The Parson O' Dumford
“Everybody,” said Sim, who was standing on a wall about five feet high, his plaistered face giving him rather a grotesque aspect. “Everybody says it.”
“No,” roared Joe, “it’s you as says it, you lying, chattering magpie. Howd thee tongue, or I’ll – ”
He seized the speaker by the legs, and had him down in an instant, clutched by the throat, and began shaking him violently.
“Go on,” said Sim, who this time preserved his presence of mind. “I aint the first paytriot as has been a martyr to his cause; kill me if you like.”
“Kill thee, thou noisy starnel of a man! Say as it’s a lie again your maister, or I’ll shake thee till thou dost.”
“I wean’t say it’s a lie,” cried Sim. “Ask anybody if it aint true.”
Joe Banks looked round furiously, and a chorus broke out of, “It’s true, lad; it’s true.”
“There,” cried Sim, triumphantly. “What hev you to say to that? Ask Tom Podmore what he thinks.”
“I will,” cried Joe Banks, who was somewhat staggered by the unanimity of opinion. “Tom Podmore, speak out like a true man and tell these all as it’s a lie.”
Tom remained silent.
“D’ye hear, Tom? Speak out,” cried Joe.
“I’d rather not speak,” said Tom, quietly.
“But thou must, lad, thou must,” cried Sim. “Are you going to see a man a martyr for a holy cause, when you can save him?”
“Speak! speak!” cried Joe, panting with rage and emotion; “tell ’em you know it’s a lie, Tom.”
“I can’t,” said Tom, who was driven to bay, “for I believe Richard Glaire has got her away.”
“Theer, I telled you,” said Sim. “He wanted me to help him, only you wean’t believe.”
“No, no, no,” roared Joe; “and I wean’t believe it now. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t do it. He told me he hadn’t; and he wouldn’t tell me a lie.”
The little crowd opened as the true-hearted old fellow strode away, without turning his head, and Tom Podmore followed him towards his home, and at last spoke to him.
Joe turned upon him savagely.
“Go away,” he cried. “I’ve done wi’ you. I thowt as Tom Podmore were a man, instead o’ one o’ them chattering maulkin-led fools; but thou’rt like the rest.”
Tom Podmore stopped short, with his brow knit, while Joe Banks passed on out of sight.
“He’ll find out, and believe different some day,” said Tom, slowly. “Poor old man, it’s enough to break his heart. But I wean’t break mine.”
As he stood, the noise of cheering came from where he had left Sim Slee talking, and he stood listening and thinking.
“They’ll be doing him a mischief ’fore they’ve done, and then they’ll end the old works. Damn him! I hate him,” he cried, grinding his teeth; “but I can’t stand still and let Sim Slee’s lot bruise and batter his face as they would till they’d ’most killed him. He’s soft, and smooth, and good-looking, and I’m – well, I’m a rough un,” he continued, smiling with contemptuous pity on himself. “It’s no wonder she should love him best, poor lass; but she’d better hev been a honest lad’s wife – missus to a man as wouldn’t hev said an unkind thing to her to save his life. But they say it’s womankind-like: they takes most to him as don’t keer for ’em.”
He stood thinking irresolutely, as the noise and cheering continued: and once he turned to go; but the next moment he was himself, and saying softly:
“Daisy, my poor little lass, it’s for thee – it’s for thee;” he strode hastily to the Big House, knocked, and was admitted.
“Tell Mr Richard I want to see him,” said Tom; and the servant-girl smiled pleasantly at the fine, sturdy young fellow.
“I don’t think he’ll see thee, Mr Podmore,” said the girl, “because he’s so cross about the foundry people. I’ll tell him a gentleman wants to see him.”
She tripped away, and in a few minutes Richard came down to stand scowling at him.
“What do you want?” he said, glaring at his rival.
Tom Podmore writhed mentally, and his nerves tingled with the desire to take Richard Glaire by the throat, and shake him till he could not breathe; but he controlled himself, and said sturdily:
“I come to tell thee some ill news.”
“What is it?” said Richard, thrusting his hand into his breast, for his visitor had taken a step forward.
Tom Podmore saw the motion and smiled, but he paid no further heed, and went on bluntly:
“Thou wast going away by train to-night.”
“Who says so?” cried Richard, turning pale.
“The lads out there – Sim Slee’s gang,” said Tom; “and I come to warn thee.”
“Warn me of what?” said Richard.
“To warn thee as they mean to lay wait for thee, and do thee a mischief.”
