"Ax."
"I was asking, or axing, as you call it, my man. I said, Is that
Dumford, down there in the valley?"
"And I said axe, or arks, as you call it, my man," was the surly,
defiant reply.
The last speaker looked up savagely from the block of stone on which he
was seated, and the questioner looked down from where he stood on the
rough track. There was a quiet, half-amused twinkle in his clear grey
eyes, which did not quit his verbal opponent for an instant, as he
remained gazing at him without speaking.
They were men of about the same age--eight-and-twenty or thirty--the one
evidently a clergyman by his white tie, and the clerical cut of his
clothes, though there was an easy _degage_ look in the soft felt hat
cocked a little on one side of his massive head--a head that seemed
naturally to demand short crisp curly brown hair. The same free and
easy air showed in the voluminous wrinkles of his grey tweed trousers;
his thick square-toed rather dusty boots; and his gloveless hands, which
were brown, thickly veined, and muscular. He had a small leather bag in
one hand, a stout stick in the other, and it was evident that he had
walked some distance over the hills, for the nearest town, in the
direction he had come, was at least six miles away.
The seated man, who was smoking a very dirty and short clay pipe, was as
broad-shouldered, as sturdy, and as well-knit; but while the one, in
spite of a somewhat heavy build, was, so to speak, polished by exercise
into grace; the other was rough and angular, and smirched as his
countenance was by sweat and the grime of some manufacturing trade, he
looked as brutal as his words.
"What are yow lookin' at?" he suddenly growled menacingly.
"At yow," said the clergyman, in the most unruffled way; and, letting
his bag and stick fall in the ferns, he coolly seated himself on a
second block of stone on the bright hill-side.
"Now look here," exclaimed the workman, roughly, "I know what you're
after. You're going to call me my friend, and finish off with giving me
a track, and you may just save yerself the trouble, for it wean't do."
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe as he spoke, and looked menacing
enough to do any amount of mischief to a man he did not like.
"You're wrong," said the traveller, coolly, as he rummaged in the pocket
of his long black coat. "I'm going to have a pipe."
He opened a case, took out a well-blackened meerschaum, scraped the
ashes from its interior, filled it from a large india-rubber pouch which
he then passed to the workman, before striking a match from a little
brass box and beginning to smoke with his hands clasped round his knees.
"Try that tobacco," he continued. "You'll like it."
The workman took the tobacco-pouch in an ill-used way, stared at it,
stared at the stranger smoking so contentedly by him, frowned, muttered
something uncommonly like an oath, and ended by beginning to fill his
pipe.
"Don't swear," said the traveller, taking his pipe from his lips for a
moment, but only to replace it, and puff away like a practised smoker.
"Shall if I like," said the other, savagely. "What have yow got to do
wi' it?"
"Don't," said the traveller; "what's the good? It's weak and stupid.
If you don't like a man, hit him. Don't swear."
The workman stared as these strange doctrines were enunciated; then,
after a moment's hesitation, he finished filling his pipe, struck a
match which refused to light, threw it down impatiently, tried another,
and another, and another, with the same result, and then uttered a
savage oath.
"At it again," said the traveller, coolly, thrusting a hand into his
pocket. "Why, what a dirty-mouthed fellow you are."
"Yow wean't be happy till I've made your mouth dirty," said the workman,
savagely; "and you're going the gainest way to get it."
"Nonsense!" said the traveller, coolly, "Why didn't you ask me for a
light?"
He handed his box of vesuvians, and it was taken in a snatchy way. One
was lighted, and the few puffs of smoke which followed seemed to have a
mollifying effect on the smoker, who confined himself to knitting his
brows and staring hard at the stranger, who now took off his hat to let
the fresh soft breeze blow over his hot forehead, while he gazed down at
the little town, with its square-towered church nestling amidst a clump
of elms, beyond which showed a great blank, many-windowed building, with
tall chimney shafts, two or three of which were vomiting clouds of black
smoke nowise to the advantage of the landscape.
"I thowt you was a parson," said the young workman at last, in a growl a
trifle less surly.
"Eh?" said the other, starting from a reverie, "parson? Yes, to be sure
I am."
"Methody?"
"No."
"Ranter, p'raps?"
"Oh, no, only when I get a little warm."
"What are you, then?"
"Well, first of all," said the traveller, quietly, "you'd better answer
my question. Is that Dumford?"
The workman hesitated and frowned. It seemed like giving in--being
defeated--to answer now, but the clear grey eyes were fixed upon him in
a way that seemed to influence his very being, and he said at last,
gruffly,
"Well, yes, it is Doomford; and what if it is?"
