Chapter IX: Part 9

"Damn thee!" cried Tom, seizing him by the arm and throat; and as he brought the young fellow to his knees, quite paralysing his effort to get his hand into Iiis breast; "thou may'st say what thee likes again me; but if thee speaks ill of her I can't bear it; so I warn thee. Hate thee I do, and yet I come to tell thee of danger, and--"

A faint shriek made Tom start, for, pale as death, Eve Pelly rushed to Richard's help, and clutched at Tom Podmore's sturdy arms, which dropped at her touch as if those of Eve had been talismanic.

"Aw raight, Miss," he said smiling. "I wean't hurt him; but I come to do him good, and he made me mad."

"Mad, yes," cried Richard, who had regained his feet, and now drew a pistol. "You were mad to come here; but I'm ready for you and the rest of your rascally crew, and for all your malicious traps and plans."

"Richard!" shrieked Eve, who tried to catch his arm; but she was flung off, and would have fallen, but for Tom Podmore, before whom she stood, screening him as she begged him to leave the house.

"Yes, Miss, I'll go," said Tom, smiling; "not as I'm afraid of him and his pistol. What I did he browt upon himself. I've done what I thowt was raight, so he must tak' his chance. I on'y come to warn him as there's a dozen or two of the lads as listen to Sim Slee made themselves into a gang agen him."

"What, our workmen?" cried Eve.

"Well, only some o' the outsiders, Miss; t'others wean't have nowt to do wi' it. That's all."

As he spoke he smiled sadly at the poor pale face before him, and then was gone.

Volume 2, Chapter XIII.

PODMORE SEEKS AN ALLY.

Tom Podmore walked straight away from the Big House, listening to the noise and shouting as he went to the Vicarage, where Murray Selwood was in conference with Jacky Budd, respecting certain improvements to be made in the shrubbery, when the season suited for planting.

"And what would you plant here, Budd?" he said to the thirsty soul.

"Oh, I should put a few laurels there, sir."

"And in that corner?"

"Oh, I should put a few _laurels_ there, sir."

"And in the centre bed?"

"A few laurels, sir."

"And by the bare patch by the edge?"

"Just a few laurels, sir."

"And along the side of the house?"

"Couldn't put anything better than a few laurels, sir."

"And for the new hedge to separate the two gardens?"

"Oh, a few laurels, sir."

"Then you would put laurels all about?"

"Well, yes, sir; you see they're so evergreen and--"

"Oh, here's Podmore," said the vicar, going down to the gate. "Well, my lad, how are you? I'm glad to see you."

"Thanky' kindly, sir," said Tom, pressing firmly the hand given to him in so friendly a way. "Can I speak to you a minute?"

"Of course you can. Come into the house."

He led the way into the vicarage, and placed a chair for Tom in the study, but the young man did not take it, and remained silent.

"I'm deeply grieved," said the vicar, laying his hand on the young fellow's shoulder; "deeply, Tom Podmore. I had hoped that she would have come to her senses, and made a better choice."

"Don't, sir, please don't," said Tom, turning away his head; and, laying his arm against the wall, he placed his forehead against it, and his broad shoulders heaved. "I can't bear to hear a word spoke again her, sir."

"I'll not speak against her, Podmore, believe me, poor girl; and I deeply regret that her father was too blind to listen to me."

"You spoke to him, then?" said Tom, sadly.

"I did; and I have striven hard to be friends with Richard Glaire, and to bring him to a better feeling; but I failed with both."

"Then you think as I do, sir," said Tom, sadly--"You think as she's been took away?"

"I cannot help thinking so," was the reply. "If I am misjudging, I am very sorry; but I have done everything I could to trace her, even to having a man down from town, who has been constantly searching ever since she disappeared, and he has discovered nothing."

"And have you done this, sir?"

"Yes; why should I not?" said the vicar, sadly. "But you have come for some reason, Podmore. What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir, I've comed about these goings on up yonder in the town."

"There's no fresh violence, I hope," cried the vicar, hastily.

"Not as yet, sir; but there's going to be, I'm afraid. You see, sir, there's about a couple of dozen as has been got over by Sim Slee, and he's made 'em join him in some kind of brotherhood, as he calls it. The older men as has got heads on their shoulders laughs at it all, and looks upon Sim as a chattering fool."

"Fools do mischief sometimes," said the vicar, half to himself.

"Yes, sir, they do; but all the best of the men tak' Sim Slee at what he's worth; but there's a few, you see, as are 'mazed by his big words, and are ready to be led into any mischief."

"Yes; and you know of this?" said the vicar, anxiously.

"Yes, sir, I've found as they've got to know that Mr Richard Glaire's going away to-night."

"Is he going away?" said the vicar.

"So Sim Slee's telling on 'em, sir; but what does it mean 'bout Sim Slee being so thick wi' him just afore, and now dead again' him?"

"Some quarrel," said the vicar. "Sim Slee must be made to speak out somehow."

"He's been speaking to some purpose to-day," said Tom, sharply; "and I think they mean mischief against the maister to-night, when he's going away."

"And you've come to tell me this!" said the vicar, looking at the sturdy rough young fellow admiringly.

"Yes," said Tom, simply. "I went and told him at the house, but he turned on me, and said things I couldn't bear, and made me grip him, when Miss Eve came out and atween uz, and that stopped me."

"Well?"

