Chapter XIV: Part 14

On reaching the cottage, the vicar hurried in first, to prepare Mrs Banks, expecting a burst of lamentation; but as soon as he had uttered his first words, Mrs Banks was cold and firm as a stone.

"Is he dead, sir?" she whispered; "tell me true."

"No, no; and not much injured. I think it is a fit."

"I wean't give way, sir," she panted; and running upstairs, she began to drag down a mattress and pillow, ready for the suffering man.

"Poor Joe, poor Joe!" she murmured, and then gave a start as she heard the word "Mother!"

"Ay, lass, I'd forgot thee in this new trouble."

"But you will not send me away, mother?" whispered Daisy--"wait till you know all."

"I send thee away, lass? Nay, nay, I shouldna do that now," said Mrs Banks, sadly.

The next moment she was putting the pillow and arranging it beneath her husband's head, as he was borne in, the men softly retiring, and giving place to the doctor, who hurried in, hot and panting.

"Ah, Selwood, what's all this?" he said. "Give me a light quickly."

He was down on his knees directly, examining his patient, removing the bandage, and looking at the cut, the patient's eyes, and carefully loosening all tight clothing.

"Poor fellow!--ah--yes--nasty cut--do him good. Hum! What fools people are; they told me he was killed."

"Will he live, Mr Purley?" whispered Daisy, hoarsely.

"Ah, Daisy, you come back?" said the doctor. "Live? yes, of course he will. Touch of apoplexy; but we'll bring him round."

"Oh, mother, mother!" moaned Daisy; "I thought I'd killed him;" and she threw herself, sobbing, into her mother's arms.

"Come, come, that won't do," exclaimed the doctor. "You two must help me. Selwood, you'll do me a good turn by going, and taking all the people with you. We want fresh air."

The vicar nodded, and a few words from him, coupled with the information that Banks was not seriously hurt and would soon recover, sufficed to send the little crowd away.

They followed him, though at a distance, Tom Podmore and Harry acting as his rearguard, as he made as if to go straight to the House.

He had to pass the Bull, though; and, seeing a group of people there, he made his way through them to where Robinson, the landlord, was standing discussing the events of the evening.

"Robinson," said the vicar, aloud, and his words were listened to eagerly, "I'm afraid this atrocious outrage was hatched here in your house."

"'Strue as I stand here, sir," cried the landlord eagerly, "I knowed nowt of it."

"But you knew that secret meetings were held here?"

"I knowd they'd their meetings, and a lot o' flags and nonsense, sir; but I niver thowt it was owt but foolery, or they shouldn't hev had it here."

"I ask you as a man, Robinson, did you know they meant to blow up the works?"

"No, Mr Selwood," cried Robinson, indignantly; "and if I had knowed I'd have come and telled you directly."

"I believe you," said the vicar.

"I knowed they talked big, sir," continued Robinson; "but when men do that ower a pipe and a gill o' ale, it's on'y so much blowing off steam like, and does 'em good. Bud look here, sir, there's about a dozen of 'em up in big room now. Come on up, and we'll drift 'em."

He led the way to the club-room, to find it locked on the inside, and on knocking he was asked the pass-word.

"Dal thee silly foolery," cried the landlord, in a passion, "there it is;" and, stepping back, a few paces, he ran furiously at the door and dashed it off its hinges; entering, followed by the vicar, Harry, and Tom, who kept close to protect him from harm.

There were about fourteen men present, and they rose with more of dread than menace in their aspect, half expecting to see the police. "Look here, lads," began the landlord--"Allow me, Mr Robinson," said the vicar, stepping forward and looking straight before him. "My men, I look at no man here; I recognise no man as I say this. Smarting under injury as you thought--"

"Real injury, parson," cried Stockton. "Faults on both sides, my man," continued the vicar. "Some among you destroyed Mr Glaire's property. I say, smarting under your injuries, and led away by some foolish, mouthing demagogues, you conspired to take the law into your own hands, and, not content with making two cruel assaults on your employer--"

"Which he well deserved, parson."

"I cannot enter into that," said the vicar. "If one man does wrong, it is no excuse for the wrong of others. Our salutary laws will protect even a murderer, and then punish him according to his deserts. But listen--In a few words, you have been led away to conspire for the accomplishment of a most dastardly outrage. I have just come from the works, and I tell you, as a man, that if the scheme had succeeded, they would have been destroyed."

"Serve him right," growled a voice. "All the houses round would have been injured, and the loss of life would have been frightful."

"Nay, nay, parson," said Stockton. "I am giving you my honest conviction, my men," continued the vicar. "A hundred pounds of powder in a confined space is sufficient to commit awful ravages; and you forget what would have followed if that tremendous chimney had fallen. But I have not told you all. If the powder had been fired, three people in the works would have been killed. Those people were Mr Richard Glaire--"

"Weer he theer, sir?" exclaimed Stockton.

