The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Parson O' Dumford, by George Manville Fenn

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Title: The Parson O' Dumford

Author: George Manville Fenn

Release Date: October 26, 2010 [EBook #34141]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARSON O' DUMFORD ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Volume 1, Chapter I.

PLEASANT RECEPTIONS.

"Ax."

"I was asking, or axing, as you call it, my man.  I said, Is that
Dumford, down there in the valley?"

"And I said axe, or arks, as you call it, my man," was the surly,
defiant reply.

The last speaker looked up savagely from the block of stone on which he
was seated, and the questioner looked down from where he stood on the
rough track.  There was a quiet, half-amused twinkle in his clear grey
eyes, which did not quit his verbal opponent for an instant, as he
remained gazing at him without speaking.

They were men of about the same age--eight-and-twenty or thirty--the one
evidently a clergyman by his white tie, and the clerical cut of his
clothes, though there was an easy _degage_ look in the soft felt hat
cocked a little on one side of his massive head--a head that seemed
naturally to demand short crisp curly brown hair.  The same free and
easy air showed in the voluminous wrinkles of his grey tweed trousers;
his thick square-toed rather dusty boots; and his gloveless hands, which
were brown, thickly veined, and muscular.  He had a small leather bag in
one hand, a stout stick in the other, and it was evident that he had
walked some distance over the hills, for the nearest town, in the
direction he had come, was at least six miles away.

The seated man, who was smoking a very dirty and short clay pipe, was as
broad-shouldered, as sturdy, and as well-knit; but while the one, in
spite of a somewhat heavy build, was, so to speak, polished by exercise
into grace; the other was rough and angular, and smirched as his
countenance was by sweat and the grime of some manufacturing trade, he
looked as brutal as his words.

"What are yow lookin' at?" he suddenly growled menacingly.

"At yow," said the clergyman, in the most unruffled way; and, letting
his bag and stick fall in the ferns, he coolly seated himself on a
second block of stone on the bright hill-side.

"Now look here," exclaimed the workman, roughly, "I know what you're
after.  You're going to call me my friend, and finish off with giving me
a track, and you may just save yerself the trouble, for it wean't do."

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe as he spoke, and looked menacing
enough to do any amount of mischief to a man he did not like.

"You're wrong," said the traveller, coolly, as he rummaged in the pocket
of his long black coat.  "I'm going to have a pipe."

He opened a case, took out a well-blackened meerschaum, scraped the
ashes from its interior, filled it from a large india-rubber pouch which
he then passed to the workman, before striking a match from a little
brass box and beginning to smoke with his hands clasped round his knees.

"Try that tobacco," he continued.  "You'll like it."

The workman took the tobacco-pouch in an ill-used way, stared at it,
stared at the stranger smoking so contentedly by him, frowned, muttered
something uncommonly like an oath, and ended by beginning to fill his
pipe.

"Don't swear," said the traveller, taking his pipe from his lips for a
moment, but only to replace it, and puff away like a practised smoker.

"Shall if I like," said the other, savagely.  "What have yow got to do
wi' it?"

"Don't," said the traveller; "what's the good?  It's weak and stupid.
If you don't like a man, hit him.  Don't swear."

The workman stared as these strange doctrines were enunciated; then,
after a moment's hesitation, he finished filling his pipe, struck a
match which refused to light, threw it down impatiently, tried another,
and another, and another, with the same result, and then uttered a
savage oath.

"At it again," said the traveller, coolly, thrusting a hand into his
pocket.  "Why, what a dirty-mouthed fellow you are."

"Yow wean't be happy till I've made your mouth dirty," said the workman,
savagely; "and you're going the gainest way to get it."

"Nonsense!" said the traveller, coolly, "Why didn't you ask me for a
light?"

He handed his box of vesuvians, and it was taken in a snatchy way.  One
was lighted, and the few puffs of smoke which followed seemed to have a
mollifying effect on the smoker, who confined himself to knitting his
brows and staring hard at the stranger, who now took off his hat to let
the fresh soft breeze blow over his hot forehead, while he gazed down at
the little town, with its square-towered church nestling amidst a clump
of elms, beyond which showed a great blank, many-windowed building, with
tall chimney shafts, two or three of which were vomiting clouds of black
smoke nowise to the advantage of the landscape.

"I thowt you was a parson," said the young workman at last, in a growl a
trifle less surly.

"Eh?" said the other, starting from a reverie, "parson?  Yes, to be sure
I am."

"Methody?"

"No."

"Ranter, p'raps?"

"Oh, no, only when I get a little warm."

"What are you, then?"

"Well, first of all," said the traveller, quietly, "you'd better answer
my question.  Is that Dumford?"

The workman hesitated and frowned.  It seemed like giving in--being
defeated--to answer now, but the clear grey eyes were fixed upon him in
a way that seemed to influence his very being, and he said at last,
gruffly,

"Well, yes, it is Doomford; and what if it is?"

"Oh, only that I'm the new vicar."

The workman puffed rapidly at his pipe, his face assuming a look of
dislike, and at last he ejaculated, "Ho!"

"Like that tobacco?" said the new vicar, quietly.

There was a pause, during which the workman seemed to be debating within
himself whether he should answer or not.  At last he condescended to
reply, "'taint bad."

"No; it's really good.  I always get the best."

The last speaker took in at a glance what was going on in his
companion's breast, and that was a fight between independent defiance
and curiosity, but he seemed not to notice it.

"Give him time," he said to himself; and he smoked on, amused at the
fellow's rough independence.  He had been told that he would find
Dumford a strange place, with a rough set of people; but nothing
daunted, he had accepted the living, and had made up his mind how to
act.  At last the workman spoke:

"I never see a parson smoke afore!"

"Didn't you?  Oh, I like a pipe."

"Ain't it wicked?" said the other, with a grin.

"Wicked?  Why should it be?  I see nothing wrong in it, or I should not
do it."

There was another pause, during which pipes were refilled and lighted
once more.

"Ever drink beer?" said the workman at last.

"Beer?  By Samson!" exclaimed the new vicar, "how I should like a good
draught now, my man.  I'm very thirsty."

"Then there ain't none nigher than the Bull, an that's two mile away.
There's plenty o' watter."

"Where?"

"Round the corner in the beck."

A short nod accompanied this, and the vicar rose.

"Then we'll have a drop of water--qualified," he said, taking a flask
from his pocket.  "Scotch whisky," he added, as he saw the stare
directed at the little flask, whose top he was unscrewing.

A dozen paces down the path, hidden by some rocks, ran the source of a
tiny rivulet or beck, with water like crystal, and filling the cup he
took from his flask, the vicar qualified it with whisky, handed it to
his rough companion, and then drank a draught himself with a sigh of
relief.

"I've walked across the hills from Churley," he said, as they re-seated
themselves.  "I wanted to see what the country was like."

"Ho!" said the workman.  "Say, you ain't like the owd parson."

"I suppose not.  Did you know him?"

"Know him?  Not I.  He warn't our sort."

"You used to go and hear him, I suppose?"

"Go and hear him?  Well, that's a good one," said the workman; and a
laugh transformed his face, driving away the sour, puckered look, which,
however, began rapidly to return.

"What's the matter?" said the vicar, after a few minutes' silent
smoking.

"Matter? matter wi' who?"

"Why, with you.  What have you come up here for, all by yourself?"

"Nothing," was the reply, in the surliest of voices.

"Nonsense, man!  Do you think I can't tell that you're put out--hipped--
and that something has annoyed you?"

The young man's face gave a twitch or two, and he shuffled half round in
his seat.  Then, leaping up, he began to hurry off.

The new vicar had caught him in a dozen strides, putting away his pipe
as he walked.

"There," he said, "I won't ask any more questions about yourself.  I'm
going down into the town, and we may as well walk together."

The young workman turned round to face him, angrily, but the calm
unruffled look of his superior disarmed him, and he gave a bit of a gulp
and walked on.

"I never quarrel with a man for being cross when he has had something to
put him out," said the vicar, quietly.  Then seeing that he was touching
dangerous ground, he added, "By the way, where's the vicarage?"

"That's it, next the church," was the reply.

"Yes, I see; and what's that big building with the smoking chimneys?"

"Foundry," was said gruffly.

"To be sure, yes.  Bell foundry, isn't it?"

"Yes."  Then after a pause, "I work theer."

"Indeed?"

"Tell you what," said the young man, growing sociable in spite of
himself; "yow get leave and I'll show you all about the works.  No I
wean't, though," he exclaimed, abruptly.  "Cuss the works, I'll never go
there no more."

The new vicar looked at him, tightening his lips a little.

"Another sore place, eh?" he said to himself, and turned the
conversation once more.

"What sort of people are you at Dumford, my lad?"

"Hey? what sort o' people?  Why, men and women and bairns, of course.
What did you expect they weer?"

"I mean as to conduct," said the vicar, laughing.  "What will they say
to me, for instance?"

The young man's face grew less cloudy for a few moments, a broad,
hearty, honest grin extending it so that he looked a frank, even
handsome young fellow.

"They'll make it a bit warm for you, parson," he said at last.

"Eh? will they?" said the vicar, smiling.  "Rough as you were, eh?"

"Oh no," said the other, quickly.  "Don't you take no notice o' that.  I
ain't always that how.  I was a bit popped this morning."

"Yes, I could see you were a bit _popped_," said the vicar.  "We all
have our troubles, my lad; but it's your true man that gets the strong
hand of his anger and masters it."

"You look as if you never had nought to make you waxy in your life,"
said the workman.  "I say, what do they call you?"

"Call me?  A parson, I suppose."

"No; I mean call you.  What's your name?"

"Oh!  Selwood--Murray Selwood."

"Murray Selwood," said the questioner, repeating it to himself.  "It's a
curus sort o' name.  Why didn't they call you Tom, or Harry, or Sam when
thou wast a bairn?"

"Can't say," said the vicar, smiling.  "I was too young to have a voice
in the matter."

"You couldn't help it, of course.  Say, can yow play cricket?"

"Oh yes."

"Bowl a bit, I suppose!"

"Yes; I'm best with the ball."

"Round hand?"

"Yes, and pretty sharp."

"Give's yer hand, parson, I like yow, hang me if I don't; and I'll come
and hear you fust Sunday as you preaches."

The two men joined hands, and the grasp was long, earnest, and friendly,
for the Reverend Murray Selwood, coming down freshly to his new living
amongst people who had been described to him as little better than
savages, felt that he had won one rough heart to his side, and was
gladdened by the frank open gaze that met his own.

It was a different man that walked on now by his side, talking freely,
in the rough independent way of the natives of his part; people who
never thought of saying _Sir_, or touching their hat to any man--save
and excepting the tradespeople, who contrived a salute to the wealthier
families or clergy of the neighbourhood.  He laughed as he talked of the
peculiarities of Jacky this or Sammy that, and was in the midst of a
speech about how parson would find "some of 'em rough uns to deal wi',"
when he stopped short, set his teeth, drew in a long breath, and was in
an instant an altered man.

The Reverend Murray Selwood saw and interpreted the change in a moment.

"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go round," he
said to himself; and he looked curiously at the little group upon which
they had suddenly come on turning round by a group of weather-beaten,
grey-lichened rocks.

There were two girls, one of whom was more than ankle-deep in a soft
patch of bog, while the other was trying very hard to reach her and
relieve her from her unpleasant predicament.

Danger there was none: a good wetting from the amber-hued bog water
being all that need be feared; but as the corner by the rocks was turned
it was evident that the spongy bog was now rapidly giving way, and if
help were to be afforded it must be at once.

The young workman hesitated for a moment, and then half turned away his
head, but the vicar ran forward as the maiden in distress cried
sharply--

"Oh Daisy, Daisy, what shall I do?"

"Let me help you out," said the vicar, smiling.  "Why, it is soft here,"
he cried, as he went in over his knees, but got one foot on a tuft of
dry heath and dragged out the other, to plant it upon a patch of grass.
"Don't be alarmed.  There, both hands on my shoulder.  That's right.
Hold tight, I've got you.  Why you were sinking fast, and planting
yourself as a new kind of marsh flower--and--there, don't shrink away,
or we shall be both planted--to blossom side by side.  It _is_ soft--
that's better--now lean all your weight on me, my dear--not that you're
heavy--now I have you--steady it is--that's better."

As he kept up this running fire of disconnected words, he contrived to
drag the girl out of the soft bog, placing his arm well round her waist,
and then carried her in his arms, stepping cautiously from tussock to
tussock till he placed her blushing and trembling beside her companion,
who had retreated to the firm ground.

"Oh, thank you.  I am so much obliged," stammered the girl, as her long
lashes were lowered over her pretty hazel eyes, which shrank from the
honest admiring gaze directed upon them.

And truly there was something to admire in the pretty, innocent, girlish
face with its creamy complexion, and wavy dark brown hair, several
little tresses of which had been blown loose by the breeze on the
hill-side.

She was very plainly dressed, and wore a simple coarse straw hat, but
there was an air of refinement about her which, before she opened her
lips, told the new vicar that he was in the presence of one who had been
born in a sphere of some culture.

Not so her companion, who, though as well favoured by nature, was cast
in quite another mould.  Plump, peachy, and rounded of outline, she was
a thorough specimen of the better class English cottage girl, spoiled by
her parents, and imbued with a knowledge that she was the pretty girl of
the place.

"I am so much obliged--it was so good of you," stammered the heroine of
the bog.

"Not at all, my dear; don't mention it," said the vicar, in a quiet way
that helped to put the discomfited maiden at her ease.  "I see:
gathering bog-flowers and went too far.  For shame," he continued,
loudly.  "You, a county young lady, and not to know it was dangerous to
go where the cotton rushes grow.  You wanted some, eh?  Yes, and left
the basket out there--half full."

"Oh, pray don't go--never mind the basket--it does not matter," faltered
the girl; but the vicar was already stepping from tussock to tussock,
ending by hooking up the basket with his stick, and pausing to pick some
of the best silky topped rushes within his reach.

"There," he said, returning the basket and its contents; "there are your
cotton rushes--earth's fruit.  I ought to scold you for behaving like a
daughter of Eve, and trying to get what you ought not to touch."

The girl crimsoned to the roots of her hair at the word Eve, and
exchanged glances with her companion, who was standing before her,
looking hot, frowning, and cross, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and
her nose in the air, as if being scourged by the angry look directed at
her by the young workman, who stood a few yards off scowling, with his
hands thrust into the very bottoms of his pockets.

"I did not think the bog was so treacherous," said the girl, stealing a
look at the frank, manly face before her.  "It looked so safe."

"So do many things in this world, my dear; but you must not trust them
any the more for their fair seeming."

The girl started a little, and looked indignant at the familiar way in
which she was addressed by so young a man--a perfect stranger.  She had
already tried to sting him in the bog with two or three furious darts
from her bright eyes for daring to put his arms round her.  In fact she
had felt for a moment that she would rather sink into the earth than be
touched like that, but she was helpless and had to resign herself to her
fate.

"Ah!" said the vicar, "you are looking angry at me for speaking in such
a free way."

"I--I indeed--I--"

"Ah, my dear, I can read that pretty innocent face of yours like a book.
There--there--don't blush so.  We are strangers: well, let's be
strangers no more.  Let me introduce myself.  I am Murray Selwood, your
new parson, and you are--?"

"Eve Pelly--Mrs Glaire's--"

"Niece.  I know, my dear.  Very, very glad to make your acquaintance.
You see I know something about the place, though I have not been there
yet."

As he spoke he took the timidly extended hand and gave it a warm, frank
pressure, which again heightened the blush; but in a few moments Eve
Pelly felt more at her ease in the presence of this stranger, who, with
all his freedom, had an atmosphere of gentlemanly truth and candour
which won upon all with whom he came in contact.

"Now," he said, "you must introduce me to my other little friend here.
Who is this?"

"This is Daisy Banks, Mr Selwood.  Mr Banks is my aunt's foreman at
the Foundry.  Daisy comes with me sometimes when I go for a walk.  We
have known each other from children."

"To be sure," said the vicar, smiling.  "I might have known your name
was Daisy.  Shake hands, my dear.  You'll never change that name, but
some day you'll be coming to me to change the other for you."

"Which I'm sure I never shall," cried Daisy, with an indignant stamp,
and a hot angry glance at the young workman, who ground his teeth, and
savagely kicked the top off a tuft of heather.

"Don't be angry, my dear," said the vicar, kindly, as, red-faced,
choking, and hardly able to restrain her angry tears, the girl snatched
away her hand and turned away.

"It's one of my weaknesses to touch tender chords unwittingly," he said
in a low tone to Eve; and, how it was she knew not, the girl felt
herself drawn into a feeling of confidence with this stranger, who,
however, half affronted her susceptibilities the next moment by saying,

"But come, you must not stand here with wet feet.  If you were a sister
of mine I should make you take off those dripping boots."

"They are not wet--not very wet," she stammered, correcting herself.

"I think I know," said the vicar, smiling.  "But come, you must walk
home sharply.  I'm a bit of a doctor in my way.  You won't mind my
company, I hope.  We must be very good friends."

"I'm sure we shall," said Eve, frankly, as she glanced once more at her
companion, and the next minute he was chatting to her about the contents
of her basket.

"Then you understand botany?" she said, eagerly, and he looked down with
pleasure at the bright, animated countenance at his side.

"Oh, yes, a little.  And you do, I see?"

"Oh, a very little," said Eve; "the hard Latin words are so puzzling."

"But you can learn plenty of botany without troubling yourself over the
long names; they will come to you imperceptibly."

Meanwhile Daisy, who had been forgotten, had followed on a few yards
behind, looking very angry and indignant at the way in which she was
neglected, while the young workman walking by her side seemed as angry,
but with a dash of the savage in his face.

Both looked straight before them, and neither spoke, each going on as if
in utter ignorance of the companions presence.

"I shall have to give you some lessons when I begin making my collection
of specimens," said the vicar, after a few more observations.

"Will you?" exclaimed Eve, eagerly; and then, retailing the fact that
she had known this stranger but a few minutes, she tried to qualify her
remark, failed dismally, and began to feel exceedingly hot and
conscious, when there was a diversion.  They had been gradually nearing
the town, and had reached a spot where the moorland gave place to
cultivated soil, when a young man, dressed in a rather fast style, and
with a cigar in his mouth, suddenly leaped over a stile, and started and
looked quite awkward on finding himself face to face with this group.

He was a slight fair young fellow, of some four-and-twenty, with rather
pale downy whiskers, and a blonde silky moustache, which was carefully
waxed into points.  His dress was a light tweed suit, but to condone for
the sombre hue of it and his grey deerstalker hat, he wore a brilliant
scarlet tie slipped through a massive gold ring, and wore several rings
on his thin effeminate fingers.

The effect upon the party caused by the sudden appearance of this
personage was varied.

Daisy, who had resumed the natural tint of her complexion--a peachy hue
touched rather warmly by the brown of the sun--became as though the
new-comer's tie was reflected to her very temples; the young workman's
face grew black as night, and his teeth grated together as his pockets
suddenly bulged out, indicative of doubled fists, and he stared at the
dandy in a menacing way that betokened evil.

As for Eve, she ran forward with a little joyous cry and took the young
man's arm.

"Ah, Dick," she cried, "I didn't expect you.  How kind of you to come."

"Didn't come to meet you," said the young man, shortly, as he fixed a
glass with some difficulty in his eye to stare at the stranger.

"Then you ought to have come," said Eve, quickly.  "Take that stupid
glass out of your eye, you silly boy," she whispered.  Then aloud, "I've
been in such trouble, Dick, dear."

"Dick, dear!"  He did not know why it was, but this very familiar
appellation from those soft red lips seemed to jar on the stranger's
ears, and he drew a longer breath than usual.

"I actually got bogged, Dick, and was sinking, when this gentleman came
and saved me.  Dick, dear, this is our new vicar.  Mr Selwood, this is
Mr Richard Glaire of the Foundry."

"Glad to know you, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, holding out his hand.

"How do?" said the new-comer, shortly, and his hand went out in a slow,
awkward, unwilling way, retiring afterwards from the hearty grasp it
received in a very sharp manner, for thin effeminate hands, that do not
return an honest pressure, fare badly in a manly grasp, especially if
they happen to be half-covered with unnecessary rings.

"How do?  Glad to see you," said the young owner of the Foundry, though
it was always more looked upon since his father's death as the property
of Mrs Glaire.  "Find this rather dull place."

"I don't think I shall," said the vicar, looking at him curiously.

"Very dull place," said the young man.  "Very.  Come, Evey.  You'll
call, I suppose?"

"Of course I shall," said the vicar, smiling.  "I mean to know everybody
here."

"Thanks, much," said Mr Glaire, glancing at Daisy, who gave herself an
angry twitch and turned away.  He then drew Eve's arm through his own,
and, raising his hat slightly to the vicar, was turning away when his
eye lit on the young workman.  "Hallo you, Tom Podmore," he cried, "how
is it you're not at work?"

"That's my business," growled the man.  "I'll tell you that when you
ain't got young missus there wi' you, and I wean't afore."

Richard Glaire looked at the sturdy fellow uneasily, and directed a
second glance at Daisy, his vacillating eyes resting for a moment on the
pocketed double fists before repeating his words shortly--

"Come along, Evey."

"Wait a moment, Dick, dear," she said, disengaging her arm.  "How rude
you are!" she added in an undertone.  "Good day, Mr Selwood, and thank
you very much," she said, ingenuously.  "Pray come and see us soon.
Aunt will be so glad to know you.  She was talking about you last night,
and wondering what you would be like.  Good-bye."

She held out her hand, and the constraint that was in spite of himself
creeping over the new vicar was thawed away by the genial, innocent
sunshine of the young girl's smile.

"Good-bye," he said, frankly; and his face lit up with pleasure.  "I
shall call very soon, and we won't forget the botany."

"Oh, no," said Eve, as her arm was once more pinioned.  "Come, Daisy,
you are coming up to the house."

"No, thank you, miss; I must go home now."

As she spoke she hurried forward, tripped over the stile first, and was
gone.

A minute later and Eve had lightly touched Richard Glaire's arm, and
climbed the stile in her turn, leaving the vicar to follow slowly,
forgetful of the presence of the young workman--Podmore.

He was brought back from his dreamy musings on the relation existing
between the young fellow who had just gone, and the sweet innocent girl
who was his companion, by a rough grasp being laid upon his arm, and
turning sharply, there stood Tom Podmore, with the veins in his forehead
swelling, and his face black with rage.

Volume 1, Chapter II.

TOM PODMORE'S GRIEVANCE.

"Look here, parson," cried the young workman, in a voice husky with
emotion; and as he spoke he dashed his cap upon the ground and began to
roll up his sleeves, displaying arms fit, with their sturdy rolls of
muscle, for a young Hercules.  "Look here, parson.  You're a straanger
here, and I'll tell 'ee.  That's my master, that is, and I shall kill
him afore I've done."

"Hush, man, hush!" cried the young vicar.

"I don't keer, I shall.  Why ain't I at work, eh?  Never another stroke
will I do for him; wish that my hammer may come on my head if I do.
Look here, parson," he went on, catching the other's arm hard in a grasp
of iron, "that's his lass, that is--that's his young lady--Miss Eve
Pelly; God bless her for a perfect angel, and too good for him.  He's
engaged to her, he is--engaged to be married, and he's got thousands and
thousands of his own, and the Foundry, and horses to hunt wi', and he
ain't satisfied.  No, no; I ain't done yet.  Look here, ain't all that
enough for any man?  You know what's right, and what ain't.  What call's
he got to come between me and she?"

He jerked one fist in the direction taken by Daisy, and went on.

"Things ran all right between us before he steps in with his London
dandy air, and his short coot hair, and fine clothes.  Old Joe Banks was
willing; and as for Missus Banks, why, bless her, she's always been like
a mother to me.  I'd saved up a hundred and sixty pun' ten, all hard
earnings, and we was soon to be married, and then he comes between us
and turns the girl's head.  You come on to me when I'd gone up the
hill-side there, to chew it all over, after she'd huffed me this
morning, and I coot up rough.  I say, warn't it enough to make any man
coot up rough?"

"It was, indeed, Podmore," said the vicar, kindly.

"But I wean't stand it, that I wean't," roared the young man, like an
angry bull.  "A man's a man even if he is a master.  I'll fight fair;
but if I don't break every bone in his false skin, my name ain't Tom
Podmore."

This burst over, he resumed his cap and snatched down his sleeves,
looking half ashamed of his effusion in the presence of a stranger, and
he shrank away a little as the vicar laid his hand upon his arm.

"Look here, Podmore," he said kindly; "when I went first to school they
used to give me for a copy to write, `Do nothing rashly.'  Don't you do
anything rashly, my friend, because things done in haste are repented of
at leisure.  I have come down here to be a friend, I hope, to everybody,
and as you were the first man I met in Dumford, I shall look upon you as
one of the first to have a call upon me."

"Thanky, sir, thanky kindly," said Podmore, in a quieter tone.  "I don't
know how it is, but you've got a kind of way with you that gets over a
fellow."

"She seems a nice, pretty, well-behaved girl, that Daisy Banks," said
the vicar.

"There isn't a better nor a truer-hearted girl nor a prettier nowhere
for twenty miles round," cried the young fellow, flushing up with a
lover's pride.  "Why look at her, sir, side by side with Miss Eve,
that's a born lady.  Why, Miss Eve's that delicate and poor beside my
Daisy, as there ain't no comparison 'tween 'em.  My Daisy, as was," he
added, sorrowfully.  "Something's come over her like of late, and it's
all over now."

The great strong fellow turned his back, and resting one hand upon the
stile, his broad shoulders gave a heave or two.

"I shan't take on about it," he said, roughly, as he turned round with a
sharp, defiant air of recklessness.  "I ain't the first fool that's been
jilted by a woman, ay, parson--hundred and sixty pound 'll buy a sight
o' gills o' ale.  Don't you take no heed o' what I said."

He was turning away, but a strong hand was upon his shoulder.

"Look here, Podmore," said the vicar, firmly, "you said something about
fools just now.  You are not a fool, and you know it.  You leave the ale
alone--to the fools--and go back and get to work as hard, or harder,
than you ever worked before.  I shall see you again soon, perhaps bowl
to you in the cricket field.  As for your affairs, you leave them to me.
Do you know why Englishmen make the best soldiers?"

"Do I know why Englishmen make the best soldiers, parson?" said Podmore,
staring.  "No: can't say I do."

"Because, my lad, they never know when they are beaten.  Now, you are
not beaten yet.  Good-bye."

He held out his hand, and the great grimy, horny palm of the workman
came down into it with a loud clap, and the grip that ensued from each
side would have been unpleasant to any walnut between their palms.

Then they parted, taking different routes, and ten minutes later the
Reverend Murray Selwood was walking quietly through the empty town
street, quite conscious though that head after head was being thrust out
to have a look at the stranger.

There was the usual sprinkling of shops and private houses, great blank
red-brick dwellings, which told their own tale of being the houses of
the lawyer, the doctor, and their newer opponents.  Then there was the
factory-looking place, with great gates to the yard, and a time-keeper's
lodge inside, surmounted by a bell in its little wooden hutch.  The
throb of machinery could be heard, and the shriek of metal being
tortured into civilised form came painfully to the ear from time to
time.  Smoke hung heavily in the air--smoke tinged with lurid flame; and
above all came the roar of the reverberating furnaces, where steel or
some alloy was being fused for the castings which had made
out-of-the-way, half-savage Dumford, with its uncouth, independent
people, famous throughout the length and breadth of the land.

There were very few people visible, for the works had not yet begun to
pour forth their masses of working bees, but there were plenty of big
rough lads hanging about the corners of the streets.

"I wonder what sort of order the schools are in," said the new vicar to
himself, as he neared the church, towards which he was bending his
steps, meaning to glance round before entering the vicarage.  "Yes, I
wonder what sort of a condition they are in.  Bad, I fear.  Very bad,
I'm sure," he added.

For at that moment a great lump of furnace refuse, or glass, there known
as slag, struck him a heavy blow in the back.

He turned sharply, but not a soul was visible, and he stooped and picked
up the lump, which was nearly equal in size to his fist.

"Yes, no doubt about it, very bad," he said.  "Well, I'll take you to my
new home, and you shall have the first position in my cabinet of
specimens, being kept as a memorial of my welcome to Dumford."

"Well," he said, as he reached the church gate, "I've made two friends
already, and--perhaps--an enemy.  By Jove, there's another brick."

Volume 1, Chapter III.

AT THE FOUNDRY HOUSE.

Mrs Glaire lived in a great blank-looking red-brick house in the main
street, two ugly steep stone steps coming down from the front door on to
the narrow kidney pebble path, and encroaching so upon the way that they
were known as the tipsy-turvies, in consequence of the number of excited
Dumfordites who fell over them in the dark.  Though for the matter of
that they were awkward for the most sober wayfarer, and in a town with a
Local Board would have been condemned long before.

The ugliness of the Foundry House, as it was called, only dwelt on the
side giving on the street; the back opened upon an extensive garden,
enclosed by mighty red-brick walls, for the greater part concealed by
the dense foliage, which made the fine old garden a bosky wilderness of
shady lawn, walk, and shrubbery.

For Mrs Glaire was great upon flowers, in fact, after "my son,
Richard," her garden stood at the top of her affections, even before her
niece, Eve, whom she loved very dearly all the same.

Mrs Glaire was a little busy ant of a woman, with a pleasant, fair
face, ornamented with two tufts of little fuzzy blonde curls, which
ought to have hung down, but which seemed to be screwed up so tightly
that they took delight in sticking out at all kinds of angles, one or
two of the most wanton--those with the rough ends--that had been
untwisted by Mrs Glaire's curl-papers, even going so far as to stick
straight up.

On the morning when the new vicar made his entry into Dumford, Mrs
Glaire was out in her garden busy.  She had on her brown holland apron,
and her print drawn hood, the strings of which seemed to cut deeply into
her little double chin, and altogether did nothing to improve her
personal appearance.  A little basket was in one hand half-filled with
the dead leaves of geraniums which she had been snipping off with the
large garden scissors she held in the other hand--scissors which, for
fear of being mislaid, were attached to a silken cord, evidently the
former trimming of some article of feminine attire, and this cord was
tied round her waist.

She had two attendants--Prince and the gardener, Jacky Budd--Jacky: for
it was the peculiarity of Dumford that everybody was known by a familiar
interpretation of his Christian name, or else by a _sobriquet_ more
quaint than pleasant.

Prince was a King Charles spaniel, with the shortest of snub noses, the
most protrusive of great intelligent eyes, and long silky ears that
nearly swept the ground.  Prince had a weakness, and that was fat.  He
had been fed into such a state of rotundity that he had long ceased
running and barking, even at cats, against which he was supposed to have
a wonderful antipathy, and he passed his time after his regular meals in
sleeping, when he was lying down, and wheezing when he was standing up,
and never if he could possibly help it did he move from the position in
which he was placed.

Jacky Budd, the gardener, was a pale, sodden-looking man, the only tinge
of colour in his countenance being in his nose, and that tinge was given
by a few fiery veins.  He had a knack when addressed of standing with
one thumb stuck in the arm-hole of his ragged vest, which was stretched
and worn in consequence, and this attitude was a favourite with him on
Sundays, and was maintained just inside the south door till all the
people were in church, when he went to his own sitting beneath the
reading desk, for Jacky Budd, in addition to being a gardener, was the
parish clerk.

Jacky had his weakness, like Prince, but it was very different from that
of the dog; in fact, it was one that troubled a great many of the people
of Dumford, who looked upon it with very lenient eyes.  For though the
gentleman in question had been suspended by the late vicar for being
intoxicated in church, and saying out loud in reading the psalms, "As it
(hic) was in the beginning (hic) is now (hic) and ever shall be (hic),"
he was penitent and forgiven at the end of the week, and he sinned no
more until the next time.

The late vicar was compelled to take notice of the backsliding, even
though people said he was troubled with the same weakness, for Miss
Purley, the doctor's sister, burst out laughing quite loud in
consequence of a look given her by Richard Glaire from the opposite pew.
Her brother was there, and to pass it off he made a stir about it, and
had her carried out, to come back after a few minutes on tip-toe and
whisper to two or three people that it was a touch of hysterics.

Those who knew Jacky could tell when he had been drinking from the
stolid look upon his countenance, and Mrs Glaire was one of those who
knew him.

"Come along, Prince," she cried in a shrill chirpy treble, and stooping
down she lifted and carried Prince a few yards, to set him down beside a
rustic flower-stand, rubbing his leg with the rim of the basket, and
Prince went on wheezing, while his mistress began to snip.

Jacky followed slowly with a pot of water, a fluid that he held in
detestation, and considered to be only useful for watering flowers.

"Now, Jacky," exclaimed his mistress, "these pots are quite dry.  Give
them all some water."

"Yes, mum," said Jacky; and raising the pot, he began with trembling
hands to direct erratic streams amongst the flowers, then shaking his
head, stopping, and examining the spout as if that were in fault.

"Stone got in it, I think," he muttered.

"You've been drinking again, Jacky," exclaimed his mistress, shaking the
scissors at him threateningly.

"Drinking, mum! drinking!"

This in a tone of injured surprise.

"Yes, you stupid man.  Do you think I don't know?  I can smell you."

"Drinking!" said Jacky, putting his hand to his head, as if to collect
his thoughts.

"Yes, so I did; I had a gill of ale last night."

"Now, Jacky, I won't have it," exclaimed Mrs Glaire.  "If you try to
deceive me I won't keep you on."

"What, and turn away a faithful servant as made this garden what it is,
mum, and nursed Master Dick when he was a bit of a bairn no bigger
than--"

Jacky stooped down to try and show how many inches high Dick Glaire was
when his nursing days were on; and as the gardener placed his hand
horizontally, it seemed that about six inches must have been the stature
of the child.  But this was a dangerous experiment, and Jacky nearly
overbalanced himself.  A sharp question from his mistress, however,
brought him upright, and somewhat sobered him.

"Have you heard any more about that, Jacky?"

"'Bout Master Richard, mum?"

"Yes, Jacky.  But mind this, I hate talebearing and the gossip of the
place."

"You do, mum; you allus did," said Jacky, winking solemnly to himself;
"but that's a fact."

"I won't believe it, Jacky," said Mrs Glaire, snipping off sound leaves
and blossoms in her agitation.

"It's a fact, mum, and I don't wonder at your feeling popped."

"I'm not cross at all, Jacky," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, with her face
working, "for I don't believe my son would stoop in that way."

"But it's a fack, mum; and you must send him away, or he'll be taking a
wife from among the Midianitish women.  That's so."

"Now, I don't want to hear gossip, man; but what have you heard?  There,
do stand still or you'll tread on Prince."

"Heard, mum?  Lots.  You should say, `What have you seen?'"

"Seen!  Have you seen anything?"

Jacky put his thumb very far into his arm-hole, and spread his fingers
very wide, as he rolled his head solemnly.

"You won't tell Master Richard as you heard of it from me, mum?"

"No, Jacky, no; certainly not."

"And get me kicked out without a moment's notice?"

"No, no, certainly not.  Now tell me directly."

"Well, mum, Missus Hubley says as she knows he's always arter her."

"What, Daisy Banks?"

Jacky nodded.

"But she's a mischief-making, gossiping old woman!" exclaimed Mrs
Glaire; "and her word isn't worth anything.  You said you had seen
something."

Jacky nodded, and screwed up his face as he laid his finger beside his
nose.

"If you don't speak directly, man, I shall do you a mischief," exclaimed
the little woman, excitedly.  "Tell me all you know this instant."

"Well, you see, mum, it was like this: last night was very dark, and my
missus said to me, `Jacky,' she says, `take the boocket and go down to
Brown's poomp and get a boocket o' watter.'  Because you see, mum, the
sucker being wore, our poomp's not agate just now."

"Well!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, impatiently.

"Well, mum, I goes round by Kitty Rawson's corner, and out back way, and
I come upon Master Richard wi' his arm round Daisy Banks's waist."

"Now, Jacky," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, with a hysterical sob, "if this is
not the truth I'll never, never forgive you."

"Truth, mum," said Jacky, in an ill-used tone.  "I've been clerk here a
matter o' twenty year, and my father and grandfather before me, and
would I tell a lie, do you think?  Speak the truth without fear or
favour.  Amen."

"Go away now," cried Mrs Glaire, sharply.

"Wean't I water all the plants, mum?"

"No; go away, and if you say a word to a soul about this, I'll never
forgive you, Jacky, never."

"Thanky, mum, thanky," said Jacky, turning to go, and nearly trampling
on Prince.

"No, come here!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, whose face was working.  "Go
round to the foundry, and tell Joe Banks I want to speak to him.  Tell
him I'm in the garden."

"Yes, mum."

"Jacky," she said, calling him back.

"Yes, mum."

"Don't you dare to say a word about what it's for."

"No, mum."

Jacky went off round by his tool-shed, out into the street, and down to
the foundry gates, where, after a word with the gateman, he went on
across the great metal-strewn yard in search of Mrs Glaire's sturdy
foreman.

Meanwhile that lady caught up her dog, and carried him to a garden seat,
where, upon being set down, he curled up and went to sleep, his tail and
ears combined, making a comfortable coverlid.  Then taking off her
scissors and placing them in her basket, Mrs Glaire seated herself,
sighing deeply, and taking out from a voluminous pocket, which took
sundry evolutions with drapery to reach, a great ball of lambswool and a
couple of knitting pins, she began to knit rapidly what was intended to
be some kind of undergarment for her only son.

"Oh, Dick, Dick," she muttered; "you'll break my heart before you've
done."

The knitting pins clicked loudly, and a couple of bright tears stole
down her cheeks and dropped into her lap.

"And I did not tell him to hold his tongue before Eve," she exclaimed,
sharply.  "Tut-tut--tut-tut!  This must be stopped; this must be
stopped."

The sighing, lamenting phase gave place by degrees to an angry one.  The
pins clicked sharply, and the pleasant grey head was perked, while the
lips were tightened together even as were the stitches in the knitting,
which had to be all undone.

Just then the garden door opened, and a broad-shouldered grizzled man of
seven or eight and forty entered the garden followed by Jacky.  Foreman
though he was, Joe Banks had been hard at work, and his hands and lace
bore the grime of the foundry.  He had, however, thrown on a jacket, and
wiped the perspiration from his forehead, leaving a half clean line over
his pale blue eyes, while a pleasant smile puckered such of his face as
was not hidden by his closely cut grizzled beard.

"Sarvant, ma'am," he said, making a rough bow to the lady of the house.

"Good morning, Banks," said Mrs Glaire.  "Jacky, go and nail up that
wistaria, and mind you don't tumble off the ladder."

Jacky looked injured, but walked off evidently making a bee line for the
tool-shed--one which he did not keep.

"Little on, mum," said the foreman, with a wise nod in Jacky's
direction.  "Wants a month's illness to be a warnin'."

"It's a pity.  Banks, but he will drink."

"Like lots more on 'em, ma'am.  Why if I was to get shut of all the lads
in the works there who like their drop of drink, I shouldn't have half
enew."

"How are things going on, Banks?" said Mrs Glaire.

The foreman looked at her curiously, for it was a new thing for his
mistress to make any inquiry about the foundry.  A few months back and
he had to make his daily reports, but since Richard Glaire had come of
age, Mrs Glaire had scrupulously avoided interfering in any way,
handing over the business management to "my son."

"I said how are things going on in the foundry, Banks," said the lady
again, for the foreman had coughed and shuffled from one foot on to the
other.

"Do you wish me to tell you, ma'am?" he said at last.

"Tell me? of course," said Mrs Glaire, impatiently.  "How are matters?"

"Bad."

"Bad?  What do you mean?"

"Well, mum, not bad as to work; 'cause there's plenty of that, and
nothing in the way of contracts as is like to suffer by waiting."

"Then, what do you mean?"

"Well, you see, ma'am, Mr Richard don't get on wi' the men.  He wants
to have it all his own way, and they want to have it all theirn.  Well,
of course that wean't work; so what's wanted is for the governor to give
way just a little, and then they'd give way altogether."

"But I'm sure my son Richard's management is excellent," said Mrs
Glaire, whose lip quivered a little as she drew herself up with dignity,
and began a fresh row of her knitting.

Banks coughed slightly, and remained silent.

"Don't you think so, Banks?"

"Well, you see, ma'am, he's a bit arbitrary."

"Arbitrary?  What do you mean, Banks?"

"Well, you see, ma'am, he turned Sim Slee off at a moment's notice."

"And quite right, too," said Mrs Glaire hotly.  "My son told me.  The
fellow is a spouting, mouthing creature."

"He is that, ma'am, and as lazy as a slug, but it made matters worse,
and just now there's a deal of strikes about, and the men at other
places listening to delegates from societies, and joining unions, and
all that sort of stuff."

"And have you joined one of those clubs, Joe Banks?" said Mrs Glaire,
sharply.

"Me join 'em, ma'am?  Not I," said Banks, who seemed immensely tickled
at the idea.  "Not I.  _I'm_ foreman, and get my wage reg'lar, and I
don't want none of their flummery.  You should hear Ann go on about
'em."

"I beg your pardon, Banks," said Mrs Glaire.  "I might have known that
you were too sensible a man to go to these meetings."

"Well, as to being sensible, I don't know about that, Missus Glaire.
Them two women folk at home do about what they like wi' me."

"I don't believe it, Joe," said Mrs Glaire.  "Daisy would not have
grown up such a good, sensible girl if she had not had a firm, kind,
sensible father."

"God bless her!" said Joe, and a little moisture appeared in one eye.
Then speaking rather huskily--"Thank you, ma'am--thank you, Missus
Glaire.  I try to do my duty by her, and so does Ann."

"Is Ann quite well?"

"Quite well, thank you kindly, ma'am," said the foreman.  "Don't you be
afeared for me, Missus Glaire.  I worked with Richard Glaire, senior,
thirty years ago, two working lads, and we was always best of friends
both when we was poor, and when I saw him gradually grow rich, for he
had a long head, had your husband, while I'd only got a square one.  But
I stuck to him, and he stuck to me, and when he died, leaving me his
foreman, you know, Mrs Glaire, how he sent for me, and `Joe,' he says,
`good bye, God bless you!  You've always been my right hand man.  Stick
to my son.'"

"He did, Joe, he did," said Mrs Glaire, with a deep sigh, and a couple
of tears fell on her knitting.

"And I'll stick to him through thick and thin," said the foreman,
stoutly.  "For I never envied Dick, his father--there, 'tain't 'spectful
to you, ma'am, to say Dick, though it comes natural--I never envied
Master Glaire his success with his contracts, and getting on to be a big
man.  I was happy enough; but you know, ma'am, young Master Dick is
arbitrary; he is indeed, and he can't feel for a working man like his
father did."

"He is more strict you see, Banks, that is all," said Mrs Glaire,
stiffly; and the foreman screwed up his face a little.

"You advise him not to be quite so strict, ma'am.  I wouldn't advise you
wrong, as you know."

"I know that, Joe Banks," said Mrs Glaire, smiling pleasantly; "and
I'll say a word to him.  But I wanted to say something to you."

"Well, I've been a wondering why you sent for me, ma'am," said the
foreman, bluntly.

"You see," said Mrs Glaire, hesitating, "there are little bits of petty
tattle about."

"What, here, ma'am," said the foreman, with a hearty laugh.  "Of course
there is, and always was, and will be."

"But they are about Daisy," said Mrs Glaire, dashing at last into the
matter.

"I should just like to get hold of the man as said a word against my
lass," said Banks, stretching out a tremendous fist.  "I'd crack him, I
would, like a nut.  But what have they been saying?"

Volume 1, Chapter IV.

DAISY'S FATHER.

"Well," said Mrs Glaire, who found her task more difficult than she had
apprehended, "the fact is, they say she has been seen talking to my
son."

"Is that all?" said the foreman, laughing in a quiet, hearty way.

"Yes, that is all, and for Daisy's sake I want it stopped.  Have you
heard or known anything?"

"Well, to put it quite plain, the missus wants her to have Tom Podmore
down at the works there, but the girl hangs back, and I found out the
reason.  I did see Master Dick talking to her one night, and it set me a
thinking."

"And you didn't stop it?" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, sharply.

"Stop it?  Why should I stop it?" said the foreman.  "She's getting on
for twenty, and is sure to begin thinking about sweethearts.  Ann did
when she was nineteen, and if I recollect right, little fair-haired
Lisbeth Ward was only eighteen when she used to blush on meeting Dick
Glaire.  I see her do it," said the bluff fellow, chuckling.

"But that was long ago," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, excitedly.  "Positions
are changed since then.  My son--"

"Well, ma'am, he's a workman's son, and my bairn's a workman's daughter.
I've give her a good schooling, and she's as pretty a lass as there is
in these parts, and if your son Richard's took a fancy to her, and asks
me to let him marry her, and the lass likes him, why I shall say yes,
like a man."

Mrs Glaire looked at him aghast.  This was a turn in affairs she had
never anticipated, and one which called forth all her knowledge of human
nature to combat.

"But," she exclaimed, "he is engaged to his cousin here, Miss Pelly."

"Don't seem like it," chuckled the foreman.  "Why, he's always after
Daisy now."

"Oh, this is dreadful!" gasped Mrs Glaire, dropping her knitting.  "I
tell you he is engaged--promised to be married to his second cousin,
Miss Pelly."

"Stuff!" said Banks, laughing.  "He'll never marry she, though she's a
good, sweet girl."

"Don't I tell you he will," gasped Mrs Glaire.  "Man, man, are you
blind?  This is dreadful to me, but I must speak.  Has it never struck
you that my son may have wrong motives with respect to your child?"

"What?" roared the foreman; and the veins in his forehead swelled out,
as his fists clenched.  "Bah!" he exclaimed, resuming his calmness.
"Nonsense, ma'am, nonsense.  What!  Master Dicky Glaire, my true old
friend's son, mean wrong by my lass Daisy?  Mrs Glaire, ma'am, Mrs
Glaire, for shame, for shame!"

"The man's infatuated!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, and she stared
wonderingly at the bluff, honest fellow before her.

"Why, ma'am," said the foreman, smiling, "I wouldn't believe it of him
if you swore it.  He's arbitrary, and he's too fond of his horses, and
dogs, and sporting: but my Daisy!  Oh, for shame, ma'am, for shame!  He
loves the very ground on which she walks."

"And--and"--stammered Mrs Glaire, "does--does Daisy care for him?  Fool
that I was to let her come here and be so intimate with Eve," she
muttered.

"Well, ma'am," said the foreman, thoughtfully, "I'm not so sure about
that."

He was about to say more when Mrs Glaire stopped him.

"Another time, Banks, another time," she said, hastily.  "Here is my
son."

As she spoke Richard Glaire came into the garden with his hands in his
pockets, and Eve Pelly clinging to one arm, looking bright and happy.

The foreman started slightly, but gave himself a jerk and smiled, and
then, in obedience to a gesture from his mistress, he left the garden
and returned to the foundry.

Volume 1, Chapter V.

THE VICAR'S STROLL.

The brick, as the vicar called it, was only another piece of slag; but
he did not turn his head, only smiled, and began thinking that Dumford
quite equalled the report he had heard of it.  Then looking round the
plain old church, peering inside through the windows, and satisfying
himself that its architectural beauties were not of a very striking
nature, he turned aside and entered the vicarage garden, giving a sigh
of satisfaction on finding that his home was a comfortable red-brick,
gable-ended house, whose exterior, with its garden overrun with weeds,
promised well in its traces of former cultivation.

A ring at a bell by the side post of the door brought forth a wan,
washed-out looking woman, who looked at the visitor from top to toe,
ending by saying sharply, in a vinegary tone of voice:

"What d'yer want?"

"To come in," said the vicar, smiling.  "Are you in charge of the
house?"

"If yow want to go over t'church yow must go to Jacky Budd's down street
for the keys.  I wean't leave place no more for nobody."

"But I don't want to go over the church--at least not now.  I want to
come in, and see about having a room or two made comfortable."

"Are yow t'new parson, then?"

"Yes, I'm the new parson."

"Ho!  Then yow'd best come in."

The door was held open, and looking at him very suspiciously, the lady
in charge, to wit Mrs Simeon Slee, allowed the vicar to enter, and then
followed him as he went from room to room, making up his mind what he
should do as he ran his eye over the proportions of the house, finding
in the course of his peregrinations that Mrs Slee had installed herself
in the dining-room, which apparently served for kitchen as well, and had
turned the pretty little drawing-room, opening into a shady verandah and
perfect wilderness of a garden, into a very sparsely furnished bed-room.

"That will do," said the vicar.  "I suppose I can get some furniture in
the town?"

"Oh, yes, yow can get plenty furniture if you've got t'money.  Only they
wean't let yow have annything wi'out.  They don't like strangers."

"I dare say I can manage what I want, Mrs--Mrs--What is your name?"

"Hey?"

"I say, what is your name?"

"Martha," said the woman, as if resenting an impertinence.

"Your other name.  I see you are a married woman."

He pointed to the thin worn ring on her finger.

"Oh, yes, I'm married," said the woman, bitterly; "worse luck."

"You have no children, I suppose?"

"Not I."

"I am sorry for that."

"Sorry?  I'm not.  What should I have children for?  To pine; while
their shack of a father is idling about town and talking wind?"

"They would have been a comfort to you, may be," said the vicar,
quietly.  "I hope your husband does not drink?"

"Drink?" said the woman, with a harsh laugh.  "Yes, I almost wish he did
more; it would stop his talking."

"Is he a workman--at the foundry?"

"Sometimes, but Mr Dicky Glaire's turned him off again, and now he's
doing nowt."

"Never mind, don't be downhearted.  Times mend when they come to the
worst."

"No, they don't," said the woman, sharply.  "If they did they'd have
mended for me."

"Well, well," said the vicar; "we will talk about that another time;"
and he took the two pieces of slag from his pocket, and placed them on
the mantelpiece of the little study, where they were now standing.

"Some one threw them at yow?" said the woman.

"Yes," said the vicar, smiling.

"Just like 'em.  They don't like strangers here."

"So it seems," said the vicar.  "But you did not tell me your name,
Mrs--"

"Slee, they call me, Slee," was the sulky reply.

"Well, Mrs Slee," said the vicar, "I have had a good long walk, and I'm
very hungry.  If I give you the money will you get me something to eat,
while I go down the town and order in some furniture for this little
room and the bed-room above?"

"Why, the Lord ha' mussy! you're never coming into the place this how!"

"Indeed, Mrs Slee, but I am.  There's half a sovereign; go and do the
best you can."

"But the place ought to be clent before you come in."

"Oh, we'll get that done by degrees.  You will see about something for
me to eat.  I shall be back in an hour.  But tell me first, if I want to
get into the church, who has the keys?"

"Mr Budd"--Mrs Slee pronounced it Bood--"has 'em; he's churchwarden,
and lives over yonder."

"What, at that little old-fashioned house?"

"Nay, nay, mun, that's th'owd vicarage.  Next house."

"Oh," said the vicar, looking curiously at the little, old-fashioned,
sunken, thatch-roofed place.  "And who lives there?"

"Owd Isaac Budd."

"Another Mr Budd; and who is he?"

"Th'other one's brother."

"Where shall I find the clerk--what is his name?" said the vicar.

"Oh, Jacky Budd," said Mrs Slee.  "He lives down south end."

"I'm afraid I shall get confused with so many Budds," said the vicar,
smiling.  "Is that the Mr Budd who leads the singing?"

"Oh no, that's Mr Ned Budd, who lives down town.  He's nowt to do wi'
Jacky."

"Well, I'll leave that now," said the vicar.  "But I want some one to
fetch a portmanteau from Churley.  How am I to get it here?"

"Mrs Budd will fetch it."

"And who is she?"

"The Laddonthorpe carrier."

"Good; and where shall I find her?"

"Over at Ted Budd's yard--the Black Horse."

"Budd again," said the vicar.  "Is everybody here named Budd?"

"Well, no," said the woman, "not ivery body; but there's a straange
sight of 'em all ower the town, and they're most all on 'em cousins or
sum'at.  But there, I must get to wuck."

The woman seemed galvanised into a fresh life by the duties she saw
before her; and almost before the strange visitor had done speaking she
was putting on a print hood, and preparing to start.

"It will make a very comfortable place when I have got it in order,"
said the vicar to himself, as he passed down the front walk.  "Now to
find some chairs and tables."

This was no very difficult task, especially as the furniture dealer
received a couple of crisp bank-notes on account.  In fact, one
hand-truck full of necessaries was despatched before the vicar left the
shop and made up his mind to see a little more of the place before
returning to his future home.

Perhaps he would have been acting more wisely if he had sent in a load
of furniture and announcements of his coming, with orders for the place
to be put in readiness; but the Reverend Murray Selwood was eccentric,
and knowing that he had an uncouth set of people to deal with, he had
made up his mind to associate himself with them in every way, so as to
be thoroughly identified with the people, and become one of them as soon
as possible.

His way led him round by the great works of the town--Glaire's Bell
Foundry--and as he came nearer, a loud buzz of voices increased to a
roar, that to him, a stranger, seemed too great for the ordinary
transaction of business; and so it proved.

On all sides, as he went on, he saw heads protruded from doors and
windows, and an appearance of excitement, though he seemed in his own
person to transfer a good deal of the public attention to himself.

A minute or two later, and he found himself nearing a crowd of a couple
of hundred workmen, who were being harangued by a tall thin man, in
workman's costume, save that he wore a very garish plaid waistcoat,
whose principal colour was scarlet.

This man, who was swinging his arms about, and gesticulating
energetically, was shouting in a hoarse voice.  His words were
disconnected, and hard to catch, but "Downtrodden,"--"bloated
oligarchs,"--"British pluck"--"wucking-man"--"slavery"--and "mesters,"
reached the vicar's ears as he drew nearer.

Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd, and the speaker seemed to be
hustled from the top of the stone post which he had chosen for his
rostrum, and then, amid yells and hootings, it seemed that the crowd had
surrounded a couple of men who had been hemmed in while making their way
towards the great gates, and they now stood at bay, with their backs to
the high brick wall, while the mob formed a semicircle a few feet from
them.

It was rather hard work, and wanted no little elbowing, but, without a
moment's hesitation, the vicar began to force his way through the crowd;
and as he got nearer to the hemmed in men, he could hear some of the
words passing to and fro.

"Why, one of them is my friend, Mr Richard Glaire," said the vicar to
himself, as he caught sight of the pale trembling figure, standing side
by side with a heavy grizzled elderly workman, who stood there with his
hat off, evidently bent on defending the younger man.

"Yow come out o' that, Joe Banks, an' leave him to us," roared a great
bull-headed hammerman, who was evidently one of the ringleaders.

"Keep off, you great coward," was the answer.

"Gie him a blob, Harry; gie him a blob," shouted a voice.

"My good men--my good men," faltered Richard Glaire, trying to make
himself heard; but there was a roar of rage and hatred, and the men
pressed forward, fortunately carrying with them the vicar, and too
intent upon their proposed victims to take any notice of the strange
figure elbowing itself to the front.

"Where are the police, Banks--the police?"

"Yah!  He wants the police," shouted a shrill voice, which came from the
man in the red waistcoat.  "He's trampled down the rights of man, and
now he wants the brutal mummydons of the law."

"Yah!" roared the crowd, and they pressed on.

"Banks, what shall we do?" whispered Glaire; "they'll murder us."

"They won't murder me," said the foreman, stolidly.

"But they will me.  What shall we do?"

"Faight," said the foreman, sturdily.

"I can't fight.  I'll promise them anything," groaned the young man.
"Here, my lads," he cried, "I'll promise you--"

"Yah!  You wean't keep your promises," roared those nearest.  "Down with
them.  Get hold of him, Harry."

The big workman made a dash at Richard Glaire, and got him by the
collar, dragging him from the wall just as the foreman, who tried to get
before him, was good-humouredly baffled by half-a-dozen men, who took
his blows for an instant, and then held him helpless against the bricks.

It would have gone hard with the young owner of the works, for an
English mob, when excited and urged to action, is brutal enough for the
moment, before their manly feelings resume their sway, and shame creeps
in to stare them in the face.  He would probably have been hustled, his
clothes torn from his back, and a rain of blows have fallen upon him
till he sank exhausted, when he would have been kicked and trampled upon
till he lay insensible, with half his ribs broken, and there he would
have been left.

"Police!  Where are the police?" shouted the young man.

"Shut themselves up to be safe," roared a lusty voice; and the young man
grew dizzy with fear, as he gazed wildly round at the sea of menacing
faces screaming and struggling to get at him.

As he cowered back a blow struck him on the forehead, and another on the
lip, causing the blood to trickle down, while the great hammerman held
him forward, struggling helplessly in his grasp.

At that moment when, sick with fear and pain, Richard Glaire's legs were
failing him, and he was about to sink helpless among his men, something
white seemed to whiz by his ear, to be followed instantly by a heavy
thud.  There was a jerk at his collar, and he would have fallen, but a
strong arm was thrown before him; and then it seemed to him that the big
workman Harry had staggered back amongst his friends, as a loud voice
exclaimed:

"Call yourselves Englishmen?  A hundred to one!"

The new vicar's bold onslaught saved Richard Glaire for the moment, and
the men fell back, freeing the foreman as they did so.  It was only for
the moment though, and then with a yell of fury the excited mob closed
in upon their victims.

Volume 1, Chapter VI.

MOTHER AND SON.

Matters looked very bad for the new vicar, and for him he had tried to
save, for though the foreman was now ready and free to lend his aid, and
Richard Glaire, stung by his position into action, had recovered himself
sufficiently to turn with all the feebleness of the trampled worm
against his assailants, the fierce wave was ready to dash down upon them
and sweep them away.

Harry, the big hammerman, had somewhat recovered himself, and was
shaking his head as if to get rid of a buzzing sensation, and murmurs
loud and deep were arising, when the shrill voice of the man in the red
waistcoat arose.

"Now, lads, now's your time.  Trample down them as is always trampling
on you and your rights.  Smite 'em hip and thigh."

"Come on, and show 'em how to do it," roared a sturdy voice, and Tom
Podmore thrust himself before the vicar, and faced the mob.  "Come on
and show 'em how, Sim Slee; and let's see as you ain't all wind."

There was a derisive shout at this, and the man in the red waistcoat
began again.

"Down with them, boys.  Down with Tom Podmore, too; he's a sneak--a rat.
Yah!"

"I'll rat you, you ranting bagpipe," cried Tom, loudly.  "Stand back,
lads; this is new parson, and him as touches him has to come by me
first.  Harry, lad, come o' my side; you don't bear no malice again a
man as can hit like that."

"Not I," said Harry, thrusting his great head forward, to stare full in
the vicar's face.  "Dal me, but you are a stout un, parson; gie's your
fist.  It's a hard un."

It was given on the instant, and the hearty pressure told the vicar that
he had won a new ally.

"As for the governor," cried Tom, "you may do what you like wi' him,
lads, for I shan't tak' his part."

"Podmore," whispered the vicar, "for Heaven's sake be a man, and help
me."

"I am a man, parson, and I'll help you like one; but as for him"--he
cried, darting a malignant look at Richard Glaire.

He did not finish his sentence, for at that moment the man in the red
waistcoat mounted a post, and cried again:

"Down with 'em, lads; down with--"

He, too, did not finish his sentence, for at that moment, either by
accident or malicious design, the orator was upset; and, so easily
changed is the temper of a crowd, a loud laugh arose.

But the danger was not yet passed, for those nearest seemed ready to
drag their employer from his little body-guard.

"You'll help me then, Podmore?" cried the vicar, hastily.  "Come, quick,
to the gate."

The veins were swelling in Tom Podmore's forehead, and he glanced as
fiercely as any at his master, but the vicar's advice seemed like a new
law to him, and joining himself to his defenders, with the great
hammerman, they backed slowly to the gate, through the wicket, by which
Richard Glaire darted, and the others followed, the vicar coming last
and facing the crowd.

The little door in the great gates was clapped to directly, and then
there came heavy blows with stones, and a few kicks, followed by a burst
of hooting and yelling, after which the noise subsided, and the little
party inside began to breathe more freely.

"Thanky, Tom Podmore, my lad," said Banks, shaking him by the hand.
"I'm glad you turned up as you did."

Tom nodded in a sulky way, and glowered at his master, but he pressed
the foreman's hand warmly.

"I'd fight for you, Joe Banks, till I dropped, if it was only for her
sake; but not for him."

Meanwhile Harry, the big hammerman, was walking round the vicar and
inspecting him, just as a great dog would look at a stranger.

"Say, parson, can you wrastle?" he said at last.

"Yes, a little," was the reply, with a smile.

"I'd maybe like to try a fall wi' ye."

"I think we've had enough athletics for one day," was the reply.  "Look
at my hand."

He held out his bleeding knuckles, and the hammerman grinned.

"That's my head," he said.  "'Tis a hard un, ain't it?"

"The hardest I ever hit," said the vicar, smiling.

"Is it, parson--is it now?" said Harry, with his massive face lighting
up with pride.  "Hear that, Tom?  Hear that, Joe Banks?"

He stood nodding his head and chuckling, as if he had received the
greatest satisfaction from this announcement; and then, paying no heed
to the great bruise on his forehead, which was plainly puffing up, he
sat down on a pile of old metal, lit his pipe, and looked on.

"I hope you are not hurt, Mr Glaire?" said the vicar.  "This is a
strange second meeting to-day."

"No," exclaimed Richard, grinding his teeth, "I'm not hurt--not much.
Banks, go into the counting-house, and get me some brandy.  Curse them,
they've dragged me to pieces."

"Well, you would be so arbitrary with them, and I told you not," said
Banks.  "I know'd there'd be a row if you did."

"What!" cried Richard, "are you going to side with them?"

"No," said Banks, quietly.  "I never sides with the men again the
master, and never did; but you would have your own way about taking off
that ten per cent."

"I'll take off twenty now," shrieked Richard, stamping about like an
angry child.  "I'll have them punished for this outrage.  I'm a
magistrate, and I'll punish them.  I'll have the dragoons over from
Churley.  It's disgraceful, it's a regular riot, and not one of those
three wretched policemen to be seen."

"I see one on 'em comin'," growled Harry, grinning; "and he went back
again."

"Had you not better try a little persuasion with your workpeople?" said
the vicar.  "I am quite new here, but it seems to me better than force."

"That's what I tells him, sir," exclaimed Banks, "only he will be so
arbitrary."

"Persuasion!" shrieked Richard, who, now that he was safe, was
infuriated.  "I'll persuade them.  I'll starve some of them into
submission.  What's that?  What's that?  Is the gate barred?"

He ran towards the building, for at that moment there was a roar outside
as if of menace, but immediately after some one shouted--

"Three cheers for Missus Glaire!"

They were given heartily, and then the gate bell was rung lustily.

"It's the Missus," said Banks, going towards the gates.

"Don't open those gates.  Stop!" shrieked Richard.

"But it's the Missus come," said Banks, and he peeped through a crack.

"Open the gates, open the gates," cried a dozen voices.

"I don't think you need fear now," said the vicar; "the disturbance is
over for the present."

"Fear!  I'm not afraid," snarled Richard; "but I won't have those
scoundrels in here."

"I'll see as no one else comes in," said Harry, getting up like a small
edition of Goliath; and he stood on one side of the wicket gate, while
Banks opened it and admitted Mrs Glaire, with Eve Pelly, who looked
ghastly pale.

Several men tried to follow, but the gate was forced to by the united
efforts of Harry and the foreman, when there arose a savage yell; but
this was drowned by some one proposing once more "Three cheers for the
Missus!" and they were given with the greatest gusto, while the next
minute twenty heads appeared above the wall and gates, to which some of
the rioters had climbed.

"Oh, Richard, my son, what have you been doing?" cried Mrs Glaire,
taking his hand, while Eve Pelly went up and clung to his arm, gazing
tremblingly in his bleeding face and at his disordered apparel.

"There, get away," cried Richard, impatiently, shaking himself free.
"What have I been doing?  What have those scoundrels been doing, you
mean?"

He applied his handkerchief to his bleeding mouth, looking at the white
cambric again and again, as he saw that it was stained, and turning very
pale and sick, so that he seated himself on a rough mould.

"Dick, dear Dick, are you much hurt?" whispered Eve, going to him again
in spite of his repulse, and laying her pretty little hand on his
shoulder.

"Hurt?  Yes, horribly," he cried, in a pettish way.  "You see I am.
Don't touch me.  Go for the doctor somebody."

He looked round with a ghastly face, and it was evident that he was
going to faint.

"Run, pray run for Mr Purley," cried Mrs Glaire.

"I'll go," cried Eve, eagerly.

"I don't think there is any necessity," said the vicar, quietly.  "Can
you get some brandy, my man?" he continued, to Banks.  "No, stay, I have
my flask."

He poured out some spirit into the cup, and Richard Glaire drank it at a
draught, getting up directly after, and shaking his fist at the men on
the wall.

"You cowards!" he cried.  "I'll be even with you for this."

A yell from the wall, followed by another from the crowd, was the
response, when Mr Selwood turned to Mrs Glaire.

"If you have any influence with him get him inside somewhere, or we
shall have a fresh disturbance."

"Yes, yes," cried the anxious mother, catching her son's arm.  "Come
into the counting-house, Dick.  Go with him, Eve.  Take him in, and I'll
speak to the men."

"I'm not afraid of the brutal ruffians," cried Richard, shrilly.  "I'll
not go, I'll--"

Here there was a menacing shout from the wall, and a disposition shown
by some of the men to leap down; a movement which had such an effect on
Richard Glaire that he allowed his cousin to lead him into a building
some twenty yards away, the vicar's eyes following them as they went.

"I'll speak to the men now," said the little lady.  "Banks, you may open
the gates; they won't hurt me."

"Not they, ma'am," said the sturdy foreman, looking with admiration at
the self-contained little body, as, hastily wiping a tear or two from
her eyes, she prepared to encounter the workmen.

Before the gates could be opened, however, an ambassador in the person
of Eve Pelly arrived from Richard.

"Not open the gates, child?" exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

"No, aunt, dear, Richard says it would not be safe for you and me, now
the men are so excited."

For a few minutes Mrs Glaire forgot the deference she always rendered
to "my son!" and, reading the message in its true light, she exclaimed
angrily--

"Eve, child, go and tell my son that there are the strong lock and bolts
on the door that his father had placed there after we were besieged by
the workmen ten years ago, and he can lock himself in if he is afraid."

The Reverend Murray Selwood, who heard all this, drew in his breath with
a low hissing noise, as if he were in pain, on seeing the action taken
by the fair bearer of Richard Glaire's message.

"Aunt, dear," she whispered, clinging to Mrs Glaire, "don't send me
back like that--it will hurt poor Dick's feelings."

"Go and say what you like, then, child," cried Mrs Glaire, pettishly.
"Yes, you are right, Eve: don't say it."

"And you will not open the gates, aunt, dear?"

"Are you afraid of the men, Eve?"

"I, aunt?  Oh, no," said the young girl, smiling.  "They would not hurt
me."

"I should just like to see any one among 'em as would," put in Harry,
the big hammerman, giving his shirt sleeve a tighter roll, as if
preparing to crush an opponent bent on injuring the little maiden.  "We
should make him sore, shouldn't we, Tom Podmore, lad?"

"Oh, nobody wouldn't hurt Miss Eve, nor the Missus here," said Tom,
gruffly.  And then, in answer to a nod from Banks, the two workmen threw
open the great gates, and the yard was filled with the crowd, headed by
Sim Slee, who, however, hung back a little--a movement imitated by his
followers on seeing that Mrs Glaire stepped forward to confront them.

Volume 1, Chapter VII.

MRS GLAIRE'S SPEECH.

"It's all raight, lads," roared Harry, in a voice of thunder.  "Three
cheers for Missus Glaire!"

The cheers were given lustily, in spite of Sim Slee, who, mounting on a
pile of old metal, began to wave his hands in protestation.

"Stop, stop!" he cried; "it isn't all raight yet.  I want to know
whether we are to have our rights as British wuckmen, and our just and
righteous demands 'corded to us.  What I want to know is--"

"Stop a moment, Simeon Slee," said Mrs Glaire, quickly; and a dead
silence fell on the crowd, as her clear, sharp voice was heard.  "When I
was young, I was taught to look a home first.  Now, tell me this--before
you began to put matters straight for others, did you make things right
at home?"

There was a laugh ran through the crowd at this; but shaken, not
daunted, the orator exclaimed--

"Oh, come, that wean't do for me, Mrs Glaire, ma'am--that's begging of
the question.  What I want to know is--"

"And what I want to know is," cried Mrs Glaire, interrupting, "whether,
before you came out here leading these men into mischief, you provided
your poor wife with a dinner?"

"Hear, hear,"--"That's a good one,"--"Come down, Sim,"--"The Missus is
too much for ye!" were amongst the shouts that arose on all sides,
mingled with roars of laughter; and Sim Slee's defeat was completed by
Harry, the big hammerman, who, incited thereto by Banks, shouted--

"Three more cheers for the Missus!"  These were given, and three more,
and three more after that, the workmen forgetting for the time being the
object they had in view in the defeat of Simeon Slee, who, vainly trying
to make himself heard from the hill of old metal, was finally pulled
down and lost in the crowd, while now, in a trembling voice, Mrs Glaire
said--

"My men, I can't tell you how sorry I am to find you fighting against
the people who supply you with the work by which you live."

"Not again you, Missus," cried half a dozen.

"Yes, against me and my son--the son of your old master," said Mrs
Glaire, gathering strength as she proceeded.

"You come back agen, and take the wucks, Missus," roared Harry.  "Things
was all raight then."

"Well said, Harry; well said," cried Tom Podmore, bringing his hand down
on the hammerman's shoulder with a tremendous slap.  "Well said.
Hooray!"

There was a tremendous burst of cheering, and it was some little time
before Mrs Glaire could again make herself heard.

"I cannot do that," she said, "but I will talk matters over with my son,
and you shall have fair play, if you will give us fair play in return."

"That's all very well," cried a shrill voice; and Sim Slee and his red
waistcoat were once more seen above the heads of the crowd, for, put out
of the gates, he had managed to mount the wall; "but what we want to
know, as an independent body of sittizens, is--"

"Will some on yo' get shoot of that chap, an' let Missus speak," cried
Tom Podmore.

There was a bit of a rush, and Sim Slee disappeared suddenly, as if he
had been pulled down by the legs.

"I don't think I need say any more," said Mrs Glaire, "only to ask you
all to come quietly back to work, and I promise you, in my son's name--"

"No, no, in yours," cried a dozen.

"Well," said Mrs Glaire, "in my own and your dead master's name--that
you shall all have justice."

"That's all raight, Missus," cried Harry.  "Three more cheers for the
Missus, lads!"

"Stop!" cried Mrs Glaire, waving her hands for silence.  "Before we go,
I think we should one and all thank our new friend here--our new
clergyman, for putting a stop to a scene that you as well as I would
have regretted to the end of our days."

Mrs Glaire had got to the end of her powers here, for the mother
stepped in as she conjured up the trampled, bleeding form of her only
son; her face began to work, the tears streamed down her cheeks, and,
trembling and sobbing, she laid both her hands in those of Mr Selwood,
and turned away.

"Raight, Missus," roared Harry, who had certainly partaken of more gills
of ale than was good for him.  "Raight, Missus.  Parson hits harder nor
any man I ever knowed.  Look here, lads, here wur a blob.  Three cheers
for new parson!"

He pointed laughingly to his bruised forehead with one hand, while he
waved the other in the air, with the result that a perfect thunder of
cheers arose, during which the self-instituted, irrepressible advocate
of workmen's rights made another attempt to be heard; but his time had
passed, the men were in another temper, and he was met with a cry raised
by Tom Podmore.

"Put him oonder the poomp."  Simeon Slee turned and fled, the majority
of the crowd after him, and the others slowly filtered away till the
yard was empty.

Volume 1, Chapter VIII.

DEAR RICHARD.

"Take my arm, Mrs Glaire," said the vicar, gently; and, the excitement
past, the overstrung nerves slackened, and the woman reasserted itself,
for the doting mother now realised all that had gone, and the risks
encountered.  Trembling and speechless, she suffered herself to be led
into the counting-house, and placed in a chair.

"I--I shall be--better directly," she panted.

"Better!" shrieked her son, who was pacing up and down the room;
"better!  Mother, it's disgraceful; but I won't give way a bit--not an
inch.  I'll bring the scoundrels to reason.  I'll--"

"Dick, dear Dick, don't.  See how ill poor aunt is," whispered Eve.

"I don't care," said the young man, furiously.  "I won't have it.
I'll--"

"Will you kindly get a glass of water for your mother, Mr Glaire?" said
the vicar, as he half held up the trembling woman in her chair, and
strove hard to keep the disgust he felt from showing in his face--"I am
afraid she will faint."

"Curse the water!  No," roared Richard.  "I won't have it--I--I say I
won't have it; and who the devil are you, that you should come poking
your nose into our business!  You'll soon find that Dumford is not the
place for a meddling parson to do as he likes."

"Dick!" shrieked Eve; and she tried to lay a hand upon his lips.

"Hold your tongue, Eve!  Am I master here, or not?" cried Richard
Glaire.  "I won't have a parcel of women meddling in my affairs, nor any
kind of old woman," he continued, disdainfully glancing at the vicar.

There was a slight accession of colour in Murray Selwood's face, but he
paid no further heed to the young man's words, while, with her face
crimson with shame, Eve bent over her aunt, trying to restore her, for
she was indeed half fainting; and the cold clammy dew stood upon her
forehead.

"Here's a mug o' watter, sir," said the rough, sturdy voice of Joe
Banks, as he filled one from a shelf; and then he threw open a couple of
windows to let the air blow in more freely.

"Don't let anybody here think I'm a child," continued Richard Glaire,
who, the danger passed, was now white with passion; "and don't let
anybody here, mother or foreman, or stranger, think I'm a man to be
played with."

"There's nobody thinks nothing at all, my lad," said Joe Banks, sharply,
"only that if the parson there hadn't come on as he did, you'd have been
a pretty figure by this time, one as would ha' made your poor moother
shoother again."

"Hold your tongue, sir; how dare you speak to me like that!" roared
Richard.

"How dare I speak to you like that, my lad?" said the foreman, smiling.
"Well, because I've been like a sort of second father to you in the
works, and if you'd listened to me, instead of being so arbitrary, there
wouldn't ha' been this row."

"You insolent--"

"Oh yes, all raight, Master Richard, all raight," said the foreman,
bluffly.

"Dick, dear Dick," whispered Eve, clinging to his arm; but he shook her
off.

"Hold your tongue, will you!" he shrieked.  "Look here, you Banks," he
cried, "if you dare to speak to me like that I'll discharge you; I will,
for an example."

Banks laughed, and followed the raving man to the other end of the great
counting-house to whisper:

"No you wean't, lad, not you."

Richard started, and turned of a sickly hue as he confronted the sturdy
old foreman.

"Think I didn't know you, my lad, eh?" he whispered; and driving his
elbow at the same time into the young man's chest, he puckered up his
face, and gave him a knowing smile.  "No, you wean't start me, Richard
Glaire, I know.  But I say, my lad, don't be so hard on the poor lass
there, your cousin."

"Will you hold your tongue?" gasped Richard.  "They'll hear you."

"Well, what if they do?" said the sturdy old fellow.  "Let 'em.  There's
nowt to be ashamed on.  But there, you're popped now, and no wonder.
Get you home with your moother."

"But I can't go through the streets."

"Yes, you can; nobody 'll say a word to you now.  Get her home, lad; get
her home."

It was good advice, but Richard Glaire would not take it, and his mother
gladly availed herself of the vicar's arm.

"You'll come home now, Richard," said Mrs Glaire, feebly; and she
looked uneasily from her son to the foreman, as she recalled their
conversation in the garden, and felt unwilling to leave them alone
together.

"I shall come home when the streets are safe," said Richard, haughtily.
"They are safe enough for you, but I'm not going to subject myself to
another attack from a set of brute beasts."

"I don't think you have anything to fear now," said the vicar, quietly.

"Who said I was afraid?" snarled Richard, facing sharply round, and
paying no heed to the remonstrant looks of cousin and mother.  "I should
think I know Dumford better than you, and when to go and when to stay."

The young men's eyes met for a moment, and Richard Glaire's shifty gaze
sank before the calm, manly look of the man who had so bravely
interposed in his behalf.

"Curse him!  I hate him," Richard said in his heart.  "He's brave and
strong, and big and manly, and he does nothing but degrade me before
Eve.  I hate him--I hate him."

"What a contemptible cad he is," said Murray Selwood in his heart; "and
yet he must have his good points, or that sweet girl would not love him
as she evidently does.  Poor girl, poor girl!  But there: it is not fair
to judge him now."

"Of course, you must know best, Mr Glaire," he said aloud, "for I am
quite a stranger.  I will see your mother and cousin safely home, and I
hope next time we shall have a more pleasant meeting.  You are put out
now, and no wonder.  Good-bye."

He held out his hand with a frank, pleasant smile upon his countenance,
and the two women and the foreman looked curiously on as Richard shrank
away, and with a childish gesture thrust his hand behind him.  But it
was of no use, that firm, unblenching eye seemed to master him, the
strong, brown muscular hand remained outstretched, and, in spite of
himself, the young man felt drawn towards it, and fighting mentally
against the influence the while, he ended by impatiently placing his own
limp, damp fingers within it, and letting them lie there a moment before
snatching them away.

Directly after, leaning on the vicar's arm, and with Eve on her other
side, Mrs Glaire was being led through the knots of people still
hanging about the streets.  There was no attempt at molestation, and
once or twice a faint cheer rose; but Mr Selwood was fully aware of the
amount of attention they drew from door and window, for the Dumford
people were not at all bashful as to staring or remark.

At last the awkward steps were reached, and after supporting Mrs Glaire
to a couch, the new vicar turned to go, followed to the door by Eve.

"Good-bye, and thank you--so much, Mr Selwood," she said, pressing his
hand warmly.

"I did not think we should meet again so soon.  And, Mr Selwood--"

She stopped short, looking up at him timidly.

"Yes," he said, smiling.  "Don't be afraid to speak; we are not
strangers now."

"No, no; I know that," she cried, eagerly.  "I was only going to say--to
say--don't judge dear Richard harshly from what you saw this morning.
He was excited and hurt."

"Of course, of course," said the vicar, pressing the little hand he held
in both his.  "How could any one judge a man harshly at such a time?
Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

"And with such a little ministering angel to intercede for him,"
muttered the vicar, as the door closed.  "Heigho! these things are a
mystery, and it is as well that they should be, or I don't know what
would become of poor erring man."

Volume 1, Chapter IX.

AN ENLIGHTENED ENGLISHMAN.

On reaching the vicarage, Murray Selwood found one of the rooms made
bright and comfortable with the furniture that had been sent in, and the
table spread ready for a composite meal, half breakfast, half dinner,
with a dash in it of country tea.

Everything was scrupulously clean, and Mrs Slee was bustling about, not
looking quite so wan and unsociable as when he saw her first.

