The Parson O' Dumford

Volume Three – Chapter Five.

Mr Selwood Hears News

There was a week clear before the plot was to have effect, and the place was wonderfully quiet. The vicar, looking very pale and anxious, was sitting in his study on the morning after the meeting at the Bull, when a note was brought to him from the Big House, and he coloured slightly as he read it.

“Tell the messenger I will be up directly,” he said; and as the maid left the room, “what is wrong now? Come, come, be a man.”

He smiled to himself as he took up his hat and stick, and walked up the street, to be greeted here and there with friendly nods.

He was shown at once into the drawing-room, where Mrs Glaire was seated with Eve, and after a kindly, sad greeting, the latter left the room.

“I have good news for you, Mr Selwood,” said Mrs Glaire, smiling, but looking worn and pale.

“I’m very glad,” said the vicar, pressing her hand.

“Richard has promised me that if the men do not come in, he will give way and reopen the works.”

“And when?” said the vicar, joyfully.

“He will call the men together this day week, for the furnaces to be lit, so as to begin work on the Monday.”

“Mrs Glaire, this is indeed good news,” said the vicar. “May I see him and congratulate him?”

“I think it would be better not,” said Mrs Glaire. “But,” she continued, watching his face as she spoke, “I have other news for you.”

The vicar bowed.

“Yes,” she said; “but first of all, though, these communications are made to you in strict confidence. You must not let the matter be known in the town, because my son would rather that the men gave way.”

“If they do not, he really will?”

“He has given me his faithful promise,” said Mrs Glaire, “and he will keep it now.”

“I will not doubt him,” said the vicar. “I am very, very glad. And your other news?” he said, smiling.

“My son will be married very shortly.”

“Married?” said the vicar, starting; “and to Daisy Banks?”

“No!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, in a short thick voice, a spasm seeming to catch her, as she spoke. “To his cousin, to whom he is betrothed.”

There was a dead silence as the vicar, whose face was of an ashen pallor, looked straight before him at vacancy, while Mrs Glaire sat watching him, with her hand placed to her side.

“You do not congratulate me,” she said at last in a piteous tone. “Mr Selwood, dear friend – the only friend I can fly to in this time of trouble – you will help me?”

“Help you?” he said in a stony way. “How can I help you?”

“I have striven so for this,” she continued, speaking hastily. “They have long been promised to each other, and it will be for the best.”

“For the best,” he said, slowly repeating her words.

“Richard has been very wild, but he has given me his word now. He has not been what he should, but this marriage will sober and save him. Eve is so sweet, and pure, and good.”

“So sweet – and pure – and good,” he repeated softly.

“She will influence him so – it will make him a good man.”

“If woman’s power can redeem, hers will,” he said, in the same low tone.

“But you hardly speak – you hardly say a word to me,” cried Mrs Glaire, piteously; “and I have striven so for this end. I prevailed upon him to end this lock-out, and he has given way to me, and all will be well.”

“Mrs Glaire,” said the vicar, sternly, “do you believe that your son has inveigled away that poor girl?”

“No, no,” she cried, “I am as certain of his innocence as that I sit here.”

“And Miss Pelly – what does she believe?”

“That he is innocent,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

“And – and – does she consent to this union?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Mrs Glaire eagerly. “She feels hurt, and knows that she makes some sacrifice after my son’s ill-treatment; but she forgives him, knowing that it will save poor Richard, and it is for my sake too.”

“Poor girl!” he said, beneath his breath.

“God bless her! She is a good, good girl,” cried Mrs Glaire.

“God bless her!” he said softly. “Mrs Glaire, do you think she loves him?”

“Yes, yes; she has told me so a dozen times.”

“And you feel that this is for the best? Would it not be better to let there be a year’s term of probation first? It is a solemn thing this linking of two lives together.”

“Oh, yes, it is for the best, Mr Selwood – dear friend; and they must not wait. The wedding must be next week.”

The vicar rose with the same stony look upon Iiis face; and, knowing what she did, Mrs Glaire’s heart bled for him, and the tears stole down her cheeks, as she caught his hand and pressed it, but he seemed to heed it not, for he was face to face with a great horror. He had told himself that he could master his passion, and that it was mastered; but now – now that he was told that the woman he dearly loved was to become the wife of another, and of such a man, he felt stunned and helpless, and could hardly contain his feelings as he turned and half staggered towards the door.

