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For at that moment a great lump of furnace refuse, or glass, there known as slag, struck him a heavy blow in the back.
He turned sharply, but not a soul was visible, and he stooped and picked up the lump, which was nearly equal in size to his fist.
“Yes, no doubt about it, very bad,” he said. “Well, I’ll take you to my new home, and you shall have the first position in my cabinet of specimens, being kept as a memorial of my welcome to Dumford.”
“Well,” he said, as he reached the church gate, “I’ve made two friends already, and – perhaps – an enemy. By Jove, there’s another brick.”
Volume One – Chapter Three.
At the Foundry House
Mrs Glaire lived in a great blank-looking red-brick house in the main street, two ugly steep stone steps coming down from the front door on to the narrow kidney pebble path, and encroaching so upon the way that they were known as the tipsy-turvies, in consequence of the number of excited Dumfordites who fell over them in the dark. Though for the matter of that they were awkward for the most sober wayfarer, and in a town with a Local Board would have been condemned long before.
The ugliness of the Foundry House, as it was called, only dwelt on the side giving on the street; the back opened upon an extensive garden, enclosed by mighty red-brick walls, for the greater part concealed by the dense foliage, which made the fine old garden a bosky wilderness of shady lawn, walk, and shrubbery.
For Mrs Glaire was great upon flowers, in fact, after “my son, Richard,” her garden stood at the top of her affections, even before her niece, Eve, whom she loved very dearly all the same.
Mrs Glaire was a little busy ant of a woman, with a pleasant, fair face, ornamented with two tufts of little fuzzy blonde curls, which ought to have hung down, but which seemed to be screwed up so tightly that they took delight in sticking out at all kinds of angles, one or two of the most wanton – those with the rough ends – that had been untwisted by Mrs Glaire’s curl-papers, even going so far as to stick straight up.
On the morning when the new vicar made his entry into Dumford, Mrs Glaire was out in her garden busy. She had on her brown holland apron, and her print drawn hood, the strings of which seemed to cut deeply into her little double chin, and altogether did nothing to improve her personal appearance. A little basket was in one hand half-filled with the dead leaves of geraniums which she had been snipping off with the large garden scissors she held in the other hand – scissors which, for fear of being mislaid, were attached to a silken cord, evidently the former trimming of some article of feminine attire, and this cord was tied round her waist.
She had two attendants – Prince and the gardener, Jacky Budd – Jacky: for it was the peculiarity of Dumford that everybody was known by a familiar interpretation of his Christian name, or else by a sobriquet more quaint than pleasant.
Prince was a King Charles spaniel, with the shortest of snub noses, the most protrusive of great intelligent eyes, and long silky ears that nearly swept the ground. Prince had a weakness, and that was fat. He had been fed into such a state of rotundity that he had long ceased running and barking, even at cats, against which he was supposed to have a wonderful antipathy, and he passed his time after his regular meals in sleeping, when he was lying down, and wheezing when he was standing up, and never if he could possibly help it did he move from the position in which he was placed.
Jacky Budd, the gardener, was a pale, sodden-looking man, the only tinge of colour in his countenance being in his nose, and that tinge was given by a few fiery veins. He had a knack when addressed of standing with one thumb stuck in the arm-hole of his ragged vest, which was stretched and worn in consequence, and this attitude was a favourite with him on Sundays, and was maintained just inside the south door till all the people were in church, when he went to his own sitting beneath the reading desk, for Jacky Budd, in addition to being a gardener, was the parish clerk.
Jacky had his weakness, like Prince, but it was very different from that of the dog; in fact, it was one that troubled a great many of the people of Dumford, who looked upon it with very lenient eyes. For though the gentleman in question had been suspended by the late vicar for being intoxicated in church, and saying out loud in reading the psalms, “As it (hic) was in the beginning (hic) is now (hic) and ever shall be (hic),” he was penitent and forgiven at the end of the week, and he sinned no more until the next time.
The late vicar was compelled to take notice of the backsliding, even though people said he was troubled with the same weakness, for Miss Purley, the doctor’s sister, burst out laughing quite loud in consequence of a look given her by Richard Glaire from the opposite pew. Her brother was there, and to pass it off he made a stir about it, and had her carried out, to come back after a few minutes on tip-toe and whisper to two or three people that it was a touch of hysterics.
Those who knew Jacky could tell when he had been drinking from the stolid look upon his countenance, and Mrs Glaire was one of those who knew him.
“Come along, Prince,” she cried in a shrill chirpy treble, and stooping down she lifted and carried Prince a few yards, to set him down beside a rustic flower-stand, rubbing his leg with the rim of the basket, and Prince went on wheezing, while his mistress began to snip.
Jacky followed slowly with a pot of water, a fluid that he held in detestation, and considered to be only useful for watering flowers.
“Now, Jacky,” exclaimed his mistress, “these pots are quite dry. Give them all some water.”
“Yes, mum,” said Jacky; and raising the pot, he began with trembling hands to direct erratic streams amongst the flowers, then shaking his head, stopping, and examining the spout as if that were in fault.
“Stone got in it, I think,” he muttered.
“You’ve been drinking again, Jacky,” exclaimed his mistress, shaking the scissors at him threateningly.
“Drinking, mum! drinking!”
This in a tone of injured surprise.
“Yes, you stupid man. Do you think I don’t know? I can smell you.”
“Drinking!” said Jacky, putting his hand to his head, as if to collect his thoughts.
“Yes, so I did; I had a gill of ale last night.”
“Now, Jacky, I won’t have it,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire. “If you try to deceive me I won’t keep you on.”
“What, and turn away a faithful servant as made this garden what it is, mum, and nursed Master Dick when he was a bit of a bairn no bigger than – ”
Jacky stooped down to try and show how many inches high Dick Glaire was when his nursing days were on; and as the gardener placed his hand horizontally, it seemed that about six inches must have been the stature of the child. But this was a dangerous experiment, and Jacky nearly overbalanced himself. A sharp question from his mistress, however, brought him upright, and somewhat sobered him.
“Have you heard any more about that, Jacky?”
“’Bout Master Richard, mum?”
“Yes, Jacky. But mind this, I hate talebearing and the gossip of the place.”
“You do, mum; you allus did,” said Jacky, winking solemnly to himself; “but that’s a fact.”
“I won’t believe it, Jacky,” said Mrs Glaire, snipping off sound leaves and blossoms in her agitation.
“It’s a fact, mum, and I don’t wonder at your feeling popped.”
“I’m not cross at all, Jacky,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, with her face working, “for I don’t believe my son would stoop in that way.”
“But it’s a fack, mum; and you must send him away, or he’ll be taking a wife from among the Midianitish women. That’s so.”
“Now, I don’t want to hear gossip, man; but what have you heard? There, do stand still or you’ll tread on Prince.”
“Heard, mum? Lots. You should say, ‘What have you seen?’”
“Seen! Have you seen anything?”
Jacky put his thumb very far into his arm-hole, and spread his fingers very wide, as he rolled his head solemnly.
“You won’t tell Master Richard as you heard of it from me, mum?”
“No, Jacky, no; certainly not.”
“And get me kicked out without a moment’s notice?”
“No, no, certainly not. Now tell me directly.”
“Well, mum, Missus Hubley says as she knows he’s always arter her.”
“What, Daisy Banks?”
Jacky nodded.
“But she’s a mischief-making, gossiping old woman!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire; “and her word isn’t worth anything. You said you had seen something.”
Jacky nodded, and screwed up his face as he laid his finger beside his nose.
“If you don’t speak directly, man, I shall do you a mischief,” exclaimed the little woman, excitedly. “Tell me all you know this instant.”
“Well, you see, mum, it was like this: last night was very dark, and my missus said to me, ‘Jacky,’ she says, ‘take the boocket and go down to Brown’s poomp and get a boocket o’ watter.’ Because you see, mum, the sucker being wore, our poomp’s not agate just now.”
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, impatiently.
“Well, mum, I goes round by Kitty Rawson’s corner, and out back way, and I come upon Master Richard wi’ his arm round Daisy Banks’s waist.”
“Now, Jacky,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, with a hysterical sob, “if this is not the truth I’ll never, never forgive you.”
“Truth, mum,” said Jacky, in an ill-used tone. “I’ve been clerk here a matter o’ twenty year, and my father and grandfather before me, and would I tell a lie, do you think? Speak the truth without fear or favour. Amen.”
“Go away now,” cried Mrs Glaire, sharply.
“Wean’t I water all the plants, mum?”
“No; go away, and if you say a word to a soul about this, I’ll never forgive you, Jacky, never.”
“Thanky, mum, thanky,” said Jacky, turning to go, and nearly trampling on Prince.
“No, come here!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, whose face was working. “Go round to the foundry, and tell Joe Banks I want to speak to him. Tell him I’m in the garden.”
“Yes, mum.”
“Jacky,” she said, calling him back.
“Yes, mum.”
“Don’t you dare to say a word about what it’s for.”
“No, mum.”
Jacky went off round by his tool-shed, out into the street, and down to the foundry gates, where, after a word with the gateman, he went on across the great metal-strewn yard in search of Mrs Glaire’s sturdy foreman.
Meanwhile that lady caught up her dog, and carried him to a garden seat, where, upon being set down, he curled up and went to sleep, his tail and ears combined, making a comfortable coverlid. Then taking off her scissors and placing them in her basket, Mrs Glaire seated herself, sighing deeply, and taking out from a voluminous pocket, which took sundry evolutions with drapery to reach, a great ball of lambswool and a couple of knitting pins, she began to knit rapidly what was intended to be some kind of undergarment for her only son.
“Oh, Dick, Dick,” she muttered; “you’ll break my heart before you’ve done.”
The knitting pins clicked loudly, and a couple of bright tears stole down her cheeks and dropped into her lap.
“And I did not tell him to hold his tongue before Eve,” she exclaimed, sharply. “Tut-tut – tut-tut! This must be stopped; this must be stopped.”
The sighing, lamenting phase gave place by degrees to an angry one. The pins clicked sharply, and the pleasant grey head was perked, while the lips were tightened together even as were the stitches in the knitting, which had to be all undone.
Just then the garden door opened, and a broad-shouldered grizzled man of seven or eight and forty entered the garden followed by Jacky. Foreman though he was, Joe Banks had been hard at work, and his hands and lace bore the grime of the foundry. He had, however, thrown on a jacket, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, leaving a half clean line over his pale blue eyes, while a pleasant smile puckered such of his face as was not hidden by his closely cut grizzled beard.
“Sarvant, ma’am,” he said, making a rough bow to the lady of the house.
“Good morning, Banks,” said Mrs Glaire. “Jacky, go and nail up that wistaria, and mind you don’t tumble off the ladder.”
Jacky looked injured, but walked off evidently making a bee line for the tool-shed – one which he did not keep.
“Little on, mum,” said the foreman, with a wise nod in Jacky’s direction. “Wants a month’s illness to be a warnin’.”
“It’s a pity. Banks, but he will drink.”
“Like lots more on ’em, ma’am. Why if I was to get shut of all the lads in the works there who like their drop of drink, I shouldn’t have half enew.”
“How are things going on, Banks?” said Mrs Glaire.
The foreman looked at her curiously, for it was a new thing for his mistress to make any inquiry about the foundry. A few months back and he had to make his daily reports, but since Richard Glaire had come of age, Mrs Glaire had scrupulously avoided interfering in any way, handing over the business management to “my son.”
“I said how are things going on in the foundry, Banks,” said the lady again, for the foreman had coughed and shuffled from one foot on to the other.
“Do you wish me to tell you, ma’am?” he said at last.
“Tell me? of course,” said Mrs Glaire, impatiently. “How are matters?”
“Bad.”
“Bad? What do you mean?”
“Well, mum, not bad as to work; ’cause there’s plenty of that, and nothing in the way of contracts as is like to suffer by waiting.”
“Then, what do you mean?”
“Well, you see, ma’am, Mr Richard don’t get on wi’ the men. He wants to have it all his own way, and they want to have it all theirn. Well, of course that wean’t work; so what’s wanted is for the governor to give way just a little, and then they’d give way altogether.”
“But I’m sure my son Richard’s management is excellent,” said Mrs Glaire, whose lip quivered a little as she drew herself up with dignity, and began a fresh row of her knitting.
Banks coughed slightly, and remained silent.
“Don’t you think so, Banks?”
“Well, you see, ma’am, he’s a bit arbitrary.”
“Arbitrary? What do you mean, Banks?”
“Well, you see, ma’am, he turned Sim Slee off at a moment’s notice.”
“And quite right, too,” said Mrs Glaire hotly. “My son told me. The fellow is a spouting, mouthing creature.”
“He is that, ma’am, and as lazy as a slug, but it made matters worse, and just now there’s a deal of strikes about, and the men at other places listening to delegates from societies, and joining unions, and all that sort of stuff.”
“And have you joined one of those clubs, Joe Banks?” said Mrs Glaire, sharply.
