Chapter VI: Part 6

Meanwhile the vicar, enjoying the pleasant walk, had been telling himself that he could always leave the grimy town and its work behind in a few minutes to enjoy the sweets of the country, which were here in all their beauty; and after thinking of Eve Pelly for about five minutes, he made a vigorous effort, uttered the word _taboo_, and began humming a tune.

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the tune he inadvertently began to hum was one of those which Eve sang the other night, so he left off with a hasty "Pish!" and stooping down, began to botanise, picking a flower here and there, and then climbing up the rough side of the lane to cull a pretty little fern, whose graceful fronds drooped from a shadowy niche.

He threw the fern impatiently down, as he reached the path once more, and his brow furrowed, for memory told him directly that it was the pretty little _asplenium_, the peculiarities of whose growth he had explained to Eve when he met her with Mrs Glaire the day before, and had passed with them through Ranby wood, the latter lady probably being too insignificant to be taken in by Mr Sim Slee's comprehensive vision.

Walking rapidly on, to calm his thoughts, he came across the object of his search, busily dragging a sheep out of a little narrow grip or drain that had been cut in the field, and into which the unfortunate animal had rolled feet uppermost, its heavy wet fleece, and the size of the drain, making it impossible for the timid beast to extricate itself.

"Fahrweltered, parson," said the bluff-looking farmer, as he came up.

"I beg your pardon," said the vicar.

"Fahrweltered--fahrweltered," said the farmer, laughing; "we say in these parts a sheep's fahrweltered when he gets on his back like that. I expect," he continued, with a roguish twinkle of his eye, "you've found some of your flock fahrweltered by this time."

"Indeed, I have," said the vicar, laughing; "and so far the shepherd has not been able to drag them out."

"No, I s'pose not," said the farmer, carefully wiping his hands upon a big yellow silk handkerchief before offering one to be shaken. "You've got your work coot out, my lad, and no mistake. But come on up to the house, and have a bit of something. I come over to you about the meeting, and the books, and the rest of it."

The vicar followed him up to the farm-house, where the heavy stack-yard, abundant display of cattle, and noises of the yard told of prosperity; and then leading the way through the red-brick passage into the long, low, plainly-furnished sitting-room, the first words Murray Selwood heard were--

"Jess, Miss Pelly, I've brought you a visitor."

The vicar's cheek burned, as he could not help a start, but he recovered himself directly as he saw Eve Pelly's sweet face, with its calm unruffled look, and replied to the frank pressure of her hand, as she said she was delighted to see him.

"This is my niece, Jessie," said the farmer in his bluff way. "She says, parson--"

"Oh, uncle!" cried the pleasant, bright-faced girl.

"Howd your tongue, lass; I shall tell him. She says, parson, she's glad our old fogy has gone, for it's some pleasure to come and hear you."

"Oh, Mr Selwood, please," said the girl, blushing, "I didn't quite say that. Uncle does--"

"'Zaggerate," said the old man, laughing. "Well, perhaps he does. But come, girl, get in a bit of lunch. There, what now, Miss Pelly; are we frightening you away?"

"Oh, no," said Eve, smiling, "only I must go now."

"Sit thee down, lass, sit thee down. Parson's going back directly, and he'll walk wi' thee and see thee safe home."

And so it came about that innocently enough an hour afterwards the vicar and Eve Pelly were walking back together with, as they came in sight of Richard Glaire, Eve eagerly speaking to her companion, and becoming so earnest in her pleading words for her cousin, that she laid one little hand on the vicar's arm.

"You will like him when you come to know him, Mr Selwood," she was saying, in her earnest endeavour that Richard should be well thought of by everybody. "Poor boy, he has been so annoyed and worried over the strike, that he is not like the same. It is enough to make him cross and low-spirited, is it not?"

"Indeed it is," said the vicar, quietly; "and you may be quite at rest with respect to your cousin, for he will, for he will always find a friend in me."

He had been about to say, "for your sake," but a glance at the sweet, candid face arrested his words, and he told himself that anything that would in the slightest degree tend to disturb her pure faith and belief in the man who was to be her husband would be cruelty, for there was the hope that her gentle winning ways and innocent heart would be the means of influencing Richard Glaire, and making him a better man.

"Hallo, you two!" made them start, as Richard leaped over the stile, and seemed surprised to find that neither of them looked startled or troubled at his sudden apparition. "Here, Eve, take my arm. I'm going home."

"Thank you, Dick," she said, quietly. "I have something to carry."

He scowled and relapsed into a moody silence, which no efforts on the vicar's part could break. Fortunately, the distance back to the town was very short, and so he parted from them at the foot of the High street, the rest of the distance being occupied by Richard in a torrent of abuse of Eve, and invectives against the vicar, whom he characterised as a beggarly meddling upstart, and ended by sending the girl up to her room in tears.

Volume 2, Chapter II.

AN EVENTFUL WALK.

Richard Glaire made the most of his short time for scolding, and sulked to a great extent with his cousin for the next few days, and then the tables were turned, for it came to pass one evening that all being bright and as beautiful without, as it was dull and cheerless within, Eve proposed to her aunt that they should take a walk as far as Ranby Wood.

"Do you expect to meet Mr Selwood, Eve?" said Mrs Glaire, rather bitterly.

The bitterness, was, however, unnoticed by Eve, who replied quietly--

"Oh no, aunt dear. I don't think there is the slightest chance of that; for don't you remember he said he was going to dine with Doctor Purley?"

"To be sure, yes; I had forgotten," said Mrs Glaire, somewhat relieved; though had she been asked she would have been puzzled to say why.

The result was that they started, leaving the town, crossing the little hill, and reaching the pleasant paths of the wood where the lichened trunks of the old oak trees were turned to russet gold in the setting sunshine, and all above seemed so peaceful and beautiful that the tears rose to Mrs Glaire's eyes, and she sat down upon a fallen trunk, thinking of how beautiful the world was, and how it was marred by man, through whom came the major part of the troubles that annoyed them.

"What's that?" she exclaimed, hastily, as voices in angry contention approached.

"I don't know, aunt," said Eve, half rising in alarm. "Let's go."

"No one will interfere with us, child," said Mrs Glaire, restraining her. "It's Squire Gray's keeper and young Maine," she continued. "Why are they quarrelling?"

"I think I know, aunt," said Eve, in an agitated voice. "Oh, surely they don't mean to fight. It is about Jessie Bultitude: for Brough, the keeper, is always going to the farm with excuses, and it annoys John Maine."

It was very evident, though, that they were going to fight, for just then the keeper, a great black-whiskered fellow in velveteens and gaiters, exclaimed--

"Well, look here, I'll show you whether you've a raight to come across here. I 'ain't forgot about the rabbits."

As he spoke he began to strip off his coat, and his companion, a rather good-looking young fellow, whose face was flushed with passion, seemed disposed to imitate his example, when he caught sight of the ladies, and turned of a deeper red.

The keeper too resumed his coat, and whistling to his black retriever, who had been showing his teeth, and seemed disposed to join in the fray, he turned off into a side path and disappeared.

"Oh, John Maine!" exclaimed Eve, reproachfully, "what would Jessie think if she saw you quarrelling with that man?"

"Beg pardon, Miss, I'm sure," said the young man, pulling off his felt hat. "It was no seeking of mine. He's always trying to pick a quarrel with me. He is, indeed, Mrs Glaire; and he won't be happy till he's been well thrashed. But hadn't you ladies--I mean--I beg your pardon, Miss Eve--hadn't you better go back out of the wood?"

"No, thank you, John," said Eve, smiling at the young man's confusion. "We have only just come."

"But it is getting damp, Miss," said the young fellow, who was foreman at Bultitude's farm.

"You didn't think it was damp the other night, John, when you were up here in the wood with Jessie."

"No, Miss, very true," said the young man; "but perhaps Thomas Brough will come back."

"Then," said Mrs Glaire, quietly, "I should advise you to go back home at once, John."

"Well, if you will have it, you will," muttered the young man. "I did my best to stop it;" and with a rough salutation he went on his way.

"Eve, my dear, I should not go too often to Bultitude's," said Mrs Glaire. "Jessie is very well, but she is rather below the station you are to take, and--quick--here, come away--this way."

She started up, and tried to drag Eve away, but she was too late; and her efforts to prevent the scene down the glade before them being seen by her young companion were in vain. For there, plainly visible in the golden glow, and framed as it were in the bower-like hazels, stood, with their backs to them, Richard Glaire and Daisy Banks.

The young couple were as motionless as those who gazed, for in an impetuous angry way, Eve had snatched herself free, and stood looking down the glade, while Mrs Glaire seemed petrified.

The next moment though, just as she was about to whisper hastily to Eve something about an accidental meeting, they saw Richard pass his arm round Daisy, who, nothing loth, allowed the embrace, and then as his lips sought hers, she threw her arms round his neck and responded to his caress.

It was a long cooing kiss, and it might have been longer, but as Richard Glaire drew Daisy closer to him, he slightly changed his position, and raising his eyes from the pretty flushed face he saw that they were observed, and started back with an oath.

Daisy turned wonderingly, and then, seeing who was watching them, she uttered a faint cry, and ran off swiftly down the mossy pathway, while, after hesitating whether he should follow her or not, and with a red spot of shame burning in each cheek, Dick took out his case, chose a cigar, nibbled off the end with an affectation of nonchalance, and striking a light, began to smoke.

"I shan't turn tail," he muttered. "I'm my own master, and I shall face it out."

"Oh aunt, aunt, aunt!" moaned Eve; "is that true?"

"True! yes," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, in a low, angry voice.

"But Dick cannot--Oh aunt, aunt, take me home--take me home."

Poor Eve turned aside, sobbing bitterly, and covered her face with her hands to hide the hateful sight; but in vain, for there, as it were, standing out clear and bright before her, was Daisy Banks, with her soft, round little face and pouting lips, turned up to receive Richard Glaire's kisses; and to her it seemed so horrible, so impossible, that she could not believe it true. It came upon her like a sudden shock, and she was stunned; for with all Richard's ill-humour and extravagance, she could never believe him anything but true and honourable, and in her simple, trusting way, she asked herself if it was possible that there was a mistake.

"Give me your hand, child," said Mrs Glaire, in a low, constrained voice; and catching that of Eve, with almost angry force; she led her on to where her son leaned nonchalantly against a tree, watching their coming.

The wood was now flooded with the rich golden sunset light, and every leaf and twig seemed turned to ruddy gold, while Dick, her young hero, the man she loved, and who was to be her husband, seemed to Eve, seen through a veil of tears, more handsome than ever she had seen him before.

And he did not love her! His love was given to Daisy Banks! Oh, no, she told herself; it was not true--it was some mistake; and with her breath coming in sobs, and her heart beating rapidly, she clung to her aunt's hand as they approached.

