Volume One – Chapter Four.
Daisy’s Father
“Well,” said Mrs Glaire, who found her task more difficult than she had apprehended, “the fact is, they say she has been seen talking to my son.”
“Is that all?” said the foreman, laughing in a quiet, hearty way.
“Yes, that is all, and for Daisy’s sake I want it stopped. Have you heard or known anything?”
“Well, to put it quite plain, the missus wants her to have Tom Podmore down at the works there, but the girl hangs back, and I found out the reason. I did see Master Dick talking to her one night, and it set me a thinking.”
“And you didn’t stop it?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, sharply.
“Stop it? Why should I stop it?” said the foreman. “She’s getting on for twenty, and is sure to begin thinking about sweethearts. Ann did when she was nineteen, and if I recollect right, little fair-haired Lisbeth Ward was only eighteen when she used to blush on meeting Dick Glaire. I see her do it,” said the bluff fellow, chuckling.
“But that was long ago,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, excitedly. “Positions are changed since then. My son – ”
“Well, ma’am, he’s a workman’s son, and my bairn’s a workman’s daughter. I’ve give her a good schooling, and she’s as pretty a lass as there is in these parts, and if your son Richard’s took a fancy to her, and asks me to let him marry her, and the lass likes him, why I shall say yes, like a man.”
Mrs Glaire looked at him aghast. This was a turn in affairs she had never anticipated, and one which called forth all her knowledge of human nature to combat.
“But,” she exclaimed, “he is engaged to his cousin here, Miss Pelly.”
“Don’t seem like it,” chuckled the foreman. “Why, he’s always after Daisy now.”
“Oh, this is dreadful!” gasped Mrs Glaire, dropping her knitting. “I tell you he is engaged – promised to be married to his second cousin, Miss Pelly.”
“Stuff!” said Banks, laughing. “He’ll never marry she, though she’s a good, sweet girl.”
“Don’t I tell you he will,” gasped Mrs Glaire. “Man, man, are you blind? This is dreadful to me, but I must speak. Has it never struck you that my son may have wrong motives with respect to your child?”
“What?” roared the foreman; and the veins in his forehead swelled out, as his fists clenched. “Bah!” he exclaimed, resuming his calmness. “Nonsense, ma’am, nonsense. What! Master Dicky Glaire, my true old friend’s son, mean wrong by my lass Daisy? Mrs Glaire, ma’am, Mrs Glaire, for shame, for shame!”
“The man’s infatuated!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, and she stared wonderingly at the bluff, honest fellow before her.
“Why, ma’am,” said the foreman, smiling, “I wouldn’t believe it of him if you swore it. He’s arbitrary, and he’s too fond of his horses, and dogs, and sporting: but my Daisy! Oh, for shame, ma’am, for shame! He loves the very ground on which she walks.”
“And – and” – stammered Mrs Glaire, “does – does Daisy care for him? Fool that I was to let her come here and be so intimate with Eve,” she muttered.
“Well, ma’am,” said the foreman, thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure about that.”
He was about to say more when Mrs Glaire stopped him.
“Another time, Banks, another time,” she said, hastily. “Here is my son.”
As she spoke Richard Glaire came into the garden with his hands in his pockets, and Eve Pelly clinging to one arm, looking bright and happy.
The foreman started slightly, but gave himself a jerk and smiled, and then, in obedience to a gesture from his mistress, he left the garden and returned to the foundry.
Volume One – Chapter Five.
The Vicar’s Stroll
The brick, as the vicar called it, was only another piece of slag; but he did not turn his head, only smiled, and began thinking that Dumford quite equalled the report he had heard of it. Then looking round the plain old church, peering inside through the windows, and satisfying himself that its architectural beauties were not of a very striking nature, he turned aside and entered the vicarage garden, giving a sigh of satisfaction on finding that his home was a comfortable red-brick, gable-ended house, whose exterior, with its garden overrun with weeds, promised well in its traces of former cultivation.
A ring at a bell by the side post of the door brought forth a wan, washed-out looking woman, who looked at the visitor from top to toe, ending by saying sharply, in a vinegary tone of voice:
“What d’yer want?”
