The day following that on which the scoundrels who had made the attempt
on the vicarage had been sent off to the county town, the vicar was in
his garden musing on his future, and thinking whether it was his duty to
leave Dumford and go far away, as life there had become a torture; but
everything seemed to tend towards the point that it was his duty to stay
and forget self in trying to aid others. In spite of the past, it
seemed to him that he had done good; Richard Glaire had listened to
reason; the strike was nearly over, and the men had settled down into a
calmer state of resignation to their fate. So quiet were they that he
more than suspected that they had some inkling of the change coming on.
Then, too, he had made peace at the farm, where the wedding of John
Maine and Jessie was shortly to take place, John, at his instigation,
having frankly told the farmer the whole of his past life, to be greeted
with a tremendous clap on the shoulder and called "a silly sheep."
"Just as if thou could'st help that, lad," said the old man. "Why
didstn't out wi' it at first?"
And then Eve's wedding.
"Poor girl! she wishes it," the vicar said to himself, continuing his
musing, as he stooped to tie up a flower here and there. "It would be
madness to interpose, and God help her, she will redeem him, and--I hope
so--I hope so."
"Well, I must stay," he said, with a weary smile upon his face. "I am a
priest, and the priests of old looked upon self-denial as a duty. Let
it be mine to try and perfect the peace that is coming back to this
strange old place."
"Paarson!"
He started and looked round, but no one was visible, and yet a deep
rough voice he seemed to know had spoken.
"Paarson!" was repeated, apparently close to his feet where he was
standing by the garden hedge.
"Who is it?"
"Niver mind who it is," said the voice. "I joost want a word wi' you."
"Where are you?"
"Lying down here i' th' dyke. I had to creep here 'mong the nattles
like a big snail."
"Well, come out, man, and speak to me."
"Nay, nay, that wean't do."
"What, is it you, Harry?"
"Howd your tongue, wilt ta, paarson. I don't want the lads to know as I
comed and telled you. I've come along fower dykes."
"What does it all mean?" said the vicar, leaning over the hedge, to see
the great hammerman lying on his face in the ditch on the field side.
"Don't ask no questions, paarson, for I wean't tell nowt, 'cause I'm
sweered not to; but I don't like what's going on."
"Well, but tell me, Harry, I beg--I insist--"
"I wean't tell thee nowt, paarson, on'y this here. Yow wouldn't like
them as you knows hurt, so joost tell Dicky Glaire to look out."
"But why--when? I must know more."
The only answer was a loud rustling, and the great body of the hammerman
could be seen crawling through the nettles as he made his way pretty
quickly along in the opposite direction to that in which he had come,
and the vicar forbore to pursue, as it might have tended to betray him.
"I'm not without friends, after all," he said, musing. "Then this
quietness is only the precursor of some other storm. I'll go up at
once."
He made Iiis way straight to the House, and all was very quiet in the
town. Men were lounging about, and their thin sad-faced wives were to
be seen here and there busy within, but no sign was visible of the
coming storm; and for a while the vicar was ready to doubt the
possibility of anything threatening, till he recalled Big Harry's
action, and felt certain that the man's words must be true. Any doubt
he might have had was, however, dispelled a moment or two later, for he
saw Tom Podmore coming towards him; but as soon as the young man caught
sight of the vicar he turned sharply round and went away.
"There is something wrong, and he's mixed up in it," muttered the vicar.
"Of course, he is Big Harry's friend, and so the great fellow knew it.
Perhaps, though, he sent him to caution me!"
It was a random shot, but it hit the mark, for Tom, being held in
suspicion by his fellows, could not well stir in the matter; and in
talking it over with Big Harry, the latter had declared he would warn
parson, and so he had.
The vicar was shown in directly, and found the family at the House
seated together. He was rather shocked to see Eve's pallid face; but
she brightened up at his coming, and seemed to him to be trying to show
him how happy they once more were.
Mrs Glaire, too, looked pale and careworn, but she was eager in her
ways, and glad to see him, while Richard, in a half-civil way, but with
a shifty look in his eye, shook hands and muttered something about the
weather.
"Here, Eve, we'll go down the garden together," said Richard; "Mr
Selwood's come to see my mother."
"No," said the vicar, quietly, "I have come to see you."
"To see me?"
"Yes; on very important business."
"If you've come from those scoundrels," said Richard, hotly, "I won't
hear a word. Let them come themselves."
"Richard!" said Mrs Glaire, imploringly. "I don't care, mother. I've
given way to a certain extent, and I'll go no further."
"But I have not come from the men," said the vicar.
"Then what is it?" said Richard, who had a horror of being left alone
with his visitor. "Speak out."
"I would rather tell you in private," said the vicar, glancing uneasily
at the two women.
