The Parson O' Dumford Part 91

"Theer niver was such a man," muttered Mrs Slee, as she let him out; "and as for that Sim, well, I'm ommost sorry he did get away."

As the vicar approached the foreman's cottage he saw some one cross the lighted window, and on getting nearer he recognised the figure.

"Is that you, Podmore?" he said in a low voice.

"Yes, sir, yes," was the reply. "I only thought I'd like to know how poor Joe Banks is getting on."

"I'm going in, and if you'll wait I'll tell you."

"Thank ye, sir, kindly," said the young man. "I will wait."

"Poor fellow!" thought the vicar, with a sigh; "even now, when she comes back stained and hopeless to the old home, his love clings to her still.

It's a strange thing this love! Shall she then, and in spite of all, find that I cannot root up a foolish hopeless pa.s.sion that makes me weak--weak even as that poor fellow there?"

A low knock brought Daisy to the door, and on entering, it was to find Mrs Banks on her knees by her husband, who seemed in a heavy sleep.

The doctor had been again, and had only left half-an-hour before.

"He says there's nowt to fear, sir," whispered Mrs Banks; "but, oh, sir, will he live?"

"We are in His hands, Mrs Banks," was the reply. "I hope and pray he may."

Daisy was looking on with dilated eyes, and pale, drawn face, and as, after some little time, during which he had sought with homely, friendly words to comfort the trembling wife, he rose to go, Daisy approached to let him out, when fancying that he shrank from her, the poor girl's face became convulsed, and she tried hard but could not stifle a low wail.

She opened the door as he kindly said "Good night;" but as the faint light shone out across the garden and on to the low hedge, Daisy caught him by the arm.

"Don't go, sir," she whispered, in a frightened voice; "it mayn't be safe. Look: there's a man watching you."

"You are unnerved," he said, kindly; and then without thinking--"It is only Podmore; he was waiting as I came in."

"Tom!" the poor gill e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, catching his arm, "is it Tom? Oh, sir, for the love of G.o.d, tell him I'm not the wicked girl he thinks."

"My poor girl!"

"I was very wicked and weak, sir, in behaving as I did; but tell him--I must speak now--tell him it was Mrs Glaire sent me away."

"Mrs Glaire sent you away?" exclaimed the vicar.

"Yes, yes, yes," sobbed Daisy; "so that--her son--"

"To get you away from Richard Glaire?"

"Yes, sir; yes. I wish--I wish I'd never seen him."

"How came you at the foundry to-night?" he said sharply.

"I went to tell him of the danger, sir. I went to the House first, and they told me he was there. I hate him, I hate him," she cried, pa.s.sionately, heedless of the apparent incongruity of her words, "and everybody thinks me wicked and bad."

"Is this true, Daisy Banks?" exclaimed the vicar.

"She couldn't tell a lie, sir," cried a hoa.r.s.e voice. "Daisy, my poor bairn, I don't think it no more."

"Tom!" sobbed Daisy, with an hysterical cry; and the next moment she was sobbing on his breast, while the vicar softly withdrew, to turn, however, when he was fifty yards away, and see that the cottage door opened, and that two figures entered together before it was closed.

"Thank G.o.d!" he said softly--"thank G.o.d!"

Lights were burning at the House as he reached the door, and, under the circ.u.mstances, he knocked and was admitted by the white-faced, trembling servant, who had been sitting with one of the policemen in the hall, the other guarding the works.

"Don't be alarmed, my girl, there is no bad news," he said; and with a sigh of relief the girl showed him in to where Richard, Eve, and Mrs Glaire were seated, all watchful, pale, and ready to take alarm at the least sound.

"I'm glad you have come, Mr Selwood," exclaimed Mrs Glaire; while Richard gave him a sulky nod, Eve trying to rise, but sinking back trembling.

"I should have been here sooner," he said, "but I have had much to do."

"Is there any fresh danger?"

"None whatever," said the vicar. "I think the storm is over--I hope for good."

Mrs Glaire gave a sigh of relief, and then wondered, as she saw the vicar cross the room; but the next minute a faint flush came into her pale cheeks, and she tottered to where Eve was sitting, and buried her face on her shoulder.

"Mr Glaire," said the vicar, firmly, as he nerved himself for what he had to say, determined, as he was, to leave nothing undone in what he looked upon as his duty--"Mr Glaire, I have done you a grievous wrong; I humbly ask your pardon."

"What do you mean?" said Richard, starting, and wondering, with his customary distrust in human nature, whether it was some trap.

"I mean that, in common with others, I believed you guilty of inveigling Daisy Banks away."

"It don't matter to me what people think," said Richard, roughly.

"I am sorry I misjudged you," continued the vicar; "and once more I ask your pardon."

"It don't matter," said Richard.

"Mrs Glaire," the vicar continued, kindly, as he drew a chair to her side and took her hand, "you did a foolish, cruel thing in this."

"Then you know all?" she sobbed.

"Yes, all--from the lips of Daisy herself. I will not blame you, though, for the act has recoiled upon yourself, and it is only by great mercy that, embittered as these men were through it, a horrible crime has not been committed."

"I did it--I did it to save him," sobbed Mrs Glaire. "I am a mother, and he is my only boy."

"Poor, stricken Banks is a father, and Daisy is his only child. Mrs Glaire, you did him a cruel wrong. Why did you not trust me?"

"I was mad and foolish," she sobbed. "I dared not trust any one, even Daisy; and I thought it would be best for all--that it would save her, and it has been all in vain. Look at him," she cried angrily; "after all, he defies me, insults his cousin's love, and, when the poor, foolish girl comes back, his first act is to seek her, to the forgetting of his every promise to us both."

Eve had covered her face with her hands.

"Daisy is as bad as he," continued Mrs Glaire, angrily.

"There you are mistaken," said the vicar; "her act to-night was to warn your son of his dreadful danger. She went to save him from a terrible death."