"He was," said the vicar; "he has been in hiding there from your violence for days. I knew some plot was hatching, and, to save both him and you, I advised his staying in the works, so that you might think he had left the town."

"Which we did," muttered two or three.

"I shudder when I think of the consequences of my advice. But listen-- there would have been two more horribly mutilated and shattered corpses at this moment--the remains of your foreman and his poor child, Daisy Banks."

"Oh, coom, parson!" said Stockton.

"I tell you, man, as I rushed in, they were all three there. How they came there together I do not know. I do not want to know. All I know is that it has pleased God to spare us from a sin for which we should never have forgiven ourselves."

"I don't see as yow had much to do wi' it, parson," said a voice, sneeringly.

"My men, my men," cried the vicar, in a deeply moved voice, "do you think I live here among you without feeling that your joys and sorrows are mine? and your sins are mine as well, for I ought to have taught you better. For God's sake let us have no more of these wretched meetings; break up your society, and act as man to man. Suffer and be strong. Have forbearance, and try to end these dreadful strikes, which fall not on you, but on your wives and children."

"But what call hev you got to interfere?" cried a surly voice.

"Howd hard theer," cried Stockton; "parson's i' the raight. He's spent three hundred pound, if he's spent a penny, over them as was 'most pined to dead."

"That's raight," cried several voices.

"Never mind that, my men; it was my duty, even as it is to be the friend and brother of all who are here. But listen--"

"I didn't come to hear parson preach," cried a voice,

"One word--listen to me for your own sakes," cried the vicar, in impassioned tones. "Suppose you had succeeded without the horrible loss of life that must have occurred through your ignorance of the force of powder--suppose the works had been, with all the costly machinery, turned into a heap of ruins?"

"It would hev sarved Richard Glaire well raight," said some one.

"Grant that it would, but what then, my lads? For Heaven's sake look a little further than the satisfaction of a paltry, unmanly desire for revenge."

"It would hev ruined Dicky Glaire," cried Stockton.

"Yes, my men; but it would have ruined you as well. Those works could not have been restored for years: perhaps never; the trade would have gone elsewhere, and, as I take it, over two hundred men and their wives and children must have gone elsewhere for bread."

"That's raight enew, parson," cried Stockton; "but all the same if some cursed, cowardly spy hadn't betrayed us the wucks would hev been down."

"That betrayal of your evil plans came about more strangely than you can imagine," said the vicar. "I have suspected something, and been constantly on the watch."

"Strange and kind of you, too, parson," said Stockton, with a laugh.

"You will think so some day, my man."

"Bud I know who it weer," said Stockton. "Theer he stands; it were Tom Podmore. He weer not sweered in."

"Then he did not betray you," said the vicar, as a menacing growl arose; but Tom stood perfectly firm.

"No, it weern't Tom Podmore," cried Big Harry, stalking forward, one big shoulder at a time. "If you want to know who did it, here he is--I did; and I'm glad on it. Dal me! I'm glad as th'owd wucks aint down, and I'll faight any two o' you as don't like it; so now then."

There was another growl, but no one took up the challenge.

"See here, lads," cried Harry. "I went awaya so as to hev now't to do wi' it, and I didn't tell anybody; only telled parson to give Dicky Glaire the word to look out."

"And you was sweered in, Harry," cried Stockton.

"So I weer," said the big fellow; "and, as I said afore, I'll faight any man as don't like it. Well, I goes on to Sheffle to get wuck, and there I happened o' Daisy Banks; and when the poor little lass got howd o' me, and begged me to tell all about her owd man, why dal me, I weer obliged to tell her how he was a-going to--dal it, parson, don't slap a man o' the mooth that how."

"You've said enough, Harry," cried the vicar. "We want to know no more. I answer for you that you did quite right, and some day these men will thank you, as I do now, for saving us all from this horror. Now, my men, you know that Slee and Barker, that stranger, are in the station."

"Oh, ay, we know that," said Stockton; "and I vote, lads, we hev 'em out."

"No, no; let them get the punishment they deserve," cried the vicar.

"Well, lookye here, parson," cried Stockton; "the game's up, I s'pose, and you've got the police outside. I was in it, and I'm not going to turn tail. Here I am."

"My man, I will not know your name, nor the name of any man here. I will not recognise anybody; I came as your friend, not as a spy. I came to ask you to break up your wretched bond of union, and to go forth home as honest men. Where a union is made for the fair protection of a workman's rights, I can respect it; but a brotherhood that blasphemes its own name by engaging in what may prove wholesale murder, is a monster that you yourselves must crush. I have no more to say. Go home."

"Parson's raight, lads!" said Stockton, throwing off his defiant air. "Let's go. Parson, it was a damned cowardly trick, but Dicky Glaire had made us strange and mad."

