George Manville Fenn (continued 7)

“Curse your long-winded speeches!” cried the foreman, savagely, “are you going to talk for ever?”

“Don’t be excited, my friend,” said Barker, smoothly.

“We’re a-going to startle the whole world,” cried Sim, not heeding the interruption, as he stood now with one foot upon the keg; “startle the whole world with the report, and the savour shall go up to make the British workman free. Mates, lads, and fellow-workers, we’re going to—”

“That’s powther, I suppose?” said Banks, pointing to the keg.

“Yes,” cried Sim, “and—”

“You mean to blow up the wucks?” said Banks, with a sombre look in his countenance.

“Dal it all, Joe Banks,” cried Sim, stamping with rage, “what d’yer want to go spoiling the climax like that how! You didn’t make the plans.”

“You are going to blow up the place as that cursed smooth-tongued liar will not agree for you to work?”

“Yes,” said Sim, sulkily, “that’s it.”

“Lads,” said Banks, “a week ago and I couldn’t ha’ done this. If he had shown but the least bit as he was sorry for what had passed, I’d ha’ forgiven him. But I went to him to-day. I found him sitting in his garden smoking, and careless of the sufferings of his men. I went to him wi’out anger, but humbly, and begged of him to open the wucks again for the sake o’ the wives and bairns ’most pining wi’ hunger, and then—then—”

Joe Banks put his hand to his throat, for he was choking, but struggling bravely he went on.

“Then I begged on him to give me some tiding o’ my poor bairn. I begged it o’ him humbly, just to tell me she weer alive, and well; and to let me know wheer we might send a line to her; for, lads, I’ve been broken and down like, and ready to do owt to get sight o’ her again for her mother’s sake, for she’s ’bout worn out wi’ sorrow. I asked him this.”

Banks stopped with his face working amidst the most profound silence, while Tom Podmore took his hand, which was heartily pressed, and Big Harry, after rubbing his eyes with his knuckles like a great schoolboy, crossed over, to double up his fists and say—

“Joe Banks, say the word, mun, and I’ll go oop t’house, an’ crack him like a nut.”

“You as has bairns wean’t think me an owd fool for this,” said Banks, huskily. “Yow can feel for me.”

“Ay, owd lad, we do that,” rose in chorus; and then the foreman went on, with his voice gathering strength as he proceeded.

“I asked this of him for you, lads, and for mysen, and he turned upon me, cursed me for an owd fool, and ca’ed me the cause o’ all his troubles. He swore he did’n’ know nor keer where my poor bairn might be, and at last I comed awaya trembling all ower me, to wheer Tom Podmore here waited for me i’ street; for,” he continued, holding out his hands before him half-crooked, “if I’d ha’ stayed, I should ha’ throttled him wheer he stood; and for his moother’s sake, his dead father’s sake, and that o’ my poor lost bairn, I should ha’ repented it till I died.”

A low murmur ran through the room, and Sim Slee was about to rise and speak, but several of those present thrust him down, when, with a fierce and lowering countenance, the foreman turned upon him.

“Now,” he said, “speak out, mun, what are your plans?”

“The plan is mine,” said Sim; “and we go to work this how. We climb in by the little window in the lane, and then go into the low foundry and put two barrels o’ powther theer under the middle wall.”

Joe Banks nodded.

“Then we lay a train away to the leather, and put a slow match which we fires, comes awaya, and horny-handed labour triumps, and the wucks comes down.”

“Good!” said Banks, nodding his head. “It will destroy them.”

“That ’ll do, wean’t it?” continued Slee, eagerly.

“Yes, that will do,” said Banks, in the midst of silence. “And the powther?”

“That is one barrel,” said Barker; “the other is at Sim Slee’s. Hadn’t you better go on, Brother Slee, and make the arrangements?”

“Yes, brother sitterzens,” said Slee, “there’s the powther to place, and the train to lay. What do you say to Thuzday, this day week?”

“And when’s it to be fired?” said Tom Podmore.

“Same time,” said Sim; “it’s anniversary o’ last turn out, and we strikes for freedom. Who comes forward like a horny-handed hero to do the deed?”

“Not me,” said Big Harry. “I aint going to mak’ a Guy Fox o’ mysen.”

“Shame on you!” cried Sim. “Rise outer the slime in which you wallows, and in which the iron foot of the despot has crushed you. Rise, base coward, rise.”

“If thee ca’s me a coward, Sim Slee,” growled Harry, ominously, “dal me ef I don’t mak’ all thee bones so sore thee wean’t know thee sen. I’ll faight any two men i’ the room, but dal all barrels o’ powther.”

“Bah!” said Sim, contemptuously. “You’d be a martyr to a holy cause.”

“Come away, now,” whispered Tom Podmore, laying his hand on the foreman’s shoulder.

“Nay, let’s hear them out,” was the reply. “Ay, that’s all faine enew,” said Big Harry, “but I were in the blast when we cast that bell in the wet mowld.”

“Bah!” cried Sim.

“Well, lad, look here now,” said Big Harry, “you’re a fine chap to talk; s’pose you do all the martyr wuck your own sen.”

“I’m ashamed on you,” cried Sim, as this proposal was met by a burst of cheers. “Isn’t theer one on you as will rise out of his sloth and slime, and prove hissen a paytriot. Didn’t I mak’ all the plans? Didn’t I invent the plot? Am I to do everything? Hevn’t I allays been scrarping about for the cause? Don’t let me blush for you all, and feel as there isn’t one as’ll come forward and lay the train. I’ll do it,” he continued, looking hard at Banks, who was staring at vacancy, “if no one else comes forward. I’ll go and wuck for the holy mission, as I did over the cooting o’ the bands, if there’s no other paytriot as rises to the height.”

Here there was a dead silence, and Barker broke it by saying—

“Had they not better draw lots?”

“Yes,” said Sim, enthusiastically.

“Not if I knows it,” said Big Harry, thrusting his hands further into his pockets.

“Say the plan ower again, mun,” said Banks, in a low voice. “No mouthin’, but joost the plan.”

“To climb in at the little window.”

“Yes.”

“Lay the powther under the middle wall.”

“Yes.”

“Break open the staves to let it out—lay a good train—light a slow match close to the leather (ladder).”

“Yes.”

“Run up and get out as you got in.”

“Yes,” said Joe Banks, softly, “or die.”

“And you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And the wucks ’ll be blown to atoms.”

“And what are we to do for wuck then?” said Big Harry.

“You great maulkin, you get no wuck now,” cried Sim; and the big fellow grunted and looked uncomfortable.

“And you will do all this, Sim Slee?” said Banks quietly.

“Who? I?” cried Sim, shrinking away.

Joe Banks looked at him contemptuously, and then turned to the men.

“I’ll do it, my lads,” he said. “No one knows the old plaace as I know it, and if it’s to be blown down, mine’s the hand as shall do it. Thuzday night? Good! Be three or four of you theer with the powther under the window, and I’ll be ready to tak’ it in.”

There was a burst of applause at this, and the meeting broke up, the folded flags being carefully buttoned up in Barker’s breast, while Sim Slee walked stiffly home, with a sword down each leg of his trousers, and the hilts under his scarlet waistcoat, beneath his arms.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

Mr Selwood Hears News.

There was a week clear before the plot was to have effect, and the place was wonderfully quiet. The vicar, looking very pale and anxious, was sitting in his study on the morning after the meeting at the Bull, when a note was brought to him from the Big House, and he coloured slightly as he read it.

“Tell the messenger I will be up directly,” he said; and as the maid left the room, “what is wrong now? Come, come, be a man.”

He smiled to himself as he took up his hat and stick, and walked up the street, to be greeted here and there with friendly nods.

He was shown at once into the drawing-room, where Mrs Glaire was seated with Eve, and after a kindly, sad greeting, the latter left the room.

“I have good news for you, Mr Selwood,” said Mrs Glaire, smiling, but looking worn and pale.

“I’m very glad,” said the vicar, pressing her hand.

“Richard has promised me that if the men do not come in, he will give way and reopen the works.”

“And when?” said the vicar, joyfully.

“He will call the men together this day week, for the furnaces to be lit, so as to begin work on the Monday.”

“Mrs Glaire, this is indeed good news,” said the vicar. “May I see him and congratulate him?”

“I think it would be better not,” said Mrs Glaire. “But,” she continued, watching his face as she spoke, “I have other news for you.”

The vicar bowed.

“Yes,” she said; “but first of all, though, these communications are made to you in strict confidence. You must not let the matter be known in the town, because my son would rather that the men gave way.”

“If they do not, he really will?”

“He has given me his faithful promise,” said Mrs Glaire, “and he will keep it now.”

“I will not doubt him,” said the vicar. “I am very, very glad. And your other news?” he said, smiling.

“My son will be married very shortly.”

“Married?” said the vicar, starting; “and to Daisy Banks?”

“No!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, in a short thick voice, a spasm seeming to catch her, as she spoke. “To his cousin, to whom he is betrothed.”

There was a dead silence as the vicar, whose face was of an ashen pallor, looked straight before him at vacancy, while Mrs Glaire sat watching him, with her hand placed to her side.

“You do not congratulate me,” she said at last in a piteous tone. “Mr Selwood, dear friend—the only friend I can fly to in this time of trouble—you will help me?”

“Help you?” he said in a stony way. “How can I help you?”

“I have striven so for this,” she continued, speaking hastily. “They have long been promised to each other, and it will be for the best.”

“For the best,” he said, slowly repeating her words.

“Richard has been very wild, but he has given me his word now. He has not been what he should, but this marriage will sober and save him. Eve is so sweet, and pure, and good.”

“So sweet—and pure—and good,” he repeated softly.

“She will influence him so—it will make him a good man.”

“If woman’s power can redeem, hers will,” he said, in the same low tone.

“But you hardly speak—you hardly say a word to me,” cried Mrs Glaire, piteously; “and I have striven so for this end. I prevailed upon him to end this lock-out, and he has given way to me, and all will be well.”

“Mrs Glaire,” said the vicar, sternly, “do you believe that your son has inveigled away that poor girl?”

“No, no,” she cried, “I am as certain of his innocence as that I sit here.”

“And Miss Pelly—what does she believe?”

“That he is innocent,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

“And—and—does she consent to this union?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Mrs Glaire eagerly. “She feels hurt, and knows that she makes some sacrifice after my son’s ill-treatment; but she forgives him, knowing that it will save poor Richard, and it is for my sake too.”

“Poor girl!” he said, beneath his breath.

“God bless her! She is a good, good girl,” cried Mrs Glaire.

“God bless her!” he said softly. “Mrs Glaire, do you think she loves him?”

“Yes, yes; she has told me so a dozen times.”

“And you feel that this is for the best? Would it not be better to let there be a year’s term of probation first? It is a solemn thing this linking of two lives together.”

“Oh, yes, it is for the best, Mr Selwood—dear friend; and they must not wait. The wedding must be next week.”

The vicar rose with the same stony look upon Iiis face; and, knowing what she did, Mrs Glaire’s heart bled for him, and the tears stole down her cheeks, as she caught his hand and pressed it, but he seemed to heed it not, for he was face to face with a great horror. He had told himself that he could master his passion, and that it was mastered; but now—now that he was told that the woman he dearly loved was to become the wife of another, and of such a man, he felt stunned and helpless, and could hardly contain his feelings as he turned and half staggered towards the door.

“Mr Selwood, you are shocked, you are startled,” cried Mrs Glaire, clinging to his hand. “You must not go like this.”

He turned to look at her with a sad smile, but he did not speak.

“Eve wishes to see you,” she faltered, hardly daring to say the words.

“To see me?” he cried hoarsely; and her words seemed to galvanise him into life. Then, to himself, “I could not bear it—I could not bear it.”

At that moment the door opened, and he made another effort over himself to regain his composure, as Eve came forward, holding out her hand, which he reverently kissed.

“Aunt has told you, Mr Selwood,” she said, in a low constrained tone.

“My child,” he said softly, and speaking as a father would to his offspring, “yes.”

She gave a sigh of relief, looking at his cold, sad face, as if she wished to read that which was written beneath a mask of stone.

“Aunt thinks it would be for the best,” she said, speaking slowly, and with a firmness she did not possess. “And it is to be soon.”

He bowed his head, in token of assent.

“I have a favour to ask of you—Mr Selwood,” said Eve, holding out her trembling hand once more, but he did not take it.

“Yes?” he said, in a low constrained way.

“I want you to forgive Richard, and be friends.”

“Yes, yes; of course,” he said hastily.

“And you will marry us, Mr Selwood,” continued Eve.

“I? I?” he exclaimed, with a look of horror upon his face. “Oh, no, no: I could not.”

Eve looked at him in a strangely startled way, and for the moment her calmness seemed to have left her, when Mrs Glaire interposed.

“For both our sakes; pray do not say that,” she cried; and a curious look passed over the vicar’s face.

“Do you wish it, Miss Pelly?” he said softly.

“Yes; indeed, yes,” exclaimed Eve, gazing in his eyes; and then there was silence for a few moments, when, making a mighty effort over himself, the vicar took a step forward, bent down, and kissed her forehead, and said—

“God bless you! May you be very happy.”

“And you will?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment’s pause, and with his eyes half closed. “I will perform the ceremony.”

“Thank you—thank you,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, as she caught his hand. “Richard, here is Mr Selwood.”

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

John Maine’s Confession.

“How do?” said Richard, entering from the garden; and he held out his hand sulkily, which the vicar took, and held for a moment.

He was about to speak, to say some words of congratulation—words that he had won a great prize, and that his duty to her was to make amends for the past—but the words would not come, and, bowing, he left the room, and walked hastily from the house, watched by Richard Glaire’s malicious eyes. For it was sweet revenge to him to know that the hopes he was sure the vicar felt had been blasted, and that he alone would possess Eve Pelly’s love.

“He thought to best me,” muttered Richard; and he smiled to himself, the feeling of mastering the man he looked upon as his enemy adding piquancy to a marriage that had seemed to him before both troublesome and tame.

Meanwhile the vicar went slowly down the street, with a strange, dazed look; and more than one observer whispered to his neighbour—“Say, lad; parson hasn’t been takking his drop, sewerly.”

“Nay, nay; I’d sooner believe he was ill. It can’t be that,” was the reply.

That same day, when busy out in the fields, sick at heart, and worried, after a short interview with Tom Podmore, John Maine was standing alone, and thinking of the past and present. Of the respite that had come to him, since the two men had visited the town, and of the miserable life he led at the farm, and the way in which Jessie behaved to him now; for, to his sorrow, it seemed to him that she looked upon him with a kind of horror, and avoided all communication. The keeper, Brough, came pretty frequently, and certainly she was more gracious to him than to the man who lived with her in the same house and ate at the same table.

Then he recalled that he had had a note from the vicar requesting him to call at the vicarage; but he had not been, partly from dread, partly from shame.

“But I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll be a man and go; go at once, and tell him the whole secret; and be at rest, come what may. Tom says it will be best.”

He sat down beneath a hedge bottom to secure the strap of one of his leggings, when, raising his head, he saw in the distance, crossing one of the stiles, a figure which he knew at a glance was that of one of the men he dreaded—one of those who had done their best to make him another of the Ishmaelites who war against society.

A cold chill passed over him, followed by a hot perspiration, as he watched till the figure passed out of sight, and then he began to muse.

“Come at last, then. It must be with an object.”

“Let me see,” he thought; “it will be perfectly dark to-night. Nearly new moon. He has come down to see how the land lies, and before morning, unless he’s checkmated, the vicarage will be wrecked, and if anybody opposes them, his life will be in danger.”

“It’s only a part of one’s life,” he said, bitterly, as he started up. “I’ve been a scoundrel, and I thowt I’d grown into a honest man, when I was only a coward. Now the time has come to show myself really honest, and with God’s help I’ll do it.”

Not long after, the vicar was seated with his head resting upon his hand, strengthening himself as he termed it, and fighting hard to quell the misery in his breast, when Mrs Slee came to the door.

“Yes,” he said, trying to rouse himself, and wishing for something to give him a strong call upon the strength, energy, and determination lying latent in his breast. “Yes, Mrs Slee?”

“Here’s John Maine fro’ the farm wants to see thee, sir.”

“Show him in the study, Mrs Slee; I’ll be with him in five minutes.” And those minutes he spent in bathing his temples and struggling against his thoughts.

The time had scarcely expired, when he entered the library, to find his visitor standing there, hat in hand, resting upon a stout oak sapling.

“Glad to see you, Maine,” said the vicar, kindly. “Could you not find a chair?”

“Thanky, sir, no; I would rather stand. I ought to have been here before, but, like all things we don’t want to do, I put it off. I want to tell you something, sir. I want to confess.”

“Confess, Maine!” said the vicar, smiling; “any one would think this was Ireland, and that I was the parish priest.”

“I have got something heavy on my conscience, sir,” continued Maine, in a hesitating way.

“If I can help you, Maine, I am sure you may trust me,” said the vicar.

“I know that, sir; I know that,” cried Maine, eagerly. “I want to speak out, but the thoughts of that poor gill keep me back.”

“That poor girl!” exclaimed the vicar, looking at the young man’s anguish-wrung countenance, and feeling startled for the moment. “Do you mean Daisy Banks?”

“No, no, sir; no, no. Miss Jessie there at the farm. I can’t bear for her to know. There, sir,” he exclaimed, hurriedly, “it’s got to come out, and I must speak, or I shall never get it said. You see, sir, when I was quite a boy, I was upon my own hands by the death of my father and mother. Then I drifted to Nottingham, where I was thrown amongst the lowest of the low; was mixed with poachers, and thieves, and scoundrels of every shape; always trying to get to something better, but always dragged back to their own level by my companions, who sneered at my efforts, and bullied me till my life was a curse, and I grew to feel more like an old man at eighteen than a boy.

“To make a long story short, sir, I could bear it no longer. I ran away from home—from that,” he said, grimly, “that was my home—and kept away, working honestly for a couple of years, when some of the old lot came across me to jeer me, laugh at me, and end by proposing that I should rob my employer and run off with them. I was seen talking to the wretches, dismissed in disgrace from my situation, and went back to blackguardism and scoundreldom for a whole year, because no one would give me a job of decent labour to do. Mr Selwood, sir, you don’t know how hard it is to climb the hill where honest people live—to get to be classed as one who is not always watched with suspicious eyes. It was a fearful fight I had to get there, against no one knows what temptations and efforts to drag me back. Sir, I got to honest work at last, and from that place came on here, where for years I’ve worked hopefully, and begun to feel that I need not blush when I looked an honest man in the face, nor dread to meet the police lest they should have learned something about my former life. In short, sir, I was beginning to feel that I need not go about always feeling that I had made a mistake in trying to leave my old life.”

The vicar sat at the table with his head resting upon his hand, and face averted, feeling that he was not the only man in Dumford whose heart was torn with troubles, and he listened without a word as John Maine went on.

“There, sir, I can’t tell you all the hopes and fears I have felt, as I have striven hard for years, hopefully too, thinking that after all there might be a bright future in store for me, and rest out here at the pleasant old farm; and now, sir,” he continued huskily, and with faltering voice—

“Some of the old lot have turned up and found you again, eh, Maine?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what it is,” said the young man, starting; “and I thought I’d make a clean breast of it to you, and ask you, sir, to give me a bit of advice.”

“I’m a poor one to ask for advice just now, Maine,” said the vicar, sadly; “but I’ll do my best for you.”

“Thanky, sir; I thought you would.”

“So you meant to give me some news?” continued the vicar, dryly.

“Yes, sir,” said John Maine, “if you call it news,” and he spoke bitterly.

“Well, no,” said the vicar, making an effort to forget self; “I don’t call it news. I knew all this some time ago.”

“You knew it, sir?”

“Why, my good fellow, yes. Some weeks back, about as dirty an old cadger as it has ever been my fate to encounter, pointed you out to me on the road, and told me the greatest part of your history.”

“He did, sir?”

“Oh, yes, poor old fellow,” said the vicar, bitterly, “I suppose he felt as if he could not die comfortably without doing somebody else an ill turn.”

“Die, sir?”

“Yes, he was very ill: could hardly crawl, and I sent him on to Ranby Union, where he died.”

“And you knew all this, sir?” faltered John Maine.

“Knew it, Maine? How could I help it? Mr Keeper Brough, too, made a point of telling me that he had seen you talking to a couple of disreputable-looking scoundrels, evidently trading poachers. Don’t you remember what a bad headache it gave you, Maine?”

The young man stared at the speaker, and could not find a word.

“He has been very busy I find, too, at the farm,” continued the vicar, forgetting his own troubles in those of his visitor. “Mr Bultitude does not like it, and he has been in a good deal of trouble about your nocturnal wanderings, friend John Maine.”

“I can explain all that, sir,” said Maine.

“Of course you can,” said the vicar, coolly.

“But you knew of all this, sir?” faltered the young man.

“To be sure I did, John, and respected you for it; but I fear you have been giving poor Jessie a good deal of suffering through your want of openness.”

“I’m afraid she thinks ill of me, sir.”

“Don’t say ill, John Maine. The poor girl is in trouble about you; and I believe has some idea that you and Podmore have been mixed up with the disappearance of Daisy Banks.”

“Oh no, sir; no,” cried the young man warmly. “You don’t think that, sir?”

“Certainly not, Maine,” replied the vicar. “And—Jessie—did Miss Jessie confide this to you, sir?”

“Yes, John Maine. I don’t think, under the circumstances, it is any breach of confidence to say she did. People have a habit of confiding their troubles to me—as I have none of my own,” he added sadly. “And you, sir?”

“I told her she was mistaken,” remarked the vicar; “but she was not convinced. She could not understand you and Podmore being out together by night. She thought it—girl-like—connected with some dreadful mystery. Master Brough thought it had to do with poaching; and I—”

“Yes, sir,” cried Maine eagerly. “Thought you were out for some good purpose, John Maine; and that if I let the matter rest, the explanation would come all in good time.”

“And so it has, sir,” said John; “but you knew all about me, sir.”

“To be sure I did, John Maine; and seeing the life you now lead, respected you for it. It is a hard matter for a man brought up honestly to run a straight course, while for such as you, John Maine,—there, I need only say that you have wonderfully increased the respect I have for you by coming to me with this frank avowal. My letter to you was to give you the opportunity, for your own sake, so as to remove the suspicion that your movements were exciting. There, I am proud to shake hands with a man possessed of such a love of the reputable as to fight the good fight as you have fought it; and of such command over self, as to make the confession you have made to-day.”

He stretched out his hand as he spoke, and John Maine wrung it in his—two strong palms meeting in a hearty grip for a few moments, while neither spoke.

Then John Maine turned away, and stood looking out of the window for a few moments.

“You’ve made me feel like a great girl, sir,” he said at last, huskily.

“I’ve made you feel like a true man, John Maine,” replied the vicar, “one without the false shame of custom about him.”

“Thanky, sir, thanky,” said the young fellow, recovering himself. “As to that night work, sir,” he continued, with a quiet smile, “that’s easily explained. I suspected those scoundrels, after seeing them hanging about the vicarage here, of meaning to have some of your silver cups.”

“And you watched the place by night, Maine?” said the vicar, eagerly.

“Well, sir, I did,” replied the young man, “till Miss Jessie warned me about how my place there at the farm depended on my not going out o’ nights, and then I put Tom Podmore on to the job.”

“And has he watched ever since?”

“Oh, yes, sir; you may depend on that—every night. Tom’s a trusty fellow, and when he takes to a man he’ll go through fire and water to serve him. He’d do anything for you, sir.”

