Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.The Foreman at Home.There had been a few words at Joe Banks’s plainly-furnished home when he returned the previous night.Everything looked very snug—the plain, simple furniture shone in the lamplight, and a cosy meal was prepared, with Mrs Banks—a Daisy of a very ripened nature—sitting busily at work.“Well, moother,” said Banks, as he entered and threw himself into a chair.“Well, Joe,” said Mrs Banks, without looking up.“Phee-ew!” whistled Joe, softly, as he took up the pipe laid ready beside the old, grey, battered, leaden tobacco-box, filled the bowl, and lit up before speaking again, Mrs Banks meanwhile making a cup of tea for him to have with his supper.“Why didn’t you come home to tea, Joe—didn’t you know there was some pig cheer?”“Bit of a row up at the works. Didn’t you know?”“Bless us and save us, no!” cried Mrs Banks, nearly dropping the teapot, and hurrying to her husband’s side. “You’re not hurt, Joe?”“Not a bit, lass. Give us a buss.”Mrs Banks submitted ungraciously to a salute being placed upon her comely cheek, and then, satisfied that no one was hurt, she proceeded to fill up the pot, and resumed her taciturn behaviour.“Owd woman’s a bit popped,” said Joe to himself. Then aloud, “Wheer’s Daisy?”“That’s what I want to know,” said Mrs Banks, tartly. “Wheer’s Daisy? There’s no keeping the girl at home now-a-days, gadding about.”“Is she up at the House?” said Joe. “I suppose so,” said Mrs Banks; “and, mark my words, Joe, no good ’ll come of it. It’s your doing, mind.”“Nonsense, nonsense, old woman. What’s put you out? Come, let’s have some supper; I’m ’bout pined.”“Then begin,” said Mrs Banks. “Not wi’out you, my lass,” said Joe, winking at the great broad-faced clock, as much as to say, “That’ll bring her round.”“I don’t want any supper,” said Mrs Banks. “More don’t I, then,” said Joe, with a sigh; and he got up, took off his coat, and then began to unlace his stout boots.“Bless and save the man! wheer are you going?” exclaimed Mrs Banks.“Bed,” said Joe, shortly. “Tired out.”“What’s the use o’ me having sausages cooked and hot ready for you if you go on that a way, Joe?”“I can’t eat sausages wi’out a smile wi’ ’em for gravy,” said Joe, quietly, “and some one to eat one too.”“There, sit down,” said Mrs Banks, pushing her lord roughly into his well polished Windsor chair. “I don’t know what’s come to the man.”“Come home straange and hungry,” said Joe, smiling; and the next minute, on Mrs Banks producing a steaming dish of home-made sausages from the oven, Joe began a tremendous onslaught upon them, after helping his wife, and putting a couple of the best on a plate.“Just put them i’ the oven to keep hot for Daisy, wilt ta, my lass?” said Joe.“She won’t want any supper,” said Mrs Banks, tartly, but she placed the plate in the oven all the same, and after pouring out some tea, set the teapot on the hob.“But she may, my lass, she may,” said Joe. “Now, tell us what’s wrong,” he continued, with his mouth full, after pouring a large steaming cup of tea down his capacious throat.“Tom Podmore’s been here,” said Mrs Banks. “Only just gone. Didn’t you meet him?”“No,” said Joe. “Didn’t he say nowt about the row?”“Not a word,” said Mrs Banks, looking up. “Was he in it?”“Just was,” said Joe. “Saved me and the Maister from being knocked to pieces a’most. He’s a good plucky chap, is Tom.”“Yes, and nicely he gets treated for it,” said Mrs Banks, hotly.“Who treats him nicely?” said Joe, with half a slice of bread and butter disappearing.“You—Daisy—everybody.”“Self included, my lass!” said Joe. “He allus was a favourite of yours.”“Favourite, indeed!” said Mrs Banks. “Joe, mark my words—It’ll come home to Daisy for jilting him as she’s done; and, as I told him to-night, he’s a great stupid ghipes to mind anything about the wicked, deceitful girl.”“Here, have some more sausage, mother; it’s splendid; and don’t get running down your own flesh and blood.”“Own flesh and blood!” cried Mrs Banks. “I’m ashamed of her.”“No, you’re not, lass,” said Joe, with a broad grin. “Thou’rt as proud of her as a she peacock wi’ two tails. Now, lookye here, lass; you’ve took quite on that Daisy should have Tom. Well, he’s a decent young fellow enew, and if she’d liked him I should ha’ said nowt against it, but then she didn’t.”“She don’t know her own mind,” said Mrs Banks.“Oh yes, she do,” said Joe, smiling, “quite well; and so does some one else. The Missus has fun’ it out.”“Mrs Glaire?”“Yes, the Missus. She sent for me to-day to speak to me about it.”“What, about her boy coming after our Daisy?”“About Mr Richard Glaire, maister o’ Doomford Foundry, taking a fancy to, and having matrimonial projects with regard to his foreman’s daughter,” said Joe, pompously.“Well!” exclaimed Mrs Banks, eagerly; “and does she like it?”“Well—er—er—er—she’s about for and again it,” said Joe, slowly.“Now that won’t do, Joe,” exclaimed Mrs Banks. “You can’t deceive me, and I’m not going to be put aside in that way. I know as well as if I’d ha’ been theer that she said she didn’t like.”“Well, what does it matter about what the women think? Dick—I mean Maister Richard Glaire’s hard after her.”“And means to marry her?” said Mrs Banks.“Marry her? Of course. Didn’t Baxter, of Churley, marry Jane Kemp? Didn’t Bill Bradby, as was wuth fifty thousand, marry Polly Robinson of Toddlethorpe, and make a real lady of her, and she wasn’t fit to stand within ten yards o’ my Daisy.”“Yes, go on,” said Mrs Banks. “That’s your pride.”“Pride be blowed, it’s only a difference in money. Richard Glaire’s only my old fellow-workman’s son, and Daisy’s my daughter, and I can buy her as many silk frocks, and as many watches, and chains, and rings as any lady in the land need have,” said Joe, angrily, as he slapped his pocket. “I ain’t gone on saving for twenty years for nowt. She shan’t disgrace him when they’re married.”“Yes, Joe, that’s your pride,” said Mrs Banks.“Go it,” said Joe, angrily, “tant away—tant—tant—tant. I don’t keer.”“It’s your pride, that’s what it is. When she might marry a decent, honest, true-hearted lad like Tom, who’s worth fifty Richard Glaires—an insignificant, stuck-up dandy.”“Don’t you abuse him whose bread you eat,” said Joe.“I don’t,” said Mrs Banks. “It’s his mother’s and not his. I believe he soon wouldn’t have a bit for himself, if it wasn’t for you keeping his business together. Always sporting and gambling, and fooling away his money.”“Well, if I keep it together, it’s for our bairn, isn’t it?” said Joe.“And he’s no better than he should be.”“You let him alone,” said Joe, stoutly. “All young men are a bit wild ’fore they’re married. I was for one.”“It’s a big story, Joe,” said Mrs Banks, indignantly. “You wasn’t, or I shouldn’t ha’ had you.”Joe winked at the clock again, and laughed a little inside as he unbuttoned another button of his vest—the second beginning at the top—to keep count how many cups of tea he had had.“It’s my opinion,” said Mrs Banks, “that—”“Howd thee tongue, wilt ta?” cried Joe. “Here’s the lass.”Daisy entered as he spoke, looking very pale and anxious-eyed, hastened through the kitchen, and went upstairs to take off her hat and jacket.“Just you make haste down, miss,” said Mrs Banks, tartly.“I don’t want any supper, mother,” said the girl, hurriedly.“Then I want thee to ha’e some!” exclaimed Mrs Banks; “so look sharp.”Daisy gave a sigh and hurried upstairs, and, as the door closed, Joe brought his hand down on the table with a thump that made the cups and saucers dance.“Now, look here, old woman—that’s my bairn, and I wean’t have her wherrited. If she is—”“I’m going to say what’s on my mind, Joe, when it’s for my child’s good,” said Mrs Banks, stoutly.“Are you?” said Joe, taking another cup of tea and undoing another button; “then so am I. Lookye here, my lass! I wouldn’t ha’ took a step to throw Daisy in young Maister’s way, but as he’s took to her, why, I wean’t ha’ it interfered wi’—so now, then.”“Don’t blame me, then, Joe; that’s all,” said Mrs Banks.“Who’s going to?” said Joe. “So now let’s have none of your clat.”Daisy came in then, and took her place at the table, making a very sorry pretence at eating, and only speaking in monosyllables till her mother pressed her.“Did Mrs Glaire send you home with anybody?”“No, mother.”“Did you come home alone?”“No, mother.”“Humph: who came with you?”“Tom, mother.”Mrs Banks looked mollified, and Joe surprised.“Has Miss Eve been playing to you, to-night?”“No, mother.”“What have you been doing then?”“I—I—haven’t been at the House,” stammered Daisy.Joe turned sharply round.“Have you been a-walking with Tom, then?”“No, mother, I only met him—coming home—and he walked beside me,” said the girl, with crimson cheeks.“Theer, theer, theer,” said Joe, interposing, “let the bairn alone. Daisy, my lass, mak’ me a round o’ toast.”How Joe was going to dispose of a round of toast after the meal he had already devoured was a problem; but Daisy darted a grateful look at him, made the toast—which was not eaten—and then, after the things were cleared away, read for an hour to her father, straight up and down the columns of the week-old county paper, till it was time for bed, without a single interruption.But Mrs Banks made up for it when they went to bed, and the last words Joe heard before going to sleep were—“Well, Joe, I wash my hands of the affair. It’s your doing, and she’s your own bairn.”And Joe Banks went to sleep, and dreamed of seeing himself in a new suit of clothes, throwing an old shoe after Daisy as she was being carried off by Richard Glaire in a carriage drawn by four grey horses, the excitement being such that he awoke himself in the act of crying “Hooray!” while poor Daisy was kneeling by her bedside, sobbing as though she would break her heart.
There had been a few words at Joe Banks’s plainly-furnished home when he returned the previous night.
Everything looked very snug—the plain, simple furniture shone in the lamplight, and a cosy meal was prepared, with Mrs Banks—a Daisy of a very ripened nature—sitting busily at work.
“Well, moother,” said Banks, as he entered and threw himself into a chair.
“Well, Joe,” said Mrs Banks, without looking up.
“Phee-ew!” whistled Joe, softly, as he took up the pipe laid ready beside the old, grey, battered, leaden tobacco-box, filled the bowl, and lit up before speaking again, Mrs Banks meanwhile making a cup of tea for him to have with his supper.
“Why didn’t you come home to tea, Joe—didn’t you know there was some pig cheer?”
“Bit of a row up at the works. Didn’t you know?”
“Bless us and save us, no!” cried Mrs Banks, nearly dropping the teapot, and hurrying to her husband’s side. “You’re not hurt, Joe?”
“Not a bit, lass. Give us a buss.”
Mrs Banks submitted ungraciously to a salute being placed upon her comely cheek, and then, satisfied that no one was hurt, she proceeded to fill up the pot, and resumed her taciturn behaviour.
“Owd woman’s a bit popped,” said Joe to himself. Then aloud, “Wheer’s Daisy?”
“That’s what I want to know,” said Mrs Banks, tartly. “Wheer’s Daisy? There’s no keeping the girl at home now-a-days, gadding about.”
“Is she up at the House?” said Joe. “I suppose so,” said Mrs Banks; “and, mark my words, Joe, no good ’ll come of it. It’s your doing, mind.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, old woman. What’s put you out? Come, let’s have some supper; I’m ’bout pined.”
“Then begin,” said Mrs Banks. “Not wi’out you, my lass,” said Joe, winking at the great broad-faced clock, as much as to say, “That’ll bring her round.”
“I don’t want any supper,” said Mrs Banks. “More don’t I, then,” said Joe, with a sigh; and he got up, took off his coat, and then began to unlace his stout boots.
“Bless and save the man! wheer are you going?” exclaimed Mrs Banks.
“Bed,” said Joe, shortly. “Tired out.”
“What’s the use o’ me having sausages cooked and hot ready for you if you go on that a way, Joe?”
“I can’t eat sausages wi’out a smile wi’ ’em for gravy,” said Joe, quietly, “and some one to eat one too.”
“There, sit down,” said Mrs Banks, pushing her lord roughly into his well polished Windsor chair. “I don’t know what’s come to the man.”
“Come home straange and hungry,” said Joe, smiling; and the next minute, on Mrs Banks producing a steaming dish of home-made sausages from the oven, Joe began a tremendous onslaught upon them, after helping his wife, and putting a couple of the best on a plate.
“Just put them i’ the oven to keep hot for Daisy, wilt ta, my lass?” said Joe.
“She won’t want any supper,” said Mrs Banks, tartly, but she placed the plate in the oven all the same, and after pouring out some tea, set the teapot on the hob.