“Who says so?”
“I know it,” said Tom: “so if you’ll tak’ a good bit of advice thou’lt stay at home, and not go out.”
“It’s a trick – a trap,” cried Richard. “If it were true, you’re not the man to come and tell me.”
“Why not?” said Tom bluntly.
“Because you hate me, and believe I’ve taken away your wretched wench.”
“Damn thee!” cried Tom, seizing him by the arm and throat; and as he brought the young fellow to his knees, quite paralysing his effort to get his hand into Iiis breast; “thou may’st say what thee likes again me; but if thee speaks ill of her I can’t bear it; so I warn thee. Hate thee I do, and yet I come to tell thee of danger, and – ”
A faint shriek made Tom start, for, pale as death, Eve Pelly rushed to Richard’s help, and clutched at Tom Podmore’s sturdy arms, which dropped at her touch as if those of Eve had been talismanic.
“Aw raight, Miss,” he said smiling. “I wean’t hurt him; but I come to do him good, and he made me mad.”
“Mad, yes,” cried Richard, who had regained his feet, and now drew a pistol. “You were mad to come here; but I’m ready for you and the rest of your rascally crew, and for all your malicious traps and plans.”
“Richard!” shrieked Eve, who tried to catch his arm; but she was flung off, and would have fallen, but for Tom Podmore, before whom she stood, screening him as she begged him to leave the house.
“Yes, Miss, I’ll go,” said Tom, smiling; “not as I’m afraid of him and his pistol. What I did he browt upon himself. I’ve done what I thowt was raight, so he must tak’ his chance. I on’y come to warn him as there’s a dozen or two of the lads as listen to Sim Slee made themselves into a gang agen him.”
“What, our workmen?” cried Eve.
“Well, only some o’ the outsiders, Miss; t’others wean’t have nowt to do wi’ it. That’s all.”
As he spoke he smiled sadly at the poor pale face before him, and then was gone.
Volume Two – Chapter Thirteen.
Podmore Seeks an Ally
Tom Podmore walked straight away from the Big House, listening to the noise and shouting as he went to the Vicarage, where Murray Selwood was in conference with Jacky Budd, respecting certain improvements to be made in the shrubbery, when the season suited for planting.
“And what would you plant here, Budd?” he said to the thirsty soul.
“Oh, I should put a few laurels there, sir.”
“And in that corner?”
“Oh, I should put a few laurels there, sir.”
“And in the centre bed?”
“A few laurels, sir.”
“And by the bare patch by the edge?”
“Just a few laurels, sir.”
“And along the side of the house?”
“Couldn’t put anything better than a few laurels, sir.”
“And for the new hedge to separate the two gardens?”
“Oh, a few laurels, sir.”
“Then you would put laurels all about?”
“Well, yes, sir; you see they’re so evergreen and – ”
“Oh, here’s Podmore,” said the vicar, going down to the gate. “Well, my lad, how are you? I’m glad to see you.”
“Thanky’ kindly, sir,” said Tom, pressing firmly the hand given to him in so friendly a way. “Can I speak to you a minute?”
“Of course you can. Come into the house.”
He led the way into the vicarage, and placed a chair for Tom in the study, but the young man did not take it, and remained silent.
“I’m deeply grieved,” said the vicar, laying his hand on the young fellow’s shoulder; “deeply, Tom Podmore. I had hoped that she would have come to her senses, and made a better choice.”
“Don’t, sir, please don’t,” said Tom, turning away his head; and, laying his arm against the wall, he placed his forehead against it, and his broad shoulders heaved. “I can’t bear to hear a word spoke again her, sir.”
“I’ll not speak against her, Podmore, believe me, poor girl; and I deeply regret that her father was too blind to listen to me.”
“You spoke to him, then?” said Tom, sadly.
“I did; and I have striven hard to be friends with Richard Glaire, and to bring him to a better feeling; but I failed with both.”
“Then you think as I do, sir,” said Tom, sadly – “You think as she’s been took away?”
“I cannot help thinking so,” was the reply. “If I am misjudging, I am very sorry; but I have done everything I could to trace her, even to having a man down from town, who has been constantly searching ever since she disappeared, and he has discovered nothing.”
“And have you done this, sir?”
“Yes; why should I not?” said the vicar, sadly. “But you have come for some reason, Podmore. What can I do for you?”
“Well, sir, I’ve comed about these goings on up yonder in the town.”
“There’s no fresh violence, I hope,” cried the vicar, hastily.
“Not as yet, sir; but there’s going to be, I’m afraid. You see, sir, there’s about a couple of dozen as has been got over by Sim Slee, and he’s made ’em join him in some kind of brotherhood, as he calls it. The older men as has got heads on their shoulders laughs at it all, and looks upon Sim as a chattering fool.”
“Fools do mischief sometimes,” said the vicar, half to himself.
“Yes, sir, they do; but all the best of the men tak’ Sim Slee at what he’s worth; but there’s a few, you see, as are ’mazed by his big words, and are ready to be led into any mischief.”
“Yes; and you know of this?” said the vicar, anxiously.
“Yes, sir, I’ve found as they’ve got to know that Mr Richard Glaire’s going away to-night.”
“Is he going away?” said the vicar.
“So Sim Slee’s telling on ’em, sir; but what does it mean ’bout Sim Slee being so thick wi’ him just afore, and now dead again’ him?”
“Some quarrel,” said the vicar. “Sim Slee must be made to speak out somehow.”
“He’s been speaking to some purpose to-day,” said Tom, sharply; “and I think they mean mischief against the maister to-night, when he’s going away.”
“And you’ve come to tell me this!” said the vicar, looking at the sturdy rough young fellow admiringly.
“Yes,” said Tom, simply. “I went and told him at the house, but he turned on me, and said things I couldn’t bear, and made me grip him, when Miss Eve came out and atween uz, and that stopped me.”
“Well?”
“And then he pulled out a pistol and threatened me.”
“What made you grip him?” said the vicar, using the young man’s words.
“He – he spoke again’ her,” said Tom, hoarsely; and as he spoke the veins in his forehead swelled, and an angry frown came upon his countenance.
“Then you went to the house to warn Richard Glaire of his danger, and he – ”
“Threatened me, and said it was a trap I was laying,” said Tom.
“And then you came to tell me he was in danger. And what for?”
Tom was silent for a few moments. Then glancing up in the clear firm face which seemed to demand an answer, he said, almost in a whisper:
“I couldn’t abear for him to be knocked about, if I could stop it.”
“For Daisy’s sake?”
“For Daisy’s sake,” said the young man; and the next moment the vicar’s hand had closed upon his in a firm grasp.
“Then we’ll try and save him, Tom,” said the vicar quietly. “I’m very glad you’ve come, Tom. I’ve seen very little of you lately.”
Tom looked up at him curiously, said something about being much obliged, and was turning to go, when the vicar stopped him.
“We must make some plans for the poor fellow’s safety,” he said. “He must not be hurt. I’ll go up first, and try if I can prevail upon him not to go.”
Tom nodded.
“And if he will not be prevailed upon, we must try and act as we can. I think and hope that they will not attempt to touch him while I am by his side.” Tom shook his head.
“I wouldn’t, sir, because I know you; but time back I would, if there’d been twenty parsons round him. They won’t hurt you, sir, but they’ll beat him if he attempts to go.”
“Let’s hope not; let’s hope not,” said the vicar; “and now I’ll go up to the house, while you’ll wait here.”
“Wait here?” said Tom.
“Yes; why not? I shall want to lay my hands upon you at a moment’s notice. But stop. If he goes, it will be by the mail. That’s at eight, and the station is two miles, say three-quarters of an hour for ample time. If he means to go, he will go afoot, so as not to excite attention.”
“Yes; and he’ll go by the little door in the wall at the bottom of the garden, and off across the home close,” said Tom.
“Do you know that?” said the vicar.
“No, sir; but that’s how he used to go to meet her; and as he’s going to join her to-night, I thowt that’s the way he’d go.”
“Very likely,” said the vicar; “and they’re sure to know it, and watch. But look here, Tom Podmore, are you willing to help him get away?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To join her?”
“Yes; I was thinking, that mebbe if he got away to join the poor bairn he’d marry her; for I s’pose he’s fond o’ the poor lass. But he must be that. She’d mak’ onny man – the very worst – fond on her.”
“Do you know any one you could get here to help you?” said the vicar. “I mean a stout sturdy fellow with brains, who could be depended on to help you back me up if we have to make a struggle for it.”
“John Maine, sir, at Bultitude’s.”
“The very man. Get him here, and keep him till I come back.”
“I will, sir; but, say, parson – Mr Selwood, sir – for the Lord’s sake don’t let Dick Glaire take that pistol thing. If they get hold of him now, they’ll beat him sore, but if he should shute a man, they’ll niver let him see the light again.”
“I’ll do my best, Podmore,” said the vicar, sadly. “You do yours.”
They parted at the gate, bound on the same mission, that of saving the man who was making them both sick at heart with the desire that they felt could never be fulfilled.
Volume Two – Chapter Fourteen.
Jessie’s Troubles
Affairs were not very satisfactory at the farm, and Jessie’s eyes more than once looked as if they had been red with crying. For the girl was greatly troubled at heart, since John Maine’s behaviour puzzled her.
It was impossible for anything of note to take place in Dumford, without the news of it reaching the farm, so that she soon heard that Daisy, her old friend and school-fellow, had disappeared; that the two rough fellows who had been hanging about were supposed to have had something to do with her disappearance; while, to make matters more complicated, John Maine had been seen talking to these two men, and had afterwards warned her about holding communication with Daisy.
John Maine had always been civil and pleasant to Daisy. Daisy had more than once laughingly said she liked him. Now she was gone, John Maine’s behaviour was very strange. Could he have had anything to do with getting her away, and was he in any way acting with Richard Glaire, whom some people suspected of complicity?
No: she would not believe anything against him, come what might; but there was some secret connected with his earlier life that he kept back, and – she could not say why – she thought he ought to be more trusting and communicative with her. Not that there was anything between them, though she told herself she thought she did like John Maine – a little.
Old Bultitude was very cross and snappish too, and he had taken it somewhat to heart that Daisy should have been the companion and friend of his Jessie.
“See here, lass,” he said, “thou must howd no more communication with that bairn o’ Banks’s. She’s a bad un.”
“Oh, uncle!” exclaimed Jessie, “she may have been robbed and murdered.”
“Not she,” said old Bultitude, filling his pipe and ramming the tobacco in viciously. “If she had been, they’d ha’ fun her body. Folks don’t rob and murder, unless it’s to get money. Daisy Banks had no money wi’ her; and, as to being jealous, I hardly think Tom Podmore, as she pitched over, would murder her – but there’s no knowing.”
A few minutes later Eve Pelly arrived at the farm, looking pale and thin; and the two girls were soon telling each other their troubles, Eve with a quiet reticent manner; Jessie all eagerness to make the girl she looked upon as her superior the repository of her inmost thoughts.
Eve took care not to let Jessie know that this was to be almost a formal leave-taking, for she had come down after asking Mrs Glaire’s leave, and with the full intention of yielding to her wishes.
The conversation naturally turned upon Daisy and her disappearance, when Jessie broke out impetuously with —
“Well, it’s no use to keep it back, Miss Eve. I’ve known a deal more than I’ve cared to tell you, but your cousin and Daisy have for months past been thick as thick.”
“Don’t speak like that, Jessie,” cried Eve, flushing up.
“I must when it’s for your good, Miss Eve,” said Jessie, warmly; “and if the truth was known, I believe Mr Richard has had her carried off to London or somewhere.”
“It is impossible, Jessie,” cried Eve. “My cousin would never be so base.”
“Well, I don’t, know as to that,” retorted Jessie; “it’s base enough to be pretending to be engaged to one young lady, and carrying on with another.”
“Jessie!”
“Well, it’s the truth. A gentleman told me that he had often seen them together. Oh, Miss Eve, dear, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She was down on her knees before her visitor directly after, begging her pardon, and kissing her, for Eve’s face had sunk in her hands, and she was sobbing bitterly. A minute before and she was ready to fight energetically on behalf of the man who was to have been her husband, but now her defences had been turned, and she gave up.
She soon dried her eyes though, and when Jessie would have turned the conversation to another point she resumed it herself.
“I’ve been thinking about that very, very much,” she said; “night and day – night and day.”
“Poor child!” said Jessie, stroking her face. “It must be terribly hard to feel jealous.”
“No, no, no, no,” said Eve, hastily. “I did not mean that; but about poor Daisy’s disappearance. You know they found her shawl and basket.”
“Yes,” said Jessie, nodding.
“Well,” said Eve, hesitating – “don’t you think it possible that anybody who hated her very much might – might – ”
“Might have killed her?” said Jessie, looking at Eve strangely.
“Yes,” said Eve, with a shudder.
Jessie’s eyes dilated as she looked at the speaker, and thought of her uncle’s words a short time before.
“It is very terrible to think on,” said Jessie, slowly.
“Yes,” said Eve, in an agitated voice; “but it is almost more terrible for any one you love – you care for, to be thought guilty of having taken the poor creature away.”