"It weer owd Simmy Slee as made it wuss, wi' cootting o' them bands," said Big Harry. "We should ha' been at wuck again if it hadn't been for that."

"Quick, lads!" cried a man, running in. "Sim Slee and Barker's broke out o' th' owd shop, and the police are coming down here."

"Theer, parson," said Stockton, with a bitter smile; "th' game's oop."

For answer, the vicar pointed to the windows, and in less than a minute the room was empty, though there would have been plenty of time to escape by the door, for the one policeman coming on the mission to see if Slee had made for the meeting-place of his party did not hurry his footsteps, partly from reasons of dignity, and partly because he was alone.

Volume 3, Chapter XIV.

A FAITHFUL LOVER.

The announcement was quite correct. Sim Slee and his companions had broken away through the ceiling, dislodged the tiles, and escaped; and when the vicar reached home, he found Mrs Slee waiting up for him, trembling and pale, while her eyes were red with weeping. She clung to him hysterically, and asked if the news was true, and that her husband was in prison.

"They came and told me the police had got him," she sobbed. "Ah, he's a bad one sometimes, but he's my maister, sir, he's my maister."

"He was taken, Mrs Slee," said the vicar, "I'm sorry to say. I was present. You know I went out to-night, for I was in dread of some outrage; and after being about a time, I found that something was wrong, for the men were all waiting as in expectation."

"He always would mix himself up with these troubles i'stead o' wucking," sobbed the poor woman.

"Fortunately I met two of the men I could trust, and found that an attempt was to be made to blow up the works."

"Ah, but Sim wouldn't do that, sir," sobbed Mrs Slee. "He dursen't."

"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?"

"None whatever," said the vicar. "I think the storm is over--I hope for good."

Mrs Glaire gave a sigh of relief, and then wondered, as she saw the vicar cross the room; but the next minute a faint flush came into her pale cheeks, and she tottered to where Eve was sitting, and buried her face on her shoulder.

"Mr Glaire," said the vicar, firmly, as he nerved himself for what he had to say, determined, as he was, to leave nothing undone in what he looked upon as his duty--"Mr Glaire, I have done you a grievous wrong; I humbly ask your pardon."

"What do you mean?" said Richard, starting, and wondering, with his customary distrust in human nature, whether it was some trap.

"I mean that, in common with others, I believed you guilty of inveigling Daisy Banks away."

"It don't matter to me what people think," said Richard, roughly.

"I am sorry I misjudged you," continued the vicar; "and once more I ask your pardon."

"It don't matter," said Richard.

"Mrs Glaire," the vicar continued, kindly, as he drew a chair to her side and took her hand, "you did a foolish, cruel thing in this."

"Then you know all?" she sobbed.

"Yes, all--from the lips of Daisy herself. I will not blame you, though, for the act has recoiled upon yourself, and it is only by great mercy that, embittered as these men were through it, a horrible crime has not been committed."

"I did it--I did it to save him," sobbed Mrs Glaire. "I am a mother, and he is my only boy."

"Poor, stricken Banks is a father, and Daisy is his only child. Mrs Glaire, you did him a cruel wrong. Why did you not trust me?"

"I was mad and foolish," she sobbed. "I dared not trust any one, even Daisy; and I thought it would be best for all--that it would save her, and it has been all in vain. Look at him," she cried angrily; "after all, he defies me, insults his cousin's love, and, when the poor, foolish girl comes back, his first act is to seek her, to the forgetting of his every promise to us both."

Eve had covered her face with her hands.

"Daisy is as bad as he," continued Mrs Glaire, angrily.

"There you are mistaken," said the vicar; "her act to-night was to warn your son of his dreadful danger. She went to save him from a terrible death."

"Pray say no more," said Mrs Glaire, shuddering; and Richard turned of a sallow yellow.

"It has been a terrible affair," said the vicar; "but I sincerely hope that all is over, for your act has borne fruits, Mrs Glaire, and Daisy has seen the folly of the past."

Richard looked up wonderingly, but refused to meet their visitor's eye.

"I have spoken hastily, and I owe you an apology, Miss Pelly," continued the vicar, rising; "but it was better to be plain even before you. I was only too glad, though, to come and apologise to Mr Glaire for the wrong I had done."

"But poor Joe Banks?" exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

"He seems to have been struck down by an apoplectic fit. He was shocked, no doubt, at finding that so dastardly an attempt had been made, and at the sight of your son and his child in such imminent peril. I hope, however, and sincerely believe, that he will recover. I have just come from there. Good night."

He pressed Mrs Glaire's hand, and held that of Eve for a few moments, saying to himself, "Poor girl, I have lightened her heart of some of its load. I have somewhat cleared the man she loves."

