The Parson O' Dumford

“You don’t know anything about it,” he said, sharply. “If the beasts mean mischief again, they’ll try to get me away from here, and most likely they are watching every train to catch me. If I slip over in the middle of the night, I shall be safe; for no one will think I am there. What do you say, parson?”

The vicar sat thinking for a few moments, and then gave in his acquiescence to the plan.

“But you must keep strictly in hiding,” he said.

“Well, it won’t be for long,” replied Richard; “and won’t be more dull than being in here.”

Eve winced a little, but she turned and tried to smile.

“But would it be wise, Mr Selwood?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, eagerly.

“Yes; I think it would,” said the vicar, “if he can get there unseen. If these misguided men do search for him, that is one of the last places they will go to, I feel sure. But will you keep closely in hiding? Would it not be better to give way at once?” he continued, addressing Richard.

“I have said what I mean to do,” said Richard, sharply; “and what I say I keep to.”

The vicar bowed his head, and lent himself as much as was likely to be acceptable to the scheme; ending by saying, with a smile on his face —

“I hope, Miss Pelly, that this is the last of these unpleasant affairs we shall ever have here; for rest assured I shall lose no time in trying to bring the people to a better way of thinking.”

He rose and left them, it being thoroughly understood that Richard was to go into hiding that very night, while the vicar would communicate with the police, to ensure some protection for the house; though all felt it to be needless, as any attack was certain to be made on Richard personally.

As he reached the door, though, the vicar turned to Richard —

“Shall I come and be your companion every night? I will come. I can sleep on a bare board with any fellow, and,” he added, smiling, “I enjoy a pipe.”

Richard jumped eagerly at the idea, and was about to say yes, but the evil part of his nature prevailed.

“No,” he said rudely; “when I want Mr Selwood’s help I will ask for it.”

“As you will, Mr Glaire,” was the reply; “and I hope you will. Good-bye, Mrs Glaire – Miss Pelly, and I sincerely hope this will prove a false alarm.”

“If that fellow thinks he’s coming to my place after the marriage, he’s grievously mistaken,” said Richard to himself, and the door closed.

Meanwhile the vicar called at the station, and after a few words about the burglary and the forthcoming examination —

“By the way, Smith,” he said to the constable, “will you and your man oblige me by keeping a strict watch over the House – Mr Glaire’s – for the next week? I have my reasons.”

“Certainly, sir,” was the reply; “and, by the way, sir, my missus’s duty to you for the port wine: it’s doing her a sight o’ good.”

“Glad of it, Smith; send down for some more when that’s done.”

“He’s a good sort,” muttered the policeman, “that he is; but he ought to have sent up for me the other night.”

The vicar strolled back towards the bottom of the town, and turning off, was making his way towards the foreman’s cottage, when he came upon Big Harry with a stick and a bundle, going across the field – cut to the station.

The great fellow tried to get away, but the vicar hailed him, and he stopped.

“Now, don’t thee ask queshtuns, paarson,” he exclaimed; “I tell’d ye I’m sweered, and can’t say owt.”

“I will not ask you anything, Harry,” said the vicar; “only thank you, as I do, for your hint. But where are you going?”

“Sheffle first, Birming after. I’m sick o’ this.”

“Going to get work?”

“Yes, paarson.”

“Why not stop another week?”

“No,” said the big fellow; “I wean’t stay another day. I’m off.”

“You’ve got some other reason for going?”

“Paarson, I wean’t tell’ee owt,” said the big fellow; “theer.”

“Good-bye, Harry,” said the vicar, smiling, and holding out his hand. “I hope I shall see you back again, soon.”

“That you will, paarson, soon as iver they’ve done striking; as for me, I’m longing to get howd of a hammer again. Good-bye.”

“I should like to know more,” said the vicar, as he saw the great fellow go striding away. “There’s some atrocious plan on hand, and he’s too honest to stop and join in it, while he’s too true to his friends to betray them. There’s some fine stuff here in Dumford; but, alas! it is very, very rough.”

His walk to the cottage was in vain. “My master” was out, so Mrs Banks, who looked very sad and mournful, declared.

“He’s out wandering about a deal, sir, now. But hev you had word o’ my poor bairn?”

“I am very sorry to say no, Mrs Banks,” said the vicar, kindly; and he left soon after, to be tortured by the feeling that he would be doing wrong in marrying Richard Glaire and his cousin, for he still suspected him of knowing Daisy’s whereabouts, and could get no nearer to his confidence now than on the first day they met.

He inadvertently strolled to the spot where they had first encountered, and stood leaning against the stile, thinking of all that had since passed, wondering the while whether he might not have done better amongst these people if he had been the quiet, reserved, staid clergyman of the usual type – scholarly, refilled, and not too willing to make himself at home.

