The Parson O' Dumford Part 77

"I'm afraid she thinks ill of me, sir."

"Don't say ill, John Maine. The poor girl is in trouble about you; and I believe has some idea that you and Podmore have been mixed up with the disappearance of Daisy Banks."

"Oh no, sir; no," cried the young man warmly. "You don't think that, sir?"

"Certainly not, Maine," replied the vicar. "And--Jessie--did Miss Jessie confide this to you, sir?"

"Yes, John Maine. I don't think, under the circ.u.mstances, it is any breach of confidence to say she did. People have a habit of confiding their troubles to me--as I have none of my own," he added sadly. "And you, sir?"

"I told her she was mistaken," remarked the vicar; "but she was not convinced. She could not understand you and Podmore being out together by night. She thought it--girl-like--connected with some dreadful mystery. Master Brough thought it had to do with poaching; and I--"

"Yes, sir," cried Maine eagerly. "Thought you were out for some good purpose, John Maine; and that if I let the matter rest, the explanation would come all in good time."

"And so it has, sir," said John; "but you knew all about me, sir."

"To be sure I did, John Maine; and seeing the life you now lead, respected you for it. It is a hard matter for a man brought up honestly to run a straight course, while for such as you, John Maine,--there, I need only say that you have wonderfully increased the respect I have for you by coming to me with this frank avowal. My letter to you was to give you the opportunity, for your own sake, so as to remove the suspicion that your movements were exciting. There, I am proud to shake hands with a man possessed of such a love of the reputable as to fight the good fight as you have fought it; and of such command over self, as to make the confession you have made to-day."

He stretched out his hand as he spoke, and John Maine wrung it in his-- two strong palms meeting in a hearty grip for a few moments, while neither spoke.

Then John Maine turned away, and stood looking out of the window for a few moments.

"You've made me feel like a great girl, sir," he said at last, huskily.

"I've made you feel like a true man, John Maine," replied the vicar, "one without the false shame of custom about him."

"Thanky, sir, thanky," said the young fellow, recovering himself. "As to that night work, sir," he continued, with a quiet smile, "that's easily explained. I suspected those scoundrels, after seeing them hanging about the vicarage here, of meaning to have some of your silver cups."

"And you watched the place by night, Maine?" said the vicar, eagerly.

"Well, sir, I did," replied the young man, "till Miss Jessie warned me about how my place there at the farm depended on my not going out o'

nights, and then I put Tom Podmore on to the job."

"And has he watched ever since?"

"Oh, yes, sir; you may depend on that--every night. Tom's a trusty fellow, and when he takes to a man he'll go through fire and water to serve him. He'd do anything for you, sir."

The vicar said nothing, but his eyes looked a little dim for a few moments, and he drew in a long breath.

"And now, sir, I think I do bring you news," said Maine.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir. If I'm not very much mistook they mean to rob this place to-night."

"You think so?" said the vicar, with his eyes sparkling; for here was what he had desired--something to call forth his energy, and serve to drown the thoughts that, in spite of his power over self, nearly drove him mad.

"Yes, sir, I think so," replied Maine, "for they had a good look round the place when they came to the back door, and tried to wheedle Mrs Slee. Now they've been away and made their plans, and come back. I've seen one of them to-day."

"This is news," said the vicar, musing. "These are the men the police sought to overtake on the day after poor Daisy Banks's disappearance; but if we set the police after them now, we shall scare them away. John Maine, we must catch these night-birds ourselves. Get Tom Podmore to come here."

"I spoke to him before I came in, but he's got something on his mind, and could not come."

"Then we must do it ourselves. You'll help me, Maine?"

"That I will, sir, with all my strength."

"Good; then we can manage this little task without disturbing the police till to-morrow morning; when, if we are lucky, we shall be able to send for them to take charge of our prisoners."

Volume 3, Chapter VII.

WHERE JOHN MAINE HAD BEEN.

It was a very miserable breakfast at the farm the next morning, for old Bult.i.tude was looking very black and angry, and it was quite evident that poor little Jessie had been in tears.

"What time did that scoundrel go out?" said the farmer, stabbing a piece of ham savagely with his fork, and after cutting a piece off as if it were a slice off an enemy, he knocked out the brains of an egg with a heavy dash of his tea-spoon.

"Don't call him a scoundrel, uncle dear," sobbed Jessie. "I don't know."

"I will, I tell 'ee," cried the old man furiously. "I won't hev him hanging about here any longer, a lungeing villain. Leaving his wuck and going off, and niver coming back all neet. Look thee here, Jess; if thee thinks any more about that lad, I'll send thee away."

"No, no, uncle dear, don't say that," cried the girl, going up and clinging to him. "He may have been taken ill, or a dozen things may have happened."

"O' coorse. Theer, I niver see such fools as girls are; the bigger blackguard a man is, the more the women tak's his part. Sit thee down, bairn; theer, I aint cross wi' you; I on'y want to do what's best for you, for I wean't see thee wed to a shack."

He kissed poor Jessie affectionately, and bade her "make a good breakfast," but the poor girl could not touch a morsel.

"Hillo! who's this?" said the farmer, a few minutes later. "Oh, it's young Brough. Come in, lad, come in."

"Hooray, farmer!" he cried, all eagerness and delight. "I telled you so--I telled you so, and you wouldn't believe it, and Miss Jessie theer turned like a wood cat, and was ready to scrat my eyes out."

Jessie's colour came and went as her little bosom heaved, and she turned her chair so as to avoid the keeper's gaze.

"What did'st tell me?" said the farmer gruffly.

"Why, that John Maine was out ivery night skulking 'bout the vicarage whiles he should ha' been at home i' bed like an honest man. And I telled ye he was in co. wi' a couple o' poachers and thieves over here fro' one o' the big towns; and I telled you he weer n.o.bbut a tramp hissen."

"How dare you speak of him like that?" cried Jessie, starting up with flas.h.i.+ng eyes, and stamping her foot. "You wouldn't dare to speak so to John Maine's face, for fear he should beat you."

"Hoity, toity!" exclaimed the farmer. "Who told thee to speak, la.s.s?

Let the man finish."

"I will not sit here and listen to such talk," cried Jessie, angrily, and with an energy which plainly told her feelings towards the missing man. "Let him wait till John comes."

"That wean't niver be," said the keeper, with a grin of satisfaction.

"Because why? Just as I towd thee, farmer, there weer a robbery at the vicarage last night."

"No!" cried old Bult.i.tude, starting up with his mouth full.