“But who could have had any such feeling towards poor Daisy,” exclaimed Jessie, “except one? and I don’t think Tom Podmore – ”
“Hush!” cried Eve, laying her hand upon her friend’s arm, “he’s coming now across the field.”
“So he is,” cried Jessie, starting and turning pale, for a flood of strange thoughts came across her mind. John Maine and Tom Podmore had been so intimate. John Maine had been so strange, and in his way had warned her about thinking any more of Daisy. Was that to throw her off the scent, and to keep her from grieving after and trying to find where Daisy had gone? The very room seemed to swim round for a few moments, as she recalled some mysterious acts on the part of the man she loved; and she shuddered as the idea suggested itself to her that her uncle and Eve might be right, and poor Daisy had been done to death by her old lover, with his friend for accomplice.
It was then with a feeling of relief that she saw Eve rise to go, saying:
“Let me go out through the garden, Jessie, and then I can get into the lane without being seen by your visitor.”
“Yes, yes,” said Jessie, hastily; “but, dear darling Miss Eve, pray don’t say what you have said to me to another soul.”
“No,” said Eve, sadly, “I should not do that;” and then her friend saw her out through the garden, and returned to see the young man of whom they had been speaking side by side with John Maine, in earnest conversation across the yard.
Jessie had good cause to start and think over the matters of the past few days, for a great deal of unpleasantry had taken place at the farm, all of which, when analysed, tended to help the dreadful suspicion; and, as she thought it over, she determined in her own mind that no temptation should ever cause her to swerve, since she saw how the weakness of one vain girl had brought such misery to so many homes.
She tried to drive away the suspicion that had been planted and replanted in her heart; but it was of no use, and she turned at last to her own room, to have a cry to herself – a woman’s fomentation for a mental pain; but in this case it was of no avail.
Old Bultitude was morose and harsh with his labourers, going up in the tall tower-like structure which commanded a view of the old farm, and called by the builder a gazebo, but by the labourers the gozzybaw, and from here old Bultitude watched his men and found fault to a degree that Jessie felt must be caused by something out of the ordinary course, while most of his remarks had, it was plain enough, an indirect application to unfulfilled work appertaining to John Maine.
Then Tom Brough, the keeper, had managed to find his way again and again to the farm, to have long conversations with the old farmer, who made a point of asking his advice about this beast, or that cow; about the hay off the twenty acres; and the advisability of thrashing out the wheat from such and such a one of the neatly-made long-backed stacks in the rick-yard.
John Maine, however, had seemed to bear this shifting of the farmer’s confidence pretty fairly; and Jessie had seen it with pain, as she whispered to herself that the true interpretation of the changes in the young man, which she had seen from day to day, was that he had something on his mind which she was not to share.
“Yes; he has something on his mind,” she had said; “and he does not confide in me.”
John Maine seemed to confide in no one: he only behaved strangely, night after night letting himself out, to be gone for hours, sometimes to return wet through, little thinking that he had been watched; and that Jessie, with tears and bitterness of heart, knew all of his goings out and comings in; and it was only by accident, and from the fact of her warning him, that he became aware that she had more than once screened his absence.
It was one night about eleven. Everybody in the early house had gone to rest an hour and a half before, as John Maine stole downstairs softly, and was about to turn the key of a back-door, when a warm hand was laid upon his, and a voice he well knew whispered —
“If you value your home here, go back to bed. Some one has told my uncle that you go out o’ nights, and he is on the watch.”
“Jessie!”
He stretched out his hands, but they only came in contact with the whitewashed wall, and he knew that he was alone.
But had any one spoken, or was it only fancy? No; it was no fancy. His motions had been watched, and Jessie had come between him and trouble. As to the spy upon his actions, that was plain enough. Tom Brough had been busy, and had seen him when watching of a night, and what should he do? He had his object for these nocturnal rambles, and he was bound to continue them, but this night he was bound to stay.
Yes, he must stay, if only for Jessie’s sake; and casting off his indecision he returned softly to his room, where he threw off his things and went to bed.
An hour slowly passed, during which he lay restless and wakeful. Then, when worn out with restless impatience, and half determined to go out at all hazards, a step was heard in the passage, a board creaked; there was a light shining beneath the door, and then after a pause the handle was turned gently, and the light flashed in his face.
“Maine! John Maine!” said the farmer, sharply.
“Yes; what is it? Anything wrong?” said the young man, starting up.
