowd, and hastened his steps into the porch.

Trappy Pape was the next to be joked, as he came up hugging the green baize bag containing his violoncello.

“Say, Trappy, hast thee fed thee be-ast?” said one.

“Hast giv’ the poor owd fiddle its rozzum?” cried another.

“Trappy, lad,” shouted another, “does ta sleep inside that owd thing?”

The violoncello player hurried into the church, and Joey South came into view, to the great delight of the crowd.

“Here comes owd Poll Pry,” cried one.

“Look at his owd umbrella,” cried another.

“Why don’t ta put th’ umbrella up?” cried another voice, “it’s going to ree-an next week.”

Here there was another roar of laughter.

“Look at his leather breeches.”

“Say, Joey, wast ta sewed in ’em when they weer made?”

“Ay, lad, they weer made on him i’ the year one, and niver been off since.”

“Mind yon goon don’t go off,” cried one of the chief jokers, as the boy came by bearing Joey’s bassoon.

“Is she loaded, Joey?”

“Ay, lad, he rams her full wi’ kitchen poker,” cried another.

Joey South escaped into the porch, grinning angrily, for a fresh minstrel appeared in the shape of “Owd Billy Stocks” with his clarionet.

“Hey, lads, here’s owd Billy. How’s the clarinet, Billy?”

“Didst put a bit more waxey band round her, Billy?”

“Ay, lads, and she’s got a new reed.”

“Don’t split parson’s ears, Billy.”

“Hey, here’s Tommy Johnson and Johnny Buffam. Tak’ care, lads.”

“Where’s the brass?” shouted somebody.

“Hey,” cried another, “stop ’em – big goons aint allowed i’ the pooblic street.”

The two musicians hugged the French horn and ophecleide to their sides, and tried to smile.

“Don’t ’e blow paarson’s brains out wi’ that thing, Johnny Buffam.”

“Dost a make the dead rise wi’ it, Tommy, lad?” cried another.

“Say, Tommy,” said another, “keep thee fist tight i’ the bell, or thee’ll do some un a mischief.”

The appearance of Robinson, the landlord, and his wife, in gorgeous array, saved the brass instrument players from further banter, for the landlord had to be cheered. Then came churchwarden Bultitude, with, close behind, Jessie and John Maine, and this party had to be cheered.

“Say, Chutchwarden, why don’t a give parson a job for them two?” shouted some one; and, with scarlet cheeks, poor Jessie hurried into the church, where her eyes met John Maine’s with no disfavour.

“Wheer’s Tom Podmore? Why don’t he bring his lass?” shouted a workman.

But neither Daisy, Tom, nor Banks put in an appearance; and the crowd were on the look-out for some one else to banter, when the vicar appeared, to be received with deafening cheers, the men pressing forward to shake hands as he went slowly up the path.

“Say, mun, parson looks straange and wankle,” said one.

“Ay, but he is pasty-faced; he’s been wucking too hard.”

“Wucking!” said another; “why, he’s nowt to do.”

“Nowt to do, lad! why, he does as much i’ one week as thou dost i’ a month.”

“Say,” said another, “I’m getting strange and hungry.”

“Theer’ll he plenty to yeat by and by,” said another. “Hey, here’s owd Ransome and Tomson, the man as neither liked gristle nor swarth, but was very fond o’ pig’s feet.”

“It warn’t he, but the servant gell as they had. Say, owd Ransome, hast got a new gell yet?”