"Thank Heaven, we're in time," exclaimed the vicar. "Back, every man
with lights," he shouted; "there's a train."
There was a rush back for the entrance, but the vicar stood firm, and,
taking one of the policemen's lanterns, he cautiously stepped forward,
tracing the train, and scattering it with his feet till he saw the heap
that had trickled from the opened kegs.
"Keep your places with the lights," he cried. "Harry! Tom! buckets of
water, quick!"
Half-a-dozen started for the yard, where there was a large iron tank
outside the door, and bucketsful were brought in rapidly, with which,
while the vicar lighted them, Tom and Harry deluged the heap of powder.
"There's no danger now," said the vicar, as the ground was saturated in
every direction. "Good heavens! what a diabolical attempt."
And not till now was attention drawn to Richard Glaire, who sat upon a
block of metal, watching the actions of those around him, as their
lights feebly illumined the great, gloomy place. He was white as ashes,
trembling as if stricken with the palsy; and when spoken to stared
vacantly at the vicar.
"Are you hurt, Mr Glaire?" he said kindly.
For answer, Richard burst into an hysterical fit of sobbing, and cried
like a child.
"Fetch a little brandy, some one," said the vicar. "He will be better
after this. He must have had some terrible shock. Who is this?" he
continued, directing his light to where Banks lay insensible, with the
blood trickling from a cut upon his forehead, where he had struck it
against a rough piece of slag in falling.
"It's Joe Banks," growled Harry, as the vicar knelt down and quickly
bandaged the wound.
At that moment, Daisy, who had remained crouching behind the brickwork
of one of the furnaces, came forward trembling.
"Daisy Banks!" cried the vicar in astonishment. "You here?"
"Don't speak to me; don't speak to me," she cried wildly, as she threw
herself sobbing beside her father to passionately raise his head, and
kiss him again and again. "He's dead, he's dead, and I've killed--I've
killed him."
There was silence for a few moments, which no one cared to break, and
Tom Podmore stood with folded arms and heaving breast, gazing down at
the weeping figure of her he so dearly loved.
"He's not dead, my poor girl," said the vicar, kindly; "only in a swoon.
That bleeding will do him good. Constables, we must get him home at
once, or--no, you must guard this place. Harry, Podmore, and two more--
a stout piece of carpet from the nearest house. We can carry him in
that."
"Bring him home--to my place," said Richard Glaire, who had somewhat
recovered.
"I think not, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, firmly. "His own house will
be best."
"Excuse me, sir," said the chief policeman. "He's the leader, I
believe; we must have him at the station. The doctor can see him there.
He had laid the train, and was to fire it. Harry and Podmore here
know."
Daisy uttered a shriek, and the vicar's brow knit as he turned to
Richard.
"It's a lie," cried the latter, sharply. "I was here, and know some
scoundrels put the powder here, and the train; but Banks destroyed it,
and saved my life."
The vicar had him by the hand in a moment, and pressed it hard.
"It's a lie, parson," he said in a whisper; "but I must tell it. He did
save my life."
"How came he by that cut, then, sir?" said the policeman.
"You see," said Richard, coldly, "he fell and struck himself against
that piece of clinker. He did not know I was there, and that his child
had come to warn him, and he was overcome."
"I will be answerable for his appearance to reply to any charge," said
the vicar.
"There's no charge against him," said Richard, hastily. "I saw him
destroy the train."
Daisy crept to his side, and Tom Podmore groaned as he saw her kiss
Richard's hand.
"Very good, sir," said the constable; "that will do. We'll watch here,
sir, though there's no fear now; and the others are locked up."
A piece of carpet was then fetched, and Banks was carefully lifted upon
it, four men taking the corners, and bearing him hammock-fashion down
the crowded street, the work people who had been in the street having
been augmented by the rest; and a strange silence brooded over the place
as they talked in whispers, the story growing every instant until it was
the common report that Banks and Richard Glaire had met in the foundry,
that Banks had been killed, and Richard Glaire was now dying at home.
The gossiping people could not fit Daisy Banks into the story. She was
walking beside her stricken father, and they saw her bent head, and
heard her bitter sobs; but it was only natural that she should make her
appearance at such a time, and it seemed nothing to them that she should
be close to Tom Podmore, who was one of the bearers, though he, poor
fellow, winced, as Daisy half-clung to his arm for protection, when the
crowd pressed upon them more than once.
On reaching the cottage, the vicar hurried in first, to prepare Mrs
Banks, expecting a burst of lamentation; but as soon as he had uttered
his first words, Mrs Banks was cold and firm as a stone.
"Is he dead, sir?" she whispered; "tell me true."
"No, no; and not much injured. I think it is a fit."
"I wean't give way, sir," she panted; and running upstairs, she began to
drag down a mattress and pillow, ready for the suffering man.
"Poor Joe, poor Joe!" she murmured, and then gave a start as she heard
the word "Mother!"
"Ay, lass, I'd forgot thee in this new trouble."