Mrs Glaire stopped short when they reached the tree, and speaking in a very cold, contemptuous way, she raised her one hand at liberty, and pointing in the direction in which one of the two actors in the little comedy had fled, she said--

"Is this my son Richard?"

"No," said Dick, with a forced laugh, and with a display of effrontery far from in keeping with his abject looks, "No--that was Daisy Banks."

"I say, is this my son?" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, speaking in the same cold measured way.

"I suppose so," said Dick, contemptuously. "There, don't make a bother out here in the wood;" and he half-turned away to gaze up towards where a thrush was loudly singing its farewell to the day.

"I say is this my son?" reiterated Mrs Glaire, "who promised me upon his word of honour as a gentleman that he would see Daisy Banks no more."

"Oh aunt," cried Eve, with almost a shriek of pain, as these words were to her like the lifting of a veil, "did you know of this?"

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, sternly, "I knew, my child, that he was playing false to you, and that he was often seeing this miserable girl."

"There, let her alone," said Richard, defiantly.

"I knew it, Eve," continued Mrs Glaire, speaking with suppressed anger; "but on my remonstrating, he promised me that it should all be at an end, and for the time, like a weak, foolish mother, I believed in his honour as a gentleman, and that he would keep his word to me and be faithful to you. You see how he keeps his word."

"There, that'll do," cried Richard, defiantly. "I'm not going to be bullied. I like the girl, and shall marry her if I choose."

"Liar! Coward!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire. "You would not marry her: but break the miserable girl's heart, as you would break that of your cousin, if I would stand by and see you do the wrong."

"Oh no, no, no, aunt--aunt--pray don't," sobbed Eve, interposing. "You are hard upon dear Dick, aunt. He does not care for her: it is some mistake. He cannot care for her. It is Daisy's doing; the wicked girl has led him away. Dick, dear Dick, tell me, tell me, you don't love her, that--that--Oh, Dick, it can't--it can't be true."

She threw herself sobbing on his breast, but with a degree of force, hardly to be expected from her, Mrs Glaire drew Eve away and stood between them.

"No," she exclaimed, "he shall not touch you; he shall never touch you again till this disgrace is wiped away, and he has shown himself in some way worthy of your love; for I will not stand by and see your future blasted by the action of a son who has proved himself a scoundrel."

"Look here, mother," cried Richard, hotly, "I'm not going to stand all this. You want me to marry Eve, and I shall marry her some day; but if I choose to be a bit gay first I shall. I'm my own master and shall do as I like."

"Worse and worse!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, whose voice was now an angry whisper. "Not one blush of shame--not one word of sorrow or humility before the pure, sweet, forgiving girl, whose feelings you have outraged. I ask myself again--as I could almost say, thank God your father is not alive to know it!--is this my son?"

"There, confound your heroics!" exclaimed Richard, impatiently.

"You say I want you to marry Eve, and that some day you will," continued Mrs Glaire. "Disabuse your mind, Richard, for I do not wish you to many Eve, and marry her you shall not."

"There, that'll do," cried Richard; "I've had enough of this. Here, come along with me, Evey. I'll walk home with you and explain all."

He tried to take Eve's hand, to draw through his arm, but she drew back from him, looking cold and pale, while her eyes dilated, and she shuddered slightly.

"Here, walk home with me, you little silly," he continued.

"No--no--no," said Eve, slowly, as she turned from him, and clinging to Mrs Glaire's arm, she hid her face upon her aunt's shoulder, as in those few moments her girlhood's innocent belief and trust in her cousin passed away, and with the eyes of a woman she for the first time saw him in his true character.

"As you like," said Richard, flippantly, and assuming an injured tone. "You'll be sorry for this."

No one answered him, for Mrs Glaire drew Eve's arm through hers, and without a word they walked hastily home.

"Damn it all!" exclaimed Richard, taking the cigar from his mouth, and throwing it impatiently down. "How cursedly unlucky. Well, I don't care: they must have known it some day. Evey will soon forget it all, and I shall easily get round the old woman with a bit of coaxing. Now where's little Daisy?"

He walked hastily down the path by which she had fled, knowing only too well that it led farther into the wood, and feeling sure that he should find her waiting for him to join her.

He was quite right, for before long he came upon her, sitting down and crying as though her heart would break.

"Hallo! little pet," he cried; and she started up in a frightened way at his words, "what have you got to cry about? I'm the one that ought to bellow. See what a wigging I've had."

"Oh, Mr Richard!" sobbed Daisy.

"There, _Mister_ Richard again," he cried, catching her in his arms.

"Then Dick, dear Dick, there must be no more of this, I shall never be able to hold my face up in the place again."

"Stuff!" he cried, "come along."

"No, no," she sobbed. "I'm going straight home now."

"Just as you like," he said, cavalierly, and he took out his cigar-case.

"Don't be angry with me, Dick, please; for I'm so unhappy," sobbed the girl.

"You've got nothing to be unhappy about, I'm sure," he said. "It's only what, I told you. The old woman won't stand it, and we shall have to make a bolt. You see it now yourself."

"Ah, but father--mother, Dick."

"They'll soon come round, like my old lady will."

"But I couldn't go, Dick, dear Dick. Do pray speak to father."

"Not I," said the young fellow, coolly.

"Then let me, pray let me."

"No, nor I shan't let you do that neither. He won't mind; and I'm not going to be talked to and patted on the back and that sort of stuff. If you love me as you say you do, you'll listen to what I say."

Daisy looked at him uneasily, and then turned away her face, sobbing to herself, "Oh, dear."

"Now then," continued Dick, "let's finish our walk."

"No, no," sobbed Daisy, "I must go back home now."

"Not yet you won't," he said, angrily.

"But indeed, indeed I must, Dick, dear Dick. Pray don't speak crossly to me."

"You get worse and worse," he said. "There's always some silly excuse ready."

"But I must--indeed I must go home now, Dick," cried Daisy, imploringly.

"And I say you shan't yet," said the young man, half angrily, half laughing; and then--"Curse it--there's that Tom Podmore again, with young Maine. Did you know he was coming?"

"No, no: indeed no," cried the girl, reproachfully.

"He's always watching us," cried Richard, and catching Daisy's arm, he walked with her rapidly down a path leading to one of the outlets of the wood, where they parted, Daisy hurrying home to be received with a quiet nod by her father, who was just going out, while her mother looked at her curiously as she went to take off her things.

Volume 2, Chapter III.

BANKS'S OBSTINACY.

Joe Banks made his way straight through the place to the big house, where, on knocking at the front door, it was evident that he was expected, the girl saying quietly--

"Missus will see you in her room, Mr Banks."

"All raight, my lass," said Joe; and he followed the girl into a little room off the hall, where the walls were ornamented with maps and patterns, and shelves bearing rough account books, while here and there stood a dingy-looking wooden model of some piece of machinery.

"Evening, mum," said Joe, quietly. "I've come, as you sent for me; but it ain't no use. Things are just where they weer, and unless Master Dick comes down, the works will keep shut."

"I didn't send for you about that," said Mrs Glaire, hastily.

"No!" said Joe, quietly.

"No," said Mrs Glaire, clearing her throat and speaking rather excitedly. "You know I spoke to you once before, Joe Banks, about-- about--"

"There, don't beat about, Missus," said Joe, with a happy smile spreading over his countenance. "I know, about Master Dick and my Daisy."

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, "and I spoke to my son about it."

"Did you?" chuckled Joe. "Well, I never spoke a word to my gal."

"I spoke to my son," continued Mrs Glaire, "and pointed out the impossibility and impropriety of his proceedings."

"Did you, though?" chuckled Joe. "Why, lor' a mercy, Missus, what's the good o' being so proud? Flesh and blood's flesh and blood all the world over."

"I talked to him earnestly upon the point," said Mrs Glaire, not heeding the interruption.

"Theer, theer," said Joe, smiling. "What good was it? why did you do it?"

"And my son saw the force of my remarks, and gave me his promise that he would see Daisy no more."

"Ah, he did, did he?" chuckled Joe. "He promised you that?"

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, angrily; "and he has broken his promise."

"Of course he has," said Joe, chuckling. "You might ha' known it. When a young couple like them comes together, it's no use for the old uns to try and stop it. They'll manage it somehow. They're sure to be too many for you."

"Joe Banks, you put me out of patience," cried Mrs Glaire, angrily. "Can you not see how important this matter is?"

"Important? Of course I do," said Joe, quietly, "a very important step for both of 'em."

"Listen!" cried Mrs Glaire; "things are coming to a crisis, and for your sake they must be stopped."

"Strikes me," said Joe, bluntly, "that you're thinking a vast more of yourself, Missus Glaire, than of me."

"I'm thinking of the future of my son and of your daughter, Mr Banks," said Mrs Glaire.

"So am I," said Joe, quietly; "but you're so proud."

"I tell you, man, that I met them this evening together in the wood," cried Mrs Glaire. "My son, with Daisy, your child, in his arms."

"Ah, you did, did you, Missus?" said Joe, chuckling. "He was kissing of her, I suppose."

"Yes," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, indignantly.

"Well, I thought as much," said Joe, quietly. "The lass had got a rare red face when I met her as she come in."

"Do you hear what I say?" cried Mrs Glaire angrily. "I say I saw them to-night in the wood, after he had promised me to give her up."

"Oh, yes," said Joe, in a calm, unruffled way, "I heard you say so, and if you'd been in the wood every day for the past month, I'd bet you'd ha' sin 'em. They're often theer."

"Joe Banks!" cried Mrs Glaire, half rising from her chair.

"Theer, theer, Missus, what's the good o' making a fuss, and being so proud? I've give my Daisy a good eddication, and she's quite a scholard. She can write as pretty a letter as any one need wish to see, and keeps accounts beautiful."

"Joe Banks, you are blind," cried Mrs Glaire, passionately. "I want to save your child from shame, and you--"

"Howd hard theer--howd hard theer, Missus," cried Joe, rising; and his rugged face flushed up. "I respect you, Missus Glaire, like a man, and I don't wonder as it touches your pride a bit, but I won't sit here and hear you talk like that theer. My Daisy's as good and honest a girl as ever stepped, and I'd troost her anywheers; while, as to your son, he's arbitrary, but you've browt him up as a gentleman, and do you think I'm going to believe he means harm by my darling? No, no, I know better."

"But, you foolish man--"

"Missus Glaire, I won't call you a foolish woman; I've too much respect for you; but I think so, and I think as it isn't me as is blind, but some one else. Theer, theer, what's the good of kicking again it. They've made up their minds to come together, and you may just as well let 'em by the gainest coot, as send 'em a long ways round. But, theer, Missus, don't think like that of your own flesh and blood. Why, Missus, am I to respect your son more than you do yoursen?"