"I've scratted a few things together," she said, acidly, "and you must
mak' shift till I've had more time.  Will you have the pot in now?  I
put the bacon down before the fire when I saw you coming.  But, lord,
man, what have ye been doin' to your hand?"

"Only bruised it a bit: knocked the skin off," said Mr Selwood,
smiling.

"Don't tell me," said Mrs Slee, sharply.  "You've been faighting."

"Well, I knocked a man down, if you call that fighting," said the vicar,
smiling, as he saw Mrs Slee hurriedly produce a basin, water, and a
coarse brown, but very clean, towel, with which she proceeded to bathe
his bleeding hand.

"Oh, it's nothing," he said, as he took out his pocket-book.  "You'll
find scissors and some sticking-plaister in there."

"I don't want no sticking-plaister," she said, taking a phial of some
brown liquid from inside a common ornament.  "This'll cure it directly."

"And what may this be?" said the vicar, smiling, as he saw his leech
shake the bottle, and well soak a small piece of rag in the liquid.

"Rag Jack's oil," said Mrs Slee, pursing up her lips, and then
anointing and tying up the injured hand.  "It cures everything."

The vicar nodded, not being without a little faith in homely country
simples; and then the rag was neatly sewed on, and an old glove cut so
as to cover the unsightly bandage.

"Did they upset you?" she then queried.

"Well, no," he said; and he briefly related what had taken place.  "By
the way, I hope that gentleman in the red waistcoat is no relation of
yours.  Is he?"

"Is he?" retorted Mrs Slee, viciously dabbing down a dish of tempting
bacon, with some golden eggs, beside the crisp brown loaf and yellow
butter.  "Is he, indeed!  He's my master."

Mrs Slee hurried out of the room, but came back directly after.

"You've no spoons," she said, sharply; and then making a dive through
her thin, shabby dress, she searched for some time for a pocket-hole,
and then plunging her arm in right to the shoulder, she brought out a
packet tied in a bit of calico.  This being undone displayed a paper,
and within this another paper was set free.  Carefully folded, and
fitted into one another, within this were half a dozen very small-sized,
old-fashioned silver teaspoons, blackened with tarnish.

"They are quite clean," grumbled Mrs Slee, giving a couple of them a
rub.  "They were my grandmother's, and she gave 'em to me when I was
married--worse luck.  I keep 'em there so as they shan't be drunk.  He
did swallow the sugar-tongs."

"Does your husband drink, then?" said Mr Selwood, quietly.

"Is there anything he don't do as he oughtn't since they turned him out
of the plan?" said the woman, angrily.  "There, don't you talk to me
about him; it makes me wild when I don't want to be."

She hurried out of the room again, shutting the door as loudly as she
possibly could without it's being called a bang; and then hunger drove
everything else out of the young vicar's mind, even the face of Eve
Pelly, and--a minor consideration--his bruised hand.

"A queer set of people indeed," he said, as he progressed with his
hearty meal.  "What capital bread, though.  That butter's delicious.
Hah!" he ejaculated, helping himself to another egg and a pinky brown
piece of bacon; "if there is any fault in those eggs they are too fresh.
By Sampson, I must tell Mrs Slee to secure some more of this bacon."

Ten minutes later he was playing with the last cup of tea, and indulging
it with more than its normal proportions of sugar and milk, for the calm
feeling of satisfaction which steals over a hearty man after a meal--a
man who looks upon digestion as a dictionary word, nothing more--had set
in, and Murray Selwood was thinking about his new position in life.

"Well, I suppose I shall get used to it--in time.  There must be a few
friends to be made.  Hallo!"

The ejaculation was caused by some one noisily entering the adjoining
room with--

"Now then, what hev you got to yeat?"

"Nowt." was the reply.

The voices were both familiar, for in the first the vicar recognised
that of the man in the red waistcoat--"My master," as Mrs Slee called
him.

"You've been cooking something," he continued loudly.

"Yes.  The parson's come, and it's his brakfast."

"Brakfast at this time o' day!  Oh, then, it's him as I see up at
foundry wi' them Glaires."

"Don't talk so loud, or he'll hear you," said Mrs Slee, sharply.

"Let him.  Let him hear me, and let him know that there's a free,
enlightened Englishman beneath the same roof.  Let him know that there's
one here breathing the free--free light--breath of heaven here.  A man
too humble to call himself a paytriot, but who feels like one, and moans
over the sufferings of his down-trampled brothers."

"I tell you he'll hear you directly, and we shall have to go."

"Let him hear me," shouted Simeon, "and let him drive us out--drive us
into the free air of heaven.  It'll only be a new specimint of the
bloated priesthood trampling down and gloating over the sufferings of
the poor.  Who's he--a coming down here with his cassicks and gowns to
read and riot on his five hundred a year in a house like this, when the
hard-working body of brothers on the local plan can preach wi'out having
it written down, and wi'out cassicks and gowns, and get nothing for it
but glory!  Let him hear me."

"Thou fulsome! hold thy stupid tongue," cried Mrs Slee.

"Never!" exclaimed Simeon, who counted this his opportunity after being
baffled in the forenoon.  "I'll be trampled on no more by any bloated
oligarch of a priest or master.  I've been slave too--too long.  I'm
starving now, but what then?  I can be a martyr to a holy cause--the
'oly cause of freedom.  Let him riot in his food and raiment--let him
turn us out, and some day--some day--I say some day--"

Mr Slee paused in his oratory, for his wife had clapped her hand over
his mouth; but just then the door opened, and the vicar stood in the
opening.

Mrs Slee dropped her hand, while Simeon thrust his right into his
breast, orator fashion, and faced the new-comer with inborn dignity.

"How do, Mr Slee," said the vicar, quietly.  "We met before this
morning.  I merely came to say that I cannot help hearing every word
that is spoken in this room."

"The words that I said--" began Simeon.

"And," continued the vicar, "I have quite done, if you will clear away,
Mrs Slee.  I am going to see about a few more necessaries for the
place, and to look out for a gardener, unless your husband likes the
job."

"Garden!" said Simeon; "I dig!"

"I often do," said the vicar, coolly.  "It's very healthy work.  Famous
for the appetite.  By the way, Mr Slee, I heard you say you were
hungry.  Mrs Slee, pray don't save anything on the table; you are quite
welcome."

He walked out of the place, and Mrs Slee, who, poor woman, looked
ravenously hungry, hastened to spread their own table.

"That for you," said Simeon, snapping his fingers after the retreating
form.  "I care that for you--a bloated priest.  Of course, we're to eat
his husks--a swine--his leavings.  No; I'll rather starve than be
treated so."

"Howd thy silly tongue, thou fulsome!" exclaimed Mrs Slee, "and thank
the Lord there is something sent for thee.  You talk like that!  Oh,
Sim, Sim, if ever there was a shack, it's thou."

"Mebbe I am, mebbe I'm not," said Sim, as he looked curiously on, while
his wife filled up the steaming teapot, put the half dish of bacon down
to warm, and then proceeded to cut some thick slices of bread and
butter.

Sim turned his eyes away and tried to look out of the window, but those
thick slices, with the holes well filled with butter, were magnetic, and
drew his eyes back again.

"I tell ye what, woman," he began, wrenching his eyes away, "that the
day is coming when the British wuckman will tear himself from under the
despot's heel."

"There, do hold thee clat, and--there, yeat that."

Mrs Slee thrust a great slice of the tempting bread and butter into her
husband's hand, and his fingers clutched it fiercely.

"Yeat that--yeat that?" he cried.  "Yeat the bread of a brutal, Church--
established tyrant?  Yeat the husks of his leavings?  Never!  I'd
sooner--sooner--sooner--sooner--Yah!"

Mr Simeon Slee's words came more and more slowly, as he prepared to
dash the bread and butter down; but as his eyes rested upon the slice,
he hesitated, and as he hesitated he fell, for the temptation was too
great for the hungry hero.  He uttered a kind of snarling ejaculation,
and then treating the bread as if it were an enemy, he bit out of it a
great semicircle, while throwing himself into a chair, he sat and ate
slice after slice with bacon, in silence, washing all down with cups of
tea.

Mr Slee stirred his tea with a fork-handle, for it was noticeable that
the silver teaspoons had disappeared--a line of procedure adopted by Sim
as soon as his hunger was appeased, for he had certain meetings of his
brotherhood to attend, so he told his wife; and he did not return till
late, his coming being announced by sundry stumbles in the passage, and
a peculiar thickness of utterance, due doubtless to the exhaustion
consequent upon many patriotic utterances at the hostelry known as the
Bull for short--the Bull and Cucumber in fact.

Seekers for derivations of signs had puzzled themselves a good deal over
the connection between a bull and that familiar gourd of the
_cucurbitaceae_ known as a cucumber.  It is perhaps needless to add that
the learned were baffled, but the incongruity was never noticed by the
people of Dumford, and as their pronunciation of the sign was the Bull
and Cow-cumber, the connection did not sound at all out of place.

Mr Selwood heard Sim return, and lay for some time listening to his
patriotic utterances--fragments, in fact, of the speech he had delivered
at the meeting--and it became very evident to the new occupant of the
vicarage that life with Mr Simeon Slee beneath his roof would not be
very pleasant.

"I don't like the idea of turning out the poor woman, either," he said
to himself, as he lay turning from side to side, courting the rest that
would not come.

"I've been a bit excited to-day, I suppose," he muttered; and then he
tried all the known recipes short of drugs for obtaining rest, from
saying a speech backwards to getting out of bed and brushing his hair.

But sleep would not come till close upon morning, for that face before
him was the sweet appealing face of Eve Pelly, and in the stillness of
the night he seemed to be hearing her words again and again--"Don't
judge dear Richard harshly from what you saw this morning."

"Dear Richard, dear Richard, dear Richard"--he found himself repeating
over and over again.  "And she loves him, and believes in him.  He is
everything to her, and if she found out that he was a scoundrel it would
break her heart."

"And set her free," something in the corner of his own seemed to
whisper; and he started, and sat up in bed with the perspiration
standing on his brow.

"Am I sane?  Am I in my right senses?" he said, feeling his pulse and
counting its beats.  "I must be a little out of tone.  Humph!  I'll have
such a walk to-morrow!  Bah! it's the excitement of coming down here,
and it has been rather a lively day."

He punched and turned his pillow fiercely, threw himself down, and
closed his eyes once more, shutting out the dimly-seen lattice window,
with its fringe of ivy leaves; but as he did so there was Eve Pelly's
face again, and that gentle look which accompanied the appealing curve
of her lips, as she said, "Don't judge dear Richard harshly."

The would-be sleeper started up in bed again, and sat there feeling hot
and feverish for some time.

"Look here, Murray, dear boy," he said at last.  "You are down here for
a great purpose.  You have here in your charge some four thousand souls
to teach and tend, and help on in life's course.  Don't fidget, my boy.
I'm not going to preach, only to say a few words to the point.  Now,
look here: You are the spiritual head of the parish; you have your
Master's work to do.  In short, you are a teacher.  Now mind this, a
teacher who cannot govern himself is a broken reed.  Are you a broken
reed?"  This was all said in a low voice, and then for a few moments
there was silence in the room, to be broken by the young man saying in a
somewhat louder voice in answer to his own words: "I hope not."

"Good," he continued, in the former tone.  "I like that: it sounds
humble and hopeful.  Now look here, you will see a great deal of what
goes on in this place.  In fact, you have seen a good deal already, and
you have learned what is the state of affairs with one of the principal
families.  You have heard that Richard Glaire is engaged to his cousin;
that the said cousin loves him; and that this weak young man is playing
fast and loose."

"Yes."

"Good.  Well, your duty is plain; the young fellow doubtless has his
good points.  Make him your friend, and improve them--for her sake--gain
an influence over him.  You can, and you will, Murray Selwood.  Yours
may be a hard duty, but you must do it."

"Yes, verily, and by God's help so I will."

"Good.  Now you may go to sleep."

After this he lay down, and by a strange exercise of will, and in the
belief that he was going to conquer a feeling absolutely new to him, he
fell asleep directly.

But it was no peaceful rest such as generally came to his pillow, for he
lay tossing in dreams of Eve Pelly turning to him constantly for help
from some great trouble that was ever pursuing her--a danger that he
could not avert.  Then Richard Glaire had him by the throat, charging
him with robbing him of his love; and then he was engaged in a mad
struggle with the young man, holding him over a gulf to hurl him in,
incited thereto by the young workman.

Then once more Eve Pelly's appealing face was before him, praying him to
spare dear Richard, the man she loved, and then--

"Thank God, it's morning!" he exclaimed, waking with a start, to consult
his watch, and finding it was half-past six.

Volume 1, Chapter X.

SIM SLEE BUSY.

Banks, the foreman, stayed late at the foundry on the night of the
disturbance.  His master remained in the counting-house smoking cigars
till he was very white and ill, feelings which he attributed to the
assault made upon him that day--a very sudden one by the way, and one
which had arisen, as has been intimated, on account of a rather unfair
reduction that had been made in the rate of pay.

But this was not all, for the fact was, that after being left to go on
in its quiet, old-fashioned way for years, probably from its
insignificance, Dumford had suddenly been leavened by Sim Slee with a
peculiar version of his own of the trades-union doctrines of some of the
larger towns--doctrines which he had altered to suit his own ends.

Hence arose a society which was the pride of Sim Slee, and known amongst
the workmen as the Brotherhood.  Meetings were held regularly, speeches
made, and Simeon Slee, who heretofore had confined himself to idleness,
drink, and local preaching, till expelled as a disgrace to the plan,
became a shining light in the brotherhood, on account of what the more
quiet workmen called his power of putting things, though the greater
part held aloof, from the contempt in which this leader was held.

In previous days, with one or two exceptions, the word of the master of
the works had been law, and wages were raised or lowered as trade
flourished or fell, with nothing more than a few murmurs; but now times
were altered, men had begun to think for themselves, and the behaviour
of Richard Glaire had grown so arbitrary and unjust that the consequence
was the riot we have seen.

Richard Glaire was about as unsuitable a person as it is possible to
imagine to have such a responsibility as the management of a couple of
hundred men; but he did not believe this, and he sat, after the
departure of his mother, nursing his wrongs, and making plans for the
punishment of his workmen.

At one time he was for having the assistance of the military, but as he
cooled down he was obliged to acknowledge that his request would be
ridiculed.

Then he determined on getting summonses against about twenty of the
ringleaders, whom he meant to discharge.

Once he called Banks, and asked him what it would be best to do.

"Put the wage right again," said the foreman.

Whereupon Richard Glaire turned upon him in a burst of childish passion,
and declared that he was in league with the scoundrels who had assaulted
him.

"There, I shall go till you've had time to cool down," said Banks,
grimly.  "Your metal's hot, Master Richard, and it wean't be raight
again till you've had a night's rest."

Richard made no reply, but sat biting his lips and making plans till
dusk, when he cautiously stole out of the building by a side door, of
which he alone had the key.

Banks stayed on for another couple of hours, plodding about the
building, examining doors, the extinct forges and furnaces, looking at
the bands of the huge lathes, and displaying a curious kind of energy,
as by means of a small bull's-eye lantern he peered in and out of all
sorts of out-of-the-way places.

"There's no knowing what games Master Sim might try on," he remarked to
himself; "blowings up and cutting bands, and putting powther in the
furnace holes; he's shack enew for ought, and I dessay some on 'em will
be stupid enough to side wi' him.  What's that?"

He stopped and listened, for it seemed to him that he had heard a noise
below him in the ground floor.

The sound was not repeated, so he went on cautiously through the great
black workshop, with its weird assemblage of shafts, cranks, and bands,
looking, in the fitful gleams cast by the lantern, like a
torture-chamber in the fabled Pandemonium.

A stranger would have tripped and fallen a dozen times over the
metal-cumbered floor; but every inch and every piece of machinery was so
familiar to the foreman that he could have gone about the place
blindfold, even as he did once or twice in the dark when he closed his
bull's-eye lantern, thinking he heard a noise.

All seemed right in this workshop, so he descended to the foundry, going
over it and amongst the furnaces, now growing cold.

Then he threaded his way amongst the sunken moulds for castings; looked
up at the cranes, paused before the massive crucibles used for melting
bell-metal or ingots for the great steel bells, and ended by stopping
again to listen.

"I'll sweer I heerd a noise," he muttered, taking a short constable's
staff from his pocket, and twisting its stout leather thong round his
wrist.  "It will be strange and awkward for somebody if I find him
playing any of his tricks here."

He went cautiously on tip-toe in the direction from which the noise had
seemed to come, going up a short ladder to a raised portion of the
foundry, which formed an open floor where lighter work was done.

He advanced very cautiously in the dark, holding his staff ready to
deliver a blow, or guard his head, and the next minute there was the
sound of some tool being moved on a bench, and then something alighted
at his feet, setting up a soft purring and beginning to rub up against
his legs.

"Why, Tommy," he said, "you scar'd me, my boy.  It was you, was it?
After rats, eh, Tommy?  Poor old puss, then."

He turned on his lantern, took a good look round, and then, apparently
satisfied, he pulled out an old-fashioned silver watch and consulted its
face.

"Eight o'clock, eh?  Why, they'll think at home that I'm lost."

As he spoke he made his light play round for a few minutes, and then,
apparently satisfied, he put it out, placed the lamp on a shelf, and
went out and across the yard to the kind of lodge, where a man was
waiting to take the duty of the watchman for the night.

"All raight, Mester Banks?"

"All right, Rolf," was the reply.  "I've been all round."

Directly after the old foreman was on his way homeward, but he had
hardly taken a dozen strides down the lane under the wall, before the
head of Simeon Slee was cautiously raised above the edge of one of the
great crucibles, or melting-pots, and then for a time he remained
motionless.

"You're a clever one, Joe Banks, you are," he said at last, as he raised
himself up and sat on the edge of the great pot.  "You can find out
everything, yow can; you can trample on the raights of the British
wucking-man, and get the independent spirits discharged, eh?  But you're
one of the ungodly bitter ones, and you must be smitten wherever you
can.  Let's see how the wuck 'll go on to-morrow."

The speaker threw his legs over the side, and then paused to dust his
trousers and his coat before proceeding further.

"It's hot lying in hiding there," he muttered, pulling off his coat and
rolling up his sleeves.  "I have to toil and moil like a slave for the
cause."

His next proceeding was to open a great clasp knife and try its edge,
which was keen as that of a razor; and then, armed with this, and quite
as much at home in the works as the foreman, he went about with lithe
steps as cautious as a cat, and, cutting through the bands that
connected the wheels of the lathes with the great shaft that set them in
motion, he dragged them down and piled them together till he had
collected a goodly heap.

This was not accomplished all at once, and with ease, for, setting aside
the watchfulness with which the task had to be done, and the care to
ensure silence, the bands were heavy, hard to cut, and they had to be
borne some distance.  Altogether it took Sim Slee a good hour's arduous
labour, and he perspired profusely.  In fact, it was his habit to take
more pains to achieve a bad end than would have sufficed to get a good
living twice over.

"Phew! it's hot," he muttered in one of his pauses, during which he ran
to the nearest door, and listened.  "What a slave I am to the cause."

Then he chuckled and laughed over the mischief he had done, and ended by
laboriously dragging all the great leather bands and straps to the
uncovered hole of a furnace, down which he dropped them, so that they
fell far back from the mouth below, which opened on the stoke-hole; and
he knew that the chances were ten to one that if the present heat did
not destroy them, a fire would be lit by the careless stokers, and the
bands consumed before they were missed, as, if business were resumed on
the following day, the firemen would be there long before the ordinary
workers.

"Theer," said Sim, when he had finished, "I wonder what Joe Banks would
say now if he knew o' this?"

He resumed his coat, out of the pocket of which he took a piece of
strong line, some fifteen feet long, and walked cautiously, listening
the while, towards one of the windows which looked down on the lane, one
side of which was formed by the works and the wall of the yard, and from
which the little door before mentioned gave access to the proprietor's
private room in the counting-house.

Sim Slee had entered by this window, being a light, active man, and he
was about to descend from it, and make his escape by hitching the strong
light steel hook attached to the end of his rope to the sill, just as he
had entered by throwing it up till it caught, it being so constructed
that a sharp wave sent along the slackened rope would set it free.  But
before descending Sim stood, rope in hand, listening, watched by the cat
at a respectable distance, that sage black animal being evidently
impressed with the fact that the intruder in the works was wonderfully
rat-like in his actions.

Tommy did not approach him, nor yet purr, but crouched there watching
while Sim stood with one ear close to the window, then sharply turned
his head and thrust it out into the night air, drew it back again as
sharply, and then cautiously thrust it out once more, so that unseen he
could see and listen to what went on below.

For there were two figures just below the opening, and as Sim listened,
holding his breath, one of them exclaimed:

"I won't, I won't, Mr Richard, and you've no business to ask me."

"_Mr_.  Richard," said the other, reproachfully; "I thought it was to be
Dick--your own Dick."

"Oh, don't--don't--don't talk like that," sobbed the other.  "Oh, I wish
I really, really knew whether you meant it all."

"Meant it all, Daisy! how can you be so cruel, when you know how dearly
I love you?  But come into the counting-house, and we can sit there and
talk."

"I can't--I won't!" said Daisy; "and you know you oughtn't to ask me,
Mr Richard.  What would father say if he were to hear of it?"

"Father would only be too pleased," whispered the young man, "for he
believes in me, if you don't, Daisy.  He'd like you to be my own
beautiful darling little wife, that I should make a lady."

"But, do you really, really mean it, Mr Richard?" said Daisy, with a
hysterical sob.

"`Really mean it!  Mr Richard!'" said the young fellow, reproachfully.
"Oh, Daisy, have you so mean an opinion of me?  Do you take me for a
contemptible liar?"

"Oh no, no, no," sobbed the girl; "but they say--I always thought--I
believed that you were engaged to Miss Eve."

"A poor puny thing," said Richard, in a contemptuous tone; "and besides,
she's my cousin."

"But she thinks you love her," said Daisy.

"Poor thing!" laughed Richard.

"And I believe you love her."

"Indeed I don't, nor anybody else but you, you beautiful little rosebud.
Oh, Daisy, Daisy, how can you be so cruel!"

"I'm not, I'm not cruel," sobbed poor Daisy; "but I want to do what's
right."

"Of course," whispered Richard.  "But come along, let's go in the
counting-house--to my room--it's safer there."

"I won't, I won't," cried Daisy, indignantly.  "At such a time of night,
too!  You oughtn't to ask me."

"I only asked you for your own sake," said Richard, "because people
might talk if they saw you with me here."

"Oh yes," sobbed Daisy; "and they would.  I must go."

"Stop a moment," said Richard, catching her wrist.  "Perhaps, too, it
was a little for my own sake, because the men are so furious against
me."

"Oh yes, I heard," cried Daisy, with her voice shaking; "but they did
not hurt you to-day?"

"Not hurt me!" said Richard.  "Why, they nearly killed me."

"No, no," sobbed Daisy.

"But they did; and they would if I hadn't been rescued."

Daisy suppressed a hysterical cry, and Richard passed his arm round her
little waist, and drew her to him.

"Then you do love me a little, Daisy?" he whispered.

"No, no, I don't think I do," sobbed the girl, without, however, trying
to get away.  "I believe you were going to meet Miss Eve this morning,
and were disappointed because I was there."

"Indeed I was not," said Richard.  "But I'm sure you were expecting to
see that great hulking hound, Tom Podmore."

"That I was not," cried Daisy, impetuously; "and I won't have you speak
like that of poor Tom, for I've behaved very badly to him, and he's a
good--good, worthy fellow."

"`Poor Tom!'" said Richard, with a sigh.  "Ah, Daisy, Daisy."

"Don't, Mr Richard, please," sobbed Daisy, who was crying bitterly.

"`Poor Tom--Mr Richard,'" said the young man, as if speaking to
himself.

"Don't, don't, Mr Richard, please."

"`Mr Richard.'"

"Well, Dick, then.  But there, I must go now."

"Not just now, darling Daisy," whispered Richard, passionately.  "Come
with me--here we are close by the door."

"No, no, indeed I will not," cried Daisy, firmly.

"Not when I tell you it isn't safe for me to be in the streets at night,
for fear some ruffian should knock out my brains?"

"Oh, Dick, dear Dick, don't say so."

"But I'm obliged to," he said, trying to draw her along, but she still
resisted.

"I wouldn't have you hurt for the world," she sobbed; "but, Richard--
Dick, do you really, really love me as much as you have said?"

"Ten thousand times more, my darling, or I shouldn't have been running
horrible risks to-night to keep my appointment with you."

"And you--you want to make me your wife, Richard--to share everything
with you?"

"You know I do, darling," he cried, in a low, hoarse whisper.

"Then, Dick, dear, it wouldn't be proper respect to your future wife to
take me there to your works at this time of night," said the girl,
simply, as she clung to him.

"Not when the streets are unsafe?" he cried.

"Let's part now, directly," said Daisy.  "I would sooner die than any
one should hurt you, Richard; but you'd never respect your wife if she
had no respect for herself.  Good night, Richard."

"There, I was right," he cried, petulantly, as he snatched himself away.
"You do still care for Tom."

"No, no, Dick, dear Dick.  I don't a bit," sobbed the girl.  "Don't,
pray don't, speak to me like that."

"Then will you come with me--only because it isn't safe here?" whispered
Richard.

"No, no," sobbed the girl, firmly, "I can't do that, and if you loved me
as you said, you wouldn't ask me."

"Bah!" ejaculated Richard, angrily.  "Go to your dirty, grimy lout of a
lover then;" and as the girl clung to him he thrust her rudely away.

Sim Slee, more rat-like than ever, had been rubbing his hands together
with delight, as he looked down at the dimly-seen figures, and overheard
every word.

"There'll be a faight, and Dicky Glaire will be bunched about
strangely," muttered Sim, as Daisy gave a faint scream, for a figure
strode out of the darkness.

"She wouldn't have far to go," said the figure, hoarsely.

"Tom!" cried Daisy, shrinking to the wall.

"Yes, it's Tom, sure enew," said the new-comer.  "Daisy Banks, it's time
thou wast at home, and I'm goin' to see thee theer."

"How dare you interfere, you insolent scoundrel!" cried Richard,
striding forward; but he stopped short as Tom drew himself up.

"Look ye here, Richard Glaire--Mester Richard Glaire," said Tom,
hoarsely, "I'm goin' to tak' Daisy Banks home to her father wi'out
touching of you; but if yow try to stop me, I'll finish the job as I
stopped them lads from doing this morning.  Now go home while you're
raight, for it wean't be safe to come a step nigher."

Richard Glaire drew back, while the young fellow took Daisy by the
wrist, and drew her arm through his own, striding off directly, but
stopping as Richard cried:

"You cowardly eavesdropper; you heard every word."

"Just about," said Tom, coolly; "I come to tak' care o' Daisy here; and
if she'd said `Yes,' by the time yow'd got the key of your private door
theer, I should ha' knocked thee down and had my foot o' thee handsome
face, Mester."

He strode off, Daisy having hard work to keep up with him, sobbing the
while, till they were near her home, when she made an effort to cease
crying, wiped her eyes, and broke the silence.

"Did--did you hear what I said, Tom?" she whispered.

"Ivery word, lass, but I only recollect one thing."

"What was that?"

"That thou did'st not love me a bit."

Daisy gave a sob.

"You mustn't mind, Tom," she said, in a low voice, "for I'm a bad,
wretched girl."

"I should spoil the face of any man who said so to me," he said,
passionately; and then he relapsed into his quiet, moody manner.

"There's plenty of better girls than me, Tom, will be glad to love you,"
she said.

"Yes," he said, softly, "plenty;" and then with a simple pathos he
continued bitterly, "and I've got plenty more hearts to give i' place o'
the one as you've 'bout broke."

Daisy's breath came with a catch, and they went on in silence for a
time--a silence that the girl herself broke.

"Tom," she said, hoarsely, and he gave quite a start.  "Tom, are you
going to tell mother and father what you've heard and seen?"

"No, lass," he said, sadly, "I'm not o' that sort.  I came to try and
take care o' thee, not as I've any call to now.  Thou must go thy own
gate, for wi' such as thou fathers and mothers can do nowt.  If Dick
Glaire marries thee, I hope thou'lt be happy.  If he deceives thee--"

"What, Tom?" whispered the girl, in an awe-stricken tone, for her
companion was silent.

"I shall murder him, and be hung out of my misery," said Tom.  "There's
your door, lass.  Go in."

He waited till the door closed upon her, and then strode off into the
darkness.

Meanwhile Sim Slee leaned cautiously from the window watching Richard,
who stood now just beneath him, grinding his teeth with impotent rage as
he saw Daisy disappear.

"Why didn't that fool smash the lungeing villain!" said Slee to himself;
and then he leaned a little further out.

"I'd like to drop one of these ingots on his head, only it would be
mean--Yah! go on, you tyrant and oppressor and robber of the poor, and--
oh, my! what a lark!" he said, drawing in his head as Richard Glaire
disappeared, when he threw himself on the floor, hugging himself and
rolling about in ecstasy, while the cat on a neighbouring lathe set up
its back, swelled its tail, and stared at him with dilated eyes.

"Here's a lark!" said Sim again.  "Why, we shall get owd Joe Banks over
to our side.  Oh yes, of course he sides with the mesters, he does.  He
hates trades unions, he does.  He says my brotherhood's humbug, and he's
too true to his master to side wi' such as me.  Ho, ho, ho!  I shall
hev' you, Joe Banks, and you'll bring the rest.  I shall hev' you; and
if you ain't enrolled at the Bull before a month's out, my name ain't
Simeon Slee."

"Let me see," said Sim, sitting up sedately and brushing the dirt from
his coat, "I've to speak at Churley o' Tuesday.  I'll let 'em have it
about suthing as 'll fit exact to the case.  An' it's a wonderful power
is speech.  Hey! that it is."

He looked out and listened for a few minutes, and then, all being
apparently clear, he placed his knee on the window-sill, slid down the
rope, gave it a jerk which set the hook free, caught it nimbly, and
rolling the line up, went on preening and brushing himself still like a
rat till he reached the Bull and Cucumber, where he was received by the
party assembled with a good deal of pot-rattling on the table.

It fell to him, as has been intimated, to make a speech or two that
night, for the affairs of the day were largely discussed; and in the
course of his delivery he named no names, he said, leastwise he did not
say it weer, nor he didn't say it weern't Joe Banks, foreman at the
foundry, but what he did say was that there was more unlikely things on
the cards than for a certain person to jine their ranks, and become one
of a brotherhood of which every man there was proud.

"Well, I don't know so much about that, Sim Slee," said one of the men.
"This here don't seem like the societies that we hear on."

"What do you mean?" said Sim.

"Mean!  Why, as instead of our being joined sensible like to get what's
reasonable fro' the master, we comes here to hear thee spout."

"That's your ignorance, Peter Thorndike," said Sim.  "Yow'd like to be
head man pr'haps, and tak' the lead."

"Nay," said the man, "I want to tak' no leads, for I can't talk like
thee; but I want what's sensible and raight for both sides, and I don't
see as we're agoing to get it by calling ourselves brothers, and takking
oaths, and listening to so much o' thy blather."

"Peter Thorndike," said Sim, folding his arms like an image of Napoleon
at St Helena, "thou'rt only a child yet, and hast much to learn.  Don't
I tell thee as afore long Joe Banks 'll be over on our side, and a great
time coming for Dicky Glaire?"

"Yes, you telled me," growled the man, "but I don't know as I believe
it.  I wants what's fair, and that's what we all wants, eh, lads?"

"Yes, yes," chorused the others.  "Then you shall have it," said Sim,
raising one hand to speak.

"I' words," said Thorndike, "and they don't make owt to yeat.  Sim Slee,
your brotherhood's all a sham."

Volume 1, Chapter XI.

MRS GLAIRE'S VICTORY.

Tea had been waiting for some time at the house before Richard Glaire
made his appearance--for he had of late insisted upon oversetting the
old-fashioned homely customs of his boyhood, and dined late.

The drawing-room looked pleasant, for it was well lighted; the
tea-service was bright and handsome: and Eve's hand was visible in many
places about the room, where flowers were prettily arranged in vases; in
the handsomely-worked cosy which covered the teapot; and in the various
pieces of needlework that had grown from her leisure time.

Mrs Glaire, still somewhat upset by the excitement of the day, was
lying on a couch, with her face screened from the lamp, whose soft light
fell upon Eve as she sat trying to read, but with her thoughts wandering
far away.  In fact, from time to time she glanced towards the window,
and at every sound a bright look of pleasure took that of the anxiety
depicted upon her sweet young face.

Then the animation would die out, and she sat apparently listening.

A sigh from the couch aroused her; and, crossing the room, she bent down
to tenderly stroke the grey curls back from Mrs Glaire's forehead
before kissing her.

"Poor aunty," she cooed; "she does want her tea so badly.  Let me give
you one--just one little cup."

"No, Eve," said Mrs Glaire; "I'll wait till Richard comes."

"Where can he be?" said Eve, anxiously.  "How late he is."  Then seeing
how her words had impressed her aunt, she hastened to add: "Don't
fidget, aunt dear; he's only stopping to have a cigar.  He'll soon be
here."

"Eve, my child," said Mrs Glaire, who had been brooding over a trouble
other than that which had disturbed her during the day, "bring a stool
and sit down by me."

Eve hastened to obey, and, drawing the young girl's head down to her
breast, Mrs Glaire went on:

"My child, you must not think me strange; but I want to talk to you--
about Richard."

"Yes, aunt," said Eve, whose voice suddenly turned husky, as her heart
began to accelerate its motion.

"You love Dick, Eve?"

"Oh, aunt dear, yes," faltered the girl, with tears rising to her eyes.

"Of course you do, child.  No girl could help loving my son."

"Oh no, aunt."

"I always meant him to marry you here, my dear; for it would be best for
both of you.  You have always looked upon him as to be your husband."

"Yes, aunt dear, always."

"Yes, and it will be best for you both," said Mrs Glaire, repeating
herself, as if she found some difficulty in what she had to say.

There was silence then for a few minutes, during which the tea-urn went
on humming softly, and both women listened for the truant's footsteps,
but he did not come.

"Richard is quite a man now," said Mrs Glaire, after clearing her
throat.  "Yes, aunt dear, quite."

"Does he--does he ever talk much to you about--about love?"

"Oh no, aunt dear," said Eve, in a surprised tone.  "But he is always
very, very kind to me, and of course he does love me very much.  He
would never think of talking about it, aunt dear; he shows it."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Mrs Glaire.

"But--but--does he ever talk to you about--being married?"

"Married, aunt?  Oh no!"

"He ought to," said Mrs Glaire, with a sigh.  "Eve, my child, I think
it would be better for you both if you were married."

"Do you, aunt; why?" said Eve, naively.

"It would be better for me too," said Mrs Glaire, evading the question.

"Would it, aunt?" said Eve, looking at her for a moment, and then
hanging her head as if in deep thought.

"Yes, my dear, I should feel happier--I should feel that Richard was
settled.  That he had a good, true, dutiful wife, who would watch over
him and guide him when I am gone."

"Oh, aunty, aunty, aunty," cried the girl, turning and twining her arms
round her neck to kiss her tenderly, "you are low-spirited and upset
with that terrible trouble to-day.  You must not talk like that.  Why,
you look so young and bright and happy sometimes, that it's nonsense for
you to say dear Dick wants some one to look after him.  Of course we
shall be married some day--when Dick likes; but we never think of such a
thing--at least, I'm sure I don't."

There was a pleasant, rosy flush on the girl's face as she spoke, and
just then a cough in the hall made her jump up, exclaiming--

"Here's Dick!"

Mr Richard Glaire swung the door open directly after, gave a scowl
round the room, nodded shortly at his mother, threw himself into an
easy-chair, picked up the book Eve had been reading, glanced at it, and
with an impatient "pish!" jerked it to the other side of the room.

Eve laughed, made a pretty little grimace at him, and, removing the
cosy, hastened to pour out the tea, one cup of which she held ready,
evidently expecting that Richard would come and take it to his mother.
Then, seeing that he did not pay any heed to her look, she carried the
cup herself, round by the back of the young man's chair, giving his hair
a playful twitch as she went by.

"Don't!" shouted Richard, angrily, and then in an undertone muttered
something about "confounded childishness," while Eve bent over her aunt
and whispered softly--

"He'll be better when he has had some tea, aunt dear.  He's upset with
thinking about to-day."

Mrs Glaire nodded, and watched the pretty, graceful form as Eve tripped
back, to stand for a moment or two behind Richard's chair, resting her
hands upon his shoulders as she whispered tenderly--

"Does your face hurt you, Dick dear?"

"Bother!" growled Dick, pouring the cup of tea to which he had helped
himself down his throat.  "Here, fill this."

Eve took the cup and saucer, only smiling back at him, and refilling it,
said playfully--

"Dick's cross, aunty.  I'm going to give him double allowance of sugar
to sweeten his temper."

"I wish you'd pour out the tea, and not chatter so," he cried,
impatiently.  "What with your tongue and hers, there isn't a bit of
peace to be had in the place."

Eve looked pained, but the look passed off, and without attending to her
own wants, she took some bread and butter across to where Richard sat
scowling at the wall.

"Won't you have something to eat, Dick dear?" she said, affectionately.

"NO!"

There are a good many ways of saying "no."  This was one of the most
decisive, and was uttered so sharply that Eve forbore to press that
which she had brought upon her cousin, and carried it to her aunt.

The rest of the time before retiring was passed in about as agreeable a
way, till, at a nod from Mrs Glaire, Eve said, "Good night," being
affectionately embraced by her aunt, and then turning to Dick, she bent
over him.

"Good night, dear Dick," she whispered, holding her cheek to be kissed,
as she rested her hands upon his shoulders.

"There, good night.  For goodness' sake don't paw one about so."

Eve remained motionless, with the tears gathering in her eyes, for a few
moments, before bending down and kissing the young man's forehead.

"Good night, dear darling Dick," she whispered.  "I'm very sorry about
all your troubles; but don't speak like that, it--it hurts me."

The next moment she had taken up her candlestick and glided from the
room.

Richard Glaire gave himself an impatient twist in his chair, and lay
back thinking of the warm, glowing beauties of Daisy Banks, when he
started up in affright, so silently had his mother risen from her couch,
advanced, laid her hands upon his shoulder, one crossed over the other,
and said in a low, clear voice--

"Dick, you are thinking of Daisy Banks."

"I--I thought you were asleep." he stammered.

"I was never more wide awake, Richard--to your interests," said Mrs
Glaire.

"I don't know what you mean," he said, petulantly, as he gave the
lamp-shade a twist, so that its light should not fall upon his face, and
then changed his position a little.

"Yes, you do, Richard--perfectly," said Mrs Glaire.  "I said just now
that you were thinking of Daisy Banks."

"Yes, I heard you say so; and I said, I don't know what you mean."

An angry retort was upon Mrs Glaire's lips, but she checked the hasty
expression, and pressing her hands a little more firmly upon her son's
shoulders, she went on--

"You know perfectly well what I mean Richard, and I must speak to you
about that, as well as about the business."

"Look here," exclaimed the young man, impatiently; "I'm tired and
worried enough for one day.  I'm going to bed."

He started up, crossed to the side table, took a candle, and advancing
to the lamp, was about to light it with a taper, when, to his surprise,
his mother, who of late years had given up to him in everything, took
candle and taper from his hands and pressed him back unresisting into
his seat.

"Richard, you are not going to bed till you have heard what I have to
say."

"I tell you I'm worn out and worried!" he exclaimed.

"You were not too tired to go out and keep engagements," said Mrs
Glaire, firmly.

"Who told you I had been out to keep engagements?" retorted Richard,
sharply.

"My heart, Richard," said his mother.  "I know as well as if I had seen
you that you have been to-night to meet Daisy Banks."

"What stuff, mother!"

"As you have often been to meet her, Richard; tell me, do you wish to
marry her?"

"I marry that hoyden--that workman's daughter!  Mother, are you mad?"

"You are only a workman's son, sir."

"My father made me a gentleman, mother," said Richard, taking out a
cigarette, "and I have the tastes of a gentleman.  May I light this?"

"Smoke if you wish to, Richard," said Mrs Glaire, quietly.  "I have
never stood in your way when that was a just one."

Richard lit his cigarette, threw himself back in his chair with one leg
over an arm, and said negligently--

"Well, if I am to be lectured, go on."

"I am not going to lecture you, my son," said Mrs Glaire, firmly; "I am
only interposing when I see you hesitating on the brink of a precipice."

"Look here, mother," cried Richard; "do you want to quarrel?"

"No, Richard, to advise."

"Then don't talk stuff, mother."

"I shall not, Richard, neither shall I let you put me off in what I wish
to say.  I am going to speak to you about Joseph Banks' daughter, and
about the business."

"Now, look here, mother," cried the young man, who, with all his desire
to go, felt himself pinned down in his chair by a stronger will--"look
here.  What stuff have you got in your head about that little girl?"

"The stuff, as you call it, that is the common talk of the town."

"Oh, come, that's rich," cried Richard, with a forced laugh.  "To keep
me up here and scold me about the common talk of scandal-mad Dumford.
Mother, I thought you had more sense."

"And I, Richard, thought that you had more honour; that your father had
brought you up as a gentleman; and that you really had the tastes of a
gentleman."

"Come, I say, this is coming it too strong, you know, mother," said the
young man, in a feeble kind of protestation.  "It is too hard on a
fellow: it is indeed, you know."

"Richard," continued Mrs Glaire, with her words growing more firm and
deep as she proceeded, "I have had Daisy Banks in this house off and on
for years, as the humble companion of Eve, who is shut out here from the
society of girls of her own age.  It was a foolish thing to do, perhaps,
but I was confident in the honour and gentlemanly feeling of my son, the
wealthiest and greatest man in Dumford--in the honour of my son who is
engaged to be married to his second cousin, Eve Pelly, as good,
pure-minded, and sweet a girl as ever lived."

"Oh, Eve's right enough," said Richard, roughly, "or she ought to be,
for I'm sick of hearing her praises."

"A girl who loves you with her whole heart, and who only waits your
wishes to endow you with the love and companionship that would make you
a happy man to the end of your days."

"Oh yes," said Richard, yawning.  "I know all about that."

"And what do I wake up to find?"

"Goodness knows, mother; some mare's nest or another."

"I wake up to find what Joseph Banks, our trusty old foreman, also wakes
up to find."

"What!" roared Richard, thrown off his balance; "does he know?"

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire; "he, too, knows.  Does that touch you home?"

"Damn!" muttered Richard, between his teeth.

"Yes, Banks too has woke up to the fact that you are frequently seen
alone, and in a clandestine manner, with his only child; but he believes
that you love her, that you, in spite of your position, remember that
you are only a workman's son, and that you mean to marry a workman's
daughter, and bring her home here as the wife of the master of Dumford
Works."

"Confound it all!" muttered Richard, biting his nails.

"He smiles at the notion of your being engaged to Eve, for he believes
you to be honourable and a gentleman, while I, your mother, am obliged
to know that your designs are evil, that you plot the ruin of a poor,
weak girl--I wake up, in short, to know that my son is behaving like a
scoundrel."

"Hold your tongue!" cried Richard, hoarsely; and leaping up, he took two
or three turns backwards and forwards in the room, before throwing
himself once more in his chair.

"But you've not spoken to Joe Banks?" he cried.

"I have, this morning," said Mrs Glaire, and then, her voice trembling,
and the judgelike tone giving way to one of appeal, she threw herself at
the young man's knees, clasping them with her arms, and then catching at
and holding his hand.  "Dick, my boy--my darling--I was obliged to
speak--I _am_ obliged to speak to you.  You know how, since you became
of age, I have delivered everything into your hands--how I have kept
back from interfering--how I have been proud to see the boy I brought
into the world rich and powerful.  You know I have never stood in the
way, though you have poured out like water on your betting and gambling
the money your father and I saved by dint of scraping and saving."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Richard, with a sneer.

"No," cried his mother, appealingly, "it is not, Dick, my boy; it is
that I wish to make you see your danger before it is too late.  You mad,
infatuated boy, can you not see that by what you have done you have set
all your workmen against you?  You see how you are treated to-day!"

"Oh yes," said Richard; "and I've got the marks upon me."

"Who stood by you, faithfully and true, as he has always stood by our
house in similar times of danger--danger not brought on by folly?--
Banks, your father's old fellow-workman--a man as true as steel."

"Oh yes, Joe Banks is right enough," muttered Richard.

"And yet you, Dick--oh, Dick, Dick, my boy, think what you are doing--
you would reward him for his long services by doing him the greatest
injury man could do to man.  Are you mad?"

"If I'm not, you'll drive me mad," cried Richard, trying to shake off
his mother's tight embrace.

"No, no, Dick, you shall not leave me yet," cried Mrs Glaire, in
impassioned tones, as the tears now streamed down her cheeks.  "You
must--you shall listen to me.  Can you not see that besides maddening
the poor man by the cruel wrong you would do, you will make him your
deadly enemy; that the works would be almost helpless without him; and
that he is the strong link that holds the workpeople to our side?  For
they respect him, and--"

"Go on.  They don't respect me, you were going to say," said Richard,
petulantly.  "Oh, mother, it's too bad.  You've got hold of some
cock-and-bull bit of scandal, set about by one of the chattering fools
of the place--old Bullivant, very likely--and you believe it."

"Richard, my boy," said Mrs Glaire, rising and standing before him,
"can you not be frank and candid with your own mother?"

"You won't let me," he said; "you do nothing but bully me."

"When I tell you of your danger; when I remind you that you are standing
on the edge of a precipice--"

"Oh, hang the precipice!" he cried; "you said that before."

"When I warn you of the ruin, and beg of you on my knees, my boy, if you
like, not to pursue this girl--not to yield to a weak, mad passion that
will only bring you misery and regret to the end of your days, for you
would never marry her."

"Well, it isn't likely," he said, brutally.

"Dick--Dick," cried Mrs Glaire, passionately, roused by the callous
tone in which he spoke, "are you in your right senses, or have you been
drinking?  It cannot be my boy who speaks!"

"Well, there, all right, mother, I'll own to it all," he said,
flippantly, and then he winced as the poor woman cast her arms round his
neck, and strained him to her breast.

"I knew you would, my boy, as soon as the good in your nature got the
upper hand.  And now, Dick, you'll promise me you won't see Daisy Banks
any more."

"All right, mother, I won't."

"Thankyou, Dick.  God bless you for this.  But I must talk to you a
little more.  I have something else to say."

"What, to-night?" he said, with a weary yawn.

"Yes, to-night.  Just a few words."

"Go on then, only cut it short."

"I wanted to say a few words to you about Eve."

"Oh, bother Eve," he muttered.  "Well, go on."

"Don't you think, Dick, my boy, you've been very neglectful of poor Eve
lately?"

"Been as attentive as I ever have."

"No, no, Dick; and listen, dear; try and be a little more loving to
her."

"Look here, mother," cried Richard, impatiently; "I've promised all you
want."

"Yes, yes, my boy."

"Well, if you get always trying to thrust Eve down my throat, I shall go
away."

"Richard!"

"I'm tired of being bored about her."

"But your future wife!  Dick, my boy--there, only a few more words--will
you take my advice?"

"Yes--no--yes; well, there, I'll try."

"Don't you think, then, _that_ had better come off soon?"

"_That_!  What?"

"Your marriage."

"No, indeed I don't, so I tell you.  I don't mean to be tied up to any
woman's apron-string till I have had my fling.  There, good night; I'm
going to bed."

Mrs Glaire made an effort to stay him, but he brushed by her, turned at
the door, said, "Good night," and was gone.

As the door closed, Mrs Glaire sank into the chair her son had so
lately occupied, and sat thinking over their conversation.

Would he keep his word?  Would he keep his word?  That was the question
that repeated itself again and again, and the poor woman brought forward
all her faith to force herself to believe in her son's sense of honour
and truth, smiling at last with a kind of pride at the victory she had
won.

But as she smiled, lighting her candle the while, and then extinguishing
the lamp, a shiver of dread passed through her at the recollection of
the events of the day; and at last, when she passed from the room a
heavy shadow seemed to follow her.  It was the shadow of herself cast by
the light she carried, but it seemed to her like the shadow of some
coming evil, and as she went upstairs and passed her son's door, from
beneath which came the odour of tobacco, she sighed bitterly, and went
on wondering how it would end, for she had not much faith in his
promise.

Volume 1, Chapter XII.

MORE TROUBLE AT THE WORKS.

"I shall have to do something about these people," said the vicar, as he
descended, after making a hasty toilet.

His way out lay through the room appropriated by the objects of his
thoughts, and on opening the door it was to find Mr Simeon Slee's
toilet still in progress.  In fact, that gentleman was seated in a
chair, holding a tin bowl of water, and his wife was washing his face
for him, as if he were a child.

They took no notice of the interruption, and the vicar passed through,
intending to take a long walk, but he checked his steps at the gate,
where he stood looking down the long street, that seemed a little
brighter in the early morning.

He had not been there five minutes before he saw a sodden-looking man
come out of the large inn--the Bull and Cucumber--and as the pale,
sodden-looking man involuntarily wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand, the vicar nodded.

"Morning drain, eh?  I'm afraid yours is not a very comfortable home, my
friend."

The man was going slowly down the street when his eye caught the figure
of the vicar, and he immediately turned and came towards him, and
touched his hat.

"Mr Selwood, sir?"

"That is my name, my man."

"I'm Budd, sir--J. Budd--the clerk, sir.  Thowt I'd come and ask if
you'd like the garden done, sir.  I'm _the_ gardener here, sir.  Four
days a week at Mr Glaire's.  Your garden, sir--"

"Would have looked better, Budd, if, out of respect to the church and
the new vicar, you had kept it in order."

"Yes, sir; exackly, sir; but I was too busy, sir.  Shall I come, sir?"

"Yes, you may come, Budd.  By the way, do you always have a glass before
breakfast?"

"Beg pardon, sir--a glass?"

"Yes, at the Bull?"

"Never, sir," said Budd, with an injured air.  "I went in to take Mr
Robinson's peck."

"Peck of what? pease?"

"Peck, sir--peck-axe--maddick."

"Oh, I see," said the vicar, looking at the man so that he winced.
"Well, Budd, come and see to the garden after breakfast."

"That I will, sir."

"And, by the way, Budd."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't wipe your mouth when you have been to return picks or mattocks.
I'm rather a hard, matter-of-fact person, and it makes me think a man
has been drinking."

Jacky Budd touched his hat without a word, stuck one thumb into his
arm-hole, and went off to inform the next person he met that "new
parson" was a tartar and a teetotaler.

By this time Simeon Slee had gone off in another direction, and as the
vicar was busy with his pocket-knife, pruning some trailing branches
from the front windows, Mrs Slee came to announce that his breakfast
was ready, and soon after relieved him of a difficulty.

"Going, eh, Mrs Slee?  When?"

"I thowt we'd flit to-day, sir.  We only came in to take charge of the
house."

"Have you a place to go to?"

"Yes, sir."

"Humph!  Well, it's best, perhaps, Mrs Slee, for I am a frank man, and
I don't think your husband and I would agree.  You couldn't come and
keep me right till I've got a housekeeper, I suppose?"

Mrs Slee could, and said she would; and that morning Jacky Budd helped
the poor woman to "flit" her things to a neighbouring cottage, Simeon
vowing that he'd "never set foot in the brutal priest's house again."

"You're well shut of a bad lot, sir," said Jacky Budd, turning to Mr
Selwood, after the last items of the Slee impedimenta were off the
premises, and he had looked round the wilderness of a garden, sighed,
and wondered how he should ever get it in order.

"Think so, Budd?" said the vicar, drily.

"Yes, sir, I do," said Jacky, resting on the spade he had not yet begun
to use; "he's a Ranter, is Slee, a Primity Methody, sir--a fellow as
sets up against our Church--helps keep the opposition shop, and supplies
small-beer instead of our sacrymental wine."

Jacky involuntarily smacked his lips as he spoke, and the vicar turned
sharply upon him with knit and angry brows.

But Jacky Budd was obtuse, and saw it not, but went on, wiping his
forehead the while, as if he were panting and hot with his exertions.

"They had him down on the plan, sir; they did, 'pon my word of honour,
sir--him, a regular shack, as never does a day's work if he can help it.
He was a local preacher, and put on a white 'ankercher o' Sundays, and
went over to Churley, and Raiby, and Beddlethorpe, and Mardby, and the
rest of 'em, he did.  It's as good as a play, sir, to hear him 'preach.
But they've 'bout fun' him out now."

"You have been to hear him, then, Budd?" said the vicar, drily.

"Me?  Been to hear he?  Me, sir--the clerk of the parish?  No, sir; I
never be-meaned myself by going into one of their chapels, I can assure
you," said Jacky, indignantly; and raising his spade, he chopped down a
couple of unorthodox weeds growing up within the sacred borders of the
vicarage garden.

"I'm glad to hear it, Budd," said Mr Selwood, looking at him curiously;
"and now I think as you've begun, we'll go on with the gardening."

"To be sure, sir--to be sure," said Jacky, looking round and sighing at
the broad expanse of work; "but if I might be so bold, sir, I should
say, Don't you have nowt to do wi' that chap Slee.  He's a regular
Shimei, sir--a man as curses and heaves stones at our holy Church, sir--
a man as comes in the night, and sows tares and weeds amongst our
wheat."

"Exactly, Budd," said the vicar, looking him full in the face; "but now
suppose we sink the metaphorical and take to the literal.  There are
tares and weeds enough here: so suppose you root them out of the
garden."

"Yes, sir, of course, sir; I was just going to," said Jacky.  "It's a
lovely garden when it's in good order.  I suppose you wouldn't like me
to get Thad Warmouth and one of the Searbys to come and help me--
labouring chaps, sir, and very strong?"

"No, Budd, I really should not," said the vicar; "and besides, it would
be depriving you of a good deal of work.  What three men would do in two
days will last one man six."

"Exactly, sir--thanky, sir; it's very thowtful of you," said Jacky,
sighing, and looking as if he would be willing to be deprived of a good
deal of work; and then he began to chop at the ground very softly, as
if, knowing that it was his mother earth, he was unwilling to hurt it.

"I'm fond of gardening myself, Budd; it's good, healthy work, and I dare
say I shall help you a great deal.  Excuse me; lend me that spade a
moment.  I think it would be as well to drive it right in like this--it
will save further trouble; this wild convolvulus takes such a strong
hold of the soil."

He took the tool and dug for a few minutes lustily, stooping down after
each newly-turned spadeful to pick up and remove the long, white
trailing roots that matted it together, horrifying Jacky, who took off
his hat and wiped his dewy forehead, for it made him perspire freely to
see such reckless use of muscular power.

"Thanky, sir; yes, I see," said Jacky, taking the spade again with a
sigh, and fervently wishing that he had not undertaken the job.  "Hallo!
here's the Missus."

He paused, and rested his foot on the spade, as just then Mrs Glaire,
driving a little four-wheel chaise, drawn by an extremely chubby pony,
like a heavy cart-horse cut down, drew up by the vicarage gate.

The little lady was greatly agitated, though she strove hard to keep an
equable look upon her countenance, returning the vicar's salute quietly,
as he walked down to the gate; whilst such an opportunity of a respite
from the spade not being one to be neglected, Jacky Budd stuck that
implement firmly amongst the weeds, and followed closely.

"Shall I hold Prinkle, mum?" he said, going to the pony's head.

"Yes--no, Jacky, I'm not going to stay," said Mrs Glaire.  "Are you at
work here, then?"

"Yes, mum."

"Mind he does work, then, Mr Selwood," she continued; "and don't let
him have any beer, for he's a terribly lazy fellow."

Jacky looked appealingly at his mistress, then smiled, and looked at the
vicar, as much as to say, "You hear her--she will have her joke."

"Is anything the matter?" said the vicar, earnestly.

"Well, yes; not much, Mr Selwood: but I am getting old and nervous, and
I thought I would ask you to come up.  You seemed to have so much
influence with the men."

"Certainly I'll come up, if I can be of any use."

"Pray get in then," said Mrs Glaire, and the springs of the little
vehicle went down as the vicar stepped in, while, during the minute or
two that ensued, as Mrs Glaire drove up to the foundry, she told him
that the works had not been opened till mid-day, when it had been agreed
upon by her son--at her wish--that he would receive some of the workmen
at the counting-house, and try to make some arrangement about terms.

"I went to the works, too," she said, "not to interfere, but to try and
be ready to heal any breach that might arise.  Of course I called in as
if by accident, as I was going for a drive."

"And has anything occurred?" said the vicar.

"No; but I was afraid, for Richard is very impetuous, and I thought as--
as you saw what you did yesterday--"

"My dear Mrs Glaire, pray always look upon me as an old friend, who has
your welfare and that of the people thoroughly at heart.  Oh, here we
are."

His remarks were cut short by the pony turning sharply in at the great
gates, as if quite accustomed to the place, and as the men, who were
pretty thick in the yard, made way, some of them roughly saluting the
occupants of the chaise, the pony stopped of its own accord in front of
the counting-house.

The vicar sprang out and helped Mrs Glaire to alight, following her
into the building, where Richard was sitting, looking very sulky, at the
head of a table, and about a dozen of the men were present, Simeon Slee
being in the front rank.

"It's going agen my advice, Mester Richard Glaire," he was saying.  "If
the men did as I advise, they'd stand out, but I'm not the man to stand
in the way of a peaceable settlement, and as you've come to your senses,
why I agree."

"I didn't agree for you to come to the works, Slee," said Richard,
sharply.

"Yes, yes, yes," chorused half-a-dozen voices; "all or none, Maister.
All or none."

"I can stand out," said Sim, loftily.  "I can afford to be made a martyr
and a scapegoat, and bear the burthen.  I don't want to come back to
work."

"And I don't want and don't mean to have you," said Richard, hotly.  "I
sent to you all this morning, forgiving the brutal treatment I met with
yesterday--"

"Your own fault," said a voice.  "Howd thee tongue, theer," said one of
the men, who seemed to take a leading part.  "Bygones is bygones.  You
sent for us, Maister Richard, and we've come.  You says, says you, for
the sake o' peace and quiet you'd put wage where it were, and you've
done it, but it must be all or none.  Fair play's fair play, ain't it,
parson?"

"Yes, yes, Richard, give way," whispered Mrs Glaire; and with an
impatient stamp of his foot Richard Glaire gave his lip a gnaw, and
exclaimed--

"There, very well; Slee can come back; but mind this, if he begins any
of his games and speech-making in the works again, he goes at once."

"Oh, I can stay away," said Slee, in an injured tone; but his
fellow-workmen held to his side, and, to Mrs Glaire's great relief, an
amicable settlement was arrived at, and the men were about to go, when
Banks, the old foreman, burst into the place in a towering passion.

"Howd hard theer," he roared, looking fiercely round.  "You're a pretty
set o' cowardly shacks, you are.  Do you call that a fighting fair?"

"What is it, Banks?" exclaimed Richard, starting.

"Don't make no terms wi' 'em at all, for they wean't keep to 'em, the
blackguards."

"But what is it?" cried Richard, impatiently.

"What is it?  What is it, Missus Glaire?  Why, I was watching here mysen
till nine o'clock, and left all safe."

"Well?" cried Richard, turning pale.

"Look here, Joe Banks," cried the man who had been speaking before;
"tak' it a bit easy, theer.  None o' us ain't done nowt, ha'e we, lads?"

"No," was chorused, Sim Slee's voice being the loudest.

"Done nowt!" roared Banks, like an angry lion.  "D'yer call it nowt to
steal into a man's place, and coot and carry off every band in t' whole
works?"

"Have they--have they done that, Banks?" cried Richard.

"Have they?" roared the foreman; "ask the sneaking cowards."

"No, no, we hain't," cried the leader, bringing his hand down on the
table with a thump.  "It's a loi, ain't it, lads--a loi?"

"Yes," was chorused; "we ain't done nowt o' t' sort."

"Then who did it?" cried Banks; and there was a silence.

"Look here," cried Richard, who had been brought very unwillingly to
this concession by Mrs Glaire, and gladly hailed an excuse for evading
it.  "Look here, Banks, are all those wheel-bands destroyed?"

"Ivery one of 'em," said Banks.

"Then I'll make no agreement," cried Richard, in a rage.  "You may
strike, and I'll strike.  It's my turn now--be quiet, mother, I'm master
here," he cried, as Mrs Glaire tried to check him.  "I won't have my
property destroyed, and then find work for a pack of lazy, treacherous
scoundrels.  There's a hundred pounds' worth of my property taken away.
Make it up, and put it back, and then perhaps I'll talk to you."

"But I tell you, Mester, it's none o' us," cried the leader.

"None of you!" sneered Richard.  "Why, the bands are gone, and I'm to
give way, and pay better, and feed you and yours, and be trampled upon.
Be off, all of you; go and strike, and starve, till you come humbly on
your knees and beg for work."

"Had you not better try and find out the offender, Mr Glaire?"
interposed the vicar, who saw the men's lowering looks.  "Don't punish
the innocent with the guilty."

"Well spoke, parson," cried a voice.

"You mind your own business, sir," shouted Richard.  "I know how to deal
with my own workmen.  You struck for wages, and you assaulted me.  I'll
strike now, you cowards, for I'll lock you out.  The furnaces are cold;
let them stop cold, for I'll lose thousands before I'll give in.  I'll
make an example of you all."

"You'll repent this, Mester Richard Glaire," shouted Slee.

"I'll repent when I see you in gaol, you mouthing demagogue!" cried
Richard.  "Now, get off my premises, all of you, for I'll hold no more
intercourse with any of the lot."

"But I tell you, Mester," said the leader, a short, honest-looking
fellow, "it's--"

"Be off, I tell you!" shouted Richard.  "Where are my bands?"

The man wiped his forehead, and looked at his companions, who one and
all looked from one to another, and then, as if feeling that there was a
guilty man amongst them--one who had, as it were, cut the ground from
beneath their feet--they slowly backed out, increasing their pace
though, towards the last, as if each one was afraid of being left.

"Go after them, Banks, and see them off the premises," said Richard,
with a triumphant look in his eye.  "Let's see who'll be master now."

The foreman went after the deputation, and there was a low murmuring in
the yard, but the men all went off quietly, and the great gates were
heard to clang to.

"Oh, Richard, my boy," said Mrs Glaire, "I'm afraid you've made matters
worse."

"I'll see about that," said Richard, rubbing his hands, and giving a
look askant at the vicar, who stood perfectly silent.  "They'll be down
on their knees before the week's out, as soon as the cupboard begins to
be nipped.  Are they all gone, Banks?"

"Yes, they're all gone," said the foreman, returning.  "I wouldn't ha'
thowt it on 'em."

"Stop!" cried Richard, as a sudden idea seemed to strike him.  "What
time did you go away, Joe?"

"'Bout nine."

"And all was right then?"

"That I'll sweer," said the foreman; "I went all over the works.  It
must ha' been done by some cowardly sneak as had hid in the place."

"I know who it was," said Richard, with his eyes sparkling with
malicious glee.

"Know who it was?" said Banks.  "Tell me, Maister Richard, and I'll
'bout break his neck."

"It was that scoundrel Tom Podmore."

"Who?  Tom Podmore!  Yah!" said the foreman, in a tone of disgust; and
then with a chuckle.  "I dessay he'd like to gi'e you one, Maister Dick;
but go and steal the bands!  It ain't in him."

"But I tell you I saw him!" cried Richard.

"Saw him?  When?"

"Hanging about the works here last night between nine and ten."

"You did!" cried the foreman, eagerly.

"That I did, myself," said Richard, while the vicar scanned his eager
face so curiously that the young man winced.

Joe Banks stood thinking with knitted brow for a few moments, and then,
just as Mrs Glaire was going to interpose, he held up his hand.

"Wait a moment, Missus," he said.  "Look here, Maister Richard, you said
you saw Tom Podmore hanging about the works last night?"

"I did."

"There's nobbut one place wheer a chap could ha' been likely to ha'
gotten in," said Banks, thoughtfully.  "Wheer might you ha' sin him?"

"In the lane by the side."

"That's the place," said the foreman, in a disappointed tone.  "That
theer window.  Was he by hissen?"

"Yes, he was quite alone," said Richard, flinching under this
cross-examination.

"And what was you a-doing theer, Maister Richard, at that time?" said
the foreman, curiously.

"I--I--" faltered Richard, thoroughly taken aback by the sudden
question; "I was walking down to go into the counting-house, with a sort
of idea that I should like to see if the works were all right."

"Ho!" said the foreman, shortly; and just then the eyes of the young men
met, and it seemed to Richard that there was written in those of the
vicar the one word, "Liar!"

"Did you speak, sir?" said Richard, blanching, and then speaking hotly.

"No, Mr Glaire, I did not speak, but I will, for I should like to say
that from what I have seen of that young man Podmore, I do not think he
is one who would be guilty of such a dastardly action."

"How can you know?" said Richard, flushing up.  "You only came to the
town yesterday."

"True," said the vicar; "but this young man was my guide here, and I had
some talk with him."

"I hope you did him good," said Richard, with an angry sneer.

"I hope I did, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, meaningly, "and I think I
did, for he told me something of his life, and I gave him some advice."

"Of course," from Richard.

"Richard, my son, pray remember," exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

"Oh yes, I remember, mother," cried Richard, stung with rage by the
doubting way in which his charge had been received; "but it is just as
well that Mr Selwood here should learn at once that he's not coming to
Dumford to be master, and do what he likes with people."

"It is far from my wish, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, with a bright spot
burning on each cheek, for he was young and impulsive too, but the spots
died out, and he spoke very calmly.  "My desire here is to be the
counsellor and friend of both master and man--the trusty counsellor and
faithful friend.  My acquaintance with this young workman Podmore was
short, but I gave him a few friendly words on his future action, and the
result was that he came and fought for his master like a man when he was
in the midst of an angry mob."

"So he did, parson, so he did," said Banks, bluntly.

"And came in a malicious, cowardly way at night to destroy my property,"
cried Richard.

"Nay, nay, lad, nay," said Banks, sturdily.  "Parson's raight.  Tom
Podmore ain't the lad to do such a cowardly trick, and don't you let it
be known as you said it was him."

"Let it be known!" said Richard, grinding his teeth.  "Why, I'll set the
police after him, and have him transported as an example."

"Nay, nay, lad," said Banks, "wait a bit, and I'll find out who did
this.  It wasn't Tom Podmore--I'll answer for that."

"Let him prove it, then--and he shall," cried Richard, who hardly
believed it himself; but it was so favourable an opportunity for having
an enemy on the hip, that he was determined, come what might, not to let
it pass.

Five minutes later the parties separated, the works were shut up, and
Richard Glaire did not reject the companionship of the vicar and the
foreman to his own door, for there were plenty of lowering faces in the
street--women's as well as men's; but the party were allowed to pass in
sullen silence, for the strikers felt that "the maister" had something
now of which to complain, and the better class of workmen were
completely taken aback by the wanton destruction of the machinery bands.

Volume 1, Chapter XIII.

THE FOREMAN AT HOME.

There had been a few words at Joe Banks's plainly-furnished home when he
returned the previous night.

Everything looked very snug--the plain, simple furniture shone in the
lamplight, and a cosy meal was prepared, with Mrs Banks--a Daisy of a
very ripened nature--sitting busily at work.

"Well, moother," said Banks, as he entered and threw himself into a
chair.

"Well, Joe," said Mrs Banks, without looking up.

"Phee-ew!" whistled Joe, softly, as he took up the pipe laid ready
beside the old, grey, battered, leaden tobacco-box, filled the bowl, and
lit up before speaking again, Mrs Banks meanwhile making a cup of tea
for him to have with his supper.

"Why didn't you come home to tea, Joe--didn't you know there was some
pig cheer?"

"Bit of a row up at the works.  Didn't you know?"

"Bless us and save us, no!" cried Mrs Banks, nearly dropping the
teapot, and hurrying to her husband's side.  "You're not hurt, Joe?"

"Not a bit, lass.  Give us a buss."

Mrs Banks submitted ungraciously to a salute being placed upon her
comely cheek, and then, satisfied that no one was hurt, she proceeded to
fill up the pot, and resumed her taciturn behaviour.

"Owd woman's a bit popped," said Joe to himself.  Then aloud, "Wheer's
Daisy?"

"That's what I want to know," said Mrs Banks, tartly.  "Wheer's Daisy?
There's no keeping the girl at home now-a-days, gadding about."

"Is she up at the House?" said Joe.  "I suppose so," said Mrs Banks;
"and, mark my words, Joe, no good 'll come of it.  It's your doing,
mind."

"Nonsense, nonsense, old woman.  What's put you out?  Come, let's have
some supper; I'm 'bout pined."

"Then begin," said Mrs Banks.  "Not wi'out you, my lass," said Joe,
winking at the great broad-faced clock, as much as to say, "That'll
bring her round."

"I don't want any supper," said Mrs Banks.  "More don't I, then," said
Joe, with a sigh; and he got up, took off his coat, and then began to
unlace his stout boots.

"Bless and save the man! wheer are you going?" exclaimed Mrs Banks.

"Bed," said Joe, shortly.  "Tired out."

"What's the use o' me having sausages cooked and hot ready for you if
you go on that a way, Joe?"

"I can't eat sausages wi'out a smile wi' 'em for gravy," said Joe,
quietly, "and some one to eat one too."

"There, sit down," said Mrs Banks, pushing her lord roughly into his
well polished Windsor chair.  "I don't know what's come to the man."

"Come home straange and hungry," said Joe, smiling; and the next minute,
on Mrs Banks producing a steaming dish of home-made sausages from the
oven, Joe began a tremendous onslaught upon them, after helping his
wife, and putting a couple of the best on a plate.

"Just put them i' the oven to keep hot for Daisy, wilt ta, my lass?"
said Joe.

"She won't want any supper," said Mrs Banks, tartly, but she placed the
plate in the oven all the same, and after pouring out some tea, set the
teapot on the hob.

"But she may, my lass, she may," said Joe.  "Now, tell us what's wrong,"
he continued, with his mouth full, after pouring a large steaming cup of
tea down his capacious throat.

"Tom Podmore's been here," said Mrs Banks.  "Only just gone.  Didn't
you meet him?"

"No," said Joe.  "Didn't he say nowt about the row?"

"Not a word," said Mrs Banks, looking up.  "Was he in it?"

"Just was," said Joe.  "Saved me and the Maister from being knocked to
pieces a'most.  He's a good plucky chap, is Tom."

"Yes, and nicely he gets treated for it," said Mrs Banks, hotly.

"Who treats him nicely?" said Joe, with half a slice of bread and butter
disappearing.

"You--Daisy--everybody."

"Self included, my lass!" said Joe.  "He allus was a favourite of
yours."

"Favourite, indeed!" said Mrs Banks.  "Joe, mark my words--It'll come
home to Daisy for jilting him as she's done; and, as I told him
to-night, he's a great stupid ghipes to mind anything about the wicked,
deceitful girl."

"Here, have some more sausage, mother; it's splendid; and don't get
running down your own flesh and blood."

"Own flesh and blood!" cried Mrs Banks.  "I'm ashamed of her."

"No, you're not, lass," said Joe, with a broad grin.  "Thou'rt as proud
of her as a she peacock wi' two tails.  Now, lookye here, lass; you've
took quite on that Daisy should have Tom.  Well, he's a decent young
fellow enew, and if she'd liked him I should ha' said nowt against it,
but then she didn't."

"She don't know her own mind," said Mrs Banks.

"Oh yes, she do," said Joe, smiling, "quite well; and so does some one
else.  The Missus has fun' it out."

"Mrs Glaire?"

"Yes, the Missus.  She sent for me to-day to speak to me about it."

"What, about her boy coming after our Daisy?"

"About Mr Richard Glaire, maister o' Doomford Foundry, taking a fancy
to, and having matrimonial projects with regard to his foreman's
daughter," said Joe, pompously.

"Well!" exclaimed Mrs Banks, eagerly; "and does she like it?"

"Well--er--er--er--she's about for and again it," said Joe, slowly.

"Now that won't do, Joe," exclaimed Mrs Banks.  "You can't deceive me,
and I'm not going to be put aside in that way.  I know as well as if I'd
ha' been theer that she said she didn't like."

"Well, what does it matter about what the women think?  Dick--I mean
Maister Richard Glaire's hard after her."

"And means to marry her?" said Mrs Banks.

"Marry her?  Of course.  Didn't Baxter, of Churley, marry Jane Kemp?
Didn't Bill Bradby, as was wuth fifty thousand, marry Polly Robinson of
Toddlethorpe, and make a real lady of her, and she wasn't fit to stand
within ten yards o' my Daisy."

"Yes, go on," said Mrs Banks.  "That's your pride."

"Pride be blowed, it's only a difference in money.  Richard Glaire's
only my old fellow-workman's son, and Daisy's my daughter, and I can buy
her as many silk frocks, and as many watches, and chains, and rings as
any lady in the land need have," said Joe, angrily, as he slapped his
pocket.  "I ain't gone on saving for twenty years for nowt.  She shan't
disgrace him when they're married."

"Yes, Joe, that's your pride," said Mrs Banks.

"Go it," said Joe, angrily, "tant away--tant--tant--tant.  I don't
keer."

"It's your pride, that's what it is.  When she might marry a decent,
honest, true-hearted lad like Tom, who's worth fifty Richard Glaires--an
insignificant, stuck-up dandy."

"Don't you abuse him whose bread you eat," said Joe.

"I don't," said Mrs Banks.  "It's his mother's and not his.  I believe
he soon wouldn't have a bit for himself, if it wasn't for you keeping
his business together.  Always sporting and gambling, and fooling away
his money."

"Well, if I keep it together, it's for our bairn, isn't it?" said Joe.

"And he's no better than he should be."

"You let him alone," said Joe, stoutly.  "All young men are a bit wild
'fore they're married.  I was for one."

"It's a big story, Joe," said Mrs Banks, indignantly.  "You wasn't, or
I shouldn't ha' had you."

Joe winked at the clock again, and laughed a little inside as he
unbuttoned another button of his vest--the second beginning at the top--
to keep count how many cups of tea he had had.

"It's my opinion," said Mrs Banks, "that--"

"Howd thee tongue, wilt ta?" cried Joe.  "Here's the lass."

Daisy entered as he spoke, looking very pale and anxious-eyed, hastened
through the kitchen, and went upstairs to take off her hat and jacket.

"Just you make haste down, miss," said Mrs Banks, tartly.

"I don't want any supper, mother," said the girl, hurriedly.

"Then I want thee to ha'e some!" exclaimed Mrs Banks; "so look sharp."

Daisy gave a sigh and hurried upstairs, and, as the door closed, Joe
brought his hand down on the table with a thump that made the cups and
saucers dance.

"Now, look here, old woman--that's my bairn, and I wean't have her
wherrited.  If she is--"

"I'm going to say what's on my mind, Joe, when it's for my child's
good," said Mrs Banks, stoutly.

"Are you?" said Joe, taking another cup of tea and undoing another
button; "then so am I.  Lookye here, my lass!  I wouldn't ha' took a
step to throw Daisy in young Maister's way, but as he's took to her,
why, I wean't ha' it interfered wi'--so now, then."

"Don't blame me, then, Joe; that's all," said Mrs Banks.

"Who's going to?" said Joe.  "So now let's have none of your clat."

Daisy came in then, and took her place at the table, making a very sorry
pretence at eating, and only speaking in monosyllables till her mother
pressed her.

"Did Mrs Glaire send you home with anybody?"

"No, mother."

"Did you come home alone?"

"No, mother."

"Humph: who came with you?"

"Tom, mother."

Mrs Banks looked mollified, and Joe surprised.

"Has Miss Eve been playing to you, to-night?"

"No, mother."

"What have you been doing then?"

"I--I--haven't been at the House," stammered Daisy.

Joe turned sharply round.

"Have you been a-walking with Tom, then?"

"No, mother, I only met him--coming home--and he walked beside me," said
the girl, with crimson cheeks.

"Theer, theer, theer," said Joe, interposing, "let the bairn alone.
Daisy, my lass, mak' me a round o' toast."

How Joe was going to dispose of a round of toast after the meal he had
already devoured was a problem; but Daisy darted a grateful look at him,
made the toast--which was not eaten--and then, after the things were
cleared away, read for an hour to her father, straight up and down the
columns of the week-old county paper, till it was time for bed, without
a single interruption.

But Mrs Banks made up for it when they went to bed, and the last words
Joe heard before going to sleep were--

"Well, Joe, I wash my hands of the affair.  It's your doing, and she's
your own bairn."

And Joe Banks went to sleep, and dreamed of seeing himself in a new suit
of clothes, throwing an old shoe after Daisy as she was being carried
off by Richard Glaire in a carriage drawn by four grey horses, the
excitement being such that he awoke himself in the act of crying
"Hooray!" while poor Daisy was kneeling by her bedside, sobbing as
though she would break her heart.

Volume 1, Chapter XIV.

SIM SLEE SEES ANOTHER OPENING.

"Here, just hap me up a bit," said Sim Slee to his wife, as he lay down
on a rough kind of couch in their little keeping-room, as the half
sitting-room, half kitchen was called; and in obedience to the command,
Mrs Slee happed him up--in other words, threw a patchwork counterpane
over her lord.

"If you'd come home at reasonable times and tak' thee rest you wouldn't
be wantin' to sleep in the middle o' the day," said Mrs Slee, roughly.

"Ah, a deal you know about things," grumbled Sim.  "You'd see me starved
with cold before you'd stir, when I was busy half the night over the
affairs of the town."

"I'stead o' your own," grumbled Mrs Slee.

"Howd thee tongue, woman," said Sim.  "I'm not going to sleep, but to
think over matters before I go and see Joe Banks this afternoon.  I can
think best lying down."

Mrs Slee resumed her work, which was that of making a hearthrug of
shreds of cloth, and soon after Sim was thinking deeply with his mouth
open, and his breath coming and going with an unpleasant gurgle.

As soon as he was asleep, Mrs Slee began busily to prepare the humble
dinner that was cooking, and spread the clean white table for her lord's
meal.  A table-cloth was a luxury undreamed of, but on so white a table
it did not seem necessary.

When all was ready, she went across the room and touched Sim, who opened
his eyes and rose.

"That's better," he said.  "I feel as tiff as a band now.  Where's the
Rag Jack's oil?"

Without a word, Mrs Slee went to a little cupboard and produced a
dirty-looking bottle of the unpleasant-looking liquid, one which was
looked upon in the district as an infallible cure for every kind of
injury, from cuts and bruises down to chilblains, and the many ailments
of the skin.

"How did you do that?" said Mrs Slee, sharply, as her husband held out
a finger that was torn and evidently festering.

"Somebody was nation fast the other day, and pulled me off the foundry
wall."

"Where you'd got up to speak, eh?" said Mrs Slee.

"Where I'd got up to speak," said Sim, holding his hand, while his wife
dressed it with the balm composed by the celebrated Rag Jack, a dealer
who went round from market to market, and then tied it up in a bit of
clean linen.

"That's better," said Sim, taking his place at the table.  "What is
there to yeat?"

