The Parson O' Dumford Part 64

Sim folded his arms, looked round contemptuously as there rose another shout of laughter, and stalked off to walk to the station and meet the deputation, as he called the man he had invited to come down.

Volume 2, Chapter XIX.

THE FOREMAN'S APOLOGY.

There was, indeed, a calm, but to the vicar it seemed a very deceitful one, and he spent many an uneasy hour in thinking whether it was likely when the men grew excited they would attack the house; but he always came back to the conclusion that Richard would be safe there, so long as he did nothing more to exasperate his workmen.

During visits to the house, Mrs Glaire, with tears, avowed that she could do nothing, only hope, for Richard was stubbornness itself, and when for a moment he thought of inducing Eve to play the part of intercessor, the poor girl's wan and piteous look pained him so that he could not ask her, and it was brought thoroughly home to him that she must love Richard very dearly, though now they were cruelly estranged; and as he sat and gazed upon her, and grew more and more intimate, learning the sweet truth of her nature, and thorough self-denial, he felt half maddened to think she should be thrown away upon such a man, and told himself that he would gladly have seen her wedded to any one to escape so terrible a union.

The past and Daisy Banks were quite ignored. She was a trouble that had come upon the mother and cousin's life, but she was removed apparently from their path, unless some of the letters Richard so regularly wrote were for her.

Murray felt his position in connection with the family acutely. The rumour spread by Budd as to his being forbidden the house was false, but scarcely a day pa.s.sed when Richard came down, after indulging himself a week in bed to cure ills from which he really did not suffer, but for which stout Mr Purley doctored him stolidly, and made his sister enter them in the day-book when he got home--scarcely a day pa.s.sed without the vicar having to submit to some insult.

He would have stayed away, but for Mrs Glaire, who looked to him for her support in this time of trouble; and he would have avoided Eve's society, dear to him as it was, but for the sweet ingenuous looks with which she greeted him, and laid bare her innocent, truthful heart to his gaze. To her he was dear Mr Selwood, whose hands she had kissed when he promised her to leave no stone unturned to bring Richard to the path of duty; and her belief in him was, that with his strong mind and knowledge of the world, he would do this, that Richard would be quite reformed; and make her, to her aunt's lasting happiness, a good and loving husband.

And she--does she love him? the vicar often asked himself, and he was compelled to answer, "No!"

For there was no deep pa.s.sion, only the sorrow for Richard's frailties, the disappointment and bitterness of the young girl, who finds the man to whom she is betrothed is a scoundrel, and fights with self to keep from believing it. No, Eve did not love him with all her heart, for a true love pa.s.sion had never yet gained an entrance. Richard was to be her husband; that was settled; and some day, when he showed his sorrow and repented, she would forgive him, and become his wife.

And had she the least idea that another loved her?

Not the least. Mr Selwood was her and her aunt's dear friend, working with them for the same end, and some day in the future, when Richard was forgiven, he would make them man and wife.

This was the state of Eve's heart at the present period of the story; but a change was coming--a look, a word, or a touch, something had thrilled one of the fibres of Eve's being, directly after the saving of Richard from his men; and, though innocent of its meaning, the first germ of a thought which she came afterwards to term "disloyal to Richard," was planted in her heart, and began to grow.

The vicar was at home, busy over his garden. It had been a busy morning, and Mrs Slee had informed him that she was "dead bet." And she must have been tired, for fully a hundred people had been for relief that morning, the munificent sums the young vicar devoted to the workmen's families having been of late supplemented by money furnished by Mrs Glaire.

"Richard must never know," she said; "but I feel bound to do something towards alleviating the distress caused by his obstinacy."

The result was that soup and bread were supplied, and no one came to the vicarage without getting some a.s.sistance.

"Thee'll give all thee's got away, and leave nowt for thee sen," said Mrs Slee to him crossly, when the distribution was over, and the people gone.

"You're tired," said the vicar, smiling.

"Nay, I'm not," said Mrs Slee; "but it makes me mad."

"What makes you mad?"

"Why, to see you finding money, and trouble, and me helping you, to keep the poor silly women and bairns from pining, when my maister's doing all he can to keep the men from going to work. It makes me hate my sen."

"Well, but we can't help it, Mrs Slee."

"No," she retorted; "but half of them don't deserve it."

