"How do?" said Richard, entering from the garden; and he held out his
hand sulkily, which the vicar took, and held for a moment.
He was about to speak, to say some words of congratulation--words that
he had won a great prize, and that his duty to her was to make amends
for the past--but the words would not come, and, bowing, he left the
room, and walked hastily from the house, watched by Richard Glaire's
malicious eyes. For it was sweet revenge to him to know that the hopes
he was sure the vicar felt had been blasted, and that he alone would
possess Eve Pelly's love.
"He thought to best me," muttered Richard; and he smiled to himself, the
feeling of mastering the man he looked upon as his enemy adding piquancy
to a marriage that had seemed to him before both troublesome and tame.
Meanwhile the vicar went slowly down the street, with a strange, dazed
look; and more than one observer whispered to his neighbour--"Say, lad;
parson hasn't been takking his drop, sewerly."
"Nay, nay; I'd sooner believe he was ill. It can't be that," was the
reply.
That same day, when busy out in the fields, sick at heart, and worried,
after a short interview with Tom Podmore, John Maine was standing alone,
and thinking of the past and present. Of the respite that had come to
him, since the two men had visited the town, and of the miserable life
he led at the farm, and the way in which Jessie behaved to him now; for,
to his sorrow, it seemed to him that she looked upon him with a kind of
horror, and avoided all communication. The keeper, Brough, came pretty
frequently, and certainly she was more gracious to him than to the man
who lived with her in the same house and ate at the same table.
Then he recalled that he had had a note from the vicar requesting him to
call at the vicarage; but he had not been, partly from dread, partly
from shame.
"But I'll go," he said. "I'll be a man and go; go at once, and tell him
the whole secret; and be at rest, come what may. Tom says it will be
best."
He sat down beneath a hedge bottom to secure the strap of one of his
leggings, when, raising his head, he saw in the distance, crossing one
of the stiles, a figure which he knew at a glance was that of one of the
men he dreaded--one of those who had done their best to make him another
of the Ishmaelites who war against society.
A cold chill passed over him, followed by a hot perspiration, as he
watched till the figure passed out of sight, and then he began to muse.
"Come at last, then. It must be with an object."
"Let me see," he thought; "it will be perfectly dark to-night. Nearly
new moon. He has come down to see how the land lies, and before
morning, unless he's checkmated, the vicarage will be wrecked, and if
anybody opposes them, his life will be in danger."
"It's only a part of one's life," he said, bitterly, as he started up.
"I've been a scoundrel, and I thowt I'd grown into a honest man, when I
was only a coward. Now the time has come to show myself really honest,
and with God's help I'll do it."
Not long after, the vicar was seated with his head resting upon his
hand, strengthening himself as he termed it, and fighting hard to quell
the misery in his breast, when Mrs Slee came to the door.
"Yes," he said, trying to rouse himself, and wishing for something to
give him a strong call upon the strength, energy, and determination
lying latent in his breast. "Yes, Mrs Slee?"
"Here's John Maine fro' the farm wants to see thee, sir."
"Show him in the study, Mrs Slee; I'll be with him in five minutes."
And those minutes he spent in bathing his temples and struggling against
his thoughts.
The time had scarcely expired, when he entered the library, to find his
visitor standing there, hat in hand, resting upon a stout oak sapling.
"Glad to see you, Maine," said the vicar, kindly. "Could you not find a
chair?"
"Thanky, sir, no; I would rather stand. I ought to have been here
before, but, like all things we don't want to do, I put it off. I want
to tell you something, sir. I want to confess."
"Confess, Maine!" said the vicar, smiling; "any one would think this was
Ireland, and that I was the parish priest."
"I have got something heavy on my conscience, sir," continued Maine, in
a hesitating way.
"If I can help you, Maine, I am sure you may trust me," said the vicar.
"I know that, sir; I know that," cried Maine, eagerly. "I want to speak
out, but the thoughts of that poor gill keep me back."
"That poor girl!" exclaimed the vicar, looking at the young man's
anguish-wrung countenance, and feeling startled for the moment. "Do you
mean Daisy Banks?"
