The vicar used to look sadly at his church every Sunday, at the
damp-stained walls, the unpainted high deal pews, with their
straw-plaited cushions and hassocks, dotted with exceptions, where the
better-off inhabitants had green baize, and in the case of the doctor's,
the lawyer's, and the Big House pews, scarlet moreen cushions.
It was a dreary, damp place, with a few ugly old tablets, and one large
monument, which nearly half filled the little chancel with its clumsy
wrought-iron railings, enclosing the gilded and painted marble effigies
of Roger de Dumford and Dame Alys, his wife, uncomfortably lying on
their backs on a cushion not large enough for them, and turning up the
rosetted shoes that they wore in the most ungainly way. Sir Roger was
in slashed doublet and puffed breeches, and wore a ruff as stiff as
marble could make it, and so did Dame Alys, in long stomacher and
farthingale; while their great merits were enumerated, and the number of
children they had issue was stated on the tablet on the wall.
This great tomb went pretty close up to the communion-rail, and for
generations past the various vicars had hung their surplices on the
rails, and changed them for their gowns in the shade, for the vestry was
over the porch at the south door, and was only opened for parish
meetings, when the officials went in and came out, to adjourn and do
business at the big room at the Bull.
Always damp, and smelling of very bad, mouldy cheese, was that church.
The schoolmistress, a limp, melancholy woman, always used to give it out
to the schoolmaster as her opinion that it was the bodies buried beneath
the flags--a matter rather open to doubt, as no one had been interred
there for over a hundred years, while the damp-engendered mould and
fungi in corner and on wall spoke for themselves.
No stove to warm the place in winter; few windows to open in summer, to
admit the pleasant warm air; the place was always dank, dark, and
ill-smelling, and from its whitewashed beams overhead to its ancient
flag flooring, and again from the stained glass windows on either side,
all was oppressive, cold, and shudder-engendering.
Let it not be imagined, however, that there were stained glass windows
of wondrous dye. Nothing of the kind, for they were merely stained and
encrusted by time of a dingy, ghastly, yellowish tint, and as full of
waves and blurs as the old-fashioned glass could be.
The consequence was the people were slow to come to church, and quick to
get out. One or two vicars had had ideas of improving the place, and
had mooted the matter at public and parochial meetings. The result had
always been whitewash--whitewash on the ceilings, and whitewash on the
walls.
The question had been mooted again.
More whitewash.
Again, and again, and again, as years rolled on.
More whitewash, and whitewash, and whitewash. Even the two old rusty
helmets and pairs of gauntlets hung up in the chancel, said to have been
worn by great De Dumfords of the past, had been whitewashed, with a most
preservative effect, saving where the rust had insisted upon coming
through in stains of brown. The result was that, thanks to the
churchwarden's belief in lime as representing purity, Dumford was the
most whitewashed church in the country, and it stood up in waves and
corrugations all over the walls, where the damp had not caused it to
peel off in plates, varying in thickness from that of a shilling to half
an inch; and these scales had a knack of falling into pews during
service time, probably from the piercing character of the music causing
vibrations that they could not stand.
That music on Sundays was not cheerful, for there was no organ governed
by one will, the minstrelsy being supplied by Owd Billy Stocks, who
played dismally upon a clarionet, which wailed sadly for the cracks all
down its sides; by Tommy Johnson, the baker, who blew a very curly
crooked French horn, which he always seemed to fear would make too much
noise, so held it in subjection by keeping his fist thrust up the bell;
by Joey South, a little old man in tight leather pantaloons, skimpy
long-tailed coat, and tight-squeezy hat, turned close up to the sides at
the brims, giving him a tighter appearance altogether than the great
umbrella, which, evidently an heirloom, he always carried under his arm,
as if it were a stiffened fac-simile of himself as he walked to church
preceded by a boy carrying his instrument--a thing like a thick black
gun, with a brass crook about a foot long coming out of one side--Joey
South called it his "barsoon," but as he sat cuddling it in church, it
looked more like some wonderful Eastern pipe that he was smoking, while
it emitted strange sounds like a huge bumble-bee stopped constantly in
its discourse by a finger placed over its mouth; by Johnny Buffam, the
shoemaker, who blew a large brass affair like a small steam
thrashing-engine, and boomed and burred in it like "an owd boozzard
clock," as Kitty Stocks said; and lastly, by Trappy Pape, who used to
bring a great violoncello in a green baize bag, and saw away solemnly in
a pair of round tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles.
These variations of the Christian names of the sacred band were, as
before said, common to the town, where every man was a Dicky, or a
Tommy, or a Joey, or the like, and generally with an "Owd" before it.
The clergyman our vicar succeeded was the Reverend James Bannister, but
he was always known as "Owd Jemmy," and it was a matter of regret to the
popular wits of the place that the Reverend Murray Selwood's name
offered no hold for the ingenious to nickname, so they settled down to
"Owd Parson," and so he was called.
But to return to the choir.
They sat in a gallery that crossed the western end of the church, and on
Sundays such of them as put in an appearance had it, with the singers
and the schoolchildren, all to themselves; and let it not be supposed
that the preponderance of bass was noticeable, for it was pretty well
drowned by the shrill treble, as the musicians did not get much music
out of their instruments, save and excepting Billy Stokes, who always
seemed to be dying in agonies, such wails did he send forth in
"Portugal," "Hanover," and "Old Hundredth," that it took all the efforts
of the basses to smother his piercing cries.
The bells, pulled for a treat by five boys under the direction of Jacky
Budd, had had their say; the musicians had blundered and clumped up the
dark staircase to their seats, and Trappy Pape was working away with his
bow upon a large cake of rosin, while Joey Tight, as he was more
generally called, was sucking his brass pipe, and conning over the notes
he had known for fifty years, to the great admiration of the schoolboys,
one and all longing to "have a blow at that theer big black thing." The
"tingtang" which went for ten minutes in a cracked, doleful, sheep-bell
style, was being pulled, and the vicar was standing in his surplice,
waiting for the clock to strike--which it would do sometimes with
tolerable accuracy--and he was thinking of how he should like to move
the people to have something done by way of restoration to the church,
when Jacky Budd, with one thumb in his arm-hole, came slinking softly up
to try and get a bit of whispered conversation with the parson.
"Strange great congregation this morning, sir," he whispered.
"Indeed, Budd," said the vicar, brightening. "I'm glad of that."
"I counted 'em, sir--there's two-and-forty."
"Forty-two, Budd," said the vicar, with his countenance falling; "and
the church holds seven hundred."
"Two-and-forty, sir, wi'out the schoolchildren."
"But you counted the singers, Budd?"
"No, sir, I didn't; two-and-forty wi'out."
"Ah, Budd, it's very sad," said the vicar, sighing. "I hoped for better
things by now."
"Why, we never used to hev such congregations in the owd vicar's time,
sir, as we do wi' you. We never used to hev more than five-and-twenty
o' wet Sundays, and I hev know'd him preach to six."
"Hah!" A long sigh and a mental question, "What can I do to bring them
here?" as Jacky Budd shuffled as far as the door and back.
"Owd Robinson from the Bull, and his missus, just come in, sir; and
Master Bultitude and Miss Jessie, and John Maine from the farm, makes
forty-seven, sir. If I might make so bold, sir, don't you think we
ought to hev a collection?"
"Why, that's due next Sunday, Budd, and a strange clergyman coming,"
said the vicar, hardly able to restrain a smile.
"That's why I said it, sir," said Budd, slily. "You wean't get a score
o' people here nex' Sunday."
The vicar shook his head, and looked at his watch, which Jacky took as a
hint to go, and he went as far as his desk, opened his book, and then
saw something that made him softly shuffle back to where the vicar was
waiting for the first stroke of the clock to start for the reading-desk.
"They've come to the big pew, sir," he whispered behind his hand.
"What?"
"Mrs Glaire, sir, and Miss Eve, and young Master Dicky."
The vicar started slightly. This was a change, indeed, and full of
promise. Richard Glaire, who had not been out of the house nor into the
garden since the attack made upon him, and who had never been seen in
the old pew since the vicar's coming, had walked down the High Street
between his mother and Eve, and made his appearance at church.
"Well, of course, he would be safe on such a day," thought the vicar,
"and the people have been quieter. God grant this is the beginning of
the end, and that this little feud may be succeeded by peace."
He thought this as the clock was striking, and he walked to the
reading-desk, glanced through the Prayer-Book and Bible, where the
markers were, to see that Jacky Budd, whose memory was erratic, had made
no mistakes, and given him wrong psalms and lessons to read, and then
turned to the opening sentences, and was about to commence; but the
presence of Richard Glaire troubled him. He was glad at heart that he
should be there, and now that he had come he wished to influence him for
good,--to bring him to a different way of thinking, for Eve's sake; and
now these sentences all seemed, as of course they were, personal, and
such as would make Richard Glaire think that they were selected and
aimed specially at him.
"When the wicked man," read the vicar to himself. No. "I acknowledge."
No, no, no, one after the other they seemed warnings to the sinner,
such a one as Richard Glaire, and in the hurried glance down he came to,
"I will arise."
"More pointed still," he thought, and having no time to study the
question, he read the two last, beginning, "Enter not into judgment,"
etc., and "If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves," etc.
As the service went on the vicar's eyes took in by turns the members of
his congregation, and at last he let them light on the Glaires' pew.
There stood Mrs Glaire, looking old and careworn; in another corner,
Eve Pelly, with her sweet, innocent face, looking to him angelic in her
rapt absorption, as she listened to his words, and there, with his back
to them, and leaning over the edge of the pew in a negligent _degage_
attitude, as if bent on showing the congregation the whiteness of the
hands he held up for inspection, stood Richard Glaire, gazing at him
with half-closed eyes, in a supercilious, sneering manner.
"Poor boy!" thought Murray Selwood, as his eyes met those of the young
man for a moment, and then, like a sudden flash, a thought occurred to
the vicar, which made the blood flush to his face, and then seem to run
back to his heart.
It was the time for reading the first lesson, and his hand was seeking
the book-mark in the Bible.
"Sixth Sunday after Trinity," he thought.
He will think it chosen, and directed at him. What should he do?
Change it and read the lesson for that day of the month. No, that would
look as if he had purposely avoided it, and it would take some few
minutes to find, for his calmness was leaving him, and he could not
recall the date. No, he must read it--it was his duty, and it was like
a stroke of fate that Richard Glaire should come there upon such a day.
His voice shook slightly, and his eyes dimmed as he read the first words
of the beautiful old story, and then moved to the very core, and in deep
rich tones, he read on in the midst of a stillness only broken by the
soft chirp of some sparrow on the roof; while Mrs Glaire's head went
lower and lower, Eve Pelly's hand stole softly across to touch her, and
the young man sat with his back to the congregation, now white with
rage, now burning with shame.
"A coward--a sneak!" he muttered between his ground teeth. "He has
chosen that chapter to shame me before all the people. I won't stand
it. I'll get up and go out."
But to do that was not in Richard Glaire's power. He had not the
strength of mind and daring for so defiant an act, and he sat on,
thrilled in every fibre, as the deep, mellow voice went on telling how
the Lord sent Nathan unto David, and he told him of the rich man, who in
his wealth spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd, but took
the poor man's lamb, who was to him as a daughter; and as these words
were told, there came from the body of the church the stifled sobs of
one of the women of the congregation who could not control her feelings.
And at last, in spite of himself, Murray Selwood was moved to such an
extent by the words he was reading, that he spoke as if he were the
prophet of old, his voice rising and falling as it thrilled his hearers,
till it was deep and denunciatory, as he exclaimed:--
"And Nathan said unto David--Thou art the man."
There was an audible sigh of relief as the lesson ended, and the vicar
wiped the dew from his forehead, for it had been to him a trial, and his
voice was low and troubled as he continued the service, but feeling glad
at heart that he had not chosen that lesson for the strong, suitable
discourse which he afterwards delivered.
It is needless to do more than refer to it here, even though Joey Tight
stood up with his hand to his ear so as not to miss a word, and winked
and blinked ecstatically, and though it, too, struck Richard Glaire
home, inasmuch as it was in allusion to the trade troubles in the town,
and ended with a prayer that the blessings of unity and brotherly love
might come among them, and peace and plenty once more reign in their
homes.
