Jessie's eyes dilated as she looked at the speaker, and thought of her uncle's words a short time before.

"It is very terrible to think on," said Jessie, slowly.

"Yes," said Eve, in an agitated voice; "but it is almost more terrible for any one you love--you care for, to be thought guilty of having taken the poor creature away."

"But who could have had any such feeling towards poor Daisy," exclaimed Jessie, "except one? and I don't think Tom Podmore--"

"Hush!" cried Eve, laying her hand upon her friend's arm, "he's coming now across the field."

"So he is," cried Jessie, starting and turning pale, for a flood of strange thoughts came across her mind. John Maine and Tom Podmore had been so intimate. John Maine had been so strange, and in his way had warned her about thinking any more of Daisy. Was that to throw her off the scent, and to keep her from grieving after and trying to find where Daisy had gone? The very room seemed to swim round for a few moments, as she recalled some mysterious acts on the part of the man she loved; and she shuddered as the idea suggested itself to her that her uncle and Eve might be right, and poor Daisy had been done to death by her old lover, with his friend for accomplice.

It was then with a feeling of relief that she saw Eve rise to go, saying:

"Let me go out through the garden, Jessie, and then I can get into the lane without being seen by your visitor."

"Yes, yes," said Jessie, hastily; "but, dear darling Miss Eve, pray don't say what you have said to me to another soul."

"No," said Eve, sadly, "I should not do that;" and then her friend saw her out through the garden, and returned to see the young man of whom they had been speaking side by side with John Maine, in earnest conversation across the yard.

Jessie had good cause to start and think over the matters of the past few days, for a great deal of unpleasantry had taken place at the farm, all of which, when a.n.a.lysed, tended to help the dreadful suspicion; and, as she thought it over, she determined in her own mind that no temptation should ever cause her to swerve, since she saw how the weakness of one vain girl had brought such misery to so many homes.

She tried to drive away the suspicion that had been planted and replanted in her heart; but it was of no use, and she turned at last to her own room, to have a cry to herself--a woman's fomentation for a mental pain; but in this case it was of no avail.

Old Bult.i.tude was morose and harsh with his labourers, going up in the tall tower-like structure which commanded a view of the old farm, and called by the builder a gazebo, but by the labourers the gozzybaw, and from here old Bult.i.tude watched his men and found fault to a degree that Jessie felt must be caused by something out of the ordinary course, while most of his remarks had, it was plain enough, an indirect application to unfulfilled work appertaining to John Maine.

Then Tom Brough, the keeper, had managed to find his way again and again to the farm, to have long conversations with the old farmer, who made a point of asking his advice about this beast, or that cow; about the hay off the twenty acres; and the advisability of thrashing out the wheat from such and such a one of the neatly-made long-backed stacks in the rick-yard.

John Maine, however, had seemed to bear this shifting of the farmer's confidence pretty fairly; and Jessie had seen it with pain, as she whispered to herself that the true interpretation of the changes in the young man, which she had seen from day to day, was that he had something on his mind which she was not to share.

"Yes; he has something on his mind," she had said; "and he does not confide in me."

John Maine seemed to confide in no one: he only behaved strangely, night after night letting himself out, to be gone for hours, sometimes to return wet through, little thinking that he had been watched; and that Jessie, with tears and bitterness of heart, knew all of his goings out and comings in; and it was only by accident, and from the fact of her warning him, that he became aware that she had more than once screened his absence.

It was one night about eleven. Everybody in the early house had gone to rest an hour and a half before, as John Maine stole downstairs softly, and was about to turn the key of a back-door, when a warm hand was laid upon his, and a voice he well knew whispered--

"If you value your home here, go back to bed. Some one has told my uncle that you go out o' nights, and he is on the watch."

"Jessie!"

He stretched out his hands, but they only came in contact with the whitewashed wall, and he knew that he was alone.

But had any one spoken, or was it only fancy? No; it was no fancy. His motions had been watched, and Jessie had come between him and trouble.

As to the spy upon his actions, that was plain enough. Tom Brough had been busy, and had seen him when watching of a night, and what should he do? He had his object for these nocturnal rambles, and he was bound to continue them, but this night he was bound to stay.

Yes, he must stay, if only for Jessie's sake; and casting off his indecision he returned softly to his room, where he threw off his things and went to bed.

An hour slowly pa.s.sed, during which he lay restless and wakeful. Then, when worn out with restless impatience, and half determined to go out at all hazards, a step was heard in the pa.s.sage, a board creaked; there was a light shining beneath the door, and then after a pause the handle was turned gently, and the light flashed in his face.

"Maine! John Maine!" said the farmer, sharply.

"Yes; what is it? Anything wrong?" said the young man, starting up.

"One of the horses seems very uneasy," said the farmer. "I'm afraid there's something wrong in the stable. I came to ask you to go down, but he seems quieter now, and mebbe it isn't worth while. Try and keep yoursen wacken for 'bout an hour, and if you hear owt go down and see."

John Maine said he would, and old Bult.i.tude went off, muttering to himself, while the young man lay thinking and wondering how he was to carry out his plans in the future. What was he to do? How was he to do it? The only way he could see out of the difficulty was that the burden must be thrown on the shoulders of Tom Podmore.

Day had hardly broken before John Maine, who had heard no more of the restless horse, was up, and that day, seeking out Tom Podmore, he had had a long and earnest conversation with him, with the result of getting his mind more set at ease.

And now it had come about in turn that Tom Podmore had had to seek out John Maine, to ask his help, with the result that, old Bult.i.tude being away, his foreman just went in and told Jessie he was going out; and as she did not turn her face to him as he spoke, he went away sighing heavily; while pale, and trembling, Jessie ran to the window, and, in hiding behind the blind, watched the two young men till they were out of sight.

Volume 2, Chapter XV.

A THANKLESS TASK.

Meanwhile the vicar had missed Eve, who had taken another route, and made his way up to the big house, where he was shown into the room to find Mrs Glaire lying, very pale and weak, upon the couch.

She apologised for not rising, and as he took her hand, he felt that it was hot and feverish.

"I ought to be the doctor," he said pleasantly, as he retained the hand.

"There's too much fever here."

"No doctor will cure that," she said, with a sad smile. "I only want peace of mind, and then I shall be well; and you have come to bring more bad news."

"Oh," said the vicar, carelessly, "I only wanted a bit of a chat with your son."

"Mr Selwood," said Mrs Glaire, "don't please speak to me like that.

It is dreadful to me; and makes me feel as if I could not trust and believe in the one man in whom I wish to confide."

"Then in heaven's name," he began, but she interrupted him.

"I have had faith and trust in you, Mr Selwood, from the first day you came."

"Then you shall continue it," he said, firmly. "I was reticent because I thought you too ill to bear bad tidings."

"I can bear all," she said, softly; "pray tell me the worst."

"Well," he said, quietly, "we will not talk of worst, for there is no danger that cannot be warded off."

"If my son likes?" said Mrs Glaire.

"If your son likes," continued the vicar. "The fact is, Mrs Glaire, the people are getting furious against him, and without going into the question of right or wrong, the sufferings of their wives and children are maddening the men. This lock-out ought to end."

"Yes," said Mrs Glaire, sighing, "it ought."

"It was a dastardly trick, that destruction of the machinery, but I believe it was the work of one brain, and one pair of hands."

"Why do you think so?"