The Parson O' Dumford

“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.”