“Thanks,” said Guy, moving. “Good day to you, Mrs Outhwaite; I’ll see the vicar.”
The sunny valley had lost its smile, and for the moment Guy yielded to his sudden sense of shrinking distaste, and hurried on without a backward glance. This burlesque of his most inward and individual experience gave him a new sensation. He took his pony, and rode on up the hill to the church, where the vicar was watching the placing of the new grey slabs of stone, in place of the broken ones on the high-pitched roof. Guy tied up his pony, and sitting down on a flat tombstone, looked on also.
“Peter cast a shoe,” he said; “and Mrs Outhwaite has been pleading for Jem’s place as second grave-digger.”
“Oh, of course, one must let him literally ‘fool around’ as long as he can. His mother is pretty much of a Ranter; but so is every one here with any religion. How else would they have got it? She watches over poor Jemmy. Now and then he gets drunk at the Dragon. It’ll be a good day for him when we close it. He’s a nervous, timid creature; I’ve seen him shiver and shake sometimes in a way that was pitiful.”
“The mother says t’ owd Guy scared him.”
“Oh, well,” said the vicar, “I believe that tradition would have died out long ago but for old Peggy Outhwaite. She takes a pride in it. ‘T’ owd Guy’ is used as a sort of bogie to frighten the children; I’ve heard a mother say, ‘T’ owd Guy’ll get ye.’ It’s a sort of proverb.”
Guy made no answer; but he reflected that Mr Clifton was a South-country stranger, to whom the natives did not confide their inmost beliefs, and, being himself a North-country man, and no stranger, he enjoyed this opinion in silence. He started a little when he turned and saw the subject of the conversation standing close by him, touching his cap, and smiling at him, a slow, foolish smile.
“So you’re come to look after the church?” said Guy.
“When t’ church is fettled oop, me and sexton’ll have new clothes,” he said, in a cracked but confidential whisper.
“That’ll be fine,” said Guy, good-naturedly.