Old Bultitude and Jessie were waiting at the door as the vicar came out,
to look in a troubled way up the High Street, after Richard Glaire and
his companions; but there was nothing to fear, the street was deserted,
save by the people leaving church.
"He's raight enew to-day, parson," said the old farmer, divining his
thought. "Nobody will touch him o' Sunday, and wi' the women. Zoonds,
but you gi'e it him hot, and no mistake. That were clever o' ye. Dal
it all, parson, I could like to ha' offended you, for the sake of
getting such a tongue thrashing."
"My dear Mr Bultitude," said the vicar sadly, "if you will look at your
Prayer-book, you will find that this was no plan of mine, but a matter
of accident, or fate--who can say which."
"Weer it, though?" said the farmer, as they walked on, his road lying by
the vicarage, and he stared round-eyed at his companion. "Think o'
that, Jess. I wouldn't ha' believed it: it's amazing. By the way,
parson, I want a few words wi' you. Jess, lass, walk on a bit. Theer,
ye needn't hurry. I don't want ye to o'ertake John Maine."
Jessie blushed, and the tears came into her eyes as she went on a few
paces; and the farmer, as soon as she was out of ear-shot, pointed at
her with his thumb.
"Bit touched, parson, courting like. She's fond o' that lad, John
Maine, and I want her to wed young Brough."
"Maine seems to me a very good worthy young fellow," said the vicar.
"Hem!" said the farmer. "I don't know so much about that, and t'other's
got the brass."
"Money won't bring happiness, Mr Bultitude."
"Raight, parson, raight; but it's main useful. Me and my poor missis,
as lies there in chutchyard, hedn't nowt when we began; but we made
some," he continued, proudly.
"By sheer hard work, no doubt."
"Ay, we hed to work, but that's nowt after all. I wouldn't gi' a straw
for a lad as can't work, and is skeart of it. Why, when I went to the
bit o' farm, `Boottherboomp' they used to call it then, cause of the
`boottherboomps.'"
"Let me see, that's your local name for the bittern, is it not?"
"Yes; big brown bird, some'at like a hern," said old Bultitude. "They
lives in wet, swampy places. Well, parson, that place was all one swamp
when I went, and I says to mysen, where rushes is a growing now, I mean
to grow wheat; and so every year I used to do nowt but spend i'
dreaning, and now there isn't a finer farm i' the county."
"It's perfect," said the vicar, "perfect."
"Well, I'm glad to hear thee say it, parson, because I know thee sayst
what thee means, and thou'rt as good a judge of a crop and stack as iver
I see, for a man as isn't a farmer. It isn't ivery man as comes fro'
the wild parts 'bout London as can tell as a hog or a hogget isn't a
pig, but a ship, and knows what he's worth to a shilling or two. But
just hearken to me, going on like that, when I wanted to say a word or
two 'bout our John Maine."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, parson. I'm mortal feard that lad's going wrong. He's got some
'at on his mind, and he's always in confab wi' young Podmore as was
Daisy Banks' sweetheart, and there's some mystery about it. Young
Brough says he's mixed up wi' a blackguard low lot, poaching or some'at
o' that sort; but I don't tak' much notice o' he, for he's a bit jealous
of him. But what I want you to do is to get hold of John and talk to
him, for he's upsetting our Jess, and I shall hev to get shoot of him if
things don't alter, and I doan't want to do that, parson, for I rayther
like the lad, if he'd go back to what he weer. Good day; you'll see
him, will you?"
"Indeed I will."
"And young Podmore, too, parson?"
"Yes, if it's necessary."
"Oh, it is; and you'll put 'em raight, I know. But I say, parson--but
that was a hot one for Dicky Glaire. Good-bye."
They parted at the gate, and the vicar went in, just as Sim Slee went by
with a man dressed in black--a heavy, white-faced man, with a good deal
of black whiskers, who looked as if his clothes did not fit him, and as
if he was uncomfortable out of a workman's suit, and could not find a
place for his hands, with which, by the aid of a great cotton
handkerchief, he kept wiping his face.
"I shouldn't wonder if that's the deputation," said the vicar. "Well, I
hope they'll settle the dispute."
Unfortunately, though the vicar's guess was right, the deputation was
not a man to further the prospects of peace.