Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.A Friendly Meeting.There was a goodly meeting at the Bull and Cucumber that evening, for the discussion of the disappearance of Daisy Banks. Sim Slee was there, and one of the chief spokesmen.“Well, what do you say, Sim?” said the landlord, with a wink at his other guests, as much as to say, “Let’s draw him out.”“Say!” cried Sim; “why, that Dick Glaire’s a lungeing villin. Look at him: a man fixed in business as he is, and plenty o’ money, and he knows nowt but nastiness. He ought to be hung.”“Where weer you to-day, Sim?” said another. “I didn’t see thee helping.”“Helping!” said Sim; “why, I was in the thicket all day. Search indeed! what’s the good o’ searching for what aint theer?”“Do you know wheer she is?” said the landlord.“If yow want to know wheer Daisy Banks is, ask Dicky Glaire, and—”“And what?” said several, for Sim had stopped short.“And he wean’t tell yow,” said Sim. “He knows, though. Why, he’s been mad after the lass for months; and if she weer my bairn, I’d half kill him; that’s what I’d do wi’ him. He’s a bad lot, and it’s a pity as Dumford can’t get shoot of him. Such rubbish! he’s ony fit to boon the roads.”“Well, Sim,” said the grocer, “when they make you boon master, you can use him up o’ purpose.”“Hello!” said Sim, “what! are yow here? I thowt as the Bull and Cowcumber wasn’t good enew for such as thee.”“You niver thowt so, Sim,” said the jovial little grocer, laughing, “till I wouldn’t give thee any more credit till thou had paid what thee owdst.”“I can pay yow any day,” said Sim, chinking the money in his pocket.“Yes, but yow wean’t,” said the grocer, imitating Sim’s broad Lincoln dialect. “Yes, I wanted to hear a bit o’ the news,” he continued, “so I thowt I’d put up the shuts and have a gill and a pipe, same as another man; for I niver object to my ’lowance, as is good for any man as works hard.”“So ’tis, so ’tis,” chorussed several.“How chuff we are to-night,” said Sim, with a sneer; “why, yow’re getting quite sharp. Yow wearn’t so nation fast wi’ your tongue fore yow took to trade and was only a bricklayer. It’s all very fine for a man to marry a grocer’s widow, and take to her trade and money, and then come and teach others, and bounce about his money.”“Oh, I’m not ashamed of having handled the mortar-trowel before I took to the sugar-scoop,” said the grocer, laughing.“When it used to be to the boy,” continued Sim, mimicking the other’s very slow drawling speech: “‘Joey, wilt thou bring me another brick?’ and then thou used to groan because it weer so heavy.”“Sim Slee’s in full swing to-night,” said another guest.“He will be if he don’t look out, for Tom Podmore says he’s sure he had a hand in getting away Daisy Banks,” said another; “and Joe Banks is sure of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hung him.”“Don’t you be so nation fast,” said Sim, changing colour a little, but laughing it off the next moment. “Iv I were a owry chap like thee, Sam’l Benson, I’d wesh mesen afore I took to talking about other folk. It was Sam’l, you know,” continued Sim, to the others, “that owd parson spoke to when he weer a boy. ‘When did thee wesh thee hands last, Sam?’ he says, pointing at ’em wi’ his stick. ‘When we’d done picking tates,’ says Sam, He, he, he! and that was three months before, and parson give ’im a penny to ware in soap.”There was a hearty laugh at this, in which the man of whom the story was told joined.“Strange different sort o’ man this one to the last parson,” said the grocer.“Ay, he is. Do you mind owd parson’s dunk pigs?” said Johnson, the butcher.“To be sure,” said the landlord, rapping his pipe. “I’ve got four of the same breed now.”“He used to come and see you pretty oftens, didn’t he?” said the grocer.“Oh, yes; he’d come toddling up on the saints’ days to Mrs Winny’s there, and sit for a bit, and then come across here, and sit and wait, and have a gill o’ ale, and then if there was anybody coming up to church, Jacky Budd—Jacky Budd’s father, you know—would come and fetch him, and if there was nobody coming Jacky used to lock the church doors again and go back home.”“He was a rum one, he was. Fond of his garden, too.”“Well, so’s this un,” said the landlord. “He’s getten it to raights now.”“Course he has,” said Slee. “Getten it done for nowt, wi’ Tom Podmore and big Harry, and iver so many more wucking for him.”“You let th’ parson alone, Sim,” said the landlord, who was a bit of an autocrat in his own parlour, “and he’ll let thee alone.”“I should hope he would. He’s fun me a hot one a’ready,” said Sim.“He’s a good sort, is parson,” said Johnson, the butcher; “and it’s how do, and shake hands, as friendly with ye, as if you was the best in the land.”“Yes,” said the grocer; “and he don’t come begging and borrowing always.”“Begging, no,” said Johnson, chuckling. “Why, he’s paid me thutty pounds this last ten days for meat.”“Thutty pounds!” said the landlord.“Ay, all that.”“What for?” said Sim.“Meat for soup,” said Johnson.“Ah, and I’ve took a lot of him for grosheries,” said the grocer.“Yes; he’s giving away a sight o’ money,” said the landlord, “to them as is on strike and wants it. He says to me, only yesterday, when I went across to take him a bit o’ Marquory—it was some as we’d got very fine—‘Thankye, Robinson,’ he says, ‘so that’s Mercury, is it?’—he called it ‘Mercury.’ ‘I never see any before,’ he says. ‘We call it Good King Henry down in the South.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ I says, ‘that’s marquory, and as good a vegetable as you can eat.’ ‘Makes a difference in your trade, this strike, I suppose,’ he says. ‘Our takings aint been above half, sir,’ I says, ‘since it begun.’ ‘Sorry for it,’ he says, ‘sorry for it. I don’t dislike to see men come and have their pipe and glass in moderation, and then chat after work; and I’m sure, Robinson,’ he says, ‘you are not the man to let any one exceed.’ ‘Never do if I can help it, sir,’ I says; and then he talked for ever so long, and then he took me in and give me a glass o’ wine, and shew’d me his silver cups as he’d won at college, and rowing and running, and one thing and another; and when I was coming away he says, ‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘if you hear of anybody very hard pushed through the strike, and I’ll see what I can do.’”“Here’s parson’s very good health,” said Johnson, the butcher; and it was drunk by all present but Sim, who uttered a loud, “Yah!”“They say he’s makkin’ up to Mrs Glaire, don’t they?” said the grocer.“Ay, they say so,” said the butcher; “and that owd Purley’s sister and Miss Primgeon are both in a regular takkin’ about it. They’ve both been wucking slippers for him.”“He was fine and on about Daisy Banks, to-day,” said the landlord. “I heerd, too, as Joe Banks quarrelled wi’ him for interfering ’bout her, just afore she went.”“How did you hear that?” said the grocer.“Joe Banks’s Missus towd mine,” said the landlord. “But, say, lads, what’s this ’bout Bultitude’s John Maine?”“Don’t know—what?” said first one and then another.“Why, I hear as he was seen talking to a couple of owry-looking poacher chaps, down the road—them two, as they think, had something to do wi’ Daisy Banks going off.”“Yes, I see ’em,” said Sim; “and I see John Maine talking to ’em.”“Regular rough couple,” continued the landlord. “They comed here just as my Missus was busy wi’ her sweeping-brush, and wanted her to buy a three-gill bottle, or give ’em a gill o’ ale for it.”“And she wouldn’t,” said Sim, grinning.“Yes, she would, and did,” said the landlord. “She was all alone in the house; for I was out in the close, and she thowt it best to be civil to ’em; but she kept a pretty sharp eye on ’em all the time.”“Then John Maine’s had a hand in it; see if he ain’t,” said Sim.“Don’t know so much about that,” said the landlord. “Some say as you know more than you keer to tell.”“Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t,” said Sim, sententiously. “There’s things as I know on, and things as I don’t. I’m going now.”“Tell the owd woman to hap you up well to-night, Sim,” said one.“Say, Sim,” said another, “ask her to get out her scithers and coot thee hair.”“You’re going agates early, Sim,” said another.“Yes, I’m off,” said Sim; “and mebbe it’ll be some time before you see me here again, or mebbe I shall be here again to-morrow night. Good-night, all,” and he went out, looking very triumphant, telling himself that he had been too much for “that lot,” and that he knew what he was about.There were those present, though, who were not above saying that it was on account of Tom Podmore coming in, to sit near the door, looking wearied out with anxiety as he let his head drop upon his hand, and sat there thoughtful and silent, while those present, knowing his feelings towards the missing girl, changed the subject that they were resuming, and entered upon the question of the duration of the strike.
There was a goodly meeting at the Bull and Cucumber that evening, for the discussion of the disappearance of Daisy Banks. Sim Slee was there, and one of the chief spokesmen.
“Well, what do you say, Sim?” said the landlord, with a wink at his other guests, as much as to say, “Let’s draw him out.”
“Say!” cried Sim; “why, that Dick Glaire’s a lungeing villin. Look at him: a man fixed in business as he is, and plenty o’ money, and he knows nowt but nastiness. He ought to be hung.”
“Where weer you to-day, Sim?” said another. “I didn’t see thee helping.”
“Helping!” said Sim; “why, I was in the thicket all day. Search indeed! what’s the good o’ searching for what aint theer?”
“Do you know wheer she is?” said the landlord.
“If yow want to know wheer Daisy Banks is, ask Dicky Glaire, and—”
“And what?” said several, for Sim had stopped short.
“And he wean’t tell yow,” said Sim. “He knows, though. Why, he’s been mad after the lass for months; and if she weer my bairn, I’d half kill him; that’s what I’d do wi’ him. He’s a bad lot, and it’s a pity as Dumford can’t get shoot of him. Such rubbish! he’s ony fit to boon the roads.”
“Well, Sim,” said the grocer, “when they make you boon master, you can use him up o’ purpose.”
“Hello!” said Sim, “what! are yow here? I thowt as the Bull and Cowcumber wasn’t good enew for such as thee.”
“You niver thowt so, Sim,” said the jovial little grocer, laughing, “till I wouldn’t give thee any more credit till thou had paid what thee owdst.”
“I can pay yow any day,” said Sim, chinking the money in his pocket.
“Yes, but yow wean’t,” said the grocer, imitating Sim’s broad Lincoln dialect. “Yes, I wanted to hear a bit o’ the news,” he continued, “so I thowt I’d put up the shuts and have a gill and a pipe, same as another man; for I niver object to my ’lowance, as is good for any man as works hard.”
“So ’tis, so ’tis,” chorussed several.
“How chuff we are to-night,” said Sim, with a sneer; “why, yow’re getting quite sharp. Yow wearn’t so nation fast wi’ your tongue fore yow took to trade and was only a bricklayer. It’s all very fine for a man to marry a grocer’s widow, and take to her trade and money, and then come and teach others, and bounce about his money.”
“Oh, I’m not ashamed of having handled the mortar-trowel before I took to the sugar-scoop,” said the grocer, laughing.
“When it used to be to the boy,” continued Sim, mimicking the other’s very slow drawling speech: “‘Joey, wilt thou bring me another brick?’ and then thou used to groan because it weer so heavy.”
“Sim Slee’s in full swing to-night,” said another guest.
“He will be if he don’t look out, for Tom Podmore says he’s sure he had a hand in getting away Daisy Banks,” said another; “and Joe Banks is sure of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hung him.”
“Don’t you be so nation fast,” said Sim, changing colour a little, but laughing it off the next moment. “Iv I were a owry chap like thee, Sam’l Benson, I’d wesh mesen afore I took to talking about other folk. It was Sam’l, you know,” continued Sim, to the others, “that owd parson spoke to when he weer a boy. ‘When did thee wesh thee hands last, Sam?’ he says, pointing at ’em wi’ his stick. ‘When we’d done picking tates,’ says Sam, He, he, he! and that was three months before, and parson give ’im a penny to ware in soap.”
