Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.Saved in Spite of Himself.The street was getting pretty full of people as the vicar walked sharply back towards his house, but they were all remarkably quiet. Sim Slee was there, but he turned off down a side lane, and there was this ugly appearance in their mien, that those who generally had a nod and smile for him refused now to meet the vicar’s eye.He knew it would be madness to try and persuade Sim’s party against their plans, and only so much wasted time, so he contented himself with preparing his own, and, to his great satisfaction, found Tom Podmore and his other ally in waiting.As he was passing the Bull and Cucumber though, Robinson, the landlord, made a sign to him that he wished to speak, and the vicar went up to him.“Ah, Robinson, how’s your wife?”“She’s a very poor creature, sir. She coot her hand the other day with a bit of pot—old cheeny, and it’s gone bad. She hasn’t looked so bad ta year as she does now.”“I’m sorry to hear this.”“It’s a bad job, sir, for she can’t side the room, or remble the kitchen things, or owt. She tried to sile the milk this morning, and had to give it up, and let the lass do it instead.”“Sile the milk?” said the vicar. “Ah, you mean strain it?”“Ah, wi’ uz,” said the landlord, “we always call it sile. We strain a thing through a temse.”“Oh, do you?” said the vicar, wondering whether there was any connection between temse and tammies or tammy cloth. “But you were going to say something important to me, were you not?”“Well, I weer, sir; only I shouldn’t like it to seem to ha’ come from me. Fact is, I were down at bottom o’ the close in the bit of a beck, picking some watter cress for tea, and fine and wetcherd (wet shod) I got, when, as I was a stooping there, I heered Master Sim Slee cooming along wi’ two or three more, and blathering about; and I heerd him talking o’ you and Master Dicky Glaire, and it were plain enew that they was makking some plans, and not for good, mind you. I hadn’t going to tell tales out o’ school, but if you’d keep at home to-night, parson—”“You fancy there’s mischief brewing?” said the vicar, sternly.“Well, yes, sir, I do,” said the landlord. “You see, the men hold a kind of lodge or brotherhood meeting at my place, and I can’t help knowing of some o’ their doings.”“Well, Mr Robinson, if mischief is brewing, it’s my business to try and spoil the brew; so I am going out to-night, and if you’ve any respect for me, you’ll come and help me in my task.”He hurried on, and a short time after, the landlord saw him go by, with Tom Podmore and John Maine following at a short distance.“Parson’s a chap with brains in his head,” said the landlord. “He’s got a couple o’ good bull-dogs to tramp at his heels; and, dal me, if they aint beckoned Big Harry to ’em. Well, I’ll go too. I aint going to faight; but if I see any man hit parson, dal me, but I’ll gi’e him a blob.”The vicar was not without hope that Richard would think better of the matter, and keep indoors, and after a turn or two up and down the street, which was pretty well thronged, the men looking stolid and heavy, but civilly making way for him, and always with a friendly word, it seemed as if there was nothing to fear, when from the lane at the side of the Big House there came a loud shout, and in an instant the whole of the men in the High Street seemed galvanised into life.The vicar made for the lane, and had nearly reached it, when he saw Richard Glaire hatless and with his coat half-ripped from his back, rush out, pursued by shout and cry; and before the vicar and his little band of followers could get up, the young man was surrounded by a knot of men striking at him savagely, one of them hitting up the hand that held a pistol, which exploded, the bullet striking the opposite wall far over the heads of his assailants, and the weapon then fell to the ground.A storm of furious cries arose, above which was a wild shriek from one of the windows of the big house—a shriek that sent two-fold vigour to the vicar’s arms, as he struggled with the crowd that kept him back.“Quick, Tom! Maine! Harry!” he cried. “Now, a rush together,” he said, as they forced themselves to his side; and with all their might they made for the spot where Richard Glaire seemed to be undergoing the fate of being torn to pieces, for he was now stripped to shirt and trousers, and his face was bleeding; but, literally at bay, he fought savagely for his life.The dash made by Mr Selwood saved him for the time, for though the vicar and his followers, with whom was now the landlord, did not reach the young man, they rent the crowd of assailants so as to make an avenue for him to escape, and he darted off at full speed towards the vicarage.“My house, Glaire,” shouted the vicar. “No, the church,” amidst the storm of yells and cries, as he tried to fight his way free.“After him, lads!” cried the shrill voice of Sim Slee; “and down wi’ them as interferes.”“Dal me, if I don’t feel the brains of any man as hurts parson,” cried the stentorian voice of one of the ringleaders. “Howd him, boys, and them others too. Give up, parson: it’s no good to faight for that blaguard.”“If you are men and not cowards—” shouted the vicar, but his voice was drowned, he was seized by three men who held him good-temperedly enough in spite of his struggles, and with sinking heart, he found himself, separated from his followers, Big Harry being down with six men sitting on him to quell the mighty heaves he gave to set himself free.“We wean’t hurt thee, parson,” said one of the men who kept him and his fellows prisoners. “See there, lads!”He went down like a shot, for, by a clever twist learnt in wrestling, the vicar upset him on to the men holding Harry, and then by a mighty effort set himself at liberty, so staggering his captors that Harry got free as well. Then there was a charge, and Tom Podmore was up, and these three ran down the street after the crowd who pursued Richard.“Harry, my lad! Tom, stick to me,” cried the vicar, panting for breath. “I shall never forgive myself or be forgiven if harm comes to that young man,” he added to himself; and then dashing on with about as unclerical an aspect as was possible, he rapidly gained on Richard’s pursuers, with Tom behind him, and Big Harry lumbering like an elephant at his heels.Meanwhile the whole town was at the windows or in the streets; children were crying and women shrieking, while the more prudent tradespeople were busily putting up their “shuts.” As for Richard, he had gone off like a hunted hare, doubling here and there to avoid the blows struck at him, and more than once it seemed as if he would escape; but the men had taken their steps well, and knowing that he would make for the station road, there was always a picket ready to cut him off, and drive him back to run the gauntlet afresh.He had not heard the vicar’s words, which were drowned by the savage hoots and yells, mingled with curses upon him, from half-starved women; but, oddly enough, he made straight for the house of the very man whom he hated, and nearly reached it, but was headed back, and fainting and exhausted, he only escaped capture by a clever double, by leaping a hedge, crossing the vicarage garden, and leaping another hedge, landing in the pasture-land leading towards Joe Banks’s cottage, the vicarage standing at the apex formed by the roads leading to Ranby and the open land.This double made a number of his pursuers run round by the road, and gave time to the vicar and his followers to close up to the hunted man.“Make for the church,” cried the vicar, who was close behind now; but his words were unheeded. All he could do was to get nearly behind the young man, determined to turn and face the crowd when they came up; but Richard, maddened with fear, paid no heed to advice, his breath was failing, he tottered, and was ready to fall; the pursuers gained upon them, and at last seeing the harbour, the hunted man dashed through the gate, in at Joe Banks’s open door, closely followed by the vicar, Tom, and Big Harry, and then stood at bay in the farthest corner.“Help, quick! Banks, help!” cried the vicar hoarsely, and recovering from his astonishment, the foreman picked up the heavy poker, and joined the little rank of defenders, a swing of the iron forming a space which none of those who crowded into the room, and darkened door and window as they thronged the garden, dared to cross.“Stand back, you cowards!” cried the foreman, flushing with rage, and forgetting his own trouble in the excitement of the moment.“Gi’e him up! drag him out!” was roared.“A hundred on you to four!” cried Joe. “Stand back, or I’ll brain the first man who comes near.”“We don’t want to hurt thee, Joe Banks,” cried a voice. “Nor the parson, nor the others; but we wean’t go wi’out Richard Glaire.”“Back! every man of you,” cried the vicar. “Shame, cowards, shame!”“Aw raight, parson,” cried another. “It’s cowardly mebbe, but we mean to hev him aw the same.”“If you hev him, you’ll hev to tak’ me first,” cried Joe Banks, fiercely. “You, Big Harry, hev the legs out o’ that deaf Tommy table, and gi’e one apiece to Parson and Tom.”The men tried to stop him, but a swing from Joe’s poker sent them back, and the Hercules of the hammer seized the little three-legged table, shattered it in a moment, and armed his companions with the thick heavy cudgels that had formed its supports.“Now, lads, we’re ready for you,” said Joe, grimly. “Hit hard at the first as tries to lay a finger on the maister.”There was a groan at this, taken up from without, those in the garden clamouring at those within to drag out Dicky Glaire.“Down wi’ him, lads; down wi’ him,” cried a high-pitched voice; and Sim Slee, panting with his exertions, partly edged his way and partly was lifted in.“I’ll down wi’ thee, thou prating fool!” cried Joe fiercely. “Are ye men, to listen to that maulkin?”“Yes, they are,” cried Sim; “and you’re an owd fool to faight.”“Shall we try to drive them out, Banks?” whispered the vicar.“No good,” said Joe, sturdily. “Let’s hear what they’ve gotten to say; it’ll give you and the others breath, and mebbe by that time the maister can faight a bit, too. I’m an owd fool, am I?” he said, “eh, Sim Slee?”“Yes; to faight for the man as has gotten away thee bairn.”“Thou lies, thou chattering jay,” cried the old man furiously; “say it again, and I’ll brain thee.”“I do say it again,” cried Sim, who was quite out of the foreman’s reach. “It’s true, aint it, lads?”“Yes, yes, he’s gotten her away.”“It’s a lie,” cried Joe Banks again. “Tell ’em, Maister Dick; tell the cowards they lie.”“Yes, yes,” said Richard hoarsely, as he stood now leaning against the wall, bathed in perspiration, bleeding, ragged, haggard, and faint. “I have not got her away.”“Thee lies, Dick Glaire,” shrieked Sim. “He paid me to get her awaya, and I wouldn’t do it.”“It’s false,” cried Richard again, as he looked round at his fierce pursuers, and then at the doors and windows for a way of escape.“It’s true,” cried Sim, exultantly. “It’s my turn now, Dick Glaire. Yow’d smite me and coot me feace for not doing thee dirty work, will ta? Now harkye here, lads, at this.”He drew a piece of paper from his pocket, and read aloud:—“Be ready at nine to-night. She’ll join you by the gate of Lamby’s close; then straight off with her to the station, take your tickets, as I told you, to London, and stay with her at the address I gave you till I come.”“Now then, Joe Banks,” he said, holding out the note, “whose writing’s that?”“It’s a lie—a forgery,” cried Richard, whose face now was of a sickly green.Joe Banks passed his hand before his face, and seemed dazed for a moment; then, catching at the note, he took a candle from the drawers on which it stood, and, as he did so, Richard started forward, and made a snatch at the paper, but a menacing movement on the part of the crowd made him start back, while the vicar looked from face to face, and saw Tom Podmore’s stern scowl, and the fire gathered in Joe Banks’s eyes.“He’ll murder him,” he said to himself; and, shifting his position, he got between Joe and Richard Glaire.“Hold your tongue, for your life,” he whispered to the trembling man. “Your only chance is to beg for his mercy: for his child’s sake. Daisy must be your wife.”“Curse you!” cried Richard, through his teeth. “You were always against me.”Then he shrank back trembling against the wall, as in the midst of profound silence, the old man read the letter straight through.“Who gi’e thee this, Sim Slee?” he said twice in a husky voice.“Dicky Glaire.”“No, no,” gasped Richard; “a lie—a lie. It’s a forgery. I did not get away Daisy Banks; so help me God, I didn’t, Joe.”“Damn thee for a liar!” cried the old man, furiously; and before the vicar could prevent him, he had Richard by the throat, and down upon his knees, faintly protesting his innocence. “It’s no forgery. It’s thee own false writing same as these,” he cried; “your cursed love-letters to my poor bairn.”He tore a bundle of notes from his breast, notes Richard had warned poor Daisy to burn, but which the weak girl had treasured up in secret, to be found in her room when she had gone.“Look!” he cried, as he held Sim Slee’s fatal note of instructions out beside the others; “are these lies and forgeries? Mebbe you think I’ll believe thee now, as I’ve troosted thee throughout. Didn’t I think thou wert thy poor owd father’s honest son—the gentleman he had tried to mak’ thee? Didn’t I stand by thee when all ta town was again thee, fowt for thee, looked on thee as my son, and you turn and sting me like a cowardly snake in the grass?”“He did, Joe, he did,” cried a voice in the crowd, as they stood back now, content to watch for the punishment that should fall on their enemy, while Sim Slee, the man who had betrayed him, smiled like a despicable modern Judas, gloating in the revenge he was taking on the employer who had struck him in the face.“Damn thee, be silent!” roared Joe, as, with a wild look of fury, he seized the poker as if to strike, and Richard crouched to the ground, and uttered a shriek of dread.“For God’s sake, Banks!” cried the vicar, catching at his arm, but unable to stay him. “Man, are you mad?”“A’most, parson,” he said, turning on him. “Thou told me to tak’ care; thou gave me fair warning ’bout it all, and like a fool—no, like a man who wouldn’t believe it—I turned upon thee when thou wast raight, for I couldn’t and wouldn’t believe he was such a liar and villain. Look at him, lads, look at the cold-blooded snake, as could stoop to ruin a poor trustin’ fool of all he held dear in life, and now all he has to say is a lie.”“I am innocent, Joe, indeed,” cried the young man.“Thou lies,” cried Banks, furiously; and he raised his weapon again, but only to dash it into the fireplace. Then, stooping, he caught the shivering man by the throat, dragged him up, and held him against the wall, while not a sound was heard but the panting of breath, and the hoarse mutterings of the stricken father.“Banks, Banks!” cried the vicar imploringly.“Let me be, parson, let me be,” he said in a low voice. “Thou’rt a good man, and may trust me.” Then aloud, “Richard Glaire, I’m a poor, half-broken workman, and thou’st robbed me.”“No, no,” panted Richard, “Mr Selwood, Harry, Podmore, help!”“Silence,” cried Joe Banks; “we’ve gotten thee, and thou tries to hide it all by lying. I’ve gotten thee, though, now, and my eyes are opened to it all. I could strangle thee where thou stands; but I promised thee father I’d stand by thee, and I have again all men, as know’d thee for what thou wast. But I can’t do it now, and kill, perhaps, every hope of my poor bairn, so come.”He caught the young man tightly by the collar, and waved the others aside, so that they fell back before him as he went out unmolested with his prisoner into the starlit lane, and stood the centre of the crowd—now at a respectful distance.“My lads,” he said, aloud, while the vicar, who had signed to his companions to be ready, stood with every muscle strained to spring forward and try to save the shivering man from violence. “My lads, this man’s done you all a bad turn, but most of all to me.”There was a murmur of acquiescence at this.“I’ve always fowt for ye when I could, but I’ve always stuck to the maister,” continued Joe, in a low, hoarse voice that was terrible in its earnestness.“You hev, Joe, you hev,” was murmured, for the men were impressed by the terrible earnestness of the old foreman.“I’ve gotten something to ask of ye, then,” said Joe.“What is it?”“Let me hev the punishment of this man—this cold-blooded villain.”“Yes, yes,” rose like a whirlwind.“And you’ll leave him to me?” said Joe, through his teeth.“Yes, yes.”“Joe, oh Joe, what are you going to do?” wailed his wife, coming panting up, having returned from the next town by the train by which Richard Glaire had meant to leave.“Thou shalt see, moother,” said Joe quietly; “I’m going to punish the thief that stole our bairn.”“But, Joe!” cried Mrs Banks piteously.“Howd thee tongue, and see,” he cried sternly. “Richard Glaire, thou’rt a damned villain, but I can’t strike down the man my poor bairn has clasped in her poor weak arms. The way’s open to thee: go, and God’s mercy be held from thee if thou dost not make my poor child amends.”Richard Glaire tried to speak, but his tongue refused its office, and he looked, shivering, from one to the other, as the stern old man stood pointing up towards the town, while the men who, but a short time before, were ready to tear and trample him under foot, stood back right and left, leaving an open lane for him to pass.“Banks, God bless you!” whispered the vicar, catching the old man’s hand.“And you too, parson,” said the other, simply. “Mebbe you’ll tak’ him home.”The help was needed, for Richard Glaire tottered as his arm was drawn through the vicar’s; and then, followed by Tom Podmore and the big hammerman, they passed unmolested through the crowd, to find another further on, consisting of the women of the place, who had restrained the frantic mother and Eve Pelly from following; and the latter was kneeling now in the midst of a knot of women beside poor Mrs Glaire.“Lift her and carry her home, Harry,” said the vicar; and the great fellow raised Mrs Glaire like a babe. “Podmore, I leave Miss Pelly to you. Somebody ask Mr Purley to come on to the house at once. Quick. By Jove, he has fainted!”These latter words were to himself, as Richard Glaire staggered and would have fallen but for the vicar’s hold; and lifting him on his own shoulder, he led the strange procession till they entered the house, where he stayed with his two stout companions, John Maine going home, to keep guard with the police, who now arrived after being locked in the station and kept there by the men.But there was no need, for the eruption was over, and the night’s silence was only broken by Richard’s moans as he lay there bruised and sore, mad almost against his men, and ready to rail at the whole world for the injuries he had received.

