"This is horrible, horrible!" moaned Richard.

"Mebbe it is," said Banks, sadly; "but for you, lad, the bitterness o'

death is past. It's devil's work, indeed, and it shall not be mine.

Get up, and tak' yon poor la.s.s away, lest the fit comes ower me again, and I forget as I'm a man."

Richard groaned, for he was weak and helpless as a babe.

"I give you your life before," continued Banks, moving to where a dim light showed where the lantern lay, and returning with it open, so that its glow shone upon Richard Glaire's white face. "I give it to you again, man. Go, and G.o.d forgive you what you've done to me."

Richard made an effort to rise, and stood tottering on his feet, speechless with the reaction from the horror through which he had pa.s.sed, while Banks crossed to where Daisy was beginning to recover from her swoon.

"Poor bairn!" he said softly; "and I should ha' slain thee too. Get up, Miss Eve, and some day you may pray for and forgive me."

He turned the light full upon her as she rose to her knees, then covered her eyes, for the light dazzled her.

"Where am I?" she cried; then, as recollection flashed back, she started up with a cry of "Father--father!"

Joe Banks stood motionless for a few moments, staring wildly at what seemed to him like some horrible vision; and it was not until Daisy rose to her feet that he fully realised what he had so nearly achieved; then the lantern dropped from his hand; he clasped his temples with his sinewy hands, and uttered a hoa.r.s.e cry that echoed through the gloomy place--

"My G.o.d!"

As the words left his lips he turned slightly, and fell heavily upon the ground, just as there were shouts, the rush of feet; and, bearing lights, a couple of policemen, Tom, Harry, and about a dozen of the tradespeople, headed by the vicar, rushed into the place.

Volume 3, Chapter XIII.

A PERIL PAST.

"Thank Heaven, we're in time," exclaimed the vicar. "Back, every man with lights," he shouted; "there's a train."

There was a rush back for the entrance, but the vicar stood firm, and, taking one of the policemen's lanterns, he cautiously stepped forward, tracing the train, and scattering it with his feet till he saw the heap that had trickled from the opened kegs.

"Keep your places with the lights," he cried. "Harry! Tom! buckets of water, quick!"

Half-a-dozen started for the yard, where there was a large iron tank outside the door, and bucketsful were brought in rapidly, with which, while the vicar lighted them, Tom and Harry deluged the heap of powder.

"There's no danger now," said the vicar, as the ground was saturated in every direction. "Good heavens! what a diabolical attempt."

And not till now was attention drawn to Richard Glaire, who sat upon a block of metal, watching the actions of those around him, as their lights feebly illumined the great, gloomy place. He was white as ashes, trembling as if stricken with the palsy; and when spoken to stared vacantly at the vicar.

"Are you hurt, Mr Glaire?" he said kindly.

For answer, Richard burst into an hysterical fit of sobbing, and cried like a child.

"Fetch a little brandy, some one," said the vicar. "He will be better after this. He must have had some terrible shock. Who is this?" he continued, directing his light to where Banks lay insensible, with the blood trickling from a cut upon his forehead, where he had struck it against a rough piece of slag in falling.

"It's Joe Banks," growled Harry, as the vicar knelt down and quickly bandaged the wound.

At that moment, Daisy, who had remained crouching behind the brickwork of one of the furnaces, came forward trembling.

"Daisy Banks!" cried the vicar in astonishment. "You here?"

"Don't speak to me; don't speak to me," she cried wildly, as she threw herself sobbing beside her father to pa.s.sionately raise his head, and kiss him again and again. "He's dead, he's dead, and I've killed--I've killed him."

There was silence for a few moments, which no one cared to break, and Tom Podmore stood with folded arms and heaving breast, gazing down at the weeping figure of her he so dearly loved.

"He's not dead, my poor girl," said the vicar, kindly; "only in a swoon.

That bleeding will do him good. Constables, we must get him home at once, or--no, you must guard this place. Harry, Podmore, and two more-- a stout piece of carpet from the nearest house. We can carry him in that."

"Bring him home--to my place," said Richard Glaire, who had somewhat recovered.

"I think not, Mr Glaire," said the vicar, firmly. "His own house will be best."

"Excuse me, sir," said the chief policeman. "He's the leader, I believe; we must have him at the station. The doctor can see him there.

He had laid the train, and was to fire it. Harry and Podmore here know."

Daisy uttered a shriek, and the vicar's brow knit as he turned to Richard.

"It's a lie," cried the latter, sharply. "I was here, and know some scoundrels put the powder here, and the train; but Banks destroyed it, and saved my life."

The vicar had him by the hand in a moment, and pressed it hard.

"It's a lie, parson," he said in a whisper; "but I must tell it. He did save my life."

"How came he by that cut, then, sir?" said the policeman.

"You see," said Richard, coldly, "he fell and struck himself against that piece of clinker. He did not know I was there, and that his child had come to warn him, and he was overcome."

"I will be answerable for his appearance to reply to any charge," said the vicar.

"There's no charge against him," said Richard, hastily. "I saw him destroy the train."

Daisy crept to his side, and Tom Podmore groaned as he saw her kiss Richard's hand.

"Very good, sir," said the constable; "that will do. We'll watch here, sir, though there's no fear now; and the others are locked up."

A piece of carpet was then fetched, and Banks was carefully lifted upon it, four men taking the corners, and bearing him hammock-fashion down the crowded street, the work people who had been in the street having been augmented by the rest; and a strange silence brooded over the place as they talked in whispers, the story growing every instant until it was the common report that Banks and Richard Glaire had met in the foundry, that Banks had been killed, and Richard Glaire was now dying at home.

The gossiping people could not fit Daisy Banks into the story. She was walking beside her stricken father, and they saw her bent head, and heard her bitter sobs; but it was only natural that she should make her appearance at such a time, and it seemed nothing to them that she should be close to Tom Podmore, who was one of the bearers, though he, poor fellow, winced, as Daisy half-clung to his arm for protection, when the crowd pressed upon them more than once.

On reaching the cottage, the vicar hurried in first, to prepare Mrs Banks, expecting a burst of lamentation; but as soon as he had uttered his first words, Mrs Banks was cold and firm as a stone.

"Is he dead, sir?" she whispered; "tell me true."

"No, no; and not much injured. I think it is a fit."

"I wean't give way, sir," she panted; and running upstairs, she began to drag down a mattress and pillow, ready for the suffering man.

"Poor Joe, poor Joe!" she murmured, and then gave a start as she heard the word "Mother!"