"Then you don't approve of it, Mrs Banks?" said the vicar, quietly.

"Approve of it, sir? No, nor anybody else, except her foolish father, who's the best and kindest man in the world: only when he takes an obstinate craze there's no turning him."

The vicar found the matter already to his hand, and was spared the trouble of introducing the subject; but he would rather have found Joe Banks present.

"Does he approve of it?" he said, quietly.

"Approve of it, sir! yes. I tell him, and all his neighbours tell him, that it's a bit of foolish vanity; but they can't turn him a morsel."

"Hallo, moother," said Joe Banks, entering the room, "can't you let that rest?"

"No, Joe, and I never shall," exclaimed Mrs Banks.

"Don't you tak' any notice, sir," said Joe. "She heven't talked you round, hev she?"

"No, Mr Banks," said the vicar, quietly; "it was not necessary. I have no right to interfere in these matters, but--"

"Well, speak out, sir; speak out," said Joe, rather sternly. "Say out like a man what you mean."

"If I did, Mr Banks, I should say that you were imprudent to let this matter proceed."

"Why?"

"Because it is a well-known fact that Mr Glaire is engaged to his cousin."

"There, Joe; there, Joe; what did I tell thee?" cried Mrs Banks, triumphantly; while Daisy, who could hear nearly all that was said, crouched with burning face in her room, shivering with nervous excitement, though longing to hear more.

"All raight, parson, I know," said Joe; "I see. The missus has sent you."

"Indeed, no, Banks," said the vicar. "I speak as a friend, without a word from anybody."

"Then, what do you mean by it?" cried Joe, exploding with pa.s.sion.

"What raight have you to come interferin' in a man's house, and about his wife and daughter? This is my own bit o' freehold, Mr Selwood, and if you can't pay respect to me and to mine, and see that if Master Richard Glaire, my old fellow-workman's boy, chooses to marry my gal, he's a raight to, why I'd thank you to stay away."

"Don't be angry with me, Mr Banks," said the vicar, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "I indeed wish you and yours well."

"Then keep to wishing," said Joe sharply. "I'm not an owd fool yet.

Think I don't know? Here's the Missus, and Missus Glaire, and Tom Podmore, all been at you; and 'All raight, leave it to me,' says you.

'I'll put it all raight.' And now you've had your try, and you can't put it raight. I'll marry my gal to anybody I like and she likes, in spite of all the parsons in Lincolnshire."

"Don't you tak' any notice of what he says, sir, please," cried Mrs Banks. "He's put out, and when he is, and it's about something that he knows he's wrong over--"

"No, he isn't," roared Joe.

"He says anything, sir," continued Mrs Banks.

"No, he don't," roared Joe. "He's a saying raight, and what he says is, that he won't be interfered wi' by anyone. He's got trouble enew ower the strike, and he won't hev trouble ower this; so perhaps Mr Selwood 'll stop away from my place till he's asked to come again."

"Joe, you ought to be ashamed of yoursen," cried Mrs Banks. "He'll come and beg your pardon for this, sir, or I'll know the reason why."

"No, he wean't," roared Joe. "So now go; and if you hadn't been such a straightforward chap ower the row again Master Richard, I'd hev said twice as much to you."

"Yes, I'll go," said the vicar quietly. "Good day, Mrs Banks. Good day, Banks; you'll find I'm less disposed to meddle than you think, and give me credit for this some day. Come, you'll shake hands."

"Dal me if I will," cried Joe.

"Nonsense, man; shake hands."

"I wean't," roared Joe, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and turning his back.

"Well, Mrs Banks, you will," said the vicar; and then, as he went away, he said:

"Mrs Banks, and you, Mr Banks, please recollect this: I shall forget all these words before I get home; so don't either of you think that we are bad friends, because we are not; and you, Mr Banks, you are of too sterling stuff not to feel sorry for what you have said."

"There, it wean't do," roared Joe; "I wean't be talked ower;" but the vicar hardly heard his words, for he was striding thoughtfully away.

Volume 2, Chapter VI.

BY THE CHALK PIT.

Though Sim Slee had omitted on two occasions to convey letters to Daisy Banks making appointments for meetings in different parts of the country walks round Dumford, Daisy had had a pretty good supply of messages; and feeling as it were compelled to obey, she had gone on more than one occasion with sinking heart, to return with aching eyes, whose lids looked swollen and red with weeping.

For the girl was simply wretched, and time after time she looked back to the days when her heart was whole, and as she threw herself wearily on her bed she sobbed herself again and again to sleep, wishing that her very life were ended; the deceit she was obliged to practise, the anger of her mother, and the open sneers and innuendoes of neighbours wounding her so that the smart was almost more than she could bear.

Whether d.i.c.k chose east, west, north, or south for the appointment, poor Daisy could never get out of the town without encountering some one to give her a peculiar look, more than once driving the poor girl to make pretence of calling at some place that she did not want to visit, and as often turning her back home, making Richard Glaire, who had been kept waiting and "fooled," as he called it, write her the cruellest and most angry letters, some even of a threatening nature.

It happened one evening that poor Daisy, who had broken faith the night before, was going slowly up the High Street, with a basket on her arm, as if bound on some marketing expedition, when it seemed as if it was impossible that she could get to her trysting place, where she knew that d.i.c.k must have been waiting for an hour.

First the landlord of the Bull was standing at his door smoking, and he gave a sneering nod, which seemed to say, "I know where you are going, my la.s.s."

A little further on sat Miss Purley, at her window, ready to put up her great square, chased gold eye-gla.s.s, and stare at the blushing girl with all the indignant force of thirty-nine tinged yellow, against nineteen of the freshest pink.

Again a little further, and she came suddenly upon Eve Pelly, who came from the big house, started, stopped, caught her hands, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. "Oh, Daisy!" and then breaking down, turned suddenly away and re-entered the house.

To her horror, poor Daisy found that this meeting had been witnessed by Miss Primgeon, the lawyer's sister, who was seated at her window, staring as hard as she could.

Not twenty yards farther on there stood Tom Podmore, leaning against a corner of a lane, also watching her; but as she approached he turned away without a word.

It was almost unbearable, and now a feeling of anger began to rise in Daisy's bosom, making her pant, and flush up, as she determined to go on at all hazards.

Jane Budger, who kept the little beerhouse, and knew all the gossip of the place, which she retailed with gills of ale to her customers, saw her, stared, or rather squinted at her, and moved her hands as she exclaimed:

"Yes, my dear, I know where you are agate for to-night."

Then there seemed a peculiar meaning in the innocent remark of one neighbour who met her in the street, and observed that the stones were "strange and slape." So it was with another a little higher up, who remarked that the road was "very clatty."

Next she met Big Harry in the muddiest part of the main street, and he exclaimed to her: