"Be ready at nine to-night. She'll join you by the gate of Lamby's
close; then straight off with her to the station, take your tickets, as
I told you, to London, and stay with her at the address I gave you till
I come."
"Now then, Joe Banks," he said, holding out the note, "whose writing's
that?"
"It's a lie--a forgery," cried Richard, whose face now was of a sickly
green.
Joe Banks passed his hand before his face, and seemed dazed for a
moment; then, catching at the note, he took a candle from the drawers on
which it stood, and, as he did so, Richard started forward, and made a
snatch at the paper, but a menacing movement on the part of the crowd
made him start back, while the vicar looked from face to face, and saw
Tom Podmore's stern scowl, and the fire gathered in Joe Banks's eyes.
"He'll murder him," he said to himself; and, shifting his position, he
got between Joe and Richard Glaire.
"Hold your tongue, for your life," he whispered to the trembling man.
"Your only chance is to beg for his mercy: for his child's sake. Daisy
must be your wife."
"Curse you!" cried Richard, through his teeth. "You were always against
me."
Then he shrank back trembling against the wall, as in the midst of
profound silence, the old man read the letter straight through.
"Who gi'e thee this, Sim Slee?" he said twice in a husky voice.
"Dicky Glaire."
"No, no," gasped Richard; "a lie--a lie. It's a forgery. I did not get
away Daisy Banks; so help me God, I didn't, Joe."
"Damn thee for a liar!" cried the old man, furiously; and before the
vicar could prevent him, he had Richard by the throat, and down upon his
knees, faintly protesting his innocence. "It's no forgery. It's thee
own false writing same as these," he cried; "your cursed love-letters to
my poor bairn."
He tore a bundle of notes from his breast, notes Richard had warned poor
Daisy to burn, but which the weak girl had treasured up in secret, to be
found in her room when she had gone.
"Look!" he cried, as he held Sim Slee's fatal note of instructions out
beside the others; "are these lies and forgeries? Mebbe you think I'll
believe thee now, as I've troosted thee throughout. Didn't I think thou
wert thy poor owd father's honest son--the gentleman he had tried to
mak' thee? Didn't I stand by thee when all ta town was again thee, fowt
for thee, looked on thee as my son, and you turn and sting me like a
cowardly snake in the grass?"
"He did, Joe, he did," cried a voice in the crowd, as they stood back
now, content to watch for the punishment that should fall on their
enemy, while Sim Slee, the man who had betrayed him, smiled like a
despicable modern Judas, gloating in the revenge he was taking on the
employer who had struck him in the face.
"Damn thee, be silent!" roared Joe, as, with a wild look of fury, he
seized the poker as if to strike, and Richard crouched to the ground,
and uttered a shriek of dread.
"For God's sake, Banks!" cried the vicar, catching at his arm, but
unable to stay him. "Man, are you mad?"
"A'most, parson," he said, turning on him. "Thou told me to tak' care;
thou gave me fair warning 'bout it all, and like a fool--no, like a man
who wouldn't believe it--I turned upon thee when thou wast raight, for I
couldn't and wouldn't believe he was such a liar and villain. Look at
him, lads, look at the cold-blooded snake, as could stoop to ruin a poor
trustin' fool of all he held dear in life, and now all he has to say is
a lie."
"I am innocent, Joe, indeed," cried the young man.
"Thou lies," cried Banks, furiously; and he raised his weapon again, but
only to dash it into the fireplace. Then, stooping, he caught the
shivering man by the throat, dragged him up, and held him against the
wall, while not a sound was heard but the panting of breath, and the
hoarse mutterings of the stricken father.
"Banks, Banks!" cried the vicar imploringly.
"Let me be, parson, let me be," he said in a low voice. "Thou'rt a good
man, and may trust me." Then aloud, "Richard Glaire, I'm a poor,
half-broken workman, and thou'st robbed me."
"No, no," panted Richard, "Mr Selwood, Harry, Podmore, help!"
"Silence," cried Joe Banks; "we've gotten thee, and thou tries to hide
it all by lying. I've gotten thee, though, now, and my eyes are opened
to it all. I could strangle thee where thou stands; but I promised thee
father I'd stand by thee, and I have again all men, as know'd thee for
what thou wast. But I can't do it now, and kill, perhaps, every hope of
my poor bairn, so come."
He caught the young man tightly by the collar, and waved the others
aside, so that they fell back before him as he went out unmolested with
his prisoner into the starlit lane, and stood the centre of the crowd--
now at a respectful distance.
"My lads," he said, aloud, while the vicar, who had signed to his
companions to be ready, stood with every muscle strained to spring
forward and try to save the shivering man from violence. "My lads, this
man's done you all a bad turn, but most of all to me."
There was a murmur of acquiescence at this.
"I've always fowt for ye when I could, but I've always stuck to the
maister," continued Joe, in a low, hoarse voice that was terrible in its
earnestness.
"You hev, Joe, you hev," was murmured, for the men were impressed by the
terrible earnestness of the old foreman.
"I've gotten something to ask of ye, then," said Joe.
"What is it?"
"Let me hev the punishment of this man--this cold-blooded villain."
"Yes, yes," rose like a whirlwind.
"And you'll leave him to me?" said Joe, through his teeth.
"Yes, yes."
"Joe, oh Joe, what are you going to do?" wailed his wife, coming panting
up, having returned from the next town by the train by which Richard
Glaire had meant to leave.
"Thou shalt see, moother," said Joe quietly; "I'm going to punish the
thief that stole our bairn."
"But, Joe!" cried Mrs Banks piteously.
"Howd thee tongue, and see," he cried sternly. "Richard Glaire, thou'rt
a damned villain, but I can't strike down the man my poor bairn has
clasped in her poor weak arms. The way's open to thee: go, and God's
mercy be held from thee if thou dost not make my poor child amends."
Richard Glaire tried to speak, but his tongue refused its office, and he
looked, shivering, from one to the other, as the stern old man stood
pointing up towards the town, while the men who, but a short time
before, were ready to tear and trample him under foot, stood back right
and left, leaving an open lane for him to pass.
"Banks, God bless you!" whispered the vicar, catching the old man's
hand.
"And you too, parson," said the other, simply. "Mebbe you'll tak' him
home."
The help was needed, for Richard Glaire tottered as his arm was drawn
through the vicar's; and then, followed by Tom Podmore and the big
hammerman, they passed unmolested through the crowd, to find another
further on, consisting of the women of the place, who had restrained the
frantic mother and Eve Pelly from following; and the latter was kneeling
now in the midst of a knot of women beside poor Mrs Glaire.
"Lift her and carry her home, Harry," said the vicar; and the great
fellow raised Mrs Glaire like a babe. "Podmore, I leave Miss Pelly to
you. Somebody ask Mr Purley to come on to the house at once. Quick.
By Jove, he has fainted!"
These latter words were to himself, as Richard Glaire staggered and
would have fallen but for the vicar's hold; and lifting him on his own
shoulder, he led the strange procession till they entered the house,
where he stayed with his two stout companions, John Maine going home, to
keep guard with the police, who now arrived after being locked in the
station and kept there by the men.
But there was no need, for the eruption was over, and the night's
silence was only broken by Richard's moans as he lay there bruised and
sore, mad almost against his men, and ready to rail at the whole world
for the injuries he had received.
Volume 2, Chapter XVII.