Meanwhile the vicar had missed Eve, who had taken another route, and
made his way up to the big house, where he was shown into the room to
find Mrs Glaire lying, very pale and weak, upon the couch.
She apologised for not rising, and as he took her hand, he felt that it
was hot and feverish.
"I ought to be the doctor," he said pleasantly, as he retained the hand.
"There's too much fever here."
"No doctor will cure that," she said, with a sad smile. "I only want
peace of mind, and then I shall be well; and you have come to bring more
bad news."
"Oh," said the vicar, carelessly, "I only wanted a bit of a chat with
your son."
"Mr Selwood," said Mrs Glaire, "don't please speak to me like that.
It is dreadful to me; and makes me feel as if I could not trust and
believe in the one man in whom I wish to confide."
"Then in heaven's name," he began, but she interrupted him.
"I have had faith and trust in you, Mr Selwood, from the first day you
came."
"Then you shall continue it," he said, firmly. "I was reticent because
I thought you too ill to bear bad tidings."
"I can bear all," she said, softly; "pray tell me the worst."
"Well," he said, quietly, "we will not talk of worst, for there is no
danger that cannot be warded off."
"If my son likes?" said Mrs Glaire.
"If your son likes," continued the vicar. "The fact is, Mrs Glaire,
the people are getting furious against him, and without going into the
question of right or wrong, the sufferings of their wives and children
are maddening the men. This lock-out ought to end."
"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, sighing, "it ought."
"It was a dastardly trick, that destruction of the machinery, but I
believe it was the work of one brain, and one pair of hands."
"Why do you think so?"
"I have had endless communications with the locked-out men, and, as far
as I can judge character, I find them very rough, very independent, but,
at the same time, frank and honest, and I cannot find one amongst them
who does not look me full in the face with a clear unblushing eye, and
say, `Parson, if I know'd who did that dirty sneaking business, I'd half
kill him.' This in these or similar words."
Mrs Glaire bowed her head.
"Yes," she said; "you have given the men's character in those words, but
they are cruelly bitter against my son."
"They are," said the vicar, hesitating to tell his news.
"And they think he has persuaded Daisy Banks to leave her home."
"Almost to a man, though her father holds out."
"Joe Banks always will be staunch," said Mrs Glaire. "And you think
with the men about that, Mr Selwood?"
"I would rather not answer that question," he said.
"Then we will not discuss it," she replied rather hotly. "But you came
to bring me some tidings, Mr Selwood," she continued, holding out her
hand. "Forgive me if I feel as a mother, and defend my son."
"I am here to defend him too," said the vicar, taking and kissing the
hand extended to him; and as he did so the door softly opened, and Eve
glided into the room, to half shrink back and retire; but on hearing the
vicar's words she sank into a seat as if unnerved, and the conversation
went on.
"Tell me now, what is the danger?" said Mrs Glaire.
"It is this," said the vicar; "I am firmly persuaded that this house is
a sanctuary, and that for the sake of yourself and your niece, Mr
Richard Glaire is safe so long as he stays here."
"And he will stay here till I can bring him to reason about these
people. I would pay the money he demands at once, but he insists that
it shall be the hard earnings of his workmen themselves, and I am
powerless."
"I am willing to lend the men the amount myself, but they will not take
it, and I am afraid it would not be received if its source were known."
"No," said Mrs Glaire, "you must not pay it. My son would never
forgive you. But go on."
"I repeat," said the vicar, "that your son is safe while he remains
here."
"And I say that he shall stay," said Mrs Glaire sharply. "He shall not
leave. He has no intention of leaving."
"He has made up his mind, it seems, to leave by the mail-train
to-night," said the vicar; and as the words left his lips, and Mrs
Glaire started into a sitting position, a faint cry behind made them
turn round, and the vicar had just time to catch Eve in his arms, as she
was gliding to the floor.
"Poor child!" he muttered, as he held her reverently, and then placed
her in a reclining chair, while a shadow of pain passed across his face,
as he felt for whom this display of trouble and suffering was caused.
"It is nothing, nothing, Mr Selwood--aunt," faltered Eve, fighting
bravely to over come her weakness; "but, aunt, you will not let him go.
Mr Selwood, you will not let him be hurt."
"No, my child, no," he said sadly, "not if my arm can save him."
