“That betrayal of your evil plans came about more strangely than you can imagine,” said the vicar. “I have suspected something, and been constantly on the watch.”

“Strange and kind of you, too, parson,” said Stockton, with a laugh.

“You will think so some day, my man.”

“Bud I know who it weer,” said Stockton. “Theer he stands; it were Tom Podmore. He weer not sweered in.”

“Then he did not betray you,” said the vicar, as a menacing growl arose; but Tom stood perfectly firm.

“No, it weern’t Tom Podmore,” cried Big Harry, stalking forward, one big shoulder at a time. “If you want to know who did it, here he is – I did; and I’m glad on it. Dal me! I’m glad as th’owd wucks aint down, and I’ll faight any two o’ you as don’t like it; so now then.”

There was another growl, but no one took up the challenge.

“See here, lads,” cried Harry. “I went awaya so as to hev now’t to do wi’ it, and I didn’t tell anybody; only telled parson to give Dicky Glaire the word to look out.”

“And you was sweered in, Harry,” cried Stockton.

“So I weer,” said the big fellow; “and, as I said afore, I’ll faight any man as don’t like it. Well, I goes on to Sheffle to get wuck, and there I happened o’ Daisy Banks; and when the poor little lass got howd o’ me, and begged me to tell all about her owd man, why dal me, I weer obliged to tell her how he was a-going to – dal it, parson, don’t slap a man o’ the mooth that how.”

“You’ve said enough, Harry,” cried the vicar. “We want to know no more. I answer for you that you did quite right, and some day these men will thank you, as I do now, for saving us all from this horror. Now, my men, you know that Slee and Barker, that stranger, are in the station.”

“Oh, ay, we know that,” said Stockton; “and I vote, lads, we hev ’em out.”

“No, no; let them get the punishment they deserve,” cried the vicar.

“Well, lookye here, parson,” cried Stockton; “the game’s up, I s’pose, and you’ve got the police outside. I was in it, and I’m not going to turn tail. Here I am.”

“My man, I will not know your name, nor the name of any man here. I will not recognise anybody; I came as your friend, not as a spy. I came to ask you to break up your wretched bond of union, and to go forth home as honest men. Where a union is made for the fair protection of a workman’s rights, I can respect it; but a brotherhood that blasphemes its own name by engaging in what may prove wholesale murder, is a monster that you yourselves must crush. I have no more to say. Go home.”

“Parson’s raight, lads!” said Stockton, throwing off his defiant air. “Let’s go. Parson, it was a damned cowardly trick, but Dicky Glaire had made us strange and mad.”

“It weer owd Simmy Slee as made it wuss, wi’ cootting o’ them bands,” said Big Harry. “We should ha’ been at wuck again if it hadn’t been for that.”

“Quick, lads!” cried a man, running in. “Sim Slee and Barker’s broke out o’ th’ owd shop, and the police are coming down here.”

“Theer, parson,” said Stockton, with a bitter smile; “th’ game’s oop.”

For answer, the vicar pointed to the windows, and in less than a minute the room was empty, though there would have been plenty of time to escape by the door, for the one policeman coming on the mission to see if Slee had made for the meeting-place of his party did not hurry his footsteps, partly from reasons of dignity, and partly because he was alone.

Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen.
A Faithful Lover

The announcement was quite correct. Sim Slee and his companions had broken away through the ceiling, dislodged the tiles, and escaped; and when the vicar reached home, he found Mrs Slee waiting up for him, trembling and pale, while her eyes were red with weeping. She clung to him hysterically, and asked if the news was true, and that her husband was in prison.

“They came and told me the police had got him,” she sobbed. “Ah, he’s a bad one sometimes, but he’s my maister, sir, he’s my maister.”

“He was taken, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, “I’m sorry to say. I was present. You know I went out to-night, for I was in dread of some outrage; and after being about a time, I found that something was wrong, for the men were all waiting as in expectation.”

“He always would mix himself up with these troubles i’stead o’ wucking,” sobbed the poor woman.

“Fortunately I met two of the men I could trust, and found that an attempt was to be made to blow up the works.”

“Ah, but Sim wouldn’t do that, sir,” sobbed Mrs Slee. “He dursen’t.”

“I’m sorry to say, Mrs Slee, that one of the policemen had watched him, and seen him help to carry a barrel of powder to the works.”

“Just like him – just like him,” sobbed Mrs Slee; “but some one else was to fire it.”

“How did you know that?” said the vicar, sharply.

“I only know as he dursen’t hev done it hissen,” sobbed the poor woman. “Poor lad, poor lad, there was nowt again him but the drink.”

“The men I met were in search of Daisy Banks,” continued the vicar; “and we joined hands with the police, who took your husband and that man from London, and afterwards we reached the works, and they are safe.”

“I’m strange and glad they’ve took that London man,” sobbed Mrs Slee; “but poor Sim! Poor, poor Sim! But I must go and say a word o’ comfort to him. Smith, at station’s a good, kind man.”

“Who’ll ever say that woman is not faithful?” said the vicar to himself, as Mrs Slee hurried away to get her print hood, and, late as it was, to make her way to the station; but as she came back sobbing bitterly, he laid his hand upon her arm.

“You need not go, Mrs Slee; your husband and his confederate have escaped.”

“Escaped? got awaya?” cried Mrs Slee.

“Yes.”

“Gone out o’ the town?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then,” cried Mrs Slee, wiping her eyes with a hasty snatch or two of her apron, “I’m glad on it. A bad villain, to go and try to do such a thing by the place as he made his bread by. I hope to goodness he’ll niver come back,” she cried, in her old sharp vinegary tone. “I hope I may niver set eyes upon him again. Bud I don’t want him to go to prison. Bud you’re not going out again to-night, sir?” she said, imploringly.

“I must go up to the House and see that all is well there, Mrs Slee,” he replied; “and call as I go and see how poor Banks is.”

“Bud is it true, sir, that Daisy has come back?”

“Yes,” said the vicar, sadly. “Poor girl, she has returned.”

“Bud you wean’t go now, sir; it’s close upon two o’clock.”

“Lie down on the sofa, Mrs Slee. I shall be able to wake you when I come back.”

“Theer niver was such a man,” muttered Mrs Slee, as she let him out; “and as for that Sim, well, I’m ommost sorry he did get away.”

As the vicar approached the foreman’s cottage he saw some one cross the lighted window, and on getting nearer he recognised the figure.

“Is that you, Podmore?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, sir, yes,” was the reply. “I only thought I’d like to know how poor Joe Banks is getting on.”

“I’m going in, and if you’ll wait I’ll tell you.”

“Thank ye, sir, kindly,” said the young man. “I will wait.”

“Poor fellow!” thought the vicar, with a sigh; “even now, when she comes back stained and hopeless to the old home, his love clings to her still. It’s a strange thing this love! Shall she then, and in spite of all, find that I cannot root up a foolish hopeless passion that makes me weak – weak even as that poor fellow there?”

A low knock brought Daisy to the door, and on entering, it was to find Mrs Banks on her knees by her husband, who seemed in a heavy sleep. The doctor had been again, and had only left half-an-hour before.

“He says there’s nowt to fear, sir,” whispered Mrs Banks; “but, oh, sir, will he live?”

“We are in His hands, Mrs Banks,” was the reply. “I hope and pray he may.”

Daisy was looking on with dilated eyes, and pale, drawn face, and as, after some little time, during which he had sought with homely, friendly words to comfort the trembling wife, he rose to go, Daisy approached to let him out, when fancying that he shrank from her, the poor girl’s face became convulsed, and she tried hard but could not stifle a low wail.

She opened the door as he kindly said “Good night;” but as the faint light shone out across the garden and on to the low hedge, Daisy caught him by the arm.

“Don’t go, sir,” she whispered, in a frightened voice; “it mayn’t be safe. Look: there’s a man watching you.”

“You are unnerved,” he said, kindly; and then without thinking – “It is only Podmore; he was waiting as I came in.”

“Tom!” the poor gill ejaculated, catching his arm, “is it Tom? Oh, sir, for the love of God, tell him I’m not the wicked girl he thinks.”

“My poor girl!”

“I was very wicked and weak, sir, in behaving as I did; but tell him – I must speak now – tell him it was Mrs Glaire sent me away.”

“Mrs Glaire sent you away?” exclaimed the vicar.

“Yes, yes, yes,” sobbed Daisy; “so that – her son – ”

“To get you away from Richard Glaire?”

“Yes, sir; yes. I wish – I wish I’d never seen him.”

“How came you at the foundry to-night?” he said sharply.

“I went to tell him of the danger, sir. I went to the House first, and they told me he was there. I hate him, I hate him,” she cried, passionately, heedless of the apparent incongruity of her words, “and everybody thinks me wicked and bad.”

“Is this true, Daisy Banks?” exclaimed the vicar.

“She couldn’t tell a lie, sir,” cried a hoarse voice. “Daisy, my poor bairn, I don’t think it no more.”

“Tom!” sobbed Daisy, with an hysterical cry; and the next moment she was sobbing on his breast, while the vicar softly withdrew, to turn, however, when he was fifty yards away, and see that the cottage door opened, and that two figures entered together before it was closed.

“Thank God!” he said softly – “thank God!”

Lights were burning at the House as he reached the door, and, under the circumstances, he knocked and was admitted by the white-faced, trembling servant, who had been sitting with one of the policemen in the hall, the other guarding the works.

“Don’t be alarmed, my girl, there is no bad news,” he said; and with a sigh of relief the girl showed him in to where Richard, Eve, and Mrs Glaire were seated, all watchful, pale, and ready to take alarm at the least sound.

“I’m glad you have come, Mr Selwood,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire; while Richard gave him a sulky nod, Eve trying to rise, but sinking back trembling.

“I should have been here sooner,” he said, “but I have had much to do.”

“Is there any fresh danger?”

“None whatever,” said the vicar. “I think the storm is over – I hope for good.”

Mrs Glaire gave a sigh of relief, and then wondered, as she saw the vicar cross the room; but the next minute a faint flush came into her pale cheeks, and she tottered to where Eve was sitting, and buried her face on her shoulder.

“Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, firmly, as he nerved himself for what he had to say, determined, as he was, to leave nothing undone in what he looked upon as his duty – “Mr Glaire, I have done you a grievous wrong; I humbly ask your pardon.”

“What do you mean?” said Richard, starting, and wondering, with his customary distrust in human nature, whether it was some trap.

“I mean that, in common with others, I believed you guilty of inveigling Daisy Banks away.”

“It don’t matter to me what people think,” said Richard, roughly.

“I am sorry I misjudged you,” continued the vicar; “and once more I ask your pardon.”

“It don’t matter,” said Richard.

“Mrs Glaire,” the vicar continued, kindly, as he drew a chair to her side and took her hand, “you did a foolish, cruel thing in this.”

“Then you know all?” she sobbed.

“Yes, all – from the lips of Daisy herself. I will not blame you, though, for the act has recoiled upon yourself, and it is only by great mercy that, embittered as these men were through it, a horrible crime has not been committed.”

“I did it – I did it to save him,” sobbed Mrs Glaire. “I am a mother, and he is my only boy.”

“Poor, stricken Banks is a father, and Daisy is his only child. Mrs Glaire, you did him a cruel wrong. Why did you not trust me?”

“I was mad and foolish,” she sobbed. “I dared not trust any one, even Daisy; and I thought it would be best for all – that it would save her, and it has been all in vain. Look at him,” she cried angrily; “after all, he defies me, insults his cousin’s love, and, when the poor, foolish girl comes back, his first act is to seek her, to the forgetting of his every promise to us both.”

Eve had covered her face with her hands.

“Daisy is as bad as he,” continued Mrs Glaire, angrily.

“There you are mistaken,” said the vicar; “her act to-night was to warn your son of his dreadful danger. She went to save him from a terrible death.”

“Pray say no more,” said Mrs Glaire, shuddering; and Richard turned of a sallow yellow.

“It has been a terrible affair,” said the vicar; “but I sincerely hope that all is over, for your act has borne fruits, Mrs Glaire, and Daisy has seen the folly of the past.”

Richard looked up wonderingly, but refused to meet their visitor’s eye.

“I have spoken hastily, and I owe you an apology, Miss Pelly,” continued the vicar, rising; “but it was better to be plain even before you. I was only too glad, though, to come and apologise to Mr Glaire for the wrong I had done.”

“But poor Joe Banks?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

“He seems to have been struck down by an apoplectic fit. He was shocked, no doubt, at finding that so dastardly an attempt had been made, and at the sight of your son and his child in such imminent peril. I hope, however, and sincerely believe, that he will recover. I have just come from there. Good night.”

He pressed Mrs Glaire’s hand, and held that of Eve for a few moments, saying to himself, “Poor girl, I have lightened her heart of some of its load. I have somewhat cleared the man she loves.”

“Good night, Mr Glaire,” he said, turning to Richard.

“I’ll see you out,” said Richard; and he followed him to the now vacant hall.

“What did you mean,” he said, roughly, “about Daisy?”

“I mean,” said the vicar, laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, “that she has awakened to the folly and weakness of her dealings with you, sir, and to the truth, honesty, and faith of the man who has loved her for so long.”

“Podmore?” hissed Richard.

“Yes, Podmore. Now, Mr Glaire, your course is open.”

“What do you mean?” cried Richard, angrily.

“Act as a man of honour.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“And all will be forgiven. Good night.”

“Curse him!” cried Richard, with an impatient stamp; and he stood gnawing his fair moustache. Then, with a smile of triumph, damped by a hasty glance of fear up and down the street, he hurriedly closed the door.

Volume Three – Chapter Fifteen.
Daisy’s Letter

The weeks slipped rapidly by, and a great change had come over Dumford. The sky was blackened once more with smoke, the furnaces roared, there was the loud chink of metal heard, and the hiss of steam as the engines thudded and clanked, while at dinner time the great gates gave forth their troops of grimy workmen.

Homes looked bright once more, and “my maister” was not seen with lowering brow leaning against the door-post all day long, but tired and hearty, ready to play with the bairns, or busy himself in his bit of garden.

The trade, too, had brightened up, and one and all thanked goodness that their troubles were over, and prayed that they might be long in coming again.

Something of a search had been made for Sim Slee, and the police authorities had been pretty active; but Sim and the “deppitation” managed to keep out of sight, and Richard Glaire was in no wise anxious to have the matter too closely investigated.

He kept to his story that he found the train laid in the foundry, and Banks the foreman destroyed it, and the place was saved. This he opened at once, and the men gladly resumed work, the vicar’s influence telling upon them, and one and all being ready to ignore the past, and try to condone it by regular attendance at the time-keeper’s wicket.

Banks recovered rapidly, and, on learning the truth, sent for Richard, who, however, refused to go to the house to see him, while on his part the foreman declined to resume his position at the foundry.

“No, sir,” he said to the vicar; “I weer in the wrong, and I shouldn’t feel it weer raight to go back theer again. I’m sorry I misjudged him as I did, and I weer too hard upon him; but he hasn’t used me well, neither has Mrs Glaire. But theer, let bygones be bygones. I shan’t starve, and I’m only too happy to hev my poor lass back again, safe and sound – safe and sound, while the missus is in high feather to find that Daisy and her fav’rite, Tom Podmore, hev come together efter all.”

That same day, as it happened, Mrs Glaire called at the cottage, with Eve Pelly, and while the former talked with her old foreman,

Eve went into the little garden with Daisy.

