The Parson O' Dumford

“Gone to bed, sir, with a sick headache.”

“She’s always got a sick headache,” growled Richard.

“I wish you had ’em your sen,” muttered the girl.

“There, bring some hot water and a tumbler into the dining-room,” said Richard, as the girl was turning to go.

He went into the dining-room, got out the spirit-stand, and, on the hot water being brought, mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy and water, and drank it rapidly, listening occasionally to the footsteps and loud talking without.

A second glass followed shortly after, and then, tired out with the day’s work, the young man threw himself on the sofa. The sounds outside by degrees grew indistinct and distant, and then, with a pale, ghost-like Eve following him always, he was journeying through foreign lands with Daisy, who looked lovingly up in his face. Then, Tom Podmore seemed to be pursuing him and threatening his life. Next it was the vicar; and then, at last, after struggling hard to get away, Joe Banks stood over him with a flashing light, and as he waited to hear him say, “Where is my child?” – waited with a feeling of suspense that seemed prolonged for years, the voice said coldly and sternly:

“Why are you not in bed?”

He started into wakefulness to see that it was his mother standing over him with a chamber candlestick, looking very cold and white.

“How could I go to bed when you were not back?” he said sulkily.

“You can go to bed now,” she said, quietly.

“Where have you been?”

She made no answer.

“Were there many of those scoundrels about?” he asked.

“The men would not injure me,” she said, in the same low voice.

“But how did you get in?”

“Eve came down and admitted me,” was the reply.

“What’s o’clock?”

Mrs Glaire made no answer.

“Oh, if you like to be sulky you can,” said Richard, coolly; and, lighting a chamber candle, he strode off to bed.

As he turned to wind up his watch in a sleepy manner, he found that it had run down, so with an impatient gesture he laid it aside, finished undressing, and tumbled into bed.

“Some of them will open their eyes to-morrow,” he muttered, with a half-laugh. “Well, it was time to act. I’m not going to be under petticoat government all my life.”

At the same time Mrs Glaire was seated pale and shivering in the dining-room, while all else in the house were sleeping soundly, and the street was now painfully still, for the murmuring workers of the foundry had long since sought their homes, more than one sending up a curse on Richard Glaire, instead of a prayer for his well-being and peace.

Volume Two – Chapter Eight.

Old Friends Again

“If I could only tell him everything,” muttered John Maine, as he strode away from the vicar’s side, and made for the farm.

He was not half-way back, when he met Tom Brough, the keeper, who favoured him with a sneering, contemptuous kind of smile that made the young man’s blood boil. He knew him to be a rival, though he felt sure that Jessie did not favour his suit in the slightest degree. Still her uncle seemed to look upon Brough as a likely man to make his niece a good partner; for Tom Brough expected to come in for a fair amount of property, an old relative having him down in his will for succession to a comfortable farm – a nice thing, argued old Bultitude, for a young couple beginning life.

It might have been only fancy, but on reaching the crew-yard, old Bultitude seemed to John Maine to speak roughly to him. However, he took no notice, but went about his duties, worked very hard for a time, and went in at last to the evening meal, to find Jessie looking careworn and anxious.

After tea he sent a boy up with a message to the cricket-field, saying that he was too unwell to come; and after this he went to his own room to sit and think out his future, breaking off the thread of his musings and seeking Jessie, whom he found alone, and looking strange and distant.

“Jessie,” he began, and she turned her face towards him, but without speaking, and then there was a minute’s pause.

“Jessie,” he began again, and the intention had been to speak of his own affairs, but his feelings were too much for him, and he turned off the primary question to pass to one that had but a secondary place in his mind.

Jessie did not reply, but looked up at him timidly, in a way that checked rather than accelerated his flow of words.

“I wanted to speak to you about Daisy Banks,” he said at last.

“Yes; what about her?” said Jessie, wonderingly.

“I ought not to speak perhaps; but you have no mother, and Mr Bultitude does not seem to notice these things.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jessie, wonderingly.

John Maine would gladly have backed out of his position, but it was too late, and he was obliged to flounder on.

“I meant about Daisy Banks and Mr Richard Glaire.”

“Well?” said Jessie, looking full at him. “What about them?”

“I meant that I don’t think you ought to be so intimate with her now.”

“And why not?”

“The Dumford people couple her name very unpleasantly with Mr Richard’s, and for your sake I thought I’d speak.”

“For shame!” cried the girl, rising, and looking angrily at him. “That young Podmore has been talking to you.”

“No, indeed, indeed, poor Tom never mentions her name.”

“I won’t believe, John Maine, that you could be so petty and ungenerous yourself. Mr Glaire loves Daisy, and she confided all to me. Such words as yours are quite an insult to her, and – and I cannot – will not stay to hear them.”

The girl’s face was burning, and she ran out of the place to hide her tears, while John Maine, whose intention had been to say something very different, sighed bitterly, and went back to his room. There, however, everything looked blacker than ever, and he could see nothing in the gloom – devise no plan. He knew that the best proceeding would be to set the scoundrels he had seen that morning at defiance – that everybody whose opinion was worth a rush would applaud his frank declaration that he had turned from his evil courses to those which were reputable; but then the people he knew – Mr Bultitude – Jessie – the vicar – his friends in Dumford – what would they say? There seemed to be but one chance for him – to pack up a few things in a bundle and go and seek his fortune again elsewhere – perhaps to live in peace for a few years before he should be again hunted down by some of the wolves amongst whom his early lot had been cast.

“John – John!”

He started. It was Jessie calling, and hastily going downstairs, it was to see her with the flush gone out of her cheeks, and looking pale and anxious, as she held out a strip of paper.

“Two rough-looking men gave this to the boy for you,” she said, looking at him in a troubled way.

He took the paper hastily, and turned away with a dark red glow spreading over his temples. He divined who had sent the note, and shivered as he thought of how the boy would chatter to everybody about the farm. Perhaps Jessie had questioned him already, and set him down as being the friend and companion of the senders:

Turning away, he walked out into the yard to find that the paper had originally been used for holding an ounce of tobacco, and upon it was scrawled in pencil: