CHAPTER II: A MEETING OF THE QUIRE
It was the evening of a fine spring day. The descending sun appeared asa nebulous blaze of amber light, its outline being lost in cloudy masseshanging round it, like wild locks of hair.
The chief members of Mellstock parish choir were standing in a group infront of Mr. Penny's workshop in the lower village. They were allbrightly illuminated, and each was backed up by a shadow as long as asteeple; the lowness of the source of light rendering the brims of theirhats of no use at all as a protection to the eyes.
Mr. Penny's was the last house in that part of the parish, and stood in ahollow by the roadside so that cart-wheels and horses' legs were aboutlevel with the sill of his shop-window. This was low and wide, and wasopen from morning till evening, Mr. Penny himself being invariably seenworking inside, like a framed portrait of a shoemaker by some modernMoroni. He sat facing the road, with a boot on his knees and the awl inhis hand, only looking up for a moment as he stretched out his arms andbent forward at the pull, when his spectacles flashed in the passer'sface with a shine of flat whiteness, and then returned again to the bootas usual. Rows of lasts, small and large, stout and slender, covered thewall which formed the background, in the extreme shadow of which a kindof dummy was seen sitting, in the shape of an apprentice with a stringtied round his hair (probably to keep it out of his eyes). He smiled atremarks that floated in from without, but was never known to answer themin Mr. Penny's presence. Outside the window the upper-leather of aWellington-boot was usually hung, pegged to a board as if to dry. Nosign was over his door; in fact--as with old banks and mercantilehouses--advertising in any shape was scorned, and it would have been feltas beneath his dignity to paint up, for the benefit of strangers, thename of an establishment whose trade came solely by connection based onpersonal respect.
His visitors now came and stood on the outside of his window, sometimesleaning against the sill, sometimes moving a pace or two backwards andforwards in front of it. They talked with deliberate gesticulations toMr. Penny, enthroned in the shadow of the interior.
"I do like a man to stick to men who be in the same line o' life--o'Sundays, anyway--that I do so."
"'Tis like all the doings of folk who don't know what a day's work is,that's what I say."
"My belief is the man's not to blame; 'tis she--she's the bitter weed!"
"No, not altogether. He's a poor gawk-hammer. Look at his sermonyesterday."
"His sermon was well enough, a very good guessable sermon, only hecouldn't put it into words and speak it. That's all was the matter wi'the sermon. He hadn't been able to get it past his pen."
"Well--ay, the sermon might have been good; for, 'tis true, the sermon ofOld Eccl'iastes himself lay in Eccl'iastes's ink-bottle afore he got itout."
Mr. Penny, being in the act of drawing the last stitch tight, couldafford time to look up and throw in a word at this point.
"He's no spouter--that must be said, 'a b'lieve."
"'Tis a terrible muddle sometimes with the man, as far as spout do go,"said Spinks.
"Well, we'll say nothing about that," the tranter answered; "for I don'tbelieve 'twill make a penneth o' difference to we poor martels here orhereafter whether his sermons be good or bad, my sonnies."
Mr. Penny made another hole with his awl, pushed in the thread, andlooked up and spoke again at the extension of arms.
"'Tis his goings-on, souls, that's what it is." He clenched his featuresfor an Herculean addition to the ordinary pull, and continued, "The firstthing he done when he came here was to be hot and strong about churchbusiness."
"True," said Spinks; "that was the very first thing he done."
Mr. Penny, having now been offered the ear of the assembly, accepted it,ceased stitching, swallowed an unimportant quantity of air as if it werea pill, and continued:
"The next thing he do do is to think about altering the church, until hefound 'twould be a matter o' cost and what not, and then not to think nomore about it."
"True: that was the next thing he done."
"And the next thing was to tell the young chaps that they were not on noaccount to put their hats in the christening font during service."
"True."
"And then 'twas this, and then 'twas that, and now 'tis--"
Words were not forcible enough to conclude the sentence, and Mr. Pennygave a huge pull to signify the concluding word.
"Now 'tis to turn us out of the quire neck and crop," said the tranterafter an interval of half a minute, not by way of explaining the pauseand pull, which had been quite understood, but as a means of keeping thesubject well before the meeting.
Mrs. Penny came to the door at this point in the discussion. Like allgood wives, however much she was inclined to play the Tory to herhusband's Whiggism, and vice versa, in times of peace, she coalesced withhim heartily enough in time of war.
