Chapter V: Part 5

"Yes, yes," said the girl, softly.

"Well, then, my darling, if you go and tell your father, the first thing he'll do will be to go and tell my mother, and then there'll be no end of a row."

"But she loves you very much, Dick."

"Worships me," said Dick, complacently.

"Of course," said the girl, softly; and her foolish little eyes seemed to say, "She couldn't help it," while she continued, "and she'd let you do as you like, Dick."

"Well, but you see the devil of it is, Daisy, that I promised her I wouldn't see you any more."

"Why did you do that?" said the girl, sharply.

"To save rows--I hate a bother."

"Richard, you were ashamed of me, and wouldn't own me," said Daisy, bursting into tears.

"Oh, what a silly, hard-hearted, cruel little blossom it is," said Richard, trying to console her, but only to be pushed away. "All I did and said was to save bother, and not upset the old girl. That's why I want it all kept quiet. Here, as I tell you, I could be waiting for you over at Chorley, we could pop into the mail as it came through, off up to London, be married by licence, and then the old folks would be in a bit of a temper for a week, and as pleased as Punch afterwards."

"Oh, no, Richard, I couldn't, couldn't do that," said the girl, panting with excitement.

"Yes, you could," he said, "and come back after a trip to Paris, eh, Daisy? where you should have the run of the fashions. What would they all say when you came back a regular lady, and I took you to the house?"

"Oh, Dick, dear Dick, don't ask me," moaned the poor girl, whose young head was in a whirl. "I couldn't--indeed I couldn't be so wicked."

"So wicked! no, of course not," said Richard, derisively--"a wicked little creature. Oh, dear, what would become of you if you married Richard Glaire!"

"You're teasing me," she said, "and it's very cruel of you."

"Horribly," said Richard. "But you will come, Daisy?"

"I couldn't, I couldn't," faltered the girl.

"Yes, you could, you little goose."

"Dick, my own handsome, brave Dick," she whispered, "let me tell father."

He drew back from her coldly.

"You want to be very obedient, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, dear Richard," she said, looking at him appealingly.

"You set such a good example, Daisy, that I must be very good too."

"Yes, dear," she said, innocently.

"Yes," he said, with a sneer; "so you go and tell your father like a good little child, and I'll be a good boy, too, and go and tell my mother, and she'll scold me and say I've been very naughty, and make me marry Eve."

"Oh, Richard, Richard, how can you be so cruel?" cried the poor girl, reproachfully.

"It isn't I; it's you," he said, smiling with satisfaction as he saw what a plaything the girl's heart was in his hands. "Are you going to tell your father?"

"Oh, no, Dick, not if you say I mustn't."

"Well, that's what I do say," he exclaimed sharply.

"Very well, Dick," she said, sadly.

"And look here, Daisy, my own little one," he whispered, kissing her tear-wet face, "some day, when I ask you, it shall be as I say, eh?"

"Oh, Dick, darling, I'll do anything you wish but that. Don't ask me to run away."

"Do you want to break off our match?" he said, bitterly.

"Oh, no--no:--no--no."

"Do you want to make my home miserable?"

"You know I don't, Richard."

"Because, I tell you I know my mother will never consent to it unless she is forced."

"But you are your own master now, Richard," she pleaded.

"Not so much as you think for, my little woman. So come, promise me. I know you won't break your word if you do promise."

"No, Dick, never," she said, earnestly; and if there had been any true love in the young fellow's breast he would have been touched by the trusting, earnest reliance upon him that shone from her eyes as she looked up affectionately in his face.

"Then promise me, Daisy, dear," he whispered; "it is for the good of both of us, and--Hang it all, there's Slee."

Daisy was sent off as we know, and the tears fell fast as she hastened home, feeling that love was very sweet, but that its roses had thorns that rankled and stung.

"Oh, Dick, Dick," she sobbed as she went on, "I wish sometimes that I'd never seen you, for it is so hard not to do whatever you wish."

She dried her eyes hastily as she neared home, and drew her breath a little more hardly as about a hundred yards from the gate she saw Tom Podmore, who looked at her firmly and steadily as they passed, and hardly responded to her nod.

"He knows where I've been. He knows where I've been," whispered Daisy to herself as she hurried on; and she was quite right, for her conscious cheeks hoisted a couple of signal flags of the ruddiest hue--signals that poor Tom could read as well as if they had been written down in a code, and he ground his teeth as he turned and watched her.

"She's such a good girl that any one might troost her," he muttered, as he saw her go in at the gate, "or else I'd go and tell Joe all as I knows. But no, I couldn't do that, for it would hurt her, just as it would if I was to half kill Dick Glaire. She'll find him out some day perhaps--not as it matters to me though, for it's all over now."

He walked back, looking over the green fence as he passed, and Mrs Banks waved her hand to him from the window; but his eyes were too much occupied by the sight of Daisy leaning over her father, and he walked on so hurriedly that he nearly blundered up against a great stalwart figure coming the other way.

Volume 1, Chapter XVI.

THE VICAR'S FRIENDS.

"What cheer, owd Tommy?" cried the stalwart figure, pulling a short black pipe out of his mouth.

"Hallo, Harry," said Tom, quietly, at least as quietly as he could, for the words were jerked out of his mouth by the tremendous clap on the shoulder administered by the big hammerman.

"What's going to be done, Tommy?" growled the great fellow. "I'm 'bout tired o' this. I wants to hit something."

He stretched out his great sinewy arm, and then drawing it back, let it fly again with such force that a man would have gone down before it like a cork.

