The Parsonage Well. A tale of real life. By J. B. L. Author of 'Daunton Manor House,' etc

Chapter I

P\!||HETHER you take the old road from LlA£ Dorchester to Weymouth, with its pretty rows of lime trees, or travel by the rail, you will scarcely fail to observe, stretching away to the right and left among the barren chalky hills which overspread so large a portion of the county of Dorset, many a pretty little valley so clothed with trees and brushwood as to afford a relief to the eye in the agreeable B contrast between their leafy verdure and the monotonous surrounding scenery. In several of these valleys are little villages, more or less isolated ; yet all of them within reach, by a good walker, of either of the above named towns. And it isto one of these villages— the village of Hollington — that I wish to direct your attention, as some of its inhabitants, with their sayings and doings, will form the subject of this tale.

There are not many houses in Hollington, but what there are stand dotted about here and there in a very irregular, if not picturesque fashion ; some half way up the banks, others at the bottom, without much regard to the so-called street (but rather road) which runs through the centre of the village. At the higher and farthest end from the Dor chester road is the Church — a primitive struc ture, with its wooden tower, its low-arched portal, and small Norman windows ; and next to the sacred edifice, with only the old — now disused— burial-ground intervening between the church and the garden wall, stands the Parson age house — -a simple whitewashed building, pretending to very little outward adornment, but comfortable and roomy within, and sur rounded by shrubs on three sides ; while a kitchen garden and yard, with all kinds of useful sheds and offices, are to be found at the back.

To this parsonage had recently come the Rev. Tindal White, who had been presented to the living of Hollington by the patron, value just one hundred and eighty pounds a year ; but, fortunately Mr. W hite possessed a small independence besides, or he would never have accepted it ; for too well had he known, as a curate, the pain of witnessing in his daily ministrations sufferings and distress, which it was, with all his own self-sacrifices, totally out of his power to relieve, though many and many a day has he made his scanty dinner on bread and cheese that some poor sufferer might be strengthened and supported by a more nourishing meal sent from his own table. Not far from the parsonage was an excellent blacksmith's shop, and a little way bey*ond that several other cottages, one of which was occu pied by the policeman, Mr. Joshua Pyke, and his sister ; and at the end of a pretty bit of shady lane was a water-mill belonging to Mr, Marks, the miller.

It was as well Mr. Marks was a farmer also, or the mill must have been his ruin, as frequently in summer time for weeks together the millstream and pond to which it led were dry. But last, though not least in importance, occupying the most con spicuous place in the whole village, upon a bit of rising ground, flourished the "Wheatsheaf Inn," kept by one Mrs. (commonly called Nanny) Bell and her son John ; and these, I believe, are all the persons in whom we shall take an interest. Now you may be surprised when I tell you that of all the many visitors to the Wheat sheaf, the one most frequently to be seen hovering near the house was the steadiest man in all the parish, namely, our policeman, Joshua Pyke, a sedate and respectable personage, verg ing upon forty y*ears of age and of whom the Superintendent had a high opinion ; but he must not be allowed to remain under a cloud of suspicion, for the truth is, that the attrac tion which drew the poor man to Nanny Bell's door was neither ale nor spirits, nor the com pany in the bar parlour, but a pair of very saucy blue eyes which he could sometimes catch sight of, peeping out from behind the portly figure of Mrs. Bell, as she leaned with her fat arms crossed upon the top of her half hatch door, looking up and down the road in an indolent fashion, as was her custom.

The half-hatch had been originally provided for the double purpose of keeping the children in and the dogs out ; and being found a convenient institution, had never been altered, although her son John was now a stout young fellow of four-and-twenty, and the pretty owner of the blue eyes, whose hair was, in the sunshine, like molten gold, only three or four years his junior. Now this same lassie, although she had been entirely brought up by Mrs. Bell and loved and treated by her as a daughter, was in reality but distantly related to her, but was the child of her late husband's only sister. She had been left an orphan at four years old, from which time she had been adopted by the warm-hearted woman, whom Fanny loved with sincere affec tion, always calling her aunt, and looking upon John in the light of a brother or cousin.

And so it happened one summer's afternoon, while Mrs. Bell was standing in her favourite position at her half-door, while John was in the cellar bottling ale, that Pyke, the police man, came in sight, and, to use a nautical ex pression, " bore down " upon the Wheatsheaf Inn ; the sign-board of which had been newly painted, and looked quite gorgeous in the setting sun. And Mrs. Bell, in her own good-natured, cheery way, accosted him with, " And, well, Mr. P'liceman, how be you this fine afternoon ?" Nanny usually addressed him as " Mr. P'lice man," for she flattered herself she knew manners, and so spoke, as you might say Mr. Archdeacon or Mr. Dean. " I'm afraid, sir, you must find it uncommon warm a walking about all day in them 'eavy 'ats and they long coats, and to have to wear a leathern belt, too, about your body to make you the hotter.