The street was getting pretty full of people as the vicar walked sharply back towards his house, but they were all remarkably quiet. Sim Slee was there, but he turned off down a side lane, and there was this ugly appearance in their mien, that those who generally had a nod and smile for him refused now to meet the vicar’s eye.

He knew it would be madness to try and persuade Sim’s party against their plans, and only so much wasted time, so he contented himself with preparing his own, and, to his great satisfaction, found Tom Podmore and his other ally in waiting.

As he was passing the Bull and Cucumber though, Robinson, the landlord, made a sign to him that he wished to speak, and the vicar went up to him.

“Ah, Robinson, how’s your wife?”

“She’s a very poor creature, sir. She coot her hand the other day with a bit of pot—old cheeny, and it’s gone bad. She hasn’t looked so bad ta year as she does now.”

“I’m sorry to hear this.”

“It’s a bad job, sir, for she can’t side the room, or remble the kitchen things, or owt. She tried to sile the milk this morning, and had to give it up, and let the lass do it instead.”

“Sile the milk?” said the vicar. “Ah, you mean strain it?”

“Ah, wi’ uz,” said the landlord, “we always call it sile. We strain a thing through a temse.”

“Oh, do you?” said the vicar, wondering whether there was any connection between temse and tammies or tammy cloth. “But you were going to say something important to me, were you not?”

“Well, I weer, sir; only I shouldn’t like it to seem to ha’ come from me. Fact is, I were down at bottom o’ the close in the bit of a beck, picking some watter cress for tea, and fine and wetcherd (wet shod) I got, when, as I was a stooping there, I heered Master Sim Slee cooming along wi’ two or three more, and blathering about; and I heerd him talking o’ you and Master Dicky Glaire, and it were plain enew that they was makking some plans, and not for good, mind you. I hadn’t going to tell tales out o’ school, but if you’d keep at home to-night, parson—”

“You fancy there’s mischief brewing?” said the vicar, sternly.

“Well, yes, sir, I do,” said the landlord. “You see, the men hold a kind of lodge or brotherhood meeting at my place, and I can’t help knowing of some o’ their doings.”

“Well, Mr Robinson, if mischief is brewing, it’s my business to try and spoil the brew; so I am going out to-night, and if you’ve any respect for me, you’ll come and help me in my task.”

He hurried on, and a short time after, the landlord saw him go by, with Tom Podmore and John Maine following at a short distance.

“Parson’s a chap with brains in his head,” said the landlord. “He’s got a couple o’ good bull-dogs to tramp at his heels; and, dal me, if they aint beckoned Big Harry to ’em. Well, I’ll go too. I aint going to faight; but if I see any man hit parson, dal me, but I’ll gi’e him a blob.”

The vicar was not without hope that Richard would think better of the matter, and keep indoors, and after a turn or two up and down the street, which was pretty well thronged, the men looking stolid and heavy, but civilly making way for him, and always with a friendly word, it seemed as if there was nothing to fear, when from the lane at the side of the Big House there came a loud shout, and in an instant the whole of the men in the High Street seemed galvanised into life.

The vicar made for the lane, and had nearly reached it, when he saw Richard Glaire hatless and with his coat half-ripped from his back, rush out, pursued by shout and cry; and before the vicar and his little band of followers could get up, the young man was surrounded by a knot of men striking at him savagely, one of them hitting up the hand that held a pistol, which exploded, the bullet striking the opposite wall far over the heads of his assailants, and the weapon then fell to the ground.

A storm of furious cries arose, above which was a wild shriek from one of the windows of the big house—a shriek that sent two-fold vigour to the vicar’s arms, as he struggled with the crowd that kept him back.

“Quick, Tom! Maine! Harry!” he cried. “Now, a rush together,” he said, as they forced themselves to his side; and with all their might they made for the spot where Richard Glaire seemed to be undergoing the fate of being torn to pieces, for he was now stripped to shirt and trousers, and his face was bleeding; but, literally at bay, he fought savagely for his life.

The dash made by Mr Selwood saved him for the time, for though the vicar and his followers, with whom was now the landlord, did not reach the young man, they rent the crowd of assailants so as to make an avenue for him to escape, and he darted off at full speed towards the vicarage.

“My house, Glaire,” shouted the vicar. “No, the church,” amidst the storm of yells and cries, as he tried to fight his way free.

“After him, lads!” cried the shrill voice of Sim Slee; “and down wi’ them as interferes.”

“Dal me, if I don’t feel the brains of any man as hurts parson,” cried the stentorian voice of one of the ringleaders. “Howd him, boys, and them others too. Give up, parson: it’s no good to faight for that blaguard.”

“If you are men and not cowards—” shouted the vicar, but his voice was drowned, he was seized by three men who held him good-temperedly enough in spite of his struggles, and with sinking heart, he found himself, separated from his followers, Big Harry being down with six men sitting on him to quell the mighty heaves he gave to set himself free.

“We wean’t hurt thee, parson,” said one of the men who kept him and his fellows prisoners. “See there, lads!”

He went down like a shot, for, by a clever twist learnt in wrestling, the vicar upset him on to the men holding Harry, and then by a mighty effort set himself at liberty, so staggering his captors that Harry got free as well. Then there was a charge, and Tom Podmore was up, and these three ran down the street after the crowd who pursued Richard.

“Harry, my lad! Tom, stick to me,” cried the vicar, panting for breath. “I shall never forgive myself or be forgiven if harm comes to that young man,” he added to himself; and then dashing on with about as unclerical an aspect as was possible, he rapidly gained on Richard’s pursuers, with Tom behind him, and Big Harry lumbering like an elephant at his heels.

Meanwhile the whole town was at the windows or in the streets; children were crying and women shrieking, while the more prudent tradespeople were busily putting up their “shuts.” As for Richard, he had gone off like a hunted hare, doubling here and there to avoid the blows struck at him, and more than once it seemed as if he would escape; but the men had taken their steps well, and knowing that he would make for the station road, there was always a picket ready to cut him off, and drive him back to run the gauntlet afresh.

He had not heard the vicar’s words, which were drowned by the savage hoots and yells, mingled with curses upon him, from half-starved women; but, oddly enough, he made straight for the house of the very man whom he hated, and nearly reached it, but was headed back, and fainting and exhausted, he only escaped capture by a clever double, by leaping a hedge, crossing the vicarage garden, and leaping another hedge, landing in the pasture-land leading towards Joe Banks’s cottage, the vicarage standing at the apex formed by the roads leading to Ranby and the open land.

This double made a number of his pursuers run round by the road, and gave time to the vicar and his followers to close up to the hunted man.

“Make for the church,” cried the vicar, who was close behind now; but his words were unheeded. All he could do was to get nearly behind the young man, determined to turn and face the crowd when they came up; but Richard, maddened with fear, paid no heed to advice, his breath was failing, he tottered, and was ready to fall; the pursuers gained upon them, and at last seeing the harbour, the hunted man dashed through the gate, in at Joe Banks’s open door, closely followed by the vicar, Tom, and Big Harry, and then stood at bay in the farthest corner.

“Help, quick! Banks, help!” cried the vicar hoarsely, and recovering from his astonishment, the foreman picked up the heavy poker, and joined the little rank of defenders, a swing of the iron forming a space which none of those who crowded into the room, and darkened door and window as they thronged the garden, dared to cross.

“Stand back, you cowards!” cried the foreman, flushing with rage, and forgetting his own trouble in the excitement of the moment.

“Gi’e him up! drag him out!” was roared.

“A hundred on you to four!” cried Joe. “Stand back, or I’ll brain the first man who comes near.”

“We don’t want to hurt thee, Joe Banks,” cried a voice. “Nor the parson, nor the others; but we wean’t go wi’out Richard Glaire.”

“Back! every man of you,” cried the vicar. “Shame, cowards, shame!”

“Aw raight, parson,” cried another. “It’s cowardly mebbe, but we mean to hev him aw the same.”

“If you hev him, you’ll hev to tak’ me first,” cried Joe Banks, fiercely. “You, Big Harry, hev the legs out o’ that deaf Tommy table, and gi’e one apiece to Parson and Tom.”

The men tried to stop him, but a swing from Joe’s poker sent them back, and the Hercules of the hammer seized the little three-legged table, shattered it in a moment, and armed his companions with the thick heavy cudgels that had formed its supports.

“Now, lads, we’re ready for you,” said Joe, grimly. “Hit hard at the first as tries to lay a finger on the maister.”

There was a groan at this, taken up from without, those in the garden clamouring at those within to drag out Dicky Glaire.

“Down wi’ him, lads; down wi’ him,” cried a high-pitched voice; and Sim Slee, panting with his exertions, partly edged his way and partly was lifted in.

“I’ll down wi’ thee, thou prating fool!” cried Joe fiercely. “Are ye men, to listen to that maulkin?”

“Yes, they are,” cried Sim; “and you’re an owd fool to faight.”

“Shall we try to drive them out, Banks?” whispered the vicar.

“No good,” said Joe, sturdily. “Let’s hear what they’ve gotten to say; it’ll give you and the others breath, and mebbe by that time the maister can faight a bit, too. I’m an owd fool, am I?” he said, “eh, Sim Slee?”

“Yes; to faight for the man as has gotten away thee bairn.”

“Thou lies, thou chattering jay,” cried the old man furiously; “say it again, and I’ll brain thee.”

“I do say it again,” cried Sim, who was quite out of the foreman’s reach. “It’s true, aint it, lads?”

“Yes, yes, he’s gotten her away.”

“It’s a lie,” cried Joe Banks again. “Tell ’em, Maister Dick; tell the cowards they lie.”

“Yes, yes,” said Richard hoarsely, as he stood now leaning against the wall, bathed in perspiration, bleeding, ragged, haggard, and faint. “I have not got her away.”

“Thee lies, Dick Glaire,” shrieked Sim. “He paid me to get her awaya, and I wouldn’t do it.”

“It’s false,” cried Richard again, as he looked round at his fierce pursuers, and then at the doors and windows for a way of escape.

“It’s true,” cried Sim, exultantly. “It’s my turn now, Dick Glaire. Yow’d smite me and coot me feace for not doing thee dirty work, will ta? Now harkye here, lads, at this.”

He drew a piece of paper from his pocket, and read aloud:—

“Be ready at nine to-night. She’ll join you by the gate of Lamby’s close; then straight off with her to the station, take your tickets, as I told you, to London, and stay with her at the address I gave you till I come.”

