There was, indeed, a calm, but to the vicar it seemed a very deceitful
one, and he spent many an uneasy hour in thinking whether it was likely
when the men grew excited they would attack the house; but he always
came back to the conclusion that Richard would be safe there, so long as
he did nothing more to exasperate his workmen.
During visits to the house, Mrs Glaire, with tears, avowed that she
could do nothing, only hope, for Richard was stubbornness itself, and
when for a moment he thought of inducing Eve to play the part of
intercessor, the poor girl's wan and piteous look pained him so that he
could not ask her, and it was brought thoroughly home to him that she
must love Richard very dearly, though now they were cruelly estranged;
and as he sat and gazed upon her, and grew more and more intimate,
learning the sweet truth of her nature, and thorough self-denial, he
felt half maddened to think she should be thrown away upon such a man,
and told himself that he would gladly have seen her wedded to any one to
escape so terrible a union.
The past and Daisy Banks were quite ignored. She was a trouble that had
come upon the mother and cousin's life, but she was removed apparently
from their path, unless some of the letters Richard so regularly wrote
were for her.
Murray felt his position in connection with the family acutely. The
rumour spread by Budd as to his being forbidden the house was false, but
scarcely a day passed when Richard came down, after indulging himself a
week in bed to cure ills from which he really did not suffer, but for
which stout Mr Purley doctored him stolidly, and made his sister enter
them in the day-book when he got home--scarcely a day passed without the
vicar having to submit to some insult.
He would have stayed away, but for Mrs Glaire, who looked to him for
her support in this time of trouble; and he would have avoided Eve's
society, dear to him as it was, but for the sweet ingenuous looks with
which she greeted him, and laid bare her innocent, truthful heart to his
gaze. To her he was dear Mr Selwood, whose hands she had kissed when
he promised her to leave no stone unturned to bring Richard to the path
of duty; and her belief in him was, that with his strong mind and
knowledge of the world, he would do this, that Richard would be quite
reformed; and make her, to her aunt's lasting happiness, a good and
loving husband.
And she--does she love him? the vicar often asked himself, and he was
compelled to answer, "No!"
For there was no deep passion, only the sorrow for Richard's frailties,
the disappointment and bitterness of the young girl, who finds the man
to whom she is betrothed is a scoundrel, and fights with self to keep
from believing it. No, Eve did not love him with all her heart, for a
true love passion had never yet gained an entrance. Richard was to be
her husband; that was settled; and some day, when he showed his sorrow
and repented, she would forgive him, and become his wife.
And had she the least idea that another loved her?
Not the least. Mr Selwood was her and her aunt's dear friend, working
with them for the same end, and some day in the future, when Richard was
forgiven, he would make them man and wife.
This was the state of Eve's heart at the present period of the story;
but a change was coming--a look, a word, or a touch, something had
thrilled one of the fibres of Eve's being, directly after the saving of
Richard from his men; and, though innocent of its meaning, the first
germ of a thought which she came afterwards to term "disloyal to
Richard," was planted in her heart, and began to grow.
The vicar was at home, busy over his garden. It had been a busy
morning, and Mrs Slee had informed him that she was "dead bet." And
she must have been tired, for fully a hundred people had been for relief
that morning, the munificent sums the young vicar devoted to the
workmen's families having been of late supplemented by money furnished
by Mrs Glaire.
"Richard must never know," she said; "but I feel bound to do something
towards alleviating the distress caused by his obstinacy."
The result was that soup and bread were supplied, and no one came to the
vicarage without getting some assistance.
"Thee'll give all thee's got away, and leave nowt for thee sen," said
Mrs Slee to him crossly, when the distribution was over, and the people
gone.
"You're tired," said the vicar, smiling.
"Nay, I'm not," said Mrs Slee; "but it makes me mad."
"What makes you mad?"
"Why, to see you finding money, and trouble, and me helping you, to keep
the poor silly women and bairns from pining, when my maister's doing all
he can to keep the men from going to work. It makes me hate my sen."
"Well, but we can't help it, Mrs Slee."
"No," she retorted; "but half of them don't deserve it."
"If we waited to be charitable till only those who deserved it came,
Mrs Slee, you need not make so much soup, and shins of beef would not
be so scarce."
"You're raight theer, sir," said Mrs Slee, speaking a little less
vinegary to the man whom, in spite of her short, snappish ways, she
almost worshipped, and would do anything to serve. In fact, Mrs Slee
had, since her instalment as housekeeper to the vicar, grown less
angular and pasty of face, even approaching to her old comeliness. Not
from idleness, though, for the neat maidservant, who was her assistant,
had almost a sinecure for place, Mrs Slee insisting on making bread,
cooking, "rembling" and "siding," as she termed it; in short, she
monopolised nearly the whole of the work, and the place was a model of
neatness and perfection.
"One's obliged to do the best one can, Mrs Slee, and be content to
leave the working and result to wiser hands."