“But she may, my lass, she may,” said Joe. “Now, tell us what’s wrong,” he continued, with his mouth full, after pouring a large steaming cup of tea down his capacious throat.
“Tom Podmore’s been here,” said Mrs Banks. “Only just gone. Didn’t you meet him?”
“No,” said Joe. “Didn’t he say nowt about the row?”
“Not a word,” said Mrs Banks, looking up. “Was he in it?”
“Just was,” said Joe. “Saved me and the Maister from being knocked to pieces a’most. He’s a good plucky chap, is Tom.”
“Yes, and nicely he gets treated for it,” said Mrs Banks, hotly.
“Who treats him nicely?” said Joe, with half a slice of bread and butter disappearing.
“You—Daisy—everybody.”
“Self included, my lass!” said Joe. “He allus was a favourite of yours.”
“Favourite, indeed!” said Mrs Banks. “Joe, mark my words—It’ll come home to Daisy for jilting him as she’s done; and, as I told him to-night, he’s a great stupid ghipes to mind anything about the wicked, deceitful girl.”
“Here, have some more sausage, mother; it’s splendid; and don’t get running down your own flesh and blood.”
“Own flesh and blood!” cried Mrs Banks. “I’m ashamed of her.”
“No, you’re not, lass,” said Joe, with a broad grin. “Thou’rt as proud of her as a she peacock wi’ two tails. Now, lookye here, lass; you’ve took quite on that Daisy should have Tom. Well, he’s a decent young fellow enew, and if she’d liked him I should ha’ said nowt against it, but then she didn’t.”
“She don’t know her own mind,” said Mrs Banks.
“Oh yes, she do,” said Joe, smiling, “quite well; and so does some one else. The Missus has fun’ it out.”
“Mrs Glaire?”
“Yes, the Missus. She sent for me to-day to speak to me about it.”
“What, about her boy coming after our Daisy?”
“About Mr Richard Glaire, maister o’ Doomford Foundry, taking a fancy to, and having matrimonial projects with regard to his foreman’s daughter,” said Joe, pompously.
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs Banks, eagerly; “and does she like it?”
“Well—er—er—er—she’s about for and again it,” said Joe, slowly.
“Now that won’t do, Joe,” exclaimed Mrs Banks. “You can’t deceive me, and I’m not going to be put aside in that way. I know as well as if I’d ha’ been theer that she said she didn’t like.”
“Well, what does it matter about what the women think? Dick—I mean Maister Richard Glaire’s hard after her.”
“And means to marry her?” said Mrs Banks.
“Marry her? Of course. Didn’t Baxter, of Churley, marry Jane Kemp? Didn’t Bill Bradby, as was wuth fifty thousand, marry Polly Robinson of Toddlethorpe, and make a real lady of her, and she wasn’t fit to stand within ten yards o’ my Daisy.”
“Yes, go on,” said Mrs Banks. “That’s your pride.”
“Pride be blowed, it’s only a difference in money. Richard Glaire’s only my old fellow-workman’s son, and Daisy’s my daughter, and I can buy her as many silk frocks, and as many watches, and chains, and rings as any lady in the land need have,” said Joe, angrily, as he slapped his pocket. “I ain’t gone on saving for twenty years for nowt. She shan’t disgrace him when they’re married.”
“Yes, Joe, that’s your pride,” said Mrs Banks.
“Go it,” said Joe, angrily, “tant away—tant—tant—tant. I don’t keer.”
“It’s your pride, that’s what it is. When she might marry a decent, honest, true-hearted lad like Tom, who’s worth fifty Richard Glaires—an insignificant, stuck-up dandy.”
“Don’t you abuse him whose bread you eat,” said Joe.
“I don’t,” said Mrs Banks. “It’s his mother’s and not his. I believe he soon wouldn’t have a bit for himself, if it wasn’t for you keeping his business together. Always sporting and gambling, and fooling away his money.”
“Well, if I keep it together, it’s for our bairn, isn’t it?” said Joe.
“And he’s no better than he should be.”
“You let him alone,” said Joe, stoutly. “All young men are a bit wild ’fore they’re married. I was for one.”
“It’s a big story, Joe,” said Mrs Banks, indignantly. “You wasn’t, or I shouldn’t ha’ had you.”
Joe winked at the clock again, and laughed a little inside as he unbuttoned another button of his vest—the second beginning at the top—to keep count how many cups of tea he had had.
“It’s my opinion,” said Mrs Banks, “that—”
“Howd thee tongue, wilt ta?” cried Joe. “Here’s the lass.”
Daisy entered as he spoke, looking very pale and anxious-eyed, hastened through the kitchen, and went upstairs to take off her hat and jacket.
“Just you make haste down, miss,” said Mrs Banks, tartly.
“I don’t want any supper, mother,” said the girl, hurriedly.
“Then I want thee to ha’e some!” exclaimed Mrs Banks; “so look sharp.”
Daisy gave a sigh and hurried upstairs, and, as the door closed, Joe brought his hand down on the table with a thump that made the cups and saucers dance.
“Now, look here, old woman—that’s my bairn, and I wean’t have her wherrited. If she is—”
“I’m going to say what’s on my mind, Joe, when it’s for my child’s good,” said Mrs Banks, stoutly.
“Are you?” said Joe, taking another cup of tea and undoing another button; “then so am I. Lookye here, my lass! I wouldn’t ha’ took a step to throw Daisy in young Maister’s way, but as he’s took to her, why, I wean’t ha’ it interfered wi’—so now, then.”
“Don’t blame me, then, Joe; that’s all,” said Mrs Banks.
“Who’s going to?” said Joe. “So now let’s have none of your clat.”
Daisy came in then, and took her place at the table, making a very sorry pretence at eating, and only speaking in monosyllables till her mother pressed her.
“Did Mrs Glaire send you home with anybody?”
“No, mother.”
“Did you come home alone?”
“No, mother.”
“Humph: who came with you?”
“Tom, mother.”
Mrs Banks looked mollified, and Joe surprised.
“Has Miss Eve been playing to you, to-night?”
“No, mother.”
“What have you been doing then?”
“I—I—haven’t been at the House,” stammered Daisy.
Joe turned sharply round.
“Have you been a-walking with Tom, then?”
“No, mother, I only met him—coming home—and he walked beside me,” said the girl, with crimson cheeks.
“Theer, theer, theer,” said Joe, interposing, “let the bairn alone. Daisy, my lass, mak’ me a round o’ toast.”
How Joe was going to dispose of a round of toast after the meal he had already devoured was a problem; but Daisy darted a grateful look at him, made the toast—which was not eaten—and then, after the things were cleared away, read for an hour to her father, straight up and down the columns of the week-old county paper, till it was time for bed, without a single interruption.
But Mrs Banks made up for it when they went to bed, and the last words Joe heard before going to sleep were—
“Well, Joe, I wash my hands of the affair. It’s your doing, and she’s your own bairn.”
And Joe Banks went to sleep, and dreamed of seeing himself in a new suit of clothes, throwing an old shoe after Daisy as she was being carried off by Richard Glaire in a carriage drawn by four grey horses, the excitement being such that he awoke himself in the act of crying “Hooray!” while poor Daisy was kneeling by her bedside, sobbing as though she would break her heart.
Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.Sim Slee Sees Another Opening.“Here, just hap me up a bit,” said Sim Slee to his wife, as he lay down on a rough kind of couch in their little keeping-room, as the half sitting-room, half kitchen was called; and in obedience to the command, Mrs Slee happed him up—in other words, threw a patchwork counterpane over her lord.“If you’d come home at reasonable times and tak’ thee rest you wouldn’t be wantin’ to sleep in the middle o’ the day,” said Mrs Slee, roughly.“Ah, a deal you know about things,” grumbled Sim. “You’d see me starved with cold before you’d stir, when I was busy half the night over the affairs of the town.”“I’stead o’ your own,” grumbled Mrs Slee.“Howd thee tongue, woman,” said Sim. “I’m not going to sleep, but to think over matters before I go and see Joe Banks this afternoon. I can think best lying down.”Mrs Slee resumed her work, which was that of making a hearthrug of shreds of cloth, and soon after Sim was thinking deeply with his mouth open, and his breath coming and going with an unpleasant gurgle.As soon as he was asleep, Mrs Slee began busily to prepare the humble dinner that was cooking, and spread the clean white table for her lord’s meal. A table-cloth was a luxury undreamed of, but on so white a table it did not seem necessary.When all was ready, she went across the room and touched Sim, who opened his eyes and rose.“That’s better,” he said. “I feel as tiff as a band now. Where’s the Rag Jack’s oil?”Without a word, Mrs Slee went to a little cupboard and produced a dirty-looking bottle of the unpleasant-looking liquid, one which was looked upon in the district as an infallible cure for every kind of injury, from cuts and bruises down to chilblains, and the many ailments of the skin.“How did you do that?” said Mrs Slee, sharply, as her husband held out a finger that was torn and evidently festering.“Somebody was nation fast the other day, and pulled me off the foundry wall.”“Where you’d got up to speak, eh?” said Mrs Slee.“Where I’d got up to speak,” said Sim, holding his hand, while his wife dressed it with the balm composed by the celebrated Rag Jack, a dealer who went round from market to market, and then tied it up in a bit of clean linen.“That’s better,” said Sim, taking his place at the table. “What is there to yeat?”“There’d be nothing if it was left to you—but wind,” said his wife, sourly, as she took the lid off a boiler, hanging from the recking-hooks of the galley balk, and proceeded to take out some liquid with a tea-cup.“But, then, it ain’t,” said Sim, smiling. “You see, I knew where to pick up a good missus.”“Yes,” retorted his wife, “and then tried to pine her to dead for all you’d do to feed her. Will ta have a few broth?”“Yes,” said Sim, taking the basin she offered him and sniffing at it. “Say, wife, you’ve been waring your money at a pretty rate.”“I’ve wared no money ower that,” said Mrs Slee. “Thou mayst thank parson for it.”“Yah!” growled Sim, dipping his spoon, and beginning angrily; “this mutton’s as tough as a bont whong.”“There, do sup thee broth like a Christian, if thee canst!” exclaimed Mrs Slee. “Wilt ta have a tate?”Sim held out his basin for the “tate” his wife was denuding of its jacket, and she dropped it into the broth.“Say!” exclaimed Sim, poking at the potato with his spoon, “these taters are strange and sad.”Mrs Slee did not make any reply, but went on peeling potatoes one by one, evidently in search of a floury one to suit her husband, who objected to those of a waxy or “sad” nature. But they were all alike, and he had to be content.“I’ll have a few more broth,” said Sim, at the end of a short space of time, and before his wife had had an opportunity to partake of a mouthful; and this being ladled out for him and finished, Sim condescended to say “that them broth wasn’t bad.”“Have you got any black beer?” he now asked.Mrs Slee had—a little, and the bottle of black beer, otherwise spruce, being produced, Sim had a teaspoonful of the treacly fluid mixed in a mug of hot water with a little sugar; and then, leaving his wife to have her meal, he rose and went out.A week had passed since the discovery of the loss of the bands, and though Sim had been dodging about and watching in all directions, he had never once hit upon Joe Banks alone, so he had at last made up his mind to go straight to his house, and, to use his own words, “beard the lion in his den.”A good deal had taken place in the interval, and among other things, Richard Glaire, in opposition to the advice of his mother and Banks, had applied for a warrant against Tom Podmore, for destroying or stealing the bands; but as yet, from supineness or fear on the part of the local police, it had not been put in force.For things did not look pleasant in Dumford; men were always standing about in knots or lounging at the doors of their houses, looking loweringly at people who passed. There had been no violence, and, in a prosperous little community, a week or two out of work had little effect upon a people of naturally saving habits and considerable industry; but those who were wise in such matters said that mischief was brewing, and it was reported that meetings were held nightly at the Bull and Cucumber—meetings of great mystery, where oaths were taken, and where the doors were closed and said to be guarded by men with drawn swords.“Hallo, Sim Slee, off preaching somewhere?” said a very stout man, pulling up his horse as he overtook Sim on his way to the foreman’s house. He was indeed a very stout man, so stout that he completely filled the gig from side to side, making its springs collapse, and forming a heavy load for his well-fed horse.“No, I ain’t going preaching nowheer, Mester Purley,” said Sim, sulkily, as he looked up sidewise in the speaker’s merry face.“I thought you were off perhaps to a camp meeting, or something, Sim, and as I’m going out as far as Roby, I was going to offer you a lift along the road.”There was a twinkle in the stout man’s eyes as he spoke, and he evidently enjoyed the joke.“No, you warn’t going to offer me a ride, doctor,” said Sim. “Do you think I don’t know?”“Right, Sim Slee, right,” said the doctor, chuckling. “I never gave a man a lift on the road in my life, did I, Sim? Puzzle any one to sit by my side here, wouldn’t it?”“Strange tight fit for him if he did,” said Sim.“So it would, Sim; so it would, Sim,” laughed the doctor. “I’ve asked a many though in my time; ha—ha—ha.”“That you have, doctor,” said Sim, looking at the goodly proportions of the man by his side. For it was Mr—otherwise Dr—Purley’s one joke to ask everybody he overtook, or any of his convalescent patients, if they would have a lift in his gig. He had probably fired the joke as many times as he was days old; but it was always in use, and it never struck him that it might grow stale.“What’s the matter with your hand, Sim?” said the doctor, touching the bound-up member with his whip.“Bit hurt—fell off a wall,” said Sim, thrusting it in his breast.“And you have been poisoning it with Rag Jack oil, eh? I’ll be bound you have, and when it’s down bad you’ll come to me to cure it. Say, Sim, some of your fellows knocked the young master about pretty well—he’s rare and bruised.”“I wish ivery bit of gruzzle in his body was bruzz,” said Sim, fiercely.“Do you now!” said the doctor, smiling. “Well, I suppose it’ll come to broken heads with some of you, and then you’ll be glad of me. Who stole the bands?”Sim jumped and turned pale, so suddenly and sharply was the question asked.“How should I know?” he cried, recovering himself.“Some of you chaps at the Bull, eh, Sim? Artful trick, very. Say, Sim, if you want a doctor for your society, remember me. Ck!” This last was to the horse, which went off immediately at a sharp trot, with the springs of the gig dancing up and down, as the wheels went in and out of the ruts.“Remember you, eh!” said Sim, as the doctor went out of hearing. “Have you for the medical man? Yes, when we want ivery word as is spoke blabbed all over the place. It’s my belief,” continued Sim, sententiously, “as that fat old blobkite tells the last bit o’ news, to every baby as soon as it’s born, and asks them as he’s killed whether they’d like a ride in his gig. Hallo! there’s owd Joe Banks leaning over his fence. What a fierce-looking old maulkin he is; he looks as sour as if he’d been yeating berry pie wi’out sugar. Day, Banks,” he said, stopping.“Day,” said Joe, shortly, and staring very hard at the visitor.“I think it’ll rean soon, mun.”“Do yow?” said Joe, roughly.“I weer over to Churley yesterday,” said Sim, “and it reant all day.”“Did it?” said Joe.“Ay, it did. ’Twas a straange wet day.”“Where are you going?” said Joe.“Oh, only just up to Brown’s to see if I could buy a bit o’ kindling for the Missus.”“Go and buy it, then,” said Joe, turning his back, “and let me get shut o’ thee.”“Say, Joe Banks,” said Sim, quite unabashed, “as I have met thee I should just like to say a word or two to thee.”“Say away then.”“Nay, nay. Not here. Say, mun, that’s a fine primp hedge o’ yourn,” he continued, pointing to the luxuriant privet hedge that divided the garden of the snug house from the road.“You let my primp hedge bide,” said Joe, sharply; “and if you’ve got any mander o’ message from your lot, spit it out like a man.”“Message! I a message!” said Sim, with a surprised air. “Not I. It was a word or two ’bout thy lass.”Joe Banks’s face became crimson, and he turned sharply to see if any one was at door or window so as to have overheard Sim’s words.As there was no one, he came out of the gate, took his caller’s arm firmly in his great fist, and walked with him down the lane out of sight of the houses, for the foreman’s pretty little place was just at the edge of the town, and looked right down the valley.Sim’s heart beat a little more quickly, and he felt anything but comfortable; but, calling up such determination as he possessed, he walked on till Joe stopped short, faced him, and then held up a menacing finger.“Now look here, Sim Slee,” said Joe; “I just warn thee to be keerful, for I’m in no humour to be played wi’.”“Who wants to play wi’ you?” said Sim; “I just come in a neighbourly way to gi’e ye a bit o’ advice, and you fly at me like a lion.”“Thou’rt no neighbour o’ mine,” said Joe, “and thou’rt come o’ no friendly errant. Yow say yow want to speak to me ’bout my lass. Say thee say.”“Oh, if that’s the way you tak’ it,” said Sim, “I’m going.”“Nay, lad, thee ain’t,” said Joe. “Say what thee’ve got to say now, for not a step do yow stir till yo’ have.”Sim began to repent his visit; but seeing no way of escape, and his invention providing him with no inoffensive tale, he began at once, making at the same time a good deal of show of his bound-up hand, and wincing and nursing it as if in pain.“Well, Joe Banks, as a man for whom, though we have differed in politics and matters connected with the wucks, I always felt a great respect—”“Dal thee respect!” said Joe; “come to the point, man.”“I say, Joe, that it grieves me to see thee stick so to a mester as is trying to do thee an injury.”“An yow want to talk me over to join thy set o’ plotting, conspiring shackbags at the Bull, eh?”“I should be straange and proud to feel as I’d browt a man o’ Joe Banks’s power and common sense into the ways o’ wisdom, and propose him as a member o’ our society,” said Sim.“I dare say thee would, Sim; strange and glad. But that’s not what thee come to say. Out wi’ it, mun; out wi’ it.”“That is what I come to say, Joe,” said Sim, turning white, as he saw the fierce look in Joe’s eyes.“Nay; thee said something ’bout my lass.”“I only were going to say as I didn’t like to see such a worthy man serving faithful a mester as was trying to do him an injury.”“What do you mean?” said Joe, quite calmly.Sim hesitated, but he felt obliged to speak, so calmly firm was the look fixed upon him, though at the same time the foreman’s fists were clenched most ominously.“Well, Joe,” said Sim, with a burst, “Dicky Glaire’s allus after thy bairn, and I saw him the other night, at nearly midnight, trying to drag her into the counting-house.”“Thee lies, thee chattering, false—hearted maulkin!” roared Joe, taking the trembling man by the throat and shaking him till his teeth clicked together.“Don’t! don’t! murder!” cried Sim, holding up his injured hand with the rag before Joe’s face. “Don’t ill-use a helpless man.”“Thou chattering magpie!” roared Joe, throwing him off, so that Sim staggered back against the prickly hedge, and quickly started upright. “I wish thee weer a man that I could thrash till all thee bones was sore. Look here, Sim Slee, if thee says a word again about my lass and the doings of thee betters it’ll be the worse for thee.”“My poor hand! my poor hand!” moaned Sim, nursing it as if it were seriously injured.“Then thee shouldn’t ha’ made me wroth,” said Joe, calming down, and blaming himself for attacking a cripple.“I didn’t know that thou wast going to wink at thee lass being Dicky Glaire’s mis—”Sim did not finish the word, for Joe Banks’s fist fell upon his mouth with a heavy thud, and he went down in the road, and lay there with his lips bleeding, and a couple of his front teeth loosened.“Thou lying villin,” said Joe, hoarsely, “howd thee tongue, if thee wants to stay me from killing thee. I’d ha’ let thee off, but thou wouldst hev it. Don’t speak to me again, or I shall—”He did not trust himself to finish, but strode off, leaving Slee lying in the dust.“Poor Master Richard,” he muttered—“a scandal-hatching, lying scoundrel—as if the lad would think a wrong word about my lass. Well,” he added, with a forced laugh, “that has stopped his mouth, and a good many more, as I expect.”As he disappeared, Sim Slee slowly sat up, took out his handkerchief and wiped his bleeding mouth. Then rising he walked on half a mile to where a stream, known as the Beck, crossed the road, and there he stooped down and bathed his cut lip till the bleeding ceased.“All raight, Mester Joe Banks,” he said, with a malicious look in his eye. “All raight, I’ll put that down to you, my lad. I shan’t forget it. Some men fights wi’ their fists, and some don’t. I’m one as don’t; but I can fight other ways. I’ll be even wi’ you, Joe Banks; I’ll be even wi’ you. Thou blind owd bat. Think he’ll marry her, dosta! Ha! ha! ha! ha! All raight. Let it go on. Suppose I help it now, and then get thee on our side after—a blind old fool, I shan’t forget this.”Sim Slee washed his handkerchief carefully in the brook, spread it in the sun to dry, and then lay down amongst the furze bushes to think, till, seeing a couple of figures in the distance on the hill-side, he caught up his handkerchief and, stooping down, ran along under the shelter of the hedge, and on and on till he reached a fir plantation, through which he made his way till he was within easy reach of the two figures, in utter ignorance of his proximity.“’Tis them,” he muttered, peering out from the screen of leaves formed by the undergrowth of the edge of the plantation. “’Tis them. Got his arm round her waist, eh! A kiss, eh! Ha—ha—ha! Joe Banks, I shall be upsides wi’ you yet.”He glided back, and then, knowing every inch of the ground, he went to the end of the copse, out on to the open hill-side, and, running fast, made a circuit which brought him out on the track far beyond the figures, who were hidden from him by the inequalities of the waste land, close by where the vicar found Tom Podmore on his arrival.Then, hastening on, he approached, stooping until he had well measured his distance, when, pausing for a few minutes to gain his breath, he walked on with his footsteps inaudible on the soft, velvety turf, till, coming suddenly upon the two figures, seated behind a huge block of stone, he stopped short, as if in surprise.“Beg pardon, sir, didn’t see,” he said, with a smile and a leer.“What the deuce do you want?” said Richard Glaire, starting to his feet, while, with a faint cry, Daisy Banks ran a few steps.“Why you quite scar’d me, sir,” said Sim, “starting up like that. I’ve only been for a walk out Chorley way. It’s all raight, Miss Banks, don’t be scar’d; it’s only me. I know, Mr Glaire, sir, I know. Young folks and all that sort o’ thing. We ain’t friends about wuck matters, but you may trust me.”He gave Richard a peculiar smile, shut one eye slowly, and walked on, smiling at Daisy, whose face was crimson as he passed.“Oh, Richard! oh, Richard!” she sobbed, “why did you tempt me to come? Now he’ll go straight home and tell father.”“Tempt you to come, eh, Daisy!” said Richard. “Why, because I love you so; I’m not happy out of your sight. No, he won’t tell—a scoundrel. There, you go home the other way. I’ll follow Master Sim Slee. I know the way to seal up his lips.”He caught Daisy in his arms, and kissed her twice before she could evade his grasp, and then ran off after Slee, who was steadily walking on, smiling, as he caressed his tender, bruised lip with his damp handkerchief.Once he pressed his thumb down on his palm in a meaning way, and gave an ugly wink. Then he chuckled, but checked his smiles, for they hurt his swollen face.“Not bad for one day, eh! That’s ointment for Mester Joe Banks’s sore place, and a bit o’ revenge at the same time. This wean’t have nowt to do wi’ the strike; this is all private. Here he comes,” he muttered, twitching his ears. “I thowt he would. Well, I mean to hev five pun’ to howd my tongue, and more when I want it. And mebbe,” he continued, with an ugly leer, “I can be a bit useful to him now and then.”A minute later Richard Glaire had overtaken Sim Slee, and a short conversation ensued, in the course of which something was thrust into the schemer’s hand. Then they parted, and that night, in spite of his swollen lip, Sim Slee delivered a wonderful oration on the rights of the British workman at the meeting at the Bull, at which were present several of the men after Sim’s own heart; but the shrewd, sensible workmen were conspicuous by their absence, as they were having a quiet meeting of their own.
“Here, just hap me up a bit,” said Sim Slee to his wife, as he lay down on a rough kind of couch in their little keeping-room, as the half sitting-room, half kitchen was called; and in obedience to the command, Mrs Slee happed him up—in other words, threw a patchwork counterpane over her lord.
“If you’d come home at reasonable times and tak’ thee rest you wouldn’t be wantin’ to sleep in the middle o’ the day,” said Mrs Slee, roughly.
“Ah, a deal you know about things,” grumbled Sim. “You’d see me starved with cold before you’d stir, when I was busy half the night over the affairs of the town.”
“I’stead o’ your own,” grumbled Mrs Slee.
“Howd thee tongue, woman,” said Sim. “I’m not going to sleep, but to think over matters before I go and see Joe Banks this afternoon. I can think best lying down.”
Mrs Slee resumed her work, which was that of making a hearthrug of shreds of cloth, and soon after Sim was thinking deeply with his mouth open, and his breath coming and going with an unpleasant gurgle.
As soon as he was asleep, Mrs Slee began busily to prepare the humble dinner that was cooking, and spread the clean white table for her lord’s meal. A table-cloth was a luxury undreamed of, but on so white a table it did not seem necessary.
When all was ready, she went across the room and touched Sim, who opened his eyes and rose.
“That’s better,” he said. “I feel as tiff as a band now. Where’s the Rag Jack’s oil?”
Without a word, Mrs Slee went to a little cupboard and produced a dirty-looking bottle of the unpleasant-looking liquid, one which was looked upon in the district as an infallible cure for every kind of injury, from cuts and bruises down to chilblains, and the many ailments of the skin.
“How did you do that?” said Mrs Slee, sharply, as her husband held out a finger that was torn and evidently festering.
“Somebody was nation fast the other day, and pulled me off the foundry wall.”
