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?”