Volume Two—Chapter Six.By the Chalk Pit.Though Sim Slee had omitted on two occasions to convey letters to Daisy Banks making appointments for meetings in different parts of the country walks round Dumford, Daisy had had a pretty good supply of messages; and feeling as it were compelled to obey, she had gone on more than one occasion with sinking heart, to return with aching eyes, whose lids looked swollen and red with weeping.For the girl was simply wretched, and time after time she looked back to the days when her heart was whole, and as she threw herself wearily on her bed she sobbed herself again and again to sleep, wishing that her very life were ended; the deceit she was obliged to practise, the anger of her mother, and the open sneers and innuendoes of neighbours wounding her so that the smart was almost more than she could bear.Whether Dick chose east, west, north, or south for the appointment, poor Daisy could never get out of the town without encountering some one to give her a peculiar look, more than once driving the poor girl to make pretence of calling at some place that she did not want to visit, and as often turning her back home, making Richard Glaire, who had been kept waiting and “fooled,” as he called it, write her the cruellest and most angry letters, some even of a threatening nature.It happened one evening that poor Daisy, who had broken faith the night before, was going slowly up the High Street, with a basket on her arm, as if bound on some marketing expedition, when it seemed as if it was impossible that she could get to her trysting place, where she knew that Dick must have been waiting for an hour.First the landlord of the Bull was standing at his door smoking, and he gave a sneering nod, which seemed to say, “I know where you are going, my lass.”A little further on sat Miss Purley, at her window, ready to put up her great square, chased gold eye-glass, and stare at the blushing girl with all the indignant force of thirty-nine tinged yellow, against nineteen of the freshest pink.Again a little further, and she came suddenly upon Eve Pelly, who came from the big house, started, stopped, caught her hands, ejaculating “Oh, Daisy!” and then breaking down, turned suddenly away and re-entered the house.To her horror, poor Daisy found that this meeting had been witnessed by Miss Primgeon, the lawyer’s sister, who was seated at her window, staring as hard as she could.Not twenty yards farther on there stood Tom Podmore, leaning against a corner of a lane, also watching her; but as she approached he turned away without a word.It was almost unbearable, and now a feeling of anger began to rise in Daisy’s bosom, making her pant, and flush up, as she determined to go on at all hazards.Jane Budger, who kept the little beerhouse, and knew all the gossip of the place, which she retailed with gills of ale to her customers, saw her, stared, or rather squinted at her, and moved her hands as she exclaimed:“Yes, my dear, I know where you are agate for to-night.”Then there seemed a peculiar meaning in the innocent remark of one neighbour who met her in the street, and observed that the stones were “strange and slape.” So it was with another a little higher up, who remarked that the road was “very clatty.”Next she met Big Harry in the muddiest part of the main street, and he exclaimed to her:“Saay, lass, it’s solid soft.”A little farther on she passed the druggist’s, where the great bottle of the trophies of his dental work seemed to grin at her in a ghastly way, for it was three parts full of extracted teeth.Again a little further, and as she was passing Riggall’s, the bone-setter’s, his ghastly sign over his front door, of a skull and cross-bones, made her shudder; for it seemed to tell her of the goal to which she was steering, and so affected her, that outside the town in the winding road, she sat down shivering upon the mile-stone, crying as though her heart would break.“What shall I do! What shall I do!” she sobbed, when she started up with a faint shriek, for a light hand was laid upon her shoulder.“Miss Eve!” she cried, on seeing the pale tearless girl before her.“Yes, Daisy, it is I,” said Eve. “I want to speak to you. Let us walk on together.”“No, no, Miss Eve. No, no, dear; not that way.”“Is Dick waiting for you up there?” said Eve, huskily.“Don’t ask me, Miss; don’t ask me, please,” cried Daisy, imploringly, as they walked down a side lane.“I thought he was,” said Eve, speaking in a very low deep voice, as if her emotion was stifling her. “I followed you to speak to you.”“You’ve been following and watching me,” cried Daisy, with a burst of passion. “You all do; everybody watches me. What have I done that I should be so cruelly used? I wonder some one don’t want to put me in prison.”“Daisy!” cried Eve, hoarsely, as she caught her by the wrist, “what have I done to you that you should have been so cruel and treacherous?”“I haven’t been,” cried Daisy, with a burst of pettish sobs.“Have I not always been kind and affectionate to you?”“Yes, yes; I know that,” cried Daisy.“And you reward me by trying to rob me of my promised husband.”“I didn’t, I didn’t,” sobbed Daisy. “I didn’t want to; but he was always following me, and hunting me, and worrying me.”“Daisy, Daisy!” cried Eve, with a passionate cry, as she threw herself on her knees to the homely girl, “give him back to me; oh, give him back.”“Miss Eve! Miss Eve!” cried the girl, startled at the vehemence and suddenness of this outburst, “oh, do please get up. What can I do?”“Oh, Daisy, you’ll break my heart. You’ll kill poor aunt. What have we done, that you should come like a blight upon us?”Eve rose slowly and stood facing the girl, over whom a change seemed to be coming as she said sulkily:“It wasn’t my doing.”“But you must have led him on,” moaned poor Eve. “You, who are so bright and pretty, while I—while I—”Daisy gave her now a jealous, vindictive look, as if she felt danger; and that this gentle girl was about to rob her of the man she loved, and she exclaimed:“I must go. I won’t stop to be scolded. You want to win him back; but he belongs to me.”“Daisy, Daisy!” cried Eve, catching at her shawl; but it was too late—the girl had turned and run back into the road, hastening on to the place where she was to have found Richard Glaire, up by the chalk pit; and as she hastened on, she would not look back. Still poor Eve followed her sadly as far as the road, and then turned back towards the town, saying sadly:—“I could not move her. It is too late, too late.”Long before Eve Pelly had reached the town, with its knots of men out of work, Daisy had climbed the hill to the chalk pit, where Richard was waiting, smoking angrily.“At last!” he cried. “I was just going back.”He gave a glance round, and was about to throw his arms round the flushed and panting girl, when he started back, and stood staring, as Mrs Glaire came slowly forward from amongst the trees, and taking Daisy’s wrist in her hand, she pointed down the road.“There, you can go back,” she said, quietly. “I wish to speak to Daisy Banks.”“No, no, Richard—Dick, dear, don’t leave me with her; she’ll kill me!” screamed Daisy, frightened by the pale, resolute-looking little woman, who held her so tightly.“Silence, child!” cried Mrs Glaire.“Oh, come, let’s have an end of this,” cried Richard.“I intend to try for an end,” said Mrs Glaire, sharply, “for with you I can make no compact that will not be broken.”“Oh, if it’s coming to that,” said Richard, sharply, “I shall bring matters to an end.”“Go, sir! Go home,” said Mrs Glaire, sternly.“Come, you needn’t bully that poor girl,” said Dick, with a half-laugh; then seeing the hand still pointing down the road, he grew uneasy, fidgeted, and ended by saying—“There, just as you like.”“Dick, don’t leave me,” gasped Daisy.“Don’t you be a little silly,” laughed Richard. “She won’t hurt you. I say, mother, you’d better make matters up with Daisy and bring her home, for I think I shall marry her after all.”“Don’t, don’t leave me, Dick,” whispered Daisy, straining to reach him; but her wrist was tightly clasped, and she sank shivering on the bank by the deep chalk pit, whose side was separated from the lane by a low post and rail fence, beyond which the descent was a sheer precipice of seventy or eighty feet, the old weakened side being dotted with flowers; a place which, as she stood holding Daisy’s wrist still tightly and watching her son till he disappeared down the road, Mrs Glaire remembered to have been a favoured spot in her girlhood for gathering nosegays; and where, more than once, she had met her dead husband in the happy days of her own courtship.As these thoughts came back from the past, a feeling of pity for the poor girl beside her stole into Mrs Glaire’s heart, and she trembled in her purpose; but after a few moments’ indecision, she told herself that it was for the happiness of all, and that Daisy Banks must suffer in place of Eve.The stars were beginning to peer out faintly and the glow in the west was paling; but still she stood holding the wrist tightly; while, after making a few energetic efforts to free herself, Daisy submitted like a trapped bird, and crouched there palpitating, and not daring once to raise her eyes to those of the angry mother of the man she believed she loved; but who had at all events obtained so strong a hold upon her that she was forced to submit her will to his, and obey his every command.
Though Sim Slee had omitted on two occasions to convey letters to Daisy Banks making appointments for meetings in different parts of the country walks round Dumford, Daisy had had a pretty good supply of messages; and feeling as it were compelled to obey, she had gone on more than one occasion with sinking heart, to return with aching eyes, whose lids looked swollen and red with weeping.
For the girl was simply wretched, and time after time she looked back to the days when her heart was whole, and as she threw herself wearily on her bed she sobbed herself again and again to sleep, wishing that her very life were ended; the deceit she was obliged to practise, the anger of her mother, and the open sneers and innuendoes of neighbours wounding her so that the smart was almost more than she could bear.
Whether Dick chose east, west, north, or south for the appointment, poor Daisy could never get out of the town without encountering some one to give her a peculiar look, more than once driving the poor girl to make pretence of calling at some place that she did not want to visit, and as often turning her back home, making Richard Glaire, who had been kept waiting and “fooled,” as he called it, write her the cruellest and most angry letters, some even of a threatening nature.
It happened one evening that poor Daisy, who had broken faith the night before, was going slowly up the High Street, with a basket on her arm, as if bound on some marketing expedition, when it seemed as if it was impossible that she could get to her trysting place, where she knew that Dick must have been waiting for an hour.
First the landlord of the Bull was standing at his door smoking, and he gave a sneering nod, which seemed to say, “I know where you are going, my lass.”
A little further on sat Miss Purley, at her window, ready to put up her great square, chased gold eye-glass, and stare at the blushing girl with all the indignant force of thirty-nine tinged yellow, against nineteen of the freshest pink.
Again a little further, and she came suddenly upon Eve Pelly, who came from the big house, started, stopped, caught her hands, ejaculating “Oh, Daisy!” and then breaking down, turned suddenly away and re-entered the house.
To her horror, poor Daisy found that this meeting had been witnessed by Miss Primgeon, the lawyer’s sister, who was seated at her window, staring as hard as she could.
Not twenty yards farther on there stood Tom Podmore, leaning against a corner of a lane, also watching her; but as she approached he turned away without a word.
It was almost unbearable, and now a feeling of anger began to rise in Daisy’s bosom, making her pant, and flush up, as she determined to go on at all hazards.
Jane Budger, who kept the little beerhouse, and knew all the gossip of the place, which she retailed with gills of ale to her customers, saw her, stared, or rather squinted at her, and moved her hands as she exclaimed:
“Yes, my dear, I know where you are agate for to-night.”
Then there seemed a peculiar meaning in the innocent remark of one neighbour who met her in the street, and observed that the stones were “strange and slape.” So it was with another a little higher up, who remarked that the road was “very clatty.”
Next she met Big Harry in the muddiest part of the main street, and he exclaimed to her:
“Saay, lass, it’s solid soft.”
A little farther on she passed the druggist’s, where the great bottle of the trophies of his dental work seemed to grin at her in a ghastly way, for it was three parts full of extracted teeth.
Again a little further, and as she was passing Riggall’s, the bone-setter’s, his ghastly sign over his front door, of a skull and cross-bones, made her shudder; for it seemed to tell her of the goal to which she was steering, and so affected her, that outside the town in the winding road, she sat down shivering upon the mile-stone, crying as though her heart would break.
“What shall I do! What shall I do!” she sobbed, when she started up with a faint shriek, for a light hand was laid upon her shoulder.
“Miss Eve!” she cried, on seeing the pale tearless girl before her.
“Yes, Daisy, it is I,” said Eve. “I want to speak to you. Let us walk on together.”
“No, no, Miss Eve. No, no, dear; not that way.”
“Is Dick waiting for you up there?” said Eve, huskily.
“Don’t ask me, Miss; don’t ask me, please,” cried Daisy, imploringly, as they walked down a side lane.
“I thought he was,” said Eve, speaking in a very low deep voice, as if her emotion was stifling her. “I followed you to speak to you.”
“You’ve been following and watching me,” cried Daisy, with a burst of passion. “You all do; everybody watches me. What have I done that I should be so cruelly used? I wonder some one don’t want to put me in prison.”
“Daisy!” cried Eve, hoarsely, as she caught her by the wrist, “what have I done to you that you should have been so cruel and treacherous?”
“I haven’t been,” cried Daisy, with a burst of pettish sobs.
“Have I not always been kind and affectionate to you?”
“Yes, yes; I know that,” cried Daisy.
“And you reward me by trying to rob me of my promised husband.”
“I didn’t, I didn’t,” sobbed Daisy. “I didn’t want to; but he was always following me, and hunting me, and worrying me.”
“Daisy, Daisy!” cried Eve, with a passionate cry, as she threw herself on her knees to the homely girl, “give him back to me; oh, give him back.”
“Miss Eve! Miss Eve!” cried the girl, startled at the vehemence and suddenness of this outburst, “oh, do please get up. What can I do?”
“Oh, Daisy, you’ll break my heart. You’ll kill poor aunt. What have we done, that you should come like a blight upon us?”
Eve rose slowly and stood facing the girl, over whom a change seemed to be coming as she said sulkily:
“It wasn’t my doing.”
“But you must have led him on,” moaned poor Eve. “You, who are so bright and pretty, while I—while I—”
Daisy gave her now a jealous, vindictive look, as if she felt danger; and that this gentle girl was about to rob her of the man she loved, and she exclaimed:
“I must go. I won’t stop to be scolded. You want to win him back; but he belongs to me.”
“Daisy, Daisy!” cried Eve, catching at her shawl; but it was too late—the girl had turned and run back into the road, hastening on to the place where she was to have found Richard Glaire, up by the chalk pit; and as she hastened on, she would not look back. Still poor Eve followed her sadly as far as the road, and then turned back towards the town, saying sadly:—
“I could not move her. It is too late, too late.”
Long before Eve Pelly had reached the town, with its knots of men out of work, Daisy had climbed the hill to the chalk pit, where Richard was waiting, smoking angrily.
“At last!” he cried. “I was just going back.”
He gave a glance round, and was about to throw his arms round the flushed and panting girl, when he started back, and stood staring, as Mrs Glaire came slowly forward from amongst the trees, and taking Daisy’s wrist in her hand, she pointed down the road.
“There, you can go back,” she said, quietly. “I wish to speak to Daisy Banks.”
“No, no, Richard—Dick, dear, don’t leave me with her; she’ll kill me!” screamed Daisy, frightened by the pale, resolute-looking little woman, who held her so tightly.
“Silence, child!” cried Mrs Glaire.
“Oh, come, let’s have an end of this,” cried Richard.
“I intend to try for an end,” said Mrs Glaire, sharply, “for with you I can make no compact that will not be broken.”
“Oh, if it’s coming to that,” said Richard, sharply, “I shall bring matters to an end.”
“Go, sir! Go home,” said Mrs Glaire, sternly.
“Come, you needn’t bully that poor girl,” said Dick, with a half-laugh; then seeing the hand still pointing down the road, he grew uneasy, fidgeted, and ended by saying—“There, just as you like.”
“Dick, don’t leave me,” gasped Daisy.
“Don’t you be a little silly,” laughed Richard. “She won’t hurt you. I say, mother, you’d better make matters up with Daisy and bring her home, for I think I shall marry her after all.”
“Don’t, don’t leave me, Dick,” whispered Daisy, straining to reach him; but her wrist was tightly clasped, and she sank shivering on the bank by the deep chalk pit, whose side was separated from the lane by a low post and rail fence, beyond which the descent was a sheer precipice of seventy or eighty feet, the old weakened side being dotted with flowers; a place which, as she stood holding Daisy’s wrist still tightly and watching her son till he disappeared down the road, Mrs Glaire remembered to have been a favoured spot in her girlhood for gathering nosegays; and where, more than once, she had met her dead husband in the happy days of her own courtship.
As these thoughts came back from the past, a feeling of pity for the poor girl beside her stole into Mrs Glaire’s heart, and she trembled in her purpose; but after a few moments’ indecision, she told herself that it was for the happiness of all, and that Daisy Banks must suffer in place of Eve.
The stars were beginning to peer out faintly and the glow in the west was paling; but still she stood holding the wrist tightly; while, after making a few energetic efforts to free herself, Daisy submitted like a trapped bird, and crouched there palpitating, and not daring once to raise her eyes to those of the angry mother of the man she believed she loved; but who had at all events obtained so strong a hold upon her that she was forced to submit her will to his, and obey his every command.
Volume Two—Chapter Seven.At Home.“Two can play at that game,” said Richard to himself, as he walked sharply down the hill and back into the town, where, not heeding Eve, who was in the dining-room, he hastily wrote a short letter, and then putting on his hat, went out again, smoking a cigar, apparently to have a stroll, and sauntered down towards the Bull and Cucumber, where he gave a long, low whistle, uttered twice, and then walked on for some distance.His signal had the required effect, for Sim Slee came after him with a soft pace like a cat, and together the two men went on in the darkness, Richard talking earnestly to his companion, and passing money to him, whose chink was very audible.“Now you quite understand?” said Richard, earnestly.“Understand? He, he, he!” chuckled Sim. “I’ve got it quite by heart. I say, won’t Joe Banks be popped?”“Hold your tongue, and keep names quiet. Now you quite understand. I shall not show my face in the matter at all.”“Oh, no, of course not,” said Sim. “All right, Mr Glaire, sir. You couldn’t have a troostier man than me.”“I don’t know,” said Richard; “perhaps I oughtn’t to have given you the money till after.”“Oh, you may troost me, Mr Richard, I’m square, sir, and honourable. It’ll all be done lovely.”“Then I shall not see you again,” said Richard; and they parted.“Ho, ho, ho!” chuckled Sim, slapping his legs. “Here’s a game. Some on ’em ’ll be chattering all over the place ’bout this, and, ho, my!”He had another long enjoyable laugh, to start up half frightened, for a dark figure approached him so suddenly, that it was close upon him before he was aware of the fact.“What are you laughing at?” said the newcomer, sharply. “What devil’s game hev yow and that Dick Glaire been hatching?”“Hatching? Devil’s game, Tom Podmore? why, can’t a man laugh in the lane if he likes? But there, I’m off up to the mill, for it’ll reean to-night, mun.”Tom Podmore strode off after Richard Glaire, muttering angrily, and on getting close to the town, it was to see the young man walking right in the middle of the road, to avoid the men standing about on the pebble-paved sidewalks.It was well he did so, for there were plenty of hands ready to be raised against him, and had one struck at him, it would have been the signal for a rain of blows: for scores of men in the place were now vowing vengeance against the man whom they accused of starving their wives and bairns. In fact, it had so far been Richard Glaire’s insolent temerity that had saved him from assault. He had gone boldly about, urged thereto by his eagerness to meet little Daisy Banks, but for which engagements he would probably have stayed indoors, and run greater risks on the few occasions when he showed himself.As it was, he hastened his steps this night, on seeing the dark groups about, and when Tom Podmore closed up, he almost ran the last few steps, dashed open the door, and, closing it, stood panting in the hall.It was about half-past ten now, and he listened, with his hand upon the bolt, to the muttering voices without for a few minutes, till one of the maids came in to gaze at him curiously.“Here, fasten up this door,” he said harshly.“Fasten the door, sir?” said the girl.“Yes, fasten the door, stupid,” he cried, angrily.“But missus hasn’t come in yet,” said the girl.“Not come in?” said Richard, starting as he recalled where he had left her; and then, with a hasty pish! “I daresay she’s at Purley’s. I’ll fasten the door. Don’t sit up.”The girl was leaving the hall, when he called after her:“Where’s Miss Eve?”“Gone to bed, sir, with a sick headache.”“She’s always got a sick headache,” growled Richard.“I wish you had ’em your sen,” muttered the girl.“There, bring some hot water and a tumbler into the dining-room,” said Richard, as the girl was turning to go.He went into the dining-room, got out the spirit-stand, and, on the hot water being brought, mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy and water, and drank it rapidly, listening occasionally to the footsteps and loud talking without.A second glass followed shortly after, and then, tired out with the day’s work, the young man threw himself on the sofa. The sounds outside by degrees grew indistinct and distant, and then, with a pale, ghost-like Eve following him always, he was journeying through foreign lands with Daisy, who looked lovingly up in his face. Then, Tom Podmore seemed to be pursuing him and threatening his life. Next it was the vicar; and then, at last, after struggling hard to get away, Joe Banks stood over him with a flashing light, and as he waited to hear him say, “Where is my child?”—waited with a feeling of suspense that seemed prolonged for years, the voice said coldly and sternly:“Why are you not in bed?”He started into wakefulness to see that it was his mother standing over him with a chamber candlestick, looking very cold and white.“How could I go to bed when you were not back?” he said sulkily.“You can go to bed now,” she said, quietly.“Where have you been?”She made no answer.“Were there many of those scoundrels about?” he asked.“The men would not injure me,” she said, in the same low voice.“But how did you get in?”“Eve came down and admitted me,” was the reply.“What’s o’clock?”Mrs Glaire made no answer.“Oh, if you like to be sulky you can,” said Richard, coolly; and, lighting a chamber candle, he strode off to bed.As he turned to wind up his watch in a sleepy manner, he found that it had run down, so with an impatient gesture he laid it aside, finished undressing, and tumbled into bed.“Some of them will open their eyes to-morrow,” he muttered, with a half-laugh. “Well, it was time to act. I’m not going to be under petticoat government all my life.”At the same time Mrs Glaire was seated pale and shivering in the dining-room, while all else in the house were sleeping soundly, and the street was now painfully still, for the murmuring workers of the foundry had long since sought their homes, more than one sending up a curse on Richard Glaire, instead of a prayer for his well-being and peace.
“Two can play at that game,” said Richard to himself, as he walked sharply down the hill and back into the town, where, not heeding Eve, who was in the dining-room, he hastily wrote a short letter, and then putting on his hat, went out again, smoking a cigar, apparently to have a stroll, and sauntered down towards the Bull and Cucumber, where he gave a long, low whistle, uttered twice, and then walked on for some distance.
His signal had the required effect, for Sim Slee came after him with a soft pace like a cat, and together the two men went on in the darkness, Richard talking earnestly to his companion, and passing money to him, whose chink was very audible.
“Now you quite understand?” said Richard, earnestly.
“Understand? He, he, he!” chuckled Sim. “I’ve got it quite by heart. I say, won’t Joe Banks be popped?”
“Hold your tongue, and keep names quiet. Now you quite understand. I shall not show my face in the matter at all.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” said Sim. “All right, Mr Glaire, sir. You couldn’t have a troostier man than me.”
“I don’t know,” said Richard; “perhaps I oughtn’t to have given you the money till after.”
“Oh, you may troost me, Mr Richard, I’m square, sir, and honourable. It’ll all be done lovely.”
“Then I shall not see you again,” said Richard; and they parted.
“Ho, ho, ho!” chuckled Sim, slapping his legs. “Here’s a game. Some on ’em ’ll be chattering all over the place ’bout this, and, ho, my!”
