Chapter VII: Part 7

"I quite agree with you, Mrs Slee, so I don't give soup to the men who did strike; but the women and children did not strike, and if you knew what it was to be hungry--I beg your pardon, Mrs Slee," he added hastily, as he saw his housekeeper flush up. "There, I did not think. But this soup. We had a capital French cook at my college, and he gave me lessons. I'm a capital judge of soup, and I'll taste the fresh. Bring me in a basin, and send these people away."

Mrs Slee muttered and went out, looking rather ungracious, and the vicar turned to his guest, who was fidgetting about and seemed rather uneasy.

"I'm rather proud of our soup here at the vicarage--broth, the people call it," said the vicar.

"I've heerd tell of it, sir," said John Maine, who wanted to go.

"But I have hard work to keep the water out. I always tell Mrs Slee that the people can add as much of that as they like. But, I say, Maine, there's something wrong with you!"

"Oh, no, sir; nothing at all, sir; but it's time I was going, sir, if you'll excuse me."

"Well, well, good-bye, Maine. I hope," he added significantly, "your head will be better. Mind this, though, I'm not one of the confessional parsons, and insist upon no man's confidence; but bear this in mind, I look upon myself as the trusted, confidential friend of every man in the parish. I shall be over your way soon."

"Thank you kindly, sir," said Maine. "I know you do," and, backing out, the next moment he was gone.

"Strange young man that--strange people altogether," said the vicar. "Oh, here's the soup."

For just then Mrs Slee bustled in with a napkin-covered tray, bearing a basin and spoon, the former emitting clouds of steam.

The vicar took the basin, sat down, stirred it, smelt it, tasted it, and replaced the spoon, while Mrs Slee watched his face eagerly.

"Wants another pinch of salt, and another dash of pepper. Fetch them, Mrs Slee, and some bread."

Mrs Slee, looking as ungracious as ever, but with an eagerness which she could not conceal, hurried out to return with the required articles, when more salt was added and a dash of pepper. Then a slice of bread was cut from the home-made loaf, and the vicar tasted--tasted again, and then, in the calmest and most unperturbed manner possible, went on partaking of the soup, every mouthful being watched with intense eagerness by the woman waiting for his judgment.

"Capital soup this, Mrs Slee; capital brew!"

Mrs Slee did not smile, as the vicar diligently hunted the last grains of rice in the bottom of the basin with his spoon, but she gave a sigh of satisfaction.

"This will go off like a shot. How much have you got of it? Almost equal to our soup at Boanerges."

"There's about sixty quarts of it, sir."

"Sixty? Not half enough. You'll have to start the copper again directly, Mrs Slee. Ah, by the way, Bailey will bring two hundred loaves this evening, and we'll give them away with the soup in the morning."

"Two hundred loaves!" exclaimed Mrs Slee. "Bless the man, where am I to put them?"

"Oh, we'll stack them in the hall if we can't put them anywhere else, Mrs Slee," said the vicar, laughing. "And let that soup cool. It'll be like jelly in the morning. I'm going to walk over to Bultitude's, and I'll call at the butcher's about the beef."

"But that broth would bear as much watter to it, and that would make twice as much."

"Now, Mrs Slee, I won't have a good thing spoiled," said the vicar. "I don't believe you mind the trouble of making it."

"That I'm sure I don't," said Mrs Slee, sharply; "only you're giving away cartloads of bread and meat, and pailsful of soup to folks as wean't say thank you for it, and laugh at you for your pains."

"They won't laugh at me while they're eating that beautiful soup, Mrs Slee, which does you credit. If they like to laugh afterwards,--well, let them."

"Oh, I don't want no praise for the broth," said Mrs Slee, ungraciously. "You telled me how to mak' it. But I don't like to see you robbing yourself for them as is sure to be ungrateful."

"We won't mind that, Mrs Slee," said the vicar, smiling; "and now I'm going off to Bultitude's, and I'll see if I can't get there this time. By the way, Mrs Slee, I should like a little tureen of that soup for my dinner; it's splendid. And look here, Mrs Slee, if any one comes while I'm out, who needs a little, you can lend a jug, and give some of the soup before it's cold. I'll leave that to you."

Volume 2, Chapter V.

THE VICAR'S SOUP.

"He's a strange good man," said Mrs Slee, grimly, as she watched the vicar down the path; "and he must hev a vast o' money, giving away as he is raight and left. Well, I won't hev him cheated if I can help it, for the more he gives the more he may. Who's yon at the back?"

The last remark was jerked out as a soft tap was heard at the kitchen door, and on going to answer it, there stood Sim Slee.

"Well?"

"Well?"

"Didn't I tell thee as thou needn't come here?" said Mrs Slee. "I thowt you wouldn't darken parson's door again."

"What's that as smells?" said Sim, giving a sniff.

"Soup for them as you and your strike folk have left to pine to dead," snapped Mrs Slee.

"Is that some on it in they pancheons?" said Sim.

"Yes, it is," said his wife, sulkily.

"I heered tell on it," said Sim. "He've been a scrattin about at all the butchers', and buying up weighs of cag mag as they couldn't sell. I saw a basket o' stinking bones come up to the gate, and I heerd at the Bull as he's gotten four beasts' heads promised. Yah! it's a shame as such as him should hev a place like this, and five hundred a year."

"Thou fulsome!" exclaimed Mrs Slee, angrily. "I wean't stand by and hear parson talked about like that."