"Oh, only that I'm the new vicar."
The workman puffed rapidly at his pipe, his face assuming a look of
dislike, and at last he ejaculated, "Ho!"
"Like that tobacco?" said the new vicar, quietly.
There was a pause, during which the workman seemed to be debating within
himself whether he should answer or not. At last he condescended to
reply, "'taint bad."
"No; it's really good. I always get the best."
The last speaker took in at a glance what was going on in his
companion's breast, and that was a fight between independent defiance
and curiosity, but he seemed not to notice it.
"Give him time," he said to himself; and he smoked on, amused at the
fellow's rough independence. He had been told that he would find
Dumford a strange place, with a rough set of people; but nothing
daunted, he had accepted the living, and had made up his mind how to
act. At last the workman spoke:
"I never see a parson smoke afore!"
"Didn't you? Oh, I like a pipe."
"Ain't it wicked?" said the other, with a grin.
"Wicked? Why should it be? I see nothing wrong in it, or I should not
do it."
There was another pause, during which pipes were refilled and lighted
once more.
"Ever drink beer?" said the workman at last.
"Beer? By Samson!" exclaimed the new vicar, "how I should like a good
draught now, my man. I'm very thirsty."
"Then there ain't none nigher than the Bull, an that's two mile away.
There's plenty o' watter."
"Where?"
"Round the corner in the beck."
A short nod accompanied this, and the vicar rose.
"Then we'll have a drop of water--qualified," he said, taking a flask
from his pocket. "Scotch whisky," he added, as he saw the stare
directed at the little flask, whose top he was unscrewing.
A dozen paces down the path, hidden by some rocks, ran the source of a
tiny rivulet or beck, with water like crystal, and filling the cup he
took from his flask, the vicar qualified it with whisky, handed it to
his rough companion, and then drank a draught himself with a sigh of
relief.
"I've walked across the hills from Churley," he said, as they re-seated
themselves. "I wanted to see what the country was like."
"Ho!" said the workman. "Say, you ain't like the owd parson."
"I suppose not. Did you know him?"
"Know him? Not I. He warn't our sort."
"You used to go and hear him, I suppose?"
"Go and hear him? Well, that's a good one," said the workman; and a
laugh transformed his face, driving away the sour, puckered look, which,
however, began rapidly to return.
"What's the matter?" said the vicar, after a few minutes' silent
smoking.
"Matter? matter wi' who?"
"Why, with you. What have you come up here for, all by yourself?"
"Nothing," was the reply, in the surliest of voices.
"Nonsense, man! Do you think I can't tell that you're put out--hipped--
and that something has annoyed you?"
The young man's face gave a twitch or two, and he shuffled half round in
his seat. Then, leaping up, he began to hurry off.
The new vicar had caught him in a dozen strides, putting away his pipe
as he walked.
"There," he said, "I won't ask any more questions about yourself. I'm
going down into the town, and we may as well walk together."
The young workman turned round to face him, angrily, but the calm
unruffled look of his superior disarmed him, and he gave a bit of a gulp
and walked on.
"I never quarrel with a man for being cross when he has had something to
put him out," said the vicar, quietly. Then seeing that he was touching
dangerous ground, he added, "By the way, where's the vicarage?"
"That's it, next the church," was the reply.
"Yes, I see; and what's that big building with the smoking chimneys?"
"Foundry," was said gruffly.
"To be sure, yes. Bell foundry, isn't it?"
"Yes." Then after a pause, "I work theer."
"Indeed?"
"Tell you what," said the young man, growing sociable in spite of
himself; "yow get leave and I'll show you all about the works. No I
wean't, though," he exclaimed, abruptly. "Cuss the works, I'll never go
there no more."
The new vicar looked at him, tightening his lips a little.
"Another sore place, eh?" he said to himself, and turned the
conversation once more.
"What sort of people are you at Dumford, my lad?"
"Hey? what sort o' people? Why, men and women and bairns, of course.
What did you expect they weer?"
"I mean as to conduct," said the vicar, laughing. "What will they say
to me, for instance?"
The young man's face grew less cloudy for a few moments, a broad,
hearty, honest grin extending it so that he looked a frank, even
handsome young fellow.
"They'll make it a bit warm for you, parson," he said at last.
"Eh? will they?" said the vicar, smiling. "Rough as you were, eh?"
"Oh no," said the other, quickly. "Don't you take no notice o' that. I
ain't always that how. I was a bit popped this morning."