"Come along," said Tom, who wished to get away from the neighbourhood of Banks's cottage for fear Mrs Banks should call to him.

Harry was a man whose brain detested originality. He was a machine who liked to be set in motion, so he followed Tom like a huge dog, and without a word.

As they came abreast of the vicarage they saw the vicar at work gardening, and Jacky Budd making believe to dig very hard in the wilderness still unreclaimed.

Even at their distance, Jacky's pasty face and red ripe nose, suggestive of inward tillage, were plainly to be seen, and just then a thought seemed to strike Tom, who turned to his companion, staring with open mouth over the hedge.

"Like a job, Harry?"

"Hey, lad, I should."

"Come in here then," said Tom, laying his hand on the gate.

"That I will, lad," said Harry. "I want to scrarp some un, and I should 'mazin like a fall wi' that theer parson."

Tom smiled grimly, and entered, followed by Harry.

They were seen directly by the vicar, who came up and shook hands with Tom.

"Ah, Podmore, glad to see you. Well, Harry, my man," he continued, holding out his hand to the other, "is the lump on your forehead gone?"

Harry took the vicar's hand and held it in a mighty grip, while with his left he removed his cap and looked in the lining, as if to see if the bruise was there.

"Never thowt no more 'bout it, parson." Then gazing down at the soft hand he held, he muttered, "It's amaazin'!"

"What's amazing?" said the vicar, smiling.

"Why that you could hit a man such a crack wi' a hand like this 'ere."

"Don't mind him, sir; it's his way," said Tom, apologetically. "Fact is, parson, we're tired o' doing nowt."

"I'm glad to hear you say so, Podmore," said the vicar, earnestly. "I wish from my heart this unhappy strife were at an end. I'm trying my best."

"Of course you are, sir," said Tom; "but I thowt mebbe you'd give Harry here and me a bit o' work."

"Work! what work?" said the vicar, wonderingly.

"Well, you said I'd best get to work, and I've got nowt to do. That Jacky Budd there's picking about as if he was scarred o' hurting the ground: let me and Harry dig it up."

The vicar looked from one to the other for a moment, and as his eyes rested on Harry, that giant gave Tom a clap on the shoulder hard enough to make a bruise, as he exclaimed--

"Hark at that now, for a good'n, parson. Here, gie's hold of a shovel."

The vicar led the way to the tool-house, furnished his visitors with tools, and then stood close at hand to supply the science, while the way in which the two men began to dig had such an effect on Jacky Budd that he stood still and perspired.

A dozen great shovelfuls of earth were turned over by Harry, who then stopped short, threw off his coat and vest, tightened the belt round his waist, and loosening the collar of his shirt, proceeded to roll up the sleeves before moistening his hands and seizing the spade once more, laughing heartily as he turned over the soft earth like a steam plough.

"Slip int' it, Tommy. Well, this is a game. It's straange and fine though, after doin' nowt for a week."

Tom was digging steadily and well, for he was a bit of a gardener in his way, having often helped Joe Banks to dig his piece in the early days of his love.

"Better borry some more garden, parson; we shall ha' done this 'ere in 'bout an hour and a half," said Harry, grinning; and then--crack!

"Look at that for a tool!" he cried, holding up the broken shovel, snapped in two at the handle.

"Try this one, Harry," said Jacky Budd, handing his own spade eagerly; "I've got some hoeing to do."

Harry took the tool and worked away a little more steadily, with the result that poor Jacky Budd was deprived of a good deal of the work that would have fallen to his lot; a deprivation, however, that he suffered without a sigh.

"Now, I ain't agoing to beg, parson," said Harry, after a couple of hours' work, "but my forge wants coal, and a bite o' bread and a bit o' slip-coat cheese would be to raights."

"Slip-coat cheese?" said the vicar.

"He means cream cheese," said Tom, who had been working away without a word, keeping Jacky busy clearing away the weeds.

"No, I don't," growled Harry. "I mean slip-coat, and a moog o' ale."

"Shall I go and fetch some, sir?" said Jacky Budd, eagerly.

"Thank you, no, Budd," said the vicar, quietly. "I won't take you from your work;" and, to Jacky's great disgust, he went and fetched a jug of ale from his little cellar himself.

"He ain't a bad un," cried Harry, tearing away at the earth. "Keeps a drink o' ale i' the plaace. I thowt parsons allus drunk port wine."

"Not always, my man," said the vicar, handing the great fellow the jug, and while he was drinking, up came Jacky with his lips parted, and a general look on his visage as if he would like to hang his tongue out like a thirsty hound and pant.

"Shall I get the leather, sir, and just nail up that there bit o' vine over the window?"

"Get the what, Budd?" said the vicar, who looked puzzled.

"The leather, sir, the leather."

"He means the lather, sir," said Tom, quietly, "the lather to climb up."

"Oh, the ladder," said the vicar. "Yes, by all means," he continued, smiling as he saw the clerk's thirsty look. "I won't ask you to drink, Budd," he went on as he handed the mug to Tom, who took a hearty draught. "You told me you did not drink beer on principle; and I never like to interfere with a man's principles, though I hold that beer in moderation is good for out-door workers."

"Thanky, sir, quite right, sir," said Jacky, with a blank look on his face. "I'll get the leather and a few nails, and do that vine now."

"Poof!" ejaculated Harry, with a tremendous burst of laughter, as he went on digging furiously. "Well, that's alarming."

"What's the matter, old mate?" said Tom.

"Nowt at all. Poof!" he roared again, turning over the earth. "Jacky Budd don't drink beer on principle. Poof!"

