Volume Two—Chapter Three.Banks’s Obstinacy.Joe Banks made his way straight through the place to the big house, where, on knocking at the front door, it was evident that he was expected, the girl saying quietly—“Missus will see you in her room, Mr Banks.”“All raight, my lass,” said Joe; and he followed the girl into a little room off the hall, where the walls were ornamented with maps and patterns, and shelves bearing rough account books, while here and there stood a dingy-looking wooden model of some piece of machinery.“Evening, mum,” said Joe, quietly. “I’ve come, as you sent for me; but it ain’t no use. Things are just where they weer, and unless Master Dick comes down, the works will keep shut.”“I didn’t send for you about that,” said Mrs Glaire, hastily.“No!” said Joe, quietly.“No,” said Mrs Glaire, clearing her throat and speaking rather excitedly. “You know I spoke to you once before, Joe Banks, about—about—”“There, don’t beat about, Missus,” said Joe, with a happy smile spreading over his countenance. “I know, about Master Dick and my Daisy.”“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, “and I spoke to my son about it.”“Did you?” chuckled Joe. “Well, I never spoke a word to my gal.”“I spoke to my son,” continued Mrs Glaire, “and pointed out the impossibility and impropriety of his proceedings.”“Did you, though?” chuckled Joe. “Why, lor’ a mercy, Missus, what’s the good o’ being so proud? Flesh and blood’s flesh and blood all the world over.”“I talked to him earnestly upon the point,” said Mrs Glaire, not heeding the interruption.“Theer, theer,” said Joe, smiling. “What good was it? why did you do it?”“And my son saw the force of my remarks, and gave me his promise that he would see Daisy no more.”“Ah, he did, did he?” chuckled Joe. “He promised you that?”“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, angrily; “and he has broken his promise.”“Of course he has,” said Joe, chuckling. “You might ha’ known it. When a young couple like them comes together, it’s no use for the old uns to try and stop it. They’ll manage it somehow. They’re sure to be too many for you.”“Joe Banks, you put me out of patience,” cried Mrs Glaire, angrily. “Can you not see how important this matter is?”“Important? Of course I do,” said Joe, quietly, “a very important step for both of ’em.”“Listen!” cried Mrs Glaire; “things are coming to a crisis, and for your sake they must be stopped.”“Strikes me,” said Joe, bluntly, “that you’re thinking a vast more of yourself, Missus Glaire, than of me.”“I’m thinking of the future of my son and of your daughter, Mr Banks,” said Mrs Glaire.“So am I,” said Joe, quietly; “but you’re so proud.”“I tell you, man, that I met them this evening together in the wood,” cried Mrs Glaire. “My son, with Daisy, your child, in his arms.”“Ah, you did, did you, Missus?” said Joe, chuckling. “He was kissing of her, I suppose.”“Yes,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, indignantly.“Well, I thought as much,” said Joe, quietly. “The lass had got a rare red face when I met her as she come in.”“Do you hear what I say?” cried Mrs Glaire angrily. “I say I saw them to-night in the wood, after he had promised me to give her up.”“Oh, yes,” said Joe, in a calm, unruffled way, “I heard you say so, and if you’d been in the wood every day for the past month, I’d bet you’d ha’ sin ’em. They’re often theer.”“Joe Banks!” cried Mrs Glaire, half rising from her chair.“Theer, theer, Missus, what’s the good o’ making a fuss, and being so proud? I’ve give my Daisy a good eddication, and she’s quite a scholard. She can write as pretty a letter as any one need wish to see, and keeps accounts beautiful.”“Joe Banks, you are blind,” cried Mrs Glaire, passionately. “I want to save your child from shame, and you—”“Howd hard theer—howd hard theer, Missus,” cried Joe, rising; and his rugged face flushed up. “I respect you, Missus Glaire, like a man, and I don’t wonder as it touches your pride a bit, but I won’t sit here and hear you talk like that theer. My Daisy’s as good and honest a girl as ever stepped, and I’d troost her anywheers; while, as to your son, he’s arbitrary, but you’ve browt him up as a gentleman, and do you think I’m going to believe he means harm by my darling? No, no, I know better.”“But, you foolish man—”“Missus Glaire, I won’t call you a foolish woman; I’ve too much respect for you; but I think so, and I think as it isn’t me as is blind, but some one else. Theer, theer, what’s the good of kicking again it. They’ve made up their minds to come together, and you may just as well let ’em by the gainest coot, as send ’em a long ways round. But, theer, Missus, don’t think like that of your own flesh and blood. Why, Missus, am I to respect your son more than you do yoursen?”“Dick has deceived me,” cried Mrs Glaire, with the tears running down her cheeks.“Well, but it won’t anser,” said Joe, calming down. “He’s fond o’ the lass, and he was standing ’tween her and you,” he continued, smiling at his own imagery. “You was pulling one way and she was pulling the other, and young love pulled the strongest. Of course it did, as was very natural.”“Will you send Daisy away, and try and stop it?” cried Mrs Glaire, angrily.“No, I won’t do neither,” said Joe, stoutly. “Why should I? What call is there for me to go again my master and make my lass miserable, because you think she ain’t good enough for your boy?”“Then I must act, Joe Banks,” said Mrs Glaire, “for see her he shall not.”“Theer, theer, what can you do?” chuckled Joe. “Better let things go their own way.”“I tell you, man, that for your daughter’s sake, you ought to put a stop to this.”“I can’t stop it,” said Joe, smiling; “nor no one else. You tried, and found you couldn’t, so what could I do? Let ’em alone, and my Daisy shan’t disgrace you; and look here, if it’s money, I’ve got a thousand pounds saved up, and it’s all hers. Theer!”“Man, man, what can I say to you?” said Mrs Glaire, checkmated by the obstinate faith of Banks in her son.“Nowt,” said Joe, sturdily; “what’s the good o’ talking? Take my advice, Missus Glaire—let things bide.”Mrs Glaire wrung her hands in despair as she gazed enviously in the frank, bluff workman’s face, and wished that she could feel the same calm trust in the boy who had been her sole thought for so many years, and as she gazed Joe Banks said sturdily:“Look here, Missus, no offence meant; but they do say as marriages is made in heaven.”“Yes, Joe, marriages,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, passionately.“Well, I weer a-talking about marriages,” said Joe, quietly; “so you take my advice and let things bide.”“You will not take my advice, Banks,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire. “But, look here, I have warned you, I have begged of you to help me, and you refuse.”“O’ course I do,” said Joe Banks, sturdily. “I’m not going to fight again my own flesh and blood on a question o’ position. Look here,” he continued, now speaking angrily, “I never was jealous of my old master’s rise in life, and I stuck to him and helped him, and he made me promise to stick by and help his son; and that I’m going to do, for I don’t believe if he’d been alive he’d ha’ been owt but pleased to see his boy make up to my gal. It ain’t my seeking: it’s Master Dick’s. He loves she, and she loves he, and before I’ll step ’twixt ’em, and say as one workman’s son’s too big for the other workman’s daughter, I’ll be—. No, I won’t, not before you, Missus; and now good night, and I wish the strike well ended.”Joe Banks swung out of the room with all the sturdy independence of a man with a thousand pounds of his own, and then made his way home, while Mrs Glaire sat as it were stunned.“What can I do? What can I do?” she muttered; and then sat thinking till Eve, looking very pale and ill, walked softly into the room, and knelt by her side, turning up her sad face and red eyes to those of the troubled mother.“Aunt, dear,” she whispered, “Dick has just come in, and gone up to his room. Shall we ask him to come down to us?”“What for?” said Mrs Glaire sharply.“Don’t you think, Aunt, we ought to try and forgive him, and win him back?”Mrs Glaire rose slowly, and went to a side table, from which she took a Prayer-book, and read from it the sentence beginning, “I will arise,” to the end; and then, laying down the book, she took Eve’s head between her hands, and kissed her white forehead gently.“Eve, my child, yes, we ought to try and forgive him; I, for his cruel deceit of the woman who gave him birth; you, for his outrage against the woman who was to be his wife. I will forgive him, but he must come—he must arise and come, and seek for pardon first. While you—”“Oh, Aunt, Aunt,” moaned Eve, hiding her face in the elder’s breast, “I never knew before how much I loved him.”“And you forgive him, child?”“Yes, Aunt, I forgive,” said Eve, raising her head, and looking sadly in the elder woman’s face, “I forgive him, but—”“But what, my child?”“All that is past now—for ever.”Mrs Glaire did not speak for a few moments, but stood holding her niece’s hand, looking straight away from her into vacancy, while from above there floated slowly down and entered the room the penetrating fumes of the cigar Dick was smoking in his bedroom, as with his heels upon the table, and a glass of spirits and water by his side, he amused himself by reading a French novel, growling every now and then as he came across some idiom or local phrase which he could not make out, and apparently quite oblivious of the fact that three women were making themselves wretched on his behalf.Suddenly a low whistle was heard, and Mrs Glaire started.“What was that?” she exclaimed.Eve made no reply, but the two women remained listening, while it seemed to them that the sound had also been heard by Dick, who apparently crossed the room, and opened his window.“He has gone to see what it means,” said Mrs Glaire in a whisper. “I hope the strike people are not out.”Her head was running upon certain proceedings that had taken place many years before, during her husband’s lifetime, when they had literally been besieged; but her alarm was unnecessary, for had she been in her son’s bedroom, she would have seen that worthy open his window and utter a low cough, with the result that Sim Slee threw up a note attached to a stone, which the young man glanced at, and then said, “All right; no answer,” and Slee went quickly off.Richard opened the note, glanced through it, and read passages half aloud.“H’m, h’m. So sorry to leave you as I did.—Heart very sore.—Oughtn’t to meet like that any more.—Pray let her tell father.—They would soon agree if all known.—Will not come any more to be deceitful.”“Won’t you, my dear?” said Dick, aloud. “We’ll see about that. I think I can turn you round my finger now, Miss Daisy. If not I’m very much mistaken. But we’ll see.”He finished the note by twisting it up and using it to re-light his cigar, which he sat smoking, and listening as at last he heard his mother and Eve pass his room on their way to bed—the former for the first time in his life, without saying “Good night” to her son.
Joe Banks made his way straight through the place to the big house, where, on knocking at the front door, it was evident that he was expected, the girl saying quietly—
“Missus will see you in her room, Mr Banks.”
“All raight, my lass,” said Joe; and he followed the girl into a little room off the hall, where the walls were ornamented with maps and patterns, and shelves bearing rough account books, while here and there stood a dingy-looking wooden model of some piece of machinery.
“Evening, mum,” said Joe, quietly. “I’ve come, as you sent for me; but it ain’t no use. Things are just where they weer, and unless Master Dick comes down, the works will keep shut.”
“I didn’t send for you about that,” said Mrs Glaire, hastily.
“No!” said Joe, quietly.
“No,” said Mrs Glaire, clearing her throat and speaking rather excitedly. “You know I spoke to you once before, Joe Banks, about—about—”
“There, don’t beat about, Missus,” said Joe, with a happy smile spreading over his countenance. “I know, about Master Dick and my Daisy.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, “and I spoke to my son about it.”
“Did you?” chuckled Joe. “Well, I never spoke a word to my gal.”
“I spoke to my son,” continued Mrs Glaire, “and pointed out the impossibility and impropriety of his proceedings.”
“Did you, though?” chuckled Joe. “Why, lor’ a mercy, Missus, what’s the good o’ being so proud? Flesh and blood’s flesh and blood all the world over.”
“I talked to him earnestly upon the point,” said Mrs Glaire, not heeding the interruption.
“Theer, theer,” said Joe, smiling. “What good was it? why did you do it?”
“And my son saw the force of my remarks, and gave me his promise that he would see Daisy no more.”