"There'd be nothing if it was left to you--but wind," said his wife,
sourly, as she took the lid off a boiler, hanging from the recking-hooks
of the galley balk, and proceeded to take out some liquid with a
tea-cup.

"But, then, it ain't," said Sim, smiling.  "You see, I knew where to
pick up a good missus."

"Yes," retorted his wife, "and then tried to pine her to dead for all
you'd do to feed her.  Will ta have a few broth?"

"Yes," said Sim, taking the basin she offered him and sniffing at it.
"Say, wife, you've been waring your money at a pretty rate."

"I've wared no money ower that," said Mrs Slee.  "Thou mayst thank
parson for it."

"Yah!" growled Sim, dipping his spoon, and beginning angrily; "this
mutton's as tough as a bont whong."

"There, do sup thee broth like a Christian, if thee canst!" exclaimed
Mrs Slee.  "Wilt ta have a tate?"

Sim held out his basin for the "tate" his wife was denuding of its
jacket, and she dropped it into the broth.

"Say!" exclaimed Sim, poking at the potato with his spoon, "these taters
are strange and sad."

Mrs Slee did not make any reply, but went on peeling potatoes one by
one, evidently in search of a floury one to suit her husband, who
objected to those of a waxy or "sad" nature.  But they were all alike,
and he had to be content.

"I'll have a few more broth," said Sim, at the end of a short space of
time, and before his wife had had an opportunity to partake of a
mouthful; and this being ladled out for him and finished, Sim
condescended to say "that them broth wasn't bad."

"Have you got any black beer?" he now asked.

Mrs Slee had--a little, and the bottle of black beer, otherwise spruce,
being produced, Sim had a teaspoonful of the treacly fluid mixed in a
mug of hot water with a little sugar; and then, leaving his wife to have
her meal, he rose and went out.

A week had passed since the discovery of the loss of the bands, and
though Sim had been dodging about and watching in all directions, he had
never once hit upon Joe Banks alone, so he had at last made up his mind
to go straight to his house, and, to use his own words, "beard the lion
in his den."

A good deal had taken place in the interval, and among other things,
Richard Glaire, in opposition to the advice of his mother and Banks, had
applied for a warrant against Tom Podmore, for destroying or stealing
the bands; but as yet, from supineness or fear on the part of the local
police, it had not been put in force.

For things did not look pleasant in Dumford; men were always standing
about in knots or lounging at the doors of their houses, looking
loweringly at people who passed.  There had been no violence, and, in a
prosperous little community, a week or two out of work had little effect
upon a people of naturally saving habits and considerable industry; but
those who were wise in such matters said that mischief was brewing, and
it was reported that meetings were held nightly at the Bull and
Cucumber--meetings of great mystery, where oaths were taken, and where
the doors were closed and said to be guarded by men with drawn swords.

"Hallo, Sim Slee, off preaching somewhere?" said a very stout man,
pulling up his horse as he overtook Sim on his way to the foreman's
house.  He was indeed a very stout man, so stout that he completely
filled the gig from side to side, making its springs collapse, and
forming a heavy load for his well-fed horse.

"No, I ain't going preaching nowheer, Mester Purley," said Sim, sulkily,
as he looked up sidewise in the speaker's merry face.

"I thought you were off perhaps to a camp meeting, or something, Sim,
and as I'm going out as far as Roby, I was going to offer you a lift
along the road."

There was a twinkle in the stout man's eyes as he spoke, and he
evidently enjoyed the joke.

"No, you warn't going to offer me a ride, doctor," said Sim.  "Do you
think I don't know?"

"Right, Sim Slee, right," said the doctor, chuckling.  "I never gave a
man a lift on the road in my life, did I, Sim?  Puzzle any one to sit by
my side here, wouldn't it?"

"Strange tight fit for him if he did," said Sim.

"So it would, Sim; so it would, Sim," laughed the doctor.  "I've asked a
many though in my time; ha--ha--ha."

"That you have, doctor," said Sim, looking at the goodly proportions of
the man by his side.  For it was Mr--otherwise Dr--Purley's one joke
to ask everybody he overtook, or any of his convalescent patients, if
they would have a lift in his gig.  He had probably fired the joke as
many times as he was days old; but it was always in use, and it never
struck him that it might grow stale.

"What's the matter with your hand, Sim?" said the doctor, touching the
bound-up member with his whip.

"Bit hurt--fell off a wall," said Sim, thrusting it in his breast.

"And you have been poisoning it with Rag Jack oil, eh?  I'll be bound
you have, and when it's down bad you'll come to me to cure it.  Say,
Sim, some of your fellows knocked the young master about pretty well--
he's rare and bruised."

"I wish ivery bit of gruzzle in his body was bruzz," said Sim, fiercely.

"Do you now!" said the doctor, smiling.  "Well, I suppose it'll come to
broken heads with some of you, and then you'll be glad of me.  Who stole
the bands?"

Sim jumped and turned pale, so suddenly and sharply was the question
asked.

"How should I know?" he cried, recovering himself.

"Some of you chaps at the Bull, eh, Sim?  Artful trick, very.  Say, Sim,
if you want a doctor for your society, remember me.  Ck!"  This last was
to the horse, which went off immediately at a sharp trot, with the
springs of the gig dancing up and down, as the wheels went in and out of
the ruts.

"Remember you, eh!" said Sim, as the doctor went out of hearing.  "Have
you for the medical man?  Yes, when we want ivery word as is spoke
blabbed all over the place.  It's my belief," continued Sim,
sententiously, "as that fat old blobkite tells the last bit o' news, to
every baby as soon as it's born, and asks them as he's killed whether
they'd like a ride in his gig.  Hallo! there's owd Joe Banks leaning
over his fence.  What a fierce-looking old maulkin he is; he looks as
sour as if he'd been yeating berry pie wi'out sugar.  Day, Banks," he
said, stopping.

"Day," said Joe, shortly, and staring very hard at the visitor.

"I think it'll rean soon, mun."

"Do yow?" said Joe, roughly.

"I weer over to Churley yesterday," said Sim, "and it reant all day."

"Did it?" said Joe.

"Ay, it did.  'Twas a straange wet day."

"Where are you going?" said Joe.

"Oh, only just up to Brown's to see if I could buy a bit o' kindling for
the Missus."

"Go and buy it, then," said Joe, turning his back, "and let me get shut
o' thee."

"Say, Joe Banks," said Sim, quite unabashed, "as I have met thee I
should just like to say a word or two to thee."

"Say away then."

"Nay, nay.  Not here.  Say, mun, that's a fine primp hedge o' yourn," he
continued, pointing to the luxuriant privet hedge that divided the
garden of the snug house from the road.

"You let my primp hedge bide," said Joe, sharply; "and if you've got any
mander o' message from your lot, spit it out like a man."

"Message!  I a message!" said Sim, with a surprised air.  "Not I.  It
was a word or two 'bout thy lass."

Joe Banks's face became crimson, and he turned sharply to see if any one
was at door or window so as to have overheard Sim's words.

As there was no one, he came out of the gate, took his caller's arm
firmly in his great fist, and walked with him down the lane out of sight
of the houses, for the foreman's pretty little place was just at the
edge of the town, and looked right down the valley.

Sim's heart beat a little more quickly, and he felt anything but
comfortable; but, calling up such determination as he possessed, he
walked on till Joe stopped short, faced him, and then held up a menacing
finger.

"Now look here, Sim Slee," said Joe; "I just warn thee to be keerful,
for I'm in no humour to be played wi'."

"Who wants to play wi' you?" said Sim; "I just come in a neighbourly way
to gi'e ye a bit o' advice, and you fly at me like a lion."

"Thou'rt no neighbour o' mine," said Joe, "and thou'rt come o' no
friendly errant.  Yow say yow want to speak to me 'bout my lass.  Say
thee say."

"Oh, if that's the way you tak' it," said Sim, "I'm going."

"Nay, lad, thee ain't," said Joe.  "Say what thee've got to say now, for
not a step do yow stir till yo' have."

Sim began to repent his visit; but seeing no way of escape, and his
invention providing him with no inoffensive tale, he began at once,
making at the same time a good deal of show of his bound-up hand, and
wincing and nursing it as if in pain.

"Well, Joe Banks, as a man for whom, though we have differed in politics
and matters connected with the wucks, I always felt a great respect--"

"Dal thee respect!" said Joe; "come to the point, man."

"I say, Joe, that it grieves me to see thee stick so to a mester as is
trying to do thee an injury."

"An yow want to talk me over to join thy set o' plotting, conspiring
shackbags at the Bull, eh?"

"I should be straange and proud to feel as I'd browt a man o' Joe
Banks's power and common sense into the ways o' wisdom, and propose him
as a member o' our society," said Sim.

"I dare say thee would, Sim; strange and glad.  But that's not what thee
come to say.  Out wi' it, mun; out wi' it."

"That is what I come to say, Joe," said Sim, turning white, as he saw
the fierce look in Joe's eyes.

"Nay; thee said something 'bout my lass."

"I only were going to say as I didn't like to see such a worthy man
serving faithful a mester as was trying to do him an injury."

"What do you mean?" said Joe, quite calmly.

Sim hesitated, but he felt obliged to speak, so calmly firm was the look
fixed upon him, though at the same time the foreman's fists were
clenched most ominously.

"Well, Joe," said Sim, with a burst, "Dicky Glaire's allus after thy
bairn, and I saw him the other night, at nearly midnight, trying to drag
her into the counting-house."

"Thee lies, thee chattering, false--hearted maulkin!" roared Joe, taking
the trembling man by the throat and shaking him till his teeth clicked
together.

"Don't! don't! murder!" cried Sim, holding up his injured hand with the
rag before Joe's face.  "Don't ill-use a helpless man."

"Thou chattering magpie!" roared Joe, throwing him off, so that Sim
staggered back against the prickly hedge, and quickly started upright.
"I wish thee weer a man that I could thrash till all thee bones was
sore.  Look here, Sim Slee, if thee says a word again about my lass and
the doings of thee betters it'll be the worse for thee."

"My poor hand! my poor hand!" moaned Sim, nursing it as if it were
seriously injured.

"Then thee shouldn't ha' made me wroth," said Joe, calming down, and
blaming himself for attacking a cripple.

"I didn't know that thou wast going to wink at thee lass being Dicky
Glaire's mis--"

Sim did not finish the word, for Joe Banks's fist fell upon his mouth
with a heavy thud, and he went down in the road, and lay there with his
lips bleeding, and a couple of his front teeth loosened.

"Thou lying villin," said Joe, hoarsely, "howd thee tongue, if thee
wants to stay me from killing thee.  I'd ha' let thee off, but thou
wouldst hev it.  Don't speak to me again, or I shall--"

He did not trust himself to finish, but strode off, leaving Slee lying
in the dust.

"Poor Master Richard," he muttered--"a scandal-hatching, lying
scoundrel--as if the lad would think a wrong word about my lass.  Well,"
he added, with a forced laugh, "that has stopped his mouth, and a good
many more, as I expect."

As he disappeared, Sim Slee slowly sat up, took out his handkerchief and
wiped his bleeding mouth.  Then rising he walked on half a mile to where
a stream, known as the Beck, crossed the road, and there he stooped down
and bathed his cut lip till the bleeding ceased.

"All raight, Mester Joe Banks," he said, with a malicious look in his
eye.  "All raight, I'll put that down to you, my lad.  I shan't forget
it.  Some men fights wi' their fists, and some don't.  I'm one as don't;
but I can fight other ways.  I'll be even wi' you, Joe Banks; I'll be
even wi' you.  Thou blind owd bat.  Think he'll marry her, dosta!  Ha!
ha! ha! ha!  All raight.  Let it go on.  Suppose I help it now, and then
get thee on our side after--a blind old fool, I shan't forget this."

Sim Slee washed his handkerchief carefully in the brook, spread it in
the sun to dry, and then lay down amongst the furze bushes to think,
till, seeing a couple of figures in the distance on the hill-side, he
caught up his handkerchief and, stooping down, ran along under the
shelter of the hedge, and on and on till he reached a fir plantation,
through which he made his way till he was within easy reach of the two
figures, in utter ignorance of his proximity.

"'Tis them," he muttered, peering out from the screen of leaves formed
by the undergrowth of the edge of the plantation.  "'Tis them.  Got his
arm round her waist, eh!  A kiss, eh!  Ha--ha--ha!  Joe Banks, I shall
be upsides wi' you yet."

He glided back, and then, knowing every inch of the ground, he went to
the end of the copse, out on to the open hill-side, and, running fast,
made a circuit which brought him out on the track far beyond the
figures, who were hidden from him by the inequalities of the waste land,
close by where the vicar found Tom Podmore on his arrival.

Then, hastening on, he approached, stooping until he had well measured
his distance, when, pausing for a few minutes to gain his breath, he
walked on with his footsteps inaudible on the soft, velvety turf, till,
coming suddenly upon the two figures, seated behind a huge block of
stone, he stopped short, as if in surprise.

"Beg pardon, sir, didn't see," he said, with a smile and a leer.

"What the deuce do you want?" said Richard Glaire, starting to his feet,
while, with a faint cry, Daisy Banks ran a few steps.

"Why you quite scar'd me, sir," said Sim, "starting up like that.  I've
only been for a walk out Chorley way.  It's all raight, Miss Banks,
don't be scar'd; it's only me.  I know, Mr Glaire, sir, I know.  Young
folks and all that sort o' thing.  We ain't friends about wuck matters,
but you may trust me."

He gave Richard a peculiar smile, shut one eye slowly, and walked on,
smiling at Daisy, whose face was crimson as he passed.

"Oh, Richard! oh, Richard!" she sobbed, "why did you tempt me to come?
Now he'll go straight home and tell father."

"Tempt you to come, eh, Daisy!" said Richard.  "Why, because I love you
so; I'm not happy out of your sight.  No, he won't tell--a scoundrel.
There, you go home the other way.  I'll follow Master Sim Slee.  I know
the way to seal up his lips."

He caught Daisy in his arms, and kissed her twice before she could evade
his grasp, and then ran off after Slee, who was steadily walking on,
smiling, as he caressed his tender, bruised lip with his damp
handkerchief.

Once he pressed his thumb down on his palm in a meaning way, and gave an
ugly wink.  Then he chuckled, but checked his smiles, for they hurt his
swollen face.

"Not bad for one day, eh!  That's ointment for Mester Joe Banks's sore
place, and a bit o' revenge at the same time.  This wean't have nowt to
do wi' the strike; this is all private.  Here he comes," he muttered,
twitching his ears.  "I thowt he would.  Well, I mean to hev five pun'
to howd my tongue, and more when I want it.  And mebbe," he continued,
with an ugly leer, "I can be a bit useful to him now and then."

A minute later Richard Glaire had overtaken Sim Slee, and a short
conversation ensued, in the course of which something was thrust into
the schemer's hand.  Then they parted, and that night, in spite of his
swollen lip, Sim Slee delivered a wonderful oration on the rights of the
British workman at the meeting at the Bull, at which were present
several of the men after Sim's own heart; but the shrewd, sensible
workmen were conspicuous by their absence, as they were having a quiet
meeting of their own.

Volume 1, Chapter XV.

DAISY IS OBSTINATE.

"A lungeing villain," muttered Joe Banks to himself, "he knows nowt but
nastiness.  Strange thing that a man can't make up to a pretty girl
wi'out people putting all sorts o' bad constructions on it.  Why they're
all alike--Missis Glaire, the wife and all.  My Daisy, too.  To say such
a word of her."

He hastened home, filled his pipe, lit it, and went out and sat down in
the garden, in front of his bees, to smoke and watch them, while he
calmed himself down and went over what had gone by, before thinking over
the future.

This was a favourite place with Joe Banks on a Sunday, and he would sit
in contemplative study here for hours.  For he said it was like having a
holiday and looking at somebody else work, especially when the bees were
busy in the glass bells turned over the flat-topped hives.

"I'd no business to hit a crippled man like that," mused Joe; "but he'd
no business to anger me.  Be a lesson to him."

He filled a fresh pipe, lit it by holding the match sheltered in his
hands, and then went on--

"Be a lesson to him--a hard one, for my hand ain't light.  Pity he
hadn't coot away, for he put me out."

"Now, what'll I do?" mused Joe.  "Shall I speak to the maister?"

"No, I wean't.  He'll speak to me when it's all raight, and Daisy and
him has made it up.  I'll troost him, that I will; for though he's a bit
wild, he's a gentleman at heart, like his father before him.  Why of
course I'll troost him.  He's a bit shamefaced about it o' course; but
he'll speak, all in good time.  Both of 'em will, and think they're
going to surprise me.  Ha--ha--ha!  I've gotten 'em though.  Lord, what
fools young people is--blind as bats--blind as bats.  Here's Daisy."

"It's so nice to see you sitting here, father," said the girl, coming
behind him, and resting her chin on his bald crown, while her plump arms
went round his neck.

"Is it, my gal?  That's raight.  Why, Daisy lass, what soft little arms
thine are.  Give us a kiss."

Daisy leaned down and kissed him, and then stopped with her arms resting
on his shoulders, keeping her face from confronting him; and so they
remained for a few minutes, when a smile twinkled about the corners of
the foreman's lips and eyes as he said--

"Daisy, my gal, I've been watching the bees a bit."

"Yes, father," she said, smiling, though it was plain to see that the
smile was forced.  "Yes, father, you always like to watch the bees."

"I do, my bairn, I do.  They're just like so many workmen in a factory;
but they don't strike, my gal, they don't strike."

"But they swarm, father," said Daisy, making an effort to keep up the
conversation.

"Yes," chuckled Joe, taking hold of the hand that rested on his left
shoulder.  "Yes, my bairn, I was just coming to that.  They swarm, don't
they?"

"Yes, father."

"And do you know why they swarm, Daisy?"

"Yes, father; because the hive is not big enough for them."

"Yes, yes," chuckled Joe, patting the hand, and holding it to his rough
cheek.  "You're raight, but it's something more, Daisy: it's the young
ones going away from home and setting up for theirselves--all the young
ones 'most do that some day."

The tears rose to Daisy's eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, for
Joe had touched on a tenderer point than he imagined; but he held it
tightly and gave it a kiss.

"There, there, my pet," he said, tenderly, "I won't tease you.  I knew
it would come some day all right enough, and I don't mind.  I only want
my little lass to be happy."

"Oh, father--father--father," sobbed Daisy, letting her face droop till
it rested on his head, while her tears fell fast.

"Come, come, come, little woman," he said, laughing; "thou mustn't cry.
Why, it's all raight."  There was a huskiness in his voice though, as he
spoke, and he had to fight hard to make the dew disappear from his eyes.
"Here, I say, Daisy, my lass, that wean't do no good: you may rain
watter for ever on my owd bald head, and the hair won't come again.
There--tut--tut--tut--you'll have moother here directly, and she'll be
asking what's wrong."

Daisy made a strong effort over self, and succeeded at last in drying
her eyes.

"Then, you are not cross with me, father?" faltered Daisy.

"Cross, my darling? not a bit," said Joe, patting her hand again.  "You
shan't disgrace the man as has you, my dear; that you shan't.  Why,
you're fit to be a little queen, you are."

Daisy gave him a hasty kiss, and ran off, while Joe proceeded to refill
his pipe.

"Cross indeed!  I should just think I hadn't," he exclaimed--"only with
the women.  Well, they'll come round."

But if Joe Banks had stood on the hill-side a couple of hours earlier,
just by the spot where Tom Podmore had sat on the day of the vicar's
arrival, he would perhaps have viewed the matter in a different light,
for--of course by accident--Daisy had there encountered Richard Glaire,
evidently not for the first time since the night when they were
interrupted by Tom in the lane.

It was plain that any offence Richard had given on the night in question
had long been condoned, and that at every meeting he was gaining a
stronger mastery over the girl's heart.

"Then you will, Daisy, won't you?" he whispered to her.

"No, no, Dick dear.  Don't ask me.  Let me tell father all about it."

"What?" he cried.

"Let me tell father all about it, and I'm sure he'll be pleased."

"My dear little Daisy, how well you are named," he cried, playfully; and
as he looked lovingly down upon her, the foolish girl began to compare
him with the lover of her mother's choice--a man who was nearly always
blackened with his labours, and heavy and rough spoken, while here was
Richard Glaire professing that he worshipped her, and looking, in her
eyes, so handsome in his fashionably-cut blue coat with the rosebud in
the button-hole, and wearing patent leather boots as tight as the lemon
gloves upon his well-formed hands.

"I can't help my name," she said, coquettishly.

"I wouldn't have it changed for the world, my little pet," he whispered,
playing with her dimpled chin; "only you are as fresh as a daisy."

"What do you mean, Dick?" she said, nestling to him.

"Why you are so young and innocent.  Look here, my darling: don't you
see how I'm placed?  My mother wants me to marry Eve."

"But you don't really, really, really, care the least little bit for
her, do you, Mr Richard?"

"`Mr Richard!'" reproachfully.

"Dear Dick, then," she whispered, colouring up, and glancing fondly at
him, half ashamed though the while at her boldness.

"Of course I don't love her.  Haven't I sworn a hundred times that I
love only you, and that I want you to be my darling little wife?"

"Yes, yes," said the girl, softly.

"Well, then, my darling, if you go and tell your father, the first thing
he'll do will be to go and tell my mother, and then there'll be no end
of a row."

"But she loves you very much, Dick."

"Worships me," said Dick, complacently.

"Of course," said the girl, softly; and her foolish little eyes seemed
to say, "She couldn't help it," while she continued, "and she'd let you
do as you like, Dick."

"Well, but you see the devil of it is, Daisy, that I promised her I
wouldn't see you any more."

"Why did you do that?" said the girl, sharply.

"To save rows--I hate a bother."

"Richard, you were ashamed of me, and wouldn't own me," said Daisy,
bursting into tears.

"Oh, what a silly, hard-hearted, cruel little blossom it is," said
Richard, trying to console her, but only to be pushed away.  "All I did
and said was to save bother, and not upset the old girl.  That's why I
want it all kept quiet.  Here, as I tell you, I could be waiting for you
over at Chorley, we could pop into the mail as it came through, off up
to London, be married by licence, and then the old folks would be in a
bit of a temper for a week, and as pleased as Punch afterwards."

"Oh, no, Richard, I couldn't, couldn't do that," said the girl, panting
with excitement.

"Yes, you could," he said, "and come back after a trip to Paris, eh,
Daisy? where you should have the run of the fashions.  What would they
all say when you came back a regular lady, and I took you to the house?"

"Oh, Dick, dear Dick, don't ask me," moaned the poor girl, whose young
head was in a whirl.  "I couldn't--indeed I couldn't be so wicked."

"So wicked! no, of course not," said Richard, derisively--"a wicked
little creature.  Oh, dear, what would become of you if you married
Richard Glaire!"

"You're teasing me," she said, "and it's very cruel of you."

"Horribly," said Richard.  "But you will come, Daisy?"

"I couldn't, I couldn't," faltered the girl.

"Yes, you could, you little goose."

"Dick, my own handsome, brave Dick," she whispered, "let me tell
father."

He drew back from her coldly.

"You want to be very obedient, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, dear Richard," she said, looking at him appealingly.

"You set such a good example, Daisy, that I must be very good too."

"Yes, dear," she said, innocently.

"Yes," he said, with a sneer; "so you go and tell your father like a
good little child, and I'll be a good boy, too, and go and tell my
mother, and she'll scold me and say I've been very naughty, and make me
marry Eve."

"Oh, Richard, Richard, how can you be so cruel?" cried the poor girl,
reproachfully.

"It isn't I; it's you," he said, smiling with satisfaction as he saw
what a plaything the girl's heart was in his hands.  "Are you going to
tell your father?"

"Oh, no, Dick, not if you say I mustn't."

"Well, that's what I do say," he exclaimed sharply.

"Very well, Dick," she said, sadly.

"And look here, Daisy, my own little one," he whispered, kissing her
tear-wet face, "some day, when I ask you, it shall be as I say, eh?"

"Oh, Dick, darling, I'll do anything you wish but that.  Don't ask me to
run away."

"Do you want to break off our match?" he said, bitterly.

"Oh, no--no:--no--no."

"Do you want to make my home miserable?"

"You know I don't, Richard."

"Because, I tell you I know my mother will never consent to it unless
she is forced."

"But you are your own master now, Richard," she pleaded.

"Not so much as you think for, my little woman.  So come, promise me.  I
know you won't break your word if you do promise."

"No, Dick, never," she said, earnestly; and if there had been any true
love in the young fellow's breast he would have been touched by the
trusting, earnest reliance upon him that shone from her eyes as she
looked up affectionately in his face.

"Then promise me, Daisy, dear," he whispered; "it is for the good of
both of us, and--Hang it all, there's Slee."

Daisy was sent off as we know, and the tears fell fast as she hastened
home, feeling that love was very sweet, but that its roses had thorns
that rankled and stung.

"Oh, Dick, Dick," she sobbed as she went on, "I wish sometimes that I'd
never seen you, for it is so hard not to do whatever you wish."

She dried her eyes hastily as she neared home, and drew her breath a
little more hardly as about a hundred yards from the gate she saw Tom
Podmore, who looked at her firmly and steadily as they passed, and
hardly responded to her nod.

"He knows where I've been.  He knows where I've been," whispered Daisy
to herself as she hurried on; and she was quite right, for her conscious
cheeks hoisted a couple of signal flags of the ruddiest hue--signals
that poor Tom could read as well as if they had been written down in a
code, and he ground his teeth as he turned and watched her.

"She's such a good girl that any one might troost her," he muttered, as
he saw her go in at the gate, "or else I'd go and tell Joe all as I
knows.  But no, I couldn't do that, for it would hurt her, just as it
would if I was to half kill Dick Glaire.  She'll find him out some day
perhaps--not as it matters to me though, for it's all over now."

He walked back, looking over the green fence as he passed, and Mrs
Banks waved her hand to him from the window; but his eyes were too much
occupied by the sight of Daisy leaning over her father, and he walked on
so hurriedly that he nearly blundered up against a great stalwart figure
coming the other way.

Volume 1, Chapter XVI.

THE VICAR'S FRIENDS.

"What cheer, owd Tommy?" cried the stalwart figure, pulling a short
black pipe out of his mouth.

"Hallo, Harry," said Tom, quietly, at least as quietly as he could, for
the words were jerked out of his mouth by the tremendous clap on the
shoulder administered by the big hammerman.

"What's going to be done, Tommy?" growled the great fellow.  "I'm 'bout
tired o' this.  I wants to hit something."

He stretched out his great sinewy arm, and then drawing it back, let it
fly again with such force that a man would have gone down before it like
a cork.

"Come along," said Tom, who wished to get away from the neighbourhood of
Banks's cottage for fear Mrs Banks should call to him.

Harry was a man whose brain detested originality.  He was a machine who
liked to be set in motion, so he followed Tom like a huge dog, and
without a word.

As they came abreast of the vicarage they saw the vicar at work
gardening, and Jacky Budd making believe to dig very hard in the
wilderness still unreclaimed.

Even at their distance, Jacky's pasty face and red ripe nose, suggestive
of inward tillage, were plainly to be seen, and just then a thought
seemed to strike Tom, who turned to his companion, staring with open
mouth over the hedge.

"Like a job, Harry?"

"Hey, lad, I should."

"Come in here then," said Tom, laying his hand on the gate.

"That I will, lad," said Harry.  "I want to scrarp some un, and I should
'mazin like a fall wi' that theer parson."

Tom smiled grimly, and entered, followed by Harry.

They were seen directly by the vicar, who came up and shook hands with
Tom.

"Ah, Podmore, glad to see you.  Well, Harry, my man," he continued,
holding out his hand to the other, "is the lump on your forehead gone?"

Harry took the vicar's hand and held it in a mighty grip, while with his
left he removed his cap and looked in the lining, as if to see if the
bruise was there.

"Never thowt no more 'bout it, parson."  Then gazing down at the soft
hand he held, he muttered, "It's amaazin'!"

"What's amazing?" said the vicar, smiling.

"Why that you could hit a man such a crack wi' a hand like this 'ere."

"Don't mind him, sir; it's his way," said Tom, apologetically.  "Fact
is, parson, we're tired o' doing nowt."

"I'm glad to hear you say so, Podmore," said the vicar, earnestly.  "I
wish from my heart this unhappy strife were at an end.  I'm trying my
best."

"Of course you are, sir," said Tom; "but I thowt mebbe you'd give Harry
here and me a bit o' work."

"Work! what work?" said the vicar, wonderingly.

"Well, you said I'd best get to work, and I've got nowt to do.  That
Jacky Budd there's picking about as if he was scarred o' hurting the
ground: let me and Harry dig it up."

The vicar looked from one to the other for a moment, and as his eyes
rested on Harry, that giant gave Tom a clap on the shoulder hard enough
to make a bruise, as he exclaimed--

"Hark at that now, for a good'n, parson.  Here, gie's hold of a shovel."

The vicar led the way to the tool-house, furnished his visitors with
tools, and then stood close at hand to supply the science, while the way
in which the two men began to dig had such an effect on Jacky Budd that
he stood still and perspired.

A dozen great shovelfuls of earth were turned over by Harry, who then
stopped short, threw off his coat and vest, tightened the belt round his
waist, and loosening the collar of his shirt, proceeded to roll up the
sleeves before moistening his hands and seizing the spade once more,
laughing heartily as he turned over the soft earth like a steam plough.

"Slip int' it, Tommy.  Well, this is a game.  It's straange and fine
though, after doin' nowt for a week."

Tom was digging steadily and well, for he was a bit of a gardener in his
way, having often helped Joe Banks to dig his piece in the early days of
his love.

"Better borry some more garden, parson; we shall ha' done this 'ere in
'bout an hour and a half," said Harry, grinning; and then--crack!

"Look at that for a tool!" he cried, holding up the broken shovel,
snapped in two at the handle.

"Try this one, Harry," said Jacky Budd, handing his own spade eagerly;
"I've got some hoeing to do."

Harry took the tool and worked away a little more steadily, with the
result that poor Jacky Budd was deprived of a good deal of the work that
would have fallen to his lot; a deprivation, however, that he suffered
without a sigh.

"Now, I ain't agoing to beg, parson," said Harry, after a couple of
hours' work, "but my forge wants coal, and a bite o' bread and a bit o'
slip-coat cheese would be to raights."

"Slip-coat cheese?" said the vicar.

"He means cream cheese," said Tom, who had been working away without a
word, keeping Jacky busy clearing away the weeds.

"No, I don't," growled Harry.  "I mean slip-coat, and a moog o' ale."

"Shall I go and fetch some, sir?" said Jacky Budd, eagerly.

"Thank you, no, Budd," said the vicar, quietly.  "I won't take you from
your work;" and, to Jacky's great disgust, he went and fetched a jug of
ale from his little cellar himself.

"He ain't a bad un," cried Harry, tearing away at the earth.  "Keeps a
drink o' ale i' the plaace.  I thowt parsons allus drunk port wine."

"Not always, my man," said the vicar, handing the great fellow the jug,
and while he was drinking, up came Jacky with his lips parted, and a
general look on his visage as if he would like to hang his tongue out
like a thirsty hound and pant.

"Shall I get the leather, sir, and just nail up that there bit o' vine
over the window?"

"Get the what, Budd?" said the vicar, who looked puzzled.

"The leather, sir, the leather."

"He means the lather, sir," said Tom, quietly, "the lather to climb up."

"Oh, the ladder," said the vicar.  "Yes, by all means," he continued,
smiling as he saw the clerk's thirsty look.  "I won't ask you to drink,
Budd," he went on as he handed the mug to Tom, who took a hearty
draught.  "You told me you did not drink beer on principle; and I never
like to interfere with a man's principles, though I hold that beer in
moderation is good for out-door workers."

"Thanky, sir, quite right, sir," said Jacky, with a blank look on his
face.  "I'll get the leather and a few nails, and do that vine now."

"Poof!" ejaculated Harry, with a tremendous burst of laughter, as he
went on digging furiously.  "Well, that's alarming."

"What's the matter, old mate?" said Tom.

"Nowt at all.  Poof!" he roared again, turning over the earth.  "Jacky
Budd don't drink beer on principle.  Poof!"

The vicar paid no heed to him, only smiled to himself, and the gardening
progressed at such a rate that by five o'clock what had been a
wilderness began to wear a very pleasant aspect of freedom from weeds
and overgrowth, and with the understanding that the two workers were to
come and finish in the morning, they resumed their jackets and went off.

Their visit to the vicarage had not passed unnoticed, however; for Sim
Slee had been hanging about, seeking for an opportunity to have a word
with his wife, and not seeing her, he had carried the news to the Bull
and Cucumber.

"Things is coming to a pretty pass," he said to the landlord.  "That
parson's got a way of getting ower iverybody.  What do you think now?"

"Can't say," said the landlord.

"He's gotten big Harry and Tom Podmore working in his garden like two
big  beasts at plough."

"He'll be gettin' o' you next, Sim," said the landlord, laughing.

"Gettin' o' me!" echoed Sim.  "Not he.  He tried it on wi' me as soon as
we met; but I wrastled with him by word o' mouth, and he went down like
a stone."

"Did he though, Sim?"

"Ay, lad.  Yon parson's all very well, but he's fra London, and he'll
hev to get up pretty early to get over a Lincoln man, eh?"

"Ay," said the landlord; "but he ain't so bad nayther.  A came here and
sat down just like a christian, and talked to the missus and played wi'
the bairns for long enough."

"Did he though," said Sim.  "Hey, lad, but that's his artfulness.  He
wants to get the whip hand o' thee."

"I dunno 'bout that," said the landlord, who eked out his income from
the publican business with a little farming.  "I thowt so at first, and
expected he'd want to read a chapter and give me some tracks."

"Well, didn't he?" said Sim.

"Nay, not he.  We only talked once 'bout 'ligious matters, and 'bout the
chapel--ay, and we talked 'bout you an' all."

"'Bout me?" said Sim, getting interested, and pausing with his mug half
way to his lips.

"Yes," said the landlord.  "It come about throof me saying I see he'd
gotten your missus to keep house for him."

"Give me another gill o' ale," said Sim, now deeply interested.

The landlord filled his mug for him, and went on--

"I said she were 'bout the cleanest woman in these parts, and the way
she'd fettle up a place and side things was wonderful."

"Yow needn't ha' been so nation fast talking 'bout my wife," said Sim.

"I niver said nowt agen her," said the landlord, chuckling to himself.
"And then we got talking 'bout you and the chapel."

"What did he know 'bout me and the chapel?" cried Sim, angrily.

"On'y what I towd him.  I said part people went theer o' Sabbath, and
that it was a straange niste woshup."

"Nice woshup, indeed! why you niver went theer i' your life," said Sim.

"I said so I'd heerd," said the landlord, stolidly, "and then I towd him
how you used to preach theer till they turned thee out."

"What call had you to got to do that?" said Sim, viciously.

"Turned thee out, and took thy name off the plan for comin' to see me."

"Well, of all the unneighbourly things as iver I heerd!" exclaimed Sim.
"To go and talk that clat to a straanger."

"Outer kindness to him," said the landlord.  "It was a kind o' hint, and
he took it, for I was thinking of his bishop, and he took it direckly,
for he says, says he, `Well, I hope I shan't hev my name took off my
plan for coming to see you, Mr Robinson,' he says.  `I hope not, sir,'
I says.  `Perhaps you'll take a glass o' wine, sir,' I says.  `No, Mr
Robinson,' he says, `I'll take a glass--gill you call it--o' your ale.'
And if he didn't sit wi' me for a good hour, and drink three gills o'
ale and smoke three pipes wi' me, same as you might, ony he talked more
sensible."

"Well, he's a pretty parson, he is," sneered Sim.

"You let him be; he ain't a bad sort at all," said the landlord,
quietly.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Sim.  "He's got howlt o' you too, Robinson."

"Mebbe he hev; mebbe he hevn't," said the landlord.

"Did he ask you to go to church?"

"Well, not azackly," said the landlord; "but he said he should be very
happy to see me theer, just like astin' me to his house."

"Ho, ho!" laughed Sim; "and some day we shall have the Bull and
Cowcumber at church."

"What are yow laughin' at, yo' maulkin?" cried the landlord.  "Why, I'd
go ony wheer to sit and listen to a sensible man talk."

"Aw raight, aw raight, Robinson; don't be put out," said Sim; "but I
didn't think as yow'd be got over so easy."

"Who's got over?" said the landlord.  "Not I indeed."

"Well," said Sim, "did he say anything more?"

"Say? yes, he's full o' say, and it's good sorter say.  I ast him if
he'd like to see the farm, and he said he would, and I took him out
wheer the missus was busy wi' her pancheons, making bread and syling the
milk, and he stopped and talked to her."

"But yow didn't take him out into your moocky owd crewyard, did yo'?"

"Moocky crewyard indeed! but I just did, and I tell you what, Sim Slee,
he's as good a judge of a beast as iver I see."

"And then yow showed him the new mare," said Sim, with a grin.

"I did," said the landlord.  "`Horncastle?' he says, going up to her and
opening her mouth.  `Raight,' I says.  `Six year owd,' he says; and then
he felt her legs and said he should like to see her paces, and I had
Jemmy to give her a run in the field.  `She's Irish,' he says.  `How do
you know?'  I says--trying him like to trap him.  `By that turn-up
nose,' he says, `and that wild saucy look about the eye and head.'
`You're raight, parson,' I says.  And then he says, `she was worth sixty
pun, every pun of it;' and I told him as I got her for nine and thirty,
and ten shillings back.  I tell you what, Sim Slee,--Parson's a man,
every inch on him.  As for the missus, she's that pleased, she sent him
ower a pun o' boother this morning from our best Alderney."

"O' course," sneered Sim.  "That's the way.  That's your cunning priest
coming into your house to lead silly women captive, and sew pillows to
their armholes."

"Go on wi' yer blather," cried the landlord.

"Go on, indeed," continued Sim.  "That's their way.  He's a regular
Jesooit, he is, and your home wean't soon be your own.  He's gettin'
ivery woman in the place under his thumb.  He begins wi' Miss Eve theer
at the house, and Daisy Banks.  Then he's gotten howd o' my missus.
Here's Mrs Glaire allus coming and fetching him out wi' her in the pony
shay, and now he's gotten howd o' your owd woman, and she's sendin' him
pounds o' boother.  It was allus the way wi' them cunning priests: they
allus get over the women, and then they do what they like wi' the men.
No matter how strong they are, down they come just like Samson did wi'
Delilah.  It was allus so, and as it was in the beginning is now and
ever shall be world without end."

"Amen," said Jacky Budd, coming in at the back door.  "Gie's a gill o'
ale, Robinson.  I'm 'bout bunt up wi' thirst.  Hallo, Slee, what! are
yow preaching agen?"

"Never mind," said Sim, sulkily.  "I should ha' thowt parson would ha'
fun you in ale, now."

"Not he," said Jacky.  "Drinks it all his sen.  He's got a little barrel
o' Robinson's best i' the house, too."

"Ho, ho, ho!" laughed Sim, holding his sides and stooping.  "I say,
Jacky, put some new basses in one o' the pews for Mester Robinson,
Esquire, as is going to come reg'lar to church now.  That's the way they
do it: `Send me in a small barrel o' your best ale, Mr Robinson,' he
says, `and I shall be happy to see you at church.'"

"If yow use up all yer wind, Sim Slee," said the landlord, sturdily,
"yow wean't hev none left to lay down the law wi' at the meeting
to-night."

Volume 1, Chapter XVII.

MRS GLAIRE MAKES PLANS.

Poor Mrs Glaire was in trouble about her fowls, who seemed possessed of
a great deal of nature strongly resembling the human.  She had a fine
collection of noble-looking young Brahma cockerels, great massive
fellows, youthful, innocent, sheepish, and stupid.  They were intended
for exhibition, and their mistress expected a prize for the birds, which
had dwelt together in unity, increasing in bulk and brilliancy of
plumage, and had never looked a hen in the face since the day they
forsook their mamma in the coop.

And now, by mishap, a wanton young pullet had flown up on to the wall
that divided them from the poultry yard, and just cried, "Took--took--
took!" before flying down.  That was sufficient: a battle royal began
amongst the brothers directly, and when Mrs Glaire went down to feed
them she found two birds nearly dead, the rest all ragged as to their
feathers, bleeding as to their combs and wattles, and still fighting in
a heavy lumbering way, but so weary that they could only take hold of
one another with their beaks and give feeble pecks at their dripping
feathers.

Mrs Glaire sighed and made comparisons between Daisy Banks and the
wicked little pullet who had caused all this strife, telling herself
that she was to be congratulated on having but one son, and wishing that
he were married, settled, and happy.

She had decided that she would have the vicar up to dinner that night,
and intended to make him her confidant and ally; and accordingly in the
evening, while the conversation narrated in the last chapter was going
on, the object of it was making his way to the house, getting a friendly
nod here and there, and stopping for a minute's chat with the people
whose acquaintance he had made.

As a rule they were moody faces he met with amongst the women, for they
were more than usually soured at the present time on account of the
strike, and the sight of the black coat and white tie was not a pleasant
one to them, and the replies to his salute were generally sulky and
constrained.

He fared better with the men, in spite of Mr Simeon Slee's utterances,
for the report had gone round and round again that Parson could fight,
and the church militant, from this point of view, was one that seemed to
them worthy of respect.

So he went slowly along the main street, past Mr Purley, the doctor's,
as that gentleman, just returned from a round, was unwedging himself
from his gig.

"How do, parson, how do?" he said.  "Like a ride with me to-morrow?"

"Well, yes, if you'll get out your four-wheeler," said the vicar,
laughing.

"Going up to the house to dinner, parson?"

"Yes."

"Tell Mrs Glaire I'll be on in ten minutes," said the doctor.  "But I
say, parson, don't sit on the rubber of whist."

"Doctor," said the vicar, patting him on the shoulder, "I shall not; but
bring an extra sovereign or two with you, for I want to win a little
money to-night for some of my poor."

"He's a rum one," muttered the doctor, as he went in.  "He's a rum one,
that he is; but I don't think he's bad at bottom."

Meanwhile the vicar went on, past Ramson and Tomson's the grocers and
drapers, where silks and sugars, taffetas and tea were displayed in
close proximity; and although Ramson and Tomson were deacons at the
Independent Chapel, and the old vicar had passed them always without a
look, a friendly nod was exchanged now, to the great disgust of Miss
Primgeon, the lawyer's maiden sister, a lady who passed her time at her
window, and who, not being asked to the little dinner she knew was to be
held at the house, was in anything but the best of tempers that evening.

Richard Glaire was not aware of his mother's arrangement, and his face
wore anything but a pleasant expression as he confronted the vicar in
the hall, having himself only just come in.

"How do, Mr Selwood, how do?" he said haughtily, as he took out his
watch and paid no heed to the extended hand.  "Just going to dinner;
would you mind calling again?"

"Not in the least," said the vicar, smiling, "often.  Look here, Richard
Glaire," he continued, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder,
"you don't understand me."

"Will you--er--have the goodness--"

"Oh, yes, of course," said the vicar, "I'll explain all in good time;
but look here, my good young friend, I'm here in a particular position,
and I mean to be a sort of shadow or fate to you."

"I really am at a loss to understand," began Richard, whose anger was
vainly struggling against the strong will opposed to him.

"I see," said the vicar, "you've been out and didn't know I was coming
to dinner.  Don't apologise.  Ah, Miss Pelly!"

This to Eve, who had heard the voices; and Richard's face grew white
with passion as he saw the girl's bright animated countenance and glad
reception of their visitor.  She tripped down the stairs, and placed
both her hands in his, exclaiming--

"I'm so glad, Mr Selwood.  Aunt didn't tell me you were coming to
dinner till just now."

"And so am I glad," he said, with a smile touched with sadness
overspreading his face, as he saw the eager pleasant look that greeted
him, one that he was well enough read in the human countenance to see
had nothing in it but the hearty friendly welcome of an ingenuous
maiden, who knew and liked him for his depth and conversation.  "We
shall have a long chat to-night, I hope, and some music."

They were entering the drawing-room together as he spoke.

"Oh yes, yes," cried she, eagerly.  "I can never get Dick to sing now.
Do you sing, Mr Selwood?"

"Well, yes, a little," he said, smiling down at her.

"And play?"

"Yes, a little."

"What?  Not the piano?"

"Just a little," he said.  "I am better on the organ."

"Oh, I am so glad," cried Eve.  "Aunt will be here directly; I'm so glad
you've come to Dumford.  The old vicar was so stiff, and would sit here
when he did come, and play backgammon all the evening without speaking."

"Backgammon, eh?" said the visitor; "not a very lively game for the
lookers on."

"Yes, and it was so funny," laughed Eve, "he never would allow cards in
his presence, though he played with the dice; and it used to make dear
Dick so cross because aunt used to hide the cards.  But, oh dear," she
exclaimed, colouring slightly, "I hope you don't object to whist."

"My dear Miss Pelly," he said, laughing, "I like every innocent game.  I
think they all are as medicine to correct the acidity and bitterness of
some of the hard work of life."

"Then you'll play croquet with us?"

"That I will."

"Oh, I am glad," cried Eve, with almost childish pleasure.  "I can beat
Dick easily now, Mr Selwood, for he neglects his croquet horribly.
Mind I don't beat you."

"I won't murmur," he said, laughing.

"But where's aunt?" cried Eve.  "She came down before me."

"Aunt" had gone straight into the dining-room to see that all things
were in a proper state of preparation, and had stopped short in the
doorway on seeing Eve's reception of their guest.

She was about to step forward, when, unseen by him, she caught a glimpse
of her son's countenance, as he watched the vicar.  His teeth were set,
his lips drawn slightly back, and a fierce look of anger puckered his
forehead, as with fists clenched he made an involuntary movement after
the couple who had entered the drawing-room.

Mrs Glaire drew back softly, and laying her hand on her beating heart,
she walked to the other end of the dining-room, seating herself in one
of the windows, half concealed by the curtain.

There was a smile upon her face, for, quick as lightning, a thought had
flashed across her mind.

Here was the means at hand to bring her son to his senses.  She had
meant to take the vicar into her confidence, and ask his aid, stranger
though he was, for she felt that his position warranted it; but now
things had shaped themselves so that he was thoroughly playing into her
hands.

She knew Eve, that she was ingenuous and truthful, and looked upon her
marriage with her cousin as a matter of course.  She was a girl who
would consider a flirtation to be a crime towards the man who loved her;
but the vicar would evidently be very attentive even as he had begun to
be, and already Richard's ire was aroused.  Richard jealous, she
meditated, and he would be roused from his apathetic behaviour to Eve,
and all would come right.

"And the vicar?" she asked herself.

Oh, he meant nothing, would mean nothing.  He knew the relations of
Richard and his cousin, and the plan would--must succeed.

But was she wrong?  Was Richard annoyed at the vicar's demeanour towards
Eve, or was it her imagination?

The answer came directly, for Richard flung into the room, took up a
sherry decanter, and filling a glass, tossed it off.

"Curse him!  I won't have him here," he said aloud.  "What does he mean
by talking to me like that? by hanging after Eve?  I won't have it.  You
there, mother?"

"Yes, my son," she replied, rising and looking him calmly in the face.

"Look here, mother, I won't have that clerical cad here.  What do you
mean by asking him to dinner?"

"I asked him as a guest who has behaved very kindly to us, Richard.  He
is my guest.  I asked him because I wished to have him; and you must
recollect that he is a clergyman and a gentleman."

"If he wasn't a parson," cried Richard, writhing beneath his mother's
clear cold glance, for it seemed to his guilty conscience that she could
read in his face that he had broken his word about Daisy--"if he wasn't
a parson I'd break his neck."

"Richard, I insist," cried his mother, in a tone that he had not heard
since he had grown to manhood, and which reminded him of the days when
he was sternly forced to obey, "if you insult Mr Selwood, you insult
your mother."

"But the cad's making play after Eve--he's smiling and squeezing her
hand, and the little jilt likes it."

"No wonder," said Mrs Glaire, calmly.  "Women like attentions.  You
have neglected the poor girl disgracefully."

"What! are you going to allow it?" cried Richard.  "I tell you he's
making play for her."

"I shall not interfere," said Mrs Glaire, coldly.  "I think Eve ought
to have a good husband."

"But she's engaged to me!" half-shrieked Richard.

"Well," said his mother, coldly, though her heart was beating fast, "you
are a man, and should counteract it.  This is England, and in English
society, little as I have seen of it, I know that engaged girls are not
prisoners.  They are, to a certain extent, free."

"I'll soon stop it," cried Richard, fiercely.  "Stop it then, my son,
but mind this: I insist upon proper respect being paid to Mr Selwood."

"I will," cried Richard, speaking in a deep-pitched voice.  "I'll do
something."

"Then I should take care that my pretensions to her hand were well
known," said Mrs Glaire, with a peculiar look.

"Pretensions--her hand!" said Richard, with a sneer.  "Are you mad,
mother, that you take this tone?  I will soon let them see.  I'm not
going to be played with."

He was about leaving the room, when his mother laid her hand upon his
arm.

"Stop, Richard," she said, firmly.  "Recollect this--"

"Well, what?"

"That it was the clear wish of your father and myself to make you a
gentleman."

"Well, I am a gentleman," cried Richard, angrily.

"Bear it in mind then, my son; and remember that rude, rough ways
disgust Eve, and injure your cause.  Mr Selwood is a gentleman, and you
must meet him as a gentleman."

"I don't know what you mean, mother," cried the young man, angrily.

"I mean this, that my son occupies the position of the first man in
Dumford; and though his father was a poor workman, and his mother a
workman's daughter--"

"There, don't always get flinging my birth in my teeth, mother--do,
pray, sink the shop."

"I have no wish to remind you of your origin, Richard," said Mrs
Glaire, with a sigh; "only I wish to make you remember that we educated
you to be a gentleman, and that we have given you the means.  Act like
one."

"I shall do that; don't you be afraid," said Richard.

"And mind, Richard, a true gentleman keeps his word," said Mrs Glaire,
meaningly.

"Well, so do I," exclaimed the young man, flushing up.  "What are you
hinting at now?"

"I hope you do, my son; I hope you do," said Mrs Glaire, looking at him
fixedly; and then, as a sharp knock came at the front door, she glided
out of the room, and her voice was heard directly after in conversation
with the bluff doctor.

"Oh, he's here, too, is he?" muttered Dick, biting his nails.  "Hang it
all!  Curse it, how crookedly things go.  I--there, hang it all!"

He stood, thinking, with knitted brows, and then hastily pouring out and
tossing off another glass of sherry, and smiling in a way that looked
very much like the twitch of the lip when a cur means to bite, he said,
in a mock melodramatic voice--

"Ha--ha! we must dissemble!" and strode out of the room.

Volume 1, Chapter XVIII.

THE PLAN BEGINS TO WORK.

The vicar was standing by the flower-stand talking to Eve, and opening
out the calyx of a new orchid, a half faded blossom of which he had
picked from the pot to explain some peculiarities of its nature, while
Eve, looking bright and interested, drank in his every word.

Mr Purley was filling out an easy-chair, having picked out one without
arms for obvious reasons, and he was gossiping away to Mrs Glaire.

"How do, Purley?" said Richard, with a face as smooth as if nothing had
occurred to fret him.  "Glad to see you."

"Glad to see you too, Glaire; but you don't say, `How are you?'"

"Who does to a doctor," laughed Richard.  "Why you couldn't be ill if
you tried."

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Mr Purley.  "Well, if I'm not ill, I'm hungry."

"Always are," said Richard, with a sneer; and then seeing that his
retort was a little too pointed, he blunted it by pandering to the stout
medico's favourite joke, and adding, "Taken any one for a ride lately?"

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the doctor.  "That's good!  He's getting a regular
Joe Miller in kid gloves, Mrs Glaire: that he is.  Ha-ha-ha!"

Richard gave a short side nod, for he was already crossing the room to
the flower-stand.

"Talking about flowers?" he said, quietly.  "That's pretty.  I didn't
know they'd asked you to dinner, Mr Selwood, and you must have thought
me very gruff."

"Don't name it," said the vicar, frankly; but he was looking into the
younger man's eyes in a way that made him turn them aside in a shifty
manner, and begin picking nervously at the leaves of a plant as he went
on--

"Fact is, don't you know, I'm cross and irritable.  When a man's got all
his fellows on strike or lock out, it upsets him."

"Yes, Mr Selwood," interposed Eve, "the poor fellow has been dreadfully
worried lately.  But it's all going to be right soon, I hope."

"I don't know," said Richard, cavalierly; "they're horribly obstinate."

Mrs Glaire, who had been watching all this eagerly, while she made an
appearance of listening to Mr Purley's prattle, gave her son a grateful
look, to which he replied with a smile and a nod, when a servant entered
and announced the dinner.

Richard Glaire's smile and nod turned into a scowl and a twitch on
hearing his mother's next words, which were--

"Mr Selwood, will you take in my niece?  Mr Purley, your arm."

The vicar passed out with Eve, followed by the doctor and their hostess,
leaving Richard to bring up the rear, which he did after snatching up a
book and hurling it across the room crash into the flower-stand.

"She's mad," he muttered,--"she's mad;" and then grinding his teeth with
rage he followed into the dining-room.

Richard contrived to conceal his annoyance tolerably during the dinner,
but his mother saw with secret satisfaction that he was thoroughly
piqued by the way in which Eve behaved towards their visitor; and even
with the effort he made over himself, he was not quite successful in
hiding his vexation; while when they went out afterwards on to the
croquet lawn, and the vicar and Eve were partners against him, he gave
vent to his feelings by vicious blows at the balls, to the no slight
damage of Mrs Glaire's flowers.

This lady, however, bore the infliction with the greatest equanimity,
sitting on a garden seat, knitting, with a calm satisfied smile upon her
face even though Eve looked aghast at the mischief that had been done.

Matters did not improve, for Richard, after being, to his great disgust,
thoroughly beaten, and having his ball driven into all kinds of
out-of-the-way places by his adversaries, found on re-entering the
drawing-room that he was to play a very secondary part.

Eve recollected that Mr Selwood could sing a little, and he sang in a
good manly voice several songs, to which she played the accompaniment.

Then Eve had to sing as well, a couple of pretty ballads, in a sweet
unaffected voice, and all this time the whist-table was waiting and
Richard pretending to keep up a conversation with the doctor, who
enjoyed the music and did not miss his whist.

At length the last ballad was finished, tea over, and Richard had made
his plans to exclude Eve from the whist-table, when he gnashed his teeth
with fury, for his mother said--

"Eve, my dear, why don't you ask Mr Selwood to try that duet with you?"

"What, the one Richard was practising, aunt?"

"Yes, my dear, that one."

"Oh, no," exclaimed the vicar.  "If Mr Glaire sings I will not take his
place.  Perhaps he will oblige us by taking his part with you."

"But Dick doesn't know it, Mr Selwood," said Eve, laughing merrily,
"and he's sure to break down.  He always does in a song.  Do try it."

Dick turned livid with rage, for this was more than he could bear, and,
seeing his annoyance, Mr Selwood pleasantly declined, saying--

"But I have an engagement on; I am to win some money of the doctor here,
for my poor people."

"Didn't know it was the correct thing to gamble to win money for
charity."

"Oh, I often do," said the vicar, pleasantly.  "Now I'll be bound, Mr
Glaire, if I'd asked you for a couple of guineas to distribute, you'd
think me a great bore."

"You may depend upon that," said Richard.  "I never give in charity."

"But at the same time, you would not much mind if I won that sum from
you at whist."

"You'd have to win it first," said Richard, with a sneer.

"Exactly," said the vicar; "and I might lose."

"There, don't talk," said Richard; "let's play.  Come along, mamma."

Mrs Glaire was about to excuse herself, but seeing her son's looks, she
thought better of her decision, and to keep peace went up to the table;
Eve saying she would look on.

It fell about then that the vicar and Mrs Glaire were partners, and as
sometimes happens, Richard and his partner, the doctor, had the most
atrocious of hands almost without exception.  This joined to the fact
that Mrs Glaire played with shrewdness, and the vicar admirably, so
disgusted Richard that at last he threw down the cards in a pet, vowing
he would play no more.

"Well, it is time to leave off, really," said the vicar, glancing at his
watch.  "Half-past ten."

"Don't forget to give your winnings away in charity, parson," said
Richard, in a sneering tone.

"Dick!" whispered Eve, imploringly.

"Hold _your_ tongue," was the reply.  "I know what I'm saying."

"No fear," said the vicar, good-temperedly, as he was bidding Mrs
Glaire good night; "shall I send you an account?  Good night, Miss
Pelly.  Thanks for a delightful evening.  Good night, Mr Glaire."

He held out his hand, and gave Richard's a grip that made him wince, and
then, after a few words in the hall, he was gone, with the doctor for
companion.

"Thank goodness!" exclaimed Richard, savagely.

"Why, Dick, dear, how cross you have been," said Eve, while Mrs Glaire
watched the game.

"Cross!  Enough to make one," he cried, angrily; and then, mimicking the
vicar's manner, "Good night, Miss Pelly.  Thanks for a delightful
evening."

"Well, I'm sure it was, Dick," said Eve; "only you would be so cross."

"And well I might, when you were flirting in that disgraceful way all
the evening."

"Oh, Dick!" exclaimed Eve, reproachfully; and the tears stood in her
eyes.

"Well, so you were," he cried, "abominably.  If anybody else had been
here, they would have said that you were engaged to be married to that
cad of a parson, instead of to me."

The tears were falling now as Eve laid her hand upon her cousin's
shoulder.

"Dick, dear," she whispered; "don't talk to me like that; it hurts me."

"Serve you right," he growled.

"If I have done anything to annoy you to-night, dear, it was done in all
innocence.  But you don't--you can't mean it."

"Indeed, but I do," he growled, half turning his back.

Mrs Glaire was sitting with her back to them, and still kept busy over
her work.

"I am so sorry, Dick--dear Dick," Eve said, resting her head on the
young man's shoulder.  "Don't be angry with me, Dick."

"Then promise me you'll never speak to that fellow any more," he said,
quickly.

"Dick!  Oh, how can I?  But there, you don't mean it.  You are only a
little cross with me."

"Cross!" he retorted; "you've hurt me so to-night that I've been wishing
I'd never seen you."

"Oh, Dick!" she exclaimed, as she caught his hand, and raised it to her
lips.  "Please forgive me, and believe me, dear Dick, that I have not a
single thought that is not yours.  Please forgive me."

"There, hold your tongue," he said, shortly; "she's looking."

Poor little Eve turned away to hide and dry her tears, and then Mrs
Glaire, looking quite calm and satisfied with the prospect of events,
said--

"Eve, my child, it is past eleven."

"Yes, aunt, I'm going to bed.  Good night."

"Good night, Richard."

"Good night," he said, sulkily; and he bent down his head and brushed
the candid white forehead offered to him with his lips, while, his hands
being in his pockets, he at the same time crackled between his fingers a
little note that he had written to Daisy, appointing their next
interview, this arrangement having been forgotten in the hurry of the
day's parting.  And as he spoke he was turning over in his mind how he
could manage to get the note delivered unseen by Banks or his wife, for
so far as he could tell at the moment, he had not a messenger he could
trust.

END OF VOLUME ONE.

Volume 2, Chapter I.

TO BULTITUDE'S AND BACK.

Matters did not improve at Dumford as the days went on, and Murray
Selwood found that he could not have arrived at a worse time, so far as
his own comfort was concerned, though he was bound to own that the
occasion was opportune for his parish, inasmuch as he was able to be of
no little service to many of the people who, in a surly kind of way,
acknowledged his help, and took it in a condescending manner, while,
with a smile, he could not help realising the fact that the sturdy
independent folks looked down upon him as a kind of paid official whom
they were obliged to suffer in their midst.

He had secured a servant with great difficulty, for the girls of the
place, as a rule, objected to domestic service, preferring the freedom
and independence of working for the line-growing farmers of the
neighbourhood, and spending the money earned with the big draper of the
place.  Not our independent friends, but Barmby the parish churchwarden,
who coolly told the vicar that he could produce more effect upon the
female population with a consignment of new hats or bonnets from town,
than a parson could with a month's preaching; and it must be conceded to
Mr Barmby that his influence was far more visible than that of his
clerical superior.

All efforts to patch up a peace between the locked-out men and their
employer were without avail, even though the vicar had seen both parties
again and again.

"Let them pay for my machine-bands," said Richard Glaire--"Two hundred
pounds, and come humbly and confess their faults, and I'll then take
their application into consideration."

"But don't you think you had better make a greater concession?" said the
vicar.  "You are punishing innocent and guilty alike."

"Serve 'em right," said Richard, turning on his heel, and leaving the
counting-house, where Mr Selwood had sought him.

"What do you say, Mr Banks?" said the vicar.

"Well, sir, what I say is this," said Joe, pulling out and examining a
keen knife that he took from his pocket, "what I say is this--that he
ought to find out whom this knife belongs to, and punish him."

"That knife?"

"Yes," said Joe, grimly.  "I've been well over the place, and I found
this knife lying on a bench.  It is the one used for cootting the bands;
there's the greasy marks on it.  Now, the man as that knife belongs to,"
he said, closing the blade with a snap, "is him as coot the bands."

"By the way, did you ever find the bands?" said the vicar.

"Find 'em, parson, oh yes, I fun 'em; chucked into one of the furnaces
they weer."

"And burnt?"

"Well, not exactly bunt, but so cockered up and scorched, as to be no
more good.  I only wish I knew who did it."

"It was a cowardly trick," said the vicar, "and I wish it were known, so
that this unhappy strife might be stayed."

"Oh, that'll come raight soon," said Banks, drily.  "Just wait till
Master Dick has been over to the bank and seen how his book stands once
or twice, and we'll soon bring this game to an end."

"And meanwhile the poor people are starving."

"Not they, sir," said Joe, with a chuckle.  "People here are too saving.
They'll hold out a bit longer yet."

Joe remained to smoke a pipe amongst the extinct forges, while the vicar
paid a morning call at the big house, to find Mrs Glaire and Eve gone
for a walk, and Jacky Budd visible in the garden, fast asleep on a
rustic chair, with the flies haunting his nose.

Turning from there he went down the street, and had to bow to Miss
Purley, who was at the doctor's window, and to Miss Primgeon, who was at
the lawyer's window, both ladies having been there ever since he passed.
Then reaching the vicarage, it was to find that he had had a visitor in
his turn in the shape of his churchwarden, Mr Bultitude, "Owd Billy
Bultitude," as he was generally called in the town, just outside which
he had a large farm and was reported to be very wealthy.

"Parish matters, I suppose," said the vicar; and he stood debating with
himself for a few minutes as to whether he should go across the fields,
ending by making a start, and coming across Richard Glaire deep in
converse with Sim Slee, just by the cross-roads.

Something white was passed by Richard to the gentleman of the plaid
waistcoat, as the vicar approached, and then they moved on together for
a few yards, unaware of the coming footsteps.

"That looks like coming to terms," said the vicar to himself, joyfully.
"Well, I'm glad of it," and he was about to speak on the subject, when
Richard started round with a scowl upon his countenance, and Slee thrust
his hands into his pockets and went off whistling.

"As you will, master Dick," said the vicar to himself; "but I mean to
try hard yet to get the whip hand of you, my boy."  Then, aloud, "What a
delightful morning."

"Look here, Mr Selwood," said Richard, roughly, "are you playing the
spy upon my actions?"

"Not I," said the vicar, laughing, "I am going over to Bultitude's farm;
I cannot help your being in the way.  Good morning."

"He was watching me," muttered Dick, biting his nails.  "I wonder
whether he saw that note."

As he stood looking after the vicar, Sim Slee came softly back to wink
in a mysterious way, and point with his thumb over his shoulder.

"They're all alike," he said--"all alike, parsons and all."

"What do you mean?" said Dick, roughly.  "I thought you'd gone with that
note."

"Thowt I wouldn't go yet," said Sim, with another confidential jerk of
the thumb over his shoulder.  "Joe Banks is sure to be at home now."

"I tell you he's down at the foundry, and will stay there all day,"
cried Dick, angrily.

"All raight: I'll go then," said Sim; "but I say, sir, they're all
alike."

"What do you mean?"

"Why that parson--that dreadfully good man."

"Well, what about him?"

"Don't you know where he's gone?"

"Yes, he said: old Bultitude's."

"Did he say what for?" said Sim, grinning.  "No, of course not."

"Ho--ho--ho!  Ho--ho--ho!" laughed Sim, stamping on the ground with
delight.  "Don't you see his game?"

"Curse you, speak out," cried Dick, furiously.  "What do you mean?"

"Only that he's getting all the women under his thumb.  He'll be having
crosses and candles in the chutch direckly, like the Ranby man."

"Curse you for a fool, Slee," cried Richard, impatiently; and he was
turning away when Sim exclaimed--

"Don't you know as Miss Eve walked over there half-an-hour ago?"

"What?" roared Dick.

"Oh! she's only gone over to see Miss Jessie, of course; but if you'll
light a cigar, sir, and sit down on yon gate, you'll see if he don't
walk home with her.  Now I'm off."

"Stop a moment, Sim," cried Dick in a husky voice.  "Have--have you ever
seen anything?"

"Who?  I?  Oh, no!  Nowt," said Sim; "leastwise I only saw 'em come out
of Ranby wood with a basket of flowers yesterday, that's all."

He went off then, chuckling to himself and rubbing his hands, leaving
the poison to work, as, with his face distorted with rage, Dick started
off at a sharp walk for Bultitude's farm; but, altering his mind, he
leaped a stile, lit a cigar, and stood leaning against a tree smoking,
unseen by any one who should pass along the lane, but able to command
the path on both sides for some distance, up and down.

Meanwhile the vicar, enjoying the pleasant walk, had been telling
himself that he could always leave the grimy town and its work behind in
a few minutes to enjoy the sweets of the country, which were here in all
their beauty; and after thinking of Eve Pelly for about five minutes, he
made a vigorous effort, uttered the word _taboo_, and began humming a
tune.

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the tune he inadvertently began to
hum was one of those which Eve sang the other night, so he left off with
a hasty "Pish!" and stooping down, began to botanise, picking a flower
here and there, and then climbing up the rough side of the lane to cull
a pretty little fern, whose graceful fronds drooped from a shadowy
niche.

He threw the fern impatiently down, as he reached the path once more,
and his brow furrowed, for memory told him directly that it was the
pretty little _asplenium_, the peculiarities of whose growth he had
explained to Eve when he met her with Mrs Glaire the day before, and
had passed with them through Ranby wood, the latter lady probably being
too insignificant to be taken in by Mr Sim Slee's comprehensive vision.

Walking rapidly on, to calm his thoughts, he came across the object of
his search, busily dragging a sheep out of a little narrow grip or drain
that had been cut in the field, and into which the unfortunate animal
had rolled feet uppermost, its heavy wet fleece, and the size of the
drain, making it impossible for the timid beast to extricate itself.

"Fahrweltered, parson," said the bluff-looking farmer, as he came up.

"I beg your pardon," said the vicar.

"Fahrweltered--fahrweltered," said the farmer, laughing; "we say in
these parts a sheep's fahrweltered when he gets on his back like that.
I expect," he continued, with a roguish twinkle of his eye, "you've
found some of your flock fahrweltered by this time."

"Indeed, I have," said the vicar, laughing; "and so far the shepherd has
not been able to drag them out."

"No, I s'pose not," said the farmer, carefully wiping his hands upon a
big yellow silk handkerchief before offering one to be shaken.  "You've
got your work coot out, my lad, and no mistake.  But come on up to the
house, and have a bit of something.  I come over to you about the
meeting, and the books, and the rest of it."

The vicar followed him up to the farm-house, where the heavy stack-yard,
abundant display of cattle, and noises of the yard told of prosperity;
and then leading the way through the red-brick passage into the long,
low, plainly-furnished sitting-room, the first words Murray Selwood
heard were--

"Jess, Miss Pelly, I've brought you a visitor."

The vicar's cheek burned, as he could not help a start, but he recovered
himself directly as he saw Eve Pelly's sweet face, with its calm
unruffled look, and replied to the frank pressure of her hand, as she
said she was delighted to see him.

"This is my niece, Jessie," said the farmer in his bluff way.  "She
says, parson--"

"Oh, uncle!" cried the pleasant, bright-faced girl.

"Howd your tongue, lass; I shall tell him.  She says, parson, she's glad
our old fogy has gone, for it's some pleasure to come and hear you."

"Oh, Mr Selwood, please," said the girl, blushing, "I didn't quite say
that.  Uncle does--"

"'Zaggerate," said the old man, laughing.  "Well, perhaps he does.  But
come, girl, get in a bit of lunch.  There, what now, Miss Pelly; are we
frightening you away?"

"Oh, no," said Eve, smiling, "only I must go now."

"Sit thee down, lass, sit thee down.  Parson's going back directly, and
he'll walk wi' thee and see thee safe home."

And so it came about that innocently enough an hour afterwards the vicar
and Eve Pelly were walking back together with, as they came in sight of
Richard Glaire, Eve eagerly speaking to her companion, and becoming so
earnest in her pleading words for her cousin, that she laid one little
hand on the vicar's arm.

"You will like him when you come to know him, Mr Selwood," she was
saying, in her earnest endeavour that Richard should be well thought of
by everybody.  "Poor boy, he has been so annoyed and worried over the
strike, that he is not like the same.  It is enough to make him cross
and low-spirited, is it not?"

"Indeed it is," said the vicar, quietly; "and you may be quite at rest
with respect to your cousin, for he will, for he will always find a
friend in me."

He had been about to say, "for your sake," but a glance at the sweet,
candid face arrested his words, and he told himself that anything that
would in the slightest degree tend to disturb her pure faith and belief
in the man who was to be her husband would be cruelty, for there was the
hope that her gentle winning ways and innocent heart would be the means
of influencing Richard Glaire, and making him a better man.

"Hallo, you two!" made them start, as Richard leaped over the stile, and
seemed surprised to find that neither of them looked startled or
troubled at his sudden apparition.  "Here, Eve, take my arm.  I'm going
home."

"Thank you, Dick," she said, quietly.  "I have something to carry."

He scowled and relapsed into a moody silence, which no efforts on the
vicar's part could break.  Fortunately, the distance back to the town
was very short, and so he parted from them at the foot of the High
street, the rest of the distance being occupied by Richard in a torrent
of abuse of Eve, and invectives against the vicar, whom he characterised
as a beggarly meddling upstart, and ended by sending the girl up to her
room in tears.

Volume 2, Chapter II.

AN EVENTFUL WALK.

Richard Glaire made the most of his short time for scolding, and sulked
to a great extent with his cousin for the next few days, and then the
tables were turned, for it came to pass one evening that all being
bright and as beautiful without, as it was dull and cheerless within,
Eve proposed to her aunt that they should take a walk as far as Ranby
Wood.

"Do you expect to meet Mr Selwood, Eve?" said Mrs Glaire, rather
bitterly.

The bitterness, was, however, unnoticed by Eve, who replied quietly--

"Oh no, aunt dear.  I don't think there is the slightest chance of that;
for don't you remember he said he was going to dine with Doctor Purley?"

"To be sure, yes; I had forgotten," said Mrs Glaire, somewhat relieved;
though had she been asked she would have been puzzled to say why.

The result was that they started, leaving the town, crossing the little
hill, and reaching the pleasant paths of the wood where the lichened
trunks of the old oak trees were turned to russet gold in the setting
sunshine, and all above seemed so peaceful and beautiful that the tears
rose to Mrs Glaire's eyes, and she sat down upon a fallen trunk,
thinking of how beautiful the world was, and how it was marred by man,
through whom came the major part of the troubles that annoyed them.

"What's that?" she exclaimed, hastily, as voices in angry contention
approached.

"I don't know, aunt," said Eve, half rising in alarm.  "Let's go."

"No one will interfere with us, child," said Mrs Glaire, restraining
her.  "It's Squire Gray's keeper and young Maine," she continued.  "Why
are they quarrelling?"

"I think I know, aunt," said Eve, in an agitated voice.  "Oh, surely
they don't mean to fight.  It is about Jessie Bultitude: for Brough, the
keeper, is always going to the farm with excuses, and it annoys John
Maine."

It was very evident, though, that they were going to fight, for just
then the keeper, a great black-whiskered fellow in velveteens and
gaiters, exclaimed--

"Well, look here, I'll show you whether you've a raight to come across
here.  I 'ain't forgot about the rabbits."

As he spoke he began to strip off his coat, and his companion, a rather
good-looking young fellow, whose face was flushed with passion, seemed
disposed to imitate his example, when he caught sight of the ladies, and
turned of a deeper red.

The keeper too resumed his coat, and whistling to his black retriever,
who had been showing his teeth, and seemed disposed to join in the fray,
he turned off into a side path and disappeared.

"Oh, John Maine!" exclaimed Eve, reproachfully, "what would Jessie think
if she saw you quarrelling with that man?"

"Beg pardon, Miss, I'm sure," said the young man, pulling off his felt
hat.  "It was no seeking of mine.  He's always trying to pick a quarrel
with me.  He is, indeed, Mrs Glaire; and he won't be happy till he's
been well thrashed.  But hadn't you ladies--I mean--I beg your pardon,
Miss Eve--hadn't you better go back out of the wood?"

"No, thank you, John," said Eve, smiling at the young man's confusion.
"We have only just come."

"But it is getting damp, Miss," said the young fellow, who was foreman
at Bultitude's farm.

"You didn't think it was damp the other night, John, when you were up
here in the wood with Jessie."

"No, Miss, very true," said the young man; "but perhaps Thomas Brough
will come back."

"Then," said Mrs Glaire, quietly, "I should advise you to go back home
at once, John."

"Well, if you will have it, you will," muttered the young man.  "I did
my best to stop it;" and with a rough salutation he went on his way.

"Eve, my dear, I should not go too often to Bultitude's," said Mrs
Glaire.  "Jessie is very well, but she is rather below the station you
are to take, and--quick--here, come away--this way."

She started up, and tried to drag Eve away, but she was too late; and
her efforts to prevent the scene down the glade before them being seen
by her young companion were in vain.  For there, plainly visible in the
golden glow, and framed as it were in the bower-like hazels, stood, with
their backs to them, Richard Glaire and Daisy Banks.

The young couple were as motionless as those who gazed, for in an
impetuous angry way, Eve had snatched herself free, and stood looking
down the glade, while Mrs Glaire seemed petrified.

The next moment though, just as she was about to whisper hastily to Eve
something about an accidental meeting, they saw Richard pass his arm
round Daisy, who, nothing loth, allowed the embrace, and then as his
lips sought hers, she threw her arms round his neck and responded to his
caress.

It was a long cooing kiss, and it might have been longer, but as Richard
Glaire drew Daisy closer to him, he slightly changed his position, and
raising his eyes from the pretty flushed face he saw that they were
observed, and started back with an oath.

Daisy turned wonderingly, and then, seeing who was watching them, she
uttered a faint cry, and ran off swiftly down the mossy pathway, while,
after hesitating whether he should follow her or not, and with a red
spot of shame burning in each cheek, Dick took out his case, chose a
cigar, nibbled off the end with an affectation of nonchalance, and
striking a light, began to smoke.

"I shan't turn tail," he muttered.  "I'm my own master, and I shall face
it out."

"Oh aunt, aunt, aunt!" moaned Eve; "is that true?"

"True! yes," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, in a low, angry voice.

"But Dick cannot--Oh aunt, aunt, take me home--take me home."

Poor Eve turned aside, sobbing bitterly, and covered her face with her
hands to hide the hateful sight; but in vain, for there, as it were,
standing out clear and bright before her, was Daisy Banks, with her
soft, round little face and pouting lips, turned up to receive Richard
Glaire's kisses; and to her it seemed so horrible, so impossible, that
she could not believe it true.  It came upon her like a sudden shock,
and she was stunned; for with all Richard's ill-humour and extravagance,
she could never believe him anything but true and honourable, and in her
simple, trusting way, she asked herself if it was possible that there
was a mistake.

"Give me your hand, child," said Mrs Glaire, in a low, constrained
voice; and catching that of Eve, with almost angry force; she led her on
to where her son leaned nonchalantly against a tree, watching their
coming.

The wood was now flooded with the rich golden sunset light, and every
leaf and twig seemed turned to ruddy gold, while Dick, her young hero,
the man she loved, and who was to be her husband, seemed to Eve, seen
through a veil of tears, more handsome than ever she had seen him
before.

And he did not love her!  His love was given to Daisy Banks!  Oh, no,
she told herself; it was not true--it was some mistake; and with her
breath coming in sobs, and her heart beating rapidly, she clung to her
aunt's hand as they approached.

Mrs Glaire stopped short when they reached the tree, and speaking in a
very cold, contemptuous way, she raised her one hand at liberty, and
pointing in the direction in which one of the two actors in the little
comedy had fled, she said--

"Is this my son Richard?"

"No," said Dick, with a forced laugh, and with a display of effrontery
far from in keeping with his abject looks, "No--that was Daisy Banks."

"I say, is this my son?" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, speaking in the same
cold measured way.

"I suppose so," said Dick, contemptuously.  "There, don't make a bother
out here in the wood;" and he half-turned away to gaze up towards where
a thrush was loudly singing its farewell to the day.

"I say is this my son?" reiterated Mrs Glaire, "who promised me upon
his word of honour as a gentleman that he would see Daisy Banks no
more."

"Oh aunt," cried Eve, with almost a shriek of pain, as these words were
to her like the lifting of a veil, "did you know of this?"

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, sternly, "I knew, my child, that he was playing
false to you, and that he was often seeing this miserable girl."

"There, let her alone," said Richard, defiantly.

"I knew it, Eve," continued Mrs Glaire, speaking with suppressed anger;
"but on my remonstrating, he promised me that it should all be at an
end, and for the time, like a weak, foolish mother, I believed in his
honour as a gentleman, and that he would keep his word to me and be
faithful to you.  You see how he keeps his word."

"There, that'll do," cried Richard, defiantly.  "I'm not going to be
bullied.  I like the girl, and shall marry her if I choose."

"Liar!  Coward!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire.  "You would not marry her: but
break the miserable girl's heart, as you would break that of your
cousin, if I would stand by and see you do the wrong."

"Oh no, no, no, aunt--aunt--pray don't," sobbed Eve, interposing.  "You
are hard upon dear Dick, aunt.  He does not care for her: it is some
mistake.  He cannot care for her.  It is Daisy's doing; the wicked girl
has led him away.  Dick, dear Dick, tell me, tell me, you don't love
her, that--that--Oh, Dick, it can't--it can't be true."

She threw herself sobbing on his breast, but with a degree of force,
hardly to be expected from her, Mrs Glaire drew Eve away and stood
between them.

"No," she exclaimed, "he shall not touch you; he shall never touch you
again till this disgrace is wiped away, and he has shown himself in some
way worthy of your love; for I will not stand by and see your future
blasted by the action of a son who has proved himself a scoundrel."

"Look here, mother," cried Richard, hotly, "I'm not going to stand all
this.  You want me to marry Eve, and I shall marry her some day; but if
I choose to be a bit gay first I shall.  I'm my own master and shall do
as I like."

"Worse and worse!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, whose voice was now an angry
whisper.  "Not one blush of shame--not one word of sorrow or humility
before the pure, sweet, forgiving girl, whose feelings you have
outraged.  I ask myself again--as I could almost say, thank God your
father is not alive to know it!--is this my son?"

"There, confound your heroics!" exclaimed Richard, impatiently.

"You say I want you to marry Eve, and that some day you will," continued
Mrs Glaire.  "Disabuse your mind, Richard, for I do not wish you to
many Eve, and marry her you shall not."

"There, that'll do," cried Richard; "I've had enough of this.  Here,
come along with me, Evey.  I'll walk home with you and explain all."

He tried to take Eve's hand, to draw through his arm, but she drew back
from him, looking cold and pale, while her eyes dilated, and she
shuddered slightly.

"Here, walk home with me, you little silly," he continued.

"No--no--no," said Eve, slowly, as she turned from him, and clinging to
Mrs Glaire's arm, she hid her face upon her aunt's shoulder, as in
those few moments her girlhood's innocent belief and trust in her cousin
passed away, and with the eyes of a woman she for the first time saw him
in his true character.

"As you like," said Richard, flippantly, and assuming an injured tone.
"You'll be sorry for this."

No one answered him, for Mrs Glaire drew Eve's arm through hers, and
without a word they walked hastily home.

"Damn it all!" exclaimed Richard, taking the cigar from his mouth, and
throwing it impatiently down.  "How cursedly unlucky.  Well, I don't
care: they must have known it some day.  Evey will soon forget it all,
and I shall easily get round the old woman with a bit of coaxing.  Now
where's little Daisy?"

He walked hastily down the path by which she had fled, knowing only too
well that it led farther into the wood, and feeling sure that he should
find her waiting for him to join her.

He was quite right, for before long he came upon her, sitting down and
crying as though her heart would break.

"Hallo! little pet," he cried; and she started up in a frightened way at
his words, "what have you got to cry about?  I'm the one that ought to
bellow.  See what a wigging I've had."

"Oh, Mr Richard!" sobbed Daisy.

"There, _Mister_ Richard again," he cried, catching her in his arms.

"Then Dick, dear Dick, there must be no more of this, I shall never be
able to hold my face up in the place again."

"Stuff!" he cried, "come along."

"No, no," she sobbed.  "I'm going straight home now."

"Just as you like," he said, cavalierly, and he took out his cigar-case.

"Don't be angry with me, Dick, please; for I'm so unhappy," sobbed the
girl.

"You've got nothing to be unhappy about, I'm sure," he said.  "It's only
what, I told you.  The old woman won't stand it, and we shall have to
make a bolt.  You see it now yourself."

"Ah, but father--mother, Dick."

"They'll soon come round, like my old lady will."

"But I couldn't go, Dick, dear Dick.  Do pray speak to father."

"Not I," said the young fellow, coolly.

"Then let me, pray let me."

"No, nor I shan't let you do that neither.  He won't mind; and I'm not
going to be talked to and patted on the back and that sort of stuff.  If
you love me as you say you do, you'll listen to what I say."

Daisy looked at him uneasily, and then turned away her face, sobbing to
herself, "Oh, dear."

"Now then," continued Dick, "let's finish our walk."

"No, no," sobbed Daisy, "I must go back home now."

"Not yet you won't," he said, angrily.

"But indeed, indeed I must, Dick, dear Dick.  Pray don't speak crossly
to me."

"You get worse and worse," he said.  "There's always some silly excuse
ready."

"But I must--indeed I must go home now, Dick," cried Daisy, imploringly.

"And I say you shan't yet," said the young man, half angrily, half
laughing; and then--"Curse it--there's that Tom Podmore again, with
young Maine.  Did you know he was coming?"

"No, no: indeed no," cried the girl, reproachfully.

"He's always watching us," cried Richard, and catching Daisy's arm, he
walked with her rapidly down a path leading to one of the outlets of the
wood, where they parted, Daisy hurrying home to be received with a quiet
nod by her father, who was just going out, while her mother looked at
her curiously as she went to take off her things.

Volume 2, Chapter III.

BANKS'S OBSTINACY.

Joe Banks made his way straight through the place to the big house,
where, on knocking at the front door, it was evident that he was
expected, the girl saying quietly--

"Missus will see you in her room, Mr Banks."

"All raight, my lass," said Joe; and he followed the girl into a little
room off the hall, where the walls were ornamented with maps and
patterns, and shelves bearing rough account books, while here and there
stood a dingy-looking wooden model of some piece of machinery.

"Evening, mum," said Joe, quietly.  "I've come, as you sent for me; but
it ain't no use.  Things are just where they weer, and unless Master
Dick comes down, the works will keep shut."

"I didn't send for you about that," said Mrs Glaire, hastily.

"No!" said Joe, quietly.

"No," said Mrs Glaire, clearing her throat and speaking rather
excitedly.  "You know I spoke to you once before, Joe Banks, about--
about--"

"There, don't beat about, Missus," said Joe, with a happy smile
spreading over his countenance.  "I know, about Master Dick and my
Daisy."

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, "and I spoke to my son about it."

"Did you?" chuckled Joe.  "Well, I never spoke a word to my gal."

"I spoke to my son," continued Mrs Glaire, "and pointed out the
impossibility and impropriety of his proceedings."

"Did you, though?" chuckled Joe.  "Why, lor' a mercy, Missus, what's the
good o' being so proud?  Flesh and blood's flesh and blood all the world
over."

"I talked to him earnestly upon the point," said Mrs Glaire, not
heeding the interruption.

"Theer, theer," said Joe, smiling.  "What good was it? why did you do
it?"

"And my son saw the force of my remarks, and gave me his promise that he
would see Daisy no more."

"Ah, he did, did he?" chuckled Joe.  "He promised you that?"

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, angrily; "and he has broken his promise."

"Of course he has," said Joe, chuckling.  "You might ha' known it.  When
a young couple like them comes together, it's no use for the old uns to
try and stop it.  They'll manage it somehow.  They're sure to be too
many for you."

"Joe Banks, you put me out of patience," cried Mrs Glaire, angrily.
"Can you not see how important this matter is?"

"Important?  Of course I do," said Joe, quietly, "a very important step
for both of 'em."

"Listen!" cried Mrs Glaire; "things are coming to a crisis, and for
your sake they must be stopped."

"Strikes me," said Joe, bluntly, "that you're thinking a vast more of
yourself, Missus Glaire, than of me."

"I'm thinking of the future of my son and of your daughter, Mr Banks,"
said Mrs Glaire.

"So am I," said Joe, quietly; "but you're so proud."

"I tell you, man, that I met them this evening together in the wood,"
cried Mrs Glaire.  "My son, with Daisy, your child, in his arms."

"Ah, you did, did you, Missus?" said Joe, chuckling.  "He was kissing of
her, I suppose."

"Yes," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, indignantly.

"Well, I thought as much," said Joe, quietly.  "The lass had got a rare
red face when I met her as she come in."

"Do you hear what I say?" cried Mrs Glaire angrily.  "I say I saw them
to-night in the wood, after he had promised me to give her up."

"Oh, yes," said Joe, in a calm, unruffled way, "I heard you say so, and
if you'd been in the wood every day for the past month, I'd bet you'd
ha' sin 'em.  They're often theer."

"Joe Banks!" cried Mrs Glaire, half rising from her chair.

"Theer, theer, Missus, what's the good o' making a fuss, and being so
proud?  I've give my Daisy a good eddication, and she's quite a
scholard.  She can write as pretty a letter as any one need wish to see,
and keeps accounts beautiful."

"Joe Banks, you are blind," cried Mrs Glaire, passionately.  "I want to
save your child from shame, and you--"

"Howd hard theer--howd hard theer, Missus," cried Joe, rising; and his
rugged face flushed up.  "I respect you, Missus Glaire, like a man, and
I don't wonder as it touches your pride a bit, but I won't sit here and
hear you talk like that theer.  My Daisy's as good and honest a girl as
ever stepped, and I'd troost her anywheers; while, as to your son, he's
arbitrary, but you've browt him up as a gentleman, and do you think I'm
going to believe he means harm by my darling?  No, no, I know better."

"But, you foolish man--"

"Missus Glaire, I won't call you a foolish woman; I've too much respect
for you; but I think so, and I think as it isn't me as is blind, but
some one else.  Theer, theer, what's the good of kicking again it.
They've made up their minds to come together, and you may just as well
let 'em by the gainest coot, as send 'em a long ways round.  But, theer,
Missus, don't think like that of your own flesh and blood.  Why, Missus,
am I to respect your son more than you do yoursen?"

"Dick has deceived me," cried Mrs Glaire, with the tears running down
her cheeks.

"Well, but it won't anser," said Joe, calming down.  "He's fond o' the
lass, and he was standing 'tween her and you," he continued, smiling at
his own imagery.  "You was pulling one way and she was pulling the
other, and young love pulled the strongest.  Of course it did, as was
very natural."

"Will you send Daisy away, and try and stop it?" cried Mrs Glaire,
angrily.

"No, I won't do neither," said Joe, stoutly.  "Why should I?  What call
is there for me to go again my master and make my lass miserable,
because you think she ain't good enough for your boy?"

"Then I must act, Joe Banks," said Mrs Glaire, "for see her he shall
not."

"Theer, theer, what can you do?" chuckled Joe.  "Better let things go
their own way."

"I tell you, man, that for your daughter's sake, you ought to put a stop
to this."

"I can't stop it," said Joe, smiling; "nor no one else.  You tried, and
found you couldn't, so what could I do?  Let 'em alone, and my Daisy
shan't disgrace you; and look here, if it's money, I've got a thousand
pounds saved up, and it's all hers.  Theer!"

"Man, man, what can I say to you?" said Mrs Glaire, checkmated by the
obstinate faith of Banks in her son.

"Nowt," said Joe, sturdily; "what's the good o' talking?  Take my
advice, Missus Glaire--let things bide."

Mrs Glaire wrung her hands in despair as she gazed enviously in the
frank, bluff workman's face, and wished that she could feel the same
calm trust in the boy who had been her sole thought for so many years,
and as she gazed Joe Banks said sturdily:

"Look here, Missus, no offence meant; but they do say as marriages is
made in heaven."

"Yes, Joe, marriages," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, passionately.

"Well, I weer a-talking about marriages," said Joe, quietly; "so you
take my advice and let things bide."

"You will not take my advice, Banks," exclaimed Mrs Glaire.  "But, look
here, I have warned you, I have begged of you to help me, and you
refuse."

"O' course I do," said Joe Banks, sturdily.  "I'm not going to fight
again my own flesh and blood on a question o' position.  Look here," he
continued, now speaking angrily, "I never was jealous of my old master's
rise in life, and I stuck to him and helped him, and he made me promise
to stick by and help his son; and that I'm going to do, for I don't
believe if he'd been alive he'd ha' been owt but pleased to see his boy
make up to my gal.  It ain't my seeking: it's Master Dick's.  He loves
she, and she loves he, and before I'll step 'twixt 'em, and say as one
workman's son's too big for the other workman's daughter, I'll be--.
No, I won't, not before you, Missus; and now good night, and I wish the
strike well ended."

Joe Banks swung out of the room with all the sturdy independence of a
man with a thousand pounds of his own, and then made his way home, while
Mrs Glaire sat as it were stunned.

"What can I do?  What can I do?" she muttered; and then sat thinking
till Eve, looking very pale and ill, walked softly into the room, and
knelt by her side, turning up her sad face and red eyes to those of the
troubled mother.

"Aunt, dear," she whispered, "Dick has just come in, and gone up to his
room.  Shall we ask him to come down to us?"

"What for?" said Mrs Glaire sharply.

"Don't you think, Aunt, we ought to try and forgive him, and win him
back?"

Mrs Glaire rose slowly, and went to a side table, from which she took a
Prayer-book, and read from it the sentence beginning, "I will arise," to
the end; and then, laying down the book, she took Eve's head between her
hands, and kissed her white forehead gently.

"Eve, my child, yes, we ought to try and forgive him; I, for his cruel
deceit of the woman who gave him birth; you, for his outrage against the
woman who was to be his wife.  I will forgive him, but he must come--he
must arise and come, and seek for pardon first.  While you--"

"Oh, Aunt, Aunt," moaned Eve, hiding her face in the elder's breast, "I
never knew before how much I loved him."

"And you forgive him, child?"

"Yes, Aunt, I forgive," said Eve, raising her head, and looking sadly in
the elder woman's face, "I forgive him, but--"

"But what, my child?"

"All that is past now--for ever."

Mrs Glaire did not speak for a few moments, but stood holding her
niece's hand, looking straight away from her into vacancy, while from
above there floated slowly down and entered the room the penetrating
fumes of the cigar Dick was smoking in his bedroom, as with his heels
upon the table, and a glass of spirits and water by his side, he amused
himself by reading a French novel, growling every now and then as he
came across some idiom or local phrase which he could not make out, and
apparently quite oblivious of the fact that three women were making
themselves wretched on his behalf.

Suddenly a low whistle was heard, and Mrs Glaire started.

"What was that?" she exclaimed.

Eve made no reply, but the two women remained listening, while it seemed
to them that the sound had also been heard by Dick, who apparently
crossed the room, and opened his window.

"He has gone to see what it means," said Mrs Glaire in a whisper.  "I
hope the strike people are not out."

Her head was running upon certain proceedings that had taken place many
years before, during her husband's lifetime, when they had literally
been besieged; but her alarm was unnecessary, for had she been in her
son's bedroom, she would have seen that worthy open his window and utter
a low cough, with the result that Sim Slee threw up a note attached to a
stone, which the young man glanced at, and then said, "All right; no
answer," and Slee went quickly off.

Richard opened the note, glanced through it, and read passages half
aloud.

"H'm, h'm.  So sorry to leave you as I did.--Heart very sore.--Oughtn't
to meet like that any more.--Pray let her tell father.--They would soon
agree if all known.--Will not come any more to be deceitful."

"Won't you, my dear?" said Dick, aloud.  "We'll see about that.  I think
I can turn you round my finger now, Miss Daisy.  If not I'm very much
mistaken.  But we'll see."

He finished the note by twisting it up and using it to re-light his
cigar, which he sat smoking, and listening as at last he heard his
mother and Eve pass his room on their way to bed--the former for the
first time in his life, without saying "Good night" to her son.

Volume 2, Chapter IV.

JOHN MAINE'S HEADACHE.

"Hallo, Johnny!"

"What, my lively boy."

"Look at his velveteens."

"And a silk hankercher too.  Arn't he tip top?"

"Arn't you down glad to see your old mates again, Johnny?"

"Course he is; look at the tears in his eyes."

"Hey, mun, why don't you say you're glad to see us?"

"And why don't you speak?"

"Because," said John Maine, speaking slowly, as he stopped leaning on
his thick staff in the middle of the road, "I'm not glad to see you, and
I don't want to speak."

He looked very stern and uncompromising this young man, half bailiff,
half farm servant in appearance, as he stood there in the lane, about a
mile from Joe Banks's house, and facing the men who had kept up the
conversational duet, for they were about as ill-looking a pair of
scoundrels as a traveller was likely to meet in a day's march.

The elder of the two carried a common whip, and wore a long garment,
half jacket, half vest in appearance, inasmuch as it was backed and
sleeved with greasy fustian, and faced with greasy scarlet and purple
plush, hanging low over his tightly-fitting cord trousers, buttoned at
the ankles over heavy boots, while his head was covered with a ragged
fur cap.

The younger man, whose hair was very short, wore the ordinary
smock-frock euphoniously termed a "cow-gown," but as he was journeying,
it was tucked up round his hips.  This, with his soft wide-awake, and
heavy unlaced boots, was bucolic enough, but there the rustic aspect
ceased, for his face was sallow; he had a slovenly tied cotton
handkerchief round his neck; and as he smoked a dirty, short clay pipe,
he had more the aspect of a Whitechapel or Sheffield rough than the
ordinary farming man of the country.

Taking them together, they seemed to be men who could manage a piece of
horse-stealing, poach, rob a hen-roost, or pay a visit night or day to
any unprotected house; and if "gaol" was not stamped legibly on each
face, it was because nature could not write it any plainer than she had.

"He's gotten high in the instep, Ike," said the last man; "and what's he
got to be proud on?"

"Ah, to be sure, what's he got to be proud on?" chuckled the other.  "He
wasn't always a stuck up one, was he?"

"I say, Johnny," said the first speaker, "keep that dog o' yourn away
wilt ta, or I might give him something as wouldn't do him no good."

"Here, Top, down dog!" said the young man, and a rough-looking dog which
had been snuffing round the two strangers showed his teeth a little and
then lay down in the dusty road.  "I don't want," continued the young
man, "to be rough on men I used to know."

"Rough, lad; no, I should think not," said Ike, of the whip; and he gave
it a lash, cutting off the heads of some nettles.  "I knew he was all
raight, Jem."

"I said," continued the young man, "that I didn't want to be surly to
men as I used to know, and if you want a shilling or two to help you on
the road, here they are.  As for me, I've dropped all your work, and
taken to getting an honest living."

"Oh, ho, ho!" laughed Ike, of the whip, giving it another flick, and
making the dog jump.  "Dost ta hear that, Jem?"

"Ay, lad, I hear him," said Jem, of the smock-frock, hugging himself as
if afraid to lose what he considered particularly good; "I'm hearing of
him.  But come along, John; we won't be hard on such a honest old boy.
Show us the way to the dram-shop, or the nearest public, and we'll talk
old times over a gill or two o' yale."

"You are going one way.  I'm going the other," said John Maine,
uneasily, for just then Tom Podmore passed him, with big Harry, both of
whom stared hard, nodded to him, and went on.

"Just hark at him, Ike," said Jem.  "He's a strange nice un, he is.
Why, I'm so glad to see him that if he goes off that-a-way I shall stop
in Dumford and ask all about him, and where he lives and what he's a
doing."

John Maine turned cold, while the perspiration stood upon his forehead,
for just then Sim Slee came along in the other direction, eyed the party
all over, and evidently took mental notes of what he saw.

"What is it you want of me?" said the young man, hoarsely.

"Want, lad?" said Ike; "we don't want nowt of him, do we, Jem?  We're
only so glad to see an old mate again, that we don't know hardly how to
bear it."

"That's it, Ike," said Jem.  "And don't you think as he's stuck up, mind
you.  See how glad he is to see his owd mates again.  Say, Johnny, `It's
my delight of a shiny night,' eh?"

"Hush!" exclaimed John Maine, starting.

"All right," said Jem.  "Got a pipe o' 'bacco 'bout you?"

John Maine took a tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and held it out to the
speaker, who refilled his dirty pipe, looked the pouch all over, and
then transferred it to his pocket.

"Look here, Ike," said the fellow then, "we won't keep Johnny any
longer.  He's off out courting--going to see his lass.  Don't you see
the bood in his button-hole.  He'll see us again when he comes to look
us up, for we shall pitch down in one of the pooblics."

"Raight you are, lad; he'll find us out.  Do anything now, Johnny?
Ought to be a few hares and fezzans about here.  Good-bye, Johnny, lad;
give my love to her."

The two men went off laughing and talking, leaving John Maine gazing
after them, till they disappeared round a bend of the lane on the way to
Dumford, when brushing the perspiration from his face with one hand, he
staggered away, kicking up the dust at every step till he reached a
stile, upon which he sank down as if the elasticity had been taken out
of his muscles.  His head went down upon his hands, his elbows upon his
knees, and there he remained motionless, with the dog sitting down and
watching him intently, after trying by pawing and whining to gain his
master's attention.

Neither John Maine nor his ill-looking companions had gone far, before a
head and shoulders were raised slowly up over the hedge, so that their
owner could peer over and look up and down the lane.  The countenance
revealed was that of Thomas Brough, the keeper, who had evidently been
sitting on the other side, partaking of his rural lunch, or dinner; for
as he parted the green growth, to get a better view, it was with a big
clasp knife, while his other hand held a lump of bread, ornamented with
bacon.

He spoke the next moment with his mouth full, but his words were quite
audible as he said--

"I thowt that thar dog would ha' smelt the rat, but a didn't.  So I
hadn't got you now, Jack Maine, hadn't I?  I'm a rogue, am I, Jack?  I
sold the Squire's rabbuds, did I? and pocketted t' money, did I?  Wires,
eh?  Fezzans and hares, eh?  Now, what'll old Bultitude and Miss Jess
say to this?  I'll just find out what's your little game."

He strode hastily off, parting the hazels, and making a short cut across
the copse, while John Maine sat on the stile thinking.

What was he to do--what was he to do?  Were all his struggles to be an
honest man to be in vain?  Yes, he had joined parties in poaching, down
about Nottingham, but he had left it all in disgust, and for years he
had been trying to be, and had been, an honest man.  He had lived here
at Dumford four years--had saved money--was respected and trusted--he
was old Bultitude's head man; and now these two scoundrels--men who knew
of his old life--had found him out, they would expose him, and he should
have to go off right away to begin the world afresh.

"I've tried enew; I've tried very hard," he groaned.  "I left all that
as soon as I saw to what it tended, and knew better; and now, after all
this struggle, here is the end."

What was the use? he asked himself; why had he tried?  What were honesty
and respectability, and respect to such as he, that he should have
fought for them so hard, knowing that, sooner or later, it must come to
this?

What should he do?  The words kept repeating themselves in his brain,
and he asked himself again, What?

Suppose he told them all at the farm--laid bare the whole of his early
life, how he had found himself as a boy thrown amongst poachers.  It had
been no fault of his, for he had hated it--loathed it all.  Suppose he
told Mr Bultitude--what then?

Yes, what then?  Old Bultitude would say--"We're all very sorry for you
here, but if it got about that I'd kept a regular poacher on my farm,
what would the squire say?  And what about my lease?"  And Tom Brough!
Good heavens, if Tom Brough should learn it all!

It was of no use; that man would blast his character gladly, and the end
of it all was that he must go!

Yes, but where?  Where should he go?  Somewhere to work for awhile, and
get on, and then live a life of wretchedness, expecting to see some old
associate turn up and blast his prospects.  No; there was no hope for
such as he!  All he could do was to join some regiment at Lincoln or
Sheffield, enlist--get on foreign service, and be a soldier.  A man did
not want a character to become a good soldier.

And about Jessie?

His head went lower, and he groaned aloud as this thought flashed across
his mind, for his load seemed more than he could bear.

"Anything the matter, John Maine?"

The young man leaped up to find himself face to face with Mr Selwood,
whose steps had been inaudible in the dusty road, and John Maine's
thoughts had been too much taken up for him to notice the whine of
recognition by the dog, who had leaped up and ran forward to welcome the
vicar.

"Bit of a headache, sir, bad headache--this heat, sir," stammered the
young man.

"Liver out of order--liver--not a doubt about it," said the vicar.
"What a strange thing it is nature couldn't make a man without a liver
and save him all his sufferings from bile.  Come along with me to the
Vicarage.  I'm getting in order there now, and I'll doctor you, and go
and tell Mr Purley myself that I've been poaching on his preserves.
Why, what's the matter, man?"

John Maine had started as if stung at certain of his latter words.

"Bit giddy, sir; strange and bad now it's come on," he stammered.

"That's right; you're better now.  Sitting with your head down.  I'll
doctor you--no secrets: tincture of rhubarb, citrate of magnesia, and a
little brandy.  I'll soon set you right.  You mustn't be ill.  This is
cricket night, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir; but they haven't played since the strike."

"Perhaps they will to-night, and I shall come to the field.  Well, come
along."

"But really, sir--I--that is--"

"Now look here, John Maine, I'm the spiritual head of the parish, and
you must obey me.  I can't help being a man of only your own age--I
shall get the better of that.  Now if I had been some silver-headed old
gentleman, you would have come without a word; so come along.  I'll go
back.  You are decidedly ill--there's no mistake about it."

To John Maine's great surprise, the vicar took his arm, and half led him
back towards Dumford, chattering pleasantly the while.

"I met Mr Simeon Slee as I came along, and he cut me dead.  He's a very
nice man in his way, but I'm afraid he works so hard with his tongue, it
takes all the strength out of his arms."

"He's strange and fond o' talking, sir," said John Maine.

"Yes; but words are only words after all, and if they are light and
chaffy, they don't grow like good grain.  Bad thing this strike in the
town, Maine.  Lasted a month now."

"Very bad, sir."

"Ah, yes.  You agricultural gentlemen don't indulge in those luxuries,
and I'm glad to see that the farm people are very sober."

"Yes, sir, 'cept at the stattice and the fair."

"Stattice?" said the vicar, inquiringly.

"Yes, sir, status--statute-hiring, you know, when the servants leave.
They call it `pag-rag' day here."

"Ha, do they?" said the vicar; "well, I suppose I shall learn all in
time.  What may `pag-rag' mean?"

"They call it so here, sir," said the young man, smiling.  "They say a
man pags a sack on his back, and I suppose it means they carry off their
clothes then."

"I see," said the vicar; "and you have some strange characters about at
such times?  By the way, I saw a nice respectable couple turn in at the
Bull and Cucumber, as I came by.  They'd got poacher stamped on their
faces plainly.--Head bad?"

"Sudden stab, sir, that's all," said John Maine, holding his hands to
his head and shuddering.

"Ah, you must go back and lie down as soon as I have done with you, or
else I must find you a sofa for an hour.  We'll see how you are.
Perhaps we'll walk home together."

"No, no, sir, I shall be all right directly.  Don't do that, sir.  Mr
Bultitude--"

"Mr Bultitude has too much respect for you, John Maine, to let you go
about in a state of suffering; so just hold your tongue, sir, for you're
my patient."

A few minutes after he laid his hand on the gate, with the effect of
making Jacky Budd start up from his seat on the bottom of a large
flower-pot, and begin vigorously hoeing at some vegetables in the now
trim garden.

The vicar saw him and laughed to himself, as he led the way up to the
door, glancing up the street as he did so, and seeing, with a feeling of
uneasiness, that there were knots of men standing about in conversation,
as if discussing some important subject.

The door stood wide open, as if inviting entrance, and flowers were now
blooming in profusion on every side, for what with the rough work of Tom
Podmore and Big Harry, supplemented by the efforts of Jacky Budd and the
parson himself, the garden was what the sexton called a "pictur."

"Come in here, Maine," said the vicar, opening the door of his study;
and the young man followed, peering round as he did so, for this was his
first visit to the vicar's dwelling, and the result of a month's
residence was shown in the change that had come over the place.

But at the end of the first fortnight, one of Mr Bultitude's waggons
had been run down to the station three times to fetch "parson's traps,"
and "parson's traps" were visible on all sides, the Reverend Murray
Selwood being, to use his own words, "rather cursed with wealth."

The place was now the _beau ideal_ of a well-to-do bachelor's home.  The
low-roofed entrance-hall was bright with oak furniture, quaint china,
trophies of old arms, and savage weapons, with flowers, for the most
part sent by Mrs Glaire, placed wherever there was light and sunshine
for them to break up into long sheaves on the clean stone floor.
Through an open door could be seen the dining-room, whose oaken
sideboard was half covered with massive plate, college cups, and
trophies won by muscular arms and legs guided by a clear-thinking and
solid brain; but the study itself took John Maine's attention, with its
cases full of books, great bronze clock, and vases on the mantelpiece,
with statuettes on brackets.

There were traces of the owner's polished taste in every direction, but
at the same time samples of his love of out-door sports.  For instance,
in one corner there stood a polished canoe-paddle with a fascine of
fishing-rods; in another corner a gun-case and a couple of cricket-bats;
lying on a side-table, its handle carefully bound with string, was about
the biggest croquet mallet that ever drove ball over a velvet lawn.  A
half-written sermon lay on the writing-table, and by it a cigar-box;
while on the chimney-piece and in brackets were pipes, from the humble
clay, through briars, to the tinted brown meerschaum with its amber
tube.  The greatest incongruity in the place, however, seeing that it
was the snuggery of a man of peace, was a trophy of single-sticks,
foils, masks and gloves, crossed by a couple of bows, in front of which
were a sheaf of arrows and two pairs of boxing-gloves.

"Looking at the gloves, Maine?" said the vicar, smiling.  "Ah, I used to
be a bit of a don with those at one time.  You and I will put them on
together some day.  Just touch that bell."

John Maine obeyed, while the young vicar found his keys, and opened a
cabinet which was in two compartments, the one displaying a regular
array of medicines, the other spirits, wine, and glasses.

"Bring in some water, Mrs Slee," said the vicar.

"And a sponge and a rag and the ragjack oil?" said Mrs Slee, eagerly.

"No, Mrs Slee.  It's medicine, not surgery to-day;" and the woman
backed out, looking a little less angular and sad than a few weeks
before.

"I'm a regular quack, Maine, you see," said the vicar, smiling, as he
poured into a great soda-water glass a certain quantity of tincture,
added to it a couple of table-spoonfuls of brandy, and so much
granulated magnesia, to which, when Mrs Slee returned, he poured about
half a pint of pure cold well water.  "There's a dose for you, my man,"
he said, as he passed it to John Maine, "that will set you right in an
hour.  Now, Mrs Slee, any one been?"

"Yes, Bulger's girl's been here with a bottle for some wine," said Mrs
Slee shortly, for "sir" and a respectful tone were still strangers to
her tongue.

"Bring the bottle in.  Any one else?"

"Maidens's boy says you promised his mother some tea."

"So I did," said the vicar, opening a large canister, from which he took
a packet which scented the room with its fragrance.  "There it is.  Now
then, who else?"

"Old Mumby's wife has come for some more wine."

"Then she'll go back without it, Mrs Slee.  Do you see that," he
continued, giving her a strange look; "that's the peculiar sign that
used to be in vogue amongst the ancients.  That's the gnostic wink, Mrs
Slee, and means too much.  I won't send a spoonful.  That wicked old
woman drank every drop of the last herself, Mrs Slee, I'll make
affidavit.  She wouldn't stir across the room to wait on her poor old
husband, and yet she'll come nearly a mile to fetch that wine.  I'll
take it myself, and give it the poor old boy, and see him drink it
before I come away.  Tell her I'll bring it down, Mrs Slee; but don't
say I called her a wicked old woman."

"Oh, I'm not going to chatter.  Do you think I should be such a ghipes?"
said Mrs Slee, rudely.

"Not knowing what a ghipes is, I cannot say, Mrs Slee," said the vicar;
"but you are not perfect, Mrs Slee--not perfect.  Soup.  You have that
last soup on your conscience!"

"Well, I'm sure I should ha' been glad on a few not long back, and it
was quite good enew to gie away to people."

"And I'm sure it was not, Mrs Slee: the poor people are hungry, and
want food.  This strike's a terrible thing."

"Then they shouldn't strike," growled Mrs Slee.

"I quite agree with you, Mrs Slee, so I don't give soup to the men who
did strike; but the women and children did not strike, and if you knew
what it was to be hungry--I beg your pardon, Mrs Slee," he added
hastily, as he saw his housekeeper flush up.  "There, I did not think.
But this soup.  We had a capital French cook at my college, and he gave
me lessons.  I'm a capital judge of soup, and I'll taste the fresh.
Bring me in a basin, and send these people away."

Mrs Slee muttered and went out, looking rather ungracious, and the
vicar turned to his guest, who was fidgetting about and seemed rather
uneasy.

"I'm rather proud of our soup here at the vicarage--broth, the people
call it," said the vicar.

"I've heerd tell of it, sir," said John Maine, who wanted to go.

"But I have hard work to keep the water out.  I always tell Mrs Slee
that the people can add as much of that as they like.  But, I say,
Maine, there's something wrong with you!"

"Oh, no, sir; nothing at all, sir; but it's time I was going, sir, if
you'll excuse me."

"Well, well, good-bye, Maine.  I hope," he added significantly, "your
head will be better.  Mind this, though, I'm not one of the confessional
parsons, and insist upon no man's confidence; but bear this in mind, I
look upon myself as the trusted, confidential friend of every man in the
parish.  I shall be over your way soon."

"Thank you kindly, sir," said Maine.  "I know you do," and, backing out,
the next moment he was gone.

"Strange young man that--strange people altogether," said the vicar.
"Oh, here's the soup."

For just then Mrs Slee bustled in with a napkin-covered tray, bearing a
basin and spoon, the former emitting clouds of steam.

The vicar took the basin, sat down, stirred it, smelt it, tasted it, and
replaced the spoon, while Mrs Slee watched his face eagerly.

"Wants another pinch of salt, and another dash of pepper.  Fetch them,
Mrs Slee, and some bread."

Mrs Slee, looking as ungracious as ever, but with an eagerness which
she could not conceal, hurried out to return with the required articles,
when more salt was added and a dash of pepper.  Then a slice of bread
was cut from the home-made loaf, and the vicar tasted--tasted again, and
then, in the calmest and most unperturbed manner possible, went on
partaking of the soup, every mouthful being watched with intense
eagerness by the woman waiting for his judgment.

"Capital soup this, Mrs Slee; capital brew!"

Mrs Slee did not smile, as the vicar diligently hunted the last grains
of rice in the bottom of the basin with his spoon, but she gave a sigh
of satisfaction.

"This will go off like a shot.  How much have you got of it?  Almost
equal to our soup at Boanerges."

"There's about sixty quarts of it, sir."

"Sixty?  Not half enough.  You'll have to start the copper again
directly, Mrs Slee.  Ah, by the way, Bailey will bring two hundred
loaves this evening, and we'll give them away with the soup in the
morning."

"Two hundred loaves!" exclaimed Mrs Slee.  "Bless the man, where am I
to put them?"

"Oh, we'll stack them in the hall if we can't put them anywhere else,
Mrs Slee," said the vicar, laughing.  "And let that soup cool.  It'll
be like jelly in the morning.  I'm going to walk over to Bultitude's,
and I'll call at the butcher's about the beef."

"But that broth would bear as much watter to it, and that would make
twice as much."

"Now, Mrs Slee, I won't have a good thing spoiled," said the vicar.  "I
don't believe you mind the trouble of making it."

"That I'm sure I don't," said Mrs Slee, sharply; "only you're giving
away cartloads of bread and meat, and pailsful of soup to folks as
wean't say thank you for it, and laugh at you for your pains."

"They won't laugh at me while they're eating that beautiful soup, Mrs
Slee, which does you credit.  If they like to laugh afterwards,--well,
let them."

"Oh, I don't want no praise for the broth," said Mrs Slee,
ungraciously.  "You telled me how to mak' it.  But I don't like to see
you robbing yourself for them as is sure to be ungrateful."

"We won't mind that, Mrs Slee," said the vicar, smiling; "and now I'm
going off to Bultitude's, and I'll see if I can't get there this time.
By the way, Mrs Slee, I should like a little tureen of that soup for my
dinner; it's splendid.  And look here, Mrs Slee, if any one comes while
I'm out, who needs a little, you can lend a jug, and give some of the
soup before it's cold.  I'll leave that to you."

Volume 2, Chapter V.

THE VICAR'S SOUP.

"He's a strange good man," said Mrs Slee, grimly, as she watched the
vicar down the path; "and he must hev a vast o' money, giving away as he
is raight and left.  Well, I won't hev him cheated if I can help it, for
the more he gives the more he may.  Who's yon at the back?"

The last remark was jerked out as a soft tap was heard at the kitchen
door, and on going to answer it, there stood Sim Slee.

"Well?"

"Well?"

"Didn't I tell thee as thou needn't come here?" said Mrs Slee.  "I
thowt you wouldn't darken parson's door again."

"What's that as smells?" said Sim, giving a sniff.

"Soup for them as you and your strike folk have left to pine to dead,"
snapped Mrs Slee.

"Is that some on it in they pancheons?" said Sim.

"Yes, it is," said his wife, sulkily.

"I heered tell on it," said Sim.  "He've been a scrattin about at all
the butchers', and buying up weighs of cag mag as they couldn't sell.  I
saw a basket o' stinking bones come up to the gate, and I heerd at the
Bull as he's gotten four beasts' heads promised.  Yah! it's a shame as
such as him should hev a place like this, and five hundred a year."

"Thou fulsome!" exclaimed Mrs Slee, angrily.  "I wean't stand by and
hear parson talked about like that."

"All raight," said Sim, sneering; "he's won you ower then.  But what hev
you gotten to eat?"

"Nowt," said Mrs Slee, shortly.

"Here, just take thee scithers, and coot the dwiny ends off my collar,"
said Sim, holding up the ragged but scrupulously clean collar of the
shirt he wore; and this duty was diligently performed by his wife.

"Some one telled me as the soup meat was covered wi' maddick bees," said
Sim, as soon as the task was done.

"Then some one telled thee a lie," said Mrs Slee, sharply.

"Power up a few of it in a basin," said Sim, after examining the broad
earthen pans in which the thick soup steamed.  "Let's see what sorter
stuff the downtrodden serf is to be compelled to eat."

"It isn't good enough for such as thou," said Mrs Slee, sharply.

Sim took up the spoon, and with an air of disgust raised some of the
soup and let it drop back, exhaling as it did so a most tantalising
odour for a hungry man.

"I just come by Riggall's, the bone-setter's," said Sim; "and he says as
he won't hev parson meddling wi' his trade, if doctor does.  Why, he
tied up Binney Mawtrop's hand as he got in the wheel."

"Yes, and I held a basin and a sponge for him," said Mrs Slee, eyeing
her husband.  "He owt to hev let him bleed to dead, of course."

"Say, owd lass," said Sim, "is this stuff fit to yeat?"

"Fit to yeat, thou unconditioned fulsome! it ain't fit for thee.  Bread
and watter's what such shacks as thou ought to hev, and nowt besides."

"Thy tongue's gotten a strange and rough edge to it this morning,
moother," said Sim, grinning, and longing to convey the spoon to his
mouth, but feeling that it would not be consistent.

"There, sit thee down," said Mrs Slee.  "I know what you mean.  There,
sit down, and don't get theeing and thouing me about.  A deal you care
for me."

This was in answer to a rough caress, as she bustled about, and got a
basinful of the soup for her lord, with a great hunk of bread; and
without more ado Sim took his seat.

"Oh, I'm not going to yeat this," he said.  "I'm just going to taste
what sorter moock he gives the pore out of his bounty."

"Howd thee tongue and eat," said Mrs Slee, contemptuously.

Sim played with the spoon, and splashed the soup about, ending by
tasting it and retasting, and then taking some bread and going heartily
to work.

"Say, moother," he exclaimed, "it won't do; that's the broth you've been
makking for the parson hissen.  It ain't to give away."

"That's made o' the meat as the parson went and scratted up from the
butcher's, and the baskets o' bones and beasts' heads, and all the
rubbish he could get together," said Mrs Slee sourly.

"I'll say it's good soup," said Sim, finishing his basin.  "Say,
moother, give's another soop."

"He said I was to give some to anybody who wanted," said Mrs Slee; and
then, with a grim smile, she refilled his basin, while Sim drew out his
handkerchief, spread it on his knees, and polished off the second basin
in a very few minutes.

"You can't get me to believe as that soup's going to be gin away," he
said as he rose.  "That'll be wattered till it's thin as thin.  Theer,
I'm off again.  I've a deal to see to;" and without another word he
hurried away.

"Yes, he's gotten his fill," said Mrs Slee, directing a look of
contempt after her husband; but as she crossed the kitchen she saw
something white under the chair Sim had occupied, and stooping down
picked up a note in a very small envelope, whose address she spelled
out: "Miss Banks, By hand."

"What's he gotten to do wi' takkin letters to Daisy Banks?" she
exclaimed, as a hot feeling of jealousy came upon her for the moment.
Then, with a half-laugh she said, "No, no, it ain't that: he's too old
and unheppen, and she's ower young and pretty.  He's takkin it for some
one.  Whose writing will it be?  He's coming back."

She stopped short, hearing a step, and darted out of the kitchen just as
Sim came softly up, peered in and looked eagerly about the floor and
under the table.

"Mebbe I've dropped it somewheers else," he muttered, starting off
again, while Mrs Slee had another good look at the letter, and ended by
depositing it in her bosom.

"I'll give it to parson," she said at last, and then resumed her work.

Meanwhile, Murray Selwood was retracing his steps on the way to
Bultitude's farm, but before he reached the place he came upon John
Maine once more, looking eagerly across the fields.

"Well, Maine, how's the head?" said the vicar, making the young man
start, for the grass had deadened his tread.  "What can you see--game?"

"I'm afraid it is, sir," said the young man, bluntly--"the sportsman and
the hare."

"H'm!" ejaculated the vicar, as he caught sight of two figures on the
hill-side, far distant; but the day was so beautifully clear that he
could make out Richard Glaire and a companion.  "Mr Glaire and his
cousin?" he said hastily.

"No, sir," said the young man, quietly, "that's what it ought to be.
It's Mr Richard Glaire and one of the town girls.  I think it's Daisy
Banks.  Do you know him well, sir?"

"Yes, pretty well," said the vicar, eyeing the young man's saddened face
intently.

"Well, sir, it's no business of mine," said the young fellow; "but if I
was a friend of Mr Richard Glaire, I should tell him to keep at home,
and not do that; for the men are getting hot again him, and he may fall
into trouble."

"John Maine, if any violence is intended against Mr Glaire," said the
vicar, "I wish you to tell me at once."

"I don't know of any, sir," said Maine, "only Tom Podmore's dreadfully
put out about Daisy Banks, and the strike people are growing more bitter
every day.  If I do hear of anything, sir, I'll tell you."

They came directly upon old Bultitude, looking bluff and ruddy in his
velveteens and gaiters.

"Ah, parson, fine day! how are you?  What's the matter?"

"Well, Maine here isn't well," said the vicar.

"What's wrong, lad?  Why, thou said'st nowt when you came in a bit ago."

"Oh, it's nothing, sir, nothing," said John Maine, hastily.

"Let him go and lie down for an hour," said the vicar, looking at the
young man's ghastly face.

"Not got fever, hev you, my lad?" said the old gentleman kindly, as they
walked up to the house.  "Here, Jess, pull down the blinds in the far
room, and let John Maine come and lie down a bit theer."

At his summons, Jessie's young, pleasant face appeared at the window.
It had no more pretensions to beauty than a pair of soft, dark eyes, and
a bright, rosy colour, and the eyes looked very wistfully at John Maine,
who now made an effort.

"No, no, sir," he said.  "I won't lie down.  I'll get to work again;
there's nothing like forgetting pain."

"Well, perhaps you're right, Maine," said the vicar.  "Well, Mr
Bultitude, we don't get over our strike."

"Parson, it makes me wild," said the old man.  "I can't bear it, and I
shall be glad--strange and glad to see it over; for I hate to see a pack
of men standing about the town doing o' nowt.  Can't you do owt wi' the
works people?"

The vicar shook his head.  "I've tried both ways--hard," he said;
"master and men, but no good comes of it."

While this conversation was going on, Jessie had stepped anxiously
forward, and laid her hand upon John Maine's arm.

"Is anything serious the matter, John?" she said anxiously.  "Are you
very ill?"

He started when she touched him as if he had been stung, and withdrew
his arm hastily; and then, without so much as a glance at the girl's
earnest, appealing eyes, he turned away and followed the vicar down the
path, for he had shaken hands and parted from the farmer.

"I'll see you across the home close, sir," said John Maine.

"Thank you, do," said the vicar; "but I think your bull pretty well
knows me now.  Hallo! here comes Mr Brough, the Squire's keeper, with
his black looks and black whiskers.  He always looks at me as if he
thought I had designs on the squire's game.  Hallo!  Maine, bad friends?
What does that mean?" he continued, as the man gave him a surly salute
and then passed on, gun over shoulder, bestowing upon the young bailiff
a sneering, half-savage look that was full of meaning.

"Tom Brough has never been very good friends with me, sir, since I
thrashed him for annoying Miss Jessie there, up at the farm."

"Seems as if his love has not yet returned," said the vicar, as he
strode away, thinking of the various little plots and by-plots going on
in his neighbourhood; and then sighing deeply as he felt that there was
trouble in store for himself, in spite of his stern discipline and busy
efforts to keep his mind too much employed to think of the countenance
that haunted his dreams.

It seemed to be the vicar's fate to appear as playing the spy upon
Richard Glaire, for, on Iiis return, taking a round-about way back, so
as to make a call upon one or two people whom he had relieved of some
part of the suffering induced by the strike, he was once more striking
for the High Street, when he heard the words sharply uttered:

"Well, I'll pay you this time; but let me find that you fail me again
and don't you expect--Confound--!"

"How do, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, for he had come suddenly upon
Richard, laying down the law pretty sharply to Sim Slee, and he was
close to them before it was seen on either side.

"Really," said the vicar to himself as he strode on, "I've not the
slightest wish to see what that unfortunate young man does; but it seems
to me that I am to be bound to bear witness to a great deal.  Heigho!
these are matters that must be left to time."

He entered his own gate soon after, and having received Mrs Slee's
report, that lady handed him the note she had found.

"Mr Glaire's hand," he said, involuntarily and with his brows knit.
"Where did you get this?"

"My master came to see me, and he must ha' dropped it," said Mrs Slee.

"Then take it to him," said the vicar, quietly, as he resumed his calm
aspect.  "It is nothing to do with us."

"I don't know about that," said Mrs Slee, sharply.  "What call has
young master Dick Glaire to be writing letters to she?"

"Take the letter to your husband, Mrs Slee," said the vicar, quietly;
and then left alone, he threw himself into his chair, and covered his
face with his hands, trying hard to resist temptation, for he knew well
enough that if he had kept that letter and dishonourably shown it to Eve
Pelly, so serious a breach would be created that his future success
would be almost certain.  But, no; he could not stir a step to make her
unhappy.  She loved this man, who was quite unworthy of her; and if she
ever was awakened from her dream his must not be the hand that roused
her.

He started as he heard the door close loudly, and saw Mrs Slee go down
the path to seek out her husband, and return the letter.

There was time now to call her back, but he did not move, only sat and
watched her bear away that which he knew might have been used as the
lever to overthrow Richard Glaire.

Once only did he hesitate, but it was when his thoughts reverted to
Daisy Banks and the possibility of ill befalling her, through her
intimacy with Richard Glaire.

"But I cannot take action on a letter that falls accidentally into my
hands," he said.  "If I speak to the girl's father it must be on the
subject of what I have seen; and that I will do."

He gave the matter a little consideration, and then determined to act at
the risk of being considered a meddler, and walked straight to Joe
Banks's pleasant little home, where he found Mrs Banks and Daisy alone,
the girl being in tears.

He was turning; back, so as to avoid being present during any family
trouble, when Mrs Banks arrested him.

"Don't you go away, sir, please, for I should like you to have your word
with this girl as well as me.  It's no use to speak to her father and--
Hoity-toity, miss."

Poor Daisy did not stop to hear the rest; for already growing thin with
worry and mental care connected with her love affair, Mrs Banks was
leading her rather a sad life in her husband's absence, ostensibly to
benefit Tom Podmore, but really hardening the girl's heart against him,
if she had felt any disposition to yield: she now started up to hide her
tears, and ran out of the room.

"Well, that's fine manners, miss!" exclaimed Mrs Banks, apostrophising
the absent one.  "I'm always telling her and Joe, my husband, sir, that
no good can come of her listening to young Master Dick Glaire."

"Then you don't approve of it, Mrs Banks?" said the vicar, quietly.

"Approve of it, sir?  No, nor anybody else, except her foolish father,
who's the best and kindest man in the world: only when he takes an
obstinate craze there's no turning him."

The vicar found the matter already to his hand, and was spared the
trouble of introducing the subject; but he would rather have found Joe
Banks present.

"Does he approve of it?" he said, quietly.

"Approve of it, sir! yes.  I tell him, and all his neighbours tell him,
that it's a bit of foolish vanity; but they can't turn him a morsel."

"Hallo, moother," said Joe Banks, entering the room, "can't you let that
rest?"

"No, Joe, and I never shall," exclaimed Mrs Banks.

"Don't you tak' any notice, sir," said Joe.  "She heven't talked you
round, hev she?"

"No, Mr Banks," said the vicar, quietly; "it was not necessary.  I have
no right to interfere in these matters, but--"

"Well, speak out, sir; speak out," said Joe, rather sternly.  "Say out
like a man what you mean."

"If I did, Mr Banks, I should say that you were imprudent to let this
matter proceed."

"Why?"

"Because it is a well-known fact that Mr Glaire is engaged to his
cousin."

"There, Joe; there, Joe; what did I tell thee?" cried Mrs Banks,
triumphantly; while Daisy, who could hear nearly all that was said,
crouched with burning face in her room, shivering with nervous
excitement, though longing to hear more.

"All raight, parson, I know," said Joe; "I see.  The missus has sent
you."

"Indeed, no, Banks," said the vicar.  "I speak as a friend, without a
word from anybody."

"Then, what do you mean by it?" cried Joe, exploding with passion.
"What raight have you to come interferin' in a man's house, and about
his wife and daughter?  This is my own bit o' freehold, Mr Selwood, and
if you can't pay respect to me and to mine, and see that if Master
Richard Glaire, my old fellow-workman's boy, chooses to marry my gal,
he's a raight to, why I'd thank you to stay away."

"Don't be angry with me, Mr Banks," said the vicar, laying his hand
upon the other's arm; "I indeed wish you and yours well."

"Then keep to wishing," said Joe sharply.  "I'm not an owd fool yet.
Think I don't know?  Here's the Missus, and Missus Glaire, and Tom
Podmore, all been at you; and `All raight, leave it to me,' says you.
`I'll put it all raight.'  And now you've had your try, and you can't
put it raight.  I'll marry my gal to anybody I like and she likes, in
spite of all the parsons in Lincolnshire."

"Don't you tak' any notice of what he says, sir, please," cried Mrs
Banks.  "He's put out, and when he is, and it's about something that he
knows he's wrong over--"

"No, he isn't," roared Joe.

"He says anything, sir," continued Mrs Banks.

"No, he don't," roared Joe.  "He's a saying raight, and what he says is,
that he won't be interfered wi' by anyone.  He's got trouble enew ower
the strike, and he won't hev trouble ower this; so perhaps Mr Selwood
'll stop away from my place till he's asked to come again."

"Joe, you ought to be ashamed of yoursen," cried Mrs Banks.  "He'll
come and beg your pardon for this, sir, or I'll know the reason why."

"No, he wean't," roared Joe.  "So now go; and if you hadn't been such a
straightforward chap ower the row again Master Richard, I'd hev said
twice as much to you."

"Yes, I'll go," said the vicar quietly.  "Good day, Mrs Banks.  Good
day, Banks; you'll find I'm less disposed to meddle than you think, and
give me credit for this some day.  Come, you'll shake hands."

"Dal me if I will," cried Joe.

"Nonsense, man; shake hands."

"I wean't," roared Joe, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and turning
his back.

"Well, Mrs Banks, you will," said the vicar; and then, as he went away,
he said:

"Mrs Banks, and you, Mr Banks, please recollect this: I shall forget
all these words before I get home; so don't either of you think that we
are bad friends, because we are not; and you, Mr Banks, you are of too
sterling stuff not to feel sorry for what you have said."

"There, it wean't do," roared Joe; "I wean't be talked ower;" but the
vicar hardly heard his words, for he was striding thoughtfully away.

Volume 2, Chapter VI.

BY THE CHALK PIT.

Though Sim Slee had omitted on two occasions to convey letters to Daisy
Banks making appointments for meetings in different parts of the country
walks round Dumford, Daisy had had a pretty good supply of messages; and
feeling as it were compelled to obey, she had gone on more than one
occasion with sinking heart, to return with aching eyes, whose lids
looked swollen and red with weeping.

For the girl was simply wretched, and time after time she looked back to
the days when her heart was whole, and as she threw herself wearily on
her bed she sobbed herself again and again to sleep, wishing that her
very life were ended; the deceit she was obliged to practise, the anger
of her mother, and the open sneers and innuendoes of neighbours wounding
her so that the smart was almost more than she could bear.

Whether Dick chose east, west, north, or south for the appointment, poor
Daisy could never get out of the town without encountering some one to
give her a peculiar look, more than once driving the poor girl to make
pretence of calling at some place that she did not want to visit, and as
often turning her back home, making Richard Glaire, who had been kept
waiting and "fooled," as he called it, write her the cruellest and most
angry letters, some even of a threatening nature.

It happened one evening that poor Daisy, who had broken faith the night
before, was going slowly up the High Street, with a basket on her arm,
as if bound on some marketing expedition, when it seemed as if it was
impossible that she could get to her trysting place, where she knew that
Dick must have been waiting for an hour.

First the landlord of the Bull was standing at his door smoking, and he
gave a sneering nod, which seemed to say, "I know where you are going,
my lass."

A little further on sat Miss Purley, at her window, ready to put up her
great square, chased gold eye-glass, and stare at the blushing girl with
all the indignant force of thirty-nine tinged yellow, against nineteen
of the freshest pink.

Again a little further, and she came suddenly upon Eve Pelly, who came
from the big house, started, stopped, caught her hands, ejaculating "Oh,
Daisy!" and then breaking down, turned suddenly away and re-entered the
house.

To her horror, poor Daisy found that this meeting had been witnessed by
Miss Primgeon, the lawyer's sister, who was seated at her window,
staring as hard as she could.

Not twenty yards farther on there stood Tom Podmore, leaning against a
corner of a lane, also watching her; but as she approached he turned
away without a word.

It was almost unbearable, and now a feeling of anger began to rise in
Daisy's bosom, making her pant, and flush up, as she determined to go on
at all hazards.

Jane Budger, who kept the little beerhouse, and knew all the gossip of
the place, which she retailed with gills of ale to her customers, saw
her, stared, or rather squinted at her, and moved her hands as she
exclaimed:

"Yes, my dear, I know where you are agate for to-night."

Then there seemed a peculiar meaning in the innocent remark of one
neighbour who met her in the street, and observed that the stones were
"strange and slape."  So it was with another a little higher up, who
remarked that the road was "very clatty."

Next she met Big Harry in the muddiest part of the main street, and he
exclaimed to her:

"Saay, lass, it's solid soft."

A little farther on she passed the druggist's, where the great bottle of
the trophies of his dental work seemed to grin at her in a ghastly way,
for it was three parts full of extracted teeth.

Again a little further, and as she was passing Riggall's, the
bone-setter's, his ghastly sign over his front door, of a skull and
cross-bones, made her shudder; for it seemed to tell her of the goal to
which she was steering, and so affected her, that outside the town in
the winding road, she sat down shivering upon the mile-stone, crying as
though her heart would break.

"What shall I do!  What shall I do!" she sobbed, when she started up
with a faint shriek, for a light hand was laid upon her shoulder.

"Miss Eve!" she cried, on seeing the pale tearless girl before her.

"Yes, Daisy, it is I," said Eve.  "I want to speak to you.  Let us walk
on together."

"No, no, Miss Eve.  No, no, dear; not that way."

"Is Dick waiting for you up there?" said Eve, huskily.

"Don't ask me, Miss; don't ask me, please," cried Daisy, imploringly, as
they walked down a side lane.

"I thought he was," said Eve, speaking in a very low deep voice, as if
her emotion was stifling her.  "I followed you to speak to you."

"You've been following and watching me," cried Daisy, with a burst of
passion.  "You all do; everybody watches me.  What have I done that I
should be so cruelly used?  I wonder some one don't want to put me in
prison."

"Daisy!" cried Eve, hoarsely, as she caught her by the wrist, "what have
I done to you that you should have been so cruel and treacherous?"

"I haven't been," cried Daisy, with a burst of pettish sobs.

"Have I not always been kind and affectionate to you?"

"Yes, yes; I know that," cried Daisy.

"And you reward me by trying to rob me of my promised husband."

"I didn't, I didn't," sobbed Daisy.  "I didn't want to; but he was
always following me, and hunting me, and worrying me."

"Daisy, Daisy!" cried Eve, with a passionate cry, as she threw herself
on her knees to the homely girl, "give him back to me; oh, give him
back."

"Miss Eve!  Miss Eve!" cried the girl, startled at the vehemence and
suddenness of this outburst, "oh, do please get up.  What can I do?"

"Oh, Daisy, you'll break my heart.  You'll kill poor aunt.  What have we
done, that you should come like a blight upon us?"

Eve rose slowly and stood facing the girl, over whom a change seemed to
be coming as she said sulkily:

"It wasn't my doing."

"But you must have led him on," moaned poor Eve.  "You, who are so
bright and pretty, while I--while I--"

Daisy gave her now a jealous, vindictive look, as if she felt danger;
and that this gentle girl was about to rob her of the man she loved, and
she exclaimed:

"I must go.  I won't stop to be scolded.  You want to win him back; but
he belongs to me."

"Daisy, Daisy!" cried Eve, catching at her shawl; but it was too late--
the girl had turned and run back into the road, hastening on to the
place where she was to have found Richard Glaire, up by the chalk pit;
and as she hastened on, she would not look back.  Still poor Eve
followed her sadly as far as the road, and then turned back towards the
town, saying sadly:--

"I could not move her.  It is too late, too late."

Long before Eve Pelly had reached the town, with its knots of men out of
work, Daisy had climbed the hill to the chalk pit, where Richard was
waiting, smoking angrily.

"At last!" he cried.  "I was just going back."

He gave a glance round, and was about to throw his arms round the
flushed and panting girl, when he started back, and stood staring, as
Mrs Glaire came slowly forward from amongst the trees, and taking
Daisy's wrist in her hand, she pointed down the road.

"There, you can go back," she said, quietly.  "I wish to speak to Daisy
Banks."

"No, no, Richard--Dick, dear, don't leave me with her; she'll kill me!"
screamed Daisy, frightened by the pale, resolute-looking little woman,
who held her so tightly.

"Silence, child!" cried Mrs Glaire.

"Oh, come, let's have an end of this," cried Richard.

"I intend to try for an end," said Mrs Glaire, sharply, "for with you I
can make no compact that will not be broken."

"Oh, if it's coming to that," said Richard, sharply, "I shall bring
matters to an end."

"Go, sir!  Go home," said Mrs Glaire, sternly.

"Come, you needn't bully that poor girl," said Dick, with a half-laugh;
then seeing the hand still pointing down the road, he grew uneasy,
fidgeted, and ended by saying--"There, just as you like."

"Dick, don't leave me," gasped Daisy.

"Don't you be a little silly," laughed Richard.  "She won't hurt you.  I
say, mother, you'd better make matters up with Daisy and bring her home,
for I think I shall marry her after all."

"Don't, don't leave me, Dick," whispered Daisy, straining to reach him;
but her wrist was tightly clasped, and she sank shivering on the bank by
the deep chalk pit, whose side was separated from the lane by a low post
and rail fence, beyond which the descent was a sheer precipice of
seventy or eighty feet, the old weakened side being dotted with flowers;
a place which, as she stood holding Daisy's wrist still tightly and
watching her son till he disappeared down the road, Mrs Glaire
remembered to have been a favoured spot in her girlhood for gathering
nosegays; and where, more than once, she had met her dead husband in the
happy days of her own courtship.

As these thoughts came back from the past, a feeling of pity for the
poor girl beside her stole into Mrs Glaire's heart, and she trembled in
her purpose; but after a few moments' indecision, she told herself that
it was for the happiness of all, and that Daisy Banks must suffer in
place of Eve.

The stars were beginning to peer out faintly and the glow in the west
was paling; but still she stood holding the wrist tightly; while, after
making a few energetic efforts to free herself, Daisy submitted like a
trapped bird, and crouched there palpitating, and not daring once to
raise her eyes to those of the angry mother of the man she believed she
loved; but who had at all events obtained so strong a hold upon her that
she was forced to submit her will to his, and obey his every command.

Volume 2, Chapter VII.

AT HOME.

"Two can play at that game," said Richard to himself, as he walked
sharply down the hill and back into the town, where, not heeding Eve,
who was in the dining-room, he hastily wrote a short letter, and then
putting on his hat, went out again, smoking a cigar, apparently to have
a stroll, and sauntered down towards the Bull and Cucumber, where he
gave a long, low whistle, uttered twice, and then walked on for some
distance.

His signal had the required effect, for Sim Slee came after him with a
soft pace like a cat, and together the two men went on in the darkness,
Richard talking earnestly to his companion, and passing money to him,
whose chink was very audible.

"Now you quite understand?" said Richard, earnestly.

"Understand?  He, he, he!" chuckled Sim.  "I've got it quite by heart.
I say, won't Joe Banks be popped?"

"Hold your tongue, and keep names quiet.  Now you quite understand.  I
shall not show my face in the matter at all."

"Oh, no, of course not," said Sim.  "All right, Mr Glaire, sir.  You
couldn't have a troostier man than me."

"I don't know," said Richard; "perhaps I oughtn't to have given you the
money till after."

"Oh, you may troost me, Mr Richard, I'm square, sir, and honourable.
It'll all be done lovely."

"Then I shall not see you again," said Richard; and they parted.

"Ho, ho, ho!" chuckled Sim, slapping his legs.  "Here's a game.  Some on
'em 'll be chattering all over the place 'bout this, and, ho, my!"

He had another long enjoyable laugh, to start up half frightened, for a
dark figure approached him so suddenly, that it was close upon him
before he was aware of the fact.

"What are you laughing at?" said the newcomer, sharply.  "What devil's
game hev yow and that Dick Glaire been hatching?"

"Hatching?  Devil's game, Tom Podmore? why, can't a man laugh in the
lane if he likes?  But there, I'm off up to the mill, for it'll reean
to-night, mun."

Tom Podmore strode off after Richard Glaire, muttering angrily, and on
getting close to the town, it was to see the young man walking right in
the middle of the road, to avoid the men standing about on the
pebble-paved sidewalks.

It was well he did so, for there were plenty of hands ready to be raised
against him, and had one struck at him, it would have been the signal
for a rain of blows: for scores of men in the place were now vowing
vengeance against the man whom they accused of starving their wives and
bairns.  In fact, it had so far been Richard Glaire's insolent temerity
that had saved him from assault.  He had gone boldly about, urged
thereto by his eagerness to meet little Daisy Banks, but for which
engagements he would probably have stayed indoors, and run greater risks
on the few occasions when he showed himself.

As it was, he hastened his steps this night, on seeing the dark groups
about, and when Tom Podmore closed up, he almost ran the last few steps,
dashed open the door, and, closing it, stood panting in the hall.

It was about half-past ten now, and he listened, with his hand upon the
bolt, to the muttering voices without for a few minutes, till one of the
maids came in to gaze at him curiously.

"Here, fasten up this door," he said harshly.

"Fasten the door, sir?" said the girl.

"Yes, fasten the door, stupid," he cried, angrily.

"But missus hasn't come in yet," said the girl.

"Not come in?" said Richard, starting as he recalled where he had left
her; and then, with a hasty pish!  "I daresay she's at Purley's.  I'll
fasten the door.  Don't sit up."

The girl was leaving the hall, when he called after her:

"Where's Miss Eve?"

"Gone to bed, sir, with a sick headache."

"She's always got a sick headache," growled Richard.

"I wish you had 'em your sen," muttered the girl.

"There, bring some hot water and a tumbler into the dining-room," said
Richard, as the girl was turning to go.

He went into the dining-room, got out the spirit-stand, and, on the hot
water being brought, mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy and water,
and drank it rapidly, listening occasionally to the footsteps and loud
talking without.

A second glass followed shortly after, and then, tired out with the
day's work, the young man threw himself on the sofa.  The sounds outside
by degrees grew indistinct and distant, and then, with a pale,
ghost-like Eve following him always, he was journeying through foreign
lands with Daisy, who looked lovingly up in his face.  Then, Tom Podmore
seemed to be pursuing him and threatening his life.  Next it was the
vicar; and then, at last, after struggling hard to get away, Joe Banks
stood over him with a flashing light, and as he waited to hear him say,
"Where is my child?"--waited with a feeling of suspense that seemed
prolonged for years, the voice said coldly and sternly:

"Why are you not in bed?"

He started into wakefulness to see that it was his mother standing over
him with a chamber candlestick, looking very cold and white.

"How could I go to bed when you were not back?" he said sulkily.

"You can go to bed now," she said, quietly.

"Where have you been?"

She made no answer.

"Were there many of those scoundrels about?" he asked.

"The men would not injure me," she said, in the same low voice.

"But how did you get in?"

"Eve came down and admitted me," was the reply.

"What's o'clock?"

Mrs Glaire made no answer.

"Oh, if you like to be sulky you can," said Richard, coolly; and,
lighting a chamber candle, he strode off to bed.

As he turned to wind up his watch in a sleepy manner, he found that it
had run down, so with an impatient gesture he laid it aside, finished
undressing, and tumbled into bed.

"Some of them will open their eyes to-morrow," he muttered, with a
half-laugh.  "Well, it was time to act.  I'm not going to be under
petticoat government all my life."

At the same time Mrs Glaire was seated pale and shivering in the
dining-room, while all else in the house were sleeping soundly, and the
street was now painfully still, for the murmuring workers of the foundry
had long since sought their homes, more than one sending up a curse on
Richard Glaire, instead of a prayer for his well-being and peace.

Volume 2, Chapter VIII.

OLD FRIENDS AGAIN.

"If I could only tell him everything," muttered John Maine, as he strode
away from the vicar's side, and made for the farm.

He was not half-way back, when he met Tom Brough, the keeper, who
favoured him with a sneering, contemptuous kind of smile that made the
young man's blood boil.  He knew him to be a rival, though he felt sure
that Jessie did not favour his suit in the slightest degree.  Still her
uncle seemed to look upon Brough as a likely man to make his niece a
good partner; for Tom Brough expected to come in for a fair amount of
property, an old relative having him down in his will for succession to
a comfortable farm--a nice thing, argued old Bultitude, for a young
couple beginning life.

It might have been only fancy, but on reaching the crew-yard, old
Bultitude seemed to John Maine to speak roughly to him.  However, he
took no notice, but went about his duties, worked very hard for a time,
and went in at last to the evening meal, to find Jessie looking careworn
and anxious.

After tea he sent a boy up with a message to the cricket-field, saying
that he was too unwell to come; and after this he went to his own room
to sit and think out his future, breaking off the thread of his musings
and seeking Jessie, whom he found alone, and looking strange and
distant.

"Jessie," he began, and she turned her face towards him, but without
speaking, and then there was a minute's pause.

"Jessie," he began again, and the intention had been to speak of his own
affairs, but his feelings were too much for him, and he turned off the
primary question to pass to one that had but a secondary place in his
mind.

Jessie did not reply, but looked up at him timidly, in a way that
checked rather than accelerated his flow of words.

"I wanted to speak to you about Daisy Banks," he said at last.

"Yes; what about her?" said Jessie, wonderingly.

"I ought not to speak perhaps; but you have no mother, and Mr Bultitude
does not seem to notice these things."

"I don't know what you mean," said Jessie, wonderingly.

John Maine would gladly have backed out of his position, but it was too
late, and he was obliged to flounder on.

"I meant about Daisy Banks and Mr Richard Glaire."

"Well?" said Jessie, looking full at him.  "What about them?"

"I meant that I don't think you ought to be so intimate with her now."

"And why not?"

"The Dumford people couple her name very unpleasantly with Mr
Richard's, and for your sake I thought I'd speak."

"For shame!" cried the girl, rising, and looking angrily at him.  "That
young Podmore has been talking to you."

"No, indeed, indeed, poor Tom never mentions her name."

"I won't believe, John Maine, that you could be so petty and ungenerous
yourself.  Mr Glaire loves Daisy, and she confided all to me.  Such
words as yours are quite an insult to her, and--and I cannot--will not
stay to hear them."

The girl's face was burning, and she ran out of the place to hide her
tears, while John Maine, whose intention had been to say something very
different, sighed bitterly, and went back to his room.  There, however,
everything looked blacker than ever, and he could see nothing in the
gloom--devise no plan.  He knew that the best proceeding would be to set
the scoundrels he had seen that morning at defiance--that everybody
whose opinion was worth a rush would applaud his frank declaration that
he had turned from his evil courses to those which were reputable; but
then the people he knew--Mr Bultitude--Jessie--the vicar--his friends
in Dumford--what would they say?  There seemed to be but one chance for
him--to pack up a few things in a bundle and go and seek his fortune
again elsewhere--perhaps to live in peace for a few years before he
should be again hunted down by some of the wolves amongst whom his early
lot had been cast.

"John--John!"

He started.  It was Jessie calling, and hastily going downstairs, it was
to see her with the flush gone out of her cheeks, and looking pale and
anxious, as she held out a strip of paper.

"Two rough-looking men gave this to the boy for you," she said, looking
at him in a troubled way.

He took the paper hastily, and turned away with a dark red glow
spreading over his temples.  He divined who had sent the note, and
shivered as he thought of how the boy would chatter to everybody about
the farm.  Perhaps Jessie had questioned him already, and set him down
as being the friend and companion of the senders:

Turning away, he walked out into the yard to find that the paper had
originally been used for holding an ounce of tobacco, and upon it was
scrawled in pencil:

"We ave bin spekkin yu hat the krikt fele Ude betr cum."

"2 OLE FRENDS."

"You had better come!"  What should he do?  Set them at defiance or go
away at once?

Torn by doubts he could do neither, but stood hesitating, till, in a fit
of desperation, he strode off in the direction of the cricket-field.

He had saved a little money, and he might perhaps bribe them to take it
and go, leaving him in peace, though he felt the while that such a
proceeding would only be an invitation to them to come back, and demand
more; but even if they did, a fortnight's respite was worth all he
possessed; and, besides, it would give him time to turn round and devise
some plan for freeing himself of his incubus.

To reach the cricket-field he had to pass the back-door of the vicarage;
taking, as he did, the cut through the fields; and as he neared it,
separated from it by a high hedge, his blood turned cold as he heard
Mrs Slee's shrill voice exclaim:

"You can't miss it: the second tunning to the right, and then it's the
second field."

"And you wean't buy the bud then, mum--that theer goldfinch as I told
you off?"

"Bird, no," cried Mrs Slee; "what do I want with such clat.  Let the
poor thing go.  You ought to be ashamed of yoursens."

"We just about are," said one of the men: and then, as John Maine
remained breathless behind the hedge, he heard the grating of feet upon
the gravel, and one said to the other:

"Say, Jem, lad, did you see?" and he made a smacking noise with his
lips.

"I see," replied Jem, "everythink."  Then, "If that theer Johnny Maine
don't show up, we'll precious soon have the owd badger out of his
earth."

John Maine shrank back with a cloud of thoughts hurrying through his
brain, foremost among which was that these men had been spying up at the
vicarage.  Through any window there could be seen the valuable plate on
the sideboard and shelves, and the plan of offering a bird for sale was
but an excuse for getting up to a house--a plan which he knew of old.

For a few moments he felt disposed to turn back; then he was for facing
them boldly: but all doubts were set at rest by footsteps coming in his
direction; so, stepping out boldly, he was soon after face to face with
his two old companions, who seemed to be strolling about with their
hands in their pockets, enjoying an evening pipe.

"Here he is!" exclaimed Ike, grinning; "I knew he'd come.  But howd your
noise, Jem; don't make a row.  Johnny don't care about being seen too
much along of us.  It's all raight.  He knows a thing or two.  There'll
be a bit of a game on soon, lad, and we shall want you.  We don't know
one another, we don't.  Now, which is the gainest way to the
cricket-field?"

John Maine pointed in the direction, and Jem came close up with a leer,
saying:

"Say, lad, recklect that plate job, eh?  Melted down at Birmingham or
Sheffle, an' no questions asked."

John Maine shuddered as he recalled the time when he was innocently made
the bearer of a heavy package to a bullion melter, and told afterwards
whence the silver had been obtained.

Before he had recovered himself, the two scoundrels had sauntered away,
leaving him shivering, as he thought over their words, and understood
them as a threat of denunciation, unless he kept his own counsel.

Then, in imagination, he saw a party drive over from one of the big
towns in a light spring-cart, drawn by a weedy screw of a horse; an
entry made at the vicarage, and everything of value swept away, while he
was helpless to arrest the robbery, except at the cost of his worldly
position.

He stood thinking for a time, and then strode on across the fields to
the cricket ground, where a little half-hearted play was going on, the
men of Dumford being too much influenced by the strike to care much for
any thing save their tobacco.  He caught sight of the two men once or
twice; but they took not the slightest heed of his presence, and instead
of their watching him he watched them, following them at last into the
town, and seeing them go along the main street past the Glaires' house,
and away up the hill, Richard coming down and passing them.

"Can they be going right away?" thought John Maine hopefully, till he
recollected a low, poacher-haunted public-house about a mile beyond the
chalk pit, and rightly set that down as their destination.

He turned back with a sigh, to see Tom Podmore leaning thoughtfully
against one of the houses, and going up, the two young men engaged in
conversation for a few minutes, each rigorously abstaining from all
mention of the other's love affairs, and soon after they parted, for
John Maine to seek his sleepless pillow.

Volume 2, Chapter IX.

LOST.

There was no newspaper in Dumford, only those which came from Ramford
and Lindum, but news flew quite fast enough without, and by
breakfast-time on the morning of the day following the events spoken of
in the past chapter, it was known that Daisy Banks had not been home all
night.

Joe Banks himself spread the news by going and making inquiries in all
directions directly he was up.

For, on waking about half-past five, according to his regular custom,
and jumping out of bed to dress and go into his garden, as he had no
work, he found to his astonishment that his wife had not been to bed;
and she now came to him, crying bitterly, to say that she had been
sitting up all night waiting for Daisy.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he roared.

"I wanted to screen her, Joe," moaned Mrs Banks.  "I thought you'd be
so popped with the poor girl; and though I didn't like her goings on, I
didn't want her to be scolded."

"What time did she go out?" said Joe, trying to recall the past night.

"About eight, and I expected her back every minute after ten."

"Here, give me my hat," cried Joe; and he was off to the main street,
where, in answer to inquiries, he found that Daisy had been seen in the
High Street soon after eight.

"What's wrong?" said Tom Podmore, coming out of his house.

"Daisy! hev you seen my Daisy?" said Joe, furiously.

"Yes, I see her go up the street last night at about eight," said Tom,
"as if going up the hill by the chalk pit."

"Did you folly her?"

"No," said Tom, sadly; "I never folly her now.  But what's it mean--
isn't she at home?"

"No," said Joe, sharply.  "She's not been at home all night.  Wheer can
she be?"

"Better ask Master Dick Glaire," said Tom, uttering a groan.  "He can
tell ye."

"Howd thee tongue, thee silly fool," cried Joe, angrily.  "How should he
know owt about where she is?  Here, come along.  I'll soon show thee
thou'rt wrong."

He led the way to the Big House, where one of the maids was just opening
the shutters; and, on being beckoned to, she came to the door.

"Where's Master Richard?" said Joe.

"Fast asleep in bed," said the girl.

"Art sure?" said Joe.

"Yes, certain," said the girl.

"Was he out last night?"

"Yes," said the girl; "but he came home early, and then went out for a
bit; but he was in very soon, and sat up to let missus in, while I went
to bed."

"What time will he be up?" said Joe.

"Not before nine," said the girl.  "Shall I tell him you want him?"

"No," said Joe.  "I'll come on again soon."

Tom seemed surprised and troubled, for he had fully expected to find
that Richard Glaire was from home.

"Thou'rt wrong, lad," said Joe, drawing his breath through his teeth.
"Some ill has fallen to the poor lass."

"What's up, Joe Banks?" said Harry, the big hammerman, straddling slowly
up.

"Did'st see owt o' my Daisy last night?" said Joe.

Harry pulled off his cap, and gave his head a rub before answering.

"Yes, I see her go up ta hill, 'bout eight it weer."

"Did you see her come back?" asked Tom, eagerly.

"No, lad, no.  I see Master Richard Glaire come along though," said the
big fellow, under the impression that that might act as a clue.

"Yes," said Tom, bitterly.  "I saw him, and again at about ten, talking
to Sim Slee, and then the lads followed him up street, and he ran into
the house."

"Sim Slee!" said Joe, thinking.  "We'll ask him; but let's go to the
police."

At the station no news could be heard, and as time went on, plenty of
neighbours could be found to say that they had seen Daisy Banks go up
the hill; and amongst these was the chattering old woman at the
public-house.  But no one had seen her return.

"Come along o' me, lad," said Joe Banks; and they strode up the hill, a
heavy sense of dread gathering over each of the men, as they thought of
the chalk pit, and the possibility of Daisy having fallen in, to lie
there dead or dying, on the rough, hard blocks at the bottom.

The morning was bright and beautiful, and the sun made the dew-sprinkled
strands and twigs glitter like gems; but to those who sought Daisy
Banks, all seemed gloomy, and in spite of all his bitter feelings, Tom
Podmore's heart was terribly stirred within him, so that he uttered a
wild cry when just at the top, and ran ahead to pick up something soaked
and wet with the night dew.

"It's her basket," he cried.

Joe staggered, and seemed to turn sick; but recovering himself, he ran
up to the younger man.

"Yes, it's her basket," he said, huskily.  "Tom, lad, look over the
rail--I--I can't."

Joe Banks sank down on his knees, and covered his face with his rough
hands, while Tom shuddered, and then calling up his fortitude, looked
over the rail down the steep-sided pit, and uttered a cry as he drew
back, ran down the lane to the end of the slope, leaped the gate across
the track where the carts descended, and running over the scattered
lumps of chalk, made his way down into the deepest part of the pit,
where to him it had seemed that Daisy was lying at the bottom of the
wall of grey rock.

But, no, it was only her dew-soaked shawl; and though he looked in all
directions, he found nothing else but a glove.

"She must have been here," he said to himself, and in an agitated way he
clambered about over the blocks of chalk, and the _debris_ fallen from
above; but nothing was visible, and he stood at last looking round.

There was the face of the chalk before him, and he was shut in by it
right and left, the walls gradually falling lower as he turned back and
passed the extinct lime-kiln, till they sloped down to the level of the
track--the pit having been gradually dug in the side of the hill, every
load taken out cutting farther into the side, and making the principal
wall of chalk more precipitous and high.

Still, not satisfied, Tom Podmore ran back and hunted in all directions;
but as far as he could see nothing was visible, and he turned once more
to find the father coming to join him, trembling, and looking ashy pale.

"Hev you found her, Tom? hev you found her?" he gasped, and on Tom
shaking his head, he caught him by the arm.  "Yes," he exclaimed, in a
piteous voice, "that's her shawl.  Where is she gone?"

"I heven't found her," said the young man, hoarsely.  "She's not there."

"Not there?  Not fallen in?  Thank God, thank God!  But are ye sure,
lad? are ye sure?"

"I've hunted the place all over," said Tom, sadly; and then Joe Banks
clutched his arm tightly, and they went straight back to the town, where
Joe stopped at the Big House and was admitted, Tom Podmore following.

"Wheer's the master?" said Joe, hastily.

"Just come down and gone out," said the girl.  "Shall I tell missus?"

"Yes," said Joe.  "No;" and then to himself, "I can't meet her now."

He hurried out and down the street, head after head being thrust out,
while the people outside their doors gave him looks of condolence, and
shook their heads by way of sympathy.

"Tom, lad," said Joe, "I can't kinder understand this; it's amairzin.
But look here, lad; go and ask the boys to come and help you, and mebbe
you'll get a hundred of 'em ready to search for my bairn.  Get the
police, too.  I'm off to find the young master."