"Yes, I could see you were a bit _popped_," said the vicar. "We all
have our troubles, my lad; but it's your true man that gets the strong
hand of his anger and masters it."
"You look as if you never had nought to make you waxy in your life,"
said the workman. "I say, what do they call you?"
"Call me? A parson, I suppose."
"No; I mean call you. What's your name?"
"Oh! Selwood--Murray Selwood."
"Murray Selwood," said the questioner, repeating it to himself. "It's a
curus sort o' name. Why didn't they call you Tom, or Harry, or Sam when
thou wast a bairn?"
"Can't say," said the vicar, smiling. "I was too young to have a voice
in the matter."
"You couldn't help it, of course. Say, can yow play cricket?"
"Oh yes."
"Bowl a bit, I suppose!"
"Yes; I'm best with the ball."
"Round hand?"
"Yes, and pretty sharp."
"Give's yer hand, parson, I like yow, hang me if I don't; and I'll come
and hear you fust Sunday as you preaches."
The two men joined hands, and the grasp was long, earnest, and friendly,
for the Reverend Murray Selwood, coming down freshly to his new living
amongst people who had been described to him as little better than
savages, felt that he had won one rough heart to his side, and was
gladdened by the frank open gaze that met his own.
It was a different man that walked on now by his side, talking freely,
in the rough independent way of the natives of his part; people who
never thought of saying _Sir_, or touching their hat to any man--save
and excepting the tradespeople, who contrived a salute to the wealthier
families or clergy of the neighbourhood. He laughed as he talked of the
peculiarities of Jacky this or Sammy that, and was in the midst of a
speech about how parson would find "some of 'em rough uns to deal wi',"
when he stopped short, set his teeth, drew in a long breath, and was in
an instant an altered man.
The Reverend Murray Selwood saw and interpreted the change in a moment.
"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go round," he
said to himself; and he looked curiously at the little group upon which
they had suddenly come on turning round by a group of weather-beaten,
grey-lichened rocks.
There were two girls, one of whom was more than ankle-deep in a soft
patch of bog, while the other was trying very hard to reach her and
relieve her from her unpleasant predicament.
Danger there was none: a good wetting from the amber-hued bog water
being all that need be feared; but as the corner by the rocks was turned
it was evident that the spongy bog was now rapidly giving way, and if
help were to be afforded it must be at once.
The young workman hesitated for a moment, and then half turned away his
head, but the vicar ran forward as the maiden in distress cried
sharply--
"Oh Daisy, Daisy, what shall I do?"
"Let me help you out," said the vicar, smiling. "Why, it is soft here,"
he cried, as he went in over his knees, but got one foot on a tuft of
dry heath and dragged out the other, to plant it upon a patch of grass.
"Don't be alarmed. There, both hands on my shoulder. That's right.
Hold tight, I've got you. Why you were sinking fast, and planting
yourself as a new kind of marsh flower--and--there, don't shrink away,
or we shall be both planted--to blossom side by side. It _is_ soft--
that's better--now lean all your weight on me, my dear--not that you're
heavy--now I have you--steady it is--that's better."
As he kept up this running fire of disconnected words, he contrived to
drag the girl out of the soft bog, placing his arm well round her waist,
and then carried her in his arms, stepping cautiously from tussock to
tussock till he placed her blushing and trembling beside her companion,
who had retreated to the firm ground.
"Oh, thank you. I am so much obliged," stammered the girl, as her long
lashes were lowered over her pretty hazel eyes, which shrank from the
honest admiring gaze directed upon them.
And truly there was something to admire in the pretty, innocent, girlish
face with its creamy complexion, and wavy dark brown hair, several
little tresses of which had been blown loose by the breeze on the
hill-side.
She was very plainly dressed, and wore a simple coarse straw hat, but
there was an air of refinement about her which, before she opened her
lips, told the new vicar that he was in the presence of one who had been
born in a sphere of some culture.
Not so her companion, who, though as well favoured by nature, was cast
in quite another mould. Plump, peachy, and rounded of outline, she was
a thorough specimen of the better class English cottage girl, spoiled by
her parents, and imbued with a knowledge that she was the pretty girl of
the place.
"I am so much obliged--it was so good of you," stammered the heroine of
the bog.
"Not at all, my dear; don't mention it," said the vicar, in a quiet way
that helped to put the discomfited maiden at her ease. "I see:
gathering bog-flowers and went too far. For shame," he continued,
loudly. "You, a county young lady, and not to know it was dangerous to
go where the cotton rushes grow. You wanted some, eh? Yes, and left
the basket out there--half full."
"Oh, pray don't go--never mind the basket--it does not matter," faltered
the girl; but the vicar was already stepping from tussock to tussock,
ending by hooking up the basket with his stick, and pausing to pick some
of the best silky topped rushes within his reach.
"There," he said, returning the basket and its contents; "there are your
cotton rushes--earth's fruit. I ought to scold you for behaving like a
daughter of Eve, and trying to get what you ought not to touch."
The girl crimsoned to the roots of her hair at the word Eve, and
exchanged glances with her companion, who was standing before her,
looking hot, frowning, and cross, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and
her nose in the air, as if being scourged by the angry look directed at
her by the young workman, who stood a few yards off scowling, with his
hands thrust into the very bottoms of his pockets.
"I did not think the bog was so treacherous," said the girl, stealing a
look at the frank, manly face before her. "It looked so safe."
"So do many things in this world, my dear; but you must not trust them
any the more for their fair seeming."
The girl started a little, and looked indignant at the familiar way in
which she was addressed by so young a man--a perfect stranger. She had
already tried to sting him in the bog with two or three furious darts
from her bright eyes for daring to put his arms round her. In fact she
had felt for a moment that she would rather sink into the earth than be
touched like that, but she was helpless and had to resign herself to her
fate.
"Ah!" said the vicar, "you are looking angry at me for speaking in such
a free way."
"I--I indeed--I--"
"Ah, my dear, I can read that pretty innocent face of yours like a book.
There--there--don't blush so. We are strangers: well, let's be
strangers no more. Let me introduce myself. I am Murray Selwood, your
new parson, and you are--?"
"Eve Pelly--Mrs Glaire's--"
"Niece. I know, my dear. Very, very glad to make your acquaintance.
You see I know something about the place, though I have not been there
yet."
As he spoke he took the timidly extended hand and gave it a warm, frank
pressure, which again heightened the blush; but in a few moments Eve
Pelly felt more at her ease in the presence of this stranger, who, with
all his freedom, had an atmosphere of gentlemanly truth and candour
which won upon all with whom he came in contact.
"Now," he said, "you must introduce me to my other little friend here.
Who is this?"
"This is Daisy Banks, Mr Selwood. Mr Banks is my aunt's foreman at
the Foundry. Daisy comes with me sometimes when I go for a walk. We
have known each other from children."
"To be sure," said the vicar, smiling. "I might have known your name
was Daisy. Shake hands, my dear. You'll never change that name, but
some day you'll be coming to me to change the other for you."
"Which I'm sure I never shall," cried Daisy, with an indignant stamp,
and a hot angry glance at the young workman, who ground his teeth, and
savagely kicked the top off a tuft of heather.
"Don't be angry, my dear," said the vicar, kindly, as, red-faced,
choking, and hardly able to restrain her angry tears, the girl snatched
away her hand and turned away.
"It's one of my weaknesses to touch tender chords unwittingly," he said
in a low tone to Eve; and, how it was she knew not, the girl felt
herself drawn into a feeling of confidence with this stranger, who,
however, half affronted her susceptibilities the next moment by saying,
"But come, you must not stand here with wet feet. If you were a sister
of mine I should make you take off those dripping boots."
"They are not wet--not very wet," she stammered, correcting herself.
"I think I know," said the vicar, smiling. "But come, you must walk
home sharply. I'm a bit of a doctor in my way. You won't mind my
company, I hope. We must be very good friends."
"I'm sure we shall," said Eve, frankly, as she glanced once more at her
companion, and the next minute he was chatting to her about the contents
of her basket.
"Then you understand botany?" she said, eagerly, and he looked down with
pleasure at the bright, animated countenance at his side.
"Oh, yes, a little. And you do, I see?"
"Oh, a very little," said Eve; "the hard Latin words are so puzzling."
"But you can learn plenty of botany without troubling yourself over the
long names; they will come to you imperceptibly."
Meanwhile Daisy, who had been forgotten, had followed on a few yards
behind, looking very angry and indignant at the way in which she was
neglected, while the young workman walking by her side seemed as angry,
but with a dash of the savage in his face.
Both looked straight before them, and neither spoke, each going on as if
in utter ignorance of the companions presence.
"I shall have to give you some lessons when I begin making my collection
of specimens," said the vicar, after a few more observations.