“Ah, he did, did he?” chuckled Joe. “He promised you that?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, angrily; “and he has broken his promise.”
“Of course he has,” said Joe, chuckling. “You might ha’ known it. When a young couple like them comes together, it’s no use for the old uns to try and stop it. They’ll manage it somehow. They’re sure to be too many for you.”
“Joe Banks, you put me out of patience,” cried Mrs Glaire, angrily. “Can you not see how important this matter is?”
“Important? Of course I do,” said Joe, quietly, “a very important step for both of ’em.”
“Listen!” cried Mrs Glaire; “things are coming to a crisis, and for your sake they must be stopped.”
“Strikes me,” said Joe, bluntly, “that you’re thinking a vast more of yourself, Missus Glaire, than of me.”
“I’m thinking of the future of my son and of your daughter, Mr Banks,” said Mrs Glaire.
“So am I,” said Joe, quietly; “but you’re so proud.”
“I tell you, man, that I met them this evening together in the wood,” cried Mrs Glaire. “My son, with Daisy, your child, in his arms.”
“Ah, you did, did you, Missus?” said Joe, chuckling. “He was kissing of her, I suppose.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, indignantly.
“Well, I thought as much,” said Joe, quietly. “The lass had got a rare red face when I met her as she come in.”
“Do you hear what I say?” cried Mrs Glaire angrily. “I say I saw them to-night in the wood, after he had promised me to give her up.”
“Oh, yes,” said Joe, in a calm, unruffled way, “I heard you say so, and if you’d been in the wood every day for the past month, I’d bet you’d ha’ sin ’em. They’re often theer.”
“Joe Banks!” cried Mrs Glaire, half rising from her chair.
“Theer, theer, Missus, what’s the good o’ making a fuss, and being so proud? I’ve give my Daisy a good eddication, and she’s quite a scholard. She can write as pretty a letter as any one need wish to see, and keeps accounts beautiful.”
“Joe Banks, you are blind,” cried Mrs Glaire, passionately. “I want to save your child from shame, and you—”
“Howd hard theer—howd hard theer, Missus,” cried Joe, rising; and his rugged face flushed up. “I respect you, Missus Glaire, like a man, and I don’t wonder as it touches your pride a bit, but I won’t sit here and hear you talk like that theer. My Daisy’s as good and honest a girl as ever stepped, and I’d troost her anywheers; while, as to your son, he’s arbitrary, but you’ve browt him up as a gentleman, and do you think I’m going to believe he means harm by my darling? No, no, I know better.”
“But, you foolish man—”
“Missus Glaire, I won’t call you a foolish woman; I’ve too much respect for you; but I think so, and I think as it isn’t me as is blind, but some one else. Theer, theer, what’s the good of kicking again it. They’ve made up their minds to come together, and you may just as well let ’em by the gainest coot, as send ’em a long ways round. But, theer, Missus, don’t think like that of your own flesh and blood. Why, Missus, am I to respect your son more than you do yoursen?”
“Dick has deceived me,” cried Mrs Glaire, with the tears running down her cheeks.
“Well, but it won’t anser,” said Joe, calming down. “He’s fond o’ the lass, and he was standing ’tween her and you,” he continued, smiling at his own imagery. “You was pulling one way and she was pulling the other, and young love pulled the strongest. Of course it did, as was very natural.”
“Will you send Daisy away, and try and stop it?” cried Mrs Glaire, angrily.
“No, I won’t do neither,” said Joe, stoutly. “Why should I? What call is there for me to go again my master and make my lass miserable, because you think she ain’t good enough for your boy?”
“Then I must act, Joe Banks,” said Mrs Glaire, “for see her he shall not.”
“Theer, theer, what can you do?” chuckled Joe. “Better let things go their own way.”
“I tell you, man, that for your daughter’s sake, you ought to put a stop to this.”
“I can’t stop it,” said Joe, smiling; “nor no one else. You tried, and found you couldn’t, so what could I do? Let ’em alone, and my Daisy shan’t disgrace you; and look here, if it’s money, I’ve got a thousand pounds saved up, and it’s all hers. Theer!”
“Man, man, what can I say to you?” said Mrs Glaire, checkmated by the obstinate faith of Banks in her son.
“Nowt,” said Joe, sturdily; “what’s the good o’ talking? Take my advice, Missus Glaire—let things bide.”
Mrs Glaire wrung her hands in despair as she gazed enviously in the frank, bluff workman’s face, and wished that she could feel the same calm trust in the boy who had been her sole thought for so many years, and as she gazed Joe Banks said sturdily:
“Look here, Missus, no offence meant; but they do say as marriages is made in heaven.”
“Yes, Joe, marriages,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, passionately.
“Well, I weer a-talking about marriages,” said Joe, quietly; “so you take my advice and let things bide.”
“You will not take my advice, Banks,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire. “But, look here, I have warned you, I have begged of you to help me, and you refuse.”
“O’ course I do,” said Joe Banks, sturdily. “I’m not going to fight again my own flesh and blood on a question o’ position. Look here,” he continued, now speaking angrily, “I never was jealous of my old master’s rise in life, and I stuck to him and helped him, and he made me promise to stick by and help his son; and that I’m going to do, for I don’t believe if he’d been alive he’d ha’ been owt but pleased to see his boy make up to my gal. It ain’t my seeking: it’s Master Dick’s. He loves she, and she loves he, and before I’ll step ’twixt ’em, and say as one workman’s son’s too big for the other workman’s daughter, I’ll be—. No, I won’t, not before you, Missus; and now good night, and I wish the strike well ended.”
Joe Banks swung out of the room with all the sturdy independence of a man with a thousand pounds of his own, and then made his way home, while Mrs Glaire sat as it were stunned.
“What can I do? What can I do?” she muttered; and then sat thinking till Eve, looking very pale and ill, walked softly into the room, and knelt by her side, turning up her sad face and red eyes to those of the troubled mother.
“Aunt, dear,” she whispered, “Dick has just come in, and gone up to his room. Shall we ask him to come down to us?”
“What for?” said Mrs Glaire sharply.
“Don’t you think, Aunt, we ought to try and forgive him, and win him back?”
Mrs Glaire rose slowly, and went to a side table, from which she took a Prayer-book, and read from it the sentence beginning, “I will arise,” to the end; and then, laying down the book, she took Eve’s head between her hands, and kissed her white forehead gently.
“Eve, my child, yes, we ought to try and forgive him; I, for his cruel deceit of the woman who gave him birth; you, for his outrage against the woman who was to be his wife. I will forgive him, but he must come—he must arise and come, and seek for pardon first. While you—”
“Oh, Aunt, Aunt,” moaned Eve, hiding her face in the elder’s breast, “I never knew before how much I loved him.”
“And you forgive him, child?”
“Yes, Aunt, I forgive,” said Eve, raising her head, and looking sadly in the elder woman’s face, “I forgive him, but—”
“But what, my child?”
“All that is past now—for ever.”
Mrs Glaire did not speak for a few moments, but stood holding her niece’s hand, looking straight away from her into vacancy, while from above there floated slowly down and entered the room the penetrating fumes of the cigar Dick was smoking in his bedroom, as with his heels upon the table, and a glass of spirits and water by his side, he amused himself by reading a French novel, growling every now and then as he came across some idiom or local phrase which he could not make out, and apparently quite oblivious of the fact that three women were making themselves wretched on his behalf.
Suddenly a low whistle was heard, and Mrs Glaire started.
“What was that?” she exclaimed.
Eve made no reply, but the two women remained listening, while it seemed to them that the sound had also been heard by Dick, who apparently crossed the room, and opened his window.
“He has gone to see what it means,” said Mrs Glaire in a whisper. “I hope the strike people are not out.”
Her head was running upon certain proceedings that had taken place many years before, during her husband’s lifetime, when they had literally been besieged; but her alarm was unnecessary, for had she been in her son’s bedroom, she would have seen that worthy open his window and utter a low cough, with the result that Sim Slee threw up a note attached to a stone, which the young man glanced at, and then said, “All right; no answer,” and Slee went quickly off.
Richard opened the note, glanced through it, and read passages half aloud.
“H’m, h’m. So sorry to leave you as I did.—Heart very sore.—Oughtn’t to meet like that any more.—Pray let her tell father.—They would soon agree if all known.—Will not come any more to be deceitful.”
“Won’t you, my dear?” said Dick, aloud. “We’ll see about that. I think I can turn you round my finger now, Miss Daisy. If not I’m very much mistaken. But we’ll see.”
He finished the note by twisting it up and using it to re-light his cigar, which he sat smoking, and listening as at last he heard his mother and Eve pass his room on their way to bed—the former for the first time in his life, without saying “Good night” to her son.
