"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 c.o.c.k 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 la.s.s!" said old Bult.i.tude, 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 Bult.i.tude," 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 Bult.i.tude," 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 la.s.s, 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 Bult.i.tude, "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 Bult.i.tude, 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.

A BUSY NIGHT.

As soon as John Maine had promised to stay with him, the vicar sat down, and seemed for a few minutes to be thinking.

"I should like," he said at last, "to have a regular good stand-up fight with these scoundrels if they come; but I'm a man of peace now, Maine, and must act accordingly."

"I'll do the fighting, sir," said Maine, excitedly.

"No, that will not do either, my man. We must have no fighting. We must bring the wisdom of the serpent to bear. You must not stir from here, or we shall alarm the enemy. They may have seen you come, but that's doubtful; but if I let you go and come back again, the chances are that they may have scouts out, and then they must see you. Let the farm people fidget about you for one night. Old Bult.i.tude will get in a rage, and Miss Jessie will cast you off; but I'll go and smooth all that to-morrow. Mrs Slee will go home, and we'll send the girl to bed as usual. If I keep you out of sight, she will think you are gone. By the way, who's that?"

He slipped behind one of the window curtains, and watched as a decrepit old man, carrying some laces and kettle-holders for sale in one hand, a few tracts in the other, came slowly up the garden path, to stand as if hesitating which way to go; but glancing keenly from window to door, making observations that would not have been noticed at any other time, before slinking painfully round to the back of the house, where Mrs Slee's sharp voice was soon after heard, and the old man came back at last with a good-sized piece of bread and meat.

"You old rascal!" said the vicar, as he shook his fist at the departing figure. "That scoundrel, Maine, not only tries to rob the rich, but through his trickery he indirectly steals from the poor by hardening the hearts of the charitable. There's no doubt about what you say, John Maine; that fellow's a spy from the enemy's camp--the siege has commenced."

The time flew by: evening came, and at last the hour for prayers. All had seemed quiet in the town, and at last the vicar rang, and Mrs Slee and the maid came in.

"You'll stay to prayers, Maine?" said the vicar, quietly; and the young man knelt with the rest, while in a low, calm voice, the evening supplications for protection and thanks for the past were offered up--as quietly as if nothing was expected to shortly occur and quicken the pulses.