Fenn George Manville Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family
Part 1, Chapter I. Part 1 The Rectory Folk. Hot Water in Lawford
I say, why dont you give it up quietly?
Speak up; Im a little hard of hearing.
I say, why dont you give it up quietly? roared the speaker to a little bent old man, with a weak, thin, piping voice, and a sharp look that gave him somewhat the air of a very attenuated sparrow in a severe frost, his shrunken legs, in tight yellow leather leggings, seeming to help the idea.
Dont shout at me like that, Master Portlock. I arnt deaf, only a trifle hard of hearing when Ive got a cowd just a trifle, you know.
Have you got a cold? asked the man addressed, a sturdy-looking, fresh-coloured, middle-aged man, with a very bluff manner, and a look of prosperity in his general appearance that made him seem thoroughly adapted to his office. In fact, he was just the man that a country clergyman would be glad to elect at a vestry meeting for vicars churchwarden. Eh?
I say have you got a cold? Hang him, how deaf he is!
Oh, no! oh, no! chirped the little old man, sharply; Im not deaf. Just a little thick i the ears. Yes; Ive got a cowd. Its settled here just here, he piped, striking himself upon his thin chest with the hand that held his stick. A bad cowd a nasty cowd as keeps me awake all night, doing nowt but cough. Its that stove, thats what it is, Master Portlock.
Nonsense, man! It would keep the cold off.
Eh?
I say it would keep the cold off.
Nay, nay; not it. A nasty, brimstone-smelling, choking thing, as sends out a reek as settles on your chest. Stove, indeed! What do we want with your noo-fangled stoves? We never had no stoves before. Here he stops away from town all these years, only coming now and then, and now all at once hes back at the Rectory, and nothings right. Mr Paulby never said a word about no stoves.
No; but see how damp the church was.
Eh?
Eh?
Damp, roared the Churchwarden; church damp. Cush shuns moul dee.
Chah! Nonsense, Master Portlock. Damp? Suppose it was? A chutch ought to be damp, and smell solemn like of owd age and venerations. Mouldy? Ay; why not? he piped. Mind ta chutch folk o decay, and what theyre comin to some day. I once went to London, Master Portlock forty year ago now, sir forty year ago. It was cowd weather, and I got most froze a top o the coach, and it was a mazin plaace. Ay, that it was. But youve been there?
Ay, lots o times in my life.
Niver been in your life? Then dont go. Niver go if you can help it. Owd Mr Burton paid for me to go, he did owd vicars father, you know and he said to me a did, Mind ta go and see some o the London chutches, Warmoth, he says; and I did, and bless thou, pretty places they weer. I niver see a playhouse, but Sammy Mason wint to one i London, and he towd me what it were like, and the chutch I went into i the City weer just like it. Why, mun, theer were a big picter ower the mandments, and carpets on the floors, and all the pews was full o red cushions an basses, just as if they was all squires sittings, and brass rails and red curtins an grand candlesticks. Then reight up i the gallery wheer the singers sit was a great thing all covered wi goolden pipes, an a man i the front sittin lookin at his self i a lookin glass. That was t organ, you know, and eh, but it was a straange sort o plaace altogether to call a chutch.
Not like our old barn, eh, Sammy? shouted the Churchwarden.
Nay, not a bit, Master Portlock, piped the old man. Gie me whitewesh, and neat clean pews and a plait-straw cushion and bass. Folk dont go to sleep then, and snore through t sarmunt. If I had my way, Master Portlock, I wouldnt hev a thing changed.
No, I suppose not, Sam, said the Churchwarden, nodding.
Sixty years have I been clerk o t owd chutch, and hae buried generations of them as comed to the owd place christened em, and married em, and buried em, Master Portlock. They didnt like me being made clerk so young in them days. Jacky Robinson, as wanted to be clerk when father died, said I was nobbut a boy, but t owd vicar said owd Master Willoughby, you didnt know him? The Churchwarden shook his head. No; he died eight and fifty year ago. He said, No; let Sammy Warmoth step into his fathers shoes, same as him as is dead stepped into his fathers shoes. I find, he says, theres been Warmoths clerks here for a hundred years at least; and now, Master Portlock, sir, I can say theres
a parochial visit all the same. Only fancy, Polly with a baby! What a little stupid she was to leave us to come back here and marry a wheelwright!
I dont know, said Julia quietly; perhaps she is very happy.
Oh, of course. People are when they get married. Come along; I want to see Pollys baby. I wish she had not left us. She was such a clever maid.
I was very glad she went, said Julia gravely.
Glad? Why?
Because of Cyril. He was always following her about. She complained to me several times.
Cyril is a wretch! said Cynthia, with heightened colour. Papa ought to whip him. He always would look at pretty girls. I say, Ju, did you see Miss Portlock, the schoolmistress, on Monday? Was she nice?