A NEW VATMAN
A man stood on the crown of a limestone quarry, where it bit into the
slope of a green hill. Perched here, three hundred feet above the
valley bottom, a varied scene spread round about, but he was only
concerned with the other side of the coomb and the great pile of Dene
Paper Mill that stood over against him.
On his left opened the creek heavily fringed with trees. Mud banks
oozed out upon it and the river channel twinkled in the midst of them.
The beholder saw that the sea ascended to this rural scene, bringing
its weeds and shells to the little beaches and its birds to the air.
From this inlet, the great valley broke and pointed west. It expanded
and widened among such rolling green steeps as that upon which the
stranger stood, and the heights were capped at the skyline, here by
clumps of Scotch fir; here, by spinneys of oak and elm; here, by arable
or pasture. Rows of small houses lay among the orchards in the bottom,
where a stream wound, and the methodical ordering of those tenements
marked a sharp contrast with the irregular and older cottages round
them. They were the homes of busy people drawn hither for one purpose,
and above them towered the great hive wherein they worked. The Mill
spread under a knoll of trees on the hillside and shone out grey and
blue against the autumn colour of the hanging woods behind it.
Wide roofs glittered with glass and the northern face rose finely
with tier on tier of windows outlined in red brick. Lesser buildings
supported the mass to right and left and a clock-tower and weather-vane
surmounted the whole. The architectural form, piled without design
through the accretion of years, had yet taken a dignified and
significant completeness. It was stern and plain, but not ugly and
meaningless. Its shape, with outstretched wings and uplifted turret,
like a head, suggested a sentient organism that could well fight
for itself and protect its interests. It seemed not aggressive, but
watchful; no tyrant to destroy, but a potent, receptive and benevolent
over-lord of the green valley, which it had indeed modified and
awakened, but not robbed of its distinction and beauty.
The building must have been imposing on a plain, but the hills rolling
round about tended to dwarf its size by their immense contours. Under
some lights indeed the Mill bulked greater than the surrounding scene
and to the meditative mind far transcended the inert matter heaved and
heaped around it; but to-day Nature was clad in glory and no building
built with hands could compete against her splendour of blue sky,
emerald green grass lands and autumn groves of beech and oak. Seen in
this brilliant setting Dene Mill was an impression of restrained grey
and silver. Broad lights and shadows brooded over it and sunshine found
the roofs but not the face of the buildings. Yet no sobriety marked the
mass. It never brooded or sulked, unless the sky lowered and dropped
darkness upon it. There was joy in the feathers of steam that leapt,
and laughter in the broad golden weather-vane above the clock-tower.
Labour pursued in this rural valley seemed to offer some hope of
lessened asperity. Eyes weary with work might lift to the windows and
mirror green and gracious things—meadows climbing and orchards and
thatched roofs; or shorn stubbles spreading like cloth of gold upon the
shoulders of the eastern hills.
The beholder marked the people moving about the many mouths of the
great hive beneath him, and being a man apt to link impressions, he
guessed that the Mill had been built of the stone from the quarry that
gaped at his feet. The rift in the hill extended to a road at the
valley bottom, then sprang trees to fill the space between, so that
the works beyond seemed bowered in foliage on all sides and framed in
thinning boughs.
A bell rang and the people streamed away—men and women—in a little
thin trickle, like beads irregularly scattered on a thread. Here and
there the line was brightened by a flash of colour from a bright sun
bonnet, or gown. The watcher descended now, gained the road below, then
climbed the other side to the Mill.
He was a middle-aged, good-looking man, with a round face, hair turning
grey, and black, rather shifty eyes. Humour homed on his countenance
and merriment and cunning shared his expression. He carried a large,
brown paper bundle and wore a new, homespun suit, a paper collar, a
sky-blue tie and a cloth cap.
As he passed Mr. Trood’s house at the entrance of the works and
proceeded towards them, looking round about him, there emerged the
master, and the new-comer guessed that he was so.
He touched his hat therefore and said:
“You’ll be the boss, I reckon.”
“Right—and what do you want?”
“Work, Mr. Matthew Trenchard.”
It was not strange to see a wandering paper maker. The body of these
men is small; they know their own value and, being always precious, can
count upon making a change with safety. They are sought and a first
rate workman need be in no fear of not winning a welcome where hand
paper continues to be manufactured.
“What department?” asked Trenchard.
“A vatman, if so be you’re wanting a good one.”
“I’m always wanting a good vatman. We’ve got three of the best in
England here.”
“Take me and you’ll have four,” said the man.
Trenchard laughed and looked at him.
“Why are you changing?” he asked.
“Tired of a town. I come from the midlands; but I want to be in the
country, and knowing about Dene Works, I thought I’d come down and
offer.”
They were standing opposite Mr. Trood’s house at the main gate and the
master turned and knocked at the door. Trood himself appeared.
“A vatman,” said Trenchard.
“By name, Philander Knox,” explained the stranger. “I must tell you,”
he added, “that I’ve got rather a queer stroke at the vat. People laugh
to see me with a mould; but they don’t laugh when they see the paper.”
“We shan’t quarrel with your stroke if we don’t with your sheet,” said
Trood. “I’m for a nice, easy stroke myself, because it goes farther
and faster; but we all know no two men have the same stroke. We’ve got
a man now with a stroke like a cow with a musket; but his paper’s all
right.”
“You can come for a week on trial,” declared Trenchard. “Begin
to-morrow if you’re agreeable to terms. We’re very busy. This is Mr.
Trood, our foreman.”
He went homewards and left the others together, while Mr. Knox produced
his credentials.