“Where you’d got up to speak, eh?” said Mrs Slee.
“Where I’d got up to speak,” said Sim, holding his hand, while his wife dressed it with the balm composed by the celebrated Rag Jack, a dealer who went round from market to market, and then tied it up in a bit of clean linen.
“That’s better,” said Sim, taking his place at the table. “What is there to yeat?”
“There’d be nothing if it was left to you—but wind,” said his wife, sourly, as she took the lid off a boiler, hanging from the recking-hooks of the galley balk, and proceeded to take out some liquid with a tea-cup.
“But, then, it ain’t,” said Sim, smiling. “You see, I knew where to pick up a good missus.”
“Yes,” retorted his wife, “and then tried to pine her to dead for all you’d do to feed her. Will ta have a few broth?”
“Yes,” said Sim, taking the basin she offered him and sniffing at it. “Say, wife, you’ve been waring your money at a pretty rate.”
“I’ve wared no money ower that,” said Mrs Slee. “Thou mayst thank parson for it.”
“Yah!” growled Sim, dipping his spoon, and beginning angrily; “this mutton’s as tough as a bont whong.”
“There, do sup thee broth like a Christian, if thee canst!” exclaimed Mrs Slee. “Wilt ta have a tate?”
Sim held out his basin for the “tate” his wife was denuding of its jacket, and she dropped it into the broth.
“Say!” exclaimed Sim, poking at the potato with his spoon, “these taters are strange and sad.”
Mrs Slee did not make any reply, but went on peeling potatoes one by one, evidently in search of a floury one to suit her husband, who objected to those of a waxy or “sad” nature. But they were all alike, and he had to be content.
“I’ll have a few more broth,” said Sim, at the end of a short space of time, and before his wife had had an opportunity to partake of a mouthful; and this being ladled out for him and finished, Sim condescended to say “that them broth wasn’t bad.”
“Have you got any black beer?” he now asked.
Mrs Slee had—a little, and the bottle of black beer, otherwise spruce, being produced, Sim had a teaspoonful of the treacly fluid mixed in a mug of hot water with a little sugar; and then, leaving his wife to have her meal, he rose and went out.
A week had passed since the discovery of the loss of the bands, and though Sim had been dodging about and watching in all directions, he had never once hit upon Joe Banks alone, so he had at last made up his mind to go straight to his house, and, to use his own words, “beard the lion in his den.”
A good deal had taken place in the interval, and among other things, Richard Glaire, in opposition to the advice of his mother and Banks, had applied for a warrant against Tom Podmore, for destroying or stealing the bands; but as yet, from supineness or fear on the part of the local police, it had not been put in force.
For things did not look pleasant in Dumford; men were always standing about in knots or lounging at the doors of their houses, looking loweringly at people who passed. There had been no violence, and, in a prosperous little community, a week or two out of work had little effect upon a people of naturally saving habits and considerable industry; but those who were wise in such matters said that mischief was brewing, and it was reported that meetings were held nightly at the Bull and Cucumber—meetings of great mystery, where oaths were taken, and where the doors were closed and said to be guarded by men with drawn swords.
“Hallo, Sim Slee, off preaching somewhere?” said a very stout man, pulling up his horse as he overtook Sim on his way to the foreman’s house. He was indeed a very stout man, so stout that he completely filled the gig from side to side, making its springs collapse, and forming a heavy load for his well-fed horse.
“No, I ain’t going preaching nowheer, Mester Purley,” said Sim, sulkily, as he looked up sidewise in the speaker’s merry face.
“I thought you were off perhaps to a camp meeting, or something, Sim, and as I’m going out as far as Roby, I was going to offer you a lift along the road.”
There was a twinkle in the stout man’s eyes as he spoke, and he evidently enjoyed the joke.
“No, you warn’t going to offer me a ride, doctor,” said Sim. “Do you think I don’t know?”
“Right, Sim Slee, right,” said the doctor, chuckling. “I never gave a man a lift on the road in my life, did I, Sim? Puzzle any one to sit by my side here, wouldn’t it?”
“Strange tight fit for him if he did,” said Sim.
“So it would, Sim; so it would, Sim,” laughed the doctor. “I’ve asked a many though in my time; ha—ha—ha.”
“That you have, doctor,” said Sim, looking at the goodly proportions of the man by his side. For it was Mr—otherwise Dr—Purley’s one joke to ask everybody he overtook, or any of his convalescent patients, if they would have a lift in his gig. He had probably fired the joke as many times as he was days old; but it was always in use, and it never struck him that it might grow stale.
“What’s the matter with your hand, Sim?” said the doctor, touching the bound-up member with his whip.
“Bit hurt—fell off a wall,” said Sim, thrusting it in his breast.
“And you have been poisoning it with Rag Jack oil, eh? I’ll be bound you have, and when it’s down bad you’ll come to me to cure it. Say, Sim, some of your fellows knocked the young master about pretty well—he’s rare and bruised.”
“I wish ivery bit of gruzzle in his body was bruzz,” said Sim, fiercely.
“Do you now!” said the doctor, smiling. “Well, I suppose it’ll come to broken heads with some of you, and then you’ll be glad of me. Who stole the bands?”
Sim jumped and turned pale, so suddenly and sharply was the question asked.
“How should I know?” he cried, recovering himself.
“Some of you chaps at the Bull, eh, Sim? Artful trick, very. Say, Sim, if you want a doctor for your society, remember me. Ck!” This last was to the horse, which went off immediately at a sharp trot, with the springs of the gig dancing up and down, as the wheels went in and out of the ruts.
“Remember you, eh!” said Sim, as the doctor went out of hearing. “Have you for the medical man? Yes, when we want ivery word as is spoke blabbed all over the place. It’s my belief,” continued Sim, sententiously, “as that fat old blobkite tells the last bit o’ news, to every baby as soon as it’s born, and asks them as he’s killed whether they’d like a ride in his gig. Hallo! there’s owd Joe Banks leaning over his fence. What a fierce-looking old maulkin he is; he looks as sour as if he’d been yeating berry pie wi’out sugar. Day, Banks,” he said, stopping.
“Day,” said Joe, shortly, and staring very hard at the visitor.
“I think it’ll rean soon, mun.”
“Do yow?” said Joe, roughly.
“I weer over to Churley yesterday,” said Sim, “and it reant all day.”
“Did it?” said Joe.
“Ay, it did. ’Twas a straange wet day.”
“Where are you going?” said Joe.
“Oh, only just up to Brown’s to see if I could buy a bit o’ kindling for the Missus.”
“Go and buy it, then,” said Joe, turning his back, “and let me get shut o’ thee.”
“Say, Joe Banks,” said Sim, quite unabashed, “as I have met thee I should just like to say a word or two to thee.”
“Say away then.”
“Nay, nay. Not here. Say, mun, that’s a fine primp hedge o’ yourn,” he continued, pointing to the luxuriant privet hedge that divided the garden of the snug house from the road.
“You let my primp hedge bide,” said Joe, sharply; “and if you’ve got any mander o’ message from your lot, spit it out like a man.”
“Message! I a message!” said Sim, with a surprised air. “Not I. It was a word or two ’bout thy lass.”
Joe Banks’s face became crimson, and he turned sharply to see if any one was at door or window so as to have overheard Sim’s words.
As there was no one, he came out of the gate, took his caller’s arm firmly in his great fist, and walked with him down the lane out of sight of the houses, for the foreman’s pretty little place was just at the edge of the town, and looked right down the valley.
Sim’s heart beat a little more quickly, and he felt anything but comfortable; but, calling up such determination as he possessed, he walked on till Joe stopped short, faced him, and then held up a menacing finger.
“Now look here, Sim Slee,” said Joe; “I just warn thee to be keerful, for I’m in no humour to be played wi’.”
“Who wants to play wi’ you?” said Sim; “I just come in a neighbourly way to gi’e ye a bit o’ advice, and you fly at me like a lion.”
“Thou’rt no neighbour o’ mine,” said Joe, “and thou’rt come o’ no friendly errant. Yow say yow want to speak to me ’bout my lass. Say thee say.”
“Oh, if that’s the way you tak’ it,” said Sim, “I’m going.”
“Nay, lad, thee ain’t,” said Joe. “Say what thee’ve got to say now, for not a step do yow stir till yo’ have.”
Sim began to repent his visit; but seeing no way of escape, and his invention providing him with no inoffensive tale, he began at once, making at the same time a good deal of show of his bound-up hand, and wincing and nursing it as if in pain.
“Well, Joe Banks, as a man for whom, though we have differed in politics and matters connected with the wucks, I always felt a great respect—”
“Dal thee respect!” said Joe; “come to the point, man.”
“I say, Joe, that it grieves me to see thee stick so to a mester as is trying to do thee an injury.”
“An yow want to talk me over to join thy set o’ plotting, conspiring shackbags at the Bull, eh?”
“I should be straange and proud to feel as I’d browt a man o’ Joe Banks’s power and common sense into the ways o’ wisdom, and propose him as a member o’ our society,” said Sim.
“I dare say thee would, Sim; strange and glad. But that’s not what thee come to say. Out wi’ it, mun; out wi’ it.”
“That is what I come to say, Joe,” said Sim, turning white, as he saw the fierce look in Joe’s eyes.
“Nay; thee said something ’bout my lass.”
“I only were going to say as I didn’t like to see such a worthy man serving faithful a mester as was trying to do him an injury.”
“What do you mean?” said Joe, quite calmly.
Sim hesitated, but he felt obliged to speak, so calmly firm was the look fixed upon him, though at the same time the foreman’s fists were clenched most ominously.
“Well, Joe,” said Sim, with a burst, “Dicky Glaire’s allus after thy bairn, and I saw him the other night, at nearly midnight, trying to drag her into the counting-house.”
“Thee lies, thee chattering, false—hearted maulkin!” roared Joe, taking the trembling man by the throat and shaking him till his teeth clicked together.
“Don’t! don’t! murder!” cried Sim, holding up his injured hand with the rag before Joe’s face. “Don’t ill-use a helpless man.”
“Thou chattering magpie!” roared Joe, throwing him off, so that Sim staggered back against the prickly hedge, and quickly started upright. “I wish thee weer a man that I could thrash till all thee bones was sore. Look here, Sim Slee, if thee says a word again about my lass and the doings of thee betters it’ll be the worse for thee.”
“My poor hand! my poor hand!” moaned Sim, nursing it as if it were seriously injured.
“Then thee shouldn’t ha’ made me wroth,” said Joe, calming down, and blaming himself for attacking a cripple.
“I didn’t know that thou wast going to wink at thee lass being Dicky Glaire’s mis—”
Sim did not finish the word, for Joe Banks’s fist fell upon his mouth with a heavy thud, and he went down in the road, and lay there with his lips bleeding, and a couple of his front teeth loosened.
“Thou lying villin,” said Joe, hoarsely, “howd thee tongue, if thee wants to stay me from killing thee. I’d ha’ let thee off, but thou wouldst hev it. Don’t speak to me again, or I shall—”
He did not trust himself to finish, but strode off, leaving Slee lying in the dust.
“Poor Master Richard,” he muttered—“a scandal-hatching, lying scoundrel—as if the lad would think a wrong word about my lass. Well,” he added, with a forced laugh, “that has stopped his mouth, and a good many more, as I expect.”
As he disappeared, Sim Slee slowly sat up, took out his handkerchief and wiped his bleeding mouth. Then rising he walked on half a mile to where a stream, known as the Beck, crossed the road, and there he stooped down and bathed his cut lip till the bleeding ceased.
“All raight, Mester Joe Banks,” he said, with a malicious look in his eye. “All raight, I’ll put that down to you, my lad. I shan’t forget it. Some men fights wi’ their fists, and some don’t. I’m one as don’t; but I can fight other ways. I’ll be even wi’ you, Joe Banks; I’ll be even wi’ you. Thou blind owd bat. Think he’ll marry her, dosta! Ha! ha! ha! ha! All raight. Let it go on. Suppose I help it now, and then get thee on our side after—a blind old fool, I shan’t forget this.”
Sim Slee washed his handkerchief carefully in the brook, spread it in the sun to dry, and then lay down amongst the furze bushes to think, till, seeing a couple of figures in the distance on the hill-side, he caught up his handkerchief and, stooping down, ran along under the shelter of the hedge, and on and on till he reached a fir plantation, through which he made his way till he was within easy reach of the two figures, in utter ignorance of his proximity.
“’Tis them,” he muttered, peering out from the screen of leaves formed by the undergrowth of the edge of the plantation. “’Tis them. Got his arm round her waist, eh! A kiss, eh! Ha—ha—ha! Joe Banks, I shall be upsides wi’ you yet.”
He glided back, and then, knowing every inch of the ground, he went to the end of the copse, out on to the open hill-side, and, running fast, made a circuit which brought him out on the track far beyond the figures, who were hidden from him by the inequalities of the waste land, close by where the vicar found Tom Podmore on his arrival.
Then, hastening on, he approached, stooping until he had well measured his distance, when, pausing for a few minutes to gain his breath, he walked on with his footsteps inaudible on the soft, velvety turf, till, coming suddenly upon the two figures, seated behind a huge block of stone, he stopped short, as if in surprise.
“Beg pardon, sir, didn’t see,” he said, with a smile and a leer.
“What the deuce do you want?” said Richard Glaire, starting to his feet, while, with a faint cry, Daisy Banks ran a few steps.
“Why you quite scar’d me, sir,” said Sim, “starting up like that. I’ve only been for a walk out Chorley way. It’s all raight, Miss Banks, don’t be scar’d; it’s only me. I know, Mr Glaire, sir, I know. Young folks and all that sort o’ thing. We ain’t friends about wuck matters, but you may trust me.”
He gave Richard a peculiar smile, shut one eye slowly, and walked on, smiling at Daisy, whose face was crimson as he passed.
“Oh, Richard! oh, Richard!” she sobbed, “why did you tempt me to come? Now he’ll go straight home and tell father.”
“Tempt you to come, eh, Daisy!” said Richard. “Why, because I love you so; I’m not happy out of your sight. No, he won’t tell—a scoundrel. There, you go home the other way. I’ll follow Master Sim Slee. I know the way to seal up his lips.”
He caught Daisy in his arms, and kissed her twice before she could evade his grasp, and then ran off after Slee, who was steadily walking on, smiling, as he caressed his tender, bruised lip with his damp handkerchief.
Once he pressed his thumb down on his palm in a meaning way, and gave an ugly wink. Then he chuckled, but checked his smiles, for they hurt his swollen face.
“Not bad for one day, eh! That’s ointment for Mester Joe Banks’s sore place, and a bit o’ revenge at the same time. This wean’t have nowt to do wi’ the strike; this is all private. Here he comes,” he muttered, twitching his ears. “I thowt he would. Well, I mean to hev five pun’ to howd my tongue, and more when I want it. And mebbe,” he continued, with an ugly leer, “I can be a bit useful to him now and then.”
A minute later Richard Glaire had overtaken Sim Slee, and a short conversation ensued, in the course of which something was thrust into the schemer’s hand. Then they parted, and that night, in spite of his swollen lip, Sim Slee delivered a wonderful oration on the rights of the British workman at the meeting at the Bull, at which were present several of the men after Sim’s own heart; but the shrewd, sensible workmen were conspicuous by their absence, as they were having a quiet meeting of their own.
Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.Daisy is Obstinate.“A lungeing villain,” muttered Joe Banks to himself, “he knows nowt but nastiness. Strange thing that a man can’t make up to a pretty girl wi’out people putting all sorts o’ bad constructions on it. Why they’re all alike—Missis Glaire, the wife and all. My Daisy, too. To say such a word of her.”He hastened home, filled his pipe, lit it, and went out and sat down in the garden, in front of his bees, to smoke and watch them, while he calmed himself down and went over what had gone by, before thinking over the future.This was a favourite place with Joe Banks on a Sunday, and he would sit in contemplative study here for hours. For he said it was like having a holiday and looking at somebody else work, especially when the bees were busy in the glass bells turned over the flat-topped hives.“I’d no business to hit a crippled man like that,” mused Joe; “but he’d no business to anger me. Be a lesson to him.”He filled a fresh pipe, lit it by holding the match sheltered in his hands, and then went on—“Be a lesson to him—a hard one, for my hand ain’t light. Pity he hadn’t coot away, for he put me out.”“Now, what’ll I do?” mused Joe. “Shall I speak to the maister?”“No, I wean’t. He’ll speak to me when it’s all raight, and Daisy and him has made it up. I’ll troost him, that I will; for though he’s a bit wild, he’s a gentleman at heart, like his father before him. Why of course I’ll troost him. He’s a bit shamefaced about it o’ course; but he’ll speak, all in good time. Both of ’em will, and think they’re going to surprise me. Ha—ha—ha! I’ve gotten ’em though. Lord, what fools young people is—blind as bats—blind as bats. Here’s Daisy.”“It’s so nice to see you sitting here, father,” said the girl, coming behind him, and resting her chin on his bald crown, while her plump arms went round his neck.“Is it, my gal? That’s raight. Why, Daisy lass, what soft little arms thine are. Give us a kiss.”Daisy leaned down and kissed him, and then stopped with her arms resting on his shoulders, keeping her face from confronting him; and so they remained for a few minutes, when a smile twinkled about the corners of the foreman’s lips and eyes as he said—“Daisy, my gal, I’ve been watching the bees a bit.”“Yes, father,” she said, smiling, though it was plain to see that the smile was forced. “Yes, father, you always like to watch the bees.”“I do, my bairn, I do. They’re just like so many workmen in a factory; but they don’t strike, my gal, they don’t strike.”“But they swarm, father,” said Daisy, making an effort to keep up the conversation.“Yes,” chuckled Joe, taking hold of the hand that rested on his left shoulder. “Yes, my bairn, I was just coming to that. They swarm, don’t they?”“Yes, father.”“And do you know why they swarm, Daisy?”“Yes, father; because the hive is not big enough for them.”“Yes, yes,” chuckled Joe, patting the hand, and holding it to his rough cheek. “You’re raight, but it’s something more, Daisy: it’s the young ones going away from home and setting up for theirselves—all the young ones ’most do that some day.”The tears rose to Daisy’s eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, for Joe had touched on a tenderer point than he imagined; but he held it tightly and gave it a kiss.“There, there, my pet,” he said, tenderly, “I won’t tease you. I knew it would come some day all right enough, and I don’t mind. I only want my little lass to be happy.”“Oh, father—father—father,” sobbed Daisy, letting her face droop till it rested on his head, while her tears fell fast.“Come, come, come, little woman,” he said, laughing; “thou mustn’t cry. Why, it’s all raight.” There was a huskiness in his voice though, as he spoke, and he had to fight hard to make the dew disappear from his eyes. “Here, I say, Daisy, my lass, that wean’t do no good: you may rain watter for ever on my owd bald head, and the hair won’t come again. There—tut—tut—tut—you’ll have moother here directly, and she’ll be asking what’s wrong.”Daisy made a strong effort over self, and succeeded at last in drying her eyes.“Then, you are not cross with me, father?” faltered Daisy.“Cross, my darling? not a bit,” said Joe, patting her hand again. “You shan’t disgrace the man as has you, my dear; that you shan’t. Why, you’re fit to be a little queen, you are.”Daisy gave him a hasty kiss, and ran off, while Joe proceeded to refill his pipe.“Cross indeed! I should just think I hadn’t,” he exclaimed—“only with the women. Well, they’ll come round.”But if Joe Banks had stood on the hill-side a couple of hours earlier, just by the spot where Tom Podmore had sat on the day of the vicar’s arrival, he would perhaps have viewed the matter in a different light, for—of course by accident—Daisy had there encountered Richard Glaire, evidently not for the first time since the night when they were interrupted by Tom in the lane.It was plain that any offence Richard had given on the night in question had long been condoned, and that at every meeting he was gaining a stronger mastery over the girl’s heart.“Then you will, Daisy, won’t you?” he whispered to her.“No, no, Dick dear. Don’t ask me. Let me tell father all about it.”“What?” he cried.“Let me tell father all about it, and I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”“My dear little Daisy, how well you are named,” he cried, playfully; and as he looked lovingly down upon her, the foolish girl began to compare him with the lover of her mother’s choice—a man who was nearly always blackened with his labours, and heavy and rough spoken, while here was Richard Glaire professing that he worshipped her, and looking, in her eyes, so handsome in his fashionably-cut blue coat with the rosebud in the button-hole, and wearing patent leather boots as tight as the lemon gloves upon his well-formed hands.“I can’t help my name,” she said, coquettishly.“I wouldn’t have it changed for the world, my little pet,” he whispered, playing with her dimpled chin; “only you are as fresh as a daisy.”“What do you mean, Dick?” she said, nestling to him.“Why you are so young and innocent. Look here, my darling: don’t you see how I’m placed? My mother wants me to marry Eve.”“But you don’t really, really, really, care the least little bit for her, do you, Mr Richard?”“‘Mr Richard!’” reproachfully.“Dear Dick, then,” she whispered, colouring up, and glancing fondly at him, half ashamed though the while at her boldness.“Of course I don’t love her. Haven’t I sworn a hundred times that I love only you, and that I want you to be my darling little wife?”“Yes, yes,” said the girl, softly.“Well, then, my darling, if you go and tell your father, the first thing he’ll do will be to go and tell my mother, and then there’ll be no end of a row.”“But she loves you very much, Dick.”“Worships me,” said Dick, complacently.“Of course,” said the girl, softly; and her foolish little eyes seemed to say, “She couldn’t help it,” while she continued, “and she’d let you do as you like, Dick.”“Well, but you see the devil of it is, Daisy, that I promised her I wouldn’t see you any more.”“Why did you do that?” said the girl, sharply.“To save rows—I hate a bother.”“Richard, you were ashamed of me, and wouldn’t own me,” said Daisy, bursting into tears.“Oh, what a silly, hard-hearted, cruel little blossom it is,” said Richard, trying to console her, but only to be pushed away. “All I did and said was to save bother, and not upset the old girl. That’s why I want it all kept quiet. Here, as I tell you, I could be waiting for you over at Chorley, we could pop into the mail as it came through, off up to London, be married by licence, and then the old folks would be in a bit of a temper for a week, and as pleased as Punch afterwards.”“Oh, no, Richard, I couldn’t, couldn’t do that,” said the girl, panting with excitement.“Yes, you could,” he said, “and come back after a trip to Paris, eh, Daisy? where you should have the run of the fashions. What would they all say when you came back a regular lady, and I took you to the house?”“Oh, Dick, dear Dick, don’t ask me,” moaned the poor girl, whose young head was in a whirl. “I couldn’t—indeed I couldn’t be so wicked.”“So wicked! no, of course not,” said Richard, derisively—“a wicked little creature. Oh, dear, what would become of you if you married Richard Glaire!”“You’re teasing me,” she said, “and it’s very cruel of you.”“Horribly,” said Richard. “But you will come, Daisy?”“I couldn’t, I couldn’t,” faltered the girl.“Yes, you could, you little goose.”“Dick, my own handsome, brave Dick,” she whispered, “let me tell father.”He drew back from her coldly.“You want to be very obedient, don’t you?”“Oh, yes, dear Richard,” she said, looking at him appealingly.“You set such a good example, Daisy, that I must be very good too.”“Yes, dear,” she said, innocently.“Yes,” he said, with a sneer; “so you go and tell your father like a good little child, and I’ll be a good boy, too, and go and tell my mother, and she’ll scold me and say I’ve been very naughty, and make me marry Eve.”“Oh, Richard, Richard, how can you be so cruel?” cried the poor girl, reproachfully.“It isn’t I; it’s you,” he said, smiling with satisfaction as he saw what a plaything the girl’s heart was in his hands. “Are you going to tell your father?”“Oh, no, Dick, not if you say I mustn’t.”“Well, that’s what I do say,” he exclaimed sharply.“Very well, Dick,” she said, sadly.“And look here, Daisy, my own little one,” he whispered, kissing her tear-wet face, “some day, when I ask you, it shall be as I say, eh?”“Oh, Dick, darling, I’ll do anything you wish but that. Don’t ask me to run away.”“Do you want to break off our match?” he said, bitterly.“Oh, no—no:—no—no.”“Do you want to make my home miserable?”“You know I don’t, Richard.”“Because, I tell you I know my mother will never consent to it unless she is forced.”“But you are your own master now, Richard,” she pleaded.“Not so much as you think for, my little woman. So come, promise me. I know you won’t break your word if you do promise.”“No, Dick, never,” she said, earnestly; and if there had been any true love in the young fellow’s breast he would have been touched by the trusting, earnest reliance upon him that shone from her eyes as she looked up affectionately in his face.“Then promise me, Daisy, dear,” he whispered; “it is for the good of both of us, and—Hang it all, there’s Slee.”Daisy was sent off as we know, and the tears fell fast as she hastened home, feeling that love was very sweet, but that its roses had thorns that rankled and stung.“Oh, Dick, Dick,” she sobbed as she went on, “I wish sometimes that I’d never seen you, for it is so hard not to do whatever you wish.”She dried her eyes hastily as she neared home, and drew her breath a little more hardly as about a hundred yards from the gate she saw Tom Podmore, who looked at her firmly and steadily as they passed, and hardly responded to her nod.“He knows where I’ve been. He knows where I’ve been,” whispered Daisy to herself as she hurried on; and she was quite right, for her conscious cheeks hoisted a couple of signal flags of the ruddiest hue—signals that poor Tom could read as well as if they had been written down in a code, and he ground his teeth as he turned and watched her.“She’s such a good girl that any one might troost her,” he muttered, as he saw her go in at the gate, “or else I’d go and tell Joe all as I knows. But no, I couldn’t do that, for it would hurt her, just as it would if I was to half kill Dick Glaire. She’ll find him out some day perhaps—not as it matters to me though, for it’s all over now.”He walked back, looking over the green fence as he passed, and Mrs Banks waved her hand to him from the window; but his eyes were too much occupied by the sight of Daisy leaning over her father, and he walked on so hurriedly that he nearly blundered up against a great stalwart figure coming the other way.