Tom started off on his recruiting expedition, while Daisy's father
hurried down the street to try and find Richard Glaire, though not with
the most remote idea of coupling him with the girl's disappearance.

He had nearly reached the vicarage, and was passing one of the side
lanes, when he heard voices in altercation, and on glancing round it was
to see the man he sought holding Sim Slee by the throat, and shaking him
violently.

"You treacherous hound!" he was saying, "and after the way I've trusted
you."

"Joe Banks, here, Joe Banks, help!" yelled Sim; but before Daisy's
father could reach the couple, Richard Glaire threw the democrat off, so
that he staggered against the wall.

"You dog!" cried Richard, grinding his teeth.

"All right," whimpered Sim.  "All right, Mr Richard Glaire, Esquire.
I've stood up for you enew lately; now tak' care of yoursen."

"I'll break your head, you scoundrel, if you don't go," roared Richard.

Sim rubbed the dust from his person and shook himself straight, looking
side-wise the while at his assailant before sidling off, shaking his
fist; and then, when about fifty yards away, turning round and shouting:

"I'll be even with you for this, Dick Glaire."

Richard made a rush at him, when Sim took to his heels and ran, while
the young man turned back to where Joe Banks stood holding poor Daisy's
basket and shawl.

"Master Dick," said the old man sternly, "I want to ask thee a question,
and I want yow, as your father's son, to give me a straightforward
answer."

"But what does this all mean, Joe? what's this about Daisy?"

"Answer my question," said the old man, sternly; and then he paused for
a moment, as he fixed his clear eyes on the young man's shifty face,
before saying hoarsely:

"Were you out walking wi' my lass, Daisy, last night?"

"No," said Richard, firmly; "certainly not."

"And thee didn't see her last night at all?"

"Yes, oh yes," said Richard, eagerly.  "I did see her, and said, `How
d'ye do.'"

"Wheer?" said Joe Banks, without moving a muscle.

"Up by the chalk pit, at the top of the hill.  I'd been having a round."

"What time?" said Joe, shortly.

"Well, let me see," said Richard, hesitating.  "I came straight down
home, and it was about half-past eight when I got in."

Joe stood thinking: the servant-girl had said that her master had come
in early.

"And you didn't see my bairn after?" said Joe, gazing full in the young
man's eyes.

"Certainly not," said Richard.

"Will yow swear it?" said Joe.

Richard hesitated for a moment, and then, with a half-laugh, said:

"Oh, yes, if you like."

"Perhaps I shall like, my lad; but I don't ask you to sweer now.  You've
heerd, I s'pose?"

"I've heard something, Joe, but can't quite make it out," said the young
man.

"It's easy," said Joe, hoarsely.  "My poor bairn came up town last
night, and she hasn't been back.  We foun' these here up by the chalk
pit."

"But she hadn't fallen in?"

"No, my lad, no," said the old man, quietly, for he was thinking deeply.
"But thankye, thankye.  They wanted to make me believe as you meant
harm to the lass--all on 'em; but I knew you, lad, well, as your poor
owd father's son."

"Mr Banks!"

"Aw raight, my lad, aw raight.  I never thowt it of you, never; but the
tongues would wag; and I said if thee loved the bairn thee should'st hev
her.  You do her harm!  Not you, lad; you cared too much for her.  But
harm's come to her some way.  Let's find her."

"But how could they say such things of me?" said Richard, with virtuous
indignation shining out of his eyes.

"Oh, they're a chithering lot," exclaimed Joe.  "They'd seen thee talk
to the bairn, or mebbe seen thee heving a walk wi' her, and that weer
enew to set their tongues clacking.  But we must be going, mun, for
we're losing time; and if any one's done wrong by my bairn--"

Richard shrank away, startled at the lurid flash from the old man's
eyes, as setting his teeth, and clenching his massive fist, he shook it
at vacancy, and then, without another word, strode on, accompanied by
Richard, who was trembling now like a leaf.

"Let me go in here for a moment or two," said Richard, as they came
abreast of the House; and as the door was thrown open, it was to show
Mrs Glaire and Eve both standing dressed in the hall.

"Oh, Mr Banks," exclaimed the latter, running to the old foreman, "this
is very dreadful," and she caught one of his hands in hers.

"Thanky'e, dear bairn, thanky'e," he said, smiling upon her with
quivering lip.

"But I saw her last night," cried Eve.

"Ay?  What time, miss, what time?" said Joe, eagerly.

"About eight," said Eve, quickly.  "She said, I think, that she was
going to meet Richard."

"She said that?" said the old man, starting, while Richard turned pale.

"No, I remember," said Eve, piteously; "I told her she was going to meet
him."

"Yes, yes," said Joe, thoughtfully.  "You were jealous of the poor
bairn."

Eve started back, blushing crimson.

"But are you sure she has not been home, Joe Banks?" said Mrs Glaire,
looking at him wistfully.

"Sure, ay, quite sure," said Joe, sternly.  "Here is the poor bairn's
shawl, and her basket too.  I'll leave 'em here, if you'll let me."

He laid them down in the hall, and stepped out to where there was quite
a crowd of workmen now, waiting to help in the search; but as they
caught sight of Richard Glaire, who now came forward, there was a savage
groan.

"Ask him where he's put thee bairn, Joe Banks; he knows," cried a shrill
voice, that of some woman; and another groan arose, making Richard draw
back shivering.

"Look at the white-faced coward," shouted a man.  "Ask him, Joe Banks,
ask him."

"Nay, nay, lads," said the foreman, sternly.  "Ye're aw wrong.  I hev
asked him, and he's told me.  He knows nowt about the poor bairn."

A murmur arose at this, but Joe Banks turned round to where Richard
stood.

"You come along o' me, Master Richard, and no one 'll lay a finger on
thee whiles thou'rt by my side.  He was at home aw night, lads, and it's
not him as would do her harm."

The little crowd seemed only half satisfied; but they gave place as,
making an effort, the young man stepped out, and then in a purposeless
way the search was about to begin, when there was a cheer given, for the
vicar came hurrying up the street.

He looked hot and flushed, and his eyes met those of Richard Glaire so
sternly that, for the moment, the young man blushed, but he recovered
himself directly, to give an insolent stare in return.

"Mr Banks," exclaimed the vicar, "this is grievous news indeed;" and
ignoring the foreman's half-distant manner, he shook his hand warmly.

"Thanky, parson," said Joe, hoarsely.

"You are about to make a general search, of course," he said; "but where
are the police?"

"One's gone across to station, and the other's up at the chalk pit,"
said a voice.

"First of all," said the vicar, "did any one here see Daisy Banks after
she went up the road?"

There was silence for a few moments, and then Richard said firmly:

"I saw her for a few moments up by the pit."

"And not after?" said the vicar, fixing his eyes on the young man.

"I object to this cross-examination," said Richard, hotly.  "This is not
a magistrate."

"Parson asked thee a plain question, lad; give him a plain answer," said
Joe, quietly.  "Thou'st nowt to fear."

"No, then," said Richard, loudly.  "I was at home."

"Mr Banks, then, you had better take twenty men; you go with these
twenty, Podmore; and--"

He hesitated a moment, when Joe Banks said:

"Master Richard will take another twenty."

"And another score will perhaps go with me," said the vicar.  "Then
we'll each take one road; and mind, my men, every ditch, copse, and pond
must be well searched; and, above all, mind and ask at every cottage on
the road, who has passed, and what carts or carriages have gone along
since last night."

The parties were soon told off, when the vicar exclaimed:

"But stop!  There were two strangers here yesterday."

"Yes," chorused several.  "Two ill-looking chaps from one of the big
towns."

"Ay," cried big Harry; "and I sin 'em go up towards the chalk pit."

"So did I," said another.

There was silence for a moment or two, and Tom Podmore seemed to feel
the place go round, but he roused himself directly as he heard the
vicar's clear ringing voice:

"Then if some treacherous, unmanly scoundrel has not carried off, or
persuaded this poor girl to leave father, mother, and home, for his own
bad ends, we have found the clue.  But mind this, my lads, we are going
to run down those two men, but no violence.  Let's take them, but we
must prove that they have been guilty."

"Aw raight, parson;" and the whole party were for a rush up the road
towards the chalk pit; but the vicar kept them to their separate tasks;
and, glancing upwards, he caught a glimpse of two pale faces at the Big
House, and the faces were those of Eve Pelly and Mrs Glaire.

Then each party started, and the search began.

Volume 2, Chapter X.

A FRUITLESS SEARCH.

The chalk pit naturally formed the great attraction, and on reaching it,
the spots were pointed out where basket and shawl were found; but though
a careful search was made by a portion of the force, nothing was for
some time found to account for the disappearance.

The party had, however, divided here, and a portion of them, under Big
Harry, had hastened along the road toward the Four Alls, the name of the
little public-house where it was expected to hear some tidings of the
men who had been seen in the town, and who must have passed, even if
they were guiltless of wrong.  The vicar, however, chose to remain
behind, with about ten of his party, and together they began to make a
more careful search about the pit--the first investigation being of the
low post-and-rail fence which ran along the edge, to see if it was
perfect in every part.

Yes, there was no doubt of it; not a rail was broken, or post bent out
of the perpendicular, as would probably have been the case had any one
fallen against it or been pushed over.  Not even a piece of the shallow
turf growing on the very brink of the pit was disordered, and the vicar
was about to give up that part of the search, when he made a leap
forward, and took from a rough splintered portion of the divided
fir-pole which formed the rail a tiny scrap of red worsted, such as
might very well have been torn from Daisy's shawl.

"I think we're on the right track, my lads," said the vicar.  "Now let's
divide, and we'll search the coppice here, along the edge of the pit."

The men went eagerly to work, and searched foot by foot the little thin
sprinkling of fir trees and gorse that hung upon the edge of the
declivity, but without avail--there was not a spot that could have
sheltered a human form that was not scanned, and the divided party met
at last upon the low ground at the slope of the hill, where the cart
track cut its way in, and the lime-kiln stood half-way into the pit.

The vicar paused for a moment by the kiln, and peered in.  It was not
burning, and in a few minutes he was able to satisfy himself that no one
had been in there, and with a shudder he turned away, spreading his men
so that step by step they examined the rough white and gray blocks that
had been thrown aside or had fallen.  Some were fresh and of the purest
white, with here and there delicate traces of the pectens and cardiums
of a former shelly world; others were hoary and grey, and covered with a
frosty lichen; while others, again, were earth-stained and brown.

In accordance with their leader's instructions, each block was eagerly
examined, the vicar's idea being that it was possible for a cruel murder
to have taken place, and for the token of the hideous crime to have been
hidden, by laying it in some depression, and piling up the pieces of
chalk, of which ample lay ready, for hiding a hundred such crimes.

But, no; there were footmarks here and there, and traces of the edges of
the blocks having been chipped by heavy boots; but no spot could be
found where they could satisfy themselves that they had been removed.

By this time some forty more sturdy workmen had come up; the event, in
the midst of their enforced idleness from the works, being hailed as an
excitement; and any amount of muscle was ready to help if directed.

The long search was, however, in vain; and their leader was pondering as
to what he should do next, when a rough voice shouted:

"See here, lads.  We'll do ony mander o' thing to find Joe Banks's
bairn.  Come on! let's hurl ivery bit o' calk out o' the pit."

There was a shout at this, and the men were about to put their project
in execution, when the vicar held up his hand.

"It's waste of strength, my lads," he said.  "I am fully convinced that
none of these blocks have been moved.  Better search the lanes along the
road."

"Aw raight, parson," was the cry; and the men left the pit to proceed
along the road, the vicar on in front, so as to reach The Four Alls.

Before they had gone far they encountered the rest of their party,
returning without further success than that of making the announcement
that the men they sought had called there about nine, and had then gone
on, being taken up for a lift by a man with a cart.

"What man, and what cart?" said one of the police constables, who had
now come up.

The men did not know, and this being an important point, the whole party
now hastened on to the little roadside inn--a shabby, dilapidated place,
whose shed at the side, which represented the stabling, was falling away
from the house, and whose premises generally seemed to be arranged by
the owner as places for storing rubbish, dirt, and green scummed pools
of water.  There was a cart with one wheel, and a mangy horse with one
eye, and apparently a ragged hen with one leg, but she put down another,
made a low-spirited remark evidently relating to stolen eggs, and went
off pecking here and there in a disconsolate manner, as if her search
for food were one of the most hopeless pursuits under the sun.  There
was a garden, roughly fenced in, by the side of the house; but its crop
consisted of last year's gray cabbage-stumps; while, but for the sign
over the door, nearly defaced, but having visible the words "wines and
spirituous," the place could hardly have been taken for a place of
refreshment, even though the occupant of this attractive spot stood at
the door, showing the potency of the said "wines and spirituous" liquors
in his reddened and blotched face, as he leaned against the door-post,
smoking a long clay pipe, and staring lazily at the party who now came
up.

"Can you give us any information about the two men who came here last
night?" said the vicar.

"Say?" said the man, staring.

"Gentleman wants to know wheer them chaps is gone," said the constable.

"How should I know?" said the man, surlily.  "Californy or Roosalum, for
owt I know."

"No nonsense, Brumby," said the constable.  "You'd best speak out.  Who
wheer they?"

"Friends o' mine," said the man, taking his pipe out of his mouth for a
moment, to relieve himself of a tremendous volume of smoke.

"What were their names?"

"How should I know?  They come here, and has a bit o' rafrashment, and
they goes again.  What do I keer, so long as they wares their money."

"Who had they got wi' 'em?"

"Nobbut their own sens."

"But I mean when they comed."

"Look ye here, I hadn't going to answer all your queshtons."

"Well, look here; had they any one wi' 'em when they went away?"

"Nobbat theer own sens," said the man, sulkily.

"Well, who gave them a lift?"

"Don't know, on'y as it weer a man in a cart."

"But you must ha' seen his name."

"No, I musn't if it wern't painted on," bawled the man.  "What d'yer
come wherretin' me for about it?  I don't ask my customers who comes in
for a gill o' ale wheer they come from, nor wheer they're going."

"Had they a young girl with them?" said the vicar, who was getting out
of patience.

"Not as I know on," said the man.  "One had nobbut a whip."

There was evidently nothing to be got out of him, so the party returned
to Dumford, the policeman undertaking to communicate by telegraph with
the towns through which the men would be likely to pass, as this would
be the surest and quickest way.

As the day wore on, the other parties returned to assemble and discuss
the matter; though there was little to discuss, for Joe Banks had
returned without a trace being found of his child, and the same ill
fortune had attended Podmore and Richard Glaire.

The latter, soon as he reached home, however, sought Mrs Glaire, who
was lying down, apparently ill at ease, with Eve in attendance upon her,
the young girl rising with a shiver as her cousin entered the room, and
leaving without encountering his eyes.

"Where is Daisy Banks, mother?" said Richard, hoarsely, as soon as they
were alone.  "I've kept up this foolery of searching all day, to quiet
these people, and now I insist upon knowing where she is."

"I should ask you that," said Mrs Glaire, angrily; "but if I did I
should not learn the truth.  Where have you taken her?"

"Taken her?" said Richard, savagely.  "Where should I take her?  You
know I was at home all last night."

"Where you had planned to take her," said Mrs Glaire, coldly.

"I planned!" cried Richard.  "Why, I left her with you.  Plans, indeed!"

"Daisy Banks was not with me ten minutes," said Mrs Glaire, quietly.
"I said plans, because--"

"Because what?" cried Richard.  "Do you wish me to tell you?"

"Yes, if you have anything to tell."

"Because you paid that chattering ass, Slee, to carry letters to and
fro, between you and Daisy, after you had given me your word of honour
that you would see her no more.  Because you then, after gradually
bringing the silly girl over to your purposes, paid or bribed, which you
will, Simeon Slee, the man who has been one of the projectors of this
wretched strike, to act as your pander to take this girl off to London,
to await your coming.  It is your doing; so now you had better seek
her."

"How did you know all this?"

"How did I know?" said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.  "How are such
things known?  You leaned upon a bruised reed, and it broke and entered
your hand."

"Did Sim Slee tell you all this, then?" said Richard, stamping with
fury.

"Yes; and he would have told me long ago, had I given him what the knave
wants--money."

"A treacherous scoundrel!" cried Richard; "trusting him as I did."

"You knew him to be a treacherous, prating scoundrel, so why did you
trust him?"

"Because I was a fool," roared the young man, biting his nails with
rage.

"Exactly; because you were a fool, and because no honest man would help
you to be guilty of the great sin you meant to commit, of stealing the
daughter of the man who had been your father's best friend--the man who
helped him to make his fortune.  Scoundrels are necessary to do
scoundrels' work."

"But he cheated me," cried Richard; "he took my money, and he has not
performed his promise."

"Of course not," said Mrs Glaire.  "But when did you know this?" cried
Richard.

"You own to it, then?" cried Mrs Glaire, gazing sharply at him.

"Never mind whether I own it or not.  A scoundrel!  I'll serve him out
for this."

"I have known it only a few hours," said Mrs Glaire, sinking back on
her couch, and watching the young man, as he stamped up and down the
room.

"But he has thrown me over," cried Richard.  "I don't know where the
girl is."

"Who has thrown you over?" said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.

"You needn't believe me without you like," said Richard; "but I am
speaking the truth now.  Sim Slee was to take her across to Lupsthorpe
station, and go with her to town."

"Yes."

"And stay with her till I came, after the heat of the row was over; for
no one would have missed him."

"Well?" said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.

"Well, he has thrown me over," said Richard.  "I met him this morning,
and found he had not been."

"What did he say?" said Mrs Glaire.

"Swore he couldn't find her."

"Then the wolf set the fox to carry off the lamb, and now the fox says
he has not seen the prey," said Mrs Glaire, smiling.

"Damn your riddles and fables!" cried Richard, who was beside himself
with rage.  "I tell you he has sold me."

"What you might have expected," said his mother.

"The scoundrel has hidden her somewhere," cried Richard; "and it's his
plan to get more money out of me."

"What you might have expected," said Mrs Glaire, again.  "You had
better set the police to watch him and find him out."

"Not while I can do it better myself," said the young man, with a
cunning grin upon his countenance.  "You have both been very clever, I
dare say you think; and if the truth were known, you have been setting
Sim Slee to get her away, so as to marry me to your pet; but you won't
succeed."

"You are wrong, Richard; I would not trust Sim Slee with the value of a
penny.  I gave him ten pounds for his information, and I have not seen
him since.  You had better employ the police."

"Curse the police!" cried Richard, looking hard at his mother's face,
and feeling that she was telling him the truth; "what good are they?  I
might have been killed before they would have interfered.  But I've not
done with Master Sim Slee yet."

"Then you will not employ the police?"

"No," said Richard, sharply; "the matter's tangled enough as it is; but
he's got the wrong man to deal with, has Sim Slee, if he thinks he has
cheated me so easily."

"Better leave him alone," said Mrs Glaire, wearily.  "You have enough
to attend to with your own affairs."

"This is my affair," cried Richard.

"Bombast and sound," said his mother.  "I suppose you and Slee are in
collusion, and this is done to blind me, and the rest of the town.  But
there, you must follow your own course."

"I mean to," said Richard; and the breach between him and his mother
seemed to be getting wider than ever.

Volume 2, Chapter XI.

A FRIENDLY MEETING.

There was a goodly meeting at the Bull and Cucumber that evening, for
the discussion of the disappearance of Daisy Banks.  Sim Slee was there,
and one of the chief spokesmen.

"Well, what do you say, Sim?" said the landlord, with a wink at his
other guests, as much as to say, "Let's draw him out."

"Say!" cried Sim; "why, that Dick Glaire's a lungeing villin.  Look at
him: a man fixed in business as he is, and plenty o' money, and he knows
nowt but nastiness.  He ought to be hung."

"Where weer you to-day, Sim?" said another.  "I didn't see thee
helping."

"Helping!" said Sim; "why, I was in the thicket all day.  Search indeed!
what's the good o' searching for what aint theer?"

"Do you know wheer she is?" said the landlord.

"If yow want to know wheer Daisy Banks is, ask Dicky Glaire, and--"

"And what?" said several, for Sim had stopped short.

"And he wean't tell yow," said Sim.  "He knows, though.  Why, he's been
mad after the lass for months; and if she weer my bairn, I'd half kill
him; that's what I'd do wi' him.  He's a bad lot, and it's a pity as
Dumford can't get shoot of him.  Such rubbish! he's ony fit to boon the
roads."

"Well, Sim," said the grocer, "when they make you boon master, you can
use him up o' purpose."

"Hello!" said Sim, "what! are yow here?  I thowt as the Bull and
Cowcumber wasn't good enew for such as thee."

"You niver thowt so, Sim," said the jovial little grocer, laughing,
"till I wouldn't give thee any more credit till thou had paid what thee
owdst."

"I can pay yow any day," said Sim, chinking the money in his pocket.

"Yes, but yow wean't," said the grocer, imitating Sim's broad Lincoln
dialect.  "Yes, I wanted to hear a bit o' the news," he continued, "so I
thowt I'd put up the shuts and have a gill and a pipe, same as another
man; for I niver object to my 'lowance, as is good for any man as works
hard."

"So 'tis, so 'tis," chorussed several.

"How chuff we are to-night," said Sim, with a sneer; "why, yow're
getting quite sharp.  Yow wearn't so nation fast wi' your tongue fore
yow took to trade and was only a bricklayer.  It's all very fine for a
man to marry a grocer's widow, and take to her trade and money, and then
come and teach others, and bounce about his money."

"Oh, I'm not ashamed of having handled the mortar-trowel before I took
to the sugar-scoop," said the grocer, laughing.

"When it used to be to the boy," continued Sim, mimicking the other's
very slow drawling speech: "`Joey, wilt thou bring me another brick?'
and then thou used to groan because it weer so heavy."

"Sim Slee's in full swing to-night," said another guest.

"He will be if he don't look out, for Tom Podmore says he's sure he had
a hand in getting away Daisy Banks," said another; "and Joe Banks is
sure of it.  I wouldn't be surprised if he hung him."

"Don't you be so nation fast," said Sim, changing colour a little, but
laughing it off the next moment.  "Iv I were a owry chap like thee,
Sam'l Benson, I'd wesh mesen afore I took to talking about other folk.
It was Sam'l, you know," continued Sim, to the others, "that owd parson
spoke to when he weer a boy.  `When did thee wesh thee hands last, Sam?'
he says, pointing at 'em wi' his stick.  `When we'd done picking tates,'
says Sam, He, he, he! and that was three months before, and parson give
'im a penny to ware in soap."

There was a hearty laugh at this, in which the man of whom the story was
told joined.

"Strange different sort o' man this one to the last parson," said the
grocer.

"Ay, he is.  Do you mind owd parson's dunk pigs?" said Johnson, the
butcher.

"To be sure," said the landlord, rapping his pipe.  "I've got four of
the same breed now."

"He used to come and see you pretty oftens, didn't he?" said the grocer.

"Oh, yes; he'd come toddling up on the saints' days to Mrs Winny's
there, and sit for a bit, and then come across here, and sit and wait,
and have a gill o' ale, and then if there was anybody coming up to
church, Jacky Budd--Jacky Budd's father, you know--would come and fetch
him, and if there was nobody coming Jacky used to lock the church doors
again and go back home."

"He was a rum one, he was.  Fond of his garden, too."

"Well, so's this un," said the landlord.  "He's getten it to raights
now."

"Course he has," said Slee.  "Getten it done for nowt, wi' Tom Podmore
and big Harry, and iver so many more wucking for him."

"You let th' parson alone, Sim," said the landlord, who was a bit of an
autocrat in his own parlour, "and he'll let thee alone."

"I should hope he would.  He's fun me a hot one a'ready," said Sim.

"He's a good sort, is parson," said Johnson, the butcher; "and it's how
do, and shake hands, as friendly with ye, as if you was the best in the
land."

"Yes," said the grocer; "and he don't come begging and borrowing
always."

"Begging, no," said Johnson, chuckling.  "Why, he's paid me thutty
pounds this last ten days for meat."

"Thutty pounds!" said the landlord.

"Ay, all that."

"What for?" said Sim.

"Meat for soup," said Johnson.

"Ah, and I've took a lot of him for grosheries," said the grocer.

"Yes; he's giving away a sight o' money," said the landlord, "to them as
is on strike and wants it.  He says to me, only yesterday, when I went
across to take him a bit o' Marquory--it was some as we'd got very
fine--`Thankye, Robinson,' he says, `so that's Mercury, is it?'--he
called it `Mercury.'  `I never see any before,' he says.  `We call it
Good King Henry down in the South.'  `Yes, sir,' I says, `that's
marquory, and as good a vegetable as you can eat.'  `Makes a difference
in your trade, this strike, I suppose,' he says.  `Our takings aint been
above half, sir,' I says, `since it begun.'  `Sorry for it,' he says,
`sorry for it.  I don't dislike to see men come and have their pipe and
glass in moderation, and then chat after work; and I'm sure, Robinson,'
he says, `you are not the man to let any one exceed.'  `Never do if I
can help it, sir,' I says; and then he talked for ever so long, and then
he took me in and give me a glass o' wine, and shew'd me his silver cups
as he'd won at college, and rowing and running, and one thing and
another; and when I was coming away he says, `Tell me,' he says, `if you
hear of anybody very hard pushed through the strike, and I'll see what I
can do.'"

"Here's parson's very good health," said Johnson, the butcher; and it
was drunk by all present but Sim, who uttered a loud, "Yah!"

"They say he's makkin' up to Mrs Glaire, don't they?" said the grocer.

"Ay, they say so," said the butcher; "and that owd Purley's sister and
Miss Primgeon are both in a regular takkin' about it.  They've both been
wucking slippers for him."

"He was fine and on about Daisy Banks, to-day," said the landlord.  "I
heerd, too, as Joe Banks quarrelled wi' him for interfering 'bout her,
just afore she went."

"How did you hear that?" said the grocer.

"Joe Banks's Missus towd mine," said the landlord.  "But, say, lads,
what's this 'bout Bultitude's John Maine?"

"Don't know--what?" said first one and then another.

"Why, I hear as he was seen talking to a couple of owry-looking poacher
chaps, down the road--them two, as they think, had something to do wi'
Daisy Banks going off."

"Yes, I see 'em," said Sim; "and I see John Maine talking to 'em."

"Regular rough couple," continued the landlord.  "They comed here just
as my Missus was busy wi' her sweeping-brush, and wanted her to buy a
three-gill bottle, or give 'em a gill o' ale for it."

"And she wouldn't," said Sim, grinning.

"Yes, she would, and did," said the landlord.  "She was all alone in the
house; for I was out in the close, and she thowt it best to be civil to
'em; but she kept a pretty sharp eye on 'em all the time."

"Then John Maine's had a hand in it; see if he ain't," said Sim.

"Don't know so much about that," said the landlord.  "Some say as you
know more than you keer to tell."

"Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don't," said Sim, sententiously.  "There's
things as I know on, and things as I don't.  I'm going now."

"Tell the owd woman to hap you up well to-night, Sim," said one.

"Say, Sim," said another, "ask her to get out her scithers and coot thee
hair."

"You're going agates early, Sim," said another.

"Yes, I'm off," said Sim; "and mebbe it'll be some time before you see
me here again, or mebbe I shall be here again to-morrow night.
Good-night, all," and he went out, looking very triumphant, telling
himself that he had been too much for "that lot," and that he knew what
he was about.

There were those present, though, who were not above saying that it was
on account of Tom Podmore coming in, to sit near the door, looking
wearied out with anxiety as he let his head drop upon his hand, and sat
there thoughtful and silent, while those present, knowing his feelings
towards the missing girl, changed the subject that they were resuming,
and entered upon the question of the duration of the strike.

Volume 2, Chapter XII.

THREATENINGS.

As the days passed, and no information could be obtained respecting
Daisy Banks, and the efforts of the police to trace the two strangers
proved utterly fruitless, John Maine was in a state of mind not to be
envied.  By degrees it oozed out more and more that he had been seen
with the two men, and the police came down to the farm, to question him,
looking suspiciously at him, as he told them that they were men he had
met once before in the neighbourhood of Nottingham; and when the
constables left he had the annoyance of feeling that he would be
watched, for it was evident that he was looked upon with suspicion.

Joe Banks had been nearly mad with excitement, and leaving his sobbing
wife day after day, he had searched and researched the country round,
aided by Tom Podmore, Harry, and a score of the other men.  Richard
Glaire had made no show of assisting after the first day, for he had
awakened to the fact that the town was not a safe home for him, and it
was fully his intention to leave the place for awhile; but, for his own
reasons, he preferred to wait a little longer.

Sim Slee was about now a good deal, and another encounter had taken
place between him and Richard, after which Sim had gone round to the
vicarage back-door, to implore help from his wife, asserting that he was
half killed, and begging her to come home and attend on him.

As it happened, the vicar heard him, and came to see how bad were his
injuries, and to offer to set his housekeeper at liberty.

"I'll manage without you, Mrs Slee, if you like," he said kindly.

"But I don't like," said Mrs Slee; "there'll be fifty people here soon
for soup and bread, and how can you get shoot of 'em all wi'out me?"

"Thou must come home, lovey," said Sim, in a dismal voice.  "I'm very
bad.  I've got money enew, too, now to keep us for weeks."

"Where dids't thou get money from?" said Mrs Slee, sharply.

"Never thou mind," said Sim.  "I've gotten it, and now come home."

"But how did you get knocked about like that?" said the vicar, smiling
to himself.

"That cursed Dicky Glaire set upon me," moaned Sim, one of whose eyes
was swollen up, while there was a cut across the bridge of his nose.
"He's mad wi' me because I wouldn't help him to carry off Daisy Banks to
London, and he's leathered me this how.  But I'll hev it out of him
yet."

"Did Dicky Glaire want yow to get her away?" said Mrs Slee.

"Yes, a coward, and I wouldn't," said Sim, "so he's done it his sen."

"Be careful what you are saying, Mr Slee," said the vicar, snipping a
strip of sticking-plaister off a piece in his pocket-book with his
nail-scissors, and breathing upon it to make it warm.

"Keerful," said Sim; "he deserves to be hung for it."

"Do you mean to assert that Mr Glaire has done this?  Because if so,
you will have to substantiate your statement before a magistrate."

"I don't say for certain as he has," said Sim; "but he wanted me to, and
I wouldn't.  Oh! oh! oh!"

"Stand still, man, and don't be such a cur," cried the vicar, sharply,
for he had been applying the plaister to Sim's slight cut, and the hero
had begun to howl dismally.

"It's half killing me," cried Sim, again.

"Take hold of his head, Mrs Slee; the cut is nothing at all."

Mrs Slee seized Sim pretty roughly, and held him by his ears, while the
plaister was affixed, the great orator moaning and flinching and
writhing till he was set at liberty.

"Is it bad, sir?" said Mrs Slee, then.

"So bad," said the vicar, "that if a schoolboy of nine or ten received
such a drubbing from a playmate, he would have washed his face and said
nothing about it."

"Said nowt about it!" cried Sim.  "Aye, it's easy for them as aint hurt
to talk.  Thou'lt come home wi' me, lovey?"

"No.  Go thee gate," said Mrs Slee.

"Do 'ee come, lovey," said Sim.

"I wean't," said Mrs Slee, shortly; and without more ado, she took her
lord by the shoulders, and guided him to the door, which she closed upon
him, leaving him to make his way up the street, vowing vengeance against
Richard Glaire, the parson, and all the world.

In fact, mischief was brewing, and would have come to a head sooner but
for the episode of Daisy's disappearance.  A deputation of the men had
waited upon Richard Glaire, and offered terms for coming back to work;
but he had obstinately held out for the reparation to be made,
increasing the value he had previously set upon the destroyed bands, and
declaring that if he were not paid a hundred and fifty pounds damages,
he would keep the works closed.

"Thou'lt be sorry for this, Maister," said the man who acted as
spokesman.

"Sorry!" said Richard, defiantly.  "I'm sorry I ever had such a set of
curs to work for me."

"But we've telled you as it was none o' us."

"I don't care who it was," retorted Richard; "I want a hundred and fifty
pounds for the damage done; and I ought to have payment for my losses by
the foundry standing still."

"Our wives and bairns 'll soon be pined to dead," said another man.

"You should have thought of that before," said Richard, coldly.  "A
hundred and fifty pounds made up amongst you, and the fires may be lit,
and we'll go on once more; till that's paid I'll keep the place locked
up if I'm ruined by it."

Then came the disappearance of Daisy Banks, and it wanted but little on
the part of Sim Slee to half madden the weaker spirits against the man
who was starving their wives and children, and had robbed Joe Banks of
his daughter.

It so happened that Joe Banks, on the day following Sim's doctoring,
about a fortnight after the disappearance, during which time he had not
seen Mrs Glaire, but only Eve, who had been again and again to try and
administer comfort to Mrs Banks, came upon a knot of men, listening to
an oration made by Sim Slee, who, as soon as he saw Joe coming up in
company with Tom Podmore, who was his staunch and faithful ally
throughout, cried loudly:

"Here he comes!  Here comes the downtrodden, ill-used paytriot, who has
served the rotten family for thirty year, and then been robbed for his
pains.  He's agoing to join my brotherhood now, lads--him and Tom
Podmore."

"Hooray!" cried the men.

"And he'll be a captain and a leader among us as is going to beat down
the oppressors and robbers of our flocks and herds.  He's agoing, lads,
to pull down with us the bloated Aristorchus, as is living on his oil
olive, and honey, while we heven't bread to put in the mouths of our
bairns."

There was a groan here from the little crowd, some of whom readily
accepted Sim Slee's Aristorchus, as they would have taken in any
loud-sounding word in their present humour.

"Come on, brave captain, as hev had your eye-lids opened to the malice
and wickedness of your employer, and join them as is going to groan no
more under the harrows and ploughshares of oppression.  It is said as
the ox or beast shan't be muzzled as treadeth out the corn, and we aint
agoing to let that oppressor, Dicky Glaire, muzzle us any more."

"Hooray!" cried the growing crowd.

"Come on, then, brave captain.  Lads, Joe Banks is a man as we'll be
proud to serve wi'; and wi' Tom Podmore too, for they've cast off their
slough"--Sim called this "sluff"--"of blindness, and hev awaked to the
light and glory of liberty.  Come on."

"What do you mean?" said Joe Banks, firmly.

"Mean, brave captain and leader!" cried Sim, making his plaid waistcoat
wrinkle with his exertions; "why, that we're going to trample down him
as robbed thee of thy bairn."

"Who's that?" said Joe Banks, sternly.

"Who's that?  Ask anybody here if it aint Dicky Glaire, the oppressor,
as is going to sneak outer the town to-night to catch the mail train
over yonder at the station, and then going to laugh and sneer and mock
at the poor, grey old father as he's deceived, and--"

"It's a lie," roared Joe.  "Who says Richard Glaire took away my poor
murdered bairn?"

"Everybody," said Sim, who was standing on a wall about five feet high,
his plaistered face giving him rather a grotesque aspect.  "Everybody
says it."

"No," roared Joe, "it's you as says it, you lying, chattering magpie.
Howd thee tongue, or I'll--"

He seized the speaker by the legs, and had him down in an instant,
clutched by the throat, and began shaking him violently.

"Go on," said Sim, who this time preserved his presence of mind.  "I
aint the first paytriot as has been a martyr to his cause; kill me if
you like."

"Kill thee, thou noisy starnel of a man!  Say as it's a lie again your
maister, or I'll shake thee till thou dost."

"I wean't say it's a lie," cried Sim.  "Ask anybody if it aint true."

Joe Banks looked round furiously, and a chorus broke out of, "It's true,
lad; it's true."

"There," cried Sim, triumphantly.  "What hev you to say to that?  Ask
Tom Podmore what he thinks."

"I will," cried Joe Banks, who was somewhat staggered by the unanimity
of opinion.  "Tom Podmore, speak out like a true man and tell these all
as it's a lie."

Tom remained silent.

"D'ye hear, Tom?  Speak out," cried Joe.

"I'd rather not speak," said Tom, quietly.

"But thou must, lad, thou must," cried Sim.  "Are you going to see a man
a martyr for a holy cause, when you can save him?"

"Speak! speak!" cried Joe, panting with rage and emotion; "tell 'em you
know it's a lie, Tom."

"I can't," said Tom, who was driven to bay, "for I believe Richard
Glaire has got her away."

"Theer, I telled you," said Sim.  "He wanted me to help him, only you
wean't believe."

"No, no, no," roared Joe; "and I wean't believe it now.  He wouldn't, he
couldn't do it.  He told me he hadn't; and he wouldn't tell me a lie."

The little crowd opened as the true-hearted old fellow strode away,
without turning his head, and Tom Podmore followed him towards his home,
and at last spoke to him.

Joe turned upon him savagely.

"Go away," he cried.  "I've done wi' you.  I thowt as Tom Podmore were a
man, instead o' one o' them chattering maulkin-led fools; but thou'rt
like the rest."

Tom Podmore stopped short, with his brow knit, while Joe Banks passed on
out of sight.

"He'll find out, and believe different some day," said Tom, slowly.
"Poor old man, it's enough to break his heart.  But I wean't break
mine."

As he stood, the noise of cheering came from where he had left Sim Slee
talking, and he stood listening and thinking.

"They'll be doing him a mischief 'fore they've done, and then they'll
end the old works.  Damn him!  I hate him," he cried, grinding his
teeth; "but I can't stand still and let Sim Slee's lot bruise and batter
his face as they would till they'd 'most killed him.  He's soft, and
smooth, and good-looking, and I'm--well, I'm a rough un," he continued,
smiling with contemptuous pity on himself.  "It's no wonder she should
love him best, poor lass; but she'd better hev been a honest lad's
wife--missus to a man as wouldn't hev said an unkind thing to her to
save his life.  But they say it's womankind-like: they takes most to him
as don't keer for 'em."

He stood thinking irresolutely, as the noise and cheering continued: and
once he turned to go; but the next moment he was himself, and saying
softly:

"Daisy, my poor little lass, it's for thee--it's for thee;" he strode
hastily to the Big House, knocked, and was admitted.

"Tell Mr Richard I want to see him," said Tom; and the servant-girl
smiled pleasantly at the fine, sturdy young fellow.

"I don't think he'll see thee, Mr Podmore," said the girl, "because
he's so cross about the foundry people.  I'll tell him a gentleman wants
to see him."

She tripped away, and in a few minutes Richard came down to stand
scowling at him.

"What do you want?" he said, glaring at his rival.

Tom Podmore writhed mentally, and his nerves tingled with the desire to
take Richard Glaire by the throat, and shake him till he could not
breathe; but he controlled himself, and said sturdily:

"I come to tell thee some ill news."

"What is it?" said Richard, thrusting his hand into his breast, for his
visitor had taken a step forward.

Tom Podmore saw the motion and smiled, but he paid no further heed, and
went on bluntly:

"Thou wast going away by train to-night."

"Who says so?" cried Richard, turning pale.

"The lads out there--Sim Slee's gang," said Tom; "and I come to warn
thee."

"Warn me of what?" said Richard.

"To warn thee as they mean to lay wait for thee, and do thee a
mischief."

"Who says so?"

"I know it," said Tom: "so if you'll tak' a good bit of advice thou'lt
stay at home, and not go out."

"It's a trick--a trap," cried Richard.  "If it were true, you're not the
man to come and tell me."

"Why not?" said Tom bluntly.

"Because you hate me, and believe I've taken away your wretched wench."

"Damn thee!" cried Tom, seizing him by the arm and throat; and as he
brought the young fellow to his knees, quite paralysing his effort to
get his hand into Iiis breast; "thou may'st say what thee likes again
me; but if thee speaks ill of her I can't bear it; so I warn thee.  Hate
thee I do, and yet I come to tell thee of danger, and--"

A faint shriek made Tom start, for, pale as death, Eve Pelly rushed to
Richard's help, and clutched at Tom Podmore's sturdy arms, which dropped
at her touch as if those of Eve had been talismanic.

"Aw raight, Miss," he said smiling.  "I wean't hurt him; but I come to
do him good, and he made me mad."

"Mad, yes," cried Richard, who had regained his feet, and now drew a
pistol.  "You were mad to come here; but I'm ready for you and the rest
of your rascally crew, and for all your malicious traps and plans."

"Richard!" shrieked Eve, who tried to catch his arm; but she was flung
off, and would have fallen, but for Tom Podmore, before whom she stood,
screening him as she begged him to leave the house.

"Yes, Miss, I'll go," said Tom, smiling; "not as I'm afraid of him and
his pistol.  What I did he browt upon himself.  I've done what I thowt
was raight, so he must tak' his chance.  I on'y come to warn him as
there's a dozen or two of the lads as listen to Sim Slee made themselves
into a gang agen him."

"What, our workmen?" cried Eve.

"Well, only some o' the outsiders, Miss; t'others wean't have nowt to do
wi' it.  That's all."

As he spoke he smiled sadly at the poor pale face before him, and then
was gone.

Volume 2, Chapter XIII.

PODMORE SEEKS AN ALLY.

Tom Podmore walked straight away from the Big House, listening to the
noise and shouting as he went to the Vicarage, where Murray Selwood was
in conference with Jacky Budd, respecting certain improvements to be
made in the shrubbery, when the season suited for planting.

"And what would you plant here, Budd?" he said to the thirsty soul.

"Oh, I should put a few laurels there, sir."

"And in that corner?"

"Oh, I should put a few _laurels_ there, sir."

"And in the centre bed?"

"A few laurels, sir."

"And by the bare patch by the edge?"

"Just a few laurels, sir."

"And along the side of the house?"

"Couldn't put anything better than a few laurels, sir."

"And for the new hedge to separate the two gardens?"

"Oh, a few laurels, sir."

"Then you would put laurels all about?"

"Well, yes, sir; you see they're so evergreen and--"

"Oh, here's Podmore," said the vicar, going down to the gate.  "Well, my
lad, how are you?  I'm glad to see you."

"Thanky' kindly, sir," said Tom, pressing firmly the hand given to him
in so friendly a way.  "Can I speak to you a minute?"

"Of course you can.  Come into the house."

He led the way into the vicarage, and placed a chair for Tom in the
study, but the young man did not take it, and remained silent.

"I'm deeply grieved," said the vicar, laying his hand on the young
fellow's shoulder; "deeply, Tom Podmore.  I had hoped that she would
have come to her senses, and made a better choice."

"Don't, sir, please don't," said Tom, turning away his head; and, laying
his arm against the wall, he placed his forehead against it, and his
broad shoulders heaved.  "I can't bear to hear a word spoke again her,
sir."

"I'll not speak against her, Podmore, believe me, poor girl; and I
deeply regret that her father was too blind to listen to me."

"You spoke to him, then?" said Tom, sadly.

"I did; and I have striven hard to be friends with Richard Glaire, and
to bring him to a better feeling; but I failed with both."

"Then you think as I do, sir," said Tom, sadly--"You think as she's been
took away?"

"I cannot help thinking so," was the reply.  "If I am misjudging, I am
very sorry; but I have done everything I could to trace her, even to
having a man down from town, who has been constantly searching ever
since she disappeared, and he has discovered nothing."

"And have you done this, sir?"

"Yes; why should I not?" said the vicar, sadly.  "But you have come for
some reason, Podmore.  What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir, I've comed about these goings on up yonder in the town."

"There's no fresh violence, I hope," cried the vicar, hastily.

"Not as yet, sir; but there's going to be, I'm afraid.  You see, sir,
there's about a couple of dozen as has been got over by Sim Slee, and
he's made 'em join him in some kind of brotherhood, as he calls it.  The
older men as has got heads on their shoulders laughs at it all, and
looks upon Sim as a chattering fool."

"Fools do mischief sometimes," said the vicar, half to himself.

"Yes, sir, they do; but all the best of the men tak' Sim Slee at what
he's worth; but there's a few, you see, as are 'mazed by his big words,
and are ready to be led into any mischief."

"Yes; and you know of this?" said the vicar, anxiously.

"Yes, sir, I've found as they've got to know that Mr Richard Glaire's
going away to-night."

"Is he going away?" said the vicar.

"So Sim Slee's telling on 'em, sir; but what does it mean 'bout Sim Slee
being so thick wi' him just afore, and now dead again' him?"

"Some quarrel," said the vicar.  "Sim Slee must be made to speak out
somehow."

"He's been speaking to some purpose to-day," said Tom, sharply; "and I
think they mean mischief against the maister to-night, when he's going
away."

"And you've come to tell me this!" said the vicar, looking at the sturdy
rough young fellow admiringly.

"Yes," said Tom, simply.  "I went and told him at the house, but he
turned on me, and said things I couldn't bear, and made me grip him,
when Miss Eve came out and atween uz, and that stopped me."

"Well?"

"And then he pulled out a pistol and threatened me."

"What made you grip him?" said the vicar, using the young man's words.

"He--he spoke again' her," said Tom, hoarsely; and as he spoke the veins
in his forehead swelled, and an angry frown came upon his countenance.

"Then you went to the house to warn Richard Glaire of his danger, and
he--"

"Threatened me, and said it was a trap I was laying," said Tom.

"And then you came to tell me he was in danger.  And what for?"

Tom was silent for a few moments.  Then glancing up in the clear firm
face which seemed to demand an answer, he said, almost in a whisper:

"I couldn't abear for him to be knocked about, if I could stop it."

"For Daisy's sake?"

"For Daisy's sake," said the young man; and the next moment the vicar's
hand had closed upon his in a firm grasp.

"Then we'll try and save him, Tom," said the vicar quietly.  "I'm very
glad you've come, Tom.  I've seen very little of you lately."

Tom looked up at him curiously, said something about being much obliged,
and was turning to go, when the vicar stopped him.

"We must make some plans for the poor fellow's safety," he said.  "He
must not be hurt.  I'll go up first, and try if I can prevail upon him
not to go."

Tom nodded.

"And if he will not be prevailed upon, we must try and act as we can.  I
think and hope that they will not attempt to touch him while I am by his
side."  Tom shook his head.

"I wouldn't, sir, because I know you; but time back I would, if there'd
been twenty parsons round him.  They won't hurt you, sir, but they'll
beat him if he attempts to go."

"Let's hope not; let's hope not," said the vicar; "and now I'll go up to
the house, while you'll wait here."

"Wait here?" said Tom.

"Yes; why not?  I shall want to lay my hands upon you at a moment's
notice.  But stop.  If he goes, it will be by the mail.  That's at
eight, and the station is two miles, say three-quarters of an hour for
ample time.  If he means to go, he will go afoot, so as not to excite
attention."

"Yes; and he'll go by the little door in the wall at the bottom of the
garden, and off across the home close," said Tom.

"Do you know that?" said the vicar.

"No, sir; but that's how he used to go to meet her; and as he's going to
join her to-night, I thowt that's the way he'd go."

"Very likely," said the vicar; "and they're sure to know it, and watch.
But look here, Tom Podmore, are you willing to help him get away?"

"Yes, sir."

"To join her?"

"Yes; I was thinking, that mebbe if he got away to join the poor bairn
he'd marry her; for I s'pose he's fond o' the poor lass.  But he must be
that.  She'd mak' onny man--the very worst--fond on her."

"Do you know any one you could get here to help you?" said the vicar.
"I mean a stout sturdy fellow with brains, who could be depended on to
help you back me up if we have to make a struggle for it."

"John Maine, sir, at Bultitude's."

"The very man.  Get him here, and keep him till I come back."

"I will, sir; but, say, parson--Mr Selwood, sir--for the Lord's sake
don't let Dick Glaire take that pistol thing.  If they get hold of him
now, they'll beat him sore, but if he should shute a man, they'll niver
let him see the light again."

"I'll do my best, Podmore," said the vicar, sadly.  "You do yours."

They parted at the gate, bound on the same mission, that of saving the
man who was making them both sick at heart with the desire that they
felt could never be fulfilled.

Volume 2, Chapter XIV.

JESSIE'S TROUBLES.

Affairs were not very satisfactory at the farm, and Jessie's eyes more
than once looked as if they had been red with crying.  For the girl was
greatly troubled at heart, since John Maine's behaviour puzzled her.

It was impossible for anything of note to take place in Dumford, without
the news of it reaching the farm, so that she soon heard that Daisy, her
old friend and school-fellow, had disappeared; that the two rough
fellows who had been hanging about were supposed to have had something
to do with her disappearance; while, to make matters more complicated,
John Maine had been seen talking to these two men, and had afterwards
warned her about holding communication with Daisy.

John Maine had always been civil and pleasant to Daisy.  Daisy had more
than once laughingly said she liked him.  Now she was gone, John Maine's
behaviour was very strange.  Could he have had anything to do with
getting her away, and was he in any way acting with Richard Glaire, whom
some people suspected of complicity?

No: she would not believe anything against him, come what might; but
there was some secret connected with his earlier life that he kept back,
and--she could not say why--she thought he ought to be more trusting and
communicative with her.  Not that there was anything between them,
though she told herself she thought she did like John Maine--a little.

Old Bultitude was very cross and snappish too, and he had taken it
somewhat to heart that Daisy should have been the companion and friend
of his Jessie.

"See here, lass," he said, "thou must howd no more communication with
that bairn o' Banks's.  She's a bad un."

"Oh, uncle!" exclaimed Jessie, "she may have been robbed and murdered."

"Not she," said old Bultitude, filling his pipe and ramming the tobacco
in viciously.  "If she had been, they'd ha' fun her body.  Folks don't
rob and murder, unless it's to get money.  Daisy Banks had no money wi'
her; and, as to being jealous, I hardly think Tom Podmore, as she
pitched over, would murder her--but there's no knowing."

A few minutes later Eve Pelly arrived at the farm, looking pale and
thin; and the two girls were soon telling each other their troubles, Eve
with a quiet reticent manner; Jessie all eagerness to make the girl she
looked upon as her superior the repository of her inmost thoughts.

Eve took care not to let Jessie know that this was to be almost a formal
leave-taking, for she had come down after asking Mrs Glaire's leave,
and with the full intention of yielding to her wishes.

The conversation naturally turned upon Daisy and her disappearance, when
Jessie broke out impetuously with--

"Well, it's no use to keep it back, Miss Eve.  I've known a deal more
than I've cared to tell you, but your cousin and Daisy have for months
past been thick as thick."

"Don't speak like that, Jessie," cried Eve, flushing up.

"I must when it's for your good, Miss Eve," said Jessie, warmly; "and if
the truth was known, I believe Mr Richard has had her carried off to
London or somewhere."

"It is impossible, Jessie," cried Eve.  "My cousin would never be so
base."

"Well, I don't, know as to that," retorted Jessie; "it's base enough to
be pretending to be engaged to one young lady, and carrying on with
another."

"Jessie!"

"Well, it's the truth.  A gentleman told me that he had often seen them
together.  Oh, Miss Eve, dear, I am sorry.  I didn't mean to hurt you."

She was down on her knees before her visitor directly after, begging her
pardon, and kissing her, for Eve's face had sunk in her hands, and she
was sobbing bitterly.  A minute before and she was ready to fight
energetically on behalf of the man who was to have been her husband, but
now her defences had been turned, and she gave up.

She soon dried her eyes though, and when Jessie would have turned the
conversation to another point she resumed it herself.

"I've been thinking about that very, very much," she said; "night and
day--night and day."

"Poor child!" said Jessie, stroking her face.  "It must be terribly hard
to feel jealous."

"No, no, no, no," said Eve, hastily.  "I did not mean that; but about
poor Daisy's disappearance.  You know they found her shawl and basket."

"Yes," said Jessie, nodding.

"Well," said Eve, hesitating--"don't you think it possible that anybody
who hated her very much might--might--"

"Might have killed her?" said Jessie, looking at Eve strangely.

"Yes," said Eve, with a shudder.

Jessie's eyes dilated as she looked at the speaker, and thought of her
uncle's words a short time before.

"It is very terrible to think on," said Jessie, slowly.

"Yes," said Eve, in an agitated voice; "but it is almost more terrible
for any one you love--you care for, to be thought guilty of having taken
the poor creature away."

"But who could have had any such feeling towards poor Daisy," exclaimed
Jessie, "except one? and I don't think Tom Podmore--"

"Hush!" cried Eve, laying her hand upon her friend's arm, "he's coming
now across the field."

"So he is," cried Jessie, starting and turning pale, for a flood of
strange thoughts came across her mind.  John Maine and Tom Podmore had
been so intimate.  John Maine had been so strange, and in his way had
warned her about thinking any more of Daisy.  Was that to throw her off
the scent, and to keep her from grieving after and trying to find where
Daisy had gone?  The very room seemed to swim round for a few moments,
as she recalled some mysterious acts on the part of the man she loved;
and she shuddered as the idea suggested itself to her that her uncle and
Eve might be right, and poor Daisy had been done to death by her old
lover, with his friend for accomplice.

It was then with a feeling of relief that she saw Eve rise to go,
saying:

"Let me go out through the garden, Jessie, and then I can get into the
lane without being seen by your visitor."

"Yes, yes," said Jessie, hastily; "but, dear darling Miss Eve, pray
don't say what you have said to me to another soul."

"No," said Eve, sadly, "I should not do that;" and then her friend saw
her out through the garden, and returned to see the young man of whom
they had been speaking side by side with John Maine, in earnest
conversation across the yard.

Jessie had good cause to start and think over the matters of the past
few days, for a great deal of unpleasantry had taken place at the farm,
all of which, when analysed, tended to help the dreadful suspicion; and,
as she thought it over, she determined in her own mind that no
temptation should ever cause her to swerve, since she saw how the
weakness of one vain girl had brought such misery to so many homes.

She tried to drive away the suspicion that had been planted and
replanted in her heart; but it was of no use, and she turned at last to
her own room, to have a cry to herself--a woman's fomentation for a
mental pain; but in this case it was of no avail.

Old Bultitude was morose and harsh with his labourers, going up in the
tall tower-like structure which commanded a view of the old farm, and
called by the builder a gazebo, but by the labourers the gozzybaw, and
from here old Bultitude watched his men and found fault to a degree that
Jessie felt must be caused by something out of the ordinary course,
while most of his remarks had, it was plain enough, an indirect
application to unfulfilled work appertaining to John Maine.

Then Tom Brough, the keeper, had managed to find his way again and again
to the farm, to have long conversations with the old farmer, who made a
point of asking his advice about this beast, or that cow; about the hay
off the twenty acres; and the advisability of thrashing out the wheat
from such and such a one of the neatly-made long-backed stacks in the
rick-yard.

John Maine, however, had seemed to bear this shifting of the farmer's
confidence pretty fairly; and Jessie had seen it with pain, as she
whispered to herself that the true interpretation of the changes in the
young man, which she had seen from day to day, was that he had something
on his mind which she was not to share.

"Yes; he has something on his mind," she had said; "and he does not
confide in me."

John Maine seemed to confide in no one: he only behaved strangely, night
after night letting himself out, to be gone for hours, sometimes to
return wet through, little thinking that he had been watched; and that
Jessie, with tears and bitterness of heart, knew all of his goings out
and comings in; and it was only by accident, and from the fact of her
warning him, that he became aware that she had more than once screened
his absence.

It was one night about eleven.  Everybody in the early house had gone to
rest an hour and a half before, as John Maine stole downstairs softly,
and was about to turn the key of a back-door, when a warm hand was laid
upon his, and a voice he well knew whispered--

"If you value your home here, go back to bed.  Some one has told my
uncle that you go out o' nights, and he is on the watch."

"Jessie!"

He stretched out his hands, but they only came in contact with the
whitewashed wall, and he knew that he was alone.

But had any one spoken, or was it only fancy?  No; it was no fancy.  His
motions had been watched, and Jessie had come between him and trouble.
As to the spy upon his actions, that was plain enough.  Tom Brough had
been busy, and had seen him when watching of a night, and what should he
do?  He had his object for these nocturnal rambles, and he was bound to
continue them, but this night he was bound to stay.

Yes, he must stay, if only for Jessie's sake; and casting off his
indecision he returned softly to his room, where he threw off his things
and went to bed.

An hour slowly passed, during which he lay restless and wakeful.  Then,
when worn out with restless impatience, and half determined to go out at
all hazards, a step was heard in the passage, a board creaked; there was
a light shining beneath the door, and then after a pause the handle was
turned gently, and the light flashed in his face.

"Maine!  John Maine!" said the farmer, sharply.

"Yes; what is it?  Anything wrong?" said the young man, starting up.

"One of the horses seems very uneasy," said the farmer.  "I'm afraid
there's something wrong in the stable.  I came to ask you to go down,
but he seems quieter now, and mebbe it isn't worth while.  Try and keep
yoursen wacken for 'bout an hour, and if you hear owt go down and see."

John Maine said he would, and old Bultitude went off, muttering to
himself, while the young man lay thinking and wondering how he was to
carry out his plans in the future.  What was he to do?  How was he to do
it?  The only way he could see out of the difficulty was that the burden
must be thrown on the shoulders of Tom Podmore.

Day had hardly broken before John Maine, who had heard no more of the
restless horse, was up, and that day, seeking out Tom Podmore, he had
had a long and earnest conversation with him, with the result of getting
his mind more set at ease.

And now it had come about in turn that Tom Podmore had had to seek out
John Maine, to ask his help, with the result that, old Bultitude being
away, his foreman just went in and told Jessie he was going out; and as
she did not turn her face to him as he spoke, he went away sighing
heavily; while pale, and trembling, Jessie ran to the window, and, in
hiding behind the blind, watched the two young men till they were out of
sight.

Volume 2, Chapter XV.

A THANKLESS TASK.

Meanwhile the vicar had missed Eve, who had taken another route, and
made his way up to the big house, where he was shown into the room to
find Mrs Glaire lying, very pale and weak, upon the couch.

She apologised for not rising, and as he took her hand, he felt that it
was hot and feverish.

"I ought to be the doctor," he said pleasantly, as he retained the hand.
"There's too much fever here."

"No doctor will cure that," she said, with a sad smile.  "I only want
peace of mind, and then I shall be well; and you have come to bring more
bad news."

"Oh," said the vicar, carelessly, "I only wanted a bit of a chat with
your son."

"Mr Selwood," said Mrs Glaire, "don't please speak to me like that.
It is dreadful to me; and makes me feel as if I could not trust and
believe in the one man in whom I wish to confide."

"Then in heaven's name," he began, but she interrupted him.

"I have had faith and trust in you, Mr Selwood, from the first day you
came."

"Then you shall continue it," he said, firmly.  "I was reticent because
I thought you too ill to bear bad tidings."

"I can bear all," she said, softly; "pray tell me the worst."

"Well," he said, quietly, "we will not talk of worst, for there is no
danger that cannot be warded off."

"If my son likes?" said Mrs Glaire.

"If your son likes," continued the vicar.  "The fact is, Mrs Glaire,
the people are getting furious against him, and without going into the
question of right or wrong, the sufferings of their wives and children
are maddening the men.  This lock-out ought to end."

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, sighing, "it ought."

"It was a dastardly trick, that destruction of the machinery, but I
believe it was the work of one brain, and one pair of hands."

"Why do you think so?"

"I have had endless communications with the locked-out men, and, as far
as I can judge character, I find them very rough, very independent, but,
at the same time, frank and honest, and I cannot find one amongst them
who does not look me full in the face with a clear unblushing eye, and
say, `Parson, if I know'd who did that dirty sneaking business, I'd half
kill him.'  This in these or similar words."

Mrs Glaire bowed her head.

"Yes," she said; "you have given the men's character in those words, but
they are cruelly bitter against my son."

"They are," said the vicar, hesitating to tell his news.

"And they think he has persuaded Daisy Banks to leave her home."

"Almost to a man, though her father holds out."

"Joe Banks always will be staunch," said Mrs Glaire.  "And you think
with the men about that, Mr Selwood?"

"I would rather not answer that question," he said.

"Then we will not discuss it," she replied rather hotly.  "But you came
to bring me some tidings, Mr Selwood," she continued, holding out her
hand.  "Forgive me if I feel as a mother, and defend my son."

"I am here to defend him too," said the vicar, taking and kissing the
hand extended to him; and as he did so the door softly opened, and Eve
glided into the room, to half shrink back and retire; but on hearing the
vicar's words she sank into a seat as if unnerved, and the conversation
went on.

"Tell me now, what is the danger?" said Mrs Glaire.

"It is this," said the vicar; "I am firmly persuaded that this house is
a sanctuary, and that for the sake of yourself and your niece, Mr
Richard Glaire is safe so long as he stays here."

"And he will stay here till I can bring him to reason about these
people.  I would pay the money he demands at once, but he insists that
it shall be the hard earnings of his workmen themselves, and I am
powerless."

"I am willing to lend the men the amount myself, but they will not take
it, and I am afraid it would not be received if its source were known."

"No," said Mrs Glaire, "you must not pay it.  My son would never
forgive you.  But go on."

"I repeat," said the vicar, "that your son is safe while he remains
here."

"And I say that he shall stay," said Mrs Glaire sharply.  "He shall not
leave.  He has no intention of leaving."

"He has made up his mind, it seems, to leave by the mail-train
to-night," said the vicar; and as the words left his lips, and Mrs
Glaire started into a sitting position, a faint cry behind made them
turn round, and the vicar had just time to catch Eve in his arms, as she
was gliding to the floor.

"Poor child!" he muttered, as he held her reverently, and then placed
her in a reclining chair, while a shadow of pain passed across his face,
as he felt for whom this display of trouble and suffering was caused.

"It is nothing, nothing, Mr Selwood--aunt," faltered Eve, fighting
bravely to over come her weakness; "but, aunt, you will not let him go.
Mr Selwood, you will not let him be hurt."

"No, my child, no," he said sadly, "not if my arm can save him."

"Thank you; I knew you would say so, you are so brave and strong," she
cried, kissing his hand; and as her lips touched the firm, starting
veins, a strange hot thrill of excitement passed through his nerves, but
only to be quenched by the bitter flood of misery that succeeded it; and
then, making a mighty effort over self, he turned to Mrs Glaire, who
was speaking:

"But are you sure--do you think it is true?" she exclaimed.

"I believe it," he said quietly; "and it is absolutely necessary that he
should on no pretence leave the house."

"And who says I am to be a prisoner?" asked Richard, entering the room.

"I, for one," said the vicar, "if you value your safety, I may say your
life."

"And by what right do you come meddling again with my private affairs?"
said Richard, offensively.

"The right of every man who sees his neighbour's life in danger to come
and warn him."

"Then don't warn me," said Richard; "I don't want warning.  It's all
rubbish."

"It is no rubbish that a certain party of the men are holding meetings
and threatening to injure you," said the vicar, rather warmly.

"Bah! they're always doing that, and it don't frighten me," said
Richard, coarsely.

"Then you were not going, Richard?" said his mother, eagerly.  "You were
not thinking of being so mad?"

"Going? no; not I," said Richard, "though I don't see anything mad in
it."

Eve gave a sigh of relief, which sounded like a knell to the vicar, who,
however, said frankly:

"I am very glad, then, that I have been deceived."

"And," said Richard, sneeringly, "next time you hear a cock-and-bull
story about me, perhaps you will keep it to yourself, sir, and leave me
to go my ways in peace."

"Richard!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, while, with a flush of shame upon her
face, Eve rose and hastily placed her hand in the vicar's, saying
softly:

"Oh, Mr Selwood."

Only those three words, but they were balm to him, as he pressed the
soft little hand, and raised it to his lips, while, stung by this
display, Richard started forward to make some offensive observation, but
the door opened, and the maid appeared.

"Well, what is it?" cried Richard.  "Why didn't you knock?"

"I did, sir," said the girl, "but you didn't hear.  Jacky Budd says,
sir, he can't carry your portmantle across the close because of the
stiles, and he must take it to the station in a barrow."

"In time for the mail-train, Mr Glaire?" said the vicar, in spite of
himself, though, for Eve's sake, he regretted it afterwards.

"Damn!" snarled Richard.  "No,--go away.  Such fools."

He ground his teeth and stamped about the room, while Mrs Glaire's eyes
sought those of the vicar, and in her apologetic look he read plainly
enough the mother's shame for the graceless boy she had brought into the
world.

The look of triumph passed from his countenance as rapidly as it had
come, as he caught a glance of sorrow and appeal from Eve, which seemed
to say, "Forgive him, and save him against himself."

"You will give up all thought of going now, Mr Glaire," he said,
quietly.  "Of course you wished to keep your departure a secret; but you
see the intelligence reached me, and is now perhaps the property of the
whole town."

"Through you?" said Richard, recovering himself, and speaking with a
cunning sneer upon his face.

"This is no time for sneers, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, calmly.  "The
information was brought to me direct from the meeting."

"By one of your spies?"

"By one of the workmen whom I have made my friend, and whom you have
made your enemy; and he sends me as his messenger to pour coals of fire
upon your head, saying, `Save this man, for if he goes out to-night it
may be at the cost of his life.'  Mr Glaire, you will not go now?"

"Not go!" roared Richard, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table.
"But I will go.  Look here; I start from this house at seven o'clock to
catch the mail-train; now go and tell the scoundrels you have made your
friends--the men you have encouraged in their strike against me."

"I encouraged them?" said the vicar, smiling at the absurdity of the
charge, when he had striven so bravely for peace.

"Yes; you who have fed their wives and children, and lent them money so
as to enable them to hold out against me--you, whose coming has been a
curse to the place, for you have fostered the strike from the
beginning."

"There is no time to argue that, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, quietly;
"and let me advise you once more.  Give up this foolish idea of leaving,
if not for your own sake, for that of your mother and your cousin here."

"I shall not," cried Richard.  "I have made my arrangements, and I shall
go, and let the blood of the man be on his own head who tries to stop
me."

"As you will," said the vicar, calmly, as he turned to go.

"Mr Selwood!"

"Mr Selwood!"

The two women appealed to him in a breath, but he did not look at them,
merely fixed Richard with his eyes, as he said quietly:

"Then you must be saved against your will."

The next minute he was gone.

Volume 2, Chapter XVI.

SAVED IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.

The street was getting pretty full of people as the vicar walked sharply
back towards his house, but they were all remarkably quiet.  Sim Slee
was there, but he turned off down a side lane, and there was this ugly
appearance in their mien, that those who generally had a nod and smile
for him refused now to meet the vicar's eye.

He knew it would be madness to try and persuade Sim's party against
their plans, and only so much wasted time, so he contented himself with
preparing his own, and, to his great satisfaction, found Tom Podmore and
his other ally in waiting.

As he was passing the Bull and Cucumber though, Robinson, the landlord,
made a sign to him that he wished to speak, and the vicar went up to
him.

"Ah, Robinson, how's your wife?"

"She's a very poor creature, sir.  She coot her hand the other day with
a bit of pot--old cheeny, and it's gone bad.  She hasn't looked so bad
ta year as she does now."

"I'm sorry to hear this."

"It's a bad job, sir, for she can't side the room, or remble the kitchen
things, or owt.  She tried to sile the milk this morning, and had to
give it up, and let the lass do it instead."

"Sile the milk?" said the vicar.  "Ah, you mean strain it?"

"Ah, wi' uz," said the landlord, "we always call it sile.  We strain a
thing through a temse."

"Oh, do you?" said the vicar, wondering whether there was any connection
between temse and tammies or tammy cloth.  "But you were going to say
something important to me, were you not?"

"Well, I weer, sir; only I shouldn't like it to seem to ha' come from
me.  Fact is, I were down at bottom o' the close in the bit of a beck,
picking some watter cress for tea, and fine and wetcherd [wet shod] I
got, when, as I was a stooping there, I heered Master Sim Slee cooming
along wi' two or three more, and blathering about; and I heerd him
talking o' you and Master Dicky Glaire, and it were plain enew that they
was makking some plans, and not for good, mind you.  I hadn't going to
tell tales out o' school, but if you'd keep at home to-night, parson--"

"You fancy there's mischief brewing?" said the vicar, sternly.

"Well, yes, sir, I do," said the landlord.  "You see, the men hold a
kind of lodge or brotherhood meeting at my place, and I can't help
knowing of some o' their doings."

"Well, Mr Robinson, if mischief is brewing, it's my business to try and
spoil the brew; so I am going out to-night, and if you've any respect
for me, you'll come and help me in my task."

He hurried on, and a short time after, the landlord saw him go by, with
Tom Podmore and John Maine following at a short distance.

"Parson's a chap with brains in his head," said the landlord.  "He's got
a couple o' good bull-dogs to tramp at his heels; and, dal me, if they
aint beckoned Big Harry to 'em.  Well, I'll go too.  I aint going to
faight; but if I see any man hit parson, dal me, but I'll gi'e him a
blob."

The vicar was not without hope that Richard would think better of the
matter, and keep indoors, and after a turn or two up and down the
street, which was pretty well thronged, the men looking stolid and
heavy, but civilly making way for him, and always with a friendly word,
it seemed as if there was nothing to fear, when from the lane at the
side of the Big House there came a loud shout, and in an instant the
whole of the men in the High Street seemed galvanised into life.

The vicar made for the lane, and had nearly reached it, when he saw
Richard Glaire hatless and with his coat half-ripped from his back, rush
out, pursued by shout and cry; and before the vicar and his little band
of followers could get up, the young man was surrounded by a knot of men
striking at him savagely, one of them hitting up the hand that held a
pistol, which exploded, the bullet striking the opposite wall far over
the heads of his assailants, and the weapon then fell to the ground.

A storm of furious cries arose, above which was a wild shriek from one
of the windows of the big house--a shriek that sent two-fold vigour to
the vicar's arms, as he struggled with the crowd that kept him back.

"Quick, Tom!  Maine!  Harry!" he cried.  "Now, a rush together," he
said, as they forced themselves to his side; and with all their might
they made for the spot where Richard Glaire seemed to be undergoing the
fate of being torn to pieces, for he was now stripped to shirt and
trousers, and his face was bleeding; but, literally at bay, he fought
savagely for his life.

The dash made by Mr Selwood saved him for the time, for though the
vicar and his followers, with whom was now the landlord, did not reach
the young man, they rent the crowd of assailants so as to make an avenue
for him to escape, and he darted off at full speed towards the vicarage.

"My house, Glaire," shouted the vicar.  "No, the church," amidst the
storm of yells and cries, as he tried to fight his way free.

"After him, lads!" cried the shrill voice of Sim Slee; "and down wi'
them as interferes."

"Dal me, if I don't feel the brains of any man as hurts parson," cried
the stentorian voice of one of the ringleaders.  "Howd him, boys, and
them others too.  Give up, parson: it's no good to faight for that
blaguard."

"If you are men and not cowards--" shouted the vicar, but his voice was
drowned, he was seized by three men who held him good-temperedly enough
in spite of his struggles, and with sinking heart, he found himself,
separated from his followers, Big Harry being down with six men sitting
on him to quell the mighty heaves he gave to set himself free.

"We wean't hurt thee, parson," said one of the men who kept him and his
fellows prisoners.  "See there, lads!"

He went down like a shot, for, by a clever twist learnt in wrestling,
the vicar upset him on to the men holding Harry, and then by a mighty
effort set himself at liberty, so staggering his captors that Harry got
free as well.  Then there was a charge, and Tom Podmore was up, and
these three ran down the street after the crowd who pursued Richard.

"Harry, my lad!  Tom, stick to me," cried the vicar, panting for breath.
"I shall never forgive myself or be forgiven if harm comes to that
young man," he added to himself; and then dashing on with about as
unclerical an aspect as was possible, he rapidly gained on Richard's
pursuers, with Tom behind him, and Big Harry lumbering like an elephant
at his heels.

Meanwhile the whole town was at the windows or in the streets; children
were crying and women shrieking, while the more prudent tradespeople
were busily putting up their "shuts."  As for Richard, he had gone off
like a hunted hare, doubling here and there to avoid the blows struck at
him, and more than once it seemed as if he would escape; but the men had
taken their steps well, and knowing that he would make for the station
road, there was always a picket ready to cut him off, and drive him back
to run the gauntlet afresh.

He had not heard the vicar's words, which were drowned by the savage
hoots and yells, mingled with curses upon him, from half-starved women;
but, oddly enough, he made straight for the house of the very man whom
he hated, and nearly reached it, but was headed back, and fainting and
exhausted, he only escaped capture by a clever double, by leaping a
hedge, crossing the vicarage garden, and leaping another hedge, landing
in the pasture-land leading towards Joe Banks's cottage, the vicarage
standing at the apex formed by the roads leading to Ranby and the open
land.

This double made a number of his pursuers run round by the road, and
gave time to the vicar and his followers to close up to the hunted man.

"Make for the church," cried the vicar, who was close behind now; but
his words were unheeded.  All he could do was to get nearly behind the
young man, determined to turn and face the crowd when they came up; but
Richard, maddened with fear, paid no heed to advice, his breath was
failing, he tottered, and was ready to fall; the pursuers gained upon
them, and at last seeing the harbour, the hunted man dashed through the
gate, in at Joe Banks's open door, closely followed by the vicar, Tom,
and Big Harry, and then stood at bay in the farthest corner.

"Help, quick!  Banks, help!" cried the vicar hoarsely, and recovering
from his astonishment, the foreman picked up the heavy poker, and joined
the little rank of defenders, a swing of the iron forming a space which
none of those who crowded into the room, and darkened door and window as
they thronged the garden, dared to cross.

"Stand back, you cowards!" cried the foreman, flushing with rage, and
forgetting his own trouble in the excitement of the moment.

"Gi'e him up! drag him out!" was roared.

"A hundred on you to four!" cried Joe.  "Stand back, or I'll brain the
first man who comes near."

"We don't want to hurt thee, Joe Banks," cried a voice.  "Nor the
parson, nor the others; but we wean't go wi'out Richard Glaire."

"Back! every man of you," cried the vicar.  "Shame, cowards, shame!"

"Aw raight, parson," cried another.  "It's cowardly mebbe, but we mean
to hev him aw the same."

"If you hev him, you'll hev to tak' me first," cried Joe Banks,
fiercely.  "You, Big Harry, hev the legs out o' that deaf Tommy table,
and gi'e one apiece to Parson and Tom."

The men tried to stop him, but a swing from Joe's poker sent them back,
and the Hercules of the hammer seized the little three-legged table,
shattered it in a moment, and armed his companions with the thick heavy
cudgels that had formed its supports.

"Now, lads, we're ready for you," said Joe, grimly.  "Hit hard at the
first as tries to lay a finger on the maister."

There was a groan at this, taken up from without, those in the garden
clamouring at those within to drag out Dicky Glaire.

"Down wi' him, lads; down wi' him," cried a high-pitched voice; and Sim
Slee, panting with his exertions, partly edged his way and partly was
lifted in.

"I'll down wi' thee, thou prating fool!" cried Joe fiercely.  "Are ye
men, to listen to that maulkin?"

"Yes, they are," cried Sim; "and you're an owd fool to faight."

"Shall we try to drive them out, Banks?" whispered the vicar.

"No good," said Joe, sturdily.  "Let's hear what they've gotten to say;
it'll give you and the others breath, and mebbe by that time the maister
can faight a bit, too.  I'm an owd fool, am I?" he said, "eh, Sim Slee?"

"Yes; to faight for the man as has gotten away thee bairn."

"Thou lies, thou chattering jay," cried the old man furiously; "say it
again, and I'll brain thee."

"I do say it again," cried Sim, who was quite out of the foreman's
reach.  "It's true, aint it, lads?"

"Yes, yes, he's gotten her away."

"It's a lie," cried Joe Banks again.  "Tell 'em, Maister Dick; tell the
cowards they lie."

"Yes, yes," said Richard hoarsely, as he stood now leaning against the
wall, bathed in perspiration, bleeding, ragged, haggard, and faint.  "I
have not got her away."

"Thee lies, Dick Glaire," shrieked Sim.  "He paid me to get her awaya,
and I wouldn't do it."

"It's false," cried Richard again, as he looked round at his fierce
pursuers, and then at the doors and windows for a way of escape.

"It's true," cried Sim, exultantly.  "It's my turn now, Dick Glaire.
Yow'd smite me and coot me feace for not doing thee dirty work, will ta?
Now harkye here, lads, at this."

He drew a piece of paper from his pocket, and read aloud:--

"Be ready at nine to-night.  She'll join you by the gate of Lamby's
close; then straight off with her to the station, take your tickets, as
I told you, to London, and stay with her at the address I gave you till
I come."

"Now then, Joe Banks," he said, holding out the note, "whose writing's
that?"

"It's a lie--a forgery," cried Richard, whose face now was of a sickly
green.

Joe Banks passed his hand before his face, and seemed dazed for a
moment; then, catching at the note, he took a candle from the drawers on
which it stood, and, as he did so, Richard started forward, and made a
snatch at the paper, but a menacing movement on the part of the crowd
made him start back, while the vicar looked from face to face, and saw
Tom Podmore's stern scowl, and the fire gathered in Joe Banks's eyes.

"He'll murder him," he said to himself; and, shifting his position, he
got between Joe and Richard Glaire.

"Hold your tongue, for your life," he whispered to the trembling man.
"Your only chance is to beg for his mercy: for his child's sake.  Daisy
must be your wife."

"Curse you!" cried Richard, through his teeth.  "You were always against
me."

Then he shrank back trembling against the wall, as in the midst of
profound silence, the old man read the letter straight through.

"Who gi'e thee this, Sim Slee?" he said twice in a husky voice.

"Dicky Glaire."

"No, no," gasped Richard; "a lie--a lie.  It's a forgery.  I did not get
away Daisy Banks; so help me God, I didn't, Joe."

"Damn thee for a liar!" cried the old man, furiously; and before the
vicar could prevent him, he had Richard by the throat, and down upon his
knees, faintly protesting his innocence.  "It's no forgery.  It's thee
own false writing same as these," he cried; "your cursed love-letters to
my poor bairn."

He tore a bundle of notes from his breast, notes Richard had warned poor
Daisy to burn, but which the weak girl had treasured up in secret, to be
found in her room when she had gone.

"Look!" he cried, as he held Sim Slee's fatal note of instructions out
beside the others; "are these lies and forgeries?  Mebbe you think I'll
believe thee now, as I've troosted thee throughout.  Didn't I think thou
wert thy poor owd father's honest son--the gentleman he had tried to
mak' thee?  Didn't I stand by thee when all ta town was again thee, fowt
for thee, looked on thee as my son, and you turn and sting me like a
cowardly snake in the grass?"

"He did, Joe, he did," cried a voice in the crowd, as they stood back
now, content to watch for the punishment that should fall on their
enemy, while Sim Slee, the man who had betrayed him, smiled like a
despicable modern Judas, gloating in the revenge he was taking on the
employer who had struck him in the face.

"Damn thee, be silent!" roared Joe, as, with a wild look of fury, he
seized the poker as if to strike, and Richard crouched to the ground,
and uttered a shriek of dread.

"For God's sake, Banks!" cried the vicar, catching at his arm, but
unable to stay him.  "Man, are you mad?"

"A'most, parson," he said, turning on him.  "Thou told me to tak' care;
thou gave me fair warning 'bout it all, and like a fool--no, like a man
who wouldn't believe it--I turned upon thee when thou wast raight, for I
couldn't and wouldn't believe he was such a liar and villain.  Look at
him, lads, look at the cold-blooded snake, as could stoop to ruin a poor
trustin' fool of all he held dear in life, and now all he has to say is
a lie."

"I am innocent, Joe, indeed," cried the young man.

"Thou lies," cried Banks, furiously; and he raised his weapon again, but
only to dash it into the fireplace.  Then, stooping, he caught the
shivering man by the throat, dragged him up, and held him against the
wall, while not a sound was heard but the panting of breath, and the
hoarse mutterings of the stricken father.

"Banks, Banks!" cried the vicar imploringly.

"Let me be, parson, let me be," he said in a low voice.  "Thou'rt a good
man, and may trust me."  Then aloud, "Richard Glaire, I'm a poor,
half-broken workman, and thou'st robbed me."

"No, no," panted Richard, "Mr Selwood, Harry, Podmore, help!"

"Silence," cried Joe Banks; "we've gotten thee, and thou tries to hide
it all by lying.  I've gotten thee, though, now, and my eyes are opened
to it all.  I could strangle thee where thou stands; but I promised thee
father I'd stand by thee, and I have again all men, as know'd thee for
what thou wast.  But I can't do it now, and kill, perhaps, every hope of
my poor bairn, so come."

He caught the young man tightly by the collar, and waved the others
aside, so that they fell back before him as he went out unmolested with
his prisoner into the starlit lane, and stood the centre of the crowd--
now at a respectful distance.

"My lads," he said, aloud, while the vicar, who had signed to his
companions to be ready, stood with every muscle strained to spring
forward and try to save the shivering man from violence.  "My lads, this
man's done you all a bad turn, but most of all to me."

There was a murmur of acquiescence at this.

"I've always fowt for ye when I could, but I've always stuck to the
maister," continued Joe, in a low, hoarse voice that was terrible in its
earnestness.

"You hev, Joe, you hev," was murmured, for the men were impressed by the
terrible earnestness of the old foreman.

"I've gotten something to ask of ye, then," said Joe.

"What is it?"

"Let me hev the punishment of this man--this cold-blooded villain."

"Yes, yes," rose like a whirlwind.

"And you'll leave him to me?" said Joe, through his teeth.

"Yes, yes."

"Joe, oh Joe, what are you going to do?" wailed his wife, coming panting
up, having returned from the next town by the train by which Richard
Glaire had meant to leave.

"Thou shalt see, moother," said Joe quietly; "I'm going to punish the
thief that stole our bairn."

"But, Joe!" cried Mrs Banks piteously.

"Howd thee tongue, and see," he cried sternly.  "Richard Glaire, thou'rt
a damned villain, but I can't strike down the man my poor bairn has
clasped in her poor weak arms.  The way's open to thee: go, and God's
mercy be held from thee if thou dost not make my poor child amends."

Richard Glaire tried to speak, but his tongue refused its office, and he
looked, shivering, from one to the other, as the stern old man stood
pointing up towards the town, while the men who, but a short time
before, were ready to tear and trample him under foot, stood back right
and left, leaving an open lane for him to pass.

"Banks, God bless you!" whispered the vicar, catching the old man's
hand.

"And you too, parson," said the other, simply.  "Mebbe you'll tak' him
home."

The help was needed, for Richard Glaire tottered as his arm was drawn
through the vicar's; and then, followed by Tom Podmore and the big
hammerman, they passed unmolested through the crowd, to find another
further on, consisting of the women of the place, who had restrained the
frantic mother and Eve Pelly from following; and the latter was kneeling
now in the midst of a knot of women beside poor Mrs Glaire.

"Lift her and carry her home, Harry," said the vicar; and the great
fellow raised Mrs Glaire like a babe.  "Podmore, I leave Miss Pelly to
you.  Somebody ask Mr Purley to come on to the house at once.  Quick.
By Jove, he has fainted!"

These latter words were to himself, as Richard Glaire staggered and
would have fallen but for the vicar's hold; and lifting him on his own
shoulder, he led the strange procession till they entered the house,
where he stayed with his two stout companions, John Maine going home, to
keep guard with the police, who now arrived after being locked in the
station and kept there by the men.

But there was no need, for the eruption was over, and the night's
silence was only broken by Richard's moans as he lay there bruised and
sore, mad almost against his men, and ready to rail at the whole world
for the injuries he had received.

Volume 2, Chapter XVII.

A DECEITFUL CALM.

After the storm came a calm, during which there was magisterial talk in
the neighbourhood to which reports of the proceedings had extended, of
sending for the military, of having additional police force in the town;
and then, as Richard Glaire made no movement, as no property was
destroyed, and the injury was confined to one man, the affair began to
be looked upon as an ordinary assault.

A good deal of this was due to the fact that trade troubles were not
uncommon, and so long as the policemen were not forced into taking
action by the magnitude of the offence, they found it better to close
their eyes to the proceedings, and not to interfere "till somebody
called murder."  In the riot in question the police had been
good-humouredly locked up, and kept prisoners, as their captors said,
laughing, "so as not to spoil their uniforms;" and, after a show of
resistance, when they were informed that the lads were "only going to
serve sum'un out," they came to the conclusion that the majesty of the
law, as represented by two officials, was no match for a hundred and
fifty excited men, and waited patiently till the affair was over.

The clerk of the two made his report, and waited on Richard Glaire, who,
being swathed and bandaged, and very sore, told him to go to the devil.

Then the constable asked him if he should get warrants out against
anybody--this at Richard Glaire's bedside.

"Yes, if you like," growled Richard.

"Will you give me their names, sir?" said the man.

"How can I give you their names, when I don't know them?  It was the
whole pack."

"But what am I to do, sir?" said the man, scratching his head.

"Get out!" said Richard.  "Wait till I'm better."

The constable saw the vicar downstairs, and tried him for names, but
with no better success; and the representative of law and order in the
little out-of-the-way town went back in no wise dissatisfied, for any
action against so strong a body of men would have been exceedingly
unpleasant, and not at all conducive to his future comfort amongst those
whom he looked upon as neighbours.

The search, too, for Daisy Banks ceased after the attack on Richard, for
on all sides the police were met with the same mocking question, "Hev
you asked Dick Glaire where she is?"

In fact, it was now an acknowledged fact that Richard Glaire was
answerable for her whereabouts, and no amount of denial had the
slightest effect on the people of Dumford.

Jacky Budd shook his head, looked red-nosed, and said nothing, but
implied a great deal.  In fact, Jacky was in great request, and was
asked to take a good deal to drink in the shape of gills of ale by
gossips wishful to know how matters went on at the Big House, where
Richard Glaire was at first a prisoner perforce, and later on from
choice.

Everybody said that Jacky Budd was as great a "shack" as Sim Slee; but,
like that worthy, it was his harvest time, and he was of great
importance in the place.

Not that he had much to report, but he dressed up his meagre bits of
knowledge, and hinted that the vicar was forbidden the house.

"Young Dicky said he'd shute him if he come on the premises again."

"Why?" said some one.

"Why," replied Jacky, with a wince, "because he's jealous of him; thinks
he wants the owd woman."

This report reached the ears of Miss Purley, who immediately put on her
bonnet, and went down the street to Miss Primgeon, taking tea with that
lady, whom she kissed affectionately for the first time since the
vicar's arrival; and Miss Primgeon called her "dear," and kissed her
also affectionately, confidences growing to such an extent that Miss
Primgeon brought out and showed a pair of braces she had been
embroidering for somebody; and, in return, Miss Purley displayed the
crown of a smoking-cap in purple velvet, with "a dicky bird" in white
beads, sitting on a crimson floss silk twig; and then both ladies called
each other "dear" again, and shed tears on the top of the smoking-cap
and over the braces, re-embroidering them as it were with pearls, while
they talked of the terribly fragile nature of human hopes, the weakness
of man, and the artfulness of elderly widows.

The quantity of tea changed by a process of natural chemistry into tears
that night was something astounding before the ladies separated.

Sim Slee was in high feather, too, and reached home several nights in a
glorified state, spending some little time before retiring to rest in
performing strange acts in his stocking feet.

Mrs Slee always waited up for him on her return from the vicarage, and
generally gave him what he termed "a tongue thrashing for nowt."

"Coming home in such a state!" she'd exclaim.  "Wher ha' ye been
goozening to now?  What would the parson say?"

"I don't care nowt for parson or anybody, and what do you mean with your
state.  I've ony been as far as the corner."

At such times Sim would pull off his boots with some difficulty, for he
had the peculiarity of being perfectly sober as far as his waist, while
his legs would be in such a disgraceful state of intoxication that he
did not reach home without their throwing the upper part of his body
several times on the ground.  The boots being removed, Sim would sit
before the fire talking to himself, and working his toes about in his
coarse knitted stockings.

"Why can't you put on your slippers, Sim?"  Mrs Sim would say.

"I wean't," he'd answer.  "I'm not going to be ordered about by a woman.
I'm a man."

"You're a nasty drunken pig," exclaimed Mrs Slee.

"What!" he would say indignantly, "drunk!  Heven't had a glass.  I never
have a bit o' peace o' my life.  Tant-tant-tant all day long, driving me
away from home.  Ugh, you know nowt but nastiness.  You always weer
nasty.  Go to bed."

Volume 2, Chapter XVIII.

SIM SLEE'S PATRIOTISM.

Then Mrs Slee would tighten up her lips, look as if she would like to
box her lord's ears, and end sometimes by doing it, Sim appealing to
"Moother" for mercy till she went upstairs, when Sim would get up from
the floor, where he had thrown himself, and rub his ears till they
ceased tingling, and end by winking to himself and performing the
strange movements alluded to in the previous chapter.

At these times, in spite of the very liberal quantity of ale indulged in
at his own and other people's expense, Sim's head would be perfectly
clear; and knowing, from old experience, that as soon as he had lain
down and gone fast asleep, Mrs Slee would get up and empty his pockets,
he would proceed to conceal his money.  Half-crowns were placed up the
chimney, a half-sovereign on the ledge over a door, shillings in corners
not likely to be swept, under chimney ornaments, and on the tops of
picture frames, his great hoard at this time being under an old scrubby
geranium, growing--or rather existing, for it had long ceased to grow--
in a pot in the window--a favourite plant of Mrs Slee's, as she had
kept it through the winter for years.  So matted together were its
roots, that if the stem were taken in the hand the whole of the earth
came out quite clean in its basket of fibres, and beneath this, in the
bottom of the pot, Sim had placed five golden sovereigns, nicely
arranged round the hole, on the night after the riot, the geranium being
replaced, and all looking as before.

The next morning Mrs Slee was up a long while the first, as usual, and
as was her custom when Sim had been bad over night, she made a tour of
the place, finding and gleaning up coins of various value, wondering the
while where Sim obtained the money that she transferred to her ample
pocket, hidden by drapery and folds at a great depth from the surface.

Just as she was finishing, she caught sight of the pot, and saw that it
had been removed over night, for the water that had drained into the
earthen saucer had, when the pot was moved, dripped on the floor.

A grim smile overspread her countenance as she lifted pot and saucer
together, and looked beneath, to see nothing.  Even the pot was lifted
from the saucer, and with like result, when, replacing it, the wet pot
slipped, and Mrs Slee caught at the stem of the plant, with the result
that she held geranium in one hand, pot in the other, and saw the five
glittering gold pieces at the bottom.

She clutched them eagerly, and hid them away, replaced the pot, and then
stood thinking.

"Where does he get his money?" she said, looking grimly.  "I'll speak to
parson."

Mrs Slee had been gone a couple of hours before Sim descended to
partake of the breakfast placed ready for him, all the while battling
with his infirmity.

It was one that always troubled him after a night's excess, for, though
Sim's head was clear enough over night when he hid his money, the
over-excited brain refused to act next morning, and a thick veil was
drawn between the eve and the morrow.  There was always the dim
recollection of having hidden his money, but that was all; and in this
case as in others, pot, door-ledge, pictures, all had passed away from
his memory, and there was a blank in answer to his oft-repeated
question--"Where did I put that money?"  It was a blessing in disguise
for Sim, though he did not know it.  But for this, and his wife's
tenacious grasp of all she found, none of which went directly back to
Sim, he would have been without a roof to cover his head years before,
and many a pound that he accredited himself with having spent in gills
of ale and standing treat had really gone into his wife's pocket.

"Well, this wean't do," he said at last; "money's gone, and I shall get
no more out o' Dicky Glaire."

"He'll be pretty sick o' his lock-out by this time," said Sim, as he
laced his boots.  "That was a fine plan wi' them bands.  It's kep the
strike on, and it's easier than wucking your fingers to the bone.
Wonder how long they'll keep it oop.  Well, here goes."

He went out, and had not gone far before he met the vicar, who stopped
to speak to him; but Sim, to use his own words, "coot him dead," making
his way right off through the town, where he stopped for a bit of
bombastic "blather," as his associates called it, on the success of
their attack on Richard.

"He had the finest leathering he ever had in his life," said Sim.

"And what good's it going to do?" said one of the men, in a grumbling
tone.

"What good?  Open thee eyes, mun, and see for your sen.  Good?  It'll
bring him to his senses, and he'll come round and ask on his knees for
us to go to work, and then we'll mak' our own terms."

"And if he wean't come round," said another, "what then?"

Sim stooped to the man's ear, and whispered something.

"Eh, mun, but we wouldn't do that, would we?"

"Howd thee tongue," said Sim.  "Wait and see.  I've got a friend coming
down to-day as can settle all these things.  I'm going to meet him at
the station, and he's going to stay here till things is settled."

"And who's going to keep un?" said another man.  "I can't keep mysen."

"All on you, o' course," said Sim.  "You keep a good heart, lad, and all
will be as raight as raight."

"But that would be coming it strange and strong, man," said the first
speaker.

"Strong diseases want strong doses, lad," said Sim, winking.  "But don't
you wherrit yoursen.  There's them in the Brotherhood as is looking
after your interests, and we shall all come off wi' flying colours."

"I dessay we shall," said the man, in a discontented tone; "but I want
to hear them theer furnaces a-roaring agen, and the firemen's shovels
rattling in the coals, and the brass a-chinking in the box o' pay
nights.  Dal the strike, I say."

"But it aint a strike now," said Sim, didactically.  "Don't you see,
it's a lock-out."

"It's all the same," said another, sulkily.  "Theer aint no brass to
tak', and the missus and the bairns is pined to dead wi' hunger, and
starved to dead for want of a bit o' fire."

"But you get the society money," said Sim, indignantly.

"Yah! what's that to a man in full fettle!  Just pays for bread, and you
can't buy a decent weigh o' meat for fear o' waring it all at once."

"Yes," said another; "it's like club money when a man's sick and can't
wuck."

"Raight enew, then," said another; "bud a man wants wuck as well as
something to yeat.  It's strange, coarse weather for us as far as
yeating and drinking goes.  Why, my bairns heven't hed a bit of bootther
sin' the strike begun."

"A man need be as tiff as a band to stand it all," said another.

"Ay, tough as a bont whong," said another.

"Well, I shall be a very poor creature," said another, "if this here's
going to last.  I'm 'bout pined to dead now."

"I shall flit and get wuck somewheer else."

"Iver get berry pie for dinner now, Sim Slee?" said another, alluding to
a favourite luxury of Sim's, who was accredited with having stolen a
neighbour's gooseberries to make the famous berry pie.

Here there was a bit of a laugh, a good sign, for the men seemed ripe
for mischief.

"His missus gives him tongue for breakfast ivery morning," said another.

"Sim, come home wi' uz and hev a bit o' custard," said another, and
there was a general laugh from the gaunt-looking men.

"Nice bit o' stuffed chine at my place, Sim," said another; and one
after the other, men, whose fare had been bread and potatoes for many
days, gave their great orator invitations to partake of the popular
delicacies of the place.

"Tellee what," said big Harry, coming up, "I mean to have somebody's
thack off if this game arn't soon over."

"I hadn't going to say much," said Sim, who had been standing with
folded arms, looking contemptuously at the crowd around; "but, I say
this--if I was to go on as you do I'd hate mysen.  Wheer's your
paytriotism?  Wheer's your risings against tyranny?  Wheer's your
British wucking man rising like a lion in his might?"

"Yes," said a shrill female voice from a window, "but your British lion
wucking man wants his dinner, don't he?"

There was a roar of laughter at this.  "Yah!" said Sim, contemptuously.
"Why do I wuck mysen to death for you all, to be badgered for it?"

"I don't know," said the same voice from the window, sounding more
shrill than ever, "but I know this, Sim Slee, that my bairns is all
pining, while their father's doing nowt but walk about wi' his hands in
his pockets, and if things don't soon change, some o' them as got up
this strike 'll be put oonder the poomp, and if the men don't do it uz
women will."

Sim folded his arms, looked round contemptuously as there rose another
shout of laughter, and stalked off to walk to the station and meet the
deputation, as he called the man he had invited to come down.

Volume 2, Chapter XIX.

THE FOREMAN'S APOLOGY.

There was, indeed, a calm, but to the vicar it seemed a very deceitful
one, and he spent many an uneasy hour in thinking whether it was likely
when the men grew excited they would attack the house; but he always
came back to the conclusion that Richard would be safe there, so long as
he did nothing more to exasperate his workmen.

During visits to the house, Mrs Glaire, with tears, avowed that she
could do nothing, only hope, for Richard was stubbornness itself, and
when for a moment he thought of inducing Eve to play the part of
intercessor, the poor girl's wan and piteous look pained him so that he
could not ask her, and it was brought thoroughly home to him that she
must love Richard very dearly, though now they were cruelly estranged;
and as he sat and gazed upon her, and grew more and more intimate,
learning the sweet truth of her nature, and thorough self-denial, he
felt half maddened to think she should be thrown away upon such a man,
and told himself that he would gladly have seen her wedded to any one to
escape so terrible a union.

The past and Daisy Banks were quite ignored.  She was a trouble that had
come upon the mother and cousin's life, but she was removed apparently
from their path, unless some of the letters Richard so regularly wrote
were for her.

Murray felt his position in connection with the family acutely.  The
rumour spread by Budd as to his being forbidden the house was false, but
scarcely a day passed when Richard came down, after indulging himself a
week in bed to cure ills from which he really did not suffer, but for
which stout Mr Purley doctored him stolidly, and made his sister enter
them in the day-book when he got home--scarcely a day passed without the
vicar having to submit to some insult.

He would have stayed away, but for Mrs Glaire, who looked to him for
her support in this time of trouble; and he would have avoided Eve's
society, dear to him as it was, but for the sweet ingenuous looks with
which she greeted him, and laid bare her innocent, truthful heart to his
gaze.  To her he was dear Mr Selwood, whose hands she had kissed when
he promised her to leave no stone unturned to bring Richard to the path
of duty; and her belief in him was, that with his strong mind and
knowledge of the world, he would do this, that Richard would be quite
reformed; and make her, to her aunt's lasting happiness, a good and
loving husband.

And she--does she love him? the vicar often asked himself, and he was
compelled to answer, "No!"

For there was no deep passion, only the sorrow for Richard's frailties,
the disappointment and bitterness of the young girl, who finds the man
to whom she is betrothed is a scoundrel, and fights with self to keep
from believing it.  No, Eve did not love him with all her heart, for a
true love passion had never yet gained an entrance.  Richard was to be
her husband; that was settled; and some day, when he showed his sorrow
and repented, she would forgive him, and become his wife.

And had she the least idea that another loved her?

Not the least.  Mr Selwood was her and her aunt's dear friend, working
with them for the same end, and some day in the future, when Richard was
forgiven, he would make them man and wife.

This was the state of Eve's heart at the present period of the story;
but a change was coming--a look, a word, or a touch, something had
thrilled one of the fibres of Eve's being, directly after the saving of
Richard from his men; and, though innocent of its meaning, the first
germ of a thought which she came afterwards to term "disloyal to
Richard," was planted in her heart, and began to grow.

The vicar was at home, busy over his garden.  It had been a busy
morning, and Mrs Slee had informed him that she was "dead bet."  And
she must have been tired, for fully a hundred people had been for relief
that morning, the munificent sums the young vicar devoted to the
workmen's families having been of late supplemented by money furnished
by Mrs Glaire.

"Richard must never know," she said; "but I feel bound to do something
towards alleviating the distress caused by his obstinacy."

The result was that soup and bread were supplied, and no one came to the
vicarage without getting some assistance.

"Thee'll give all thee's got away, and leave nowt for thee sen," said
Mrs Slee to him crossly, when the distribution was over, and the people
gone.

"You're tired," said the vicar, smiling.

"Nay, I'm not," said Mrs Slee; "but it makes me mad."

"What makes you mad?"

"Why, to see you finding money, and trouble, and me helping you, to keep
the poor silly women and bairns from pining, when my maister's doing all
he can to keep the men from going to work.  It makes me hate my sen."

"Well, but we can't help it, Mrs Slee."

"No," she retorted; "but half of them don't deserve it."

"If we waited to be charitable till only those who deserved it came,
Mrs Slee, you need not make so much soup, and shins of beef would not
be so scarce."

"You're raight theer, sir," said Mrs Slee, speaking a little less
vinegary to the man whom, in spite of her short, snappish ways, she
almost worshipped, and would do anything to serve.  In fact, Mrs Slee
had, since her instalment as housekeeper to the vicar, grown less
angular and pasty of face, even approaching to her old comeliness.  Not
from idleness, though, for the neat maidservant, who was her assistant,
had almost a sinecure for place, Mrs Slee insisting on making bread,
cooking, "rembling" and "siding," as she termed it; in short, she
monopolised nearly the whole of the work, and the place was a model of
neatness and perfection.

"One's obliged to do the best one can, Mrs Slee, and be content to
leave the working and result to wiser hands."

"Oh yes, sir, that's raight enew; but it makes me mad for all them big
owry fellows to be idle 'bout a quarrel, and their missusses looking all
poor creatures, and their bairns as wankle as wankle for want o' better
food, when there ought to be bacon and pig cheer and ony mander o' thing
they want.  It's time some on 'em give ower, instead o' leaving their
wives scratting about to keep body and soul together."

"I keep hoping matters will mend," said the vicar.

"Here's some un else to wherrit you," said Mrs Slee, hearing the gate
bang.  "Why, I never saw such a sight in my life.  It's Joe Banks."

The vicar was surprised, and rose as Joe Banks, looking years older, was
shown in by Mrs Slee, who counteracted her longing to know his business
by hurriedly going out, making her way into the kitchen, and attacking a
pancheon of dough, which had been put to the fire to rise, and was now
ready to pour over the side like a dough eruption, and run down and
solidify as bread.

This was, however, by the help of flour, soon reduced to normal
proportions, banged into tins, and thrust into the oven, Mrs Slee
performing each part of her task as if she were very angry with the
compound, and desirous of punishing it for being so good.  But it was a
way she had, induced by the behaviour of her master, Simeon Slee.

Meanwhile, Joe Banks, in spite of the friendly welcome he had received,
refused to sit down, but stood leaning on the stick he carried.

"Nay, parson, nay," he said, "I haven't come to stop.  I just thowt I'd
act like a man now, and say I arks your pardon, sir, hearty like, and
wi' all my heart."

"My pardon, for what, Banks?"

"For acting like a fond, foolish owd father the other day, and giving ye
the rough side of my tongue, when you came to gi' me good advice."

"Oh, don't talk about that, man, pray."

"Yes, I thowt I would, because I ought to ha' knowd better, and not been
such a blind owd owl.  But there you know, parson--and I suppose you're
used to it--them as you goes to advise always coots oop rough.  So I
thowt, as I said, I'd arsk your pardon."

"If I've anything to pardon, Banks, it was forgiven the next minute.  I
look upon life as too short, and the work we have to do as too much, to
allow room for nursing up such troubles as that."

"Don't say any more, parson," said Joe, wringing his hand, with a grip
of iron; "it makes me feel 'shamed like o' my sen."

"I don't see why," said the vicar.  "If I had been a father I dare say I
should have done the same."

"Down on your knees to-night, parson, and pray as you never may be,"
cried the old man fiercely; "that you may never nurse and bring up and
love a bairn whom you toil for all your life, to find she throws you
over for the first face that pleases her."

"But we are not quite certain yet, Banks," said the vicar, laying his
hand on the other's arm.

"Yes, I am," said Banks, sturdily.  "I know enew to satisfy me; but stop
a moment, I meant to have a word about that, and let's have it at once.
It's all my own doing, I know, but there it is, and it can't be undone.
Tell me, though, parson, can you say from your heart, `Joe Banks, you're
mista'en; I don't think Richard Glaire--Richard Glaire--dal me!  I will
say it.'"

The old man's voice turned hoarse, and shook at last, so that he could
not speak, as he came to Richard Glaire's name, when, after an effort,
he exclaimed as above, and then went on--"I don't think Richard Glaire
stole away your bairn?"

There was silence in the room, as the vicar looked sorrowfully in the
keen eyes of Daisy's father.

"I say, parson," he repeated, "can you say fro' your heart, `Joe Banks,
you're mista'en; I don't think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?'"

There was another pause, and Joe Banks spoke again.

"Can you say that, parson?"

"No, Banks," said the vicar, sadly.  "I may be mistaken, but I cannot
say what you wish."

"Thanky, parson, thanky," said the old man, quietly.  "You'll shake
hands with me afore I go."

"Indeed I will, Mr Banks; indeed I will," said the vicar, heartily.
"But you are not going yet."

"Yes, I'm going now, parson, and if in the time as is to come you hear
owt as isn't good of me, put it down to circumstances.  You will, wean't
you?"

"You're not going away, Banks?"

"Nay, nay, man, I'm not going away.  Just do as I say, that's all."

"How is your wife?  I hope better.  She seemed ill yesterday."

"Ah, ah, you called yesterday, as she said.  Thanky, she's on'y a poor
creature now.  This job's unsattled her.  Good-bye, parson, good-bye."

"But is there anything I can do for you, Banks?"

"Nay, parson, nowt as I knows on.  Good-bye, good-bye."

He shook hands, and went quietly out to the garden, and along the path,
leaving the vicar wondering.

"Did he mean anything by his words?" the vicar said, "or was it only in
connection with asking me to forgive him?  He couldn't mean--oh, no,
he's too calm and subdued for that.  He's like a man who knows the worst
now, and is better able to bear it.  I should be glad to see the
lock-out at an end, but, even if it were, that poor old man would never
go to work for Richard Glaire again."

Volume 2, Chapter XX.

AT DUMFORD CHURCH.

The vicar used to look sadly at his church every Sunday, at the
damp-stained walls, the unpainted high deal pews, with their
straw-plaited cushions and hassocks, dotted with exceptions, where the
better-off inhabitants had green baize, and in the case of the doctor's,
the lawyer's, and the Big House pews, scarlet moreen cushions.

It was a dreary, damp place, with a few ugly old tablets, and one large
monument, which nearly half filled the little chancel with its clumsy
wrought-iron railings, enclosing the gilded and painted marble effigies
of Roger de Dumford and Dame Alys, his wife, uncomfortably lying on
their backs on a cushion not large enough for them, and turning up the
rosetted shoes that they wore in the most ungainly way.  Sir Roger was
in slashed doublet and puffed breeches, and wore a ruff as stiff as
marble could make it, and so did Dame Alys, in long stomacher and
farthingale; while their great merits were enumerated, and the number of
children they had issue was stated on the tablet on the wall.

This great tomb went pretty close up to the communion-rail, and for
generations past the various vicars had hung their surplices on the
rails, and changed them for their gowns in the shade, for the vestry was
over the porch at the south door, and was only opened for parish
meetings, when the officials went in and came out, to adjourn and do
business at the big room at the Bull.

Always damp, and smelling of very bad, mouldy cheese, was that church.
The schoolmistress, a limp, melancholy woman, always used to give it out
to the schoolmaster as her opinion that it was the bodies buried beneath
the flags--a matter rather open to doubt, as no one had been interred
there for over a hundred years, while the damp-engendered mould and
fungi in corner and on wall spoke for themselves.

No stove to warm the place in winter; few windows to open in summer, to
admit the pleasant warm air; the place was always dank, dark, and
ill-smelling, and from its whitewashed beams overhead to its ancient
flag flooring, and again from the stained glass windows on either side,
all was oppressive, cold, and shudder-engendering.

Let it not be imagined, however, that there were stained glass windows
of wondrous dye.  Nothing of the kind, for they were merely stained and
encrusted by time of a dingy, ghastly, yellowish tint, and as full of
waves and blurs as the old-fashioned glass could be.

The consequence was the people were slow to come to church, and quick to
get out.  One or two vicars had had ideas of improving the place, and
had mooted the matter at public and parochial meetings.  The result had
always been whitewash--whitewash on the ceilings, and whitewash on the
walls.

The question had been mooted again.

More whitewash.

Again, and again, and again, as years rolled on.

More whitewash, and whitewash, and whitewash.  Even the two old rusty
helmets and pairs of gauntlets hung up in the chancel, said to have been
worn by great De Dumfords of the past, had been whitewashed, with a most
preservative effect, saving where the rust had insisted upon coming
through in stains of brown.  The result was that, thanks to the
churchwarden's belief in lime as representing purity, Dumford was the
most whitewashed church in the country, and it stood up in waves and
corrugations all over the walls, where the damp had not caused it to
peel off in plates, varying in thickness from that of a shilling to half
an inch; and these scales had a knack of falling into pews during
service time, probably from the piercing character of the music causing
vibrations that they could not stand.

That music on Sundays was not cheerful, for there was no organ governed
by one will, the minstrelsy being supplied by Owd Billy Stocks, who
played dismally upon a clarionet, which wailed sadly for the cracks all
down its sides; by Tommy Johnson, the baker, who blew a very curly
crooked French horn, which he always seemed to fear would make too much
noise, so held it in subjection by keeping his fist thrust up the bell;
by Joey South, a little old man in tight leather pantaloons, skimpy
long-tailed coat, and tight-squeezy hat, turned close up to the sides at
the brims, giving him a tighter appearance altogether than the great
umbrella, which, evidently an heirloom, he always carried under his arm,
as if it were a stiffened fac-simile of himself as he walked to church
preceded by a boy carrying his instrument--a thing like a thick black
gun, with a brass crook about a foot long coming out of one side--Joey
South called it his "barsoon," but as he sat cuddling it in church, it
looked more like some wonderful Eastern pipe that he was smoking, while
it emitted strange sounds like a huge bumble-bee stopped constantly in
its discourse by a finger placed over its mouth; by Johnny Buffam, the
shoemaker, who blew a large brass affair like a small steam
thrashing-engine, and boomed and burred in it like "an owd boozzard
clock," as Kitty Stocks said; and lastly, by Trappy Pape, who used to
bring a great violoncello in a green baize bag, and saw away solemnly in
a pair of round tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles.

These variations of the Christian names of the sacred band were, as
before said, common to the town, where every man was a Dicky, or a
Tommy, or a Joey, or the like, and generally with an "Owd" before it.
The clergyman our vicar succeeded was the Reverend James Bannister, but
he was always known as "Owd Jemmy," and it was a matter of regret to the
popular wits of the place that the Reverend Murray Selwood's name
offered no hold for the ingenious to nickname, so they settled down to
"Owd Parson," and so he was called.

But to return to the choir.

They sat in a gallery that crossed the western end of the church, and on
Sundays such of them as put in an appearance had it, with the singers
and the schoolchildren, all to themselves; and let it not be supposed
that the preponderance of bass was noticeable, for it was pretty well
drowned by the shrill treble, as the musicians did not get much music
out of their instruments, save and excepting Billy Stokes, who always
seemed to be dying in agonies, such wails did he send forth in
"Portugal," "Hanover," and "Old Hundredth," that it took all the efforts
of the basses to smother his piercing cries.

The bells, pulled for a treat by five boys under the direction of Jacky
Budd, had had their say; the musicians had blundered and clumped up the
dark staircase to their seats, and Trappy Pape was working away with his
bow upon a large cake of rosin, while Joey Tight, as he was more
generally called, was sucking his brass pipe, and conning over the notes
he had known for fifty years, to the great admiration of the schoolboys,
one and all longing to "have a blow at that theer big black thing."  The
"tingtang" which went for ten minutes in a cracked, doleful, sheep-bell
style, was being pulled, and the vicar was standing in his surplice,
waiting for the clock to strike--which it would do sometimes with
tolerable accuracy--and he was thinking of how he should like to move
the people to have something done by way of restoration to the church,
when Jacky Budd, with one thumb in his arm-hole, came slinking softly up
to try and get a bit of whispered conversation with the parson.

"Strange great congregation this morning, sir," he whispered.

"Indeed, Budd," said the vicar, brightening.  "I'm glad of that."

"I counted 'em, sir--there's two-and-forty."

"Forty-two, Budd," said the vicar, with his countenance falling; "and
the church holds seven hundred."

"Two-and-forty, sir, wi'out the schoolchildren."

"But you counted the singers, Budd?"

"No, sir, I didn't; two-and-forty wi'out."

"Ah, Budd, it's very sad," said the vicar, sighing.  "I hoped for better
things by now."

"Why, we never used to hev such congregations in the owd vicar's time,
sir, as we do wi' you.  We never used to hev more than five-and-twenty
o' wet Sundays, and I hev know'd him preach to six."

"Hah!"  A long sigh and a mental question, "What can I do to bring them
here?" as Jacky Budd shuffled as far as the door and back.

"Owd Robinson from the Bull, and his missus, just come in, sir; and
Master Bultitude and Miss Jessie, and John Maine from the farm, makes
forty-seven, sir.  If I might make so bold, sir, don't you think we
ought to hev a collection?"

"Why, that's due next Sunday, Budd, and a strange clergyman coming,"
said the vicar, hardly able to restrain a smile.

"That's why I said it, sir," said Budd, slily.  "You wean't get a score
o' people here nex' Sunday."

The vicar shook his head, and looked at his watch, which Jacky took as a
hint to go, and he went as far as his desk, opened his book, and then
saw something that made him softly shuffle back to where the vicar was
waiting for the first stroke of the clock to start for the reading-desk.

"They've come to the big pew, sir," he whispered behind his hand.

"What?"

"Mrs Glaire, sir, and Miss Eve, and young Master Dicky."

The vicar started slightly.  This was a change, indeed, and full of
promise.  Richard Glaire, who had not been out of the house nor into the
garden since the attack made upon him, and who had never been seen in
the old pew since the vicar's coming, had walked down the High Street
between his mother and Eve, and made his appearance at church.

"Well, of course, he would be safe on such a day," thought the vicar,
"and the people have been quieter.  God grant this is the beginning of
the end, and that this little feud may be succeeded by peace."

He thought this as the clock was striking, and he walked to the
reading-desk, glanced through the Prayer-Book and Bible, where the
markers were, to see that Jacky Budd, whose memory was erratic, had made
no mistakes, and given him wrong psalms and lessons to read, and then
turned to the opening sentences, and was about to commence; but the
presence of Richard Glaire troubled him.  He was glad at heart that he
should be there, and now that he had come he wished to influence him for
good,--to bring him to a different way of thinking, for Eve's sake; and
now these sentences all seemed, as of course they were, personal, and
such as would make Richard Glaire think that they were selected and
aimed specially at him.

"When the wicked man," read the vicar to himself.  No.  "I acknowledge."
No, no, no, one after the other they seemed warnings to the sinner,
such a one as Richard Glaire, and in the hurried glance down he came to,
"I will arise."

"More pointed still," he thought, and having no time to study the
question, he read the two last, beginning, "Enter not into judgment,"
etc., and "If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves," etc.

As the service went on the vicar's eyes took in by turns the members of
his congregation, and at last he let them light on the Glaires' pew.

There stood Mrs Glaire, looking old and careworn; in another corner,
Eve Pelly, with her sweet, innocent face, looking to him angelic in her
rapt absorption, as she listened to his words, and there, with his back
to them, and leaning over the edge of the pew in a negligent _degage_
attitude, as if bent on showing the congregation the whiteness of the
hands he held up for inspection, stood Richard Glaire, gazing at him
with half-closed eyes, in a supercilious, sneering manner.

"Poor boy!" thought Murray Selwood, as his eyes met those of the young
man for a moment, and then, like a sudden flash, a thought occurred to
the vicar, which made the blood flush to his face, and then seem to run
back to his heart.

It was the time for reading the first lesson, and his hand was seeking
the book-mark in the Bible.

"Sixth Sunday after Trinity," he thought.

He will think it chosen, and directed at him.  What should he do?
Change it and read the lesson for that day of the month.  No, that would
look as if he had purposely avoided it, and it would take some few
minutes to find, for his calmness was leaving him, and he could not
recall the date.  No, he must read it--it was his duty, and it was like
a stroke of fate that Richard Glaire should come there upon such a day.

His voice shook slightly, and his eyes dimmed as he read the first words
of the beautiful old story, and then moved to the very core, and in deep
rich tones, he read on in the midst of a stillness only broken by the
soft chirp of some sparrow on the roof; while Mrs Glaire's head went
lower and lower, Eve Pelly's hand stole softly across to touch her, and
the young man sat with his back to the congregation, now white with
rage, now burning with shame.

"A coward--a sneak!" he muttered between his ground teeth.  "He has
chosen that chapter to shame me before all the people.  I won't stand
it.  I'll get up and go out."

But to do that was not in Richard Glaire's power.  He had not the
strength of mind and daring for so defiant an act, and he sat on,
thrilled in every fibre, as the deep, mellow voice went on telling how
the Lord sent Nathan unto David, and he told him of the rich man, who in
his wealth spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd, but took
the poor man's lamb, who was to him as a daughter; and as these words
were told, there came from the body of the church the stifled sobs of
one of the women of the congregation who could not control her feelings.
And at last, in spite of himself, Murray Selwood was moved to such an
extent by the words he was reading, that he spoke as if he were the
prophet of old, his voice rising and falling as it thrilled his hearers,
till it was deep and denunciatory, as he exclaimed:--

"And Nathan said unto David--Thou art the man."

There was an audible sigh of relief as the lesson ended, and the vicar
wiped the dew from his forehead, for it had been to him a trial, and his
voice was low and troubled as he continued the service, but feeling glad
at heart that he had not chosen that lesson for the strong, suitable
discourse which he afterwards delivered.

It is needless to do more than refer to it here, even though Joey Tight
stood up with his hand to his ear so as not to miss a word, and winked
and blinked ecstatically, and though it, too, struck Richard Glaire
home, inasmuch as it was in allusion to the trade troubles in the town,
and ended with a prayer that the blessings of unity and brotherly love
might come among them, and peace and plenty once more reign in their
homes.

Old Bultitude and Jessie were waiting at the door as the vicar came out,
to look in a troubled way up the High Street, after Richard Glaire and
his companions; but there was nothing to fear, the street was deserted,
save by the people leaving church.

"He's raight enew to-day, parson," said the old farmer, divining his
thought.  "Nobody will touch him o' Sunday, and wi' the women.  Zoonds,
but you gi'e it him hot, and no mistake.  That were clever o' ye.  Dal
it all, parson, I could like to ha' offended you, for the sake of
getting such a tongue thrashing."

"My dear Mr Bultitude," said the vicar sadly, "if you will look at your
Prayer-book, you will find that this was no plan of mine, but a matter
of accident, or fate--who can say which."

"Weer it, though?" said the farmer, as they walked on, his road lying by
the vicarage, and he stared round-eyed at his companion.  "Think o'
that, Jess.  I wouldn't ha' believed it: it's amazing.  By the way,
parson, I want a few words wi' you.  Jess, lass, walk on a bit.  Theer,
ye needn't hurry.  I don't want ye to o'ertake John Maine."

Jessie blushed, and the tears came into her eyes as she went on a few
paces; and the farmer, as soon as she was out of ear-shot, pointed at
her with his thumb.

"Bit touched, parson, courting like.  She's fond o' that lad, John
Maine, and I want her to wed young Brough."

"Maine seems to me a very good worthy young fellow," said the vicar.

"Hem!" said the farmer.  "I don't know so much about that, and t'other's
got the brass."

"Money won't bring happiness, Mr Bultitude."

"Raight, parson, raight; but it's main useful.  Me and my poor missis,
as lies there in chutchyard, hedn't nowt when we began; but we made
some," he continued, proudly.

"By sheer hard work, no doubt."

"Ay, we hed to work, but that's nowt after all.  I wouldn't gi' a straw
for a lad as can't work, and is skeart of it.  Why, when I went to the
bit o' farm, `Boottherboomp' they used to call it then, cause of the
`boottherboomps.'"

"Let me see, that's your local name for the bittern, is it not?"

"Yes; big brown bird, some'at like a hern," said old Bultitude.  "They
lives in wet, swampy places.  Well, parson, that place was all one swamp
when I went, and I says to mysen, where rushes is a growing now, I mean
to grow wheat; and so every year I used to do nowt but spend i'
dreaning, and now there isn't a finer farm i' the county."

"It's perfect," said the vicar, "perfect."

"Well, I'm glad to hear thee say it, parson, because I know thee sayst
what thee means, and thou'rt as good a judge of a crop and stack as iver
I see, for a man as isn't a farmer.  It isn't ivery man as comes fro'
the wild parts 'bout London as can tell as a hog or a hogget isn't a
pig, but a ship, and knows what he's worth to a shilling or two.  But
just hearken to me, going on like that, when I wanted to say a word or
two 'bout our John Maine."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, parson.  I'm mortal feard that lad's going wrong.  He's got some
'at on his mind, and he's always in confab wi' young Podmore as was
Daisy Banks' sweetheart, and there's some mystery about it.  Young
Brough says he's mixed up wi' a blackguard low lot, poaching or some'at
o' that sort; but I don't tak' much notice o' he, for he's a bit jealous
of him.  But what I want you to do is to get hold of John and talk to
him, for he's upsetting our Jess, and I shall hev to get shoot of him if
things don't alter, and I doan't want to do that, parson, for I rayther
like the lad, if he'd go back to what he weer.  Good day; you'll see
him, will you?"

"Indeed I will."

"And young Podmore, too, parson?"

"Yes, if it's necessary."

"Oh, it is; and you'll put 'em raight, I know.  But I say, parson--but
that was a hot one for Dicky Glaire.  Good-bye."

They parted at the gate, and the vicar went in, just as Sim Slee went by
with a man dressed in black--a heavy, white-faced man, with a good deal
of black whiskers, who looked as if his clothes did not fit him, and as
if he was uncomfortable out of a workman's suit, and could not find a
place for his hands, with which, by the aid of a great cotton
handkerchief, he kept wiping his face.

"I shouldn't wonder if that's the deputation," said the vicar.  "Well, I
hope they'll settle the dispute."

Unfortunately, though the vicar's guess was right, the deputation was
not a man to further the prospects of peace.

END OF VOLUME TWO.

Volume 3, Chapter I.

RICHARD BEGINS TO WOO.

The vicar's visits to the Big House became fewer, for he could not but
see that Richard Glaire, in spite of all that had passed, was more and
more embittered against him.  He was very quiet, and ceased to be
insulting, but there was a malicious look in his eye, an ill-concealed
air of jealousy in his glance, whenever the vicar spoke to Eve, that
told of his feelings.  In fact, Richard vowed that the lesson was chosen
because he went to church that day, and if ever opportunity served he
would be revenged.

Opportunity was serving him, for, like Mrs Glaire, he saw but too
plainly what the vicar's feelings were towards Eve--feelings that made
him grind his teeth whenever they were together, and which finally
brought on a fresh quarrel with his mother.

It was one morning when Mrs Glaire had been appealing to him to reopen
the works.

"Not yet," he said.  "I should have done it before now if they hadn't
been such beastly cowards.  I'll give 'em a good lesson this time."

"But you are losing heavily, Richard," said Mrs Glaire.

"Yes," he said, maliciously.  "I like to lose heavily when I can get my
money's worth; and I'm punishing them, so I don't care."

"But, do you know, that if your conduct does not alter, you'll lose
something for which you will never forgive yourself?"

"What's that?" he said, eagerly.

"Your cousin."

He caught his mother sharply by the wrist, and looked her full in the
face.

"You've been plotting for this, mother?"

"Indeed, no, my son."

"Do you want me to marry Eve?"

"You know I do."

"Then why do you encourage that cursed prig of a parson here?"

"Because he has shown himself a good friend to me and mine."

"Bah!" said Richard.  "I won't have it.  He shall come no more.  Look
here, mother; you don't believe that I've got Daisy Banks away."

"No, Richard, I never have believed it," said Mrs Glaire, meeting his
eye, and responding without hesitation.

"Well, look here, then, I tell you what.  I'm going to quiet down."

"Dick, my own brave boy," cried Mrs Glaire, hysterically, as she threw
her arms round his neck.

"There, don't be stupid," he said, carelessly repulsing her, after she
had kissed him passionately.  "I was going to say I'm sick of all this
cursed worry, and I shall open the works soon."

"Yes, my dear boy, yes."

"And suppose, to settle all this rumour about Daisy Banks, I marry Eve?"

"My darling boy," sobbed Mrs Glaire; "it is the wish of my life.  You
make me so happy."

"There, don't, mother; how can I talk to you if you keep pawing me about
like that?  Look here, you're making my face all wet."

"Yes, yes, my dear boy, it's very foolish, and I'll control myself."

"There, look at them," said Richard, in a low whisper, as he pointed out
of the window, to where Eve and the vicar were walking together on the
lawn.  "Do you see that, mother?"

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, uneasily.

"Do you know he's making up to Eve?"

He looked at her searchingly.

"I cannot help thinking that he admires her, Richard; but I am sure Eve
thinks of no one but you."

"Then curse him, he shall see me marry her," said Richard, eagerly.
"You want it to be, mother, and it shall be--soon.  Eve won't mind, and
you'll settle it all with her, and then I'm not going to have him here
any more."

"Don't talk like that, my boy," said Mrs Glaire; "but I do think it
would be for your happiness if you were married."

As she spoke, the question seemed to be asked her--Was it for Eve's
good? and a cold, chilly feeling of misery came over her, as she felt
that she was destroying the young life of the girl who had been to her
almost more than a daughter.

"That's settled then, is it, mother?" said Richard, lightly.

"Yes, my boy, indeed yes," said Mrs Glaire, throwing off her momentary
feeling of depression, and telling herself that it was for the best, and
that so good a wife should be the saving of her son.  Besides, it was
for this that she had been working, and now that there was to be the
fruition of her hopes, she felt that she must not hang back.

Richard was already out on the lawn, going up to where the vicar and Eve
were talking about flowers, and it galled the young man to see the
bright happy look pass away as he approached, and not come back.

The vicar spoke pleasantly to Richard, but the replies were
monosyllables, and an awkward pause was ended by the coming of Mrs
Glaire, who soon after returned into the house with their visitor, while
Richard led his cousin down to the bottom of the garden, and, to her
surprise, asked her to sit down.

"Look here, Eve," he said, shortly, "I've been talking to the old lady
about our being married."

"Our being married, Richard?" said Eve, turning pale and starting.

"Yes, our being married," he said, sharply.  "What are you starting for,
you little goose?  Any one would think it was something new."

"It came upon me like a surprise," said Eve, catching her breath, and
speaking quickly.  "I did not expect it."

"Gammon!" said the young man, coarsely.  "Why, you've been expecting it
for months."

"Indeed no, Richard," she said, eagerly.

"Then you ought to have been," he continued.  "You know the old girl
wishes it."

"Yes, Richard," she faltered, with her forehead becoming rugged, and her
lower lip quivering, "I know that."

"Well, we've talked it over, and she thinks like I do, that if we're
married it will settle all this rubbish about Daisy Banks."

"Oh, Richard!  Richard!" she cried, pitifully; and she rose to run away,
but he caught her wrist, and forced her back into the seat.

"Don't be a little stupid," he said.  "Why, that was only a silly
flirtation, and I don't care a _sou_ for the girl."

"Let me go in, Richard, please," she sobbed.

"Not till I've done," he said, with a half laugh.  "Look here, Eve,
dear; you are not such a little silly as to think that I know where
Daisy is, or that I took her away?"

"Tell me, on your word of honour, Richard, that you don't know where she
is," said Eve, simply, "and I shall believe you."

"'Pon my word of honour, I don't know where she is; and I didn't take
her away; and I didn't send her away; and I don't care a fig where she
is, and if I never see her again."

"Richard!"

"There now, are you satisfied?" he cried.

"I believe you, Richard," she said, ceasing to resist, but sitting back
in the garden seat, and looking dreamily away.

"That's all right, then," he said.  "Well, then, now we can talk about
when the wedding is to be."

"No, no, Richard; not now, not now," she cried piteously, as she strove
once more to get away.

"But we will, though," said the young man, flushing at her resistance.
"It's all been settled long enough that you were to be my wife, so let's
have none of your `not nows,' miss."

"Let me go into the house, please, Richard," said Eve, coldly.

"Yes, my dear, when we've settled the wedding-day," said Richard.

"We cannot settle that now, Richard," said Eve.

"And why not, pray?"

"Because," she said, with her heart beating and her voice faltering, "I
cannot forget for certainly a year or two, that which has taken place
during the past few weeks."

"What?" he shouted.

"I think you understand me, Richard," said the girl, quietly, and making
no effort now to free the wrist he so tightly held.

"Yes," he said, flushing with passion, "I do understand.  You wish to
throw me over because you have been angling for and catching that cursed
intriguing parson."

"Richard!" cried Eve, turning red and stamping her foot upon the ground,
"I will not stop and listen to such language."

"And in a passion, too," he said, mockingly, "because her favourite is
spoken of; but it won't do, madam.  You're promised to me, and I wish
the wedding to take place as soon as it can.  Don't you think I'm going
to let that beggarly meddling priest come between us."

"This is as cowardly as it is unjustifiable, Richard," exclaimed Eve.

"Is it?" he retorted.  "Don't you think I'm blind.  I've seen your soft
looks at him; and, curse him, if he comes here again I'll strangle him--
an insidious crafty Jesuit.  But don't you think me such a child as to
believe I'm to be treated like this."

"You are hurting my wrist, Richard," said Eve, coldly, and speaking
firmly now, for as her cousin began to bluster she grew calm.

"Hang your wrist," he said angrily; "my hands are not so tender as the
parson's, I suppose."

"Richard," she said, with her voice trembling as she spoke, "Mr Selwood
has always been to me as a gentlemanly, very kind friend, and to you the
best of friends."

"Damn his friendship," said Richard, looking ugly in his wrath.  "He's
my enemy, and always has been, and he's trying to win you away.  Ah!  I
know what it means: I'm to be thrown over, and you take up with him."

"Richard, this is as coarse as it is cruel and unjust," cried Eve, now
regularly roused; "and I will not submit to it.  Mr Selwood is nothing
to me but a friend."

"Indeed!" said Richard, with a sneer; "then pray what may this great
change mean?"

"Mean!" she cried, scornfully; and Richard's eyes lit up, for he thought
he had never seen her look so attractive before, "it means that you have
cruelly outraged my feelings by your wickedness and deceit."

"My deceit!" he cried.

"Yes," she said, with contempt: "have you forgotten what I saw that
evening in Ranby Wood?  Have you forgotten the past year's neglect and
contemptuous indifference to all my affection?  Shame on you, Richard;
shame!  You ask me to be your wife, and tell me I am promised to you.  I
am; but you have broken the ties, and if I could forgive you, it must be
years hence, when I have learned the truth of your sorrow for what is
past."

Before he could recover from his surprise, she had snatched away her
hand to run, frightened and sobbing, to her own room, where she threw
herself upon her knees, to weep and bewail her wickedness, for she was
beginning to feel that there was some truth in her cousin's words, and
that she had committed a sin, for whose enormity there could be no
pardon.

"What is to become of me?" she wailed in her misery, as she went to her
dressing-table, and started back in affright at her hot, flushed face.
"Oh, is it true that I have behaved as he says, and can Mr Selwood have
seen my boldness?"

She sank into a chair to cover her face with her hands, but only to
start and utter a faint cry as she felt them drawn away, and saw that
Mrs Glaire was looking eagerly down upon her flushed and fevered
cheeks.

Volume 3, Chapter II.

SIM SLEE'S BROTHERHOOD.

Many of Richard Glaire's workmen belonged to one of the regular trades'
unions, from which they received counsel and assistance, and these men
held Sim Slee's movements in the most utter contempt.  For his part, the
above-named worthy returned the contempt, looking down upon trades'
unions as not being of sufficiently advanced notions for him, and
praising up his own brotherhood to all who were weak enough to listen.

The brotherhood, as he called it, was entirely his own invention, as far
as Dumford was concerned; but it was really based upon an absurd
institution that had place in London, and maintained a weak and sickly
growth, being wanting in all the good qualities of the regular unions,
and embracing every one of their faults.

But it pleased Sim Slee, who went upon the motto _Aut Caesar aut
nullus_.  In his own brotherhood he was chief, chairman, father, or
patriarch.  In the regular trades' union he would have been only Sim
Slee, an individual largely held in contempt.

It was a great night at the Bull and Cucumber, for the brotherhood was
to hold a secret meeting on the subject of the lock-out.  Robinson, the
landlord, took a great interest in the proceedings, and wanted to see
all; but Sim Slee and one or two more leaders of the secret society
condescended only to allow the inquiring mind to see to the arrangement
of the tables and forms; and then, as the brotherhood assembled in
secret conclave, they were ushered in with great ceremony, and every man
seemed to be impressed with the solemnity.

In fact, the room was lit up for the occasion, curtains were tacked over
the two windows, and flags were arranged on the walls, each flag bearing
a device in tinsel.  On one were the words:--

"The Horny Hand is the Nation's Need."

On another:--

"Labour Conquers All."

While over the president's chair, or, as Sim had christened himself,
"the Grand Brother," was a roughly-drawn representation of the familiar
skull and cross bones.

On the table were two stage swords, drawn from their sheaths, and laid
crosswise; and at the door were a couple of sentries, over the said door
being tacked the motto--"Free and Equal."

It was a great night, and every man of Sim's partisans looked solemn,
but mugs of ale and long clay pipes were not excluded from the two
tables, at which sat about a dozen men, as many more standing where they
could find room.

There was a ridiculous aspect to the affair, but mingled with it was a
grim look of determination, and many a stern face there wore an aspect
that Richard Glaire would not have cared to see, even though he might
have scoffed at the meeting, and called the men fools and idiots.

Sim Slee was the great gun of the evening, and he wore his plaid vest
very much open, to display a clean shirt, at the edge of whose front
fold it was observable that Mrs Slee's "scithers" had been at work, to
take off what she termed the "dwiny" ends; but the buttons refused to
remain on terms of intimacy with their holes, with the consequence that
the front gaped widely.

But Sim Slee was too important and excited to notice this, for he was
busy over a book before him, and papers, and constantly in communication
with the tall, heavy-looking man in black, Mr Silas Barker, the
deputation from London, who was to help the brotherhood through their
difficulties, and who had promised to coach and assist Sim in the great
speech he was to make that evening.

At last all seemed about settled, and Sim rose to tap the table with a
small wooden hammer, when he sat down again suddenly, for three loud
knocks were heard at the door.

"Who knocks without?" said the first sentry.

"Brotherly love," said a voice without.

"What does it bring?" said the second sentry.

"Ruin and death," was the reply.

"Enter ruin and death," said the first sentry; the door was opened, two
men entered, Sim Slee looked solemn, and everybody seemed very much
impressed.

The door being closed, and silence procured, Sim Slee rose, and there
was a great deal of tapping on the table, to which Sim bowed, frowned,
and thrust one hand into his vest.  At least he meant so to do, but it
went inside the gaping shirt.

"Brother paytriots and sitterzens," he commenced, "I think as we are all
assembled here."

Just then a knocking was heard without.

"Ah, theer's some un else," said Sim, and he sat down, while the
sentries repeated their formula; the voices outside replied in due
order, with the requisite pass-words, and three more entered to swell
the little crowd.  Sim then rose again, more important than ever.

"Now, then, brother sitterzens," he began, "as I believe all the
paytriots are here, we will now proceed to business."

"Howd hard a minnit," said Big Harry, who occupied a central position,
"I want another gill o' ale."

Sim hammered the table with his little mallet, and exclaimed angrily,

"Yow can't hev it now: don't you see the brotherhood is setting?"

"'Arf on 'em's a stanning," said Big Harry, with a grin; "and if you're
goin' to hev all this dry wuck, I must wet it."

"Hee-ar! hee-ar!" shouted two or three voices.

"But don't yow see as the brotherhood is a setting?" cried Sim.  "The
door is closed now, and we're in secret conclave."

"I don't keer nowt about no secret concave," growled Big Harry.  "A mun
hev another gill o' ale."

"Let's hev some more drink, then," cried several voices.

"Yow can't, I tell you," cried Sim.  "We're a setting wi' closed doors."

"Open 'em, then," said Harry, "or I will.  Here, summun, a gill o' ale."

"And I wants some 'bacco," said another voice.

Sim hammered away at the board for a bit, when Harry exclaimed, leaning
his great arms on the table, and grinning,

"Say, lads, I niver see owd Simmy handle a harmmer like that up at th'
wucks."

"Silence!" roared Sim, in the midst of a hearty laugh from the men.
"Fellow paytriots and sitterzens, as Grand Brother of this order, I
say--eh, what?"

Sim leaned down to the deputation, who had pulled his sleeve.

"Better let them have in the drink," whispered Mr Barker, "it makes 'em
more trackable."

"All raight," said Sim, in an ill-used tone.  "Here, send out for what's
wanted, you two at the door, for no one isn't to enter."

There was a bustle at the door after this, and various orders were
shouted downstairs, and eagerly responded to by the landlord, who wanted
to bring all in, but was stayed by the sentries.

"Here, I say," said Sim to Mr Barker, "I shall lose all that speech
'fore I begin, if I have to wait much longer."

"I'll prompt you," said Barker.

"Eh?" said Sim.

"I'll prompt you--help you."

"Oh, all right; thankey.  Kiver up them motters till the door's shoot
close," he continued aloud; but as the door was on the point of being
closed, Sim's order was not obeyed; and the ale and tobacco being handed
to those who demanded them, Sim once more rose to begin, but only for a
fresh clamour to arise from another party, whose "moogs" were empty, and
while these were being filled, the swords were covered with a coat, and
the mottoes turned to the wall.

At length all were satisfied, and Sim Slee rose for the speech of the
evening.

"Brother workmen, mates, paytriots, and fellow sitterzens o' Doomford--"

"He--ar, he--ar!"

"We are met here to-night, honoured by the presence o' Brother Silas
Barker."

"He--ar, he--ar," and a "hooray."

"And Brother Silas Barker is delicate, from the payrent lodge o'
Brothers in London."

"Drink along o' me, mate," growled Big Harry, holding out his mug to the
deputation, "that'll keep you from being delicate."

"You, Harry," cried Sim, "don't interrupt.  You ain't one of our most
trustworthy brothers.  You've fote on the wrong side afore now."

"I'll faight yow for a gill o' ale any day, Simmy Slee," said Harry,
winking solemnly across the table at a mate.

"Don't you int'rupt the meeting wi' ignorant remarks," said Sim, taking
no notice of the challenge.  "I said delicate fro' the--fro' the--"

"Payrent society," said Mr Barker, prompting.

"All raight, I know," said Sim, pettishly; "fro' payrent society.  Came
down to Doomford to tell us suff'ring wuckmen as the eyes o' the Bri'sh
wucking man i' London and all the world is upon us."

There was vociferous cheering at this, during which Big Harry
confidentially informed his mate across the table, that he'd "Tak' Sim
Slee wi' one hand tied behind him, and t'other chap, too, one down and
t'other come on."

"We're met together here, mates--met together," continued Sim, whose
flow of oratory had not yet begun, but who was gradually warming--"met
together, mates, to bring things to a big crisis, and let the thunder of
the power of the sons of labour--"

"Here, let's hev in some more ale," shouted some one at the other end.

"Why can't yow be quiet? interrupting that how," cried Sim,
remonstrating.  "Yow can't hev no more ale till the debate's ended.  Do
you want to hev the mummy--mummy--"

"Course we don't," said Big Harry, aloud.  "But who's him?"

"I say," cried Sim, angrily, "do you want to have the mummy--mummy"--
then angrily to Barker, "Why don't you tell a fellow?"

"Myrmidons--myrmidons of"--whispered Barker.

"All raight, all raight," said Sim, impatiently, "I know--mummy--
mummidons of a brutal holygarchy down upon us?"

"And hale us off," whispered Barker, for Sim had evidently forgotten his
speech.

"Yes, yes, I know," whispered Sim.  Then aloud, "And hale us off--"

"Hear, hear!" roared Harry, hammering his empty mug on the table;
"raight, lad, raight.  Here, sum un, tell the mummy to bring the ale."

"Sit down, Harry," shouted Sim.  "I say hale us off to fresh chains and
slavery.  I say, mates," cried Sim, now growing excited, and waving his
hands about, "as the holygartchy of a brutal mummidom."

"No, no," whispered Barker, behind his hand, "Myrmidons of a brutal
oligarchy."

"Yes, yes, I know," cried Sim; "but they don't.  It's all the same to
them.  Yes, mates, a brutal mummidom, and a holygartchy, and as I was a
saying, our fellow sittyzens in London have been a wackin o' 'em oop.
They've gone arm in arm, in their horny-handed strength, like brave sons
of tyle, with gentlemen playing their bands o' music."

"Hear, hear!"

"And colours flying--"

"Hear, hear!" and a great deal of mug rattling on the table.

"And made Pall Mall--Pall Mall--Pall Mall--"

"Hear, hear!"

"Go on," whispered Barker, "that's it--echo to their warlike tread."

"Echo to the warlike tread o' their heavy boots," cried Sim, banging his
hand down upon the table.

"Hear, hear!"

"Till the bloated holygarchs a sitting in theer bloated palluses
abloating theer sens."

"Brayvo, lad," shouted Big Harry; "that's faine."

"Set down and shouthered wi' fear," continued Sim; "as they--as they--do
be a bit sharper," he whispered to Barker.

"Saw the nation rising in its might," whispered the prompter.

"Saw the nation rising up wi' all its might and main," cried Sim.  Then
to Barker, "Shall I put it into 'em now?"

"Yes, yes; they're ripe enough," was the answer.

"And now, mates," continued Sim, "it's time as we rose up in our might,
and showed him as is starving our wives and bairns what we can do when
we're trampled down, and that like the wums as is tread on, we can turn
and sting the heel o' the oppressors."

"Good, good!  Go on," said the deputation, rubbing its hands.

"Are we to see a maulkin like Dickey Glaire, because he is an employer,
always getting fat on the sweat of a pore man's brow?"

"Go on! go on!  Capital!" whispered Barker.  "Fine himage."

"What's a himage?" said Sim, stopped in his flow.

"All right, go on, man," whispered Barker; "I only said fine himage."

"As my friend and brother the deppitation says," continued Sim, "Dicky
Glaire's a fine image to sit on all us like an old man o' the
mountains."

"No, no, I didn't," whispered Barker.

"You did," whispered Sim.  "I heerd you."

"Go on," whispered back Barker; "the time has come--go on; beautiful."

"And the time has come to go on beautiful," said Sim, waving his arms.

"No, no," whispered Barker.

"I wish yow'd howd thee tongue altogether," whispered Sim.  "You do nowt
but put me out."

"Go on, brayvo!" cried the men.

"Now, don't you interrupt me no more," whispered Sim, in an aggrieved
tone; "that aint a bit like as you writ it down, and I shall say it my
own way-er.  And, mates," he continued aloud, "the time has come when
we've got to tak' our heads from under the despot's heels, when we've
got to show 'em 'ow they depends upon the sons of tyle; and teach 'em as
all men's ekal, made o' the same flesh and blood, eddication or no
eddication; and if Dickey Glaire won't gi'e uz a fair day's wuck for a
fair day's pay."

"No, no, other way on," whispered the deputation.

"You let me alone; I'm getting on better wi'out you," whispered Sim.
Then aloud, "They'll hev' to change places wi' us, and see how they like
it then.  Now, who's that?" cried Sim, as a loud knocking was heard.  "A
man can't get a word in edgeways."

"Who knocks wi'out?" cried the first sentry.

"Open the door," said a loud voice.

"Who knocks wi'out?" said the sentry again.

"Open the door, fool!" said the rough voice again.

"Give the pass-word," said the sentry.

"Open the door before I kick it down," cried the voice.

"Look out, lads," cried Sim, excitedly, as he left the chair.  "It's the
police.  Tak down them flags, and shove the swords out o' sight.  It's
the police."

There was a rush, and the flags were hurriedly pulled down and folded
up, while the swords were placed under the table.

"Open this door," cried the same loud voice, and a heavy fist was
applied to the panel.

"You can't come in, I tell you," cried one of the sentries angrily.
"This room's private."

"You'd better tell them to open the door," said the deputation.  "They
can't touch you; we're within the law.  It's a society meeting.  Take
your seat."

"Open the door, then," said Sim, reluctantly resuming his place, when,
as the door was thrown back, in came Joe Banks, closely followed by Tom
Podmore.

"Hooray, lads!" cried Sim, enthusiastically.  "I always said as he
would.  It's Joe Banks come to join us at last, along wi' Tom Podmore."

Volume 3, Chapter III.

TO SAVE RICHARD.

"Eve, my child," said Mrs Glaire, "what is it?  Tell me what this
means."

"Oh, aunt, aunt," the poor girl sobbed.  "Richard--Richard."

"Yes, yes," said Mrs Glaire, drawing her to her breast, and laying her
cool soft hands upon the burning brow; "tell me, darling.  You have no
secrets from me."

"I will--directly--aunt," sobbed Eve; and then, in a burst of passionate
grief, "He has been begging me to be his wife."

"And is that so very dreadful, my child?" said Mrs Glaire.

"And when I told him it could not be perhaps for years--not till I could
freely forgive him--he accused me, so dreadfully."

"Indeed, child! what did he say?"

"Oh, I could not, cannot tell you," sobbed Eve.

"Yes, yes, my poor little frightened bird," said Mrs Glaire, caressing
her, "you can tell me all."

"I will, aunt," said the girl, starting up, looking flushed and eager,
as she hastily dried her eyes, and speaking now indignantly; "he accused
me, aunt, of encouraging Mr Selwood."

"And have you, Eve?"

"Oh, aunt dear, never, never."  This with a wondering, almost angry,
look.

"And has Mr Selwood ever made any advances to you, my dear?" said Mrs
Glaire, watching curiously the bright blushing face before her.

"Never, aunt dear, never.  He has always been so kind and gentlemanly.
Never by word or by look, aunt."

"No, child, he would not," said Mrs Glaire, slowly; "he is a gentleman
whom we can trust and love."

"Love, aunt?"

"Yes, child, as a very dear friend.  But about Richard, Eve.  He was
very hot and passionate?"

"Yes, aunt.  Most cruel to me."

"And you told him you could not forgive him for his cruel neglect and
trifling with--with that poor girl?"

"Yes, aunt," said Eve, struggling hard to keep up her firmness; "but not
quite all you say.  I did not tell him I would not forgive him."

"What then, my child?"

"That I could not forgive him yet, not till I saw that he was truly
sorry for the past."

"You told him this, Eve?"

"Yes, aunt dear.  Was it wrong?"

"Wrong, my child," said Mrs Glaire, embracing her, as the tears started
to her eyes.

"No; it was most maidenly and true.  But, Eve, my child, some day you
may be a mother--some day you may have a son, over whose welfare your
heart will yearn, and for whom you would be ready to do anything--even
to committing a crime to save him from a downward course."

"Aunt!" cried the girl, looking up at her wonderingly, for she was
speaking now in eager excited tones.

"Yes, child; ready to screen him, forgive him, bear the penalty of his
sins, anything to save him from pain, suffering, or the retribution he
has been calling down upon his head."

"Oh, aunt," cried the girl, in awe-stricken tones, "is it like this to
be a mother?"

"No, no, my child: all sons are not like this.  But it is a mother's
agony to feel that if her boy turns from the straightforward course, she
may herself be perhaps to blame; that by indulgent weakness, by giving
up the reins of government too soon, she may have caused him to go
astray; and--Eve--Eve--my darling, this is my fate, and it is you alone
who can save my boy."

"Aunt!"

"Yes, child.  He is my boy, my very own, and I have been weak, and let
the weeds grow up in him, to the choking of the good qualities he
possesses.  I have been too proud of him, too glad to see my son taking
his position as a gentleman, and a man of the world.  It was my proud
desire to see him the leading man here at the works--the great man of
the town; and my pride has brought its punishment--has ruined my boy, so
that he needs all I can do to save him."

"Aunt--dear aunt--pray--pray don't kneel to me," cried Eve, excitedly,
as she saw her aunt's next act.

"Yes, yes, child, I must--I must; for it is to you I look alone for
help, as God's minister, to save my boy.  I--I have sinned for him more
deeply than I can tell--more than a life of repentance can wash out,
bringing, as I have, misery upon others, and fresh ill-treatment of my
boy; but you--you--Eve, can save him.  We must forgive--you must
forgive; for it is I who am to blame."

"No, no, aunt."

"Yes, my child," cried Mrs Glaire, clinging to her passionately.
"Nothing but the earnest love of a pure, true woman, can save him--the
woman who will be his faithful wife, and bless him with her love.  Eve,
my child, on my knees I ask you to forgive him, now--at once, even as
you nightly pray our Father to forgive us our trespasses.  Say you will
forgive him, that you will blot out all the past, and be his wife; for
it will be the turning-point of his life."

"Aunt, dear aunt," sobbed the poor girl, bewildered by the strange
outburst of passion from one generally so calm and placid in her ways.
"What can I say?  Oh, this is terrible!"

"Terrible, Eve?  No, no, child, not terrible to save him we love, for
you do love him, Eve?"

"I--I--hope so, aunt."

"Yes, yes, you do.  You must, for he is true and good at heart.  You
will forgive him--for my sake, Eve.  Eve, I am on my knees to you.  If
you have one spark of gratitude for the past, listen to my prayer."

"Aunt, dearest aunt, my more than mother," sobbed Eve, completely
carried away by the agony of one who had been everything to her for
years and years of her life; "I will do all you wish.  I am your child.
Tell me what to do, and I will do it; for I love you, dearest aunt, as
if you were my own mother."

"I knew it, I knew it, my darling, my own darling," cried Mrs Glaire,
throwing her hands upwards.  "Saved, saved!  Oh, God! oh, God!  Thou
hast heard my prayer."

Eve shrank from her for an instant, frightened at her wild appeal, but
only for the moment; the next she had thrown herself on her knees beside
her, and the two women were sobbing and caressing each other tenderly,
till the calm came after their storm of weeping, and Eve prevailed upon
the trembling mother to lie down upon her bed, where exhausted nature at
last prevailed, and she sank to sleep.  But only to mutter strangely of
"Daisy Banks--poor Daisy Banks," and utter at times the most piteous
sighs; while, as Eve watched her, the memory of that which she had
promised came upon her with all its force, and a feeling of depression
and of utter misery stole over her, so great that she could hardly bear
to sit alone.

She had promised to be Richard's wife--promised again, and that it
should be soon; promised to save him, when that strange and wondrous
joy, that glorious light of love that was springing up in her breast,
frightening her by its intensity, was ever expanding, but must now be
crushed out--for ever.

What was she to do?  To save Richard--to be his wife.  Not so hard a
task a few months since, but now!  Oh, it was dreadful.  And yet that
was a traitorous feeling that she must crush; and at last, sobbing
bitterly, Eve Pelly knelt by her sleeping aunt, and prayed earnestly, as
woman ever prayed before, that Murray Selwood might never care for her,
and that she might be a good and tender wife to the man who sat at the
bottom of the garden smoking a cigar, and uttering a few oaths from time
to time against the woman on her knees.  What time he also defiled the
flowers around the rustic seat, and cut them with his stick, till he
started to his feet in an agony of dread, for a shadow fell across him
as some one approached noiselessly over the velvet lawn, and looking up,
there stood the foreman, gazing full in his face, as he exclaimed--

"Richard Glaire, I've come to have a few words wi' you."

Volume 3, Chapter IV.

A NEW BROTHER.

Joe Banks stood staring round the room defiantly, while the sentries
kept the door ajar.

"Shoot the door, fools," he said sharply; and then, as it was closed, he
turned on Barker, who, rising, said smoothly,

"May I ask what our friend, Mr Joseph Banks, wants here at a private
meeting?"

"Let me tackle him, mate," said Sim.  "Here's a cheer here, Maister
Banks; come an' sit along-side me.  Yow've come to join uz then, at
last?"

"Yes," said Banks, shortly, as he beckoned Tom Podmore to his side.

"I always said he would, lads," cried Sim.  "I always said it.  He's
seen the error of his ways, and come to join the brotherhood, and clasp
the honest horny hand o' labour.  He's a paytriot at heart, is Maister
Banks, and I knew as he'd come at last."

"But," said Barker, "our friend is not yet one of the brotherhood."

"What?" said Banks sharply.

"Our friend has not taken the oaths," said Barker.

"Oaths--Brotherhood"--cried Banks.  "Don't I tell you I join you?  What
more do you want?"

"You leave Joe Banks to me, lads, and I'll explain," said Sim,
confidentially.  "You see, Joe Banks, we binds and ties oursens together
wi' oaths like in a holy bond, and sweers brotherly love.  Don't you
see?"

"Yes, you must be sworn in, Mr Banks; it's the rule."

"Swear me in, then," said Banks, contemptuously.

Several of the men then advanced, and Banks and Podmore were seized,
while Slee began to place a folded handkerchief across the former's
eyes.

"What do you mean by this mummery?" exclaimed the foreman; and he tried
to drag away the handkerchief, but was stopped.

"This is part of the formula for the administration of the oath," said
Barker.  "Kneel down.  Now bring forward the swords."

Two of the men came forward with the swords, which had been extracted
from their hiding-place, and as Joe Banks was half forced into a
kneeling position, they were held crossed over his head.

"Silence!" exclaimed Barker.  "Now, you swear."

"Curse your childish folly!" cried Banks, starting up, tearing the
bandage from his eyes, and sending the cross swordsmen flying.  "Ye're
worse than a set o' bairns in their play-a."

"Haw--haw--haw!" laughed Big Harry.  "I niver see such a siaght in my
liafe."

"I swear to be faithful brother to you," exclaimed Banks, "and to fight
with you against all our enemies."

"That'll do; that'll do," exclaimed several voices.  "We know Joe Banks
always does what he says; he'll do."

"But that wean't do," said Sim.  "It aint the oath, you know, Joe Banks,
and you must tak' it."

"I'll take no other," cried Banks, shortly.  "Wheer's Tom Podmore?"

Tom was brought forward, bandaged, while Slee and Barker whispered
together; and the majority of the men seemed to look upon the scene as
one to be held in great veneration.

"Sweer in Tom Podmore," cried Slee; and the men with the swords were
once more about to perform their theatrical act with the most solemn of
faces.

"Stop!" cried Banks, snatching off the bandage.  "That's enew o' this
stuff.  I'll answer for Tom Podmore.  Let's hev deeds, not words."

"I'll go on to explain," said Sim, snatching at the chance for a speech.
"I was speaking when you came in, Joe Banks."

"I think you come into the world speaking," cried Joe Banks, roughly.
"Get down off that cheer, and say your say like a man."

"This sort of interruption is not parliamentary," cried Sim.  "It isn't,
is it?"

The gentleman from town shook his head.

"Theer," cried Sim, "the deppitation says as it isn't."

"Look here, men," cried Joe Banks, speaking excitedly, "I come here
to-night to join you.  You wanted me wi' you before, but I wouldn't
come, because I was in the cause o' raight.  I wouldn't gi'e up my
position as a straightforward man for to faight for a few beggarly
shillings a week."

There were some murmurs of discontent here, but the foreman did not seem
to hear them, and went on.

"The side of raight is the side of raight no longer, and I'm wi' you,
for I'll work no more for one who has done me as great a wrong as he can
do."

"He hev, Joe Banks, he hev, and we'll let him know it," cried several.

"No, no," cried Banks; "no more attacks on him; we've had enew o' that.
Strike him through his pocket; let him feel it where we've felt it; but
mind this, the lad as raises hand again the house where them two women
are, raises it again me."

Amidst the loud cheering that followed, Sim Slee, who would not be
repressed, climbed upon the table in front of his chair, shouting--

"He's roused at last, lads.  He's a-takking the iron foot of the despot
from his brow, and come to straike for freedom."

There was a loud cheer at this, and Sim's vanity was gratified.

"Now," cried Banks, "what are you going to do?  You've got some plans?"

"Theer," cried Sim; "what did I tell you?  Didn't I say as he'd come to
uz?  Yes, Joe Banks, our new brother, we're going to set the eyes of all
England starting out of its head, to see us strike for our raights.
We're a-going to--Hey?"

"Stop!" whispered Barker.  "See to the doors there.  We've a man present
as isn't sworn.  He must take the oath."

"Didn't I say," cried Joe Banks, fiercely, "that I'd be answerable for
him?"

"But I'm not going to join their plans, Joe Banks," said Tom, in a low
voice.

"Raight," said Banks, shortly.  "Go on, Sim Slee."

"Then look here, mates.  Here's what we're a-going to do.  Bring that
theer keg."

Two men dragged a keg from a cupboard, and placed it on the table.

"Them as is smoking is to go to the other end of the room," said Sim,
and there was a sudden movement amongst the men, the deputation not
being the last.  "Now then," said Sim, "who's got a knife?"

Joe Banks took a big clasp-knife from his pocket, and threw it upon the
table, Sim picking it up, and beginning to open it as he went on
talking.

"Here's my plan.  We're a-going to open the eyes o' lots of places as
thowt they was very big in their way; and--Hello, where didst thou get
this knife fro', Joe Banks?--it's mine."

"Then it was thou as coot the bands," cried Joe, seizing him by the
throat.  "Thou cunning fox, thou'st trapped after all.  It's thou as
browt all this trouble on uz wi' thy coward's trick.  It was thou as
clomb into wucks through the window, and coot all the bands, and left
thee knife behind to bear witness again thee.  Look at him, lads; he
canno' say it wean't."

"And he don't want to," cried Sim, shaking himself free.  "I did it all
by my sen as a punishment to a bad maister as knows nowt but nastiness;
and now we're a-going to come down o' him wi' tenfold violence.  Bands
is nowt to what we're a-going to do."

There was a cheer at this, and the men who were beginning to be wroth
against Sim and his companion, and who would have severely punished him
a short time back, lost all thought of the dastardly escapade in the
savage attack they meant to make.

"Look here, Joe Banks," continued Sim, whose words came freely enough
now without the aid of the deputation, "we're a-going to do something as
shall let 'em see what your honest British workman can do, when he's
been trampled down, and rises up in his horny-handed majesty to show as
he's a man, and to teach all the masters of England to treat their men
as if they were Christians--like brothers as helps 'em to bloat and
fatten on the corn and wine, and oil olive and unney as the horny-handed
hand pro--"

"Curse your long-winded speeches!" cried the foreman, savagely, "are you
going to talk for ever?"

"Don't be excited, my friend," said Barker, smoothly.

"We're a-going to startle the whole world," cried Sim, not heeding the
interruption, as he stood now with one foot upon the keg; "startle the
whole world with the report, and the savour shall go up to make the
British workman free.  Mates, lads, and fellow-workers, we're going
to--"

"That's powther, I suppose?" said Banks, pointing to the keg.