“Now then, Joe Banks,” he said, holding out the note, “whose writing’s that?”

“It’s a lie—a forgery,” cried Richard, whose face now was of a sickly green.

Joe Banks passed his hand before his face, and seemed dazed for a moment; then, catching at the note, he took a candle from the drawers on which it stood, and, as he did so, Richard started forward, and made a snatch at the paper, but a menacing movement on the part of the crowd made him start back, while the vicar looked from face to face, and saw Tom Podmore’s stern scowl, and the fire gathered in Joe Banks’s eyes.

“He’ll murder him,” he said to himself; and, shifting his position, he got between Joe and Richard Glaire.

“Hold your tongue, for your life,” he whispered to the trembling man. “Your only chance is to beg for his mercy: for his child’s sake. Daisy must be your wife.”

“Curse you!” cried Richard, through his teeth. “You were always against me.”

Then he shrank back trembling against the wall, as in the midst of profound silence, the old man read the letter straight through.

“Who gi’e thee this, Sim Slee?” he said twice in a husky voice.

“Dicky Glaire.”

“No, no,” gasped Richard; “a lie—a lie. It’s a forgery. I did not get away Daisy Banks; so help me God, I didn’t, Joe.”

“Damn thee for a liar!” cried the old man, furiously; and before the vicar could prevent him, he had Richard by the throat, and down upon his knees, faintly protesting his innocence. “It’s no forgery. It’s thee own false writing same as these,” he cried; “your cursed love-letters to my poor bairn.”

He tore a bundle of notes from his breast, notes Richard had warned poor Daisy to burn, but which the weak girl had treasured up in secret, to be found in her room when she had gone.

“Look!” he cried, as he held Sim Slee’s fatal note of instructions out beside the others; “are these lies and forgeries? Mebbe you think I’ll believe thee now, as I’ve troosted thee throughout. Didn’t I think thou wert thy poor owd father’s honest son—the gentleman he had tried to mak’ thee? Didn’t I stand by thee when all ta town was again thee, fowt for thee, looked on thee as my son, and you turn and sting me like a cowardly snake in the grass?”

“He did, Joe, he did,” cried a voice in the crowd, as they stood back now, content to watch for the punishment that should fall on their enemy, while Sim Slee, the man who had betrayed him, smiled like a despicable modern Judas, gloating in the revenge he was taking on the employer who had struck him in the face.

“Damn thee, be silent!” roared Joe, as, with a wild look of fury, he seized the poker as if to strike, and Richard crouched to the ground, and uttered a shriek of dread.

“For God’s sake, Banks!” cried the vicar, catching at his arm, but unable to stay him. “Man, are you mad?”

“A’most, parson,” he said, turning on him. “Thou told me to tak’ care; thou gave me fair warning ’bout it all, and like a fool—no, like a man who wouldn’t believe it—I turned upon thee when thou wast raight, for I couldn’t and wouldn’t believe he was such a liar and villain. Look at him, lads, look at the cold-blooded snake, as could stoop to ruin a poor trustin’ fool of all he held dear in life, and now all he has to say is a lie.”

“I am innocent, Joe, indeed,” cried the young man.

“Thou lies,” cried Banks, furiously; and he raised his weapon again, but only to dash it into the fireplace. Then, stooping, he caught the shivering man by the throat, dragged him up, and held him against the wall, while not a sound was heard but the panting of breath, and the hoarse mutterings of the stricken father.

“Banks, Banks!” cried the vicar imploringly.

“Let me be, parson, let me be,” he said in a low voice. “Thou’rt a good man, and may trust me.” Then aloud, “Richard Glaire, I’m a poor, half-broken workman, and thou’st robbed me.”

“No, no,” panted Richard, “Mr Selwood, Harry, Podmore, help!”

“Silence,” cried Joe Banks; “we’ve gotten thee, and thou tries to hide it all by lying. I’ve gotten thee, though, now, and my eyes are opened to it all. I could strangle thee where thou stands; but I promised thee father I’d stand by thee, and I have again all men, as know’d thee for what thou wast. But I can’t do it now, and kill, perhaps, every hope of my poor bairn, so come.”

He caught the young man tightly by the collar, and waved the others aside, so that they fell back before him as he went out unmolested with his prisoner into the starlit lane, and stood the centre of the crowd—now at a respectful distance.

“My lads,” he said, aloud, while the vicar, who had signed to his companions to be ready, stood with every muscle strained to spring forward and try to save the shivering man from violence. “My lads, this man’s done you all a bad turn, but most of all to me.”

There was a murmur of acquiescence at this.

“I’ve always fowt for ye when I could, but I’ve always stuck to the maister,” continued Joe, in a low, hoarse voice that was terrible in its earnestness.

“You hev, Joe, you hev,” was murmured, for the men were impressed by the terrible earnestness of the old foreman.

“I’ve gotten something to ask of ye, then,” said Joe.

“What is it?”

“Let me hev the punishment of this man—this cold-blooded villain.”

“Yes, yes,” rose like a whirlwind.

“And you’ll leave him to me?” said Joe, through his teeth.

“Yes, yes.”

“Joe, oh Joe, what are you going to do?” wailed his wife, coming panting up, having returned from the next town by the train by which Richard Glaire had meant to leave.

“Thou shalt see, moother,” said Joe quietly; “I’m going to punish the thief that stole our bairn.”

“But, Joe!” cried Mrs Banks piteously.

“Howd thee tongue, and see,” he cried sternly. “Richard Glaire, thou’rt a damned villain, but I can’t strike down the man my poor bairn has clasped in her poor weak arms. The way’s open to thee: go, and God’s mercy be held from thee if thou dost not make my poor child amends.”

Richard Glaire tried to speak, but his tongue refused its office, and he looked, shivering, from one to the other, as the stern old man stood pointing up towards the town, while the men who, but a short time before, were ready to tear and trample him under foot, stood back right and left, leaving an open lane for him to pass.

“Banks, God bless you!” whispered the vicar, catching the old man’s hand.

“And you too, parson,” said the other, simply. “Mebbe you’ll tak’ him home.”

The help was needed, for Richard Glaire tottered as his arm was drawn through the vicar’s; and then, followed by Tom Podmore and the big hammerman, they passed unmolested through the crowd, to find another further on, consisting of the women of the place, who had restrained the frantic mother and Eve Pelly from following; and the latter was kneeling now in the midst of a knot of women beside poor Mrs Glaire.

“Lift her and carry her home, Harry,” said the vicar; and the great fellow raised Mrs Glaire like a babe. “Podmore, I leave Miss Pelly to you. Somebody ask Mr Purley to come on to the house at once. Quick. By Jove, he has fainted!”

These latter words were to himself, as Richard Glaire staggered and would have fallen but for the vicar’s hold; and lifting him on his own shoulder, he led the strange procession till they entered the house, where he stayed with his two stout companions, John Maine going home, to keep guard with the police, who now arrived after being locked in the station and kept there by the men.

But there was no need, for the eruption was over, and the night’s silence was only broken by Richard’s moans as he lay there bruised and sore, mad almost against his men, and ready to rail at the whole world for the injuries he had received.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.A Deceitful Calm.After the storm came a calm, during which there was magisterial talk in the neighbourhood to which reports of the proceedings had extended, of sending for the military, of having additional police force in the town; and then, as Richard Glaire made no movement, as no property was destroyed, and the injury was confined to one man, the affair began to be looked upon as an ordinary assault.A good deal of this was due to the fact that trade troubles were not uncommon, and so long as the policemen were not forced into taking action by the magnitude of the offence, they found it better to close their eyes to the proceedings, and not to interfere “till somebody called murder.” In the riot in question the police had been good-humouredly locked up, and kept prisoners, as their captors said, laughing, “so as not to spoil their uniforms;” and, after a show of resistance, when they were informed that the lads were “only going to serve sum’un out,” they came to the conclusion that the majesty of the law, as represented by two officials, was no match for a hundred and fifty excited men, and waited patiently till the affair was over.The clerk of the two made his report, and waited on Richard Glaire, who, being swathed and bandaged, and very sore, told him to go to the devil.Then the constable asked him if he should get warrants out against anybody—this at Richard Glaire’s bedside.“Yes, if you like,” growled Richard.“Will you give me their names, sir?” said the man.“How can I give you their names, when I don’t know them? It was the whole pack.”“But what am I to do, sir?” said the man, scratching his head.“Get out!” said Richard. “Wait till I’m better.”The constable saw the vicar downstairs, and tried him for names, but with no better success; and the representative of law and order in the little out-of-the-way town went back in no wise dissatisfied, for any action against so strong a body of men would have been exceedingly unpleasant, and not at all conducive to his future comfort amongst those whom he looked upon as neighbours.The search, too, for Daisy Banks ceased after the attack on Richard, for on all sides the police were met with the same mocking question, “Hev you asked Dick Glaire where she is?”In fact, it was now an acknowledged fact that Richard Glaire was answerable for her whereabouts, and no amount of denial had the slightest effect on the people of Dumford.Jacky Budd shook his head, looked red-nosed, and said nothing, but implied a great deal. In fact, Jacky was in great request, and was asked to take a good deal to drink in the shape of gills of ale by gossips wishful to know how matters went on at the Big House, where Richard Glaire was at first a prisoner perforce, and later on from choice.Everybody said that Jacky Budd was as great a “shack” as Sim Slee; but, like that worthy, it was his harvest time, and he was of great importance in the place.Not that he had much to report, but he dressed up his meagre bits of knowledge, and hinted that the vicar was forbidden the house.“Young Dicky said he’d shute him if he come on the premises again.”“Why?” said some one.“Why,” replied Jacky, with a wince, “because he’s jealous of him; thinks he wants the owd woman.”This report reached the ears of Miss Purley, who immediately put on her bonnet, and went down the street to Miss Primgeon, taking tea with that lady, whom she kissed affectionately for the first time since the vicar’s arrival; and Miss Primgeon called her “dear,” and kissed her also affectionately, confidences growing to such an extent that Miss Primgeon brought out and showed a pair of braces she had been embroidering for somebody; and, in return, Miss Purley displayed the crown of a smoking-cap in purple velvet, with “a dicky bird” in white beads, sitting on a crimson floss silk twig; and then both ladies called each other “dear” again, and shed tears on the top of the smoking-cap and over the braces, re-embroidering them as it were with pearls, while they talked of the terribly fragile nature of human hopes, the weakness of man, and the artfulness of elderly widows.The quantity of tea changed by a process of natural chemistry into tears that night was something astounding before the ladies separated.Sim Slee was in high feather, too, and reached home several nights in a glorified state, spending some little time before retiring to rest in performing strange acts in his stocking feet.Mrs Slee always waited up for him on her return from the vicarage, and generally gave him what he termed “a tongue thrashing for nowt.”“Coming home in such a state!” she’d exclaim. “Wher ha’ ye been goozening to now? What would the parson say?”“I don’t care nowt for parson or anybody, and what do you mean with your state. I’ve ony been as far as the corner.”At such times Sim would pull off his boots with some difficulty, for he had the peculiarity of being perfectly sober as far as his waist, while his legs would be in such a disgraceful state of intoxication that he did not reach home without their throwing the upper part of his body several times on the ground. The boots being removed, Sim would sit before the fire talking to himself, and working his toes about in his coarse knitted stockings.“Why can’t you put on your slippers, Sim?” Mrs Sim would say.“I wean’t,” he’d answer. “I’m not going to be ordered about by a woman. I’m a man.”“You’re a nasty drunken pig,” exclaimed Mrs Slee.“What!” he would say indignantly, “drunk! Heven’t had a glass. I never have a bit o’ peace o’ my life. Tant-tant-tant all day long, driving me away from home. Ugh, you know nowt but nastiness. You always weer nasty. Go to bed.”

After the storm came a calm, during which there was magisterial talk in the neighbourhood to which reports of the proceedings had extended, of sending for the military, of having additional police force in the town; and then, as Richard Glaire made no movement, as no property was destroyed, and the injury was confined to one man, the affair began to be looked upon as an ordinary assault.

A good deal of this was due to the fact that trade troubles were not uncommon, and so long as the policemen were not forced into taking action by the magnitude of the offence, they found it better to close their eyes to the proceedings, and not to interfere “till somebody called murder.” In the riot in question the police had been good-humouredly locked up, and kept prisoners, as their captors said, laughing, “so as not to spoil their uniforms;” and, after a show of resistance, when they were informed that the lads were “only going to serve sum’un out,” they came to the conclusion that the majesty of the law, as represented by two officials, was no match for a hundred and fifty excited men, and waited patiently till the affair was over.

The clerk of the two made his report, and waited on Richard Glaire, who, being swathed and bandaged, and very sore, told him to go to the devil.

Then the constable asked him if he should get warrants out against anybody—this at Richard Glaire’s bedside.

“Yes, if you like,” growled Richard.

“Will you give me their names, sir?” said the man.

“How can I give you their names, when I don’t know them? It was the whole pack.”

“But what am I to do, sir?” said the man, scratching his head.

“Get out!” said Richard. “Wait till I’m better.”

The constable saw the vicar downstairs, and tried him for names, but with no better success; and the representative of law and order in the little out-of-the-way town went back in no wise dissatisfied, for any action against so strong a body of men would have been exceedingly unpleasant, and not at all conducive to his future comfort amongst those whom he looked upon as neighbours.

The search, too, for Daisy Banks ceased after the attack on Richard, for on all sides the police were met with the same mocking question, “Hev you asked Dick Glaire where she is?”

In fact, it was now an acknowledged fact that Richard Glaire was answerable for her whereabouts, and no amount of denial had the slightest effect on the people of Dumford.

Jacky Budd shook his head, looked red-nosed, and said nothing, but implied a great deal. In fact, Jacky was in great request, and was asked to take a good deal to drink in the shape of gills of ale by gossips wishful to know how matters went on at the Big House, where Richard Glaire was at first a prisoner perforce, and later on from choice.

