"You'll come home now, Richard," said Mrs Glaire, feebly; and she looked uneasily from her son to the foreman, as she recalled their conversation in the garden, and felt unwilling to leave them alone together.

"I shall come home when the streets are safe," said Richard, haughtily.

"They are safe enough for you, but I'm not going to subject myself to another attack from a set of brute beasts."

"I don't think you have anything to fear now," said the vicar, quietly.

"Who said I was afraid?" snarled Richard, facing sharply round, and paying no heed to the remonstrant looks of cousin and mother. "I should think I know Dumford better than you, and when to go and when to stay."

The young men's eyes met for a moment, and Richard Glaire's shifty gaze sank before the calm, manly look of the man who had so bravely interposed in his behalf.

"Curse him! I hate him," Richard said in his heart. "He's brave and strong, and big and manly, and he does nothing but degrade me before Eve. I hate him--I hate him."

"What a contemptible cad he is," said Murray Selwood in his heart; "and yet he must have his good points, or that sweet girl would not love him as she evidently does. Poor girl, poor girl! But there: it is not fair to judge him now."

"Of course, you must know best, Mr Glaire," he said aloud, "for I am quite a stranger. I will see your mother and cousin safely home, and I hope next time we shall have a more pleasant meeting. You are put out now, and no wonder. Good-bye."

He held out his hand with a frank, pleasant smile upon his countenance, and the two women and the foreman looked curiously on as Richard shrank away, and with a childish gesture thrust his hand behind him. But it was of no use, that firm, unblenching eye seemed to master him, the strong, brown muscular hand remained outstretched, and, in spite of himself, the young man felt drawn towards it, and fighting mentally against the influence the while, he ended by impatiently placing his own limp, damp fingers within it, and letting them lie there a moment before s.n.a.t.c.hing them away.

Directly after, leaning on the vicar's arm, and with Eve on her other side, Mrs Glaire was being led through the knots of people still hanging about the streets. There was no attempt at molestation, and once or twice a faint cheer rose; but Mr Selwood was fully aware of the amount of attention they drew from door and window, for the Dumford people were not at all bashful as to staring or remark.

At last the awkward steps were reached, and after supporting Mrs Glaire to a couch, the new vicar turned to go, followed to the door by Eve.

"Good-bye, and thank you--so much, Mr Selwood," she said, pressing his hand warmly.

"I did not think we should meet again so soon. And, Mr Selwood--"

She stopped short, looking up at him timidly.

"Yes," he said, smiling. "Don't be afraid to speak; we are not strangers now."

"No, no; I know that," she cried, eagerly. "I was only going to say--to say--don't judge dear Richard harshly from what you saw this morning.

He was excited and hurt."

"Of course, of course," said the vicar, pressing the little hand he held in both his. "How could any one judge a man harshly at such a time?

Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

"And with such a little ministering angel to intercede for him,"

muttered the vicar, as the door closed. "Heigho! these things are a mystery, and it is as well that they should be, or I don't know what would become of poor erring man."

Volume 1, Chapter IX.

AN ENLIGHTENED ENGLISHMAN.

On reaching the vicarage, Murray Selwood found one of the rooms made bright and comfortable with the furniture that had been sent in, and the table spread ready for a composite meal, half breakfast, half dinner, with a dash in it of country tea.

Everything was scrupulously clean, and Mrs Slee was bustling about, not looking quite so wan and unsociable as when he saw her first.

"I've scratted a few things together," she said, acidly, "and you must mak' shift till I've had more time. Will you have the pot in now? I put the bacon down before the fire when I saw you coming. But, lord, man, what have ye been doin' to your hand?"

"Only bruised it a bit: knocked the skin off," said Mr Selwood, smiling.

"Don't tell me," said Mrs Slee, sharply. "You've been faighting."

"Well, I knocked a man down, if you call that fighting," said the vicar, smiling, as he saw Mrs Slee hurriedly produce a basin, water, and a coa.r.s.e brown, but very clean, towel, with which she proceeded to bathe his bleeding hand.

"Oh, it's nothing," he said, as he took out his pocket-book. "You'll find scissors and some sticking-plaister in there."

"I don't want no sticking-plaister," she said, taking a phial of some brown liquid from inside a common ornament. "This'll cure it directly."

"And what may this be?" said the vicar, smiling, as he saw his leech shake the bottle, and well soak a small piece of rag in the liquid.

"Rag Jack's oil," said Mrs Slee, pursing up her lips, and then anointing and tying up the injured hand. "It cures everything."

The vicar nodded, not being without a little faith in homely country simples; and then the rag was neatly sewed on, and an old glove cut so as to cover the unsightly bandage.

"Did they upset you?" she then queried.

"Well, no," he said; and he briefly related what had taken place. "By the way, I hope that gentleman in the red waistcoat is no relation of yours. Is he?"

"Is he?" retorted Mrs Slee, viciously dabbing down a dish of tempting bacon, with some golden eggs, beside the crisp brown loaf and yellow b.u.t.ter. "Is he, indeed! He's my master."

Mrs Slee hurried out of the room, but came back directly after.

"You've no spoons," she said, sharply; and then making a dive through her thin, shabby dress, she searched for some time for a pocket-hole, and then plunging her arm in right to the shoulder, she brought out a packet tied in a bit of calico. This being undone displayed a paper, and within this another paper was set free. Carefully folded, and fitted into one another, within this were half a dozen very small-sized, old-fashioned silver teaspoons, blackened with tarnish.

"They are quite clean," grumbled Mrs Slee, giving a couple of them a rub. "They were my grandmother's, and she gave 'em to me when I was married--worse luck. I keep 'em there so as they shan't be drunk. He did swallow the sugar-tongs."

"Does your husband drink, then?" said Mr Selwood, quietly.

"Is there anything he don't do as he oughtn't since they turned him out of the plan?" said the woman, angrily. "There, don't you talk to me about him; it makes me wild when I don't want to be."

She hurried out of the room again, shutting the door as loudly as she possibly could without it's being called a bang; and then hunger drove everything else out of the young vicar's mind, even the face of Eve Pelly, and--a minor consideration--his bruised hand.

"A queer set of people indeed," he said, as he progressed with his hearty meal. "What capital bread, though. That b.u.t.ter's delicious.

Hah!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, helping himself to another egg and a pinky brown piece of bacon; "if there is any fault in those eggs they are too fresh.

By Sampson, I must tell Mrs Slee to secure some more of this bacon."

Ten minutes later he was playing with the last cup of tea, and indulging it with more than its normal proportions of sugar and milk, for the calm feeling of satisfaction which steals over a hearty man after a meal--a man who looks upon digestion as a dictionary word, nothing more--had set in, and Murray Selwood was thinking about his new position in life.

"Well, I suppose I shall get used to it--in time. There must be a few friends to be made. Hallo!"

The e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n was caused by some one noisily entering the adjoining room with--

"Now then, what hev you got to yeat?"

"Nowt." was the reply.