The Parson O' Dumford. Fenn George Manville

yow t’new parson, then?”

      “Yes, I’m the new parson.”

      “Ho! Then yow’d best come in.”

      The door was held open, and looking at him very suspiciously, the lady in charge, to wit Mrs Simeon Slee, allowed the vicar to enter, and then followed him as he went from room to room, making up his mind what he should do as he ran his eye over the proportions of the house, finding in the course of his peregrinations that Mrs Slee had installed herself in the dining-room, which apparently served for kitchen as well, and had turned the pretty little drawing-room, opening into a shady verandah and perfect wilderness of a garden, into a very sparsely furnished bed-room.

      “That will do,” said the vicar. “I suppose I can get some furniture in the town?”

      “Oh, yes, yow can get plenty furniture if you’ve got t’money. Only they wean’t let yow have annything wi’out. They don’t like strangers.”

      “I dare say I can manage what I want, Mrs – Mrs – What is your name?”

      “Hey?”

      “I say, what is your name?”

      “Martha,” said the woman, as if resenting an impertinence.

      “Your other name. I see you are a married woman.”

      He pointed to the thin worn ring on her finger.

      “Oh, yes, I’m married,” said the woman, bitterly; “worse luck.”

      “You have no children, I suppose?”

      “Not I.”

      “I am sorry for that.”

      “Sorry? I’m not. What should I have children for? To pine; while their shack of a father is idling about town and talking wind?”

      “They would have been a comfort to you, may be,” said the vicar, quietly. “I hope your husband does not drink?”

      “Drink?” said the woman, with a harsh laugh. “Yes, I almost wish he did more; it would stop his talking.”

      “Is he a workman – at the foundry?”

      “Sometimes, but Mr Dicky Glaire’s turned him off again, and now he’s doing nowt.”

      “Never mind, don’t be downhearted. Times mend when they come to the worst.”

      “No, they don’t,” said the woman, sharply. “If they did they’d have mended for me.”

      “Well, well,” said the vicar; “we will talk about that another time;” and he took the two pieces of slag from his pocket, and placed them on the mantelpiece of the little study, where they were now standing.

      “Some one threw them at yow?” said the woman.

      “Yes,” said the vicar, smiling.

      “Just like ’em. They don’t like strangers here.”

      “So it seems,” said the vicar. “But you did not tell me your name, Mrs – ”

      “Slee, they call me, Slee,” was the sulky reply.

      “Well, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, “I have had a good long walk, and I’m very hungry. If I give you the money will you get me something to eat, while I go down the town and order in some furniture for this little room and the bed-room above?”

      “Why, the Lord ha’ mussy! you’re never coming into the place this how!”

      “Indeed, Mrs Slee, but I am. There’s half a sovereign; go and do the best you can.”

      “But the place ought to be clent before you come in.”

      “Oh, we’ll get that done by degrees. You will see about something for me to eat. I shall be back in an hour. But tell me first, if I want to get into the church, who has the keys?”

      “Mr Budd” – Mrs Slee pronounced it Bood – “has ’em; he’s churchwarden, and lives over yonder.”

      “What, at that little old-fashioned house?”

      “Nay, nay, mun, that’s th’owd vicarage. Next house.”

      “Oh,” said the vicar, looking curiously at the little, old-fashioned, sunken, thatch-roofed place. “And who lives there?”

      “Owd Isaac Budd.”

      “Another Mr Budd; and who is he?”

      “Th’other one’s brother.”

      “Where shall I find the clerk – what is his name?” said the vicar.

      “Oh, Jacky Budd,” said Mrs Slee. “He lives down south end.”

      “I’m afraid I shall get confused with so many Budds,” said the vicar, smiling. “Is that the Mr Budd who leads the singing?”

      “Oh no, that’s Mr Ned Budd, who lives down town. He’s nowt to do wi’ Jacky.”

      “Well, I’ll leave that now,” said the vicar. “But I want some one to fetch a portmanteau from Churley. How am I to get it here?”

      “Mrs Budd will fetch it.”

      “And who is she?”

      “The Laddonthorpe carrier.”

      “Good; and where shall I find her?”

      “Over at Ted Budd’s yard – the Black Horse.”

      “Budd again,” said the vicar. “Is everybody here named Budd?”

      “Well, no,” said the woman, “not ivery body; but there’s a straange sight of ’em all ower the town, and they’re most all on ’em cousins or sum’at. But there, I must get to wuck.”

      The woman seemed galvanised into a fresh life by the duties she saw before her; and almost before the strange visitor had done speaking she was putting on a print hood, and preparing to start.

      “It will make a very comfortable place when I have got it in order,” said the vicar to himself, as he passed down the front walk. “Now to find some chairs and tables.”

      This was no very difficult task, especially as the furniture dealer received a couple of crisp bank-notes on account. In fact, one hand-truck full of necessaries was despatched before the vicar left the shop and made up his mind to see a little more of the place before returning to his future home.

      Perhaps he would have been acting more wisely if he had sent in a load of furniture and announcements of his coming, with orders for the place to be put in readiness; but the Reverend Murray Selwood was eccentric, and knowing that he had an uncouth set of people to deal with, he had made up his mind to associate himself with them in every way, so as to be thoroughly identified with the people, and become one of them as soon as possible.

      His way led him round by the great works of the town – Glaire’s Bell Foundry – and as he came nearer, a loud buzz of voices increased to a roar, that to him, a stranger, seemed too great for the ordinary transaction of business; and so it proved.

      On all sides, as he went on, he saw heads protruded from doors and windows, and an appearance of excitement, though he seemed in his own person to transfer a good deal of the public attention to himself.

      A minute or two later, and he found himself nearing a crowd of a couple of hundred workmen, who were being harangued by a tall thin man, in workman’s costume, save that he wore a very garish plaid waistcoat, whose principal colour was scarlet.

      This man, who was swinging his arms about, and gesticulating energetically, was shouting in a hoarse voice. His words were disconnected, and hard to catch, but “Downtrodden,” – “bloated oligarchs,” – “British pluck” – “wucking-man” – “slavery” – and “mesters,” reached the vicar’s ears as he drew nearer.

      Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd, and the speaker seemed to be hustled from the top of the stone post which he had chosen for his rostrum, and then, amid yells and hootings, it seemed that the