"Oh yes, sir, that's raight enew; but it makes me mad for all them big
owry fellows to be idle 'bout a quarrel, and their missusses looking all
poor creatures, and their bairns as wankle as wankle for want o' better
food, when there ought to be bacon and pig cheer and ony mander o' thing
they want. It's time some on 'em give ower, instead o' leaving their
wives scratting about to keep body and soul together."
"I keep hoping matters will mend," said the vicar.
"Here's some un else to wherrit you," said Mrs Slee, hearing the gate
bang. "Why, I never saw such a sight in my life. It's Joe Banks."
The vicar was surprised, and rose as Joe Banks, looking years older, was
shown in by Mrs Slee, who counteracted her longing to know his business
by hurriedly going out, making her way into the kitchen, and attacking a
pancheon of dough, which had been put to the fire to rise, and was now
ready to pour over the side like a dough eruption, and run down and
solidify as bread.
This was, however, by the help of flour, soon reduced to normal
proportions, banged into tins, and thrust into the oven, Mrs Slee
performing each part of her task as if she were very angry with the
compound, and desirous of punishing it for being so good. But it was a
way she had, induced by the behaviour of her master, Simeon Slee.
Meanwhile, Joe Banks, in spite of the friendly welcome he had received,
refused to sit down, but stood leaning on the stick he carried.
"Nay, parson, nay," he said, "I haven't come to stop. I just thowt I'd
act like a man now, and say I arks your pardon, sir, hearty like, and
wi' all my heart."
"My pardon, for what, Banks?"
"For acting like a fond, foolish owd father the other day, and giving ye
the rough side of my tongue, when you came to gi' me good advice."
"Oh, don't talk about that, man, pray."
"Yes, I thowt I would, because I ought to ha' knowd better, and not been
such a blind owd owl. But there you know, parson--and I suppose you're
used to it--them as you goes to advise always coots oop rough. So I
thowt, as I said, I'd arsk your pardon."
"If I've anything to pardon, Banks, it was forgiven the next minute. I
look upon life as too short, and the work we have to do as too much, to
allow room for nursing up such troubles as that."
"Don't say any more, parson," said Joe, wringing his hand, with a grip
of iron; "it makes me feel 'shamed like o' my sen."
"I don't see why," said the vicar. "If I had been a father I dare say I
should have done the same."
"Down on your knees to-night, parson, and pray as you never may be,"
cried the old man fiercely; "that you may never nurse and bring up and
love a bairn whom you toil for all your life, to find she throws you
over for the first face that pleases her."
"But we are not quite certain yet, Banks," said the vicar, laying his
hand on the other's arm.
"Yes, I am," said Banks, sturdily. "I know enew to satisfy me; but stop
a moment, I meant to have a word about that, and let's have it at once.
It's all my own doing, I know, but there it is, and it can't be undone.
Tell me, though, parson, can you say from your heart, `Joe Banks, you're
mista'en; I don't think Richard Glaire--Richard Glaire--dal me! I will
say it.'"
The old man's voice turned hoarse, and shook at last, so that he could
not speak, as he came to Richard Glaire's name, when, after an effort,
he exclaimed as above, and then went on--"I don't think Richard Glaire
stole away your bairn?"
There was silence in the room, as the vicar looked sorrowfully in the
keen eyes of Daisy's father.
"I say, parson," he repeated, "can you say fro' your heart, `Joe Banks,
you're mista'en; I don't think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?'"
There was another pause, and Joe Banks spoke again.
"Can you say that, parson?"
"No, Banks," said the vicar, sadly. "I may be mistaken, but I cannot
say what you wish."
"Thanky, parson, thanky," said the old man, quietly. "You'll shake
hands with me afore I go."
"Indeed I will, Mr Banks; indeed I will," said the vicar, heartily.
"But you are not going yet."
"Yes, I'm going now, parson, and if in the time as is to come you hear
owt as isn't good of me, put it down to circumstances. You will, wean't
you?"
"You're not going away, Banks?"
"Nay, nay, man, I'm not going away. Just do as I say, that's all."
"How is your wife? I hope better. She seemed ill yesterday."
"Ah, ah, you called yesterday, as she said. Thanky, she's on'y a poor
creature now. This job's unsattled her. Good-bye, parson, good-bye."
"But is there anything I can do for you, Banks?"
"Nay, parson, nowt as I knows on. Good-bye, good-bye."
He shook hands, and went quietly out to the garden, and along the path,
leaving the vicar wondering.
"Did he mean anything by his words?" the vicar said, "or was it only in
connection with asking me to forgive him? He couldn't mean--oh, no,
he's too calm and subdued for that. He's like a man who knows the worst
now, and is better able to bear it. I should be glad to see the
lock-out at an end, but, even if it were, that poor old man would never
go to work for Richard Glaire again."
Volume 2, Chapter XX.