After the storm came a calm, during which there was magisterial talk in
the neighbourhood to which reports of the proceedings had extended, of
sending for the military, of having additional police force in the town;
and then, as Richard Glaire made no movement, as no property was
destroyed, and the injury was confined to one man, the affair began to
be looked upon as an ordinary assault.
A good deal of this was due to the fact that trade troubles were not
uncommon, and so long as the policemen were not forced into taking
action by the magnitude of the offence, they found it better to close
their eyes to the proceedings, and not to interfere "till somebody
called murder." In the riot in question the police had been
good-humouredly locked up, and kept prisoners, as their captors said,
laughing, "so as not to spoil their uniforms;" and, after a show of
resistance, when they were informed that the lads were "only going to
serve sum'un out," they came to the conclusion that the majesty of the
law, as represented by two officials, was no match for a hundred and
fifty excited men, and waited patiently till the affair was over.
The clerk of the two made his report, and waited on Richard Glaire, who,
being swathed and bandaged, and very sore, told him to go to the devil.
Then the constable asked him if he should get warrants out against
anybody--this at Richard Glaire's bedside.
"Yes, if you like," growled Richard.
"Will you give me their names, sir?" said the man.
"How can I give you their names, when I don't know them? It was the
whole pack."
"But what am I to do, sir?" said the man, scratching his head.
"Get out!" said Richard. "Wait till I'm better."
The constable saw the vicar downstairs, and tried him for names, but
with no better success; and the representative of law and order in the
little out-of-the-way town went back in no wise dissatisfied, for any
action against so strong a body of men would have been exceedingly
unpleasant, and not at all conducive to his future comfort amongst those
whom he looked upon as neighbours.
The search, too, for Daisy Banks ceased after the attack on Richard, for
on all sides the police were met with the same mocking question, "Hev
you asked Dick Glaire where she is?"
In fact, it was now an acknowledged fact that Richard Glaire was
answerable for her whereabouts, and no amount of denial had the
slightest effect on the people of Dumford.
Jacky Budd shook his head, looked red-nosed, and said nothing, but
implied a great deal. In fact, Jacky was in great request, and was
asked to take a good deal to drink in the shape of gills of ale by
gossips wishful to know how matters went on at the Big House, where
Richard Glaire was at first a prisoner perforce, and later on from
choice.
Everybody said that Jacky Budd was as great a "shack" as Sim Slee; but,
like that worthy, it was his harvest time, and he was of great
importance in the place.
Not that he had much to report, but he dressed up his meagre bits of
knowledge, and hinted that the vicar was forbidden the house.
"Young Dicky said he'd shute him if he come on the premises again."
"Why?" said some one.
"Why," replied Jacky, with a wince, "because he's jealous of him; thinks
he wants the owd woman."
This report reached the ears of Miss Purley, who immediately put on her
bonnet, and went down the street to Miss Primgeon, taking tea with that
lady, whom she kissed affectionately for the first time since the
vicar's arrival; and Miss Primgeon called her "dear," and kissed her
also affectionately, confidences growing to such an extent that Miss
Primgeon brought out and showed a pair of braces she had been
embroidering for somebody; and, in return, Miss Purley displayed the
crown of a smoking-cap in purple velvet, with "a dicky bird" in white
beads, sitting on a crimson floss silk twig; and then both ladies called
each other "dear" again, and shed tears on the top of the smoking-cap
and over the braces, re-embroidering them as it were with pearls, while
they talked of the terribly fragile nature of human hopes, the weakness
of man, and the artfulness of elderly widows.
The quantity of tea changed by a process of natural chemistry into tears
that night was something astounding before the ladies separated.
Sim Slee was in high feather, too, and reached home several nights in a
glorified state, spending some little time before retiring to rest in
performing strange acts in his stocking feet.
Mrs Slee always waited up for him on her return from the vicarage, and
generally gave him what he termed "a tongue thrashing for nowt."
"Coming home in such a state!" she'd exclaim. "Wher ha' ye been
goozening to now? What would the parson say?"
"I don't care nowt for parson or anybody, and what do you mean with your
state. I've ony been as far as the corner."
At such times Sim would pull off his boots with some difficulty, for he
had the peculiarity of being perfectly sober as far as his waist, while
his legs would be in such a disgraceful state of intoxication that he
did not reach home without their throwing the upper part of his body
several times on the ground. The boots being removed, Sim would sit
before the fire talking to himself, and working his toes about in his
coarse knitted stockings.
"Why can't you put on your slippers, Sim?" Mrs Sim would say.
"I wean't," he'd answer. "I'm not going to be ordered about by a woman.
I'm a man."
"You're a nasty drunken pig," exclaimed Mrs Slee.
"What!" he would say indignantly, "drunk! Heven't had a glass. I never
have a bit o' peace o' my life. Tant-tant-tant all day long, driving me
away from home. Ugh, you know nowt but nastiness. You always weer
nasty. Go to bed."
Volume 2, Chapter XVIII.