"And then he pulled out a pistol and threatened me."

"What made you grip him?" said the vicar, using the young man's words.

"He--he spoke again' her," said Tom, hoarsely; and as he spoke the veins in his forehead swelled, and an angry frown came upon his countenance.

"Then you went to the house to warn Richard Glaire of his danger, and he--"

"Threatened me, and said it was a trap I was laying," said Tom.

"And then you came to tell me he was in danger. And what for?"

Tom was silent for a few moments. Then glancing up in the clear firm face which seemed to demand an answer, he said, almost in a whisper:

"I couldn't abear for him to be knocked about, if I could stop it."

"For Daisy's sake?"

"For Daisy's sake," said the young man; and the next moment the vicar's hand had closed upon his in a firm grasp.

"Then we'll try and save him, Tom," said the vicar quietly. "I'm very glad you've come, Tom. I've seen very little of you lately."

Tom looked up at him curiously, said something about being much obliged, and was turning to go, when the vicar stopped him.

"We must make some plans for the poor fellow's safety," he said. "He must not be hurt. I'll go up first, and try if I can prevail upon him not to go."

Tom nodded.

"And if he will not be prevailed upon, we must try and act as we can. I think and hope that they will not attempt to touch him while I am by his side." Tom shook his head.

"I wouldn't, sir, because I know you; but time back I would, if there'd been twenty parsons round him. They won't hurt you, sir, but they'll beat him if he attempts to go."

"Let's hope not; let's hope not," said the vicar; "and now I'll go up to the house, while you'll wait here."

"Wait here?" said Tom.

"Yes; why not? I shall want to lay my hands upon you at a moment's notice. But stop. If he goes, it will be by the mail. That's at eight, and the station is two miles, say three-quarters of an hour for ample time. If he means to go, he will go afoot, so as not to excite attention."

"Yes; and he'll go by the little door in the wall at the bottom of the garden, and off across the home close," said Tom.

"Do you know that?" said the vicar.

"No, sir; but that's how he used to go to meet her; and as he's going to join her to-night, I thowt that's the way he'd go."

"Very likely," said the vicar; "and they're sure to know it, and watch. But look here, Tom Podmore, are you willing to help him get away?"

"Yes, sir."

"To join her?"

"Yes; I was thinking, that mebbe if he got away to join the poor bairn he'd marry her; for I s'pose he's fond o' the poor lass. But he must be that. She'd mak' onny man--the very worst--fond on her."

"Do you know any one you could get here to help you?" said the vicar. "I mean a stout sturdy fellow with brains, who could be depended on to help you back me up if we have to make a struggle for it."

"John Maine, sir, at Bultitude's."

"The very man. Get him here, and keep him till I come back."

"I will, sir; but, say, parson--Mr Selwood, sir--for the Lord's sake don't let Dick Glaire take that pistol thing. If they get hold of him now, they'll beat him sore, but if he should shute a man, they'll niver let him see the light again."

"I'll do my best, Podmore," said the vicar, sadly. "You do yours."

They parted at the gate, bound on the same mission, that of saving the man who was making them both sick at heart with the desire that they felt could never be fulfilled.

Volume 2, Chapter XIV.

JESSIE'S TROUBLES.

Affairs were not very satisfactory at the farm, and Jessie's eyes more than once looked as if they had been red with crying. For the girl was greatly troubled at heart, since John Maine's behaviour puzzled her.

It was impossible for anything of note to take place in Dumford, without the news of it reaching the farm, so that she soon heard that Daisy, her old friend and school-fellow, had disappeared; that the two rough fellows who had been hanging about were supposed to have had something to do with her disappearance; while, to make matters more complicated, John Maine had been seen talking to these two men, and had afterwards warned her about holding communication with Daisy.

John Maine had always been civil and pleasant to Daisy. Daisy had more than once laughingly said she liked him. Now she was gone, John Maine's behaviour was very strange. Could he have had anything to do with getting her away, and was he in any way acting with Richard Glaire, whom some people suspected of complicity?

No: she would not believe anything against him, come what might; but there was some secret connected with his earlier life that he kept back, and--she could not say why--she thought he ought to be more trusting and communicative with her. Not that there was anything between them, though she told herself she thought she did like John Maine--a little.

Old Bultitude was very cross and snappish too, and he had taken it somewhat to heart that Daisy should have been the companion and friend of his Jessie.

"See here, lass," he said, "thou must howd no more communication with that bairn o' Banks's. She's a bad un."

"Oh, uncle!" exclaimed Jessie, "she may have been robbed and murdered."

"Not she," said old Bultitude, filling his pipe and ramming the tobacco in viciously. "If she had been, they'd ha' fun her body. Folks don't rob and murder, unless it's to get money. Daisy Banks had no money wi' her; and, as to being jealous, I hardly think Tom Podmore, as she pitched over, would murder her--but there's no knowing."

A few minutes later Eve Pelly arrived at the farm, looking pale and thin; and the two girls were soon telling each other their troubles, Eve with a quiet reticent manner; Jessie all eagerness to make the girl she looked upon as her superior the repository of her inmost thoughts.

Eve took care not to let Jessie know that this was to be almost a formal leave-taking, for she had come down after asking Mrs Glaire's leave, and with the full intention of yielding to her wishes.