Everybody said that Jacky Budd was as great a “shack” as Sim Slee; but, like that worthy, it was his harvest time, and he was of great importance in the place.

Not that he had much to report, but he dressed up his meagre bits of knowledge, and hinted that the vicar was forbidden the house.

“Young Dicky said he’d shute him if he come on the premises again.”

“Why?” said some one.

“Why,” replied Jacky, with a wince, “because he’s jealous of him; thinks he wants the owd woman.”

This report reached the ears of Miss Purley, who immediately put on her bonnet, and went down the street to Miss Primgeon, taking tea with that lady, whom she kissed affectionately for the first time since the vicar’s arrival; and Miss Primgeon called her “dear,” and kissed her also affectionately, confidences growing to such an extent that Miss Primgeon brought out and showed a pair of braces she had been embroidering for somebody; and, in return, Miss Purley displayed the crown of a smoking-cap in purple velvet, with “a dicky bird” in white beads, sitting on a crimson floss silk twig; and then both ladies called each other “dear” again, and shed tears on the top of the smoking-cap and over the braces, re-embroidering them as it were with pearls, while they talked of the terribly fragile nature of human hopes, the weakness of man, and the artfulness of elderly widows.

The quantity of tea changed by a process of natural chemistry into tears that night was something astounding before the ladies separated.

Sim Slee was in high feather, too, and reached home several nights in a glorified state, spending some little time before retiring to rest in performing strange acts in his stocking feet.

Mrs Slee always waited up for him on her return from the vicarage, and generally gave him what he termed “a tongue thrashing for nowt.”

“Coming home in such a state!” she’d exclaim. “Wher ha’ ye been goozening to now? What would the parson say?”

“I don’t care nowt for parson or anybody, and what do you mean with your state. I’ve ony been as far as the corner.”

At such times Sim would pull off his boots with some difficulty, for he had the peculiarity of being perfectly sober as far as his waist, while his legs would be in such a disgraceful state of intoxication that he did not reach home without their throwing the upper part of his body several times on the ground. The boots being removed, Sim would sit before the fire talking to himself, and working his toes about in his coarse knitted stockings.

“Why can’t you put on your slippers, Sim?” Mrs Sim would say.

“I wean’t,” he’d answer. “I’m not going to be ordered about by a woman. I’m a man.”

“You’re a nasty drunken pig,” exclaimed Mrs Slee.

“What!” he would say indignantly, “drunk! Heven’t had a glass. I never have a bit o’ peace o’ my life. Tant-tant-tant all day long, driving me away from home. Ugh, you know nowt but nastiness. You always weer nasty. Go to bed.”

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.Sim Slee’s Patriotism.Then Mrs Slee would tighten up her lips, look as if she would like to box her lord’s ears, and end sometimes by doing it, Sim appealing to “Moother” for mercy till she went upstairs, when Sim would get up from the floor, where he had thrown himself, and rub his ears till they ceased tingling, and end by winking to himself and performing the strange movements alluded to in the previous chapter.At these times, in spite of the very liberal quantity of ale indulged in at his own and other people’s expense, Sim’s head would be perfectly clear; and knowing, from old experience, that as soon as he had lain down and gone fast asleep, Mrs Slee would get up and empty his pockets, he would proceed to conceal his money. Half-crowns were placed up the chimney, a half-sovereign on the ledge over a door, shillings in corners not likely to be swept, under chimney ornaments, and on the tops of picture frames, his great hoard at this time being under an old scrubby geranium, growing—or rather existing, for it had long ceased to grow—in a pot in the window—a favourite plant of Mrs Slee’s, as she had kept it through the winter for years. So matted together were its roots, that if the stem were taken in the hand the whole of the earth came out quite clean in its basket of fibres, and beneath this, in the bottom of the pot, Sim had placed five golden sovereigns, nicely arranged round the hole, on the night after the riot, the geranium being replaced, and all looking as before.The next morning Mrs Slee was up a long while the first, as usual, and as was her custom when Sim had been bad over night, she made a tour of the place, finding and gleaning up coins of various value, wondering the while where Sim obtained the money that she transferred to her ample pocket, hidden by drapery and folds at a great depth from the surface.Just as she was finishing, she caught sight of the pot, and saw that it had been removed over night, for the water that had drained into the earthen saucer had, when the pot was moved, dripped on the floor.A grim smile overspread her countenance as she lifted pot and saucer together, and looked beneath, to see nothing. Even the pot was lifted from the saucer, and with like result, when, replacing it, the wet pot slipped, and Mrs Slee caught at the stem of the plant, with the result that she held geranium in one hand, pot in the other, and saw the five glittering gold pieces at the bottom.She clutched them eagerly, and hid them away, replaced the pot, and then stood thinking.“Where does he get his money?” she said, looking grimly. “I’ll speak to parson.”Mrs Slee had been gone a couple of hours before Sim descended to partake of the breakfast placed ready for him, all the while battling with his infirmity.It was one that always troubled him after a night’s excess, for, though Sim’s head was clear enough over night when he hid his money, the over-excited brain refused to act next morning, and a thick veil was drawn between the eve and the morrow. There was always the dim recollection of having hidden his money, but that was all; and in this case as in others, pot, door-ledge, pictures, all had passed away from his memory, and there was a blank in answer to his oft-repeated question—“Where did I put that money?” It was a blessing in disguise for Sim, though he did not know it. But for this, and his wife’s tenacious grasp of all she found, none of which went directly back to Sim, he would have been without a roof to cover his head years before, and many a pound that he accredited himself with having spent in gills of ale and standing treat had really gone into his wife’s pocket.“Well, this wean’t do,” he said at last; “money’s gone, and I shall get no more out o’ Dicky Glaire.”“He’ll be pretty sick o’ his lock-out by this time,” said Sim, as he laced his boots. “That was a fine plan wi’ them bands. It’s kep the strike on, and it’s easier than wucking your fingers to the bone. Wonder how long they’ll keep it oop. Well, here goes.”He went out, and had not gone far before he met the vicar, who stopped to speak to him; but Sim, to use his own words, “coot him dead,” making his way right off through the town, where he stopped for a bit of bombastic “blather,” as his associates called it, on the success of their attack on Richard.“He had the finest leathering he ever had in his life,” said Sim.“And what good’s it going to do?” said one of the men, in a grumbling tone.“What good? Open thee eyes, mun, and see for your sen. Good? It’ll bring him to his senses, and he’ll come round and ask on his knees for us to go to work, and then we’ll mak’ our own terms.”“And if he wean’t come round,” said another, “what then?”Sim stooped to the man’s ear, and whispered something.“Eh, mun, but we wouldn’t do that, would we?”“Howd thee tongue,” said Sim. “Wait and see. I’ve got a friend coming down to-day as can settle all these things. I’m going to meet him at the station, and he’s going to stay here till things is settled.”“And who’s going to keep un?” said another man. “I can’t keep mysen.”“All on you, o’ course,” said Sim. “You keep a good heart, lad, and all will be as raight as raight.”“But that would be coming it strange and strong, man,” said the first speaker.“Strong diseases want strong doses, lad,” said Sim, winking. “But don’t you wherrit yoursen. There’s them in the Brotherhood as is looking after your interests, and we shall all come off wi’ flying colours.”“I dessay we shall,” said the man, in a discontented tone; “but I want to hear them theer furnaces a-roaring agen, and the firemen’s shovels rattling in the coals, and the brass a-chinking in the box o’ pay nights. Dal the strike, I say.”“But it aint a strike now,” said Sim, didactically. “Don’t you see, it’s a lock-out.”“It’s all the same,” said another, sulkily. “Theer aint no brass to tak’, and the missus and the bairns is pined to dead wi’ hunger, and starved to dead for want of a bit o’ fire.”“But you get the society money,” said Sim, indignantly.“Yah! what’s that to a man in full fettle! Just pays for bread, and you can’t buy a decent weigh o’ meat for fear o’ waring it all at once.”“Yes,” said another; “it’s like club money when a man’s sick and can’t wuck.”“Raight enew, then,” said another; “bud a man wants wuck as well as something to yeat. It’s strange, coarse weather for us as far as yeating and drinking goes. Why, my bairns heven’t hed a bit of bootther sin’ the strike begun.”“A man need be as tiff as a band to stand it all,” said another.“Ay, tough as a bont whong,” said another.“Well, I shall be a very poor creature,” said another, “if this here’s going to last. I’m ’bout pined to dead now.”“I shall flit and get wuck somewheer else.”“Iver get berry pie for dinner now, Sim Slee?” said another, alluding to a favourite luxury of Sim’s, who was accredited with having stolen a neighbour’s gooseberries to make the famous berry pie.Here there was a bit of a laugh, a good sign, for the men seemed ripe for mischief.“His missus gives him tongue for breakfast ivery morning,” said another.“Sim, come home wi’ uz and hev a bit o’ custard,” said another, and there was a general laugh from the gaunt-looking men.“Nice bit o’ stuffed chine at my place, Sim,” said another; and one after the other, men, whose fare had been bread and potatoes for many days, gave their great orator invitations to partake of the popular delicacies of the place.“Tellee what,” said big Harry, coming up, “I mean to have somebody’s thack off if this game arn’t soon over.”“I hadn’t going to say much,” said Sim, who had been standing with folded arms, looking contemptuously at the crowd around; “but, I say this—if I was to go on as you do I’d hate mysen. Wheer’s your paytriotism? Wheer’s your risings against tyranny? Wheer’s your British wucking man rising like a lion in his might?”“Yes,” said a shrill female voice from a window, “but your British lion wucking man wants his dinner, don’t he?”There was a roar of laughter at this. “Yah!” said Sim, contemptuously. “Why do I wuck mysen to death for you all, to be badgered for it?”“I don’t know,” said the same voice from the window, sounding more shrill than ever, “but I know this, Sim Slee, that my bairns is all pining, while their father’s doing nowt but walk about wi’ his hands in his pockets, and if things don’t soon change, some o’ them as got up this strike ’ll be put oonder the poomp, and if the men don’t do it uz women will.”Sim folded his arms, looked round contemptuously as there rose another shout of laughter, and stalked off to walk to the station and meet the deputation, as he called the man he had invited to come down.

Then Mrs Slee would tighten up her lips, look as if she would like to box her lord’s ears, and end sometimes by doing it, Sim appealing to “Moother” for mercy till she went upstairs, when Sim would get up from the floor, where he had thrown himself, and rub his ears till they ceased tingling, and end by winking to himself and performing the strange movements alluded to in the previous chapter.

At these times, in spite of the very liberal quantity of ale indulged in at his own and other people’s expense, Sim’s head would be perfectly clear; and knowing, from old experience, that as soon as he had lain down and gone fast asleep, Mrs Slee would get up and empty his pockets, he would proceed to conceal his money. Half-crowns were placed up the chimney, a half-sovereign on the ledge over a door, shillings in corners not likely to be swept, under chimney ornaments, and on the tops of picture frames, his great hoard at this time being under an old scrubby geranium, growing—or rather existing, for it had long ceased to grow—in a pot in the window—a favourite plant of Mrs Slee’s, as she had kept it through the winter for years. So matted together were its roots, that if the stem were taken in the hand the whole of the earth came out quite clean in its basket of fibres, and beneath this, in the bottom of the pot, Sim had placed five golden sovereigns, nicely arranged round the hole, on the night after the riot, the geranium being replaced, and all looking as before.

The next morning Mrs Slee was up a long while the first, as usual, and as was her custom when Sim had been bad over night, she made a tour of the place, finding and gleaning up coins of various value, wondering the while where Sim obtained the money that she transferred to her ample pocket, hidden by drapery and folds at a great depth from the surface.

Just as she was finishing, she caught sight of the pot, and saw that it had been removed over night, for the water that had drained into the earthen saucer had, when the pot was moved, dripped on the floor.

A grim smile overspread her countenance as she lifted pot and saucer together, and looked beneath, to see nothing. Even the pot was lifted from the saucer, and with like result, when, replacing it, the wet pot slipped, and Mrs Slee caught at the stem of the plant, with the result that she held geranium in one hand, pot in the other, and saw the five glittering gold pieces at the bottom.

She clutched them eagerly, and hid them away, replaced the pot, and then stood thinking.

“Where does he get his money?” she said, looking grimly. “I’ll speak to parson.”

Mrs Slee had been gone a couple of hours before Sim descended to partake of the breakfast placed ready for him, all the while battling with his infirmity.

It was one that always troubled him after a night’s excess, for, though Sim’s head was clear enough over night when he hid his money, the over-excited brain refused to act next morning, and a thick veil was drawn between the eve and the morrow. There was always the dim recollection of having hidden his money, but that was all; and in this case as in others, pot, door-ledge, pictures, all had passed away from his memory, and there was a blank in answer to his oft-repeated question—“Where did I put that money?” It was a blessing in disguise for Sim, though he did not know it. But for this, and his wife’s tenacious grasp of all she found, none of which went directly back to Sim, he would have been without a roof to cover his head years before, and many a pound that he accredited himself with having spent in gills of ale and standing treat had really gone into his wife’s pocket.

“Well, this wean’t do,” he said at last; “money’s gone, and I shall get no more out o’ Dicky Glaire.”

“He’ll be pretty sick o’ his lock-out by this time,” said Sim, as he laced his boots. “That was a fine plan wi’ them bands. It’s kep the strike on, and it’s easier than wucking your fingers to the bone. Wonder how long they’ll keep it oop. Well, here goes.”

He went out, and had not gone far before he met the vicar, who stopped to speak to him; but Sim, to use his own words, “coot him dead,” making his way right off through the town, where he stopped for a bit of bombastic “blather,” as his associates called it, on the success of their attack on Richard.