"Dick has deceived me," cried Mrs Glaire, with the tears running down her cheeks.

"Well, but it won't anser," said Joe, calming down. "He's fond o' the lass, and he was standing 'tween her and you," he continued, smiling at his own imagery. "You was pulling one way and she was pulling the other, and young love pulled the strongest. Of course it did, as was very natural."

"Will you send Daisy away, and try and stop it?" cried Mrs Glaire, angrily.

"No, I won't do neither," said Joe, stoutly. "Why should I? What call is there for me to go again my master and make my lass miserable, because you think she ain't good enough for your boy?"

"Then I must act, Joe Banks," said Mrs Glaire, "for see her he shall not."

"Theer, theer, what can you do?" chuckled Joe. "Better let things go their own way."

"I tell you, man, that for your daughter's sake, you ought to put a stop to this."

"I can't stop it," said Joe, smiling; "nor no one else. You tried, and found you couldn't, so what could I do? Let 'em alone, and my Daisy shan't disgrace you; and look here, if it's money, I've got a thousand pounds saved up, and it's all hers. Theer!"

"Man, man, what can I say to you?" said Mrs Glaire, checkmated by the obstinate faith of Banks in her son.

"Nowt," said Joe, sturdily; "what's the good o' talking? Take my advice, Missus Glaire--let things bide."

Mrs Glaire wrung her hands in despair as she gazed enviously in the frank, bluff workman's face, and wished that she could feel the same calm trust in the boy who had been her sole thought for so many years, and as she gazed Joe Banks said sturdily:

"Look here, Missus, no offence meant; but they do say as marriages is made in heaven."

"Yes, Joe, marriages," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, passionately.

"Well, I weer a-talking about marriages," said Joe, quietly; "so you take my advice and let things bide."

"You will not take my advice, Banks," exclaimed Mrs Glaire. "But, look here, I have warned you, I have begged of you to help me, and you refuse."

"O' course I do," said Joe Banks, sturdily. "I'm not going to fight again my own flesh and blood on a question o' position. Look here," he continued, now speaking angrily, "I never was jealous of my old master's rise in life, and I stuck to him and helped him, and he made me promise to stick by and help his son; and that I'm going to do, for I don't believe if he'd been alive he'd ha' been owt but pleased to see his boy make up to my gal. It ain't my seeking: it's Master Dick's. He loves she, and she loves he, and before I'll step 'twixt 'em, and say as one workman's son's too big for the other workman's daughter, I'll be--. No, I won't, not before you, Missus; and now good night, and I wish the strike well ended."

Joe Banks swung out of the room with all the sturdy independence of a man with a thousand pounds of his own, and then made his way home, while Mrs Glaire sat as it were stunned.

"What can I do? What can I do?" she muttered; and then sat thinking till Eve, looking very pale and ill, walked softly into the room, and knelt by her side, turning up her sad face and red eyes to those of the troubled mother.

"Aunt, dear," she whispered, "Dick has just come in, and gone up to his room. Shall we ask him to come down to us?"

"What for?" said Mrs Glaire sharply.

"Don't you think, Aunt, we ought to try and forgive him, and win him back?"

Mrs Glaire rose slowly, and went to a side table, from which she took a Prayer-book, and read from it the sentence beginning, "I will arise," to the end; and then, laying down the book, she took Eve's head between her hands, and kissed her white forehead gently.

"Eve, my child, yes, we ought to try and forgive him; I, for his cruel deceit of the woman who gave him birth; you, for his outrage against the woman who was to be his wife. I will forgive him, but he must come--he must arise and come, and seek for pardon first. While you--"

"Oh, Aunt, Aunt," moaned Eve, hiding her face in the elder's breast, "I never knew before how much I loved him."

"And you forgive him, child?"

"Yes, Aunt, I forgive," said Eve, raising her head, and looking sadly in the elder woman's face, "I forgive him, but--"

"But what, my child?"

"All that is past now--for ever."

Mrs Glaire did not speak for a few moments, but stood holding her niece's hand, looking straight away from her into vacancy, while from above there floated slowly down and entered the room the penetrating fumes of the cigar Dick was smoking in his bedroom, as with his heels upon the table, and a glass of spirits and water by his side, he amused himself by reading a French novel, growling every now and then as he came across some idiom or local phrase which he could not make out, and apparently quite oblivious of the fact that three women were making themselves wretched on his behalf.

Suddenly a low whistle was heard, and Mrs Glaire started.

"What was that?" she exclaimed.

Eve made no reply, but the two women remained listening, while it seemed to them that the sound had also been heard by Dick, who apparently crossed the room, and opened his window.

"He has gone to see what it means," said Mrs Glaire in a whisper. "I hope the strike people are not out."

Her head was running upon certain proceedings that had taken place many years before, during her husband's lifetime, when they had literally been besieged; but her alarm was unnecessary, for had she been in her son's bedroom, she would have seen that worthy open his window and utter a low cough, with the result that Sim Slee threw up a note attached to a stone, which the young man glanced at, and then said, "All right; no answer," and Slee went quickly off.

Richard opened the note, glanced through it, and read passages half aloud.

"H'm, h'm. So sorry to leave you as I did.--Heart very sore.--Oughtn't to meet like that any more.--Pray let her tell father.--They would soon agree if all known.--Will not come any more to be deceitful."

"Won't you, my dear?" said Dick, aloud. "We'll see about that. I think I can turn you round my finger now, Miss Daisy. If not I'm very much mistaken. But we'll see."