"All raight," said Sim, sneering; "he's won you ower then. But what hev you gotten to eat?"

"Nowt," said Mrs Slee, shortly.

"Here, just take thee scithers, and coot the dwiny ends off my collar," said Sim, holding up the ragged but scrupulously clean collar of the shirt he wore; and this duty was diligently performed by his wife.

"Some one telled me as the soup meat was covered wi' maddick bees," said Sim, as soon as the task was done.

"Then some one telled thee a lie," said Mrs Slee, sharply.

"Power up a few of it in a basin," said Sim, after examining the broad earthen pans in which the thick soup steamed. "Let's see what sorter stuff the downtrodden serf is to be compelled to eat."

"It isn't good enough for such as thou," said Mrs Slee, sharply.

Sim took up the spoon, and with an air of disgust raised some of the soup and let it drop back, exhaling as it did so a most tantalising odour for a hungry man.

"I just come by Riggall's, the bone-setter's," said Sim; "and he says as he won't hev parson meddling wi' his trade, if doctor does. Why, he tied up Binney Mawtrop's hand as he got in the wheel."

"Yes, and I held a basin and a sponge for him," said Mrs Slee, eyeing her husband. "He owt to hev let him bleed to dead, of course."

"Say, owd lass," said Sim, "is this stuff fit to yeat?"

"Fit to yeat, thou unconditioned fulsome! it ain't fit for thee. Bread and watter's what such shacks as thou ought to hev, and nowt besides."

"Thy tongue's gotten a strange and rough edge to it this morning, moother," said Sim, grinning, and longing to convey the spoon to his mouth, but feeling that it would not be consistent.

"There, sit thee down," said Mrs Slee. "I know what you mean. There, sit down, and don't get theeing and thouing me about. A deal you care for me."

This was in answer to a rough caress, as she bustled about, and got a basinful of the soup for her lord, with a great hunk of bread; and without more ado Sim took his seat.

"Oh, I'm not going to yeat this," he said. "I'm just going to taste what sorter moock he gives the pore out of his bounty."

"Howd thee tongue and eat," said Mrs Slee, contemptuously.

Sim played with the spoon, and splashed the soup about, ending by tasting it and retasting, and then taking some bread and going heartily to work.

"Say, moother," he exclaimed, "it won't do; that's the broth you've been makking for the parson hissen. It ain't to give away."

"That's made o' the meat as the parson went and scratted up from the butcher's, and the baskets o' bones and beasts' heads, and all the rubbish he could get together," said Mrs Slee sourly.

"I'll say it's good soup," said Sim, finishing his basin. "Say, moother, give's another soop."

"He said I was to give some to anybody who wanted," said Mrs Slee; and then, with a grim smile, she refilled his basin, while Sim drew out his handkerchief, spread it on his knees, and polished off the second basin in a very few minutes.

"You can't get me to believe as that soup's going to be gin away," he said as he rose. "That'll be wattered till it's thin as thin. Theer, I'm off again. I've a deal to see to;" and without another word he hurried away.

"Yes, he's gotten his fill," said Mrs Slee, directing a look of contempt after her husband; but as she crossed the kitchen she saw something white under the chair Sim had occupied, and stooping down picked up a note in a very small envelope, whose address she spelled out: "Miss Banks, By hand."

"What's he gotten to do wi' takkin letters to Daisy Banks?" she exclaimed, as a hot feeling of jealousy came upon her for the moment. Then, with a half-laugh she said, "No, no, it ain't that: he's too old and unheppen, and she's ower young and pretty. He's takkin it for some one. Whose writing will it be? He's coming back."

She stopped short, hearing a step, and darted out of the kitchen just as Sim came softly up, peered in and looked eagerly about the floor and under the table.

"Mebbe I've dropped it somewheers else," he muttered, starting off again, while Mrs Slee had another good look at the letter, and ended by depositing it in her bosom.

"I'll give it to parson," she said at last, and then resumed her work.

Meanwhile, Murray Selwood was retracing his steps on the way to Bultitude's farm, but before he reached the place he came upon John Maine once more, looking eagerly across the fields.

"Well, Maine, how's the head?" said the vicar, making the young man start, for the grass had deadened his tread. "What can you see--game?"

"I'm afraid it is, sir," said the young man, bluntly--"the sportsman and the hare."

"H'm!" ejaculated the vicar, as he caught sight of two figures on the hill-side, far distant; but the day was so beautifully clear that he could make out Richard Glaire and a companion. "Mr Glaire and his cousin?" he said hastily.

"No, sir," said the young man, quietly, "that's what it ought to be. It's Mr Richard Glaire and one of the town girls. I think it's Daisy Banks. Do you know him well, sir?"

"Yes, pretty well," said the vicar, eyeing the young man's saddened face intently.

"Well, sir, it's no business of mine," said the young fellow; "but if I was a friend of Mr Richard Glaire, I should tell him to keep at home, and not do that; for the men are getting hot again him, and he may fall into trouble."

"John Maine, if any violence is intended against Mr Glaire," said the vicar, "I wish you to tell me at once."

"I don't know of any, sir," said Maine, "only Tom Podmore's dreadfully put out about Daisy Banks, and the strike people are growing more bitter every day. If I do hear of anything, sir, I'll tell you."

They came directly upon old Bultitude, looking bluff and ruddy in his velveteens and gaiters.

"Ah, parson, fine day! how are you? What's the matter?"

"Well, Maine here isn't well," said the vicar.