“He had the finest leathering he ever had in his life,” said Sim.

“And what good’s it going to do?” said one of the men, in a grumbling tone.

“What good? Open thee eyes, mun, and see for your sen. Good? It’ll bring him to his senses, and he’ll come round and ask on his knees for us to go to work, and then we’ll mak’ our own terms.”

“And if he wean’t come round,” said another, “what then?”

Sim stooped to the man’s ear, and whispered something.

“Eh, mun, but we wouldn’t do that, would we?”

“Howd thee tongue,” said Sim. “Wait and see. I’ve got a friend coming down to-day as can settle all these things. I’m going to meet him at the station, and he’s going to stay here till things is settled.”

“And who’s going to keep un?” said another man. “I can’t keep mysen.”

“All on you, o’ course,” said Sim. “You keep a good heart, lad, and all will be as raight as raight.”

“But that would be coming it strange and strong, man,” said the first speaker.

“Strong diseases want strong doses, lad,” said Sim, winking. “But don’t you wherrit yoursen. There’s them in the Brotherhood as is looking after your interests, and we shall all come off wi’ flying colours.”

“I dessay we shall,” said the man, in a discontented tone; “but I want to hear them theer furnaces a-roaring agen, and the firemen’s shovels rattling in the coals, and the brass a-chinking in the box o’ pay nights. Dal the strike, I say.”

“But it aint a strike now,” said Sim, didactically. “Don’t you see, it’s a lock-out.”

“It’s all the same,” said another, sulkily. “Theer aint no brass to tak’, and the missus and the bairns is pined to dead wi’ hunger, and starved to dead for want of a bit o’ fire.”

“But you get the society money,” said Sim, indignantly.

“Yah! what’s that to a man in full fettle! Just pays for bread, and you can’t buy a decent weigh o’ meat for fear o’ waring it all at once.”

“Yes,” said another; “it’s like club money when a man’s sick and can’t wuck.”

“Raight enew, then,” said another; “bud a man wants wuck as well as something to yeat. It’s strange, coarse weather for us as far as yeating and drinking goes. Why, my bairns heven’t hed a bit of bootther sin’ the strike begun.”

“A man need be as tiff as a band to stand it all,” said another.

“Ay, tough as a bont whong,” said another.

“Well, I shall be a very poor creature,” said another, “if this here’s going to last. I’m ’bout pined to dead now.”

“I shall flit and get wuck somewheer else.”

“Iver get berry pie for dinner now, Sim Slee?” said another, alluding to a favourite luxury of Sim’s, who was accredited with having stolen a neighbour’s gooseberries to make the famous berry pie.

Here there was a bit of a laugh, a good sign, for the men seemed ripe for mischief.

“His missus gives him tongue for breakfast ivery morning,” said another.

“Sim, come home wi’ uz and hev a bit o’ custard,” said another, and there was a general laugh from the gaunt-looking men.

“Nice bit o’ stuffed chine at my place, Sim,” said another; and one after the other, men, whose fare had been bread and potatoes for many days, gave their great orator invitations to partake of the popular delicacies of the place.

“Tellee what,” said big Harry, coming up, “I mean to have somebody’s thack off if this game arn’t soon over.”

“I hadn’t going to say much,” said Sim, who had been standing with folded arms, looking contemptuously at the crowd around; “but, I say this—if I was to go on as you do I’d hate mysen. Wheer’s your paytriotism? Wheer’s your risings against tyranny? Wheer’s your British wucking man rising like a lion in his might?”

“Yes,” said a shrill female voice from a window, “but your British lion wucking man wants his dinner, don’t he?”

There was a roar of laughter at this. “Yah!” said Sim, contemptuously. “Why do I wuck mysen to death for you all, to be badgered for it?”

“I don’t know,” said the same voice from the window, sounding more shrill than ever, “but I know this, Sim Slee, that my bairns is all pining, while their father’s doing nowt but walk about wi’ his hands in his pockets, and if things don’t soon change, some o’ them as got up this strike ’ll be put oonder the poomp, and if the men don’t do it uz women will.”

Sim folded his arms, looked round contemptuously as there rose another shout of laughter, and stalked off to walk to the station and meet the deputation, as he called the man he had invited to come down.

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.The Foreman’s Apology.There was, indeed, a calm, but to the vicar it seemed a very deceitful one, and he spent many an uneasy hour in thinking whether it was likely when the men grew excited they would attack the house; but he always came back to the conclusion that Richard would be safe there, so long as he did nothing more to exasperate his workmen.During visits to the house, Mrs Glaire, with tears, avowed that she could do nothing, only hope, for Richard was stubbornness itself, and when for a moment he thought of inducing Eve to play the part of intercessor, the poor girl’s wan and piteous look pained him so that he could not ask her, and it was brought thoroughly home to him that she must love Richard very dearly, though now they were cruelly estranged; and as he sat and gazed upon her, and grew more and more intimate, learning the sweet truth of her nature, and thorough self-denial, he felt half maddened to think she should be thrown away upon such a man, and told himself that he would gladly have seen her wedded to any one to escape so terrible a union.The past and Daisy Banks were quite ignored. She was a trouble that had come upon the mother and cousin’s life, but she was removed apparently from their path, unless some of the letters Richard so regularly wrote were for her.Murray felt his position in connection with the family acutely. The rumour spread by Budd as to his being forbidden the house was false, but scarcely a day passed when Richard came down, after indulging himself a week in bed to cure ills from which he really did not suffer, but for which stout Mr Purley doctored him stolidly, and made his sister enter them in the day-book when he got home—scarcely a day passed without the vicar having to submit to some insult.He would have stayed away, but for Mrs Glaire, who looked to him for her support in this time of trouble; and he would have avoided Eve’s society, dear to him as it was, but for the sweet ingenuous looks with which she greeted him, and laid bare her innocent, truthful heart to his gaze. To her he was dear Mr Selwood, whose hands she had kissed when he promised her to leave no stone unturned to bring Richard to the path of duty; and her belief in him was, that with his strong mind and knowledge of the world, he would do this, that Richard would be quite reformed; and make her, to her aunt’s lasting happiness, a good and loving husband.And she—does she love him? the vicar often asked himself, and he was compelled to answer, “No!”For there was no deep passion, only the sorrow for Richard’s frailties, the disappointment and bitterness of the young girl, who finds the man to whom she is betrothed is a scoundrel, and fights with self to keep from believing it. No, Eve did not love him with all her heart, for a true love passion had never yet gained an entrance. Richard was to be her husband; that was settled; and some day, when he showed his sorrow and repented, she would forgive him, and become his wife.And had she the least idea that another loved her?Not the least. Mr Selwood was her and her aunt’s dear friend, working with them for the same end, and some day in the future, when Richard was forgiven, he would make them man and wife.This was the state of Eve’s heart at the present period of the story; but a change was coming—a look, a word, or a touch, something had thrilled one of the fibres of Eve’s being, directly after the saving of Richard from his men; and, though innocent of its meaning, the first germ of a thought which she came afterwards to term “disloyal to Richard,” was planted in her heart, and began to grow.The vicar was at home, busy over his garden. It had been a busy morning, and Mrs Slee had informed him that she was “dead bet.” And she must have been tired, for fully a hundred people had been for relief that morning, the munificent sums the young vicar devoted to the workmen’s families having been of late supplemented by money furnished by Mrs Glaire.“Richard must never know,” she said; “but I feel bound to do something towards alleviating the distress caused by his obstinacy.”The result was that soup and bread were supplied, and no one came to the vicarage without getting some assistance.“Thee’ll give all thee’s got away, and leave nowt for thee sen,” said Mrs Slee to him crossly, when the distribution was over, and the people gone.“You’re tired,” said the vicar, smiling.“Nay, I’m not,” said Mrs Slee; “but it makes me mad.”“What makes you mad?”“Why, to see you finding money, and trouble, and me helping you, to keep the poor silly women and bairns from pining, when my maister’s doing all he can to keep the men from going to work. It makes me hate my sen.”“Well, but we can’t help it, Mrs Slee.”“No,” she retorted; “but half of them don’t deserve it.”“If we waited to be charitable till only those who deserved it came, Mrs Slee, you need not make so much soup, and shins of beef would not be so scarce.”“You’re raight theer, sir,” said Mrs Slee, speaking a little less vinegary to the man whom, in spite of her short, snappish ways, she almost worshipped, and would do anything to serve. In fact, Mrs Slee had, since her instalment as housekeeper to the vicar, grown less angular and pasty of face, even approaching to her old comeliness. Not from idleness, though, for the neat maidservant, who was her assistant, had almost a sinecure for place, Mrs Slee insisting on making bread, cooking, “rembling” and “siding,” as she termed it; in short, she monopolised nearly the whole of the work, and the place was a model of neatness and perfection.“One’s obliged to do the best one can, Mrs Slee, and be content to leave the working and result to wiser hands.”“Oh yes, sir, that’s raight enew; but it makes me mad for all them big owry fellows to be idle ’bout a quarrel, and their missusses looking all poor creatures, and their bairns as wankle as wankle for want o’ better food, when there ought to be bacon and pig cheer and ony mander o’ thing they want. It’s time some on ’em give ower, instead o’ leaving their wives scratting about to keep body and soul together.”“I keep hoping matters will mend,” said the vicar.“Here’s some un else to wherrit you,” said Mrs Slee, hearing the gate bang. “Why, I never saw such a sight in my life. It’s Joe Banks.”The vicar was surprised, and rose as Joe Banks, looking years older, was shown in by Mrs Slee, who counteracted her longing to know his business by hurriedly going out, making her way into the kitchen, and attacking a pancheon of dough, which had been put to the fire to rise, and was now ready to pour over the side like a dough eruption, and run down and solidify as bread.This was, however, by the help of flour, soon reduced to normal proportions, banged into tins, and thrust into the oven, Mrs Slee performing each part of her task as if she were very angry with the compound, and desirous of punishing it for being so good. But it was a way she had, induced by the behaviour of her master, Simeon Slee.Meanwhile, Joe Banks, in spite of the friendly welcome he had received, refused to sit down, but stood leaning on the stick he carried.“Nay, parson, nay,” he said, “I haven’t come to stop. I just thowt I’d act like a man now, and say I arks your pardon, sir, hearty like, and wi’ all my heart.”“My pardon, for what, Banks?”“For acting like a fond, foolish owd father the other day, and giving ye the rough side of my tongue, when you came to gi’ me good advice.”“Oh, don’t talk about that, man, pray.”“Yes, I thowt I would, because I ought to ha’ knowd better, and not been such a blind owd owl. But there you know, parson—and I suppose you’re used to it—them as you goes to advise always coots oop rough. So I thowt, as I said, I’d arsk your pardon.”“If I’ve anything to pardon, Banks, it was forgiven the next minute. I look upon life as too short, and the work we have to do as too much, to allow room for nursing up such troubles as that.”“Don’t say any more, parson,” said Joe, wringing his hand, with a grip of iron; “it makes me feel ’shamed like o’ my sen.”“I don’t see why,” said the vicar. “If I had been a father I dare say I should have done the same.”“Down on your knees to-night, parson, and pray as you never may be,” cried the old man fiercely; “that you may never nurse and bring up and love a bairn whom you toil for all your life, to find she throws you over for the first face that pleases her.”“But we are not quite certain yet, Banks,” said the vicar, laying his hand on the other’s arm.“Yes, I am,” said Banks, sturdily. “I know enew to satisfy me; but stop a moment, I meant to have a word about that, and let’s have it at once. It’s all my own doing, I know, but there it is, and it can’t be undone. Tell me, though, parson, can you say from your heart, ‘Joe Banks, you’re mista’en; I don’t think Richard Glaire—Richard Glaire—dal me! I will say it.’”The old man’s voice turned hoarse, and shook at last, so that he could not speak, as he came to Richard Glaire’s name, when, after an effort, he exclaimed as above, and then went on—“I don’t think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?”There was silence in the room, as the vicar looked sorrowfully in the keen eyes of Daisy’s father.“I say, parson,” he repeated, “can you say fro’ your heart, ‘Joe Banks, you’re mista’en; I don’t think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?’”There was another pause, and Joe Banks spoke again.“Can you say that, parson?”“No, Banks,” said the vicar, sadly. “I may be mistaken, but I cannot say what you wish.”“Thanky, parson, thanky,” said the old man, quietly. “You’ll shake hands with me afore I go.”“Indeed I will, Mr Banks; indeed I will,” said the vicar, heartily. “But you are not going yet.”“Yes, I’m going now, parson, and if in the time as is to come you hear owt as isn’t good of me, put it down to circumstances. You will, wean’t you?”“You’re not going away, Banks?”“Nay, nay, man, I’m not going away. Just do as I say, that’s all.”“How is your wife? I hope better. She seemed ill yesterday.”“Ah, ah, you called yesterday, as she said. Thanky, she’s on’y a poor creature now. This job’s unsattled her. Good-bye, parson, good-bye.”“But is there anything I can do for you, Banks?”“Nay, parson, nowt as I knows on. Good-bye, good-bye.”He shook hands, and went quietly out to the garden, and along the path, leaving the vicar wondering.“Did he mean anything by his words?” the vicar said, “or was it only in connection with asking me to forgive him? He couldn’t mean—oh, no, he’s too calm and subdued for that. He’s like a man who knows the worst now, and is better able to bear it. I should be glad to see the lock-out at an end, but, even if it were, that poor old man would never go to work for Richard Glaire again.”

There was, indeed, a calm, but to the vicar it seemed a very deceitful one, and he spent many an uneasy hour in thinking whether it was likely when the men grew excited they would attack the house; but he always came back to the conclusion that Richard would be safe there, so long as he did nothing more to exasperate his workmen.

During visits to the house, Mrs Glaire, with tears, avowed that she could do nothing, only hope, for Richard was stubbornness itself, and when for a moment he thought of inducing Eve to play the part of intercessor, the poor girl’s wan and piteous look pained him so that he could not ask her, and it was brought thoroughly home to him that she must love Richard very dearly, though now they were cruelly estranged; and as he sat and gazed upon her, and grew more and more intimate, learning the sweet truth of her nature, and thorough self-denial, he felt half maddened to think she should be thrown away upon such a man, and told himself that he would gladly have seen her wedded to any one to escape so terrible a union.

The past and Daisy Banks were quite ignored. She was a trouble that had come upon the mother and cousin’s life, but she was removed apparently from their path, unless some of the letters Richard so regularly wrote were for her.

Murray felt his position in connection with the family acutely. The rumour spread by Budd as to his being forbidden the house was false, but scarcely a day passed when Richard came down, after indulging himself a week in bed to cure ills from which he really did not suffer, but for which stout Mr Purley doctored him stolidly, and made his sister enter them in the day-book when he got home—scarcely a day passed without the vicar having to submit to some insult.

He would have stayed away, but for Mrs Glaire, who looked to him for her support in this time of trouble; and he would have avoided Eve’s society, dear to him as it was, but for the sweet ingenuous looks with which she greeted him, and laid bare her innocent, truthful heart to his gaze. To her he was dear Mr Selwood, whose hands she had kissed when he promised her to leave no stone unturned to bring Richard to the path of duty; and her belief in him was, that with his strong mind and knowledge of the world, he would do this, that Richard would be quite reformed; and make her, to her aunt’s lasting happiness, a good and loving husband.

And she—does she love him? the vicar often asked himself, and he was compelled to answer, “No!”

For there was no deep passion, only the sorrow for Richard’s frailties, the disappointment and bitterness of the young girl, who finds the man to whom she is betrothed is a scoundrel, and fights with self to keep from believing it. No, Eve did not love him with all her heart, for a true love passion had never yet gained an entrance. Richard was to be her husband; that was settled; and some day, when he showed his sorrow and repented, she would forgive him, and become his wife.

And had she the least idea that another loved her?

Not the least. Mr Selwood was her and her aunt’s dear friend, working with them for the same end, and some day in the future, when Richard was forgiven, he would make them man and wife.

This was the state of Eve’s heart at the present period of the story; but a change was coming—a look, a word, or a touch, something had thrilled one of the fibres of Eve’s being, directly after the saving of Richard from his men; and, though innocent of its meaning, the first germ of a thought which she came afterwards to term “disloyal to Richard,” was planted in her heart, and began to grow.

The vicar was at home, busy over his garden. It had been a busy morning, and Mrs Slee had informed him that she was “dead bet.” And she must have been tired, for fully a hundred people had been for relief that morning, the munificent sums the young vicar devoted to the workmen’s families having been of late supplemented by money furnished by Mrs Glaire.

“Richard must never know,” she said; “but I feel bound to do something towards alleviating the distress caused by his obstinacy.”

The result was that soup and bread were supplied, and no one came to the vicarage without getting some assistance.

“Thee’ll give all thee’s got away, and leave nowt for thee sen,” said Mrs Slee to him crossly, when the distribution was over, and the people gone.

“You’re tired,” said the vicar, smiling.

“Nay, I’m not,” said Mrs Slee; “but it makes me mad.”

“What makes you mad?”

“Why, to see you finding money, and trouble, and me helping you, to keep the poor silly women and bairns from pining, when my maister’s doing all he can to keep the men from going to work. It makes me hate my sen.”

“Well, but we can’t help it, Mrs Slee.”

“No,” she retorted; “but half of them don’t deserve it.”

“If we waited to be charitable till only those who deserved it came, Mrs Slee, you need not make so much soup, and shins of beef would not be so scarce.”

“You’re raight theer, sir,” said Mrs Slee, speaking a little less vinegary to the man whom, in spite of her short, snappish ways, she almost worshipped, and would do anything to serve. In fact, Mrs Slee had, since her instalment as housekeeper to the vicar, grown less angular and pasty of face, even approaching to her old comeliness. Not from idleness, though, for the neat maidservant, who was her assistant, had almost a sinecure for place, Mrs Slee insisting on making bread, cooking, “rembling” and “siding,” as she termed it; in short, she monopolised nearly the whole of the work, and the place was a model of neatness and perfection.

“One’s obliged to do the best one can, Mrs Slee, and be content to leave the working and result to wiser hands.”

“Oh yes, sir, that’s raight enew; but it makes me mad for all them big owry fellows to be idle ’bout a quarrel, and their missusses looking all poor creatures, and their bairns as wankle as wankle for want o’ better food, when there ought to be bacon and pig cheer and ony mander o’ thing they want. It’s time some on ’em give ower, instead o’ leaving their wives scratting about to keep body and soul together.”

“I keep hoping matters will mend,” said the vicar.

“Here’s some un else to wherrit you,” said Mrs Slee, hearing the gate bang. “Why, I never saw such a sight in my life. It’s Joe Banks.”

The vicar was surprised, and rose as Joe Banks, looking years older, was shown in by Mrs Slee, who counteracted her longing to know his business by hurriedly going out, making her way into the kitchen, and attacking a pancheon of dough, which had been put to the fire to rise, and was now ready to pour over the side like a dough eruption, and run down and solidify as bread.

This was, however, by the help of flour, soon reduced to normal proportions, banged into tins, and thrust into the oven, Mrs Slee performing each part of her task as if she were very angry with the compound, and desirous of punishing it for being so good. But it was a way she had, induced by the behaviour of her master, Simeon Slee.

Meanwhile, Joe Banks, in spite of the friendly welcome he had received, refused to sit down, but stood leaning on the stick he carried.

“Nay, parson, nay,” he said, “I haven’t come to stop. I just thowt I’d act like a man now, and say I arks your pardon, sir, hearty like, and wi’ all my heart.”

“My pardon, for what, Banks?”

“For acting like a fond, foolish owd father the other day, and giving ye the rough side of my tongue, when you came to gi’ me good advice.”

“Oh, don’t talk about that, man, pray.”

“Yes, I thowt I would, because I ought to ha’ knowd better, and not been such a blind owd owl. But there you know, parson—and I suppose you’re used to it—them as you goes to advise always coots oop rough. So I thowt, as I said, I’d arsk your pardon.”

“If I’ve anything to pardon, Banks, it was forgiven the next minute. I look upon life as too short, and the work we have to do as too much, to allow room for nursing up such troubles as that.”

“Don’t say any more, parson,” said Joe, wringing his hand, with a grip of iron; “it makes me feel ’shamed like o’ my sen.”

“I don’t see why,” said the vicar. “If I had been a father I dare say I should have done the same.”

“Down on your knees to-night, parson, and pray as you never may be,” cried the old man fiercely; “that you may never nurse and bring up and love a bairn whom you toil for all your life, to find she throws you over for the first face that pleases her.”

“But we are not quite certain yet, Banks,” said the vicar, laying his hand on the other’s arm.

“Yes, I am,” said Banks, sturdily. “I know enew to satisfy me; but stop a moment, I meant to have a word about that, and let’s have it at once. It’s all my own doing, I know, but there it is, and it can’t be undone. Tell me, though, parson, can you say from your heart, ‘Joe Banks, you’re mista’en; I don’t think Richard Glaire—Richard Glaire—dal me! I will say it.’”

The old man’s voice turned hoarse, and shook at last, so that he could not speak, as he came to Richard Glaire’s name, when, after an effort, he exclaimed as above, and then went on—“I don’t think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?”

There was silence in the room, as the vicar looked sorrowfully in the keen eyes of Daisy’s father.

“I say, parson,” he repeated, “can you say fro’ your heart, ‘Joe Banks, you’re mista’en; I don’t think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?’”

There was another pause, and Joe Banks spoke again.

“Can you say that, parson?”

“No, Banks,” said the vicar, sadly. “I may be mistaken, but I cannot say what you wish.”

“Thanky, parson, thanky,” said the old man, quietly. “You’ll shake hands with me afore I go.”

“Indeed I will, Mr Banks; indeed I will,” said the vicar, heartily. “But you are not going yet.”

“Yes, I’m going now, parson, and if in the time as is to come you hear owt as isn’t good of me, put it down to circumstances. You will, wean’t you?”

“You’re not going away, Banks?”

“Nay, nay, man, I’m not going away. Just do as I say, that’s all.”

“How is your wife? I hope better. She seemed ill yesterday.”

“Ah, ah, you called yesterday, as she said. Thanky, she’s on’y a poor creature now. This job’s unsattled her. Good-bye, parson, good-bye.”

“But is there anything I can do for you, Banks?”

“Nay, parson, nowt as I knows on. Good-bye, good-bye.”

He shook hands, and went quietly out to the garden, and along the path, leaving the vicar wondering.

“Did he mean anything by his words?” the vicar said, “or was it only in connection with asking me to forgive him? He couldn’t mean—oh, no, he’s too calm and subdued for that. He’s like a man who knows the worst now, and is better able to bear it. I should be glad to see the lock-out at an end, but, even if it were, that poor old man would never go to work for Richard Glaire again.”

