‘Ay, ay!’ he said, by way of making his first admission, ‘“in My Father’s house are many mansions.” This chap has the key to the organ-loft’ Then, a little later: ‘It’s clean thinking, and a bonny music’ Later still, with a long, slow sigh on the word: ‘Eh!’ and then, unconsciously: ‘Deep waters, lad, deep waters.’
He read slowly, for the dialect was new, and he was bent on mastering it. His occasional difficulties seemed strange to the boy, but then, Paul had been suckled at this fountain, and could make no allowances for the prepossessions of age, and the distaste of an old palate for a new flavour. An occasional question startled him, the answer was so obvious and simple.
‘“Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God,”’
Armstrong read out ‘D’ye find the meaning of that, Paul, lad,’ he asked.
‘Village church,’ said Paul ‘Holy Communion.’
‘To be sure,’ said the old man, ‘to be sure. It’s tight packed, but it’s simple as A B C.’
There were questions Paul could not answer, and he and the old man puzzled them out together. They drew closer and closer. The boy dared to reveal his mind, and the father began to respect his opinion. By the time the warm weather was round again they were fast friends. They tramped up and down the path of the neglected garden arm-in-arm, and talked of literature and politics and the world at large. Paul had dreams, and sometimes he gave his father a glimpse of them. Armstrong preached humility.
‘L’arn, my lad,’ he would say, almost sternly, ‘l’arn before ye try to teach.’
Paul had turned public instructor already, but that was his secret There was a sort of treason in it, for Armstrong’s rival, a young and pushing tradesman, had started a weekly paper, and Paul was an anonymous contributor to its pages. This journal was called the Barfield Advertiser, and Quarry-moor, Church Vale, and Heydon Hay Gazette; but it was satirically known in the Armstrong household as the Crusher, and its leading articles (which were certainly rather turgid and pompous) were food for weekly mirth. But one day this was changed.
‘Why, William,’ cried Mrs. Armstrong, ‘this fellow’s turned quite sensible. You might ha’ wrote this yourself. It’s simply nayther more nor less than you was sayin’ last Wednesday at this very table.’