"Good night, Mr Glaire," he said, turning to Richard.

"I'll see you out," said Richard; and he followed him to the now vacant hall.

"What did you mean," he said, roughly, "about Daisy?"

"I mean," said the vicar, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder, "that she has awakened to the folly and weakness of her dealings with you, sir, and to the truth, honesty, and faith of the man who has loved her for so long."

"Podmore?" hissed Richard.

"Yes, Podmore. Now, Mr Glaire, your course is open."

"What do you mean?" cried Richard, angrily.

"Act as a man of honour."

"I don't understand you."

"And all will be forgiven. Good night."

"Curse him!" cried Richard, with an impatient stamp; and he stood gnawing his fair moustache. Then, with a smile of triumph, damped by a hasty glance of fear up and down the street, he hurriedly closed the door.

Volume 3, Chapter XV.

DAISY'S LETTER.

The weeks slipped rapidly by, and a great change had come over Dumford. The sky was blackened once more with smoke, the furnaces roared, there was the loud chink of metal heard, and the hiss of steam as the engines thudded and clanked, while at dinner time the great gates gave forth their troops of grimy workmen.

Homes looked bright once more, and "my maister" was not seen with lowering brow leaning against the door-post all day long, but tired and hearty, ready to play with the bairns, or busy himself in his bit of garden.

The trade, too, had brightened up, and one and all thanked goodness that their troubles were over, and prayed that they might be long in coming again.

Something of a search had been made for Sim Slee, and the police authorities had been pretty active; but Sim and the "deppitation" managed to keep out of sight, and Richard Glaire was in no wise anxious to have the matter too closely investigated.

He kept to his story that he found the train laid in the foundry, and Banks the foreman destroyed it, and the place was saved. This he opened at once, and the men gladly resumed work, the vicar's influence telling upon them, and one and all being ready to ignore the past, and try to condone it by regular attendance at the time-keeper's wicket.

Banks recovered rapidly, and, on learning the truth, sent for Richard, who, however, refused to go to the house to see him, while on his part the foreman declined to resume his position at the foundry.

"No, sir," he said to the vicar; "I weer in the wrong, and I shouldn't feel it weer raight to go back theer again. I'm sorry I misjudged him as I did, and I weer too hard upon him; but he hasn't used me well, neither has Mrs Glaire. But theer, let bygones be bygones. I shan't starve, and I'm only too happy to hev my poor lass back again, safe and sound--safe and sound, while the missus is in high feather to find that Daisy and her fav'rite, Tom Podmore, hev come together efter all."

That same day, as it happened, Mrs Glaire called at the cottage, with Eve Pelly, and while the former talked with her old foreman,

Eve went into the little garden with Daisy.

"I've called to ask you to come back, Joe Banks, at my son's wish," said Mrs Glaire. "He desires that we bury the past, and that you resume your post, for the place is not the same without you."

"Nay, Mrs Glaire, nay," said Banks, shaking his head; "that can never be again. I should hev had to give it up some day, so let it be now. And, as you say, ma'am, let bygones be bygones. We were both in the wrong."

"Both, Joe," said Mrs Glaire, sadly; "but you will forgive me. I did what I did for the best."

"Ay, I believe thee, but it weer very hard to bear. I deserved it, though, for I might hev knowed that he niver meant to wed my poor lass. Bud theer that's all past and gone--past and gone. Hey, ma'am, look at them two i' the garden. They seem good friends enew now. And so she's to be married to Master Dick to-morrow?"

"Yes, Joe," said Mrs Glaire, hastily, "it will be for the best. My son is all that I could wish for now;" and they sat looking out at the two young girls as they stood talking.

Their conversation had been on indifferent things for some time, but Daisy felt a guilty knowledge of something she ought to tell, for Eve was so sweet and gentle with her; not one word or look of reproach had been said, but there had so far been no word of the future.

At length Daisy spoke out.

"Do you quite forgive me, Miss Eve?" she said. "I could not help it then, though I fought against it, and was wretched all the time."

"Yes, Daisy, yes," cried Eve, eagerly; and she took the other's hand; "but tell me truly--do you--do you--oh, I cannot say it."

"Do I care for Mr Richard Glaire?" said Daisy, with a strange smile. "Do I feel hurt because you will be married to him to-morrow? Not a bit. Don't think that, dear Miss Eve, for I love poor Tom with all my heart, and only wish I could make him a better wife."

"And you will be married soon, too?" exclaimed Eve.

"Maybe in a month or two," said Daisy, looking sadly at her visitor; "we do not want to hurry it on. I wish you every happiness, Miss Eve."

"And I you, Daisy," said Eve, looking at her with a wondering wistful look, and asking herself how it was that Richard should have conceived so mad a passion for this girl, while for her his attentions had been of the coldest type.

