LI B RAR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLR.SITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 AT ALL THE LIBRARIES. 
 
 THE SENIOR SONGMAN. By the Author of 'St. 
 
 Olave's,' 'Janita's Cross,' 'Annette,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 A MAID CALLED BARBARA. By Catharine Childar, 
 
 author of ' The Future Marquis,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 SAM'S SWEETHEART. By Helen Mathers, author of 
 
 'Comin' thro' the Rye,' 'Cherry Ripe !' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 HER SAILOR LOVE. By Katharine S. Macquoid, 
 
 author of ' Patty,' ' Diane,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 MONGRELS. By T. Wilton. 3 vols. 
 
 HURST & BLACKETT, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
FAKMER JOHN 
 
 BY 
 
 GEOKGE HOLMES 
 
 Luke vp on hie and thank thy god of all 
 Wayue thy lust and lat thy goste the lede 
 And treuth the schall deliuer, this is no drede." 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1883. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
£2.3 
 H735£ 
 
 \ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 
 ^3 
 
 CHAPT1 
 
 vl 
 
 I. 
 1 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VII. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 >> IX. 
 
 X. 
 
 ^ XI. 
 
 4 
 
 Applecombe 
 
 The Gentility of Applecombe 
 
 1 
 12 
 
 The Vicar's First Vestry 
 
 43 
 
 A new Churchwarden . 
 
 71 
 
 Miss Hawker speaks her Mind 
 
 104 
 
 In the Vicar's Study 
 
 137 
 
 In the School-room 
 
 162 
 
 Em'ly Gill is Dismissed . 
 
 202 
 
 By the Fields to Flaxton 
 
 218 
 
 Farmer John Speaks 
 
 . 239 
 
 At the ' Jolly Labourers ' 
 
 . 253 
 
FARMER JOHN, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Ajyplecombe. 
 
 N tbe days when the wise bad 
 learned to believe in nothing, 
 
 and it was tbe fashion for the foolish 
 to do the same, it may perhaps seem 
 strange that the parishioners of Apple- 
 combe should be as ignorant as they 
 were of these changes in the world's 
 convictions and opinions. That they were 
 VOL. i. b 
 
Farmer John. 
 
 village people, inhabiting an out-of-the- 
 way district, where the name of London 
 had quite a foreign sound, conjuring up 
 to their imaginations some very marvel- 
 lous pictures, does not entirely account 
 for this singular fact. 
 
 Yet they must have been wilfully blind, 
 for they had possessed as their spiritual 
 guide a drinking and dissolute parson, 
 who might, or might not, be capable of 
 reading the prayers intelligibly six Sun- 
 days out of the seven. It had been the 
 custom of this respected Vicar to make 
 practical use of the damnatory Psalms, by 
 reading them in a very marked manner 
 towards the pink-silk curtains of the 
 Squire's pew, with whose occupant he was 
 
Applecombe. 3 
 
 perpetually engaged in warfare. These 
 skirmishes generally ended in his signing 
 certain elaborate apologies, which the in- 
 jured knight showed much art in drawing 
 up for that purpose. 
 
 But, in spite of all this, the parish- 
 ioners were none the less loyal to the 
 church of which their Yicar formed so 
 distinguished a member. They gener- 
 ously accepted his friendly invitations to 
 ' enjoy a glass ' with him at the Vicarage ; 
 nor did they feel less respect for him 
 personally if he took at such times more 
 than was, perhaps, good for him. ' He 
 were a kind, free-handed gentleman as 
 ever walked/ was their charitable judg- 
 ment of him. If he was the more ready 
 
4 Farmer John. 
 
 to allow himself to be cheated and robbed 
 by them (for he was the only son of a 
 wealthy London pawnbroker, and had 
 plenty of money), ' Why, he were al'ays 
 cheerfu'-like, and kind wi' all/ was again 
 the generous verdict, pronounced in pity- 
 ing tones. 
 
 The Church was none the less empty 
 because the Yicar might, or might not, be 
 able to stand. The Squire, whom mali- 
 cious persons declared to be the cause of 
 poor Toutell's bad habits, did not sleep 
 the less sweetly because the sermon hap- 
 pened to be of a more than usually per- 
 sonal character. To be sure, the valiant 
 knight earned a great deal of pity from 
 his titleless neighbours, of which pity the 
 
Applecombe. 
 
 hardest-hearted can often command the 
 richest store. But, as if to prove that 
 his objection was to the class, not to the 
 individual, no sooner was poor Mr. Toutell 
 suspended by the Bishop, than he fell to 
 quarrelling with the curate-in-charge with 
 as great alacrity as ever. 
 
 The curate-in-charge was the correctest 
 of mortals, which Sir Howard Miller found 
 to be a great mistake, if not an insult. 
 Moreover, the curate-in-charge's wife was 
 a well-born Welsh lady, who took prece- 
 dence of Lady Miller, a Frenchwoman of 
 doubtful descent, at the rare dinner-parties 
 of the neighbourhood. Though the two 
 ladies were both brave and warlike, the 
 ecclesiastical dame was the most skilful in 
 
Farmer John. 
 
 the use of that feminine weapon known as 
 the tongue. She invariably came off victor 
 in these tournaments, winning at the same 
 time her husband's respect, which should 
 be the object of every loyal wife. 
 
 But Mrs. Fortescue's triumphs were 
 short-lived. Mr. Toutell died, and a 
 new Vicar came to Applecombe. He was 
 a scholar ; one of the most refined and cul- 
 tured of his college, said society. Why 
 he should bury himself in a country vil- 
 lage surprised many, to whom the secrets 
 of his life were unknown. To forget and 
 to be forgotten are not qualities usually 
 cultivated by the high-soaring clerical 
 mind. But this must have been all Mr. 
 Wentworth desired when he took up his 
 
Apjilecombe. 
 
 abode in Applecombe. Fortunately for 
 bis peace abroad, the Squire and bis wife 
 made tbe alarming discovery that they 
 were living beyond their means, and that 
 therefore economy and a smaller establish- 
 ment were necessary. As this was im- 
 possible at Applecombe Towers — where it 
 behoved the noble knight, as the local 
 paper delighted to style him, to keep open 
 house — the worthy couple retired for a time 
 to the Continent, where plenty of needy 
 noblemen are to be met with, whose 
 mansions can always be had at the 
 lowest rents. 
 
 In the sweet spring-time, when the 
 culver cooed all day, and the blackbird's 
 whistle came merrily from the wych-elm in 
 
8 Farmer John, 
 
 the Vicarage garden, Mrs. Cosens, the 
 Vicar's housekeeper, or, more properly, 
 factotum, was making the Vicar a 
 cake. 
 
 Mrs. Cosens was the gardener's wife, 
 and a native of a neighbouring village. In 
 person she resembled a mole, beiug small 
 and dark. In character she perhaps re- 
 sembled one too, although she was, to use 
 her own words, 'the honestest wummin 
 alive/ When we add, that for cleanliness 
 and neatness there was not her match in 
 all Applecombe, and that she was queen of 
 the art of jam-making, you will understand 
 why Herbert Cosens considered himself 
 particularly fortunate in having secured 
 such a wife. Herbert was a clever jack-of- 
 
Apphcombe. 
 
 all-trades, and a smart fellow in his livery 
 — a little mad, as so many countrymen 
 are, but for this very reason guided with 
 the greater ease by Amelia, his wife. 
 
 A bonnet, ornamented with the smart- 
 est flowers, sat about half an hour later 
 on Mrs. Cosens' small head. The hair 
 beneath was scanty, for she was a martyr 
 to * the air'sip'las, caught from exposure 
 to the air,' as she would tell you. But 
 the coldest wind could not have kept her 
 at home to-day ; for she was going to 
 have a chat with Mrs. Travers. And no 
 bonnet but her Sunday one could she 
 wear, for Mrs. Travers was a connoisseur 
 in dress. 
 
 She had not far to walk. Two or three 
 
10 Farmer John, 
 
 steps brought her to a little gate leading 
 into a small green, where romped some 
 half-dozen pretty children, picturesquely 
 dirty. The main-road to the market town 
 ran just outside the green, so that Mrs. 
 Travers, if she were so minded, could 
 enjoy an excellent view of all that passed 
 from her front windows. 
 
 Mrs. Cosens' respectful rap was an- 
 swered by a pleasant 'come in,' and the 
 hostess rose to greet her with a hearty 
 handshake. 
 
 1 Lor , Mrs. Cosens, how late ye be ! 
 There, Mrs. Tolley an I did think ye 
 were niver comin'. Dear 'art, do loose 
 yer bonnet-strings, an take a dish a tay. 
 Niver moind the little childer; they be 
 
Applecombe. 1 1 
 
 al'ays in the way, bless their little 'arts ! 1 
 As she spoke, Mrs. Travers' quick eye 
 took a rapid survey of her visitor's attire. 
 The flowers were certainly new — the bon- 
 net not. Mrs. Travers ' niver could 
 aboide ' an old bonnet made to look 
 new. It was a ' zart a lyin',' she thought. 
 
12 Farmer John. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Gentility of Apjolecombe. 
 
 RS. TRAVERS, as she sat pouring 
 out tea into delicate old chiua 
 cups, was indeed a pleasant picture. She 
 was short and stout, with that air 
 of conscious gentility and superiority 
 which not being a native of the village 
 gave her a right to claim. Her eyes 
 were the handsomest and darkest for 
 miles round, and hers were the bright- 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 13 
 
 est and readiest smiles. When it is 
 added, that she owned a tongue mighty 
 for friend or foe, there can be no won- 
 der that ever since, sixteen years ago, 
 Annie Travers had come to the village 
 as the pretty young bride of one of the 
 principal farmers' sons, she should have 
 held her own with men and women. In- 
 deed, she had contributed not a little to 
 the tone of village society. 
 
 For the men she had always her bright 
 smiles and ready wit. The women re- 
 spected her manners and good looks, not 
 to speak of the garments which her in- 
 genuity fashioned on an exact pattern of 
 those of Lady Miller. To be sure, her 
 house was hopelessly dirty and untidy. 
 
14 Farmer John. 
 
 But to her visitors' eyes she was eminent- 
 ly 'genteel/ seated, pouring out tea, on 
 the faded chintz-covered sofa (manufac- 
 tured by herself) in the window-corner 
 commanding the best view of the road, 
 with two or three small children clamber- 
 ing about her, with the cat on his stool 
 at her feet, and a thin puppy or two 
 sniffing at the girdle-cake baking in front 
 of the fire. 
 
 Mrs. Tolley, the clerk's wife, who had 
 walked to Flaxton and back, a distance of 
 four miles, and who, to use her own ex- 
 pression, was ' like to drap,' sat sipping 
 her tea in the most comfortable chair in 
 the house. 
 
 She was a faded-looking little woman, 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 15 
 
 with a complaining voice, ' genteel ' man- 
 ners, and an ever-ready list of diseases at 
 her command. She had had twelve chil- 
 dren, whom she had found it impossible to 
 manage. Her house was uncomfortable, 
 and it was said that quarrelling and fight- 
 ing never ceased there. But Mrs. Tolley 
 had known better days, and the sunlight 
 of these still lingered about her often- 
 turned black-silk dress, in which she 
 delighted slowly, and with much dignity, 
 to rustle up the aisle during the Litany. 
 She was very religious, as became tbe 
 wife of the parish clerk ; and if he went 
 oftener to the public-house than was good 
 for his pocket— 4 Why, there, 'twadden her 
 fault !' This, her diseases, and the re- 
 
16 Farmer John. 
 
 membrance of better days were the great 
 consolations of her life. 
 
 A dish of hot tea had always the de- 
 sirable effect of unloosing Mrs. Tolley's 
 tongue. So, after taking in the pattern 
 of Mrs. Travers' sleeves, which were 
 puffed, and the flowers in Mrs. Cosens' 
 bonnet, she began — 
 
 4 Dear 'art, Mrs. Treviss, 'ow do ye 
 manage all yer zewin' wi' all they childer ? 
 If I do sa much as mend one o' Jahn's 
 sharts, I've a-got to lie down for a haour 
 arter on me bed. Lor', 'ow me ligs do 
 achie now! They be that zwelled when 
 I do wahlk. I 'ad to 'ave me boots cut aff 
 me vit last week, gwain to Flax'on. Jus' 
 you look yere !' Here she displayed an 
 
The Gentility of Ajpplecombe. 17 
 
 ample, if not elegant, ankle, and, sighing 
 deeply, sipped her tea ; while Mrs. Travers, 
 who, amongst other natural gifts, pos- 
 sessed that of doctoring, felt the wounded 
 member, and, shaking her head, recom- 
 t mended an immediate application of her 
 4 elderblooth ointment.' 
 
 1 You shoulden wahlk to Flax'on, Mrs. 
 Tolley ; 'tis too far for you. And you're 
 not so young as you was,' she said. 
 
 Mrs. Tolley sighed again. 
 
 1 I've a-rhidden in my day,' she said, 
 in a melancholy tone. ' I al'ays was sa 
 bad arter a rhoide. Me back and ligs 
 that steff, you could ha' ironed your 
 han'cheker upon me. I was al'ays zoo 
 from a gurl, I was.' 
 
 vol. I. c 
 
1 8 Farmer John, 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Cosens had produced 
 from a paper parcel a savoury cake, 
 which, with a toss of conscious pride, she 
 placed on the table. 
 
 ' Oi was a-bakin' for the Vicar to-day,' 
 she said, ; and zome little bits over made 
 up 'andy into this yere little c'ak' ; for Oi 
 niver was woone to was'e. There be a- 
 many vo'ks as Oi knows on what would 
 ha' drowed it to the pigs, or gi'ed it to 
 the cat ; but Oi zays, zays Oi, " Was'e not, 
 want not." 'Tis what my dear mother 
 did al'ays zay to we, when we lef our 
 fettles. Zays she, " Be zure you'll want, 
 'Millier," which Oi niver 'ave, an' I 
 knaw it be true. Jus' you try it, Mrs. 
 Tolley.' 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 19 
 
 Mrs. Tolley, after protesting that she 
 was sure it was too good for her, consent- 
 ed to try a morsel, which, in justice to 
 the excellent flavour of the cake, it must 
 be confessed soon expanded into a large 
 slice. 
 
 1 Lawk, Mrs. Treviss,' said she, pausing 
 between her mouthfuls to press her hand 
 to her side, ' if you did knaw the pain I 
 do suffer ! The dactur, 'e 've a-changed 
 me bahtles dirty toimes an' mwoore this 
 twel'mont'. And, zays 'e, " Mrs. Tolley," 
 zays 'e, "you'll niver be noo better. I 
 shoulden like to zay where you'd eat 
 your Christmas dinner. Your loife bain't 
 worth a sixpence, Mrs. Tolley," zays 'e.' 
 
 Mrs. Travers was so accustomed to these 
 
 c 2 
 
20 Farmer John. 
 
 strange threats of the parish doctor that 
 she forbore a comment on this last most 
 terrible prediction. Mrs. Cosens, how- 
 ever, ejaculated, 4 There !' in an agitated 
 and admiring tone. 
 
 1 Oi wish our Yicar 'ood zee a dactur/ 
 she said, looking at the cake in a mourn- 
 ful manner, as though it suggested sad 
 visions. ' Oi don't believe 'e 've enjayed 
 a day's 'ealth zince 'e corned to the 
 par'sh.' 
 
 At the delicious vista of news thus 
 temptingly opened by the gardener's wife, 
 Mrs. Tolley drew her chair closer, and 
 Mrs. Travers promptly ' dared the childer 
 to come in t' 'ouse till she called 'em.' 
 
 Mrs. Cosens' small eyes twinkled. She 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 21 
 
 drank a long gulp of tea, and coughed 
 impressively. Mrs. Tolley's remnant of 
 good manners prevented her pressing the 
 point, but Mrs. Travers' curiosity burst 
 forth in — 
 
 i Lawk, Mrs. Cosens, what a work you 
 do make 'bout nothin' ! I al'ays did zay 
 to my 'usban', "Jimmy," zays I, u depend 
 on't, that man's a-got zummat on's moind. 
 I zeed it the very vust toime as I iver 
 zet eyes on 'en." But Jimmy, zays 'e, 
 M Him's a scollard. They be all mighty 
 quare to look on, they scollards." ' 
 
 ' Tidden the scollarden',' interrupted 
 Mrs. Cosens, who in her inmost soul re- 
 sented Mrs. Travers bearing-off the palm 
 of discovery in this unexpected manner. 
 
22 Farmer John. 
 
 1 Though OiVe a-heerd as W scollarden' 
 do gi'e vo'ks that quare look in the oyes. 
 But there, Oi've a-heerd tell a-many things. 
 Lawk, Mrs. Treviss, we mussen believe 
 'arf what us years, mus' us ? There, Oi 
 knawed you was gwain' to zay that, Mrs. 
 Treviss.' 
 
 'We mus' judge, and make the best 
 o' 't,' said Mrs. Travers, who had her 
 own code of morality. l But we cann' 
 judge unless we years. Can us, Mrs. 
 Tolley ?' 
 
 ' Lor, no, Mrs. Treviss/ said Mrs. Tol- 
 ley, and took a fresh slice of the Vicarage 
 cake. 
 
 ' Oi've a-heerd tell ; but then woone cann' 
 believe 'arf woone years,' continued the 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe, 23 
 
 gardener's wife. ' ' Tis all zarts, zure 
 enough.' She paused, and applied her 
 handkerchief to her nose. 
 
 Mrs. Tolley's curiosity had obliged her 
 to bend forward eagerly in her chair. 
 Mrs. Travers held her breath, and felt that 
 her last hour might be near. 
 
 1 Oi've a-heerd tell as 'ow 'e do wear a 
 goold rhing on's little vinger. Oi've a- 
 heerd it, moind,' said Mrs. Cosens. ' A 
 goold rhing, a wedden'-rhing, for certain. 
 And we knaw 'e's got ne'er a woife to 
 look on. Not but what 'e med 'ave woone, 
 or two, for aught Oi knaws or cares. 
 Taint nothin' t' Oi, Mrs. Treviss, con- 
 cluded the wily Amelia, enjoying as she 
 spoke the excitement which sparkled in 
 
24 Farmer John. 
 
 Mrs. Travers' bright eyes, and was even 
 reflected in darker shade on Mrs. Tolley's 
 sallow countenance. 
 
 ' I do zay as 'ow it do look oncommon 
 quare, Mrs. Cosens,' remarked Mrs. Tra- 
 vers, in a low voice. 'Now be there 
 ne'er a books, nor claws, nor picturs, what 
 could tell 'ee mwoore ?' 
 
 1 Ne'er a wummin's claws in all t' 'ouse 
 that Oi do knaw on, 'cepten' it be moine, 
 what's al'ays neat and clane, though poor 
 vo'ks medden complain when all idden 
 new.' 
 
 Mrs. Travers glanced at the flowers in 
 her visitor's bonnet. It was clear her 
 thoughts had been read by ' thik knawen' 
 Millier '; and her visitor sank propor- 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 25 
 
 tionately in her good esteem from that 
 moment. 
 
 ' As for picturs,' continued Mrs. Cosens, 
 ' what Oi zees, Oi zees, and what Oi years, 
 Oi years ; and that baint for e'er a vo'k as 
 moinds t' ask Oi. Leastes zaid, zoonest 
 mended 's my way, Mrs. Treviss. But Oi 
 do wish the poor gentleman didden enjay's 
 'ealth sa bad.' 
 
 'Don''e take noo meddicin'?' inquired 
 Mrs. Tolley, as she carefully wiped the 
 crumbs from her black-silk dress with a 
 handkerchief, always a mark of extreme 
 1 gentility ' in Applecombe. 
 
 4 There, the Squoire did worry 'en. I've 
 a-heerd a-many speak ov it,' said Mrs. 
 Travers, half interrogatively. 
 
26 Farmer John. 
 
 1 There be other vo'ks nor the Squoire,' 
 replied the gardener's wife, shaking her 
 head ominously. 'And you'll niver con- 
 vince Oi but what tidden all straight, 
 when geutlevo'ks goos wahlk, wahlken' up 
 r.nd daown when other vo'ks be a-bed and 
 asnep. Which Oi've a-heerd tell 'e do. 
 And a-rheaden' ov books what's printed 
 topzoide daown ; and a-getten' ov let- 
 ters what's zealed wi' things mwoore like 
 divils nor Chrestians a-painted outzoide. 
 Not but what zome on 'em be perty 
 enough.' 
 
 1 Lawk a-mussy me !' cried Mrs. Tolley, 
 throwing up her hands. 
 
 ' Oi affen thinks 'pon it,' continued Mrs. 
 Cosens. 'But we shall zee boo'm-buoy. 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 27 
 
 And, if we don't, there, Oi'm a liar, Oi be ; 
 and that's what Oi've a-niver bin, nor 'ood, 
 though you gi'ed me all the goold you 
 got.' 
 
 1 That wouldn't be much, I'm afeared,' 
 put in a shrill voice from behind. 
 
 The door opened to admit a bony, rosy- 
 cheeked woman, age uncertain, with a 
 pair of prominent, bright blue eyes that 
 looked you constantly in the face when 
 she spoke. 
 
 1 Dear, dear Miss 'Ahker, I be glad to 
 zee youl' cried Mrs. Travers, as she 
 pressed the visitor's thin, sharp-knuckled, 
 hand in hers. "Ave 'ee brought thik 
 there whoite-silk dress wi' ye, eh ? Lawks, 
 Mrs. Tolley, you don' knaw 'bout my 
 
28 Farmer John. 
 
 whoite-silk dress. Dear 'art, I be a'most 
 toired wi' waitin' for 't.' 
 
 ' You'll be toireder yet, Til warr'nt,' 
 remarked Miss Hawker, removing a rusty 
 black crape bonnet, and revealing a small 
 head, whose scanty black hair was divided 
 down the back, and arranged in four 
 curls reaching to the neck. These, on 
 being delivered from the bondage of the 
 bonnet, stuck out from all four corners, 
 like the branches of a tree. Her sharp, 
 red face was rendered even redder by 
 her walk; and as she spoke she opened 
 very wide a mouth which, as the front 
 teeth were absent, was not remarkable 
 for its beauty. 
 
 1 Come, Annie, gi'e 's a dish a tay, 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 29 
 
 and sharp,' she said, in a high, imperious 
 key. ' I've a-got to goo to Flax'on to- 
 night ; and Jahn'll be rhagen' like a mad 
 bull, if I baint 't whoam to gi'e 'en's 
 zupper at zeb'n 'clack. Well, my dear, 
 when I gi'es you yer whoite-silk dress, 
 jes' you bake I a little cake like thik 
 there woone; for it be the beautifullest 
 cake as iver I did tas'e. And that be 
 zayen' a good deal.' 
 
 ' But wheu be 'ee a-gwain' to 'ave the 
 whoite-silk dress?' inquired Mrs. Tolley, 
 whose curiosity had been aroused. 
 
 'Why, when Miss 'Ahker be a-marr'd, 
 in course. She 've a-pramised I that 
 when she do take zumwoone— what shall 
 be nameless — I shall 'ave a whoite-silk 
 
80 Farmer John. 
 
 dress ; and very perty it'll be too. I 
 shall make 'en like this yere woone ; to 
 fasten up the side — double like, so I 
 can let 'en out when I gets bigger. And 
 you shall 'ave a cake, Miss 'Ahker, as zure 
 as I were christened Hannie !' 
 
 1 ' Christened viddlesticks !' retorted Miss 
 Hawker, who was an old-fashioned Wes- 
 leyan, and regarded the Parish Church and 
 its new Yicar with the most profound 
 contempt. ' I was called 'Lizer, I was, 
 and Lizzy for shart ; and I'd like to knaw 
 what christenen's a-got to do wi' it ?' 
 
 Mrs. Tolley, as clerk's wife, here felt it 
 her duty to interpose. 
 
 1 The par'sh church be good enough for 
 Oi,' she cried, in her weak voice, ' and for 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 31 
 
 me vaither and mother and all. And 
 they al'ays zaid, " We be baound to goo 
 to church to be barr'd, zoo we may's well 
 goo naow." And I zay it's true.' 
 
 Miss Hawker fixed her assailant with 
 her bright, keen eyes, as she slowly 
 ejaculated, 
 
 'Well, naow, Mrs. Tolley, I wouldn't 
 ha' believed it ! You've a-got yer own 
 spir't, too; for all you do look sa meek's 
 a mouse. There, I be surprise', I be !' 
 
 "Ow's Mr. Jahn?' inquired Mrs. Tra- 
 vers, hurriedly changing a conversation 
 which she foresaw might not end amic- 
 ably. 
 
 Miss Hawker shook her curls. 
 
 c Tbey men-vo'k, wi' their timpers and 
 
32 Farmer John. 
 
 their tantrums, there's no bearen' wi' 'em. 
 If it's not the taties, 'tis the earn, and, if 
 it's not the fettles, 'tis the vowls. I be 
 a'most wore out wi' 'en ; and if you should 
 'appen to git yer whoite silk-dress, Annie, 
 well, ye may thank Jahn for 't. Though 
 a 'usban' med be wusser nor a brother, I 
 dessay. They be quare vo'k, they men- 
 vo'k, more fidgety-like nor the wummin. 
 'Tis their eatin' so much, T zay, Annie ; 
 that's where 'tis.' 
 