"But you will not send me away, mother?" whispered Daisy--"wait till you
know all."
"I send thee away, lass? Nay, nay, I shouldna do that now," said Mrs
Banks, sadly.
The next moment she was putting the pillow and arranging it beneath her
husband's head, as he was borne in, the men softly retiring, and giving
place to the doctor, who hurried in, hot and panting.
"Ah, Selwood, what's all this?" he said. "Give me a light quickly."
He was down on his knees directly, examining his patient, removing the
bandage, and looking at the cut, the patient's eyes, and carefully
loosening all tight clothing.
"Poor fellow!--ah--yes--nasty cut--do him good. Hum! What fools people
are; they told me he was killed."
"Will he live, Mr Purley?" whispered Daisy, hoarsely.
"Ah, Daisy, you come back?" said the doctor. "Live? yes, of course he
will. Touch of apoplexy; but we'll bring him round."
"Oh, mother, mother!" moaned Daisy; "I thought I'd killed him;" and she
threw herself, sobbing, into her mother's arms.
"Come, come, that won't do," exclaimed the doctor. "You two must help
me. Selwood, you'll do me a good turn by going, and taking all the
people with you. We want fresh air."
The vicar nodded, and a few words from him, coupled with the information
that Banks was not seriously hurt and would soon recover, sufficed to
send the little crowd away.
They followed him, though at a distance, Tom Podmore and Harry acting as
his rearguard, as he made as if to go straight to the House.
He had to pass the Bull, though; and, seeing a group of people there, he
made his way through them to where Robinson, the landlord, was standing
discussing the events of the evening.
"Robinson," said the vicar, aloud, and his words were listened to
eagerly, "I'm afraid this atrocious outrage was hatched here in your
house."
"'Strue as I stand here, sir," cried the landlord eagerly, "I knowed
nowt of it."
"But you knew that secret meetings were held here?"
"I knowd they'd their meetings, and a lot o' flags and nonsense, sir;
but I niver thowt it was owt but foolery, or they shouldn't hev had it
here."
"I ask you as a man, Robinson, did you know they meant to blow up the
works?"
"No, Mr Selwood," cried Robinson, indignantly; "and if I had knowed I'd
have come and telled you directly."
"I believe you," said the vicar.
"I knowed they talked big, sir," continued Robinson; "but when men do
that ower a pipe and a gill o' ale, it's on'y so much blowing off steam
like, and does 'em good. Bud look here, sir, there's about a dozen of
'em up in big room now. Come on up, and we'll drift 'em."
He led the way to the club-room, to find it locked on the inside, and on
knocking he was asked the pass-word.
"Dal thee silly foolery," cried the landlord, in a passion, "there it
is;" and, stepping back, a few paces, he ran furiously at the door and
dashed it off its hinges; entering, followed by the vicar, Harry, and
Tom, who kept close to protect him from harm.
There were about fourteen men present, and they rose with more of dread
than menace in their aspect, half expecting to see the police. "Look
here, lads," began the landlord--"Allow me, Mr Robinson," said the
vicar, stepping forward and looking straight before him. "My men, I
look at no man here; I recognise no man as I say this. Smarting under
injury as you thought--"
"Real injury, parson," cried Stockton. "Faults on both sides, my man,"
continued the vicar. "Some among you destroyed Mr Glaire's property.
I say, smarting under your injuries, and led away by some foolish,
mouthing demagogues, you conspired to take the law into your own hands,
and, not content with making two cruel assaults on your employer--"
"Which he well deserved, parson."
"I cannot enter into that," said the vicar. "If one man does wrong, it
is no excuse for the wrong of others. Our salutary laws will protect
even a murderer, and then punish him according to his deserts. But
listen--In a few words, you have been led away to conspire for the
accomplishment of a most dastardly outrage. I have just come from the
works, and I tell you, as a man, that if the scheme had succeeded, they
would have been destroyed."
"Serve him right," growled a voice. "All the houses round would have
been injured, and the loss of life would have been frightful."
"Nay, nay, parson," said Stockton. "I am giving you my honest
conviction, my men," continued the vicar. "A hundred pounds of powder
in a confined space is sufficient to commit awful ravages; and you
forget what would have followed if that tremendous chimney had fallen.
But I have not told you all. If the powder had been fired, three people
in the works would have been killed. Those people were Mr Richard
Glaire--"
"Weer he theer, sir?" exclaimed Stockton.
"He was," said the vicar; "he has been in hiding there from your
violence for days. I knew some plot was hatching, and, to save both him
and you, I advised his staying in the works, so that you might think he
had left the town."
"Which we did," muttered two or three.
"I shudder when I think of the consequences of my advice. But listen--
there would have been two more horribly mutilated and shattered corpses
at this moment--the remains of your foreman and his poor child, Daisy
Banks."
"Oh, coom, parson!" said Stockton.
"I tell you, man, as I rushed in, they were all three there. How they
came there together I do not know. I do not want to know. All I know
is that it has pleased God to spare us from a sin for which we should
never have forgiven ourselves."
"I don't see as yow had much to do wi' it, parson," said a voice,
sneeringly.
"My men, my men," cried the vicar, in a deeply moved voice, "do you
think I live here among you without feeling that your joys and sorrows
are mine? and your sins are mine as well, for I ought to have taught you
better. For God's sake let us have no more of these wretched meetings;
break up your society, and act as man to man. Suffer and be strong.
Have forbearance, and try to end these dreadful strikes, which fall not
on you, but on your wives and children."
"But what call hev you got to interfere?" cried a surly voice.
"Howd hard theer," cried Stockton; "parson's i' the raight. He's spent
three hundred pound, if he's spent a penny, over them as was 'most pined
to dead."
"That's raight," cried several voices.
"Never mind that, my men; it was my duty, even as it is to be the friend
and brother of all who are here. But listen--"
"I didn't come to hear parson preach," cried a voice,
"One word--listen to me for your own sakes," cried the vicar, in
impassioned tones. "Suppose you had succeeded without the horrible loss
of life that must have occurred through your ignorance of the force of
powder--suppose the works had been, with all the costly machinery,
turned into a heap of ruins?"
"It would hev sarved Richard Glaire well raight," said some one.
"Grant that it would, but what then, my lads? For Heaven's sake look a
little further than the satisfaction of a paltry, unmanly desire for
revenge."
"It would hev ruined Dicky Glaire," cried Stockton.
"Yes, my men; but it would have ruined you as well. Those works could
not have been restored for years: perhaps never; the trade would have
gone elsewhere, and, as I take it, over two hundred men and their wives
and children must have gone elsewhere for bread."
"That's raight enew, parson," cried Stockton; "but all the same if some
cursed, cowardly spy hadn't betrayed us the wucks would hev been down."
"That betrayal of your evil plans came about more strangely than you can
imagine," said the vicar. "I have suspected something, and been
constantly on the watch."
"Strange and kind of you, too, parson," said Stockton, with a laugh.
"You will think so some day, my man."
"Bud I know who it weer," said Stockton. "Theer he stands; it were Tom
Podmore. He weer not sweered in."
"Then he did not betray you," said the vicar, as a menacing growl arose;
but Tom stood perfectly firm.
"No, it weern't Tom Podmore," cried Big Harry, stalking forward, one big
shoulder at a time. "If you want to know who did it, here he is--I did;
and I'm glad on it. Dal me! I'm glad as th'owd wucks aint down, and
I'll faight any two o' you as don't like it; so now then."
There was another growl, but no one took up the challenge.
"See here, lads," cried Harry. "I went awaya so as to hev now't to do
wi' it, and I didn't tell anybody; only telled parson to give Dicky
Glaire the word to look out."
"And you was sweered in, Harry," cried Stockton.
"So I weer," said the big fellow; "and, as I said afore, I'll faight any
man as don't like it. Well, I goes on to Sheffle to get wuck, and there
I happened o' Daisy Banks; and when the poor little lass got howd o' me,
and begged me to tell all about her owd man, why dal me, I weer obliged
to tell her how he was a-going to--dal it, parson, don't slap a man o'
the mooth that how."
"You've said enough, Harry," cried the vicar. "We want to know no more.
I answer for you that you did quite right, and some day these men will
thank you, as I do now, for saving us all from this horror. Now, my
men, you know that Slee and Barker, that stranger, are in the station."
"Oh, ay, we know that," said Stockton; "and I vote, lads, we hev 'em
out."
"No, no; let them get the punishment they deserve," cried the vicar.
"Well, lookye here, parson," cried Stockton; "the game's up, I s'pose,
and you've got the police outside. I was in it, and I'm not going to
turn tail. Here I am."
"My man, I will not know your name, nor the name of any man here. I
will not recognise anybody; I came as your friend, not as a spy. I came
to ask you to break up your wretched bond of union, and to go forth home
as honest men. Where a union is made for the fair protection of a
workman's rights, I can respect it; but a brotherhood that blasphemes
its own name by engaging in what may prove wholesale murder, is a
monster that you yourselves must crush. I have no more to say. Go
home."
"Parson's raight, lads!" said Stockton, throwing off his defiant air.
"Let's go. Parson, it was a damned cowardly trick, but Dicky Glaire had
made us strange and mad."
"It weer owd Simmy Slee as made it wuss, wi' cootting o' them bands,"
said Big Harry. "We should ha' been at wuck again if it hadn't been for
that."
"Quick, lads!" cried a man, running in. "Sim Slee and Barker's broke
out o' th' owd shop, and the police are coming down here."
"Theer, parson," said Stockton, with a bitter smile; "th' game's oop."
For answer, the vicar pointed to the windows, and in less than a minute
the room was empty, though there would have been plenty of time to
escape by the door, for the one policeman coming on the mission to see
if Slee had made for the meeting-place of his party did not hurry his
footsteps, partly from reasons of dignity, and partly because he was
alone.
Volume 3, Chapter XIV.