"It must be owned he's not all there," she replied in a general way tothe fragments of talk she had heard from indoors. "Far below poor Mr.Grinham" (the late vicar).
"Ay, there was this to be said for he, that you were quite sure he'dnever come mumbudgeting to see ye, just as you were in the middle of yourwork, and put you out with his fuss and trouble about ye."
"Never. But as for this new Mr. Maybold, though he mid be a very well-intending party in that respect, he's unbearable; for as to sifting yourcinders, scrubbing your floors, or emptying your slops, why, you can't doit. I assure you I've not been able to empt them for several days,unless I throw 'em up the chimley or out of winder; for as sure as thesun you meet him at the door, coming to ask how you are, and 'tis such aconfusing thing to meet a gentleman at the door when ye are in the messo' washing."
"'Tis only for want of knowing better, poor gentleman," said the tranter."His meaning's good enough. Ay, your pa'son comes by fate: 'tis heads ortails, like pitch-halfpenny, and no choosing; so we must take en as heis, my sonnies, and thank God he's no worse, I suppose."
"I fancy I've seen him look across at Miss Day in a warmer way thanChristianity asked for," said Mrs. Penny musingly; "but I don't quitelike to say it."
"O no; there's nothing in that," said grandfather William.
"If there's nothing, we shall see nothing," Mrs. Penny replied, in thetone of a woman who might possibly have private opinions still.
"Ah, Mr. Grinham was the man!" said Bowman. "Why, he never troubled uswi' a visit from year's end to year's end. You might go anywhere, doanything: you'd be sure never to see him."
"Yes, he was a right sensible pa'son," said Michael. "He never enteredour door but once in his life, and that was to tell my poor wife--ay,poor soul, dead and gone now, as we all shall!--that as she was such a'old aged person, and lived so far from the church, he didn't at allexpect her to come any more to the service."
"And 'a was a very jinerous gentleman about choosing the psalms and hymnso' Sundays. 'Confound ye,' says he, 'blare and scrape what ye will, butdon't bother me!'"
"And he was a very honourable man in not wanting any of us to come andhear him if we were all on-end for a jaunt or spree, or to bring thebabies to be christened if they were inclined to squalling. There's goodin a man's not putting a parish to unnecessary trouble."
"And there's this here man never letting us have a bit o' peace; butkeeping on about being good and upright till 'tis carried to such a pitchas I never see the like afore nor since!"
"No sooner had he got here than he found the font wouldn't hold water, asit hadn't for years off and on and when I told him that Mr. Grinhamnever minded it, but used to spet upon his vinger and christen 'em justas well, 'a said, 'Good Heavens! Send for a workman immediate. Whatplace have I come to!' Which was no compliment to us, come to that."
"Still, for my part," said old William, "though he's arrayed against us,I like the hearty borussnorus ways of the new pa'son."
"You, ready to die for the quire," said Bowman reproachfully, "to stickup for the quire's enemy, William!"
"Nobod
y will feel the loss of our church-work so much as I," said the oldman firmly; "that you d'all know. I've a-been in the quire man and boyever since I was a chiel of eleven. But for all that 'tisn't in me tocall the man a bad man, because I truly and sincerely believe en to be agood young feller."
Some of the youthful sparkle that used to reside there animated William'seye as he uttered the words, and a certain nobility of aspect was alsoimparted to him by the setting sun, which gave him a Titanic shadow atleast thirty feet in length, stretching away to the east in outlines ofimposing magnitude, his head finally terminating upon the trunk of agrand old oak-tree.
"Mayble's a hearty feller enough," the tranter replied, "and will spak toyou be you dirty or be you clane. The first time I met en was in adrong, and though 'a didn't know me no more than the dead, 'a passed thetime of day. 'D'ye do?' he said, says he, nodding his head. 'A fineday.' Then the second time I met en was full-buff in town street, whenmy breeches were tore into a long strent by getting through a copse ofthorns and brimbles for a short cut home-along; and not wanting todisgrace the man by spaking in that state, I fixed my eye on theweathercock to let en pass me as a stranger. But no: 'How d'ye do,Reuben?' says he, right hearty, and shook my hand. If I'd been dressedin silver spangles from top to toe, the man couldn't have been civiller."
At this moment Dick was seen coming up the village-street, and theyturned and watched him.