Volume Two—Chapter Four.John Maine’s Headache.“Hallo, Johnny!”“What, my lively boy.”“Look at his velveteens.”“And a silk hankercher too. Arn’t he tip top?”“Arn’t you down glad to see your old mates again, Johnny?”“Course he is; look at the tears in his eyes.”“Hey, mun, why don’t you say you’re glad to see us?”“And why don’t you speak?”“Because,” said John Maine, speaking slowly, as he stopped leaning on his thick staff in the middle of the road, “I’m not glad to see you, and I don’t want to speak.”He looked very stern and uncompromising this young man, half bailiff, half farm servant in appearance, as he stood there in the lane, about a mile from Joe Banks’s house, and facing the men who had kept up the conversational duet, for they were about as ill-looking a pair of scoundrels as a traveller was likely to meet in a day’s march.The elder of the two carried a common whip, and wore a long garment, half jacket, half vest in appearance, inasmuch as it was backed and sleeved with greasy fustian, and faced with greasy scarlet and purple plush, hanging low over his tightly-fitting cord trousers, buttoned at the ankles over heavy boots, while his head was covered with a ragged fur cap.The younger man, whose hair was very short, wore the ordinary smock-frock euphoniously termed a “cow-gown,” but as he was journeying, it was tucked up round his hips. This, with his soft wide-awake, and heavy unlaced boots, was bucolic enough, but there the rustic aspect ceased, for his face was sallow; he had a slovenly tied cotton handkerchief round his neck; and as he smoked a dirty, short clay pipe, he had more the aspect of a Whitechapel or Sheffield rough than the ordinary farming man of the country.Taking them together, they seemed to be men who could manage a piece of horse-stealing, poach, rob a hen-roost, or pay a visit night or day to any unprotected house; and if “gaol” was not stamped legibly on each face, it was because nature could not write it any plainer than she had.“He’s gotten high in the instep, Ike,” said the last man; “and what’s he got to be proud on?”“Ah, to be sure, what’s he got to be proud on?” chuckled the other. “He wasn’t always a stuck up one, was he?”“I say, Johnny,” said the first speaker, “keep that dog o’ yourn away wilt ta, or I might give him something as wouldn’t do him no good.”“Here, Top, down dog!” said the young man, and a rough-looking dog which had been snuffing round the two strangers showed his teeth a little and then lay down in the dusty road. “I don’t want,” continued the young man, “to be rough on men I used to know.”“Rough, lad; no, I should think not,” said Ike, of the whip; and he gave it a lash, cutting off the heads of some nettles. “I knew he was all raight, Jem.”“I said,” continued the young man, “that I didn’t want to be surly to men as I used to know, and if you want a shilling or two to help you on the road, here they are. As for me, I’ve dropped all your work, and taken to getting an honest living.”“Oh, ho, ho!” laughed Ike, of the whip, giving it another flick, and making the dog jump. “Dost ta hear that, Jem?”“Ay, lad, I hear him,” said Jem, of the smock-frock, hugging himself as if afraid to lose what he considered particularly good; “I’m hearing of him. But come along, John; we won’t be hard on such a honest old boy. Show us the way to the dram-shop, or the nearest public, and we’ll talk old times over a gill or two o’ yale.”“You are going one way. I’m going the other,” said John Maine, uneasily, for just then Tom Podmore passed him, with big Harry, both of whom stared hard, nodded to him, and went on.“Just hark at him, Ike,” said Jem. “He’s a strange nice un, he is. Why, I’m so glad to see him that if he goes off that-a-way I shall stop in Dumford and ask all about him, and where he lives and what he’s a doing.”John Maine turned cold, while the perspiration stood upon his forehead, for just then Sim Slee came along in the other direction, eyed the party all over, and evidently took mental notes of what he saw.“What is it you want of me?” said the young man, hoarsely.“Want, lad?” said Ike; “we don’t want nowt of him, do we, Jem? We’re only so glad to see an old mate again, that we don’t know hardly how to bear it.”“That’s it, Ike,” said Jem. “And don’t you think as he’s stuck up, mind you. See how glad he is to see his owd mates again. Say, Johnny, ‘It’s my delight of a shiny night,’ eh?”“Hush!” exclaimed John Maine, starting.“All right,” said Jem. “Got a pipe o’ ’bacco ’bout you?”John Maine took a tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and held it out to the speaker, who refilled his dirty pipe, looked the pouch all over, and then transferred it to his pocket.“Look here, Ike,” said the fellow then, “we won’t keep Johnny any longer. He’s off out courting—going to see his lass. Don’t you see the bood in his button-hole. He’ll see us again when he comes to look us up, for we shall pitch down in one of the pooblics.”“Raight you are, lad; he’ll find us out. Do anything now, Johnny? Ought to be a few hares and fezzans about here. Good-bye, Johnny, lad; give my love to her.”The two men went off laughing and talking, leaving John Maine gazing after them, till they disappeared round a bend of the lane on the way to Dumford, when brushing the perspiration from his face with one hand, he staggered away, kicking up the dust at every step till he reached a stile, upon which he sank down as if the elasticity had been taken out of his muscles. His head went down upon his hands, his elbows upon his knees, and there he remained motionless, with the dog sitting down and watching him intently, after trying by pawing and whining to gain his master’s attention.Neither John Maine nor his ill-looking companions had gone far, before a head and shoulders were raised slowly up over the hedge, so that their owner could peer over and look up and down the lane. The countenance revealed was that of Thomas Brough, the keeper, who had evidently been sitting on the other side, partaking of his rural lunch, or dinner; for as he parted the green growth, to get a better view, it was with a big clasp knife, while his other hand held a lump of bread, ornamented with bacon.He spoke the next moment with his mouth full, but his words were quite audible as he said—“I thowt that thar dog would ha’ smelt the rat, but a didn’t. So I hadn’t got you now, Jack Maine, hadn’t I? I’m a rogue, am I, Jack? I sold the Squire’s rabbuds, did I? and pocketted t’ money, did I? Wires, eh? Fezzans and hares, eh? Now, what’ll old Bultitude and Miss Jess say to this? I’ll just find out what’s your little game.”He strode hastily off, parting the hazels, and making a short cut across the copse, while John Maine sat on the stile thinking.What was he to do—what was he to do? Were all his struggles to be an honest man to be in vain? Yes, he had joined parties in poaching, down about Nottingham, but he had left it all in disgust, and for years he had been trying to be, and had been, an honest man. He had lived here at Dumford four years—had saved money—was respected and trusted—he was old Bultitude’s head man; and now these two scoundrels—men who knew of his old life—had found him out, they would expose him, and he should have to go off right away to begin the world afresh.“I’ve tried enew; I’ve tried very hard,” he groaned. “I left all that as soon as I saw to what it tended, and knew better; and now, after all this struggle, here is the end.”What was the use? he asked himself; why had he tried? What were honesty and respectability, and respect to such as he, that he should have fought for them so hard, knowing that, sooner or later, it must come to this?What should he do? The words kept repeating themselves in his brain, and he asked himself again, What?Suppose he told them all at the farm—laid bare the whole of his early life, how he had found himself as a boy thrown amongst poachers. It had been no fault of his, for he had hated it—loathed it all. Suppose he told Mr Bultitude—what then?Yes, what then? Old Bultitude would say—“We’re all very sorry for you here, but if it got about that I’d kept a regular poacher on my farm, what would the squire say? And what about my lease?” And Tom Brough! Good heavens, if Tom Brough should learn it all!It was of no use; that man would blast his character gladly, and the end of it all was that he must go!Yes, but where? Where should he go? Somewhere to work for awhile, and get on, and then live a life of wretchedness, expecting to see some old associate turn up and blast his prospects. No; there was no hope for such as he! All he could do was to join some regiment at Lincoln or Sheffield, enlist—get on foreign service, and be a soldier. A man did not want a character to become a good soldier.And about Jessie?His head went lower, and he groaned aloud as this thought flashed across his mind, for his load seemed more than he could bear.“Anything the matter, John Maine?”The young man leaped up to find himself face to face with Mr Selwood, whose steps had been inaudible in the dusty road, and John Maine’s thoughts had been too much taken up for him to notice the whine of recognition by the dog, who had leaped up and ran forward to welcome the vicar.“Bit of a headache, sir, bad headache—this heat, sir,” stammered the young man.“Liver out of order—liver—not a doubt about it,” said the vicar. “What a strange thing it is nature couldn’t make a man without a liver and save him all his sufferings from bile. Come along with me to the Vicarage. I’m getting in order there now, and I’ll doctor you, and go and tell Mr Purley myself that I’ve been poaching on his preserves. Why, what’s the matter, man?”John Maine had started as if stung at certain of his latter words.“Bit giddy, sir; strange and bad now it’s come on,” he stammered.“That’s right; you’re better now. Sitting with your head down. I’ll doctor you—no secrets: tincture of rhubarb, citrate of magnesia, and a little brandy. I’ll soon set you right. You mustn’t be ill. This is cricket night, isn’t it?”“Yes, sir; but they haven’t played since the strike.”“Perhaps they will to-night, and I shall come to the field. Well, come along.”“But really, sir—I—that is—”“Now look here, John Maine, I’m the spiritual head of the parish, and you must obey me. I can’t help being a man of only your own age—I shall get the better of that. Now if I had been some silver-headed old gentleman, you would have come without a word; so come along. I’ll go back. You are decidedly ill—there’s no mistake about it.”To John Maine’s great surprise, the vicar took his arm, and half led him back towards Dumford, chattering pleasantly the while.“I met Mr Simeon Slee as I came along, and he cut me dead. He’s a very nice man in his way, but I’m afraid he works so hard with his tongue, it takes all the strength out of his arms.”“He’s strange and fond o’ talking, sir,” said John Maine.“Yes; but words are only words after all, and if they are light and chaffy, they don’t grow like good grain. Bad thing this strike in the town, Maine. Lasted a month now.”“Very bad, sir.”“Ah, yes. You agricultural gentlemen don’t indulge in those luxuries, and I’m glad to see that the farm people are very sober.”“Yes, sir, ’cept at the stattice and the fair.”“Stattice?” said the vicar, inquiringly.“Yes, sir, status—statute-hiring, you know, when the servants leave. They call it ‘pag-rag’ day here.”“Ha, do they?” said the vicar; “well, I suppose I shall learn all in time. What may ‘pag-rag’ mean?”“They call it so here, sir,” said the young man, smiling. “They say a man pags a sack on his back, and I suppose it means they carry off their clothes then.”“I see,” said the vicar; “and you have some strange characters about at such times? By the way, I saw a nice respectable couple turn in at the Bull and Cucumber, as I came by. They’d got poacher stamped on their faces plainly.—Head bad?”“Sudden stab, sir, that’s all,” said John Maine, holding his hands to his head and shuddering.“Ah, you must go back and lie down as soon as I have done with you, or else I must find you a sofa for an hour. We’ll see how you are. Perhaps we’ll walk home together.”“No, no, sir, I shall be all right directly. Don’t do that, sir. Mr Bultitude—”“Mr Bultitude has too much respect for you, John Maine, to let you go about in a state of suffering; so just hold your tongue, sir, for you’re my patient.”A few minutes after he laid his hand on the gate, with the effect of making Jacky Budd start up from his seat on the bottom of a large flower-pot, and begin vigorously hoeing at some vegetables in the now trim garden.The vicar saw him and laughed to himself, as he led the way up to the door, glancing up the street as he did so, and seeing, with a feeling of uneasiness, that there were knots of men standing about in conversation, as if discussing some important subject.The door stood wide open, as if inviting entrance, and flowers were now blooming in profusion on every side, for what with the rough work of Tom Podmore and Big Harry, supplemented by the efforts of Jacky Budd and the parson himself, the garden was what the sexton called a “pictur.”“Come in here, Maine,” said the vicar, opening the door of his study; and the young man followed, peering round as he did so, for this was his first visit to the vicar’s dwelling, and the result of a month’s residence was shown in the change that had come over the place.But at the end of the first fortnight, one of Mr Bultitude’s waggons had been run down to the station three times to fetch “parson’s traps,” and “parson’s traps” were visible on all sides, the Reverend Murray Selwood being, to use his own words, “rather cursed with wealth.”The place was now thebeau idealof a well-to-do bachelor’s home. The low-roofed entrance-hall was bright with oak furniture, quaint china, trophies of old arms, and savage weapons, with flowers, for the most part sent by Mrs Glaire, placed wherever there was light and sunshine for them to break up into long sheaves on the clean stone floor. Through an open door could be seen the dining-room, whose oaken sideboard was half covered with massive plate, college cups, and trophies won by muscular arms and legs guided by a clear-thinking and solid brain; but the study itself took John Maine’s attention, with its cases full of books, great bronze clock, and vases on the mantelpiece, with statuettes on brackets.There were traces of the owner’s polished taste in every direction, but at the same time samples of his love of out-door sports. For instance, in one corner there stood a polished canoe-paddle with a fascine of fishing-rods; in another corner a gun-case and a couple of cricket-bats; lying on a side-table, its handle carefully bound with string, was about the biggest croquet mallet that ever drove ball over a velvet lawn. A half-written sermon lay on the writing-table, and by it a cigar-box; while on the chimney-piece and in brackets were pipes, from the humble clay, through briars, to the tinted brown meerschaum with its amber tube. The greatest incongruity in the place, however, seeing that it was the snuggery of a man of peace, was a trophy of single-sticks, foils, masks and gloves, crossed by a couple of bows, in front of which were a sheaf of arrows and two pairs of boxing-gloves.