“I’ve called to ask you to come back, Joe Banks, at my son’s wish,” said Mrs Glaire. “He desires that we bury the past, and that you resume your post, for the place is not the same without you.”

“Nay, Mrs Glaire, nay,” said Banks, shaking his head; “that can never be again. I should hev had to give it up some day, so let it be now. And, as you say, ma’am, let bygones be bygones. We were both in the wrong.”

“Both, Joe,” said Mrs Glaire, sadly; “but you will forgive me. I did what I did for the best.”

“Ay, I believe thee, but it weer very hard to bear. I deserved it, though, for I might hev knowed that he niver meant to wed my poor lass. Bud theer that’s all past and gone – past and gone. Hey, ma’am, look at them two i’ the garden. They seem good friends enew now. And so she’s to be married to Master Dick to-morrow?”

“Yes, Joe,” said Mrs Glaire, hastily, “it will be for the best. My son is all that I could wish for now;” and they sat looking out at the two young girls as they stood talking.

Their conversation had been on indifferent things for some time, but Daisy felt a guilty knowledge of something she ought to tell, for Eve was so sweet and gentle with her; not one word or look of reproach had been said, but there had so far been no word of the future.

At length Daisy spoke out.

“Do you quite forgive me, Miss Eve?” she said. “I could not help it then, though I fought against it, and was wretched all the time.”

“Yes, Daisy, yes,” cried Eve, eagerly; and she took the other’s hand; “but tell me truly – do you – do you – oh, I cannot say it.”

“Do I care for Mr Richard Glaire?” said Daisy, with a strange smile. “Do I feel hurt because you will be married to him to-morrow? Not a bit. Don’t think that, dear Miss Eve, for I love poor Tom with all my heart, and only wish I could make him a better wife.”

“And you will be married soon, too?” exclaimed Eve.

“Maybe in a month or two,” said Daisy, looking sadly at her visitor; “we do not want to hurry it on. I wish you every happiness, Miss Eve.”

“And I you, Daisy,” said Eve, looking at her with a wondering wistful look, and asking herself how it was that Richard should have conceived so mad a passion for this girl, while for her his attentions had been of the coldest type.

“Mr Selwood is going to marry you, then?” said Daisy, quietly, for want of something to carry on the conversation. “But what ails you, Miss Eve, are you ill?”

“No, no, nothing,” said Eve, hastily. “It is hot to-day, that’s all.”

And then the two girls stood silent for a while, Eve thinking that the vicar came so seldom now, and then his visits were so quiet and formal; while Daisy kept asking herself one question, and that was —

“Shall I tell her?”

And the answer —

“No, it would be cruel now, and once they and I are married, all that will be over.”

When the visitors had gone, Daisy went up to her bedroom, and took from a little drawer a note which she had received the previous night. It ran as follows: —

“You know how I love you, and how I have watched for weeks for a chance to speak to you. I have been night after night at the old places, believing you would come, but not one glance have I had of you, not one word. Dearest Daisy, by all our old meetings, I ask you to give me one more. Don’t heed the chatter of the place, but come up to the old spot as soon as you receive this, for I am obliged to write. If too late I will be there to-morrow night. Only come and say one loving word to me, and all you have heard shall be as nothing. I cannot live without you, so come, and if you will I am ready to take you anywhere – far away, as I have promised you before.”

Daisy sat looking at the letter, and read it again and again.

“Only to think,” she said at last; “a few months ago I should have sighed and sobbed over that note, and been almost ready to be dragged by him where he would, while now – it makes me almost sick. What could I have seen in his soft boyish face to make me feel as I did. But what shall I do? It seems cruel to let that poor girl go to the church with such a man, only that she might save him. And suppose he makes her miserable for life.”

Daisy turned pale, and sat thinking till she heard her father call, and then she hastily thrust the letter into her bosom, her face grew radiant, and she hurried down, for her father’s words had been —

“Daisy, lass, here’s Tom!”