The conversation naturally turned upon Daisy and her disappearance, when Jessie broke out impetuously with--

"Well, it's no use to keep it back, Miss Eve. I've known a deal more than I've cared to tell you, but your cousin and Daisy have for months past been thick as thick."

"Don't speak like that, Jessie," cried Eve, flushing up.

"I must when it's for your good, Miss Eve," said Jessie, warmly; "and if the truth was known, I believe Mr Richard has had her carried off to London or somewhere."

"It is impossible, Jessie," cried Eve. "My cousin would never be so base."

"Well, I don't, know as to that," retorted Jessie; "it's base enough to be pretending to be engaged to one young lady, and carrying on with another."

"Jessie!"

"Well, it's the truth. A gentleman told me that he had often seen them together. Oh, Miss Eve, dear, I am sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

She was down on her knees before her visitor directly after, begging her pardon, and kissing her, for Eve's face had sunk in her hands, and she was sobbing bitterly. A minute before and she was ready to fight energetically on behalf of the man who was to have been her husband, but now her defences had been turned, and she gave up.

She soon dried her eyes though, and when Jessie would have turned the conversation to another point she resumed it herself.

"I've been thinking about that very, very much," she said; "night and day--night and day."

"Poor child!" said Jessie, stroking her face. "It must be terribly hard to feel jealous."

"No, no, no, no," said Eve, hastily. "I did not mean that; but about poor Daisy's disappearance. You know they found her shawl and basket."

"Yes," said Jessie, nodding.

"Well," said Eve, hesitating--"don't you think it possible that anybody who hated her very much might--might--"

"Might have killed her?" said Jessie, looking at Eve strangely.

"Yes," said Eve, with a shudder.

Jessie's eyes dilated as she looked at the speaker, and thought of her uncle's words a short time before.

"It is very terrible to think on," said Jessie, slowly.

"Yes," said Eve, in an agitated voice; "but it is almost more terrible for any one you love--you care for, to be thought guilty of having taken the poor creature away."

"But who could have had any such feeling towards poor Daisy," exclaimed Jessie, "except one? and I don't think Tom Podmore--"

"Hush!" cried Eve, laying her hand upon her friend's arm, "he's coming now across the field."

"So he is," cried Jessie, starting and turning pale, for a flood of strange thoughts came across her mind. John Maine and Tom Podmore had been so intimate. John Maine had been so strange, and in his way had warned her about thinking any more of Daisy. Was that to throw her off the scent, and to keep her from grieving after and trying to find where Daisy had gone? The very room seemed to swim round for a few moments, as she recalled some mysterious acts on the part of the man she loved; and she shuddered as the idea suggested itself to her that her uncle and Eve might be right, and poor Daisy had been done to death by her old lover, with his friend for accomplice.

It was then with a feeling of relief that she saw Eve rise to go, saying:

"Let me go out through the garden, Jessie, and then I can get into the lane without being seen by your visitor."

"Yes, yes," said Jessie, hastily; "but, dear darling Miss Eve, pray don't say what you have said to me to another soul."

"No," said Eve, sadly, "I should not do that;" and then her friend saw her out through the garden, and returned to see the young man of whom they had been speaking side by side with John Maine, in earnest conversation across the yard.

Jessie had good cause to start and think over the matters of the past few days, for a great deal of unpleasantry had taken place at the farm, all of which, when analysed, tended to help the dreadful suspicion; and, as she thought it over, she determined in her own mind that no temptation should ever cause her to swerve, since she saw how the weakness of one vain girl had brought such misery to so many homes.

She tried to drive away the suspicion that had been planted and replanted in her heart; but it was of no use, and she turned at last to her own room, to have a cry to herself--a woman's fomentation for a mental pain; but in this case it was of no avail.

Old Bultitude was morose and harsh with his labourers, going up in the tall tower-like structure which commanded a view of the old farm, and called by the builder a gazebo, but by the labourers the gozzybaw, and from here old Bultitude watched his men and found fault to a degree that Jessie felt must be caused by something out of the ordinary course, while most of his remarks had, it was plain enough, an indirect application to unfulfilled work appertaining to John Maine.

Then Tom Brough, the keeper, had managed to find his way again and again to the farm, to have long conversations with the old farmer, who made a point of asking his advice about this beast, or that cow; about the hay off the twenty acres; and the advisability of thrashing out the wheat from such and such a one of the neatly-made long-backed stacks in the rick-yard.

John Maine, however, had seemed to bear this shifting of the farmer's confidence pretty fairly; and Jessie had seen it with pain, as she whispered to herself that the true interpretation of the changes in the young man, which she had seen from day to day, was that he had something on his mind which she was not to share.

"Yes; he has something on his mind," she had said; "and he does not confide in me."

John Maine seemed to confide in no one: he only behaved strangely, night after night letting himself out, to be gone for hours, sometimes to return wet through, little thinking that he had been watched; and that Jessie, with tears and bitterness of heart, knew all of his goings out and comings in; and it was only by accident, and from the fact of her warning him, that he became aware that she had more than once screened his absence.

It was one night about eleven. Everybody in the early house had gone to rest an hour and a half before, as John Maine stole downstairs softly, and was about to turn the key of a back-door, when a warm hand was laid upon his, and a voice he well knew whispered--

"If you value your home here, go back to bed. Some one has told my uncle that you go out o' nights, and he is on the watch."

"Jessie!"

He stretched out his hands, but they only came in contact with the whitewashed wall, and he knew that he was alone.

But had any one spoken, or was it only fancy? No; it was no fancy. His motions had been watched, and Jessie had come between him and trouble. As to the spy upon his actions, that was plain enough. Tom Brough had been busy, and had seen him when watching of a night, and what should he do? He had his object for these nocturnal rambles, and he was bound to continue them, but this night he was bound to stay.

Yes, he must stay, if only for Jessie's sake; and casting off his indecision he returned softly to his room, where he threw off his things and went to bed.

An hour slowly passed, during which he lay restless and wakeful. Then, when worn out with restless impatience, and half determined to go out at all hazards, a step was heard in the passage, a board creaked; there was a light shining beneath the door, and then after a pause the handle was turned gently, and the light flashed in his face.

"Maine! John Maine!" said the farmer, sharply.

"Yes; what is it? Anything wrong?" said the young man, starting up.

"One of the horses seems very uneasy," said the farmer. "I'm afraid there's something wrong in the stable. I came to ask you to go down, but he seems quieter now, and mebbe it isn't worth while. Try and keep yoursen wacken for 'bout an hour, and if you hear owt go down and see."

John Maine said he would, and old Bultitude went off, muttering to himself, while the young man lay thinking and wondering how he was to carry out his plans in the future. What was he to do? How was he to do it? The only way he could see out of the difficulty was that the burden must be thrown on the shoulders of Tom Podmore.

Day had hardly broken before John Maine, who had heard no more of the restless horse, was up, and that day, seeking out Tom Podmore, he had had a long and earnest conversation with him, with the result of getting his mind more set at ease.

And now it had come about in turn that Tom Podmore had had to seek out John Maine, to ask his help, with the result that, old Bultitude being away, his foreman just went in and told Jessie he was going out; and as she did not turn her face to him as he spoke, he went away sighing heavily; while pale, and trembling, Jessie ran to the window, and, in hiding behind the blind, watched the two young men till they were out of sight.

Volume 2, Chapter XV.

A THANKLESS TASK.

Meanwhile the vicar had missed Eve, who had taken another route, and made his way up to the big house, where he was shown into the room to find Mrs Glaire lying, very pale and weak, upon the couch.

She apologised for not rising, and as he took her hand, he felt that it was hot and feverish.

"I ought to be the doctor," he said pleasantly, as he retained the hand. "There's too much fever here."

"No doctor will cure that," she said, with a sad smile. "I only want peace of mind, and then I shall be well; and you have come to bring more bad news."

"Oh," said the vicar, carelessly, "I only wanted a bit of a chat with your son."

"Mr Selwood," said Mrs Glaire, "don't please speak to me like that. It is dreadful to me; and makes me feel as if I could not trust and believe in the one man in whom I wish to confide."

"Then in heaven's name," he began, but she interrupted him.

"I have had faith and trust in you, Mr Selwood, from the first day you came."

"Then you shall continue it," he said, firmly. "I was reticent because I thought you too ill to bear bad tidings."

"I can bear all," she said, softly; "pray tell me the worst."

"Well," he said, quietly, "we will not talk of worst, for there is no danger that cannot be warded off."

"If my son likes?" said Mrs Glaire.

"If your son likes," continued the vicar. "The fact is, Mrs Glaire, the people are getting furious against him, and without going into the question of right or wrong, the sufferings of their wives and children are maddening the men. This lock-out ought to end."

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, sighing, "it ought."

"It was a dastardly trick, that destruction of the machinery, but I believe it was the work of one brain, and one pair of hands."

"Why do you think so?"

"I have had endless communications with the locked-out men, and, as far as I can judge character, I find them very rough, very independent, but, at the same time, frank and honest, and I cannot find one amongst them who does not look me full in the face with a clear unblushing eye, and say, `Parson, if I know'd who did that dirty sneaking business, I'd half kill him.' This in these or similar words."

Mrs Glaire bowed her head.

"Yes," she said; "you have given the men's character in those words, but they are cruelly bitter against my son."

"They are," said the vicar, hesitating to tell his news.

"And they think he has persuaded Daisy Banks to leave her home."

"Almost to a man, though her father holds out."

"Joe Banks always will be staunch," said Mrs Glaire. "And you think with the men about that, Mr Selwood?"

"I would rather not answer that question," he said.

"Then we will not discuss it," she replied rather hotly. "But you came to bring me some tidings, Mr Selwood," she continued, holding out her hand. "Forgive me if I feel as a mother, and defend my son."

"I am here to defend him too," said the vicar, taking and kissing the hand extended to him; and as he did so the door softly opened, and Eve glided into the room, to half shrink back and retire; but on hearing the vicar's words she sank into a seat as if unnerved, and the conversation went on.

"Tell me now, what is the danger?" said Mrs Glaire.

"It is this," said the vicar; "I am firmly persuaded that this house is a sanctuary, and that for the sake of yourself and your niece, Mr Richard Glaire is safe so long as he stays here."

"And he will stay here till I can bring him to reason about these people. I would pay the money he demands at once, but he insists that it shall be the hard earnings of his workmen themselves, and I am powerless."

"I am willing to lend the men the amount myself, but they will not take it, and I am afraid it would not be received if its source were known."

"No," said Mrs Glaire, "you must not pay it. My son would never forgive you. But go on."