The vicar said nothing, but his eyes looked a little dim for a few moments, and he drew in a long breath.

“And now, sir, I think I do bring you news,” said Maine.

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir. If I’m not very much mistook they mean to rob this place to-night.”

“You think so?” said the vicar, with his eyes sparkling; for here was what he had desired—something to call forth his energy, and serve to drown the thoughts that, in spite of his power over self, nearly drove him mad.

“Yes, sir, I think so,” replied Maine, “for they had a good look round the place when they came to the back door, and tried to wheedle Mrs Slee. Now they’ve been away and made their plans, and come back. I’ve seen one of them to-day.”

“This is news,” said the vicar, musing. “These are the men the police sought to overtake on the day after poor Daisy Banks’s disappearance; but if we set the police after them now, we shall scare them away. John Maine, we must catch these night-birds ourselves. Get Tom Podmore to come here.”

“I spoke to him before I came in, but he’s got something on his mind, and could not come.”

“Then we must do it ourselves. You’ll help me, Maine?”

“That I will, sir, with all my strength.”

“Good; then we can manage this little task without disturbing the police till to-morrow morning; when, if we are lucky, we shall be able to send for them to take charge of our prisoners.”

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

Where John Maine had been.

It was a very miserable breakfast at the farm the next morning, for old Bultitude was looking very black and angry, and it was quite evident that poor little Jessie had been in tears.

“What time did that scoundrel go out?” said the farmer, stabbing a piece of ham savagely with his fork, and after cutting a piece off as if it were a slice off an enemy, he knocked out the brains of an egg with a heavy dash of his tea-spoon.

“Don’t call him a scoundrel, uncle dear,” sobbed Jessie. “I don’t know.”

“I will, I tell ’ee,” cried the old man furiously. “I won’t hev him hanging about here any longer, a lungeing villain. Leaving his wuck and going off, and niver coming back all neet. Look thee here, Jess; if thee thinks any more about that lad, I’ll send thee away.”

“No, no, uncle dear, don’t say that,” cried the girl, going up and clinging to him. “He may have been taken ill, or a dozen things may have happened.”

“O’ coorse. Theer, I niver see such fools as girls are; the bigger blackguard a man is, the more the women tak’s his part. Sit thee down, bairn; theer, I aint cross wi’ you; I on’y want to do what’s best for you, for I wean’t see thee wed to a shack.”

He kissed poor Jessie affectionately, and bade her “make a good breakfast,” but the poor girl could not touch a morsel.

“Hillo! who’s this?” said the farmer, a few minutes later. “Oh, it’s young Brough. Come in, lad, come in.”

“Hooray, farmer!” he cried, all eagerness and delight. “I telled you so—I telled you so, and you wouldn’t believe it, and Miss Jessie theer turned like a wood cat, and was ready to scrat my eyes out.”

Jessie’s colour came and went as her little bosom heaved, and she turned her chair so as to avoid the keeper’s gaze.

“What did’st tell me?” said the farmer gruffly.

“Why, that John Maine was out ivery night skulking ’bout the vicarage whiles he should ha’ been at home i’ bed like an honest man. And I telled ye he was in co. wi’ a couple o’ poachers and thieves over here fro’ one o’ the big towns; and I telled you he weer nobbut a tramp hissen.”

“How dare you speak of him like that?” cried Jessie, starting up with flashing eyes, and stamping her foot. “You wouldn’t dare to speak so to John Maine’s face, for fear he should beat you.”

“Hoity, toity!” exclaimed the farmer. “Who told thee to speak, lass? Let the man finish.”

“I will not sit here and listen to such talk,” cried Jessie, angrily, and with an energy which plainly told her feelings towards the missing man. “Let him wait till John comes.”

“That wean’t niver be,” said the keeper, with a grin of satisfaction. “Because why? Just as I towd thee, farmer, there weer a robbery at the vicarage last night.”

“No!” cried old Bultitude, starting up with his mouth full.

“Ay, mun, but there weer,” cried Brough, in an exulting tone. “Just as I said theer’d be, all plotted and planned out to get parson’s silver cups and toots—all plotted and planned out by John Maine and his blackguard mates. Thank your stars, and you too, Miss Jessie, as you haven’t both been robbed and murdered.”

“I wean’t believe it,” cried the old farmer, angrily. “John Maine’s got a bit wrong somehow, but he isn’t the lad to rob nowt. He’s raight to a penny always wi’ his accounts.”

“That’s his artfulness,” sneered Brough.

“Yah!” cried the farmer. “You’ve got hold of a cock and bull story up town, wheer they’ll turn a slip on the causay into fower fatal accidents ’fore the news has got from the top of the High Street to the bottom.”

As he spoke Jessie crossed over to her uncle, laid her hands upon his shoulder, and stood with her eyes flashing indignant protest against the accuser of her lover.

“Hev it your own waya,” said Brough, quietly. “I were up at ’station, when parson comes in hissen, and tell’d Bowley that the party on ’em broke in at the vicarage last night, ’bout half-past twelve, and that he’d fote the men, and got ’em locked up, and John Maine wi’ ’em. Them’s parson’s own words; and if parson’s words arn’t true, dal it all, who’s is?”

“I’ll never, never believe it,” cried Jessie, with an angry burst of indignation; and then, bursting into tears, she ran out of the room, sobbing bitterly.

“Poor little lass!” said old Bultitude, softly; “she thinks a deal more o’ John Maine than she does o’ thee, my lad. But look here: I believe i’ John Maine after all, and shall go on believing in him, though I am a bit popped agen him, till I sees him foun’ guilty. Yow set me watching the lad one night, you know, Brough, and it all turned out a bam, for there he weer, safe in his bed. Just you let things bide till we know more ’bout ’em; and I don’t thank ye, young man, for coming and spoiling my brackfast.”

“Just as yow like, Master Bultitude,” said the keeper, sourly; “but just answer me one question, Weer John Maine at home all last night?”

“No,” said the farmer, savagely, “and he aint been back yet; but that don’t prove he weer lungeing ’bout parson’s. How do I know he wasn’t at Bosthorpe Dancing?”

“Bostrop Dancing weer day afore yesterday,” said the keeper, grinning as he made this retort about the village feast. “Oh, here comes parson.”

“Morning, Mr Bultitude,” said the vicar, coming in, looking rather grave. “Ah, Miss Jessie, how are you?” he continued, as, on hearing his voice, the girl stole back into the room. “Nice neighbours you are, to lie snug in bed and let your poor vicar be robbed, and murdered, and carried off in a cart.”

Jessie sank into a chair, looking as white as ashes, while Brough rubbed his hands joyously.

“Then it is all true?” said the farmer slowly.

“True? Oh, yes, true enough,” said the vicar. “I got the scoundrels safely locked up in the cellar.”

“Howd up, my lass, howd up,” whispered the farmer, kindly, as he laid his hand on Jessie’s shoulder; “be a woman and let’s hear the worst.” Then to the vicar: “An’ was John Maine wi’ ’em, sir?”

“Oh yes, he was with them,” said the vicar, wondering.

“Theer, I telled you so,” cried Brough exultantly, “I know’d how he’d turn out.”

The vicar smiled slightly at this, as he noticed the malice of the man, and he repeated slowly—

“Yes, John Maine was there.”

The last trace of colour faded out of Jessie’s cheeks, and a dull look of stony despair came over her countenance, while the old farmer shifted his position and began to dig a fork savagely into the deal table.

“Dal me—” began the old man, but he stopped short.

“Just as I telled thee,” said Brough, eagerly.

“Dal thee! don’t set thee clapper going at me,” roared the old man. “I know it, don’t I?”

“Yes,” said the vicar, smiling, as he took and patted Jessie’s hand; “John Maine was there, and a braver ally I never had.”

“What?” roared the farmer.

“After watching my house, and setting young Podmore to watch it,” said the vicar, “he came and warned me about his suspicions, and—”

“Dal me!” cried old Bultitude, “you kep’ him there all night, parson, to help you?”

