The Parson O' Dumford

“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.