 ' Lor', Miss 'Ahker, what nonsense ye 
 do talk ! I do think there be no comp'ny 
 wi'out the men-vo'k. They do want so 
 much looken' arter, and woone thing and 
 the other, woone can niver veel dill-like. 
 They do vill up t'ouse like, and make six 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 38 
 
 where six wummin 'ood only make woone. 
 Naw, naw, I takes their parts, 1 do ; 
 though for an ache or pain they do make 
 squailen enough to vroighten a' woone out 
 o' 's wits, where the wummin 'ood zay 
 ne'er a word. They be turr'ble fussy, for 
 certain.' 
 
 1 And turr'ble zour,' remarked Miss 
 Hawker. 'Why, Jahn be sa sharp, 'e 
 won't take a word. Why, you knaws ray 
 wummin, Em'ly Gill, our carter's wife, the 
 sprackest, pleasantest-spoken wummin, 
 though I zays it, in all the par'sh. 
 Well, yesterday she did turn out Jessie 
 — that's woone o' the dags — out o' the 
 kitchen, where the girt b'aste wor a- 
 clumb'ren' 'bout wi's muddy paws. And 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 Farmer John. 
 
 Jahn did zee she gi'e 'en a pat on the 'ead 
 — 'twouldn't 'a hurted a floy — and 'e did 
 floy in sich a payssion, and call 'er but 
 iverythen'. There, I was 'shamed o' 'en, 
 I was. I told 'en zoo. And Em'ly, her 
 did too. And 'e did speak that dreadful 
 o' wummin ! Well, I niver heerd 'en sa 
 bad.' 
 
 'Well, well, Miss 'Ahker,' said Mrs. 
 Travers, ' it may be, and it mayn't. Mr. 
 Jahn were al'ays a favour^ wi' I — al'ays 
 come and. 'ave's joke wi' I. u , There, 
 Annie," 'e 've a-zaid a-many toimes ('e 
 al'ays called me Annie), " when you do 
 voind me a woife, I'll marr', and not be- 
 voore." "And," zays I, " Mr. 'Ahker," 
 zays T, "ye be sa 'ard to please." "Lor', 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 35 
 
 Annie," zays 'e, " there's no knawen'." 
 And that were al'ays 'is waj*', to joke wi' 
 I and kiss the little childer. There, they 
 do doat on 'en. Little Beatty, she do zit 
 on's lap all the toime 'e do stay yere 
 zometoimes, and call 'en Oncle, and all 
 zarts.' 
 
 'He'll niver marr',' said Miss Hawker, 
 in an assured tone. ' 'E've a-made a zart 
 a pramise, a vaow or zummat — I don't 
 knaw what 'e do call it — niver to shave, 
 niver to touch a drap o' liquor, and niver 
 to marr'. I've a-heerd 'en zay it this varty 
 times. Em'ly do zay as 'ow 'tis the divil's 
 pramise. She's a won'erful speaker, is 
 Em'ly Gill.' 
 
 Mrs. Cosens, who, being a comparative 
 
 t)2 
 
36 Farmer John. 
 
 stranger in the village, was as yet but 
 little noticed by the leaders of Apple- 
 combe society, though by securing Mrs. 
 Travers as her friend she had acted 
 wisely, now rose to go. 
 
 1 The Vicar 'ood want 's tea, and she 
 were niver woone to be gadden' in t' 
 street.' And so she took her de- 
 parture. 
 
 Directly the door had closed on her, 
 Miss Hawker, who had never ceased to 
 examine the person of the gardener's 
 wife since she had entered the cottage, 
 inquired, 
 
 1 Who be thik gepsey-looken' wummin 7 
 
 6 The gardener's woife daown t' Vic'rage/ 
 replied Mrs. Tolley, quickly, interrupting 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 37 
 
 Mrs. Travers, who had begun to speak. 
 1 Comes from Melton/ 
 
 ' Ah !' remarked Miss Hawker, glancing 
 at Mrs. Travers interrogatively. 
 
 There was a good deal in Miss Hawker's 
 utterance of the little syllable ' Ah !' and 
 the expression of her eyes told that, in 
 spite of her respectful demeanour, the 
 gardener's wife had not found favour with 
 her. 
 
 4 A sprack little wummin,' said Mrs. 
 Travers, folding her smooth fat hands, 
 which no amount of hard work could 
 render anything but white and comely, 
 c but fearful sly. Thik there cake the 
 Vicar's paid for. I didden like to zay it 
 avore she, but, Lor', Miss 'Ahker, for 
 
38 Farmer John. 
 
 chiz'len' and stealen' gi'e me 'Erb' Cosens 
 and 's woife. A well-matched couple. I've 
 a-heerd my sister-la' speak on 'em, what 
 lives up to Melton Varm. But there, 
 the Vicar's sich an easy -g wain' gentleman, 
 lied niver voind 'en out. Smart feller 
 too, 'Erb' is, but awful sly ; and she's the 
 zame. There, I al'ays did think pink 
 rhawses was the frightfullest vlowers for 
 'at or bonnet, and what should thik there 
 wummin put in 'er bonnet but the pink- 
 est o' rhawses !' 
 
 1 If you thought less upon dress, and 
 mwoore on yer Bible, Annie, ye'd be a 
 better wummin. It's what I do tell Jahn 
 when 'e floies out at the wummin. Zays 
 I, " They selly church-vo'k do only goo 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 39 
 
 Zundays to look at each other's claws." 
 But for aught I do knaw on, Annie, you 
 niver goos to church at all.' 
 
 Mrs. Travers certainly did not go very 
 often, but the little children were her 
 excuse. 
 
 1 If you had 'arf-a-dozen little childer, 
 Miss 'Ahker — which I verven'ly trus' for 
 their zakes ye medden — you'd knaw what 
 a drive it was, wi' woone thing and t' 
 other. I 'ope ye'll git to yer chapel or 
 meeten' as affi'en as I do to the par'sh 
 church when you be marr'd. There, I 
 petty your 'usban', I do !' 
 
 ' Ye may jes' petty 'en then, for certain 
 I've a-got ne'er a oone,' laughed Miss 
 Hawker, as she tied her bonnet-strings, 
 
40 Farmer John. 
 
 and, taking up her basket, bestowed a 
 friendly nod on Mrs. Tolley, who was by 
 this time getting a little sleepy ; and then 
 shook Mrs. Travers by the hand. ' Lor', 
 Annie, we've al'ays a-bin frien's. There, 
 good-boye to ye, and for zure ye shall 
 'ave the whoite-silk dress avore Mi'lmas.' 
 
 Mrs. Travers' eyes followed the upright, 
 angular figure of her visitor to the small 
 green gate, where the playing children 
 shrank out of her way, and hushed their 
 noisy laughter at sight of the black crape 
 bonnet. 
 
 ' I do petty Mr. Jahn,' were Mrs. Tra- 
 vers' words, as soon as she was out of 
 sight. ' Thik wummin wi' 'er scolden' 
 vaice 'ood droive me woild. And sich a 
 
The Gentility of Applecombe. 41 
 
 mess as 'er kitchen be in's a'most awful to 
 zee. They sheep-dags all over t' place. 
 And thik there Eni'ly Gill! Well, Mr. 
 Jahn were aVays a koind frien' to I and 
 me 'usban' and childer.' Then, looking 
 out of the window, she added : ' Lor, 
 there's thik girt strappen' maid, Polly 
 Ma'sh, a-beaten' into Flax'on wi' 'er nets. 
 I wish I'd a-got 'er pair o' ligs ! And as 
 lazy a maid as iver wahlked the rhoad, zoo 
 I've a-heerd. Eh, Mrs. Tolley ?' 
 
 ' They be all good for nothen', they 
 Ma'shes,' sighed the clerk's wife, as she 
 rose in her turn to go. ' But there, I 
 wish 1 could goo sa vast. Me ligs be vit 
 to drap, Mrs. Treviss. I be aveard 't is 
 thik fraction agen, what I 'ad when I 
 
42 Farmer John. 
 
 broked me lig twel' year and uiwoore 
 agoo.' 
 
 ' Dear, dear,' said Mrs. Travers, in a 
 sympathising tone. ' Do 'ee try the elder- 
 blooth ointment naow. It'll bring out the 
 'nammation beautiful, it will. Good-boye, 
 Mrs. Tolley. Come raoun agen, and 'ave 
 another dish a tay, when ye can.' 
 
 As her visitor swung the little gate 
 feebly after her, she remarked, in an under 
 tone, 
 
 ' There niver was sich a wummin for 
 marm'len' — al'ays marm'len she be. Water 
 idden wit enough for she !' 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 43 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Vicar's First Vestry. 
 
 F some of the parishioners of the 
 Rev. Mr. Wentworth had not that 
 
 respect for him which his office should 
 have obtained, it was with very different 
 feelings that they regarded the Church in 
 which he officiated. There was not one of 
 the older inhabitants of the district who 
 would have ventured within the great iron 
 gate leading into the churchyard after 
 
44 Farmer John. 
 
 twelve o'clock at night. Nor could any of 
 the younger ones have been induced to 
 enter it for any consideration. 
 
 And yet the story was universally be- 
 lieved, that whosoever should be bold 
 enough to do so at midnight on New 
 Year's Eve, would have a vision of all 
 the inhabitants of the parish passing be- 
 fore his eyes, down the long laurel walk, 
 and over the flagged path, on each side 
 of which the graves of friends and rela- 
 tives lay, till the procession reached the 
 chief entrance of the Church. Then those 
 who were to die that year would pass into 
 the building, to be seen no more; aud 
 those who were to marry would come 
 out again in couples. 
 
The Vicar's First Vestry. 45 
 
 Who knew what strange beings might 
 not hover round the empty pile, when the 
 faint glimmer of moonlight fell on the 
 old yew-tree just outside, and cast the 
 weirdest shadows from the grey-stone 
 ivied tower, that rose, grim and ghost- 
 like, against the dark sky ? How eerie 
 the footsteps of the silent procession must 
 sound, in the overpowering stillness of 
 the night ! And if any should dare to 
 follow the doomed into the damp, creep- 
 ing darkness of the echoing Church, what 
 figures might he find there also ? Might 
 not the whole place be peopled? For 
 the windows outside seemed ablaze with 
 a flickering light. And might not some 
 phantom choir be murmuring in the 
 
46 Farmer John. 
 
 rickety gallery, while the fingers of the 
 departed Mr. Crow moved over the wail- 
 ing instrument, which his ingenuity had 
 fashioned out of a barrel-organ, i to the 
 glory of God ' ? 
 
 And the pulpit ! There, in the highest 
 story — for it was a magnificent three- 
 decker — old Mr. Mulvaney, an Irishman 
 of uncertain temper, whom some of the 
 old folk remembered as a * turr'ble voine 
 speaker,' had raged, and fumed, and 
 banged the dust out of the faded blue 
 cushion and hangings of yellow fringe. 
 Which pious work, with modern, quiet- 
 spoken Mr. Wentworth, was not likely 
 to be performed for many years again. 
 There also Mr. Butler, who, as he said, 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 47 
 
 'shook off the dust from his feet' (this 
 time figuratively) wheu he left the parish, 
 had bitterly complained of the worldly 
 spirit of some, the fleshly spirit of others, 
 and the devilish spirit of all. And there, 
 lastly, had poor Mr. Toutell wept, and 
 hiccoughed, and mumbled, till his surplice 
 had been torn from his back, and a succes- 
 sion of fat-faced, and more or less friendly, 
 curates-in-charge had presided over the 
 blue cushion and yellow fringes, and been 
 listened to with the most encoura^ino- 
 
 O <"> 
 
 attention by the clerk, upon whose flat, 
 upturned countenance, two stories below, 
 the discourse fell like rain on a well-worn 
 pavement. 
 
 But who can guess what strange pic- 
 
43 Farmer John. 
 
 tures the unwitting preacher s words paint- 
 ed on the mind of his hearer ? ' Trea- 
 sures ' too fleeting to rust, ' ground so good ' 
 that potatoes therefrom must fetch fifteen 
 shillings the sack, gladdened the clerk's 
 imagination, while outwardly he listened, 
 with unmoved attention, as the parson 
 divided his sermons into heads which 
 materially — we fear not spiritually — as- 
 sisted Mr. Tolley in his calculations. And 
 all the while the preacher, striving to 
 dilute his shilling packet of discourses 
 with genuinely agricultural spring-water, 
 specially suited to the rustic mind, would 
 only unwittingly succeed in suggesting to 
 his simple hearers how excellently well 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 49 
 
 their pockets might be filled at the learned 
 parson's expense. 
 
 There, just opposite the three-decker, 
 was Mr. Sydney Kuddell's pew. Mr. 
 Euddell but rarely occupied it. For, in 
 his opinion, the Church might as well be 
 turned into a barn, for aught he cared. 
 Mr. Ruddell was the man of all others 
 whom the Squire delighted to honour. 
 By the noble knight's help he had risen 
 from being a horse-dealer, keen to his own 
 interests, to the possession of one of the 
 principal farms in the parish. The Squire 
 had, so to speak, bequeathed him his 
 power and position during his absence 
 from his property ; and Mr. Sydney Rud- 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 Farmer John. 
 
 dell was in consequence held in no 
 small esteem by his neighbours. The 
 pew was usually occupied by his wife 
 and some half-dozen sons, grown or 
 growing up. 
 
 Mrs, Ruddell was a small, fox-eyed 
 woman, principally remarkable for the 
 splendour of her head-gear. For the 
 rest, she had, during the greater part of 
 her married-life, been looked upon with 
 much respect, on account of certain rich 
 elderly relations in a neighbouring parish. 
 These had lately expired, leaving to Mrs. 
 Euddell so excellent an assortment of 
 chairs, tables, ornaments, books, wool- 
 worked pictures, and tea-sets, not to 
 speak of an unknown — and therefore no 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 51 
 
 doubt substantial — balance at the bank- 
 er's, that her position in the eyes of 
 her neighbours became quite impregna- 
 ble, in spite of the malicious assaults 
 of certain ill-treated, but high-spirited, 
 maid-servants. Even her husband now 
 regarded her with eyes of respectful 
 affection. 
 
 Perhaps the ghostly character with 
 which the villagers invested their Church 
 may have owed its origin to the wretched 
 state into which, from neglect and un- 
 usually rainy seasons, it had fallen. As 
 Mr. Wentworth entered it one bleak April 
 morning, soon after that brilliant spring 
 afternoon on which Mrs. Travers had 
 entertained her visitors with ' a dish a 
 
 e 2 
 
 LIBRARY " ; - 
 
 .. M ,uc^iTY Of nnwo!*- 
 
52 Farmer John. 
 
 tav,' he was painfully conscious of the 
 air of creeping ruin which seemed to 
 hang over the building. 
 
 The chancel, the only modern portion 
 of the Church, was discoloured from damp. 
 One massive pillar was the sole support of 
 the roof of the nave. Owing to the archi- 
 tectural turn of mind of some former 
 Squire, the oaken beams of the roof had 
 been cut away, and both it and the walls 
 covered with hideous whitewash, deformed 
 angels, and ecclesiastical symbols suggest- 
 ive of the fashions in ladies' dress. The pil- 
 lar, in consequence, leaned alarmingly, and 
 was a constant terror to the short-sighted 
 eyes of the Yicar, every Sunday from the 
 pulpit opposite. The royal arms hung 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 53 
 
 from the centre of the gallery, whose 
 creaking boards and gaping holes were 
 enough to put a nervous person in any- 
 thing but a spiritual frame of mind. 
 
 And Mr. Wentworth's was a nervous 
 face, whatever his mind may have been. 
 As he looked up at the quaint, old three- 
 decker, with its ludicrous hangings, and 
 from it to the Squire's huge, square pew, 
 whose pink-silk curtains had gained for it 
 from poor Mr. Toutell the nickname of 
 1 Sir Howard's drawing-room,' thoughts 
 sad and comical made a curious light creep 
 into his pale-grey eyes, and shine through 
 his large spectacles. 
 
 From the Squire's pew, and that of his 
 servants, which occupied half the chancel, 
 
54 Farmer John, 
 
 his eyes wandered to the grotesque re- 
 presentation of certain scenes in the life 
 of the Saviour, which filled the window 
 above the Communion-table. Mr. Went- 
 worth was a scholar, so he may be for- 
 given by his village friends for the smile 
 which passed swiftly over his thin face 
 as he looked at it. 
 
 The long Vicarage pews bore the same 
 deserted look as those of the Squire, which 
 were only occupied by strangers at rare 
 intervals. Mr. Wentworth's glance passed 
 them over, and he may have sighed as he 
 turned through a small passage between 
 the rotting square pews in the nave, and 
 ascended a narrow staircase, covered with 
 ragged carpet, leading into the vestry. 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 55 
 
 The vestry was a small, damp-smelling 
 room, built over the porch. It had evi- 
 dently been, in former ages, the muniment- 
 room. But now a table, well-besprinkled 
 with ink, and covered by a mouse-nibbled 
 leather cover, a large sheet-almanack, a 
 huge, black, oaken chair, an inkstand, 
 some rough benches, and about a dozen 
 broken quill pens, formed the sole furniture 
 of the apartment. 
 
 The Yicar had ordered a fire to be 
 lighted. But so long was it since any- 
 thing of the kind had been attempted, that 
 the unfriendly wind had extinguished the 
 flickering faggots, and the place felt 
 smoky, as well as chilly, to the visitor. 
 He knelt down, and attempted to blow 
 
56 Farmer John. 
 
 one tiny red spark into a blaze. 
 It was Easter week ; and this was Mr. 
 Wentworth's first vestry-meeting. Per- 
 haps he fancied the reluctant fire might 
 be a gloomy presage of the spirit of his 
 parishioners. Kneeling there on the bare 
 boards, with his short-sighted eyes peering 
 into the stubborn fire, the incongruity of 
 his situation must have made itself felt 
 even to himself. The delicately white and 
 beautifully-shaped hands fingered the fuel 
 as though it had been a bunch of full- 
 blown roses, too fragile to be roughly 
 treated. The very attitude was unnatural 
 to his spare and stooping figure. Finally, 
 he relinquished his attempt, and sat down 
 in the huge chair at the head of the dirty 
 
The Vicar s First Vestry. 57 
 
 table, and, drawing a pamphlet from his 
 pocket, read and waited. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth's was, in every sense of 
 the word, a highly sensitive face. His 
 lips and eyebrows twitched perpetually ; 
 his sallow cheek quivered nervously ; his 
 very eyelids fluttered, as they were bent 
 downwards on his book. His complexion 
 was sallow and unhealthy ; his figure in- 
 significant. His wonderfully beautiful hands 
 alone distinguished him from hundreds of 
 other, so-called, insignificant men. Yet 
 these, save in their quick, hurried move- 
 ments, seemed scarcely a part of him, but 
 as though lent by some fair woman, to be 
 prized and cherished. From his scant 
 sprinkling of grey-brown hair you would 
 
58 Farmer J oh 
 
 have judged him a man of upwards of 
 fifty. His broad, overhanging forehead, 
 that would have been slightly receding, but 
 for the immense development of those 
 parts commouly ascribed to the intellect, 
 was as deeply furrowed as an old man's. 
 But when the large, deep-sunk, grey eyes 
 looked out at you, a strange picture of 
 their owner would flash unbidden across 
 the mind. A picture of a few years back, 
 when the scant hair curled in locks of the 
 richest brown ; and when round the large, 
 full-lipped mouth there played a ceaseless 
 and radiant smile. His nose was large, 
 hooked, and high-nostrilled ; the chin was 
 very short and dimpled. For the rest, he 
 had good teeth, discoloured by constant 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 59 
 
 smoking ; long, thin whiskers, almost grey ; 
 a decided stoop of the shoulders, and a 
 general appearance which, thanks to in- 
 different tailors, had always earned him 
 through life the qualifying adjective of 
 ' iusignificant.' 
 
 The Yicar evidently enjoyed his pam- 
 phlet, for he stopped two or three times to 
 score the margin with his pencil. So 
 interested iudeed was he, that he started 
 with a gesture almost of impatience when 
 he perceived the room filled with men, 
 dressed in their best for the occasion, the 
 scent of whose well-pomaded heads did not 
 particularly gratify the Vicar's sensitive 
 nostrils. 
 
 They had arrived by twos and threes, 
 
60 Farmer John. 
 
 and were standing, elbowing each other, 
 near the door. To Mr. Wentworth's eyes 
 they looked very much like those flocks of 
 sheep, over whose ways, so ridiculously 
 human-like, he had often philosophised 
 in his country walks. Mr. Wentworth 
 was a philosopher, and looked at every- 
 thing and everybody through the specta- 
 cles of his mind. Whether these had a 
 magnifying or diminishing effect on the 
 objects viewed, we are scarcely prepared to 
 say. 
 
 After deciding that the farmers and 
 ratepayers before him were uncommonly 
 like their own stock — for in his rapid 
 survey of their countenances he had found 
 several specimens of the ox, calf, and pig 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 61 
 
 genus — Mr, Wentworth made them a low 
 bow, and begged them to be seated at the 
 table. 
 
 The object of the vestry, as a paper 
 posted in the Church porch the Sunday 
 before had duly informed the parishioners, 
 was to elect two churchwardens, one for 
 the parish, the other for the Yicar, and to 
 discuss the best means for raising money 
 to pay the officers of the Church. These — 
 viz., the sexton, clerk, and organist — had 
 not received a shilling for more than two 
 years, a natural consequence of the church- 
 rate being a voluntary one. 
 
 Now, the Yicar would willingly have 
 paid every one of them out of his own 
 pocket, if he could only have had peace 
 
62 Farmer John, 
 
 by such means. But he was unfortunately 
 the possessor of certain rules of conduct, 
 framed by himself, which, together with 
 his philosophy of human life, tended to 
 make his own existence anything but 
 peaceable. He could not see the cloud 
 which rested on the stolid faces of the 
 half-dozen men, who were awkwardly 
 taking their places as far away from him 
 as was possible. But he was painfully 
 conscious of what duty would oblige him 
 to say to them. 
 
 He had already decided to re-elect Mr. 
 Sydney Ruddell, who had, indeed, held 
 the office of Vicar's churchwarden through 
 a long succession of incumbents. As the 
 Squire was always elected by the parish- 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 63 
 
 ioners, Mr. Wentworth already foresaw 
 the business despatched, and himself 
 once more revelling- in his beloved 
 pamphlet. 
 
 But Mr. Sydney Ruddell had not yet 
 arrived, though the bell summoning the 
 ratepayers had long ceased ringing. 
 
 Dead silence reigned in the little 
 assembly. 
 
 1 We will wait for Mr. Euddell,' remark- 
 ed Mr. "Wentworth, breaking the silence. 
 * Did any of you meet him ?' 
 
 Mr. Wentworth's well-clipped periods 
 were scarcely intelligible to some of the 
 ratepayers assembled. They looked before 
 them stolidly, as though unconscious of 
 his very presence. They had not come 
 
64 Farmer John. 
 
 to discuss ' Mr. Rhoddell,' but to elect their 
 churchwarden. 
 
 John Tolley, the parish clerk, by right 
 of an intimate acquaintance with parsons 
 of all kinds, ventured a reply. He had 
 the peculiar voice of one who suffers a 
 good deal from bronchitis, which, coupled 
 with his too great affection for the ' Jolly 
 Labourers' half-way down the village 
 street, and, unfortunately, just opposite 
 his own door, and his strong provincial 
 accent, rendered his speech totally unin- 
 telligible to the Vicar. 
 
 ' 'Ees, Oi zeed 'en up t' street 'arf an 
 haour 'goo wi' Mr. Benjamin Chenny, Oi 
 did. 'E'll be yere Vor lang.' 
 
 ' Quite right, my friend,' murmured Mr. 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 65 
 
 Wentworth, as be hopelessly asked him- 
 self whether he should ever understand 
 the dialect of his parishioners. 
 
 Silence once more ensued, and Mr. 
 Wentworth, looking round, made another 
 attempt to speak. On his left hand sat a 
 burly, red- faced man, reported to be enor- 
 mously rich, and cordially hated in con- 
 sequence by his neighbours. Farmer 
 Malachi Wadden had risen, by some 
 unknown means, from being a hawker 
 and l eggler,' little better than a tramp, 
 to the ownership of half the land in the 
 parish. Sir Howard had been the founder 
 of his fortunes, ever since he had sworn 
 all down the village street after one of 
 the curates-in-charge ; and now he was 
 
 vol. I. F 
 
66 Farmer John. 
 
 rich enough to buy on his own account, 
 and to laugh at his adversaries. He had 
 never employed a labourer, obliging his 
 sons and his daughters to work like slaves 
 for him in the fields ; but now he could 
 afford to give the sons farms of their own, 
 and his daughters were considered worth 
 the marrying. But the Applecombe folk 
 had their prejudices, and one of them 
 was that 'Brimstone Mai' (as he was 
 popularly called) was a swindler, who 
 knew nothing about farming, and whose 
 prosperity was owing, undoubtedly, to 
 the devil himself, whose faithful servant 
 he had been for many years, and with 
 whom he must be on the friendliest terms. 
 The Applecombe folk were superstitious, 
 
The Vicar s First Vestry. 67 
 
 and unacquainted with the modern doc- 
 trines of society ; so they believed in the 
 personality of the devil as firmly as the 
 apostle of the Eeformation did, or as the 
 wise in our days believe that happiness 
 or misery are in proportion to the posses- 
 sion, or the want, of money. 
 
