The Parson O' Dumford

“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?”