“To come in,” said the vicar, smiling. “Are you in charge of the house?”
“If yow want to go over t’church yow must go to Jacky Budd’s down street for the keys. I wean’t leave place no more for nobody.”
“But I don’t want to go over the church – at least not now. I want to come in, and see about having a room or two made comfortable.”
“Are yow t’new parson, then?”
“Yes, I’m the new parson.”
“Ho! Then yow’d best come in.”
The door was held open, and looking at him very suspiciously, the lady in charge, to wit Mrs Simeon Slee, allowed the vicar to enter, and then followed him as he went from room to room, making up his mind what he should do as he ran his eye over the proportions of the house, finding in the course of his peregrinations that Mrs Slee had installed herself in the dining-room, which apparently served for kitchen as well, and had turned the pretty little drawing-room, opening into a shady verandah and perfect wilderness of a garden, into a very sparsely furnished bed-room.
“That will do,” said the vicar. “I suppose I can get some furniture in the town?”
“Oh, yes, yow can get plenty furniture if you’ve got t’money. Only they wean’t let yow have annything wi’out. They don’t like strangers.”
“I dare say I can manage what I want, Mrs – Mrs – What is your name?”
“Hey?”
“I say, what is your name?”
“Martha,” said the woman, as if resenting an impertinence.
“Your other name. I see you are a married woman.”
He pointed to the thin worn ring on her finger.
“Oh, yes, I’m married,” said the woman, bitterly; “worse luck.”
“You have no children, I suppose?”
“Not I.”
“I am sorry for that.”
“Sorry? I’m not. What should I have children for? To pine; while their shack of a father is idling about town and talking wind?”
“They would have been a comfort to you, may be,” said the vicar, quietly. “I hope your husband does not drink?”
“Drink?” said the woman, with a harsh laugh. “Yes, I almost wish he did more; it would stop his talking.”
“Is he a workman – at the foundry?”
“Sometimes, but Mr Dicky Glaire’s turned him off again, and now he’s doing nowt.”
“Never mind, don’t be downhearted. Times mend when they come to the worst.”
“No, they don’t,” said the woman, sharply. “If they did they’d have mended for me.”
“Well, well,” said the vicar; “we will talk about that another time;” and he took the two pieces of slag from his pocket, and placed them on the mantelpiece of the little study, where they were now standing.
“Some one threw them at yow?” said the woman.
“Yes,” said the vicar, smiling.
“Just like ’em. They don’t like strangers here.”
“So it seems,” said the vicar. “But you did not tell me your name, Mrs – ”
“Slee, they call me, Slee,” was the sulky reply.
“Well, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, “I have had a good long walk, and I’m very hungry. If I give you the money will you get me something to eat, while I go down the town and order in some furniture for this little room and the bed-room above?”
“Why, the Lord ha’ mussy! you’re never coming into the place this how!”
“Indeed, Mrs Slee, but I am. There’s half a sovereign; go and do the best you can.”
“But the place ought to be clent before you come in.”
“Oh, we’ll get that done by degrees. You will see about something for me to eat. I shall be back in an hour. But tell me first, if I want to get into the church, who has the keys?”
“Mr Budd” – Mrs Slee pronounced it Bood – “has ’em; he’s churchwarden, and lives over yonder.”
“What, at that little old-fashioned house?”
“Nay, nay, mun, that’s th’owd vicarage. Next house.”
“Oh,” said the vicar, looking curiously at the little, old-fashioned, sunken, thatch-roofed place. “And who lives there?”
“Owd Isaac Budd.”
“Another Mr Budd; and who is he?”
“Th’other one’s brother.”
“Where shall I find the clerk – what is his name?” said the vicar.
“Oh, Jacky Budd,” said Mrs Slee. “He lives down south end.”
“I’m afraid I shall get confused with so many Budds,” said the vicar, smiling. “Is that the Mr Budd who leads the singing?”
“Oh no, that’s Mr Ned Budd, who lives down town. He’s nowt to do wi’ Jacky.”
“Well, I’ll leave that now,” said the vicar. “But I want some one to fetch a portmanteau from Churley. How am I to get it here?”