He had another long enjoyable laugh, to start up half frightened, for a dark figure approached him so suddenly, that it was close upon him before he was aware of the fact.
“What are you laughing at?” said the newcomer, sharply. “What devil’s game hev yow and that Dick Glaire been hatching?”
“Hatching? Devil’s game, Tom Podmore? why, can’t a man laugh in the lane if he likes? But there, I’m off up to the mill, for it’ll reean to-night, mun.”
Tom Podmore strode off after Richard Glaire, muttering angrily, and on getting close to the town, it was to see the young man walking right in the middle of the road, to avoid the men standing about on the pebble-paved sidewalks.
It was well he did so, for there were plenty of hands ready to be raised against him, and had one struck at him, it would have been the signal for a rain of blows: for scores of men in the place were now vowing vengeance against the man whom they accused of starving their wives and bairns. In fact, it had so far been Richard Glaire’s insolent temerity that had saved him from assault. He had gone boldly about, urged thereto by his eagerness to meet little Daisy Banks, but for which engagements he would probably have stayed indoors, and run greater risks on the few occasions when he showed himself.
As it was, he hastened his steps this night, on seeing the dark groups about, and when Tom Podmore closed up, he almost ran the last few steps, dashed open the door, and, closing it, stood panting in the hall.
It was about half-past ten now, and he listened, with his hand upon the bolt, to the muttering voices without for a few minutes, till one of the maids came in to gaze at him curiously.
“Here, fasten up this door,” he said harshly.
“Fasten the door, sir?” said the girl.
“Yes, fasten the door, stupid,” he cried, angrily.
“But missus hasn’t come in yet,” said the girl.
“Not come in?” said Richard, starting as he recalled where he had left her; and then, with a hasty pish! “I daresay she’s at Purley’s. I’ll fasten the door. Don’t sit up.”
The girl was leaving the hall, when he called after her:
“Where’s Miss Eve?”
“Gone to bed, sir, with a sick headache.”
“She’s always got a sick headache,” growled Richard.
“I wish you had ’em your sen,” muttered the girl.
“There, bring some hot water and a tumbler into the dining-room,” said Richard, as the girl was turning to go.
He went into the dining-room, got out the spirit-stand, and, on the hot water being brought, mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy and water, and drank it rapidly, listening occasionally to the footsteps and loud talking without.
A second glass followed shortly after, and then, tired out with the day’s work, the young man threw himself on the sofa. The sounds outside by degrees grew indistinct and distant, and then, with a pale, ghost-like Eve following him always, he was journeying through foreign lands with Daisy, who looked lovingly up in his face. Then, Tom Podmore seemed to be pursuing him and threatening his life. Next it was the vicar; and then, at last, after struggling hard to get away, Joe Banks stood over him with a flashing light, and as he waited to hear him say, “Where is my child?”—waited with a feeling of suspense that seemed prolonged for years, the voice said coldly and sternly:
“Why are you not in bed?”
He started into wakefulness to see that it was his mother standing over him with a chamber candlestick, looking very cold and white.
“How could I go to bed when you were not back?” he said sulkily.
“You can go to bed now,” she said, quietly.
“Where have you been?”
She made no answer.
“Were there many of those scoundrels about?” he asked.
“The men would not injure me,” she said, in the same low voice.
“But how did you get in?”
“Eve came down and admitted me,” was the reply.
“What’s o’clock?”
Mrs Glaire made no answer.
“Oh, if you like to be sulky you can,” said Richard, coolly; and, lighting a chamber candle, he strode off to bed.
As he turned to wind up his watch in a sleepy manner, he found that it had run down, so with an impatient gesture he laid it aside, finished undressing, and tumbled into bed.
“Some of them will open their eyes to-morrow,” he muttered, with a half-laugh. “Well, it was time to act. I’m not going to be under petticoat government all my life.”
At the same time Mrs Glaire was seated pale and shivering in the dining-room, while all else in the house were sleeping soundly, and the street was now painfully still, for the murmuring workers of the foundry had long since sought their homes, more than one sending up a curse on Richard Glaire, instead of a prayer for his well-being and peace.
Volume Two—Chapter Eight.Old Friends Again.“If I could only tell him everything,” muttered John Maine, as he strode away from the vicar’s side, and made for the farm.He was not half-way back, when he met Tom Brough, the keeper, who favoured him with a sneering, contemptuous kind of smile that made the young man’s blood boil. He knew him to be a rival, though he felt sure that Jessie did not favour his suit in the slightest degree. Still her uncle seemed to look upon Brough as a likely man to make his niece a good partner; for Tom Brough expected to come in for a fair amount of property, an old relative having him down in his will for succession to a comfortable farm—a nice thing, argued old Bultitude, for a young couple beginning life.It might have been only fancy, but on reaching the crew-yard, old Bultitude seemed to John Maine to speak roughly to him. However, he took no notice, but went about his duties, worked very hard for a time, and went in at last to the evening meal, to find Jessie looking careworn and anxious.After tea he sent a boy up with a message to the cricket-field, saying that he was too unwell to come; and after this he went to his own room to sit and think out his future, breaking off the thread of his musings and seeking Jessie, whom he found alone, and looking strange and distant.“Jessie,” he began, and she turned her face towards him, but without speaking, and then there was a minute’s pause.“Jessie,” he began again, and the intention had been to speak of his own affairs, but his feelings were too much for him, and he turned off the primary question to pass to one that had but a secondary place in his mind.Jessie did not reply, but looked up at him timidly, in a way that checked rather than accelerated his flow of words.“I wanted to speak to you about Daisy Banks,” he said at last.“Yes; what about her?” said Jessie, wonderingly.“I ought not to speak perhaps; but you have no mother, and Mr Bultitude does not seem to notice these things.”“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jessie, wonderingly.John Maine would gladly have backed out of his position, but it was too late, and he was obliged to flounder on.“I meant about Daisy Banks and Mr Richard Glaire.”“Well?” said Jessie, looking full at him. “What about them?”“I meant that I don’t think you ought to be so intimate with her now.”“And why not?”“The Dumford people couple her name very unpleasantly with Mr Richard’s, and for your sake I thought I’d speak.”“For shame!” cried the girl, rising, and looking angrily at him. “That young Podmore has been talking to you.”“No, indeed, indeed, poor Tom never mentions her name.”“I won’t believe, John Maine, that you could be so petty and ungenerous yourself. Mr Glaire loves Daisy, and she confided all to me. Such words as yours are quite an insult to her, and—and I cannot—will not stay to hear them.”The girl’s face was burning, and she ran out of the place to hide her tears, while John Maine, whose intention had been to say something very different, sighed bitterly, and went back to his room. There, however, everything looked blacker than ever, and he could see nothing in the gloom—devise no plan. He knew that the best proceeding would be to set the scoundrels he had seen that morning at defiance—that everybody whose opinion was worth a rush would applaud his frank declaration that he had turned from his evil courses to those which were reputable; but then the people he knew—Mr Bultitude—Jessie—the vicar—his friends in Dumford—what would they say? There seemed to be but one chance for him—to pack up a few things in a bundle and go and seek his fortune again elsewhere—perhaps to live in peace for a few years before he should be again hunted down by some of the wolves amongst whom his early lot had been cast.“John—John!”He started. It was Jessie calling, and hastily going downstairs, it was to see her with the flush gone out of her cheeks, and looking pale and anxious, as she held out a strip of paper.“Two rough-looking men gave this to the boy for you,” she said, looking at him in a troubled way.He took the paper hastily, and turned away with a dark red glow spreading over his temples. He divined who had sent the note, and shivered as he thought of how the boy would chatter to everybody about the farm. Perhaps Jessie had questioned him already, and set him down as being the friend and companion of the senders:Turning away, he walked out into the yard to find that the paper had originally been used for holding an ounce of tobacco, and upon it was scrawled in pencil:“We ave bin spekkin yu hat the krikt fele Ude betr cum.”“2 OLE FRENDS.”“You had better come!” What should he do? Set them at defiance or go away at once?Torn by doubts he could do neither, but stood hesitating, till, in a fit of desperation, he strode off in the direction of the cricket-field.He had saved a little money, and he might perhaps bribe them to take it and go, leaving him in peace, though he felt the while that such a proceeding would only be an invitation to them to come back, and demand more; but even if they did, a fortnight’s respite was worth all he possessed; and, besides, it would give him time to turn round and devise some plan for freeing himself of his incubus.To reach the cricket-field he had to pass the back-door of the vicarage; taking, as he did, the cut through the fields; and as he neared it, separated from it by a high hedge, his blood turned cold as he heard Mrs Slee’s shrill voice exclaim:“You can’t miss it: the second tunning to the right, and then it’s the second field.”“And you wean’t buy the bud then, mum—that theer goldfinch as I told you off?”“Bird, no,” cried Mrs Slee; “what do I want with such clat. Let the poor thing go. You ought to be ashamed of yoursens.”“We just about are,” said one of the men: and then, as John Maine remained breathless behind the hedge, he heard the grating of feet upon the gravel, and one said to the other:“Say, Jem, lad, did you see?” and he made a smacking noise with his lips.“I see,” replied Jem, “everythink.” Then, “If that theer Johnny Maine don’t show up, we’ll precious soon have the owd badger out of his earth.”John Maine shrank back with a cloud of thoughts hurrying through his brain, foremost among which was that these men had been spying up at the vicarage. Through any window there could be seen the valuable plate on the sideboard and shelves, and the plan of offering a bird for sale was but an excuse for getting up to a house—a plan which he knew of old.For a few moments he felt disposed to turn back; then he was for facing them boldly: but all doubts were set at rest by footsteps coming in his direction; so, stepping out boldly, he was soon after face to face with his two old companions, who seemed to be strolling about with their hands in their pockets, enjoying an evening pipe.“Here he is!” exclaimed Ike, grinning; “I knew he’d come. But howd your noise, Jem; don’t make a row. Johnny don’t care about being seen too much along of us. It’s all raight. He knows a thing or two. There’ll be a bit of a game on soon, lad, and we shall want you. We don’t know one another, we don’t. Now, which is the gainest way to the cricket-field?”John Maine pointed in the direction, and Jem came close up with a leer, saying:“Say, lad, recklect that plate job, eh? Melted down at Birmingham or Sheffle, an’ no questions asked.”John Maine shuddered as he recalled the time when he was innocently made the bearer of a heavy package to a bullion melter, and told afterwards whence the silver had been obtained.Before he had recovered himself, the two scoundrels had sauntered away, leaving him shivering, as he thought over their words, and understood them as a threat of denunciation, unless he kept his own counsel.Then, in imagination, he saw a party drive over from one of the big towns in a light spring-cart, drawn by a weedy screw of a horse; an entry made at the vicarage, and everything of value swept away, while he was helpless to arrest the robbery, except at the cost of his worldly position.He stood thinking for a time, and then strode on across the fields to the cricket ground, where a little half-hearted play was going on, the men of Dumford being too much influenced by the strike to care much for any thing save their tobacco. He caught sight of the two men once or twice; but they took not the slightest heed of his presence, and instead of their watching him he watched them, following them at last into the town, and seeing them go along the main street past the Glaires’ house, and away up the hill, Richard coming down and passing them.“Can they be going right away?” thought John Maine hopefully, till he recollected a low, poacher-haunted public-house about a mile beyond the chalk pit, and rightly set that down as their destination.He turned back with a sigh, to see Tom Podmore leaning thoughtfully against one of the houses, and going up, the two young men engaged in conversation for a few minutes, each rigorously abstaining from all mention of the other’s love affairs, and soon after they parted, for John Maine to seek his sleepless pillow.
“If I could only tell him everything,” muttered John Maine, as he strode away from the vicar’s side, and made for the farm.