"I repeat," said the vicar, "that your son is safe while he remains here."

"And I say that he shall stay," said Mrs Glaire sharply. "He shall not leave. He has no intention of leaving."

"He has made up his mind, it seems, to leave by the mail-train to-night," said the vicar; and as the words left his lips, and Mrs Glaire started into a sitting position, a faint cry behind made them turn round, and the vicar had just time to catch Eve in his arms, as she was gliding to the floor.

"Poor child!" he muttered, as he held her reverently, and then placed her in a reclining chair, while a shadow of pain passed across his face, as he felt for whom this display of trouble and suffering was caused.

"It is nothing, nothing, Mr Selwood--aunt," faltered Eve, fighting bravely to over come her weakness; "but, aunt, you will not let him go. Mr Selwood, you will not let him be hurt."

"No, my child, no," he said sadly, "not if my arm can save him."

"Thank you; I knew you would say so, you are so brave and strong," she cried, kissing his hand; and as her lips touched the firm, starting veins, a strange hot thrill of excitement passed through his nerves, but only to be quenched by the bitter flood of misery that succeeded it; and then, making a mighty effort over self, he turned to Mrs Glaire, who was speaking:

"But are you sure--do you think it is true?" she exclaimed.

"I believe it," he said quietly; "and it is absolutely necessary that he should on no pretence leave the house."

"And who says I am to be a prisoner?" asked Richard, entering the room.

"I, for one," said the vicar, "if you value your safety, I may say your life."

"And by what right do you come meddling again with my private affairs?" said Richard, offensively.

"The right of every man who sees his neighbour's life in danger to come and warn him."

"Then don't warn me," said Richard; "I don't want warning. It's all rubbish."

"It is no rubbish that a certain party of the men are holding meetings and threatening to injure you," said the vicar, rather warmly.

"Bah! they're always doing that, and it don't frighten me," said Richard, coarsely.

"Then you were not going, Richard?" said his mother, eagerly. "You were not thinking of being so mad?"

"Going? no; not I," said Richard, "though I don't see anything mad in it."

Eve gave a sigh of relief, which sounded like a knell to the vicar, who, however, said frankly:

"I am very glad, then, that I have been deceived."

"And," said Richard, sneeringly, "next time you hear a cock-and-bull story about me, perhaps you will keep it to yourself, sir, and leave me to go my ways in peace."

"Richard!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, while, with a flush of shame upon her face, Eve rose and hastily placed her hand in the vicar's, saying softly:

"Oh, Mr Selwood."

Only those three words, but they were balm to him, as he pressed the soft little hand, and raised it to his lips, while, stung by this display, Richard started forward to make some offensive observation, but the door opened, and the maid appeared.

"Well, what is it?" cried Richard. "Why didn't you knock?"

"I did, sir," said the girl, "but you didn't hear. Jacky Budd says, sir, he can't carry your portmantle across the close because of the stiles, and he must take it to the station in a barrow."

"In time for the mail-train, Mr Glaire?" said the vicar, in spite of himself, though, for Eve's sake, he regretted it afterwards.

"Damn!" snarled Richard. "No,--go away. Such fools."

He ground his teeth and stamped about the room, while Mrs Glaire's eyes sought those of the vicar, and in her apologetic look he read plainly enough the mother's shame for the graceless boy she had brought into the world.

The look of triumph passed from his countenance as rapidly as it had come, as he caught a glance of sorrow and appeal from Eve, which seemed to say, "Forgive him, and save him against himself."

"You will give up all thought of going now, Mr Glaire," he said, quietly. "Of course you wished to keep your departure a secret; but you see the intelligence reached me, and is now perhaps the property of the whole town."

"Through you?" said Richard, recovering himself, and speaking with a cunning sneer upon his face.

"This is no time for sneers, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, calmly. "The information was brought to me direct from the meeting."

"By one of your spies?"

"By one of the workmen whom I have made my friend, and whom you have made your enemy; and he sends me as his messenger to pour coals of fire upon your head, saying, `Save this man, for if he goes out to-night it may be at the cost of his life.' Mr Glaire, you will not go now?"

"Not go!" roared Richard, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. "But I will go. Look here; I start from this house at seven o'clock to catch the mail-train; now go and tell the scoundrels you have made your friends--the men you have encouraged in their strike against me."

"I encouraged them?" said the vicar, smiling at the absurdity of the charge, when he had striven so bravely for peace.

"Yes; you who have fed their wives and children, and lent them money so as to enable them to hold out against me--you, whose coming has been a curse to the place, for you have fostered the strike from the beginning."

"There is no time to argue that, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, quietly; "and let me advise you once more. Give up this foolish idea of leaving, if not for your own sake, for that of your mother and your cousin here."

"I shall not," cried Richard. "I have made my arrangements, and I shall go, and let the blood of the man be on his own head who tries to stop me."

"As you will," said the vicar, calmly, as he turned to go.

"Mr Selwood!"

"Mr Selwood!"

The two women appealed to him in a breath, but he did not look at them, merely fixed Richard with his eyes, as he said quietly:

"Then you must be saved against your will."

The next minute he was gone.

Volume 2, Chapter XVI.

SAVED IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.

The street was getting pretty full of people as the vicar walked sharply back towards his house, but they were all remarkably quiet. Sim Slee was there, but he turned off down a side lane, and there was this ugly appearance in their mien, that those who generally had a nod and smile for him refused now to meet the vicar's eye.