“It is a hard question to answer,” he said at last, as he turned to go home, listening to the ringing song of the lark far up in the blue sky, unstained by the smoke of the great furnace and the towering shaft; “it is a hard question to answer, and I can only say – God knows.”

Volume Three – Chapter Ten.

A Revelation

It was the day of the plot concocted by Sim’s Brotherhood, the members of which body had been perfectly quiet, holding no meeting, and avoiding one another as they brooded over their wrongs, and in their roused state of mind rejoiced at the idea of their cunning revenge.

Had the vicar been ignorant of coming danger he would have suspected it, for men who had been in the habit of frankly returning his salutations or stopping to chat, now refused to meet his eye, or avoided him by crossing the road.

He shuddered as he thought of what might be done, but as the last day had come, he was in hopes that it might pass over safely, for Richard had kept closely to his hiding-place, and the rumour had got abroad that he had left the town.

He bore this good news to the House.

“Let him only keep to his hiding-place to-night, Mrs Glaire,” he said; “and to-morrow give out the announcement that the works are opened, and the men once met, we shall have tided over our trouble.”

“Yes, our trouble,” said Mrs Glaire, pressing his hand. “Mr Selwood, I repent of not taking you more into my confidence.”

“I am glad you have made so great a friend of me as you have,” was the reply; and he rose to go.

“You will stop and see Eve,” said Mrs Glaire.

“No,” he said, sadly; “not now. Good-bye, good-bye.”

“I’ve done him grievous wrong,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, wringing her hands as soon as she was alone; “but it was fate – fate. I must save my poor wilful wandering boy.”

The vicar prayed for that day and night to hasten on, that his poor people might be met, ere they assembled for any ill design, by the news of Richard Glaire’s yielding to them, and the opening of the works; but night seemed as if it would never come. He could not rest; the dread of impending evil was so strong upon him, and he was going about from house to house all day, and called several times at the police-station.

His mind was in a whirl, and yet the town had never seemed more quiet nor fewer people about. The works, with their dull windows and blank closed doors, looked chill and bare; and as he passed he scanned the place, and wondered whereabouts Richard could be hidden. Then he began to think of the coming marriage, and his heart grew heavier still; and at last, after endless calls, he went to the vicarage, and threw himself into a chair, to find Mrs Slee quite excited about him.

“Thee’s hardly had bite or soop to-day, sir,” she cried. “Yow’ll be ill;” and in spite of his remonstrances, she brought him in the dinner that had been waiting for hours, and insisted upon his eating it.

He partook of it more for the sake of gaining strength than from appetite, and then made up his mind to go up the town, and watch the night through; for it was now dark.

It was about eight o’clock that a woman in a cloak, and wearing a thick veil, entered the town, followed by a great burly man, and going straight up to the House, rang and asked to see Mrs Glaire.

“I don’t think you can see her, she’s out,” said the girl, looking at the visitor suspiciously, the man having stopped back; but as she was closing the door, it was pushed open, and Tom Podmore almost forced his way in.

The girl was about to scream, but, on recognising him, she stared wonderingly.

“Let me speak to her for a moment, Jane Marks,” he said. “Shoot the door.”

“No, no; I can’t. I shall get into trouble,” said the girl.

“I’ve come to save you fro’ trouble,” said Tom. “Do as I tell you, quick. This is no time for stopping, when at any moment a mob of savage workmen may be ready to tear down the place.”

He pointed to the veiled figure as he spoke, and the girl drew back, while the strange visitor shrank to the wall. But only for a moment; the next she uttered a sob, and holding out her hands, she cried —

“Oh, Tom, Tom; did you know me?”

“Know you,” he said bitterly; “yes, I’d tell thee anywheers.”

“Wean’t you tak’ my hands?” she cried. “Niver again, lass, niver again.”

“Is this the way you meet me, then, Tom?”

“Ay, lass. How would’st thou hev me meet thee? Why hev you comed here?”

“Oh, Tom, I was i’ Sheffle, and I met Big Harry. He told me such dreadful things about father.”

“I wonder he didn’t tell thee the old man weer dead.”

“Oh, Tom, if you knew all,” cried the girl.

“Ay, lass, I know enew.”

“Tom, you don’t – you can’t know. But there, I can’t stay. It’s so dreadful. Let me go by.”

“No, Daisy,” said the young man passionately. “You can’t go by. I believe I hate thee now, but I can’t leave thee. You must go wi’ me.”

“Go with you – where?” cried the girl.

“To your own home, where your poor broken-hearted mother’s waiting for thee.”

“Oh, I shall go mad,” exclaimed Daisy. “Tell me. Where is Mrs Glaire? Where is Mr Richard?”

“You weak, silly girl,” said Tom, catching her arm. “I knew it was so, though they said strange things about thee. Oh, Daisy,” he said, piteously, as he sought to stay her, “leave him. Go home. Don’t for thee own sake stop this how. You threw away my poor, rough love, and I’ve towd my sen ower and ower again that I hated thee, but I don’t, Daisy. I’m only sorry for thee, I can’t forget the past.”

He turned aside to hide the workings of his face.

“How dare you speak to me like this?” cried Daisy. “You don’t know me, Tom, or you would not. I’ll go, I will not be so insulted, and by one who pretended so much.” Then, moved by the young fellow’s grief, she laid her hand upon his arm. “Tom,” she said, softly, “you’ll be sorry for this when you know all.”

“Don’t touch me,” cried Tom, passionately, as he shook her off. “I can’t bide it, Daisy. I loved you once, but you threw me over for that bit of a butterfly of a thing.”

“Oh, this is too much, and at such a time,” cried Daisy. “Here, Jane, Jane. Let me go by.”

“No,” said Tom, catching her wrist, as she made for the interior of the house. “You shall not go to join him again. I’ll tak’ thee home to thy father.”

“Not yet, Tom, not yet. I’m not going to him. Here, Jane, Jane, quick. Where is Mr Richard?” she cried, as the maid came back.

“Dal thee!” cried Tom, as he threw her arm savagely away. “This before me!”

The girl looked at her and shook her head.

“Where is Mrs Glaire or Miss Pelly?”

“Out,” said the girl, “at Mr Purley’s.”

“And Mr Richard?” cried Daisy imploringly. “Quick: it is for his good,” while Tom, who heard her words, stood gnawing his lips with jealous rage.

“I don’t know,” said the girl. “He’s gone away.”

“Oh, this is dreadful,” said Daisy, looking bewildered. “Tom, will you not help me? I have been home, and cannot find father or mother. I come here and I cannot find Mr Richard.”

“Howd your tongue, lass, or you’ll make me mad,” cried Tom. “But Daisy, my bairn, listen,” he cried, softening down. “You know I loved you. Come wi’ me, and I’ll find you a home somewheers. You shall never see me again, but I shall know that I’ve saved you from him.”

“Tom, where is my father?” cried Daisy, indignantly.

“Listen to me, Daisy, ’fore it is too late,” pleaded the young man. “Let me tak’ you away.”

“Will you tell me where my poor father is?” cried Daisy again. “If you can’t believe in me, I will listen to this shameful talk no more.”

“Shameful talk!” said Tom, bitterly.

“Where is my father?”

“Drove mad by his child,” cried Tom, speaking now in tones of sorrow. “Gone by this time wi’ a lot more to blow up the wucks.”

“I won’t believe it yet,” cried Daisy. “It can’t be true. My dear father would never do the like.”

“It’s true enew,” said Tom, “and I should ha’ been theer trying once more to stop him, only I see you, and, like a fool, tried to save thee again.”

“Tom,” cried Daisy, who was giddy with dread and excitement, “tell me that this is some terrible mistake.”

“Yes,” he said, bitterly; “and I made it.”

“What shall I do?” gasped Daisy. “Oh, at last, Mrs Glaire – Mrs Glaire, what have you done?”

“You here!” cried Mrs Glaire, who now entered with Eve from the doctor’s, the latter turning pale, and sinking into a chair.

“Yes, yes,” gasped Daisy, sinking on her knees, and clinging to Mrs Glaire’s skirts; “I came – I was obliged to come back. My father, my – Oh no, no, no, no!” she sobbed to herself, “I dare not tell them; I must not tell. I – I – I came – ”

“Yes,” cried Mrs Glaire, angrily; “you came, false, cruel girl. You came back to ruin all our hopes of happiness here – to undo all which I have striven so hard to do.”

“But, Mrs Glaire, dear Mrs Glaire, I have tried so hard,” sobbed Daisy, grovelling on the floor, but still clinging to Mrs Glaire’s dress that she tried to drag away. “You don’t know what I’ve suffered away in that cold, bitter town, wi’out a word from home, wi’out knowing what they thowt o’ me, for I kep’ my word. I never wrote once, though I was breaking my heart to write.”

“But you came back – and now,” cried Mrs Glaire.

“Yes, yes, I heard – danger – so horrible, I was obliged,” panted the girl.

“You heard that?” said Mrs Glaire.

“Yes, yes,” cried Daisy; “and I came to try and save him fro’ it.”

