George Manville Fenn (continued 6)

“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 Two—Chapter Seventeen.

A Deceitful Calm.

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 Two—Chapter Eighteen.

Sim Slee’s Patriotism.

Then Mrs Slee would tighten up her lips, look as if she would like to box her lord’s ears, and end sometimes by doing it, Sim appealing to “Moother” for mercy till she went upstairs, when Sim would get up from the floor, where he had thrown himself, and rub his ears till they ceased tingling, and end by winking to himself and performing the strange movements alluded to in the previous chapter.

At these times, in spite of the very liberal quantity of ale indulged in at his own and other people’s expense, Sim’s head would be perfectly clear; and knowing, from old experience, that as soon as he had lain down and gone fast asleep, Mrs Slee would get up and empty his pockets, he would proceed to conceal his money. Half-crowns were placed up the chimney, a half-sovereign on the ledge over a door, shillings in corners not likely to be swept, under chimney ornaments, and on the tops of picture frames, his great hoard at this time being under an old scrubby geranium, growing—or rather existing, for it had long ceased to grow—in a pot in the window—a favourite plant of Mrs Slee’s, as she had kept it through the winter for years. So matted together were its roots, that if the stem were taken in the hand the whole of the earth came out quite clean in its basket of fibres, and beneath this, in the bottom of the pot, Sim had placed five golden sovereigns, nicely arranged round the hole, on the night after the riot, the geranium being replaced, and all looking as before.

The next morning Mrs Slee was up a long while the first, as usual, and as was her custom when Sim had been bad over night, she made a tour of the place, finding and gleaning up coins of various value, wondering the while where Sim obtained the money that she transferred to her ample pocket, hidden by drapery and folds at a great depth from the surface.

Just as she was finishing, she caught sight of the pot, and saw that it had been removed over night, for the water that had drained into the earthen saucer had, when the pot was moved, dripped on the floor.

A grim smile overspread her countenance as she lifted pot and saucer together, and looked beneath, to see nothing. Even the pot was lifted from the saucer, and with like result, when, replacing it, the wet pot slipped, and Mrs Slee caught at the stem of the plant, with the result that she held geranium in one hand, pot in the other, and saw the five glittering gold pieces at the bottom.

She clutched them eagerly, and hid them away, replaced the pot, and then stood thinking.

“Where does he get his money?” she said, looking grimly. “I’ll speak to parson.”

Mrs Slee had been gone a couple of hours before Sim descended to partake of the breakfast placed ready for him, all the while battling with his infirmity.

It was one that always troubled him after a night’s excess, for, though Sim’s head was clear enough over night when he hid his money, the over-excited brain refused to act next morning, and a thick veil was drawn between the eve and the morrow. There was always the dim recollection of having hidden his money, but that was all; and in this case as in others, pot, door-ledge, pictures, all had passed away from his memory, and there was a blank in answer to his oft-repeated question—“Where did I put that money?” It was a blessing in disguise for Sim, though he did not know it. But for this, and his wife’s tenacious grasp of all she found, none of which went directly back to Sim, he would have been without a roof to cover his head years before, and many a pound that he accredited himself with having spent in gills of ale and standing treat had really gone into his wife’s pocket.

“Well, this wean’t do,” he said at last; “money’s gone, and I shall get no more out o’ Dicky Glaire.”

“He’ll be pretty sick o’ his lock-out by this time,” said Sim, as he laced his boots. “That was a fine plan wi’ them bands. It’s kep the strike on, and it’s easier than wucking your fingers to the bone. Wonder how long they’ll keep it oop. Well, here goes.”

He went out, and had not gone far before he met the vicar, who stopped to speak to him; but Sim, to use his own words, “coot him dead,” making his way right off through the town, where he stopped for a bit of bombastic “blather,” as his associates called it, on the success of their attack on Richard.

“He had the finest leathering he ever had in his life,” said Sim.

“And what good’s it going to do?” said one of the men, in a grumbling tone.

“What good? Open thee eyes, mun, and see for your sen. Good? It’ll bring him to his senses, and he’ll come round and ask on his knees for us to go to work, and then we’ll mak’ our own terms.”

“And if he wean’t come round,” said another, “what then?”

Sim stooped to the man’s ear, and whispered something.

“Eh, mun, but we wouldn’t do that, would we?”

“Howd thee tongue,” said Sim. “Wait and see. I’ve got a friend coming down to-day as can settle all these things. I’m going to meet him at the station, and he’s going to stay here till things is settled.”

“And who’s going to keep un?” said another man. “I can’t keep mysen.”

“All on you, o’ course,” said Sim. “You keep a good heart, lad, and all will be as raight as raight.”

“But that would be coming it strange and strong, man,” said the first speaker.

“Strong diseases want strong doses, lad,” said Sim, winking. “But don’t you wherrit yoursen. There’s them in the Brotherhood as is looking after your interests, and we shall all come off wi’ flying colours.”

“I dessay we shall,” said the man, in a discontented tone; “but I want to hear them theer furnaces a-roaring agen, and the firemen’s shovels rattling in the coals, and the brass a-chinking in the box o’ pay nights. Dal the strike, I say.”

“But it aint a strike now,” said Sim, didactically. “Don’t you see, it’s a lock-out.”

“It’s all the same,” said another, sulkily. “Theer aint no brass to tak’, and the missus and the bairns is pined to dead wi’ hunger, and starved to dead for want of a bit o’ fire.”

“But you get the society money,” said Sim, indignantly.

“Yah! what’s that to a man in full fettle! Just pays for bread, and you can’t buy a decent weigh o’ meat for fear o’ waring it all at once.”

“Yes,” said another; “it’s like club money when a man’s sick and can’t wuck.”

“Raight enew, then,” said another; “bud a man wants wuck as well as something to yeat. It’s strange, coarse weather for us as far as yeating and drinking goes. Why, my bairns heven’t hed a bit of bootther sin’ the strike begun.”

“A man need be as tiff as a band to stand it all,” said another.

“Ay, tough as a bont whong,” said another.

“Well, I shall be a very poor creature,” said another, “if this here’s going to last. I’m ’bout pined to dead now.”

“I shall flit and get wuck somewheer else.”

“Iver get berry pie for dinner now, Sim Slee?” said another, alluding to a favourite luxury of Sim’s, who was accredited with having stolen a neighbour’s gooseberries to make the famous berry pie.

Here there was a bit of a laugh, a good sign, for the men seemed ripe for mischief.

“His missus gives him tongue for breakfast ivery morning,” said another.

“Sim, come home wi’ uz and hev a bit o’ custard,” said another, and there was a general laugh from the gaunt-looking men.

“Nice bit o’ stuffed chine at my place, Sim,” said another; and one after the other, men, whose fare had been bread and potatoes for many days, gave their great orator invitations to partake of the popular delicacies of the place.

“Tellee what,” said big Harry, coming up, “I mean to have somebody’s thack off if this game arn’t soon over.”

“I hadn’t going to say much,” said Sim, who had been standing with folded arms, looking contemptuously at the crowd around; “but, I say this—if I was to go on as you do I’d hate mysen. Wheer’s your paytriotism? Wheer’s your risings against tyranny? Wheer’s your British wucking man rising like a lion in his might?”

“Yes,” said a shrill female voice from a window, “but your British lion wucking man wants his dinner, don’t he?”

There was a roar of laughter at this. “Yah!” said Sim, contemptuously. “Why do I wuck mysen to death for you all, to be badgered for it?”

“I don’t know,” said the same voice from the window, sounding more shrill than ever, “but I know this, Sim Slee, that my bairns is all pining, while their father’s doing nowt but walk about wi’ his hands in his pockets, and if things don’t soon change, some o’ them as got up this strike ’ll be put oonder the poomp, and if the men don’t do it uz women will.”