He was not half-way back, when he met Tom Brough, the keeper, who favoured him with a sneering, contemptuous kind of smile that made the young man’s blood boil. He knew him to be a rival, though he felt sure that Jessie did not favour his suit in the slightest degree. Still her uncle seemed to look upon Brough as a likely man to make his niece a good partner; for Tom Brough expected to come in for a fair amount of property, an old relative having him down in his will for succession to a comfortable farm—a nice thing, argued old Bultitude, for a young couple beginning life.
It might have been only fancy, but on reaching the crew-yard, old Bultitude seemed to John Maine to speak roughly to him. However, he took no notice, but went about his duties, worked very hard for a time, and went in at last to the evening meal, to find Jessie looking careworn and anxious.
After tea he sent a boy up with a message to the cricket-field, saying that he was too unwell to come; and after this he went to his own room to sit and think out his future, breaking off the thread of his musings and seeking Jessie, whom he found alone, and looking strange and distant.
“Jessie,” he began, and she turned her face towards him, but without speaking, and then there was a minute’s pause.
“Jessie,” he began again, and the intention had been to speak of his own affairs, but his feelings were too much for him, and he turned off the primary question to pass to one that had but a secondary place in his mind.
Jessie did not reply, but looked up at him timidly, in a way that checked rather than accelerated his flow of words.
“I wanted to speak to you about Daisy Banks,” he said at last.
“Yes; what about her?” said Jessie, wonderingly.
“I ought not to speak perhaps; but you have no mother, and Mr Bultitude does not seem to notice these things.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jessie, wonderingly.
John Maine would gladly have backed out of his position, but it was too late, and he was obliged to flounder on.
“I meant about Daisy Banks and Mr Richard Glaire.”
“Well?” said Jessie, looking full at him. “What about them?”
“I meant that I don’t think you ought to be so intimate with her now.”
“And why not?”
“The Dumford people couple her name very unpleasantly with Mr Richard’s, and for your sake I thought I’d speak.”
“For shame!” cried the girl, rising, and looking angrily at him. “That young Podmore has been talking to you.”
“No, indeed, indeed, poor Tom never mentions her name.”
“I won’t believe, John Maine, that you could be so petty and ungenerous yourself. Mr Glaire loves Daisy, and she confided all to me. Such words as yours are quite an insult to her, and—and I cannot—will not stay to hear them.”
The girl’s face was burning, and she ran out of the place to hide her tears, while John Maine, whose intention had been to say something very different, sighed bitterly, and went back to his room. There, however, everything looked blacker than ever, and he could see nothing in the gloom—devise no plan. He knew that the best proceeding would be to set the scoundrels he had seen that morning at defiance—that everybody whose opinion was worth a rush would applaud his frank declaration that he had turned from his evil courses to those which were reputable; but then the people he knew—Mr Bultitude—Jessie—the vicar—his friends in Dumford—what would they say? There seemed to be but one chance for him—to pack up a few things in a bundle and go and seek his fortune again elsewhere—perhaps to live in peace for a few years before he should be again hunted down by some of the wolves amongst whom his early lot had been cast.
“John—John!”
He started. It was Jessie calling, and hastily going downstairs, it was to see her with the flush gone out of her cheeks, and looking pale and anxious, as she held out a strip of paper.
“Two rough-looking men gave this to the boy for you,” she said, looking at him in a troubled way.
He took the paper hastily, and turned away with a dark red glow spreading over his temples. He divined who had sent the note, and shivered as he thought of how the boy would chatter to everybody about the farm. Perhaps Jessie had questioned him already, and set him down as being the friend and companion of the senders:
Turning away, he walked out into the yard to find that the paper had originally been used for holding an ounce of tobacco, and upon it was scrawled in pencil:
“We ave bin spekkin yu hat the krikt fele Ude betr cum.”
“2 OLE FRENDS.”
“You had better come!” What should he do? Set them at defiance or go away at once?
Torn by doubts he could do neither, but stood hesitating, till, in a fit of desperation, he strode off in the direction of the cricket-field.
He had saved a little money, and he might perhaps bribe them to take it and go, leaving him in peace, though he felt the while that such a proceeding would only be an invitation to them to come back, and demand more; but even if they did, a fortnight’s respite was worth all he possessed; and, besides, it would give him time to turn round and devise some plan for freeing himself of his incubus.
To reach the cricket-field he had to pass the back-door of the vicarage; taking, as he did, the cut through the fields; and as he neared it, separated from it by a high hedge, his blood turned cold as he heard Mrs Slee’s shrill voice exclaim:
“You can’t miss it: the second tunning to the right, and then it’s the second field.”
“And you wean’t buy the bud then, mum—that theer goldfinch as I told you off?”
“Bird, no,” cried Mrs Slee; “what do I want with such clat. Let the poor thing go. You ought to be ashamed of yoursens.”
“We just about are,” said one of the men: and then, as John Maine remained breathless behind the hedge, he heard the grating of feet upon the gravel, and one said to the other:
“Say, Jem, lad, did you see?” and he made a smacking noise with his lips.
“I see,” replied Jem, “everythink.” Then, “If that theer Johnny Maine don’t show up, we’ll precious soon have the owd badger out of his earth.”
John Maine shrank back with a cloud of thoughts hurrying through his brain, foremost among which was that these men had been spying up at the vicarage. Through any window there could be seen the valuable plate on the sideboard and shelves, and the plan of offering a bird for sale was but an excuse for getting up to a house—a plan which he knew of old.
For a few moments he felt disposed to turn back; then he was for facing them boldly: but all doubts were set at rest by footsteps coming in his direction; so, stepping out boldly, he was soon after face to face with his two old companions, who seemed to be strolling about with their hands in their pockets, enjoying an evening pipe.
“Here he is!” exclaimed Ike, grinning; “I knew he’d come. But howd your noise, Jem; don’t make a row. Johnny don’t care about being seen too much along of us. It’s all raight. He knows a thing or two. There’ll be a bit of a game on soon, lad, and we shall want you. We don’t know one another, we don’t. Now, which is the gainest way to the cricket-field?”
John Maine pointed in the direction, and Jem came close up with a leer, saying:
“Say, lad, recklect that plate job, eh? Melted down at Birmingham or Sheffle, an’ no questions asked.”
John Maine shuddered as he recalled the time when he was innocently made the bearer of a heavy package to a bullion melter, and told afterwards whence the silver had been obtained.
Before he had recovered himself, the two scoundrels had sauntered away, leaving him shivering, as he thought over their words, and understood them as a threat of denunciation, unless he kept his own counsel.
Then, in imagination, he saw a party drive over from one of the big towns in a light spring-cart, drawn by a weedy screw of a horse; an entry made at the vicarage, and everything of value swept away, while he was helpless to arrest the robbery, except at the cost of his worldly position.
He stood thinking for a time, and then strode on across the fields to the cricket ground, where a little half-hearted play was going on, the men of Dumford being too much influenced by the strike to care much for any thing save their tobacco. He caught sight of the two men once or twice; but they took not the slightest heed of his presence, and instead of their watching him he watched them, following them at last into the town, and seeing them go along the main street past the Glaires’ house, and away up the hill, Richard coming down and passing them.
“Can they be going right away?” thought John Maine hopefully, till he recollected a low, poacher-haunted public-house about a mile beyond the chalk pit, and rightly set that down as their destination.
He turned back with a sigh, to see Tom Podmore leaning thoughtfully against one of the houses, and going up, the two young men engaged in conversation for a few minutes, each rigorously abstaining from all mention of the other’s love affairs, and soon after they parted, for John Maine to seek his sleepless pillow.
Volume Two—Chapter Nine.Lost.There was no newspaper in Dumford, only those which came from Ramford and Lindum, but news flew quite fast enough without, and by breakfast-time on the morning of the day following the events spoken of in the past chapter, it was known that Daisy Banks had not been home all night.Joe Banks himself spread the news by going and making inquiries in all directions directly he was up.For, on waking about half-past five, according to his regular custom, and jumping out of bed to dress and go into his garden, as he had no work, he found to his astonishment that his wife had not been to bed; and she now came to him, crying bitterly, to say that she had been sitting up all night waiting for Daisy.“Why didn’t you tell me?” he roared.“I wanted to screen her, Joe,” moaned Mrs Banks. “I thought you’d be so popped with the poor girl; and though I didn’t like her goings on, I didn’t want her to be scolded.”“What time did she go out?” said Joe, trying to recall the past night.“About eight, and I expected her back every minute after ten.”“Here, give me my hat,” cried Joe; and he was off to the main street, where, in answer to inquiries, he found that Daisy had been seen in the High Street soon after eight.“What’s wrong?” said Tom Podmore, coming out of his house.“Daisy! hev you seen my Daisy?” said Joe, furiously.“Yes, I see her go up the street last night at about eight,” said Tom, “as if going up the hill by the chalk pit.”“Did you folly her?”“No,” said Tom, sadly; “I never folly her now. But what’s it mean—isn’t she at home?”“No,” said Joe, sharply. “She’s not been at home all night. Wheer can she be?”“Better ask Master Dick Glaire,” said Tom, uttering a groan. “He can tell ye.”“Howd thee tongue, thee silly fool,” cried Joe, angrily. “How should he know owt about where she is? Here, come along. I’ll soon show thee thou’rt wrong.”He led the way to the Big House, where one of the maids was just opening the shutters; and, on being beckoned to, she came to the door.“Where’s Master Richard?” said Joe.“Fast asleep in bed,” said the girl.“Art sure?” said Joe.“Yes, certain,” said the girl.“Was he out last night?”“Yes,” said the girl; “but he came home early, and then went out for a bit; but he was in very soon, and sat up to let missus in, while I went to bed.”“What time will he be up?” said Joe.“Not before nine,” said the girl. “Shall I tell him you want him?”“No,” said Joe. “I’ll come on again soon.”Tom seemed surprised and troubled, for he had fully expected to find that Richard Glaire was from home.“Thou’rt wrong, lad,” said Joe, drawing his breath through his teeth. “Some ill has fallen to the poor lass.”“What’s up, Joe Banks?” said Harry, the big hammerman, straddling slowly up.“Did’st see owt o’ my Daisy last night?” said Joe.Harry pulled off his cap, and gave his head a rub before answering.“Yes, I see her go up ta hill, ’bout eight it weer.”“Did you see her come back?” asked Tom, eagerly.“No, lad, no. I see Master Richard Glaire come along though,” said the big fellow, under the impression that that might act as a clue.“Yes,” said Tom, bitterly. “I saw him, and again at about ten, talking to Sim Slee, and then the lads followed him up street, and he ran into the house.”“Sim Slee!” said Joe, thinking. “We’ll ask him; but let’s go to the police.”At the station no news could be heard, and as time went on, plenty of neighbours could be found to say that they had seen Daisy Banks go up the hill; and amongst these was the chattering old woman at the public-house. But no one had seen her return.“Come along o’ me, lad,” said Joe Banks; and they strode up the hill, a heavy sense of dread gathering over each of the men, as they thought of the chalk pit, and the possibility of Daisy having fallen in, to lie there dead or dying, on the rough, hard blocks at the bottom.The morning was bright and beautiful, and the sun made the dew-sprinkled strands and twigs glitter like gems; but to those who sought Daisy Banks, all seemed gloomy, and in spite of all his bitter feelings, Tom Podmore’s heart was terribly stirred within him, so that he uttered a wild cry when just at the top, and ran ahead to pick up something soaked and wet with the night dew.