He knew it would be madness to try and persuade Sim's party against their plans, and only so much wasted time, so he contented himself with preparing his own, and, to his great satisfaction, found Tom Podmore and his other ally in waiting.

As he was passing the Bull and Cucumber though, Robinson, the landlord, made a sign to him that he wished to speak, and the vicar went up to him.

"Ah, Robinson, how's your wife?"

"She's a very poor creature, sir. She coot her hand the other day with a bit of pot--old cheeny, and it's gone bad. She hasn't looked so bad ta year as she does now."

"I'm sorry to hear this."

"It's a bad job, sir, for she can't side the room, or remble the kitchen things, or owt. She tried to sile the milk this morning, and had to give it up, and let the lass do it instead."

"Sile the milk?" said the vicar. "Ah, you mean strain it?"

"Ah, wi' uz," said the landlord, "we always call it sile. We strain a thing through a temse."

"Oh, do you?" said the vicar, wondering whether there was any connection between temse and tammies or tammy cloth. "But you were going to say something important to me, were you not?"

"Well, I weer, sir; only I shouldn't like it to seem to ha' come from me. Fact is, I were down at bottom o' the close in the bit of a beck, picking some watter cress for tea, and fine and wetcherd [wet shod] I got, when, as I was a stooping there, I heered Master Sim Slee cooming along wi' two or three more, and blathering about; and I heerd him talking o' you and Master Dicky Glaire, and it were plain enew that they was makking some plans, and not for good, mind you. I hadn't going to tell tales out o' school, but if you'd keep at home to-night, parson--"

"You fancy there's mischief brewing?" said the vicar, sternly.

"Well, yes, sir, I do," said the landlord. "You see, the men hold a kind of lodge or brotherhood meeting at my place, and I can't help knowing of some o' their doings."

"Well, Mr Robinson, if mischief is brewing, it's my business to try and spoil the brew; so I am going out to-night, and if you've any respect for me, you'll come and help me in my task."

He hurried on, and a short time after, the landlord saw him go by, with Tom Podmore and John Maine following at a short distance.

"Parson's a chap with brains in his head," said the landlord. "He's got a couple o' good bull-dogs to tramp at his heels; and, dal me, if they aint beckoned Big Harry to 'em. Well, I'll go too. I aint going to faight; but if I see any man hit parson, dal me, but I'll gi'e him a blob."

The vicar was not without hope that Richard would think better of the matter, and keep indoors, and after a turn or two up and down the street, which was pretty well thronged, the men looking stolid and heavy, but civilly making way for him, and always with a friendly word, it seemed as if there was nothing to fear, when from the lane at the side of the Big House there came a loud shout, and in an instant the whole of the men in the High Street seemed galvanised into life.

The vicar made for the lane, and had nearly reached it, when he saw Richard Glaire hatless and with his coat half-ripped from his back, rush out, pursued by shout and cry; and before the vicar and his little band of followers could get up, the young man was surrounded by a knot of men striking at him savagely, one of them hitting up the hand that held a pistol, which exploded, the bullet striking the opposite wall far over the heads of his assailants, and the weapon then fell to the ground.

A storm of furious cries arose, above which was a wild shriek from one of the windows of the big house--a shriek that sent two-fold vigour to the vicar's arms, as he struggled with the crowd that kept him back.

"Quick, Tom! Maine! Harry!" he cried. "Now, a rush together," he said, as they forced themselves to his side; and with all their might they made for the spot where Richard Glaire seemed to be undergoing the fate of being torn to pieces, for he was now stripped to shirt and trousers, and his face was bleeding; but, literally at bay, he fought savagely for his life.

The dash made by Mr Selwood saved him for the time, for though the vicar and his followers, with whom was now the landlord, did not reach the young man, they rent the crowd of assailants so as to make an avenue for him to escape, and he darted off at full speed towards the vicarage.

"My house, Glaire," shouted the vicar. "No, the church," amidst the storm of yells and cries, as he tried to fight his way free.

"After him, lads!" cried the shrill voice of Sim Slee; "and down wi' them as interferes."

"Dal me, if I don't feel the brains of any man as hurts parson," cried the stentorian voice of one of the ringleaders. "Howd him, boys, and them others too. Give up, parson: it's no good to faight for that blaguard."

"If you are men and not cowards--" shouted the vicar, but his voice was drowned, he was seized by three men who held him good-temperedly enough in spite of his struggles, and with sinking heart, he found himself, separated from his followers, Big Harry being down with six men sitting on him to quell the mighty heaves he gave to set himself free.

"We wean't hurt thee, parson," said one of the men who kept him and his fellows prisoners. "See there, lads!"

He went down like a shot, for, by a clever twist learnt in wrestling, the vicar upset him on to the men holding Harry, and then by a mighty effort set himself at liberty, so staggering his captors that Harry got free as well. Then there was a charge, and Tom Podmore was up, and these three ran down the street after the crowd who pursued Richard.

"Harry, my lad! Tom, stick to me," cried the vicar, panting for breath. "I shall never forgive myself or be forgiven if harm comes to that young man," he added to himself; and then dashing on with about as unclerical an aspect as was possible, he rapidly gained on Richard's pursuers, with Tom behind him, and Big Harry lumbering like an elephant at his heels.