He finished the note by twisting it up and using it to re-light his cigar, which he sat smoking, and listening as at last he heard his mother and Eve pass his room on their way to bed--the former for the first time in his life, without saying "Good night" to her son.

Volume 2, Chapter IV.

JOHN MAINE'S HEADACHE.

"Hallo, Johnny!"

"What, my lively boy."

"Look at his velveteens."

"And a silk hankercher too. Arn't he tip top?"

"Arn't you down glad to see your old mates again, Johnny?"

"Course he is; look at the tears in his eyes."

"Hey, mun, why don't you say you're glad to see us?"

"And why don't you speak?"

"Because," said John Maine, speaking slowly, as he stopped leaning on his thick staff in the middle of the road, "I'm not glad to see you, and I don't want to speak."

He looked very stern and uncompromising this young man, half bailiff, half farm servant in appearance, as he stood there in the lane, about a mile from Joe Banks's house, and facing the men who had kept up the conversational duet, for they were about as ill-looking a pair of scoundrels as a traveller was likely to meet in a day's march.

The elder of the two carried a common whip, and wore a long garment, half jacket, half vest in appearance, inasmuch as it was backed and sleeved with greasy fustian, and faced with greasy scarlet and purple plush, hanging low over his tightly-fitting cord trousers, buttoned at the ankles over heavy boots, while his head was covered with a ragged fur cap.

The younger man, whose hair was very short, wore the ordinary smock-frock euphoniously termed a "cow-gown," but as he was journeying, it was tucked up round his hips. This, with his soft wide-awake, and heavy unlaced boots, was bucolic enough, but there the rustic aspect ceased, for his face was sallow; he had a slovenly tied cotton handkerchief round his neck; and as he smoked a dirty, short clay pipe, he had more the aspect of a Whitechapel or Sheffield rough than the ordinary farming man of the country.

Taking them together, they seemed to be men who could manage a piece of horse-stealing, poach, rob a hen-roost, or pay a visit night or day to any unprotected house; and if "gaol" was not stamped legibly on each face, it was because nature could not write it any plainer than she had.

"He's gotten high in the instep, Ike," said the last man; "and what's he got to be proud on?"

"Ah, to be sure, what's he got to be proud on?" chuckled the other. "He wasn't always a stuck up one, was he?"

"I say, Johnny," said the first speaker, "keep that dog o' yourn away wilt ta, or I might give him something as wouldn't do him no good."

"Here, Top, down dog!" said the young man, and a rough-looking dog which had been snuffing round the two strangers showed his teeth a little and then lay down in the dusty road. "I don't want," continued the young man, "to be rough on men I used to know."

"Rough, lad; no, I should think not," said Ike, of the whip; and he gave it a lash, cutting off the heads of some nettles. "I knew he was all raight, Jem."

"I said," continued the young man, "that I didn't want to be surly to men as I used to know, and if you want a shilling or two to help you on the road, here they are. As for me, I've dropped all your work, and taken to getting an honest living."

"Oh, ho, ho!" laughed Ike, of the whip, giving it another flick, and making the dog jump. "Dost ta hear that, Jem?"

"Ay, lad, I hear him," said Jem, of the smock-frock, hugging himself as if afraid to lose what he considered particularly good; "I'm hearing of him. But come along, John; we won't be hard on such a honest old boy. Show us the way to the dram-shop, or the nearest public, and we'll talk old times over a gill or two o' yale."

"You are going one way. I'm going the other," said John Maine, uneasily, for just then Tom Podmore passed him, with big Harry, both of whom stared hard, nodded to him, and went on.

"Just hark at him, Ike," said Jem. "He's a strange nice un, he is. Why, I'm so glad to see him that if he goes off that-a-way I shall stop in Dumford and ask all about him, and where he lives and what he's a doing."

John Maine turned cold, while the perspiration stood upon his forehead, for just then Sim Slee came along in the other direction, eyed the party all over, and evidently took mental notes of what he saw.

"What is it you want of me?" said the young man, hoarsely.

"Want, lad?" said Ike; "we don't want nowt of him, do we, Jem? We're only so glad to see an old mate again, that we don't know hardly how to bear it."

"That's it, Ike," said Jem. "And don't you think as he's stuck up, mind you. See how glad he is to see his owd mates again. Say, Johnny, `It's my delight of a shiny night,' eh?"

"Hush!" exclaimed John Maine, starting.

"All right," said Jem. "Got a pipe o' 'bacco 'bout you?"

John Maine took a tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and held it out to the speaker, who refilled his dirty pipe, looked the pouch all over, and then transferred it to his pocket.

"Look here, Ike," said the fellow then, "we won't keep Johnny any longer. He's off out courting--going to see his lass. Don't you see the bood in his button-hole. He'll see us again when he comes to look us up, for we shall pitch down in one of the pooblics."

"Raight you are, lad; he'll find us out. Do anything now, Johnny? Ought to be a few hares and fezzans about here. Good-bye, Johnny, lad; give my love to her."

The two men went off laughing and talking, leaving John Maine gazing after them, till they disappeared round a bend of the lane on the way to Dumford, when brushing the perspiration from his face with one hand, he staggered away, kicking up the dust at every step till he reached a stile, upon which he sank down as if the elasticity had been taken out of his muscles. His head went down upon his hands, his elbows upon his knees, and there he remained motionless, with the dog sitting down and watching him intently, after trying by pawing and whining to gain his master's attention.