"If we waited to be charitable till only those who deserved it came, Mrs Slee, you need not make so much soup, and shins of beef would not be so scarce."

"You're raight theer, sir," said Mrs Slee, speaking a little less vinegary to the man whom, in spite of her short, snappish ways, she almost worshipped, and would do anything to serve. In fact, Mrs Slee had, since her instalment as housekeeper to the vicar, grown less angular and pasty of face, even approaching to her old comeliness. Not from idleness, though, for the neat maidservant, who was her a.s.sistant, had almost a sinecure for place, Mrs Slee insisting on making bread, cooking, "rembling" and "siding," as she termed it; in short, she monopolised nearly the whole of the work, and the place was a model of neatness and perfection.

"One's obliged to do the best one can, Mrs Slee, and be content to leave the working and result to wiser hands."

"Oh yes, sir, that's raight enew; but it makes me mad for all them big owry fellows to be idle 'bout a quarrel, and their missusses looking all poor creatures, and their bairns as w.a.n.kle as w.a.n.kle for want o' better food, when there ought to be bacon and pig cheer and ony mander o' thing they want. It's time some on 'em give ower, instead o' leaving their wives scratting about to keep body and soul together."

"I keep hoping matters will mend," said the vicar.

"Here's some un else to wherrit you," said Mrs Slee, hearing the gate bang. "Why, I never saw such a sight in my life. It's Joe Banks."

The vicar was surprised, and rose as Joe Banks, looking years older, was shown in by Mrs Slee, who counteracted her longing to know his business by hurriedly going out, making her way into the kitchen, and attacking a pancheon of dough, which had been put to the fire to rise, and was now ready to pour over the side like a dough eruption, and run down and solidify as bread.

This was, however, by the help of flour, soon reduced to normal proportions, banged into tins, and thrust into the oven, Mrs Slee performing each part of her task as if she were very angry with the compound, and desirous of punishing it for being so good. But it was a way she had, induced by the behaviour of her master, Simeon Slee.

Meanwhile, Joe Banks, in spite of the friendly welcome he had received, refused to sit down, but stood leaning on the stick he carried.

"Nay, parson, nay," he said, "I haven't come to stop. I just thowt I'd act like a man now, and say I arks your pardon, sir, hearty like, and wi' all my heart."

"My pardon, for what, Banks?"

"For acting like a fond, foolish owd father the other day, and giving ye the rough side of my tongue, when you came to gi' me good advice."

"Oh, don't talk about that, man, pray."

"Yes, I thowt I would, because I ought to ha' knowd better, and not been such a blind owd owl. But there you know, parson--and I suppose you're used to it--them as you goes to advise always coots oop rough. So I thowt, as I said, I'd arsk your pardon."

"If I've anything to pardon, Banks, it was forgiven the next minute. I look upon life as too short, and the work we have to do as too much, to allow room for nursing up such troubles as that."

"Don't say any more, parson," said Joe, wringing his hand, with a grip of iron; "it makes me feel 'shamed like o' my sen."

"I don't see why," said the vicar. "If I had been a father I dare say I should have done the same."

"Down on your knees to-night, parson, and pray as you never may be,"

cried the old man fiercely; "that you may never nurse and bring up and love a bairn whom you toil for all your life, to find she throws you over for the first face that pleases her."

"But we are not quite certain yet, Banks," said the vicar, laying his hand on the other's arm.

"Yes, I am," said Banks, st.u.r.dily. "I know enew to satisfy me; but stop a moment, I meant to have a word about that, and let's have it at once.

It's all my own doing, I know, but there it is, and it can't be undone.

Tell me, though, parson, can you say from your heart, 'Joe Banks, you're mista'en; I don't think Richard Glaire--Richard Glaire--dal me! I will say it.'"

The old man's voice turned hoa.r.s.e, and shook at last, so that he could not speak, as he came to Richard Glaire's name, when, after an effort, he exclaimed as above, and then went on--"I don't think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?"

There was silence in the room, as the vicar looked sorrowfully in the keen eyes of Daisy's father.

"I say, parson," he repeated, "can you say fro' your heart, 'Joe Banks, you're mista'en; I don't think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?'"

There was another pause, and Joe Banks spoke again.

"Can you say that, parson?"

"No, Banks," said the vicar, sadly. "I may be mistaken, but I cannot say what you wish."