“I did,” said the vicar.

“And took the rascals?”

“Yes, with John Maine’s help.”

“It’s a-maazing,” said the old man, slapping his thigh, and bursting into a tremendous series of chuckles. “Oh, parson, you are a one-er, and no mistake.”

The vicar was conscious of two looks as Jessie ran from the room—one of black indignation, directed at Brough; the other a soft, tender glance of thankfulness at himself, ere the poor girl once more ran up into her own room to “have a good cry.”

“Let me see,” said old Bultitude, dryly; “I don’t think theer was owt else as you wanted to tell me, was theer, Master Brough?”

“Not as I knows on, farmer,” said the keeper, looking from one to the other.

“Because, being churchwarden, theer’s a thing or two I want to talk ower wi’ parson—calling a meeting for next week, like.”

“Oh, I can go,” said the keeper, in an offended tone—“I can go if it comes to that;” and then, as no one paid any attention to him, he strode out, his departure being made plain by a loud yelping noise outside, and the voice of one of the labourers being heard to exclaim—

“I shouldn’t ha’ thowt yow’d kick a dog like that, Master Brough.”

While the vicar sat down and told the adventures of the past night.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

A Busy Night.

As soon as John Maine had promised to stay with him, the vicar sat down, and seemed for a few minutes to be thinking.

“I should like,” he said at last, “to have a regular good stand-up fight with these scoundrels if they come; but I’m a man of peace now, Maine, and must act accordingly.”

“I’ll do the fighting, sir,” said Maine, excitedly.

“No, that will not do either, my man. We must have no fighting. We must bring the wisdom of the serpent to bear. You must not stir from here, or we shall alarm the enemy. They may have seen you come, but that’s doubtful; but if I let you go and come back again, the chances are that they may have scouts out, and then they must see you. Let the farm people fidget about you for one night. Old Bultitude will get in a rage, and Miss Jessie will cast you off; but I’ll go and smooth all that to-morrow. Mrs Slee will go home, and we’ll send the girl to bed as usual. If I keep you out of sight, she will think you are gone. By the way, who’s that?”

He slipped behind one of the window curtains, and watched as a decrepit old man, carrying some laces and kettle-holders for sale in one hand, a few tracts in the other, came slowly up the garden path, to stand as if hesitating which way to go; but glancing keenly from window to door, making observations that would not have been noticed at any other time, before slinking painfully round to the back of the house, where Mrs Slee’s sharp voice was soon after heard, and the old man came back at last with a good-sized piece of bread and meat.

“You old rascal!” said the vicar, as he shook his fist at the departing figure. “That scoundrel, Maine, not only tries to rob the rich, but through his trickery he indirectly steals from the poor by hardening the hearts of the charitable. There’s no doubt about what you say, John Maine; that fellow’s a spy from the enemy’s camp—the siege has commenced.”

The time flew by: evening came, and at last the hour for prayers. All had seemed quiet in the town, and at last the vicar rang, and Mrs Slee and the maid came in.

“You’ll stay to prayers, Maine?” said the vicar, quietly; and the young man knelt with the rest, while in a low, calm voice, the evening supplications for protection and thanks for the past were offered up—as quietly as if nothing was expected to shortly occur and quicken the pulses.

“Good night, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar; then, “I’ll see to the front door myself.”

Then the fastening of shutters was heard, followed by the closing of the back door, and its fastening, Mrs Slee’s steps sounding plainly on the gravel path, as she went to her cottage. Lastly, the maid was heard upon the stairs, and her door closed.

At the same time John Maine followed the vicar into the hall, the latter talking to him loudly for a few minutes, and then the front door was noisily opened and shut.

“The girl will think you have gone now,” said the vicar; “so come into the study, and pull off those heavy boots.”

The vicar set the example, placing his afterwards at the foot of the stairs in the hall, and hiding; those of John Maine in an out-of-the-way cupboard.

“Now then, we’ll have these two in case of accident,” he said, detaching a couple of Australian waddies from the wall; “but I don’t think we shall want them. I’ll prepare for the rascals in the study, for that’s where they will break in, and we must not be long before my light goes up to my room. They know all my habits by this time, I’ll be bound.”

There was a neat, bright little copper kettle on the hob in the study, and on returning, the vicar unlocked his cabinet, placed a cut lemon on the table, and a sugar-glass, a knife with which he cut some slices of lemon, placing one in a tumbler, pouring in a little water, and macerating the slice after it had been well stirred. Then by the side he placed a half-smoked cigar and an ashpan, sprinkled some of the ash upon the cloth, and finished all off with the presence of a quaint little silver-tipped bottle labelled “Gin.”

“They’ll give me the credit of having been enjoying myself to-night, Maine,” said the vicar, smiling, as he held the bottle up to the light, took out the silver-mounted cork, and from one side of the cabinet, amongst a row of medicine phials, he took a small blue flask, removed the stopper, measured a certain quantity in a graduated glass, and poured the clear pleasant-smelling fluid into the gin.

“I see now, sir,” said Maine, who had been puzzled at the vicar’s movements, as he re-corked the spirit-bottle, and placed back the glass and tiny flask—movements which seemed indicative of arrangements for passing a comfortable night.

“To be sure,” said the vicar. “Let them only sit down to a glass apiece of that—as they certainly will, for the rogues can’t pass drink—and all we shall have to do will be to bundle them neck and crop down into the cellar to sleep it off, ready for the attendance of the police in the morning. There will be four in the gang—three to come here, and a fourth to wait somewhere handy with a horse and cart. It will only be a glass apiece.”

“What makes you think that they will break in here, sir?” asked John Maine.

“Because there are no iron bars to the window, and no one sleeps overhead. Now, then, all’s ready, so we’ll go upstairs.”

“But won’t you stay and stop them from getting in, sir?”

“Certainly not, Maine. Let them walk into the trap, and we will keep awake as well as we can in the dark.”

Lighting a chamber candle, the vicar turned out the lamps, and led the way to his bedroom, where, after placing an easy chair for his companion, he apparently busied himself for a quarter of an hour in undressing, taking care to cast his shadow several times upon the window-blind, then placing matches ready, and the door open, he extinguished the light.

“Half-past ten, Maine,” he whispered. “Now for a long watch. Can you keep awake?”

“I think so, sir,” was the reply. “Good; then listen attentively, and warn me of the slightest sound, but no word must be spoken above a whisper. No conversation.”

One hour in the solemn silence of the night, and no sound was heard. Once the vicar stretched out his hand to have it pressed in reply by way of showing that his companion was on the alert.

Another hour passed, and all was perfectly still. The vicar had had no difficulty in keeping awake, for his thoughts were upon the scene that had taken place up at the House; and though he strove to drive away the remembrance, and to nerve himself for the struggle that must be his for weeks to come, there was Eve Pelly’s sweet gentle face before him, seeming to ask him wistfully to accede to her wish.

At last John Maine, believing him to be asleep, touched his arm.

“Yes,” was the whispered answer. “I heard them five minutes ago. There they are.”

At that moment a singular low grating noise was heard.

“Diamond cutting glass,” said the vicar, with his lips close to his companions ear.

A sharp crack.

“There goes the pane,” whispered the vicar.

Then there was the creak—creak—creak of a window being softly raised, after the fastening had been thrust back. Then, again, perfect silence, succeeded at last by a gentle rustling noise; but so quietly had the entry been made that but for a faint glimmer of light seen now and then through the open door, there was nothing to indicate that anything below was wrong.

The watchers sat listening with their hearts beating with a heavy dull pulsation, till at length a stair creaked, as if from the weight of some one ascending, and they fancied they could hear the hard breathing of some listener. This ceased in a very short time, and they instinctively knew that the burglar had returned to the study, where the clink of a glass warned them that the bait had proved sufficient attraction for the wolves.

There was another pause and a faint whisper or two, followed by the soft rustling made by the men crossing the little hall to the dining-room, from whence arose the metallic sound of silver touching silver. Then there came more rustling and chinking, and John Maine whispered,

“Pray, let’s go and stop them, sir: they’ll get away with the plate.”

“Oh, no,” said the vicar in the same tone. “Wait.”

They waited, and the rustling made by the men crossing the hall back to the study was again heard, and then, for some little time, there was silence.

“They must be gone, sir,” whispered Maine, but almost as he spoke there came up from below a dull, heavy, stertorous snore, which was soon after accompanied by the heavy hard breathing of a sleeper, and an occasional snort and muttering, as of some one talking in his slumber.

“I think we may strike a light now, Maine,” said the vicar, quietly; and as he did so, and lit the chamber candle, John Maine moistened his hand to take a good grip of his waddy.

“Oh, we shan’t need that,” said the vicar, smiling. “Come along.”

He led the way downstairs to the study, where, on looking in, there lay one man extended upon the hearth-rug; another was on the couch; and the third slept heavily in the easy chair, with his head hanging over the arm, his uneasy position causing him to utter the snorts and mutterings that had ascended the stairs.

It was only a matter of ten minutes or so for the watchers to drag their prisoners down to the little cellar, where some straw was placed beneath their heads to save them from suffocation. Then the great key was turned, and the vicar and his companion returned to the study.

“Now for number four, John Maine,” said the vicar. “Come along.”

He resumed his boots, and John Maine was following his example when a low chirp was uttered, and a head appeared at the window.

John Maine was nearest, and he made a dash at the owner; but with a rush he disappeared, and before the garden-gate could be reached wheels and the sound of a horse galloping came to the pursuers’ ears.

“He has gone, John Maine,” said the vicar, coolly. “Never mind, the police may come across him. We have to go back and watch our prisoners.”

They re-entered the house, to find that the servant girl had not been alarmed, and taking it in turns to lie down on the couch, the vicar and John Maine kept watch and ward till morning, when, awaking in a fearful state of alarm, the scoundrels began to try the door, and at last appealed pitifully for mercy, as the vicar was replacing in order the cups and pieces of plate arranged ready for conveyance to the cart.

Soon after he walked up to the station, and afterwards made his way to the farm, to set them at rest about John Maine, with the result that has been seen.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

A Mysterious Warning.

The day following that on which the scoundrels who had made the attempt on the vicarage had been sent off to the county town, the vicar was in his garden musing on his future, and thinking whether it was his duty to leave Dumford and go far away, as life there had become a torture; but everything seemed to tend towards the point that it was his duty to stay and forget self in trying to aid others. In spite of the past, it seemed to him that he had done good; Richard Glaire had listened to reason; the strike was nearly over, and the men had settled down into a calmer state of resignation to their fate. So quiet were they that he more than suspected that they had some inkling of the change coming on. Then, too, he had made peace at the farm, where the wedding of John Maine and Jessie was shortly to take place, John, at his instigation, having frankly told the farmer the whole of his past life, to be greeted with a tremendous clap on the shoulder and called “a silly sheep.”

“Just as if thou could’st help that, lad,” said the old man. “Why didstn’t out wi’ it at first?”

And then Eve’s wedding.

“Poor girl! she wishes it,” the vicar said to himself, continuing his musing, as he stooped to tie up a flower here and there. “It would be madness to interpose, and God help her, she will redeem him, and—I hope so—I hope so.”

“Well, I must stay,” he said, with a weary smile upon his face. “I am a priest, and the priests of old looked upon self-denial as a duty. Let it be mine to try and perfect the peace that is coming back to this strange old place.”

“Paarson!”

He started and looked round, but no one was visible, and yet a deep rough voice he seemed to know had spoken.

“Paarson!” was repeated, apparently close to his feet where he was standing by the garden hedge.

“Who is it?”

“Niver mind who it is,” said the voice. “I joost want a word wi’ you.”

“Where are you?”

“Lying down here i’ th’ dyke. I had to creep here ’mong the nattles like a big snail.”

“Well, come out, man, and speak to me.”

“Nay, nay, that wean’t do.”

“What, is it you, Harry?”

“Howd your tongue, wilt ta, paarson. I don’t want the lads to know as I comed and telled you. I’ve come along fower dykes.”

“What does it all mean?” said the vicar, leaning over the hedge, to see the great hammerman lying on his face in the ditch on the field side.

“Don’t ask no questions, paarson, for I wean’t tell nowt, ’cause I’m sweered not to; but I don’t like what’s going on.”

“Well, but tell me, Harry, I beg—I insist—”

“I wean’t tell thee nowt, paarson, on’y this here. Yow wouldn’t like them as you knows hurt, so joost tell Dicky Glaire to look out.”

“But why—when? I must know more.”

The only answer was a loud rustling, and the great body of the hammerman could be seen crawling through the nettles as he made his way pretty quickly along in the opposite direction to that in which he had come, and the vicar forbore to pursue, as it might have tended to betray him.

“I’m not without friends, after all,” he said, musing. “Then this quietness is only the precursor of some other storm. I’ll go up at once.”

He made Iiis way straight to the House, and all was very quiet in the town. Men were lounging about, and their thin sad-faced wives were to be seen here and there busy within, but no sign was visible of the coming storm; and for a while the vicar was ready to doubt the possibility of anything threatening, till he recalled Big Harry’s action, and felt certain that the man’s words must be true. Any doubt he might have had was, however, dispelled a moment or two later, for he saw Tom Podmore coming towards him; but as soon as the young man caught sight of the vicar he turned sharply round and went away.

“There is something wrong, and he’s mixed up in it,” muttered the vicar. “Of course, he is Big Harry’s friend, and so the great fellow knew it. Perhaps, though, he sent him to caution me!”

It was a random shot, but it hit the mark, for Tom, being held in suspicion by his fellows, could not well stir in the matter; and in talking it over with Big Harry, the latter had declared he would warn parson, and so he had.

The vicar was shown in directly, and found the family at the House seated together. He was rather shocked to see Eve’s pallid face; but she brightened up at his coming, and seemed to him to be trying to show him how happy they once more were.

Mrs Glaire, too, looked pale and careworn, but she was eager in her ways, and glad to see him, while Richard, in a half-civil way, but with a shifty look in his eye, shook hands and muttered something about the weather.

“Here, Eve, we’ll go down the garden together,” said Richard; “Mr Selwood’s come to see my mother.”

“No,” said the vicar, quietly, “I have come to see you.”

“To see me?”

“Yes; on very important business.”

“If you’ve come from those scoundrels,” said Richard, hotly, “I won’t hear a word. Let them come themselves.”

“Richard!” said Mrs Glaire, imploringly. “I don’t care, mother. I’ve given way to a certain extent, and I’ll go no further.”

“But I have not come from the men,” said the vicar.

“Then what is it?” said Richard, who had a horror of being left alone with his visitor. “Speak out.”

“I would rather tell you in private,” said the vicar, glancing uneasily at the two women.

“If it is any fresh trouble, Mr Selwood, pray speak out,” said Mrs Glaire, anxiously. “But Miss Pelly?”

“Richard is to be my husband in a few days, Mr Selwood,” said Eve, smiling sadly, as she rose and stood beside him, with her hands resting on his shoulder. “If it is trouble, I have a right to share it with him.”

“There, let’s have it,” said Richard, rudely. “They will have to hear whatever it is.”

The vicar hesitated a moment or two, and tried to collect himself, for Eve’s last words sent a pang through his breast, as they seemed to tear the last fibre that had held her to him.

At last he spoke.

“I have little to tell. My news is shadowy and undefined, but I fear it is very real.”

“Well, tell me, man, tell me,” said Richard; who, while assuming an air of bravado, began to look white.

“I will, Mr Glaire. One of your workmen came secretly to me within the last half-hour to bid you be on your guard.”

“I haven’t been off,” said Richard, insolently. “Who was it?”

“That I cannot tell you,” said the vicar. “The man said he had been sworn to secrecy, but he did not like the business, and came at all risks to tell me.”

“It was that scoundrel, Tom Podmore,” cried Richard.