Sim folded his arms, looked round contemptuously as there rose another shout of laughter, and stalked off to walk to the station and meet the deputation, as he called the man he had invited to come down.

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

The Foreman’s Apology.

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 Two—Chapter Twenty.

At Dumford Church.

The vicar used to look sadly at his church every Sunday, at the damp-stained walls, the unpainted high deal pews, with their straw-plaited cushions and hassocks, dotted with exceptions, where the better-off inhabitants had green baize, and in the case of the doctor’s, the lawyer’s, and the Big House pews, scarlet moreen cushions.

It was a dreary, damp place, with a few ugly old tablets, and one large monument, which nearly half filled the little chancel with its clumsy wrought-iron railings, enclosing the gilded and painted marble effigies of Roger de Dumford and Dame Alys, his wife, uncomfortably lying on their backs on a cushion not large enough for them, and turning up the rosetted shoes that they wore in the most ungainly way. Sir Roger was in slashed doublet and puffed breeches, and wore a ruff as stiff as marble could make it, and so did Dame Alys, in long stomacher and farthingale; while their great merits were enumerated, and the number of children they had issue was stated on the tablet on the wall.

This great tomb went pretty close up to the communion-rail, and for generations past the various vicars had hung their surplices on the rails, and changed them for their gowns in the shade, for the vestry was over the porch at the south door, and was only opened for parish meetings, when the officials went in and came out, to adjourn and do business at the big room at the Bull.

Always damp, and smelling of very bad, mouldy cheese, was that church. The schoolmistress, a limp, melancholy woman, always used to give it out to the schoolmaster as her opinion that it was the bodies buried beneath the flags—a matter rather open to doubt, as no one had been interred there for over a hundred years, while the damp-engendered mould and fungi in corner and on wall spoke for themselves.

No stove to warm the place in winter; few windows to open in summer, to admit the pleasant warm air; the place was always dank, dark, and ill-smelling, and from its whitewashed beams overhead to its ancient flag flooring, and again from the stained glass windows on either side, all was oppressive, cold, and shudder-engendering.

Let it not be imagined, however, that there were stained glass windows of wondrous dye. Nothing of the kind, for they were merely stained and encrusted by time of a dingy, ghastly, yellowish tint, and as full of waves and blurs as the old-fashioned glass could be.

The consequence was the people were slow to come to church, and quick to get out. One or two vicars had had ideas of improving the place, and had mooted the matter at public and parochial meetings. The result had always been whitewash—whitewash on the ceilings, and whitewash on the walls.

The question had been mooted again.

More whitewash.

Again, and again, and again, as years rolled on.

More whitewash, and whitewash, and whitewash. Even the two old rusty helmets and pairs of gauntlets hung up in the chancel, said to have been worn by great De Dumfords of the past, had been whitewashed, with a most preservative effect, saving where the rust had insisted upon coming through in stains of brown. The result was that, thanks to the churchwarden’s belief in lime as representing purity, Dumford was the most whitewashed church in the country, and it stood up in waves and corrugations all over the walls, where the damp had not caused it to peel off in plates, varying in thickness from that of a shilling to half an inch; and these scales had a knack of falling into pews during service time, probably from the piercing character of the music causing vibrations that they could not stand.

That music on Sundays was not cheerful, for there was no organ governed by one will, the minstrelsy being supplied by Owd Billy Stocks, who played dismally upon a clarionet, which wailed sadly for the cracks all down its sides; by Tommy Johnson, the baker, who blew a very curly crooked French horn, which he always seemed to fear would make too much noise, so held it in subjection by keeping his fist thrust up the bell; by Joey South, a little old man in tight leather pantaloons, skimpy long-tailed coat, and tight-squeezy hat, turned close up to the sides at the brims, giving him a tighter appearance altogether than the great umbrella, which, evidently an heirloom, he always carried under his arm, as if it were a stiffened fac-simile of himself as he walked to church preceded by a boy carrying his instrument—a thing like a thick black gun, with a brass crook about a foot long coming out of one side—Joey South called it his “barsoon,” but as he sat cuddling it in church, it looked more like some wonderful Eastern pipe that he was smoking, while it emitted strange sounds like a huge bumble-bee stopped constantly in its discourse by a finger placed over its mouth; by Johnny Buffam, the shoemaker, who blew a large brass affair like a small steam thrashing-engine, and boomed and burred in it like “an owd boozzard clock,” as Kitty Stocks said; and lastly, by Trappy Pape, who used to bring a great violoncello in a green baize bag, and saw away solemnly in a pair of round tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles.

These variations of the Christian names of the sacred band were, as before said, common to the town, where every man was a Dicky, or a Tommy, or a Joey, or the like, and generally with an “Owd” before it. The clergyman our vicar succeeded was the Reverend James Bannister, but he was always known as “Owd Jemmy,” and it was a matter of regret to the popular wits of the place that the Reverend Murray Selwood’s name offered no hold for the ingenious to nickname, so they settled down to “Owd Parson,” and so he was called.

But to return to the choir.

They sat in a gallery that crossed the western end of the church, and on Sundays such of them as put in an appearance had it, with the singers and the schoolchildren, all to themselves; and let it not be supposed that the preponderance of bass was noticeable, for it was pretty well drowned by the shrill treble, as the musicians did not get much music out of their instruments, save and excepting Billy Stokes, who always seemed to be dying in agonies, such wails did he send forth in “Portugal,” “Hanover,” and “Old Hundredth,” that it took all the efforts of the basses to smother his piercing cries.

The bells, pulled for a treat by five boys under the direction of Jacky Budd, had had their say; the musicians had blundered and clumped up the dark staircase to their seats, and Trappy Pape was working away with his bow upon a large cake of rosin, while Joey Tight, as he was more generally called, was sucking his brass pipe, and conning over the notes he had known for fifty years, to the great admiration of the schoolboys, one and all longing to “have a blow at that theer big black thing.” The “tingtang” which went for ten minutes in a cracked, doleful, sheep-bell style, was being pulled, and the vicar was standing in his surplice, waiting for the clock to strike—which it would do sometimes with tolerable accuracy—and he was thinking of how he should like to move the people to have something done by way of restoration to the church, when Jacky Budd, with one thumb in his arm-hole, came slinking softly up to try and get a bit of whispered conversation with the parson.

“Strange great congregation this morning, sir,” he whispered.

“Indeed, Budd,” said the vicar, brightening. “I’m glad of that.”

“I counted ’em, sir—there’s two-and-forty.”

“Forty-two, Budd,” said the vicar, with his countenance falling; “and the church holds seven hundred.”

“Two-and-forty, sir, wi’out the schoolchildren.”

“But you counted the singers, Budd?”

“No, sir, I didn’t; two-and-forty wi’out.”

“Ah, Budd, it’s very sad,” said the vicar, sighing. “I hoped for better things by now.”

“Why, we never used to hev such congregations in the owd vicar’s time, sir, as we do wi’ you. We never used to hev more than five-and-twenty o’ wet Sundays, and I hev know’d him preach to six.”

“Hah!” A long sigh and a mental question, “What can I do to bring them here?” as Jacky Budd shuffled as far as the door and back.

“Owd Robinson from the Bull, and his missus, just come in, sir; and Master Bultitude and Miss Jessie, and John Maine from the farm, makes forty-seven, sir. If I might make so bold, sir, don’t you think we ought to hev a collection?”

“Why, that’s due next Sunday, Budd, and a strange clergyman coming,” said the vicar, hardly able to restrain a smile.

“That’s why I said it, sir,” said Budd, slily. “You wean’t get a score o’ people here nex’ Sunday.”

