"A lungeing villain," muttered Joe Banks to himself, "he knows nowt but
nastiness. Strange thing that a man can't make up to a pretty girl
wi'out people putting all sorts o' bad constructions on it. Why they're
all alike--Missis Glaire, the wife and all. My Daisy, too. To say such
a word of her."
He hastened home, filled his pipe, lit it, and went out and sat down in
the garden, in front of his bees, to smoke and watch them, while he
calmed himself down and went over what had gone by, before thinking over
the future.
This was a favourite place with Joe Banks on a Sunday, and he would sit
in contemplative study here for hours. For he said it was like having a
holiday and looking at somebody else work, especially when the bees were
busy in the glass bells turned over the flat-topped hives.
"I'd no business to hit a crippled man like that," mused Joe; "but he'd
no business to anger me. Be a lesson to him."
He filled a fresh pipe, lit it by holding the match sheltered in his
hands, and then went on--
"Be a lesson to him--a hard one, for my hand ain't light. Pity he
hadn't coot away, for he put me out."
"Now, what'll I do?" mused Joe. "Shall I speak to the maister?"
"No, I wean't. He'll speak to me when it's all raight, and Daisy and
him has made it up. I'll troost him, that I will; for though he's a bit
wild, he's a gentleman at heart, like his father before him. Why of
course I'll troost him. He's a bit shamefaced about it o' course; but
he'll speak, all in good time. Both of 'em will, and think they're
going to surprise me. Ha--ha--ha! I've gotten 'em though. Lord, what
fools young people is--blind as bats--blind as bats. Here's Daisy."
"It's so nice to see you sitting here, father," said the girl, coming
behind him, and resting her chin on his bald crown, while her plump arms
went round his neck.
"Is it, my gal? That's raight. Why, Daisy lass, what soft little arms
thine are. Give us a kiss."
Daisy leaned down and kissed him, and then stopped with her arms resting
on his shoulders, keeping her face from confronting him; and so they
remained for a few minutes, when a smile twinkled about the corners of
the foreman's lips and eyes as he said--
"Daisy, my gal, I've been watching the bees a bit."
"Yes, father," she said, smiling, though it was plain to see that the
smile was forced. "Yes, father, you always like to watch the bees."
"I do, my bairn, I do. They're just like so many workmen in a factory;
but they don't strike, my gal, they don't strike."
"But they swarm, father," said Daisy, making an effort to keep up the
conversation.
"Yes," chuckled Joe, taking hold of the hand that rested on his left
shoulder. "Yes, my bairn, I was just coming to that. They swarm, don't
they?"
"Yes, father."
"And do you know why they swarm, Daisy?"
"Yes, father; because the hive is not big enough for them."
"Yes, yes," chuckled Joe, patting the hand, and holding it to his rough
cheek. "You're raight, but it's something more, Daisy: it's the young
ones going away from home and setting up for theirselves--all the young
ones 'most do that some day."
The tears rose to Daisy's eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, for
Joe had touched on a tenderer point than he imagined; but he held it
tightly and gave it a kiss.
"There, there, my pet," he said, tenderly, "I won't tease you. I knew
it would come some day all right enough, and I don't mind. I only want
my little lass to be happy."
"Oh, father--father--father," sobbed Daisy, letting her face droop till
it rested on his head, while her tears fell fast.
"Come, come, come, little woman," he said, laughing; "thou mustn't cry.
Why, it's all raight." There was a huskiness in his voice though, as he
spoke, and he had to fight hard to make the dew disappear from his eyes.
"Here, I say, Daisy, my lass, that wean't do no good: you may rain
watter for ever on my owd bald head, and the hair won't come again.
There--tut--tut--tut--you'll have moother here directly, and she'll be
asking what's wrong."
Daisy made a strong effort over self, and succeeded at last in drying
her eyes.
"Then, you are not cross with me, father?" faltered Daisy.
"Cross, my darling? not a bit," said Joe, patting her hand again. "You
shan't disgrace the man as has you, my dear; that you shan't. Why,
you're fit to be a little queen, you are."
Daisy gave him a hasty kiss, and ran off, while Joe proceeded to refill
his pipe.
"Cross indeed! I should just think I hadn't," he exclaimed--"only with
the women. Well, they'll come round."
But if Joe Banks had stood on the hill-side a couple of hours earlier,
just by the spot where Tom Podmore had sat on the day of the vicar's
arrival, he would perhaps have viewed the matter in a different light,
for--of course by accident--Daisy had there encountered Richard Glaire,
evidently not for the first time since the night when they were
interrupted by Tom in the lane.
It was plain that any offence Richard had given on the night in question
had long been condoned, and that at every meeting he was gaining a
stronger mastery over the girl's heart.
"Then you will, Daisy, won't you?" he whispered to her.
"No, no, Dick dear. Don't ask me. Let me tell father all about it."
"What?" he cried.
"Let me tell father all about it, and I'm sure he'll be pleased."
"My dear little Daisy, how well you are named," he cried, playfully; and
as he looked lovingly down upon her, the foolish girl began to compare
him with the lover of her mother's choice--a man who was nearly always
blackened with his labours, and heavy and rough spoken, while here was
Richard Glaire professing that he worshipped her, and looking, in her
eyes, so handsome in his fashionably-cut blue coat with the rosebud in
the button-hole, and wearing patent leather boots as tight as the lemon
gloves upon his well-formed hands.
"I can't help my name," she said, coquettishly.
"I wouldn't have it changed for the world, my little pet," he whispered,
playing with her dimpled chin; "only you are as fresh as a daisy."