“Mr Selwood, you are shocked, you are startled,” cried Mrs Glaire, clinging to his hand. “You must not go like this.”

He turned to look at her with a sad smile, but he did not speak.

“Eve wishes to see you,” she faltered, hardly daring to say the words.

“To see me?” he cried hoarsely; and her words seemed to galvanise him into life. Then, to himself, “I could not bear it – I could not bear it.”

At that moment the door opened, and he made another effort over himself to regain his composure, as Eve came forward, holding out her hand, which he reverently kissed.

“Aunt has told you, Mr Selwood,” she said, in a low constrained tone.

“My child,” he said softly, and speaking as a father would to his offspring, “yes.”

She gave a sigh of relief, looking at his cold, sad face, as if she wished to read that which was written beneath a mask of stone.

“Aunt thinks it would be for the best,” she said, speaking slowly, and with a firmness she did not possess. “And it is to be soon.”

He bowed his head, in token of assent.

“I have a favour to ask of you – Mr Selwood,” said Eve, holding out her trembling hand once more, but he did not take it.

“Yes?” he said, in a low constrained way.

“I want you to forgive Richard, and be friends.”

“Yes, yes; of course,” he said hastily.

“And you will marry us, Mr Selwood,” continued Eve.

“I? I?” he exclaimed, with a look of horror upon his face. “Oh, no, no: I could not.”

Eve looked at him in a strangely startled way, and for the moment her calmness seemed to have left her, when Mrs Glaire interposed.

“For both our sakes; pray do not say that,” she cried; and a curious look passed over the vicar’s face.

“Do you wish it, Miss Pelly?” he said softly.

“Yes; indeed, yes,” exclaimed Eve, gazing in his eyes; and then there was silence for a few moments, when, making a mighty effort over himself, the vicar took a step forward, bent down, and kissed her forehead, and said —

“God bless you! May you be very happy.”

“And you will?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment’s pause, and with his eyes half closed. “I will perform the ceremony.”

“Thank you – thank you,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, as she caught his hand. “Richard, here is Mr Selwood.”

Volume Three – Chapter Six.

John Maine’s Confession

“How do?” said Richard, entering from the garden; and he held out his hand sulkily, which the vicar took, and held for a moment.

He was about to speak, to say some words of congratulation – words that he had won a great prize, and that his duty to her was to make amends for the past – but the words would not come, and, bowing, he left the room, and walked hastily from the house, watched by Richard Glaire’s malicious eyes. For it was sweet revenge to him to know that the hopes he was sure the vicar felt had been blasted, and that he alone would possess Eve Pelly’s love.

“He thought to best me,” muttered Richard; and he smiled to himself, the feeling of mastering the man he looked upon as his enemy adding piquancy to a marriage that had seemed to him before both troublesome and tame.

Meanwhile the vicar went slowly down the street, with a strange, dazed look; and more than one observer whispered to his neighbour – “Say, lad; parson hasn’t been takking his drop, sewerly.”

“Nay, nay; I’d sooner believe he was ill. It can’t be that,” was the reply.

That same day, when busy out in the fields, sick at heart, and worried, after a short interview with Tom Podmore, John Maine was standing alone, and thinking of the past and present. Of the respite that had come to him, since the two men had visited the town, and of the miserable life he led at the farm, and the way in which Jessie behaved to him now; for, to his sorrow, it seemed to him that she looked upon him with a kind of horror, and avoided all communication. The keeper, Brough, came pretty frequently, and certainly she was more gracious to him than to the man who lived with her in the same house and ate at the same table.

Then he recalled that he had had a note from the vicar requesting him to call at the vicarage; but he had not been, partly from dread, partly from shame.

“But I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll be a man and go; go at once, and tell him the whole secret; and be at rest, come what may. Tom says it will be best.”

He sat down beneath a hedge bottom to secure the strap of one of his leggings, when, raising his head, he saw in the distance, crossing one of the stiles, a figure which he knew at a glance was that of one of the men he dreaded – one of those who had done their best to make him another of the Ishmaelites who war against society.

A cold chill passed over him, followed by a hot perspiration, as he watched till the figure passed out of sight, and then he began to muse.

“Come at last, then. It must be with an object.”

“Let me see,” he thought; “it will be perfectly dark to-night. Nearly new moon. He has come down to see how the land lies, and before morning, unless he’s checkmated, the vicarage will be wrecked, and if anybody opposes them, his life will be in danger.”

“It’s only a part of one’s life,” he said, bitterly, as he started up. “I’ve been a scoundrel, and I thowt I’d grown into a honest man, when I was only a coward. Now the time has come to show myself really honest, and with God’s help I’ll do it.”

Not long after, the vicar was seated with his head resting upon his hand, strengthening himself as he termed it, and fighting hard to quell the misery in his breast, when Mrs Slee came to the door.

“Yes,” he said, trying to rouse himself, and wishing for something to give him a strong call upon the strength, energy, and determination lying latent in his breast. “Yes, Mrs Slee?”

“Here’s John Maine fro’ the farm wants to see thee, sir.”

“Show him in the study, Mrs Slee; I’ll be with him in five minutes.” And those minutes he spent in bathing his temples and struggling against his thoughts.

The time had scarcely expired, when he entered the library, to find his visitor standing there, hat in hand, resting upon a stout oak sapling.

“Glad to see you, Maine,” said the vicar, kindly. “Could you not find a chair?”

“Thanky, sir, no; I would rather stand. I ought to have been here before, but, like all things we don’t want to do, I put it off. I want to tell you something, sir. I want to confess.”

“Confess, Maine!” said the vicar, smiling; “any one would think this was Ireland, and that I was the parish priest.”

“I have got something heavy on my conscience, sir,” continued Maine, in a hesitating way.

“If I can help you, Maine, I am sure you may trust me,” said the vicar.

“I know that, sir; I know that,” cried Maine, eagerly. “I want to speak out, but the thoughts of that poor gill keep me back.”

“That poor girl!” exclaimed the vicar, looking at the young man’s anguish-wrung countenance, and feeling startled for the moment. “Do you mean Daisy Banks?”

“No, no, sir; no, no. Miss Jessie there at the farm. I can’t bear for her to know. There, sir,” he exclaimed, hurriedly, “it’s got to come out, and I must speak, or I shall never get it said. You see, sir, when I was quite a boy, I was upon my own hands by the death of my father and mother. Then I drifted to Nottingham, where I was thrown amongst the lowest of the low; was mixed with poachers, and thieves, and scoundrels of every shape; always trying to get to something better, but always dragged back to their own level by my companions, who sneered at my efforts, and bullied me till my life was a curse, and I grew to feel more like an old man at eighteen than a boy.

“To make a long story short, sir, I could bear it no longer. I ran away from home – from that,” he said, grimly, “that was my home – and kept away, working honestly for a couple of years, when some of the old lot came across me to jeer me, laugh at me, and end by proposing that I should rob my employer and run off with them. I was seen talking to the wretches, dismissed in disgrace from my situation, and went back to blackguardism and scoundreldom for a whole year, because no one would give me a job of decent labour to do. Mr Selwood, sir, you don’t know how hard it is to climb the hill where honest people live – to get to be classed as one who is not always watched with suspicious eyes. It was a fearful fight I had to get there, against no one knows what temptations and efforts to drag me back. Sir, I got to honest work at last, and from that place came on here, where for years I’ve worked hopefully, and begun to feel that I need not blush when I looked an honest man in the face, nor dread to meet the police lest they should have learned something about my former life. In short, sir, I was beginning to feel that I need not go about always feeling that I had made a mistake in trying to leave my old life.”

The vicar sat at the table with his head resting upon his hand, and face averted, feeling that he was not the only man in Dumford whose heart was torn with troubles, and he listened without a word as John Maine went on.

“There, sir, I can’t tell you all the hopes and fears I have felt, as I have striven hard for years, hopefully too, thinking that after all there might be a bright future in store for me, and rest out here at the pleasant old farm; and now, sir,” he continued huskily, and with faltering voice —

“Some of the old lot have turned up and found you again, eh, Maine?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what it is,” said the young man, starting; “and I thought I’d make a clean breast of it to you, and ask you, sir, to give me a bit of advice.”

“I’m a poor one to ask for advice just now, Maine,” said the vicar, sadly; “but I’ll do my best for you.”

“Thanky, sir; I thought you would.”

“So you meant to give me some news?” continued the vicar, dryly.

“Yes, sir,” said John Maine, “if you call it news,” and he spoke bitterly.

“Well, no,” said the vicar, making an effort to forget self; “I don’t call it news. I knew all this some time ago.”

