The Parson O' Dumford

Volume Two – Chapter Fifteen.

A Thankless Task

Meanwhile the vicar had missed Eve, who had taken another route, and made his way up to the big house, where he was shown into the room to find Mrs Glaire lying, very pale and weak, upon the couch.

She apologised for not rising, and as he took her hand, he felt that it was hot and feverish.

“I ought to be the doctor,” he said pleasantly, as he retained the hand. “There’s too much fever here.”

“No doctor will cure that,” she said, with a sad smile. “I only want peace of mind, and then I shall be well; and you have come to bring more bad news.”

“Oh,” said the vicar, carelessly, “I only wanted a bit of a chat with your son.”

“Mr Selwood,” said Mrs Glaire, “don’t please speak to me like that. It is dreadful to me; and makes me feel as if I could not trust and believe in the one man in whom I wish to confide.”

“Then in heaven’s name,” he began, but she interrupted him.

“I have had faith and trust in you, Mr Selwood, from the first day you came.”

“Then you shall continue it,” he said, firmly. “I was reticent because I thought you too ill to bear bad tidings.”

“I can bear all,” she said, softly; “pray tell me the worst.”

“Well,” he said, quietly, “we will not talk of worst, for there is no danger that cannot be warded off.”

“If my son likes?” said Mrs Glaire.

“If your son likes,” continued the vicar. “The fact is, Mrs Glaire, the people are getting furious against him, and without going into the question of right or wrong, the sufferings of their wives and children are maddening the men. This lock-out ought to end.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, sighing, “it ought.”

“It was a dastardly trick, that destruction of the machinery, but I believe it was the work of one brain, and one pair of hands.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I have had endless communications with the locked-out men, and, as far as I can judge character, I find them very rough, very independent, but, at the same time, frank and honest, and I cannot find one amongst them who does not look me full in the face with a clear unblushing eye, and say, ‘Parson, if I know’d who did that dirty sneaking business, I’d half kill him.’ This in these or similar words.”

Mrs Glaire bowed her head.

“Yes,” she said; “you have given the men’s character in those words, but they are cruelly bitter against my son.”

“They are,” said the vicar, hesitating to tell his news.

“And they think he has persuaded Daisy Banks to leave her home.”

“Almost to a man, though her father holds out.”

“Joe Banks always will be staunch,” said Mrs Glaire. “And you think with the men about that, Mr Selwood?”

“I would rather not answer that question,” he said.

“Then we will not discuss it,” she replied rather hotly. “But you came to bring me some tidings, Mr Selwood,” she continued, holding out her hand. “Forgive me if I feel as a mother, and defend my son.”

“I am here to defend him too,” said the vicar, taking and kissing the hand extended to him; and as he did so the door softly opened, and Eve glided into the room, to half shrink back and retire; but on hearing the vicar’s words she sank into a seat as if unnerved, and the conversation went on.

“Tell me now, what is the danger?” said Mrs Glaire.

“It is this,” said the vicar; “I am firmly persuaded that this house is a sanctuary, and that for the sake of yourself and your niece, Mr Richard Glaire is safe so long as he stays here.”

“And he will stay here till I can bring him to reason about these people. I would pay the money he demands at once, but he insists that it shall be the hard earnings of his workmen themselves, and I am powerless.”

“I am willing to lend the men the amount myself, but they will not take it, and I am afraid it would not be received if its source were known.”

“No,” said Mrs Glaire, “you must not pay it. My son would never forgive you. But go on.”

“I repeat,” said the vicar, “that your son is safe while he remains here.”

“And I say that he shall stay,” said Mrs Glaire sharply. “He shall not leave. He has no intention of leaving.”

“He has made up his mind, it seems, to leave by the mail-train to-night,” said the vicar; and as the words left his lips, and Mrs Glaire started into a sitting position, a faint cry behind made them turn round, and the vicar had just time to catch Eve in his arms, as she was gliding to the floor.

“Poor child!” he muttered, as he held her reverently, and then placed her in a reclining chair, while a shadow of pain passed across his face, as he felt for whom this display of trouble and suffering was caused.

“It is nothing, nothing, Mr Selwood – aunt,” faltered Eve, fighting bravely to over come her weakness; “but, aunt, you will not let him go. Mr Selwood, you will not let him be hurt.”

“No, my child, no,” he said sadly, “not if my arm can save him.”

“Thank you; I knew you would say so, you are so brave and strong,” she cried, kissing his hand; and as her lips touched the firm, starting veins, a strange hot thrill of excitement passed through his nerves, but only to be quenched by the bitter flood of misery that succeeded it; and then, making a mighty effort over self, he turned to Mrs Glaire, who was speaking:

“But are you sure – do you think it is true?” she exclaimed.

“I believe it,” he said quietly; “and it is absolutely necessary that he should on no pretence leave the house.”

“And who says I am to be a prisoner?” asked Richard, entering the room.

“I, for one,” said the vicar, “if you value your safety, I may say your life.”

“And by what right do you come meddling again with my private affairs?” said Richard, offensively.

“The right of every man who sees his neighbour’s life in danger to come and warn him.”

“Then don’t warn me,” said Richard; “I don’t want warning. It’s all rubbish.”

“It is no rubbish that a certain party of the men are holding meetings and threatening to injure you,” said the vicar, rather warmly.

“Bah! they’re always doing that, and it don’t frighten me,” said Richard, coarsely.

“Then you were not going, Richard?” said his mother, eagerly. “You were not thinking of being so mad?”

“Going? no; not I,” said Richard, “though I don’t see anything mad in it.”

Eve gave a sigh of relief, which sounded like a knell to the vicar, who, however, said frankly:

“I am very glad, then, that I have been deceived.”

“And,” said Richard, sneeringly, “next time you hear a cock-and-bull story about me, perhaps you will keep it to yourself, sir, and leave me to go my ways in peace.”

“Richard!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, while, with a flush of shame upon her face, Eve rose and hastily placed her hand in the vicar’s, saying softly:

“Oh, Mr Selwood.”

Only those three words, but they were balm to him, as he pressed the soft little hand, and raised it to his lips, while, stung by this display, Richard started forward to make some offensive observation, but the door opened, and the maid appeared.

“Well, what is it?” cried Richard. “Why didn’t you knock?”

“I did, sir,” said the girl, “but you didn’t hear. Jacky Budd says, sir, he can’t carry your portmantle across the close because of the stiles, and he must take it to the station in a barrow.”

“In time for the mail-train, Mr Glaire?” said the vicar, in spite of himself, though, for Eve’s sake, he regretted it afterwards.

“Damn!” snarled Richard. “No, – go away. Such fools.”

He ground his teeth and stamped about the room, while Mrs Glaire’s eyes sought those of the vicar, and in her apologetic look he read plainly enough the mother’s shame for the graceless boy she had brought into the world.

The look of triumph passed from his countenance as rapidly as it had come, as he caught a glance of sorrow and appeal from Eve, which seemed to say, “Forgive him, and save him against himself.”

“You will give up all thought of going now, Mr Glaire,” he said, quietly. “Of course you wished to keep your departure a secret; but you see the intelligence reached me, and is now perhaps the property of the whole town.”

“Through you?” said Richard, recovering himself, and speaking with a cunning sneer upon his face.

“This is no time for sneers, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, calmly. “The information was brought to me direct from the meeting.”

“By one of your spies?”

“By one of the workmen whom I have made my friend, and whom you have made your enemy; and he sends me as his messenger to pour coals of fire upon your head, saying, ‘Save this man, for if he goes out to-night it may be at the cost of his life.’ Mr Glaire, you will not go now?”

“Not go!” roared Richard, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. “But I will go. Look here; I start from this house at seven o’clock to catch the mail-train; now go and tell the scoundrels you have made your friends – the men you have encouraged in their strike against me.”

“I encouraged them?” said the vicar, smiling at the absurdity of the charge, when he had striven so bravely for peace.

“Yes; you who have fed their wives and children, and lent them money so as to enable them to hold out against me – you, whose coming has been a curse to the place, for you have fostered the strike from the beginning.”

“There is no time to argue that, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, quietly; “and let me advise you once more. Give up this foolish idea of leaving, if not for your own sake, for that of your mother and your cousin here.”

“I shall not,” cried Richard. “I have made my arrangements, and I shall go, and let the blood of the man be on his own head who tries to stop me.”

“As you will,” said the vicar, calmly, as he turned to go.

“Mr Selwood!”

“Mr Selwood!”

The two women appealed to him in a breath, but he did not look at them, merely fixed Richard with his eyes, as he said quietly:

“Then you must be saved against your will.”

The next minute he was gone.

Volume Two – Chapter Sixteen.

Saved in Spite of Himself

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

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

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

“Ah, Robinson, how’s your wife?”

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

“I’m sorry to hear this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, yes, he’s gotten her away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dicky Glaire.”

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

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