“Looking at the gloves, Maine?” said the vicar, smiling. “Ah, I used to be a bit of a don with those at one time. You and I will put them on together some day. Just touch that bell.”John Maine obeyed, while the young vicar found his keys, and opened a cabinet which was in two compartments, the one displaying a regular array of medicines, the other spirits, wine, and glasses.“Bring in some water, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar.“And a sponge and a rag and the ragjack oil?” said Mrs Slee, eagerly.“No, Mrs Slee. It’s medicine, not surgery to-day;” and the woman backed out, looking a little less angular and sad than a few weeks before.“I’m a regular quack, Maine, you see,” said the vicar, smiling, as he poured into a great soda-water glass a certain quantity of tincture, added to it a couple of table-spoonfuls of brandy, and so much granulated magnesia, to which, when Mrs Slee returned, he poured about half a pint of pure cold well water. “There’s a dose for you, my man,” he said, as he passed it to John Maine, “that will set you right in an hour. Now, Mrs Slee, any one been?”“Yes, Bulger’s girl’s been here with a bottle for some wine,” said Mrs Slee shortly, for “sir” and a respectful tone were still strangers to her tongue.“Bring the bottle in. Any one else?”“Maidens’s boy says you promised his mother some tea.”“So I did,” said the vicar, opening a large canister, from which he took a packet which scented the room with its fragrance. “There it is. Now then, who else?”“Old Mumby’s wife has come for some more wine.”“Then she’ll go back without it, Mrs Slee. Do you see that,” he continued, giving her a strange look; “that’s the peculiar sign that used to be in vogue amongst the ancients. That’s the gnostic wink, Mrs Slee, and means too much. I won’t send a spoonful. That wicked old woman drank every drop of the last herself, Mrs Slee, I’ll make affidavit. She wouldn’t stir across the room to wait on her poor old husband, and yet she’ll come nearly a mile to fetch that wine. I’ll take it myself, and give it the poor old boy, and see him drink it before I come away. Tell her I’ll bring it down, Mrs Slee; but don’t say I called her a wicked old woman.”“Oh, I’m not going to chatter. Do you think I should be such a ghipes?” said Mrs Slee, rudely.“Not knowing what a ghipes is, I cannot say, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar; “but you are not perfect, Mrs Slee—not perfect. Soup. You have that last soup on your conscience!”“Well, I’m sure I should ha’ been glad on a few not long back, and it was quite good enew to gie away to people.”“And I’m sure it was not, Mrs Slee: the poor people are hungry, and want food. This strike’s a terrible thing.”“Then they shouldn’t strike,” growled Mrs Slee.“I quite agree with you, Mrs Slee, so I don’t give soup to the men who did strike; but the women and children did not strike, and if you knew what it was to be hungry—I beg your pardon, Mrs Slee,” he added hastily, as he saw his housekeeper flush up. “There, I did not think. But this soup. We had a capital French cook at my college, and he gave me lessons. I’m a capital judge of soup, and I’ll taste the fresh. Bring me in a basin, and send these people away.”Mrs Slee muttered and went out, looking rather ungracious, and the vicar turned to his guest, who was fidgetting about and seemed rather uneasy.“I’m rather proud of our soup here at the vicarage—broth, the people call it,” said the vicar.“I’ve heerd tell of it, sir,” said John Maine, who wanted to go.“But I have hard work to keep the water out. I always tell Mrs Slee that the people can add as much of that as they like. But, I say, Maine, there’s something wrong with you!”“Oh, no, sir; nothing at all, sir; but it’s time I was going, sir, if you’ll excuse me.”“Well, well, good-bye, Maine. I hope,” he added significantly, “your head will be better. Mind this, though, I’m not one of the confessional parsons, and insist upon no man’s confidence; but bear this in mind, I look upon myself as the trusted, confidential friend of every man in the parish. I shall be over your way soon.”“Thank you kindly, sir,” said Maine. “I know you do,” and, backing out, the next moment he was gone.“Strange young man that—strange people altogether,” said the vicar. “Oh, here’s the soup.”For just then Mrs Slee bustled in with a napkin-covered tray, bearing a basin and spoon, the former emitting clouds of steam.The vicar took the basin, sat down, stirred it, smelt it, tasted it, and replaced the spoon, while Mrs Slee watched his face eagerly.“Wants another pinch of salt, and another dash of pepper. Fetch them, Mrs Slee, and some bread.”Mrs Slee, looking as ungracious as ever, but with an eagerness which she could not conceal, hurried out to return with the required articles, when more salt was added and a dash of pepper. Then a slice of bread was cut from the home-made loaf, and the vicar tasted—tasted again, and then, in the calmest and most unperturbed manner possible, went on partaking of the soup, every mouthful being watched with intense eagerness by the woman waiting for his judgment.“Capital soup this, Mrs Slee; capital brew!”Mrs Slee did not smile, as the vicar diligently hunted the last grains of rice in the bottom of the basin with his spoon, but she gave a sigh of satisfaction.“This will go off like a shot. How much have you got of it? Almost equal to our soup at Boanerges.”“There’s about sixty quarts of it, sir.”“Sixty? Not half enough. You’ll have to start the copper again directly, Mrs Slee. Ah, by the way, Bailey will bring two hundred loaves this evening, and we’ll give them away with the soup in the morning.”“Two hundred loaves!” exclaimed Mrs Slee. “Bless the man, where am I to put them?”“Oh, we’ll stack them in the hall if we can’t put them anywhere else, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, laughing. “And let that soup cool. It’ll be like jelly in the morning. I’m going to walk over to Bultitude’s, and I’ll call at the butcher’s about the beef.”“But that broth would bear as much watter to it, and that would make twice as much.”“Now, Mrs Slee, I won’t have a good thing spoiled,” said the vicar. “I don’t believe you mind the trouble of making it.”“That I’m sure I don’t,” said Mrs Slee, sharply; “only you’re giving away cartloads of bread and meat, and pailsful of soup to folks as wean’t say thank you for it, and laugh at you for your pains.”“They won’t laugh at me while they’re eating that beautiful soup, Mrs Slee, which does you credit. If they like to laugh afterwards,—well, let them.”“Oh, I don’t want no praise for the broth,” said Mrs Slee, ungraciously. “You telled me how to mak’ it. But I don’t like to see you robbing yourself for them as is sure to be ungrateful.”“We won’t mind that, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, smiling; “and now I’m going off to Bultitude’s, and I’ll see if I can’t get there this time. By the way, Mrs Slee, I should like a little tureen of that soup for my dinner; it’s splendid. And look here, Mrs Slee, if any one comes while I’m out, who needs a little, you can lend a jug, and give some of the soup before it’s cold. I’ll leave that to you.”
“Hallo, Johnny!”
“What, my lively boy.”
“Look at his velveteens.”
“And a silk hankercher too. Arn’t he tip top?”
“Arn’t you down glad to see your old mates again, Johnny?”
“Course he is; look at the tears in his eyes.”
“Hey, mun, why don’t you say you’re glad to see us?”
“And why don’t you speak?”
“Because,” said John Maine, speaking slowly, as he stopped leaning on his thick staff in the middle of the road, “I’m not glad to see you, and I don’t want to speak.”
He looked very stern and uncompromising this young man, half bailiff, half farm servant in appearance, as he stood there in the lane, about a mile from Joe Banks’s house, and facing the men who had kept up the conversational duet, for they were about as ill-looking a pair of scoundrels as a traveller was likely to meet in a day’s march.
The elder of the two carried a common whip, and wore a long garment, half jacket, half vest in appearance, inasmuch as it was backed and sleeved with greasy fustian, and faced with greasy scarlet and purple plush, hanging low over his tightly-fitting cord trousers, buttoned at the ankles over heavy boots, while his head was covered with a ragged fur cap.
The younger man, whose hair was very short, wore the ordinary smock-frock euphoniously termed a “cow-gown,” but as he was journeying, it was tucked up round his hips. This, with his soft wide-awake, and heavy unlaced boots, was bucolic enough, but there the rustic aspect ceased, for his face was sallow; he had a slovenly tied cotton handkerchief round his neck; and as he smoked a dirty, short clay pipe, he had more the aspect of a Whitechapel or Sheffield rough than the ordinary farming man of the country.
Taking them together, they seemed to be men who could manage a piece of horse-stealing, poach, rob a hen-roost, or pay a visit night or day to any unprotected house; and if “gaol” was not stamped legibly on each face, it was because nature could not write it any plainer than she had.
“He’s gotten high in the instep, Ike,” said the last man; “and what’s he got to be proud on?”
“Ah, to be sure, what’s he got to be proud on?” chuckled the other. “He wasn’t always a stuck up one, was he?”
“I say, Johnny,” said the first speaker, “keep that dog o’ yourn away wilt ta, or I might give him something as wouldn’t do him no good.”
“Here, Top, down dog!” said the young man, and a rough-looking dog which had been snuffing round the two strangers showed his teeth a little and then lay down in the dusty road. “I don’t want,” continued the young man, “to be rough on men I used to know.”
“Rough, lad; no, I should think not,” said Ike, of the whip; and he gave it a lash, cutting off the heads of some nettles. “I knew he was all raight, Jem.”
“I said,” continued the young man, “that I didn’t want to be surly to men as I used to know, and if you want a shilling or two to help you on the road, here they are. As for me, I’ve dropped all your work, and taken to getting an honest living.”
“Oh, ho, ho!” laughed Ike, of the whip, giving it another flick, and making the dog jump. “Dost ta hear that, Jem?”
“Ay, lad, I hear him,” said Jem, of the smock-frock, hugging himself as if afraid to lose what he considered particularly good; “I’m hearing of him. But come along, John; we won’t be hard on such a honest old boy. Show us the way to the dram-shop, or the nearest public, and we’ll talk old times over a gill or two o’ yale.”
“You are going one way. I’m going the other,” said John Maine, uneasily, for just then Tom Podmore passed him, with big Harry, both of whom stared hard, nodded to him, and went on.
“Just hark at him, Ike,” said Jem. “He’s a strange nice un, he is. Why, I’m so glad to see him that if he goes off that-a-way I shall stop in Dumford and ask all about him, and where he lives and what he’s a doing.”
John Maine turned cold, while the perspiration stood upon his forehead, for just then Sim Slee came along in the other direction, eyed the party all over, and evidently took mental notes of what he saw.
“What is it you want of me?” said the young man, hoarsely.
“Want, lad?” said Ike; “we don’t want nowt of him, do we, Jem? We’re only so glad to see an old mate again, that we don’t know hardly how to bear it.”
“That’s it, Ike,” said Jem. “And don’t you think as he’s stuck up, mind you. See how glad he is to see his owd mates again. Say, Johnny, ‘It’s my delight of a shiny night,’ eh?”
“Hush!” exclaimed John Maine, starting.
“All right,” said Jem. “Got a pipe o’ ’bacco ’bout you?”
John Maine took a tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and held it out to the speaker, who refilled his dirty pipe, looked the pouch all over, and then transferred it to his pocket.
“Look here, Ike,” said the fellow then, “we won’t keep Johnny any longer. He’s off out courting—going to see his lass. Don’t you see the bood in his button-hole. He’ll see us again when he comes to look us up, for we shall pitch down in one of the pooblics.”
“Raight you are, lad; he’ll find us out. Do anything now, Johnny? Ought to be a few hares and fezzans about here. Good-bye, Johnny, lad; give my love to her.”
The two men went off laughing and talking, leaving John Maine gazing after them, till they disappeared round a bend of the lane on the way to Dumford, when brushing the perspiration from his face with one hand, he staggered away, kicking up the dust at every step till he reached a stile, upon which he sank down as if the elasticity had been taken out of his muscles. His head went down upon his hands, his elbows upon his knees, and there he remained motionless, with the dog sitting down and watching him intently, after trying by pawing and whining to gain his master’s attention.
Neither John Maine nor his ill-looking companions had gone far, before a head and shoulders were raised slowly up over the hedge, so that their owner could peer over and look up and down the lane. The countenance revealed was that of Thomas Brough, the keeper, who had evidently been sitting on the other side, partaking of his rural lunch, or dinner; for as he parted the green growth, to get a better view, it was with a big clasp knife, while his other hand held a lump of bread, ornamented with bacon.
He spoke the next moment with his mouth full, but his words were quite audible as he said—
“I thowt that thar dog would ha’ smelt the rat, but a didn’t. So I hadn’t got you now, Jack Maine, hadn’t I? I’m a rogue, am I, Jack? I sold the Squire’s rabbuds, did I? and pocketted t’ money, did I? Wires, eh? Fezzans and hares, eh? Now, what’ll old Bultitude and Miss Jess say to this? I’ll just find out what’s your little game.”
He strode hastily off, parting the hazels, and making a short cut across the copse, while John Maine sat on the stile thinking.
What was he to do—what was he to do? Were all his struggles to be an honest man to be in vain? Yes, he had joined parties in poaching, down about Nottingham, but he had left it all in disgust, and for years he had been trying to be, and had been, an honest man. He had lived here at Dumford four years—had saved money—was respected and trusted—he was old Bultitude’s head man; and now these two scoundrels—men who knew of his old life—had found him out, they would expose him, and he should have to go off right away to begin the world afresh.
“I’ve tried enew; I’ve tried very hard,” he groaned. “I left all that as soon as I saw to what it tended, and knew better; and now, after all this struggle, here is the end.”
What was the use? he asked himself; why had he tried? What were honesty and respectability, and respect to such as he, that he should have fought for them so hard, knowing that, sooner or later, it must come to this?
What should he do? The words kept repeating themselves in his brain, and he asked himself again, What?
Suppose he told them all at the farm—laid bare the whole of his early life, how he had found himself as a boy thrown amongst poachers. It had been no fault of his, for he had hated it—loathed it all. Suppose he told Mr Bultitude—what then?
Yes, what then? Old Bultitude would say—“We’re all very sorry for you here, but if it got about that I’d kept a regular poacher on my farm, what would the squire say? And what about my lease?” And Tom Brough! Good heavens, if Tom Brough should learn it all!
It was of no use; that man would blast his character gladly, and the end of it all was that he must go!
Yes, but where? Where should he go? Somewhere to work for awhile, and get on, and then live a life of wretchedness, expecting to see some old associate turn up and blast his prospects. No; there was no hope for such as he! All he could do was to join some regiment at Lincoln or Sheffield, enlist—get on foreign service, and be a soldier. A man did not want a character to become a good soldier.
And about Jessie?
His head went lower, and he groaned aloud as this thought flashed across his mind, for his load seemed more than he could bear.
“Anything the matter, John Maine?”
The young man leaped up to find himself face to face with Mr Selwood, whose steps had been inaudible in the dusty road, and John Maine’s thoughts had been too much taken up for him to notice the whine of recognition by the dog, who had leaped up and ran forward to welcome the vicar.
“Bit of a headache, sir, bad headache—this heat, sir,” stammered the young man.
“Liver out of order—liver—not a doubt about it,” said the vicar. “What a strange thing it is nature couldn’t make a man without a liver and save him all his sufferings from bile. Come along with me to the Vicarage. I’m getting in order there now, and I’ll doctor you, and go and tell Mr Purley myself that I’ve been poaching on his preserves. Why, what’s the matter, man?”
John Maine had started as if stung at certain of his latter words.
“Bit giddy, sir; strange and bad now it’s come on,” he stammered.
“That’s right; you’re better now. Sitting with your head down. I’ll doctor you—no secrets: tincture of rhubarb, citrate of magnesia, and a little brandy. I’ll soon set you right. You mustn’t be ill. This is cricket night, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir; but they haven’t played since the strike.”
“Perhaps they will to-night, and I shall come to the field. Well, come along.”
“But really, sir—I—that is—”
“Now look here, John Maine, I’m the spiritual head of the parish, and you must obey me. I can’t help being a man of only your own age—I shall get the better of that. Now if I had been some silver-headed old gentleman, you would have come without a word; so come along. I’ll go back. You are decidedly ill—there’s no mistake about it.”
To John Maine’s great surprise, the vicar took his arm, and half led him back towards Dumford, chattering pleasantly the while.
“I met Mr Simeon Slee as I came along, and he cut me dead. He’s a very nice man in his way, but I’m afraid he works so hard with his tongue, it takes all the strength out of his arms.”
“He’s strange and fond o’ talking, sir,” said John Maine.
“Yes; but words are only words after all, and if they are light and chaffy, they don’t grow like good grain. Bad thing this strike in the town, Maine. Lasted a month now.”
“Very bad, sir.”
“Ah, yes. You agricultural gentlemen don’t indulge in those luxuries, and I’m glad to see that the farm people are very sober.”
“Yes, sir, ’cept at the stattice and the fair.”
“Stattice?” said the vicar, inquiringly.
“Yes, sir, status—statute-hiring, you know, when the servants leave. They call it ‘pag-rag’ day here.”
“Ha, do they?” said the vicar; “well, I suppose I shall learn all in time. What may ‘pag-rag’ mean?”
“They call it so here, sir,” said the young man, smiling. “They say a man pags a sack on his back, and I suppose it means they carry off their clothes then.”
“I see,” said the vicar; “and you have some strange characters about at such times? By the way, I saw a nice respectable couple turn in at the Bull and Cucumber, as I came by. They’d got poacher stamped on their faces plainly.—Head bad?”
“Sudden stab, sir, that’s all,” said John Maine, holding his hands to his head and shuddering.
“Ah, you must go back and lie down as soon as I have done with you, or else I must find you a sofa for an hour. We’ll see how you are. Perhaps we’ll walk home together.”
“No, no, sir, I shall be all right directly. Don’t do that, sir. Mr Bultitude—”
“Mr Bultitude has too much respect for you, John Maine, to let you go about in a state of suffering; so just hold your tongue, sir, for you’re my patient.”
A few minutes after he laid his hand on the gate, with the effect of making Jacky Budd start up from his seat on the bottom of a large flower-pot, and begin vigorously hoeing at some vegetables in the now trim garden.
The vicar saw him and laughed to himself, as he led the way up to the door, glancing up the street as he did so, and seeing, with a feeling of uneasiness, that there were knots of men standing about in conversation, as if discussing some important subject.
The door stood wide open, as if inviting entrance, and flowers were now blooming in profusion on every side, for what with the rough work of Tom Podmore and Big Harry, supplemented by the efforts of Jacky Budd and the parson himself, the garden was what the sexton called a “pictur.”
“Come in here, Maine,” said the vicar, opening the door of his study; and the young man followed, peering round as he did so, for this was his first visit to the vicar’s dwelling, and the result of a month’s residence was shown in the change that had come over the place.
But at the end of the first fortnight, one of Mr Bultitude’s waggons had been run down to the station three times to fetch “parson’s traps,” and “parson’s traps” were visible on all sides, the Reverend Murray Selwood being, to use his own words, “rather cursed with wealth.”
The place was now thebeau idealof a well-to-do bachelor’s home. The low-roofed entrance-hall was bright with oak furniture, quaint china, trophies of old arms, and savage weapons, with flowers, for the most part sent by Mrs Glaire, placed wherever there was light and sunshine for them to break up into long sheaves on the clean stone floor. Through an open door could be seen the dining-room, whose oaken sideboard was half covered with massive plate, college cups, and trophies won by muscular arms and legs guided by a clear-thinking and solid brain; but the study itself took John Maine’s attention, with its cases full of books, great bronze clock, and vases on the mantelpiece, with statuettes on brackets.
There were traces of the owner’s polished taste in every direction, but at the same time samples of his love of out-door sports. For instance, in one corner there stood a polished canoe-paddle with a fascine of fishing-rods; in another corner a gun-case and a couple of cricket-bats; lying on a side-table, its handle carefully bound with string, was about the biggest croquet mallet that ever drove ball over a velvet lawn. A half-written sermon lay on the writing-table, and by it a cigar-box; while on the chimney-piece and in brackets were pipes, from the humble clay, through briars, to the tinted brown meerschaum with its amber tube. The greatest incongruity in the place, however, seeing that it was the snuggery of a man of peace, was a trophy of single-sticks, foils, masks and gloves, crossed by a couple of bows, in front of which were a sheaf of arrows and two pairs of boxing-gloves.
“Looking at the gloves, Maine?” said the vicar, smiling. “Ah, I used to be a bit of a don with those at one time. You and I will put them on together some day. Just touch that bell.”
John Maine obeyed, while the young vicar found his keys, and opened a cabinet which was in two compartments, the one displaying a regular array of medicines, the other spirits, wine, and glasses.
“Bring in some water, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar.
“And a sponge and a rag and the ragjack oil?” said Mrs Slee, eagerly.
“No, Mrs Slee. It’s medicine, not surgery to-day;” and the woman backed out, looking a little less angular and sad than a few weeks before.
“I’m a regular quack, Maine, you see,” said the vicar, smiling, as he poured into a great soda-water glass a certain quantity of tincture, added to it a couple of table-spoonfuls of brandy, and so much granulated magnesia, to which, when Mrs Slee returned, he poured about half a pint of pure cold well water. “There’s a dose for you, my man,” he said, as he passed it to John Maine, “that will set you right in an hour. Now, Mrs Slee, any one been?”
“Yes, Bulger’s girl’s been here with a bottle for some wine,” said Mrs Slee shortly, for “sir” and a respectful tone were still strangers to her tongue.
“Bring the bottle in. Any one else?”
“Maidens’s boy says you promised his mother some tea.”
“So I did,” said the vicar, opening a large canister, from which he took a packet which scented the room with its fragrance. “There it is. Now then, who else?”
“Old Mumby’s wife has come for some more wine.”
“Then she’ll go back without it, Mrs Slee. Do you see that,” he continued, giving her a strange look; “that’s the peculiar sign that used to be in vogue amongst the ancients. That’s the gnostic wink, Mrs Slee, and means too much. I won’t send a spoonful. That wicked old woman drank every drop of the last herself, Mrs Slee, I’ll make affidavit. She wouldn’t stir across the room to wait on her poor old husband, and yet she’ll come nearly a mile to fetch that wine. I’ll take it myself, and give it the poor old boy, and see him drink it before I come away. Tell her I’ll bring it down, Mrs Slee; but don’t say I called her a wicked old woman.”
“Oh, I’m not going to chatter. Do you think I should be such a ghipes?” said Mrs Slee, rudely.
“Not knowing what a ghipes is, I cannot say, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar; “but you are not perfect, Mrs Slee—not perfect. Soup. You have that last soup on your conscience!”
“Well, I’m sure I should ha’ been glad on a few not long back, and it was quite good enew to gie away to people.”
“And I’m sure it was not, Mrs Slee: the poor people are hungry, and want food. This strike’s a terrible thing.”
“Then they shouldn’t strike,” growled Mrs Slee.
“I quite agree with you, Mrs Slee, so I don’t give soup to the men who did strike; but the women and children did not strike, and if you knew what it was to be hungry—I beg your pardon, Mrs Slee,” he added hastily, as he saw his housekeeper flush up. “There, I did not think. But this soup. We had a capital French cook at my college, and he gave me lessons. I’m a capital judge of soup, and I’ll taste the fresh. Bring me in a basin, and send these people away.”
Mrs Slee muttered and went out, looking rather ungracious, and the vicar turned to his guest, who was fidgetting about and seemed rather uneasy.
“I’m rather proud of our soup here at the vicarage—broth, the people call it,” said the vicar.
“I’ve heerd tell of it, sir,” said John Maine, who wanted to go.
“But I have hard work to keep the water out. I always tell Mrs Slee that the people can add as much of that as they like. But, I say, Maine, there’s something wrong with you!”
“Oh, no, sir; nothing at all, sir; but it’s time I was going, sir, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Well, well, good-bye, Maine. I hope,” he added significantly, “your head will be better. Mind this, though, I’m not one of the confessional parsons, and insist upon no man’s confidence; but bear this in mind, I look upon myself as the trusted, confidential friend of every man in the parish. I shall be over your way soon.”
“Thank you kindly, sir,” said Maine. “I know you do,” and, backing out, the next moment he was gone.
“Strange young man that—strange people altogether,” said the vicar. “Oh, here’s the soup.”
For just then Mrs Slee bustled in with a napkin-covered tray, bearing a basin and spoon, the former emitting clouds of steam.
The vicar took the basin, sat down, stirred it, smelt it, tasted it, and replaced the spoon, while Mrs Slee watched his face eagerly.