"Mr Selwood is going to marry you, then?" said Daisy, quietly, for want of something to carry on the conversation. "But what ails you, Miss Eve, are you ill?"

"No, no, nothing," said Eve, hastily. "It is hot to-day, that's all."

And then the two girls stood silent for a while, Eve thinking that the vicar came so seldom now, and then his visits were so quiet and formal; while Daisy kept asking herself one question, and that was--

"Shall I tell her?"

And the answer--

"No, it would be cruel now, and once they and I are married, all that will be over."

When the visitors had gone, Daisy went up to her bedroom, and took from a little drawer a note which she had received the previous night. It ran as follows:--

"You know how I love you, and how I have watched for weeks for a chance to speak to you. I have been night after night at the old places, believing you would come, but not one glance have I had of you, not one word. Dearest Daisy, by all our old meetings, I ask you to give me one more. Don't heed the chatter of the place, but come up to the old spot as soon as you receive this, for I am obliged to write. If too late I will be there to-morrow night. Only come and say one loving word to me, and all you have heard shall be as nothing. I cannot live without you, so come, and if you will I am ready to take you anywhere--far away, as I have promised you before."

Daisy sat looking at the letter, and read it again and again.

"Only to think," she said at last; "a few months ago I should have sighed and sobbed over that note, and been almost ready to be dragged by him where he would, while now--it makes me almost sick. What could I have seen in his soft boyish face to make me feel as I did. But what shall I do? It seems cruel to let that poor girl go to the church with such a man, only that she might save him. And suppose he makes her miserable for life."

Daisy turned pale, and sat thinking till she heard her father call, and then she hastily thrust the letter into her bosom, her face grew radiant, and she hurried down, for her father's words had been--

"Daisy, lass, here's Tom!"

Volume 3, Chapter XVI.

THE EVE OF THE WEDDING.

That same evening Eve Pelly was in the garden with Mrs Glaire--the old familiar garden where she had spent so many happy hours, while now she was sad with a sadness that made the tears rise and fill her eyes.

The old place, with its abundant flowers, its roses climbing the old red-brick wall, the well-shaven lawn, with its quaint rustic vases and flower-beds, and the seats where she had read and worked since a child. It was her dear old home, and she was not going to leave it, but all the same, on this the eve of her marriage, it seemed to her that the end had come, and that she was about to bid it all farewell.

It had been an anxious day, for many friends had called, and present after present had been brought, all of which, in spite of herself, she had received with tears, and gladly escaped afterwards to the solitude of her own room.

Even the workmen had clubbed together, and, in spite of past hard times, bought a handsome silver teapot, which came "With the men's dooty to Miss Eve."

For they recalled her sweet gentle face, patiently watching by or bringing flowers to many a sick wife or child; and it was said that every man in the works, with all his belongings, was to be at the church next morning.

Mrs Glaire was with Eve, but at last she said she would go in, the latter pleading that she would like to stay a little longer in the soft glow of the evening sun; and so it happened that at last she was left, and feeling glad at heart that Richard had been away all day, she sat down alone to think.

It was so strange she could hardly realise it, and yet this was the last day, and to-morrow she would be Richard's wife.

The warm glow of the setting sun was around her, but a deadly pallor was upon her face, and she began to tremble.

"Am I going to be ill?" she asked herself; and then, making an effort, she tried to shake off the feeling.

"Richard's wife," she mused. "May I have strength to make him love me dearly, and to be to him the best of wives."

It was a fervent wish, but as it passed her trembling lips, the tears began to flow, and though she fought against it, the thoughts would come rushing through her brain of what might have been had some one else known her sooner, and not looked down upon her as a poor weak, simple girl.

"Oh, but this is dreadful," she moaned; "disloyal to poor Dick--cruel to myself. What shall I do!"

She was hastily drying her eyes, when a step on the gravel startled her, and Jacky Budd appeared, red-nosed as of old, and bearing a small round basket, and a packet.

"From Master Selwood, Miss Eve. Parson said I was to gi'e 'em to yow, so I brote 'em down the garden mysen, and my dooty to you, Miss, and may you be very happy, and I'd take it kindly if yow'd let me drink your health, and long life to you."

Eve smiled her thanks as she placed a shilling in his hand, sending Jacky away a happy man, as he calculated that that shilling contained eight gills of ale, and to him what he called comfort for his sorrows.

As the gardener went away Eve's agitation became excessive, and she hardly dared to lift the lid of the basket.

But a short time since, and she had mentally reproached him for forgetting her, as no token whatever had arrived, only a formal note to her aunt, saying that he would be at the church at ten the next morning, while all the time his thoughts had been of her, for here was the token.

A glad flush overspread her cheeks, as at last she took the basket and raised the lid, to find within a large bouquet of costly white exotics, the stephanotis amongst which sent forth its sweet perfume, mingled with that of orange blossoms--a gift to a bride.

