It was a very miserable breakfast at the farm the next morning, for old
Bultitude 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 nobbut a tramp
hissen."
"How dare you speak of him like that?" cried Jessie, starting up with
flashing 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, lass?
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 Bultitude, starting up with his mouth full.
"Ay, mun, but there weer," cried Brough, in an exulting tone. "Just as
I said theer'd be, all plotted and planned out to get parson's silver
cups and toots--all plotted and planned out by John Maine and his
blackguard mates. Thank your stars, and you too, Miss Jessie, as you
haven't both been robbed and murdered."
"I wean't believe it," cried the old farmer, angrily. "John Maine's got
a bit wrong somehow, but he isn't the lad to rob nowt. He's raight to a
penny always wi' his accounts."
"That's his artfulness," sneered Brough.
"Yah!" cried the farmer. "You've got hold of a cock and bull story up
town, wheer they'll turn a slip on the causay into fower fatal accidents
'fore the news has got from the top of the High Street to the bottom."
As he spoke Jessie crossed over to her uncle, laid her hands upon his
shoulder, and stood with her eyes flashing indignant protest against the
accuser of her lover.
"Hev it your own waya," said Brough, quietly. "I were up at 'station,
when parson comes in hissen, and tell'd Bowley that the party on 'em
broke in at the vicarage last night, 'bout half-past twelve, and that
he'd fote the men, and got 'em locked up, and John Maine wi' 'em.
Them's parson's own words; and if parson's words arn't true, dal it all,
who's is?"
"I'll never, never believe it," cried Jessie, with an angry burst of
indignation; and then, bursting into tears, she ran out of the room,
sobbing bitterly.
"Poor little lass!" said old Bultitude, softly; "she thinks a deal more
o' John Maine than she does o' thee, my lad. But look here: I believe
i' John Maine after all, and shall go on believing in him, though I am a
bit popped agen him, till I sees him foun' guilty. Yow set me watching
the lad one night, you know, Brough, and it all turned out a bam, for
there he weer, safe in his bed. Just you let things bide till we know
more 'bout 'em; and I don't thank ye, young man, for coming and spoiling
my brackfast."
"Just as yow like, Master Bultitude," said the keeper, sourly; "but just
answer me one question, Weer John Maine at home all last night?"
"No," said the farmer, savagely, "and he aint been back yet; but that
don't prove he weer lungeing 'bout parson's. How do I know he wasn't at
Bosthorpe Dancing?"
"Bostrop Dancing weer day afore yesterday," said the keeper, grinning as
he made this retort about the village feast. "Oh, here comes parson."
"Morning, Mr Bultitude," said the vicar, coming in, looking rather
grave. "Ah, Miss Jessie, how are you?" he continued, as, on hearing his
voice, the girl stole back into the room. "Nice neighbours you are, to
lie snug in bed and let your poor vicar be robbed, and murdered, and
carried off in a cart."
Jessie sank into a chair, looking as white as ashes, while Brough rubbed
his hands joyously.
"Then it is all true?" said the farmer slowly.
"True? Oh, yes, true enough," said the vicar. "I got the scoundrels
safely locked up in the cellar."
"Howd up, my lass, howd up," whispered the farmer, kindly, as he laid
his hand on Jessie's shoulder; "be a woman and let's hear the worst."
Then to the vicar: "An' was John Maine wi' 'em, sir?"
"Oh yes, he was with them," said the vicar, wondering.
"Theer, I telled you so," cried Brough exultantly, "I know'd how he'd
turn out."
The vicar smiled slightly at this, as he noticed the malice of the man,
and he repeated slowly--
"Yes, John Maine was there."
The last trace of colour faded out of Jessie's cheeks, and a dull look
of stony despair came over her countenance, while the old farmer shifted
his position and began to dig a fork savagely into the deal table.
"Dal me--" began the old man, but he stopped short.
"Just as I telled thee," said Brough, eagerly.
"Dal thee! don't set thee clapper going at me," roared the old man. "I
know it, don't I?"
"Yes," said the vicar, smiling, as he took and patted Jessie's hand;
"John Maine was there, and a braver ally I never had."
"What?" roared the farmer.
"After watching my house, and setting young Podmore to watch it," said
the vicar, "he came and warned me about his suspicions, and--"
"Dal me!" cried old Bultitude, "you kep' him there all night, parson, to
help you?"
"I did," said the vicar.
"And took the rascals?"
"Yes, with John Maine's help."
"It's a-maazing," said the old man, slapping his thigh, and bursting
into a tremendous series of chuckles. "Oh, parson, you are a one-er,
and no mistake."
The vicar was conscious of two looks as Jessie ran from the room--one of
black indignation, directed at Brough; the other a soft, tender glance
of thankfulness at himself, ere the poor girl once more ran up into her
own room to "have a good cry."
"Let me see," said old Bultitude, dryly; "I don't think theer was owt
else as you wanted to tell me, was theer, Master Brough?"
"Not as I knows on, farmer," said the keeper, looking from one to the
other.
"Because, being churchwarden, theer's a thing or two I want to talk ower
wi' parson--calling a meeting for next week, like."
"Oh, I can go," said the keeper, in an offended tone--"I can go if it
comes to that;" and then, as no one paid any attention to him, he strode
out, his departure being made plain by a loud yelping noise outside, and
the voice of one of the labourers being heard to exclaim--
"I shouldn't ha' thowt yow'd kick a dog like that, Master Brough."
While the vicar sat down and told the adventures of the past night.
Volume 3, Chapter VIII.