“Of course,” cried Mrs Glaire. “Where is your promise?”

“Aunt, aunt,” sobbed Eve, “she is fainting. Pray spare her.”

“Spare her!” cried Mrs Glaire. “Why should I? Has she spared us? Go, girl, go; your presence pollutes this place.”

“No, no,” cried Daisy. “You mistake me – indeed you do, Mrs Glaire. I did not come back for what you think.”

“Then why did you come?”

“I cannot – dare not tell you; but where, where is Mr Richard?”

Tom Podmore turned aside, and moved towards the door.

“How dare you ask me,” cried Mrs Glaire, “after the promise you made?”

“Don’t ask me that,” wailed Daisy, struggling to her feet, and wringing her hands wildly. “I can’t find father. I must see Mr Richard. Harry said he hadn’t left the town. Is he here?”

“No, girl,” said Mrs Glaire, turning away, “he is not here.”

“Where is he, then? Oh, Mrs Glaire!” cried the girl, “for your own sake tell me. On my knees I beg of you to tell me. It is life and death. I came to save. Miss Eve!” she cried, turning on her knees to her. “You love him; tell me where he is. I know – yes, I know,” she cried, eagerly; “he must be at the works.”

Eve started and turned away her head, to bury her face in her hands.

“Yes,” cried Daisy, excitedly. “He must be there.”

She turned hurriedly to go, when Tom Podmore caught at her cloak.

“Stop!” he cried excitedly. “You canno’ go theer.”

Daisy turned upon him angrily, and tore off her cloak, leaving it in his hands as she dashed off through the dark with the young man in pursuit.

“Undone!” moaned Mrs Glaire. “Undone. Oh, Eve, my poor stricken darling, and after all I have tried!”

“But, aunt, he will not see her. Richard will not – ”

“A false, treacherous girl!” moaned Mrs Glaire. “Eve, my darling, for your sake, for her sake – thank Heaven, here is Dick! Oh, my boy, my darling!”

She threw her arms round him exultingly, as if to hold him, and save him from danger, whilst he threw off the heavy coat in which he was muffled.

“Phew! I’m nearly suffocated,” he cried. “There, that will do, mother. Ah! Eve.”

“But why did you leave the works, my boy?” cried Mrs Glaire.

“Sick of it,” cried Richard, hastily. “I’ll stay there no more. I’ll open to-morrow. Curse the place, it’s horrible of a night, and I’ve finished all the wine. What’s the matter with Eve?”

“But,” cried Mrs Glaire, evading the question, and speaking excitedly, “you must not stay, Richard; you must leave again to-night – now, at once.”

“Where for?” said Richard, grimly.

“London – France – anywhere,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, piteously.

“Nova Scotia, or the North Pole,” said Richard, savagely. “Damn it, mother, I won’t hide from the curs any more. Here have I been for days in that wretched hole.”

“But there’s mischief brewing, Dick, my boy, I am sure there is. You must leave at once.”

“Let it brew,” he cried. “But who was that left the house as I came in?”

Mrs Glaire did not answer, only looked appealingly to Eve.

“I said who was that came out of the house as I came along – some woman?”

Still there was no answer, and the young man looked eagerly round the hall, to take a step aside, and pounced upon a handkerchief that had been dropped on the mat.

“Whose is this?” he cried, taking it to the light, and holding it out, first to inspect one corner and then another. “Daisy!” he cried, joyously. “Has Daisy been here? Do you hear? Speak, some of you. It was; it must have been. I might have known her in the dark.”

“You coward – you villain!” cried Mrs Glaire, in a low, hissing whisper. “Is there to be no end to your deceit? Stop. One moment. Let me tell you what I know. You planned to meet that girl to-night, and you left your hiding-place on purpose.”

“Then it was Daisy!” cried Richard.

“Yes, it was Daisy. You were a little too late. You must have good spies, Richard, my son, clever people, to keep you informed, and you learned that your poor cheated cousin and I were gone out for the evening.”

“What the deuce do you mean?” cried Richard, stamping impatiently.

“Mean?” cried his mother. “I mean that I took Daisy away, kept her in Sheffield, that she might be saved from a life of shame – saved – oh, God! that I should have to say it – from my son.”

“You—you got Daisy away?” half shrieked Richard.

“Yes, I – I,” said Mrs Glaire, “to save you – to make you an honest man, and that you might keep your word to your poor injured cousin. I did all this to the destruction of the happiness of the most faithful servant that ever served our house, and to break his poor wife’s heart. I did all this sin, Richard, for you – for my boy; but you have beaten me; I am defeated. It has been a hard fight, but it was not to be. There, she has been found out by your emissary, that Big Harry.”

“Hang me if I know what you are talking about,” cried Richard.

“Bah! fool, throw off your disguise,” cried Mrs Glaire. “If you will be a villain be a bold one, and not a mean, despicable, paltry, cowardly liar. There, go; she has come. Your spies managed well, but they could not foresee that the poor foolish girl would miss you – that you would be a few minutes too late, nor that we should return home early because I was unwell.”

“Here, I’m not going to stop and hear this mad folly,” cried Richard, with his hand upon the door.

“No; go!” cried Mrs Glaire; “but I curse you.”

“Aunt!” shrieked Eve, clinging to her.

“Stand aside, Eve,” cried Mrs Glaire, who was white with passion. “Go – go, Richard. It was Daisy Banks who left here. She came to seek you, and she has gone to find you at the works. Go, my son, go; the road is easy and broad, and if it ends in ruin and death – ”

“Death!” cried Richard, recoiling.

“Yes, death, for there is mischief abroad.”

“Bah! I’ll hear no more of your mad drivel,” cried the young man savagely. “I’ve heard too much;” and, flinging open the door, he rushed out.

“Aunt, aunt, what have you done?” cried Eve, piteously.

“Broken my poor weary heart,” was the reply, as the stricken woman sank, half-fainting, on the floor.

Volume Three – Chapter Eleven.

In the Works

As Daisy Banks ran from the house, wild almost with horror and affright, she made straight for the works, feeling that she might yet be in time to warn Richard Glaire of his peril, if she could not stay her father from the terrible deed he was about to commit.

On encountering Big Harry in the great town, that worthy had, on recovering from his surprise at the meeting, told her all – of the plot formed, and that her father, maddened against Richard Glaire for getting her away, was the man who had joined the Brotherhood, and had undertaken to lay the powder for the destruction of the works.

Yielding to her prayers, the great, honest fellow had agreed to accompany her back; and not a moment had been lost, but on reaching her home her mother was absent, and Joe Banks had been away all day.

Then came the visit to the House, and her leaving for the works.

“Wheer next, lass?” said Harry, coming out of the shadow where he had been waiting, but Daisy brushed by him and was gone.

“See theer now,” he muttered. “What, owd Tommy, is that thou?” he cried, as his old friend and fellow-workman, who had in the darkness missed Daisy, ran up.

“Did’st see Daisy Banks?” he cried.

“Yes, I see her. She’s gone down street like a flash o’ lightning.”

“No, no; she must have gone to the works,” cried Tom.

“Then she’s gone all round town to get to ’em,” said Harry.

“Come and see first,” cried Tom, and the two men ran towards the gates.

“What time weer it to be, lad?” whispered Harry.

“I don’t know,” said Tom hoarsely; “they’ve kept that to their sens.”

“But owd Joe Banks is going to do it, isn’t he?”

“Yes, yes; but come along quick.”

They reached the gate, but there was no sign of Daisy Banks; all was closed, and to all appearance the place had not been opened for days.

“Theer, I telled ye so,” growled Harry; “she didn’t come this waya at all. She’s gone home.”

“How long would it take us to go?” whispered Tom, who now began to think it possible that Daisy had gone in search of her father.

“Get down theer i’ less than ten minutes, lad, back waya,” replied Harry; “come along.”

Tom tried the gates once more, and then looked down the side alley, but all was still.

“If she has been here, she can’t have stayed,” he said to himself. “Here, quick, Harry, come on, and we may find Joe Banks, too.”

“And if we do, what then?” growled the hammerman.

“We must stop him – hold him – tie his hands – owt to stay him fro’ doing this job.”

“I’m wi’ ye, lad,” said Harry, “he’ll say thanky efterward. If I get a good grip o’ him he wean’t want no bands.”

The two men started off at a race, and as they disappeared Daisy crept out of the opposite door-way, where she had been crouching down, and then tried the gates.

All fast, and she dare not ring the big bell, but stood listening for a moment or two, and then ran swiftly along the wall, and down the side alley to the door that admitted to the counting-house – the alley where her interview with Richard Glaire had been interrupted by the coming of Tom Podmore.

She reached the door and tried the handle, giving it a push, when, to her great joy, she found it yield, and strung up to the pitch of doing anything by her intense excitement, she stepped into the dark entry, the door swinging to behind her, and she heard it catch.

Then for a few minutes she stood still, holding her hand to her heart, which was beating furiously. At last, feeling that she must act, she felt her way along the wall to the counting-house door, looking in to find all still and dark, and then she cried in a low voice, “Father – Mr Richard – are you here?”