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.”
“Poor idiot!” cried Richard, who was getting out of temper at being so kept at a distance.
“No; but a good, true man,” cried Daisy, indignantly. “I’ve wakened up from the silly dream you taught me to believe, and now I come to warn you of a great danger, and you scoff at it.”
“What’s the danger, little one?”
“I cannot—dare not tell you.”
“Then it isn’t true. It’s an excuse of yours. The old game, Daisy: all promises and love in your letters—all coyness and distance when we meet; but you are not going to fool me any more, my darling. I don’t believe a word of your plot, for no one knows I am here except those who would not betray me.”
“What shall I do?” cried Daisy, clasping her hands in agony. “Even now it may be too late.”
“What shall you do, you silly little thing!” cried Richard, whose promises were all forgotten, and he clasped Daisy more tightly; “why, behave like a sensible girl. Why, Daisy, I have not kissed you for weeks, and so must make up for lost time.”
“If you do not loose me, Mr Richard, I shall scream for help,” cried the girl, now growing frightened.
“And who’s to hear you if you do?” he said, mockingly.
“Those who are coming to destroy your works,” exclaimed Daisy, now fully roused to the peril of her position.
“Let them come!” cried Richard, as he held her more tightly; “when they do,” he added, with a laugh, “I’ll let you go.”
He was drawing Daisy’s face round to his in spite of her struggles, when, in an instant, she ceased to fight against him, as she exclaimed in a low, awe-stricken whisper—“Hush! what was that?” Richard loosed his hold on the instant, and stood listening.
“Nothing but a trick of yours, Miss Daisy,” he cried, catching her arm as she was gliding from him into the darkness.
“Hush! there it is again,” whispered the girl. “I heard it plainly. Pray, pray, let us go.”
“No one can have got in here,” muttered Richard, turning pale, for this time he had distinctly heard some sound from below. “Here, wait a moment, and I’ll go and see.”
“No, no,” faltered Daisy. “Not alone; and you must not leave me. There is danger—there is, indeed, Mr Richard.”
“Give me your hand, then,” he whispered. “Curse the place; it’s dark enough by night to frighten any one. Mind how you come.” Daisy clung convulsively to his hand and arm, as they descended to the second floor, where all seemed to be still, not a sound reaching their ears; and from thence to the first floor, where all was as they had left it.
Here Richard paused for a few moments, but could hear nothing but the beating of their own hearts, for now he, too, was horribly alarmed.
“It’s nothing,” he said at last. “Daisy, you’ve been inventing this to make me let you go.”
Daisy made no reply, for the horror of some impending evil seemed to be upon her, and with her lips parched, and tongue dry, she could not even utter a word; but clung to him, and tried to urge him away.
“Come along, then, into the counting-house,” he said, infected now by the girl’s manifest fears. “Mind how you come; the steps are worn. Take care.”
But for his arm Daisy would probably have fallen, but he aided her, and she reached the floor in safety.
“Stop a moment, silly child,” he said, “and I’ll light a match, just to look round and show you that you are frightened at nothing.”
“No, no,” gasped Daisy. “Quick, quick, the door.”
“Well, then, little one, just to prevent our breaking our necks over this cursed machinery.”
“No, no,” moaned Daisy. “I know the way. Here, quick.”
But Richard was already striking the wax match he had taken from a box, and then as the light blazed up he uttered a cry of horror, and let it fall, while Daisy, who took in at a glance the horror of their situation, sank beside the burning match, which blazed for a few moments on the beaten earth, and then went out, leaving them in a darkness greater than before.