“Mrs Budd will fetch it.”
“And who is she?”
“The Laddonthorpe carrier.”
“Good; and where shall I find her?”
“Over at Ted Budd’s yard – the Black Horse.”
“Budd again,” said the vicar. “Is everybody here named Budd?”
“Well, no,” said the woman, “not ivery body; but there’s a straange sight of ’em all ower the town, and they’re most all on ’em cousins or sum’at. But there, I must get to wuck.”
The woman seemed galvanised into a fresh life by the duties she saw before her; and almost before the strange visitor had done speaking she was putting on a print hood, and preparing to start.
“It will make a very comfortable place when I have got it in order,” said the vicar to himself, as he passed down the front walk. “Now to find some chairs and tables.”
This was no very difficult task, especially as the furniture dealer received a couple of crisp bank-notes on account. In fact, one hand-truck full of necessaries was despatched before the vicar left the shop and made up his mind to see a little more of the place before returning to his future home.
Perhaps he would have been acting more wisely if he had sent in a load of furniture and announcements of his coming, with orders for the place to be put in readiness; but the Reverend Murray Selwood was eccentric, and knowing that he had an uncouth set of people to deal with, he had made up his mind to associate himself with them in every way, so as to be thoroughly identified with the people, and become one of them as soon as possible.
His way led him round by the great works of the town – Glaire’s Bell Foundry – and as he came nearer, a loud buzz of voices increased to a roar, that to him, a stranger, seemed too great for the ordinary transaction of business; and so it proved.
On all sides, as he went on, he saw heads protruded from doors and windows, and an appearance of excitement, though he seemed in his own person to transfer a good deal of the public attention to himself.
A minute or two later, and he found himself nearing a crowd of a couple of hundred workmen, who were being harangued by a tall thin man, in workman’s costume, save that he wore a very garish plaid waistcoat, whose principal colour was scarlet.
This man, who was swinging his arms about, and gesticulating energetically, was shouting in a hoarse voice. His words were disconnected, and hard to catch, but “Downtrodden,” – “bloated oligarchs,” – “British pluck” – “wucking-man” – “slavery” – and “mesters,” reached the vicar’s ears as he drew nearer.
Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd, and the speaker seemed to be hustled from the top of the stone post which he had chosen for his rostrum, and then, amid yells and hootings, it seemed that the crowd had surrounded a couple of men who had been hemmed in while making their way towards the great gates, and they now stood at bay, with their backs to the high brick wall, while the mob formed a semicircle a few feet from them.
It was rather hard work, and wanted no little elbowing, but, without a moment’s hesitation, the vicar began to force his way through the crowd; and as he got nearer to the hemmed in men, he could hear some of the words passing to and fro.
“Why, one of them is my friend, Mr Richard Glaire,” said the vicar to himself, as he caught sight of the pale trembling figure, standing side by side with a heavy grizzled elderly workman, who stood there with his hat off, evidently bent on defending the younger man.
“Yow come out o’ that, Joe Banks, an’ leave him to us,” roared a great bull-headed hammerman, who was evidently one of the ringleaders.
“Keep off, you great coward,” was the answer.
“Gie him a blob, Harry; gie him a blob,” shouted a voice.
“My good men – my good men,” faltered Richard Glaire, trying to make himself heard; but there was a roar of rage and hatred, and the men pressed forward, fortunately carrying with them the vicar, and too intent upon their proposed victims to take any notice of the strange figure elbowing itself to the front.
“Where are the police, Banks – the police?”
“Yah! He wants the police,” shouted a shrill voice, which came from the man in the red waistcoat. “He’s trampled down the rights of man, and now he wants the brutal mummydons of the law.”
“Yah!” roared the crowd, and they pressed on.
“Banks, what shall we do?” whispered Glaire; “they’ll murder us.”
“They won’t murder me,” said the foreman, stolidly.
“But they will me. What shall we do?”
“Faight,” said the foreman, sturdily.
“I can’t fight. I’ll promise them anything,” groaned the young man. “Here, my lads,” he cried, “I’ll promise you – ”
“Yah! You wean’t keep your promises,” roared those nearest. “Down with them. Get hold of him, Harry.”
The big workman made a dash at Richard Glaire, and got him by the collar, dragging him from the wall just as the foreman, who tried to get before him, was good-humouredly baffled by half-a-dozen men, who took his blows for an instant, and then held him helpless against the bricks.
It would have gone hard with the young owner of the works, for an English mob, when excited and urged to action, is brutal enough for the moment, before their manly feelings resume their sway, and shame creeps in to stare them in the face. He would probably have been hustled, his clothes torn from his back, and a rain of blows have fallen upon him till he sank exhausted, when he would have been kicked and trampled upon till he lay insensible, with half his ribs broken, and there he would have been left.
“Police! Where are the police?” shouted the young man.
“Shut themselves up to be safe,” roared a lusty voice; and the young man grew dizzy with fear, as he gazed wildly round at the sea of menacing faces screaming and struggling to get at him.
As he cowered back a blow struck him on the forehead, and another on the lip, causing the blood to trickle down, while the great hammerman held him forward, struggling helplessly in his grasp.
At that moment when, sick with fear and pain, Richard Glaire’s legs were failing him, and he was about to sink helpless among his men, something white seemed to whiz by his ear, to be followed instantly by a heavy thud. There was a jerk at his collar, and he would have fallen, but a strong arm was thrown before him; and then it seemed to him that the big workman Harry had staggered back amongst his friends, as a loud voice exclaimed:
“Call yourselves Englishmen? A hundred to one!”
The new vicar’s bold onslaught saved Richard Glaire for the moment, and the men fell back, freeing the foreman as they did so. It was only for the moment though, and then with a yell of fury the excited mob closed in upon their victims.
Volume One – Chapter Six.
Mother and Son
Matters looked very bad for the new vicar, and for him he had tried to save, for though the foreman was now ready and free to lend his aid, and Richard Glaire, stung by his position into action, had recovered himself sufficiently to turn with all the feebleness of the trampled worm against his assailants, the fierce wave was ready to dash down upon them and sweep them away.
Harry, the big hammerman, had somewhat recovered himself, and was shaking his head as if to get rid of a buzzing sensation, and murmurs loud and deep were arising, when the shrill voice of the man in the red waistcoat arose.
“Now, lads, now’s your time. Trample down them as is always trampling on you and your rights. Smite ’em hip and thigh.”
“Come on, and show ’em how to do it,” roared a sturdy voice, and Tom Podmore thrust himself before the vicar, and faced the mob. “Come on and show ’em how, Sim Slee; and let’s see as you ain’t all wind.”
There was a derisive shout at this, and the man in the red waistcoat began again.
“Down with them, boys. Down with Tom Podmore, too; he’s a sneak – a rat. Yah!”
“I’ll rat you, you ranting bagpipe,” cried Tom, loudly. “Stand back, lads; this is new parson, and him as touches him has to come by me first. Harry, lad, come o’ my side; you don’t bear no malice again a man as can hit like that.”
“Not I,” said Harry, thrusting his great head forward, to stare full in the vicar’s face. “Dal me, but you are a stout un, parson; gie’s your fist. It’s a hard un.”
It was given on the instant, and the hearty pressure told the vicar that he had won a new ally.
“As for the governor,” cried Tom, “you may do what you like wi’ him, lads, for I shan’t tak’ his part.”
“Podmore,” whispered the vicar, “for Heaven’s sake be a man, and help me.”
“I am a man, parson, and I’ll help you like one; but as for him” – he cried, darting a malignant look at Richard Glaire.
He did not finish his sentence, for at that moment the man in the red waistcoat mounted a post, and cried again:
“Down with ’em, lads; down with – ”
He, too, did not finish his sentence, for at that moment, either by accident or malicious design, the orator was upset; and, so easily changed is the temper of a crowd, a loud laugh arose.
But the danger was not yet passed, for those nearest seemed ready to drag their employer from his little body-guard.
“You’ll help me then, Podmore?” cried the vicar, hastily. “Come, quick, to the gate.”
The veins were swelling in Tom Podmore’s forehead, and he glanced as fiercely as any at his master, but the vicar’s advice seemed like a new law to him, and joining himself to his defenders, with the great hammerman, they backed slowly to the gate, through the wicket, by which Richard Glaire darted, and the others followed, the vicar coming last and facing the crowd.
The little door in the great gates was clapped to directly, and then there came heavy blows with stones, and a few kicks, followed by a burst of hooting and yelling, after which the noise subsided, and the little party inside began to breathe more freely.
“Thanky, Tom Podmore, my lad,” said Banks, shaking him by the hand. “I’m glad you turned up as you did.”
Tom nodded in a sulky way, and glowered at his master, but he pressed the foreman’s hand warmly.
“I’d fight for you, Joe Banks, till I dropped, if it was only for her sake; but not for him.”
Meanwhile Harry, the big hammerman, was walking round the vicar and inspecting him, just as a great dog would look at a stranger.
“Say, parson, can you wrastle?” he said at last.
“Yes, a little,” was the reply, with a smile.
“I’d maybe like to try a fall wi’ ye.”
“I think we’ve had enough athletics for one day,” was the reply. “Look at my hand.”
He held out his bleeding knuckles, and the hammerman grinned.
“That’s my head,” he said. “’Tis a hard un, ain’t it?”
“The hardest I ever hit,” said the vicar, smiling.
“Is it, parson – is it now?” said Harry, with his massive face lighting up with pride. “Hear that, Tom? Hear that, Joe Banks?”
He stood nodding his head and chuckling, as if he had received the greatest satisfaction from this announcement; and then, paying no heed to the great bruise on his forehead, which was plainly puffing up, he sat down on a pile of old metal, lit his pipe, and looked on.
“I hope you are not hurt, Mr Glaire?” said the vicar. “This is a strange second meeting to-day.”
“No,” exclaimed Richard, grinding his teeth, “I’m not hurt – not much. Banks, go into the counting-house, and get me some brandy. Curse them, they’ve dragged me to pieces.”
“Well, you would be so arbitrary with them, and I told you not,” said Banks. “I know’d there’d be a row if you did.”
“What!” cried Richard, “are you going to side with them?”
“No,” said Banks, quietly. “I never sides with the men again the master, and never did; but you would have your own way about taking off that ten per cent.”
“I’ll take off twenty now,” shrieked Richard, stamping about like an angry child. “I’ll have them punished for this outrage. I’m a magistrate, and I’ll punish them. I’ll have the dragoons over from Churley. It’s disgraceful, it’s a regular riot, and not one of those three wretched policemen to be seen.”
“I see one on ’em comin’,” growled Harry, grinning; “and he went back again.”
“Had you not better try a little persuasion with your workpeople?” said the vicar. “I am quite new here, but it seems to me better than force.”
“That’s what I tells him, sir,” exclaimed Banks, “only he will be so arbitrary.”
“Persuasion!” shrieked Richard, who, now that he was safe, was infuriated. “I’ll persuade them. I’ll starve some of them into submission. What’s that? What’s that? Is the gate barred?”
He ran towards the building, for at that moment there was a roar outside as if of menace, but immediately after some one shouted —
“Three cheers for Missus Glaire!”
They were given heartily, and then the gate bell was rung lustily.
“It’s the Missus,” said Banks, going towards the gates.
“Don’t open those gates. Stop!” shrieked Richard.
“But it’s the Missus come,” said Banks, and he peeped through a crack.
“Open the gates, open the gates,” cried a dozen voices.
“I don’t think you need fear now,” said the vicar; “the disturbance is over for the present.”
“Fear! I’m not afraid,” snarled Richard; “but I won’t have those scoundrels in here.”
“I’ll see as no one else comes in,” said Harry, getting up like a small edition of Goliath; and he stood on one side of the wicket gate, while Banks opened it and admitted Mrs Glaire, with Eve Pelly, who looked ghastly pale.
Several men tried to follow, but the gate was forced to by the united efforts of Harry and the foreman, when there arose a savage yell; but this was drowned by some one proposing once more “Three cheers for the Missus!” and they were given with the greatest gusto, while the next minute twenty heads appeared above the wall and gates, to which some of the rioters had climbed.
“Oh, Richard, my son, what have you been doing?” cried Mrs Glaire, taking his hand, while Eve Pelly went up and clung to his arm, gazing tremblingly in his bleeding face and at his disordered apparel.
“There, get away,” cried Richard, impatiently, shaking himself free. “What have I been doing? What have those scoundrels been doing, you mean?”
He applied his handkerchief to his bleeding mouth, looking at the white cambric again and again, as he saw that it was stained, and turning very pale and sick, so that he seated himself on a rough mould.
“Dick, dear Dick, are you much hurt?” whispered Eve, going to him again in spite of his repulse, and laying her pretty little hand on his shoulder.
“Hurt? Yes, horribly,” he cried, in a pettish way. “You see I am. Don’t touch me. Go for the doctor somebody.”
He looked round with a ghastly face, and it was evident that he was going to faint.
“Run, pray run for Mr Purley,” cried Mrs Glaire.
“I’ll go,” cried Eve, eagerly.
“I don’t think there is any necessity,” said the vicar, quietly. “Can you get some brandy, my man?” he continued, to Banks. “No, stay, I have my flask.”
He poured out some spirit into the cup, and Richard Glaire drank it at a draught, getting up directly after, and shaking his fist at the men on the wall.
“You cowards!” he cried. “I’ll be even with you for this.”
A yell from the wall, followed by another from the crowd, was the response, when Mr Selwood turned to Mrs Glaire.
“If you have any influence with him get him inside somewhere, or we shall have a fresh disturbance.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the anxious mother, catching her son’s arm. “Come into the counting-house, Dick. Go with him, Eve. Take him in, and I’ll speak to the men.”
“I’m not afraid of the brutal ruffians,” cried Richard, shrilly. “I’ll not go, I’ll – ”
Here there was a menacing shout from the wall, and a disposition shown by some of the men to leap down; a movement which had such an effect on Richard Glaire that he allowed his cousin to lead him into a building some twenty yards away, the vicar’s eyes following them as they went.
“I’ll speak to the men now,” said the little lady. “Banks, you may open the gates; they won’t hurt me.”
“Not they, ma’am,” said the sturdy foreman, looking with admiration at the self-contained little body, as, hastily wiping a tear or two from her eyes, she prepared to encounter the workmen.
Before the gates could be opened, however, an ambassador in the person of Eve Pelly arrived from Richard.
“Not open the gates, child?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.
“No, aunt, dear, Richard says it would not be safe for you and me, now the men are so excited.”
For a few minutes Mrs Glaire forgot the deference she always rendered to “my son!” and, reading the message in its true light, she exclaimed angrily —
“Eve, child, go and tell my son that there are the strong lock and bolts on the door that his father had placed there after we were besieged by the workmen ten years ago, and he can lock himself in if he is afraid.”
The Reverend Murray Selwood, who heard all this, drew in his breath with a low hissing noise, as if he were in pain, on seeing the action taken by the fair bearer of Richard Glaire’s message.
“Aunt, dear,” she whispered, clinging to Mrs Glaire, “don’t send me back like that – it will hurt poor Dick’s feelings.”
“Go and say what you like, then, child,” cried Mrs Glaire, pettishly. “Yes, you are right, Eve: don’t say it.”
“And you will not open the gates, aunt, dear?”
“Are you afraid of the men, Eve?”
“I, aunt? Oh, no,” said the young girl, smiling. “They would not hurt me.”
“I should just like to see any one among ’em as would,” put in Harry, the big hammerman, giving his shirt sleeve a tighter roll, as if preparing to crush an opponent bent on injuring the little maiden. “We should make him sore, shouldn’t we, Tom Podmore, lad?”
“Oh, nobody wouldn’t hurt Miss Eve, nor the Missus here,” said Tom, gruffly. And then, in answer to a nod from Banks, the two workmen threw open the great gates, and the yard was filled with the crowd, headed by Sim Slee, who, however, hung back a little – a movement imitated by his followers on seeing that Mrs Glaire stepped forward to confront them.