“A lungeing villain,” muttered Joe Banks to himself, “he knows nowt but nastiness. Strange thing that a man can’t make up to a pretty girl wi’out people putting all sorts o’ bad constructions on it. Why they’re all alike—Missis Glaire, the wife and all. My Daisy, too. To say such a word of her.”
He hastened home, filled his pipe, lit it, and went out and sat down in the garden, in front of his bees, to smoke and watch them, while he calmed himself down and went over what had gone by, before thinking over the future.
This was a favourite place with Joe Banks on a Sunday, and he would sit in contemplative study here for hours. For he said it was like having a holiday and looking at somebody else work, especially when the bees were busy in the glass bells turned over the flat-topped hives.
“I’d no business to hit a crippled man like that,” mused Joe; “but he’d no business to anger me. Be a lesson to him.”
He filled a fresh pipe, lit it by holding the match sheltered in his hands, and then went on—
“Be a lesson to him—a hard one, for my hand ain’t light. Pity he hadn’t coot away, for he put me out.”
“Now, what’ll I do?” mused Joe. “Shall I speak to the maister?”
“No, I wean’t. He’ll speak to me when it’s all raight, and Daisy and him has made it up. I’ll troost him, that I will; for though he’s a bit wild, he’s a gentleman at heart, like his father before him. Why of course I’ll troost him. He’s a bit shamefaced about it o’ course; but he’ll speak, all in good time. Both of ’em will, and think they’re going to surprise me. Ha—ha—ha! I’ve gotten ’em though. Lord, what fools young people is—blind as bats—blind as bats. Here’s Daisy.”
“It’s so nice to see you sitting here, father,” said the girl, coming behind him, and resting her chin on his bald crown, while her plump arms went round his neck.
“Is it, my gal? That’s raight. Why, Daisy lass, what soft little arms thine are. Give us a kiss.”
Daisy leaned down and kissed him, and then stopped with her arms resting on his shoulders, keeping her face from confronting him; and so they remained for a few minutes, when a smile twinkled about the corners of the foreman’s lips and eyes as he said—
“Daisy, my gal, I’ve been watching the bees a bit.”
“Yes, father,” she said, smiling, though it was plain to see that the smile was forced. “Yes, father, you always like to watch the bees.”
“I do, my bairn, I do. They’re just like so many workmen in a factory; but they don’t strike, my gal, they don’t strike.”
“But they swarm, father,” said Daisy, making an effort to keep up the conversation.
“Yes,” chuckled Joe, taking hold of the hand that rested on his left shoulder. “Yes, my bairn, I was just coming to that. They swarm, don’t they?”
“Yes, father.”
“And do you know why they swarm, Daisy?”
“Yes, father; because the hive is not big enough for them.”
“Yes, yes,” chuckled Joe, patting the hand, and holding it to his rough cheek. “You’re raight, but it’s something more, Daisy: it’s the young ones going away from home and setting up for theirselves—all the young ones ’most do that some day.”
The tears rose to Daisy’s eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, for Joe had touched on a tenderer point than he imagined; but he held it tightly and gave it a kiss.
“There, there, my pet,” he said, tenderly, “I won’t tease you. I knew it would come some day all right enough, and I don’t mind. I only want my little lass to be happy.”
“Oh, father—father—father,” sobbed Daisy, letting her face droop till it rested on his head, while her tears fell fast.
“Come, come, come, little woman,” he said, laughing; “thou mustn’t cry. Why, it’s all raight.” There was a huskiness in his voice though, as he spoke, and he had to fight hard to make the dew disappear from his eyes. “Here, I say, Daisy, my lass, that wean’t do no good: you may rain watter for ever on my owd bald head, and the hair won’t come again. There—tut—tut—tut—you’ll have moother here directly, and she’ll be asking what’s wrong.”
Daisy made a strong effort over self, and succeeded at last in drying her eyes.
“Then, you are not cross with me, father?” faltered Daisy.
“Cross, my darling? not a bit,” said Joe, patting her hand again. “You shan’t disgrace the man as has you, my dear; that you shan’t. Why, you’re fit to be a little queen, you are.”
Daisy gave him a hasty kiss, and ran off, while Joe proceeded to refill his pipe.
“Cross indeed! I should just think I hadn’t,” he exclaimed—“only with the women. Well, they’ll come round.”
But if Joe Banks had stood on the hill-side a couple of hours earlier, just by the spot where Tom Podmore had sat on the day of the vicar’s arrival, he would perhaps have viewed the matter in a different light, for—of course by accident—Daisy had there encountered Richard Glaire, evidently not for the first time since the night when they were interrupted by Tom in the lane.
It was plain that any offence Richard had given on the night in question had long been condoned, and that at every meeting he was gaining a stronger mastery over the girl’s heart.
“Then you will, Daisy, won’t you?” he whispered to her.
“No, no, Dick dear. Don’t ask me. Let me tell father all about it.”
“What?” he cried.
“Let me tell father all about it, and I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”
“My dear little Daisy, how well you are named,” he cried, playfully; and as he looked lovingly down upon her, the foolish girl began to compare him with the lover of her mother’s choice—a man who was nearly always blackened with his labours, and heavy and rough spoken, while here was Richard Glaire professing that he worshipped her, and looking, in her eyes, so handsome in his fashionably-cut blue coat with the rosebud in the button-hole, and wearing patent leather boots as tight as the lemon gloves upon his well-formed hands.
“I can’t help my name,” she said, coquettishly.
“I wouldn’t have it changed for the world, my little pet,” he whispered, playing with her dimpled chin; “only you are as fresh as a daisy.”
“What do you mean, Dick?” she said, nestling to him.
“Why you are so young and innocent. Look here, my darling: don’t you see how I’m placed? My mother wants me to marry Eve.”
“But you don’t really, really, really, care the least little bit for her, do you, Mr Richard?”
“‘Mr Richard!’” reproachfully.
“Dear Dick, then,” she whispered, colouring up, and glancing fondly at him, half ashamed though the while at her boldness.
“Of course I don’t love her. Haven’t I sworn a hundred times that I love only you, and that I want you to be my darling little wife?”
“Yes, yes,” said the girl, softly.
“Well, then, my darling, if you go and tell your father, the first thing he’ll do will be to go and tell my mother, and then there’ll be no end of a row.”
“But she loves you very much, Dick.”
“Worships me,” said Dick, complacently.
“Of course,” said the girl, softly; and her foolish little eyes seemed to say, “She couldn’t help it,” while she continued, “and she’d let you do as you like, Dick.”
“Well, but you see the devil of it is, Daisy, that I promised her I wouldn’t see you any more.”
“Why did you do that?” said the girl, sharply.
“To save rows—I hate a bother.”
“Richard, you were ashamed of me, and wouldn’t own me,” said Daisy, bursting into tears.
“Oh, what a silly, hard-hearted, cruel little blossom it is,” said Richard, trying to console her, but only to be pushed away. “All I did and said was to save bother, and not upset the old girl. That’s why I want it all kept quiet. Here, as I tell you, I could be waiting for you over at Chorley, we could pop into the mail as it came through, off up to London, be married by licence, and then the old folks would be in a bit of a temper for a week, and as pleased as Punch afterwards.”
“Oh, no, Richard, I couldn’t, couldn’t do that,” said the girl, panting with excitement.
“Yes, you could,” he said, “and come back after a trip to Paris, eh, Daisy? where you should have the run of the fashions. What would they all say when you came back a regular lady, and I took you to the house?”
“Oh, Dick, dear Dick, don’t ask me,” moaned the poor girl, whose young head was in a whirl. “I couldn’t—indeed I couldn’t be so wicked.”
“So wicked! no, of course not,” said Richard, derisively—“a wicked little creature. Oh, dear, what would become of you if you married Richard Glaire!”
“You’re teasing me,” she said, “and it’s very cruel of you.”
“Horribly,” said Richard. “But you will come, Daisy?”
“I couldn’t, I couldn’t,” faltered the girl.
“Yes, you could, you little goose.”
“Dick, my own handsome, brave Dick,” she whispered, “let me tell father.”
He drew back from her coldly.
“You want to be very obedient, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, dear Richard,” she said, looking at him appealingly.
“You set such a good example, Daisy, that I must be very good too.”
“Yes, dear,” she said, innocently.
“Yes,” he said, with a sneer; “so you go and tell your father like a good little child, and I’ll be a good boy, too, and go and tell my mother, and she’ll scold me and say I’ve been very naughty, and make me marry Eve.”
“Oh, Richard, Richard, how can you be so cruel?” cried the poor girl, reproachfully.
“It isn’t I; it’s you,” he said, smiling with satisfaction as he saw what a plaything the girl’s heart was in his hands. “Are you going to tell your father?”
“Oh, no, Dick, not if you say I mustn’t.”
“Well, that’s what I do say,” he exclaimed sharply.
“Very well, Dick,” she said, sadly.
“And look here, Daisy, my own little one,” he whispered, kissing her tear-wet face, “some day, when I ask you, it shall be as I say, eh?”
“Oh, Dick, darling, I’ll do anything you wish but that. Don’t ask me to run away.”
“Do you want to break off our match?” he said, bitterly.
“Oh, no—no:—no—no.”
“Do you want to make my home miserable?”
“You know I don’t, Richard.”
“Because, I tell you I know my mother will never consent to it unless she is forced.”
“But you are your own master now, Richard,” she pleaded.
“Not so much as you think for, my little woman. So come, promise me. I know you won’t break your word if you do promise.”
“No, Dick, never,” she said, earnestly; and if there had been any true love in the young fellow’s breast he would have been touched by the trusting, earnest reliance upon him that shone from her eyes as she looked up affectionately in his face.
“Then promise me, Daisy, dear,” he whispered; “it is for the good of both of us, and—Hang it all, there’s Slee.”
Daisy was sent off as we know, and the tears fell fast as she hastened home, feeling that love was very sweet, but that its roses had thorns that rankled and stung.
“Oh, Dick, Dick,” she sobbed as she went on, “I wish sometimes that I’d never seen you, for it is so hard not to do whatever you wish.”
She dried her eyes hastily as she neared home, and drew her breath a little more hardly as about a hundred yards from the gate she saw Tom Podmore, who looked at her firmly and steadily as they passed, and hardly responded to her nod.
“He knows where I’ve been. He knows where I’ve been,” whispered Daisy to herself as she hurried on; and she was quite right, for her conscious cheeks hoisted a couple of signal flags of the ruddiest hue—signals that poor Tom could read as well as if they had been written down in a code, and he ground his teeth as he turned and watched her.
“She’s such a good girl that any one might troost her,” he muttered, as he saw her go in at the gate, “or else I’d go and tell Joe all as I knows. But no, I couldn’t do that, for it would hurt her, just as it would if I was to half kill Dick Glaire. She’ll find him out some day perhaps—not as it matters to me though, for it’s all over now.”
He walked back, looking over the green fence as he passed, and Mrs Banks waved her hand to him from the window; but his eyes were too much occupied by the sight of Daisy leaning over her father, and he walked on so hurriedly that he nearly blundered up against a great stalwart figure coming the other way.
Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.The Vicar’s Friends.“What cheer, owd Tommy?” cried the stalwart figure, pulling a short black pipe out of his mouth.“Hallo, Harry,” said Tom, quietly, at least as quietly as he could, for the words were jerked out of his mouth by the tremendous clap on the shoulder administered by the big hammerman.“What’s going to be done, Tommy?” growled the great fellow. “I’m ’bout tired o’ this. I wants to hit something.”He stretched out his great sinewy arm, and then drawing it back, let it fly again with such force that a man would have gone down before it like a cork.“Come along,” said Tom, who wished to get away from the neighbourhood of Banks’s cottage for fear Mrs Banks should call to him.Harry was a man whose brain detested originality. He was a machine who liked to be set in motion, so he followed Tom like a huge dog, and without a word.As they came abreast of the vicarage they saw the vicar at work gardening, and Jacky Budd making believe to dig very hard in the wilderness still unreclaimed.Even at their distance, Jacky’s pasty face and red ripe nose, suggestive of inward tillage, were plainly to be seen, and just then a thought seemed to strike Tom, who turned to his companion, staring with open mouth over the hedge.“Like a job, Harry?”“Hey, lad, I should.”“Come in here then,” said Tom, laying his hand on the gate.“That I will, lad,” said Harry. “I want to scrarp some un, and I should ’mazin like a fall wi’ that theer parson.”Tom smiled grimly, and entered, followed by Harry.They were seen directly by the vicar, who came up and shook hands with Tom.“Ah, Podmore, glad to see you. Well, Harry, my man,” he continued, holding out his hand to the other, “is the lump on your forehead gone?”Harry took the vicar’s hand and held it in a mighty grip, while with his left he removed his cap and looked in the lining, as if to see if the bruise was there.“Never thowt no more ’bout it, parson.” Then gazing down at the soft hand he held, he muttered, “It’s amaazin’!”“What’s amazing?” said the vicar, smiling.“Why that you could hit a man such a crack wi’ a hand like this ’ere.”“Don’t mind him, sir; it’s his way,” said Tom, apologetically. “Fact is, parson, we’re tired o’ doing nowt.”“I’m glad to hear you say so, Podmore,” said the vicar, earnestly. “I wish from my heart this unhappy strife were at an end. I’m trying my best.”“Of course you are, sir,” said Tom; “but I thowt mebbe you’d give Harry here and me a bit o’ work.”“Work! what work?” said the vicar, wonderingly.“Well, you said I’d best get to work, and I’ve got nowt to do. That Jacky Budd there’s picking about as if he was scarred o’ hurting the ground: let me and Harry dig it up.”The vicar looked from one to the other for a moment, and as his eyes rested on Harry, that giant gave Tom a clap on the shoulder hard enough to make a bruise, as he exclaimed—“Hark at that now, for a good’n, parson. Here, gie’s hold of a shovel.”The vicar led the way to the tool-house, furnished his visitors with tools, and then stood close at hand to supply the science, while the way in which the two men began to dig had such an effect on Jacky Budd that he stood still and perspired.A dozen great shovelfuls of earth were turned over by Harry, who then stopped short, threw off his coat and vest, tightened the belt round his waist, and loosening the collar of his shirt, proceeded to roll up the sleeves before moistening his hands and seizing the spade once more, laughing heartily as he turned over the soft earth like a steam plough.“Slip int’ it, Tommy. Well, this is a game. It’s straange and fine though, after doin’ nowt for a week.”Tom was digging steadily and well, for he was a bit of a gardener in his way, having often helped Joe Banks to dig his piece in the early days of his love.“Better borry some more garden, parson; we shall ha’ done this ’ere in ’bout an hour and a half,” said Harry, grinning; and then—crack!“Look at that for a tool!” he cried, holding up the broken shovel, snapped in two at the handle.“Try this one, Harry,” said Jacky Budd, handing his own spade eagerly; “I’ve got some hoeing to do.”Harry took the tool and worked away a little more steadily, with the result that poor Jacky Budd was deprived of a good deal of the work that would have fallen to his lot; a deprivation, however, that he suffered without a sigh.“Now, I ain’t agoing to beg, parson,” said Harry, after a couple of hours’ work, “but my forge wants coal, and a bite o’ bread and a bit o’ slip-coat cheese would be to raights.”“Slip-coat cheese?” said the vicar.“He means cream cheese,” said Tom, who had been working away without a word, keeping Jacky busy clearing away the weeds.“No, I don’t,” growled Harry. “I mean slip-coat, and a moog o’ ale.”“Shall I go and fetch some, sir?” said Jacky Budd, eagerly.“Thank you, no, Budd,” said the vicar, quietly. “I won’t take you from your work;” and, to Jacky’s great disgust, he went and fetched a jug of ale from his little cellar himself.“He ain’t a bad un,” cried Harry, tearing away at the earth. “Keeps a drink o’ ale i’ the plaace. I thowt parsons allus drunk port wine.”“Not always, my man,” said the vicar, handing the great fellow the jug, and while he was drinking, up came Jacky with his lips parted, and a general look on his visage as if he would like to hang his tongue out like a thirsty hound and pant.“Shall I get the leather, sir, and just nail up that there bit o’ vine over the window?”“Get the what, Budd?” said the vicar, who looked puzzled.“The leather, sir, the leather.”“He means the lather, sir,” said Tom, quietly, “the lather to climb up.”“Oh, the ladder,” said the vicar. “Yes, by all means,” he continued, smiling as he saw the clerk’s thirsty look. “I won’t ask you to drink, Budd,” he went on as he handed the mug to Tom, who took a hearty draught. “You told me you did not drink beer on principle; and I never like to interfere with a man’s principles, though I hold that beer in moderation is good for out-door workers.”“Thanky, sir, quite right, sir,” said Jacky, with a blank look on his face. “I’ll get the leather and a few nails, and do that vine now.”“Poof!” ejaculated Harry, with a tremendous burst of laughter, as he went on digging furiously. “Well, that’s alarming.”“What’s the matter, old mate?” said Tom.“Nowt at all. Poof!” he roared again, turning over the earth. “Jacky Budd don’t drink beer on principle. Poof!”The vicar paid no heed to him, only smiled to himself, and the gardening progressed at such a rate that by five o’clock what had been a wilderness began to wear a very pleasant aspect of freedom from weeds and overgrowth, and with the understanding that the two workers were to come and finish in the morning, they resumed their jackets and went off.Their visit to the vicarage had not passed unnoticed, however; for Sim Slee had been hanging about, seeking for an opportunity to have a word with his wife, and not seeing her, he had carried the news to the Bull and Cucumber.“Things is coming to a pretty pass,” he said to the landlord. “That parson’s got a way of getting ower iverybody. What do you think now?”“Can’t say,” said the landlord.“He’s gotten big Harry and Tom Podmore working in his garden like two big beasts at plough.”“He’ll be gettin’ o’ you next, Sim,” said the landlord, laughing.“Gettin’ o’ me!” echoed Sim. “Not he. He tried it on wi’ me as soon as we met; but I wrastled with him by word o’ mouth, and he went down like a stone.”“Did he though, Sim?”“Ay, lad. Yon parson’s all very well, but he’s fra London, and he’ll hev to get up pretty early to get over a Lincoln man, eh?”“Ay,” said the landlord; “but he ain’t so bad nayther. A came here and sat down just like a christian, and talked to the missus and played wi’ the bairns for long enough.”“Did he though,” said Sim. “Hey, lad, but that’s his artfulness. He wants to get the whip hand o’ thee.”“I dunno ’bout that,” said the landlord, who eked out his income from the publican business with a little farming. “I thowt so at first, and expected he’d want to read a chapter and give me some tracks.”“Well, didn’t he?” said Sim.“Nay, not he. We only talked once ’bout ’ligious matters, and ’bout the chapel—ay, and we talked ’bout you an’ all.”“’Bout me?” said Sim, getting interested, and pausing with his mug half way to his lips.“Yes,” said the landlord. “It come about throof me saying I see he’d gotten your missus to keep house for him.”“Give me another gill o’ ale,” said Sim, now deeply interested.The landlord filled his mug for him, and went on—“I said she were ’bout the cleanest woman in these parts, and the way she’d fettle up a place and side things was wonderful.”“Yow needn’t ha’ been so nation fast talking ’bout my wife,” said Sim.“I niver said nowt agen her,” said the landlord, chuckling to himself. “And then we got talking ’bout you and the chapel.”“What did he know ’bout me and the chapel?” cried Sim, angrily.“On’y what I towd him. I said part people went theer o’ Sabbath, and that it was a straange niste woshup.”“Nice woshup, indeed! why you niver went theer i’ your life,” said Sim.“I said so I’d heerd,” said the landlord, stolidly, “and then I towd him how you used to preach theer till they turned thee out.”“What call had you to got to do that?” said Sim, viciously.“Turned thee out, and took thy name off the plan for comin’ to see me.”“Well, of all the unneighbourly things as iver I heerd!” exclaimed Sim. “To go and talk that clat to a straanger.”“Outer kindness to him,” said the landlord. “It was a kind o’ hint, and he took it, for I was thinking of his bishop, and he took it direckly, for he says, says he, ‘Well, I hope I shan’t hev my name took off my plan for coming to see you, Mr Robinson,’ he says. ‘I hope not, sir,’ I says. ‘Perhaps you’ll take a glass o’ wine, sir,’ I says. ‘No, Mr Robinson,’ he says, ‘I’ll take a glass—gill you call it—o’ your ale.’ And if he didn’t sit wi’ me for a good hour, and drink three gills o’ ale and smoke three pipes wi’ me, same as you might, ony he talked more sensible.”“Well, he’s a pretty parson, he is,” sneered Sim.“You let him be; he ain’t a bad sort at all,” said the landlord, quietly.“Ha, ha!” laughed Sim. “He’s got howlt o’ you too, Robinson.”“Mebbe he hev; mebbe he hevn’t,” said the landlord.“Did he ask you to go to church?”“Well, not azackly,” said the landlord; “but he said he should be very happy to see me theer, just like astin’ me to his house.”“Ho, ho!” laughed Sim; “and some day we shall have the Bull and Cowcumber at church.”“What are yow laughin’ at, yo’ maulkin?” cried the landlord. “Why, I’d go ony wheer to sit and listen to a sensible man talk.”“Aw raight, aw raight, Robinson; don’t be put out,” said Sim; “but I didn’t think as yow’d be got over so easy.”“Who’s got over?” said the landlord. “Not I indeed.”“Well,” said Sim, “did he say anything more?”“Say? yes, he’s full o’ say, and it’s good sorter say. I ast him if he’d like to see the farm, and he said he would, and I took him out wheer the missus was busy wi’ her pancheons, making bread and syling the milk, and he stopped and talked to her.”“But yow didn’t take him out into your moocky owd crewyard, did yo’?”“Moocky crewyard indeed! but I just did, and I tell you what, Sim Slee, he’s as good a judge of a beast as iver I see.”“And then yow showed him the new mare,” said Sim, with a grin.“I did,” said the landlord. “‘Horncastle?’ he says, going up to her and opening her mouth. ‘Raight,’ I says. ‘Six year owd,’ he says; and then he felt her legs and said he should like to see her paces, and I had Jemmy to give her a run in the field. ‘She’s Irish,’ he says. ‘How do you know?’ I says—trying him like to trap him. ‘By that turn-up nose,’ he says, ‘and that wild saucy look about the eye and head.’ ‘You’re raight, parson,’ I says. And then he says, ‘she was worth sixty pun, every pun of it;’ and I told him as I got her for nine and thirty, and ten shillings back. I tell you what, Sim Slee,—Parson’s a man, every inch on him. As for the missus, she’s that pleased, she sent him ower a pun o’ boother this morning from our best Alderney.”“O’ course,” sneered Sim. “That’s the way. That’s your cunning priest coming into your house to lead silly women captive, and sew pillows to their armholes.”“Go on wi’ yer blather,” cried the landlord.“Go on, indeed,” continued Sim. “That’s their way. He’s a regular Jesooit, he is, and your home wean’t soon be your own. He’s gettin’ ivery woman in the place under his thumb. He begins wi’ Miss Eve theer at the house, and Daisy Banks. Then he’s gotten howd o’ my missus. Here’s Mrs Glaire allus coming and fetching him out wi’ her in the pony shay, and now he’s gotten howd o’ your owd woman, and she’s sendin’ him pounds o’ boother. It was allus the way wi’ them cunning priests: they allus get over the women, and then they do what they like wi’ the men. No matter how strong they are, down they come just like Samson did wi’ Delilah. It was allus so, and as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be world without end.”“Amen,” said Jacky Budd, coming in at the back door. “Gie’s a gill o’ ale, Robinson. I’m ’bout bunt up wi’ thirst. Hallo, Slee, what! are yow preaching agen?”“Never mind,” said Sim, sulkily. “I should ha’ thowt parson would ha’ fun you in ale, now.”“Not he,” said Jacky. “Drinks it all his sen. He’s got a little barrel o’ Robinson’s best i’ the house, too.”“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Sim, holding his sides and stooping. “I say, Jacky, put some new basses in one o’ the pews for Mester Robinson, Esquire, as is going to come reg’lar to church now. That’s the way they do it: ‘Send me in a small barrel o’ your best ale, Mr Robinson,’ he says, ‘and I shall be happy to see you at church.’”“If yow use up all yer wind, Sim Slee,” said the landlord, sturdily, “yow wean’t hev none left to lay down the law wi’ at the meeting to-night.”
“What cheer, owd Tommy?” cried the stalwart figure, pulling a short black pipe out of his mouth.
“Hallo, Harry,” said Tom, quietly, at least as quietly as he could, for the words were jerked out of his mouth by the tremendous clap on the shoulder administered by the big hammerman.
“What’s going to be done, Tommy?” growled the great fellow. “I’m ’bout tired o’ this. I wants to hit something.”
He stretched out his great sinewy arm, and then drawing it back, let it fly again with such force that a man would have gone down before it like a cork.
“Come along,” said Tom, who wished to get away from the neighbourhood of Banks’s cottage for fear Mrs Banks should call to him.
Harry was a man whose brain detested originality. He was a machine who liked to be set in motion, so he followed Tom like a huge dog, and without a word.