"A gift to a bride," she whispered, and the flush faded, even as the sunbeams were paling fast in the trees above her head.

A bitter sigh escaped her lips--a sigh that was almost a moan, and as she raised the bouquet and kissed it, the tears fell fast, and lay glistening like rain amidst the petals.

"If he knew; if he knew," she whispered, "it would be cruel; but he does not know--he never will know, and after to-night this must be as a dream."

Almost mechanically she took the little square white packet that lay on the garden seat by her side, and breaking the seal, on which was the vicar's crest, she found a small square morocco case; and when at last her trembling fingers had pressed the snap and raised the lid, there upon pale blue velvet lay a large oval locket, crusted with diamonds and pearls, a costly gift that glistened in the fading light, and beside it a scrap of paper, with the words--

"God bless you! May you be very happy."

Eve sat with one hand laid upon her bosom to still its throbbings, and then her lips were pressed to the locket--longer still to the scrap of paper, before the case was shut, and she sat gazing up at the first stars in the pale, soft sky.

A low, deep sigh escaped her lips, and then with a weary look round--

"I am stronger now," she said, and rose to go, but only shrank back in her seat as she heard a rustling noise, and then a thud, as if some one had jumped from the wall, while before she could recover herself, Tom Podmore stood before her.

"Is--is anything wrong?" she gasped; for in her nervous state this sudden apparition suggested untold horrors to her excited brain.

"It's only me, Miss Eve. I wanted just a word."

"Why--why did you not come to the house?" she faltered,

"Don't be scarred, miss. I only wanted to be sure o' seeing you alone. I just want to ask you something."

"Yes," she said, composing herself.

"I want to ask you to forgive me, miss, if I hurt your feelings, and do something as'll make you feel bitter again me."

"You would not hurt me, Tom?" said Eve, rising and laying her hand upon his arm.

"God knows I wouldn't, miss, any more than I would one of His angels," said the young fellow, excitedly; "and that's why I've come. I couldn't feel as it weer raight not to come, and even though you may think it spiteful, it isn't, but on'y for your sake alone."

"Yes," said Eve, who felt giddy. "You have something dreadful to tell me."

"No, Miss," said the young man, solemnly, "not to tell you, only a note to gi'e you."

"A note--from Mr Selwood?"

"No, miss," said Tom, not seeing the warm flush in the girl's face, "a note as weer sent last night to my Daisy, and which she give to me an hour ago."

"A note?" faltered Eve, again.

"Yes, miss, a note. Daisy talked it ower wi' me, and I said as you ought to see it; and even if it hurts you sore, I felt I must gi'e it to you, and theer it is."

Eve felt the paper, and was aware of the fact that her visitor had scrambled over the wall, and was gone, and still she stood clutching the paper tightly, till a voice made her start, and thrust the paper into her bosom.

"Eve, my child, it is damp and late."

It was Mrs Glaire calling, and, picking up her presents, Eve slowly went up the garden, feeling like one in a dream, till she entered through the open window, where Mrs Glaire was waiting.

"Why, you are quite cold, my child," said Mrs Glaire, tenderly, as she closed the windows, and led the trembling girl to an easy chair by the tea-table, the shaded lamp shedding a pleasant glow upon the steaming urn.

"It is getting cold, aunt," said Eve, with a shiver; and she drank the tea poured ready for her with avidity.

"More presents, my darling?" said Mrs Glaire, leaning over and kissing her. "Eve, child, you are making me very happy."

Eve's arms were flung round her neck, and she sobbed there in silence for a few moments.

"Don't cry, my darling; try and think it is for the best. It is--you know it is, and the past must all be forgotten. But where is Dick? He must be buying presents, or arranging something, or he would be here," she said, cheerfully. "By the way, Eve, what are those? Did Richard send them?"

"No, aunt," said Eve, hoarsely; "they are from Mr Selwood."

"Always a kind, good friend," said Mrs Glaire, whose voice shook a little as she looked at the gifts. "Make Richard think better of him, Eve, for he is a true, good friend."

Eve did not answer, for her hand was upon her breast, and beneath that hand she could feel the paper. Her great dread was that Richard should come back, and she prayed that he might not return.

Ten o'clock sounded, and then eleven, from the little pendule on the chimney-piece, and still he did not come; and Mrs Glaire, noticing the poor girl's agitation, proposed rest.

"I will sit up for Dick, Eve," she said, cheerfully. "He is preparing some surprise;" but, as soon as her niece had kissed her lovingly, and left the room, a haggard look came over the mother's countenance, and she knelt down for a few moments beside the couch.

She started up, though, for she heard her son's step in the hall, and he entered directly, looking hot and flushed.

"Where's Evey?" he asked.

"Gone to bed, my boy," replied Mrs Glaire. "Dick, you should have stayed at home to-night."

"Oh, all right," he said, lightly, and with a bitter sneer; "it's the last night, and I thought I might have a run."

"I'm not blaming you, dear," said Mrs Glaire, kissing his forehead; "only poor Eve looked so sad and ill to-night."

Had she seen her then, she would have cried out in fear, for, with an open paper in her hand, Eve was pacing up and down her room, to throw herself at last upon her knees in agony, and after many hours sob herself to sleep.

Volume 3, Chapter XVII.

THE HAPPY DAY.

It was gala day in Dumford. The past bitter times were forgotten, and the men had rigged up an arch of evergreens. The children were in their best, and gardens had been stripped of their flowers. Half the town had been twice to the Bull to see the barouche and the four greys that had been ordered from Ranby, and the postboys, in their white beaver hats, had been asked to drink more times than was safe for those they had to drive.

The church, too, was decorated with flowers from the vicarage garden, and new gravel laid down from porch to gate. The ringers were there, and the singers, and the musicians making their way to the loft, while the various pews and sittings were filled to a degree "not knowed," Jacky Budd said, "for years an' years."

The school children were ready, armed with baskets of flowers, and had been well tutored by the school-mistress to throw them as the bride and bridegroom came out. This lady sighed as she saw the preparations, and told Jacky Budd to open more windows, because the bodies smelt so bad, and Jacky said they did, and it gave him quite a sinking: but the hint was not taken.

In the vicarage Murray Selwood sat looking pale and stern, beside his untasted breakfast, and it was not till, with affectionate earnestness and the tears in her eyes, Mrs Slee had begged him to take a cup of tea, that he had yielded, and eaten also a slice of toast.

"I know thou'rt ill, sir," she said. "Let me send for Mr Purley."

"No, no, Mrs Slee," he said, shaking off his air of gloom; "only a fit of low spirits. I shall be better soon."

Mrs Slee shook her head as she went back to the kitchen.

"He wean't: he's been getting worse for weeks and weeks, and it makes me wretched to see him look so wankle."

Meanwhile at the House all was excitement. Eve had risen at daybreak to sit and watch the rising sun and ask herself what she should do. She had promised to be Richard's wife. Her aunt's happiness, perhaps her life, depended upon it, and it was to save her cousin. She was to redeem him, offering herself as a sacrifice to bring him back to better ways, to make him a good and faithful husband, and yet in her bosom lay those damning lines, telling of his infidelity in spirit--of his passion for another, and again and again she wailed--

"He never loved me, and he never will."

Should she go--could she fly somewhere far away, where she might work and gain her own living, anywhere, in any humble station, in peace?

And Richard--her aunt?

No, no, it was impossible; and think how she would, the bitter feeling came back to her that she had promised her aunt, and she must keep her word.

And besides, if Richard was like this now, what would he be if she refused him at this eleventh hour, and cast him off. She shuddered at the thought, and at last grew calmer and more resigned.

In this way the hours passed on, till in a quiet mechanical manner she was dressed by the maid, who was enthusiastic in her praises of dress, jewels, flowers, everything.

Mrs Glaire was very pale, but bright and active, and in a supercilious, half-sneering way, Richard watched till all was ready, and the guests who had been invited had arrived.

A look from his mother brought him a little more to his senses, and he went to and kissed Eve, to find her lips like fire, while her hands were as ice, and at last he sat there peevish and impatient.

"I want it over," he said, angrily, to Mrs Glaire. "I hate being made such an exhibition of. Will the carriages never come?"

An end was put to his impatience by the arrival of the first, in which he took his departure with his best man, his appearance being the signal for a volley of cheers.

Mrs Glaire went last, in the same carriage with Mr Purley, the doctor, and Eve, the stout old fellow trying to keep up the bride's spirits by jokes of his ordinary calibre, the principal one being that he hoped the carriage would not break down under his weight, a witticism at which he laughed heartily, as he responded with bows and hand-wavings to the cheers of the people who lined the High Street of the little town.

Everything looked bright and gay, for the sun shone brilliantly; ropes laden with streamers were stretched across the street, while flags hung here and there, where satisfactory places could be found; and in front of the Bull, a party of the workmen had arranged a little battery of roughly-cast guns, sufficiently strong and large to give a good report when loaded with powder, the landlord having arranged to have a red-hot poker ready for discharging the pieces as soon as the wedding was over.

Volume 3, Chapter XVIII.

"WILT THOU--?"

The old troubles of the strike were over and forgotten, and the town's intent on this day was to give itself up to feasting, with its ordinary accompaniment of more drink than was good for those who partook.

Down by the churchyard the crowd had long secured to itself the best positions, the favourite places for viewing the coming and departing of the bridal party being the churchyard wall and the two railed tombs; but the boys put up with tombstones, and hurrahed till they were hoarse.