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.At Dumford Church.The vicar used to look sadly at his church every Sunday, at the damp-stained walls, the unpainted high deal pews, with their straw-plaited cushions and hassocks, dotted with exceptions, where the better-off inhabitants had green baize, and in the case of the doctor’s, the lawyer’s, and the Big House pews, scarlet moreen cushions.It was a dreary, damp place, with a few ugly old tablets, and one large monument, which nearly half filled the little chancel with its clumsy wrought-iron railings, enclosing the gilded and painted marble effigies of Roger de Dumford and Dame Alys, his wife, uncomfortably lying on their backs on a cushion not large enough for them, and turning up the rosetted shoes that they wore in the most ungainly way. Sir Roger was in slashed doublet and puffed breeches, and wore a ruff as stiff as marble could make it, and so did Dame Alys, in long stomacher and farthingale; while their great merits were enumerated, and the number of children they had issue was stated on the tablet on the wall.This great tomb went pretty close up to the communion-rail, and for generations past the various vicars had hung their surplices on the rails, and changed them for their gowns in the shade, for the vestry was over the porch at the south door, and was only opened for parish meetings, when the officials went in and came out, to adjourn and do business at the big room at the Bull.Always damp, and smelling of very bad, mouldy cheese, was that church. The schoolmistress, a limp, melancholy woman, always used to give it out to the schoolmaster as her opinion that it was the bodies buried beneath the flags—a matter rather open to doubt, as no one had been interred there for over a hundred years, while the damp-engendered mould and fungi in corner and on wall spoke for themselves.No stove to warm the place in winter; few windows to open in summer, to admit the pleasant warm air; the place was always dank, dark, and ill-smelling, and from its whitewashed beams overhead to its ancient flag flooring, and again from the stained glass windows on either side, all was oppressive, cold, and shudder-engendering.Let it not be imagined, however, that there were stained glass windows of wondrous dye. Nothing of the kind, for they were merely stained and encrusted by time of a dingy, ghastly, yellowish tint, and as full of waves and blurs as the old-fashioned glass could be.The consequence was the people were slow to come to church, and quick to get out. One or two vicars had had ideas of improving the place, and had mooted the matter at public and parochial meetings. The result had always been whitewash—whitewash on the ceilings, and whitewash on the walls.The question had been mooted again.More whitewash.Again, and again, and again, as years rolled on.More whitewash, and whitewash, and whitewash. Even the two old rusty helmets and pairs of gauntlets hung up in the chancel, said to have been worn by great De Dumfords of the past, had been whitewashed, with a most preservative effect, saving where the rust had insisted upon coming through in stains of brown. The result was that, thanks to the churchwarden’s belief in lime as representing purity, Dumford was the most whitewashed church in the country, and it stood up in waves and corrugations all over the walls, where the damp had not caused it to peel off in plates, varying in thickness from that of a shilling to half an inch; and these scales had a knack of falling into pews during service time, probably from the piercing character of the music causing vibrations that they could not stand.That music on Sundays was not cheerful, for there was no organ governed by one will, the minstrelsy being supplied by Owd Billy Stocks, who played dismally upon a clarionet, which wailed sadly for the cracks all down its sides; by Tommy Johnson, the baker, who blew a very curly crooked French horn, which he always seemed to fear would make too much noise, so held it in subjection by keeping his fist thrust up the bell; by Joey South, a little old man in tight leather pantaloons, skimpy long-tailed coat, and tight-squeezy hat, turned close up to the sides at the brims, giving him a tighter appearance altogether than the great umbrella, which, evidently an heirloom, he always carried under his arm, as if it were a stiffened fac-simile of himself as he walked to church preceded by a boy carrying his instrument—a thing like a thick black gun, with a brass crook about a foot long coming out of one side—Joey South called it his “barsoon,” but as he sat cuddling it in church, it looked more like some wonderful Eastern pipe that he was smoking, while it emitted strange sounds like a huge bumble-bee stopped constantly in its discourse by a finger placed over its mouth; by Johnny Buffam, the shoemaker, who blew a large brass affair like a small steam thrashing-engine, and boomed and burred in it like “an owd boozzard clock,” as Kitty Stocks said; and lastly, by Trappy Pape, who used to bring a great violoncello in a green baize bag, and saw away solemnly in a pair of round tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles.These variations of the Christian names of the sacred band were, as before said, common to the town, where every man was a Dicky, or a Tommy, or a Joey, or the like, and generally with an “Owd” before it. The clergyman our vicar succeeded was the Reverend James Bannister, but he was always known as “Owd Jemmy,” and it was a matter of regret to the popular wits of the place that the Reverend Murray Selwood’s name offered no hold for the ingenious to nickname, so they settled down to “Owd Parson,” and so he was called.But to return to the choir.They sat in a gallery that crossed the western end of the church, and on Sundays such of them as put in an appearance had it, with the singers and the schoolchildren, all to themselves; and let it not be supposed that the preponderance of bass was noticeable, for it was pretty well drowned by the shrill treble, as the musicians did not get much music out of their instruments, save and excepting Billy Stokes, who always seemed to be dying in agonies, such wails did he send forth in “Portugal,” “Hanover,” and “Old Hundredth,” that it took all the efforts of the basses to smother his piercing cries.The bells, pulled for a treat by five boys under the direction of Jacky Budd, had had their say; the musicians had blundered and clumped up the dark staircase to their seats, and Trappy Pape was working away with his bow upon a large cake of rosin, while Joey Tight, as he was more generally called, was sucking his brass pipe, and conning over the notes he had known for fifty years, to the great admiration of the schoolboys, one and all longing to “have a blow at that theer big black thing.” The “tingtang” which went for ten minutes in a cracked, doleful, sheep-bell style, was being pulled, and the vicar was standing in his surplice, waiting for the clock to strike—which it would do sometimes with tolerable accuracy—and he was thinking of how he should like to move the people to have something done by way of restoration to the church, when Jacky Budd, with one thumb in his arm-hole, came slinking softly up to try and get a bit of whispered conversation with the parson.“Strange great congregation this morning, sir,” he whispered.“Indeed, Budd,” said the vicar, brightening. “I’m glad of that.”“I counted ’em, sir—there’s two-and-forty.”“Forty-two, Budd,” said the vicar, with his countenance falling; “and the church holds seven hundred.”“Two-and-forty, sir, wi’out the schoolchildren.”“But you counted the singers, Budd?”“No, sir, I didn’t; two-and-forty wi’out.”“Ah, Budd, it’s very sad,” said the vicar, sighing. “I hoped for better things by now.”“Why, we never used to hev such congregations in the owd vicar’s time, sir, as we do wi’ you. We never used to hev more than five-and-twenty o’ wet Sundays, and I hev know’d him preach to six.”“Hah!” A long sigh and a mental question, “What can I do to bring them here?” as Jacky Budd shuffled as far as the door and back.“Owd Robinson from the Bull, and his missus, just come in, sir; and Master Bultitude and Miss Jessie, and John Maine from the farm, makes forty-seven, sir. If I might make so bold, sir, don’t you think we ought to hev a collection?”“Why, that’s due next Sunday, Budd, and a strange clergyman coming,” said the vicar, hardly able to restrain a smile.“That’s why I said it, sir,” said Budd, slily. “You wean’t get a score o’ people here nex’ Sunday.”The vicar shook his head, and looked at his watch, which Jacky took as a hint to go, and he went as far as his desk, opened his book, and then saw something that made him softly shuffle back to where the vicar was waiting for the first stroke of the clock to start for the reading-desk.“They’ve come to the big pew, sir,” he whispered behind his hand.“What?”“Mrs Glaire, sir, and Miss Eve, and young Master Dicky.”The vicar started slightly. This was a change, indeed, and full of promise. Richard Glaire, who had not been out of the house nor into the garden since the attack made upon him, and who had never been seen in the old pew since the vicar’s coming, had walked down the High Street between his mother and Eve, and made his appearance at church.“Well, of course, he would be safe on such a day,” thought the vicar, “and the people have been quieter. God grant this is the beginning of the end, and that this little feud may be succeeded by peace.”He thought this as the clock was striking, and he walked to the reading-desk, glanced through the Prayer-Book and Bible, where the markers were, to see that Jacky Budd, whose memory was erratic, had made no mistakes, and given him wrong psalms and lessons to read, and then turned to the opening sentences, and was about to commence; but the presence of Richard Glaire troubled him. He was glad at heart that he should be there, and now that he had come he wished to influence him for good,—to bring him to a different way of thinking, for Eve’s sake; and now these sentences all seemed, as of course they were, personal, and such as would make Richard Glaire think that they were selected and aimed specially at him.“When the wicked man,” read the vicar to himself. No. “I acknowledge.” No, no, no, one after the other they seemed warnings to the sinner, such a one as Richard Glaire, and in the hurried glance down he came to, “I will arise.”“More pointed still,” he thought, and having no time to study the question, he read the two last, beginning, “Enter not into judgment,” etc., and “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves,” etc.As the service went on the vicar’s eyes took in by turns the members of his congregation, and at last he let them light on the Glaires’ pew.There stood Mrs Glaire, looking old and careworn; in another corner, Eve Pelly, with her sweet, innocent face, looking to him angelic in her rapt absorption, as she listened to his words, and there, with his back to them, and leaning over the edge of the pew in a negligentdégagéattitude, as if bent on showing the congregation the whiteness of the hands he held up for inspection, stood Richard Glaire, gazing at him with half-closed eyes, in a supercilious, sneering manner.“Poor boy!” thought Murray Selwood, as his eyes met those of the young man for a moment, and then, like a sudden flash, a thought occurred to the vicar, which made the blood flush to his face, and then seem to run back to his heart.It was the time for reading the first lesson, and his hand was seeking the book-mark in the Bible.“Sixth Sunday after Trinity,” he thought.He will think it chosen, and directed at him. What should he do? Change it and read the lesson for that day of the month. No, that would look as if he had purposely avoided it, and it would take some few minutes to find, for his calmness was leaving him, and he could not recall the date. No, he must read it—it was his duty, and it was like a stroke of fate that Richard Glaire should come there upon such a day.His voice shook slightly, and his eyes dimmed as he read the first words of the beautiful old story, and then moved to the very core, and in deep rich tones, he read on in the midst of a stillness only broken by the soft chirp of some sparrow on the roof; while Mrs Glaire’s head went lower and lower, Eve Pelly’s hand stole softly across to touch her, and the young man sat with his back to the congregation, now white with rage, now burning with shame.“A coward—a sneak!” he muttered between his ground teeth. “He has chosen that chapter to shame me before all the people. I won’t stand it. I’ll get up and go out.”But to do that was not in Richard Glaire’s power. He had not the strength of mind and daring for so defiant an act, and he sat on, thrilled in every fibre, as the deep, mellow voice went on telling how the Lord sent Nathan unto David, and he told him of the rich man, who in his wealth spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd, but took the poor man’s lamb, who was to him as a daughter; and as these words were told, there came from the body of the church the stifled sobs of one of the women of the congregation who could not control her feelings. And at last, in spite of himself, Murray Selwood was moved to such an extent by the words he was reading, that he spoke as if he were the prophet of old, his voice rising and falling as it thrilled his hearers, till it was deep and denunciatory, as he exclaimed:—“And Nathan said unto David—Thou art the man.”There was an audible sigh of relief as the lesson ended, and the vicar wiped the dew from his forehead, for it had been to him a trial, and his voice was low and troubled as he continued the service, but feeling glad at heart that he had not chosen that lesson for the strong, suitable discourse which he afterwards delivered.It is needless to do more than refer to it here, even though Joey Tight stood up with his hand to his ear so as not to miss a word, and winked and blinked ecstatically, and though it, too, struck Richard Glaire home, inasmuch as it was in allusion to the trade troubles in the town, and ended with a prayer that the blessings of unity and brotherly love might come among them, and peace and plenty once more reign in their homes.Old Bultitude and Jessie were waiting at the door as the vicar came out, to look in a troubled way up the High Street, after Richard Glaire and his companions; but there was nothing to fear, the street was deserted, save by the people leaving church.“He’s raight enew to-day, parson,” said the old farmer, divining his thought. “Nobody will touch him o’ Sunday, and wi’ the women. Zoonds, but you gi’e it him hot, and no mistake. That were clever o’ ye. Dal it all, parson, I could like to ha’ offended you, for the sake of getting such a tongue thrashing.”“My dear Mr Bultitude,” said the vicar sadly, “if you will look at your Prayer-book, you will find that this was no plan of mine, but a matter of accident, or fate—who can say which.”“Weer it, though?” said the farmer, as they walked on, his road lying by the vicarage, and he stared round-eyed at his companion. “Think o’ that, Jess. I wouldn’t ha’ believed it: it’s amazing. By the way, parson, I want a few words wi’ you. Jess, lass, walk on a bit. Theer, ye needn’t hurry. I don’t want ye to o’ertake John Maine.”Jessie blushed, and the tears came into her eyes as she went on a few paces; and the farmer, as soon as she was out of ear-shot, pointed at her with his thumb.“Bit touched, parson, courting like. She’s fond o’ that lad, John Maine, and I want her to wed young Brough.”“Maine seems to me a very good worthy young fellow,” said the vicar.“Hem!” said the farmer. “I don’t know so much about that, and t’other’s got the brass.”“Money won’t bring happiness, Mr Bultitude.”“Raight, parson, raight; but it’s main useful. Me and my poor missis, as lies there in chutchyard, hedn’t nowt when we began; but we made some,” he continued, proudly.“By sheer hard work, no doubt.”“Ay, we hed to work, but that’s nowt after all. I wouldn’t gi’ a straw for a lad as can’t work, and is skeart of it. Why, when I went to the bit o’ farm, ‘Boottherboomp’ they used to call it then, cause of the ‘boottherboomps.’”“Let me see, that’s your local name for the bittern, is it not?”“Yes; big brown bird, some’at like a hern,” said old Bultitude. “They lives in wet, swampy places. Well, parson, that place was all one swamp when I went, and I says to mysen, where rushes is a growing now, I mean to grow wheat; and so every year I used to do nowt but spend i’ dreaning, and now there isn’t a finer farm i’ the county.”“It’s perfect,” said the vicar, “perfect.”“Well, I’m glad to hear thee say it, parson, because I know thee sayst what thee means, and thou’rt as good a judge of a crop and stack as iver I see, for a man as isn’t a farmer. It isn’t ivery man as comes fro’ the wild parts ’bout London as can tell as a hog or a hogget isn’t a pig, but a ship, and knows what he’s worth to a shilling or two. But just hearken to me, going on like that, when I wanted to say a word or two ’bout our John Maine.”“Indeed!”“Yes, parson. I’m mortal feard that lad’s going wrong. He’s got some ’at on his mind, and he’s always in confab wi’ young Podmore as was Daisy Banks’ sweetheart, and there’s some mystery about it. Young Brough says he’s mixed up wi’ a blackguard low lot, poaching or some’at o’ that sort; but I don’t tak’ much notice o’ he, for he’s a bit jealous of him. But what I want you to do is to get hold of John and talk to him, for he’s upsetting our Jess, and I shall hev to get shoot of him if things don’t alter, and I doan’t want to do that, parson, for I rayther like the lad, if he’d go back to what he weer. Good day; you’ll see him, will you?”“Indeed I will.”“And young Podmore, too, parson?”“Yes, if it’s necessary.”“Oh, it is; and you’ll put ’em raight, I know. But I say, parson—but that was a hot one for Dicky Glaire. Good-bye.”They parted at the gate, and the vicar went in, just as Sim Slee went by with a man dressed in black—a heavy, white-faced man, with a good deal of black whiskers, who looked as if his clothes did not fit him, and as if he was uncomfortable out of a workman’s suit, and could not find a place for his hands, with which, by the aid of a great cotton handkerchief, he kept wiping his face.“I shouldn’t wonder if that’s the deputation,” said the vicar. “Well, I hope they’ll settle the dispute.”Unfortunately, though the vicar’s guess was right, the deputation was not a man to further the prospects of peace.End of Volume Two.

The vicar used to look sadly at his church every Sunday, at the damp-stained walls, the unpainted high deal pews, with their straw-plaited cushions and hassocks, dotted with exceptions, where the better-off inhabitants had green baize, and in the case of the doctor’s, the lawyer’s, and the Big House pews, scarlet moreen cushions.

It was a dreary, damp place, with a few ugly old tablets, and one large monument, which nearly half filled the little chancel with its clumsy wrought-iron railings, enclosing the gilded and painted marble effigies of Roger de Dumford and Dame Alys, his wife, uncomfortably lying on their backs on a cushion not large enough for them, and turning up the rosetted shoes that they wore in the most ungainly way. Sir Roger was in slashed doublet and puffed breeches, and wore a ruff as stiff as marble could make it, and so did Dame Alys, in long stomacher and farthingale; while their great merits were enumerated, and the number of children they had issue was stated on the tablet on the wall.

This great tomb went pretty close up to the communion-rail, and for generations past the various vicars had hung their surplices on the rails, and changed them for their gowns in the shade, for the vestry was over the porch at the south door, and was only opened for parish meetings, when the officials went in and came out, to adjourn and do business at the big room at the Bull.

Always damp, and smelling of very bad, mouldy cheese, was that church. The schoolmistress, a limp, melancholy woman, always used to give it out to the schoolmaster as her opinion that it was the bodies buried beneath the flags—a matter rather open to doubt, as no one had been interred there for over a hundred years, while the damp-engendered mould and fungi in corner and on wall spoke for themselves.

No stove to warm the place in winter; few windows to open in summer, to admit the pleasant warm air; the place was always dank, dark, and ill-smelling, and from its whitewashed beams overhead to its ancient flag flooring, and again from the stained glass windows on either side, all was oppressive, cold, and shudder-engendering.

Let it not be imagined, however, that there were stained glass windows of wondrous dye. Nothing of the kind, for they were merely stained and encrusted by time of a dingy, ghastly, yellowish tint, and as full of waves and blurs as the old-fashioned glass could be.

The consequence was the people were slow to come to church, and quick to get out. One or two vicars had had ideas of improving the place, and had mooted the matter at public and parochial meetings. The result had always been whitewash—whitewash on the ceilings, and whitewash on the walls.

The question had been mooted again.

More whitewash.

Again, and again, and again, as years rolled on.