"Yes," cried Sim, "and--"

"You mean to blow up the wucks?" said Banks, with a sombre look in his
countenance.

"Dal it all, Joe Banks," cried Sim, stamping with rage, "what d'yer want
to go spoiling the climax like that how!  You didn't make the plans."

"You are going to blow up the place as that cursed smooth-tongued liar
will not agree for you to work?"

"Yes," said Sim, sulkily, "that's it."

"Lads," said Banks, "a week ago and I couldn't ha' done this.  If he had
shown but the least bit as he was sorry for what had passed, I'd ha'
forgiven him.  But I went to him to-day.  I found him sitting in his
garden smoking, and careless of the sufferings of his men.  I went to
him wi'out anger, but humbly, and begged of him to open the wucks again
for the sake o' the wives and bairns 'most pining wi' hunger, and then--
then--"

Joe Banks put his hand to his throat, for he was choking, but struggling
bravely he went on.

"Then I begged on him to give me some tiding o' my poor bairn.  I begged
it o' him humbly, just to tell me she weer alive, and well; and to let
me know wheer we might send a line to her; for, lads, I've been broken
and down like, and ready to do owt to get sight o' her again for her
mother's sake, for she's 'bout worn out wi' sorrow.  I asked him this."

Banks stopped with his face working amidst the most profound silence,
while Tom Podmore took his hand, which was heartily pressed, and Big
Harry, after rubbing his eyes with his knuckles like a great schoolboy,
crossed over, to double up his fists and say--

"Joe Banks, say the word, mun, and I'll go oop t'house, an' crack him
like a nut."

"You as has bairns wean't think me an owd fool for this," said Banks,
huskily.  "Yow can feel for me."

"Ay, owd lad, we do that," rose in chorus; and then the foreman went on,
with his voice gathering strength as he proceeded.

"I asked this of him for you, lads, and for mysen, and he turned upon
me, cursed me for an owd fool, and ca'ed me the cause o' all his
troubles.  He swore he did'n' know nor keer where my poor bairn might
be, and at last I comed awaya trembling all ower me, to wheer Tom
Podmore here waited for me i' street; for," he continued, holding out
his hands before him half-crooked, "if I'd ha' stayed, I should ha'
throttled him wheer he stood; and for his moother's sake, his dead
father's sake, and that o' my poor lost bairn, I should ha' repented it
till I died."

A low murmur ran through the room, and Sim Slee was about to rise and
speak, but several of those present thrust him down, when, with a fierce
and lowering countenance, the foreman turned upon him.

"Now," he said, "speak out, mun, what are your plans?"

"The plan is mine," said Sim; "and we go to work this how.  We climb in
by the little window in the lane, and then go into the low foundry and
put two barrels o' powther theer under the middle wall."

Joe Banks nodded.

"Then we lay a train away to the leather, and put a slow match which we
fires, comes awaya, and horny-handed labour triumps, and the wucks comes
down."

"Good!" said Banks, nodding his head.  "It will destroy them."

"That 'll do, wean't it?" continued Slee, eagerly.

"Yes, that will do," said Banks, in the midst of silence.  "And the
powther?"

"That is one barrel," said Barker; "the other is at Sim Slee's.  Hadn't
you better go on, Brother Slee, and make the arrangements?"

"Yes, brother sitterzens," said Slee, "there's the powther to place, and
the train to lay.  What do you say to Thuzday, this day week?"

"And when's it to be fired?" said Tom Podmore.

"Same time," said Sim; "it's anniversary o' last turn out, and we
strikes for freedom.  Who comes forward like a horny-handed hero to do
the deed?"

"Not me," said Big Harry.  "I aint going to mak' a Guy Fox o' _my_sen."

"Shame on you!" cried Sim.  "Rise outer the slime in which you wallows,
and in which the iron foot of the despot has crushed you.  Rise, base
coward, rise."

"If thee ca's me a coward, Sim Slee," growled Harry, ominously, "dal me
ef I don't mak' all thee bones so sore thee wean't know thee sen.  I'll
faight any two men i' the room, but dal all barrels o' powther."

"Bah!" said Sim, contemptuously.  "You'd be a martyr to a holy cause."

"Come away, now," whispered Tom Podmore, laying his hand on the
foreman's shoulder.

"Nay, let's hear them out," was the reply.  "Ay, that's all faine enew,"
said Big Harry, "but I were in the blast when we cast that bell in the
wet mowld."

"Bah!" cried Sim.

"Well, lad, look here now," said Big Harry, "you're a fine chap to talk;
s'pose you do all the martyr wuck your own sen."

"I'm ashamed on you," cried Sim, as this proposal was met by a burst of
cheers.  "Isn't theer one on you as will rise out of his sloth and
slime, and prove hissen a paytriot.  Didn't I mak' all the plans?
Didn't I invent the plot?  Am I to do everything?  Hevn't I allays been
scrarping about for the cause?  Don't let me blush for you all, and feel
as there isn't one as'll come forward and lay the train.  I'll do it,"
he continued, looking hard at Banks, who was staring at vacancy, "if no
one else comes forward.  I'll go and wuck for the holy mission, as I did
over the cooting o' the bands, if there's no other paytriot as rises to
the height."

Here there was a dead silence, and Barker broke it by saying--

"Had they not better draw lots?"

"Yes," said Sim, enthusiastically.

"Not if I knows it," said Big Harry, thrusting his hands further into
his pockets.

"Say the plan ower again, mun," said Banks, in a low voice.  "No
mouthin', but joost the plan."

"To climb in at the little window."

"Yes."

"Lay the powther under the middle wall."

"Yes."

"Break open the staves to let it out--lay a good train--light a slow
match close to the leather (ladder)."

"Yes."

"Run up and get out as you got in."

"Yes," said Joe Banks, softly, "or die."

"And you understand?"

"Yes."

"And the wucks 'll be blown to atoms."

"And what are we to do for wuck then?" said Big Harry.

"You great maulkin, you get no wuck now," cried Sim; and the big fellow
grunted and looked uncomfortable.

"And you will do all this, Sim Slee?" said Banks quietly.

"Who?  I?" cried Sim, shrinking away.

Joe Banks looked at him contemptuously, and then turned to the men.

"I'll do it, my lads," he said.  "No one knows the old plaace as I know
it, and if it's to be blown down, mine's the hand as shall do it.
Thuzday night?  Good!  Be three or four of you theer with the powther
under the window, and I'll be ready to tak' it in."

There was a burst of applause at this, and the meeting broke up, the
folded flags being carefully buttoned up in Barker's breast, while Sim
Slee walked stiffly home, with a sword down each leg of his trousers,
and the hilts under his scarlet waistcoat, beneath his arms.

Volume 3, Chapter V.

MR SELWOOD HEARS NEWS.

There was a week clear before the plot was to have effect, and the place
was wonderfully quiet.  The vicar, looking very pale and anxious, was
sitting in his study on the morning after the meeting at the Bull, when
a note was brought to him from the Big House, and he coloured slightly
as he read it.

"Tell the messenger I will be up directly," he said; and as the maid
left the room, "what is wrong now?  Come, come, be a man."

He smiled to himself as he took up his hat and stick, and walked up the
street, to be greeted here and there with friendly nods.

He was shown at once into the drawing-room, where Mrs Glaire was seated
with Eve, and after a kindly, sad greeting, the latter left the room.

"I have good news for you, Mr Selwood," said Mrs Glaire, smiling, but
looking worn and pale.

"I'm very glad," said the vicar, pressing her hand.

"Richard has promised me that if the men do not come in, he will give
way and reopen the works."

"And when?" said the vicar, joyfully.

"He will call the men together this day week, for the furnaces to be
lit, so as to begin work on the Monday."

"Mrs Glaire, this is indeed good news," said the vicar.  "May I see him
and congratulate him?"

"I think it would be better not," said Mrs Glaire.  "But," she
continued, watching his face as she spoke, "I have other news for you."

The vicar bowed.

"Yes," she said; "but first of all, though, these communications are
made to you in strict confidence.  You must not let the matter be known
in the town, because my son would rather that the men gave way."

"If they do not, he really will?"

"He has given me his faithful promise," said Mrs Glaire, "and he will
keep it now."

"I will not doubt him," said the vicar.  "I am very, very glad.  And
your other news?" he said, smiling.

"My son will be married very shortly."

"Married?" said the vicar, starting; "and to Daisy Banks?"

"No!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, in a short thick voice, a spasm seeming to
catch her, as she spoke.  "To his cousin, to whom he is betrothed."

There was a dead silence as the vicar, whose face was of an ashen
pallor, looked straight before him at vacancy, while Mrs Glaire sat
watching him, with her hand placed to her side.

"You do not congratulate me," she said at last in a piteous tone.  "Mr
Selwood, dear friend--the only friend I can fly to in this time of
trouble--you will help me?"

"Help you?" he said in a stony way.  "How can I help you?"

"I have striven so for this," she continued, speaking hastily.  "They
have long been promised to each other, and it will be for the best."

"For the best," he said, slowly repeating her words.

"Richard has been very wild, but he has given me his word now.  He has
not been what he should, but this marriage will sober and save him.  Eve
is so sweet, and pure, and good."

"So sweet--and pure--and good," he repeated softly.

"She will influence him so--it will make him a good man."

"If woman's power can redeem, hers will," he said, in the same low tone.

"But you hardly speak--you hardly say a word to me," cried Mrs Glaire,
piteously; "and I have striven so for this end.  I prevailed upon him to
end this lock-out, and he has given way to me, and all will be well."

"Mrs Glaire," said the vicar, sternly, "do you believe that your son
has inveigled away that poor girl?"

"No, no," she cried, "I am as certain of his innocence as that I sit
here."

"And Miss Pelly--what does she believe?"

"That he is innocent," exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

"And--and--does she consent to this union?"

"Yes, yes," cried Mrs Glaire eagerly.  "She feels hurt, and knows that
she makes some sacrifice after my son's ill-treatment; but she forgives
him, knowing that it will save poor Richard, and it is for my sake too."

"Poor girl!" he said, beneath his breath.

"God bless her!  She is a good, good girl," cried Mrs Glaire.

"God bless her!" he said softly.  "Mrs Glaire, do you think she loves
him?"

"Yes, yes; she has told me so a dozen times."

"And you feel that this is for the best?  Would it not be better to let
there be a year's term of probation first?  It is a solemn thing this
linking of two lives together."

"Oh, yes, it is for the best, Mr Selwood--dear friend; and they must
not wait.  The wedding must be next week."

The vicar rose with the same stony look upon Iiis face; and, knowing
what she did, Mrs Glaire's heart bled for him, and the tears stole down
her cheeks, as she caught his hand and pressed it, but he seemed to heed
it not, for he was face to face with a great horror.  He had told
himself that he could master his passion, and that it was mastered; but
now--now that he was told that the woman he dearly loved was to become
the wife of another, and of such a man, he felt stunned and helpless,
and could hardly contain his feelings as he turned and half staggered
towards the door.

"Mr Selwood, you are shocked, you are startled," cried Mrs Glaire,
clinging to his hand.  "You must not go like this."

He turned to look at her with a sad smile, but he did not speak.

"Eve wishes to see you," she faltered, hardly daring to say the words.

"To see me?" he cried hoarsely; and her words seemed to galvanise him
into life.  Then, to himself, "I could not bear it--I could not bear
it."

At that moment the door opened, and he made another effort over himself
to regain his composure, as Eve came forward, holding out her hand,
which he reverently kissed.

"Aunt has told you, Mr Selwood," she said, in a low constrained tone.

"My child," he said softly, and speaking as a father would to his
offspring, "yes."

She gave a sigh of relief, looking at his cold, sad face, as if she
wished to read that which was written beneath a mask of stone.

"Aunt thinks it would be for the best," she said, speaking slowly, and
with a firmness she did not possess.  "And it is to be soon."

He bowed his head, in token of assent.

"I have a favour to ask of you--Mr Selwood," said Eve, holding out her
trembling hand once more, but he did not take it.

"Yes?" he said, in a low constrained way.

"I want you to forgive Richard, and be friends."

"Yes, yes; of course," he said hastily.

"And you will marry us, Mr Selwood," continued Eve.

"I?  I?" he exclaimed, with a look of horror upon his face.  "Oh, no,
no: I could not."

Eve looked at him in a strangely startled way, and for the moment her
calmness seemed to have left her, when Mrs Glaire interposed.

"For both our sakes; pray do not say that," she cried; and a curious
look passed over the vicar's face.

"Do you wish it, Miss Pelly?" he said softly.

"Yes; indeed, yes," exclaimed Eve, gazing in his eyes; and then there
was silence for a few moments, when, making a mighty effort over
himself, the vicar took a step forward, bent down, and kissed her
forehead, and said--

"God bless you!  May you be very happy."

"And you will?" exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

"Yes," he said, after a moment's pause, and with his eyes half closed.
"I will perform the ceremony."

"Thank you--thank you," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, as she caught his hand.
"Richard, here is Mr Selwood."

Volume 3, Chapter VI.

JOHN MAINE'S CONFESSION.

"How do?" said Richard, entering from the garden; and he held out his
hand sulkily, which the vicar took, and held for a moment.

He was about to speak, to say some words of congratulation--words that
he had won a great prize, and that his duty to her was to make amends
for the past--but the words would not come, and, bowing, he left the
room, and walked hastily from the house, watched by Richard Glaire's
malicious eyes.  For it was sweet revenge to him to know that the hopes
he was sure the vicar felt had been blasted, and that he alone would
possess Eve Pelly's love.

"He thought to best me," muttered Richard; and he smiled to himself, the
feeling of mastering the man he looked upon as his enemy adding piquancy
to a marriage that had seemed to him before both troublesome and tame.

Meanwhile the vicar went slowly down the street, with a strange, dazed
look; and more than one observer whispered to his neighbour--"Say, lad;
parson hasn't been takking his drop, sewerly."

"Nay, nay; I'd sooner believe he was ill.  It can't be that," was the
reply.

That same day, when busy out in the fields, sick at heart, and worried,
after a short interview with Tom Podmore, John Maine was standing alone,
and thinking of the past and present.  Of the respite that had come to
him, since the two men had visited the town, and of the miserable life
he led at the farm, and the way in which Jessie behaved to him now; for,
to his sorrow, it seemed to him that she looked upon him with a kind of
horror, and avoided all communication.  The keeper, Brough, came pretty
frequently, and certainly she was more gracious to him than to the man
who lived with her in the same house and ate at the same table.

Then he recalled that he had had a note from the vicar requesting him to
call at the vicarage; but he had not been, partly from dread, partly
from shame.

"But I'll go," he said.  "I'll be a man and go; go at once, and tell him
the whole secret; and be at rest, come what may.  Tom says it will be
best."

He sat down beneath a hedge bottom to secure the strap of one of his
leggings, when, raising his head, he saw in the distance, crossing one
of the stiles, a figure which he knew at a glance was that of one of the
men he dreaded--one of those who had done their best to make him another
of the Ishmaelites who war against society.

A cold chill passed over him, followed by a hot perspiration, as he
watched till the figure passed out of sight, and then he began to muse.

"Come at last, then.  It must be with an object."

"Let me see," he thought; "it will be perfectly dark to-night.  Nearly
new moon.  He has come down to see how the land lies, and before
morning, unless he's checkmated, the vicarage will be wrecked, and if
anybody opposes them, his life will be in danger."

"It's only a part of one's life," he said, bitterly, as he started up.
"I've been a scoundrel, and I thowt I'd grown into a honest man, when I
was only a coward.  Now the time has come to show myself really honest,
and with God's help I'll do it."

Not long after, the vicar was seated with his head resting upon his
hand, strengthening himself as he termed it, and fighting hard to quell
the misery in his breast, when Mrs Slee came to the door.

"Yes," he said, trying to rouse himself, and wishing for something to
give him a strong call upon the strength, energy, and determination
lying latent in his breast.  "Yes, Mrs Slee?"

"Here's John Maine fro' the farm wants to see thee, sir."

"Show him in the study, Mrs Slee; I'll be with him in five minutes."
And those minutes he spent in bathing his temples and struggling against
his thoughts.

The time had scarcely expired, when he entered the library, to find his
visitor standing there, hat in hand, resting upon a stout oak sapling.

"Glad to see you, Maine," said the vicar, kindly.  "Could you not find a
chair?"

"Thanky, sir, no; I would rather stand.  I ought to have been here
before, but, like all things we don't want to do, I put it off.  I want
to tell you something, sir.  I want to confess."

"Confess, Maine!" said the vicar, smiling; "any one would think this was
Ireland, and that I was the parish priest."

"I have got something heavy on my conscience, sir," continued Maine, in
a hesitating way.

"If I can help you, Maine, I am sure you may trust me," said the vicar.

"I know that, sir; I know that," cried Maine, eagerly.  "I want to speak
out, but the thoughts of that poor gill keep me back."

"That poor girl!" exclaimed the vicar, looking at the young man's
anguish-wrung countenance, and feeling startled for the moment.  "Do you
mean Daisy Banks?"

"No, no, sir; no, no.  Miss Jessie there at the farm.  I can't bear for
her to know.  There, sir," he exclaimed, hurriedly, "it's got to come
out, and I must speak, or I shall never get it said.  You see, sir, when
I was quite a boy, I was upon my own hands by the death of my father and
mother.  Then I drifted to Nottingham, where I was thrown amongst the
lowest of the low; was mixed with poachers, and thieves, and scoundrels
of every shape; always trying to get to something better, but always
dragged back to their own level by my companions, who sneered at my
efforts, and bullied me till my life was a curse, and I grew to feel
more like an old man at eighteen than a boy.

"To make a long story short, sir, I could bear it no longer.  I ran away
from home--from that," he said, grimly, "that was my home--and kept
away, working honestly for a couple of years, when some of the old lot
came across me to jeer me, laugh at me, and end by proposing that I
should rob my employer and run off with them.  I was seen talking to the
wretches, dismissed in disgrace from my situation, and went back to
blackguardism and scoundreldom for a whole year, because no one would
give me a job of decent labour to do.  Mr Selwood, sir, you don't know
how hard it is to climb the hill where honest people live--to get to be
classed as one who is not always watched with suspicious eyes.  It was a
fearful fight I had to get there, against no one knows what temptations
and efforts to drag me back.  Sir, I got to honest work at last, and
from that place came on here, where for years I've worked hopefully, and
begun to feel that I need not blush when I looked an honest man in the
face, nor dread to meet the police lest they should have learned
something about my former life.  In short, sir, I was beginning to feel
that I need not go about always feeling that I had made a mistake in
trying to leave my old life."

The vicar sat at the table with his head resting upon his hand, and face
averted, feeling that he was not the only man in Dumford whose heart was
torn with troubles, and he listened without a word as John Maine went
on.

"There, sir, I can't tell you all the hopes and fears I have felt, as I
have striven hard for years, hopefully too, thinking that after all
there might be a bright future in store for me, and rest out here at the
pleasant old farm; and now, sir," he continued huskily, and with
faltering voice--

"Some of the old lot have turned up and found you again, eh, Maine?"

"Yes, sir, that's what it is," said the young man, starting; "and I
thought I'd make a clean breast of it to you, and ask you, sir, to give
me a bit of advice."

"I'm a poor one to ask for advice just now, Maine," said the vicar,
sadly; "but I'll do my best for you."

"Thanky, sir; I thought you would."

"So you meant to give me some news?" continued the vicar, dryly.

"Yes, sir," said John Maine, "if you call it news," and he spoke
bitterly.

"Well, no," said the vicar, making an effort to forget self; "I don't
call it news.  I knew all this some time ago."

"You knew it, sir?"

"Why, my good fellow, yes.  Some weeks back, about as dirty an old
cadger as it has ever been my fate to encounter, pointed you out to me
on the road, and told me the greatest part of your history."

"He did, sir?"

"Oh, yes, poor old fellow," said the vicar, bitterly, "I suppose he felt
as if he could not die comfortably without doing somebody else an ill
turn."

"Die, sir?"

"Yes, he was very ill: could hardly crawl, and I sent him on to Ranby
Union, where he died."

"And you knew all this, sir?" faltered John Maine.

"Knew it, Maine?  How could I help it?  Mr Keeper Brough, too, made a
point of telling me that he had seen you talking to a couple of
disreputable-looking scoundrels, evidently trading poachers.  Don't you
remember what a bad headache it gave you, Maine?"

The young man stared at the speaker, and could not find a word.

"He has been very busy I find, too, at the farm," continued the vicar,
forgetting his own troubles in those of his visitor.  "Mr Bultitude
does not like it, and he has been in a good deal of trouble about your
nocturnal wanderings, friend John Maine."

"I can explain all that, sir," said Maine.

"Of course you can," said the vicar, coolly.

"But you knew of all this, sir?" faltered the young man.

"To be sure I did, John, and respected you for it; but I fear you have
been giving poor Jessie a good deal of suffering through your want of
openness."

"I'm afraid she thinks ill of me, sir."

"Don't say ill, John Maine.  The poor girl is in trouble about you; and
I believe has some idea that you and Podmore have been mixed up with the
disappearance of Daisy Banks."

"Oh no, sir; no," cried the young man warmly.  "You don't think that,
sir?"

"Certainly not, Maine," replied the vicar.  "And--Jessie--did Miss
Jessie confide this to you, sir?"

"Yes, John Maine.  I don't think, under the circumstances, it is any
breach of confidence to say she did.  People have a habit of confiding
their troubles to me--as I have none of my own," he added sadly.  "And
you, sir?"

"I told her she was mistaken," remarked the vicar; "but she was not
convinced.  She could not understand you and Podmore being out together
by night.  She thought it--girl-like--connected with some dreadful
mystery.  Master Brough thought it had to do with poaching; and I--"

"Yes, sir," cried Maine eagerly.  "Thought you were out for some good
purpose, John Maine; and that if I let the matter rest, the explanation
would come all in good time."

"And so it has, sir," said John; "but you knew all about me, sir."

"To be sure I did, John Maine; and seeing the life you now lead,
respected you for it.  It is a hard matter for a man brought up honestly
to run a straight course, while for such as you, John Maine,--there, I
need only say that you have wonderfully increased the respect I have for
you by coming to me with this frank avowal.  My letter to you was to
give you the opportunity, for your own sake, so as to remove the
suspicion that your movements were exciting.  There, I am proud to shake
hands with a man possessed of such a love of the reputable as to fight
the good fight as you have fought it; and of such command over self, as
to make the confession you have made to-day."

He stretched out his hand as he spoke, and John Maine wrung it in his--
two strong palms meeting in a hearty grip for a few moments, while
neither spoke.

Then John Maine turned away, and stood looking out of the window for a
few moments.

"You've made me feel like a great girl, sir," he said at last, huskily.

"I've made you feel like a true man, John Maine," replied the vicar,
"one without the false shame of custom about him."

"Thanky, sir, thanky," said the young fellow, recovering himself.  "As
to that night work, sir," he continued, with a quiet smile, "that's
easily explained.  I suspected those scoundrels, after seeing them
hanging about the vicarage here, of meaning to have some of your silver
cups."

"And you watched the place by night, Maine?" said the vicar, eagerly.

"Well, sir, I did," replied the young man, "till Miss Jessie warned me
about how my place there at the farm depended on my not going out o'
nights, and then I put Tom Podmore on to the job."

"And has he watched ever since?"

"Oh, yes, sir; you may depend on that--every night.  Tom's a trusty
fellow, and when he takes to a man he'll go through fire and water to
serve him.  He'd do anything for you, sir."

The vicar said nothing, but his eyes looked a little dim for a few
moments, and he drew in a long breath.

"And now, sir, I think I do bring you news," said Maine.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir.  If I'm not very much mistook they mean to rob this place
to-night."

"You think so?" said the vicar, with his eyes sparkling; for here was
what he had desired--something to call forth his energy, and serve to
drown the thoughts that, in spite of his power over self, nearly drove
him mad.

"Yes, sir, I think so," replied Maine, "for they had a good look round
the place when they came to the back door, and tried to wheedle Mrs
Slee.  Now they've been away and made their plans, and come back.  I've
seen one of them to-day."

"This is news," said the vicar, musing.  "These are the men the police
sought to overtake on the day after poor Daisy Banks's disappearance;
but if we set the police after them now, we shall scare them away.  John
Maine, we must catch these night-birds ourselves.  Get Tom Podmore to
come here."

"I spoke to him before I came in, but he's got something on his mind,
and could not come."

"Then we must do it ourselves.  You'll help me, Maine?"

"That I will, sir, with all my strength."

"Good; then we can manage this little task without disturbing the police
till to-morrow morning; when, if we are lucky, we shall be able to send
for them to take charge of our prisoners."

Volume 3, Chapter VII.

WHERE JOHN MAINE HAD BEEN.

It was a very miserable breakfast at the farm the next morning, for old
Bultitude was looking very black and angry, and it was quite evident
that poor little Jessie had been in tears.

"What time did that scoundrel go out?" said the farmer, stabbing a piece
of ham savagely with his fork, and after cutting a piece off as if it
were a slice off an enemy, he knocked out the brains of an egg with a
heavy dash of his tea-spoon.

"Don't call him a scoundrel, uncle dear," sobbed Jessie.  "I don't
know."

"I will, I tell 'ee," cried the old man furiously.  "I won't hev him
hanging about here any longer, a lungeing villain.  Leaving his wuck and
going off, and niver coming back all neet.  Look thee here, Jess; if
thee thinks any more about that lad, I'll send thee away."

"No, no, uncle dear, don't say that," cried the girl, going up and
clinging to him.  "He may have been taken ill, or a dozen things may
have happened."

"O' coorse.  Theer, I niver see such fools as girls are; the bigger
blackguard a man is, the more the women tak's his part.  Sit thee down,
bairn; theer, I aint cross wi' you; I on'y want to do what's best for
you, for I wean't see thee wed to a shack."

He kissed poor Jessie affectionately, and bade her "make a good
breakfast," but the poor girl could not touch a morsel.

"Hillo! who's this?" said the farmer, a few minutes later.  "Oh, it's
young Brough.  Come in, lad, come in."

"Hooray, farmer!" he cried, all eagerness and delight.  "I telled you
so--I telled you so, and you wouldn't believe it, and Miss Jessie theer
turned like a wood cat, and was ready to scrat my eyes out."

Jessie's colour came and went as her little bosom heaved, and she turned
her chair so as to avoid the keeper's gaze.

"What did'st tell me?" said the farmer gruffly.

"Why, that John Maine was out ivery night skulking 'bout the vicarage
whiles he should ha' been at home i' bed like an honest man.  And I
telled ye he was in co. wi' a couple o' poachers and thieves over here
fro' one o' the big towns; and I telled you he weer nobbut a tramp
hissen."

"How dare you speak of him like that?" cried Jessie, starting up with
flashing eyes, and stamping her foot.  "You wouldn't dare to speak so to
John Maine's face, for fear he should beat you."

"Hoity, toity!" exclaimed the farmer.  "Who told thee to speak, lass?
Let the man finish."

"I will not sit here and listen to such talk," cried Jessie, angrily,
and with an energy which plainly told her feelings towards the missing
man.  "Let him wait till John comes."

"That wean't niver be," said the keeper, with a grin of satisfaction.
"Because why?  Just as I towd thee, farmer, there weer a robbery at the
vicarage last night."

"No!" cried old Bultitude, starting up with his mouth full.

"Ay, mun, but there weer," cried Brough, in an exulting tone.  "Just as
I said theer'd be, all plotted and planned out to get parson's silver
cups and toots--all plotted and planned out by John Maine and his
blackguard mates.  Thank your stars, and you too, Miss Jessie, as you
haven't both been robbed and murdered."

"I wean't believe it," cried the old farmer, angrily.  "John Maine's got
a bit wrong somehow, but he isn't the lad to rob nowt.  He's raight to a
penny always wi' his accounts."

"That's his artfulness," sneered Brough.

"Yah!" cried the farmer.  "You've got hold of a cock and bull story up
town, wheer they'll turn a slip on the causay into fower fatal accidents
'fore the news has got from the top of the High Street to the bottom."

As he spoke Jessie crossed over to her uncle, laid her hands upon his
shoulder, and stood with her eyes flashing indignant protest against the
accuser of her lover.

"Hev it your own waya," said Brough, quietly.  "I were up at 'station,
when parson comes in hissen, and tell'd Bowley that the party on 'em
broke in at the vicarage last night, 'bout half-past twelve, and that
he'd fote the men, and got 'em locked up, and John Maine wi' 'em.
Them's parson's own words; and if parson's words arn't true, dal it all,
who's is?"

"I'll never, never believe it," cried Jessie, with an angry burst of
indignation; and then, bursting into tears, she ran out of the room,
sobbing bitterly.

"Poor little lass!" said old Bultitude, softly; "she thinks a deal more
o' John Maine than she does o' thee, my lad.  But look here: I believe
i' John Maine after all, and shall go on believing in him, though I am a
bit popped agen him, till I sees him foun' guilty.  Yow set me watching
the lad one night, you know, Brough, and it all turned out a bam, for
there he weer, safe in his bed.  Just you let things bide till we know
more 'bout 'em; and I don't thank ye, young man, for coming and spoiling
my brackfast."

"Just as yow like, Master Bultitude," said the keeper, sourly; "but just
answer me one question, Weer John Maine at home all last night?"

"No," said the farmer, savagely, "and he aint been back yet; but that
don't prove he weer lungeing 'bout parson's.  How do I know he wasn't at
Bosthorpe Dancing?"

"Bostrop Dancing weer day afore yesterday," said the keeper, grinning as
he made this retort about the village feast.  "Oh, here comes parson."

"Morning, Mr Bultitude," said the vicar, coming in, looking rather
grave.  "Ah, Miss Jessie, how are you?" he continued, as, on hearing his
voice, the girl stole back into the room.  "Nice neighbours you are, to
lie snug in bed and let your poor vicar be robbed, and murdered, and
carried off in a cart."

Jessie sank into a chair, looking as white as ashes, while Brough rubbed
his hands joyously.

"Then it is all true?" said the farmer slowly.

"True?  Oh, yes, true enough," said the vicar.  "I got the scoundrels
safely locked up in the cellar."

"Howd up, my lass, howd up," whispered the farmer, kindly, as he laid
his hand on Jessie's shoulder; "be a woman and let's hear the worst."
Then to the vicar: "An' was John Maine wi' 'em, sir?"

"Oh yes, he was with them," said the vicar, wondering.

"Theer, I telled you so," cried Brough exultantly, "I know'd how he'd
turn out."

The vicar smiled slightly at this, as he noticed the malice of the man,
and he repeated slowly--

"Yes, John Maine was there."

The last trace of colour faded out of Jessie's cheeks, and a dull look
of stony despair came over her countenance, while the old farmer shifted
his position and began to dig a fork savagely into the deal table.

"Dal me--" began the old man, but he stopped short.

"Just as I telled thee," said Brough, eagerly.

"Dal thee! don't set thee clapper going at me," roared the old man.  "I
know it, don't I?"

"Yes," said the vicar, smiling, as he took and patted Jessie's hand;
"John Maine was there, and a braver ally I never had."

"What?" roared the farmer.

"After watching my house, and setting young Podmore to watch it," said
the vicar, "he came and warned me about his suspicions, and--"

"Dal me!" cried old Bultitude, "you kep' him there all night, parson, to
help you?"

"I did," said the vicar.

"And took the rascals?"

"Yes, with John Maine's help."

"It's a-maazing," said the old man, slapping his thigh, and bursting
into a tremendous series of chuckles.  "Oh, parson, you are a one-er,
and no mistake."

The vicar was conscious of two looks as Jessie ran from the room--one of
black indignation, directed at Brough; the other a soft, tender glance
of thankfulness at himself, ere the poor girl once more ran up into her
own room to "have a good cry."

"Let me see," said old Bultitude, dryly; "I don't think theer was owt
else as you wanted to tell me, was theer, Master Brough?"

"Not as I knows on, farmer," said the keeper, looking from one to the
other.

"Because, being churchwarden, theer's a thing or two I want to talk ower
wi' parson--calling a meeting for next week, like."

"Oh, I can go," said the keeper, in an offended tone--"I can go if it
comes to that;" and then, as no one paid any attention to him, he strode
out, his departure being made plain by a loud yelping noise outside, and
the voice of one of the labourers being heard to exclaim--

"I shouldn't ha' thowt yow'd kick a dog like that, Master Brough."

While the vicar sat down and told the adventures of the past night.

Volume 3, Chapter VIII.

A BUSY NIGHT.

As soon as John Maine had promised to stay with him, the vicar sat down,
and seemed for a few minutes to be thinking.

"I should like," he said at last, "to have a regular good stand-up fight
with these scoundrels if they come; but I'm a man of peace now, Maine,
and must act accordingly."

"I'll do the fighting, sir," said Maine, excitedly.

"No, that will not do either, my man.  We must have no fighting.  We
must bring the wisdom of the serpent to bear.  You must not stir from
here, or we shall alarm the enemy.  They may have seen you come, but
that's doubtful; but if I let you go and come back again, the chances
are that they may have scouts out, and then they must see you.  Let the
farm people fidget about you for one night.  Old Bultitude will get in a
rage, and Miss Jessie will cast you off; but I'll go and smooth all that
to-morrow.  Mrs Slee will go home, and we'll send the girl to bed as
usual.  If I keep you out of sight, she will think you are gone.  By the
way, who's that?"

He slipped behind one of the window curtains, and watched as a decrepit
old man, carrying some laces and kettle-holders for sale in one hand, a
few tracts in the other, came slowly up the garden path, to stand as if
hesitating which way to go; but glancing keenly from window to door,
making observations that would not have been noticed at any other time,
before slinking painfully round to the back of the house, where Mrs
Slee's sharp voice was soon after heard, and the old man came back at
last with a good-sized piece of bread and meat.

"You old rascal!" said the vicar, as he shook his fist at the departing
figure.  "That scoundrel, Maine, not only tries to rob the rich, but
through his trickery he indirectly steals from the poor by hardening the
hearts of the charitable.  There's no doubt about what you say, John
Maine; that fellow's a spy from the enemy's camp--the siege has
commenced."

The time flew by: evening came, and at last the hour for prayers.  All
had seemed quiet in the town, and at last the vicar rang, and Mrs Slee
and the maid came in.

"You'll stay to prayers, Maine?" said the vicar, quietly; and the young
man knelt with the rest, while in a low, calm voice, the evening
supplications for protection and thanks for the past were offered up--as
quietly as if nothing was expected to shortly occur and quicken the
pulses.

"Good night, Mrs Slee," said the vicar; then, "I'll see to the front
door myself."

Then the fastening of shutters was heard, followed by the closing of the
back door, and its fastening, Mrs Slee's steps sounding plainly on the
gravel path, as she went to her cottage.  Lastly, the maid was heard
upon the stairs, and her door closed.

At the same time John Maine followed the vicar into the hall, the latter
talking to him loudly for a few minutes, and then the front door was
noisily opened and shut.

"The girl will think you have gone now," said the vicar; "so come into
the study, and pull off those heavy boots."

The vicar set the example, placing his afterwards at the foot of the
stairs in the hall, and hiding; those of John Maine in an out-of-the-way
cupboard.

"Now then, we'll have these two in case of accident," he said, detaching
a couple of Australian waddies from the wall; "but I don't think we
shall want them.  I'll prepare for the rascals in the study, for that's
where they will break in, and we must not be long before my light goes
up to my room.  They know all my habits by this time, I'll be bound."

There was a neat, bright little copper kettle on the hob in the study,
and on returning, the vicar unlocked his cabinet, placed a cut lemon on
the table, and a sugar-glass, a knife with which he cut some slices of
lemon, placing one in a tumbler, pouring in a little water, and
macerating the slice after it had been well stirred.  Then by the side
he placed a half-smoked cigar and an ashpan, sprinkled some of the ash
upon the cloth, and finished all off with the presence of a quaint
little silver-tipped bottle labelled "Gin."

"They'll give me the credit of having been enjoying myself to-night,
Maine," said the vicar, smiling, as he held the bottle up to the light,
took out the silver-mounted cork, and from one side of the cabinet,
amongst a row of medicine phials, he took a small blue flask, removed
the stopper, measured a certain quantity in a graduated glass, and
poured the clear pleasant-smelling fluid into the gin.

"I see now, sir," said Maine, who had been puzzled at the vicar's
movements, as he re-corked the spirit-bottle, and placed back the glass
and tiny flask--movements which seemed indicative of arrangements for
passing a comfortable night.

"To be sure," said the vicar.  "Let them only sit down to a glass apiece
of that--as they certainly will, for the rogues can't pass drink--and
all we shall have to do will be to bundle them neck and crop down into
the cellar to sleep it off, ready for the attendance of the police in
the morning.  There will be four in the gang--three to come here, and a
fourth to wait somewhere handy with a horse and cart.  It will only be a
glass apiece."

"What makes you think that they will break in here, sir?" asked John
Maine.

"Because there are no iron bars to the window, and no one sleeps
overhead.  Now, then, all's ready, so we'll go upstairs."

"But won't you stay and stop them from getting in, sir?"

"Certainly not, Maine.  Let them walk into the trap, and we will keep
awake as well as we can in the dark."

Lighting a chamber candle, the vicar turned out the lamps, and led the
way to his bedroom, where, after placing an easy chair for his
companion, he apparently busied himself for a quarter of an hour in
undressing, taking care to cast his shadow several times upon the
window-blind, then placing matches ready, and the door open, he
extinguished the light.

"Half-past ten, Maine," he whispered.  "Now for a long watch.  Can you
keep awake?"

"I think so, sir," was the reply.  "Good; then listen attentively, and
warn me of the slightest sound, but no word must be spoken above a
whisper.  No conversation."

One hour in the solemn silence of the night, and no sound was heard.
Once the vicar stretched out his hand to have it pressed in reply by way
of showing that his companion was on the alert.

Another hour passed, and all was perfectly still.  The vicar had had no
difficulty in keeping awake, for his thoughts were upon the scene that
had taken place up at the House; and though he strove to drive away the
remembrance, and to nerve himself for the struggle that must be his for
weeks to come, there was Eve Pelly's sweet gentle face before him,
seeming to ask him wistfully to accede to her wish.

At last John Maine, believing him to be asleep, touched his arm.

"Yes," was the whispered answer.  "I heard them five minutes ago.  There
they are."

At that moment a singular low grating noise was heard.

"Diamond cutting glass," said the vicar, with his lips close to his
companions ear.

A sharp crack.

"There goes the pane," whispered the vicar.

Then there was the creak--creak--creak of a window being softly raised,
after the fastening had been thrust back.  Then, again, perfect silence,
succeeded at last by a gentle rustling noise; but so quietly had the
entry been made that but for a faint glimmer of light seen now and then
through the open door, there was nothing to indicate that anything below
was wrong.

The watchers sat listening with their hearts beating with a heavy dull
pulsation, till at length a stair creaked, as if from the weight of some
one ascending, and they fancied they could hear the hard breathing of
some listener.  This ceased in a very short time, and they instinctively
knew that the burglar had returned to the study, where the clink of a
glass warned them that the bait had proved sufficient attraction for the
wolves.

There was another pause and a faint whisper or two, followed by the soft
rustling made by the men crossing the little hall to the dining-room,
from whence arose the metallic sound of silver touching silver.  Then
there came more rustling and chinking, and John Maine whispered,

"Pray, let's go and stop them, sir: they'll get away with the plate."

"Oh, no," said the vicar in the same tone.  "Wait."

They waited, and the rustling made by the men crossing the hall back to
the study was again heard, and then, for some little time, there was
silence.

"They must be gone, sir," whispered Maine, but almost as he spoke there
came up from below a dull, heavy, stertorous snore, which was soon after
accompanied by the heavy hard breathing of a sleeper, and an occasional
snort and muttering, as of some one talking in his slumber.

"I think we may strike a light now, Maine," said the vicar, quietly; and
as he did so, and lit the chamber candle, John Maine moistened his hand
to take a good grip of his waddy.

"Oh, we shan't need that," said the vicar, smiling.  "Come along."

He led the way downstairs to the study, where, on looking in, there lay
one man extended upon the hearth-rug; another was on the couch; and the
third slept heavily in the easy chair, with his head hanging over the
arm, his uneasy position causing him to utter the snorts and mutterings
that had ascended the stairs.

It was only a matter of ten minutes or so for the watchers to drag their
prisoners down to the little cellar, where some straw was placed beneath
their heads to save them from suffocation.  Then the great key was
turned, and the vicar and his companion returned to the study.

"Now for number four, John Maine," said the vicar.  "Come along."

He resumed his boots, and John Maine was following his example when a
low chirp was uttered, and a head appeared at the window.

John Maine was nearest, and he made a dash at the owner; but with a rush
he disappeared, and before the garden-gate could be reached wheels and
the sound of a horse galloping came to the pursuers' ears.

"He has gone, John Maine," said the vicar, coolly.  "Never mind, the
police may come across him.  We have to go back and watch our
prisoners."

They re-entered the house, to find that the servant girl had not been
alarmed, and taking it in turns to lie down on the couch, the vicar and
John Maine kept watch and ward till morning, when, awaking in a fearful
state of alarm, the scoundrels began to try the door, and at last
appealed pitifully for mercy, as the vicar was replacing in order the
cups and pieces of plate arranged ready for conveyance to the cart.

Soon after he walked up to the station, and afterwards made his way to
the farm, to set them at rest about John Maine, with the result that has
been seen.

Volume 3, Chapter IX.

A MYSTERIOUS WARNING.

The day following that on which the scoundrels who had made the attempt
on the vicarage had been sent off to the county town, the vicar was in
his garden musing on his future, and thinking whether it was his duty to
leave Dumford and go far away, as life there had become a torture; but
everything seemed to tend towards the point that it was his duty to stay
and forget self in trying to aid others.  In spite of the past, it
seemed to him that he had done good; Richard Glaire had listened to
reason; the strike was nearly over, and the men had settled down into a
calmer state of resignation to their fate.  So quiet were they that he
more than suspected that they had some inkling of the change coming on.
Then, too, he had made peace at the farm, where the wedding of John
Maine and Jessie was shortly to take place, John, at his instigation,
having frankly told the farmer the whole of his past life, to be greeted
with a tremendous clap on the shoulder and called "a silly sheep."

"Just as if thou could'st help that, lad," said the old man.  "Why
didstn't out wi' it at first?"

And then Eve's wedding.

"Poor girl! she wishes it," the vicar said to himself, continuing his
musing, as he stooped to tie up a flower here and there.  "It would be
madness to interpose, and God help her, she will redeem him, and--I hope
so--I hope so."

"Well, I must stay," he said, with a weary smile upon his face.  "I am a
priest, and the priests of old looked upon self-denial as a duty.  Let
it be mine to try and perfect the peace that is coming back to this
strange old place."

"Paarson!"

He started and looked round, but no one was visible, and yet a deep
rough voice he seemed to know had spoken.

"Paarson!" was repeated, apparently close to his feet where he was
standing by the garden hedge.

"Who is it?"

"Niver mind who it is," said the voice.  "I joost want a word wi' you."

"Where are you?"

"Lying down here i' th' dyke.  I had to creep here 'mong the nattles
like a big snail."

"Well, come out, man, and speak to me."

"Nay, nay, that wean't do."

"What, is it you, Harry?"

"Howd your tongue, wilt ta, paarson.  I don't want the lads to know as I
comed and telled you.  I've come along fower dykes."

"What does it all mean?" said the vicar, leaning over the hedge, to see
the great hammerman lying on his face in the ditch on the field side.

"Don't ask no questions, paarson, for I wean't tell nowt, 'cause I'm
sweered not to; but I don't like what's going on."

"Well, but tell me, Harry, I beg--I insist--"

"I wean't tell thee nowt, paarson, on'y this here.  Yow wouldn't like
them as you knows hurt, so joost tell Dicky Glaire to look out."

"But why--when?  I must know more."

The only answer was a loud rustling, and the great body of the hammerman
could be seen crawling through the nettles as he made his way pretty
quickly along in the opposite direction to that in which he had come,
and the vicar forbore to pursue, as it might have tended to betray him.

"I'm not without friends, after all," he said, musing.  "Then this
quietness is only the precursor of some other storm.  I'll go up at
once."

He made Iiis way straight to the House, and all was very quiet in the
town.  Men were lounging about, and their thin sad-faced wives were to
be seen here and there busy within, but no sign was visible of the
coming storm; and for a while the vicar was ready to doubt the
possibility of anything threatening, till he recalled Big Harry's
action, and felt certain that the man's words must be true.  Any doubt
he might have had was, however, dispelled a moment or two later, for he
saw Tom Podmore coming towards him; but as soon as the young man caught
sight of the vicar he turned sharply round and went away.

"There is something wrong, and he's mixed up in it," muttered the vicar.
"Of course, he is Big Harry's friend, and so the great fellow knew it.
Perhaps, though, he sent him to caution me!"

It was a random shot, but it hit the mark, for Tom, being held in
suspicion by his fellows, could not well stir in the matter; and in
talking it over with Big Harry, the latter had declared he would warn
parson, and so he had.

The vicar was shown in directly, and found the family at the House
seated together.  He was rather shocked to see Eve's pallid face; but
she brightened up at his coming, and seemed to him to be trying to show
him how happy they once more were.

Mrs Glaire, too, looked pale and careworn, but she was eager in her
ways, and glad to see him, while Richard, in a half-civil way, but with
a shifty look in his eye, shook hands and muttered something about the
weather.

"Here, Eve, we'll go down the garden together," said Richard; "Mr
Selwood's come to see my mother."

"No," said the vicar, quietly, "I have come to see you."

"To see me?"

"Yes; on very important business."

"If you've come from those scoundrels," said Richard, hotly, "I won't
hear a word.  Let them come themselves."

"Richard!" said Mrs Glaire, imploringly.  "I don't care, mother.  I've
given way to a certain extent, and I'll go no further."

"But I have not come from the men," said the vicar.

"Then what is it?" said Richard, who had a horror of being left alone
with his visitor.  "Speak out."

"I would rather tell you in private," said the vicar, glancing uneasily
at the two women.

"If it is any fresh trouble, Mr Selwood, pray speak out," said Mrs
Glaire, anxiously.  "But Miss Pelly?"

"Richard is to be my husband in a few days, Mr Selwood," said Eve,
smiling sadly, as she rose and stood beside him, with her hands resting
on his shoulder.  "If it is trouble, I have a right to share it with
him."

"There, let's have it," said Richard, rudely.  "They will have to hear
whatever it is."

The vicar hesitated a moment or two, and tried to collect himself, for
Eve's last words sent a pang through his breast, as they seemed to tear
the last fibre that had held her to him.

At last he spoke.

"I have little to tell.  My news is shadowy and undefined, but I fear it
is very real."

"Well, tell me, man, tell me," said Richard; who, while assuming an air
of bravado, began to look white.

"I will, Mr Glaire.  One of your workmen came secretly to me within the
last half-hour to bid you be on your guard."

"I haven't been off," said Richard, insolently.  "Who was it?"

"That I cannot tell you," said the vicar.  "The man said he had been
sworn to secrecy, but he did not like the business, and came at all
risks to tell me."

"It was that scoundrel, Tom Podmore," cried Richard.

"It was not Podmore," replied the vicar.

"Then it was that old villain, Joe Banks--an old hypocrite.  Forced his
way down the garden to me the other evening to bully me."

"Richard, my boy, for heaven's sake," cried Mrs Glaire.

"It was not your old foreman, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, quietly.  "I
have told you all.  It is very little, but it may mean much.  If you
will take my advice you will counteract the people's plans by opening
your works to-morrow."

"Yes, Richard, do!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire and Eve in a breath.

"I said I'd open them on a certain day, and I won't stir a peg from that
decision," cried Richard, obstinately.

"Whom the gods will destroy, they first make mad," muttered the vicar to
himself, in the old Latin.

"It would be giving way to them," said Richard, "and that I'll never
do."

"But you give way when you do open," said the vicar.

"I'm not going to argue that," said Richard, haughtily; "I've made up my
mind, and I shall keep to it."

"Then leave your orders, and go quietly away for a few days, till the
works are in full swing again."

Richard had made up his mind to do that very thing; but, as the vicar
proposed it, and Eve eagerly acquiesced, he was dead against it on the
instant.

"I shall stay here," he said firmly, "and have the police to guard the
house."

"It is like inviting attack," said the vicar, excitedly.  "For your
mother's and Miss Pelly's sake, don't do that.  It is throwing down the
gauntlet to a set of men maddened by a belief in their wrongs.  Many of
them are fierce with hunger."

"Bah!  Stuff!" said Richard; "they've got plenty saved up, and--he, he,
he!--nicely they've humbugged you into relieving them with soup and
bread and meat.  You don't know Dumford yet, Mr Selwood."

"If I am to know it as you know it," thought the vicar, "I hope I never
shall;" but he did not give utterance to his thoughts.

"I shall go--" began Richard; then, insolently--"You won't go and betray
me, parson, will you?"

The vicar did not reply.

"I shall go and stay over at the works, mother," said Richard.

"What!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

"Stay over at the works till the opening day.  Let the brutes think I
have left the town; and, with a few blankets and some provisions, I
shall do.  I'll go over to-night."

"But, Richard, this is folly," cried Eve, beginning to tremble.

"You don't know anything about it," he said, sharply.  "If the beasts
mean mischief again, they'll try to get me away from here, and most
likely they are watching every train to catch me.  If I slip over in the
middle of the night, I shall be safe; for no one will think I am there.
What do you say, parson?"

The vicar sat thinking for a few moments, and then gave in his
acquiescence to the plan.

"But you must keep strictly in hiding," he said.

"Well, it won't be for long," replied Richard; "and won't be more dull
than being in here."

Eve winced a little, but she turned and tried to smile.

"But would it be wise, Mr Selwood?" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, eagerly.

"Yes; I think it would," said the vicar, "if he can get there unseen.
If these misguided men do search for him, that is one of the last places
they will go to, I feel sure.  But will you keep closely in hiding?
Would it not be better to give way at once?" he continued, addressing
Richard.

"I have said what I mean to do," said Richard, sharply; "and what I say
I keep to."

The vicar bowed his head, and lent himself as much as was likely to be
acceptable to the scheme; ending by saying, with a smile on his face--

"I hope, Miss Pelly, that this is the last of these unpleasant affairs
we shall ever have here; for rest assured I shall lose no time in trying
to bring the people to a better way of thinking."

He rose and left them, it being thoroughly understood that Richard was
to go into hiding that very night, while the vicar would communicate
with the police, to ensure some protection for the house; though all
felt it to be needless, as any attack was certain to be made on Richard
personally.

As he reached the door, though, the vicar turned to Richard--

"Shall I come and be your companion every night?  I will come.  I can
sleep on a bare board with any fellow, and," he added, smiling, "I enjoy
a pipe."

Richard jumped eagerly at the idea, and was about to say yes, but the
evil part of his nature prevailed.

"No," he said rudely; "when I want Mr Selwood's help I will ask for
it."

"As you will, Mr Glaire," was the reply; "and I hope you will.
Good-bye, Mrs Glaire--Miss Pelly, and I sincerely hope this will prove
a false alarm."

"If that fellow thinks he's coming to my place after the marriage, he's
grievously mistaken," said Richard to himself, and the door closed.

Meanwhile the vicar called at the station, and after a few words about
the burglary and the forthcoming examination--

"By the way, Smith," he said to the constable, "will you and your man
oblige me by keeping a strict watch over the House--Mr Glaire's--for
the next week?  I have my reasons."

"Certainly, sir," was the reply; "and, by the way, sir, my missus's duty
to you for the port wine: it's doing her a sight o' good."

"Glad of it, Smith; send down for some more when that's done."

"He's a good sort," muttered the policeman, "that he is; but he ought to
have sent up for me the other night."

The vicar strolled back towards the bottom of the town, and turning off,
was making his way towards the foreman's cottage, when he came upon Big
Harry with a stick and a bundle, going across the field--cut to the
station.

The great fellow tried to get away, but the vicar hailed him, and he
stopped.

"Now, don't thee ask queshtuns, paarson," he exclaimed; "I tell'd ye I'm
sweered, and can't say owt."

"I will not ask you anything, Harry," said the vicar; "only thank you,
as I do, for your hint.  But where are you going?"

"Sheffle first, Birming after.  I'm sick o' this."

"Going to get work?"

"Yes, paarson."

"Why not stop another week?"

"No," said the big fellow; "I wean't stay another day.  I'm off."

"You've got some other reason for going?"

"Paarson, I wean't tell'ee owt," said the big fellow; "theer."

"Good-bye, Harry," said the vicar, smiling, and holding out his hand.
"I hope I shall see you back again, soon."

"That you will, paarson, soon as iver they've done striking; as for me,
I'm longing to get howd of a hammer again.  Good-bye."

"I should like to know more," said the vicar, as he saw the great fellow
go striding away.  "There's some atrocious plan on hand, and he's too
honest to stop and join in it, while he's too true to his friends to
betray them.  There's some fine stuff here in Dumford; but, alas! it is
very, very rough."

His walk to the cottage was in vain.  "My master" was out, so Mrs
Banks, who looked very sad and mournful, declared.

"He's out wandering about a deal, sir, now.  But hev you had word o' my
poor bairn?"

"I am very sorry to say no, Mrs Banks," said the vicar, kindly; and he
left soon after, to be tortured by the feeling that he would be doing
wrong in marrying Richard Glaire and his cousin, for he still suspected
him of knowing Daisy's whereabouts, and could get no nearer to his
confidence now than on the first day they met.

He inadvertently strolled to the spot where they had first encountered,
and stood leaning against the stile, thinking of all that had since
passed, wondering the while whether he might not have done better
amongst these people if he had been the quiet, reserved, staid clergyman
of the usual type--scholarly, refilled, and not too willing to make
himself at home.

"It is a hard question to answer," he said at last, as he turned to go
home, listening to the ringing song of the lark far up in the blue sky,
unstained by the smoke of the great furnace and the towering shaft; "it
is a hard question to answer, and I can only say--God knows."

Volume 3, Chapter X.

A REVELATION.

It was the day of the plot concocted by Sim's Brotherhood, the members
of which body had been perfectly quiet, holding no meeting, and avoiding
one another as they brooded over their wrongs, and in their roused state
of mind rejoiced at the idea of their cunning revenge.

Had the vicar been ignorant of coming danger he would have suspected it,
for men who had been in the habit of frankly returning his salutations
or stopping to chat, now refused to meet his eye, or avoided him by
crossing the road.

He shuddered as he thought of what might be done, but as the last day
had come, he was in hopes that it might pass over safely, for Richard
had kept closely to his hiding-place, and the rumour had got abroad that
he had left the town.

He bore this good news to the House.

"Let him only keep to his hiding-place to-night, Mrs Glaire," he said;
"and to-morrow give out the announcement that the works are opened, and
the men once met, we shall have tided over our trouble."

"Yes, _our_ trouble," said Mrs Glaire, pressing his hand.  "Mr
Selwood, I repent of not taking you more into my confidence."

"I am glad you have made so great a friend of me as you have," was the
reply; and he rose to go.

"You will stop and see Eve," said Mrs Glaire.

"No," he said, sadly; "not now.  Good-bye, good-bye."

"I've done him grievous wrong," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, wringing her
hands as soon as she was alone; "but it was fate--fate.  I must save my
poor wilful wandering boy."

The vicar prayed for that day and night to hasten on, that his poor
people might be met, ere they assembled for any ill design, by the news
of Richard Glaire's yielding to them, and the opening of the works; but
night seemed as if it would never come.  He could not rest; the dread of
impending evil was so strong upon him, and he was going about from house
to house all day, and called several times at the police-station.

His mind was in a whirl, and yet the town had never seemed more quiet
nor fewer people about.  The works, with their dull windows and blank
closed doors, looked chill and bare; and as he passed he scanned the
place, and wondered whereabouts Richard could be hidden.  Then he began
to think of the coming marriage, and his heart grew heavier still; and
at last, after endless calls, he went to the vicarage, and threw himself
into a chair, to find Mrs Slee quite excited about him.

"Thee's hardly had bite or soop to-day, sir," she cried.  "Yow'll be
ill;" and in spite of his remonstrances, she brought him in the dinner
that had been waiting for hours, and insisted upon his eating it.

He partook of it more for the sake of gaining strength than from
appetite, and then made up his mind to go up the town, and watch the
night through; for it was now dark.

It was about eight o'clock that a woman in a cloak, and wearing a thick
veil, entered the town, followed by a great burly man, and going
straight up to the House, rang and asked to see Mrs Glaire.

"I don't think you can see her, she's out," said the girl, looking at
the visitor suspiciously, the man having stopped back; but as she was
closing the door, it was pushed open, and Tom Podmore almost forced his
way in.

The girl was about to scream, but, on recognising him, she stared
wonderingly.

"Let me speak to her for a moment, Jane Marks," he said.  "Shoot the
door."

"No, no; I can't.  I shall get into trouble," said the girl.

"I've come to save you fro' trouble," said Tom.  "Do as I tell you,
quick.  This is no time for stopping, when at any moment a mob of savage
workmen may be ready to tear down the place."

He pointed to the veiled figure as he spoke, and the girl drew back,
while the strange visitor shrank to the wall.  But only for a moment;
the next she uttered a sob, and holding out her hands, she cried--

"Oh, Tom, Tom; did you know me?"

"Know you," he said bitterly; "yes, I'd tell thee anywheers."

"Wean't you tak' my hands?" she cried.  "Niver again, lass, niver
again."

"Is this the way you meet me, then, Tom?"

"Ay, lass.  How would'st thou hev me meet thee?  Why hev you comed
here?"

"Oh, Tom, I was i' Sheffle, and I met Big Harry.  He told me such
dreadful things about father."

"I wonder he didn't tell thee the old man weer dead."

"Oh, Tom, if you knew all," cried the girl.

"Ay, lass, I know enew."

"Tom, you don't--you can't know.  But there, I can't stay.  It's so
dreadful.  Let me go by."

"No, Daisy," said the young man passionately.  "You can't go by.  I
believe I hate thee now, but I can't leave thee.  You must go wi' me."

"Go with you--where?" cried the girl.

"To your own home, where your poor broken-hearted mother's waiting for
thee."

"Oh, I shall go mad," exclaimed Daisy.  "Tell me.  Where is Mrs Glaire?
Where is Mr Richard?"

"You weak, silly girl," said Tom, catching her arm.  "I knew it was so,
though they said strange things about thee.  Oh, Daisy," he said,
piteously, as he sought to stay her, "leave him.  Go home.  Don't for
thee own sake stop this how.  You threw away my poor, rough love, and
I've towd my sen ower and ower again that I hated thee, but I don't,
Daisy.  I'm only sorry for thee, I can't forget the past."

He turned aside to hide the workings of his face.

"How dare you speak to me like this?" cried Daisy.  "You don't know me,
Tom, or you would not.  I'll go, I will not be so insulted, and by one
who pretended so much."  Then, moved by the young fellow's grief, she
laid her hand upon his arm.  "Tom," she said, softly, "you'll be sorry
for this when you know all."

"Don't touch me," cried Tom, passionately, as he shook her off.  "I
can't bide it, Daisy.  I loved you once, but you threw me over for that
bit of a butterfly of a thing."

"Oh, this is too much, and at such a time," cried Daisy.  "Here, Jane,
Jane.  Let me go by."

"No," said Tom, catching her wrist, as she made for the interior of the
house.  "You shall not go to join him again.  I'll tak' thee home to thy
father."

"Not yet, Tom, not yet.  I'm not going to him.  Here, Jane, Jane, quick.
Where is Mr Richard?" she cried, as the maid came back.

"Dal thee!" cried Tom, as he threw her arm savagely away.  "This before
me!"

The girl looked at her and shook her head.

"Where is Mrs Glaire or Miss Pelly?"

"Out," said the girl, "at Mr Purley's."

"And Mr Richard?" cried Daisy imploringly.  "Quick: it is for his
good," while Tom, who heard her words, stood gnawing his lips with
jealous rage.

"I don't know," said the girl.  "He's gone away."

"Oh, this is dreadful," said Daisy, looking bewildered.  "Tom, will you
not help me?  I have been home, and cannot find father or mother.  I
come here and I cannot find Mr Richard."

"Howd your tongue, lass, or you'll make me mad," cried Tom.  "But Daisy,
my bairn, listen," he cried, softening down.  "You know I loved you.
Come wi' me, and I'll find you a home somewheers.  You shall never see
me again, but I shall know that I've saved you from him."

"Tom, where is my father?" cried Daisy, indignantly.

"Listen to me, Daisy, 'fore it is too late," pleaded the young man.
"Let me tak' you away."

"Will you tell me where my poor father is?" cried Daisy again.  "If you
can't believe in me, I will listen to this shameful talk no more."

"Shameful talk!" said Tom, bitterly.

"Where is my father?"

"Drove mad by his child," cried Tom, speaking now in tones of sorrow.
"Gone by this time wi' a lot more to blow up the wucks."

"I won't believe it yet," cried Daisy.  "It can't be true.  My dear
father would never do the like."

"It's true enew," said Tom, "and I should ha' been theer trying once
more to stop him, only I see you, and, like a fool, tried to save thee
again."

"Tom," cried Daisy, who was giddy with dread and excitement, "tell me
that this is some terrible mistake."

"Yes," he said, bitterly; "and I made it."

"What shall I do?" gasped Daisy.  "Oh, at last, Mrs Glaire--Mrs
Glaire, what have you done?"

"You here!" cried Mrs Glaire, who now entered with Eve from the
doctor's, the latter turning pale, and sinking into a chair.

"Yes, yes," gasped Daisy, sinking on her knees, and clinging to Mrs
Glaire's skirts; "I came--I was obliged to come back.  My father, my--Oh
no, no, no, no!" she sobbed to herself, "I dare not tell them; I must
not tell.  I--I--I came--"

"Yes," cried Mrs Glaire, angrily; "you came, false, cruel girl.  You
came back to ruin all our hopes of happiness here--to undo all which I
have striven so hard to do."

"But, Mrs Glaire, dear Mrs Glaire, I have tried so hard," sobbed
Daisy, grovelling on the floor, but still clinging to Mrs Glaire's
dress that she tried to drag away.  "You don't know what I've suffered
away in that cold, bitter town, wi'out a word from home, wi'out knowing
what they thowt o' me, for I kep' my word.  I never wrote once, though I
was breaking my heart to write."

"But you came back--and now," cried Mrs Glaire.

"Yes, yes, I heard--danger--so horrible, I was obliged," panted the
girl.

"You heard that?" said Mrs Glaire.

"Yes, yes," cried Daisy; "and I came to try and save him fro' it."

"Of course," cried Mrs Glaire.  "Where is your promise?"

"Aunt, aunt," sobbed Eve, "she is fainting.  Pray spare her."

"Spare her!" cried Mrs Glaire.  "Why should I?  Has she spared us?  Go,
girl, go; your presence pollutes this place."

"No, no," cried Daisy.  "You mistake me--indeed you do, Mrs Glaire.  I
did not come back for what you think."

"Then why did you come?"

"I cannot--dare not tell you; but where, where is Mr Richard?"

Tom Podmore turned aside, and moved towards the door.

"How dare you ask me," cried Mrs Glaire, "after the promise you made?"

"Don't ask me that," wailed Daisy, struggling to her feet, and wringing
her hands wildly.  "I can't find father.  I must see Mr Richard.  Harry
said he hadn't left the town.  Is he here?"

"No, girl," said Mrs Glaire, turning away, "he is not here."

"Where is he, then?  Oh, Mrs Glaire!" cried the girl, "for your own
sake tell me.  On my knees I beg of you to tell me.  It is life and
death.  I came to save.  Miss Eve!" she cried, turning on her knees to
her.  "You love him; tell me where he is.  I know--yes, I know," she
cried, eagerly; "he must be at the works."

Eve started and turned away her head, to bury her face in her hands.

"Yes," cried Daisy, excitedly.  "He must be there."

She turned hurriedly to go, when Tom Podmore caught at her cloak.

"Stop!" he cried excitedly.  "You canno' go theer."

Daisy turned upon him angrily, and tore off her cloak, leaving it in his
hands as she dashed off through the dark with the young man in pursuit.

"Undone!" moaned Mrs Glaire.  "Undone.  Oh, Eve, my poor stricken
darling, and after all I have tried!"

"But, aunt, he will not see her.  Richard will not--"

"A false, treacherous girl!" moaned Mrs Glaire.  "Eve, my darling, for
your sake, for her sake--thank Heaven, here is Dick!  Oh, my boy, my
darling!"

She threw her arms round him exultingly, as if to hold him, and save him
from danger, whilst he threw off the heavy coat in which he was muffled.

"Phew!  I'm nearly suffocated," he cried.  "There, that will do, mother.
Ah!  Eve."

"But why did you leave the works, my boy?" cried Mrs Glaire.

"Sick of it," cried Richard, hastily.  "I'll stay there no more.  I'll
open to-morrow.  Curse the place, it's horrible of a night, and I've
finished all the wine.  What's the matter with Eve?"

"But," cried Mrs Glaire, evading the question, and speaking excitedly,
"you must not stay, Richard; you must leave again to-night--now, at
once."

"Where for?" said Richard, grimly.

"London--France--anywhere," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, piteously.

"Nova Scotia, or the North Pole," said Richard, savagely.  "Damn it,
mother, I won't hide from the curs any more.  Here have I been for days
in that wretched hole."

"But there's mischief brewing, Dick, my boy, I am sure there is.  You
must leave at once."

"Let it brew," he cried.  "But who was that left the house as I came
in?"

Mrs Glaire did not answer, only looked appealingly to Eve.

"I said who was that came out of the house as I came along--some woman?"

Still there was no answer, and the young man looked eagerly round the
hall, to take a step aside, and pounced upon a handkerchief that had
been dropped on the mat.

"Whose is this?" he cried, taking it to the light, and holding it out,
first to inspect one corner and then another.  "Daisy!" he cried,
joyously.  "Has Daisy been here?  Do you hear?  Speak, some of you.  It
was; it must have been.  I might have known her in the dark."

"You coward--you villain!" cried Mrs Glaire, in a low, hissing whisper.
"Is there to be no end to your deceit?  Stop.  One moment.  Let me tell
you what I know.  You planned to meet that girl to-night, and you left
your hiding-place on purpose."

"Then it was Daisy!" cried Richard.

"Yes, it was Daisy.  You were a little too late.  You must have good
spies, Richard, my son, clever people, to keep you informed, and you
learned that your poor cheated cousin and I were gone out for the
evening."

"What the deuce do you mean?" cried Richard, stamping impatiently.

"Mean?" cried his mother.  "I mean that I took Daisy away, kept her in
Sheffield, that she might be saved from a life of shame--saved--oh, God!
that I should have to say it--from my son."

"_You_--_you_ got Daisy away?" half shrieked Richard.

"Yes, I--I," said Mrs Glaire, "to save you--to make you an honest man,
and that you might keep your word to your poor injured cousin.  I did
all this to the destruction of the happiness of the most faithful
servant that ever served our house, and to break his poor wife's heart.
I did all this sin, Richard, for you--for my boy; but you have beaten
me; I am defeated.  It has been a hard fight, but it was not to be.
There, she has been found out by your emissary, that Big Harry."

"Hang me if I know what you are talking about," cried Richard.

"Bah! fool, throw off your disguise," cried Mrs Glaire.  "If you will
be a villain be a bold one, and not a mean, despicable, paltry, cowardly
liar.  There, go; she has come.  Your spies managed well, but they could
not foresee that the poor foolish girl would miss you--that you would be
a few minutes too late, nor that we should return home early because I
was unwell."

"Here, I'm not going to stop and hear this mad folly," cried Richard,
with his hand upon the door.

"No; go!" cried Mrs Glaire; "but I curse you."

"Aunt!" shrieked Eve, clinging to her.

"Stand aside, Eve," cried Mrs Glaire, who was white with passion.
"Go--go, Richard.  It was Daisy Banks who left here.  She came to seek
you, and she has gone to find you at the works.  Go, my son, go; the
road is easy and broad, and if it ends in ruin and death--"

"Death!" cried Richard, recoiling.

"Yes, death, for there is mischief abroad."

"Bah!  I'll hear no more of your mad drivel," cried the young man
savagely.  "I've heard too much;" and, flinging open the door, he rushed
out.

"Aunt, aunt, what have you done?" cried Eve, piteously.

"Broken my poor weary heart," was the reply, as the stricken woman sank,
half-fainting, on the floor.

Volume 3, Chapter XI.

IN THE WORKS.

As Daisy Banks ran from the house, wild almost with horror and affright,
she made straight for the works, feeling that she might yet be in time
to warn Richard Glaire of his peril, if she could not stay her father
from the terrible deed he was about to commit.

On encountering Big Harry in the great town, that worthy had, on
recovering from his surprise at the meeting, told her all--of the plot
formed, and that her father, maddened against Richard Glaire for getting
her away, was the man who had joined the Brotherhood, and had undertaken
to lay the powder for the destruction of the works.

Yielding to her prayers, the great, honest fellow had agreed to
accompany her back; and not a moment had been lost, but on reaching her
home her mother was absent, and Joe Banks had been away all day.

Then came the visit to the House, and her leaving for the works.

"Wheer next, lass?" said Harry, coming out of the shadow where he had
been waiting, but Daisy brushed by him and was gone.

"See theer now," he muttered.  "What, owd Tommy, is that thou?" he
cried, as his old friend and fellow-workman, who had in the darkness
missed Daisy, ran up.

"Did'st see Daisy Banks?" he cried.

"Yes, I see her.  She's gone down street like a flash o' lightning."

"No, no; she must have gone to the works," cried Tom.

"Then she's gone all round town to get to 'em," said Harry.

"Come and see first," cried Tom, and the two men ran towards the gates.

"What time weer it to be, lad?" whispered Harry.

"I don't know," said Tom hoarsely; "they've kept that to their sens."

"But owd Joe Banks is going to do it, isn't he?"

"Yes, yes; but come along quick."

They reached the gate, but there was no sign of Daisy Banks; all was
closed, and to all appearance the place had not been opened for days.

"Theer, I telled ye so," growled Harry; "she didn't come this waya at
all.  She's gone home."

"How long would it take us to go?" whispered Tom, who now began to think
it possible that Daisy had gone in search of her father.

"Get down theer i' less than ten minutes, lad, back waya," replied
Harry; "come along."

Tom tried the gates once more, and then looked down the side alley, but
all was still.

"If she has been here, she can't have stayed," he said to himself.
"Here, quick, Harry, come on, and we may find Joe Banks, too."

"And if we do, what then?" growled the hammerman.

"We must stop him--hold him--tie his hands--owt to stay him fro' doing
this job."

"I'm wi' ye, lad," said Harry, "he'll say thanky efterward.  If I get a
good grip o' him he wean't want no bands."

The two men started off at a race, and as they disappeared Daisy crept
out of the opposite door-way, where she had been crouching down, and
then tried the gates.

All fast, and she dare not ring the big bell, but stood listening for a
moment or two, and then ran swiftly along the wall, and down the side
alley to the door that admitted to the counting-house--the alley where
her interview with Richard Glaire had been interrupted by the coming of
Tom Podmore.

She reached the door and tried the handle, giving it a push, when, to
her great joy, she found it yield, and strung up to the pitch of doing
anything by her intense excitement, she stepped into the dark entry, the
door swinging to behind her, and she heard it catch.

Then for a few minutes she stood still, holding her hand to her heart,
which was beating furiously.  At last, feeling that she must act, she
felt her way along the wall to the counting-house door, looking in to
find all still and dark, and then she cried in a low voice, "Father--Mr
Richard--are you here?"

No response, and she went to the door leading into the yard, to find it
wide open and all without in the great place perfectly still and dark,
while the great heaps of old metal and curiously-shaped moulds and
patterns could just be made out in the gloom.

A strange feeling of fear oppressed her, but she fought it back bravely,
and went on, avoiding the rough masses in the path, and going straight
to the chief door of the great works.

The place was perfectly familiar to her, for she had as a child often
brought her father's dinner, and been taken to see the engines,
furnaces, and large lathes, with the other weird-looking pieces of
machinery, which in those days had to her young eyes a menacing aspect,
and seemed as if ready to seize and destroy the little body that crept
so cautiously along.

Entering the place then bravely, she went on through the darkness, with
outstretched hands, calling softly again and again the name of Richard
Glaire or her father.  Several times, in spite of her precautions, she
struck herself violently against pieces of metal that lay about, or came
in contact with machinery or brickwork; but she forgot the pain in the
eagerness of her pursuit till she had convinced herself that no one
could be on the basement floor.

Then seeking the steps, she proceeded to the floor above, calling in a
low whisper from time to time as she went on between the benches, and
past the little window that looked down on the alley, which had afforded
Sim Slee a means of entry when the bands were destroyed.

No one on this floor; and with a shiver, begotten of cold and dread, she
proceeded to the steps leading to the next floor, which she searched in
turn, ending by going to the third--a repetition of those below.

"There is no one here," she said to herself at last; "unless he is
asleep."

She shuddered at this; and now, with the chilly feeling growing stronger
each moment, she made her way amongst the benches and wood-work of this
place, which was the pattern shop, and reached the top of the stairs,
where she paused; and then, not satisfied, feeling that this was the
most likely place for a man to be in hiding, she went over this upper
floor again.

As she searched, the clock at the church struck eleven, and its tones
sent a thrill through her, they sounded so solemn; but directly after,
with the tears falling fast, as the old clock bell brought up happy
recollections of the past, she began to descend; but was not half-way
down before she heard footsteps, and her name pronounced in an eager
whisper--

"Daisy--Daisy!"

She stopped short, trembling with dread.  It was Richard Glaire, the man
who had had such influence over her, and whom she had told herself that
she loved so well.  But this feeling of fear that she suffered now could
not be love; she knew that well: and during her late seclusion she had
learned to look upon the young man's actions in a new light.  His
mother's words to her had taken root, and she knew now that his
intentions towards her had only been to make her the plaything of the
hour of his fleeting liking; and the girl's face flushed, and her teeth
were set, as once again she asked herself why had she been so weak and
vain as to believe this man.

"Daisy--Daisy--Daisy Banks, are you here?" came in a loud whisper; and
still she did not move, but her heart fluttered, and her breath was
drawn painfully.

No: she did not care for him now, she felt.  It was a dream--a silly
love dream, and she had awakened a wiser, stronger girl than she was
before.

"Stronger!" she thought; "and yet I stand here afraid to speak, afraid
to move, when I have come to save him perhaps from a horrible death.  I
will speak:"

She stopped again, for a terrible thought oppressed her.  She must not
betray her father.  He might even now be coming to the place, if it was
true that he was to blow up the works--he might even now be here, and
the explosion--Oh, it was too horrible; she dared not speak even now:
she dared not stay.  She was not so brave as she thought, and she must
fly from the place, or try to meet her father.  Not Richard Glaire; she
could not--dare not meet him again; for she feared him still, even
though she told herself that she was strong.  A strange feeling of
faintness came over her, all seemed to swim round--and had she not
clutched at the handrail, her feelings would have been too much for her,
and she would have fallen headlong to the foot of the steep flight.

As it was, she uttered a faint cry, and it betrayed her presence.

"I knew you were here," cried Richard Glaire, hurriedly ascending the
stairs; "why, Daisy, my little bird, at last--at last.  Where have you
been?"

"Then you are safe yet," she gasped, as he caught her in his arms,
though she repulsed him.

"Safe; yes, my little beauty.  I found you had been at the house, and
they said you were here--come to look for me.  Why, Daisy, this meeting
makes up for all my misery since you have been gone."

Daisy wrenched herself from his arms, exclaiming passionately--

"I came to save you and others, Mr Glaire, and you act like this.
Quick, get away from this place.  Your life is in danger."

"I have heard that tale, my dear," he said, "till I am tired of it."

"I tell you," cried Daisy, as he tried to clasp her again, and she
struggled with him; "I tell you there is a plot against you, and that
you must go.  This place is not safe.  You have not a moment to lose."

"Why," said Richard, holding her in spite of her struggles; "did you not
come to see me and comfort me for being in hiding here?"

"No, no," cried Daisy, trying to free herself; "I came to warn you.  Oh,
sir, this is cowardly."

"Come, Daisy, my little one, why are you struggling?  You used not."

"No," cried the girl, angrily; "not when I was a silly child and
believed you."

"Come, that's unkind," said Richard, laughing.  "Where have you been,
eh?  But there, I know."

"I tell you, Mr Richard, you are in danger."

"Pooh! what danger?  We're safe enough here, Daisy, and no one will
interrupt us."

"I cannot answer questions," said Daisy.

"Oh, pray, pray let us go.  I came to save you."

"Then you do love me still, Daisy?"

"No, no; indeed no, sir, I hate you; but I would not see you hurt."

"Look here, Daisy," cried Richard.  "_I_ hate mystery.  Did you come
here alone?"

"Yes, yes--to save you."

"Thank you, my dear; but now, please, tell me why?  No mystery, please,
or I shall think this is some trick, and that you have been sent by the
men on strike."

"Indeed, no, Mr Richard," cried Daisy, who, in her horror, caught at
his arm, and tried to drag him away.  "Mr Richard, sir, you told me you
loved me; and in those days I was foolish enough to believe you, to the
neglect of a good, true man, who wanted to make me his wife."

"Poor idiot!" cried Richard, who was getting out of temper at being so
kept at a distance.

"No; but a good, true man," cried Daisy, indignantly.  "I've wakened up
from the silly dream you taught me to believe, and now I come to warn
you of a great danger, and you scoff at it."

"What's the danger, little one?"

"I cannot--dare not tell you."

"Then it isn't true.  It's an excuse of yours.  The old game, Daisy: all
promises and love in your letters--all coyness and distance when we
meet; but you are not going to fool me any more, my darling.  I don't
believe a word of your plot, for no one knows I am here except those who
would not betray me."

"What shall I do?" cried Daisy, clasping her hands in agony.  "Even now
it may be too late."

"What shall you do, you silly little thing!" cried Richard, whose
promises were all forgotten, and he clasped Daisy more tightly; "why,
behave like a sensible girl.  Why, Daisy, I have not kissed you for
weeks, and so must make up for lost time."

"If you do not loose me, Mr Richard, I shall scream for help," cried
the girl, now growing frightened.

"And who's to hear you if you do?" he said, mockingly.

"Those who are coming to destroy your works," exclaimed Daisy, now fully
roused to the peril of her position.

"Let them come!" cried Richard, as he held her more tightly; "when they
do," he added, with a laugh, "I'll let you go."

He was drawing Daisy's face round to his in spite of her struggles,
when, in an instant, she ceased to fight against him, as she exclaimed
in a low, awe-stricken whisper--"Hush! what was that?"  Richard loosed
his hold on the instant, and stood listening.

"Nothing but a trick of yours, Miss Daisy," he cried, catching her arm
as she was gliding from him into the darkness.

"Hush! there it is again," whispered the girl.  "I heard it plainly.
Pray, pray, let us go."