The vicar paid no heed to him, only smiled to himself, and the gardening progressed at such a rate that by five o'clock what had been a wilderness began to wear a very pleasant aspect of freedom from weeds and overgrowth, and with the understanding that the two workers were to come and finish in the morning, they resumed their jackets and went off.

Their visit to the vicarage had not passed unnoticed, however; for Sim Slee had been hanging about, seeking for an opportunity to have a word with his wife, and not seeing her, he had carried the news to the Bull and Cucumber.

"Things is coming to a pretty pass," he said to the landlord. "That parson's got a way of getting ower iverybody. What do you think now?"

"Can't say," said the landlord.

"He's gotten big Harry and Tom Podmore working in his garden like two big beasts at plough."

"He'll be gettin' o' you next, Sim," said the landlord, laughing.

"Gettin' o' me!" echoed Sim. "Not he. He tried it on wi' me as soon as we met; but I wrastled with him by word o' mouth, and he went down like a stone."

"Did he though, Sim?"

"Ay, lad. Yon parson's all very well, but he's fra London, and he'll hev to get up pretty early to get over a Lincoln man, eh?"

"Ay," said the landlord; "but he ain't so bad nayther. A came here and sat down just like a christian, and talked to the missus and played wi' the bairns for long enough."

"Did he though," said Sim. "Hey, lad, but that's his artfulness. He wants to get the whip hand o' thee."

"I dunno 'bout that," said the landlord, who eked out his income from the publican business with a little farming. "I thowt so at first, and expected he'd want to read a chapter and give me some tracks."

"Well, didn't he?" said Sim.

"Nay, not he. We only talked once 'bout 'ligious matters, and 'bout the chapel--ay, and we talked 'bout you an' all."

"'Bout me?" said Sim, getting interested, and pausing with his mug half way to his lips.

"Yes," said the landlord. "It come about throof me saying I see he'd gotten your missus to keep house for him."

"Give me another gill o' ale," said Sim, now deeply interested.

The landlord filled his mug for him, and went on--

"I said she were 'bout the cleanest woman in these parts, and the way she'd fettle up a place and side things was wonderful."

"Yow needn't ha' been so nation fast talking 'bout my wife," said Sim.

"I niver said nowt agen her," said the landlord, chuckling to himself. "And then we got talking 'bout you and the chapel."

"What did he know 'bout me and the chapel?" cried Sim, angrily.

"On'y what I towd him. I said part people went theer o' Sabbath, and that it was a straange niste woshup."

"Nice woshup, indeed! why you niver went theer i' your life," said Sim.

"I said so I'd heerd," said the landlord, stolidly, "and then I towd him how you used to preach theer till they turned thee out."

"What call had you to got to do that?" said Sim, viciously.

"Turned thee out, and took thy name off the plan for comin' to see me."

"Well, of all the unneighbourly things as iver I heerd!" exclaimed Sim. "To go and talk that clat to a straanger."

"Outer kindness to him," said the landlord. "It was a kind o' hint, and he took it, for I was thinking of his bishop, and he took it direckly, for he says, says he, `Well, I hope I shan't hev my name took off my plan for coming to see you, Mr Robinson,' he says. `I hope not, sir,' I says. `Perhaps you'll take a glass o' wine, sir,' I says. `No, Mr Robinson,' he says, `I'll take a glass--gill you call it--o' your ale.' And if he didn't sit wi' me for a good hour, and drink three gills o' ale and smoke three pipes wi' me, same as you might, ony he talked more sensible."

"Well, he's a pretty parson, he is," sneered Sim.

"You let him be; he ain't a bad sort at all," said the landlord, quietly.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Sim. "He's got howlt o' you too, Robinson."

"Mebbe he hev; mebbe he hevn't," said the landlord.

"Did he ask you to go to church?"

"Well, not azackly," said the landlord; "but he said he should be very happy to see me theer, just like astin' me to his house."

"Ho, ho!" laughed Sim; "and some day we shall have the Bull and Cowcumber at church."

"What are yow laughin' at, yo' maulkin?" cried the landlord. "Why, I'd go ony wheer to sit and listen to a sensible man talk."

"Aw raight, aw raight, Robinson; don't be put out," said Sim; "but I didn't think as yow'd be got over so easy."

"Who's got over?" said the landlord. "Not I indeed."

"Well," said Sim, "did he say anything more?"

"Say? yes, he's full o' say, and it's good sorter say. I ast him if he'd like to see the farm, and he said he would, and I took him out wheer the missus was busy wi' her pancheons, making bread and syling the milk, and he stopped and talked to her."

"But yow didn't take him out into your moocky owd crewyard, did yo'?"

"Moocky crewyard indeed! but I just did, and I tell you what, Sim Slee, he's as good a judge of a beast as iver I see."

"And then yow showed him the new mare," said Sim, with a grin.

"I did," said the landlord. "`Horncastle?' he says, going up to her and opening her mouth. `Raight,' I says. `Six year owd,' he says; and then he felt her legs and said he should like to see her paces, and I had Jemmy to give her a run in the field. `She's Irish,' he says. `How do you know?' I says--trying him like to trap him. `By that turn-up nose,' he says, `and that wild saucy look about the eye and head.' `You're raight, parson,' I says. And then he says, `she was worth sixty pun, every pun of it;' and I told him as I got her for nine and thirty, and ten shillings back. I tell you what, Sim Slee,--Parson's a man, every inch on him. As for the missus, she's that pleased, she sent him ower a pun o' boother this morning from our best Alderney."

"O' course," sneered Sim. "That's the way. That's your cunning priest coming into your house to lead silly women captive, and sew pillows to their armholes."

"Go on wi' yer blather," cried the landlord.

"Go on, indeed," continued Sim. "That's their way. He's a regular Jesooit, he is, and your home wean't soon be your own. He's gettin' ivery woman in the place under his thumb. He begins wi' Miss Eve theer at the house, and Daisy Banks. Then he's gotten howd o' my missus. Here's Mrs Glaire allus coming and fetching him out wi' her in the pony shay, and now he's gotten howd o' your owd woman, and she's sendin' him pounds o' boother. It was allus the way wi' them cunning priests: they allus get over the women, and then they do what they like wi' the men. No matter how strong they are, down they come just like Samson did wi' Delilah. It was allus so, and as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be world without end."

"Amen," said Jacky Budd, coming in at the back door. "Gie's a gill o' ale, Robinson. I'm 'bout bunt up wi' thirst. Hallo, Slee, what! are yow preaching agen?"

"Never mind," said Sim, sulkily. "I should ha' thowt parson would ha' fun you in ale, now."

"Not he," said Jacky. "Drinks it all his sen. He's got a little barrel o' Robinson's best i' the house, too."

"Ho, ho, ho!" laughed Sim, holding his sides and stooping. "I say, Jacky, put some new basses in one o' the pews for Mester Robinson, Esquire, as is going to come reg'lar to church now. That's the way they do it: `Send me in a small barrel o' your best ale, Mr Robinson,' he says, `and I shall be happy to see you at church.'"

"If yow use up all yer wind, Sim Slee," said the landlord, sturdily, "yow wean't hev none left to lay down the law wi' at the meeting to-night."

Volume 1, Chapter XVII.

MRS GLAIRE MAKES PLANS.

Poor Mrs Glaire was in trouble about her fowls, who seemed possessed of a great deal of nature strongly resembling the human. She had a fine collection of noble-looking young Brahma cockerels, great massive fellows, youthful, innocent, sheepish, and stupid. They were intended for exhibition, and their mistress expected a prize for the birds, which had dwelt together in unity, increasing in bulk and brilliancy of plumage, and had never looked a hen in the face since the day they forsook their mamma in the coop.

And now, by mishap, a wanton young pullet had flown up on to the wall that divided them from the poultry yard, and just cried, "Took--took-- took!" before flying down. That was sufficient: a battle royal began amongst the brothers directly, and when Mrs Glaire went down to feed them she found two birds nearly dead, the rest all ragged as to their feathers, bleeding as to their combs and wattles, and still fighting in a heavy lumbering way, but so weary that they could only take hold of one another with their beaks and give feeble pecks at their dripping feathers.

Mrs Glaire sighed and made comparisons between Daisy Banks and the wicked little pullet who had caused all this strife, telling herself that she was to be congratulated on having but one son, and wishing that he were married, settled, and happy.

She had decided that she would have the vicar up to dinner that night, and intended to make him her confidant and ally; and accordingly in the evening, while the conversation narrated in the last chapter was going on, the object of it was making his way to the house, getting a friendly nod here and there, and stopping for a minute's chat with the people whose acquaintance he had made.

As a rule they were moody faces he met with amongst the women, for they were more than usually soured at the present time on account of the strike, and the sight of the black coat and white tie was not a pleasant one to them, and the replies to his salute were generally sulky and constrained.

He fared better with the men, in spite of Mr Simeon Slee's utterances, for the report had gone round and round again that Parson could fight, and the church militant, from this point of view, was one that seemed to them worthy of respect.

So he went slowly along the main street, past Mr Purley, the doctor's, as that gentleman, just returned from a round, was unwedging himself from his gig.

"How do, parson, how do?" he said. "Like a ride with me to-morrow?"

"Well, yes, if you'll get out your four-wheeler," said the vicar, laughing.

"Going up to the house to dinner, parson?"

"Yes."

"Tell Mrs Glaire I'll be on in ten minutes," said the doctor. "But I say, parson, don't sit on the rubber of whist."

"Doctor," said the vicar, patting him on the shoulder, "I shall not; but bring an extra sovereign or two with you, for I want to win a little money to-night for some of my poor."

"He's a rum one," muttered the doctor, as he went in. "He's a rum one, that he is; but I don't think he's bad at bottom."

Meanwhile the vicar went on, past Ramson and Tomson's the grocers and drapers, where silks and sugars, taffetas and tea were displayed in close proximity; and although Ramson and Tomson were deacons at the Independent Chapel, and the old vicar had passed them always without a look, a friendly nod was exchanged now, to the great disgust of Miss Primgeon, the lawyer's maiden sister, a lady who passed her time at her window, and who, not being asked to the little dinner she knew was to be held at the house, was in anything but the best of tempers that evening.

Richard Glaire was not aware of his mother's arrangement, and his face wore anything but a pleasant expression as he confronted the vicar in the hall, having himself only just come in.

"How do, Mr Selwood, how do?" he said haughtily, as he took out his watch and paid no heed to the extended hand. "Just going to dinner; would you mind calling again?"

"Not in the least," said the vicar, smiling, "often. Look here, Richard Glaire," he continued, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder, "you don't understand me."

"Will you--er--have the goodness--"

"Oh, yes, of course," said the vicar, "I'll explain all in good time; but look here, my good young friend, I'm here in a particular position, and I mean to be a sort of shadow or fate to you."

"I really am at a loss to understand," began Richard, whose anger was vainly struggling against the strong will opposed to him.

"I see," said the vicar, "you've been out and didn't know I was coming to dinner. Don't apologise. Ah, Miss Pelly!"

This to Eve, who had heard the voices; and Richard's face grew white with passion as he saw the girl's bright animated countenance and glad reception of their visitor. She tripped down the stairs, and placed both her hands in his, exclaiming--

"I'm so glad, Mr Selwood. Aunt didn't tell me you were coming to dinner till just now."

"And so am I glad," he said, with a smile touched with sadness overspreading his face, as he saw the eager pleasant look that greeted him, one that he was well enough read in the human countenance to see had nothing in it but the hearty friendly welcome of an ingenuous maiden, who knew and liked him for his depth and conversation. "We shall have a long chat to-night, I hope, and some music."

They were entering the drawing-room together as he spoke.

"Oh yes, yes," cried she, eagerly. "I can never get Dick to sing now. Do you sing, Mr Selwood?"

"Well, yes, a little," he said, smiling down at her.

"And play?"

"Yes, a little."

"What? Not the piano?"

"Just a little," he said. "I am better on the organ."

"Oh, I am so glad," cried Eve. "Aunt will be here directly; I'm so glad you've come to Dumford. The old vicar was so stiff, and would sit here when he did come, and play backgammon all the evening without speaking."

"Backgammon, eh?" said the visitor; "not a very lively game for the lookers on."

"Yes, and it was so funny," laughed Eve, "he never would allow cards in his presence, though he played with the dice; and it used to make dear Dick so cross because aunt used to hide the cards. But, oh dear," she exclaimed, colouring slightly, "I hope you don't object to whist."

"My dear Miss Pelly," he said, laughing, "I like every innocent game. I think they all are as medicine to correct the acidity and bitterness of some of the hard work of life."

"Then you'll play croquet with us?"

"That I will."

"Oh, I am glad," cried Eve, with almost childish pleasure. "I can beat Dick easily now, Mr Selwood, for he neglects his croquet horribly. Mind I don't beat you."

"I won't murmur," he said, laughing.

"But where's aunt?" cried Eve. "She came down before me."

"Aunt" had gone straight into the dining-room to see that all things were in a proper state of preparation, and had stopped short in the doorway on seeing Eve's reception of their guest.

She was about to step forward, when, unseen by him, she caught a glimpse of her son's countenance, as he watched the vicar. His teeth were set, his lips drawn slightly back, and a fierce look of anger puckered his forehead, as with fists clenched he made an involuntary movement after the couple who had entered the drawing-room.

Mrs Glaire drew back softly, and laying her hand on her beating heart, she walked to the other end of the dining-room, seating herself in one of the windows, half concealed by the curtain.

There was a smile upon her face, for, quick as lightning, a thought had flashed across her mind.

Here was the means at hand to bring her son to his senses. She had meant to take the vicar into her confidence, and ask his aid, stranger though he was, for she felt that his position warranted it; but now things had shaped themselves so that he was thoroughly playing into her hands.

She knew Eve, that she was ingenuous and truthful, and looked upon her marriage with her cousin as a matter of course. She was a girl who would consider a flirtation to be a crime towards the man who loved her; but the vicar would evidently be very attentive even as he had begun to be, and already Richard's ire was aroused. Richard jealous, she meditated, and he would be roused from his apathetic behaviour to Eve, and all would come right.

"And the vicar?" she asked herself.

Oh, he meant nothing, would mean nothing. He knew the relations of Richard and his cousin, and the plan would--must succeed.

But was she wrong? Was Richard annoyed at the vicar's demeanour towards Eve, or was it her imagination?

The answer came directly, for Richard flung into the room, took up a sherry decanter, and filling a glass, tossed it off.

"Curse him! I won't have him here," he said aloud. "What does he mean by talking to me like that? by hanging after Eve? I won't have it. You there, mother?"

"Yes, my son," she replied, rising and looking him calmly in the face.

"Look here, mother, I won't have that clerical cad here. What do you mean by asking him to dinner?"

"I asked him as a guest who has behaved very kindly to us, Richard. He is my guest. I asked him because I wished to have him; and you must recollect that he is a clergyman and a gentleman."

"If he wasn't a parson," cried Richard, writhing beneath his mother's clear cold glance, for it seemed to his guilty conscience that she could read in his face that he had broken his word about Daisy--"if he wasn't a parson I'd break his neck."

"Richard, I insist," cried his mother, in a tone that he had not heard since he had grown to manhood, and which reminded him of the days when he was sternly forced to obey, "if you insult Mr Selwood, you insult your mother."

"But the cad's making play after Eve--he's smiling and squeezing her hand, and the little jilt likes it."

"No wonder," said Mrs Glaire, calmly. "Women like attentions. You have neglected the poor girl disgracefully."

"What! are you going to allow it?" cried Richard. "I tell you he's making play for her."

"I shall not interfere," said Mrs Glaire, coldly. "I think Eve ought to have a good husband."

"But she's engaged to me!" half-shrieked Richard.

"Well," said his mother, coldly, though her heart was beating fast, "you are a man, and should counteract it. This is England, and in English society, little as I have seen of it, I know that engaged girls are not prisoners. They are, to a certain extent, free."

"I'll soon stop it," cried Richard, fiercely. "Stop it then, my son, but mind this: I insist upon proper respect being paid to Mr Selwood."

"I will," cried Richard, speaking in a deep-pitched voice. "I'll do something."

"Then I should take care that my pretensions to her hand were well known," said Mrs Glaire, with a peculiar look.

"Pretensions--her hand!" said Richard, with a sneer. "Are you mad, mother, that you take this tone? I will soon let them see. I'm not going to be played with."

He was about leaving the room, when his mother laid her hand upon his arm.

"Stop, Richard," she said, firmly. "Recollect this--"

"Well, what?"

"That it was the clear wish of your father and myself to make you a gentleman."

"Well, I am a gentleman," cried Richard, angrily.

"Bear it in mind then, my son; and remember that rude, rough ways disgust Eve, and injure your cause. Mr Selwood is a gentleman, and you must meet him as a gentleman."

"I don't know what you mean, mother," cried the young man, angrily.

"I mean this, that my son occupies the position of the first man in Dumford; and though his father was a poor workman, and his mother a workman's daughter--"

"There, don't always get flinging my birth in my teeth, mother--do, pray, sink the shop."

"I have no wish to remind you of your origin, Richard," said Mrs Glaire, with a sigh; "only I wish to make you remember that we educated you to be a gentleman, and that we have given you the means. Act like one."

"I shall do that; don't you be afraid," said Richard.

"And mind, Richard, a true gentleman keeps his word," said Mrs Glaire, meaningly.

"Well, so do I," exclaimed the young man, flushing up. "What are you hinting at now?"

"I hope you do, my son; I hope you do," said Mrs Glaire, looking at him fixedly; and then, as a sharp knock came at the front door, she glided out of the room, and her voice was heard directly after in conversation with the bluff doctor.

"Oh, he's here, too, is he?" muttered Dick, biting his nails. "Hang it all! Curse it, how crookedly things go. I--there, hang it all!"

He stood, thinking, with knitted brows, and then hastily pouring out and tossing off another glass of sherry, and smiling in a way that looked very much like the twitch of the lip when a cur means to bite, he said, in a mock melodramatic voice--

"Ha--ha! we must dissemble!" and strode out of the room.

Volume 1, Chapter XVIII.

THE PLAN BEGINS TO WORK.

The vicar was standing by the flower-stand talking to Eve, and opening out the calyx of a new orchid, a half faded blossom of which he had picked from the pot to explain some peculiarities of its nature, while Eve, looking bright and interested, drank in his every word.

Mr Purley was filling out an easy-chair, having picked out one without arms for obvious reasons, and he was gossiping away to Mrs Glaire.

"How do, Purley?" said Richard, with a face as smooth as if nothing had occurred to fret him. "Glad to see you."

"Glad to see you too, Glaire; but you don't say, `How are you?'"

"Who does to a doctor," laughed Richard. "Why you couldn't be ill if you tried."

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed Mr Purley. "Well, if I'm not ill, I'm hungry."

"Always are," said Richard, with a sneer; and then seeing that his retort was a little too pointed, he blunted it by pandering to the stout medico's favourite joke, and adding, "Taken any one for a ride lately?"

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the doctor. "That's good! He's getting a regular Joe Miller in kid gloves, Mrs Glaire: that he is. Ha-ha-ha!"

Richard gave a short side nod, for he was already crossing the room to the flower-stand.

"Talking about flowers?" he said, quietly. "That's pretty. I didn't know they'd asked you to dinner, Mr Selwood, and you must have thought me very gruff."

"Don't name it," said the vicar, frankly; but he was looking into the younger man's eyes in a way that made him turn them aside in a shifty manner, and begin picking nervously at the leaves of a plant as he went on--

"Fact is, don't you know, I'm cross and irritable. When a man's got all his fellows on strike or lock out, it upsets him."

"Yes, Mr Selwood," interposed Eve, "the poor fellow has been dreadfully worried lately. But it's all going to be right soon, I hope."

"I don't know," said Richard, cavalierly; "they're horribly obstinate."

Mrs Glaire, who had been watching all this eagerly, while she made an appearance of listening to Mr Purley's prattle, gave her son a grateful look, to which he replied with a smile and a nod, when a servant entered and announced the dinner.

Richard Glaire's smile and nod turned into a scowl and a twitch on hearing his mother's next words, which were--

"Mr Selwood, will you take in my niece? Mr Purley, your arm."

The vicar passed out with Eve, followed by the doctor and their hostess, leaving Richard to bring up the rear, which he did after snatching up a book and hurling it across the room crash into the flower-stand.

"She's mad," he muttered,--"she's mad;" and then grinding his teeth with rage he followed into the dining-room.

Richard contrived to conceal his annoyance tolerably during the dinner, but his mother saw with secret satisfaction that he was thoroughly piqued by the way in which Eve behaved towards their visitor; and even with the effort he made over himself, he was not quite successful in hiding his vexation; while when they went out afterwards on to the croquet lawn, and the vicar and Eve were partners against him, he gave vent to his feelings by vicious blows at the balls, to the no slight damage of Mrs Glaire's flowers.

This lady, however, bore the infliction with the greatest equanimity, sitting on a garden seat, knitting, with a calm satisfied smile upon her face even though Eve looked aghast at the mischief that had been done.

Matters did not improve, for Richard, after being, to his great disgust, thoroughly beaten, and having his ball driven into all kinds of out-of-the-way places by his adversaries, found on re-entering the drawing-room that he was to play a very secondary part.

Eve recollected that Mr Selwood could sing a little, and he sang in a good manly voice several songs, to which she played the accompaniment.

Then Eve had to sing as well, a couple of pretty ballads, in a sweet unaffected voice, and all this time the whist-table was waiting and Richard pretending to keep up a conversation with the doctor, who enjoyed the music and did not miss his whist.

At length the last ballad was finished, tea over, and Richard had made his plans to exclude Eve from the whist-table, when he gnashed his teeth with fury, for his mother said--

"Eve, my dear, why don't you ask Mr Selwood to try that duet with you?"

"What, the one Richard was practising, aunt?"

"Yes, my dear, that one."

"Oh, no," exclaimed the vicar. "If Mr Glaire sings I will not take his place. Perhaps he will oblige us by taking his part with you."

"But Dick doesn't know it, Mr Selwood," said Eve, laughing merrily, "and he's sure to break down. He always does in a song. Do try it."

Dick turned livid with rage, for this was more than he could bear, and, seeing his annoyance, Mr Selwood pleasantly declined, saying--

"But I have an engagement on; I am to win some money of the doctor here, for my poor people."

"Didn't know it was the correct thing to gamble to win money for charity."

"Oh, I often do," said the vicar, pleasantly. "Now I'll be bound, Mr Glaire, if I'd asked you for a couple of guineas to distribute, you'd think me a great bore."

"You may depend upon that," said Richard. "I never give in charity."

"But at the same time, you would not much mind if I won that sum from you at whist."

"You'd have to win it first," said Richard, with a sneer.

"Exactly," said the vicar; "and I might lose."

"There, don't talk," said Richard; "let's play. Come along, mamma."

Mrs Glaire was about to excuse herself, but seeing her son's looks, she thought better of her decision, and to keep peace went up to the table; Eve saying she would look on.

It fell about then that the vicar and Mrs Glaire were partners, and as sometimes happens, Richard and his partner, the doctor, had the most atrocious of hands almost without exception. This joined to the fact that Mrs Glaire played with shrewdness, and the vicar admirably, so disgusted Richard that at last he threw down the cards in a pet, vowing he would play no more.

"Well, it is time to leave off, really," said the vicar, glancing at his watch. "Half-past ten."

"Don't forget to give your winnings away in charity, parson," said Richard, in a sneering tone.

"Dick!" whispered Eve, imploringly.

"Hold _your_ tongue," was the reply. "I know what I'm saying."

"No fear," said the vicar, good-temperedly, as he was bidding Mrs Glaire good night; "shall I send you an account? Good night, Miss Pelly. Thanks for a delightful evening. Good night, Mr Glaire."

He held out his hand, and gave Richard's a grip that made him wince, and then, after a few words in the hall, he was gone, with the doctor for companion.

"Thank goodness!" exclaimed Richard, savagely.

"Why, Dick, dear, how cross you have been," said Eve, while Mrs Glaire watched the game.

"Cross! Enough to make one," he cried, angrily; and then, mimicking the vicar's manner, "Good night, Miss Pelly. Thanks for a delightful evening."

"Well, I'm sure it was, Dick," said Eve; "only you would be so cross."

"And well I might, when you were flirting in that disgraceful way all the evening."

"Oh, Dick!" exclaimed Eve, reproachfully; and the tears stood in her eyes.

"Well, so you were," he cried, "abominably. If anybody else had been here, they would have said that you were engaged to be married to that cad of a parson, instead of to me."

The tears were falling now as Eve laid her hand upon her cousin's shoulder.

"Dick, dear," she whispered; "don't talk to me like that; it hurts me."

"Serve you right," he growled.

"If I have done anything to annoy you to-night, dear, it was done in all innocence. But you don't--you can't mean it."

"Indeed, but I do," he growled, half turning his back.

Mrs Glaire was sitting with her back to them, and still kept busy over her work.

"I am so sorry, Dick--dear Dick," Eve said, resting her head on the young man's shoulder. "Don't be angry with me, Dick."

"Then promise me you'll never speak to that fellow any more," he said, quickly.

"Dick! Oh, how can I? But there, you don't mean it. You are only a little cross with me."

"Cross!" he retorted; "you've hurt me so to-night that I've been wishing I'd never seen you."

"Oh, Dick!" she exclaimed, as she caught his hand, and raised it to her lips. "Please forgive me, and believe me, dear Dick, that I have not a single thought that is not yours. Please forgive me."

"There, hold your tongue," he said, shortly; "she's looking."

Poor little Eve turned away to hide and dry her tears, and then Mrs Glaire, looking quite calm and satisfied with the prospect of events, said--

"Eve, my child, it is past eleven."

"Yes, aunt, I'm going to bed. Good night."

"Good night, Richard."

"Good night," he said, sulkily; and he bent down his head and brushed the candid white forehead offered to him with his lips, while, his hands being in his pockets, he at the same time crackled between his fingers a little note that he had written to Daisy, appointing their next interview, this arrangement having been forgotten in the hurry of the day's parting. And as he spoke he was turning over in his mind how he could manage to get the note delivered unseen by Banks or his wife, for so far as he could tell at the moment, he had not a messenger he could trust.

END OF VOLUME ONE.

Volume 2, Chapter I.

TO BULTITUDE'S AND BACK.

Matters did not improve at Dumford as the days went on, and Murray Selwood found that he could not have arrived at a worse time, so far as his own comfort was concerned, though he was bound to own that the occasion was opportune for his parish, inasmuch as he was able to be of no little service to many of the people who, in a surly kind of way, acknowledged his help, and took it in a condescending manner, while, with a smile, he could not help realising the fact that the sturdy independent folks looked down upon him as a kind of paid official whom they were obliged to suffer in their midst.

He had secured a servant with great difficulty, for the girls of the place, as a rule, objected to domestic service, preferring the freedom and independence of working for the line-growing farmers of the neighbourhood, and spending the money earned with the big draper of the place. Not our independent friends, but Barmby the parish churchwarden, who coolly told the vicar that he could produce more effect upon the female population with a consignment of new hats or bonnets from town, than a parson could with a month's preaching; and it must be conceded to Mr Barmby that his influence was far more visible than that of his clerical superior.

All efforts to patch up a peace between the locked-out men and their employer were without avail, even though the vicar had seen both parties again and again.

"Let them pay for my machine-bands," said Richard Glaire--"Two hundred pounds, and come humbly and confess their faults, and I'll then take their application into consideration."

"But don't you think you had better make a greater concession?" said the vicar. "You are punishing innocent and guilty alike."

"Serve 'em right," said Richard, turning on his heel, and leaving the counting-house, where Mr Selwood had sought him.

"What do you say, Mr Banks?" said the vicar.

"Well, sir, what I say is this," said Joe, pulling out and examining a keen knife that he took from his pocket, "what I say is this--that he ought to find out whom this knife belongs to, and punish him."

"That knife?"

"Yes," said Joe, grimly. "I've been well over the place, and I found this knife lying on a bench. It is the one used for cootting the bands; there's the greasy marks on it. Now, the man as that knife belongs to," he said, closing the blade with a snap, "is him as coot the bands."

"By the way, did you ever find the bands?" said the vicar.

"Find 'em, parson, oh yes, I fun 'em; chucked into one of the furnaces they weer."

"And burnt?"

"Well, not exactly bunt, but so cockered up and scorched, as to be no more good. I only wish I knew who did it."

"It was a cowardly trick," said the vicar, "and I wish it were known, so that this unhappy strife might be stayed."

"Oh, that'll come raight soon," said Banks, drily. "Just wait till Master Dick has been over to the bank and seen how his book stands once or twice, and we'll soon bring this game to an end."

"And meanwhile the poor people are starving."

"Not they, sir," said Joe, with a chuckle. "People here are too saving. They'll hold out a bit longer yet."

Joe remained to smoke a pipe amongst the extinct forges, while the vicar paid a morning call at the big house, to find Mrs Glaire and Eve gone for a walk, and Jacky Budd visible in the garden, fast asleep on a rustic chair, with the flies haunting his nose.

Turning from there he went down the street, and had to bow to Miss Purley, who was at the doctor's window, and to Miss Primgeon, who was at the lawyer's window, both ladies having been there ever since he passed. Then reaching the vicarage, it was to find that he had had a visitor in his turn in the shape of his churchwarden, Mr Bultitude, "Owd Billy Bultitude," as he was generally called in the town, just outside which he had a large farm and was reported to be very wealthy.

"Parish matters, I suppose," said the vicar; and he stood debating with himself for a few minutes as to whether he should go across the fields, ending by making a start, and coming across Richard Glaire deep in converse with Sim Slee, just by the cross-roads.

Something white was passed by Richard to the gentleman of the plaid waistcoat, as the vicar approached, and then they moved on together for a few yards, unaware of the coming footsteps.

"That looks like coming to terms," said the vicar to himself, joyfully. "Well, I'm glad of it," and he was about to speak on the subject, when Richard started round with a scowl upon his countenance, and Slee thrust his hands into his pockets and went off whistling.

"As you will, master Dick," said the vicar to himself; "but I mean to try hard yet to get the whip hand of you, my boy." Then, aloud, "What a delightful morning."

"Look here, Mr Selwood," said Richard, roughly, "are you playing the spy upon my actions?"

"Not I," said the vicar, laughing, "I am going over to Bultitude's farm; I cannot help your being in the way. Good morning."

"He was watching me," muttered Dick, biting his nails. "I wonder whether he saw that note."

As he stood looking after the vicar, Sim Slee came softly back to wink in a mysterious way, and point with his thumb over his shoulder.

"They're all alike," he said--"all alike, parsons and all."

"What do you mean?" said Dick, roughly. "I thought you'd gone with that note."

"Thowt I wouldn't go yet," said Sim, with another confidential jerk of the thumb over his shoulder. "Joe Banks is sure to be at home now."

"I tell you he's down at the foundry, and will stay there all day," cried Dick, angrily.

"All raight: I'll go then," said Sim; "but I say, sir, they're all alike."

"What do you mean?"

"Why that parson--that dreadfully good man."

"Well, what about him?"

"Don't you know where he's gone?"

"Yes, he said: old Bultitude's."

"Did he say what for?" said Sim, grinning. "No, of course not."

"Ho--ho--ho! Ho--ho--ho!" laughed Sim, stamping on the ground with delight. "Don't you see his game?"

"Curse you, speak out," cried Dick, furiously. "What do you mean?"

"Only that he's getting all the women under his thumb. He'll be having crosses and candles in the chutch direckly, like the Ranby man."

"Curse you for a fool, Slee," cried Richard, impatiently; and he was turning away when Sim exclaimed--

"Don't you know as Miss Eve walked over there half-an-hour ago?"

"What?" roared Dick.

"Oh! she's only gone over to see Miss Jessie, of course; but if you'll light a cigar, sir, and sit down on yon gate, you'll see if he don't walk home with her. Now I'm off."

"Stop a moment, Sim," cried Dick in a husky voice. "Have--have you ever seen anything?"

"Who? I? Oh, no! Nowt," said Sim; "leastwise I only saw 'em come out of Ranby wood with a basket of flowers yesterday, that's all."

He went off then, chuckling to himself and rubbing his hands, leaving the poison to work, as, with his face distorted with rage, Dick started off at a sharp walk for Bultitude's farm; but, altering his mind, he leaped a stile, lit a cigar, and stood leaning against a tree smoking, unseen by any one who should pass along the lane, but able to command the path on both sides for some distance, up and down.