 Farmer Malachi Wadden had a fat face, 
 as red and smooth as the l Sir Johns ' for 
 which his orchards were famous. His 
 figure had not been improved by hard 
 living, and his large double chin slid as 
 imperceptibly into his huge bull-neck as 
 ever artist could desire. There were no 
 angles about his face. Even his nose was 
 but a cork in the enormous barrel of his 
 cheeks, and his small, twinkling eyes re- 
 
 f2 
 
68 Farmer John, 
 
 minded one irresistibly of those of certain 
 large, fatted pigs he occasionally drove in 
 his market-cart to Flaxton. He had but 
 few teeth, and, as he scarcely opened his 
 lips in speaking, his answers to the 
 Vicar's polite inquiries concerning his 
 crops resembled the short snarls of a 
 rough terrier protecting its bone. Mr. 
 Wentworth decided he could make no- 
 thing of him, and was relieved when 
 voices below proclaimed the approach of 
 Mr. Euddell and his friends. Now per- 
 haps the proceedings might begin and end 
 as speedily as he hoped. 
 
 Mr. Sydney Ruddell, a tall, powerfully- 
 built man, with thick, iron-grey hair, a 
 shrewd, hard face, and keen eyes, swag- 
 
The Vicars First Vestry. 69 
 
 gered to his seat at the bottom of the 
 table, which, out of respect to him, had 
 been hitherto left vacant. He was imme- 
 diately opposite the Vicar, whose short- 
 sighted eyes rested tranquilly upon him 
 and the half-dozen men who had accom- 
 panied him. They were not all ratepayers, 
 he knew, and therefore by law had no 
 right to be present. But Mr. Wentworth 
 was, in his dreamy way, anxious to be 
 popular, and forbore to make any remark 
 upon their presence. 
 
 Some dozen or more were now assem- 
 bled round the vestry-table. The more 
 stolid continued gazing steadily before 
 them, while the keener spirits watch- 
 ed anxiously the expression of the last 
 
70 Farmer John. 
 
 comer, who fixed the Vicar with the bold 
 stare of his prominent, yellowish-green 
 
A new Churclnvarden. 71 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 A new Churchwarden, 
 
 R. WENTWORTH had, and felt 
 that he had, a difficult task before 
 him. He was unaccustomed to country 
 people ; he had no knowledge of them ; and 
 he felt instinctively that they had no codd- 
 dence in him. He had no idea that this, 
 with many of those present, was simply be- 
 cause he was an utter stranger to them and 
 their ways. He only knew his own wishes 
 
72 Farmer John. 
 
 were entirely for their good and improve- 
 ment, and that the wretched condition of 
 their Church filled his heart with sorrow 
 and indignation. He told them so in the 
 short speech with which, as chairman, he 
 opened the meeting. 
 
 And as he went on to remark on the 
 smallness of the collections and of the 
 congregations, on the distressed condition 
 of many of the parishioners, visions of 
 possible changes unfolded themselves be- 
 fore his imaginative mind. Old theories, 
 almost forgotten, which belonged to his 
 early college days, came flooding back 
 over his memory, and as he warmed with 
 his subject his very words glowed. He 
 could have planned a crusade against the 
 
A new Churchwarden, 73 
 
 enemies of improvement — damp, dust, dirt, 
 ill-health, crowded cottages, bad ventila- 
 tion, and immorality. He could have 
 planned — but what of the execution ? 
 
 Of those who listened, some under- 
 stood two words out of a dozen ; some 
 were determined to oppose whatever he 
 uttered ; while the rest resolved to sup- 
 port Mr. Kuddell in whatever he said ; 
 and all suspected each proposal as it was 
 offered. 
 
 What did the parson mean ? A new 
 Church ? 
 
 1 Thik woold Church were good enough 
 for Oi, and me vaither; and what's good 
 enough for we 's good enough for all !' 
 
 Farmer Malachi Wadden delivered him- 
 
74 Farmer John. 
 
 self of this comprehensive speech midst 
 universal applause. 
 
 ' Oi be o' your moind, Mr. Wahd'n,' 
 cried a chorus of voices. 
 
 That sort of plain-speaking everyone 
 could understand. In their fancy, the 
 blue cushions and yellow hangings were 
 already sacrificed on the altar of improve- 
 ment. The gallery, where the men loved 
 to congregate, and snooze away the Sun- 
 day afternoons, peacefully dreaming of 
 real sheep, and the lovely green pastures 
 of Westmead and Fairies' Knowle, as they 
 leaned their heavy heads on their elbows, 
 was that to go also ? And what if he did 
 offer to pay half the cost? Had folks 
 nothing else to do with their hardly- 
 
A new Churchwarden. 75 
 
 earned money than to squander it on 
 spoiling churches, good enough for their 
 fathers and forefathers to snooze in ? The 
 man must be mad ! He did look 'coor'us- 
 like. They scollards were al'ays crazy/ 
 What a mercy Mr. Sydney was there, 
 who had a tongue in his head, which all 
 poor folks had not, whatever they might 
 think ! 
 
 Mr. Sydney rose to speak. At his first 
 words the Vicar looked up astonished. 
 He had evidently been drinking, or per- 
 haps had not quite recovered from the 
 effects of a cattle-fair at Flaxton, where 
 he had made a good deal of money the 
 day before. His voice was thick, and the 
 expression of his eyes almost savage, as 
 
76 Farmer John. 
 
 he glared upon the Vicar from under his 
 shaggy, dark eyebrows. 
 
 ' You spoke of collections, passon — 
 where be the collections? / haint zeed a 
 penny o' 'em, or has anybody else, I 
 reckon. What's the need of collections ? 
 There baint no poor vo'k in Applecombe. 
 They be a parcel o' whinin' old vermin, 
 they squailin' poor vo'k. Poor ! I wish 1 
 had their bankers' books ! Collections ! I 
 take my oath ne'er a fardin' 'ull 1 put into 
 the plate to goo into your pocket arter- 
 wards, passon.' 
 
 A tremor passed through the listeners. 
 Even Farmer Wadden was amazed at Mr. 
 Sydney's daring. 
 
 ' 'E be won'erful when 'e's ad a drap,' 
 
A new Churchwarden. 11 
 
 he murmured admiringly to himself. 
 
 Mr. Ruddell still stood glaring at the 
 Vicar. There was a long silence, broken 
 only by the heavy breathing of the 
 men. 
 
 At last Mr. Wentworth rose, and, 
 slightly waving one of his beautiful hands, 
 seemed to demand attention. All eyes 
 were fixed on his face and his spare, in- 
 significant figure. There was not one of 
 those before him who could not have 
 knocked him down, almost with a touch of 
 their little finger. 
 
 ' My friends,' he began. His voice, 
 naturally a low, feeble one, quivered 
 slightly. ' I will not stoop to argue with 
 my accuser. God Almighty be my judge, 
 
78 Farmer John. 
 
 if by word or deed I have harmed or 
 defrauded one of His poor. But I have 
 something to say. Mr. Euddell has pro- 
 voked it. He knows that I told him 
 only last week that, as he had held the 
 office for so many years, I intended to 
 elect him my churchwarden. I had so 
 intended. I am not angry with Mr. 
 Euddell. I do not resent his conduct. 
 He is not in a fit condition to have his 
 conduct resented. He is evidently not 
 responsible. But, though I am not angry 
 with him, I will not appoint him as my 
 churchwarden. For a man who indulges, 
 as I fear he has done, in such manner as 
 to render him forgetful of the respect he 
 owes to God's House and to God's minis- 
 
A new Churchwarden. 79 
 
 ter, is, in my opinion, unfit to hold any 
 office which particularly requires respect 
 and honour to those who have the author- 
 ity of appointing to it. I must add that, 
 as I was so totally unprepared for any 
 such event, I have not even thought of a 
 substitute. While T consider, will you 
 kindly give the votes for your own 
 churchwarden f 
 
 Mr. Went worth sat down, and covered 
 his twitching face with his hand. He 
 could not see the look that flashed for one 
 instant into the countenance opposite him. 
 It might have furnished him food for some 
 of his favourite speculations. For his 
 speech had completely sobered Mr. Sydney 
 Euddell. 
 
80 Farmer John. 
 
 The discussion amongst the farmers 
 themselves was not long, the Squire being, 
 as a matter of course (no doubt at his own 
 command, the Vicar thought), proposed, 
 and unanimously accepted. There was 
 only one dissentient voice, which rang loud 
 and powerful through the little room. But 
 the voice could be drowned, though not 
 silenced, by numbers ; and it uttered no 
 further word. 
 
 There was another pause, and the Vicar 
 was once more the object of interest. He 
 must speak again, and he had evidently no- 
 thing to say. He glanced quickly at the 
 various faces before him, and then looked, 
 with an absent expression in his eyes, 
 over his spectacles, a habit of his when 
 
A new Churchwarden. 81 
 
 he desired to think without interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 Whom should he select ? It was a 
 difficult, an impossible task. There was 
 old Farmer Wadden, usually tipsy, a 
 cheat, and universally hated. He had 
 never been seen in Church since his mar- 
 riage, on the night of which, according 
 to the good old Applecombe custom, he 
 had been carried drunk to bed. His 
 Sunday harvesting was notorious in the 
 annals of the district. Next him leaned 
 the builder, Benjamin Chenny, a hand- 
 some old man, whose snow-white hair, 
 laughing blue eyes, and rosy cheeks had 
 won him the nickname of "Andsome Ben.' 
 But Mr. Benjamin had his failing too, 
 
 vol. I. G 
 
82 Farmer John, 
 
 and even now he was scarcely recovered 
 from a violent attack of gout, which had 
 been brought on by hard drinking during 
 Christmas week. The badly-built addi- 
 tion to the Vicarage, which had cost poor 
 Mr. Toutell so much money, was a con- 
 stant and unpleasant reminder of Mr. 
 Chenny. The Yicar felt he was also 
 utterly unworthy of an office which his 
 high-soaring imagination had idealised in 
 so fair a manner. 
 
 Further down, on the other side, sat 
 old Farmer Travers, the father of Travers 
 the younger, the poacher, the friend of 
 all sick birds and animals, the friend of 
 everyone in the parish, but particularly 
 of Mr. Euddell, one of the most intelli- 
 
A new Churchwarden. S3 
 
 gent fellows in all Applecombe, and 
 husband to Mrs. Annie. 
 
 The elder Travers was a complete con- 
 trast to his handsome, witty son. He 
 usually uttered but one sentence a week, 
 and he was known to have no interest 
 beyond his flowers, of which he had a fine 
 collection in his little old-fashioned gar- 
 den. His cold blue eyes looked straight 
 before him, perhaps into some world 
 unknown to his relatives ; and upon his 
 well-cut features, which sun and time had 
 browned and reddened to the colour of 
 autumn leaves, there sat no intelligible 
 expression whatever. His long, curly 
 white hair and beard gave him a comical 
 likeness to the pictures of Old Father 
 
 g2 
 
84 Farmer John. 
 
 Christmas. How he had ever got through 
 his part in the marriage service was 
 always a mystery to the wags of his 
 acquaintance. He had never been seen 
 in Church, but was usually to be met with 
 on Sunday evenings, dressed in his light 
 grey hat and clothes, walking by the river 
 with his dog Spot, a short black pipe in 
 his mouth, and a stout oaken stick in his 
 hand, apparently unconscious of anything 
 around him. 
 
 He would not do, thought Mr. Went- 
 worth, and passed to the next, Farmer 
 Weeks, who came from the other end of 
 the parish. He was a stout, pompous- 
 looking personage, who had always plenty 
 to say for himself, and was intensely 
 
A new Churchwarden. 85 
 
 respectable. There was nothing against 
 him, for the Vicar's objection that he 
 ludicrously resembled an ox is no objec- 
 tion at all, considering that, had it not 
 been for oxen, where would the Vicar 
 himself have been ? But prejudices are 
 strong, and Mr. Wentworth had an un- 
 accountable prejudice against the worthy 
 Weeks, who, to tell the truth, attended 
 Church most regularly, both morning and 
 afternoon, sat down stolidly during the 
 collection, staring dignifiedly as the clerk 
 placed the silver plate under his nose, and 
 did not ' get toight,' as his wife asserted, 
 1 mwoore nor dree toimes in the twel'- 
 montV There was no one in the whole 
 parish who was fit to be Mr. Wentworth's 
 
86 Farmer John. 
 
 churchwarden. No wonder his parish- 
 ioners thought him proud. 
 
 But there mi^ht be some one who was 
 better than nobody, and in Mr. Went- 
 worth's ears there still rang the loud, 
 deep voice which had negatived the 
 Squire's election. To whom did it be- 
 long ? The voice was clear and reed- 
 like, though harsh in its tone ; and it 
 was so peculiar and strong, and so unlike 
 the other voices in its accent, that it 
 had, perhaps foolishly, tickled his hear- 
 ing. It rang out again now like a trum- 
 pet calling to battle, or, more truly, like 
 the great tenor bell for which the Apple- 
 combe peal was so celebrated in the 
 district round. 
 
A new Churchwarden. 87 
 
 Mr. Wentworth glanced at its owner, 
 and through his mind flashed all that he 
 had heard concerning him. He had never 
 seen him before. He was the only re- 
 maining yeoman of the district, the son 
 of a wretched drunkard, at whose death- 
 bed he had taken the strange oath never 
 to touch liquor, nor to marry, nor to shave. 
 He was reported to be eccentric and bad- 
 tempered, and was detested as superior in 
 education and birth — as a c scollard,' in 
 short. There was not one man in the whole 
 parish whom he could call his friend. Of 
 his honesty there had never been a ques- 
 tion. He was, indeed, honourable and con- 
 scientious to the detriment of his interests, 
 and he had lost his friends, if he ever had 
 
88 Farmer John, 
 
 possessed any, by this uncompromising 
 quality. He was, so the Yicar had gath- 
 ered, a person to be both feared and hated 
 — as independent spirits are always feared 
 and hated, mused Mr. Wentworth. 
 
 Almost as he gazed at him, the words, 
 4 This is the man for me/ dropped from 
 the Vicar's lips. Eising, he added, 
 
 * I beg to nominate as my churchwarden 
 Mr. John Hawker, and trust he will accept 
 the office.' 
 
 There was not a word, and Mr. Went- 
 worth, deeply mortified at a silence which, 
 judging by himself, he thought must be 
 terribly wounding to his nominee, uttered 
 an irresistible exclamation of impa- 
 tience. 
 
A new Churchwarden. 89 
 
 But in a moment, springing from his 
 seat — he was at a little distance from the 
 others in the doorway — Farmer John 
 Hawker advanced to the table, and, 
 drawing himself up to his full height, 
 fixed the assembled company with his 
 glittering, deep-blue eyes. 
 
 He was near enough now for Mr. Went- 
 worth to get a perfect view of him. He 
 saw the well-knit limbs of a man about 
 eight and thirty years of age, scarcely 
 above the middle height, but whose broad 
 chest and immense shoulders conveyed 
 the impression of a far greater stature. 
 His dark auburn hair grew thick and low 
 on his high, narrow forehead, and was 
 cropped close to the long, well-shaped 
 
90 Farmer John. 
 
 head. His beard was of a brighter and 
 decidedly red colour, short, curly, and 
 untrimmed — electric, we should have 
 added, but we fear Mr. Wentworth did 
 not believe in such things. He carried 
 himself well, and in speaking threw back 
 his head and shoulders, which added to 
 the idea of great personal strength that 
 his presence had at first conveyed. His 
 features were marked and intelligent ; the 
 mouth large, the teeth white, even, and 
 brilliant. But it was in the strangely 
 sparkling, deep-set eyes that the man's 
 whole character lay plainly revealed. To 
 Mr. Wentworth they looked like the deep 
 waters of an open well, upon which the 
 hot summer's light gleams and plays 
 
A new Churchwarden. 91 
 
 steadily far below your feet ; cold, yet 
 warmly-glowing ; unchangeable, yet never 
 still ; restlessly wild and ungovernable, 
 yet impressionable as the rippling surface 
 upon which each passing object is re- 
 flected. He spoke without any provin- 
 cial accent, in a very loud, high key, as 
 though bent on doing justice to himself 
 and to all. Not a muscle of his face or 
 form moved the while. 
 
 1 To the Vicar and you farmers I speak, 
 John Hawker, of Rummerwoods Farm. 
 You all know me, and I know you. The 
 Vicar is new ; he does not. But he shall. 
 Sir, I will serve you faithfully to the 
 utmost of my power. I will do more than 
 the utmost, if I can do you anything 
 
92 Farmer John. 
 
 good. And you, farmers, and labourers, 
 and carpenters, you know that I don't 
 care a brass farthing for the whole lot 
 of you put together. I ask the Vicar for 
 his trust and his confidence. I have no- 
 thing more to say. But, so you should 
 understand, I will say it again, if the 
 chairman permits, in the language they 
 understand.' 
 
 Mr. Wentworth nodded, and, with still 
 immovably earnest countenance, Farmer 
 John Hawker went through the whole 
 speech again, word for word, in the dialect 
 of the district. 
 
 The Yicar did not comprehend a syl- 
 lable this time, but he observed passing 
 gleams of intelligence on the faces around 
 
A new Churchivarden. 93 
 
 him. After this the speaker returned 
 to his chair without uttering another 
 word, and Mr. Wentworth thought it 
 best to bring the proceedings to a 
 close. 
 
 The meeting had lasted two hours in 
 all ; but the Yicar had forgotten all about 
 his pamphlet. The men rose to go in 
 a sulky manner. It was evident their 
 sympathies were with the wronged Mr. 
 Sydney, and, as they filed out, murmurs, 
 such as, ' Him breeked 's wurrd ;' ' Thik 
 there Mr. Jahn forsooth ;' ' Church re- 
 storation be bio wed ;' ' The girt d d 
 
 vooul,' fell on Mr. Wentworth's already 
 smarting ears. 
 
 They were all gone at last, and Ernest 
 
94 Farmer John. 
 
 Wentworth stood alone in the little vestry 
 with his strange new friend. 
 
 His only friend, he feared, in this his 
 first charge, upon which he had entered 
 with such mingled feelings of joy and 
 sorrow, such enthusiastic plans for the 
 future, and whose beauty of scenery had 
 seemed to offer so lovely a prospect of 
 success. He had known troubles, such as 
 had shaken his soul in very pieces; he 
 had known bereavement, such as a man 
 of his nature never wholly recovers from ; 
 but failure he had never known. Praise, 
 honours, and esteem had flowed freely 
 into his cup, from his schooldays to his 
 well-earned fellowship at Oxbridge. It 
 seemed that now he was to taste failure 
 
A new Churchwarden. 95 
 
 in the most despicable form. He would 
 not flee from it. The presence of this 
 new, strange, strong friend was already 
 infusing into his being a fresh, unknown 
 strength. 
 
 Ernest Wentworth held out his hand. 
 His fingers ache to this hour, he be- 
 lieves, with the grip they received in 
 return. 
 
 Farmer John did not, however, utter a 
 word, as he followed the Vicar out of the 
 vestry, and patiently waited while the door 
 was locked. Then, still following silently, 
 the iron gates of the Church were swung to, 
 and they emerged into the churchyard. He 
 looked straight before him, his counten- 
 ance now as lacking in expression as a 
 
96 Farmer John. 
 
 few minutes before it had been all light 
 and energy. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth glanced curiously at 
 him. He was certainly unlike his former 
 experience of the so-called lower orders, 
 especially those with whom he had had 
 the most intercourse — the chatty Herbert 
 Cosens and his worthy spouse. We have 
 hinted that Ernest Wentworth was a 
 student of human nature. He would fain 
 have drawn out Farmer Hawker now. 
 
 1 And your farm is the one called Eum- 
 merwoods, is it not ?' he inquired. 
 
 ' They tell me so/ answered his com- 
 panion, in the same curiously-strained, 
 loud key. 
 
 The Yicar laughed. 
 
A new Churchwarden. 97 
 
 ' That is a curious stone for a grave,' he 
 remarked, pointing to a small, flat slab, 
 without inscription of any kind, which lay 
 amidst the tall, rank grass near the steps 
 leading to the gallery door. * Should 
 you like to lie unrecorded under such ?' 
 
 ' They may lay me under a thorn- 
 tree for aught I care,' replied Farmer 
 John. ' That is Black Bess's grave, the 
 queen of the gipsies. Queer folk, those 
 gipsies.' 
 
 1 You farmers cannot be very fond of 
 them,' hazarded the Yicar. 
 
 1 There's room for all sorts in this world,' 
 was the reply. 
 
 ' And what of the other ?' demanded Mr. 
 Wentworth, in his musing tone. 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 Farmer John. 
 
 Farmer John gave him a look of mingled 
 surprise and amusement. 
 
 4 1 reckon it's about the same,' he 
 said. 
 
 By this time they had passed down 
 a side path and into the Vicarage 
 grounds, through the little green gate 
 the cross on whose summit had so often 
 afforded Mr. Wentworth subject of specu- 
 lation concerning the late Vicar. Before 
 them lay an old-fashioned flower and fruit- 
 garden, in which the still blooming prim- 
 roses, cowslips, and violets were scenting 
 the air. The Vicar, whose love of the 
 beautiful might have seemed to the wise 
 somewhat exaggerated, stopped to gather 
 some of them, and held one dainty cowslip 
 
A new Churchwarden. 99 
 
 before his new friend's eyes. What re- 
 mark would this draw from Farmer John ? 
 Not a word. Only by the changing light 
 in his eyes could Mr. Wentworth detect 
 an impression of some kind — what, it would 
 be difficult to guess. 
 
 4 You love flowers ?' questioned the 
 Yicar. 
 
 Farmer John smiled. For one mo- 
 ment only he relapsed into his native 
 dialect. 
 
 ' Them be praper crools, them be. Loike 
 'em? Ay, zure. B'lieve I do, turr'ble 
 well.' Then he laughed at himself till the 
 garden rang. 
 
 They were now close to the Vicarage, 
 which poor Mr. Toutell had done much to 
 
 h2 
 
100 Farmer John. 
 
 make strictly ecclesiastical by surmounting 
 each gable with, a cross. There were 
 plenty of gaily-painted windows to be 
 seen, and an ecclesiastical door of dark 
 oak, studded with iron knobs, above which 
 a brass lion rampant held the inscription : 
 
 In Cosh Quies. 
 
 Whether this was the Toutell coat-of-arms 
 had oft-times been a favourite question 
 with the Squire ; but the villagers, headed 
 by Mrs. Tolley, firmly believed it to be a 
 text of Scripture, which the excellent 
 gentleman had put up for his own consola- 
 tion and their edification. The lion was 
 popularly reported to be ' one of the 'oly 
 celestials.' 
 
A new Churchwarden. 101 
 
 The kitchen, where Mrs. Cosens baked 
 so many of her far-famed cakes, had been 
 part of a much older building, as was 
 evident from its curiously mullioned win- 
 dows and oak-beamed ceiling, black with 
 age. It was the only remaining part of 
 the monastery, from which, in bygone 
 ages, a passage was said to have led under- 
 ground to the Church. To Mr. Wentworth 
 this was an unspeakable comfort and 
 source of meditation, and he never tired 
 of mentally condemning poor Toutell for 
 pulling down a great part of the old house, 
 and building his ecclesiastical-looking, but 
 very rickety, addition. 
 
 c I am so vexed, Mr. Hawker, that you 
 should have been annoyed by the rudeness 
 
102 Farmer John. 
 
 of the farmers,' he said, as he opened the 
 heavy oak door, and the scent of Mrs. 
 Cosens' cooking came temptingly down 
 the long narrow passage. ' Won't you 
 come in and rest ? You have a long way 
 to go, I fear. I trust you do not mind 
 the farmers,' he repeated, a little anxi- 
 ously. 
 
 ' Mind ?' retorted his companion, in his 
 curiously pitched tone — ' it's their ignor- 
 ance, Vicar, that's where it is. They don't 
 know better. They're no better than the 
 pigs or cows they mind.' 
 
 Mr. Wentworth laughed heartily to 
 hear his pet theory thus rehearsed. 
 
 1 But we must have patience,' he said. 
 ' Patience, Mr. Hawker, is the secret of a 
 
A new Churchwarden. 103 
 
 clergyman's existence. In your patience 
 possess ye your souls,' he added, in his 
 musing undertone. 
 
 Farmer John gave him a searching 
 glance. 
 
 * There are some folk,' he said, shortly, 
 ' that only possess their bodies.' 
 
1 04 Farmer John, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 
 
 EKBERT COSENS, the Vicar's 
 gardener and factotum, had just 
 received a commission from his master 
 after his own heart, and he set out on it 
 with energy sufficient for three men. As 
 he went along, he cut various capers, to 
 the delight of the village children whom 
 he passed, and with whom he had made 
 himself a great favourite. 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 105 
 
 ' Al'ays up to some lark or other,' was 
 the character he bore with the elders of 
 the place — a character which, to tell the 
 truth, he was not sorry to possess. 
 
 The soft spring sunshine was still fall- 
 ing on the thatched roofs of the cottages, 
 standing close together on each side of the 
 village street. Verdant as a rich pasture 
 looked the roof of the ' Jolly Labourers,' 
 where the thatch, unlike the mouse- 
 coloured coverings of the other houses, 
 shone green and smooth as the Vicarage 
 lawn. It was a quaint old inn, with 
 its square courtyard, round two thirds of 
 which the buildings clustered. To the 
 right the open door of the host's stables ; 
 in the centre a house occupied by some 
 
106 Farmer John. 
 
 old womeD, whose deafness made thetn 
 impervious to the din of the bar next 
 door. The windows of this quaint old inn 
 were niullioned, aud from an iron pole 
 swung a sign, representing haymakers in 
 a field, which sun and rain had rendered 
 delightfully obscure. 
 
 A few minutes later a group might be 
 expected to assemble, on foot or on horse- 
 back, outside the ever-open door; for it 
 was market-day. But, fortunately for the 
 Vicar's message, only a few idlers were 
 now hanging about in their dirty smocks, 
 their listless hands highly suggestive of 
 some lines of Watts's hymns. 
 
 Herbert Cosens had lately taken the 
 pledge, in order to please his new master, 
 
Miss Raivker speaks her Mind. 107 
 
 whose projected reforms were, of course, 
 to go hand in haDd with temperance ; so 
 he merely nodded to certain of his ac- 
 quaintance, and, remarking that they ap- 
 peared somewhat fatigued by their present 
 laborious occupation, passed on. 
 
 A greater temptation, however, pre- 
 sented itself further down the street, 
 where, next to a very dilapidated-looking 
 old house, the carpenter's shop, belonging 
 to John Tolley, was situated. The Squire 
 could never be induced to repair any of 
 his tenants' dwellings, but, when appealed 
 to by the boldest, would blandly refer them 
 to his steward, who again would silence 
 them with the polite assurance that he 
 had 'received no orders.' So John Tol- 
 
108 Farmer John. 
 
 ley was fain to rest content with his 
 crumbling walls and broken windows. 
 For it must be confessed that, if Sir 
 Howard had consigned him (as men- 
 tally he very often did) to the lower 
 regions, the worthy carpenter would have 
 summoned up all his philosophy to en- 
 dure the flames, comforting himself the 
 while with the reflection that he ' supposed 
 it was to be.' 
 
 Immense logs of wood lay outside the 
 carpenter's shop, forming a favourite rest- 
 ing-place for the men on sunny Sunday 
 mornings. Upon and near them to-day 
 was gathered a small group, consisting 
 of the wags of the village, whom, by a 
 natural and undefinable sympathy, Herbert 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 109 
 
 Cosens felt himself obliged to join. From 
 the windows of the shop, which were un- 
 glazed, came every now and then a re- 
 mark from Angel Tolley, the clerk's first- 
 born, a youth celebrated for having several 
 times knocked down his father, and also 
 for the untold quantity of cider he was 
 warranted to imbibe at harvest-time. 
 
 1 Halloa, 'Erb, my dear, where be 'ee 
 gwain' to, eh ?' greeted the ears of the 
 Vicar's gardener as he slowly approached 
 the group. 
 
 The question was greeted with universal 
 applause, and Herbert was counselled to 
 be quick and answer. 
 
 ' To the place what's only knawn to 
 two,' was the emphatic rejoinder. 
 
110 Farmer John. 
 
 The laugh was turned against the ques- 
 tioner, and Herbert cut his matchless caper 
 midst fresh peals of laughter. 
 
 Angel, who was at work on a spring- 
 cart inside the shop, now thrust his huge, 
 taugled head through the window, and, 
 noting the appearance of a new-comer 
 in the group, acknowledged his presence 
 by a not very attractive smile. 
 
 ''Ow's the old gen'leman?' he inquired, 
 with a sneer. 
 
 1 'Bout as merry as you be when you 
 zees the tails o' Bobby Davis's coat,' 
 replied the gallant Herbert ; and the roars 
 of laughter became even louder. 
 
 Angel Tolley growled out some un- 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 1 11 
 
 intelligible rejoinder as his rough head 
 disappeared through the window. 
 
 'What do 'ee thenk o' this, 'Erb ?' 
 inquired "Walter Fitz, the wag who had 
 been the leader in the merriment, a smart- 
 looking lad about twenty years of age, 
 rioted for his bird-like whistle, his daring 
 feats on horseback, and his affection for 
 the c Jolly Labourers.' 
 
 He produced from his pocket a tattered 
 sheet, and held it triumphantly before his 
 companion's eyes, carefully guarding it 
 the while from rough treatment with his 
 other hand. 
 
 ' 1 vound it on the rhoad to Flax'on 's 
 marnen',' he continued; 'and the taown 
 
112 Farmer John. 
 
 be full o' 'em. Now, 'Erb, you be a 
 passon's chap — jus' you stud' he, and 
 tell us the meauen'.' 
 
 Herbert was not a scholar, and it was a 
 very long time before even the large red 
 and blue capitals, which stared at him 
 from the advertisement, became anything 
 like words to his aching eyes. At length 
 he slowly spelt out the words one by one, 
 and found that it was an intimation of a 
 meeting to be held on Wednesday even- 
 ing, at eight o'clock, in the Town Hall, 
 Flaxton, at which there would be f a grand 
 Railway Company dinner,' of which ■ all 
 were invited to partake,' and where a 
 number of persons ' would describe their 
 experiences.' 
 
Miss Haviker speaks her Mind. 113 
 
 The wording of this curious advertise- 
 ment was both startling and grotesque, 
 and its bright blue and scarlet letters 
 attracted the eyes of those who unhappily 
 could not have read them. 
 
 The group had pressed closely round 
 the decipherer of the strange sheet, 
 and now they all glanced anxiously at 
 him, as though he alone could explain 
 its meaning. Their looks bespoke ad- 
 miration and respect, for not even the 
 clerk's son, whose ears had drunk in the 
 contents of the advertisement through 
 the open window, could have mastered 
 the small print ; and there were some 
 present to whom each letter was a 
 mystery. 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 Farmer John, 
 
 'Well, 'Erb, what do it mane ?' in- 
 quired the gay Walter Fitz. 
 
 The gardener shook his head. 
 
 'No good/ he said, significantly. 'I've 
 a-niver zeed the loike o't avore. Tis 
 zome pedlar vo'k. They do talk uncom- 
 mon crazy zometoimes.' 
 
 But even as he delivered this explana- 
 tion he eyed the bright blue and red 
 letters wistfully, and made a mental note 
 of the hour and place of this strange 
 meeting. 
 
 ' If only my missus were yere,' he mut- 
 tered. 
 
 Each person in the little group had his 
 suggestion to offer, but Herbert paid them 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 115 
 
 no heed. 'Millier' was not there, and 
 without her opinion he found it impossible 
 fully to state his. That he had his own 
 on the matter he conveyed to the others 
 by sundry very expressive nods. But, 
 seeing that he might be uncomfortably 
 pressed to deliver himself of it, the worthy 
 gardener wisely resolved to leave the 
 tempting discussion which had com- 
 menced to the direction of Walter Fitz 
 and the clerk's son, and departed on his 
 way. 
 
 He had by this time wasted half an 
 hour and more, so, quickening his steps, 
 he determined not to bestow more than a 
 nod on any friend or acquaintance who 
 
 i 2 
 
116 Farmer John. 
 
 should chance to cross his path. Herbert 
 Cosens, however, had evidently but small 
 respect for his master's errand, for, when 
 he found himself climbing the white hilly 
 road which led up to his destination, he 
 commented on his message aloud, as was 
 his wont when alone, in this contemptuous 
 manner : 
 
 < Vetch 'en? What vor?' 
 
 Then there was a pause, as he stopped 
 to take breath, where a glance round 
 showed him the roofs of the village shin- 
 ing brightly in the spring sunset below. 
 
 Behind him a huge green hill rose 
 gradually from the sloping pasture-ground. 
 He was two miles and more from the 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind, 117 
 
 Vicarage, whose chimneys he could just 
 see in the distance, thrown out by the 
 dark background of trees, which seemed to 
 enclose them and the Church behind in a 
 verdant frame. The sound of sheep-bells 
 tinkling on the hill above him, and the 
 whistle, miles away, of some farm lad driv- 
 ing cows to the milking, came clearly on 
 the fresh, buoyant air, and he could even 
 hear the voice of some one in the vil- 
 lage below summoning, in a shrill, femi- 
 nine key, a child from its play. But 
 Herbert heeded not these sounds, nor 
 the beauty of the scene which lay before 
 him like a ready-painted picture. His 
 eyes were fixed upon a flock of fine sheep 
 
118 Farmer John. 
 
 peacefully nibbling the scanty pasture, 
 which, as being a little richer than the 
 hill above, had been hedged in for cattle 
 to graze on. 
 
 1 Yoine sheep for thik there graoun',' was 
 his comment. ' Them be bu'stin' wi' vat, 
 for zure. I wish 1 had 'em.' 
 
 A voice from the hedge responded 
 sharply, 
 
 1 You med jus' wish, then/ and the top 
 of Miss Hawker's not very brilliant sun- 
 bonnet and two of her curls emerged into 
 view. She was just returning from milk- 
 ing, and eyed the stranger with but little 
 favour. 
 
 ' Good day, ma'am,' remarked the gar- 
 dener, in his most conciliatory tones. ' I 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 119 
 
 was jus' thenken' what a lucky veller the 
 maister o' they sheep med be.' 
 
 1 1 yeerd you,' she responded. f Walls 
 'ave ears, they zays, and zoo med 'idges. 
 Naw, thankee, I can carry 'em meself,' as 
 the gallant Herbert, springing up the bank 
 and through a gap in the hedge, would 
 have relieved her of her milk-pails. 
 
 ' I was a-comin' to your place/ he said, 
 presently, as he followed her through a 
 large farmyard where, amongst mud and 
 straw, Dorking and barn-door fowls were 
 loudly cackling. A large sheep-dog greet- 
 ed their arrival with a surly growl from a 
 barrel placed near the open door of the 
 house. 
 
 1 'Ole your n'ise, will 'ee, Jessie !' cried 
 
120 Farmer John. 
 
 Miss Hawker, picking her way through 
 the mud and refuse on her loud-sounding 
 clogs. ' If you wants anything Mr. 
 Cosens, come this way. There, Jessie, 
 quoit, I zay P 
 
 Jessie did not, however, take very 
 kindly to the stranger, but, sniffing un- 
 ceremoniously at his legs, bestowed on 
 him another growl, and then crouched in 
 her barrel again. 
 
 c Tis Mr. 'Ahker I wants to zee,' said 
 Herbert, promptly. ' But I can wait if 'e 
 bain't whoam.' 
 
 "Arf-past vour 'clack's the toime most 
 Christians do take their tay,' she replied, 
 sharply, as she led the way into the house, 
 passing the open door of the dark fra- 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 121 
 
 grant dairy, where she deposited her 
 milk-pails. This done, she marshalled her 
 companion into the kitchen, where Mr. 
 Hawker was impatiently waiting for his 
 tea. 
 
 ' Al'ays late, Lizzy,' he said, as she 
 moved quickly about, opening cupboards, 
 and shutting them with a clatter that 
 made a rough grey sheep-dog snoozing 
 in the chimney-corner rise slowly, and, 
 stretching himself, move out of her 
 way. 
 
 1 I've bin waiten' here ten minutes and 
 mwoore,' continued her brother, as Miss 
 Hawker proceeded to fill the teapot with 
 boiling water from the huge kettle, which 
 hung from a great iron chain over a 
 
122 Farmer John. 
 
 rough stone hearth, on which a fire of 
 gorse and faggots was blazing, the flames 
 rushing up the wide chimney with a 
 roaring sound. ' What made you sa 
 late ?' 
 
 1 Talken' wi' thik there man, s'pose,' 
 muttered Miss Hawker, whom the heat 
 had flashed, and whose temper was be- 
 ginning to rise. c There, come in, Mr. 
 Cosens ; do 'ee naow. Don' 'ee stan' 
 there garpen' to the dour lik' a girt 
 booby.' 
 
 Herbert, who had remained modestly at 
 a distance, now entered the kitchen, and 
 was motioned by John to a place beside 
 himself on the oaken settle in the chim- 
 ney-corner. Close by on his stool sat the 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 123 
 
 favourite black cat of the farm, Peter 
 by name, reported to be a marvellous 
 judge of character. Peter resented the 
 approach of a strauger, and, arching his 
 back, rolled his yellow eyes defiantly at 
 Herbert. 
 
 Mr. Hawker laughed, and stroked the 
 cat soothingly, as he bade the gardener 
 ' niver moind the cat, 'twas al'ays Peter's 
 way wi' straingers.' 
 
 Meanwhile Miss Hawker was pouring 
 out tea into mugs, which she had placed 
 on the table. These, together with huge 
 slices of home-made bread aud butter, 
 she handed to her brother and to his 
 companion, not forgetting a saucer of 
 tea for Peter. 
 
124 Farmer John. 
 
 The kitchen in which the three were 
 assembled was a low, dark room, with 
 blackened rafters and a large black oak 
 dresser, well covered with curious old 
 cups and plates. The best tea-service, 
 however, which Miss Hawker only- 
 produced on grand occasions, was not 
 there, but locked away in one of the 
 corner cupboards. On the high man- 
 telshelf which ran right across the 
 archway formed by the chimney, and 
 from which hung a flounce of some 
 bright red stuff, was a row of foreign- 
 looking octagonal plates, which would 
 have rejoiced the heart of a connoisseur 
 in china. A long oak chest, curiously 
 carved, occupied the space to the right 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 125 
 
 of the door, together with a side-table, 
 covered with baskets, boxes, dirty dishes, 
 and half-mended clothing of all descrip- 
 tions. At this table, with her back to 
 the company, was seated the thin figure 
 of a woman, whose face, bidden by her 
 sun-bonnet, was bent downwards on the 
 coarse blue worsted stocking she was 
 darning. 
 
 Miss Hawker, after enjoying three 
 mugfuls of tea, and having supplied her 
 companions in the chimney-corner with 
 the same, fetched her work-basket from 
 the table, and glanced at her brother. 
 Her looks foretold to the gardener's eye, 
 practised in the ways of women, a coming 
 storm. 
 
126 Farmer John. 
 
 'Jahn,' she began, in her shrill voice, 
 1 thik there man Jobie 'ull be the rhuin 
 o' this place. I med's will spake to a 
 dog as 'e. Zure, Peter 'ud 'bey me 
 sooner. And the sarce 'e gi'ed me 's 
 marnen' a'most druv' me woild. Seemen' 
 I should drap, to year zich wurrds from 
 a man. 'Ees, Em'ly, though 'tis your 
 'usban', we mus' tell the truth, and 
 nothen' but the truth.' 
 
 Tbe woman addressed as 'Em'ly' now 
 turned her face towards the company. 
 
 £ Lor', Miss 'Ahker, ma'am, that's very 
 true, my dear ma'am,' she said in reply. 
 c But there, 'e's so ign'rant-like, is Jobie ; 
 ^e don' knaw noo bitter, 'e don't.' 
 
 She spoke in a low, soothiug voice, 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 127 
 
 which, however, had only the effect of 
 rousing her listener s wrath. Miss Hawker 
 burst forth once more, and this time in 
 loader tones : 
 
 1 Don' knaw noo bitter ? I'll l'arn 'en 
 bitter, I will ! But that's jus' where 'tis, 
 'e won't be l'arned. To think ov tellen' 
 me 1 didden knaw his work, and 'e should 
 do what him thoughted right, and you, 
 Jahn, a-stannen' boy 'en wi' all yer moight 
 and main !' 
 
 ' There, there, ma'am,' interposed the 
 wife of the offending carter, f 'tis 'is 
 ign'rance, and Mr. Jahn's too. They be 
 all ign'rant, they men-vo'k,' she added, 
 glancing contemptuously at the two on 
 the oaken settle. 
 
128 Farmer John. 
 
 Mrs. Gill, or Em'ly Gill, as she was 
 called in the parish, had not a sufficient 
 share of good looks to afford to assume 
 a contemptuous expression of counten- 
 ance. She was a sharp-faced woman, 
 rather under the middle height, with thin 
 grey hair hanging over her ears. Her 
 coarse, rough skin was reddened by field- 
 work, and over her short, turned-up nose 
 there nearly met a pair of sharp small 
 grey eyes, warranted to overflow with 
 tears at a moment's notice. Her mouth 
 was, however, her most expressive feature. 
 It was large and thin-lipped, and from 
 various causes Nature had left her but 
 one long tooth in her under-jaw, which 
 tooth, projecting, when she spoke, over 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 129 
 
 her sunkeu-in upper lip, by no means 
 increased the charm of her personal ap- 
 pearance. Her narrow, wasp-like form 
 was clothed in an old dress of Miss 
 Hawker's, of that golden-brown colour so 
 much patronised by villagers, and her 
 apron and sun-bonnet were not as fresh 
 as they might have been. 
 
 But, in spite of these seeming deficien- 
 cies, Em'ly Gill had been twice married, 
 and had for many years enjoyed the 
 favour of Miss Hawker. Indeed, it was 
 the presence of his wife alone which 
 prevented the captious farmer's sister 
 from insisting on the dismissal of Job 
 Gill, the carter. He was, unfortunately, 
 a particular favourite of Farmer John's, 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 Farmer John. 
 
 for whom, in return, he entertained the 
 liveliest affection. He would listen atten- 
 tively to all his injunctions, and to the 
 strange ideas John would sometimes let 
 fall, when the two were far away from 
 the womenkind of the establishment. And 
 he would only shake his head dubiously, 
 not venturing to contradict him, when his 
 master would exclaim, as he not unfre- 
 quently did, 
 
 'You were a vool. Jobie, to marr', 
 and 'tic'larly a girt vool to marr' thik 
 there Em'ly.' 
 
 Em'ly was much older than her present 
 'ign'rant' husband or e maister,' as by a 
 seeming irony the worse half was desig- 
 nated, in the parish of Applecombe. In 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 131 
 
 consideration of the wisdom which her 
 superior age might be 'supposed to give 
 her, she exercised a strict surveillance over 
 her husband's actions, although by his 
 very stupidity he often managed to get 
 the upper hand. On such occasions she 
 would comfort herself with the reflection 
 that it was only his ' ign'rance ' which 
 could have caused him to act without her 
 advice. 
 
 Mrs. Gill had her trials, as most of us 
 have, in some form or another. One of 
 these was the difficulties into which her 
 love for her mistress and the respect due 
 to her husband continually threw her. 
 But in all classes of life, and in all ranks 
 of society, there exist the natural, if not 
 
 k2 
 
]32 Farmer John, 
 
 trained politicians, and Emily Gill could 
 deservedly have claimed kinship with 
 these. It was vain, however, for her 
 to reason with honest Job concerning 
 his resentment of Miss Hawker's interfer- 
 ence. 
 
 'Mr. Jahn were his maister,' he would 
 repeat, stubbornly, ' and wummin vo'k 
 knew nowt 'bout the beastis. 'E didden 
 want noo words, but 'e coulden put up wi' 
 Miss 'Ahker's meddlen'.' 
 
 Miss Hawker, in her turn, would descant 
 by the hour to the patient Emily upon the 
 folly, stupidity, and pig-headedness of her 
 lord and master. Nor could the consoling 
 reflection of Jobie's ignorance in any way 
 convince her that he was anything but a 
 
Miss Haivker speaks her Mind. 133 
 
 4 girt himperent chap.' Job, sure of Farmer 
 John's support, continued as obstinate as 
 ever, and had even lately thrown out some 
 hints, which had by no means added to the 
 esteem in which Mrs. Gill held her mis- 
 tress's brother. 
 
 1 Niver moind the ign'rance, Em'ly,' 
 went on Miss Hawker. ■ What I wants 
 to knaw is, whether Job Gill 's to 'bey 
 me or not. Answer me that, Jahn 'Ahker, 
 and I'll zay noo mwoore.' 
 
 Here Herbert Cosens, always anxious to 
 conciliate the women, of whom as a race 
 he was somewhat in awe, interposed 
 with — 
 
 ' There, there, Miss 'Ahker, ma'am, 'tis 
 all for the bes'.' 
 
134 Farmer John, 
 
 In return she bade him ' moind his own 
 concarns, and not meddle wi' other vo'k/ 
 and Mrs. Gill added that she ' niver was 
 woone for meddlen' wi' straingers.' 
 
 Farmer John, who had occupied himself 
 during this storm with feeding Peter and 
 his dogs, now rose, and bade Herbert, if he 
 were ready, 'go 'long wi' him.' 
 
 Miss Hawker suffered the offending 
 ' men vo'k ' to cross the kitchen in silence. 
 But, as her brother prepared to leave the 
 house, she threw after him a parting piece 
 of her mind, as she termed it. 
 
 'I jus' tell thee, Jahn, thee's a vool. 
 There ! Gwain' to the Vic'rage ? I 
 dessay. Much good may ye git 
 there !' 
 
Miss Hawker speaks her Mind. 135 
 
 Farmer John may have been afflicted 
 with temporary deafness, for he uttered 
 not a word in reply. Nor did he vouch- 
 safe any answer to the worthy Herbert's 
 comments on his sister's conduct when 
 they got outside. 
 
 ' Did the Vicar wish me to come par- 
 tic'lar ?' he asked, as, after half-an-hour's 
 walk, they passed through a gate leading 
 into some fields running parallel with a 
 railway line. This they presently crossed, 
 and then turned, over a little rustic 
 bridge spanning the shallow Flax, into a 
 long, narrow lane leading up into the vil- 
 lage street at one corner of the Vicarage 
 garden. 
 
 ' 'E zaid any toime you could spare/ 
 
136 Farmer John. 
 
 auswered Herbert ; and held open the iron 
 gate, which his busy hands had changed 
 from blue to green, and from green to 
 blue in a month's time. 
 
 Mrs. Cosens was dusting in the passage 
 with a preoccupied air, and appeared sur- 
 prised at the arrival of her husband and 
 Farmer John. 
 
 ' The Vicar's down below,' she explained, 
 as she ushered the visitor upstairs, 'but 
 I'll tell 'en you be yere, Mr. 'Ahker. 'E 
 zaid, if you corned, I was to put you in 
 the studv.' 
 
In the Vicar's Study. 137 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 In the Vicar's Study. 
 
 T was the study in which Farmer 
 John now found himself. His 
 eyes opened even wider than was their 
 wont at the sight of four long walls 
 entirely covered with books from floor to 
 ceiling. He had never seen so many 
 before, not even at Squire Marston's sale, 
 where he had bid for several lots. But 
 not only the walls ; the very floor was 
 
138 Farmer John, 
 
 piled with huge folios. The close atmo- 
 sphere was full of the smell and the dust 
 of ancient tomes, mingling with that of 
 stale tobacco. The little latticed window, 
 through which looked the ivy that clam- 
 bered over the older part of the house, was 
 shut, and on the wide window-sill lay a 
 white Pomeranian dog, which growled at 
 the approach of Mrs. Cosens, but quietly 
 subsided into slumber again directly she 
 had disappeared. 
 
 Everywhere, it seemed to Farmer John, 
 there were still books. The oaken writ- 
 ing-table was covered with them, and so 
 were two or three arm-chairs. There was 
 a side-table strewn with them, and a re- 
 volving bookcase filled to overflowing. 
 
In the Vicars Study. 139 
 
 Near the window was a great oaken 
 lectern, upon which two huge folios were 
 placed. A small fire burned in the grate, 
 and a second door led into a little dress- 
 ing-room. Farmer John fancied he saw 
 books there also. 
 
 Over the mantelpiece was hung a col- 
 lection of pictures and photographs, in 
 old, dingy-looking frames. In the centre 
 oue, the dingiest of all, was displayed 
 a motto, ' Christo Ecclesiae Studiis,' paint- 
 ed in emblematical colours. A cane 
 arm-chair was pushed back from the 
 writing-table, as though the owner had 
 just quitted it. A sheet, half-filled with 
 scrawling, illegible handwriting, near 
 which a pair of spectacles were thrown, 
 
140 Farmer John. 
 
 lay on the blotting-paper, which again 
 was almost hidden by a pile of letters, 
 catalogues, pamphlets, and manuscripts 
 of all sizes and shapes. 
 
 Farmer John was gazing absorbedly at 
 the books, when a step behind, and the 
 wagging of the white dog's tail, although 
 it did not open its eyes, proclaimed the 
 entrance of the Yicar. He held out his 
 hand, with one of his radiant smiles, and 
 begged his visitor to be seated. 
 
 ' How are you, Mr. Hawker ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Nicely, thank you, sir,' answered 
 Farmer John. 
 
 * It was good of you to come directly,' 
 said the Yicar, sinking into the arm-chair, 
 and drawing it near the fire. ' I had 
 
In the Vicar s Study. 141 
 
 something I wished particularly to consult 
 you about/ 
 
 Farmer John looked stolidly at him, 
 and said nothing. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth rose and peered, in his 
 short-sighted way, through the mass of 
 papers on the writing-table. After a 
 few moments' search, he found what he 
 wanted, and returned to the cane arm- 
 chair. 
 
 1 You see, Mr. Hawker,' he began, 
 smoothing the crumpled sheet with his 
 delicate hands — 'you see, the parish is 
 not what it should be. And I am anxious 
 — I cannot convey to your mind any idea 
 of my great anxiety — to see the place 
 different. It is so beautiful, so wicked. 
 
142 Farmer John. 
 
 Every time I look out on that lovely 
 scene, the lines occur to me : 
 
 " Where every prospect pleases, 
 And only man is vile." ' 
 
 He stopped and pointed to the window. 
 Below them, the wide Vicarage lawn ran 
 down to steps leading into the kitchen- 
 gardens and field, bordered by the little 
 Flax which Farmer John had crossed with 
 Herbert Cosens half an hour ago. Beyond 
 the Flax to the railway line stretched a 
 rich pasture, known as Broadmead, where 
 the Vicar's cows had been grazing peace- 
 fully through the sunny afternoon. Be- 
 yond this again stretched fields and 
 orchards, above which towered Firsbarrow, 
 or Fusburree, as the villagers called it — a 
 
In the Vicars Study. 143 
 
 steep, smooth green hill, with a group of 
 firs sticking up at the top like a feather in 
 its cap. Many a time had Farmer John 
 seen it blazing with bonfires and tar- 
 barrels on Guy Fawkes night, the flaming 
 torches, and the shouts of the lads as they 
 waved them aloft, making the hill on a 
 dark night seem all on fire, and peopled 
 by the witches themselves, in whom not 
 a few of the villagers firmly believed. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth repeated the lines again 
 slowly. 
 
 1 A stupid stanza in many respects,' he 
 went on ; ' but those lines are very apt 
 here. I have thought of many things, but 
 — well, Mr. Hawker, I think the people 
 don't understand me. Perhaps I don't 
 
144 Farmer John, 
 
 understand them. Ah, me, Mr. Hawker, 
 one learns at last, after years of study, 
 only this one fact — one's own ignor- 
 ance.' 
 
 As he spoke, he noted with pleasure the 
 frank sympathy that shone in the expres- 
 sive eyes opposite him. 
 
 ' So, as I don't perhaps make plain to 
 them all I could wish to do, I have been 
 very desirous of finding some one who 
 might. The very person I sought turned 
 up by chance, as people call it.' 
 
 Mr. Wentworth opened the sheet he 
 held, and handed it to Farmer John. 
 
 f This strange announcement caught my 
 eye in Flaxton yesterday ; I could make 
 nothing of it, but brought it back with me 
 
In the Vicars Study. 145 
 
 as a curious study. Last evening I was 
 told a strange man wished to see me ; I 
 desired him to be brought up here, and I 
 then became acquainted with one of the 
 most singular specimens of humanity 
 it has ever been my good fortune to 
 meet. You see mention on that sheet 
 of a Station-master Bush who will 
 address "the people of the night." 
 The man who wished to see me was 
 the same. He reported himself to be a 
 leader in the Evangelising Company 
 known as the Heavenly Eailway, who 
 are at present preaching in every town 
 in England to the lowest of our nation, 
 people whom the clergy find it impossible 
 to get hold of. He is the leader of the 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 Farmer John. 
 
 mission that has just been started in 
 Flaxton. But the clergy there — excuse 
 a little violence in my language, it makes 
 me a little indignant — are such narrow- 
 minded, ignorant — ' he paused for a word, 
 and, looking over his spectacles, added — 
 * asses, that they will lend no support 
 whatever to the evangelists. They would 
 have found some of the apostles vulgar, 
 and unrefined, and unorthodox, I expect. 
 And, in consequence, they are letting 
 slip through their fingers a greater op- 
 portunity of usefulness than, perhaps, 
 has ever been given them before, or will 
 be again. Mr. Bush is anxious to ex- 
 tend the mission through the surround- 
 ing villages, as the work in Flaxton has 
 
In the Vicar s Study, 147 
 
 been attended with marvellous success. 
 But he said, and truly, that, without 
 the support of the clergy of the country 
 parishes, nothing can really be effected. 
 He came to beg for my assistance and 
 support in the matter, and for the loan 
 of my little school-room in the far-end 
 of the parish. Of course Sir Howard 
 would not permit him to enter the day- 
 school, which, unfortunately, he has en- 
 tirely in his own hands. After much 
 conversation with him concerning his 
 opinions and plans — in short, when I 
 found him to be a sincerely good and 
 earnest man, a rough diamond, to be 
 sure, very rough — well, after a good 
 deal of talk with him, I gave him my 
 
 l2 
 
148 Farmer John. 
 
 permission, and said the school-room 
 should be at his command one day next 
 week, on condition of my having it in 
 my power to be present, if I chose, and 
 stop anything I might disapprove of.' 
 
 The Yicar came to a sudden stand-still, 
 and looked at his companion. There was 
 no expression of any kind on Farmer 
 John's countenance. 
 
 ' Bush agreed to the condition/ he 
 continued, presently. c He wishes to act 
 with the clergy, if they will only allow it. 
 Of course he is not a churchman, although 
 he is a most earnest man. I should be 
 worse than the old bigots of our Church 
 if I refused him the room. Indeed, I 
 feel it to be my duty to render him every 
 
In the Vicars Study. 149 
 
 assistance, and to give him all the sym- 
 pathy and encouragement I can. Who 
 knows, but that he may be the means of 
 lighting the fuel, which I have laid to- 
 gether, but could not kindle ? The people 
 are impressionable • the spiritual life is not 
 quite dead in them. There are some, 
 indeed, who ' 
 
 He paused, and looked dreamily into 
 the fire. Some vision there seemed to 
 sadden him. He sighed deeply, and 
 glanced again, this time anxiously, at 
 Farmer John. 
 
 1 If, through infirmity of speech, I can- 
 not reach them, for the will is with me, 
 perhaps this scarcely educated, unrefined 
 evangelist may. St. Peter and his com- 
 
150 Farmer John. 
 
 pardons were but fishermen, yet the whole 
 world has resounded with their teaching. 
 What strange sermons to civilise a thou- 
 sand nations ! St. Paul was sent unto 
 the Gentiles. But I am not St. Paul. 
 The spirit of the early Church is no more 
 with us. Who knows but it may have 
 descended, and rightly, to the hum- 
 blest ? It is the heirloom of the poor in 
 spirit.' 
 
 Farmer John had listened attentively 
 to each word. But he could not gather 
 from this confused utterance what his 
 part in the matter might be. 
 
 ' What do you want me to do, Vicar ?' 
 he asked, in his strained high key. 
 
 ' Ah, what do I want ?' responded Mr. 
 
In the Vicar's Study. 151 
 
 Wentworth. ' That's it. It's you I want. 
 You are my representative in the parish. If 
 you looked at that sheet, you would see — 
 But perhaps you can scarcely view it in 
 the same light that I do. These people — 
 this railway — what do they call it? — 
 Heavenly Railway Company, are unedu- 
 cated, unrefined, simple-minded Christians. 
 They do not speak to the educated — they 
 leave them to the clergy. They attack 
 those whom we find utterly inaccessible. 
 And, in order to reach the fallen and low, 
 they employ — certainly rather extraord in a ry 
 means. Their advertisements are, to my 
 eyes, unaccustomed to such things, almost 
 profane. The mysteries of our holy faith 
 are mixed up in the strangest manner with 
 
152 Farmer John. 
 
 words, expressions, and ideas ludicrous, 
 almost low and obscene. They must do it, 
 Bush told me. It is the only way to draw 
 the people, as he expressed it. But I — well, 
 I am loth to mix personally in it as yet, 
 though I trust, if all goes well on Thurs- 
 day, to attend these meetings myself. They 
 might, indeed, feel themselves constrained 
 before me. It might prevent the people's 
 getting the good they might otherwise get. 
 So I think it is best I should not go my- 
 self till I see what occurs, how it goes off. 
 What do you think, Mr. Hawkei ?' 
 
 Farmer John had few opinions, and 
 those he had he was unaccustomed to 
 translate into words. With him an 
 opinion was an action. He could not yet 
 
In the Vicars Study. 153 
 
 quite see what the Vicar wanted him 
 to do. 
 
 Mr. Wentworth had studied his church- 
 warden apparently with success during the 
 few weeks that had elapsed since his elec- 
 tion. He went on now, with a slightly 
 nervous hurry of manner, that made his 
 words sound as though he uttered them 
 with difficulty. 
 
 1 1 want you, as my churchwarden — that 
 is, if you don't object — to attend this 
 meeting. I think it would be necessary to 
 do so for a short time, just to see what 
 they do. You might go in at eight 
 o'clock — the meeting begins at half-past 
 seven — to keep order among the people, 
 not to let the meeting be entirely un- 
 
154 Farmer John. 
 
 represented by tbe spiritual head of the 
 parish. Then I shall know what to make 
 of the evangelists in the future, and I 
 shall be able to judge of the expediency of 
 letting them hold a future course of 
 meetings in my school-room. You see, Mr. 
 Hawker?' 
 
 Farmer John rose. 
 
 ' You want me to be at the little school- 
 room near the u Star Inn " on Thursday 
 evening, to look on for awhile at the folk 
 there, and to tell you what they do/ 
 He threw the crumpled sheet on the 
 writing-table without glancing at it. c I 
 will be there/ he said. 
 
 The Vicar rose in his turn. 
 
 1 Many thanks. That is just it. I don't 
 
In the Vicar's Study. 155 
 
 expect anything will go wrong. Only I 
 should be easier, feel it to be safer, if you 
 were there, just to look in, as you say, and 
 tell me what they do. Good evening, Mr. 
 Hawker.' 
 
 As Farmer John grasped the Vicar's 
 hand, he could not resist casting one wist- 
 ful glance round the room at the rows of 
 books which lined its walls. There was a 
 kind of reverence mingling with admira- 
 tion in his glance. Mr. Wentworth per- 
 ceived it in a moment. 
 
 ' You are fond of books,' he said, and 
 another of his rare smiles almost beau- 
 tified his sallow, furrowed face. ' So 
 am I. There are plenty here, are there 
 not?' 
 
156 Farmer John. 
 
 They were Mr. Wentworth's old and 
 tried friends, those rows of volumes. 
 Each one had its place in his affections, 
 and their titles looked through his spec- 
 tacles like the faces of dearly-loved 
 beings. 
 
 ' There are a-many here,' said Farmer 
 John, as though he were repeating a 
 prayer. ' Have you read them all ?' 
 
 4 Pretty well all/ answered the Yicar. 
 ' But there are thousands more to be 
 read — and life is short/ he added, 
 sadly. 
 
 ' Life is long, I think/ said Farmer 
 John. 
 
 'Yes, it is long too — sometimes,' as- 
 sented the Yicar, in so startling a tone 
 
In the Vicar's Study. 157 
 
 of anguish that it aroused the sympathy 
 of his companion. The sympathy, like 
 every other emotion, shone out of his 
 true, speaking eyes. He did not, how- 
 ever, look at Mr. Wentworth, but turned 
 his face abruptly away from him. 
 
 ' Should you like some of my books to 
 study? Perhaps you have a little spare 
 time in the evening. They will repay 
 you, I think.' 
 
 The Vicar spoke again in his natural 
 tones. 
 
 Farmer John exclaimed, eagerly, 
 
 1 Indeed I should. I'm very fond of 
 reading. But books are scarce here, and 
 I've read ours a hundred times.' 
 
 4 They must be worthy ones,' said the 
 
158 Farmer John. 
 
 Vicar. ' Choose,' he added, pointing to 
 the shelf near which they stood. 
 
 'Did you write this one?' asked Far- 
 mer John, indicating a cumbrous-looking 
 volume, which bore the inscription, Essays 
 on Psychology, by Ernest Went worth. 
 
 'Years ago,' answered the Yicar, half 
 laughingly, 'when I was an enthusiastic 
 youth at college. It bears the stamp of 
 youth. We modify our opinions as we get 
 older,' he added, musingly, as he turned 
 over the dusty leaves. ' I don't suppose 
 it has been touched since.' 
 
 His eyes were bent on the first page, 
 on which a name and date were scrawled 
 in pencil, and below the sketch of a face. 
 For one instant a convulsion seemed to 
 
In the Vicars Study. 159 
 
 alter his whole countenance. The sensitive 
 mouth twitched with conflicting feelings. 
 The very chin quivered, and the strained 
 gaze of the short-sighted eyes seemed 
 fixed on some object floating in the air 
 before him. The hand that held the 
 volume trembled. Then, mastering him- 
 self suddenly, he handed the book to his 
 companion, and said, quite naturally, 
 
 ' I hope it may interest you ; but I fear 
 you will find it very dry/ 
 
 Farmer John felt he should like to say 
 something, but the words were wanting. 
 Language is not always the best mode of 
 expression ; it is sometimes unequal to 
 the demands made upon it. The affection 
 that beams in the dog's eyes, as it feeds 
 
160 Farmer John. 
 
 upon the countenance of its newly-re- 
 covered master, could not shape itself in 
 words. The sympathy that speaks in a 
 look, in a handshake, in the tremor of a 
 voice, is speechless. What can be written 
 remains ; but what often vanishes unre- 
 corded lives, like a picture, unexpressed 
 by words, yet bright and glowing in the 
 heart. 
 
 Farmer John read the volume many 
 times through, but he never glanced at 
 the first page. Miss Hawker, as belong- 
 ing to the inquiring, though frail, sex, was 
 more curious. But the pencil scrawl, all 
 but the date, remained unintelligible to 
 her. It was evidently a strange name 
 and place. 
 
In the Vicar's Study. 161 
 
 1 Frederica. 
 
 Roma, Dec, 18 — . 
 
 Nessun maggior dolore 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 Nella miseria — ' 
 
 The face was the hasty sketch of a fair 
 young woman. 
 
 vol. i. m 
 
162 Farmer John. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In the School-room. 
 
 ARMER JOHN felt little curiosity 
 as to what he might be going to 
 witness in the Vicars little school-room on 
 the Thursday evening following. He had, 
 indeed, already some idea what the pro- 
 ceedings of the evangelists would probably 
 be, as upon several occasions he had 
 escorted his sister to the Wesleyan revival 
 meetings in Flaxton. These had made, 
 
In the School-room. 163 
 
 however, but little impression on his mind, 
 accustomed as he was to shut up within 
 himself every imagination, or idea, which 
 might differ from the old prejudices of 
 those amongst whom he lived. Indeed, he 
 was so little used to announcing his own 
 opinions, that it is probable he had formu- 
 lated but few. But to these he ardently 
 clung, and, indeed, they had become a part 
 of his being. 
 
 If Mr. Wentworth had demanded of 
 him a service in which there was a ques- 
 tion of his breaking that vow, which we 
 have heard discussed by his neighbours, 
 he would unhesitatingly, though sorrow- 
 fully, have refused it. Sorrowfully — be- 
 cause for the first time Farmer John was 
 
 m 2 
 
164 Farmer John. 
 
 experiencing the strange fascination caused 
 by a superior intellect stooping to hold 
 intercourse with his — an intellect with 
 which, in an indefinable manner, he had 
 secret sympathy. Of the sermons which 
 the Yicar vainly sought to bring down to 
 the level of his listeners, he felt that 
 Farmer John understood the whole ; and, 
 in their few brief conversations, the two, 
 differing so utterly in birth, position, and 
 education, met as equals. Nor is it cer- 
 tain which derived the most benefit from 
 the other. 
 
 When the light of the lengthening May 
 evening was beginning to fade away 
 slowly into darkness, and below in the 
 village the cottages were twinkling with 
 
In the School-room. 165 
 
 kindling lamps and candles, Farmer John 
 took his stout oaken stick, and left his 
 favourite chimnev-corner to the sole occu- 
 pation of Peter and the dogs. Jessie 
 would fain have followed him, but he sent 
 her back to Miss Hawker, who sat reading 
 to Mrs. Em'ly the ' Happy Circle,' a 
 magazine principally remarkable for its 
 highly sensational stories, illustrated after 
 a very imaginative fashion. 
 
 Miss Hawker did not venture to inquire 
 whither her brother was bound. But she 
 threw such an amount of severity into the 
 proposal of ' Lord Ferdinand,' whom she 
 was personating at that moment, that it is 
 doubtful whether that artless and vapid 
 young nobleman would have recognized 
 
166 Farmer John. 
 
 himself, thus transformed. Farmer John was 
 given to long, solitary evening rambles ; 
 but he had never started at so late an 
 hour as this. Miss Hawker glanced at 
 the old-fashioned clock on the wall, and 
 saw the hands pointed to eight. 
 
 As he approached the little school-room, 
 which was only separated by a low wall 
 from the ' Star,' a public-house notorious 
 for selling drink during canonical hours, 
 Farmer John could see that the building 
 was ablaze with light. Through the 
 closed doors came the sound of voices, 
 mingling in some melody. Higher and 
 louder they rose, and he could distinguish 
 the words of the chorus, prolonged by 
 harsh female notes : 
 
In the School-room . 167 
 
 ' The blood, the blood, the flowing blood, 
 I love the flowing, saving blood ! 
 It makes my tears fall all in a flood, 
 Glory to the flowing blood !' 
 
 Then there was a sudden silence ; and he 
 softly opened the little wicket, and stole 
 on tiptoe to the door. 
 
 He could now hear a single voice, plead- 
 ing, as it seemed, in heart-rending accents 
 for relief, with which, every now and then, 
 mingled the groans and exclamations of 
 the listeners. He could not catch more 
 than a word or two, but it was sufficient to 
 arouse his curiosity. As the door was not 
 tightly fastened, he gently pushed it 
 open with his foot, and entered the 
 building. 
 
168 Farmer John. 
 
 It had formerly been used as a potato 
 store ; and the floor of rough stones was 
 still discoloured, and strewn with earth. 
 A damp steam, the result of its having 
 been so long unoccupied, rose and mingled 
 with the breath of the crowd gathered 
 there. The place was entirely filled with 
 persons of all ages, from old men to babies 
 clinging to their mothers' shoulders. Some 
 were sitting bolt upright on the benches 
 that filled the room, staring straight before 
 them with wide-opened, bewildered eyes ; 
 others had prostrated themselves on the 
 ground, their faces buried in their 
 hands. 
 
 No one perceived the entrance of Far- 
 mer John ; for all eyes were fixed upon the 
 
In the School-room. 169 
 
 speaker, whose voice came clearly from 
 the top of the room. Even as he now 
 spoke, the number of those sitting or 
 standing was diminished, for they sudden- 
 ly fell upon their knees, as though impell- 
 ed by some hidden force. 
 
 The voice was low and insinuating, and 
 penetrating in its tone. To Farmer John 
 it seemed like magic, which held each 
 one bound or entranced. He noticed 
 amongst the crowd several persons, who 
 he knew were utterly opposed to auy 
 such religious feelings as they now 
 evinced, swaying to and fro like mighty 
 oaks before a storm. All around he 
 heard groans and sobs. The heat of 
 the atmosphere was almost unendurable. 
 
170 Farmer John. 
 
 The people assembled seemed like those in 
 a dream, unable to move or act. Had it 
 riot been for his promise to the Yicar, 
 Farmer John would have escaped at once 
 to the fresh breeze outside. As it 
 was, he waited, and listened for what 
 might happen. 
 
 Something in the voice arrested him 
 too, though he scarcely realised it ; and, 
 raising himself to look over the mass of 
 kneelers before him, he saw its owner at 
 no great distance facing him. 
 
 He was kneeling on the ground, like so 
 many of his audience ; and his clasped 
 hands were stretched imploringly up- 
 wards. His bare head was bent rever- 
 ently, but every now and then he threw 
 
In the School-room. 171 
 
 it up with a sudden, despairing action. It 
 was a fat, common-place face, deeply 
 pitted by small-pox ; and it belonged 
 to the fat, common-place figure of a 
 little man, in a greasy black coat with 
 a velvet collar. He spoke with a broad 
 guttural accent, that proclaimed him to 
 be a stranger ; and his words had a cer- 
 tain rough eloquence, which the earnest- 
 ness of his manner heightened to a 
 marvellous degree. At one moment they 
 sounded like the storm that shakes 
 the trees of the forest, at another they 
 whispered like the gentle western wind. 
 
 1 Oh, great, good Lord V he said, ' Thou 
 knowest we are coome here for a little 
 mating. We are going to have a little 
 
1 72 Farmer John. 
 
 mating, and Thy sarvant is going to 
 speak. Thou knowest he is but a poor 
 sp'aker, Lord, but Thou canst make him 
 like hot barning coals upon the heads of 
 this people. Oh, save them, Lord ! They 
 are vile, and wicked, and miserable. They 
 are miserable, because they are vile and 
 wicked, and they are vile and wicked, be- 
 cause they are miserable. And why are 
 they miserable, Lord ? Thou knowest, 
 because they don't know Thee. They 
 have lived all their lives without knowing 
 Thee, and they will die without knowing 
 Thee. They must die. Thou knowest, 
 O Lord, that each of us must wither like 
 a leaf, and fall to the ground, and die. 
 We may put it off, and think we shan't, 
 
In the School-room. 173 
 
 but death will lay his icy finger upon us, 
 and we shall die. Lord, to think of 
 eternal death, everlasting death — for this 
 people, because they do not know Thee — 
 everlasting fire in hell, with Satan laugh- 
 ing at them, and making it hotter for 
 them ! Lord, Thou didst die that they 
 might live. Save them from that fire ! 
 They have all got precious souls. Save 
 them now — this moment — from eternal 
 damnation. Lord, save them !' 
 
 The speaker's voice was choked for an 
 instant. The crowd dropped with one 
 accord on their knees, and filled the room 
 with their groans and lamentations. Tears 
 streamed down the cheeks of both men 
 and women, as they listened to the de- 
 
174 Farmer John. 
 
 scription of their state. The speaker went 
 on : 
 
 ' Lord, we don't want ib so. There's 
 none here that wants to perish in that 
 burning hell. They've had enough of it 
 on the earth in their lives. They've been 
 wicked, many of them. Thou knowest 
 what their past lives have been. They 
 can't get them back — they are gone, and 
 all their crying won't give them a day or 
 an hour back. Thou hast got it all down 
 in Tby big book, that this one stole, and 
 this one killed, and this one was vile and 
 wicked. Thou sawest them do it. They 
 thought no one saw, and no one knew, 
 but Thine eye was looking, looking, al- 
 ways at them, even in the dark. It never 
 
In the School-room. 175 
 
 left off watching them. Lord, do their 
 sins make them happy? Thou knowest 
 it doesn't. Thou knowest they are wretch- 
 ed and unhappy, and that the man who 
 stole never enjoyed it a bit, but had 
 always to be hiding, biding away from 
 everyone, and himself too, what he had 
 done. Who was he trying to hide it 
 from, too ? It was from Thee. But 
 Thou sawest. Lord, canst thou for- 
 give — canst thou pardon ? Thou art quite 
 holy. Who can stand in Thy sight? Oh, 
 Thy blood, Thy blood, sprinkle them all 
 over with it, and make them fresh and 
 white again.' 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and leaping on a 
 bench, commenced in a loud, high voice to 
 
176 Fanner John. 
 
 sing a strange, new hymn, which he repeat- 
 ed several times, till the audience could 
 join in the chorus : 
 
 ' We've strayed away, we've strayed away, 
 Miles away from Thee ; 
 Oh, take us back, we humbly pray, 
 And make us thine for aye, for aye, 
 To Thee, to Thee we flee !' 
 
 The speaker then drew from his pocket 
 a little soiled brown book, which he held 
 up before the now silent audience. 
 
 f Dear brothers and sisters/ he said, 
 with his queer guttural accent, while a 
 light seemed to flood ever and to beautify 
 his little, fat, marked countenance, and 
 beamed in his small sparkling eyes. 
 1 You see this book. In it is written all 
 
In the School-room. 177 
 
 we wants to know. Nothin' else matters 
 but what's written in this little book. I 
 coomes from the Narth countree, that's 
 miles away from here. And I used to be 
 a pawnbroker ; and I 'arned my three and 
 four pounds a week. I don't tell you that 
 to make you think what a great fellow I 
 am, but only to 'lustrate what I'm going to 
 say. When the Lord calls one of His 
 people to follow Him, if there's anythin' 
 that makes 'em stand back, why, they must 
 joost give it oop. The Lord said to me, 
 like He did to Elijah, as plain as could be : 
 " Willy Bush, I wants thee to go and tell 
 the people 'bout Me down in the South." 
 So I went, and I've never wanted nothin', 
 because it was the Lord that called me, 
 VOL. l n 
 
178 Farmer John. 
 
 and not the devil. The devil calls a- 
 many. He says : " Coome thee with me, 
 and I'll make thee rich, and l'arned, and 
 like a gentleman." So lie 'tices you. And 
 he shows you all the kingdoms of the 
 world, and the riches of them, like he did 
 to the Lord. And what did the Lord say ? 
 " Get thee behind Me, Satan." But there's 
 a-many of you haven't said that. You've 
 said: " Thank 'ee kindly, Mr. Satan,"— 
 you've spoke so civil to him — "you're very 
 good to take me with you. I'll coome sure 
 enough." So you've soold yourselves to 
 Satan in this world for what he can give 
 you. You've soold your precious souls to 
 him, and he's bought you. He's paid you 
 well ; it wouldn't be fair if he didn't have 
 
In the School-room,. 179 
 
 you afterwards. You've got jour pleasures 
 in this world. But oh, what have you 
 lost in the other ? Ah, my brothers, my 
 sisters, you've lost the many mansions, 
 what the Lord prepares for them as loves 
 Him. I heerd tell a stoory once, of a 
 so'dier chap, a great, strong fellow of 
 six foot high and more in his socks 
 (he's a saint in glory now). He w r as 
 a so'dier, he was, and fearful given to the 
 drink, that cursed drink, that makes oos all 
 poor and miserable. It fills the pooblicans' 
 pockets, and it fills the rich gentry folk's 
 pockets what lets the pooblics to 'em. 
 But it ruins your bodies ; and what's 
 worse, it ruins your soul for evermore. 
 Well, this so'dier Pat, as they called him, 
 
 n 2 
 
] 80 Farmer John. 
 
 was woone night a-reelin' 'lang the streets 
 droonk, when he meets his officer. He's 
 sober enough to see it's the officer, and he 
 feels sure he shall get dreadful poonished 
 for it. So he slinks in under the shadow of 
 the wall, and thinks he ain't seen. He 
 gets quite sober, he's so frightened. But 
 the officer coomes oop to him, and calls 
 out, " I see you, Pat, it's not a bit o' 
 use your hidin' 'way there. Coome 'lang 
 wi' me," he says. Then so'dier Pat begins 
 to tremble all over and shake like a leaf; 
 and he cries, " Oh, sir, let me off this 
 time, joost this woonce, and I'll never, 
 never do it again." But the officer says, 
 " I've a-heerd that so many times, and it's 
 all hoomboog." Then Pat begins to beg 
 
In the School-room. 181 
 
 again, and he says, " Joost this woonce, 
 and if I ever does it again you may shoot 
 me, I won't care." So the officer says 
 he'll let him off joost this woonce, if he'll 
 promise never to do it again ; and if he 
 does, he'll shoot him. And so'dier Pat 
 goes 'way. But what does he do the very 
 next moonth, but gets droonk again ! Ah, 
 my brothers, we thinks we can get free 
 from sin in our own strength. But we 
 can't. It's like a great lang, oogly sarpent, 
 it twists its great scaly body all round of 
 oos, and we can't shake it off. So so'dier 
 Pat got droonk again ; and he met the 
 officer again ; and he knew he was caught 
 this time. And the officer says, "Pat, 
 coome thee 'lang wi' me." And he takes 
 
182 Farmer John. 
 
 so'dier Pat by the arm, and drags him 
 back to his house, and he takes him into 
 his room, and brings out his goon, and 
 pins so'dier Pat to the wall, and takes his 
 aim. And so'dier Pat knows it's his last 
 moment, and all his sins coomes back to 
 him, as if he'd doone 'em yesterday. And 
 he remembers how he's broken all the ten 
 commandments ; and how he isn't fit to go 
 and stand before his Maker. And he cries 
 out in his great agony, that he isn't fit to 
 die. And the officers jocst goin' to shoot, 
 when the door opens wide, and the officer's 
 only little soon, a beautiful little child, 
 roons in, wi' goolden hair, and big blue 
 eyes, like bits o' the sky in the soomer- 
 time. And the child roons oop to so'dier 
 
In the School-room. 183 
 
 Pat, and throws his little arms round him, 
 and cries out, " Oh, father, don't thee 
 shoot him. He's wicked, he ain't fit to die. 
 Let me die instead. Oh, father, don't let 
 him die !" But he's too late. The ball's 
 been shot. It flies 'way 'cross the room 
 like lightnin'. But instead of striking 
 down poor, sinful so'dier Pat, it buries 
 itself in the breast of the lovely, innicent 
 child ; and, wi' a smile, he falls down, and 
 dies. Now what should you think of that 
 man, if he was to fall into sin again ? 
 Don't you think he would love and serve 
 that father, and be ready to lay down Lis 
 life for him, and be to him more than the 
 soon he'd lost by his fault ?' 
 
 The preacher was silent for a moment, 
 
184 Farmer John. 
 
 while a strange tremor seemed to run 
 through his listeners. Farmer John had 
 been leaning unmoved against the door, 
 next a group composed chiefly of women. 
 They were all sobbing now, and their 
 emotion seemed, almost unconsciously, to 
 enter his frame. It was a momentary 
 and electric thrill, that reached into some 
 deep and hitherto unknown place in his 
 heart. The hand, that so firmly grasped 
 his stout oaken stick, trembled for one 
 instant ; and a cloud blurred the mass 
 of people that swayed before his vision. 
 He scarcely heard the preacher as, in a 
 brief and fanciful speech, he applied the 
 impossible story, which lie had told of 
 ' So'dier Pat,' to the case of his hearers, 
 
In the School-room. 185 
 
 making it serve as an illustration of 
 the gospel message which, in his own 
 language, was to ' save them from 
 death/ 
 
 The heat had by this time become over- 
 powering ; but no one present seemed to 
 feel it. They were completely at the 
 mercy of the little North-country pawn- 
 broker, and, if he had commanded them 
 to part with their lives to obtain the 
 eternal life he described, it is probable 
 that not one would have been able to 
 refuse. 
 
 But the evangelist evidently did not 
 wish this. He seemed to Farmer John's 
 confused consciousness to be urging a 
 new request upon his hearers, in an appeal 
 
186 Farmer John. 
 
 as impassioned as words and gestures 
 could make it. 
 
 ' Coome,' he repeated, ' to-night. Accept 
 the salvation offered to your souls, this 
 very moment. Don't delay, dear brothers 
 and sisters. You may die to-night. The 
 Lord only knows how long He will spare 
 you.' 
 
 He pointed with one hand to two loug 
 empty benches, which were placed on 
 either side of him at the top of the 
 room. 
 
 ' See, there's the penitent-form,' he 
 cried, waving his book above his head, 
 his voice hoarse and grating with his 
 efforts and emotion. ' It's meant for you 
 what means to give oop your sins, and 
 
In the School-room. 187 
 
 join the comp'ny what's bound for 'eav'n. 
 'Eav'n's the terminus, the Bible's the 
 ingine. It's a sure line, and there ain't 
 never no acciden's on it. The carriages 
 never takes fire, nor ain't there no col- 
 lisions. It's a long, narrow line, but the 
 terminus is 'eav'n. Coome, then, to the 
 penitent-form. Fall down on your knees, 
 and confess your sins out loud to the 
 Lord. He will pardon and save you. And 
 while you're doin' so, we, what's found 
 joy and peace, will pray 'ard and 'arnest, 
 that you may be saved too, to sarve 
 Him.' 
 
 He stopped, and fell on his knees, as, 
 one by one, there stole up to his side 
 men, women, and young children, who, 
 
188 Farmer JoJm. 
 
 falling down, burst into loud and passion- 
 ate utterances, broken only by the rejoic- 
 ing exclamations of the evangelist, who 
 seemed to be giving devout thanks for 
 their deliverance. 
 
 After a few moments had passed in 
 this manner, he rose, and commenced 
 another hymn of a quick and lively charac- 
 ter, in which the assembly joined with one 
 accord. 
 
 The sweet voice of a young girl close 
 behind him fell on Farmer John's ear, 
 uttering the words so distinctly that, be- 
 fore he was aware, he heard, or fancied he 
 heard, his own mingling with hers in the 
 great chorus. He fancied he heard — as 
 though he were another distinct person, 
 
In the School-room. 189 
 
 who was calmly watching the movements 
 of a being, exactly like himself, from 
 a distance, — watching, too, with some 
 anxiety. 
 
 The chorus died away in a broken, dis- 
 jointed manner ; and then the preacher 
 sprang again on his bench, and demanded 
 in clear tones if any ' brother or sister 
 would step forward, and give his or her 
 experience ?' 
 
 What this meant, Farmer John could not 
 imagine. Something new and wonderful, 
 he had no doubt. He had a dim feeling 
 still that he was doing some sort of duty, 
 for the benefit of some one else, in being 
 present at these strange proceedings. At 
 the same time, he had the curious and 
 
] 90 Farmer John. 
 
 novel sensation of watching, as though 
 in a dream, the actions of his double. 
 
 What would happen next ? There was 
 a slight stir in the group of women near 
 him ; and one of them pushed eagerly to 
 the front of the room, and mounted the 
 bench from which the preacher had 
 addressed the crowd. 
 
 She was a spare, sallow, little creature, 
 with a faded dress, and a sun-bonnet 
 drawn down over her eyes, which shone 
 brightly out of her pale, thin face. Her 
 voice, when she began to speak, was so 
 feeble and shrill, that it provoked a hyster- 
 ical laugh from some of her audience. But 
 they were quieted when, looking up, 
 they perceived the self-possession which 
 
In the School-room. 191 
 
 was unmistakably expressed in her coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 She gazed composedly before her, 
 and spoke slowly, and almost with 
 emphasis. 
 
 '1 thanks my 'ebbenly Vaither, and I 
 thanks the 'Ebbenly Rhailway, that they've 
 a-brought me to knaw the Lard ; and I 
 pray 'E will keep me for ever, Amen. I'm 
 a meell-maiden, I be. I weren't a good un. 
 For loDg years I led a wicked loife. I 
 'ated everywoone ; and they 'ated me. But 
 now I do knaw there be zummat else, and 
 that ne'er a oone o' we be too bad for the 
 Lard. 'E wants us all, 'E do, and it don't 
 matter if we ha'n't a-got noo characters. 
 'E'll give us woone. 'E've a-gived I 
 
192 Farmer John. 
 
 moine ; and it 'ull git I the bestes 
 sitivation ever I shall git. Oh, when 
 I do think 'pon what I use' to be, I 
 can a'most laugh wi' jay. I be sa 'appy, 
 zometimes I do veel, zeemen' I should 
 floy away !' 
 
 She raised her voice slightly as she 
 uttered the last words, and uplifted her 
 eyes, as though she saw some vision 
 above her, while a strange light, like that 
 which had beautified the little preacher, 
 flooded her pale countenance with an un- 
 natural brilliancy. Then she came quietly 
 down from the bench, and returned to 
 the group she had quitted. 
 
 Another and another took her place, 
 and detailed their various ' experiences.' 
 
In the School-room. 193 
 
 With each the whole narrative did not 
 occupy more than five minutes ; and a 
 verse of a hymn was sung between each 
 account. 
 
 A young man of not very prepossessing 
 appearance had just addressed the people, 
 and the preacher had once more com- 
 menced a shrill, high-soaring hymn, when 
 Farmer John, still in the same dream-like 
 manner, felt a stir somewhere behind 
 him. Several persons were disputing 
 together, or rather, were urging a third 
 to do something against that third's 
 will. 
 
 ' Do 'ee naow, Polly/ said one voice. 
 
 * Thee's 'fraid, after all the Lard 'ave 
 a-done for thee/ said a second. 
 
 vol. i. o 
 
194 Farmer John. 
 
 I Oh, thee o' little faith !' said the first, 
 in reproving accents. 
 
 I I don' knaw what to zay,' said a third 
 voice, in trembling tones. i I be aveard, 
 zure.' 
 
 1 Thee mus'/ said the second again. 
 *Look, they're waitenV 
 
 Immediately after, a figure was pushed 
 forward from behind, and shot past Far- 
 mer John. As the crowd gave way before 
 a new speaker, he could see that a young 
 girl, whose strength seemed to be failing 
 her, was being assisted to mount the 
 unsteady bench by the little preacher, 
 who whispered words of encouragement 
 in her ear. From whatever cause, it 
 seemed a difficult matter to restore the 
 
In the School-room. 195 
 
 poor maiden's composure ; and as she 
 stood up before them, speechless, trem- 
 bling, and trying to hide her blushing 
 face in her two dimpled hands, a murmur 
 of applause half-rose from the audience. 
 Farmer John felt himself eagerly bend- 
 ing forward to catch her first words ; 
 but they did not come. It appeared to 
 be a matter of impossibility for her to 
 open her little rosy mouth, or to do any- 
 thing but stare before her, in a terrified 
 manner, with wide-open, grey eyes. 
 
 She was of a robust and healthy build, 
 with the roundest shoulders and arms ; 
 and her short blue cotton dress, and ample 
 white apron set off to advantage her 
 young, active figure. Her clean sun- 
 
 o 2 
 
196 Farmer John. 
 
 bonnet had half fallen from her head in 
 the contest, which had ended in her being 
 pushed to the ' experience ' bench, so 
 that the soft folds of her neatly-braided, 
 mouse-brown hair were exposed to full 
 view. Her cheeks, round and rosy as 
 apples, were flushed with excitement, and 
 wet with the tears that trickled slowly 
 down them ; and her bosom heaved with 
 her quickening breathing, till Farmer John 
 almost fancied he could hear the loud 
 beating of her heart. She looked like 
 some fawn, that had been suddenly sur- 
 prised and driven to bay by savage 
 hounds, in the heart of some dark forest. 
 Two or three times her lips parted, as 
 though she were trying to speak. But no 
 
In the School-room. 1.97 
 
 words issued from theui, only a low sob, 
 followed by a burst of tears, whose flow 
 she vainly tried to stop with the corner of 
 the white apron. At last, by a great 
 effort, she ejaculated the kind of prayer, 
 with which all the speakers commenced 
 the story of their ' experiences,' and then, 
 in broken syllables, half choked by sobs, 
 she continued : 
 
 'I be Polly Ma'sh, I be ... . You 
 knaws me .... I wants to be good, and 
 goo to 'Eb'n when I doies. I don' want to 
 doie for iver, neither. I do lawve they 
 Khailway vo'k. They've a-1'arned I the 
 way. I hain't got noo mwoore to zay . . . 
 The Lard do knaw all what I do mane.' 
 
 As she spoke, Farmer John fancied he 
 
198 Farmer John. 
 
 recognised the same silvery voice which, 
 by some unknown power, had compelled 
 him to mingle his with it. The wide, grey 
 eyes were fixed vacantly on space; but 
 they seemed to Farmer John to be peering 
 down into the great hidden depths of his 
 soul. What did they see there ? Surely 
 nothing but sin and misery. What the 
 preacher had said was true. It was not 
 learning, nor wisdom, that would do ; it 
 must be a simple love. Had he got it, or 
 would he not, most probably, at the last 
 find himself condemned to pass a horrible 
 eternity with those to whom, in his pride 
 and reserve, he had fancied himself so 
 superior ? And where, and for how long ? 
 Oh ! how dreary, how dreary, how misty it 
 
In the School-room. 199 
 
 all was ! Could these people really tell him 
 the means of escape? "Where was he; and 
 what strange fire was it that seemed to be 
 consuming him within ? Who was that 
 fair, inspired creature, who had read his 
 soul with her bright, shining eyes ? They 
 were like lamps revealing his every 
 thought. Was it a temptation of the 
 devil ? He had never experienced it before. 
 It seemed to him as if he longed to dart 
 forward before them all, and fold her in 
 his arms. He might die ; what would it 
 matter, since he must die sooner or later. 
 And after that .... 
 
 Here his musings must have suddenly 
 ended. Without conscious thought, he 
 suddenly acted. He could not have said 
 
200 Farmer John. 
 
 how it came about, but in another instant 
 he had pushed his way to the ' penitent- 
 form,' and had fallen on his knees, and 
 buried his aching head in his hands. 
 Even then he was conscious of two things : 
 the preacher praying for his soul in loud 
 and entreating accents, and by his side 
 the kneeling form of the young girl, who 
 had just spoken, her clasped hands 
 stretched out, and her tearful eyes still 
 gazing before her. 
 
 There was a long blank in his con- 
 sciousness ; and then he was standing with 
 the crowd, which had now burst into 
 another hymn of rejoicing, and the clear 
 silvery voice was piercing him through 
 again. But he did not join in it ; and 
 
In the School-room. 201 
 
 there were some who noted with what a 
 wild, hungry look his glittering blue eyes 
 seemed almost to devour the face of the 
 unconscious maiden beside him. 
 
202 Farmer John. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Errity Gill is Dismissed. 
 
 FEW days after the meeting of the 
 Heavenly Railway Company, Miss 
 Hawker was seated, darning her brother's 
 socks, in the kitchen of Rummerwoods 
 Earm. A look of resignation had taken 
 the place of the usually rather tempestu- 
 ous expression, which characterised her 
 countenance. Every now and then she 
 hummed a line of some Methodist hymn 
 
Emly Gill is Dismissed. 203 
 
 in a sharp, cracked voice ; and as she 
 hummed, she glanced out of the window 
 that faced the steep white road. 
 
 Peter and two puppies, principally re- 
 markable for the length of their legs, 
 occupied the chimney-corner ; for the 
 master had not yet returned, although it 
 was nearly five o'clock, and the kettle 
 was on the boil. 
 
 A step sounded in the passage, and the 
 kitchen door was slowly opened, revealing 
 Mrs. Em'ly Gill's dilapidated sun-bonnet, 
 and the golden-brown dress in which she 
 invariably appeared. 
 
 ' Maister's not in,' she said, in her low, 
 quick voice. t There, I knawed it 'ud be 
 zoo, woonce 'e got daown t' Vic'rage. Yoive 
 
204 Farmer John. 
 
 'clack ! dear 'art, you must be a'most 
 varnished, Miss 'Ahker, my dear ma'am.' 
 
 Miss Hawker vouchsafed do reply, but 
 continued her darning in the same re- 
 signed manner. 
 
 c I don' knaw what's iver a-gwain' to 
 'appen,' exclaimed the carter's wife, loosen- 
 ing the strings of her bonnet, and sinking 
 into a chair opposite her mistress. ' As I 
 were a-comen' back from t' vields, I zeed 
 Mr. Jahn a-wahlken' daown t' rhoad wi' 
 sich a quare little man. A strainger, I'se 
 warr'nt, and not so sprack neither.' 
 
 Miss Hawker looked up. 
 
 ' 'Tis thik Rhailway veller, Em'ly, you 
 may depend on't. Well, what mwoore?' 
 
 ' I didden wish to anger you, ma'am,' 
 
Emly Gill is Dismissed. 205 
 
 began the wary Early, folding her coarse 
 red hands meekly in her lap. ' But they 
 was a-zayen' sich things. I were t'other 
 zoide o' the 'idge, and coulden 'elp a- 
 hearen' o' ivery word. There, 'twadden 
 vit for people to zay.' 
 
 * Then 'twadden vit for you to year, 
 Em'ly,' interrupted the sharp Miss Lizzy. 
 1 They do zay as 'ow listeners do niver 
 year noo good o' theirselves.' 
 
 ' Lawk, ma'am,' retorted Mrs. Gill. 
 What further information she was pre- 
 pared to deliver cannot be accurately 
 surmised, for an unmistakable whistle 
 was heard in the yard outside, and in 
 another instant Farmer John stood before 
 them. 
 
206 Farmer John, 
 
 His face was slightly flushed, and his 
 eyes looked unnaturally bright. His step 
 was' more hurried than usual, and his 
 voice, when he spoke, had a husky 
 sound, quite strange to those who were 
 accustomed to its loud, almost harsh, 
 tones. 
 
 ' Be the tay ready, Lizzy ?' he asked, 
 looking at her attentively, as though he 
 had not noticed the presence of Mrs. Gill. 
 1 1 be ready for it, I be.' 
 
 He seated himself on the settle in the 
 chimney-corner, and stroked Peter's back, 
 which that faithful animal arched with 
 delight, as he rubbed himself against 
 his master's legs, purring loudly the 
 while. 
 
Emly Gill is Dismissed. 207 
 
 1 Poor Peter/ said Farmer John, in the 
 same low voice. ' Thee's a good cat, thee 
 is.' 
 
 Mrs. Gill exchanged significant glances 
 with her mistress, and ejaculated suddenly 
 and emphatically — 
 
 ' There ! Lawk 'a-mussy me, ma'am, I 
 toold you zoo, I ded.' 
 
 Farmer John started at the sound of the 
 rasping voice, which somehow always 
 seemed to possess the power of inflicting 
 torment on him. Apparently unconscious 
 of the look on her brother's face, Miss 
 Hawker replied : 
 
 'What did you tell me, Em'ly, 
 pray ?' 
 
 1 Lawk, ma'am, jus' look at maister, 
 
208 Farmer John. 
 
 do ; he do look that dreadful', I shall vail, 
 I knaw I shall. There, I do trimble vit 
 to bu'st !' 
 
 'What is the matter?' asked Farmer 
 John, rising, and approaching the table. 
 He did look formidable now, and Mrs. Gill 
 had to thank her own tongue for having 
 roused the sleeping lion in him. But now 
 Miss Hawker's resignation gave way, and 
 she burst forth in her highest and sharpest 
 key. 
 
 1 Matter, Jahn ? Ay, a-plenty's the 
 matter ! What do you mane, pray, by 
 a-leaven' of me aloan' all the evenen' till 
 ten 'clack and mwoore at night, while you're 
 a-beaten' 'bout wi' bad vo'k. Ay, bad they 
 be, and noo mistak' ; and a-zetten' up ov 
 
Emly Gill is Dismissed. 209 
 
 Jobie, what was al'ays set up enough 
 avore, zoo that he tells me in me own 'ouse 
 that I be a meddlen', mischie'-maken' vool. 
 Them's 'is words, as true as I stan' jere. 
 There, it took 'way me breath ! I coulden 
 speak. An' to think of you putten' sich 
 things into's 'ead, a'most make 1 doie wi' 
 shame. Em'ly yere can tell you 'ow I've 
 a-croied, vit to breek me 'art. And Jobie, 
 Vve a-toold 'er jus' the zame, this varty 
 toime, and all 'long o' you, Jahn !' 
 
 Here the ill-used Miss Lizzy burst into 
 tears. In this Mrs. Gill, who possessed 
 the admirable quality of being able to do 
 the same at a moment's notice, at once 
 joined her, and, as her crying was of a 
 particularly loud and aggressive character, 
 
 vol. i. r 
 
210 Farmer John. 
 
 the duet was riot of the most musical 
 description. 
 
 Farmer John was at his wits' end. He 
 had returned excited, and with nerves 
 strung up, from a long and interesting 
 conversation with the Yicar, and a walk 
 with his new friend, the evangelist, and 
 some of his converts and companions in 
 the mission. His head ached, and strange 
 thoughts seemed chasing each other, in 
 the maddest helter-skelter, through his 
 brain. The loud lamentations of the wo- 
 men made it impossible for him to fix his 
 thoughts, or to recover his composure. 
 
 But even in the midst of such distract- 
 ing influences two facts were tangible ; and 
 he grasped them. Jobie was a good, 
 
Emly Gill is Dismissed. 211 
 
 honest man, and a faithful servant. He 
 had often quarrelled with Miss Hawker 
 before, and they had made it up as often. 
 This was the first fact — the consequence 
 being that on no account should his sister 
 succeed in driving him to part with Jobie. 
 The second was— that Em'ly Gill was the 
 cause of all the mischief. She was a fire- 
 brand in the household, and perpetually 
 rekindled the dying flames of enmity and 
 strife in the hearts of those with whom 
 she was thrown. To make mischief 
 was her delight ; and her influence over 
 Miss Hawker did not produce the best 
 results. That Farmer John was, more- 
 over, prejudiced against her, is scarcely to 
 the point in the enumeration of her mis- 
 
 p2 
 
212 Farmer John. 
 
 deeds. But it is certain that, in his rapid 
 survey of the field of battle as now- 
 presented to his view, Farmer John saw 
 the antagonistic forces there assembled 
 meeting amicably under one white flag of 
 peace, if only this dangerous general were 
 removed from the scene of action. 
 
 He struck the table with his heavy, 
 clenched fist. This, as he knew it would, 
 had the desired effect of causing a cessa- 
 tion in the duet. Farmer John's loud 
 voice then made itself heard for a few 
 moments. 
 
 1 Lizzy,' he said, ' don't you be a vool 
 now, or I shall be thinken' Jobie be 
 rhoight. He be a girt stoopid, he be. But 
 'is 'art's rhoight 'nough, it al'ays were, 
 
Emly Gill is Dismissed. 213 
 
 and will be zoo. You needen moind 'is 
 rhough talk. Tidden but talk arter all. 
 He's bin a good chap iver zince he corned 
 to our vaither, years agoo, a little bit of a 
 buoy, wi' the zame stoopid, rhough ways 
 and good 'nough 'art. You did loike 'en 
 well 'nough then. But zince thik Em'ly 
 took and marr'd 'en, you've a-niver loiked 
 'en the zame.' 
 
 He paused, not perceiving the furi- 
 ous glance that Miss Hawker shot at 
 him. 
 
 'Yes, it's thik Em'ly. And, as I'm 
 master yere, I zays : " You goo, Em'ly, and 
 you voind another woman, Lizzy." There's 
 a-plenty to be vound.' 
 
 He returned to his settle without an- 
 
214 Farmer John. 
 
 other word, and there was that in his look, 
 which stayed the speech that trembled on 
 his sister's lips. The injured Em'ly was 
 bolder. She rose, and, facing him, kicked 
 the dusty floor, till a cloud almost hid her 
 from view. 
 
 1 There !' she cried, triumphantly. * I 
 kicks you aff as I does this yere dus'. 
 You're noo bitter, you baint, for all your 
 l'arnen' and your voine vrien's, for zure. 
 Your books and your men's, for zure. T 
 loikes you, Miss 'Ahker, ma'am, and Lard 
 knaws I trimbles when I thinks to what I 
 leaves you all aloan' and unpertected. I 
 be aveared for your loife, I be. "Well, 
 there, God bless yer, ma'am, you've a- 
 niver done I noo 'arm. And as for I, I 
 
Eirily Gill is Dismissed. 215 
 
 niver had noo quarr'l wi' ne'er a oone, and 
 woulden neither, though you paid me. I 
 'ope, Jahn 'Ahker, wi' all your l'arnen and 
 your vrien's, you med voind's good a zer- 
 vant as Em'ly Gill's a-bin, and 'ave niver 
 zeed the worth o' the claws as I've a-used 
 in your zervice, there ! I woulden min- 
 tion it, Miss 'Ahker, ma'am, but 'e did 
 look sa straight at I. There, good day 
 to 'ee, Jahn 'Ahker, and I wish 'ee all the 
 'appiness you do desarve.' 
 
 She dropped a mock curtsey, aud 
 departed, slamming the door behind 
 her. 
 
 Directly she was gone, her devoted 
 mistress burst into tears and lamenta- 
 tions. 
 
216 Farmer John. 
 
 ' my Blessed, my Blessed !' she cried, 
 wringing her hands. ' What iver shall I 
 do? The bestes wummin iver I 'ad; 
 and sich a beautiful skemmer ! She'd 
 a-get mwoore crame aff nor zix others putt 
 togither. Jahn, Jahn, whativer shall I 
 do?' 
 
 The figure in the chimney-corner re- 
 mained motionless, as though unconscious 
 of her presence. It was in vain for her to 
 continue her doleful list of losses accruing 
 from the departure of the useful and 
 perfect Em'ly Gill. 
 
 When the deepening twilight threw its 
 black shadows over the chimney-corner, 
 she raised her eyes to see if, even now, her 
 lamentations could have no effect. But it 
 
Em'ly Gill is Dismissed. 217 
 
 was impossible that they should ; for the 
 settle was empty, and Farmer John had 
 long since escaped to the solitude and 
 peaceful calm of the hill behind the house. 
 Peter left his stool near the dying embers, 
 and came mournfully towards her to be 
 stroked ; and the puppies whined sympa- 
 thizingly ; while the old clock on the wall 
 opposite seemed stolidly to repeat : ' Em'ly's 
 gone ! Em'ly's gone !' 
 
218 Farmer John. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 By the Fields to Flaxton. 
 
 T would indeed be a difficult, nay, 
 almost impossible task to attempt 
 a description of the state of mind into 
 which, either by circumstances, or his own 
 curiously-formed character, Farmer John 
 at present found himself drifting. He had 
 baffled even the Vicar's penetration and 
 experience when, on their first encounter 
 after the meeting in the school-room, he 
 
By the Fields to Flaxton. 219 
 
 had endeavoured to question him as to the 
 proceedings of the evangelistic company. 
 There was a hesitation in his manner, and 
 at the same time a defiance in his eyes, 
 that seemed unaccountable. And yet he 
 was not changed ; and it could not in the 
 least be affirmed that the person before 
 Mr. Wentworth was any other than the 
 Farmer John Hawker, whom he had con- 
 sidered himself so fortunate in securing as 
 his churchwarden. A rumour, it is true, 
 had reached the Vicar's ears, through 
 Herbert Cosens, the gardener, that ' Mr. 
 'Ahker had been turr'ble took' on the 
 night of the meeting ; and the leader 
 of the evangelists himself had signified 
 something to that effect, during a 
 
220 Farmer John. 
 
 conversation, which had been peculiarly 
 interesting to Mr. Wentworth. 
 
 As for the Vicar, all his scruples con- 
 cerning the strange preachers had been 
 hushed to sleep ; and he was prepared to 
 give the mission every assistance in his 
 power. Indeed, he had exhorted the 
 people all through the district to attend 
 the meetings, and had spoken of them with 
 thankfulness even from the pulpit. 
 
 The dainty primroses were nearly over 
 in the lanes, and ferns of every kind were 
 springing up in their place, while the gay 
 summer flowers had begun to peep from 
 the high, mossy banks, where the great 
 elm-trees met overhead. The air was full 
 of the music of blackbirds, whistling the 
 
By the Fields to Flaxton. 221 
 
 same sharp notes over and over again, and 
 of wood-pigeons, cooing all clay long in the 
 Towers Close, when Farmer John set out 
 for an evening walk to Flaxton. He had 
 not quite made up his mind where he was 
 going. 
 
 But the soft western breeze was sooth- 
 ing, and he walked on with an appre- 
 ciation of all the beauties around him, 
 which is rare in those not accustomed to 
 make such remarks to sympathising hear- 
 ers. His solitary life, shut in and bound- 
 ed as it was by himself only, had made 
 him observant of the heavens, and of the 
 beautiful country through which he had 
 to pass in his everyday work. There was 
 not a bird, nor a flower, which he could 
 
222 Farmer John, 
 
 not have named, and lie knew their habits 
 besides. 
 
 He had turned from the main road into 
 the fields, through which a shortcut led to 
 the town, and, leaning against a sfcile, 
 noted with interest the movements of a 
 flock of rooks returning to their nests in 
 the Towers Close trees. Outside and 
 around everything looked peaceful and 
 contented ; but within he was dimly consci- 
 ous of a raging fire, which seemed ever 
 slowly mounting to his brain. What 
 thoughts chased themselves through his 
 mind it would be difficult to state ; but at 
 that moment they were interrupted by 
 approaching voices, one of which demand- 
 
By the Fields to Flaxton. 223 
 
 ed from behind a passage over the 
 stile. 
 
 Farmer John turned quickly round, for 
 he knew the voice. He met the half- 
 mocking glance of a pair of wide, grey 
 eyes, which looked out from under a rather 
 smart hat. 
 
 4 Lawk! 'Tis Mr. 'Ahker !' exclaimed 
 the maiden, addressing her companions be- 
 hind, two mild and vapid-looking women 
 in dingy garments. * Can us crass, please, 
 Mr. 'Ahker?' she continued, mounting the 
 little flight of stones, and looking down on 
 Farmer John from her superior height 
 with eyes now sparkling with laughter. 
 
 He held out his hand to her. 
 
224 Farmer John. 
 
 ' Can thee jomp, or shall I left thee, 
 maiden ?' he asked. 
 
 In reply she landed lightly on the green- 
 sward at his side, without touching the 
 proffered hand ; and then turned to assist 
 the two strangers, to whom the stile 
 seemed a profound mystery. 
 
 At last, after some not very elegant 
 scrambling, they rejoined their compan- 
 ion, and, ascertaining that Farmer John 
 was bound for Flaxton, they advised 
 him to ' come 'long to the meeten with 
 them.' 
 
 They were, as he had guessed, female 
 evangelists belonging to Mr. Bush's com- 
 pany. They were to give their ' experi- 
 ences ' that evening, and these, as they 
 
By the Fields to Flaxton. 225 
 
 were Londoners, promised to be suffi- 
 ciently interesting. 
 
 Farmer John evasively replied, that i he 
 would see about it.' 
 
 Here the young girl, who had been 
 walking somewhat in advance, turned 
 round, and looked him firmly in the 
 face. 
 
 * You ought to come, Mr. 'Ahker, sir/ 
 she said. ''Tis for your good, it is.' 
 
 1 Ah, Polly,' said one of the women, 
 ' you should have remembered that t'other 
 naight when you was so scared. We 
 mustn't be hafraid to speak the truth, hor 
 we shan't get to 'eaven.' 
 
 They had now come to a gate, which, 
 
 being fastened by a chain, they were 
 vol. i. Q. 
 
226 Farmer John. 
 
 obliged to climb over. In the de- 
 lay, Farmer John could see by Polly's 
 blushes how heartily ashamed she was 
 of her part in the meeting on Thursday 
 night. 
 
 k Niver thee moind, lass,' he said, 
 kindly. ' Thee'll do better next time. 
 Thee's got a-plenty o' time to l'arn in, I'll 
 warr'nt.' 
 
 ' Ah, but she might die hany time. We 
 'eard what the staition-master said abaout 
 it,' cried the second dingy female, in a 
 harsh and melancholy tone. * And then 
 'twill be too late when we're callin' for a 
 drop of water to cold our tongues, and 
 the rocks to cover hus — 'twill be too late 
 then to speak for the Lord.' 
 
By the Fields to Flaxton. 227 
 
 1 Ay, ay, ma'am,' said Farmer John. 
 1 But belike 'E don' requoire so much 
 talken'.' 
 
 6 The Lard do knaw what I manes,' 
 said Polly, encouraged by this powerful 
 support. 
 
 The two strangers were unable to argue 
 the point now, as Polly had the advantage 
 of them in agility. 
 
 While they were struggling with their 
 long petticoats and the gate, Farmer John, 
 without waiting for them as he had done 
 before, followed Polly, and left them to 
 come behind. 
 
 ' Be thee gwain' to the meeten', lass ?' 
 he asked, when they were out of hear- 
 ing. 
 
 Q2 
 
228 Farmer John. 
 
 1 'Ees, that I be,' said Polly. c I wants 
 to git good 's vast 's iver I can.' 
 
 ' Be theirs the way to git good, lass ?' 
 he inquired. 
 
 Polly opened her eyes even wider at so 
 strange a question. 
 
 4 Why, in coorse,' she replied, and then 
 stood still for the two panting women to 
 come up to them. 
 
 1 Don 'ee 'urry, ma'am,' said Farmer 
 John, who would fain have prolonged the 
 conversation. 
 
 1 Oh, dear, what dreadful gaites you 
 country people 'ave !' they both cried in 
 one breath. ' I couldn't stand livin' 'ere, 
 I'm sure.' 
 
 c The stoiles be bad for town vo'ks' ligs, 
 
By the Fields to Flaxton. 229 
 
 I reckon/ remarked Polly. At which Far- 
 mer John laughed till they fancied he 
 would never leave off. 
 
 They now emerged into the main road 
 again, and passed the house of a certain 
 real railway guard, known to be devoted 
 to the Heavenly Company's service. 
 Here they were joined by a group of per- 
 sons, who had been waiting for the return 
 of their fellow-labourers to adjourn to the 
 place of assembly in Flaxton. 
 
 The party consisted of some three or 
 four men, of ill-favoured appearance, 
 dressed in the uniform of the mission — 
 a parti-coloured coat, and bright crim- 
 son cap, emblazoned with the initials 
 H. R. C. in huge gold letters. They 
 
230 Farmer John. 
 
 accosted Farmer John familiarly, as a bro- 
 ther in the faith ; but, as his friend Bush 
 was not of their number, their advances 
 were but coldly received. Polly, look- 
 ing a little frightened, still kept by his 
 side. 
 
 1 I'll look to thee, lass,' he said, reas- 
 suringly, in an undertone. ' Niver thee 
 vear ; they be all straingers to the maid 
 too,' he added, in a low voice, to him- 
 self. 
 
 ' They be turr'ble good vo'k,' whispered 
 Polly. ' But I be a little 'shamed wi' 'em 
 still. I be nervous-like when I be wi' 
 straingers.' 
 
 She had never spoken two words to 
 Farmer John before. But they came 
 
By the Fields to Flaxlon. 231 
 
 from the same village, and that made the 
 difference. 
 
 ' Who's a-gwain' to zee thee whoam, 
 lass ?' inquired Farmer John presently, as 
 they lagged a little behind the evangelistic 
 party. 
 
 ' Zome o' 'em, s'pose,' answered Polly, 
 looking at him in her simple, innocent 
 manner. ' Belike zome vrom the vellage 
 'ull be there. I can goo wi' they. Tid- 
 den vur, and I pramised Grammer, if 
 'twere lang, I woulden stap to the en'. 
 Grammer wanted I to boide whoam,' she 
 volunteered, after a short pause. ' She 
 don' 'old wi' vo'ks gwain' 'bout zengen' 
 in t' street. But there, 'tis beautiful, I 
 thinks, and the ymns be loike 'ebbenly 
 
232 Farmer John. 
 
 music a'most. I be sa glad I knaws 'em. 
 Bain't you, Mr.'Ahker?' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, lass,' said Farmer John, and 
 smiled as he looked at the eager rosy 
 face. 
 
 ' Be your zister a-comen' in too ?' asked 
 Polly presently. ' I've a-niver spoke to 
 she ; but my aunt — that's Em'ly Gill — 
 'ave a-toold I a-many toimes 'bout 
 she.' 
 
 ' Be 'er thy aunt, lass ?' asked Farmer 
 John, musingly. There was not much 
 resemblance, he thought, between the aunt 
 and niece. 
 
 Polly chattered on about her numerous 
 relations till they reached the town, and 
 could see the sun setting, like a great 
 
By the Fields to Fhxton. 233 
 
 round blazing eye, over the old clock- 
 tower of the market-place. 
 
 Flaxton was the model of an old sleepy 
 country town, with that air of stillness, 
 which a rapidly decreasing population and 
 trade seems to give to a district. The 
 same drowsy-looking men were always to 
 be seen walking at the same slow, listless 
 pace down the wide main street. It was 
 difficult, indeed, to believe that at any 
 time the town could have been sufficiently 
 alive, and in the world, to harbour a flying 
 prince, as an inscription above a draper's 
 shop certified in dingy gold letters. His- 
 tory, or rather historians are not always 
 just in the causes to which they assign 
 certain events. It is probable that the 
 
234 Farmer John. 
 
 Merry Monarch owed his escape to the 
 fact that, even in those stirring times, 
 Flaxton had claims to the title belonging 
 to a region, that has always baffled the 
 devoted geographer, viz., the ' Other-end- 
 of-Nowhere.' It was, however, remarkable 
 for an excellent inn, known as the ' White 
 Hart,' round whose hospitable portal the 
 choice spirits of the place were wont to 
 pass the greater part of their lives. 
 
 A short time before, the inn had har- 
 boured an excellent gentleman, who had 
 consented to represent the interests of the 
 borough. The townspeople were unanim- 
 ous in voting for one, who knew how to 
 ' treat ' everyone all round — a more power- 
 ful argument in his favour than the ready 
 
By the Fields to Flaxton. 235 
 
 eloquence which sought to convince his 
 hearers, that Flaxton should yet figure in 
 Parliamentary debates as one of the most 
 powerful Radical constituencies in all 
 England. 
 
 The excellent gentleman belonged to 
 the learned profession so skilled in the 
 use of the most powerful weapon of 
 our modern civilization. He might have 
 succeeded as admirably in the Church, for 
 which his enthusiastic mother, a Bishop's 
 daughter, had destined him, for he was 
 the kind of man who is pronounced good 
 at anything. So the loyal borough of 
 Flaxton was counted peculiarly fortu- 
 nate in having secured him as their 
 representative, although it was at the 
 
236 Farmer John. 
 
 expense of abandoning all their ancient 
 principles. 
 
 To be sure, in spite of his promises, he 
 had not succeeded in reviving the slowly 
 dying embers of trade. Work had become 
 scantier every week, and Polly, who, like 
 many of the village girls, was engaged in 
 1 breeden','* was often obliged to start very 
 early in the morning to secure her share of 
 twine before the numbers of applicants, 
 vainly seeking employment, should arrive. 
 1 Breeden' ' was not a lucrative employ- 
 ment, for with all her hard work she could 
 not succeed in earning more than sixpence 
 a day. This small sum, as Polly was fond 
 of smart hats, did not go very far. She 
 * Making nets. 
 
By the Fields to Flaxton. 237 
 
 was, moreover, a delicate maiden, for all 
 her robust appearance, and she came of a 
 rickety stock. Fortunately for her, she 
 was her old grandmother's favourite, and 
 had been early removed from the doubtful 
 care of a high-spirited, drunken father, and 
 sadly improvident mother. 
 
 Old ' Granny Ma'sh,' as she was popu- 
 larly called, was a noble-looking, rather 
 strong-minded personage, over seventy 
 years of age. She was reported in the 
 village to have a little nest-egg hidden 
 away somewhere ; and it was even rumour- 
 ed that she was related to the i gentry ' on 
 her father's side. She had watched 
 tenderly over Polly from her babyhood, 
 and many were the old-world sayings, with 
 
238 Farmer John. 
 
 which she had edified her mind, on long 
 winter evenings, when the little maid was 
 still too young to do more than wind the 
 twine round the i swiff/ and fill the 
 1 niddles/ which granny's nimble fingers 
 emptied so quickly. By-and-by Polly 
 could take her place at the table, and at 
 last shared the honour, with only a few 
 others, of being able to do the f smallest 
 mish ' in the whole district rouud. 
 
Farmer John Speaks. 239 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Farmer John Speaks. 
 
 N her hurried walks into the town 
 in search of work, or when she 
 had slowly carried the great heavy fishing- 
 nets back to the factory, Polly had had but 
 little time to note the grandeur of the 
 place. This evening, when all thoughts 
 of everyday toil were banished, and only 
 the pleasures of a meeting were to be 
 
240 Farmer John. 
 
 anticipated, it struck her with great force 
 what a beautiful town it was. She was 
 entirely devoted to her own people and 
 to her village, and, unlike so many ardent 
 young spirits, whom circumstances and a 
 higher education have combined to ele- 
 vate suddenly into a fancied better sphere, 
 Polly had no wish for change. She de- 
 sired nothing better than to live and die 
 in Applecombe, and to be buried in the 
 haunted churchyard, near ' old GranT er 
 Ma'sh,' so celebrated in the annals of the 
 parish for the capacities of his throat at 
 haymaking and harvest times. 
 
 This evening the long, silent, echoing 
 street was like a heavenly pathway to 
 Pollv. For did it not lead to the 
 
Farmer John Speaks. 241 
 
 Town Hall, where ' Refreshment-room 
 Sally ' was to ' speak for the Lord ' ? 
 
 A crowd had already assembled outside 
 the hall, which they reached by a back 
 street leading off from the market-place, 
 and some witticisms were being levelled 
 at the heads of the evangelists assembled 
 within the building. Two or three wags 
 had attired themselves in mock evangel- 
 istic costume, and were brandishing sticks 
 in a menacing, though still playful, man- 
 ner. But they slunk away at the sight 
 of a policeman, who sauntered up to see 
 what was going on. 
 
 Farmer John pushed his way through 
 the crowd, with Polly now clinging to his 
 arm. She was a little frightened still, 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 Farmer John, 
 
 but much strengthened by the excitement 
 caused bj the heat and possible dangers 
 around. 
 
 ' I bain't aveard 't all/ she repeated 
 several times breathlessly, in reply to his 
 frequent inquiries as to how she did. 
 And when he found two seats, for him- 
 self and her, where they could see and 
 hear everything that went on at the top 
 of the room, she thanked him in the 
 simplest manner ' for bein' sa good to 
 her.' 
 
 ' Refreshment-room Sally,' in a very 
 smart costume, with a wreath of 
 flowers in her tumbled hair, would 
 have been particularly uninteresting to 
 the generality of persons who frequent 
 
Farmer John Speaks. 243 
 
 stations, but to Polly everything she 
 uttered was ' beautiful.' And Farmer 
 John watched Polly, and perhaps thought 
 the same, though of a different person. 
 He felt very much like a keen-sighted 
 person who had been suddenly blind- 
 folded, and sent out into the world, with- 
 out the power to remove the terrible ban- 
 dage — conscious of the faculty of sight, 
 yet unable to make use of it, with the dim 
 presentiment of a dangerous slip before 
 long, which may precipitate him into fatal 
 and overwhelming waters. He heard and 
 saw everything, indeed, but his eyes had 
 been touched by a cunning fairy, who, 
 although she had left him their use, had 
 given them the doubtful gift of metamor- 
 
 r2 
 
244 Farmer John. 
 
 phosing every object on which they gazed. 
 So 'Refreshment-room Sally' passed to 
 her place without unfriendly criticism 
 from Farmer John ; nor did he view the 
 low and degraded company in which he 
 found himself in a more uncharitable 
 manner. , 
 
 The time passed swiftly, and without 
 apparent consciousness of its flight by the 
 evangelists and their audience. Indeed, it 
 was their custom to continue their meet- 
 ings through a great part of the night, 
 since the closing of the public-houses 
 usually filled the hall with a concourse of 
 person in the best condition for reproof 
 and admonition. 
 
 The heat and glare of the gas had flush- 
 
Farmer John Speaks. 245 
 
 ed Polly's face, and her eyes sparkled as, 
 shariDg her hymn-book with Farmer John, 
 she poured out her sweet, fresh notes into 
 his attentive ear. He could not have 
 joined his voice with hers that night, for 
 the inclination was, somehow, lacking. 
 But he felt the same strange inspiration 
 creeping like a glowing fire through his 
 frame, and mounting to his brain. Her 
 eyes read his soul again, and a breeze, 
 laden with the fragrance of early spring 
 flowers, seemed to fan the cheek upon 
 which her breath moved. Perhaps she 
 noticed something unusual in his look, for, 
 as the singing ended, her eyes grew even 
 brighter, and she whispered, drawing 
 closer, till her lips almost touched his ear, 
 
246 Farmer John, 
 
 1 Do 'ee naow, Mr. Jahn, do 'ee naow. I 
 knaws you could. You'd speak jus' beauti- 
 ful, vou 'ood !' 
 
 She wished him to address the people. 
 She had diviued with her marvellous in- 
 sight that he could. 
 
 Without appearing to notice the crowd 
 that pressed round them, he suddenly 
 took the flushed, dimpled face in both his 
 hands, and, turning it towards him, slowly 
 and steadily gazed into the liquid eyes 
 that met his with such an artless look 
 of mingled shyness and surprise. He 
 took a long, deep draught from those 
 seemingly intoxicating waters, and then 
 sprang from his seat, and dived through 
 
Farmer John Sjjeah. 247 
 
 the throng to the platform erected for the 
 speakers. 
 
 There was a profound silence directly 
 his loud voice rang through the hall, and 
 his words had the effect of sobering not a 
 few who were in need of such a remedy. 
 What he said he scarcely knew. He spoke, 
 staring straight before him at some object 
 that seemed to appear to him alone. That 
 object was his inspiration. As he gazed, 
 it supplied the ideas and the words. It 
 was the figure of Polly, standing up now, 
 timidly yet admiringly, to catch each 
 syllable. Her brightly shining eyes seem- 
 ed to speak his thoughts, ere he uttered 
 them. When she sank down on the bench 
 
248 Farmer John. 
 
 again, overcome by fatigue, the object and 
 the inspiration vanished. Farmer John 
 returned to his place, amid a murmur of 
 applause. 
 
 ' Were thee toired, lass ?' he whispered, 
 as he rejoined her, and noticed the droop- 
 ing attitude of her figure. 
 
 She roused herself to exclaim, 
 
 1 Oh, 'twas beautiful, it was, Mr. 'Ahker ! 
 You can speak, oh, sa beautiful ! 'Twere 
 jus' like the Boible. And I heerd a-many 
 zay zoo too, I ded.' 
 
 Farmer John drew out his cumbrous, 
 old-fashioned silver watch. It was nearly 
 twelve o'clock, and it would be a good 
 hour before they could reach the village. 
 
 1 Thee mus' come now, maiden,' he said. 
 
Farmer John Speaks. 249 
 
 4 It be noigh upon mednoight. "What will 
 tli j Grammer zay ?' 
 
 Polly was so terrified at the thought of 
 her stroug-minded relative's displeasure 
 
 that she could scarcely follow her com- 
 
 ■i 
 
 panion through the crowd to the door. 
 Having almost lost si^ht of her ouce, 
 Farmer John became alarmed, more especi- 
 ally as the assembly was composed of not 
 the most select members of society. 
 When she was therefore once more at 
 his side, he took her haud gently in his, 
 and so led her safely into the dark street 
 outside. 
 
 1 "We mus' mak' 'aste,' said Polly, attempt- 
 ing to run. But she was worn out with 
 excitement, and the terror of a lecture 
 
250 Farmer John. 
 
 from ' Graramer ' in the near future, com- 
 bined with her desire to reach home, made 
 her steps uncertain. If it had not been 
 for Farmer John's supporting hand, she 
 must have frequently fallen. 
 
 At last they turned into the road lead- 
 ing past the Towers into the village. 
 Here the oaks and elms of the Copse on 
 the one side, and the Close on the other, 
 met overhead. No ray of starlight pene- 
 trated the darkness before them. The 
 road was said to be haunted by the ghost 
 of a wicked farmer, who was wont to ride 
 that way at the same hour every day. One 
 evening a mysterious-looking stranger, 
 believed by the villagers to be the devil, 
 was seen riding by his side ; and the next 
 
Farmer John Speaks. 251 
 
 morning his dead body was found hang- 
 ing from a scorched and blasted elm-tree, 
 which the day before had been as green as 
 the grass around it. Headless horsemen, 
 and dogs with fiery eyes, chained together, 
 were also believed to haunt the old ilex- 
 tree at one corner of the Copse. Now it 
 seemed as if the tale were to be proved 
 true ; for, as the two turned the fatal 
 corner, the clatter of horses' hoofs came 
 echoing up the hill behind them. A 
 lantern, carried by a rider, was flashed for 
 one instant upon Polly's face, while it left 
 her companion hidden by the surrounding 
 darkness. A voice exclaimed : 
 
 * Good noight, pretty Poll, and a kess to- 
 marr'.' 
 
252 Farmer John. 
 
 Farmer John felt the little cold hand 
 that rested in his become suddenly very 
 warm, but she made no reply to the rider's 
 salutation. 
 
 ' Who be thik ?' he asked, when the 
 sound of the horse's hoofs had died away 
 in the distance. 
 
 ' 'Tis Mr. Frank Khoddell, Mr. Sedney's 
 woldest,' auswered Polly, and removed 
 her hand from his, as they entered the 
 slumbering village, where a light burning 
 in one of the first cottages showed Polly 
 that * Grammer ' had not yet gone to 
 bed. 
 
At the ''Jolly Labourers' 253 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 At the ' Jolly Labourers' 
 
 HERE were no busier days in 
 Applecombe than Wednesdays 
 
 and Saturdays, when the market was 
 held in Flaxton, and no busier road than 
 that which ran past the ' Jolly Labourers r 
 to the town. Very early in the morning 
 the rattle of carts, laden with meat, poul- 
 try, and live animals of all kinds, would 
 waken the still sleeping villagers. The 
 
254 Farmer John. 
 
 usually quiet street would be alive with 
 hurrying figures, all anxious to be off in 
 good time. The air would echo with 
 the squealing of many little pigs, the 
 clucking and quacking of fowls and ducks, 
 and the shouts of farmers, butchers, and 
 their men urging on their soft-eyed, sleek 
 horses. 
 
 If any young maiden were anxious for 
 a lift to the town, she must don her 
 finery when the first rays of daylight 
 began to streak the sky, for the market 
 people, like the proverbial ' time and tide/ 
 waited for no man, much less for a gay 
 bunch of blue ribbons. 
 
 Inside the cottages the same prepara- 
 tions were going on. The good mother, 
 
At the ' Jolly Labourers' 255 
 
 who never failed to have the early break- 
 fast ready, summer or winter, fine or wet, 
 for the ' men-vo'k ' of the establishment, 
 might perhaps have some choice rolls of 
 butter, churned but yesterday, and wait- 
 ing in yellow richness in cool white mus- 
 lin wrappers to be disposed of. Or, if the 
 eggler had not called for the supply with 
 which the tame, creamy-looking Dorkings 
 always provided her, she might pack 
 another basket carefully with hay, and 
 lay the large, almost transparent, pinkish- 
 white eggs in it, and hope to add some- 
 thing to the funds oP the family by sell- 
 ing: them in the town. Then came the 
 loading of the great spring-cart, and the 
 harnessing of gentle ' Meary,' the huge- 
 
256 Farmer John. 
 
 legged, well-fed horse, whose intelligent 
 eyes seemed plainly to announce an under- 
 standing of all that was going on. At 
 last it was time for the ' little childer/ 
 too small to be trusted alone at home, 
 to be hoisted up by their father to the 
 front seat above patient ' Meary ;' and then 
 the good mother would mount nimbly 
 herself to the place beside the driver, and 
 the cart would rattle merrily down the 
 street in the grey morning dawn. 
 
 The day had worn away, and evening 
 once more come. It might have been 
 an unusually lucky one, and the ' little 
 childer,' tired and crying, yet soothed by 
 many unwholesome but attractive ' cush- 
 ions,'* have fallen fast asleep on the floor 
 * Sweetmeats. 
 
At the ' Jolly Labourers' 257 
 
 of the empty cart, as it rattled home 
 again. But, like as a tenth is by the 
 strictly-decorous reserved for charitable 
 purposes, so in his own stupid way the 
 * maister/ driving gentle ' Meary ' slowly 
 back to her stable, and an extra feed 
 of oats, had the conviction that charity 
 doth most properly begin at home, and 
 that that home can be none other than 
 the ' Jolly Labourers.' It is the happy 
 duty of everyone in this mad world to 
 endeavour to render others comfortable. 
 As this can only be accomplished by 
 first being comfortable and happy your- 
 self, who can blame the simple villager 
 if he acts out his own ideas of comfort, 
 though the means he may employ to 
 vol. i. s 
 
258 Fanner John. 
 
 accomplish his end may not be precisely 
 the same as those of his superiors ? 
 
 It will not, therefore, be a matter for 
 surprise if, on a certain bright afternoon 
 towards the end of June, when the more 
 correct of clocks in the cottages near were 
 loudly striking five, a group, on foot 
 and horseback, was assembled within and 
 without the hospitable bar presided over 
 hy Mr. Timothy Thick. 
 
 The stiff, upright figure of Mr. Sydney 
 Euddell leaned from his sturdy chestnut 
 pony to receive a foaming tankard from 
 the little maid who assisted Mrs. Thick in 
 her labours. Behind him was drawn up 
 Farmer Malachi Wadden's cart, and the 
 rubicund countenance of its owner was at 
 
At the ' Jolly Labourers' 259 
 
 that moment buried in his mug, a signal 
 for universal silence on the part of those 
 who felt amicably towards him. In the 
 doorway of the bar, and leaning against 
 the wall, were some half-dozen or more, 
 exchanging the news of the day, discuss- 
 ing the crops, and the chances of the 
 harvest, and the price of potatoes and 
 bread. Here the handsome white head of 
 Mr. Benjamin Chenny reared itself above 
 the others. His son Harry, who inherit- 
 ed his father's good looks and com- 
 mercial talents, was engaged in argu- 
 ing with his cousin, John Tolley, over 
 the ' cleesh ' of certain pieces of 
 timber, which both were desirous of 
 purchasing. 
 
 s2 
 
260 Farmer John. 
 
 Within the bar, and so busily engaged 
 in emptying their bumpers that they had 
 no eyes or mouths for anything else, were 
 two of Mr. Sydney's hopeful young sons. 
 The elder was a round-faced, bearded 
 fellow, with a cast in his eye. The 
 younger had apparently not yet, to speak 
 figuratively, awakened from the sleep 
 which oppresses so many young men, in 
 all stations of life, from the ages of six- 
 teen to three and twenty. He stared now 
 and then at the group outside, but he had 
 not even a spark of envy for the high-soar- 
 ing blackbird whistle, which Walter Fitz 
 was pouring out for the benefit of the 
 assembled company. 
 
 Angel Tolley, the clerk's son, followed 
 
At the ' Jolly Labourers. 1 261 
 
 closely on the heels of his friend. He 
 was lucky enough to be * treated ' by Mr. 
 Ruddell, with whom he was an especial 
 favourite. So he took up his position 
 near him, intending to show his devotion 
 to his benefactor in some practical manner, 
 should occasion arise. 
 
 The lithe figure of a man in a brown 
 velveteen coat, followed by two or three 
 dogs, passing on the other side of the 
 road, was greeted by a shout from Mr. 
 Ruddell. 
 
 ' Hulloa there, Jimmy Treviss, where be 
 gwain to ?' asked another voice, and the 
 man was beckoned on all sides to join the 
 group. 
 
 He came slowly across, whistling to his 
 
262 Farmer John. 
 
 dogs, and saluted the company by a 
 wave of his hand. He wore a rough 
 tweed cap and yellow riding-gaiters, very 
 much the worse for wear ; his coarse, 
 blue shirt was collarless, and his beard 
 uncombed. But, in spite of all these 
 drawbacks, there was a look of remarkable 
 intelligence, and superiority to those around, 
 on his straight, well-cut features, and a 
 smile, at once shrewd, sarcastic, and 
 humorous, played about his thin-lipped 
 mouth, as he approached the group outside 
 the bar. 
 
 Although a notorious poacher, and one 
 of the pet aversions of the Squire, young 
 Jimmy Travers, as he was called in 
 distinction from his father, was a great 
 
At the l Jolly Labourers. 1 263 
 
 favourite in the village. The friendship 
 of Mr. Sydney Ruddell may, to the village 
 mind, have appeared the cause of this 
 popularity. But, to carry our investiga- 
 tions further, the very fact of the poacher 
 having secured the friendship of this 
 powerful ally showed a discrimination and 
 careful course of action, which, together 
 with his almost unbounded influence over 
 ' 'Andsome Ben ' and his son, declared 
 him to be the possessor of some rare and 
 valuable qualities. Added to these, he 
 was not a native of the village, and had 
 received a good education enough for a 
 farmer's son. It is, of course, to be 
 understood, that his clever little wife 
 Annie by no means detracted from the 
 
264 Farmer John. 
 
 respect in which his character was 
 held. 
 
 1 Growen' weather, Mr. Treviss,' said 
 the clerk, as the new arrival joined the 
 little group. 
 
 ' What's the best o' your news, Jimmy ?' 
 asked Mr. Sydney, offering his hand with 
 a grin. ' What 'ull 'ee take, eh?' 
 
 In reply, the younger Travers waved 
 his arms violently above his head, and 
 ejaculated, in a loud and theatrical 
 manner, 
 
 4 Flee, flee from the wrath to come ! 
 Don't you see the burning pit yawning 
 before your eyes ? Oh, my dear brothers, 
 will you sport upon the brink of destruc- 
 tion ? Oh ! flee while there is yet time — 
 
At the 'Jolly Labourers. 1 265 
 
 to-morrow you may all be corpses !' His 
 voice sank to a whisper as he ended, 
 and he pressed his hand to his eyes, as 
 though overcome with the excess of his 
 emotion. 
 
 The quotation and the imitation were 
 fully understood and appreciated. A 
 roar of laughter, in which those with- 
 in the bar joined, rang through the 
 street. 
 
 1 Hooray, Mr. Treviss !' remarked a 
 voice from behind. * It be as loike 'en 
 as two peas, and I've a-yeerd 'en, I 
 'ave.' 
 
 It was Herbert Cosens, the Vicar's gar- 
 dener, who now emerged from behind 
 the open stable, which formed one side 
 
266 Farmer John. 
 
 of the square courtyard round which the 
 1 Jolly Labourers ' was built. His shirt- 
 sleeves were rolled up, displaying a 
 brawny pair of arms, well browned by 
 the sun, and he carried a huge rake ; 
 for he was fresh from the Vicar's hay- 
 field, where he had been performing 
 prodigies of labour, to the admiration 
 and emulation of his companions there. 
 
 ' IVe a-bin worken' a'most all day 
 daown in t' mead a rhouen' the 'ay. We 
 shall put 'en up in pouks, an' 'aul 'en 
 marr' marnen', please God it kip voine/ 
 he continued, wiping the perspiration 
 from his brow, and laughing at the re- 
 membrance of his feats. ' The Yicar's 
 a-bin there 'issalf, and tooked a rhake.' 
 
At the ' Jolly Labourers' 267 
 
 ' Much 'e made o't, I reckon,' muttered 
 Mr. Sydney, who had not forgotten the 
 Easter vestry. ' Well, 'Erb, 'ow be the 
 'ay?' 
 
 ' Bain't much wrong wi' 'en/ answered 
 Herbert. ' It 'ull be a better lat this 
 yur nor they've iver a 'ad daown there. 
 I be all in a he't, I be.' 
 
 1 Try zummat, me buoy,' here inter- 
 posed Walter Fitz. ' That 'ull cool 'ee, 
 noo mistak'.' 
 
 4 My brothers, my sisters,' exclaimed 
 the younger Travers once more, in his 
 mocking tones, ' don't you know that 
 every drop of that poison which you pour 
 down your throats is a fresh bit of wood 
 thrown into the burning pit ? Before 
 
268 Farmer John. 
 
 very long you will find you are all in 
 flames. Ah, what a frizzling that will 
 be ! Pause, brother, and beware, before 
 it is too late/ he added, laying his hand 
 on Herbert's shoulder. 
 
 This wit was received with a still 
 heartier burst of applause, and the Yicar's 
 gardener, cutting his best caper, laugh- 
 ingly rejoined, 
 
 1 I've a-j'ined the pledge, I 'ave, for 
 dree mont' come the vust o' July ; zoo I 
 dursen touch the p'ison, as thik vo'k calls 
 'en. 'Tis voine vun their tahlk, a'most 
 makes I doie wi' laughen'. They 'ull 
 be gwain' on 'bout it marr', I reckon. 
 Lawks, 'ow I shall laugh wi' mesalf when 
 they zays it agen !' 
 
At the ' Jolly Labourers J 269 
 
 * They be gwain' to 'ave 'nother meeten' 
 in t' wold school-'ouse, bain't 'er?' put 
 in here the croaking voice of John 
 Tolley. 
 
 ' I zeed the Vertisement 's marnen',' 
 added Handsome Ben. ''Twere oncom- 
 mon quare.' 
 
 * They 'ull be zengen' drough t' street, 
 I've a-yeerd tell,' remarked Walter Fitz. 
 ' 'Tis vit to make e'er a oone's ears a'most 
 crack, they do 'oiler zoo. They've a- 
 drowed sticks and stwones and all zarts at 
 'em, to Flax'on. 'Twere a praper foight, 
 'twere. But the p'lice stapped 'en at last. 
 I wish I'd a-bin there to gi'e 'em a black 
 oiye or two, I do !' 
 
 'They be peaceable 'nough vo'k,' said 
 
270 Farmer John. 
 
 the clerk. 'Ne'er a oone needen moind 
 'era. Speak civil wi' all, and pass on's 
 my way. Tidden noo 'arm to you nor 
 they.' 
 
 ' They be a d d dirty lat !' here 
 
 interrupted the harsh voice of Mr. Sydney, 
 as he ordered another bumper for his 
 favourite Angel. 'If I ketched 'em 
 a-zengen' outzoide o' my dour, I'd make 
 'em knaw who's 'twere, I 'ood, zure's I 
 be a leven' man. The whinen' squailen' 
 dags ! They should knaw, them should.' 
 
 ' It has ever been my object,' interposed 
 the younger Travers, ' to convince you, my 
 friends, that in the sight of Heaven you are 
 all the same. Therefore, I fear, my excel- 
 lent Mr. Sydney, that if these poor people 
 
At the ' Jolly Labourers.' 271 
 
 are whining dogs, you must be one also. 
 It grieves me much to say so, but I 
 feel it is my duty to proclaim the 
 truth.' 
 
 This time the measured, well-clipped 
 periods were so ridiculously like the 
 Vicars, that, had he wished it, the 
 clever mimic might have been t treat- 
 ed ' by each of his listeners in turn. 
 
 1 1 think vo'k should kip quiet, and not 
 disturb other vo'k when they be a-bed 
 and asleep,' announced Harry Chenny, 
 Handsome Ben's son and heir. ' There 
 bain't no religion in that, zoo vur as I do 
 zee.' 
 
 ' Rhoight ye be, 'Arry F cried honest 
 Angel Tolley, who for the moment was 
 
272 Farmer John, 
 
 quite as much the advocate of decency and 
 order as the rest. 
 
 1 Be thee gwain, 'Erb?' asked Walter 
 Fitz. 
 
 1 'Ees, that I be/ was the answer. ' I've 
 a-got to look arter t' cheer. The Vicar's 
 a-gwain, and I've a-got to w'ale 'en up. 
 'E baint a 'eavy load o' earn,' he added, 
 laughing. 
 
 1 The Vicar a-gwain ?' exclaimed a chorus 
 of voices, in tones of mingled amazement 
 and contempt. 
 
 'Well, my brethren/ remarked the 
 younger Travers, sarcastically. ' No doubt 
 we shall have Refreshment-room Sal, or 
 whatever her name is, in the pulpit before 
 long.' 
 
At the 'Jolly Labourers.' 273 
 
 ' I'll kick her out, then, the bahlen' 
 .-..!' cried Mr. Sydney, who by this 
 time was beginning to feel within him 
 the strength to do and dare anything. 
 ' Zoo the Vicar be a-gwain' too, be 'er ? 
 An thik voine churchwarden, Jahnny 
 'Ahker wi' 'en too, I reckon ?' 
 
 ' Mr. Hawker is my valued friend,' put 
 in Travers, in a reproving tone. 
 
 i Bain't moine, then !' cried a chorus of 
 voices. 
 
 'Nor moine,' added the two young 
 hopefuls, who now emerged from the 
 bar, a little unsteady in the legs, but with 
 manly daring beaming in their eyes. 
 
 1 1 cann' boide yere langer,' sighed the 
 gardener, taking leave of the group, ' or 
 
 VOL. I. t 
 
274 Farmer John. 
 
 I shall ketch it vrom my missus. I've 
 a-got to goo to Sprackland Bar wi' this 
 rhake. I borrowed 'en vrom your vaither, 
 Mr. Treviss. Good day to ye, gen'le- 
 men,' and, cutting his caper once more, 
 the worthy Herbert departed on his 
 way. 
 
 ' A little shaky in 's upper stoorey,' 
 remarked Mr. Sydney, as he disappeared 
 from sight. 
 
 ' Sharp chap, though,' said the clerk, 
 who had reason to know this, having 
 already been frequently outwitted by the 
 ingenious gardener. 
 
 1 I've 'arf a moind to goo to the meeten' 
 too,' said Mr. Sydney, with a knowing 
 wink at his favourite Angel. ' Be thee 
 
At the ' Jolly Labourers.' 275 
 
 moinded to come 'lang wi' I, me lad ?' 
 he asked, leaning towards him from his 
 saddle. 
 
 ' Ay, zure,' answered Angel and Walter 
 in one breath. 
 
 1 'T'ood be voine vun to year that Eh ail- 
 way veller,' went on the leader, with many 
 suggestive gestures — i 'oodn't it, me lads ? 
 And then there be our Vicar. Ah, 'e's 
 the chap what do knaw 'ow to preach.' 
 He attempted a feeble imitation of the 
 younger Travers, which was not, however, 
 so successful. 
 
 While this conversation was going on 
 amongst those near the open door, a 
 woman in a dirty sun-bonnet, with her 
 dingy brown dress looped up above her 
 
 t2 
 
276 Farmer John. 
 
 great rough boots, had come quietly along 
 the road. She stopped to say a word 
 or two to old Farmer Wadden, who 
 was standing apart from the rest, his 
 face once more buried in his foaming 
 tankard. 
 
 Now old Farmer Malachi could in no- 
 wise suffer with patience an interruption 
 of any kind, when his countenance was 
 thus hidden from admiring spectators. He 
 let other folks alone when they were 
 drinking, and why should they not let 
 him alone ? So he gruffly mumbled 
 out something from the depths of his 
 mug, accompanied by as terrible a scowl 
 as the visible portion of his face was 
 capable of assuming, and turned away 
 
At the l Jolly Labourers' 277 
 
 from her. Upon this the woman, press- 
 ing her apron to her eyes, burst into 
 tears. Her sobs and exclamations were 
 so loud that she attracted Mr. Sydney's 
 attention. Glancing over his shoulder, he 
 perceived the well-known form of Em'ly 
 Gill, the wife of his enemy's carter, 
 and demanded sharply what it was she 
 wanted. 
 
 1 Oh, sir !' cried Em'ly, managing to 
 make her words tolerably distinct, in spite 
 of the vehement character of her grief. ' I 
 were only a-asken' o' Mr. Wahd'n if so be 
 as 'e wanted a wummin what can skem 
 beautiful, and do weeden', or turmit hoen', 
 or cowchen', or spreaden' dong, or 'iiy- 
 maken', and turn 'er 'an' to anythen'. 
 
278 Farmer John. 
 
 And 'e don', and whafaW shall I do?' 
 'Why, what be the matter, Em'ly?' 
 asked several voices, and the interest of 
 the little group was at once centred 
 round the crumpled sun-bonnet and faded 
 dress. 
 
 At this question, the ill-used Em'ly 
 once more burst into tears, declaring 
 ' you med knack her over wi' your little 
 venger.' She was forthwith ' treated ' by 
 the generous Mr. Sydney, and when, 
 through his kind favour, she was a little 
 restored, she commenced the story of her 
 wrongs. 
 
 ' Oh ! sir ; oh, Mr. Sedney !' she cried, 
 pulling her thin wisps of grey hair to show 
 the distraction of her mind. ' I've a-bin 
 
At the ' Jolly Labourers.' 279 
 
 treated that shameful, you 'ooden b'lieve 
 it. Arter years o' 'ard work, which I've 
 a-done a'most for nothen', I've a-bin turned 
 af£, and 'bused vit to kill a poor wummin ! 
 There, 'owiver I've a-stood it all sa lang, I 
 cann' think. 'Twere only thik there blessed 
 Miss 'Ahker what kep me up 't all. And 
 'er, poor zool, she've a-zaid to I this 
 many toimes : " Oh ! Em'ly," she've a-zaid, 
 "if 'twadden for you, I'd ha' doied lang 
 goo, I should." For, Mr. Sedney, sir, 'ood 
 you b'lieve it? Thik girt veller 'ave a- 
 stapped me fettles this varty toimes an" 
 mwoore, if I'd a-fexed 'en, as 'e 'ood zay. 
 And I, what niver 'urted a floy, nor 'e 
 neither, but 'ave worked me vengers to 
 t' bwone to vill 'is pahckets. There, I were 
 
280 Farmer John. 
 
 noo bitter nor a convic', I weren't ! I've 
 a-t'iled an' slavied vur 'e, what wasen vit 
 to clane me clags !' 
 
 A murmur of applause encouraged the 
 weeping Em'ly to a further rehearsal of her 
 wrongs. 
 
 *'E be a scollard, I've a-yeerd,' she 
 went on, in tones of sublime contempt. 
 *'E be churchwarden, too, in t' place o' 
 the bestes genleman what iver putt on 
 black coat.' 
 
 Here Mr. Sydney became consciously 
 pink, and slapped his broad chest approv- 
 ingly. 
 
 ' They've a-sp'iled 'en, that's where 'tis/ 
 she continued, with the air of one who 
 generously strives to give even the devil 
 
At the ' Jolly. Labourers' 281 
 
 his due. ' 'Twere 'is poor dear mother 
 as done it. " Em'ly," she've a-zaid to I 
 a-many toimes, " 'tis the sprackes' chiel' 
 in t' w'ole vellege. But 'e 've a-got 'is 
 timper too, 's well as the res'." " There, 
 I thenk 'e 'ave, ma'am," I did zay, <e and 
 zoo 'as us all." ' 
 
 This unexpected generosity on the part 
 of the person he had so wronged, by no 
 means served to lessen the hatred which 
 Mr. Hawker's conduct had provoked. 
 
 "Tis a shame, Em'ly,' said Mr. Sydney. 
 
 "E be a d d dirty veller— al'ays was,' 
 
 he added. 
 
 Even Handsome Ben and his son, who 
 had been disposed to follow the example 
 of the younger Travers, who had long 
 
282 Farmer John, 
 
 since called his dogs and departed, with 
 a little laugh at Em'ly's expense, now 
 joined in the chorus of indignation. 
 Mrs. Gill was again ' treated ' by general 
 consent. 
 
 ' I've a-got to goo to Flax'on t'-noight,' 
 said she, c zoo I mus' make 'aste, and be 
 back to zee to Jobie's zupper. Poor 
 Jobie, 'e do zay as 'ow 'tis my fault. But 
 there, he's sa ign'rant, 's Jobie. Good 
 day, sirs. God Almoighty bless 'ee, Mr. 
 Sedney, an' I gi'es 'ee many 'umble thanks 
 for all you've a-zaid and done.' 
 
 She dropped a curtsey to the company 
 in general, and walked on. If so disposed, 
 the group might have congratulated them- 
 selves on having performed the highest 
 
At the i Jolly Labourers! 283 
 
 duty of man — that of refreshing and 
 strengthening a fellow-sufferer. 
 
 They continued to discuss Mrs. Gill 
 and her wrongs, and Mr. Hawker's dis- 
 graceful conduct, for a little time longer. 
 Nor was the Vicar deprived of his share 
 of blame in the matter,. Indeed, Mr. 
 Sydney showed some ingenuity in attribut- 
 ing the whole affair to him. For it was 
 agreed, that ever since Mr. Wentworth had 
 come, and especially since he had appoint- 
 ed Mr. Hawker in the room of Mr. Sydney, 
 the airs and the behaviour of Farmer 
 John had been simply insupportable. On 
 the other hand, no doubt it was Mr. 
 Hawker who had proposed and arranged 
 this wretched Ranting meeting, which 
 
284 Farmer John. 
 
 was to keep so many honest folks awake 
 on the following evening. There was a 
 Church for those that wanted preaching, 
 and a whole day in the week for them to 
 go there, if they were so mighty religious. 
 Mr. Sydney had not known Applecombe to 
 be celebrated for much piety in former 
 days. But we all lived to learn. And, for 
 his part, Mr. Sydney assured his com- 
 panions that he would not put up with it, 
 and that, if the Vicar chose to give the 
 parish over to the Ranters, why, he must 
 take the consequences. Having been 
 churchwarden for so many years, Mr. 
 Sydney felt it his duty to oppose all rant- 
 ing, and to see that things were properly 
 looked after. He would not give his coun- 
 
At the l Jolly Labourers' 285 
 
 tenance to such proceedings, not he, for 
 anything. 
 
 1 'Tis at zeb'n 'clack they beggars begins 
 their roaren',' he said, gathering up his 
 reins, and taking his long riding-whip 
 from the hand of the faithful Angel. 
 1 Well, me lads, we'll 'ave a little meeten' 
 too. Why shouldn't us 's well 's them ? 
 Jus' sa many o' you as loikes, be raoun' to 
 my barton 'arf an 'aour later. We'll 'ave 
 a praper meeten' too, I reckon, an' noo 
 mistak' ; and two meetens bain't what they 
 d s 'ave a-bargained for !' 
 
 He cracked his whip till the startled 
 chestnut reared, almost dislodging his 
 master from the saddle. With an oath, 
 and a knowing nod to the attentive com- 
 
286 Farmer John, 
 
 pany, he galloped down the street, 
 
 while the little group, deprived of 
 
 its leader, soon dispersed in various 
 directions. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME, 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.