As they came abreast of the vicarage they saw the vicar at work gardening, and Jacky Budd making believe to dig very hard in the wilderness still unreclaimed.
Even at their distance, Jacky’s pasty face and red ripe nose, suggestive of inward tillage, were plainly to be seen, and just then a thought seemed to strike Tom, who turned to his companion, staring with open mouth over the hedge.
“Like a job, Harry?”
“Hey, lad, I should.”
“Come in here then,” said Tom, laying his hand on the gate.
“That I will, lad,” said Harry. “I want to scrarp some un, and I should ’mazin like a fall wi’ that theer parson.”
Tom smiled grimly, and entered, followed by Harry.
They were seen directly by the vicar, who came up and shook hands with Tom.
“Ah, Podmore, glad to see you. Well, Harry, my man,” he continued, holding out his hand to the other, “is the lump on your forehead gone?”
Harry took the vicar’s hand and held it in a mighty grip, while with his left he removed his cap and looked in the lining, as if to see if the bruise was there.
“Never thowt no more ’bout it, parson.” Then gazing down at the soft hand he held, he muttered, “It’s amaazin’!”
“What’s amazing?” said the vicar, smiling.
“Why that you could hit a man such a crack wi’ a hand like this ’ere.”
“Don’t mind him, sir; it’s his way,” said Tom, apologetically. “Fact is, parson, we’re tired o’ doing nowt.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Podmore,” said the vicar, earnestly. “I wish from my heart this unhappy strife were at an end. I’m trying my best.”
“Of course you are, sir,” said Tom; “but I thowt mebbe you’d give Harry here and me a bit o’ work.”
“Work! what work?” said the vicar, wonderingly.
“Well, you said I’d best get to work, and I’ve got nowt to do. That Jacky Budd there’s picking about as if he was scarred o’ hurting the ground: let me and Harry dig it up.”
The vicar looked from one to the other for a moment, and as his eyes rested on Harry, that giant gave Tom a clap on the shoulder hard enough to make a bruise, as he exclaimed—
“Hark at that now, for a good’n, parson. Here, gie’s hold of a shovel.”
The vicar led the way to the tool-house, furnished his visitors with tools, and then stood close at hand to supply the science, while the way in which the two men began to dig had such an effect on Jacky Budd that he stood still and perspired.
A dozen great shovelfuls of earth were turned over by Harry, who then stopped short, threw off his coat and vest, tightened the belt round his waist, and loosening the collar of his shirt, proceeded to roll up the sleeves before moistening his hands and seizing the spade once more, laughing heartily as he turned over the soft earth like a steam plough.
“Slip int’ it, Tommy. Well, this is a game. It’s straange and fine though, after doin’ nowt for a week.”
Tom was digging steadily and well, for he was a bit of a gardener in his way, having often helped Joe Banks to dig his piece in the early days of his love.
“Better borry some more garden, parson; we shall ha’ done this ’ere in ’bout an hour and a half,” said Harry, grinning; and then—crack!
“Look at that for a tool!” he cried, holding up the broken shovel, snapped in two at the handle.
“Try this one, Harry,” said Jacky Budd, handing his own spade eagerly; “I’ve got some hoeing to do.”
Harry took the tool and worked away a little more steadily, with the result that poor Jacky Budd was deprived of a good deal of the work that would have fallen to his lot; a deprivation, however, that he suffered without a sigh.
“Now, I ain’t agoing to beg, parson,” said Harry, after a couple of hours’ work, “but my forge wants coal, and a bite o’ bread and a bit o’ slip-coat cheese would be to raights.”
“Slip-coat cheese?” said the vicar.
“He means cream cheese,” said Tom, who had been working away without a word, keeping Jacky busy clearing away the weeds.
“No, I don’t,” growled Harry. “I mean slip-coat, and a moog o’ ale.”
“Shall I go and fetch some, sir?” said Jacky Budd, eagerly.
“Thank you, no, Budd,” said the vicar, quietly. “I won’t take you from your work;” and, to Jacky’s great disgust, he went and fetched a jug of ale from his little cellar himself.
“He ain’t a bad un,” cried Harry, tearing away at the earth. “Keeps a drink o’ ale i’ the plaace. I thowt parsons allus drunk port wine.”
“Not always, my man,” said the vicar, handing the great fellow the jug, and while he was drinking, up came Jacky with his lips parted, and a general look on his visage as if he would like to hang his tongue out like a thirsty hound and pant.
“Shall I get the leather, sir, and just nail up that there bit o’ vine over the window?”
“Get the what, Budd?” said the vicar, who looked puzzled.
“The leather, sir, the leather.”
“He means the lather, sir,” said Tom, quietly, “the lather to climb up.”
“Oh, the ladder,” said the vicar. “Yes, by all means,” he continued, smiling as he saw the clerk’s thirsty look. “I won’t ask you to drink, Budd,” he went on as he handed the mug to Tom, who took a hearty draught. “You told me you did not drink beer on principle; and I never like to interfere with a man’s principles, though I hold that beer in moderation is good for out-door workers.”
“Thanky, sir, quite right, sir,” said Jacky, with a blank look on his face. “I’ll get the leather and a few nails, and do that vine now.”
“Poof!” ejaculated Harry, with a tremendous burst of laughter, as he went on digging furiously. “Well, that’s alarming.”
“What’s the matter, old mate?” said Tom.
“Nowt at all. Poof!” he roared again, turning over the earth. “Jacky Budd don’t drink beer on principle. Poof!”
The vicar paid no heed to him, only smiled to himself, and the gardening progressed at such a rate that by five o’clock what had been a wilderness began to wear a very pleasant aspect of freedom from weeds and overgrowth, and with the understanding that the two workers were to come and finish in the morning, they resumed their jackets and went off.
Their visit to the vicarage had not passed unnoticed, however; for Sim Slee had been hanging about, seeking for an opportunity to have a word with his wife, and not seeing her, he had carried the news to the Bull and Cucumber.
“Things is coming to a pretty pass,” he said to the landlord. “That parson’s got a way of getting ower iverybody. What do you think now?”
“Can’t say,” said the landlord.
“He’s gotten big Harry and Tom Podmore working in his garden like two big beasts at plough.”
“He’ll be gettin’ o’ you next, Sim,” said the landlord, laughing.
“Gettin’ o’ me!” echoed Sim. “Not he. He tried it on wi’ me as soon as we met; but I wrastled with him by word o’ mouth, and he went down like a stone.”
“Did he though, Sim?”
“Ay, lad. Yon parson’s all very well, but he’s fra London, and he’ll hev to get up pretty early to get over a Lincoln man, eh?”
“Ay,” said the landlord; “but he ain’t so bad nayther. A came here and sat down just like a christian, and talked to the missus and played wi’ the bairns for long enough.”
“Did he though,” said Sim. “Hey, lad, but that’s his artfulness. He wants to get the whip hand o’ thee.”
“I dunno ’bout that,” said the landlord, who eked out his income from the publican business with a little farming. “I thowt so at first, and expected he’d want to read a chapter and give me some tracks.”
“Well, didn’t he?” said Sim.
“Nay, not he. We only talked once ’bout ’ligious matters, and ’bout the chapel—ay, and we talked ’bout you an’ all.”
“’Bout me?” said Sim, getting interested, and pausing with his mug half way to his lips.
“Yes,” said the landlord. “It come about throof me saying I see he’d gotten your missus to keep house for him.”
“Give me another gill o’ ale,” said Sim, now deeply interested.
The landlord filled his mug for him, and went on—
“I said she were ’bout the cleanest woman in these parts, and the way she’d fettle up a place and side things was wonderful.”
“Yow needn’t ha’ been so nation fast talking ’bout my wife,” said Sim.
“I niver said nowt agen her,” said the landlord, chuckling to himself. “And then we got talking ’bout you and the chapel.”
“What did he know ’bout me and the chapel?” cried Sim, angrily.
“On’y what I towd him. I said part people went theer o’ Sabbath, and that it was a straange niste woshup.”
“Nice woshup, indeed! why you niver went theer i’ your life,” said Sim.
“I said so I’d heerd,” said the landlord, stolidly, “and then I towd him how you used to preach theer till they turned thee out.”
“What call had you to got to do that?” said Sim, viciously.
“Turned thee out, and took thy name off the plan for comin’ to see me.”
“Well, of all the unneighbourly things as iver I heerd!” exclaimed Sim. “To go and talk that clat to a straanger.”
“Outer kindness to him,” said the landlord. “It was a kind o’ hint, and he took it, for I was thinking of his bishop, and he took it direckly, for he says, says he, ‘Well, I hope I shan’t hev my name took off my plan for coming to see you, Mr Robinson,’ he says. ‘I hope not, sir,’ I says. ‘Perhaps you’ll take a glass o’ wine, sir,’ I says. ‘No, Mr Robinson,’ he says, ‘I’ll take a glass—gill you call it—o’ your ale.’ And if he didn’t sit wi’ me for a good hour, and drink three gills o’ ale and smoke three pipes wi’ me, same as you might, ony he talked more sensible.”
“Well, he’s a pretty parson, he is,” sneered Sim.
“You let him be; he ain’t a bad sort at all,” said the landlord, quietly.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Sim. “He’s got howlt o’ you too, Robinson.”
“Mebbe he hev; mebbe he hevn’t,” said the landlord.
“Did he ask you to go to church?”
“Well, not azackly,” said the landlord; “but he said he should be very happy to see me theer, just like astin’ me to his house.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Sim; “and some day we shall have the Bull and Cowcumber at church.”
“What are yow laughin’ at, yo’ maulkin?” cried the landlord. “Why, I’d go ony wheer to sit and listen to a sensible man talk.”
“Aw raight, aw raight, Robinson; don’t be put out,” said Sim; “but I didn’t think as yow’d be got over so easy.”
“Who’s got over?” said the landlord. “Not I indeed.”
“Well,” said Sim, “did he say anything more?”
“Say? yes, he’s full o’ say, and it’s good sorter say. I ast him if he’d like to see the farm, and he said he would, and I took him out wheer the missus was busy wi’ her pancheons, making bread and syling the milk, and he stopped and talked to her.”
“But yow didn’t take him out into your moocky owd crewyard, did yo’?”
“Moocky crewyard indeed! but I just did, and I tell you what, Sim Slee, he’s as good a judge of a beast as iver I see.”
“And then yow showed him the new mare,” said Sim, with a grin.
“I did,” said the landlord. “‘Horncastle?’ he says, going up to her and opening her mouth. ‘Raight,’ I says. ‘Six year owd,’ he says; and then he felt her legs and said he should like to see her paces, and I had Jemmy to give her a run in the field. ‘She’s Irish,’ he says. ‘How do you know?’ I says—trying him like to trap him. ‘By that turn-up nose,’ he says, ‘and that wild saucy look about the eye and head.’ ‘You’re raight, parson,’ I says. And then he says, ‘she was worth sixty pun, every pun of it;’ and I told him as I got her for nine and thirty, and ten shillings back. I tell you what, Sim Slee,—Parson’s a man, every inch on him. As for the missus, she’s that pleased, she sent him ower a pun o’ boother this morning from our best Alderney.”
“O’ course,” sneered Sim. “That’s the way. That’s your cunning priest coming into your house to lead silly women captive, and sew pillows to their armholes.”
“Go on wi’ yer blather,” cried the landlord.
“Go on, indeed,” continued Sim. “That’s their way. He’s a regular Jesooit, he is, and your home wean’t soon be your own. He’s gettin’ ivery woman in the place under his thumb. He begins wi’ Miss Eve theer at the house, and Daisy Banks. Then he’s gotten howd o’ my missus. Here’s Mrs Glaire allus coming and fetching him out wi’ her in the pony shay, and now he’s gotten howd o’ your owd woman, and she’s sendin’ him pounds o’ boother. It was allus the way wi’ them cunning priests: they allus get over the women, and then they do what they like wi’ the men. No matter how strong they are, down they come just like Samson did wi’ Delilah. It was allus so, and as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be world without end.”
“Amen,” said Jacky Budd, coming in at the back door. “Gie’s a gill o’ ale, Robinson. I’m ’bout bunt up wi’ thirst. Hallo, Slee, what! are yow preaching agen?”
“Never mind,” said Sim, sulkily. “I should ha’ thowt parson would ha’ fun you in ale, now.”
“Not he,” said Jacky. “Drinks it all his sen. He’s got a little barrel o’ Robinson’s best i’ the house, too.”
“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Sim, holding his sides and stooping. “I say, Jacky, put some new basses in one o’ the pews for Mester Robinson, Esquire, as is going to come reg’lar to church now. That’s the way they do it: ‘Send me in a small barrel o’ your best ale, Mr Robinson,’ he says, ‘and I shall be happy to see you at church.’”
“If yow use up all yer wind, Sim Slee,” said the landlord, sturdily, “yow wean’t hev none left to lay down the law wi’ at the meeting to-night.”