The Parson O' Dumford. Fenn George Manville

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 One – Chapter Two.

      Tom Podmore’s Grievance

      “Look here, parson,” cried the young workman, in a voice husky with emotion; and as he spoke he dashed his cap upon the ground and began to roll up his sleeves, displaying arms fit, with their sturdy rolls of muscle, for a young Hercules. “Look here, parson. You’re a straanger here, and I’ll tell ’ee. That’s my master, that is, and I shall kill him afore I’ve done.”

      “Hush, man, hush!” cried the young vicar.

      “I don’t keer, I shall. Why ain’t I at work, eh? Never another stroke will I do for him; wish that my hammer may come on my head if I do. Look here, parson,” he went on, catching the other’s arm hard in a grasp of iron, “that’s his lass, that is – that’s his young lady – Miss Eve Pelly; God bless her for a perfect angel, and too good for him. He’s engaged to her, he is – engaged to be married, and he’s got thousands and thousands of his own, and the Foundry, and horses to hunt wi’, and he ain’t satisfied. No, no; I ain’t done yet. Look here, ain’t all that enough for any man? You know what’s right, and what ain’t. What call’s he got to come between me and she?”

      He jerked one fist in the direction taken by Daisy, and went on.

      “Things ran all right between us before he steps in with his London dandy air, and his short coot hair, and fine clothes. Old Joe Banks was willing; and as for Missus Banks, why, bless her, she’s always been like a mother to me. I’d saved up a hundred and sixty pun’ ten, all hard earnings, and we was soon to be married, and then he comes between us and turns the girl’s head. You come on to me when I’d gone up the hill-side there, to chew it all over, after she’d huffed me this morning, and I coot up rough. I say, warn’t it enough to make any man coot up rough?”

      “It was, indeed, Podmore,” said the vicar, kindly.

      “But I wean’t stand it, that I wean’t,” roared the young man, like an angry bull. “A man’s a man even if he is a master. I’ll fight fair; but if I don’t break every bone in his false skin, my name ain’t Tom Podmore.”

      This burst over, he resumed his cap and snatched down his sleeves, looking half ashamed of his effusion in the presence of a stranger, and he shrank away a little as the vicar laid his hand upon his arm.

      “Look here, Podmore,” he said kindly; “when I went first to school they used to give me for a copy to write, ‘Do nothing rashly.’ Don’t you do anything rashly, my friend, because things done in haste are repented of at leisure. I have come down here to be a friend, I hope, to everybody, and as you were the first man I met in Dumford, I shall look upon you as one of the first to have a call upon me.”

      “Thanky, sir, thanky kindly,” said Podmore, in a quieter tone. “I don’t know how it is, but you’ve got a kind of way with you that gets over a fellow.”

      “She seems a nice, pretty, well-behaved girl, that Daisy Banks,” said the vicar.

      “There isn’t a better nor a truer-hearted girl nor a prettier nowhere for twenty miles round,” cried the young fellow, flushing up with a lover’s pride. “Why look at her, sir, side by side with Miss Eve, that’s a born lady. Why, Miss Eve’s that delicate and poor beside my Daisy, as there ain’t no comparison ’tween ’em. My Daisy, as was,” he added, sorrowfully. “Something’s come over her like of late, and it’s all over now.”

      The great strong fellow turned his back, and resting one hand upon the stile, his broad shoulders gave a heave or two.

      “I shan’t take on about it,” he said, roughly, as he turned round with a sharp, defiant air of recklessness. “I ain’t the first fool that’s been jilted by a woman, ay, parson – hundred and sixty pound ’ll buy a sight o’ gills o’ ale. Don’t you take no heed o’ what I said.”

      He was turning away, but a strong hand was upon his shoulder.

      “Look here, Podmore,” said the vicar, firmly, “you said something about fools just now. You are not a fool, and you know it. You leave the ale alone – to the fools – and go back and get to work as hard, or harder, than you ever worked before. I shall see you again soon, perhaps bowl to you in the cricket field. As for your affairs, you leave them to me. Do you know why Englishmen make the best soldiers?”

      “Do I know why Englishmen make the best soldiers, parson?” said Podmore, staring. “No: can’t say I do.”

      “Because, my lad, they never know when they are beaten. Now, you are not beaten yet. Good-bye.”

      He held out his hand, and the great grimy, horny palm of the workman came down into it with a loud clap, and the grip that ensued from each side would have been unpleasant to any walnut between their palms.

      Then they parted, taking different routes, and ten minutes later the Reverend Murray Selwood was walking quietly through the empty town street, quite conscious though that head after head was being thrust out to have a look at the stranger.

      There was the usual sprinkling of shops and private houses, great blank red-brick dwellings, which told their own tale of being the houses of the lawyer, the doctor, and their newer opponents. Then there was the factory-looking place, with great gates to the yard, and a time-keeper’s lodge inside, surmounted by a bell in its little wooden