"What's wrong, lad? Why, thou said'st nowt when you came in a bit ago."

"Oh, it's nothing, sir, nothing," said John Maine, hastily.

"Let him go and lie down for an hour," said the vicar, looking at the young man's ghastly face.

"Not got fever, hev you, my lad?" said the old gentleman kindly, as they walked up to the house. "Here, Jess, pull down the blinds in the far room, and let John Maine come and lie down a bit theer."

At his summons, Jessie's young, pleasant face appeared at the window. It had no more pretensions to beauty than a pair of soft, dark eyes, and a bright, rosy colour, and the eyes looked very wistfully at John Maine, who now made an effort.

"No, no, sir," he said. "I won't lie down. I'll get to work again; there's nothing like forgetting pain."

"Well, perhaps you're right, Maine," said the vicar. "Well, Mr Bultitude, we don't get over our strike."

"Parson, it makes me wild," said the old man. "I can't bear it, and I shall be glad--strange and glad to see it over; for I hate to see a pack of men standing about the town doing o' nowt. Can't you do owt wi' the works people?"

The vicar shook his head. "I've tried both ways--hard," he said; "master and men, but no good comes of it."

While this conversation was going on, Jessie had stepped anxiously forward, and laid her hand upon John Maine's arm.

"Is anything serious the matter, John?" she said anxiously. "Are you very ill?"

He started when she touched him as if he had been stung, and withdrew his arm hastily; and then, without so much as a glance at the girl's earnest, appealing eyes, he turned away and followed the vicar down the path, for he had shaken hands and parted from the farmer.

"I'll see you across the home close, sir," said John Maine.

"Thank you, do," said the vicar; "but I think your bull pretty well knows me now. Hallo! here comes Mr Brough, the Squire's keeper, with his black looks and black whiskers. He always looks at me as if he thought I had designs on the squire's game. Hallo! Maine, bad friends? What does that mean?" he continued, as the man gave him a surly salute and then passed on, gun over shoulder, bestowing upon the young bailiff a sneering, half-savage look that was full of meaning.

"Tom Brough has never been very good friends with me, sir, since I thrashed him for annoying Miss Jessie there, up at the farm."

"Seems as if his love has not yet returned," said the vicar, as he strode away, thinking of the various little plots and by-plots going on in his neighbourhood; and then sighing deeply as he felt that there was trouble in store for himself, in spite of his stern discipline and busy efforts to keep his mind too much employed to think of the countenance that haunted his dreams.

It seemed to be the vicar's fate to appear as playing the spy upon Richard Glaire, for, on Iiis return, taking a round-about way back, so as to make a call upon one or two people whom he had relieved of some part of the suffering induced by the strike, he was once more striking for the High Street, when he heard the words sharply uttered:

"Well, I'll pay you this time; but let me find that you fail me again and don't you expect--Confound--!"

"How do, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, for he had come suddenly upon Richard, laying down the law pretty sharply to Sim Slee, and he was close to them before it was seen on either side.

"Really," said the vicar to himself as he strode on, "I've not the slightest wish to see what that unfortunate young man does; but it seems to me that I am to be bound to bear witness to a great deal. Heigho! these are matters that must be left to time."

He entered his own gate soon after, and having received Mrs Slee's report, that lady handed him the note she had found.

"Mr Glaire's hand," he said, involuntarily and with his brows knit. "Where did you get this?"

"My master came to see me, and he must ha' dropped it," said Mrs Slee.

"Then take it to him," said the vicar, quietly, as he resumed his calm aspect. "It is nothing to do with us."

"I don't know about that," said Mrs Slee, sharply. "What call has young master Dick Glaire to be writing letters to she?"

"Take the letter to your husband, Mrs Slee," said the vicar, quietly; and then left alone, he threw himself into his chair, and covered his face with his hands, trying hard to resist temptation, for he knew well enough that if he had kept that letter and dishonourably shown it to Eve Pelly, so serious a breach would be created that his future success would be almost certain. But, no; he could not stir a step to make her unhappy. She loved this man, who was quite unworthy of her; and if she ever was awakened from her dream his must not be the hand that roused her.

He started as he heard the door close loudly, and saw Mrs Slee go down the path to seek out her husband, and return the letter.

There was time now to call her back, but he did not move, only sat and watched her bear away that which he knew might have been used as the lever to overthrow Richard Glaire.

Once only did he hesitate, but it was when his thoughts reverted to Daisy Banks and the possibility of ill befalling her, through her intimacy with Richard Glaire.

"But I cannot take action on a letter that falls accidentally into my hands," he said. "If I speak to the girl's father it must be on the subject of what I have seen; and that I will do."

He gave the matter a little consideration, and then determined to act at the risk of being considered a meddler, and walked straight to Joe Banks's pleasant little home, where he found Mrs Banks and Daisy alone, the girl being in tears.

He was turning; back, so as to avoid being present during any family trouble, when Mrs Banks arrested him.

"Don't you go away, sir, please, for I should like you to have your word with this girl as well as me. It's no use to speak to her father and-- Hoity-toity, miss."

Poor Daisy did not stop to hear the rest; for already growing thin with worry and mental care connected with her love affair, Mrs Banks was leading her rather a sad life in her husband's absence, ostensibly to benefit Tom Podmore, but really hardening the girl's heart against him, if she had felt any disposition to yield: she now started up to hide her tears, and ran out of the room.

"Well, that's fine manners, miss!" exclaimed Mrs Banks, apostrophising the absent one. "I'm always telling her and Joe, my husband, sir, that no good can come of her listening to young Master Dick Glaire."

"Then you don't approve of it, Mrs Banks?" said the vicar, quietly.

"Approve of it, sir? No, nor anybody else, except her foolish father, who's the best and kindest man in the world: only when he takes an obstinate craze there's no turning him."

The vicar found the matter already to his hand, and was spared the trouble of introducing the subject; but he would rather have found Joe Banks present.

"Does he approve of it?" he said, quietly.

"Approve of it, sir! yes. I tell him, and all his neighbours tell him, that it's a bit of foolish vanity; but they can't turn him a morsel."

"Hallo, moother," said Joe Banks, entering the room, "can't you let that rest?"

"No, Joe, and I never shall," exclaimed Mrs Banks.

"Don't you tak' any notice, sir," said Joe. "She heven't talked you round, hev she?"

"No, Mr Banks," said the vicar, quietly; "it was not necessary. I have no right to interfere in these matters, but--"

"Well, speak out, sir; speak out," said Joe, rather sternly. "Say out like a man what you mean."

"If I did, Mr Banks, I should say that you were imprudent to let this matter proceed."

"Why?"

"Because it is a well-known fact that Mr Glaire is engaged to his cousin."

"There, Joe; there, Joe; what did I tell thee?" cried Mrs Banks, triumphantly; while Daisy, who could hear nearly all that was said, crouched with burning face in her room, shivering with nervous excitement, though longing to hear more.

"All raight, parson, I know," said Joe; "I see. The missus has sent you."

"Indeed, no, Banks," said the vicar. "I speak as a friend, without a word from anybody."

"Then, what do you mean by it?" cried Joe, exploding with passion. "What raight have you to come interferin' in a man's house, and about his wife and daughter? This is my own bit o' freehold, Mr Selwood, and if you can't pay respect to me and to mine, and see that if Master Richard Glaire, my old fellow-workman's boy, chooses to marry my gal, he's a raight to, why I'd thank you to stay away."

"Don't be angry with me, Mr Banks," said the vicar, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "I indeed wish you and yours well."

"Then keep to wishing," said Joe sharply. "I'm not an owd fool yet. Think I don't know? Here's the Missus, and Missus Glaire, and Tom Podmore, all been at you; and `All raight, leave it to me,' says you. `I'll put it all raight.' And now you've had your try, and you can't put it raight. I'll marry my gal to anybody I like and she likes, in spite of all the parsons in Lincolnshire."

"Don't you tak' any notice of what he says, sir, please," cried Mrs Banks. "He's put out, and when he is, and it's about something that he knows he's wrong over--"

"No, he isn't," roared Joe.

"He says anything, sir," continued Mrs Banks.

"No, he don't," roared Joe. "He's a saying raight, and what he says is, that he won't be interfered wi' by anyone. He's got trouble enew ower the strike, and he won't hev trouble ower this; so perhaps Mr Selwood 'll stop away from my place till he's asked to come again."

"Joe, you ought to be ashamed of yoursen," cried Mrs Banks. "He'll come and beg your pardon for this, sir, or I'll know the reason why."

"No, he wean't," roared Joe. "So now go; and if you hadn't been such a straightforward chap ower the row again Master Richard, I'd hev said twice as much to you."

"Yes, I'll go," said the vicar quietly. "Good day, Mrs Banks. Good day, Banks; you'll find I'm less disposed to meddle than you think, and give me credit for this some day. Come, you'll shake hands."

"Dal me if I will," cried Joe.

"Nonsense, man; shake hands."

"I wean't," roared Joe, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and turning his back.

"Well, Mrs Banks, you will," said the vicar; and then, as he went away, he said:

"Mrs Banks, and you, Mr Banks, please recollect this: I shall forget all these words before I get home; so don't either of you think that we are bad friends, because we are not; and you, Mr Banks, you are of too sterling stuff not to feel sorry for what you have said."

"There, it wean't do," roared Joe; "I wean't be talked ower;" but the vicar hardly heard his words, for he was striding thoughtfully away.

Volume 2, Chapter VI.

BY THE CHALK PIT.

Though Sim Slee had omitted on two occasions to convey letters to Daisy Banks making appointments for meetings in different parts of the country walks round Dumford, Daisy had had a pretty good supply of messages; and feeling as it were compelled to obey, she had gone on more than one occasion with sinking heart, to return with aching eyes, whose lids looked swollen and red with weeping.

For the girl was simply wretched, and time after time she looked back to the days when her heart was whole, and as she threw herself wearily on her bed she sobbed herself again and again to sleep, wishing that her very life were ended; the deceit she was obliged to practise, the anger of her mother, and the open sneers and innuendoes of neighbours wounding her so that the smart was almost more than she could bear.

Whether Dick chose east, west, north, or south for the appointment, poor Daisy could never get out of the town without encountering some one to give her a peculiar look, more than once driving the poor girl to make pretence of calling at some place that she did not want to visit, and as often turning her back home, making Richard Glaire, who had been kept waiting and "fooled," as he called it, write her the cruellest and most angry letters, some even of a threatening nature.

It happened one evening that poor Daisy, who had broken faith the night before, was going slowly up the High Street, with a basket on her arm, as if bound on some marketing expedition, when it seemed as if it was impossible that she could get to her trysting place, where she knew that Dick must have been waiting for an hour.