"No, no, sir; no, no. Miss Jessie there at the farm. I can't bear for
her to know. There, sir," he exclaimed, hurriedly, "it's got to come
out, and I must speak, or I shall never get it said. You see, sir, when
I was quite a boy, I was upon my own hands by the death of my father and
mother. Then I drifted to Nottingham, where I was thrown amongst the
lowest of the low; was mixed with poachers, and thieves, and scoundrels
of every shape; always trying to get to something better, but always
dragged back to their own level by my companions, who sneered at my
efforts, and bullied me till my life was a curse, and I grew to feel
more like an old man at eighteen than a boy.
"To make a long story short, sir, I could bear it no longer. I ran away
from home--from that," he said, grimly, "that was my home--and kept
away, working honestly for a couple of years, when some of the old lot
came across me to jeer me, laugh at me, and end by proposing that I
should rob my employer and run off with them. I was seen talking to the
wretches, dismissed in disgrace from my situation, and went back to
blackguardism and scoundreldom for a whole year, because no one would
give me a job of decent labour to do. Mr Selwood, sir, you don't know
how hard it is to climb the hill where honest people live--to get to be
classed as one who is not always watched with suspicious eyes. It was a
fearful fight I had to get there, against no one knows what temptations
and efforts to drag me back. Sir, I got to honest work at last, and
from that place came on here, where for years I've worked hopefully, and
begun to feel that I need not blush when I looked an honest man in the
face, nor dread to meet the police lest they should have learned
something about my former life. In short, sir, I was beginning to feel
that I need not go about always feeling that I had made a mistake in
trying to leave my old life."
The vicar sat at the table with his head resting upon his hand, and face
averted, feeling that he was not the only man in Dumford whose heart was
torn with troubles, and he listened without a word as John Maine went
on.
"There, sir, I can't tell you all the hopes and fears I have felt, as I
have striven hard for years, hopefully too, thinking that after all
there might be a bright future in store for me, and rest out here at the
pleasant old farm; and now, sir," he continued huskily, and with
faltering voice--
"Some of the old lot have turned up and found you again, eh, Maine?"
"Yes, sir, that's what it is," said the young man, starting; "and I
thought I'd make a clean breast of it to you, and ask you, sir, to give
me a bit of advice."
"I'm a poor one to ask for advice just now, Maine," said the vicar,
sadly; "but I'll do my best for you."
"Thanky, sir; I thought you would."
"So you meant to give me some news?" continued the vicar, dryly.
"Yes, sir," said John Maine, "if you call it news," and he spoke
bitterly.
"Well, no," said the vicar, making an effort to forget self; "I don't
call it news. I knew all this some time ago."
"You knew it, sir?"
"Why, my good fellow, yes. Some weeks back, about as dirty an old
cadger as it has ever been my fate to encounter, pointed you out to me
on the road, and told me the greatest part of your history."
"He did, sir?"
"Oh, yes, poor old fellow," said the vicar, bitterly, "I suppose he felt
as if he could not die comfortably without doing somebody else an ill
turn."
"Die, sir?"
"Yes, he was very ill: could hardly crawl, and I sent him on to Ranby
Union, where he died."
"And you knew all this, sir?" faltered John Maine.
"Knew it, Maine? How could I help it? Mr Keeper Brough, too, made a
point of telling me that he had seen you talking to a couple of
disreputable-looking scoundrels, evidently trading poachers. Don't you
remember what a bad headache it gave you, Maine?"
The young man stared at the speaker, and could not find a word.
"He has been very busy I find, too, at the farm," continued the vicar,
forgetting his own troubles in those of his visitor. "Mr Bultitude
does not like it, and he has been in a good deal of trouble about your
nocturnal wanderings, friend John Maine."
"I can explain all that, sir," said Maine.
"Of course you can," said the vicar, coolly.
"But you knew of all this, sir?" faltered the young man.
"To be sure I did, John, and respected you for it; but I fear you have
been giving poor Jessie a good deal of suffering through your want of
openness."
"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 circumstances, 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.