"If it is any fresh trouble, Mr Selwood, pray speak out," said Mrs
Glaire, anxiously. "But Miss Pelly?"
"Richard is to be my husband in a few days, Mr Selwood," said Eve,
smiling sadly, as she rose and stood beside him, with her hands resting
on his shoulder. "If it is trouble, I have a right to share it with
him."
"There, let's have it," said Richard, rudely. "They will have to hear
whatever it is."
The vicar hesitated a moment or two, and tried to collect himself, for
Eve's last words sent a pang through his breast, as they seemed to tear
the last fibre that had held her to him.
At last he spoke.
"I have little to tell. My news is shadowy and undefined, but I fear it
is very real."
"Well, tell me, man, tell me," said Richard; who, while assuming an air
of bravado, began to look white.
"I will, Mr Glaire. One of your workmen came secretly to me within the
last half-hour to bid you be on your guard."
"I haven't been off," said Richard, insolently. "Who was it?"
"That I cannot tell you," said the vicar. "The man said he had been
sworn to secrecy, but he did not like the business, and came at all
risks to tell me."
"It was that scoundrel, Tom Podmore," cried Richard.
"It was not Podmore," replied the vicar.
"Then it was that old villain, Joe Banks--an old hypocrite. Forced his
way down the garden to me the other evening to bully me."
"Richard, my boy, for heaven's sake," cried Mrs Glaire.
"It was not your old foreman, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, quietly. "I
have told you all. It is very little, but it may mean much. If you
will take my advice you will counteract the people's plans by opening
your works to-morrow."
"Yes, Richard, do!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire and Eve in a breath.
"I said I'd open them on a certain day, and I won't stir a peg from that
decision," cried Richard, obstinately.
"Whom the gods will destroy, they first make mad," muttered the vicar to
himself, in the old Latin.
"It would be giving way to them," said Richard, "and that I'll never
do."
"But you give way when you do open," said the vicar.
"I'm not going to argue that," said Richard, haughtily; "I've made up my
mind, and I shall keep to it."
"Then leave your orders, and go quietly away for a few days, till the
works are in full swing again."
Richard had made up his mind to do that very thing; but, as the vicar
proposed it, and Eve eagerly acquiesced, he was dead against it on the
instant.
"I shall stay here," he said firmly, "and have the police to guard the
house."
"It is like inviting attack," said the vicar, excitedly. "For your
mother's and Miss Pelly's sake, don't do that. It is throwing down the
gauntlet to a set of men maddened by a belief in their wrongs. Many of
them are fierce with hunger."
"Bah! Stuff!" said Richard; "they've got plenty saved up, and--he, he,
he!--nicely they've humbugged you into relieving them with soup and
bread and meat. You don't know Dumford yet, Mr Selwood."
"If I am to know it as you know it," thought the vicar, "I hope I never
shall;" but he did not give utterance to his thoughts.
"I shall go--" began Richard; then, insolently--"You won't go and betray
me, parson, will you?"
The vicar did not reply.
"I shall go and stay over at the works, mother," said Richard.
"What!" exclaimed Mrs Glaire.
"Stay over at the works till the opening day. Let the brutes think I
have left the town; and, with a few blankets and some provisions, I
shall do. I'll go over to-night."
"But, Richard, this is folly," cried Eve, beginning to tremble.
"You don't know anything about it," he said, sharply. "If the beasts
mean mischief again, they'll try to get me away from here, and most
likely they are watching every train to catch me. If I slip over in the
middle of the night, I shall be safe; for no one will think I am there.
What do you say, parson?"
The vicar sat thinking for a few moments, and then gave in his
acquiescence to the plan.
"But you must keep strictly in hiding," he said.
"Well, it won't be for long," replied Richard; "and won't be more dull
than being in here."
Eve winced a little, but she turned and tried to smile.
"But would it be wise, Mr Selwood?" exclaimed Mrs Glaire, eagerly.
"Yes; I think it would," said the vicar, "if he can get there unseen.
If these misguided men do search for him, that is one of the last places
they will go to, I feel sure. But will you keep closely in hiding?
Would it not be better to give way at once?" he continued, addressing
Richard.
"I have said what I mean to do," said Richard, sharply; "and what I say
I keep to."
The vicar bowed his head, and lent himself as much as was likely to be
acceptable to the scheme; ending by saying, with a smile on his face--
"I hope, Miss Pelly, that this is the last of these unpleasant affairs
we shall ever have here; for rest assured I shall lose no time in trying
to bring the people to a better way of thinking."
He rose and left them, it being thoroughly understood that Richard was
to go into hiding that very night, while the vicar would communicate
with the police, to ensure some protection for the house; though all
felt it to be needless, as any attack was certain to be made on Richard
personally.