Jacky Budd got the first cheer, as he went up solemnly to the church door, evidently feeling his own importance, but he was checked half-way along the path by some one saying in a quiet, remonstrating tone--

"Say, Jacky, wean't yow stop an' hev a drain?"

He looked sharply round, and his hand went to his mouth, while a roar of laughter rose up from the merry crowd, and hastened his steps into the porch.

Trappy Pape was the next to be joked, as he came up hugging the green baize bag containing his violoncello.

"Say, Trappy, hast thee fed thee be-ast?" said one.

"Hast giv' the poor owd fiddle its rozzum?" cried another.

"Trappy, lad," shouted another, "does ta sleep inside that owd thing?"

The violoncello player hurried into the church, and Joey South came into view, to the great delight of the crowd.

"Here comes owd Poll Pry," cried one.

"Look at his owd umbrella," cried another.

"Why don't ta put th' umbrella up?" cried another voice, "it's going to ree-an next week."

Here there was another roar of laughter.

"Look at his leather breeches."

"Say, Joey, wast ta sewed in 'em when they weer made?"

"Ay, lad, they weer made on him i' the year one, and niver been off since."

"Mind yon goon don't go off," cried one of the chief jokers, as the boy came by bearing Joey's bassoon.

"Is she loaded, Joey?"

"Ay, lad, he rams her full wi' kitchen poker," cried another.

Joey South escaped into the porch, grinning angrily, for a fresh minstrel appeared in the shape of "Owd Billy Stocks" with his clarionet.

"Hey, lads, here's owd Billy. How's the clarinet, Billy?"

"Didst put a bit more waxey band round her, Billy?"

"Ay, lads, and she's got a new reed."

"Don't split parson's ears, Billy."

"Hey, here's Tommy Johnson and Johnny Buffam. Tak' care, lads."

"Where's the brass?" shouted somebody.

"Hey," cried another, "stop 'em--big goons aint allowed i' the pooblic street."

The two musicians hugged the French horn and ophecleide to their sides, and tried to smile.

"Don't 'e blow paarson's brains out wi' that thing, Johnny Buffam."

"Dost a make the dead rise wi' it, Tommy, lad?" cried another.

"Say, Tommy," said another, "keep thee fist tight i' the bell, or thee'll do some un a mischief."

The appearance of Robinson, the landlord, and his wife, in gorgeous array, saved the brass instrument players from further banter, for the landlord had to be cheered. Then came churchwarden Bultitude, with, close behind, Jessie and John Maine, and this party had to be cheered.

"Say, Chutchwarden, why don't a give parson a job for them two?" shouted some one; and, with scarlet cheeks, poor Jessie hurried into the church, where her eyes met John Maine's with no disfavour.

"Wheer's Tom Podmore? Why don't he bring his lass?" shouted a workman.

But neither Daisy, Tom, nor Banks put in an appearance; and the crowd were on the look-out for some one else to banter, when the vicar appeared, to be received with deafening cheers, the men pressing forward to shake hands as he went slowly up the path.

"Say, mun, parson looks straange and wankle," said one.

"Ay, but he is pasty-faced; he's been wucking too hard."

"Wucking!" said another; "why, he's nowt to do."

"Nowt to do, lad! why, he does as much i' one week as thou dost i' a month."

"Say," said another, "I'm getting strange and hungry."

"Theer'll he plenty to yeat by and by," said another. "Hey, here's owd Ransome and Tomson, the man as neither liked gristle nor swarth, but was very fond o' pig's feet."

"It warn't he, but the servant gell as they had. Say, owd Ransome, hast got a new gell yet?"

"What weer it about t'owd one?" said another.

"Why, they 'most pined her to dead."

"Hey, I thought they lived well theer."

"She towd my missus that she should leave, for she had beef and mutton and pigeon-pie till she wus sick to dead on 'em."

"Poor lass!" said another. "That weer her as see owd Ransome's wife makking the pie."

"Hey, and what weer that?"

"Ah, she says, `Sugarmum and buttermum, it'll be a straange dear pie, mum.'"

"Here's Dicky Glaire!" now was shouted, and plenty of cheers arose; but the men talked critically about his personal appearance as he got out of the carriage and went up the path with a supercilious smile upon his face.

"He's another pasty-faced un," said one of the chief speakers. "Dicky isn't half the man his father weer."

"Hearken to owd Mother Cakebread," said one of the men; "she says she'd sooner marry tawn's poomp."

"Here's owd Satan comin' to chutch," cried a voice, as Primgeon, the lawyer, a tall, smooth-faced, sallow man, got out of the next carriage, but they cheered him well, and the guests in the next two carriages, when the cry arose--

"Here's the Missus!"