“Wants another pinch of salt, and another dash of pepper. Fetch them, Mrs Slee, and some bread.”
Mrs Slee, looking as ungracious as ever, but with an eagerness which she could not conceal, hurried out to return with the required articles, when more salt was added and a dash of pepper. Then a slice of bread was cut from the home-made loaf, and the vicar tasted—tasted again, and then, in the calmest and most unperturbed manner possible, went on partaking of the soup, every mouthful being watched with intense eagerness by the woman waiting for his judgment.
“Capital soup this, Mrs Slee; capital brew!”
Mrs Slee did not smile, as the vicar diligently hunted the last grains of rice in the bottom of the basin with his spoon, but she gave a sigh of satisfaction.
“This will go off like a shot. How much have you got of it? Almost equal to our soup at Boanerges.”
“There’s about sixty quarts of it, sir.”
“Sixty? Not half enough. You’ll have to start the copper again directly, Mrs Slee. Ah, by the way, Bailey will bring two hundred loaves this evening, and we’ll give them away with the soup in the morning.”
“Two hundred loaves!” exclaimed Mrs Slee. “Bless the man, where am I to put them?”
“Oh, we’ll stack them in the hall if we can’t put them anywhere else, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, laughing. “And let that soup cool. It’ll be like jelly in the morning. I’m going to walk over to Bultitude’s, and I’ll call at the butcher’s about the beef.”
“But that broth would bear as much watter to it, and that would make twice as much.”
“Now, Mrs Slee, I won’t have a good thing spoiled,” said the vicar. “I don’t believe you mind the trouble of making it.”
“That I’m sure I don’t,” said Mrs Slee, sharply; “only you’re giving away cartloads of bread and meat, and pailsful of soup to folks as wean’t say thank you for it, and laugh at you for your pains.”
“They won’t laugh at me while they’re eating that beautiful soup, Mrs Slee, which does you credit. If they like to laugh afterwards,—well, let them.”
“Oh, I don’t want no praise for the broth,” said Mrs Slee, ungraciously. “You telled me how to mak’ it. But I don’t like to see you robbing yourself for them as is sure to be ungrateful.”
“We won’t mind that, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, smiling; “and now I’m going off to Bultitude’s, and I’ll see if I can’t get there this time. By the way, Mrs Slee, I should like a little tureen of that soup for my dinner; it’s splendid. And look here, Mrs Slee, if any one comes while I’m out, who needs a little, you can lend a jug, and give some of the soup before it’s cold. I’ll leave that to you.”
Volume Two—Chapter Five.The Vicar’s Soup.“He’s a strange good man,” said Mrs Slee, grimly, as she watched the vicar down the path; “and he must hev a vast o’ money, giving away as he is raight and left. Well, I won’t hev him cheated if I can help it, for the more he gives the more he may. Who’s yon at the back?”The last remark was jerked out as a soft tap was heard at the kitchen door, and on going to answer it, there stood Sim Slee.“Well?”“Well?”“Didn’t I tell thee as thou needn’t come here?” said Mrs Slee. “I thowt you wouldn’t darken parson’s door again.”“What’s that as smells?” said Sim, giving a sniff.“Soup for them as you and your strike folk have left to pine to dead,” snapped Mrs Slee.“Is that some on it in they pancheons?” said Sim.“Yes, it is,” said his wife, sulkily.“I heered tell on it,” said Sim. “He’ve been a scrattin about at all the butchers’, and buying up weighs of cag mag as they couldn’t sell. I saw a basket o’ stinking bones come up to the gate, and I heerd at the Bull as he’s gotten four beasts’ heads promised. Yah! it’s a shame as such as him should hev a place like this, and five hundred a year.”“Thou fulsome!” exclaimed Mrs Slee, angrily. “I wean’t stand by and hear parson talked about like that.”“All raight,” said Sim, sneering; “he’s won you ower then. But what hev you gotten to eat?”“Nowt,” said Mrs Slee, shortly.“Here, just take thee scithers, and coot the dwiny ends off my collar,” said Sim, holding up the ragged but scrupulously clean collar of the shirt he wore; and this duty was diligently performed by his wife.“Some one telled me as the soup meat was covered wi’ maddick bees,” said Sim, as soon as the task was done.“Then some one telled thee a lie,” said Mrs Slee, sharply.“Power up a few of it in a basin,” said Sim, after examining the broad earthen pans in which the thick soup steamed. “Let’s see what sorter stuff the downtrodden serf is to be compelled to eat.”“It isn’t good enough for such as thou,” said Mrs Slee, sharply.Sim took up the spoon, and with an air of disgust raised some of the soup and let it drop back, exhaling as it did so a most tantalising odour for a hungry man.“I just come by Riggall’s, the bone-setter’s,” said Sim; “and he says as he won’t hev parson meddling wi’ his trade, if doctor does. Why, he tied up Binney Mawtrop’s hand as he got in the wheel.”“Yes, and I held a basin and a sponge for him,” said Mrs Slee, eyeing her husband. “He owt to hev let him bleed to dead, of course.”“Say, owd lass,” said Sim, “is this stuff fit to yeat?”“Fit to yeat, thou unconditioned fulsome! it ain’t fit for thee. Bread and watter’s what such shacks as thou ought to hev, and nowt besides.”“Thy tongue’s gotten a strange and rough edge to it this morning, moother,” said Sim, grinning, and longing to convey the spoon to his mouth, but feeling that it would not be consistent.“There, sit thee down,” said Mrs Slee. “I know what you mean. There, sit down, and don’t get theeing and thouing me about. A deal you care for me.”This was in answer to a rough caress, as she bustled about, and got a basinful of the soup for her lord, with a great hunk of bread; and without more ado Sim took his seat.“Oh, I’m not going to yeat this,” he said. “I’m just going to taste what sorter moock he gives the pore out of his bounty.”“Howd thee tongue and eat,” said Mrs Slee, contemptuously.Sim played with the spoon, and splashed the soup about, ending by tasting it and retasting, and then taking some bread and going heartily to work.“Say, moother,” he exclaimed, “it won’t do; that’s the broth you’ve been makking for the parson hissen. It ain’t to give away.”“That’s made o’ the meat as the parson went and scratted up from the butcher’s, and the baskets o’ bones and beasts’ heads, and all the rubbish he could get together,” said Mrs Slee sourly.“I’ll say it’s good soup,” said Sim, finishing his basin. “Say, moother, give’s another soop.”“He said I was to give some to anybody who wanted,” said Mrs Slee; and then, with a grim smile, she refilled his basin, while Sim drew out his handkerchief, spread it on his knees, and polished off the second basin in a very few minutes.“You can’t get me to believe as that soup’s going to be gin away,” he said as he rose. “That’ll be wattered till it’s thin as thin. Theer, I’m off again. I’ve a deal to see to;” and without another word he hurried away.“Yes, he’s gotten his fill,” said Mrs Slee, directing a look of contempt after her husband; but as she crossed the kitchen she saw something white under the chair Sim had occupied, and stooping down picked up a note in a very small envelope, whose address she spelled out: “Miss Banks, By hand.”“What’s he gotten to do wi’ takkin letters to Daisy Banks?” she exclaimed, as a hot feeling of jealousy came upon her for the moment. Then, with a half-laugh she said, “No, no, it ain’t that: he’s too old and unheppen, and she’s ower young and pretty. He’s takkin it for some one. Whose writing will it be? He’s coming back.”She stopped short, hearing a step, and darted out of the kitchen just as Sim came softly up, peered in and looked eagerly about the floor and under the table.“Mebbe I’ve dropped it somewheers else,” he muttered, starting off again, while Mrs Slee had another good look at the letter, and ended by depositing it in her bosom.“I’ll give it to parson,” she said at last, and then resumed her work.Meanwhile, Murray Selwood was retracing his steps on the way to Bultitude’s farm, but before he reached the place he came upon John Maine once more, looking eagerly across the fields.“Well, Maine, how’s the head?” said the vicar, making the young man start, for the grass had deadened his tread. “What can you see—game?”“I’m afraid it is, sir,” said the young man, bluntly—“the sportsman and the hare.”“H’m!” ejaculated the vicar, as he caught sight of two figures on the hill-side, far distant; but the day was so beautifully clear that he could make out Richard Glaire and a companion. “Mr Glaire and his cousin?” he said hastily.“No, sir,” said the young man, quietly, “that’s what it ought to be. It’s Mr Richard Glaire and one of the town girls. I think it’s Daisy Banks. Do you know him well, sir?”“Yes, pretty well,” said the vicar, eyeing the young man’s saddened face intently.“Well, sir, it’s no business of mine,” said the young fellow; “but if I was a friend of Mr Richard Glaire, I should tell him to keep at home, and not do that; for the men are getting hot again him, and he may fall into trouble.”“John Maine, if any violence is intended against Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, “I wish you to tell me at once.”“I don’t know of any, sir,” said Maine, “only Tom Podmore’s dreadfully put out about Daisy Banks, and the strike people are growing more bitter every day. If I do hear of anything, sir, I’ll tell you.”They came directly upon old Bultitude, looking bluff and ruddy in his velveteens and gaiters.“Ah, parson, fine day! how are you? What’s the matter?”“Well, Maine here isn’t well,” said the vicar.“What’s wrong, lad? Why, thou said’st nowt when you came in a bit ago.”“Oh, it’s nothing, sir, nothing,” said John Maine, hastily.“Let him go and lie down for an hour,” said the vicar, looking at the young man’s ghastly face.“Not got fever, hev you, my lad?” said the old gentleman kindly, as they walked up to the house. “Here, Jess, pull down the blinds in the far room, and let John Maine come and lie down a bit theer.”At his summons, Jessie’s young, pleasant face appeared at the window. It had no more pretensions to beauty than a pair of soft, dark eyes, and a bright, rosy colour, and the eyes looked very wistfully at John Maine, who now made an effort.“No, no, sir,” he said. “I won’t lie down. I’ll get to work again; there’s nothing like forgetting pain.”“Well, perhaps you’re right, Maine,” said the vicar. “Well, Mr Bultitude, we don’t get over our strike.”“Parson, it makes me wild,” said the old man. “I can’t bear it, and I shall be glad—strange and glad to see it over; for I hate to see a pack of men standing about the town doing o’ nowt. Can’t you do owt wi’ the works people?”The vicar shook his head. “I’ve tried both ways—hard,” he said; “master and men, but no good comes of it.”While this conversation was going on, Jessie had stepped anxiously forward, and laid her hand upon John Maine’s arm.“Is anything serious the matter, John?” she said anxiously. “Are you very ill?”He started when she touched him as if he had been stung, and withdrew his arm hastily; and then, without so much as a glance at the girl’s earnest, appealing eyes, he turned away and followed the vicar down the path, for he had shaken hands and parted from the farmer.“I’ll see you across the home close, sir,” said John Maine.“Thank you, do,” said the vicar; “but I think your bull pretty well knows me now. Hallo! here comes Mr Brough, the Squire’s keeper, with his black looks and black whiskers. He always looks at me as if he thought I had designs on the squire’s game. Hallo! Maine, bad friends? What does that mean?” he continued, as the man gave him a surly salute and then passed on, gun over shoulder, bestowing upon the young bailiff a sneering, half-savage look that was full of meaning.“Tom Brough has never been very good friends with me, sir, since I thrashed him for annoying Miss Jessie there, up at the farm.”“Seems as if his love has not yet returned,” said the vicar, as he strode away, thinking of the various little plots and by-plots going on in his neighbourhood; and then sighing deeply as he felt that there was trouble in store for himself, in spite of his stern discipline and busy efforts to keep his mind too much employed to think of the countenance that haunted his dreams.It seemed to be the vicar’s fate to appear as playing the spy upon Richard Glaire, for, on Iiis return, taking a round-about way back, so as to make a call upon one or two people whom he had relieved of some part of the suffering induced by the strike, he was once more striking for the High Street, when he heard the words sharply uttered:“Well, I’ll pay you this time; but let me find that you fail me again and don’t you expect—Confound—!”“How do, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, for he had come suddenly upon Richard, laying down the law pretty sharply to Sim Slee, and he was close to them before it was seen on either side.“Really,” said the vicar to himself as he strode on, “I’ve not the slightest wish to see what that unfortunate young man does; but it seems to me that I am to be bound to bear witness to a great deal. Heigho! these are matters that must be left to time.”He entered his own gate soon after, and having received Mrs Slee’s report, that lady handed him the note she had found.“Mr Glaire’s hand,” he said, involuntarily and with his brows knit. “Where did you get this?”“My master came to see me, and he must ha’ dropped it,” said Mrs Slee.“Then take it to him,” said the vicar, quietly, as he resumed his calm aspect. “It is nothing to do with us.”“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs Slee, sharply. “What call has young master Dick Glaire to be writing letters to she?”“Take the letter to your husband, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, quietly; and then left alone, he threw himself into his chair, and covered his face with his hands, trying hard to resist temptation, for he knew well enough that if he had kept that letter and dishonourably shown it to Eve Pelly, so serious a breach would be created that his future success would be almost certain. But, no; he could not stir a step to make her unhappy. She loved this man, who was quite unworthy of her; and if she ever was awakened from her dream his must not be the hand that roused her.He started as he heard the door close loudly, and saw Mrs Slee go down the path to seek out her husband, and return the letter.There was time now to call her back, but he did not move, only sat and watched her bear away that which he knew might have been used as the lever to overthrow Richard Glaire.Once only did he hesitate, but it was when his thoughts reverted to Daisy Banks and the possibility of ill befalling her, through her intimacy with Richard Glaire.“But I cannot take action on a letter that falls accidentally into my hands,” he said. “If I speak to the girl’s father it must be on the subject of what I have seen; and that I will do.”He gave the matter a little consideration, and then determined to act at the risk of being considered a meddler, and walked straight to Joe Banks’s pleasant little home, where he found Mrs Banks and Daisy alone, the girl being in tears.He was turning; back, so as to avoid being present during any family trouble, when Mrs Banks arrested him.“Don’t you go away, sir, please, for I should like you to have your word with this girl as well as me. It’s no use to speak to her father and—Hoity-toity, miss.”Poor Daisy did not stop to hear the rest; for already growing thin with worry and mental care connected with her love affair, Mrs Banks was leading her rather a sad life in her husband’s absence, ostensibly to benefit Tom Podmore, but really hardening the girl’s heart against him, if she had felt any disposition to yield: she now started up to hide her tears, and ran out of the room.“Well, that’s fine manners, miss!” exclaimed Mrs Banks, apostrophising the absent one. “I’m always telling her and Joe, my husband, sir, that no good can come of her listening to young Master Dick Glaire.”“Then you don’t approve of it, Mrs Banks?” said the vicar, quietly.“Approve of it, sir? No, nor anybody else, except her foolish father, who’s the best and kindest man in the world: only when he takes an obstinate craze there’s no turning him.”The vicar found the matter already to his hand, and was spared the trouble of introducing the subject; but he would rather have found Joe Banks present.“Does he approve of it?” he said, quietly.“Approve of it, sir! yes. I tell him, and all his neighbours tell him, that it’s a bit of foolish vanity; but they can’t turn him a morsel.”“Hallo, moother,” said Joe Banks, entering the room, “can’t you let that rest?”“No, Joe, and I never shall,” exclaimed Mrs Banks.“Don’t you tak’ any notice, sir,” said Joe. “She heven’t talked you round, hev she?”“No, Mr Banks,” said the vicar, quietly; “it was not necessary. I have no right to interfere in these matters, but—”“Well, speak out, sir; speak out,” said Joe, rather sternly. “Say out like a man what you mean.”“If I did, Mr Banks, I should say that you were imprudent to let this matter proceed.”“Why?”“Because it is a well-known fact that Mr Glaire is engaged to his cousin.”“There, Joe; there, Joe; what did I tell thee?” cried Mrs Banks, triumphantly; while Daisy, who could hear nearly all that was said, crouched with burning face in her room, shivering with nervous excitement, though longing to hear more.“All raight, parson, I know,” said Joe; “I see. The missus has sent you.”“Indeed, no, Banks,” said the vicar. “I speak as a friend, without a word from anybody.”“Then, what do you mean by it?” cried Joe, exploding with passion. “What raight have you to come interferin’ in a man’s house, and about his wife and daughter? This is my own bit o’ freehold, Mr Selwood, and if you can’t pay respect to me and to mine, and see that if Master Richard Glaire, my old fellow-workman’s boy, chooses to marry my gal, he’s a raight to, why I’d thank you to stay away.”“Don’t be angry with me, Mr Banks,” said the vicar, laying his hand upon the other’s arm; “I indeed wish you and yours well.”“Then keep to wishing,” said Joe sharply. “I’m not an owd fool yet. Think I don’t know? Here’s the Missus, and Missus Glaire, and Tom Podmore, all been at you; and ‘All raight, leave it to me,’ says you. ‘I’ll put it all raight.’ And now you’ve had your try, and you can’t put it raight. I’ll marry my gal to anybody I like and she likes, in spite of all the parsons in Lincolnshire.”“Don’t you tak’ any notice of what he says, sir, please,” cried Mrs Banks. “He’s put out, and when he is, and it’s about something that he knows he’s wrong over—”“No, he isn’t,” roared Joe.“He says anything, sir,” continued Mrs Banks.“No, he don’t,” roared Joe. “He’s a saying raight, and what he says is, that he won’t be interfered wi’ by anyone. He’s got trouble enew ower the strike, and he won’t hev trouble ower this; so perhaps Mr Selwood ’ll stop away from my place till he’s asked to come again.”“Joe, you ought to be ashamed of yoursen,” cried Mrs Banks. “He’ll come and beg your pardon for this, sir, or I’ll know the reason why.”“No, he wean’t,” roared Joe. “So now go; and if you hadn’t been such a straightforward chap ower the row again Master Richard, I’d hev said twice as much to you.”“Yes, I’ll go,” said the vicar quietly. “Good day, Mrs Banks. Good day, Banks; you’ll find I’m less disposed to meddle than you think, and give me credit for this some day. Come, you’ll shake hands.”“Dal me if I will,” cried Joe.“Nonsense, man; shake hands.”“I wean’t,” roared Joe, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and turning his back.“Well, Mrs Banks, you will,” said the vicar; and then, as he went away, he said:“Mrs Banks, and you, Mr Banks, please recollect this: I shall forget all these words before I get home; so don’t either of you think that we are bad friends, because we are not; and you, Mr Banks, you are of too sterling stuff not to feel sorry for what you have said.”“There, it wean’t do,” roared Joe; “I wean’t be talked ower;” but the vicar hardly heard his words, for he was striding thoughtfully away.
“He’s a strange good man,” said Mrs Slee, grimly, as she watched the vicar down the path; “and he must hev a vast o’ money, giving away as he is raight and left. Well, I won’t hev him cheated if I can help it, for the more he gives the more he may. Who’s yon at the back?”
The last remark was jerked out as a soft tap was heard at the kitchen door, and on going to answer it, there stood Sim Slee.
“Well?”
“Well?”
“Didn’t I tell thee as thou needn’t come here?” said Mrs Slee. “I thowt you wouldn’t darken parson’s door again.”
“What’s that as smells?” said Sim, giving a sniff.
“Soup for them as you and your strike folk have left to pine to dead,” snapped Mrs Slee.
“Is that some on it in they pancheons?” said Sim.
“Yes, it is,” said his wife, sulkily.
“I heered tell on it,” said Sim. “He’ve been a scrattin about at all the butchers’, and buying up weighs of cag mag as they couldn’t sell. I saw a basket o’ stinking bones come up to the gate, and I heerd at the Bull as he’s gotten four beasts’ heads promised. Yah! it’s a shame as such as him should hev a place like this, and five hundred a year.”
“Thou fulsome!” exclaimed Mrs Slee, angrily. “I wean’t stand by and hear parson talked about like that.”
“All raight,” said Sim, sneering; “he’s won you ower then. But what hev you gotten to eat?”
“Nowt,” said Mrs Slee, shortly.
“Here, just take thee scithers, and coot the dwiny ends off my collar,” said Sim, holding up the ragged but scrupulously clean collar of the shirt he wore; and this duty was diligently performed by his wife.
“Some one telled me as the soup meat was covered wi’ maddick bees,” said Sim, as soon as the task was done.
“Then some one telled thee a lie,” said Mrs Slee, sharply.
“Power up a few of it in a basin,” said Sim, after examining the broad earthen pans in which the thick soup steamed. “Let’s see what sorter stuff the downtrodden serf is to be compelled to eat.”
“It isn’t good enough for such as thou,” said Mrs Slee, sharply.
Sim took up the spoon, and with an air of disgust raised some of the soup and let it drop back, exhaling as it did so a most tantalising odour for a hungry man.
“I just come by Riggall’s, the bone-setter’s,” said Sim; “and he says as he won’t hev parson meddling wi’ his trade, if doctor does. Why, he tied up Binney Mawtrop’s hand as he got in the wheel.”
“Yes, and I held a basin and a sponge for him,” said Mrs Slee, eyeing her husband. “He owt to hev let him bleed to dead, of course.”
“Say, owd lass,” said Sim, “is this stuff fit to yeat?”
“Fit to yeat, thou unconditioned fulsome! it ain’t fit for thee. Bread and watter’s what such shacks as thou ought to hev, and nowt besides.”
“Thy tongue’s gotten a strange and rough edge to it this morning, moother,” said Sim, grinning, and longing to convey the spoon to his mouth, but feeling that it would not be consistent.
“There, sit thee down,” said Mrs Slee. “I know what you mean. There, sit down, and don’t get theeing and thouing me about. A deal you care for me.”
This was in answer to a rough caress, as she bustled about, and got a basinful of the soup for her lord, with a great hunk of bread; and without more ado Sim took his seat.
“Oh, I’m not going to yeat this,” he said. “I’m just going to taste what sorter moock he gives the pore out of his bounty.”
“Howd thee tongue and eat,” said Mrs Slee, contemptuously.
Sim played with the spoon, and splashed the soup about, ending by tasting it and retasting, and then taking some bread and going heartily to work.
“Say, moother,” he exclaimed, “it won’t do; that’s the broth you’ve been makking for the parson hissen. It ain’t to give away.”
“That’s made o’ the meat as the parson went and scratted up from the butcher’s, and the baskets o’ bones and beasts’ heads, and all the rubbish he could get together,” said Mrs Slee sourly.
“I’ll say it’s good soup,” said Sim, finishing his basin. “Say, moother, give’s another soop.”
“He said I was to give some to anybody who wanted,” said Mrs Slee; and then, with a grim smile, she refilled his basin, while Sim drew out his handkerchief, spread it on his knees, and polished off the second basin in a very few minutes.
“You can’t get me to believe as that soup’s going to be gin away,” he said as he rose. “That’ll be wattered till it’s thin as thin. Theer, I’m off again. I’ve a deal to see to;” and without another word he hurried away.
“Yes, he’s gotten his fill,” said Mrs Slee, directing a look of contempt after her husband; but as she crossed the kitchen she saw something white under the chair Sim had occupied, and stooping down picked up a note in a very small envelope, whose address she spelled out: “Miss Banks, By hand.”
