Matters did not improve at Dumford as the days went on, and Murray
Selwood found that he could not have arrived at a worse time, so far as
his own comfort was concerned, though he was bound to own that the
occasion was opportune for his parish, inasmuch as he was able to be of
no little service to many of the people who, in a surly kind of way,
acknowledged his help, and took it in a condescending manner, while,
with a smile, he could not help realising the fact that the sturdy
independent folks looked down upon him as a kind of paid official whom
they were obliged to suffer in their midst.
He had secured a servant with great difficulty, for the girls of the
place, as a rule, objected to domestic service, preferring the freedom
and independence of working for the line-growing farmers of the
neighbourhood, and spending the money earned with the big draper of the
place. Not our independent friends, but Barmby the parish churchwarden,
who coolly told the vicar that he could produce more effect upon the
female population with a consignment of new hats or bonnets from town,
than a parson could with a month's preaching; and it must be conceded to
Mr Barmby that his influence was far more visible than that of his
clerical superior.
All efforts to patch up a peace between the locked-out men and their
employer were without avail, even though the vicar had seen both parties
again and again.
"Let them pay for my machine-bands," said Richard Glaire--"Two hundred
pounds, and come humbly and confess their faults, and I'll then take
their application into consideration."
"But don't you think you had better make a greater concession?" said the
vicar. "You are punishing innocent and guilty alike."
"Serve 'em right," said Richard, turning on his heel, and leaving the
counting-house, where Mr Selwood had sought him.
"What do you say, Mr Banks?" said the vicar.
"Well, sir, what I say is this," said Joe, pulling out and examining a
keen knife that he took from his pocket, "what I say is this--that he
ought to find out whom this knife belongs to, and punish him."
"That knife?"
"Yes," said Joe, grimly. "I've been well over the place, and I found
this knife lying on a bench. It is the one used for cootting the bands;
there's the greasy marks on it. Now, the man as that knife belongs to,"
he said, closing the blade with a snap, "is him as coot the bands."
"By the way, did you ever find the bands?" said the vicar.
"Find 'em, parson, oh yes, I fun 'em; chucked into one of the furnaces
they weer."
"And burnt?"
"Well, not exactly bunt, but so cockered up and scorched, as to be no
more good. I only wish I knew who did it."
"It was a cowardly trick," said the vicar, "and I wish it were known, so
that this unhappy strife might be stayed."
"Oh, that'll come raight soon," said Banks, drily. "Just wait till
Master Dick has been over to the bank and seen how his book stands once
or twice, and we'll soon bring this game to an end."
"And meanwhile the poor people are starving."
"Not they, sir," said Joe, with a chuckle. "People here are too saving.
They'll hold out a bit longer yet."
Joe remained to smoke a pipe amongst the extinct forges, while the vicar
paid a morning call at the big house, to find Mrs Glaire and Eve gone
for a walk, and Jacky Budd visible in the garden, fast asleep on a
rustic chair, with the flies haunting his nose.
Turning from there he went down the street, and had to bow to Miss
Purley, who was at the doctor's window, and to Miss Primgeon, who was at
the lawyer's window, both ladies having been there ever since he passed.
Then reaching the vicarage, it was to find that he had had a visitor in
his turn in the shape of his churchwarden, Mr Bultitude, "Owd Billy
Bultitude," as he was generally called in the town, just outside which
he had a large farm and was reported to be very wealthy.
"Parish matters, I suppose," said the vicar; and he stood debating with
himself for a few minutes as to whether he should go across the fields,
ending by making a start, and coming across Richard Glaire deep in
converse with Sim Slee, just by the cross-roads.
Something white was passed by Richard to the gentleman of the plaid
waistcoat, as the vicar approached, and then they moved on together for
a few yards, unaware of the coming footsteps.
"That looks like coming to terms," said the vicar to himself, joyfully.
"Well, I'm glad of it," and he was about to speak on the subject, when
Richard started round with a scowl upon his countenance, and Slee thrust
his hands into his pockets and went off whistling.
"As you will, master Dick," said the vicar to himself; "but I mean to
try hard yet to get the whip hand of you, my boy." Then, aloud, "What a
delightful morning."
"Look here, Mr Selwood," said Richard, roughly, "are you playing the
spy upon my actions?"
"Not I," said the vicar, laughing, "I am going over to Bultitude's farm;
I cannot help your being in the way. Good morning."
"He was watching me," muttered Dick, biting his nails. "I wonder
whether he saw that note."
As he stood looking after the vicar, Sim Slee came softly back to wink
in a mysterious way, and point with his thumb over his shoulder.
"They're all alike," he said--"all alike, parsons and all."
"What do you mean?" said Dick, roughly. "I thought you'd gone with that
note."
"Thowt I wouldn't go yet," said Sim, with another confidential jerk of
the thumb over his shoulder. "Joe Banks is sure to be at home now."
"I tell you he's down at the foundry, and will stay there all day,"
cried Dick, angrily.
"All raight: I'll go then," said Sim; "but I say, sir, they're all
alike."
"What do you mean?"
"Why that parson--that dreadfully good man."
"Well, what about him?"
"Don't you know where he's gone?"
"Yes, he said: old Bultitude's."
"Did he say what for?" said Sim, grinning. "No, of course not."
"Ho--ho--ho! Ho--ho--ho!" laughed Sim, stamping on the ground with
delight. "Don't you see his game?"
"Curse you, speak out," cried Dick, furiously. "What do you mean?"
"Only that he's getting all the women under his thumb. He'll be having
crosses and candles in the chutch direckly, like the Ranby man."
"Curse you for a fool, Slee," cried Richard, impatiently; and he was
turning away when Sim exclaimed--
"Don't you know as Miss Eve walked over there half-an-hour ago?"
"What?" roared Dick.