First the landlord of the Bull was standing at his door smoking, and he gave a sneering nod, which seemed to say, "I know where you are going, my lass."

A little further on sat Miss Purley, at her window, ready to put up her great square, chased gold eye-glass, and stare at the blushing girl with all the indignant force of thirty-nine tinged yellow, against nineteen of the freshest pink.

Again a little further, and she came suddenly upon Eve Pelly, who came from the big house, started, stopped, caught her hands, ejaculating "Oh, Daisy!" and then breaking down, turned suddenly away and re-entered the house.

To her horror, poor Daisy found that this meeting had been witnessed by Miss Primgeon, the lawyer's sister, who was seated at her window, staring as hard as she could.

Not twenty yards farther on there stood Tom Podmore, leaning against a corner of a lane, also watching her; but as she approached he turned away without a word.

It was almost unbearable, and now a feeling of anger began to rise in Daisy's bosom, making her pant, and flush up, as she determined to go on at all hazards.

Jane Budger, who kept the little beerhouse, and knew all the gossip of the place, which she retailed with gills of ale to her customers, saw her, stared, or rather squinted at her, and moved her hands as she exclaimed:

"Yes, my dear, I know where you are agate for to-night."

Then there seemed a peculiar meaning in the innocent remark of one neighbour who met her in the street, and observed that the stones were "strange and slape." So it was with another a little higher up, who remarked that the road was "very clatty."

Next she met Big Harry in the muddiest part of the main street, and he exclaimed to her:

"Saay, lass, it's solid soft."

A little farther on she passed the druggist's, where the great bottle of the trophies of his dental work seemed to grin at her in a ghastly way, for it was three parts full of extracted teeth.

Again a little further, and as she was passing Riggall's, the bone-setter's, his ghastly sign over his front door, of a skull and cross-bones, made her shudder; for it seemed to tell her of the goal to which she was steering, and so affected her, that outside the town in the winding road, she sat down shivering upon the mile-stone, crying as though her heart would break.

"What shall I do! What shall I do!" she sobbed, when she started up with a faint shriek, for a light hand was laid upon her shoulder.

"Miss Eve!" she cried, on seeing the pale tearless girl before her.

"Yes, Daisy, it is I," said Eve. "I want to speak to you. Let us walk on together."

"No, no, Miss Eve. No, no, dear; not that way."

"Is Dick waiting for you up there?" said Eve, huskily.

"Don't ask me, Miss; don't ask me, please," cried Daisy, imploringly, as they walked down a side lane.

"I thought he was," said Eve, speaking in a very low deep voice, as if her emotion was stifling her. "I followed you to speak to you."

"You've been following and watching me," cried Daisy, with a burst of passion. "You all do; everybody watches me. What have I done that I should be so cruelly used? I wonder some one don't want to put me in prison."

"Daisy!" cried Eve, hoarsely, as she caught her by the wrist, "what have I done to you that you should have been so cruel and treacherous?"

"I haven't been," cried Daisy, with a burst of pettish sobs.

"Have I not always been kind and affectionate to you?"

"Yes, yes; I know that," cried Daisy.

"And you reward me by trying to rob me of my promised husband."

"I didn't, I didn't," sobbed Daisy. "I didn't want to; but he was always following me, and hunting me, and worrying me."

"Daisy, Daisy!" cried Eve, with a passionate cry, as she threw herself on her knees to the homely girl, "give him back to me; oh, give him back."

"Miss Eve! Miss Eve!" cried the girl, startled at the vehemence and suddenness of this outburst, "oh, do please get up. What can I do?"

"Oh, Daisy, you'll break my heart. You'll kill poor aunt. What have we done, that you should come like a blight upon us?"

Eve rose slowly and stood facing the girl, over whom a change seemed to be coming as she said sulkily:

"It wasn't my doing."

"But you must have led him on," moaned poor Eve. "You, who are so bright and pretty, while I--while I--"

Daisy gave her now a jealous, vindictive look, as if she felt danger; and that this gentle girl was about to rob her of the man she loved, and she exclaimed:

"I must go. I won't stop to be scolded. You want to win him back; but he belongs to me."

"Daisy, Daisy!" cried Eve, catching at her shawl; but it was too late-- the girl had turned and run back into the road, hastening on to the place where she was to have found Richard Glaire, up by the chalk pit; and as she hastened on, she would not look back. Still poor Eve followed her sadly as far as the road, and then turned back towards the town, saying sadly:--

"I could not move her. It is too late, too late."

Long before Eve Pelly had reached the town, with its knots of men out of work, Daisy had climbed the hill to the chalk pit, where Richard was waiting, smoking angrily.

"At last!" he cried. "I was just going back."

He gave a glance round, and was about to throw his arms round the flushed and panting girl, when he started back, and stood staring, as Mrs Glaire came slowly forward from amongst the trees, and taking Daisy's wrist in her hand, she pointed down the road.

"There, you can go back," she said, quietly. "I wish to speak to Daisy Banks."

"No, no, Richard--Dick, dear, don't leave me with her; she'll kill me!" screamed Daisy, frightened by the pale, resolute-looking little woman, who held her so tightly.

"Silence, child!" cried Mrs Glaire.

"Oh, come, let's have an end of this," cried Richard.

"I intend to try for an end," said Mrs Glaire, sharply, "for with you I can make no compact that will not be broken."

"Oh, if it's coming to that," said Richard, sharply, "I shall bring matters to an end."