I'm sure I never could wear such a thing round my waist !" Although where Nanny Bell's waist might be was difficult to imagine, for you might as well have looked for the waist of the waterbutt in the corner ; but she was a good soul, nevertheless, and persuaded Pyke tolethei bring him out a cool glass of ale ; " For," said she, " I knows you never will cross the threshold, sir, and it's nice and pleasant on the seat, under the tree, in the shade. Here, Fanny, Fanny, you just run down and tell John to send up a glass of what he's a bottling off. Fanny ! Fanny Yeates! I say* — sake alive, wherever is that gal got to, she were here a minute ago." " Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bell," said Mr. Pyke nervously ; " never mind about the ale ; perhaps Miss Fanny is busy. I will just sit down for half a minute, for it is very warm walking."

And he took off his metal-bound hat, and performed sundry manœuvres over .his face and head with a blue pocket-handkerchief. " And how is John to-day, mum ?" he continued. " Ah ! well, is he — that's right. And you don't think Miss Fanny's to be spoke with, I suppose ? The fact is that — a — I've got a — that is, my sister has sent her a little be ok that I — a that I believe she promised to lend y*our niece, Mrs. Bell, but — but it's of no consequence — not in the least." " Goodness gracious ! Mr. Pyke, why the gal can't be vanished — she's only in one of her tantrums, I daresay — and I'm sure it is uncommon kind of Miss Pyke to lend her a book, and you, too, sir, for bringing of it." And in went Mrs. Bell, screaming, " Fanny ! Fanny ! I say ; be y*ou deaf?" Now that naughty, wayward lassie had been only sitting in the bar parlour all the while, hidden behind the curtain, and the window having been open, she had heard with much amusement all that passed, laughing shyly at the wicked little fibs that sedate functionary, Mr. Pyke, was inventing; for she scarcely knew his formal old sister, and in the rare visits she paid her, believed that her whole stock of literature was comprised in her Bible and Prayer-book and the " Pilgrim's Progress ;" indeed, she seemed to do nothing but knit from morning till night.

When Mrs. Bell espied the little culprit in her hiding place, she was very wrath. "You naughty, good-for-nothing gal, y*ou !" she ex claimed, " whatever do y*ou mean by pretend ing not to hear, and me a-calling of y*ou like mad ! Here you won't so much as take the trouble to draw a glass of ale for Mr. Pyke, when he's so kind as to bring you a beautiful book that his sister's lent you. There, go along and see about it, while I get him a drop of something to cool his mouth." So Miss Fanny was obliged to go forth then and there ; while Mr. Pyke, having heard the scolding she was receiving, felt terribly flurried, and began to stammer out many* apologies, as he awkwardly presented a very* smartly* bound volume of poetry, muttering at the same time something about his sister. Fanny was looking rather red and cross, though at the same time a wicked smile was curling the corners of her cherry lips, while the nez retrousse looked more aggravatingly saucy than ever.

" Dear me !" she said. " How extremely kind of Miss Pyke ! I hope you'll give her my compliments and thanks. I suppose it is the ' Knitter's Manual ; or, Stockings as they are, and Stockings as they ought to be.' " " Oh ! Fanny, Fanny, dear Miss Fanny, how can you ?" said Mr. Pyke, half laughing, in spite of himself, and endeavouring to take possession of the hand she held towards him for the book. " Don't laugh at me, when you know very well how much I care for you. I know, to my sorrow, how many years there are between us, but if you would only permit me to hope that some future day — " " Oh ! good gracious ! Mr. Pyke, how can you be so stupid !" snapped the girl, catching her hand away with a jerk that sent the handsome volume down into the dusty road, with the covers wide open. " I'm not a-going to care for anybody, not I, much less to think about a man old enough to be my father.

It's so foolish of you to be wanting to talk such rubbish to me. Here comes aunt with your ale," which she had nearly upset over the book, as she sprang past that portly dame into the house. Mrs. Bell looked about in utter astonishment at the apparent state of affairs ; the policeman, looking confused and awkward ; Fanny, as red as fire, bolting into the house ; while the book, with its green and gold covers, was lying, face downwards, upon the ground. " My goodness ! why, whatever is the matter ?" said Mrs. Bell. " What's all this about ?" " Oh, dear! Nothing, mam, nothing's the matter ; only, you see— a — Miss Fanny's been and let fall the book — that's all," said poor discomfited Mr. Pyke ; and picking up the book, he carefully wiped it and put it into his pocket. " What ! and is that the best care she can take of a lent book?