There was a hearty laugh at this, in which the man of whom the story was told joined.
“Strange different sort o’ man this one to the last parson,” said the grocer.
“Ay, he is. Do you mind owd parson’s dunk pigs?” said Johnson, the butcher.
“To be sure,” said the landlord, rapping his pipe. “I’ve got four of the same breed now.”
“He used to come and see you pretty oftens, didn’t he?” said the grocer.
“Oh, yes; he’d come toddling up on the saints’ days to Mrs Winny’s there, and sit for a bit, and then come across here, and sit and wait, and have a gill o’ ale, and then if there was anybody coming up to church, Jacky Budd—Jacky Budd’s father, you know—would come and fetch him, and if there was nobody coming Jacky used to lock the church doors again and go back home.”
“He was a rum one, he was. Fond of his garden, too.”
“Well, so’s this un,” said the landlord. “He’s getten it to raights now.”
“Course he has,” said Slee. “Getten it done for nowt, wi’ Tom Podmore and big Harry, and iver so many more wucking for him.”
“You let th’ parson alone, Sim,” said the landlord, who was a bit of an autocrat in his own parlour, “and he’ll let thee alone.”
“I should hope he would. He’s fun me a hot one a’ready,” said Sim.
“He’s a good sort, is parson,” said Johnson, the butcher; “and it’s how do, and shake hands, as friendly with ye, as if you was the best in the land.”
“Yes,” said the grocer; “and he don’t come begging and borrowing always.”
“Begging, no,” said Johnson, chuckling. “Why, he’s paid me thutty pounds this last ten days for meat.”
“Thutty pounds!” said the landlord.
“Ay, all that.”
“What for?” said Sim.
“Meat for soup,” said Johnson.
“Ah, and I’ve took a lot of him for grosheries,” said the grocer.
“Yes; he’s giving away a sight o’ money,” said the landlord, “to them as is on strike and wants it. He says to me, only yesterday, when I went across to take him a bit o’ Marquory—it was some as we’d got very fine—‘Thankye, Robinson,’ he says, ‘so that’s Mercury, is it?’—he called it ‘Mercury.’ ‘I never see any before,’ he says. ‘We call it Good King Henry down in the South.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ I says, ‘that’s marquory, and as good a vegetable as you can eat.’ ‘Makes a difference in your trade, this strike, I suppose,’ he says. ‘Our takings aint been above half, sir,’ I says, ‘since it begun.’ ‘Sorry for it,’ he says, ‘sorry for it. I don’t dislike to see men come and have their pipe and glass in moderation, and then chat after work; and I’m sure, Robinson,’ he says, ‘you are not the man to let any one exceed.’ ‘Never do if I can help it, sir,’ I says; and then he talked for ever so long, and then he took me in and give me a glass o’ wine, and shew’d me his silver cups as he’d won at college, and rowing and running, and one thing and another; and when I was coming away he says, ‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘if you hear of anybody very hard pushed through the strike, and I’ll see what I can do.’”
“Here’s parson’s very good health,” said Johnson, the butcher; and it was drunk by all present but Sim, who uttered a loud, “Yah!”
“They say he’s makkin’ up to Mrs Glaire, don’t they?” said the grocer.
“Ay, they say so,” said the butcher; “and that owd Purley’s sister and Miss Primgeon are both in a regular takkin’ about it. They’ve both been wucking slippers for him.”
“He was fine and on about Daisy Banks, to-day,” said the landlord. “I heerd, too, as Joe Banks quarrelled wi’ him for interfering ’bout her, just afore she went.”
“How did you hear that?” said the grocer.
“Joe Banks’s Missus towd mine,” said the landlord. “But, say, lads, what’s this ’bout Bultitude’s John Maine?”
“Don’t know—what?” said first one and then another.
“Why, I hear as he was seen talking to a couple of owry-looking poacher chaps, down the road—them two, as they think, had something to do wi’ Daisy Banks going off.”
“Yes, I see ’em,” said Sim; “and I see John Maine talking to ’em.”
“Regular rough couple,” continued the landlord. “They comed here just as my Missus was busy wi’ her sweeping-brush, and wanted her to buy a three-gill bottle, or give ’em a gill o’ ale for it.”
“And she wouldn’t,” said Sim, grinning.
“Yes, she would, and did,” said the landlord. “She was all alone in the house; for I was out in the close, and she thowt it best to be civil to ’em; but she kept a pretty sharp eye on ’em all the time.”
“Then John Maine’s had a hand in it; see if he ain’t,” said Sim.
“Don’t know so much about that,” said the landlord. “Some say as you know more than you keer to tell.”
“Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t,” said Sim, sententiously. “There’s things as I know on, and things as I don’t. I’m going now.”
“Tell the owd woman to hap you up well to-night, Sim,” said one.
“Say, Sim,” said another, “ask her to get out her scithers and coot thee hair.”
“You’re going agates early, Sim,” said another.
“Yes, I’m off,” said Sim; “and mebbe it’ll be some time before you see me here again, or mebbe I shall be here again to-morrow night. Good-night, all,” and he went out, looking very triumphant, telling himself that he had been too much for “that lot,” and that he knew what he was about.
There were those present, though, who were not above saying that it was on account of Tom Podmore coming in, to sit near the door, looking wearied out with anxiety as he let his head drop upon his hand, and sat there thoughtful and silent, while those present, knowing his feelings towards the missing girl, changed the subject that they were resuming, and entered upon the question of the duration of the strike.
Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.Threatenings.As the days passed, and no information could be obtained respecting Daisy Banks, and the efforts of the police to trace the two strangers proved utterly fruitless, John Maine was in a state of mind not to be envied. By degrees it oozed out more and more that he had been seen with the two men, and the police came down to the farm, to question him, looking suspiciously at him, as he told them that they were men he had met once before in the neighbourhood of Nottingham; and when the constables left he had the annoyance of feeling that he would be watched, for it was evident that he was looked upon with suspicion.Joe Banks had been nearly mad with excitement, and leaving his sobbing wife day after day, he had searched and researched the country round, aided by Tom Podmore, Harry, and a score of the other men. Richard Glaire had made no show of assisting after the first day, for he had awakened to the fact that the town was not a safe home for him, and it was fully his intention to leave the place for awhile; but, for his own reasons, he preferred to wait a little longer.Sim Slee was about now a good deal, and another encounter had taken place between him and Richard, after which Sim had gone round to the vicarage back-door, to implore help from his wife, asserting that he was half killed, and begging her to come home and attend on him.As it happened, the vicar heard him, and came to see how bad were his injuries, and to offer to set his housekeeper at liberty.“I’ll manage without you, Mrs Slee, if you like,” he said kindly.“But I don’t like,” said Mrs Slee; “there’ll be fifty people here soon for soup and bread, and how can you get shoot of ’em all wi’out me?”“Thou must come home, lovey,” said Sim, in a dismal voice. “I’m very bad. I’ve got money enew, too, now to keep us for weeks.”“Where dids’t thou get money from?” said Mrs Slee, sharply.“Never thou mind,” said Sim. “I’ve gotten it, and now come home.”“But how did you get knocked about like that?” said the vicar, smiling to himself.“That cursed Dicky Glaire set upon me,” moaned Sim, one of whose eyes was swollen up, while there was a cut across the bridge of his nose. “He’s mad wi’ me because I wouldn’t help him to carry off Daisy Banks to London, and he’s leathered me this how. But I’ll hev it out of him yet.”“Did Dicky Glaire want yow to get her away?” said Mrs Slee.“Yes, a coward, and I wouldn’t,” said Sim, “so he’s done it his sen.”“Be careful what you are saying, Mr Slee,” said the vicar, snipping a strip of sticking-plaister off a piece in his pocket-book with his nail-scissors, and breathing upon it to make it warm.“Keerful,” said Sim; “he deserves to be hung for it.”“Do you mean to assert that Mr Glaire has done this? Because if so, you will have to substantiate your statement before a magistrate.”“I don’t say for certain as he has,” said Sim; “but he wanted me to, and I wouldn’t. Oh! oh! oh!”“Stand still, man, and don’t be such a cur,” cried the vicar, sharply, for he had been applying the plaister to Sim’s slight cut, and the hero had begun to howl dismally.“It’s half killing me,” cried Sim, again.“Take hold of his head, Mrs Slee; the cut is nothing at all.”Mrs Slee seized Sim pretty roughly, and held him by his ears, while the plaister was affixed, the great orator moaning and flinching and writhing till he was set at liberty.“Is it bad, sir?” said Mrs Slee, then.“So bad,” said the vicar, “that if a schoolboy of nine or ten received such a drubbing from a playmate, he would have washed his face and said nothing about it.”“Said nowt about it!” cried Sim. “Aye, it’s easy for them as aint hurt to talk. Thou’lt come home wi’ me, lovey?”“No. Go thee gate,” said Mrs Slee.“Do ’ee come, lovey,” said Sim.“I wean’t,” said Mrs Slee, shortly; and without more ado, she took her lord by the shoulders, and guided him to the door, which she closed upon him, leaving him to make his way up the street, vowing vengeance against Richard Glaire, the parson, and all the world.In fact, mischief was brewing, and would have come to a head sooner but for the episode of Daisy’s disappearance. A deputation of the men had waited upon Richard Glaire, and offered terms for coming back to work; but he had obstinately held out for the reparation to be made, increasing the value he had previously set upon the destroyed bands, and declaring that if he were not paid a hundred and fifty pounds damages, he would keep the works closed.“Thou’lt be sorry for this, Maister,” said the man who acted as spokesman.“Sorry!” said Richard, defiantly. “I’m sorry I ever had such a set of curs to work for me.”“But we’ve telled you as it was none o’ us.”“I don’t care who it was,” retorted Richard; “I want a hundred and fifty pounds for the damage done; and I ought to have payment for my losses by the foundry standing still.”“Our wives and bairns ’ll soon be pined to dead,” said another man.“You should have thought of that before,” said Richard, coldly. “A hundred and fifty pounds made up amongst you, and the fires may be lit, and we’ll go on once more; till that’s paid I’ll keep the place locked up if I’m ruined by it.”Then came the disappearance of Daisy Banks, and it wanted but little on the part of Sim Slee to half madden the weaker spirits against the man who was starving their wives and children, and had robbed Joe Banks of his daughter.It so happened that Joe Banks, on the day following Sim’s doctoring, about a fortnight after the disappearance, during which time he had not seen Mrs Glaire, but only Eve, who had been again and again to try and administer comfort to Mrs Banks, came upon a knot of men, listening to an oration made by Sim Slee, who, as soon as he saw Joe coming up in company with Tom Podmore, who was his staunch and faithful ally throughout, cried loudly:“Here he comes! Here comes the downtrodden, ill-used paytriot, who has served the rotten family for thirty year, and then been robbed for his pains. He’s agoing to join my brotherhood now, lads—him and Tom Podmore.”“Hooray!” cried the men.“And he’ll be a captain and a leader among us as is going to beat down the oppressors and robbers of our flocks and herds. He’s agoing, lads, to pull down with us the bloated Aristorchus, as is living on his oil olive, and honey, while we heven’t bread to put in the mouths of our bairns.”There was a groan here from the little crowd, some of whom readily accepted Sim Slee’s Aristorchus, as they would have taken in any loud-sounding word in their present humour.“Come on, brave captain, as hev had your eye-lids opened to the malice and wickedness of your employer, and join them as is going to groan no more under the harrows and ploughshares of oppression. It is said as the ox or beast shan’t be muzzled as treadeth out the corn, and we aint agoing to let that oppressor, Dicky Glaire, muzzle us any more.”“Hooray!” cried the growing crowd.“Come on, then, brave captain. Lads, Joe Banks is a man as we’ll be proud to serve wi’; and wi’ Tom Podmore too, for they’ve cast off their slough”—Sim called this “sluff”—“of blindness, and hev awaked to the light and glory of liberty. Come on.”“What do you mean?” said Joe Banks, firmly.“Mean, brave captain and leader!” cried Sim, making his plaid waistcoat wrinkle with his exertions; “why, that we’re going to trample down him as robbed thee of thy bairn.”“Who’s that?” said Joe Banks, sternly.“Who’s that? Ask anybody here if it aint Dicky Glaire, the oppressor, as is going to sneak outer the town to-night to catch the mail train over yonder at the station, and then going to laugh and sneer and mock at the poor, grey old father as he’s deceived, and—”“It’s a lie,” roared Joe. “Who says Richard Glaire took away my poor murdered bairn?”“Everybody,” said Sim, who was standing on a wall about five feet high, his plaistered face giving him rather a grotesque aspect. “Everybody says it.”“No,” roared Joe, “it’s you as says it, you lying, chattering magpie. Howd thee tongue, or I’ll—”He seized the speaker by the legs, and had him down in an instant, clutched by the throat, and began shaking him violently.“Go on,” said Sim, who this time preserved his presence of mind. “I aint the first paytriot as has been a martyr to his cause; kill me if you like.”“Kill thee, thou noisy starnel of a man! Say as it’s a lie again your maister, or I’ll shake thee till thou dost.”“I wean’t say it’s a lie,” cried Sim. “Ask anybody if it aint true.”Joe Banks looked round furiously, and a chorus broke out of, “It’s true, lad; it’s true.”“There,” cried Sim, triumphantly. “What hev you to say to that? Ask Tom Podmore what he thinks.”“I will,” cried Joe Banks, who was somewhat staggered by the unanimity of opinion. “Tom Podmore, speak out like a true man and tell these all as it’s a lie.”Tom remained silent.“D’ye hear, Tom? Speak out,” cried Joe.“I’d rather not speak,” said Tom, quietly.“But thou must, lad, thou must,” cried Sim. “Are you going to see a man a martyr for a holy cause, when you can save him?”“Speak! speak!” cried Joe, panting with rage and emotion; “tell ’em you know it’s a lie, Tom.”“I can’t,” said Tom, who was driven to bay, “for I believe Richard Glaire has got her away.”“Theer, I telled you,” said Sim. “He wanted me to help him, only you wean’t believe.”“No, no, no,” roared Joe; “and I wean’t believe it now. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t do it. He told me he hadn’t; and he wouldn’t tell me a lie.”The little crowd opened as the true-hearted old fellow strode away, without turning his head, and Tom Podmore followed him towards his home, and at last spoke to him.Joe turned upon him savagely.“Go away,” he cried. “I’ve done wi’ you. I thowt as Tom Podmore were a man, instead o’ one o’ them chattering maulkin-led fools; but thou’rt like the rest.”Tom Podmore stopped short, with his brow knit, while Joe Banks passed on out of sight.“He’ll find out, and believe different some day,” said Tom, slowly. “Poor old man, it’s enough to break his heart. But I wean’t break mine.”As he stood, the noise of cheering came from where he had left Sim Slee talking, and he stood listening and thinking.“They’ll be doing him a mischief ’fore they’ve done, and then they’ll end the old works. Damn him! I hate him,” he cried, grinding his teeth; “but I can’t stand still and let Sim Slee’s lot bruise and batter his face as they would till they’d ’most killed him. He’s soft, and smooth, and good-looking, and I’m—well, I’m a rough un,” he continued, smiling with contemptuous pity on himself. “It’s no wonder she should love him best, poor lass; but she’d better hev been a honest lad’s wife—missus to a man as wouldn’t hev said an unkind thing to her to save his life. But they say it’s womankind-like: they takes most to him as don’t keer for ’em.”He stood thinking irresolutely, as the noise and cheering continued: and once he turned to go; but the next moment he was himself, and saying softly:“Daisy, my poor little lass, it’s for thee—it’s for thee;” he strode hastily to the Big House, knocked, and was admitted.“Tell Mr Richard I want to see him,” said Tom; and the servant-girl smiled pleasantly at the fine, sturdy young fellow.“I don’t think he’ll see thee, Mr Podmore,” said the girl, “because he’s so cross about the foundry people. I’ll tell him a gentleman wants to see him.”She tripped away, and in a few minutes Richard came down to stand scowling at him.“What do you want?” he said, glaring at his rival.Tom Podmore writhed mentally, and his nerves tingled with the desire to take Richard Glaire by the throat, and shake him till he could not breathe; but he controlled himself, and said sturdily:“I come to tell thee some ill news.”“What is it?” said Richard, thrusting his hand into his breast, for his visitor had taken a step forward.Tom Podmore saw the motion and smiled, but he paid no further heed, and went on bluntly:“Thou wast going away by train to-night.”“Who says so?” cried Richard, turning pale.“The lads out there—Sim Slee’s gang,” said Tom; “and I come to warn thee.”“Warn me of what?” said Richard.“To warn thee as they mean to lay wait for thee, and do thee a mischief.”“Who says so?”“I know it,” said Tom: “so if you’ll tak’ a good bit of advice thou’lt stay at home, and not go out.”“It’s a trick—a trap,” cried Richard. “If it were true, you’re not the man to come and tell me.”“Why not?” said Tom bluntly.“Because you hate me, and believe I’ve taken away your wretched wench.”“Damn thee!” cried Tom, seizing him by the arm and throat; and as he brought the young fellow to his knees, quite paralysing his effort to get his hand into Iiis breast; “thou may’st say what thee likes again me; but if thee speaks ill of her I can’t bear it; so I warn thee. Hate thee I do, and yet I come to tell thee of danger, and—”A faint shriek made Tom start, for, pale as death, Eve Pelly rushed to Richard’s help, and clutched at Tom Podmore’s sturdy arms, which dropped at her touch as if those of Eve had been talismanic.“Aw raight, Miss,” he said smiling. “I wean’t hurt him; but I come to do him good, and he made me mad.”“Mad, yes,” cried Richard, who had regained his feet, and now drew a pistol. “You were mad to come here; but I’m ready for you and the rest of your rascally crew, and for all your malicious traps and plans.”“Richard!” shrieked Eve, who tried to catch his arm; but she was flung off, and would have fallen, but for Tom Podmore, before whom she stood, screening him as she begged him to leave the house.“Yes, Miss, I’ll go,” said Tom, smiling; “not as I’m afraid of him and his pistol. What I did he browt upon himself. I’ve done what I thowt was raight, so he must tak’ his chance. I on’y come to warn him as there’s a dozen or two of the lads as listen to Sim Slee made themselves into a gang agen him.”“What, our workmen?” cried Eve.“Well, only some o’ the outsiders, Miss; t’others wean’t have nowt to do wi’ it. That’s all.”As he spoke he smiled sadly at the poor pale face before him, and then was gone.
As the days passed, and no information could be obtained respecting Daisy Banks, and the efforts of the police to trace the two strangers proved utterly fruitless, John Maine was in a state of mind not to be envied. By degrees it oozed out more and more that he had been seen with the two men, and the police came down to the farm, to question him, looking suspiciously at him, as he told them that they were men he had met once before in the neighbourhood of Nottingham; and when the constables left he had the annoyance of feeling that he would be watched, for it was evident that he was looked upon with suspicion.
Joe Banks had been nearly mad with excitement, and leaving his sobbing wife day after day, he had searched and researched the country round, aided by Tom Podmore, Harry, and a score of the other men. Richard Glaire had made no show of assisting after the first day, for he had awakened to the fact that the town was not a safe home for him, and it was fully his intention to leave the place for awhile; but, for his own reasons, he preferred to wait a little longer.
Sim Slee was about now a good deal, and another encounter had taken place between him and Richard, after which Sim had gone round to the vicarage back-door, to implore help from his wife, asserting that he was half killed, and begging her to come home and attend on him.
As it happened, the vicar heard him, and came to see how bad were his injuries, and to offer to set his housekeeper at liberty.
“I’ll manage without you, Mrs Slee, if you like,” he said kindly.
“But I don’t like,” said Mrs Slee; “there’ll be fifty people here soon for soup and bread, and how can you get shoot of ’em all wi’out me?”
“Thou must come home, lovey,” said Sim, in a dismal voice. “I’m very bad. I’ve got money enew, too, now to keep us for weeks.”
“Where dids’t thou get money from?” said Mrs Slee, sharply.
“Never thou mind,” said Sim. “I’ve gotten it, and now come home.”
“But how did you get knocked about like that?” said the vicar, smiling to himself.
“That cursed Dicky Glaire set upon me,” moaned Sim, one of whose eyes was swollen up, while there was a cut across the bridge of his nose. “He’s mad wi’ me because I wouldn’t help him to carry off Daisy Banks to London, and he’s leathered me this how. But I’ll hev it out of him yet.”
“Did Dicky Glaire want yow to get her away?” said Mrs Slee.
“Yes, a coward, and I wouldn’t,” said Sim, “so he’s done it his sen.”
“Be careful what you are saying, Mr Slee,” said the vicar, snipping a strip of sticking-plaister off a piece in his pocket-book with his nail-scissors, and breathing upon it to make it warm.
“Keerful,” said Sim; “he deserves to be hung for it.”
“Do you mean to assert that Mr Glaire has done this? Because if so, you will have to substantiate your statement before a magistrate.”
“I don’t say for certain as he has,” said Sim; “but he wanted me to, and I wouldn’t. Oh! oh! oh!”
“Stand still, man, and don’t be such a cur,” cried the vicar, sharply, for he had been applying the plaister to Sim’s slight cut, and the hero had begun to howl dismally.
“It’s half killing me,” cried Sim, again.
“Take hold of his head, Mrs Slee; the cut is nothing at all.”
Mrs Slee seized Sim pretty roughly, and held him by his ears, while the plaister was affixed, the great orator moaning and flinching and writhing till he was set at liberty.
“Is it bad, sir?” said Mrs Slee, then.
“So bad,” said the vicar, “that if a schoolboy of nine or ten received such a drubbing from a playmate, he would have washed his face and said nothing about it.”
“Said nowt about it!” cried Sim. “Aye, it’s easy for them as aint hurt to talk. Thou’lt come home wi’ me, lovey?”
“No. Go thee gate,” said Mrs Slee.
“Do ’ee come, lovey,” said Sim.
“I wean’t,” said Mrs Slee, shortly; and without more ado, she took her lord by the shoulders, and guided him to the door, which she closed upon him, leaving him to make his way up the street, vowing vengeance against Richard Glaire, the parson, and all the world.
In fact, mischief was brewing, and would have come to a head sooner but for the episode of Daisy’s disappearance. A deputation of the men had waited upon Richard Glaire, and offered terms for coming back to work; but he had obstinately held out for the reparation to be made, increasing the value he had previously set upon the destroyed bands, and declaring that if he were not paid a hundred and fifty pounds damages, he would keep the works closed.
“Thou’lt be sorry for this, Maister,” said the man who acted as spokesman.
“Sorry!” said Richard, defiantly. “I’m sorry I ever had such a set of curs to work for me.”
“But we’ve telled you as it was none o’ us.”
“I don’t care who it was,” retorted Richard; “I want a hundred and fifty pounds for the damage done; and I ought to have payment for my losses by the foundry standing still.”
“Our wives and bairns ’ll soon be pined to dead,” said another man.
“You should have thought of that before,” said Richard, coldly. “A hundred and fifty pounds made up amongst you, and the fires may be lit, and we’ll go on once more; till that’s paid I’ll keep the place locked up if I’m ruined by it.”
Then came the disappearance of Daisy Banks, and it wanted but little on the part of Sim Slee to half madden the weaker spirits against the man who was starving their wives and children, and had robbed Joe Banks of his daughter.
It so happened that Joe Banks, on the day following Sim’s doctoring, about a fortnight after the disappearance, during which time he had not seen Mrs Glaire, but only Eve, who had been again and again to try and administer comfort to Mrs Banks, came upon a knot of men, listening to an oration made by Sim Slee, who, as soon as he saw Joe coming up in company with Tom Podmore, who was his staunch and faithful ally throughout, cried loudly:
“Here he comes! Here comes the downtrodden, ill-used paytriot, who has served the rotten family for thirty year, and then been robbed for his pains. He’s agoing to join my brotherhood now, lads—him and Tom Podmore.”
“Hooray!” cried the men.
“And he’ll be a captain and a leader among us as is going to beat down the oppressors and robbers of our flocks and herds. He’s agoing, lads, to pull down with us the bloated Aristorchus, as is living on his oil olive, and honey, while we heven’t bread to put in the mouths of our bairns.”
There was a groan here from the little crowd, some of whom readily accepted Sim Slee’s Aristorchus, as they would have taken in any loud-sounding word in their present humour.
“Come on, brave captain, as hev had your eye-lids opened to the malice and wickedness of your employer, and join them as is going to groan no more under the harrows and ploughshares of oppression. It is said as the ox or beast shan’t be muzzled as treadeth out the corn, and we aint agoing to let that oppressor, Dicky Glaire, muzzle us any more.”
“Hooray!” cried the growing crowd.
“Come on, then, brave captain. Lads, Joe Banks is a man as we’ll be proud to serve wi’; and wi’ Tom Podmore too, for they’ve cast off their slough”—Sim called this “sluff”—“of blindness, and hev awaked to the light and glory of liberty. Come on.”
“What do you mean?” said Joe Banks, firmly.
“Mean, brave captain and leader!” cried Sim, making his plaid waistcoat wrinkle with his exertions; “why, that we’re going to trample down him as robbed thee of thy bairn.”
“Who’s that?” said Joe Banks, sternly.
“Who’s that? Ask anybody here if it aint Dicky Glaire, the oppressor, as is going to sneak outer the town to-night to catch the mail train over yonder at the station, and then going to laugh and sneer and mock at the poor, grey old father as he’s deceived, and—”
“It’s a lie,” roared Joe. “Who says Richard Glaire took away my poor murdered bairn?”
“Everybody,” said Sim, who was standing on a wall about five feet high, his plaistered face giving him rather a grotesque aspect. “Everybody says it.”
“No,” roared Joe, “it’s you as says it, you lying, chattering magpie. Howd thee tongue, or I’ll—”
He seized the speaker by the legs, and had him down in an instant, clutched by the throat, and began shaking him violently.
“Go on,” said Sim, who this time preserved his presence of mind. “I aint the first paytriot as has been a martyr to his cause; kill me if you like.”
“Kill thee, thou noisy starnel of a man! Say as it’s a lie again your maister, or I’ll shake thee till thou dost.”
“I wean’t say it’s a lie,” cried Sim. “Ask anybody if it aint true.”
Joe Banks looked round furiously, and a chorus broke out of, “It’s true, lad; it’s true.”
“There,” cried Sim, triumphantly. “What hev you to say to that? Ask Tom Podmore what he thinks.”
“I will,” cried Joe Banks, who was somewhat staggered by the unanimity of opinion. “Tom Podmore, speak out like a true man and tell these all as it’s a lie.”
Tom remained silent.
“D’ye hear, Tom? Speak out,” cried Joe.
“I’d rather not speak,” said Tom, quietly.
“But thou must, lad, thou must,” cried Sim. “Are you going to see a man a martyr for a holy cause, when you can save him?”
“Speak! speak!” cried Joe, panting with rage and emotion; “tell ’em you know it’s a lie, Tom.”
“I can’t,” said Tom, who was driven to bay, “for I believe Richard Glaire has got her away.”
“Theer, I telled you,” said Sim. “He wanted me to help him, only you wean’t believe.”
“No, no, no,” roared Joe; “and I wean’t believe it now. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t do it. He told me he hadn’t; and he wouldn’t tell me a lie.”
The little crowd opened as the true-hearted old fellow strode away, without turning his head, and Tom Podmore followed him towards his home, and at last spoke to him.
Joe turned upon him savagely.
“Go away,” he cried. “I’ve done wi’ you. I thowt as Tom Podmore were a man, instead o’ one o’ them chattering maulkin-led fools; but thou’rt like the rest.”
Tom Podmore stopped short, with his brow knit, while Joe Banks passed on out of sight.
“He’ll find out, and believe different some day,” said Tom, slowly. “Poor old man, it’s enough to break his heart. But I wean’t break mine.”
As he stood, the noise of cheering came from where he had left Sim Slee talking, and he stood listening and thinking.
“They’ll be doing him a mischief ’fore they’ve done, and then they’ll end the old works. Damn him! I hate him,” he cried, grinding his teeth; “but I can’t stand still and let Sim Slee’s lot bruise and batter his face as they would till they’d ’most killed him. He’s soft, and smooth, and good-looking, and I’m—well, I’m a rough un,” he continued, smiling with contemptuous pity on himself. “It’s no wonder she should love him best, poor lass; but she’d better hev been a honest lad’s wife—missus to a man as wouldn’t hev said an unkind thing to her to save his life. But they say it’s womankind-like: they takes most to him as don’t keer for ’em.”
He stood thinking irresolutely, as the noise and cheering continued: and once he turned to go; but the next moment he was himself, and saying softly:
“Daisy, my poor little lass, it’s for thee—it’s for thee;” he strode hastily to the Big House, knocked, and was admitted.
“Tell Mr Richard I want to see him,” said Tom; and the servant-girl smiled pleasantly at the fine, sturdy young fellow.
“I don’t think he’ll see thee, Mr Podmore,” said the girl, “because he’s so cross about the foundry people. I’ll tell him a gentleman wants to see him.”
She tripped away, and in a few minutes Richard came down to stand scowling at him.
“What do you want?” he said, glaring at his rival.
Tom Podmore writhed mentally, and his nerves tingled with the desire to take Richard Glaire by the throat, and shake him till he could not breathe; but he controlled himself, and said sturdily:
“I come to tell thee some ill news.”
“What is it?” said Richard, thrusting his hand into his breast, for his visitor had taken a step forward.
Tom Podmore saw the motion and smiled, but he paid no further heed, and went on bluntly:
“Thou wast going away by train to-night.”
“Who says so?” cried Richard, turning pale.
“The lads out there—Sim Slee’s gang,” said Tom; “and I come to warn thee.”
“Warn me of what?” said Richard.
“To warn thee as they mean to lay wait for thee, and do thee a mischief.”
“Who says so?”
“I know it,” said Tom: “so if you’ll tak’ a good bit of advice thou’lt stay at home, and not go out.”
“It’s a trick—a trap,” cried Richard. “If it were true, you’re not the man to come and tell me.”
“Why not?” said Tom bluntly.
“Because you hate me, and believe I’ve taken away your wretched wench.”
“Damn thee!” cried Tom, seizing him by the arm and throat; and as he brought the young fellow to his knees, quite paralysing his effort to get his hand into Iiis breast; “thou may’st say what thee likes again me; but if thee speaks ill of her I can’t bear it; so I warn thee. Hate thee I do, and yet I come to tell thee of danger, and—”
A faint shriek made Tom start, for, pale as death, Eve Pelly rushed to Richard’s help, and clutched at Tom Podmore’s sturdy arms, which dropped at her touch as if those of Eve had been talismanic.
“Aw raight, Miss,” he said smiling. “I wean’t hurt him; but I come to do him good, and he made me mad.”
“Mad, yes,” cried Richard, who had regained his feet, and now drew a pistol. “You were mad to come here; but I’m ready for you and the rest of your rascally crew, and for all your malicious traps and plans.”
“Richard!” shrieked Eve, who tried to catch his arm; but she was flung off, and would have fallen, but for Tom Podmore, before whom she stood, screening him as she begged him to leave the house.
“Yes, Miss, I’ll go,” said Tom, smiling; “not as I’m afraid of him and his pistol. What I did he browt upon himself. I’ve done what I thowt was raight, so he must tak’ his chance. I on’y come to warn him as there’s a dozen or two of the lads as listen to Sim Slee made themselves into a gang agen him.”
“What, our workmen?” cried Eve.
“Well, only some o’ the outsiders, Miss; t’others wean’t have nowt to do wi’ it. That’s all.”
As he spoke he smiled sadly at the poor pale face before him, and then was gone.
Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.Podmore Seeks an Ally.Tom Podmore walked straight away from the Big House, listening to the noise and shouting as he went to the Vicarage, where Murray Selwood was in conference with Jacky Budd, respecting certain improvements to be made in the shrubbery, when the season suited for planting.“And what would you plant here, Budd?” he said to the thirsty soul.“Oh, I should put a few laurels there, sir.”“And in that corner?”“Oh, I should put a fewlaurelsthere, sir.”“And in the centre bed?”“A few laurels, sir.”“And by the bare patch by the edge?”“Just a few laurels, sir.”“And along the side of the house?”“Couldn’t put anything better than a few laurels, sir.”“And for the new hedge to separate the two gardens?”“Oh, a few laurels, sir.”“Then you would put laurels all about?”“Well, yes, sir; you see they’re so evergreen and—”“Oh, here’s Podmore,” said the vicar, going down to the gate. “Well, my lad, how are you? I’m glad to see you.”“Thanky’ kindly, sir,” said Tom, pressing firmly the hand given to him in so friendly a way. “Can I speak to you a minute?”“Of course you can. Come into the house.”He led the way into the vicarage, and placed a chair for Tom in the study, but the young man did not take it, and remained silent.“I’m deeply grieved,” said the vicar, laying his hand on the young fellow’s shoulder; “deeply, Tom Podmore. I had hoped that she would have come to her senses, and made a better choice.”“Don’t, sir, please don’t,” said Tom, turning away his head; and, laying his arm against the wall, he placed his forehead against it, and his broad shoulders heaved. “I can’t bear to hear a word spoke again her, sir.”“I’ll not speak against her, Podmore, believe me, poor girl; and I deeply regret that her father was too blind to listen to me.”“You spoke to him, then?” said Tom, sadly.“I did; and I have striven hard to be friends with Richard Glaire, and to bring him to a better feeling; but I failed with both.”“Then you think as I do, sir,” said Tom, sadly—“You think as she’s been took away?”“I cannot help thinking so,” was the reply. “If I am misjudging, I am very sorry; but I have done everything I could to trace her, even to having a man down from town, who has been constantly searching ever since she disappeared, and he has discovered nothing.”“And have you done this, sir?”“Yes; why should I not?” said the vicar, sadly. “But you have come for some reason, Podmore. What can I do for you?”“Well, sir, I’ve comed about these goings on up yonder in the town.”“There’s no fresh violence, I hope,” cried the vicar, hastily.“Not as yet, sir; but there’s going to be, I’m afraid. You see, sir, there’s about a couple of dozen as has been got over by Sim Slee, and he’s made ’em join him in some kind of brotherhood, as he calls it. The older men as has got heads on their shoulders laughs at it all, and looks upon Sim as a chattering fool.”“Fools do mischief sometimes,” said the vicar, half to himself.“Yes, sir, they do; but all the best of the men tak’ Sim Slee at what he’s worth; but there’s a few, you see, as are ’mazed by his big words, and are ready to be led into any mischief.”“Yes; and you know of this?” said the vicar, anxiously.“Yes, sir, I’ve found as they’ve got to know that Mr Richard Glaire’s going away to-night.”“Is he going away?” said the vicar.“So Sim Slee’s telling on ’em, sir; but what does it mean ’bout Sim Slee being so thick wi’ him just afore, and now dead again’ him?”“Some quarrel,” said the vicar. “Sim Slee must be made to speak out somehow.”“He’s been speaking to some purpose to-day,” said Tom, sharply; “and I think they mean mischief against the maister to-night, when he’s going away.”“And you’ve come to tell me this!” said the vicar, looking at the sturdy rough young fellow admiringly.“Yes,” said Tom, simply. “I went and told him at the house, but he turned on me, and said things I couldn’t bear, and made me grip him, when Miss Eve came out and atween uz, and that stopped me.”“Well?”“And then he pulled out a pistol and threatened me.”“What made you grip him?” said the vicar, using the young man’s words.“He—he spoke again’ her,” said Tom, hoarsely; and as he spoke the veins in his forehead swelled, and an angry frown came upon his countenance.“Then you went to the house to warn Richard Glaire of his danger, and he—”“Threatened me, and said it was a trap I was laying,” said Tom.“And then you came to tell me he was in danger. And what for?”Tom was silent for a few moments. Then glancing up in the clear firm face which seemed to demand an answer, he said, almost in a whisper:“I couldn’t abear for him to be knocked about, if I could stop it.”“For Daisy’s sake?”“For Daisy’s sake,” said the young man; and the next moment the vicar’s hand had closed upon his in a firm grasp.“Then we’ll try and save him, Tom,” said the vicar quietly. “I’m very glad you’ve come, Tom. I’ve seen very little of you lately.”Tom looked up at him curiously, said something about being much obliged, and was turning to go, when the vicar stopped him.“We must make some plans for the poor fellow’s safety,” he said. “He must not be hurt. I’ll go up first, and try if I can prevail upon him not to go.”Tom nodded.“And if he will not be prevailed upon, we must try and act as we can. I think and hope that they will not attempt to touch him while I am by his side.” Tom shook his head.“I wouldn’t, sir, because I know you; but time back I would, if there’d been twenty parsons round him. They won’t hurt you, sir, but they’ll beat him if he attempts to go.”“Let’s hope not; let’s hope not,” said the vicar; “and now I’ll go up to the house, while you’ll wait here.”“Wait here?” said Tom.“Yes; why not? I shall want to lay my hands upon you at a moment’s notice. But stop. If he goes, it will be by the mail. That’s at eight, and the station is two miles, say three-quarters of an hour for ample time. If he means to go, he will go afoot, so as not to excite attention.”“Yes; and he’ll go by the little door in the wall at the bottom of the garden, and off across the home close,” said Tom.“Do you know that?” said the vicar.“No, sir; but that’s how he used to go to meet her; and as he’s going to join her to-night, I thowt that’s the way he’d go.”“Very likely,” said the vicar; “and they’re sure to know it, and watch. But look here, Tom Podmore, are you willing to help him get away?”“Yes, sir.”“To join her?”“Yes; I was thinking, that mebbe if he got away to join the poor bairn he’d marry her; for I s’pose he’s fond o’ the poor lass. But he must be that. She’d mak’ onny man—the very worst—fond on her.”“Do you know any one you could get here to help you?” said the vicar. “I mean a stout sturdy fellow with brains, who could be depended on to help you back me up if we have to make a struggle for it.”“John Maine, sir, at Bultitude’s.”“The very man. Get him here, and keep him till I come back.”“I will, sir; but, say, parson—Mr Selwood, sir—for the Lord’s sake don’t let Dick Glaire take that pistol thing. If they get hold of him now, they’ll beat him sore, but if he should shute a man, they’ll niver let him see the light again.”“I’ll do my best, Podmore,” said the vicar, sadly. “You do yours.”They parted at the gate, bound on the same mission, that of saving the man who was making them both sick at heart with the desire that they felt could never be fulfilled.
Tom Podmore walked straight away from the Big House, listening to the noise and shouting as he went to the Vicarage, where Murray Selwood was in conference with Jacky Budd, respecting certain improvements to be made in the shrubbery, when the season suited for planting.
“And what would you plant here, Budd?” he said to the thirsty soul.
“Oh, I should put a few laurels there, sir.”
“And in that corner?”
“Oh, I should put a fewlaurelsthere, sir.”
“And in the centre bed?”
“A few laurels, sir.”
“And by the bare patch by the edge?”
“Just a few laurels, sir.”
“And along the side of the house?”
“Couldn’t put anything better than a few laurels, sir.”
“And for the new hedge to separate the two gardens?”
“Oh, a few laurels, sir.”
“Then you would put laurels all about?”
“Well, yes, sir; you see they’re so evergreen and—”
“Oh, here’s Podmore,” said the vicar, going down to the gate. “Well, my lad, how are you? I’m glad to see you.”
“Thanky’ kindly, sir,” said Tom, pressing firmly the hand given to him in so friendly a way. “Can I speak to you a minute?”
“Of course you can. Come into the house.”
He led the way into the vicarage, and placed a chair for Tom in the study, but the young man did not take it, and remained silent.
“I’m deeply grieved,” said the vicar, laying his hand on the young fellow’s shoulder; “deeply, Tom Podmore. I had hoped that she would have come to her senses, and made a better choice.”
“Don’t, sir, please don’t,” said Tom, turning away his head; and, laying his arm against the wall, he placed his forehead against it, and his broad shoulders heaved. “I can’t bear to hear a word spoke again her, sir.”
“I’ll not speak against her, Podmore, believe me, poor girl; and I deeply regret that her father was too blind to listen to me.”
“You spoke to him, then?” said Tom, sadly.
“I did; and I have striven hard to be friends with Richard Glaire, and to bring him to a better feeling; but I failed with both.”
“Then you think as I do, sir,” said Tom, sadly—“You think as she’s been took away?”
“I cannot help thinking so,” was the reply. “If I am misjudging, I am very sorry; but I have done everything I could to trace her, even to having a man down from town, who has been constantly searching ever since she disappeared, and he has discovered nothing.”
“And have you done this, sir?”
“Yes; why should I not?” said the vicar, sadly. “But you have come for some reason, Podmore. What can I do for you?”
“Well, sir, I’ve comed about these goings on up yonder in the town.”
“There’s no fresh violence, I hope,” cried the vicar, hastily.
“Not as yet, sir; but there’s going to be, I’m afraid. You see, sir, there’s about a couple of dozen as has been got over by Sim Slee, and he’s made ’em join him in some kind of brotherhood, as he calls it. The older men as has got heads on their shoulders laughs at it all, and looks upon Sim as a chattering fool.”
“Fools do mischief sometimes,” said the vicar, half to himself.
“Yes, sir, they do; but all the best of the men tak’ Sim Slee at what he’s worth; but there’s a few, you see, as are ’mazed by his big words, and are ready to be led into any mischief.”
“Yes; and you know of this?” said the vicar, anxiously.
“Yes, sir, I’ve found as they’ve got to know that Mr Richard Glaire’s going away to-night.”
“Is he going away?” said the vicar.
“So Sim Slee’s telling on ’em, sir; but what does it mean ’bout Sim Slee being so thick wi’ him just afore, and now dead again’ him?”
“Some quarrel,” said the vicar. “Sim Slee must be made to speak out somehow.”
“He’s been speaking to some purpose to-day,” said Tom, sharply; “and I think they mean mischief against the maister to-night, when he’s going away.”
“And you’ve come to tell me this!” said the vicar, looking at the sturdy rough young fellow admiringly.
“Yes,” said Tom, simply. “I went and told him at the house, but he turned on me, and said things I couldn’t bear, and made me grip him, when Miss Eve came out and atween uz, and that stopped me.”
“Well?”
“And then he pulled out a pistol and threatened me.”
“What made you grip him?” said the vicar, using the young man’s words.
“He—he spoke again’ her,” said Tom, hoarsely; and as he spoke the veins in his forehead swelled, and an angry frown came upon his countenance.
“Then you went to the house to warn Richard Glaire of his danger, and he—”
“Threatened me, and said it was a trap I was laying,” said Tom.
“And then you came to tell me he was in danger. And what for?”
Tom was silent for a few moments. Then glancing up in the clear firm face which seemed to demand an answer, he said, almost in a whisper:
“I couldn’t abear for him to be knocked about, if I could stop it.”
“For Daisy’s sake?”
“For Daisy’s sake,” said the young man; and the next moment the vicar’s hand had closed upon his in a firm grasp.
“Then we’ll try and save him, Tom,” said the vicar quietly. “I’m very glad you’ve come, Tom. I’ve seen very little of you lately.”
Tom looked up at him curiously, said something about being much obliged, and was turning to go, when the vicar stopped him.
“We must make some plans for the poor fellow’s safety,” he said. “He must not be hurt. I’ll go up first, and try if I can prevail upon him not to go.”
Tom nodded.
“And if he will not be prevailed upon, we must try and act as we can. I think and hope that they will not attempt to touch him while I am by his side.” Tom shook his head.
“I wouldn’t, sir, because I know you; but time back I would, if there’d been twenty parsons round him. They won’t hurt you, sir, but they’ll beat him if he attempts to go.”
“Let’s hope not; let’s hope not,” said the vicar; “and now I’ll go up to the house, while you’ll wait here.”
“Wait here?” said Tom.
“Yes; why not? I shall want to lay my hands upon you at a moment’s notice. But stop. If he goes, it will be by the mail. That’s at eight, and the station is two miles, say three-quarters of an hour for ample time. If he means to go, he will go afoot, so as not to excite attention.”
“Yes; and he’ll go by the little door in the wall at the bottom of the garden, and off across the home close,” said Tom.
“Do you know that?” said the vicar.
“No, sir; but that’s how he used to go to meet her; and as he’s going to join her to-night, I thowt that’s the way he’d go.”
“Very likely,” said the vicar; “and they’re sure to know it, and watch. But look here, Tom Podmore, are you willing to help him get away?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To join her?”
“Yes; I was thinking, that mebbe if he got away to join the poor bairn he’d marry her; for I s’pose he’s fond o’ the poor lass. But he must be that. She’d mak’ onny man—the very worst—fond on her.”
“Do you know any one you could get here to help you?” said the vicar. “I mean a stout sturdy fellow with brains, who could be depended on to help you back me up if we have to make a struggle for it.”
“John Maine, sir, at Bultitude’s.”
“The very man. Get him here, and keep him till I come back.”
“I will, sir; but, say, parson—Mr Selwood, sir—for the Lord’s sake don’t let Dick Glaire take that pistol thing. If they get hold of him now, they’ll beat him sore, but if he should shute a man, they’ll niver let him see the light again.”
“I’ll do my best, Podmore,” said the vicar, sadly. “You do yours.”
They parted at the gate, bound on the same mission, that of saving the man who was making them both sick at heart with the desire that they felt could never be fulfilled.
Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.Jessie’s Troubles.Affairs were not very satisfactory at the farm, and Jessie’s eyes more than once looked as if they had been red with crying. For the girl was greatly troubled at heart, since John Maine’s behaviour puzzled her.It was impossible for anything of note to take place in Dumford, without the news of it reaching the farm, so that she soon heard that Daisy, her old friend and school-fellow, had disappeared; that the two rough fellows who had been hanging about were supposed to have had something to do with her disappearance; while, to make matters more complicated, John Maine had been seen talking to these two men, and had afterwards warned her about holding communication with Daisy.John Maine had always been civil and pleasant to Daisy. Daisy had more than once laughingly said she liked him. Now she was gone, John Maine’s behaviour was very strange. Could he have had anything to do with getting her away, and was he in any way acting with Richard Glaire, whom some people suspected of complicity?No: she would not believe anything against him, come what might; but there was some secret connected with his earlier life that he kept back, and—she could not say why—she thought he ought to be more trusting and communicative with her. Not that there was anything between them, though she told herself she thought she did like John Maine—a little.Old Bultitude was very cross and snappish too, and he had taken it somewhat to heart that Daisy should have been the companion and friend of his Jessie.“See here, lass,” he said, “thou must howd no more communication with that bairn o’ Banks’s. She’s a bad un.”“Oh, uncle!” exclaimed Jessie, “she may have been robbed and murdered.”“Not she,” said old Bultitude, filling his pipe and ramming the tobacco in viciously. “If she had been, they’d ha’ fun her body. Folks don’t rob and murder, unless it’s to get money. Daisy Banks had no money wi’ her; and, as to being jealous, I hardly think Tom Podmore, as she pitched over, would murder her—but there’s no knowing.”A few minutes later Eve Pelly arrived at the farm, looking pale and thin; and the two girls were soon telling each other their troubles, Eve with a quiet reticent manner; Jessie all eagerness to make the girl she looked upon as her superior the repository of her inmost thoughts.Eve took care not to let Jessie know that this was to be almost a formal leave-taking, for she had come down after asking Mrs Glaire’s leave, and with the full intention of yielding to her wishes.The conversation naturally turned upon Daisy and her disappearance, when Jessie broke out impetuously with—“Well, it’s no use to keep it back, Miss Eve. I’ve known a deal more than I’ve cared to tell you, but your cousin and Daisy have for months past been thick as thick.”“Don’t speak like that, Jessie,” cried Eve, flushing up.“I must when it’s for your good, Miss Eve,” said Jessie, warmly; “and if the truth was known, I believe Mr Richard has had her carried off to London or somewhere.”“It is impossible, Jessie,” cried Eve. “My cousin would never be so base.”“Well, I don’t, know as to that,” retorted Jessie; “it’s base enough to be pretending to be engaged to one young lady, and carrying on with another.”“Jessie!”“Well, it’s the truth. A gentleman told me that he had often seen them together. Oh, Miss Eve, dear, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”She was down on her knees before her visitor directly after, begging her pardon, and kissing her, for Eve’s face had sunk in her hands, and she was sobbing bitterly. A minute before and she was ready to fight energetically on behalf of the man who was to have been her husband, but now her defences had been turned, and she gave up.She soon dried her eyes though, and when Jessie would have turned the conversation to another point she resumed it herself.“I’ve been thinking about that very, very much,” she said; “night and day—night and day.”“Poor child!” said Jessie, stroking her face. “It must be terribly hard to feel jealous.”“No, no, no, no,” said Eve, hastily. “I did not mean that; but about poor Daisy’s disappearance. You know they found her shawl and basket.”“Yes,” said Jessie, nodding.“Well,” said Eve, hesitating—“don’t you think it possible that anybody who hated her very much might—might—”“Might have killed her?” said Jessie, looking at Eve strangely.“Yes,” said Eve, with a shudder.Jessie’s eyes dilated as she looked at the speaker, and thought of her uncle’s words a short time before.“It is very terrible to think on,” said Jessie, slowly.“Yes,” said Eve, in an agitated voice; “but it is almost more terrible for any one you love—you care for, to be thought guilty of having taken the poor creature away.”“But who could have had any such feeling towards poor Daisy,” exclaimed Jessie, “except one? and I don’t think Tom Podmore—”“Hush!” cried Eve, laying her hand upon her friend’s arm, “he’s coming now across the field.”“So he is,” cried Jessie, starting and turning pale, for a flood of strange thoughts came across her mind. John Maine and Tom Podmore had been so intimate. John Maine had been so strange, and in his way had warned her about thinking any more of Daisy. Was that to throw her off the scent, and to keep her from grieving after and trying to find where Daisy had gone? The very room seemed to swim round for a few moments, as she recalled some mysterious acts on the part of the man she loved; and she shuddered as the idea suggested itself to her that her uncle and Eve might be right, and poor Daisy had been done to death by her old lover, with his friend for accomplice.It was then with a feeling of relief that she saw Eve rise to go, saying:“Let me go out through the garden, Jessie, and then I can get into the lane without being seen by your visitor.”“Yes, yes,” said Jessie, hastily; “but, dear darling Miss Eve, pray don’t say what you have said to me to another soul.”“No,” said Eve, sadly, “I should not do that;” and then her friend saw her out through the garden, and returned to see the young man of whom they had been speaking side by side with John Maine, in earnest conversation across the yard.Jessie had good cause to start and think over the matters of the past few days, for a great deal of unpleasantry had taken place at the farm, all of which, when analysed, tended to help the dreadful suspicion; and, as she thought it over, she determined in her own mind that no temptation should ever cause her to swerve, since she saw how the weakness of one vain girl had brought such misery to so many homes.She tried to drive away the suspicion that had been planted and replanted in her heart; but it was of no use, and she turned at last to her own room, to have a cry to herself—a woman’s fomentation for a mental pain; but in this case it was of no avail.Old Bultitude was morose and harsh with his labourers, going up in the tall tower-like structure which commanded a view of the old farm, and called by the builder a gazebo, but by the labourers the gozzybaw, and from here old Bultitude watched his men and found fault to a degree that Jessie felt must be caused by something out of the ordinary course, while most of his remarks had, it was plain enough, an indirect application to unfulfilled work appertaining to John Maine.Then Tom Brough, the keeper, had managed to find his way again and again to the farm, to have long conversations with the old farmer, who made a point of asking his advice about this beast, or that cow; about the hay off the twenty acres; and the advisability of thrashing out the wheat from such and such a one of the neatly-made long-backed stacks in the rick-yard.John Maine, however, had seemed to bear this shifting of the farmer’s confidence pretty fairly; and Jessie had seen it with pain, as she whispered to herself that the true interpretation of the changes in the young man, which she had seen from day to day, was that he had something on his mind which she was not to share.“Yes; he has something on his mind,” she had said; “and he does not confide in me.”John Maine seemed to confide in no one: he only behaved strangely, night after night letting himself out, to be gone for hours, sometimes to return wet through, little thinking that he had been watched; and that Jessie, with tears and bitterness of heart, knew all of his goings out and comings in; and it was only by accident, and from the fact of her warning him, that he became aware that she had more than once screened his absence.It was one night about eleven. Everybody in the early house had gone to rest an hour and a half before, as John Maine stole downstairs softly, and was about to turn the key of a back-door, when a warm hand was laid upon his, and a voice he well knew whispered—“If you value your home here, go back to bed. Some one has told my uncle that you go out o’ nights, and he is on the watch.”“Jessie!”He stretched out his hands, but they only came in contact with the whitewashed wall, and he knew that he was alone.But had any one spoken, or was it only fancy? No; it was no fancy. His motions had been watched, and Jessie had come between him and trouble. As to the spy upon his actions, that was plain enough. Tom Brough had been busy, and had seen him when watching of a night, and what should he do? He had his object for these nocturnal rambles, and he was bound to continue them, but this night he was bound to stay.Yes, he must stay, if only for Jessie’s sake; and casting off his indecision he returned softly to his room, where he threw off his things and went to bed.An hour slowly passed, during which he lay restless and wakeful. Then, when worn out with restless impatience, and half determined to go out at all hazards, a step was heard in the passage, a board creaked; there was a light shining beneath the door, and then after a pause the handle was turned gently, and the light flashed in his face.“Maine! John Maine!” said the farmer, sharply.“Yes; what is it? Anything wrong?” said the young man, starting up.“One of the horses seems very uneasy,” said the farmer. “I’m afraid there’s something wrong in the stable. I came to ask you to go down, but he seems quieter now, and mebbe it isn’t worth while. Try and keep yoursen wacken for ’bout an hour, and if you hear owt go down and see.”John Maine said he would, and old Bultitude went off, muttering to himself, while the young man lay thinking and wondering how he was to carry out his plans in the future. What was he to do? How was he to do it? The only way he could see out of the difficulty was that the burden must be thrown on the shoulders of Tom Podmore.Day had hardly broken before John Maine, who had heard no more of the restless horse, was up, and that day, seeking out Tom Podmore, he had had a long and earnest conversation with him, with the result of getting his mind more set at ease.And now it had come about in turn that Tom Podmore had had to seek out John Maine, to ask his help, with the result that, old Bultitude being away, his foreman just went in and told Jessie he was going out; and as she did not turn her face to him as he spoke, he went away sighing heavily; while pale, and trembling, Jessie ran to the window, and, in hiding behind the blind, watched the two young men till they were out of sight.
Affairs were not very satisfactory at the farm, and Jessie’s eyes more than once looked as if they had been red with crying. For the girl was greatly troubled at heart, since John Maine’s behaviour puzzled her.
It was impossible for anything of note to take place in Dumford, without the news of it reaching the farm, so that she soon heard that Daisy, her old friend and school-fellow, had disappeared; that the two rough fellows who had been hanging about were supposed to have had something to do with her disappearance; while, to make matters more complicated, John Maine had been seen talking to these two men, and had afterwards warned her about holding communication with Daisy.
John Maine had always been civil and pleasant to Daisy. Daisy had more than once laughingly said she liked him. Now she was gone, John Maine’s behaviour was very strange. Could he have had anything to do with getting her away, and was he in any way acting with Richard Glaire, whom some people suspected of complicity?
No: she would not believe anything against him, come what might; but there was some secret connected with his earlier life that he kept back, and—she could not say why—she thought he ought to be more trusting and communicative with her. Not that there was anything between them, though she told herself she thought she did like John Maine—a little.
Old Bultitude was very cross and snappish too, and he had taken it somewhat to heart that Daisy should have been the companion and friend of his Jessie.
“See here, lass,” he said, “thou must howd no more communication with that bairn o’ Banks’s. She’s a bad un.”
“Oh, uncle!” exclaimed Jessie, “she may have been robbed and murdered.”
“Not she,” said old Bultitude, filling his pipe and ramming the tobacco in viciously. “If she had been, they’d ha’ fun her body. Folks don’t rob and murder, unless it’s to get money. Daisy Banks had no money wi’ her; and, as to being jealous, I hardly think Tom Podmore, as she pitched over, would murder her—but there’s no knowing.”
A few minutes later Eve Pelly arrived at the farm, looking pale and thin; and the two girls were soon telling each other their troubles, Eve with a quiet reticent manner; Jessie all eagerness to make the girl she looked upon as her superior the repository of her inmost thoughts.
Eve took care not to let Jessie know that this was to be almost a formal leave-taking, for she had come down after asking Mrs Glaire’s leave, and with the full intention of yielding to her wishes.
The conversation naturally turned upon Daisy and her disappearance, when Jessie broke out impetuously with—
“Well, it’s no use to keep it back, Miss Eve. I’ve known a deal more than I’ve cared to tell you, but your cousin and Daisy have for months past been thick as thick.”
“Don’t speak like that, Jessie,” cried Eve, flushing up.
“I must when it’s for your good, Miss Eve,” said Jessie, warmly; “and if the truth was known, I believe Mr Richard has had her carried off to London or somewhere.”
“It is impossible, Jessie,” cried Eve. “My cousin would never be so base.”
“Well, I don’t, know as to that,” retorted Jessie; “it’s base enough to be pretending to be engaged to one young lady, and carrying on with another.”
“Jessie!”
“Well, it’s the truth. A gentleman told me that he had often seen them together. Oh, Miss Eve, dear, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She was down on her knees before her visitor directly after, begging her pardon, and kissing her, for Eve’s face had sunk in her hands, and she was sobbing bitterly. A minute before and she was ready to fight energetically on behalf of the man who was to have been her husband, but now her defences had been turned, and she gave up.
She soon dried her eyes though, and when Jessie would have turned the conversation to another point she resumed it herself.
“I’ve been thinking about that very, very much,” she said; “night and day—night and day.”
“Poor child!” said Jessie, stroking her face. “It must be terribly hard to feel jealous.”
“No, no, no, no,” said Eve, hastily. “I did not mean that; but about poor Daisy’s disappearance. You know they found her shawl and basket.”
“Yes,” said Jessie, nodding.
“Well,” said Eve, hesitating—“don’t you think it possible that anybody who hated her very much might—might—”
“Might have killed her?” said Jessie, looking at Eve strangely.
“Yes,” said Eve, with a shudder.
Jessie’s eyes dilated as she looked at the speaker, and thought of her uncle’s words a short time before.
“It is very terrible to think on,” said Jessie, slowly.
“Yes,” said Eve, in an agitated voice; “but it is almost more terrible for any one you love—you care for, to be thought guilty of having taken the poor creature away.”
“But who could have had any such feeling towards poor Daisy,” exclaimed Jessie, “except one? and I don’t think Tom Podmore—”
“Hush!” cried Eve, laying her hand upon her friend’s arm, “he’s coming now across the field.”
“So he is,” cried Jessie, starting and turning pale, for a flood of strange thoughts came across her mind. John Maine and Tom Podmore had been so intimate. John Maine had been so strange, and in his way had warned her about thinking any more of Daisy. Was that to throw her off the scent, and to keep her from grieving after and trying to find where Daisy had gone? The very room seemed to swim round for a few moments, as she recalled some mysterious acts on the part of the man she loved; and she shuddered as the idea suggested itself to her that her uncle and Eve might be right, and poor Daisy had been done to death by her old lover, with his friend for accomplice.
It was then with a feeling of relief that she saw Eve rise to go, saying:
“Let me go out through the garden, Jessie, and then I can get into the lane without being seen by your visitor.”
“Yes, yes,” said Jessie, hastily; “but, dear darling Miss Eve, pray don’t say what you have said to me to another soul.”
“No,” said Eve, sadly, “I should not do that;” and then her friend saw her out through the garden, and returned to see the young man of whom they had been speaking side by side with John Maine, in earnest conversation across the yard.
Jessie had good cause to start and think over the matters of the past few days, for a great deal of unpleasantry had taken place at the farm, all of which, when analysed, tended to help the dreadful suspicion; and, as she thought it over, she determined in her own mind that no temptation should ever cause her to swerve, since she saw how the weakness of one vain girl had brought such misery to so many homes.
She tried to drive away the suspicion that had been planted and replanted in her heart; but it was of no use, and she turned at last to her own room, to have a cry to herself—a woman’s fomentation for a mental pain; but in this case it was of no avail.
Old Bultitude was morose and harsh with his labourers, going up in the tall tower-like structure which commanded a view of the old farm, and called by the builder a gazebo, but by the labourers the gozzybaw, and from here old Bultitude watched his men and found fault to a degree that Jessie felt must be caused by something out of the ordinary course, while most of his remarks had, it was plain enough, an indirect application to unfulfilled work appertaining to John Maine.
Then Tom Brough, the keeper, had managed to find his way again and again to the farm, to have long conversations with the old farmer, who made a point of asking his advice about this beast, or that cow; about the hay off the twenty acres; and the advisability of thrashing out the wheat from such and such a one of the neatly-made long-backed stacks in the rick-yard.
John Maine, however, had seemed to bear this shifting of the farmer’s confidence pretty fairly; and Jessie had seen it with pain, as she whispered to herself that the true interpretation of the changes in the young man, which she had seen from day to day, was that he had something on his mind which she was not to share.
“Yes; he has something on his mind,” she had said; “and he does not confide in me.”
John Maine seemed to confide in no one: he only behaved strangely, night after night letting himself out, to be gone for hours, sometimes to return wet through, little thinking that he had been watched; and that Jessie, with tears and bitterness of heart, knew all of his goings out and comings in; and it was only by accident, and from the fact of her warning him, that he became aware that she had more than once screened his absence.
It was one night about eleven. Everybody in the early house had gone to rest an hour and a half before, as John Maine stole downstairs softly, and was about to turn the key of a back-door, when a warm hand was laid upon his, and a voice he well knew whispered—
“If you value your home here, go back to bed. Some one has told my uncle that you go out o’ nights, and he is on the watch.”
“Jessie!”
He stretched out his hands, but they only came in contact with the whitewashed wall, and he knew that he was alone.
But had any one spoken, or was it only fancy? No; it was no fancy. His motions had been watched, and Jessie had come between him and trouble. As to the spy upon his actions, that was plain enough. Tom Brough had been busy, and had seen him when watching of a night, and what should he do? He had his object for these nocturnal rambles, and he was bound to continue them, but this night he was bound to stay.
Yes, he must stay, if only for Jessie’s sake; and casting off his indecision he returned softly to his room, where he threw off his things and went to bed.
An hour slowly passed, during which he lay restless and wakeful. Then, when worn out with restless impatience, and half determined to go out at all hazards, a step was heard in the passage, a board creaked; there was a light shining beneath the door, and then after a pause the handle was turned gently, and the light flashed in his face.
“Maine! John Maine!” said the farmer, sharply.
“Yes; what is it? Anything wrong?” said the young man, starting up.
“One of the horses seems very uneasy,” said the farmer. “I’m afraid there’s something wrong in the stable. I came to ask you to go down, but he seems quieter now, and mebbe it isn’t worth while. Try and keep yoursen wacken for ’bout an hour, and if you hear owt go down and see.”
John Maine said he would, and old Bultitude went off, muttering to himself, while the young man lay thinking and wondering how he was to carry out his plans in the future. What was he to do? How was he to do it? The only way he could see out of the difficulty was that the burden must be thrown on the shoulders of Tom Podmore.
Day had hardly broken before John Maine, who had heard no more of the restless horse, was up, and that day, seeking out Tom Podmore, he had had a long and earnest conversation with him, with the result of getting his mind more set at ease.
And now it had come about in turn that Tom Podmore had had to seek out John Maine, to ask his help, with the result that, old Bultitude being away, his foreman just went in and told Jessie he was going out; and as she did not turn her face to him as he spoke, he went away sighing heavily; while pale, and trembling, Jessie ran to the window, and, in hiding behind the blind, watched the two young men till they were out of sight.
Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.A Thankless Task.Meanwhile the vicar had missed Eve, who had taken another route, and made his way up to the big house, where he was shown into the room to find Mrs Glaire lying, very pale and weak, upon the couch.She apologised for not rising, and as he took her hand, he felt that it was hot and feverish.“I ought to be the doctor,” he said pleasantly, as he retained the hand. “There’s too much fever here.”“No doctor will cure that,” she said, with a sad smile. “I only want peace of mind, and then I shall be well; and you have come to bring more bad news.”“Oh,” said the vicar, carelessly, “I only wanted a bit of a chat with your son.”“Mr Selwood,” said Mrs Glaire, “don’t please speak to me like that. It is dreadful to me; and makes me feel as if I could not trust and believe in the one man in whom I wish to confide.”“Then in heaven’s name,” he began, but she interrupted him.“I have had faith and trust in you, Mr Selwood, from the first day you came.”“Then you shall continue it,” he said, firmly. “I was reticent because I thought you too ill to bear bad tidings.”“I can bear all,” she said, softly; “pray tell me the worst.”“Well,” he said, quietly, “we will not talk of worst, for there is no danger that cannot be warded off.”“If my son likes?” said Mrs Glaire.“If your son likes,” continued the vicar. “The fact is, Mrs Glaire, the people are getting furious against him, and without going into the question of right or wrong, the sufferings of their wives and children are maddening the men. This lock-out ought to end.”“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, sighing, “it ought.”“It was a dastardly trick, that destruction of the machinery, but I believe it was the work of one brain, and one pair of hands.”“Why do you think so?”“I have had endless communications with the locked-out men, and, as far as I can judge character, I find them very rough, very independent, but, at the same time, frank and honest, and I cannot find one amongst them who does not look me full in the face with a clear unblushing eye, and say, ‘Parson, if I know’d who did that dirty sneaking business, I’d half kill him.’ This in these or similar words.”Mrs Glaire bowed her head.“Yes,” she said; “you have given the men’s character in those words, but they are cruelly bitter against my son.”“They are,” said the vicar, hesitating to tell his news.“And they think he has persuaded Daisy Banks to leave her home.”“Almost to a man, though her father holds out.”“Joe Banks always will be staunch,” said Mrs Glaire. “And you think with the men about that, Mr Selwood?”“I would rather not answer that question,” he said.“Then we will not discuss it,” she replied rather hotly. “But you came to bring me some tidings, Mr Selwood,” she continued, holding out her hand. “Forgive me if I feel as a mother, and defend my son.”“I am here to defend him too,” said the vicar, taking and kissing the hand extended to him; and as he did so the door softly opened, and Eve glided into the room, to half shrink back and retire; but on hearing the vicar’s words she sank into a seat as if unnerved, and the conversation went on.“Tell me now, what is the danger?” said Mrs Glaire.“It is this,” said the vicar; “I am firmly persuaded that this house is a sanctuary, and that for the sake of yourself and your niece, Mr Richard Glaire is safe so long as he stays here.”“And he will stay here till I can bring him to reason about these people. I would pay the money he demands at once, but he insists that it shall be the hard earnings of his workmen themselves, and I am powerless.”“I am willing to lend the men the amount myself, but they will not take it, and I am afraid it would not be received if its source were known.”“No,” said Mrs Glaire, “you must not pay it. My son would never forgive you. But go on.”“I repeat,” said the vicar, “that your son is safe while he remains here.”“And I say that he shall stay,” said Mrs Glaire sharply. “He shall not leave. He has no intention of leaving.”“He has made up his mind, it seems, to leave by the mail-train to-night,” said the vicar; and as the words left his lips, and Mrs Glaire started into a sitting position, a faint cry behind made them turn round, and the vicar had just time to catch Eve in his arms, as she was gliding to the floor.“Poor child!” he muttered, as he held her reverently, and then placed her in a reclining chair, while a shadow of pain passed across his face, as he felt for whom this display of trouble and suffering was caused.“It is nothing, nothing, Mr Selwood—aunt,” faltered Eve, fighting bravely to over come her weakness; “but, aunt, you will not let him go. Mr Selwood, you will not let him be hurt.”“No, my child, no,” he said sadly, “not if my arm can save him.”“Thank you; I knew you would say so, you are so brave and strong,” she cried, kissing his hand; and as her lips touched the firm, starting veins, a strange hot thrill of excitement passed through his nerves, but only to be quenched by the bitter flood of misery that succeeded it; and then, making a mighty effort over self, he turned to Mrs Glaire, who was speaking:“But are you sure—do you think it is true?” she exclaimed.“I believe it,” he said quietly; “and it is absolutely necessary that he should on no pretence leave the house.”“And who says I am to be a prisoner?” asked Richard, entering the room.“I, for one,” said the vicar, “if you value your safety, I may say your life.”“And by what right do you come meddling again with my private affairs?” said Richard, offensively.“The right of every man who sees his neighbour’s life in danger to come and warn him.”“Then don’t warn me,” said Richard; “I don’t want warning. It’s all rubbish.”“It is no rubbish that a certain party of the men are holding meetings and threatening to injure you,” said the vicar, rather warmly.“Bah! they’re always doing that, and it don’t frighten me,” said Richard, coarsely.“Then you were not going, Richard?” said his mother, eagerly. “You were not thinking of being so mad?”“Going? no; not I,” said Richard, “though I don’t see anything mad in it.”Eve gave a sigh of relief, which sounded like a knell to the vicar, who, however, said frankly:“I am very glad, then, that I have been deceived.”“And,” said Richard, sneeringly, “next time you hear a cock-and-bull story about me, perhaps you will keep it to yourself, sir, and leave me to go my ways in peace.”“Richard!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, while, with a flush of shame upon her face, Eve rose and hastily placed her hand in the vicar’s, saying softly:“Oh, Mr Selwood.”Only those three words, but they were balm to him, as he pressed the soft little hand, and raised it to his lips, while, stung by this display, Richard started forward to make some offensive observation, but the door opened, and the maid appeared.“Well, what is it?” cried Richard. “Why didn’t you knock?”“I did, sir,” said the girl, “but you didn’t hear. Jacky Budd says, sir, he can’t carry your portmantle across the close because of the stiles, and he must take it to the station in a barrow.”“In time for the mail-train, Mr Glaire?” said the vicar, in spite of himself, though, for Eve’s sake, he regretted it afterwards.“Damn!” snarled Richard. “No,—go away. Such fools.”He ground his teeth and stamped about the room, while Mrs Glaire’s eyes sought those of the vicar, and in her apologetic look he read plainly enough the mother’s shame for the graceless boy she had brought into the world.The look of triumph passed from his countenance as rapidly as it had come, as he caught a glance of sorrow and appeal from Eve, which seemed to say, “Forgive him, and save him against himself.”“You will give up all thought of going now, Mr Glaire,” he said, quietly. “Of course you wished to keep your departure a secret; but you see the intelligence reached me, and is now perhaps the property of the whole town.”“Through you?” said Richard, recovering himself, and speaking with a cunning sneer upon his face.“This is no time for sneers, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, calmly. “The information was brought to me direct from the meeting.”“By one of your spies?”“By one of the workmen whom I have made my friend, and whom you have made your enemy; and he sends me as his messenger to pour coals of fire upon your head, saying, ‘Save this man, for if he goes out to-night it may be at the cost of his life.’ Mr Glaire, you will not go now?”“Not go!” roared Richard, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. “But I will go. Look here; I start from this house at seven o’clock to catch the mail-train; now go and tell the scoundrels you have made your friends—the men you have encouraged in their strike against me.”“I encouraged them?” said the vicar, smiling at the absurdity of the charge, when he had striven so bravely for peace.“Yes; you who have fed their wives and children, and lent them money so as to enable them to hold out against me—you, whose coming has been a curse to the place, for you have fostered the strike from the beginning.”“There is no time to argue that, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, quietly; “and let me advise you once more. Give up this foolish idea of leaving, if not for your own sake, for that of your mother and your cousin here.”“I shall not,” cried Richard. “I have made my arrangements, and I shall go, and let the blood of the man be on his own head who tries to stop me.”“As you will,” said the vicar, calmly, as he turned to go.“Mr Selwood!”“Mr Selwood!”The two women appealed to him in a breath, but he did not look at them, merely fixed Richard with his eyes, as he said quietly:“Then you must be saved against your will.”The next minute he was gone.
Meanwhile the vicar had missed Eve, who had taken another route, and made his way up to the big house, where he was shown into the room to find Mrs Glaire lying, very pale and weak, upon the couch.
She apologised for not rising, and as he took her hand, he felt that it was hot and feverish.
“I ought to be the doctor,” he said pleasantly, as he retained the hand. “There’s too much fever here.”
“No doctor will cure that,” she said, with a sad smile. “I only want peace of mind, and then I shall be well; and you have come to bring more bad news.”
“Oh,” said the vicar, carelessly, “I only wanted a bit of a chat with your son.”
“Mr Selwood,” said Mrs Glaire, “don’t please speak to me like that. It is dreadful to me; and makes me feel as if I could not trust and believe in the one man in whom I wish to confide.”
“Then in heaven’s name,” he began, but she interrupted him.
“I have had faith and trust in you, Mr Selwood, from the first day you came.”
“Then you shall continue it,” he said, firmly. “I was reticent because I thought you too ill to bear bad tidings.”
“I can bear all,” she said, softly; “pray tell me the worst.”
“Well,” he said, quietly, “we will not talk of worst, for there is no danger that cannot be warded off.”
“If my son likes?” said Mrs Glaire.
“If your son likes,” continued the vicar. “The fact is, Mrs Glaire, the people are getting furious against him, and without going into the question of right or wrong, the sufferings of their wives and children are maddening the men. This lock-out ought to end.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, sighing, “it ought.”
“It was a dastardly trick, that destruction of the machinery, but I believe it was the work of one brain, and one pair of hands.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I have had endless communications with the locked-out men, and, as far as I can judge character, I find them very rough, very independent, but, at the same time, frank and honest, and I cannot find one amongst them who does not look me full in the face with a clear unblushing eye, and say, ‘Parson, if I know’d who did that dirty sneaking business, I’d half kill him.’ This in these or similar words.”
Mrs Glaire bowed her head.
“Yes,” she said; “you have given the men’s character in those words, but they are cruelly bitter against my son.”
“They are,” said the vicar, hesitating to tell his news.
“And they think he has persuaded Daisy Banks to leave her home.”
“Almost to a man, though her father holds out.”
“Joe Banks always will be staunch,” said Mrs Glaire. “And you think with the men about that, Mr Selwood?”
“I would rather not answer that question,” he said.
“Then we will not discuss it,” she replied rather hotly. “But you came to bring me some tidings, Mr Selwood,” she continued, holding out her hand. “Forgive me if I feel as a mother, and defend my son.”
“I am here to defend him too,” said the vicar, taking and kissing the hand extended to him; and as he did so the door softly opened, and Eve glided into the room, to half shrink back and retire; but on hearing the vicar’s words she sank into a seat as if unnerved, and the conversation went on.
“Tell me now, what is the danger?” said Mrs Glaire.
“It is this,” said the vicar; “I am firmly persuaded that this house is a sanctuary, and that for the sake of yourself and your niece, Mr Richard Glaire is safe so long as he stays here.”
“And he will stay here till I can bring him to reason about these people. I would pay the money he demands at once, but he insists that it shall be the hard earnings of his workmen themselves, and I am powerless.”
“I am willing to lend the men the amount myself, but they will not take it, and I am afraid it would not be received if its source were known.”
“No,” said Mrs Glaire, “you must not pay it. My son would never forgive you. But go on.”
“I repeat,” said the vicar, “that your son is safe while he remains here.”
“And I say that he shall stay,” said Mrs Glaire sharply. “He shall not leave. He has no intention of leaving.”
“He has made up his mind, it seems, to leave by the mail-train to-night,” said the vicar; and as the words left his lips, and Mrs Glaire started into a sitting position, a faint cry behind made them turn round, and the vicar had just time to catch Eve in his arms, as she was gliding to the floor.
“Poor child!” he muttered, as he held her reverently, and then placed her in a reclining chair, while a shadow of pain passed across his face, as he felt for whom this display of trouble and suffering was caused.
“It is nothing, nothing, Mr Selwood—aunt,” faltered Eve, fighting bravely to over come her weakness; “but, aunt, you will not let him go. Mr Selwood, you will not let him be hurt.”
“No, my child, no,” he said sadly, “not if my arm can save him.”
“Thank you; I knew you would say so, you are so brave and strong,” she cried, kissing his hand; and as her lips touched the firm, starting veins, a strange hot thrill of excitement passed through his nerves, but only to be quenched by the bitter flood of misery that succeeded it; and then, making a mighty effort over self, he turned to Mrs Glaire, who was speaking:
“But are you sure—do you think it is true?” she exclaimed.
“I believe it,” he said quietly; “and it is absolutely necessary that he should on no pretence leave the house.”
“And who says I am to be a prisoner?” asked Richard, entering the room.
“I, for one,” said the vicar, “if you value your safety, I may say your life.”
“And by what right do you come meddling again with my private affairs?” said Richard, offensively.
“The right of every man who sees his neighbour’s life in danger to come and warn him.”
“Then don’t warn me,” said Richard; “I don’t want warning. It’s all rubbish.”
“It is no rubbish that a certain party of the men are holding meetings and threatening to injure you,” said the vicar, rather warmly.
“Bah! they’re always doing that, and it don’t frighten me,” said Richard, coarsely.
“Then you were not going, Richard?” said his mother, eagerly. “You were not thinking of being so mad?”
“Going? no; not I,” said Richard, “though I don’t see anything mad in it.”
Eve gave a sigh of relief, which sounded like a knell to the vicar, who, however, said frankly:
“I am very glad, then, that I have been deceived.”
“And,” said Richard, sneeringly, “next time you hear a cock-and-bull story about me, perhaps you will keep it to yourself, sir, and leave me to go my ways in peace.”
“Richard!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, while, with a flush of shame upon her face, Eve rose and hastily placed her hand in the vicar’s, saying softly:
“Oh, Mr Selwood.”
Only those three words, but they were balm to him, as he pressed the soft little hand, and raised it to his lips, while, stung by this display, Richard started forward to make some offensive observation, but the door opened, and the maid appeared.
“Well, what is it?” cried Richard. “Why didn’t you knock?”
“I did, sir,” said the girl, “but you didn’t hear. Jacky Budd says, sir, he can’t carry your portmantle across the close because of the stiles, and he must take it to the station in a barrow.”
“In time for the mail-train, Mr Glaire?” said the vicar, in spite of himself, though, for Eve’s sake, he regretted it afterwards.
“Damn!” snarled Richard. “No,—go away. Such fools.”
He ground his teeth and stamped about the room, while Mrs Glaire’s eyes sought those of the vicar, and in her apologetic look he read plainly enough the mother’s shame for the graceless boy she had brought into the world.
The look of triumph passed from his countenance as rapidly as it had come, as he caught a glance of sorrow and appeal from Eve, which seemed to say, “Forgive him, and save him against himself.”
“You will give up all thought of going now, Mr Glaire,” he said, quietly. “Of course you wished to keep your departure a secret; but you see the intelligence reached me, and is now perhaps the property of the whole town.”
“Through you?” said Richard, recovering himself, and speaking with a cunning sneer upon his face.
“This is no time for sneers, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, calmly. “The information was brought to me direct from the meeting.”
“By one of your spies?”
“By one of the workmen whom I have made my friend, and whom you have made your enemy; and he sends me as his messenger to pour coals of fire upon your head, saying, ‘Save this man, for if he goes out to-night it may be at the cost of his life.’ Mr Glaire, you will not go now?”
“Not go!” roared Richard, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. “But I will go. Look here; I start from this house at seven o’clock to catch the mail-train; now go and tell the scoundrels you have made your friends—the men you have encouraged in their strike against me.”
“I encouraged them?” said the vicar, smiling at the absurdity of the charge, when he had striven so bravely for peace.
“Yes; you who have fed their wives and children, and lent them money so as to enable them to hold out against me—you, whose coming has been a curse to the place, for you have fostered the strike from the beginning.”
“There is no time to argue that, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, quietly; “and let me advise you once more. Give up this foolish idea of leaving, if not for your own sake, for that of your mother and your cousin here.”
“I shall not,” cried Richard. “I have made my arrangements, and I shall go, and let the blood of the man be on his own head who tries to stop me.”
“As you will,” said the vicar, calmly, as he turned to go.
“Mr Selwood!”
“Mr Selwood!”
The two women appealed to him in a breath, but he did not look at them, merely fixed Richard with his eyes, as he said quietly:
“Then you must be saved against your will.”
The next minute he was gone.