“It’s her basket,” he cried.Joe staggered, and seemed to turn sick; but recovering himself, he ran up to the younger man.“Yes, it’s her basket,” he said, huskily. “Tom, lad, look over the rail—I—I can’t.”Joe Banks sank down on his knees, and covered his face with his rough hands, while Tom shuddered, and then calling up his fortitude, looked over the rail down the steep-sided pit, and uttered a cry as he drew back, ran down the lane to the end of the slope, leaped the gate across the track where the carts descended, and running over the scattered lumps of chalk, made his way down into the deepest part of the pit, where to him it had seemed that Daisy was lying at the bottom of the wall of grey rock.But, no, it was only her dew-soaked shawl; and though he looked in all directions, he found nothing else but a glove.“She must have been here,” he said to himself, and in an agitated way he clambered about over the blocks of chalk, and thedébrisfallen from above; but nothing was visible, and he stood at last looking round.There was the face of the chalk before him, and he was shut in by it right and left, the walls gradually falling lower as he turned back and passed the extinct lime-kiln, till they sloped down to the level of the track—the pit having been gradually dug in the side of the hill, every load taken out cutting farther into the side, and making the principal wall of chalk more precipitous and high.Still, not satisfied, Tom Podmore ran back and hunted in all directions; but as far as he could see nothing was visible, and he turned once more to find the father coming to join him, trembling, and looking ashy pale.“Hev you found her, Tom? hev you found her?” he gasped, and on Tom shaking his head, he caught him by the arm. “Yes,” he exclaimed, in a piteous voice, “that’s her shawl. Where is she gone?”“I heven’t found her,” said the young man, hoarsely. “She’s not there.”“Not there? Not fallen in? Thank God, thank God! But are ye sure, lad? are ye sure?”“I’ve hunted the place all over,” said Tom, sadly; and then Joe Banks clutched his arm tightly, and they went straight back to the town, where Joe stopped at the Big House and was admitted, Tom Podmore following.“Wheer’s the master?” said Joe, hastily.“Just come down and gone out,” said the girl. “Shall I tell missus?”“Yes,” said Joe. “No;” and then to himself, “I can’t meet her now.”He hurried out and down the street, head after head being thrust out, while the people outside their doors gave him looks of condolence, and shook their heads by way of sympathy.“Tom, lad,” said Joe, “I can’t kinder understand this; it’s amairzin. But look here, lad; go and ask the boys to come and help you, and mebbe you’ll get a hundred of ’em ready to search for my bairn. Get the police, too. I’m off to find the young master.”Tom started off on his recruiting expedition, while Daisy’s father hurried down the street to try and find Richard Glaire, though not with the most remote idea of coupling him with the girl’s disappearance.He had nearly reached the vicarage, and was passing one of the side lanes, when he heard voices in altercation, and on glancing round it was to see the man he sought holding Sim Slee by the throat, and shaking him violently.“You treacherous hound!” he was saying, “and after the way I’ve trusted you.”“Joe Banks, here, Joe Banks, help!” yelled Sim; but before Daisy’s father could reach the couple, Richard Glaire threw the democrat off, so that he staggered against the wall.“You dog!” cried Richard, grinding his teeth.“All right,” whimpered Sim. “All right, Mr Richard Glaire, Esquire. I’ve stood up for you enew lately; now tak’ care of yoursen.”“I’ll break your head, you scoundrel, if you don’t go,” roared Richard.Sim rubbed the dust from his person and shook himself straight, looking side-wise the while at his assailant before sidling off, shaking his fist; and then, when about fifty yards away, turning round and shouting:“I’ll be even with you for this, Dick Glaire.”Richard made a rush at him, when Sim took to his heels and ran, while the young man turned back to where Joe Banks stood holding poor Daisy’s basket and shawl.“Master Dick,” said the old man sternly, “I want to ask thee a question, and I want yow, as your father’s son, to give me a straightforward answer.”“But what does this all mean, Joe? what’s this about Daisy?”“Answer my question,” said the old man, sternly; and then he paused for a moment, as he fixed his clear eyes on the young man’s shifty face, before saying hoarsely:“Were you out walking wi’ my lass, Daisy, last night?”“No,” said Richard, firmly; “certainly not.”“And thee didn’t see her last night at all?”“Yes, oh yes,” said Richard, eagerly. “I did see her, and said, ‘How d’ye do.’”“Wheer?” said Joe Banks, without moving a muscle.“Up by the chalk pit, at the top of the hill. I’d been having a round.”“What time?” said Joe, shortly.“Well, let me see,” said Richard, hesitating. “I came straight down home, and it was about half-past eight when I got in.”Joe stood thinking: the servant-girl had said that her master had come in early.“And you didn’t see my bairn after?” said Joe, gazing full in the young man’s eyes.“Certainly not,” said Richard.“Will yow swear it?” said Joe.Richard hesitated for a moment, and then, with a half-laugh, said:“Oh, yes, if you like.”“Perhaps I shall like, my lad; but I don’t ask you to sweer now. You’ve heerd, I s’pose?”“I’ve heard something, Joe, but can’t quite make it out,” said the young man.“It’s easy,” said Joe, hoarsely. “My poor bairn came up town last night, and she hasn’t been back. We foun’ these here up by the chalk pit.”“But she hadn’t fallen in?”“No, my lad, no,” said the old man, quietly, for he was thinking deeply. “But thankye, thankye. They wanted to make me believe as you meant harm to the lass—all on ’em; but I knew you, lad, well, as your poor owd father’s son.”“Mr Banks!”“Aw raight, my lad, aw raight. I never thowt it of you, never; but the tongues would wag; and I said if thee loved the bairn thee should’st hev her. You do her harm! Not you, lad; you cared too much for her. But harm’s come to her some way. Let’s find her.”“But how could they say such things of me?” said Richard, with virtuous indignation shining out of his eyes.“Oh, they’re a chithering lot,” exclaimed Joe. “They’d seen thee talk to the bairn, or mebbe seen thee heving a walk wi’ her, and that weer enew to set their tongues clacking. But we must be going, mun, for we’re losing time; and if any one’s done wrong by my bairn—”Richard shrank away, startled at the lurid flash from the old man’s eyes, as setting his teeth, and clenching his massive fist, he shook it at vacancy, and then, without another word, strode on, accompanied by Richard, who was trembling now like a leaf.“Let me go in here for a moment or two,” said Richard, as they came abreast of the House; and as the door was thrown open, it was to show Mrs Glaire and Eve both standing dressed in the hall.“Oh, Mr Banks,” exclaimed the latter, running to the old foreman, “this is very dreadful,” and she caught one of his hands in hers.“Thanky’e, dear bairn, thanky’e,” he said, smiling upon her with quivering lip.“But I saw her last night,” cried Eve.“Ay? What time, miss, what time?” said Joe, eagerly.“About eight,” said Eve, quickly. “She said, I think, that she was going to meet Richard.”“She said that?” said the old man, starting, while Richard turned pale.“No, I remember,” said Eve, piteously; “I told her she was going to meet him.”“Yes, yes,” said Joe, thoughtfully. “You were jealous of the poor bairn.”Eve started back, blushing crimson.“But are you sure she has not been home, Joe Banks?” said Mrs Glaire, looking at him wistfully.“Sure, ay, quite sure,” said Joe, sternly. “Here is the poor bairn’s shawl, and her basket too. I’ll leave ’em here, if you’ll let me.”He laid them down in the hall, and stepped out to where there was quite a crowd of workmen now, waiting to help in the search; but as they caught sight of Richard Glaire, who now came forward, there was a savage groan.“Ask him where he’s put thee bairn, Joe Banks; he knows,” cried a shrill voice, that of some woman; and another groan arose, making Richard draw back shivering.“Look at the white-faced coward,” shouted a man. “Ask him, Joe Banks, ask him.”“Nay, nay, lads,” said the foreman, sternly. “Ye’re aw wrong. I hev asked him, and he’s told me. He knows nowt about the poor bairn.”A murmur arose at this, but Joe Banks turned round to where Richard stood.“You come along o’ me, Master Richard, and no one ’ll lay a finger on thee whiles thou’rt by my side. He was at home aw night, lads, and it’s not him as would do her harm.”The little crowd seemed only half satisfied; but they gave place as, making an effort, the young man stepped out, and then in a purposeless way the search was about to begin, when there was a cheer given, for the vicar came hurrying up the street.He looked hot and flushed, and his eyes met those of Richard Glaire so sternly that, for the moment, the young man blushed, but he recovered himself directly, to give an insolent stare in return.“Mr Banks,” exclaimed the vicar, “this is grievous news indeed;” and ignoring the foreman’s half-distant manner, he shook his hand warmly.“Thanky, parson,” said Joe, hoarsely.“You are about to make a general search, of course,” he said; “but where are the police?”“One’s gone across to station, and the other’s up at the chalk pit,” said a voice.“First of all,” said the vicar, “did any one here see Daisy Banks after she went up the road?”There was silence for a few moments, and then Richard said firmly:“I saw her for a few moments up by the pit.”“And not after?” said the vicar, fixing his eyes on the young man.“I object to this cross-examination,” said Richard, hotly. “This is not a magistrate.”“Parson asked thee a plain question, lad; give him a plain answer,” said Joe, quietly. “Thou’st nowt to fear.”“No, then,” said Richard, loudly. “I was at home.”“Mr Banks, then, you had better take twenty men; you go with these twenty, Podmore; and—”He hesitated a moment, when Joe Banks said:“Master Richard will take another twenty.”“And another score will perhaps go with me,” said the vicar. “Then we’ll each take one road; and mind, my men, every ditch, copse, and pond must be well searched; and, above all, mind and ask at every cottage on the road, who has passed, and what carts or carriages have gone along since last night.”The parties were soon told off, when the vicar exclaimed:“But stop! There were two strangers here yesterday.”“Yes,” chorused several. “Two ill-looking chaps from one of the big towns.”“Ay,” cried big Harry; “and I sin ’em go up towards the chalk pit.”“So did I,” said another.There was silence for a moment or two, and Tom Podmore seemed to feel the place go round, but he roused himself directly as he heard the vicar’s clear ringing voice:“Then if some treacherous, unmanly scoundrel has not carried off, or persuaded this poor girl to leave father, mother, and home, for his own bad ends, we have found the clue. But mind this, my lads, we are going to run down those two men, but no violence. Let’s take them, but we must prove that they have been guilty.”“Aw raight, parson;” and the whole party were for a rush up the road towards the chalk pit; but the vicar kept them to their separate tasks; and, glancing upwards, he caught a glimpse of two pale faces at the Big House, and the faces were those of Eve Pelly and Mrs Glaire.Then each party started, and the search began.
There was no newspaper in Dumford, only those which came from Ramford and Lindum, but news flew quite fast enough without, and by breakfast-time on the morning of the day following the events spoken of in the past chapter, it was known that Daisy Banks had not been home all night.
Joe Banks himself spread the news by going and making inquiries in all directions directly he was up.
For, on waking about half-past five, according to his regular custom, and jumping out of bed to dress and go into his garden, as he had no work, he found to his astonishment that his wife had not been to bed; and she now came to him, crying bitterly, to say that she had been sitting up all night waiting for Daisy.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he roared.
“I wanted to screen her, Joe,” moaned Mrs Banks. “I thought you’d be so popped with the poor girl; and though I didn’t like her goings on, I didn’t want her to be scolded.”
“What time did she go out?” said Joe, trying to recall the past night.
“About eight, and I expected her back every minute after ten.”
“Here, give me my hat,” cried Joe; and he was off to the main street, where, in answer to inquiries, he found that Daisy had been seen in the High Street soon after eight.
“What’s wrong?” said Tom Podmore, coming out of his house.
“Daisy! hev you seen my Daisy?” said Joe, furiously.
“Yes, I see her go up the street last night at about eight,” said Tom, “as if going up the hill by the chalk pit.”
“Did you folly her?”
“No,” said Tom, sadly; “I never folly her now. But what’s it mean—isn’t she at home?”
“No,” said Joe, sharply. “She’s not been at home all night. Wheer can she be?”
“Better ask Master Dick Glaire,” said Tom, uttering a groan. “He can tell ye.”
“Howd thee tongue, thee silly fool,” cried Joe, angrily. “How should he know owt about where she is? Here, come along. I’ll soon show thee thou’rt wrong.”
He led the way to the Big House, where one of the maids was just opening the shutters; and, on being beckoned to, she came to the door.
“Where’s Master Richard?” said Joe.
“Fast asleep in bed,” said the girl.
“Art sure?” said Joe.
“Yes, certain,” said the girl.
“Was he out last night?”
“Yes,” said the girl; “but he came home early, and then went out for a bit; but he was in very soon, and sat up to let missus in, while I went to bed.”
“What time will he be up?” said Joe.
“Not before nine,” said the girl. “Shall I tell him you want him?”
“No,” said Joe. “I’ll come on again soon.”
Tom seemed surprised and troubled, for he had fully expected to find that Richard Glaire was from home.
“Thou’rt wrong, lad,” said Joe, drawing his breath through his teeth. “Some ill has fallen to the poor lass.”
“What’s up, Joe Banks?” said Harry, the big hammerman, straddling slowly up.
“Did’st see owt o’ my Daisy last night?” said Joe.
Harry pulled off his cap, and gave his head a rub before answering.
“Yes, I see her go up ta hill, ’bout eight it weer.”
“Did you see her come back?” asked Tom, eagerly.
“No, lad, no. I see Master Richard Glaire come along though,” said the big fellow, under the impression that that might act as a clue.
“Yes,” said Tom, bitterly. “I saw him, and again at about ten, talking to Sim Slee, and then the lads followed him up street, and he ran into the house.”
“Sim Slee!” said Joe, thinking. “We’ll ask him; but let’s go to the police.”
At the station no news could be heard, and as time went on, plenty of neighbours could be found to say that they had seen Daisy Banks go up the hill; and amongst these was the chattering old woman at the public-house. But no one had seen her return.
“Come along o’ me, lad,” said Joe Banks; and they strode up the hill, a heavy sense of dread gathering over each of the men, as they thought of the chalk pit, and the possibility of Daisy having fallen in, to lie there dead or dying, on the rough, hard blocks at the bottom.
The morning was bright and beautiful, and the sun made the dew-sprinkled strands and twigs glitter like gems; but to those who sought Daisy Banks, all seemed gloomy, and in spite of all his bitter feelings, Tom Podmore’s heart was terribly stirred within him, so that he uttered a wild cry when just at the top, and ran ahead to pick up something soaked and wet with the night dew.
“It’s her basket,” he cried.
Joe staggered, and seemed to turn sick; but recovering himself, he ran up to the younger man.
“Yes, it’s her basket,” he said, huskily. “Tom, lad, look over the rail—I—I can’t.”
Joe Banks sank down on his knees, and covered his face with his rough hands, while Tom shuddered, and then calling up his fortitude, looked over the rail down the steep-sided pit, and uttered a cry as he drew back, ran down the lane to the end of the slope, leaped the gate across the track where the carts descended, and running over the scattered lumps of chalk, made his way down into the deepest part of the pit, where to him it had seemed that Daisy was lying at the bottom of the wall of grey rock.
But, no, it was only her dew-soaked shawl; and though he looked in all directions, he found nothing else but a glove.
“She must have been here,” he said to himself, and in an agitated way he clambered about over the blocks of chalk, and thedébrisfallen from above; but nothing was visible, and he stood at last looking round.
There was the face of the chalk before him, and he was shut in by it right and left, the walls gradually falling lower as he turned back and passed the extinct lime-kiln, till they sloped down to the level of the track—the pit having been gradually dug in the side of the hill, every load taken out cutting farther into the side, and making the principal wall of chalk more precipitous and high.
Still, not satisfied, Tom Podmore ran back and hunted in all directions; but as far as he could see nothing was visible, and he turned once more to find the father coming to join him, trembling, and looking ashy pale.
“Hev you found her, Tom? hev you found her?” he gasped, and on Tom shaking his head, he caught him by the arm. “Yes,” he exclaimed, in a piteous voice, “that’s her shawl. Where is she gone?”
“I heven’t found her,” said the young man, hoarsely. “She’s not there.”
“Not there? Not fallen in? Thank God, thank God! But are ye sure, lad? are ye sure?”
“I’ve hunted the place all over,” said Tom, sadly; and then Joe Banks clutched his arm tightly, and they went straight back to the town, where Joe stopped at the Big House and was admitted, Tom Podmore following.
“Wheer’s the master?” said Joe, hastily.
“Just come down and gone out,” said the girl. “Shall I tell missus?”
“Yes,” said Joe. “No;” and then to himself, “I can’t meet her now.”
He hurried out and down the street, head after head being thrust out, while the people outside their doors gave him looks of condolence, and shook their heads by way of sympathy.
“Tom, lad,” said Joe, “I can’t kinder understand this; it’s amairzin. But look here, lad; go and ask the boys to come and help you, and mebbe you’ll get a hundred of ’em ready to search for my bairn. Get the police, too. I’m off to find the young master.”
Tom started off on his recruiting expedition, while Daisy’s father hurried down the street to try and find Richard Glaire, though not with the most remote idea of coupling him with the girl’s disappearance.
He had nearly reached the vicarage, and was passing one of the side lanes, when he heard voices in altercation, and on glancing round it was to see the man he sought holding Sim Slee by the throat, and shaking him violently.
“You treacherous hound!” he was saying, “and after the way I’ve trusted you.”
“Joe Banks, here, Joe Banks, help!” yelled Sim; but before Daisy’s father could reach the couple, Richard Glaire threw the democrat off, so that he staggered against the wall.
“You dog!” cried Richard, grinding his teeth.
“All right,” whimpered Sim. “All right, Mr Richard Glaire, Esquire. I’ve stood up for you enew lately; now tak’ care of yoursen.”
“I’ll break your head, you scoundrel, if you don’t go,” roared Richard.
Sim rubbed the dust from his person and shook himself straight, looking side-wise the while at his assailant before sidling off, shaking his fist; and then, when about fifty yards away, turning round and shouting:
“I’ll be even with you for this, Dick Glaire.”
Richard made a rush at him, when Sim took to his heels and ran, while the young man turned back to where Joe Banks stood holding poor Daisy’s basket and shawl.
“Master Dick,” said the old man sternly, “I want to ask thee a question, and I want yow, as your father’s son, to give me a straightforward answer.”
“But what does this all mean, Joe? what’s this about Daisy?”
“Answer my question,” said the old man, sternly; and then he paused for a moment, as he fixed his clear eyes on the young man’s shifty face, before saying hoarsely:
“Were you out walking wi’ my lass, Daisy, last night?”
“No,” said Richard, firmly; “certainly not.”
“And thee didn’t see her last night at all?”
“Yes, oh yes,” said Richard, eagerly. “I did see her, and said, ‘How d’ye do.’”
“Wheer?” said Joe Banks, without moving a muscle.
“Up by the chalk pit, at the top of the hill. I’d been having a round.”
“What time?” said Joe, shortly.
“Well, let me see,” said Richard, hesitating. “I came straight down home, and it was about half-past eight when I got in.”
Joe stood thinking: the servant-girl had said that her master had come in early.
“And you didn’t see my bairn after?” said Joe, gazing full in the young man’s eyes.
“Certainly not,” said Richard.
“Will yow swear it?” said Joe.
Richard hesitated for a moment, and then, with a half-laugh, said:
“Oh, yes, if you like.”
“Perhaps I shall like, my lad; but I don’t ask you to sweer now. You’ve heerd, I s’pose?”
“I’ve heard something, Joe, but can’t quite make it out,” said the young man.
“It’s easy,” said Joe, hoarsely. “My poor bairn came up town last night, and she hasn’t been back. We foun’ these here up by the chalk pit.”
“But she hadn’t fallen in?”
“No, my lad, no,” said the old man, quietly, for he was thinking deeply. “But thankye, thankye. They wanted to make me believe as you meant harm to the lass—all on ’em; but I knew you, lad, well, as your poor owd father’s son.”
“Mr Banks!”
“Aw raight, my lad, aw raight. I never thowt it of you, never; but the tongues would wag; and I said if thee loved the bairn thee should’st hev her. You do her harm! Not you, lad; you cared too much for her. But harm’s come to her some way. Let’s find her.”
“But how could they say such things of me?” said Richard, with virtuous indignation shining out of his eyes.
“Oh, they’re a chithering lot,” exclaimed Joe. “They’d seen thee talk to the bairn, or mebbe seen thee heving a walk wi’ her, and that weer enew to set their tongues clacking. But we must be going, mun, for we’re losing time; and if any one’s done wrong by my bairn—”
Richard shrank away, startled at the lurid flash from the old man’s eyes, as setting his teeth, and clenching his massive fist, he shook it at vacancy, and then, without another word, strode on, accompanied by Richard, who was trembling now like a leaf.
“Let me go in here for a moment or two,” said Richard, as they came abreast of the House; and as the door was thrown open, it was to show Mrs Glaire and Eve both standing dressed in the hall.
“Oh, Mr Banks,” exclaimed the latter, running to the old foreman, “this is very dreadful,” and she caught one of his hands in hers.
“Thanky’e, dear bairn, thanky’e,” he said, smiling upon her with quivering lip.
“But I saw her last night,” cried Eve.
“Ay? What time, miss, what time?” said Joe, eagerly.
“About eight,” said Eve, quickly. “She said, I think, that she was going to meet Richard.”
“She said that?” said the old man, starting, while Richard turned pale.
“No, I remember,” said Eve, piteously; “I told her she was going to meet him.”
“Yes, yes,” said Joe, thoughtfully. “You were jealous of the poor bairn.”
Eve started back, blushing crimson.
“But are you sure she has not been home, Joe Banks?” said Mrs Glaire, looking at him wistfully.
“Sure, ay, quite sure,” said Joe, sternly. “Here is the poor bairn’s shawl, and her basket too. I’ll leave ’em here, if you’ll let me.”
He laid them down in the hall, and stepped out to where there was quite a crowd of workmen now, waiting to help in the search; but as they caught sight of Richard Glaire, who now came forward, there was a savage groan.
“Ask him where he’s put thee bairn, Joe Banks; he knows,” cried a shrill voice, that of some woman; and another groan arose, making Richard draw back shivering.
“Look at the white-faced coward,” shouted a man. “Ask him, Joe Banks, ask him.”
“Nay, nay, lads,” said the foreman, sternly. “Ye’re aw wrong. I hev asked him, and he’s told me. He knows nowt about the poor bairn.”
A murmur arose at this, but Joe Banks turned round to where Richard stood.
“You come along o’ me, Master Richard, and no one ’ll lay a finger on thee whiles thou’rt by my side. He was at home aw night, lads, and it’s not him as would do her harm.”
The little crowd seemed only half satisfied; but they gave place as, making an effort, the young man stepped out, and then in a purposeless way the search was about to begin, when there was a cheer given, for the vicar came hurrying up the street.
He looked hot and flushed, and his eyes met those of Richard Glaire so sternly that, for the moment, the young man blushed, but he recovered himself directly, to give an insolent stare in return.
“Mr Banks,” exclaimed the vicar, “this is grievous news indeed;” and ignoring the foreman’s half-distant manner, he shook his hand warmly.
“Thanky, parson,” said Joe, hoarsely.
“You are about to make a general search, of course,” he said; “but where are the police?”
“One’s gone across to station, and the other’s up at the chalk pit,” said a voice.
“First of all,” said the vicar, “did any one here see Daisy Banks after she went up the road?”
There was silence for a few moments, and then Richard said firmly:
“I saw her for a few moments up by the pit.”
“And not after?” said the vicar, fixing his eyes on the young man.
“I object to this cross-examination,” said Richard, hotly. “This is not a magistrate.”
“Parson asked thee a plain question, lad; give him a plain answer,” said Joe, quietly. “Thou’st nowt to fear.”
“No, then,” said Richard, loudly. “I was at home.”
“Mr Banks, then, you had better take twenty men; you go with these twenty, Podmore; and—”
He hesitated a moment, when Joe Banks said:
“Master Richard will take another twenty.”
“And another score will perhaps go with me,” said the vicar. “Then we’ll each take one road; and mind, my men, every ditch, copse, and pond must be well searched; and, above all, mind and ask at every cottage on the road, who has passed, and what carts or carriages have gone along since last night.”
The parties were soon told off, when the vicar exclaimed:
“But stop! There were two strangers here yesterday.”
“Yes,” chorused several. “Two ill-looking chaps from one of the big towns.”
“Ay,” cried big Harry; “and I sin ’em go up towards the chalk pit.”
“So did I,” said another.
There was silence for a moment or two, and Tom Podmore seemed to feel the place go round, but he roused himself directly as he heard the vicar’s clear ringing voice:
“Then if some treacherous, unmanly scoundrel has not carried off, or persuaded this poor girl to leave father, mother, and home, for his own bad ends, we have found the clue. But mind this, my lads, we are going to run down those two men, but no violence. Let’s take them, but we must prove that they have been guilty.”
“Aw raight, parson;” and the whole party were for a rush up the road towards the chalk pit; but the vicar kept them to their separate tasks; and, glancing upwards, he caught a glimpse of two pale faces at the Big House, and the faces were those of Eve Pelly and Mrs Glaire.
Then each party started, and the search began.
Volume Two—Chapter Ten.A Fruitless Search.The chalk pit naturally formed the great attraction, and on reaching it, the spots were pointed out where basket and shawl were found; but though a careful search was made by a portion of the force, nothing was for some time found to account for the disappearance.The party had, however, divided here, and a portion of them, under Big Harry, had hastened along the road toward the Four Alls, the name of the little public-house where it was expected to hear some tidings of the men who had been seen in the town, and who must have passed, even if they were guiltless of wrong. The vicar, however, chose to remain behind, with about ten of his party, and together they began to make a more careful search about the pit—the first investigation being of the low post-and-rail fence which ran along the edge, to see if it was perfect in every part.Yes, there was no doubt of it; not a rail was broken, or post bent out of the perpendicular, as would probably have been the case had any one fallen against it or been pushed over. Not even a piece of the shallow turf growing on the very brink of the pit was disordered, and the vicar was about to give up that part of the search, when he made a leap forward, and took from a rough splintered portion of the divided fir-pole which formed the rail a tiny scrap of red worsted, such as might very well have been torn from Daisy’s shawl.“I think we’re on the right track, my lads,” said the vicar. “Now let’s divide, and we’ll search the coppice here, along the edge of the pit.”The men went eagerly to work, and searched foot by foot the little thin sprinkling of fir trees and gorse that hung upon the edge of the declivity, but without avail—there was not a spot that could have sheltered a human form that was not scanned, and the divided party met at last upon the low ground at the slope of the hill, where the cart track cut its way in, and the lime-kiln stood half-way into the pit.The vicar paused for a moment by the kiln, and peered in. It was not burning, and in a few minutes he was able to satisfy himself that no one had been in there, and with a shudder he turned away, spreading his men so that step by step they examined the rough white and gray blocks that had been thrown aside or had fallen. Some were fresh and of the purest white, with here and there delicate traces of the pectens and cardiums of a former shelly world; others were hoary and grey, and covered with a frosty lichen; while others, again, were earth-stained and brown.In accordance with their leader’s instructions, each block was eagerly examined, the vicar’s idea being that it was possible for a cruel murder to have taken place, and for the token of the hideous crime to have been hidden, by laying it in some depression, and piling up the pieces of chalk, of which ample lay ready, for hiding a hundred such crimes.But, no; there were footmarks here and there, and traces of the edges of the blocks having been chipped by heavy boots; but no spot could be found where they could satisfy themselves that they had been removed.By this time some forty more sturdy workmen had come up; the event, in the midst of their enforced idleness from the works, being hailed as an excitement; and any amount of muscle was ready to help if directed.The long search was, however, in vain; and their leader was pondering as to what he should do next, when a rough voice shouted:“See here, lads. We’ll do ony mander o’ thing to find Joe Banks’s bairn. Come on! let’s hurl ivery bit o’ calk out o’ the pit.”There was a shout at this, and the men were about to put their project in execution, when the vicar held up his hand.“It’s waste of strength, my lads,” he said. “I am fully convinced that none of these blocks have been moved. Better search the lanes along the road.”“Aw raight, parson,” was the cry; and the men left the pit to proceed along the road, the vicar on in front, so as to reach The Four Alls.Before they had gone far they encountered the rest of their party, returning without further success than that of making the announcement that the men they sought had called there about nine, and had then gone on, being taken up for a lift by a man with a cart.“What man, and what cart?” said one of the police constables, who had now come up.The men did not know, and this being an important point, the whole party now hastened on to the little roadside inn—a shabby, dilapidated place, whose shed at the side, which represented the stabling, was falling away from the house, and whose premises generally seemed to be arranged by the owner as places for storing rubbish, dirt, and green scummed pools of water. There was a cart with one wheel, and a mangy horse with one eye, and apparently a ragged hen with one leg, but she put down another, made a low-spirited remark evidently relating to stolen eggs, and went off pecking here and there in a disconsolate manner, as if her search for food were one of the most hopeless pursuits under the sun. There was a garden, roughly fenced in, by the side of the house; but its crop consisted of last year’s gray cabbage-stumps; while, but for the sign over the door, nearly defaced, but having visible the words “wines and spirituous,” the place could hardly have been taken for a place of refreshment, even though the occupant of this attractive spot stood at the door, showing the potency of the said “wines and spirituous” liquors in his reddened and blotched face, as he leaned against the door-post, smoking a long clay pipe, and staring lazily at the party who now came up.“Can you give us any information about the two men who came here last night?” said the vicar.“Say?” said the man, staring.“Gentleman wants to know wheer them chaps is gone,” said the constable.“How should I know?” said the man, surlily. “Californy or Roosalum, for owt I know.”“No nonsense, Brumby,” said the constable. “You’d best speak out. Who wheer they?”“Friends o’ mine,” said the man, taking his pipe out of his mouth for a moment, to relieve himself of a tremendous volume of smoke.“What were their names?”“How should I know? They come here, and has a bit o’ rafrashment, and they goes again. What do I keer, so long as they wares their money.”“Who had they got wi’ ’em?”“Nobbut their own sens.”“But I mean when they comed.”“Look ye here, I hadn’t going to answer all your queshtons.”“Well, look here; had they any one wi’ ’em when they went away?”“Nobbat theer own sens,” said the man, sulkily.“Well, who gave them a lift?”“Don’t know, on’y as it weer a man in a cart.”“But you must ha’ seen his name.”“No, I musn’t if it wern’t painted on,” bawled the man. “What d’yer come wherretin’ me for about it? I don’t ask my customers who comes in for a gill o’ ale wheer they come from, nor wheer they’re going.”“Had they a young girl with them?” said the vicar, who was getting out of patience.“Not as I know on,” said the man. “One had nobbut a whip.”There was evidently nothing to be got out of him, so the party returned to Dumford, the policeman undertaking to communicate by telegraph with the towns through which the men would be likely to pass, as this would be the surest and quickest way.As the day wore on, the other parties returned to assemble and discuss the matter; though there was little to discuss, for Joe Banks had returned without a trace being found of his child, and the same ill fortune had attended Podmore and Richard Glaire.The latter, soon as he reached home, however, sought Mrs Glaire, who was lying down, apparently ill at ease, with Eve in attendance upon her, the young girl rising with a shiver as her cousin entered the room, and leaving without encountering his eyes.“Where is Daisy Banks, mother?” said Richard, hoarsely, as soon as they were alone. “I’ve kept up this foolery of searching all day, to quiet these people, and now I insist upon knowing where she is.”“I should ask you that,” said Mrs Glaire, angrily; “but if I did I should not learn the truth. Where have you taken her?”“Taken her?” said Richard, savagely. “Where should I take her? You know I was at home all last night.”“Where you had planned to take her,” said Mrs Glaire, coldly.“I planned!” cried Richard. “Why, I left her with you. Plans, indeed!”“Daisy Banks was not with me ten minutes,” said Mrs Glaire, quietly. “I said plans, because—”“Because what?” cried Richard. “Do you wish me to tell you?”“Yes, if you have anything to tell.”“Because you paid that chattering ass, Slee, to carry letters to and fro, between you and Daisy, after you had given me your word of honour that you would see her no more. Because you then, after gradually bringing the silly girl over to your purposes, paid or bribed, which you will, Simeon Slee, the man who has been one of the projectors of this wretched strike, to act as your pander to take this girl off to London, to await your coming. It is your doing; so now you had better seek her.”“How did you know all this?”“How did I know?” said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously. “How are such things known? You leaned upon a bruised reed, and it broke and entered your hand.”“Did Sim Slee tell you all this, then?” said Richard, stamping with fury.“Yes; and he would have told me long ago, had I given him what the knave wants—money.”“A treacherous scoundrel!” cried Richard; “trusting him as I did.”“You knew him to be a treacherous, prating scoundrel, so why did you trust him?”“Because I was a fool,” roared the young man, biting his nails with rage.“Exactly; because you were a fool, and because no honest man would help you to be guilty of the great sin you meant to commit, of stealing the daughter of the man who had been your father’s best friend—the man who helped him to make his fortune. Scoundrels are necessary to do scoundrels’ work.”“But he cheated me,” cried Richard; “he took my money, and he has not performed his promise.”“Of course not,” said Mrs Glaire. “But when did you know this?” cried Richard.“You own to it, then?” cried Mrs Glaire, gazing sharply at him.“Never mind whether I own it or not. A scoundrel! I’ll serve him out for this.”“I have known it only a few hours,” said Mrs Glaire, sinking back on her couch, and watching the young man, as he stamped up and down the room.“But he has thrown me over,” cried Richard. “I don’t know where the girl is.”“Who has thrown you over?” said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.“You needn’t believe me without you like,” said Richard; “but I am speaking the truth now. Sim Slee was to take her across to Lupsthorpe station, and go with her to town.”“Yes.”“And stay with her till I came, after the heat of the row was over; for no one would have missed him.”“Well?” said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.“Well, he has thrown me over,” said Richard. “I met him this morning, and found he had not been.”“What did he say?” said Mrs Glaire.“Swore he couldn’t find her.”“Then the wolf set the fox to carry off the lamb, and now the fox says he has not seen the prey,” said Mrs Glaire, smiling.“Damn your riddles and fables!” cried Richard, who was beside himself with rage. “I tell you he has sold me.”“What you might have expected,” said his mother.“The scoundrel has hidden her somewhere,” cried Richard; “and it’s his plan to get more money out of me.”“What you might have expected,” said Mrs Glaire, again. “You had better set the police to watch him and find him out.”“Not while I can do it better myself,” said the young man, with a cunning grin upon his countenance. “You have both been very clever, I dare say you think; and if the truth were known, you have been setting Sim Slee to get her away, so as to marry me to your pet; but you won’t succeed.”“You are wrong, Richard; I would not trust Sim Slee with the value of a penny. I gave him ten pounds for his information, and I have not seen him since. You had better employ the police.”“Curse the police!” cried Richard, looking hard at his mother’s face, and feeling that she was telling him the truth; “what good are they? I might have been killed before they would have interfered. But I’ve not done with Master Sim Slee yet.”“Then you will not employ the police?”“No,” said Richard, sharply; “the matter’s tangled enough as it is; but he’s got the wrong man to deal with, has Sim Slee, if he thinks he has cheated me so easily.”“Better leave him alone,” said Mrs Glaire, wearily. “You have enough to attend to with your own affairs.”“This is my affair,” cried Richard.“Bombast and sound,” said his mother. “I suppose you and Slee are in collusion, and this is done to blind me, and the rest of the town. But there, you must follow your own course.”“I mean to,” said Richard; and the breach between him and his mother seemed to be getting wider than ever.
The chalk pit naturally formed the great attraction, and on reaching it, the spots were pointed out where basket and shawl were found; but though a careful search was made by a portion of the force, nothing was for some time found to account for the disappearance.
The party had, however, divided here, and a portion of them, under Big Harry, had hastened along the road toward the Four Alls, the name of the little public-house where it was expected to hear some tidings of the men who had been seen in the town, and who must have passed, even if they were guiltless of wrong. The vicar, however, chose to remain behind, with about ten of his party, and together they began to make a more careful search about the pit—the first investigation being of the low post-and-rail fence which ran along the edge, to see if it was perfect in every part.
Yes, there was no doubt of it; not a rail was broken, or post bent out of the perpendicular, as would probably have been the case had any one fallen against it or been pushed over. Not even a piece of the shallow turf growing on the very brink of the pit was disordered, and the vicar was about to give up that part of the search, when he made a leap forward, and took from a rough splintered portion of the divided fir-pole which formed the rail a tiny scrap of red worsted, such as might very well have been torn from Daisy’s shawl.
“I think we’re on the right track, my lads,” said the vicar. “Now let’s divide, and we’ll search the coppice here, along the edge of the pit.”
The men went eagerly to work, and searched foot by foot the little thin sprinkling of fir trees and gorse that hung upon the edge of the declivity, but without avail—there was not a spot that could have sheltered a human form that was not scanned, and the divided party met at last upon the low ground at the slope of the hill, where the cart track cut its way in, and the lime-kiln stood half-way into the pit.
The vicar paused for a moment by the kiln, and peered in. It was not burning, and in a few minutes he was able to satisfy himself that no one had been in there, and with a shudder he turned away, spreading his men so that step by step they examined the rough white and gray blocks that had been thrown aside or had fallen. Some were fresh and of the purest white, with here and there delicate traces of the pectens and cardiums of a former shelly world; others were hoary and grey, and covered with a frosty lichen; while others, again, were earth-stained and brown.
In accordance with their leader’s instructions, each block was eagerly examined, the vicar’s idea being that it was possible for a cruel murder to have taken place, and for the token of the hideous crime to have been hidden, by laying it in some depression, and piling up the pieces of chalk, of which ample lay ready, for hiding a hundred such crimes.
But, no; there were footmarks here and there, and traces of the edges of the blocks having been chipped by heavy boots; but no spot could be found where they could satisfy themselves that they had been removed.
By this time some forty more sturdy workmen had come up; the event, in the midst of their enforced idleness from the works, being hailed as an excitement; and any amount of muscle was ready to help if directed.
The long search was, however, in vain; and their leader was pondering as to what he should do next, when a rough voice shouted:
“See here, lads. We’ll do ony mander o’ thing to find Joe Banks’s bairn. Come on! let’s hurl ivery bit o’ calk out o’ the pit.”
There was a shout at this, and the men were about to put their project in execution, when the vicar held up his hand.
“It’s waste of strength, my lads,” he said. “I am fully convinced that none of these blocks have been moved. Better search the lanes along the road.”
“Aw raight, parson,” was the cry; and the men left the pit to proceed along the road, the vicar on in front, so as to reach The Four Alls.
Before they had gone far they encountered the rest of their party, returning without further success than that of making the announcement that the men they sought had called there about nine, and had then gone on, being taken up for a lift by a man with a cart.
“What man, and what cart?” said one of the police constables, who had now come up.
The men did not know, and this being an important point, the whole party now hastened on to the little roadside inn—a shabby, dilapidated place, whose shed at the side, which represented the stabling, was falling away from the house, and whose premises generally seemed to be arranged by the owner as places for storing rubbish, dirt, and green scummed pools of water. There was a cart with one wheel, and a mangy horse with one eye, and apparently a ragged hen with one leg, but she put down another, made a low-spirited remark evidently relating to stolen eggs, and went off pecking here and there in a disconsolate manner, as if her search for food were one of the most hopeless pursuits under the sun. There was a garden, roughly fenced in, by the side of the house; but its crop consisted of last year’s gray cabbage-stumps; while, but for the sign over the door, nearly defaced, but having visible the words “wines and spirituous,” the place could hardly have been taken for a place of refreshment, even though the occupant of this attractive spot stood at the door, showing the potency of the said “wines and spirituous” liquors in his reddened and blotched face, as he leaned against the door-post, smoking a long clay pipe, and staring lazily at the party who now came up.
“Can you give us any information about the two men who came here last night?” said the vicar.
“Say?” said the man, staring.
“Gentleman wants to know wheer them chaps is gone,” said the constable.
“How should I know?” said the man, surlily. “Californy or Roosalum, for owt I know.”
“No nonsense, Brumby,” said the constable. “You’d best speak out. Who wheer they?”
“Friends o’ mine,” said the man, taking his pipe out of his mouth for a moment, to relieve himself of a tremendous volume of smoke.
“What were their names?”
“How should I know? They come here, and has a bit o’ rafrashment, and they goes again. What do I keer, so long as they wares their money.”
“Who had they got wi’ ’em?”
“Nobbut their own sens.”
“But I mean when they comed.”
“Look ye here, I hadn’t going to answer all your queshtons.”
“Well, look here; had they any one wi’ ’em when they went away?”
“Nobbat theer own sens,” said the man, sulkily.
“Well, who gave them a lift?”
“Don’t know, on’y as it weer a man in a cart.”
“But you must ha’ seen his name.”
“No, I musn’t if it wern’t painted on,” bawled the man. “What d’yer come wherretin’ me for about it? I don’t ask my customers who comes in for a gill o’ ale wheer they come from, nor wheer they’re going.”
“Had they a young girl with them?” said the vicar, who was getting out of patience.
“Not as I know on,” said the man. “One had nobbut a whip.”
There was evidently nothing to be got out of him, so the party returned to Dumford, the policeman undertaking to communicate by telegraph with the towns through which the men would be likely to pass, as this would be the surest and quickest way.
As the day wore on, the other parties returned to assemble and discuss the matter; though there was little to discuss, for Joe Banks had returned without a trace being found of his child, and the same ill fortune had attended Podmore and Richard Glaire.
The latter, soon as he reached home, however, sought Mrs Glaire, who was lying down, apparently ill at ease, with Eve in attendance upon her, the young girl rising with a shiver as her cousin entered the room, and leaving without encountering his eyes.
“Where is Daisy Banks, mother?” said Richard, hoarsely, as soon as they were alone. “I’ve kept up this foolery of searching all day, to quiet these people, and now I insist upon knowing where she is.”
“I should ask you that,” said Mrs Glaire, angrily; “but if I did I should not learn the truth. Where have you taken her?”
“Taken her?” said Richard, savagely. “Where should I take her? You know I was at home all last night.”
“Where you had planned to take her,” said Mrs Glaire, coldly.
“I planned!” cried Richard. “Why, I left her with you. Plans, indeed!”
“Daisy Banks was not with me ten minutes,” said Mrs Glaire, quietly. “I said plans, because—”
“Because what?” cried Richard. “Do you wish me to tell you?”
“Yes, if you have anything to tell.”
“Because you paid that chattering ass, Slee, to carry letters to and fro, between you and Daisy, after you had given me your word of honour that you would see her no more. Because you then, after gradually bringing the silly girl over to your purposes, paid or bribed, which you will, Simeon Slee, the man who has been one of the projectors of this wretched strike, to act as your pander to take this girl off to London, to await your coming. It is your doing; so now you had better seek her.”
“How did you know all this?”
“How did I know?” said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously. “How are such things known? You leaned upon a bruised reed, and it broke and entered your hand.”
“Did Sim Slee tell you all this, then?” said Richard, stamping with fury.
“Yes; and he would have told me long ago, had I given him what the knave wants—money.”
“A treacherous scoundrel!” cried Richard; “trusting him as I did.”
“You knew him to be a treacherous, prating scoundrel, so why did you trust him?”
“Because I was a fool,” roared the young man, biting his nails with rage.
“Exactly; because you were a fool, and because no honest man would help you to be guilty of the great sin you meant to commit, of stealing the daughter of the man who had been your father’s best friend—the man who helped him to make his fortune. Scoundrels are necessary to do scoundrels’ work.”
“But he cheated me,” cried Richard; “he took my money, and he has not performed his promise.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs Glaire. “But when did you know this?” cried Richard.
“You own to it, then?” cried Mrs Glaire, gazing sharply at him.
“Never mind whether I own it or not. A scoundrel! I’ll serve him out for this.”
“I have known it only a few hours,” said Mrs Glaire, sinking back on her couch, and watching the young man, as he stamped up and down the room.
“But he has thrown me over,” cried Richard. “I don’t know where the girl is.”
“Who has thrown you over?” said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.
“You needn’t believe me without you like,” said Richard; “but I am speaking the truth now. Sim Slee was to take her across to Lupsthorpe station, and go with her to town.”
“Yes.”
“And stay with her till I came, after the heat of the row was over; for no one would have missed him.”
“Well?” said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.
“Well, he has thrown me over,” said Richard. “I met him this morning, and found he had not been.”
“What did he say?” said Mrs Glaire.
“Swore he couldn’t find her.”
“Then the wolf set the fox to carry off the lamb, and now the fox says he has not seen the prey,” said Mrs Glaire, smiling.
“Damn your riddles and fables!” cried Richard, who was beside himself with rage. “I tell you he has sold me.”
“What you might have expected,” said his mother.
“The scoundrel has hidden her somewhere,” cried Richard; “and it’s his plan to get more money out of me.”
“What you might have expected,” said Mrs Glaire, again. “You had better set the police to watch him and find him out.”
“Not while I can do it better myself,” said the young man, with a cunning grin upon his countenance. “You have both been very clever, I dare say you think; and if the truth were known, you have been setting Sim Slee to get her away, so as to marry me to your pet; but you won’t succeed.”
“You are wrong, Richard; I would not trust Sim Slee with the value of a penny. I gave him ten pounds for his information, and I have not seen him since. You had better employ the police.”
“Curse the police!” cried Richard, looking hard at his mother’s face, and feeling that she was telling him the truth; “what good are they? I might have been killed before they would have interfered. But I’ve not done with Master Sim Slee yet.”
“Then you will not employ the police?”
“No,” said Richard, sharply; “the matter’s tangled enough as it is; but he’s got the wrong man to deal with, has Sim Slee, if he thinks he has cheated me so easily.”
“Better leave him alone,” said Mrs Glaire, wearily. “You have enough to attend to with your own affairs.”
“This is my affair,” cried Richard.
“Bombast and sound,” said his mother. “I suppose you and Slee are in collusion, and this is done to blind me, and the rest of the town. But there, you must follow your own course.”
“I mean to,” said Richard; and the breach between him and his mother seemed to be getting wider than ever.