Meanwhile the whole town was at the windows or in the streets; children were crying and women shrieking, while the more prudent tradespeople were busily putting up their "shuts." As for Richard, he had gone off like a hunted hare, doubling here and there to avoid the blows struck at him, and more than once it seemed as if he would escape; but the men had taken their steps well, and knowing that he would make for the station road, there was always a picket ready to cut him off, and drive him back to run the gauntlet afresh.

He had not heard the vicar's words, which were drowned by the savage hoots and yells, mingled with curses upon him, from half-starved women; but, oddly enough, he made straight for the house of the very man whom he hated, and nearly reached it, but was headed back, and fainting and exhausted, he only escaped capture by a clever double, by leaping a hedge, crossing the vicarage garden, and leaping another hedge, landing in the pasture-land leading towards Joe Banks's cottage, the vicarage standing at the apex formed by the roads leading to Ranby and the open land.

This double made a number of his pursuers run round by the road, and gave time to the vicar and his followers to close up to the hunted man.

"Make for the church," cried the vicar, who was close behind now; but his words were unheeded. All he could do was to get nearly behind the young man, determined to turn and face the crowd when they came up; but Richard, maddened with fear, paid no heed to advice, his breath was failing, he tottered, and was ready to fall; the pursuers gained upon them, and at last seeing the harbour, the hunted man dashed through the gate, in at Joe Banks's open door, closely followed by the vicar, Tom, and Big Harry, and then stood at bay in the farthest corner.

"Help, quick! Banks, help!" cried the vicar hoarsely, and recovering from his astonishment, the foreman picked up the heavy poker, and joined the little rank of defenders, a swing of the iron forming a space which none of those who crowded into the room, and darkened door and window as they thronged the garden, dared to cross.

"Stand back, you cowards!" cried the foreman, flushing with rage, and forgetting his own trouble in the excitement of the moment.

"Gi'e him up! drag him out!" was roared.

"A hundred on you to four!" cried Joe. "Stand back, or I'll brain the first man who comes near."

"We don't want to hurt thee, Joe Banks," cried a voice. "Nor the parson, nor the others; but we wean't go wi'out Richard Glaire."

"Back! every man of you," cried the vicar. "Shame, cowards, shame!"

"Aw raight, parson," cried another. "It's cowardly mebbe, but we mean to hev him aw the same."

"If you hev him, you'll hev to tak' me first," cried Joe Banks, fiercely. "You, Big Harry, hev the legs out o' that deaf Tommy table, and gi'e one apiece to Parson and Tom."

The men tried to stop him, but a swing from Joe's poker sent them back, and the Hercules of the hammer seized the little three-legged table, shattered it in a moment, and armed his companions with the thick heavy cudgels that had formed its supports.

"Now, lads, we're ready for you," said Joe, grimly. "Hit hard at the first as tries to lay a finger on the maister."

There was a groan at this, taken up from without, those in the garden clamouring at those within to drag out Dicky Glaire.

"Down wi' him, lads; down wi' him," cried a high-pitched voice; and Sim Slee, panting with his exertions, partly edged his way and partly was lifted in.

"I'll down wi' thee, thou prating fool!" cried Joe fiercely. "Are ye men, to listen to that maulkin?"

"Yes, they are," cried Sim; "and you're an owd fool to faight."

"Shall we try to drive them out, Banks?" whispered the vicar.

"No good," said Joe, sturdily. "Let's hear what they've gotten to say; it'll give you and the others breath, and mebbe by that time the maister can faight a bit, too. I'm an owd fool, am I?" he said, "eh, Sim Slee?"

"Yes; to faight for the man as has gotten away thee bairn."

"Thou lies, thou chattering jay," cried the old man furiously; "say it again, and I'll brain thee."

"I do say it again," cried Sim, who was quite out of the foreman's reach. "It's true, aint it, lads?"

"Yes, yes, he's gotten her away."

"It's a lie," cried Joe Banks again. "Tell 'em, Maister Dick; tell the cowards they lie."

"Yes, yes," said Richard hoarsely, as he stood now leaning against the wall, bathed in perspiration, bleeding, ragged, haggard, and faint. "I have not got her away."

"Thee lies, Dick Glaire," shrieked Sim. "He paid me to get her awaya, and I wouldn't do it."

"It's false," cried Richard again, as he looked round at his fierce pursuers, and then at the doors and windows for a way of escape.

"It's true," cried Sim, exultantly. "It's my turn now, Dick Glaire. Yow'd smite me and coot me feace for not doing thee dirty work, will ta? Now harkye here, lads, at this."

He drew a piece of paper from his pocket, and read aloud:--

"Be ready at nine to-night. She'll join you by the gate of Lamby's close; then straight off with her to the station, take your tickets, as I told you, to London, and stay with her at the address I gave you till I come."

"Now then, Joe Banks," he said, holding out the note, "whose writing's that?"

"It's a lie--a forgery," cried Richard, whose face now was of a sickly green.

Joe Banks passed his hand before his face, and seemed dazed for a moment; then, catching at the note, he took a candle from the drawers on which it stood, and, as he did so, Richard started forward, and made a snatch at the paper, but a menacing movement on the part of the crowd made him start back, while the vicar looked from face to face, and saw Tom Podmore's stern scowl, and the fire gathered in Joe Banks's eyes.

