The Parson O' Dumford Part 82

"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 pa.s.sed, 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--G.o.d knows."

Volume 3, Chapter X.

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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sembled 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 pa.s.sed 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 appet.i.te, 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, la.s.s, niver again."

"Is this the way you meet me, then, Tom?"

"Ay, la.s.s. 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, la.s.s, 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 pa.s.sionately. "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."