"Oh! she's only gone over to see Miss Jessie, of course; but if you'll
light a cigar, sir, and sit down on yon gate, you'll see if he don't
walk home with her. Now I'm off."
"Stop a moment, Sim," cried Dick in a husky voice. "Have--have you ever
seen anything?"
"Who? I? Oh, no! Nowt," said Sim; "leastwise I only saw 'em come out
of Ranby wood with a basket of flowers yesterday, that's all."
He went off then, chuckling to himself and rubbing his hands, leaving
the poison to work, as, with his face distorted with rage, Dick started
off at a sharp walk for Bultitude's farm; but, altering his mind, he
leaped a stile, lit a cigar, and stood leaning against a tree smoking,
unseen by any one who should pass along the lane, but able to command
the path on both sides for some distance, up and down.
Meanwhile the vicar, enjoying the pleasant walk, had been telling
himself that he could always leave the grimy town and its work behind in
a few minutes to enjoy the sweets of the country, which were here in all
their beauty; and after thinking of Eve Pelly for about five minutes, he
made a vigorous effort, uttered the word _taboo_, and began humming a
tune.
Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the tune he inadvertently began to
hum was one of those which Eve sang the other night, so he left off with
a hasty "Pish!" and stooping down, began to botanise, picking a flower
here and there, and then climbing up the rough side of the lane to cull
a pretty little fern, whose graceful fronds drooped from a shadowy
niche.
He threw the fern impatiently down, as he reached the path once more,
and his brow furrowed, for memory told him directly that it was the
pretty little _asplenium_, the peculiarities of whose growth he had
explained to Eve when he met her with Mrs Glaire the day before, and
had passed with them through Ranby wood, the latter lady probably being
too insignificant to be taken in by Mr Sim Slee's comprehensive vision.
Walking rapidly on, to calm his thoughts, he came across the object of
his search, busily dragging a sheep out of a little narrow grip or drain
that had been cut in the field, and into which the unfortunate animal
had rolled feet uppermost, its heavy wet fleece, and the size of the
drain, making it impossible for the timid beast to extricate itself.
"Fahrweltered, parson," said the bluff-looking farmer, as he came up.
"I beg your pardon," said the vicar.
"Fahrweltered--fahrweltered," said the farmer, laughing; "we say in
these parts a sheep's fahrweltered when he gets on his back like that.
I expect," he continued, with a roguish twinkle of his eye, "you've
found some of your flock fahrweltered by this time."
"Indeed, I have," said the vicar, laughing; "and so far the shepherd has
not been able to drag them out."
"No, I s'pose not," said the farmer, carefully wiping his hands upon a
big yellow silk handkerchief before offering one to be shaken. "You've
got your work coot out, my lad, and no mistake. But come on up to the
house, and have a bit of something. I come over to you about the
meeting, and the books, and the rest of it."
The vicar followed him up to the farm-house, where the heavy stack-yard,
abundant display of cattle, and noises of the yard told of prosperity;
and then leading the way through the red-brick passage into the long,
low, plainly-furnished sitting-room, the first words Murray Selwood
heard were--
"Jess, Miss Pelly, I've brought you a visitor."
The vicar's cheek burned, as he could not help a start, but he recovered
himself directly as he saw Eve Pelly's sweet face, with its calm
unruffled look, and replied to the frank pressure of her hand, as she
said she was delighted to see him.
"This is my niece, Jessie," said the farmer in his bluff way. "She
says, parson--"
"Oh, uncle!" cried the pleasant, bright-faced girl.
"Howd your tongue, lass; I shall tell him. She says, parson, she's glad
our old fogy has gone, for it's some pleasure to come and hear you."
"Oh, Mr Selwood, please," said the girl, blushing, "I didn't quite say
that. Uncle does--"
"'Zaggerate," said the old man, laughing. "Well, perhaps he does. But
come, girl, get in a bit of lunch. There, what now, Miss Pelly; are we
frightening you away?"
"Oh, no," said Eve, smiling, "only I must go now."
"Sit thee down, lass, sit thee down. Parson's going back directly, and
he'll walk wi' thee and see thee safe home."
And so it came about that innocently enough an hour afterwards the vicar
and Eve Pelly were walking back together with, as they came in sight of
Richard Glaire, Eve eagerly speaking to her companion, and becoming so
earnest in her pleading words for her cousin, that she laid one little
hand on the vicar's arm.
"You will like him when you come to know him, Mr Selwood," she was
saying, in her earnest endeavour that Richard should be well thought of
by everybody. "Poor boy, he has been so annoyed and worried over the
strike, that he is not like the same. It is enough to make him cross
and low-spirited, is it not?"
"Indeed it is," said the vicar, quietly; "and you may be quite at rest
with respect to your cousin, for he will, for he will always find a
friend in me."
He had been about to say, "for your sake," but a glance at the sweet,
candid face arrested his words, and he told himself that anything that
would in the slightest degree tend to disturb her pure faith and belief
in the man who was to be her husband would be cruelty, for there was the
hope that her gentle winning ways and innocent heart would be the means
of influencing Richard Glaire, and making him a better man.
"Hallo, you two!" made them start, as Richard leaped over the stile, and
seemed surprised to find that neither of them looked startled or
troubled at his sudden apparition. "Here, Eve, take my arm. I'm going
home."
"Thank you, Dick," she said, quietly. "I have something to carry."
He scowled and relapsed into a moody silence, which no efforts on the
vicar's part could break. Fortunately, the distance back to the town
was very short, and so he parted from them at the foot of the High
street, the rest of the distance being occupied by Richard in a torrent
of abuse of Eve, and invectives against the vicar, whom he characterised
as a beggarly meddling upstart, and ended by sending the girl up to her
room in tears.
Volume 2, Chapter II.