"What do you mean, Dick?" she said, nestling to him.
"Why you are so young and innocent. Look here, my darling: don't you
see how I'm placed? My mother wants me to marry Eve."
"But you don't really, really, really, care the least little bit for
her, do you, Mr Richard?"
"`Mr Richard!'" reproachfully.
"Dear Dick, then," she whispered, colouring up, and glancing fondly at
him, half ashamed though the while at her boldness.
"Of course I don't love her. Haven't I sworn a hundred times that I
love only you, and that I want you to be my darling little wife?"
"Yes, yes," said the girl, softly.
"Well, then, my darling, if you go and tell your father, the first thing
he'll do will be to go and tell my mother, and then there'll be no end
of a row."
"But she loves you very much, Dick."
"Worships me," said Dick, complacently.
"Of course," said the girl, softly; and her foolish little eyes seemed
to say, "She couldn't help it," while she continued, "and she'd let you
do as you like, Dick."
"Well, but you see the devil of it is, Daisy, that I promised her I
wouldn't see you any more."
"Why did you do that?" said the girl, sharply.
"To save rows--I hate a bother."
"Richard, you were ashamed of me, and wouldn't own me," said Daisy,
bursting into tears.
"Oh, what a silly, hard-hearted, cruel little blossom it is," said
Richard, trying to console her, but only to be pushed away. "All I did
and said was to save bother, and not upset the old girl. That's why I
want it all kept quiet. Here, as I tell you, I could be waiting for you
over at Chorley, we could pop into the mail as it came through, off up
to London, be married by licence, and then the old folks would be in a
bit of a temper for a week, and as pleased as Punch afterwards."
"Oh, no, Richard, I couldn't, couldn't do that," said the girl, panting
with excitement.
"Yes, you could," he said, "and come back after a trip to Paris, eh,
Daisy? where you should have the run of the fashions. What would they
all say when you came back a regular lady, and I took you to the house?"
"Oh, Dick, dear Dick, don't ask me," moaned the poor girl, whose young
head was in a whirl. "I couldn't--indeed I couldn't be so wicked."
"So wicked! no, of course not," said Richard, derisively--"a wicked
little creature. Oh, dear, what would become of you if you married
Richard Glaire!"
"You're teasing me," she said, "and it's very cruel of you."
"Horribly," said Richard. "But you will come, Daisy?"
"I couldn't, I couldn't," faltered the girl.
"Yes, you could, you little goose."
"Dick, my own handsome, brave Dick," she whispered, "let me tell
father."
He drew back from her coldly.
"You want to be very obedient, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, dear Richard," she said, looking at him appealingly.
"You set such a good example, Daisy, that I must be very good too."
"Yes, dear," she said, innocently.
"Yes," he said, with a sneer; "so you go and tell your father like a
good little child, and I'll be a good boy, too, and go and tell my
mother, and she'll scold me and say I've been very naughty, and make me
marry Eve."
"Oh, Richard, Richard, how can you be so cruel?" cried the poor girl,
reproachfully.
"It isn't I; it's you," he said, smiling with satisfaction as he saw
what a plaything the girl's heart was in his hands. "Are you going to
tell your father?"
"Oh, no, Dick, not if you say I mustn't."
"Well, that's what I do say," he exclaimed sharply.
"Very well, Dick," she said, sadly.
"And look here, Daisy, my own little one," he whispered, kissing her
tear-wet face, "some day, when I ask you, it shall be as I say, eh?"
"Oh, Dick, darling, I'll do anything you wish but that. Don't ask me to
run away."
"Do you want to break off our match?" he said, bitterly.
"Oh, no--no:--no--no."
"Do you want to make my home miserable?"
"You know I don't, Richard."
"Because, I tell you I know my mother will never consent to it unless
she is forced."
"But you are your own master now, Richard," she pleaded.
"Not so much as you think for, my little woman. So come, promise me. I
know you won't break your word if you do promise."
"No, Dick, never," she said, earnestly; and if there had been any true
love in the young fellow's breast he would have been touched by the
trusting, earnest reliance upon him that shone from her eyes as she
looked up affectionately in his face.
"Then promise me, Daisy, dear," he whispered; "it is for the good of
both of us, and--Hang it all, there's Slee."
Daisy was sent off as we know, and the tears fell fast as she hastened
home, feeling that love was very sweet, but that its roses had thorns
that rankled and stung.
"Oh, Dick, Dick," she sobbed as she went on, "I wish sometimes that I'd
never seen you, for it is so hard not to do whatever you wish."
She dried her eyes hastily as she neared home, and drew her breath a
little more hardly as about a hundred yards from the gate she saw Tom
Podmore, who looked at her firmly and steadily as they passed, and
hardly responded to her nod.
"He knows where I've been. He knows where I've been," whispered Daisy
to herself as she hurried on; and she was quite right, for her conscious
cheeks hoisted a couple of signal flags of the ruddiest hue--signals
that poor Tom could read as well as if they had been written down in a
code, and he ground his teeth as he turned and watched her.
"She's such a good girl that any one might troost her," he muttered, as
he saw her go in at the gate, "or else I'd go and tell Joe all as I
knows. But no, I couldn't do that, for it would hurt her, just as it
would if I was to half kill Dick Glaire. She'll find him out some day
perhaps--not as it matters to me though, for it's all over now."
He walked back, looking over the green fence as he passed, and Mrs
Banks waved her hand to him from the window; but his eyes were too much
occupied by the sight of Daisy leaning over her father, and he walked on
so hurriedly that he nearly blundered up against a great stalwart figure
coming the other way.
Volume 1, Chapter XVI.