“You knew it, sir?”

“Why, my good fellow, yes. Some weeks back, about as dirty an old cadger as it has ever been my fate to encounter, pointed you out to me on the road, and told me the greatest part of your history.”

“He did, sir?”

“Oh, yes, poor old fellow,” said the vicar, bitterly, “I suppose he felt as if he could not die comfortably without doing somebody else an ill turn.”

“Die, sir?”

“Yes, he was very ill: could hardly crawl, and I sent him on to Ranby Union, where he died.”

“And you knew all this, sir?” faltered John Maine.

“Knew it, Maine? How could I help it? Mr Keeper Brough, too, made a point of telling me that he had seen you talking to a couple of disreputable-looking scoundrels, evidently trading poachers. Don’t you remember what a bad headache it gave you, Maine?”

The young man stared at the speaker, and could not find a word.

“He has been very busy I find, too, at the farm,” continued the vicar, forgetting his own troubles in those of his visitor. “Mr Bultitude does not like it, and he has been in a good deal of trouble about your nocturnal wanderings, friend John Maine.”

“I can explain all that, sir,” said Maine.

“Of course you can,” said the vicar, coolly.

“But you knew of all this, sir?” faltered the young man.

“To be sure I did, John, and respected you for it; but I fear you have been giving poor Jessie a good deal of suffering through your want of openness.”

“I’m afraid she thinks ill of me, sir.”

“Don’t say ill, John Maine. The poor girl is in trouble about you; and I believe has some idea that you and Podmore have been mixed up with the disappearance of Daisy Banks.”

“Oh no, sir; no,” cried the young man warmly. “You don’t think that, sir?”

“Certainly not, Maine,” replied the vicar. “And – Jessie – did Miss Jessie confide this to you, sir?”

“Yes, John Maine. I don’t think, under the circumstances, it is any breach of confidence to say she did. People have a habit of confiding their troubles to me – as I have none of my own,” he added sadly. “And you, sir?”

“I told her she was mistaken,” remarked the vicar; “but she was not convinced. She could not understand you and Podmore being out together by night. She thought it – girl-like – connected with some dreadful mystery. Master Brough thought it had to do with poaching; and I – ”

“Yes, sir,” cried Maine eagerly. “Thought you were out for some good purpose, John Maine; and that if I let the matter rest, the explanation would come all in good time.”

“And so it has, sir,” said John; “but you knew all about me, sir.”

“To be sure I did, John Maine; and seeing the life you now lead, respected you for it. It is a hard matter for a man brought up honestly to run a straight course, while for such as you, John Maine, – there, I need only say that you have wonderfully increased the respect I have for you by coming to me with this frank avowal. My letter to you was to give you the opportunity, for your own sake, so as to remove the suspicion that your movements were exciting. There, I am proud to shake hands with a man possessed of such a love of the reputable as to fight the good fight as you have fought it; and of such command over self, as to make the confession you have made to-day.”

He stretched out his hand as he spoke, and John Maine wrung it in his – two strong palms meeting in a hearty grip for a few moments, while neither spoke.

Then John Maine turned away, and stood looking out of the window for a few moments.

“You’ve made me feel like a great girl, sir,” he said at last, huskily.

“I’ve made you feel like a true man, John Maine,” replied the vicar, “one without the false shame of custom about him.”

“Thanky, sir, thanky,” said the young fellow, recovering himself. “As to that night work, sir,” he continued, with a quiet smile, “that’s easily explained. I suspected those scoundrels, after seeing them hanging about the vicarage here, of meaning to have some of your silver cups.”

“And you watched the place by night, Maine?” said the vicar, eagerly.

“Well, sir, I did,” replied the young man, “till Miss Jessie warned me about how my place there at the farm depended on my not going out o’ nights, and then I put Tom Podmore on to the job.”

“And has he watched ever since?”

“Oh, yes, sir; you may depend on that – every night. Tom’s a trusty fellow, and when he takes to a man he’ll go through fire and water to serve him. He’d do anything for you, sir.”

The vicar said nothing, but his eyes looked a little dim for a few moments, and he drew in a long breath.

“And now, sir, I think I do bring you news,” said Maine.

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir. If I’m not very much mistook they mean to rob this place to-night.”

“You think so?” said the vicar, with his eyes sparkling; for here was what he had desired – something to call forth his energy, and serve to drown the thoughts that, in spite of his power over self, nearly drove him mad.

“Yes, sir, I think so,” replied Maine, “for they had a good look round the place when they came to the back door, and tried to wheedle Mrs Slee. Now they’ve been away and made their plans, and come back. I’ve seen one of them to-day.”

“This is news,” said the vicar, musing. “These are the men the police sought to overtake on the day after poor Daisy Banks’s disappearance; but if we set the police after them now, we shall scare them away. John Maine, we must catch these night-birds ourselves. Get Tom Podmore to come here.”

“I spoke to him before I came in, but he’s got something on his mind, and could not come.”

“Then we must do it ourselves. You’ll help me, Maine?”

“That I will, sir, with all my strength.”

“Good; then we can manage this little task without disturbing the police till to-morrow morning; when, if we are lucky, we shall be able to send for them to take charge of our prisoners.”

Volume Three – Chapter Seven.

Where John Maine had been

It was a very miserable breakfast at the farm the next morning, for old Bultitude was looking very black and angry, and it was quite evident that poor little Jessie had been in tears.

“What time did that scoundrel go out?” said the farmer, stabbing a piece of ham savagely with his fork, and after cutting a piece off as if it were a slice off an enemy, he knocked out the brains of an egg with a heavy dash of his tea-spoon.

“Don’t call him a scoundrel, uncle dear,” sobbed Jessie. “I don’t know.”

“I will, I tell ’ee,” cried the old man furiously. “I won’t hev him hanging about here any longer, a lungeing villain. Leaving his wuck and going off, and niver coming back all neet. Look thee here, Jess; if thee thinks any more about that lad, I’ll send thee away.”

“No, no, uncle dear, don’t say that,” cried the girl, going up and clinging to him. “He may have been taken ill, or a dozen things may have happened.”

“O’ coorse. Theer, I niver see such fools as girls are; the bigger blackguard a man is, the more the women tak’s his part. Sit thee down, bairn; theer, I aint cross wi’ you; I on’y want to do what’s best for you, for I wean’t see thee wed to a shack.”

He kissed poor Jessie affectionately, and bade her “make a good breakfast,” but the poor girl could not touch a morsel.

“Hillo! who’s this?” said the farmer, a few minutes later. “Oh, it’s young Brough. Come in, lad, come in.”

“Hooray, farmer!” he cried, all eagerness and delight. “I telled you so – I telled you so, and you wouldn’t believe it, and Miss Jessie theer turned like a wood cat, and was ready to scrat my eyes out.”

Jessie’s colour came and went as her little bosom heaved, and she turned her chair so as to avoid the keeper’s gaze.

“What did’st tell me?” said the farmer gruffly.

“Why, that John Maine was out ivery night skulking ’bout the vicarage whiles he should ha’ been at home i’ bed like an honest man. And I telled ye he was in co. wi’ a couple o’ poachers and thieves over here fro’ one o’ the big towns; and I telled you he weer nobbut a tramp hissen.”

“How dare you speak of him like that?” cried Jessie, starting up with flashing eyes, and stamping her foot. “You wouldn’t dare to speak so to John Maine’s face, for fear he should beat you.”

“Hoity, toity!” exclaimed the farmer. “Who told thee to speak, lass? Let the man finish.”

“I will not sit here and listen to such talk,” cried Jessie, angrily, and with an energy which plainly told her feelings towards the missing man. “Let him wait till John comes.”

“That wean’t niver be,” said the keeper, with a grin of satisfaction. “Because why? Just as I towd thee, farmer, there weer a robbery at the vicarage last night.”

“No!” cried old Bultitude, starting up with his mouth full.

“Ay, mun, but there weer,” cried Brough, in an exulting tone. “Just as I said theer’d be, all plotted and planned out to get parson’s silver cups and toots – all plotted and planned out by John Maine and his blackguard mates. Thank your stars, and you too, Miss Jessie, as you haven’t both been robbed and murdered.”

“I wean’t believe it,” cried the old farmer, angrily. “John Maine’s got a bit wrong somehow, but he isn’t the lad to rob nowt. He’s raight to a penny always wi’ his accounts.”

“That’s his artfulness,” sneered Brough.

“Yah!” cried the farmer. “You’ve got hold of a cock and bull story up town, wheer they’ll turn a slip on the causay into fower fatal accidents ’fore the news has got from the top of the High Street to the bottom.”