The Parson O' Dumford

“I’m sorry to say, Mrs Slee, that one of the policemen had watched him, and seen him help to carry a barrel of powder to the works.”

“Just like him – just like him,” sobbed Mrs Slee; “but some one else was to fire it.”

“How did you know that?” said the vicar, sharply.

“I only know as he dursen’t hev done it hissen,” sobbed the poor woman. “Poor lad, poor lad, there was nowt again him but the drink.”

“The men I met were in search of Daisy Banks,” continued the vicar; “and we joined hands with the police, who took your husband and that man from London, and afterwards we reached the works, and they are safe.”

“I’m strange and glad they’ve took that London man,” sobbed Mrs Slee; “but poor Sim! Poor, poor Sim! But I must go and say a word o’ comfort to him. Smith, at station’s a good, kind man.”

“Who’ll ever say that woman is not faithful?” said the vicar to himself, as Mrs Slee hurried away to get her print hood, and, late as it was, to make her way to the station; but as she came back sobbing bitterly, he laid his hand upon her arm.

“You need not go, Mrs Slee; your husband and his confederate have escaped.”

“Escaped? got awaya?” cried Mrs Slee.

“Yes.”

“Gone out o’ the town?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then,” cried Mrs Slee, wiping her eyes with a hasty snatch or two of her apron, “I’m glad on it. A bad villain, to go and try to do such a thing by the place as he made his bread by. I hope to goodness he’ll niver come back,” she cried, in her old sharp vinegary tone. “I hope I may niver set eyes upon him again. Bud I don’t want him to go to prison. Bud you’re not going out again to-night, sir?” she said, imploringly.

“I must go up to the House and see that all is well there, Mrs Slee,” he replied; “and call as I go and see how poor Banks is.”

“Bud is it true, sir, that Daisy has come back?”

“Yes,” said the vicar, sadly. “Poor girl, she has returned.”

“Bud you wean’t go now, sir; it’s close upon two o’clock.”

“Lie down on the sofa, Mrs Slee. I shall be able to wake you when I come back.”

“Theer niver was such a man,” muttered Mrs Slee, as she let him out; “and as for that Sim, well, I’m ommost sorry he did get away.”

As the vicar approached the foreman’s cottage he saw some one cross the lighted window, and on getting nearer he recognised the figure.

“Is that you, Podmore?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, sir, yes,” was the reply. “I only thought I’d like to know how poor Joe Banks is getting on.”

“I’m going in, and if you’ll wait I’ll tell you.”

“Thank ye, sir, kindly,” said the young man. “I will wait.”

“Poor fellow!” thought the vicar, with a sigh; “even now, when she comes back stained and hopeless to the old home, his love clings to her still. It’s a strange thing this love! Shall she then, and in spite of all, find that I cannot root up a foolish hopeless passion that makes me weak – weak even as that poor fellow there?”

A low knock brought Daisy to the door, and on entering, it was to find Mrs Banks on her knees by her husband, who seemed in a heavy sleep. The doctor had been again, and had only left half-an-hour before.

“He says there’s nowt to fear, sir,” whispered Mrs Banks; “but, oh, sir, will he live?”

“We are in His hands, Mrs Banks,” was the reply. “I hope and pray he may.”

Daisy was looking on with dilated eyes, and pale, drawn face, and as, after some little time, during which he had sought with homely, friendly words to comfort the trembling wife, he rose to go, Daisy approached to let him out, when fancying that he shrank from her, the poor girl’s face became convulsed, and she tried hard but could not stifle a low wail.

She opened the door as he kindly said “Good night;” but as the faint light shone out across the garden and on to the low hedge, Daisy caught him by the arm.

“Don’t go, sir,” she whispered, in a frightened voice; “it mayn’t be safe. Look: there’s a man watching you.”

“You are unnerved,” he said, kindly; and then without thinking – “It is only Podmore; he was waiting as I came in.”

“Tom!” the poor gill ejaculated, catching his arm, “is it Tom? Oh, sir, for the love of God, tell him I’m not the wicked girl he thinks.”

“My poor girl!”

“I was very wicked and weak, sir, in behaving as I did; but tell him – I must speak now – tell him it was Mrs Glaire sent me away.”

“Mrs Glaire sent you away?” exclaimed the vicar.

“Yes, yes, yes,” sobbed Daisy; “so that – her son – ”

“To get you away from Richard Glaire?”

“Yes, sir; yes. I wish – I wish I’d never seen him.”

“How came you at the foundry to-night?” he said sharply.

“I went to tell him of the danger, sir. I went to the House first, and they told me he was there. I hate him, I hate him,” she cried, passionately, heedless of the apparent incongruity of her words, “and everybody thinks me wicked and bad.”

“Is this true, Daisy Banks?” exclaimed the vicar.

“She couldn’t tell a lie, sir,” cried a hoarse voice. “Daisy, my poor bairn, I don’t think it no more.”

“Tom!” sobbed Daisy, with an hysterical cry; and the next moment she was sobbing on his breast, while the vicar softly withdrew, to turn, however, when he was fifty yards away, and see that the cottage door opened, and that two figures entered together before it was closed.

“Thank God!” he said softly – “thank God!”

Lights were burning at the House as he reached the door, and, under the circumstances, he knocked and was admitted by the white-faced, trembling servant, who had been sitting with one of the policemen in the hall, the other guarding the works.

“Don’t be alarmed, my girl, there is no bad news,” he said; and with a sigh of relief the girl showed him in to where Richard, Eve, and Mrs Glaire were seated, all watchful, pale, and ready to take alarm at the least sound.

“I’m glad you have come, Mr Selwood,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire; while Richard gave him a sulky nod, Eve trying to rise, but sinking back trembling.

“I should have been here sooner,” he said, “but I have had much to do.”

“Is there any fresh danger?”