"Go, sir! Go home," said Mrs Glaire, sternly.

"Come, you needn't bully that poor girl," said Dick, with a half-laugh; then seeing the hand still pointing down the road, he grew uneasy, fidgeted, and ended by saying--"There, just as you like."

"Dick, don't leave me," gasped Daisy.

"Don't you be a little silly," laughed Richard. "She won't hurt you. I say, mother, you'd better make matters up with Daisy and bring her home, for I think I shall marry her after all."

"Don't, don't leave me, Dick," whispered Daisy, straining to reach him; but her wrist was tightly clasped, and she sank shivering on the bank by the deep chalk pit, whose side was separated from the lane by a low post and rail fence, beyond which the descent was a sheer precipice of seventy or eighty feet, the old weakened side being dotted with flowers; a place which, as she stood holding Daisy's wrist still tightly and watching her son till he disappeared down the road, Mrs Glaire remembered to have been a favoured spot in her girlhood for gathering nosegays; and where, more than once, she had met her dead husband in the happy days of her own courtship.

As these thoughts came back from the past, a feeling of pity for the poor girl beside her stole into Mrs Glaire's heart, and she trembled in her purpose; but after a few moments' indecision, she told herself that it was for the happiness of all, and that Daisy Banks must suffer in place of Eve.

The stars were beginning to peer out faintly and the glow in the west was paling; but still she stood holding the wrist tightly; while, after making a few energetic efforts to free herself, Daisy submitted like a trapped bird, and crouched there palpitating, and not daring once to raise her eyes to those of the angry mother of the man she believed she loved; but who had at all events obtained so strong a hold upon her that she was forced to submit her will to his, and obey his every command.

Volume 2, Chapter VII.

AT HOME.

"Two can play at that game," said Richard to himself, as he walked sharply down the hill and back into the town, where, not heeding Eve, who was in the dining-room, he hastily wrote a short letter, and then putting on his hat, went out again, smoking a cigar, apparently to have a stroll, and sauntered down towards the Bull and Cucumber, where he gave a long, low whistle, uttered twice, and then walked on for some distance.

His signal had the required effect, for Sim Slee came after him with a soft pace like a cat, and together the two men went on in the darkness, Richard talking earnestly to his companion, and passing money to him, whose chink was very audible.

"Now you quite understand?" said Richard, earnestly.

"Understand? He, he, he!" chuckled Sim. "I've got it quite by heart. I say, won't Joe Banks be popped?"

"Hold your tongue, and keep names quiet. Now you quite understand. I shall not show my face in the matter at all."

"Oh, no, of course not," said Sim. "All right, Mr Glaire, sir. You couldn't have a troostier man than me."

"I don't know," said Richard; "perhaps I oughtn't to have given you the money till after."

"Oh, you may troost me, Mr Richard, I'm square, sir, and honourable. It'll all be done lovely."

"Then I shall not see you again," said Richard; and they parted.

"Ho, ho, ho!" chuckled Sim, slapping his legs. "Here's a game. Some on 'em 'll be chattering all over the place 'bout this, and, ho, my!"

He had another long enjoyable laugh, to start up half frightened, for a dark figure approached him so suddenly, that it was close upon him before he was aware of the fact.

"What are you laughing at?" said the newcomer, sharply. "What devil's game hev yow and that Dick Glaire been hatching?"

"Hatching? Devil's game, Tom Podmore? why, can't a man laugh in the lane if he likes? But there, I'm off up to the mill, for it'll reean to-night, mun."

Tom Podmore strode off after Richard Glaire, muttering angrily, and on getting close to the town, it was to see the young man walking right in the middle of the road, to avoid the men standing about on the pebble-paved sidewalks.

It was well he did so, for there were plenty of hands ready to be raised against him, and had one struck at him, it would have been the signal for a rain of blows: for scores of men in the place were now vowing vengeance against the man whom they accused of starving their wives and bairns. In fact, it had so far been Richard Glaire's insolent temerity that had saved him from assault. He had gone boldly about, urged thereto by his eagerness to meet little Daisy Banks, but for which engagements he would probably have stayed indoors, and run greater risks on the few occasions when he showed himself.

As it was, he hastened his steps this night, on seeing the dark groups about, and when Tom Podmore closed up, he almost ran the last few steps, dashed open the door, and, closing it, stood panting in the hall.

It was about half-past ten now, and he listened, with his hand upon the bolt, to the muttering voices without for a few minutes, till one of the maids came in to gaze at him curiously.

"Here, fasten up this door," he said harshly.

"Fasten the door, sir?" said the girl.

"Yes, fasten the door, stupid," he cried, angrily.

"But missus hasn't come in yet," said the girl.

"Not come in?" said Richard, starting as he recalled where he had left her; and then, with a hasty pish! "I daresay she's at Purley's. I'll fasten the door. Don't sit up."

The girl was leaving the hall, when he called after her:

"Where's Miss Eve?"

"Gone to bed, sir, with a sick headache."

"She's always got a sick headache," growled Richard.

"I wish you had 'em your sen," muttered the girl.

"There, bring some hot water and a tumbler into the dining-room," said Richard, as the girl was turning to go.

He went into the dining-room, got out the spirit-stand, and, on the hot water being brought, mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy and water, and drank it rapidly, listening occasionally to the footsteps and loud talking without.