Well, I never. But that's just like her now, Mr. P'liceman ; she's in a bit of a temper to-day, and no mistake. I don't deny but she's a good maiden in the main ; but she's a hot one, if things don't please her, though it's soon over — hot and hasty, sir." Mr. Pyke made no further remark, but proceeded thoughtfully and sadly upon his beat. " Ah !" sighed he to himself. " True enough it is, that there's no fool like an old fool ; and that dear,' saucy, little girl makes a fool enough of me, I feel, "to my cost, for I do love her to my heart. 'With all her faults, and without that fiery little .temper offers, she would not

Chapter II

£- 'VE just been down to the mill, la* LJII Burdon," said the blacksmith's wife, coming into her husband's smithy and setting down a bag of flo,ur upon "the wide open window-sill, " and Mrs. Marks and-T have been having a chat aboutour new, minister, Mr. Tindal White. She says he's very different to poor old- Parson ; Beans, his predecessor-, for *he'll'v£ake,,precioi*s good care not to Tet any body fall asleep *as sits under him, for he've gpt%*T>jee as* clear as a bell, and a eye, she says, *'ll look yotr through ; and more than that,* she declares that it won't be his fault if folk's- 'dqn'-t go right, if so be he goes on preaching as he've begun, for he up and tells 'em in plain English what they ought and what they ought not to do. No hard words and rigmaroles that nobody can make head nor tail of, she says ; no, no, not a bit like that, she says.

But, lor', Burdon, why ever do I go on telling you about ministers ? for I never knew you to go inside a church since the day we were married, worse luck, and I'm most afraid now I never shall. I only wish to my heart you would." " Not I, indeed, missis," replied the smith, scarcely pausing in his work to answer her. " I had quite enough of that sort of thing when I was a little chap, and used to be taken to church and to chapel, and be stuck up for hours at Bible Society meetings and Mis sionary meetings, when I was too young to understand a word that was said ; and if I did but shut my poor little eyes for a minute, down would come my father's cane, which seemed to cut like a knife. And I never had a bit of peace with their preachings and pray ings till I was big enough to be put apprentice to old Tongs, and I made up my mind then to be free of it all for ever.

Oh, I know all that them parsons keep on about — bother — bother — bother — never let a man have a bit of peace ; all the world agoing straight to the — " " Oh ! Burdon, don't go on like that ; it seems a'most wicked. I'm sure the clergy take pains and trouble enough to make folks good. But I'd better go indoors now, for when y*ou begin like that, y*ou're sure to talk yourself into a passion. It was a pity your father made church and such places a bugbear to you, though, no doubt, he did it for the best." "Well, missis, and if I do get into a passion, it's no wonder. Come, now, don't let's quarrel about it." c " No, Burdon ; that I should be sorry to do. But I never can cease to wish two things for your good ; one is, that you would go reg'lar to church ; and the other is — shall I say it once more ? — that you would not go to Nanny Bell's." The smith stopped hammering, and stamped upon the ground.

" Once for all, have done with that, I say," he halloaed. " I've a right to go or not to go where I please, and you nor nobody else shall hinder me; and you'll never catch me listening to your humbugging parsons, not I — a set of — " " Oh ! Burdon, Burdon, do hush !" cried his wife ; " here's your 'prentice, George Freeman, and our own dear good boy Charlie coming in, and it is not well for young folks to hear such words. Dear Charlie, who never gave his parents one hour's uneasiness in all his life, God bless him !" " Well, Charlie," she continued, as he entered the smithy, and laid his basket of tools beside the bag of flour on the window seat, while George went round the forge to the big bellows, " are you very tired, and ready for your supper ?" " Oh, no, mother, not particularly," he replied ; " I have only been putting down a new brick floor in the back kitchen at the parsonage ; for, do you know, our new minister, Mr. White, is going to have a night school there, and says he hopes that all the young fellows in the parish will attend.

He intends to devote two hours three times a week to it. Is it not very good of him ? I am sure, I for one, shall be glad enough to go." " A pack of nonsense," growled the burly smith, frowning till his black eyebrows nearly met, and, seizing upon a horse-shoe with his tongs, he vigorously thrust it into the fire. " What in the world should you be wanting to go to school again for, hey ? I should have thought you'd have had enough of that long ago. Why, you can read and write, can't you ? and build a straight wall, and make out a bill, and what else do you fancy you're agoing to larn? Ah! it's all they drattified parsons again, a parcel of busybodies;" and down went the sledge-hammer, banging like thunderbolts. Charlie pressed the point no further then, but he felt that it would be far too great a privilege to be easily relinquished ; and as he saw that something had occurred to ruffle his father's temper, he followed his mother into the house, where, having put on a clean linen jacket, he took his accustomed place near the table, which, with a snowy cloth, was soon comfortably arranged for their evening meal; and by the time John Burdon came in, he had pretty well hammered and growled away his ill humour ; and when the supper things were cleared away, and he was settled in his great old wicker chair, with his pipe in his mouth, he had quite recovered his equanimity.

" I was talking to father," by and by began Mrs. Burdon (certainly with great want of discretion, after the smith's late outbreak, though no ill effects arose from it, as it happened), " I was a talking to father, Charlie, just afore you came in about what Mrs. Marks thought of our new minister — for I wasn't well last Sunday*, and couldn't go to church myself, and you were away down the country, you know, at work all the month — and she says as how he's a awful fine man in the pulpit — just the very one to make folks look alive and mind what they are about — and he's been to see the Marks', and is agoing to call upon us, and everybody, he told her, and that he hoped all his people would look upon him as their friend, as well as a pastor and — " " He'd best keep out of my place ; I don't want any preachers here," grumbled John Burdon, In a sleepy voice, from his corner.

" And Marks is to serve him with meal and flour," she continued ; " and he's got an invalid sister, too, I believe, who lives with him, but I don't know whether or no she's come yet. And, Charlie, who do you think is going to the parsonage as kitchenmaid ? — why our George's sister Emma. Is it true, George ?" turning to the apprentice. "Yes, please, 'um," said the lad, who was sitting on his wooden stool, eating his supper, with a well-filled plate upon his knees. " She's agoing Saturday ; five pounds a year and all found," he added, as well as he could, with his cheeks filled out with bread and cheese. " Umph ! under an old dame of a housekeeper, isn't it ? I wonder how long that'll last," muttered the smith. George opened his great brown eyes, and chuckled inwardly till his face was lost in his mug of ale, when, rising and pulling his fore lock to the company generally, he disappeared, and ran home to bed.

" Ah, poor Emma," said Charlie ; " George knows she'll be glad enough to keep a good place, for she has anything but a comfortable home now ; her stepmother is very unkind and harsh to her, making her look after all her own seven children, and do the work of the house besides." Mr. Burdon said no more, for the well thumbed Dorchester paper, which went the round of the parish, was just brought into him, and he roused himself up to con it over ; and soon afterwards Charlie bade his parents good-night, and ran upstairs to bed, to which he never retired without first reading a few verses from his little Testament — a birthday present in childhood from his mother — and after trustfully and humbly commending him self, and all those most dear to him, to the care of his Heavenly Father, he would lay his head upon his pillow, and sleep the sleep of a happy child.

With a bosom free from care, and a heart in which the evil passions of our nature had found no resting place, Charlie Burdon was by no means exempt from the faults and failings of humanity, for which of us (even the best) is not at times overborne by the pressure of events, or weak in our endeavours to resist temptation? But this our Charlie was a dear, good, honest-hearted young man as. ever breathed, though by no means a hero of romance ; and with a son's keen perception of filial duty, he endeavoured to shut his eyes to many points in his father's character that caused him at times much uneasiness ; to his mother he was a most devoted son, thoroughly understanding her many excellent qualities and the sorrow that his father's opinions occasioned her. Between those two the union of heart was perfect.

I have not yet mentioned Charlie's only sister, simply because she was living at service in a gentleman's family at Weymouth, where she was greatly appreciated. She was a par ticularly steady, well-conducted young woman, who had generally lived with an aunt before she took a situation; but we shall come to know something more of her by and by. John Burdon, the smith, was a healthy, hardworking man, and an excellent farrier — there was not a shoer in all Dorsetshire that could come up to him — neither could he be said to be a bad husband and father ; take him altogether, there was nothing in reason which he would have begrudged to his family, and so long as they did not cross his humours and opinions, it was all very well. But he was not a good-tempered man, and nourished a dis contented spirit, which often made him gloomy and morose ; and, worst of all, he could not, or would not, resist the temptations offered at the Wheatsheaf Inn.

Neither had he the slightest sense of religion to guide his hasty words and actions, nor to control the outbreak of his temper when aroused. When a boy (as he has himself explained) he was under the injudicious rule of a strict and bigoted father, who went the precise way to banish from the mind of a child every particle of reverence and love for all that is in reality most sweet and holy. All his religious exer cises were enforced by corporal punishment, and to his dying day he could never forget the long, weary hours he used to be compelled to sit and listen to lectures and discourses, of which his infantile mind could comprehend not one syllable. And yet this man (John Burdon's father) honestly believed himself to be doing his duty to his little son, and bring ing him up in the fear and nurture of the Lord.

Alas ! how fearfully had he mistaken his mission ; how unlike was his teaching to that of the gentle Saviour's, who would draw all men to His feet by love alone. This, then, must be ' John Burdon's excuse for so much that was faulty in his character ; so difficult is it in after life to shake off the impressions of childhood's early recollections. Yet, as I said before, he was not altogether bad, and I believe, that with his many defects, his heart was in the right place, and that in his own rough way he loved his wife and children, and, even unknown to himself, took a certain sort of pride in his son, who, if not regularly handsome, was a fine, well-grown, well-looking youth, and a very dutiful child withal. Thus he left them pretty much alone, as long as they did not interfere with him ; but should they appear to dictate to him in the slightest degree, or attempt to bias his opinions, even for the best, woe betide them ; he was then nearly certain to give way to a violent burst of passion, and after indulging in a long fit of growling, and betaking himself to Nanny Bell's, where he would sit drinking for half the night — drinking, grumbling, and railing against all those whose position in life was superior to his own, from the Queen upon her throne to the magis trates upon the bench.

" A d — d set of aristo crats," he would call them — nothing was too bad for them. And often and often, when he was thus sacrificing sense and reason to intem perance and ill-will during the dark hours of the night, would those at home (to whom with all his faults he was very dear) be lamenting his dereliction from the onward and upward path, and silently breathing an earnest prayer that he might y*et be permitted to see the error of his ways. Yet there is little doubt that had John Burdon's mind received more judi cious culture when a child, that he would have grown up a very different man ; so true it is, that the harder you bend the bow, the more violent will be the recoil.

Chapter III

a HERE are you going to work to-day, Charlie ?" said Mrs. Burdon, a few days after the conversation last recorded, and while she was preparing breakfast before her husband came downstairs. " Here is your cup of coffee, my boy ; I know you cannot bear being late, and father won't be down yet. I can keep the pot hot for him." " All right, mother," he answered, cheerily ; " I must be off in half an hour. I am quite ready for my breakfast, I can tell you, for I have been awake a long time, reading a little and thinking a good deal. You see, my head is full of this night school at the parsonage, where my work is again to-day. Mr. White is so kind about it, and so anxious we young fellows should take advantage of it. I only wish father could approve of my* going ; though I don't suppose he will positively object, do you, mother ?"

" Well, no, Charlie, no, he didn't refuse y*our joining the school, certainly ; he only asked what y*ou wanted with more learning, you know. And if you're so hot upon going, Charlie, why there, I'd go, if I were you, and say no more about it." " Well, mother, I'm glad you think so ; I will be glad to tell Mr. White by and by that I shall be thankful enough to make one of his pupils as soon as ever he is ready for us. Oh ! I shall be so pleased to learn many things I know nothing about yet. Now, there's little Fanny Yeates up at Mrs. Bell's knows a lot more than I do, though she's only a girl." Mrs. Burdon laughed. " You seem to know all about Miss Fanny's accomplishments," she said, "though you were never one to haunt the beerhouse, thank God." Charlie laughed, too, but coloured up to the roots of his hair, which was not lost upon Mrs. Burdon.

" No, no, mother, I hope not," he answered, nervously ; " at least, not for the sake of the drink. But, you know, I must be able to tell all about Fanny, when we were playmates and schoolfellows so long ; poor little lass, she used always to run to Charlie to protect her when the other children teased and bullied her. And didn't they catch it," he added, laughing, " that's all !" " Well, well, Charlie, Fanny's a nice bit of a girl, I don't deny; but she's got her father's faults, too — she's terribly hot and hasty when she's put out, isn't she now ?" " Oh, well, never mind that, mother ; I know she's a favourite of yours, hot or cold, and I do like a girl to have some spirit." And clapping his cap jauntily over his wavy*, dark hair, away went Charlie, whistling up the road, with his basket of tools slung over his shoulder ; and when he passed by the wide open window place of his father's smithy, and saw George Freeman ("jolly George," as he was often called, from his resemblance to Pickwick's fat boy) slaving away at the groan ing bellows, Charlie rejoiced to think he had preferred the trade of a bricklayer to that of a blacksmith.