Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.

Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.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.

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 One—Chapter Eighteen.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.“Holdyourtongue,” 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.

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.

“Holdyourtongue,” 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.

Volume Two—Chapter One.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 wordtaboo, 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 littleasplenium, 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.

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 wordtaboo, 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 littleasplenium, 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 Two—Chapter Two.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,MisterRichard 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.

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,MisterRichard 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.

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