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?”