"Will you?" exclaimed Eve, eagerly; and then, retailing the fact that
she had known this stranger but a few minutes, she tried to qualify her
remark, failed dismally, and began to feel exceedingly hot and
conscious, when there was a diversion. They had been gradually nearing
the town, and had reached a spot where the moorland gave place to
cultivated soil, when a young man, dressed in a rather fast style, and
with a cigar in his mouth, suddenly leaped over a stile, and started and
looked quite awkward on finding himself face to face with this group.
He was a slight fair young fellow, of some four-and-twenty, with rather
pale downy whiskers, and a blonde silky moustache, which was carefully
waxed into points. His dress was a light tweed suit, but to condone for
the sombre hue of it and his grey deerstalker hat, he wore a brilliant
scarlet tie slipped through a massive gold ring, and wore several rings
on his thin effeminate fingers.
The effect upon the party caused by the sudden appearance of this
personage was varied.
Daisy, who had resumed the natural tint of her complexion--a peachy hue
touched rather warmly by the brown of the sun--became as though the
new-comer's tie was reflected to her very temples; the young workman's
face grew black as night, and his teeth grated together as his pockets
suddenly bulged out, indicative of doubled fists, and he stared at the
dandy in a menacing way that betokened evil.
As for Eve, she ran forward with a little joyous cry and took the young
man's arm.
"Ah, Dick," she cried, "I didn't expect you. How kind of you to come."
"Didn't come to meet you," said the young man, shortly, as he fixed a
glass with some difficulty in his eye to stare at the stranger.
"Then you ought to have come," said Eve, quickly. "Take that stupid
glass out of your eye, you silly boy," she whispered. Then aloud, "I've
been in such trouble, Dick, dear."
"Dick, dear!" He did not know why it was, but this very familiar
appellation from those soft red lips seemed to jar on the stranger's
ears, and he drew a longer breath than usual.
"I actually got bogged, Dick, and was sinking, when this gentleman came
and saved me. Dick, dear, this is our new vicar. Mr Selwood, this is
Mr Richard Glaire of the Foundry."
"Glad to know you, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, holding out his hand.
"How do?" said the new-comer, shortly, and his hand went out in a slow,
awkward, unwilling way, retiring afterwards from the hearty grasp it
received in a very sharp manner, for thin effeminate hands, that do not
return an honest pressure, fare badly in a manly grasp, especially if
they happen to be half-covered with unnecessary rings.
"How do? Glad to see you," said the young owner of the Foundry, though
it was always more looked upon since his father's death as the property
of Mrs Glaire. "Find this rather dull place."
"I don't think I shall," said the vicar, looking at him curiously.
"Very dull place," said the young man. "Very. Come, Evey. You'll
call, I suppose?"
"Of course I shall," said the vicar, smiling. "I mean to know everybody
here."
"Thanks, much," said Mr Glaire, glancing at Daisy, who gave herself an
angry twitch and turned away. He then drew Eve's arm through his own,
and, raising his hat slightly to the vicar, was turning away when his
eye lit on the young workman. "Hallo you, Tom Podmore," he cried, "how
is it you're not at work?"
"That's my business," growled the man. "I'll tell you that when you
ain't got young missus there wi' you, and I wean't afore."
Richard Glaire looked at the sturdy fellow uneasily, and directed a
second glance at Daisy, his vacillating eyes resting for a moment on the
pocketed double fists before repeating his words shortly--
"Come along, Evey."
"Wait a moment, Dick, dear," she said, disengaging her arm. "How rude
you are!" she added in an undertone. "Good day, Mr Selwood, and thank
you very much," she said, ingenuously. "Pray come and see us soon.
Aunt will be so glad to know you. She was talking about you last night,
and wondering what you would be like. Good-bye."
She held out her hand, and the constraint that was in spite of himself
creeping over the new vicar was thawed away by the genial, innocent
sunshine of the young girl's smile.
"Good-bye," he said, frankly; and his face lit up with pleasure. "I
shall call very soon, and we won't forget the botany."
"Oh, no," said Eve, as her arm was once more pinioned. "Come, Daisy,
you are coming up to the house."
"No, thank you, miss; I must go home now."
As she spoke she hurried forward, tripped over the stile first, and was
gone.
A minute later and Eve had lightly touched Richard Glaire's arm, and
climbed the stile in her turn, leaving the vicar to follow slowly,
forgetful of the presence of the young workman--Podmore.
He was brought back from his dreamy musings on the relation existing
between the young fellow who had just gone, and the sweet innocent girl
who was his companion, by a rough grasp being laid upon his arm, and
turning sharply, there stood Tom Podmore, with the veins in his forehead
swelling, and his face black with rage.
Volume 1, Chapter II.