More whitewash, and whitewash, and whitewash. Even the two old rusty helmets and pairs of gauntlets hung up in the chancel, said to have been worn by great De Dumfords of the past, had been whitewashed, with a most preservative effect, saving where the rust had insisted upon coming through in stains of brown. The result was that, thanks to the churchwarden’s belief in lime as representing purity, Dumford was the most whitewashed church in the country, and it stood up in waves and corrugations all over the walls, where the damp had not caused it to peel off in plates, varying in thickness from that of a shilling to half an inch; and these scales had a knack of falling into pews during service time, probably from the piercing character of the music causing vibrations that they could not stand.

That music on Sundays was not cheerful, for there was no organ governed by one will, the minstrelsy being supplied by Owd Billy Stocks, who played dismally upon a clarionet, which wailed sadly for the cracks all down its sides; by Tommy Johnson, the baker, who blew a very curly crooked French horn, which he always seemed to fear would make too much noise, so held it in subjection by keeping his fist thrust up the bell; by Joey South, a little old man in tight leather pantaloons, skimpy long-tailed coat, and tight-squeezy hat, turned close up to the sides at the brims, giving him a tighter appearance altogether than the great umbrella, which, evidently an heirloom, he always carried under his arm, as if it were a stiffened fac-simile of himself as he walked to church preceded by a boy carrying his instrument—a thing like a thick black gun, with a brass crook about a foot long coming out of one side—Joey South called it his “barsoon,” but as he sat cuddling it in church, it looked more like some wonderful Eastern pipe that he was smoking, while it emitted strange sounds like a huge bumble-bee stopped constantly in its discourse by a finger placed over its mouth; by Johnny Buffam, the shoemaker, who blew a large brass affair like a small steam thrashing-engine, and boomed and burred in it like “an owd boozzard clock,” as Kitty Stocks said; and lastly, by Trappy Pape, who used to bring a great violoncello in a green baize bag, and saw away solemnly in a pair of round tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles.

These variations of the Christian names of the sacred band were, as before said, common to the town, where every man was a Dicky, or a Tommy, or a Joey, or the like, and generally with an “Owd” before it. The clergyman our vicar succeeded was the Reverend James Bannister, but he was always known as “Owd Jemmy,” and it was a matter of regret to the popular wits of the place that the Reverend Murray Selwood’s name offered no hold for the ingenious to nickname, so they settled down to “Owd Parson,” and so he was called.

But to return to the choir.

They sat in a gallery that crossed the western end of the church, and on Sundays such of them as put in an appearance had it, with the singers and the schoolchildren, all to themselves; and let it not be supposed that the preponderance of bass was noticeable, for it was pretty well drowned by the shrill treble, as the musicians did not get much music out of their instruments, save and excepting Billy Stokes, who always seemed to be dying in agonies, such wails did he send forth in “Portugal,” “Hanover,” and “Old Hundredth,” that it took all the efforts of the basses to smother his piercing cries.

The bells, pulled for a treat by five boys under the direction of Jacky Budd, had had their say; the musicians had blundered and clumped up the dark staircase to their seats, and Trappy Pape was working away with his bow upon a large cake of rosin, while Joey Tight, as he was more generally called, was sucking his brass pipe, and conning over the notes he had known for fifty years, to the great admiration of the schoolboys, one and all longing to “have a blow at that theer big black thing.” The “tingtang” which went for ten minutes in a cracked, doleful, sheep-bell style, was being pulled, and the vicar was standing in his surplice, waiting for the clock to strike—which it would do sometimes with tolerable accuracy—and he was thinking of how he should like to move the people to have something done by way of restoration to the church, when Jacky Budd, with one thumb in his arm-hole, came slinking softly up to try and get a bit of whispered conversation with the parson.

“Strange great congregation this morning, sir,” he whispered.

“Indeed, Budd,” said the vicar, brightening. “I’m glad of that.”

“I counted ’em, sir—there’s two-and-forty.”

“Forty-two, Budd,” said the vicar, with his countenance falling; “and the church holds seven hundred.”

“Two-and-forty, sir, wi’out the schoolchildren.”

“But you counted the singers, Budd?”

“No, sir, I didn’t; two-and-forty wi’out.”

“Ah, Budd, it’s very sad,” said the vicar, sighing. “I hoped for better things by now.”

“Why, we never used to hev such congregations in the owd vicar’s time, sir, as we do wi’ you. We never used to hev more than five-and-twenty o’ wet Sundays, and I hev know’d him preach to six.”

“Hah!” A long sigh and a mental question, “What can I do to bring them here?” as Jacky Budd shuffled as far as the door and back.

“Owd Robinson from the Bull, and his missus, just come in, sir; and Master Bultitude and Miss Jessie, and John Maine from the farm, makes forty-seven, sir. If I might make so bold, sir, don’t you think we ought to hev a collection?”

“Why, that’s due next Sunday, Budd, and a strange clergyman coming,” said the vicar, hardly able to restrain a smile.

“That’s why I said it, sir,” said Budd, slily. “You wean’t get a score o’ people here nex’ Sunday.”

The vicar shook his head, and looked at his watch, which Jacky took as a hint to go, and he went as far as his desk, opened his book, and then saw something that made him softly shuffle back to where the vicar was waiting for the first stroke of the clock to start for the reading-desk.

“They’ve come to the big pew, sir,” he whispered behind his hand.

“What?”

“Mrs Glaire, sir, and Miss Eve, and young Master Dicky.”

The vicar started slightly. This was a change, indeed, and full of promise. Richard Glaire, who had not been out of the house nor into the garden since the attack made upon him, and who had never been seen in the old pew since the vicar’s coming, had walked down the High Street between his mother and Eve, and made his appearance at church.

“Well, of course, he would be safe on such a day,” thought the vicar, “and the people have been quieter. God grant this is the beginning of the end, and that this little feud may be succeeded by peace.”

He thought this as the clock was striking, and he walked to the reading-desk, glanced through the Prayer-Book and Bible, where the markers were, to see that Jacky Budd, whose memory was erratic, had made no mistakes, and given him wrong psalms and lessons to read, and then turned to the opening sentences, and was about to commence; but the presence of Richard Glaire troubled him. He was glad at heart that he should be there, and now that he had come he wished to influence him for good,—to bring him to a different way of thinking, for Eve’s sake; and now these sentences all seemed, as of course they were, personal, and such as would make Richard Glaire think that they were selected and aimed specially at him.

“When the wicked man,” read the vicar to himself. No. “I acknowledge.” No, no, no, one after the other they seemed warnings to the sinner, such a one as Richard Glaire, and in the hurried glance down he came to, “I will arise.”

“More pointed still,” he thought, and having no time to study the question, he read the two last, beginning, “Enter not into judgment,” etc., and “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves,” etc.

As the service went on the vicar’s eyes took in by turns the members of his congregation, and at last he let them light on the Glaires’ pew.

There stood Mrs Glaire, looking old and careworn; in another corner, Eve Pelly, with her sweet, innocent face, looking to him angelic in her rapt absorption, as she listened to his words, and there, with his back to them, and leaning over the edge of the pew in a negligentdégagéattitude, as if bent on showing the congregation the whiteness of the hands he held up for inspection, stood Richard Glaire, gazing at him with half-closed eyes, in a supercilious, sneering manner.

“Poor boy!” thought Murray Selwood, as his eyes met those of the young man for a moment, and then, like a sudden flash, a thought occurred to the vicar, which made the blood flush to his face, and then seem to run back to his heart.

It was the time for reading the first lesson, and his hand was seeking the book-mark in the Bible.

“Sixth Sunday after Trinity,” he thought.

He will think it chosen, and directed at him. What should he do? Change it and read the lesson for that day of the month. No, that would look as if he had purposely avoided it, and it would take some few minutes to find, for his calmness was leaving him, and he could not recall the date. No, he must read it—it was his duty, and it was like a stroke of fate that Richard Glaire should come there upon such a day.

His voice shook slightly, and his eyes dimmed as he read the first words of the beautiful old story, and then moved to the very core, and in deep rich tones, he read on in the midst of a stillness only broken by the soft chirp of some sparrow on the roof; while Mrs Glaire’s head went lower and lower, Eve Pelly’s hand stole softly across to touch her, and the young man sat with his back to the congregation, now white with rage, now burning with shame.

“A coward—a sneak!” he muttered between his ground teeth. “He has chosen that chapter to shame me before all the people. I won’t stand it. I’ll get up and go out.”

But to do that was not in Richard Glaire’s power. He had not the strength of mind and daring for so defiant an act, and he sat on, thrilled in every fibre, as the deep, mellow voice went on telling how the Lord sent Nathan unto David, and he told him of the rich man, who in his wealth spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd, but took the poor man’s lamb, who was to him as a daughter; and as these words were told, there came from the body of the church the stifled sobs of one of the women of the congregation who could not control her feelings. And at last, in spite of himself, Murray Selwood was moved to such an extent by the words he was reading, that he spoke as if he were the prophet of old, his voice rising and falling as it thrilled his hearers, till it was deep and denunciatory, as he exclaimed:—

“And Nathan said unto David—Thou art the man.”

There was an audible sigh of relief as the lesson ended, and the vicar wiped the dew from his forehead, for it had been to him a trial, and his voice was low and troubled as he continued the service, but feeling glad at heart that he had not chosen that lesson for the strong, suitable discourse which he afterwards delivered.

It is needless to do more than refer to it here, even though Joey Tight stood up with his hand to his ear so as not to miss a word, and winked and blinked ecstatically, and though it, too, struck Richard Glaire home, inasmuch as it was in allusion to the trade troubles in the town, and ended with a prayer that the blessings of unity and brotherly love might come among them, and peace and plenty once more reign in their homes.

Old Bultitude and Jessie were waiting at the door as the vicar came out, to look in a troubled way up the High Street, after Richard Glaire and his companions; but there was nothing to fear, the street was deserted, save by the people leaving church.

“He’s raight enew to-day, parson,” said the old farmer, divining his thought. “Nobody will touch him o’ Sunday, and wi’ the women. Zoonds, but you gi’e it him hot, and no mistake. That were clever o’ ye. Dal it all, parson, I could like to ha’ offended you, for the sake of getting such a tongue thrashing.”

“My dear Mr Bultitude,” said the vicar sadly, “if you will look at your Prayer-book, you will find that this was no plan of mine, but a matter of accident, or fate—who can say which.”

“Weer it, though?” said the farmer, as they walked on, his road lying by the vicarage, and he stared round-eyed at his companion. “Think o’ that, Jess. I wouldn’t ha’ believed it: it’s amazing. By the way, parson, I want a few words wi’ you. Jess, lass, walk on a bit. Theer, ye needn’t hurry. I don’t want ye to o’ertake John Maine.”

Jessie blushed, and the tears came into her eyes as she went on a few paces; and the farmer, as soon as she was out of ear-shot, pointed at her with his thumb.

“Bit touched, parson, courting like. She’s fond o’ that lad, John Maine, and I want her to wed young Brough.”

“Maine seems to me a very good worthy young fellow,” said the vicar.

“Hem!” said the farmer. “I don’t know so much about that, and t’other’s got the brass.”

“Money won’t bring happiness, Mr Bultitude.”

“Raight, parson, raight; but it’s main useful. Me and my poor missis, as lies there in chutchyard, hedn’t nowt when we began; but we made some,” he continued, proudly.

“By sheer hard work, no doubt.”

“Ay, we hed to work, but that’s nowt after all. I wouldn’t gi’ a straw for a lad as can’t work, and is skeart of it. Why, when I went to the bit o’ farm, ‘Boottherboomp’ they used to call it then, cause of the ‘boottherboomps.’”

“Let me see, that’s your local name for the bittern, is it not?”

“Yes; big brown bird, some’at like a hern,” said old Bultitude. “They lives in wet, swampy places. Well, parson, that place was all one swamp when I went, and I says to mysen, where rushes is a growing now, I mean to grow wheat; and so every year I used to do nowt but spend i’ dreaning, and now there isn’t a finer farm i’ the county.”

“It’s perfect,” said the vicar, “perfect.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear thee say it, parson, because I know thee sayst what thee means, and thou’rt as good a judge of a crop and stack as iver I see, for a man as isn’t a farmer. It isn’t ivery man as comes fro’ the wild parts ’bout London as can tell as a hog or a hogget isn’t a pig, but a ship, and knows what he’s worth to a shilling or two. But just hearken to me, going on like that, when I wanted to say a word or two ’bout our John Maine.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, parson. I’m mortal feard that lad’s going wrong. He’s got some ’at on his mind, and he’s always in confab wi’ young Podmore as was Daisy Banks’ sweetheart, and there’s some mystery about it. Young Brough says he’s mixed up wi’ a blackguard low lot, poaching or some’at o’ that sort; but I don’t tak’ much notice o’ he, for he’s a bit jealous of him. But what I want you to do is to get hold of John and talk to him, for he’s upsetting our Jess, and I shall hev to get shoot of him if things don’t alter, and I doan’t want to do that, parson, for I rayther like the lad, if he’d go back to what he weer. Good day; you’ll see him, will you?”

“Indeed I will.”

“And young Podmore, too, parson?”

“Yes, if it’s necessary.”

“Oh, it is; and you’ll put ’em raight, I know. But I say, parson—but that was a hot one for Dicky Glaire. Good-bye.”

They parted at the gate, and the vicar went in, just as Sim Slee went by with a man dressed in black—a heavy, white-faced man, with a good deal of black whiskers, who looked as if his clothes did not fit him, and as if he was uncomfortable out of a workman’s suit, and could not find a place for his hands, with which, by the aid of a great cotton handkerchief, he kept wiping his face.

“I shouldn’t wonder if that’s the deputation,” said the vicar. “Well, I hope they’ll settle the dispute.”

Unfortunately, though the vicar’s guess was right, the deputation was not a man to further the prospects of peace.

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