The vicar shook his head, and looked at his watch, which Jacky took as a hint to go, and he went as far as his desk, opened his book, and then saw something that made him softly shuffle back to where the vicar was waiting for the first stroke of the clock to start for the reading-desk.

“They’ve come to the big pew, sir,” he whispered behind his hand.

“What?”

“Mrs Glaire, sir, and Miss Eve, and young Master Dicky.”

The vicar started slightly. This was a change, indeed, and full of promise. Richard Glaire, who had not been out of the house nor into the garden since the attack made upon him, and who had never been seen in the old pew since the vicar’s coming, had walked down the High Street between his mother and Eve, and made his appearance at church.

“Well, of course, he would be safe on such a day,” thought the vicar, “and the people have been quieter. God grant this is the beginning of the end, and that this little feud may be succeeded by peace.”

He thought this as the clock was striking, and he walked to the reading-desk, glanced through the Prayer-Book and Bible, where the markers were, to see that Jacky Budd, whose memory was erratic, had made no mistakes, and given him wrong psalms and lessons to read, and then turned to the opening sentences, and was about to commence; but the presence of Richard Glaire troubled him. He was glad at heart that he should be there, and now that he had come he wished to influence him for good,—to bring him to a different way of thinking, for Eve’s sake; and now these sentences all seemed, as of course they were, personal, and such as would make Richard Glaire think that they were selected and aimed specially at him.

“When the wicked man,” read the vicar to himself. No. “I acknowledge.” No, no, no, one after the other they seemed warnings to the sinner, such a one as Richard Glaire, and in the hurried glance down he came to, “I will arise.”

“More pointed still,” he thought, and having no time to study the question, he read the two last, beginning, “Enter not into judgment,” etc., and “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves,” etc.

As the service went on the vicar’s eyes took in by turns the members of his congregation, and at last he let them light on the Glaires’ pew.

There stood Mrs Glaire, looking old and careworn; in another corner, Eve Pelly, with her sweet, innocent face, looking to him angelic in her rapt absorption, as she listened to his words, and there, with his back to them, and leaning over the edge of the pew in a negligent dégagé attitude, as if bent on showing the congregation the whiteness of the hands he held up for inspection, stood Richard Glaire, gazing at him with half-closed eyes, in a supercilious, sneering manner.

“Poor boy!” thought Murray Selwood, as his eyes met those of the young man for a moment, and then, like a sudden flash, a thought occurred to the vicar, which made the blood flush to his face, and then seem to run back to his heart.

It was the time for reading the first lesson, and his hand was seeking the book-mark in the Bible.

“Sixth Sunday after Trinity,” he thought.

He will think it chosen, and directed at him. What should he do? Change it and read the lesson for that day of the month. No, that would look as if he had purposely avoided it, and it would take some few minutes to find, for his calmness was leaving him, and he could not recall the date. No, he must read it—it was his duty, and it was like a stroke of fate that Richard Glaire should come there upon such a day.

His voice shook slightly, and his eyes dimmed as he read the first words of the beautiful old story, and then moved to the very core, and in deep rich tones, he read on in the midst of a stillness only broken by the soft chirp of some sparrow on the roof; while Mrs Glaire’s head went lower and lower, Eve Pelly’s hand stole softly across to touch her, and the young man sat with his back to the congregation, now white with rage, now burning with shame.

“A coward—a sneak!” he muttered between his ground teeth. “He has chosen that chapter to shame me before all the people. I won’t stand it. I’ll get up and go out.”

But to do that was not in Richard Glaire’s power. He had not the strength of mind and daring for so defiant an act, and he sat on, thrilled in every fibre, as the deep, mellow voice went on telling how the Lord sent Nathan unto David, and he told him of the rich man, who in his wealth spared to take of his own flock and of his own herd, but took the poor man’s lamb, who was to him as a daughter; and as these words were told, there came from the body of the church the stifled sobs of one of the women of the congregation who could not control her feelings. And at last, in spite of himself, Murray Selwood was moved to such an extent by the words he was reading, that he spoke as if he were the prophet of old, his voice rising and falling as it thrilled his hearers, till it was deep and denunciatory, as he exclaimed:—

“And Nathan said unto David—Thou art the man.”

There was an audible sigh of relief as the lesson ended, and the vicar wiped the dew from his forehead, for it had been to him a trial, and his voice was low and troubled as he continued the service, but feeling glad at heart that he had not chosen that lesson for the strong, suitable discourse which he afterwards delivered.

It is needless to do more than refer to it here, even though Joey Tight stood up with his hand to his ear so as not to miss a word, and winked and blinked ecstatically, and though it, too, struck Richard Glaire home, inasmuch as it was in allusion to the trade troubles in the town, and ended with a prayer that the blessings of unity and brotherly love might come among them, and peace and plenty once more reign in their homes.

Old Bultitude and Jessie were waiting at the door as the vicar came out, to look in a troubled way up the High Street, after Richard Glaire and his companions; but there was nothing to fear, the street was deserted, save by the people leaving church.

“He’s raight enew to-day, parson,” said the old farmer, divining his thought. “Nobody will touch him o’ Sunday, and wi’ the women. Zoonds, but you gi’e it him hot, and no mistake. That were clever o’ ye. Dal it all, parson, I could like to ha’ offended you, for the sake of getting such a tongue thrashing.”

“My dear Mr Bultitude,” said the vicar sadly, “if you will look at your Prayer-book, you will find that this was no plan of mine, but a matter of accident, or fate—who can say which.”

“Weer it, though?” said the farmer, as they walked on, his road lying by the vicarage, and he stared round-eyed at his companion. “Think o’ that, Jess. I wouldn’t ha’ believed it: it’s amazing. By the way, parson, I want a few words wi’ you. Jess, lass, walk on a bit. Theer, ye needn’t hurry. I don’t want ye to o’ertake John Maine.”

Jessie blushed, and the tears came into her eyes as she went on a few paces; and the farmer, as soon as she was out of ear-shot, pointed at her with his thumb.

“Bit touched, parson, courting like. She’s fond o’ that lad, John Maine, and I want her to wed young Brough.”

“Maine seems to me a very good worthy young fellow,” said the vicar.

“Hem!” said the farmer. “I don’t know so much about that, and t’other’s got the brass.”

“Money won’t bring happiness, Mr Bultitude.”

“Raight, parson, raight; but it’s main useful. Me and my poor missis, as lies there in chutchyard, hedn’t nowt when we began; but we made some,” he continued, proudly.

“By sheer hard work, no doubt.”

“Ay, we hed to work, but that’s nowt after all. I wouldn’t gi’ a straw for a lad as can’t work, and is skeart of it. Why, when I went to the bit o’ farm, ‘Boottherboomp’ they used to call it then, cause of the ‘boottherboomps.’”

“Let me see, that’s your local name for the bittern, is it not?”

“Yes; big brown bird, some’at like a hern,” said old Bultitude. “They lives in wet, swampy places. Well, parson, that place was all one swamp when I went, and I says to mysen, where rushes is a growing now, I mean to grow wheat; and so every year I used to do nowt but spend i’ dreaning, and now there isn’t a finer farm i’ the county.”

“It’s perfect,” said the vicar, “perfect.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear thee say it, parson, because I know thee sayst what thee means, and thou’rt as good a judge of a crop and stack as iver I see, for a man as isn’t a farmer. It isn’t ivery man as comes fro’ the wild parts ’bout London as can tell as a hog or a hogget isn’t a pig, but a ship, and knows what he’s worth to a shilling or two. But just hearken to me, going on like that, when I wanted to say a word or two ’bout our John Maine.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, parson. I’m mortal feard that lad’s going wrong. He’s got some ’at on his mind, and he’s always in confab wi’ young Podmore as was Daisy Banks’ sweetheart, and there’s some mystery about it. Young Brough says he’s mixed up wi’ a blackguard low lot, poaching or some’at o’ that sort; but I don’t tak’ much notice o’ he, for he’s a bit jealous of him. But what I want you to do is to get hold of John and talk to him, for he’s upsetting our Jess, and I shall hev to get shoot of him if things don’t alter, and I doan’t want to do that, parson, for I rayther like the lad, if he’d go back to what he weer. Good day; you’ll see him, will you?”

“Indeed I will.”

“And young Podmore, too, parson?”

“Yes, if it’s necessary.”

“Oh, it is; and you’ll put ’em raight, I know. But I say, parson—but that was a hot one for Dicky Glaire. Good-bye.”

They parted at the gate, and the vicar went in, just as Sim Slee went by with a man dressed in black—a heavy, white-faced man, with a good deal of black whiskers, who looked as if his clothes did not fit him, and as if he was uncomfortable out of a workman’s suit, and could not find a place for his hands, with which, by the aid of a great cotton handkerchief, he kept wiping his face.

“I shouldn’t wonder if that’s the deputation,” said the vicar. “Well, I hope they’ll settle the dispute.”

Unfortunately, though the vicar’s guess was right, the deputation was not a man to further the prospects of peace.

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

Richard Begins to Woo.

The vicar’s visits to the Big House became fewer, for he could not but see that Richard Glaire, in spite of all that had passed, was more and more embittered against him. He was very quiet, and ceased to be insulting, but there was a malicious look in his eye, an ill-concealed air of jealousy in his glance, whenever the vicar spoke to Eve, that told of his feelings. In fact, Richard vowed that the lesson was chosen because he went to church that day, and if ever opportunity served he would be revenged.

Opportunity was serving him, for, like Mrs Glaire, he saw but too plainly what the vicar’s feelings were towards Eve—feelings that made him grind his teeth whenever they were together, and which finally brought on a fresh quarrel with his mother.

It was one morning when Mrs Glaire had been appealing to him to reopen the works.

“Not yet,” he said. “I should have done it before now if they hadn’t been such beastly cowards. I’ll give ’em a good lesson this time.”

“But you are losing heavily, Richard,” said Mrs Glaire.

“Yes,” he said, maliciously. “I like to lose heavily when I can get my money’s worth; and I’m punishing them, so I don’t care.”

“But, do you know, that if your conduct does not alter, you’ll lose something for which you will never forgive yourself?”

“What’s that?” he said, eagerly.

“Your cousin.”

He caught his mother sharply by the wrist, and looked her full in the face.

“You’ve been plotting for this, mother?”

“Indeed, no, my son.”

“Do you want me to marry Eve?”

“You know I do.”

“Then why do you encourage that cursed prig of a parson here?”

“Because he has shown himself a good friend to me and mine.”

“Bah!” said Richard. “I won’t have it. He shall come no more. Look here, mother; you don’t believe that I’ve got Daisy Banks away.”

“No, Richard, I never have believed it,” said Mrs Glaire, meeting his eye, and responding without hesitation.

“Well, look here, then, I tell you what. I’m going to quiet down.”

“Dick, my own brave boy,” cried Mrs Glaire, hysterically, as she threw her arms round his neck.

“There, don’t be stupid,” he said, carelessly repulsing her, after she had kissed him passionately. “I was going to say I’m sick of all this cursed worry, and I shall open the works soon.”

“Yes, my dear boy, yes.”

“And suppose, to settle all this rumour about Daisy Banks, I marry Eve?”

“My darling boy,” sobbed Mrs Glaire; “it is the wish of my life. You make me so happy.”

“There, don’t, mother; how can I talk to you if you keep pawing me about like that? Look here, you’re making my face all wet.”

“Yes, yes, my dear boy, it’s very foolish, and I’ll control myself.”

“There, look at them,” said Richard, in a low whisper, as he pointed out of the window, to where Eve and the vicar were walking together on the lawn. “Do you see that, mother?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, uneasily.

“Do you know he’s making up to Eve?”

He looked at her searchingly.

“I cannot help thinking that he admires her, Richard; but I am sure Eve thinks of no one but you.”

“Then curse him, he shall see me marry her,” said Richard, eagerly. “You want it to be, mother, and it shall be—soon. Eve won’t mind, and you’ll settle it all with her, and then I’m not going to have him here any more.”

“Don’t talk like that, my boy,” said Mrs Glaire; “but I do think it would be for your happiness if you were married.”

As she spoke, the question seemed to be asked her—Was it for Eve’s good? and a cold, chilly feeling of misery came over her, as she felt that she was destroying the young life of the girl who had been to her almost more than a daughter.

“That’s settled then, is it, mother?” said Richard, lightly.

“Yes, my boy, indeed yes,” said Mrs Glaire, throwing off her momentary feeling of depression, and telling herself that it was for the best, and that so good a wife should be the saving of her son. Besides, it was for this that she had been working, and now that there was to be the fruition of her hopes, she felt that she must not hang back.

Richard was already out on the lawn, going up to where the vicar and Eve were talking about flowers, and it galled the young man to see the bright happy look pass away as he approached, and not come back.

The vicar spoke pleasantly to Richard, but the replies were monosyllables, and an awkward pause was ended by the coming of Mrs Glaire, who soon after returned into the house with their visitor, while Richard led his cousin down to the bottom of the garden, and, to her surprise, asked her to sit down.

“Look here, Eve,” he said, shortly, “I’ve been talking to the old lady about our being married.”

“Our being married, Richard?” said Eve, turning pale and starting.

“Yes, our being married,” he said, sharply. “What are you starting for, you little goose? Any one would think it was something new.”

“It came upon me like a surprise,” said Eve, catching her breath, and speaking quickly. “I did not expect it.”

“Gammon!” said the young man, coarsely. “Why, you’ve been expecting it for months.”

“Indeed no, Richard,” she said, eagerly.

“Then you ought to have been,” he continued. “You know the old girl wishes it.”

“Yes, Richard,” she faltered, with her forehead becoming rugged, and her lower lip quivering, “I know that.”

“Well, we’ve talked it over, and she thinks like I do, that if we’re married it will settle all this rubbish about Daisy Banks.”

“Oh, Richard! Richard!” she cried, pitifully; and she rose to run away, but he caught her wrist, and forced her back into the seat.

“Don’t be a little stupid,” he said. “Why, that was only a silly flirtation, and I don’t care a sou for the girl.”

“Let me go in, Richard, please,” she sobbed.

“Not till I’ve done,” he said, with a half laugh. “Look here, Eve, dear; you are not such a little silly as to think that I know where Daisy is, or that I took her away?”

“Tell me, on your word of honour, Richard, that you don’t know where she is,” said Eve, simply, “and I shall believe you.”

“’Pon my word of honour, I don’t know where she is; and I didn’t take her away; and I didn’t send her away; and I don’t care a fig where she is, and if I never see her again.”

“Richard!”

“There now, are you satisfied?” he cried.

“I believe you, Richard,” she said, ceasing to resist, but sitting back in the garden seat, and looking dreamily away.

“That’s all right, then,” he said. “Well, then, now we can talk about when the wedding is to be.”

“No, no, Richard; not now, not now,” she cried piteously, as she strove once more to get away.

“But we will, though,” said the young man, flushing at her resistance. “It’s all been settled long enough that you were to be my wife, so let’s have none of your ‘not nows,’ miss.”

“Let me go into the house, please, Richard,” said Eve, coldly.

“Yes, my dear, when we’ve settled the wedding-day,” said Richard.

“We cannot settle that now, Richard,” said Eve.

“And why not, pray?”

“Because,” she said, with her heart beating and her voice faltering, “I cannot forget for certainly a year or two, that which has taken place during the past few weeks.”

“What?” he shouted.

“I think you understand me, Richard,” said the girl, quietly, and making no effort now to free the wrist he so tightly held.

“Yes,” he said, flushing with passion, “I do understand. You wish to throw me over because you have been angling for and catching that cursed intriguing parson.”

“Richard!” cried Eve, turning red and stamping her foot upon the ground, “I will not stop and listen to such language.”

“And in a passion, too,” he said, mockingly, “because her favourite is spoken of; but it won’t do, madam. You’re promised to me, and I wish the wedding to take place as soon as it can. Don’t you think I’m going to let that beggarly meddling priest come between us.”

“This is as cowardly as it is unjustifiable, Richard,” exclaimed Eve.

“Is it?” he retorted. “Don’t you think I’m blind. I’ve seen your soft looks at him; and, curse him, if he comes here again I’ll strangle him—an insidious crafty Jesuit. But don’t you think me such a child as to believe I’m to be treated like this.”

“You are hurting my wrist, Richard,” said Eve, coldly, and speaking firmly now, for as her cousin began to bluster she grew calm.

“Hang your wrist,” he said angrily; “my hands are not so tender as the parson’s, I suppose.”

“Richard,” she said, with her voice trembling as she spoke, “Mr Selwood has always been to me as a gentlemanly, very kind friend, and to you the best of friends.”

“Damn his friendship,” said Richard, looking ugly in his wrath. “He’s my enemy, and always has been, and he’s trying to win you away. Ah! I know what it means: I’m to be thrown over, and you take up with him.”

“Richard, this is as coarse as it is cruel and unjust,” cried Eve, now regularly roused; “and I will not submit to it. Mr Selwood is nothing to me but a friend.”

“Indeed!” said Richard, with a sneer; “then pray what may this great change mean?”

“Mean!” she cried, scornfully; and Richard’s eyes lit up, for he thought he had never seen her look so attractive before, “it means that you have cruelly outraged my feelings by your wickedness and deceit.”

“My deceit!” he cried.

“Yes,” she said, with contempt: “have you forgotten what I saw that evening in Ranby Wood? Have you forgotten the past year’s neglect and contemptuous indifference to all my affection? Shame on you, Richard; shame! You ask me to be your wife, and tell me I am promised to you. I am; but you have broken the ties, and if I could forgive you, it must be years hence, when I have learned the truth of your sorrow for what is past.”

Before he could recover from his surprise, she had snatched away her hand to run, frightened and sobbing, to her own room, where she threw herself upon her knees, to weep and bewail her wickedness, for she was beginning to feel that there was some truth in her cousin’s words, and that she had committed a sin, for whose enormity there could be no pardon.

“What is to become of me?” she wailed in her misery, as she went to her dressing-table, and started back in affright at her hot, flushed face. “Oh, is it true that I have behaved as he says, and can Mr Selwood have seen my boldness?”

She sank into a chair to cover her face with her hands, but only to start and utter a faint cry as she felt them drawn away, and saw that Mrs Glaire was looking eagerly down upon her flushed and fevered cheeks.

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Sim Slee’s Brotherhood.

Many of Richard Glaire’s workmen belonged to one of the regular trades’ unions, from which they received counsel and assistance, and these men held Sim Slee’s movements in the most utter contempt. For his part, the above-named worthy returned the contempt, looking down upon trades’ unions as not being of sufficiently advanced notions for him, and praising up his own brotherhood to all who were weak enough to listen.

The brotherhood, as he called it, was entirely his own invention, as far as Dumford was concerned; but it was really based upon an absurd institution that had place in London, and maintained a weak and sickly growth, being wanting in all the good qualities of the regular unions, and embracing every one of their faults.

But it pleased Sim Slee, who went upon the motto Aut Caesar aut nullus. In his own brotherhood he was chief, chairman, father, or patriarch. In the regular trades’ union he would have been only Sim Slee, an individual largely held in contempt.

It was a great night at the Bull and Cucumber, for the brotherhood was to hold a secret meeting on the subject of the lock-out. Robinson, the landlord, took a great interest in the proceedings, and wanted to see all; but Sim Slee and one or two more leaders of the secret society condescended only to allow the inquiring mind to see to the arrangement of the tables and forms; and then, as the brotherhood assembled in secret conclave, they were ushered in with great ceremony, and every man seemed to be impressed with the solemnity.

In fact, the room was lit up for the occasion, curtains were tacked over the two windows, and flags were arranged on the walls, each flag bearing a device in tinsel. On one were the words:—

“The Horny Hand is the Nation’s Need.”

On another:—

“Labour Conquers All.”

While over the president’s chair, or, as Sim had christened himself, “the Grand Brother,” was a roughly-drawn representation of the familiar skull and cross bones.

On the table were two stage swords, drawn from their sheaths, and laid crosswise; and at the door were a couple of sentries, over the said door being tacked the motto—“Free and Equal.”

It was a great night, and every man of Sim’s partisans looked solemn, but mugs of ale and long clay pipes were not excluded from the two tables, at which sat about a dozen men, as many more standing where they could find room.

There was a ridiculous aspect to the affair, but mingled with it was a grim look of determination, and many a stern face there wore an aspect that Richard Glaire would not have cared to see, even though he might have scoffed at the meeting, and called the men fools and idiots.

Sim Slee was the great gun of the evening, and he wore his plaid vest very much open, to display a clean shirt, at the edge of whose front fold it was observable that Mrs Slee’s “scithers” had been at work, to take off what she termed the “dwiny” ends; but the buttons refused to remain on terms of intimacy with their holes, with the consequence that the front gaped widely.

But Sim Slee was too important and excited to notice this, for he was busy over a book before him, and papers, and constantly in communication with the tall, heavy-looking man in black, Mr Silas Barker, the deputation from London, who was to help the brotherhood through their difficulties, and who had promised to coach and assist Sim in the great speech he was to make that evening.

At last all seemed about settled, and Sim rose to tap the table with a small wooden hammer, when he sat down again suddenly, for three loud knocks were heard at the door.

“Who knocks without?” said the first sentry.

“Brotherly love,” said a voice without.

“What does it bring?” said the second sentry.

“Ruin and death,” was the reply.

“Enter ruin and death,” said the first sentry; the door was opened, two men entered, Sim Slee looked solemn, and everybody seemed very much impressed.

The door being closed, and silence procured, Sim Slee rose, and there was a great deal of tapping on the table, to which Sim bowed, frowned, and thrust one hand into his vest. At least he meant so to do, but it went inside the gaping shirt.

“Brother paytriots and sitterzens,” he commenced, “I think as we are all assembled here.”

Just then a knocking was heard without.

“Ah, theer’s some un else,” said Sim, and he sat down, while the sentries repeated their formula; the voices outside replied in due order, with the requisite pass-words, and three more entered to swell the little crowd. Sim then rose again, more important than ever.

“Now, then, brother sitterzens,” he began, “as I believe all the paytriots are here, we will now proceed to business.”

“Howd hard a minnit,” said Big Harry, who occupied a central position, “I want another gill o’ ale.”

Sim hammered the table with his little mallet, and exclaimed angrily,

“Yow can’t hev it now: don’t you see the brotherhood is setting?”

“’Arf on ’em’s a stanning,” said Big Harry, with a grin; “and if you’re goin’ to hev all this dry wuck, I must wet it.”

“Hee-ar! hee-ar!” shouted two or three voices.

“But don’t yow see as the brotherhood is a setting?” cried Sim. “The door is closed now, and we’re in secret conclave.”

“I don’t keer nowt about no secret concave,” growled Big Harry. “A mun hev another gill o’ ale.”

“Let’s hev some more drink, then,” cried several voices.

“Yow can’t, I tell you,” cried Sim. “We’re a setting wi’ closed doors.”

“Open ’em, then,” said Harry, “or I will. Here, summun, a gill o’ ale.”

“And I wants some ’bacco,” said another voice.

Sim hammered away at the board for a bit, when Harry exclaimed, leaning his great arms on the table, and grinning,

“Say, lads, I niver see owd Simmy handle a harmmer like that up at th’ wucks.”

“Silence!” roared Sim, in the midst of a hearty laugh from the men. “Fellow paytriots and sitterzens, as Grand Brother of this order, I say—eh, what?”

Sim leaned down to the deputation, who had pulled his sleeve.

“Better let them have in the drink,” whispered Mr Barker, “it makes ’em more trackable.”

“All raight,” said Sim, in an ill-used tone. “Here, send out for what’s wanted, you two at the door, for no one isn’t to enter.”

There was a bustle at the door after this, and various orders were shouted downstairs, and eagerly responded to by the landlord, who wanted to bring all in, but was stayed by the sentries.

“Here, I say,” said Sim to Mr Barker, “I shall lose all that speech ’fore I begin, if I have to wait much longer.”

“I’ll prompt you,” said Barker.

“Eh?” said Sim.

“I’ll prompt you—help you.”

“Oh, all right; thankey. Kiver up them motters till the door’s shoot close,” he continued aloud; but as the door was on the point of being closed, Sim’s order was not obeyed; and the ale and tobacco being handed to those who demanded them, Sim once more rose to begin, but only for a fresh clamour to arise from another party, whose “moogs” were empty, and while these were being filled, the swords were covered with a coat, and the mottoes turned to the wall.

At length all were satisfied, and Sim Slee rose for the speech of the evening.

“Brother workmen, mates, paytriots, and fellow sitterzens o’ Doomford—”

“He—ar, he—ar!”

“We are met here to-night, honoured by the presence o’ Brother Silas Barker.”

“He—ar, he—ar,” and a “hooray.”

“And Brother Silas Barker is delicate, from the payrent lodge o’ Brothers in London.”

“Drink along o’ me, mate,” growled Big Harry, holding out his mug to the deputation, “that’ll keep you from being delicate.”

“You, Harry,” cried Sim, “don’t interrupt. You ain’t one of our most trustworthy brothers. You’ve fote on the wrong side afore now.”

“I’ll faight yow for a gill o’ ale any day, Simmy Slee,” said Harry, winking solemnly across the table at a mate.

“Don’t you int’rupt the meeting wi’ ignorant remarks,” said Sim, taking no notice of the challenge. “I said delicate fro’ the—fro’ the—”

“Payrent society,” said Mr Barker, prompting.

“All raight, I know,” said Sim, pettishly; “fro’ payrent society. Came down to Doomford to tell us suff’ring wuckmen as the eyes o’ the Bri’sh wucking man i’ London and all the world is upon us.”

There was vociferous cheering at this, during which Big Harry confidentially informed his mate across the table, that he’d “Tak’ Sim Slee wi’ one hand tied behind him, and t’other chap, too, one down and t’other come on.”

“We’re met together here, mates—met together,” continued Sim, whose flow of oratory had not yet begun, but who was gradually warming—“met together, mates, to bring things to a big crisis, and let the thunder of the power of the sons of labour—”

“Here, let’s hev in some more ale,” shouted some one at the other end.

“Why can’t yow be quiet? interrupting that how,” cried Sim, remonstrating. “Yow can’t hev no more ale till the debate’s ended. Do you want to hev the mummy—mummy—”

“Course we don’t,” said Big Harry, aloud. “But who’s him?”

“I say,” cried Sim, angrily, “do you want to have the mummy—mummy”—then angrily to Barker, “Why don’t you tell a fellow?”

“Myrmidons—myrmidons of”—whispered Barker.

“All raight, all raight,” said Sim, impatiently, “I know—mummy—mummidons of a brutal holygarchy down upon us?”

“And hale us off,” whispered Barker, for Sim had evidently forgotten his speech.

“Yes, yes, I know,” whispered Sim. Then aloud, “And hale us off—”

“Hear, hear!” roared Harry, hammering his empty mug on the table; “raight, lad, raight. Here, sum un, tell the mummy to bring the ale.”

“Sit down, Harry,” shouted Sim. “I say hale us off to fresh chains and slavery. I say, mates,” cried Sim, now growing excited, and waving his hands about, “as the holygartchy of a brutal mummidom.”

“No, no,” whispered Barker, behind his hand, “Myrmidons of a brutal oligarchy.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” cried Sim; “but they don’t. It’s all the same to them. Yes, mates, a brutal mummidom, and a holygartchy, and as I was a saying, our fellow sittyzens in London have been a wackin o’ ’em oop. They’ve gone arm in arm, in their horny-handed strength, like brave sons of tyle, with gentlemen playing their bands o’ music.”

“Hear, hear!”

“And colours flying—”

“Hear, hear!” and a great deal of mug rattling on the table.

“And made Pall Mall—Pall Mall—Pall Mall—”

“Hear, hear!”

“Go on,” whispered Barker, “that’s it—echo to their warlike tread.”

“Echo to the warlike tread o’ their heavy boots,” cried Sim, banging his hand down upon the table.

“Hear, hear!”

“Till the bloated holygarchs a sitting in theer bloated palluses abloating theer sens.”

“Brayvo, lad,” shouted Big Harry; “that’s faine.”

“Set down and shouthered wi’ fear,” continued Sim; “as they—as they—do be a bit sharper,” he whispered to Barker.

“Saw the nation rising in its might,” whispered the prompter.

“Saw the nation rising up wi’ all its might and main,” cried Sim. Then to Barker, “Shall I put it into ’em now?”

“Yes, yes; they’re ripe enough,” was the answer.

“And now, mates,” continued Sim, “it’s time as we rose up in our might, and showed him as is starving our wives and bairns what we can do when we’re trampled down, and that like the wums as is tread on, we can turn and sting the heel o’ the oppressors.”

“Good, good! Go on,” said the deputation, rubbing its hands.

“Are we to see a maulkin like Dickey Glaire, because he is an employer, always getting fat on the sweat of a pore man’s brow?”

“Go on! go on! Capital!” whispered Barker. “Fine himage.”

“What’s a himage?” said Sim, stopped in his flow.

“All right, go on, man,” whispered Barker; “I only said fine himage.”

“As my friend and brother the deppitation says,” continued Sim, “Dicky Glaire’s a fine image to sit on all us like an old man o’ the mountains.”

“No, no, I didn’t,” whispered Barker.

“You did,” whispered Sim. “I heerd you.”

“Go on,” whispered back Barker; “the time has come—go on; beautiful.”

“And the time has come to go on beautiful,” said Sim, waving his arms.

“No, no,” whispered Barker.

“I wish yow’d howd thee tongue altogether,” whispered Sim. “You do nowt but put me out.”

“Go on, brayvo!” cried the men.

“Now, don’t you interrupt me no more,” whispered Sim, in an aggrieved tone; “that aint a bit like as you writ it down, and I shall say it my own way-er. And, mates,” he continued aloud, “the time has come when we’ve got to tak’ our heads from under the despot’s heels, when we’ve got to show ’em ’ow they depends upon the sons of tyle; and teach ’em as all men’s ekal, made o’ the same flesh and blood, eddication or no eddication; and if Dickey Glaire won’t gi’e uz a fair day’s wuck for a fair day’s pay.”

“No, no, other way on,” whispered the deputation.

“You let me alone; I’m getting on better wi’out you,” whispered Sim. Then aloud, “They’ll hev’ to change places wi’ us, and see how they like it then. Now, who’s that?” cried Sim, as a loud knocking was heard. “A man can’t get a word in edgeways.”

“Who knocks wi’out?” cried the first sentry.

“Open the door,” said a loud voice.

“Who knocks wi’out?” said the sentry again.

“Open the door, fool!” said the rough voice again.

“Give the pass-word,” said the sentry.

“Open the door before I kick it down,” cried the voice.

“Look out, lads,” cried Sim, excitedly, as he left the chair. “It’s the police. Tak down them flags, and shove the swords out o’ sight. It’s the police.”

There was a rush, and the flags were hurriedly pulled down and folded up, while the swords were placed under the table.

“Open this door,” cried the same loud voice, and a heavy fist was applied to the panel.

“You can’t come in, I tell you,” cried one of the sentries angrily. “This room’s private.”

“You’d better tell them to open the door,” said the deputation. “They can’t touch you; we’re within the law. It’s a society meeting. Take your seat.”

“Open the door, then,” said Sim, reluctantly resuming his place, when, as the door was thrown back, in came Joe Banks, closely followed by Tom Podmore.

“Hooray, lads!” cried Sim, enthusiastically. “I always said as he would. It’s Joe Banks come to join us at last, along wi’ Tom Podmore.”

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

To Save Richard.

“Eve, my child,” said Mrs Glaire, “what is it? Tell me what this means.”

“Oh, aunt, aunt,” the poor girl sobbed. “Richard—Richard.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Glaire, drawing her to her breast, and laying her cool soft hands upon the burning brow; “tell me, darling. You have no secrets from me.”

“I will—directly—aunt,” sobbed Eve; and then, in a burst of passionate grief, “He has been begging me to be his wife.”

“And is that so very dreadful, my child?” said Mrs Glaire.

“And when I told him it could not be perhaps for years—not till I could freely forgive him—he accused me, so dreadfully.”

“Indeed, child! what did he say?”

“Oh, I could not, cannot tell you,” sobbed Eve.

“Yes, yes, my poor little frightened bird,” said Mrs Glaire, caressing her, “you can tell me all.”

“I will, aunt,” said the girl, starting up, looking flushed and eager, as she hastily dried her eyes, and speaking now indignantly; “he accused me, aunt, of encouraging Mr Selwood.”

“And have you, Eve?”

“Oh, aunt dear, never, never.” This with a wondering, almost angry, look.

“And has Mr Selwood ever made any advances to you, my dear?” said Mrs Glaire, watching curiously the bright blushing face before her.

“Never, aunt dear, never. He has always been so kind and gentlemanly. Never by word or by look, aunt.”

“No, child, he would not,” said Mrs Glaire, slowly; “he is a gentleman whom we can trust and love.”

“Love, aunt?”

“Yes, child, as a very dear friend. But about Richard, Eve. He was very hot and passionate?”

“Yes, aunt. Most cruel to me.”

“And you told him you could not forgive him for his cruel neglect and trifling with—with that poor girl?”

“Yes, aunt,” said Eve, struggling hard to keep up her firmness; “but not quite all you say. I did not tell him I would not forgive him.”

“What then, my child?”

“That I could not forgive him yet, not till I saw that he was truly sorry for the past.”

“You told him this, Eve?”

“Yes, aunt dear. Was it wrong?”

“Wrong, my child,” said Mrs Glaire, embracing her, as the tears started to her eyes.

“No; it was most maidenly and true. But, Eve, my child, some day you may be a mother—some day you may have a son, over whose welfare your heart will yearn, and for whom you would be ready to do anything—even to committing a crime to save him from a downward course.”

“Aunt!” cried the girl, looking up at her wonderingly, for she was speaking now in eager excited tones.

“Yes, child; ready to screen him, forgive him, bear the penalty of his sins, anything to save him from pain, suffering, or the retribution he has been calling down upon his head.”

“Oh, aunt,” cried the girl, in awe-stricken tones, “is it like this to be a mother?”

“No, no, my child: all sons are not like this. But it is a mother’s agony to feel that if her boy turns from the straightforward course, she may herself be perhaps to blame; that by indulgent weakness, by giving up the reins of government too soon, she may have caused him to go astray; and—Eve—Eve—my darling, this is my fate, and it is you alone who can save my boy.”

“Aunt!”

“Yes, child. He is my boy, my very own, and I have been weak, and let the weeds grow up in him, to the choking of the good qualities he possesses. I have been too proud of him, too glad to see my son taking his position as a gentleman, and a man of the world. It was my proud desire to see him the leading man here at the works—the great man of the town; and my pride has brought its punishment—has ruined my boy, so that he needs all I can do to save him.”

“Aunt—dear aunt—pray—pray don’t kneel to me,” cried Eve, excitedly, as she saw her aunt’s next act.

“Yes, yes, child, I must—I must; for it is to you I look alone for help, as God’s minister, to save my boy. I—I have sinned for him more deeply than I can tell—more than a life of repentance can wash out, bringing, as I have, misery upon others, and fresh ill-treatment of my boy; but you—you—Eve, can save him. We must forgive—you must forgive; for it is I who am to blame.”

“No, no, aunt.”

“Yes, my child,” cried Mrs Glaire, clinging to her passionately. “Nothing but the earnest love of a pure, true woman, can save him—the woman who will be his faithful wife, and bless him with her love. Eve, my child, on my knees I ask you to forgive him, now—at once, even as you nightly pray our Father to forgive us our trespasses. Say you will forgive him, that you will blot out all the past, and be his wife; for it will be the turning-point of his life.”

“Aunt, dear aunt,” sobbed the poor girl, bewildered by the strange outburst of passion from one generally so calm and placid in her ways. “What can I say? Oh, this is terrible!”

“Terrible, Eve? No, no, child, not terrible to save him we love, for you do love him, Eve?”

“I—I—hope so, aunt.”

“Yes, yes, you do. You must, for he is true and good at heart. You will forgive him—for my sake, Eve. Eve, I am on my knees to you. If you have one spark of gratitude for the past, listen to my prayer.”

“Aunt, dearest aunt, my more than mother,” sobbed Eve, completely carried away by the agony of one who had been everything to her for years and years of her life; “I will do all you wish. I am your child. Tell me what to do, and I will do it; for I love you, dearest aunt, as if you were my own mother.”

“I knew it, I knew it, my darling, my own darling,” cried Mrs Glaire, throwing her hands upwards. “Saved, saved! Oh, God! oh, God! Thou hast heard my prayer.”

Eve shrank from her for an instant, frightened at her wild appeal, but only for the moment; the next she had thrown herself on her knees beside her, and the two women were sobbing and caressing each other tenderly, till the calm came after their storm of weeping, and Eve prevailed upon the trembling mother to lie down upon her bed, where exhausted nature at last prevailed, and she sank to sleep. But only to mutter strangely of “Daisy Banks—poor Daisy Banks,” and utter at times the most piteous sighs; while, as Eve watched her, the memory of that which she had promised came upon her with all its force, and a feeling of depression and of utter misery stole over her, so great that she could hardly bear to sit alone.

She had promised to be Richard’s wife—promised again, and that it should be soon; promised to save him, when that strange and wondrous joy, that glorious light of love that was springing up in her breast, frightening her by its intensity, was ever expanding, but must now be crushed out—for ever.

What was she to do? To save Richard—to be his wife. Not so hard a task a few months since, but now! Oh, it was dreadful. And yet that was a traitorous feeling that she must crush; and at last, sobbing bitterly, Eve Pelly knelt by her sleeping aunt, and prayed earnestly, as woman ever prayed before, that Murray Selwood might never care for her, and that she might be a good and tender wife to the man who sat at the bottom of the garden smoking a cigar, and uttering a few oaths from time to time against the woman on her knees. What time he also defiled the flowers around the rustic seat, and cut them with his stick, till he started to his feet in an agony of dread, for a shadow fell across him as some one approached noiselessly over the velvet lawn, and looking up, there stood the foreman, gazing full in his face, as he exclaimed—

“Richard Glaire, I’ve come to have a few words wi’ you.”

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

A New Brother.

Joe Banks stood staring round the room defiantly, while the sentries kept the door ajar.

“Shoot the door, fools,” he said sharply; and then, as it was closed, he turned on Barker, who, rising, said smoothly,

“May I ask what our friend, Mr Joseph Banks, wants here at a private meeting?”

“Let me tackle him, mate,” said Sim. “Here’s a cheer here, Maister Banks; come an’ sit along-side me. Yow’ve come to join uz then, at last?”

“Yes,” said Banks, shortly, as he beckoned Tom Podmore to his side.

“I always said he would, lads,” cried Sim. “I always said it. He’s seen the error of his ways, and come to join the brotherhood, and clasp the honest horny hand o’ labour. He’s a paytriot at heart, is Maister Banks, and I knew as he’d come at last.”

“But,” said Barker, “our friend is not yet one of the brotherhood.”

“What?” said Banks sharply.

“Our friend has not taken the oaths,” said Barker.

“Oaths—Brotherhood”—cried Banks. “Don’t I tell you I join you? What more do you want?”

“You leave Joe Banks to me, lads, and I’ll explain,” said Sim, confidentially. “You see, Joe Banks, we binds and ties oursens together wi’ oaths like in a holy bond, and sweers brotherly love. Don’t you see?”

“Yes, you must be sworn in, Mr Banks; it’s the rule.”

“Swear me in, then,” said Banks, contemptuously.

Several of the men then advanced, and Banks and Podmore were seized, while Slee began to place a folded handkerchief across the former’s eyes.

“What do you mean by this mummery?” exclaimed the foreman; and he tried to drag away the handkerchief, but was stopped.

“This is part of the formula for the administration of the oath,” said Barker. “Kneel down. Now bring forward the swords.”

Two of the men came forward with the swords, which had been extracted from their hiding-place, and as Joe Banks was half forced into a kneeling position, they were held crossed over his head.

“Silence!” exclaimed Barker. “Now, you swear.”

“Curse your childish folly!” cried Banks, starting up, tearing the bandage from his eyes, and sending the cross swordsmen flying. “Ye’re worse than a set o’ bairns in their play-a.”

“Haw—haw—haw!” laughed Big Harry. “I niver see such a siaght in my liafe.”

“I swear to be faithful brother to you,” exclaimed Banks, “and to fight with you against all our enemies.”

“That’ll do; that’ll do,” exclaimed several voices. “We know Joe Banks always does what he says; he’ll do.”

“But that wean’t do,” said Sim. “It aint the oath, you know, Joe Banks, and you must tak’ it.”

“I’ll take no other,” cried Banks, shortly. “Wheer’s Tom Podmore?”

Tom was brought forward, bandaged, while Slee and Barker whispered together; and the majority of the men seemed to look upon the scene as one to be held in great veneration.

“Sweer in Tom Podmore,” cried Slee; and the men with the swords were once more about to perform their theatrical act with the most solemn of faces.

“Stop!” cried Banks, snatching off the bandage. “That’s enew o’ this stuff. I’ll answer for Tom Podmore. Let’s hev deeds, not words.”

“I’ll go on to explain,” said Sim, snatching at the chance for a speech. “I was speaking when you came in, Joe Banks.”

“I think you come into the world speaking,” cried Joe Banks, roughly. “Get down off that cheer, and say your say like a man.”

“This sort of interruption is not parliamentary,” cried Sim. “It isn’t, is it?”

The gentleman from town shook his head.

“Theer,” cried Sim, “the deppitation says as it isn’t.”

“Look here, men,” cried Joe Banks, speaking excitedly, “I come here to-night to join you. You wanted me wi’ you before, but I wouldn’t come, because I was in the cause o’ raight. I wouldn’t gi’e up my position as a straightforward man for to faight for a few beggarly shillings a week.”

There were some murmurs of discontent here, but the foreman did not seem to hear them, and went on.

“The side of raight is the side of raight no longer, and I’m wi’ you, for I’ll work no more for one who has done me as great a wrong as he can do.”

“He hev, Joe Banks, he hev, and we’ll let him know it,” cried several.

“No, no,” cried Banks; “no more attacks on him; we’ve had enew o’ that. Strike him through his pocket; let him feel it where we’ve felt it; but mind this, the lad as raises hand again the house where them two women are, raises it again me.”

Amidst the loud cheering that followed, Sim Slee, who would not be repressed, climbed upon the table in front of his chair, shouting—

“He’s roused at last, lads. He’s a-takking the iron foot of the despot from his brow, and come to straike for freedom.”

There was a loud cheer at this, and Sim’s vanity was gratified.

“Now,” cried Banks, “what are you going to do? You’ve got some plans?”

“Theer,” cried Sim; “what did I tell you? Didn’t I say as he’d come to uz? Yes, Joe Banks, our new brother, we’re going to set the eyes of all England starting out of its head, to see us strike for our raights. We’re a-going to—Hey?”

“Stop!” whispered Barker. “See to the doors there. We’ve a man present as isn’t sworn. He must take the oath.”

“Didn’t I say,” cried Joe Banks, fiercely, “that I’d be answerable for him?”

“But I’m not going to join their plans, Joe Banks,” said Tom, in a low voice.

“Raight,” said Banks, shortly. “Go on, Sim Slee.”

“Then look here, mates. Here’s what we’re a-going to do. Bring that theer keg.”

Two men dragged a keg from a cupboard, and placed it on the table.

“Them as is smoking is to go to the other end of the room,” said Sim, and there was a sudden movement amongst the men, the deputation not being the last. “Now then,” said Sim, “who’s got a knife?”

Joe Banks took a big clasp-knife from his pocket, and threw it upon the table, Sim picking it up, and beginning to open it as he went on talking.

“Here’s my plan. We’re a-going to open the eyes o’ lots of places as thowt they was very big in their way; and—Hello, where didst thou get this knife fro’, Joe Banks?—it’s mine.”

“Then it was thou as coot the bands,” cried Joe, seizing him by the throat. “Thou cunning fox, thou’st trapped after all. It’s thou as browt all this trouble on uz wi’ thy coward’s trick. It was thou as clomb into wucks through the window, and coot all the bands, and left thee knife behind to bear witness again thee. Look at him, lads; he canno’ say it wean’t.”

“And he don’t want to,” cried Sim, shaking himself free. “I did it all by my sen as a punishment to a bad maister as knows nowt but nastiness; and now we’re a-going to come down o’ him wi’ tenfold violence. Bands is nowt to what we’re a-going to do.”

There was a cheer at this, and the men who were beginning to be wroth against Sim and his companion, and who would have severely punished him a short time back, lost all thought of the dastardly escapade in the savage attack they meant to make.

“Look here, Joe Banks,” continued Sim, whose words came freely enough now without the aid of the deputation, “we’re a-going to do something as shall let ’em see what your honest British workman can do, when he’s been trampled down, and rises up in his horny-handed majesty to show as he’s a man, and to teach all the masters of England to treat their men as if they were Christians—like brothers as helps ’em to bloat and fatten on the corn and wine, and oil olive and unney as the horny-handed hand pro—”