"He'll murder him," he said to himself; and, shifting his position, he got between Joe and Richard Glaire.

"Hold your tongue, for your life," he whispered to the trembling man. "Your only chance is to beg for his mercy: for his child's sake. Daisy must be your wife."

"Curse you!" cried Richard, through his teeth. "You were always against me."

Then he shrank back trembling against the wall, as in the midst of profound silence, the old man read the letter straight through.

"Who gi'e thee this, Sim Slee?" he said twice in a husky voice.

"Dicky Glaire."

"No, no," gasped Richard; "a lie--a lie. It's a forgery. I did not get away Daisy Banks; so help me God, I didn't, Joe."

"Damn thee for a liar!" cried the old man, furiously; and before the vicar could prevent him, he had Richard by the throat, and down upon his knees, faintly protesting his innocence. "It's no forgery. It's thee own false writing same as these," he cried; "your cursed love-letters to my poor bairn."

He tore a bundle of notes from his breast, notes Richard had warned poor Daisy to burn, but which the weak girl had treasured up in secret, to be found in her room when she had gone.

"Look!" he cried, as he held Sim Slee's fatal note of instructions out beside the others; "are these lies and forgeries? Mebbe you think I'll believe thee now, as I've troosted thee throughout. Didn't I think thou wert thy poor owd father's honest son--the gentleman he had tried to mak' thee? Didn't I stand by thee when all ta town was again thee, fowt for thee, looked on thee as my son, and you turn and sting me like a cowardly snake in the grass?"

"He did, Joe, he did," cried a voice in the crowd, as they stood back now, content to watch for the punishment that should fall on their enemy, while Sim Slee, the man who had betrayed him, smiled like a despicable modern Judas, gloating in the revenge he was taking on the employer who had struck him in the face.

"Damn thee, be silent!" roared Joe, as, with a wild look of fury, he seized the poker as if to strike, and Richard crouched to the ground, and uttered a shriek of dread.

"For God's sake, Banks!" cried the vicar, catching at his arm, but unable to stay him. "Man, are you mad?"

"A'most, parson," he said, turning on him. "Thou told me to tak' care; thou gave me fair warning 'bout it all, and like a fool--no, like a man who wouldn't believe it--I turned upon thee when thou wast raight, for I couldn't and wouldn't believe he was such a liar and villain. Look at him, lads, look at the cold-blooded snake, as could stoop to ruin a poor trustin' fool of all he held dear in life, and now all he has to say is a lie."

"I am innocent, Joe, indeed," cried the young man.

"Thou lies," cried Banks, furiously; and he raised his weapon again, but only to dash it into the fireplace. Then, stooping, he caught the shivering man by the throat, dragged him up, and held him against the wall, while not a sound was heard but the panting of breath, and the hoarse mutterings of the stricken father.

"Banks, Banks!" cried the vicar imploringly.

"Let me be, parson, let me be," he said in a low voice. "Thou'rt a good man, and may trust me." Then aloud, "Richard Glaire, I'm a poor, half-broken workman, and thou'st robbed me."

"No, no," panted Richard, "Mr Selwood, Harry, Podmore, help!"

"Silence," cried Joe Banks; "we've gotten thee, and thou tries to hide it all by lying. I've gotten thee, though, now, and my eyes are opened to it all. I could strangle thee where thou stands; but I promised thee father I'd stand by thee, and I have again all men, as know'd thee for what thou wast. But I can't do it now, and kill, perhaps, every hope of my poor bairn, so come."

He caught the young man tightly by the collar, and waved the others aside, so that they fell back before him as he went out unmolested with his prisoner into the starlit lane, and stood the centre of the crowd-- now at a respectful distance.

"My lads," he said, aloud, while the vicar, who had signed to his companions to be ready, stood with every muscle strained to spring forward and try to save the shivering man from violence. "My lads, this man's done you all a bad turn, but most of all to me."

There was a murmur of acquiescence at this.

"I've always fowt for ye when I could, but I've always stuck to the maister," continued Joe, in a low, hoarse voice that was terrible in its earnestness.

"You hev, Joe, you hev," was murmured, for the men were impressed by the terrible earnestness of the old foreman.

"I've gotten something to ask of ye, then," said Joe.

"What is it?"

"Let me hev the punishment of this man--this cold-blooded villain."

"Yes, yes," rose like a whirlwind.

"And you'll leave him to me?" said Joe, through his teeth.

"Yes, yes."

"Joe, oh Joe, what are you going to do?" wailed his wife, coming panting up, having returned from the next town by the train by which Richard Glaire had meant to leave.

"Thou shalt see, moother," said Joe quietly; "I'm going to punish the thief that stole our bairn."

"But, Joe!" cried Mrs Banks piteously.

"Howd thee tongue, and see," he cried sternly. "Richard Glaire, thou'rt a damned villain, but I can't strike down the man my poor bairn has clasped in her poor weak arms. The way's open to thee: go, and God's mercy be held from thee if thou dost not make my poor child amends."

Richard Glaire tried to speak, but his tongue refused its office, and he looked, shivering, from one to the other, as the stern old man stood pointing up towards the town, while the men who, but a short time before, were ready to tear and trample him under foot, stood back right and left, leaving an open lane for him to pass.

"Banks, God bless you!" whispered the vicar, catching the old man's hand.

"And you too, parson," said the other, simply. "Mebbe you'll tak' him home."