A second glass followed shortly after, and then, tired out with the day's work, the young man threw himself on the sofa. The sounds outside by degrees grew indistinct and distant, and then, with a pale, ghost-like Eve following him always, he was journeying through foreign lands with Daisy, who looked lovingly up in his face. Then, Tom Podmore seemed to be pursuing him and threatening his life. Next it was the vicar; and then, at last, after struggling hard to get away, Joe Banks stood over him with a flashing light, and as he waited to hear him say, "Where is my child?"--waited with a feeling of suspense that seemed prolonged for years, the voice said coldly and sternly:

"Why are you not in bed?"

He started into wakefulness to see that it was his mother standing over him with a chamber candlestick, looking very cold and white.

"How could I go to bed when you were not back?" he said sulkily.

"You can go to bed now," she said, quietly.

"Where have you been?"

She made no answer.

"Were there many of those scoundrels about?" he asked.

"The men would not injure me," she said, in the same low voice.

"But how did you get in?"

"Eve came down and admitted me," was the reply.

"What's o'clock?"

Mrs Glaire made no answer.

"Oh, if you like to be sulky you can," said Richard, coolly; and, lighting a chamber candle, he strode off to bed.

As he turned to wind up his watch in a sleepy manner, he found that it had run down, so with an impatient gesture he laid it aside, finished undressing, and tumbled into bed.

"Some of them will open their eyes to-morrow," he muttered, with a half-laugh. "Well, it was time to act. I'm not going to be under petticoat government all my life."

At the same time Mrs Glaire was seated pale and shivering in the dining-room, while all else in the house were sleeping soundly, and the street was now painfully still, for the murmuring workers of the foundry had long since sought their homes, more than one sending up a curse on Richard Glaire, instead of a prayer for his well-being and peace.

Volume 2, Chapter VIII.

OLD FRIENDS AGAIN.

"If I could only tell him everything," muttered John Maine, as he strode away from the vicar's side, and made for the farm.

He was not half-way back, when he met Tom Brough, the keeper, who favoured him with a sneering, contemptuous kind of smile that made the young man's blood boil. He knew him to be a rival, though he felt sure that Jessie did not favour his suit in the slightest degree. Still her uncle seemed to look upon Brough as a likely man to make his niece a good partner; for Tom Brough expected to come in for a fair amount of property, an old relative having him down in his will for succession to a comfortable farm--a nice thing, argued old Bultitude, for a young couple beginning life.

It might have been only fancy, but on reaching the crew-yard, old Bultitude seemed to John Maine to speak roughly to him. However, he took no notice, but went about his duties, worked very hard for a time, and went in at last to the evening meal, to find Jessie looking careworn and anxious.

After tea he sent a boy up with a message to the cricket-field, saying that he was too unwell to come; and after this he went to his own room to sit and think out his future, breaking off the thread of his musings and seeking Jessie, whom he found alone, and looking strange and distant.

"Jessie," he began, and she turned her face towards him, but without speaking, and then there was a minute's pause.

"Jessie," he began again, and the intention had been to speak of his own affairs, but his feelings were too much for him, and he turned off the primary question to pass to one that had but a secondary place in his mind.

Jessie did not reply, but looked up at him timidly, in a way that checked rather than accelerated his flow of words.

"I wanted to speak to you about Daisy Banks," he said at last.

"Yes; what about her?" said Jessie, wonderingly.

"I ought not to speak perhaps; but you have no mother, and Mr Bultitude does not seem to notice these things."

"I don't know what you mean," said Jessie, wonderingly.

John Maine would gladly have backed out of his position, but it was too late, and he was obliged to flounder on.

"I meant about Daisy Banks and Mr Richard Glaire."

"Well?" said Jessie, looking full at him. "What about them?"

"I meant that I don't think you ought to be so intimate with her now."

"And why not?"

"The Dumford people couple her name very unpleasantly with Mr Richard's, and for your sake I thought I'd speak."

"For shame!" cried the girl, rising, and looking angrily at him. "That young Podmore has been talking to you."

"No, indeed, indeed, poor Tom never mentions her name."

"I won't believe, John Maine, that you could be so petty and ungenerous yourself. Mr Glaire loves Daisy, and she confided all to me. Such words as yours are quite an insult to her, and--and I cannot--will not stay to hear them."

The girl's face was burning, and she ran out of the place to hide her tears, while John Maine, whose intention had been to say something very different, sighed bitterly, and went back to his room. There, however, everything looked blacker than ever, and he could see nothing in the gloom--devise no plan. He knew that the best proceeding would be to set the scoundrels he had seen that morning at defiance--that everybody whose opinion was worth a rush would applaud his frank declaration that he had turned from his evil courses to those which were reputable; but then the people he knew--Mr Bultitude--Jessie--the vicar--his friends in Dumford--what would they say? There seemed to be but one chance for him--to pack up a few things in a bundle and go and seek his fortune again elsewhere--perhaps to live in peace for a few years before he should be again hunted down by some of the wolves amongst whom his early lot had been cast.

"John--John!"

He started. It was Jessie calling, and hastily going downstairs, it was to see her with the flush gone out of her cheeks, and looking pale and anxious, as she held out a strip of paper.

"Two rough-looking men gave this to the boy for you," she said, looking at him in a troubled way.

He took the paper hastily, and turned away with a dark red glow spreading over his temples. He divined who had sent the note, and shivered as he thought of how the boy would chatter to everybody about the farm. Perhaps Jessie had questioned him already, and set him down as being the friend and companion of the senders:

Turning away, he walked out into the yard to find that the paper had originally been used for holding an ounce of tobacco, and upon it was scrawled in pencil:

"We ave bin spekkin yu hat the krikt fele Ude betr cum."