“What’s he gotten to do wi’ takkin letters to Daisy Banks?” she exclaimed, as a hot feeling of jealousy came upon her for the moment. Then, with a half-laugh she said, “No, no, it ain’t that: he’s too old and unheppen, and she’s ower young and pretty. He’s takkin it for some one. Whose writing will it be? He’s coming back.”
She stopped short, hearing a step, and darted out of the kitchen just as Sim came softly up, peered in and looked eagerly about the floor and under the table.
“Mebbe I’ve dropped it somewheers else,” he muttered, starting off again, while Mrs Slee had another good look at the letter, and ended by depositing it in her bosom.
“I’ll give it to parson,” she said at last, and then resumed her work.
Meanwhile, Murray Selwood was retracing his steps on the way to Bultitude’s farm, but before he reached the place he came upon John Maine once more, looking eagerly across the fields.
“Well, Maine, how’s the head?” said the vicar, making the young man start, for the grass had deadened his tread. “What can you see—game?”
“I’m afraid it is, sir,” said the young man, bluntly—“the sportsman and the hare.”
“H’m!” ejaculated the vicar, as he caught sight of two figures on the hill-side, far distant; but the day was so beautifully clear that he could make out Richard Glaire and a companion. “Mr Glaire and his cousin?” he said hastily.
“No, sir,” said the young man, quietly, “that’s what it ought to be. It’s Mr Richard Glaire and one of the town girls. I think it’s Daisy Banks. Do you know him well, sir?”
“Yes, pretty well,” said the vicar, eyeing the young man’s saddened face intently.
“Well, sir, it’s no business of mine,” said the young fellow; “but if I was a friend of Mr Richard Glaire, I should tell him to keep at home, and not do that; for the men are getting hot again him, and he may fall into trouble.”
“John Maine, if any violence is intended against Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, “I wish you to tell me at once.”
“I don’t know of any, sir,” said Maine, “only Tom Podmore’s dreadfully put out about Daisy Banks, and the strike people are growing more bitter every day. If I do hear of anything, sir, I’ll tell you.”
They came directly upon old Bultitude, looking bluff and ruddy in his velveteens and gaiters.
“Ah, parson, fine day! how are you? What’s the matter?”
“Well, Maine here isn’t well,” said the vicar.
“What’s wrong, lad? Why, thou said’st nowt when you came in a bit ago.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, sir, nothing,” said John Maine, hastily.
“Let him go and lie down for an hour,” said the vicar, looking at the young man’s ghastly face.
“Not got fever, hev you, my lad?” said the old gentleman kindly, as they walked up to the house. “Here, Jess, pull down the blinds in the far room, and let John Maine come and lie down a bit theer.”
At his summons, Jessie’s young, pleasant face appeared at the window. It had no more pretensions to beauty than a pair of soft, dark eyes, and a bright, rosy colour, and the eyes looked very wistfully at John Maine, who now made an effort.
“No, no, sir,” he said. “I won’t lie down. I’ll get to work again; there’s nothing like forgetting pain.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right, Maine,” said the vicar. “Well, Mr Bultitude, we don’t get over our strike.”
“Parson, it makes me wild,” said the old man. “I can’t bear it, and I shall be glad—strange and glad to see it over; for I hate to see a pack of men standing about the town doing o’ nowt. Can’t you do owt wi’ the works people?”
The vicar shook his head. “I’ve tried both ways—hard,” he said; “master and men, but no good comes of it.”
While this conversation was going on, Jessie had stepped anxiously forward, and laid her hand upon John Maine’s arm.
“Is anything serious the matter, John?” she said anxiously. “Are you very ill?”
He started when she touched him as if he had been stung, and withdrew his arm hastily; and then, without so much as a glance at the girl’s earnest, appealing eyes, he turned away and followed the vicar down the path, for he had shaken hands and parted from the farmer.
“I’ll see you across the home close, sir,” said John Maine.
“Thank you, do,” said the vicar; “but I think your bull pretty well knows me now. Hallo! here comes Mr Brough, the Squire’s keeper, with his black looks and black whiskers. He always looks at me as if he thought I had designs on the squire’s game. Hallo! Maine, bad friends? What does that mean?” he continued, as the man gave him a surly salute and then passed on, gun over shoulder, bestowing upon the young bailiff a sneering, half-savage look that was full of meaning.
“Tom Brough has never been very good friends with me, sir, since I thrashed him for annoying Miss Jessie there, up at the farm.”
“Seems as if his love has not yet returned,” said the vicar, as he strode away, thinking of the various little plots and by-plots going on in his neighbourhood; and then sighing deeply as he felt that there was trouble in store for himself, in spite of his stern discipline and busy efforts to keep his mind too much employed to think of the countenance that haunted his dreams.
It seemed to be the vicar’s fate to appear as playing the spy upon Richard Glaire, for, on Iiis return, taking a round-about way back, so as to make a call upon one or two people whom he had relieved of some part of the suffering induced by the strike, he was once more striking for the High Street, when he heard the words sharply uttered:
“Well, I’ll pay you this time; but let me find that you fail me again and don’t you expect—Confound—!”
“How do, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, for he had come suddenly upon Richard, laying down the law pretty sharply to Sim Slee, and he was close to them before it was seen on either side.
“Really,” said the vicar to himself as he strode on, “I’ve not the slightest wish to see what that unfortunate young man does; but it seems to me that I am to be bound to bear witness to a great deal. Heigho! these are matters that must be left to time.”
He entered his own gate soon after, and having received Mrs Slee’s report, that lady handed him the note she had found.
“Mr Glaire’s hand,” he said, involuntarily and with his brows knit. “Where did you get this?”
“My master came to see me, and he must ha’ dropped it,” said Mrs Slee.
“Then take it to him,” said the vicar, quietly, as he resumed his calm aspect. “It is nothing to do with us.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs Slee, sharply. “What call has young master Dick Glaire to be writing letters to she?”
“Take the letter to your husband, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, quietly; and then left alone, he threw himself into his chair, and covered his face with his hands, trying hard to resist temptation, for he knew well enough that if he had kept that letter and dishonourably shown it to Eve Pelly, so serious a breach would be created that his future success would be almost certain. But, no; he could not stir a step to make her unhappy. She loved this man, who was quite unworthy of her; and if she ever was awakened from her dream his must not be the hand that roused her.
He started as he heard the door close loudly, and saw Mrs Slee go down the path to seek out her husband, and return the letter.
There was time now to call her back, but he did not move, only sat and watched her bear away that which he knew might have been used as the lever to overthrow Richard Glaire.
Once only did he hesitate, but it was when his thoughts reverted to Daisy Banks and the possibility of ill befalling her, through her intimacy with Richard Glaire.
“But I cannot take action on a letter that falls accidentally into my hands,” he said. “If I speak to the girl’s father it must be on the subject of what I have seen; and that I will do.”
He gave the matter a little consideration, and then determined to act at the risk of being considered a meddler, and walked straight to Joe Banks’s pleasant little home, where he found Mrs Banks and Daisy alone, the girl being in tears.
He was turning; back, so as to avoid being present during any family trouble, when Mrs Banks arrested him.
“Don’t you go away, sir, please, for I should like you to have your word with this girl as well as me. It’s no use to speak to her father and—Hoity-toity, miss.”
Poor Daisy did not stop to hear the rest; for already growing thin with worry and mental care connected with her love affair, Mrs Banks was leading her rather a sad life in her husband’s absence, ostensibly to benefit Tom Podmore, but really hardening the girl’s heart against him, if she had felt any disposition to yield: she now started up to hide her tears, and ran out of the room.
“Well, that’s fine manners, miss!” exclaimed Mrs Banks, apostrophising the absent one. “I’m always telling her and Joe, my husband, sir, that no good can come of her listening to young Master Dick Glaire.”
“Then you don’t approve of it, Mrs Banks?” said the vicar, quietly.
“Approve of it, sir? No, nor anybody else, except her foolish father, who’s the best and kindest man in the world: only when he takes an obstinate craze there’s no turning him.”
The vicar found the matter already to his hand, and was spared the trouble of introducing the subject; but he would rather have found Joe Banks present.
“Does he approve of it?” he said, quietly.
“Approve of it, sir! yes. I tell him, and all his neighbours tell him, that it’s a bit of foolish vanity; but they can’t turn him a morsel.”
“Hallo, moother,” said Joe Banks, entering the room, “can’t you let that rest?”
“No, Joe, and I never shall,” exclaimed Mrs Banks.
“Don’t you tak’ any notice, sir,” said Joe. “She heven’t talked you round, hev she?”
“No, Mr Banks,” said the vicar, quietly; “it was not necessary. I have no right to interfere in these matters, but—”
“Well, speak out, sir; speak out,” said Joe, rather sternly. “Say out like a man what you mean.”
“If I did, Mr Banks, I should say that you were imprudent to let this matter proceed.”
“Why?”
“Because it is a well-known fact that Mr Glaire is engaged to his cousin.”
“There, Joe; there, Joe; what did I tell thee?” cried Mrs Banks, triumphantly; while Daisy, who could hear nearly all that was said, crouched with burning face in her room, shivering with nervous excitement, though longing to hear more.
“All raight, parson, I know,” said Joe; “I see. The missus has sent you.”
“Indeed, no, Banks,” said the vicar. “I speak as a friend, without a word from anybody.”
“Then, what do you mean by it?” cried Joe, exploding with passion. “What raight have you to come interferin’ in a man’s house, and about his wife and daughter? This is my own bit o’ freehold, Mr Selwood, and if you can’t pay respect to me and to mine, and see that if Master Richard Glaire, my old fellow-workman’s boy, chooses to marry my gal, he’s a raight to, why I’d thank you to stay away.”
“Don’t be angry with me, Mr Banks,” said the vicar, laying his hand upon the other’s arm; “I indeed wish you and yours well.”
“Then keep to wishing,” said Joe sharply. “I’m not an owd fool yet. Think I don’t know? Here’s the Missus, and Missus Glaire, and Tom Podmore, all been at you; and ‘All raight, leave it to me,’ says you. ‘I’ll put it all raight.’ And now you’ve had your try, and you can’t put it raight. I’ll marry my gal to anybody I like and she likes, in spite of all the parsons in Lincolnshire.”
“Don’t you tak’ any notice of what he says, sir, please,” cried Mrs Banks. “He’s put out, and when he is, and it’s about something that he knows he’s wrong over—”
“No, he isn’t,” roared Joe.
“He says anything, sir,” continued Mrs Banks.
“No, he don’t,” roared Joe. “He’s a saying raight, and what he says is, that he won’t be interfered wi’ by anyone. He’s got trouble enew ower the strike, and he won’t hev trouble ower this; so perhaps Mr Selwood ’ll stop away from my place till he’s asked to come again.”
“Joe, you ought to be ashamed of yoursen,” cried Mrs Banks. “He’ll come and beg your pardon for this, sir, or I’ll know the reason why.”
“No, he wean’t,” roared Joe. “So now go; and if you hadn’t been such a straightforward chap ower the row again Master Richard, I’d hev said twice as much to you.”
“Yes, I’ll go,” said the vicar quietly. “Good day, Mrs Banks. Good day, Banks; you’ll find I’m less disposed to meddle than you think, and give me credit for this some day. Come, you’ll shake hands.”
“Dal me if I will,” cried Joe.
“Nonsense, man; shake hands.”
“I wean’t,” roared Joe, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and turning his back.
“Well, Mrs Banks, you will,” said the vicar; and then, as he went away, he said:
“Mrs Banks, and you, Mr Banks, please recollect this: I shall forget all these words before I get home; so don’t either of you think that we are bad friends, because we are not; and you, Mr Banks, you are of too sterling stuff not to feel sorry for what you have said.”
“There, it wean’t do,” roared Joe; “I wean’t be talked ower;” but the vicar hardly heard his words, for he was striding thoughtfully away.