“It was not Podmore,” replied the vicar.

“Then it was that old villain, Joe Banks—an old hypocrite. Forced his way down the garden to me the other evening to bully me.”

“Richard, my boy, for heaven’s sake,” cried Mrs Glaire.

“It was not your old foreman, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, quietly. “I have told you all. It is very little, but it may mean much. If you will take my advice you will counteract the people’s plans by opening your works to-morrow.”

“Yes, Richard, do!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire and Eve in a breath.

“I said I’d open them on a certain day, and I won’t stir a peg from that decision,” cried Richard, obstinately.

“Whom the gods will destroy, they first make mad,” muttered the vicar to himself, in the old Latin.

“It would be giving way to them,” said Richard, “and that I’ll never do.”

“But you give way when you do open,” said the vicar.

“I’m not going to argue that,” said Richard, haughtily; “I’ve made up my mind, and I shall keep to it.”

“Then leave your orders, and go quietly away for a few days, till the works are in full swing again.”

Richard had made up his mind to do that very thing; but, as the vicar proposed it, and Eve eagerly acquiesced, he was dead against it on the instant.

“I shall stay here,” he said firmly, “and have the police to guard the house.”

“It is like inviting attack,” said the vicar, excitedly. “For your mother’s and Miss Pelly’s sake, don’t do that. It is throwing down the gauntlet to a set of men maddened by a belief in their wrongs. Many of them are fierce with hunger.”

“Bah! Stuff!” said Richard; “they’ve got plenty saved up, and—he, he, he!—nicely they’ve humbugged you into relieving them with soup and bread and meat. You don’t know Dumford yet, Mr Selwood.”

“If I am to know it as you know it,” thought the vicar, “I hope I never shall;” but he did not give utterance to his thoughts.

“I shall go—” began Richard; then, insolently—“You won’t go and betray me, parson, will you?”

The vicar did not reply.

“I shall go and stay over at the works, mother,” said Richard.

“What!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

“Stay over at the works till the opening day. Let the brutes think I have left the town; and, with a few blankets and some provisions, I shall do. I’ll go over to-night.”

“But, Richard, this is folly,” cried Eve, beginning to tremble.

“You don’t know anything about it,” he said, sharply. “If the beasts mean mischief again, they’ll try to get me away from here, and most likely they are watching every train to catch me. If I slip over in the middle of the night, I shall be safe; for no one will think I am there. What do you say, parson?”

The vicar sat thinking for a few moments, and then gave in his acquiescence to the plan.

“But you must keep strictly in hiding,” he said.

“Well, it won’t be for long,” replied Richard; “and won’t be more dull than being in here.”

Eve winced a little, but she turned and tried to smile.

“But would it be wise, Mr Selwood?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, eagerly.

“Yes; I think it would,” said the vicar, “if he can get there unseen. If these misguided men do search for him, that is one of the last places they will go to, I feel sure. But will you keep closely in hiding? Would it not be better to give way at once?” he continued, addressing Richard.

“I have said what I mean to do,” said Richard, sharply; “and what I say I keep to.”

The vicar bowed his head, and lent himself as much as was likely to be acceptable to the scheme; ending by saying, with a smile on his face—

“I hope, Miss Pelly, that this is the last of these unpleasant affairs we shall ever have here; for rest assured I shall lose no time in trying to bring the people to a better way of thinking.”

He rose and left them, it being thoroughly understood that Richard was to go into hiding that very night, while the vicar would communicate with the police, to ensure some protection for the house; though all felt it to be needless, as any attack was certain to be made on Richard personally.

As he reached the door, though, the vicar turned to Richard—

“Shall I come and be your companion every night? I will come. I can sleep on a bare board with any fellow, and,” he added, smiling, “I enjoy a pipe.”

Richard jumped eagerly at the idea, and was about to say yes, but the evil part of his nature prevailed.

“No,” he said rudely; “when I want Mr Selwood’s help I will ask for it.”

“As you will, Mr Glaire,” was the reply; “and I hope you will. Good-bye, Mrs Glaire—Miss Pelly, and I sincerely hope this will prove a false alarm.”

“If that fellow thinks he’s coming to my place after the marriage, he’s grievously mistaken,” said Richard to himself, and the door closed.

Meanwhile the vicar called at the station, and after a few words about the burglary and the forthcoming examination—

“By the way, Smith,” he said to the constable, “will you and your man oblige me by keeping a strict watch over the House—Mr Glaire’s—for the next week? I have my reasons.”

“Certainly, sir,” was the reply; “and, by the way, sir, my missus’s duty to you for the port wine: it’s doing her a sight o’ good.”

“Glad of it, Smith; send down for some more when that’s done.”

“He’s a good sort,” muttered the policeman, “that he is; but he ought to have sent up for me the other night.”

The vicar strolled back towards the bottom of the town, and turning off, was making his way towards the foreman’s cottage, when he came upon Big Harry with a stick and a bundle, going across the field—cut to the station.

The great fellow tried to get away, but the vicar hailed him, and he stopped.

“Now, don’t thee ask queshtuns, paarson,” he exclaimed; “I tell’d ye I’m sweered, and can’t say owt.”

“I will not ask you anything, Harry,” said the vicar; “only thank you, as I do, for your hint. But where are you going?”

“Sheffle first, Birming after. I’m sick o’ this.”

“Going to get work?”

“Yes, paarson.”

“Why not stop another week?”

“No,” said the big fellow; “I wean’t stay another day. I’m off.”

“You’ve got some other reason for going?”

“Paarson, I wean’t tell’ee owt,” said the big fellow; “theer.”

“Good-bye, Harry,” said the vicar, smiling, and holding out his hand. “I hope I shall see you back again, soon.”

“That you will, paarson, soon as iver they’ve done striking; as for me, I’m longing to get howd of a hammer again. Good-bye.”

“I should like to know more,” said the vicar, as he saw the great fellow go striding away. “There’s some atrocious plan on hand, and he’s too honest to stop and join in it, while he’s too true to his friends to betray them. There’s some fine stuff here in Dumford; but, alas! it is very, very rough.”

His walk to the cottage was in vain. “My master” was out, so Mrs Banks, who looked very sad and mournful, declared.

“He’s out wandering about a deal, sir, now. But hev you had word o’ my poor bairn?”

“I am very sorry to say no, Mrs Banks,” said the vicar, kindly; and he left soon after, to be tortured by the feeling that he would be doing wrong in marrying Richard Glaire and his cousin, for he still suspected him of knowing Daisy’s whereabouts, and could get no nearer to his confidence now than on the first day they met.

He inadvertently strolled to the spot where they had first encountered, and stood leaning against the stile, thinking of all that had since passed, wondering the while whether he might not have done better amongst these people if he had been the quiet, reserved, staid clergyman of the usual type—scholarly, refilled, and not too willing to make himself at home.

“It is a hard question to answer,” he said at last, as he turned to go home, listening to the ringing song of the lark far up in the blue sky, unstained by the smoke of the great furnace and the towering shaft; “it is a hard question to answer, and I can only say—God knows.”

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

A Revelation.

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 Three—Chapter Eleven.

In the Works.

As Daisy Banks ran from the house, wild almost with horror and affright, she made straight for the works, feeling that she might yet be in time to warn Richard Glaire of his peril, if she could not stay her father from the terrible deed he was about to commit.

On encountering Big Harry in the great town, that worthy had, on recovering from his surprise at the meeting, told her all—of the plot formed, and that her father, maddened against Richard Glaire for getting her away, was the man who had joined the Brotherhood, and had undertaken to lay the powder for the destruction of the works.

Yielding to her prayers, the great, honest fellow had agreed to accompany her back; and not a moment had been lost, but on reaching her home her mother was absent, and Joe Banks had been away all day.

Then came the visit to the House, and her leaving for the works.

“Wheer next, lass?” said Harry, coming out of the shadow where he had been waiting, but Daisy brushed by him and was gone.

“See theer now,” he muttered. “What, owd Tommy, is that thou?” he cried, as his old friend and fellow-workman, who had in the darkness missed Daisy, ran up.

“Did’st see Daisy Banks?” he cried.

“Yes, I see her. She’s gone down street like a flash o’ lightning.”

“No, no; she must have gone to the works,” cried Tom.

“Then she’s gone all round town to get to ’em,” said Harry.

“Come and see first,” cried Tom, and the two men ran towards the gates.

“What time weer it to be, lad?” whispered Harry.

“I don’t know,” said Tom hoarsely; “they’ve kept that to their sens.”

“But owd Joe Banks is going to do it, isn’t he?”

“Yes, yes; but come along quick.”

They reached the gate, but there was no sign of Daisy Banks; all was closed, and to all appearance the place had not been opened for days.

“Theer, I telled ye so,” growled Harry; “she didn’t come this waya at all. She’s gone home.”

“How long would it take us to go?” whispered Tom, who now began to think it possible that Daisy had gone in search of her father.

“Get down theer i’ less than ten minutes, lad, back waya,” replied Harry; “come along.”

Tom tried the gates once more, and then looked down the side alley, but all was still.

“If she has been here, she can’t have stayed,” he said to himself. “Here, quick, Harry, come on, and we may find Joe Banks, too.”

“And if we do, what then?” growled the hammerman.

“We must stop him—hold him—tie his hands—owt to stay him fro’ doing this job.”

“I’m wi’ ye, lad,” said Harry, “he’ll say thanky efterward. If I get a good grip o’ him he wean’t want no bands.”

The two men started off at a race, and as they disappeared Daisy crept out of the opposite door-way, where she had been crouching down, and then tried the gates.

All fast, and she dare not ring the big bell, but stood listening for a moment or two, and then ran swiftly along the wall, and down the side alley to the door that admitted to the counting-house—the alley where her interview with Richard Glaire had been interrupted by the coming of Tom Podmore.

She reached the door and tried the handle, giving it a push, when, to her great joy, she found it yield, and strung up to the pitch of doing anything by her intense excitement, she stepped into the dark entry, the door swinging to behind her, and she heard it catch.

Then for a few minutes she stood still, holding her hand to her heart, which was beating furiously. At last, feeling that she must act, she felt her way along the wall to the counting-house door, looking in to find all still and dark, and then she cried in a low voice, “Father—Mr Richard—are you here?”

No response, and she went to the door leading into the yard, to find it wide open and all without in the great place perfectly still and dark, while the great heaps of old metal and curiously-shaped moulds and patterns could just be made out in the gloom.

A strange feeling of fear oppressed her, but she fought it back bravely, and went on, avoiding the rough masses in the path, and going straight to the chief door of the great works.

The place was perfectly familiar to her, for she had as a child often brought her father’s dinner, and been taken to see the engines, furnaces, and large lathes, with the other weird-looking pieces of machinery, which in those days had to her young eyes a menacing aspect, and seemed as if ready to seize and destroy the little body that crept so cautiously along.

Entering the place then bravely, she went on through the darkness, with outstretched hands, calling softly again and again the name of Richard Glaire or her father. Several times, in spite of her precautions, she struck herself violently against pieces of metal that lay about, or came in contact with machinery or brickwork; but she forgot the pain in the eagerness of her pursuit till she had convinced herself that no one could be on the basement floor.

Then seeking the steps, she proceeded to the floor above, calling in a low whisper from time to time as she went on between the benches, and past the little window that looked down on the alley, which had afforded Sim Slee a means of entry when the bands were destroyed.

No one on this floor; and with a shiver, begotten of cold and dread, she proceeded to the steps leading to the next floor, which she searched in turn, ending by going to the third—a repetition of those below.

“There is no one here,” she said to herself at last; “unless he is asleep.”

She shuddered at this; and now, with the chilly feeling growing stronger each moment, she made her way amongst the benches and wood-work of this place, which was the pattern shop, and reached the top of the stairs, where she paused; and then, not satisfied, feeling that this was the most likely place for a man to be in hiding, she went over this upper floor again.

As she searched, the clock at the church struck eleven, and its tones sent a thrill through her, they sounded so solemn; but directly after, with the tears falling fast, as the old clock bell brought up happy recollections of the past, she began to descend; but was not half-way down before she heard footsteps, and her name pronounced in an eager whisper—

“Daisy—Daisy!”

She stopped short, trembling with dread. It was Richard Glaire, the man who had had such influence over her, and whom she had told herself that she loved so well. But this feeling of fear that she suffered now could not be love; she knew that well: and during her late seclusion she had learned to look upon the young man’s actions in a new light. His mother’s words to her had taken root, and she knew now that his intentions towards her had only been to make her the plaything of the hour of his fleeting liking; and the girl’s face flushed, and her teeth were set, as once again she asked herself why had she been so weak and vain as to believe this man.

“Daisy—Daisy—Daisy Banks, are you here?” came in a loud whisper; and still she did not move, but her heart fluttered, and her breath was drawn painfully.

No: she did not care for him now, she felt. It was a dream—a silly love dream, and she had awakened a wiser, stronger girl than she was before.

“Stronger!” she thought; “and yet I stand here afraid to speak, afraid to move, when I have come to save him perhaps from a horrible death. I will speak:”

She stopped again, for a terrible thought oppressed her. She must not betray her father. He might even now be coming to the place, if it was true that he was to blow up the works—he might even now be here, and the explosion—Oh, it was too horrible; she dared not speak even now: she dared not stay. She was not so brave as she thought, and she must fly from the place, or try to meet her father. Not Richard Glaire; she could not—dare not meet him again; for she feared him still, even though she told herself that she was strong. A strange feeling of faintness came over her, all seemed to swim round—and had she not clutched at the handrail, her feelings would have been too much for her, and she would have fallen headlong to the foot of the steep flight.

As it was, she uttered a faint cry, and it betrayed her presence.

“I knew you were here,” cried Richard Glaire, hurriedly ascending the stairs; “why, Daisy, my little bird, at last—at last. Where have you been?”

“Then you are safe yet,” she gasped, as he caught her in his arms, though she repulsed him.

“Safe; yes, my little beauty. I found you had been at the house, and they said you were here—come to look for me. Why, Daisy, this meeting makes up for all my misery since you have been gone.”

Daisy wrenched herself from his arms, exclaiming passionately—

“I came to save you and others, Mr Glaire, and you act like this. Quick, get away from this place. Your life is in danger.”

“I have heard that tale, my dear,” he said, “till I am tired of it.”

“I tell you,” cried Daisy, as he tried to clasp her again, and she struggled with him; “I tell you there is a plot against you, and that you must go. This place is not safe. You have not a moment to lose.”

“Why,” said Richard, holding her in spite of her struggles; “did you not come to see me and comfort me for being in hiding here?”

“No, no,” cried Daisy, trying to free herself; “I came to warn you. Oh, sir, this is cowardly.”

“Come, Daisy, my little one, why are you struggling? You used not.”

“No,” cried the girl, angrily; “not when I was a silly child and believed you.”

“Come, that’s unkind,” said Richard, laughing. “Where have you been, eh? But there, I know.”

“I tell you, Mr Richard, you are in danger.”

“Pooh! what danger? We’re safe enough here, Daisy, and no one will interrupt us.”

“I cannot answer questions,” said Daisy.

“Oh, pray, pray let us go. I came to save you.”

“Then you do love me still, Daisy?”

“No, no; indeed no, sir, I hate you; but I would not see you hurt.”

“Look here, Daisy,” cried Richard. “I hate mystery. Did you come here alone?”

“Yes, yes—to save you.”

“Thank you, my dear; but now, please, tell me why? No mystery, please, or I shall think this is some trick, and that you have been sent by the men on strike.”

“Indeed, no, Mr Richard,” cried Daisy, who, in her horror, caught at his arm, and tried to drag him away. “Mr Richard, sir, you told me you loved me; and in those days I was foolish enough to believe you, to the neglect of a good, true man, who wanted to make me his wife.”