"Thank you; I knew you would say so, you are so brave and strong," she
cried, kissing his hand; and as her lips touched the firm, starting
veins, a strange hot thrill of excitement passed through his nerves, but
only to be quenched by the bitter flood of misery that succeeded it; and
then, making a mighty effort over self, he turned to Mrs Glaire, who
was speaking:
"But are you sure--do you think it is true?" she exclaimed.
"I believe it," he said quietly; "and it is absolutely necessary that he
should on no pretence leave the house."
"And who says I am to be a prisoner?" asked Richard, entering the room.
"I, for one," said the vicar, "if you value your safety, I may say your
life."
"And by what right do you come meddling again with my private affairs?"
said Richard, offensively.
"The right of every man who sees his neighbour's life in danger to come
and warn him."
"Then don't warn me," said Richard; "I don't want warning. It's all
rubbish."
"It is no rubbish that a certain party of the men are holding meetings
and threatening to injure you," said the vicar, rather warmly.
"Bah! they're always doing that, and it don't frighten me," said
Richard, coarsely.
"Then you were not going, Richard?" said his mother, eagerly. "You were
not thinking of being so mad?"
"Going? no; not I," said Richard, "though I don't see anything mad in
it."
Eve gave a sigh of relief, which sounded like a knell to the vicar, who,
however, said frankly:
"I am very glad, then, that I have been deceived."
"And," said Richard, sneeringly, "next time you hear a cock-and-bull
story about me, perhaps you will keep it to yourself, sir, and leave me
to go my ways in peace."
"Richard!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, while, with a flush of shame upon her
face, Eve rose and hastily placed her hand in the vicar's, saying
softly:
"Oh, Mr Selwood."
Only those three words, but they were balm to him, as he pressed the
soft little hand, and raised it to his lips, while, stung by this
display, Richard started forward to make some offensive observation, but
the door opened, and the maid appeared.
"Well, what is it?" cried Richard. "Why didn't you knock?"
"I did, sir," said the girl, "but you didn't hear. Jacky Budd says,
sir, he can't carry your portmantle across the close because of the
stiles, and he must take it to the station in a barrow."
"In time for the mail-train, Mr Glaire?" said the vicar, in spite of
himself, though, for Eve's sake, he regretted it afterwards.
"Damn!" snarled Richard. "No,--go away. Such fools."
He ground his teeth and stamped about the room, while Mrs Glaire's eyes
sought those of the vicar, and in her apologetic look he read plainly
enough the mother's shame for the graceless boy she had brought into the
world.
The look of triumph passed from his countenance as rapidly as it had
come, as he caught a glance of sorrow and appeal from Eve, which seemed
to say, "Forgive him, and save him against himself."
"You will give up all thought of going now, Mr Glaire," he said,
quietly. "Of course you wished to keep your departure a secret; but you
see the intelligence reached me, and is now perhaps the property of the
whole town."
"Through you?" said Richard, recovering himself, and speaking with a
cunning sneer upon his face.
"This is no time for sneers, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, calmly. "The
information was brought to me direct from the meeting."
"By one of your spies?"
"By one of the workmen whom I have made my friend, and whom you have
made your enemy; and he sends me as his messenger to pour coals of fire
upon your head, saying, `Save this man, for if he goes out to-night it
may be at the cost of his life.' Mr Glaire, you will not go now?"
"Not go!" roared Richard, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table.
"But I will go. Look here; I start from this house at seven o'clock to
catch the mail-train; now go and tell the scoundrels you have made your
friends--the men you have encouraged in their strike against me."
"I encouraged them?" said the vicar, smiling at the absurdity of the
charge, when he had striven so bravely for peace.
"Yes; you who have fed their wives and children, and lent them money so
as to enable them to hold out against me--you, whose coming has been a
curse to the place, for you have fostered the strike from the
beginning."
"There is no time to argue that, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, quietly;
"and let me advise you once more. Give up this foolish idea of leaving,
if not for your own sake, for that of your mother and your cousin here."
"I shall not," cried Richard. "I have made my arrangements, and I shall
go, and let the blood of the man be on his own head who tries to stop
me."
"As you will," said the vicar, calmly, as he turned to go.
"Mr Selwood!"
"Mr Selwood!"
The two women appealed to him in a breath, but he did not look at them,
merely fixed Richard with his eyes, as he said quietly:
"Then you must be saved against your will."
The next minute he was gone.
Volume 2, Chapter XVI.