"2 OLE FRENDS."

"You had better come!" What should he do? Set them at defiance or go away at once?

Torn by doubts he could do neither, but stood hesitating, till, in a fit of desperation, he strode off in the direction of the cricket-field.

He had saved a little money, and he might perhaps bribe them to take it and go, leaving him in peace, though he felt the while that such a proceeding would only be an invitation to them to come back, and demand more; but even if they did, a fortnight's respite was worth all he possessed; and, besides, it would give him time to turn round and devise some plan for freeing himself of his incubus.

To reach the cricket-field he had to pass the back-door of the vicarage; taking, as he did, the cut through the fields; and as he neared it, separated from it by a high hedge, his blood turned cold as he heard Mrs Slee's shrill voice exclaim:

"You can't miss it: the second tunning to the right, and then it's the second field."

"And you wean't buy the bud then, mum--that theer goldfinch as I told you off?"

"Bird, no," cried Mrs Slee; "what do I want with such clat. Let the poor thing go. You ought to be ashamed of yoursens."

"We just about are," said one of the men: and then, as John Maine remained breathless behind the hedge, he heard the grating of feet upon the gravel, and one said to the other:

"Say, Jem, lad, did you see?" and he made a smacking noise with his lips.

"I see," replied Jem, "everythink." Then, "If that theer Johnny Maine don't show up, we'll precious soon have the owd badger out of his earth."

John Maine shrank back with a cloud of thoughts hurrying through his brain, foremost among which was that these men had been spying up at the vicarage. Through any window there could be seen the valuable plate on the sideboard and shelves, and the plan of offering a bird for sale was but an excuse for getting up to a house--a plan which he knew of old.

For a few moments he felt disposed to turn back; then he was for facing them boldly: but all doubts were set at rest by footsteps coming in his direction; so, stepping out boldly, he was soon after face to face with his two old companions, who seemed to be strolling about with their hands in their pockets, enjoying an evening pipe.

"Here he is!" exclaimed Ike, grinning; "I knew he'd come. But howd your noise, Jem; don't make a row. Johnny don't care about being seen too much along of us. It's all raight. He knows a thing or two. There'll be a bit of a game on soon, lad, and we shall want you. We don't know one another, we don't. Now, which is the gainest way to the cricket-field?"

John Maine pointed in the direction, and Jem came close up with a leer, saying:

"Say, lad, recklect that plate job, eh? Melted down at Birmingham or Sheffle, an' no questions asked."

John Maine shuddered as he recalled the time when he was innocently made the bearer of a heavy package to a bullion melter, and told afterwards whence the silver had been obtained.

Before he had recovered himself, the two scoundrels had sauntered away, leaving him shivering, as he thought over their words, and understood them as a threat of denunciation, unless he kept his own counsel.

Then, in imagination, he saw a party drive over from one of the big towns in a light spring-cart, drawn by a weedy screw of a horse; an entry made at the vicarage, and everything of value swept away, while he was helpless to arrest the robbery, except at the cost of his worldly position.

He stood thinking for a time, and then strode on across the fields to the cricket ground, where a little half-hearted play was going on, the men of Dumford being too much influenced by the strike to care much for any thing save their tobacco. He caught sight of the two men once or twice; but they took not the slightest heed of his presence, and instead of their watching him he watched them, following them at last into the town, and seeing them go along the main street past the Glaires' house, and away up the hill, Richard coming down and passing them.

"Can they be going right away?" thought John Maine hopefully, till he recollected a low, poacher-haunted public-house about a mile beyond the chalk pit, and rightly set that down as their destination.

He turned back with a sigh, to see Tom Podmore leaning thoughtfully against one of the houses, and going up, the two young men engaged in conversation for a few minutes, each rigorously abstaining from all mention of the other's love affairs, and soon after they parted, for John Maine to seek his sleepless pillow.

Volume 2, Chapter IX.

LOST.

There was no newspaper in Dumford, only those which came from Ramford and Lindum, but news flew quite fast enough without, and by breakfast-time on the morning of the day following the events spoken of in the past chapter, it was known that Daisy Banks had not been home all night.

Joe Banks himself spread the news by going and making inquiries in all directions directly he was up.

For, on waking about half-past five, according to his regular custom, and jumping out of bed to dress and go into his garden, as he had no work, he found to his astonishment that his wife had not been to bed; and she now came to him, crying bitterly, to say that she had been sitting up all night waiting for Daisy.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he roared.

"I wanted to screen her, Joe," moaned Mrs Banks. "I thought you'd be so popped with the poor girl; and though I didn't like her goings on, I didn't want her to be scolded."

"What time did she go out?" said Joe, trying to recall the past night.

"About eight, and I expected her back every minute after ten."

"Here, give me my hat," cried Joe; and he was off to the main street, where, in answer to inquiries, he found that Daisy had been seen in the High Street soon after eight.

"What's wrong?" said Tom Podmore, coming out of his house.

"Daisy! hev you seen my Daisy?" said Joe, furiously.

"Yes, I see her go up the street last night at about eight," said Tom, "as if going up the hill by the chalk pit."

"Did you folly her?"

"No," said Tom, sadly; "I never folly her now. But what's it mean-- isn't she at home?"

"No," said Joe, sharply. "She's not been at home all night. Wheer can she be?"