The moor was blazing in the sun. Bright gorse flamed above the pale
green grass, and little pools flashed white rays up to the sky. Hob's
Tommy stepped out of doors, and took a long look round. He was not
impressed by the riot of colour that spread around him; he looked over
the pulsing floor of the sea, and thought, "It will be a fine night for
the trouting."
Tommy was a large man, who seemed to shake the ground as he trod. His
face was devoid of speculation, and his dull blue eyes looked from under
heavy and unamiable brows. His hair was matted, and his mode of dressing
his big limbs showed that he was careless of opinion. He was called
Hob's Tommy because the villagers had a fancy for regarding sons as the
personal property of the father, and thus a man called Thomas, who
happened to be the son of a man called John, never received his surname
during his whole life, excepting on the occasions of his baptism and
marriage. He was known as Jack's Tom. If he, in his turn, happened to
have a son whom he chose to name Henry, the youth was known as Jack's
Tom's Harry. Our friend Tommy's father had been called Hob, and hence
the name of the ill-tempered lout who was gazing on the unsullied sea.
Tommy watched the green water breaking over the brown sand, and far out
at sea he saw the thick haze still brooding low. He knew the evening
would be fine, and he knew that he would have a good basket for next
day's market. He put his hands in his pockets, and strolled away from
the unsavoury neighbourhood of the Fishers' Row on to the glistening
moor. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and into his mind entered no
thought saving calculations about money and drink. Any stranger who had
met him walking over the thyme, with his fierce face bent downward,
would have gained a bad notion of the local population. A sudden jangle
of bells filled the air, and the ringers went to work gaily. Quaint
farmers went along dressed in creased suits of clothing; quiet country
women nodded as they passed, but Tommy heeded none of his neighbours. He
was a brutal man, whose presence seemed an insult to the holy morning.
He walked mechanically on over the moor, and let the sound of church
bells die away in his ear. Presently he came to a beautiful slope, which
was starred with pink geraniums. The sun shone warmly upon it, and a
lark flashed from amid the flowers with a sound of joy, and carried his
rejoicing up into the sky. Tommy thought, "This is a nice warm place to
lie down on. I'll light my pipe." And he stretched himself amid the
tender flowers. The glow and the colour of the life around him, and the
sparkle of the sea, seemed at last to make some dim suggestion to his
mind. He said, half aloud, "Wonder what I'm here for. I don't know. I
only wish it was seven o'clock and the sun droppin';--he was a lazy man
that invented Sunday;--another day I'll away to the fishin' i' the
mornin', and the folks can say just what they like. I'm not goin' to
waste my time and my baccy lyin' on sand hills." So he smoked on until
the sun reached its greatest height, and the afternoon shadows lay like
dark pansies in the hollows.
Now it happened that in the neighbouring village it was usual to hold an
afternoon service and an evening service in the Wesleyan chapel. The
services followed close on each other, and there was great competition
among the villagers as to who should give the preacher his tea in the
interval. Tommy presently found himself looking sleepily at a man who
was bent over the moor to attend the chapel. If you had met the
new-comer you would have been compelled to look back at him. He was tall
and spare. His shoulders were very broad, and he walked with a kind of
military tread. His face was good to see; the calm and joy of the bright
day seemed to have entered his soul, and his eyes looked as though he
were thinking of things too deep for words. His mouth was sternly
closed, and yet despite its tension the delicate lines at the corners
seemed to speak of humour and tenderness. His hat was thrown back a
little, and showed a large forehead marked by slight lines, which spoke
not so much of temper as of placid musing. He was murmuring to himself
as he walked, and he seemed to be in communion with a multitude of
exquisite thoughts. When he reached the bank where the geraniums grew,
his placidity quickened into alertness as he saw the figure of Tom
stretched upon the grass. He stepped up to the lounger and said, in a
low cheery tone--
"Well, Thomas, my man, and what takes you out at this time of day? I
suppose you are having a bit of a rest after yesterday?"