It was the day of the plot concocted by Sim's Brotherhood, the members
of which body had been perfectly quiet, holding no meeting, and avoiding
one another as they brooded over their wrongs, and in their roused state
of mind rejoiced at the idea of their cunning revenge.
Had the vicar been ignorant of coming danger he would have suspected it,
for men who had been in the habit of frankly returning his salutations
or stopping to chat, now refused to meet his eye, or avoided him by
crossing the road.
He shuddered as he thought of what might be done, but as the last day
had come, he was in hopes that it might pass over safely, for Richard
had kept closely to his hiding-place, and the rumour had got abroad that
he had left the town.
He bore this good news to the House.
"Let him only keep to his hiding-place to-night, Mrs Glaire," he said;
"and to-morrow give out the announcement that the works are opened, and
the men once met, we shall have tided over our trouble."
"Yes, _our_ trouble," said Mrs Glaire, pressing his hand. "Mr
Selwood, I repent of not taking you more into my confidence."
"I am glad you have made so great a friend of me as you have," was the
reply; and he rose to go.
"You will stop and see Eve," said Mrs Glaire.
"No," he said, sadly; "not now. Good-bye, good-bye."
"I've done him grievous wrong," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, wringing her
hands as soon as she was alone; "but it was fate--fate. I must save my
poor wilful wandering boy."
The vicar prayed for that day and night to hasten on, that his poor
people might be met, ere they assembled for any ill design, by the news
of Richard Glaire's yielding to them, and the opening of the works; but
night seemed as if it would never come. He could not rest; the dread of
impending evil was so strong upon him, and he was going about from house
to house all day, and called several times at the police-station.
His mind was in a whirl, and yet the town had never seemed more quiet
nor fewer people about. The works, with their dull windows and blank
closed doors, looked chill and bare; and as he passed he scanned the
place, and wondered whereabouts Richard could be hidden. Then he began
to think of the coming marriage, and his heart grew heavier still; and
at last, after endless calls, he went to the vicarage, and threw himself
into a chair, to find Mrs Slee quite excited about him.
"Thee's hardly had bite or soop to-day, sir," she cried. "Yow'll be
ill;" and in spite of his remonstrances, she brought him in the dinner
that had been waiting for hours, and insisted upon his eating it.
He partook of it more for the sake of gaining strength than from
appetite, and then made up his mind to go up the town, and watch the
night through; for it was now dark.
It was about eight o'clock that a woman in a cloak, and wearing a thick
veil, entered the town, followed by a great burly man, and going
straight up to the House, rang and asked to see Mrs Glaire.
"I don't think you can see her, she's out," said the girl, looking at
the visitor suspiciously, the man having stopped back; but as she was
closing the door, it was pushed open, and Tom Podmore almost forced his
way in.
The girl was about to scream, but, on recognising him, she stared
wonderingly.
"Let me speak to her for a moment, Jane Marks," he said. "Shoot the
door."
"No, no; I can't. I shall get into trouble," said the girl.
"I've come to save you fro' trouble," said Tom. "Do as I tell you,
quick. This is no time for stopping, when at any moment a mob of savage
workmen may be ready to tear down the place."
He pointed to the veiled figure as he spoke, and the girl drew back,
while the strange visitor shrank to the wall. But only for a moment;
the next she uttered a sob, and holding out her hands, she cried--
"Oh, Tom, Tom; did you know me?"
"Know you," he said bitterly; "yes, I'd tell thee anywheers."
"Wean't you tak' my hands?" she cried. "Niver again, lass, niver
again."
"Is this the way you meet me, then, Tom?"
"Ay, lass. How would'st thou hev me meet thee? Why hev you comed
here?"
"Oh, Tom, I was i' Sheffle, and I met Big Harry. He told me such
dreadful things about father."
"I wonder he didn't tell thee the old man weer dead."
"Oh, Tom, if you knew all," cried the girl.
"Ay, lass, I know enew."
"Tom, you don't--you can't know. But there, I can't stay. It's so
dreadful. Let me go by."
"No, Daisy," said the young man passionately. "You can't go by. I
believe I hate thee now, but I can't leave thee. You must go wi' me."
"Go with you--where?" cried the girl.
"To your own home, where your poor broken-hearted mother's waiting for
thee."
"Oh, I shall go mad," exclaimed Daisy. "Tell me. Where is Mrs Glaire?
Where is Mr Richard?"
"You weak, silly girl," said Tom, catching her arm. "I knew it was so,
though they said strange things about thee. Oh, Daisy," he said,
piteously, as he sought to stay her, "leave him. Go home. Don't for
thee own sake stop this how. You threw away my poor, rough love, and
I've towd my sen ower and ower again that I hated thee, but I don't,
Daisy. I'm only sorry for thee, I can't forget the past."
He turned aside to hide the workings of his face.
"How dare you speak to me like this?" cried Daisy. "You don't know me,
Tom, or you would not. I'll go, I will not be so insulted, and by one
who pretended so much." Then, moved by the young fellow's grief, she
laid her hand upon his arm. "Tom," she said, softly, "you'll be sorry
for this when you know all."
"Don't touch me," cried Tom, passionately, as he shook her off. "I
can't bide it, Daisy. I loved you once, but you threw me over for that
bit of a butterfly of a thing."
"Oh, this is too much, and at such a time," cried Daisy. "Here, Jane,
Jane. Let me go by."
"No," said Tom, catching her wrist, as she made for the interior of the
house. "You shall not go to join him again. I'll tak' thee home to thy
father."
"Not yet, Tom, not yet. I'm not going to him. Here, Jane, Jane, quick.
Where is Mr Richard?" she cried, as the maid came back.
"Dal thee!" cried Tom, as he threw her arm savagely away. "This before
me!"
The girl looked at her and shook her head.
"Where is Mrs Glaire or Miss Pelly?"
"Out," said the girl, "at Mr Purley's."
"And Mr Richard?" cried Daisy imploringly. "Quick: it is for his
good," while Tom, who heard her words, stood gnawing his lips with
jealous rage.
"I don't know," said the girl. "He's gone away."
"Oh, this is dreadful," said Daisy, looking bewildered. "Tom, will you
not help me? I have been home, and cannot find father or mother. I
come here and I cannot find Mr Richard."
"Howd your tongue, lass, or you'll make me mad," cried Tom. "But Daisy,
my bairn, listen," he cried, softening down. "You know I loved you.
Come wi' me, and I'll find you a home somewheers. You shall never see
me again, but I shall know that I've saved you from him."
"Tom, where is my father?" cried Daisy, indignantly.
"Listen to me, Daisy, 'fore it is too late," pleaded the young man.
"Let me tak' you away."
"Will you tell me where my poor father is?" cried Daisy again. "If you
can't believe in me, I will listen to this shameful talk no more."
"Shameful talk!" said Tom, bitterly.
"Where is my father?"
"Drove mad by his child," cried Tom, speaking now in tones of sorrow.
"Gone by this time wi' a lot more to blow up the wucks."
"I won't believe it yet," cried Daisy. "It can't be true. My dear
father would never do the like."
"It's true enew," said Tom, "and I should ha' been theer trying once
more to stop him, only I see you, and, like a fool, tried to save thee
again."
"Tom," cried Daisy, who was giddy with dread and excitement, "tell me
that this is some terrible mistake."
"Yes," he said, bitterly; "and I made it."
"What shall I do?" gasped Daisy. "Oh, at last, Mrs Glaire--Mrs
Glaire, what have you done?"
"You here!" cried Mrs Glaire, who now entered with Eve from the
doctor's, the latter turning pale, and sinking into a chair.
"Yes, yes," gasped Daisy, sinking on her knees, and clinging to Mrs
Glaire's skirts; "I came--I was obliged to come back. My father, my--Oh
no, no, no, no!" she sobbed to herself, "I dare not tell them; I must
not tell. I--I--I came--"
"Yes," cried Mrs Glaire, angrily; "you came, false, cruel girl. You
came back to ruin all our hopes of happiness here--to undo all which I
have striven so hard to do."
"But, Mrs Glaire, dear Mrs Glaire, I have tried so hard," sobbed
Daisy, grovelling on the floor, but still clinging to Mrs Glaire's
dress that she tried to drag away. "You don't know what I've suffered
away in that cold, bitter town, wi'out a word from home, wi'out knowing
what they thowt o' me, for I kep' my word. I never wrote once, though I
was breaking my heart to write."
"But you came back--and now," cried Mrs Glaire.
"Yes, yes, I heard--danger--so horrible, I was obliged," panted the
girl.
"You heard that?" said Mrs Glaire.
"Yes, yes," cried Daisy; "and I came to try and save him fro' it."
"Of course," cried Mrs Glaire. "Where is your promise?"
"Aunt, aunt," sobbed Eve, "she is fainting. Pray spare her."
"Spare her!" cried Mrs Glaire. "Why should I? Has she spared us? Go,
girl, go; your presence pollutes this place."
"No, no," cried Daisy. "You mistake me--indeed you do, Mrs Glaire. I
did not come back for what you think."
"Then why did you come?"
"I cannot--dare not tell you; but where, where is Mr Richard?"
Tom Podmore turned aside, and moved towards the door.
"How dare you ask me," cried Mrs Glaire, "after the promise you made?"
"Don't ask me that," wailed Daisy, struggling to her feet, and wringing
her hands wildly. "I can't find father. I must see Mr Richard. Harry
said he hadn't left the town. Is he here?"
"No, girl," said Mrs Glaire, turning away, "he is not here."
"Where is he, then? Oh, Mrs Glaire!" cried the girl, "for your own
sake tell me. On my knees I beg of you to tell me. It is life and
death. I came to save. Miss Eve!" she cried, turning on her knees to
her. "You love him; tell me where he is. I know--yes, I know," she
cried, eagerly; "he must be at the works."
Eve started and turned away her head, to bury her face in her hands.
"Yes," cried Daisy, excitedly. "He must be there."
She turned hurriedly to go, when Tom Podmore caught at her cloak.
"Stop!" he cried excitedly. "You canno' go theer."
Daisy turned upon him angrily, and tore off her cloak, leaving it in his
hands as she dashed off through the dark with the young man in pursuit.
"Undone!" moaned Mrs Glaire. "Undone. Oh, Eve, my poor stricken
darling, and after all I have tried!"
"But, aunt, he will not see her. Richard will not--"
"A false, treacherous girl!" moaned Mrs Glaire. "Eve, my darling, for
your sake, for her sake--thank Heaven, here is Dick! Oh, my boy, my
darling!"
She threw her arms round him exultingly, as if to hold him, and save him
from danger, whilst he threw off the heavy coat in which he was muffled.
"Phew! I'm nearly suffocated," he cried. "There, that will do, mother.
Ah! Eve."
"But why did you leave the works, my boy?" cried Mrs Glaire.
"Sick of it," cried Richard, hastily. "I'll stay there no more. I'll
open to-morrow. Curse the place, it's horrible of a night, and I've
finished all the wine. What's the matter with Eve?"
"But," cried Mrs Glaire, evading the question, and speaking excitedly,
"you must not stay, Richard; you must leave again to-night--now, at
once."
"Where for?" said Richard, grimly.
"London--France--anywhere," exclaimed Mrs Glaire, piteously.
"Nova Scotia, or the North Pole," said Richard, savagely. "Damn it,
mother, I won't hide from the curs any more. Here have I been for days
in that wretched hole."
"But there's mischief brewing, Dick, my boy, I am sure there is. You
must leave at once."
"Let it brew," he cried. "But who was that left the house as I came
in?"
Mrs Glaire did not answer, only looked appealingly to Eve.
"I said who was that came out of the house as I came along--some woman?"
Still there was no answer, and the young man looked eagerly round the
hall, to take a step aside, and pounced upon a handkerchief that had
been dropped on the mat.
"Whose is this?" he cried, taking it to the light, and holding it out,
first to inspect one corner and then another. "Daisy!" he cried,
joyously. "Has Daisy been here? Do you hear? Speak, some of you. It
was; it must have been. I might have known her in the dark."
"You coward--you villain!" cried Mrs Glaire, in a low, hissing whisper.
"Is there to be no end to your deceit? Stop. One moment. Let me tell
you what I know. You planned to meet that girl to-night, and you left
your hiding-place on purpose."
"Then it was Daisy!" cried Richard.
"Yes, it was Daisy. You were a little too late. You must have good
spies, Richard, my son, clever people, to keep you informed, and you
learned that your poor cheated cousin and I were gone out for the
evening."
"What the deuce do you mean?" cried Richard, stamping impatiently.
"Mean?" cried his mother. "I mean that I took Daisy away, kept her in
Sheffield, that she might be saved from a life of shame--saved--oh, God!
that I should have to say it--from my son."
"_You_--_you_ got Daisy away?" half shrieked Richard.
"Yes, I--I," said Mrs Glaire, "to save you--to make you an honest man,
and that you might keep your word to your poor injured cousin. I did
all this to the destruction of the happiness of the most faithful
servant that ever served our house, and to break his poor wife's heart.
I did all this sin, Richard, for you--for my boy; but you have beaten
me; I am defeated. It has been a hard fight, but it was not to be.
There, she has been found out by your emissary, that Big Harry."
"Hang me if I know what you are talking about," cried Richard.
"Bah! fool, throw off your disguise," cried Mrs Glaire. "If you will
be a villain be a bold one, and not a mean, despicable, paltry, cowardly
liar. There, go; she has come. Your spies managed well, but they could
not foresee that the poor foolish girl would miss you--that you would be
a few minutes too late, nor that we should return home early because I
was unwell."
"Here, I'm not going to stop and hear this mad folly," cried Richard,
with his hand upon the door.
"No; go!" cried Mrs Glaire; "but I curse you."
"Aunt!" shrieked Eve, clinging to her.
"Stand aside, Eve," cried Mrs Glaire, who was white with passion.
"Go--go, Richard. It was Daisy Banks who left here. She came to seek
you, and she has gone to find you at the works. Go, my son, go; the
road is easy and broad, and if it ends in ruin and death--"
"Death!" cried Richard, recoiling.
"Yes, death, for there is mischief abroad."
"Bah! I'll hear no more of your mad drivel," cried the young man
savagely. "I've heard too much;" and, flinging open the door, he rushed
out.
"Aunt, aunt, what have you done?" cried Eve, piteously.
"Broken my poor weary heart," was the reply, as the stricken woman sank,
half-fainting, on the floor.
Volume 3, Chapter XI.