Neither John Maine nor his ill-looking companions had gone far, before a head and shoulders were raised slowly up over the hedge, so that their owner could peer over and look up and down the lane. The countenance revealed was that of Thomas Brough, the keeper, who had evidently been sitting on the other side, partaking of his rural lunch, or dinner; for as he parted the green growth, to get a better view, it was with a big clasp knife, while his other hand held a lump of bread, ornamented with bacon.

He spoke the next moment with his mouth full, but his words were quite audible as he said--

"I thowt that thar dog would ha' smelt the rat, but a didn't. So I hadn't got you now, Jack Maine, hadn't I? I'm a rogue, am I, Jack? I sold the Squire's rabbuds, did I? and pocketted t' money, did I? Wires, eh? Fezzans and hares, eh? Now, what'll old Bultitude and Miss Jess say to this? I'll just find out what's your little game."

He strode hastily off, parting the hazels, and making a short cut across the copse, while John Maine sat on the stile thinking.

What was he to do--what was he to do? Were all his struggles to be an honest man to be in vain? Yes, he had joined parties in poaching, down about Nottingham, but he had left it all in disgust, and for years he had been trying to be, and had been, an honest man. He had lived here at Dumford four years--had saved money--was respected and trusted--he was old Bultitude's head man; and now these two scoundrels--men who knew of his old life--had found him out, they would expose him, and he should have to go off right away to begin the world afresh.

"I've tried enew; I've tried very hard," he groaned. "I left all that as soon as I saw to what it tended, and knew better; and now, after all this struggle, here is the end."

What was the use? he asked himself; why had he tried? What were honesty and respectability, and respect to such as he, that he should have fought for them so hard, knowing that, sooner or later, it must come to this?

What should he do? The words kept repeating themselves in his brain, and he asked himself again, What?

Suppose he told them all at the farm--laid bare the whole of his early life, how he had found himself as a boy thrown amongst poachers. It had been no fault of his, for he had hated it--loathed it all. Suppose he told Mr Bultitude--what then?

Yes, what then? Old Bultitude would say--"We're all very sorry for you here, but if it got about that I'd kept a regular poacher on my farm, what would the squire say? And what about my lease?" And Tom Brough! Good heavens, if Tom Brough should learn it all!

It was of no use; that man would blast his character gladly, and the end of it all was that he must go!

Yes, but where? Where should he go? Somewhere to work for awhile, and get on, and then live a life of wretchedness, expecting to see some old associate turn up and blast his prospects. No; there was no hope for such as he! All he could do was to join some regiment at Lincoln or Sheffield, enlist--get on foreign service, and be a soldier. A man did not want a character to become a good soldier.

And about Jessie?

His head went lower, and he groaned aloud as this thought flashed across his mind, for his load seemed more than he could bear.

"Anything the matter, John Maine?"

The young man leaped up to find himself face to face with Mr Selwood, whose steps had been inaudible in the dusty road, and John Maine's thoughts had been too much taken up for him to notice the whine of recognition by the dog, who had leaped up and ran forward to welcome the vicar.

"Bit of a headache, sir, bad headache--this heat, sir," stammered the young man.

"Liver out of order--liver--not a doubt about it," said the vicar. "What a strange thing it is nature couldn't make a man without a liver and save him all his sufferings from bile. Come along with me to the Vicarage. I'm getting in order there now, and I'll doctor you, and go and tell Mr Purley myself that I've been poaching on his preserves. Why, what's the matter, man?"

John Maine had started as if stung at certain of his latter words.

"Bit giddy, sir; strange and bad now it's come on," he stammered.

"That's right; you're better now. Sitting with your head down. I'll doctor you--no secrets: tincture of rhubarb, citrate of magnesia, and a little brandy. I'll soon set you right. You mustn't be ill. This is cricket night, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir; but they haven't played since the strike."

"Perhaps they will to-night, and I shall come to the field. Well, come along."

"But really, sir--I--that is--"

"Now look here, John Maine, I'm the spiritual head of the parish, and you must obey me. I can't help being a man of only your own age--I shall get the better of that. Now if I had been some silver-headed old gentleman, you would have come without a word; so come along. I'll go back. You are decidedly ill--there's no mistake about it."

To John Maine's great surprise, the vicar took his arm, and half led him back towards Dumford, chattering pleasantly the while.

"I met Mr Simeon Slee as I came along, and he cut me dead. He's a very nice man in his way, but I'm afraid he works so hard with his tongue, it takes all the strength out of his arms."

"He's strange and fond o' talking, sir," said John Maine.

"Yes; but words are only words after all, and if they are light and chaffy, they don't grow like good grain. Bad thing this strike in the town, Maine. Lasted a month now."

"Very bad, sir."

"Ah, yes. You agricultural gentlemen don't indulge in those luxuries, and I'm glad to see that the farm people are very sober."

"Yes, sir, 'cept at the stattice and the fair."

"Stattice?" said the vicar, inquiringly.

"Yes, sir, status--statute-hiring, you know, when the servants leave. They call it `pag-rag' day here."

"Ha, do they?" said the vicar; "well, I suppose I shall learn all in time. What may `pag-rag' mean?"

"They call it so here, sir," said the young man, smiling. "They say a man pags a sack on his back, and I suppose it means they carry off their clothes then."

"I see," said the vicar; "and you have some strange characters about at such times? By the way, I saw a nice respectable couple turn in at the Bull and Cucumber, as I came by. They'd got poacher stamped on their faces plainly.--Head bad?"

"Sudden stab, sir, that's all," said John Maine, holding his hands to his head and shuddering.

"Ah, you must go back and lie down as soon as I have done with you, or else I must find you a sofa for an hour. We'll see how you are. Perhaps we'll walk home together."

"No, no, sir, I shall be all right directly. Don't do that, sir. Mr Bultitude--"

"Mr Bultitude has too much respect for you, John Maine, to let you go about in a state of suffering; so just hold your tongue, sir, for you're my patient."

A few minutes after he laid his hand on the gate, with the effect of making Jacky Budd start up from his seat on the bottom of a large flower-pot, and begin vigorously hoeing at some vegetables in the now trim garden.

The vicar saw him and laughed to himself, as he led the way up to the door, glancing up the street as he did so, and seeing, with a feeling of uneasiness, that there were knots of men standing about in conversation, as if discussing some important subject.

The door stood wide open, as if inviting entrance, and flowers were now blooming in profusion on every side, for what with the rough work of Tom Podmore and Big Harry, supplemented by the efforts of Jacky Budd and the parson himself, the garden was what the sexton called a "pictur."

"Come in here, Maine," said the vicar, opening the door of his study; and the young man followed, peering round as he did so, for this was his first visit to the vicar's dwelling, and the result of a month's residence was shown in the change that had come over the place.

But at the end of the first fortnight, one of Mr Bultitude's waggons had been run down to the station three times to fetch "parson's traps," and "parson's traps" were visible on all sides, the Reverend Murray Selwood being, to use his own words, "rather cursed with wealth."

The place was now the _beau ideal_ of a well-to-do bachelor's home. The low-roofed entrance-hall was bright with oak furniture, quaint china, trophies of old arms, and savage weapons, with flowers, for the most part sent by Mrs Glaire, placed wherever there was light and sunshine for them to break up into long sheaves on the clean stone floor. Through an open door could be seen the dining-room, whose oaken sideboard was half covered with massive plate, college cups, and trophies won by muscular arms and legs guided by a clear-thinking and solid brain; but the study itself took John Maine's attention, with its cases full of books, great bronze clock, and vases on the mantelpiece, with statuettes on brackets.

There were traces of the owner's polished taste in every direction, but at the same time samples of his love of out-door sports. For instance, in one corner there stood a polished canoe-paddle with a fascine of fishing-rods; in another corner a gun-case and a couple of cricket-bats; lying on a side-table, its handle carefully bound with string, was about the biggest croquet mallet that ever drove ball over a velvet lawn. A half-written sermon lay on the writing-table, and by it a cigar-box; while on the chimney-piece and in brackets were pipes, from the humble clay, through briars, to the tinted brown meerschaum with its amber tube. The greatest incongruity in the place, however, seeing that it was the snuggery of a man of peace, was a trophy of single-sticks, foils, masks and gloves, crossed by a couple of bows, in front of which were a sheaf of arrows and two pairs of boxing-gloves.

"Looking at the gloves, Maine?" said the vicar, smiling. "Ah, I used to be a bit of a don with those at one time. You and I will put them on together some day. Just touch that bell."

John Maine obeyed, while the young vicar found his keys, and opened a cabinet which was in two compartments, the one displaying a regular array of medicines, the other spirits, wine, and glasses.

"Bring in some water, Mrs Slee," said the vicar.

"And a sponge and a rag and the ragjack oil?" said Mrs Slee, eagerly.

"No, Mrs Slee. It's medicine, not surgery to-day;" and the woman backed out, looking a little less angular and sad than a few weeks before.

"I'm a regular quack, Maine, you see," said the vicar, smiling, as he poured into a great soda-water glass a certain quantity of tincture, added to it a couple of table-spoonfuls of brandy, and so much granulated magnesia, to which, when Mrs Slee returned, he poured about half a pint of pure cold well water. "There's a dose for you, my man," he said, as he passed it to John Maine, "that will set you right in an hour. Now, Mrs Slee, any one been?"

"Yes, Bulger's girl's been here with a bottle for some wine," said Mrs Slee shortly, for "sir" and a respectful tone were still strangers to her tongue.

"Bring the bottle in. Any one else?"

"Maidens's boy says you promised his mother some tea."

"So I did," said the vicar, opening a large canister, from which he took a packet which scented the room with its fragrance. "There it is. Now then, who else?"

"Old Mumby's wife has come for some more wine."

"Then she'll go back without it, Mrs Slee. Do you see that," he continued, giving her a strange look; "that's the peculiar sign that used to be in vogue amongst the ancients. That's the gnostic wink, Mrs Slee, and means too much. I won't send a spoonful. That wicked old woman drank every drop of the last herself, Mrs Slee, I'll make affidavit. She wouldn't stir across the room to wait on her poor old husband, and yet she'll come nearly a mile to fetch that wine. I'll take it myself, and give it the poor old boy, and see him drink it before I come away. Tell her I'll bring it down, Mrs Slee; but don't say I called her a wicked old woman."

"Oh, I'm not going to chatter. Do you think I should be such a ghipes?" said Mrs Slee, rudely.

"Not knowing what a ghipes is, I cannot say, Mrs Slee," said the vicar; "but you are not perfect, Mrs Slee--not perfect. Soup. You have that last soup on your conscience!"

"Well, I'm sure I should ha' been glad on a few not long back, and it was quite good enew to gie away to people."

"And I'm sure it was not, Mrs Slee: the poor people are hungry, and want food. This strike's a terrible thing."

"Then they shouldn't strike," growled Mrs Slee.