"No one can have got in here," muttered Richard, turning pale, for this
time he had distinctly heard some sound from below.  "Here, wait a
moment, and I'll go and see."

"No, no," faltered Daisy.  "Not alone; and you must not leave me.  There
is danger--there is, indeed, Mr Richard."

"Give me your hand, then," he whispered.  "Curse the place; it's dark
enough by night to frighten any one.  Mind how you come."  Daisy clung
convulsively to his hand and arm, as they descended to the second floor,
where all seemed to be still, not a sound reaching their ears; and from
thence to the first floor, where all was as they had left it.

Here Richard paused for a few moments, but could hear nothing but the
beating of their own hearts, for now he, too, was horribly alarmed.

"It's nothing," he said at last.  "Daisy, you've been inventing this to
make me let you go."

Daisy made no reply, for the horror of some impending evil seemed to be
upon her, and with her lips parched, and tongue dry, she could not even
utter a word; but clung to him, and tried to urge him away.

"Come along, then, into the counting-house," he said, infected now by
the girl's manifest fears.  "Mind how you come; the steps are worn.
Take care."

But for his arm Daisy would probably have fallen, but he aided her, and
she reached the floor in safety.

"Stop a moment, silly child," he said, "and I'll light a match, just to
look round and show you that you are frightened at nothing."

"No, no," gasped Daisy.  "Quick, quick, the door."

"Well, then, little one, just to prevent our breaking our necks over
this cursed machinery."

"No, no," moaned Daisy.  "I know the way.  Here, quick."

But Richard was already striking the wax match he had taken from a box,
and then as the light blazed up he uttered a cry of horror, and let it
fall, while Daisy, who took in at a glance the horror of their
situation, sank beside the burning match, which blazed for a few moments
on the beaten earth, and then went out, leaving them in a darkness
greater than before.

Volume 3, Chapter XII.

A LATE RECOGNITION.

As Richard Glaire followed Daisy Banks and reached the works, he made
for the great gates, took a rapid glance up and down the dark street to
see that it was quite forsaken, and then slipped a latch-key in the
wicket, which yielded quietly, and he passed in.

"Will she be here?" he said; and then it struck him suddenly that it was
impossible: the works had been closely shut up.

"But she came here--to find me.  Perhaps she has Joe Banks's key," he
exclaimed.  "At all events I'll have a look."

He crossed the yard, entered the great pile of buildings, and listened;
then returning, he went to the counting-house, and through the passage
to the dark opening into the alley, to find it on the latch.

"She is here," he exclaimed, joyously; and, leaving it as it was, he
proceeded to the great building, and then began to peer about in the
darkness and listen, ending by seeking the first ladder leading to the
half-floor.

"She's playing with me," he said, half laughing.  "She's a plucky little
thing, though, to come here by herself;" and then he ascended, and
stopped at one of the windows looking towards the town to listen, but
all seemed still.

He had hardly placed his foot on the second flight of stairs, and begun
to ascend, when the light of a bull's-eye lantern was flashed all over
the foundry.

"Dark as Jonah's sea-parlour, my lad," said a voice.  "Come along, all
of you," and several men, who had entered by the counting-house door,
and then gone back to fetch something, came silently into the great
gloomy place.

They were evidently in their stocking feet, and moved about without a
sound, two of them being dimly seen by the lantern light to be carrying
small kegs.

"Be keerful wi' that lantern, Barker," said the first speaker, who had
evidently been drinking.

"Yes, I'm careful enough," said the man; "but these nails and bits of
metal are dreadful to the feet."

"He, he, he!" laughed Slee, "we shall clear all them away soon.  I'm
glad I comed.  I'm not the man to stay away when theer's a job o' this
sort on.  Look alive, Stocktle."

"I'm looking alive enew," said one of the men with the kegs; "but it
seems a burning shame to spoil the owd place wheer we've made so many
honest shillings."

"None o' your snivelling, Joe Stocktle," exclaimed Sim Slee.  "Don't you
come powering your warm watter on the powther.  Is the place a-bringing
you money now, or starving your missus and the bairns?"

"That's a true word," said the man, sulkily; and he placed his keg on
the earth, beside one of the thick furnace walls, as Joe Banks, without
another word, placed his there too, right in the centre of the building,
where the great wall went up as a support to the various floors, close
to the huge chimney-shaft, which was continued up a couple of hundred
feet above the building.

"It'll send the owd shaft down too," said Sim; "and if we're lucky, the
place 'll catch fire and blaze like owt."

"Pray be quick, my lads; and we'd better go now," whispered Barker.
"Hush! wasn't that a noise?"

"On'y an owd tom cat," said Slee.  "He lives here, and scarred me finely
when I came for the bands.  Yow can do wi'out us, now, Joe Banks?"

"Wait a moment," said the foreman, slowly.  "Get me a crowbar off yon
bench."

Slee fetched the tool, taking the light with him, and casting weird
shadows about the vast foundry, as he carried the lantern, and made its
light flicker about.  Then returning, he stood looking on, and holding
the light, his hand trembling as he lighted Joe Banks, while he and the
man called Stocktle loosed the top hoops, and wrenched out the heads of
the kegs with a recklessness that made Barker's blood run cold, and he,
too, shivered so that his teeth chattered.

"Seems a shame to blow up t'owd shop," said Stocktle, again.  "Must do
it, I s'pose."

"Of course you must, you maulkin," whispered Slee.  "Theer's all the
lads hinging about the market-place to see 'em go up.  Now, Joe Banks,
tak' this lantern.  You knows what to do.  Here's the fuse.  Shove it in
your pocket.  Wait till we've gone, then upset both kegs, and then make
a good long train right to the door, wheer you'll put your fuse into
ground, with a handful o' powther at the end.  Open the lantern, and
howd fuse to it a moment, shoot lantern up, and if fuse is well leeted,
coot off as hard as you can.  Here's the pot.  Half fill un, so as to
lay a long train."

Joe Banks took the small watering-can handed to him, and proceeded to
half fill it from one of the kegs, trying it afterwards, to see if the
black grains poured freely from the spout; and finding they did, he set
it down.  "Pray come along," whispered Barker.  "I'm wi' you," said
Slee; and he followed Barker hastily, the two men making for the
counting-house door.

"Tak' care o' yoursen, Joe Banks," said the man left behind.  "Shall I
stop and help you?  Them two's coot awaya."

"No; go after them," said the foreman, speaking almost for the first
time.

"Raight," said Stocktle, "On'y look out for yoursen, owd Guy Fox, and
don't get blowed up too.  Are you all raight?"

"Yes," was the reply; and the man glided silently amongst the furnaces
into the darkness, leaving the stern grey-headed man to his dark task.

He was quick over it, tilting and half emptying the kegs against the
wall; and then, with the pot in one hand, the lantern in the other, he
made a path of light along the floor, in which he trickled down a black
zigzag pattern for many yards, till the pot was nearly empty, when he
poured all the rest in a patch, took out the long black fuse, laid one
end in the powder, and drew out the other, ready to thrust in the
lantern.

"It's a mean, cowardly trick," muttered Banks, darkening the lantern as
he put down the pot and stood erect.  "What would my owd brother workman
say if he could see me now?  Ay, and what would he say to his
black-hearted son for robbing me of all I howd dear?  It's a judgment on
him, and he deserves it.  Ay, but it's not like me to do such a thing;
but I've said I'd do it, and I will.  Who's yon?  Curse him; I wish it
were Dick Glaire, and I'd fire the train at once if I died wi' him."

The foreman stood ready, as he heard whispers and descending steps, and
ground his teeth together, as he made out that there was a woman's voice
as well as a man's.

"It must be Richard Glaire," he muttered, "and who will it be wi' him?"

He stood listening again, feeling in his mad excitement neither fear of
detection nor death, for his sole desire was to obtain one great
sweeping revenge on the man whom he now hated with a deadly hate; and as
he listened the thought grew more strongly that this must be Richard
holding a meeting with Eve Pelly.

"It can be no one else," he muttered, pressing his hands to his fevered
head, and then stooping to feel the fuse and powder.  "I don't want to
hurt her, poor lass, but she's an enemy now, like her scoundrel o' a
cousin.  A villain! a villain!  He's forsaken my poor bairn, then, to
come back here and mak' love to she.  If I shrunk from it before, I feel
strong now.  But I'll be sure first, for, mad as I am again him, I
wouldn't send an innocent man to his account.  But it must be him, it
must be him, sent by his fate to die in the midst of his place."

Joe Banks stood trying to think, but he was in so excited and fevered a
state that the effort was vain.  He could see nothing but ruin and
death.  He had promised to fire the train, and he was ready to do it,
for passion had long usurped reason, and should he die in the ruins, he
cared but little.

Meantime, as he stood intently listening, and with his hand upon the
catch of his lantern, ready to apply it to the fuse at any moment, the
whisperings continued, ceased within a few yards of where he stood; and
then came the sound of a box being opened.  There was a sharp, crackling
scratch, and a tiny white flame flashed out in the midst of the
darkness.

It lasted but a few moments, for Richard uttered a cry of dread, and let
it fall, but in those moments Joe Banks had seen who struck the match,
and that a female companion had sunk fainting to the earth, and the hot
rage, that had almost turned his brain, grew ten times hotter.

"You madman!" cried Richard, who had divined what was to take place; and
in his dread he became for the time brave, and sought to grasp the man
who was charged with the deadly design.  "You madman!" he cried.  "What
are you about to do?  Here, help!"

He sought to grasp the foreman, and had not long to wait, for, choking
with rage, the injured man stepped forward to seize him in turn, and
they closed in a furious struggle, which resulted in the younger man
seeming like a child in the mighty arms of his adversary, who lifted him
from the ground, dashed him down, and then, panting with exertion and
rage, planted a foot upon his chest and held him there close by the end
of the train, while he felt round for the dark lantern he had dropped.

"Banks, Joe Banks, are you mad?" cried Richard, who was half stifled by
the pressure upon his breast.

"Yes," said the foreman, grimly; "mad."

"What are you going to do?" panted Richard, struggling to remove the
foot.

"To do, liar, coward, villain! was it not enew that you had all you
could want, but you must come and rob me o' my poor bairn?"

"Joe--Joe Banks!" panted Richard, in protestation; but his words were
stifled, for the maddened man pressed his foot down more firmly on his
chest.

"Silence, you villain!" cried Banks, in a low fierce whisper, "or I'll
crash in your chest or break your skull with a piece of iron.  Are you
going to marry that Eve Pelly?"

"Yes, Joe, yes; but--"

"Silence!" hissed the foreman, "unless you want to say your prayers.
Speak a word aloud, and I'll kill you dead.  Now, you want to know why
I'm here?  I'll tell you.  The poor lads thrown out o' work by your
cruel ways said they'd blow up the works, for you had injured them so
that they would have revenge; and then I said I had greater wrong to
bear, and I would do it.  Do you want to know more?" he continued, with
a savage chuckle.  "There lies the powther all of a heap, two barrels
full, and here's the train down by your feet.  It's aw ready, and there
would have been no works by this time if you had not come with she."

"Joe, listen," panted Richard, struggling ineffectually against the
pressure.

"Silence!" hissed Banks; and his foot was pressed so savagely down that
Richard Glaire thought his end had come, and lay half swooning, with
dazzling lights dancing before his eyes, the sound of bells ringing in
his ears, and a horrible dread upon him that if he spoke again the words
would be his last.  And all this time, like a low hissing sentence of
death, went on the words of the foreman, as he bent over him.

"I tell thee I hev but to put the light to the train, and you--.  Yes,
we shall be blown into eternity unless I run fro' the place."

"Your child--Daisy!" panted Richard, in his horror.

"I hev no bairn," cried Banks, who then uttered an ejaculation
indicative of satisfaction, for he had been feeling about, and reached
the lantern.

"Banks, Joe Banks, for mercy's sake," groaned Richard, hoarsely, "I'm
not fit to die."

"Nay, thou'rt not, and thou'lt be worse if I let thee live, and if thou
survives that poor lass will lead a living death."

"Joe--mercy!" cried Richard, as the pressure on his breast increased.

"Ask it fro' up yonder," said the foreman solemnly.  "I'll gi'e you two
minutes to pray while the fuse burns.  It'll last two minutes; see,
lad."

"Joe, Joe," panted his victim, feebly struggling as against some
horrible nightmare, while with starting eye-balls he glared up at the
weird, distorted face of his foreman, upon which the light shone
strangely as he opened the lantern door, held it to the fuse for a
moment, closed it, and hurled it to the other side of the foundry, while
the slow match began to burn gradually towards the powder.

"He's mad, he's mad!" moaned Richard, gazing hard with a feeling of
horrible fascination at the burning fuse, whose faint sparkling light
made the face of Banks look to him like that of some demon.  "Joe, for
my father's sake!"

"Not for his.  Yo' canno' be your father's bairn."

"Joe, for Daisy's sake," panted Richard, again.  "Mercy, mercy! it has
nearly burned out."

"Pray, fool, pray," hissed Banks.  "It may save you from the curse I
give you for blasting my home.  I wean't run.  Let it go, for thou'rt
sent here to-night to die.  It's God's vengeance on you for what you've
done.  See the powther catches."

"It's devil's work, not God's!" shrieked Richard, as, grasping the foot
that pressed him down, he made a final effort for life, just as the
train caught fire, flashed up, and began to run in a serpentine course
towards the barrels.

Another moment and it would have been too late.  As it was, Joe Banks
took a couple of strides, and swept the powder aside in the middle of
the train, so that when the lurid serpent that seemed running its wavy
course along the floor, lighting up the works with a strange glow,
reached its maker's foot, it fluttered, sparkled here and there to right
and left, and then all was darkness.

"You're raight," said Banks, solemnly, from out of the darkness, while,
half blinded by the glare, Richard feebly struggled to his knees, and
crouched there, bathed in a chilly sweat.  "You're raight; it is devil's
work, and I canno' do it.  Richard Glaire, I believe I'm mad; and when I
found you here, wi' her as lies theer moaning, I said we'd all die
together."

"This is horrible, horrible!" moaned Richard.

"Mebbe it is," said Banks, sadly; "but for you, lad, the bitterness o'
death is past.  It's devil's work, indeed, and it shall not be mine.
Get up, and tak' yon poor lass away, lest the fit comes ower me again,
and I forget as I'm a man."

Richard groaned, for he was weak and helpless as a babe.

"I give you your life before," continued Banks, moving to where a dim
light showed where the lantern lay, and returning with it open, so that
its glow shone upon Richard Glaire's white face.  "I give it to you
again, man.  Go, and God forgive you what you've done to me."

Richard made an effort to rise, and stood tottering on his feet,
speechless with the reaction from the horror through which he had
passed, while Banks crossed to where Daisy was beginning to recover from
her swoon.

"Poor bairn!" he said softly; "and I should ha' slain thee too.  Get up,
Miss Eve, and some day you may pray for and forgive me."

He turned the light full upon her as she rose to her knees, then covered
her eyes, for the light dazzled her.

"Where am I?" she cried; then, as recollection flashed back, she started
up with a cry of "Father--father!"

Joe Banks stood motionless for a few moments, staring wildly at what
seemed to him like some horrible vision; and it was not until Daisy rose
to her feet that he fully realised what he had so nearly achieved; then
the lantern dropped from his hand; he clasped his temples with his
sinewy hands, and uttered a hoarse cry that echoed through the gloomy
place--

"My God!"

As the words left his lips he turned slightly, and fell heavily upon the
ground, just as there were shouts, the rush of feet; and, bearing
lights, a couple of policemen, Tom, Harry, and about a dozen of the
tradespeople, headed by the vicar, rushed into the place.

Volume 3, Chapter XIII.

A PERIL PAST.

"Thank Heaven, we're in time," exclaimed the vicar.  "Back, every man
with lights," he shouted; "there's a train."

There was a rush back for the entrance, but the vicar stood firm, and,
taking one of the policemen's lanterns, he cautiously stepped forward,
tracing the train, and scattering it with his feet till he saw the heap
that had trickled from the opened kegs.

"Keep your places with the lights," he cried.  "Harry!  Tom! buckets of
water, quick!"

Half-a-dozen started for the yard, where there was a large iron tank
outside the door, and bucketsful were brought in rapidly, with which,
while the vicar lighted them, Tom and Harry deluged the heap of powder.

"There's no danger now," said the vicar, as the ground was saturated in
every direction.  "Good heavens! what a diabolical attempt."

And not till now was attention drawn to Richard Glaire, who sat upon a
block of metal, watching the actions of those around him, as their
lights feebly illumined the great, gloomy place.  He was white as ashes,
trembling as if stricken with the palsy; and when spoken to stared
vacantly at the vicar.

"Are you hurt, Mr Glaire?" he said kindly.

For answer, Richard burst into an hysterical fit of sobbing, and cried
like a child.

"Fetch a little brandy, some one," said the vicar.  "He will be better
after this.  He must have had some terrible shock.  Who is this?" he
continued, directing his light to where Banks lay insensible, with the
blood trickling from a cut upon his forehead, where he had struck it
against a rough piece of slag in falling.

"It's Joe Banks," growled Harry, as the vicar knelt down and quickly
bandaged the wound.

At that moment, Daisy, who had remained crouching behind the brickwork
of one of the furnaces, came forward trembling.

"Daisy Banks!" cried the vicar in astonishment.  "You here?"

"Don't speak to me; don't speak to me," she cried wildly, as she threw
herself sobbing beside her father to passionately raise his head, and
kiss him again and again.  "He's dead, he's dead, and I've killed--I've
killed him."

There was silence for a few moments, which no one cared to break, and
Tom Podmore stood with folded arms and heaving breast, gazing down at
the weeping figure of her he so dearly loved.

"He's not dead, my poor girl," said the vicar, kindly; "only in a swoon.
That bleeding will do him good.  Constables, we must get him home at
once, or--no, you must guard this place.  Harry, Podmore, and two more--
a stout piece of carpet from the nearest house.  We can carry him in
that."

"Bring him home--to my place," said Richard Glaire, who had somewhat
recovered.

"I think not, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, firmly.  "His own house will
be best."

"Excuse me, sir," said the chief policeman.  "He's the leader, I
believe; we must have him at the station.  The doctor can see him there.
He had laid the train, and was to fire it.  Harry and Podmore here
know."

Daisy uttered a shriek, and the vicar's brow knit as he turned to
Richard.

"It's a lie," cried the latter, sharply.  "I was here, and know some
scoundrels put the powder here, and the train; but Banks destroyed it,
and saved my life."

The vicar had him by the hand in a moment, and pressed it hard.

"It's a lie, parson," he said in a whisper; "but I must tell it.  He did
save my life."

"How came he by that cut, then, sir?" said the policeman.

"You see," said Richard, coldly, "he fell and struck himself against
that piece of clinker.  He did not know I was there, and that his child
had come to warn him, and he was overcome."

"I will be answerable for his appearance to reply to any charge," said
the vicar.

"There's no charge against him," said Richard, hastily.  "I saw him
destroy the train."

Daisy crept to his side, and Tom Podmore groaned as he saw her kiss
Richard's hand.

"Very good, sir," said the constable; "that will do.  We'll watch here,
sir, though there's no fear now; and the others are locked up."

A piece of carpet was then fetched, and Banks was carefully lifted upon
it, four men taking the corners, and bearing him hammock-fashion down
the crowded street, the work people who had been in the street having
been augmented by the rest; and a strange silence brooded over the place
as they talked in whispers, the story growing every instant until it was
the common report that Banks and Richard Glaire had met in the foundry,
that Banks had been killed, and Richard Glaire was now dying at home.

The gossiping people could not fit Daisy Banks into the story.  She was
walking beside her stricken father, and they saw her bent head, and
heard her bitter sobs; but it was only natural that she should make her
appearance at such a time, and it seemed nothing to them that she should
be close to Tom Podmore, who was one of the bearers, though he, poor
fellow, winced, as Daisy half-clung to his arm for protection, when the
crowd pressed upon them more than once.

On reaching the cottage, the vicar hurried in first, to prepare Mrs
Banks, expecting a burst of lamentation; but as soon as he had uttered
his first words, Mrs Banks was cold and firm as a stone.

"Is he dead, sir?" she whispered; "tell me true."

"No, no; and not much injured.  I think it is a fit."

"I wean't give way, sir," she panted; and running upstairs, she began to
drag down a mattress and pillow, ready for the suffering man.

"Poor Joe, poor Joe!" she murmured, and then gave a start as she heard
the word "Mother!"

"Ay, lass, I'd forgot thee in this new trouble."

"But you will not send me away, mother?" whispered Daisy--"wait till you
know all."

"I send thee away, lass?  Nay, nay, I shouldna do that now," said Mrs
Banks, sadly.

The next moment she was putting the pillow and arranging it beneath her
husband's head, as he was borne in, the men softly retiring, and giving
place to the doctor, who hurried in, hot and panting.

"Ah, Selwood, what's all this?" he said.  "Give me a light quickly."

He was down on his knees directly, examining his patient, removing the
bandage, and looking at the cut, the patient's eyes, and carefully
loosening all tight clothing.

"Poor fellow!--ah--yes--nasty cut--do him good.  Hum!  What fools people
are; they told me he was killed."

"Will he live, Mr Purley?" whispered Daisy, hoarsely.

"Ah, Daisy, you come back?" said the doctor.  "Live? yes, of course he
will.  Touch of apoplexy; but we'll bring him round."

"Oh, mother, mother!" moaned Daisy; "I thought I'd killed him;" and she
threw herself, sobbing, into her mother's arms.

"Come, come, that won't do," exclaimed the doctor.  "You two must help
me.  Selwood, you'll do me a good turn by going, and taking all the
people with you.  We want fresh air."

The vicar nodded, and a few words from him, coupled with the information
that Banks was not seriously hurt and would soon recover, sufficed to
send the little crowd away.

They followed him, though at a distance, Tom Podmore and Harry acting as
his rearguard, as he made as if to go straight to the House.

He had to pass the Bull, though; and, seeing a group of people there, he
made his way through them to where Robinson, the landlord, was standing
discussing the events of the evening.

"Robinson," said the vicar, aloud, and his words were listened to
eagerly, "I'm afraid this atrocious outrage was hatched here in your
house."

"'Strue as I stand here, sir," cried the landlord eagerly, "I knowed
nowt of it."

"But you knew that secret meetings were held here?"

"I knowd they'd their meetings, and a lot o' flags and nonsense, sir;
but I niver thowt it was owt but foolery, or they shouldn't hev had it
here."

"I ask you as a man, Robinson, did you know they meant to blow up the
works?"

"No, Mr Selwood," cried Robinson, indignantly; "and if I had knowed I'd
have come and telled you directly."

"I believe you," said the vicar.

"I knowed they talked big, sir," continued Robinson; "but when men do
that ower a pipe and a gill o' ale, it's on'y so much blowing off steam
like, and does 'em good.  Bud look here, sir, there's about a dozen of
'em up in big room now.  Come on up, and we'll drift 'em."

He led the way to the club-room, to find it locked on the inside, and on
knocking he was asked the pass-word.

"Dal thee silly foolery," cried the landlord, in a passion, "there it
is;" and, stepping back, a few paces, he ran furiously at the door and
dashed it off its hinges; entering, followed by the vicar, Harry, and
Tom, who kept close to protect him from harm.

There were about fourteen men present, and they rose with more of dread
than menace in their aspect, half expecting to see the police.  "Look
here, lads," began the landlord--"Allow me, Mr Robinson," said the
vicar, stepping forward and looking straight before him.  "My men, I
look at no man here; I recognise no man as I say this.  Smarting under
injury as you thought--"

"Real injury, parson," cried Stockton.  "Faults on both sides, my man,"
continued the vicar.  "Some among you destroyed Mr Glaire's property.
I say, smarting under your injuries, and led away by some foolish,
mouthing demagogues, you conspired to take the law into your own hands,
and, not content with making two cruel assaults on your employer--"

"Which he well deserved, parson."

"I cannot enter into that," said the vicar.  "If one man does wrong, it
is no excuse for the wrong of others.  Our salutary laws will protect
even a murderer, and then punish him according to his deserts.  But
listen--In a few words, you have been led away to conspire for the
accomplishment of a most dastardly outrage.  I have just come from the
works, and I tell you, as a man, that if the scheme had succeeded, they
would have been destroyed."

"Serve him right," growled a voice.  "All the houses round would have
been injured, and the loss of life would have been frightful."

"Nay, nay, parson," said Stockton.  "I am giving you my honest
conviction, my men," continued the vicar.  "A hundred pounds of powder
in a confined space is sufficient to commit awful ravages; and you
forget what would have followed if that tremendous chimney had fallen.
But I have not told you all.  If the powder had been fired, three people
in the works would have been killed.  Those people were Mr Richard
Glaire--"

"Weer he theer, sir?" exclaimed Stockton.

"He was," said the vicar; "he has been in hiding there from your
violence for days.  I knew some plot was hatching, and, to save both him
and you, I advised his staying in the works, so that you might think he
had left the town."

"Which we did," muttered two or three.

"I shudder when I think of the consequences of my advice.  But listen--
there would have been two more horribly mutilated and shattered corpses
at this moment--the remains of your foreman and his poor child, Daisy
Banks."

"Oh, coom, parson!" said Stockton.

"I tell you, man, as I rushed in, they were all three there.  How they
came there together I do not know.  I do not want to know.  All I know
is that it has pleased God to spare us from a sin for which we should
never have forgiven ourselves."

"I don't see as yow had much to do wi' it, parson," said a voice,
sneeringly.

"My men, my men," cried the vicar, in a deeply moved voice, "do you
think I live here among you without feeling that your joys and sorrows
are mine? and your sins are mine as well, for I ought to have taught you
better.  For God's sake let us have no more of these wretched meetings;
break up your society, and act as man to man.  Suffer and be strong.
Have forbearance, and try to end these dreadful strikes, which fall not
on you, but on your wives and children."

"But what call hev you got to interfere?" cried a surly voice.

"Howd hard theer," cried Stockton; "parson's i' the raight.  He's spent
three hundred pound, if he's spent a penny, over them as was 'most pined
to dead."

"That's raight," cried several voices.

"Never mind that, my men; it was my duty, even as it is to be the friend
and brother of all who are here.  But listen--"

"I didn't come to hear parson preach," cried a voice,

"One word--listen to me for your own sakes," cried the vicar, in
impassioned tones.  "Suppose you had succeeded without the horrible loss
of life that must have occurred through your ignorance of the force of
powder--suppose the works had been, with all the costly machinery,
turned into a heap of ruins?"

"It would hev sarved Richard Glaire well raight," said some one.

"Grant that it would, but what then, my lads?  For Heaven's sake look a
little further than the satisfaction of a paltry, unmanly desire for
revenge."

"It would hev ruined Dicky Glaire," cried Stockton.

"Yes, my men; but it would have ruined you as well.  Those works could
not have been restored for years: perhaps never; the trade would have
gone elsewhere, and, as I take it, over two hundred men and their wives
and children must have gone elsewhere for bread."

"That's raight enew, parson," cried Stockton; "but all the same if some
cursed, cowardly spy hadn't betrayed us the wucks would hev been down."

"That betrayal of your evil plans came about more strangely than you can
imagine," said the vicar.  "I have suspected something, and been
constantly on the watch."

"Strange and kind of you, too, parson," said Stockton, with a laugh.

"You will think so some day, my man."

"Bud I know who it weer," said Stockton.  "Theer he stands; it were Tom
Podmore.  He weer not sweered in."

"Then he did not betray you," said the vicar, as a menacing growl arose;
but Tom stood perfectly firm.

"No, it weern't Tom Podmore," cried Big Harry, stalking forward, one big
shoulder at a time.  "If you want to know who did it, here he is--I did;
and I'm glad on it.  Dal me!  I'm glad as th'owd wucks aint down, and
I'll faight any two o' you as don't like it; so now then."

There was another growl, but no one took up the challenge.

"See here, lads," cried Harry.  "I went awaya so as to hev now't to do
wi' it, and I didn't tell anybody; only telled parson to give Dicky
Glaire the word to look out."

"And you was sweered in, Harry," cried Stockton.

"So I weer," said the big fellow; "and, as I said afore, I'll faight any
man as don't like it.  Well, I goes on to Sheffle to get wuck, and there
I happened o' Daisy Banks; and when the poor little lass got howd o' me,
and begged me to tell all about her owd man, why dal me, I weer obliged
to tell her how he was a-going to--dal it, parson, don't slap a man o'
the mooth that how."

"You've said enough, Harry," cried the vicar.  "We want to know no more.
I answer for you that you did quite right, and some day these men will
thank you, as I do now, for saving us all from this horror.  Now, my
men, you know that Slee and Barker, that stranger, are in the station."

"Oh, ay, we know that," said Stockton; "and I vote, lads, we hev 'em
out."

"No, no; let them get the punishment they deserve," cried the vicar.

"Well, lookye here, parson," cried Stockton; "the game's up, I s'pose,
and you've got the police outside.  I was in it, and I'm not going to
turn tail.  Here I am."

"My man, I will not know your name, nor the name of any man here.  I
will not recognise anybody; I came as your friend, not as a spy.  I came
to ask you to break up your wretched bond of union, and to go forth home
as honest men.  Where a union is made for the fair protection of a
workman's rights, I can respect it; but a brotherhood that blasphemes
its own name by engaging in what may prove wholesale murder, is a
monster that you yourselves must crush.  I have no more to say.  Go
home."

"Parson's raight, lads!" said Stockton, throwing off his defiant air.
"Let's go.  Parson, it was a damned cowardly trick, but Dicky Glaire had
made us strange and mad."

"It weer owd Simmy Slee as made it wuss, wi' cootting o' them bands,"
said Big Harry.  "We should ha' been at wuck again if it hadn't been for
that."

"Quick, lads!" cried a man, running in.  "Sim Slee and Barker's broke
out o' th' owd shop, and the police are coming down here."

"Theer, parson," said Stockton, with a bitter smile; "th' game's oop."

For answer, the vicar pointed to the windows, and in less than a minute
the room was empty, though there would have been plenty of time to
escape by the door, for the one policeman coming on the mission to see
if Slee had made for the meeting-place of his party did not hurry his
footsteps, partly from reasons of dignity, and partly because he was
alone.

Volume 3, Chapter XIV.

A FAITHFUL LOVER.

The announcement was quite correct.  Sim Slee and his companions had
broken away through the ceiling, dislodged the tiles, and escaped; and
when the vicar reached home, he found Mrs Slee waiting up for him,
trembling and pale, while her eyes were red with weeping.  She clung to
him hysterically, and asked if the news was true, and that her husband
was in prison.

"They came and told me the police had got him," she sobbed.  "Ah, he's a
bad one sometimes, but he's my maister, sir, he's my maister."

"He was taken, Mrs Slee," said the vicar, "I'm sorry to say.  I was
present.  You know I went out to-night, for I was in dread of some
outrage; and after being about a time, I found that something was wrong,
for the men were all waiting as in expectation."

"He always would mix himself up with these troubles i'stead o' wucking,"
sobbed the poor woman.

"Fortunately I met two of the men I could trust, and found that an
attempt was to be made to blow up the works."

"Ah, but Sim wouldn't do that, sir," sobbed Mrs Slee.  "He dursen't."

"I'm sorry to say, Mrs Slee, that one of the policemen had watched him,
and seen him help to carry a barrel of powder to the works."

"Just like him--just like him," sobbed Mrs Slee; "but some one else was
to fire it."

"How did you know that?" said the vicar, sharply.

"I only know as he dursen't hev done it hissen," sobbed the poor woman.
"Poor lad, poor lad, there was nowt again him but the drink."

"The men I met were in search of Daisy Banks," continued the vicar; "and
we joined hands with the police, who took your husband and that man from
London, and afterwards we reached the works, and they are safe."

"I'm strange and glad they've took that London man," sobbed Mrs Slee;
"but poor Sim!  Poor, poor Sim!  But I must go and say a word o' comfort
to him.  Smith, at station's a good, kind man."

"Who'll ever say that woman is not faithful?" said the vicar to himself,
as Mrs Slee hurried away to get her print hood, and, late as it was, to
make her way to the station; but as she came back sobbing bitterly, he
laid his hand upon her arm.

"You need not go, Mrs Slee; your husband and his confederate have
escaped."

"Escaped? got awaya?" cried Mrs Slee.

"Yes."

"Gone out o' the town?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Then," cried Mrs Slee, wiping her eyes with a hasty snatch or two of
her apron, "I'm glad on it.  A bad villain, to go and try to do such a
thing by the place as he made his bread by.  I hope to goodness he'll
niver come back," she cried, in her old sharp vinegary tone.  "I hope I
may niver set eyes upon him again.  Bud I don't want him to go to
prison.  Bud you're not going out again to-night, sir?" she said,
imploringly.

"I must go up to the House and see that all is well there, Mrs Slee,"
he replied; "and call as I go and see how poor Banks is."

"Bud is it true, sir, that Daisy has come back?"

"Yes," said the vicar, sadly.  "Poor girl, she has returned."

"Bud you wean't go now, sir; it's close upon two o'clock."

"Lie down on the sofa, Mrs Slee.  I shall be able to wake you when I
come back."

"Theer niver was such a man," muttered Mrs Slee, as she let him out;
"and as for that Sim, well, I'm ommost sorry he did get away."

As the vicar approached the foreman's cottage he saw some one cross the
lighted window, and on getting nearer he recognised the figure.

"Is that you, Podmore?" he said in a low voice.

"Yes, sir, yes," was the reply.  "I only thought I'd like to know how
poor Joe Banks is getting on."

"I'm going in, and if you'll wait I'll tell you."

"Thank ye, sir, kindly," said the young man.  "I will wait."

"Poor fellow!" thought the vicar, with a sigh; "even now, when she comes
back stained and hopeless to the old home, his love clings to her still.
It's a strange thing this love!  Shall she then, and in spite of all,
find that I cannot root up a foolish hopeless passion that makes me
weak--weak even as that poor fellow there?"

A low knock brought Daisy to the door, and on entering, it was to find
Mrs Banks on her knees by her husband, who seemed in a heavy sleep.
The doctor had been again, and had only left half-an-hour before.

"He says there's nowt to fear, sir," whispered Mrs Banks; "but, oh,
sir, will he live?"

"We are in His hands, Mrs Banks," was the reply.  "I hope and pray he
may."

Daisy was looking on with dilated eyes, and pale, drawn face, and as,
after some little time, during which he had sought with homely, friendly
words to comfort the trembling wife, he rose to go, Daisy approached to
let him out, when fancying that he shrank from her, the poor girl's face
became convulsed, and she tried hard but could not stifle a low wail.

She opened the door as he kindly said "Good night;" but as the faint
light shone out across the garden and on to the low hedge, Daisy caught
him by the arm.

"Don't go, sir," she whispered, in a frightened voice; "it mayn't be
safe.  Look: there's a man watching you."

"You are unnerved," he said, kindly; and then without thinking--"It is
only Podmore; he was waiting as I came in."

"Tom!" the poor gill ejaculated, catching his arm, "is it Tom?  Oh, sir,
for the love of God, tell him I'm not the wicked girl he thinks."

"My poor girl!"

"I was very wicked and weak, sir, in behaving as I did; but tell him--I
must speak now--tell him it was Mrs Glaire sent me away."

"Mrs Glaire sent you away?" exclaimed the vicar.

"Yes, yes, yes," sobbed Daisy; "so that--her son--"

"To get you away from Richard Glaire?"

"Yes, sir; yes.  I wish--I wish I'd never seen him."

"How came you at the foundry to-night?" he said sharply.

"I went to tell him of the danger, sir.  I went to the House first, and
they told me he was there.  I hate him, I hate him," she cried,
passionately, heedless of the apparent incongruity of her words, "and
everybody thinks me wicked and bad."

"Is this true, Daisy Banks?" exclaimed the vicar.

"She couldn't tell a lie, sir," cried a hoarse voice.  "Daisy, my poor
bairn, I don't think it no more."

"Tom!" sobbed Daisy, with an hysterical cry; and the next moment she was
sobbing on his breast, while the vicar softly withdrew, to turn,
however, when he was fifty yards away, and see that the cottage door
opened, and that two figures entered together before it was closed.

"Thank God!" he said softly--"thank God!"

Lights were burning at the House as he reached the door, and, under the
circumstances, he knocked and was admitted by the white-faced, trembling
servant, who had been sitting with one of the policemen in the hall, the
other guarding the works.

"Don't be alarmed, my girl, there is no bad news," he said; and with a
sigh of relief the girl showed him in to where Richard, Eve, and Mrs
Glaire were seated, all watchful, pale, and ready to take alarm at the
least sound.

"I'm glad you have come, Mr Selwood," exclaimed Mrs Glaire; while
Richard gave him a sulky nod, Eve trying to rise, but sinking back
trembling.

"I should have been here sooner," he said, "but I have had much to do."

"Is there any fresh danger?"

"None whatever," said the vicar.  "I think the storm is over--I hope for
good."

Mrs Glaire gave a sigh of relief, and then wondered, as she saw the
vicar cross the room; but the next minute a faint flush came into her
pale cheeks, and she tottered to where Eve was sitting, and buried her
face on her shoulder.

"Mr Glaire," said the vicar, firmly, as he nerved himself for what he
had to say, determined, as he was, to leave nothing undone in what he
looked upon as his duty--"Mr Glaire, I have done you a grievous wrong;
I humbly ask your pardon."

"What do you mean?" said Richard, starting, and wondering, with his
customary distrust in human nature, whether it was some trap.

"I mean that, in common with others, I believed you guilty of inveigling
Daisy Banks away."

"It don't matter to me what people think," said Richard, roughly.

"I am sorry I misjudged you," continued the vicar; "and once more I ask
your pardon."

"It don't matter," said Richard.

"Mrs Glaire," the vicar continued, kindly, as he drew a chair to her
side and took her hand, "you did a foolish, cruel thing in this."

"Then you know all?" she sobbed.

"Yes, all--from the lips of Daisy herself.  I will not blame you,
though, for the act has recoiled upon yourself, and it is only by great
mercy that, embittered as these men were through it, a horrible crime
has not been committed."

"I did it--I did it to save him," sobbed Mrs Glaire.  "I am a mother,
and he is my only boy."

"Poor, stricken Banks is a father, and Daisy is his only child.  Mrs
Glaire, you did him a cruel wrong.  Why did you not trust me?"

"I was mad and foolish," she sobbed.  "I dared not trust any one, even
Daisy; and I thought it would be best for all--that it would save her,
and it has been all in vain.  Look at him," she cried angrily; "after
all, he defies me, insults his cousin's love, and, when the poor,
foolish girl comes back, his first act is to seek her, to the forgetting
of his every promise to us both."

Eve had covered her face with her hands.

"Daisy is as bad as he," continued Mrs Glaire, angrily.

"There you are mistaken," said the vicar; "her act to-night was to warn
your son of his dreadful danger.  She went to save him from a terrible
death."

"Pray say no more," said Mrs Glaire, shuddering; and Richard turned of
a sallow yellow.

"It has been a terrible affair," said the vicar; "but I sincerely hope
that all is over, for your act has borne fruits, Mrs Glaire, and Daisy
has seen the folly of the past."

Richard looked up wonderingly, but refused to meet their visitor's eye.

"I have spoken hastily, and I owe you an apology, Miss Pelly," continued
the vicar, rising; "but it was better to be plain even before you.  I
was only too glad, though, to come and apologise to Mr Glaire for the
wrong I had done."

"But poor Joe Banks?" exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

"He seems to have been struck down by an apoplectic fit.  He was
shocked, no doubt, at finding that so dastardly an attempt had been
made, and at the sight of your son and his child in such imminent peril.
I hope, however, and sincerely believe, that he will recover.  I have
just come from there.  Good night."

He pressed Mrs Glaire's hand, and held that of Eve for a few moments,
saying to himself, "Poor girl, I have lightened her heart of some of its
load.  I have somewhat cleared the man she loves."

"Good night, Mr Glaire," he said, turning to Richard.

"I'll see you out," said Richard; and he followed him to the now vacant
hall.

"What did you mean," he said, roughly, "about Daisy?"

"I mean," said the vicar, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder,
"that she has awakened to the folly and weakness of her dealings with
you, sir, and to the truth, honesty, and faith of the man who has loved
her for so long."

"Podmore?" hissed Richard.

"Yes, Podmore.  Now, Mr Glaire, your course is open."

"What do you mean?" cried Richard, angrily.

"Act as a man of honour."

"I don't understand you."

"And all will be forgiven.  Good night."

"Curse him!" cried Richard, with an impatient stamp; and he stood
gnawing his fair moustache.  Then, with a smile of triumph, damped by a
hasty glance of fear up and down the street, he hurriedly closed the
door.

Volume 3, Chapter XV.

DAISY'S LETTER.

The weeks slipped rapidly by, and a great change had come over Dumford.
The sky was blackened once more with smoke, the furnaces roared, there
was the loud chink of metal heard, and the hiss of steam as the engines
thudded and clanked, while at dinner time the great gates gave forth
their troops of grimy workmen.

Homes looked bright once more, and "my maister" was not seen with
lowering brow leaning against the door-post all day long, but tired and
hearty, ready to play with the bairns, or busy himself in his bit of
garden.

The trade, too, had brightened up, and one and all thanked goodness that
their troubles were over, and prayed that they might be long in coming
again.

Something of a search had been made for Sim Slee, and the police
authorities had been pretty active; but Sim and the "deppitation"
managed to keep out of sight, and Richard Glaire was in no wise anxious
to have the matter too closely investigated.

He kept to his story that he found the train laid in the foundry, and
Banks the foreman destroyed it, and the place was saved.  This he opened
at once, and the men gladly resumed work, the vicar's influence telling
upon them, and one and all being ready to ignore the past, and try to
condone it by regular attendance at the time-keeper's wicket.

Banks recovered rapidly, and, on learning the truth, sent for Richard,
who, however, refused to go to the house to see him, while on his part
the foreman declined to resume his position at the foundry.

"No, sir," he said to the vicar; "I weer in the wrong, and I shouldn't
feel it weer raight to go back theer again.  I'm sorry I misjudged him
as I did, and I weer too hard upon him; but he hasn't used me well,
neither has Mrs Glaire.  But theer, let bygones be bygones.  I shan't
starve, and I'm only too happy to hev my poor lass back again, safe and
sound--safe and sound, while the missus is in high feather to find that
Daisy and her fav'rite, Tom Podmore, hev come together efter all."

That same day, as it happened, Mrs Glaire called at the cottage, with
Eve Pelly, and while the former talked with her old foreman,

Eve went into the little garden with Daisy.

"I've called to ask you to come back, Joe Banks, at my son's wish," said
Mrs Glaire.  "He desires that we bury the past, and that you resume
your post, for the place is not the same without you."

"Nay, Mrs Glaire, nay," said Banks, shaking his head; "that can never
be again.  I should hev had to give it up some day, so let it be now.
And, as you say, ma'am, let bygones be bygones.  We were both in the
wrong."

"Both, Joe," said Mrs Glaire, sadly; "but you will forgive me.  I did
what I did for the best."

"Ay, I believe thee, but it weer very hard to bear.  I deserved it,
though, for I might hev knowed that he niver meant to wed my poor lass.
Bud theer that's all past and gone--past and gone.  Hey, ma'am, look at
them two i' the garden.  They seem good friends enew now.  And so she's
to be married to Master Dick to-morrow?"

"Yes, Joe," said Mrs Glaire, hastily, "it will be for the best.  My son
is all that I could wish for now;" and they sat looking out at the two
young girls as they stood talking.

Their conversation had been on indifferent things for some time, but
Daisy felt a guilty knowledge of something she ought to tell, for Eve
was so sweet and gentle with her; not one word or look of reproach had
been said, but there had so far been no word of the future.

At length Daisy spoke out.

"Do you quite forgive me, Miss Eve?" she said.  "I could not help it
then, though I fought against it, and was wretched all the time."

"Yes, Daisy, yes," cried Eve, eagerly; and she took the other's hand;
"but tell me truly--do you--do you--oh, I cannot say it."

"Do I care for Mr Richard Glaire?" said Daisy, with a strange smile.
"Do I feel hurt because you will be married to him to-morrow?  Not a
bit.  Don't think that, dear Miss Eve, for I love poor Tom with all my
heart, and only wish I could make him a better wife."

"And you will be married soon, too?" exclaimed Eve.

"Maybe in a month or two," said Daisy, looking sadly at her visitor; "we
do not want to hurry it on.  I wish you every happiness, Miss Eve."

"And I you, Daisy," said Eve, looking at her with a wondering wistful
look, and asking herself how it was that Richard should have conceived
so mad a passion for this girl, while for her his attentions had been of
the coldest type.

"Mr Selwood is going to marry you, then?" said Daisy, quietly, for want
of something to carry on the conversation.  "But what ails you, Miss
Eve, are you ill?"

"No, no, nothing," said Eve, hastily.  "It is hot to-day, that's all."

And then the two girls stood silent for a while, Eve thinking that the
vicar came so seldom now, and then his visits were so quiet and formal;
while Daisy kept asking herself one question, and that was--

"Shall I tell her?"

And the answer--

"No, it would be cruel now, and once they and I are married, all that
will be over."

When the visitors had gone, Daisy went up to her bedroom, and took from
a little drawer a note which she had received the previous night.  It
ran as follows:--

"You know how I love you, and how I have watched for weeks for a chance
to speak to you.  I have been night after night at the old places,
believing you would come, but not one glance have I had of you, not one
word.  Dearest Daisy, by all our old meetings, I ask you to give me one
more.  Don't heed the chatter of the place, but come up to the old spot
as soon as you receive this, for I am obliged to write.  If too late I
will be there to-morrow night.  Only come and say one loving word to me,
and all you have heard shall be as nothing.  I cannot live without you,
so come, and if you will I am ready to take you anywhere--far away, as I
have promised you before."

Daisy sat looking at the letter, and read it again and again.

"Only to think," she said at last; "a few months ago I should have
sighed and sobbed over that note, and been almost ready to be dragged by
him where he would, while now--it makes me almost sick.  What could I
have seen in his soft boyish face to make me feel as I did.  But what
shall I do?  It seems cruel to let that poor girl go to the church with
such a man, only that she might save him.  And suppose he makes her
miserable for life."

Daisy turned pale, and sat thinking till she heard her father call, and
then she hastily thrust the letter into her bosom, her face grew
radiant, and she hurried down, for her father's words had been--

"Daisy, lass, here's Tom!"

Volume 3, Chapter XVI.

THE EVE OF THE WEDDING.

That same evening Eve Pelly was in the garden with Mrs Glaire--the old
familiar garden where she had spent so many happy hours, while now she
was sad with a sadness that made the tears rise and fill her eyes.

The old place, with its abundant flowers, its roses climbing the old
red-brick wall, the well-shaven lawn, with its quaint rustic vases and
flower-beds, and the seats where she had read and worked since a child.
It was her dear old home, and she was not going to leave it, but all the
same, on this the eve of her marriage, it seemed to her that the end had
come, and that she was about to bid it all farewell.

It had been an anxious day, for many friends had called, and present
after present had been brought, all of which, in spite of herself, she
had received with tears, and gladly escaped afterwards to the solitude
of her own room.

Even the workmen had clubbed together, and, in spite of past hard times,
bought a handsome silver teapot, which came "With the men's dooty to
Miss Eve."

For they recalled her sweet gentle face, patiently watching by or
bringing flowers to many a sick wife or child; and it was said that
every man in the works, with all his belongings, was to be at the church
next morning.

Mrs Glaire was with Eve, but at last she said she would go in, the
latter pleading that she would like to stay a little longer in the soft
glow of the evening sun; and so it happened that at last she was left,
and feeling glad at heart that Richard had been away all day, she sat
down alone to think.

It was so strange she could hardly realise it, and yet this was the last
day, and to-morrow she would be Richard's wife.

The warm glow of the setting sun was around her, but a deadly pallor was
upon her face, and she began to tremble.

"Am I going to be ill?" she asked herself; and then, making an effort,
she tried to shake off the feeling.

"Richard's wife," she mused.  "May I have strength to make him love me
dearly, and to be to him the best of wives."

It was a fervent wish, but as it passed her trembling lips, the tears
began to flow, and though she fought against it, the thoughts would come
rushing through her brain of what might have been had some one else
known her sooner, and not looked down upon her as a poor weak, simple
girl.

"Oh, but this is dreadful," she moaned; "disloyal to poor Dick--cruel to
myself.  What shall I do!"

She was hastily drying her eyes, when a step on the gravel startled her,
and Jacky Budd appeared, red-nosed as of old, and bearing a small round
basket, and a packet.

"From Master Selwood, Miss Eve.  Parson said I was to gi'e 'em to yow,
so I brote 'em down the garden mysen, and my dooty to you, Miss, and may
you be very happy, and I'd take it kindly if yow'd let me drink your
health, and long life to you."

Eve smiled her thanks as she placed a shilling in his hand, sending
Jacky away a happy man, as he calculated that that shilling contained
eight gills of ale, and to him what he called comfort for his sorrows.

As the gardener went away Eve's agitation became excessive, and she
hardly dared to lift the lid of the basket.

But a short time since, and she had mentally reproached him for
forgetting her, as no token whatever had arrived, only a formal note to
her aunt, saying that he would be at the church at ten the next morning,
while all the time his thoughts had been of her, for here was the token.

A glad flush overspread her cheeks, as at last she took the basket and
raised the lid, to find within a large bouquet of costly white exotics,
the stephanotis amongst which sent forth its sweet perfume, mingled with
that of orange blossoms--a gift to a bride.

"A gift to a bride," she whispered, and the flush faded, even as the
sunbeams were paling fast in the trees above her head.

A bitter sigh escaped her lips--a sigh that was almost a moan, and as
she raised the bouquet and kissed it, the tears fell fast, and lay
glistening like rain amidst the petals.

"If he knew; if he knew," she whispered, "it would be cruel; but he does
not know--he never will know, and after to-night this must be as a
dream."

Almost mechanically she took the little square white packet that lay on
the garden seat by her side, and breaking the seal, on which was the
vicar's crest, she found a small square morocco case; and when at last
her trembling fingers had pressed the snap and raised the lid, there
upon pale blue velvet lay a large oval locket, crusted with diamonds and
pearls, a costly gift that glistened in the fading light, and beside it
a scrap of paper, with the words--

"God bless you!  May you be very happy."

Eve sat with one hand laid upon her bosom to still its throbbings, and
then her lips were pressed to the locket--longer still to the scrap of
paper, before the case was shut, and she sat gazing up at the first
stars in the pale, soft sky.

A low, deep sigh escaped her lips, and then with a weary look round--

"I am stronger now," she said, and rose to go, but only shrank back in
her seat as she heard a rustling noise, and then a thud, as if some one
had jumped from the wall, while before she could recover herself, Tom
Podmore stood before her.

"Is--is anything wrong?" she gasped; for in her nervous state this
sudden apparition suggested untold horrors to her excited brain.

"It's only me, Miss Eve.  I wanted just a word."

"Why--why did you not come to the house?" she faltered,

"Don't be scarred, miss.  I only wanted to be sure o' seeing you alone.
I just want to ask you something."

"Yes," she said, composing herself.

"I want to ask you to forgive me, miss, if I hurt your feelings, and do
something as'll make you feel bitter again me."

"You would not hurt me, Tom?" said Eve, rising and laying her hand upon
his arm.

"God knows I wouldn't, miss, any more than I would one of His angels,"
said the young fellow, excitedly; "and that's why I've come.  I couldn't
feel as it weer raight not to come, and even though you may think it
spiteful, it isn't, but on'y for your sake alone."

"Yes," said Eve, who felt giddy.  "You have something dreadful to tell
me."

"No, Miss," said the young man, solemnly, "not to tell you, only a note
to gi'e you."

"A note--from Mr Selwood?"

"No, miss," said Tom, not seeing the warm flush in the girl's face, "a
note as weer sent last night to my Daisy, and which she give to me an
hour ago."

"A note?" faltered Eve, again.

"Yes, miss, a note.  Daisy talked it ower wi' me, and I said as you
ought to see it; and even if it hurts you sore, I felt I must gi'e it to
you, and theer it is."

Eve felt the paper, and was aware of the fact that her visitor had
scrambled over the wall, and was gone, and still she stood clutching the
paper tightly, till a voice made her start, and thrust the paper into
her bosom.

"Eve, my child, it is damp and late."

It was Mrs Glaire calling, and, picking up her presents, Eve slowly
went up the garden, feeling like one in a dream, till she entered
through the open window, where Mrs Glaire was waiting.

"Why, you are quite cold, my child," said Mrs Glaire, tenderly, as she
closed the windows, and led the trembling girl to an easy chair by the
tea-table, the shaded lamp shedding a pleasant glow upon the steaming
urn.

"It is getting cold, aunt," said Eve, with a shiver; and she drank the
tea poured ready for her with avidity.

"More presents, my darling?" said Mrs Glaire, leaning over and kissing
her.  "Eve, child, you are making me very happy."

Eve's arms were flung round her neck, and she sobbed there in silence
for a few moments.

"Don't cry, my darling; try and think it is for the best.  It is--you
know it is, and the past must all be forgotten.  But where is Dick?  He
must be buying presents, or arranging something, or he would be here,"
she said, cheerfully.  "By the way, Eve, what are those?  Did Richard
send them?"

"No, aunt," said Eve, hoarsely; "they are from Mr Selwood."

"Always a kind, good friend," said Mrs Glaire, whose voice shook a
little as she looked at the gifts.  "Make Richard think better of him,
Eve, for he is a true, good friend."

Eve did not answer, for her hand was upon her breast, and beneath that
hand she could feel the paper.  Her great dread was that Richard should
come back, and she prayed that he might not return.

Ten o'clock sounded, and then eleven, from the little pendule on the
chimney-piece, and still he did not come; and Mrs Glaire, noticing the
poor girl's agitation, proposed rest.

"I will sit up for Dick, Eve," she said, cheerfully.  "He is preparing
some surprise;" but, as soon as her niece had kissed her lovingly, and
left the room, a haggard look came over the mother's countenance, and
she knelt down for a few moments beside the couch.

She started up, though, for she heard her son's step in the hall, and he
entered directly, looking hot and flushed.

"Where's Evey?" he asked.

"Gone to bed, my boy," replied Mrs Glaire.  "Dick, you should have
stayed at home to-night."

"Oh, all right," he said, lightly, and with a bitter sneer; "it's the
last night, and I thought I might have a run."

"I'm not blaming you, dear," said Mrs Glaire, kissing his forehead;
"only poor Eve looked so sad and ill to-night."

Had she seen her then, she would have cried out in fear, for, with an
open paper in her hand, Eve was pacing up and down her room, to throw
herself at last upon her knees in agony, and after many hours sob
herself to sleep.

Volume 3, Chapter XVII.

THE HAPPY DAY.

It was gala day in Dumford.  The past bitter times were forgotten, and
the men had rigged up an arch of evergreens.  The children were in their
best, and gardens had been stripped of their flowers.  Half the town had
been twice to the Bull to see the barouche and the four greys that had
been ordered from Ranby, and the postboys, in their white beaver hats,
had been asked to drink more times than was safe for those they had to
drive.

The church, too, was decorated with flowers from the vicarage garden,
and new gravel laid down from porch to gate.  The ringers were there,
and the singers, and the musicians making their way to the loft, while
the various pews and sittings were filled to a degree "not knowed,"
Jacky Budd said, "for years an' years."

The school children were ready, armed with baskets of flowers, and had
been well tutored by the school-mistress to throw them as the bride and
bridegroom came out.  This lady sighed as she saw the preparations, and
told Jacky Budd to open more windows, because the bodies smelt so bad,
and Jacky said they did, and it gave him quite a sinking: but the hint
was not taken.

In the vicarage Murray Selwood sat looking pale and stern, beside his
untasted breakfast, and it was not till, with affectionate earnestness
and the tears in her eyes, Mrs Slee had begged him to take a cup of
tea, that he had yielded, and eaten also a slice of toast.

"I know thou'rt ill, sir," she said.  "Let me send for Mr Purley."

"No, no, Mrs Slee," he said, shaking off his air of gloom; "only a fit
of low spirits.  I shall be better soon."

Mrs Slee shook her head as she went back to the kitchen.

"He wean't: he's been getting worse for weeks and weeks, and it makes me
wretched to see him look so wankle."

Meanwhile at the House all was excitement.  Eve had risen at daybreak to
sit and watch the rising sun and ask herself what she should do.  She
had promised to be Richard's wife.  Her aunt's happiness, perhaps her
life, depended upon it, and it was to save her cousin.  She was to
redeem him, offering herself as a sacrifice to bring him back to better
ways, to make him a good and faithful husband, and yet in her bosom lay
those damning lines, telling of his infidelity in spirit--of his passion
for another, and again and again she wailed--

"He never loved me, and he never will."

Should she go--could she fly somewhere far away, where she might work
and gain her own living, anywhere, in any humble station, in peace?

And Richard--her aunt?

No, no, it was impossible; and think how she would, the bitter feeling
came back to her that she had promised her aunt, and she must keep her
word.

And besides, if Richard was like this now, what would he be if she
refused him at this eleventh hour, and cast him off.  She shuddered at
the thought, and at last grew calmer and more resigned.

In this way the hours passed on, till in a quiet mechanical manner she
was dressed by the maid, who was enthusiastic in her praises of dress,
jewels, flowers, everything.

Mrs Glaire was very pale, but bright and active, and in a supercilious,
half-sneering way, Richard watched till all was ready, and the guests
who had been invited had arrived.

A look from his mother brought him a little more to his senses, and he
went to and kissed Eve, to find her lips like fire, while her hands were
as ice, and at last he sat there peevish and impatient.

"I want it over," he said, angrily, to Mrs Glaire.  "I hate being made
such an exhibition of.  Will the carriages never come?"

An end was put to his impatience by the arrival of the first, in which
he took his departure with his best man, his appearance being the signal
for a volley of cheers.

Mrs Glaire went last, in the same carriage with Mr Purley, the doctor,
and Eve, the stout old fellow trying to keep up the bride's spirits by
jokes of his ordinary calibre, the principal one being that he hoped the
carriage would not break down under his weight, a witticism at which he
laughed heartily, as he responded with bows and hand-wavings to the
cheers of the people who lined the High Street of the little town.

Everything looked bright and gay, for the sun shone brilliantly; ropes
laden with streamers were stretched across the street, while flags hung
here and there, where satisfactory places could be found; and in front
of the Bull, a party of the workmen had arranged a little battery of
roughly-cast guns, sufficiently strong and large to give a good report
when loaded with powder, the landlord having arranged to have a red-hot
poker ready for discharging the pieces as soon as the wedding was over.

Volume 3, Chapter XVIII.

"WILT THOU--?"

The old troubles of the strike were over and forgotten, and the town's
intent on this day was to give itself up to feasting, with its ordinary
accompaniment of more drink than was good for those who partook.

Down by the churchyard the crowd had long secured to itself the best
positions, the favourite places for viewing the coming and departing of
the bridal party being the churchyard wall and the two railed tombs; but
the boys put up with tombstones, and hurrahed till they were hoarse.

Jacky Budd got the first cheer, as he went up solemnly to the church
door, evidently feeling his own importance, but he was checked half-way
along the path by some one saying in a quiet, remonstrating tone--

"Say, Jacky, wean't yow stop an' hev a drain?"

He looked sharply round, and his hand went to his mouth, while a roar of
laughter rose up from the merry crowd, and hastened his steps into the
porch.

Trappy Pape was the next to be joked, as he came up hugging the green
baize bag containing his violoncello.

"Say, Trappy, hast thee fed thee be-ast?" said one.

"Hast giv' the poor owd fiddle its rozzum?" cried another.

"Trappy, lad," shouted another, "does ta sleep inside that owd thing?"

The violoncello player hurried into the church, and Joey South came into
view, to the great delight of the crowd.

"Here comes owd Poll Pry," cried one.

"Look at his owd umbrella," cried another.

"Why don't ta put th' umbrella up?" cried another voice, "it's going to
ree-an next week."

Here there was another roar of laughter.

"Look at his leather breeches."

"Say, Joey, wast ta sewed in 'em when they weer made?"

"Ay, lad, they weer made on him i' the year one, and niver been off
since."

"Mind yon goon don't go off," cried one of the chief jokers, as the boy
came by bearing Joey's bassoon.

"Is she loaded, Joey?"

"Ay, lad, he rams her full wi' kitchen poker," cried another.

Joey South escaped into the porch, grinning angrily, for a fresh
minstrel appeared in the shape of "Owd Billy Stocks" with his clarionet.

"Hey, lads, here's owd Billy.  How's the clarinet, Billy?"

"Didst put a bit more waxey band round her, Billy?"

"Ay, lads, and she's got a new reed."

"Don't split parson's ears, Billy."

"Hey, here's Tommy Johnson and Johnny Buffam.  Tak' care, lads."

"Where's the brass?" shouted somebody.

"Hey," cried another, "stop 'em--big goons aint allowed i' the pooblic
street."

The two musicians hugged the French horn and ophecleide to their sides,
and tried to smile.

"Don't 'e blow paarson's brains out wi' that thing, Johnny Buffam."

"Dost a make the dead rise wi' it, Tommy, lad?" cried another.

"Say, Tommy," said another, "keep thee fist tight i' the bell, or
thee'll do some un a mischief."

The appearance of Robinson, the landlord, and his wife, in gorgeous
array, saved the brass instrument players from further banter, for the
landlord had to be cheered.  Then came churchwarden Bultitude, with,
close behind, Jessie and John Maine, and this party had to be cheered.

"Say, Chutchwarden, why don't a give parson a job for them two?" shouted
some one; and, with scarlet cheeks, poor Jessie hurried into the church,
where her eyes met John Maine's with no disfavour.

"Wheer's Tom Podmore?  Why don't he bring his lass?" shouted a workman.

But neither Daisy, Tom, nor Banks put in an appearance; and the crowd
were on the look-out for some one else to banter, when the vicar
appeared, to be received with deafening cheers, the men pressing forward
to shake hands as he went slowly up the path.

"Say, mun, parson looks straange and wankle," said one.

"Ay, but he is pasty-faced; he's been wucking too hard."

"Wucking!" said another; "why, he's nowt to do."

"Nowt to do, lad! why, he does as much i' one week as thou dost i' a
month."

"Say," said another, "I'm getting strange and hungry."

"Theer'll he plenty to yeat by and by," said another.  "Hey, here's owd
Ransome and Tomson, the man as neither liked gristle nor swarth, but was
very fond o' pig's feet."

"It warn't he, but the servant gell as they had.  Say, owd Ransome, hast
got a new gell yet?"

"What weer it about t'owd one?" said another.

"Why, they 'most pined her to dead."

"Hey, I thought they lived well theer."

"She towd my missus that she should leave, for she had beef and mutton
and pigeon-pie till she wus sick to dead on 'em."

"Poor lass!" said another.  "That weer her as see owd Ransome's wife
makking the pie."

"Hey, and what weer that?"

"Ah, she says, `Sugarmum and buttermum, it'll be a straange dear pie,
mum.'"

"Here's Dicky Glaire!" now was shouted, and plenty of cheers arose; but
the men talked critically about his personal appearance as he got out of
the carriage and went up the path with a supercilious smile upon his
face.

"He's another pasty-faced un," said one of the chief speakers.  "Dicky
isn't half the man his father weer."

"Hearken to owd Mother Cakebread," said one of the men; "she says she'd
sooner marry tawn's poomp."

"Here's owd Satan comin' to chutch," cried a voice, as Primgeon, the
lawyer, a tall, smooth-faced, sallow man, got out of the next carriage,
but they cheered him well, and the guests in the next two carriages,
when the cry arose--

"Here's the Missus!"

"Gi'e the owd gell a good un, lads.  Hats off."

"Three cheers for the doctor."

"Gie's a ride i' the chay, doctor."

"Hooray."

The cheers were hearty enough, as Purley handed out Mrs Glaire and the
bride, and began to move slowly up the path, for the excitement was such
that the crowd pressed forward upon them in the midst of the deafening
cries, while a faint flush came upon Eve Pelly's face, as she raised her
eyes, and the icy look upon her face passed off, thawed by the sunshine
of the warm greetings.

"God bless you, Miss Eve--hooray for Miss Eve!"

"Hurray!" shouted one of the leaders of the strike.  "May all her bairns
be gells."

"Like their moother," shouted another.

"Hooray, lads!  Gi'e her another; put your showthers into it."

There was a deafening roar from a couple of hundred throats, and then
the poor school-mistress's arrangements were overset, for a voice
shouted--

"Fling thee flowers now, bairns;" and the bride went up to the church on
a floral carpet, and with a shower falling upon her from all around.

"What a shame!" cried the school-mistress, as the party disappeared
through the porch, and she was carried after them by the crowd which
followed.

"Niver mind, owd lass, the bairns can pick 'em up, and fling 'em again."

Poor flowers, they looked crushed and drooping now, though, as Eve Pelly
walked up the damp old aisle, feeling as if it were all some dream, and
beginning to tremble now as she approached the altar, where the rest of
the party were assembled, from among whom came Richard, who had cast off
his supercilious air, and was trying to play his part of bridegroom as
became his position.

The young fellow was flushed now with the excitement of the scene, and
somewhat carried away by the interest displayed by the town on the
occasion of his marriage.  He hardly heeded his mother's words as she
clung to his hand for a moment, and whispered--

"You see, my son: now take your position that your father won for you,
of the first man in Dumford."

"I will, mother," he exclaimed, proudly; and he glanced round the
church, to see it crowded, even the aisles being densely packed, a low,
murmuring buzz arising, which was checked, though, as the vicar, in his
white surplice, moved from behind the great tomb, looking white almost
as the linen he wore, and took his place inside the low wooden altar
rails, which Jacky Budd bustled officiously to close, giving his lips a
smack as if he scented the feasting that generally followed this
operation, and hastened to replace the hassocks in front of the little
gates.

Eve's eyes rested upon the vicar's for a moment as she was led by some
one, she could not tell whom, and told to stand in a particular
position: there was a strange whirring sound in her head, and the place
was alternately swimming round her, and then coming to a dead stand, and
beginning to recede, till the whole of the chancel seemed to be
reproduced with photographic minuteness far away, as if seen through the
wrong end of a telescope.

Then the mutterings of the crowd in the church reached her; Mrs Glaire
whispered, "Be strong for my sake," and Richard Glaire, dimly seen,
stood beside her; and before her, calm and motionless, divided from her
by the quaint old wooden barrier, soon to be divided from her by bars
that were a thousand times as strong, stood the man that she knew and
owned now, with a kind of desperation, that she loved.

It was a blasphemy, she told herself, to stand there as she did, ready
to lie before her Maker; but as she mentally said this she prayed that
her sin might be forgiven, and her act looked upon as a sacrifice to
save her who had been to her as a mother, and Richard Glaire from a
downward career; and as this prayer was repeated she heard the deep, sad
voice of the vicar speaking.

The words came slowly, and the utterance grew deeper as, hardly able to
bear the bitter agony he experienced, Murray Selwood addressed the first
solemn words of the service to those before him, going on to "I require
and charge you both," while the silence in the church was almost
painful.

Then turning to Richard, and with his voice rising, he asked the
question--

"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after
God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?  Wilt thou love her, (a
pause) comfort her, (another pause) honour, and keep her in sickness and
in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, (a long and
painful pause, during which Richard Glaire winced as he tried to meet
the questioning eyes fixed on his, and failed) so long as ye both shall
live?"

"I will," answered Richard, once more trying to meet the eyes that were
fixed upon him in solemn question, and failing miserably.

Those who watched the service from close by, remembered afterwards that
the vicar's voice became low and trembling as, turning to Eve, he asked
her--

"Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after
God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?  Wilt thou obey him,
and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and
forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall
live?"

There was a dead silence, and Richard Glaire felt his breath catch, as
if a hand was at his throat, as he saw Eve look wildly round from face
to face, and at last let her eyes rest with a horrified expression upon
those of the man who had asked her that solemn question.  So deep was
the silence, that a whisper would have been plainly heard, and the voice
of the clerk sounded painful and strange, as he said in a low
voice--"Answer `I will.'"

There was another painful pause, and then throwing herself on her knees,
and clutching the altar rail as one might have sought sanctuary in days
of old, Eve shrieked out--

"No, no, no, no--God forgive me--I do not love him, and I never can!"

Richard Glaire muttered an oath between his teeth, and stooped to raise
her, but the book was dropped, and the vicar's strong arm thrust him
away.

"Stand back, sir," he exclaimed; "this marriage cannot proceed.  Mr
Purley."

The doctor stepped forward, raised, and laid the fainting girl upon the
cushions hastily spread upon the stones of the chancel; and, tearing off
his surplice, the vicar was the first to bring wine, and take one of the
cold thin hands, as he knelt beside her, while Richard, trembling with
fury, sought to be heard.

"It's no use," said the doctor, firmly.  "Poor girl! over-excitement--
nerves unstrung.  We shall have brain fever if there is not the greatest
care."

"It's all nonsense," cried Richard, passionately.  "A mere whim--a
girl's silly fainting-fit.  Bring her to, doctor, and the marriage shall
go on."

"I told you, sir," said the vicar, sternly, "that it could not go on.
Poor girl: she could bear no more."

"But," shrieked Richard, "it shall go on.  Do you think I'll be made
such a fool of before the town?  Curse you, this is your doing, and--"

"Silence, sir," thundered the vicar.  "You are in God's house.  Leave it
this instant."

Richard clenched his fists menacingly, but the stern eyes upon him made
him drop them, and he fell back, the crowd opening to let him pass, when
Mrs Glaire tottered to his side.

"My son, my son," she faltered, clinging to his hand, but he flung her
off, and strode out at the little chancel door, ran hastily round to
where the carriage with its four greys was in waiting, and as the
wondering crowd closed round, he whispered to the nearest
post-boy:--"Quick--to the station.  Gallop!"  The crowd parted and the
boys raised a cheer; and, as if to make the mocking sounds more painful,
a man ran out from the Bull with a red-hot poker, and applied it to one
of the little rough cannon.

There was a deafening explosion, and a tremendous jerk, as the
frightened horses tore off at full gallop along the High Street, the
chariot swaying from side to side on its tall springs, while all the
postboys could do was to keep their seats.

Shrieks and cries arose as the horses tore along, gathering speed at
each stride, and growing more frightened at the gathering noise.

On past the various houses, past his home and the works, and Richard
clung desperately to the seat.  For a moment he thought of throwing
himself out, but in that moment he saw himself caught by the wheel, and
whirled round and beaten into a shapeless pulp, and with a cry of horror
he sank back.

On still, and on, at a wild gallop; and, to his horror, Richard saw that
the horses were making straight for the great chalk pit, and in
imagination he saw the carriage drawn right over the precipice, to fall
crushed to atoms upon the hard masses below.

"I cannot bear this," he exclaimed; and, turning the handle, he was
about to leap out when the fore wheel of the chariot came with fearful
violence against the short thick milestone; there was a tremendous crash
as the vehicle was turned completely over, and Richard knew no more.

A dozen stout fellows, who had run panting after the carriage, came up a
few minutes later, to find one of the postboys holding the trembling
horses, which, after being released from the wreck, they had succeeded
in stopping, and the other was striving hard to extricate Richard from
where he lay, crushed and bleeding, amidst the splinters of the broken
chariot.

The sturdy foundry-men soon tore away the part of the carriage that held
the injured man, and a gate being taken from its hinges, he was carried
back to the town; the doctor, who had been attending Eve at the
vicarage, where she had been carried, having reached his house to fetch
some medicine, which he sent on with a message to Mrs Glaire, who was
in ignorance of the catastrophe, to come home at once.

Volume 3, Chapter XIX.

REST AT LAST.

A couple of months had glided away, during which time Richard Glaire had
recovered from the severe injuries he had received in the accident, and
then, as he said, gone on the continent to recruit his shattered nerves;
though in confidence Doctor Purley told his lodger Dick Glaire's nerves
were stronger than ever, in consequence of eight weeks' enforced
attention to the orders of his medical man.

Richard wanted to get away, for several things had occurred to annoy
him.  He was only just recovering, when the news reached him that Daisy
Banks had become Tom Podmore's wife; and this was at a time when he was
in the habit of saying bitter things to Mrs Glaire about the
disgraceful arrangement by which Eve was still at the vicarage, where
she had been carried from the church, and where she had lain through her
long illness which followed, during which she was for weeks delirious,
and knew neither of those who watched incessantly by her side.

Daisy Banks was her most constant attendant, and had taken up her
residence at the vicarage with Miss Purley, who had told the vicar she
would do anything to oblige him; and when he thanked her warmly, had
gone up to her room at once to prepare, and sat down, poor woman, and
cried with misery, because she was forty-three, very thin, and no one
ever had, and probably never would, ask her to be a wife.

So the vicar became Doctor Purley's lodger, never once crossing his own
threshold, and Mrs Glaire went down daily from her son's sick bed, to
see how poor Eve sped.

Days and days of anxiety and anxious watching of the doctor's face as he
came home from his visits, and little hope.  Days when the eminent
physician from the county town came over, to give his supplementary
advice; and still, though both doctors shook their heads, Eve lived on--
a wavering flame, ready to be extinguished by the first rough waft of
air.

"Selwood," said the doctor one night, "I've lost over a stone weight
since I've been attending that poor girl, and I've done my best;
everything I know, or could get from others.  I'm going back now, for
this is about the critical time, and I shall stay all night.  Why, man!
Come, come, I say."

He laid his hand upon the vicar's shoulder, for the strong man's head
had gone down upon his hands.  He had fought his grief back, and borne
so much--now he had given way.

"I am weak," said the vicar, gently.  "Pray go."

"Yes," said the stout old fellow with animation; and the desponding
feeling seemed to have gone.  "Yes, I'll go and watch while you pray;
and between us, with God's help, we may save her yet."

As the night wore on, and the town grew stilled in sleep, the vicar rose
and left the house, to go silently down the High Street, past the
church, to his own home, where he could lean against the gate and watch
for hour after hour the little lighted window with its drawn blind, and
the one glowing spot where the candle burned.

Hour after hour, sometimes walking up and down, but always with the
prayer upon his lip that she might be spared.

Sometimes a shadow crossed the blind, and a light went through the
house.  Then all was still again, and the night went on, with the stars
that had risen as he watched passing over his head, and at last a faint,
pearly light beginning to dawn in the east, and grow broader.  The first
chirp of a morning bird, as the pale light grew stronger, answering
chirps, and the loud alarm-note of the blackbird that rose from the
hedge beside him, dipped down, and skimmed rapidly along the ditch.

The light brightened in the east, but paled in the window of the sick
girl's room; and the watcher's heart sank low, for he knew too well that
this was the hour when vitality was at its lowest ebb, and that,
perhaps, at this very time the gentle spirit of Eve might be winging its
way to a purer realm.

"My poor love--my love!" he murmured, as he leaned upon the gate; and if
ever man prayed fervently, that was a heartfelt prayer breathed from his
lips, and it seemed, in his weak worn state, borne upwards by a winged
messenger which rose from the field hard by, singing its morning song of
joy and praise.

He watched that lark as it rose higher and higher, its clear notes
ringing far and wide, but growing gradually fainter and fainter, till
the bird seemed lost to his gaze, as the song was to his ear.  But as he
watched the sky turned from its pale dawn, tinged with a warmer flush,
to one glorious damask fret of orange and gold, lighting up the trees
and flowers of his garden as he let his eyes fall to earth, and then, as
they rested on the window, it was to see that it was blank and cold and
grey.

He could not stir, only stand gazing there with a horrible sinking
feeling--a terrible dread, and though the sun rose slowly, his light
seemed pale and sickly to the heart-stricken man, whose worst fears
seemed confirmed when the door opened, and the heavy, burly figure of
the doctor appeared, coming softly down the gravel-walk.

"You here, Selwood!" he exclaimed.  The vicar bowed his head.  "You have
been here all night?"

"Yes, but tell me.  I can bear it now.  Does she sleep?"

"Yes," said the doctor, pausing; and as he saw the weary head sink
lower, he continued, "Yes, but not the sleep you mean.  The crisis is
past, dear friend, and Eve Pelly lives."

It was one soft delicious afternoon, when the vicarage garden was aglow
with flowers, mellow with sunshine, and joyous with the hum of the
insect world, that in obedience to Eve's wish the vicar went down, to
find her looking very thin and pale, but inexpressibly sweeter than she
had ever seemed before, seated on the old rustic seat beneath the great
hedge of mingled holly and yew.  Daisy was with her as he entered the
garden, but she went into the house, and Eve, with her colour returning
slightly, held out one hand and pointed to the place at her side.

He did not take the seat, however, but mastering his emotion, took the
trembling hand between his and kissed it.

"You wished to see me?" he said.

"Yes," said Eve in a whisper; "to thank you for your great--great
kindness to me.  They tell me I have been here eight weeks.  I have been
asking Mr Purley whether I may not go home--to my aunt's--at least,"
she said, growing agitated, "somewhere--somewhere.  I must not stay
here."

He had come meaning to be calm, to command himself, knowing that she was
delicate and weak; but at those words, and the visions they conjured up,
the restraint of months was broken down, and retaining her hand, he sat
down beside her.

"Do you wish to go away, Eve?" he said hoarsely, while his strong hand
trembled like that he held.

"I cannot trespass on you longer," she said; and then in a weary,
helpless manner, "but I meant to go away--far from here."

"Eve," he whispered, "may I tell you of something of which you have
never dreamed?  I meant to keep it yet for months, but your words drive
me to speak, and at the risk of losing all I must.

"My child, I have known you now for months; I have watched you till I
have felt that I knew even the thoughts of your gentle heart; and as I
learned them, knowing what I did, life has been to me one long time of
agony.  Eve, I have loved you with all my heart--so well that I would
not give you the pain of knowing it; glad to feel that I was your
friend, whom you could trust and turn to in your trouble.  Have I kept
to that?"

"Yes, yes," she said, piteously.

"Have I ever broken from the position in which fate placed me, or been
traitor to your trust?  Have I ever shown you the deep and passionate
love that was in my heart?"

"Never, never!" she moaned.

"No," he exclaimed; "I struggled and fought against it, even yielding to
your wishes to perform a duty in which I felt that I was being my own
executioner.  But now you are free.  You cannot wed this man!"

"No, no, no," she whispered, with a shudder.

"Then give me some little hope--however little.  My darling, I will wait
for years if you will but tell me--You turn from me--am I mad in
thinking that you might some day trust me with this little hand?  You
said you must go.  Why--why leave me?  Oh, Eve--darling! have I kept my
secret so long for this?"

He was rising from his seat when her little hands went up to his, and he
sank beside her, as they were placed upon his breast, and Eve's cheek
went down upon them, and she nestled there.

"Is this a dream?" he exclaimed.

"One," she whispered, "that I have prayed might some day come true, but
trembled, for I thought it was a sin."

"And you can love me?" he cried, drawing her closer and closer to him.

"At last," she murmured; "and when I thought I was alone in the wide,
wide world.  Love you!" she faltered, as she hid her face in his breast,
"I have loved you from the first."

THE END.






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